Training Jock

I dragged my feet, following my Mother reluctantly through the store to the most embarrassing department. Satin briefs, silk boxers, and cotton cups and straps hung tidily on display.

“You need a training jock.” My mother announced way too loudly over her shoulder, making a beeline past the giant, stuffed pouches.

“Let’s get you some sensible, cotton white ones. Here go try these on.” She handed me four delicate hangers laden with strappy soft undergarments. Red-faced I went to the dressing room, my fingers burning, gripping the hangers.

I tossed them down on the little shelf seat. They taunted me, You’re not a little boy anymore! You have to be bridled and broken, never free again!

I climbed into one, knowing I couldn’t escape this rite of passage. The band itched, the straps were impossible, and it was tight around me.
“You okay honey?” Mom barged in.
“Mom!” I tried to cover myself.
“Oh that’s too small, wow! Let’s go get a medium!”

The jock snickered. You need serious coverage! You’re doomed!

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