By the end of the next day, I was considerably less cocky. I’d met the coach and the assistant coaches and trainers, and my roommate had arrived in the early afternoon just in time for a grueling four-hour practice—complete with pads and helmets—in 98-degree heat. We had three breaks the whole time. My high school coach had never worked us this hard or this long.

My head was swimming as I stumbled wearily to the showers at around 6:00. The afternoon sun was slanting through the locker-room windows. The whole setup looked like it was straight out of a 1960s movie—very different from my high school back home, where we had a field house with attached showers that had been renovated in the early 1980s. No one used them except the opposing teams; we just drove home after practice and showered at home.

So this was all new to me. I wasn’t exactly scared, but I was a little apprehensive about showering in front of other guys. You see, way deep down where I kept personal information that no one else knew about, I knew I was curious about other guys. I knew I wanted to look, especially at their cocks and balls, and I was worried about being caught looking or even (God forbid!) throwing a hardon in the shower. At the very least, I was wondering whether I measured up.

I’d only caught a few glimpses in the past. Several times over years of attending the state fair in Columbia, I’d managed to look up and down a line of pissing guys at the urinals, but I hadn’t seen much past a few cockheads poking out of pants. And my dad had been in the Army, so he wasn’t exactly paranoid about being seen naked between the bathroom and my folks’ bedroom. I knew I was larger than him (both thicker and longer), but had no idea what was the average.

Other than those stolen glimpses of dicks, I’d only had a glance at a hard nipple here or a bulging jock there for jackoff material. Now, I was going to see fully naked college jocks. I could hardly wait, scared as I was of revealing my real interest in their bodies.

Stripping off my sweaty uniform, pads and all, I picked up a towel and headed for the showers, my cock swinging against my thighs.

Standing around showerheads that were on posts in the middle of the room, the other guys glanced at me and then glanced again, their eyes getting big and their mouths falling open, their hands becoming still in the soapsuds covering their muscular bodies. I looked down at myself and then at them. I looked around the room, one by one. Mine was the largest in the room by a long shot. There was a long silence punctuated only by running water. I felt myself tensing up.

Finally, one of the linebackers broke the silence. “Damn, man. Look at that horse cock! Shit! What the hell do you feed it?”

I relaxed and smiled. “I’ll never tell.”

He laughed. “Hell, Coach must’ve known he got a Horse Man for us Mustangs!”

(The nickname stuck. From then on, at Coastal Atlantic College, I was “The Horse Man” or, later, simply “Horse.” Almost everyone knew what it meant: Their star quarterback was truly the biggest man on campus. I never bragged about it, because I never looked to be famous for that—I hadn’t even known I was particularly large—but even at reunions, these days, guys from other graduating classes come up to me and call me “Horse.” I’ve learned to take it in my stride. I’ve also learned to take their not-so-subtle glances at my crotch in stride as well.)

I looked around and realized I had not only the largest cock but also some of the largest muscles in the room. I noticed other guys glancing at my pecs and abs, especially, as I washed myself under the hot, soothing stream. When I washed my wrist-thick cock and heavy balls, I noticed a few of the guys copied my actions with their own; several of them in the process became almost as thick—in proportion—as I was. I looked around again. Most of the guys were cut, like me, confirming what I’d seen over the years at the state fair pissers, but a few were uncut. I made a mental note to watch rather closely at a later date to see how their foreskins worked. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if I looked at their cocks as openly as they stared at mine.

It had been quite a workout, and the cascading water was relaxing, so I stayed under the spray for longer than anyone.
I especially wanted to make sure my left shoulder didn’t stiffen up—Coach Martin had had me throw more passes during this practice than I was used to during my high school team’s practices.

I was about to step out of the shower when an older man came into the locker room. He looked to be about 45 or 50 and was dressed in oil-stained coveralls—with “Coastal Atlantic Maintenance” on his chest pocket—that failed to fully conceal his own rather lean, tall, muscular build. I could see a bald head, a thick reddish-brown moustache and goatee, and thick, curly reddish-brown hair peeping from the wrists and collar of his coveralls.