Big Fat Hairy Living

I was at a party last weekend and someone I’d never met before asked me what I did for a living. I told him where I work, but he wanted to know more. I told him what the company does, but he wanted to know more. I told him that I was an electrical engineer, and his eyes lit up. “That’s so cool! Everything engineers do is so cool!”

Yeah, it’s cool when you’re not the one stuck inside waiting for your computer to finish simulating electromagnetic fields and meanwhile it’s beautiful outside.

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We’ve cleared things up with Mark’s parents and will be visiting them for Easter dinner after all.

Peter Rempel, in response to my post about Mark’s mother wanting Mark and I to pretend that we’re just friends at Easter Dinner, asks

You guys couldn’t even allow that minor concession?

The sheer ignorant, insensitive cluelessness of the question would shock me coming from anyone other than Peter Rempel.

Why not make that “minor concession?” Because it’s not a minor concession. We’re not just friends and we’re not going to lie just because she can’t accept what we mean to each other. If she’s embarrassed by our relationship then let her be embarrassed, but we don’t have to sit around pretending to be something we’re not while she wallows in shame and self-pity. She wouldn’t ask us to pretend that we’re just friends if we were straight and she wouldn’t ask us to pretend to be friends if one of us were black and the other were white.

The first football practice itself was kind of strange.

After we’d changed, I milled around on the field for a bit. While I was waiting for everyone else to come out and for the coaches to arrive, a guy that I knew a bit, Ross, came up to me and started chatting. It was the first time he’d tried out for football and he kept on complaining about the uniform.

“You know why football players walk so funny? It’s these tight pants! We have to learn how to walk in these!”

I had no clue what he was talking about, but I nodded along with him.

“I feel so naked and unsupported without a jock,” he added.

If I were him, I would too; I saw him naked later in the season, and he had a absolutely gigantic cock. His face wasn’t that great, but with a cock like his he didn’t need one to get girls: he ended up getting a girl pregnant in grade twelve.

When the coaches arrived, they had us do laps around the field. I was stuck at the back with the other fat guys, but I didn’t mind it so much. I got to see their fat, spandex-encased asses while I ran behind them. The head coach was yelling something at us — probably that we needed to hurry up — but I couldn’t really hear him very well.

Pep-talk time came after the laps. The head coach, a mysogynistic but otherwise likeable guy, berated us, calling us pussies and “little girls” and swearing that if we didn’t shape up he’d kick us from team in a second for not being “man enough” to play football. I wonder if that kind of talk would be allowed in high schools today.

The most surreal part of his pep talk was his soliloquy on quitters. Quitters were the one thing he hated most in this world and he didn’t want us to be quitters. The worst thing we could do is be a quitter like David Peterson. David Peterson, according to the head coach, was a quitter and a pussy for calling an election only three years into his term as Ontario premier. No David Petersons on his team. No way.

I remember thinking his pep talk was lame, and I was only in grade eleven. Cynicism came easily to me at a young age.

The rest of the practice was actually quite enjoyable. The warm-up exercises were really fun partly because they involved touching the other guys. I was paired up with a chunky guy named Marc and we did this exercise where we would stand back-to-back, lock arms, and take turns bending forward to lift each other up on our backs.

The fat guys all ended up practising blocking, doing fun exercises like ramming themselves shoulders-first into a large padded sled with the coach on it. Tackling was fun too, as it meant I got to throw myself on other guys and occasionally pile myself on top of them.

Mark and I had been planning to visit his parents in Ottawa for Easter. Our original plan was for the four of us to have dinner with them on Good Friday and Easter dinner on Monday.

Mark spoke to his mother on the phone this morning. She said she wanted to invite some friends for Easter dinner but that Mark would have to agree to introduce me as his “friend,” not his boyfriend. He refused. They got in a fight and he hung up on her.

We’re probably not going to visit his parents for Easter.

I’ve been offered and have accepted full time employment. As of the first of April, I am once again stably employed.

The Toronto Star:

In the 1960s Jack Block and his wife and fellow professor Jeanne Block (now deceased) began tracking more than 100 nursery school kids as part of a general study of personality. The kids’ personalities were rated at the time by teachers and assistants who had known them for months. There’s no reason to think political bias skewed the ratings — the investigators were not looking at political orientation back then. Even if they had been, it’s unlikely that 3- and 4-year-olds would have had much idea about their political leanings.

A few decades later, Block followed up with more surveys, looking again at personality, and this time at politics, too. The whiny kids tended to grow up conservative, and turned into rigid young adults who hewed closely to traditional gender roles and were uncomfortable with ambiguity.

The confident kids turned out liberal and were still hanging loose, turning into bright, non-conforming adults with wide interests. The girls were still outgoing, but the young men tended to turn a little introspective.

Block admits in his paper that liberal Berkeley is not representative of the whole country. But within his sample, he says, the results hold. He reasons that insecure kids look for the reassurance provided by tradition and authority, and find it in conservative politics. The more confident kids are eager to explore alternatives to the way things are, and find liberal politics more congenial.

The results actually aren’t as black and white as that, as the article points out, but it sure does explain a lot.

I now know why Jon has been going on about the favourite underwear he buys at Mark’s Work Wearhouse. I went there on Sunday with Mark and bought four pairs of grey boxer briefs. I never had favourite underwear before.

I tried them on today and they feel amazing. I can feel them down my thighs and they cup my nuts and my dick perfectly. I think I’m in love with them.

The babe-a-licious Special Constable Cubby points us to a photo of a hot (if a bit skinny) trucker from Details magazine. Definitely gay.

I was more scared to go to the first football practice than I was to show up for sign-up day, mostly because I was afraid that my total lack of skill would become readily apparent. So when the bell rang and it came time to go to the locker room to change, I was nervous as hell.

Outside the locker room door, I could hear the huge clamour inside: guys talking about pussies, guys calling each other fags, and guys complaining about how the chemistry teacher gave girls better marks than guys, a charge that I’m pretty sure was actually true.

One guy caught my eye immediately. Peter was a rugby player I’d been in lust with since I first saw him in grade ten. He had freakishly hairy legs and a goatee — a beautiful, bushy, dark brown goatee — and he was only in grade twelve. He was sitting on the island in the middle of the room wearing nothing but tight black bikini briefs, laughing and shouting and joking around with his buddies.

Peter’s entire front was covered in hair. Trying really hard not to stare at him, I scanned the room looking for an empty spot to get changed. My eyes kept on being drawn to him, sitting there with his legs dangling and his bulging cock separated from my eyes by nothing more than a thin layer of cloth. I made eye contact with him briefly and he smiled. “Hey buddy,” he said. “Welcome to the team.” I’m sure I must have blushed as I mumbled “thanks,” or something equally lame.

A year later I would steal his underwear and his pants to sniff while I jerked off.

I picked the only empty spot left on the bench, one between a huge hulking stubble-faced guy named John and an another only somewhat less hulking guy named Mario. I peeked at them out of the corners of my eyes.

John was incredible. He was Greek and had a hot sounding Greek last name. His Greek mama must have fed him really well, because he was big and fat, fat all over in that muscles-under-fat kind of way. I don’t know exactly what he weighed, but he couldn’t have been less than 300 pounds.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I watched him strip down while I slowly got changed. He took off his shirt first, and I can remember that image of him as clear as day: lifting his shirt up, revealing a massive, hairy belly, a trail leading up to a massive, hairy chest, ending in a massive, thick neck. His hairy armpits were temptingly wet.

Mario was on the other side of me. He wasn’t as big as John, but he was still big. He was South American or something, and he was absolutely delicious. He had all his equipment in his bag and he kept bending over in his tight white briefs rooting around for stuff. His thighs were absolutely massive. A few weeks later he would suffer a compound fracture during a practice game and sit out the rest of the season.

The crowning glory, the image that I will never get out of my mind, the miniature film roll I’ll have in my head until I die, happened next. John had just stripped down to his dark blue underwear when he started rooting around in his gym bag. He pulled something out, something I couldn’t see, and dumped in on the bench. Then he bent over … and pulled down his underwear.

I felt like I was going to die. I only got a glimpse of it, just a few seconds before he turned around, but I saw his cock. It was surrounded by hair. It was small and fat and pointy and uncut, just like the kind you see on old statues. It was amazing, incredible, perfect.

He turned around and picked up what he’d taken out of his bag, what I could now see was an old jockstrap. He was one of the only guys on the team I ever saw wearing a jockstrap. I think that must be where my jockstrap fetish started.

He fiddled with the jockstrap, bent over slightly, and pulled it one leg at a time. Oh my god, that ass. I’m not an ass man, but fuck was that ever an ass.

One of the other guys chimed in. “You’re a fuckin’ fat ass, Johnny.”

He turned around and grabbed his jock-encased dick. “Suck me dry, faggot,” he replied in his deep, stupid-sounding voice. He made a kissy-face. The other guy laughed. They both laughed.

My mouth was dry. I finished getting changed in silence and didn’t look at anyone else.