Coach

The coach whose jockstrap I acquired nineteen years ago played college basketball in the mid- to late-60s, a time when every male athlete was obligated to wear a supporter. Throughout his sporting life a jockstrap was on to support his plump, healthy gonads. I'm pretty sure he still wears one when jogging. Recent photos of him show a trim, ruggedly handsome blond DILF. The jockstrap has gone unwashed for nearly two decades, turning sepia in the process. The humid smell of ballsweat mixed with the medicinal scent of what was possibly jock-itch spray is gone, replaced with a pleasant musky mustiness, but I remember catching the first whiff when I picked it up off the top of his sneakers in his office. I guessed the jock had been taken off no more than a couple hours before, given the dampness of the pouch and the wide waistband. Was he drying it out to wear again? Did he have jock itch or was he just preventing it by spraying his crotch? And he left it out, not on his desk, obviously, but not in a locker or gym bag, either. The coach was (and is) very clean-cut, yet his scrotum and groin glistened and stunk with the sweat of manly exertion. He would shower off the tangy grime from his body, but his dirty jockstrap would exude the athletic gaminess of his full, pink balls, an olfactory record of hard play.