Written by Chuck Barber

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Wednesday, 12 May 2004

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I remember my first visit to the jock strap store. Now, if you go to Walmart today they have them, tightly bound in plastic, hanging on racks. When I needed my first jock strap my parents took me to Brooks Brothers. I was horribly embarrassed as my father said to the clerk. "My son is becoming a man. He needs a jock strap." My mother, thankfully, had moved away to peruse the socks and ties.

The clerk grinned to my father, nodded to me, and said, 'follow me, sirs.' I remember his enunciating the s on the end of sir especially well, because it was my first experience with this sort of deference culture.

My father and I followed the clerk downstairs to a cigar-smoke-filled dungeon where a strange, dark, hairy man with an accent so strong I could barely understand him lurked. The clerk ushered my father and me into the strange man's furry presence and said, 'Mr. Klappas the young sir needs an athletic supporter." The strange man turned to us and nodded sagely and said, 'Koom here.'

He reached for me, grabbed my crotch through my pants and said, 'medium, I tink.' Then he looked at me again, 'But ve moost know for zure. Remove the pant, eh?'

Nobody had told me about this. I looked at my father and he nodded at me, 'Mr Klappas fitted me for my first jock strap when I was your age.' He patted me on my shoulder. I looked back at Mr. Klappas. How old WAS he?

Mr. Klappas was puttering at a table, his back to me, as I unfastened my pants and unzipped the zipper. I hadn't noticed before that Mr. Klappas had fingers as thick as three of mine. I only noticed them because he turned around holding a measuring tape before him.

'Ze underpant oss vell, yoong sir.'

I pushed my underwear down to the floor thankful my t-shirt was long enough to cover my rear. A cold breeze blew through the dungeon, and Mr. Klappas lifted my shirt, and taking my penis between thumb and forefinger, measured me.

He nodded when he was through. 'Medium, joost as I though.' He reached back, took my gonads in the palm of his hand and hefted the entire package. 'Boot heavy for zat age.' He looked at my father, 'Goot growth to come.'

I pulled on my pants as quickly as I could and backed away from Mr. Klappas as far as possible. I wanted to go.

Mr. Klappas opened a bottle and sprinkled a liquid of some sort onto his palm, then scrubbed his hands together as if he were washing them. 'Medium, boot he vill need a large next zummer.'

My father thanked him excessively, and we left, following the clerk up the steps. Upstairs we found the jock straps with the clerk's help, bought two, gathered up my mother and the socks she'd purchased for my father and left.

I buy jock straps at Target now.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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