Sometimes friends aren’t who you think they are. I wasn’t doing well at Wahoo Cumberland University, my grades middling, the tuition high, and I was the lowest totem on the track team. But at least I had one friend, my good buddy Gary Conrad, who I’d known at Midvale Valley High School. We played a lot of sports, dated girls, and had daring adventures. I trusted him completely, until that day that everything seemed to change.
I’m Josh Roberts, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at the time. Just under 5’10, skinny at 145 pounds, with a reddish complexion, short auburn hair, and dark blue eyes. Girls said I had a vulnerability about me that intrigued them. It’s true I wasn’t the most confident guy, always worried about what others were thinking.
I wasn’t sure how much college was going to help me. Along with Gary and our old high school friends, we played all the new video games. That was my passion, to the extent that I had one. And I began experimenting with extensions to make them more fun, designing extra challenges and new characters. I wondered if my inventions could be sold someday, but our school didn’t offer programming classes.
Wahoo had its share of working-class students like me, but kids from wealthy families ran the school. Ruthlessly. They thought they could get away with anything, and they were usually right. Picking on poor freshmen and sophomores was a particular hobby, with stories of coercing timid scholars to do their homework, hidden cameras during seductions, and stealing clothes in the gym among the worst. Roofing and date-rape weren’t unknown but hard to prove.
Many of the coaches and staff weren’t much help, sometimes getting a perverse thrill from the power they held. And as long as they stayed on the good side of the rich kids, they had no fear for their jobs. One instructor, Coach Lyman Philips, appeared to take particular joy in creating embarrassing situations, getting free drinks in the campus tavern when relating his latest outrage. This was particularly troubling for Gary and I, as Philips was also our track coach.
“Okay, losers,” he said on a bright Friday afternoon. “Wahoo hasn’t won a track meet all year, and that’s because you’re not motivated to train hard. Today, we are going to fix that.”
Eighteen of us stood on the lower field. The men’s team and the women’s team. There were soccer nets and football goal posts, but it wasn’t the school’s primary training facility, just a remote grassland separated from the campus by a low hill and sycamore trees. The gym was beyond the hill, and beyond the small stadium where workouts were usually conducted. There were ten men and eight women, all in our yellow and red uniforms, wearing running shoes. Gilly Melvin was my particular favorite, 5’3 with short curly blonde hair and a cute smile. Her track uniform barely concealed her ample breasts and deliciously silky thighs. Yes, I had a crush on her but didn’t have the nerve to ask her out. Gary made fun of me for that. But Gilly, Gary, and I were still close friends, sharing lunches and study sessions.
“I have a special treat today,” Coach Philips continued. “We are going to run the cross-country course. The females will be given a slight advantage, as state law requires, but it won’t be a decisive edge. All will risk the same penalty.”
“Coach, what penalty?” Roger Graspy dared to ask, a junior on a scholarship. Previous penalties had included extra push-ups, the chin-up bar, running thirty laps, and only being allowed to shower in cold water.
“A good one,” Coach Philips replied. “And don’t bother to protest. It’s already been approved by Dean Cummings.”
We waited. The Coach was so excited I thought he might cum in his pants. It made all of us nervous.
“The runner who comes in last today will strip naked in front of both teams,” he announced. “The loser will stay naked, go to the soccer stadium, and use the outdoor shower instead of the gym.”
“Naked!” half of us shouted.
“Naked. There aren’t many students down here on the auxiliary field. You’re lucky about that. And the stadium won’t be busy for another two hours, when our superb women’s soccer team is scheduled to play Belmont, so many may not see you. After the outdoor shower, you can put your clothes back on and return to the gym. Take a hot shower if you want, but I doubt you’ll want to by then. Another thing to watch out for. No one here on the practice field is allowed to bring their cell phones, so no photos. That won’t be true in the stadium.”
“Coach, this would be so humiliating to us girls,” Gilly pleaded, hands crossed over her chest. All of the girls looked concerned. In a moment of evil weakness, I did wonder what she’d look like naked.
“Then you better not lose the race,” the coach answered.
We lined up near a tree-covered trail. The dirt track went down through a light forest, across a wooden bridge into a meadow, back into low hills, and then a final stretch on returning to the practice field. The better runners weren’t scared. Being shy, I was plenty scared.
“Go!” the coach yelled, blowing a whistle.
We took off. The taller guys were fast, and many of the women, too. I was quickly two-thirds of the way behind the lead runners but trying hard. The trees along the dirt trail provided nice shade on the sunny day. At the bottom of a slope, a creek appeared covered by a quaint wooden bridge. A skinny dip in the creek sounded great but there was no time. We rushed through the meadow filled with spring flowers. Not a good place for hay fever. The path twisted into a narrow canyon, crested on a treeless ridge, and went down again into a ravine. This wasn’t a part of the course I was familiar with, mostly being a sprinter.
I reached a divide in the trail; several others close behind me. Gary had stopped just ahead, which was not unusual. He was faster and always a few steps ahead of me.
“This is where the girls get their advantage,” Gary said, pointing. “The guys need to use the lower trail. They get the upper trail. Keep moving. I’ll warn Roger and catch up.”
I looked back, seeing our competition was closing in. Three guys and four girls. They could hear Gary’s warning, and most were better at cross-country than I was. I diverted onto the lower trail, going as fast as I could. There was a bend up ahead, giving me a little breathing space, so I paused for a few precious seconds. The small rest area was surrounded by trees and flowers. Thankfully, the trail behind me was still empty.
Not complacent, I accelerated again, finding a gentle slope and the final turn up towards the practice field. There was still no one behind me, not even Gary. I must have been running very fast.
The trail opened into the long green practice field, taking me back up to the track. I was tired and sweating, but elated that none of the other men had caught up. And then I looked ahead.
The coach and seventeen track members were already standing at the finish line. Like they had been there for a while. There was no one behind me. I slowed, seeing no point in busting my ass. I crossed the finish line last.
“Five minutes later than everyone else, Roberts. I can’t imagine how in the fuck you managed that,” Coach Philips chastised.
“I was told to use the lower trail, sir,” I explained, looking at Gary but not making accusations. He looked back with a smirk. It was one of the greatest pranks ever. Everyone was chuckling.
“It’s an athlete’s obligation to know where they are and what they are doing at all times, Roberts, so I’m not interested in your lame excuses,” he remonstrated. “You are declared the loser of this race.”
My teammates shuffled, giving each other elbows. No doubt happy they hadn’t lost but not showing any sympathy, either. Except maybe Gilly. She wasn’t smiling quite as much as the others. Gary couldn’t have been happier, jumping up and down with unrestrained delight.
“You knew the consequences,” Coach Philips finally announced. “Strip.”
I stood like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to believe this was happening. I took off my sweaty yellow jersey, dropping it to one side. Ironically, I looked down to see Wahoo University emblazoned across the top. I took off my running shoes, peeled off the white socks, and slowly lowered my red trunks, keeping only my jockey shorts. A hand was over my hairless bare chest, another against my crotch.
“Coach, isn’t this enough?” I asked, hunching over.
“Naked means naked. Or don’t they teach you geniuses that in English class?” Coach Philips scathingly replied. I lowered my thumbs into my waistband and tugged my underwear down, exposing everything. Not that I had anything to feel ashamed of. I was well-hung for my size, circumcised, and dangling at just the right angle. I had a nice set of balls, not too hairy. The women were gesturing and twittering. It was totally humiliating, just as Coach Philips intended. I had no idea how humiliating the day would become.
“Conrad, put his clothes in this,” Coach Philips ordered, throwing Gary a gym bag. The best friend who had betrayed me. He stuffed everything in and zipped the bag closed, leaving me without a scrap to cover myself. I kept my hands crossed in front of me.
“Take a look, kids,” the coach said. “This is what failure looks like. Exposed. Mocked. Degraded into an object of scorn. Is this what you want? To be like this pathetic loser?”
“No, Coach! No, we don’t!” the teams shouted, not wanting to end up like me. Though they sure seemed to be enjoying my disgrace. Especially the rich kids.
After ten minutes of letting everyone scrutinize my assets, the coach called us to attention.
“Our Wahoo Warriors have a game tonight,” Coach Philips reminded. “Our girls need our support. Go back to the gym, shower up, finish your homework, and find your seats by six o’clock. As for you, Roberts, you’ll go to the stadium and use the outdoor shower under the grandstands. If anyone sees you, that’s too damn bad. After that, you can dress and get ready for the soccer match. Who will take responsibility for this loser’s track uniform?”
“I will, sir!” Gary shouted with enthusiasm.
“You’re a good kid, Conrad. Glad you’re not running around bare ass like this loser,” Coach Philips praised.
The men’s and women’s teams moved out, glancing back with giggles and grins. I stood there totally nude, my clothes in a gym bag held by my former best friend. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life. Until later.
“Are you ready for this? Not that you have any choice,” Gary said.
“Let’s get this over with,” I conceded. For other than a locker room, I couldn’t remember ever standing before anyone like this while they were fully clothed. It was surreal.
Gary led me up the ridge and through the sycamore trees towards the stadium. To be outdoors and naked under another person’s complete authority was so shameful that I wanted to die. But this was Coach Philip’s game and we both knew it. Asking Gary to relent and face harsh punishment was out of the question.
Wahoo had two stadiums. The larger, for football, could hold 40,000 fans. It was at the other end of the campus surrounded by restaurants, souvenir shops, and parking lots. The women’s soccer team didn’t rate such grandeur, granted the smaller stadium used for lesser events. It seated about 5,000 on a good night. The taller grandstands weren’t far from the gym, the guest seating closer to the public parking lot.
It felt strange walking up to the chain-link gate wearing nothing. Not even shoes. I did my best to cover myself with my hands, ducking my head. The shower stall was at the north end, usually used by groundskeepers washing their hands and feet, or just to cool off. They never stripped completely. It had curtains at one time, but those were gone.
“This is so great. Did you even imagine this happening?” Gary asked.
“No, I didn’t see this happening. And if I did, I wish it had been you.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t have been nearly so fun,” he replied.
The stadium was largely empty, but we saw groundskeepers taking equipment out of a shed. They needed to chalk the lines for the soccer game. They could see me but weren’t staring. At least, I didn’t notice them staring. I knew they could hear us. Other workers were beginning to arrive to wash down the bleachers and set up the goal nets. Two young women, possibly assistant coaches coming to inspect the field, walked nearby. Giggling. I did not see them take pictures.
“You are such an exhibitionist,” Gary said, attracting unwanted attention. “You should drop your hands. Give those girls a good look at your dangling willy.”
“I wouldn’t be naked if not for you. Why did you trick me like that?”
“It was too good to pass up. The whole time I saw you running off on the wrong trail, I could barely contain myself. When Roger and the others caught up and saw what I’d done, we laughed and laughed.”
“I want my clothes back,” I demanded.
“The coach said you needed to shower first,” he responded.
I stepped into the plastic stall and turned on the water, now casually observed by half a dozen workers. All at a distance. It was cold but not freezing. I’d need to get under the spray slowly, not prepared for the sudden shock. I didn’t see any towels. There was a well-used bar of soap.
“Coach said to get clean. Don’t disappoint him,” Gary reminded me much too loudly, for none of our conversation was private. “I still need to shower and change, too. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Wait!” I shouted. “Gary, wait! Goddamn it! Leave my clothes!”
“They’ll be safe in my locker,” he answered.
“I need them now!”
“I won’t be gone long,” he declared, strolling off with the gym bag hanging over his shoulder. Chasing him would be useless. There were likely dozens of people hanging out closer to the gym. Both men and women. Even if I dashed past them naked, it wasn’t going to get my clothes back.
I shivered under the cold spray, washing away the sweat from the cross-country farce that had transformed me into a figure of ridicule.
Finishing the shower, I wondered what to do. The groundskeepers weren’t paying much attention, or pretended not to, and no one else was in the area. But what about me? Until Gary came back with my clothes, I had no place to go, just a tall steel structure over my head with daylight pouring through from every direction. I used both hands to cover my privates and looked around, hoping for a place to hide.
I heard noise. Voices. Oh my God, a group of people were coming! There was only one option. The year before, the Coach had bought an old wooden haybox from a farm. It was 4 feet wide, two feet deep, and three feet high, with a tilted hinged lid. He had cut a round hole in the top to store soccer balls, volleyballs, and basketballs, but it had never gotten much use. It was sitting under the grandstands. I raced to the ancient contraption, opened the lid, and crawled inside, hoping no one had seen me.
The wood box was surprisingly clean. No mold or cobwebs. I stayed down, the hole in the lid my only light, and that was dim, being under the grandstands. The voices got louder.
“We’re not getting enough attendance,” I heard Dean Walton say, a sixty-year-old veteran of university struggles.
“The games aren’t exciting enough,” Mr. Brewster complained, a major booster. “Yes, seeing the girls running up and down the field in those tight shorts is great, but it doesn’t draw a big enough crowd. Can they be topless?”
“No,” Dean Walton replied, her voice grim.
“At least have the marching band out at halftime,” Brewster suggested. “And cheerleaders in really skimpy outfits.”
“We can do that,” the Dean agreed, speaking to her assistants.
“I can deliver the message,” a younger male voice said. It was Frank Rockman, one of the richest of the rich kids and captain of the men’s soccer team. He had once knocked a glass of milk into my lap in the cafeteria and called me clumsy.
“Sure, Frank. Tell Mr. Donovan that we’ll need the band on the field tonight,” Dean Walton decided.
I could hear Frank turning back toward the gym, and then he paused. Had he seen me crawl into the haybox? Had I made an unfortunate noise? And then he moved on. I breathed a sigh of relief. I also had to wonder. Where the hell was Gary? Where were my clothes?
The game would start in another hour. The team was due to arrive on the field to warm up. Belmont’s team bus would arrive in the guest parking lot at any minute, along with scores of their enthusiastic fans. I needed to get out of the wooden box and back to the gym. It would be embarrassing, but better than where I was. My plan was interrupted.
“Hey there, little buddy. How are you doing?” Frank said, hovering over the hole in the lid.
I said nothing, hoping he was trying a bluff. Under the stands, with the sun going down, the interior of the box was dark. I huddled against the side trying to cover myself. Could he see me? I wasn’t sure.
“Seriously? I know you’re in there. Your buddy Gary was bragging in the locker room about how he left you naked in the stadium. He threw your clothes in a trashcan and said he was going back to the dorm to study.”
This was getting bad. Frank was no friend to...
