Rugby League

"See ya on the field, soft lad," Daz chuckled, as they left me alone to go and fetch their kit bags out of Daz's works Transit.

I was in for a right fucking game.

I watched as Trev bent into the cab, his T shirt lifting up and his belly pushing his jeans down, to show three damp inches of hairy arse crack above the waistband as he rummaged in the cab. Still black with rage, with the smell of the men's' sweat up my nose, I finally stamped into the changing rooms and tried to focus my mind back on the rugby and the game to come. I half wondered why I'd become so wound up by a not entirely unfriendly bit of a laugh and carry on, but I was doubly resolved to play this game hard and see us walk all over out opponents, and two of them in particular.

Finally banging my way into the changing rooms, dragging my kitbag behind me, I was met with a barrage of cheerful greeting from the lads.

"There you are!"

"Where the fuck's thy bin?"

"Probably havin' a wank!"

"Come on, hurry up!"

"It'll be half time afore ya make it on't field!"

"Have you got any spare studs that'll fit these boots?"

"Still in yer overalls, ya scruffy sod?"

"Your buyin' the beers then, wi' all that overtime!"

"'Ee might be fixin' Dave's car."

"Or tightenin' his nuts one way or another!"

It was great getting in there among the men in the squad, getting into a pack with the lads, one of the team, ready to get out onto the field together, and bray the living fuck out of the enemy and Daz and Trev in particular. The squad were a good group of men, and I got on pretty well with all of them. We had the odd bit of friction occasionally, but it was soon forgotten. A few I'd played rugby with since school, and I'd worked with one of or two of them. Pete, the fullback, was a lorry driver, so I saw him fairly often at the workshops, usually getting his parts hungry Volvo F12 put right, or more likely, trying to persuade me into showing him a few, slightly illegal, tricks to inconspicuously bypass his tachograph and speed limiter. Amazing what a mechanic can achieve with strategically placed ball bearings or bridging a couple of connections in a Volvo F12's fuse box with an easily 'lost' string of copper wire!

Settling in among the team, I soon managed to shift my focus into the quiet channel of calm that comes before a game, and started to strip off, already aching from my larking about with Dastardly and Mutley and get myself ready for battle. I settled down into the atmosphere of the changing rooms. They were a simple enough, functionally affair, white tiled throughout, if a little mildewed. One end was the wet end, partly walled off, barring a single large entrance, with a sunken bath in the centre and shower heads around the wall. There was a bog, with a chipped wall length Armitage Shanks urinal with a trough and a couple of cubicles. The main changing room had a couple of rows of wooden benches with coat hook frames in the middle of room, and more benches and coat hooks against the top and side wall. Lockers ringed the rest of the walls, sturdy 1950's affairs, well dented and getting rusty, the keys long lost. Dave had a little cubby hole that functioned as an office and shrine for the reasonable collection of trophy's the club had won over the years.

The away team had a similar but smaller set up, though without the bath. Some years later, the bath was filled in and tiled over, a great loss, as 'health and safety' deemed that having a load of dirty sweating men relaxing in the same muddy water together was a health risk. Some of the professional Super League clubs now have individual baths, but it was an expense beyond the club's resources then and still is now. It wasn't really big enough to get the whole squad in the bath at once, it was more a token attempt at one, but you could fit in 8 men at a squeeze. If you didn't get in there first, you were best just having a shower, but if you were determined to get into the traditional baths with the lads you'd have to wait your turn. There were always a few men who'd lay in there for ages, but you could always stand by the edge and piss onto the lads outstaying their time to hurry them along though.

I've always loved rugby changing rooms, and not just for the obvious reasons. I loved the atmosphere, the taut concentration before a match, and following a win, the great camaraderie, with the usual singing in the bath, and the horseplay and carrying on afterwards. Most of all, I used to relish the smell. Empty, it just smelled of disinfectant, damp and mildew, but with the squad in, it became a heady mix of sweat, feet, underpants, crotches, deodorant, soap, Tiger Balm, armpits and testosterone that I would savour. Might seem strange to some, but it was certainly better than the industrial chemical smell of grease, diesel, brake fluid, friction material and burred metal that I got up my nose at work.

I exchanged a few more friendly greetings with the lads, the odd new dirty joke and listened to the usual speculative remarks about the new barmaid at the pub's proclivities, with Pete and Stuart giving me a 'remember that night in Preston' grin. I caught up with local tales and listened to the boasts about the lasses the men had allegedly fucked that week before exchanging a few comments and observations about a magnificent Salford v. Wakefield Trinity game the prior weekend. I had a chinwag with Sam, the team captain, telling me to keep myself as sharp as fuck for any chances to score. He was a welcome sight after being manhandled by the two testosterone overloaded apes outside, with his easy smile, gorgeous arse and the kind of body that would have disgraced a Praxiteles marble statue. He had absolutely perfect skin, not a sodding spot anywhere, and a six pack like Satsuma's in a rubber bag, with a clear line of muscular definition plunging in a perfect arc over his hip into his groin.

We talked through a few more tactics briefly, before Sam did his rounds, having a quick individual prep talk with the men. Sam was keeping things serious, calm and professional as team captain, and keeping us focussed on the main issue, a staunch defence, with an eye on the new winger, and sharp eyes for any try opening. Speed and ruthlessness would be the key to a favourable outcome in this game, as well as watching out for Dastardly and Mutley, and bringing them down fast and hard when they got possession of the ball.

Protocol in the changing rooms never altered. The men would get stripped off as soon as possible, everything off and cocks to the breeze, wedding rings included, to stop jewellery opening nasty gashes or breaking a finger in a tackle, and then slowly stretching, limbering up and mentally preparing for the game. I learned the merits of a good warm up a long time past after enough cramps and a groin strain confirmed its benefits. Most of us would be pretty near bollock naked until very close to heading out on the field, lacing up boots, having a piss, taping down ears, strapping up thighs, ankles, knees and elbows and chomping gum shields into place. Straight blokes can do that in a group I reckon, casually get on with preparing for a game, or showering with their nuts swinging around without seeming to notice it. I rarely found it a problem, I was usually too focussed on the rugby, not the men, but I was always self conscious about where I was looking and I was occasionally near paranoid about getting caught looking a bit too closely at my team mates anatomy. It wasn't easy sometimes though, especially after a victory, with plenty of close physical contact, a lot of back slapping, and the men's' bollocks bouncing around, or packed into their jockstraps. Worse than that it was the smell of warm, sweaty, mature male bodies that I found hard to ignore, something that has always triggered my arousal.

Visually things weren't bad either, and to look around, there was something for everyone, with men from their early twenties, like myself at the time, to forty plus, some smooth, some hairy, cocks and balls from the modest, to the dangerous, especially in Dave Briggs case. There was a fair selection tattoos to behold, some tacky, some interesting, like John, the loose forward who worked on the railways and had a spectacular British Rail Class 55 Deltic diesel locomotive tattooed on his back. It was an incredible work of art, a black and grey piece copied from a photograph, nearly a foot across, that must have been as agonising as it was expensive to have done. I've only the one myself, a roaring lion on the left bicep, which I had done on that Lancashire rugby tour. It cost me 80 quid, but it's a quality piece that I've never regretted.

In general, I'll have to admit that my team mates were pretty enjoyable to look at out of their clothes: The average level of fitness was high, even exceptional in Sam's case. Every man on the team was in pretty good shape, plenty of bulk and muscle, some with a lesser or greater layer of fat over it. They were a prime collection of big, fit, hard rugby league men. It wasn't the collection of highly defined, toned athletes, Sam excepted, that seem to dominate the Super League these days, but personally, I've always found the former every bit as appealing as the latter.

Ironically to me, half the teasing, winding-up, general piss-taking and guffawing in the changing rooms all considered of teasing each other about sexual preferences, and loud speculation about who was a poof, who liked it up the arse, who wanted suck a few cocks, and a near obsession with buggery in general, with the occasional bit of arse slapping and cock twanging. It's always the same in any male dominated environment. If any of them had actually worked out that I preferred blokes, they never mentioned it, and I'd prefer to think they respected me too much for my value to the squad and my ability on the field for it to matter.

I found myself some room on the bench opposite my locker, squeezing myself in between the big arses of our two props, Martin, who was bollock naked and was one of the coppers on the team and Neil, who was half kitted up already, having just eased into his socks, shirt and jockstrap. Both men were busy replacing damaged studs in their rugby boots. Martin was a lovely bloke, just into his forties, and thankfully without all the arrogance, know it all attitude and swagger that some coppers seem to have. He was friendly, even tempered, utterly reliable and one of the most likeable blokes you could meet.

I'd no doubt there'd be a totally different side to him on the job, and I'd heard it said he wasn't above dishing out a little summary justice to some of the local villains. I'd known him a good long while, though not closely, and I remember he'd given me more than one cautionary clip round the ear in some of my wilder moments when I was younger. He was a born prop forward, probably about 6'3" in his bare feet and well built. He was a bit overweight but he carried it well. He wasn't too bad looking either, fresh faced, with tufty blond hair, ice blue eyes and small stick out ears that were just asking to be nibbled on. He was a good and reliable forward, and I was grateful he was on this years' squad.. He'd recovered well from a scaphoid fracture the prior year and looked like he was going to be back at the top of his form. I'd been helped by him smashing many an opening for me, though he didn't quite have Neil's unrelenting stamina and moments of psychotic brilliance.

For all his authoritarian bulk, and barging thunder on the field, he was a real gentle giant, and had an incongruously soft, gentle voice that belied the look of him and he was one of the most honest and trustworthy men you could meet. He was well respected as a copper, and a good thief taker, and I could imagine why. With his gentle manner off the field, I could imagine he'd be able to coax a confession out of anyone. I knew Martin was ex Royal Navy, and he often used to have a few private, serious looking conversations with Dave in the pub, presumably about some of their darker days in the forces. I'd heard somewhere that Martin had been on HMS Sheffield when she was sunk by an air to sea missile, but it wasn't something I'd ever asked him about.

I'd only ever seen him on duty once, on crowd control at a Leeds v. Wakefield Trinity game at Headingley. He looked pretty good in uniform, and I'll admit that he'd featured in one or two of my wanking fantasies. I once had a bet with him on the outcome of a Lancashire Cup final, where I'd argued for St. Helens, and he was determined Wigan were going to clinch it. I'd bet him, jokingly, that I'd drop my shorts and he could stick his truncheon up my arse if they lost. They did. Unfortunately he didn't take our bet seriously, but I'd have been willing to pay penalty. I had a recurring fantasy where Wigan won, and he had to pay the penalty, and I got to slowly slide his truncheon up his arse, when he was in full uniform, helmet, blue sweater, radio, the full works, with his underpants and uniform trousers round his ankles over the top of shiny size 11 boots. I'd have used his handcuffs to secure his wrist behind his back, before he bent over to take it, right up to the hilt.

I tried to get thought out of my mind. It was arousing me, and I didn't need that sort of distraction from focussing on the game. Martin was still bollock naked while he strapped up the fingers on his left hand with surgical tape and against all better intentions, I couldn't help but watch his cock and balls swinging about. He had nice set of tackle, not huge, but a smooth, nicely sized cock with a snug foreskin and a pair of the most perfectly formed testicles I'd ever seen, with a light dusting of fine blond fluff over his body, and slightly freckled shoulders.

Martin had the odd tattoo, presumably from his navy days, including a large ensign over his left shoulder. Interestingly he had a small anchor on his left arse cheek, which I found quite amusing. He must have been well pissed in god knows what port when he'd got that done. It amused me thinking what all the villains he arrested would think if they knew what the local copper had got hidden away under his uniform. Most of our spectators probably did as he'd had his shorts ripped a couple of years back, following a grab in a tackle. The seam of his shorts had split right up his butt, and he'd had them ripped almost completely off. He'd been left in the middle of a field in not much more than his jockstrap below the waist, with his arse out and his tattoo on display, looking rather embarrassed until Dave, with extreme lack of haste to let the poor bugger squirm, brought him a spare pair. I shook the memory out of my head. I knew I had more pressing things to think about than Martin's arse and settled myself down to get kitted up.

"Ready for this game then?" Martin asked me, gentle and friendly as ever. There was something a bit Jekyll and Hyde about Martin. For all his loveable nature out of uniform and off the field, he became a proper tough nut on it, from the moment the whistle blew.

"Yeah, course he is!" Neil chipped in.

"He's already trying to knock out the opposition before the game! I take it tha's seen them props Williams has set on!"

"Tha could say we've met." I told him, inwardly planning murder.

"Well watch out for 'em. I know those two of old, and they've been good players for about 20 years a piece. Not as fast as they were when they were your age, but they'll flatten you, if you muck about with 'em. Yer not gonna match 'em for size lad, so use your speed and brains, don't let them chew at you and dance round 'em. Williams'll have told 'em to be onto your every move, he knows your points potential. They'll do owt to break ya down, so watch out for 'em, and keep them tries rolling in!"

"I'll be doin' me best mate!" I told Neil, and gave a him a slap of thanks on his solid shoulder. It felt like granite. Neil wasn't particularly tall for a prop, but he was about as wide as he was high with unbelievable reserves. Neil had a face like a socket set and a nose broken so many times it was almost flat, but he watched out for me, he knew his game, and I'll give him his due, when it came to rugby, he probably new my own strengths and weaknesses better than I did myself.

"Cheers, Neil. Don't thy be worryin' about me mate, I'm ready to walk all over the bastards!" I told him, cracking my knuckles and imagining grinding the studs on my boots into Daz's face.

Martin gave me a friendly smile.

"Good on you lad, we'll give them summat to remember us by. Just watch out for the chances, and don't be too proud to shout out and get me and Neil in behind you if need it. Gotta back each other up. You'd have had about ten tries last week if you'd waited for some support." I knew Martin was right.

"Use the team!" he added, while he was pulling on his jockstrap, easing the waistband up under his stomach. It was good advice, and I took it without any offence. He was spot on. My worst fault was playing my own game of rugby not the team's game. Getting possession of the ball always gave me a rush of adrenaline and a desire for the charge, to get to that try line, and make the points, and found it hard to let the ball go and pass it to a better placed man. I told myself to try and keep Neil and Martin's well meant, good advice and Dave's focus on teamwork at the front of my mind.

I snapped out of my concentration when I noticed Martin large body looming in front of me blocking out the light.

"Sorry mate, I just need to get my spare laces out me pocket. Just been up the shop for 'em. I must snap a pair every game..."

I realised Martin's coat was hung on the peg behind me as I sat there. Before I could shift out of his way, He reached over my head into his hung up coat pocket, leaving his groin about two inches from my face. He reached down and had a quick jostle of his balls, settling those perfect bollocks comfortably into his jockstrap pouch, an unconscious, instinctive male action.

"Now where are those chuffin' laces?" I hear him announce, his pouched gonads still wobbling an inch from my face.

"Ah! Got em!"

Thank fuck for that, I thought, as he stepped back, my face free from his crotch and smell of freshly laundered jockstrap.

Just when I thought I was safe, Martin bent over to pick up his boots to replace his snapped laces, and this time I had his tattooed arse in my face, his buttocks parting as he bent over right in front of me. I could almost glimpse his arsehole. Space was at a bit of a premium in the changing rooms, and with the whole squad in, you got used to things like that. I tried not look too closely, and thought through how I was going to play this game. Watch the wings for the new guy and take Dave's advise to bring them down hard I decided. And two cunts in particular. I debated about asking Martin if he'd ever nicked Dastardly and Mutley, but knew he'd be too professional to tell me even if he had.

I pulled off my rigger boots and stuck them under the bench, then stripped out of my overalls, vest, socks and underpants and threw them into the bottom of my locker in one big wadded dirty ball, leaving me butt naked, and ready to prepare for the battle to come. I began digging my freshly washed strip out of my kit bag. It was always an important moment for me, taking out my kit, with the knowledge that this was it, we shortly going to be meeting equally determined men as our selves on the field, and we had a 90 minute chance to make all our training over the last week work. I was as tense as fuck, despite my quick tug earlier, my tension no doubt added to by my encounter in the car park and Martin's big warm body inadvertently brushing up against me as he wrestled into his socks.

We at least had a decent strip; striped royal blue and white shirts and socks and blue shorts, not unlike a toned down Halifax strip, and the club had, with unanimous consent, spent a good part of our subs getting our shirts made by Ellgren. They went the whole hog and had them embroidered with the club shield. I was happy that we had a decent strip: It was good to feel the part when you headed out onto the field. I pulled on my socks, folded down the tops to just under my knee, then had a rummage around in my bag and fished the cleanest looking out of a few well worn Litesome jockstraps out of the bottom. I slipped my legs through the waistband, and stood up to pull it on, easing my thick cock and swinging bollocks into the pouch as I felt the leg tapes snugly tuck up over my arse, neatly framing my buttocks. I got my hand down into the pouch and had a good rearrange to make sure everything was tidy and comfortable.