The Brotherhood of the Traveling Jockstrap

Friends since childhood, four young men gathered in camaraderie before every competitive sporting event. Wes, the wrestler of the bunch, sat on a bench in the musky locker room with panic in his eyes; tossing items out of his gym bag and mumbling. 

   “Wes, ten minutes till weigh in. Why aren’t you dressed?” Bo, the group’s Tae Kwon Do competitor, checked the time on his phone and frowned a concerned look at his unprepared comrade. Jeb, a skydiver, recognized the distress on Wes’s face for what it was: panic over a poorly packed bag. 

   “What’s up, dude? Don’t have all your gear or something?” Jeb helped Wes retrieve the items he’d tossed about. 

   “I don’t have my jock strap, man. The last time I wrestled without a strap, I saw stars and sang soprano for a week afterwards. I honestly don’t think my jewels can handle another hit like that.” 

   The guys instinctively covered their junk while empathizing with their distraught buddy. Dripping with sweat and eating a blue snow cone, Charles arrived last; directly after his gymnastics competition. He rummaged through the gym bag slung across his shoulders.

   “Hey man, use mine!” With a bright grin, Charles brought forth a rainbow-colored jockstrap that glistened in the light—probably due to the sweat. “And get this, man. This is my lucky jockstrap. Every time I wore this, I placed in the top of the event.”

   “Five minutes till weigh in, Wes!” Clipboard in hand and pen in ear, the coach stuck his head in the locker room and frowned at unprepared Wes. 

   With no time to debate the issue, Wes took his friend up on the offer. He grabbed the sweaty strap from Charles, adjusted it to his personal requirements, and pulled his spandex uniform on over it. 

   A warm feeling of confidence radiated from Wes’s groin as he stepped onto the mat. Within seconds, he dominated his opponent; breaking the team’s record for speed of takedowns. Because of him, his team won the championship and carried him off the mat like a hero. 

   Later that night, the four guys met for pizza and beer to celebrate the day’s successes. 

   “I’m telling you guys, my family jewels never felt so powerful. That rainbow jockstrap has super powers.” Wes crammed a slice of pepperoni and pineapple in his mouth.

   “Bo, don’t you have a tournament tomorrow?”

   “Yes. That’s why I’m not drinking. I’m going against, The Baller Mauler, for the grand championship. She kicks harder than an angry donkey on steroids and she aims for the nuts every time.” Bo’s eyes watered just thinking about it.

   “Isn’t that an illegal move?”

   “Of course it is, but that won’t stop her! She’s crazy…doesn’t even care being disqualified. She’ll laugh while watching me cough up my nuts.”

   Wes sympathized with his friend’s predicament. Luckily, he came prepared to offer a solution. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the rainbow-colored jockstrap. With the pride of a father handing over the family business, he dangled the strap over his friend’s plate of hamburger pizza.

   “It is my honor, my dear friend, to bestow upon you, the greatest treasured protector of the cojones.” The friends clapped Bo on the back and muttered words of good humored encouragement while finishing off the pizza.

   The next morning, Bo ironed and starched his Tae Kwon Do uniform and packed his bag with bananas and power drinks. He put on the rainbow-colored jockstrap and examined himself in the full length mirror. Before his eyes, his muscles tightened and bulged; rippling and hardening like Captain America after his transformation. Even more astounding, a thick bulge appeared underneath the rain-bowed bulk of the jockstrap. He knocked on it with his fist and discovered solid steel protection over his tender bits. Thinking that it would feel stiff and cumbersome, he practiced a few kicks. Pleasantly surprised by the impossibility of it, Bo discovered the steel cup bent and moved with him. 

   With extra pep in his step, Bo put on his dobok and drove to the tournament. There was fierce competition for forms, and it wasn’t exactly Bo’s strong suit. However, the invigorating energy that radiated from his testicles reignited his confidence. Alertness and pride flashed over the judges’ faces as they sat taller and took notice of Bo. His “kihap” gained the immediate attention of the crowd and caused a brief return of intense silence. Bo executed his second degree form, Gae-Baek, precisely and powerfully; earning him first place in forms competition. 

   Bo stretched and warmed up on the side, awaiting his call to the sparring competition. Across the gym, “The Baller Mauler”, otherwise known as, Mandy, glared at him with with the icy purpose of a serial killer. His manhood sensed Mandy’s presence and cowered by retreating into his stomach. Patting his groin gently, Bo gave his balls a little pep talk.

   “Come on guys, I know you’re sensitive, but I need you to be strong. We can do this!” They didn’t seem convinced. 

   “And now for the main event!” The announcer’s cue for Bo and his balls to proceed to the center ring. “In this corner, we have Mandy Wu!” 

   The crowd went wild for Mandy as they stomped on the bleachers and called out her preferred moniker, “Baller Mauler.”

   “And in this corner, we have, Bo Toms!”

   Bo’s three best friends, Wes, Charles, and Jeb, cheered for him against an otherwise silent gymnasium. Those three voices may not seem like a lot to most people, but to Bo at that moment, they were everything. Their cheers lifted his morale like spinach to Popeye. 

   As soon as he stepped on the mat, he felt the surge of power emanate from his crotch as the rainbow jockstrap did its thing. Bo bowed to his opponent; reassured by the hardened cup inside the strap that protected his squishy parts.

   “Fighting stance….sijak!” 

   Rotating in a circle, they each focused on the other’s core, strategically observing patterns of movement. Mandy continued her black stare of death; laser-beaming into Bo’s soul. Foamy saliva pooled around her gum-shielded mouth as she flicked her tongue at him like a reptile. Fast as a cobra, she flew toward Bo with a back side kick. At the last second, he jutted a sharp ball-foot into her padded midsection—scoring a point with a perfectly executed front kick.

   In the next round, she came at him fast with her renowned, nut-cracking, roundhouse kick to the groin. To Bo, the world seemed to move in slow motion as his testicles flashed before his eyes. With no time to block the kick, he stood helpless and horrified. As soon as her instep hit Bo’s magically protected groin, a resounding CRACK!, echoed through the gymnasium and the crowd jumped to their feet. The judges surrounded the fighters; obstructing the crowd’s view of the damage. Assuming “The Baller Mauler” had lived up to her moniker as usual, the spectators cheered for Mandy. 

   Bo’s friends rushed to the ring, concerned for their friend’s reproductive future. 

   “Medic! Call an ambulance!” The center judge examined the scene. Out of reverence, the crowd sat down in silence. As the judges parted like the Red Sea, the paramedics jaunted between them and lowered a stretcher beside…

   “Mandy? Are you okay?” Bo looked down at his unharmed crotch and then over at Mandy; writhing in pain on the mat. He rushed over to offer his support, holding her hand while the medics worked on her. Shuttering and holding back vomit, he risked a peek at her injury. Her right foot flopped in a useless, putty-like blob of bloody flesh; every bone from ankle to toes—shattered. Not that he wanted anyone to get hurt, but Bo breathed a sigh of relief.

That could have been my testicles! 

   While the paramedics carried Mandy out, the head judge approached Bo with a microphone.

   “With heavy hearts, the judges deliberated and reached a difficult decision. Um. Well, we hate to disqualify folks because we know how hard you all train. Unfortunately, with an injury this bad, we have no other choice. It’s blatantly obvious that this should’ve happened long before tonight. Mandy Wu, is disqualified for using illegal groin kicks and excessive force.”

   The judge raised Bo’s hand and declared, “our Grand Champion…Bo Toms!!”

   Later that night, over pizza and beer, the guys discussed the tournament.

  “So, she kicked you in the goin and the rainbow jockstrap protected your junk?”

   “I guess so. She kicked me and shattered her foot. That’s a hard kick!”

   “And a hard sack of balls!”

   Bo pulled the sweaty jock strap out of his pocket and twirled it on his finger. The strap emanated a distinct, ripe odor that slapped the guys in the nostrils.

   “Shewwwwwy! That thing is rank!”

   “That’s the good luck you smell. And you’re up next, Jeb.” Bo handed the strap to his buddy.

   The next morning, the group arrived at the field bright and early to watch Jeb’s 100th jump. Being a stickler for rules, structure, and tidiness, Jeb always packed his own chute. He knew that knowledge and preparedness trumped superstition, but a small part of him respected Lady Luck’s role in every successful jump. Therefore, he wore the rainbow-colored jockstrap.

   His best mates surrounded him before he boarded the plane.

   “Hey dude, you smell nice. Why do you smell nice? Aren’t you wearing the strap?” Charles munched on a bag of cheese curls while sniffing his friend.

   “Of course I’m wearing it! Those updrafts can be murder on the nads. Better to be safe than sorry.” Jeb winked at his buddies and climbed aboard the plane.

   The guys shielded their eyes from the sun and gazed upwards as Jeb, a tiny dot in the sky, launched himself from the plane. They shared a pair of binoculars, passing them back and forth. 

   “I think something’s wrong.” Charles bit into his beef jerky and passed the binoculars to Bo.

   “He’s flapping his arms like he’s trying to fly.” Alarmed, Bo raised his voice and looked around frantically as if there was something he could do to help his free-falling friend. He shoved the binoculars at Wes.

   “His chute didn’t open! He’s coming in too fast!” Wes took another panicked look. “His emergency chute is tangled!”

   Bo grabbed the binoculars, but he didn’t need them anymore. He tossed them aside and pointed at Jeb; now dangerously close to the ground. 

   “He pulled the third chute, but it may be too late!” 

   All three guys took off running toward the landing site and arrived just in time to see Jeb shatter both legs as he crashed into the unforgiving ground. 

   “Don’t move, Jeb! The paramedics are on their way.” Bo worked to untangle the mess of parachutes and cords around his fallen friend.

   “I shouldn’t have…” Jeb groaned and shifted his weight just enough to send shearing pain up his broken femur.

   “It’s okay, man. You’re gonna be fine.” Wes hated seeing his friend in so much pain.

   Jeb leaned forward, grabbing Charles by the shirt and pulling him close in an intense conversation.

   “I should never have washed the jock strap!” He screeched the profound declaration and passed out.

   The three friends stepped back to make way for the paramedics. 

All they could do was shake their heads, dumbfounded by their injured friend’s revelation. 

“Jeb should’ve known better.”

“I thought everybody knew it.” 

“Never wash your lucky clothes or you’ll wash the luck right out of them.”

THE END