Jock Strap Quotes

I started to duck under the spears, only to have the two vamps on the other wall suddenly appear in my face. Or, at least, their crotches did. Another day, I would have made a cute remark about heat and leather jock straps, but I wasn’t feeling real cute right now.

From my locker I collected my sneakers, jock strap, and gym pants and then turned away, leaving the door ajar for the first time, forlornly open and abandoned, the locker unlocked. This was more final than the moment when the Headmaster handed me my diploma. My schooling was over now.

I’m all for you exploring new shit, but guys are dicks regardless of whether they wear a jock strap or a pocket protector.” “That's a ringing endorsement of your gender.

So this was where jock straps went to die.

I’m all for you exploring new shit, but guys are dicks regardless of whether they wear a jock strap or a pocket protector.

His white knit shirt and name-brand shorts were soaked through so you could see the straps of his jock biting into the soft ass I was handing him. He

I’d rather have been curled up in a vat of sardines or a hamper full of dirty jock straps.

he felt sick as a flea in a leper’s jock strap.

The tought that some people might be so ignorant as to think someone can be "turned" gay had just never crossed my mind. Who thinks this crap? Like homosexuality is a contagious disease. And if it was contagious, wouldn't a group of us have left packages of infected plaid shirts and jock straps lying around to turn the guys we wanted?

Rifling through my bag to get padded up, I can tell that Mum’s been in it. The pads have been strapped neatly around the bat, and inside each of them is a rolled-up bathtowel. A Granny Smith in the bottom of the bag. Spare socks. It’s eleven. She’ll be mopping out the bar at the Mona Castle, rolling in the new kegs.

You need rubber-soled shoes,” Michael said. You also need a jock strap. The testicles in my boxer shorts were whapping against the Recaro seat like little bowling balls being dropped out fourth-story windows.

Mason poked his head around the corner. "Dad and I are going to the store. Be back later." Lucas sighed. They were probably going out to buy man tools. Or chips and beer. Or jock straps, he thought bitterly.

I am a boy mom, but I am raising two very different boys. So what does #lifewithboys mean in my house? Mud. Blood. ER visits and black eyes. “He threw a rock at me!” but also, “Let’s play a math game on the computer!” Holes in the knees of brand-new pants. Dirty cleats and stinky jock-straps. Marathon games of Monopoly, chess, and Sudoku. Reading Harry Potter five times. Yelling “No throwing baseballs in the house!” Science camp by day and soccer practice by night. Messy hair and dirty fingernails. Overdue library books. Tears. Fears. And love. We may have holes in the walls and holes in our pants, but I wouldn’t trade this life. It’s exhaustingly beautiful and never boring. Someday, my youngest child may have a boy just like him, and when he throws a baseball through the living room window, I’ll tell my son that it’s okay. He’s just a little boy.

Gary Bell is nicknamed Ding Dong. Of course. What’s interesting about it is that “Ding Dong” is what the guys holler when somebody gets hit in the cup. The cups are metal inserts that fit inside the jock strap, and when a baseball hits one it’s called ringing the bell, which rhymes with hell, which is what it hurts like. It’s funny, even if you’re in the outfield, or in the dugout, no matter how far away, when a guy gets it in the cup you can hear it. Ding Dong.

Mid-June 2012 …Do you remember the arrogant male model who came to the Bahriji School to give a grooming course to us students when we were there? An evening after my return to London, while staying at Uncle James’ home, I visited one of the London sex clubs. Uncle James was in Hong Kong and I had his town house to myself before I moved to my own lodgings in Ladbroke Grove, recommended by the Nottinghill Methodist Church housing project. I was terribly lonely and needed company desperately. I ventured to “Heavens” located Under the Arches on Villiers Street, Charing Cross, a little before midnight. In 1972, this establishment was located in a large warehouse. For the uninitiated, the entrance was nondescript. It was dimly lit from the outside, and when a patron wished to gain entry, he pressed an obscure doorbell by the side of a huge aluminum sliding door. A pair of eyes would look through a peephole, checking to make sure that it was neither a police raid nor an underage client. If the patron was handsome and dressed like a macho gay man, he’d be asked for identification. Once approved, the green door would slide open to allow entry. Inside “Heavens” was a different world. Throngs of leather and denim-clad patrons checked their belongings in the tiny cloakroom next to the cashier’s booth. A small safety deposit box was then allocated upon request for each visitor to deposit his wallet or important documents for safekeeping. The safety deposit box key, attached to an elastic band together with the clothing claim tag, would then be handed to the patron to wear around his wrist or ankle. Most patrons were shirtless except for their jeans and leather pants. The uninhibited would strip down to their jock straps or sports undergarments. Their naked buttocks were ready to be in service for a night of unbridled debauchery.

Holy hell, Essie," Dwayne gushed with joy. "If I was straight I would totally fight Hank for your ass." "Thank you," I said. "Wait what?" Hank yelled. "You're mine." "I know," I told him. "Dwayne was just giving me an unfiltered and inappropriate compliment." "It's true," Dwayne concurred. "I'd bang the hell out of Granny too if I enjoyed hoohoos." "TMI, Dwayne," I muttered. Junior shut his eyes again and put his hands over his ears. "Sweet baby Jesus in a jock strap, I can't unhear any of this." "Dwayne, I'd just like to say I find that flattering." Granny smiled as she adjusted her boob tube and blew him a kiss.