In the Locker-Room by Alan Gordon :: Sliptongue Magazine

In the Locker-Room

by Alan Gordon

Doctor Kedziora ran one hand through his thin beard and glanced again at the clock on his desk.

“I don’t know if I can,” said a small voice from his couch. It was the voice of Sharon Miller, the slight, but yet not unattractive, woman lying prone on his tight leather couch.

“Why do you suppose that is?” the Doctor asked. He scribbled a few lines on the notepad that was propped on one knee. There were a few other jottings on the paper, most gibberish, merely devices to keep him busy and at least somewhat alert.

“I . . . I don’t know if it can be put into words,” she said. “And frankly, I don’t know if it should be. It’s just so . . . vulgar.”

“Now Mrs. Miller, you know that you can say anything within the confines on this office, anything at all. I can tell that this clearly means something to you, or you would not have brought it up. Once again, can you tell me about it?”

Questions, questions. The key to appearing as though you were listening was to always ask questions.

“I . . . I suppose so,” she breathed.

“Alright then.” Kedziora briefly considered scribbling another a faux-note, and then decided against it, considering there wasn’t anything note worthy being said by any stretch of the imagination.

“Well,” she began, “I was doing a story. A sports piece on the Bobcat’s, a football team up in Danville.”

She paused, wringing her hands, and pushing them firmly down her thighs, as though in an attempt to smooth the pleats from her skirt.

“Continue,” Kedziora said gently, this time unable to stop himself from doodling a spiral on one corner of the notepad.

“I went into the locker room after the game was over. I don’t know how long after, but it must have been a while because there was no sign of any other journalists.”

He quickly glanced over at the clock again. They were barely half way through the session. Some sessions just seemed to drag by . . .

“When I walked in it was as though every eye turned toward me. Like I said, there were no other journalists or anything. Not even any sign of the coaches. Just players, most of which had just stepped out of, or were in the process of showering.”

Locker room, he noted in between the drawings. Players.

“And they all turned and looked right at me when I walked in. It was dead silent, but it was the kind of silence where you could tell it had been very loud a moment before. Like there was an echo, or maybe it was the look on their faces, like they had just been interrupted. But they all stopped and turned toward me. I think I hesitated at first, but I knew what I had to do, and continued forward to do it. I guess maybe I thought that if I acted bold than I really would be . . . or something like that. There was one player in particular that I was looking to interview, but I couldn’t distinguish him from all the other faces. So I called out his name. The echo of my voice sounded shrill, and I was worried that perhaps it had sounded like that coming out of my mouth. Like I didn’t know what I was doing. Like I wasn’t someone they should take seriously.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” he nodded encouragingly.

“No one answered me. I was about to call out his name again, but before I could, it happened. I don’t even know how it happened. One of them stepped forward. Maybe two or three. But after those first few, they all seemed to collapse onto me, like water bursting through a dam. Like a pride of lions on a gazelle.”

Good metaphor, Kedziora wanted to add, but kept to himself.

“There were so many of them. I don’t even know. I would guess twenty, perhaps more. All beefy, muscular athletes. But of course, I suppose that is a given; they were football players after all.”

He nodded and added it to his notes.

Muscular. Large athletes.

“The first few grabbed me. They held me down. I thought for sure . . . well, I thought what any women would think in that situation. And then they started pulling off my clothes. All at once. Like five or six different sets of hands just grabbing, and pulling, and ripping. That’s when I was sure. They were going to rape me.”

“Now can you describe where you were?”

“I was in the locker-room . . . didn’t I say that already? The locker-room. On the floor.”

“Yes, I know. But what did it look like? Did you see or hear anything that especially caught your attention while all this was going on?”

Mrs. Miller pursed her lips in concentration, and finally shrugged noncommittally. “I heard water. From the showers. At least I did when I first walked in. When I was . . . when they had me on the floor the sound of rushing water stopped, the other players must have finished with their showers. The only thing I heard then was dripping.”

Water dripping. Shower.

“Breathing. That too. There was the sound of heavy, heavy breathing. And it smelled of . . . testosterone? Does testosterone have a smell?”

“I don’t believe so. Not in the conventional sense.”

“Oh. Masculine then, I guess. Although I’m sure that’s not really a scent either. But that’s the only way I can articulate it: testosterone and masculinity and . . . sweat. Yes, sweat.”

Masculine smell. Testosterone. Sweat.

“And cold tile. I remember that too. My flesh was being pressed into the floor, and I remember thinking about how cold it felt against my bare skin.”

Cold tile. Bare skin.

“And there were so many of them,” she continued. “But they just stood there looking at me, like I was a butterfly pinned beneath their fingers. I expected them to fall on me at once, to start . . . you know. But they just stood and watched. They were excited though. I knew that, each and every one that I could see was getting hard. Every one of them. They started . . . um, to touch themselves. They started masturbating. They were staring at me, and masturbating. And the weirdest part is that I was looking around, looking at their penises . . . their, um, cocks?”

“It’s ok Mrs. Miller. Use whatever words you think are best.”

“Cock,” she exalted. “Balls. Cunt lapping. Snatch fucking. Pussy—”

“Mm-hmm, but let’s try and keep them in context.”

“Right. Sorry,” she said, her face flushing deep crimson. “I was looking at their . . . their cocks. Like, I was really looking at each and every one, every one that I could see, and judging how long each one was. How thick, and how hard they were. I guess that’s pretty strange, considering the circumstances.”

Kedziora said nothing, merely jotting more words on the pad in front of him.

Length. Girth. Erectness.

“So, yeah,” she said, glancing nervously at him. “They were all standing around me. Masturbating. I don’t know how long it was. Five minutes, maybe. I guess I just lost myself or something, gazing back and forth at each hard dick, but I don’t know how long it took. And then one came up to me. He knelt beside me, right over my breasts. And he . . . er, ejaculated. He came. He knelt beside me and he came on my breasts. His cum was so . . . hot. And gooey. It . . . I can’t describe it Doctor, it made me so . . . Really. I really, really can’t describe it.”

She looked at him pleadingly.

He glanced up at her inquiringly over his notepad, coaxing her with his eyes to continue.

“Horny,” she sighed, turning away from him. “It made me so damn horny. And then the next guy came up, and did the same thing. Only it was on my stomach, I think. Yes, he came on my stomach. And then the next guy, this time on my . . . vaginal area? Pussy? Pussy. He came on my pussy. And the next guy on my face. And so on: face, breasts, stomach, pussy, face, breasts, stomach, pussy . . . and on, and on, through I don’t know how many men.”

Kedziora didn’t make a sound, although he did scribble a few valid notes onto the sheet of paper in front of him. Sharon Miller still was not looking at him. She seemed to be staring a sizable hole into the wall of his office.

“There were so many of many of them. And there was so much of it. I was covered. I was drenched. And I was so damn hot. And gooey. I felt so . . . like I said, it made me feel so . . . good, I guess. Damn, I can’t explain it.”

“Aroused?” the Doctor offered.

“Yes. Aroused. It made me very aroused. I mean, if they had let me go, I don’t know what I would have done. When they first pinned me down I wanted nothing except to get out there, but at that point . . . I don’t know. I don’t even really know if I was actually being held down at that point.”

She fell silent, and Kedziora took the opportunity to jot a few more notes, waiting for her to continue.

When still she hadn’t spoken, he was about to prompt her, but she unevenly continued before he had the chance.

“Then,” she said, “they picked me up. They were gentle. Very, very gentle with me. You wouldn’t have known that a moment before . . . well, you wouldn’t have known what had happened, seeing how gentle they were with me. I still had their goo all over me. Their seed. It was two or three of them, the ones that held me down, they took me into the shower. They turned the water on me. Warm, soothing water. And they soaped me up. They washed me from head to toe. Like I was a Goddess or something. They were so gentle and careful, it was like I was a Goddess. And then they toweled me dry. Each one of them, these large men, with muscles just rippling off their bodies, they toweled me off so daintily. And helped me into my clothes.”

Her focus on the wall blurred, and Kedziora could see her mind slipping away into the moment.

“And?” he said after a time, anxious for her to continue.

“And . . . that’s it. I suppose at that point I would have walked out. But I never did.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. That’s when I woke up. And I was so covered and sweat, and I was so aroused, I almost thought that it had really happened.”

Doctor Kedziora continued to write on the pad in front of him. Some were valid notes, some were not.

“So Doctor,” she said. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s wrong with me? I have these dreams. And this one especially, about a room full of men holding me down and jacking off on me. And it made me so . . . so fucking horny. What’s wrong with me?”

“Mrs. Miller,” the Doctor said, “I am confused.”

He turned and glanced at the clock. Unfortunately they were out of time.

“I am confused as to just why it is that you think anything is ‘wrong’ with you?”

_______________

Alan Gordon is a member of a set of identical triplets. His two brothers, Allan and Allen, are also aspiring writers. Allan reads and writes literary fiction, and Allen does mainstream, sci-fi, and horror type fiction. Neither one really approves of what Alan does, but most of that disapproval stems from jealousy at how his work is put into print much more often than their own. You can check out their website at: http://www.myspace.com/gordonaf