It hadn’t been there a few minutes ago, when you’d gone into the stall to do your business. And now you’d stepped out, and there it was–a rather filthy looking jockstrap, just…hanging there, on one of the urinals, and for the last few minutes now, you haven’t been able to stop looking at it, as much as it disgusts you. As much as you want to walk out, and forget you’d ever seen it. But you can’t. In fact, you can’t do anything.
Well, that’s not quite true. For the last minute or so, you’ve been doing everything you can to keep your feet rooted in place. Because what your feet want you to do, for reasons you can’t understand at all, is walk you over to that urinal, where the jockstrap is hanging. But you don’t want to go over there, do you? That’s why you’re forcing your feet to stay rooted to the tile. That’s why you can’t move, because the only direction you can go is the only direction you don’t want to go in.
Where did it come from, anyway? You didn’t hear anyone come in. If you wait long enough, maybe someone else will come in, and that will let you give up this strange…obsession. The air is stale, it’s hard to breathe in here. There’s a small, something musky. Are you…closer than you were a moment before? You look around as best you can (your eyes really don’t want to stop looking at the jockstrap) and see that, yes, you have moved. Your feet have snuck in a few shuffling steps while your attention was elsewhere, and scooted you a few inches closer to the thing there.
Maybe you should just give in. Obviously you want to touch (smell lick swallow sniff gag) it. Obviously, you mean…how could you…not want to? Something’s wrong, the smell is so much stronger, even though you’re certain you haven’t stepped closer to it. It’s getting harder for you to think, harder for you to remember where you are, why you wanted to leave. The door opens, someone comes in. You expect your attention to be broken, but he walks right past you, like you aren’t there, uses a urinal right next to the jock. Jealousy flares in you, unexpected. It’s your jock! He can’t have it, it’s not his! You stride closer, two steps, and then stop yourself, hand outstretched. The man, still apparently unaware that you’re even there, finishes, washes his hands, and then leaves.
Your jock. It’s yours. You know it isn’t true, but the words have all the force of the truth. Still, you stay there, rooted in place, sweat beading on your brow, precum welling up in your underwear, wondering how much longer you can keep still. How much longer before you claim it. How much longer before it claims you?