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Nah. He’d put the jock on because—well, because he was a jock, right? I mean, he didn’t play anymore, but he had, he used to, and so wearing it was a habit, something he’d just never given up. This little piece of bro-hood that he kept with him, even as he’d grown and changed and moved on. That’s what it was.

It wasn’t at all a function of his new identity, the one he felt like he was still trying out sometimes, like a new pair of kicks or a new pair of sweats or, yeah, like a new jockstrap. It wasn’t that it framed his ass just so, wasn’t that it divided his body up, managing to emphasize both the rear he’d been starting to work so hard on (“It’s motherfuckin’ squats, man,” he’d said with a laugh when he got his first whistle at his new gym) and the dick he kept coiled in the pouch, the dick that (it turned out) liked locker rooms, athleticism, and bros just as much as he did. It wasn’t that he wore one so that then he could feel the fabric of his shorts sliding over his skin all day like a caress, wasn’t so that he could caress it himself, just run a hand along a cheek nonchalantly, you know, touching it, the same way other guys constantly and unconsciously scratched their nuts.

And it certainly—definitely, definitively—wasn’t that it made him feel so, so sexy.