One evening Sharon and Mark and some of Sharon’s girl friends were discussing whether a man could truly understand a woman’s sexual nature. “I don’t think it’s that impossible,” Mark said, and the girls just laughed at him. Two evenings later in Sharon’s apartment Mark handed Sharon the following story:

Sharon’s Locker Room Fantasy

On an almost perfect morning for tennis Sharon waits alone at the courts. There’s no one in sight. Sharon is a little irked at Marie. It was Marie’s idea to meet out at these college courts. Normally Sharon and Marie play a Saturday morning match at the club, but today’s junior tournament pre-empted the normal reservations.

“Why don’t we use those courts out at the academy?” Marie had suggested on the telephone yesterday evening. “They’re on break now—we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“If you can you give me a ride.” Sharon said. “Danny took his car in for some work, and he’ll need mine for some job in the afternoon.”

“I have a few errands first thing in the morning,” Marie had said, “But if Danny could drop you off at the courts, I could take you home afterwards.”

Danny had dropped Sharon off fifteen minutes ago. “You sure you don’t want me to wait?” he’d asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Sharon insisted. “Marie’s always a little poky. It’s her trademark. I’ll just warm up on the boards.”

Sharon hit ground strokes against the green wall until she was sweating lightly. Very boring if no one’s watching you, she thinks, and there’s truly no one around anywhere. Just the pleasant sound of the racket strings thwacking the fuzzy ball, and the pleasant sound of the ball thunking the green practice wall. And she doesn’t want to tire her wrist. Maybe she should have had Danny wait. This is getting late, even for Marie.

The three prim little courts are in excellent condition, maybe they’re even better than the club’s courts. The academy must have a lot of money for upkeep. Strange no one is making any use of them. Seems a waste. Not a single car in the little parking area. No kids flinging Frisbees in the surrounding fields. Most of the campus is on the other side of the meadows. A path of wood chips leads to the athletic building. In the opposite direction Sharon glances at the tops of some of the taller buildings, windows silvered with morning sun. Maybe one of them is a dorm, and maybe someone with a good pair of binoculars or a telescope could look out a window and watch her practice. Sharon slugs a few forehands against the green wall as she thinks this, then decides that the dorms must be deserted if this is spring break, and she lets the ball skip past her. She watches it roll to the far fence, takes a deep breath, and then picks up her racket bag and walks slowly along the wood chip path towards the seemingly deserted athletic building. Slowly Sharon approaches a door at the back of the building. I could use a telephone, Sharon thinks. And a bathroom might be nice.

The metal door handle, a curved brass bar, feels cold from the shade. Sharon pulls, but the big door doesn’t budge—not even a tiny tremble.

It’s how earthquakes are caused—little girls trying to open doors they shouldn’t, Sharon’s mother once told her.

Sharon peers through the slim window above the handle. Tiny squares of wire cross the thick glass. Sharon can’t see anything but the dark reflection of her eye. “Shit,” she says lightly, and she thinks maybe she’ll have to hike across the fields to the main buildings. But if this is break, if everything’s locked ... This place is miles from the nearest anything. Sharon wonders what happened to Marie. Maybe an accident. Sharon hopes not, but still Marie better have a damn good excuse.

Sharon follows the path around the outside of the athletic building. The next wall has two more doors, but these look like service doors. Not even little wired windows. Sharon tries the handles anyway. Sure enough both doors are locked.

Around the next corner Sharon finds the main entrance: six sleek glass doors at the top of a fan of shallow cement steps. The large, paved parking lot is empty except for a broken down mini-van and a motorcycle gleaming in the sun. Probably belongs to a janitor.

Sharon skips up the shell-colored steps. Then she stops. The six glass doors sit in a slightly concave curve, and Sharon studies her reflection in all of them as she stands there.

The leftmost door holds firm against Sharon’s pull. She is not optimistic as she yanks on the second door. When it opens Sharon almost stumbles backwards. Sharon smiles as she pries wide the big glass door and steps inside. Now we’re getting somewhere. A cool thrill ripples through her.

The air in the entryway is dry and stale with dust. Sharon spots a bank of phones at one side. She quickly punches in her calling card number and then Marie’s number—and gets the answering machine, Marie’s usual message. Sharon suddenly feels tired. She doesn’t know quite what to say. “Come and get me,” is how she feels, but what she says, in a small voice, is “Marie? Where are you?” Sharon pauses. The building is quiet. Maybe Marie is on her way. Sharon holds the phone away from her mouth. “Marie, where the fuck are you?”—Sharon is not used to saying fuck or even thinking it. She’s slightly startled that the whispered word has tripped so easily out of her, into the stale air of this dim vestibule. Maybe Marie’s having an affair. Maybe Marie had a breakfast date with a boyfriend, which was why she couldn’t have just picked up Sharon in the first place. Probably in bed with the guy right now. In Sharon’s mind is a slightly fuzzy picture of Marie with her legs up in the air and a lean body between them. “Where the fuck are you, Marie?” Sharon whispers at the phone, and then she hangs up, and then she giggles. Marie won’t believe I said fuck, Sharon thinks. Or what if Mel picks up the message?

Sharon tries her own answering machine. No messages. Shouldn’t Danny be home by now? Maybe he stopped somewhere for breakfast. Sharon thinks of pancake syrup on her husband’s full lower lip. Coffee hot on his tongue. Sharon suddenly has a weird thought. What if Danny is meeting Marie? What if this were all a crazy plot to get her out of the way for a few hours. So Danny and Marie could ... No way.

Now to find a bathroom. A corridor leads all the way around the gym, which is central to the building. Classrooms and offices line the outer walls, and on the inner wall on two sides of the gym are rest rooms Men and Women, but these doors are locked. Sharon steps into the huge gym. It’s empty. She strolls to the center jump circle of the basketball court. Windows above the balconies shed a soft light. Sharon drops her racket bag. The sound hurries to the hushed corners of the gym. It’s so still in here. Sharon brings the back of her wrist to her lips—tastes herself, the sheen of sweat slightly salty. She does a few jumping jacks clapping her hands at the top. The huge arena swallows sounds. Her tennis shoes squeak lightly at the bottom. “I really need to pee. Maybe there’s an open bathroom on the balcony level.”

Remembering some stairways in the outer hall, Sharon leaves her tennis bag in the center of the gym, half-trots along the corridor to the stairway. But the steps go down, not up. Sharon takes a timid first step, as if she’s entering a murky pool.

Sharon tries to look ahead, around the gloomy corner of the stairway’s turn. This is ridiculous—there’s probably nothing down here but boiler rooms filled with pipes and dust covered pressure gauges. Sharon grips the fat banister and swings herself downstairs. It’s dark at the bottom, just enough light to make out Women’s Lockers, Men’s Lockers on the two doors. Swinging doors, but the Women’s won’t budge. She stands still at the Men’s for a long moment, listening. She can hear something, but it’s not coming from behind the Men’s, it’s coming from the corridor which leads into the labyrinth under the gym. Clanking noises from machinery, some air conditioning equipment or those iron gauged boiler rooms after all? Sharon turns back to the quiet Men’s door. Probably locked anyway. She pushes gently. The door gives. Sharon eases it open just wide enough for her to slip through. No sign of life except that some of the lights have been left on. Banks of bright green metal lockers. Smooth, gray-painted benches bolted to the dust-gray cement floor. Ahead is an open area, and beyond it is what looks like a shower room. She thinks about calling out, just in case anybody is around, but she’s not quite sure what to say. “Hello?” Her voice sounds strange, soft but with hard edges, as if the steel and cement want to swallow it whole. Sharon looks all around as she steps slowly ahead. The place seems very clean. No grubby towels or half-open lockers leaking piles of soiled clothing. But there’s a mix of smells, the bite of disinfectant, of after-shave, and sport’s cream and stale sweat, and a trace of something else, something slightly shrill and sticky—bandage glue?

Sharon stands under the open arched entryway of the shower room. So still. So quiet. It’s dark in there. She flips a switch at the entrance and bright yellow lights snap the tiled chamber. Along both sides half a dozen shiny shower heads protrude, and jutting underneath each of them a chrome control knob gleams. The gray floor slopes gently towards the center—a grate-covered drain the size and shape of a man-hole cover.

Must be some toilets somewhere. Around the next corner Sharon encounters a row of polished basins under a wall length mirror, and in the mirror she sees the reflections of eight urinals and four toilet stalls. Sharon walks quickly to the first stall, opens the door, checks to make sure there’s toilet tissue. Good, a fresh roll. The seat is up, but the water in the bowl seems clean. She flushes, lowers the seat, wipes it with a doubled pad of tissue, flushes again, and then turns, lowering her tennis shorts and panties in a single motion as she sits.

She begins to pee.

At that moment there’s a squeak and a slam and suddenly it’s as if the locker room has become the bird house at the zoo—jungle screeches and twitters as animals barge into the area. Whoops, shouts, shrieks, and the slam of hands against metal lockers drown the sound of Sharon’s little gurgle ... which she can’t help but cut short.

Sharon barely dares to breathe. She tries not to move, though this is difficult: part of her still wants to pee. Through the crack in the stall’s door Sharon catches glimpses of college boys as they strip and prance, and she hears the splash of their chatter as they prepare to shower. There might be six or seven or eight of them but it sounds like half a hundred. The boys, Sharon can tell from the visual fragments, are in excellent shape. Definitely athletes. Well-defined bodies. Youthful shouts. Just college kids after some kind of morning practice. Maybe they had been running outside. Maybe they’d been wrestling in some soundproof cavern of a room underneath the gym. They were definitely done with practice and tired but bubbling with feeling. I should just get up and go out, Sharon thinks, but she can’t move. A couple of boys are done with their showers now, toweling themselves at the edge of Sharon’s vision. Some stand at the basins combing their hair, playing with their faces, making the occasional monkey noise. A boy pees in one of the urinals out of Sharon’s sight. She hears the flush. She hears snatches of conversation, but the acoustics keep her from making out any words—might as well be seals barking.

If I’m quiet enough they’ll all get dressed and go away. I won’t be noticed. I’ll be safe.

Sharon remains as still as she can. If I reveal myself, Sharon thinks, if I smile just right, one of the guys might even offer me a lift home. But her instincts tell her to remain quietly hidden.

It seems like they’re taking hours. They saunter past the crack in the door, their cocks bobbling, jaunty. No one seems in any hurry to get dressed.

Sharon still needs to finish her pee. She tries to tense that place—to ease the pressure. It doesn’t work. She feels she’s going to squirt.

Sharon gently presses her forefinger against the little hole. Outside a few sporadic whoops. But mostly things have settled down. Sharon knows now it would have been better to finish her pee during the initial moments when all that sound would have masked her little tinkle. Now she’s afraid it’ll sound like a waterfall. She takes as quiet a deep breath as she can and tries to hold it in.

A boy is at the urinal, probably the one right beside her. She can see the slight shadow of his feet. She can hear him, the strong steady splatter. She can’t help herself. Her pee comes. She blocks it with her fingers, a cupped palm. The liquid feels so hot and thin. It overflows her hand and drizzles down. Relief mixes with fright.

“That you Fletcher?” A boy’s voice right next to her. “I know you’re in there. I can smell you.” Sharon stay mouse quiet, squeezes her knees together and inches her feet off of the floor.”

The boy bangs the side of the stall. The sound is huge. It reminds Sharon of keepers slamming the iron doors of the tiger cages at the zoo after the tigers have been teased outside. “Fletcher?” Then two more bangs against the stall, concussive smacks. “God, Fletcher, you smell like pussy. What’d you do, drink Jeanie’s perfume last night?” Sharon crosses her arms in front of her breasts and tucks her head down. This is embarrassing.

“Come on, Fletch, you can tell me. How’d she taste? I bet she was good. I bet she was real real good.” The boy punctuates this with a tremendous slam against the side of the stall.

Sharon thinks about saying “Go away, please go away,” but she can’t. She has her eyes shut tight.

“You’re prob’ly beating off in there,” the boy shouts. “I bet your dick’s a mile long. I can smell it—I can smell the pussy on it.”

Suddenly the wall quivers. Sharon looks up. She sees the boy’s huge paw-like hands gripping the top of the stall, and then the damp curly hair, and then the whole head above her over the top of the metal wall. “Hey,” the boy says softly. “Hey,” he says it louder this time, nearly a shout. Looking up at him Sharon puts her forefinger to her lips, a shushing gesture. Her finger is still damp with pee, rich with pee scent.

Then the boy’s head eases away. The boy has dropped down. Maybe everything’s going to be OK. He looked like a nice boy. Cute face. Freckles. A little wild, but sensitive. This will be his special secret. Everything’s going to be fine.

“There’s a girl in there.” The freckled kid is talking to someone at the sinks. She can see his back now, his bare buns. And part of another guy with a towel around him. “I’m not shitting you, there’s a girl sitting right in there.” He turns and points at the door.

The other boy approaches Sharon’s stall. Sharon feels paralyzed. She can see the boy’s eye at the door slit. “Do you know her,” Sharon hears the boy ask.

“Fuck no,” the freckled kid says. “I thought it was Fletcher.”

The other boy has hoisted himself above the door. He looks at Sharon with a half-smile. “It’s not Fletcher,” he says.

The freckled kid has hoisted himself up on the side of the stall again. “Who are you?” the other boy says.

“Go away,” Sharon says weakly.

“Come out of there,” the other boy says.

“Please go away,” Sharon repeats.

“We just want to talk to you. What are you doing here?”

“I had to pee,” Sharon says. “Everything else was locked.

“I don’t think so,” the other boy says. “I think you were spying on us. I think you wanted to see our dicks.”

“No,” Sharon says. “I didn’t. I didn’t even know anyone was here.”

“You didn’t want to see our dicks?” the other boy says. “What’s wrong with our dicks? We’ve got really nice dicks. Come on out and we’ll show them to you. Up close and personal like.”

“Make her come out,” the freckled boy says.

“You were probably beating off in here looking at our dicks,” the other boy says.

“No,” Sharon says, “I just had to pee.”

Two more heads pop up above the wall on the other side of the stall.

“What’s going on?” one of the heads says.

“This chick was watching us,” the other boy says. “She said she had to pee, but I think she was watching us while she was beating off.”

“Make her come out,” the freckled kid says.

The other boy’s face drops out of sight, but a moment later it appears under the front of the stall door. Sharon is so surprised she kicks at the boy’s face. Sharon’s kick isn’t very hard because her panties and tennis shorts are around her ankles, but a stream of bright red bolts from the boy’s nose. “Shit!” he yells. “Shit, shit, shit. The bitch kicked me. She busted my nose.”

The boy has grabbed Sharon’s legs. Sharon tries to kick again, but the boy has locked his arm around her legs in such a way that she can’t move them at all. She can’t believe anyone can be that strong. She tries to twist away, feeling incredibly frightened and foolish, but the boy has her clamped, she can’t even wiggle, all she can do is try to hit at his face and head; but quicker than she would have thought possible he protects his face by pressing it tightly against her legs, and at the same time he slithers inside the stall. “You bitch,” he hisses, “You little bitch,” and Sharon gives up struggling, goes completely limp.

“I’m sorry,” Sharon starts to say. “I didn’t...”

“Shut the damn fuck up,” the boy shouts. He stands, jerks her up off the toilet seat, twists the bolt open, and drags her out. His eyes are wet, and there is bright red blood all over his mouth and cheek and chin.

More boys have joined them, six or seven of them, some are dressed and some have towels and some are nude. “What’s going on?” she hears.

The boys surround Sharon. The bloody nose boy holds her arms behind her.

“What are you going to do?” someone asks him.

“I don’t know,” the bloody nose boy says.

“Let’s fuck her,” Sharon hears.

“Maybe,” the bloody nose boy says. He pulls her across the cement. Sharon hears the souls of her tennis shoes squeak lightly. Suddenly she’s shoved down on a gray bench. The bloody nose boy holds her shoulders. He pushes her back so she’s lying on the bench. He grips her hands at the wrists. His cock sways over her face.

“Lookit her fur,” someone says. “She’s got a real purty pussy. I say we all fuck her.”

The bloody nose boy looks down at Sharon. His eyes are wet, angry, maybe a little frightened.

“Spread her legs,” someone says. “Let’s get a look at her cunt.” Sharon feels hands on her legs, her shoes and socks pulled off, her panties and tennis shorts taken away, her legs pulled wide apart, and through this she doesn’t take her eyes from the eyes of the bloody nose boy above her. The bloody nose boy releases her wrists. A fat drop of blood which had collected on the nostril plummets, hits his penis. Sharon blinks, and when she opens her eyes she sees a second drop of blood about to fall, following the first, but this bright red bubble misses the boy’s cock and hits her cheek when she turns her face to the side. Yet another blood drop is about to fall. Sharon raises her hands to block it, connects with the boy’s dangling prick.

“Oh,” he says.

“Make her suck you,” someone says.

“Yeah, let’s see her suck you.”

The bloody nose boy wipes his fingers under his nose—the blood flies. “I’ve got to stop this,” he says. For a moment Sharon thinks he means the violation upon her, but an instant later he bends over her, grabs her tennis top from the waists, and rips it all the way up the front, pulls if off of her. He uses Sharon’s torn tennis shirt to mop his nose.

For several seconds no one says anything. The boys have let go of her legs. Her feet rest on the floor on either side of the bench.

“You OK, Greg?” someone asks.

Greg, the bloody nose boy, continues to use Sharon’s shirt to clean his face.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” one boy suggests.

“I wanna see her tits, man,” another says.

“Yeah, we’re not leaving till we see her tits.”

“I thought we were gonna fuck her?”

Greg has stepped back. He’s just watching. Sharon doesn’t take her eyes from his.

“Take off your bra, cunt,” one of the boys says.

“Yeah,” says another. “Show us your tits. Maybe we won’t hurt you if you show us your titty-tits.”

Sharon watches Greg, and it seems he nods slightly, still holding her shirt to his face. It’s as if he’s breathing a part of her through her shirt. Sharon tries to think. Maybe if I...

“Now, bitch!”

Sharon removes her bra. Lets it fall.

“Make her play with her tits,” someone says.

“God, she’s got gorgeous tits,” another boy says. “I’d like to come all over them.”

“I thought we were going to fuck her?”

“I wouldn’t mind just coming on her tits.”

“Play with your tits, bitch. Come on, you watched us, now we get to watch you.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

“You jerked off watching us—now we get to jerk off watching you.”

Sharon watches Greg. She feels that whatever he decides the others will obey. She feels he’s going to let her go. His eyes look almost sad that any of this has happened.

“Aren’t we gonna fuck her?” one boys asks.

“I think we should all just come on her, what do you say, Greg?”

Greg has his eyes in Sharon’s. Her tennis shirt is soaked with blood.

“She jerked off watching us, now we get to jerk off watching her—it’s only fair—right Greg?”

For a moment Sharon is sure he’s going to let her go. Greg’s tongue snakes across his upper lip, tastes the blood. “Yeah, that’s fair,” he says.

Sharon closes her eyes, covers them with her hands. She curls on her side and brings her knees up. She can hear the boys stroking themselves. She tries to brace herself for the feel of their cum splashing her skin. Some of the boys are groaning to the sounds of juicy friction. Sharon fears it’s not going to take very long, and at the same time she wants it to all be over. She wonders if Greg’s touching himself, too.

“Oh man oh man on man,” one of the boys moans.

“One thing,” she hears Greg say. “First one to come’s got to lick it all up when it’s over.”

“Oh man!” one of the boys moans. “No way, man. Half you homos probably have AIDS.”

“Then just make sure you don’t come first,” Greg says. “Whoever comes first is probably the homo.”

“We shoulda just fucked her,” a boy says. Sharon thinks it’s the freckled kid. She takes a peek. She sees the boys standing along side her, their cocks in their hands, some swollen full and stiff, some long and flimsy. She shivers. Maybe Greg has saved her after all. She looks back at him. He smiles.

“What do you think?” he says then. “Maybe I should have her suck me after all. He shuffles forward so again he’s standing directly over her face. His thumb and forefinger have circled the head of his cock. It’s huge. A smear of blood stains the hood. A small spit of silver glistens in the slit.” He bends the shaft towards her mouth. “How bout it, babe,” he says. “Wouldn’t you just love a taste of this?”

“Please,” Sharon says in a small voice. Greg bends his knees. His cock dips to an inch above Sharon’s lips.

Suddenly the boy jerks away. “What are you creeps doing?” Sharon hears. A deep gravely masculine voice with a European accent.