The title of this story may shock you. It is not about what you may suspect. But about when flaming jockstraps played a significant part in a boy’s growing up.
At the cusp of my early teen years, leaving middle school was painful enough. I was now dealing with a new high school and a boarding school. From a sleepy suburb, I was now in a whizz-bang school in the heart of Colombo. I was a rookie in unfamiliar surroundings.
Dealing with bigger boys was way beyond my league. Those tall boys wore long pants. The ones wearing short pants had leg hair. Some had wispy moustaches. They were more confident than my mates from middle school. These boys walked with a swagger, speaking differently in their slang. They spoke better English. Everyone was addressed as bugger. ‘This bugger’ and ‘that bugger’ were in their regular vocabulary.
My new classmates were into sports, rugger, cricket, basketball, hockey and soccer, every sport known to humankind in Sri Lanka. The school, run by Christian brothers, prioritised sports over studies. As a result, sporting prowess was more valued than in academia. Many athletic sporty boys struggled with their studies and were purposely held back in grades — the reason why older boys were in my class.
You can imagine me trying to hide my immaturity in worldly things from these older boys. But the more I tried to talk to them, the more I was exposed.
Sitting in class, it was common to see straps on their hips. The boys did not hide these straps, displaying them proudly. They were the jockstraps, white. Jockstraps were every sport-loving youth’s underpants back in the day.
Undies were another new concept for me. I did not wear them, coming to school with nothing underneath my white pants. Nobody in my class in middle school wore them. My voice was not yet broken. I had no body hair with no sign of puberty. In their banter, the boys would point at me and say ‘ගොනා කානුවෙ’, meaning ‘the bull is in the gutter’ laughingly. That innuendo meant that something in my pants was slanted to a side. To them, I was a ‘free-will’ boy who did not wear undies.
Inside me, I felt tiny. I felt less of a boy, riddled with anxiety. I wanted to rid of this inferiority complex. I wanted to be like them. Thus started my journey to find these jockstraps. I promised myself to buy and wear them. My only goal in life was to be like them, wearing one.
Asking my father to buy them was an option. But I held back, instead planning to find the jockstraps myself. Whenever I went to the shops, I’d secretly look at the jockstraps prominently displayed in boxes inside glass cabinets. There were two brands, DIS and WearWell. Back in the day, with no online shopping and no buyer reviews, I had to figure out which brand was best and what price. I was not confident enough to ask these probing questions to the shopkeepers. I suspected that they would think that I was out of my league.
With more secret probing and not-so-secret probing with my new friends, I figured DIS was the best brand. So now, I was coveting to acquire a DIS jockstrap. It was my secret life mission.
While my lust for a jockstrap continued, my body started playing havoc. Out of nowhere, tiny pubic hairs, light brown, appeared. It was a moment of proud reckoning. Finally, finally, I was growing up. I felt ecstatic that I could keep up with the big boys in my school and the boarding school. Then a few days later, I felt tiny hair in my armpit. I touched it so much to feel it and to assure myself that it was the real deal.
My suppressed need for a DIS jockstrap could not be held back anymore — an opportunity to show others that I have grown up. So I started saving money for a DIS jockstrap.
I frequented shops looking for jockstraps. I was now bold enough to ask shopkeepers the price of DIS jockstraps. It was Rupees 5.95, smiling shop assistants replied. So I hatched a savings plan; with my pocket money, five Rupees a month, giving up my snacks. Five Rupees was a considerable sum back then, equivalent to an average man’s daily wage.
After a month, with enough money saved, I walked into a shop near the school. ‘Only the XS, the extra small size would fit you’, the shopkeeper quipped. I made the price purchase, parting with my entire savings. That afternoon, I opened the package and examined the coveted prize possession when my fellow boarders were not looking. The DIS jockstrap was of shiny creamy white colour. I touched it carefully. I admired its design, red stripes and the label with the bold letters DIS. Keeping it close to my nose, I felt its fresh smell.
With some hesitation, I wore it, carefully inserting my bony legs through. Oh! My God, my groin and legs had never felt so tight. I could hardly move, let alone run. When I played soccer, I pleaded with the usual goalkeeper and exchanged places with him. I was impatient to remove the damned thing because it was choking my legs. My groin was boiling.
The next few days were tough. I had to stroll because the jockey was eating into the tender flesh in my groin. Despite the pain and inconvenience, I wanted everyone to know I wore jockstraps. Over time, I got used to wearing it.
In class, I made sure my hip with the white strap could be seen by the others, purposely keeping my pants down and shirt up.
No more ‘free-will’ and no more ‘ගොනා කානුවෙ’. I was now a jockey, despite being late to the party. It was a great feeling of growing up.
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