I couldn’t believe it: I was crying. After all the wedgies the football players had given me they had finally gotten me to cry. I wasn’t crying because I was hurt or because I was humiliated. I was crying because they had ripped my underwear. I told them an atomic wedgie wouldn’t work, but they had gone ahead and destroyed a pair of briefs anyway.

How was I supposed to explain this one away? I could go the rest of the day with no underwear on, but then what would I tell my parents? I couldn’t exactly say that I lost my underwear at school. My frustration grew even worse when they laughed at my attempts to rip the rags from my body without taking off my jeans. The elastic band of what was once my tighty whities wouldn’t break, which meant I was left with no other option.

Now I was whimpering with humiliation as I kicked off my shoes and started to undo my belt. I didn’t want to drop my pants in front of the immature jocks but I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. So I endured their pointing, laughing, and catcalls while I discarded my ruined underwear.

I didn’t know what to do with the remaining fabric, so I stuffed it into my bag to throw out later. This only made them laugh harder.“Why are you saving it?”

The one that had given me a wedgie flexed his arms in triumph, “Going to jerk off later while you admire what my strength is capable of?” I hated him in the moment for how self assured he looked, and for the support he got from his friends, but that smug expression dominated my memory as the seed he planted grew into a masturbatory fantasy.