Losing my pants, Finding my role
I walked to practice wearing a purple thong under my pants that Brent picked out for be but still not quite ready to wear the more exposing clothes I had bought. The thing about thongs is—they never let you forget they’re there. The constant press of the strap the way it hugs your body—it makes you feel more naked than actually being naked. If someone had pulled down my pants, I wouldn’t have been judged for being bare. But a thong? A man in a thong says something. When I arrived at the changeroom, I tried to hide the thong - peeling off my pants and thong at the same time. No one seemed to notice. There were no stalls—just open benches, open showers, everything out in the open. It made hiding feel impossible.
Everyone I met before practice seemed friendly. The coach gave me a quick introduction to the group, and I got a few smiles and nods in return. It was a queer water polo team—mostly men, but a few women too—and while everyone had an athletic edge, there was diversity in age, size, and energy. Some people looked like lifelong athletes, others like they might have just started last year. The vibe felt open and welcoming, like people were here to have fun as much as compete. I zoned out during the hour of swim training, enjoying the rhythm of it. It felt good to be moving—tough, but meditative—and I knew the cardio would pay off when we started playing actual games.
The first thing I noticed walking into the changeroom after practice was the sheer amount of nakedness. My team back home practiced at a pool that had stalls, a luxury I was quickly realizing I wouldn't have here. Ten showers, packed close together, with a line of about twenty guys waiting their turn, stripping off their speedos as they rinsed off. Some did it effortlessly, naturally. One or two gave me the impression they loved the opportunity to show off. And every single one of them had a bigger dick than me. One guy had brought a speaker, blasting remixes of Celine Dion and Whitney Houston, the air thick with steam and the easy, confident chatter of men who had done this routine a hundred times before. I was shocked by it—how communal it was, how completely normal everyone seemed.
My turn to shower came as one spot opened up right against the back wall, visible to the whole line and everyone already washing up. I stepped into the shower to rinse off the chlorine, the only one still in a speedo. My body always got me attention—broad shoulders, a thick chest, the kind of build that filled a doorway—but I cursed that attention in moments like this, where being seen meant being seen entirely. I hesitated, heart hammering, fingers hooked in the waistband before I pulled it off.
I faced the wall at first, trying to stay unnoticed, when a voice called out from a few showers away behind me. “Hey man, what brings you to Australia?” I cursed his friendliness. Was he just being nice—or was he trying to get me to turn around?
I turned to answer—and instantly realized how many eyes were on me. The sudden shift from hiding to exposed made my skin prickle. I caught a few glances, some quick, others lingering right on my exposed little dick... I forced myself to push through the rising tighness in my stomach. “I’ve lived in the same small city my whole life,” I said, trying to sound casual. “And the working holiday visa is available until 35, so I felt like it was my last chance to try living somewhere else.”
I was naked like everyone else—but somehow more exposed in a way none of the other men were. I was one of the biggest guys there but, down below, I was also the smallest. As I spoke, I even caught this guy’s eyes flicking down to my dick, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then he smiled and said, “Welcome.”
"Thanks, nice to meet you," I said, giving him a quick smile. Then I grabbed my speedo and walked, exposed, past the line of waiting guys. The room noticeably quieted as I passed—more than a few eyes following me. I held my head up, even as my cheeks burned. The thong clung tight, the oversized shorts still sagging. I tried to act like it didn’t matter, but it was clear: I wasn’t just the new guy anymore.
As I reached for my towel, I heard it. 'Did you see the new guy? He's so hot, but his dick... I feel bad for him.' Another said, 'I think it's cute.' I froze, heat rising to my face. I turned slightly, catching the smirk on one of my teammate’s faces.
I walked through the crowded changeroom, trying to find a spot that felt even slightly discreet to change into the thong. But the room was more packed than the showers—guys everywhere, towels hanging, bags spilling open, bodies weaving past each other in various states of undress. Clearly, water polo was a much bigger deal here than back in my small city. That explained the size of the team. There was nowhere good, nowhere private. Eventually I gave up and settled into a spot near the far wall, still too exposed.
I dug through my bag, pulled out the dark purple thong, and set my pants out so I’d be ready to put them on quickly. But the combination of the hot shower and the lingering heat and sweat from the work out (and the intensity of how humiliatinng all this exposure felt made the fabric cling awkwardly as I slid it up my legs. It bunched and rolled in over itself, and I found it nearly impossible to fix. I could already feel the flush rising in my cheeks—there was no way I was being subtle now. Anyone glancing over would see exactly what I was wearing, and how I was trying but struggling ridiculously with it. Fuck I should have taken my time and dried off better... trying to rush was completely backfiring.
The guy next to me gave a low chuckle as he took a sip of his Gatorade, and said, “Laundry day?” He gave me a wink before continuing to towel off with his other hand.
In my nervous rush, hands struggling to unroll the waistband of the thong, I elbowed him by accident and, as if scripted, his Gatorade slipped from his hand and splattered right across the beige pants I’d just laid out. I stared down at the spreading stain. It looked like I’d pissed myself.
“Shit, sorry man!” the guy said. And dropped his towel completely. He stood there, naked, pale-skinned but fit, his dick soft but attractive, framed by a tidy blond bush. He took my pants, wincing. “Damn, these are soaked.” I had finally gotten the thong sitting right—now the only thing covering me—and it didn’t feel like much at all. I muttered an apology, insisting the spill was my fault, but the guy just shrugged. Then he gave me a quick up-and-down, eyes lingering on my gstrong. The he shook his head. "Nah, I wasn't watching where I was going," he said, still holding up my ruined pants.
Then he turned toward the room and called out, "Anyone got a spare pair of shorts or pants for the new guy?"
My stomach tightened as all eyes turned to me again, some of the men smirking or whispering. No one moved right away. I had to resist the urge to cover myself with my hands. My dick was fully on display through the incredibly thin material of the thong Brent had picked out for me. I stood there next to the man holding up my pants—his soft dick swung slightly as he moved, easily twice my size. The comparison wasn’t lost on me. I was almost a head taller than him and much more broad but also looked so much smaller next to him. My cheeks flushed, my skin buzzing. I tried to act unbothered, but it was hard to ignore what I must have looked like: a slutty bottom putting himself on display. Brent had decided my role before I even arrived, and now I had to live up to it. And in this space, surrounded by confident, naked men, the flimsy piece of fabric felt even more ridiculous—like an unspoken announcement of my place among them.
Then, finally, a guy from the far end of the bench stood up. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick, relaxed build—maybe a little older than the rest. He smiled and tossed me a pair of athletic shorts. “They might be a bit big, but better than nothing, right?”
I caught them and gave a grateful nod. “Thanks.”
I pulled them on quickly, but they hung loose on my hips, the waistband slipping just below the top of my thong. Every time I moved, the purple fabric peeked out. I tugged the shorts higher, but they wouldn't stay put. If anything, they made the thong even more visible. I caught a few guys noticing, smirking quietly. I couldn’t tell if they were laughing at me or… something else. But I didn’t ask. I just focused on breathing, on keeping my hands still, and pretending this was all normal.
As I was getting ready to leave, the guy I’d overheard earlier—the one who'd said he felt “bad for me”—caught my eye. “Hey, a bunch of us are going out for dinner if you wanna come,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just been talking about me ten minutes ago.
He leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. “By the way, my friend Jamal thinks you’re cute as a button.” He grinned, cocky. “He liked your thong too.”
I felt my face flush, but I forced out a chuckle. “Oh yeah? Well, tell him I said thanks.”
He gave a shrug and a slow once-over. “Yeah. Just saying.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of the way the thong still clung to me beneath the oversized shorts, the waistband peeking out when I moved. Before I could respond, he clapped a firm hand on the back of my neck and started guiding me toward the exit. “Come on. First drink’s on me.”
There was something in his touch—friendly, but just firm enough—that made my stomach twist. He obviously felt comfortable being dominant with me. I wasn’t sure if I was humiliated… or turned on. Maybe both. Either way, I followed his lead.
As we walked, the waistband of the shorts slipped again. I was fighting a losing battle, and the purple strap of the thong peeked out with every step. Brent would've loved this. Not only was I holding back less in dressing like a slut and finally accepting that I really did want to be exposed and humiiated but Brent wanted it. Some of the men on my team seemed to want it. And even the universe seemed to want it—how else did I end up pantsless in just a thong in front of my new team on my very first day?
He'd been hinting for weeks in our chats—nudging me toward a cage, asking if I’d packed one, saying things like, "Might help you focus... or stay out of trouble." I hadn’t worn one yet. But after tonight, I could feel something shifting. A role settling into place. Maybe Brent had seen it coming all along.
I tried to imagine how my tiny dick would feel inside the cage—tucked away, hidden, denied. What it would mean to be locked here in this new country as a slutty American stud desperate to be used.
