Twilight is trapped in the boys locker room


                                            > Your day is off to a fabulous start.

                                            > You squirm around in your cramped, metal prison, trying to keep your neck from straining.

                                            > Of course you left your phone in your own locker.

                                            > Thank the gods you at least don’t have a class first period.

                                            > After a slight disagreement with Gilda regarding her “request” for you to “help” her with her homework, things got a bit heated.

                                            > It isn’t your first time being shoved in a locker at school, and you doubt it will be your last — it’s like the school faculty is ignoring you every time you remind them that lockers that can’t be opened from the inside are a safety hazard.

                                            > It is, however, your first time being stuck in the boys’ locker room, or being inside it at all, for that matter.

                                            > From your brief glimpse of it while being womanhandled into the locker, and from what little you can see through the three slits in the sheet-metal door, it was nearly identical to the girls’ locker room — the main difference being a lot less graffiti scrawled over the banks of lockers, and a distinct lack of the piercing, chemical stench of women’s body spray, replaced instead by a dizzying aroma of fruit- and floral-scented men’s perfumes and products.

                                            > Outside your field of vision, you hear the door open, followed by a crowd of male voices.

                                            Shit.

                                            > You quiet your breathing and hope no one sees you through the vents.

                                            > The last thing you need is to be found out, and accused of being a pervert.

                                            > But even if you could convince a room full of teenage boys that you aren’t a peeping jane (because you aren’t, right?) before being hauled off to the principal’s office to be expelled, you would then have to live with the shame of the whole school knowing that you’re a highschool senior who still gets stuffed in lockers.

                                            > However, you can’t just wait around for hours, hoping that a teacher or janitor wanders by to let you out: you have your first pre-calc test of the semester next period, and your math teacher deducts marks for taking tests late.

                                            > Clearly, you have to escape this period.

                                            > And that means asking a boy for help.

                                            > You start feeling light-headed from adrenaline, or perhaps lack of oxygen.

                                            > You decide to bide your time, to wait until most of the boys leave so as to minimize your chance of being railroaded.

                                            > Minutes go by.

                                            > Figures walk past, and you feel your heart rate increase every time someone glances in your general direction.

                                            > Whatever you expected from your unintentional voyeurism into a boys locker room — dozens of undressed boys giggling and talking about girls they think are cute, catfighting, comparing penises — this is not it.

                                            > You can’t see much (probably for the best, you tell yourself through clenched teeth), mostly just the area directly directly in front of the vents, a dull cacophony of indistinguishable conversations, and occasionally a fully-clothed boy walking by.

                                            > Your disappointment is immeasurable.

                                            > But judging by the echoey sound of voices dimming, the room is starting to clear.

                                            > Just as you begin psyching yourself up to call out, or bang on the door, or something, a pair of boys walk right up to your locker, breaking your resolve.

                                            > One you vaguely recognise as Caramel, and the other is Anonymous, the new boy in your math class, who you kinda-sorta-maybe have a tiny crush on, possibly.

                                            > Okay, so maybe you watch him a few times a day while he sleeps at the back of the class, but you just admire him for his confidence and unique, precocious personality.

                                            > It’s not like you stalk his social media accounts or something…

                                            > He doesn’t have any.

                                            > You checked.

                                            > “Hurry up, Anon, we’re going to be late.”

                                            > “We’re not going to be late, unless it takes you five minutes to change again.”

                                            > You think Caramel gave some kind of reply, but you’re not sure, as all your concentration is suddenly absorbed by the two boys beginning to strip down, right in front of you.

                                            > You are not prepared for this.

                                            > Caramel moves out of your field of view, but Anon stays dead-centre as he bends over to drop his skinny jeans, revealing his plaid, janegirly girlshorts, and his smooth, slender legs.

                                            > Suddenly feeling quite hot, you feel a bead of sweat run down your brow, your eyes locked to the subtle contours of his ass and his narrow, masculine hips presented towards you.

                                            > As you dare to inch closer to your vent-turned-viewport, you can even make out the shape of his bulge through the conservative, yet form-fitting girlshorts.

                                            > “Your legs look great! Do you still need any help with waxing or anything?”

                                            > Anon finishes removing his pants and turns to Caramel with an adorable pout on his face.

                                            > “No. Stop asking. It’s embarrassing enough that you make me wear this crap.”

                                            > With one hand, Anon gestures to his janegirl panties, and with the other, his face.

                                            > You presume he is referring to wearing makeup, but you are hard-pressed to see any cosmetics on his face, maybe just some eyeliner and light foundation, or whatever it’s called.

                                            > One of the things that attracts you to Anon is his natural beauty, managing to look vibrant without over-reliance on cosmetics — not like some boys in school who plaster the stuff on so thick that their face looks like a cheesecake.

                                            > But then, they are the ones who have the most popular girls as girlfriends, while you’ve never even kissed a boy.

                                            (tfw damn trixies taking all the chads)

                                            > You gave up trying to figure out that stuff years ago, content to stick to more intellectual pursuits, such as studying, and science, and anime.

                                            > But now, your lack of experience with boys is made apparent: as Anon removes his shirt, your mouth falls agape upon seeing his bare back exposed.

                                            > “Anon…” Caramel groans, “Why aren’t you wearing one of the undershirts we bought for you? Someone could look right down your top!”

                                            > “Left them at home. I don’t see what the big deal is. They’re uncomfortable, and it seems like half the girls don’t wear bras outside of gym class, anyway.”

                                            > “That’s not… Look, I know it’s unfair, but that’s just part of being a man. If people see you’re walking around school without an undershirt, they’ll think you’re a… a slut.”

                                            > “I missed the part where that concerns me.”

                                            > Anon looks to Caramel, still out of your sight, and whatever he sees, it changes his tone fast, his sarcastic grin turning penitent.

                                            > “Cara, I’m sorry. I really appreciate everything you’re doing to help me… acclimate. If you think it’s for the best, I’ll give it a try.”

                                            > Caramel suddenly dashes back into view, almost as undressed as Anon, wrapping him into a hug.

                                            > “Oh, Anon, I know this is hard for you. I’m just happy I finally have someone I can call a true friend.”

                                            > The two boys before you embrace each other, naught but two pairs of panties and an undershirt between them.

                                            > Your eye is twitching, and you’re pretty sure you have a nosebleed.

                                            > A part of you is saying that this is wrong, that you shouldn’t be watching this clearly platonic display of masculine affection.

                                            > A much louder part of you is willing Anon to turn around so you can see his bare chest.

                                            > You quickly realize why you should be careful what you wish for: ending their hug, Anon takes a couple steps back, almost right up against your locker.

                                            > When he finally turns around to face you, the flat of his chest is just below your available field of view; to catch a glimpse of his nipples would require you to put your face right up against the vent slits, which would certainly give you away.

                                            > And at this point, you were just about ready to give up your shot at a perfect grade if it meant not getting caught.

                                            > Expulsion would be a mercy compared to what Anon would likely do to you if he finds you were watching them the whole time.

                                            > As Anon resumes changing into his gym clothes, you feel disappointment, both at yourself and at the missed opportunity, in equal measure.

                                            > But you have little time to stew in your regrets; you feel panic as you notice Anon moving to open the locker you occupy, and you are powerless to do a thing about it.

                                            > The door swings open and you freeze.

                                            > When Anon’s eyes meet yours, he hops back and gives a startled yelp.

                                            > You have no idea what facial expression you’re wearing, whether the paralysing fear mixed with embarrassed arousal you feel is being conveyed, or what conclusions he is coming to as he stands there in stunned confusion.

                                            > You fully expect the screaming to start any second now.

                                            > “What’s wrong?” Caramel asks, once again blocked from your line of sight (and you from his) by the now-open locker door.

                                            > “I… uh…” he stammers.

                                            > Anon’s eyes dart between you and his friend as he tries to make sense of the situation.

                                            > Then after a moment, his eyes lock back onto you, his bemused expression morphing into a subtle smirk.

                                            > “I… just remembered that I have a math test today that I haven’t studied for.”

                                            > “…Since when do you care about tests?”

                                            > His smirk growing into a full-on grin, Anon hangs up his school clothes on the hook beside your head, the jeans and shirt draping across your right shoulder and arm — he keeps his piercing eyes on you, but does not acknowledge you in any way.

                                            > “Well, you never know when something… unexpected is going to show up.”

                                            > It is now your turn to be confused; Anon undeniably sees you and knows you were there the whole time, his hand practically touched you.

                                            > And yet for some reason, he’s not only covering for you, but looks oddly pleased to do so.

                                            > And then, after one of the most awkward moments of your life (and you’ve had some doozies), he turns to leave, closing the locker behind him.

                                            > You start to panic, fearing that you are once again trapped, but you breathe a sigh of relief when you see he didn’t close it all the way, the latch remaining unengaged.

                                            > “Come on, Cara, we’re the last ones in here,” Anon calls out, loud enough for you to hear clearly, “We’re having gym out on the track field today, so nobody will be hanging around locker rooms.”

                                            > “Yeah…? What does that have to do with anything? Anon, are you okay? You’re acting really weird all of a sudden.”

                                            > The last you hear of the two is Anon’s melodious laughter ringing throughout the room, before the door closes behind them.

                                            > You may not have a clue what the boys were conversing about earlier, but you immediately grasp the meaning of Anon’s non-sequitur: he was telling you that the coast is clear!

                                            > You scramble around, trying to find purchase with your numbed legs so you can get out of here, when you accidentally nudge Anon’s hanging clothes, causing his shirt to fall right on your face.

                                            > The shirt that was touching Anon’s bare chest not two minutes ago.

                                            > You shudder.

                                            > It was still warm, and smelled of boy's deodorant.

                                            > Maybe… Maybe you should stay put for a minute longer, make sure nobody else comes in.