Jack in Y-Fronts and his Landlady

(In the 1950s it was Coopers Jockey Y Fronts that were the fashion statement in male underwear. Goggle, and explore what I mean. They were high waisted. They did not sit on the man's hips but rode higher than the navel. A big Y shaped opening on the front was their hallmark. Elastic kept the legs tight- until they got old and worn and the elastic became infirm. Their looseness often rendered the fella's privates very visible- which is part of this CFNM tale, a long one and full of steamy detail about the humiliation of a fit young man, in which all characters are, of course, over 18.)

*

The 11.08 am to Manchester left Euston Street on time. Jack Cunningham felt a tingle of excitement. This was 1956 and he was 18 and apprentice of the year at London Motors but because he was counted so excellent a worker had been recruited by Manchester's North Works Aeronautical Engineering. Off to Manchester- at the heart of the engineering industry of the British empire. To work there and live there.

And in another happy stroke of luck a friend of a friend of his mother's had steered him to a Mrs Ellroy who took in lodgers, and only young men who swore that they did not smoke or drink and carried a reference from a minister of religion. She had also asked for a photo. Two days later he received a reply: she and her niece Julia would welcome him, there was presently no other lodger and she could promise that her meals were nutritious and plentiful and their home in Eccles Street "a delight" devotedly maintained by her for 20 years.

Jack's hair was swept back in subdued version of the Teddy Boy style. He wore pressed dungarees and tartan shirt over a white T shirt. His prized black leather jacket was folded in wrapping paper in a battered Samsonite suitcase plastered with stickers for Blackpool and Butlins holiday camp. Folded on his lap was his blue-grey rayon garbadine zipper jacket.

A woman in her 30s sat facing him and was struck by the boy's good looks, right down to his ivory white skin, lambert brown eyes and long lashes. A lean man in his 50s with a thin moustache and the look of Sargent Major noted his chunky physique. Young fella, he thought, let me shear off that disgusting hair and inflict some barracks discipline and we might make a soldier out of you. But again, he noted with warm approval Jack's manly frame.

Jack wondered whether he might take Muscle and Strength out of his roll-shaped shoulder bag but, looking at these fellow passengers, thought it better not to. Certainly not any of the five copies of Adonis magazine "The Art Magazine of the Male Physique" he had bought that morning from the Apollo bookshop off Charing Cross Road. "We trainers are a queer breed," old Bert Sullivan, one of his mentors from the Great Russell Street YMCA, had told him. "Regular folk don't understand our passions" and he had pointed around the weights room, with athletes admiring themselves in wall-high mirrors, with the chlorine-scented pool outside.

Jack bore an introduction to the YMCA in Manchester where, he was told, the equipment was as sound as London's and the pool as spacious. Also as good as his other haunt, the Lancaster Road Baths, another venue where, as it happened, men bathed nude. Jack vowed that in his new life he would make the YMCA his world after work, and render the V-shaped, Greek ideal his guiding light. He touched a bicep and flexed his thighs and thought of the six eggs he had wolfed down at breakfast and the half bottle of milk: his muscle food.

And, living away from his Baptist mother, he wouldn't have to hide muscle mags like Adonis and could wear his Bike jockstraps and nothing else in his room at night or under his overalls at work.

When the carriage rocked its way through the rolling green hills, and the summer shone through the windows, Jack closed his eyes. Dozing, his mind wandered to something else that stirred him, something even "queerer" than his universe of gyms and all-male pools and physique pictures and contests. Last month London Motors had made their 25 apprentices attend a medical examination under the auspices of Greater London Health, something about a giant nation-wide survey and with his mates he still remembered the shock of being told by a nurse to undress completely and never dreamt the indignities and shame that could be visited on males. Most of them shy around females, he and his fellow apprentices had been ordered to queue nude while nurses watched, some staring brazenly. Ultimately they were inspected one on one by a lady doctor.

Back in the works Charley Baker had goaded Jack, "Did she palpate your flag pole, fella? I always liked that, when a lady doctor says she's gotta palpate yer tallywhacker." Jack had blushed because Doctor Gladders had done just that, and with a nurse present- a nurse Jack's age, whose eyes had danced at the sight Jack presented, standing on the scales without a stitch- and done many other disturbing things as well.

The fantasies spawned by the two hour examination now filled Jack's dream life. And the nurse, Kathy? How might he meet her again? And what would it be like to walk out with a girl who had touched with her fingers the silky brown stem of his "unskinned cock"- yes, and when it was stretched out at its full eight and a half inches? With a universe of veins, too. The pretty nurse had seen all his veins.

As the young man fell into a slumber the woman and the man opposite both noticed the thrusting and stretching at the fly front of his dungarees. It wasn't still for a moment and, twitching away, impossible to overlook, at such close quarters. Soon the outline of a rod asserted ourself along his left thigh, even the outline of a well shaped end. The rod swelled and reared, in response- both the woman and the sargeant major might have concluded- to his youthful dreams, through the next two hours. They were both captivated and bug-eyed. One might say both seemed to take a lascivious interest. Even the ticket collector had looked down at it and suppressed a smile.

Mrs Ellroy had brown hair streaked with grey and an ample bosom. She was well dressed and only used occasional Manchester dialect. She greeted Jack very warmly- cigarette in her hand- and put the young man at ease. She took his roller bag and, on the way to his upstairs room, gave him a tour of her house.

Shit! This old lady lives like a queen! She's got a 24 inch Motorola TV in that front room parlour! I can watch the Melbourne Olympics! And a console record player! Look, Dean Martin and Doris Day records. Polished furniture and fresh clean wall paper, not like home, not like East London. And it smells...so clean!

In the kitchen- immaculate and modern- he met Julia, 21, who was Mrs Elllroy's niece. A gaunt girl with no breasts and flat mousey hair she looked at Jack somewhat distantly, as if resolved to be unfriendly. She drew on her cigarette unsmiling while the landlady pointed out the back garden and its vegetables, and the outdoor laundry.

Julia followed them in silence up the narrow staircase to a tiny corridor with its doors to the three bedrooms. The glory was the bathroom!

So much for the tin bath in the kitchen at home in East London! Which would have been a bit embarrassing living here with two females. A bathroom! First time I've been in a house with one! White tiles half up the wall! Cor!

His own room had three beds but Mrs Ellroy said she was holding off on other lodgers for the time being. Jack found it luxurious. The big old walnut linen press and the tiled fire place and a window out on the back garden.

"You have a rest now, Jack. Here's your towel. Have a long hot bath and we will see you fresh and rested for tea."

Julia looked disdainfully over her aunt's shoulder. As they went down the steps Jack thought he heard her say something about his hair style and tight trousers.

He was dried off, wearing round his waist the short white towel. With his suitcase on the bed, he was picking clothes to wear for his first meal in his new lodgings. Without knocking, Mrs Ellroy opened the door and entered. The little room filled with the smell of her cigarettes and perfume.

UH OH! The towel was scanty and barely big enough to reach around his waist and only fell to his mid-thighs. Its hold on his waist was fragile and it could drop to the floor anytime. And he knew, pulled so tight, it made his bulge unmistakable. She was looking at him full on and could obviously make out his half erect stem and the fat head and the shape of his knackers.

Hell, I'm just about nude!

"Gosh...Mrs...Ell...Ell...Ellroy..."

He blushed all over and his long eyelashes flickered with shame.

Jeepers! I've never had a female catch me in just a towel! I'm just about in the buff! An old lady, too! Older than my mum, virtually the age of my gran! And I'm naked apart from this teensie towel! And the bulge in front. This is creepy!

His landlady must have noticed the shape and size of his organ, presented in sculptural relief under the towel stretched tight, but said nothing, just breezed in to stand next to him at his suitcase.

"Say, Jack, you're certainly a strong young man. Look at those muscles! Boys are hopeless at packing so let me take over."

As he stood there, shivering with embarrassment, she shook free his black bomber jacket emblazoned with silver buttons. She swung around to hang it in the cupboard.

He used the moment to fumble with the towel at his waist. His heart was thumping.

She elbowed him aside and reached into his suitcase again, shaking out his folded shirts and his pair of jeans.

No! No! If she digs deeper she's gonna come to my underwear! An old lady fingering my underwear- hell! My Coopers Jockey Y-Fronts! And underneath are my new Bike brand Jockstraps! Shit! I can't have this old lady handle my jockstraps! The shame! The shame!

"Oh, some magazines..."

She had found those! Jack blushed deeper than he had ever done in all his life.

She picked up his prized February edition of Adonis "The Art Magazine of the Male Physique" two shillings and six pence.

Its cover picture was of young Frank Hlivjka with his slicked hair and boy next door expression, above door beam shoulders and an extravagantly V shaped torso. His groin was cupped in white posing strap. His hands were placed on either side of it, as if to draw attention to the bulge. Apart from some fuzz on his legs he was hairless. His upper body shone, oiled. There were tatoos on his biceps.

Shit! She's found them! What's she gonna think? Old Bert from the Y told me the rest of the world thinks we're all queer for wanting to do physical culture. The average Joes think we should all be running around with girls, instead of building up our physique in rusty old gyms, he said. We had to suffer this prejudice, he told us. In the interests of health and strength. But what's she gonna say?

"What a handsome young man! And this is very good- unlike some of my male guests you're not smuggling magazines of young women posing lewdly!"

No danger of that, Jack blurted out. He told her his hobby was exercise with weights, also swimming, and he couldn't wait to join Manchester's YMCA where he expected to be working out most nights of the week also weekends. He was very particular about diet and wondered if Mrs Ellroy would mind if he brought home special high protein foods to add to his meals here because the more you exercised the more you had to eat.

To build muscle. Like this young man on the cover, a real Adonis.

Mrs Ellroy had opened another volume of Adonis with a cover painting of body builder Steve Reeves.

Jack gushed that Steve Reeves was what all his friends wanted to be like. He had been Mister America in 1947 and Mister Universe in 1950. His body had achieved the perfect balance. Muscles like that...

...he pointed to biceps that looked like half coconuts...

...are why young men like him lift weights at the gym, eat things like grilled liver and drink milk by the bottle...

"And stay away from loose women, I hope," said Mrs Ellroy sternly.

Blushing again, he said yes. He said the older guys at the gym always said that if you did physical culture you had no time for girls.

She put the half dozen magazines on the bedside table, to Jack's relief, and reached into the suitcase and lifted the neat pile of folded underpants.

Jack went weak at the knees.

She shook out a pair and held them up.

This old lady, rifling my Coopers Jockey Y Fronts. Hell! The angled front opening in the design was all about male anatomy...shameful...and the high cut at the top of his thigh...that too! Women shouldn't see intimate male apparel. Just like they don't have women sell mens' stuff at Selfridges. But worse- any second she'll be laying her hands on his brand new jockstraps, secreted between the folded Y Fronts.

She was putting her hands inside the angled front opening of the Y Fronts and flapping around.

"A nice high waist! They come above your navel. And a nice high cut for the top of your thighs. So streamlined. So modern, as worn by the British Olympic team in 1948 at the London Games. Did you know? And plenty of support..."

Jack swooned with shame to have this old lady holding aloft his very own undies. And with her hand inside demonstrating how they held his knackers!

"The same as my Harold's. He lived in his. In fact, after he got home and bathed he pulled on a fresh pair and stayed in it all night, reading the Evening News and listening to the radio. And our boy Davey, as soon as he was old enough, did the same..."

Jack gasped. His beat beat louder. What sort of house was this and what was this leading to?

"Yes, with his dad gone he was the man of the house. So in the evening he was just in his Y Fronts, for tea and then sitting watching TV. Even if visitors walked in..."

Jack felt he was tottering.

But he was able to choke out the question in a squeaking voice.

"Even lady visitors?"

"They were all lady visitors..."

Gasp!

"...some with their grown-up girls. And there was my slender, handsome son- yes, 18 through to 22 when he left- sitting there in his underwear. Proud as punch. And the females all liked it."

Jack's cock twitched. He was pressing his hands harder on his stretching front.

Then she added, "His cousin Julia loved it. That was when she moved in."

She was holding another pair up, as if recalling her son, Davey- these white, high waisted briefs with their heavy fronts and Y shaped fly.

And the question hung between them.

The big question.

The boy half dreaded, with all his soul...the awful demeaning shame, the horror being seen nude by dressed females, of being laughed at by them in their skirts and dresses, their ribbons and bows...

...yet half hoped, with the most secret part of his being...the thrill of showing off his physique, of going shirtless, of letting females get hints of what he had down there.

Would she say it? Or wouldn't she?

And then Mrs Ellroy eliminated any doubt.

"The first rule for you here Jack..."

He stood, hands clasped over his growing bulge, the knot of the towel straining.

"Just like my Harold...and our boy, Davey...soon as you're home from the workshop, out of your dirty clothes so I can plop them in the wash..."

Oh my god, she's gonna say I'll have to spend my time in nothing but my Y fronts. Shit!

"...then you get into the bath...scrub off...and down for tea and television...in a neat, clean, pressed pair of Coopers Jockey Y-Fronts!"

She beamed.

She looked the boy up and down. He shivered at the order she had just given.

Shivered- with shame. With fear.

And with another emotion he couldn't name. But one that made him feel hot and gooey in his tummy.

"In fact several of my tenants were very happy to oblige without me pressing them...they leapt at it...Our last one, Jimmy, a Liverpool lad, said he'd never felt so free. 'Mrs Ellroy, it's just like being in a nudist colony- only us males are nude and you ladies are dressed!" He didn't have a lovely physique like you- he was tall, and thin as a rake but..."

Her voice drifted off.

"...very, very well endowed. And he did enjoy showing off. In fact, he ended up wearing Y fronts several sizes too small. Our lady friends loved him...and Julia's girl friends."

"But..." choked Jack. "Were some of your lodgers embarrassed?"

"Oh yes, a little chap called Billy, who stayed here a year ago. Now, you Jack have some lovely body hair..."

Jack blushed. Behind his palms pressed into his groin he was now completely erect and leaking Cowper's fluid into the towel.

"...but Billy had every inch covered in fleece. He was very bashful. He held out against appearing in his Y fronts until I caught him doing something his mother in Leeds would have disapproved of..."

Jack blushed.

"...and that settled it. The next day he was fresh, and bathed, and serving tea in the parlour to the Partridges- mother and daughters- and old Mrs Elderberry, and me and Julia and her friend Millie, in nothing but the most shrunken, worn through Y Fronts...full of holes...threatening to fall off him any moment because of the elastic! And they slid down to his knees as he struggled to hold the tea pot! Real vaudeville! We were laughing out loud. Mrs Elderberry told him he'd be better off in his birthday suit! So the girls whisked his briefs off him and we kept like that the rest of the afternoon. He bought new Y fronts the next morning!"

Which meant that Jack had no alternative.

"You finish here, slip into one of these briefs and come down for tea."

To spend the evening with her and Julia, in his high waisted Coopers Jockey Y Fronts, as worn by the British Olympic team...and, as the advertisements promised, streamlined and snug. With firm support...

...wearing the briefs, and nothing else.

He was close to swooning.

With fear.

With excitement.

His cock throbbed.

At least she had not found his jockstraps.

Later that night, with the females still downstairs watching Sunday Night at the Palladium, Jack looked at himself in the full length mirror in his room. What had they seen of him, during the evening? He adjusted the Coopers Jockey Y Front briefs at his waist. Yes, they rode high, covered his navel. The females could not have seen a hint of pubic hair. So far so good.

But, shit! The front was another thing. The cock and balls- what my mates call the "meat and veg"- were so obvious. They stood out, their shape was clear! Anyone could make out the bunching up of my ball bag with the nutmegs inside and the length of my prick lying on top of it, and worst of all my big, fat bellend, so...obvious! And when it stiffens and stretches- like now- I might as well be starkers! They see all I've got!

That night he had walked down the stairs and, half way, realised that they would be there looking at his midriff appearing in their line of sight.

He had trembled even more and allowed his hands to flutter in front of his Y front. He struggled with this nightmare: on the first night in his lodgings he had been ordered to present himself to his landlady and her snotty niece in just his underwear .

On the lower steps had seen them waiting, looking up.

He had felt nude, his body on display and the Y fronts hardly concealing a thing.

Once he had taken the last step, into the kitchen, they had stood in front of him.

Mrs Ellroy had said how "relaxed" he looked and how "manly" and that he was just like Davey and all the male lodgers who had gone around in just their Y fronts. She said it was so nice- just so "sweet," Mrs Ellroy had insisted- to have a man about the house "with his fine attributes presented for us to admire." And one not ashamed to be wearing just his "undies" in the presence of the females he lived with.