I played youth-league soccer from age 7 through 13. When I was 13, we happened to play a game that began unremarkably - and then turned most memorable, a little more than halfway through. Soccer itself wasn't erotic to me, but soccer boys were different. And this was about the most erotic soccer game I remember. Nothing overt happened during the course of the game. But when the game stopped....

Let me take you there, to that game, that hot June day.

It's one of those incredibly muggy deep-Southern summer afternoons. The temperature is not exceptionally hot, but the humidity is tangible. And you can see, off in the western distance, another hallmark of Southern summer afternoons: a mass of gigantic white puffy cumulus clouds.

Our team is warming up on the field when I notice the cloudbank. I see it, and dismiss it. It might rain; so what? It rained all the time in high summer, and soccer games went on. Electrical storms were different, of course. But there's no reason to assume lightning and thunder were gonna come out of those clouds. And I have a game to play, and win. The action is on the field, not up in the sky.

The game gets underway. First half goes by; no goals. Those puffy white clouds keep getting bigger, and closer, and darker. I don't notice till late in the half. When you're playing striker, you don't tend to look up alot. Finally, near halftime, the sun begins fading in and out, regularly. I look up. And those puffy white clouds are closer. They're more numerous. And they're getting distinctly dark and bruised-looking on their bases. We all know what that means.

About halfway through the break, it's becoming obvious that those clouds mean business. Our coaches are talking about whether we should play the second half at all. Rain is no big deal; we've played in rain lots of times. Lightning is a different story, needless to say. But we go ahead and took the field, as do our opponents. No self-respecting soccer team quits at zero-to-zero.

We're lined up for the throw-in. I'm still at striker. We're starting on offense, so it's me on point. It's gotten kind of dark, and the wind is rising. There's a strong smell of rain on the way - soon.

Ref throws the ball in, and we're charging. It's my ball; I'm almost there. And in mid-charge, right before I get to the ball, this brilliant blue-white flash streaks across the sky. The thunder cracks, less than one second later.

I flinch, auto-reflexively, and look up. So do the opposing team members. The entire field freezes for a second, as everyone instinctively pulls his head low ans scrunches his shoulders, like a turtle trying to enter his shell.

Motion resumes, but we're all distracted. We're all looking up and not watching the field carefully. I get the ball, take control, scan for an open pass receiver. The opposing team's defender blocks me. I see an opening to my right; I prepare to pass. And right at that moment there's another flash, another crack of thunder. I follow through on the attempted pass without thinking, but my opponent pivots to block my shot. We're both distracted, and we're in mid-flinch, even as we execute... and we have a vigorous collision, and down we go.

The game is going to be called - that first flash was too close for comfort, and the second left no doubt. We're lying there, and as we struggle to our feet, the whistles blow. The refs and coaches yell at us to head for the shelter.

Thunderstorms down South aren't leisurely affairs. When the lightning comes, and the thunder rolls, and it's right overhead, you don't have time to stroll for cover. You might not get electrified, but you're gonna get wet, even if you run, because that fire on high signals rain - fast and hard and right NOW.

My opponent and I aren't even on our feet when the heavens open up. Raindrops the size of marbles, and pelting down hard. There's no time for anyone to get off the field and under shelter; within seconds, everyone is drenched to the bone. We run like madmen for a picnic shelter off to the side.

This has all happened before, of course. I've played summer youth soccer for seven years now, and I've seen alot of lightning, alot of rain. So have many of the kids, and grownups too. We all know the drill.

But this day, there's something different. Did I mention that the opposing team is wearing white shorts?

White is one of the least-common colors for youth soccer-team shorts. That probably has alot to do with laundry - grass stains don't come out of white all that easily. But I suspect it's also due to the fact that white shorts are somewhat transparent, even when dry. You can see what a boy is wearing underneath them, without much trouble. I don't know that the boys cared; most probably didn't notice. Parents don't care to have their sons' underwear showing, though. And there is that laundry problem... So, white shorts aren't common. But this is the city's only youth soccer league, and with a fair number of teams, and only so many colors in the catalogs, somebody's gonna be wearing white shorts (and somebody else is gonna be wearing white shirts, for that matter).

Over the years, I'd worn all kinds of different-colored uniform combinations (including white shorts my second year, at 8 y/o). This year, 13 y/o, our team is wearing red shorts. Every summer, we played against the whole rainbow - including, of course, white.

It rained during at least one or two games every year, too. But I don't recall ever playing during this particular combination - opponents wearing white shorts during a rainstorm - until now.

By age 13, I was well-aware that I liked boys. And I knew I had a particular lust for boys in their underwear, or with their underwear showing. So this white-shorts phenomenon had caught my attention previously, and whenever we played against a white team, I noticed. But I was a serious soccer player, and I have the ability to focus on task and block out distractions; and once play started, I didn't pay attention, to sexuality or much of anything else.

Back to the day. The game is being called, and suddenly my mind doesn't need to be focused on soccer... and I become aware. Boy, do I become aware!

It hasn't occurred to me before now that white nylon soccer shorts become very transparent and very clingy when wet. This day, as I untangle myself from my opponent and get to my feet, ready to run, and the rain comes pounding down, soaking all of us within seconds, and we race for the picnic shelter - I realize that fact. It's a revelation, in both sense of the word.

I'm near mid-field, remember. And the picnic shelter happens to be off some distance from the sideline. That means I'm behind most of my teammates, and most of the boys from the other team. I'm a little shook from the lightning out there, and at first, I'm just thinking about getting to safety out of the storm. But I'm running, and in front of me are close to a dozen boy-butts - all with their underwear very much revealed. And the thought crosses my mind: "How come I never thought about this before?" The truth is revealed, that day. Like a lightning bolt.

(Side Note number 1: Most kids back then wore plain white briefs - relatively few wore boxers, and few wore anything more exotic, like bikini briefs, although you did see boys in both of the latter from time to time. I wore boxers by that time, for reasons' I've explained elsewhere; but for soccer I always switched back to briefs. It only took one soccer ball hitting me in the balls to realize that playing soccer in your boxers is a Bad Idea. :))

(Side Note number 2: That year, I played in the under-14 division. Mostly, that meant boys ages 12 or 13, since the next division was under-12s. In youth soccer, though, you can play with the under-14s if you're 11 or younger, as long as you can keep up with the bigger guys; in fact, I had been playing with the under-14s since I was 10. That day, our team and our opponents had a few kids under 12 playing, as always.)

We make it to the shelter, which is small, and was already crowded with parents and siblings and all those other folks who show up at games. Add 22- plus wet boys, and it's packed. Half of the boys are wearing soaked dark- colored jerseys, and wet, transparent, clingy white shorts. The other half, our team, are wearing similarly-soaked jerseys and wet red nylon shorts - not transparent, but just as clingy.

At first, I'm still fixated on the visible underwear. Most boys are wearing briefs, as expected. I see a couple in boxers, and that's cool to see. I see a couple of others in bikini briefs, and that's cool, too. One boy in particular on the other team is wearing bikini underwear with red and blue horizontal stripes - just like a pair I own, and that's really cool. He has a cute butt, too. (Mental note: I need to strike up a conversation with him... :))

We all continue to mill around. And after a minute or two, I realize that it's not just boy's butts and visible underwear. The front view is even more interesting.

Every kid's soccer shorts are clinging to every contour of his body. And every boy's... well, between his legs... is as starkly outlined as if he were naked. The whole range of puberty is encompassed - little boys with no development, boys halfway through, boys fully mature, sexually. You can even tell who is circumcised and who isn't. Most are... but I notice two very distinctly non-circumcised kids on the other team. (By the way, in the South, boys were almost always circumcised.)

You know how moms are. "Don't want my boy to stand around in wet clothes; he'll catch a cold!" Over to one side of the shelter, this informal changing area takes shape. There are moms, handing dry clothes and towels to their sons. And there are boys, stripping off their soggy uniforms and drying off. The parents were holding up towels, and the boys tried to be modest - but how modest can you be when there are 50-odd kids, and adults too, packed into a picnic shelter designed to hold about 25 or so? And lightning's still flashing, so nobody is getting near the edges.

Weenie city, anyone?

Not all boys are stripping naked, of course - maybe one-fourth of us, total. I'm in the non-stripping majority; my mom isn't there, and I have no dry clothes to change into. Nevertheless, I hang out near the drying-off area for a few minutes. I'm talking to my teammates, and a few of the other kids, and looking as discreetly as I can. It gets to be stimulating, after a minute or two, and having my own weenie starkly revealed like everyone else's, I decide it's prudent to move away.

(As I've said elsewhere, locker-room nakedness didn't do much for me, then. I was too accustomed to it. But that day was different. I think it was because the nudity was unexpected, and because of the outdoor setting. And especially because of the wet-visibility-clinginess factor. I was getting as aroused by the boys in wet shorts as much as by the naked boys - maybe more. The clich‚ is that "a little clothing is more erotic than nudity"; and on that day, I would have agreed completely.)

My arousal isn't especially noticeable, I think - I've moved away before it becomes unmistakable. I have no problem with other boys seeing me stiff, but there are parents and coaches here. But I keep this low-level

The scene in the shelter only lasts about 10-15 minutes, total. In the South, those afternoon showers usually stop as suddenly as they start, and this one is no exception. The downpour slows to a normal rain, the lightning gets less frequent, the thunder moves off to the east. And, a few minutes later, the rain stops completely. Almost immediately, almost before I realize the trickling noise is just leftover water dripping off the roof, the sun comes out.

There is nothing steamier than the first 30 minutes after a good ol' Southern thunderstorm. You can see the vapor visibly rising off the soaked grass and asphalt. My eyes turn immediately to the field - can we resume play? At least till someone scores? Who wants to leave with a scoreless tie? But the field is at least half-covered with standing water. I know without asking that it's too much to play decent soccer. (For those who don't know, soccer fields are completely flat - unlike football fields, which have a crown running down the middle of the field along the long axis. I have no idea why. But it's annoying when even a little rain causes a sheet of water.)

Time to go home. Wet boys and dry boys and parents head toward the parking lot. I've come to the game with Paul, my best friend on the team, and his parents. I'm going to sleep over that night, by earlier arrangement. I locate the three of them in the confusion, and we walk out to the car.

Paul's parents haven't brought any dry clothes along for him, either. So we're headed to Paul's house, two dry adults in the front seat, and two dripping-wet 13 y/o boys in the back, sitting on a holey old blanket covering the seats. Paul and I are back there laughing and giggling and poking each other like 13-year-old best friends. My mind is off the wet boys and the erotic scene just concluded... for a few minutes.

But you don't easily forget something that vivid. And now, if any proof were needed, I get a reminder, and it's strong. In between giggles, I'm looking down and I happen to glance, with no plan to do so, at Paul's lap.

Paul and I are no virgins. We've been doing it with each other for two years. I'm well-acquainted with the look and feel and taste of his boy-cock. Now, I'm looking at his lap, and his penis is visibly outlined in his wet red shorts. It's nothing I haven't seen before, naked or in his underwear. He's not the least bit erect.

But he's wet, and his soccer shorts are clinging to his penis and balls. And he's right there next to me, and it's obvious. And he's my best friend and longtime boy-sex explorer. And I'm sleeping over tonight. And it's gonna be sooo awesome, tonight. Tonight, when the night comes.