Footy Club Ladies Night
At 27, I’d found my place on the local footy team, the Riverbank Rovers, a rough-and-tumble crew of blokes who played hard and partied harder. I’d joined mid-season, my 6’2” frame, muscled from years of lifting and covered in tattoos—snaking dragons and Celtic knots across my chest, arms, and back—making me a natural fit for the forward line. My beard, thick and dark, gave me a bit of a Viking look, and I leaned into it, earning the nickname “Thor” from the lads. I was fit, strong, and loved the game, but I kept to myself in the locker room. No showers, no strutting around in my jocks. I’d change quick, keep my boxer briefs on, and get out. Nobody knew why, and I wasn’t about to explain that I was self-conscious about my cock—nothing wrong with it normally, but cold locker rooms and nerves always made it shrink to a humiliatingly small size.The season was a blast, and by the end, we were planning the annual fundraiser for the team’s end-of-year trip—a lads’ weekend in Bali. The event was a Ladies Night, a cocktail party where we’d serve drinks in our footy gear, run a silent auction with signed jerseys and local business vouchers, and charm the socks off the town’s women to raise cash. I was all in, figuring I’d sling beers, flash my grin, and let my tatted-up arms do the talking. What I didn’t know, because nobody told the new guy, was the tradition: three players, chosen by a random draw, would perform a strip show throughout the night as the main entertainment. When I heard about it at practice, my stomach dropped. I’m no prude, but the idea of baring it all—especially my cold-shrunk cock—in front of a crowd? Pure terror.
“Don’t stress, Thor,” said Mick, our team captain, clapping my shoulder. “Odds are slim, mate. Thirty blokes, only three get picked.” I nodded, trying to laugh it off, but my gut churned. I’d seen some of the guys in the showers—big, confident bastards who’d probably love the spotlight. Me? I’d rather tackle a prop head-on than strip.
The night of the fundraiser, the town hall was packed. Fairy lights twinkled, tables were draped in white cloth, and the silent auction was buzzing with bids. We wore our footy kits—tight navy shorts, sleeveless jerseys showing off our arms, and boots polished for the occasion. I worked the bar, pouring cocktails, my biceps flexing under my ink as I handed out drinks. The women—mums, wives, local gals—were loving it, giggling and slipping tips into our pockets. I flirted back, winking at a blonde in a red dress, feeling good in my element. My jersey hugged my pecs, and my tattoos peeked out, drawing eyes. I was killing it, no stripping required.
Then Mick took the stage, mic in hand, and announced the draw. My heart pounded as he pulled names from a hat. First up was Jake, the team’s resident show-off. A lanky winger with a donkey cock he was never shy about flashing in the locker room, Jake strutted around like he owned the place. The crowd cheered as his name was called—he was already grinning, ready to lap up the attention. Next was Ryan, a part-time fireman and team veteran who’d done the strip show twice before. Built like a brick wall, with a chiseled jaw and a smooth chest, he was a crowd favorite, especially with the ladies who’d seen his act. He gave a mock salute, eating up the applause.
When Mick called my name, the room spun. “Thor!” he bellowed, and the crowd roared, probably thinking my Viking vibe would make for a hell of a show. I froze, beer glass in hand, my throat dry. Jake slapped my back, laughing. “Stitch-up, mate! You’re gonna love it!” I forced a smile, but inside, I was screaming. A stitch-up for sure—Mick’s smirk said it all. They knew I was shy about my body off the field, and now I was stuck.
The first act was Jake, halfway through the night. The DJ cranked “Sweet Caroline,” and Jake swaggered out in his footy gear, boots clomping on the makeshift stage. He played it up, flexing his lean arms, tossing his jersey into the crowd to reveal a wiry, tanned torso. The women screamed as he peeled off his shorts, revealing a bright red jockstrap that barely contained his massive cock—easily eight inches, even half-hard. He gyrated, grinning like a lunatic, and when he finally whipped off the jockstrap, the room erupted. His donkey cock swung free, thick and proud, and he capped his performance with a full-on windmill, spinning his hips so his cock whirled like a propeller, drawing gasps and wild cheers. He bowed, completely unashamed, and jogged offstage to hoots and hollers, loving every second, the shameless bastard.
Ryan went next, after another round of drinks. He went full fireman mode, starting in his footy kit but carrying a toy fire hose he sprayed (with water) into the crowd, earning squeals. “Hot Stuff” blared, and he stripped with the precision of a choreographed routine—jersey first, revealing his sculpted pecs, then shorts, down to black briefs. His dance moves were slick, a mix of hip thrusts and spins, his fireman charm in full swing. He moonwalked across the stage, winking at the crowd, then dropped the briefs to reveal a thick, six-inch cock, perfectly proportioned. The women went wild, fanning themselves as he grooved to the beat, his muscular frame gleaming under the lights. He finished with a playful salute and a spin, strutting off to thunderous applause.
My turn came last, and I was a wreck. Backstage, my hands shook as I adjusted my jersey, my tattoos glistening with nervous sweat. Jake, still naked and grinning, handed me a shot of whiskey. “Loosen up, Thor. Show ’em the Viking!” I downed it, the burn doing nothing for my nerves. My cock, already shrinking from the cold hall and my panic, felt like a damn pebble. I’d never gone full monty before, not even in the locker room. But the crowd was waiting, chanting “Thor! Thor!” as the DJ queued up “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”
I stepped out, heart hammering, my footy boots heavy on the stage. The lights were blinding, the crowd a sea of expectant faces. I started slow, flexing my arms, letting my jersey ride up to show the dragon tattoo across my abs. The women cheered as I tossed the jersey, my inked-up chest and biceps rippling under the lights. I kicked off my boots, then slid down my shorts, leaving me in my black boxer briefs. The crowd roared, and I forced a grin, spinning to show off my tatted back and glutes. But the moment of truth was coming, and my nerves were screaming.
I took a deep breath, hooked my thumbs in my briefs, and yanked them down. The room exploded with laughter—not cheers, like Jake and Ryan got, but laughter. My cock, shrunken to an embarrassing degree by the cold and my nerves, was barely visible—a tiny, pale nub, no bigger than a grape, barely half an inch long, almost lost in the dark pubic hair. It was smaller than I’d ever seen it, my anxiety and the chilly hall conspiring to make it retreat completely, like a frightened snail. The women pointed, some giggling, others outright cackling. “Where’s the Viking, Thor?” one yelled, and another shouted, “Is that a cocktail weenie or a cocktail shrimp?” The room lost it, the laughter echoing as I stood there, frozen, my muscled, tattooed body on full display, but all eyes on my pitifully tiny cock.
I tried to laugh it off, doing a quick spin to show my ass instead, but the damage was done. The laughter followed me as I grabbed my briefs and bolted offstage, my face burning. Jake was waiting backstage, still naked, his donkey cock swinging as he clapped me on the shoulder. “Tough break, mate. Guess the Viking’s got a short sword tonight!” He cackled, and even Ryan, pulling his jersey back on, smirked. “Don’t worry, Thor,” Ryan said. “They’ll still bid on your tats at the auction.”
I forced a chuckle, pulling my clothes on fast, the crowd’s laughter still ringing in my ears. The auction raised a ton for the trip, and the night was a hit, but I knew I’d be “Tiny Thor” to the team for weeks. As I slunk back to the bar, Mick handed me a beer, grinning. “Welcome to the Rovers, mate. Next year, bring a heater for the little guy.”
” My stomach dropped. I deleted the message, praying they wouldn’t share it, but deep down, I knew those photos were already out there, my humiliation immortalized.
