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Welcome to Your Jockstraps

Your Jockstraps is now a full-featured website featuring discussion forums, galleries, profiles, search capabilities and a robust private message system to converse with other members. Unlike the old website, with this one, YOU control your content.

While you are more than welcome to enjoy the site as a guest, the real fun begins when you register and become a member . And just in case you're wondering, Your Jockstraps is and always will be 100% free.

The website may appear daunting but trust me, once you get used to it, it will feel like home in no-time. As a start, be sure to read my post in the News and Announcements Forum . There's lots of help available in the FAQ Pages and if you still can't figure something out, then post a question in the Questions, Help and Support Forum and I'll do my best to help you.

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Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise
Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise
Christian Pulisic calls out lackluster attendance at USMNT friendly
Is Darin Ruf a top outfielder in baseball? | Stats that will blow your mind
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Christian Pulisic calls out lackluster attendance at USMNT friendly
Is Darin Ruf a top outfielder in baseball? | Stats that will blow your mind
Drew Magary's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Email Drew here .
When I was in college, I called a phone sex line one night (this was pre-internet, so phone sex was a somewhat-viable option for the horny teenager) and, after navigating through 18 different voice menus promising me hot action, I got hooked up with a live lady on the other end. I asked her what she was wearing. Of course I did. That's standard phone sex etiquette. And then, when she was done revving me up with an imaginary teddy, she asked ME what I was wearing.
"Do you play football, Harvey?" (Harvey was the name I gave her)
"Do you wear those little… what do you call those strappy things?"
"Yeah. I'm wearing that now actually." (Lie.)
Thirty seconds later I was hanging up the phone and cleaning myself off. After that, any time I wore a jock in the locker room, I thought about phone sex. It was an awkward place to be thinking about phone sex.
But that's the thing with a jock: It's a RIDICULOUS piece of equipment. It's a nut bra. If you wear one backwards, it's a dickless thong. There is no other piece of athletic equipment that is as vital to your well-being that is also that silly looking. It's an instant reminder that, like all other guys, you are hairy and pasty and have a zitty ass.
Pretty much every other piece of athletic equipment is cool. Pads are cool. Cleats are cool. Jerseys are way cool. But before you put that shit on, you gotta sheepishly step into a jock, hoist your nuts up, let your ass hang out, and hope no one doused the thing in Liquid Heat. When I was in high school, the equipment manager was in charge of the jocks. You threw your dirty jock in the bin, and then he washed all of them together (possibly using battery acid as detergent), and then issued you a new one. So every jock got worn by every guy. Unless you re-used your jock, which I occasionally did, because I am gross.
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But you gotta wear one. You can't just let your dick and balls dangle down for an entire football or soccer or baseball game, exposed in the field of play. Every man's worst fear is to take a line drive to the nuts. A jock lessens the risk of that happening, whether you wear a cup with it or not (no one I played with used a cup; they tend to dig into you). And it keeps your shit CONTAINED. It keeps your balls out of your way, which is good because balls tend to get in the way of everything.
Anyway, I was thinking about this because I got a vasectomy a couple weeks ago and post-vasectomy recovery requires that you wear tight undies or a jock for a full week afterward. And because I had… complications (getting better!)… I had to go buy a bunch of jocks and wear them for two weeks to keep the swelling down. I am never not conscious of the fact that I have one of these things on. I walked outside the other day and my ass felt cold as hell. There are two elastic straps digging in under your cheeks, like the least sexy garter belts in history. Every time my old lady sees me rocking the jock, she has to stifle her laughter. It's not a dignified way of going about your business.

The hardest part was shaving my balls. Before you go in for your vasectomy, the literature says,
But for the task required, a jock is still the best tool for the job. No one has come up with a better way of protecting the male anatomy from typical male behavior, and they probably won't. Athletes will continue suffering the indignity (and mild delusions of sexiness!) that comes with wearing your standard nut bra, from now through sporting eternity. I asked readers to submit their worst jockstrap horror stories. Here now are a few of them:
7th grade - I'm 4'10", 67 lbs worth of brace-toothed, bespectacled, VO5'd pre-man. We had to take a jock to gym class, even though at the time I had absolutely nothing to strap. Sitting behind me in Latin class was Lou who went through puberty at 8 and probably had been getting laid since he was 10. He reaches into my boy scout back pack, pulls out my jock strap and shouts "Hey, What's this? A pea shooter?" The girls all laughed. I didn't. 50 years later I remember it like it was yesterday. Oh yeah, my mom was the teacher.
During high school football training camp, we buddy started chaffing from his jock strap and developed some raw skin on his taint and balls. He went to the trainer looking for anything to provide some relief. The trainer wasn't around but he found a bottle of skin lotion and applied it generously to the effected area. What my buddy didn't know was that the trainer had packed bio freeze (icy hot) in an empty lotion bottle for his travel bag of supplies. Our training camp was 45 min away at a prep school and we lived in dorms for a week. My buddy missed the remaining practices that day while nursing his balls in the ice bath and spent that night in agony.
My HS gym coach was nicknamed Jocko. He was a retired Army drill sergeant, of course.
In retrospect, his nickname might have been based on the fact he: 1) insisted we all wear jock straps; and 2) personally inspected us for compliance.
We seriously had to line up and pull open the front of our gym shorts while he walked down the line to make sure we were good to go. He'd snap them once in awhile for good measure.
Ah, Catholic HS. I'm sure it didn't mess me up at all.
My dad ran track in college, and was running the 1600m this particular day. Hurdles were set up in the outside lanes in preparation for the next event and when he went wide to pass a guy on the second to last lap, his shorts caught the edge of a hurdle. His shorts ripped completely off and he ran the last 400m in only his jock strap - bare ass and everything. He said he just kept running past the finish line to the locker room, changed, and went back to his apartment without talking to anyone.
Cup checks were a frequent practice ritual. They were administered by a grown-ass-man kicking a child in the nuts. I was the runt of the team, so they never picked on me, which was good because I rarely wore a cup due to the fact that I was 11, and that kind friction would usually give me a totally-unwanted boner.
Since I didn't want anyone to notice my boner, I usually tucked it under the cup and between my legs. I eventually got kicked in the nuts, with a boner tucked under my cup and clenched between my butt cheeks.
The boner broke, and I cried like a girl for a solid 15-20 minutes. I never played organized football again.
One of my goalies seems normal, even well-adjusted, at least outwardly: Stanford undergrad, Northwestern MBA/JD, member of exclusive athletic club. He is not. He plays goalie on our shitty beer league team without a cup, because "he moves better without it." Anyways, this guy pales in comparison to the goalie on our other team, whom I'll call "Teddy."
As a teenager, he took a slap shot that shattered his cup. One of the shards impacted his scrotum, causing a Testicular Hydrocele. He has never had it drained, so his sac is still the size of a large grapefruit, 20 years later.
When I was 10 years old, I decided I wanted to play catcher on my little league baseball team, mostly because I’d get to wear a bunch of cool extra equipment. The league wisely required that I wear a cup while playing this position, so I headed off to the sporting goods store with my parents to purchase my first jock strap and cup. Because I was one of those overgrown kids who always looked about two grade levels older than my classmates, I had mostly grown out of kids clothing and was starting to wear adult sizes already. So sticking with this pattern, my parents bought me the adult sized jock strap and cup combo.
My chubby waist and legs did, indeed, require the adult jock strap, which fit perfectly. The cup, was another matter altogether, though. It was gigantic and didn’t fit me at all. Crouching into position was wickedly painful, as the cup would lodge between my legs and pry them apart, rubbing on my skin the entire time. It was awful. I nonetheless played a quarter of a season in remarkable discomfort before finally breaking down and asking my parents to take me back to the sporting goods store to buy a different sized cup. Why did I wait so long? Because no male–apparently not even a 10-year-old boy–wants to admit that he needs a much smaller device for protecting his genitalia.
Back in junior high/middle school our gym teacher was strict about wearing the gym uniforms every class. If someone happened to forget their uniform after taking them home for a washing over the weekend they would have to borrow "community" gym clothes from the teacher. This included a bright yellow shirt, gray (usually short) shorts, and the required jock strap. If someone were to forget any of these things, they had to be borrowed. If someone had PE at a later hour in the day, there were slim pickins in the community basket. This meant as a 6'5" teenage giant I was stuck wearing small shorts that barely covered my undercheek and a jock that squeezed one nut out of the side of the pouch. This seemed like a worse situation for my testicles, than not wearing a jock strap.
Mr. Gym Teacher made sure nobody got around the jockstrap requirement by doing jock checks on a regular basis. This involved pulling out the side strap from the leg hole to prove a jock was being worn. I guess 13-15 year old kids prefer to have their balls free while doing physical activities, or they just didn't want to wear a jock strap that cupped the balls of 1000 other pre-pubescent boys.
Back in the 80’s I played one year of JV High School Football. Every week the Seniors on the Varsity would pick some guy on the JV to give an atomic-wedgie. Two of them came up to my friend and me. I must have had more fear in my eyes because they decided that I was going to get my peaches sliced that day.
I tried hard to resist the scrambling hands finding and yanking on the jockstrap. The fun continued with the one fellow dragging me around the room by my jock strap yelling and laughing with those around him laughing and yelling too.
That elasticity of that jock strap was never to return so I had to throw it away and practice commando which is not a lot of fun with an “Indian” burn on your taint.
Back when I was about 12 and in little league baseball, I was the catcher for my team. One day, I couldn't find my cup, and it was getting close to game time, so I asked my older brother if I could borrow his. He said no, because he had a hockey game later. But he decided to let me borrow his old cup, which was old and cracked. It bugged me that he was giving me this piece of shit to use, but I sucked it up because my mom was already in the car with my brother ready to leave, so I put it on and left.
Later on during the game, I was sitting behind the plate catching a few errant pitches from my teammate, when the kid pitched one that was low to the ground. I attempted to raise up a bit to catch it on the bounce, only for the ball to spring straight up into my nuts. This wouldn't have been a problem normally, but of course having been using an old, shitty jockstrap, that thing was going to bust at some point, and that point was now. The cup splintered, and while it didn't cut me or even pierce the skin, the pain from the vibrations was excruciating beyond anything I had ever felt in my life up until that time.
Jockstraps were a required part of my high school's gym uniform back in the '80's. I never really gave it much thought until one day as a freshman I decided to get a boner right before gym class. I somehow successfully hid my boner from my classmates as we were changing, but then I was confronted with the fact that there wasn't really enough space in the pouch for it. I couldn't fold it and allowing it to stick out the side of the pouch would just make it obvious I had a boner sticking out of my jock, so I reluctantly let it stick up under the old-school 3-inch elastic waistband. It wasn't comfortable having that elastic pressing against it, but I thought I could manage until it died down and I could discreetly rearrange it.
That day was the day I got to hold the bottom of the rope for the rope-climb ("Two hands, DaveW!") so no discreetly rearranging my package for me. Sure enough, my boner did die down, and when my glans slipped back into my foreskin I thought I'd soon be home free. Did I mention this was an old-school jock with the very bottom of the waistband reinforced with an extra layer of elastic? Yeah, the tip of my foreskin never made it past it. Spent the last 10 minutes of my rope duty feeling like someone was leading me around by the foreskin with a pair of tweezers.
I was playing ice hockey in a decent, not great, rec. league in New York. The pass in our end came to one of the opposing team's point men and I skated up to take away the shot/passing lanes towards the net. Rather than look for other options, he decides to just blast a slapshot directly into my junk. I fold, but don't go down because I'm a hockey player (or I'm insane, take your pick). Now with this particular cup, I had a tendency to slip out, so not only did I take a heavy rubber disk to the groin area, but the cup itself did its best to guillotine my dick. The edges to those things are always padded and rounded, but let me tell you, this does not help.
I played for the baseball team my sophomore year of high school. Ever since I was about 11 or 12, and an errant bounce on a ground ball gave me my first direct nut shot, I was unable to play infield without a cup. I didn't care if a ball hit me in the face, throat, wherever, just not there. Seeing as I played infield, I always wore a cup. I wore it in one of those underwear/jockstrap hybrids. Because I was lazy and also wanted to prevent chafing, I would throw that sucker on over my boxer shorts. It looked ridiculous, but who would ever see, right? One day at practice, our coach made us go outside and run timed laps around the track (because baseball requires too much running of course). It was a hot day, and I was wearing breakaway pants, so I thought it wise to unbutton the bottom 2 buttons on each leg to let some more air in.
So I start running with a group, and since high school is stupidly competitive, I wanted to finish first for no reason. I'm sprinting around the track when I feel a little too much air going up my legs and notice that a couple more buttons have gone. Worried, but almost done with the lap, I figured I could make it without fully depantsing. I was wrong. Right as I crossed the "finish line", one half of my breakaway pants completely breaks away, leaving me in nothing but scrunched up boxers under jockstrap/whitey tighties. You might think a regular jockstrap would have been more embarrassing, but you would have been wrong. The kicker here is that the entire sophomore cheerleading squad (because it had to be the girls in my grade), were practicing inside of the track, right by where the incident occurred. Then the jackass coach called the rest of the team outside to point and laugh at me. The story spread so quickly that even my mom knew by the time I got home and promptly made fun of me. High school is the worst.
As a lacrosse goalie, my "game plan" was always compression shorts, then cup, then jock strap to hold the cup in place. Playing club lacrosse in college, games were usually played severely hungover on Saturday mornings. After a long drive to an away game, I realized I'd forgotten my compression shorts. I stupidly figured that regular old boxers would be fine as a base layer, not thinking the fly on the boxers would cause an issue.
Fast foward to the fourth quarter of some meaningless club game. Some roided out frat guy fires a low-to-high laser that I decide to stop with my crotch while in a deep lunge. On a normal day, a painful "walk it off" experience. On this fateful day, however, Little Kevin had decided he needed a breather, and snuck out through the fly in the boxers. Fratty's shot proceeded to accelerate the inner surface of my cup into my unprotected skin flute. I immediately scooped up the ball (having heroically made the save), chucked it out of bounds, and sprinted into the woods to puke, leaving my team without a goalie and the puzzled referee deciding to simply end the game.
I spent the next several weeks dealing with the swelling and coloration that resembled a Firecracker Popsicle in my pants. My then-girlfriend (now wife) couldn't keep a straight face about it for weeks.
I went out for cross country my sophomore year of high school. My dad took me took an athletic supply store to get running shoes and whatnot, and he threw a teen-size jock strap in the shopping basket too. I was a combination of mortified and confused, and started to protest, but he insisted. I never once put it on. Honestly, who the fuck puts on a jock strap to go running?
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