The lights flickered on in the locker room, and Paul was immediately assaulted by the smell. That rank, powerful stench called hockeymusk that he was so aversed to. It offended him. Deeply. Just being in the locker room of those chauvinistic, cis-gendered pigs made him furious. See, Paul was something of a social justic warrior. Not the kind that would go out and fight for the homeless, oppressed, or misunderstood. He was the SJW that demanded the great Red American Revolution, thinking himself a nouveau Lenin. What was the cause this time? Sports.
Evidently sports caused a hierarchical class system that placed the well-abled above the common man, and it oppressed the weak of the populus. Welp, it had to go. His plan was to sneak into the local hockey team’s locker room, and destroy all their gear, making it impossible for them to play the next day.
However, the actual task was proving to rather more difficult than he expected, as the famously rancid hockeymusk defiled his nostrils. He needed to get the job done and get out of there. Heading over to the trophy case, he picked up a helmet, and smashed the glass; medals and golden cups fell like rain to the ground, landing in a pathetic pile at it’s base. Paul smiled as the graffitied the newly painted walls, and doused the fresh carpet with red paint.
He had nearly become accustomed to the stench of the room, until he was about to smash the benches and stalls. Something caught his eye. It was a pair of skates. They just sat there, innocently, one leaning against the other next to the bench. A strange aura wafted about them, as if a semi-visible gas surrounded them, translucent. His rage and fury bubbled as he approached the skates; his hatred of the patriarchy and toxic masculinity was all to be focused on this one very symbolic representation of Hockey.
A bic lighter in hand, and a little bottle of kerosene would do the trick, and he would have some flaming skates to hang above the soon to be melted arena. What a revolutionary idea. His arrogance and self-righteousness swelled within him as picked up a skate and flicked his lighter. Yet, he stared at the black and white skate, transfixed. Something about it made him shudder and stay his hand.
It was the wafting aura: it was Hockeymusk! Literally steaming from the still warm skate. Getting a huge whiff of the miasma, he dropped the bic lighter and covered his nose, in a futile attempting to shield himself from it’s strength. He tried to toss the skate across the room, but his grip tightened it’s hold on the blade. To his horror, he was bringing it closer to his face.
He couldn’t hold his breath forever, and eventually the need for air overtook him. He gasped and let in the foul odor of 1000 games, each one more sweaty than the last. It was hypnotic in a way, for one smell was not enough. He found himself burying his face in the skate, savoring each grimy inhalation of sweaty foot stench. His head began to spin, and his vision fogged. He knew the Hockeymusk was within him now, he knew there was no going back.
In a musk-fueled haze, the vision of the ice rink in the distance called to Paul, beckoning for a new player. He looked at the warm, stinking skate and it’s twin, grinning softly. Surely, the owner wouldn’t mind him borrowing them for a quick loop around the rink. Slowly and tenderly, he stripped his clothes; article by article feeling the tension and repulsion within him be suppressed. So when he stood there, in the clothing God had bestowed upon him, his confusion reach it’s fever pitch.
To the left of the skates were the sopping wet socks, stinking, mixed with melted ice and filthy footsweat. Sliding his foot into the hot, slick sock, an electrical sensation surged throughout his body. He pulled the large sock on, then the next. Wriggling his toes, it was an incredible dissociation from himself. For the first time, he noticed these weren’t his feet. They didn’t belong to him. He found the stained, off-white jockstrap atop the heap of gear, pulling it into place. The warm, slick, cheesy fabric of the well-loved jock cupped him snugly, filling him with a sense of support. It was as if the jock gifted him the erotic sensation of his cock grinding against it’s delicious filth. He rubbed the growing bulge within the cotton sac, and felt the sweat and cock cheese mingle with his formerly clean cock.
A second electrical surge sent chills down his spine, as he increased his speed. Faster and faster in pace, he grasped each and every article of gear. Pads, cups, jersey, pants, each one giving the same electric shock of the former, and overpowering his sensations with it’s strong, damp smell.
His peripherals caught the mirror in the distance, within which an unfamiliar man stood. A man in transition, whom had lost his way and was slowing coming back to his destiny. Sitting on the bench, he grabbed the catalyst to his transformation, slipping them onto his feet. The skates welcomed his rank feet home, a long-awaited homecoming. The man slipped on his helmet, his identity lost somewhere in the manstench-filled haze in his mind.
He made his way to the rink, the glistening ice glowed dimly in the poorly lit arena. One step onto the ice, and a surge of warmth filled him. He was home. One lap around the rink, he felt new life and power surge throughout him. Two laps, he felt the hidden master within him take over. Three laps, he inhaled one last deep breath as Paul, and welcomed Marius Halvorson, the Swedish prospect the team had just recruited.
Marius exhaled his first breath, smirking as he skidded back to the box. His teammates were just beginning to wander in for the final practice before the game that night. In his heart, Marius knew he was a reborn man, and he vowed then and there on that ice rink that he’d live it to the fullest.
So if you’re ever in the vicinity of a MHL game, and see a sexy young Swede kicking ass on the ice, flirting with his fans in the stands, showing off after every goal he makes. Be sure to hit him up after the winning game, he’s sure to show you the ropes.
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