What’s it like

by Richard Jasper

“What’s it like” to be the world’s biggest, strongest, most muscular 17-year-old? To make hairy, bearded powerlifting muscle daddies look like little boys? To be the object of worship of all of your classmates? To have, well, you’ll have to read the rest to find out, won’t you?

Added: Jan 2021 1,441 words 8,028 views 4.7 stars (3 votes)


“I can’t imagine what it’s like to be you!” the old guy said.

Well, who could? Certainly not this guy. He had a nice enough body for a forty-something but, heck, he couldn’t have weighed more than 200 pounds.

So what IS it like to be the world’s strongest teen? Being 6’6” tall and weighing 700 pounds of solid muscle is what it’s like. Being able to bench press 15 times my own weight, far and away the world’s record for any age, much less 17, is what it’s like. Having a chest that looks a mountain, quads that are bigger around than the average man is tall, and arms as big as a superheavyweight bodybuilder’s chest is what it’s like. Can you imagine it? I didn’t think so. Heck, I can barely imagine it myself—I won’t graduate from high school for another five months, after all.

I won’t bore you by repeating the story of how I got here—everyone knows it already. And I won’t talk about what it’s gonna be like when I’m full grown, much less when I reach my full potential. Fact is I’m still growing taller and the docs tell me they won’t be surprised if I hit 7 feet tall at some point. My guess is I will have passed 1000 pounds. of solid, ripped, herculean muscle by that time.

So I’ll just tell you about what it’s like to be me now. I can’t go anywhere without getting stares and glances and once someone bellows “You’re that guy, aren’t you?” you might as well hang it up, I’m mobbed. Doesn’t matter whether I’m at school, at the mall, at the gym, the story’s always the same.

The girls are the worst. Giggle, giggle, touch, giggle, “will you make a muscle for us?” Puhleeze! As if I could do anything else—I’m a walking, breathing mountain of muscle, for fuck’s sake. Of course, their moms are scarier. I’ve seen wolves who looked tamer and less hungry. The teen guys, well, what can I say? They stand there with their mouths open, jaws gaping, stunned, poleaxed, their little weenies sticking out like a bunch of puppy dog tails. I think they’re so sexy, boys in the first flush of manhood, and there I am, another 17-year-old just like them, only I’m more hulking manhood than they can ever dream of becoming.

When I first started getting ridiculously big, back when I was 14 and starting ninth grade, I always lusted after the seniors. They were four years older but still not quite adults so if, well, you know. I didn’t want to worry about someone being thrown into jail because I want to get my rocks off! Also, most of them had reached their full height so some of them were as tall as I was or even taller. I liked being able to look into their eyes. I didn’t care how big or little they were. I scared the shit out of the football players, it was so easy it was all I could do to keep from laughing my ass off.

That was then. These days I’m all about 30-something daddies with beards and goatees and hairy chests. The ones who get my motor going are powerlifters and wrestlers and strength athletes and NFL linemen, guys who are over 6 feet, better yet waaay over 6 feet, and over 300 pounds. You know their name: Eddie and Thor and Brian and Nick. Next to me they look like little kids and I like showing them what I’ve got. My shoulders are over six feet wide. When I take in a deep breath and flex, they nearly pass out. Same when I give them my patented front lat spread, or lift my arms and show them what 60-inch biceps look like.

“Can you imagine what it’s like to be this fucking huge? To be this fucking strong? I can bench a UPS delivery truck. Imagine what I can do with you!” (Tee hee! I stole those lines from my friend HSMusclboy, a very talented aspiring artist who recently completed an amazing series of portraits of me!) That usually sends them running and just as well. Like I said, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, although I have a hard time thinking any judge is going to look at me and say “jailbait.” The full beard, the “musclebear’s wildest wet dream” pelt of fur, and the 20-inch salami all spell man, no matter what the rules say.

The brave ones pay me to pose for them. “Lookee, no touchee,” I tell ’em upfront, like they’d even think about laying a hand on someone who could break them in half without a second thought. “We’ve gotta save that for June 19th [when I turn 18],” I’ll say. But I’ll do just about anything else for ’em. Pose for ’em, lift for ’em, even jack off for ’em. The nice thing about being 17 is that I can do it over and over and over and over again.

For fun I stick to my classmates. There over a hundred guys in the Worthington High’s senior class. There are maybe half a dozen I haven’t fooled around with, the ones who are terminally shy or terminally uptight. The others range from the gayest of the gayest to the straightest of the straight. The jocks, the nerds, the stoners, everyone in between. I never force myself on anyone, what would be the point? I could crush any of them. Hell, I could crush all at the same time. I might do some looming, you know, just because I like to see their eyes widen in that unbeatable combination of lust and fear. But they want it. I’m their guy and they worship me like a God (fun, yeah, but it’s also embarrassing!) They vie for my attention so much I maintain a spreadsheet to keep it all sorted out!

You’d think I would gravitate towards the jocks but the fact is I really go the nerdy, skinny ones, the ones with the big hogs between their legs. They expect other guys to have bigger muscles than they do but they can’t get enough of one that makes their big old kielbasas look like “teenie weenie peenie.” I think they get off imaging what it would be like to have this much meat! It makes their eyes bulge out and that makes their weenies hard and that makes me happy! And, yeah, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one that was nearly as big as mine. The last was maybe 13-14 inches and mine is, what, half again as big? Ask me again next week—it will be bigger!

So what do my parents think about all this, you ask? Well, I never knew my dad—he must have been some kind of genetic freak because my mother sure as hell isn’t. Not that she can remember—I think her brain was fried before I ever came along. (Come to think of it, maybe that had something to do with how I am…) So, yeah, I admit it, I’m the breadwinner in the family, and my mom doesn’t complain so long as I pay the freight, including her therapy bills and the liquor store. A modeling career never hurt anyone. There’s OnlyFans (750K subscribers, last count) and those private sessions I mentioned above. A thousand bucks an hour is good money and if they want to splurge on some extras, well, like I said, I’ve gotta lotta splurge in me. That’s another thousand dollars a pop. Most I ever got in one session was $20,000, which was 3 hours of posing and 17 splurges. Suffice it to say that I can pay full tuition for four years at any Ivy League / Top Tier school, and I’ve been accepted to six of them. (Whether I’ll show up remains to be seen; once I’m legal, I think I’m taking the business to the next level.)

There’s more, of course, like always being hungry and that constant low-grade burn that tells me my muscles are getting stronger and bigger. Not to mention that little zing when I get up every morning, that “fuck yeah!” sensation that tells me I’m just a little bit better, a little bit stronger, a little bit more built than I was when I went to bed the night before.

You wanna know more?

You know where to find me.

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