A fine bromance

By Richard Jasper 
3 parts
More Like This

• Latest update: 22 February. Next update: 7 March. (Submissions welcome.)

• Latest from BRK: “The elevator ride”; “Shadow and flame”, Parts 6‑7.

Part 1

My new personal trainer stuck out his hand.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Erik Heitkamp. Jake has told me a lot about you!”

I shook his hand.

“Roger Jessup,” I replied. “Nice to ‘meet’ you.”


I had joined this corporate suburban gym six months previously when I realized, at age 49, it was “now or never.”

It had been five years since my husband, Stephen, had gone down in a commuter plane crash. Ten years together, gone in a flash. They told me it would have been instantaneous but I had nightmares on a regular basis the first year. Between Stephen’s insurance and the airline settlement I was fixed for life. And would have traded all of it for 10 more minutes with him.

The thing was, Stephen had been my lifting buddy as well as my husband. Not so unusual, of course, except that we were very disparate sizes. At 6’1”, Stephen was a couple of inches taller than I was but never weighed more than 140 pounds. As for me, I came equipped with naturally broad shoulders and a predisposition towards putting on the pounds in (mostly) all the right places. I was always about twice as strong as he was but he was never less than enthusiastic.

His absence made itself known to me on a daily basis in a thousand different ways. Even so, I was surprised when I found I couldn’t make myself go to the gym. Well, I could go and I did, but when I did I was just going through the motions, and after a couple of weeks I would stop – for six months or a year. Then I would start up again.

“It’s like this,” I told myself, finally. “I need to have someone there. If I have to pay to have a lifting buddy, so be it.”

I told the director of personal trainer right up front:

“Nothing against girl trainers, but I want a guy because I want someone who can inspire me,” I said. “Likewise, I’m gay and I am not shy about talking about my life. Whatever trainer I wind up with needs to be able to deal with that.”

The PT director just grinned.

“I’ve got just the guy!”

The guy turned out to be Jake Adams. Blond, blue-eyed, 6’1”, 185 pounds, all muscle. Someone, it turned out, who appreciated my encyclopedic knowledge of male bodybuilding and with whom I could chat between sets over the pros and cons of mass versus aesthetics, off-season versus stage ready, and so forth.

And, even though he was built like a CrossFit junkie (he wasn’t – he just had a keen interest in gymnastics and athleticism in general) he was perfectly down with what I wanted.

“I want to get back to my previous level of conditioning,” I said. “And then go from there.”

In six months, we made that happen, or close enough. I was fairly knowledgeable, thanks to previous experience with a personal trainer years previously. Jake kept me on the straight and narrow and in six months I was almost back to where I had been before pilot error took Stephen away from me.

Not that it was all that great.

At 5’10” and 215 pounds, I had a 46-inch chest, 36-inch waist, 16-inch arms, 26-inch quads, and 18-inch calves (that I never trained – they just grew that way.) But that was two inches more on my chest, two inches less on my waist, and inch more on more arms than the day I walked in the door. (A couple of years before Stephen passed away, when I was at my peak, the chest was 48, the waist was 34, and the arms were 17. I still had a ways to go, obviously!)

I still had a lousy bench but I was back to managing five reps at 225, could handle three plates on the t-bar row, and Jake’s eyes about popped when he figured out I could squat 365 for reps and that my one rep max was 455.

“Damn, boy,” he said. “That’s waaaay out of my league.”

Me oh my, I thought. Nothing like impressing the straight boy to make an old queen’s heart go pitter-pat.

Naturally, after six months it was time for him to move on.

He said it was because he was just looking for a change. Rumor had it his break-up with Penny, another personal trainer, was the salient factor.


Hence Erik, whose eyes widened slightly when he learned just how firm a grip I had.

24 years old, half my age, just my height, reddish brown hair with a matching well-trimmed beard, big green eyes, long dark lashes, pouty red lips.

And, like Jake, about 185 pounds, but whereas Jake was long and lean Erik clearly took after me. Naturally broad shoulders and narrow hips with solid arms and pecs. Unlike me, he had a tiny, flat stomach (the six-pack wasn’t quite there yet) and, much to his chagrin, skimpy calves.

“Jake tells me you’re a walking encyclopedia of bodybuilding!” he said enthusiastically.

I had to laugh.

“You know,” I said. “I’ve been following bodybuilding since I was 12 years old. It’s like the straight kid who memorizes all the MLB or NFL stats. With me, it’s bodybuilders. Who won, how tall they are, how much they weighed in the offseason, how much they weighed on stage, the whole schmear.”

He high-fived me.

“Hot damn!” he said. “Right up my alley! I l-o-v-e bodybuilding!”

Naturally, of course, he was straight as an arrow. And in fact, I soon learned, he had joined Fitness World a month or two previously just after his own traumatic break-up. (I had seen him around, of course, and said “hi” a time or two but this was our first introduction)

“Good deal,” I said, then added: “As Jake will have told you, I’m gay as a goose. But I’m also a guy which means I look! In my case, I look at guys. And me being me, I talk about the guys I’m looking at! So I will look at the guys and you will look at the girls and we can compare notes. Deal?”

He laughed.

“Deal!”


“So what are your goals?” he asked.

“Short term: Stronger, harder, bigger,” I said. “Long term: Much bigger!”

Erik laughed.

“How about something specific?”

That was easy:

“To be in the same shape I was before I went on hiatus,” I replied. “So about the same weight as I am now with a couple of inches more on my chest, a couple of inches off my waist, and another inch on my arms.”

He looked me up and down.

“Completely doable,” he said. “You clearly have a lot of muscle memory to work with. We just need to put in the work.”

I’m afraid I actually blushed. Believe me, getting a compliment from a cute guy half my age – even a straight one – was much more than I was used to at that point!

“And one other thing,” I said. “I would really, really, really like to be able to bench 315 by my 50th birthday three months from now.”

He arched an eyebrow. Was he skeptical?

“I’ve always had a lousy bench,” I explained. “And it’s been a lifetime goal. If you can get me there, I can promise a nice bonus!”

Erik chuckled.

“You’re currently benching what? 225 for five reps?”

I nodded.

“Previously my best ever single rep was 275,” I pointed out.

He gave me two thumbs up.

“Piece o’ cake!”

And that’s how it went.

Each week for the next three months I had two 50-minute training sessions with Erik, I spent an hour or so each week lifting on my own, and then usually a couple of 25-minute cardio sessions followed by 15-20 minutes of arms.

Every session, we talked.

Man did we talk!

Wasn’t like I wasn’t working. I worked my ass off. But between every set I was talking or he was talking…

About Stephen and what he was like and what it was like to lose him.

About Tiffany, his ex-fiancee, the woman he had lived with for three years and with whom he thought he was going to spend the rest of his life, right up to the minute she admitted she’d been fucking her boss for six months.

We talked about the history of bodybuilding and the direction of the sport, including the addition of the 212 class, Men’s Physique, and Classic Physique.

“Mass monsters,” I said.

“Aesthetics,” he replied.

“Roidguts,” I countered.

“Vacuum poses,” he offered.

He was upfront about the fact that he aspired to compete but wasn’t sure whether he would ever have the size to do more than Men’s Physique.

“Classic physique, if I’m lucky.”

I assured him that he certainly had the proportions to make Classic Physique—or even open class bodybuilding—happen, especially if he was willing to employ PEDs. And he was (and had done so but the imbroglio with Tiffany shot that first experience to hell.)

“You know, when you really get right down to it,” I told him. “I have zero interest in ever competing. I just want to be a huge freaking muscle bear!”

He laughed, then high-fived me.

“We’ll make that happen,” he said. “You’ll be the studliest gay 50-something on the planet!”

ZING!

Along the way, I gained 10 pounds, all in the right places. Amazingly in the right places, in fact. Somehow I managed to put four inches on my chest and two inches on my arms, while taking four inches off my waist. With a 50-inch chest, 18-inch arms, and a 32-inch waist, I was better built than I had ever been in my life!

Erik, meanwhile, dropped 10 pounds without losing any muscle mass. It melted right of his mid-section. His waist was down to 29 inches and his abs were like river rocks.

“You goddamned bastard!”

I growled at him every time he lifted his tee-shirt to check his abs. He just grinned and did it again!

And then, the day after my 50th birthday, I benched 315 for one solid rep.

We borrowed Sam, one of the sales reps and an aspiring physique competitor, to shoot it with my phone so I could post it to Instagram.

“Fuck yeah!” Sam said when I’d done it.

Afterwards, Erik looked me up and down.

“You’re twice my age,” he said. “But you’re stronger than I am. Most I’ve done so far was 300.”

I shook my head.

“You’re looking at it the wrong way, Mr. 29-inch Waist,” I said. “I just benched 15 pounds more than you but I outweigh you by what, 50 pounds?”

He smirked.

“Actually, I was 171 this morning,” he admitted.

I rolled my eyes.

“Youth,” I sighed.

“Muscle maturity,” he countered.

And then he surprised me.

“Do you want to train together?” he asked. “I don’t have clients after you on Tuesdays and Thursdays so we could workout then. Or we could do early mornings before I open at Vitamin Valley”—the supplement shop two doors down from Fitness World—”on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

It took me exactly 10 seconds to think it over:

“Or we could do both,” I replied. “And it would be so freaking cool! I’ve always wanted a lifting buddy! Of course, Stephen and I always worked out together but it just wasn’t the same since he was such a wee thing!”

Erik laughed.

“Well, compared to you, I’m a wee thing, too!” he pointed out.

I snorted.

“Pound for pound you’re one of the strongest guys I know and by the end of the year you’re going to be my size if I have anything to do with it!”

His eyes got that gleam that comes on when you’re imagining a long-anticipated future. And I didn’t look but he later told me that telling him that caused him to chub up!

“So it’s a deal?” he asked.

I bumped his fist.

“Deal!”

Part 2

It took a bit of figuring but we managed to fit five 90-minute workout sessions into our weekly schedules. (More precisely, his schedule. I worked from home, when I worked, so it was easier for me.)

A week into it, Erik hit 315 on his bench press.

Meanwhile, I added 40 pounds to mine!

“That’s odd,” he said. “Beginner’s luck, I guess!”

I frowned.

“Plus you look fuller and thicker,” I pointed out.

He nodded.

“I was 178 this morning,” he agreed. “I guess I was just dehydrated. Still, that’s up three pounds from a week ago.”

I couldn’t help it.

I bounced my pecs, squeezed my biceps.

“230,” I said. “Wasn’t expecting it!”

And that’s the way it went for the first month. Every week I was 5 pounds heavier, all of it in the right places. Every week I benched at least 40 pounds more than I had the previous week.

Erik was growing, too, although not as quickly. Likewise, his bench was going up, but not as fast.

“This is some freaky shit,” he said.

It was Monday, June 25.

I had just benched 505 pounds.

That’s right.

Not quite 200 pounds more than I had done one month previously.

And I was 245 pounds.

54 inch chest, 20 inch biceps.

“You’re a tank,” he said. “What are you on?”

I looked at him.

“Look who’s talking, Mr. Just-Benched-405 pounds at 190 pounds body weight,” I replied. “And I’m on the same thing you are, obviously!”

He shook his head.

“Absolutely nothing, in other words.”

I scratched my jaw. For whatever reason, my normally somewhat sparse facial hair (I could manage a decent goatee / stache but a full beard had always eluded me) was thicker than ever. Aside from my chin and around my mouth I had never needed to shave more than every couple of days. But now I had a serious 5 o’clock shadow going on every day – at 4 o’clock!

“Have you noticed anything else weird?” I asked.

He laughed.

“You mean aside from being hornier than a billy goat?”

I blew the air out of my cheeks.

No, I was not going to tell him that I had fucked 11 guys in four weeks, which more than exceeded my level of activity over the previous five years.

“And let me guess,” I said instead. “Plenty of takers?”

His evil grin said all I needed to know.

“Well,” I said. “I’m not knocking it!”

He laughed.

“Imagine what it would be like if we were on something!”

I chubbed up just thinking about it!


From there it just got weirder.

On July 2, Erik headed to Phoenix to spend the week of the 4th with his mom and younger brother.

(“Seriously?” I asked. “Phoenix. In July?!” He just rolled his eyes. “Only week I could get off!)

He was 197 pounds, just three pounds less than his previous heaviest weight, with biceps measuring 18½ inches cold and a 455-pound bench. He was starting to scare the regulars.

As for me…

255 pounds.

55½ chest, 21 inch biceps, 655-pound bench.

It was the first time anyone in the gym had benched more than 600 pounds so we drew a crowd. I moved the weight up and down with the efficiency of a fork lift. Stunned silence was immediately followed by whoops and hollers and cheers.

I winked at Erik.

What’s next? I mouthed at him.

Beats the fuck outta me, he mouthed back.

While he was gone, I worked out like a madman. Ate like one, too.

“Damn boy,” I said when he came back.

In seven days he had put on eight pounds.

At 205, he had 19 inch arms and his body-fat was clearly 5% or less. He had striations on top of striations.

“Fuck, Roger,” he exclaimed. “What the hell happened to you?!”

What happened was:

I gained 20 pounds of muscle in a week, including 3 inches on my chest and 2 inches on my arms.

At 275 pounds my waist was still no more than 32 inches but my chest was up to 59 and my arms were 23 inches. Cold.

“Let’s bench,” I said.

He started off with 315 pounds.

For 20 reps.

Five weeks earlier it had been his all-time best.

Now it was child’s play.

We added a couple of plates.

405 pounds.

10 reps.

“Quarters?”

He grunted.

“Plates.”

495 pounds.

Three reps.

“Add a couple of 10s would ya, Big Man?”

505 pounds.

One perfect rep.

Not quite 2½ times his bodyweight.

I stripped off the 10s and added 90 pounds, then slid under the bench.

585 pounds for 30 reps.

Followed by 675 pounds, 20 pounds more than the previous week’s one rep max, for 20 reps.

Then 10 reps at 765.

And, last but not least:

825 pounds for one perfect rep.

We started stripping the plates but when we were down to 315, I held up a finger.

I wanted to try something.

I put my big mitts on the bar and lifted.

And then I proceeded to curl 315 for 20 reps. Perfect form. No swaying, no swinging, arms like pistons.

Once again, dead silence.

I re-racked the weight.

“Do you need to go take care of that?” I asked softly, looking over his shoulder to avoid eye contact. “And why am I just now noticing you have a porn star dick?”

Somewhere along the way Erik had developed movie star good looks. Don’t get me wrong. He was always a handsome guy. But now his hair had a slight wave and it was glossy in the way a thoroughbred looks when groomed within an inch of his life. Ditto, his beard. His eyes were deeper set, more vivid, his lips slightly fuller, his eyebrows darker and perfectly shaped. You could cut glass on his cheekbones. And his complexion was flawless.

He smoldered.

If he were any hotter, the gym would have burned down.

“It’s three inches bigger than it was six weeks ago, that’s why,” he said, never taking his eyes of my crotch. “About the same as yours, from what I can tell.”

I cleared my throat.

“I think…”

He interrupted.

“I think we need to go get some lunch,” he said. “At my place.”


I followed him to his apartment, my first time there.

“What does this mean?” he asked, his hand on his crotch.

I blinked.

Hoo boy!

Not a situation I ever expected to need to handle!

“Erik,” I said. “Let’s think this through. First and foremost, what it means is you’re aroused.”

I thought he was going to cry.

“But the real question is why are you aroused?” I continued, then I went into my not-quite-20 questions routine.

Had he ever been with another man?

No.

Had he ever even looked at other men?

“Well, sure,” he said. “There are all kinds of guys with bodies like the ones I would like to have.”

Ah ha.

“And have you ever been aroused by those bodies?”

He blinked.

“Yes and no,” he replied. “I’ve been aroused thinking about what I would do if I had a body like that.”

Bingo!

“And what would that be?”

He frowned.

“The usual,” he said. “I thought about what it would be liked to be superjacked while fucking the shit out of some blonde with big tits, long legs, and a great ass.”

I pulled off my shirt.

“And what do you see when you look at me?”

He licked his lips.

“The fucking Stud Master of the Universe,” he said. “So big, so built, so strong, so furry. You fucking reek of testosterone.”

I nodded.

“And do you want to suck my dick?”

His eyes got big.

“Or do you want me to suck your dick?”

He thought about that one.

“How about if I fuck you?” I asked. “You want 11 inches up your ass?”

(All right, all right, so I measured!)

“Hell, no!”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Or do you want to put 10 inches up my ass?”

His mouth formed a perfect “O”. “Ewww, ick!” he said. “It would be like fucking my dad.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, son!”

I moved to him and wrapped him in my massive arms. He was shivering.

“Erik,” I whispered.

“You’re aroused because you’re seeing the sort of body you want to have. More precisely, the sort of body that – God knows how – you have given to me. It’s no surprise that you’d get horned up about it. But you’re my friend, and, truth be told, as close to a ‘son’ as I am ever likely to get. We don’t need to make it more complicated than that, do we?”

He let out a long sigh and I let him go.

“Thanks, Roger,” he said, at last. “You always know the right thing to say.”

I chuckled ruefully.

“Now, now, don’t lay that on me,” I said. “If say the right thing from time to time, it’s because I’ve been around the block twice as many times as you.”

I turned and headed for the door, then stopped and turned around.

“You’re killing me, you know that, right?”

He blushed.

“It’s mutual, Big Man.”

I stared at the ceiling.

Why me, O Lord?

“Take care of that wood,” I told him. “And I’ll see you at 7 a.m, right?”

He saluted.

“Yessir, Big Daddy!”

And I walked out the door.


I went to the Eagle that night.

I had on leather pants, a harness, and two boot straps for arm bands. Before leaving home I had curled each of my 100-pound dumbbells – for a 100 reps. Non-stop. My arms were scary, that’s all there was to it!

Erik had it right.

I reeked of testosterone.

The bouncer fell off his stool when I walked up to the door.

The bartender, I swear to God, squirted when I asked for a beer.

Within 15 minutes I had two dozen guys standing around talking to me while I cracked wise and made it clear that butch as I was – and they’d never seen anyone butcher – I could camp it up pretty as you please.

That night I fucked 11 of them.

Three muscle studs (one black, one white, one Asian), four fluffy bears (ranging in age from 25 to 75 and in height from 5’6 to 6’6), a pair of beefy Latino brothers who spoke no English, and a twink couple who together weighed less than I did.

In the bar.

My dick was sore when I went home at 5 a.m.

Just because I stepped on the scale.

280.

I met Erik at 7 a.m, never having gone to bed.

“Did you do what I think you did?”

I looked at him.

“Did you do what I think you did?”

He had the decency to blush.

“Let’s not talk about it, mmm’kay?”


Six weeks later…

At 255 pounds and 3% body fat, Erik looked like he could walk through a brick wall. And quite possibly he could! His chest was up to 54½ and his arms were 23 inches cold. He had just benched 875 pounds, nearly 3 times his weight.

For the previous five weeks we had been lifting after hours. At that point I was 288 pounds and had just benched 1005 pounds. Raw, no shirt. After that the gym manager had banned us from working out when anyone else was around.

“People are talking,” he said. “And not in a good way.”

A week later I was 300 pounds. 63 inch chest, 26 inch arms. 1200 bench.

“Are you sure I’m straight?” Erik asked, rubbing his crotch.

I flexed an arm bigger than a normal man’s thigh and gave the peak a good lick.

Erik looked like he could walk through a brick wall.

I looked like the brick wall.

Or maybe a concrete bunker.

Possibly those three-feet thick solid steel blast doors at NORAD’s Cheyenne Mountain complex.

Now, at 365 pounds, I outweighed Erik by 110 pounds.

A week earlier my arms taped 30 inches for the first time.

A week and 17 pounds later they were 32 inches.

They were a good match for my 73 inch chest.

And my 2000-pound bench press.

“I’m sure I’m straight,” Erik said when I re-racked the weight. “But it’s also the case I just squirted in my shorts.”

With a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt, I tousled his hair.

“I noticed,” I said. “But then I usually notice when 13 inches of man meat go off like a Roman candle.”

The next day Erik was fired from his job at Fitness World.

“You’re too big,” the manager said. “And you’re getting bigger every day. Everyone assumes you’re running the mother of all cycles. I can’t have it.”

Erik shrugged his massive shoulders.

The next day he was name V-P for operations by Vitamin Valley. Over the previous six weeks, while Erik was putting on 50 pounds of primo muscle, business had quadrupled.

“And the best thing is,” he said, afterwards. “I won’t be working 60 hours a week any more. Eight hours a day, Tuesday-Saturday, that’s it.”

I clapped him on his pumpkin-sized delts.

“More time to grow!”

Part 3

A month later we were on a plane heading to Vegas.

I had promised Erik when I started training with him that if all went well I would take him to the Olympia.

It had gone so much more than well it wasn’t funny.

In four weeks he had slabbed on another 60 pounds of solid muscle.

At 315, he had a 63-inch chest, 27½-inch arms, and a 33-inch waist that he could vacuum down to 31 inches (four inches smaller than his quads!)

He was a freak.

So much so that I’d bought two airplane seats for him. By that time his shoulders were 38 inches across. He needed the room.

Next to me, as he was prone to point out, he looked like a regular-sized dude.

I was 450 pounds, 5% body fat (Erik’s was down to 2%, which I wouldn’t have thought possible until I saw it with my own eyes. Talk about dick skin!)

My chest was 90 inches.

My biceps were 38 inches, as big as a grown man’s waist. (An American man’s waist, that is. In some countries they were as big as a grown man’s chest.)

My shoulders were 54 inches across.

Which is why I bought three seats for me. The flight attendant’s eyes nearly bugged out when I had to turn sideways to get through the door to the cabin. Halfway through the flight the captain came out to shake my hand.

“We’ve never had a guy your size fly with us,” he said. “Not anyone, that is, who wasn’t tremendously fat. You, though, are just tremendous! Full stop!”

I admired the bulge in his crotch. He was a hot Italian American guy, curly dark hair, nice tan, tight body.

“Let me give you my card,” I said.

He didn’t say no.

Walking around the Expo with Erik was a trip.

Everyone, including the competitors, stopped to talk with us and to take pictures. Phil, Ramy, Roelly, Brandon, they all looked a little green around the gills talking to Erik. Usually I’d be standing on the sidelines while they did so, although they kept scanning the crowd. They’d heard about me but they had seen me yet.

Then Erik would give me the nod and I’d sidle up behind them. He’d say “let me introduce you” and they’d turn.

Jaws-dropped.

Eyes bulged.

Crotches twitched.

They all got cards.

Then, just before it was time to head out, we hit the Cage.

You know.

Where that company invites all the wannabes, the non-competitors, to try their stuff.

Erik warmed up with curls.

315 pounds for curls.

Twenty of them.

Then he started benching.

20 plates (1035 pounds) for 30 reps.

22 plates (1125 pounds) for 20 reps.

24 plates (1215 pounds) for 15 reps.

26 plates (1305 pounds) for 10 reps

28 plates (1395 pounds) for 5 reps

And 30 plates (1485 pounds) plus enough little plates to bring it right up to 1500 pounds.

For one perfect rep.

It was a world record.

It was raw.

And before they could catch their breath Erik moved out of the way, I straddled the bench, and…

I curled it.

1500 pounds for one rep.

“I think Roger’s going to have to pass on your bench competition,” Erik pointed out. “You might have enough weight but I don’t think you have a bar big enough to hold what he can handle.”

I chuckled.

“How much is that?”

The guy who asked was just a kid, maybe 18-19, just my height and maybe 150 pounds. In other words, exactly one-third my size.

I scratched the forest of black curls that covered my chest.

“Let me think,” I said, then did some mental calculating. “Assuming I had a bar that could hold ‘em, about 80. I figure the bar would need to weigh about 150 so…”

Before I could finish, the kid interrupted.

“3750 pounds,” he said. “That’s insane.”

I shrugged shoulders roughly the width and thickness of Hoover Dam.

“Might be easier just to rent a Corvette and bench it,” I said. “With you and a couple of friends, that might be about right.”

He got a card, too!

We went to dinner at Buca di Beppo with 10 other guys. I ordered the wine, the entrees, the dessert, and then calculated the tab when it was all done. I got a hearty “Thank you, Daddy!” when it was all done. And evil glares from the wait staff. We ate about three or four times as much food as their average diners.

Walking back to the hotel, my arm around Erik’s shoulders, I whispered.

“Are you gay yet?”

He snorted.

“Hell no! I’ve got about half a dozen fitness babes begging me to bang them. I’m not sure I’m going to get much sleep tonight!”

I laughed.

“That’s my boy.”

My phone clonked.

It was a message from one of the Superheavyweight competitors, asking – rather urgently – to meet me.

“Some place private, please.”

I texted my room number.

Well, well, well, I thought. He was married and had a couple of kids.

He was also 5’10” and planning to step on the stage the next day at 315 pounds.

Same size as Erik, in other words, and not nearly as full or ripped. But likely to place I the Top 5, if not the Top 2, even so.

I greeted him wearing a bath towel, nothing more.

I thought he was going to faint, so I wrapped my arms around him. Then I put my hands under his pits and lifted him up. And down. And up. About a hundred times. Just to make it clear that he was my little toy for the evening, if that’s what I wanted.

When I put him down, he sank to his knees.

Weren’t no way this straight boy was swallowing 16 inches of super-thick (12 inches around) cock but he licked and sucked and pulled and tugged. He certainly knew what to do!

And then I fucked the living daylights out of him.

A few times.

Well, to be precise.

Seven times.

It was Vegas, okay? Lucky number seven!

He may or may not have needed assistance getting downstairs to his Uber ride. Who am I to tell tales out of school?

At 2 a.m. I sent a text to Pete, the kid who wanted to know how many plates I needed.

Nice meeting you today. I look forward to watching your progress.

His response was almost instantaneous.

OMG! Mr. Jessup! I can’t believe you remembered me!

I chuckled, then replied.

Oh, c’mon. I never forget a handsome face, especially when it’s attached to a nice, tight bod.

The next one from him:

!!!!!!

“By Jove,” I said aloud. “I think I’ve got him!”

You did notice that I’m gay, right? Hope that doesn’t offend you!

Bingo! Came his reply:

Yes, there IS a God!

And, yeah, he wanted to come over, and, yeah, he did a much better job with my cock than did Mr. U-Know-Who from U-Know-Where.

And, yeah, I was afraid to fuck him for fear that I might break him in half, or, more likely, crush the life out of him.

“I’m wiry,” he said. “I can take it.”

There was a stainless steel sculpted bowl on the credenza (hey, what can I say? I believe in going first class!) I picked it up with one hand. And crushed it into a ball. Like it was a used Kleenex.

His eyes were as big as saucers.

“I don’t want to do that by accident, okay?”

I left him snoring when I went down to breakfast with Erik a few hours later.

“Sleep okay?”

“Not a wink.”

“How many?”

“Boinkees? Eleven. You?”

“Just two.”

Then I mentioned Mr. U-Know-Who.

“Damn, boy. Maybe I need to give him MY number.”

“!!!”

“I am coming around to the idea that where you put it doesn’t define who you are!”

“!!!”

“My guess is that with an ass as big and hard as yours a guy would need at least 10 inches to ride that ride.”

“!!!”

“Luckily, I have four inches to spare.”

I bumped fists with him.

“Speaking of riding that ride,” I said, changing the topic, sort of. “We don’t have to worry about a lot of little Eriks popping up, do we?”

He shook his head.

“I always use protection.”

I chuckled.

“They make protection that big?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Yours is bigger,” he pointed out. “You oughta know!”

I leaned back. My shoulders were as wide as the booth. I glanced down at my 32-inch forearms, rolling them this way and that.

“We gonna do this again next year?”

He nodded.

“Fucking A. But first we’re going to go to the Arnold in Columbus in March.”

I looked at him.

“We’re gonna get bigger before then?”

He lifted his right arm and flexed.

“Damn right,” he said. “Twenty-eight inches is not enough.”

It occurred to me that 38 inches wasn’t enough either. Forty-two inches sounded a lot better. Or 44.

“Whatever you say, bro,” I said, slipping into dude-speak.

Fucking A!


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