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He was gorgeous, no ifs, ands or buts about it. At 5’11” and 170 lbs., Chad was much more muscular than Roger expected a miler to be. But there he was, anyway: nice wide shoulders, great delts, carved pecs tapering to a minuscule 28 inch waist. And those calves…

“Most runners don't do enough weight work,” Chad said one day in the gym. “Of course, in reality it helps a great deal, both in terms of endurance and power. Watch me come out of those blocks next time.”

Roger nodded appreciatively.

“Yeah, and most weight men don't do enough aerobics. Conventional wisdom has it weightlifters aren't supposed to do bodybuilding routines, but it hasn't hurt me any,” Roger pointed out. “Maybe we should do some sprints together sometime?”

Next to Roger, of course, Chad was downright boyish. Just an inch taller, Roger outweighed Chad by 65 lbs. of solid muscle. At 6 ft. and 235 lbs., Roger was unusually well-proportioned for a powerlifter, with a 55 inch chest but only a 35 inch waist. And 20 inch biceps.

Those biceps really bugged Roger's coach, who didn't think a power man should have arms that big, but he was willing to overlook a lot thanks to Roger's thighs, which were 30 inches a growing. That Roger benched 535 lbs. in the last statewide meet, a new record, didn't hurt either. Besides, the coach thought, he's hairy. Which was true enough. Roger was as dark as Chad was blond, with a neatly trimmed but very full dark brown beard and enough chest hair to make Tom Selleck jealous.

“None on his back, though, lucky devil,” Coach muttered under his breath. Coach was often mistaken for a water buffalo when unclothed. “But no fucking bodybuilder would have that much hair.”

The next weekend the team was on the bus headed back to UGA from Jacksonville State over in Alabama. Chad and Roger were sharing a seat and by the time they reached the Georgia state line on I-20 Chad was slumped against Roger, gently snoring. With each curve and bump he slipped a little lower and by the time they reached Carrollton, Chad's head was in Roger's lap.

“Oh my,” thought Roger, “this may be a problem.”

There was Chad's head in his lap. It was so perfect, the thick, blond hair, the still sparse but nicely filling in beard that he'd begun to grow recently. Roger could feel the firmness of Chad's delts, see the strain of fabric across perfectly shaped pecs, fabrics stretched by the best set of triceps Roger had ever seen on a runner.

“No, you really don't expect 16 inch biceps on someone who weighs 170 lbs.,” Roger thought. “And a 43 inch chest looks a lot bigger than it sounds when you pair it with a 28 inch waist. And, goddamit, he's strong…”

Roger had seen Chad bench press an even 300 lbs. the week before, which was pretty damned impressive for someone Chad's size. He wondered what Chad would think the first time he saw Roger curl a 150-lb. dumbbell with one hand. “Yeah, it's pretty fucking impressive,” he said to himself. He glanced at his reflection in the window and saw he had on his best smile.

As any man would be, Roger was also quite pleased with the fact that he was exceptionally well-hung. On the other hand, it did cause embarrassment from time to time. Despite his open and friendly nature, Roger was basically a shy guy. He had gotten into powerlifting, not bodybuilding because he wanted to be a monster, not an exhibitionist. On the other hand…

Before long it was, well, l-o-n-g…

Barry, Roger's elder brother, had long ago put it all into perspective saying, “Shit, man, that's no dick, it's a fucking yard arm—you could pick a chick up on it!” Which would have suited Barry just fine but Roger, of course, had other interests.

Like Chad, whose head was beginning to jiggle ever so slightly with the pulsations of said, “yard arm,” which (the pulsations) were beginning to feel more like deep sea swells.

Suddenly Chad sat bolt upright, brushing those golden locks from his eyes, and, lids half-drooping, exclaimed in a hoarse, fierce whisper:

“You've got to be kidding! You're big e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e?!!”

Roger hunched his massive shoulders and rolled his dark brown eyes, as if to say, “W-e-l-l, whaddya want *me* to do about it…?”

“Bambi,” Chad thought, “should have eyes so good…”

And then his head was back in Roger's lap and Roger's hand had loosened his zipper and even though it was, mercifully, so, so dark (not that either one of them cared any more) Chad could see that it was thick as well as long, just like the rest of Roger, and it was ready, oh so ready…

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