My big problem

by Richard Jasper

Austin, Arturo, Bernie and Ralphie have been friends since they were kids—and discovered that Austin had an improbably huge dick! Growing his muscles to match turns into a group effort!

Most people would kill to have my problem, I know that. And I’m not talking about the fact that I’m fucking huge.

I was always tall for my age and I reached my full adult height, 6 feet, when I was just 15. But, man, was I skinny, always skinny. Back then I was 140 pounds sopping wet and hairless to boot. For a deeply nerdy gay teen with a significant hard-on for anyone big, built and hairy, it was sad, sad, sad. But that wasn’t my problem. It was that other thing, something that isn’t obvious at first glance—not now anyway. When I said “significant” hard-on, I meant it literally. My dick. very significant. I figured it out not long after my 10th birthday (April 11th.)

Like most skinny 4th grade boys I was more than a bit pee shy and my indulgent gym teacher let any of us who wanted to do so change in the bathroom stalls. That day I pulled off my pants and fumbled around in my gym bag looking for my gear. And that’s when I noticed.

It was creepily silent in the locker-room. And then I heard shuffling noises—and giggles and shushes—in the stalls on either side of me. I looked up and more than half a dozen of my classmates had hoisted themselves up so they could get a view of what was dangling out from under my shirt. At the time, I did not know that it was unusual for a ten-year-old boy to have a nine-inch dick. I didn’t realize it was already man-sized, longer, thicker and heavier than any belonging to my fellow fourth-graders’ dads. All I knew was that the silence and the staring made me feel excited. Proud. I liked it. It occurred to me I had something—even then—that most of them would never have themselves:

A fucking huge dick!

I opened the stall door and stepped out.

“You wanna touch it?” I asked.

You know the answer to that. Most of them ran screaming and laughing, poking their fingers in their mouths and making gagging / vomiting noises. But not all of them. Three of them remained: Ralphie Jones, Bernie Spitz, and Arturo Jenkins.

I pulled up my pants but I didn’t zip ’em up. I let my dick hang out of the opening. I had never done that before. I realized that it hung out a long way. I stepped out of the stall. Ralphie gasped, Bernie squeaked, Arturo rubbed his chest. Unlike the rest of us, Arturo was a 10-year-old jock. He was on the short side but he could run circles around anyone else in our grade and I swear he was twice as strong. His dad was a football coach and it was clear Arturo was going to be a big football star in high school.

“It’s the stuff that dreams are made of,” Ralphie said, then took it in his hand. “How much does this thing weigh?”

I looked at him like he was crazy.

“How do I know?! Do you think I have a dick scale at home?”

Ralphie took his hand back, shook his head, and walked away, muttering.

“Can I really touch it?” Bernie asked.

I rolled my eyes.

“I asked you if you wanted to, didn’t I?”

He reached out, then flinched as if he’d been burned, turned and fled.

Arturo put his muscular hands on my chest and pushed me back into the stall. Then he sank to his knees. And put my dick in his mouth. Bliss! That was the day I found out I was gay (not that I knew what that meant, really) and what it was like to have an orgasm. In Arturo’s mouth. For a long time. He swallowed it all down, then licked his full, luscious lips.

“Austin, my man, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Would that had really been the case but ‘twas not to be, not for a long time anyway.

By 15 Arturo was 6’2” and 225 pounds of muscle, an all-star, all-state running back, already being scouted by the Big Ten. I was just a couple of inches shorter than Arturo but at 140 pounds of bones and stringy muscles I could stand behind him and get lost in his shadow. The Big Man on Campus didn’t have time for me.

Funny thing was, of course, even though I was skinny as a rail my dick had kept up with Arturo. By the time I was 15 it was, when fully engorged, 15 inches long and 11 inches in circumference. It was a fucking battering ram. Or perhaps a battering fucking ram.

My geeky appearance notwithstanding, everyone knew I was Austin Clay with the Giant Cock, Dick-Man, Donkey Austin, you name it, many of the remarks mean-spirited in the extreme. They never made a dent. Whenever anyone got wound up, I just looked at them through half-lidded eyes, and murmured, so only that person could hear.

“You wanna touch it? You do wanna touch it, I can tell. It’s okay. It likes to be touched.”

And even though others could plausibly deny they hadn’t heard, the intended recipient knew clearly what I was saying. What I was offering. Nine out of 10 of them backed away. The others? Well, Arturo may have been Big Man in the locker room but I was clearly Big Man in the restroom. Our high school had 500 guys and by the end of that first school year I had played with 50 of them.

My freshman year I was, as I said, 6 feet tall and 140 pounds with at least 40 pounds of that between my legs. I was a curious blend of nerdy and self-confident. My interests were nerdy: I was a big reader and brainy and loved science fiction and Latin. Likewise, I had a tendency to trip over my own feet, couldn’t throw or catch or kick a ball (ANY ball), and consequently had zero interests in sports, unless Arturo happened to be on the field. My friends were all equally smart and dweeby. But there was “My Problem,” as I thought of it. My friends tended to get picked on by the jocks and the recidivist wannabes and there wasn’t much I could do about it. But, unlike them, I didn’t get picked on, or not for more than about five minutes, no matter how nerdy or skinny I was.

In fact, I was a regular slut on wheels. Anyone who wanted it, got it. The jocks got it, the musicians got it, the art students and the theater geeks and aspiring gang members, I really wasn’t picky. If they wanted it, I gave it. Well, as much of it as they could take, that is. Very rarely could they take more than half, no one had managed to take more than two-thirds.

Remind me again: Why did I think it was a problem? Well, that’s for later.

But that leads to another issue: Our high school had 500 girls, too, and any given year 50 of them wanted to be my girlfriend. I turned all of them down, although I was BFFs with many of them. I made no bones (ha!) about the fact I was gay.

As it turned one of them, Bianca Taylor, wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was the end of 9th grade. Bianca had been giving me the eye all semester—we had Ethnic Literature together—and she was chummy with a couple of my gal pals. She was fully my height, more than 200 pounds and NOT fat. She was our Track and Field star, setting local and regional records in shot put, hammer throw, and all that stuff.

“I wanna see it,” she told me one day at lunch. I looked around at my friends, among them Ralphie Jones and Bernie Spitz, from back in the day. More precisely, that day! As usual, Ralphie looked smug and Bernie just blushed. “Bianca, that’s great and all but, you know, much as I love my girlfriends I’m not…”

She interrupted.

“I don’t care,” she said, pulling me out of my seat like I was a kitten and pulling me out of the lunchroom and around the building to the dumpsters where we couldn’t be seen, except for the janitor, and he had seen everything. She ripped down my pants and put her calloused meat hooks around it.

“Goddamn!” she exclaimed. “Felicia and Bethany ain’t lying!”

I shrugged my scrawny shoulders. “Bianca, everyone has known about it since I was 10 years old!” She dropped her skirt—no panties! “Hard,” she said. “Now!” And, by God, I was! What from, I couldn’t tell you. Incipient sub tendencies?

And then she was on me. And I mean on me. All of me! I had already had plenty of sex, penetrative as well as oral, going all the way back to Arturo. But no one had ever taken me all the way. Not up the ass, not down the throat (although Arturo came close, back when it was only 9 inches!) But the hilt of my shaft was buried in her pubes and it felt like my dick was caught in a vacuum cleaner—in a good way!

I sort of collapsed on a pile of garbage bags, staring up at her big titties, totally aroused and, well, totally disgusted. I mean, you know, really, she was very impressive. Tall and broad and strong, like a lioness, but Bianca was also somewhat aggressively plain-featured, clearly disdainful of so-called feminine artifice. Everyone thought she was a dyke, of course!

Boy have they got THAT wrong, I thought to myself as she bounced up and down on my donkey dick.

It all happened lickity-split. In less than five minutes, I came and she came, wrapping her big beefy arms around me so hard I was in danger of passing out. Then she stood up and her skirt back on.

“Tell no one,” she said (as if all of the kitchen staff and half of the cafeteria hadn’t heard what just happened!) I lay there stunned. I didn’t know what to think. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve been on the pill since I was 12. Heavy flow, you know.”

Ick?

I didn’t know what to say.

“Mmm, okay,” I managed, finally. “See you around?”

She mimed zipping her lips and stalked off. I staggered back to the lunchroom, feeling light-headed and, I dunno, used? And, uh, manly?

Double ick!

I also reeked.

“You reek,” Bernie said. “What were you doing, porking the slop bucket?” Ralphie tsked. “Don’t talk about Bianca that way, Bernie,” he said.

My eyes bulged. “Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t,” I implored him.

He nodded. “Threatened you with bodily harm?” he asked, then noticed the bruises on my arms and neck. “Or, should I say, more bodily harm?”

I just sat there, shaking my head.

“Well,” Ralphie continued. “Let it never be said that your high school experience wasn’t well-rounded. Ready to change sides?” I blanched. “Don’t even think about being sick, dumbass,” Ralphie commanded. “You have your reputation to maintain!”

I looked at him askance.

“Woodfield High School’s biggest cockhound, unmanned by a dyke? We’d never hear the end of it!” Bernie nodded. “We live on your reputation, you know,” he said meekly.

!!!

So why was it a problem?

Simple.

Everyone wanted my dick, no one had any interest in me.

Aside from my ridiculous endowment, I was geeky (nice thick glasses, my other family legacy!), prone to spots, uncoordinated, weak, and skinny, skinny, skinny.

“Let’s face it,” Ralphie had said on more than one occasion. “Your magnificence—and it is magnificent—is overshadowed by your mediocrity.”

I stuck my tongue out at him.

“Gee, thanks!” I replied.

He tutted.

“Dear boy, your outward appearance is no more mediocre than mine and I don’t have your Giant Dick of Death,” he pointed out.

True enough.

Ralphie was brilliant and funny and had this deliciously deep voice for a 9th grade boy.

And he was a total butterball.

“Someday,” I said. “You’ll get to the gym and all the pudge will turn into muscle.”

He arched an eyebrow, another talent I envied.

“Yeah, and how’s that working out for you?”

Sigh.

That was the last day of 9th grade.

And the day I decided it was time to do something about it.

People only paid attention to me because of my dick.

I wanted them to pay attention to me for something else.

I suppose I could have become an axe murderer but lacking any notable talent aside from the gift of gab and facility with a pen I wasn’t going to be a star.

So what to do?

Just then Arturo ran by.

Tall, broad, big.

Seriously, how many 15-year-olds have 19-inch arms and a 20-inch neck?

But Arturo did, along with body-fat in the single digits.

It dawned on me that what I really wanted, more than anything else on Earth, was to have a body that stopped traffic, the way Arturo’s did.

That afternoon I dropped off my books, changed into shorts and a baggy tee-shirt (all tee-shirts were baggy on me) and flip-flops and went around the corner to Arturo’s house where I rang the bell.

A minute or two later the door opened.

I was expecting Mrs. Jenkins to open the door but it was Arturo himself.

“What are you doing here?”

He was shirtless, a big fluffy towel wrapped around his minuscule, rock-hard eight-pack waist, clearly just out of the shower.

“Please don’t be that way,” I replied. “I don’t know why you don’t like me, I have never had anything other than the most tremendous respect for you, I have never said a word against you…”

He snorted.

“Haven’t you made it clear a thousand times that you’re too good for me, Donkey Dick?”

I goggled!

“Arturo, what the hell are you talking about?” I exclaimed. “You’re the fucking God Among High School Men, remember? I’m just the nerdy, dweeby, stick boy with the monster cock! You think anyone ever looks at me twice otherwise?”

He growled.

“I do,” he said.

I tilted my head.

“You do what?” I asked.

He folded his big beefy arms across his broad meaty pecs.

“I look at you,” he said. “Getting all that boy pussy. Walking around all shy, like you don’t even know how to wank it, when you’ve had more cock than…”

I stood there with my mouth open.

Arturo Jenkins was jealous of me?

Inconceivable!

“Arturo,” I said, gently. “I think you may have a fever or something. Clearly you’re not thinking straight. But that’s not why I came over. All I want…”

He narrowed his eyes and scrunched his brows. It was pretty clear that if I said the wrong thing Arturo was going to give me bruises in places Bianca never thought about going.

“All I want is to ask you a simple question,” I said.

He cocked his head, indicating he was listening.

I swallowed.

“Please don’t laugh if this question is painfully stupid,” I continued. “But do you think it would be possible for me to grow muscles?”

Arturo laughed.

“Are you kidding me?”

I felt crushed. The handsomest, most impressive guy I had ever met was laughing in my face.

“Oh,” I said, turning to go. “Well, in that case…”

He rolled his eyes.

“That’s not what I meant, dummy!” he growled, grabbing my shoulder and turning me to face him.

“Of course you can grow muscles! Anyone can grow muscles! For some it is harder than others but all it takes is food, exercise, and rest. The right kind of food, the right kind of exercise, of course, and plenty of rest but that’s all there is to it.”

I brightened.

“Do you suppose you could show me?”

Again with the eye-rolling.

“I thought you’d never ask!”

And thus began my education as a bodybuilder. If Arturo had known where it would all lead, I sometimes think he might have given me a different answer that day, more along the lines of:

“Figure it out on your own!”

Because his dad was the high school football coach, Arturo had access to the key to school’s gym. It was really his dad’s key but Isaac Jenkins trusted his first-born son with his life. “Be there tomorrow,” Arturo told me. “Seven a.m. I’ll show you the moves.” I blinked. “But school’s out!” I cried. He lifted his right arm and flexed it, right in front of my face. “You want an arm like this, Donkey Man?” I practically drooled as I nodded my head. “Then you gotta work for it. About time you had some muscle to go along with that bazooka between your legs.” As I said, by that time in my life I had already had a lot of sex with guys but Arturo’s comment had me blushing like a school girl!

The next day we spent two hours in the gym as he showed me—more precisely, demonstrated to me, in an awesome display of stamina and power—every piece of equipment in the well-stocked gym (we weren’t a statewide rated football powerhouse for nothing!) At the end of the workout, he showed off more than a little bit, much to my chagrin. I had on my tightest pair of briefs under my very baggy sweatpants but they did nothing to quiet the beast. After I barely managed to push the 45-pound bar of my scrawny chest for five reps, then Arturo shooed me away. He slapped a couple of plates on each end, then proceed to curl the bar for 10 easy reps. My Problem was rock hard before he was half-way through the set and given the tightness of my underwear my face was an unsubtle shade of fuchsia.

“Maybe you better let that bad boy out,” Arturo suggested. I dropped my pants so fast that a stop-motion camera wouldn’t have captured it, then I turned around wildly, afraid there might be an audience. “Settle down, Beavis,” Arturo commanded. “School’s out, it’s just us.” I gulped. “But your dad…” He chuckled. “…is in Michigan talking to recruiters about me,” he continued.

Arturo pushed me down on the bench, then kicked off his shoes and slipped his gym shorts down to his knees. “Yours isn’t the only one that’s grown, you know,” he purred. Jeezus! Nothing like having 11 inches of hard, pulsating, dark brown dick in your face! “Don’t you want to suck it?”

Oh My God, did I want to suck it! The thing you have to remember is that for all the sex I had had thus far it was almost always the case that the other guy was going down on me, or I was giving it to him up the ass. My experience notwithstanding, an experienced cocksucker I was not. I mentioned as much to Arturo.

“I’m sure you will do fine,” he said, gently slapping my face with his truncheon. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and… Swallowed it whole! Not so much as a gag! “Damn, boy,” Arturo said. “The Good Lord as given you many talents as well as an extra helping of His finest blessing!”

I spent quite a bit of time attending to Arturo’s own blessing, when suddenly he reached down, grabbed me around the waist with one arm, hoisted me in the air like I was a puppy, and started fingering my asshole. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Stars and Saints Preserve Us! I guess I forgot to mention that I had never bottomed, huh?

I could say it had never come up but in retrospect it was clear that many of the guys with whom I had played wanted my ass as well as my dick but I had never really paid attention. Compared to my dick, my ass was totally inconsequential and any suggestion that it might warrant attention was resulted in another inch of my dick going down the petitioner’s throat. But Arturo liked it, and my ass (and every other part of me) was totally fucking hot for Arturo! He righted me, wrapped his big beefy arms under my skinny armpits and around my neck, lifted me up, and impaled me like he had practiced these maneuvers a hundred times.

Any normal human being would have let out a blood-curdling screech, having that billy-club unceremoniously presented, but all that came out of me was a low, deeply satisfied moan. I saw Heaven and when I spurted HE spurted and it might as well have been Noah’s flood. When it was all done, he kissed me.

“You’re my boyfriend now,” he said. “No more bathroom sex—got it?”

And then we went home and he fed me lunch and gave me a list of what I was going to eat every day for the rest of the summer:

Breakfast
2nd Meal
Pre-Workout Meal
Lunch
Afternoon Meal
Late Afternoon Meal
Dinner
Bedtime Meal

“Arturo,” I exclaimed. “There’s no way I can eat all of that!” He glared. “That’s what *I* eat every day, dumbass. Does it look like it’s done me any harm?” Well, now that he mentioned it. I went home and gave my mom a shopping list. “Are you kidding?” I shook my head. “Nope,” I said. “It’s time to get big.” She opened her mouth as if to say something, then stopped.

My mom was well-aware of my endowment and my slutty ways. It had been just the two of us since she had tossed my dad out when I was three-years-old. She never quite said it but over the years I had pieced together enough to know that for the most part he had been a deadbeat and a loser and that she’d only been with him because she, too, had a thing for Really Big Ones, and his was reputedly a member of the Foot-Long Club. That mine was even bigger was a source of bemusement, annoyance, consternation and pride (and the fact that she hadn’t seen it since my 10th birthday—I had gone out of my way after that to stay wrapped up in front of her—didn’t mean she didn’t know. She had an eye for packages, that’s all there is to it!)

“Well, good,” she said. “I could use muscle around here. But I’m not going BACK to the grocery store until you eat all of it, okay?” A fair compromise, I thought. I nodded my head. And that defined the summer of my 15th year:

Eat
Lift
Eat
Have Sex with Arturo
Eat

Give another grocery list to my mother. It kept getting longer (now that I was no longer getting taller and my dick was no longer getting longer, I figured that was a fair compromise, too!)

And, just as Arturo had promised, I started growing muscles. Boy howdy did I grow muscles! The first month I put on 20 pounds, all in the right places, and my bench went from a measly 45 pounds to a pretty decent 195 pounds for reps. Naturally, I still felt like an utter dork next to Arturo, who had packed on another 10 pounds and whose 1RM bench press cracked 500 pounds. He was unbelievable. But then I gained another 20 pounds the second month, and again the third month.

“I really can’t believe it,” I said, looking in the dance studio mirror. I raised my right arm and 18 inches of bis and tris, hard and veiny, popped up where a stick had been previously.

Arturo nodded his head. “Believe it,” he said. “The diet I have you on could feed a Chinese village. And it was always clear to me, even if you couldn’t see it, that you had a great frame to grow muscle.” Then he put his big meathooks on his miniscule waist and flared a mind-blowing lat spread. Suddenly I felt small again. Since that first month Arturo had put on another 15 pounds of solid muscle. At 6’2” and 250 pounds he was pretty much a dead-ringer for Arnold at his peak, only with vastly better legs and a more powerful-looking midsection. “I’ll never look like you,” I muttered. Arturo snorted. “By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna me look like a piece of spaghetti,” he growled.

Sproing!

“You really think I’m going to hit 250?!”

He chuckled. “Do the math, nitwit,” he suggested. “At the rate you’re going you will outweigh me by Christmas.” I didn’t think my dick could get any harder. I was wrong. And that was before Arturo dropped trou, shook out his 30-inch quads, then rubbed his big squat butt on My Big Problem. “As God is my witness,” he announced. “Someday you are going to be The Big Man in every department.” It took every ounce of self-control to keep myself from cumming as I slipped my python into his hot ass. When we were done with that, he wrapped his big hands around my head and forced it down on his 11-incher.

“Suck it, boy,” he said.

It was a great way to end summer vacation!

The first day of 10th grade:

“What the fuck happened to you?” Ralphie asked when I sat down at our table for lunch. Bernie giggled. “He got big, silly, can’t you tell?” I casually reached up and straightened the collar of my super-snug Polo shirt, thereby showing off my newly big right arm. Naturally, that morning before school I had a couple of hundred push-ups just to pump things up a bit and righty was, temporarily at least, closer to 19 than 18 inches. Ralphie licked his lips. “But how?” he asked, nearly whimpering.

At that moment, Arturo joined us, squeezing righty with his big paw, then landing it on my leg. “Hey, fellas,” he said. “Boyfriend, why don’t you introduce me to your friends?” I thought Ralphie was going to faint. Bernie was still giggling and looked like he was going to wet himself. “Arturo,” I said, sternly. “You have known Ralph Jones and Bernard Spitz just as long as I have and you know it.” He chuckled, then moved his hand to the back of my neck. “Got me!” he said. “I was just fooling around. How you guys been?”

Inasmuch as Arturo hadn’t said more than five words to either of them in five years, there was a lot of catching up to do but before they could do so Ralph had some processing to do. “Okay, let me get this straight,” he said, glaring at Bernie who snickered, “Yeah right!” He continued. “Our own Donkey-Man, Austin Clay, is now a muscle-stud with a boyfriend named Arturo Jenkins?” Arturo nodded. “No more restroom sex,” he pointed out. It was my turn to nod.

“And you’re proposing to sit at our table?” Ralphie asked, his deep voice taking on a squeaky tone. “The Dweebs’ Table?” Arturo leaned back in his chair and scratched his 54-inch chest with his 22-inch biceps. “Do I look like a dweeb, Mr. Jones?” Under other circumstances it might have been a dangerous question but Arturo’s voice was rich with amusement.

“Uh, no, not at all,” Ralphie replied. “You know that. It’s just…” Arturo cocked an eyebrow. “It’s just that I’m having an existential crisis, that’s all!” he exclaimed. “What are we going to call our table now?!” Bernie shrugged his shoulders. It’s quite possible he never knew it was the Dweebs’ Table. Bernie’s like that.

Arturo looked at me, spreading his hands up and down and side to side, and then did the same with respect to himself. “Clearly,” he said calmly, “this is the Big Men’s Table.” Ralphie looked like he was going to choke. Bernie’s mouth formed a perfect O. “But, but, but…” Ralphie began. I cut him off. “Don’t you want to be big?” I asked. Ralphie closed his eyes and gripped the table with both hands. “More than anything on the face of the Earth,” he said. Bernie grinned. “Whatever Ralphie wants, that’s what I want!” All three of us looked at Bernie. Who knew?

And that was the beginning of our sophomore year at Woodfield High!

For 15-year-olds, Ralphie and Bernie were, like me, relatively tall, at 5’10” and 5’9” respectively. Unlike me, they were still growing taller. They were also a study in contrasts, very much a Laurel and Hardy couple of guys. Ralph weighed exactly the same as I did, 200 pounds, but there wasn’t an ounce of muscle on his body. He had relatively broad shoulders, saggy tits, and a 40-inch waist. Bernie, on the other hand, was all wiry sinew. He only weighed 130 pounds but he was tight and relatively fast. Unfortunately for the wrestling team, he had only so-so strength for all that wiriness. Did I mention he had a pert little butt?

They were both more than a little skeptical when Arturo and I suggested they meet us after school to make use of the weight-room. (Arturo had already checked with his dad, who gave the okay and then some: “If you can do to those little sisters what you did to Austin I’ll give you each a thousand bucks,” he said, flooring both of us!) “After school?” Bernie gasped. Ralph harrumphed. “But what about Latin Club and Science Club and…?”

Arturo interrupted him. “Stow it, Egghead,” he said. “I’m sure they can get along without your towering intellectual presence. Or don’t you want to be a Big Man?” I gave Arturo a sidewise glance. Clearly he had more spies than I had accounted for. He nailed Ralphie’s nerd club leadership style with exactly the same zing and snap Ralph would have employed.

As it turned out, despite their disparate sizes (recall, Ralph had 70 pounds on Bernie) they were pretty evenly matched when it came to their lifts, i.e., a little bit better than I had done when Arturo started training me at the end of the last school year.

I was a bit peeved with that and grumbled but Arturo spelled it out for me: “Look, dummy, Bernie, for all his dweeby ways, wrestles. He’s conditioned, even though he’s clearly neglected strength-training,” he said, giving Bernie a big thumbs up as he benched 65 pounds for 10 reps. “As for butterball there, he’s 60 pounds heavier than you were three months ago. He doesn’t have an ounce of muscle but he has mass, you know?”

Then he pinched my nipple. “And remind me how much you benched last week?” Sproing. These days I was benching 315 for reps and last week my 1RM hit 385. I was quickly closing in on 400 pounds, which meant I was now nearly as strong pound for pound as Arturo!

“If you gasp two gasp need some gasp time, I’m sure gasp Bernie gasp and I gasp wouldbehappytotakeabreak!” Roger panted. Arturo grinned. “Are you offering to stay and watch?” he asked, devilishly. I didn’t think Ralphie could get any redder but I was wrong. Poor Bernie just turned tail and sprinted for the lockerroom. “I think that’s all I need to know,” Ralph said, mustering as much dignity as an overfed Roman Senator standing between two gladiators.

Before either of them had made it home I texted Bernie and Ralph with the Patented Arturo Diet Plan. In Ralph’s case, it was more an instance of telling him what not to eat. For Bernie, it was a bit more difficult. Wont make wt w/this diet, he texted. Arturo replied: Tell yr coach yr taking the season off. Will fix it w/my dad.

And that was that.

Arturo had predicted that results for Ralph and Bernie wouldn’t be the same as they were for me. For whatever reason, they didn’t seem to have my insane need to grow. But they were impressive even so, so much so that people started to refering us as the BMT (“Big Men’s Table”), and by the end of the semester, three and a half months later, they both qualified. Unlike me or Arturo, they both shot up a couple of inches, so Ralphie was then 6 ft., same as me, and Bernie was 5’11” and showing no signs of stopping.

Bernie was just as lean as he had ever been but he packed on a phenomenal 50 pounds of muscle, all of it in exactly the right places. At 180 pounds, with his body fat in the single digits, Bernie’s broad shoulders, meaty pecs, and veiny arms loomed over his ripped, 28-inch, 8-pack waist, and which was further emphasized by his thick, powerful, 26-inch quads. With his curly dark hair, olive complexion, classic nose, and permanent five-o’clock shadow, he was looking like a contender for an Israeli beefcake poster.

As for Ralphie…Well, I always knew, in an abstract sort of way, that he was a really handsome guy. The wavy blond hair, the blue eyes, the deep voice. But then the fat melted away. From his belly, his legs, his arms, his shoulders. But most of all, his face. Cheekbones came out, the kind you cut glass on. Not to mention a jawline to make Henry Cavill weep. And over the course of 3½ months, for every pound of fat he lost he gained a pound of muscle—and a little bit more. By Christmas, Ralphie was 6 ft. and 210 pounds of brawny shoulders, beefy pecs, big thick arms, a flat, solid stomach, and oak-like legs. He was also getting furry as fuck, with that red-blond fur that will drive a muscle-bear aficionado up the wall!

Sproing.

During that time, Arturo put on another 25 pounds of muscle, or, as he liked to say: “Only 25 pounds of muscle! You guys are whipping my ass!” Finally, Ralphie had enough and laid down the law: “Only 25 pounds?! You were 250 to start with numbskull! You’re only two inches taller than I am but you outweigh me by 65 pounds. And you outweigh Bernie by 100 pounds! Only my ass!”

Arturo squirmed. “Yabbut….” Ralphie interrupted. “No ifs, ands, or buts!” he declared. “There’s not a guy in school, much less the 10th grade, who is bigger than you are. Well, not anyone except…” And all eyes turned towards me. I thought I had made great progress over the summer, and I had. I had gone from a skinny geek to an athletic stud. But over the fall semester I went from:

Athletic stud to aspiring bodybuilder (the first month.)

Then from aspiring bodybuilder to serious beefcake (the second month.)

Followed by “some serious damage if he ever steps on stage” (the third month.)

And, finally, the week before Christmas and all Arturo could say, every time we posed together, was: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

285 pounds. Ten pounds heavier than Arturo, who was (still is, will always remain) two inches taller. Solid muscle. 60 inch chest. 25 inch biceps. 32 inch waist. 33 inch quads. 24 inch calves. 24 inch neck.

“And just how much did you bench yesterday?” Arturo asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. More than once Ralphie had likened the movement to that of a landslide, an avalanche, or a tsunami. “You were there,” I replied. “I benched 765 for six reps, 805 for four reps, 835 for two reps, and 855 for one.” Which was, I didn’t mention, about 200 pounds more than Arturo’s max and way more than double that of Ralphie and Bernie, both of whom now had singles in the mid-350s, about five times more than they had managed in early September.

I looked around. All four of us were hard as rocks.

“About that no restroom sex rule,” I said. Arturo’s eyes lighted up. Ralphie and Bernie looked, oh, I dunno: Stunned, intrigued, eager, scared shitless. “Does it apply to the lockerroom as well?” Arturo shucked his shorts. “Does that answer your question?” Ralph and Bernie each backed up a step. Then Ralph stopped. “Uh, maybe, ahem, well, you know…” My best friend, the blond, egghead stud was rarely at a loss for words. His dark-haired Adonis filled the gap. “Maybe we could just watch?”

I turned to Arturo and lifted my arms. It had gotten to the point where removing a plastered on XXXL sweatshirt was now more than I could manage. He peeled it off me. Ralph and Bernie both sucked breath. I kissed Arturo on the mouth, long, deep, passionate, then grabbed him by the waist with one arm and turned him over. I did to his sweet rosebud what he had done to mine six months before. Then I turned him up, wrapped my monster arms around his massive chest, clasped my hubcap mitts behind his stone-column neck, lifted him in the air, and, whoomph, air-fucked him for five minutes.

Ever see 275-pound Nubian God football star competitive bodybuilder, his 11 x 9 cock bouncing up and down like a baton in a parade, his whole body off the ground while impaled on the giant cock of an even bigger bodybuilder? No? Neither had Ralphie or Bernie. Their dicks were out in a flash and, jeeze, weren’t they pretty! Bernie’s was like the rest of him, long and lean, probably 9½ x 5.Ralph’s was shorter, about 8½ inches, but significantly thicker, easily 6, maybe 7 inches in circumference.

“You boys sure you don’t want to join in?”

Just as I said it they both splurted, Ralph’s cum on me, Bernie’s on Arturo. “Uh, well, maybe, ahem, you know…” Bernie was nearly incoherent. This time Ralph took up the slack. “Technically speaking, I think we just did,” he observed, dryly. “But I think perhaps that’s all for now. I need to process that image for, oh, I dunno, a decade or two.” Then he added, brightly. “But we’ll get back to you,” Bernie added. Then they fled.

Arturo turned to me. “Front this time,” he said. “I want to wrap my arms around your neck and look your eyes.” He was often in the mood for that these days. “Horizontal, this time?” I asked. He snorted. “Vertical, baby,” he replied. “I wanna fly!”

And so he did.

It was our first day back at school after Winter Break. For once Arturo and I beat Ralph and Bernie to the lunch table. “Jesus,” Ralph said, as he approached. “What did your mother serve for Christmas Dinner this year? A rhinoceros?” My single-mom was well-known for eschewing traditional holiday fare but for once she actually managed a turkey breast, mashed potatoes, cornbread stuffing, cranberry sauce, the whole works.

“That’s not funny,” I said, then I shrugged my shoulders. Bernie squeaked. “Don’t look now, Austin,” Ralphie continued. “But your traps are touching your earlobes.” Well, he had a point. Ralph, Bernie, and their families had taken a ski vacation in Colorado for the holidays. I hadn’t seen either of them since that last, uh, splurtacious workout. And that morning when I stepped on the scale, it read 307. Up 22 pounds from the last time I had seen them. You read that right:

307 pounds.

And still three months shy of my 16th birthday. I mentioned the number. Ralphie paled, Bernie blushed. They both were instantly hard. “Sit down,” I said. “I think we need to talk.”

Arturo half growled, half laughed. “When do we do anything else?” he asked. We needed to talk because my number was only half the story. It was clear looking at them that Ralph and Bernie had both been well-fed, in all the right places, over the holidays. We traded numbers:

Arturo was 287, up 12 pounds in 2½ weeks.

Ralph, ditto, had added 12 pounds and was now a very impressive looking 222 pounds.

Bernie, meanwhile, had gained 18 pounds—10% of his bodyweight! He was sitting at 193.

“You realize this isn’t normal,” I said. “We’re not even doing gear.” Ralph stroked his chin, Bernie hunched shoulders that were now halfway up to his earlobes, Arturo was clearly resisting the urge to kiss his 24-inch biceps, something he had started on New Year’s Day and just didn’t seem to want to quit.

“Where are you going with this?” Ralph asked. I spread my hands apart. “I guess that’s actually my question,” I replied. “Where are we going with this?” Bernie, whose voice seemed to have dropped an octave while in Colorado, supplied the appropriate zinger. “To infinity and beyond, of course!” Ralph glanced down at pecs that were now pushing 50 inches, shook arms (now encased in a skintight Norwegian sweater bulging at the seams) that needed about two sets of curls to pass 20 inches, and put my doubts to rest.

“To get as huge as I can, of course,” he said. “I want to be Arturo’s size, at least. Your size if I can manage it.” I looked at him. “You want to be as big as I am?” He raised an eyebrow. “I want to be as big as you are now,” he clarified. “My guess is by the time that happens you’ll outweigh me even more than you do now.”

Sproing.

Bernie just nodded. Arturo chuckled. “Told you, Big Man,” he said. “They want it as bad as you do!” I drummed my thick fingers on the table. “You realize that the lives we might normally have been expected to lead won’t come to pass?” I asked. “No one is going to hire a 300-pound muscle-stud as a theater critic, or as a plant physiologist.” Did I mention Bernie was really into his orchids?

“So we’ll be football players,” Bernie said. I gaped. “You don’t know the first thing about football!” I exclaimed. Ralph held up a finger. “But we have Arturo,” he pointed out, equably. “Besides, if that doesn’t work out, we have Bernie…” I blinked. “Pro wrestling, dude,” Bernie said in his best douche-bag imitation. “We would clean up.” Ralph high-fived his lover in agreement. “Or circus strongmen,” he added. Arturo’s grin was simply wicked. “You’re forgetting the obvious career choice,” he pointed out.T he three of them looked at each other, then all three of them looked at me.

“Porn stars!”

But that still left the question of why we were growing so quickly. “It seems fairly obvious to me,” Ralph said. My eyes widened in surprise. “Oh it does, does it?” He nodded. “It’s because of you,” he said. “You wanted a giant body to match your giant dick and you motivated us to have as much of the same thing as we could.”

I shook my head. “But that makes no sense,” I said. “I’m 15 and seven months ago I weighed 140 pounds of skin and bones. Now I’m over 300 pounds of competitive bodybuilder muscle. That doesn’t happen, period, much less without chemical intervention!”

Arturo cleared his throat. Ralph squirmed. Bernie sat up straighter. “It’s also the case that Arturo fucked you,” Ralph said. I tilted my head, not understanding. “Arturo showed you everything you needed to do, then he fucked you,” Bernie added. “Then you started growing.” Before I could ask What in Sam Hill? does that have to do with anything, Ralph intervened.

“He fucked us, too,” he said.

Blink. Blink. Blink blink blink blink!

“When?!”

Arturo put his big mitt on my monstrous thigh. “Don’t worry, babe,” he soothed. “It was before.” Clearly I still looked puzzled because Bernie took my hand and looked me in the eye. “Before you and Arturo got together,” he said. “You weren’t the only slut puppy.”

Zooks!

“You’re kidding!”

They all took umbrage at that. “Look, Miss Thang,” Ralphie said. “Just because Bernie and I don’t have the Donkey Dick of Death doesn’t mean we were totally without our charms. Unlike you, we were just discreet about it.” Bernie snorted. “And unlike you, apparently, Arturo was perfectly capable of seeing potential,” he said. “Remember that?” Arturo looked pained. “You weren’t paying any attention to me,” he said. “I needed friends.”

Well, knock me over with a feather!

“So, like, you have Super Sperm or something?” I asked, half joking, half afraid it might be true. “You fuck a guy and he turns into a muscle monster?” Ralph and Bernie tittered. “It worked on Bianca Taylor, didn’t it?” My jaw hit the floor and Arturo, his rich mahogany skin notwithstanding, blushed like Rudolph. “Seriously?” He shrugged. “Very determined young woman,” he mumbled.

I looked around the lunch room. It was the usual mix: The brains, the musicians, the artists, the stoners, the toughs, the terminally shy, the jocks. “To tell you the truth,” I said. “I don’t see any other super-built guys who were skinny-minnies or fatty-patties six months ago.” Arturo twiddled his thumbs. “I really think it’s about motivation, not about who I fuck or don’t fuck,” he pointed out. “You’re the one with the motivation and, regardless of whether you did or didn’t fuck them, you shared it with Ralph and Bernie and, for that matter, me!”

I looked at each of them, then waggled my hand.

“On the other hand,” I said. “We’re overlooking the fact that while you, Arturo, have fucked all three of us, I am the only one who has fucked you and I have yet to fuck Ralph or Bernie.” It was uncanny: All three raised their eyebrows in perfect unison. “Are you suggesting we change that?” Ralph asked, guardedly. He and Bernie exchanged glances. Arturo chuckled. “I’m down with it,” he agreed. Ralph and Bernie nodded enthusiastically.

“Then that’s settled,” I said. “Motion carries unanimously.”

The rest of the semester was, well, what can I say…?

The four of us ate together, went to class together, worked out together, slept together, had sex together. Every week we were bigger. Every week we were stronger. People talked—they always do—but they said nothing to us, presumably for fear that we might not like what they had to say. Ralph’s and Bernie’s parents were mildly perturbed that their bright, nerdy sons seemed to be turning into jocks but so long as they (and Arturo and I, as well) continued getting straight A’s in our Advanced Placement classes, they weren’t complaining. Isaac Jenkins, Arturo’s dad, looked very happy. He was well aware that at some point Arturo’s size and muscularity would actually work against his NFL prospects but in the meantime he planned to milk him—and us—for all it was worth (come fall semester of our junior year, that is.)

As for my mom, well, she’s my mom. She noticed but just rolled her eyes. “So long as it takes attention away from the other, I’m not complaining,” she would mutter, thinking I wasn’t listening when she was saying it out loud while I was sitting there. Yes, she does that!

Arturo cracked 300 pounds by the end of January about a week after Bernie hit 210 and a week before Ralph hit 250. I was 350. And it continued like that, sometimes more, sometimes not as much, but never less. We might lose a pound or two overnight but all of us went to bed the next night at the same weight or more.

I will say that my classmates were kind enough not to rat us out to the local media or beyond the school administration, so we were spared outside gawking that might have complicated our growing. There were rumors aplenty and more than once we visited the Principal’s Office and dutifully informed her that, yes, we knew the rules; that, no, we weren’t using performance enhancing drugs; that, yes, our health was being monitored; and that, here, take a look at these lab reports. It didn’t hurt that we had Arturo’s dad in our corner. His word was law as far as sports and physical conditioning were concerned. If he said we were legit, and he did, we were golden.

So, there it was, the last day of school and we were at the lunchroom table again. Any more, it was a couple of tables: We were that big! Ralph and Bernie each had grown taller over the semester. Ralph was now the same height as Arturo, 6’2”, and Bernie had shot up to 6’4”. I had known for a year that I wasn’t going to get any taller, so I tried not to let it bother me. Didn’t help that Bernie started calling me Munchkin. They were, as you might have anticipated, ungodly huge, both of them weighing 325 pounds of solid muscle. They were both, also, hairy as fuck, Bernie’s black and curly, Ralph’s silky brown, with a full beard for Ralph and Goldberg-style goatee for Bernie.

Arturo? Well, after talking to his dad, he had pretty much given up the idea of a pro football career. He was huge, he was strong, he was fast, and he was still only 6’2”. He was also 405 pounds with less than 10% bodyfat, with a 60-inch vertical jump and perfectly capable of back-flipping his way across the gym floor (which he tried exactly once, then was forbidden from ever doing the same again. The vibration caused the glass in both backboards to shatter.)

As for me, well, by now you know the story, which is My Big Problem. Still 6 ft. tall. Still have a dick that’s 10 x 8 inches soft, 15 x 11 inches hard. Still smooth as a whistle, much to my chagrin, with just a little treasure trail from my navel to my groin, plus a dusting on my arms and legs. On the other hand, I have managed a really great mustache. (Arturo tells me I look like Mike Mentzer. I had to look him up. Dayum, that made my day! Wotta hottie!)

But then there’s the last statistic.

537 pounds.

Biggest, most muscular man anyone has ever seen. Strongest, too. On my birthday, six weeks previously, I had benched two tons, eight times my bodyweight. That’s right.

4000 pounds.

Arturo, Ralph and Benjie together weigh more than 1000 pounds. I can curl them. All of them together. For reps. And some reprehensible classmate of ours, without our permission and without our knowledge, filmed one of workouts and posted it to YouTube. That was week ago. Currently 10 million hits and climbing. The phone has been ringing off hook. TV shows, movie producers, wrestling syndicates, advertising agencies. And porn. Porn videos, porn magazines, people wanting pay me to do live performances.

“What am I gonna do?” I asked them.

We were lounging in Bernie’s parents’ pool, sipping on sangria (Bernie’s parents are remarkably indulgent when it comes to “natural” foods and beverages.) “What do you want to do?” Ralph asked, reasonably. Bernie, reverting to type, giggled. Have you ever seen a 6’4”, 325-pound bass-baritone giggle? It’s somewhat disturbing!

“Aside from fucking our brains out,” Arturo added, equably.

Bernie cleared his throat, his sign that he was serious again. “It’s not like you’re the only one,” he said. “You’re the most outrageous of the four of us but Arturo, Ralph and I are getting plenty of attention on our own,” Arturo growled. “Too much,” he grumbled.

I shook my head.

“You know, I know it’s the case that people grow up and go their own ways,” I said. “And, Jesus, we certainly have grown up, even if we’re only 16 years old.” They nodded. “But I’m not ready for that to happen,” I continued. “It’s like…”

Bernie picked up the thread.

“We’re the Four Mousketeers!”

Ralph rolled his eyes.

“That’s ‘Musketeers,’ Porthos, not ‘Mousketeers.’”

Bernie shrugged his better than yard-wide shoulders.

“Whatevs.”

Arturo grabbed me by the neck and planted a big one of my lips. Then dove under, grabbed me under the arms, and launched me across the pool. Do you understand what kind of power is necessary to launch a 537-pound dude out of the water and 10 feet across the pool? When I came up, spluttering, the three of them were laughing. Arturo turned and kissed first Bernie, then Ralph. They came over and surrounded me.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Bernie said.

“And you don’t have to do anything without Us,” Ralph added.

“Where you go, we go,” Arturo concluded.

I looked at my three best friends and lovers. “All for one and one for all?” I asked. They moved in.

“That’s us!”

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