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!”
“Plus you look fuller and thicker,” I pointed out.
“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.
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.
“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!”
“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…
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 ½ 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.
“Add a couple of 10s would ya, Big Man?”
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.
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 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.
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?
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.”
“And have you ever been aroused by those bodies?”
“Yes and no,” he replied. “I’ve been aroused thinking about what I would do if I had a body like that.”
“And what would that be?”
“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.”
“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!)
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?”
“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?”
“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.
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 ½ 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!”
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.
They all got cards.
Then, just before it was time to head out, we hit the Cage.
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.”
“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?”
“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!”
“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.
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.
“Not a wink.”
“Boinkees? Eleven. You?”
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.”
“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?”
“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.