Dude! I thought I was straight!

by Richard Jasper

Trent Bozeman, a senior, is king of his high school, hoping his next score will be Miss Titmuss, the drop-dead gorgeous Latin 1 teacher. Then he walks in!

Added: Apr 2020 2,999 words 4,805 views 3.0 stars (9 votes)


Dude! I thought I was straight!

Before he came along, there was no doubt!

I mean, look at me! High school senior, 17 years old, captain of the football team, 6’2” tall, 300 pounds of solid muscle, handsome as shit, furry as fuck (even had a fucking beard, at 17!), hung like a horse. I could have anyone I wanted, guy or gal, gay or straight, but all I wanted was tits and ass and pussy.

And, man, did I get it! From the cheerleaders, from the teachers, from the Vice-Principal (“vice” indeed, ha ha!), even from some of the hot fucking MILFs. They were all over my hot bod. They were all about the fact that I held the state-wide bench press record for a high school student, 800 pounds for one rep. Well, maybe they weren’t all about that but I got rock hard every time I thought about it and with 10x8 under the hood when I got rock hard people noticed!

The other jocks all wanted to hang with me, didn’t matter whether they were white dudes or black dudes or Latino dudes. I was the one who could sit at any table, regardless of race, creed, or color. Even the geeks and the nerds loved me because I didn’t give them shit and I stood up for them, damn straight I did. Half of them were gay and all of them, straight or gay, dreamed of having a body like mine. Came in handy when I needed help with my homework.

But there I was, first day of class, taking first year Latin because I had missed a foreign language credit somewhere along the way and I was hot for Miss Titmuss (I swear, I’m not making it up), Miss Beverly Titmuss, 25 years old, long black hair, great tan, former Miss Alabama sorority chick written all over her. (And, yeah, her nickname was “The Beave!”) And then HE walked in. I didn’t notice him at first. I noticed that the gasp and then the silence.

“Is this Latin 1?”

I looked up at the very deep voice, even deeper than mine, figuring I must not be the only senior in the class. Holy Fucking Shit! Just inside the doorway stood a fucking mountain of muscle. I later learned he was 6 feet tall and right at 400 pounds. The only thing I could think of then was “how the fuck did he get through the door?!”

Later, I saw that he had to turn sideways to do it – his shoulders were that wide! And Worthington H.S. was pretty new, all of the doors were three-feet wide so that kids in chairs wouldn’t have any problem getting through them.

“You must be Roger Jones,” said the Beave. “Try to not to be late next time.”

He blushed and ducked his head. It was only then that I realized that this guy, in addition to having the most massively muscular body I had ever seen, was what the cheerleaders would call “drop dead gorgeous” (I knew because it’s what they called ME and looking at him I finally got what they meant!) Dirty blond hair cut short on the side, slightly long on top; bright green eyes with long dark lashes under thick dark eyebrows; full, red lips; cheekbones that looked like they were carved from titanium; a jaw that looked like it wouldn’t break if you hit it with a baseball bat.

My jaw hung open.

The only remaining seat was next to mine. He gave me a shy smile as he sat down and as he was stowing his stuff tilted his head towards mine and whispered:

“You must be Trent Bozeman,” he said. “I’d recognize you anywhere!”

Dude, hearing that deep, manly voice come out this man-mountain? Butterflies in my stomach. And I swear to God I was chubbing up.

“What are you doing in a freshman class?” he murmured as the Beave went over the syllabus.

“I needed another language credit,” I muttered, behind my big hand. “What are you doing here?”

He gave me a look.

“I’m a freshman,” he said. “Where else would I be?”

Holy fucking moly! This giant was a freshman? No fucking way! The Beave gave me a look and I shut up fast. I’d heard she was picky. Just being a jock wasn’t good enough to get her in the sack. You needed to show some brains, too, and, dude, I really wanted to get her in the sack.

I didn’t see Jones again until lunchtime. He was sitting all by himself. Not only did he scare the shit out of the geeks and nerds and the girls, he scared the shit out of the jocks, too. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised! Before he showed up, I was literally the biggest jock in the school (there were some morbidly obese guys – and a couple of girls – who outweighed me but that was it) and I felt like a dainty little thing next to him!

“Mind if I join you?” I asked.

And, dude, I swear to God, that’s the first time I ever asked instead of just sitting my ass down with whomever.

“It would be an honor,” he said.

Before I could get in a single word he started telling me my entire history as an athlete. Every winning game, every award, every trophy.

“Who the fuck are you?” I said, finally.

He looked hurt.

“Roger Jones,” he said. “I thought when Miss Titmuss…”

I waved that away.

“No, no, Roger, I get that,” I said. “But how did a freshman get to be so fucking huge?!”

He blushed, again! I felt like I had adopted a kitten. I just wanted to squeeze him up and tell him it was okay. And, dude, you gotta believe: That’s the first time in my life I ever felt about anyone, much less a guy. I didn’t feel that way about girls, I didn’t even feel that way about kittens, for God’s sake! And when did I start referring to a guy by his first name?

“Oh, well,” he said. “You actually might have heard of me. I was at the statewide powerlifting competition in Tampa in May, just like you. I won the 200 pound novice class.”

Bam! That was it! A fucking 14 year-old, 5’8” and 200 pounds, had benched 600 pounds. Something very few grown men were able to do, much less a kid who hadn’t started high school.

“But, but, but…” I couldn’t get the words out.

He smiled, shyly.

“Growth spurt,” he said. “I grew four inches taller over the summer!”

I just stared, then I moved my hands apart, trying to comprehend his width.

“Oh, yeah,” he added. “I doubled.”

I tried to wrap my head around that.


He nodded.

“In weight,” he added, helpfully.

Dude, most people think I’m not all that bright. I’m a jock plus, well, dude, I talk like a surfer who has ingested too much THC. But that’s mostly an act. I can do basic arithmetic.

“Okay,” I said, trying to get it sorted out. “You were 200 pounds then and you ‘doubled’ so that means…”

He nodded.

“Yes, that’s right. Four hundred pounds.”

I whistled.

“Fuck me,” I said, reverently.

This time the grin was wicked.

“Maybe not right here?”

There must have been some look on my face.

“Dude,” he said. “Chill. Just joking, right?”

Yep, that must have been in it. He was just joking. But why was I rock hard under the table? Time to change the topic.

“Man, I’d love to see you lift,” I said. “Maybe we can catch a workout after school? I can show you the athletes’ weight room. You’ve signed up for football, right?”

He shook his head.

“For real? I mean…”

He interrupted.

“It’s my mom,” he said. “She’s a worrywart. Afraid I might get hurt.”

I looked him up and down, side to side.

“I’d be afraid for the other team,” I said. “The entire other team.”

He shrugged his shoulders. Dude, like I said, I’m not stupid. I know what tectonic plates are. I know what a tsunami is. I know the meaning of the word “mesmerized.” So I kid you not when I say I was mesmerized and the effect was like a tsunami triggered when a tectonic plate decides to let loose.

“Powerlifting,” I said. “You’ll join the powerlifting team. I’m the captain of that one, too! It’s a done deal if I say so.”

He stuck out his hand. It dwarfed mine and you know what they say about hands and feet and dicks? Mine all match!

“It’s a date,” he said.

I got to the athlete’s weight room before Roger did. After changing into compression shorts and my favorite skin tight UnderArmour tank, I loaded up the bench. Eighteen 45 pound plates (810 pounds) plus the bar (45 pounds): 855 pounds. My new record, set just the week before school started. I figured the kid ought to know what he was dealing with.

Roger shambled into the weight room wearing a pair of old-fashioned all cotton gym shorts that would have been baggy on Omar the Tentmaker but clung like a body glove to his enormous quads. Likewise, the white v-neck shirt he wore looked like it could double as a parachute.

“Wow,” he said, looking at the bar. “Is that your warm up now?”

I laughed.

“Dude,” I said. “No, of course not.”

He looked disappointed.

“Do you think you’re ready to max out again?” he asked. “I’d love to see it.”

I snorted.

“Man, are you kidding? No spotters.”

This time his grin was wicked rather than shy.

“I can spot you,” he said.

I chuckled.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re a fucking seriously huge dude but, c’mon, just one guy? 800 pounds?”

And that’s when he did it. He grasped the bar in those fucking huge hands, took a breath, and whoomf! He lifted the whole thing off the stanchions, let it rest against his quads, then curled it, slowly but easily, one perfect rep, full extension, full contraction, and put it back down again. Dude, I swear to God, I spurted in pants. I spurted so hard I saw stars. I spurted so hard I nearly blacked out. And then Roger was there, holding me.

“Dude,” he said. “Trent. Just breathe, okay? Breathe. I gotcha.”

He sat me down on the Hammer Strength seated row machine, my chest pressing against the pad, my head leaning forward, his big hand on my back. All I could think of was:

How did I get here? The bench is way over there!

(There are about half a dozen benches and machines between the two stations.)

Finally, I perked up.

“Dude,” I said. “You’re the biggest motherfucker I’ve ever seen and the strongest, too. I gotta see. Please, really, I gotta see!”

I had locked the door to the weight room after he had entered. It was just the two of us. He kicked off his shoes – Jesus, they must have been size 16EEEE – and then, with a great deal of tugging, pulling, bending, twisting, and general contortioning, he pulled off his shirt and shorts. Holy Mother of God.

Not only was he gigantic, he was perfect in every way. It looked like he was carved of marble, body-fat well below 10%. He took a breath and expanded his chest. Jesus, he was clearly bigger around than he was tall. And then he flexed his biceps, biceps that had just curled 855 pounds. They went up and Up and UP, a fucking pair of Mount Everests.

“Thirty-four inches,” he said quietly.

Bigger than my fucking waist, in other words!

“Can I…?”

He looked at me.

“I know you want to feel it,” he said. “I know you want to understand that it is really real. But will you know where to stop?”

I didn’t get what he was talking about. I just needed to touch him. And so I did. Like I said, he was 6 feet and I’m 6’2” so I had a couple of inches of height on him. I started on the top and worked my way down.

Shoulders that were clearly four-feet across.

A neck the size of a beer keg.

A chest that turned out to be 80 inches.

A 40-inch, 8-pack waist that looked carved from granite, ridiculously small compared to the vast overhang of his pecs and lats.

A wispy treasure trail heading south from his perfectly shaped navel.

And there it was, the treasure trail disappearing into it. His jockstrap. While I had been working my way down, I had felt the heat rising from it. I licked my lips.

“Do you want to see that, too?” he asked quietly. “Think about it.”

Dude, seriously, at that point I was beyond thought. I felt my head going up and down, nodding, and I knew, without words, without that, that it was right.

“Stand back a little bit,” he said.

He pulled down the jock. Sproing! Fuck! So fucking huge! Perfectly shaped, perfectly smooth, 14-inches of man meat, 10 inches around, sprouting from his dark, tightly curled pubes.

I dove onto it with my mouth, trying to get the apple-sized head in, trying to swallow it down, gagging, his huge hand resting on the back of my head. I was choking, I was crying, I had to have it, and I couldn’t get enough of it. His hands went under my armpits and he lifted me up. He wrapped his gigantic arms around my yard-wide shoulders, crushed me to his monstrous chest. And he kissed me. Dude, it’s the first time I’d ever been kissed by a guy. It was ambrosia. It was the nectar of the gods.

Then he pulled away and, dude, I thought I was gonna cry, but he put his hands under my pits and lifted me up like I was a baby. I didn’t know where my clothes had gone, or my jock. I was naked as a jaybird. And he took me in his mouth. He swallowed it down, all 10x8, like it was a popsicle. Dude, my eyes rolled back in my head. I saw stars. I’m pretty sure I saw God. She was laughing. At me, with me, it didn’t matter.

Holding me in the air with one hand, he reached the other up to my mouth and I swallowed his fingers like a puppy with a bone. Then he pulled them back down. And, dude, then

Well, some stuff is just between a dude and his dude. Let’s put it this way:

He went where no man (or woman, for that matter) had gone before!

That was four months ago. It’s Christmas break now. In that time, Roger has grown two inches taller. And gained another 100 pounds of solid muscle. That’s right:

6’2” and 500 pounds.

And his strength has doubled. He can bench press two tons. We had to get structural engineers in to reconfigure the athlete’s weight room. Building a platform that could accommodate Roger, two tons of weights, a two-hundred pound 10 foot axle, and 10 spotters was no easy feat.

But, dude, we did it.

And, yeah, Roger isn’t the only one who grew. I put on another 50 pounds of muscle, as much in one semester as I have ever gained in a year. And aside from Roger, I’m the only teen on the planet who can bench more than a thousand pounds. For reps.

Am I gay now? Who the fuck knows! The world knows that I belong to Roger. And, I guess, mostly he belongs to me. Can you believe the guy was a virgin? Since then he’s made up for a lot of lost time, with girls and guys, cheerleaders and jocks, geeks and nerds, teachers and parents, and, yes, Mr. Livingston, the principal. But he still keeps coming back to me and everyone knows that I’m his.

Every once in a while I find myself looking at a chick. Every once in a while I find myself looking at a guy. All I can think of is…

They look so small! Next to Roger…

And then, almost as soon as I glance at them, I forget them. I don’t even get a buzz, much less a stiffy or a chubby or a hard-on. Because, really, dude…

Why would I look at anyone else?!

Update posts:
Site Update: 18 April 2020

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