Senior year

by Richard Jasper

Henry is a 6’2”, 140-pound beanpole. Charles, his best friend from childhood, is a 5’11, 200-pound stud. They have big plans for their senior year of high school!

Added: 3 Oct 2020 5,797 words 2,339 views 5.0 stars (1 vote)

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I
“I’m a beanpole,” I said.

I was standing in line in the cafeteria with my best friend Charles. It was the first day of our senior year of high school and we had been best buddies since we were in 3rd grade.

Charles rolled his eyes. “We’ve gone over this before,” he said. I sighed. “Yes, I know,” I replied. “Eat big, lift big, get plenty of rest.” At 5’11, Charles was three inches shorter than my 6’2”. He was also 200 pounds of solid muscle, despite being captain of the chess team and president of the Math Club. He was built like a brick shithouse.

Like I said, I was a beanpole. 140 pounds soaking wet. And, happy to say, about 40 pounds of that resided between my scrawny legs. Fully inflated, my kielbasa, as I referred to it, was 10x8. Thanks to many, many, many sleepovers, Charles was as well-acquainted with my kielbasa as I was with his muscles. But if you subtracted my dick, there wasn’t much to me. Quite simply, I was painfully thin.

“And?” he asked. I think he thought he was being helpful. “And, all evidence to the contrary, I know how to eat. And God knows I know how to sleep,” I replied. “What I don’t know how to do is lift. Teach me?” Charles dropped his book bag and squeezed me up into a big bear hug!

“Oof! Careful there, Big Man, you don’t want to wake up the beast, do you?!”

He let go and held me at arm’s length.

“I thought you’d never ask!”

It was true. Any time Charles had suggested going to the gym together, I turned up my nose. “I’ve had enough humiliation to last a lifetime,” I would always point out. And it was true. I was always at the top of my class in terms of height but I was pretty much always at the bottom in terms of weight. Every skinny guy epithet ever invented was hurled my way at one point or another. The only thing that saved my ass from being regularly kicked was that everyone knew I was Charles’s best friend and Charles was into wrestling and martial arts as well as lifting. No one wanted to take him on.

“Saturday,” he said. “The gym will be less crowded.”

We had a date.


“You’re going to be sore when you’re done with all of this,” Charles said Saturday morning. “Maybe not today but tomorrow probably or the next day, certainly. You’ve got to stretch, stretch, and stretch.”

He put me through my paces, showed me every exercise, especially what he called the big three—bench, squat, deadlift—the compound movements that were best at building mass.

“And when we’re done here, we’re going by Sunshine Café and you’re having a big breakfast, okay. And, no, we’re not talking about pancakes, although some of those are okay. Scrambled eggs, bacon, maybe sausage, too, then some toast, pancakes, whatever. You’ve gotta feed the machine.”

My lifts, of course, were pathetic, and by the time we finished everything was already sore. My whole body was quivering like a bowlful of Jell-O. “On the other hand,” Charles pointed out helpfully, “you haven’t thrown up. That often happens on a first workout.” So glad he told me! Actually, just as well he didn’t. Thinking about it made me want to blorf but he gave me a Gatorade and that settled things down.

Amazingly, I felt refreshed the next day.

“Really?” he asked. “No soreness?”

I shook my head.

“I’m ready to rock,” I replied. “Let’s do some more.” And we did so. Every day for a week. Every day for a week we did as much as we could of a full-body workout. “I always thought you’d have a lot of capacity,” he said. “But even so I’m surprised. I think we can start you on a split program already.”

A split program, I learned, was when you just worked one body part per day. “One body part plus arms,” I corrected. He arched an eyebrow. “Oh, c’mon, Mr. 18-inch Biceps,” I replied. “I think it’s reasonable to suggest I have a lot of catching up to do!” He was gracious enough to withhold any doubts that any catching up was likely to occur.

“Fine,” he agreed. “In that case I’m going to leave it to you. Grow Forth and Multiply!”

I gave him the Vulcan salute.

“Dicks long and suckable!”

Yeah, we were both gay. Yeah, we both knew about the other. No, were never interested in each other—we were too much like brothers!


And then he sent me off to the gym—to do it on my own. After that first week, turned out that his time slot for working out M-F didn’t match up with my time slot for working out. “But you know what to do,” he said. “And, aside from the Big Three, I have you working on machines. And even with the Big Three, the only one that requires a spotter is bench press. Which you can save for Saturday.”

I nodded my head.

“I’ve got this,” I said. “I may not be good for much but I can follow instructions.”

So every day right after school I hit the gym and as soon as I got home I ate food like it was going out of style. Then I spent an hour on homework, an hour on Must See TV, and an hour looking at hot, muscular, furry guys on the Internet. And then I was in bed. At 8 p.m. My regular bedtime was whenever I felt like it, usually sometime between midnight and 2 a.m. My mother thought I was sick.

“No, Mom,” I mumbled from under the covers. “It’s just that Charles has me on a workout program now and I’m pooped!”

She stared at me like for reals?! I just glared at her. As usual, it bounced off. I swear the woman is made of Teflon. I thought I heard her mutter Will Wonders Never Cease? Then she shut the door and I was out like a light.

And that was it for a week. School, lift, eat, study, play, sleep. Rinse and repeat. When I saw Charles again on Saturday…Well, first of all, he just looked at me. I mean, really looked at me. I was starting to feel nervous. Like I might have Skittle Pox or something! Then he made me turn around. Then he made me take my shirt off.

(Look, the guy weighs 200 pounds and he benches 365 for reps. If he wants you take your shirt off, you will!)

“By Jove, Henry,” he said. “I think it’s working!”

I looked at him like he had taken leave of senses.

“What are you talking about? What’s working?” He grabbed my arm and pulled me over to the scale. Oh, Lord, I thought. More humiliation. I closed my eyes.

“Henry,” Charles said. “Open your eyes, dammit.”

I did. They landed on the digital readout: 150.5 pounds. My mouth fell open. “That can’t be right,” I protested. Charles laughed. “We can find another scale if you like,” he said when he stopped spluttering. “But let me assure you that visual inspection confirms the read-out.”

And then he poked and prodded all over my body. I had little bumps everywhere. Chest, shoulders, those delt things, in my back, on my arms, legs (which were the closest I’d ever had to a strong suit.)

“Well, glory be,” I said. “Must be beginner’s luck or something!”

Charles rolled his eyes, as he is wont to do when I’m making yet another boneheaded pronouncement.

“They’re called ‘newbie gains,’ dumbass,” he corrected. “You’ve gained 10½ pounds in one week, which if you were a football player would have other people asking ‘what are you on?!’ My question is: How long will you keep it up?”
Three weeks later was Labor Day weekend.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I told Charles. “It’s making me nervous.” Charles shook himself like a dog who’d been out in the rain. “Well, what do you expect?” he asked. “You just benched 225 pounds for 10 reps!”

I snorted. “And you just benched 405 pounds for one rep,” I replied.

He rolled his eyes. He does that a lot. Well, around me, at any rate. More than once he has threatened to make me pay if he ever has to get glasses. “Henry, let’s be clear about something,” he said. “A month ago you couldn’t bench the bar, which weighs 45 pounds, for 10 reps and now you’re four times stronger than you were a month ago.”

I shrugged my shoulders. Which was something I didn’t used to do. Because I didn’t have shoulders. Now though… Before we started lifting, Charles made me get on the scale. He whistled.

“182 pounds,” he said. “You’ve gained 42 pounds in one month.”

Interestingly enough, he had gained 10 pounds himself. At 210 pounds he had a 49-inch chest, 30-inch waist, and 19-inch arms. When you combined that with wavy dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a chin dimple, you understood why people had a tendency towards unconsciously calling him “Clark”—you know, as in “Clark Kent.” It occurred to me, not for the first time, that Charles was looking less and less, well, brotherly, with every passing week.

“Are you sure you’re not on something?”

I gasped.

“What are you implying?”

He lowered his voice.

“You know,” he said. “Assistance. Supplementation. Whatever you want to call it.”

I gave him my best you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

“Quite aside from the fact that I wouldn’t have a freaking clue in terms of what to do or how to do it,” I pointed out. “You do realize, right, that I wouldn’t trust any other than YOU to tell me what to do, right?”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know,” he agreed. “I was just hoping you had found a mad scientist or a voodoo granny or a glowing meteorite or something. Because I want some of it, whatever it is!”

I guffawed. “Oh, c’mon,” I said. “You outweigh me by 30 pounds and I’m three inches taller, Mr. Muscles. No one looking at the two of us has any doubt about which one is the brawn.”

He sniffed. “And the brain,” he pointed out. He was inordinately pleased with his GPA. I was inordinately pleased with my SAT score.

Go figure.


We went to the lake that weekend. We wore matching speedos. And, yes, for the first time in lake history, Henry Everett Jenkins III was seen there without a shirt on.

“They’re all looking at your muscles,” I pointed out.

“They’re all looking at your crotch,” he countered.

“Your crotch looks like you’re hiding a porcupine in it,” I noted.

“Really? A porcupine?”

“Or, I dunno, a badger, a wolverine, some thick meaty animal, regardless.”

“Tiffany is licking her lips looking at your abs.”

“Oh, yay, lucky me! Tiffany Dumblondius is looking at me! Why couldn’t it be Tyler Fanshaw?”

“Eww, ick! Tyler Fanshaw is douche!”

“Yeah, I know, but those pecs! That ass!”

“No accounting for taste, I guess.”

“Or lack thereof.”

It was the best Labor Day weekend of my life.


“Okay, I agree,” I said, finally. “This is fucking weird.” It was the first week of October, the leaves were turning, and summer heat had given way to glorious crisp sunny days and deliciously cool evenings.

And I had just bench pressed 505 pounds for a single rep. Which is 30 pounds more than Charles had done. We were both exactly 220 pounds. On Charles it was bodybuilding perfection. He could enter any Classic Physique contest and mop the floor with the contestants. Full, thick, round, dense, hard muscle and lean as a whip.

I was rangier, not nearly as thick but I was three inches taller than Charles. My waist was even smaller than his. And my shoulders were broader. I hadn’t believed it but he insisted on measuring. I did his, he did mine. And mine were two inches wider.

“You’re a f….”

I held up a warning hand.

“Watch what you say, dipshit.”

He smirked.

“A fucking fantastic friend,” he continued. “And a freak, I tell you, a total freak!”

I had been getting a fair amount of that. Especially from football players who had formerly been the bane of my existence, many of whom now wanted to be my best friend.

Charles put his hand on my thick, hard delt. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re killing it. And I love it!”

I do believe I actually blushed. “Well, you know,” I said, my voice suddenly full of emotion. “I owe it all to…”

“Your own hard work,” he said, interrupting me. “I just showed you the moves. You did the rest.”

It occurred to me to ask.

“Does this…?”

“…change things?” he said, finishing the thought.

He pondered.

“I don’t think so,” he continued, after a bit. “You’re now stronger than I am. And at the rate you’re going, you’ll be bigger than I am before long.”

!!!

Bigger?!

“Bigger,” he said. “I’m not sure why you’re suddenly having a hard time doing addition when you’ve been correcting my arithmetic homework since we were in the 3rd grade.”

He looked me up and down.

“I’ve always been the bigger one,” he said. “But now it’s your turn. I like it!”

Bigger!!

We went to Tiffany’s Halloween Party as Pebbles and Bam-Bam.

Do you remember that early episode of The Big Bang Theory when Penny had the Halloween party and her ex-boyfriend, played by the uber hunky Brian Patrick Wade, showed up as a caveman, wearing a fur loin cloth and that’s about it? Well, that’s what we were going for, only Charles on the blond cave-man wig, which (I guess) made him Bam-Bam, and I had on the red one (which left being Pebbles.)

Charles was up to 230 pounds with arms that were taping 20 inches cold.

As for me…

260 pounds. And my arms, despite being quite a bit longer than Charles’, were up to 22. Yes, I was closing in on having doubled my weight in three months. And I was the only guy in our high school—quite possibly the only high school senior in the state—capable of bench pressing 800 pounds.

We received a lot of attention, almost all of it from the girls, much to our mutual chagrin. With Charles, it was a little less lopsided. Despite being a brain, he was also a jock—even though he didn’t play football, basketball, or baseball—and he was friends with a fair number of them.

Me, though, apparently I gave them the willies. I was too big for one thing—except for a couple of the football players who had some serious blood pressure issues going on at age 17-18, I was bigger than any of them. And I was seriously, seriously better built than they were. Better built, in fact, than anyone but Chuck.

Tiffany, bless her heart, was giving me the most attention of all, and, naïve soul that I was, she was continually spiking my punch. So an hour into the party I had my arm around her and three hours into the party I found myself in her bedroom where I was unhooking her bra, and hearing her rattle on about how she’d been wanting to get at my dick for years and now I had MUSCLES in addition to a huge dick. And then, wham, quick as anything she had an extra-large condom on my pole, and ploop! I was inside of her and I just did what came natural, namely I thought of Charles and reamed her good, and there wasn’t anyone in the house, quite possibly the whole block, who didn’t know about it when she came.

And that’s how I lost my virginity. Not to a man but to a woman. Not to Charles but to Tiffany. When I finally emerged, having lost the red wig and half of the loincloth, I received the strangest looks.

And Charles wasn’t here.

I had to take Uber home. I managed to get there without throwing up in the nice lady’s car. I saved that for my mother’s rose bushes.


I didn’t see Charles for a month and it might have gone on longer than that except that his family and my family always had Thanksgiving together and there was no getting out of it.

He’d gained another 10 pounds and at 240 pounds he sizzled, even in a v-neck sweater over a plaid shirt. It was clear the sleeves were working overtime to accommodate his arms and his shoulders were quite simply ox-like. Plus he’d let his stubble grown and it was so dark and so fucking manly that I thought I was going to spurt before we got to dessert.

“Jesus, you’re huge,” he said, when we finally went outside to get a breath of fresh air. It was a long-standing Charles and Henry tradition to vacate the premises for half an hour after dinner to let the “grown-ups” schmooze.

“Lemme guess,” he continued. “300 pounds?”

I would have shrugged my shoulders but I wasn’t sure the new shirt I was wearing would take it. I’d bought it a week ago so… I just nodded.

“304 when I got up this morning,” I said. “Thanks to your mom’s turkey and my mom’s pumpkin pie, I think I may be pushing 310.”

He laughed but there was an edge to it.

“In other words, you outweigh me by at least 60 pounds, maybe 70,” he said, as if I couldn’t do simple arithmetic. “As much as I outweighed you at the end of summer. Or maybe more.”

I cleared my throat.

“Look, Charles…”

He held up a hand.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t need to be the big man. I just wish I had known you and Tiffany…” I kissed him. I also wrapped him in my 25-inch arms and squeezed him to my chest. He kissed back. It went on a long time. When we came up for air, we just looked at each other, trying—I guess—to get inside each other’s heads.

“Charles, I was drunk,” I said. “I didn’t realize it at the time but I was. And I was excited by the idea that someone, anyone, even Tiffany, was into me. It’s not something I ever experienced before.”

He closed his eyes.

“Even me?”

“Look at me,” I replied.

He did.

“When I had my very first orgasm at age 12, I was thinking of you,” I said. “I was thinking of you when I was fucking Tiffany. I was thinking of you when I jacked off this morning.”

He nodded.

“And I just sort of took that for granted, I guess,” he said, quietly. “And I never let you know how much you meant to me.”

I snorted.

“Oh, I knew,” I said. “It was like I was your kid brother, only not, so I could be funny and entertaining and you still felt protective of me instead of wishing I’d get out of your hair.”

“But…”

“But lust was never part of the equation, was it?”

He shook his head.

“It wasn’t,” he agreed. “But now…”

He took my big strong hand and put it on his crotch.

“Does this tell you what you need to know?”

It wasn’t like we could do anything about our mutual lust right then and there. The ‘rents would have noticed!

“We have some news,” Charles’ dad announced when we returned to the dining room.

“Hopefully you won’t take it the wrong way,” my dad chimed in.

“But you’re going to have to deal with it either way,” my mom add, helpfully.

“The four of us are going to Paris for Christmas and New Year’s,” Mrs. Feltzer said.

We sat there stunned. And then we started giggling. That earned us a variety of arched eyebrows, pursed lips, dropped jaws, etc.

“Well, I never,” Mrs. Feltzer said. “You’d think the two of you wanted us gone!”

I was the first to pull myself together.

“We love you,” I said.

“Really, we do,” Charles added.

“But our Christmases tend to be…”

“…a bit overscheduled?” my mom finished.

Charles nodded.

“Having a week to ourselves,” I continued.

“…sounds heavenly.”

So, notwithstanding the fact that we were a couple of horny muscle teens, we decided to wait. I know, I know. Completely improbable. Ask Charles, he’s the romantic. I would have fucked him then and there, in front of the ‘rents, but he disabused me of that notion before we ever returned to the dining room.

Four weeks later we saw them off to the airport and returned to Charles’ house. At 250 pounds and less than 5% body fat, Charles looked like he could go head to head with Phil Heath. Meanwhile, I gained yet another 40 pounds. At 350 pounds I was a walking mountain of muscle.

We started kissing when we were in the garage. We continued in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the foyer, and at the foot of the stairs. Then I threw him over my shoulder and raced up to his bedroom. It occurred to Charles, he told me later, that his folks might want to reinforce the staircase at some point. Having 600 pounds of muscle racing up and down it might cause problems!

“Strip,” Charles told me when we reached his bedroom. I pulled off my skintight 4XL turtleneck. He gasped. “It’s not like you don’t see this all the time,” I pointed out.

He put his hands on my basketball-sized pecs. “It’s not like I’ve ever seen a 70-inch chest in my bedroom,” he replied. I flexed my 28-inch biceps. “See something you like, Big Man?”

I was at full mast. Somehow Charles managed to get my belt undone and my bespoke jeans down over my 38-inch quads before I knew what he was doing. Then he swallowed my kielbasa. Then his clothes were off. And the rest of mine were off. And he climbed on. And I was fucking him mid-air, pumping him up and down on my 10-inch dick like he was a rag doll.

“And the thing is,” he said, after the 10th or 12th orgasm that evening. “You’re going to have another 10 pounds of muscle by the time they get home, aren’t you?” I ran my hubcap-sized hand through the forest of dark curls that covered his magnificent pecs. “Yep, that would be my guess,” I replied. “You down with that?”

He pushed me back against the pillows, then straddled my hips. He squared his big broad shoulders, locked his fucking thick lats into place, threw out his 54-inch chest, gave me the Dwayne Johnson-patented pec pop of love, and flexed his competition-worthy 22-inch biceps. Then he licked them.

I may or may not have spurted a 13th time.

“Now,” he said. “Imagine all of this with an extra hundred pounds of muscle.”

I groaned.

“That’s what I get to look at,” he pointed out.

I reached up and pulled his face down to mine and whispered in his ear:

“Best Christmas present EVAR!”


I suppose I should talk a bit about how everyone else was dealing with my unexpected and unusual growth.

My parents noticed, of course, with my dad complaining that I was eating him out of house and home and my mom certain that I was “on something.” They took me to see the family doctor, who was also a family friend, who poked and prodded and pricked and did every test imaginable.

“He’s healthy as a horse,” Dr. Spitzbergen said. “Blood pressure, lipids, kidney function, liver function, bone density. There isn’t anything about him that isn’t perfectly normal, except that he’s huge and built like, uh, well, uh, a brick outhouse.” It was also the case my testosterone levels were pretty much off the chart but “he’s 17, that’s not unheard of and it’s certainly not unhealthy,” Doc added.

My teachers were either (a) oblivious (I could have shown up naked every day and they wouldn’t have noticed) (they must take a lot of klonopin!) or (b) apt to joke about it. They certainly weren’t alarmed. The coaches, on the other hand, noticed big time and they either (1) drooled or (2) acted pissed off. I was called into the Principal’s Office more than once to get called on the carpet for doing steroids. I just shrugged my mountainous shoulders and handed Doc’s report.

“I’m just a growing boy, that’s all,” I maintained, repeatedly. I really think the coaches wanted to know who my supplier was so that they could get the football team hooked up.

That all settled down a bit after Charles and I stopped using the school gym. The day I benched 1035 pounds for one perfect rep we were asked not to return. By that point, Charles was benching 600 pounds for reps. We were having a demoralizing effect on the school athletes, apparently. “But I’m a school athlete, too!” Charles exclaimed. His complaint fell on deaf ears.

So we found a hardcore downtown gym that catered both to bodybuilders and powerlifters where we were welcomed with open arms. There were a couple of guys there who were my size (although not anywhere near as well built) and a few more who started salivating the minute Charles took his shirt off.

“We need to get you on stage, pronto,” they said. He pointed at me. “He’s just as well built and twice as big.” But it’s like they couldn’t really see me. Anyone my size was a powerlifter, as far as they were concerned, despite the fact my body fat ratio was under 10% and my abs looked like eight crushed titanium tank-plates.

“It’s okay,” I told Charles. “You can have the stage. I just want to lift!”

Well, I just wanted to lift. And fuck. And fuck we did. Often while lifting. Charles really liked that mid-air fucking. “It’s like I’m flying!”

That was another thing. Once we started going to Power Zone, we suddenly found out that our fellow muscle heads weren’t just salivating over Charles’ physique and my strength. Or, they were, but it wasn’t just a matter of wanting to see the two new Herculean kids do good. They were jonesing. For our bodies. For our dicks.

I thought Tiffany had perfected the art of panting bubblehead lust but once I met Mike and Drew and Cliff and Ryan and Brandon (all of whom were five, 10, 15 years older than we were and big, built fucking manly dudes) I realized Tiffany was still a novice slut. These fellas knew how to turn on the, uh, “charm.”

So we charmed them back. Usually as a couple, sometimes solo, one memorable after hours evening when we took turns fucking all five of them. They especially liked it when Charles was fucking Drew and I picked both of them up and started fucking Charles. Sort of a double air-fuck. Then everyone had to get on the action, with Charles air-fucking all of them, including Cliff, who outweighed him by 75 pounds, and then swapping off so I could do the double-fuck without him!

“Babe,” he whispered to me the first time he did the hand off. “I don’t need to be the meat in the sandwich every time!”

Perhaps it was the extra stimulation provided by Power Zone but Charles doubled his rate of growth after we started going there. He went from gaining 10 pounds of muscle per month to 20 pounds per month!

“In other words,” he drawled. “I’m growing about half as fast as you are.”

I tried to point out that 20 pounds per month for someone his size was proportionately more than 40 pounds per month for someone my size but…

“Stuff it,” he said, interrupting. “You’ve put on well over 200 pounds since you started lifting in August—when you weighed 140!”

Well, when you put it that way…

By Valentine’s Day he was up to 275 pounds and looked like he could fucking walk through a brick wall. Or maybe a solid concrete one? Which is tougher. He could handle it, either way. As for me:

400 pounds.

All of it in the right places, including an 80-inch chest, 40-inch waist, 44-inch quads, and 32-inch biceps, calves, and neck. My 26-inch forearms were bigger than the average man’s quads and, more to the point, Charles’ fucknomenal 24-inch biceps.

Valentine’s Day was also the day I bench pressed 2000 pounds for the first time. Everyone from Power Zone was there although the celebration didn’t occur until after closing when Charles, Mike, Drew, Cliff, Ryan and Brandon formed a daisy-fuckchain and I power air-fucked all six of them, with the biggest, Mike (at 325) on the bottom and Brandon, the smallest (at 250), on the top. Collectively they were about 2000 pounds so that was some nice symmetry with the bench press, don’t you think?

Three and a half months later commencement rolled around.

Charles had gained another 65 pounds of muscle. At 5’11 and 340 pounds, with 3% body fat, he was one of the densest, most muscularly developed men to ever walk the Earth. He was a freak, that’s all there was to it. 68-inch chest, 34-inch waist, 36-inch quads, 28-inch biceps. He had yet to enter his first contest and he was bigger, freakier, better proportioned, and better conditioned than anyone who had ever stepped on the Mr. Olympia stage.

And I was three inches taller and outweighed him by 200 pounds. That’s right. 6’2” tall, 540 pounds. I wasn’t just massive. I was mammoth, mind-blowing, and mountainous. By then I had grown a full-beard and my chest hair and whatnot had caught up to Charles’. I fucking reeked testosterone, so much so that whenever I walked through the school everyone, girls and guys, teachers and students, gays and straights, started leaking.

Of course, by that point my shoulders were 5½ feet across so in certain parts of the building the hall monitors turned into traffic cops and held people back so I could get through without crushing people. (That policy was instituted after I sorta kinda accidentally squashed Coach Runcible, the 6’4, 280-pound football coach / biology teacher / God’s gift to women, or so he thought.) I weighed 400 pounds more than I had at the start of our senior year.

“What now?” people asked.

“NFL?”

“Mr. Olympia?”

“Special Agents?”

“Medical experimentation?”

“Black helicopters and secret laboratories?”

Charles and I had quite a few laughs going over those theories.

“Academic scholarships,” we told them. “Stanford.”

We had already met with the Stanford recruiter, who later admitted he was sitting on the fence (excellent and top SAT scores but not quite as many extracurricular activities as they liked) until he SAW us and saw that we were a couple.

“Oh, yeah,” he recalled having said to himself. “We need some of that!”

We went to commencement in our Pebbles and Bam-Bam outfits. Tiffany dared us to do it. Coach Runcible, the commencement marshal, was pissed but what was he going to do about it? By that point Charles outweighed him by 60 pounds and was curling 500 pounds for reps. And I was three times as strong as Charles!

Runcible needn’t have fretted. Principal Livingston was a bit of a cut-up and he made the most of it, managing to get off enough one-liners to make the two of us blush, and then commanding us to do a pose-down.

You remember that one Dallas McCarver, rest his soul, did just before he passed away with the young teen bodybuilder who was about one third his size? We re-created that one, with Charles, who weighed as much as Dallas did at his peak despite being two inches shorter, as the teen and me as Dallas. We brought the house down.

And now…Well, who knows? We’re planning to spend the summer by the pool. And at the gym. And in Mrs. Feltzer’s kitchen. And in Charles’ bedroom. What more could we want?

When we figure it out, we’ll let you know!

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