Derek Harcourt is 50-something hardcore walking wet dream of a musclebear. Frank is his 20-something straight boy lifting buddy. And Blake is a totally adorable 5’6 pup who is pleased as punch to be benching 205 lbs.—about what Derek can curl. The growth never ends!
I saw the kid again a couple of nights later at the Eagle.
I was wearing my usual rig: black, bespoke jeans (you try finding off the rack jeans that will accommodate a 34-inch waist and 34-inch quads), a leather vest cut and stitched by the area’s best, more than semi-deaf leatherman, and a couple of leather boot straps for arm bands. Plus some big black boots that made me stand up straight and tall. (It was a popular ensemble. Or, more precisely, it was popular when I wore it!)
“Well, lookee here,” I said, gathering the kid up in a big bear hug.
“Oof!” he exclaimed.
I set him back down on the ground.
“Great to see you here, Blake,” I said. “You slumming tonight?”
For a minute I thought he had been rendered mute.
“Mis-mis-mister, uh, Derek!” he finally spat out. “Great to see you here!”
I looked him up and down. He had on a pair of tight black jeans, sneakers, and an immaculate white v-neck shirt that showed off his minuscule waist and nice shoulders and the curve of his pecs. I mean, yeah, his shoulders were narrower than my chest but with that tiny waist he had a nice v-taper going.
“We don’t get too many straight dudes here,” I said. “Although some show up when get the occasional bachelorette party passing through. That’s what brought you here?”
For a guy with such a nice tan, he should did blush easily.
“Well, uh, no,” he replied. “I don’t come here very often. In fact, I don’t come here ever, to tell you the truth. But I’m a regular at Burke’s.”
Burke’s was the local twink dance club. Lots of guys with great pecs and arms and abs for days and skinny jeans that I wouldn’t be able to get my forearm into. The kind of guys who stand in an inward-facing circle, glancing over each other’s shoulders to see who was checking them out. And usually there was a crowd of guys like Blake circling them, hoping to get noticed and invited into the circle. Then giving up and going home with one of their fellow circlers, or, on occasion, the middle-aged guys in khakis and Polo shirts who hung out by the bar and watched in all go by.
Attitude for days, in other words, and guys like me didn’t warrant the time of day, even though an amazing number of them ended up at the Eagle eventually, looking for someone just like me (provided none of their friends knew they were going off with a hairy leather musclebear, that is.)
“Uh, well,” Blake continued. “I saw you, uh, wearing that black Eagle t-shirt the other day, and, uh, I asked Frank and he said you were, uh, a regular here, so…”
I chuckled. “You thought you’d come check me out in my other native environment? C’mon, let me buy you a beer,” I said, dropping a hubcap-sized hand on his nicely shaped right delt. Sitting on a barstool, he and I were just about the same height. Once he had some Guinness in him, he loosened up started asking me questions.
“How long have you been lifting? Frank tells me you’ve been at it a long time.” I grinned. “Longer than you’ve been alive, Kid,” I replied. “Longer than Frank’s been alive for that matter.” His jaw dropped. “So you were like 14 or something?”
“Oh, my dear young man,” I said. “Thank you for that! No, I started lifting when I was 20. Which was 32 years ago.” I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. “You’re 52?! No way!”
“Way,” I replied. “And, yeah, I will cop to the fact that I like it when hot young guys underestimate my age by a decade or more! Wouldn’t you?!
“You’re older than my dad,” he exclaimed. I put my hand on his thigh and squeezed gently. “Are you one of those guys with daddy issues?” I asked, playfully. “Do I look like him?”
He visibly shook himself.
“Oh, God no,” he replied. “My dad’s nice enough but he’s never set foot in a gym in his life. He’s about your height but I outweigh him by 5 pounds. Looks like a stork!”
With my hand still wrapped around his quads, I flexed my 20-inch forearms.
“Hey,” I said. “We all have to start somewhere. I wasn’t any bigger than your dad when I was 20.” He laughed. “Oh, c’mon,” he said. “I bet you were always huge!” I shook my head. “Sorry, Charlie,” I said. “You’d lose that bet. I have photographic proof, too!”
I pulled out my phone and pulled up my Facebook profile, then navigated to my Early Years album.
“You had a fro?!” he exclaimed.
I rolled my eyes. “Have you ever watched the Brady Bunch? They were popular for guys in the late 70s / early 80s! Seriously! I’m not making it up!” The more I talked, the more skeptical he looked. “Well, let’s put it this way,” I said finally. “It’s straight as a board now and I don’t have it straightened.” I bent my head down. “Go ahead and feel it,” I said, talking into the mat of dark curls covering my 59-inch chest.
He reached his hand up and did so. And then it started heading down. Past my eyebrows to my goatee, then up along my stubbled jaw and then down my 22-inch neck. At that point the other hand joined in and he measured the width of my shoulders and over the hair-covered beach ball hemispheres that constituted my pecs. Coming to rest on my thumb-sized nipples.
“Careful what you do with those, son,” I murmured. “You might be starting something you can’t stop.”
He tweaked them. Hard. I moaned. They’d always been hard-wired to my dick and the bigger my muscles had grown the more immediate the reaction. My 10-inch kielbasa leapt to painful attention in my too-tight jeans. “Kid,” I said. “I have a really splendid pumpkin pie at home. You up for a slice?” He laughed, then ran his hand down my corrugated, fur-covered abs to the bulge in my jeans. “Are you talking about pie, Big Daddy, or something else?”
I picked him up, threw him over my shoulder, and headed out to the parking lot. Whee!
“You drive here?” I asked, setting him down next to my Jag. He whistled when he saw it. The kid knew his cars obviously. “I’d love to drive this one,” he said. “But, no, I took Uber here.” I nodded my approval. I do the same when I’m interested in drinking. As it was, I had switched to seltzer water after my second G&T.
“Get in,” I told him.
We headed off into the night.
When we pulled up in my driveway, Blake let out a whistle.
“Frank didn’t tell me you were loaded,” he said, eyes wide.
I shook my head.
“I’m definitely not loaded,” I replied. “But I did have some extra cash hanging around about the time real estate bubble burst 10 years ago. Picked this one up for a song.” I came around to his side of the car and he basically leapt into my arms. “So it’s like that,” I said. “You think I’m just gonna carry you around everywhere?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said. “You’re built like a forklift.”
He had a point. I tucked him under my arm like he was a football and headed inside. “Pumpkin pie now…?” I asked when we entered my spotless kitchen. He buried his nose in the four-inch deep crevice between my hairy pecs. “Or a slice of something else?”
He looked up at me with those gorgeous brown eyes.
“You know what I want,” he purred.
I didn’t think I could get any harder. I was wrong. He followed me into the bedroom, then I turned and pinned him up against a wall with one hand, his feet dangling six inches off the floor. I kissed him deep and hard, then I licked his face, his ears, his neck, his pits. Nice bulge down there for a little guy, I noticed.
Then I threw him down on my California King, the one with the designer sheets, pinned both of his hands behind his head with one of mine, and proceeded to rip off his clothes. With my teeth!
Look at that, I thought.
The Kid had a nice big piece of meat, 8 x 6 I was guessing, perfectly shaped and smooth as silk. I swallowed it whole and his eyes rolled back in his head. After a while, I flopped over on my back, wrapped my 24-inch arm around his neck, and gave him a gentle squeeze.
Man, did he wanna! The kid was an expert cock-sucker, using his hands on the parts of my 10 x 8 schlong that his mouth couldn’t handle. I no time I was raring to. I flipped over again, this time looming above him, my giant hands on either side of his head, my massive shoulders and pecs and arms blocking out the light.
“You ready for this son?”
His breathing was already ragged.
“Give it to me, Big Daddy,” he gasped. “Give it to me now!”
That was a year ago. Not long after that, the Kid moved in with me. Not long after he moved in with me, Frank asked: “Are you fucking my sister’s brother-in-law?”
“Is Blake your sister’s brother-in-law?!” He nodded. “Good grief,” I replied. “I thought he was, you know, your frat brother or something!”
Frank chuckled. “I wasn’t in a frat,” he explained. “And I don’t think he was either!” He arched an eyebrow. I hate people who can arch one eyebrow independently of another. It’s just not fair!
“I take it that’s a yes?”
I blushed. “Uh, well, you should ask him,” I said. “But, yeah, we’re getting it on. And he’s moved in with me.” He grinned. “Thought so! He’s growing so fast I figured Big Daddy must have something to do with it!” I blushed again. “Is that what he calls me?!” He thumped me on my pumpkin-sized delt. “And if you’re not careful, I’m going to start calling you that, too!”
Truth of the matter was, I was as surprised to have a live-in lover as Frank was surprised that it was Blake! It had been a long time since I had had a steady boyfriend and a lot longer than that since I’d lived with anyone. The psycho con artist who kept the house I’d bought when I walked away from his abuse left scars. Big ones. But Blake was happy, hard-working, honest, thrifty, brave…
Uh, well, no, he was not a Boy Scout, and definitely a man, although he was happy with the idea of being my “boy,” even though I had never quite wrapped my head around all of that. Five weeks after he moved in with me he had packed on 10 pounds of solid muscle and after that he started training with me and Frank on a regular basis.
Frank was twice as strong as Blake and I was twice as strong as Frank but we made it work and it pushed all of us to work harder and grow faster.
Six months later I took all three of us to the Arnold Sports Festival in Columbus, Ohio. It’s a great show: All the pros, both the competitors and the ones (most of them) selling product, and about 20,000 hot guys wandering around the convention floor hoping to meet their heroes.
By that time, Blake was 200 pounds, all of it muscle, and thinking about competing for the first time. He had gained 55 pounds since the day I formally met him and he was now benching 405, twice his bodyweight, for reps. Considering he had started at 145 and benching 205 for one rep, his progress was phenomenal. Plus 200 pounds crammed on a 5’6 frame was a fuck ton of muscle. He had grown a short gingery beard and more than one person had mistakenly identified him as Flex Lewis, the reigning 212 Mr. Olympia.
Not that Frank had been slacking. He had put on 40 pounds of muscle and at 265 pounds he looked like a walking brick shithouse. Everyone assumed he was competing and when he disabused them of the notion the inevitable response was “Why the hell not?!!” He would just shake his head and reply:
“Not big enough. Not yet.”
As for me…
Well, I quite surprised. At my age gaining 5 or 10 pounds a year is a big deal. How I’d managed 30 pounds in six months was a mystery but I put it down to the Blake Effect. The boy ate everything I put in front of him and everything I put in front of him turned into muscle. And every 5 pounds of muscle he gained inspired me to come up with new and better and bigger meal plans for him! I was, more or less, eating the same thing, as was Frank, so I guess spillover was inevitable. Still, 5’10 and 320 pounds of muscle, with less than 10% body fat, walking through the convention center halls was a sensation in its own right. I heard the whispers: Was he Brad Hollibaugh? No, he had hair. Was he Thom Austin? No, he was too short. How about…
“Derek Harcourt,” I would say, extending my thick, muscular, vein-covered paw. “Nice to meet you.”
And then we would have a nice conversation about the fact that, no, I wasn’t a competitor. In fact, had never competed. But they really needed to check out my friends Frank and Blake, both of whom would be competing in the next year. Before our trip was over both of them had contracts with supplement companies, which was pretty freaking unbelievable for a couple of guys who had never competed!
The last night Frank went off wherever to do whatever hulking straight bodybuilders do while Blake and I visited the Columbus Eagle. We were as much or more of a hit than we had been on the convention center floor. I’d bought him a pair of custom-chaps and a harness and, me oh my, can we say party favor?!
He lapped it up and I let him pick who was going back to the hotel with us, which turned out to be three twinks and a musclebear. He watched me fuck the twinks and HE fucked the musclebear. Then it was my turn to fuck Blake, which resulted in the twinks and the musclebear spewing over both of us.
“Hottest night of my life,” the musclebear said, as he was leaving. And considering he was 6 ft. and 280 pounds of off-season furry muscle, he must have seen a few! I lifted him off the floor and gave him a big, back-cracking hug, and instructions for him to look us up the next time he visited our town.
A month after the Arnold Blake and Frank both entered the Indy Pro / Midwest Battle of Champions where they won their pro cards in the 212 and men’s open superheavyweight class respectively. Steve Kuclo looked like he didn’t know what hit him. It was 5’10 and 275 pounds of muscle named Frank, shredded down to 2% bodyfat. Same for the 212 competitors; Blake wiped the floor with them.
Over the next four months, they both had exploded in size. Blake hit 250, with 23 inch arms, and people started saying he wouldn’t be able to compete in the 212 class, he was too big, no way he could make weight and retain those proportions. He was exactly 100 pounds heavier than the day he benched 205 and by that time he was putting up 750 for reps. (And I was richly amused when we ran into Derek Lunsford, the 21 y.o. Mr. USA who was gunning for Flex Lewis’ title. I thought the kid was going to shit himself. Frank, meanwhile, had hit 310 and was mighty pleased with himself for having benched 1005 pounds for one rep – raw.
And now we were on a plane leaving Vegas, headed home. Blake had proved the naysayers wrong. He hit the Olympia 212 stage weighing 211 pounds at 2% body-fat with a 52-inch chest, 27-inch waist, and 22-inch arms. Flex Lewis had expected to go out on a high note. He didn’t expect to have his ass handed to him in a basket.
As for the Open Class: Poor Phil Heath was literally crying when he walked off the stage. “Where the fuck did this guy come from?” Frank was 295 pounds with the same proportions as Dorian and Ronnie at their peak and more conditioned than that freak Canadian, Iain Valliere, cuts on tops of cuts. No one had ever seen anyone on the Olympia stage that big and that conditioned.
Meanwhile, I had surprised myself again. And again I think it was the Blake Effect. Or maybe the Blake / Frank effect. Watching my straight lifting buddy and my gay lifting buddy lover explode with muscle made me redouble my efforts. I packed on another 40 pounds of muscle. 360 pounds of fur-covered muscle is, well, noticeable. Especially when there’s a 10-inch dick attached.
I got noticed.
I met with the Colt representative the morning after Blake’s win. $100K for a photo shoot? Five photo shoots per year?
I’ll get back to him.
Tell me what you think!