The Myostatin Kid

by Richard Jasper

Johnny is one of those genetic freaks who lacks the gene for myostatin, the protein that regulates muscle growth. Without it, there’s nothing to tell the body to stop growing muscle!

Added: 14 Nov 2020 3,568 words 3,007 views 4.0 stars (2 votes)

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It started six years ago.

Well, that’s not quite right. It actually started when I was born. I’m one of those genetic freaks who is lacking the gene for myostatin, the protein that regulates muscle growth. Without it, there’s nothing to tell the body to stop growing muscle.

Until I was 12, I wasn’t obviously all that different. I wasn’t unusually large or anything. I wasn’t taller, I didn’t weigh more. On the other hand, I was always unusually muscular—and I was enormously stronger than all of my peers. That might have been a problem but even as a little kid I sensed that I needed to be careful with things. In addition to unusual strength I also had unusual balance, coordination, and fine motor control, not to mention quickness. Still, I moved slowly and deliberately, especially when I was around other kids.

By the time I was 12, I was 5’6” tall and weighed 150 pounds; definitely on the big side for 12 but certainly not unheard of. There were plenty of kids (guys and girls) my age who were as tall as or taller than I was, plenty, for that matter, who outweighed me (although they were almost all fat.) None of them, though, had a 44 inch chest, 26 inch waist, 26 inch quads, and 15 inch biceps. (Not many of the guys, for that matter, had a six-inch dick, but I didn’t really find that out until later.)

And none of them could bench press 500 pounds.

I might not have known exactly how strong I was if Mr. Clark hadn’t moved in next door. From the time I was born it had just been me and Mom and Aunt Boo, Mom’s elderly spinster aunt. Mr. Clark was a gym teacher and Mom figured it would be a good thing if I hung out with him. “You’re getting to be a man, Johnny, and there are things Mr. Clark can tell you about being a man that I can’t.” She’d also told Mr. Clark about my genetic anomaly and he was eager to find out what I could do.

Mr. Clark was totally stacked, 5’9 and 250 pounds of solid muscle. He had competed in bodybuilding and powerlifting and it showed. “Let’s see what you can do,” he told me that first day in his garage. And then he kept adding weight and adding weight until I maxed out, 1 single perfect rep at 500 pounds, more than three times my bodyweight. “Johnny,” he said, “You need to be careful around the other kids.”

I laughed. “Mr. C., I’ve known than since I was about 2 years old,” I replied. “You’re gonna help me get big now, right?”

And so he did.

The summer between sixth and seventh grades I grew two inches taller and gained 85 pounds of solid muscle. At 5’8 and 235 pounds, I was just a shade shorter and smaller than Mr. Clark; in other words, I looked like a pro bodybuilder.

No one at Castle Middle School had ever seen anything like me. Fortunately for me, Mr. Clark was the lead gym teacher at Castle, so what to do with me in gym class and so forth wasn’t an issue. Some guys seemed to be inclined to make jokes about my freakish size but then Mr. Clark invited me to demonstrate proper bench press technique for the boy’s. Seeing my massive 22 inch arms shoving nearly 1000 pounds into the air caused the comments to dry up fast.

And so it went. By Christmas I was 5’10 and more than 300 pounds and I could curl Mr. Clark, all 250 pounds of him, for reps—with one arm. By the end of the school year, just in time for my 13th birthday, I was 6 ft. tall and a hulking 400 pounds of muscle. I was 6 inches taller than I had been a year previously and 250 pounds heavier. The day I benched 2000 pounds for 1 rep the Guinness Book of World Records was on hand, duly proclaiming me not only the world’s strongest kid but also the world’s strongest man. They’re the ones who gave me the nickname, “The Myostatin Kid,” which I thought was kinda silly, since I don’t have have any.

“Johnny, I think you’ve gotta face it,” Mr. Clark said after that session.

I raised an eyebrow. I could see he was trying to figure out how to say it but I cut him off at the pass. “It’s okay, Mr. C,” I said. “I can say it out loud. I’m a freak. I’m impossible. And I’m only going to get freakier.” He nodded slowly. “Can you deal?” he asked.

I just grinned and picked up the Olympic bar I’d just used to bench an even ton. I put one hand on each end and squeezed. At first nothing happened and then—scrunch—it was like I was twisting a pretzel.

“I think I can deal,” I replied. “Can everyone else?”
There I was 13 years old, 6 feet tall, and 400 pounds of solid muscle. I was bigger than the biggest pro bodybuilder, I was stronger than the strongest powerlifter, and I had a porn star dick.

I was a freak.

Naturally I hung out with the math nerds and played chess and dungeons and dragons. What else was I going to do? I was too big to play sports with anyone (other than maybe the NFL and they had a rule against middle school walk-on players for some reason!)

That summer I grew another 2 inches taller—and gained another 100 pounds of muscle. I started 8th grade at 6’2 and 500 pounds. People began to realize that they were going to have to come up with a new definition of freaky and I was beginning to realize the same thing. I wasn’t slowing down in the strength department either. Every day I was stronger than the day I was before. Coach estimated I was adding 5 pounds to my bench—every day! Do the math—that comes to an extra 1825 pounds per year!

During the school year my growth rate seemed to slow a bit. By Christmas I had added yet another two inches in height but I’d only gained 75 pounds. Only?! At 6’4, I was 575 pounds of herculean muscle—and I was benching more than 3000 pounds. (And, yes, I say “benching” sort of loosely. We finally figured out a way to rig up a platform system that more or less approximated a bench while providing a stable surface to hold the weights.)

Part of that phenomenal increase in strength was genetic, part of it was pure horniness. The taller I got, the bigger my dick got; the stronger I got, the hornier I got. There were probably some weirdos out there willing to play with my giant cock but, well, ya know, I was 13! I didn’t want to have sex with someone old. And I was pretty much afraid I’d kill any of my friends who might have been willing to try it, especially after Mr. Clark demonstrated to me what a crowbar could do to a watermelon.

By the time the school year ended and my 14th birthday rolled around, I was beginning to wonder if I were really fully human. At 6’6” tall I definitely wasn’t beyond human dimensions but…I was 650 pounds of totally ripped muscle, which made me twice the size of any comparable bodybuilder. I could bench 4000 pounds, more than three times what any other man had even attempted. My 18-inch dick would have made Dirk Diggler green with envy.

“How much more, do you suppose?” I asked Mr. Clark.

“Does it really matter?” he asked in return.

And, no, really it didn’t. It occurred to me that hugeness was my destiny and that destiny made me a freak by comparison to the rest of humanity. I looked at my 50 inch biceps and remembered what it was like to be under the platform with Mini Cooper on top (curb weight 2568 pounds), repping out the way the football jocks would do with a bar and a couple of 45-pound plates on each end.

“I think I’ll manage,” I told him.

The summer between 8th and 9th grades I met my first love, James. He had just moved to town, was the same age, and lived in the next block. I met him when he came to our house and rang the doorbell.

“My God,” he said, when I answered the door, wearing a towel and nothing else. “It’s true!”

My typical smart-ass reply died in my throat as my eyes raked across the young man standing in front of me. “Young man” is hardly an adequate description. Standing before me was a Greek God cast as a blond surfer boy. Six feet even, 200 pounds, big broad shoulders, ridiculously tiny waist, every inch of him sculpted muscle and the kind of implausibly perfect olive-tinted skin that tans under a fluorescent light, much less sunshine. Brilliant white teeth, pouty red lips, long dark eyelashes, and slightly oversized eyes that couldn’t tell if they were blue or green or gray (and, in any event, were too sophisticated for such paltry terms, requiring “aquamarine” or “turquoise” or “jade” instead.)

“You really are the biggest motherfucker who ever lived, aren’t you?” he continued.

I laughed. “Potty mouth,” I replied. And then I lifted him up in my gigantic arms (each of them bigger around than his not insubstantial chest—the guy was a freak for 14!) and tasted that mouth. He melted into the kiss and gave back everything I had to offer and the kitchen sink to boot. “Nope,” I said, finally letting go. “Not a potty mouth!” He looked as dazed as I felt. “More like ambrosia,” he agreed.

And that’s how I acquired my first boyfriend.

As I said, I was fairly terrified that I’d kill anyone I had sex with but James, who was just as much a virgin as I was, was a regular savant when it came sexual gratification (ha ha, I said “came!”) There was no way he was taking my 18-inch log up his perfect bubble butt but by that time my hands were, well, gigantic (think Denis Cyplenkov—then think bigger!) and my fingers, it turned out, were extremely talented.

He was also, like me, totally into muscle and the next day he joined me and Mr. Clark in the gym (a converted airplane hangar) built on royalty checks from Guinness. By the end of the summer James was an inch taller and 75 pounds heavier than he had been to begin with. At 6’1 and 275 pounds of solid muscle, he looked more like a college linebacker than a high school freshman—or a pro bodybuilder! With a 55-inch chest, 22-inch biceps, 30-inch waist, and 30-inch quads, James would have mopped the stage with the likes of Nick Trigili or Steven Frazier.

Of course, by that time I’d hit 6’7½” in my bare feet and tipped the scales right at 800 pounds.

“It must be something in the water,” Mr. Clark muttered at the end of one ferocious workout, the first in which James benched triple his bodyweight (825 pounds!), after which I took the loaded bar from the stanchions and repped out 100 perfect curls.

“You’d like some of that water, wouldn’t you?” I asked, teasingly.

He blushed and then I felt bad. Whatever it was I had—and whatever it was I seemed to be giving James, even in some attenuated fashion—it wasn’t something I could give to Mr. Clark. He sucked it up, though, and never complained, even though he couldn’t always hide a certain glint in his eye that said “but for the grace of God…”

Hard to believe that that was four years ago!

High school was… different.

I know, I know, that’s an inane comment. I suppose I mean it wasn’t what I expected, just based on how I had seen it depicted in movies or read about it in books.

Somehow I managed to be completely free of teen angst. I didn’t feel the need to conform or fit in or anything. But then how could I? I was the biggest teen the world had ever seen. Most teens join cliques, or they’re loners. I was my own clique. Hell, I was my own planet, Jupiter surrounded by a bevy of lesser moons. And I knew that it was, well, high school, for heaven’s sake! I never understood those people whose entire lives were wrapped up in being the homecoming queen or the star quarterback or whatever. If those were the “Glory Days,” as the song says, then God help us all!

The biggest thing was convincing the people that I liked that I was, well, you know, a regular human being. Not interested in playing a role, just interested in being myself, and appreciating smart, funny, down-to-earth people (just like me!) It didn’t help that I was a celebrity. The whole world knew who I was, the whole world wanted part of me. Again, celebrity wasn’t what I expected. I could take it or leave it, and mostly I left it, although I certainly appreciated the royalty checks, especially since they bought a big new house for Mom and Aunt Boo (and Mr. Clark, who surprised all of us by turning out to be straight—and marrying Mom!) I had my own wing in the new place so that James and I (or James and I and whoever…) could do what we wanted without wrecking the place.

I reached a milestone of sorts at the end of the 9th grade, shortly after I turned 15. By then I was up to 6’9” tall…and 1000 pounds of solid muscle. I know, right? Totally ridiculous! But there I was, three inches taller and 350 pounds heavier than I’d been the year before. Are you surprised that my strength more than doubled in that time? Well, you probably saw the YouTube clip. The ESPN segment of me benching 10,000 pounds was the highest rated sports broadcast of all time (well, up until then, at any rate.)

The good thing about celebrity? Aside from the paychecks, that is…

No black helicopters!

I’m sure the Army, the Marines, the CIA, the FBI, Homeland Security, MI6, the KGB, the Mossad, and the Mafiya would have loved to sink their hooks into me. But how were they going to pull it off? The whole world was watching. It would have been like trying to kidnap the Empire State Building!

It scared some people, turned off others. But the ones who stuck around…

Well, there was always James. It was clear from the get go that we were gay, clear that we were a couple. And what was anyone going to do about it?

By the time I was 6’9 and 1000 pounds, James was 6’2 and 350 pounds, all rock solid muscle. There he was 15 years old, a world-class powerlifter (same size as Ryan Kennelly or Derek Poundstone) and built like a really big pro bodybuilder. No, nobody gave us any grief about the fact that we were openly gay, except for a few lamebrain religious nut jobs…and, I guess it wasn’t polite, but we just laughed at them.

We had an eclectic assortment of friends: Band geeks, cheerleaders, the Chess Club, the Latin Club, the Math Club, the Drama Club. Not so much the jocks, although Proctor H.S. had more than its share of really luscious male cheerleaders and they certainly looked like jocks, even if they didn’t always act the part. And then there were the special ones, the ones who became best friends and…

Well, that’s getting ahead.

Let me describe them as they were when we first met, at the beginning of 9th grade.

Tyrone “Ty” Digger: 5’8, 175 pounds, no bodyfat brick shithouse African American wrestler who sang like an angel and was the state high school chess champ, four years running.

Ramon “Ray” Hernandez: 5’7, 140 pounds, trombonist, a drop-dead gorgeous Mario Lopez lookalike behind his gigantic black-framed inch-thick glasses.

Cheol “Call me ‘Chuck’” Song Park: 5’6, 170 pounds, tubby, movie-star handsome Korean heart throb, brilliant pianist, future Math Club president.

Sergei “Call me ‘Steve’” Dmitrov: 6’1, 140 pounds (40 pounds of which resided between his legs), hairiest 14-year-old on the planet, made Sean Hayes seem butch, shoo in for Drama Club president.

How it all came together I’ll never really know. I think James had some spidey sense and corralled them all, one at a time. Or maybe he was putting out pheromones and they were inescapably drawn to him. You’ll note that the four of them together weighed 625 pounds, nearly 200 pounds less than I did. It wasn’t easy bringing them into our bed but James managed it, one at a time, and then in combinations, and eventually all of us in a giant puppy pile (they were the puppies, I was the full-grown Great Dane.)

Everyone else called us “The Pack” but among ourselves we were “The Faglings” and I was the “Faggot-in-Chief.” Yeah, we really weren’t worried much about what others thought!

You know the rest of the story, right?

They grew!

What to do? What to do?

The six of us graduated from high school a few months ago—the six biggest men on the planet.

Ray (aka “Little Buddy”) was the smallest of us at 6’4” tall and 500 pounds, all muscle. Strong little fuck, though, benching 3000 pounds.

Ty and Chuck both topped out at 6’6” tall. At 600 pounds, Ty’s musculature defies comprehension. His body-fat is consistently in the 2% range. Chuck is still “Mister Beefy,” weighing 700 pounds but “tubby” is not a word you hear much in his presence. “Herculean” is more like it.

Compared to the others, Steve, at 6’8, is still the “beanpole,” if you can imagine a beanpole weighing 600 pounds! Certainly his log kept paced with everything else! And then there’s James, sweet baby James. Like Steve, 6’8” tall… and 800 pounds of solid muscle! Next to James, Steve really does look like a beanpole and that differential continues to hold when they whip out their 16-inch dicks (and they’re usually all too happy to oblige); Steve’s is only 10 inches around, James’ 14 inches. Makes a difference!

As for me, well, you’ve seen the pix, no doubt.

7 feet 6 inches tall, 2000 pounds, about the same weight as an adult male bull. Hung like one, too, of course. When fully hard, my poker is 30 inches long, 20 inches in circumference.

I could rattle off my other measurements but they just don’t make any sense. Yes, it’s true that I’m twice as broad as I am tall but that really doesn’t convey the visual impact. Or the fact that despite my humongous size, everything is totally balanced, harmonious, and symmetrical. Somehow along the way my bones have shifted in such a way that everything is accommodated without making me look lopsided or overbalanced.

We weren’t normal men, obviously, not by any stretch of the imagination, so “what to do” loomed large in our collective consciousness. James, as usual, had the answer. “We’ll do what unusual people down through the ages have done,” he said, not long after graduation. “We’ll join the circus!” We all laughed…and then upon sober reflection realized it was the perfect set up!

In fact, the Myostatin Circus was built around us, not us around it. The five of them together weigh just a little more (well, 200 pounds but that’s just 10%) than I do, which makes me the central attraction. What we do separately and together never ceases to amaze and thrill our audiences, especially when the five of them each clean and jerk a car and then I pick up all five of them—plus the cars—with one hand. (And, yes, those rumored “private shows” do in fact exist. If you have a cool million bucks hanging about, we’ll be happy to scheduled one for you!)

The money is rolling end, we get to travel, and our customized trains, planes, and motor coaches are designed to accommodate our needs. What does the future hold? How much bigger will we get? Will people get tired of forking over big bucks to see the biggest, most muscular teens in the history of the world? No way to tell but I can tell you this…

We’re having a blast!

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