Twink fucker

Peter had predicted correctly. By the time I graduated from Worthington three years later I was up to 240 pounds, all muscle. I had won local and state contests and was working my way through the regionals.

I had fucked my way through the twink population of Worthington but I never managed to snag a boyfriend. Just about the time I thought maybe “this was one” he—whoever he was at the time—would inform me, “You know, I really get off on your muscles but, seriously, you’re too fucking big!”

That changed when I met Jamie, who was 5’8 and all of 135 pounds sopping wet. At the time I was spending half my working life as a personal trainer at one of the suburban location of a nationwide health club chain, the other half two doors down at a supplement shop. Jamie walked into Health Hut and my eyes lit up immediately. Quite aside that he was Size Perfectly Fuckable, he had wavy dark hair, big green eyes with long dark lashes, pouty red kissable lips, dimples and a cleft in his chin.

He was gorgeous.

“Oh My God,” he said, walking up to the counter. “You’re fucking huge!” That was all the entrée I needed. I can tell when it’s a “bro” admiring my gains, when it’s a fellow “mo” lusting over them! “And you’re fucking gorgeous,” I replied, sticking out my big paw. “What I can do for you?”

You can imagine the banter that followed but when we got down to business he was interested in protein powder and stuff like that. He wanted to “get bigger,” even though he knew that for him adding another 10-15 pounds would be a stretch.

“Look,” I said. “I can sell you all kinds of stuff but unless you’re going to a gym on a regular basis and eating like you mean it, none of it is really going to any good.” Then I handed him my card for Fitness Asylum and said I would hook him up with a personal trainer if he had any interest. “But what if I want you to be my trainer?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. I chuckled. “That kind of training is not the sort of thing I do at Fitness Asylum!”

And that’s how it started.

We had our first date (touring the local botanical garden) that weekend. Naturally, it was our first sex, too, and it was every bit as good as I expected. For a little guy he had a big fucking dick and he knew how to use it. And he couldn’t get enough of my body or my hairy chest / abs / legs / forearms.

A month later, we moved in together and it worked, it just fucking bloody worked. His job was in tech and he was able to shift his schedule around so that we had the same days off. We did everything together except for working out. That was just pointless. I curled more than he weighed, after all. But that didn’t stop him from showing up for my workouts, egging me on, helping change plates, schmoozing with the other big guys who came to watch me lift. They all knew he was my boy and with his dazzling personality they all fell in love with him, one way or another, even the straight ones. At home, he never got enough of me, nor me of him.

“You’re such a fucking man!” he would say, over and over again, until I would grab his thick nine-incher and remind him that, boy or no, he was still my man. And that wasn’t the end to his pleasure. He loved it when we walked down the street together. Next to me he looked like a little kid. “It’s like I have my own personal bodyguard,” he would say.

But sometimes it seems like nothing lasts.

A year after we’d been together I was up to 252 pounds—and he was just barely nudging 140. At the two year mark he had made it all the way up to 145 pounds—and I 264. Three years into it he finally reached 150 pounds. At that point I was 277 on any given day, closing in on being twice his size.

“Woo hoo!” I said. “Congrats! You have worked really, really hard and it’s paid off. I never thought…”

WARNING! WARNING! AWOOGAH! AWOOGAH! DIVE! DIVE!

“No, you never did think I’d get here, did you?” he said, sarcastically. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. “That’s nuh, nuh, not what I said!” I protested. He snorted. “But it’s what you meant,” he replied, and then he muttered something. I frowned in concentration and then I made the biggest mistake of all: I asked him to repeat what he’d just said. “You fucking freak,” he growled.

Oof!

Definitely not what I wanted to hear.

“Jamie,” I said. “I don’t know where this is coming from. I am proud of you and I think anyone would agree that I have always been supportive of you. It’s not my fault…” He interrupted again. “No, it’s not your fault that you’re twice my size,” he agreed. “But you are.” I spread my hands. What was I supposed to do about it? As it turned out, there was nothing to do.

He moved out the next day.

I spent a long time licking my wounds. I poured myself into the gym. A year after Jamie left I broke the 300-pound barrier, quit my job and started competing professionally. About every other month or so I would head out to a club, often in a city I was visiting, and find a likely twink, the skinnier and more air-headed the better. I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I was just looking to fuck someone’s brains out and there was a long line of guys happy to have me do it, even though now I was most likely twice their size or more.

So there I was in Atlanta at Spike, a club that couldn’t quite decide whether it wanted to be a leather bar or a dance club, wearing shit-kicker boots, custom-made leather pants, a leather vest that on my torso looked like a couple of scraps, and bootstraps with armbands (yes, left and right.)

It was the offseason so I had dispensed with razors and, in addition to my standard well-trimmed beard, I was furry a fuck. You know that Louisiana stud, Caleb Something or Other? The one who does the photo shoots with Oleg Ullabor? Add a full head of thick hair and about another hundred pounds of muscle and that would be me.

The meatheads were standing, as they often do, at one end of the bar. You ever notice how gay guys tend to flock to other guys who fit the same overall pattern? The tall guys with the tall guys, the short and fluffy with the short and fluffy, the big bears with the big bears, right on down the line. It always struck me as 7th grade all over again. Amazing to think we overcome all the shit the straights throw at us in our adolescence and as soon as we get out on our own we turn right around and recapitulate it.

I mean, really, What the Fuck?

Without thinking, I headed toward the twink corner. My arrival was kinda like a Bald Eagle or a Condor or some other Raptor landing among a flock of pigeons. Some of them gasped, a couple looked like they were going to faint, and most of them chattered away aimlessly, like so many chickens. I scanned the room, from the twinks to the bears to the preppies to the meatheads and…

There.

Standing under a light, all by himself. Skin-tight UnderArmour shirt and a pair of black denim shorts that encased a prodigious set of quads. Sandy brown hair, cut short, clean-shaven, handsome face, short, and built like a brick shit house. I wandered over and stuck out my hand.

“Aubrey Jenkins,” I said.

He nodded.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied. “I know!”

I chuckled. “You have an advantage over me,” I said, resting my big paw on his broad, meaty shoulder. Up close he was clearly no more than 5’5 but he must have weighed 200 pounds, all of it muscle.

“Brent Avery,” he replied. I looked him up and down. “Awesome physique,” I pointed out. “Do you compete?” He grinned, flashing some beautiful white teeth. “I’ve done a couple of local shows,” he replied. “But nothing big time, of course. I like my day job too much to want to do it professionally, like you do.”

I looked him up and down again.

“That’s too damned bad,” I said. “You could clean up!” He shook his head. “At my height I would have to compete in the 212 class,” he pointed out. I cocked an eyebrow. He continued: “That’s too small, from my point of view. I want to get bigger. LOTS bigger!”

It was my time to grin.

“A man after my own heart,” I said. Then I explained Aubrey’s Algorithm—namely, that if you want to compare the physiques of guys of disparate heights, add or subtract 10 pounds for every difference in height. “So if you were my height, 5’11, you’d be about 260,” I said, after he’d told me how much he weighed. “Which is funny,” he replied. “Because if you were six inches shorter you’d be my height and 260 pounds. And I call it ‘Brent’s Benchmark,’ just FYI!”

We laughed.

“But there’s a key difference between you and me,” he pointed out. “Oh, what’s that?” He rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. “You’re a twink fucker and I’m not a twink!”

Blink! Blink! Blink!

“How the hell…”

He snorted. “C’mon, Big Man,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you.” I thought about it, then leaned down and whispered in his ear. “My reputation notwithstanding, my dick is the only opinion that counts and right now it’s hard as a rock.” He ran his thick, meaty hand over my crotch.

“Yeah, I thought as much,” he said, then reached up and pinched my big hairy amoeba nips. “Your place or mine?”

The sex was incredible, partly because even though I outweighed him by a 120 pounds he was strong as fuck (even though he was only 200 pounds the man could bench 500 pounds for reps) and I didn’t have to worry about holding back.

“Do you want to fuck this twink?” he growled when we were in bed. I flipped him over like he was a sack of feathers. “I don’t see any twinks,” I replied, rubbing my rock-hard pole over his smooth bubble butt. That thing was made out of granite. “All I see is one fucking hot stud.”

He pushed up against me. “Take it,” he said. “Take my hole. Show me what a real man can do.”

Fuck.

He was all of 22, it turned out, but he played my buttons like they were my grandma’s Wurlitzer. A week later I moved to Atlanta.

That was a year ago. In that time and with my guidance and encouragement and some pharmaceuticals, Brent has slabbed on 50 pounds of solid muscle. At 5’5 and 250 pounds of freak muscle, he turns heads wherever he goes and it’s just a matter of time before he decides to turn pro. Spurred by his insane gains, I exceeded all previous growth spurts and added an insane 45 pounds of fucking muscle. Before my most recent contest, I maxed out at 365 pounds at less than 10% body fat.

And you know the rest, of course.

Two months later, I hit the Olympia stage at 330 pounds, the heaviest, biggest, hardest, most ripped, proportionate man to ever mount the posing dais. At the posedown, Heath and Big Ramy and the others just stood back and applauded. They didn’t want to get close enough to me for others to see just how thoroughly out-classed they were.

And Brent was waiting for me in the wings. I can’t wait to get him up to 300 pounds. By that time I ought to be over 400. When he decides to go for it, I will sit out the Olympia that year. If I do, he’ll mop up—and we’ll have two Sandows to go on the mantle, not just one!

“Am I still your little twink boy?” he teases me when we’re in bed. “Your little 250-pound twink?” I just groan. If he wants to be the twink, who am I to tell him otherwise?! Then I let my dick do the talking.

Life is good!