Bull and Alan were having lunch at the world’s best delicatessen, Sherman’s on East Tahquitz Canyon Way in Palm Springs.
At 34, Bull (actually, Roger Winston Alexander III) lived up to his nickname and then some. He stood 6’2” tall and weighed in at 290 pounds, all muscle. With his buzzed brown hair, big thick Fu Manchu ‘stache, and impossibly big, thick, dense muscles (58 inch chest, 23 inch biceps, 32 inch waist, 33 inch quads), he looked like a bouncer.
The cop shades, the white sleeveless tee, and the track pants completed the look but you’d have to be down under the table to see the real reason for his nickname, the big hunk of kielbasa that was never less than eight inches, even soft, and popped up to 11 inches when excited. To show off his physique, he was smooth as silk from the neck down, a process (given Bull’s natural hirsuteness) that took the better part of an hour to complete each day.
Big as a horse, strong as an ox, hung like a bull had been Bull’s motto since he was a teenager. He swore he’d live up to it and he’d done so in spades.
Alan, 50, wasn’t nearly as big or built or hung as Bull, whom he’d known since Bull was just a pup, but he had his own gravitas. Standing 5’11, he carried a solid, well-proportioned 230 pounds on his frame. Thick salt-n-pepper hair, a Tom Selleck mustache, and a rug of thick black hair (shot through with silver) on his chest, Alan was one fine looking man.
He’d never been in the sack with Bull, even though they were both gay and they both acknowledged an element (a big element) of mutual desire. When they’d met Bull had just turned 18, a big, strong kid who was learning to box and who was finding out he was more interested in bodybuilding. Alan was a worldly 34, a successful gym owner who had competed in bodybuilding in his mid-20s before realizing he had more fun coaching guys (and watching them grow…)
“Helluva chicken salad sandwich,” Bull allowed, as he swilled down his Yuengling.
“I’ll have to try it next time,” Alan answered. “I’ve always said Sherman’s was the best deli on the planet.”
Bull nodded then paused and looked thoughtful.
“There’s something different about it today,” he pointed out. “Still awesome but it has an extra kick to it!”
Alan’s eyes widened.
“A chicken salad sandwich with a kick to it?!” he said, disbelievingly.
Bull reached for the check Sally, their waitress, had left and the two of them headed to the front counter.
“Oh, great,” Alan muttered under his breath.
Right in front of them was the family of three, fussy little girl who was obviously down with a cold, mousey mom who looked really tired, and big over-the-hill blowhard asshole dad.
“I’m tellin’ ya,” the blowhard said, his voice notching up a few decibels. “That chicken salad sandwich sucked! We shouldn’t have to pay for it! What kinda joint are you fucktards running…?!”
Uh oh, Alan thought.
Bull’s big hand landed on the man’s shoulder. They were about the same height but the blowhard probably had 30 pounds on Bull, all of it around his middle.
“Hey, man, that’s no way to talk to Miss Imogene,” Bull said. “And no way to talk in front of your daughter, is it?”
The asshole growled, turned, and—just like that—swung a meaty fist right at Bull’s strong, masculine nose. In an eye blink, Bull’s hand shot out and caught the man’s fist in a steel vise grip.
“I don’t think,” Bull said, spacing out the words, “you really want to do that.”
The man, his face showing intense pain, crumpled up and started sinking to the floor, six inches with every word, until he was on his knees.
“Now don’t you think you want to apologize to everyone, starting with your wife?”
The Missus was wide-eyed and trying not to grin (and a lot prettier when she perked up.) The little girl’s eyes looked like they were gonna pop right out of her head!
“Uh, sorry, hon, sorry Miss Imogene,” the asshole said, from his knees. “I guess my bad morning caught up to me.”
Bull released his grip and helped the man to his feet, then he gave Mom a wink and handed little Megan a York peppermint pattie.
“Hope that’s okay?” he asked the mom, who nodded.
After the trio left, Miss Imogene, 80 if she was a day, came around the counter and gave Bull a big wet one, right on the smacker. It was the second time in 16 years Alan had seen the big man blush.
Walking back to Bull’s pickup, Alan was thoughtful.
“What’s up, Coach?” Bull asked.
“Pup, I know you can take care of yourself,” he said, finally. “There’s nobody stronger and damned few who are even bigger. But someday someone’s gonna have a knife or a gun or a lawsuit on ‘em and it’s not gonna be pretty.”
Bull shrugged his massive shoulders.
“You know the deal,” he said, referring to a fatherless past and a serially-abused mother who’d long since disappeared from Bull’s life. “I can’t stand it.”
“Nor should you,” he agreed. “But it’s not always your fight.”
That night Bull was twice as energetic as usual in the gym, doubling up on sets and hitting new personal bests on all his heavy lifts. He was wired, probably because of the incident at Sherman’s.
Or maybe it was the chicken salad sandwich, he thought. It sure had some kick to it!
Grinning, he finished his workout and headed home.
Surprisingly, he fell asleep instantly and slept like a log, although he dreamed vividly, mostly action adventure dreams in which he was saving the day. Somehow the asshole at Sherman’s turned into in a Minotaur creature who was no match for Bull in terms of size or strength or hungness. And there was on erotic episode in which Alan featured prominently.
Bull woke at 6 a.m., half an hour before the alarm was set to go off, feeling totally jazzed. He leaped out of bed…
And promptly fell flat on his face.
“What the fuck?” he said aloud.
Standing, Bull realized he’d tripped over his own feet, which were looking, well, swollen. As did his hands and arms and chest and…
How totally fucking weird, he thought.
Weirder still, they didn’t feel swollen; they felt, well, fucking pumped! But he never felt pumped in the morning, what was going on?
In the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, it was clear something was different—but surely that was just an optical illusion?
I must be losing my mind, he thought. Or maybe I need to get my vision checked.
One way to find out: Bull stood on the industrial-strength scale, the kind that could take up to 400 pounds. He looked down at the number.
How could that be?
He gained nearly 15 pounds overnight?!
WTF was going on?
“I really don’t know what to think,” Bull told Alan as the two exited the Rock Garden Cafe [Sadly, long gone at this point – RPJ] on South Palm Canyon. It wasn’t Sherman’s but maybe the next best thing and lunch had been satisfying (and large.)
“I’ve put on another 5 pounds in the past week,” he continued. “And I wasn’t trying. Haven’t changed a thing about my diet or training but there ya go.”
Alan nodded his head. He was a puzzled as his younger friend. At 310 pounds of rock-solid muscle, Bull was noticeably bigger than he’d been a week ago. Suddenly Bull stopped stock still and Alan had to slam on the brakes to avoid running into the big man.
“Oh, for the love of mud,” Bull growled.
Bull was staring at his open-top Jeep, perfectly parked as always, precisely centered in the parking space, exactly the same amount of room on either side. Immediately to the left (driver’s side), however, was a giant Hummer, parked right on its passenger side line. Bull wouldn’t have been able to get between the Hummer and the Jeep if he’d been a 135-pound twink, much less a 310-pound hulk!
“Uh, buddy,” Bull said to the driver, who was passing them in the parking lot, “think you could take a minute there to straighten her up?”
The driver was one of the few guys on the planet who made Bull look, well, kinda little. He stood about 6’6 and probably 350 pounds, mostly soft but still big enough to make a suitable bouncer or some thug’s hired muscle. Given the guy’s bald spot, pony tail, and too-cliched for words Miami Vice duds, Alan’s guess as to the guy’s profession was probably spot on!
“Whadda fuck?” the guy growled. “I’m late for lunch. Deal with it.”
Bull gave the guy The Look, then nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I will.”
Naturally, there were three empty spaces to the left of the Hummer whereas the three to the right of the Jeep were full.
Bull went to the front of the Hummer, put his hands under the bumper, squatted, and HEAVED. He walked the front of the big truck four paces to the left and let it drop.
Meantime, the thug had turned around.
“Whadda fuck are you doin’ with my truck?!” he bellowed.
Bull raised an eyebrow and calmly headed to the back of the Hummer where he repeated the process.
Then he turned and faced the low life.
“You told me to deal with it,” he pointed out. “I did.”
The thug bellowed and rushed Bull, who easily stepped aside. The dumb ass bounced off his own truck and landed on his ass.
Bull reached down and picked the guy up—with one hand—and stood him up against the vehicle.
“You really need to watch where you’re going, buddy,” Bull said. Thanks to the work out with the Hummer, Bull’s massive 25-inch biceps were totally pumped. Still dazed, the thug couldn’t focus on anything else.
“Yeah, you rest there for a while,” he said. “I’m sure lunch can wait!”
Heading back to Alan’s condo, Bull’s big meat was hard as a rock. It kept bouncing against the steering wheel!
“Uh, pup,” Alan said. “You remember what I told you last week?”
“Old son,” Bull replied. “I sure do! And I know you’re right. But that was so fucking hot!”
At the condo, Bull hesitated. Normally he’d come in and have a beer and then cool off in Alan’s lap pool but today…
“You coming in or what?” Alan asked.
Bull looked flustered.
“Uh, I don’t think I’d better,” Bull said. “I don’t think we’re ready for that.”
Alan gave him a look.
“Ready for the pool?!”
Bull looked at Alan…hungrily.
“Not what I had in mind, Big Guy,” Bull said. “Big Guy” was what Bull had called Alan when they first met.
Alan saw that Bull’s shorts were still tented.
“Oh,” he answered. “I see.”
Before Alan could say anything else, Bull fled. He felt like a pimple-faced 14 y.o. fleeing a school dance when the only girl he could get up the nerve to ask to dance laughed at him. At home Bull beat off furiously but every time he came close the intensity kicked up another notch. When he finally climaxed his hot jizz hit the ceiling with eight audible smacks.
“Fuck me,” Bull said, and fell sound asleep.
“Christ,” Bull said, stepping on the digital scale. “I knew it.”
Alan couldn’t believe how much bigger Bull had gotten in just a couple of weeks. The Saturday after their run-in with the inconsiderate driver, Bull powered through a mind-blowing workout at Gold’s Palm Springs, setting personal bests (and new gym records) in all his lifts. Afterwards, Alan joined Bull in the locker room for a measuring session…
Height: 6’2” (still…)
Weight: 330 pounds (up 40 pounds since their visit to Sherman’s)
Chest: 66 inches
Biceps: 26½ inches
Waist: 34 inches
Quads: 38 inches
Calves: 25 inches
“Fuck me,” Bull said. “I’m huge!”
If only! Alan thought.
Bull was wearing only a large fluffy white towel. It really left nothing to the imagination, especially now that Bull’s 11-inch python was waking up.
Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me
They had quite the little audience in the locker room, all big studs, competitive bodybuilders and powerlifters and porn stars, all thinking the same thing.
“It’s time to get out of here,” Bull said.
Back at Alan’s place, Bull sat shirtless on the sofa, his big size 14 feet up on Alan’s granite coffee table (he’d been shy about it in the past until Alan said, “It’s what it’s there for!”), his monstrous muscles appearing carved from the same rock as the coffee table, staring out the French doors at Alan’s pool. He sighed, causing the mind-blowing mass of his mammoth chest to rise and fall in a way that brought a cold sweat to Alan’s brow.
“Old son,” Bull said, “have you ever thought about…?”
Ah, Alan thought, here it is.
Bull cleared his throat.
“You know,” he said. “You and me…”
Alan didn’t hesitate.
“I’ve thought about it many time, Pup,” Alan said. “When you were young, I thought you were too young. When you were grown up, I thought I was too old.”
“You’re a fucking sex god,” Bull said. “Sex gods don’t get old.”
Bull stood up, walked over to Alan, wrapped his quad-sized arms around his much smaller mentor, and kissed him square on the mouth.
“Bull…” Alan said, moaning softly.
Bull let go of Alan and tousled his salt-n-peppa hair.
“When you’re ready, old son,” he said. “When you’re ready.”
That night they went to Spike, the new leather bar in Cathedral City. Alan wore jeans and a harness that showed off his beefy pecs, flat stomach, and his luxuriant silvery mane of chest fur. Bull was in full leather. Studded leather jockstrap, ass-less leather chaps, and a brief leather vest that accentuated his gargantuan pecs and the massive drop from his chest to the eight concrete block that made up his mid-section. He’d spent an hour shaving himself down and then slicking himself up. Roman gladiators would have taken one look at his beastly proportions and wet themselves.
The bar wasn’t much different, except for the two unruly patrons. They were young, probably late 20s, and big, built boys, as tall as Bull or taller, and easily 250 pounds each. Aside from Bull, they were the biggest guys in the bar—and they were both smoking these big, smelly, obnoxious stogies, even though there were no smoking signs all over the place and a perfectly good patio 10 feet away. Alan’s eyes watered.
“God,” he said to Bull. “They both look good enough to eat but they sure as hell fucking stink!”
Bull clenched his massive fists, which didn’t go unnoticed on Alan’s part.
“Now, Bull,” Alan said. “Remember what I told you.”
“Oh, I remember.”
He strode over to the two muscleheads.
“Ya know, fellas, the reason there’s a no smoking sign up there is that some people in here have allergies and stuff and big old stogies like that might set off an asthma attack…”
The big blond laughed.
“So who fucking cares?” he barked. “Do you have asthma?”
The other one, the guy the buzzcut and the green eyes, chortled.
“Yep, Cliff, I bet this one has asthma alright. Or maybe it’s his little buddy there,” he said, waving his stinker at Alan.
Bull just shook his head.
“Fellas, no need to get all uppity,” he pointed out. “Just take ‘em right out there. Hell, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? It’s gonna take more than that to get us out there, old man, ain’t it, Todd?”
Todd, the one with the brown hair, opened his mouth…
And found Bull’s hand wrapped around his throat, holding him up in the air, six inches off the ground. He grabbed Bull’s steel-girder wrist with both hands and looked around wildly. That’s when he noticed that Bull had Cliff in his other hand. He was holding the two of them, more than 500 pounds of beef, as if they were rag dolls.
Outside on the patio, Bull threw the two of them down on the bench surrounding the fountain.
“You guys need to learn a little respect,” Bull said. “You think you can do that on your own—or am I gonna hafta learn ya?”
The two meatheads were out the gate like a shot, headed for the parking lot.
Alan wrapped his arms around Bull’s waist.
“I think you need to stay with me tonight,” he said.
Bull hugged the man who’d made him what he was.
“I reckon I do, old son.”
They headed home.
Alan dreamed that he was camping at the base of a mountain, its bulk blotting half the stars from the sky. His tent was pitched in the lee of a fallen tree trunk, nearly as thick as he was tall. A campfire at his feet, Alan felt warm and secure—then the tree trunk moved!
Awake, Alan saw sunlight dancing on the wall of his patio and then he noticed that Bull’s massive arm was draped across his waist and that Bull’s massive cock was nuzzling Alan’s thick, firm ass.
Damn, he thought. That was some dream!
He had to pee badly (Of course! The campfire!) He tried extricating himself from Bull’s embrace…To no avail! It was like trying to move a sequoia (the tree, not the truck.)
“Mmm, Pup,” he said, softly. “I need to get up.”
Bull snorted and mumbled…and snuggled up tighter!
“C’mon, boy, lemme go,” Alan continued. He was beginning to feel desperate! Bull purred contentedly…and didn’t let go!
“Bull!” Alan barked, loudly this time. “Get your big paws off me, ya goofus, or I’m gonna wet the bed!”
Bull growled like a grizzly bear and then sat up.
“Holy Mother of God,” Alan said when Bull did so. He nearly wet himself right there.
Bull shook his head, rubbed his eyes, then s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d!
“Jesus Christ,” Alan said. “Pup, you grew again!”
Bull opened his eyes and looked at Alan.
“How can you tell?”
By then Alan was already in the bathroom, pissing like a racehorse.
“Come take a look,” he said, over his shoulder.
Bull shambled into the bathroom, stood behind Alan, and glanced at the mirrored bathroom wall.
“Holy fuck,” he muttered.
He was huge! Next to him, Alan looked like a little kid! Bull casually lifted his right arm and flexed—it had to be pushing 30 inches!
“Step on the scale,” Alan said. “You’ve gotta be 10% bigger than you were last night.”
Almost 10% exactly, it turned out. Bull had gone to bed weighing 330 pounds. He was now 365 pounds!
“Old son,” Bull said, licking his lips. “You gotta measure me.”
And so they did.
Chest: 73 inches (just an inch less than Bull was tall…)
Biceps: 29 inches
Waist: 36 inches
Quads: 43 inches
Calves: 29 inches
Neck: 29 inches
“Fuck me,” Alan said.
“I know, right?” Bull said. “It’s totally fucking amazing! And I have no idea how it’s happening.”
Alan shook his head.
“That’s not what I meant, Big Man,” Alan said. “Fuck me!”
Bull’s eyes widened.
“Are you sure? I thought…”
Alan put his thick meaty hand on Bull’s burgeoning tool.
“I want it,” Alan said. “I need it. You’re the biggest fucking man on the planet now and you’re gonna fuck me first!”
And so they did.
A week later Bull and Alan walked into Gold’s Palm Springs to find a bit of a ruckus going on. Three hot young studs were bogarting the squat rack—doing curls, for God’s sake!—and giving Con and Tracy, together one of the gym’s more flamboyantly gay couples, grief about their growing impatience.
“Well, I just don’t know what to think?” said the first jock, doing a creditable Bette Davis impersonation. Like the others, he was early 20s, about 6’2”, a black kid with an insanely sculpted torso (and no legs.)
“I think the ladies are PMSing,” said the second. He was shorter, about Alan’s height, a stunning Latino with a flawless complexion, a razor-sharp chinstrap beard, mile wide shoulders (and no legs.)
“Fwah fwah fwah,” said the third one. He wasn’t nearly as well built as the other two (no legs either!) but he had a nice bulge in his shorts and he was obviously loaded. And white.
“Well,” Alan said. “You at least have to give them points for diversity.”
Bull tapped the first kid, Jamal, on the shoulder.
“Mind if I work in with you guys?”
Jamal and the other two—Marco and Blake—whipped around, eager to put someone else down…and dropped their jaws instead.
“Oh my god!”
“Yer fucking huge!”
“Uh, we’re just doing curls!”
Bull had put on another 15 pounds since his fuck session with Alan. At 380 he was as big as any two of the dweebs hassling Con and Tracy, who were friends from way back.
“Oh, yeah, curls are good,” Bull said. “Tell you what, let me do a set and then if you can handle the weight, fine, and if not we’ll give the rack over to my friends here, okay?”
The three blanched.
“Uh, well, sure, Mister, whatever you say…”
Bull nodded at Alan who stripped off the quarters the kids had been using and then started adding on the 45s—four on each end.
“Hey, Tra,” Bull said. “How much are you squatting these days?”
Tracy, a 5’8”, 235-pound blond furball—and competitive powerlifter—answered quick as a shot…
“455 for reps, Big Man.”
“That’s what I thought,” he added. “Old son, put those quarters back on please.”
Alan did so.
“Hey, uh, ‘Big Man,’ we didn’t say nothin’ about squattin’, did we?” Blake said.
Bull wrapped his monster paws around the bar, lifted it, and started pumping out curls, rep after rep.
“You’re right,” he said, not even pausing for breath. “We didn’t.”
At the end of 20 reps, Bull re-racked the weight.
“You fellas wanna give it a shot?” Bull asked, casually shaking out his now fully pumped, 31 inch biceps. “Or maybe you wanna volunteer to help me with some single arm curls?”
He took Jamal in one hand, Marco in the other, and started pumping them up and down. Blake squealed like a school girl, ran out of the gym, hopped into his Maserati and tore out of the parking lot, all while Bull continued to curl the jerks up and down.
“Uh, Bull,” Alan said. “I think that’s enough. They’re turning blue!”
Bull dropped the punks, who crumpled to the floor like laundry bags. He bent over them, an event akin to a solar eclipse.
“And about that homophobic shit,” he said. “This here is my husband, Alan, and he doesn’t take kindly to that kind of rhetoric. I think it would be a good idea if you refrained from it, don’t you?”
Jamal and Marco, rubbing their necks, nodded their heads.
“Okay, you can get out of here now,” Bull continued. “Go on—scoot!”
Bull turned to Con and Tracy.
“And, yes, I know, you could have dealt with that just as easily as I did,” he said, semi-apologetically.
“But you enjoy doing it a lot more than we do,” Con said, smirking. Tracy, laughing his head off, had no words to contribute.
On their way home, Alan said.
“Do you suppose…?”
Bull shrugged his mountainous shoulders.
“Am I gonna grow again? Beats the hell out of me!”
Alan dreamed that he was on a sailing ship in a fierce storm, the deck pitching up and down, trying with all his might to retain his balance. On occasion the rocking motion would let up but as soon as Alan began to feel he’d regained his balance it would start up again. And then, just as it occurred to him that he really needed to pee…
Alan landed on a floor in a heap, tangled in covers and half-buried by the California king mattress that had been dislodged by the now totally demolished bedframe. From the other side, Bull continued to snore softly.
Quietly, Alan disentangled himself and crept slowly to the other side.
“Holy fucking Jesus,” Alan exclaimed.
“Huh, what?” Bull sat up, his shoulders, now a good four-feet across, knocking over the bedside lamp and sending it crashing to the floor.
“You’re huge!” Alan said, pointing at the beast in front of him.
Bull rubbed his eyes with his great grizzly mits.
“Babe, I’ve been huge for a while now,” he said, yawning. “What are you on about this time?”
Alan made an effort to pull Bull to his feet but it was no good – the big man was too big for him!
“Just come look,” he said. Bull stood up and joined Alan in the bathroom where he saw…
A gorilla crossed with a bull. Or maybe an elephant crossed with a water buffalo. He’d been huge before – now he was gigantic!
“Holy fucking Jesus,” Bull said.
Alan thwacked him and his boulder-sized left deltoid.
“Stop stealing my lines!”
Instead Bull casually flexed his right arm.
“Holy fucking Jesus!” they exclaimed together and Alan went looking for the tape measure, the extra-long one he’d ordered the week before. The results astounded them both:
Biceps: 36 inches!
Chest: 90 inches!
Waist: 45 inches but it looked a lot smaller, given the monstrous size of Bull’s pecs.
Quads: 52 inches!
Calves: 34 inches!
“This is insane,” Alan said. “You must have gained 50-60 pounds overnight!”
It took them a while to find a scale – at a veterinary clinic, it turned out – that could accommodate Bull’s size. Alan had underestimated Bull’s weight gain. In some miraculous fashion he’d put on 70 pounds of solid muscle…in one night!
“450 pounds,” Bull said, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t really believe it.
For lunch they went back to Sherman’s where it had all started.
“I’ll have the chicken salad sandwich, the one with the extra kick,” Alan told Sally.
Bull shook his head.
“Pastrami on rye,” he said. “No more chicken salad for me!”
When they got ready to go they were accosted by a handsome tall man, well-muscled but on the slender side, as you would expect a triathlete to be, with a vivacious-looking, well-dressed wife, and a totally adorable daughter.
“You’re the one!” the man said. “The one with the chicken salad sandwich!”
The penny dropped! It was the guy who’d chewed out Miss Imogene the day Bull had started his insane growth.
“I just want to shake your hand,” the man said. “That was the best wake-up call I ever had. I was so wrapped up in my own crap I was being a jerk to everyone.”
His wife laughed.
“You sure were, hunny,” she said. “But not anymore!”
She stood on tiptoes and kissed Bull on the cheek, much to his surprise! The last woman to have kissed him on his cheek was his momma when he went off to college!
“Thank you SO much,” she said. “He’s the man I always knew he could be, thanks to you!”
Alan was smirking as they headed to Gold’s.
“What?!” Bull demanded.
Alan just chuckled.
“I guess I had less to worry about than I thought,” he pointed out. “Perhaps that temper of yours is good for something after all!”
At Gold’s they were amazed to find Con and Tracy training Jamal and Marco, two of the three jerks who’d been bogarting the squat rack to do curls. They were in the squat rack again, only this time Con and Tracy were busting their balls making them do squats. The two young punks squealed like school girls when they saw Bull and Alan.
“Mr. Alexander, Mr. Krisel!” the two exclaimed and hurried over with Con and Tracy following behind, big shit-eating grins splitting their handsome faces.
Bull and Alan looked at each other.
“Mr. Alexander?” Alan asked.
“Mr. Krisel?” Bull replied.
“Mr. Con and Mr. Tracy told us,” Jamal said. “Marco and I talked it over last night and we agreed that it was time to drop that idiot Blake and get serious with building our bodies.”
Marco nodded his head.
“All that homophobic crap was getting to be a bit much, especially since Blake is like, y’know, the biggest bottom in California,” Marco agreed. “Maybe someday we’ll be as big and sexy as you guys are!”
None of them seemed to notice that Bull was now nearly 20% bigger than he’d been the day before. It was like he’d always been a mountain, his own San Jacinto, as it were!
“I gotta tell ya,” Alan said, when they’d finished Bull’s mind-blowing workout. “There’s something really odd about all of this.”
“You’re telling me,” he replied. “I can’t imagine what’s next!”
Alan shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head back and forth.
“Uh, well, I know you’re done with ‘em but I gotta tell ya – I’m totally craving a chicken salad sandwich right about now.”
Bull arched an eyebrow.
“You think so, huh?”
Alan nodded. So they went back to Sherman’s. And there was the big guy with the Hummer and the two young dudes with an overly strong fondness for stinky cigars.
“It’s them!” the big guy cried, rushing to Bull and throwing his long arms around Bull’s impossible thick neck. Even at 6’6”, the guy’s arms couldn’t reach around Bull’s mammoth chest.
“Daddy!” the two young guys cried, crushing Alan between their two hot bodies.
Once again, Bull and Alan were totally flummoxed. The story was garbled but it turned out that Curtis, the big guy, had been at Spike the night Bull had put Cliff and Todd, the young guys, in their place. Turned out all three lived in the same condo complex and having seen the error of their ways had decided it was time to get big and freaky and be polite and model citizens and “all that shit.” Bull and Alan looked at each other. It occurred to both of them that the three might still have a ways to go with “all that shit.” But still…
“I don’t usually believe in happy endings,” Alan said that evening, as he was fucking Bull’s lights out.
“Mmf, mmf, mwoof,” Bull replied, answering through the pillow he was biting.
Alan had had ten chicken salad sandwiches at Sherman’s and he was feeling, well, spunky.
“Come again?” Alan said.
Bull wiggled his massive glutes.
“Okay, then,” Alan said. “And a one and a two…”
Bull dreamed that he was on a cruise ship passing a line of tropical mountains, the soft, warm, sweetly-scented breeze filling him with contentment…