Description Our perennial protagonist, Roger, records seven different versions of his first-time same sex encounter. The usual steamy muscle growth fantasies ensue.
|Updated||02 May 2020|
I met Eric when I was a freshman at PJC. We were both working part-time at Montgomery Ward, which was next door more or less, Eric in automotive and I was in lawn and garden where I’d been for the previous year.
Eric was new, so I showed him around and stuff. He was great guy! A couple of inches taller than I was, which had him a little over 6 ft., but skinny as a rail. Turned out we both weighed exactly the same, 140 pounds. Dark, dark, dark skin, huge brown eyes, insanely curly eye lashes, and so cute in his platforms, leisure suit, and mock turtleneck (it was 1976, after all.)
One cold December day (yes, even in Pensacola it can get cold in December) we were both getting off work at the same time and the rain was really coming down. So I offered him a ride home, not at all out of my way since he lived on campus and campus was only a couple of miles from where I lived with my parents, and then…he invited me in! I’d never been in a student apartment before and I was in a bit of a daze taking it all in, the unmade mattress in the middle of the room, the posters, the red-green-black Republic of New Africa flag. We’d gotten kind of soaked running in from the car and Eric had quickly shucked his outerwear. He was standing there in front of his bed, in his briefs and white tank top, playing with the gold chain around his neck.
“You probably ought to dry out before you go home, ya know…”
I looked at him then. He looked back at me.
“Oh,” I thought. “That’s what this is about…”
I shed my jacket, pulled off my shirt, not something I was too fond of doing but after having lost 30 pounds in the past year I was no longer ashamed of my saggy tits.
“I’m as pale as you are dark,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he said, “but look at that beautiful black hair.”
It was true—I had a glossy pelt, at least from mid-chest down.
“You like it?” I asked.
“I want to see yours.”
“I don’t have any fur, I’m smooth as silk.”
“I want to see silk,” I said.
He pulled his tank top off. Hard tiny nipples, washboard abs, the tiniest bit of cleavage between his small firm pecs.
“Damn that’s hot,” I said.
He kissed me. It was hours before we stopped rolling around on that poor beat up mattress, licking, sucking, chewing, poking, prodding, spurting. Eric was 2-3 years older than I was and it was clear he had done this before. But not me. For me, it was the first time.
But not the last, not by a long shot. I moved in with him, much to my parents’ chagrin. We went to class, we went to Montgomery Ward, he went to theatre rehearsals (he wanted to be an actor), and I went to the gym. For such a skinny-minny that boy could really cook and I ate it all up. God did I eat. I always wanted to be big and I figured “no time like the present,” especially with Eric doing the cooking.
We spent three years together, all the way through PJC and UWF. The first year I put on 60 pounds of solid muscle. At 5’11 and 200 pounds of fur and muscle, I was hot and I noticed that when we went out plenty of people seemed to be paying attention to me. But I only had eyes for Eric. He continued to be his svelte self, of course, no matter how often I tried to get him into the gym. He had his “exercises” that he performed religiously but “I don’t want to get too bulky” was his constant refrain. He wanted to model, as well as to act, and the idea of being more than a 40 regular was guaranteed to put him in a funk. By that time I was wearing a 48 athletic and not slowing down.
You can imagine the rest. Two more years, 60 pounds more. By the time we graduated, I was 5’11 and 260 pounds, with a 58 inch chest, 22 inch arms, 34 inch waist, and 32 inch quads. In the summer when I went out wearing skin tight gym shorts and a white wife beater I stopped traffic. When I went to the local leather bar wearing ripped jeans and no shirt, I created a mob scene.
About a year before graduation Eric stopped fucking me—he said my butt cheeks were too big. Not long after that I stopped fucking him, too—he said I weighed too much to be on top of him (and he really wasn’t interested in doing it other ways, on top of me or doggy style…) Which was okay with me (well, sort of), he had a hot mouth and I liked giving head as much as getting it and he was good at giving it (and so was I, thanks!) But eventually…
“Ya know,” he said, about a month before graduation.
I looked at him.
“Uh oh,” I thought.
He wouldn’t look at me, much less look me in the eye.
“The thing is…”
“Eric, it’s okay, babe. I know it’s not working. I don’t really know WHY it’s not working but…”
“It’s simple, Roger, you’re too big.”
My jaw dropped.
“I mean, the muscle is nice, but there’s too much of it. You should have stopped at 180, 200 max. As it is…”
I just stared at him with my mouth open.
“I can’t deal with it. You outweigh me by 120 pounds. We look ridiculous together. I don’t like having a muscle freak for a boyfriend.”
“Well, if that’s the way it is…”
As soon as graduation was over, I packed up my hand-me-down VW Beetle and headed to California. I never saw Eric again.
“Where do you want to go?”
I looked at Greg, my best friend. We’d already hit three bars, all of which were dead, dead, dead.
“NOT the Garter,” I said, referring to Pensacola’s infamous drag bar.
“You know, it’s NOT like they can turn you gay,” he pointed out.
“We’ll go to the beach,” he said.
So there we were at the bar on top of the Holiday Inn Pensacola Beach, listening to canned disco and watching scantily clad girls flirt with airbrushed guys in too tight jeans. And Steve, Greg’s friend and manager of the bar, kept buying me gin and tonics.
“I mean, really,” I said, “I can pay.”
“Don’t be silly,” he replied, “it’s my bar.”
It occurred to me that Steve just might have an ulterior motive. Not that I minded much, he was a cutie, maybe 5’8, maybe 135 pounds, silky blond hair, nice blue eyes, cute little mustache. Nice and lithe and lean, like a dancer maybe.
At 21, I was two (and a half!) inches taller and after three years in the weight room a solid 185 pounds. My delts and pecs filled my red izod polo shirt quite nicely, the banded sleeves pulling tight against my 16 inch biceps (and, yeah, I did about 10 sets of push-ups before going out that evening so they were nice and pumped.)
“Okay,” Greg said finally, “enough of this. It’s time to go home, or to the Garter, you pick.”
I looked at him. I looked at Steve.
“Ya know,” I said, “I think I’m staying.”
Greg laughed his inimitable laugh, a wild cackle that hit just about every note on the scale. Distinctly audible, even over the canned disco, earning him the usual “what the hell was that?!” looks.
“Okay, babe, but it’s a long taxi ride…”
Steve chimed in.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll give him a ride…”
Greg whispered in my here.
“That’s for damn sure. It’s a long damn ride he’s got…”
So there we were back in Steve’s apartment on the beach. Tasteful shag carpeting, expensive tape deck, Sony television.
“Glass of wine?” he asked.
I shook my head. I’d had quite enough by then.
He came over, put his hands on my hips.
“It’s your first time, isn’t it?”
“We’ll have fun,” he said, and helped me pull off my shirt. “Ooh! Me likey! Nothing sexier than fur on muscle and you have plenty of both, young man!”
I blushed, then started pulling at his shirt.
“From what I’ve heard,” I pointed out, “You are the big man around here.”
He pulled it out.
He was already hard as a rock, a good (I learned later) 9 inches long and 6 inches around.
“I hope you don’t think you’re putting that up in me,” I laughed.
And he laughed, too.
“Well, maybe someday, but not tonight. We’ll have practice. I have JUST the place for yours, though.”
Boy, did he ever!
A year later I graduated and Steve got his big transfer, Huntington Beach, California. I went with him, not having a clue what I wanted to do. By that time I was up to 200 pounds and I didn’t seem to be slowing down.
I landed a job working in a new health club, made the pilgrimage to Mecca (Gold’s in Venice), scored my first ‘roids, gained 50 pounds the first year I did them, entered my first contest and came in second, made it on a magazine cover. Steve was delighted with his big, bodybuilder boyfriend and missed no opportunity to fuck my lights out. Of course, it quickly became obvious that he was fucking everyone else’s lights out, too, a source of some tension, until I finally said, “oh, what the hell.”
After three years, it was clear we were more roommates than lovers, different schedules, different sets of friends, different lifestyles really. Great friends, yes, and awesome fuck buddies but eventually we’d go days at a time without seeing each other. When he took his first vacation without me, I realized we weren’t going to retire to Sunnyside Acres together in about 50 years.
“I have news,” he announced one evening when we were both home. I wondered what the bottle of champagne was for!
“I’ve been offered my dream job—sales manager at the Ritz Carlton in Manhattan!”
“Woo hoo, get out! That’s mega cool, babe, I bet living in Manhattan is awesome…!”
“Well, yes, I expect it is but Roger…”
This is it, I thought.
“I really don’t see you living in Manhattan, ya know? You’re totally into this Southern California lifestyle. I don’t know that you’d fit through doors in New York!”
I looked at him, totally serious for once.
“You know I’ll go with you if you want me, too…”
He had the good grace to squirm delicately.
“Don’t make this any harder, darling…”
So that was that…
Truth is, the next 10 years were awesome. Despite all our fucking around, neither Steve (I kept up with him from afar) showed any signs of having contracted that vile disease. It was awful to lose friends, and we both did, and somehow we kept pouring ourselves back into work and career and new relationships (yes, I am the man who broke up Bob Paris and Rod Jackson, what a mess that was!)
The gains kept coming, so did the contests, so did the magazine covers. Creaming Dorian Yates six years in a row was fun and every year Steve sent me a huge congratulations card. One day I was in O’Hare walking from one gate to the next when I heard:
“Oh My God, Roger, is that you?!” followed by Greg’s distinctive trilling. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen him for 10 years, wrapped him up in a big bear hug, and then…
“Well, hey, hey, the gang’s all here!”
It was Steve. Big, Built Steve!
“Jeez, man, you look like a brick shithouse,” I exclaimed.
He had the decency to blush.
“Oh get over it, Mr. Olympia. I’m exactly 200 pounds, not an ounce more.”
I picked him up and twirled him around.
“Which makes you what, 70 pounds heavier than you were the last time I saw you?!”
He giggled and I knew it was true. We headed for the United lounge and sat there drinking gin and tonics, just like the First Time. Soon enough it was time to catch our flights. I wrapped my enormous arms around their necks while an awestruck fan took our pix.
“I’ve missed you,” I whispered in Steve’s ear, then louder: “I’ve missed both of you!”
In first class on my flight back to Los Angeles, I was seated next to a middle aged man, beefy but well kept, obviously in good shape, quite attractive for a man in his late 40s or early 50s. I dozed for a bit, then woke up and as I did so, he turned to me and said.
“So, do you compete?”
A small smile flitted across my face. Another first time, perhaps?
“Why, yes,” I answered, “yes, I do….”
I met him at Holly’s party.
Holly was my next door neighbor and, as I discovered when I went to her party, the queen of Northeast’s foreign student population. Not that she’d ever been out of Louisiana herself, or not much, but she had a thing for foreign boys (perhaps girls as well) and in backwater Monroe, Louisiana they flocked to her like ducklings to their momma. I guess I needed a momma, too, having just landed in Monroe to work for the daily newspaper. I had a tiny one-bedroom, furnished apartment (identical to Holly’s, naturally) and a fiancée back home in Pensacola.
Mohammed was drop dead gorgeous, although not particularly articulate. (Hey, his English was much better than my non-existent Arabic, but that’s not saying a lot!) Just my age, just starting a master’s degree in mechanical engineering, a Jordanian who’d been in the U.S. for all of two weeks. Maybe 5’6, maybe 130 pounds, wavy dark hair, big brown eyes, just the slightest cafe in his perfectly au lait complexion.
We talked for an hour, then it was time for me to go. He followed me outside. I kept talking to him, kept saying how nice it was to meet him. He just stood there, arms at his side, hands jammed in his pocket, mute but a pleading look in his eyes.
“Oh,” I thought.
Well, and why not? I was 22, 5’10½, a rock solid 200 pounds, broad shoulders, big hard pecs, my 17½ inch biceps straining the banded cuffs of my red Izod polo.
“Uh,” I finally said, “would you like to come in and have a cup of hot chocolate?”
The relief that swept across his face was like sunrise after a stormy night. He came in, I made cocoa, we sat on the still new-smelling sofa.
“Roger…” he started.
Jen… I thought.
“Do you work out?” I asked him, changing the subject.
He shook his head.
“Really? You look like you do. You’ve got such a nice lean body.”
“I don’t know how…” he managed to get out.
“Oh, here, I’ll show you some exercises.”
I dropped to the floor and cranked out 100 perfect push-ups. His eyes were bulging by the time I was done. So was another part of his anatomy. I stood up and pulled my shirt off, bouncing my pecs, rolling my abs, giving him a quick double bi.
“Do you like what you see, Mohammed?”
He was speechless. I pulled him up off the couch and pulled his shirt off.
“Oh, yes, look at that, what a mighty fine body you have…”
“It is nothing…”
“Well, this isn’t nothing,” I said, rubbing the big bulge in khaki pants.
I pulled him into the bedroom. He wanted me to leave the lights off but I refused to do so.
“You’re in America now,” I said. “No shame, no more hiding.”
It was his first time. It was mine, too.
“Jen,” I said into the phone, “there’s something I need to tell you. I wish it could wait until I was there but I don’t think it can…”
The conversation with Jen was difficult, to say the least, as is any conversation that begins with…
“I’m gay and I’m coming out.”
Ditto, everyone was furious with me, not just Jen but her parents and MY parents. My dad, of course, helped me land the job (he had been buds with the newspaper’s editor for more than 20 years) and inevitably Mr. B called me into his office.
“I like to think I’ve been doing a good job,” I told him.
“You have,” he acknowledged, “and you have a lot of potential.”
I looked at him.
“Well, ya know, your dad is my friend. He wants me to fix it.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You realize that can’t be done.”
“It’s okay, Mr. B, I’ll figure something out. Just give me a couple of weeks, okay?”
He gave me a severance check for a month’s pay, which considering I’d been working there all of two months wasn’t bad.
Later that afternoon I poured myself into my workout at Goudeau’s, the best gym in Monroe.
“Damn, boy, you’re tearing the equipment apart,” said Tom, one of the trainers.
“I’m not scaring the customers, am I?”
He shook his head.
“Nah, but they’re scaring me. Some of these boys have some major wood going, thanks to you!”
I laughed at that.
“Uh, Tom, I noticed Charles has a ‘help wanted’ sign at the front desk. Ya know what he’s looking for?”
It was his turn to laugh.
“He’s looking for you, dumbass! Of course, it would help if you had experience and/or a degree in exercise science.”
I flexed my 18 inch bicep.
“But that’ll do…”
And so it did. I took up my new job as a trainer / sales consultant at Goudeau’s, making as much or more as I’d been making at the paper. Mohammed moved in with me, went to school, and submitted himself to my tender mercies in the gym.
In terms of growth, we both exploded. By the time Mohammed finished his master’s degree two years later, he was 200 pounds of solid muscle, with 18 inch biceps, a 46 inch chest, a 27 inch waist, and 27 inch quads. At 5’6, he was totally stacked. And I had gained just as much. At 270 pounds, I was the biggest guy at Goudeau’s, bar none, and considering it was the official gym of the Monroe P.D., which had more competitive bodybuilders than any police force of its size in the country, that was saying a lot.
Mohammed’s parents came over for his graduation. Mo never got around to telling them who I was, other than his roommate, and the fact that we shared an apartment with one bedroom never quite seemed to sink in.
“Roger,” he said when they left, “are you ready for Southern California? UCLA is giving me a free ride!”
I smiled. Boy, was I ready!
“I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, Big Man, you know that.”
And so I did.
That was more than 20 years ago and Mo and I are still together, perhaps because we never competed on the same stage together. We both won plenty of contests and our coming out pretty much put the kibosh on any hopes that either of us would ever enter a Mr. Olympia contest, thanks to that old homophobe Joe Weider. Which was fine. I made a fortune in California real estate, Mo has multiple patents to his name. We traded up from that one bedroom apartment more than once, finally deciding that Palm Springs was where we really wanted to be.
We’re popular at Pride fests and why not?
At 5’6, Mo is an awesome 250 pounds of mind-blowing muscle. With his naturally smooth, naturally tanned skin, he’s like a marble sculpture come to life. As for me, there are plenty of musclebears running around but most of them aren’t 330 pounds and most don’t have a 66 inch chest, 33 inch waist, 36 inch quads, and 26 inch biceps.
Who says 50 isn’t fabulous?
I can’t really believe this is happening.
For one thing, he’s 20 years old! For another thing he’s my dog sitter! Did I mention he’s 20 years old?!
Twenty years old and drop dead gorgeous. Sicilian, 5’7 on a good day, all state soccer player, 150 pounds, nice broad shoulders, beefy pecs and arms, not an ounce of body-fat. Watching him bounce the soccer ball up and down, shirtless, in his front yard (he lives with his parents across the street) was enough to take my breath away. Cold showers helped…
But then it was time to take a trip out of town and I needed a sitter for Coco, my 12 y.o. beagle. Marie, Tony’s mom, volunteered his services. “He could use a summer job…” So he came over and I showed him where to find Coco’s food and treats and her leash and where she liked to hang out and all of that. And then he seemed reluctant to go so I started thinking of other things to talk about, like the gym.
“You look like you’ve been hitting the weights hard,” I told him. “Those aren’t your typical soccer player shoulders.”
His eyes lit up.
“Well, yeah, but look at you. You make me look like a piece of spaghetti.”
“Well, I dunno…”
“Oh, c’mon,” he said. “You’re built like a tank.”
He had a point. I might be 50 years old but I’m a 50-year-old muscle daddy. Only 5’10½” tall but that’s a good 3½ inches on Tony. And at a solid 220 pounds I’m nearly half again his size.
“Have you ever competed?” he asked.
I snorted by way of reply.
“Oh, heck no, I’ve never come close. I’m kinda beefy but I’ve never been ripped. No point…”
He just stood there, his handsome head cocked to one side, a faint grin on his face.
“Now, you, you are ripped. Man, if I had a bod like yours…”
It was his turn to snort.
“But you’ve got the mass, man. I’m just a runt.”
I held my hands out to his sides, measuring his shoulders in the air.
“No one with shoulders this wide is runt, Tony, you need to get over it.”
He moved just enough forward that my hands were touching his shoulders.
“The way I see it,” he said, “my shoulders are only barely wider than your chest.”
Holy fuck, I thought. What have I gotten myself into?
He put his hands on my chest, slowly massaging my pecs…
That was three years ago and, yes, we did it. Yes, there was a big brouhaha, his parents threatening to put the law on me, all that kind of crap. But there he was, of legal age, and willing to swear that it was his idea.
It was just as well I was renting the house. Tony moved in with me, almost immediately, which made for a tense several months. When the lease came up, I bought another house in a neighborhood nearby. I suppose I felt a bit like Christopher Isherwood. Certainly my friends kidded me about it no end. There I was, a fully competent, high functioning, middle-aged professional, with a 20 y.o. live in going to college boyfriend. I think it’s safe to say he had me wrapped around his little finger. Just as well he’s such a nice guy.
It turned out that much as he loved soccer he really craved the idea of being a bodybuilder, he was just waiting for someone to show him the ropes and to give him permission to indulge his passion, which he’s done with a vengeance. In three years I’ve put on 30 pounds of solid muscle, which is fairly impressive for a guy in his early 50s. At 5’10½” tall and 250 pounds, with a 54 inch chest, 20 inch arms, a 32 inch waist, and 30 inch quads, I’m a tank.
Well, put it this way—he and I both weigh exactly the same amount, only he’s 3½ inches shorter than I am. That’s right. In three years the Boy Wonder, as I call him, has put on 100 pounds of solid muscle. At 5’7 and 250 pounds, he’s basically a Sicilian version of Branch Warren and I expect in another year or two he’ll make Branch look like a piece of spaghetti. Which is kinda the way I feel now, as you might imagine. Given our height differential I’d need to be about 285 in order to have his proportions. I might get there someday but he’ll be long past me by then.
What’s next? California, I think. He wants to compete professionally and he’s just a contest or two away from having his pro card. Certainly he’s exhausted all the training possibilities to him available here in Western New York. So I’m working on positioning myself to enter the California market. Not a great time to be looking at a career change but, hey, California real estate prices are the best they’ve been in years.
As for Tony, he has his newly minted master’s degree in exercise science and not much use for it here. We’ll be seeing y’all out there shortly, I’m sure!
I was in the offices of the campus newspaper when I first spied Jim. I was a transfer student, new to the school and campus life, and then he stretched, and “woof,” I thought to myself, “that was nice,” seeing his white t-shirt ride up his furry torso. He really wasn’t any bigger than I was but, like me, he had nice wide shoulders and compared to many of our colleagues, especially those associated with the student newspaper, some meat on his bones. And then I noticed he was looking back and I looked quickly away, picking up the phone to deal the number of the Dean’s Office to set up some time for an interview on the topic du jour.
A couple of days later I was walking back to my dorm when I heard, “Hey, you’re the new guy at the [Name of Newspaper], right?” I turned and saw him about 10 steps behind me but obviously headed in the same direction.
“Yeah, I’m Roger,” I said, shaking his hand. “You’re…?”
“Jim,” he said, “I’m one of the feature writers.”
“Jim Marsh?” I asked, and he nodded his head. “I’ve read some of your stuff, very nice.”
He grinned and asked me where I was headed and I told him.
“I’m going to the clinic,” he said, which I passed each day going to and from my dorm. “I have herpes.”
I gave him a sharp glance and he pointed at his lip. I rolled my eyes.
“Kinda dramatic for a fever blister, don’t you think?”
He had the decency to blush.
“Well, it does sorta cramp my style,” he replied.
Then it was my turn to blush.
“Just where do you put that mouth of yours?” I asked, a very bold thing for me to do. He just looked at me, just enough longer than anyone had ever looked at me to think, “mmm, well….”
I changed the subject.
“What are you doing afterwards?”
“I was going to get some food…”
I saw my chance.
“Well, in fact, ya know, I have an on campus apartment. If you want to come by, I can whip something up for both of us.”
He seemed uncertain, so I volunteered to wait for him at the clinic.
“Well, yeah, that’ud be cool,” he allowed.
“Don’t you have a roommate?” he asked as we took the elevator up to the 10th floor of Oxford House. “That little Chinese guy?”
“Tim’s really great,” I pointed out, “but he’s out of town this weekend along with our neighbors across the hall. The Furman game, ya know.”
He licked his lip.
“So it’s just the two of us, I guess?”
I let him into the apartment, closed the door, and then pushed him up against the wall.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa…” he said.
I stood back.
“This isn’t what you wanted?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Well, yeah, I guess so, I was just thinking…”
I started unbuttoning his shirt.
“I was just thinking, ya know, that you were probably a virgin or at least not very experienced…”
I stopped chewing his neck long enough to say.
“I am a virgin and I am inexperienced, you got that right.”
I found that spot at the base of his neck and heard his eyes roll back in his head. He let out a little whimper.
“Enthusiasm, on the other hand, is independent of experience and I think you’ll find I have enthusiasm covered.”
Which is how I discovered that (a) I was a very good cocksucker and (b) quite happy to be a top. What with the lip thing, I wasn’t really going to let Jim do anything else other than be on the receiving end and when you got right down to it he didn’t seem to have a problem with that at all.
Naturally, there was fallout. Tim (and Ross and Blake, the across the hall neighbors) were less than thrilled to find out they had a fairy living in their midst. Turns out Jim wasn’t all that happy with his roommate, so we arranged a swap. Jim moved in with me, Tim got to move into the Towers, the prime campus location.
Which still left Ross and Blake, who were none too happy, but eventually they realized the less said the better. I was two inches taller than Blake, a former high school wrestler who had 10 pounds on me, and four inches taller than Ross, a 5’6, 130-pound Japanese-American swimmer. What they hadn’t counted on was that having my first ever sexual experience propelled me to the gym faster than you could say “Jack Robinson.” I figured if I were going to be The Campus Fag, I was going to be The Big Campus Fag. So I started eating like food was going out of style and lifting like crazy.
By the end of the school year, six months later, I’d put on 60 pounds of solid muscle. At 5’10½” and 220 pounds, I was 50 pounds heavier than Blake and 85 pounds heavier than Ross, who looked like a little kid next to me. Which, of course, didn’t do anything to prevent me and Jim from getting expelled after our very public kiss in the dining hall on the last night of spring semester. It would probably have been okay except that during the ensuing riot I beat three football players bloody before being overcome by four more. (And, yes, I was very thrilled that Big Bill Hruska, start of the school’s infant rugby team, was swinging on my side.)
Jim went back to New Jersey, I went back to Pensacola where I had to deal with my terrifically upset parents, not to mention my younger, disdainful brothers (the two of them were completely blown away that I was suddenly built like a brick shit house.)
I went to visit Jim in New Jersey at the end of the summer and…I don’t know. What did I do? He was cool, distant, and very caught up with his local friends. We didn’t have sex, which sorta made sense, given that we were staying at his parents’ house, but they were conveniently (and specifically, it seemed to me) away that weekend. Then I met Andy and it all became clear. He was skinny, he was geeky, he had long hair, he was a musician.
“He’s not a jock,” Jim said, and I realized that, at least as far as he was concerned, I was.
“But, ya know…” I started.
“Things were a little too physical there, at the end,” he said, finally. “I’d really rather not have a boyfriend who could whip my ass.”
I took the next train home. I managed to keep track of him for a while. He was a good writer and he developed a national reputation fairly quickly, especially when it came to chronicling gay activism, especially as it related to AIDS. When I read that he was sick I sent him a card care of the syndicate carrying his column at the time. I was surprised when he called a week later.
“Roger,” he rasped, and I realized he’d never quite given up that nasty habit I was on him about, way back when. “It’s me, Jim.”
We talked for a good hour, about all that he had done and seen, about all that I hadn’t seen and done.
“Ya know,” he said finally, “you were the first guy who copped my cherry, before that I was all top, all the way.”
What was I to say?
“And I’ve been a bottom the whole time since then,” he continued.
Was he trying to tell me something? Was he blaming me, in some fashion? There was a long pause, neither of us knowing what to say next.
“Thanks for that, bud,” he said at last. “Usually all that nonsense about how good the first time is is just a bunch of bullshit. But not in your case.”
It was the last time I ever heard his voice.
This story is a continuation of “Roger and Jim” (see above…)
The first time I set eyes on Henry I was already a little bit peeved. It was the first day of classes at UWF and I was hoping to get in a brief workout / shower before my first class later that morning. Unfortunately, even though the Field House was open, the weight room was locked, and dark. I wasn’t overly thrilled to be there, for that matter. Getting kicked out of Vanderbilt for being (openly) gay still rankled and my failed visit with Jim in New Jersey had my ego feeling bruised; living at home with the parental units to save money wasn’t helping either.
“Uh, who do I talk to?” I asked the kid at the front desk. The place was deserted, which wasn’t all that odd given that it was 1980 and the fitness craze hadn’t quite caught on in Pensacola.
“D.L. or Henry,” he said and before I could say “and where would I find them?” a deep, masculine voice added “Yo, Buddy, whatcha need?”
I turned and found myself looking at one of the most beautiful men who ever lived. About an inch taller than my 5’10½” and built like a brick shit house: powerful shoulders, sculpted chest, bulging biceps, all topped off by a thick neck and a face worthy of an Ethiopian prince, flawless medium brown complexion, high cheek bones, strong jaw, well-proportioned nose, long curly eyelashes. Instant boner material, in other words, and I instinctively positioned my gym bag so it wouldn’t be obvious.
“Hey, there,” I said, “I’m Roger, by the way, and I’m hoping you can let me into the weight room.”
He grasped my outstretched hand and gave it a good, strong shake.
“Sure thing, Roger,” he replied. “It’s down this way. I’m Henry.”
As we headed back to the weight room he told me that he was working there full-time as a custodian while finishing up his degree in the evenings.
“My tour in the Navy paid for a lot of it but not all of it,” he pointed out. “A fella’s gotta eat.”
“At least you’re not living off your parents like I am,” I told him. “A couple of more years, though, and I’ll be done.”
We arrived at the weight room.
“Not much,” he pointed out, “but we’ve got the basics. I’m not sure if it’s going to be much of a challenge for a guy like you.”
I had the decency to blush.
“Look who’s talking,” I said. “You must spend half your work week in here.”
“That IS one of the nice features of working here,” he agreed. “So long as I keep things shipshape D.L. is cool with my using the weights during work hours, although I keep out if there’s a class or something going on.”
I went to the squat rack and started loading on a few plates.
“Jeez, man,” he said, “you don’t believe in warming up, do you?”
I winked at him.
“Oh, sure, I do,” I added. “315 is my warm up!”
Just to impress him a bit, I cranked out 30 reps, then added two more 45-pound plates and did 20 more.
“Sheeit, boy,” he said, “no wonder you make me look like a piece of spaghetti.”
“Yer crazy,” I said. “You’re arms are bigger than mine, spaghetti my ass.”
After that we actually compared. Turns out I did have about 20 pounds on Henry but his body-fat was way down in the single digits whereas mine consistently hovered in the low double digits. Despite the difference in our weight his arms were 18 inches to my 18½.
“See,” I told him. “Definitely not spaghetti.”
My legs were quite a bit thicker, though. His certainly weren’t skimpy but he didn’t have my thunder thighs or killer calves.
“And let’s face it,” I added. “I’m big and beefy but I don’t look like I’m carved out of marble.”
You wouldn’t think that Henry’s blushing would be so noticeable with that gorgeous milk chocolate skin but it was indeed. So was the growing bulge in his track pants. Oh, ho, I thought to myself, maybe UWF won’t be such a come down after all.
“Oh, hey, I gotta run, I remember something D.L. wanted me to do,” Henry said, obviously looking for an escape.
I clasped his hand again.
“Cool beans, dude. Maybe we can catch a workout together some time,” I added.
He considered that.
“My main work out is usually right after I get off work at 5,” he noted. “If you’re ever available, come on by. It would be nice to have a fellow muscle head to hang out with.”
That’s for damn sure!
I was back at the gym shortly after 5 p.m. and there was Henry in the weight-room, already dressed out in a skimpy tank top and a pair of gym shorts.
“Jeezus,” we both said, at the same time, then grinned.
“I think I’m gonna hafta call you Bull,” Henry said. “Roger just doesn’t do you justice!”
“Really, man,” he continued, “some people have calves but yours are prime beef. Not to mention those shoulders…”
Well, what can I say? I stood up straighter, squared the shoulders, locked the lats into place.
“And I still say you’re carved from granite,” I pointed out. “You have muscles I’ve never seen on my body. I’m gonna call you Blade!”
True enough. His serratus were razor sharp, the cleft between his pecs was like a canyon, when he flexed you could see striations. He laughed.
“Ok, Bull, enough of this jibber-jabber, let’s get to work.”
I think we egged each other on. Two hours later we were both totally soaked, both totally pumped. I think we had done about 30 different exercises, including finding out that we were both capable of doing one perfect bench press rep with 405 pounds.
“Shit, Blade,” I said, finally, “I am not going to be able to do that every day.”
“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to move tomorrow,” he added.
I looked at him, he looked at me.
“Well, I guess I better…” I started.
“So, what you doing for dinner?” he asked, interrupting me.
“Oh, I dunno,” I said. “I’m sure Mom has left something in the fridge. Thing is I need to take a shower before I head home; she hates it when I come home like this…”
He acted like he had a brainstorm, although I could tell he’d been thinking up this line since I’d met him this morning.
“Well, hey, you know, I was gonna grill up a couple of steaks when I got home. I live about five minutes from here. If you want, shower at my place and I’ll feed you.”
Ooh, and wouldn’t I like being fed, I thought to myself.
“Hey, that’ud be great,” I answered. “Shall I follow you over…?”
As it turned out, he lived close enough by to walk so I gave him a lift to his apartment.
“Here,” he said, “you can take the first shower while I get things started. Then I’ll do a quickie while the steaks are cooking.”
I was in and out in under 10 minutes, walking into Henry’s kitchen with a towel and a big grin on my face.
“Damn boy…” he said, looking me up and down, his lips slightly parted.
“Those steaks smell so good, I’m chubbing up!” I pointed out, scooting past him, my hand touching his bubble butt as I went by, looking for plates. I turned and looked at him, a plate in each hand, the towel slipping down to my pubes, my hard cock the only thing holding it up.
“And I was just thinking,” he replied, his eyes going wide. “That you look good enough to eat…”
I put the plates down, grabbed his waist, pulled him to me.
“I think it’s your turn to take a shower,” I purred in his ear. “Want me to wash your back?”
He nodded and I led him into the bathroom. It was a long shower.
He was so frickin’ hot and down below was just as beautiful as the rest of him, long and thick and more than that just perfectly shaped, perfectly proportioned, a work of art. We lay in bed a long time afterwards.
“I love you,” he whispered in my ear, and I gasped.
“No one’s ever said that to me before,” I whispered back.
“I mean it,” he said.
I told him about Jim.
“You’re still in love with him?” he asked.
“No,” I answered slowly. “I’m not sure now whether I ever was.”
He looked at me, waiting.
“I don’t know yet whether I love you, Henry, or if I’m just in lust with you.”
“Well, lust isn’t a bad thing,” he pointed out.
“You deserve more,” I replied. “I can tell you that you’re just about the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on and as far as I can tell, you’re as beautiful on the inside as you are on the outside.”
He stretched and my dick hardened again. The play of muscles under his beautiful, nearly luminous skin took my breath away.
“So now,” I said, finishing for him. “It’s time for me to go home.”
That was the start of our time together and it pretty much defined the rest of the semester. School, gym, work, gym, dinner, sex, study, sex. Our time in the gym was, well, magnificent. We each pushed the other to the max. In four months we each put on 30 pounds of solid muscle. By the time Christmas rolled around, Henry was 230 pounds of prime beef, I was a 250-lb. hulk. There was usually no one in the weight room at the Field House when we worked out and the few who ventured in when we were there tended to hightail it and run out.
“I think we scare people,” he told me one evening.
I pointed to his upper arm, 21 inches cold.
“That scares people,” I said.
“So does that,” he said, pointing at mine.
“I love you, Henry.”
“When did that happen?”
“From the moment you said it first,” I pointed out. “Actually, probably from the moment I set eyes on you. Or maybe from the moment you said, ‘Yo, Buddy, whatcha need,’ since I heard you before I saw you and just your voice made me hard.”
“Want to get married?”
Hard to believe it’s been nearly 30 years.