Is it true that (gay) big muscle guys are only interested in other big muscle guys?
Well, yes and no. For the most part that seems to be the case, just based on casual observation, but not always. Consider, if you will, that big is big with big muscle guys, and it doesn’t always have to be muscle. A big wallet is a big help (all those supplements are expensive!) Likewise, a really big dick is a thing of wonder, no matter what kind of body it’s attached to. Ditto, there are some big guys who really get off on being admired / worshipped / flattered / what have you, regardless of who’s doing it. And, finally, but very rarely, there are the big muscle guys who really like small guys because they (the big guys) are so fucking huge in comparison.
Personally, I have been very lucky in this department.
I’m a small guy, 5’8” tall and a whopping 140 pounds, but I’m handsome, moderately hairy (in all the right places), and I have a very tight, well-proportioned dancer’s bod. Yes, my delts, pecs, biceps, forearms, quads, and calves are tiny, but they’re there! I’m not quite an anatomy chart but I’m very well-defined (and pretty damned strong for my size.) So even though I’m not big I get attention and having a way with words I am very good at giving it back. And then there’s my dick. Remember what I said about a thing of wonder?
10 x 8
I’m not a porn star but I have a porn star dick. It gets hard at the drop of a hat and I stays hard for a long, long time, especially if I’m plowing some big muscle-head’s meaty ass. And over the years—I’m 32, by the way, Roger’s my name (of course!)—I’ve done a fair amount of plowing. Early on I was never all that particular, fucking guys and girls without much regard to their looks. So long as they were willing and enthusiastic (and, you know, neat and clean!) I was ready to rock. I figured, if nothing else, it was good practice.
But I was always looking at the muscle-heads. I guess it’s the “opposites attract” phenomenon. No matter how much I work out, I’m never going to be a huge guy. I just don’t have the frame for it, nor, I suppose, the appetite. Past a certain point my body rebels and food going in quickly turns into food going out.
Still, I have eyes, and I had a keen sense of who was looking my way, even if they were just trying to figure out who had the nice sexy baritone among all the nelly queens (and, hey, I’m quite happy to get my nelly on and I can throw shade with the best of them but my natural voice is deep and “manly” in that TV news broadcaster sort of way.)
My first muscle-head was the year after I graduated from college. James was 10-15 years older than I was at the time, just my height, and a good hundred pounds heavier. At the time I was barely scraping 130 pounds and next to me this guy was huge. I let him know just how much I liked him, admiring his 20 inch biceps and his 52 inch chest—”You’re chest is wider than my shoulders!”—and bumping his hip with my crotch.
“Jeez,” he said. “What have you got in those pants, Little Man? Feels like an ICBM.”
I cut to the chase. “10 x 8,” I said. “And right now it’s only half hard. Wanna feel it grow?” He put his hand down there and 10 seconds later it was at full mast.
“Shee-it,” he said. “I gotta get a look at that thing!” I flashed my thousand-watt grin!
“Take me somewhere private and I’ll show you—provided you pose for me!”
He did and I did and one thing led to another. I was just getting into it when he pulled out that little brown bottle and started sniffing. Five minutes later he was off in La La Land and when I finally came and he finally came he was out like a light. I let myself out.
“Too fucking bad,” I thought to myself. “I sure liked feeling those muscles!”
The next one was an Afro-Caribbean guy with an improbable name, Xerxes, a checker at the local Kroger. About 5’10 and (I later found out) 225 pounds, with a 28 inch waist, 20 inch arms, 6% body-fat—and a passion or skinny little white boys. One thing led to another and we were at my apartment. He really liked my flattering and he was happy to pose for me and let me feel everything. But when we were totally naked on the floor of my living room he wanted to know if I had any porn?
“Well, yes, of course,” I said. “What do you like?”
And then we spent half an hour jacking—solo, he wouldn’t let me touch his dick and was totally uninterested in mine—while he watched two big guys fucking each other, talking about himself, how big he was, how strong he was, how powerful he was. That was kinda sexy—he was all those things and I was very appreciative—but it was like I wasn’t there. Eventually he came and five minutes later he was out the door, giving me a chaste kiss on the top of my head. After that I started shopping at another Kroger.
Then there was Hank, the 50-year-old musclebear! Like James, he was 5’8 and 230 pounds, all muscle, but Hank was balding, bearded, and hairy as fuck. “Aren’t you a fucking cute little cub?” he said when I walked by him in the club one night. I stopped and looked him up and down.
“Ooh, Daddy Thumper! You wanna show me those great big muscles?”
He did and it was great. For once, I was the fuckee and I was in heaven, his skinny 7-inch dick banging my prostate big time and my head banging the head board in rhythm. The two of us came in under five minutes and, swear to God, we were both ready to go five minutes later. Who says middle aged guys don’t have stamina?! I was ready to sign the marriage certificate when he pointed out that Bruce, his hubby and apparently a dead ringer for me (minus two inches of dick and plus 20 years of age), would be home the next afternoon. Bruce was the top in their relationship and his monthly travels were Hank’s opportunity to go play the other role.
I was crushed, for about five minutes, and then decided I had a friend for life, so I wasn’t going to worry about it. (And, yes, he and Bruce and I spent many weekends together, me and Bruce happily going to town on Hank’s hot hairy hole, before they upped and moved to Seattle. We still get together every year or so but it’s not the same, especially now that they have a new boy toy!)
After Hank there was Rodney. Me oh my! When we wound up in the sack Rodney was far and away the biggest guy I’d had sex with, 6’2” tall and 300 pounds of muscle, with a slightly off-season pro football player’s build. Huge shoulders, chest, arms, legs, and a slightly thick waist. Smooth as a Chihuahua and baby-faced and blue eyed to boot. In Rod’s case, he got off on the fact that he was more than twice my size…and my dick was roughly twice as big as his. I was used to being the one who did the flattering but he couldn’t stop talking about my dick. So long, so thick, so hard! I wanted to feel his muscles, to be crushed by his embrace, to go exploring that magnificent body—and I did. But every time I started getting into it he flipped me over, pinned me down with one arm (he could have pinned me down with one finger!) and started on my dick again. It’s like the rest of me wasn’t there.
We played a few times until I realized I was bored…and never likely to get anywhere near Rodney’s ass, no matter how enamored he was of my giant schlong. C’est la vie…And who am I to complain? “La vie” has been damned fine thus far.
And, then, there was Brian, Brian who became the love of my life, not to mention becoming the Muscle God Beyond Compare. But that’s his story…
They say big muscle guys have become big muscle guys because they have little dicks. I’m a big muscle guy and, well, okay, yes, my dick isn’t big. Fully hard it’s only five inches long but it’s also six inches around, which puts way out there on the girth scale, and, as you can see, I’m all about girth. Truly, though, I really didn’t think mine was little. It was about the same size as my dad’s and those of his uncles (all of whom I’d seen in the raw at one point or another.) Same was the case in the locker room. Sure, there were guys with reallly big ones and there only a few whose were noticeably shorter than mine.
But that really wasn’t the reason I got into lifting. I got into lifting because my dad and my uncles are all big hairy beasts, over six feet and every one of them over 250 pounds, with big beards and hairy chests. For whatever reason, I took after my mom’s side of the family. I maxed out, height-wise, at 5-11 when I was 15 and even though I had a nicely hairy crotch and pits and a little bit of hair on my lower legs I was mostly smooth as a baby’s bottom. No beard, either. My dad and my uncles were by turns dismayed and amused that they had a “pretty boy” in their midst and, by God, I was pretty then and I’m pretty now. Black curly hair, thick black eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, long lashes, high cheekbones, full lips, dimples, cleft chin.
I am, no bragging, what they call “model handsome” but that carried no weight in the Harris household. We were supposed to be big and rough and I was, as far as they were concerned, “short” and “smooth as silk.” Fortunately, I made up for it in sheer athleticism, lettering in baseball, wrestling, gymnastics, and swimming. It didn’t hurt that I had a nice deep voice that wouldn’t have sounded out of place on Grizzly Adams.
For whatever reason, I never touched the weights until my senior year of college. By that time my frame had filled out to 180 pounds of solid muscle, with body-fat in the single digits. I had nice broad shoulders, a 28-inch waist, and 17-inch arms. Not bad for someone who had never bothered with anything other than floor exercises: push-ups, chin-ups, pull-ups, planks, lunges, you name it, I did it.
But for all of that I had never been as successful as I would have liked in any of the sports I took up. Baseball: I could hit, pitch, run, and throw, but at best I was a upper middling player. Not quite as fast, not quite as accurate, not quite as powerful as someone in the top one percent. Gymnastics, I was too tall. Swimming, I was too short. With wrestling, again, I wasn’t really fast enough, despite being wiry and strong for my size. And then I met Greg, my first boyfriend, who was just about my size—in every department except “down there,” where he was huge!—and who was astounded that I’d never touched the weights.
“You’re kidding, right? I’ve been working my ass off in the gym for since I was 15 to get a body like this and you’re harder, leaner, thicker and stronger than I am—without even lifting? Christ on a crutch!” He dragged me to the gym, insisting that anyone who looked like I did without ever having been must have enormous potential. “You could be huge, you know.”
Ding! Ding! Ding!
I mean, sure, I’d been looking at and lusting after those muscle-heads all my life. Among other things, they were smooth (like me) and big (like my dad and uncles) but built (like me.) I just didn’t think that was something I could do.
Greg showed me the ropes and put me through my paces, and gave me some pointers on how to eat, and… boom! 40 pounds, solid muscle, the first year. Greg was in awe and, sadly, somewhat put out by all of it.
“Dammit all, I’ve been working for years and…”
I squeezed his 17-inch biceps and ran my thumb down the crease between his nice thick pecs.
“And you’re 5’11 and 190 pounds with 12% body fat—what are you bellyaching about?”
But I knew and he knew. Next to 5’11 and 220 pounds and six percent body fat—which is what I had at that point—Greg felt invisible and most of the time when we went clubbing that feeling was justified. When we first started going out, I was “Greg’s friend” but he was “Brian’s friend” a year later.
“Forty pounds in one year,” he said. “And I know you’re not on anything.” On anything? Hmm, that was a thought.
“Beginner’s luck,” I said, but it wasn’t enough and a month later he took a new job in Seattle and I got on with my life.
That was five years ago and in that time I have put on another 80 pounds of solid muscle. Yes, that’s right. 5-11 and 300 pounds, still just six percent body fat. I’m 28 years old and a national competitor, while holding down a full-time job as a physical therapist (I earned my Ph.D. in PT along the way.) I’m just as pretty as I ever was but now I’m bigger than my dad AND my uncles and about three times stronger than any one of them. They may have four-five inches on me in height but I’m significantly broader through the shoulders, massively thicker in the chest, and as for my arms and legs, well, that’s just plain ridiculous.
And, yes, I’m still smooth as a baby’s behind. Certainly makes contest prep easier!
As for men, it turned out that Greg sort of set the standard. My height (or shorter), well-proportioned, lean, toned, slightly hairy, and a big dick was what caught my eye and what got my motor running. If they were into muscle, I was more than happy to show off for them—letting them feel me up, flexing for them, licking my ever growing biceps and encouraging them to do the same, showing them my strength when I sensed they liked a little dom action.
And lean and toned didn’t really matter. They could be willowy and soft as a marshmallow so long as they were kinda cute, kinda hairy, no taller than me, and possessed of a nice big schlong.
Interestingly, over the years as I’ve gotten progressively bigger they’ve gotten simultaneously shorter and smaller—and better hung. I outweighed Greg by 30 pounds when we broke up. I was 60 pounds heavier than Frank, Greg’s successor, and 90 pounds heavier than Tyrus, who was exactly the same size Greg was when we started dating. Which brings us to Roger, Roger who became the love of my life, Roger with the dick of death!
We met in Seattle, of all places, considering we were both living in Indy at the time. He was visiting his friends Hank and Bruce, a couple of hot middle-aged muscle daddies, and I was in town to check out a new supplement company for a possible sponsorship opportunity. I was at Gold’s Gym on Capitol Hill, doing some light chest work, light in this case being incline flyes with 150-pound dumbbells. Whenever the dumbbells touched, the cleavage between my concrete pillow-sized pecs reached its maximum four inches and the striations popped out like road map.
“Holy Fucking Shit,” the pleasant baritone was quiet and soft but penetrating. I set down the dumbbells and looked up.
Oh ho, I thought to myself. What do we have here?
A drop dead gorgeous slender dancer type, probably 5’8 and a buck fifty dripping wet, light brown hair, big green eyes with long lashes, pouty red lips, and a short, well-trimmed beard, and a tuft of curly dark hair rising up from his tank top to the base of his throat.
“Woof,” I said, winking at him, and I saw something big and beefy jump in his gym shorts.
I continued trashing my chest but watched him in the mirrors as he did his workout (also chest, even though it was a Friday—good planning!), noticing that he was handling decent weight for a guy his size. Eventually, I had enough, stood, stretched, and heard him gasp when I turned my back to him and flared my lats.
Cool, I thought. Someone who appreciates a monster back!
So many guys are about the arms or the pecs or the abs, or maybe they’re into legs and ass. Not many understand that it’s all beside the point unless there’s a hulking huge back to support it all. I did the bodybuilder waddle back to the locker room and, yes, I admit it, I exaggerated it somewhat, everything relaxed but not all the way relaxed, my giant arms held out just a tad from my giant lats, and waited to see if he would follow.
Which he did not.
I showered, changed, headed out, and saw him on the incline bench where he was doing flyes with 50-pound dumbbells—quite impressive for someone less than half my size! I glanced his way and he winked, sitting up and setting the dumbbells on his knees. “Thanks for the show, Big Man! Hope to see you here tomorrow!” I chuckled. The man had balls, that’s for sure, big brass balls. “You can count on it,” I said, tapping his shoulder gently. “See you around, stud.”
But that was just the beginning!
That night, following dinner with the guys (way too straight, sorry!) from the supplement company, I headed to The Cuff for a couple of restorative drinks—and to check out the scenery.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” I heard before I even made it to the bar. There he was! The little hottie from the gym! “Stud!” I exclaimed and swept him up in a bear hug, careful not crush him. He wrapped his toned arms around my neck and kissed me right on the lips!
“In your case it would take a sabre tooth tiger to drag you in,” he pointed out, wriggling out of my arms. “You are one huge motherfucker.” I lifted my right arm and flexed.
25 inches cold.
“Jesus wept,” he said, then stuck out his hand, slender but strong with long, elegant fingers. “Roger Fenton’s the name.” His fingers were longer than mine but my hand was about twice as broad across.
“Brian Harris,” I replied. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fenton.” He snorted.
“Oh, enough of that,” he chortled. “I’m not that much older than you are.” I grinned at him and bounced my pecs. “But, yeah, you are twice my size—at least,” he continued. “I saw you tossing the 150-pound dumbbells around like they were toys. They weigh 10 pounds more than I do!”
“Twice your size and a bit, in that case,” I pointed out. “I’m right at 300 pounds these days.”
He took my hand and pulled me—surprisingly strong, that one—into a quiet corner of the bar. He leaned against the wall and looked up at me. I rested my hand against the wall next to his head, my unflexed biceps clearly bigger than his head.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said. I reached down and felt his crotch. “Holy fucking moly!” I exclaimed. “What do you have in there? An anaconda?!” He smirked. “A python,” he suggested. “Or so I’ve been told. It’s 10 inches long, 8 inches around, with the thickest part up around the head.”
I flexed my lats.
“Oh, yeah,” Roger said. “I saw that cobra hood back of yours. Totally fucking hot.” We weren’t too surprised to find out, as we headed to his hotel room, that we were both out-of-towners. We were surprised to find out that we were both from Indy!
We spent the rest of the weekend in his hotel room or mine, ordering in food. He fucked me 12 ways from Sunday. I achieved new levels of oral dexterity sucking his giant tool. He even climbed on my dick and made me fuck him in the air. That was after I curled him for about 20 reps—one-handed! By that time we were not surprised to find out we were on the same return flight to Indy. Brian got me upgraded to first class with him and the gay flight attendant had to work hard not to wet himself watching us cuddle.
Six weeks later he moved in with me (I had the bigger place—obviously!) That was a year ago—and what a year it’s been!
I adjusted to life in suburban Fishers much more easily than I expected. I missed being able to walk to the restaurants on Mass Ave and the 10-minute commute to work (I still miss that!) but, hey, y’know, I grew up in the burbs and I’m down with finished basements for all your junk and fenced back yards for the dog (Brian’s Irish Setter, Rufus) and being able to get to Target or Kroger or wherever in 10 minutes (and multiple options to choose from.)
The neighbors are nice and if they raised eyebrows slightly that big huge Brian now had a slender, fuzzy, handsome, well-educated Prius-driving live-in boyfriend, they otherwise did a good job of hiding whatever misgivings they might have had.
I was gob-smacked by the size and excellence of Brian’s basement gym, which covered 1200 square feet (half the basement) and was fitted out with full wet facilities, including not only a shower and w/c but also steam room and sauna. Not surprisingly, we have spent most of our time there, at least when we’re not working, playing with dog, or, well, having copious amounts of sex. We’d been at it for a month when Brian shocked the shit out of my by saying: “Damn, Roger, you’re getting big!” What?!! Not possible!! But he got me on the scale and, well…
As much as I had put on in the previous 15 years and 5 pounds more than what I had always considered an unreachable goal! “How is this possible?” I asked. He shrugged his mammoth shoulders. “Well, you’ve been working out like a fiend,” he replied, “and you may not have noticed it, but you’ve been eating about three quarters of what I do—despite the fact I’m more than twice your size!”
Gulp! “But but but…” He tugged on his chin, something he did when he was being thoughtful.
“It’s not unheard of, you know. Moving in together has been a big change. You’re eating more, you’re lifting more, and, hey, you know, you’re past 30, quite possibly your metabolism has changed, and you’re coming into your own.” Plausible, I thought, if improbable. With that in mind I gave Brian an appraising glance. Sad to say but I’d been so, uh, “focused,” on his butthole and his mouth that, well, never mind.
“Flex your right arm for me?”
He gave me a look. It was the first time I’d asked him to flex since I’d moved in. It went up…and up…and up!
“Uh, Brian,” I said. “I think we need to get the tape measure out.” I mean, the thing was certainly larger than one of my thighs but now…
“Twenty-six and a half inches,” I declared. “Cold.”
Now it was Brian’s turn to freak. “That can’t be right! That’s bigger than it was fully flexed a month ago!” I raised an eyebrow. “Brian, dear heart, if there’s one thing I know how to do it’s how to measure another man’s biceps!” I hustled him onto the scale. The numbers clicked past furiously before stopping…
At 320 pounds!
“Great hopping horny toads,” Brian exclaimed.
I crossed my arms, which I now realized had to be at least an inch bigger than they’d been a month ago. “Believe it.”
That was 4th of July weekend a year ago. Since then…
Okay, well, it’s been freaky, all right? Deliriously freaky, impossibly freaky, delightfully freaky, suspiciously (from the point of view of our friends, family and neighbors) suspiciously freaky. Did I say “freaky?”
Labor Day weekend I tipped the scales at 187 pounds Brian was 360, just about the size of that Egyptian mass monster, Big Ramy, except better proportioned and significantly leaner. I broke 200 pounds in late September and by Halloween I was sitting at 220. That’s when Brian reached 400 pounds.
80 inch chest
34 inch biceps
40 inch waist
44 inch quads
I guess we must have been putting out amnesia pheromones—or something!—because even though people noticed that we were getting bigger, a lot bigger, they didn’t seem to think it was freaky, crazy, or cause for alarm.
New Year’s Day 2016:
Roger Fenton, 250 pounds.
52 inch chest
32 inch waist
22 inch biceps
33 inch quads
By that time I was just laughing. I was gigantically bigger than I ever thought possible. For that matter, I was bigger than all those big guys I’d slept with back in the day. I was 15 pounds heavier than Hank, 20 pounds heavier than James, 25 pounds heavier than Xerxes, all of whom were my height or heavier.
As for Brian…
At 440 pounds he was approaching inconceivable, bigger than (almost) any powerlifter / strongman (despite being inches shorter) and conditioned like an Olympia contender. It was mind-blowing:
88 inch chest
44 inch waist
37 inch biceps
48 inch quads
His biceps were bigger than my waist, his quads nearly the size of my chest.
You see what’s before you. It’s just past 4th of July weekend and I’m even more of a beast than Brian was when I met him a year ago. At 5’8 and 320 pounds, I’m bigger than any man who ever stepped on the Olympia stage, including Cutler (290 pounds at his biggest), Coleman (peak 305 pounds), or Big Ramy (315 pounds this past October.) And then there’s Brian…
Technically, he’s still human, and God knows he’s the sweetest man that ever lived, but nobody, no doctor, no research scientist, can explain him. He’s actually grown another inch taller, his musculature apparently forcing his skeleton to grow up and out.
At 6 ft. tall and 540 pounds he’s the most insanely muscular man who ever lived. His chest is 108 inches around—that’s 9 feet, by the way, half again as he is tall. Likewise, his shoulders are 54 inches across—4½ feet.
Perfect proportions, in other words. His 54 inch waist seems tiny compared to what looms above. His 60 inch quads are as big as Big Ramy’s chest. His 46 inch biceps are bigger than a normal “beefy” man’s chest. The two of us together are 860 pounds of muscle. If the average American adult male weighs about 200 pounds, we’re 60 pounds heavier than four of them put together. Wherever we go, the reaction is always shock and awe. And you know what? I’m still the little one. He’s still my big man! And that’s just the way I like it! What will another year bring?
I hope it’s over, to tell you the truth. It’s gotten to the point where Brian requires two airline seats, three if the seats are small (which pretty much rules out small planes!) He has a hard time fitting behind the wheel of his Hummer. And I seem to be following along right behind him.
So back to the original question (with a slight twist): Are big muscle guys into smaller guys? The answer:
Hell, yes, baby, hell, goddamn fucking yes, and I’m living proof!