Description Kevin Foxworth starts lifting at 16 with your basic Weider barbell set. Despite his best efforts, he never gains more (or less) than 10 lbs. of muscle per year. More than 20 years later, he’s still at it. Do the math!
|Updated||08 Aug 2020|
I was a bright kid and like a lot of bright kids I was easily distracted. Not ADD distracted, mind you, but easily bored and always going off on tangents. Consistency was not my strong suit. Eventually, though, I learned that consistency pays off. Sometimes when you’re on the road you don’t think you’re making any progress at all and then one day you turn around and see how far you’ve come.
In my case—as has been the case with so many others—it started with a Weider weight set and a 16-year-old’s enthusiasm to get huge. At 6 feet and a lean 160 pounds, I was nicely proportioned and toned, even had some decent abs, thanks to a lifetime (it seemed) spent in the pool.
But I wanted to be big. I wanted to be built. I wanted to be intimidating.
Of course a lot of that had to do being gay and not dealing with it. I wasn’t ready to consider the fact that always beating off while looking at or thinking about big, beefy men meant something other than just “I wanna look like that.” So I started and from the get go I said to myself, “I’m going to be consistent. No matter what else, no matter how much or how little, I’m going to do this every day.” And every day I did. Like everyone else, I wanted to get big fast. I ate and I ate and I ate. My mother despaired of keeping food in the house. It didn’t do one damned bit of good. Everything got a little bit harder, everything got a little bit bigger, but it didn’t matter how much I ate (or didn’t eat), I always seemed to make the same amount of progress.
By 17 I was up to 170 pounds and was beginning to show signs that I might someday have something other than a swimmer’s build. The shoulders seemed to get most of it and I thought that was an encouraging sign. I’d gotten stronger, too. I could only bench 140 when I started and I was benching 200 by the time I completed my junior year. But compared to classmates who’d put on 20 or 30 pounds or more (and there were about four-five who’d done so) my progress was disappointing.
The summer between my junior and senior years I had my first job life guarding at the community pool. Unlike my peers, who spent all their summer spending money on music or partying or car insurance, I spent all of mine on weight gain formulas, power bars, vitamins, whatever I could get my hands on. Much as I’d hoped otherwise (and I spent plenty of time trying to fool myself into thinking otherwise), none of it made any difference. As the months went by I continued to make pretty much the same small gains. I graduated from high school that spring weighing a sturdy, solid, well-proportioned 180 pounds and my bench was up to a respectable 260 pounds. Decent enough, yes, but compared to Scott and Brent and Eric it seemed pretty sad.
We were all within a month or two of each other in age, all within an inch or two of each other in height, and all within 10-20 pounds of each other when we’d started lifting. Scott was the only one who’d gotten any taller (he’d caught up to my 6 ft.) but they’d all put on at least 50 pounds of muscle. Brent and Eric, both 6’1”, had been the biggest, weighing 170 and 180 pounds. Now they were 220 and 230 pounds respectively. Scott, who’d been my size, 160 pounds, had zoomed to 240 pounds. Compared to me, well, “He’s a fucking God!” was a constant interior refrain for me! I didn’t see any of them again for another 10 years. I went to college out west, Scott chose a school up north, Brent and Eric, as expected, went to State. And my parents moved to a different city, 500 miles away. It had been my hometown but except for my immediate family, there was no one there to bring me back.
College was great—swell gym, excellent eye candy, new friends, much to learn. I hadn’t been in the gym long before I made a “connection” and finally tried the stuff. I’d been lusting after it from the beginning but I knew I’d be dead if my parents ever found out. Here I was away at school, hundreds of miles from home, and just enough spending money to make an “investment.” Remember eating everything in sight? Remember all those supplements? Roids were just as effective, namely, not at all. Plus I came down with the worst case of acne in my life. For two weeks I could barely sit down, I had so many pimples on my ass. When my “connection” wanted to know if I wanted some more, I just rolled my eyes. “Sorry, man,” I said, “I’m on a budget.”
And so it went: Freshman year, Sophomore year, Junior year, Senior year. “It’s all about consistency,” I told myself, over and over again. I told my friends, too. “I’m going to the gym, no matter what.” From one semester to the next no one said much but about the middle of my sophomore year it finally occurred to me that I no longer had a swimmer’s build. “Hey, Moose,” a friend would say, “help me set up these speakers, okay?” Or “Hey, Moose,” another would call, “you gonna work security for me at the concert?” And where the hell did “Moose” come from, anyway?
It was the end of sophomore year and Tim and I were at the gym on a Saturday morning, the only two people who ever showed up consistently on Saturday morning. I was benching 380 and Tim was spotting, “spotting” being the operative word since his max bench was about 280. I sat up, panting.
“Tim, why the hell do people call me ‘Moose’? My name is Kevin, dammit.”
He blushed, then snorted. “Well, hell, Kev, why do you think? You’re built like a brick shit house and you’re strong as an ox. You’re 200 pounds, right, and you’re benching nearly twice your weight—for reps?! Crikey!” I looked at myself in the mirror. Broad shoulders, thick, well-defined pecs, meaty arms, powerful legs—and abs just as defined and hard as they’d been when I was 16. He cleared his throat. “Let’s measure, okay?”
I gave him a glance. He was blushing again. “Sure, why not? After all these years it’s about time, huh?” He called the numbers out:
“Chest, 48 inches.”
“Biceps, 18 inches.”
“Waist, 31 inches.”
“Quads, 27 inches.”
“Shit, dude! These calves are 19 inches!”
“Neck, 17¾ inches.”
He looked down at the tape measure, then cocked his head up to look at my face.
“Do you get it now…Moose?”
You’re not surprised that Tim turned out to be my first boyfriend, right? Cool. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page! It didn’t last, of course. Once graduation came around, we parted ways. It was his idea, not mine.
“But nothing, okay? You’re going to grad school, I’m going to San Francisco to do what I’ve always dreamed of doing,” he said, firmly.
“I could go…”
“No, you can’t,” he interrupted. “We’ve talked about this. San Francisco doesn’t have the right program for you.”
I chewed my lip. “It isn’t really about the right program, is it?”
He sighed, looked away. “No, really it isn’t. I love you and I’ll always love you but the fact is you’re just too big for me. I kinda thought you’d get over it and maybe even trim down a little. But you just keep getting bigger and bigger. It’s intimidating.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, give it up. Most people find 20-inch arms and a 52-inch chest and a 500-pound bench press intimidating, okay?”
I took him in my arms one last time. “Intimidating…?”
“Your fucking chest is wider than my shoulders, you know? So, yes, intimidating.”
He shrugged out of my grasp.
“But we’ll always be friends.”
Grad school was good. It was a geeky field but I liked it and my classmates seemed to think I wasn’t any weirder than they were, just a whole lot bigger. (Well, not even bigger, a lot of the time. They don’t call ‘em “Big Michigan Women” for nothing, ya know.)
Two years later I was finishing up when my advisor, Dr. Venable, called me into his office. At 65 he’d been teaching there for 30 years and folks figured he was going to retire in the next year or two. A great instructor but from the generation that came of age before the Surgeon General’s report. He’d never kicked his 2 pack a day habit and at 5’9” tall he never weighed more than 150 pounds sopping wet.
“So what’s up, Doc?”
“You’re the only one I let get away with that, y’know,” he said by way of reply.
I laughed and leaned back in the chair.
“Hey, now,” he said, “be careful. You’ll tip that thing over.”
I straightened up, crossed my arms, and gave him my best “well, what?” look.
“It’s like this,” he said. “There’s something I’ve been needing to tell you and I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. You’re a great student, your work is topnotch, you’re going to be a great catch, which is why you have your pick of offers already…”
I started to feel a bit nervous. Where the hell was this headed? “But…?”
“Well, nothing really,” Dr. Venable continued. “Except that you are one helluva big guy. I mean, let’s face it, you look like you’re on the football team. Your classmates are, by contrast, either pencil-necked geeks or competition for the Pillsbury doughboy. Maybe 10% of them are in decent shape, the rest, well, Lord love ‘em. But you…”
I frowned. “So what’s the deal, Doc?”
He rubbed his hand across his mouth, sat there in silence for a good long minute. “It’s like this, son. You are a commanding physical presence in a field where folks tend to blend into the background. We’re unobtrusive. Our clients and our subjects expect that of us, if they ever think about it. You’re going to make them nervous. You’re physically intimidating”—there was that word again!—”and they’re not used to being intimidated… by us, that is.”
I grunted. “Well, what should I do? Are you telling me I need to change fields?”
“Oh, heaven’s know,” he laughed, “That would really be a waste. You’ve just go to think of ways to minimize your physical presence, that’s all. We’ve talked about this before, you know, the way really tall people will lean forward or curve their shoulders or stand back a bit. It’s the same for you, you just need to find a way to do it.”
I squared my shoulders, threw out my chest, tensed my arms. “Not like this, in other words?”
He blinked, then took off his glasses.
“Exactly. Not like that.”
So off I went, once again, this time an entry-level position with a medium size, well-respected firm in Denver. It required 2-3 days of travel a month, usually with another entry-level colleague, sometimes with a more senior one, but I was cool with that. I liked travelling around the country—that was part of the appeal of the job.
Doc Venable’s concerns notwithstanding, I seemed to blend in okay. It probably helped that I always wore dress shirts and well-cut suits that tended to cover things up nicely. Not that it was easy to find a suit to fit a 6 ft., 240-pound man with a 57-inch chest, 22-inch biceps, and 31-inch quads. But it was possible—just took some work, that’s all! It was very clear that I was a very big, very well-built guy, but if people were nervous or intimidated, they weren’t letting on.
About three months into the job I wound up pulling a trip with Jeff, a handsome fella about my age. As Doc Venable said, maybe one in ten of us in our field are in really decent shape and Jeff was one of ‘em. He was an inch or so taller than I, very well-groomed in a preppy sort of way, and nicely put together. The basic broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted swimmer’s physique but he filled out his pant legs nicely. “I bet he’s seriously into tennis,” I’d think to myself as he’d walk by my cube. Turned out it was soccer, not tennis, but pretty much the same, either way. And, yeah, he definitely had my gaydar going. He had the “blend in” thing going good, too, so nothing overt or specific, but I had a tingle even so.
“You’re just wishfully thinking,” I’d tell myself.
After dinner with the clients we headed back to the room at La Quinta. We’d had just enough time to throw down our bags and make sure it really was a non-smoking room before meeting Mr. Ross and Mr. Green, who told us way more about the Texas Panhandle than either of us ever really wanted to know. Back in the room, I said:
“I’m ready for a shower. How about you?”
He turned bright red. “Uh…”
I laughed. “That didn’t come out quite right, sorry! I meant—do you want the bathroom anytime soon? I’m going to take a shower and I’ll probably be half an hour.”
He blinked rapidly. “Sure, that’s fine.”
Half an hour later, I stepped into the room, wearing a towel around my waist, nothing more, heading for the credenza where I’d left my glasses.
“Holy shit!” Jeff exclaimed.
I froze. He was staring at me, his mouth hanging open, arm outstretched, finger pointing right at me. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t think to ask whether you had any modesty issues.”
He started laughing. “Uh, no, no modesty issues, sorry,” he said between wheezes.
I looked at him. “Well, what then?”
He pulled himself together, sat on the bed, crossed his legs. “Well, Mr. Man, it’s like this. You’re the most gorgeous hunk of manflesh I’ve ever seen in my fucking life, not to mention the biggest and best built. Yer a fucking Moose!”
You’re not surprised that Jeff wound up being my second boyfriend, right?
We had quite a nice life in Denver, two well-educated, professional young guys living in a three-bedroom ranch house in the suburbs. We weren’t on the down low with our work colleagues but we weren’t out there about it either. If they wanted to think we were just roommates, that was their business. Our boss knew better and changed things around a bit so that we weren’t working directly with each other.
Just as well, we both thought, we spend plenty of time together as it is!
We acquired a puppy, Molly, an adorable Welsh terrier; we went on trips together (Jeff was a whiz at finding bargains); cultivated a close circle of friends, mostly gay guys; half of them were into soccer (Jeff’s sport), half of them into bodybuilding and powerlifting, like I was. We might have been coy at work but we were thoroughly out to our respective family members, most of whom seemed to be okay having another son, brother, cousin, nephew or whatever to add to the mix. And there was always the gym. With my encouragement, Jeff added another 15-20 pounds of muscle—and got much stronger—but in the end he said, “thanks, that’s plenty!” His real passion was the soccer field, playing or coaching or both, and I was quite content to go to as many games as I could. Watching him fly across the field, those big, beefy legs and that meaty bubble butt straining the seams of his skimpy soccer shorts, mmm, mmm, mmm—I never tired of it.
For his part, Jeff never seemed to get tired of the fact that no matter what I did, I was always that a little bit bigger, stronger, harder, than I was the year before. By the time our 4th anniversary rolled around, I was up to 280 pounds of seriously impressive muscle. My bodybuilding buddies were always pressing me to compete but I always had the same response: “You know how much effort it would take to get me smooth?!” I’d say, pulling off my shirt to reveal my fur-covered torso. “It’s not worth it!” Not to mention the fact that Jeff, who was naturally smooth, was totally in love with my fur; I could have been a beanpole and his pole (and it was quite a pole) would still be poking up!
“Oh, look,” Jeff said one evening while looking through the mail. “An invitation for your 10th high school reunion!” I grimaced slightly. “Uh, well…” I began. He laughed. “Don’t even think about it, Mister,” he said, airily. “The way you talk about those guys, there’s no way we’re not going. Besides, I didn’t get to go to mine, so yours will have to do!”
Two years previously Jeff had hemmed and hawed about whether to go to his 10th reunion. He had gone to a school for military-connected American kids in Spain so it would have been quite an undertaking for a reunion. Before he could make up his mind, a big assignment came up that put to rest any idea of going. As for those guys…
Well, yeah, it would be interesting to see what had become of Brent and Eric and (especially!) Scott. I knew the first two had played football at State but their careers had been lackluster at best, even before injuries had sidelined them. But what about Scott? I had followed his bodybuilding career avidly. He steadily climbed through the ranks, winning some contests, placing highly in others, always making progress, never quite winning that pro card. And then, about a year or so previously, he had fallen off the competition radar. What was up with him?
I relented, of course, and made reservations at the local Marriott Courtyard, the closest thing to an upscale hotel to be found in little old Brook Harbor. Jeff had an evil grin on his face when I told him I’d done so.
“This is going to be fun!” he said.
And it was fun!
The girls squealed and exclaimed over me and they squealed twice as much over Jeff. “We always knew,” they said. “We were just waiting for him to figure it out.”
Brent and Eric were just dumbfounded. “You’re so fucking huge!” they both told me. When we all graduated from high school, Eric and Brent had outweighed me by 40-50 pounds. Now though…
Having ended their football careers virtually simultaneously, they both vowed that they would never turn into fat has-beens. Instead they took up tennis and golf and running. They were both 6’1 and on any given day they were within 5 pounds of each other, usually somewhere between 180 and 190, depending on the season. It being summer, they were both exactly 180 pounds the night of the reunion.
“Jesus,” Brent said. “Just how big are you?”
I smiled but before I could say anything…
“He was 280 this morning,” Jeff said. Brent’s and Eric’s mouths hung open. “I think you get the award for most improved!” they both exclaimed. I looked around the room. There were 2-3 other big guys there who obviously had not been when we were all in high school.
“Where’s Scott?” I asked.
I felt a big paw land on my shoulder.
“Right here, Big Man,” I heard a deep voice reply. I turned and there he was, just as hot and handsome as I remembered him! “And about 10 pounds less than you are,” Scott pointed out, as if he had read my mind. Then he gave me a great big bear hug that had my pocket rocket rarin’ to go. “You growed up good,” Scott said.
“Well, look at you!” I replied. “Jeez, what a hunk!”
Scott chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling kind of emaciated these days,” he pointed out. “I maxed out last year at 295 but then I slipped a disk in my neck and I had to reel it in a bit.”
I felt Jeff put his strong firm hand around my bulging triceps. “I’m Jeff,” he said. “Roger has told me a lot about you guys!”
Eric and Brent stammered their hellos. It was clear they were trying to be cool and hip and not quite sure what they were supposed to say their friend’s Husband, for God’s sake. Scott, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to eat Jeff up. “Well, well,” Scott said. “You’ve done well for yourself, ya Big Moose! Tina and Melanie told me there was this A&F model hanging around but they didn’t say he belonged to you!”
For the first time in our life together, Jeff honest to god blushed. “Look who’s talking, Mr. Man Mountain,” he replied. “I assume you’re under contract with Colt?”
A little smirk crossed Scott’s face. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Eric looked confused. “Ya mean, the hand gun company…?” Brent rolled his eyes. “Oh, look,” he said in an obvious ploy to divert attention. “The girls brought out the cake!” And off they went.
“Seriously?” I asked. Scott put his huge arm around Jeff’s broad shoulders—then pinched my nipple! “You’re not the only fur ball in the room,” Scott pointed out, casually. “Once I gave up competing, I figured it was time to do something else.” He looked me up and down. “Something you might want to consider!”
“We’re going to do him, aren’t we?” Jeff asked as we refilled our cups at the punchbowl.
“Jeff!” I exclaimed.
In four years together, Jeff and I had never gotten around to playing with anyone outside our relationship. It wasn’t like we were intellectually opposed to the idea, just that we were both very, very picky.
“Oh, c’mon,” he said. “You’ve been lusting over him for how long? Since before you graduated from high school, certainly!” I stammered. “Well, yeah, but, I mean, are you really…?” He gave me the stare. “Am I really interested in having sex with another pro-bodybuilder sized Colt caliber hunk who is almost as handsome as my husband?! Do you really need to ask?”
I blushed. “Uh, well, but, ya know…”
Scott sneaked up behind me again, only this time his big hand landed on my ass, not my shoulder. “Could I interest you two in a nightcap back at my room?” he asked, his voice filled with faux innocence.
“Our room,” Jeff replied. “We have a suite.”
I stood there with my mouth hanging open.
“Close your mouth, Roger,” they both said at the same time. “You’re attracting flies!”
Then they laughed and bumped fists. “You guys set this up, didn’t you?” I said, finally. Scott blushed, Jeff put on his look of righteous indignation. “Okay,” I continued. “That’s all I needed to know.”
It was, as they say, a night to remember. Somehow I never felt more connected to Jeff than I did with my big thick dick up his ass with him sucking on Scott’s equally impressive man tool. I looked down at Jeff’s sweet ass, then up at Scott’s handsome face. When our eyes made contact, it was like a jolt of electricity.
“Woof,” he said. “Big man!”
Scott calling me Big Man was like having jumper cables on my nipples—my big dick spasmed, Jeff groaned as he shot his wad, Scott exploded in Jeff’s mouth. We fell on the bed in a heap, 750 pounds of meat, muscled men, Jeff purring like a kitten between his “two big furballs.”
And that was that. We kept in touch with Scott, of course, and routinely said that we’d visit him in L.A. and he had a standing invitation to join us in Denver. But between our work / travel schedules and his, we never seemed to be in the same place at the same time.
Jeff bought every Scott calendar, video, and poster that Colt put out, all of which decorated the spare bedroom (our dads were a bit put off but our moms liked it a lot!) We were his biggest fans (in more ways than one) and let everyone know it, even the people at work (who had long since figured it out, of course.)
Three years to the day after the high school reunion I kissed Jeff as he walked out the door, headed for the airport and the plane that would take him to Lubbock. He never made it. Some moron entered the freeway heading in the wrong direction and hit Jeff’s Acura TL head on at 70 m.p.h. That he survived the crash at all was a miracle but by the time I got to the hospital he was in a coma. I called Scott first.
I didn’t have to finish. He heard it in my voice.
“I’m on my way.”
Then I called Jeff’s parents and my parents and too many other friends and family members. A good dozen of us were there to say good-bye before the hospital folks turned off life support and harvested his organs. He was 33 years old.
Scott stayed with me the whole time, then headed back to Los Angeles. My boss gave me the best advice—change nothing for a year—and I actually paid attention to it, since my folks and Jeff’s folks said the same thing.
I got up, I walked and fed Molly, I ate, I went to the gym, I went to work, I came home, I walked and fed Molly, I ate, I went to the gym again. The same thing, every day. At some point along the way I realized I was in the gym twice as long and working twice as hard as I’d ever done—and I was still growing at the same rate, a bit under a pound per month, never more, never less.
A year went by…
“Roger,” Scott said, as the anniversary approached. “I want you to come visit. There are some folks I want you to meet.”
So I left Molly with Adele and Henry, our—my—across the street neighbors and flew to LAX where Scott picked me up in his slick Lexus convertible. We went to his loft-style condo and he held me for a long time. Then we made love, long and slow and sad and extremely intense and erotic. The next morning, over breakfast, I finally asked.
“These guys. Who are they?” Scott smiled. “Some friends at Colt, of course.” I blinked. “Really? Why do they want to meet me?” Scott laughed. “Well, mostly, they’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “Heard what? From whom?” I wanted to know. He shook his head. “Big Man, I don’t know why a guy as smart as you has such a hard time connecting the dots!”
The Colt guys had heard from Scott, of course. They’d heard that next to me, Scott—the most successful Colt cover model in the history of the company—felt like “a widdul girl.” “What?! That’s crazy,” I told him. He stood up and beckoned me to do the same. “Stand with me and look in the mirror, Roger.” I did.
“Oh,” I said. We were exactly the same height. Scott was 285 pounds of fur covered muscle—with a 9-inch dick. I was 320 pounds of fur covered muscle—with an 11-inch dick. “It wasn’t that big three years ago, ya know,” he said. “And it sure as hell wasn’t that big when we graduated from high school.”
As has happened all too frequently in my life, my jaw fell open.
“Flies,” Scott said.
“Jeff…” I began. Scott put his big mitts on my huge shoulders. “Jeff would love it, Roger, and you know it. He and I talked about this for a long time before, well, you know…”
And that’s how I became a porn star.
Being a Colt model, which really isn’t the same thing as being a porn star, turned out to be a lot of fun. Lots of travel, lots of interesting people, lots of parties, and, well, let’s be frank about it, lots of sex with hot guys.
There were parts of it that could get to be a bit much, of course. Everyone wanted to touch, which was fine, I enjoyed being touched and I was happy to share; some guys, though, didn’t want to let go, and their not wanting to do so tended to be in inverse proportion to their attractiveness (which wasn’t just physical; there were some extremely hot guys that I found just totally repulsive in terms of personality.) Plus way too many of them wanted me to do drugs and I had zero interest. A cocktail or two, a bottle of wine, heck, even a beer, but anything you had to snort, sniff, inject, or swallow in pill form, uh uh—not interested.
It helped that Scott and I usually traveled together and, yes, it was pretty clear from the get go that we were a couple. After a year of traveling (and making three times as much money as I’d ever done previously), I sold the house in Denver and moved myself and Molly into Scott’s Santa Monica loft.
I didn’t do any porn, per se, not so much because I was squeamish as I was so damned big. After me, Scott was about the biggest adult performer and—surprise!—by the time another year had passed I was another 10 pounds heavier. At 330 pounds I outweighed him by 50 pounds of solid muscle and compared to a guy like Matthew Rush or Carlo Masi I was simply gigantic. My solo jackoff videos, though, were the hottest thing since Carl Hardwicke. They made a fortune for Colt (and by extension, me.) After three years of performing, I had enough to live on for the rest of my life.
“And, you know,” Scott began one morning over breakfast.
I looked up at him. He had that expression.
“Oh, that,” I said in reply. “Yeah, I know.”
At 35, I was up to 350 pounds, all of it muscle. After nearly 20 years of lifting, I was beginning to wonder if it was ever going to stop. Or whether it was ever going to change. For most guys, I was beyond huge. I was as big as a pro bodybuilder like Noah Steere, only he was six inches taller than I was. My 70-inch chest was nearly as big around as I was tall (6 ft.), my 30-inch biceps were considerably bigger than my head, and my 37-inch quads were bigger than a normal man’s waist (and two inches bigger than my own.)
“I know,” I said. “I’m too big.” Scott shrugged. “You’re incredibly impressive…” he said. I nodded. “But you’re getting into fetish territory,” he added. I winked at him. “And just who might be into this sort of fetish?” I asked, popping a double biceps pose that popped some major wood in his gym shorts.
He growled. “You know you can never be too big as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “The question is…” I sighed. “I think it’s time for me to retire,” I said. “Go out while I’m still on top.” Scott nodded. “As for the other…”
I looked down at my 25-inch forearms and made ‘em dance. No one had ever had forearms as big as I did. “I’ve contacted the sports medicine folks at UCLA,” I told him. “They want me to come in for some tests. They’ve got a whole team of people who want to look at me.” Scott laughed at that. “Big Man, you’ve got a whole city full of people who want to look at you,” he pointed out.
“Just not with microscopes and MRI’s and all that shit,” I observed.
Let’s just hope I don’t get carted off to Area 51, I said to myself.
I was beginning to wonder what it all meant. From what I could tell, no one had ever grown as consistently as I had over such a long period of time. And no one had ever gotten as big and as muscular as I had without resorting to anabolics of one sort or another. It sort of freaked people out. Hell, it really freaked people out, so much so that once I got up to 300 pounds. I started buying steroids and then flushing them down the toilet, just so that people would think I was on something.
“But you’re not,” Scott said.
I shrugged my massive shoulders.
“When did you learn how to read my mind?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t quite twigged to how freaked out I was feeling.
“In the 9th grade,” Scott replied.
And then he proved he knew what was on my mind because he came and sat in my lap, like the little 290-pound teddy bear that he was.
The folks at UCLA poked and prodded and ran the tests and scratched their heads and poked and prodded some more.
“Mr. Foxworth,” Dr. Xiao told me, finally.
Uh oh, I thought. I don’t like his hang dog expression.
“Yes, Doc?” I mustered.
He scratched his head, pushed his glasses up on his nose.
“We have no earthly idea what is going on,” he admitted.
Well, in some ways that was a relief. I was perfectly health, even better than healthy, by most measures. Blood pressure and heart rate were at the athletic end of high functioning, lipids were great, kidney and liver function were great, my lungs and glands and colon all looked completely healthy.
“You’re just incredibly large,” Dr. Xiao pointed out, which I already knew. “And incredibly strong for your size.” Which I also knew. The world record bench press was hovering right around 1050 pounds at the time—and I was routinely benching 1100 pounds for reps. I hadn’t quite gotten around to trying to max out. It just didn’t seem worth the effort to round up that many plates. “We’d like to do a study…” the good doctor began but I held up my hands and shook my head.
“I don’t think I’m ready for that, Doc,” I said. “No offense but I’ve had quite enough attention for the past few years.”
Xiao arched an eyebrow.
“We’ve had some inquiries…”
“Let me guess—DoD types?”
“Do me a favor and tell them that I’m not green, okay?”
He smiled at that. I shook his hand and walked out. I good feel his eyes burning into my mile-wide back as I walked down the corridor.
“Ya know,” I said when I got home. “Maybe we need to get a place in the country…”
Scott looked at me. “The beach? The mountains?” he asked. “They don’t do it for you anymore?” I chuckled. “Hey, that’s not it, you know it,” I said. “I even like the traffic, for God’s sake!” Scott grinned at that. “Pervert!” I laughed. “Takes one to know one!”
Then I turned serious.
“I think I could stand a slower pace,” I said. “And a lower profile.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“Hey, you don’t have to convince me,” Scott said. “You know I like to get out in the woods and run around naked.”
Which is how we wound up moving back to Brook Harbor, or close enough. Compared to what Scott had spent on the condo in Santa Monica, the heavily wooded 20 acres we found at the far end of Bay Point was a steal. And private, too. There were 10 other houses on the Point, all with about the same amount of land, and it was a 10 mile drive into town.
Our high school friends and acquaintances were happy to see us, although at something of a loss regarding how they were supposed to interact with two giant gay men. Eric and Brent were equally pleased to see us (not to mention completely and totally in awe of us), especially after we bought, refurbished, and expanded the town’s one and only hardcore gym.
“Ya know,” we both told them, at one time or another. “If either or both of you guys ever want to get big, just let us know, okay? You’ve both got the genes for it and contrary to popular opinion it’s completely possible to be big and healthy.”
They hemmed and hawed for a few months until Scott talked to Betsey, Eric’s wife, and I talked to Brent’s wife Karen. Then they got interested! It was fun watching them—and Scott—grow! They put it on much faster than I did, of course. In three years Scott put on 40 pounds of muscle, Brent put on 50 pounds, and Eric put on 60 pounds. By the time our 20th high school reunion rolled around, Brent and Eric were up to 240 and 250 respectively, and Scott was a humongous 320 pounds of solid muscle. As for me, well, it was totally predictable: Three years. Thirty pounds. Still exactly 6 ft. tall, the night of our reunion I was 380 pounds of solid muscle, with 33-inch biceps and a chest that was pushing 80 inches.
The guys were always nagging me and Scott to work out with them at the gym but we preferred doing so at home. Scott relented a couple of times but I never did, and for very good reason—we both agreed that most people were not ready to see someone benching 1500 pounds for reps. Especially since doing so tended to make me hard as a rock; inasmuch as that particular part of my anatomy was now up to 13 inches, watching me work out was apt to create unintended (and possibly unfortunate!) consequences!
“They have trouble enough dealing with me,” Scott said.
I hugged him close.
“Oh, I know,” I replied. “I just thank God that you don’t have any trouble with it!”
The reunion was a great success and we got the surprise of our lives when they announced that we were going to be crowned Reunion “King and King” in a mock prom ceremony.
“You guys are the best!” we gushed and then danced in the spotlight while the band played Roxanne.
As soon as the music ended the guys in the black helicopters arrived.
You’re not surprised, right?