Muscle Men, page 3
Mr. Muscle Pump hesitates, eyes darting nervously around. The Rod screws his finger into the boy’s pucker, making him grunt and stand on tiptoes.
“Yes, sir,” he says meekly, squealing as the Rod shoves his finger in all the way. The boy is hard again.
Mr. Muscle Pump shimmies his trunks down. Once they’re off his ass they flutter to the ground, and he steps out of them like a show dog.
“Turn around,” the Rod orders.
Trey’s head and shoulders droop, but his little dick stays hard as a rock as he faces the crowd of bodybuilders. There are whoops, sniggers and faint applause. Mr. Muscle Pump is truly on display, stripped of the one thing that hid the only part of his body he couldn’t make any bigger. His crotch is shaved clean, as silky smooth as the rest of him, and just as deeply tanned—he went into the fake-and-bake booth buck naked, and probably threw a woody each and every time.
The Rod undoes his shorts with his free hand and grips his massive cock. His fingers can’t circle all the way around it. He grabs some oil off Trey’s dripping man tits and rubs it over his dick. He lines up the massive head against Mr. Muscle Pump’s pulsating hole, which practically pants in fear and anticipation, opening and closing of its own volition. The Rod shoves hard, piercing deeply into Mr. Muscle’s Pump’s velvety insides.
Trey gasps. “It’s too big!” He thrashes wildly, desperate to get off the Rod.
The Rod grabs the blond’s hair and yanks his head toward the mirror. Mr. Muscle Pump still pants and struggles, but his eyes are locked on the image before him. His body looks even better than before. He trembles around the Rod’s huge dick, watching every one of his own muscle fibers flexing tight. At the same time he’s hyperventilating.
“Please…” he begs.
Not “please get off,” just “please.” Like any top worth the name, the Rod knows exactly what Mr. Muscle Pump is begging for.
“Grab him,” the Rod orders a pair of hefty heavyweights.
The bodybuilders, both covered in tattoos, obey immediately, each pinning one of Mr. Muscle’s Pumps arms and shoulders against their own granite physiques, immobilizing Trey with immovable walls of muscle. And then the Rod starts to really fuck him.
Mr. Muscle Pump whimpers like a trapped animal, desperately trying to escape the Rod’s rapacious dick. He begs for the Rod to stop, for someone to help. The rest of the bodybuilders are too busy sliding their hands up and down their own dicks.
And then something snaps inside the muscle champ. His plaintive voice turns to solid grunts. He’s no longer struggling against the tattooed bodybuilders, whose own engorged dicks are oozing cum. The Rod motions the two behemoths to back off, and one of them starts going down on the other. The Rod smiles. Now, this is a pump room.
Trey’s rock-solid ass starts matching the Rod pump for pump, and, giving himself over to the fuck, he flexes his arms into a bulging double biceps. His body is crisscrossed with delicate vascularity and sweat drips down his chest and abs. His little dick looks ridiculous against his oversized—but perfectly proportioned—muscles. Dropping his arms, he feels himself all over, getting off on his own rock-hard body, his hands touching everywhere—except his undersized weenie.
“Oh, yeah, daddy, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”
The Rod feels his climax building and he grabs Mr. Muscle Pump’s nipples, squeezing hard, sending the champ’s ass into convulsions as the Rod shoots long and hard. The blond still hasn’t come, and when he reaches for his own stubby dick, so red and swollen it appears painful, the Rod grabs his wrist.
“You’ll ruin it,” he says, jerking his head toward the mirror. “Leave your oversized clit alone.”
The insult makes the champ’s insignificant cock that much harder.
“But I can’t go out with this,” he whines, gazing at his hard-on.
The Rod snorts, pulling out. He uses the champ’s baby blue trunks to wipe the cum off his dick. Spooge drips from Trey’s taut butt.
“Put ’em on,” the Rod orders, handing over the bikini bottoms. Mr. Muscle Pump obeys.
“Number Twenty-two, calling Number Twenty-two…” comes from the loudspeaker.
“You’re up, chump. Who knows, if you do win, I may even give you a round two.”
“Yes, sir!” Mr. Muscle Pump replies, the worship clear in his voice and in his puppy dog eyes. The rest of the bodybuilders in their banana slings don’t snigger now. They look jealous.
Trey Trojan easily wins his fourth Muscle Pump Championship. Like a good show horse he immediately canters backstage, his little hard-on pushing up against his cum-soaked posing trunks. His pecs jiggle as he hurries toward the Rod.
Later, after the awards are presented, the Rod eyes the Muscle Pump trophy, which is nearly as tall as his muscle champ. There’s a flexing gold bodybuilder in the middle of the gaudy prize, with an obelisk at the trophy’s peak.
The Rod’s going to enjoy shoving it up Mr. Muscle Pump’s ass.
MUSCLE WORSHIP: IF I SAID YOU HAVE A BEAUTIFUL BODY, WOULD YOU HOLD IT AGAINST ME?
Jack Fritscher
Part 1
The Roar of the Muscle
The Smell of the Crowd
A lucky man with a normal body can be embedded inside muscle culture. For any curious initiates wanting to suck up the inside scoop on muscle worship, welcome to a fast introduction for muscle freaks. This brief true story, like a fast tutorial by a wine connoisseur, is an insider’s guide to a particular species of gay sex that is accessible to men who are willing to travel through a homomasculine synergy of lust, ritual and archetype that allows them to genuflect to the muscular beauty of athletes’ bodies.
Gay sex always has an element of worship. In the way that rap is the lingua franca of black culture, the platonic ideal of the perfect male body is the lingua franca of gay male culture. Each man as he comes out to himself finds his desires more revealed, until, if he is lucky, he is kneeling in adoration of the Greek statue of the perfect male body in the way that Blanche DuBois says, “Suddenly there is God so quickly.”
There’s no quiz at the end of this quick intro to the true story of how a guy with an ordinary body becomes lovers with a championship bodybuilder. For masturbators with an urgency to swing into the sweaty gymnastics of muscle sex, skip to part two. For men with eager questions about what it’s like to connect sexually with the ideals of hero worship experienced in high school, and who want to step up to the grown-men’s fraternity of hot, raw, naked muscle worship, fasten your seat belts.
Muscle is one means to an end of gay-male fulfillment. Frankly, for a gay man to die without delving into the Platonic beauties of musclesex may be some kind of existential sin against the queer necessity of pushing self-identity into the most supreme orgasm possible. Born a male, a man is gorgeously fated to learn what men are, and, in the hallelujah chorus of all that, he is fated to combust in the desire that he himself is part of all that fireworks essence, even at the risk of dying at the feet of the masculinity he worships.
American sports tend to be objective and subjective. In objective sports, the basketball drops or does not drop through the hoop. The tight end either catches the football or he doesn’t. The tennis pro makes his serve or he misses. Objective sports may have referees and umpires, but they are mostly yes-or-no athletics. Everyone basically sees the same results.
Subjective sports like gymnastics, skating, fencing and bodybuilding determine winners or losers not by definitive touchdowns, but by judges’ opinions. Of all sports, bodybuilding is the least understood because it is the most subjective. If gymnastics has a right way to move on the flying rings, bodybuilding has several right ways to execute the mandatory poses that display the bodybuilder’s various muscle groups separately and together.
Who wins a physique contest is often as much a trick question as which is the best art form: literature, painting or music. The results depend on subjective values and enthusiasms. Most Americans like their sports cut and dried. For that reason, bodybuilding has been slow in coming to national acceptance as more than a cult sport. Someday it will, when Calvinism dies, and when it does, bodybuilding will finally become an Olympic event.
Physique presentation is a sporting objectification of self that is art and science, logic and feeling. A bodybuilder needs to know his body. He is dancer, actor, salesman. He is a contradiction in terms: a romantic existentialist. He strides barefooted across the stage with a dozen other bodybuilders. He takes his place in the lineup. He stands pumped and oiled and nearly naked, pouched confidently into his tiny posing briefs. He poses without movement, a perfectly sculpted statue. He radiates victory. He asserts his Command Presence under the hot lights. He calls the eyes of judges and audience to the quality edge of his muscle. Size. Symmetry. Power. Proportion. Bulk. Definition. Striation. Vascularity. Grooming. Look. His superior Command Attitude reduces the other highly competitive muscle to beefcake. As much as drag queens can sing the anthem, “I Am Who I Am,” his posture states, “Here I am!”
Winners know how to peak for the contest day. Three weeks before competition they cut carbohydrates from their highprotein diet to remove the last micro-pinch of body fat that might obscure muscle display. Workouts intensify to carve out the lean definition of each separate muscle in the bulked muscle groups. A week before, the entire body is strip-shaved for the first time to allow any cuts or shaving rash to heal. In the last forty-eight hours, diuretics drain the minute layer of water between the muscle and the skin. The skin, paper thin, form fits the striae of each muscle, showing the minutest furrow like tiny grooves on granite. The vascularity of the veins snakes around the muscle almost on top of nearly invisible skin. The tan, by contest day, must be perfect and the body smoothed by a final shave before it is oiled backstage.
Contests are grueling twelve-hour affairs. The prejudging, where the contest is actually won or lost, begins at ten in the morning, and, depending on the classes, Teenage, Men, and Weight and Age Divisions, can last until the early afternoon. By the evening show at eight, the judges, of whom there must be at least five, have tallied their votes. The prejudging audience, smaller and hard core, can only have guessed at the winner. The audience for the evening show is larger, fans and friends and family, hot to party and cheer the parade of muscle bodies and wait eagerly for the names of the four finalists and the winner.
In the morning, the contestants arrive early. They saunter into the green room. They check in disguised under thick jogging suits and bulky nylon athletic jackets. They carry enormous gym bags. Some arrive alone. Some have the company of their training partners or their coaches.
The room is silent. Brows furrow with concentration. They psych each other out. One by one they begin the slow strip of their jackets and gym shoes and sweatshirts and T-shirts and sweatpants. Each reveals his stuff slowly. The offstage competition posing has begun.
Arms, big guns appear. Broad shoulders. Huge pecs. Washboard abs. Thunder thighs. Big, naked bubble butts. In unshaven groins, penises sprout tight with tension or hang long and thick with languorous confidence.
Attentive buddies fold the contestants’ clothes into the gym bags. They wet their hands with baby oil and begin the even slather of the huge muscle bodies. The bodybuilders slide into their nylon posing briefs. Most pull their penises straight up toward their navels and let their balls hang low in the pouch. They pin the small white paper with their contest number over the front left hip of their briefs.
This is ritual.
Some play tug-of-war with their partners, pulling white towels back and forth to bring up the day’s glossy pump on their years of hard muscle building. Others move to the ton of iron delivered to the theater for the day to polish their muscle, most often their arms, one last time before marching out onstage for the real competition of group comparison, flexing in unison mandatory poses, then individually, each one mounting the dais alone to pose for sixty seconds to music of his own selection.
Part 2
The Spray of Flashbulbs
225 Pounds in a 2-Ounce Speedo
Ryan, driving the Corvette from San Francisco to San Diego, could only guess what lay in store for him and his bodybuilder lover. That first morning of their first contest, when he and Kick entered the greenroom, Ryan thought he had died and gone to heaven. He was surrounded by more than twenty naked bodybuilders. He tried to keep custody of his eyes. He folded Kick’s clothes and knelt at his feet, oiling up his legs to his shoulders. Ryan, during a scene of musclesex, had convinced Kick to replace baby oil with olive oil, because its sheen was more lustrous and its essence more classic.
“Whatever you say, coach.”
Kick was up. He thought it was a good omen that his assigned contest number was One.
The morning prejudging ran nearly three hours. Ryan was beaming. Kick glowed. They met during a break backstage.
“You look great out there,” Ryan said.
“I feel great out there,” Kick said. He motioned for Ryan to move in closer. “Spread some more oil on my chest.” He pointed toward the watch pocket in Ryan’s Levi’s. “Give me a hit,” he said. He reached into Ryan’s pocket for a small snifter of coke. He blew two lines. “Now you,” he said.
“I’m already wired,” Ryan said.
“Come on.” Kick put his arm on Ryan’s shoulder. The heady smell of contest sweat and olive oil made Ryan’s tits ache. “We’re here to have a good time.”
Ryan swacked off the snifter.
“Again,” Kick said.
Ryan snorted another line.
“It’s good for the vascularity,” Kick said. He thrust his arms, fists down, alongside his thighs, flexed, and popped his veins. “Nice, huh?”
“Sexy.”
“I want you to know,” Kick said, “how much fun it is to be inside this body.” He chucked Ryan under the chin.
“Every man on that stage would like to be in your body. They might as well go home. You’re going to win.”
“I know.”
After the prejudging, Ryan drove Kick in the Corvette to a coffee shop. Kick ordered an orange juice with four raw eggs. Ryan ordered but was too hyped to eat.
“Keep your strength up,” Kick said. “You want to shoot a terrific video tonight.” He stroked his high-top gym shoe up and down Ryan’s leg. “Muscle TV.”
Kick was triumphant in his evening posing routine. Through his video monitor, Ryan caught every graceful nuance. He knew the choreography he had coached by heart. He had even selected Kick’s music. He was bored with uninspired muscleheads posing one after the other to the clichéd themes from Exodus, Rocky, Star Wars and Superman. Ryan chose Tchaikovsky’s “Marche Slav.” Its thunderous power matched Kick’s smooth and commanding posing routine.
He flexed. He shined. He was pure, hard, blond muscle. His hair and face and jaw accentuated the blond brush of his mustache, groomed trooper sharp. His physique flowed from his head. He hit each pose hard. He had appeal. There was no quiver from the muscle exertion or the coke. He displayed every body part alternating always with the dozen ways he powered out his arms.
The crowd called out for more.
He hit the Most Muscular pose three times and threw his arms up over his head in victorious salute. The muscle crowd rose cheering to their feet.
Here was a man.
“All right, gentlemen,” the head judge said over the loudspeaker. “We’re calling the five finalists out on stage for a pose down. This is the final comparison, man for man, to determine the winner. Ladies and gentlemen, these are our five finalists. Number One, Kick Sorensen…”
Ryan heard no other names.
The five finalists strolled out onstage. Each picked a spot and hit a pose, playing the cheering audience. Kick owned stage center. He threw a double-biceps shot and then crunched down into the popular Most Muscular. The crowd went wild.
“Give yourselves some room, fellas. Spread out. Make sure you’re in the light.”
The finalists sought their places. Kick held center stage with two musclemen moving to each side. They all stood heels close together, toes pointed out, elbows extended, arms hanging down.
“All right. Let’s do a double-biceps pose on three. I want you all to hit exactly the same pose at the same time. On three. One-two-three. Hit your pose.”
Kick raised both arms. His biceps peaked under the hot light. He was arms and more than arms. He worked his pecs. He tightened his abs. Always he was working his legs. Contests are won or lost on legs.
“Okay. A lat spread from the front. On three. One-two-three.”
Kick positioned his thumbs behind his waist with his fingers front pointing down his hips. He swung his elbows out, lifted his chest, spread his shoulders and opened wide his lats, holding the pose, then twisting slightly from the waist, left to right, catching the best play of the light.
“Now a side-chest pose. Your favorite side. Take your positions. Quiet, please. We want a side-chest shot. Rotate the sides. One-two-three.”
Kick stood on his left foot and the ball of his right with his right knee bent to display his right calf development. He turned his head to face the judges straight on. He clasped his hands above his right hip and pulled his left shoulder toward the audience. His arms read like an awesome frame around his massive pecs.
“Now a side-tricep. Your favorite side. Take your positions. On three. One-two-three. Hit it.”
Again, standing sideways, yet facing the judges, Kick rested on his left foot. He placed the ball of his right foot behind him, flexing his calf. He shot his right arm down his outside thigh, displaying the horseshoe definition of his triceps. Then reaching his left hand behind his butt, he shifted the pose, taking hold of the hand facing the crowd to pop his tricep even more. He instinctively knew the extra flourish needed to show off the fine detail of each muscle to its best advantage.
“And relax. Turn toward the curtain, please. Give yourselves room, fellas. Spread out. Okay. Double-bicep from the rear. On three. One-two-three. Hit it.”
