Muscle Men, page 5
“Oh, my God,” he said. “Oh, my beautiful God.”
Two days later, over coffee at the Castro Café, Ryan’s longtime confidante, the drag theologian, Sister Ironica Herself, was less than perpetually indulgent: “What you gay boys won’t do to have fun.”
Part 4
“Je ne regrette rien.”
Sooner or Later Every Bodybuilder
Hustles Muscle
They were too hot not to cool down. A year passed. The idyll ended. They had a gentlemen’s parting that left a bit of the best of them in each of them. During the months that followed, Ryan had to smile when he read a personals ad in the back of the Bay Area Reporter listed under Models for Hire. He recognized Kick’s way with words, and he recognized the thumbnail photo showing the model “Armstrong” from the neck down.
I AM ARMSTRONG! BIG GUNS. Feel them: thick, big ARMS, muscle-bulked heavily from sweaty workouts, their huge girth sported in a cotton T-shirt, or subtly concealed by shirt sleeves of well-washed flannel stretched across their mass, now stripped to reveal mounds of baseball biceps cabled with vascularity, and thick horseshoe triceps, growing bigger before your eyes, the pump of each successive flex further expressing the disciplined power of the life force that built them. With those Big Guns lifted high in full frontal display of arm muscle, feel them again. Feel the density of each striation as it’s gathered down into the depths of muscle armpits rich with the heavy male scent of bodybuilder muscle sweat. After a bit of 420 smoke and popper, if you find your nose exploring the heights of those pits, if you can take that big muscular arm in one hand, and your dick in the other, and discover that between the stroking of the two that you’re cumming, then we’re both gonna have fun! I’m on my way to the gym now. If Big-Guns rap-n-jack-off makes you break into a sweat you can’t cool off by yourself, contact me. Armstrong@intro2muscleworship.cum
All models have a going rate, and no models are in more demand than musclemen. Kick was charging $200 a session, no time limit, safe sex only. Ryan, amused, figured that during the two years he and Kick were together, he had enjoyed, at five sessions a week, over $100,000 worth of free sex, and a million bucks of personal intimacy on the sport-fucking circuit. Every curve and taste and smell and vision of Kick’s body existed inside his head like a 3D hologram he could enjoy forever.
THUNDER AND LIGHTNING
Cage Thunder
I was stretching and warming up in the ring, psyching myself for my match. The guy I was scheduled to wrestle was new to BG East and I hadn’t met him in person. I had seen pictures of him, though, and he was gorgeous: young, twenty-three at most, with ripped abs, muscular legs and a stunning upper body. As soon as the Boss emailed me the pics, my dick had gotten hard. I emailed back, Hell yeah I wanna wrestle him!
And so here I was, back in the ring in Fort Lauderdale, waiting.
I glanced at the wall clock: quarter after eight. The kid was late.
I went back into my mind-space, focusing on my stretching. It felt good to stretch. I was always in such a rush to get through my workouts—when I managed to squeeze in time at the gym—that I never managed to really get a regular stretching routine going. I blocked everything out as I reached for my toes, bending at the waist and trying to lower my forehead to my knees. I heard a phone ringing but blocked the sound out. I glanced up as my torso lowered and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror outside the ring. I gave myself a wink. The twink is going down.
“The kid canceled,” the Boss said from outside the ring ropes. “Car trouble, he says.”
“Car trouble my ass—chickened out is more like it,” I replied, as my forehead finally came to rest on my knees. I could feel the stretch in my hamstrings, and I exhaled.
“You up for a rematch?” the Boss asked me as he tucked his cell phone back into his pocket.
I gestured at my ring attire. “All geared up with no one to beat on, Boss.” I replied with a shrug, but my curiosity was piqued. BG East rarely, if ever, filmed rematches. “Who we talking about?”
His eyes glinted, and he raised an eyebrow. “Max Coleman.”
My eyes narrowed.
I fucking hate Max Coleman.
Our original match was taped when we were both new to the company. It was a motel match, and to be honest, he completely kicked my ass.
But it wasn’t really a fair fight. While we are about equal in wrestling skill, in a motel room a bigger guy has a definite advantage. To beat someone bigger in a small space, you either have to be more skilled or quicker than the big guy. I was giving up three inches in height and twenty pounds of muscle, and without a lot of room to maneuver, well, I didn’t have a chance. The match didn’t start out fair, either. He knocked on the door while the cameras were already rolling and I answered. We were supposed to trash talk each other, move over to where the mattresses made a makeshift arena, strip out of our shirts and shorts and get wrestling.
Instead, the moment the door opened he attacked. I wasn’t expecting it; in seconds he had my shirt pulled up over my head, blinding me and tangling my arms, and then he started working me over. I was never in the fight, and when I was finally beaten down and couldn’t continue I had to put up with the humiliation of him sitting on my chest while he flexed his massive arms and laughed at me.
“Did you really think you had a chance?” he had mocked me as he struck a double-bicep pose. “Look at these fucking guns!”
And as if that weren’t enough, he gave my face a not-so-playful slap before he got off me and the camera was turned off.
This match was also before I started wearing masks, drawing from their power.
Ever since, I’ve wanted nothing more than to totally kick the shit out of him. I’d tried to arrange a private match in the ring, just the two of us—no cameras, no referee—him and me, two hours. Two climb in, one climbs out. He was always evasive. “What do I have to prove?” he’d taunt me in emails or on the BG East message board. “I already kicked your ass once. What would be different this time? Not a fucking thing.”
And I would burn in anger.
So I gave the Boss a nasty smile and drove my right fist into my gloved left hand. “Yeah, I could handle another shot at Coleman. Will he have the balls to show up?”
I was wearing black leather gloves with the fingers cut out, a black leather mask with a white facial outline, black boots and kneepads and a flattering black pair of trunks with two silver lightning bolts on the front that met over my crotch and formed an arrow pointing down. I walked to the side of the ring that faced the mirror, and struck an all-muscle pose. I had a deep tan and was in great shape. I’d trained really hard and even managed to watch what I ate in the weeks leading to the trip to Lauderdale. I’d trimmed my thick torso hair and I looked great.
“Oh, he’s on his way.” The Boss gave me his wickedest grin. He picked up a digital camera. “Guess we might as well start taking your portraits until he gets here.”
We’d just wrapped up my portraits when there was a knock on the gym door, and Jon, who was going to run the video camera during the match, opened it.
I walked over to the ring ropes closest to the door and stared at the hated Coleman as he swaggered into the gym.
He was two inches taller than me, at six foot one, wearing a pair of sweatpants cut off at the knees and a T-shirt he’d cut the sleeves from and ripped so it was open almost to the waist. He didn’t look at me as he walked in and shook hands with Jon. The Boss left me standing, watching, and went to talk to him. Coleman put his gym bag down and pulled the shirt over his head. He was bigger than he had been when we’d wrestled three years earlier. His big shaved pecs, thick shoulders and huge biceps were defined, veins popping out as he slid his shorts down. He was wearing a pair of electric blue trunks with a silver lightning bolt across the front. I smirked. Lightning trunks to wrestle Cage Thunder, huh? He pulled on socks and began lacing up white boots. When he was finished lacing them, he headed for the ring.
He was good looking, with dark blond hair trimmed close to his scalp in an almost military style cut. His torso and legs were completely hairless, and there was a big bulge in the front of his trunks that I didn’t remember from our original match. His skin was tanned a dark golden brown, and as he climbed through the ropes he looked over at me and gave me a big smile. “Hey, man,” he said, dimples deepening in his cheeks. One of his bright blue eyes closed in a wink. “Let’s put on a good show, huh?”
I nodded and watched as he started posing for the Boss’s camera. My cock stirred inside my trunks. This fucker’s body was gorgeous. His biceps peaked as he them, veins bulging in his forearms and shoulders. I remembered how it felt to be trapped in his viselike bear hug, powerful arms putting pressure on my lower back until I thought it would snap, him tossing me around like I weighed nothing.
“All right, let’s get some of the two of you together,” the Boss commanded, and I walked over to the corner where he stood, with one boot up on the lower rope. “Stand chest to chest,” he said, so I stepped in close to Coleman. Our chests were maybe an inch away from each other. “Perfect.”
“I’m going to kick your ass again,” Coleman whispered, smile never fading.
I didn’t reply. He was trying to get inside my head, make me doubt myself. Not a chance. I looked at his meaty pecs, anticipating how great it would feel to put a claw hold on them. Everything about him was massive and muscled—and all that really meant to me was a bigger and better target.
We did a couple more shots of the two of us, and then the Boss told Jon to put the camera down. “All right, when we start taping, we’re going to start with the camera on you, Max,” he said. “Stand over in front of the mirror and flex—you know what to do.”
“Yup,” he replied.
“Cage, you’re going to be in the locker room,” the Boss went on. “When Max is through flexing, he’ll call you out. You appear, give him the onceover, and then climb in the ring and head over to your corner. We’ll ring the bell, and you start.”
I nodded, climbing out of the ring and through the locker room door, pulling it shut. My heart was pounding. I’d been waiting three years for another shot at the musclehead. My traitorous cock was semihard, which pissed me off. Sure, he was hot. Sure, he had a great body, one of the best I’d ever seen up close and personal. But he was an asshole, and he was the enemy.
I wasn’t going to lose to that son of a bitch again.
The locker room was hot and sweat started to bead under my mask. I tried to focus on what I had to do to win the match, breathing deep, clearing my mind. Forget everything, just focus on kicking his ass.
“Hey, Thunder, what are you doing in there? You afraid to come out and fight me, pussy?”
I shoved the locker room door open, slamming it against the wall as I stalked through the doorway, then stopped. I looked into the ring, challenging Max’s arrogant, mocking, cocky grin. I pointed at him and then down at the mat. “You’re going down, musclehead,” I growled, and climbed through the ropes, heading over to my corner as he retreated to the corner opposite mine.
He flexed his arms. “You sure you want some of this?” He kissed each bicep in turn. “These big guns are gonna shoot you down and break you, little man.”
Stay calm, he wants you to lose your temper so you’ll lose focus.
The bell rang.
We circled each other. I stalked him slowly, while he danced on the balls of his feet, mouthing a steady barrage of taunts. “I’m gonna break you,” he taunted me, the grin I’d learned to hate on his face. “I’m gonna tear you limb from limb.”
We locked up in the center of the ring, collar and elbow, pushing each other back and forth until with a powerful thrust he backed me into my own corner. He was so damned strong! He shoved my upper torso up and backward until I was on my toes. He stood between my legs, his powerful arms forcing my straining arms up, exposing my entire torso—
And he slapped my face.
It wasn’t a hard slap, just a pop, didn’t hurt at all, but it was loud, and meant to be insulting. He laughed and danced backward to the center of the ring, gesturing for me to come forward. I did, my arms outstretched, and he darted through them, scooped me up, and body slammed me to the center of the ring.
All the air left my lungs and a bolt of pain shot through my body from my lower back. As I started to get to my feet, he scooped me up and dropped me again. My ears ringing, the pain in my lower back throbbing, he grabbed me by the chin and dragged me back up to my feet. Back into the air I went, and this time he dropped my lower back over his knee. My body bent in two as I rolled off, landing on my stomach.
Fuck, that hurts, damn it to fuck…
And as I tried to clear my head, he grabbed my left leg, tucked my foot under his armpit, and sat on my upper back, dragging my leg up into a single leg crab. I tried to push up, to take some of the weight on my free knee and release the pressure on my lower back as he started twisting my foot around.
I don’t know…how…much….more…I…can…take….
I was just about to submit when he released my leg.
Gasping, shaking my head, I started crawling to my corner.
He kicked me in the back.
I dropped to the mat and rolled desperately for the corner.
I started pulling myself up by the ropes when his knee slammed into my back again.
The momentum drove me headfirst into the turnbuckle.
Dazed, I climbed up on the ropes. I was on my feet when he grabbed my arm and my chin and hoisted me up in a rack across his shoulders.
“What do you say?” he taunted me as he walked to the center of the ring with me draped limp across his shoulders. My legs hung from one side, my head and arms from the other side, and my back…
He started doing squats. Every time he got down as far as he could, my back screamed in pain.
I struggled, tried to focus, tried not to let the pain get to me…
“I submit! I submit! I submit!”
He shrugged me off his shoulders and I dropped to the mat, sprawled, dazed and in extreme pain. I was vaguely aware of him posing over me, flexing his massive muscles, and then he kicked me in the side, rolling me over onto my aching back.
“Look at that!” he sneered, reaching down and touching my hard cock. “You’re hard! You like getting your ass kicked by a big muscle stud, don’t you?”
He hooked his fingers into my trunks, and with a hard yank, tore them off me.
I lay exposed.
He laughed and tossed my trunks outside of the ring.
“Any time you’re ready for more, pussy.” He reached down and smacked my face. Again, it was just a slap, hurting nothing more than my pride. But my face smarted. With a laugh, he walked over to his corner.
I rolled over to my corner, pulling myself up by the ropes yet again, taking deep breaths, stretching my aching back as I stared across the ring at him. He was smirking, contempt written all over his handsome face.
Turn the pain to rage.
I stared at him, aware that my cock was still hard, willing the pain away, my hatred for him spilling over.
He held his hands out and signaled me to come and get him.
With each step across the ring, my anger rose until I reached the other side, standing in front of him, my cock bouncing.
I drove my fist into his ripped abs.
“Is that all?” He laughed. “Come on, give it to me again! Give me your best shot!”
I slammed my fist into him again.
“I think I may have felt that,” he mocked me and shook his head. “Steel, baby, they’re steel. Give it another try.”
I pulled my fist back, smiled to myself, and punched him as hard as I could.
Only this time, I connected with his balls.
His face turned red, his eyes bugged out, and I stepped aside as he collapsed to the mat. He rolled, clutching his nuts, moaning.
I walked over, hooked my fingers into his trunks, and yanked them off.
His hard, muscular ass was—well, spectacular.
I sat on his back, slipped his trunks around his neck, and yanked back.
He gasped, legs kicking as I pulled, leaning back to get my weight into it.
“How them muscles working for you now, stud?” I taunted him as he tried to get air into his lungs. “Ain’t such a big man now, are you?”
“You…cheating…fuck!” he somehow gasped.
I let go of his trunks and slammed his head onto the mat, then tossed the trunks outside the ring and rolled him onto his back. His face was red and he was still trying to breathe as I sat on his meaty pecs, one knee on either side of his head, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled his head into my crotch, rubbing my cock over his face. “Yeah, you want to suck that big dick, don’t you, bitch?”
“Fuck…you!”
I jumped to my feet and stomped on his steel abs. He doubled up, gasping and choking. I jumped onto them with both feet, and that was when I noticed his cock was hard.
It was a beautiful cock, long and thick over a set of heavy balls. He had trimmed his golden pubic hair to fuzz. I reached down and flicked his cock with my right index finger. “Looks like getting your ass kicked turns you on too, muscle man,” I said, laughing.
I had him where I wanted him now. I picked up his left leg, spun it so it was wrapped around my left leg, crossed it across his right knee and then dropped onto my ass, locking my right ankle over his left foot.
A figure four hurts like a motherfucker, and sure enough, he was screaming his submission before I could even ask him.
I released the hold and got to my feet. I kicked his left knee—the one the submission hold had tortured—and he screamed again and rolled away.
I followed him as he crawled to the corner, and as he started climbing the ropes I kicked him square in the small of his back. He dropped down to his knees, and I planted my right foot in between his shoulder blades while grabbing both wrists and yanking his arms back.
