My name was announced. It was time.
It was natural to be nervous, though I felt oddly confident and had expected it to be much worse. Everything started to move in slow motion and I felt a strange sense of detachment coming over me.
"Go all the way to the "X" in the middle." I heard the voice next to me and an arm helpfully moved the black curtain aside so I might pass. I began to walk out onto the risers, making my way towards the small "X" formed by two pieces of masking tape which was centered in a pool of intense light. To my right was a tall black curtain with a few different colored lights shining on it from above. In my peripheral vision I noticed a bluish area and remarked to myself that it matched the color of the material around my waist. To my left was the black void of the auditorium and the thousands of people it held. They had come from all over. The fans, the enthusiasts, the devotees, the obsessed and other practitioners; they had come from far and wide to see, well, me. Not only me and not specifically me, frankly, as I had never done this before so how could they possibly know they would see me today. But they had come to see the concept of me, the idea of me and the ideal that I was attempting to represent, the perfection of male physical development: the competitive bodybuilder. I moved slowly at first. My pace that of a deliberate walk, aka bodybuilder's waddle, my sense of detachment became stronger and I began to see myself as if from the outside, though I had an acute awareness of the sensations of my body. The air in the auditorium was fairly cool, and I could feel it moving over my skin as I made my way into the light at the center of the stage. My skin felt electric and I felt the air with every nerve ending as it was pushed aside and around my form.
My shiny blue posing suit covered the bare minimum in all areas, amounting to little more than about a quarter inch's worth of elastic between the deeply low-cut pouch in the front and the smallish triangle that tended to get wedged between my glutes. My thumb-sized nipples were tight and hard, pointing straight down at the floor from the shelf of my chest. The rest of my paper-thin skin felt much the same way. I was aware of it almost as if I had put on an impossibly tight, completely transparent bodysuit. It seemed to exert uniform pressure, contracting all around me, and I was aware of my own size pressing out from within my skin. My awareness continued to split itself in two, part remaining feverishly connected to the movements and sensations of my body and part floating outward and up a little as I watched myself moving out onto the stage. Able to glimpse my shadowy profile as I moved towards the `x,' the audience began to give me a welcoming round of applause. They were the applause given out of courtesy and custom to anyone about to engage in a performance of some sort, when that person is completely unknown to the audience members themselves.
As I mentioned, my gait was deliberate. One foot in front of the other, though that isn't quite how I'd describe what it's like to walk as a bodybuilder. When your thighs each have the dimensions of the average man's waist, your legs tend to have to move around each other as you walk, and you have to move your feet somewhat in the pattern of an arc with each step. If you don't let this happen naturally when you walk, your thighs wind up scraping together all the way from the knee up and it tends to hurt as the muscles get pushed around one another. My arms, hanging down at my sides, swayed back and forth to match my gait. Though, again, when your proportions differ from the average man, so to will the way your body makes average movements. The lat muscles are considered to be part of the back and they are trained with the rest of the back muscles, but they are actually something of a "side" muscle as well. When developed to their full potential, they naturally push out on the upper arms, creating a leverage effect that tends to make it look like a bodybuilder is forever holding his elbows out to the sides. From the inside it doesn't feel any different than just letting your arms hang down relaxed at your sides, except that there are several inches of air between your hands and your sides themselves. Some bodybuilders inflate themselves and walk out on stage while maintaining the very artificial, contrived posture called the "relaxed" position. As an audience member myself, I had often thought those guys looked arrogant and liked what they were doing, even though it often comes across that they were trying just a bit too hard and I wondered if it was off-putting to the judges. I wanted to look that way so I just made sure I stood tall and with good posture and made my way out to the "X". And then I got there.
It took two steps, one left and one right, to get from the edge of the pool of light to be standing directly on the masking tape indicator. As I entered the lighted area, the volume of the applause grew dramatically, if automatically, and I was instantly aware of the heat from the lights. The connected, totally-self-aware part of my consciousness hoped my color would stay even, that I wouldn't start perspiring and that the layer of oil covering my body wasn't too shiny. The disconnected, floating-over-the-front-row part of my consciousness as my body moved into the light and turned to face forward. The applause that had grown in volume virtually stopped and there were general murmurs of appreciation and surprise as I did go on to assume the "relaxed" position. My overhead consciousness helped my inside awareness adjust my body into the right position to show maximum muscular size while I waited to begin displaying my physique. Heels close together, feet pointed outwards at about 45 degrees. Knees slightly bent to bring out some tension and definition in the quads. Hands closed in fists to show forearm details, knuckles pointing down. Elbows slightly bent and pointing outward, arms pulled away from the body, shoulders tensed. Deep breath, chest inflated, abs tight but not fully flexed. Shoulders and arms pushing slightly forward, flaring the lats. Breathing is slow and steady, somewhat shallow so the abs can stay tight, focusing on chest expansion and projection. Stand still.
Why that is called the "relaxed" position will forever remain a mystery to me. Try standing still in that position in front of a mirror for several minutes and see how relaxed you feel. Then project what that feels like with probably about a hundred more pounds of muscle on your frame and you'll begin to guess what is really feels like. I watched myself assume the bodybuilder's position and I was very please with what I saw. I saw a man projecting confidence but not arrogance. A man who know he had put in the work and was comfortable with the results he had achieved. I saw a highly developed, 5'8" 250 lb. body carrying about 4% body fat standing there presenting itself for display and review. I saw this from above and felt it from the inside. I heard from the audience's reaction that I fit here, I belonged on this stage, among these competitors, and I felt, for the first time in my lift, the exhilaration that is knowing that your body and your muscles aren't things you work on and show off, that they are *you* and that *you* are on display and that people like what they see.
The judge's voice rang out from the darkness over the sound system. "Front double biceps."
My detached consciousness out over the audience began to feel like it was holding its breath. The part of me that was still inside my body was on full alert. I felt an unprecedented level of control and connection with every cell in every muscle fiber. All of the nerve endings in my skin were alive and on fire. The subtle movements of the air around me felt like fingers on my skin, caressing gently, feeling the hardness and density of my mass. Starting in the "relaxed" bodybuilder position, which, as I have said, is far from relaxed, I did actually relax my shoulders and arms, allowing them to fall slowly to hang at my sides. Well, as close to at my sides as was possible given the bulk of my lats and arm muscles competing for space alongside my torso. Everything felt as if it was in slow motion, though as I saw myself from outside it looked normal. I felt the sheer weight of my arms hanging there, pulling down from my shoulders. I lowered my chin until it stopped, sitting on the protrusion of my upper pecs. As my eyes gazed down over the expanse of my chest muscles, I realized that I actually couldn't see anything of the rest of my front, except the cords of my quads bulging out from the front of my thighs. Some little part of my brain found this funny and wondered if women have the same problem with their breasts. Raising my arms 90 degrees out to my sides, fists clenched and cocked forward, I paused. Biceps and triceps tensed, forearms bulging, a crazy network of veins appearing everywhere, I allowed the judges and the audience to take in the width of my shoulders and lats flaring out and up from my 30" waist. I tensed up my quads, my feet slightly off center and shifted the bulk of my torso slightly off to the left. This was my favorite pose as I thought it showed off the extremes of my proportions the best.
I continued to contract my biceps, pulling my forearms up to a 90-degree bend. Each of my 24" upper arms grew and swelled, the softball-sized rocks of my biceps coming into razor-defined view. Looking at myself from the front, the depth of the muscles was clearly visible, even from out over the audience. From the inside, I flexed as hard as I could, thinking not about bending my arms, but about tightening the muscles—contracting every fiber as much as it could. The bulk of my forearms and the rocks of my biceps collided, stopping my elbows from bending any further. I exhaled quickly and tightened all the muscles in my core, showing comic-book character definition in my abs and obliques. And then I smiled. The look on my face was one of quiet confidence. One that said I've worked hard and I am awesome to behold and I know it. I couldn't see anyone in the audience clearly, but I did see the glint of a pair of eyeglasses. I focused my gaze directly on those lenses, wondering who was behind them and what that person thought of the muscle on display for their review.
"Lat spread."
"Side chest."
I went through the sequence of mandatory poses as they were called out from the darkness. As I did, I felt an increasing sense of control over my body, my will causing the muscles to ripple, dance and contract as I shaped my body into each pose. It felt as if my muscles were growing as I posed, the blood pumping further into the fibers, stretching the limits of my dry and shrinking skin. My thoughts drifted briefly back to the audience, to the person behind the eyeglasses. Who were they? Who was out there? Would there be anyone from the magazines who would want to give me a contract? Would there by anyone from the talent agencies looking for muscle models or maybe porn producers? There would certainly be the usual mix of meatheads and other fellow bodybuilders who were there to appreciate and to support the overall sport. There would probably (hopefully?) also be one or two timid souls, venturing into this new world – this subculture of muscle – for the first time. There might be a boy who had never seen men this big in person before. Perhaps he had seem some websites and looked through some muscle magazines. Maybe he had glimpsed a big arm or two at the mall. It might be that he had felt something strange, some odd combination of awe, curiosity and longing: something that drew him inexplicably to see more. He wouldn't yet fully understand what he felt, but he would know that he needed more. He would feel a strange turn in his stomach when he saw us up close, moving like normal men yet endowed with the bodies of supermen.
"Abdominals and thigh!"
My thoughts were snapped back to the present. As I exhaled deeply and sank my abs into inch-deep relief, rocking my hips back and forth, the slippery fabric of my poser adjusted almost imperceptibly over my cock, which twitched ever so slightly in response. I fought to bring my focus back to the here and now, lest I continue down what could turn into a very dangerous and embarrassing road. I popped a frighteningly vascular Most Muscular pose, my fists crossed in front of me and my traps swelling up to my ears with skin-splitting striations.
"Thank you. Exit to your right."
The audience went wild with sheers and whistles. I gave a quick wave, turned to my right, walked to the end of the risers, down the stairs, and into the wings. As I moved, my full consciousness returned to my head, leaving its view from the audience, and time seemed to return to a normal speed. A muscular forearm appeared and drew the black curtain aside. I walked back to the pump-up and changing room and sat in a chair by my stuff to reflect. I felt alive in a way I never had before. My body was still tingling all over – as if every nerve ending were on overdrive. I thought back to being on stage, just seconds before, moving slowly and flexing my muscles. This was what it was all about. No pretense, no apologies. Just muscle. And men who had tortured themselves in pursuit of the extreme, presenting themselves for scrutiny and inspection, quite literally naked (well, practically naked anyway) for all to see: the ultimate in exhibitionism. What was this feeling in my stomach? This strange compulsion pushing me forward. This drive to be on display, to flex and to be appreciated. Was it the bodybuilding demon I had long wrestled with and chased, that had driven me to torture myself with weights and food and drugs, to bring myself to the ultimate expression of masculinity and muscle? I had worked at the behest of this inexplicable drive for years, pushing on for reasons I could never define, turning my body in a freakish, cartoon-like expression of muscle and size. And now that I was here, in the process of exhibiting myself, of displaying all the muscle that I had become, that drive turned into satisfaction and I experienced the feeling I had been driving toward all that time. I was a bodybuilder. I was muscle and the muscle was me and I liked it.
*****************
The plastic seat of the chair was cool against the exposed skin of my ass. My posing suit was cut extra-narrow in the back so the elastic pressed lightly against my glutes in an unusual place, emphasizing the feeling of bareness I felt. As I sat there, reliving the glorious feeling of standing up on the stage, my body bare and exposed for all to see as I flexed and posed, showing muscle upon muscle, I noticed an older guy, probably in his 40's, coming into the mostly deserted visitor gallery along the side of the pump-up area. He was at the other end of the room, probably 40 feet from where I was sitting right next to the waist-high railing that set off the visitors' area from the bodybuilders' area. Before the contest and just prior to the heaviest weight class rounds, the visitors' area had been packed with people of all sorts coming to watch, to stare and to photograph the heavy- and super-heavyweight bodybuilders as we stripped down, applied our color and posing oil and focused on pumping our muscles. At first I had found it somewhat distracting to be going through my pre-contest preparations with an audience but then I figured that the thing about a bodybuilding show is that you're there to show your mostly naked self to a theatre full of fans, so it didn't seem to make much difference if some of them saw you mostly naked doing some presses and curls and spreading oil all over yourself. As I went through this ritual, I would occasionally look over the crowd to see who I could catch staring just a bit too much. I found that I got off on it just a little. Since I had been the last of the super-heavyweights in the prejudging round, most of the other bodybuilders had already left the pump-up area to return to their hotel rooms to wait for the final rounds that evening. There were three other really big guys down at the other end of the room laughing and talking together. One was still in his posers, one had pulled on a pair of ultra-tight stretch shorts (visibly with nothing on underneath) and the third was wearing training pants. All three were still shirtless. From what I could overhear from their conversation they were typical muscleheads: All beef and not much else. The young guy I saw wander in stopped by the railing across from where they were standing and seemed to be trying to get their attention. The shortest of the three (the one wearing the skimpy shorts) noticed him and got his buddies to turn around. The three of them went into an impromptu posing display, showcasing some serious muscle with deep cuts and crazy vascularity everywhere. The littlest guy, probably five or six inches shorter than his compatriots—he couldn't have been more than 5' 4"—looked like he outweighed the other two by 20 or more pounds. If I had to guess, I'd say he was about 250 pounds of very thick, shredded muscle. Despite all my own mass and conditioning, I still found myself taking in the vision these three presented. As the three musclemen flexed and posed, the guy was at first enthralled and then looked disappointed as he seemed to be trying to ask them something but they were too caught up in their show and in trying to out-muscle each other to notice. The visitor turned and started to walk away from them, head down, and moving in my direction. He looked up as he neared where I was sitting, noticed that I was there, and his expression changed to something more hopeful.
"Hi," he said as he approached where I was. His eyes met mine briefly but seemed to be focused more on wandering over various parts of my body than on holding my gaze.
"Hi," I responded.
"I, uh, well... wow... um, you looked-really-great-on-stage-just-now, um, I mean, you look really great still... I mean...um...," he stammered a bit and then his voice trailed off. His eyes darted back and forth between looking at mine as he spoke and taking in my shoulders, my biceps and triceps, my quads. I may even have noted a quick examination of the little, shiny blue package of tiny posing suit that contained my cock.
"Thanks." I hadn't spoken to any of the fans before the show as some of the other guys had done, and since this was my first show I didn't really know how these kinds of chats usually went.
I asked if he had been to many bodybuilding shows and he said "first time." We bantered a bit back and forth about the sport in general, talking about some of the big name pros in the magazines and also about some of the other guys in the competition that day. He told me he was sure I'd place very highly, and might be able to win my class and possibly the overall. I jerked my thumb over my sizable shoulder, indicating the ultra-thick little guy down at the other end of the room and said I thought he had a better package. As we talked, I was impressed at his ability to carry on a conversation. His demeanor was reserved and he was fairly soft-spoken: not the usual jock/frat-boy type you usually hanging around at the gym working their arms and chest only. We talked for about 20 minutes, me standing there in my poser, not much more fabric covering my body than would cover a grapefruit. I asked his name.
"Greg."
He asked me the usual questions about my training history, my offseason routine, etc. While I was answering these, his eyes would inevitably drift to one set of my muscles or another, focusing on that body part intensely. I kept my eyes on his and tried to read what was going on behind them. The look he had, though he probably wasn't aware of it and equally likely wasn't able to control it, suggested envy (I was used to getting that one) and also a deeply-seated longing, though not necessarily a sexual one. It reminded me a bit of how I used to feel, six years earlier, before I had ever picked up a weight seriously, when I would suddenly find myself in viewing range of serious muscle. Greg was full of questions: questions about training, about diet and nutrition, supplementation, general lifestyle. The list was endless. I didn't mind answering them, in fact I had never really had a chance to talk about bodybuilding in this way before -- from the standpoint of a successful practitioner -- and I was kind of enjoying it. But I was fairly tired from posing and needed to eat and relax a bit before gearing up for the finals that evening.
"Hey, I live a few blocks away and need to go relax a while before tonight's show. Do you want to come with me and we can continue talking?"
Greg's emerald eyes lit up and he beamed at me, grinning from ear to ear. It was the first time I really noticed his face. He was hot! He had the perfect combination of matured looks and character, wrapped with the trappings of a grown man's face -- bright, sparkling eyes and angelic dimples when he smiled, with a defined, squarish jaw and a perfectly even five o'clock shadow of dirty blond fuzz. His relatively shy manner suggested he had no idea of the power of his looks, which only amplified them tenfold.
"That -- that would be great, but I don't want to bother you."
"It's no bother -- I'm enjoying our conversation."
The truth was having this handsome guy with his sparkling green eyes demonstrate such an interest in bodybuilding -- no, in me as a bodybuilder -- was something of a turn-on. I had a suspicion that his interest and was more than casual. He seemed to have been bitten by the bug -- the demon of all things muscle was in his head and he was only just beginning to let it loose. I pulled on a pair of small, stretch shorts and one of those tank tops that has so little material in it you may as well be shirtless, packed the rest of my stuff into my bag and slid my feet into my flip-flops. One of the reasons I had chosen this contest as my first for the season is that it took place in the town where I lived, near the beach, in one of bodybuilding's most popular locations. I had moved to this area several years before when I decided to focus most of my life on bodybuilding, giving voice to the inner drive I'd felt for years before that. I found a great loft apartment on the top floor of a building a couple of stories taller than those that surrounded it. It had a good-sized rooftop deck adjoining a couple of the rooms. I had installed a hot tub and set up a nice sitting area with a nice privacy fence just off the bedroom so I could be outside in any state I wanted without fear of onlookers. On the way, I noticed several passersby stop and stare at me, pointing and talking to one another. A couple of tourist-types snapped a few photos. I was still on such an emotional high after posing for the crowd at the contest and this extra attention only boosted my spirits and stroked my ego all the more. It was new feeling for me, as, while I had always been very focused on my body and the appearance of my muscles as a bodybuilder, I hadn't ever really shown off before. My choice of extra-revealing clothing was on purpose—something of an experiment—and it paid off in spades. What a rush to know that the sight of my physique all pumped up and oiled down could command such attention! We got to my loft and I set my bag down inside the door.
"Why don't we go sit outside?" I suggested.
Greg nodded and I motioned him to cross through the living area and out the open sliding door to the roof deck. As I followed him across the room, I tried to get a sense for what his body looked like but it was hard to tell. He was about 5' 8" tall and fairly lean. His loose-fitting t-shirt belied any serious development he might have had underneath, but it was clear that he was in decent shape and had probably at least experimented with working out a little. He had naturally good-sized and shapely calves which showed below the legs of his shorts, covered with a perfect, even coating of dirty blond fur -- not too thick -- which reached down just to his ankles. I steered Greg through the gate into the more private area off the bedroom and waved him into a chaise lounge.
"I need to go rinse off. I'll be back in 5 minutes?" I said/asked him.
He nodded, beamed that smile of his and leaned back against the lounge, losing himself in his thoughts. I slide open one of the bedroom glass doors and went into the darkened room. I knew from experience that the outside of the doors was practically a mirror on days like these and that Greg wouldn't be able to see me at all once I was inside. I stripped off my tank, shorts and poser and stood for a moment, staring out through the window at the guy sitting on my deck. I dared, for a moment, to indulge the hopes I had been brewing since he came up to me in the pump room not 30 minutes earlier and allowed my mind to entertain the idea that he was as into muscle as I had been at his age, about eight years before.
"What a difference eight years can make!" I thought to myself.
I remember when I finally let loose the bodybuilding demon that had bitten me so hard so many years earlier--when I at last recognized my lust and passion for all things muscle. My own body had looked not dissimilar to what I could see of Greg's. And now, eight years, thousands of tons of iron, probably about 3 tons of meat, and innumerable good cycles of anabolics later, I presented a very different figure in the mirror: one that I had an idea Greg would enjoy getting closer to. These thoughts were going straight to my cock, which, now freed from it's tiny blue spandex prison, began to reach out, stretching up and enjoying the air moving through the room. I walked into the bathroom and stepped under the shower, feeling the mass of my thighs moving against and around one another as I went. It took a few minutes and several rounds of scrubbing to get most of the oil and surface color off my skin, leaving me clean, fresh and showing my natural tan. I toweled off, did a quick body stubble inspection in the mirror (this had become habit as I insisted on remaining completely hairless below the neck) and stepped back into the bedroom. I pulled on a clean poser, every bit as small as the one I had worn earlier, and a pair of very tight, white stretch shorts with a lace-up front. The bright white offset nicely against the deep tan of my skin and the laces drew attention to an area I hoped would get much more attention fairly soon. As I stepped back out onto the deck and caught Greg's attention once again, he made a visible start when his eyes took my body in anew.
"Sorry, I hope you don't mind if I don't wear a shirt," I said. "The air is so warm and fresh today, I just wanted to enjoy the breeze a bit while we chat."
"N-no problem," he said, though I could tell that the close proximity of my exposed muscles would make it somewhat difficult for him to focus on talking.
I reclined on an extra-wide lounge next to the one Greg was sitting on and he sat up, turned sideways and crossed his legs so he was facing in my direction. He looked adorable in that position—just like a hungry fan.
"Ok, fire away! I'm all yours," I said, stretch my arms out on each side, and maybe, just maybe adding a tiny bit of tension in my biceps to enhance the look.
"Well," he paused, "wha-what made you go into bodybuilding?"
And with this question, and the way he seemed a bit nervous about asking it, I knew that I had been right. I decided to ease into my answer, allowing him to reconcile my response with his own inner urges and drive as I went. I told him of the first time I had learned about bodybuilding when I inadvertently came across a TV broadcast of the Mr. Olympia competition. I told him of the images I saw of those men, of the bodies that were shaped in ways I had never seen. Just from my first glimpse of those physiques, I knew, somehow, innately that they were better, superior, closer to perfect. I was captivated, instantly, by what I saw and experienced an immediate need to see more, to understand more. I had a feeling in my gut that was new, that I couldn't define. It was a strange mix of curiosity, thrill, excitement and longing. And somehow, somewhere in my mind I also understood that what I felt when I saw and thought about those men and their bodies was something that I shouldn't tell or ask my parents about and that I needed to keep to myself. After that initial encounter, I moved my story along pretty quickly, noting that in high school and college I had been fairly bookish and wasn't good at athletics and that I was generally too shy to try out the weight rooms. I explained that I had been lucky enough to have something of a talent for the financial markets and that, by about two years after I graduated, I had built enough wealth through investing to never have to work for a living. And it was at that time that I made the decision to move to the beach, to become a full-time bodybuilder and to see just how big and developed I could get my muscles to be. In fact, while I had been at my current size for a couple of years, I had only recently decided to try competition after much persistent, if friendly prodding from some buddies at the gym. Greg listened to all this in rapt attention, though every now and again his eyes would wander and get stuck drinking in the dimensions of one of my sets of muscles or another. Somewhat shamelessly, I threw in a couple of "casual" single-pec twitches. His breathing seemed to quicken when I did that. I stopped my story and asked Kirby if he'd like some water.
"Yes, please."
I got up and walked into the loft to get us a couple of glasses, feeling his eyes drilling a hole into the expanse of my back as I went.
When I re-emerged on the deck with our waters, I said "Wow, it's warm out here. You should feel free to take your shirt off if you'd like."
Greg blushed a little, looked down a bit and said, "Thanks, but I'm OK."
"Really? You're sweating quite a bit."
"Naw, I'm OK. I mean, I just... I'm not... well... like you." His voice faded away and the last bit was practically a whisper.
"Greg. I know you're not a bodybuilder. There's no shame in the way you look. I'm not going to judge you! From what I can tell you have a great body. You're lean and in good shape."
I could see the red rising out the collar of his shirt, climbing right up his neck and overtaking his whole face. Even his forearms seemed to blush a little.
"OK, I guess."
And with that he peeled off his t-shirt and I saw exactly what I expected and had been hoping for: a blank canvass, even if a slightly blushing one. He was lean and fairly thin, though not scrawny. He had the very beginnings of musculature, and you could see his abs, such as they were. He appeared to have fairly wide clavicles and a trim, narrow waist -- the perfect natural foundation upon which to pile mounds and mounds of muscle!
"You know," I started and paused, "you seem to be pretty interested in bodybuilding. I could help you if you want."
Greg's reaction to my offer was beyond even what I had anticipated. He focused his twinkling emeralds directly at me and grinned from ear to ear. His whole face lit up and his dimples capped off the cutest, hottest look I have ever seem from another guy.
"I'd like that!" was all he said.
"But first, I need you to help me with something."
"OK, sure!" he said.
"Just give me a second," I added, turning and heading back into the relative darkness of the bedroom. I returned to the deck a moment later with a couple of hand towels and a bottle of posing oil. "I'd like you to oil me up for the finals this evening," I said. "I'll show you how now and we can practice once."
Greg's face, still looking elated from my offer to help him out in getting into bodybuilding, went through four shades of pale, flushed again, and finally settled on an expression that seemed to say `I'd like to do that but I'm nervous and I'm not sure why.'
"O-OK. If you want me to. I don't want to mess it up for you," he replied.
"You won't. It's not very hard. The trick is to work through several thinner layers, and to focus on even coverage. I don't want to look shiny like a mirror, just to have a light sheen. Here, I'll show you how to start."
I put the towels on the small table between the chaises, popped open the cap on the posing oil and squeezed some out on the top surface of my left pec. The oil started dribbling slowly over the shelf of muscle and running down the front of my chest.
"First, you spread on a thin layer."
Using my right hand, I spread the oil over and around my chest, focusing mainly on the left side and working around the full perimeter of the pec muscle. I worked the oil into the skin from the pec's striated and grainy origin line deep in the cleavage at the center of my chest across the shelf at its top, around the rounded overhang at its bottom where the nipple lay, virtually hidden and pointing down at the floor, and into its insertion deep in the cave of my armpit under the travertine mounds of my shoulder. My movements were methodical—not too quick. I savored the feeling of my hand moving across my smooth, bare skin, feeling the spongy firmness of the relaxed muscular abundance, my finger tips teasing my nipple ever so slightly as they passed.
"Then, you pat the area lightly to help make sure the coverage is even."
Still using my right hand, I began rapidly patting my left pec all over, raising my left arm up a bit for better access to the edge. The muscle bounced and sprang around as I went. As I finished, bringing my arm back down, I flexed the one pec very tightly and, looking Kirby right in the eye, said "looks pretty good, no?"
Greg's eyes widened visibly, locked on the muscle I held flexed in front of him. He gasped lightly and said, "Sure does." His voice sounded almost hungry. I decided to see what might happen if things went a bit further.
"Let me show you one more time and then you can try," I suggested, switching my attention to my right pec and repeating the performance I had just given. This time, I crunched into a vein-popping crab "most muscular" pose and turned slightly back and forth from left to right. "See how the oil catches the light a bit and adds dimension to the muscle? It really makes a difference when you see it from where the judges sit in front of the stage."
Greg was visibly at a loss for words. He just stared, seemingly unsure of what he should do next. I continued with my stated purpose, asking him to take the bottle of oil and to practice on my legs. He swallowed, nodded his assent, and squatted down in front of me to better access the pillars of my thighs. I slowly positioned one foot slightly in front, the muscular bulk of my 30-plus-inch thigh shifting slowly as it fought to make its way around my other leg. Greg raised the bottle to squeeze a bit out onto the center of my skin-wrapped, hairless quad.
"Wait, we should do this without my shorts so the oil doesn't get all over them. Don't worry, though, I have a poser on underneath. My hands are oily, though. Can you just pull my shorts down so I can step out of them?" I asked
"Uh... O-OK."
Greg put the bottle of oil down, and reached up, hooking his thumbs into the waistband at each side of my shorts. In his slightly nervous state, he did this quickly and sort of shoved his thumbs over the waistband, actually catching the elastic of my poser as well, though he didn't realize it. Somewhat suddenly, he tugged down, pulling both my shorts and poser down around my ankles in one quick move. My cock popped free from its tiny spandex prison and, caressed by the warm afternoon breeze, began to grow a little, swaying heavily out in front of me. Greg's attention was on my shorts, bunched around my ankles and he hadn't yet realized what he'd done. I didn't say anything, curious to see how he'd react. Still crouched at my feet, as he tried arranging my shorts so I could step out of one side and then the other, he discovered my poser all caught up in the fabric of the shorts. Slowly, he tilted his head upwards, straightening himself up slightly in the process. In doing so, he caught the underside of my cock with the top of his head, and before he realized exactly what was now resting on his hair, he found himself with an up-close-and-personal view of my hairless balls, with the tip of his nose poking gently between them. He froze. The gentle brush of his soft hair on the underside of my swaying cock was electric, causing it to twitch involuntarily, tapping him on the top of the head. With that move, he jumped back, standing up and looking sheet-white in the face. His eyes met mine, his face contorted into an expression of fear, anxiety and deep discomfort.
"I-I-I have to go..." he stammered as he turned and ran, still shirtless, back inside, making for the front door."
"Wait! Greg!" I started.
My reflex was to try to run after him, but with my shorts still bunched up around my ankles, I tried to take one step and fell face-first onto the lounge chair in front of me. By the time I extricated my feet from the wad of shorts and poser, I had heard the front door slam and Greg was probably several flights down already. I didn't pursue him, hoping that he would recover from our unexpectedly intimate interaction and that he would still come to the contest finals that evening. I noticed his t-shirt lying on the chaise where he had tossed it earlier, still partly warm from his the heat of his body. I bunched the soft material up in one hand and pressed it gently against into my face. It held his scent. Slowly, delicately, I traced the cotton down over my body, running it gently back and forth across my chest and abs, lightly caressing my nipples and pecs. The feeling was electrifying. I envisioned the softness and warmth of his skin leaning against my bare chest, perhaps on a sunlit morning after a night of fun. I dropped Greg's shirt back onto the nearby lounge and looked up at the sun as it had just stated to set out over the water. There was a light breeze in the warm, late-afternoon sun and the air flowed around my naked body, caressing my every skin cell, wrapping itself around every bulge and crevasse of my muscles. My body felt alive, though my spirits were somewhat dampened at this sudden turn of events. My cock twitched again, still hanging heavily as it slowly engorged. I lumbered into the bedroom, my cock swinging slowly back and forth, bouncing off my thighs as I went.
Every once in a while, I have the fortune to re-experience the feelings I had when I encountered serious muscle for the first time. Spending as much time as I have in hardcore gyms, attending, and now participating in bodybuilding contests and at other places where muscle abounds, I have become somewhat used to the sight of overgrown, muscle-bound men, admiring the various details of their physiques almost clinically, rather than reacting from the gut based on pure size they carry. As I stood there, naked, examining my own physique in the mirror, I suddenly experienced one of those moments. It was as if I had not spent the past several years slowly building my body to the gigantic proportions it now filled, but rather as if I had just closed my eyes as a 130-lb teenager and opened them having suddenly literally doubled my bodyweight. I stared at myself, looking at the gluttonous mounds of ultra-hard, striated muscle piled onto my frame, overflowing one another, fighting each other for space and position. The bottom dropped out of my stomach as I experienced an enormous surge of adrenaline, my heart raced and my cock sprang to full mast so quickly it hurt a little. Who was this monster in the mirror? Had anyone ever been so big and so completely developed? I looked like an exaggeration of one of the exaggerated cartoons in the muscle magazines – in my mind's eye, not unlike the Gold's Gym muscleman. My muscles had muscles of their own.
As I stared hungrily at the reflection in the mirror, my focus began to move inward and I started to experience my vast bulk from the inside. I was suddenly aware of the volume of space my body occupied. I thought of all the air I displaced, standing there. I envisioned millions of air molecules floating along in the breeze and then slamming into the impossibly wide and harder-than-hard wall of my back, then turning and flowing in and out over the mountain ranges of muscle and beef that comprised that wall. For an instant, I could feel each of those molecules ticking along across the plains of my back, touching every nerve ending in my taught, paper-thin skin as they went. As if I had never seen a bodybuilder at all, I was awestruck by the mass of my own physique. Hanging thickly out from my sides, my arms were bigger around than my head. My shoulders, easily more than twice as wide as my waist, looked like inflated basketballs, but they were rock hard and fiery hot to the touch. My traps were so thick and stood up so tall that they had started to wrap around the sides of my telephone-pole-thick neck which had all but disappeared between them.
I brought my hands to my waist and inhaled deeply, puffing my chest up and out and squeezing my chest into a front lat spread pose. My pecs tightened and bulged outward, reaching forward as if I had two additional appendages there. I could feel the great wings of my back flare out to the sides and, reflected in the mirror, they completely filled in the triangles between my body and my massive arms. It felt like I could actually move the air by flapping my lats back and forth. I began to go through the standard bodybuilding poses, focusing on each one, and pausing to examine myself in detail. As I struck each pose, I projected my mind into each muscle group, making sure each element of the pose was flexed and positioned correctly. I held each position, letting my eyes roam over my body, taking in the size, the bulges, and the partly transparent skin, showing the deep cuts between the muscles and allowing the veins to spring to life all over my surface. Once deep into a pose, I'd move the flexed muscles ever so subtly, causing the striations to dance and jump under the skin as individual muscle fibers came into view.
All the while, my cock roared at full mast, straining in its flesh, as if it too wanted to pump itself just a bit fuller and bigger. (I wonder what it would be like if there were muscles actually inside the penis itself. How would bodybuilders exercise them and how would they be displayed in competition?) Wanting to run through my posing routine for the evening, I exhaled and let my arms fall, hanging out from my sides. I puffed myself up into the "relaxed" position and swaggered back and forth a bit, turning my ox yoke of shoulder girdle muscle gently from side to side, my arms flared outward. It was then that I noticed a young face perched atop a bared shoulder, peering around the door jam behind me. In a split second, my mind went to war with itself, trying to decide whether to pretend I hadn't seen him and to let him enjoy the show a bit more, or to stop and give him my attention. In the end, the forces of restraint prevailed and I stopped, turning around and facing him directly.
"Hi." My voice was soft but strong.
"I forgot my shirt," he said. His tone was that of a boy who is experiencing emotions he doesn't know fully how to control.
"It's still outside," I said. "You can get it if you want."
Greg moved quickly across the bedroom and through the open door to the terrace. I pulled on a pair of shorts, arranged my now soft cock in as unobtrusive a way as I could inside the tight fabric, and followed him outside. I found him standing over the lounge chair, back to me, holding his t-shirt in his hands, head hanging down.
"Greg," I said. "Why did you leave like that?"
No response. I gave him a moment. His shoulders rose and fell slightly as he breathed, the sight of which drew my thoughts briefly to the bulk of my own mass rising and falling slowly with my breath, moving gently about my skeleton. Greg straightened a bit, pulled his t-shirt on over his head and turned around to face me.
"I don't know," he sort of stammered. His face looking down towards my feet. "I was, just... it's just that I didn't want... I thought..." His voice trailed off.
I tried my very best to look encouraging and supportive and, for the briefest of instants wished I wasn't 250 pounds of solid, rippling, mostly naked muscle so that he wouldn't feel so shy talking to me. I felt a burning desire to set him at ease. I suddenly had a deep need for him to feel comfortable with me and a compulsion to help him understand that inside the very dominant physicality of my presence, I was still a regular guy with emotions and the capacity for caring and understanding. And most importantly, that I knew and understood exactly what he was feeling just then.
"Greg," I began, "look at me." Slowly, he looked up. "I can tell you're upset about before and were worried that I would be too." He started sort of swaying from foot to foot, visibly a bit agitated, looking back down at his feet.
"Greg...listen to me for a minute! I know exactly what you're feeling. I've been there! There was a time when I didn't know how to sort out what was going through my head either. I've spent a lot of time and energy building my body and I'm very proud of it—all of it. I like showing myself to people and experiencing their reactions. I like to play with my body and to enjoy what I've accomplished. From what little I know of you, I think you have an interest in muscle and bodybuilding as well and that we share a very deep bond in that way. You've said you're interested in bodybuilding and want to learn more. I'd like to help you, as a friend, to learn and to grow in this way. I can give you access to all the resources and information you'll need and we can train and grow together."
Greg's face turned back up toward mine and his countenance had brightened considerably. I could tell I was right and he was very happy to hear what I was saying, though seemingly somewhat in spite of himself. He was still clearly not completely comfortable verbalizing all of these feelings.
"Greg, I told you before about the first time I learned of bodybuilding as a sport. Not too long after that time, I saw my first real, live bodybuilder at the pool. He was just lying there, sleeping in the sun, but I was awestruck. It was so much more real, so much more alive than what I'd seen on the TV. It was right then that I knew I had to look like that -- to be like that -- and that I'd do whatever it took to get that way. I also wanted desperately to talk to him, to ask questions, to learn, as if somehow being near his body and just interacting with him, something would rub off and I'd start to be that way. But I was too shy. I thought he would make fun of me for being a small kid and that he'd be mean. I didn't have anyone to work with over the years, so I had to learn on my own, from books, magazines, and from watching people at the gym. I tried a lot of things that didn't work and, over time, learned what worked well for my body. Let me share what I know with you and help you grow. I promise the feelings of success are well worth it!"
Greg straightened a bit more and looked into my eyes. His expression said he wanted to speak, but he was hesitant. "I... I was afraid you'd..."
"I know" I interrupted, my voice as soft as I could make it. "You were afraid I'd be angry because you accidentally touched my dick. I wasn't angry at all. Greg, you don't ever have to be afraid of me."
I motioned to the expanse of my body, moving my hands around in front of myself.
"You don't ever have to be afraid of any of this. I like you and I wouldn't ever do anything to upset or hurt you in any way."
"OK," was all his voice said. His eyes, however, looking into mine, said so much more.
My thoughts went to the time and that I needed to get back to the auditorium to get ready for the contest finals. "I have to go get ready for the finals tonight. I'd still like your help if you are willing."
"Yes. OK."
"And after tonight, I'd like us to start spending time together. I'll show you how to train and how to eat and you can start growing and getting bigger. We can hang out here as well and have fun together. But, Greg, you need to know that I spend a lot of time without much clothing on. I do that because I like to and because it makes me feel good. You're going to see a lot of my body on a regular basis and I'll use my body to help teach you how to build yours."
I fixed him with a penetrating look directly into his eyes.
"And I want you to know that it's OK for you to touch any part of my body any time you want... ANY part." He blushed a little at my last comment and sort of chuckled awkwardly, but I could tell the idea held some appeal. "Yeah," I said softly, "I thought you might like that idea, too."
