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Jeff & Mike
|So weeks, months go by without my hearing from the schmuck Jeff, who has apparently dumped me. Mad as shit, I start to investigate with the people he was going to see, and gradually learn Jeff did show up in LA, and they gave him the grant money, but since then they haven't heard from him. Matter of fact, they're mad as hell at him and threatening to sue ME if I don't tell him where he is. But I'm getting ahead of myself…
I was so fucking angry during those six months, I hit the weights even harder than I did when Jeff was training me. Even though I consciously adopted the whole "your loss, dude", attitude, under the surface I guess I figured the reason Jeff left me was, I was just not hot enough, not built enough, to keep a guy like Jeff interested for very long. This tapped into all kinds of uncomfortable shit from my youth, about being a dweeb who wasn't muscular enough, or how I never felt like I could keep up with my jock big-brother Joe, or what have you. It seems pretty clear to me now I was acting out all this shit, but at the time all's I knew was I wanted to get bigger, more cut, more muscular, more beautiful so that if Jeff ever saw me again, he'd smack himself on the forehead and say "Boy did I fuck up…I can't believe I let THAT get away from me!" Just like I did freshman year, I threw myself into building muscle. I'd wake up at 5 am and run to the gym, put in a grueling workout on a strict schedule - arms, legs, shoulders, chest, rotated through the week. Then I'd jog home, make a protein shake, and jog back out to the beach for my REAL workout at 9 am - which was doing two solid hours of abs every single fucking day. I would lie down, shirtless in the sand, raise my legs to point at the sky, and then pound out crunches. Pow - pow - pow - each with a two-second squeeze at the top, and a two-second return. For TWO HOURS! I would get, like, into this TRANCE of abdominizing. My stomach got so defined and mass-y, it was insane. I guess I figured, if I couldn't have a trim, fucking 29-inch waist, LIKE SOME PEOPLE I COULD MENTION, my midsection might as well be as strong and freaky hard as anyone's on Earth.
On this regimen I reached a whole other stage of development. I started to feel completely different in my own skin. It was no longer about just lifting by formula as I had done for years - (you know, mechanical, like: "I'll do three sets of this, three sets of that, and then finish with one long set of light weights to failure…" This is how I had always lifted; by prescription.) Now, suddenly I was working out by doing stuff intuitively; listening to what my body was telling me about getting bigger. For instance, I'd have one workout where I was just jogging on the beach as far as I could, then jumping into the water for a jetty-to-jetty swim against the tide, then gasping to shore, and crunching down in the sand to do as many sit-ups as I could.
Or one of my favorite workout sessions involved just stomping into the gym, and grabbing the heaviest goddamn barbell I could handle, and manhandling it for an hour while standing in front of a mirror. You know, just pushing the damn thing around for an hour - hoisting it over my head, curling it, shrugging it, twisting it, squatting while holding it with my arms extended out in front of me, without putting it down, pumping it, imitating martial-arts moves with a 90 pound bar! This worked literally every single muscle in my body. It also scared the shit out of a lot of twinks in the gym!
Gradually I realized this way of working out allowed me, for the first time, to feel the connection BETWEEN the muscles. For example, I'd do slow pull-ups, with a five-second hold at the top where I'd swing my legs up as high as I could, and all the time I'm focusing on feeling how the muscles pull and push against each other to accomplish this, in exquisite tension. All the tiny little muscles I'd never really worked started to manifest themselves and develop, each now able to take its place in the choir, and do what it was designed to do.
My goal for my torso was longer just "six-pack abs", for instance, but the whole nine yards - obliques, laterals, serratus, erector spinae…because my abdomen, I realized, was really a segmented girdle that wrapped around my waist, cinched tightly to my spine at the back, and hooked onto my ribs and hips in the front. It may sound obvious to you, but it came as a revelation to me. Through hard work and concentration, I started to experience something that I suppose athletes and dancers and yogis and what-not probably intuit naturally - maybe bodybuilders, too. And that is, that the muscles are constantly in a feedback-loop communication with the mind. Balance, grace, agility, strength - these gifts were really just a matter of keeping those lines of communication open. Your muscles know which ones are needed for whichever activity, even if it's a split-second reaction like catching a ball on the fly, or leaping over a hurdle, or swinging on a trapeze. I had never been very good at hearing my muscles talking to me. Which, maybe, is why until that time, I sucked at sports and was a shy, clumsy dancer. It's too bad it took Jeff leaving to zen into a workout that developed this understanding; it's exactly the kind of insight into the human muscle-quest he would appreciate.
In other words, I was starting to get not just "built", not just "muscular"…I was starting to get what old ladies and squirming, jealous pencil-neck dudes call, with a polite cough of embarrassment, "over-developed".
Anyway, everyone noticed; they said I practically fucking glowed with power, strength, and magnetism. People stared at me, turning their heads as I walked past them on the street. After just a few months, I was SCARY built and, really, INCREDIBLY powerful. I had lost any baby-fat I still carried, my freckled skin sported a ruddy golden tan, and I had this ridged, over-developed midsection that felt so damn good. My thighs were so dense I could swing the quads back and forth like a gatepost, before snapping them to instant, crunching, vein-slathered rigidity.
But I was lonely. I was the most muscular guy in town, so who else was there that was my sexual equal? How many guys in this town could there be who were even in my league? Damn few. One of the problems of being sexier and more muscular than 99.9% of the population is that it leaves only .1% of guys you'd have anything to do with. I hit the bars a few nights, and the whole room full of guys would literally go silent, as they all watched me order a fuckin' beer. But not one of them came anywhere near being able to give me what I craved, and what I had had with Jeff - a profound mental and emotional connection, grounded in a mutual obsession with virile muscularity.
Then I remembered Brandon - Jeff's "slave" twink work-study student. On an impulse, I called Brandon up late one rainy night. Turns out HE hasn't heard from Jeff either, he thought we both moved away. He said he was glad to hear from me. He hadn't gotten another work-study job yet. Again on impulse, I asked Brandon if he wanted to come over in the evenings and help me in the studio. I think he knew I really wasn't serious about needing help, but he agreed on the spot and said he'd be over in ten minutes. After I hung up I worried about how I'd clear it with the fine arts department and get him paid.
Anyway he came over and when I answered the door, shirtless OF COURSE, my muscles all glowing and taut, the poor kid literally fucking gasped. "….WHOOOAA! DUDE! Look at you! You've, like, TRANSMOGRIFIED!" he said, or something equally erudite…you know these fuckin' kids today, they all talk like they're illiterate California gangstas or surf bums or something, even when they're Ivy Leaguers. I smiled and ran my hand through my curly red-gold hair, purring huskily "Come on in. It's good to see you." It made me feel good to get such a rise out of Jeff's former slave.
He follows me inside and looks around, a little nervous. "So what's this job? What do you need me to do?" He looked all expectant and hopeful and eager - a wide-eyed kid who couldn't believe he was being singled out for a job, for friendship, by yet ANOTHER hyper-muscular gay grad-student. Laughing nervously, I stuttered, "Oh, well, you know, I guess it's kind of more or less a slave thing - you devote yourself body and soul to my service, and my service alone." Or some such gag. I had no idea why I said that, or what the kid would do. For a long time he just stared; then: "Jesus…" he stammered. "Fuck yes, sir! Fuck YES, PLEASE, SIR!! Command me - ANYTHING - I promise I'll do it."
Jeff had obviously made some progress in turning Brandon into a bondage PRO in a short time! I wondered how many of his undergrad frat brothers guessed, that this studly jock was eager to become a pussy slave for muscle.
The thought made me break out laughing. Suddenly sensing the idea was ridiculous, I tried to backtrack, told him I was kidding, I just really wanted some company, you know, since Jeff was gone…but maybe, if he felt like giving me a blowjob, I could probably whip up a pretty decent erection in about .6 seconds.
He smiled, sensing I was holding myself back. "Oh I get it. You mean, you're just horny, huh…? I thought it was more than that." "More?" "Yeah, like - you were lonely."
"Listen, if you want to be my workout partner or something, that'd be cool too. I could teach you some shit. With what I know now, I bet I could save you five wasted years of ineffective workouts, and help you pack on as much meat as you want. You do want to get bigger, don't you?"
"More than almost anything, Mike." Then his face turned questioning. "Mike, were you really kidding about taking me on as your slave?"
"Why --?" I said, nervous. Brandon cleared his throat and snapped to attention. "Because, SIR, I wasn't kidding, SIR. With no master, I find myself deeply lost and miserable. I'm totally not worthy, I'm skinny and weak compared to you, but if you'll have me, I pledge myself to the exclusive worship of your muscles, SIR!"
I took a long hard look at him, and a strange voice came out of me; one I hardly recognized, and yet I knew it intimately as another long-repressed avatar of my deep self. "Don't call me SIR, you little punk. That was good enough for Jeff, but not for me. Me, you must call Master."
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