I decided to give up on baggy sweats, for example. I started wearing tight tee shirts and lycra biking shorts that left nothing to the imagination. My favorite tee was a triple-X white number that fit me like a glove and had FREAK emblazoned across the back.

It became my new nickname, FREAK. I lapped it up. "Hey, Freak," they'd say, "give us a hand moving this cabinet."

Or, "Hey, Freak, help us change this tire." And I'd lift the back wheels off the ground before setting it down oh so gently on the jack.

And I grew.

Holy Mother of God, I grew.

In eight weeks I put on another 60 lbs., all of it muscle. Even Mr. Ferris was stunned. Two weeks after he started training me I caught up to him. "Jeezus, son," he said as I stepped off the scale after one weigh in. "You're 260 lbs., same size I am, Lanky Hank."

And that was just the beginning.

By the end of the semester I weighed 300 lbs., all of it huge, shredded muscle. I'd had to go back to my baggy sweats, the lycra having burst at the seams, except that now the sweats were as tight as the lycra had been. I had to get help from Matt or Mr. Ferris whenever I wanted to take my shirt off.

My rapid growth seemed to have an effect on everyone. It kinda spurred them on. Mr. Ferris put on another 10 lbs. in those eight weeks, topping out at 270 lbs., a new personal best. And Matt gained an amazing 25 lbs., all of it quality beef. At 6 ft and 210 lbs. he was one of the biggest high school baseball players in the state. That he was just barely going on 16 years old caused a bit of a stir. That I outweighed him by 90 lbs. of Herculean brawn, well, that had a different effect.

It happened at the end of my last workout of the semester. By that time I was benching 800 lbs. for reps and I needed both Ferris and Matt to spot me. After 10 sets my 65 inch chest was ready to explode and the fleece sweatshirt I was wearing might as well have been painted on it was so tight.

Matt and I hit the (empty) shower room while Mr. Ferris went to the private faculty locker-room.

"Uh, Matt."

He nodded.

"Yeah, Freak, I know. I'll give you a hand."

As he pulled the sweatshirt down my mammoth arms (we'd taped them BEFORE the workout at 24 inches) I straightened up a bit fast, resulting in his being pulled right into my arms.

"Oops," I said, laughing. "I didn't mean to throw you off balance."

We were standing toe to toe, pec to pec, my meaty hands under his elbow.

"Uh, shit, Hank," Matt said.

"Really, man," I said, "I'm sorry."

He shook his head.

"That's not it, Hank. It's just."

I looked down at him, my best friend.

"You're just so fucking HUGE," he blurted. "I mean, my God, your chest is as wide as my shoulders."

I put my hands up to them.

"They're very NICE shoulders, Matt, you know that. In fact, they really don't come nicer!"

He looked down at the floor.

"Don't teas me, Hank."

My eyes grew big.

"Tease you?!"

He looked up at me.

"Surely you've figured out by now. I mean, my God, you're so fucking awesome. It makes me so fucking hot!"

I stood there stunned. It was like someone had pole axed me.

He took my hand and slipped it inside his baggy sweatpants. I couldn't believe I'd never looked.

"Oh my God!" I breathed. "Talk about awesome!"

Matt shook his head.

"No, Hank," he said, putting his hot hand on my fully engorged pole, "THIS is fucking awesome."

THWACK!

I looked up to see Mr. Ferris standing directly behind Matt, a heavy white towel in his furry paw, a leer on his handsome mug, a stunned expression on Matt's face.

"Well, Matt, just don't stand there. Show him how to use it, for God's sake." •