By Ilikmusc

I was walking down Polk Street one day, on the way down to the BART. It wasn’t my part of town, but I had just broken up with this guy Jorge I met at the End Up, and he lived on the fifth floor of a walk-up on Pine. Jorge and I had made the most sublime love every day for about two months, the most passionate I had ever known in my life, him with his little bites and thick muscular arms. I was falling in love. But one day out of the blue he tells me he was going back with his girlfriend since he hated to tell me but he was really “bi” and that he hoped I would understand and that we would still be “friends.” This was a crazy-making conversation. So after two days of shock my anger surfaced. I wrote him a furious letter, came over to his neighborhood, popped it in his mail box and then stormed down the street till I hit Polk.

When I got to Connections, I felt like a drink, (and, I suppose, looking at the shirtless muscular guys ..hustlers usually….that were always playing pool there.) But mostly I wanted a good stiff drink. So I went in and sat down at the bar on the only remaining seat. Two guys were playing pool in the corner, unfortunately with their shirts on, but otherwise it was a relatively small crowd. Seated on my right was an older guy, about 70, kind of scruffy looking. But he was talking to the guy next to him, (about a third of his age, tops, and kind of dopey looking in a cute sort of way) about the recent discovery of a new quasar someplace in the far corners of the cosmos. To my surprise, both of them were carrying off the scientific lingo effortlessly as if they were the unlikeliest of great scientists. Guess the old saw is true, you can’t judge a book by its cover.

The guy on my left was hunched over a watery drink. He was youngish, but I couldn’t tell his exact age, anywhere from 25-35. Dirty blond hair, a little messed up, a loose blue, white and beige flannel shirt worn like a jacket over a large thick sweatshirt of some kind, loose jeans. Couldn’t tell much about him with him hunched over like that except that he obviously thought the place was cold.

I ordered my drink, a Dewers on the rocks. I was silent, enjoying the strangeness of over-hearing snippets of the two science pals to my right when all of a sudden the guy on my left lifted his head up from the hunch and said, as if to no one in particular “What the hell am I doin’ here?”

“Huh?” I asked, wondering what he was talking about. Or who he was talking to for that matter.

“I’m just wondering what I’m doing here,” he said to me without looking over much. It’s a great day outside, its dark in here, and I’ve been sitting here two hours doing nothing but drink-ing and I don’t even have a buzz on. Shit.”

Not knowing what to say to such a statement, I just shrugged and said “Well, I guess you got just one decision to make, to either leave or stay.”

“Yep. Yer absolutely right.” He looked over at me a bit, eyes twinkling just a bit. “So what’s your story? It’s a nice day for you too, ain’t it? Whatcha doing here in little dark hole in the wall?” He asked without looking up as if he was talking to his drink.

For some reason, his tone of voice disarmed me, so I just went on as if he was my best friend and told him about breaking up with Jorge, and how crazy I felt because of how much I loved making love with Jorge. I described his wonderful wide Latin/Indian face, his little bites during lovemaking, his incredibly thick muscles, his strength, and yes, his tenderness and sweetness. Then I realized I had let the flood out of Johnstown and was suddenly feeling embarrassed. “Sorry, I am going on about things, ain’t I? I sound pretty pathetic”. At this I ordered another drink.

As the bartender prepared it, the guy next to me said “Don’t worry about it. It’s a rough thing you’re going through.” He said this with genuine sympathy. “Breakups are tough. God knows I’ve been through enough of them. I’ve been in love a few times myself.”

“Man, what a sweet thing to say. Thanks for being so understanding about all my yammering.” I said. “I feel like I just suddenly burst, and you got everything dumped on you.”

“No problem,” he said, without looking up.

We were quiet a moment.

Then he looked over toward my direction without actually looking at me. “So you liked this guy partly for his muscles, eh?”

“Yeah. Don’t often find younger guys with muscles like his all that interested in a guy my age without the whole money issue coming in.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” said the blond. “This Jorge was a younger guy? What does that mean, I mean, like, how old are you?” he asked.

“50” I said with mock ruefulness. “Half-way through to a hundred.”

He smiled. Brightened up a bit actually. Then took a drink, and offered his hand. “Ya don’t even look anywhere near 40” he said. “James, 33 and a half” he said. Then without waiting for my name, or for me to thank him for thinking me a decade younger than I am, he got up and excused himself to the bathroom.

Nice enough looking guy. A little rough around the edges. Clear blue eyes. A days growth of faint blond beard on his chin, a faint blond mustache on his upper lip. His hands felt rough and calloused, as if he worked with them all the time doing heavy physical labor. I thought I saw the blue of a tattoo peeking over his collar on the right side of his neck. He looked to be about 5’9” or so, but his loose clothing didn’t give me a clue about his weight or body type.

He came back, saddled into his seat and ordered another drink, gin on the rocks. I told him my name, and he said “Glad to meetcha.” He took another sip of his drink and turned his head my way.

“So ya really enjoy a guy’s muscles, eh?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” I said, surprised he brought it up, “ that does seem to be my weakness with men. My fetish, I guess some people say. Been like that since I was young. Always noticed muscles on TV stars, schoolmates, that sort of thing. My first boyfriend was a rock, and that really convinced me that muscles were more than a theoretical interest. And even though Jorge was a big guy, its not the size that matters to me, just the strength and quality of the muscles. A gymnast is usually not terribly tall, but those guys have some of the best bodies on earth. There have been times in my life that just touching the muscles of, say, a man’s arm gets me hard automatically, as if a button got pressed. No flowers, no courtship, just one touch, and I am ready to go.”

“Hey, that’s cool, “ James said. “Hmm. Ya sound like a sex philosopher, like you really have figured things out about yourself. So tell me how many times in your life has this automatic reaction has happened?”

“Only about three times.” I said. Its not like guys go around asking me to touch their arms all the time.

“Really?” he asked. Then he rested his left hand loosely on his left shoulder, and looked over his arm down to my crotch.

“Let’s see. Put your hand on my arm and I’ll flex my muscle for you. I’m pretty muscular.”

“We’ll,” I said, somewhat surprised by this turn of events,” I am not sure I can do a command performance in public here.”

“We’ll let’s see. Put your hand on my arm.”

I did so. His bicep was incredible, solid and huge. His shirt concealed a lot.

“Wow, your really do have an incredible arm, James.”

“How do you know? I haven’t flexed it yet.”

With that he tightened his fist and arm, and his bicep trembled into granite right beneath my palm. I shivered in amazement, as blood coursed through me and I flushed.

“Hey, look,” he said, looking over his own shoulder down to my crotch, as if watching a cool experiment, “yer tenting. That’s really cool.” He flexed it tighter, trapping my fingers.

“Yer su’prised I bet. I may not be the biggest guy, but I’m rock solid muscle. But most folks don’t figure that out unless I’m in a tank on a hot day.”

He squeezed even tighter, swigging a sip from his drink with his other hand.

“I bet if I kept on flexing, I’d end up cracking the bones in your fingers,” he said with a matter of fact tone.

He unbent his arm. I took my fingers away and shook the blood back into them. I was amazed, and yes, aroused beyond belief.

“Man, you are amazing. Are you a gymnast or something?”

“Nah! Just work out every day, eat right, and work out some more.”

“What gym do you go to?” I asked, thinking I might join just to be around him.

“Oh, I don’t use gyms. I work out in my room.”

“You got one of them machines they advertise on TV?”

“Nah, I don’t like using those things. I don’t even own a set of weights. Oh, I’ve gone to the gym now and then to test and record my strength and progress with actual numbers, but all my muscle comes from simple home workouts.”

“Wow,” I said, “you really could put most guys who spend all their life at the gym to shame.”

“Thanks. Say, how about if you come over to my place and I’ll show you my work out technique,” said James, suddenly smiling a bit.

“Sure,” I said, “that sounds cool. You live walking distance from here? I hope so, since I don’t have my car with me. And, I’m not going till my tent goes down….don’t feel like walking quite yet.”

“Yeah, I really got you going, didn’t I? Tell you what. I’ll go home…I live only three blocks from here, and you come by in about a half hour. I gotta straighten up a bit anyway” He took a pen out of his pocket and wrote down his address on a small white cocktail napkin.

With this, James got up, waved a little goodbye at the door, and took off.

It took almost 20 minutes for my arousal to go down. I left a tip, then left Connections and followed James’ directions easily. I rang his bell, and was let in by on concierge of some sort. I had to sign in a register, then climb three flights to room 302. I knocked. James answered the door, still dressed in the same clothes he was wearing when we were at the bar.

“Welcome to my humble room” he said, shaking my hand. That’s all it was…a room with a bathroom attached. He had a hotplate in one corner. A few bad prints hung on the wall. A bed, a small dresser, a closet, a weight bench and as he said, no weights.

I asked to use the bathroom, and then, as soon as I came out, James asked “You ready?”

“Sure,” I said. With this, he unbuttoned his shirt, and slipped it off. Then he lifted up his sweatshirt, and slowly took it off.

I was dumbfounded. James was tattooed from head to waist. He was blue. Beautiful, elaborate yet delicate drawings criss crossed the most perfectly muscled body I had ever seen.

“Told you I was muscular all over,” he said, smirking a little. “Like my tattoos?”

“They’re amazing! You’re blue, James!

“Come check them out. I designed them myself. Drew the originals.”

I went over and looked closely at the drawings. Scenes from mythology, from rock albums covers, from fantasy book covers swirled over his muscles. They were beautifully wrought. The muscles were so defined and sharp however that the intricacy of the tattoos did not detract from their perfection one bit. I was about to reach out and touch his amazing arms, now freed from his clothes, when suddenly, James said “Cool huh? Now let’s get started, guy.” Then he suddenly opened his belt, took it off, and then took off his jeans and underwear after whipping off his shoes and socks. Then, stark naked and blue, he dropped to the floor, spread out as if doing a push-up and then said over his amazing shoulder “OK, this is how it works. You kneel on my back, knees on my shoulders, feet on my butt. That way I get most of your weight right over my shoulder, which is where I want it.”

“What?” I said, not really understanding.

He turned his head a bit and said “Get on, guy. I told ya I’d show you how I stay in such good shape. And I told you I don’t use regular weights, right? But maybe I didn’t make clear that I do use weight resistance….guys just like you. I use big guys like you who go gaga over guys like me with muscles on my muscles. I pick up guys like you at Connections almost every day to use as…my willing weights.”

The silent drop of my mouth must have been awesome, cause he twisted around to look up at me. The muscles tightening around his ribs and the jump in his abs were just spectacular as he turned his torso up into the light, holding himself up on his pulsing right arm.

“Look, I started doing this when I was in San Quentin a few years ago. I had a cellie who was about your size and shape. He protested when I started picking him up at first, but for six years I used him every day as weight resistance. You know the damn governor took our weights away from us, right? I even got Gene to put on weight, eat more starch, things like that. I had to adjust to the fact that his weight was the same from exercise to exercise, but I figured out ways. In about two years I became the strongest guy at San Quentin, the bluest, the strongest and the hardest. And let me tell you, after a while, Gene couldn’t wait for the exercise part of the day. I let him feel the muscles of a real Man the whole time, and he used to tent up like you. I like that kind of attention. So now climb on. I gotta work my tri’s first.”

With this he twisted his torso back around and assumed perfect push-up position.

Hmm. He was once an inmate. At San Quentin. I wondered what he had done, or if he was at all dangerous to me. But no matter. I was so aroused already that I couldn’t imagine what difference it would make. So I climbed on his back…he was as solid as a metal bench. He didn’t even show any sign he knew I was there. I knelt on his shoulders and sat on my butt…despite my size, 220 lbs, I have always been able to bend well at the hips and knees.

James started to do push-ups. Perfect form.

“Count for me!” he ordered. “ and bend down and feel my tri’s as I push up…these are the muscles of a real Man, man.”

When he was done pushing up, he told me to get off. Then, for about an hour, he went through a series of exercises with amazing dexterity and cleverness. And no resting either. Furthermore, even though the human body has no handles or easy holds, James never hurt me or grabbed me in any way that bothered me. Whether he was pressing me, squatting with me, or curling with me, I always felt like he knew exactly where to hold me so that I was balanced, he was doing perfect form, and I was not fearful of being dropped. I felt totally secure.

And of course, I was hard the whole time. Yes, for the full hour. My whole body felt warm and tingly and my breathing was deep.

From time to time, James would look down at my hard on or look up at my totally awed face and smile, or rather smirk and then say something like. “See? You really like being man- handled by a true Man, don’t ya?” He’d say it so you could hear the capitalization.

As far as I could tell, James never made any grunts or groans. No matter what position he held me in. I marveled at how he translated the precise, effective gym moves that a professional trainer might suggest into moves with a human being.

As he worked with me, he also would make comments about how hard his muscles were, how strong they were, and what they could do to a person, including me.

For example, when he was curling me, holding me in his palms like a feather, he said, “You know of course I can only go so far with this kind of curl. If I went any further, your right arm bones would be caught between my flexing bicep and forearm and you know what would happen then…(he made cracking sounds with his mouth) your arm would be like a bag of crushed potato chips.”

While he was doing crunches with me being held by his incredibly strong arms across his shoulders, he said “My abs are so hard when I do this exercise that if someone tried to hit me with a baseball bat in my middle, I bet the bat would break before I would even notice. I once knocked a guy out on my ten-pack here. This gorilla and a bunch of his gang in the joint were pissed that I had reached a certain level of respect, so they were going to try to bring me down. They came at me and I just grabbed their gorilla’s head and bounced it off my midsection. He just fell to the floor. Let me tell you, everyone of them fuckers backed away, when they saw what a real Man could do. Gave him a concussion, they said. I didn’t get into trouble either…no one could explain how I did what I did. After that, no one tried anything and I got TOTAL respect. Some of his men even used to get hard-ons while they watched me walk naked into the bath house, and flex in front of the mirrors.”

And when he was leg-pressing me, he insisted that I feel his incredible bunching thigh muscles, which felt like a collection of steel pipes covered with silky blue skin and faint blond hair.

“Pretty amazing, huh?”

“I’ll say,” I said, panting. “Your legs are like an iron casting.”

“That’s right. I bet if you and I got into a wrestling match, and I caught you between these suckers and did a scissors, you’d be like a tube of toothpaste in an iron vice, squeezing out at both ends.” He fixed me in the eye as he said it and smirked. “Bet a guy like you even fantasizes having a true Man like me doing shit like that to him, huh?”

With that he flexed his legs, tossed me high into the air, and in a flash, got off the ground and caught me before I came down, a feat that amazed me even as it terrified me.

He set me down on the ground in front of him. Then he said “I’m done. Gotta good pump out of it too. Wanna see me do some muscle magic?”

“What do you mean, magic?”

“I’ll show you. Go get me that pen over there,” he commanded.

I went and gave him an ordinary plastic ball point from his dresser.

“Damn thing don’t work any way. Gotta punish it.” He placed it along the top horizontal ridge in his abs and then caught it so that his muscles were holding it in place. That amazed me plenty right there. Then he bent ever so slightly forward, flexing his abs, and the center of the pen suddenly spintered into plastic shreds and tip and end fell to the floor, jagged.

“Wow!” I said, totally dumbfounded. “Jeez, you’re muscles are even harder than the proverbial rock!

“Actually, they’re a LOT harder. So, let me show you another trick I can do. First, tell me, whose face is on a quarter?”

“Hmm…George Washington’s profile, usually” I said.

“You got one on ya to prove it?” James asked.

“Sure” I said, as I reached into my pocket and handed him one.

Before he looked at the quarter, he placed it between his forearm and partially flexed bicep. He tucked the coin till it was hidden deep in the crook of his arm. Then he flexed his blue bicep till it looked like it would burst from his skin.

“Go ahead and feel my arm, like you did in the bar, this time without my shirts on, so you really get a sense of how fucking hard it is now that it’s all pumped up from lifting you. Anyway, I love seeing your dick salute me.” I hadn’t really gone flaccid, but as soon as I touched his iron arm, I was at fuller mast than I thought possible. I cupped it and rubbed it and fingered it as he held it tight. His arm was so beautiful, so shapely, so defined, so hard and so blue that I was breathing shallow. It was pure steel. This man wasn’t just a real Man. He was a god.

“You sure Washington’s face is on a quarter?” With that he unbent his arm and picked out the quarter and handed it to me. It was flat, featureless and very shiny. It was also bigger in diameter and thinner. There were impressions of the fibers of his bicep and even, I think, the faint blond hairs on the inside of his forearm. The whole disc had an organic look to it, rather wavy, reproducing the shape of where his bicep touched his forearm. He had literally crushed a piece of metal with his arm muscles.

I was dumbfounded. “O my God!” was all I could say, over and over. “I’m not done with my tricks, “ he said, “so hold your applause.” Then he took the quarter back, bent the remains of the quarter in two with his fingers, then into fourths, then into eighths. Then he rubbed his powerful thumb and forefinger over it…slowly, the piece of metal that used to be a quarter was turning into foil.

This he tossed to me when it was done, almost the size of saucer. It was hot and I dropped it. James laughed.

“It gets hot when I do that, don’t it?” His laugh became a snicker.” Now that I’ve done my magic miracles for you, come over here and do what you’ve been wanting to do since you first felt my…um… all powerful arm at Connections. I think its time for the service at the Church of James.” With that, James started to flex every muscle and look at it…that’s what I kissed and worshipped with my tongue and eager hands. All over his iron body I roamed and adored, toes and feet and ankles and calves and shins and knees and thighs and butt. As I worshipped his legs, he’d tense them in and out, in and out. If I stroked the inside of his upper thigh, he would catch my hand and squeeze just until I was ready to yelp, then he’d release and snicker. “You like that, dontcha? Knowin’ how powerful I am, how I could squeeze ya till your bones were crushed like crackers.”

Remembering the quarter, I added, “Or worse.”

“Or worse,” he echoed. Then he made me stand up, and worship his torso. Abs, lats, back, shoulders, neck and nipples. He groaned. I was so passionate I think I may have even surprised him. I kissed his face, and ears, and eyelids. I was so enraptured that I eventually pressed my lips on his mouth, but he wasn’t going to part them. He suddenly pushed my head away from his and then came up to my ear and whispered “You worship me utterly, I don’t worship you back. Now suck me off good or I’ll do to your face ( he flexed his bicep in my face) what I did to Washington’s.” Immediately I dropped to my knees and started sucking him off. He was hard when I got there…I really think that his tough talk somehow excited him, his absolute power over me in every way. This went on for about ten minutes, as I squeezed his iron legs. Then he took himself out of my mouth and erupted all over my face, the bed, the floor. He made incredible sounds, that surprised me with their abandon. I had come good twice during my time with him.

Then he rested, blue and beautiful on the bed. After a few minutes of him lying there and me staring at him in complete awe, he bent his torso up and sat at the edge of the bed.

“Time for you to go, barbell head. I got things to do. But what say you and I get together later this week, say Thursday, so I can use you to get even more powerful.”

“Name the time, James, sir, and I’ll be here”

“Ten in the morning. And if you get here on time, I may show you a couple of more magic tricks I can do. You’re not just a good barbell, you’re a good audience.” With that he got up, picked me up in his right arm, carried me to the door and deposited me out in the hall. Then he closed the door behind him without saying a word. I didn’t go to work for two days in anticipation of Thursday. •

This collection was originally created as a compressed archive for personal offline viewing
and is not intended to be hosted online or presented in any commercial context.

Any webmaster choosing to host or mirror this archive online
does so at their sole discretion.

Archive Version 070326