At a contest weight of 250 something, height six foot, great genetics, full muscle bellies and small bones for my size, I was pretty hot - they said. Unusually for a Scandinavian, I was dark, with blue eyes , “ruggedly handsome” and I had always trained for symmetry rather than extreme bulk. I had also been lucky enough to be trained in the “Russian” way from an early age by The Boss, my coach , so everything was hard, cut and well-founded: one week a month on power lifting only. Even in the off-season I was never allowed to get fat like some of the guys I saw in the American mags - when I could get hold of them.

Then one day, surfing through all the “Muscle-this” and “Muscle-that” websites, I came upon a picture (?photograph?) of this amazing dude whose size and symmetry blew my mind: I’d never seen anything before that lined up with the vision I had for myself but never seemed able to reach. Huge! “Morphed, I bet” said the Boss, whatever that meant. Every muscle enlarged beyond belief, yet still symmetrical! And his dick and balls seemed to have been morphed with everything else. Yes, I said everything was in proportion, even that equipment, to the rest of his wondrous body.

That night, a few nights after the latest 2nd place Mr. Scandinavian- Something win, I got drunk. Seeing this picture had elated me beyond belief, now it depressed me to hell. I’d got it out of the computer and I was brandishing it around the bar, muttering and moaning - “What’s the use? I’ll never be able to make it like I want! I’m gonna give it all up - never get past fuckin’ Second! The guy who beat me still looks like shit, and look at this!” On and on. On and on. Too many Schnapps bought me by too many people I knew and didn’t know, and they had to carry all 250 pounds of me home to bed. Wished I’d never woken up.

Anyhow, I stopped working out and just got on with my job at the Mill, heart lost, I guessed. probably size as well. Didn’t bother to look or measure. I was drinking too much, not eating enough, and all the wrong things.

It didn’t help that I had known I was gay since I was 14 years old; that was just something that had to be unspoken, kept dark. I decided that was my problem and tried to fuck a few whores. That didn’t work either - just drove me further into my lonely, dark corner. My gym buddies started to drop away, bored with trying to get me to go with them. I was in anti-muscle hell.

About three weeks later, while I was in my deepest, darkest state (our 24 hour nights don‘t help any), telephone cut off, all letters kicked into a corner and left unread, the owner of our gym, “The Boss”, hammered at the door of the cabin he rented to me and insisted on talking.

What the hell did I think I was doing? Throwing away my God-given talent and success, letting the body rot? You will pull yourself together and come back to the gym with me and get working.

He flung a coat at me, found a stinking pair of briefs and a T-shirt on the floor and flung those too. He was not going to move till I’d picked them up and put the coat on. Then he shoved me towards the door, turned out the lights and pushed me down the narrow stairs and out into the snow.

It was the same at the gym: he stood over me while I got changed, stood over me at each station, loaded up weights, and stood there till I got down under them. This went on, set after set, exercise after exercise, till I started to get warmed up and actually began to enjoy the effort. At least the blood was moving about again. Everyone else in the gym got very quiet - it was like being in church, which, in a way, I guess it was!

The Boss walked me home, told me to be ready at 6 am in the morning for the next workout. Again he collected me, again he supervised the workout, not letting me get away with a single lousy rep. After about six days of this, when muscle memory was starting to set in again and I was actually beginning to feel good, he walked me home and pointed to the pile of mail. Time to do something about that! Once he got me organized, he left me to it. •