Big Little Rich Boy


By Richard Jasper

Christmas was surreal. Mother showed up, finally, with Heiko in tow, and it occurred to me for the first time in my life that I might wind up with a stepfather. How weird was that?

For her part, Mother kept looking at me, something she'd never been keen to do previously, as if something were somehow different. Durrr! She couldn't quite grasp my transformation from skinny little geek to big, buff Uberstud, and not being able to grasp it she apparently couldn't even SEE it. It was like I was a mirage or an optical illusion, always just around the corner from her concept of me. Jess wasn't paying attention either, even when I started showing up for breakfast in clothes that once belonged to Jake, e.g., skimpy lycra gym shorts, spaghetti strap tank tops, big oversized, deep cut sweatshirts.

Heiko DID notice, both of us, and he was VERY friendly, always complimentary, always remarking on what great progress we seemed to have made (he'd seen pictures), and I was more than a little convinced that he had at least one or two bisexual bones in his body. Amazingly enough, we all actually seemed to LIKE Heiko, and by "we" I mean Jake AND Jess AND me. His dubious schemes notwithstanding, it was clear that he was not only friendly but, in his own way, perceptive, intelligent, and not the least bit pretentious. Which begged the question of what the hell he was doing hanging out with Mother - and vice versa.

The holidays came and went and Mother and Heiko decamped for Rome, where the latter was working on an initiative to develop and promote archaeologically correct post-modern villas for British and American expatriates with too much money and not enough common sense. "My specialty," he pointed out, with a sly grin that would have been annoying as hell on anyone else. Jess went back to her work with the other old ladies who comprised the Baluchi AID Teams but in January she caught a cold and spent much of her time in bed or holding court in the Conservatory with the other BATS.

Jake and I kept lifting and we kept GROWING. By the time the contest rolled around in May, shortly after my 15th birthday, I was 35 lbs. heavier than I had been at Christmas. In the same period Jake packed on another 25 lbs. of quality muscle.

During those months I began to figure out what "critical mass" was really all about, especially from a bodybuilding point of view. I not only looked different, I felt different, I moved differently, people looked at me differently, they interacted with me differently. It was a rush and like most rushes slightly disorienting. I had a tendency to bump into things. I was having a bit of a time figuring out that I really did take up more SPACE, and not just physical space -- people tended to back off when I got too close to them, although it didn't seem to me like I was getting any closer to them than I did previously. My friends at school tended to step back when I came near, especially after they figured out that the kind of boyish rough housing we used to do was likely to end up with one or more of them flat on their asses. (Well, I wasn't TRYING to knock Brent over the table, he just punched my shoulder like always and I punched back.) It was disconcerting -- and it made my dick hard, which was even MORE disconcerting.

The day before the contest Jake posed for me, like he did that time by the pool, only this time I had the tape and I got to measure as we went along. It was totally fucking mind-blowing. There he was, 5'8" tall, all 290 lbs. of him, no more than 4% bodyfat, tanned and totally fucking gorgeous. His stats were breath-taking -- 64 inch chest, 31 inch waist, 33 inch quads, 25 inch biceps, 21 inch forearms.

"Down boy," he growled but I just kept on measuring and taking pix, heedless of my raging erection.

Then he did the same thing for me, first putting me through my posing routine. Right bicep, left bicep, double bicep, quads, calves, rear lat spread, side chest, front chest, all of it. We'd been over it and over it and over it, a thousand times, tweaking it here, adjusting it there, making modifications to take into my ever growing muscle mass.

"OK," he said, finally. "Now do it again -- only this time, actually SEE yourself, OK?"

And so I did. I was speechless.

"Is it really...?"

"Yes," he said. "It's really you. Now pose, dammit."

I moved through the routine one last time, while he called off my numbers:

5'9" (an inch taller than last summer)

240 lbs. (a gain of 115 lbs. since we started training)

55 inch chest.

30 inch waist.

30 inch quads.

21 inch calves.

21 inch biceps.

18 inch forearms.

"Oh, my god..."

I turned to face my mother, her mouth twisted in a mask of fury and disgust. She was standing, draped in the latest Milan fashions, in the doorway to the Music Room with Heiko, a bemused look on his face, at her side.

"What have you done to my SON?!" •

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