Good Samaritan


By Richard Jasper

The first question was what to wear.

Tony grabbed a pair of jeans from the dresser drawer – and stopped when he realized his right CALF wasn’t going to fit, much less his quads. He settled on his baggiest pair of sweatpants instead – they fit like gloves. Latex gloves.

Next – what to do about a shirt? Tony tried a short sleeve polo, knowing that the material was very stretchy. It stretched alright. The cuffs were up around his delts but worse than that the bottom hem was a good six inches above the waistband of his sweatpants.

Then he remembered that sweater Aunt Sophia had knitted him, the one he’d considered donating to the NFL it was so fucking oversized.


It fit.

Like a glove.

“OK, I guess, that oughta do it,” Tony said aloud, then paused.

“I wonder what it looks like on?”

Now you have to realize that for all his muscle and good lucks Tony was anything but vain. Except for the bathroom mirror he stood in front of every morning so that he could shave (“speaking of which”) his handsome mug, Tony didn’t OWN a mirror. He had an unerring sense of what looked good on him but he was NOT a flasher dresser and he never actually bothered to look.

“Except there IS that full length mirror in the closet of the guest bedroom,” Tony remembered, the one Aunt Ileana insisted he really needed if he “was ever gonna find a nice Greek girl and settle down, you big oaf.”

Tony went to check it out.

“Oh My Fucking God.”

The sweatpants and the oversized sweater fit alright – they fit like they were painted on. They left absolutely NOTHING to the imagination, and even though Tony had plenty of imagination when it came to muscle, even HIS jaw dropped. And then he looked below his waist.

“Ermmmm, that’s NOT going to work. I’ll get arrested!”

Tony went rummaging in the coat closet. He had a vague memory that his friend Steve, the 6 foot 5 inch drag queen, had gone off without his trench coat when he’d been over recently to catch the Michigan/OSU game on Tony’s big screen TV (the one he never watched unless friends were over!)

“Yeah,” Tony said. “That’ll work.”

The showstopper was his shoes.

“Oh, shit, what am I gonna do?”

Tony’s feet were NOT going to fit into those size 10E sneakers, not matter what he did. Then he remembered Uncle Nico’s work boots. Uncle Nico was Aunt Sophia’s husband, a great big hulk of a man who helped Tony build his deck last summer – and who had left his muddy Size 13 boots in Tony’s laundry room with a promise to come pick ‘em up the next day. Tony spent 10 minutes cleaning ‘em up, then slipped ‘em on – a perfect fit!

“I wonder what Doc Gustafson is gonna say about THIS,” Tony said to himself as he headed out the front door.

/ / /

“Oh My Fucking God,” Gustafson said as Tony peeled off the trench coat.

“What happened to you?”

Tony scratched his head.

“Well, I grew.”

Gustafson snorted.

“Yes, son, that much is obvious. HOW did you grow?”

Tony told Gustafson about working out. And about how much he’d been eating.

“OK, enough already. I still don’t see how that could work, but let’s get some baseline information here and THEN speculate. Go ahead and strip.”

Tony turned his back on the doc and did as he was told, blushing furiously. As Doc had given the command to strip, he’d gotten COMPLETLEY hard.

He turned around.

“Sheeyit, son! Be careful with that thing. Yer gonna poke somebody’s eye out!”

Now it was Gustafson’s turn to blush.

“Uh, sorry about that. Sometimes my Georgia roots WILL show through. But that’s one mighty impressive piece of equipment you’ve got there. Am I correct in thinking it wasn’t, uh, this BIG when you were here last week?”

Tony nodded, too embarrassed to speak.

“Well, no shame in that. If we can figure it out we stand to make a fortune. But let’s just get some readings first. Step up on the scale.”

Gustafson measured Tony’s height first.

“OK, 6 ft even.”

Tony gasped.

“I’m only 5’10,” he exclaimed.

“You WERE 5’10,” Gustafson replied. “Now you’re 6 ft.”

Next was weight – 255 lbs.

“Shit, Doc, that’s 60 lbs. in one week.”

Gustafson nodded.

“Ayup, and about 15 lbs. more than I am. You done GROWED, son.”

Then Gustafson pulled out his tape measure and got down to business:

Neck – 21 inches. Chest – 59 inches. Shoulders – 65 inches. Biceps – 21 inches. Waist – 31 inches. Quads – 31 inches. Calves – 21 inches.

Gustafson scratched his head.

“Well, Tony, I don’t know how you did it but you’ve managed to turn yourself into a world class bodybuilder in just one week. Do you know how improbable that is?”

Tony nodded.

“Not that you didn’t have a damn fine physique before. I’ve been lifting myself for 20 years and I don’t know many guys who are better put together than you were. How long have you been training, 10-15 years?”

Tony nodded again.

“Uh, Doc, there’s one thing you did NOT measure.”

Gustafson blinked.

“Well, that didn’t grow, TOO, did it?”

Tony nodded a third time.

“Holy moly. OK, then, uh, well, gee, I guess it IS hard now, huh?”

Another nod.

“Errm, well, hmm! I make that out as 10 ½ long by 7 ½ around. Does that sound about right?”

This time Tony’s jaw dropped.

“It was about 7 x 5 before, Doc.”

Gustafson laughed.

“Totally proportional in that case. You gain another 50 lbs. and you can go into the porno business.”

Tony frowned.

“Uh, sorry, son, just a little joke there.”

Tony stood up again, right in front of Gustafson. At 6 ft, Tony was now nearly eye to eye with the 6-2 Gustafson.

“The other thing, Doc, is that I’m a LOT stronger,” Tony said through clenched teeth. “Let me demonstrate.”

With his right hand Tony grabbed a handful of Gustafson’s shirt – and lifted. With one arm, Tony was holding the 240 lb. Gustafson up in the air, the big doc’s feet toes dangling 2-3 inches from the floor.

“Uh, you can put me down now, Tony.”

Back on the ground, Gustafson straightened his shirt, adjusted his tie, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I think it’s time for us to visit the sports performance lab. We’ve got some more readings to take!” •

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