His roommate Kent, was there. He got from his desk, alarmed by Tristan’s dishevelled appearance and how poorly he looked.

“Tristan!” Kent ran over and grabbed on to Tristan. “Tristan! What’s wrong man! What happened?”

“I need to sit down…” said Tristan weakly. Tristan was heavy, but Kent managed to maneuvre the big guy over to his bed and laid him down gently. Tristan was panting, and his clothes were drenched in sweat.

“Fuck, mean,” said Kent, “You look terrible. Hey, let me get you out of this.” He helped Tristan sit up a bit, and pulled off his shirt, flinging it to a corner. “There you go.”

Tristan was too tired, and felt too ill to speak. He just lay back down, sighing.

“Don’t strain yourself, Tris. I’ll go get something for you to drink. Should I call someone?”

Tristan shook his head.

“OK, I’ll be back.” Kent turned and went out of the room, and Tristan watched him go.

Kent was a great guy, and a good friend of Tristan’s. He was short—only about 5’6”, but what he lacked in height he made up and more in a bright, bubbly personality, a keen wit, and a ready, infectious laugh. He always loved playing basketball, but a few years in highschool spent ineffectually reaching for high balls thrown by taller guys persuaded him to take up swimming in college instead. He was a natural swimmer, and his compact, lean body proved it. He was a lot stronger than he looked too. While not quite the hot stud that Tristan was, Kent was quietly confident in his own way, and many people found that powerfully attractive. He had an innocent, happy face that no one could ignore, and Tristan was glad that at the moment when he was feeling so down, Kent was there to cheer him up.

Tristan’s body was aching all over. His muscles felt so stiff he could hardly move. What the hell was that crap which Coach Mace injected into him? Was it going to kill him? To top it off, he had a splitting headache.

Kent came back with a glass of water. He had brought a sandwich too. “I thought you might like this too,” he said, handing Tristan the sandwich as he sat down on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Tristan mumbled.

“Take it easy, big guy. I’ve seen you beat up worse in the field before, and you survived that!” Kent grinned, giving Tristan a light play punch on the shoulder.

“Ow! That hurt!” Tristan winced. For some reason, even that slight punch hurt. Maybe it was because he was sore all over.

“Huh? You’re serious? Big boy Tristan is afraid of a little tap? I’ve never heard of that! How about here?” Kent raised a finger threateningly, aiming for Tristan’s chest.

“No… please don’t!” Tristan said. “I don’t know why. Everything hurts.” He reached for the sandwich. Sore as he felt, seeing that sandwich reminded him of how hungry he felt. He tore away the plastic wrapping and began wolfing it down.

“Hey! Hey!” Kent laughed, “You’re supposed to be sick! And look, now you’ve got crumbs all over.” He reached over and brushed the bread crumbs off Tristan’s chest and stomach.

Kent had always admired Tristan’s body. He didn’t think he was gay or anything. He just had an… aesthetic admiration for its beauty. Tristan’s chest was well-developed. His pecs were large and full, and you could see them cut like to bricks, sharply defined. He had a great six-pack going down there too, the product of hundreds of sit-ups every night on their room floor. Now, wet with Tristan’s sweat as they were, his body looked especially good—shining, strong, muscular-- and Kent’s hand lingered there a little longer than he should.

“Kent?” Kent suddenly awoke from his reverie and quickly withdrew his hand. “Could you get me another sandwich please?”

“Uh… sure! Any type in particular?”

“Anything is fine… No.. make that two sandwiches.”

“Sure, but wow… That was a quick recovery. You were looking like shit just five minutes ago!” Kent said, getting up.

It was true. After having a bit of food in his stomach, he suddenly felt much better, as if he had been energised. But now, he also felt hungrier than before, and as if on cue, his stomach started growling.

“Okay! Okay!” said Kent, laughing, “I get the hint. Two sandwiches coming right up!” He ran out of the room.

Tristan lay back again. What on earth was going to happen to him?

+++

The next few weeks found Tristan back to his daily routines again—football practice, studies, weights, a fuck with one of the chicks sometimes. The only difference appeared to be the amount of food he was eating. It seemed as if he was hungry all the time. First thing in the morning, he went down to the cafeteria for a huge breakfast of eggs, toast, bacon, sausages—everything. Midway through to lunch he had to get a sandwich or two as well. And after another huge gut-busting lunch, he often needed yet another meal before dinner. And then there was supper. And sometimes even a second late-night supper, when he would call in for pizza, or go down to Debbie’s for a Philly steak.

Kent was amazed at all this. One night, and Tristan was scarfing down his second large pizza of the evening, he said, “Jesus, Tris! What’s gotten into you? You’ve been eating like a madman for the past two weeks!”

Tristan mumbled, his mouth full of food, “I’m just so hungry I can’t stop myself!” He reached for another slice of pizza.

Curiously enough, for all the enormous amount of food he was eating, he was getting very much fatter or anything. He had gotten a little bigger, he supposed, but the weight didn’t seem to be sticking to his stomach, which was a relief, since he really liked his abs. In fact, the other curious thing he noticed was that during his weights sessions, he had broken personal records two weeks straight, adding new weights practically everytime he trained. His team mates began to notice.

“Hey Tris! You bulking up or what?” Danny nudged him playfully as they were in the lockkeroom getting changed out. “You look bigger!”

Another teammate, Darren, looked up from where he was sitting, “Yeah you sure do! You seem bigger than when we last played.”

Tristan looked at himself in the mirror, absentmindly straying his hands over his large pecs. Maybe a little bigger… His clothes were feeling tighter too. He probably needed to get larger ones soon. There was a scale in the lockerroom. Perhaps he should weigh himself. He stepped on it.

232 pounds. No way! That’s 12 pounds in two weeks. Shit! He had better cut down on those pizzas. He got off hastily, lest the other teammates saw.

“Hey big guy, what’s the damage?”

“Nothing…” he was blushing furiously and everyone saw it. “Come on,” said Danny, “Tell us!”

“Twelve pounds…” Tristan said, under his breath. “In two weeks.”

“Sheeee-t!” whistled Darren. “But hey, if it’s of any comfort, it seems to have been twelve pounds of muscle on those babies of yours!” He playfully reached for Tristan’s fleshy pecs and gave them a squeeze. “Ooh man, I wish my girlfriend a rack like these!”

“Ow! Cut it out!” said Tristan, swatting his hand away. He was always a little embarassed when people talked and stared at his body, and now the whole lockerroom was looking at him. His face was beet red in embarassment.

“Hey He-man!” someone called out. “Tristan the incredible *Bulk*!” another yelled.

Tristan grabbed his shirt and struggled to put it on. It was a tight fit, and in his panic, as he pulled it over, it ripped under his arms.

“Wow!” laughed Darren, “bursting out of your shirt already!” He reached for the towel that Tristan had tied modestly around his waist and pulled it away.

“Aah!” Tristan tried to grab it back.

“Whoa! Tristan! Looks like some other muscle has been doing some growing lately, or am I mistaken?” Darren smirked.

Tristan looked down. Was his dick really bigger than before? That couldn’t be possible could it? But his balls definitely seemed bigger—hell, they felt heavier too. Under all the scrutiny, he suddenly felt the familiar rush of blood to his groin, and to his dismay, he felt himself getting an erection.

“And it grows!” shouted Darren. “Behold Tristan our miraculous growing boy!”

Everyone in the lockerroom laughed. They weren’t trying to be mean, but Tristan was such a gentle giant, it was good fun to make fun of him once in a while. Poor Tristan however, was both embarassed and confused. He grabbed his trousers, pulled them on, and run out. As he ran, he felt another rip go up his sleeves, as his larger biceps tore the seams slightly. Why was all this happening to him? •