If I thought I had looked sickly before, I was wrong. The guy in the mirrors looked utterly wasted in his boxers. Although muscular, my reflection appeared not to have eaten in several days. My mirror image didn’t even fill out his boxers like I used to while swimming, although I really hadn’t been working on my legs and glutes as I should have. Maybe I needed to start doing squats again. The reflection cast me an aghast look as I flexed my biceps. They were still hard and large, just not as perfectly balled as they should have been. I was really out of shape today, I thought, and I resolved to start hitting the weights even on off days.

I slipped off my boxers and, tossing Phil’s still-damp towel over the nearby rack, jumped into the shower. It was cold, just the way I wanted it, but the water ended up hitting me too high on my back. I frowned at having to adjust it down a bit, but I assumed that I must have knocked it into a higher position during my last shower.

Despite the coldness of the water, I realized there was only one thing I could do to relieve my tension. I lathered myself up and took my penis in my hand. Shock was beginning to wear off. The cold of the shower, weariness, and disgust at Phil took their toll on my erection. I was normally hung a good nine and change, easy enough for both of my hands to grip. Today I just didn’t feel so impressive.

Even worse, as I jerked it, my mind kept going back to the feeling of Phil’s hand against my shoulder, his pec against my back, his twitching cock spraying its hot payload over my leg and thigh. I couldn’t keep an image of a single girl in my mind, not even Lisa. Then I thought of Phil smiling up at me. I came with a force and speed that was unexpected, splattering against the shower wall. After cleaning it up, I gave up on showering more. I was just too tired.

Though I lay down, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for several hours, sweating under my covers rather than facing the coolness of our room. It didn’t work. I tried to find myself something to do, shifting over to my computer and pecking out a few searches for bodybuilding advice on the Internet. I even curled some old 30s that I had under my bed, and the light weights gave me a better workout than I expected.

Curiosity led me back to the bathroom’s scale. I really must have lost more than eight pounds. As I flexed my arms in the mirror, they rounded up impressively, almost as large as they ever had been. They were also pumped, I recalled hazily. I stepped up onto the scale and stared at the numbers.

“Well, I’ll be,” I said. “173 pounds.”

I thought about going over to Lisa's, but I didn't feel like dealing with a girl right then. •