Jeff & Mike


By Cleety

I went to some fucked-up parties in college, man…like, ending up at 4:00 am in some basement with four drunk-off-their-asses shitheads, pumping up their chests with push-ups, and then taking turns pounding on each others' tits.

Or this one time! This one time -- junior year, it was -- the whole jock crew stayed late at a party at one of the frats, and they made me judge them like they were in a bodybuilding contest!! Swear to God, they got drunk as hell and stood there screaming and high-fiving and hollering and feeling each other's muscles. My buddy Chris started it, ripping off his shirt to show off that he's got veins in his abs. "Check this out, guys!" he says. Soon they're all yanking up the hems of their shirts, comparing abs, I don't know, six incredibly buffed all-American jocks, in that ugly paneled piece-of-shit frathouse rec-room! And they start posing shittily and laughing, and pretending they don't know how to do all the poses, and have no IDEA how to show off their stuff (…uh, whatever guys…does anyone ever believe straight dudes when they do that?)

Anyways, so they say, "Let's have a contest!" And "How are we gonna judge?" and one of 'em says, "Check it out, Muscle Faggot's got to give us scores and shit! He'd like that, huh, Muscle Faggot??" "Yeah cocksucker, you got to judge us, man!" and laughing.

And I know they fuckin' want me to cry or some shit at their cruel putdowns of my faggot ass, but, instead I totally shocked them. I just whipped out my cock and said "Sure I'll judge - whoever makes my cock spurt, wins!!" Now, they all knew me for a pervy fag, but even I'd never gone this far with the dudes. They all went quiet, and stared at me, like, did he just say what I THINK he said - and I just look 'em in the eye and slap my salami **FWACK** in my hand. "Hanging out with you pretty-boy jocks, have made it real sensitive to muscle," I say. "Sure, it looks like a dumb, if staggeringly massive, piece of meat - but it's a real fuckin' finely honed instrument. It can tell the difference between your 17 inch biceps, Rick, and your 17.5 inch biceps, Otto…it can calculate with accuracy the size, in centimeters, of each of the bars in your six, eight, or in your case Jared, ten-pack abs - and even measure the depth of the valleys between them. It can assay your body-fat percentage better, and more consistently, than an immersion test, Chris -- "

I love that I said that last one; heh heh. Because I knew each of the boys had been sneaking to the new immersion testing center at the gym - they were SO obsessed with maintaining their place in the "pecking order" of ripped guys in school. I knew because one of the grad students who worked at the gym, Roger, was a fuck buddy of mine. Roger told me how my classmates would come in to get tested, but first they'd all do, like, an hour on the treadmill or a brutal aerobic circuit wearing a plastic garbage bag, trying to sweat out another half-percent of fat. This sounds obsessive, but I guarantee you this is what goes on in most colleges, especially in Florida. It's not like the stupid 50s, where guys just played football and basketball and that made them jocks. Today, ordinary 20-year-olds are warped by MTV and fitness mags and the Internet… if they show any kind of potential at all to be muscular, they can master the entire scientific arsenal of advanced medical knowledge related to muscle-building, metabolism, and synthetic hormones. The only thought in their heads is to turn themselves into muscle machines and maybe get a modeling contract or make some dough selling their sweaty old jocks on E-Bay.

Basically, these frat-boys and I spent our college years engaged in a freaky rivalry-jealousy-contest, which came out in rather overt ways. Each of the about twenty guys in our class - including your correspondent - who were good-lookin' enough and built enough, all formed this kind of contest. We kept it positive, usually, because it was an incredible mind-fuck for all of us when we bothered to think about it. But that's not to say it wasn't in deadly earnest anyway. Whenever three or more of us got together, to study or whatever, you could bet we ended up stoned on God-knows-what, with our shirts off, flexing ourselves blind in the common room, desperate to show our gains to our admiring friends.

We had an almost complete lack of interest in other friends. Being freakishly built and deeply ripped, for us, had become an end in itself. By senior year, most of the guys had quit their football teams or their gymnastics squad or whatever. Some even dumped their girlfriends! Instead, they were focusing almost exclusively on body building. More than being popular or whatever, these guys were neurotic freaks about their body-fat. Fuckin' weirdos. I saw more than one guy cry because he'd lost a tiny bit of definition on his abs.

Anyways, I finish: "Which of you "straight" fucks wants to know who, in this little jock clique in this stupid-ass school, has the Biggest Biceps? Or the Highest Biceps Peak! Or the Thickest Quads; the Most Striated Chest; Most Blown-out Calves; etc., etc.?"

And they all look at each other, nodding and grinning like shitheads, and say "Fuck yeah! Sure - Okay!" Do you fuckin' believe that?? So we had our fuckin' contest right there. We pulled out some massage oil from the guy's mom's bathroom, so I could wander around each of these college muscle freaks, lathering up his butt-naked body with oil, making him pose at my command! God, I can't even describe it to you. 6 fuckin' all-American, supplement-swilling, beer-, tits- and looks-obsessed, buffed up pretty-boy jocks, in a pot-, beer- and hormone-fuelled frenzy, giving it up for my cock! They all were dying to win, and took the whole thing seriously - even, maybe, more seriously than me, in a fucked-up way.

Ha ha!! I'll tell you who won, too: god damn Vinnie Caballero! GORGEOUS Italian face, GORGEOUS white teeth, GORGEOUS completely smooth Italian body with flawless skin that kept a light reddish-brown tan all year long; captain of the swimming team…a little taller than the other guys. A nice guy too, smart and shy compared to the other guys, and pumped to the MAX with long puffy, ballooning muscle bellies. Long leg bones with carved muscles slathered thickly on, so that his quads swayed gently from side to side as a unit when he walked…real wide hips, immensely deep pecs…GORGEOUS black hair which he kept long, since all the swimmers wore swimming caps anyway…full, rose-red lips and these big, brown, puppy-dog eyes! We all wondered whether he was a faggot too, but he seemed to do okay with the girls so nobody really knew.

Of all the guys, he was the one who posed the best…like, staring straight at me, ignoring the shouts of the other guys, and showing off to me. He never tried to pretend he didn't know how to make each muscle dance. He even knew how to work his muscles too, like, control them - flexing every part repeatedly, making the separations clear on every side of each muscle, at will. From the moment he peeled off his tight lycra muscle shirt, and stood there, skin glowing with youth and strength…I could hear all the guys like, gasp. Because, there the obvious winner was, his ripped abs and the twin pillows of his pecs rising and falling with each breath, and his big veiny arms puffed out at his side.

Without my saying a word, he did what the other guys didn't dare do - he slid his shorts down over his thick, baby-smooth legs, stepped nimbly out of them, and stood in front of me in only his jockstrap. Then he inserts his thumb under those, and rolls the strap down his smooth, long legs, revealing this crisp, thin tan line wrapped around the rounded mounds of his wobbling, dimpled butt. His semi-inflated cock was hanging between his thighs. Shit, he was gorgeous. His cock was as big as mine, even, and was almost as big as Joe's!

For almost an hour, the guys flexed for me, but I knew it would come down to Vinnie, naked as a jay, and Jared, who was still wearing his board shorts. Jared was really cut, a gymnast and a prime muscle punk -- but it all came down to the most muscular. At my command, Vinnie hunched over, flared out his shoulders, balled up his biceps and blew out his triceps, and then slowly stiffened his pecs into these rippling, striated MOUNDS that bulged up into a neck that looked like it was an oak tree sprouting roots…and while the other guys hooted and hollered he tossed the long black hair out of his eyes and whispered languidly, like there was a secret bond between us, "You mean like this, Mikey??" and I'd say "Kind of - but my cock is telling me it really wants to see your traps first; how big do they get?" And Vinnie nodded and concentrated, and closed his doe eyes, and these goddamn LOAVES of meat start to rise up on each side of his oak-tree neck, real slowly, till they finally stopped; a trembling, quivering plateau of rock hard sinew!!

At the sight of handsome Vinnie's muscle traps framing his reddening face, my meat turns to granite. Jared is still awkwardly crabbing it, trying to get me to notice him. But all the guys are watching Vinnie, silent with awe. Soon Jared stops flexing too, and just stares at Vinnie, slack-jawed. "If you can make me cum, Vinnie, you win," I reminded him.

I plopped down into a bean-bag chair, and leaned back, my over-developed legs stiffening in front of me, and I grab my cock with both hands like it's a life-line. I shout to the other dudes to spit in my hand, and they kneel down and DO IT, right next to me, spitting in my hand, and waiting to see if Vinnie really makes me cum. The whole time they're all shaking their heads with grudging disbelief, and thinking, "Faggot thinks Vinnie's hotter than I am…? Really? Huh, what do you know!" Assholes.

But they all start secretly checking out their own muscles, trying to compare themselves to Vinnie, who's still holding these awesome flexes for, like, EVER…breathing slow and steady. So I'm surrounded by all of them, flexing secretly in my peripheral vision, and Jared, leans into my ear saying "What is it? His abs? Dude, check out MY fuckin' abs!! Vinnie doesn't even have a ten-pack! THIS is a ten pack!" My buddy Chris, he gets down next to my cock and starts spitting gobs right onto it, whenever my fist got dry and squeaky. "Go for it, Mike! Show Vinnie what you think of his muscles."

Vinnie was still new to our little clique, being a transfer student who came in sophomore year. All the guys were a little jealous of Vinnie when he first showed up in school, 'cause he looked like a Hugo Boss model, and he beat Otto out for swim captain after only a week in school! But now they're finally realizing that it's official: Vinnie is not only GORGEOUS, and a stud swimmer, he is, in every physical detail, superior to them, and every other guy in the school. And Vinnie knew it, too.

But in the moment, Vinnie was responding only to me. Following tiny, silent signals from my eyes, he would re-cramp his flexes time and time again, to pump up the veins and distend each muscle as far as it could go… The other dudes got real quiet, realizing that Vinnie was locked in some kind of muscle mind-warp with me, their faggot mascot, and I was about to blow. And they start to whisper, "Come on, man -!!" "Shoot, dude!" "Vinnie, fuckin' show him your back, man!" But Vinnie didn't seem to hear them - or if he did, he never let on. He was looking right me, like "How about my back? Is that what you want to see next, Mike? The hard, shiny ridges between my shoulder blades, the Christmas tree striations that pierce the small of my back down into the globes of my white butt, the thick swimmer's lats that blow out like WINGS, when I stretch out my arms --"

WHHOOOO- hoo! Got a little overwhelmed there, remembering hot Vinnie. Shot a load, man, too! Right onto the keyboard where I'm typing this story. Where was I? OH yeah…I was supposed to be telling you about me and Jeff. But you gotta admit, that was a pretty awesome party….! Wonder where he is now, fuckin' Vinnie Caballero… •

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