Finally I couldn't take it anymore, I call his asshole folks, who say yes, they've heard from him, they don't know where he is either, but he's fine, though he asked them in no uncertain terms, NOT to tell me anything or even to talk to me...CLICK! Now, what was I to think? Clearly, the guy had moved on, and cut me out, and enlisted his whole family against me so he could make a safe getaway. Like I was going to fuckin' STALK him, or sue his damned family for a piece of their fortune based on "palimony" or something…

Then I really freak out, cause he starts sending back cryptic e-mail messages, saying he doesn't want to see me and won't let me know where he is and he'll be in touch when he's ready, and it was "touch and go for a while, but he's okay now", whatever the fuck that means. To my frantic replies, he just e-mails BUTT OUT, MIKE!! That's the gist, anyway.

So I get all pissed off, and try to go on with my life, but what's the point? I decide I'm officially "over" Jeff. Nobody treats me like this. Shit, I mean, dudes are coming on to me all over - in shops, in clubs, in the gym, on the street. I'm a cock magnet! But I have to say, when you've had 234 pounds of chiseled, rippling jock-muscle rubbed in your face, and drunk pints of hot white cream straight from a rock-hard, ten inch Viking cock, and had your tongue three inches deep in the pink hole between two wobbling, white, bubbled mounds of preppy 22-year-old surf glutes, you kind of lose patience with what else is out there in the dating world. I remember one blind date I went on around that time -- shit, the guy is 25 or so but totally skinny, hardly muscled at all, and we're sitting on this outside patio, and I scratch my head and he's staring at my arms like he has a fucking RIGHT to, and practically drooling. I'm completely over this geek, I can't BELIEVE my friend Roger thought I'd like him! So I get up to leave but he says "Please -" with this puppy-dog, Oliver-Twist look in his eyes. Poor fuckin' whiner geek wants me to put on a muscle-show to end his date? Awwww, ain't that cute.

I don't want to waste any more time, but he's a sweet kid, maybe it'll even inspire him to start working out. So I give him what he wants right there, pull back the sleeve of my tight polo shirt to the shoulder, and flex for him - knitting up 18.5 inches of beef into a rock-hard football. Unlike Jeff, my bicep doesn't ball up and make a flat valley between the heads and the forearm when I flex. My bis are just BIG - vast, thick and wide, taking up all the space on the upper arm and THEN some. I start to nuzzle the arching meat, brushing it near the shoulder crease with the tips of red-speckled goatee, which always feels good. Then - ha ha! - this is funny -- then, I suddenly make a fist with my other hand, and I shout, "FUCKIN' CUM, BOY!!" And I slam my fist into my flexed bicep, hard! - with a smack of bone on muscle. Again, again, and again! Well, his jaw drops, I'm serious! It really drops open, like he's a fuckin' fish, and the kid starts shaking, and he shoots, dribbling right into his own skivvies! And everybody in the restaurant looks over cause this kid's having a conniption or something, and he's gasping, and cum is pooling in his chinos, leaving dark stains in the crotch. So when it's over and he collapses, underwear drenched with his own cum, I say "See ya. Don't call me" and throw down some money for the waiter and go. Looking back, this is just the kind of thing Jeff himself would've done. •