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|We sat apart form each other on the cool, wax-sealed wood bench. My mom was in the stands, by herself, yelling loud enough for two people, her and my dad, who couldn't make it tonight. As if being in front of twenty of your closest friends in those stupid, tight, revealing lycra body-gloves wasn't embarrassing enough, I had to do it with fifty parents and my mom watching. Talk about awkward.
But here I was anyway. I had always grown up very self-conscious, a side effect of being from an ultra-conservative family. My cousins would walk around shirtless, sometimes just in their boxers. I found it disgusting and was dually jealous. I had only seen my own father in his underwear once in my life, and that was when he came to rescue me from the darkness of my bedroom when I was six. I suppose my infatuation with the masculine is rooted deeply in this separation from sexuality: it's mysterious and elusive character blended with its dark and assumedly pleasurable side effects. The sight of penises intrigued me, I had no one else to compare myself to, and no one was ever open or explained these things to me. Everything that I ever did hear about human sexuality came from crude jokes, snide remarks and the stories my friends in junior high would tell of their older brothers. To say I was sheltered would be both an understatement and an overstatement.
In junior high, while exposed to sex-ed and horny best friends, I discovered the internet. Now, having grown up in a conservative home, there was something intrinsically dirty and disgusting about porn involving the feminine of our glorious species. The guys, however, were a different story. Looking at these pictures was an outlet for my budding curiosity and flowering manhood. Somehow, nude photos if they excluded women were acceptable.
But, as with everything in my life, I was divided between the conservative front and the curious and exploratory creature lurking underneath. To be honest, I had always been attracted to football. With my limited background with the sport and with my sexual curiosity at its peek, I thought that there was no better sport to explore to test my own manhood against the competition. I mean, first of all, there's nothing more manly than hitting another guy, especially when it's called for. Secondly, you get to wear those cool uniforms and pads that do nothing but accentuate what makes you a man: the huge shoulder pads, the tight pants. Thirdly, and most importantly, there's that whole hidden sexual side of sports that is personified by football. I guess it was the combination of embarrassment and my conservative nature that made me second-guess my testicular drive. Well, that was a year ago, now I'm a sophomore and my balls have more control of my brain. I let it slip, sometime ago, to a good friend that I thought wrestling looked cool (except for those tights, was the obligatory consolation). Sure, I mean, what's manlier than overpowering one man with strength and mind, all while nearly naked? If there's anything more mystically manly or intrinsically testosterone, I don't know it: all that grappling and groping...
Well, anyway, there I sat, on the bench, waiting for my match to be called. Down the empty row was Shane. He had been a wrestler since his freshman year. Now a senior, he had quite an accomplished resume under his belt: three league championships, two undefeated seasons, a number of letters in other sports, and a 3.89 GPA. Man, he was just one of those guys you either idolized or hated because he had everything. When he first started he was a lightweight, 110 pounds. His speed and agility astounded and amazed: you could really see his martial arts background coming into play, everything from his stances to his take downs. I guess he was part of the reason why I became so vocal about wrestling: if there was anyone in the world I wanted to grow to be like, it was Shane.
Over the years he packed on the pounds, putting off the lithe etched look and threats of his coaches. They told him he would lose his edge his and spot on the bench if he moved up more than three weight classes. During the summers he would spend countless hours and calories in the weight room, pounding out rep after rep, putting on pound after pound of muscle. He had ballooned from a quaint 114 pound to a squat 265 pounds of mass. The muscle party didn't come without some uninvited guests: at least 10% of that incredible weight was, indeed, fat, but it only served to increase his strength and draw. Sure, he wasn't ripped, with 26 pounds of fat, and at 5'10" he had a decent sized belly, but at 200 pounds of viscera and muscle, he was imposingly taut and massive. It was almost hard to believe that he was the same Shane. It had to be his older brother or something. It was almost unnatural.
The way he sat seemed uncomfortable. His legs were always spread shoulder width apart. His shoulder width was astounding in and of itself. The shelf was nearly two feet of clavicle, pectoral and shoulder. His traps rose from the cap of his shoulders to meet his neck a few inches under his ears. He did have a neck and although it looked pretty much useless it turned out to actually be quite flexible. Flexible like the rest of him.
His arms looked to be immobile. The sight of his triceps meeting and violently fighting against the opposed biceps was almost incomprehensible. A measurement of less than twenty inches would have been preposterous, but then again, his height did make all that muscle seem deceivingly larger. But that didn't detract from the impressive taper at his elbow. Although far from skinny, the bicep and triceps collected and exploded on the other side of the joint in the form of a forearm. It was a wonder he could even move his wrists, the muscles were so big it looked constricting. Yet, however he was able to do it, he had the most amazing dexterity: each muscle complimented the other, worked in tandem and in perfect synchronization, in perfect submission of his mind.
]From his barrel chest to his rotund waist, his body screamed power under control. The twin plates of his hairless pecs crashed into each other forming an inch thick crevice that cascaded onto a belly that bowed yet betrayed the hidden, underlying abdominal columns that he was so proud of as a freshman. But now they were long gone, they were little more than a happy memory replaced with the occasional happier belly smack that would resound with a firm thud rather than a fleshy slap. Even his gut was solid, like the rest of him. His hairless stomach dipped into his firm, stout hips: following his pelvis dropping past his groin and supple butt into huge thighs.
His legs were probably the most astounding part of his body. While most casual body-builders neglect the lower half, Shane had seemed to spend most of his time there. His legs exploded with muscle and tested the resolve of most singlets, let alone the resolve of the onlooker. Nearly the size of his waist his freshman year-27 inches-his thighs forced his legs apart to shoulder-width, threatening to crush anything that laid between, arms, hands, chests, and even his own testicles; he was relegated to wearing a jock strap. It kept things up and out of the way. His calves were diamond tapers that rivaled his thighs in proportion to his arms. Overall, he was the complete masculine package: self-confident, controlled, controlling, muscular, virulent, and welcoming.
He had one of those broad, open faces that embodied his innocence and charm. Despite all that hard, firm bulk below his chin, he had the look of a 17-year-old boy, barely ready to graduate, always ready to make friends. But his face wasn't the only part of his body that puberty hadn't touched. Probably from all the testosterone forced into his muscles and heart, his penis seemed tiny in comparison to the rest of his body. While he had a formidable chest, a massive back, and monstrous thighs, his cock and balls were of mediocre size: probably little more than 5" and a handful combined. Not that was small, no way. I mean, I probably didn't top 5 or 6 inches on my best day. It was just that on a 265 pound muscle/mass freak like Shane, from everything you've heard about monsters like that, it was a little disappointing. Not to me, though. I thought it was kind of cute. He always wore at least a jock strap everywhere he was, even into the shower. It seemed that, although he had everything he a triumphant monster like him could want apart from being supremely endowed with a monster sized cock, he was still shy, he was still humble, and he was cordial.
He leaned over, the nylon sweats made that awkward rubbing swoosh, the bench creaked and he asked me how I was doing. I was nervous enough sitting here waiting for my name to be called with nothing more than a thin layer of lycra and nylon sweats covering my fragile, shameful body. Now he was talking to me. I focused hard, swallowed and shook out a terrified "I'm alright."
I sat back up, drawing away from him, contemplating the implications of my response. He leaned over and scooted his bulk closer to mine. His sweats swished across the waxed bench and creaked as his muscles pushed against the light, blue and white fabric. I could feel his mass and warmth spread like a welcoming aura that enveloped me. I felt calm, I felt relaxed, I felt the blood leave its reservoir in the back of my head and begin to flow once again through my body.
"There's nothing to be worried about. What's your name? Mine's Shane. I've seen you around but we don't get to talk much, we being in different weight classes, and all. So, what's your name, man? And what's the problem?"
His casual manner made me giggle. I shook, completely relaxed and open to his hypnotic presence. I could do nothing but answer him readily and truthfully.
"My name is Craig," I stammered, the blood returning to my cheeks. I didn't know why I was so open. I am usually reserved; shy. There was something about him, a magnetic pull that drew me towards him. I should have been scared, his size and proportions should have petrified me: he towered over my 5'6", 115-pound bag of skin. There couldn't have been a greater contrast between two people. There were so many reasons that I should have hated Shane, his good looks, the amazing way he had with people, his ability to carry 265 pounds of muscle and bulk so well, his strength, his intelligence, his speed, his dexterity: he was paradox in existence. There were so many reasons that anyone should have hated him, but no one ever said anything about him that wasn't positive. And now I know why. He was charming; he was enchanting. There was nothing that I wouldn't do to please him. There is nothing that I could want to do that would harm him.
I should have been scared at the power he exerted over me, yet at the same time, I knew he meant no man any harm. I could tell that, although he could will his opponents into submission, he would allow for a fair match, and if he were bested? he would accept it, take the loss, and be the better man for it. I could tell that if he could be hugely endowed, he wouldn't be; and yet, he didn't have to be at the same time.
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