Peter's Pecs

By Mdlftr

HI Guys, It's been a long while since I wrote anything, so I thought I'd get this started. Not sure where this is going, so ...Be kind....! Mdlftr

Chris looked up at the clock on the locker room wall for the 5th time in 10 minutes and frowned. 5:47 a.m. Seventeen minutes.

He’d been waiting seventeen minutes, today, for his training client. This was the training client who’d begged Chris for an open spot. This was the client who promised Chris he’d do “whatever it took” to get big. Chris remembered how he’d reluctantly agreed to meet the man, Peter, at the gym when it opened at 5:30 a.m., so he could be the first client of the day. And now, here, in the space of two weeks, the jerk had never been on time! He’d always been at least 10 minutes late! This threw off Chris’ entire schedule, since he believed in starting on time, and as the most popular trainer at the gym, he had clients booked throughout the day and a waiting list a mile long. Well, he’d worked hard for it, and he was d-mned if he was going to allow some self-centered jerk like this guy to screw up his schedule. It was too bad, since the guy was one of the few people at the gym who potentially had the genetics to go all the way.

Of course, that was if the guy ever showed up for his workouts! Chris remembered the initial intake interview when he had asked Peter why he wanted to hire a personal trainer. Peter had come up to him in the gym one day, and asked him about personal training. Chris was the most popular, and the best trainer in the gym. He had a waiting list of six months for new trainees. He was tough, and pricey, but he delivered results. He didn’t need the business, but, what the hell, he was here, he’d talk to the guy.

They went into Chris’ office at the gym and sat down. Chris hadn’t really seen him before around the gym. This guy struck him as a medium to short, typical Mediterranean type guy, with dark good looks, a stocky torso, and average arms and legs. At about 5 feet, 8 inches tall, around 150 pounds, this dude didn’t exactly overwhelm you with his size. He was probably just another one of those “Ahnuld” wannabes who spent their lives in the gym instead of getting a real job. But, they paid his bills, Chris thought. Always good to keep a few of these turkeys in reserve for when he needed the cash from training. He turned his attention back to the man in the chair at the other side of his desk.

“So why do you want to hire a personal trainer, uh…what’s your name?” Chris asked, leaning back in his chair.

“My name’s Peter. Uh, most people call me Pete.” Said Peter, earnestly, fixing Chris with a pair of the largest, roundest, dark brown bedroom eyes fringed with heavy black lashes that Chris had ever seen. Hell, Bambi would look like a troll compared to this guy. Chris shook himself mentally. He wasn’t here to stare at some other guy’s eyes. He was here to listen to some slacker talk about how he wanted to be ‘just like Ahnold’ etc. and all that crap before Chris sent him on his way. He’d heard it a dozen times before, and he had no patience for it. Well, might as well get it over with. He nodded curtly to encourage the guy to continue.

“Um, well, uh, lots of guys do it, and uh, it helps you get off your butt and, ya know, get buff.” Peter stammered out, ducking his head and avoiding eye contact.

Chris was puzzled. “It strikes me that you don’t seem all that enthused about this. Why do you want to spend money on ‘getting buff’?” Chris’ blue eyes narrowed as he locked in on Peter’s dark brown ones.

“Um, it’s my girlfriend.. she... ah, I mean, this girl. She thinks buff guys are cute, and I wanna go out with her.” Peter finally gulped out, looking at Chris beseechingly, as if for understanding.

“Let me get this straight. You want to spend good money, and your time, AND, most importantly, MY time, to train so you can get buff to impress some girl?!” Chris snorted. “I work with people who are interested in working out—people who want to get BIG—who want to compete! I don’t waste time with dating games!” He snarled at Peter. “You can get your dating advice somewhere else—go to some trainer who’ll help you get ripped and some beach muscles—arms and pecs! I work with real builders—guys who want to go all the way. Guys who want to train right, and get big all over. Big arms and chest, yeah sure, but big shoulders and big legs. Not some pretty boy! Don’t waste my time!” Chris’ eyes flashed and he glared at the quivering lump before him—some lovesick dweeb.

Still, Chris thought to himself, as he stood glaring at Peter, that lovesick dweeb, as he thought of him, had some MAJOR genetic advantages over 90% of his trainees: naturally large arms and legs, a barrel chest and broad back. Hell, the guy looked like he’d been working out for a year and half already!

Peter was medium height, stocky with good lines and beautiful proportions. His wide shoulders set off his narrow hips and small waist to perfection, while his naturally big chest and thick arms and legs showed promise of great potential in the big three lifts: bench press, squat and dead lift. His muscles had a natural fullness to them that took most people years to develop—and Peter hadn’t even started! In addition, his muscles were well defined and long. When Peter absentmindedly lifted one arm to scratch his head, his bicep popped up, full and peaked, seemingly from the crook of his elbow. As he straightened his arm, his big triceps, classically horseshoe-shaped, hung heavily off the back of his arm.

Damn! Chris thought! What I could do with this raw material! This guy has it all—size, shape, proportion, long, full muscle bellies with short insertions and low body fat! Chris started rethinking his earlier plan. Maybe he could do something with this guy after all.

Peter looked at him, gaping. He hadn’t expected Chris’ attack, and he didn’t want to lose this chance. His handsome face puckered up, his eyes screwed tight, and for a second, he looked like a baby who was going to cry. Chris, absent- mindedly staring at him, thought he must have been a pretty cute baby. Peter opened his mouth and started babbling, “No man, wait! It’s not like that! See, there’s this girl, right,? But she doesn’t even know I’m alive! I noticed that she seems to like the big jocky guys, so I thought I’ d enter a bodybuilding contest and win it to impress her!”

Chris just stared at him, unable to believe his ears. “You thought you’d just enter a bodybuilding contest—your first one—and win it?! Just to impress a girl?! Do you have any idea what you’re saying!?” Chris was major-league pissed. Most guys didn’t have a prayer of even placing in a bodybuilding show, EVER, let alone winning it. And this guy thought he could just enter one and win! What planet was he from? Chris wondered.

“Hey man! I don’t wanna sound cocky, but bodybuilding, is, like, 90% genetics, right?!” Peter smiled, showing dazzling white teeth against his tanned olive skin and blue black hair.

He looks like an ad for Pepsodent toothpaste, Chris thought sourly, not at all charmed by this display of cocky braggadocio. He’d made some ad director cream his jeans, with all that flirting and smirking. Get to the point, already! Chris fumed silently to himself.

“Well, my grandfather and my dad both won their weight classes at the regional bodybuilding shows back home, and my great-grandfather set lifting records at the first modern Olympics in Greece! “ Peter burst out. “I figure, with even a tenth of that, I got a good chance. So, whaddya say? Will you train me? I’ll work really hard, and I won’t let you down!” Peter looked at Chris earnestly, all puppy dog eyes and sincere determination etched in every sinew of his stocky frame.

Chris sat back, nonplussed. Well if brass balls were the key, this guy’d be a shoo-in! Imagine thinking that you were going to be a champion bodybuilder because your relatives were! It was like saying that Barry Bonds was a great ball player because of his Dad….or Boomer Eaison because of his Dad, or…. Chris sat and thought. Maybe the guy had a point. He looked up. Why not give it a try? What did he have to lose—except some time, which he could easily fill with any of a half dozen other wanna-be clients from his waiting list. He’d do it, he decided. Let’s see where this guy could go—genetics and drive and all—with one of Chris’ Doc Martin’s up his butt, of course! Chris grinned a little at the image. He turned to Peter.

“O.k., Pete! I’ll take you on! Meet me here tomorrow at 5:30 a.m. sharp! Wear gym shorts and a t shirt—and don’t be late! I’ll see you then!” Standing up, he pumped Peter’s hand, and waved him out of the office.

Here we go, he thought. •

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