He was an incredible sight. Well over seven foot tall, he seemed to fill up the entire room even when completely still. Black hair, green eyes, and a smile that I would need sunglasses to look directly at. His t-shirt was so tight over his broad body that I looked around for the can of Krylon he must have used. That Krylon did good work, highlighting two plateaus of pecs having a sheer drop to an eight pack that looked like it could stop freight trains. A pair of shorts that were fighting a battle to contain quads that looked like they were capable of exploding to twice their size at any moment. He must have been used to the stares, as he patiently waited for me to stop doing just that and come back to the present.

I asked him to sit down and escorted him to an area I had set up with some refreshments. He gently settled his frame down, causing the couch to let out a large groan to handle the weight he rested on it. Slightly embarrassed, he said, “Sorry, occupational hazard” and smiled a bit. He asked if he might have something to drink, and I pointed him to the iced tea I had made and put out on the table. He quickly drained the gallon jug I had out. I sat there, half amazed, half amused. He stifled a belch that, even when stifled, actually caused the couch to visibly shake. Yeah, everything about this guy was larger than life, it seemed.

Knowing that I could stare for hours, but it wouldn’t help my cause at all, I began the conversation. “What brings you to town, Mitchell? I’m sure I would have remembered you if I had seen you around before.” He smiled a bit and said he was passing through on his way to the West Coast. He wanted to enter the bodybuilding world out there and was performing odd jobs along the way in order to get money to continue the journey. While those jobs had usually been some kind of construction or demolition, he said he also did occasional muscle worship scenes ‘as long as it didn’t get too freaky’. He shook his head a bit and said, “Boy, I hope I am big enough to make it in bodybuilding. I really want to do that.” I stifled a snort and composed myself. “I don’t think you will have any trouble with that, Mitchell.”, I said, being the master of understatement. “However”, I continued, grabbing on to something he said, “you mentioned being big enough…exactly how bi…..”

“I’m seven foot two and fluctuate anywhere between 400 and 450, depending on what I ate that day”, he said, much less mechanically than I thought he might, as he had to be asked that multiple times a day. “If you have a scale that can handle me, I can check to see where I am today”, he offered. The scale happened to be one of the thing that Chuck had not destroyed and was rated up to 500 lbs. I offered it to Mitchell. He stood up, and from my seated position, I was practically looking at the top of his quads. This was going to be an interesting day.

As Mitchell walked into the bathroom, I quickly scampered to my computer and messaged Doctor Morgan. “Holy Mother of ***”, I typed in my instant messenger, “Where did you find him?” and hit Enter. I just received a “;+)” in return. I heard Mitchell’s feet return from the scale to the floor so I went back to my original position in the chair, hoping not to look like I had moved. He passively thundered out of the bathroom and announced, “Looks like I’m about 430 today. Must have had a good breakfast” and sat back down on that poor couch, patting his impressive abs. I wondered where that 30 lbs was, because it looked like fat was boycotting his body.

“Oh, before we go any further, I want to tell you I am gay. I know some people in this situation have had a problem with that, so I just wanted to let you know”, he said very matter of factly. I replied. “Why would I have a problem with it? Obviously it hasn’t stopped you from taking your vitamins regularly or learning how to be polite to people.” Another big grin came across his face and he put his massive hand on my shoulder. “I can tell we will get along just fine”, he said. I made a conscious effort not to pull away from that, kind of knowing that Mitchell was also testing boundaries with me, and how responsive to touch or holding I would be.

“So, what are you interested in seeing, or doing?”, he asked me, very business like, but approachable. Taking a deep cleansing breath, I explained to him that I would love to see him posing, flexing, both at a distance and close up. If it wasn’t out of bounds, I would also like to feel how granite-like those muscles were, a point he agreed to without reservation. He said he liked to have his work admired, so that was no problem. I paused for a moment before continuing, trying both to continue with something that I knew I needed to ask but having the ‘fear of Chuck’ hold me back as well as figuring how to approach it. Mitchell saw my pause and grew more interested, leaning in closer. I guessed he was wondering if my next statement would be to ask for some of the aforementioned ‘freaky stuff’ that he warned against. I calmed myself down and continued.

“If possibly Mitchell, I would also like to see how strong you are”, I asked, pausing for a moment. He replied, “Like, what do you mean, lifting stuff, bending stuff, like that?” “Yes”, I replied, “but more specifically lifting…me. Now I don’t know if you want to or even if you can, but I did want to ask, and feel free to say no.” I could see some of the tension release from his body when I finished and a small smile form on his face. “Well, to answer your first question, I would want to…I think it would be cool. As for the second part of your question about whether I can or not…”, he said as he once again rose to his full height, leaving me looking again at quads, “is this what you are looking for”, he asked as he took his two beefy hands and slipped them under my arms and brought me up to look straight at his face. That smile was at full beam now, as was something on me. “Or maybe this”, he said, raising me up effortlessly so his arms were fully extended above his head. Like with Chuck early on, I felt like a ragdoll, as Mitchell was hauling me up with no sign of effort, no sign of strain. “Or maybe you want me to extend my arms out fully and just hold you there”, he said, doing just that.

My head spun. In the course of a minute, I was seven foot two, then probably nine foot tall, and now hanging from two wide arms like they were monkey bars on a playground. I looked at his triceps, straining to break free from the t-shirt. They were a work of art, a big work of art, but a work of art nonetheless. My reverie was broken as we began to move, with Mitchell walking to the wall. I tensed a bit, remembering the slam against the wall Chuck had done. Gently he put me against the wall and maneuvered so only one of his gigantic hands was against my chest, holding me against the wall, but this time without a great deal of pain or pressure. “Or maybe this is what you are talking about?”, he said, and then proceeded to move me along the wall like a paint roller. Finally, he slid me down the wall until my feet touched the ground, at least physically. “Yeah, I think I’m strong enough”, he said, just with the slightest indication of exertion, which I was able to see, as I was looking directly into his pecs. We went to sit down, me feeling very weak in the knees and stumbling twice.

He leaned forward towards me and continued the conversation. “So the doc says you want to do some muscle viewing and muscle worship for therapeutic reasons. I have to admit that is the first time I have ever heard it called that, but what the hell. Why don’t you tell me a little bit more of why you really want this, so we can both see if this is right for us to do.” He stared very earnestly into my eyes, portraying he really wanted to hear my side of the story. I was beginning to like this young man for being all the things that Chuck wasn’t, at least at the end: unassuming, straightforward, and interested in more things than just himself.

But that also posed a problem. If I told him about everything that had happened, I would have one 7’2” 430 lb guy about to call the funny farm to haul me away, or at least try to get out of this house as fast as possible. I didn’t want to lie, either, because then I would have to remember the lie, something I was not good at nor really wanted to do. I decided that being as general as I could would be the best course of action.

I was impressed with myself and the verbal tap dancing I did. I did not lie. I did not exaggerate. I was truthful, but just not wholly revealing. I told him that I was about to experience a muscle worship scene with someone who was 6’9” and about 325 at the time (to which Mitchell muttered, “Puny thing”), but that it had gone horribly, terribly wrong. “What happened”, he asked, a look of concern in his eyes. Oh boy…more tap dancing needed. “Let’s simply say it became obsessive for him, with him caring less and less if I was hurt physically or psychologically, as long as it got him to his goals.”, I explained, prompting a question from Mitchell: “What goals?”. Oh boy…those shoes would be getting quite a workout. An inhale from me. “Basically, he felt that each time he ‘showed off’ to me, he got bigger and stronger, and the rush for him was too great to give up. Eventually no more could be done and I was cast aside. Doctor Morgan has been very good in getting me through the trauma left behind, but thought that trying it again in not such a dangerous situation might help me recover more.”, I said, hurrying to the last part of that explanation so I could bring some closure to this and stop the questions.

It was Mitchell’s turn to be silent now, and I thought I saw some glistening in his eyes, the type that happens when tears form. He blinked them back quickly. For what seemed like an eternity, silence filled the room, Mitchell not saying much, but just opening and closing his hands as if he were kneading dough. Finally, he slapped his knees and stood up. Taking me by surprise, he wrapped his massive hands around my shoulders, applied pressure, and effortlessly hauled me up to his face. Once there and seeing he wasn’t causing me any undue pain, he said, “Well, I guess it is up to this guy to show you that we muscle giants can help you get through pain as well”. With that, he put me down on the chair I was sitting on and walked to the center of the room.

“Let me just take off this shirt and we can begin”, he said, trying to remove the shirt that was clinging oh so tightly to his body. After struggling for a bit, he said, “Ah, the hell with it” and inhaled. That was more than the shirt could take and it split down the front in one big RRRRRIP, with the exception of the collar, which kept the shirt hanging from his neck. “Now for the arms”, he said, flexing a bicep, causing the sleeve of the shirt to explode, leaving nothing but shreds. He repeated that same routine for the other arm, again causing an explosion of fabric. He easily tore the rest of the shirt away, revealing an upper body that, now free of its constraints, expanded almost unchecked. I had wondered how, with only 5 inches on Chuck, Mitchell could be so ripped while being well heavier. Now I saw. Mitchell exemplified the term ‘mass of muscle’ more than anyone I had ever seen, even in photos of Mr. Olympia competitions. If he was going to be entering the bodybuilding scene, he would be the bodybuilding scene, blowing everyone else out of the water.

“Shall we get started”, he asked, immediately going into a double bi. “By all means”, I said. “Then”, he said walking towards me, lifting up myself and the chair so that my face was pressed against his awesome pecs and carrying the chair to the center of the room, “come here and experience your muscle giant.” •