"Nice," I thought, admiring the his height, a little more than mine I guessed, and leanness. He was doing triceps pushdowns. "Yes, very nice." They weren't as large as mine, not surprisingly, but they were lean and well-defined.

I had just finished doing shoulders and lats and I looked *w*i*d*e*. At 5'10 1/2 and 190 lbs., there is still a lot of work I need to do but that day I was well aware that there were few people in the gym my height who were as wide as I was. He noticed.

"And he's Asian, too," I thought. "Yummy! Don't see too many here in Midtown Atlanta."

I started piling the plates on the leg press machine, six 45 lb. weights on each end. Total: 540 lbs. In the mirror, I saw his eyes widen, so his grip on the triceps bar slip slightly. He was impressed, I could tell.

I cranked out ten solid reps, sweating and grunting by the time they were done. I looked up and saw that he had moved to the leg curl machine--directly behind my station.

"Not exactly a logical transition," I thought, "unless there is a different motivating factor at play..."

I smiled as I walked past on my way to the water fountain, then stopped to say "hi" on the way back.

"My productivity just ain't what it ought to be on Monday morning," I offered by way of introduction.

He gave me a startled glance. "Jesus, I'd hate to see you on Friday," he said, nodding toward the leg press machine. "That much weight would get *my* attention on a Monday morning."

I laughed.

"Well, yes," I agreed. "It is a bit much. I neglected my legs for years and now I'm really into it. Working legs really turns me on these days."

He gurgled slightly, not quite sure whether to respond...

I finished the leg presses and he finished his leg curls.

"Want to do some trap work?" I asked.

He looked at me skeptically.

"Well, I doubt I could handle the same poundages you use," he began, tentatively.

"No, that's where you're wrong. I don't go really heavy like I do on legs and, besides, I've already done shoulders. I'm going to do curls and upright rows."

We did three sets of each, he doing about 20 lbs. less than I on each exercise.

"See what I mean?" I asked after the first set. I could tell he was pleased.

When we finished we headed toward the locker room, I shrugging my massive shoulders.

"Dammit all," I said, "these traps are sore as hell. I guess I really bombed them."

He grinned. "Then you've picked the perfect workout partner," he said. "I am *very* good at massage."

"Great!" I replied. "Then maybe you can massage them before we hit the showers?"

We stood in front of the mirror. I crossed my arms across my waist and removed the t-shirt in one fluid motion. I heard his slight intake of breath.

Slowly, firmly he massaged my traps. I leaned my head back so that my neck became even more bull-like, my well-defined traps nearly mountainous.

"Shit, man, these are hard as rocks," he said.

I murmured. "You're doing fine. It feels wonderful."

He was standing so close that when his member began to engorge I could feel it through his sweatpants and my shorts. As he continued to work it grew harder and harder, having a similar effect on my own brawny organ.

Finally, I turned to face him. He dropped his hands to his hips. I dropped my shorts on the floor, then reached my calloused hands (can't find lifting gloves I like) to his face, which I pulled down to mine, giving his soft, moist mouth my best thermonuclear kiss...

"Yo, Mike," I said, as he walked by my station.

"Yes, Richard By-the-Way?" he replied, teasing me again about my habit of saying "I'm Richard, by the way," when introducing myself to new folks at the gym.

"Would you do me a favor and spot me on this set? I haven't bench this much before..."

"Why certainly," he nodded.

I was doing 225 lbs., which isn't that much but it's still more than I had ever done previously.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked. Mike had been paying attention to me since I joined the gym in July. I was pleased that he knew it was more than I had ever done before.

I looked up at him and smiled.

And smiled. And smiled.

I mean, Christamighty damn! Is there anything nicer than looking up at a 6'3, 195 lb. hunk, all muscle, salt and pepper crew cut and an absolutely gorgeous mustche? With your head six inches from his crotch? Ummmm....

"Uh, Richard, are you ready?"

"Oh, yeah, here we go."

He lifted off and I took it slow. One, two, three, four, breathing in and out, pausing slightly after four, five, six, seven.

My arms were beginning to tremble and he moved closer, ready to grab it. I could feel his crotch leaning against my head!

Eight, nine.

"I didn't think you could do this much," I heard him murmur.

TEN!

"Wait!" I grunted as he reached for the bar.

Eleven, twelve.

I was groaning by that point.

I dropped the weight back and he caught it, lowering it to the stand.

I sat up, feeling dizzy, feeling pumped.

"Richard!" he said. "I don't believe you did that. How much more than you usually do...?"

"Oh, I don't know," I gasped. "Maybe 40 lbs....?"

"You're really getting into this, aren't you?" he asked.

I grinned.

"All it takes is the proper motivation..." I answered.

"Such as...?"

I grinned wider. "Well, having your crotch against my head, for one thing..."

He tweaked my tit.

"See you in the shower...?"

"Always prepared," I nodded. •