Like any other Saturday night, Carlos was wearing his trademark go-go shorts, gold chain, white socks, black high tops. Roger, on the other hand, had gotten rid – at Carlos’ suggestion – of the baggy jeans, the flannel shirt, and the dorky glasses (which he really only needed for driving at night.) Instead he wore loose-fitting track pants that nonetheless showed off his bulging quads and his big package, plus a form-fitting “wife beater” (“what an awful name!” Roger told Carlos) that highlighted his broad, muscular shoulders, thick arms, and beefy pecs. It didn’t hide the thick, dark rug on Roger’s chest, either, a sight that always got Carlos revved up.

It obviously had the wannabes revved up, too. They kept looking at the hot, muscular couple, one a little taller than the other, the other quite a bit bigger and beefier. The taller one looked like a model from the cover of “Men’s Fitness,” the other something out of the pages of “Flex.”

“Is it my imagination,” Roger asked his bud, “or are they talking about us?”

Carlos snorted.

“Oh, yeah, baby, they’re talking about us all right. They wanna know why we’re not down there on the dance floor with them. Or in the john snorting something. Or trying to join their clique. It’s typical.”

Roger shook his head.

“I could skip any of that but…”

“Maybe it’s time to dance…?”

Carlos was a master. He danced as well as he posed – gracefully, elegantly, exuding a confident masculinity – and he always found the limelight. Roger matched him move for move.

“You’re not going to tell me…”

“That I’ve never danced before?” Roger asked. “Hell, no, I’ve been dancing since I was a kid, Arthur Murray and everything, including jazz and modern in high school and college.”

Carlos’ mouth gaped.

“Hey, it’s just the weights I hadn’t done, remember? I’ve done all the other stuff – tennis, racquetball, volleyball, kayaking, canoeing, dancing, you name it. Just not weights…”

Carlos closed his mouth.

“Well, dude, you’ve definitely caught up in THAT department!”

They danced for an hour solid, never pausing. From time to time the wannabes would move closer in and Carlos or Roger would artfully lead the duo to a new spot where they couldn’t be followed without unfortunate collisions.

Eventually, though, one guy – pretty big and buff for someone who was obviously a tweaker – inserted himself between the two of them. Carlos’ body language was unmistakable, Roger just look puzzled. The tweaker got closer and closer to Carlos, finally reaching out to cop a feel of Carlos’ amazing bubble butt, the kind that’s built by many years of ass-to-the-floor 600 lb. squats.

“Whoaaaa…!” Carlos exclaimed. “Did I…?”

Before he could finish, Roger had the guy – a good 6 ft and 220 lbs. – by the underarms carrying him off the dance floor. Tweaker boy’s feet didn’t touch the floor the whole way. Once there, Roger whispered something into the guy’s ear and made an emphatic gesture. No way Carlos could hear what Roger said, of course, but the expression on the guy’s face needed no explanation.

Then Roger was back at Carlos’ side, the whole episode having lasted significantly less than a minute.

“Uh…” Carlos began.

“Sorry about that,” Roger said. “I don’t know what got into me.”

Carlos looked him up and down.

“I think it was that 400 lb. bench press, dude. And, uh, ya know ya don’t have to take care of ME but thanks anyway, OK?”

Roger had the decency to blush.

+ + +

A week later, Roger was doing lat pull downs again, but his focus was a little off, something Randy picked up on immediately.

“Big plans for the weekend, big man?”

Roger grinned.

“A friend and I are going dancing tonight,” Roger said, shyly.

“So I take it you and Papichulo have got something going?”

Roger began to stutter a response.

“Hey, babe, no biggie deal,” Randy broke in. “He’s a good boy, even if he does have a wild streak. He’ll make someone a good husband someday.”

“Uh, so, uh, you…?”

Randy was stretching, bent at the waist, hands touching the floor, his face nearly there as well.

“Fucking awesome,” Roger thought. “He’s like a 250 lb. cobra!”

Randy bounced back up and gave Roger a smile so wide and bright it could light up the bottom of a well.

“Baby, who do you think taught that chico everything he knows? And I’m NOT just talking about bodybuilding.”

Once again – “will I ever stop?!” – Roger blushed.

“Oh!”

Randy whacked him on the ass.

“Seated rows, next, big boy. Your favorite!”

+ + +

And so it went for the next few months.

Roger would bust his ass in the gym with Randy every day. Every Saturday night it was out to Oz (or one of the other clubs, just for variety’s sake), then back to Roger’s place (sometimes to Carlos’ pad if they were too horny to wait out the drive to Piney Point) for hot hot man sex.

A month after he met Carlos at Zen, Roger beat Carlos’ one rep max by benching 480 lbs. – 25 lbs. more than Carlos had ever done. Carlos was more than a little flustered, especially since he still had 30 lbs. on Roger’s 210 lbs. of diamond hard muscle.

“Yeah, that’s damned impressive, bro,” Carlos muttered.

“Are you kidding?” Randy cut in. “That’s fucking phenomenal. Significantly more than twice your bodyweight, Roger. Yer awesome, baby.”

After that session Carlos had to adjust his schedule to train a new client at a different gym. He still saw plenty of Randy and Roger, just not on the days Roger was doing chest, which had always been Carlos’ best, strongest body part.

He wasn’t there the day Roger beat Randy’s one rep max. At 220 lbs., Roger was competition solid. His waist was still no more than 30 inches but his quads had caught up to his waist size, his chest was up to 54 inches, and his biceps stretched the tape to 20 inches on the nose.

“I’m feeling great, Randy, I think I can do this.”

“Go for it, kiddo. You know you’re unstoppable."

560 lbs., clean as a whistle.

“Fuck yeah!” Roger exclaimed.

He leaped from the bench, paced the floor like a caged tiger, flexing his engorged pecs and rippling biceps.

His pecs weren’t the only thing engorged.

“Uh, Roger, maybe you need to take a little break?”

Roger excused himself and headed to the locker room. Ten minutes later he was back, a lot calmer and not nearly as, well, obvious.

“Unstoppable in more ways than one,” Randy thought to himself.

+ + +

That night Randy sat on his leather sofa, his 11-inch python out of his loose sweatpants and hard as a steel rod.

He was drinking single malt Scotch watching porn on his big screen, flat panel monitor – muscle porn, that is. Pump room action – courtesy of Repetrope – from last year’s Tri State competition, the one that earned Carlos his invitation to the Junior Nationals. He watched the clips of Carlos pumping up, endless reps of biceps curls with 60 lb. dumbbells, stopping now and then to flex, making love to his fucking huge arm.

Randy was drifting off, his eyes blinking slowly. Even with his eyes closed, he saw Carlos’ beautiful body.

He’d open his eyes and watch that pose again.

His eyes would close and he’d see Carlos’ famous vacuum abs pose.

There he was doing a side chest shot.

There was Roger making love to his huge fucking arm…

Randy eyes flew open.

“Uh oh…” •