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|�What am I going to do, Randy?�
Three weeks in a row Roger�s Saturday night foray to Zen with Carlos Trujillo, his dance partner and fuck buddy, had turned into disaster.
The weekend after the shots, Carlos had already been tanking up by the time Roger picked him up. They weren�t at Zen for half an hour before Carlos pointedly announced that he was going home � by himself � in a cab.
Last night they never made it in the door; this time Carlos hadn�t been drinking but he was totally fucking pissed off about God knew what, so much so they he got into a shouting match with the bouncer who barred Carlos from the club for the evening. Roger tried persuading him to go get a cocktail at a mellow lounge he knew but Carlos was having none of it. After dropping Carlos at his pad in Miraflores, Roger headed back to Zen and danced his ass off.
Three weeks in a row Roger was on the cover of �Velvet,� the local gay rag.
�I dunno,� said Randy Washington, the personal trainer who had presided over Roger�s phenomenal growth from out of shape skinny geek to competition-ready bodybuilder during the previous eight months.
�Maybe he�s feeling insecure��
�Insecure?! Fuck, Randy, the man�s a fucking god among men. What�s he got to feel insecure about?!�
�God among men?!� he thought. �This boy has got it BAD and that ain�t good.�
�Well, ya know, son, you�ve been getting an awful lot of attention lately. Carlos isn�t used to sharing the limelight, hon.�
Roger shook his head.
�Well, if he were fucking THERE he�d have all the limelight he wanted.�
He sighed, then twisted his rock solid 20 inch neck, shrugged his impossibly broad shoulders.
�Hey,� Randy said. �At least it hasn�t affected your workouts.�
Indeed, that was the case. If anything, Roger dealt with the tension by hitting the gym even harder than ever, something Randy hadn�t really thought possible.
�Well, ya know, I�m not gone let this hold me back,� Roger pointed out, as he readied himself on the flat bench. �It�s like I�ve said before. I�m��
+ + +
A week later:
�Fuck man,� Randy growled. �I can�t believe you just did that.�
From the look on his face, it seemed Roger couldn�t really believe it either.
But the fact was he HAD done it and everyone in the gym was cheering and hooting and hollering as a result.
�720 lbs.,� Roger bellowed. �You fucking benched 720 lbs., you big dope!�
�That�s fucking THREE times your bodyweight. Why the fuck aren�t you competing, man?�
Roger scanned the crowd. He had hoped�
�No, babe, Carlos isn�t here this afternoon.�
�But I am.�
It was Louie Feldman, the short, balding photographer from �Velvet.�
�Congrats on your big lift, big man,� Louie said. �That�s totally fucking awesome.�
Roger squeezed Louie up in a big bear hug and twirled him around, light as a feather. Not an unimpressive feat itself: At 5-11 Roger was 5 inches taller than Louie but Louie � who never got over growing up on his Italian mama�s pasta sauce � outweighed him a good 40 lbs.
�Oh, Christ, man, now look what you�ve done,� Louie said when his feet were once again firmly planted on the ground. The bulge in Louie�s baggy sweat pants was plain to see.
�Don�t sweat it, Lou,� Randy said, �happens all the time around here, especially when this big fuck is working out!�
Roger � what else? � blushed, once again betrayed by his melanin-deficient Anglo / Scots Irish ancestors.
�So, amigos,� Louie continued, �how about getting� out the old measuring tape, eh? That spread of you and Carlos going at it was a hit and my editor � his divaness! � is bugging me for more!�
Roger glanced shyly at Randy.
�Would you mind?�
�My pleasure, big man, but only if you do me, too!�
And so they did, Randy starting with Roger.
At 5�11 and 240 lbs., Roger now boasted a 57 inch chest, 33 inch quads, and (even though it had grown a bit to support all his new bulk) an improbably tiny 31 inch waist. Plus 22 inch biceps.
�Fuck man,� Randy said, �You�ve almost caught up to me!�
�I think not, crazy man! You�re a fucking god and you know it.�
In the previous eight months Roger had gained an incredible amount of mass, 80 lbs. of totally solid muscle, his weight increasing a staggering 50% in that short amount of time. Originally Randy had put it down to the fact that Roger was a beginner and beginners, especially naturally athletic ones like Roger, often put on muscle fast. But never fucking 80 lbs.!
Randy had been growing, too, although not at Roger's insane pace. He now carried 260 lbs. of totally ripped beef on his 5-8 frame, an increase of 15 lbs. in the eight months he�d been training Roger.
Roger called out Randy�s measurements, starting from the bottom:
�Calves: 20 inches.�
�Quads: 31 inches.�
�Waist: 31 inches.
�Chest: fucking 59 inches!�
�Biceps: 22 � inches.�
Louie caught it all, the boner in his sweats never subsiding. �I don�t need to bother with Zen tonight,� he thought to himself. �These guys have got it going on.�
+ + +
That night Roger was relieved to find Carlos sober and reasonably personable when he picked him up for their weekly visit to Zen. He even made nice with Phil, the bouncer he�d pissed off the previous weekend. A quick drink for each of them and they were on the dance floor in the limelight, watching the wannabes, just like old times.
The trouble started when Jason showed up. A sexy little thing, about Carlos� height (5-9) but seemingly little more than half the size of Carlos� massive pumped bod. Like half a dozen other guys the previous weekend (when Carlos was barred from Zen), Jason had shared a dance and a drink with Roger, who figured it was time to loosen up a bit and spend some time with the wannabes. Most of them, sad to say, were total fucking airheads but Jason was as smart and talented and charming as he was cute.
Roger introduced Jason to Carlos (�I�ve been an admirer of yours for a LONG time!� Jaosn gushed) and said, �Sure, that�ud be great� when Jason asked if he could dance with the two big men. Carlos seemed to be getting into it, wrapping his python arms around Jason�s tiny waist, grinding his bulging crotch against Jason�s jeans-clad creamy white ass. Roger backed up to Jason, his fucking humongous back looming over Jason like a mountain range. Jason reached out to wrap his hands around Roger�s insanely small waist and�
�Get yer fucking hands OFF of him!�
Roger and Jason both whipped around.
Carlos was standing stock still, his hands clenched, breathing like a bull about to charge.
�Uh, sorry, dude, uh,� Jason stuttered, �I didn�t, uh, know��
Roger put a big paw on Jason�s shoulder.
�Carlos, what the fuck?�
�I said �get yer fucking hands OFF him,�� Carlos bellowed again, inserting his big body between Roger and Jason.
�Whoa whoa whoa!� Roger exclaimed.
He grabbed Carlos beneath the arms and literally ran him off the dance floor to the patio. Carlos� feet never touched the ground.
�You dumb fuck!� Carlos said when he was on the ground again. �Are you fucking trying to humiliate me?!�
He swung a big fist at Roger, a fist that Roger caught with his own huge hand, completely immobilizing Carlos�. Carlos tried swinging from the other side, with the same result.
There they stood, toe to toe, eye to eye.
�Are you gonna stop this nonsense?� Roger asked.
Carlos glared back at him, struggling against Roger�s (suddently apparent) superior strength.
�Not on your fucking life.�
�I�m not letting go until you relax,� Roger said.
�Relax THIS, motherfucker,� Carlos said, struggling more.
Roger tensed, flexed, SQUEEZED. Carlos sagged a bit but still he struggled.
Roger SQUEEZED more. Carlos went down on one knee, then the other.
�You weren�t at the gym yesterday,� Roger told Carlos. �You didn�t see how much I benched.�
�You finally passed Randy, that big fag?� Carlos growled. �Big whup.�
�I passed Randy two months ago, boy. Yesterday I benched 720 lbs.�
Carlos stopped struggling.
�That�s half again what you bench, isn�t it?�
Carlos� head drooped. Roger let go of his fists.
�When you�re ready to get over this crap, give me a call.�
He turned an headed for the door, the crowd that had gathered around (unnoticed by either of the two big men) parting like the Red Sea for Moses.
Roger kept going.
He was unstoppable.
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