I especially lose it – in more ways than one – when they wear nothing more than little tight high cut shorts or, even better, a posing strap and a full pouch showing off their cock and balls. This tease, this evasiveness, this coyness of having their massive and cut bodies just barely covered, makes me cum, often without even touching myself. God, they are into their muscle masculinity. They love it. They love to see others lust and get hard over their massive, perfected and very sexual bodies. I often wonder how many of them have a big orgasm into their jocks, or their little pieces of worn cloth, or whatever, while they workout, pump and flex.

Of course, I see more of this in Internet pictures, Yahoo groups, DVDs, videos, and some movies. Once and a while, here at the gym, the top muscle gods practice their posing in front of other adoring, lusting eyes. They are so proud as they unleash their muscular marvels.

I've only been to a couple of local bodybuilding shows. And then, only been in the general audience…looking and lusting from a far at these built hard and hard built paragons of muscle. Torture. I know these guys on stage get off on their incredible bodies, their flexing, and the testosterone pumping show.

I can also tell there are a hell of lot of guys here at the gym who get off on the other muscle monsters, too. This "checking each other out" and "encouragement by the spotter/buddy" is one hell of excuse to feast your eyes on growing, hard, hot muscle. All this can be accompanied by some awesome eye candy of tightly stuffed cock and ball arrangements. The bulging pouch, stretched workout gear, or some other absolutely killer, masculine, and sexually arousing piece of loose cloth. It makes no difference. It's the hidden sexual mystery on beautiful physique of massively sculpted muscle.

God knows I try very hard to hide my glances, especially at their big crotches and meat hanging down the inside a leg. Other guys don't seem to care if they are seen staring. Or, they aren't very good at hiding it. It's all such a tortuous tease. And these posers know it, love it, and get off turning each other on with their muscle and performing sexual hypnosis of the rest of us. All of this, and the message is also "keep your distance". That unspoken rule just feeds my longing and passion for them. In this gym, anyways, the testosterone level is always high and nobody gives a shit about it as long as you don't do anything to embarrass the other guy or seriously interrupt his workout.

You, Mr. Muscle God. It doesn't matter that you're groaning, pumping and flexing while you work your massive body into one big hard cock itself. It doesn't matter that it sounds like bulls rutting. It doesn't matter that you ask for a spot and then linger after the workout to ask some guy's opinion or offer your own – and keep that up while staring at your results or his. It doesn't matter that you choose the smallest wife-beater shirt you can squeeze into so your tits and nips hang out. Or, choose workout shorts that squeeze your balls and cock into a bulge struggling not to get squashed between your mammoth and cut thighs.

It doesn't matter that you strip down to next to nothing – in a tiny posing strap and straining pouch -- late at night. This is to make sure you know how to totally turn on audiences watching while you turn yourself into erotic poses of undulating, massive and cut meat, awesome masculine power, and male sex on two enormous legs. It's about a total body hard-on for the slow and exquisite torture of other muscle worshippers. You also do it for yourself, your own lust for muscle. You know it matters to guys like me – big time. It's why I'm here. And, it's why you are here too – but you just won't say it.

That's just the start of my amazing story – a fantasy fulfilled that I thought was just silly and stupid to think would ever happen in real life.

Jim, the manager of the gym, for whatever reason, decided to train me a little bit and encourage me from time to time. Jim is a very big and still well built guy, even though he's probably 55 or so – clearly a former bodybuilder himself. I'm certainly not anything special –pretty much an average middle-aged guy. My build is solid, but hardly built. I am a good-looking guy with an easy way with people, however. I train hard. I guess that's what Jim seems to like.

I know he appreciates that I apply every lifting and training technique he suggests. I've been here now for six months and I see some growth in my muscles and my weight is where it should be. While Jim may be someone easy to connect with, most of the guys in the gym keep to their own – unless they are with a training buddy or a long-time friend. Of course, the really sensual and sexy competitive bodybuilders – the guys I lust over – stick to their own kind, period.

One day Jim came up to me and told me to come back to his office for a moment. I got to watch his big ass and back as I followed him in. Unfortunately, he's always in loose sweats. He went right to the point and asked me if I would be interested in being a volunteer at the upcoming NPC nationals here in a month. I tried not to look too excited but I didn't succeed. He grinned, gave me the pass, and said, "I guess that's a yes". I had the presence of mind to ask him a few questions. I found out that volunteers from gyms could do a number of things, including work in the pump room. My mind went on overdrive as I imagined what it might be like with all these near naked guys with gorgeous muscles and a cock and ball display – barely hidden or in "transition" from their street clothes to posing pouches.

I stammered a sincere "thank-you" and he said, "I thought you might like this". I think I saw a glimmer of understanding in his blue eyes. Shit, I didn't care at that point. He gave me the instructions on how to register as a volunteer. I didn't waste anytime.

God, if my fantasies had been overwhelming before – they were insignificant to what I started to obsess about for four weeks. Just more torture. I wondered who in our gym was going to compete and whether I could keep my cool around their muscles, pumping, thongs, and posing in the pump room. I worried about being too friendly and coming on even a little bit, and getting my ass kicked out. I wondered if I was going to be asked to do the holy of holies, and oil up the rigid muscles of one of these muscle-gods. Could I control myself if one of them let me do the inside of his thigh? Oil his armpit – or would he do that himself? Oil up his bare glutes being very slow and careful not to get the oil on the cloth strip struggling to bridge his butt crack? Or, touch the bit of cloth straining down around the graceful muscled curve of his low waist, avoiding a very sexy package?

Just for the hell of it, I went to Repetrope and used my membership to get the pix of last year's placers in most all the categories. I get especially turned on with the super heavyweights, heavyweights, and light heavyweights. Though sometimes, the lighter guys can have the most amazing posing outfits that accentuate their full-size cock and balls – bulging out from their relatively smaller yet beautifully sculpted and muscled bodies. God, if just 50% of these gods were back again and in even better shape, I'd be nuts with muscle, pouch, and basket lust.

I worked out like a fiend and dieted for these four weeks, too. I wanted to look as good as I possibly could. I wanted to make sure I looked as appealing as possible in case I made some connection with a competitor. Unlikely, yet I decided to hold out hope and not be disappointed if everyone just kept a normal distance. Besides, I knew most of these guys would have their army of support – be it from girls, buddies or families. Strangers like me would probably not be welcomed other than in the most unappealing tasks. Shit, I didn't even know how I would get assigned to the pump room. I sure as hell didn't want to be playing guard or something like that. Just looking at these gorgeous masculine guys with all their clothes on. Bulges and spectacular muscles, mostly hidden for a few more moments of modest eye-candy, just wouldn't do.

I was asked to be at the civic center auditorium on a Friday morning for assignments. Some big guys were around, but it was too early for any competitors. I was early, of course. And after standing in line for an hour, a woman read me the list of assignments still open. I couldn't believe it when she said the pump room. I kept my calm and told her the pump room "would be fine". She said someone else would explain the rules a little later. I left with my pump room pass, flying on cloud nine.

Wow, they installed a gym with all kinds of weight equipment for these guys. The shower was just down the hall. Even at noon the security was high. I had to show my pass a hundred times before I walked in the door of the pump room. No competitors that I could see, yet. Just a big burly guy that didn't look very friendly. He was in charge and asked me a bunch of questions and looked at my pass. I think he was trying to decide if I bordered on the weird side or not. If I ever needed to make myself look normal, I certainly did then. I made sure he understood I was in for the duration of the contest and "representing" my gym. He seemed to like that.

There were all sorts of blunt instructions about what to do, what not to do, and things that would get me thrown out. I couldn't believe how direct he was. I was shown all the supplies and locations of the changing rooms and showers. My fantasies were in overdrive once again – in the pump room, in the showers, in the secured hallway, in the locker room. It was a dream come true. Now, all I had to do was just control myself. No easy task, especially with hard-on that wouldn't stop -- even now, and no musclemen were even around. I started to ache down there already.

I was in the pump room just trying to keep myself occupied when the first competitor and his girl friend showed up. They dropped off his gear and he went to the locker room and changed into his workout gear. He looked like a lightweight – but wide as hell – and so fucking narrow at the waist. A few others started to come in to get ready for the pre-judging that afternoon and evening. Most had their entourage. A few guys seemed alone. I wasn't asked to do much, except hand them a towel or something. I got concerned about how I was going to stay focused on my job, not on them. Thank god I wore tight underwear and loose pants.

One guy, a bigger guy than the others, came in already wearing a very brief light blue bikini-type posing brief. On top was the classic tee-shirt with sleeves cut out and a scissor cut down the center of his huge chest from the neckline. God, he looked fabulous. I couldn't believe how he just reeked of sexual power. His neck looked like a thick cabled throbbing column. His biceps were already huge and cut without even being pumped. He reminded me of Matarazzo, sweaty and pumped almost out of his clothes. His legs were immense and, literally, were pushing his package way out – enough so that I could see that he was cut and big, even while soft. Shit. I had to look away when he went to the bench press and straddled the bench with his bulging basket staring me in the face 10 feet away. My hard-on just got harder and I thought about going to the john. I decided I'd rather stay.

From here on the show just got better and better and I had more energy throbbing through me than I had ever imagined. It took everything I had to stay cool and just do what I was told to do. Before long the place was taken over by incredibly built musclemen, each with their own posing suit – most very brief – some really did look more like strings and pouches. I was stunned at how some of these guys looked like they were stiff or at least partially stiff and kept right on pumping and flexing. There wasn't a lot of conversation, just a lot of pumping, flexing, and very close self- examination. Then the oiling started big time. Some wanted to use hands, others a spray.

I was asked to help a couple of guys that seemed to be on their own. For each one, even thru the rubber gloves, I carefully walked the line of applying the dark oil in a smooth and even touch – not too fast and not too slow – and carefully feeling the muscle tissue. It was a mind-blower to feel their solid muscles – all over their bodies – even when they weren't yet fully pumped. There was one guy whose cock and balls were so big, compared to his pouch, that I could barely concentrate. He looked uncut, however. I think he might have known his effect on me. How could he not? He was clearly displaying all his muscle and sex to get himself (and probably others) psyched up. He's no dummy. He even asked me what I thought and I was very effusive without being gushing. Told him he looked as big as Ruhl, only with more cuts. He gave me a big grin and said thanks for the help, as he strutted off in his big thick glutes to the temporary chin-up bar.

I was in seventh heaven all afternoon as the preliminaries for all classes were held. I was proving to myself and to these gods of muscle and masculinity that I learned quickly and did good job oiling, especially when the oil was light colored, as opposed to real dark oil, which was a bitch.

It was a little later in the afternoon when I was stealing a glance to the door and this very handsome monster walked in – evidently all by himself. Shit, I had no idea these guys were really that big in person! They certainly weren't in my gym.

I watched him pause at the door and the already sizzling masculine energy in the room jumped up big time. So did my dick. Some heads turned quickly, others more slowly. It looked like a few guys tried to pretend he didn't even come in. I recognized his very dark and masculine features from last year's Repetrope shots, but couldn't remember his name.

As he slowly and very purposely started taking a few steps, most everyone went back to whatever they were doing. I was one of them that didn't. I felt frozen to the floor. He was 30 feet from me but it felt like we were breathing on each other's neck. My heart was beating so fast it felt like I had drums in my head. I was very afraid that I had given myself away at the wrong time to the wrong guy. Oh, shit.

He was about 6'2" – as tall as Gunter (my idol and main man). I knew he was a super-heavyweight in an instant but couldn't guess his weight. He had a very confident smirky smile on his face. And god, what a handsome face. Dark hair, medium length on top, short on the sides. His jacket was already off. Like so many others, he wore a skimpy worn wife-beater tee shirt. But he sure as hell didn't look like many others. His sweats were tighter than I've seen on most guys. His legs seemed to stretch the fabric with each step. It was evident that he had a very good tan.

He seemed to be keeping his arms in that relaxed pose guys are supposed to keep on the stage. His right arm, however, was bulging noticeably from carrying his gear bag. I get very hot over big forearms and he had them corded and cut without even flexing them. I couldn't believe the width in his shoulders. Jeez, delts as big and as cut as arms? The little straps bridged the chasm between his traps and jutting pecs. His aureoles were unusually big and round. The thin shoulder straps were pushed in towards his cleavage. I saw Dennis James in one of his signature most muscular poses, arms circled in front with his knuckles touching, wearing that red poser of his. All this was happening in seconds.

After setting his gear bag down on a chair, he started pulling off his shoes while standing up. His body was truly spectacular muscle in motion. Like I've heard said, it looked like he had thick eels squirming all over his shoulders and back. His biceps were just barely flexed but I could tell he had more hard muscle than most guys. As he slipped on some floppies, his gorgeous butt looked like it was going explode thru the back of his sweats.

As he untied the drawstring, I saw him do a quick glance back in my direction. I wasn't sure. My cock jolted anyways. The sweatpants didn't have enough freedom to drop by themselves. He had to pull them down over his beautiful ass and then bend over to push them down over his huge thighs. I really thought this was a dream. Even though he was concentrating on getting the sweats off, I had this strong sense that he had me in his mind's eye – and, probably, anybody else that wanted to feast their eyes on a hyper-masculine alpha male. Fuck, Superman was in front of me. And, thank god, without that form-fitting suit that hides true muscular beauty.

In seconds, it was clear he was in a very small posing suit. Yet, or for a moment, it looked like he had nothing on until he turned a bit towards me. I saw the most sensuous bulging package of balls and cock I had ever seen. The strap and pouch were a bright green. I was dying a slow and wonderful death. It was like there was a wrestling match between his equipment and the restraining fabric. The fabric was losing. And was muscle in the flesh. No morph here.

This man was a beautiful specimen of manhood, a very powerful monster who going to win the overall this weekend. He knew it. And he knew a lot of us knew it, too. The competition was well underway and I was right in the middle ready to serve and worship if there was any possibility of either or both. Is this what he is going to actually wear on stage? Well, if anyone has the total package for those rights, he certainly does.

He reached down to the bottom of his so-called tee shirt and began pulling himself up and out of these strips of cloth, one huge arm at a time. It was like he was posing. He was slow, graceful, and very intentional. Guys were watching, again. It really was like he was doing a muscleman strip tease without anybody, himself included, calling it that. He knew exactly what he was accomplishing. Very intimidating. It is truly a feat of years of workout discipline and commitment to carry the hard muscle bulk he had – and to be so cut, as well. Very dominating. Very sexual.

My mind flashed on what he must look like in workouts to get to this peak of muscular glory and perfection. Muscles engorged to the max. Sweat dripping from his head and all over his vast body. Dirty and sweaty shorts and tiny tops barely cover his gleaming skin. His hair wet and in his face. Intense concentration and inhuman power lift the ez-curl bar. A chest with two bowls of striated muscle and a tit on each side pushing the ripped shirt straps forward even more. His workout shorts, already two sizes too small, bunched at the top of his thick and cabled thighs. His jock pouch creates a large bulge right between those two monsters. And the oval-like bulge is relentlessly pushing out the seam of his shorts, not willing to be held back in the moist darkness. Heavy- duty workout pictures of Gustavo and Gunter flash through my mind, the camera pointing into their tight crotches as it captures the seated curl.

I "came back" just in time to hear him hollar, "Hey, you!" I turned my head toward him and he was looking right at me. I don't usually feel faint over anything. But this was different. A passionate muscle-worshipper like me is like a deer in the headlights at these moments. Stunned. Confused. Scared. I was all of that with bolts of orgasmic lightening going through my body. Reason is gone. It's only my turned-on body and cock responding.

I heard my body said "Sir?". "Come over here and help me out. I need a spotter to get pumped up with some warm-ups. Do you know how to oil?" He definitely deserved my "Sir." "Yes, sir. I've been helping oil all afternoon." "Good. Now spot me at the bench press." I knew he really didn't need a spotter, especially one like me. I did have the common sense to know, however, that he wanted to be worshipped and turn someone on. That I could definitely help him with.

This nearly naked mountain of muscle – carrying a bumpy and bulging pouch – walked past me slowly. I found out later that he was "testing his intuition" about me. I quickly figured out why he didn't pump-up in his workout gear. He didn't need to. He wanted to win the contest right now. Accordingly, he was extremely proud to flaunt his god-like looks and his man equipment. No shyness or even hidden agendas with my new muscleman.

He put out his big hand and said "I'm Paul. Who are you?" "My name is Scott. Glad to help you out". I barely said that with a straight face. I was not going to take any chances. "What do you lift?" I was embarrassed to tell him the puny weights I use, and could hardly get even that out of my mouth. I was also very distracted by his spectacular pouch in between those unbelievable thighs. He caught my involuntary very fast eye-checks down there.

I moved behind the bench and the bar. I couldn't take my eyes off his body as his muscles moved him so gracefully and powerfully onto the bench. God, what a sight! Huge strips of leg meat composing his thighs. A straining, crammed pouch pushing up and out above his lower waist. A set of three blocks on either side of his navel, each a little different in form. And a chest of striated thick pec meat that truly thrust itself up demanding close and full inspection. I also remembered seeing an incredible side chest shot of Dorian in his prime. A real jaw-dropper.

After watching his awesome arms and chest grow with each rep, I moved my eyes to his big package. I couldn't stay there long or I'd miss helping him – not that he really needed help. "Good enough. I usually don't need a spotter, but I don't want to take any chances today. I need one hell of a pump-on to do justice to this contest ready body of mine. What dya' think?"

As he stood-up, standing within two feet of me – on the same side of the bench, he did a classic double-bi. I said something like, "I don't see anybody else that can come close to you. You are the biggest and the most cut guy I've ever seen." I blushed and he muttered some "yeahs" and kept on examining his pulsing arms beef. "Shit, if I did a power lifting competition, I'd blow those muscle heads out of the water too," he stated with confident conviction.

I guess everybody decided I was "his" for the next half hour. So did I. And so did Paul. Nobody hollered at me to come help them. I was in muscle heaven watching Paul pump and engorge his already perfect body right in front of my eyes. I kept taking plenty of chances watching his pouch strain as it tried to contain his cock and balls. Anybody else would have considered his show almost obscene. It was clear from the glances over our direction, however, that a lot of guys knew he was a feast of male muscular perfection for some very hungry eyes – and hands – I am sure.

We moved to a couple of other free weights. I couldn't see that he needed me to help but he said "Hang in there with me, sport". I tried to find ways to encourage him and "guard his muscles" close in without touching these growing rocks. If I had touched him most anywhere, it would have felt like touching a gigantic six-foot hard cock. His whole body seemed like one big throbbing hard-on, especially when he flexed and then flexed again. He sweated and I held the towel and he mopped all over his body, frequently. He was not only a walking muscle machine; he was a walking, pumping sex engine, fueled by testosterone. Gotta take that towel home with me somehow.

One time, I damn near shit a brick when he adjusted his pouch right in front of me by grabbing it at the top in front with both hands and pulling it up and out. He did a wiggle to fit his cock and balls more comfortably. The word "wiggle" doesn't do justice to his effect on me – or on himself. He murmured, "It'd be easier to work- out naked but that isn't allowed, yet". He grinned slyly at me. I really felt like grinning back but was still cautious. I remained silent, yet very grateful for this visual feast of hard pumped muscle power, glowing sweat, and a straining basket that made him truly be the god that he knew he was.

I followed him over to the corner and chair where he had his workout bag. "Okay, Scott. I don't have anyone to oil me up so you're it. Think you can handle this?" I had a couple of jokes I could have made about what he meant by "this". I decided to limit myself to a confident, "Sure".

God this guy is so big next to me and I felt so small. I could feel the warmth of his body heat from his all-over pump. He was one hell of bodybuilder – massive muscular perfection -- built with mass and cuts that I have never even been close to. His back really got me going. Even without a flex, just a pump, those big muscles were carved with gorges stretching from his huge neck, across some incredibly broad shoulders, and down to the top of his butt crack – where the little green strap disappeared.

"I'm already dark, so I use a light oil for sheen, not for color. That means we don't need to worry about even color coverage – unlike a lot of these guys around here. I'll show you. Watch so you can do this right." I hardly needed encouragement. And, it was beyond me why he didn't have an entourage with him. Maybe what he really wanted was somebody, somebody just like me.

He put his unbelievably gigantic right leg up on the chair and squeezed some oil into his palm and rubbed them together lightly. That was like a slow act of sex to me. He slowly moved his hands up down his hard, tear-dropped, and cabled thigh. Even his very large hands looked small on top of this steer's leg. After squeezing some more into his palm, he moved down his calf, which was easily the size of a many musclemen's biceps. "Got the idea?" I nodded up and down, scared to death I was being discovered for my muscle-worship passion even more.

"Here, you work on this leg and do it just like I did here," he said with an invitation in his voice. He switched legs and I was shaking. "You okay? Hey, look, I know all my muscle is pretty intimidating. It's supposed to be. That's the way I win contests. So, don't worry about it." I was so grateful he said that to me. I relaxed a little and got focused on his other thigh as he shook it and flexed it. I stopped in my tracks as the whole leg swayed and then froze in a sculpture of muscular detail. It defied anything I'd ever seen, or touched.

I shit another brick when he moved his glistening big bag aside to make sure I got up all the way into his inner thigh. I didn't want to meet his eyes. Yet, I glanced around and other muscleman was doing something like this – with other muscles – some with help – some alone. So, I stopped feeling so self-conscious. Paul just seemed very matter of fact, very focused, and full of swagger. I desperately wanted him to be very happy with me, and how I was helping him officially win the title.

"Alright, we're doing this a little in reverse here, but you're doing great. Let's get to work on my back." Circling him was a visual feast. Then I was stunned at the hardness my hands were feeling at the top of his back near his neck – the softness at the same time. I tried to move my hands over his bulging back muscles at a speed that would not disclose how deeply affected I was by touching him. I had to do this and still apply the oil right. Not an easy task for a novice in-person hands-on muscle-worshipper. Fuck, I also wondered why I was so damn worried. He had my number and seemed to like it.

He lifted his huge arms each time I came around to do the back and side of his turkey-sized lats and get into his shaved pits. He had almost no stubble, just smooth, cut and hard muscle. The tendons were as tight as steel wire. I was so hard. I ached, bad. He gave me a back lat spread as I moved down the center of his back to check my work. It looked like he was unfolding a muscle card table just for me. He kept expanding them with each intake. And with each intake he thrust his elbows out and forward even more.

"Now make sure and get the back of these legs". Well, I had to do his glutes first and that terrified me and excited me at the same time. He didn't flex. They were already hard and his skin seemed to soak up the oil. I had to move my hands back over them to make sure they had a clear sheen. I couldn't believe I was touching muscleman's butt, let alone Paul's. I kept concentrating and going down his butt, onto the back of each leg. At one point, he took a step back and started to flex and pump the back of his whole right leg. The muscles and cables just jumped out in an instant and grew in front of my own bulging eyes. I got bold and decided to rub some more oil onto these hard muscles and tight cables as he kept his leg flexed. He didn't seem to object.

When I stooped to get lower, I felt a rush of embarrassment and a deep thrill, too. I knew then what it was like to really worship serious muscle. I was sure he knew. And, even more, I was sure he liked what I was doing. That sent a tingle all over my body.

As I stood up again, he turned around and said, very matter of factly, "Now the front". At first, it didn't make much sense to me why he told me to work his huge chest, abs of rock, and veined arms. But then I understood, once again, that he liked what I was doing and didn't give a damn about anybody else. He sure as hell had figured out that I really liked what I was doing for him and to him.

"Start with my neck and work down my shoulder and arm first." I glanced again at everyone else and saw the same thing going on in different ways on different gods. I told myself everything was fine.

Thank god he turned his head to the side when I started on his neck. I couldn't look at his face without saying or doing something very wrong. It's like my hands were separate from my body. It's like I was two people. One guy doing the oiling and touching – the other watching and going absolutely crazy with lust. His traps were like small mountains protecting a thick neck of veins, tendons, and muscles. They were escarpments that nearly blotted out the rest of his neck.

I was really awestruck at how hard and big his delts were. And, yet, his skin was so soft. I stiffened again as my hands ran over veins coming from his bicep, as they randomly crossed his striations. My disembodied hands moved in parallel down the left ham-like, veined side of beef, that he called his bicep and upper arm. I kept right on massaging in the oil while he did a little flexing. The muscles of his tricep and bicep jumped in my hands. The crease between the two was awesome. I couldn't believe the number of big veins and how they covered the extremely rock-hard muscles. I couldn't slow down or I'd be in trouble. Yet, I was really getting into this erotic worship of glorious man meat by my very sensitive hands.

Then I moved my hands – in parallel – down to the colossal and striated column of his right forearm. This was too much. The veins stood out even more and I relished feeling the pulsing ridges they created. I stopped to collect myself and get some more oil. He was frozen like a statue, waiting, expectantly for me to continue. All the while, he was carefully studying my work and his flexing. . While I grabbed the oil bottle, I took a peek at his gorgeous pouch. It had moved and gotten bigger, if that was possible. He was at least a little hard and his cut cock-head was really showing its thick ridge now. I was too stunned to keep going, much to my immediate embarrassment.

His ever-so-handsome face was just a few inches above mine when he softly boomed, "Hey, Scott, you still okay? I don't want to distract you from your oiling here. I know all about how this is turn-on. Most every guy here gets turned-on somewhere, somehow. It's part of getting ready to strut your stuff. I just get turned on when someone oils my muscle the way you are. It's a great feeling so I get a little hard. No big deal. It's really a compliment to you, my friend."

I made some feeble comment about just wanting to get the oiling right for him. I thought I'd crawl in a hole when he said, "Yeah…right" – with a noticeable edge of sarcasm. He had an easy smile on his oh-so- handsome face so I assumed I was okay. I made it through doing the other arm, never getting used to what it feels like to have such big, hard, beautiful muscle in my hands – wrapped in ribbons of veins. He was so confident. No pre-contest nerves. Hell, he knew he had it won.

Then the moment of truth. His huge hard twin peaks and nips. I noticed immediately that his nips were hard, too. They stood out like those hard eraser tips everybody talks about. I know from reading and paying attention that touching a man's chest is a very, very personal and intimate thing for a lot of guys, especially bodybuilders. Some really welcome it and others make sure you don't get even close.

"Okay, just get it started here on my upper chest and I'll finish it." I was very grateful. I ran my oiled hands over his mountains of velvet smooth pecs. The two globe-like muscle masses felt unbelievably huge in my small hands. I made sure to remember the feeling of his hard nips rub across the side of my hands but not stop moving. I left some oil in the crevice for him to spread around. I moved down to his abdominals, as he flexed. He even did one of those vacuum poses that blew my mind. For a big guy like him, I knew he had really worked to get them into such definition. There was one big vein that came down on a diagonal into his bare pubic area that I could have fingered forever.

I actually made another comment to him, "These are incredible, Paul, absolutely incredible. It amazes me that anyone can get like this". "Not anyone good buddy. Just a few of us. The few that don't settle for anything less than muscular perfection. I have been building, pumping and flexing this body for many years now. Coleman has nothing on me anymore. Tonight and tomorrow night is the payoff."

He flexed them again. And my hands moved, actually with more noticeable passion, spreading the oil around these classic grooved cobblestones. I think I saw him smiling as I oiled him there.

We were a team, now. He had me to himself and I had him to myself. We were getting him ready for night an aroused and fanatical audience would never forget. I knew they would go wild over the sensuous and sexual beauty of his immense hardened body.

I can't remember when, but just before I was done oiling him, he hollered again. When I turned my head it was like I was seeing his muscled twin, only somewhat shorter, casually walking over to us.

"Hey, here comes Mr. Second Place!" He grinned and the two of them exchanged a double handclasp, holding it for more than a couple of beats.

Two of them?

The End of the Proverbial Beginning •