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Approaching A Climax
|As it turned out, however, it wasn't so easy to figure out Jonathan just by watching him carefully. Jonathan wore very loose shorts while working out, as did the rest of us, because of the freedom of movement it gave him. That, and the fact that I certainly didn't want anyone to see me staring at Jonathan's crotch, made it very frustrating to try to decide whether Jonathan was actually turned on by any or all of us, his young muscle sculptures.
The only time that he wore tight trunks was during the posing sessions. He was spending more time posing, and it looked like he was putting together a long routine, with one pose flowing into the next. By now, the rest of us had guessed that there was going to be a bodybuilding contest like in the magazines, but which one, and where, was still just guesswork; Jonathan remained serenely silent on the subject. At any rate, when he was posing, he was, as always, intense and focused on the task at hand, and didn't show any obvious sexual response, even when, one day, he asked me to oil down his back.
Jonathan explained that bodybuilders usually have a light coating of baby oil or mineral oil on their skin when they're posing in a contest, and he wanted to show us how it looked. He oiled his own arms and legs and chest, and I got to oil up his back. I couldn't tell, from back there, what was going on with Jonathan's dick, but I certainly knew that mine was getting a workout as I felt the granite ridges of muscle under my fingers. I noticed Barry watching us. He seemed to be amused by something, but I couldn't tell what it was.
When I finished, Jonathan bent over with his hands on his knees, and took a few deep breaths, I suppose to focus on his routine. He then stepped over to the posing dais in the corner, turned on the spotlight, killed the other room lights, and went into his routine.
It was like watching living metal -- smooth, rock-hard, and yet fluid. Each pose highlighted another part of Jonathan's body, and the sharp lighting from the spotlight combined with the reflectiveness of the oil to highlight even the slightest ridge of muscle on his skin. I had seen some photos of guys posing in Jonathan's muscle magazines, of course, but never someone moving from one magnificent pose to another with the skill and grace of a dancer. I was too enthralled even to worry about my sexual arousal, and I heard Stan whisper, "Oh, wow!" I looked over at Barry; he was breathing hard and unconsciously running his hand across his own bare chest as he watched. Jonathan finished his routine and bowed as we all stood up and applauded and whistled wildly.
"I take it that this means you guys approve?" Jonathan grinned.
We all nodded. "Are you kidding?" Stan asked.
Jonathan started to towel himself off. "Thanks. I think this is really starting to come together. But what I especially wanted to show you guys is how the way I look on stage is partly illusion. The oil, the lighting, my standing on a raised surface -- these all make my physique look even bigger and taller and harder than it is. It's the same with you guys. MuscleMike, if you walked along the street today with the same sort of hang-dog posture and attitude you came in here with, everyone would think you were just another high-school kid. But if you walk the way I see you walking nowadays, with your arms apart and your shoulders back, and just a bit of a lat spread, everyone will see you and think, 'There goes a high school athlete. Bet he's a varsity guy.' It's like that Star Trek episode with the women on the mining planet, remember?"
Jonathan had found out that I was a Star Trek fan, and his reference to 'Mudd's Women' drove his point home very nicely. "You either believe in yourself, or you don't," as Capt. Kirk had said in a particularly tautological speech.
The next day, it was our turn to pose. As usual, Barry showed the best form and his rapidly-hardening abdominals were starting to rival Stan the Muscle Man's own deep ridges. "Dammit, Barry, I wish I could get my Mom to stop frying chicken and all that other greasy stuff. If I could eat more like you maybe I'd get leaner."
"Well, don't worry too much about it, MuscleMike," Jonathan interrupted. "It's not like you're fat; you're showing good abdominal definition yourself, and at this stage you should worry more about building up than dropping fat."
"I know, I know, but I'm sure I could do better."
"Why don't you come over and have dinner at my place now and then," Barry offered. "Maybe a meal or two a week with me will help."
I was surprised, but agreed to see if my parents would let me have dinner over there the next evening. I was even more surprised when they did. My Mom, as usual, had misgivings about me spending so much time with 'that boy off the street', but my Dad was evidently pretty pleased with the results of my lifting weights with Barry, and encouraged me to go. I could tell that Dad was, in his usual quiet way, as proud of the way I'd improved my physique as he always was with my grades.
When I got to Barry's house, he told me dinner was almost ready; he just had to drain the spaghetti. "My mom's down in Westchester showing a house to a couple of buyers," he said, "I don't think she'll be home until eight." Barry served up a couple of large skinless chicken breasts and spaghetti. "There's a little oil in the sauce," Barry admitted, "but it's not much. The oregano really makes the sauce. Try it."
We talked during dinner about our training and so on. At one point I asked Barry where he had learned to put together that posing routine he'd done a couple of weeks back. "You did some poses that Jonathan never taught us, " I said. "Where'd those come from?"
"Oh, there were a couple of articles on posing in some of Jonathan's old muscle magazines," Barry explained. "After dinner we'll go upstairs and I'll show you."
We went up to Barry's room after dinner was done and the dishes were in the dishwasher. Barry's house was a big two-story place whose floor plan reminded me of the house in 'Leave it to Beaver'. But Barry spent most of his time there alone. I couldn't imagine what it would be like living in my house without my Mom and Dad and brother around all the time, and wasn't sure if I envied Barry's independence and big house, or felt sorry for the way he missed out on having a real family around him.
It was the first time I'd been up in Barry's room since well before we'd met Stan a couple of months ago. The stack of Playboy magazines was still there, but they were all mixed up with Jonathan's old muscle magazines, and some new issues that I guess Barry had bought at the newsstand. On the wall next to his bed, I noticed that the pictures of naked women had been supplemented, and in places even replaced, by pictures from the muscle magazines. One of the pictures was a nameless bodybuilder with thick thighs and abdominal muscles. A picture of Barry's face had been pasted over the original.
"Here it is, this is the issue. See? Here's where it shows how to do that 'lunge' sort of pose I did at the start. It really shows off my legs, I think." Barry stripped off his shirt and pants, leaving only a pair of briefs on underneath. He did the lunge pose, one leg bent with the other straight out behind. One arm extended as if pointing ahead and up, and the other flexing. It was sexy as hell, frankly, and I reacted before I knew it, my dick pushing down one leg of my rather tight jeans.
Barry looked directly at my crotch. "Hmmm! Is that a pencil in your pocket, or are you glad to see me?"
I blanched. "What?? Oh. Um. Sorry, I was, uh, thinking of something else." I knew it sounded pretty lame, but I couldn't think of anything else to say.
Barry shook his head. "C'mon, don't freak out. I've seen you getting hard whenever we used to do our wrestling and flexing thing, practically since the day we met."
I sat down. I was a little dazed, and my hard-on mercifully had gone limp again. "I don't understand…you knew…?"
"Shit, of course I knew! I got turned on myself, but I guess you never noticed. I thought maybe I was just turned on by the fact that my muscles (man, can you believe we thought we had muscles?) because my muscles were turning you on, or because muscles help guys get girls or something. But when we met Stan and he flexed those damned arms of his, I practically creamed in my jeans right there, so I knew it was something else."
Barry looked at the pictures on his wall. "Guess anyone who shows a lot of skin will get my motor running. Double your pleasure, double your fun. Like in the gum commercial, huh?"
I just sat there sort of stupidly. "So…my being…that way… doesn't bother you?"
"Shit, no! I like it! C'mon, take your shirt off, and you can pose for me too."
"Um, look," I hesitated. "I still have to get used to this, I mean, I've never actually *done* anything about this, and I don't know…"
Barry looked a little frustrated. "Oh, come on, I'm not going to bite! Shirt off, MuscleMike! C'mon."
I took my shirt off, feeling self-conscious about it for the first time in weeks, and Barry came over and slowly ran his hand up my arm (I flexed for him sort of automatically, a habit of years) and over my shoulder to my back; his other hand stroked my chest over the nipple. His touch felt strange and I stepped away from him suddenly. I didn't know if I was more turned on or terrified. I remembered my parents telling me that homosexuals had sex by putting their dicks in other guys' assholes, and that sounded really disgusting. I looked down, and saw that Barry's own dick was stretching his briefs insistently. I didn't know what Barry had in mind, and just then I didn't want to find out.
"Um, heh, uh, I don't think I'm really ready for this yet."
"Aw, jeez, Mike…"
"No, really. Not right now. Please. I gotta go home now."
Barry sighed. "Wow, this really is new to you, isn't it? OK, I guess some people have to have more time to get used to the idea. Well, there's always Kimberly Clarke."
I raised my eyebrows. The name was familiar, but…"Who? Is she in our grade?"
Barry gave a short laugh. He picked up a box of Kleenex from next to his bed and showed me the bottom. "Kimberly-Clark Corporation, Neenah, Wisconsin," I read.
"See? Kimberly Clark. She can suck up anything I give her."
In spite of my nervousness, I laughed, and made a mental note to try that useful-sounding approach to keeping my sheets clean. I pulled my shirt on. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I'm just not ready to do anything…like…you know."
Barry got dressed and we both went downstairs. Barry started to put his hand on my shoulder, but I pulled away. When we got to the front door, I turned to Barry nervously. "Just one more thing. You understand, none of this is for public broadcast. You aren't going to tell anyone, are you?"
Barry looked as if I had just asked him if he were going to paint himself purple and do an Irish jig naked in the park (not that anyone would notice that sort of thing nowadays). "What? You mean Stan and Jonathan?"
I nodded. "Promise you won't tell them?"
Barry said, "Um…OK, I promise. They won't hear anything from me. And I'm really sorry; I didn't mean to scare you or anything."
"Thanks. I'll see you in the gym tomorrow." I walked home, confused and shaken. What I really wanted to do is run my hands all over Barry's body, from his strong arms and chest down to those powerful thighs. But it was suddenly different when I felt that, like a secret agent, my cover had been blown. I didn't know what I wanted now. The only thing that would have made it worse would be if I had looked back and seen Barry shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
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