Bisexual Bodybuilders
Bad Boy Bi Muscle Men and Their Wanton Women
Volume One
A Muscle Pup in Training
by
Emeric Varady
Translated from the Hungarian
by
Sandor Vass
Copyright © 2019 Emeric Varady
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except for the use of brief excerpts in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Published by: Emeric Varady
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Table of Contents
Volume One: A Muscle Pup in Training
Chapter One: The Construction Site and its Master (Body)Builder
Chapter Two: A Muscle Man’s Wife
Chapter Three: Loss of Innocence—at Last!
Chapter Four: Bodybuilder Seeks Same, for Advice
Chapter Five: Mentoring the Muscle Pup
Chapter Six: Who’s That Knocking on My Back Door?
Chapter Seven: A Private Coaching Session
Chapter Eight: Anyone Her Husband Can Do
Chapter Nine: Better Bodies, and Better Sex, Through Chemistry
Chapter Ten: Take a Look on the Bed
Chapter Eleven: Appeasing Their Appetites
Chapter Twelve: A Threesome Becomes a Foursome
Also by Emeric Varady
Volume One: A Muscle Pup in Training
Chapter One: The Construction Site and its Master (Body)Builder
Adolar Mezey was a famous—or perhaps notorious—pro bodybuilder, who owned and operated one of Budapest’s most prestigious gyms. His facility wasn’t a pissy “health club” or “fitness center,” catering to tired metrosexual businessmen who wanted to put in a quick workout on their way home from work. Mezey’s gym was a hardcore, grunt-and-sweat, iron pit, which appealed to serious weightlifters. Many of Hungary’s proud, hulking pro bodybuilders trained there, alongside worshipful muscle pup wannabees.
The gym had the rather grand name Az Építkezésen: Ahol Kemény Testek Épülnek [The Construction Site: Where Hard Bodies are Built]. This phrase was emblazoned in red neon script on the exterior of the building, above the entrance. Adolar might have saved the trouble and expense of putting up the sign, because everybody referred to his establishment as, simply, “Mezey’s gym.”
Adolar was short by pro bodybuilder standardly, compactly built, but bulgingly muscular and well defined and symmetrical. He eschewed sheer muscle mass in favor of definition, and overall proportion—a shrewd choice, which had taken him far. He usually managed to keep his competition weight just above 225 pounds, which allowed him to compete as a super heavyweight, against guys who were taller, broader, and heavier than he was. But they were often bulkier, to the extent of being blockier, which could be their downfall.
One evening, Adolar had an engagement. There was an amateur bodybuilding competition, held in an auditorium downtown. As a pro, Adolar wasn’t competing this time. He was one of the judges, and he’d also agreed to guest pose.
Adolar’s impressively, imposingly, massive, ripped physique would’ve made him a strong contender in a physique contest, under any circumstances. But it was his dynamic, thrilling posing which, as so often, tipped the balance in his favor. He knew just how to display his physique onstage to its maximum advantage, and he also knew how to work a crowd, winning them over and persuading them that he was the most stunning muscle god they’d ever seen.
After the competitors posed, Adolar quickly completed filling out his scorecards, and he handed them in to his fellow judges. Then, while the other judges tallied the scores and conferred backstage, Adolar stripped, slipped on his posing trunks, and, with the help of an assistant, oiled up from head to foot. Then he went onstage and did his posing routine.
The fact that he wasn’t competing freed him to be more exhibitionistic than strict contest decorum required. He moved rapidly from one side of the stage to the other, then back again, giving everybody in the audience a good view of his physique. In addition to striking the standard poses and flexing, he did some non-standard poses, too, and he leaped and even danced about the stage, with complete abandon. The crowd loved it, and urged him on with cheers and enthusiastic applause. Shamelessly, Adolar milked the adoration he received, dragging out his posing routine to well beyond its originally scheduled time slot.
After bowing, waving, and blowing kisses to the audience, Adolar hurried backstage. There, he shed his posing trunks, wiped himself down with a towel to remove most of the oil—and the perspiration which had broken out all over his body while he’d performed. Then he pulled on his coverup outfit of sweatpants, sweatshirt, and training shoes, and he joined the other judges onstage.
Microphone in hand, Adolar announced the winners and runners up in each weight class, and then the overall winner. There was the usual prolonged photo session, with the winners and runner ups posing individually and together, brandishing their trophies, and group shots of all the competitors, lined up on the stage. And, of course, all of the contestants wanted to have their picture taken with Adolar.
Even after the show was over and the auditorium had emptied, Adolar wasn’t finished. Outside the stage door, the hardcore fans had gathered, lying in wait for him. He signed programs. Some of the physique enthusiasts had brought with them copies of magazines featuring Adolar, or his videos, so that he could autograph the pages with his photos, and the actual DVDs. Adolar had come prepared. He’d brought along not only a reliable sharp-tipped indelible marking pen, but a manila envelope containing eight-by-ten glossy photos of himself, nude except for his posing trunks, oiled up, and striking various poses. He handed these photos out, and he cheerfully signed them, personalizing the inscriptions upon request. Some pro bodybuilders charged a few forints for this service, but Adolar distributed the photos for free. He knew how much he owed to his fans.
And, of course, cellphones flashed repeatedly, as the fans took shots of Adolar, or posed beside him for selfies.
All this consumed some time. Finally, though, the crowd thinned out, and dispersed.
Adolar then caught sight of a young man who’d been standing back from the rest. The lad was a typical muscle pup, sturdily built, maybe more handsome than most. He had a canvas and leather messenger bag slung on its strap over one of his firm, spherical-shaped shoulders.
Now, he stepped forward.
“Mr. Mezey—?”
“Hi.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not.”
“My name’s Robert. But I prefer to be called by the American diminutive, Bob.”
“I see. Well, Bob, what can I for you, this evening? Would you like me to sign your program for you? And maybe pose for a selfie with you, on your phone? I’ll be glad to. And I may have one or two of these print photos of
me left, if you’d like one.”
“Yes, please. That’d all be great! But—in addition—maybe—?”
“Yes?”
“The truth is, my buddy Urban and I—we have our very own bodybuilding journal website, on the Internet,” Bob declared, proudly. “We post all sorts of information and news. Parts of our site are free, and anybody can access them. Other parts are accessible by subscription only, which helps pay our expenses, and gives us a very small profit margin, in the form of pocket change. I’ll be reporting on this evening’s event, complete with the photos I took.”
“Well, good for you. Quite enterprising of you.”
“We even have our own business cards.” Bob handed Adolar one, which he inspected and pocketed. “You see, we’re very serious about doing our small part to promote muscle journalism. That’s why—” Hesitating, Bob bit his lip.
Adolar smiled, encouragingly. “What? Come now, don’t be shy, after such a promising start. Tell me what you have in mind.”
“I’d love to interview you for our website’s blog. Of course, we can’t pay you very much. Maybe—if you don’t think it’s insulting—we could offer you a flat fee of twenty thousand forints?” [Translator’s note: twenty thousand forints is approximately sixty-eight US dollars.]
“Huh,” Adolar grunted. “I’d hate to tell you what I’ve been known to do for that amount of money, or less! You know something? I like your spirit, my boy—and your enterprise. I’m not in any rush to go anywhere, or to get home, tonight. I always need to unwind, after a contest, or after just guest posing. Why don’t you join me for a late-night snack, and a drink? You can buy the first round of drinks, if you like. That’ll be my ‘fee.’ And I’ll give you an exclusive interview. Hell, if you can get me drunk enough, I may spill some real dirt!” Adolar looked around. “Where’s this friend of yours, Urban?”
“He couldn’t make it tonight,” Bob explained. “It’s his parents’ anniversary. They’re throwing a big party, and Urban couldn’t get out of it. He was pissed because he had to miss the show. And he’ll be even more mad when I tell him he missed your posing routine, which was terrific.”
“He’s a fan, huh?”
“We both are. You’re here alone, too? No entourage?”
Adolar grinned. “I save that for when I compete. Which reminds me. Why weren’t you up there onstage, with the others?”
“I’m not big enough yet.”
“You’re getting there, though.” Adolar hoped he didn’t sound lascivious, as well as appreciative. “Well, come on, Bob. I’m hungry. There’s a café near my gym. I go there a lot, and they put up with my dietary quirks. Do you have a car?”
“Yeah, but I left it at home, and I took the bus here,” Bob said.
“We’ll grab a cab. I didn’t drive tonight, either, precisely because I was looking forward to doing a little drinking after the show.”
At the café, the two men found a table.
“What’s the name of your website, by the way?” Adolar asked.
“Az Izom Fórum [The Muscle Forum]. I’ve got my laptop here in my bag. I was using it to type notes during the contest. I can show you—”
“Not necessary. I know that site. I subscribe to it! It’s quite impressive, actually. Looks professional. I didn’t realize it was produced by a couple of young guys.”
“Thanks.” Bob did open his bag, taking from it a small, handheld digital recorder, which he placed on the table. “I can record our conversation, if you don’t mind, in the interests of accuracy, when I quote you.”
“Go ahead. Accuracy is always a good thing.”
Their waiter came to the table. He was a good-looking, well-built young man. He was in fact a gym rat, who trained at Adolar’s gym. And he knew Adolar, who regularly patronized the café.
“Hey, good-looking,” Adolar addressed the waiter. “Ferenc, this is Bob, a buddy of mine. Bob, Ferenc.” Bob and the waiter nodded to each other. “Without any further ado, Ferenc—I’m in desperate need of a typical bodybuilder’s late-night snack, the sort of thing I usually have after a contest, to keep me going, because, God knows, I’m starved. Give me four hard-boiled eggs, will you, with the shells removed, and sprinkled with paprika. Two big cans of tuna, two of those twelve-ounce suckers, drained, dumped out on a plate, with a little olive oil drizzled on top of them. Two nice big chicken breasts, boiled, served as is, without any sauce or seasoning. And a pound of pasta, cooked al dente, also served as is, plain. Oh, maybe you can bring me the pepper mill, so I can grate some fresh pepper onto the chicken and the pasta.”
“That’s my idea of an appalling austerity,” the waiter said. “The chef will freak out. ‘Oh, those bodybuilders are here, again!’ he’ll complain. But, as they say, the customer is always right. And you, sir?” he asked Bob. “Are you are stoic as your well-built friend?”
“Ah—not quite.”
“Forget what we said about you buying the first round of drinks, Bob,” Adolar interjected. “All this is my treat. No, I insist. Order anything you want, food or drink.”
“I’ll have the Caesar salad. Made in the classic style, please. With the anchovies, with the raw egg, and also with plenty of extra dressing,” Bob said.
“That dressing is fattening, you know,” Adolar pointed out.
“Unlike you, I’m not competing,” Bob replied.
Adolar grunted. “Lucky you. We’ll have white wine,” he told the waiter. “Bring us a bottle of the Egri Csillag. That can’t do us much harm,” he assured Bob. [Translator’s note: Egri Csillag, or “Star of Eger,” is a dry white blend.]
“Alcohol in any form—is it on your training menu?” Bob inquired.
“Hell, yes, it is. And while we’re waiting, turn on your trusty little tape recorder, and capture my pearls of wisdom,” Adolar advised Bob, humorously. “More like pearls of smut, in the mood I’m in right now. For some reason, winning a contest always makes me randy, and it reduces my inhibitions, which are damn few to begin with, to the vanishing point. I guess you’re going to reap the benefit of my indiscretion.”
“All right, Adolar Mezey. Two months ago, you won not only the heavyweight class, but the overall title, in the Mr. Hungary competition,” Bob reminded his interview subject, briskly, professionally. “I imagine you must feel pretty good, right now?”
“I feel very good.”
“Was it an easy win for you?”
“It was a walk in the park. No, I’m lying when I say that, of course. Honesty compels me to admit that it was a tough contest. I wasn’t as heavy as I ordinarily am. I was under the 225 pound limit, which is why I competed as a heavyweight, rather than as a super heavyweight. This turned out to be an advantage. Maybe I wasn’t as massive as some of those huge fucking behemoths in the super heavyweight class, but I was ripped, if I do say so myself. Still, some of the other contestants in all the weight classes were exceptionally well prepared, and they looked damn good. Furthermore, I’m not exactly a young guy. I have really to train hard and push myself, if I hope to hold my own against some of these younger men. I managed to do so, that night, for which I’m grateful.”
“They call you ‘the pocket battleship,’ because you’re not exactly a giant.”
“Well, better that than ‘the garbage scow,’ I guess,” Adolar quipped.
“Let’s review your vital statistics, Adolar.”
“Well, my contest weight fluctuates between 225 and 235 pounds, or 102 and 106 kilograms. My height’s five feet six inches, or 167.64 centimeters. Yeah, I’m a short fuck. But I flatter myself that good things come in small packages.”
“Well,” Bob drawled, suggestively. “Not everything about you is small, man!”
Gleefully, Adolar snickered. “You think so? Shit! This is the kind of interview I like! I like the way we’re going, here.” His companion, he noted, had gotten over his initial shyness and deference. A good sign, as far as Adolar was concerned.
“Is it easier to pack a lot of hard muscle o
nto a smaller frame than a big one?”
“Yes, it is. And yes, I may have a slight advantage, in that respect. No offense, Bob, but so far these have been very banal, predictable questions,” Adolar complained. “You haven’t asked me anything, you haven’t given your readers any information, that can’t be found in the writeup about me in a typical physique contest program. I suppose the people who compile those notes about the competitors have a vested interest in avoiding controversy. They don’t want to rock the Bodybuilding Federation’s boat! But it’s boring. Boring as hell! Come on, buddy, I know you’re just dying to ask me about the sex stuff. And I’m in the mood to be forthcoming, and candid. Extremely candid.”
“Okay. There’ve been all sorts of rumors flying about, concerning the so-called ‘scandal.’ I mean, how you were outed, supposedly against your will. Would you like to take advantage of this opportunity to set the record straight, Adolar?”
“Yeah. ‘Straight,’ huh?” Adolar grunted. “That’s a laugh! But, yeah, I’ll tell you the whole story. You’ll have yourself an exclusive, buddy. A scoop!
“For one thing, I wasn’t ‘outed,’ against my will or otherwise. Because I couldn’t be, really. I’ve always been honest and upfront about my sexuality. I’m bisexual, and not the least bit ashamed of it. I’m proud of it, in fact. I can be attracted to both men and women. And, if you’ll permit me to brag for a moment, no man or woman who’s ever been intimate with me has ever felt shortchanged, or has had anything to complain about!
“I had a fling with this pro bodybuilder whom I’ll call Bathony—not his real name, of course. At the risk of sounding kind of bitchy, he’s not a bodybuilder of the first rank. He’s the kind of guy who’s always taking home the third-place trophy in his weight class at competitions. And, at the risk of being even bitchier, I have to say he’s not all that great in bed. He’s one of those guys who just wants to lie there and be admired, and be taken care of. No real reciprocation. Let’s face it, big muscles and a big dick will only get you so far. The right attitude’s important, too, and when it comes to that, this jerk is definitely lacking.
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