MEN, MUSCLE, and MAYHEM

by Milton Stern

  The twins exited their respective holes, and Bobby thought, That’s it? And, with that, a hand with a handkerchief was placed over his face again.

  Bobby opened his eyes, and after looking up, saw that a couple of people were staring down at him, including a police officer. He shook his head, and after looking around, realized he was in Meridian Hill Park.

  The police officer helped him up and asked, “Are you OK? How long have you been lying there?”

  “What time is it?” Bobby asked.

  “Around 8:00 am,” the officer answered, and Bobby took a good look at him. He was over six feet tall, blond and obviously built and hung. He then looked out to 16th Street at the patrol car and saw an identical officer waiting for his partner.

  “Only two hours?” Bobby asked. “That’s the best you could do?”

  And, Bobby stood up and walked away with a smile.

  GAYDAR

  Every morning, he jogs past me as I walk my dog. Then on the way back, he jogs by again and says hello. And, this happens every morning at 4:30 am.

  I wonder about him, this man who jogs that early in the morning. I have been getting up that early for years to walk my dog then go to the gym. For months, he has jogged past me then back again in the other direction.

  I want to say more, ask him his name, see what he is about, but who stops a jogger to have a conversation?

  Then it stops.

  I don’t see him jogging at that early hour anymore.

  I also walk my dog after the gym around 6:30 am. And, one morning he jogs past me? Does he jog twice, or have his hours changed?

  Why am I so obsessed with him? Why do I care?

  It is over 90 degrees, why doesn’t he take his shirt off?

  He always wears the same thing, blue shorts and yellow muscle shirt. It isn’t even a tank top.

  He doesn’t have an iPod, so saying hello is no problem.

  Where does his run stop, so I can approach him?

  I need to get over myself.

  I think of ways to get his attention. I have a wife-beater on under my T-shirt, and I am all pumped from the gym. It is hotter than blazes and humid, too, even at this early hour, so I take off my shirt as if I am just a little too hot.

  There I am, walking my dog in nothing but a wife beater, all pumped and sweaty. This will get his attention.

  He jogs past me again in the other direction – so predictable. He stares at me and checks out my body for more than a few seconds, then says something like have a good morning, or good morning, or nice seeing you this morning. And, he is up the street before I can respond.

  He is gay. No straight guy checks a guy out like that. He was eyeing me from head to toe.

  The next morning, he jogs by again. I walk my dog in nothing but the wife-beater, and I decide to take it off. Now I am pumped and shirtless, and just as always, he jogs by me again in the other direction.

  But, this time he doesn’t look, and when I say good morning, he mumbles.

  That is what I get for being obvious. I immediately put the wife-beater back on.

  Now, I have made a fool of myself, and I obsess about it all day.

  I never see him again – not at 4:30 am, not at 6:30 am.

  I guess that is the end of that.

  A few weeks later, I am walking my dog at night. I see him walking toward me with a woman. The closer he gets, I notice the woman is pregnant, quite pregnant.

  He says hello and introduces his wife and tells me he stopped jogging due to a knee injury.

  I forget his name.

  What does it matter? He’s straight, married and expecting a baby.

  My gaydar is all fucked up.

  But, I’ll go to my grave swearing he cruised me that one morning.

  THE WINDOW ESTIMATE

  I hate being an apartment manager, and I only agreed to do it because my landlords promised me a fifty percent reduction in the rent for the four years they would be in Brazil. The worst part is that I have to listen to the constant complaining from the fat redneck, her drunk asshole of a husband and her future serial killer, slut daughter upstairs. I just wish the daughter would get it over with and kill them already, so I can clean up the mess and rent the place out to a couple of hotties. But, until then, I have to be the responsible one and that includes getting estimates for work that I would rather let go in the hopes the cast from Cops upstairs will leave in frustration.

  Most of the time, these estimates are for things they have broken, and I know that the constant yelling and banging that goes on is the reason the frame of the large bay window in their master bedroom was cracked causing the glass to fall down into the wall, leaving a four-inch gap on the top.

  I took my sweet time getting an estimate, but when the rain seeped in causing water to leak into my apartment, it became my personal problem, so I called a couple of window companies. I figured I would punish the landlords as well for sticking me with these assholes and get an estimate for all the windows.

  Two salesmen had been here already, but they were so slick, I threw away their estimates before the door closed behind them.

  On the day the third and final guy was to arrive, I pretty much didn’t care anymore. I decided to work from home that day, so it was amazing I even bothered to shower, although I only wore a pair of gym shorts (actually cut-off sweat pants) and a wife-beater. I was totally engrossed in work when I heard a knock at the door.

  I opened the door and standing there was what looked to be a teenager, wearing a loose fitting All-Weather Window Company polo shirt. He gave me the taillights to headlights three-second once over I tend to get from guys who see me for the first time, which doesn’t even faze me anymore.

  You see, I am an ex-professional football player (not that anyone remembers – third string center), and I am six-foot even, weighing in at around two-hundred-sixty pounds. At thirty-five, I still work out as if I am being paid to, and I won’t deny I ever took a needle in the ass. We’ll leave it at that. Now, I work as a bookkeeper for a nondescript company in a nondescript cubicle located in a nondescript building. I am one of the lucky few to have actually gotten paid to be a professional football player, but after almost five years on the bench, I got bored. I was told I was too nice, not aggressive enough, but the coach liked me, so I held onto my job.

  Now, the kid in front of me may have played some sports. He had that college jock, too many frat parties body. You know the type – broad shoulders, decent arms, and remnants of the ‘freshman forty’ still around the middle. If they are straight, the paunch is there for life, and if they are gay, well, they wouldn’t have taken on the freshman-forty in the first place. No gay boy in his twenties would allow such a thing to happen to him. This kid was definitely straight, which was fine with me as I don’t like them young. I like them older, much older. I like being fucked silly by a big musclebear with gray hair. If this kid had a twelve-inch dick, I couldn’t have cared less.

  “Mr. Kennedy?”

  I let him in, and he introduced himself as Allan. I showed him all the windows upstairs and downstairs in all the apartments. Of course, the redneck had to butt in and say what she wanted in a window, but I shut her up immediately and continued to follow Allan from wall to wall while he measured and wrote on his legal pad.

  When we were done, we returned to my apartment, and I had to ask him his age.

  “I’m twenty-three. I couldn’t find a job in my field, so I took this sales job, which has made my college education a waste … can I ask you a question, a personal question?”

  I said sure.

  “I can see you work out …”

  He could see I work out. He was brilliant. My arms relaxed are eighteen inches around. My pecs are so huge, I can’t see my feet, and he can see I work out.

  “I’ve been trying to lose this gut since I graduated, and nothing I do works. Should I do more cardio?”

  “You should quit drinking so much beer,” I said and raised my eyebrows. I may let a quack
doc shoot what is probably horse piss into my ass to get huge and ripped, but I never drank or did drugs. Yeah, I know, what I do is just as bad. Whatever. You’d fuck me if you had a chance, especially if you saw my rock hard and huge bubble-butt.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “So, how long before I get an estimate?” I asked.

  “Oh, I can have one for you this afternoon. I’ll email it to you.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  I went back to work and took a mid-day break to go to the gym because I have body dysmorphia or manorexia or some other psychological shit because I think I’m fat or skinny and have deep emotional issues. Please. I know what I look like. I look like a fucking freak, but I like the freak look, and the old musclebear dads I let fuck me like it, too. Don’t assume you know guys like me.

  After I returned from the gym, I was mixing myself a protein shake when there was a knock at the door. I was back in my cut-off sweat shorts but not wearing a shirt anymore. I opened the door, and it was frat-boy window guy.

  “I decided to hand deliver the estimate,” he said as he handed me the envelope. “I can explain it to you if you like?”

  I gave him my best you think I am a dunder-headed muscleboy with the IQ of a baboon look.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that … uh, I mean I like to explain why we may be higher than most anyone else,” Allan recovered.

  “I may look mean, but it takes a whole hell of a lot to offend me or piss me off … believe me, kid, I haven’t lost my temper in years,” I said with a smile as I motioned him inside.

  What, you say? A juiced-up freak who hasn’t had a roid induced hissy fit? See, you read too much. I have never been a hot head. That is why I sucked as a professional football player. I’m too easy going. The only side effect I ever got from the juice was shrunken balls, but I can still come a gallon of spunk.

  I offered Allan a protein shake, and he accepted. As we sat there drinking our whey concoctions, he explained all the window crap, and I pretended to listen, but I couldn’t get over how he was avoiding looking at me. I was shirtless, pumped from the gym and sitting no more than two feet away from him. Although I had showered at the gym, I hadn’t bothered putting on deodorant, so I had a light musk about me, which some guys like.

  When he finally looked up, I could tell he was enthralled by my pumped pecs and my nipples, which I pulled on constantly. They stick out a good inch even now.

  “You want to touch them?” I asked.

  His eyes bulged.

  “Look, it won’t make you gay. Straight guys always want to touch my muscles to see what they feel like. Are they hard, soft, will they vibrate?” I said with a chuckle and a smile.

  “Sure,” he said as he slowly reached over to kind of poke a finger at my bicep.

  I flexed it for him, and he then caressed it a bit before taking his hand away. So, I was wrong about him. He was a big ole fag. I grabbed his hand and put it on my pec while I made it bounce.

  “Damn, they are hard as a rock,” he said.

  I was not turned on by this. He just wasn’t my type. Yeah, I know, get over it.

  “Now, about this estimate. What can we do to get you to come down by at least ten percent?” I may have been pissed at the landlords, but I was still a tightwad at heart, and I wasn’t going for the obvious scene you are expecting here.

  “Become my personal trainer,” he said.

  I sat back and looked at him. He had potential and a good frame. And that gut he complained about wasn’t really that bad, just a little soft.

  “Take off your shirt,” I said.

  He stood up and without hesitation removed his shirt. His shoulders were broad, and his biceps a nice size, too. However, his chest was a surprise as it was huge, which made me make a mental note to suggest he wear a tighter company shirt, and it was covered with hair, curly blond hair that trailed down to his pants.

  “You’ll have to shave that,” I said pointing to his chest.

  “Really?” he said as he ran his hand seductively down his torso.

  “But not until after you bend me over this table and fuck my brains out. The condoms and lube are in the drawer behind you. If you want me to train you, you better be ready to do what I say at the drop of a hat,” I said without stopping to take a breath. Then I stood, dropped my cut-off sweat shorts revealing my hard five-inch dick. Yeah, I know, everyone in these stories is hung like a horse. Well, I’m a bottom, and I may not have a lot of dick to play with, but I certainly have enough muscle to make up for it. Besides, little dicks get hard, stay hard, and shoot nice creamy loads. So, get over it.

  I also know that I said he wasn’t my type. But, I wanted that estimate lowered, and my hole filled at the same time. He was there; I was horny; do the math.

  I then bent over the table, while he fumbled around with his pants.

  “Hurry up, I don’t get this horny often, just grease it up and plug me,” I said over my shoulder.

  I then felt the cold lube dribbling down my crack. He sort of rubbed it all around, and I could tell he was nervous. I then heard the condom wrapper being opened; he cursed himself while he tried to roll it on. I clearly had him flustered.

  “Are these the largest ones you have?” he asked.

  I turned around and saw what looked to be a good ten thick inches of circumcised dick sticking straight out at me. There you go – a horse-hung top in a porno story. Are you happy now?

  “Look in the back of the drawer. They must have slid back. There should be some extra-hungs or whatever they call them,” I said as I marveled at his heat-seeking moisture missile, which is a friend’s nickname for huge cocks.

  “Found them,” he said with delight.

  “Good, slip one on and fuck my brains out,” I said as I again bent over the table. “And, don’t bother eating me out or fingering me, just stick that barbell up my chute … I hate foreplay.”

  He did just that. All the way in, no apologies, no hesitation, no finesse, no bullshit, and I loved it.

  “Now, reach around and pull my nipples as hard as you can while you fuck me.”

  And, he did just that. He reached around and pulled my big nipples, no apologies, no hesitation, no finesse, no bullshit, and I loved it.

  He practically pounded my huge muscular ass over the moon (excuse the pun) and pulled my nipples another inch. I was in heaven. He was having a pretty good time, too. Or, he was good at faking it because he kept telling me what a hot ass I had and what a sexy motherfucker I was. And at one point, he started nibbling on the back of my neck, and that did it.

  I cried out as I came. I wasn’t even touching myself since I was using my hands to hold onto the edge of the table while he pounded me for points. And, right after I came, he filled that extra large rubber with his own load and yelled out loud what a “man slut” I was, and amazingly, I came again – hands free.

  When he recovered, he apologized for calling me a man slut and gave me ten percent off on the windows in addition to another ten percent for the hot fuck.

  I never told him, but calling me a man slut was the best part of the fuck.

  The windows look great. And Allan? He is a muscle freak now, too.

  I love being me.

  THE CENTER OF ATTENTION

  Billy played center for as long as he played football, beginning with peewee, then middle school, high school, and now college. For some reason, coaches automatically put him in that position, bent over with a quarterback’s hands up his crotch. Was it his size? He was always the tallest – and widest – kid with the ability to run over anyone headed for the quarterback like a steam roller? Or, was it his round muscular butt, which was so tantalizing in that position. He never thought it was his butt. After all, he had a talent for hiking the ball and immediately knocking down at least three defensive linemen before they knew what hit them. Years of playing football in his hometown of Newport News gave him a reputation, and many a lineman would try to challenge Billy, bu
t by the end of the game, the quarterback on Billy’s team would never have a scratch on him.

  He entered college with a full scholarship. By eighteen, his frame had filled out quite nicely, and now in his senior year at age twenty-one, he was, as one of the cheerleaders called him, ‘hunkalicious.’ Billy was over six-foot-five, weighing more than 280 pounds, with a chest that measured at least fifty-four inches, biceps that approached twenty inches, a waist that although thirty-eight inches was tight and ripped, quads that measured over thirty-five inches and of course, that big round muscular butt. While many of his teammates were using steroids and other ‘enhancements,’ Billy had no desire to do anything that wasn’t natural. He didn’t have to as he was one of the lucky few who could get more muscular just from looking at a dumbbell. To make his teammates more jealous, Billy had inherited the best of both his Russian and Moroccan genes – smooth dark skin, strong facial features, green eyes, thick curly hair and bright white teeth. His hands and feet were huge, and he could palm a football with no problem.

  Their first two seasons were highly successful with few losses, so the team was quite surprised when their coach resigned under pressure, and a new coach from a Southern university was brought in. And along with that new coach arrived a new quarterback. The new quarterback was not unexpected as Jerry Garrison had graduated the prior year and was playing pro-ball now. Billy wasn’t envious, for he was not looking forward to a pro football career. He was a straight-A pre-med student, and he was actually looking forward to ending his football days. After all, he had been playing center since he was six years old, and all the practices were getting old.

  The team entered the locker room silently the day after the announcement of their new coach and quarterback. As they changed into their practice uniforms, there was grumbling about the new coach’s reputation, rumors and gossip that Billy didn’t care to hear. The advantage to playing center was that all he had to do was remember when to hike the ball, plow forward and hope he hadn’t hurt a defensive lineman – too badly.