Bodybuilder in Blue
by
Emeric Varady
Translated from the Hungarian
by
Sandor Vass
Copyright © 2016 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.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published by Emeric Varady
Cover design by Ivan Nagy
Table of Contents
Author’s Foreword
Chapter One: Drunk on My Spunk
Chapter Two: Giving Sixty-Nine a Try
Chapter Three: My Anonymous Jock
Chapter Four: A Men’s Room Break
Chapter Five: A Military Exercise
Chapter Six: My Porn Debut
Chapter Seven: I Break into the Bigger Time
Chapter Eight: Bodybuilders by the Dozen
Chapter Nine: Muscle for Rent
Chapter Ten: My Muscle Virgin
Author’s Afterword
Also by Emeric Varady
Author’s Foreword
Muscles—flexing, straining, bulging—swollen, hard and inflexible, under skin flushed with body heat and wet with sweat. Is there anything quite so exciting? So purely masculine? So male?
So sexual?
I certainly don’t think so. But then, I’m prejudiced.
I admit it—I’m a muscle freak. Always have been, always will be. A hot, Herculean body, naked, pressed up again mine—that’s guaranteed to get me really going, and to tap the sperm from my testicles. I’m never so aroused, so sexually satisfied, as I am when I’m shooting my jism all over another bodybuilder’s hard, inflexible physique.
At Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, one declares to the assembled group that “My name is So-and-So, and I’m an alcoholic.” I suppose, in my case, I’d have to admit that “My name is Emeric Varady, and I’m a muscle addict.” I’d go on to confess that I love training hard, working my muscles, pushing them past their limits, seeing them grow larger and harder virtually while I watch—and that I also love having hot, uninhibited, no holds barred, sex with other muscular men. I’m a muscle slut, in short, and an unrepentant one. Can’t help it!
My problem is that, unlike most addicts, I don’t really want to change. I’m having too much fun, having sex with other well-built, well-hung, horny gym rats!
I’m surely too young to even think about writing my memoirs. To paraphrase a lyric from a certain American musical, “I’ve still got a lot of living to do.” And a lot of lusting, too—or so I fervently hope!
But my erotic fiction is almost invariably drawn from my own, real life experiences, and from those of my friends. As I’ve been known to quip—only the names and certain identifying details have been changed, in order to protect the reputations of the horny! (And in order to avoid lawsuits for libel.) I flatter myself that I’m reasonably discreet, as sex pigs go.
Still, I’m often asked the same questions, over and over again. For example:
When did you first realize you were gay?
When did you have your first gay sexual experience? And with whom?
Did you enjoy it? (A rhetorical question, if I’ve ever heard one! What gay man doesn’t enjoy his first time?)
What other well-known bodybuilders have you had sex with?
When did you start doing nude modeling work?
How did you first get into the escorting business? (Or, put more bluntly, “When and how did you decide to become a male whore?”)
What’s it like to have sex in exchange for money?
When and how did you break into the gay porn business? Can you help me to get into it, too?
Do you have a lover? Do you want one? How can I audition for the job?
Is your sex life anything like what you write about, in your dirty books? Or do you just have an overactive imagination?
Are you as wild in bed as you seem to be in all of those videos of yours, or is that just acting?
Are you on steroids? Other drugs?
Do you only like to fuck other muscular men, or can you get off on skinny guys, too? How about guys who are fat, or otherwise out of shape?
This one is often asked by foreigners: Why are so many young Hungarian men, whether they’re gay or straight, so willing and eager to perform in gay porn? Is there something in the water in your country?
How can I (a.) hire you for an hour; (b.) for all night; (c.) for an entire weekend; (d.) buy your used jockstrap; (e.) buy other items of your used workout gear; (f.) purchase an autographed nude photo of you; (g.) purchase an autographed copy of one of your porn videos; (h.) lick the sweat off your body; (i.) drink your piss; (j.) worship your hard-muscled, naked body in general, and be your sex slave? (Men contact me and make other inquiries, but I think that about covers the basics.)
Does your family know what you do? What do they think about it?
Do you kiss your mother with that mouth of yours?
Have you no shame? (The answer to that one, at least, is easy. “Not much.”)
In this book, I will attempt to answer some, if not all, of these questions. After all, a guy has to leave something to the imagination.
I will promise one thing. These particular anecdotes have not been fictionalized. Some names have been changed, to protect the identities of my partners in crime, so to speak (more accurately, my partners in sin). But, except for that, everything narrated here took place exactly as I have described it. This is the uncensored, unvarnished, and unembarrassed truth. Warts and all!
Maybe I haven’t always been a person deserving of admiration, or a worthy role model for other young men to emulate. But I’ve never aspired to that. I’m just a small-town boy, after all, who left my home town of Debrecen in eastern Hungary to seek my fortune here in the big, bad city of Budapest. My ambition was to earn my living at an honest, nine-to-five job, while developing my physique in my spare time and competing first as an amateur, and then as a pro bodybuilder. My goal, which once seemed unrealistic and unattainable, was to win someday the title of Mr. Hungary. I couldn’t see past that.
As things turned out, I did become Mr. Hungary, and that was only the beginning. My physique opened other doors to me, and I took advantage of these opportunities. Maybe I’ve made some selfish, impulsive, and unwise choices along the way (translation: I’ve whored around, big time!), but I’ve never gone out of my way deliberately to hurt anybody. In fact, I think I can say that I’ve given a lot of pleasure to a lot of men.
Thanks, as always, to my translator, Sandor Vass. Sandor and I have been friends for so long that we have no secrets from each other. In fact, when I first told my buddy about this particular manuscript, he panicked.
“There’s nothing about me in this new book of yours, is there?” he asked.
I couldn’t resist the temptation to tease him a little. “Oh, whole chapters,” I assured him, breezily. �
��Starting with how you and I first met. And going all the way to that sex party we went to last weekend. You know, the one where you bet that anything and anyone I could do, you could do better—?”
Sandor, aghast, let out a squeal of protest—which, coming from such a big, butch guy, was rather comical to hear. “Now, you listen here, Steroids for Brains,” he blustered, addressing me by one of the many tender nicknames we have for each other. “I was drunk that night—”
“Which may have lowered your inhibitions, but it sure did nothing to impair your potency. You were quite the asshole bandit, as I recall. The life of the party.”
“If you write one word about what went on at that goddamn gangbang—!”
“Oh, relax,” I told him. “When I write about your peccadillos, buddy, I’ll devote an entire book to the subject. I’d have to, to do you justice. Come to think of it, a book about you might not be such a bad idea. I can see it now. And I know what the perfect title would be. Bilingual and Bisexual—The Memoirs of a Bodybuilder with Brains, as well as Brawn. It’s got a nice alliterative ring to it.”
I was quite pleased with myself, for having come up with that idea. Now I have something to hold over Sandor’s head, to keep him in line. [Translator’s note: In your dreams, Varady, you muscle-headed son of a bitch! You can kiss my ass!]
In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy these reminiscences of mine. They may not be morally elevating (nor are they intended to be), but they are, I believe, down to earth.
Chapter One: Drunk on My Spunk
I suppose every gay guy has a coming out story to tell. Such narratives tend to fall into one of two broad categories. There’s the standard “I was young and innocent, when I was seduced by a more experienced older man” scenario. And then there’s the equally classic “My buddy and I started to fool around together” tale. In my case, it was the latter.
Zdenek and I grew up together, in our home town of Debrecen. We went to school together. There, we played on the same sports teams—we swam competitively, and we played soccer. With our coaches’ encouragement, we both developed an interest in weight training. Pumping iron made us bigger and stronger, and better athletes. Some young guys just know, from the first moment they heft a free weight, that they’ve embarked upon a lifelong obsession. Zdenek and I were like that.
Zdenek, like me, was a big guy, with good genetics and a naturally sturdy build. His muscles responded well to weight training. He had a very fair, ruddy, pink-cheeked complexion, and a thick shock of wheat-colored blond hair. He looked kind of boyish—younger than his years. To be perfectly honest, he could look kind of clueless and dopey, too. I don’t mean this in a bad way, but it was true. Zdenek was a great guy, and a loyal friend to me, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, so to speak. There was an innocence about him which was undeniably appealing.
In contrast to Zdenek’s bland, blond, boyish good looks, I was dark, sultry, and somewhat saturnine. I flattered myself that I was rather sexy. I couldn’t help it—somehow, from a very early age, I simply seemed to project a mature sexuality, well beyond my actual years. It was a fraud, in a sense, because at first I wasn’t all that experienced. Once I lost my virginity, though, I began to make up for lost time, and I definitely learned fast!
The irony was that, back in those days, innocent-looking Zdenek was in fact the more experienced of the two of us, by far. We were close—but one night I found out that my buddy had been keeping certain secrets from me.
We trained together regularly, at the gym we both belonged to, and we hung out together in our spare time. Both of us soon became addicted to our weight training. Most Hungarian boys our age idolized professional soccer players, to the extent that they could get into brawls while debating the relative merits of the teams and players they supported. Zdenek and I liked soccer as much as anybody, but our heroes and role models were professional bodybuilders.
Each of us had his favorite. Zdenek was obsessed by a famous American bodybuilder, but I preferred an iron pumper from France. I thought that my Frenchman, in addition to having a magnificent physique, was damn good looking.
Already, I was aware that I had homosexual desires. They bothered me. I suppressed them, putting on an appropriate macho act. I even dated a few girls.
I took it for granted that my buddy Zdenek was straight. However, he did like to speculate about the various pro bodybuilders’ sexual proclivities. Zdenek was convinced that most of these muscle men “got down on their knees with their mouths wide open” and “bent over with their glutes spread” in order to satisfy one another sexually.
“Even the straight ones do it,” Zdenek assured me. “They can’t help it. The steroids they take increase their sex drive, and they’d go crazy if they didn’t have sex all the time. Once they get all pumped up, they can’t wait long enough to go home and screw their wives and their girlfriends. They just shove it in each other’s mouths and up each other’s butts.”
I was skeptical. Even without being on the juice, I had an extremely strong natural sex drive, myself. But I was sure that some bodybuilders must be not only straight, but uninterested in the kind of crude convenience sex which Zdenek had described.. Still, the thought of some of the sport’s biggest stars having sex with one another got my imagination going. I fantasized about my Frenchman in bed with other bodybuilders, and in my most daring, fevered moments I pictured him fucking me. This fantasy fueled some of my hottest masturbation sessions. I invariably shot off so volubly that I was afraid I might harm myself. Vive la France!
I was convinced that Zdenek would be disgusted if he ever found I entertained such forbidden thoughts. I didn’t want to risk losing my friend and workout partner.
When we went out at night, it wasn’t uncommon for one of us to crash at the other’s house. Both of us still lived at home with our parents, of course. Our two sets of parents thought that our friendship, and our obsession with weight training and bodybuilding, was perfectly natural, innocent and wholesome. It kept us out of trouble. We’d often share a bed, and I thought nothing of it.
On one such occasion, we ended up at Zdenek’s family’s house. Getting ready for bed, I took off all of my clothes as nonchalantly as though I was alone in my own bedroom at home, preparing to jerk off before I went to sleep—although I took it for granted that a masturbation session wasn’t going to be an option, tonight. There’d be no rendezvous with my French physique star this evening!
When I was naked, I went into the bathroom to take a leak. Then I returned to the darkened bedroom, where Zdenek was lying in his bed with the sheet pulled up to just below his navel. His thickly muscled torso looked quite impressive against the cheap white cotton sheets, and his blond hair was tousled on the pillow.
He looked at me and he laughed.
“Nice hard-on you’re showing there, buddy,” he remarked, teasing me.
Automatically, I looked down at my crotch. I couldn’t deny it. I did feel a nagging, languid kind of tension in my cock and balls, and my dick was beginning to sway out in front of me, almost parallel to the floor, as it got harder. I resisted the urge to touch it—to play with myself, to make it even stiffer—and I went to the other side of the bed and sat down on it.
“So, what are you waiting for?” Zdenek asked. “Climb in. Just try not to poke me with that big stiff thing,” he joked, throwing the sheet aside and baring his own body as far down as mid-thigh. His big cock and balls sagged down in a limp mass, filling the crease between his belly and one upraised leg.
I stretched out beside him. He turned out the light, which was on the nightstand beside his side of the bed. Lying there in the dark, I assumed we’d settle down, and go to sleep.
I was wrong.
I was taken by surprise when his warm, sweaty hand slid slowly over my chest, the fingertips lightly caressing one of my stiff nipples. I thought he was just trying to get my attention.
“What?” I asked him, grumpily.
“Nothing,” he murmured.
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He cupped my pec in his palm and his fingertips pinched my tit, gently. Confused, I tried to pull away. But—to my astonishment—Zdenek quickly reached over with his other hand, which he used to grab my dick, and to squeeze it—hard!
“What the fuck!” I exclaimed.
“Relax. I’m just playing around.”
“Well, I’m not in the mood to play around. I want to get some sleep. Let go of my dick.”
Far from letting go of it, he squeezed it even more aggressively, more possessively. “Nice,” he breathed, almost inaudibly. “Yeah—that’s one hell of a nice cock. Oh, you’ve got a big piece of meat.”
“Hey, you dirty, horny fucker—cut that out,” I protested, and I tried to sit up and pull myself away from him.
But my husky blond workout buddy was persistent, and he refused to be deterred. He rolled right over on top of me, his muscular weight pinning me down on the mattress, and he wrapped his strong thighs around mine—while he tightened his grip on my throbbing prick.
“Fuck off!” I exclaimed, as I tried to squirm out from under him.
“Keep your voice down,” he cautioned. “We don’t want my folks to wake up. We don’t want them to hear what we’re doing.”
I was confused. “Huh? What the fuck are you talking about? We aren’t doing anything,” I insisted.
“No? Aren’t we? Aren’t we going to? Who do you think you’re kidding, Emeric? You’re horny, too,” Zdenek accused me, with a strange mix of excitement and mockery audible in his voice.
I couldn’t deny it. I was aroused, all right, by the relentless pressure of his fist on my prick. But all of this was still new to me, totally unexpected, and in fact it was kind of scary, for a guy as repressed as I was.
“Fuck off,” I told him, again.
“Be quiet,” my bedmate urged me, in a whisper. “We don’t want my folks to know what we’re doing,” he repeated, with a strange sort of gloating urgency in his tone of voice. It was almost as though we were conspirators, engaging in some secret, forbidden activity together.
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