Big Is Better

BIG IS BETTER

By XH4M

This story is a fantasy. All characters in this story are fictional with no resemblance to any real persons implied. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males, who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should NOT read further. Copyright (c) 2002 XH4M. All rights, implicit or implied, except for distribution by this archive and personal use by the individual downloading the file, are reserved. Inquiries regarding publishing rights for this story should be directed to: xhuge4muscl@hotmail.com

PART 21 - HAPPY MEALS

Sam already had the food dished out and waiting on the table by the time I appeared in my Aladdin Halloween get-up. Gratefully, he made no comment about how comical I looked dressed in his loaned sweats, but only gestured to the empty chair and said, "Sit down! I's starvin'! Let's EAT!"

And eat we definitely did. It's hard to think of where to begin describing the sight in front of me, or the state of the kitchen in general. There were dishes and big pots and pans all over the place. The amount of food on the table was staggering, with bowls covering almost every available inch of the table. I looked over my shoulder for the rest of the missing platoon, certain they'd surely all be arriving for dinner any second.

First of all, there were no dinner plates. Instead, there were these huge oval platters where the plates were supposed to be. And on the platter set before me, the first thing I noticed was not a scoop - not a pile - not even a mound - but a VOLCANO of egg noodles. I'd seen noodles every day of my life. If there had also been some bauernschmaus, ochsenschwanzsuppe or eisbein (sauerkraut with smoked sausage, ox tail soup or pig knuckles) on the table, I'd have felt right at home. One glance at those egg noodles though told me they weren't home-made. My mom's always were. Egg noodles are the Amish equivalent of the potato, but functionally, they're more like what bread is to the Italians. It was always on the table at every meal - only not quite in the quantity waiting for me on my platter. And adjacent to the volcano of noodles sat a whole chicken. No, not a quail - not a game hen - not even a split-broiler - it was one fully-grown, god-damn chicken. Flanking the middle of the platter were, I'd say, 1/3 bushel each of carrots and peas.

So calling this 'a heap of food' was a gross understatement. I looked at the fork in my hand and found it laughably undersized for the challenge at hand, and wondered if Sam might have a garden trowel available. That would have been the utensil of choice for THIS meal. I will say however in Sam's defense, that at least the proportions of starches, protein and vegetables on the plate were approximately correct. It was the overall quantity that made me instantly nauseous.

I was so stunned that I couldn't decide where to even begin. I just looked at my platter, then looked across at Sam, and then back and forth again. Sam was already attacking his own platter without any similar difficulties. He looked up and caught me looking at him with the fork still poised in my hand. I wasn't intending to say anything. I wanted to be polite. But my eyes must have been screaming, "You've GOT to be kidding me!"

Looking somewhat embarrassed as if he'd done something wrong, Sam said sheepishly, "Oops. Guess I over did it a bit, huh, Pete?"

"It's just... it's just a LOT of food, Sam. It's way more than I know I can eat, that's all," I replied, quite truthfully - then adding 'in a month' quietly under my breath.

"I just forgets folks don't eat like me. I knows I eat like a sow at the trough. That's exactly what my Mama always told me. But I's hungry all the time! I reckon I spends most of my money on food. Y'all just eat what you wants to though - and don't worry 'bout it one bit, Pete. Ain't none of it goin' to waste, believe you me. I just LOVE leftovers!"

Seeing how Sam was attacking his food, I didn't think leftovers were a problem Sam had to contend with often. So knowing that I wasn't going to offend him by leaving 90% of this food uneaten, I raised my fork in the manner of a toast, and saying, "Zum wohl," started picking away at the animal carcass before me.

I watched Sam consume food like a stevedore stoking a ship's boiler. This man could S-H-O-V-E-L it in! I wonder now why I was surprised that this beast-sized man also ate like a beast, too - but I was. I really tried not to stare at him, but it was almost fascinating to watch. There was a bowl of big nuts set on the table - mostly walnuts and brazil nuts. Occasionally, Sam would reach into the bowl and, grabbing a few at a time, in rapid-fire succession simply crack them open with his bare hand. Actually, he did it right between his fingers, as if he was only pinching marshmallows. My eyes popped a little too as I noted for the first time that even his meaty fingers had pronounced veins running down the back of them. The dude must have had one H-E-L-L of a handshake! I'd need a hammer to do what Sam could do with just his fingers alone. At one point he noticed me staring at him just as he was about to crack another handful.

"Oh," he said apologetically, "that's kinda rude of me." Then crack-crunch-crack-crunch. He reached out and handed me the pile of freshly-opened nuts saying, "I's sorry - I don't have a nutcracker. Just weren't nothin' I ever thought to buy."

Yes, I could see easily enough why that item wasn't a high priority.

In the course of one sitting, Sam put away more than I ate in 3 days. And he could really talk, too. In fact, he did both amazingly well at the same time, though my mother certainly would not have approved. I found out quickly that Sam was an easy guy to have a conversation with, and I really started to enjoy the back-and-forth banter as we ate.

"What does that mean - that there 'zum wohl' thing?" Sam asked me at one point.

I explained that it was an expression that, loosely translated, meant 'to your health'.

"So - you speaks a foreign language, Pete?"

Well that opened up another topic of conversation, so as Sam continued to inhale everything edible in sight, I gave him the Cliff Notes version of my life.

"So that explains it!" he interrupted at one point, seeming pleased with some yet undisclosed observation that he'd made about me. "I thought there was something funny about the way ya talked. Ain't so much like ya got an accent, really. It's more like ya says some words funny every now and then. Now I remember who you reminds me of - that there fella', Gunter Schlierkamp!"

I thought his pointing out my 'funny talk' was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, but I let his observation pass without a retort from the Peanut Gallery.

Sam reciprocated by telling me more about his own roots and family background, sharing some surprisingly personal things with remarkable openness and candor. And Sam certainly minced no words.

I learned that his Dad was a professional wrestler long before wrestling became the major 'big bucks' entertainment industry it is today. His Dad never made a lot of money. It sounded like a very tough and demanding life. Sam was also just barely making ends meet himself, I gathered. He told me that he'd been lifting almost as long as he could remember - that weights were a part of him.

"That's just what I do," he'd said at one point. "It's in my blood, I guess."

He mentioned he'd always been big for his age. Then some other things he said made me think perhaps extremely big. Although his size had certainly caused him some problems as a kid, he'd nevertheless accepted it early-on and made the best out of it that he could. Although the details of our life histories seemed as different as night-and-day on the surface, I was nevertheless struck by a couple of things we apparently had in common. Neither of us had a lot of friends when we were kids. Me, because I grew up on a rural working farm, and Sam, because his family was eternally on the move. I learned that he'd sexually come-of-age early too, and had always preferred the "company of men" as he'd phrased it - and too openly so when he was younger, he also admitted. He figured that his size had probably protected him from the usual negative repercussions.

"It's kinda easy to be just who you is if ya happen to look like me. Nobody bothers you."

And it was evident that Sam found zippers - more what was behind them - particularly irresistible.

"It's cock, Pete - when it comes to guys, it's the ONLY muscle that matters!"

We'd both also worked hard when we growing up. He told me he'd gone to work in his very early teens - illegally underage - to help his family out with the cost of keeping him fed. Because he was already bigger than most adults by then, his falsified age was never questioned. I learned he'd never even come close to finishing high school. The jobs had varied from place to place as they'd moved around the U.S.A., but always boiled down to very physical labor of some kind.

"I weren't smart, but I was real strong, Pete. It weren't so hard for me...."

I told Sam that I didn't know a damn thing about weightlifting - that I was, in fact, a complete ignoramus on the subject. Then I asked if he'd explain some things about it to me, and especially some of the perculiar jargon I'd heard.

Well Sam lit up like a Christmas tree! That was all the encouragement he needed. He launched into the topic with such an infectious enthusiasm that I was captivated. In no time at all, I was hanging on his every word, trying to absorb as much of it as I possibly could.

He talked about the 'Big IS Better' gym downstairs and told me that he'd been working there steadily since he was in his late teens. For some reason the owners had recently made him the manager, although he quickly pointed out that he didn't particularly "know nothin' 'bout managin' nothin'" as he put it. He mentioned the owners' names to me, but they went in one ear and out the other. He did say that he got along "real fine" with them, and they seemed to like him a lot. I found out that he was also a part-time strength training coach for the athletic teams - mostly football - over at the college. He'd been doing that for quite a few years now.

"I ain't no coach though, Pete. I'm ain't that smart. That's somethin' the boys just took to callin' me."

Then he began to talk specifically about weight-training, powerlifting and bodybuilding - but it was all just liftin' to Sam. And the more Sam talked, the more engrossed I became. I was taken back by how much Sam knew - and in expert detail. He left me with no doubt whatsoever that he was an excellent strength-training coach. Even just hearing him talk about 'liftin' oddly excited me. And Sam explained it all to me, too - in detail - the basic progressive resistance exercise principals, the names of common exercises performed for particular muscles or groups of muscles, the training regimens and schedules, the impact of diet, many terms dealing with a workout or the equipment itself, and the names of all the specific muscles as well as some of the common 'slang' used by lifters. I learned about sets and supersets, negatives and positives, burns, and even what 'flexing' was. He was filling my head with so much information that it started to hurt. It was positively overwhelming! I couldn't possibly have retained even a fraction the information that Sam was sharing on the subject.

As he named specific muscles, he pointed them out to me, alternately using his knife or fork, on his own massive body so I'd know exactly which ones they were. The way that his sweat suit fit him, all of his muscles were obvious underneath it anyway. Those big slabs of bulging muscle running from behind his neck at a 45 degree angle down behind his shoulders were the very tops of his trapezius - his 'traps.' The large hemispheric basketballs of muscle capping each of his shoulders were his deltoids, or 'delts.'

At some point in the conversation, Sam started talking about 'getting a pump.' I didn't understand it, so I asked him to explain it more.

Sam looked down at his arms and said, "Well, these here are still pumped full a blood from curlin' before. I knows I get kind of a... well... 'unusual' pump. I stays pumped for a long time, like you can see here. The guys - they all say that they ain't never seen no one get pumped like me neither. See?"

Using my newly-acquired terminology, Sam raised his big guns in a double front biceps pose across the table from me, fork still in one hand and knife in the other. They looked somehow even impossibly bigger, contained as they were within the confines of the suddenly-ready-to-explode sleeves of his sweatshirt. I could hear the fabric stretching across those expanses of swelling rock. God, what huge perfect planetary bodies they were - magnificent Titans, in every sense of the word! I was taken back by how seeing Sam's flexed biceps, even while he wore a sweatshirt, so profoundly affected me. When he flexed them, his thick sweatshirt suddenly fit him like a second skin. His immense overall size also made it appear as if Sam was sitting at a card table, rather than a kitchen table. Somehow the skin-tight sweatshirt quantified the extraordinary width and taper of his back, the utter massiveness of his pecs and delts, and of course, the heart-stopping size of those big guns of his.

"So this here's a pretty good pump, Pete," Sam said very matter-of-factly, looking quickly at his left and right biceps. Then he relaxed and continued the conversation where he'd left off. His demonstration didn't leave me quite in the same 'relaxed' state however, and feeling momentarily embarrassed yet again, I was happy that aspect of me was still hidden from his sight under the table.

He continued with the names of some of the other muscles, pointing out his abdominals and intercostals next. He lifted his sweatshirt to show me the 'washboard' as well as 'the bed of stones' that framed them on each side. I was glad to be sitting down because I got seriously woozy again. The sight of this man's rock-hard, contoured abdomen and his utterly perfect, masculine love-trail made me want to jump across that table and start tracing the center gutter in his washboards with my tongue. Stuffed as I was, if this was dessert, I suddenly had the room!

Next up was the latisimus dorsii - the 'lats', or 'wings.' Sam put his hands on his hips and brought his elbows forward. Walls of muscle started to unfold like a giant Japanese fan behind him. And this 'fan' of thickening muscles kept getting astoundingly wider until they'd literally flanked the sides of the table. Luckily my mouth was empty at the moment or the food would have fallen right out of it. The breadth of Sam's back was so wide that I imagined him being able to jump off the top of a skyscraper and then, just spreading his lats, soar through the air like the Concorde.

"Yeah, I don't dare do this outside if there's a stiff breeze blowin'," he chuckled. Apparently this Andean condor with the huge wings was also psychic, too.

Sam stood up to point out his quadriceps, abductors and adductors and calves to me. Then he spun around and, looking over his shoulder, slapped his ass saying, "And these are the gluteus maximus muscles - my 'glutes.'"

I watched his butt thrust impossibly outward, transforming into two grooved beachballs of solid muscle as Sam ran his big hands slowly over their entire circumference.

"They's kinda big 'cause I'm a heavy lifter," Sam commented.

Yes, big - but absolutely BEAUTIFUL, too, I thought to myself. This was a real man's butt, and it was strangely, suddenly, powerfully compelling to me.

Apparently Sam noticed my special interest, so he added a final thought as he stroked them with his palms.

"I calls these my Big Pearly Gates. You believe in Heaven, don't 'cha, Pete?"

By the end of this anatomy lesson, I was so incredibly impressed - particularly with his ass - that I was tongue-tied. It felt like someone turned up the thermostat in the kitchen to 120 degrees.

"Oh God, yes.... I mean yes, God... errr... in God, yes - yes, I do...."

Sam sat back down and talked a bit more as he ate, then noticed I wasn't eating. He asked me if I was done.

I'd really only been trying to regain my composure, but I smiled, "I can't eat too much more. That was all great-tasting though. Thanks! You're a GREAT cook!"

Sam beamed momentarily, then promptly reached across the table for my platter. After transferring a good portion of my uneaten food onto his own, he set my 'reduced' portions back down again in front of me again and then continued chowing-down voraciously for awhile.

Then he looked up again and said, "Oh, I almost forgot some big ones!"

He reached over and retrieved a mammoth one-piece forged metal meat cleaver hanging from the side of a cabinet. This baby was industrial-sized, the two-handed variety used in a slaughter-house, not a butcher's shop. Sam noticed my puzzled looked.

"I have to buy meat wholesale and cut it all up myself. Couldn't afford it otherwise."

The handle was thick as a sledge hammer's, but made of gleaming solid steel. He held it vertically by the huge blade with the sharp edge facing me and then positioned the handle right in the center of his massive chest.

"And if you remember, Pete - these here are my pectoralis majors!"

The two squared massy mountains under his sweatshirt suddenly rose up and seemed to 'reach' outward, grasping the cleaver handle firmly within the deepening crevasse as the cliff faces of muscle closed in from either side. Then Sam let go of the heavy cleaver. Astoundingly, it remained there, firmly wedged between his two walloping pectoral masses.

I gasped so forcefully that I choked, unintentionally inhaling a whole noodle right down my throat. With my eyes tearing and coughing wretchedly, I reached for my glass of water. When I finally regained my composure, Sam was still holding the gravity-defying cleaver firmly in the muscular jaws of his pectoral vice. When he had my attention again, he reached for the chicken and proceeded to run it up an down over the stationary blade, carving slice after slice which fell back onto his platter below.

"But you can call 'em my pecs, Pete - or my man-tits - or even my muscle-boobs, if ya like," he said with a wink, and broke into a mischievous grin as he continued slicing off additional pieces of meat.

Occasionally Sam paused to lick his fingers. The cleaver wasn't budging so much as a centimeter the whole time Sam was carving. It looked to be as permanently fixed there as a tent pole anchored in cement.

"They's kinda big. Hell, they's probably way bigger than Dolly Parton's hooters, I reckon. But you can definitely tell these belongs on a man, though. I don't mind what 'cha call 'em...."

Well the only thing I was personally going to be calling them at the moment was FUCKING HOT! Despite Sam's good humor, nothing about their appearance suggested to me even the slightest feminine quality. Gigantic they were, but 'udders' they were not - in fact, I couldn't imagine anything more 'udderly' masculine. I instantly replayed in my mind how he'd controlled them so expertly - so unbelievably - almost like giant hands - jerking me off before in the living room.

And speaking of tent poles, it's a good thing I was still sitting down, because the 'big top' was going up rapidly under the table, the 'canvas' being hoisted embarrassingly high by the large center pole. I was completely turned-on again, and I wasn't even done with my dinner. So much for 'being cool.' I felt that telltale pulsing in my temples again. My eyes were immovably locked on the giant cleaver suspended between his major 'majors.'

"You need Salt Peter," I heard Sam say.

Damn! How could Sam possibly know that? Did this guy have x-ray vision, too? Flushed with sudden embarrassment, I replied rather honestly, "Castration, Sam. I think that's the only cure."

"Huh? Say what?" I heard Sam respond questioningly. Only then could I look away from his chest enough to realize that he'd been holding out the salt and pepper shakers in his hand - and looking a bit confused now.

"The salt. You want the salt, Peter? The veggies - they needs some more, I think...."

I said humbly, "Oh, ahhh... no thanks," and began playing with my food a bit nervously.

"So, Pete - do ya like 'em big on a man?" Sam asked, apparently fishing for a straight-forward answer from me this time. I seemed to like everything big on a man, so I told him exactly what I thought of his pecs.

"They're 'majors' all right. God they're huge, Sam... but they really look GREAT!"

The wide smile spreading across Sam's face indicated his obvious pleasure. He glanced off into space momentarily as if he was thinking something over.

Snapping his head back in my direction again, he blurted, "They's bigger than boobies, I reckon - but there's two differences. For one, these here ain't made of no silly-cone. Two - they's real hard... all 100% muscle. I's real strong, Pete! Do ya wanna see what else I can do with this big 'uns?"

Both his animated mannerisms and tone of voice reminded me again of that hard-to-define boyish quality I'd occasionally detected. Sam wanted me to answer with a very enthusiastic 'yes.'

"Sure I would!" I replied, still trying to keep my tongue from falling out of my mouth as I spoke.

Sam clearly hesitated again, as if thinking that he'd maybe spoken too impulsively or was otherwise having second thoughts. Then he nodded decisively as if he'd made up his mind to give himself the green light.

"Well O.K. then. Hey, what the hell, right? It ain't no big deal. You probably'll like this too, I reckon. Just watch now...."

With that, Sam winked and then closed his eyes. It only took me a few seconds to recognize this seemed oddly familiar. It reminded me of what happened downstairs in the gym when Sam was doing those standing biceps curls. I just stared at the giant cleaver still clutched between his massive pecs, patiently waiting for Sam to eventually open his eyes again. I didn't have to wait nearly as long as I'd expected. When he did, his eyes looked a bit vacant, and his lack of expression made him appear oddly distant. He was looking right at me, but more right through me.

His massive pecs began to congeal even more, forming up into impossibly bolder mountains projecting enough to cast a shadow over the edge of tabletop below - and all the while, swallowing up even more of the large handle between them. Then his insanely-swollen pecs started massaging, kneeding and otherwise maneuvering the metal shaft around between them. Responding to the enormously-concentrated pressure all along its thick shank, the whole cleaver began quivering. I was about to witness the devastating impact of a force-9 Chestquake in progress, as measured on the Samson scale!

Trapped deep within this great muscular fault, the quaking metal was heating from the friction caused by Sam's mammoth pectorals colliding, clashing and grinding by each other like giant slipping tectonic plates. And for the absolute ultimate in surrealistic 'finishing touches,' I thought I saw some faint wisps of smoke occasionally rising from the vicinity of this disaster unfolding within in the fold of Sam's sweatshirt.

Sam sniffed a few times as if he'd detected the traces of the smoke too, coming from literally beneath his own nose. That 'far-away' look in his eyes was immediately replaced with one that seemed more alert. He blinked several times then reached up, grabbed the blade with his fingers and began to relax the massive twin jaws of his muscular vice. The deep rift between his crushing pec mounds opened, releasing it's former death-grip on the handle. A chrome-flecked, discolored area on his sweatshirt where the handle had been engulfed became more evident as his mountainous pecs retreated back into broader muscular mesas again.

Sam simply held the freed cleaver out towards me. I assumed he wanted me to take a closer look. The polished chrome surface was dull and discolored. Several long cracks were evident in the steel shank itself and there were elongated concave depressions in the solid handle where it had been flattened more in the middle.

I gaped open-mouthed at the tortured implement. Knowing the cleaver was solid steel, I tried to convince myself it was a parlor trick of some sort. But the imbedded flakes of chrome on Sam's sweatshirt, still sparkling like glitter in the light, demanded that I once again suspend my belief about what was possible when it applied to this particular man, anyway. Sam was also gaping, too - but not at the cleaver. He was gawking down at the newly-charred area on his sweatshirt and looking a bit bewildered. He blinked his eyes a few times - then looked again - and began chastising himself aloud in the 3rd person.

"That was just plain dumb, Sam. You can't afford to be ruinin' no clothes...."

He looked at me almost apologetically and then pulled the cleaver back to take a closer look at it - and he didn't look pleased with what he saw.

"And that's even dumber, Sam," he muttered, reaching for his glass for a sip. "Now ya gotta buy another cleaver, too. Sometimes you're just so damn stupid!"

Ill-advised it may well have been, I suppose - but damn was it HOT, too! My big raised tent under the table, which was still out of Sam's direct view at that moment, certainly stood firmly on that point. I didn't want Sam to feel badly about what he'd done, but it was obvious that he did. I needed to significantly distract him and get his mind on something else immediately. At the same time I also wanted him to know how much his steel-crushing display of strength had very 'measurably' impressed me. Luckily, I thought of 'the genie in the bottle'.

I gathered up the ample circus tent around my supporting pole with both hands, pushed my chair back away from the table with my legs and stood up. Stepping up right into the table, I spun my empty platter, pointing it at Sam, and then let go of the Big Top right over it, lengthwise. Even cushioned by the sweatpants, it still made a impressive thud slamming down across the platter - and big impression apparently on Sam, too. His eyes popped wide open. Now it was his turn to choke, which he promptly did - blowing a mouthful of water half way across the kitchen.

My distraction having apparently succeeded, I continued by faking I was a little pissed off.

"Sam, I can't BELIEVE that you ACTUALLY let me PUT this thing IN THERE - in-between those LETHAL WEAPONS! Why, you could've KILLED me before!"

That seemed to do the trick. Sam just doubled over laughing.

"Seems like that's the pot callin' the kettle black to me," he finally retorted, sporting a grin. "That there's the REAL lethal weapon. Damn Pete, look what 'cha done to my sweatpants! I ain't never gonna be able to wear those again with that crotch so stretched out... or worse, I'll get me a hard-on every time I think 'bout how they got that way in the first place!"

Then as Sam gazed longer at the ample serving of beef lying across my platter, he stopped chuckling and became more serious.

"That's looks like a huge portion of meat. I ain't never seen nothin' like that. I'm gettin' hard just thinkin' 'bout what's wrapped up inside that there blanket...."

I noticed him move one hand down under the table. The subtle motion of his arm suggested that he might be playing with his crotch as his eyes lingered on my platter. This felt like the right time to give Sam some well-deserved mutual admiration in return.

"Well we're even then, Sam. I've never seen a man do anything like that before, either," I said, pointing at the molecularly-rearranged cleaver. Then patting the top of my tabled meatloaf I added, "This is all because of you, Sam. The thing's been swollen since I met you. You give me perpetually big meat. I never imagined a man could do that to... steel...."

"Oh, I's REAL strong, Pete. I got big muscles!" Sam responded, beaming from ear-to-ear, his persona taking on that distinctive, impish quality again.

That was the undeniable truth certainly, but there was something much more to Sam, too - that whole weird episode with those barbell curls. As breathtakingly hot as that had been to watch, it was also unnerving; and now, there was this mutilated cleaver on the table as well. My eyes were seeing what my mind was trying hard to reject. That wasn't so easy anymore. I had more than just a few unanswered questions. I sat back down on the chair again.

"But just how strong ARE you, anyway?" Then I pointed to the cleaver again. "Sam, is this some trick you've playing? It doesn't seem possible that a man could... I mean, that IS solid steel, right? Did you REALLY do that?"

"Yeah, I did, Pete," Sam sighed, seeming suddenly remorseful all over again. "And I should know better than to go doin' stuff like that. I's dumber than a jackass somtimes!

Sam was still mad at himself; in fact, it sounded a little self-loathing to me. I jumped right in, intent on nipping this whole thing right in the bud.

"Whoa there. Whoa right there, Sam. Let's back up. I'm the one who asked you to do that... well sorta. You didn't do anything wrong. Cross my heart and hope to die... you're AWESOME!"

"That makes me happy, Pete, to hear ya say that," Sam said feigning a half smile, "'cause I think by now ya know I think you's awesome too. But I told ya that I'm a freak. You don't even know the half of it yet, Pete. Hell, I don't know nothin' 'bout how or why I'm the way I am. That's just the way the Good Lord made me. He made me real strong, sure enough - but He made me different in some other ways, too. I can do things that other guys can't...."

I interrupted him. "Do things, Sam? What things? How can you do them? I don't understand."

Sam continued talking but didn't respond directly to my questions either. For a guy who had often startled me with his blunt directness, this was the first time Sam was acting the least bit cautious or guarded.

"...but I ain't got no idea why or how. There's a professor guy over at the college. He's also a real medical doctor - one of them extra-smart dudes with lots of initials after his name. This here doc took a shinin' to me a while back. The guy happened to be in the weight room one day when I was foolin' around with some weights after the other guys left. Nothing serious - I usually fool around awhile when I'm done coachin' the guys. Then he showed up a couple of more times when I was there by myself doin' some heavier liftin'. He sat down and just watched me, which ain't really so unusual. I's gotten used to that - people starin' at me. That's why I only does serious liftin' when nobody's around. Anyways, this guy comes over and starts talkin' with me. Seems he's a regular lifter himself. He told me he'd been liftin' since he was an undergraduate. He said that he'd been watchin' me enough to know I's real strong. He turned out to be a real friendly guy, too. Matt's his name. He's doin' research for the Sports Medicine Department. He wanted a shot at trying to figure out what makes me the way I is, and he wondered if maybe I'd like knowin' that, too. He thinks I'm kinda special, I guess. So the short of it is, Pete - I said yes, I'd let him. Boy, you wouldn't believe all the tests and other things they done to me! Maybe someday he'll figure somethin' out, and I'll know why I'm a freak. Maybe he won't. Real regular guy though, that doc. I liked him right from the first day we talked."

I took several slow breaths, thinking carefully about what I should say next.

"Sam, I want you to just remember that I'm more than a bit of a freak myself. Remember when you asked me to trust you?"

"Yeah, I do, Pete," Sam nodded.

"Right now, Sam, I guess that I need you to trust me. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think that you do - at least not at this moment. It's exactly like you've been telling me all along. So let your own genie out of the bottle! I'd really like to get to know you better - and that means everything about you, too. I'd sure like to know how strong you really are, too, if you're willing to trust me...."

And just in case Sam was still waffling a bit, I thought it might not hurt the cause to toss an enticement into the ring.

"Sam, were your serious before about wanting to have 'real sex'? Maybe it won't be exactly like you're expecting, but... but I'd sure like to give it a whirl - especially when it'd be with you...."

I was gradually figuring out that placing an insurance bet - at least when it came to Sam - was definitely the way to play the game. I fact, mention sex to Sam and it wasn't even a game of chance anymore. I could beat the house anytime.

Sam's face lit up like a kid with a new bicycle. "I DO trust ya, and I did right from the get-go, Pete. I's feelin' mighty good now that I got food in me. I'm all fueled up and rarin' to go! I think I'm maybe feelin' even e-x-t-r-a strong, Pete," he said with an extra-sexy devilish flash in his eyes. Then he qualified his statement a bit. "I wanna show ya, but this'll be somethin' real special for your birthday... somethin' private-like between you and me, O.K.?"

Now I was the one nodding his head affirmatively - practically shaking it off of my neck, actually.

Sam broke out in a mile-wide grin. "Yeah, we'll just BE freaks - nothin' held back at all. Birthdays are supposed to be really BIG deals! So what do ya say we get HUGE together! Then we'll be pumped up for some real... gees, I can't hardly wait! But first things first. Let's go, Pete - we can just leave these dishes...."

A quick look at the piles of old dirty ones all over the kitchen suggested that was standard operating procedure for Sam. He made a cursory pass at clearing the table, tossing our dinner dishes on top of the stacks of others lining the counters.

"Go where, Sam?"

"Backstage, boy - to my REAL Pump Room...."