Pygmalion '68

[I'm posting this on behalf of my friend, M.U., who wishes to remain anonymous. -- rpj]

PYGMALION '68, Part 1

The MuscleKid

I was a little later than usual walking home from school. I had spent a little extra time after classes `working' (really just fooling around) in the computer room at the high school with some of my friends. It was the last week of my first year in high school -- that easy-going week when the exams are done and all that's left are the grades and the goodbyes.

Barry was walking along the other side of the street a few blocks from my house. I'd known him as a casual acquaintance for a few years now, but even though we were about the same age, we were not in any of the same classes. I was an `honors' student and he was -- well, he was an average student. It had been a few months since I'd seen him, but he hadn't changed much. His brown hair might have grown out a little longer, but otherwise he was the same Barry. I called over to him to get his attention.

``Barry! How's it going? Ready for summer?''

``Yeah, finally! Gonna just relax and swim and tan.''

``Yah, oh sure, you'll really knock 'em dead at the beach with those muscles.''

``Well, they're better than they used to be. Besides, you're not exactly Mr. America yourself!''

``Yeah, but anyone's stronger than you!''

``Yeah? OK, C'mon, let's see what you got!''

I dropped my books as we both got down onto the pavement and resumed our tradition of years. I knew that neither of us was particularly strong, but we were very close in strength and size -- I was the tall one at over 6' -- and whenever we met, we went through the same ritual of arm-wrestling to see who was the stronger. Sometimes he won, sometimes I did. We gripped hands, and on the count of three, we were locked in combat. For several seconds, there was no motion besides some shaking of our hands with the strain. But then I began to tire, and slowly his hand forced mine back until it hit the sidewalk.

``Can't beat these muscles this time!'' he crowed, and flexed his arm as we stood up.. I felt the bulge in his bicep. It felt sort of as if someone had shoved a decent-sized lemon into his upper arm. It was about the same as mine, I thought, but I liked the feel as he flexed for me.

Not exactly cold hard steel,'' I remarked, but you're right, I guess there's more muscle there than last time.''

Bigger than yours now I bet,'' he said. I flexed for him as he grabbed my arm. He squeezed my own bicep critically, and added, Hey, I think you're a little bigger than you used to be, too. I guess the stuff they make us do in gym isn't a complete waste of time.''

We both flexed our biceps for each other, each measuring the other's size and firmness with his hand, and, as always I felt my dick swell in reaction to our little muscle contest. And, as always, I hoped Barry didn't notice. At that moment, there was a voice from a little ways behind me.

``You guys are funny!''

I turned around, embarrassed that someone had been watching. Walking over to us was a short kid with a mop of light brown or blond hair, probably in sixth or seventh grade at the most, wearing jeans and one of those oversized `surfer' shirts that some guys like to wear. In a voice that had obviously just begun to change, he said, ``You guys act like you're strong and got muscles and stuff, and you're so skinny! I bet I can beat either one of you.''

Barry looked at the kid, whose head barely reached my chest, and grinned. ``Yeah? You think you can beat the champ?'' He flexed his arms again for emphasis. I just remained quiet.

Come on, you'll see!'' The kid stretched out on the ground and bent his elbow. His oversized sleeve still covered his upper arms to his elbows. He gave Barry an impatient look. What's the matter? Scared?''

Barry just snorted and got back down on the ground. He gripped the kid's hand. OK,'' I said. On the count of three. One...two...THREE!'' Barry and the kid began to push. Barry was really struggling, and his face grew red. After only a second or so, the kid's hand steadily pushed Barry's to the ground!

The kid was grinning widely up at me. You wanna try?'' he asked. I looked at Barry, as if to ask, is this for real?'' but he was still sitting on the ground staring at the kid. I had to find out, so I got back down on the ground and gripped the kid's hand. I immediately noticed that he had a much firmer grip than Barry did.

Barry shifted his position uncomfortably, and said, ``Uh...yeah, all right, on three. C'mon, Mike, you can take him -- he's just a little kid. He caught me off guard is all. One, two...THREE!''

It was plainly obvious that this little kid, maybe three or four years our junior, was stronger than either Barry or me. Once again, it only took a few seconds before the match was over, and the kid was the victor.

You guys think you've got muscle, it was so funny watching you flex.'' the kid said. He pulled up the loose sleeve from his upper right arm. This is real muscle!'' He flexed his arm. I heard Barry take a breath. If Barry's arm looked like someone had shoved a lemon under the skin, this kid had shoved a fair-sized orange into his small-boned upper arm. I reached over and felt his rounded bicep. No, not an orange -- more like a small caliber cannonball! It was hard as iron, without the babyfat that you usually see in a kid just hitting puberty.

I felt the hardness in my shorts intensify. My breathing became shorter, and I stammered, Cold hard steel. That's...amazing!'' Barry felt the kid's arms -- he was flexing in a double bicep'' pose with both sleeves pulled up -- and just stood there looking embarrassed at being outclassed by this little kid.

This is impossible,'' Barry said. He felt his own upper arm self-consciously. A kid like you can't have muscles like that!''

``Yes I can! Compared to me, you guys's muscles are just pipsqueaks!''

``How...how old are you?'' I finally asked. I mean, maybe he was just a sixteen-year-old who looked real young, though I didn't think so. I was feeling a little weird, as always, at getting all hard over this muscle stuff, and getting hard over a little kid seemed even more weird. I hoped nobody noticed how much I was shaking.

Twelve,'' he replied. He stood a little taller, and added importantly, and a half. Why? How old are you?''

``Fifteen,'' I answered glumly. Two fifteen year old high-school guys humiliated by a little junior-high twelve-year old.

I'm Barry, and this is Mike.'' That was odd; Barry seemed to have decided to become friends with the kid. What's your name?''

Stan,'' the kid answered. Stan The Muscle Man!''

``You're really strong, Stan. How did you get so much muscle?'' I asked, ignoring the bravado.

``Oh, well, I've been lifting weights since last year. I used to be almost as puny as you guys, when I was a little kid.''

I was getting an idea, and I thought maybe Barry was thinking the same thing. Maybe if we made friends with this musclekid, we could build up some muscles of our own over the summer lifting weights with him. Maybe we'd even get to teach him a lesson when were were stronger.

Stan!'' a man's voice called out from a nearby house. Stop making fun of those guys! I've told you not to brag and show off.''

I'm sorry, Jonathan,'' Stan called, but they wanted to know how I built my muscles up. They were flexing and stuff, and I was just showing them what real muscles are!''

Well, if they're into muscles, you shouldn't make fun of them,'' Jonathan's voice called. Bring them over here.''

``Who's that?'' I asked.

``Jonathan. He's my friend with the weights,'' Stan said as he headed for the nearest house. I picked up my books and we followed, not knowing quite what to expect.

PYGMALION '68, Part 2

Jonathan

Stan walked up the driveway of the house and went in the unlocked back door. We were in a nondescript but clean kitchen. ``Jonathan? Where are you?'' he called out.

From an open door at the back, we heard Jonathan call, ``I'm in the gym, Stan, bring them back here.''

Stan led us through the rear door into a large room that was apparently a converted garage. It was full of barbells, dumbbells, and assorted other equipment, some of which I didn't recognize. The walls were covered with the covers of magazines I had seen at the newsstands, but never had the nerve to pick up -- Iron Man'', Muscular Development'', and others, as well as some much older-looking magazines with names like ``Physique Pictorial''. In a corner of the room was a raised area with a spotlight of some kind above. A large mirror covered half one of the walls.

But I didn't take in these details right away, because I was staring at Jonathan. He was actually a little shorter than me, but I had the impression of someone towering over me. He was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off, open at the front, showing tanned and smooth chest muscles (I only later learned they were called pecs') thicker than any I had seen, atop a washboard'-like stomach. His arms seemed to me as thick as my legs, and there were thick veins running along this biceps and throughout his forearms. His oversized trousers were belted in at the top, showing a narrow waist. He must outweigh me by a hundred pounds, I thought. His face was friendly and open, with a couple day's growth of beard. His long light-brown hair was tied at the back. I figured him for a college student, perhaps because of the ``USC'' bumper-sticker that adorned the back of one of the benches.

``I don't think I want to be that big,'' Barry murmured.

``Not much danger of that,'' I whispered dryly.

``Hi, I'm Jonathan Leblanc. I see you've met my star pupil. Stan, whom have you brought?'' Irrelevantly, I was impressed by his proper grammar.

This is Barry,'' said Stan, and Jonathan reached forward and shook Barry's hand. And this is Mike.'' Jonathan grasped my hand in his own. It was actually no bigger than mine, with callouses on the palm, and a strong but not overwhelming grip.

``Glad to meet you guys. Stan said you wanted to know how he built up his muscles -- well, this is the place. Have a seat.'' Barry and I sat on a bench, with Jonathan sitting on another across from us.

Barry got right to the point. ``Can you give me muscles like you did with Stan?''

Jonathan looked at Barry and grinned. He turned to me. ``Mike, is that what you want, too?''

I looked over at Stan the musclekid, and at Jonathan, the muscleman. I had never really talked to anyone like Jonathan before -- or Stan, for that matter. There were muscular guys at school, of course, but they usually treated me with contempt, if they paid attention to me at all. So, talking with someone like Jonathan and Stan was kind of scary. I was shaking. Steadying myself, I said, ``I'd like to be able to have muscles like yours someday.''

Jonathan looked us over. He flexed his arms. If Stan's hard round biceps were like oranges, then Jonathan's were like someone had shoved melons into his arms. Before I could think, I reached across and squeezed a steel arm. My hand barely made it halfway around. Oh, wow,'' I breathed, while Barry just exclaimed, more bluntly, Fuck!'' Jonathan looked seriously from me to Barry. ``You're impressed? Well, these arms took years to build. Let me tell you something. I can't `give' you guys muscles. I can show you how to lift weights, and let you come here and lift with me. I can tell you about how to eat, because you can't get bigger without eating. I can teach you how to show off your muscles to the best advantage. But there are no magic pills, no SuperSoldier serum, no magic Hercules Ring,'' (he shot a smile over at Stan, who responded with an embarrassed blush at some private joke), "and no secret Charles Atlas programs. I can't give you muscles, guys. You have to work for them, and I mean 100%. It's not going to happen overnight, and you have to be totally focused when you're lifting, and be thinking about your training whenever you eat and sleep.

``And that also means you guys don't do grass, no uppers, no dropping acid, not even booze or cigarettes, you understand?'' I glanced at Barry, who looked very serious and nodded. I knew that Barry smoked from time to time, so this was no trivial matter.

I swallowed. My mouth was dry. If we do all that, and do everything you tell us, and lift with you all summer, what kind of muscles will we have when school starts in September?'' I asked. Will we look like you? Like Stan?''

Jonathan looked from me to Barry and back, considering. ``Stand up and take your shirts off. You too, Stan.'' Barry stood up and pulled his shirt off quickly, eager to show off his physique. I followed suit, and looked over at Stan, who already had tossed his shirt to the floor. Stan was not unnaturally huge or anything -- inches shorter than Barry and obviously much lighter, but he showed ridges of muscle all over his body, sharply defined. Stan was one of those people who never put an ounce of fat on his body, and every muscle in his body stood out like carved marble.

OK, guys, flex your arms. Stan, show them how I want to see it. See, Barry, don't hunch up your shoulders like that...better.'' He walked around us, and I felt his hands gently squeeze on my flexing arms and my shoulders from behind. I wished that it had been me squeezing *him*, and once again, I felt like my dick was going to escape from my pants. Jonathan apparently didn't notice. OK. Now, Stan, show them how to do a side-chest.''

Stan turned his side to us, joined his hands in front of him, pulled his shoulders back, drew in his stomach and flexed his chest to show unexpected thickness. Through his thin skin I thought I could pick out individual muscle fibers at the center of his chest. ``See how he sort of pulls his arm across his chest to tense the muscle? Now you guys do it.'' I did my best to imitate the musclekid's pose. It was amazing to watch this seventh-grader with a body that most high school boys might envy. Gently, Jonathan corrected my posture and showed me just how to apply the resistance to tense the muscle properly. He felt my chest as I flexed. Once again, I longed to do feel Jonathan's chest instead, but did as I was told and performed the pose more or less properly.

I looked over at Barry, who was doing a pretty fair imitation of Stan's pose, but, like me, was obviously showing much less pectoral thickness than Stan; really hardly any at all. Still, Barry seemed to be enjoying this. He was always more of a showoff than me. Jonathan watched us, looking us up and down critically. Somehow he missed the swelling between my legs.

``You picked up those poses pretty well the first time. OK, I think I have a fair idea of what kinds of physiques you guys have.

Have you guys ever done any bodybuilding at all? Outside the usual gym-class pushups and stuff?'' We both shook our heads. Barry, how much do you weigh? And how tall?''

``About 132. I'm five-foot ten''

``And you, Mike?''

``About 138. I'm six feet. And a half an inch,'' I added, unconsciously imitating Stan.

``All right, look. Between now and the start of school is about three months, right? This stuff takes time, and as I said, nothing comes overnight. Three months isn't a real long time, but if you come here regularly, and do everything I tell you, and really work when you're in here, by the end of the summer you should expect to be anywhere from 145 to 160 pounds, Barry, and Mike, since you're taller, you should add maybe 5 or 10 pounds to those numbers. That will be pretty much all muscle. I can just about guarantee you that your arms will be bigger than Stan's are, and you'll look more muscular than most of the guys your age. How does that sound?''

Barry and I looked at each other, looking up and down at each other's physique. I looked over at Stan, who flexed his arms again with his hands behind his head, and tensed some amazingly-ridged stomach muscles as he saw me looking at him. He grinned his now familiar smartass grin at me. But then I looked into Jonathan's face and everyone else in the room disappeared. ``It sounds really tough. I don't know if I can do it, but I'll try. Tell me what to do.''

Jonathan put his hands on my shoulders and gave a friendly squeeze. ``Great! Barry, what do you think?''

Barry looked at me. Any muscles Mike can build I can build bigger,'' he said. I'm in!''

Jonathan clapped Barry on the back. ``All right! Stan, looks like our little Muscle Club has four members now! From now on, these are our training partners and buddies. We don't make fun of them, we encourage them; we don't put them down, we bring them along the road to muscular bodies like ours. Understand?''

Stan looked from Barry to me. I thought he was going to make another crack about how much better his body was, but instead he said, ``You bet! You'll see, Mike. It's tough all right, but by the end of the summer, maybe you'll be showing off your muscles for me! Nobody knows this stuff better than Jonathan!'' He looked at Jonathan with a bit of understandable hero-worship, a look returned by a fond smile from Jonathan

One for all and all for one,'' I said. Guess we'll have to be called The Four Muscleteers!''

Barry groaned, Shit, Mike!'' while Stan giggled. Jonathan gave me a warm smile, and said, Hmmm...I'll have to think about that one.'' He tossed Barry and me our shirts. ``Well, welcome to the club, men. It's really too late for training today, so come in tomorrow after school, say 3:30, and we'll get started. Bring your own gym clothes if you can.'' He led us to the door.

Jonathan,'' I said tentatively, I just have one question. Why are you helping us? Why spend time on a couple of skinny high school kids?''

``Who's skinny?'' said Barry.

Jonathan looked at my textbooks. ``You're a pretty sharp student, I think? OK, well, let's just say `Pygmalion'. OK?''

I thought for a moment, remembering the play that had been the basis for `My Fair Lady', and supposed that Jonathan meant that he liked the challenge, like Henry Higgins accepting the bet of transforming Eliza Doolittle. In my mind's ear, I heard Rex Harrison's voice saying, ``She's so deliciously low''.

OK,'' I said. Thanks.''

As we walked to our own homes, Barry and I couldn't stop talking. Barry mostly talked about how great he was going to look in the fall, and I was mostly talking about how Jonathan and Stan had amazing physiques and we were really lucky to have hooked up with them. Finally, Barry asked me what Jonathan meant by Pygmalion'. I explained about My Fair Lady', which satisfied Barry. But for some reason, it seemed to me that I was forgetting something. Still, I wasn't about to let it bother me. Whatever happened, it was going to be quite a summer.

Pygmalion '68, Part 3

Nocturnal Interlude

I did not tell my parents or big brother about our Muscle Club. I was sure they would not understand my suddenly becoming twelve-year-old Stan's new buddy, and as for Jonathan ... well, something told me that they wouldn't approve of my spending hours in the garage of a near-total stranger over the summer. Besides, my brother was at UCLA, and would have a few choice words about fraternizing with a USC man!

The dinner conversation was pretty ordinary. Of course, I said, I was looking forward to summer school, yes, a lot of kids were still in shock about Bobby Kennedy's assassination, especially the ones who had walked precincts for him. A bunch of people from the Los Angeles science fiction club are going together to see `2001', can I go with them? The subjects of muscles, bodybuilding, and two new friends never arose.

But that night, I dreamed about Jonathan, his body glistening with sweat in a pair of briefs, flexing his sculpted muscles while Barry (also covered with new muscle), Stan (taller and more muscular than the real Stan) and I surrounded him and stroked him over his entire body, rubbing his body with our hands and faces and ...

I woke up. It was 2am, and my boner was as hard as I could remember it ever being. I lay on my belly and pushed down with my hips, causing a pleasant tickling sensation that just caused it to throb more insistently. Surprised at the feeling, I repeated the motion, rubbing my dick up and down in bed, faster and faster as the images of Jonathan, Stan, and even Barry, all flexing their muscular bodies, raced across my mental screen. Without warning, there was a squirt of warm fluid from my penis, then another, and another, and another...I sighed with pleasure and surprise at the badly needed release of the sexual tension that had been building all day.

Yes, I know, by the time most guys are fifteen, they've long since made this little `discovery' ... but it took me a few moments to understand just what it was I had done, and what it implied about me. Hell, I thought, I guess I'm officially queer now. I resolved that Jonathan and the others would never find out. They wouldn't want a queer in the Muscle Club, and right now, I wanted to be there more than anything in the world.

Oddly, my next thought was to wonder what Mom would think when she did the laundry. A cinch that I wasn't going to say anything about it!

I slept really well the rest of the night, with no further dreams that I could remember.

Pygmalion '68, Part 4

Training Begins

It was a good thing that there was no real schoolwork left, because my mind was completely elsewhere. I couldn't wait to start musclebuilding with Jonathan, and counted the minutes until the end of the day. I met Barry in front of the school and we walked -- about as fast as you can still call walking -- to Jonathan's house. We came to the back door and knocked.

``It's open, guys! If I'm expecting you, just come on in and go right back to the gym.''

We did so, and entered the gym. Barry was wearing the same baggy pants as yesterday and a big loose USC sweatshirt. ``You made it! Let's get started. Stan The Muscleman won't be here, it's the rest day in his training schedule. We'll try to get you in synch with his schedule so you can all train together. Did you guys bring your gym clothes?''

Both Barry and I had done so; we would not be needing them for the remainder of the week, so it worked out pretty well.

``OK, you can change right here if you like, or you can use the bedroom in the house.''

I shrugged. By high school, I had gotten over any particular modesty about nudity in the locker room, and I had discovered that I never got a boner when I knew that everyone could see it. So Barry and I changed into jock-straps and loose Hamilton High shorts. Barry went shirtless; I wore my green gym shirt.

Leave the shirt off for now, Mike,'' Jonathan told me. Before we start getting acquainted with the weights, let's keep a record of where you started. Trust me, you'll be glad to have it later.''

He brought out a ten-second Polaroid camera rather like my Dad's, and pointed at the raised area in one corner.

He threw a wall-switch, and a very bright spotlight above the dais came on. ``I just want to take some basic pictures. Barry, you first. First, just stand there relaxed facing me...good...'' He took about six pictures of Barry, front, back, and side, posed and relaxed. Barry may not have had much of a physique, but he really liked posing and it was a lot of fun watching.

These came out pretty well,'' Jonathan said as he applied the plastic fixer to the pictures. OK, Mike, get up there, it's your turn.''

I hesitated. I was always camera shy, and posing like this...

What's the matter, Mike,'' Barry taunted, afraid you're gonna break the lens?''

Stop that, Barry!'' Jonathan barked. Mike, this is just for comparison with later. Nobody will ever see them except you and me.'' I hesitated again, and then walked over to the dais. ``Good, Mike. Now just stand relaxed. Good...'' I felt really silly standing there, especially flexing my puny muscles for a camera, but it was over quickly.

``Alright, now I'm going to take some measurements. Someone once said, `When you can measure something, and express it in numbers, you know something about it...''

``Lord Kelvin,'' I interrupted.

``What?''

``Lord Kelvin said that. He was a physicist,'' I explained. I had seen the quote as part of a deck of computer cards at City College where I sometimes did computer stuff on Saturdays. When the deck was printed out, a picture of a naked woman appeared, with the quote. I always found the quote more interesting than the woman.

Uh...OK,'' Jonathan said, I didn't know that. Thanks. Anyway, taking your measurements regularly will help us track your muscle growth, and it'll let us catch sticking points and problems. Barry, flex your right arm...now hold it...''

Jonathan wrapped a tape measure around Barry's arm, then wrote a number on a card that he had brought. He measured Barry's arms, his expanded chest, his waist (``don't suck it in...''), his calves and his thighs. This last measurement was taken right at the top of the leg. I prepared myself, resolved not to let Jonathan's touch make my dick get hard when my turn came.

I watched as Jonathan took my measurements, focusing on the numbers, trying to work arithmetic in my head and keep my mind away from anything that would excite me. If my arm grew 10%, then in September it would be 13.2 inches... I watched as he filled in spaces on my card in rows marked BICEPS(L) and so on. 12-inch biceps. 36-inch chest. 31-inch waist. 19-inch thighs. 12-inch calves. I looked at Barry's card, and saw numbers that varied only slightly from mine, with a smaller chest but heavier thighs. He weighed us on a balance-type scale like you see in a doctor's office. I was 137; Barry weighed 132.

``Good. We'll put the cards and pictures away for three weeks and then check again. Mike, you can put your shirt on again if you want. For the first few workouts with the weights we're going to use light weights, so that your muscles can get used to the movements so that everything is balanced and stable when we start getting heavier.'' He brought out another pair of cards for Barry and me, this time with rows marked SQUAT, B. PRESS and so on.

Over the next hour or so, Jonathan showed us all the basic exercises, marking the weights we were doing in the appropriate spaces. B. PRESS: 3@65x10 he wrote. Sometimes I was particularly awkward with an exercise and made nervous jokes like, ``Well, what do you expect from a computer Poindexter?'' Barry thought my comments were funny, but Jonathan didn't even smile.

By 4:30, we were pretty tired. As we toweled off and changed back into our street clothes, Jonathan clapped each of us on the shoulder and said, ``That was a good first day, guys. Now, you might be sore tomorrow, because you're using muscles you never used before.'' I thought irrelevantly to my own `never used these muscles before' experience of the night before.

I wasn't sore from that... ``Even if you're sore, come in tomorrow and we'll do a little more training and talk about your eating. Barry, if you go into the kitchen, I made a couple of bowls of tuna salad for you and Mike in the ice box. Go and have one; I want to talk to Mike for a couple of minutes.''

Barry looked a little surprised, but went out into the kitchen. I was alone with Jonathan. I looked at him, a little nervously.

``What the Hell is with those jokes?'' he asked harshly.

I looked blank, and a little scared. I didn't have any idea of what he was talking about, and said so. ``When you're training. You're always going on with the four-eyes' this and skinny guy' that! What sort of trip is that?''

``They're just jokes -- it's not like I'm putting anyone down...''

``Yes you are -- yourself! Tell me something. When you visualize how Barry will look come September, what do you see?''

``Well, I imagine him maybe a little leaner, with bigger chest and arms...''

``You can see that image in your mind's eye?''

``Sure.''

``OK, now: when you visualize yourself at the same time, what do you see?''

I saw what he was getting at. I was quiet, so he said it for me. A skinny four-eyed honors student with pale skin.'' I nodded, embarrassed, and Jonathan sighed. Look, man, it's time to forget that whole trip everyone's been laying on you. Because you're the smart guy, everyone tells you that smart guys are puny little weaklings, four-eyed nebbishes whose life stories are filmed starring Arnold Stang or Wally Cox. Every comic book tells you that the guy with glasses is inevitably a complete wimp or, at the best, a mild-mannered reporter.'' I smiled at the reference. He continued, ``But seriously, you've heard it so long that you believe it yourself. You've been repeating it here all afternoon.

``I have to tell you right now, that if you don't really believe, and I mean really believe, all the way down to your guts, that there's a strong, muscular, confident guy inside of you waiting to get out, nothing you do in here will change it. I knew a guy in high school who had the same hang-up as you. He lifted weights for a while, saying, `well, maybe I'll get bigger.' He gave up after six months.''

I felt like I'd let Jonathan down already. I mean, maybe queers just aren't cut out to be bodybuilders. I looked at him, and said quietly, ``But I've never been strong or...''

Fuck that! Look at Barry. His physique isn't any better than yours, and he's up there posing and flexing and showing off like he's Dave Draper or someone. He works out without his shirt; you want to wear yours. Remember Stan? `Stan, the Muscle Man, that's me!' from someone who weighs less than 120 pounds!'' He looked at me; I looked at the floor. Mike, listen. You and I both know that there are guys your age who get as much food and exercise as you do, and their physiques are much worse than yours. I'll bet you can think of a guy in your class who's got biceps that look like your wrists, or guys who are so fat you can't tell whether they're vertical or horizontal.'' I nodded. ``OK, then, you have to figure that means that your body responds pretty well to food and exercise and has at least average potential to grow -- otherwise you'd look like them. You think you're puny and skinny, but really, you're in pretty good shape for someone who only gets the exercise that's forced on him in high school gym classes. And when I took your pictures today, I noticed that your shoulders are really naturally wide, just from the bone structure. You're going to get a really nice V-shaped torso when those muscles start growing. Mike, dammit, look at me when I'm talking to you!''

I looked up, murmuring, ``Sorry,'' in a quiet voice. He started to reach out towards me, as if he were about to grab me by the shoulders and shake me or something -- he really seemed upset. With a frustrated look, he pulled his hands back and closed his eyes, as if trying to control himself.

Listen to me,'' he said. You have the potential to build yourself a strong, muscular body. Better than Barry's. Probably better than Stan's. Maybe, after three or four years, better than mine!'' I gave him a dubious look. ``I'm serious. But starting tomorrow...no, starting today, you need to see yourself as MuscleMike the Bodybuilder. You need to flex in the mirror and see not just the body you have now, but the strong muscular body you're building every day. You do that, and the rest will be easy. What do you say?''

``Can't I still be Mike with the brains?''

He gaped at me in what I took to be surprise, then laughed. ``Of course you can! Haven't you been listening? You've swallowed a big lie all your life. We have a news bulletin coming in for you, Mike...a guy can have brains and muscles! And you're that guy. So, you need to get into a head trip like Barry and Stan. From now on, you're MuscleMike, dig it?''

``Uh...sure.''

``Show me, don't just say `sure'. What's your name?''

``Mi..oh. MuscleMike.''

``Say it like you mean it! It's just like all that four-eyes crap, the more you say it, the truer it becomes. Even if you don't believe it now, you have to play the part as if you do. What's your name?''

I was sort of feeling what he was trying to tell me. His enthusiasm was contagious. I smiled in spite of myself, partly because this whole thing seemed kind of silly, but partly because I was genuinely inspired by his confidence in me. I shouted, ``MuscleMike!''

``OK, MuscleMike, shirt off! Give me a double-biceps, and this time it's MuscleMike posing!''

With genuine eagerness, I pulled off my shirt and flexed both my arms as hard as I could, pulling myself up to my full height and expanding my chest as best I could. Jonathan beamed at me and squeezed my flexed arms. ``Awright! There he is! MuscleMike's going to be giving Barry and Stan a run for their money this summer!''

I was getting another boner, but for some reason I didn't feel embarrassed about it, or even give it any thought at all. Hell, maybe if I was the one with muscles, other guys' muscles would stop making me hard. I just grinned at Jonathan and did the side chest pose for good measure. Y'know,'' I said, I could learn to enjoy this.''

Jonathan patted me on the back. ``You will. C'mon, get your shirt on; you still have some food to get into your system.''

When we went into the kitchen, Barry looked up. Hey, Mike, what were you two guys doing back there, hmmmm?'' I looked at Barry and pulled my shoulders back a bit. That's MuscleMike to you,'' I told him. ``And you're in for some competition.''

Barry looked curiously at Jonathan, who only shrugged and looked innocently at the ceiling.

Pygmalion '68, Part 5

Changes Begin

Just as Jonathan had said, we were really sore the next day as we entered the gym. Every movement seemed to cause a twinge of pain somewhere; just poking my chest with my finger hurt. Stan was there, practicing poses in the mirror. He turned around when he saw us come in and called into the house, MuscleMike and Barry are here!'' The musclekid looked at us and grinned. Bet you guys are really feeling the burn today!''

We both nodded. ``Is it going to hurt like this every time we work out?'' Barry asked.

Well...'' Stan said slowly, maybe not that sore...'' He looked at us and posed in that crablike movement that I found out later is called a `most muscular' pose. ``But it's worth it, isn't it?''

We nodded in agreement. I sat down to hide my growing hard-on. Stan seemed to have that effect on me. Jonathan came in from the house with a couple of purple mimeographed sheets in his hand. He was dressed in loose and concealing clothes again, for which I was grateful -- Stan was distracting enough without adding Jonathan's Herculean physique into the mix.

``This is a list of the kinds of foods I want you eating, and another list of stuff to avoid. When you're at home, I guess you'll take the meals you're given, but you should try to eat as much good food as possible. If your moms are serving meats or fish or chicken, take a second helping, that kind of thing. Try to avoid the fatty or sugary stuff. It'll keep your skin clearer too, though you guys don't seem to have much skin problems.

``OK, change into your gym clothes, you're going to do another light workout today, along with Stan.''

We changed as quickly as our sore muscles would let us, and Jonathan got out our cards and we went to work. I noticed that he had us using more weight today. ``We'll be increasing your weight quickly as your muscles and nerves learn the movements. Also, your strength should increase very quickly the first few weeks.''

As we started to exercise, the pain subsided a bit. We benched 75 pounds this time, and the movement felt a lot more natural. Still, it was both embarrassing and exciting to watch Stan add another 40 pounds to the bar and pump 115 pounds nine or ten times. Almost got it ten times on the last set,'' he said. Bet I'll be adding another five pounds next week.''

A little over an hour later, we were finished. Jonathan gave us something he called a protein drink (it tasted more like an Orange Julius but thicker) and told us how pleased he was of the intensity we were putting into our training. Stan added, ``If I'm not careful, these guys are going to get stronger than me!''

``Stronger than Stan the Muscle Man? I didn't think there were guys like that!'' I said, grinning at Stan. This time, my joke got a laugh from all the Muscleteers.

The semester passed into history as the week finished. I got all A's, except for Phys. Ed's usual courtesy C' and a B' in Art. Barry got mostly C's except for a `B' in Algebra. Neither of us took much notice; with school over, our lives were centered around Jonathan and the Muscle Club.

June became July, and at the end of our third full week of weight lifting, Jonathan once again brought out his tape measure and once again measured and expressed in numbers' our muscle progress. During those three weeks, we had trained intensely, five days a week, eaten lots of food (my father wondered aloud if I'd picked up a tapeworm while my mother said something about hollow legs'), and gotten plenty of rest. Jonathan once said, ``In a way, I was lying when I said it wouldn't happen overnight. The time you spend sleeping is the time your body is recovering from your workouts and adapting by building muscle.''

Some afternoons after training, we all lay out on Jonathan's patio getting a tan. At least twice a week, we practiced posing, with and without the mirror. I still felt a bit uneasy with this at first, but as time went on, and I became a bit more coordinated, I started to enjoy it almost as much as the other guys. Jonathan's physique was just amazing to watch as he practiced the poses with us. He wasn't really as huge as I originally thought -- at six feet even, he weighed a little over 200 pounds -- but his muscles were clearly defined and seemed to jump through his skin when he flexed. In spite of myself, I got a hard-on every time he did this, but of course nobody was watching me, so it didn't really matter.

Our exercise strength increased rapidly. Whenever someone could do sets of ten on an exercise, the weight was increased. This happened twice a week on almost every exercise for Barry and me, and Stan, who was obviously full into an adolescent growth spurt, was getting stronger just about as fast.

Barry became known as The Squat Machine. By the end of the second week, he was squatting 135 pounds for sets, stronger than either Stan or me. I was stronger than Barry on the bench, though, and was, after three weeks, only about five pounds behind Stan's workout even though I could only bench sets of ten at 95 pounds the first week. But I was making my best progress in my back. Even Jonathan said that he was surprised at how much weight I could row, and said that my wide shoulders may have improved my leverage somehow. I had become accustomed to the name of MuscleMike by now, and thought of it as my name whenever I was with the others.

Jonathan took Stan's stats first. 123 pounds...12 5/8-inch biceps...you just keep growing, Stan-the-MuscleMan! OK, MuscleMike, let's see what's happening with you. He wrote down some figures, then he re-measured my chest. Finally, I stepped on the scale. 146 pounds. Nine pounds in three weeks. Your waist is still 31 inches, so that's all muscle! Your arms are up to 12 1/4 inches, your thighs are up to 19 1/2. But your chest is 37 and a quarter inches. MuscleMike, you've added over an inch to your chest measurement! That's fantastic!'' I did a `most muscular' pose and growled at him, then snickered. ``Incipiently copious pecs, as my English teacher would put it?''

Incipient! Good word! But I think the size gain is in your back more than your chest. Show me a lat spread.'' I put my hands on my hips and pushed out on my latissimus dorsi muscles as Jonathan had demonstrated for us a couple of weeks ago in a particularly exciting posing lesson. I heard Stan take a breath, and even Barry said, Jeez, Mi-- MuscleMike, that's really good!''

Stan came over and ran his hand along the outside of my still-flexing back. ``Well, guess we know who gets the Best Back trophy!'' His touch reawakened my boner, but I tried not to pay attention. During these three weeks of training, Stan had apparently taken a liking to me -- he seemed to make it a point to spot for me when I was bench-pressing, encouraging the last tough reps from me and complimenting me after the set.

``OK, Squat Machine, your turn!'' Jonathan turned to Barry. Barry's arms were just a fraction bigger than mine, and his chest had increased by 3/4 of an inch. Barry had gained only five pounds, but had lost a half inch from his waist. He was quite visibly leaner than before. Barry's mother was divorced and worked during the day, so Barry had a lot more control than I had over his meals.

But it was Barry's thighs that were progressing the fastest. From an initial size of 19 1/2 inches, he was now at 20 5/8 inches, and a visible `sweep' in his outer thigh was becoming visible. Jonathan asked Barry to pose his abs and thighs with his hands behind his head, and we all spontaneously applauded at the now-visible abdominal muscles and legs that were showing some real power. I thought it was a pity that guys couldn't feel other guys' thigh muscles flexing as you could with biceps -- but then shut off that inner voice with a feeling of annoyance. Barry bowed, grinning ear to ear.

I was certainly getting more muscular, but it wasn't making my fascination with the other guys' physiques any less. Watching Jonathan curling 50-pound dumbbells, his massive arms bulging with the strain, was a sure fire way to stretch my jockstrap inside my shorts. Even watching Barry, with his strong thighs and arms that were rapidly catching up with Stan's cannonball' biceps got me aroused. But I decided that this should just make me focus harder on my own lifting and redouble my own effort. Our hygiene teacher had called this sublimation' and indicated that it was a Good Thing.

What about you, Jonathan,'' Stan asked. I'll take your stats.'' I wrote the numbers on Jonathan's own card as Stan read them from the tape. Chest 47, arms both 18, waist 31, thighs 26 1/4, calves 17 1/2. And you're weighing...just a sec...203 pounds.'' Stan looked over at the card as I finished filling in the last number. You're losing weight, Jonathan -- and the only measurement that changed is that your waist got thinner. How come?''

``Well, I'm trying to really bring out my definition, what they call `cutting up', this summer.'' Jonathan said, with an unreadable expression on his face.

Stan squinted one eye up at Jonathan. ``How come? What gives?''

Jonathan's face betrayed nothing. ``Well, let's just say that you guys might want to make sure you're free on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend.''

The three of us looked at each other. Stan looked like he had an idea of what Jonathan was talking about, but didn't say anything. Barry and I just looked blank.

``OK, guys, enough of this bullshit. Put away the cards, and let's get started with the weights. Those muscles aren't growing from listening to conversation!'' Stan and I headed over to the squat rack, and Barry and Jonathan began on their bench-presses. Barry and I were off to a great start, and I was really starting to feel like the muscular man that Jonathan saw in me was coming out.

Pygmalion '68, Part 6

Everyone Can See

By the end of July, I had already started summer school (Stan was taking some kind of summer enrichment class in the mornings too), and so our workouts were early in the afternoon. I was surprised that working out did not make me less focused on my schoolwork -- to the contrary, it seemed to me that my ability to concentrate on something, even in the face of boredom or disinterest, had increased. Plus, I was able to read or do homework while we were tanning, so things were working pretty well. The Muscle Club didn't take that many hours of my time, really, so I was able to visit with my school friends and do my summer reading (I was on my second annual re-reading of The Lord of the Rings) without really feeling that I was giving up anything except possibly television summer reruns.

The measurement session at the end of July was as encouraging as the previous one, and everyone was progressing quickly. Barry and I had caught up' with Stan's steel biceps at 12 3/4 inches, although with his shorter arms, the effect was still more impressive when Stan flexed. I added another eight pounds during the month, and my chest was up to 39 1/2 inches, including my lat spread. I had noticed that I could feel some thickness at the center my own pecs when I drew my arm across my chest, which was a new experience for me. Barry's thighs leveled off' a bit, only picking up another half inch, and his waist continued to narrow. On the other hand, his chest was up to 38 inches, and his weight was up to 141 pounds. His chest poses started showing the same muscle striations that Jonathan and Stan showed. Barry surprised the rest of us that day by putting together a short posing routine, moving with surprising grace and smoothness from one pose to the next, and earning applause from the Muscle Club. My boner rose to the occasion as well; Barry was really starting to show a fine, if still slim, physique, the sort of thing he'd been making believe he had back when we were doing our own muscle-flexing comparisons.

Stan was gaining steadily, especially in his chest, which looked proportionally thicker than either Barry's or mine; he was also getting taller. Jonathan said that he had grown a half an inch in the last six weeks. I had also noticed that Stan was growing in other ways. His voice had settled into a solid adolescent tenor, and I had noticed that he had sprouted a fair crop of pubic hair. I think our hygiene text had called it `primary and secondary male characteristics'.

Everyone agreed that my back was not only showing width, but that ridges of muscle were appearing up the middle of my back. I could only look at my back sort of sideways in the mirror, and Stan poked hard at them with his fingertips so that I could sense the thickness that was starting to appear there.

I was now actually looking forward to posing in the mirror and seeing the results of my hard work. Our tans had deepened during the month, and this enhanced our muscular definition. The Muscle Club Kids were definitely on a roll.

For his part, Jonathan continued to get leaner and harder. He was beginning to look like one of those anatomy charts you see in the hygiene books, the ones that diagram all the muscles with the skin off. But he was maintaining his muscle size, and the effect was electrifying. Whenever he took his shirt off for the posing sessions, I heard Stan and Barry take a breath just as I did. Whatever was going to happen on Labor Day weekend, Jonathan was going to be ready for it.

The other thing that happened during July is that my parents found out I was lifting weights. I was getting ready for bed, and my mom came in while I was stretching just after taking my shirt off -- it was definitely beginning to feel much tighter! Michael,'' she said in a surprised voice, have you been getting fatter or something?'' She pretty much equated bigger' with fatter', though I was actually a bit leaner and starting to show some `abs' myself, if not as sharp as Barry or Stan. I decided to give her an honest, if limited, answer.

Well, maybe,'' I said, I've been lifting weights with Barry Winters for a few weeks.'' Mom knew Barry a bit; he had been to the house with some other friends a couple of times, though she had a mistrust for kids that were not part of my academic circle of friends.

Well, you don't want to overdo it. I think big muscles look really ugly.'' She paused for a moment. She looked as if she were deciding whether to say something else. Finally, she said slowly, Michael, be careful. Some of the biggest, most athletic and masculine-looking men turn out to be homosexuals.''

I turned pale, but maybe she just figured that she had frightened me appropriately. Oh,'' I said, trying to sound nonchalant, I don't think Barry is going to try anything.'' I meant it; Barry was about the most heterosexual guy I knew. He had Playboy magazines stacked in a corner of his room, and the wall beside his bed was covered with pictures of women in various stages of undress.

OK,'' she said as she turned to leave, just be careful, that's all. Good night, honey.''

``Goodnight, Mom,'' I said, and lay down in bed and turned off the light. A million possibilities were going through my mind. Suddenly, I remembered what Jonathan had said about Pygmalion', and at long last remembered what it was that had struck me odd about the reference, the thing I couldn't remember at the time. Shaw's play Pygmalion' was named after the king in a Greek myth. The king had sculpted a statue of a beautiful woman. The statue was so beautiful that the king fell in love with it, and prayed to Aphrodite to bring it to life, which she did.

The king fell in love with the statue he sculpted. If that was what Jonathan meant about Pygmalion then...but he couldn't be queer, he was so...but that would mean...

This wasn't something I could afford to be wrong about. If I came out and asked him and I was wrong it could be a disaster and I suppose I could ask Barry what he thought but then he'd want to know why I wanted to know so I couldn't ask him and Stan probably didn't even know what a homosexual was so I couldn't say anything to him so what was I going to do? Besides, even if Jonathan was like that, what was I going to do? Go up to him and say, ``I think you're queer. I think maybe I'm like that too''?

I sighed as I sat there in bed. All I could think of was that I was going to have to watch Jonathan more carefully. I smiled to myself in spite of my consternation. Watching Jonathan -- I guess I could live with that.

Pygmalion '68, Part 7

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.

Pygmalion '68, Part 8

Clarification

Sleep is a great healer, and by the next day I decided that what had happened with Barry didn't really change anything except that I didn't have to try to hide my hard-ons from Barry anymore, which maybe wasn't so bad after all. Still, for a few days in the gym, I was a little less physical with Barry than usual, with fewer friendly pats on the back or bicep squeezes. It also seemed to me that Barry and I were pairing up on exercises a little less frequently than before, though I wasn't sure if I just imagined it. Even so, after a few days, everything was back as it had been before; I even had dinner with Barry a couple more times, though we didn't go to his room afterwards.

By mid-August, even my usual circle of school friends had noticed the changes in my physique as my shirts began to be filled and then stretched by my growing torso and widening shoulders. I realized that I might have to get new shirts for the new school year if this kept up. Still, none of my friends actually said much about it. When we had to move a dining-room table to set up a boardgame, everyone agreed that ``Mike should do it; he's the guy with the muscles,'' but beyond small jokes like that, my friends didn't seem to care about it at all.

August was about half gone when our next measurement session rolled around. Everyone was still progressing rapidly. Barry's famous thighs were up another 3/4 inch, looking even larger in contrast with his now 29 1/2-inch waist. His chest was now taping at 39 1/4 inches, his arms were still tied with Stan's, just a fraction over 13 inches. Barry's weight was up to 150 pounds, a significant gain. He had let his hair grow quite long during the summer, and I was starting to think of him as very Samson-like.

Stan's chest was up to 37 inches, more than either Barry or I had started with -- yet his waist was still only 27 inches. He was gaining weight as quickly as Barry, and was now up to 134 pounds of muscle that was almost as lean and `ripped' as Jonathan.

The workouts had become my refuge from the emotional turmoil of the last couple of weeks, and I was training with more single-minded focus than I could have thought possible, and eating voraciously. I was benching more than either Barry or Stan: earlier in the week I became the first to do sets with the `magic' number of 135 pounds, with two 45-pound plates on the 45-pound bar.

The results were gratifying: my weight was up to 158 pounds, my chest just over 40 inches, and at last my arms were the biggest of the `junior' Muscle Club members, at 13 1/2 inches; Jonathan was really impressed, and measured them twice just to make sure. My thighs were lagging behind Barry's, and since I was long-legged, they seemed to be my worst body part at the moment. Still, I had picked up a quarter inch there myself, so could not seriously complain.

As Jonathan took Stan and Barry's measurements, I watched carefully. That is, I watched Jonathan's crotch. Each time one of the other Muscle Clubbers flexed for Jonathan, I thought I saw what antique writers called a `stirring in the loins'. When, later, Stan took Jonathan's thigh measurement, the reaction was unmistakable. Jonathan was as turned on by all this muscle stuff as me! I scarcely noticed that Jonathan had lost another three pounds, and that his various stats were fractions of an inch lower than before.

Jonathan congratulated all of us on the results of our hard work, which he said was even better than he expected to see. Then he told us why he was getting `cut up.' As we had guessed, he was preparing for a contest -- his first contest ever. It would be held on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend at the Muscle Beach weight pit.

I thought Muscle Beach was just sort of a general term,'' I said. You mean it's an actual place?''

``Yeah, but it's not where it used to be when it became famous back around World War II. Even when I was a kid in the '50s, it was a platform area right by the Santa Monica pier, and muscle men would go there to lift weights and do acrobatics and get photographed by tourists. Around 1959 I think, Santa Monica decided it wasn't worth the maintenance or something, and cleared the area out. But the L.A. Parks department had set up a fenced-off weight-lifting area of their own in Venice by then. All the old Muscle Beach guys gravitated there, so it's now the sort of unofficial `Muscle Beach weight pit'.

``Anyway, they have a `Mr. Muscle Beach' physique contest there every year, and I'm going to enter this year in the Junior division. And I want you guys there to cheer me on. It'll be on the 31st. Can you make it?''

We all variously assured him that we would be there, and were sure that he'd knock the other guys dead.

``Thanks guys, I knew I could count on you. I want to warn you that the last week or so before the contest I'm going to be dieting real strictly and maybe getting just a bit dehydrated. It's probably going to make me real grouchy, so I just want you to know that if I seem really uptight and snap at you, it's not your fault. OK?''

We all nodded. OK,'' he said, see you guys on Monday. You're all really on track, keep it up!''

Stan and Barry went over to the piles of street clothes and started to change. I went over to Jonathan and quietly said, ``Um, can I talk to you for a few minutes? In private?''

Jonathan saw that something was bothering me and nodded, gesturing towards the door. ``We'll be back in a few minutes,'' he told Barry and Stan, and led me into the house.

``This is really hard to talk about, but I think I have to ask. Do you...are you...do you think that Barry and Stan and I are sexy?''

Jonathan just said, ``Well, of course! Don't you think you're sexy?''

I frowned. ``No, that's not what I mean. Do you get ... I mean, when we're all in there flexing and posing for you, do you...'' I just sat there, exasperated. This was really hard for me to talk about.

Jonathan sighed. ``You mean, am I gay?''

I paled a bit and just nodded quietly.

Are you just now figuring that out? I thought you knew right from the start! I mean, the way you and Barry...'' He looked at my face, saw me trembling. There was a lump in my throat, and I had to throttle this stupid irrational babyish urge to cry. Oh, no!...I didn't understand, I'm really sorry! I saw that you and Barry were getting hard when I first posed for you, and I just figured that you two were a pair, or at least played around from time to time. I didn't know you were still confused ... I thought you knew all about this stuff!''

``Well, I mean, I don't know if I'm really, you know, queer, I mean, I don't want to dress like a woman, and I don't have a lisp, and the idea of a guy putting his dick into another guy's asshole is so gross...maybe it's like you said, I'm just confused.''

``Oh, man, you're confused all right. Look, this is the same thing as we talked about before. You hear queer' or gay' or homosexual' and you hear all the lies that people have been telling you all your life. You're just a guy who thinks guys with muscles are sexy. All the rest of it, the limp wrists, the women's clothes, even the details about what you do in bed, that's all just bullshit, like all darkies got rhythm' or all Jews are greedy' or all scholars are puny pencil-necked geeks'. You know what you are, and I imagine you pretty much know what you like. You can't let other people tell you what that means. It's your life, not theirs.''

I didn't want Jonathan to see me cry, but I couldn't help it. All the tension, all the hiding, all the fear, all the disgust I had at the idea that I might be `one of those', all the nasty words I'd heard from the mouths of friends, even my brother and parents...it all just sort of boiled up and I sat there and cried. Jonathan put his big powerful arms around me and pulled me close to his chest. His hands stroked my still-bare back gently. Any other time, this might have turned me on, but instead I just clung to him and sobbed like a goddamned child.

I know how you feel,'' he said as he held me, it's not easy for any of us, and I don't want to pretend that it is. There are lots of people who get all hung up about this. A lot of people hate us, some even would want to kill us just for doing what you and I are doing right now, just hugging. We always have to be careful. But that doesn't mean we have to hide from each other or turn into monks. Monks...? Damn, no wonder it took you so long! You had a pretty good thing going, didn't you? As long as you were a nice scholastic drone, everyone knew Mike Wesson was this neutered Mr. Spock type, or so they thought, and you could even believe it yourself, sort of. But MuscleMike just doesn't quite fit that role, does he? You think about sex every seventeen minutes, just like every other fifteen year old.''

He kept talking to me like that and held me for a couple more minutes, and I finally stopped crying. I knew that Jonathan would have to let me go, but didn't want him to. He gently pushed me away and brushed the hair from across my forehead. He put his hands on either side of my face. ``Are you going to be all right?'' he asked. I nodded. He got a cool wet washrag from the bathroom and I used it to wipe my eyes and take the puffiness and redness down; it wouldn't do for Stan and Barry to see that I'd been crying! That made me think of something else.

Oh, I just remembered,'' I said, Barry sort of figured me out already, but don't tell Stan. He really seems to like me and even look up to me a little, and I don't want to ruin our friendship. I don't think he needs to be bothered with this stuff.''

Jonathan's face took on a curious poker-faced expression that could have meant anything from slight amusement to deep offense. ``I'm really sorry you don't trust me more than that. I wouldn't tell anyone about you or anybody else. It's not my decision to make as to who gets told, it's yours. Stan won't hear anything from me.''

``I'm sorry; of course I trust you. Thanks. I guess I better get changed and get home.''

``Good idea. We can talk about this again if you want, but try not to suddenly freak out or anything right before my contest, OK?''

He was smiling at me as he said this, and I smiled a bit too and nodded. As I started through the door, Jonathan said, ``And don't sell Stan short. He's growing up quickly.''

I left the room feeling strange. It was a good kind of strange, as if I had dodged a bullet aimed at my head, or discovered that I didn't have to turn in a difficult assignment after all. I'd never quite felt like it before. By the time I got back to Stan and Barry, I was practically euphoric, though I couldn't exactly say why.

``I've decided we've got the best bodybuilding coach on the planet,'' I said. We should do something for him.''

Pygmalion '68, Part 9

An Outing at the Beach

As the day of the contest approached, the workouts became a little disorganized. We all agreed that Jonathan's workouts took priority, so whatever equipment he decided to use was his, and he was no longer willing to alternate sets with one of us. If he needed a spotter, someone spotted for him until he was through with the equipment. Otherwise, Stan, Barry, and I would work out together on some other exercise. Notwithstanding Jonathan's warning about likely mood swings, Stan seemed particularly disturbed by Jonathan's impatience, and had to be assured that Jonathan wasn't really angry with us, and this would go away soon.

Jonathan's posing practice was a lot easier to take. He seemed to really enjoy putting his routine together, and the last few days he started posing with a tape he had made of Wagner's `Ride of the Valkyries'. Even in the sort of diffuse light of the garage-gym, and without oil on his body, Jonathan's posing routine was a treat to watch (to say the least), and Jonathan grinned and bowed when we all applauded. The day before the show, Jonathan told me to pinch his skin at several points, especially around his midsection and triceps. I had never seen anything like it: there was no discernible fat below the skin, and I was simply pinching epidermis together, a thin film stretched across his still thick muscles.

With Jonathan focused on his contest, it was easy for the rest of the Muscle Club to plan a surprise. Barry's mother was in real estate, and worked closely on many occasions with a professional photographer. He owed her a favor, since she had sent a fair amount of business his way. It took several phone calls, but we arranged for the photographer to be present at the Muscle Beach show. He would keep the negatives, and could sell the photos if he wanted, but we would be able to present Jonathan with a professionally photographed and developed picture of his appearance (and, we fully expected, victory) in his first contest, mounted and nicely framed, and it would only cost us the few dollars we put together as a nominal fee.

A couple of days before the contest, as I was walking home with Barry, I sort of cleared my throat and said, Look, about the other day, you know, in your bedroom. I'm sorry I freaked out on you like that. Nobody had ever talked to me like that before.'' I paused, awkwardly. Can I ask you something?''

``Go ahead.''

``Would you think it was weird if I asked you to let me feel you flexing your legs sometime? Not now, not yet...just...you know, hypothetically?''

Barry looked at me sort of funny. ``Well, I don't know, maybe it is weird. But If it is, then that makes two of us, because I think it'd be really cool.''

OK,'' I said, and briefly squeezed his shoulder at the trapezius. I may hold you to that someday.''

Finally, it was Saturday, August 31, the day of the contest. Barry, Stan, and I met at a bus stop and made our way to Santa Monica. Barry was much more familiar with the beach area than either Stan or I. In fact, he said that he thought there was supposed to be a nude beach somewhere near one of the Venice piers, but didn't know where it was exactly, because he rarely got very far south of the Santa Monica pier where the bus stopped. Since that was obviously more than Stan or I knew, Barry was designated our official navigator for finding our way to the Venice Beach area where the Muscle Beach `pit' and contest stage were. If he happened to find some other attractions along the way, well, so much the better.

The only time I had been in the Venice area before was in 1963, for a birthday visit to the Pacific Ocean Park amusement park, now closed and boarded up and looking rather sad as we walked past. I was completely unprepared for the scene at the Venice boardwalk.

Always a sort of haven for eccentrics, Venice had in the last couple of years become a sort of mini-Haight-Ashbury -- a conglomeration of hippies, transients, Tarot readers, incense sellers, and every other type of young and old person all milling around in what could only be described as a continuous street party that made me think of a psychedelic version of the pictures I had seen of Mardi Gras. At every turn someone was playing music (it was my first look at a real sitar), or meditating, or handing out leaflets for everything from the SDS and Black Panthers to a half-dozen anti-war events, or extolling the virtues of drugs, free sex, or Transcendental Meditation. There was a small group of activists protesting -- quite rightly, I thought -- the disgusting events during the week just past at the Democratic Convention in Chicago. A couple of uniformed policemen watched them with bored and contemptuous expressions, ignoring the occasional shouts of ``pig!'' directed at them. Street peddlers were everywhere, selling funky clothes, psychedelic posters, drug paraphernalia (Barry had to explain some of these), and all sorts of baubles, bangles, and beads. Barry bought an inexpensive leather headband which looked quite good on him; I bought a couple of buttons reading Frodo Lives' in Elvish script and Go Go Gandalf' (which, in turn, I had to explain to Barry).

We must have walked around there for a good hour (with our shirts off, the term strutted' is probably more appropriate than walked') breathing in the mixture of sea air, suntan lotion, barbecue smoke, marijuana, and strawberry incense. It was so fascinating that we almost forgot why we were there -- Barry, apparently, had even forgotten about hunting up the nude beach -- but we soon headed out to look for the `Muscle Beach' weight pit and the stage where Jonathan had told us the contest would be.

When we reached the weight pit, a good sized area containing a variety of lifting equipment surrounded by a waist-high fence, we had to stop strutting. We were pretty good-sized and muscular kids by now, but these guys were big. There were men in their forties or fifties who had builds that most college guys would envy; the smallest teenager, who looked about 17 or 18, was considerably more muscular than any of us. We watched as he benched a set of ten reps at 185 near the edge of the pit where we were standing. When he finished the set, he saw us watching and flashed us the two-fingered `peace' sign that had become a common greeting in the last couple of years.

Looks like you guys lift,'' he said. Are you guys going to watch, or are you going to work out?''

Barry spoke up, ``Don't we have to be members or something? It'd be really far out to work out here in the open and everything.''

The teenager pointed to a nearby gate and said, ``Oh, it'll be OK, just go in there.'' We walked around and came back to the bench where the teenager was waiting. He looked like he might be Chicano, though he had little accent. He had long, dark hair tied with a beaded headband. He was about Barry's height, but a lot heavier and more muscular. I guessed his arms were 16 inches or maybe even more, and his chest maybe 45 inches or so. He wasn't really lean, and showed less abdominal definition than I did. He was wearing a pair of Venice High School gym trunks over his strong-looking legs.

``I'm Roland,'' he said. We all introduced ourselves.

``How long have you been lifting?'' I asked.

Since I was 14,'' he said, about three years. What about you?''

Barry said, ``MuscleMike and I started at the end of last semester. Stan had already been training for over a year.''

Roland's eyes widened and he looked us over again. You're doing really good for just a couple of months,'' he said, really good.'' Then he looked at Stan. ``Over a year? How old are you, anyway?''

Stan answered, unexpectedly, Thirteen come Monday.'' Barry and I hadn't realized that Stan had a birthday coming up. But we weren't anywhere near as surprised as Roland, who said, Oh, wow, by the time you're my age you're going to be huge! How much do you guys bench?''

We told him how much we were doing for sets, and he said, ``Don't you ever try for a single rep maximum?''

Stan said, ``Our trainer says that just wastes energy and doesn't really make you stronger.''

Oh,'' Roland said, that's true; single-reps are just for fun. You want to see how much you can do?'' We all went for the idea. We were grooving on the idea of showing off our strength out there in the sun at the closest thing there was to the famous Muscle Beach. We did some light weight warmups (``Don't want you guys to hurt yourselves doing this,'' Roland remarked), and then Roland set up the bar with 175 pounds on it. With much effort, I was able to bench this weight twice, but failed on the third rep. Barry got it once. Stan didn't quite manage it. On the next trial, I just pressed 185 pounds, and Stan neatly succeeded with 165 pounds. Roland was really impressed.

``You guys are out of sight! Benching way over your body weight this soon after you started is amazing.''

Well,'' said Stan, we have a great trainer. He'll be in the Mr. Muscle Beach contest this afternoon.''

Far out!'' he said. I have to be at my grandmother's this afternoon, so I can't see the show. But why don't you guys come back here and train with me sometimes this fall?'' He looked at me. ``I think we'd work out really well together. This is the place for muscle freaks like us to be.''

That sounds really cool,'' I said, but we go to Hami, and none of us drive, so it wouldn't be very easy.''

``Yeah, I guess you're right. Shit. Well, maybe you guys'll make it some weekend. I usually train around noon.'' Roland still wanted to finish his workout before he left, and we wanted to get to the stage where the contest would be, so we all said goodbye, leaving Roland on his bench, doing `flyes' with 45-pound dumbbells.

As we walked on the sand towards the contest site, with Stan running a bit ahead, Barry poked me. You know, Roland? He, you know, had a pencil in his pocket when you were benching.'' I looked at Barry skeptically. No, honest. Didn't you see how he was looking at you?''

I shook my head. Next time,'' I told Barry, make some hand signs or semaphore or smoke signals or something.''

Barry laughed. ``Ya know, for a smart guy, sometimes you... OK, next time I'll just give you a `thumbs-up'. That should be descriptive enough.''

Pygmalion '68, Part 10

Mr. Muscle Beach

The contest wasn't at the pit itself, but at an outdoor stage a short distance away, a large semicircle built of bricks and concrete half-surrounding a wide open area for spectators with a half dozen concrete tables and benches with metal umbrellas overhead. We arrived about 45 minutes before the show so we had plenty of time to stake out a good location at one of the tables. About ten minutes after we arrived, Barry spotted his photographer friend looking around and they found themselves a spot near us that the photographer decided would be a good setup. The three of us were still shirtless and the photographer asked to take a picture of the three of us posing together on the stage so that he could get a light reading, choose a lens, and similar mysterious photographer things. Nobody was there yet to keep us off the stage, so we climbed up. As the tallest, I stood in the center doing my best lat-spread, while Stan stood on my left showing his side-chest pose to the photographer while Barry stood on my right in what was obviously one of his favorite poses, flexing his arms with his hands behind his head while crunching his abs and flexing his legs. It was only after we sat back down that I remembered how camera-shy I had been on that first day of training in June.

By then, people were starting to show up for the contest. Most of them were just the usual beach-going public, drawn mostly by curiosity, along with a few curious hippies and other local denizens. Some were guys we had seen back at the `pit', as well as some other amazingly big guys who apparently worked out at a nearby gym they called Gold's, which had opened two or three years ago.

Without much fanfare, and with noisy squeals of microphone feedback, the emcee, an older bodybuilder named Bill, came out to welcome everyone to the Mr. Muscle Beach contest for 1968. He spent a little time recounting the history of Muscle Beach, and introduced some of the people who made that stretch of beach famous in the 1930s and 1940s, including a well-built woman with the curious name of Pudgy'. He then introduced a guest poser'. This proved to be an Austrian bodybuilder with a nearly unpronounceable name like Arnold Somethingorother. Even though he was no older than Jonathan, apparently he had already won the Mr. Austria and Mr. Universe titles, and had been brought over by a magazine publisher to come and train here in Venice. This guy was introduced as the `Austrian Oak', but when I saw him I muttered to Barry and Stan that this was just because they didn't have any redwoods in Austria. The man was not much taller than me, but weighed (according to the announcer) 240 pounds. His arms, when flexed, were literally as big as Barry's 21-inch thighs. He made a brief speech in hard-to-understand English, thanking everyone and saying how heppy'' he was to be in Kawleefawnyaw'', and then started his posing routine. We were all, to say the least, impressed by his development and symmetry, and the guy got a standing ovation (although most of the audience were standing anyway). Barry's photographer friend seemed to be really pleased, and told us afterwards that he thought the pictures he took of this guy might be worth something someday.

Before getting the contest underway, the MC thanked the guest and gave a short diatribe exhorting all the hippies, yippies, dippies, and whatever else is out there' to turn on' to healthy living, tune in' to their bodies, and drop in' to the Muscle Beach weight pit or other gym. He was rewarded by a mixture of applause, laughter, and a shout of ``hey, man, that's not my bag,'' from someone at the back.

Finally, the contest started. There were four divisions' -- a tall and short division in each of the Junior and Senior categories. The Junior contest was first, with the short men appearing first. There were only four men in this group, and after seeing that Mr. Universe guy from Austria, we were a little relieved to see that they were more ordinary' in their physiques -- one of them seemed to have only been lifting a couple of years. Via the MC, the judges asked the contestants to line up, turn at various angles, then hit particular poses at the same time for comparison. Even the least-built of these men was much more muscular than any of us junior Muscle Club guys, and they were all oiled up and wearing beach swimsuits that were smaller and tighter than any I had seen, so it was fascinating to watch these young men hitting their poses all in a row. They left the stage, and then each of them came out in turn to perform his posing routine. Barry watched carefully, and I thought he was watching the choreography just as closely as he was watching the physiques themselves. Each time one of the guys would hit a pose, everyone would cheer, and a group of the guy's friends would cheer louder and whistle, or shout encouragement, or call to the judges to pay attention. It was different from anything I'd seen before, but everyone seemed to be having a lot of fun, except perhaps the contestants.

Finally, the tall Junior class was introduced. Jonathan was up against only two other guys; one, a Negro, was about his height, but seemed much heavier, with arms and thighs that were obviously thicker than Jonathan's. But he was not as `cut up' as Jonathan, and you could only vaguely discern his abdominal muscles. Jonathan's other opponent was even taller than me, but seemed to weigh little more than Jonathan, if that. He had a reasonably good back, but his legs showed little shape and his chest, while sharply defined, was plainly less thick and powerful-looking than Jonathan's.

Jonathan himself looked different from what we had expected: he had had his hair trimmed to a very Establishment-looking cut, and his face was more clean-shaven than I had ever seen it. He was wearing a very brief blue swimsuit made of some stretchy material that fitted his trunk like a second skin. He was lightly oiled in a way that caught the afternoon sun perfectly, bringing every muscle fiber into razorlike relief. When he was introduced, we shouted in unison, ``Sock It To Them, Jonathan!'' which got a grin from Jonathan and some laughter from the rest of the crowd. The photographer deduced that this was probably the man he had come to shoot, and set to work.

As the men went through the mandatory poses, Stan and Barry and I looked at one another in growing excitement. On every pose, Jonathan was showing more hardness, symmetry, and muscularity than either opponent. The larger opponent showed a layer of fat hanging over the back of his trunks when the men did their back poses, while Jonathan showed perfect hardness even in the small muscles at the base of his back. I was even too excited by seeing my friend and trainer demolishing his opponents to get sexually aroused.

Jonathan's posing routine went flawlessly, making allowances for the crude loudspeaker's mangling of Wagnerian opera. The crowd applauded loudly at all the right moments as Jonathan glided easily from one strong pose to another, synchronized nicely with the repeated crescendos of the familiar orchestral work. At every pose our group whistled and cheered, shouted, Way to go, Jonathan!' or Hey judges, he's ripped to the bone!' and the like. By the time the routine was finished, we weren't the only ones shouting. Our friend's performance was simply beautiful, and we were busting with pride at being able to say we were trained by this superb specimen.

The remainder of the contest was a bit of an anti-climax, as we had to wait for the Senior competition before the results were announced. These guys were obviously seasoned veterans, perhaps only a year or two away from a title like Mr. America or better. All of them were proportioned bigger than Jonathan, and most of them were at least as well defined. I had never seen so many beautiful muscular men in one place in my life. It was like a dream, and a pretty damned wet dream at that.

When all the posing was complete, the judges considered for a few minutes and the results were announced. Jonathan had won the tall class (the big man took second) and received his trophy to raucous cheering from the crowd. Jonathan was required to `pose down' against the short-class winner for the overall title, but it was obvious that Jonathan outclassed him by far. Jonathan received a second, larger trophy for his overall Junior Mr. Muscle Beach win, and it was presented to him by the Austrian guy who had posed earlier. As they shook hands, Jonathan hit one final pose for the crowd, and then left the stage with everyone still applauding loudly.

We got ready to leave, and scarcely paid attention as the Senior class winners were announced. As the MC made his closing remarks, Barry quickly thanked the photographer, and we ran around the back of the stage as quickly as we could to catch up with Jonathan.

It was pretty easy to get around to the area behind the stage. Jonathan was there, flanked by his trophies, still in his posing trunks and getting his picture taken by tourists. When he saw us, he excused himself from the middle-aged man in the flowered shirt who had asked for a photo, and greeted us. ``You guys made it! What did you think?''

We all spoke at once, congratulating him, telling him how he had obviously outclassed his competition, and generally letting him know how much he had impressed not just us, but the whole crowd. Jonathan was grinning from ear to ear. Another tourist came up and asked for a picture, and Jonathan asked him to take it with his three proteges in the picture as well. Jonathan must have posed for another dozen or so pictures in the next several minutes, and for almost all of them, he posed with Stan, Barry, and me, sometimes one at a time, sometimes as a group.

As the crowd started to subside, the MC came back and congratulated Jonathan again, telling him to come back and compete next year. Well, I don't think I'm going to make a career out of this,'' Jonathan said. But we'll have to see. Say, I'd like you to meet some students I've been training this summer. Mike Wesson, Barry Winters, and Stan Pettit. Guys, this is Bill. He's been at Muscle Beach since before any of you guys were born.''

We all shook hands politely. Bill looked at us, with a look of undisguised contempt at Barry's long hair and headband. But he only said, ``They just started training this summer? That's great, guys. Keep it up and maybe next year you'll be up on the stage too. We're thinking of having a teenage division, so one of you might be the first teenage Mr. Muscle Beach!''

Bill got distracted by someone else who seemed to be an old friend, and we were left alone. Jonathan toweled the remaining oil from his skin and started to get dressed. It was really great having you guys out there yelling for me.'' He looked at the trophies. Man, what a trip. I couldn't have asked for a better day.'' He finished dressing, and picked up the grocery bag containing his things.

``OK, let's get going. I'm starving! You guys want to bring these trophies?'' Stan took the smaller one, I took the larger, and we all followed Jonathan back across the beach and boardwalk to a where his car was parked, off that tiny Venice alleyway with the laughable name of `Speedway'. We all piled into Jonathan's car, an old Ford Falcon, and headed for a pizza place in the vicinity that Jonathan knew.

Jonathan treated all of us to the late lunch, and lavishly expressed his gratitude to us. I know I've been kind of self-centered the last couple of weeks, and you guys never made a peep of complaint. Seeing you out there in the audience, I just...'' He looked sort of embarrassed. Well, I couldn't have been prouder. I really don't think I could have put myself through this without you guys, and I don't know if I'd do it again, but I'm really glad I did it. I had a blast!''

That guy Bill said maybe we could do the contest next year,'' said Stan, Do you think we could?''

If you really wanted to, there's no doubt about it,'' answered Jonathan. Assuming you keep lifting, by next year there won't be a whole lot of guys your age who could beat you. Do you think you'd want to?''

Stan said, That'd be so bitchin'!'' and Barry nodded enthusiastically. Could be fun at that,'' I said.

``OK, then I have an idea. Next Saturday is our last day of lifting before school starts. I'll want to get updated pictures anyway, so let's do it like our own contest. You guys put posing routines together, and you'll get a chance to sort of see what it's like. Sound good?''

Everyone's mouths were stuffed with pizza at that moment, so all we could do was nod. Our last week of training before school. I wondered what that would mean to our Muscle Club, but tried not to think about it. This week was going to be fun!

Pygmalion '68, Part 11

Gifts

Since it was the holiday weekend, and Stan's birthday was on Monday anyway, we didn't all get together until Tuesday. It had been a three-day break in our lifting so we were all pretty eager to get started. None of us had lost any strength, though; in fact, we all added a little to our previous lifts. When we finished we were comfortably sore. As we were toweling down and changing back into street clothes, Jonathan went into the house, saying he wanted to get something.

When he was gone, Barry said. ``Look, after we're finished here, I want to talk to you guys outside. I have an idea for Saturday.'' I didn't know what Barry was thinking, but I nodded. Just then, Jonathan came back in. He was holding three small gift-wrapped packages. He handed one of them to Stan.

``Happy Birthday, Stan! This is for our new teenager!''

Stan took the package and started opening it up as Jonathan handed the two others to Barry and me. These are for you guys too,'' he said, sort of birthday presents in advance I guess.'' I could feel that the package contained a shirt or something, but it seemed real small. As we tore the wrappings away, we saw that each of us had received a pair of posing trunks like Jonathan's -- deep blue, made of a sort of thin synthetic material that reminded me of the sheer elastic stuff they show in the bra commercials on television. Sewn in yellow thread onto the right side of each pair was an emblem. I looked at it more carefully. Three swords with the blades crossing at the tips.

``The Three Muscleteers,'' I whispered.

``I figured if you guys were going to do a contest, you might as well be posing in something appropriate.''

I wanted to give Jonathan a huge hug, but restrained myself in front of Stan. Still, everyone was grateful, and thanked Jonathan more than once. ``You can be sure we'll be wearing these on Saturday,'' Barry said.

I'm counting on it,'' Jonathan said. OK, you guys better get moving; be sure to be thinking about your posing routines. Practice makes perfect.''

As we walked out onto the sidewalk, Barry said, ``Look, guys, I have an idea. Let's give Jonathan a surprise. I'll put together a posing routine for all three of us. I mean, one routine, you see? We'll all do it together. I think I can think of some moves and stuff that will blow Jonathan's mind!''

For a second, I wasn't sure; after all, this was sort of breaking the unstated `rules' of the contest, wasn't it? But then I realized that Barry really had a talent for this sort of choreography -- come to think of it, this whole bodybuilding thing was the first thing I'd known him to be really good at. And Barry was right; the three of us doing a coordinated routine really would blow Jonathan's mind. Yeah,'' I said, let's do it!'' Stan was nodding eagerly, looking at the sheer blue briefs in his hand.

OK,'' said Barry. Tomorrow afternoon after we finish training, my place.''

Pygmalion '68, Part 12

Dress Rehearsal

Wednesday's workout was uneventful (though, as I should have expected, rather more sore than usual after that three-day gap), and we adjourned to Barry's house when we were finished. As we walked, Barry outlined his ideas for our posing routine; apparently he had stayed up late planning and timing it. The routine would show all the mandatory poses, but would have a sort of dance element to it, with the three of us moving together at times, and at other times in a sequence. He figured it would run about two minutes.

We arrived at Barry's house, and he led us up to his Mom's bedroom, explaining that the room had a wide mirror on the sliding closet door that would be helpful in our rehearsal. The furniture in the room was an impressively opulent collection, and I made some suitably appreciative comment about it. Yeah,'' Barry said. It's called Chippendale.''

For the next hour, Barry walked Stan and me through the poses and movements he had spent so much time planning. As he had told us, there was a bit of dance element. We started out in a row, tallest to shortest, with our lats spread, our arms extended and flexing our triceps. In turn, each of us turned around and hit a `crab' pose. As the routine progressed, sometimes we were doing the same pose in unison, at other times we were doing complementary poses. At one point, I did a front lat-spread while Stan and Barry stood on either side doing side-chest poses, facing away from me. The whole thing ended with each of us in his best pose -- Stan standing in his classic double-bicep pose, with Barry and me kneeling in poses that showed off my back and his legs and narrow waist.

The poses were all pretty familiar, though it took me several awkward tries to reliably get to the kneeling pose without losing my balance. The hard part was keeping track of the whole routine (I decided to write down the whole thing so I could study it later), and learning to do the transition moves smoothly. But after an hour or so, we were able to do the routine start to finish, though we were still doing the poses perfunctorily and without any rhythm; the whole rehearsal had taken place in our street clothes. Still, we had the structure of the routine down, and Barry told us that we'd start getting the timing down tomorrow.

Thursday's workout had a certain edge to it. We wanted to be at our best on Saturday, and were training even more intensely than usual, since Friday was to be a rest day. Jonathan asked us if we were all going to have our posing routines ready for tomorrow, and we all nodded very casually. Stan was particularly emphatic as he replied ``Oh yes, my routine is going just fine.'' I guess we weren't too convincing, because Jonathan sort of narrowed his eyes and just said that he was looking forward to it. We assured him that we were too.

As Barry had predicted, by the end of Thursday's rehearsal, we were doing the poses solidly and in rhythm, with Barry calling out a steady beat that he said would be close to the music he expected to use. The run-throughs were in our gym clothes, and the mirror was indispensable in helping us keep the routine together and get the poses just right. Barry told us that Friday afternoon we would have a `dress' rehearsal, wearing the posing trunks that Jonathan had given us, and that the music would be taped and ready.

Friday arrived, and Stan and I met at Barry's. He took us into his room, explaining that first of all, we'd be doing the rehearsals with oil on our skin, and he didn't want to risk messing up anything in his Mom's room, and second of all, we wouldn't have the mirror to work with when we did the routine in Jonathan's gym, so we might as well get used to doing it `blind'.

We went up to the room. Barry suggested that we just walk through the routine with the music a few times in street clothes before doing it `for real' with the oil and posing trunks and everything. He put a tape on his portable tape player (it looked a lot like the ones on Mission: Impossible, and I wondered aloud if it would self-destruct at the end of the tape) and we listened to the music he had chosen: The Doors' "Break on Through". It seemed generally appropriate, and had a strong driving beat that would go well with our routine. He rewound the tape, and then started the player again. We started the routine with the music, and even with Barry calling out the moves with the music, the routine could only be described as a train wreck. I felt frustrated, Stan was laughing, and Barry was sort of sighing as he rewound the tape and said, ``OK, we'll just do it again until we get it right.''

It turned out that `until we get it right' required a dozen or more run-throughs and about an hour, including the time for arguing as to who had messed up, and a break for a light protein snack and some water. People think that bodybuilders are just having a nice easy time posing, but to do the poses right requires simultaneously flexing several groups of muscles as strenuously as any workout demands. It is tiring work, and you can see it in the face of any bodybuilder walking off the stage after his presentation. But finally, on what seemed the hundredth time through the tape, we got it right, and without Barry having to call it out like a square-dance leader. OK,'' said Barry, Let's get changed and oiled up and see if we can do this For Real.''

We changed into our posing trunks. It was the first time I had seen the others in the trunks, and they looked really good; the trunks fit them snugly and supplely. I hoped I looked the same. Oddly, I wasn't aroused. Perhaps I was too nervous, or perhaps I was just too tired after the hour of rehearsal we had just endured. Barry then brought out a bottle of mineral oil (he said that Thrifty sold it as a laxative or something). He poured a small bit into one cupped hand and started to spread it across his chest, and down his arms. Stan and I followed suit. It was when Barry started oiling his legs that I realized what was different: Barry had shaved his legs, his arms, even his armpits! The usual light coat of light-brown hair had gone, and his legs were as smooth as Stan's or Jonathan's. I felt a little out of place as the only one with hairy legs (and also a bit on my chest), but realized that I could not possibly shave myself that way without raising some very embarrassing questions from my family. Barry asked me to oil his back as I had done with Jonathan a couple of weeks earlier, and then Stan spread oil on my back, commenting how I couldn't really see it, but it really brought out the muscles in my back. I liked the feel of Stan's hands on my back, and had to bend over, take a few deep breaths, and refocus myself to avoid getting stiff in my tight trunks. Barry oiled Stan's back for him and we were ready to go.

Barry started up the tape and took his place in line with Stan and me. We flexed our backs and triceps for an empty chair behind us and then, as the music started, I turned around to hit a `crab' shot for our imaginary viewer, and our routine began.

It went flawlessly. It was almost mystical; the music cued us to each move, and each of us could sense the others' movements and moved in perfect synchronization. I smiled briefly as I suddenly thought of our group as a `well-oiled machine'. Pose followed pose, and as Barry and I went to our final kneeling poses, the music faded and it was done.

``Perfect!'' Barry shouted. I stood up and looked at Stan, who was grinning at me like crazy.

We did it!'' Stan said, and put his hands around my biceps and squeezed. I smiled at him and flexed my arm, and put my other hand on his shoulder. At that moment, the tip of Stan's erect penis peeked out of the top of his posing trunks. I couldn't help staring. From behind me, I heard Barry's amused voice say, Ooooops!'' I stared at Stan. He blushed, then gave me what could only be described as a lusty grin. I kept staring with what was probably a stupid expression on my face, and Stan's grin fell to an uncertain, searching look. Then he smiled again, rather tentatively, once, twice...

I was just staring at Stan. Here, beyond all expectation, was this handsome blond young teenage man-boy, his steely-hard muscular body gleaming with oil and sweat, smiling at me with a mixture of fondness, lust, and shyness. He was so completely sexy and charming, I did the only thing I could do in a situation like that.

I fainted.

Well, OK, I didn't actually faint, but it was as close as I had ever come to it. My head started to buzz and my vision swam, the way it does sometimes when you stand up too quickly. I took a couple of leaden steps over to where Barry's bed was, and sat down on it heavily, bending my head over my knees. I was only vaguely aware of Barry saying that he'd go get me some water.

As the dizziness subsided, I sat up. Stan was sitting next to me on the bed, one arm across my back, and a look of concern in his face. ``Are you all right? What happened?''

I looked at Stan and sort of half-smiled. ``Well, I was sort of taken by surprise, I guess. I didn't know you, uh, felt that way about guys -- about anyone actually -- much less about me. I mean, I knew you liked me and stuff...I don't know, I guess I kinda forgot how horny I got when I was thirteen...'' I trailed off, not sure of what to say. Stan saved me the trouble.

I thought you knew about me! I mean, the way you and Barry are always getting hard in your shorts when Jonathan flexes, I figured you must have noticed my boner for sure...'' I must have looked really embarrassed just then, because Stan kind of hesitated and then said, Well, anyway...of course I like you. You're smart, and you're tall, and in high school, and you make funny jokes, and you've built up such great muscles...I just couldn't help myself just then. ''

He started to rub my back in an encouraging way, and was smiling his unaccustomed shy smile again. For once, I actually looked at his crotch and saw he was getting stiff again. Well, fair's fair -- I was getting hard again, too. I don't know how smart I am,'' I said, seeing as I'm about the last person to grok what's going on.'' I turned to Stan and put my hand on his bicep. He flexed that steel sphere for me. ``So you knew all along that this... gets me, y'know, horny?'' I still felt a little odd talking about this, but was getting very excited at the contact.

Stan nodded. ``Well, pretty much. Your muscles do that to me too now.'' He stroked my bicep, which I flexed for him again. I felt my penis escape from the top of my trunks just as Stan's had done. At that moment, Barry came into the room, a glass of water in his hand. He just grinned at us.

You seem to be, ah, doing OK after all...if you, um, need anything, I'll be down, um, in the kitchen. '' As he headed out the bedroom door, he added, without looking back, Try not to mess everything up too much?'' I noticed that he was holding his right fist in a `thumbs-up' gesture.

Stan and I just grinned at each other, but heeding Barry's advice, pulled off our shorts and put them aside. I pulled Stan against me, my hands rubbing up and down his back; Stan returned the embrace, kneading the muscles of my own back. I rolled him onto his back and began rubbing my dick against his -- a new sensation that made me catch my breath. I felt Stan's hips moving against mine in a complementary movement. Stan grasped my left hand, his fingers interlocked with mine, and started to push. I looked at his face and saw his familiar cocky grin. Yeah?'' I said, and pushed back, matching his strength with mine. I watched the textured muscles of his shoulder and chest tense and strain and flow with the movement as we pushed back and forth. Finally, he surrendered in the mock battle, and again I felt my oiled pecs sliding against the musclekid's -- no, the muscleteen's -- hard chest. He tensed his pecs, `popping' them against mine in our clinch as his hands again ran up and down my back. I spread my lats and his hands ran lightly along the sides of my back. Somehow my whole skin seemed to be getting more sensitive, and the movement of his hands seemed like an almost unbearable pleasure. For several minutes, our pelvic thrusts grew stronger and faster as each of us felt the other's strong muscles moving and flowing. Oh, God, MuscleMike! You feel so good! I think I'm...'' At that moment I felt a gush of warm fluid coming up from Stan's dick, followed by several lesser pulses. Stan was gasping sort of in rhythm with his still moving hips as his strong arms pulled me tightly against him in an irresistible embrace. In a moment, he relaxed his grip.

I continued rubbing my cock against his and pushed myself up from the bed. You're the muscleman, Stan! Show me those biceps!'' He brought his hands away from my back, and once again did a double-bicep for me on the bed. I grabbed and squeezed the steel muscles with all my strength. Oh, yeah! Just like that! Those arms, they're so damned....'' and finally I shut up as I sprayed milky semen (I had never actually seen the fluid before) all over his hard chest. Several times.

We were both panting, and pretty messy. Stan pulled my head to his and kissed me lightly on the mouth, something else that was new to me. I returned the kiss enthusiastically and we both lay on our backs and sighed, holding hands like children.

You know,'' I said, I've never actually done anything like this with anyone before.'' I squeezed his hand, ``Thanks. I never imagined...thanks.''

Stan grinned. ``Just shut up and get a towel.''

I went to the bathroom adjoining Barry's room and wet a towel, wiped myself off and brought it back to Stan. I wiped his chest and abs off slowly with the damp towel, which he seemed to really like. I was surprised to find that I was still horny, and said so.

``Me, too,'' said Stan, and sure enough, his dick started to grow again under my touch.

Y'know,'' I said, Barry said if we needed anything...''

Stan grinned. ``...and his legs do look really sexy shaved like that...''

We both called, ``Hey Squat Machine! Could you come up here for a minute?''

About forty minutes later, we were all getting dressed. Well,'' said Barry, I guess we know how to move together pretty well. We should be ready to pose for Jonathan tomorrow.''

I've been thinking about that,'' I said. There's one more little thing I'd like to do for Jonathan, if you guys want...''

They liked my idea.

Pygmalion '68, Part 13

Final Act

I went home, certain that somehow what I'd been doing with Barry and Stan could be plainly read on my face, but nobody said anything. I wanted to talk about it; I always shared everything I did with my family, and they were always supportive, but somehow I knew that this was different. For the first time in my life, I had to conceal part of myself from my parents, and this bothered me. Still, I could easily imagine what everyone would say if they knew about Jonathan or Stan, or even Barry with his shaved legs, so I just chattered about school starting on Monday and new clothes and stuff like that.

Saturday, at noon, we all showed up at Jonathan's for our last training session of the summer. I'll be starting Grad school on Monday, too,'' explained Jonathan. So you won't be able to come here after school most days, because I'll be at school. Gotta keep my student deferment, you know. I don't really want to end up wading through rice paddies.'' We all looked a little crestfallen. ``Oh, don't get all bummed out. MuscleMike and the Squat Machine can use the weight room at Hami after school, I know that for a fact. And Stan, weren't you lifting weights at your school last semester?''

Stan nodded. ``Yeah, but it's not the same.''

What, you don't want to have the fun of being the strongest guy in the weight room again?'' Stan seemed to brighten at the recollection as Jonathan continued, Well, you can still come on Saturdays and we'll be able to keep track of your progress. You'll see, it'll be fine. OK, guys, let's get your measurements.''

Once again, we got out our cards and Jonathan got the tape measure. In three months, I had gone from 137 pounds to 166, brought my chest up by over four inches to 41 , and added an inch and a half to my thighs, all while keeping my waist at 31 inches. My biceps were almost two inches bigger than when we had started, at 13 7/8 inches. I grumbled about not hitting the `magic' 14-inch mark. ``Just round it off, you know that's what all the big guys do with their measurements,'' Jonathan said.

``Yeah, but I'll know,'' I said.

``Oh, all right, we'll measure again after the workout. You'll work biceps last. That ought to do it. OK, Squat Machine, your turn.'' Barry had gained as much as I had in three months, and was 161 pounds. His chest was now at 40 inches, with a 30-inch waist. His thighs were huge at 23 inches, and his biceps taped at a tiny fraction under 13 1/2 inches.

Stan had gained over twenty pounds during the summer, which Jonathan said was a lot for someone who had been training more than a year. His arms were just a little smaller than Barry's, at 13 3/8 inches, and his 38 1/2-inch chest looked impressive over his 27-inch waist. His thighs, at 20 inches, were in excellent proportion to the rest of his physique. Jonathan put the cards away. ``We'll get your `after' pictures during our contest, after you work out, so you'll be looking pretty sharp. I know I've said it before, but I'm really proud of you guys. OK, let's get to work.''

There was no question about it, our workouts were, if no less intense than before, considerably `chummier', with a lot of friendly hands on shoulders, brief back rubs, and one outright hug as Stan accomplished a new personal record on the bench press. The fact that we were training in our posing trunks just added a bit of a pleasant edge to the whole thing. Jonathan raised his eyebrows a bit at all the body contact, but was smiling like a fond parent throughout the workout.

When we finished, Jonathan quickly got out his tape measure and measured my biceps once again, now feeling tight and full after a strenuous set of 30-pound dumbbell curls. Just over fourteen inches, MuscleMike! So if anyone asks, you can tell them fourteen inches without fudging.'' He paused, and with an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes, asked, You know anyone who's likely to ask?''

``Well, you never know,'' I answered noncommittally, and returned a smartass grin worthy of Stan.

OK, guys, it's posedown time. Oil up, and get up on the stage.'' We oiled ourselves up, and Jonathan oiled our backs. He pointed out that a little oil goes a long way, and that too much oil looks as bad as too little under the light, and helped us towel off some of the excess. We stepped up on the stage as Jonathan turned on the spotlight. He got out his Polaroid camera and assumed a professional manner. OK, let's do the mandatory poses, and some of these will be for your folder photos. Gentlemen, stand relaxed, facing me.'' SNAP. ``Thank you. A quarter turn to your left...''

The mandatory poses took several minutes, and Jonathan actually seemed to be scrutinizing us quite carefully and critically. All right,'' he said. I'll put the Polaroids away and then we'll start the posing routines. Which one of you is going to be first?'' He looked at Barry expectantly. Barry kind of half smiled. ``Well, actually, we have something different in mind. We'll be doing this posing routine as a group.''

Jonathan looked from Barry to Stan and me; we were both nodding seriously.

``I don't know about you guys. I bet I know whose idea this was, though. OK, OK, let's see the routine.''

Barry brought out his tape player and told Jonathan to turn it on when he said `go'. We lined up with our backs to Jonathan, assumed our starting positions, and Barry called out, ``Go!'' We heard the familiar -- by now almost too familiar -- Doors music and began our routine.

You know the day destroys the night; night divides the day. Tried

to run, tried to hide, Break on through to the other side, Break

on through to the other side...

We moved like one man with three bodies. You're not really supposed to look at your audience, but it was hard not to see that Jonathan was enjoying our performance, tapping his hand on his leg in time with the music. We went to our final pose, with a slight falter in balance as I went to one knee and twisted my back towards Jonathan, looking at my right bicep flexing to one side. The music stopped.

Jonathan stood up, shouted a high-pitched whoop of appreciation, and applauded. ``This was Barry's idea, I assume?''

Barry stood and bowed elaborately at the waist. Stan and I laughed a little. I've seen a lot of competitive routines that weren't nearly as well put together,'' Jonathan told Barry, then looked at Stan and me and added, and nowhere near as well posed as you guys did. I'm really impressed. Really impressed. Well. OK, it's time for the judge to give out the awards.'' He pulled out three fake-parchment sheets and sat down on a bench, and wrote some stuff on each of the sheets as we watched from the stage. He came over to us and handed one to each of us. I looked at mine. Be it known,'' the hand-calligraphed lettering read, that on this day, Saturday, the Seventh day of September, in the year 1968, Michael Wesson, known among his comrades as MuscleMike, did in fair competition earn the award for'' and here Jonathan had written in, in fair handwriting, Best Back and Best Arms'' and the calligraphy continued, As judged by,'' and Jonathan's signature. Barry had been awarded Best Poser and Best Legs'', while Stan had earned Best Chest and Best Abdominals''. Even though I knew it was sort of hokey, I was really proud of my certificate.

I couldn't give out an overall award,'' Jonathan said, almost apologetically, I know it sounds corny, but you're all winners as far as I'm concerned.'' He thought for a second. ``MuscleMike is lagging a little on legs, so next week after you've scouted the Hami weight room I'll give you some ideas for alternate or additional exercises. Same for your arms, Barry, they're not quite up to the rest of your physique.''

That reminds me; we got something for you too,'' Barry said, I left it outside.''

Jonathan raised his eyebrows in surprise, and as Barry went outside, he asked us what it was. ``That,'' I said, quoting from a television program I had been watching that summer,

Barry came back in, with a fairly large flat package wrapped in plain brown butcher paper, and handed it to Jonathan, who opened it eagerly, looking at that moment as much like a kid as Stan. It was a framed picture. He looked at it, and just whispered, ``Oh, wow!''

Jonathan was holding a large photograph, mounted and framed. On the left was the Austrian bodybuilder with a sort of dopey-looking gap-toothed grin, extending his hand to Jonathan. A smiling and triumphant Jonathan was clasping the hand with his own right hand, while flexing his left arm, displaying his chiseled physique. Two trophies stood at his side. Jonathan started to say something, but stopped, opened his mouth again, then stopped, then finally said in an oddly choked voice, ``I never thought you guys would do anything like this. I can't even tell you how much...'' and his voice choked off. I looked at his face and I swear, his eyes were glistening with tears. There was an awkward silence.

Barry broke the silence. ``Oh, and the photographer made these too.'' He brought out a plain Manila envelope. Inside were about a dozen 8x10 prints of Jonathan's posing routine, which were for Jonathan, and four copies of the picture that the photographer had made with the three of us posing on the stage before the contest started. Each of us took one, and Jonathan immediately tacked his copy on the wall of our gym, while I put my picture and parchment into my folder.

I am so impressed with all of you guys,'' Jonathan told us with a serious look on his face. I mean, not just your physiques, you've obviously done such a great job this summer, but I'm just glad to have friends like you. Lots of guys got muscles; not a whole lot of them have hearts to go with them.''

Stan went over to Jonathan and put a hand on his arm. Jonathan,'' he asked, we'd really like you to pose for us one more time before we go.'' Jonathan looked at Barry and me. We nodded. Jonathan stripped to his shorts and oiled up; Stan oiled his back. Jonathan went up on the stage and started his routine from last weekend. Stan was standing nearby and went up on the stage with him to stroke and feel his arms. Jonathan's eyes widened, but he continued to pose. I came over to him and felt of his thick chest, while Barry knelt and ran both his two hands up Jonathan's right leg to his thigh, where they remained.

``Ummmmm, guys, guys, this feels really great, but I can't let you do this. You know, I'm an adult, and you're teenagers...if anyone found out about this, you'd be in trouble, but I'd be hauled up on felony charges. We gotta stop. Really.''

I stroked his left nipple -- Barry had taught Stan and me a couple of interesting things about the human body yesterday -- and in a voice that imitated Jonathan's surprisingly well, said, ``I'm really sorry

you don't trust me more than that. I wouldn't tell anyone about you or anybody else. It's not my decision to make as to who gets told, it's yours.''

Jonathan looked at me, recognizing his own words to me. He opened and closed his mouth. Well,'' he said slowly, can't argue with wisdom like that.'' With that, he pulled my head in close to his chest, where I enthusiastically licked his hard pecs and nipple. Barry was kneeling in front of him, now with his mouth over Jonathan's shorts, stimulating his rising cock still in the trunks. Stan was licking Jonathan's flexing tricep. Jonathan had one hand down, stroking Barry's shoulders and the other at the back of my head, kneading the muscles behind my neck. It all felt very familiar, and I suddenly remembered my dream that first night after meeting Jonathan and Stan so long ago -- was it only three months? -- There we were, three muscleboys enjoying Jonathan's beautiful steel body even as he enjoyed the young statues he had helped to carve.

Before long, we were all on the floor, a tangled mass of teenage and adult muscle, a confused mixture of flexing, stroking, licking, thrusting hips, and pulsing cocks. Barry's mouth proved particularly talented in ways I didn't really like to think about too carefully, and he brought Jonathan to a climactic ejaculation that covered his massive chest with white juice. Stan and I rubbed our cocks against Jonathan's chest and abs and even his arms, adding our fluid to Jonathan's, even as we flexed for Jonathan's pleasure (and one another's). Jonathan's hand squeezed and pulled expertly at Barry's cock until he too sprayed a flood of ejaculant with gasps of pleasure. It was not the only time that we `came' that afternoon, and finally we just lay there quietly, gently caressing one another.

You guys should be going home soon,'' Jonathan sighed. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been wanting something like that for a long time.'' He turned to me. ``I told you I thought you guys were sexy. Pygmalion, you know.''

I nodded. ``Yeah, I figured that out. Eventually.''

Each of us went into the house to shower one at a time; groups would have been asking for trouble. While I was getting dressed, I asked Jonathan, ``by the way, what are you studying in grad school?''

``Education. I'm going for my Master's. I want to be a teacher. Who knows? Maybe you'll even find me student-teaching for you one of these days.''

I looked at Jonathan admiringly. ``A teacher. Damn, Jonathan, you're going to be the best. The best!''

Pygmalion '68, Part 14 (FINAL)

Epilogue

7:45 in the morning, September 9, 1968.

I walk in the front door of my high school on the first day of the new semester. I always like the first day. Clean notebook, blank paper, new pens and pencils. I'm wearing the new clothes Dad and I got me for school; the old ones were looking too tight on me. My shirt is a loose polo-style shirt, the kind with the elastic short sleeves that gather at the bicep. It makes my arms look good without being an obvious showoff, and tucked into my flared pants it suggests my V-shaped torso without outlining it. I'm walking with my shoulders back and my arms slightly out from my body, my lats spread just a bit -- the walk of an athlete. I look for my friends.

The first person I see that I know is Mike Cantor. He used to be in several of the better' classes with me in junior high, but I haven't seen as much of him in the last couple of years; he hangs out more with the leadership' types nowadays. He was student body president in junior high. I've always thought him good-looking, muscular, and athletic. He waves and comes up to me. Hey, Wesson!'' he says, looks like you got a lot of sun this summer.'' He looks me up and down. ``Working out too?''

I nod. ``Yeah, I did some weightlifting with friends this summer. Does it show?''

Oh yeah, you're looking great. Make a muscle!'' I flex my arm, and he puts his hand over the solid peak -- certainly not as big as the football jocks Mike knows, but hard and rounded. Wow, you really changed over the summer. You look great!'' I guess he realizes that didn't quite come out as a compliment, because he blushes. ``I mean, not that you looked bad before or anything, but...''

``I know what you mean. Thanks.'' I glance at his crotch. I'll be damned. Live and learn. Down the hall, I see Barry. He is wearing a tight white cotton T-shirt, bluejeans and his headband. I see him flex one arm for a girl with breasts large enough that even I notice. She seems appreciative of Barry's new look. Barry and I exchange a thumbs-up gesture down the hall.

Y'know,'' I tell Cantor, maybe you'd like to lift with me and my friends some weekend. I'm sure you'd be welcome.''

``That sounds groovy,'' Mike says. Wow. I'd forgotten that he really talks like that.

Groovy,'' I agree. Guess maybe we'll be seeing more of each other this year.''

It's going to be a good '69.

Copyright 1998 by M.U. All Rights Reserved.