Sunday Afternoon at the Gym, …40 minutes later.

[Mdlftr]

[Well, I surprised myself. I wrote another chapter. The characters just wouldn’t be quiet. Here’s Chapter 1. http://http://www.musclegrowth.org/forum/showthread.php?p=84092#post84092[/URL] Enjoy! Mdlftr]


Sunday Afternoon at the Gym, …40 minutes later.

We shower up in adjoining stalls, get dressed, and decide to go get some post-workout protein and carbs at the local IHOP.

On the way out to the parking lot, he stops in the lobby of the gym, in front of the coolers where the workout drinks are kept.

“Can anyone use these?” he asks, quirking a brow.

“Um, yeah. You just have to pay for it.”

He opens the cooler and reaches in. “O.k. Lessee…o.k. 35 grams of protein....” he peers at the fine print on the label of the container gripped in one meaty paw. “Here, this should do it.” He hands me the container and plants a bill on the front desk. “They can keep the change.”

“What’s this?” I ask, looking at the container. “Muscle-UP” it says on the label. “The ultimate post-workout drink,” I read aloud and look up.

“Part of your new work-out regime,” he says, looking at me. “After every workout, I want you to take in at least 25 grams of liquid protein. It’ll replenish your muscles, and get your body primed for growth.” He reaches out and lightly slaps me on the shoulder, “Here,” he slaps my other shoulder, “Here, and most importantly…” he reaches out and does a quick cup and squeeze of each of my pumped pecs, “HERE!” He gives a final slap and smiles broadly.

Whoa. I am charged, and not a little jacked. Still, something in me makes me challenge the alpha dog. I lower the container and face him. “Yeah, but does this shit really work? I mean, I’ve drunk it for years, and, well, look at me.” Here I step back and lower both arms to my sides, looking down at my lean, but to my eyes, * small * body.

He steps forward into my space, dark brows lowering, his expression fierce, hands fisting at his sides. “Does it work? Does it work? Take a look at this and tell me if it fucking WORKS!” He reaches down and yanks his sweatshirt off his head, effortlessly tossing it off to the side. He crosses his fisted arms in front of his naked barrel chest and flexes. The huge wall of olive-skinned muscled pectorals shifts up, hardens and flushes deep pink with blood as he crunches his abs, pecs and shoulders in a most-muscular crab shot in my face. I am backed up against the coolers, arms up.

“Go ahead and feel that, fucker and tell me that shit doesn’t work!” Spittle flies. He is jacked, crazed, raving, thrusting his huge chest in my face. Nostrils flare, breath snorts out as his chest swells. I reach out and cup his huge chest for the second time that afternoon. His skin is smooth like silk—if silk was over marble. His nipples thrust aggressively into my palms. The edges of his pecs are round and full, and, oh, so unbelievably large and hard. My big hands overflow with his muscle.

“Oh man,” I gasp, my breathing suddenly labored and hard, as my busy hands run over his huge chest, shoulder and arms. I am cupping, rubbing and squeezing, amazed at the hard, unapologetic muscle in front of me. This man is clearly unashamed of his muscle, his size, and his strength. He is NOT apologizing for anything.

He stands there for a minute, chest thrust forward, letting me feel the mass he has created on his body. “Go on,” he barks. “Feel it! Squeeze that muscle!” He pushes in further, until I am slammed up against the cooler. “Yeah, feel it, fucker. –‘Does it work’” he mimics in scorn. “Damn fucking right it works!” The last is said in almost a shout. He steps back from me, raises both mighty arms over his head and crunches down in a double bicep. His biceps bunch up on his thick arms; hard, full, so rounded they are bigger than softballs, and even harder.

He crunches his biceps, hard. I swear I see them pump up even harder. I stare, slack jawed. He drops his arms, steps back, and sweeps up the discarded shirt from the floor. Shrugging it on over his flushed torso, he looks up at me. “Well go on, finish it!” He commands, gesturing at the open muscle drink in my hand. I start—I had forgotten the container in my hand. I raise it to my lips and drain it in a few gulps. Finished, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and take a deep breath. He is still standing there, waiting. He speaks.

“If we’re going to work out together and build you up, you need to understand something.” This is said in a tone of quiet intensity, his dark eyes boring into mine. He raises one hand and jabs a finger at me. He punctuates each statement with a jab of his meaty finger. “When it comes to your workout,” JAB, “and your diet” JAB, “and anything to do with this exercise program” JAB, ”I’m in charge.” He points the finger towards his own thick chest. “Look, you want to get big, right?” He asks.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well then, we’re going to get you big. MY way. I’m in charge, and what I say goes. Capisce?” He raises his black brows interrogatively.

“Yeah. Uh, I mean yes. Uh.” I stare at him. He stares back, waiting. I continue to look at him. I speak. “Uh look. I want to get big, and I’ll do what you say. But, uh, I want to do this as equals or friends.” He continues to stare. His black eyes reveal nothing. His lips are clamped tight. All the warmth from earlier is gone. I remember that he’s Italian. His stare is level and unflinching, like something out of one of those gangster movies, where the guy is about to “get an offer he can’t refuse”. Well, I’m Irish, and I don’t take shit from anybody. I glower back. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Andy.”

“Andy what?”

“Andy SanPietro.”

“That doesn’t sound very Italian. The first name, I mean.” I keep staring back.

“It’s an anglicized version of my middle name. I de-Wopped it when I left home.” He grins, self-deprecatingly.

“You “de-Wopped” it? Oh, I get it.” I grin back.

“What’s your name, “Sean O’Malley McIrish”?” He scoffs, jokingly.

“Not quite. Matt McGuire.”

“McGuire?” Sounds like a real “Paddy” name to me. What, are you just off the boat?” His grin takes some of the sting out of his words.

“Nah. My parents were into the whole Irish identity thing -- Notre Dame football, St. Paddy’s parades, all that. I went to Penn State, which broke their hearts. They were set on either Notre Dame or Boston College for me, but I was a rebel.”

“Yeah, well, I went to Brandeis, so you can imagine how my parents reacted.” He smirks.

“A nice Italian boy going to a “non-Catholic” school. Man, they must’ve had a cow.” I’m enjoying this.

“My mother still says novenas for me. She’s worried I might stray from the “true faith”.

“And have you…?” I ask.

“Nope. I’m religious, worshipping every Sunday.”

“Oh.”

“Every Sunday here at the temple of iron that is!” He guffaws.

I laugh along. The tension is gone, lost in the give and take of getting to know each other. The laughter subsides. Andy looks up.

“ Matt. Seriously, you cool with this?” he asks and gestures from me to him, indicating the whole partnership, training thing.

“Sure, as long as we do it as partners, and not some sub-dom thing. I don’t get into kinky shit like that.” I fix him with a stare, my ice-blue eyes boring into his brown ones. A beat passes.

A pause.

He blinks and steps forward, extending a hand.
“Sure. Partners. Put it there.” We shake.

“Partners,” I say.

We head out the door to grab some food.


Sunday afternoon: 4:47 p.m.

The afternoon continues…..

[arpeejay]

YAY!

xoxo

Richard

[nj.]

I do meet foreign guys on my Sunday afternoon workouts. A big guy from Kosovo... Nice guy, too. Good looking even.

Maybe he should try this...

[philat99]

Thank goodness the characters refuse to be quiet. You're doing great. Now for the thirty years later!!!
Mike