Repost: A Really Big Mac at the Golden Arches

[arpeejay]

[This was originally posted in a couple of other places. I don't think it's every been officially posted here. No idea how to contact the author; if he wants us to take it down, no problem (but I'm guessing otherwise.) -- rpj]

By Buckeye70

He had just turned 17, I would learn later, just 40% my age.

He was blond...and heeeeeyoumongous. Five-feet, 10-inches, two hundred eighty of the hardest pounds imaginable.

"What," your faithful correspondent asked, "is Mr. Perfect Body doing
at Mickey-D's?"

This being the Midwest (Ohio), openness was no rarity. And this kid, his attitude, his muscles, his whole presence, was out front.

"Piggin' out, big guy, how 'bout you?" he said, his massively-powerful
right hand squeezing my right arm harder than any blood pressure machine.

Turns out he was throwing the shot put in an amateur track meet and had
fired off a 63-footer that had the few hundred fans roaring like a hockey
crowd.

And yes, shot putters, by divine designation, are rarely confused with tennis players or point guards.

The Arches was crowded -- what else is new? -- even in mid-morning. He'd set his record at 9:40 a.m. and now his day was free. Seats were at a premium. Perfect.

"Mind a little company?" I asked.

"Thought you'd never ask," he shot back. I loved this kid, full of attitude,
extremely confident in who and what he was.

"Congrats on the shot put heroics..." I began.

"Forget about the shot put, dude," he said, putting that hammy mitt on my
left hand. "I know why you're here. Your body language gives you away..."

Barely seventeen, this kid. And razor sharp.

"What are you, a psych major?" I said, cracking wise. His wire-rim glasses
completed a physical non-sequitur, as he looked like the son of a college
professor.

"I will be this fall (at Ohio State)," he responded.

His name? Mac.

"BIG Mac," he said, a cocky smile nearly paralyzing you. "Perfect for here. Emphasis on perfect."

He smiled softly as I froze. He had stripped his silky rose-red
letterman's jacket and his tank top revealed a Thunder Dome upper body that simply oppressed the eyeball.

"Pretty good eye candy?" he wondered, full well knowing what the response
would be.

"More like, ummmm, filet mignon," I said. "Dammmm, kid, how long have
you been lifting?"

"Since I was 11. My dad got me a serious set of Olympics when I
turned 11. By the time I was 12, I was 5-5, about 163, and rifling line drive home runs off the houses behind the Little League field.

"They had to put a high screen up there -- heh, heh..."

As he munched on his cheeseburger, his forearm bracchials were a series
of heavy-metal trained muscle explosions that defied the human vision. Heavy
vascularity punctuated a massive bowling pin look. His obvious heavyweight pecs, traps and delts were the perfect complement to what had to be a 19-inch ox-neck.

"Do you compete in other sports?" I asked timidly.

"I D.H. in baseball," he said. "I'm hitting .237, but 15 of my 21 hits are homers, all of them over 400 feet. I hit one 508. And I wrestle, but not A.A.U. style. I do cellar muscle wrestling with a lot of bad dudes of all ages. Won 114 straight. Nobody's ever made it into the third period with me."

Three guesses what he did next, even with a large, but mainly inattentive, group of eaters nearby...

He put his outrageously mountainous right arm on the table in the upright arm-wrestling position...

"C'mon, big guy, give it a shot. You look like you've got a lot of beef on you," he challenged.

"Let's do it," I said. "But not here. I know a picnic area..."

"I got a better idea," he said. "Back to the motel where the guys on my team are staying. I've got a single room..."

Suddenly the testosterone center just below the equator was Mt. Vesuvius.

"Wow, you're loaded," Big Mac said, as I walked over to his car. As we hopped in, he left little to the imagination, with one hand on the wheel, the other you-know-where.

"IIIIIII'MMMMMMMMM loaded!" I said. "I'm bi and love my women, but when a guy like you comes along, I mean..."

"Shhhhh," he admonished, as we pulled into the downscale motel. He almost yanked me out of my side and we were inside.

On the floor were all manner of dumbbells.

"I like to lift, what can I say?" he said.

Just for show, he sat on the edge of the bed, loaded one of the dummies up to 30 kilos (66 pounds), and knocked off a set of textbook-perfect concentration curls, his biceps a celebration of ultimate masculinity, with a huge systolic vein racing down his granite-hard bracchial mountain.

"Hoooooonnnnnnyeannnnhhhhh," he grunted, sounding like a Monday Night heavyweight pro rassler. "Now THAT's mannnnhood, ain't it?"

His double-bi just blew me away. "Twenty-one inches COLD, dude. Not bad for a 16-year-old, huh?"

Then he stripped his flannel warmup togs and, below a pair of satin, rose-
colored shorts exploded a pair of legs that resembled Jorge Betancourt,
Paul DeMayo, Gaston Fernandez ... even, to a degree, Jean-Pierre Fux.

"Sometimes I work out at (a very well-known Ohio muscle emporium), dude," he said. "My dad is still a master's class powerlifter and bodybuilder and we really go at it. But I own him now..."

"Mac, what a body! I have never..."

"Shhhhhhh," he said softly, effortlessly picking me up (all 230 pounds) in a
crushing bearhug, and looking me in the eye from one inch away.

"Mac...."

"Shhhhhhhh..."

The embrace was total. His nearly 90-degree V-shaped upper body eclipsed me. The Himalayan erector muscles of his back, the rippling lats and raw power and hard sinew that encompassed every cubic centimeter of his being just put me in a vacuum.

The kiss was as stunningly electric as it was unexpected.

His endowment was bigger than Harvard's and Stanford's put together. And his perfectly striated glutes were harder than an M.I.T. calculus exam.

"So what do you think, Buckeye?" he asked, finally.

"I think no matter what you choose, how you choose it, you will be unstoppable."

We re-connected, his powerful jaws and awesome physicality simply in total control of anything I did.

"Mac, stay in touch," I said, finally.

"Don't worry, I will," he assured.

Seventeen. Just imagine what Big, Big Mac will be like at 21. At 25.

On second thought, don't. On this imperfect earth, at least, how do you improve on what has to be a perfect male-side human experience?

[Boy, I would be SOOOO happy to read more about Mac -- or Buckeye, for that matter!]

[Mdlftr]

[QUOTE=arpeejay;110132"
His endowment was bigger than Harvard's and Stanford's put together. And his perfectly striated glutes were harder than an M.I.T. calculus exam.


/QUOTE]

Best comparison ever on a muscle growth website!!

FOFL


mdlftr