The masters class

[Corwin]

[Something a little different -- dedicated to a real special guy (you know who you are) -- thanks for everything, Scott]

They come into the room, if you can call this hallway blocked off with
screens 'a room'. They are ready for the challenge -- ready to
compete. The older men are first -- 70, 60, 50 then 40. Most have
done this before, many times before. They greet each other as they
remove their sweatshirts, strip off their pants. They talk as
friends, reminisce about the heroes of their youth -- Jack LaLane,
Charles Atlas, Serge Neville, and of course, Arnold.

I am the interloper, the voyeur, trespassing on their world. If they
think me out of place, they don't let on. They are friendly. I feel
welcome.

The stage manager tells the first group that they have 15 minutes as
he calls off their names, confirming their presence and checking them
off his sheet. They prepare, rubbing oils and spraying PAM, making
their skin glisten to show off their wares.

Some have bottles of jelly which they eat. Anything for carbs.

They pick up dumbells, 20s, 30s or 40s, to pump their bis. They do dips to
pump their tris. They lie on benches, doing flies or presses, their chests
expanding. It's all about the pump.

The first time I see him, he is walking through the crowd. His ebony
skin is taut, his muscles massive. He has the body of a thirty year
old, someone half his age. He walks with a tired confidence. He sees
a chair, and sits with a sigh.

He sees me and smiles. "Mind if I sit," he asks, as if I have some
authority here. I nod. "Just like last year," he says, watching the
other men lift and preen. He shakes his head. "No competition. No
challenge. I'm going to win again." It is a lament, not a boast. He
wants the challenge, but it is gone. "This is my last year," he adds.
"Why bother? I need to do something that pushes me. Can't keep
winning this contest." He sighs.

He lives in a neighboring town, has trained for 45 years. The work
shows on his body. He pulls out some oil, begins to rub it on
himself.

"Don't get any on the chair," warns a worker. "The hotel won't like
that. We'll get blamed."

He laughs. "I won't," he says, dismissing the complaint.

His arms are thick. The bicep jumps up and down as he raises and
lowers his arm. His pecs are round, full. The mass is apparent as he
presses his fingers into them, rubbing oil on, making them shine and
stand out. He stretches his legs, never leaving the chair. He bends
to oil up the ripped quads, the thick hams, diamond-shaped calves. He
takes care not to get anything on the chair.

He tells me a little of his life. He goes to the gym, of course. He
rollerblades. I tell him that I bike. He smiles and checks out my
thighs. Not in his league but not bad, or so I hope.

Unlike the other competitors, he does nothing to get a pump. He's big, but
I think he looks smooth. He sits, watching the other man add size to their
bodies. He just smiles, self-assured in his pending victory. I'm not as
confident of his win, but that's not for me to say.

The stage manager calls for the class. With a slight groan, he gets
up. Some of the others are bigger, more defined. As he walks to the
waiting area, I wonder how he'll take not being first. I look at the
chair. There is no oil on it.

The competitors called to the stage are replaced by new competitors.
They are from a different class, a younger age. The story repeats
itself. Greeting. Removing clothes. Getting a pump. These younger
men have bodies that are less ravaged by time. They are bigger, not
having lost as much mass. No longer limited to a heavy-weight class,
the super-heavies make an appearance. Men with two-hundred-fifty plus
pounds of ripped muscle waiting for their turn under the lights.

The older men move from the waiting pen and take the stage. I sneak
to the side. I want to see my new friend. I wish him well.

He seems a different person now. He looks bigger, more ripped. The
audience is his fountain-of-youth. He looks like a twenty-year old as he
poses to the music. His bis rise high, and his eight-pack flexes with
confidence. He looks ripped. He strikes a side chest pose, the
hemispheres of his pecs protrude inches above his defined waist. His bi is
clearly defined, an elongated football shape that must be 20 inches. His
legs are massive, thicker than any other competitor. While others have
suffered the unstoppable effects of time, not he. He's tight, massive and
strong. I can't believe he's the same man. He devistates his competition.

I wait to congratulate him. The men are slow to come out. One of the
competitors has pulled a muscle and needs help. The competitors are
now comrades, helping their wounded colleague. He is gracious in
victory.

After grabbing his stuff, he vanishes in the sea of ironmen awaiting
their chance to triumph.

The big men are now in the pump room. They are the youngest of the
master class. They are my age. I feel small in their presence,
unworthy, weak. They pay me no mind.

One competitor is pumping up in his sweatsuit. The others know him.
They laugh as he mimes his routine, cut off from our reality by his
earphones, lost in what he needs to do to win.

A man begins to do push-ups at my feet, pumping his already massive chest.
His powerful arms raise and lower him on command as his body expands with
the pump. He talks to another. "Were you in the marines?" "No. I was
Army." They exchange stories of their common military bond.

A man steps toward me, searching for a place to rest. He is big. Six
five, six six maybe. He must weigh 275 pounds, all muscle. He sits down,
his legs straight in front of him, unbent. The back of the chair presses
into his massive back, causing the overflowing muscle to bulge wide. His
pecs are two shields, large, round and full, covering his torso with their
thick flesh.

Another man grabs the door frame, hangs off it and does pull-up after
pull-up. "Wow, look at those lats," whispered the man in the chair, but
not too loud. The man on the door knows his strong points, no need to let
him know his psych out is working.

He sighs. Unlike the last man in this chair, it is not the sigh of
confidence. It is a sigh of defeat. He sits, watching the others prepare.
He introduces himself. "They call me Rocky. I've competed for 25 years,"
he says. "I've always placed in the top five." He tries to hide it, but
there is a tinge of saddness in his voice. "Not tonight." His face
hardens. "They say losing builds character." He takes a deep breath.
"This will be good for me," he says. Is he trying to convince me, or
himself? Does that matter? "It'll make me stronger."

He watches the others. Few are pumping up. At their size, they don't
feel the need. They are walking anatomy charts already. Rocky flexes,
a subconscious reaction to the others. His body wants to fight,
wants to win. It is his mind that knows he's lost. He sits there, a
steely determination on his face. He won't let the others know his
weakness.

They call for the super heavies. He gets up, takes his place in the
line. On stage he strikes a massive double bicep on command. When
the top five are announced, he is not one of them. Rocky takes his
defeat like a man and steps off the stage.

I watch the super-heavyweights pose. They are huge. Their lats are thick
dense topographic maps of muscle, rippling. They are mountain ranges
separated by an inches deep valley. I know that in that valley is their
spine, but the muscle hides it, making it an invisible river of bone. I
try to act cool, but the sight of them flexing begins to get to me. Why
shouldn't it? There is a confidence in the way their biceps rise, the way
their pecs flex. Don't they want to impress me when they shake their
thighs, letting wave after wave of unflexed muscle undulate? Then they
stop and flex, showing the striations of their quads, flexing the redwoods
they call legs. I feel my mouth getting dry, so I turn away.

On the sideline, the sixty-year old champ watches. Has he been there all
along? He is talking to Rocky. He pats him on the back, reassuring him of
his talents. "Don't worry about the ravages of time," he says, "you'll win
again." I see him drop something into the defeated man's bag.

Rocky turns and leaves. I glance at him, watching as he walks through the
empty corridor, alone. There will be no plastic trophy for him today.

When Rocky returns home, people ask how he did. Did he win? He says,
"No." His tone says it all. Don't ask him anymore questions.

He goes to the gym to train. In the locker room, he strips. He looks at
himself in the mirror, thinks of just a few years before. His traps were
taller, pecs thicker, lats wider, arms stronger. He hates getting old.
When he opens his bag, he finds a pair of posing trunks. They aren't his.
There is a note.


"Guy. These trunks are special. They stop time. They give you back what
is rightfully yours -- youth, power, muscle. Don't believe? Try them.
They are yours now. Pass them on to another when you are done. The rules
are simple, guys younger than 40 charge them, guys older use the charge.
Try it. You'll see. The Champion."


Rocky shrugs. He looks at the trunks, bends over, puts one foot in, then the
other. He pulls them up.

He feels it immediately. He feels invigorated. He feels young. He feels
strong. He turns to the mirror and he sees the change. His pecs don't
have the sag of age, but are firm and thick. His shoulders are wide. He
has a ten-pack and the mid-life bulge of fat is gone. His traps are
bigger. He twists, and sees that his glutes are ripped. His legs are cut.
He's back to his championship condition.

He pulls on a pair of sweats, and goes to the gym. 'Let's do legs,' he
thinks. He goes to the squat rack, loads it with six 45 pound plates.
'Good warmup weight.' He cranks out 15, butt to the floor. It was easy.
It hasn't been easy for a couple years. Rocky puts on two more plates. 15
more reps. No problem. He smiles. 'Let's go for four.' He does 10
reps. Some of the younger guys are noticing. They're pointing, and
looking over. He gives them a show. Four more plates. He does a set of
8, then another, then another.

"Man, that's awesome." Rocky has a fan. It's a kid. He's seen him training
here for a few months.

"Just getting my second wind," Rocky replies.

"I'm Joe. Joe Jackson. Your technique is great. I can never seem to get
all the way down."

"Too much weight. Go lighter. Call me Rocky."

"I know. I've seen you in the magazines." Joe thinks about Rocky's
advice, "But I want to be strong. I'm going to be competing in the local
competition in the fall. I need to be big."

"The judges don't care how much you lift," he says, "they care about how
you look."

Rocky looks Joe over. The kid has potential. He's beefy, not much fat. What
did the note say? Something about charging the trunks.

"Joe, let me finish working legs. When I'm done, if you want, maybe I can
give you some pointers on your routine," he says. Might as well try.
So far, the note has been right. Rocky feels like the champ again, the
champ he use to be.

Rocky continued to lift heavy. He used weights he hadn't used in years. No pain, no
gain might be fine for younger men. But when you reach a certain age, your
joints rebel. But today, he's strong again. He's his old self.

He meets Joe in the locker room. The kid is striking a few poses.

"Looking good, Joe."

"Thanks," he says, looking at his double bicep pose. "They're only 18,
though." Joe pauses, looks at Rocky. There is something in his eyes.
Fear? Desire? "Would you show me," he says finally.

He smiles. "Sure." Rocky lifts of his shirt. He notes a look of awe in
Joe's eyes. The kid appreciates muscle. Rocky hits the pose, shows Joe
what real muscle is.

"Damn!" The exclaimation was unintentional. Joe blushes. "I mean, god,
I'd love to have peaks like those."

Rocky bends, signals for Joe to feel his arm. Joe squeeze, but Rocky feels
the hardness of his muscle. It is a rock with no give at all. Rocky
smiles. He feels strong.

"Your muscles will mature. Give it time." Time. That's Rocky's problem,
or maybe it was Rocky's problem. "Let's shower. Come over to my place,
I'll show you some tricks of the trade. That OK?"

"Ya, sure."

Rocky takes off his shoes, socks and sweatpants. Will he still retain his
new vigor without the trunks? He's gotta find out sooner or later. He
pulls them down. His dick looks bigger, his nuts fuller. Without the
trunks, he's still his young self, everywhere it appears.

In the shower, he catches Joe looking at him. He's a mature man. No, he's
a mature bodybuilder. He's got his champion form back. He thinks back to
the competition. The winner was huge -- ripped abs, massive legs, wide
back, solid pecs, thick arms. Ten years ago, that was Rocky. Now, it's
him again. Looking like he does now, he would have won. 'Wait til next
year.'

He looks at Joe showering next to him. 'Good bone structure. Thick. He
can lift a lot of weight, in time. Thick muscle bellies, too. I can do a
lot with this kid. I can make him a winner.' Rocky checks out his dick
too. Joe is hung. No drug-induced atrophy there. So many of the men
Rocky's size have used, he almost expects to see the effects of it.

They leave the gym together. Joe follows Rocky to his house. Rocky has
never done this before. It feels strange. Joe told him he was 19 and in
college. Still...

Joe has no fears following Rocky inside. Rocky makes Joe feel at ease.
Or is it the other way around? Joe tells Rocky about wanting to study
exercise physiology in college. Maybe open his own gym someday. Rocky
advises Joe on nutrition. The conversation turns to posing.

"Do you have a routine?" Rocky asks.

"I've been working on something. Maybe use some heavy metal to pose to.
Hard beats, you know, to strike poses too."

"It's a start. Why don't you show me? I've got some music." Rocky walks
over to his CD's. Pulls out some new wave disco music. "Do you need some
trunks?" Rocky can't believe he said that, but he needed to bring it up.
Why not be direct?

"I could just do it in my briefs?" Joe said.

"Nah, I got a pair. Put you in the right frame of mind." Rocky goes to
the bag, pulls out the trunks.

"Ya. Ok." Joe seems a bit shy, but he gets over it fast. He pulls off
his shirt. His young body is tight. Firm. There is no fat around his
waist. He removes his pants. His legs are toned, like a runner, but with
a bit of size too. Joe looks up tentatively, then pulls down his briefs.
he takes the trunks. There is no noticable effect.

Rocky starts the music. Joe begins to pose. His routine doesn't flow. It
is too haphazard, too jerky. Rocky shows him the correct way to show his
bi, the way to twist his wrist and point his fingers to make the peak as
large as possible. Rocky talks about Joe's strong points and how to
accentuate them. He tells him how to hide his weak points.

"Can I see your routine?" Joe asks. Rocky says sure, but he needs his
trunks. Joe strips them off and gets his briefs. He sits on the couch.

Rocky decides to put on a real show for the young man.

"Ever heard of Gypsy Rose Lee?" Rocky asks. "Of course not. You're just
a kid." Rocky is the teacher now, instructing, "Everyone needs a gimmick,
something that sets them apart. It isn't just the pose and the muscle.
It's the show, it's the anticipation. It's the tease. That was Gypsy's
gimmick."

With his right hand, he grabs the bottom of his shirt. He lifts it,
stopping at the base of his pecs. He flexes his abs, the hard eight-pack
ripples to life. He rubs each bulge with his left, sticking his fingers in
the divide between each. Rocky's face shows surprise, like his abs have
never been there before. He stops, and lowers his shirt. He stands there,
bouncing his pecs, raising his hands to his collar. With a sudden motion,
he rips, tearing the shirt in half, revealing his massive torso. He pulls
the remains from his arms, flexing his lats wide. He looks at Joe, winks,
and throws the rags at him.

Rocky turns to his side and bends over. He straightens his arm, flexing
his tricep, then pulls on the lace to his sneaker. Rocky continues to draw
his arm back into a rowing motion. He makes a fist and flexes his bi as
his back bulges. He turns his head to Joe again, smiling. Rocky notices
that Joe looks uncomfortable, squirming to hide the bulge in his shorts.
'Everyone needs a gimmick.'

Rocky kicks off his shoes, then pulls off his socks. He stands, turns to
Joe and walks over. He flexes into a crab pose. "POW!" he yells, causing
Joe to jump.

Rocky relaxes, grabbing his belt and unbuckling it. With deliberate
speed, he pulls it off, whipping it to the side. Rocky takes the belt
with both hands, snapping it as he flexes his torso in a show of muscle
against leather. Lats and delts flaring, Rocky snaps the belt a second
time before disgarding it.

Rocky unbuttons his pants, turns and walks to the back of the room.
Stopping, he turns his head to look at Joe. Facing the wall again, he
methodically unzips his pants, spreading the front. He stops, and turns
his head to Joe again, a look of "huh?" on his face. He puts his thumbs in
the waist of the pants at his hips. Pushing down, Rocky flexes his glutes
into a massive bubble butt that can only be built through heavy squats. In
a sudden motion, Rocky spins to face Joe, jerking his pants to his knees,
then over his calves. Carefully Rocky steps out of his pants, flexing his
freed right leg, then his left. Rocky's quads form a hard curved ledge
over his knee caps. He strides back over to Joe.

Bending over, Rocky says, "Posing is theatre. It's about getting the
audience on your side. It's about pulling them in, then letting the out
again, like fishing. It's about the tease and the gimmick. That's what
you got to learn." He looks at Joe, then stands back up. "But first, the
basics."

Rocky pulls his briefs off and reaches for the posing trunks. As he pulls
them on, he feels the whirlwind engulf him. His body seems to inflate with
more power, growing. His abs bulge, become as rough as the underbelly of a
lizard. The hemispheres of his chest become rounder, more ripped. His
lats become heavier, and his traps bulge higher. His delts become bowling
balls sitting on the tops of his tree thick arms. His legs become
incredibly defined and stretch the trunks to their fullest. Rocky feels
the hormone rush of a 19 year old, hot and horny and wanting to grow bigger
at all costs.

"Man, you're pumped huge!" says Joe, the bulge in his shorts straining for
release.

"Thanks." Rocky notices that his bulge is also bigger, but still flacid.
The trunks made everything about Rocky bigger. Rocky explains to Joe
about the manditory poses.

For the next few motnhs, Rocky continues to help Joe train. As often as
he can manage, he gets Joe to wear the briefs. The effects are always the
same. Time is running backward for Rocky.

Joe won his contest. He wore Rocky's briefs as a token of luck, but it was
really Rocky who had the luck. The briefs were charged big time after
being worn by a teenclass winner, even if it was a local show. The
accolades of the audience and Joe's stellar perforance provided the briefs
with a massive charge. The energy Rocky felt when he put on the briefs
felt like a stamped of wild horses engulfing his body. He actually gained
25 pounds of muscle immediately. Rocky's arm grew over an inch, his chest
2 and his thighs 3. His gray hairs actually turned brown, and his skin
became tighter.

After Joe's win, Rocky began to train some of Joe's friends. They wore the
brief too, adding their teenage energy to the briefs. Afte each new youth,
Rocky felt the whirlwind engulf him again. He felt younger. He had more
endurance, more strength. He was also getting bigger.

In the gym, Rocky reclaimed his title as the strongest lifter. Young
studs that had displaced him now couldn't keep up as he lifted heavier and
heavier. The effects showed on his body.

Rocky's arms have grown to over 27 inches, unflexed. His thighs stretch the tape
to 36 and his waist is only 29. His chest is a full 69 inches of muscle.
Even his dick was bigger, a full 11 inches of manpower that could have
multiple orgasms. Not bad for a man approaching 50. His hormones are in
such a state that he'd throw a rod if a pin dropped too hard. Eleven
inches is hard to hide.

I see him a year later at the Masters Nationals. I barely recognize him.
Like the year before, he sits in a chair and looks at the other competitors
as they preen before the show. "It's mine this year," he says. "No one's
got my size, my strength, my symmetry." He's right. "One day, I may give
this up, but not now." Rocky tugged on his briefs as he took the stage.

"Damn, I didn't look that good when I was 25," whispers one of the other
competitors. "Wonder what his secret is?"

The end

[arpeejay]

Great story, Scott, and wonderful details! I'd love to see the fella who inspired it!

rpj