Kris Evans





The Church Camp Lifeguard 

by Sean Reid Scott  
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Posted: 2023  ::  Approx. 11,900 words





IHE ABSOLUTE ONLY THING I LIKED about Church Camp was campfire. And that was a stretch. Every night the whole camp gathered around a circular fire pit and did the Kumbaya thing. You could stare into those flames forever, just contemplating… singing the songs… being bored when someone talked about the Lord… listening to the snap, crackle & pop of the wood as it burned… watching the embers rise into the dark, starlit sky… and of course, finding where Alex was, and then looking at him as often as possible.

Alex stood on the other side—opposite the fire from me. His body towered over the kids, and the adults too. The orange light from the campfire flickered and illuminated the faces of everyone surrounding it. But I only had eyes for Alex. He remained standing, as some of the counselors did, while all of us campers sat on a stair-step circle—lots of us with legs crossed. A few kids closest to the fire threw faggots into it. 

I swear Alex and I met eyes quite a few times. And I was just beside myself about the whole thing. He was the man of my dreams; he was everything I wanted to be—and everything I wanted to be with. How was it possible that he even knew I existed? And he actually pursued me?! He wanted to be with me?!

It didn’t help that some of the cabin-mates sitting next to me had a short conversation about him. “Can you believe how big the lifeguard is?” “Oh, Alex? Yeah, he’s amazing. Really ripped.” Yeah, everyone liked Alex.

When campfire was over, Alex was deluged with requests for attention, as usual. He was always friendly with everyone, so I knew he’d be busy while everyone filed back to their cabins. I slunked back to our cabin and got ready for lights out. 

I suppose there were a dozen—maybe fourteen—guys in my cabin, plus the Cabin Counselor, Rick. Rick was okay, but he was oblivious to the teasing and taunting that went on. I wasn’t out-and-out bullied, per se, but I would have given anything to be able to get away from that place. 

Maybe Alex's cabin?

As usual, the other kids goofed off while they got ready for Lights Out, stalling as long as they could, making fun of kids who weren’t there, flicking boogers at each other.

I tried to keep as low a profile as possible. After I brushed my teeth and peed, I snuck into my lower bunk, crawled into my sleeping bag, slunk down, and pulled the cover up as far as possible, trying to not be there.

After the lights were off, Rick tried to lead everyone in a prayer. Afterward, he let everyone talk and goof off for awhile as they settled down. 

Me, I lay there silently, not paying attention to any of the ruckus that was going on. The jokes about tits and stuff just didn’t do it for me. All I could think about was Alex. And apparently, I was just just getting old enough that I was able to—I didn’t know what it was at the time, but… well, it felt really good to push on myself—my penis—while I laid on my stomach in my bag. And then, while someone in the darkness told a joke about something… I felt warm stuff come out and make my hand wet.

It’s entirely possible that the first time I ever came was there, in my bunk, thinking about Alex the lifeguard.



CAMP ENDED AT THE END OF THE WEEK, and I returned home. Life got back to normal. But I never stopped thinking about Alex. In the fall, I started fourth grade. As time progressed I would fall headlong into puberty, and all its confusing, depressing manifestations.

Puberty almost did me in. I was wracked with depression, and a lot of that depression had to do with the fact that my feelings toward men had started to express themselves sexually, in masturbation. I never thought about girls when I jerked off. Never. It was always men. And as my infatuation with Alexander would indicate (as well as my fixation on countless other well-built men over the years), my taste in men definitely tipped toward bodybuilders—muscle men… just like Alex.

I was entirely convinced that masturbation was a sin. Plus, I really truly believed that guys who liked girls never masturbated. I honestly believed that jacking off (I didn’t call it that; I didn’t even call it masturbation. I didn’t know what it was called) was something only abnormal boys like me did. Only someone who was into men would masturbate. Sex education at school wouldn’t come until high school (as far as I can remember), so jacking off was not something anyone ever mentioned. So, as far as I knew, the only guys who masturbated were kids like me—boys who had thoughts about men. Normal boys (who were attracted to girls) did not masturbate. I was convinced of this. (And I didn’t reconcile my conflicting ideas that I was the only one who did this, vs. Only abnormal boys like me did this.) So obviously, my jerk-off sessions were all the more problematic for me. There was really something wrong with me.



THE NEXT SUMMER, I WAS AT THE THRESHOLD of my pubescent depression years, and even though I had looked forward to hopefully seeing Alex at Church Camp again, that possibility didn’t eliminate the dread I felt about the venture as a whole. 

Fortunately, Alex was lifeguard again.

And whoa. 

During the ensuing year Alexander had packed on some major muscle! He’d probably grown an inch or so taller too. (Yet all of his height and muscle growth that first year was nothing compared to what would come later.) But yeah, that second summer I fell even more in love with him. He was still friendly as heck, and once again, he sought me out and wanted to be my friend!

I just did not understand it. Why would a jock-stud-hunk like that even give me the time of day? Let alone want to be my friend? It was a dream come true.

Alex always had the attention of anyone who saw his physique. And his pleasant, accepting personality didn’t hurt. Everyone loved Alex. The boys envied him, talking about his build, his apparent strength, etc., and I’m sure the girls loved how gorgeous he was. Me, I was all in.

I remember that second summer at camp as vividly as all the rest. With the additional size Alex had added, his muscularity was impossible to ignore. And no one did, it seemed.

We gathered at the lake in the afternoons, as usual. Alex was at his station, valiantly protecting our lives while we all pretended to swim—while we really just kept stealing glances at him standing there in his tank top and swim trunks, muscles all over the place, blond hair glistening in the sun, tan skin soaking up said sun like he’d made Sol himself. The fact that he wore a tank top meant that his muscles were definitely front-and-center visible to all.

Some of the more brave boys (the normal guys) goofed off closeby, occasionally making a comment about Alex's body: “How much can you bench?” being the usual ice-breaker. I wasn’t ever close enough (didn’t dare) to hear his answer. Funny how seeing a guy built to the rafters makes people (not me, obviously) feel the freedom to engage the muscle dude, and ask questions about his physique.

And when the questioners got their fill of answers, someone—thank the Lord—would inevitably find the courage to ask him to flex a bicep or whatever.

Thank the Lord.

Being the uber-friendly guy he was, Alex was usually happy to oblige. The reaction from the kids was half the fun. I mean, seriously… his audience would Oooh and Aaah all over the place. Having received a positive response from the god, someone would invariably ask for more. And Alex was good about it.

I remember one particular day, Alex was standing next to his raised lifeguard station (up a short ladder to a seat on top) busy flexing an arm for a kid, and someone flat-out asked him to take his shirt off. Alex feigned shyness; his demure smile made me weak. But he was a good sport, you know, so he ended up agreeing to let the kids have a look. At all those muscles.

What must it be like to have a body that is so packed with crowd-pleasing features that people ask you to take your shirt off? It must be a rush. Makes all the hours in the gym worth it, and all.

Anyway, Alex toyed with the bottom of his tank—his long, muscular fingers fiddling with the material—and slowly (dramatically), started lifting it up. He revealed his abs, and I swear all activity on the lake came to a complete and utter stop. One of the boys poked Alex’s abs with a fingertip; the lifeguard laughed. Another kid did the same.

Then Alexander lifted the tank top higher, at just the right speed to make the entire event an event. When he got it all the way up and over his head, then lowered his arms to his sides, I’m pretty sure there was a collective gasp.

I know there was one from my mouth. Despite my efforts to muffle it.

“Wow!” someone said.

“Holy crap!” another boy called out.

“Jeremy, come ‘ere and look at Alex!”

“Dude, you’re totally ripped!”

“Shoot, dude, you should be on a magazine!”

“Gonna come in my swim trunks!”

That last one was from me, although thankfully I didn’t say it aloud. Pretty sure anyway.

“Let’s see some poses,” someone said.

“Yeah, give us a flex.”

Alex wasn’t haughty or egotistical; he was just obliging and friendly. He let kids look. He let them exclaim. He let them gawk. He let them touch. And he let them feel: biceps mostly. But some copped a feel of a pec or whatnot. To be honest, I kinda got lost in my thoughts.

I’d dreamt of this—seeing Alex display his muscles… watching him let kids feel how hard and big they were. All friendly like. All innocent. What he didn’t know, though, was that he was providing lil’ ol’ Bryan with pornographic images that I’d save and use in perpetuity. Seeing him flex and watching others feel was porn to my eyes.

I sometimes wondered (at least for the next year or so, until he confirmed for me—a confirmation that will be revealed later) whether he knew how much his muscles affected us fledgling sthenolagnites. Would he have been so willing to flex if he knew he was leading us pervs down the path to sinful depravity and inevitable homosexuality? (I mean, this was Church Camp… and the adults were ostensibly there to keep us on the Straight and Narrow, right? And believe me: Ours was not a gay-friendly congregation.) Did he have any idea that he was driving kids like me insane when he showed off like that? That every night after that, us sexual deviants would push on our penises in our sleeping bags and make that white stuff come out and get our forearms all wet? While us gays-in-waiting fantasized about that very scene?

In later years, I’d wonder how many other kids like me stained their sleeping bags over Alex. At the time, I was sure I was the only one. Now… well, now I know better.



THE FOLLOWING YEAR, THANK THE LORD, Alex was there again. My fixation only grew and grew—probably in direct proportion to the amount of muscle he’d put on. He was nineteen—or maybe even twenty—now, and I was in danger of having an involuntary orgasm if I even just thought about him. I figure he probably added about 15 to 20 pounds of muscle per year. And just got taller. And leaner.

And I had only put on more pubescence. There was a lot of testosterone going on in my little body. Testosterone on the inside; zits on the outside. Not kidding. 

Suffice it to day, I was eleven years old when I started truly hating myself. Yet even though sixth grade was bad, it was nowhere near as bad as seventh grade would end up being. And I think it might be safe to say that not a day went by that intervening year that I didn’t think of Alex. And as my masturbation habit grew and grew, he was the prime actor in my fantasies.

My puberty years were absolutely horrible. I held on to the Lord, but He definitely didn’t hold on to me. The next few years would be the definition of depression.



THAT YEAR THOUGH, THE SUMMER BEFORE sixth grade, Alex was at camp again. I first saw him in the main hall, helping everyone check in and get their cabin assignments. He was more stunning than ever—bigger, leaner, more veiny, bulging muscles everywhere… yet he was beautiful—nothing like the roid gods of today. I have no idea what kept me from fawning all over him in public. Other kids seemed to be totally comfortable with doing it. He was so big and powerful-looking that I think I truly ran the risk of coming in my shorts. I suppose if I had been, like, 17, and at my sexual peak, it might have happened.

At the morning flag raising, Alex was always there in all his glory, wearing a t-shirt and shorts that showed off his body. This did nothing to help. Nothing.

Every morning he found me at breakfast, and sat next to me while he tackled his huge plate of eggs, potatoes, bacon, sausage and all. I just couldn’t figure out why he sought me out! This was Wednesday, and his habit of sitting with me was well-established. Breakfast was the one meal when us campers didn’t sit together as cabins; we could sit wherever we wanted. So I usually sat alone—until Alex came and sat beside me.

“How was fifth grade last year?” he asked while we ate.

I was still flabbergasted by how he kept track of me: my age, my grade, etc. “It was good,” I said. I wanted desperately to offer up some more information about it; I felt tremendously awkward in my silence. I knew how to carry on a conversation, even with adults, but with Alex, my brain got all discombobulated.

“Good. What did you like about it?” 

“Well, my teacher was good.” I liked chorus, too, but that would have meant another sentence. Plus, it was already becoming plain to me that chorus was quite distinct from, say, football or basketball—two of the many sports (all of them, honestly) I shunned.

“Nice. Did you have any favorite subjects?”

“Well, I really liked long division,” I perked up. That was something that I had excelled in—best in the whole class just about. The potential for being labeled a nerd notwithstanding, I did take pride in that. “And I was pretty good at it, so….”

“Really? That’s awesome, Bryan.” He looked directly at me between bites, and I swear I saw a genuine acceptance and appreciation there. It was enough to make me float above the table. Almost. “I loved math in grade school. It was one of my best subjects too.”

Who knew that Alex and I had something in common? Would that we had more.

The meal moved forward with my new confidence in discussing math, and despite a few younger kids coming up and trying to climb up Alexander's immense body, we were able to actually hold a pretty good conversation.

“Hey, I was wondering,” he said toward the end, “would you want to come over to my cabin sometime and check it out? I’m studying to become a nurse, and this year I’m acting as the camp first-aid guy. You could check out some of the equipment and stuff that I have. They gave me my own cabin—with extra room—in case someone gets sick.”

“Oh. Cool.” Nerves returned with a vengeance. What the heck was this? And why did he like to spend time with me?! That he sought me out was the most confusing concept I’d ever tackled.

“I could ask your Cabin Counselor if you want. Happens all the time… when someone expresses an interest in medicine or something. It’s up to you if you want to.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah. That sounds cool.”

“Nice. I’ll talk to your counselor. You’re in the Elk Cabin, right?”

Again with the knowing more about me than seemed normal to know. “Yeah.”

“I’m good friends with your counselor, Roger. I’m sure it’ll be okay. How about if I arrange it for after dinner, during Cabin Clean-up and Reflection. Then we can walk over to Campfire afterwards.”




OUR TIME TOGETHER THAT EVENING couldn’t come soon enough. But unfortunately, there was an entire day to endure in the meantime. At crafts later that morning, while I intently worked on gluing cotton balls onto a paper plate with a face drawn on it—to represent a man’s hair (wtf?), the kid sitting next to me asked, “Do you know Alex? Is he a relative or something?”

Relative? Yeah, right. Like we had any genetics in common.

The kid’s name was John; he was one of the jock kids; I was flabbergasted he was talking to me.

“Uh… no,” I said shyly.

“You seem pretty close to him. I mean… why’re you always hanging around with him? He’s always talking to you at the lake. And he sits with you in the mess hall a lot,” John said.

I was decidedly not liking this line of questioning. Fudge, I just knew that Alex's attention would bring bad things. The kid was getting too close to a very uncomfortable subject for me. “Dunno,” I said.

“I thought he might be your brother or something. Man, I’d give anything to have a big brother like that,” he said.

Tell me about it.

Holy heck, John was so straightforward… and able to say some of the things I felt about Alex. But he wasn’t being weird about it—not weird like I felt. He was just admiring Alex… and by extension, my friendship with him.

“Well, is he as cool as he seems? I mean, he’s always friendly and stuff… but….” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“He’s nice.” I glanced to the side and saw John just staring at me.

“But I don’t get it. Why do you hang out with him? I mean, why does he hang with you?”

I was so freakin’ scared. What was I supposed to say?

One thing I had begun to develop as a kid—a defense mechanism I guess, to ward off anything that made me uncomfortable—was a quick wit (well not maybe actually quick, but whatever). And at that moment, I needed any self defense I could find. So somewhere inside me, I found this: I looked at John and said dryly, “Must be my magnetic personality.”

John paused a second—staring at me with no expression—then he burst out laughing. And it was a friendly laugh, not one to make fun of me. “You’re pretty cool, you know that Bryan?” He slapped me on the back all friendly-like, then got back to his craft thingy.

      1. He said I was cool?
      2. He slapped me on the back?
      3. He said I was cool?

Apparently there were benefits to dating the camp lifeguard. Yeah, dating. That’s what we were doing right? Ha ha…. Whatever. I was toast.

This whole thing was like some kind of movie. In a way I just wanted to break down and cry. I was an emotional wreck, but in the best way possible. Someone really, really cool liked me! Not just someone though… Alex! The most cool dude in the universe!

I felt like a feather blowing in the wind, unable to land anywhere… every time I felt like I was getting close to hitting something I could fasten myself to, the breeze picked me up and blew me randomly away. Up into the air, in an easy downdraft, across a meadow… I felt out of control. Always dizzy. Twisting and turning at the emotional whims that moved inside and through me. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t stand it! There was no purchase. I drifted, never closer to the ground than two feet, never able to land and figure out what was going on here.

If my thoughts were somewhat poetic in all of this, it’s just the way I am, okay?

For some reason, I kept remembering an old movie my mom had rented on VHS…. It was My Fair Lady, and I’d later realize that musicals like that were kind of a stereotype for guys like me to enjoy. The song that kept playing in my mind that week said:


“I could have danced all night,

I could have danced all night,

And still have begged for more.

I could have spread my wings,

And done a thousand things….”


I couldn’t remember all the words, but the words I did remember were enough. I was dancing all day and night over the fact that Alex liked me (only metaphorically, of course… dancing for real would have been… counterproductive). And he wanted to spend time with me. I imagined myself swinging from light pole to light pole (another song, Singing in the Rain—haha) singing “I could have danced all night,” while I swooned and swooned over Alex.

The interaction with Jock-John was further proof that Alex's attention on me was an actual miracle. From God? Did the Lord approve of me liking Alex?

Of course He didn’t. My infatuation with Alex was infused—saturated—with homosexual desire. And I didn’t even know what “gay” meant yet. But I knew I was the scum of the earth and that the Lord detested my thoughts—John’s approval (and of course, Alexander's) notwithstanding. There was no way in hell that God thought that my thoughts about Alex were good.

But I just couldn’t stop! And in a very big way, I didn’t even care! I was headed to hell at 175 miles per hour, and I didn’t give a rip. All I could think about was Alex.

“Alex!” someone yipped.

I snapped my face up from my stupid little art project to see Alex walking into the crafts area (which consisted of a group of picnic tables arranged in a clearing). Alex was, as usual, all blond, buff, confident, and wonderful. He wore a tight-fitting, yellow t-shirt. Perfect color on him.

“Hey Alex!” one other boy called, waving.

A couple of girls sitting across from me started giggling and whispering to each other, while they kept glancing over at the incredible hunk.

“Hey guys,” Alex said with a smile. “How ya’ll doing?”

Positive, enthusiastic reactions came from all the tables (even though the place had seemed like a morgue a minute earlier; the crafts were the stupidest thing any of us could think of).

Alex said to everyone: “I’m just going around to let everyone know that since it’s supposed to be really hot today we’re gonna open the lake for swimming a half hour early.”

Enthusiastic cheers.

“But before you come to the lake—and all day long, for sure—I want all of you to make sure to drink lots and lots of water today, okay? In this heat, hydration is really important.”

“Okay,” “We will,” “Alright.”

Then Alex saw me sitting at my crowded table. Then… he walked over to me!

Please Lord, let me die right here. Embalm me right now. No, scratch that. Let’s go with cremation. (It might even happen spontaneously [combustion] if I wasn’t careful.)

“Hey Bryan, how’s it going?” he said just to me.


He looked at the man on my paper plate, and the hairdo made out of cotton balls (Yes, this was a sixth-grade art project. I think the camp’s Arts & Crafts teacher was only trained in kindergarten crafts). “Lookin’ good, buddy,” Alex said, squeezing my shoulder. And he left his hand there while he looked around the table and noticed the other kids’ work. Hand on my shoulder. He didn’t take it off till his attention came back to me and he said—to me, “See you at the lake later?”

Well… yeah…. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. “Sure,” I squeaked, hardly even lifting my head to acknowledge him.

Then one boy on a different table called out, “Hey Alex, flex for us!” The kids vocalized their approval at the suggestion.

Alex smiled, the lifted one big arm and tightened his biceps into a mountain. He was slow and deliberate—like he knew exactly how it’s done to maximize the effect on the audience.

Everyone gasped and oohed, of course.

Emboldened by Alex's cooperation (and likely the reaction of the crowd) the kid then said, “Let’s see more, man. Take off your shirt!”

Everyone called “Yeah,” and other encouraging words.

Alex wasn’t shy. But neither was he stuck on himself. He reacted with a coy “Naw.”

But the kids would have none of that. They all pressed the issue.

Finally Alex looked over at the Crafts Teacher dude, for permission. He got it. (I saw a wistful look in the guy’s eyes, and a hopeful smile followed; pretty sure he was as on-board with the idea of Alex taking his shirt off as the rest of us.)

Having received approval of the crafts guy, Alex slowly—artfully—lifted his shirt, revealing a set of abdominals that were astonishing. I’d never seen such a sight. Alex had definitely gotten leaner this past year. Each one of the eight mounds was delineated by a deep vertical ravine, and multiple, deep horizontal ones—separating each abdominal bulge with sensual clarity.

Alex studied his abs while the kids all gasped, then he looked up at his admirers and smiled. Slowly, the bottom of the shirt moved higher. He had to puuuuul it out and away from his chest in order to get it up higher. And when his pecs were revealed, I wasn’t the only one there who was blown away by their size, their thickness, and the deep cleavage between them. The big, brown areola, with peanut-like nipples didn’t escape our notice either, for sure.

The t-shirt eventually came off—not without an obvious effort on Alex's part to get the sleeves to let go of his tree-trunk upper arms—and the kids moaned and cooed their amazement. Alex stood there for a moment, letting us soak him in. Then he lifted both arms in a graceful transition to a double-bi pose. I swear the silence was all-encompassing. That was, until everyone started with “Wow!” and “Holy heck!” etc.

In retrospect I wonder if any other boys got hard like I did right then.

Alex did a few other poses: Side-chest and most-muscular (which basically left everyone on the verge of uttering words that ought not be uttered at Church Camp). By the time he put his shirt on and re-admonished us to hydrate all day (a duty that was even more imperative for me, since I’d likely be ejaculating lots of bodily fluid very soon and would need to replenish), everyone was thoroughly blown away by Alex's muscles.

He said good-bye and the crafts dude cleared his throat—a few times—and told us to get back to our stupid crafts.

As soon as Alex left, John looked right at me and smiled. “That’s so cool, dude,” he said softly. “You’re cool to have a friend like that, Bryan.”

I was trembling. I was cool! All because of Alex.

There had to be some religious analogy in all of this. Alexander was my Savior. He liked me unconditionally. He extended his grace to me. Unmerited, unearned favor. To me. Just like the Lord did.

Yeah, I was going to hell in a really fast-moving hand basket. I doubted the Lord appreciated the comparison. (He should have been flattered.)



IT WAS DEFINITELY HOTTER THAN NORMAL that afternoon and I was so very grateful for that… for two reasons. 1) They opened the lake early. 2) Alex the Lifeguard was going to be shirtless, all afternoon.

Oh my dear Lord. Sweet Jesus with a life preserver.

He wore tattered, cut-off jeans, those old-timey reflective sunglasses, and a smile. And that was it. And so help me Hanna, it was a sight to behold. The brief show at the crafts tables had been mind-boggling. But there was something about just being able to watch, and look, and ogle, and watch some more—without worry of being discovered. I mean, everyone was doing it.

I think that was the day I converted from Christianity to Alexianity. Well, no… I had converted long before that day. But I gotta tell you it was more than I could take. The man was flawless. Huge. Gorgeous. Tan. Perfect. Muscles everywhere. Abs that wouldn’t quit. Arms that were dizzying. Really big and round shoulders out to here. Legs that put the trees surrounding the lake to shame. A chest that made me want to cry. There’s no way I could take it all in. There’s no way I could go anywhere near him. So I just bobbed in the water, staring.

And fortunately, that day he didn’t seek me out. Yeah, he was busy. But maybe it was because we had a date that evening, and he felt obligated to let his fans fawn.

Some of the girls who surrounded him (they were relentless), must have been making comments about his muscles—specifically his chest—because at one point he made his pecs bounce for them. They squealed and giggled. Yeah, Alex was the star of the show.

Me—despite being in the moderately cold water, I was as hard as a tree branch. And when he rolled his pecs like that I came as close as I had ever come (till that point in my life, anyway) to spontaneously coming. Right in my swim trunks, in the lake.



ALEXANDER FOUND ME AFTER DINNER, and we walked from the dining hall, across the little bridge that went over the creek, to his Cabin. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it was going to blow up. Or maybe I would throw up. Maybe both. I was living a dream. How was it possible that Alex had sought me out, and wanted to spend time with me? 

But Alex was all kinds of nice… cool, chill and just plain okay. “So this is the cabin,” he said. “It’s my cabin where I stay and sleep, and since I’m the camp first aid guy this year I get a place to myself.” He directed my attention around the room. “So there’s a bed for sick kids and stuff for first aid and things.” The patient’s bed was in the far corner, and there was a curtain that could be pulled out to offer anyone using it some privacy. (If I’d have had the good fortune of having to spend a sick night in Alex's care, I would have been pissed if he’d pulled the curtain.) He motioned to a few medical things like a stethoscope, blood pressure thingy, and some shots and other stuff.

The entire room was warm and western-homey. It reminded me of when my family had vacationed in Yellowstone—it was a bear motif, and deer, and moose. Very cozy.

“Cool,” I managed to squeak out.

“And over there is my bed,” he indicated a big cot/bed in the corner, against the wall. There was a night stand next to it. “They brought in a wide cot because they said a big guy like me needed the room,” he chuckled.

“Yeah,” I said. I could hear my heart pounding.

Besides being huge and ripped, Alex was really tall. Whenever he stood near a door, it seemed like he almost came up to the top of the frame. Suffice it to say, I felt like a speck of sand in his presence.

“The only thing this place lacks is some weight-lifting equipment,” he smiled. “But I timed my workouts so I could have a week-long break from lifting. It’s actually good to do that every once-in-a-while.”

“Oh.” I was still avoiding eye contact with the man, but whenever he looked away, I stole glances at him.

He plopped himself down on his bed; putting his pillow on the floor, he leaned his upper body against the wall at the head of the bed. He bent one leg and pushed himself against the wall while he kept one leg draped over the side of the bed. How did a man get legs so enormous? He usually wore cut-off jeans if he wasn’t wearing swimming trunks, and now the cut-offs barely contained those enormous, veiny, muscled legs.

He leaned forward and patted the bed and motioned for me to sit down on the other end.

With trepidation, I did.

“So is camp going alright this year, bud?”

“Yeah. It’s good.” Only because of him.

“Good.” There was a moment of silence, then he said, “I gotta tell you, buddy, I remember when I was your age. I was really confused about… well… everything,” he paused. “And the stuff I was confused about? Well the people in the church just wouldn’t understand… I was sure of that. So there was really no one I could talk to. I was a pretty quiet guy. Lots of room in my brain to analyze everything,” he laughed. “And that was really upsetting, to be honest.”

I nodded, staring at my hands. What was he talking about? I mean, I totally identified with everything he was saying, but… I was confused. No way could this guy have ever felt the same kind of funny that I felt.

“So, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want. I just want you to know that I’ve been there. And I care.”

Ha. He may have “been there,” but he certainly hadn’t been here. Where I was. No way did he know what was going on in my head. We sat there for a few moments, silently passing the time. It actually felt comfortable. It was like he just wanted to pass the time… with me.

I think when I didn’t respond, he must have decided to kinda back off on the I-identify-with-your-inner-turmoil talk, because he changed the subject. “What kinds of things do you like in school? English? Science? Gym? I know you said math….”

The idea of gym made me almost roll my eyes. Ha. Gym. Riiiiiiight. I was the most awkward, chubby, un-athletic kid ever. Math was great. Science was sometimes cool. History was horrible. But I didn’t mind English. “English, I guess.” And music. And drama. But yeah… not gonna admit that.

“Cool. I liked math, actually. Still do. And science. Being a nurse, you know? It’s all science,” he said. I was staring at the wall at the back of the room, next to his fireplace; he was on my right, facing my profile.

I nodded and looked down, searching the bed’s army-green blanket for microscopic anomalies.

“But of course, as I got older, I really got into weight lifting,” he said.

Ya think?

“Bodybuilding is really cool,” he continued.

“Yeah,” I agreed with a squeaky voice. I think I was sweating hard now, even though it wasn’t really hot in his cabin. For some reason, I looked over at him, and our eyes met. His eyes twinkled with his smile. Man, his muscles were just everywhere.

“It really gave me confidence,” he said. “And it was really fun and cool to learn about all the exercises… and how the different ones target specific muscles to make them bigger and harder.”

I nodded. Fudge, I didn’t want to talk about this. He had to know this was pure torture for me. Although all I really wanted in the world was to have him take off his shirt and flex his muscles for me, at the same time, the whole idea petrified me. And I certainly didn’t didn’t want to talk about this.

“When I started going to the gym regularly,” he said, “there were a lot of really cool guys there who helped me out.” He shook his head slowly—I turned my head to him when I saw the motion in the corner of my eye. He continued: “Some of ‘em were really buff—big and strong-looking. I mean, muscles everywhere,” he said. “It was amazing. I was really intimidated by most all of ‘em.”

I couldn’t imagine Alex ever being intimidated by anyone.

“But there was this one guy who was really nice. He was older than me… like maybe what I am to you,” he continued. “And he kind of took me under his wing and showed me how to lift and stuff.”

Somehow I was able to keep looking at him while he talked.

“And what was really cool was… well, I was pretty shy about it, but to be honest the guy had so many big muscles, I just couldn’t stop looking at them. And thinking about them, you know? All I could think about was what it would be like to see them more… flexing and stuff. And how hard they’d be.” He looked off, up toward the ceiling, almost wistfully. Then he chuckled and looked back to me. “I was really into guys with big muscles.”

What? What was he saying? I looked back down at the bed and the fidgeting fingers in my lap, hoping my heart wouldn’t beat right out of my chest. This was scary, hearing him talk like this—it was as if he knew what I thought.

“So anyway, the guy who helped me, and kinda became my weightlifting coach… his name was Tyson.” He stopped for a second, then he leaned toward the little night stand next to his bed. There were a bunch of notebooks and folders in it. He pawed through some of the folders and then pulled out a picture of a man. A bodybuilder. In just some posing shorts. The guy was amazing. He had, like, no fat. And big muscles. And his posing trunks didn’t hide much. I thought to myself that—back then especially—the posers were too small to wear in competition. I dunno. But anyway, the guy looked like a lot of the muscle men in the magazines my brother had stashed under his bed.

Yet Alex was even better than this guy—hands down.

“That’s him. Tyson,” Alex said.

“Wow,” was all I could get out.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. He let me look for a few moments, and I examined every detail I could wrap my eyes around. “He’s really awesome. When I saw him in the gym the first time, I was really amazed. He had muscles everywhere.”

“Like you?” I have no idea how that came out of my mouth.

Alex chuckled comfortably. “Well, yeah. I mean, I was just starting out and stuff. So I didn’t have any muscles yet, really. But like now you mean? Yeah. I’m actually bigger than Tyson now,” he smiled.

Told ya.

“‘The student becomes the teacher,’ I guess,” he laughed. Then… and this is when I think I had my first-ever out-of-body death experience… then… he lifted one arm and flexed his biceps. Just. For. Me. He had a t-shirt on, so he pulled the sleeve back toward his shoulder to show the whole upper arm. It was fucking ripped, and enormous! The pointed peak of his biceps muscle was astounding.

I’m pretty sure I almost fainted. I’d never had someone flex an arm just for me—certainly nothing that big, and that defined… that amazing. Alex held it, hard and pulsing. It was huge. Just fucking huge. I will never forget it. You could actually see the split biceps heads (something I’d learn all about as I got older). And the whole thing was just gigantic! Very defined—and no fat.

He rotated his wrist and made the muscle move and… holy fuck. His forearm was freaky-thick, and there were veins all the heck over it! His muscle was E-Nor-Mous!

I was this close to passing out. I swear.

“What do you think?” he said casually.

How was I supposed to answer that?

Alex said, “I think you might be like I was: scared as shit over big muscle guys.” Alex cussed? He was a camp counselor. Lifeguard nurse dude. And he cussed?

I swallowed hard and looked down. “Yeah. I guess.” He was pulling my words out of me. I didn’t want to talk. He just pulled the words out.

“Yeah, but what I learned is that most big dudes—muscle guys—are pretty cool. Some of ‘em are kind of scary, I guess. But I decided that when I got big and stuff—like I am now—I’d try to be friendly about it.”

Oh. Okay.

“And I don’t want you to be nervous or anything,” he continued, “but you did like watching me flex for you all this morning at crafts, right? I saw you looking.”

Oh please, Lord. Please, please, please. Find me a way out of here. Fast. 

He looked at his flexed arm, then at me, and smiled sincerely. “Do you like it? I mean, do you like big muscles?”

Please Lord, take me. Take me now. I promise to never sin again.

I think I might have given a slight nod.

He relaxed his arm and lowered it. “Well, if you ever want to feel my arm—or any of my muscles—just let me know. I bet you’ve never touched muscles as big and hard.” 

You’d win that bet, for sure.

He smiled again, but the smile was so friendly it totally, somehow, put me at ease. “If you want to, it’d be kinda fun. You could come back here to my cabin some time, and I could strip down… you know, to my bodybuilding trunks… or whatever… and pose for you… show you all the different muscles and stuff.” He paused a second then said, “I’d do it right now for you, but we have Campfire pretty soon, and I wouldn’t want to rush.”

He kind of put the subject aside and just sat there with his hand on his veiny, giant upper leg, chilling. He looked out the far window, just kind of thinking….

He met my eyes. Yeah, I had been looking right at him, oblivious to how obvious I must have been. “So if you ever want to learn more about bodybuilding or… you know… just talk about weight lifting and stuff, I’m your guy, dude.” He pointed his thumb to his chest and smiled.

He called me dude. 

I nodded slightly. “Cool.” Then I looked down again.

“No problem if you’re not into big muscles, man. Only if you’re interested.”

He looked out the far window again. It was starting to get dark outside. Evening Bible study was probably wrapping up, and everyone was probably going back to their cabins to get ready for the big campfire we had every night—put on sweatshirts, and stuff for when it cooled off after dark.

“Well, maybe later. We should probably get ready for campfire,” he said.

I nodded, but I was so flipping disappointed. Man, I wanted to see his muscles!

But what he did next would definitely provide me with fantasy material for decades to come: He pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room to a small chest of drawers. In his t-shirt, his mammoth frame was staggering. Just perfectly perfect. His wide back and narrow waist made that “V” shape that was amazing. So much muscle. So much good looking-ness. He pulled open one of the drawers and grabbed a few items of clothing. Without turning to me he said, “Just gonna grab something warmer for when the evening cools off.”

With that, he tossed a new t-shirt and a hoodie on the top of the bureau—it was nothing more than a glorified desk with lots of drawers. Then, still facing away from me, he pulled the shirt he was wearing up and over his head.

Oh. God. Help me. His back! Those shoulders were so broad, and his back was so flippin’ wide! And all over his lean back, his muscles bounded and rippled! And it was mind-numbing how it all tapered down to a waist that was insanely little. Alex slowly fiddled with the t-shirt, and as he did so, he turned toward me; it felt like it was all in slow motion. 

His chest: At profile view, his pecs stuck out from the rest of him so big, hard, round, and glorious I thought I’d faint. This pecs were so thick that his nipples pointed down! Toward the floor! And then… his abdominals. And those arms! Shit! I’d never seen anything like it. I’d never seen so much lean muscle! He was totally on par with any muscle man I’d ever seen in the magazines. Better, to be honest.

When he got to facing me full on, he glanced up at me for just a second. A corner of his mouth turned up; I swear I wanted to crawl right under that cot I was sitting on. His smile grew a bit. He inhaled deeply, making his chest rise and fall, and he said, “What do you think?” Then he winked at me.

Alex's muscle body was hairless. I don’t know if he shaved or if it was natural, but his chest, abs, and well… all of his tan, absolutely-perfect skin was flawless, hairless, and just bulging with mounded muscle. All of that tan, ripped muscle contrasted so beautifully with his blond hair. His bare upper body was better than the most vivid dream I had ever imagined. Goddamn!

“You’ll definitely have to come back here some time this week, if you’re really interested in bodybuilding, and stuff.” He looked quite amused at my dumbfounded expression. “I get the feeling you and I are a lot alike—that you’re interested in big muscles too.”

I think I nearly fell off the little bed.

“Seriously, Bry. It’s cool. I’m glad. I just hope you’ll give me a chance to show off for you sometime. I’d love it.” Then he bent down and picked up the new t-shirt. He pulled it over his torso… his enormous arms were just beyond belief. Then, to my huge disappointment, he picked up the sweatshirt-hoodie and put it on over the t-shirt.

“You ready to head out?”

No. Definitely no. I couldn’t stop staring at his body—even fully clothed. The hoodie hugged his frame just perfectly—not too tight, but tight enough to show off everything underneath.

“You should probably head back to your cabin,” he said as he walked toward me, “so you can get something warmer too.” He extended one hand to me. I took it—he was just the definition of solid. He pulled me up to stand. “I’ll see you at campfire, ‘kay man? I might not be able to sit with your cabin, but I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“Okay,” I said quietly.

He was going to look for me there.



OF COURSE I DIDN’T DARE TELL anyone in my cabin where I’d been during cabin clean-up. Seems no one really cared anyway. I was used to it. There were only one or two kids in the whole camp that I ever even made eye contact with, so…. But I would have literally died if anyone knew that I’d been with the hunky camp lifeguard! Everyone worshipped Alex—almost as much as the Lord. So yeah, there was no way I was going to admit that I’d been with him. Everyone would know how I felt about him… they’d know for sure!

I mean, the fact that a muscle-loving kid like me had been with him, it would raise all sorts of red flags. I was not athletic; I was not socially advanced; I was quiet to a fault. Sure, I used humor as a great self-defense mechanism. Lots of kids thought of me as kinda funny. But everyone would wonder why Alex would want to spend time with me. Everyone would wonder why he would even glance at me!

I couldn’t figure it out myself, actually. But I knew I was smitten, and well… in love. I think I actually was. Alexander the Lifeguard had been with me! And he invited me to his cabin! It would have been easier to learn that the world was flat than it was to figure all of this out.

As usual, everyone flocked to Alex whenever he was around. And tonight at the campfire was no different. Jock guys and fawning girls started calling out, “Hey, Alex!” and “Alexander! How you doing?” before I even saw him.

But when he saw me, he smiled and gave a small hand-wave across from the other side of the big circle. I’m sure no one had a clue that he was waving at me. 

The Pang was heavy that night. All I wanted, was to be with Alex.

In my bunk that night, I lay there quietly, enduring all the stupid chatter, the practical jokes, the bullying and making fun of other kids who weren’t in the room (yeah, Church Camp was brutal), and of course the inane, vulgar talk about girls: boobs, tits, pussy, cherries, kissing…. It was disgusting. (Now, if they would have been talking about men in that regard, well yeah… would not have been vulgar at all.

Anyway, I lay there in my bunk, trying to be as absolutely invisible as possible (I did not want anyone’s attention in any way. Except maybe Jock-John’s. But although he was nice to me when we were just the two of us talking, he didn’t seek me out, and he certainly didn’t make conversation with me in front of others, if he could help it. So I lay as still as possible, praying for Lights Out to arrive as soon as possible. At one point during the melee, I rolled over onto my stomach.

Fuck, I was as hard as a stick. And instinctively, I started pushing my cock into the mattress. My sleeping bag totally covered me—I was engulfed in it. It gave me a semblance of privacy. And when the lights did go out, it was even more private.

It didn’t get quiet right away, of course. There were stories, and all kinds of shenanigans to be had. But in the dark, I could dream. And push on myself.

I floated somewhere between consciousness and the ozone layer, and started to fantasize about Alex.



THE PRIVATE POSING SESSION TO WHICH Alex had earlier invited me didn’t take place the next day. That’d have to wait till Friday. He pulled me aside at the lake Thursday afternoon, telling me there was going to be a special treat for all of us that afternoon, and that he would have me over to his cabin again—just the two of us (he stressed that point)—on Friday evening, after Campfire.

But after swim time was over that day, before dinner, a special event (the treat Alex mentioned) had been arranged for all the campers: a strength demonstration by none other than Alexander the lifeguard.


It was a fantasy come true. Everyone gathered in the mess hall. The event was optional, but I’d wager that every kid in camp was there. No one wanted to miss this. I’d be willing to guess that Alex's little exposition was better-attended than any Bible study or Campfire time—what with how kids always found a way to skip stuff.

The event started at 4:30. They hadn’t set up the tables for dinner yet—that’d come after Alex was done showing us how strong he was. So we all sat on the floor or in chairs in a big circle, with a clearing in the middle where Alex stood. A thick rope hung from the hall’s high rafters.

The room was buzzing with excitement.

Camp Director Mr. Madison entered the circle and stood next to Alex, who was wearing his usual cut-offs (damn, those enormous legs) and, right now, a tank top (damn, those gargantuan arms and shoulders).

“Okay, everyone,” Mr. M called out, “settle. Settle!” He waited for a moment, then lifted the Bible he held and read a verse: “Proverbs 20:29 says, ‘The glory of young men is their strength,’” He pointed to Alex, then to himself as he continued, “‘And gray hair the splendor of the old.’”

Everyone laughed while he ran his hand through his silver hair.

“But it also says, in Exodus 15:2, these important words: ‘The Lord is my strength and my defense; he has become my salvation.’” He closed his Bible and said to us, “And that is why we’re here right now, to have a little fun while we appreciate that the Lord is our strength.”

Inwardly, I questioned how Mr. Madison was going to tie in Alexander's physical strength with God’s provision of defense and eternal salvation. But at that moment, I really didn’t care how he framed it, nor about the relative absurdity concerning his theological basis for calling this meeting.

“Our camp lifeguard, Alexander, is—as you all know—blessed with a very strong body. Some of that is thanks to his genetics—which of course comes from God the Father; some is due to his tenacious self-discipline and hard work in the gym, of course. But in all things, God is glorified. It is the Lord who gives us—even Alex—the strength we need.” Then he quoted another strength passage from memory: Psalm 18:32: “It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure. So, this afternoon, we have a treat. Alexander has agreed to demonstrate some of his strength for us. And while we witness his feats of physical prowess, I hope you’ll all remember that it is The Lord God Almighty who gives us strength.”

Yeah, in retrospect, I think it was a huge stretch to think us kids (especially those of us with sthenolagnia) would be able to make the connection between God’s strength and Alex's stunning muscles. But who was I to argue?

“So let’s hear it for Alex,” he looked a bit embarrassed, but added, “the muscle man!”

Everyone cheered loudly.

Alex struck a double-bi, then got everyone to quiet down. He thanked Mr. Madison and continued: “Okay, well I owe all my strength to the Lord, of course.”

Some kid shouted, “And a lot of time in the gym!” and everyone cheered.

Alex grinned. “Yes, we all have to make decisions about what we do with what the Lord has given us.”

I thought Alex's take on the whole thing was better than Mr. Madison’s. But whatever. I really wasn’t paying attention to the “life-lesson” aspect of this little meeting. Nor, I doubt, were many others.

“So first of all,” Alex continued, “I’m going to do some rope climbs.” He grabbed the rope that hung from the rafters, and tested to make sure it was secure.

From the sides, Mr. M cleared his throat; Alex looked over at him and Mr. M gave him a “look”.

“Oh. Yeah,” Alex smiled. He let go of the rope and started in on taking off his tank top. And as always, Alex taking off his shirt was never just a simple shedding of fabric. He was a showman, through-and-through, despite his apparent humility. He knew what everyone wanted, and he knew how to give it to ‘em. While boys and girls alike cheered and borderline cat-called, he lifted the shirt off. The man’s muscles were mind-numbing. His physique was perfect. Overly-perfect. Big muscles all over hell, with likely, maybe, three percent body fat. I’m serious.

The audience stirred him on to give a few flexes of his pecs as he released the shirt to the floor, and everyone went bonkers, of course. None more than me, although I didn’t express it.

When Alex grabbed the rope again, his upper arms bulged with dizzying size. His rippling torso—his intercostals, serratus, and abs (like I said, I’d learn the names later, but for now the lines of rippling muscle were stimulating beyond words to me)—bespoke not only strength, but a lean sensuality that etched itself into my psyche.

Then he started moving upwards. In a flash he rose—hand over hand—without using his legs at all. And before you could say involuntary orgasm, he slapped the beam at the top, then lowered himself down again. Everyone cheered, and he gave a double biceps.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Alex produced a couple of heavy weights—the kind you find in weight rooms. These were the big ones. At the time, I didn’t know anything about how much those discs weighed—the ones you put on the ends of a bar to do bench presses—but I’d later learn that they were 45 pounds each.

“Now Alexander is going to do the rope climb again, but with weights, added” Mr. Madison announced.

Alex donned a padded chain around his waist, and attached the two 45-pound discs to it. He grabbed the rope again, took a few deep breaths, and started in. His entire body flexed and tightened, and although it was slower this time, he did indeed begin to move upward. Arm-over-gigantic-arm, Alex lifted himself upward, higher and higher.

“Holy shit!” some kid cussed. Cabin Councilors scanned their kids to determine who the offending person was. I don’t remember hearing that he’d been discovered.

Despite the unbelievable weight, Alexander moved with fluid grace. Determined and deliberate. He rose higher and higher. The strain showed, but his pace was perfect; he never slowed one bit. When he got to the top, he once again slapped the beam before returning to the ground with the same, even pace as when he’d risen.

Everyone went nuts.

Alex stepped out of the chain and launched into a few poses while everyone cheered.

His next feat demonstrated not only his inhuman strength, but also his ability to perform gymnastic miracles. He did hand-stand push-ups! I’m serious! He first bent over, placing his hands squarely on the floor, then lifted himself into a handstand. Everyone liked that, of course. But that was just the beginning. Once he was positioned in the handstand, he slowly bent his arms and lowered his body… until his nose nearly touched the floor! Then, while everyone yelled and went nuts, he puuuuushed his entire body up. His triceps grew into an oversized football, and his biceps, although not directly involved in the feat, also managed to be engorged to the size of, well, almost the size of a soccer ball.

And that was just the first rep!

He ended up doing many of those.

After he was done with that, he stood upright, his face flushed with exertion, and accepted the adulation he was definitely due.

And then there was a little posing demonstration—which nearly sucked the electricity out of all the light fixtures. Defined and delineated perfect muscles that just tortured me.

Mr. M then announced that Alex would now demonstrate, “just how strong all those protruding abdominal muscles are.” While Mr. M explained, Alex took the hanging rope and fastened a foothold above his head; he lifted himself, inverted himself, and secured both feet in a knot in the rope. When he was done, Alex hung, inverted, a few feet above the floor. 

Holy fucking fuck. (If some kid in the crowd could get away with actually saying “shit”, I figured I could get away with thinking a worse expletive.) Alex's body, upside down, was astounding. The diagonal lines of his serratus and ribs, and the abs… his small waist, contrasting with those wide shoulders… his gigantic legs… all of it hanging there, helpless… Fucking damn it was a sight to see.

Mr. M moved in, ostensibly to make sure the rope was secure and that Alex wasn’t in danger of falling. But my memory serves up a vision of the man testing more than just the rope. Seems to me—and this might indeed be a manufactured memory—I recall seeing the director actually stroke some of Alex's presented muscle, specifically, I remember fingers and palms moving over Alex's insanely large-and-ripped quads and hams. Alex's great legs extended up from his groin like two colossal tree trunks. The sheer muscular size of those immeasurable thighs made me harder than I’d ever been.  And Mr. Madison’s playful appreciation of them nearly made me wet my pants (and not with urine).

Mr. M’s hands—both of them now—moved upward, to the writhing beauty of Alex's  calf muscles. These heavily-tenoned lower leg creations were chiseled, hardened columns of meatiness. Line upon carved line blossomed with rich fullness as the amazing bellies of calf meat—vein-laced magnificence for sure—fell under the worshipping appreciation of Mr. Madison’s hands—and our bulging eyes. The director then permitted his hands to return lower, and linger over the hewn curving volumes of corded quadriceps as his sense of touch explored the sensation of a multitude of steel-hard snakes, each one coiled and stacked aside one another under the thin sheathing of skin covering the distended, upended upper legs.

Mr. M continued his sensual, tactile assessment of Alex's muscles. His hands traveled downward onto Alex's waist… his fingers danced around Alex's tiny belt line, then down onto the muscle man’s inverted abdominal rack. He patted Alex's abs thoughtfully. He caressed the bulging mounds, and even traced the deep valleys in between.

There’s no way this actually happened, is there? Holy hope on a rope…. I truly hope that memory is accurate. Of course, it’s not though. Mr. M’s touching (in my memory/fantasy) is simply too erotic to have been real.

As much as Mr. M wanted to continue with the admiration and investigation of the colossal body of muscle dangling there in the middle of the mess hall, he realized there was a task at hand. Taking one last longing gander over the impossibly phenomenal muscled body hanging in readiness, he sighed, stepped to the side, and announced (rather breathlessly, as I recall), “Alex will now perform some inverted abdominal exercises. He will raise his body upward to touch his hands to his feet. He’ll then relax and let his upper torso fall back to vertical, and then repeat the process. He has asked us to help him count each repetition.

There were lots of ooohs and other exclamations.

“Alex has committed to doing 50 of these inverted, hanging sit-ups; more if he is able.”

I just stared at the seemingly helpless physique that hung from the rafters. I never dreamed that any man could possess a body with almost all those pounds of solid muscle and be so breathlessly beautiful at the same time.

I couldn’t imagine how Alex's minuscule waist, lined with abs that resembled something between river-rock and cobblestones, could be capable of lifting those massive pecs and lats that had to be well over two times the size of the waistband.

Alex's pecs were so monstrous in scale that they refused to surrender any of their imposing thickness to the extension of their meatiness caused by their inverted suspension. Mounted on the endless curvature of mammary muscle and pointing toward Mr. Madison were the darker brown points of Alex's erogenous nipples, nestled in the warm brown bed of his inviting areola.

It was an unbelievable scene.

At the signal, Alex inhaled deeply. His torso tightened, and the skin receded into nothing as his abdominals flexed. He lifted his arms away from the floor, and his upper torso bent upwards. His mammoth arms stretched up, and he touched his toes.

Everyone in the hall shouted, “One!”

Alex's body unfurled into a vision of mindlessly wonderful, stretched muscle beauty and magnificence. Lines carved out each brilliantly plated abdominal muscle that had been charged with hoisting the endless wonder of his upper body. The individual fingers of his reinforcing obliques and serratus muscles reached out to embrace each side of the suspended torso.

The plated flatness of each severely perfect abdominal exploded again into mounded spectacles of instant glorious power as they rounded into intensely sheered images filled with the unimaginable strength needed to lift the massively fissured upper torso upward for the second repetition. Each inverted leg muscle shifted to cast stone, carved with line upon line of corded vein-strewn meat as they lent appreciated assistance to the midsection muscles.

And Alex continued….

Upon the completion of the twentieth rep, it was the quivering pectoral masses as they paraded their expanded prominence as Alex's magnificent body rolled downward that warned of the first signs of fatigue. Shivers of undulating cables of pec meat quaked across the glowing, sweaty body. All of his over-challenged, massive muscles began to show the stress.

The room continued to call out each rep. Many of us were lost in awe, many of us were lost in lust, I am sure.

And Alex just kept on, lifting, touching his feet, then letting gravity take him back town to upside down vertical. Up and down. His pace never faltered, even though his body became shiny with sweat.

At the 40th rep, he seemed to start slowing. But his efforts continued. Up, and down.

I think we all expected him to stop at 50. He was definitely showing fatigue by then—if not exhaustion. But no. Fifty-one, two, three, four, and then… fifty-five. At that, he relaxed and hung still, his glistening muscles taxed.

The room was alive with cheers and exclamations. The rope had been secured at the roof’s support beam by a pulley that was in turn secured to a bolt on a vertical beam. Three men loosened the knot at the vertical beam and all of them struggled with Alex's weight at the other end of the rope, working to lower him gently onto the cement floor. 

Alex's hands contacted the floor, and eventually he lay there, his body heaving with recuperative breaths.

The massive heap of nearly-naked muscle looked like a piece of art. He was perfect.

He untied his ankles, then accepted a long drink of water while he sat there a moment, then he stood, lifted an arm in victory, and accepted the enthusiastic praise from his worshippers.

Er… audience.

Mr. Madison joined Alexander, holding his hand aloft as if he’d just KO’d an opponent. He stood close to the muscle giant, beaming. Then he said loudly, “Psalm 29:11 says, ‘The Lord gives strength to his people; the Lord blesses his people with peace!’” He faced Alex and said, “Thank you, Alex, for your demonstration of the Lord’s strength.”

Personally, I doubted the Lord had much to do with it, but that’s just me.

We were all dismissed to our cabins to get cleaned up for dinner.

On my way to my cabin, while I listened to the other guys go on and on about how awesome, strong, and cool Alex was, I hand an epiphany. Cleaning for supper, I changed out of my sneakers and socks into flip-flops.

When we all returned to the hall, the tables and been set up. The rope had been removed, although you could see the pulley that had held it, still affixed to the rafters. As fate would have it (or, okay, the Lord’s will), the place directly under the pulley, where Alex had hung only a half-hour earlier, was precisely where my cabin was assigned to sit: in the middle of the room. I took my seat. Then I glanced under the table. To my immense pleasure, the person who had wiped up the sweat that had dripped from Alex's muscle body, hadn’t done a thorough job. I slipped off the flip-flop from one foot and dragged my foot through the remnant of wetness.

I got some of Alex's sweat.

I swore I would never wash that foot again.

What I had no way of knowing was that someday, second-hand transfer of Alex's sweat to my foot would be laughably inadequate compared to what would come my way first-hand.



THAT NIGHT AT CAMPFIRE, THE KIDS would not leave Alex alone. They were climbing him like he was a Jungle Jim, laughing as they hung on him, touching him, and asking him to flex.

He obliged as much as he could—even for those who wanted to see his biceps. He removed his hoodie, pulled his t-shirt sleeve back, and made a muscle. They gawked and felt. Still, I never once got the idea that Alexander was in any way impressed by his own body. He was confident, for sure, but he never made anyone feel bad just because he was gorgeously muscular and dizzyingly strong.

Later in my bunk, I produced multiple orgasms-worth of jizz—all the while dreaming of the promised session of watching Alex pose for me, in private, the next day.







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Additionally, the following conditions apply to reproducing this work:

Permission is hereby given to reproduce (heaven knows us gays can’t do that on our own), transmit and publish this work IF & ONLY IF the following conditions are stringently met (and I mean, stringently!):

    1. Said work must be published in its entirety only. An exception will be made for brief reviews (only if they’re favorable, though), so long as a link to the original website of publication ( is plainly and obviously attached to said review.
    2. Permission for publication is completely and utterly limited to the Internet/Web only. No paper printing of this work is allowed under any circumstances, unless granted in writing by The Author, Sean Reid Scott.
    3. (& this is a biggie:) Any and all publishment of this work on the Web must include the following:
        1. The Author’s name: Sean Reid Scott (with the prominence due such a luminary)
        2. A hyperlink to the home website of publication:
        3. Lots o’ love.
    1. This work (and any derivatives allowed under Clause One, above) must be published on the Web only, for the enjoyment of others only. NO HATEFUL, DEROGATORY, ANTI-GAY, EVIL, BAD or NEGATIVE (in any way) usage of this work is allowed. Nor will it be tolerated. Seanny has lawyers, k? No one is allowed to harvest the juicy, erotic, nasty, smutty stuff from this work and use it to further an agenda of hate and/or not liking gays. Got it? We are everywhere.

The above-cited Creative Commons License is binding. It is full. It is all-encompassing. It is exact and real. Nor does the aforementioned license stand alone regarding this work: The four CONDITIONS noted above (including the three alphabetized “biggies” subjugated under Number Three), must needs be adhered-to in addition to the Creative Commons License cited herein. The Author reserves the right to impose additional conditions (possibly retroactive) regarding the use and/or publication of this work, at his whim, without regard to anything.

So it is written. So shall it be.