Measuring Up

1.

I never expected him to return our email. "Natty" Nate, the "Natural Phenomenon," "the Modern Steve Reeves"--call him what you will, but he has to be the most impressive natural bodybuilder in the past decade. He's a beacon of athletic discipline and clean living. No drugs, no alcohol, no smoking. No tattoos, no piercings. Clean-shaven, clean-cut. Clean. And certainly no steroids--just some combination of insane genetics and inhuman dedication. Looking at him, it's hard to believe, but it's true. He competes in only the strictest natural competitions, with rules tighter than his posing trunks. In most of them, he blows the competition away.

So why'd he return our e-mail?

I've been a salesman for a pharmaceuticals company for the past five years, mostly selling medicine to family doctors and clinics. But for years now, I've been hearing rumblings about our big break, a miracle that's going to make us one of the top companies in the world.

Colossinth. "The next step in muscle training." An advancement as revolutionary as anabolic steroids. Just as potent, but infinitely safer, with no adverse side-effects and--soon, if all goes well--legal. This stuff is going to transform the athletic world. It'll be a seismic shift like what happened in the '60s and '70s, but even more prevalent because it won't rely on smuggling and shady backroom deals. This stuff is legit.

But still, it's a new substance not quite ready for government approval, with just a few years of trials. Why would a guy like Nate accept our offer of a test dosage? His name just wound up on a list of athletes we sent the latest data to. But apparently he sent a response a few weeks later, said "sign me up." And now here I am looking at an update he's sent after supposedly incorporating the stuff into his routine for a month. It reads like a joke. Like a fantasy:

I didn't think I'd have any updates for you this early, but here we are. It's been a month since I competed on August 4 ^th. My stats then were: 6'0". 209 pounds. Arms: 17.75". Chest: 48". Waist: 29". Hips: 36.5". Thighs: 25".

Coach took my measurements this morning (September 2 ^nd ): 225 pounds. Arms: 18.75". Chest: 49.25". Waist: 29". Hips: 37". Thighs: 25.75".

This shouldn't be possible. I've started to bulk, so of course I've put on weight, but I'm still lean. The increase is all muscle. Sixteen pounds of pure muscle in a month! Over an inch on my chest, an inch of growth on my arms--again, pure muscle, not fat. I can see it every time I flex. Someone who's never lifted weights before might put an inch on their arms pretty easily--and by "easily," I mean in six months. This is ridiculous. What the hell is this stuff?

Send me more.

I'm sure I read that e-mail over fifty times, a mixture of confusion, doubt, and excitement flooding me in turns. But when I meet my boss and tell her about it, she's not so convinced we've found our golden client. And with good reason.

"Something's not right here," she says to me in her office. "This guy's made a reputation out of being 'natural,' right? Why's he going to throw all that away now? And he's claiming he put an inch of muscle on his arms in just a month?"

"He sent me the measurements," I say lamely, realizing how much I've started to want it to be true.

"And you took his word for it?"

I know what she's thinking. Trusting a bodybuilder to tell you the size of his arms is like trusting a porn star to tell you the size of his dick.

"No, no," she says. "Something's not right here. He's making a fool of us."

"What? But how?"

"I don't know. Maybe he'll... claim false results, then say he was never taking Colossinth after all, that it's just a scam. Even though we know it works--though we never thought it could work that well. It can't work that well. He's right: it's not humanly possible."

"But... it enhances the body's natural growth and testosterone, doesn't it?" I say. "Maybe with a guy like that, there's more to build off of, so the effect is exponential. There was no one like him in our trials."

It's true, we're in unexplored territory here. No pro athlete was going to participate in a trial for some sketchy new muscle-builder when there's a possibility they'll be called out for doping in their next competition. Only someone in a sport without testing could ever consider it, and no world-class bodybuilder was going to alter their tried-and-true "juice" cocktail after one email from a relatively unknown pharmaceuticals company, no matter how promising the data.

But she waves away my theorizing. "We'll need to look into it, obviously. But only if we've got proof this is happening. I need you to meet with him, find out what makes him tick, see what he's really up to. I want a full report, with reliable information." She leans back in her chair. "Your trip will be comped. Make the arrangements immediately."

There's something I didn't tell her, though. I've kind of got a... thing for muscles. For as long as I can remember, I've been obsessed with musclemen who push their bodies to bigger, stronger, veinier heights. The bigger, the better. When others have shaken their heads at pictures of bodybuilders and wondered with disgust why anyone would do that to themselves, I've been concealing the fluttering in my gut, the pounding of my heart, the rampant uncontrollable fantasies in my mind of getting to touch those muscles, smell them, lick them, rub my hands, my face, my cock against them. While other guys jerk off to women's nudes, all it takes for me to get off is a perfectly flexed bicep, or the sight of a pumped-up chest and chiseled six-pack dripping with sweat.

I've never even come close to making my fantasies come true. I'm so desperate I've actually asked the few guys I've been with to flex for me, though none of them could be described as above "average" build. They laughed at me, made a joke of it, and just wanted to get down to business, but even that was enough to get me off. When it comes to muscles, I can make a mountain out of a mole-hill.

Yeah, I've got it bad. And now she's sending me to meet with this guy, this "Natty" Nate who could be an important client for us if I don't blow it, if he's really telling the truth.... But I know this could be embarrassing for all of us. If he notices something off about me and complains, there's no way I'll keep my job.

So it's with a lot of trepidation and more than a little excitement that I book my flight, and two days later I'm at Nate's gym, dressed in my best--well, only--suit and trying to be professional, though I'm already soaked with sweat. Just stay calm, I tell myself. He's only a client, and you're just some annoying inconvenience in his day. Get in, get out. This means nothing. Don't get all worked up. You can do this.

The door's locked, so I knock. It's nighttime and the gym is closed, but that's no problem for us: Nate's the owner, I've heard, and he often works out after everyone else has gone for the day. The receptionist lets me in as she's leaving with her bag, locks the door behind me, and points into the fitness centre.

It's not hard to spot Nate. The gym's all one room, though it's divided into aerobics machines and weight training. Everything's bright, modern, and perfectly spotless. Nate's checking over the various machines by the room-length mirror, but he soon catches sight of me, strides over with his hand extended and a smile on his face.

I'm fucking dead. This man is gorgeous, with short dark hair, bronze skin, and a masculine jaw, but with enough unique personality and charisma that he's not just some plastic model: I can imagine a time when he was a geeky teenager, before he became a walking sex-god; that friendliness, that openness shines through his eyes. All over, he's the most spectacular specimen of male strength and beauty I've ever seen. But I can't think about him that way. He's just another client. Don't stare at the powerful span of his chest, don't try to pick out the nuances of his abs under his tight blue T-shirt. Ignore the fact that his black fabric gym shorts are about two sizes too tight for modesty's sake, exposing the heavy bulge of his package and his spectacularly rounded ass-cheeks. Don't look at any of that. He's just a client. Just a man. A fucking musclebound, bulging, pumped-up stud of a man.

"Hey, I'm Nate. Thanks for coming," he says, as if it was his idea. And I take his hand, feel the strength through his arm as he pumps it, the blood vessels scrawled up his forearm like lightning. I manage to get out the usual pleasantries. I'm doing okay, looking into his eyes, not at his muscles--but there's no safe place with this man. A grin from him alone could make me orgasm.

"So, you own this gym?" I ask.

"Yep, owner and operator. And permanent resident: I've been living here since my split with Lauren--my wife. Ex-wife, I should say."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not. I don't think she is either, to be honest. It was doomed from the start. Not really being truthful with each other. With ourselves. And you know what? She never really got my lifestyle, used to complain that I 'practically lived at the gym.'" He laughs. "Guess she ended up being right about that one, and I'm happier than ever."

Normally I'd be skeptical about a statement like that, but he really seems relaxed, almost exuberant. He's in his element. "We're glad to hear you're having such a positive response to our product," I say, hating myself for sounding so corporate.

"Positive's an understatement. I never expected anything like this."

"What did you expect? To be honest, we were surprised you took us up on the offer."

"Yeah, I get that. I was too, actually. I went back and forth a thousand times before I took that first pill." He pauses, takes time to organize his thoughts. "Do you know what it's like to put your all into something--all your spare time, all your spirit and sweat--and still feel your results slipping away? You've got everything you wanted in your grasp, but you can't hold on. You feel your fingers trembling. You're gonna drop it.

"The worst part of bodybuilding's when you hit a plateau. No matter how hard you work, you can't get any stronger, any bigger. Your body's telling you your limits. Everything inside you is saying you've got more to give, you can get bigger, but the plateau doesn't care. And suddenly, instead of making progress, you're working all day just to maintain what you've got. Soon, you might not even be able to do that.

"You know, I've never forgotten that rush when I first started, looking in the mirror and actually seeing the changes every week, lifting more and more, stacking on the weights, piling on the muscle. Look, I'm 35 now." (Exactly ten years older than me, I note.) "I want that again, before it's too late. Call it an early mid-life crisis, if you want; I couldn't care less. But this is my last chance. I'm not letting go. Not if I can help it. And if it means trusting in this miracle you're selling, fine. Most guys don't resist temptation. They never even try--not after the burn sets in, the hunger. Well, I've resisted for my entire life. But now I'm tired of living clean."

That last phrase is going to haunt me, I can tell.

"I'm not stupid, though," he goes on in a more measured tone. "Not stupid enough to take the messed-up cocktails those guys on the Olympia stage are taking. Human Growth Hormone and all that shit, even besides the 'roids. I don't want to get a back full of acne, no balls, and a gut so bloated I can't do a proper vacuum, all before dying of a heart attack at 45. So I'm trusting you when you say there are no serious side-effects."

"We've done extensive testing already," I say, my silly little corporate self again, "and nothing's shown up. Besides, our product augments testosterone production instead of replacing it like anabolic steroids. In other words, the testicles don't atrophy; they work overtime instead."

"Well, good." He grins. "My balls are counting on you."

Giving my rehearsed spiel was one thing, but I must admit, hearing him say that gets to me and I can't help blushing. It's a relief when he smoothly moves on: "Do you know this for sure? You haven't tried any of this stuff yourself, have you?"

I'm flattered he's even asking. I'm a jogger, not a weight-lifter, and I suspect I'll never be--though I've always wondered what it would be like, dreamed about it. Those are just fantasies, though. I don't have it in me. Few people do. That's what makes guys like him so special, while I'm just... not. But now he's eyeing me up, checking to see what a few years of training could do, and it makes me wonder what it'd be like if I could also look at myself without reservations, without constant doubt.

"You've got good width on your shoulders," he says finally. "And let me see your wrists?" He takes my hand and my stomach flips. He wraps his strong fingers around my wrist, nods appreciatively. "Your wrist size is directly related to your maximum biceps size. You'd grow nicely."

It's true, part of me is about to start growing if this keeps up, but it's not my arms. So it's a good thing he lets me go and I stumble on to business before I really embarrass myself: "I hate to do this to you, but my boss sent me here for a reason. She insists I measure you in person, considering how unusual your results have been. I'm really sorry about this."

"Naww, I get it." His smile doesn't falter, teeth perfect and white. I bet he never gets cavities. "I don't trust most of the numbers that guys throw out either." He tugs at the neck of his T-shirt. "You want me to take this off?"

It's the way he says it that really gets to me, as if it's nothing, as if he isn't offering me a glimpse of paradise. He must have no idea how I feel. Thank fuck.

"I guess for accuracy...."

"Sure. One sec." And with one smooth move he strips the shirt from his torso.

People argue about whether bodybuilding is a sport, and as far as I'm concerned, this man right here is proof that it isn't.

No, it's an art.

Over the years, he's used training and nutrition to sculpt the ideal physique, bringing each muscle to bulging, striated perfection: a truly "classic" build that would make the sculptors of Ancient Greece weep. Even people who claim to find bodybuilders ugly would have to admit the beauty of this man. His chest, his abs, his shoulders, his back--I can't take it all in; I'm overwhelmed as he balls up the shirt, making his pecs bounce and his arms flex, and tosses it in a corner, and he stands there waiting for me, each breath deepening the grooves of his eight-pack. I know he's entering his off-season, but there doesn't seem to be an inch of fat on him, just like he said in his e-mail, and he's still perfectly-shaved all over--this man doesn't want anything blocking even the barest nuance of his supreme definition.

He hands me the measuring tape and directs me, telling me where to measure and how to ensure the results are precise. It's like being given a guided tour of his body. I'm respectful, modest, making the least possible contact with his skin--but still, I can't help getting subtle hints at the heat and the tension as I barely graze his swells of brawn. He just takes my shakiness as inexperience, gives advice. "Basically, you measure where it sticks out the most," he says, unembarrassed, though I've got a real problem when it comes to measuring his "hips": I swear, it's a close race between his ass and his bulge, but I guess I'm not supposed to take that into consideration.

Everything is as he said--even a few tenths of an inch bigger in spots already. But now comes the measurement everyone always seems to fixate on the most: upper arm size.

"Honestly, if you want proof that it's working, this is all you need," he says, limbering up his arms. "People go on about bodybuilders with 20" arms, but it's impossible without steroids--twenty inches of muscle, I mean, not fat. You'd need wrists like a gorilla for that. Show me a guy who claims to have lean, natural 20" arms and I'll either show you a juiced liar, arms with far too much fat on them, or a 7-foot-tall giant. Even this--" he raises his right arm, "--wasn't humanly possible for me a month ago."

He flexes. HARD. The muscles explode into a perfect upward stack of bulges, his braided triceps with the round bulging peak of his bicep above it, rocking and rippling with the strength of his flex. People sometimes jokingly say things like, "He's so buff that his muscles have muscles," and that's exactly what his bicep is like: the two "heads" of the muscle are so well-developed that there's a clear split down the middle, with a second bulging ridge on top--a prominent "peak" rippling out and building up slowly till it reaches its maximum, trembling pinnacle.

"Holy fuck!" I can't keep it in, but he just laughs with a sexy awareness of his body's impact. My hands are clumsy as I wrap the tape around that amazing arm, ensuring the overlap is exact and keeping the tape perfectly vertical ("Guys love measuring on an angle for a few extra tenths," he says).

"Nineteen," I announce.

He drops his arm out of that mind-blowing pose. "Biggest I've ever been," he says with a grin that almost stops my heart. "And the other, too?"

The results are exactly the same for his left: perfectly proportional.

He massages his arms. "You know, with a pump, I bet I could get it."

"What?"

"The twenty. I never thought I'd get there. Never be that big. But now...."

I can't believe it. "Another inch with a pump? Right here? Right now? Is that possible?"

"Might be. It depends on a lot of things. But I'd like to try. You, uh... you mind sticking around for an hour or so? You can't measure your own arms accurately, and I don't want to just trick myself into thinking I hit it. Is there anywhere else you gotta be?"

"No!" I say, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. "I'm just here for you. For this meeting, I mean."

"Great! Then let's get started."

I get to watch a master at work, loving every second of it. He does various exercises, hitting all the muscles of the arm from different angles, using a high number of reps to produce the biggest pump. I'm astonished at the transformation that comes over him, not just as the sweat soaks his body and his muscles grow veiny and sinewy, but also the transformation in his character as testosterone floods his system, as he feels the virile satisfaction of plying his manly strength, pushing his body past its limits.

"Give me a check," he says as he racks the weights, and I measure him, right arm cocked, shivering with the force of his flex, his desire to be as big as possible.

"19.4," I say.

"That's nothing. Come on!"

He goads himself on, gritting his teeth, performing the sets with unbelievable stamina--preacher curls, hammer curls, bench presses, pull-downs--and the sound of his guttural grunts, the acrid tang of his sweat, the sight of his glossy, bare-chested figure bulging more and more, the veins thick as pencils, the striations like cords, is more than I can take. Soon, my dick's so hard it's painful, and I have to turn away, trap it against my stomach with my belt so he won't see. I realize too late that this is, in fact, a gym with an entire wall covered by a mirror, so turning away isn't going to conceal much, but I think he's too busy to notice.

He slams the weights down and flexes, feels the added size. "Yeah." His voice is an appreciative groan. "Fuck yeah. I'm getting pumped. Feels good."

I can't help thinking of Arnold's infamous words from Pumping Iron. "Does it really feel like...?"

"Like cumming?" He looks up at me, unflinching. "Everyone's heard that. And the man knew what he was talking about. The bigger the muscle, the better it feels. It's addictive: feeling yourself swell past your limit, getting harder and bigger and hotter and the skin tight to bursting. How big am I now? How much have I grown?"