Me and the Old Man 6: Backstage
by BBMSN
Finally, the day of the contest arrived. As a superheavyweight, I knew I didn't have to show up at the auditorium until later, but I got there early enough to show the boys what real muscle looks like. Never could figure out why they bother with the lighter weight classes in these contests. Always kinda figured there should just be two, heavies and superheavies. Anything smaller than that just seems like a waste of time.
I went to the pump room and got right down to it. I left on my sweats for now. Even at that, I could see guys looking, knowing there was a huge monster of muscle under the clothes. It was impossible to mask it at this point. The hardcore cycle I was on had jacked me up so much, I never lost my pump. In fact, each workout would pump on top of that pump. So much so that I had a hard time lifting my arms up after. Todd was showing up here before I go on stage so he could help me strip down and oil up. Ten minutes into my pump-up, and I could feel my mass swelling and heating up. Total rush, feeling the blood engorge the muscle. Stretching my 340lbs, making it full and tight. 340...at 4% bodyfat. Wait till I stripped down, these punks would piss themselves. So much fucking muscle, I should be at a national level pro show, instead of this local bullshit.
I continued pumping. I'd called the promoter earlier, to make sure they'd have enough iron backstage for me. Most guys pump up with light poundage before the show, but I'd gotten so strong that I needed to go heavy as hell to get a decent flush. Ever see a guy do bent-over rows with 605, 25 reps, the day of the contest? Well, that's what Todd saw, as he walked up to me.
"Jesus, dude," he said. Todd hadn't seen me for a week or so. "You're huge!"
I put the bar down and stood up. A half hour of pumping, and my arms were jutting out at 45 degree angles, resting on my gorilla lats. I grinned at Todd and rolled my pecs. He stared at amazement as my huge mounds bounced inside my thick sweatshirt.
"Hey, man," I said to him. "Just in time. Help me get this shirt off." I lifted my arms as high as I could. Todd grabbed the bottom and pulled it up. He got as high as my pits, then got stuck. He stretched out the neck hole and managed to slip it over my head. The shirt bunched across my torso and was stretched tight. Todd tugged at the sleeves, but they were so tight and wet with sweat that they stuck at my arms, so I grabbed the sweatshirt in the middle and ripped it in half. "Damn, man, fourth one this week," I said, as Todd pulled the two halves off my arms and tossed them aside.
"Fuck, bro," said Todd, checking out my mass.
"Hell yeah, man, fucking huge," I said, as I looked at myself in the mirrored wall. I brought my arms up into a double bi, letting the swollen pumped muscle bellies peak up and up and up, my forearms insane with veins. Two middleweights walked by in their posers as I flexed, getting ready to go on stage. They checked me out good, their packages probably shrinking right up in their pouches as they gotta load of the guns. But as they just far enough away, I heard one of them say, "you see the gyno on that juicehead?" "Yeah," said his friend, "the roidgut makes him look pregnant too." I looked over at them just in time to see Ron walking up from the other side.
Ron grabbed the first dude by the neck, and pulled him to his face. "I don't know how you were raised, boy, but where I come from, if we have something to say to a man, we say it to their face." Ron slowly lifted the dude off the ground. "This hand can take a steel pipe the size of your neck and crush it shut. You think that would teach you manners?" The bodybuilder's friend started kidney punching Ron as hard as he could. Ron slowly turned to him and said, "Think those little fists of yours are up to denting this muscle?" Ron flexed the muscle of his lower back, and the christmas tree striations popped out, looking like steel-plated armor. "Think again." The dude stepped away in awe, until he stumbled backward over a weight bench. Ron snorted. He had a 100lbs on these guys, easy. He turned back to the first guy, slowly lowering him down, but keeping hold of his neck. "You two girls outta stick to hopscotch," said Ron, releasing the stunned muscle dude, who scurried onstage holding his neck.
Ron came over to Todd and I, grinning ear to ear.
"Hey guys!" he said. "You'll never guess what just happened."
"I think we just saw it," said Todd.
Ron looked back, puzzled. "Oh, no, not that," he said nonchalantly. "When I came in to sign in for the Masters division, the guy promoting the show wouldn't let me enter."
"What is he nuts?" asked Todd.
"You can't compete?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, I'm competing alright. He made me enter the open show. Said he needed more big muscle for the main event."
"Well, he got that, that's for sure!" said Todd. "Congratulations, man!"
Ron was grinning like a little kid on Christmas morning. "And thanks to Tony here, I've got all the poses down." He looked me up and down. "And damned if you don't look more massive than ever, Anthony."
I had felt that way a second ago, but as we looked at our reflections in the mirror, Ron towered over both Todd and me. He stood behind us, in a spaghetti strap tank, every inch of shredded muscle glistening. His enormous shoulders had to be 4 feet wide.
"Hey," said Todd, "this means you and Tony will be competing against each other."
"Yeah, I guess it does," said Ron. Now he was checking himself out in the mirror. "Did I tell you I got my bodyfat down to 2%? At 365 bodyweight. Not bad for an old man, huh? Imagine if I'd done cardio. Anyway, I guess I'd better start pumping up."
"Dude," said Todd, slowly, "that shit's not even pumped?"
"Not yet," said Ron. "I thought I had till later, when I was gonna be going against the old dogs...Now I'll be hitting it up with the big boys, need to get it raging." He walked over to the bar I had loaded with 605. He squatted down over the bar, gripped it with his big thick hands, then cleaned and pressed it right over head. His traps and delts were big as an ox yoke, thick and piled with shredded muscle.
"Jesus," said Todd.
Ron started doing military presses with 605. For twenty reps. His muscle stood out like bridge cables crisscrossing his back. Byt Then he lowered the bar onto his traps, and started doing squats. Deep squats. He'd bounce them out at the bottom a couple of times, then stand upright and do another rep. The legs of his gym shorts were pushed up high by his tree trunk quads. His sweat scent started to fill the room.
"Jesus," said Todd. I could see him boning up right in his pants. He sat down on a nearby bench. Every bodybuilder backstage had stopped to watch. The old dude was a monster. A 59-year-old Marcus Ruhl. Only bigger. Stronger. More proportional. More deeply etched. A freak. And in ten minutes, I had to step on stage with him for the pre-judging.
By the time he'd done pumping up, Ron's shorts and tank were drenched with his sweat. He stripped out of his clothes and stood buck naked in the pump room area. He didn't seem shy at all about it, but who would be with a hog like that swinging between his massive quads. He pulled a pair of fresh posers out of his gym bag and packed himself into them. They made him look even bigger.
Todd had finished oiling me up by then, and he offered to do Ron's back for him. He got Ron's muscle glistening to perfection, and seemed to be taking more time than he needed to, as he rubbed the oil up and down Ron's vast backspan. His muscles rippled with the intense density of a superbly conditioned mature athlete. No wonder Todd was taking his time, feeling him up. Very few people ever get to rub their hands over such hypermasculine muscularity, covered only by a thin layer of darkly tanned skin. I saw Ron's eyes glazing over as he began to focus in on what he was going to do onstage. The old dude meant to win. But he was going to have one hell of a battle taking the trophy away from me, no matter how freak huge he'd gotten himself.
They called for the superheavyweights to come on stage for the pre-judging. There were only five of us. They gave us number tags to pin on our posers. I got # 2. Ron got #1. He looked at me and winked as he pinned it on. Cocky old fucker. I'd show him who was number one.
We filed on stage.