My New Pal 3
Tommy and I went thru the hole in the fence into the backyard. I looked around at the damage. Nothing too serious, except my mom's roses looked trashed, and we'd uprooted a small dogwood tree. I went over to it, leaned it back up, and stepped around the trunk. It tilted a little when I let go of it.
"That'll do for now," I said to Tommy, "Let's go inside." We went thru the backdoor into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to him. I took one for myself. We both downed our bottles in no time.
"That was good and cold," said Tommy, wiping his mouth.
"You want some eggs?" I asked him.
I pulled out a dozen eggs. "I'm gonna have a 6 egg white omelet...that what you want?"
"What do you do with the yolks?" Tommy asked.
"I toss them."
"Man, that's the best part! Put those in mine."
"You want a 6 egg yolk omelet?"
"No....I'll take your 6 yolks, plus the other six whole ones."
"Dude, that's gross."
"Not as gross as all egg white."
I laughed. Maybe he had a point, I thought, as I pulled out two pans. As I started making the eggs, I said, "If you want, you can borrow a shirt from me. That back room is mine, you can change back there if you want."
"That's OK, Joe. You were right, I was acting like a chick about the fat thing. I need to get over it." With that, Tommy reached up and grabbed the neck of his tee and ripped it down the middle. He ripped the rest of the tattered tee off him, and tossed the pieces into the garbage can. I looked over at him. Fucking kid had a gut alright, but his upper body looked solid as a boulder. His pecs were still absurdly bloated from the benching and wrestling, and stuck out over his gut like a 4 inch shelf of muscle.
"Hey, Tommy, when you said you did some pushups at home, how often you do them?"
"I've been doing them almost everyday for the last 6 months," he said. "That's when I started really feeling like my body was changing, you know, like getting thicker and more solid. Plus, my grandpa helps me do some workouts at home."
"He showed me how to the pushups so I keep my body straight and go down till my nose taps the floor. And he bought me a pair of those pushup bars you put on the floor, so you have to go deeper. And then he started adding stuff to make it harder."
"Like what?" I asked again.
"Well, I do the pushups in the garage where he has his speed bag set up, so at first, he put an old car battery on my back to add some weight. Pretty soon, that was too light, so he put a couple cinder blocks. Those were harder cause he stacked them, and I had to go a lot slower to keep them balanced. And now, sometimes he puts a safe on my back."
"A safe? How much does that weigh?"
"It's a small one, Pops says it weighs 75lbs, but lately I can feel him pushing down on it as I do the pushups, and he must be pushing pretty hard, cause I can hear him grunting as I push up."
I was looking at him and his chest, and almost burned the eggs. "How many can you do that way?"
"Maybe, like, 50 I guess. I kinda lose track and just go into a zone, just like when I'm drumming." He was looking around the kitchen as we talked. "I only stop when it feels like someone's holding a blowtorch to my chest."
"Have a seat," I said, and he sat down at the kitchen table. I grabbed two plates, and gave him his bright yellow omelet, and sat down with my drab white one.
"You got any bread?" he asked.
"Naw, man, I didn't get bread, I'm cutting way back on the carbs till the contest."
"Jesus, Joe, I don't know how you can stand it." Then he stopped talking began to scarf down the eggs.
"Yeah, sometimes it gets tough. But it's only 4 more weeks."
"Um-hum," he grunted as he shoveled the last of his omelet into his mouth. He put his fork down, wiped his mouth off with his hand and said, "You got anything else to eat?" I had only eaten about 4 bites of mine.
"Let me see." I got up and went to a cabinet where I was pretty sure I'd left some protein powder from last year. "Here it is," I said, pulling out a container of ExtremMass Weight Gainer mix. It was about half full. "You like chocolate?"
"I don't have any milk," I said, as I pulled out the blender, "I guess water will have to work."
"That sounds weak," Tommy said, "What else can you use?"
I went to the pantry and found two cans of condensed milk. "I guess I can mix one of these with some water, that would be like milk."
As I mixed the stuff together in the blender, Tommy said, "You gonna eat these?" as he pulled my plate toward him.
"Damn, man, are you that ravenous?"
"I know, Joe, sorry, but lately I get so hungry I can't help myself." Then he ate my omelet. "Hmm...those egg whites aren't so bad," he said as he finished, wiping his mouth again.
I finished his shake, pulled out a glass and set it down in front of him. "You're not having any?" he asked me.
"Nah, I can't have shit like this till after the contest."
"Save the glass, then, just hand me the pitcher."
I handed him the pitcher and watched him down the thing it about 10 gulps. "That was goddam delicious," he said, wiping the chocolate ring from around his mouth. "Can I have one more?"
"Dude, that's sick," I said.
"Just one more, then I'll be done." I made another one, using the second can of condensed milk, and he downed it just as fast. He slammed the pitcher down on the table. "Ah, man, Joe, that's almost as good as sex!" He slid back from the table and stood up. His gut had swollen up like someone had inflated it with a bike tire. "I don't know why I was ever embarrassed by this gut, it feels goddam amazing," he said. Then he started patting it with his big hands. It sounded like he was hitting a side of beef. "You should feel it," he said, and he reached out and grabbed my hand, and started rubbing over his ball gut.
"Dude, what the fu....man, it's so hard!" I had expected his gut to be soft, kinda squishy, but it sure wasn't, and his skin was so tight over it, it felt like the big inner tube we used to play with at the beach when I was a kid. And the kitchen was real hot, too, so we were both sweaty pretty heavy, and his sweat was rolling down his big hog pecs and dripping off his nipples onto his gut.
"Aw, Joe, I feel so strong when I stuff myself like this," he said, then he grabbed me around the waist and lifted me right off the floor. "So strong," he said in a daze. I put my hands on his shoulders so I wouldn't fall, but he had me good and tight. His goddam delts were thick and dense with muscle.
"Put me down, dude," I said to him.
"Sorry, man, sometimes I get carried away." Suddenly, he seemed to have an idea. "Wait right here," he said, setting me down, and he went out to the front porch, and came back in with his drumsticks. "Watch this," he said, and he snapped one of the drumsticks in two like a toothpick. He took the thick end and stuck it in between his pecs. When he took his hand away, the drumstick stayed in there.
"Dude, that's cool as hell," I said. "Now, squeeze your pecs together harder." When he did that, his chest swelled up and out, nearly swallowing the drumstick. I reached up and pushed the stick, and it sank in even deeper. Tommy groaned with pleasure."Oh fuck yeh," he said. He flexed again and I felt his pec muscles cover my fingers to the first knuckle. I rubbed my fingers on his sweaty bulked up muscle, feeling the power of them. I pulled my hand out, and said, "Wait here." I went into the mud room, and came out with an old basketball. "I used to do this in my dorm when I didn't have time to lift." I held the ball in both hands and raised my arms out straight in front of me. Then I squeezed. My pec muscles bounced to attention.
"Whoa, Joe," said Tommy, "look at the strings of muscle on your chest!"
"Yeah," I said, squeezing harder, "those are striations. This really brings them out." Tommy reached out and touched my pecs. "Holy shit, Joe, your striations feel like guitar strings!" He ran his thick fingers up and down my sweat covered chest. "That's wild man, your chest looks like the basketball! Let me try it." I handed the ball to Tommy and he held it out in front of him. "Just squeeze in?" he asked. "Yeh, bro," I answered. He began to squeeze and his chest responded. It swelled out even farther, the drumstick completely buried in a seam of sweat-dripping muscle as the two slabs of his chest pressed harder and harder together. A thick vein stuck out on both sides of Tommy's neck as he increased pressure. Suddenly, I heard a hissing sound. "Ah, yehhh," groaned Tommy, as the basketball began to deflate from his crushing grip.
"Jesus, dude," I said, as a twisting vein popped up on his forehead, and his eyes glazed over and his lips curled into a snarl. The hissing grew louder, and then I heard a snap as the air valve on the basketball popped outward. "Do it, man," I said, "crush the motherfucker." And the palms Tommy's hands grew closer and closer together as the air was forced out of the basketball, till the ball flattened out on itself. He only stopped when we heard the hissing stop. He handed me the basketball, which looked more like a baseball mitt now. Tommy's big chest was bloated and purplish, pushing out so far his nips were pointing down toward his sweat-drenched ball gut. His delts and arms had swollen up too, and big veins snaked down his biceps, so jacked I could see them throbbing. He raised his right arm and flexed it. It balled up like a softball. There had to be 19" of bulked up arm, with his fores bloated beyond belief.
"Joey," he said to me, sweat dripping off the end of his nose. "Let's armwrestle."