The Rivalry (musc)
by Jaypat
It was cold in the school gym that day and Marty was shivering slightly. His gym uniform, shorts and a t-shirt, weren’t very warm and for some reason the gym was always somewhat cooler than was comfortable. He was in line next to his friend Stan and it was fitness evaluation day, one of things Marty hated the most about gym. He knew he was weak and out of shape. There was no need to shine a spotlight on it. And that’s exactly what this day seemed designed to do.
His one consolation was he was standing next to his best friend Stan. The two of them were toe to toe on this one. Each of them was about 5’ 6” and by far the smallest guys in the class. They would always stand at the back of the line and quietly make snide comments about the muscle heads who always lifted the most weight, climbed highest on the rope, and ran the most laps. The two friends were justifiably proud that they were not caught up in the macho bullshit of trying to be the biggest, the strongest and the fastest.
But today for some reason, Stan was not joining in the glib remarks.
“Ha ha,” sneered Marty, “Look at Walters climbing that rope like a goddamn monkey. Too bad he doesn’t keep his brains in his biceps. Then he might have enough smarts to get out of Algebra 2.”
Marty waited for the appreciative chuckle a remark like this usually inspired, but Stan was strangely quite.
“Yeah,” said Stan, “I guess.”
He guessed? That was pretty damn funny, thought Marty.
“What is it with you today?” asked Marty.
“Nothing,” said Stan. “I just…” Stan looked like he was struggling to say something, but then he seemed to give up before he got it out. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
“Alright Hopkins you’re up,” said Mr. Bell, the gym teacher.
Marty sighed and said, “Back in a sec.” He slumped over to the rope and put both hands on it.
“Alright son,” said Mr. Bell. “Pull yourself up a little. That’s right. Now wrap the rope around your foot and use your legs to climb. Tap the beam when you reach the top. Remember your legs a lot stronger than your arms.”
“Spaghetti is a lot stronger than his arms,” cried out Alan Parks, “probably thicker too.” That got a general laugh. Ah yes, thought Marty, just part of the endless humiliation that was phys ed.
“That’s enough of that,” said Mr. Bell to the laughing students. “No go on, son, climb on up there.”
Marty stressed and strained and slowly began to climb the rope. It took everything he had but he only made it three feet before his grip gave out and he slid back down. And of course there was more laughter from the other guys in the class, but this time Mr. Bell didn’t say anything to stop it.
“Alright Hopkins, you’re done,” said Mr. Bell, shaking his head and noting something on his clipboard. “Your turn, Stan.”
Marty clapped Stan sympathetically on the shoulder as he passed him and headed back to the sidelines. He turned around just in time to see Stan shimmy three quarters of the way to the top of the rope before his grip loosened and he slid back down. Stan actually got a round of applause from the lugs.
“That was outstanding, Grady!” beamed Mr. Bell. “Maybe you should give your friend there a few lessons.”
Marty was struck dumb. But Stan was grinning from ear to ear as he walked back to his friend, obviously enjoying the praise from the offish gym teacher and their Neanderthal classmates.
“What the fuck was that?” said Marty.
“What?” said Stan, his grin fading.
“That,” said Marty flailing his arm in the direction of the rope.
“Oh,” said Stan. “I don’t know. Got lucky I guess.”
“Lucky?” said Marty. “How do you get lucky climbing a rope?”
“I don’t know,” said Stan shrugging his shoulder. But before Marty could ask another question, Mr. Bell was moving everyone over to the weight room.
“Ok, everyone,” said the gym teacher. “We’re going to do the bench press next.” They were standing at a gym machine, the kind with four different stations and a stack of weights you put a pin in.
One by one each boy would tell Mr. Bell how much weight they felt they could move and Mr. Bell would stick the pin in the appropriate slot.
Most boys would do three or four plates, but there was this one huge kid that did eight.
“Damn!” all the boys were saying, as the kid strained his big muscles, turned beat red with veins throbbing on the side of his neck, and lifted that stack of eight plates – all the boys, that was, but Marty.
Marty just smirked and said, “Someone call Tarzan and tell him we found his ape.”
Again, Stan did not laugh. What was wrong with him today?
“Hopkins, you’re up,” said Mr. Bell.
Marty slid on the bench and barely got one plate up before he collapsed.
“Man,” said Marty stumbling back to his place by Stan. “I think this class is going to kill me. Has anyone ever died from PE?”
But it was Stan’s turn now and when he slid onto the bench he lifted 3 plates.
“Wha… wha… wha…” started a dumbfounded Marty as his friend returned to his side. “You can’t tell me you got lucky with that!”
“Ah… you sure?” said Stan, looking uncomfortable.
“Absolutely sure,” said Marty, accusingly.
“Ah… You remember that weight set my uncle got me for Christmas?”
“Yeah, we laughed about it for almost a week.”
“No, dude, you laughed about it.”
“You mean you don’t think it was funny?”
“Not really. He showed me some exercises and well… I’ve been doing them.” Stan flexed and Marty gasped. His friend actually had a bicep. It wasn’t huge or anything, more like a little lump. But it was there!
“What the fuck is that?” said Marty, starting to get angry.
“What do you mean what the fuck is that? It’s my arm.”
“Yeah, but it’s got… a muscle on it!”
“So?”
“So now you’re gonna get all muscle-bound?”
“Dude, it’s just a little bicep. It’s not even very big.”
“Wait a minute,” said Marty squinting and looking carefully at the bulge on his friend’s arm. “Is that a vein?”
“Kinda.”
“You are going to get muscle bound!”
“No, of course not.”
“Then what’s the arm about?”
“You know… It’s just… It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing! You’re trying to get bigger!”
“No, of course not.”
“Admit it!”
“No!”
“Go on admit it!”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you swear on your life, on you mother’s life and on your dog, Rusty’s life that you’re not trying to build your muscles?”
“Ah…,” Stan paused. “Maybe just a little,” he said.
“AH HA!” shouted Marty. “I knew it!”
“But that’s not how it started, I swear. At first I really did think it was kind of a joke. But then my uncle got me to try it. He would, like, call me everyday to see what I’d done. He even got my mom into it, making sure I was eating the right stuff and taking vitamins. You know how she always said we don’t get enough exercise?”
“Yeah, and you know how we always ignored her.”
“But I kinda like it. I mean I didn’t at first. It kind of sucked… and it hurt like hell every day. But the pain got better and then… I started to like it. I like the way it makes me feel—I’m a lot stronger. That’s kind of a trip. I like feeling strong.”
“It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers!” cried Marty clutching his head. “What have you done with the real Stan?”
“Dude, don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?”
“You’re betraying the cause, Stan.”
“I knew you were going to be a douche about this. Dude, there is no cause.”
“Yes there is. It’s the cause of us normal guys vs. the muscle dicks.”
“Dude, this is normal,” said Stan flexing his bicep again. “Guys grow muscle. It’s in our genes. It’s what all those fucking hormones are for. We’re supposed to get bigger and stronger and harrier. And I’m telling you, it’s freaking awesome! Muscles are bomb! What’s not normal… is a guy who doesn’t have any!” And Stan turned and walked to the other side of the gym.
“Oh so, now I’m a freak?” Marty shouted after him. “You really have gone over to the dark side!”
That day at lunch Marty sat down at his usual table with his friend Gwen.
“So where’s Stan?” asked Gwen looking around.
“I don’t know,” said Marty, adopting a perfect Schwarzenegger accent, “probably somewhere pumping himself up.”
Gwen giggled. “Stan?”
“Yeah, you should have seen him in gym today. He was a regular Mr. Muscles.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Gwen, trying to suppress her laughter. “Are we talking about the same Stan? Stan Grady? Wimp of the year?”
“Not any more. He disgraced the name of wimp and stood up to be counted with the enemy.”
“I…,” started Gwen, but then she trailed off as the smile evaporated from her face and her jaw dropped open. Marty turned around to see what she was looking at had to struggle to keep his own jaw from dropping.
There was Stan. But sometime between gym and lunch, his t-shirt had lost its sleeves, and now his arms were fully displayed. They weren’t big or anything, but they were perfectly shaped. He had rounded delts, a nice swell at the bicep and the beginnings of horseshoe triceps. His forearms, while not overly broad, rippled with cords and tendons as he moved.
“Fuck me,” said Marty. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“Hey Stan,” called Gwen, waving him over.
“What are you doing?” said Marty. “You don’t want him to sit with us!”
“Of course I do. What’s the matter with you? He’s your best friend.”
“Not any more. How could I be best friends with a muscle head? He probably can’t open his mouth with out an “ugh” slipping out.”
Gwen shushed Marty just as Stan walked over to the table. Stan looked uncertainly at Marty as he pulled out a chair.
“Ahhhhh….” He beagn.
“See what I mean,” said Marty. “Completely brain dead.”
Stan shot Marty a dark look and turned to go.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Gwen. “Marty, shut up and Stan, sit down!” Marty clamped his mouth shut and into a forced grimace and Stan slowly turned and sat down.
“Now, you two are being ridiculous,” continued Gwen. “You guys have been best friends since… well, since forever. Why does that have to change just because Stan is growing a nice pair of arms?”
“You think they’re nice?” accused Marty.
“Of course they’re nice--” started Gwen.
“You’re on his side!” shouted Marty. “I don’t know why that surprises me. You probably think all guys should be big and dumb. You just want us all to be big ol’ stupid muscle bound boy toys!”
“I’m not stupid!” said Stan. “My GPA is higher than yours!”
“For now,” said Marty. “Soon you’ll be spending less time studying and more time in the gym pumping yourself up,” he said slipping into a Schwarzenegger accent.
“You’re crazy,” said Stan. You’re just a crazy man and I don’t think I can even talk to you.” Stan got up to leave.
“No!” said Gwen. “Wait, wait.”
Stan paused.
“Stan,” said Gwen, “you’re going away for the summer, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. My parents are going to China on business and I’m going to San Francisco to stay with my uncle.”
“Marty,” said Gwen, “you’re not going to see him for three months. You really want to leave things like this?”
“He’s a traitor to the cause,” said Marty. “But I suppose if he promises to stop working out and returns back to normal, I could forgive him.”
“You know, Marty, you really are pathetic,” said Stan. “You’re not making a life style choice. You’re just being lazy, that’s your cause, and you’ve turned lazy into a fucking religion! Working out takes hard work and dedication and you just don’t have it in you. I know because I used to be just like you. I don’t need to stop working out, you need to start! But you know what? You won’t because you can’t. You’re just that dedicated to being a loser!” And then Stan got up and walked away.
“That was brilliant, Marty,” said Gwen, “just brilliant.”
For the next two weeks before summer vacation, the two boys did not speak. In fact they avoided each other. But Marty could not get his friends words out of his mind. He stood in front of the mirror at night and looked at his skin and bones frame. Stan was wrong. It was a choice to be like this. He could build his muscles if he wanted to, he just didn’t want to. He didn’t want to become a big, dumb lug. He had better things to do with his time. Stan was just being a douche.
But as the last days of the school year wore on, Marty found himself missing Stan more and more. He knew he could always apologize, but that would mean admitting Stan was right, and he wasn’t. Marty chose to be this way. It wasn’t just laziness.
Then on the last day of school, Marty figured out a way to prove it to Stan. Marty would spend the summer working out. He would build some muscle, just enough to show Stan he could if he wanted, then he would stop and go back to normal. That would show him! It was the perfect plan.
The first day of vacation, Marty went out and joined a gym. His parents, although somewhat mystified, were happy to finance his enterprise. Of course, he didn’t tell them his full reason and purpose. He just let them think he’d finally decided to get in shape – which wasn’t that far from the truth.
His first day in the gym, he hired a trainer, a buff collage-age guy named Josh. The guy had him do a bunch of weird stretching and balancing exercises, which were supposed to train his nervous system. Apparently this was necessary since he wasn’t used to working out. They just seemed stupid to Marty. He wanted to get to the weights. After all he only had three months to put on some muscle.
He told Josh he needed to have some muscle by the time school started up. The trainer laughed and told him that everybody had fast gains during the first six months of training, and that if he stuck with it, he’d have nothing to worry about. In fact the skinnier and more malnourished you were to begin with the more dramatic the changes usually were.
Marty protested. He was not malnourished. Still Josh gave him a diet plan, and recommended a whole slew of supplements. Marty looked at the plan and scoffed. That was A LOT of food. He didn’t know how he was going to eat all that food. And what the fuck were all these powders and pills he was supposed to take? Still, if that’s what was needed to put Stan in his place, than that’s what he would do.
The next day Marty almost gave up.
First, when he woke up he was so sore he almost couldn’t move. Then he ate a breakfast that was so big he almost threw up.
“What am I doing?” he asked himself. “How could anyone torture themselves in this way and think it was a good thing?” Surely he already had enough material to answer any argument Stan might make.
Marty wasn’t supposed to workout that day and he was very, very glad to follow that instruction. He still continued to eat ridiculous amounts of food, more than he could stand, and he swallowed a variety of pills and powders and shakes. And by the time he returned to the gym the following day, he’d made up his mind to quit.
Josh looked at him with sympathy as he explained his position, and when Marty finished talking, the trainer said, “It’s a hard thing you’re attempting. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication and it’s not for everyone. But I think if you stick with it for a while longer, you’ll find it’s worth the effort.”
And suddenly Marty was hearing Stan’s voice saying almost exactly the same thing. Only Stan threw in the words “loser” and “lazy” a couple of times. And Marty realized the rock-solid arguments he’d been coming up with over the past 24 hours were not going to hold any water with Stan at all.
He’d have to go through with it. All the way.
Josh was glad to hear he’d decided to stick with it and put him through another grueling exercise routine. The next day he endured more pain and ate more ridiculous amounts of food and began to question his own sanity.
But as the weeks passed, the pain lessened and he began to enjoy the large meals, even to look forward to them. And something else was happening; he was beginning to grow.
It was subtle at first, just a little pudginess from all the food. But slowly underneath the pudginess bumps and bulges began to form. He would squeeze them and feel how hard and solid they were. They were thicker mounds of sturdier flesh forming on his chest, his back, his arms and legs. And soon he began to see them too. His chest began to protrude from its flatness. His arms were thickening and he could see his hardening thighs beginning to give shape to his jeans.
And as he looked at his progress in the mirror, “Wow…wow…” was all he could say. A confusing range of emotions flooded him. First he was happy because his venture was obviously meeting with success. He was proving to Stan that he could build muscle if he wanted to. He kept imagining the surprised look on Stan’s face when he saw him at the end of the summer. That made him feel good.
But another thought was forming at the back of Marty’s mind. He was looking good, better than he’d ever looked in his life. He looked fit, almost muscular. And he felt good. He flexed and liked the way those rudimentary muscles looked bulging up on his meager frame. But he fought against those feelings. He wasn’t a muscle head. He was the standard bearer for normal guys. He was only doing this to prove it was his choice to be sickly… er skinny.
Sickly? That word had jumped into his mind unbidden. Where had it come from. He never considered himself to be sickly, had he? With a shock Marty realized that his new muscles were affecting his mind. They were trying to take over his personality, to turn him into a muscle head. This experiment was proving to be far more dangerous than he anticipated.
This was exactly what must have happened to Stan. First a little forced workout, and then, the muscle starts forming. It looks good, it feels good and then it begins to overtake your brain! The horror! Maybe he should stop the experiment now, before it was too late!
He placed a hand on his hardening, thickening arm. It was bigger, definitely, maybe even bigger than Stan’s… But was it big enough to make his point? Maybe not. Like it or not, he’d better see this through, stick to the original plan. He’d just be very, very careful to remember why he was doing this, what it was all for. He flexed in the mirror once more, just to check his progress, and fought back the burst of visceral pleasure he felt at the sight of his budding bicep.
Yes, he could do this. He could keep his mind and make his point. It would be ok. But it did look good and it did feel good. Damn, it was gong to be a struggle.
After that day, Marty began really pushing himself during his workouts. He kept telling himself that at the end of the summer, he wanted there to be no doubt that he could build muscle if he wanted to. If there were any doubt when he next saw Stan, he might have to continue with the workouts and that would be way too dangerous. The feelings he experienced when he looked at his growing muscular body and felt his increasing strength were way too seductive. He didn’t know how long he could hold out against them. And he needed to… for the cause.
Finally the day came. It was his last workout before Stan came home… his last workout forever, he reminded himself. His trainer was weighing him. Marty had put on 30 pounds of muscle over the summer and grown an inch taller. He barely looked like the same guy. He had nice biceps, a broad back, wide, bulging shoulders, a prominent chest and a rock hard six pack. His trainer told him most people couldn’t put on 30 pounds in a year, but with of all Marty’s hard work and because he’d been so undersized at the start and with more than a little help from puberty, he’d managed it in only 3 months. That was awesome!
Marty looked at his shirtless reflection in the mirror. His trainer had taken a “before” picture when he first started. He’d been such a skinny little whelp, no muscle on his arms or legs, and a flat chest and stomach. Not any more. He was bigger now, much bigger. He couldn’t deny it. He flexed his thick, corded forearms and good-sized, bulging biceps, and admired his heavy, solid legs. Fuck, he looked and felt awesome. He flexed his arms again and grinned. He wasn’t just bigger and stronger than he used to be. He was bigger and stronger than Stan, way bigger and stronger than Stan! There could be no doubt now. He couldn’t wait to see his friends face now.
The next day, Marty put on one of his old t shirts. It fit him like a second skin now, showing off his bulging pecs and cut six pack. His biceps even filled the sleeves. Stan was in for quite a shock now. Grinning he began walking the few doors down to Stan’s house. Again and again, he went over the speech he was going to give Stan in his head. “I couldn’t build muscle? Isn’t that what you said, Stan? Well look at this!” And then he was going to pull off his shirt and give him a posing routine. The after Stan pulled his chin off the floor, Marty was going to swear never to enter a gym again… for the cause! That would show him.
Marty went around to the back door like he always did and rang the bell. But as soon as the door opened, all thoughts of a speech fled from his mind. Marty was eyelevel with a set of massive, shredded pecs, two huge striated orbs of muscle with the nipples forced into the downward position hovering over abs that bulged out like a massive muscle-brick wall. Holy crap! Clad only in a pair of workout shorts, the immensely muscled torso was wider than the doorway—Marty gulped—and taller, too! Marty tilted his head upward. There flanked by two mountainous traps and perched on top of a thick corded fireplug neck, with an Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball, was a horrifyingly familiar face.
“Look at this!” said an amplified, deeper version of Stan’s voice. “If it isn’t skinny little Marty. Come on in, buddy.”
As soon as the wall of muscle moved away from the door, Marty stepped inside. At first he couldn’t say anything. All he could do was stare at the massive muscle beast in front of him, the defined intercostals, the legs like carved stone pillars. This was Stan? How could this be Stan? This couldn’t be Stan, but that was Stan’s face. It must be Stan.
“What the hell happened to you?” asked Marty.
“You know my uncle’s all into body building, right?” said Stan. “He showed me a thing or two over the summer and… ah… I hit a growth spurt. Pretty cool, hunh?” Stan brought his arms up into a double bi. With a shock Marty realized that Stan’s massive, sculpted veiny arms were now bigger than his head.
“Or maybe you don’t think it’s cool,” said Stan, dropping the pose. “You being Mr. Skinny, and all.”
And then the word “skinny” hit his brain and it stung. He was surprised how much it stung. And suddenly a stilted, injured version of his speech started leaking from his mouth. “I’m not skinny…,” stumbled Marty. “I built some… some muscle… just to show you that I could…”
“Oh yeah?” boomed Stan. “You got some muscle? Let’s see.”
Marty flexed his arms, but suddenly the biceps he’d been so proud of a few minutes ago looked tiny and inconsequential next to the monumental arms of the behemoth standing in front of him.
“Look at that! You’ve got some baby biceps,” said Stan. “They’re so cute.”
Inside Marty was fuming. His biceps were not cute!
“But why’d you do that for?” asked Stan. “I thought you were all into being spaghetti boy.”
Spaghetti boy? “I did this to show you it was a choice to be spaghe—to be skinny. It wasn’t because I couldn’t build muscle!”
“Yup,” said Stan looking Marty over carefully. “I can see got a little muscle going on there. You sure showed me.” Stan casually flexed his gigantic arm and ran his large hand over his immense veiny bicep. “Now what?”
“Now you can give up your weight lifting and we can go back to the way things were.” Marty realized just how feeble his words sounded almost as soon as they left his mouth.
“Go back,” laughed Stan. “Go back to the way I was? Do you have any idea what this feels like?” asked Stan. He closed his eyes and tilted his thick, corded neck back slightly so he was looking up and his golf-ball Adam’s apple thrust forward. “Do you know what I’m feeling right now?”
Marty shook his head.
“My huge, rock-solid traps bulging up against the back of my skull; they feel like a stone pillow. Some times I spend minutes at a time just rolling my head back and forth across them, feeling their size, their hardness up against my head. It’s awesome.”
He placed one hand under each pec and hefted them up. “Fuck. Look at them,” he said. “You feel the weight of them from the moment you wake up. Roll over on them and it’s like laying on two bowling balls. When you put on a shirt you can feel them straining against it, pulling it tight, hating to be caged.” Stan flexed his pecs and Marty watched the striations ripple across their magnificent girth.
“Shirts are so uncomfortable now. I hate wearing them. They just weren’t designed to hold muscles like these—huge, hard, powerful muscles—muscles that want to rip right through them!” said Stan as he hit a heart-stopping most muscular pose. Every muscle in his massive ripped body bulged up and practically exploded out of his skin, showing every striation, every muscle fiber he possessed!
“Muscles like my delts, huge, solid, and round, like boulders. And my abs which feel like large rocks, one piled on top of another. And when I crunch I can feel them rubbing up against each other.”
Stan crunched his brick wall abs in demonstration. “So fucking awesome!”
And my backs wide and thick, like a granite wall. My whole body feels like a mountainside, huge, hard and powerful, as if it was made of rock and steel instead of flesh and bone. And the strength…,” he continued, flexing his massive bicep and grinning at its impossible size and dimensions. “I feel unstoppable, like I could do anything. Everything seems so fragile now. I crush chairs when I sit in them, break doors when I go through them. I have to be careful about everything. I accidentally put my arm through a wall the other day, a fucking wall!” Then Stan turned to Marty. “And you want me to go back?”
“Ahhh…” gulped Marty.
“I was a worm before, a shapeless, formless, weakling nothing! And I didn’t even know it! I only began to guess once my muscles began to grow. But back then, before the summer, even though I knew I liked it, I still had no idea, no idea what it could do for me, what I could become. And then my uncle opened the door, showed me how to develop my body, how change a weakling boy into an massive, veiny muscle beast! I feel like I’ve found myself. Like, I’ve found what I am at my core, what I was born to be. The size, the muscle, the power… This feeling, it’s… I’ll never be done growing, Marty, never! I never could stop now.
“Go back to what I was? I’d die first.”
Stan’s words slammed into Marty. Hit him in ways he couldn’t understand or identify. Marty felt something inside him snap. The old Marty would have said that the muscles had won, that they had finally overthrown his brain and taken over. But the old Marty was gone now. The new Marty knew Stan was right. He’d felt a small part of what Stan was talking about. He know what his friend was experiencing must be insane.
And suddenly Marty felt a powerful urge, one well beyond his reason or ability to control. He had to be big, too, just as big as Stan.
Maybe even bigger.