Golden Ticket 5: Bryce (musc)
by kdumd
“I have no goddamn idea what I’m doing here.”
Bryce Miller couldn’t believe he’d let his mom guilt him into the annual family outing to the amusement park. He’d thought about making up some story about having an important business meeting in New York to attend that weekend, but his mom had a way of seeing through his numerous lies, and he didn’t feel like dealing with the fight that would inevitably follow.
The truth was, Bryce would just as soon forget he had anything to do with his hometown, or even his home state. He’d grown up a typical middle to upper-middle class kid, played sports, dated cheerleaders. After getting his bachelor’s degree in computer science, he and a college buddy had developed an app that turned hugely profitable almost overnight. Within a year, Bryce was a multi-millionaire and the head of a New York-based tech startup. Now, at the ripe old age of 23, he was the walking embodiment of young money, and he loved every fucking minute of it.
Bryce dove headfirst into the lifestyle and got in deeper every day. He drove a brand new BMW, paid for in cash, and had two closets filled with designer clothes, most of which he would only end up wearing once. He was on a first-name basis with the bouncers at all the hottest clubs in NYC, entertaining clients and picking up money-hungry girls with bottle service nights that ran his bar tabs into the tens of thousands. His family desperately wanted him to put his money away or invest it, because they knew how fickle the tech industry could be. Bryce knew it too, which is exactly why he spent his cash almost as fast as he could make it. If his bubble might burst at any moment, he was going to enjoy the ride as long as he could.
But on this day, standing in the amusement park’s arcade, Bryce felt nothing like the big fucking deal he knew he was. He’d been to this park dozens of times and used to love it, but ever since his meteoric rise through tax brackets, he avoided “everyday people” as if they were all carrying the plague. And shit, they could be, Bryce often thought. He didn’t even take cabs in New York. If he didn’t drive his Beamer, he called for a towncar; if he, his buddies and their skanks were hitting the clubs, he’d foot the bill for a stretch Hummer. It was obnoxious and incredibly douchey, just like Bryce.
As he leaned nonchalantly against a pinball machine, oversized Ray-Bans covering his eyes, he wondered how much longer this familial torture would last. Bryce could feel his slicked-back, jet black hair beginning to sweat in the summer heat, and he would have regretted wearing his Gucci leather jacket if he didn’t look so damn good in it. The $2,000 jacket matched his black v-neck Armani Exchange t-shirt, way-too-tight Diesel jeans and cowboy-style boots perfectly, and looked amazing on his 5’9” 155 pound frame. But then again, he made everything look good. From his deep green eyes to his spray-tanned skin to his obsessively hairless face to meticulously styled coif, which he got trimmed twice a week at Manhattan’s trendiest men’s salon, Bryce looked pretty and he knew it. In fact, his friends often called him “the gayest straight guy” they knew. That made him angry, for a number of reasons, but primarily because he wasn’t gay, he would never be gay, and the thought of even touching another man in a sexual way made him want to vomit.
Bryce was in charge of his little cousin Devon, who was busy playing some kind of arcade game off in the other corner. When a hot girl with huge tits crossed his path, Bryce stared intently into her boobs before shifting his gaze downward to her ass as the girl walked away. It was then that he saw something lying on the ground that hadn’t been there before: a golden arcade ticket.
Bending at the knees—no easy task in his painted-on denim—Bryce picked up the ticket and looked at it. He wondered why this one was gold when all the tickets Devon had collected were blue. He also wondered why he even gave a shit what color the ticket was.
Still, curiosity overwhelmed him and he shuffled over to the prize counter, his boots clicking on the well-worn hardwood underneath him. He spotted a lanky teenager in a staff t-shirt at the other end of the counter and whistled. “Hey asshole,” Bryce shouted, “what the fuck is this?” Ever since making his first million, Bryce decided it didn’t much matter if he was polite to people or not, especially the ones he knew were basically homeless compared to him.
The kid behind the counter walked over to Bryce, looked at the ticket, and smiled. Bryce was incredulous. “Uh, hello? Are you fucking blind, farmboy? Answer my fucking quest—“
As he was finishing his tirade, Bryce’s iPhone rang loudly. He shot the teen a look as he turned away and answered it. “Yeah, hello.” It was the contractor in charge of building his summer home in the Hamptons. Bryce had an acquaintance in the tech industry who tipped him off that a once-wealthy family was selling off its property after losing its fortune in the economic collapse. Bryce had jumped on it and tore down the Cape Cod-style home as quickly as he could. In its place, he was building a gaudy, almost palatial estate that would cement his status as one of New York’s young money elite.
“What the FUCK do you mean you don’t have the fucking marble?” He was shouting obscenities in the middle of an arcade filled with young children, and he didn’t care even a little bit. “Hold the fuck on a second, I gotta go outside.” Bryce turned back to the teen at the prize counter, who was still wearing that stupid smile. “Hey, thanks for nothing, cocksucker.”
Now his boots were really making noise as he strode arrogantly toward the door, adjusting his shades and putting the phone back up to his ear. When he crossed the threshold into the open air, he got right back to ripping his contractor a new asshole. “Jesus fucking Christ, this was supposed to be done a fucking month ago, you redneck bitch!” The guy on the other end of the line was used to the verbal abuse, but Bryce wouldn’t have cared much either way. “Just do what I’m fucking paying your ass to do. I want to be partying in that house by Labor Day!”
With that, Bryce shoved the phone back into one pocket of his cargo shorts, and pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of another. Lighting the unfiltered Camel, he took a deep drag and exhaled through his nose. “Wait a fucking minute,” he said out loud. “I don’t fucking smoke. And wasn’t I wearing jeans?” His mind was in turmoil. He would never risk sullying his image or his perfect teeth with tobacco, and he hadn’t worn cargo shorts since the 10th grade. Bryce was better than that. He was better than people who smoked and wore fucking Wal-mart cargo shorts.
But yet, holding the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, he brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply once again. “What am I saying? I’ve smoked since middle school,” he said out loud, smoke billowing out his nose and mouth with each word. A flood of memories began to wage war in his mind. One second he was seeing computer code and dollar signs, the next it was jackhammers and barbells. He’d remember going to college and acing his computer science courses, but then he’d remember his two years in trade school before jumping right into construction work. He could see his shiny black BMW in the parking lot of his swank Upper West Side apartment, but then he remembered parking his beat up F-350 in front of his modest ranch style home in the country.
“Shit,” he said between drags on the cigarette. He was surprised for a second by the sound of his own voice. He remembered it being deep, but the voice he heard sounded like it belonged to a gorilla of a man. Funny, because when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the sheet metal siding of the arcade, that’s exactly what he saw.
Bruce stood slack-jawed at the visage of masculinity there before him. He started at the bottom, where a pair of well-worn, size 14 steel-toed work boots covered his feet. He thought that was strange. He’d never done a minute of manual labor in his life…no, Bruce concluded, what was strange was that he was wearing the work boots on his day off. Then he recalled deciding they’d be more comfortable than the alternative; he’d long since broken them in and they fit him now like a second skin.
Still shaking off the unsettling mental turmoil, his gaze moved upward past a set of obscenely muscled calves, both covered in thick brown hair, to a set of thighs that looked like two sides of beef. This was wrong, Bruce thought, he was a skinny dude…well, he WAS a skinny dude, maybe when he was 11. Bruce had been lifting weights since middle school, and had always been the biggest —and hairiest—kid around. He had parlayed his power into spots on the football, wrestling and rugby teams. No one fucked with Bruce in a sporting event.
“Goddamn right,” Bruce rumbled as he chained a second cigarette off the dying embers of the first. He noticed the cargo shorts were starting to get a little tight around his massive quads; he’d need to stop at Wal-mart on the way home and pick up a bigger pair. It was just as well, he needed to pick up some more supplies for the job site. He was foreman of a build on Long Island, some snotty rich kid’s place, and he could take the opportunity to stock up for the week.
Continuing his visual tour of his own body, that still somehow seemed like it shouldn’t belong to him, Bruce looked with pride upon his bulging midsection. The stained white crew neck t-shirt he wore that day was straining against the beach ball that was his belly. Bruce loved his gut. Sure, he could have gone for a set of washboard abs like all the other gays, but there was something about that big round belly that just exuded raw male sensuality. And it’s not like he was obese; Bruce was just as proud of his pecs as he was his gut. They were huge, each the size of a stack of dinner plates, and they were each covered in a slight layer of a fat and a not-so-slight forest of dense hair. For whatever reason, Bruce was able to grow and maintain that power gut without it turning him into a soft mass of jiggly flesh. “Shit, ain’t nothing about me that jiggles,” he growled, Camel dangling between his lips. That was true, for as big as his belly was, Bruce’s stomach was solid as a rock. Just like his calves, his quads, his ass, his pecs and his biceps.
Oh, his biceps. Next to his ball gut, his arms were Bruce’s babies. After a decade of heavy lifting, both in the gym and on the job site, Bruce owned a set of biceps that were now pushing 25” around; he only knew that because the twink he had fucked the night before insisted on measuring them. “Yeah I fucked his cunt but good,” Bruce said out loud, hoping no one else heard him. He wasn’t exactly in the closet, but Bruce didn’t like to make a show out of his sexuality. So what if he was gay? It’s not like he was some cosmo-drinking, skinny jeans-wearing, lisping fairy. He was all man, all day long. In fact, he had a t-shirt bearing that very phrase, and he wore it to the bear bars every chance he got.
Bruce took in the entirety of his massive upper body. Those prized biceps were complemented by a set of triceps that made it near impossible to find flannel work shirts that fit him. It was only an issue during the winter, anyway. The rest of the year Bruce was more than happy to work with nothing but his yellow safety vest, cargo shorts and work boots. He was a simple guy. He made decent money, but was far from wealthy. He had his simple home, his simple truck, his simple clothes. Bruce loved his simple life.
Wait, what simple life? Bruce’s mind was a jumble again. He was rich, wasn’t he? Something about computers. And wasn’t he too tall? No, of course not. At 6’6” Bruce towered over most men he met. Just another way of letting them know who’s boss. Boss…he was the boss, of a startup…no, he was the boss of his construction crew, and of any man he decided to fuck. Man? He wasn’t supposed to be gay. Just the other night he motorboated the shit out of some college slut he picked up at the club. Club? Bruce hadn’t been to a club in his life. If the beer cost more than $2, he wasn’t going in.
And hadn’t he been wearing an expensive leather jacket? Bruce looked down, stopping to admire his football-sized right forearm, and was relieved to find a leather jacket nestled within his brawny grip. And hell yeah, that thing was expensive. $200 doesn’t just grow on trees. Noticing the air starting to cool as the sun went down, Bruce took one last long, almost sexual drag on the Camel before stubbing it against the ground. That prompted a chuckle. Bruce may have been a good cocksucker, but these days, guys were lining up to suck HIS dick. And why not? It was fucking enormous, the size of a tallboy can both in length and width. All those years of penis pumping had finally paid off, it seemed.
Bruce slipped the jacket on, its many buckles and chains clanging around loudly. It was tight—everything was tight on his enormous body—but he loved the way it showed off his protruding shoulders and a set of trap muscles that looked like they’d been inflated with air. They held up a head that looked like it was carved out of wood by a lumberjack. A thick goatee of brown-and-silver hair framed his mouth, which was full of crooked, chipped, yellowed and broken teeth. Bruce had been in a few fights in his day. Those fights also accounted for the misshapen, swollen bridge of his nose, and for several scars that ran along his cheek. Completing his self-guided tour, Bruce smiled at his smooth bald head, which gleamed like Mr. Clean thanks to the low-angled sun and the sheen of sweat that had developed over the course of the day. He raised one bushy brown eyebrow and said out loud, “Goddamn it, I am a BEAST!” And then, as if overtaken by a flood of primal instinct, Bruce grunted loud and low as he flexed his muscles, the biceps threatening to rend the leather at the seams, and his powerful ball gut forcing his dingy t-shirt to ride up and expose his deep navel.
Laughing at himself, Bruce fixed his shirt and took one last look at his reflection. He loved every inch of what he saw, an overmuscled hulk of a man dripping with raw testosterone. And his eyes, man did he ever love his eyes. They were bright gold, almost like a cat’s. Those eyes were the reason Bruce was known in the bear community as Mufasa, king of the lions.
Bruce was jolted from his self-admiration when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket, though it did not ring because the very old and very obsolete flip phone was on its last legs. “Piece of goddamn shit,” Bruce cursed as he opened the phone. It was the kid whose house he was building, bitching about something or other. This little douchebag called him four times a day to cuss Bruce out about something. “Too much money, not enough balls,” Bruce always thought. Still, when the project was done, it would mean a big pay day for Bruce and his guys. If all went well, he’d have enough to get himself a new pickup, complete with giant, almost monster truck sized tires.
When his conversation with the kid was finished, Bruce decided it was time to go. He had enjoyed his day at the park, riding a few rides and cruising for twinks to fuck in the parking lot (he’d succeeded). As his work boots crunched the gravel beneath his huge feel, Bruce pulled out two cigarettes from his pack, lit one immediately and placed the other behind his ear. He always needed at least two smokes after talking to the kid. If he’d learned anything in his 41 years, Bruce knew little pricks like him would get what they deserved in the end. Someday he would lose his looks, his money and his fancy lifestyle and learned what it meant to really work for a living, to get his hands dirty and be a real man.
Indeed, as Bruce spotted the dirt under his fingertips while inhaling a double drag off the cigarette, he hoped that kid would learn his lesson sooner rather than later.
To be continued