The Myostatin Kid 3

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The summer between 8th and 9th grades I met my first love, James. He had just moved to town, was the same age, and lived in the next block. I met him when he came to our house and rang the doorbell.

“My God,” he said, when I answered the door, wearing a towel and nothing else. “It’s true!”

My typical smartass reply died in my throat as my eyes raked across the young man standing in front of me.

“Young man” is hardly an adequate description. Standing before me was a Greek God cast as a blond surfer boy.

Six feet even, 200 lbs., big broad shoulders, ridiculously tiny waist, every inch of him sculpted muscle and the kind of implausibly perfect olive-tinted skin that tans under a fluorescent light, much less sunshine. Brilliant white teeth, pouty red lips, long dark eyelashes, and slightly oversized eyes that couldn’t tell if they were blue or green or gray (and, in any event, were too sophisticated for such paltry terms, requiring “aquamarine” or “tourquoise” or “jade” instead.)

“You really are the biggest motherfucker who ever lived, aren’t you?” he continued.

I laughed.

“Potty mouth,” I replied. And then I lifted him up in my gigantic arms (each of them bigger around than his not insubstantial chest – the guy was a freak for 14!) and tasted that mouth.

He melted into the kiss and gave back everything I had to offer and the kitchen sink to boot.

“Nope,” I said, finally letting go. “Not a potty mouth…”

He looked as dazed as I felt.

“More like ambrosia,” he agreed.

And that’s how I acquired my first boyfriend.

As I said, I was fairly terrified that I’d kill anyone I had sex with but James, who was just as much a virgin as I was, was a regular savant when it came sexual gratification (ha ha, I said “came!”) There was no way he was taking my 18-inch log up his perfect bubble butt but by that time my hands were, well, gigantic (think Denis Cyplenkov – then think BIGGER!) and my fingers, it turned out, were extremely talented.

He was also, like me, totally into muscle and the next day he joined me and Mr. Clark in the gym (a converted airplane hangar) built on royalty checks from Guinness.

By the end of the summer James was an inch taller and 75 lbs. heavier than he had been to begin with. At 6’1 and 275 lbs. of solid muscle, he looked more like a college linebacker than a high school freshman – or a pro bodybuilder! With a 55-inch chest, 22-inch biceps, 30-inch waist, and 30-inch quads, James would have mopped the stage with the likes of Nick Trigili or Steven Frazier.

Of course, by that time I’d hit 6’7 ½” in my bare feet and tipped the scales right at 800 lbs.

“It must be something in the water,” Mr. Clark muttered at the end of one ferocious workout, the first in which James benched triple his bodyweight (825 lbs.!), after which I took the loaded bar from the stanchions and repped out 100 perfect curls.

“You’d like some of that water, wouldn’t you?” I asked, teasingly.

He blushed and then I felt bad. Whatever it was I had – and whatever it was I seemed to be giving James, even in some attenuated fashion – it wasn’t something I could give to Mr. Clark.

He sucked it up, though, and never complained, even though he couldn’t always hide a certain glint in his eye that said “but for the grace of God…”

Hard to believe that that was four years ago!


High school was…different.

I know, I know, that’s an inane comment. I suppose I mean it wasn’t what I expected, just based on how I had seen it depicted in movies or read about it in books.

Somehow I managed to be completely free of teen angst. I didn’t feel the need to conform or fit in or anything. But then how could I? I was the biggest teen the world had ever seen. Most teens join cliques, or they’re loners. I was my own clique. Hell, I was my own planet, Jupiter surrounded by a bevy of lesser moons.

And I knew that it was, well, high school, for heaven’s sake! I never understood those people whose entire lives were wrapped up in being the homecoming queen or the star quarterback or whatever. If those were the “Glory Days,” as the song says, then God help us all!

The biggest thing was convincing the people that I liked that I was, well, you know, a regular human being. Not interested in playing a role, just interested in being myself, and appreciating smart, funny, down-to-earth people (just like me!)

It didn’t help that I was a celebrity. The whole world knew who I was, the whole world wanted part of me.

Again, celebrity wasn’t what I expected. I could take it or leave it, and mostly I left it, although I certainly appreciated the royalty checks, especially since they bought a big new house for Mom and Aunt Boo (and Mr. Clark, who surprised all of us by turning out to be straight – and marrying Mom!) I had my own wing in the new place so that James and I (or James and I and whoever…) could do what we wanted without wrecking the place.

I reached a milestone of sorts at the end of the 9th grade, shortly after I turned 15. By then I was up to 6’9” tall…and 1000 lbs. of solid muscle.
I know, right? Totally ridiculous!

But there I was, three inches taller and 350 lbs. heavier than I’d been the year before.

Are you surprised that my strength more than doubled in that time?

Well, you probably saw the YouTube clip. The ESPN segment of me benching 10,000 lbs. was the highest rated sports broadcast of all time (well, up until then, at any rate.)

The good thing about celebrity? Aside from the paychecks, that is…

No black helicopters!

I’m sure the Army, the Marines, the CIA, the FBI, Homeland Security, MI6, the KGB, the Mossad, and the Mafiya would have loved to sink their hooks into me. But how were they going to pull it off? The whole world was watching. It would have been like trying to kidnap the Empire State Building!

It scared some people, turned off others. But the ones who stuck around…


Well, there was always James. It was clear from the get go that we were gay, clear that we were a couple.

And what was anyone going to do about it?

By the time I was 6’9 and 1000 lbs., James was 6’2 and 350 lbs., all rock solid muscle. There he was 15 years old, a world-class powerlifter (same size as Ryan Kennelly or Derek Poundstone) and built like a really big pro bodybuilder.

No, nobody gave us any grief about the fact that we were openly gay, except for a few lamebrain religious nut jobs…and, I guess it wasn’t polite, but we just laughed at them.

We had an eclectic assortment of friends: Band geeks, cheerleaders, the Chess Club, the Latin Club, the Math Club, the Drama Club. Not so much the jocks, although Proctor H.S. had more than its share of really luscious male cheerleaders and they certainly looked like jocks, even if they didn’t always act the part.

And then there were the special ones, the ones who became best friends and…

Well, that’s getting ahead.

Let me describe them as they were when we first met, at the beginning of 9th grade.

Tyrone “Ty” Digger: 5’8, 175 lbs., no bodyfat brick shithouse African American wrestler who sang like an angel and was the state high school chess champ, four years running.

Ramon “Ray” Hernandez: 5’7, 140 lbs., trombonist, a drop-dead gorgeous Mario Lopez lookalike behind his gigantic black-framed inch-thick glasses.

Cheol “Call me ‘Chuck’” Song Park: 5’6, 170 lbs., tubby, movie-star handsome Korean heart throb, brilliant pianist, future Math Club president.

Sergei “Call me ‘Steve’” Dmitrov: 6’1, 140 lbs. (40 lbs. of which resided between his legs), hairiest 14 y.o. on the planet, made Sean Hayes seem butch, shoo in for Drama Club president.

How it all came together I’ll never really know.

I think James had some spidey sense and corralled them all, one at a time. Or maybe he was putting out pheromones and they were inescapably drawn to him.

You’ll note that the four of them together weighed 625 lbs., nearly 200 lbs. less than I did.

It wasn’t easy bringing them into our bed but James managed it, one at a time, and then in combinations, and eventually all of us in a giant puppy pile (they were the puppies, I was the full-grown Great Dane.)

Everyone else called us “The Pack” but among ourselves we were “The Faglings” and I was the “Faggot-in-Chief.” Yeah, we really weren’t worried much about what others thought!

You know the rest of the story, right?

They grew!


What to do? What to do?

The six of us graduated from high school a few months ago – the six biggest men on the planet.

Ray (aka “Little Buddy”) was the smallest of us at 6’4” tall and 500 lbs., all muscle. Strong little fuck, though, benching 3000 lbs.

Ty and Chuck both topped out at 6’6” tall. At 600 lbs., Ty’s musculature defies comprehension. His bodyfat is consistently in the 2% range.

Chuck is still “Mister Beefy,” weighing 700 lbs. but “tubby” is not a word you hear much in his presence. “Herculean” is more like it.

Compared to the others, Steve, at 6’8, is still the “beanpole,” if you can imagine a beanpole weighing 600 lbs.! Certainly his log kept paced with everything else!

And then there’s James, sweet baby James. Like Steve, 6’8” tall…and 800 lbs. of solid muscle! Next to James, Steve really DOES look like a beanpole and that differential continues to hold when they whip out their 16-inch dicks (and they’re usually all too happy to oblige); Steve’s is only 10 inches around, James’ 14 inches. Makes a difference!

As for me, well, you’ve seen the pix, no doubt.

7 feet 6 inches tall, 2000 lbs., about the same weight as an adult male bull. Hung like one, too, of course. When fully hard, my poker is 30 inches long, 20 inches in circumference.

I could rattle off my other measurements but they just don’t make any sense. Yes, it’s true that I’m twice as broad as I am tall but that really doesn’t convey the visual impact. Or the fact that despite my humongous size, everything is totally balanced, harmonious, and symmetrical. Somehow along the way my bones have shifted in such a way that everything is accommodated without making me look lopsided or overbalanced.

We weren’t normal men, obviously, not by any stretch of the imagination, so “what to do” loomed large in our collective consciousness.

James, as usual, had the answer.

“We’ll do what unusual people down through the ages have done,” he said, not long after graduation. “We’ll join the circus!”

We all laughed…and then upon sober reflection realized it was the perfect set up!

In fact, the Myostatin Circus was built around us, not us around it. The five of them together weigh just a little more (well, 200 lbs. but that’s just 10%) than I do, which makes me the central attraction. What we do separately and together never ceases to amaze and thrill our audiences, especially when the five of them each clean and jerk a car and then I pick up all five of them – plus the cars – with one hand.

(And, yes, those rumored “private shows” do in fact exist. If you have a cool million bucks hanging about, we’ll be happy to scheduled one for you!)

The money is rolling end, we get to travel, and our customized trains, planes, and motor coaches are designed to accommodate our needs.

What does the future hold? How much bigger will we get? Will people get tired of forking over big bucks to see the biggest, most muscular teens in the history of the world?

No way to tell but I can tell you this…

We’re having a blast!