Boi 4 Hypno (short story)

Boi 4 Hypno

z119z

© by the author 2014

The kid was in the wrong place. I almost added “at the wrong time,” but there would never be a right time for this kid, not in Vir.

Vir is a juice bar on East Holly Street, right in the middle of our city’s gay village. It’s on the ground floor of the same building that houses Woodie’s Gym, a shrine for serious, hard-core bodybuilders. It sells protein shakes and other drinks Vir’s “nutritional supplements consultants” (the baristas) describe in extravagant terms as “muscle builders,” “energizers,” and “detoxificants,” made with lots of things that are “essential for health and vigor” or at least things that are hyped as essential. In short it’s a pick-up joint for guys with big muscles who want other guys with big muscles. It’s a clean, well-lit place to go when your body is still glowing from exertion and you’re looking for someone to glow with. There’s no dress code, but most of the customers have just finished working out and favor shorts that stop at the top of their thighs and string T’s with scoop necks that expose their arms and most of their pecs. It smells of guys oozing testosterone. Lots of testosterone. Guys whose earlobes have serious muscles. Like me.

So, anyway, as I was saying, this kid walks in. Twenty, maybe twenty-one. He looks like he’s skipping his class in super-advanced physics or some kind of math no one at Vir has ever heard of—he might even be the teacher. He’s short, five-five or five-six. He’s got long dirty blond hair that hasn’t been washed for weeks, but it doesn’t look like he’s intentionally going for a stringy, oily ’do dusted with dandruff and with small critters crawling around and mining his scalp for stray bits of food. It’s more like he doesn’t worry about his hair—it doesn’t even occur to him that he might think about his hair. Or any other part of his body for that matter. His arms are at most six inches around. There’s not the slightest hint of a curve to indicate he has biceps. His T-shirt droops from his narrow shoulders. He’s wearing khaki pants that sag in the back—he’s got no butt. I’ve seen swizzle sticks thicker than his legs. His knees are so bony and sharp it’s a wonder they don’t slit his pants open. Pale, pale skin. He wouldn’t be a nerd without glasses with thick lenses and big, almost colorless plastic frames that slide down the ridge of his nose till they come to rest on the bump at the end, right? Well, he doesn’t disappoint in that respect either. When he pushes the glasses back up, the lenses magnify his eyes so much that they look twice as big as anyone else’s.

Now, some guy walks into Vir, he gets checked out. We pay attention to bodies here. For some guys, it’s the competition. Does he have bigger biceps? Does he have more definition? For others, it’s more a matter of Can I get this guy to want me? There are even some for whom the question is Can I dominate this guy? It’s a very aggressive, cut-throat place. Guys without big bodies and well-defined muscles are greeted with sarcastic remarks. They can’t get two steps inside the door before someone lets them know they don’t measure up (literally).

So when this poster child for some deserving charity walks in, everybody turns to check out the newcomer—casually, like they’re not really looking at him, you understand; their minds are on other things, see. The guy just happens to be passing through their field of vision, and they can’t help but notice him. Usually this would be when the remarks and catcalls start. Instead, there’s this collective intake of breath that ends in an embarrassed silence. Some smartass starts to say something, but the man standing next to him jabs him with an elbow to hush him up. I mean if a guy’s chest is only 50 inches, he’s fair game, but what do you say to a shrimp who has a 25-inch chest? Maybe he’s sick. Who knows? It happens. You don’t make fun. That would be cruel. We’re bigger than that. So it’s like we decide not to see the kid. He’s invisible. He’s not big enough to notice. He’s not the type of guy we want to think about. We don’t want to know such people exist.

The nerd walks over to the bar. I’m sitting in the back corner next to the wall. It’s a bit darker there, but it gives me a good view of everyone else. More important, it gives the other guys something to look at. Now, most guys, they don’t like to sit next to me. I make them seem small. I intimidate other guys, even other bodybuilders. They don’t want to be seen beside me, because I’d win that competition. I’m not bragging. It’s a fact. All I’m saying. Usually I sit sideways so that I can rest my shoulders against the wall. Besides, when I turn to face the bar, my shoulders are so wide that no one can sit next to me. I sort of crowd over in the next space. Long and short of it is, there’s always an open seat or two next to me.

The kid looks around and sees that the stool beside me isn’t taken. So he comes over and sits down. He nods at me. Vir has a list of its standard drinks—the protein shakes and whatnot—written on a sign board over the bar. The kid pushes his glasses back up on his nose and squints at the board.

“What’s good?” he says.

At first, I’m not sure he’s talking to me. He hasn’t turned to face me. He’s still looking at the sign. But I’m the only person around. So I figure, what the hell? Be nice to the kid. I’m a big man. I don’t have to put other guys down to make myself feel good. The kid’s not doing me any harm.

“I’m having a Number 7.”

The kid looks up at the board and reads the description. “One dozen locally sourced egg whites from free-range hens, blended with 250 grams each of freshly harvested, unprocessed kelp (Laminaria saccharine; source: Bay of Fundy), malted winter wheat berries (Triticum aestivum; source: Natural Nature Farms, Kansas), and soya beans (Glycine max; source: Old Red Barn Mills, Illinois) in additive-free spring water triple-distilled on the premises. 100% organic. Sixteen essential amino acids for energy-enhancing cellular replenishment.”

Then he looks over at the blender jar sitting in front of me. The Number 7 isn’t the most appetizing-looking drink. I’ll admit that. I’ll even admit that it tastes toxic. It looks and is slimy, and the inside of the blender is flecked with bits of kelp and other unidentifiable blobs.

“What’s it taste like?”

I stand up and reach over the bar and grab a glass. I pour a half-inch of the Number 7 into it and push the glass in front of the kid. “Here, try it.” I don’t tell him he’s going to like it, because it’s not a drink anyone likes. It’s good for you. That’s what matters.

The kid picks up the glass and sniffs at it. He makes a face and then shrugs his shoulders. The face tells me he doesn’t expect to like it; the shrug says that he’s going to try it anyway. He lifts the glass and tilts his head back. Now the Number 7 is thick. So it doesn’t run smoothly down the side of the glass when the kid raises it to his mouth. It sort of hangs in the bottom of the glass for a second and then the glob gives way and plops into the kid’s mouth. He slams the glass down on the bar. He looks like he wants to spew this wad of rancid paste that’s invaded his mouth. But he’s game. I have to give him that. He chews a couple of times and then swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. He looks over at me with this look of disbelief.

“How can you drink that . . . ?” I know he wants to say “that shit,” but he thinks twice before telling someone as big as me that he doesn’t think much of my taste in drinks.

“It’s good for my body. It replaces the protein I use up when I’m working out.” I look at the list over the bar. “Maybe you should try the Number 28, the carrot and apple smoothie. Let me buy you one.” I signal the nearest nutritional supplements consultant, and soon the kid has a blender full of orangish liquid in front of him. He’s more wary this time, but he takes a drink. I don’t think he loves the taste, but at least he can drink this. “Thanks,” he says.

“I’m Jake.” I hold out my hand.

“Leonard.”

We shake. The kid—Leonard—can’t take his eyes off my bicep. I can see he likes the way it moves when we shake hands. I don’t squeeze Leonard’s hand the way some of the assholes in Vir would. He’s a nice kid. I don’t need to prove anything to myself. I know I’m stronger than Leonard is ever going to be in his life. But the kid’s probably going to find a cure for cancer or invent a trans-warp drive. Me, the most I’m ever going to do is to be a very, very big guy. To each his own. Live and let live, that’s my philosophy.

Leonard has to turn toward me to shake my hand, and it’s then that I notice that there’s something written on his T-shirt, over his left pec, or what would be his left pec, if he had pecs. The lettering’s real small—like in a book, that small. I have to lean in a bit and squint to read it. “Boy 4 hypno.”

“What’s that all about?”

“What?”

I point to the letters. He tugs on his T-shirt so that he can see what I’m talking about. He reads it like he’s never noticed it before.

“Oh yeah,” he shrugs. “I don’t know what it means. Somebody left it at my place, and I needed a clean shirt this morning. So I just put it on.”

Now that tells me two more things about Leonard—other than he’s just not clothes-conscious, I mean. That I already figured out. One, guys remove their clothes when they’re at his place. And two, they’re in such a hurry to get out of there that they don’t put all their clothes back on. Guys visit my place—they remove their clothes too. Sometimes they don’t want to put them back on. That can be a problem when I’m trying to get them out the door. Some guys—I have to use a little persuasion on them to make them get dressed. Other guys, I’ve just finished fucking their brains out, and they’re so dazed they don’t realize they’re not completely dressed when they leave. I dump a bag or two of other guys’ clothes in the charity box every couple of months. None of their clothes are ever big enough to fit me. I’m not bragging. It’s a fact. Just saying, that’s all.

Then it hits me it’s kinda odd that I’m spending even this much time comparing what happens at Leonard’s place to what happens at mine. Because usually I don’t even look at guys like Leonard. But there’s something about the kid. OK, he’s short and small, but he’s also smart and confident. There’s enough to him that it makes me think it’s not a waste of my time to talk with him. And I’m feeling, I don’t know, sort of protective toward him, if that makes any sense. I mean, he’s not my responsibility. But I’ve got this urge to extend an arm around his shoulders. Not a real arm. I’d never do that. If I put one of my arms on his shoulders, I’d probably break his collar bone. A pretend arm to shield him from the other guys—that’s all I’m saying.

He’s got balls. I’ll give him that. He can’t be so unaware of what’s going on around him that he thinks he fits in here. Yet he walks into Vir, looks around, and sits down next to me, the biggest guy in Vir. It’s like he decided he wanted to make me look even larger and himself even smaller.

Leonard’s kinda looking me over. He’s not being rude about it, and I’m used to being stared at. So I don’t mind. I’m also curious whether he likes what he sees and whether and how he’ll put a move on me. I’ve always been good looking, and I started bulking up in high school. So a lot of guys have put the move on me over the years. I collect “moves.” It’s kinda my hobby. I should maybe write a book about it. You wouldn’t believe some of the things guys have said to me to try to get me in bed.

Anyway, the barista left my change on one of those plastic trays. Leonard reaches over and absent-mindedly picks up a dime. He starts playing with it, twisting it between his fingers and turning it over and over. Then he places it over the knuckles of his left hand and starts walking it back and forth over his fingers. I’ve seen guys doing that on TV and the movies, but they usually use quarters. Leonard’s fingers are so small that a quarter would be too big. He’s also got his hand pressed flat on the bar. I’ve never seen anybody walk a coin with hands held flat before. Leonard keeps doing it, back and forth. Each time the coin flips over, there’s a flash of light. His fingers aren’t moving—least not that I can see. I don’t understand how he’s making the coin move. Muscle control—that one’s thing I know a lot about, but it’s like Leonard isn’t using any muscles at all to move the coin.

I gotta learn how to do this. I pick up a quarter and try to copy what he’s doing. But no dice.

“How are you doing that?” I can’t even get the quarter to move.

Leonard looks down at his hand in surprise and watches the dime move back and forth over his fingers. “That? It’s easy. I think about doing it, and it happens. It’s just an inanimate object. I can control it with my mind.”

Which is a pretty odd thing to say, if you think about it. But I wouldn’t have this body if I didn’t use mind control. That’s what a lot of bodybuilding is. You picture the muscles you want to have in your mind, and then you work on your body till you fill in the picture with your muscles. So I try again. No luck.

“You have to concentrate. Don’t think about moving your fingers. Just picture it in your mind and let it happen.”

Now, I’m beginning to get the idea that Leonard has a stronger mind than me. Fair enough. Lots of guys are smarter than me. But I give it another try. The coin doesn’t budge. I shrug and start to throw the quarter back on the tray when Leonard says, “Keep on trying. Here—just watch my coin. Don’t think about the coin on your fingers.”

So I do what he says. He keeps talking to me about just relaxing my mind and letting it be blank and how I should just keep watching the coin on his hand. I don’t know how long we’re sitting there, with me watching and him talking.

“Cool.” I look up and there’s one of the baristas staring at the both of us. I look down, and the coin on my hand is moving. I don’t know when it started, but it’s moving in synch with the coin on Leonard’s hand, back and forth like his. Of course, the moment I realize what’s happening, my coin stops moving.

“Coin operated,” says Leonard, sort of to himself. I don’t know what he means by that, but he just shrugs and tosses his coin back onto the tray. I do the same. I feel ridiculously happy. It’s like I just accomplished something great. In one part of my mind, I know it’s silly. It’s just a trick, but the other part of my mind I’m feeling really grateful to Leonard for teaching me how to move a coin with my mind. I’m also feeling kind of dizzy, light headed. I guess I’m just not used to using my brain that much. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there listening to Leonard talk and moving the coin. I glance at my watch and see that I’ve been sitting in Vir for over three hours. It doesn’t feel like that long. I don’t know where the time went.

Anyway, I shake my head to clear it. Then I look around Vir. Suddenly I don’t want to be there anymore. It’s like it hits me that it’s such a pretentious place, selling sham science and pushing stupid, overpriced, ineffective drinks. What am I doing sitting in a place filled with overbuilt, narcissistic, insecure wannabe studs? Guys who use muscles to compensate for their inadequacies. I have to admit it’s weird for me to be thinking this way. I never thought about such things before, but these ideas just pop into my head. I’m not even sure I really know what all those words mean. It seems almost like these ideas have been buried deep inside my head for a while, and now they’re just coming to the surface. I don’t understand it, but I know that I’m seeing Vir and the guys in it clearly for the first time and that I don’t belong there.

I push my glass toward the barista and say, “Hey, Leonard, let’s go back to your place and hang for a while.”

Leonard nods. And just like that, we walk out together. I’m with my good buddy Leonard, and all’s right with my world. Now, I know this is gonna sound strange, but I’m horny as hell. Luckily Leonard’s place is only a few blocks away. Otherwise I might have grabbed him and taken him into an alley. I mean I’m bursting. If I had to walk any further, I would have popped out of my shorts. As it is, I’ve got a serious tent in front. An Eiffel Tower.

As soon as I step inside his apartment, I’m tearing off my clothes. I’m not wearing much, just a T and shorts and a jock strap. So it doesn’t take me long. Leonard—he’s so cool. He looks me over and smiles.

“Nice,” he says. “Real nice.” He pats me on the arm.

I’m flooded with this feeling of relief. I’ve been so worried that he might not like me. That maybe I’m not his type or not good enough for him. I mean Leonard could have any guy he wants, and he’s chosen me. I’m quivering with excitement.

“Go on into the bedroom,” he says. “I’ll be in in just a minute.”

So I go into the bedroom and lie down on the bed. Right away I have a problem. Should I lie face up or face down? I want to be face down, but I don’t want to imply that I’m assuming that he wants to fuck me. But if I’m face up, maybe he’ll read that as meaning I don’t want him to fuck me, which I do. And this is confusing, because I never get fucked, and here I’m worrying about how I can signal Leonard that that’s exactly what I want him to do to me. So I think, maybe lie on my side. But do I lie on my right side, facing the door so that he sees the front of my body? Or do I lie on my left side and show him my butt? You can see my quandary, and I’m not a guy who uses words like “quandary” because I don’t ever have quandaries. But now I’ve got this big dilemma. Dilemma, another word I never use because I don’t ever have dilemmas. I’m so excited about being with Leonard that I’m not thinking straight.

So I try lying on my left side, with my butt facing the door. I pull my left leg up so that my balls are visible between my thighs. My asshole is deep within my ass cleft, and there’s no way anyone could see that unless I use my hand to pull my buttocks apart, but I’m hinting that it’s available, should Leonard be so inclined. I feel really good lying there, but a bit anxious and concerned because Leonard’s taking his time getting to the bedroom. I hope he hasn’t changed his mind.

Maybe, I should be on my right side. That way, when Leonard comes in, I can smile at him and let him know I want to be with him. So I roll over. My dick’s hard. Throbbing hard. I hope he doesn’t get the idea that I started without him and have been playing with myself. That would be wrong on so many levels. I try to make myself soft. Usually I can control my dick, but not today. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My palms are sweating, and my heart is pounding. I wish he would hurry up. I really need his cock.

There is a pile of clothes in the corner. Mostly underwear—T’s and briefs, but a few shirts and pants. Leonard likes a great variety, that I can see. He’s got every style and color. He must have been bigger at one time, because most of the stuff is too big for him. Way too big.

I hope I smell ok. I took a shower after working out. So I should be fine. But I didn’t have a chance to brush my teeth after drinking the Number 7 at the Vir. I probably have kelp breath. While I’m wondering if I should hop into the bathroom and see if he’s got any mouthwash lying around, Leonard finally comes in.

“Hey, sexy,” I say. Something’s wrong with my voice now. My throat’s all dry, and the words come out broken and too high-pitched. I try again in a lower voice, “Hey, sexy.” It’s better this time. Sort of a throaty growl, but then this girlish giggle comes out of my mouth, which sort of spoils the effect.

Leonard’s still dressed. I give him this nervous grin. I can feel it stretching the corners of my mouth. I even stick my right hand between my legs to cover up my hard-on. Like I’m embarrassed or something. I hope I don’t seem too needy. Whenever I’m with a needy guy, I feeling like smacking him. Guys should have more pride and be more restrained, and now I’m acting like this teenage girl who’s about to lose her virginity. My face is all hot. I think I’m blushing.

Leonard is so nice. He sees that I’m anxious. So he sits down on the bed and pulls my hand away from my dick. “Just relax, Jake,” he says. “I’ll take care of everything. Lie back. Just relax. Leave everything to me.”

He puts my hand on his leg and leaves it there. His body is so warm. I can feel the heat of it through his pants. He pats me on the hip, and suddenly this wave of relaxation and contentment sweeps through my body. He’s so special. I’m still excited, but now I know everything’s going to be fine. I’m with Leonard. He’ll take care of me.

Leonard sits up and pulls off his T-shirt. That’s the first time I’ve seen his chest. He’s so beautiful. Thin and so smooth. No definition. No bulging muscles. No veins popping out.

He bends forward and kisses me. Then he lies down on the bed beside me and wraps his arms around me. He is so sexy.

I’m such a slut. I stick a couple of fingers inside the waist of his pants searching for his cock.

“Somebody’s in a hurry,” he laughs.

I nod my head sheepishly. The guy’s a mindreader. But it’s no trick to read my mind. All I can think about is Leonard’s cock.

OK, what happens over the next couple of hours is between Leonard and me. I’m not a kiss and tell kind of guy. I’m not going to betray Leonard. He’s special. All I will say is that Leonard’s so considerate and gentle with me. Especially since he’s so big where it counts. The guy’s a grower not a shower. I thought it would hurt, but it was like having this hot force inside me. I’ve had sex before, but this is the first time anybody’s ever made love to me, with me.

So, we’re lying there afterwards. I’m exhausted, but I know I want to see Leonard again. He hasn’t said anything for a while, and I’m beginning to worry he might not like me. He’s on his back. His body is so gorgeous. I can’t keep my hands off him.

“That was great,” I start. “The best sex I’ve ever had. You’re terrific.”

He nods at me. He gave so much of himself that he must be exhausted too.

“I . . .” I don’t know what to say. I feel so clumsy and gross. Next to him I look grotesque. All these stupid muscles. I feel like crying. I’ve wasted so much time building my body. “I hope you don’t find me too ugly.” There I said it. What’s been worrying me.

“Jakey boy,” he says. “You’re not ugly. You’re being silly.”

I know I’m being silly, but I’m feeling really emotionally fragile at this point. The last thing I want is to lose Leonard now that I’ve found him. “It’s just that I’m so disgusting. I’m so big. I’m a freak.” By this point I’m practically wailing.

“Come here,” he says. He pulls my head down onto his shoulder and starts stroking my hair. “I like your muscles. And you’re my freak. Anybody else says you’re a freak, you come to me, and I’ll take care of them. Now, tell me. How big are you around the chest?”

“Sixty-seven inches,” I say. “But I can reduce that. If I stop working out, my chest will get smaller. It will take some time, but I can get it down to a better size. More normal like.” I’m not certain I can do this—usually what happens when guys as big as me stop exercising is that all those muscles turn to fat, and that would make me even grosser that I am now—but I’m trying to make Leonard like me. At this point I’d promise anything to see him again.

“How big is the largest chest in the world?”

I have to stop and think. “It’s difficult to say. There’s some guy from Russia who’s supposed to have a 73-inch chest. Some fat guys have bigger chests, but they don’t count in bodybuilding. But for bodybuilders, seventy-some inches would be the tops.”

“I want you to have the biggest chest in the world. Seventy-five inches. Could you do that for me?”

“It would take a lot of work.” And suddenly I want to do it. Anything for Leonard. I’m so relieved. “I thought maybe you didn’t like my body. I know I’m not as beautiful as you.” I’m so overcome with emotion at that point. Leonard doesn’t think I’m ugly. He likes me.

“Jakey, my boy,” he says. “What about thighs? How big are yours?”

So we go through all the body parts, and I tell him how large I am, and the size of the largest bodybuilders, and Leonard sets me goals to achieve. By the time he’s finished, I’m pumped to do this. I’m gonna be the biggest guy in the world for Leonard. And Leonard is so sweet. He promises me that he’ll provide plenty of motivation and teach me how to focus and concentrate better, like with the coin trick.

It’s evening by the time we finish talking. Leonard says he’s got some reading he has to do for his classes, and he tells me to go home and get some sleep. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he says. He programs his number on my phone. “Call me at 6:30,” he tells me.

That’s over ten hours from now. I don’t know how I’m going to last that long. “Can I take your picture?” I ask. I’m feeling needy again, and my cock is beginning to throb again just from looking at Leonard and thinking about him.

He laughs and strikes a pose. We both know that I’m infatuated and acting silly. I take the shot anyway. Now, at least I’ll have something to look at until tomorrow morning. I won’t jerk off to it. I have to save myself for Leonard.

My clothes are lying in a heap on the floor where I dropped them. I pick up my jock strap and shake it out so that I can step into it.

“You can leave that here,” Leonard says. “I don’t want you wearing underpants around me ever again. Besides I need something to wear.” He pushes his glasses back up on his nose. He’s so cute when he does that. Then he waggles his hips so that his cock swings back and forth. Just to show me that he needs the strap to hold everything in place.

I hand the jock over, and Leonard puts it on. It looks much better on him than it ever did on me. He’s so big the outlines of his cock and balls are visible through the fabric. It makes me feel so good to see him in my jock. It’s like his cock is inside me again, thrusting and pumping. I hold my phone up, and he nods OK. I take a picture of Leonard in his jock strap. I’m going to feel Leonard inside me all night, every time I look at that picture. And I’m going to be looking at it all the time.