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Chris decided it was time to take measurements again. We started with the scales. Guess what? I gained another 10 lbs. in the past week! Are we surprised? Didn't think so!
Then he checked my waist. It's all the way up to 29 inches. Should I go on a diet? Is an eight-pack good enough?
Then my chest.
"Uh..." I said.
"Yeah," Chris said, reading my mind again. "You can forget about off the rack formal wear. Most stores don't *carry* a 52 regular, much less a 52 regular with a 22 inch drop!"
Shall I repeat that?
30 inches! That's a fucking INCH bigtger than my waist!
"You can forget about jeans, too," Chris added.
Then my arms.
"Welcome to my world," Chris said, chuckling.
I raised my eyebrows.
"You know how many men in the world can legitimately claim a 20 inch arm?"
I shook my head.
"Maybe one in 10,000," he replied. "And that's in THIS country. In the rest of the world, it's probably more like one in a million!"
I stood there staring at them.
"They look good enough to eat," said Chris, abruptly ending my reverie. "Don't they?"
Then he flexed his own killer guns for my benefit.
I licked my lips.
"Measure 'em? Sure!"
He tossed me the tape.
24 inches. So fucking huge!
"You're catching up, Lil Dude..."
What a hoot!
I went as the Incredible Hulk. I bought a dark green wig and green bodypaint. Chris brought his clippers and trimmed my fur right down to stubble, then helped me put on the bodypaint. Oy! I had to concentrate REALLY hard not to spring a boner. Come to think of it, if the outline I saw in his shorts was any indication I don't think HE was concentrating very hard.
Earlier in the day we'd gone to the Army surplus store and bought me a pair of combat boots. I know, I know, the Hulk was always barefoot but *I* wasn't gonna risk walking on any broken beer bottles. A pair of cut off burgundy sweat pants -- they'd gotten waaaaaay too tight for workout purposes -- completed the ensemble.
"Shit," Chris said.
He pointed at my crotch.
"Oh," I replied. "You think...?"
"I think you're gonna be very popular!"
He was right.
I made a bit of a stir at the party, and as far as I can tell it wasn't just the tightness of my sweatpants, although that probably helped. All these girls kept squealing and coming up to me to feel my pecs and my arms and my delts. They kept pinching my nipples! If they'd kept it much longer, *I* would have been the one squealing!
Finally, I escaped and headed over to the punch bowl, where I was joined by Philip. You know, my hallmate; the blond one.
"Jeez," he said. "You're even bigger now, aren't you?"
I laughed, then stretched and scratched my abs. For a minute there I could have sworn Philip turned the exact same shade of green.
"Yep," I replied. "Weighed in at 230 lbs. this morning."
I squared my shoulders and flexed my lats.
"Fuck, man," Philip said. "Don't do that!
"Do what?" I asked.
"Flex your back like that," he answered. "You make me feel like an insect."
"What are you talking about, dude? You've got a great body!" I told him. "Classic swimmer's build, man."
"I just wish I were bigger, that's all."
I looked him up and down.
"You're what? 160 lbs.?"
"And not an ounce of fat, dude," I pointed out. "Plus great lines and great proportions. You can get bigger easily. You just need to spend more time at the weights and less time in the pool."
He looked shyly down at the floor. God, what a cutie!
"I'm always a bit intimidated in there," he said. "I'm never sure I'm doing the right thing."
I put my arm around his shoulder, then I caught sight of the two of us in the mirror. Jeez, I really DO make him look like a wee thing!
"We can take care of that!" I said heartily. "Meet me in the lockerroom tomorrow morning at 7. I'll give you some pointers!"
Across the room I saw Chris grinning at me. He gave me the thumbs up sign -- I wonder what *that* was for?
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