Organization: Emory University, Atlanta, GA
I had been working in the newsroom for a year when Jerry, the managing editor, told me that the new reporter was looking for a roommate--as was I. After a year in a crackerbox apartment I was ready for something a bit more spacious and refined, but on the salary I was getting I could only do that with a roommate.
I gave Mike, the new guy, a call in Baton Rouge. He sounded really nice on the phone and he was quite willing to delegate responsibility for picking out a new place to me.
"I'll see you in a couple of weeks," he said, and that was that.
Of course, neither of us counted on the fact that Jerry, consummate practical jokester that he was, was setting us up for yet another belly laugh.
It was a hot, steamy August 1st when Mike arrived, the way only northeast Louisiana can get hot and steamy.
Consequently, when he knocked on the door of the apartment, I was wearing nothing more than gym shorts and a towel around my neck--I had been doing my mid-morning pushup routine and the sweat still clung to my naked torso.
"Jesus God," I thought looking at him standing there in the door frame wearing khakhi shorts and polo shirt, "what a little stud puppy he is!"
And then he laughed.
"This is a joke, isn't it?" he asked. "You can't really be Richard, can you?"
I chuckled in response.
"You just haven't gotten to know, Jerry, yet," I answered. "Mutt and Jeff is his idea of high comedy."
As I said, Mike was the perfect stud puppy. Half-Italian, half Cajun, he had glossy black hair, gorgeous olive-toned skin, clean shaven with classic features, and sultry eyes.
He was also, at 23 (a year younger than I), all of 5'8 inches tall and 130 lbs.
"Jesus you're big," he said and I realized that for all his pseudo-macho affability he was more than a little intimidated.
"Well, yeah, I guess so," I answered. "I'm 5'11 and 220 lbs, which I guess is what, about 80 lbs. more than you weigh?"
"Uh, make that about 90 lbs.," he asnwered. "And not an ounce of
fat. How long have you been training..."
We settled into a routine fairly quickly. Mike, for all his south
Louisiana macho swagger, was a really sweet guy and I was pleased
to have such a good roommate. It didn't hurt, either, that he was
one crackerjack reporter--and impressed that I was as
knowledgeable about the city and the paper as I was, not to
mention the fact that I was considered the best "feature" reporter
on the straight news side.
The only problem was...
"Jesus, Richard, do you really have to work out in the apartment?"
he said one night, as I was finishing my 2nd set of 75 pushups.
"Or if you do, could you leave your shirt on?"
I sat back and grinned. I realized what was going on and I wasn't
going to let him off the hook. Also, the thought of having his hot
little body next to mine...Well, I wasn't going to give up that
easily either.
"No, Mike, I can't. I get most of it done in the gym, but this is
stuff I need to do and this is the time I need to do it. I'm sure
you can understand, that..." I said, slyly.
After that, he started taking showers whenever I started working
out, generally right after I started and lasting until after I was
finished. Cold ones, apparently, since he was always shivering and
a bit blue when he came out.
My bedroom door was immediately opposite the bathroom and I took
to standing there, totally pumped, leaning my massive shoulders
against the doorframe, nothing more than a towel around my waist,
waiting for him to come out. He had no problem seeing that I was
semi-aroused, but he pretended not to notice.
One night, though, I could see him glance down and his eyes
widened.
"Well, you know what Arnold said about 'the pump,' don't you? He
said it was better than sex. I don't know if it's better, but a
pump is a pump, even so, don't you think?"
He fled to his bedroom without answering.
"Hey, Mike," I said the next night, "you don't have to take a
shower this time. I'm gonna keep my shirt on while I do the
pushups. You're beginning to get as shriveled as a prune."
He glowered at me, but this time he stayed. The fact that I had
called him on his sneak escapes meant that he had to stay and be
macho.
The shirt was crewneck and skintight. I did two sets of 75 pushups
non-stop, the muscles straining the fabric with each up/down
repetition. By the end of the third set I was beginning to sweat
and by the middle of the fourth set, he couldn't take it any more
He headed for the shower, but that just made me all the more
determined.
I finished the fourth set, which had been my maximum.
Then I did a fifth set.
Then I did a sixth set.
I had never done so many pushups at one stretch. A grand total of
- By the time I finished I was groaning like a water buffalo
with each rep. My arms and chest were on fire and the veins on my
arms were bulging beyond belief.
I lifted my arms and realized that my shirt was glued to my body.
"I guess this is it," I thought to myself.
I went to the bathroom door and pounded on it. The water cut off
instanlty.
"Hey, Mike, I need your help," I grunted.
The door flew open instantly and there he stood before me, soaking
wet, the stud puppy with soap still in his hair.
"What's the matter?" he asked, concern in his voice.
"Well, shit," I said, "I did too much and now, well..."
I tried lifting my arms, which felt like they were fully 21 inches
this time, but they only came up to my shoulders.
"I overdid it and now I can't get my shirt off..." I said.
His eyes were so wide that I thought he had gone into shock. I
bent over so that my head was looking down at the floor, the same
level as his crotch and just six inches away, and stretched my
tree trunk arms out in front of me, so that they were on either
side of him.
Slowly, cautiously, like a dog sniffing a new animal, I felt him
reach across my incredibly broad back, slip his fingers underneath
the cotton, and begin pulling the tee up my back and over my head.
As he pulled it down my arms, I began to straighten, so that he
had to move closer. And by the time they were to my wrists, we
were standing hip to hip and he was looking up at me in something
that compares favorably with the phrase "religious awe..."
"Mike, there's something I've been meaning to tell you," I said,
looking down at his angelic, studly face.
"I know," he breathed huskily. "You're totally fucking gorgeous,
do you know that?"
"I'm gay," I answered.
"I know," he said. "I am, too."
With that, I gently slipped my hands beneath his elbows and
lightly lifted him to eye-level. The fact that I could handle
dumbbells weighing as much as he did made it feel effortless.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Put me down and I'll show you," he answered.
I lowered him easily to the floor and in one swift motion he
descended to his knees and took my brawny organ in his mouth...
-- Richard P. Jasper, Head Acquisitions Department Emory University General Libraries librpj@emoryu1.cc.emory.edu (or) LIBRPJ@emuvm1.BITNET