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Caveman Classic
By
Nathan
Pearce, Nov 12, 2006
As I sat backstage
waiting for the final pose-down at the Caveman Classic (my third amateur
bodybuilding contest), I kept a close eye on Adam. It was hard not to
these past few weeks, after finding out he was a legitimate fudge-packing
citizen of the United States of America. It wasn’t just the fact that he
was gay that surprised me; it was the fact that I had known him for almost
half a year before I found out. We’d been working out together for about
six months before I figured it out.
***
He had invited me over to his house that night to have one
last high carb meal with him. We were both getting prepared for the
Caveman Classic, and with three weeks to go, we decided to get one last
large meal into our guts, so we could put all our efforts into the final
stages of getting ripped. We weren’t going to dive into a large pizza and
a carton of ice cream, but a nice dinner of steak and potatoes would do
the trick. The upcoming weeks would mostly be more chicken, egg whites,
protein shakes, and small amounts of complex carbs, like brown rice and
oatmeal.
I’d never been to Adam’s house so I was a little shocked when I saw how
nice it actually was. That should have been my first clue that the
son-of-a-bitch didn’t live alone. There’s no way a guy that works in
construction could afford a house that size. I don’t mean he owns a
construction company, I mean he works manual labor.
Adam greeted me at the door, minus his significant other. “Hey, there.
You ready for the Last Supper?” He was of course referring to our last
real meal. The rest of the meals from here on would be precisely timed
and weighed out to insure exact nutritional needs were met. Taste didn’t
matter.
“I guess,” I responded.
I walked in, amazed by the nice decorations and new furniture. One thing
I’ll say for faggots, is that they know how to decorate. I had trouble
matching my clothes, let alone the items in my house. Curtains and rugs
were nicely matched, I assumed, by color and design. There were three
matching vases in the entryway leading into the living room on the left
and the dining room on the right. Much care had been given to the
positioning of the cushions on the couches. If I were more in touch with
my feminine side, I could have pointed out numerous other things that
would probably have impressed even Martha Stewart.
***
The final ten contestants, two of whom were Adam and
myself, were stretching and preparing for the final round of the super
heavyweights backstage. I had pretty much kept my distance from Adam that
evening. I was also pretty quiet through our final three weeks of
preparation. I was disappointed in the guy. How could somebody involved
in the world's manliest sport be a queer? I’m not talking about
conventional bodybuilding either. Everybody in the super heavyweight
division tonight spent more money on steroids than they did on their car
payments. What does that have to do with being a fag? If you pump 4cc of
testosterone cypionate into your ass once a week for eight weeks straight,
followed by some sustanon, deca, and multiple injections of HCG, you tell
me if you don’t feel like a man. Aside from high blood pressure, the only
side effects are excessive erections and being horny twenty-four hours a
day. I always thought gay people had low testosterone, at least the
males, but Adam blew that theory out of the water. I had seen the guy
shoot large amounts of growth hormone in combination with several orals,
like winstrol and anavar. Adam was definitely not lacking testosterone.
I continued to eye the other competitors, hoping to spot something on each
of them that I could take advantage of. Lack of a horseshoe in the
triceps, not much separation in the quads; it didn’t matter, everybody has
a weakness. I already knew I had to focus the judges’ attention on my lat
spread to beat out some of the smaller backs in the field. My lats were
easily my strong point. But other people had strong points as well.
Adam’s was his quads. People have a tough time winning with only nice
quads.
***
Adam led me into the kitchen where I first met Steve. I
didn’t understand what was going on for a couple minutes. “This is Steve,
my roommate,” Adam said.
Thoughts ran through my head. Roommate? Why the hell does he ... Then it
all sunk in. Nobody Adam’s age, thirty-one, would still have a roommate.
I was a little shocked, but I quickly hid it. I didn’t want to seem too
conservative. In fact I usually tried to be as open minded as the next
college graduate, but when something like that was shoved in your face
like a bloody fetus, it was hard not to show some sense of astonishment.
“Oh ... nice to meet you,” I said as Steve and I shook hands. Where had
those hands been? What had they touched? For some reason all I could
think about was the fact that not only had Adam been sticking needles in
his ass for the past few years, but he had been sticking ... I pushed
the thought out of my mind. I wanted to eat this meal without thinking
about anything being stuck in anybody’s ass.
It turned out that Steve was a paralegal and was planning to go to law
school. Steve was only about 5’8” and 160 lbs. That was very small
compared to Adam’s contest weight of 235 lbs. Obviously Adam was the male
in the relationship.
It hurt me to find out somebody, who I would consider close to me, was
gay. I probably told Adam stories I normally would have saved for my
girlfriend, if I had one. Adam seemed like a brother at times. Now, I
couldn’t tell this guy anything. What if I had girl trouble? I sure as
hell couldn’t ask Adam for advice. What if I was coming off a big cycle,
and I needed someone to help me deal with the anxiety and depression that
can follow? I wouldn’t go to Adam for comfort. I felt like I was losing
a friend and a brother.
***
As I sat by myself with the Slayer tunes on my Discman
ripping through my skull, I wondered why Adam never bothered to tell me he
was gay. He never even said anything at dinner that night. It just all
fell together for me. I didn’t need someone to tell me what was so obvious
now.
I checked my bikini shorts to make sure things were still
in place. My pubes still itched from the final shave down I had to do
last night. The tape I placed strategically over certain parts also added
to the itching and burning. You didn’t want to be onstage and have a lump
off to the left or right while you tried to keep the focus on your
muscles. I wondered if Adam had trouble getting aroused, seeing all the
ripped bodies walking onstage in nothing more than a tiny pair of
underwear.
I remember my first contest. I had trouble with that very problem, but it
wasn’t men that were arousing me. I was probably on a little too much
sustanon at the time, and my girlfriend wasn’t helping things by
whispering in my ear about how sexy I looked. Luckily the tape stayed
put, but unfortunately the girl was no good for me. I guess good sex and
a nice body can only get a girl so far. I swear she did everything she
could for me. She told me she loved me more often than I went to the
gym. One time she even bought me a weekend getaway to Las Vegas.
Unfortunately she didn’t realize I had my first contest in six weeks, and
I would need that weekend to prepare. She just didn’t work out like I had
hoped. You can’t force a square into a round hole, or something like
that.
The oil I had put on for prejudging seemed to be holding up. I added a
second light coat before the individual presentations, but I didn’t think
I’d need to add another coat now. It wasn’t good to look too slick. The
less than adequate lighting at the contest seemed to dictate that most of
the athletes didn’t put on all that much oil.
It was a relief to me that Steve had to work today, so I didn’t have to be
embarrassed by walking around with two faggots. Adam and I still talked,
but lately I seemed more concerned about whether or not he was looking at
me the wrong way. I don’t care if he was an inch taller and five pounds
heavier, at contest weight, I’d beat the shit out of him if he gave me
even the smallest reason to believe he was trying to pick up on me.
I began to think I wished I had a girlfriend. Maybe Adam would get the
point then. I really didn’t have time for that, between the bodybuilding
and my job with the gym. My time was filled by my lifestyle. Eat, lift,
sleep, that was all I had time for right now. Sure, I took lots of women
out, but I couldn’t call them girlfriends.
***
The dinner that Steve apparently made was good, although I
didn’t comment on it. “Steve’s quite the cook,” Adam said that night.
“Oh, anybody could cook the simple meals you like,” Steve responded
somewhat shyly to Adam. I thought I was going to throw up right there at
the table. The whole night was filled with what I considered flirtation.
Adam and Steve were like two newborn puppies. They seemed playful at
times, and at others, they seemed like they wanted to cuddle. Thankfully,
they didn’t.
I tried to make conversation, but everything came out wrong. “How’d you
two meet ... uh, what I mean is ... how did you two become friends ... er ...”
Adam saved my bumbling, “Steve helped me out in court that time I got
arrested for possession.”
“Oh yeah, when you had like $3000 worth of shit coming in the mail, and
you got it all taken by customs,” I responded. “Man, that was stupid.
You never order that much stuff at one time.”
“I know that now.”
“I moved in here three months ago,” Adam said.
Suddenly my plate looked like it needed something more on it. I grabbed
the potatoes and filled it up again. I didn’t care to pursue who moved in
with whom. They proceeded to fill in some of the gaps for me. Adam
decided Steve seemed like a pretty cool guy. Steve was new in town. They
started hanging out at the bar. One thing led to another. It sounded
like my last date, only I didn’t move in with her.
***
The judges made the final presentations for the
heavyweights, and we (the super-heavyweights) were called out on stage.
Adam gave me a pat on the back. It was firm and confident, nothing like
you’d expect from a fag. There was a code of silence among the amateurs
backstage that night. There was usually a very serious attitude; we were
all there to outdo each other. I simply didn’t feel like talking to
Adam. I hadn’t said much since his coming out party. I would walk around
the gym with my headphones cranked. Adam probably just thought I was
extremely serious about the upcoming contest. I was, but I didn’t have
much to say to the queer anyway.
We all meandered out onstage. Trying to take our time in order to look
confident. This sport was as much mental as it was physical. During
prejudging and individual presentations, I watched each competitor that I
considered good enough to make it to the finals. I picked out their
weaknesses and their strong points. By doing this I would be able to
offset my strong points with their weak ones. I immediately went to work
on the lesser competitors, flashing my superior biceps, or maybe showing
the striations in my glutes as they tried to show off the separation in
their hamstrings. I singled out one guy that I felt had the best upper
body in the show. Flexing my right then left quads, followed by a slow
spread of my lats from the back, put an end, I hoped, to his aspirations
for the gold. Nobody with just a chest and arms was going to beat me.
I felt pretty confident about my body. I wasn’t holding water. My
muscles were as full and hard as ever, and I was still pissed off at Adam
(a good state of mind to be in). My energy started to wane as the day
went on, though. I was running on only a few protein shakes and some rice
that day. I was happy my muscles were as full as they were.
***
After dinner we spent an hour or two watching T.V. and
talking bodybuilding. Steve didn’t know much more than what he had
learned from Adam, but we tried to include him in the conversation.
“So, make sure you take the insulin only the day before the
contest. There’s no reason you take it before that.” I was explaining
the process of filling up the muscles with carbs for the contest. Adam
had been in contests before, but he’d never used insulin to help gain an
edge. I wasn’t too worried about giving away secrets. I felt confident I
could out-pose him onstage. I’ll give Adam credit for his fast growth and
genetic advantages in the sport, but I didn’t think his mind was as ready
for the upcoming show as mine was.
Steve decided to get his two cents worth. “So you guys don’t think all
this money you spend on anabolics and other stuff is going to waste. I
mean ... what will you do in ten years?”
I let out a laugh. What a stupid question to somebody as hardcore about
all this as me. I answered anyway. “Hopefully in ten years we’ll still be
doing this.” I was telling the truth. Of course I knew I had to
concentrate on other forms of income until I became pro, but a goal is a
goal, and I wasn’t about to give up. Sometimes sacrifices had to be
made. Sometimes I wished I had time to really get to know a woman before
she decided I was not giving her the attention she deserved. If I’m going
to be truthful, I’ll have to admit that nine times out of ten, the girl
left me. I could pick ‘em up and take home. Sometimes I could even get
to know them. But, when it came to long term relationships with women, I
was about as inexperienced as Adam and Steve.
Steve looked at Adam. Adam didn’t answer. He sat there
giving me some queer look. It was beyond my comprehension to stop
bodybuilding now. I guess that was the only level Adam and I had a common
interest. I sure as hell didn’t see eye to eye with him sexually.
***
As the final pose-down came to a close, I started to
realize I was looking flatter than I previously thought. Adam had singled
me out for the last few poses. We stood shoulder to shoulder trying to
out-do each other. We were both battling for the best front
double-biceps pose. I think Adam was smiling. I was losing my
confidence. This contest should have been a breeze for me. I’d been in
enough contests that I felt I could take this one. I’d never won yet, but
I was sure this was my time. None of the other eight competitors were
quite to my, or Adam’s, level yet.
The judges signaled for the posing to stop and the competitors lined up by
the number pinned to their shorts. I was seven and Adam was nine. Of the
ten competitors, we were obviously the choice for first and second. Now,
I didn’t even feel so sure about that. Adam simply came on too strong at
the end. There was no way I was going to let a queer beat me, though.
Judges votes were tallied and a speaker came on over the overhead
microphone. “Tonight we have all witnessed strength and will power, both
physically and mentally.” The audience cheered. “These ten contestants,
in the super-heavyweight class, have all trained hard throughout the
year. And now it’s time to reap the rewards of that hard work.” The
speaker then went on to name the tenth through third place runners-up.
Luckily I wasn’t one of them. That left Adam and me.
The speaker went on more dramatically, “Our second place contestant, with
a score of ...”
My concentration faltered, and I suddenly knew I hadn’t won. I glanced at
Adam. He stood proud and sturdy. He didn’t seem fazed at all by all the
pressure of looking perfect and pleasing the audience. It seemed to me
the guy would be content with first or second. His carefree attitude was
pissing me off, but I couldn’t be mad any more. I wanted to cry.
I didn’t even need to hear my name as I saw the young blond in a bikini
come and place the silver medal around my neck. I felt sick to my
stomach. One thought kept running through my head. It was something
Steve said to us that night. The night I found out Adam was gay.
***
Our conversation about bodybuilding, steroids, and tanning
had been going on for some time, when Steve started to question our
motives for the sport.
“So you’re saying you do it because you want to be healthy. How can that
be? You’re all doped up on ‘roids and shit.”
This comment offended both Adam and me. Adam quickly answered, “Doctor’s
prescribe this stuff to malnourished kids in Africa.”
That was a stupid answer. I tried my version, “It’s easy to just listen
to the media. They say steroids are bad and can kill you. They forget to
tell you that it’s abuse, not simply use, which is so bad for you. With
proper maintenance by a doctor, most people go without ever noticing any
significant side effects.”
“But you're saying side effects are inevitable,” Steve came back at me.
“Well, yeah. You just don’t die from them.”
“And you do all this because ...”
“It’s an addiction,” Adam answered.
“When you’re on the stage and the crowd is cheering because of the way you
look or some pose you do, it’s just awesome. There’s no feeling like it,”
I added. “How many times have you been to the beach and had women stare
at your skinny ass?”
For a moment I had forgotten that Steve was also a fag. I then realized
he didn’t care if women stared at his skinny ass. I didn’t care who
stared at his ass. My point was that he couldn’t possibly comprehend the
feeling you get when people look at you in such awe.
“So you’re saying,” Steve began, “that you do this sport, or hobby, or
whatever you call it, for social acceptance. Because you’re so worried
about how people judge you, that your happiness depends on it.”
Nathan Pearce is a farmer and rancher with
a university degree in creative writing. Outside of farming, ranching,
writing, and music, his interests include movies, reading, and playing
guitar. A true misanthrope at heart, he has chosen a life of solidarity,
away from people, hundreds of miles from the nearest city.
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