m/m The Repository - (Complete Story, 10/15/21)

[fwee]

TQuintA,

Totally love all your stories.

 

The beginning of the incident's azor chain of thought made me wonder if the hirsute change was secret night donating from Puck.  Evocative story! 

[1996bodybuilder]

Road to hugeness and maybe a re kindle with the high school ex BOYFREIND stud ? 

[ploder4]

I'm waiting for the guy who says "you can keep 100 pounds of muscle and 5 or 6 inches of cock."

Maybe a retiring powerlifter/bodybuilder and a porn star wanting more regular lives.  Maybe some giant guy wants to donate height... etc.

The road to mass monster begins!

[TQuintA]

I love all the predictions you guys are making.  Keep 'em coming. 

[Demandred]

Correct me if I'm wrong but it's been established that this is set in the same world as Hey, Big Guy (given the famous guest's cameo at the party in part 3 or 4) - so maybe there's a Boyfriend Chris somewhere who definitely has some mass to spare!

[TQuintA]

5 hours ago, Demandred said:

this is set in the same world as Hey, Big Guy (given the famous guest's cameo at the party

Yes.  I threw in that Easter egg to connect the two stories.

[karikaturian]

Apart from height, age comes to my mind as something that could be lent to him? I don't know how someone would have "extra life/time". Maybe after a near death experience or the heart having stopped for a few seconds? Or *all* life we have is "extra" so the problem doesn't even arise.

Should that be possible, he could stay a certain age forever, if someone gifts him even only a day (going by the rules of how he can't go under a certain muscle mass anymore).

EDIT: totally forgot to say - love the story, your way of writing is very fluent and nice to read

[Megahuge]

Love the series.  Hate he can’t find a good husband.  I’d be his daddy if he was real.

[ploder4]

4 hours ago, Megahuge said:

Love the series.  Hate he can’t find a good husband.  I’d be his daddy if he was real.

Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he became a super alpha with all of his growing.  He'll be everyone's daddy.   Lol

[TQuintA]

Part 4 – The Hollywood Hunk

Chapter 1

            In the seven years after Puck and I broke up, I’d been extremely busy.  I’d published one or two books a year, 12 over seven years, bringing my total up to 14.  As G. P. Vaughn, I’d published a whole bunch of short stories in various publications and two one-off YA romances; none of it made a big splash.  As Gloria Bowman, I’d published the two other parts of the Hollow Maple trilogy.  None of them had been a major best-seller, but the fanbase was intense and dedicated—the fan websites were some of the best I’d ever seen.  Critics were also really positive about them, especially the third book in the series: Hannah’s Oak.  That one won a small handful of awards.  I was really proud of that series, but it was an uphill battle to get H. K. to publish them.  Basically, I had to cash in favors.  As Miles Uhler, I’d published eight more books in the Death Knell series.  None of them were as big of a hit as the first one (which had eventually become a #1 bestseller on the YA list for two weeks), but all of them had sold exceedingly well, and three of them had cracked the top ten.  H. K. wanted me to write Death Knell novels forever, but I’d made it clear that the tenth would be my last.  I could wrap up the entire series, or he could keep the name Miles Uhler and get somebody else to keep writing them.  H. K. was still deciding which.

            I’d also had two largely unsuccessful stabs at writing for the movies.  I was one of six writers for the inevitable Death Knell movie.  It was a mindless action flick, and I’d had very little input or influence over the movie.  In fact, I think they’d only included me as a writer so “Miles Uhler” could be a credited name on the movie.  The most exciting thing about the movie was that Jason Prentiss—my favorite A-list actor—had been in the movie.  Of course, he was horribly miscast as Krixby, but it was exciting to see him in a world I’d written, and I briefly got to meet him once.  Luckily, the movie tanked at the box office, so there wouldn’t be a sequel.  The other movie I’d worked on was an adaptation of one of my short stories.  I put a lot of effort into that script, but no one would buy it, so I eventually gave up on films entirely.  If I hadn’t had such bad luck in the movies, I likely would have stopped after five (or maybe seven) Death Knell books.  Books six and eight had been attempts to heal a bruised ego.

            Even with all of this writing, I still had a social life.  After Puck moved to Florida, H. K. and I had stayed friends.  More importantly, my network of friends had grown over my twelve years in LA, a good number of whom I’d met through H. K.  If I ever was bored or had a night off, I could get a decent party together in an hour. 

            Jonah and Shafe were also frequent visitors to my spare room. 

            Shafe was still a single ladies’ man, still a big partier, and still a practicing bodybuilder, determined to be Mr. Olympia before he retired.  He wasn’t jumping out of planes or driving motorcycles anymore, but other than that he’d barely slowed down.  The last time I’d seen him, about nine months prior, he was an off-season 290, and I think he only stayed those two weeks just to revel in being bigger than me.  Show-ready, he was routinely hovering around 255-260. 

            Jonah had settled down in Henderson, Nevada, so I got to see him far more often.  He hadn’t let himself go, but working out was less of a priority.  He’d become a rather successful real estate lawyer and was bucking for partner at his firm.  He’d also married a man named Cole, a brokerage analyst (whatever that was), who was obnoxiously into wine but had the best travel stories and was just as sweet as Jonah.  They’d adopted two kids (Max, 5, and Tommy, 3).  Seeing Jonah and Cole so happy made me happy.  I even liked their kids.

            Seeing Jonah and Cole settled made me think that maybe I’d find someone to settle down with.  I hadn’t had a significant relationship since Puck.  I’d had a lot of near misses, a rotating roster of fuckbuddies, and a slew of one night stands, but nothing even close to resembling a real relationship.  Part of the fault was in my devotion to my writing—my schedule was full.  But another part was my physique.  When guys saw my 270+ pound mass and my 9-inch cock, they didn’t see me.  They saw my body.  To overcome this, even with my distaste for social media, I tried dating apps and sites, but it was doomed to failure.  The guys who piqued my interest thought I was a catfish, and the guys whose interest I piqued only wanted to fuck.

            I was happy with my life, so I didn’t feel hollow or empty or lonely, but I did still hold out hope for someone special.

            One fateful Friday night, two days after Jonah’s family had left from their most recent visit, I was at H. K’s apartment.  Paula had taken their son Oliver to visit her mother in Missouri for a few weeks, and H. K. was feeling lonely.

            After dinner, we’d retired to his personal den.  By 1 AM, he’d polished off a bottle of wine and was on his fifth glass of whiskey.  Before that night, I’d only ever seen him nurse one drink over the course of a whole evening.  He was schnockered.  He was so drunk that he was having trouble sitting up, so he was lying down on his leather couch.  I was wedged into a club chair nearby.

            “I just miss ‘em, you know?” he said, rather maudlinly.

            “Of course, you do.  You’re used to seeing them every day, and they’ve been gone, what, two weeks?”

            “Two and a half,” H. K. corrected.  “Two and a half whole weeks. And they’ll be gone for two and a half whole more weeks.  That’s five whole weeks.  That’s too many weeks.”

            “You’ll make it,” I said, patting his shoulder.  “Oliver’s just visiting his grandma.”

            “Thank you,” he said, grabbing my hand.  Then, he looked at me, his eyes glassy from the alcohol, and, out of nowhere, said, “You know, you’re the only one of my writers I like.  Like, really like.”  He was slurring his words.

            “Thank you?” I said, confusedly. 

            He grabbed my hand and intensely said, “You always turn your pages in on time, you always take feedback well, you always think you can do better, and you always turn your pages in on time.”  After a pause, he added, “And you always turn your pages in on time.”

            “You said that already.”

            “Most of my writers just want me to hug them and tell them they’re special.”

            “You should probably stop before you say something you regret.”

            “And you’re so nice to me.  So many of my writers are mean to me.”

            “Some writers are mad at the world.”

            H. K. let go of my hand to grab his whiskey glass, still lying down.  “I have a suspicion ‘bout why you take criticism good.”  He slurred over every S sound in that sentence.  “Your shoulders.  Your shoulders are so big.  So big.”  He held his hands apart, showing how wide my admittedly wide shoulders were, but he definitely exaggerated just how wide they were.  “They’re so big that criticism just bounces right off ‘em.”

            “Thank you.”

            “You have such big shoulders.  You’re a big man.  A big, handsome man.”

            “I don’t think your wife would appreciate you flirting with me.”

            “I’m not flirting with you,” H. K. said, defensively.  Then, he sat up.  He was wobbly, but he was sitting up.  “We should find you a guy.”

            “I do just fine.”

            “Not sex, G. P.  Obviously, you get all the gay sex you want.  Look at you.”  He pointed at me with the hand holding his glass, spilling a little.  “I’m straight, and I’ve thought about having gay sex with you.  I mean a guy guy.  A guyfriend.”  He shook his head.  “There’s a better word.”

            “Boyfriend?” I suggested.

            “Yes!  That one.  A boyfriend.  But, like full-grown.  A manfriend.  Someone you’ll miss when he visits his mother in Missouri.”

            “Sure,” I said.  “That sounds nice.”

            H. K. lay back down on his couch, dropping his whiskey glass.  “’Kay, then” he said.  “I’ll set it all up, and you’ll keep being nice to me and keep turning in your pages in on time and being my friend.”

            “Sure thing, buddy.”

            “I should call Paula,” he said suddenly. 

            “It’s 3 AM in Missouri,” I reminded him.

            “But I love her!” he insisted.  “I’m going to call her to tell her I love her.”  I was going take his phone away so he didn’t drunk dial her, but almost as soon as he finished speaking, he was snoring.  He’d passed out.  I picked him up, carried him to his bed, took off his shoes, and put him under the covers.  I also left a large glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand next to his bed.  Then, I left him to sleep it off.

            I’d thought that was the end of the conversation, but just as I was finishing my lunch the next day, I got a call from H. K.

            “Afternoon,” I said, picking up the phone.  “How’s the hangover?”

            “Mostly gone, but I’ve been wearing sunglasses and moving slowly all day.”

            “I’ll talk quietly,” I whispered.

            “I appreciate it,” he responded.

            There was a brief pause in the conversation, so I said, “Earth to H. K.”

            “Right.  Sorry.  I was just calling to make sure you meant what you said last night.”

            I scanned my memory, but nothing sprung up.  “What did I say?”

            “That I could set you up with a guy.”

            He remembered that part of the conversation?  And he’d meant it?

            “Do you even know what I like in a guy?”

            Almost insulted, H. K. responded, “We’ve been friends for eight years, and I’ve seen the guys you go out with, including my brother.  Of course I know what you like.  In order of importance, your turn-ons include intelligence, an appreciation for art, a strong sense of self, an adventurous spirit, and career-mindedness.  Non-smokers with athletic bodies preferred.  Facial hair a plus.  Your turn-offs include snobbery, arrogance, over-competitiveness, flightiness, and a lack of ambition.  Outdoorsmen and non-readers are on thin ice.  You have no opinions on tattoos and piercings.  Bigots need not apply.”

            I was impressed.  “I should hire you to write my dating profile.”

            “Part of my job is understanding demographic targeting.”  I could hear him wince over the phone.  “Now, don’t make me do that again.  I am still hungover.”

            “Sorry,” I said.  I thought about his proposal for a second, then said, “Why not?  Set me up.”

            “Excellent.  I already called him, and he’s okay with a set-up as well.  Are you free tonight?”

            “I planned on doing some writing, but I can push that until tomorrow without missing a deadline.”

            “Great.  I’ll text you the info.”

            “Thanks,” I said genuinely.

            “No problem.”  Without even telling me the name of the guy he was setting me up with, he hung up.

            Twenty minutes later, I got a text to meet my date at 7 PM at a specific address.  I Googled it because I had no idea what the address was for, and found out it was for an exclusive, fancy restaurant. 

            Okay, so I’d be dressing up.

            H. K. still didn’t text me my date’s name after I asked, but said he’d made the reservation under my name. 

            Okay, so it would be a blind date.

            I got some writing done that afternoon, but not as much as I wanted to because I was seriously nervous.  I’d never been set up before.  If it was a success, there’d be a lot of pressure to make it something more than a fling.  If it was a failure, there’d be a chance that I make things awkward between H. K. and me.

            Shaking off my fears as best I could, I channeled my nerves into prepping for the date.  I showered, brushed my teeth, and trimmed my beard more fastidiously than I normally would.  I decided to wear a cream-colored sweater on top of a royal blue dress shirt.  It showed off my muscles but wasn’t form-fitting or overly imposing.  I’d also bring with me a blazer and tie to swap the sweater out with in case the establishment called for more formal attire.  All of my dress pants hugged my ass and thighs, just because of the shape of my quads and the cut of dress pants, so I chose my favorite pair in black.  I splashed on a cologne Cole had recommended to me, and was at the door.

            I arrived ten minutes early.  I went to the hostess and said, “Vaughn, party of two.”

            She smiled and said, “The other half of your party is already waiting.”

            He was early too.

            She escorted me to a table towards the back of the dimly lit restaurant, saying, “I trust you’ll find this private and romantic, just as your assistant requested.”

            Assistant?  Did H. K. say he was my assistant?

            The hostess led me the rest of the way through a maze of tables.  When we got there, she pointed to my seat said, “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen” and left.

            My date stood up and offered me his hand.

            It was Jason Prentiss.