Key to My Heart -- Chapter Six By Sean Reid Scott
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NOTES TO THE READER
Please see the "Notes to the Reader" at the beginning of Chapter One if you have a desire to read a bunch of nonsensical, disclaimatory fine print.
CHAPTER SIX
IN AN ODD MOVE FOR GREG, on Thursday afternoon he came running up to Key and me as we walked across the Quad, with a picture on his phone. He'd taken a pic of a poster someone had put up on the Student Center bulletin board. Seems a local bar--The Irish Pub of Flexboro--was having a "Men's Extravaganza Night." It was billed as some kind of Eye Candy treat for the ladies (they didn't mention that gay guys might possibly be interested), and it was going to include a "Biggest and Baddest Guns" contest, an Arm Wrestling competition, and a "Test of Strength" contest, which wasn't actually explained. There would be prizes for the individual contests, and if some lucky strong man won all three events, he'd get free beer at the pub for a year.
"You should do it," Greg said to Key after we read the poster picture on his phone.
Key looked blandly at Greg and said, "Naw. Wouldn't be fair."
"What?" Greg didn't understand. Neither did I.
"To the other competitors," Key winked.
I saw the contempt crawl across Greg's face. "Bastard," he frowned. But he collected himself, and I saw a glimmer in his eye. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Because from what I know, bodybuilders--like yourself--aren't usually as strong as the strength and powerlifting guys. Are you sure you have what it takes, man?" His sly smile was mischievous and irritating. He really did have it in for my guy.
And btw, "bodybuilders--like yourself"? Um, newsflash Greg: There are no bodybuilders like Keyshawn Tanner.
Key reiterated his decision not to participate--without addressing Greg's assertion that the Stallion's muscles were basically just for show. That's not what Greg had actually said, but that was the obvious insinuation. The jerk.
Greg wasn't done though. I got the real impression that he really, really wanted to take what he perceived as Key's pride--which honestly, was simply confidence--down a couple of notches. "Well, I guess it'd be pretty hard to deal with," Greg taunted. "I mean, you're the de facto king of muscle in town, and if word got out that some fat strength dude took you down, it might cut into your fan base."
I was this far from cutting Greg down right then and there.
Key just laughed. "I don't have to prove anything to anyone, man."
I wanted to add, Least of all you, Gregor, but I thought better of it.
Still, Greg pressed. He turned to me: "What do you think, Ollie?" You think your roommate has what it takes? Or do you think all that jacked muscle is just for show...."
Yeah, Greg. You try holding 145 pounds up in the air for like 15 minutes without breaking a sweat. I looked at Key. Fuck me with an egg beater, I kinda wanted to watch Key go hand-to-hand against some unsuspecting guy. I had a distinct feeling that Key was just trying to be polite, but... well, I knew firsthand those muscles were as powerful as they looked.
"Yeah, Ollie," Key smiled down at me. "What do you think? Do you want me to do this? I'll totally leave the decision up to you, bud."
Oh fuck. Thanks for that, Keyshawn. What if I said do it, and Key lost? I'd never forgive myself for his humiliation.... Plus I couldn't bear to see it--Key taken down by some pot-bellied power-lifter dude whose B.O. was stronger than he was. Still.... "Small conference please?" I said as if I were some kind of gameshow host.
Key and I stepped away from Greg.
"Have you ever done anything like this?" I asked Key. "I mean, I don't even know what kind of bodybuilding contests you've been in. Have you done strength contests?"
He absently looked around the people milling about the quad, thinking. (And of course, they were definitely looking at him right back.) He looked to me and said with a soft smile, "I think I can handle myself."
"But what Greg said... I've heard that. The bodybuilders--especially when they diet down and get freaking lean like you are all the time... when they get all defined, tryna look half as good as you do every day... they aren't as strong as the powerlifter dudes. That's true, isn't it? Fuck, Key... help me out here!"
He chuckled. "Trust me. I'll be fine. If you want me to do it, I will."
I sighed. "And win?"
"More than likely," he smiled down at me. Fuck I realized I didn't think I could bear to experience him not win. Everything.
I needed counseling. This muscle (and strength) obsession was getting to me.
Key and I returned to Greg, who was practically wringing his hands in anticipation of seeing someone take Key down. "Okay, man. I think I'm gonna show up there," Key said.
Greg jumped and punched the air with a round-hook. He looked like he had won the lottery or something. And I got a sneaking suspicion he knew something I didn't.
Fuck. Fuckity, fuckity, fuck.
THE PLACE WAS UNDERSTANDABLY packed to the rafters. Lots o' women. Lot's o' buff dudes--powerlifters, bodybuilders... the works. Apparently a local gym had gone in to co-sponsor the event with the pub, and they'd been marketing this thing pretty heavily.
The place was hot and humid; it stank of testosterone (and roids, prolly), and was way too crowded for my tastes.
What surprised me, was the inordinate amount of muscle there. Like I said, lots of bodybuilders and stocky, really powerful-looking dudes, of all sizes and builds. Clearly, I had not spent enough time off-campus in this city. I mean, really.... What was in the water in this town? Had they advertised this event up-and-down the whole Eastern Seaboard? No way could all of this muscle reside in one little New England college town.
There were big guys, little guys, jacked and buff bodybuilder-types (none of the lean bodybuilder dudes had anything near Key's size though), thick and mountain-man-looking lumberjack types, Asians, Blacks, Whites, Mexicans... you name it and it looked like they'd flown in from far-flung nations just for this little competition!
When Key and I had entered, a lot of eyes turned our way. Yet the loud atmosphere in the place was distracting. Key wore a baggy sweatshirt, which couldn't really hide those arms, shoulders, and chest--but still, people were partying it up in there, so it hadn't been the E. F. Hutton moment I had anticipated. That's not to say Key didn't get a lot of stares and expletives tossed his way. It's just that, well, he wasn't the only dude there who looked like he could dismantle the Eiffel Tower with his bare hands.
Searching through the throng of beer-guzzlers and big-boobed servers, we found Greg, who had saved a booth for us, and when we got to him he was in a really good mood. "Glad you made it," he said to us. Still, there was that sliver of sneakiness in his gaze that made me uneasy.
And after Key and I got our beers and some food, I noticed Greg's mood was moving from lighthearted and jovial to something more... distracted... and, searching. Yeah--he was looking around a lot... like he was expecting someone to show. It was 6:45, so there were still 15 minutes before the festivities were to start, and Greg used much of that time with his eyes on the door.
I didn't like it. Not one bit.
Fuck, there was a lot of testosterone floating around the place. Waitress' butts were being pinched, dudes were laughing and hollering... it was festive and fun. Too, a lot of the guys who were planning on competing were putting on their game faces. Serious Alpha-positioning was taking place as well.
Under his hoodie, Key had gone with a tank-top tonight. No sense playing down the psych factor of showing off those ginormous shoulders and those insanely colossal arms if you had the opportunity.
The clock moved slowly toward 7:00, and Greg was getting downright antsy.
Key decided to take off his hoodie at this point, and well... that's when I got my moment. The whole room turned to gawk at the jacked muscle that completely overwhelmed everyone. Even if he wasn't going to end up as strong as some of the competitors, he certainly had just established himself--merely by shedding the sweatshirt--that he was indeed the body in the room.
"Fuck..." and "Holy shit, look at that dude!" and lots of other whispered (and overt) comments circled the room as eyes locked, fingers pointed... and Key just stood there in his tank top, letting everyone look. And look they did: His bare shoulders and gigantic arms rippled with living, striated, undulating, multiple-heads-of hawt muscle.
And more expletives were offered.
Greg wasn't liking this, and I felt good that he was having to endure the public's reaction to Key's peerless body.
But apparently, not for long. When it was only three minutes till seven, the front door opened once again. In walked an enormous man--easily as tall as Keyshawn--who looked like he could uproot giant sequoias with his bare hands. He squeezed through the door like a tank ready to clear the countryside.
Fuck.
Greg's face lit up, and he shot out of our booth like an arrow to an eight-point deer.
Apparently the dude he was waiting for had just arrived.
When Greg got there (having to fend off the throng of well-wishers who were now surrounding the man) he and the man gave a polite bro-hug; I assumed they knew each other. Greg was effusive over the big guy. Yeah, my best friend had totally gone against me. There would be a conversation later, for sure.
The man was indeed huge. I soon found out that the guy was brothers with one of the owners of the bar. He was a firefighter, and the man--stocky and thick, with arms that might have even been bigger than Key's--looked like he probably benched the town's Hook & Ladder truck just for shits and giggles. The man was a wall.
I asked a guy in the next booth who it was, and the guy answered, "Who, ol' Fireplug? He holds the Vermont state powerlifting record, that's all," the man gushed. Everyone called him Fireplug, because well, he was a firefighter, and he looked like a fireplug. So there's that.
But despite the size of his cannons, Fireplug was not lean at all. Big, yes, but not lean. His tight t-shirt covered thick shoulders and arms; the fabric fell over a gut that typified those powerlifters; you'd never see this dude up on a bodybuilding stage, that was for sure. The man was immense. But in truth, even if Fireplug's arms measured out as bigger than Key's, it definitely wasn't gonna be "badder." Keyshawn's mammoth guns totally stood up to the fireman's.
The first event was, indeed, the "Biggest and Baddest Guns" competition. There were so many competitors that they kinda used the Arm Measurement contest to weed out the wannabes. And there were a lot of wannabes. To be honest, there were some really gorgeous, jacked hunks present... men who could have any woman (or man) present if they so chose. Fuck, some of these guys were just hawt! But it quickly became evident that size was definitely going to matter tonight, and the merely "normal" and "above normal" guys would get weeded out pretty fast.
So at exactly 7:00, the emcee of the show got up onto a stage the bar used for karaoke and such. The spotlight was on him, and he welcomed everyone, and explained the events. Then, one-by-one, he called up the guys who had registered. He had an iPad thing with the competitors names and some stats. "I'm gonna start with the lightest dudes first," he announced into his microphone, "and we'll start eliminating the small guys so we can start measuring for upper-arm girth quickly."
The crowd liked this, but the first few guys who got eliminated were not happy. I don't know what they expected.... One guy was built more like Steve Urkel than Steve Reeves. The emcee had each guy flex his arm, and he didn't even bother to take out the measuring tape for the first few dudes. He was polite though, patting the loser dudes on the back and telling them to hit the gym and come back next year.
After eliminating about five or six dudes--again, without even giving them the (humiliating?) courtesy to measure their biceps--the emcee called up a guy who looked nicely built. I think I might have recognized him from campus, but I wasn't sure. Anyway, his arm taped out at 17 inches--a very respectable girth for any dude just randomly walking down the street.
Long story shorter, Keyshawn was the second-to-last dude to be called up--again, based on weight. So obviously Fireplug weighed more... not a surprise. But the crowd went silent when Key stepped onto the stage, towering over the emcee dude.
"Shit, man," the guy said into the mic as he gazed up at Key. "Just holy fuck, dude! Where did you come from?"
The crowd roared while Key smiled. The two men bantered back and forth a few minutes, and I could tell--along with pretty much everyone else present--that the emcee had it bad for my man. I loved that feeling. I thought the guy was straight, but the way he practically raped Key with his eyes, I wouldn't be surprised if the dude went home and jacked off all night to Mr. Black Stallion. Come to think of it, I suspected that a lot of those present would be using Keyshawn Tanner as their object-of-desire, not just tonight, but likely years to come.
The guy took his own sweet time stringing the measuring tape around Key's flexed arm... all the while the crowd was going ape-shit crazy over the ever-growing, higher-and-higher peak. The guy even took the opportunity to feel Key's monumental arm. "Shit, man... that is haaard!" He kept feeling it, and squeezing it, poking it even--to show the people how truly mind-bendingly big and hard that thing was. And everyone practically whipped out their dicks and started masturbating to my man. (Okay, sorry. I tend to go off the deep end when it comes to Key. The audience masturbating part was made up.)
Truly though, you didn't see this kind of arm on real people. I glanced at Fireplug and even he was pursing his lips and shaking his head in disbelief. When "Twenty-four-and-a-half inches" was blasted out of the pub's speakers, the crowd nearly took the roof down. Key was just fucking stunning--shocking... insanely jacked and enormous. And everyone loved it.
Fireplug weighed in at about 20 pounds more than Key; they were both huge men--both being about six-foot-five. Fireplug's additional weight was obviously all fat, though. His heavier weight, of course, didn't sit well with me. The arm-wrestling contest seemed questionable to me now. And the "test of strength" contest also worried me. Was Key stronger than a dude who held a state powerlifting title?
I needed another beer.
The crowd hushed when Fireplug's arm was measured. It was fucking monstrous, for sure. But uglier than shit, IMO. The emcee guy carefully measured, then re-measured, just to be sure. He released the tape, then took the mic and instructed his assistant (who had taken over the iPad duties) to enter a circumference of... "Twenty-four..." he drew it out for dramatic effect, and the crowd got restless... "...inches exactly!"
The crowd started chanting "KEY-SHAWN!" immediately. He had won the Arm-Measurement competition by a half-inch, and the "Biggest & Baddest Guns" trophy went to him.
I was elated. Greg was subdued. Even if Fireplug did win the next two contests over Key, he couldn't win the trifecta, and thus the Free Beer For A Year. Yet, he was one of the bar owner's brothers, so he prolly got that already. His gut seemed to indicate that as possible, if not likely.
Fireplug showed his true colors by hopping off the stage and congratulating Key as the Stallion approached to receive his little trophy. It was a cool moment... to see the big, thick man express his true awe for Keyshawn's mind-numbing physique. Key thanked the dude, and then mounted the stage--to enthusiastic applause. Of course they taunted him to flex it so they could worship (my words, probably not how most people would characterize it), the winner's incomparable arm... and he obliged.
They had to change a few light bulbs after he flexed his guns for the crowd. The roar was deafening. I swear Key's biceps peak just kept growing, and growing, the more the crowd screamed their astonishment.
They took a break to get ready for the arm-wrestling competition (and presumably to refresh everyone's beers). When the emcee returned to the stage, he announced that the "judges" had whittled down the competitors to ten remaining men. There would be five initial arm-wrestling flights, and the winner of those contests would go on to try and eliminate the other four. Make sense? Sorry... I didn't intend to have math.
The ten men's names were thrown into a hat to see who would be paired against whom. (I suspected that they made sure to not match Key with Fireplug during these flights, so they could save both men to battle each other later. These two big guys needed to be the final two. I'm not totally sure that's what they did, but regardless, Key went up against some other dude at first.)
And that first dude was jacked and big. He was a big bald guy... Black... and he had a very intimidating air about him. Keyshawn had him beat for size, but the guy looked mean, and when they positioned themselves for the match, from the stance the guy kept trying to take it looked like the dude had some experience arm-wrestling. I knew that a lot of arm-wrestling is technique over raw strength. I'd seen many videos of smaller, but more adept arm-wrestlers take down guys who were bigger and who looked way stronger than them.
So I started to get concerned when this guy kept adjusting, and re-adjusting his stance at the table... trying to vie for the most advantageous angle and position. This wasn't good. This guy had definitely been in a few arm-wrestling competitions.
When the referee was finally satisfied with their grips and he blew his whistle to start the match, the bald guy's arm jumped to life, swelling and peaking high. He was jacked, for sure, and he didn't lack very much in the overall size department either.
Of course, Key was bigger and more jacked, but I had no idea if he really knew what he was doing or not. I watched, with a wrenched gut, while the two men grunted and groaned, grimacing and contorting their faces. The room roared when everyone realized that Baldy was not going to be an easy pushover for Key.
The men's arms moved back and forth, slowly. Feet repositioned, lats swelled, teeth bared.... Baldy stared stoically into Key's eyes, apparently trying to psych him out.
At one point, Key's arm started trembling with his effort. And the room got louder. Their arms were basically still locked at the starting point, and for a moment I wondered if it might be a stalemate.
Then I saw Key's eye twinkle while he gazed at his opponent. A corner of his mouth curled up. Then he pursed his lips, and his vibrating arm began to force Baldy's arm back.
Note to reader: If you have never witnessed a supreme muscle man--jacked and ripped to the nth degree--have to work so hard to exert his strength... to have his entire vibrating physique quiver, tremble, and shake with his exertion, you have not experienced true muscle worship. This is, in my opinion, the height of what it is to admire and appreciate all that a ripped, strong man's body can be.
Key's boner-inducing arm bulged. It rippled with veins and swelling striations of individual muscle heads as he slowly forrrrrrced the other man's arm back. Farther. Inch by inch. Slowly. Farther.
Key was intent, but it was clear he had more strength than he'd earlier let on. While the room exploded with cheers, Key slowly-but-surely pushed the man's hand to the table.
The bald guy looked pissed. He'd certainly not been intimidated by Key's bigger size. He definitely figured he had the skill and mastery to win. When Key reached out to shake his hand, the dude barely touched Key's hand then left the stage.
Just watching Key's overwhelming display of jacked power and strength nearly sent me shooting. Fortunately, Key had taught me a few techniques that were starting to help me control my urges. I relished in the fact that I'd be able to release later, in the privacy of our dorm room, and Key's embrace.
This short story keeps getting longer, so I'll just put in here that Fireplug also won his arm-wrestling match. The upshot of all of it was that, as everyone hoped, Key and Fire went up against each other for the champion Arm Wrestler title.
Fireplug was much bigger than Baldy. And despite their earlier conviviality when Key won the Big Arms contest, both men were all work and no play now. Game face indeed.
When the ref's whistle started the match, Greg and I stood next to each other, both of us wringing our hands--for opposing competitors.
With uncanny power, Fireplug immediately jerked Key's enormous arm back, forcing my man's hand a few inches past vertical.
The crowd was delirious--yelling and shouting.
Key's response to Fire's initial assault was to bare his bright teeth in a grrrrrroooowwl. His big body tightened... he puuuuuuuush with all his might. He made little headway. It was distressing to hear Key's loud, anguished--yet pretty-much fruitless--cry as he fought to right his arm.
I was getting sick to my stomach.
Greg was jumping up and down and it wouldn't surprise me if his throat would be hoarse by the time the night was over.
Key's insanely muscular, mind-bogglingly-defined, gigantic arm flexed and grew. It trembled. He was giving it is all, and I feared for my ability to keep my jizz where it belonged.
This was the hottest thing I think I had ever seen--despite the harrowing setback of Key's mighty struggle.
Fireplug was working too. He'd broken out into a sweat, and I got the impression he was frustrated about not having taken Key out yet. He was okay with deferring the Arm Size contest to the more ripped and gorgeous man... but now... now strength--not mere display muscle--was at stake. For the fireman, this was what was truly important: bragging rights about being able to take down any challenger. Fireplug was the strongest dude around. He knew that; everyone else knew that.
But had Keyshawn Fucking Tanner gotten that memo?
Both men's free hands gripped the edge of the table. They adjusted their legs for the best possible stance. They groaned... Fire dude yelled out, more than once, obviously irritated that his supposedly superior power hadn't yet knocked Key down. He continued to try to reposition his legs, working for purchase against his foe.
Key was concentrating. He was so hard to read. I had no idea if he had some kind of strategy or what.
Fireplug leaned way back and started yanking--jerking hard with his whole body, in a powerful, deliberate rhythm, trying to pry Key's big Black planetoid of arm muscle apart. "Unnnfhgh! Unnnghfffh!" Fireplug panted. Clearly he was getting exasperated, because Key wasn't moving as much as he wanted. Yes, Fire had Key pushed back--past the starting vertical position. But he had only gained so much--and no more.
Key remained still, albeit straining hard; it looked like he was really concentrating, really working... working against what may have been insurmountable strength.
The crowd was cheering and feet were stomping, and it wouldn't surprise me if more than one set of underwear in the room were already wet with ejaculate.
Then there was a change in the tone of the crowd. It got quieter (barely); I'm pretty sure I heard a gasp from somewhere. I studied the men's hands, and... fuck. Fuck! Keyshawn's rippling, thick forearm started to move... up!
Fireplug looked incredulous. Key looked determined--more determined than ever. He was leaning in, toward his opponent, mustering everything he had and leveraging his mighty body against his foe. His lips quivered, and his teeth sometimes flashed. He was panting now. His entire body heaved with his big, loud, hard, labored breaths. He was calling upon every ounce of strength he possessed. His feet spread wide, and he grunted--more than once--as he poured everything he had into the struggle. His physique was being tested to its very limits.
If ever I was going to lose my ever-squirting shit, it would be now. All the techniques Key had taught me to hold off... they became woefully inadequate. While I watched the most amazing assemblage of lean muscle struggle to the end of his physical capability, I... came. My underwear started to fill with frothy, warm deposits. I could not stop it if my life depended on it. My eyes rolled back into my head, and I lost my balance; I stopped myself from hitting the floor by grabbing onto an unsuspecting dude next to me.
He didn't pay me any mind. People were practically falling all over themselves watching this display of pure brawn. I righted myself and just stood there, watching, as my little body twitched with each ejaculation I spewed into my pants.
I glanced to my side: Greg looked indignant as my guy started to slowly, forcefully, move the arms up to vertical, and farther. Fire's eyes grew; obviously he couldn't believe what was happening. Keyshawn pressed more, pausing to apply a tiny bit of the jerking motion Fireplug had tried--but had apparently worn himself out doing. And Key's mighty arm moved farther.
The crowd was going batshit nuts! And I kept coming.
I watched Key's trembling arm move Fireplug back even more. The redhead's face contorted; he was not giving up yet. He panted and yelled. He fought. He puuuushed. His struggle was mighty-- yet Keyshawn had initiated his assault, and in about ten more seconds, Key's quaking, pushing, struggling, shaking body found victory.
A thunderous roar from everyone in the room... except Greg... and an arm-rubbing fireman (okay, and maybe some of his friends) threatened to leave us all without hearing. Keyshawn stood up tall and offered his hand to his defeated opponent. Again, despite his ruined reputation as the town's Alpha, Fireplug took Key's hand and congratulated him.
I was elated; I had to contain myself... restrain myself from rushing the stage and rubbing one out by hopping onto Key's back and humping his trapezius muscles right then and there. Of course, I was basically already rubbing one out, involuntarily. The sensation of warm wetness helped motivate me to stay where I was.
KEY AND I WALKED THROUGH the dark, cold night air back toward campus. He was holding his "Free Beer For A Year" certificate and a bigger Overall trophy. I held a framed certificate with Key's name in calligraphy, that told of the Free Beer award, and the other two contests he'd won that night.
The "Test of Strength" contest had been mind-blowing. It was Key up against Fireplug again--after a 20 minute rest time after the arm-wrestling. A lot of the people there said they'd never seen a contest won in the way Key had done it.
Basically, the ToS is where the two men intertwine their fingers, palms facing the other man's, with their arms above their heads. The ref gives the signal and they go at it. You can win in one of two ways: 1) force your opponent down to the ground. If his knee touches the floor, you win. 2) move your hands out and down (and his as well, obviously), so that the hands are below your crotch--at your upper legs... then somehow liiiiiift the other guy up off the floor. If both his feet leave the floor, you win.
And that second method is what Key eventually used. But at first, both men grunted and worked to force the other guy down. Both of them being about six-foot-five, neither man had a height advantage over the other, so this eventually turned into a stalemate--albeit a whole-body, strength-vibrating, muscle quivering, mouth-grunting one.
Ultimately, Key spread their hands out, in a circle, and down. Here, he was able to use his seeming super-human strength to puuuuullll Fireplug's 300 pound body into him, and as the helpless firefighter practically lay against Key's spectacular body, Key leaned back and kind of arm-curled the man off the floor.
Greg wasn't the only person in that room who lost his voice that night (and maybe hearing... yeah). While Key and I walked home, I snuggled into him. Whenever he asked me a question, I practically had to use sign language to answer him because of my raw throat. Finally he just smiled and gave up on communicating. When he noticed me shivering from the cold, he picked me up and carried me the rest of the way back to our dorm building... up the stairway (four floors) to our room, and put me in our bed.
I'd planned on giving Key a reward (I so wanted to maybe give him a blow job as congratulations). But I was exhausted. I needed sleep.
[Chapter Seven, our penultimate episode (and one of my favorites), is next.]
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