From steroids to haemorrhoids: OutUK’s Adrian Gillan’s unflinching tale of gym
junkies, incredible bulk and the whole gay pecs ‘n ‘rhoids scene.
“Reclined squats?” rasped a sound from a head lost in a mound of flesh, once a neck.
“Sure,” replied Bud to Buddy, both prowling to the padded altar of the squat-press
frame. Speechless in his sleeveless smock, Bud unfurled the oxen slab of muscle
once a back onto the heaving bench. Speechless, he readied his push with panting
breath and swelling veins in brow and arse, then heaved with buttock-clenching
vim. The last squat-pressing gasp passed into moan then grunt, as skin turned
red and ‘rhoids throbbed under Buddy’s tender gaze.
“Ghrrrr,” Bud grunted, rising to admire his fleshy mirrored maleness as one
declaring a bod at last caught up with cock. “Ghrrrrrrrr”: another grunt to
dissipate the hormonal surge induced, ripping off the foot-wide leather belt
support from Oompa Loompa waist.
Then, with heroic humility, a nonchalant waddle over to suck at the water fount,
imbibing all adoring eyes en route: “You are the one - the hunk now preened for
manly, brain-dead brawn and deed.” Bud’s glazed eyes bat acknowledgement, holding
out a hope to all, a vision of what could be, if you too applied a not unformidable
mind to the science of body bulking.
Buddy was likewise versed in strange formulae and secret dietary tips half-whispered
in bars and chemo-recipes exchanged after-hours: “Three unit carb to one of protein
an hour after sets; bulking or hormonal agent added orally every other day.” Like
Bud, he knew no botox could save his face’s bloom, yet nothing could stop the
self-controlled, incessant expansion of body – the inexorable, scheduled march
to muscledom - outdoing nature to make man where once was merely boy.
And so it goes: gym hour upon gym hour, the latest of which was now passed. Sticking
rigid to the regime, both retreat to shower, then each to their home for steroid snack
“Hya Buddy,” growled Bud at Flex Station later that night, both bulging in combats
and clean XXXtra-large smocks. They’d occasionally hook up with other like-bodied
minds in the dark round the back, but the workout had taken its toll and each contented
to rivet himself silently to the bare brick wall, shifting postures twice an hour.
Then it was time to be away and alone for a cuppa and bed or maybe a marathon poppered-up wank, squatting and
flexing in front of a mirror once more, quads tensed with glutei all-a-quiver.
They fetishised their own hulks and sought similars in herded crowds. Once a month,
our two meaty mights would grace Pex City under the arches stripped to the waist in
an expanse of like-minded bods, glistening torsos tightly muscle-bound, shifting
weight first-left-to-right-then-back, then it was beat-in beat-out - the odd arm-mass venturing up
to neck-stump height.
Buddy and Bud had pumped and grunted their way out of the inadequate shirted runt and
throng, and now here they were, in a shirtless sea of enlarged yet strangely stunted
clones: divine body fascists in a uniquely queer form-of-life – a tribe, a cult - like
so many Emperors in their fresh fleshy bulked-up clothes.
For more information on the effects of steroids including hair loss, acute acne,
body fluid retention and impotence visit