Stephen's Band

I was thirteen, a bit small for my age, but I was bright and did my homework, so they let me skip a grade and here I was all of a sudden in high school. And this was my first day of physical education in the big boy gym.
I found a little corner of the changing room and hoped nobody else in the class considered it their territory. I’d seen some of these kids and damn, they were big. Most were fourteen, and a couple were over six feet tall. Big kids with muscles and attitude, and I figured they’d be happy to throw a kid like me in the garbage bin outside if I got in their way. I bet I was the smallest kid in the class by at least thirty pounds.
I was trying to mind my own business. Nobody in the class knew me, and I figured that if I managed to get through this one period without attracting attention, then I’d probably be able to deal with this class.
The guys were loud. Jock talk. Foul-mouthed young teens bragging, mostly about sports and sex – lies, mostly, of course. Kids wanting to be the alpha wolf in the pack, showing off their developing physiques, flexing a bit as they got changed, staying shirtless longer than necessary; kids testing each other.
But all of a sudden the door opened and there was another new boy. For just a moment he stood in the doorway, eyes roving over all of us in the locker room, and the chatter stopped. I mean, a room full of teenage boys went stone quiet.
I had never seen him before, but I wish I had. He was no more than my height, maybe five feet even, tanned olive skin, almost black straight hair down past his shoulders, big black eyes. Polynesian, I thought. And beautiful. Stunning.
But what froze us all momentarily - or more than momentarily, I can’t remember – was his build. What muscle! His shoulders looked twice the width of mine. His enormous arms were almost ripping out of the sleeves of his skintight T-shirt. He had a tiny waist, like mine, but I was the skinniest kid in class – his abs were incredible, and that shirt was cropped to show them off. And his chest looked impossibly huge on that little waist. He looked like a young muscle god. Every time he moved, he bulged. Chest, thighs, even calves – and young boy-crotch too; I did notice, though I tried not to be obvious about it. Those cutoff jeans he had on were really worn and tight. He was sexy as hell. And outrageously muscular – this little kid easily exceeded the muscle of every other guy in the room. Their dads, too, I bet. By far.
He smiled, dazzling bright, and entered the room. I swear that jaws dropped as he walked – pantherlike grace, dancerlike poise, straight and proud even though besides me he was the shortest kid in the room. His eyes still probed the room, as though he was looking for someone in particular.
His eyes stopped on me. His grin widened – why? I didn’t know him, but he came right over and, though there were many benches open in the locker room, plunked himself down right next to me. Everyone’s eyes followed him, jealous, envious of him, and maybe of me, too, just for being next to him.
He smiled. “Hi. You’re new, aren’t you? Steven, right?” His voice was light, still unbroken, with a slight rasp that I instantly loved.
“Yeah,” I said, wishing I could say more.
“I’m Jeffery. Or Jeff. Jeff Page.” He was arranging his gym clothes, but quickly set them down and extended his hand. Somehow, everything about him seemed graceful.
I put my shirt down awkwardly and tried to smile back. I hope I succeeded. “Good to meet you.” I shook his hand, feeling uneasy with everyone staring at me. Him, I mean, but it felt like me.
“I’ve been looking for you. You play keyboards, right? I play guitar and my brother’s a drummer, and we’re trying to get a band together. Wanna help?”
“How did you know my name?”
“My Mom – she knows your mom from quilting or something. She said you play real well. Do you?”
“Yeah.” Shit. I didn’t mean real well. “I play.”
“Great! ‘Cause we’re looking for a keyboard player who’s good. We want to play progressive type stuff. Lots of keyboard parts. My brother’s a really good drummer, and he can sing. And I can sing. Can you sing?”
All this spilled out of his mouth in a rush, and I barely heard it. I was still trying to get over his incredibly muscular body. I mean, he had muscles on his muscles. On his muscles. I stared. At his muscles. I couldn’t think about music, about bands, about keyboards and guitars. This boy had a body like nobody I’d ever seen. Even on TV. How could I think of anything else?
The door opened. A HUGE guy – over six feet tall, maybe 240 pounds of solid muscle - squared his shoulders in the doorway and looked straight at Jeff. “Jeff! Hey!”
Jeff smiled at him. “Hi, Frank.”
“Practice has been changed to 5:30, OK? Coach says.”
“Okay.” The door closed.
“Practice for what?” I asked. I mean, that guy was huge.
Jeff grinned. “Football. That guy Frank is my brother. He’s been the quarterback for the last two years.”
“But – aren’t you just starting school? Like me? You can’t be on the team.”
“I’m not. At least, not yet. Coach just wants to look at me for running back. Can you sing?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess.” I sang a lot at home. My Dad was in a barbershop quartet, for god’s sake. I could carry a tune. I knew harmony. Yeah, I could sing, and pretty darn well. But football? “Running back? I mean, with those big guys?” Jeez, that sounded stupid.
“Yeah. I don’t know if I want to try out, though. It’s a lot of time, and I want to play music. Coach just wants to look at me ‘cause I’m strong.” Jeff blushed. I mean, really blushed.
“You sure look it. Strong, I mean.” I blushed too. I’d just met this kid; I didn’t want to look, you know, gay. But even straight guys were gaping at this boy.
He chuckled and gave a quick little flex of his right arm. That bicep exploded, huge and sculpted like I didn’t even think was possible. There were gasps around the room, and I’m sure I heard at least one kid moan. “Nineteen inches,” Jeff said. “If you were wondering.” More blushing. It was cute … he was a bit embarrassed to be showing off, but proud of his muscles anyway. And he clearly didn’t want to come across to me as a jock kid I had to fear. He wanted me for his band. Oh yeah. Music. I’d forgotten all about that – his muscle just bulged all other thoughts from my mind.
“Jeez.” It wasn’t me – some other kid said that. Pimple-faced kid, gangly from puberty, scratched, honking voice – and a raging boner in his briefs that he just couldn’t hide. “How old are you?”
“Twelve,” Jeff answered simply.
“Twelve?!?” I couldn’t believe it, and neither could the kid who asked – we chorused the word together.
“Yeah. I skipped two grades.” Jeff blushed again. He was working out his blush muscles right before my eyes. Great – he’s a genius, too. I was feeling really, really inadequate next to him. But heck, the whole human race was inadequate next to him.
“I’m Jeff Page,” Jeff said to the pimple kid, extending his hand as he had to me. “What’s your name?”
“Uh … Sean. Sean Colby.” Handshake.
“Good to meet you, Sean. Could you excuse us, please? I need to talk with Steven here about something. Catch you later, ok?”
Sean gulped. “Uh … sure.” He turned and left, shaking his head.
I was amazed by Jeff’s easy poise. He didn’t want to have Sean around, but instead of telling him to fuck off, as any of the other boys would have, he was polite and effective, seemingly making another friend in the process.
Jeff turned back to me. “Sorry. Lots of people stare at me, and some of them want to talk. What kind of music do you play? What kind do you like?” Right back on message.
I glanced around. The jock-boy hubbub had not yet resumed. Everyone was quiet – some whispering here and there, but nobody, not even the six-footers, were even trying to assert themselves. Jeff’s presence instantly made everyone second-raters, and they all knew it. And Jeff wasn’t even interested – he just wanted to talk about his band.
“Lots of stuff,” I said. “You want to play prog stuff? I think I can do that.” I have to say that I didn’t listen to prog rock, and didn’t know much about it, but my Mom kept me practicing classical piano, and my Dad, a sax and keys guy, was making me comfortable in jazz. I was building great chops and I figured I could handle anything.
“So, do you want to get together? My place is better, ‘cause it’s a pain to try to move my brother’s drum kit. Do you have a portable keyboard?”
“Sure. I got a couple of synths – Yamaha, Korg. Can’t move the family piano, though. When?”
“Maybe tonight? Is that ok?”
“Aren’t you going to your football practice?”
“I guess, but I’ll get out quick. I just have to run a bit, and shove some guys around, I think.”
I guess we were changing at the time. I was just gawking at this boy’s fabulous body – I had no idea what I was doing. Probably pulling on shorts or something.
“OK,” I said. “Tonight, after dinner? What time?”
“Maybe seven-thirty. I live around the corner from you – just moved in two weeks ago. 712 Thurman Street, OK?”
“Hey, that’s just around the corner from me! I’m at 34 Burndy Avenue. You seen it? Got the big oak in the front yard and the blue Astrovan.”
“Cool. When do you need to be home?”
“I dunno. My parents let me stay out ‘til ten if I’m with someone they know.”
“My Mom’s met yours – that’ll be good enough, right?”
God, I wanted to see this boy flex. Dammit, Jeff, get your clothes off and show me what you got.
Oh, jeez, I hope that didn’t come out aloud. “I’ll ask. I think so.”
“Great!” Jeff stood up, and with one easy, fluid motion, stripped off his tight T-shirt. It only took a second, but the little writhe his torso went through as he did it looked like it would win any bodybuilding contest ever held. He took a deep breath, stretching a bit, then stuffed his shirt away. His deep copper tan gleamed in the fluorescent light, huge, striated pecs swelled, cables of back muscle bulged and rippled enough for any three pro bodybuilders. How was a physique like this even possible for a 12-year-old? And for the love of God, how strong was he? Just how much raw power did this kid’s body contain?
More moans came from the other kids. Lots of jeezes and fucks and holy sheepshits. Lots of tented gymshorts, too – I was trying not to gawp at Jeff, so I scanned the room while he moved and caught a lot of guys who bragged about screwing girls reveal that they weren’t entirely straight.
Jeff paused, his hands at the waistband of his cutoffs, about to undo the snap. He grinned at the room. “Something wrong, guys?” So confident. This was his first day here too, and his attitude was the polar opposite of mine. He owned the room and knew it.
The kids suddenly all came to, broke away, muttering no, nothing, ‘course not, and so on, and carried on with their own changing. Many were already done and didn’t really have any excuse to still be hanging around in the locker room, but still were just to ogle Jeff. Slowly, reluctantly, they left for the gym. The others turned to face the walls and changed quickly, hiding boners, and sometimes hiding damp spots on the fronts of their underpants. I was enthralled with Jeff already, and felt like the luckiest kid there, and felt as well a sense of safety – I was with Jeff, Jeff was my friend, and none of these kids would dare touch me. I was damn glad my parents had made me practice piano all those years.
Jeff slipped off his cutoffs and stood for a moment before me, wearing a tiny pair of bikini briefs. Must be European – super high cut over the thighs, low waistband in front, little narrow pouch. They didn’t look like real posing trunks; they were underwear – I could tell from the fabric. I stared openly – I’d never seen anything so sexy. He must sun himself in something even skimpier, because there were no visible tan lines at all. Every etched, carved muscle of his lower abs and upper thighs was prominent, and the bulge in his skimpy bikini made me drool.
He didn’t seem to want to expose himself like that for very long. Quickly he slipped on his gym shorts and muscle shirt, then smiled at me again. “C’mon, hurry up!” he whispered. “We can’t be late on the first day!”
I finished changing quickly. We found the kids in the gym milling around, waiting for the coach, and Jeff and I found it easy to sneak to the back of the room, behind the tall kids, hoping that we wouldn’t draw too much attention. That Jeff wouldn’t draw too much attention, I mean. Nobody would ever notice me when I was with him.
Some of the guys just couldn’t keep away, though. They crowded around us (I mean Jeff) and Jeff had to introduce himself to lots more kids, flex when they asked him to, and answer questions. “Where do you come from?” and “How did you get those muscles?” were popular. “Seattle” was the answer to the first, and “My Dad’s side of the family” to the second. But the most popular question was “How strong are you? Huh? C’mon, how strong?”
Jeff blushed, the already dark shade of his perfect skin deepening slightly. “I’m pretty strong,” he admitted. “Steven, c’mere.” I followed him to the climbing ropes. “Just hold onto my waist, ok? Real tight.”
Wow. What an invitation. I couldn’t believe he would allow any of us to touch him – his body was too … well, holy somehow. I don’t know. I slipped my skinny arms around him, locking in as tight as I could, but I couldn’t even dent his steely abs. I could feel him breathing as I nestled my face against his hot, bulging back, and then he gave a light spring, taking hold of one of the ropes and beginning to haul himself up. With me attached. His hard, round butt settled into my belly as I struggled to hold on. And hand over hand, legs dangling free because he just didn’t need them, with lightning speed he soared, carrying me, toward the ceiling.
“Holy fuck!” “Shit!” “No way!” and other exclamations from the kids below. I wasn’t even scared – somehow I knew that no matter how high he took me, he wouldn’t let me fall. “How’re you doing, Steve?” he asked as he reached the top of the rope. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Okay, I guess,” I gasped, trying to grip him tighter.
He reached his right hand down and gripped my forearm hard. “I got you, just in case, okay?” I nodded, though he probably couldn’t see that.
So now we were both hanging from his left hand only, my ninety pounds and his, oh, hundred and fifty or more. On one twelve-year-old boy’s hand.
He scanned the gym, grinning at all the open-mouthed kids down there on the floor. Then he did something nobody could believe. With one hand, he began doing chinups! His weight AND MINE! He wasn’t hanging from a bar, just the rope, but he was definitely getting his chin over his fist and he was making it look easy. Ten reps – fifteen – I think he stopped at twenty or so, probably because he felt my grip on his waist slipping. Now, still holding on to me, he finally let his legs touch the rope as he gripped it between his ankles, and inchwormed his way down, one hand and both feet doing all the work.
“Okay, Jeff,” I whispered breathlessly as I finally felt my feet hit the floor. I released him and he released me, and dropped lightly down the last couple of inches.
He was grinning at the dumbfounded class, stretching and flexing his enormous, pumped muscles.
“Jesus!” Sean Colby finally exclaimed. “You gotta be stronger than anyone else in the world!”
Jeff chuckled. “Nah. My brother’s stronger than me.”
Sean and I shook our heads. “No way!” Sean said. “He’s tall, but he didn’t look anywhere near buff enough to do what you just did.”
“Not Frank!” Jeff laughed aloud. “Heck no! I can curl what he can deadlift. I mean my kid brother Kelly. He just turned eleven. He curls what I deadlift.”
Holy jumping … whatevers. I thought Jeff was impossible. What could his brother possibly look like?