"Now come over here, Rick," the host calls. "Stand right there."
In nothing but a pair of bright blue shorts, I stand in the glare of the studio lights with the audience's eyes on my shredded torso. "Everyone, this is Rick." No it isn't. That name's just in the script.
"Now check out those abs! Come on, give us a flex, Rick." I do, to an exaggerated chorus of oohs from the bored-out-of-their-minds crowd. "Those are some amazing abs, aren't they? I bet you all wish you had abs like Rick here. Well you can—in only twenty minutes a day!
"What you do is strap on my latest invention, the Ab-omatic 6000! Just tighten the belts here—" his hands graze my hips as he straps on the ridiculous-looking device "—and you turn this switch on and—watch those abs jump! Look how hard they're contracting!" Of course they are. I'm making them do that. The device works, but not THAT well. "What Rick's doing is he's getting a full workout with none of the WORK. I bet that feels good, doesn't it, Rick?"
My fake smile is just as much of a workout as what I'm doing with my abs. And it's just as important, if not more important. You see, what people are really buying is the belief that they don't need to rely on the old, backbreaking methods that have worked for decades. They want to believe there's an easier way, a quicker way, when there's really nothing else for it but to suck it up and lift weights for endless hours in the gym. You'd certainly never see a pro bodybuilder fiddling around with a hunk of plastic like this.
I sound like I resent this, but actually it doesn't bother me in the least. Infomercials have become my bread and butter ever since Jason—a friend from my gym who's also on stage right now—got me my first gig in '98. Maybe it's something to do with the start of the new millennium, but it seems there's a new TV fitness infomercial shooting every week these days for all those people wishing to finally get in shape in the year 2000, and I can't count the number of hours I've spent shirtless, doing repetitive motions while sitting in or wearing increasingly ridiculous gadgets in front of blazing hot lights and bored audiences.
And several of them have been with Cliff, the host gesturing to my ripped torso right now. He may be hawking hunks of plastic that are just going to wind up in people's attics, but he's the real deal. Even now that he's in his early forties, he still ranks among the best bodybuilders in the world. I know what I am, a fitness model with the "ideal" body type, ripped and muscular but not big enough to freak people out. What these companies need is a model that most people want to look like—and most people don't see themselves as a veined-up muscle bull like Cliff here. But after a hugely successful career, he's got the name and reputation to convince people to buy, even if they'd rather look like "Rick" than him.
"Thanks a lot Rick. You're looking real good," he says, unstrapping the device from my stomach. But to be totally honest, glancing over at those muscles makes my gut tingle more than the stupid device ever did. His black tank top looks like it can barely restrain the bulges that swell and shift with every movement. I can't look at him long because the sight of his trim waist holding up a set of four swollen boulders—bicep, pec, pec, bicep, straight across in a line of striated muscle—is enough to squeeze my cock and make it throb.
If I'm not careful, I'll spring a massive hard-on right here in front of all these people in my shiny blue shorts. How'd he react to that, huh? "Now check out Rick's dick, everyone! You ever see a stiffy like that? I bet you all wish you had a cock like Rick here. Well you can—in only twenty minutes a day! What you've gotta do is just yank down these shorts here and wrap this belt around his cock like so..."
We're done filming in an hour, and I finally head back to my dressing room to towel off and get dressed. I glance wryly at the complimentary Ab-omatic 6000 that's been left for me along with a handwritten note from Cliff. He's a decent guy and he always treats his models well. The female fitness models haven't had any complaints about him, which is sadly more than can be said for some of the other hosts I've had to put up with.
I say bye to my buddy Jason and make my way out of the building with a detour to piss out what feels like two bottles of H2O on the way. I'm standing at the urinal, just feeling the heat of my piss start to gather at the base of my dick when the door swings open and Cliff saunters over to the urinal next to mine. "Hey," he says. "Hey," I say, deliberately keeping my eyes fixed on the white tiles in front of me. There isn't much else allowed between guys in this social situation, is there?
But damn, the firehose has dried up. No matter how swollen my bladder is, none of it's getting out with that musclegod next to me. I'm not even looking at him, but his presence is a physical force. A heat and a tension from the proximity of his huge body. He's still dressed like he was onstage, in a black tank top and shorts, so his fully exposed right arm's just an inch away from me. An erection is the last thing I need right now—besides the fact that I can't piss when I'm hard, there's the whole problem of if he notices. I mean, he's not looking, but what if he did? I doubt I'd get any more calls to work with him. It's looking like I don't have much choice in the matter, though, 'cause I can already feel that tingling fullness gathering.
And then there's the rustle of his shorts as his arm moves to free his cock while he grunts with satisfaction. Since he's wearing training shorts with no zipper, he must've pulled out just his dick or even his whole package and let it hang out in front, buoyed up by the waistband under his balls. I can sense from the position of his arm that he's letting that tube of meat fill his palm, and there's the pounding splash that means his fingers are heated with the running stream of piss shooting up his shaft and spraying the urinal.
Fuck. I'm getting so fucking hard now, to the point that I can feel my foreskin rolling back over my sensitive glans and I have to take a slight step back so my rising dickhead won't touch the wet white porcelain. He obviously notices my movement because he rumbles, "Nothin' coming out? Sorry man. Didn't mean to make it hard for you."
"Huh? No, I—" I can't help glancing to the left, and I see he's still staring straight ahead, not looking at my erect cock, so maybe he didn't meant it THAT way. But it breaks my fixed gaze on the wall, and glancing over at his chiseled face means those fantastic pecs bulging in his shirt automatically draw my gaze down—and I can't help but keep going till I see he's shaking out the last drops from the thickest, meatiest cock I've ever seen. He's completely soft, but it looks the way most guys look when they're springing a boner. That penis is like a fucking flexed forearm, with thick purple veins and a swollen mushroom cockhead. It's like a muscle pumped up vigorously over an hour in the gym.
"F-Fuck!" I breathe, the air forced from my lungs by the sight.
He looks over, sees what I'm staring at, and grins. "Full-Body Workouts by Cliff. I mean what I say."
"You mean, you trained your cock to get that way?"
"Sure. In only twenty minutes a day." A fucking cheeky wink, but damn it's charming. It's no wonder he can get people to phone in.
"Don't tell me—"
"Yep. That thing you were wearing today can train more muscle groups than we advertise. Not just your dick, but your PC muscle. But 'cause of regulations and all that—people need to be careful, you see. Your dick's not meant to get pumped up too fast. We figure guys'll go nuts and injure themselves if they find out. I mean, tell a thousand guys they can work out their dick, and how many of them do you think will stick to twenty minutes a day?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I get it."
"But you won't tell anyone. And now that you know... hey, you're a big boy. You can handle yourself." Which is when I realize I've still got a deathgrip on my straining cock, which is leaking a good glob of precum. Grinning out the side of his mouth, he stuffs that muscled dick in his shorts and leaves.
The next day at the gym, I tell my buddy Jason about the whole thing. "That piece of junk?" he scoffs, "I tossed that thing in the trash as soon as I got home. You seriously believed that?"
"Hey, listen. I'll believe anything a guy with a dick like that says," I shrug, but all he does is roll his eyes and we leave it at that. To be honest, I'm not sure if he'd share my appreciation for Cliff's muscled cock. Nothing ever seems to break his composure, and there's always a slight distance between me and the immaculate smooth planes of his body, even though I've often fantasized about it. Changing and showering next to him in the locker room at the gym, I've frequently noticed what a gorgeous dick he's working with, in addition to all the other assets of a professional fitness model. There's nothing I'd like more than to discuss it with him in as much detail as possible, but it seems this conversation's been shut down.
However, that doesn't stop me from strapping the device onto my dick that night and turning it on. Instantly, my cock starts to clench, like when you bring yourself right to the edge and stop stroking, so your cock jerks a few dry times. The sensation seems to build, though, a fuzzy tingle that grows somewhere inside my cockhead as the jerks slowly get stronger and stronger. After ten minutes, the cum is dribbling out of my slit and onto my lower abs, my dick on fire as the device continues to milk it. Then for the next ten minutes, I strap it onto the muscle between the base of my cock and my ass. By the end, the muscles all around my genitals are aching and weak and I doubt I could even get an erection. But it's a satisfying exhaustion, and it makes me want to do it again.
I decide to start training my PC muscle first to make my dick nice and hard before letting the machine make me cum. It seems like just my imagination at first, but I could swear my cock's starting to flex harder, like a muscle that's gathering strength. A week into it, my cock actually spits cum up to my navel even though my jizz has always just dribbled out. Feeling the building strength in my cock makes it practically impossible for me to keep my hands off it. I'm tempted to strap on Cliff's device for more than twenty minutes, but I remember what he said and manage to reign myself in.
