Chapter 1
"Side of beef," Rufe says.
"Wish you had joo some beef lak dat, bro', an' don' be jivin' me othawise neithah, `cause ah am' buyin' nona dat bullshit!"
"Yeah," Jeff replies, "you right, bro', but ain't no need f'him ta stan' there fronta da mirrah, actin' lak he some kinda Mistah Galaxy or sumthin'."
"Man jus' checkin' hisse'f out is all, man!
"He gots ta check on his weak points.
"You be pumpin' dis here iron awhile, you be checkin' yo'se'f out too, an' won' be jus' so's you can see dat ugly face starin' back, neithah."
"Conceited mofo, ain' he, though?"
"Mebbe he gots him sumthin' ta be conceited about, right?"
"Right own, bro', right own," Rufe sighs.
And they watch King, watch as the huge, light- skinned black man with his close-cropped, reddish- brown hair, clad in tank top and shorts over his jockstrap whose leg straps protrude slightly from the bottoms, turns this way and that before the mirrored wall, flexing this muscle group and that, his gaze critical, absorbed in his reflection.
"Look lak some white dude widda suntan, he does," Rufe observes.
"Now, don't choo be sayin' the brothah's tryna pass, man."
"Jus' sayin' he don't need ta worry `bout no sun- lamp, is all, ta look right."
"Yeah," Rufe grins, "he got the same avvantage as you an' me."
"Right. Now all we needs ta do is lose ouahse'ves 'bout fifty pounda fat apiece, replace it wif muscle, add about twenny-fav mo', an' we be right in theah widdim."
"Fully competitive, we be den." Rufe agrees. "You plannin' on workin' on it any tam soon?" Jeff asks.
"Thinkin' seriously about it, bro'"
"Yeah, well, lemme know whut choo decide." And Rufe. and Jeff both stand there watching as King poses for himself.
And both are thinking the same thing-no way. No way can they catch up to that.
Because it seems to them that there is just naturally more to King than to their own considerable bodies.
He is simply larger than they in every dimension that counts.
And has been, for years now.
They went to high school with the guy.
Back then, he was nothing.
Nothing except will power and determination.
King did as much as he could in the school gym, in the limited hours allotted to the students for free exercise time.
And they had watched and wondered at his intensity, at the apparent lack of progress, at the display of strength from an average-looking body which did not appear to possess nearly the kind of power required to lift the weights King did.
They could not see the subcutaneous fat melting off of him beneath his grey sweats which covered his entire body, in order that he should derive maximum advantage from the heat and perspiration thus trapped.
Nor could they see the tone of his musculature improving with each workout.
Above all, they could not see what was going on in his mind.
King, his mother had named him, in honor of Martin Luther King.
His mother.
His mother who always worked hard and who had played hard once, just once, with the wrong man, the wrong kind of man.
King did not know the man's color, much less his name.
Nor did he understand what had possessed his mother, a serious woman, a withdrawn woman and not one of those loud-laughing, joking around, flirtatious types, to do what she had done.
And she never justified, never tried to explain it to him.
"You jus' worry 'bout your life, King," she would say. "What's done is done and can't be undone."
And would not go into detail about his father.
And served on a night office building cleaning crew, so that she was never around, except on weekends.
And saw him through high school.
And died without ever dispelling the mystery of his father.
And now, King works on a shipping platform by day, works out in the gym nights and weekends. And has his own apartment, now that he does not have to make do with the shabby quarters in the shabby neighborhood where he lived with his mother.
And he has taken her advice seriously.
Words to live by, even if spoken to fend him off, to leave his curiosity unsatisfied.
"You worry `bout choo, King, an' let the resta the wort' take keh itse'f."
And he does.
Worry about himself and nothing else, that is.
So that he worries about the shape of this muscle, the proportion of that muscle group to the rest of the ever-progressing ensemble.
He worries about his exercise schedule.
He worries about his diet, its meals, its supplementation.
He worries about getting enough rest.
He worries about burning out through overexercise.
He worries about worrying, reading books about psychology, about the workings of the mind, so that he will understand what's wrong with himself upstairs, if anything.
He worries about not knowing enough. So that he watches educational TV, learning about history, society, the interpretation of the news, conflicting views of events.
He intends to turn professional bodybuilder. He is almost ready for the contest circuit.
Almost, but not quite.
He intends to triumph from the outset.
He intends to blow away the competition, rather than merely competing with it.
If must be self-evident that he is in a league by himself before he will put himself up against others for comparison, for contrast.
No distractions.
He wishes to be self-absorbed, most of the time. His interest must be focussed in on himself. Rufe and Jeff, watching him, speak in whispers. But they need not.
Because King doesn't hear them, doesn't see them, not even their chance reflections in the background, as he looks at himself in the mirror. Reality is subjective to him.
He can suspend or cancel it at will.
Because he is his own reality; the rest is provisional, an illusion.
And the women?
Those he has.
Black ones, white ones, ones like himself (he strongly suspects) somewhere in between.
They come and they go.
And he can take them or leave them.
And, in the course of his daily life, he does both.
He will not ardently pursue pussy, on the one hand; on the other, he will not turn anything down, if it looks good enough.
His dates are all desultory, provisional affairs, at once technically satisfying and emotionally neutral.
They want that beef, no question.
And certainly, he is a spectacular (more to the point, an enviable) escort.
Looking at him with a date, the uninformed female observer would see in his companion a very fortunate woman indeed.
Not knowing that they will go to his place or ji hers, will fuck . once or many times, will sleep ,together or break up the party and end up sleeping alone, but whatever the evening turns into, it will leave the woman feeling more puzzled than anything All that beef, all that presence, and yet cool, distant.
So that, in the end, it is as though they have d sex with a kind of sophisticated android. Because he fucks mechanically.
And his fucking is a taking rather than a giving.
It is centered on himself and not at all on his rtner, who could be (and they sense this very early) someone, anyone else.
Because his sexuality is directed inward.
For one thing, he closes his eyes, almost the fluent they hit the sheets.
And he explores them, but not with the hunger y have come to expect, the hunger which their rms deserve.
Rather, it is a sort of rudimentary confirmation, a taking of inventory, almost as though he were going down a checklist of some kind.
He will suck their tits to arousal.
He will service their clit with his tongue, but that too is perfunctory.
Because he does not linger anywhere, orally.
It is as though his tongue and mouth work were some mandatory preliminary, to be gotten out of the way, over and done with, in order that they can get to the main event.
And yes, he has a large salami, long and thick, and hot and hard, vibrant with his life, his power. And yes, he moves well.
Too well, in fact, his mechanical humping, his piston action strong and steady, beginning to end. But passion?
He has the personality of a vibrator in bed.
All prescribed motion, cool and calculated, even as his temperature rises.
So that the woman, if not content with the action ano the presence, is forced to reach within herself, there to summon the image, the idea, the archetype of the male.
And, running her hands over his hard, warm musculature, imagine someone, built very much like King, equipped very much like King, who would give them the real fucking, the shared excitement of rampant sexuality, so lacking with King.
King has lots of dates; he has very few repeats. And actually, he prefers it this way.
His relationship is with himself.
His sex is with himself.
So far as King is concerned, all sex is masturbation.
He needs women in order to have a healthy, regular sex life, highly recommended in the more comprehensive, deeper writings of the bodybuilding experts.
And he knows enough about the workings of the mind to realize that jerking off-that is, actual masturbation-has its severe limitations.
Because there is coming and coming.
And the best coming is that which takes place in a pussy.
And it is necessary to have the depth afforded by an outstanding female partner.
Because King carries it within him, the image, the female ideal.
And it is warm and nebulous.
He knows what equipment it has, but not the exact configuration of how it is put together.
But by feel, he recognizes it.
And as long as it is there, then he is there for it.
He is not there to be the great lover, after all; he is there to be the great body, the body which is the logical extension of the great cock.
So that the two are a unity.
So that his entire physical self becomes a sex: organ.
But it is one which is bent upon its own satisfaction.
And if that's good enough for the girl, then fine; if not, tough shit.
Because the last thing he wants is a full-blown relationship between himself and any woman.
Body to body, for that form of satisfaction which is, more than anything else, relief.
A safety valve to be watched, its indicator needle held to the safe zone, possible only with regular relief.
That is how King defines healthy sex.
Genuine enthiusiasm for this or that particular partner?
That seems to him destructive, a dissipation of concentration, of energy.
He has worked too long and too hard to build himself up as he has.
And he cannot see "blowing it" on some cunt. Because there will always be another one along. And he has no interest in their tastes (except in men) or their thoughts.
He doesn't want to know their story or their problems.
He wants only to know their bodies.
And not with his mind, either; rather it is body to body that interests him.
Are they adequate to cause the appropriate discharge?
That and that alone is the criterion for the success or failure of a sexual. encounter.
And thus far, he has known no failures.
Nor is he one of those men who prefer the company of men, except for sex.
He does not revel in the company of his fellows. He has no buddies.
In fact, he has no friends.
Many have tried, guys that is, but he is not open with them, not responsive to them, and never, never takes the initiative, the lead in conversation.
There is a particular fascination that the strong man possesses, with regard to other men, very similar to that of a beautiful woman to other women.
It is not a homosexual -thing, either; rather, it is a kind of attraction to the image of what a man or woman should look like.
It is a recognition- that a given individual approaches the ideal, at least physically and is therefore, in that sense, attractive.' But there has to be something more than merely that, if a friendship is to blossom, if it is to survive. And the fact is that, in King's case, there isn't. Sad but true, all that beef has nothing behind it. What you see is what you get.
That, and absolutely nothing else.
So that King is a loner.
Even the hardcore bodybuilders give him a wide berth.
Usually, there is a fraternal hierarchy of beef at a gym; that is, at each level of development, there is the tendency for bodybuilders to talk to one another, get to know each other.
In King's case, he belongs to no such ex officio group.
Sad but true, but there it is.
He considers himself to be in a class by himself and it shows. So that the other bodybuilders, especially those who most closely resemble him from the chin down, almost to a man, having suffered King's unresponsiveness, have told him, in their minds, "Fuck you!"
But he can live with that.
Almost.
Because it bothers him that he should not be bothered by what he has caused for no apparent reason.
Why? he often asks himself. Why don't I care? And yet, it happens again and again, the same thing.
The approach (theirs), the monosyllabic response (his), the retreat, eyes puzzled, filled with resentment (theirs), and the peaceful, almost comfortable return to solitary concentration on the workout (his).
He uses no spotters on anything, regardless of how heavy the weight.
On the contrary, his heavy lifts are such that those around him in the gym give him a wide berth. If he should drop those babies, you do not wanna be in the immediate vicinity, that's for sure.
At work, he does his job.
He can drive a forklift, maneuver a hand jack, and outlift anybody else on the loading dock crew. He speaks to others in the line of duty.
He eats lunch alone and does not engage in casual conversation, does not joke around.
Nor does he encourage approaches from female employees.
He does not shit where he eats, as the saying goes.
No, his pick-ups will mostly be at the gym.
For the women, he has the briefest of smiles, the shortest of conversation.
He doesn't want those who are merely warm for his body, who are only thinking about it.
He was them red hot and ready.
Because there is no time in his schedule for jiving around.
The girl knows what she wants or she doesn't. If she does, fine; if not, see King when she does, that's all.
And he has a good word-of-mouth press.
Sort of.
Girl who has not yet been with King: "I could go for something like that in a minute!"
Girl who has: "He's all yours, kiddo."
"You mean it?
"Introduce ya, you want."
"Please do!"
And she will.
Why not, after all?
There is nothing there worth repeating, so far as she is concerned.
She expected more, much, much more. All that potential.
He could have been the stud of studs, the lover of lovers.
Could have been and was not, is not, will not be. They don't understand.
What could he be looking for in a woman? Whatever it is, they did not, do not have it. He finds them lacking?
Fuck him!
Because there are just lots and lots of guys who would only be too happy to go out with them, to give them their all, to devour them.
And this one wants to try her luck?
Be my guest.
And King is not unaware of this, is not ignorant of the change in attitude toward himself before and after And okay, he supposes it troubles him a little, but not enough for him to change his attitude, to change the face he presents to them.
To them and to the world.
Fuck it!
That's what King feels.
The important thing is weight and shape and condition and development.
The rest is all bullshit anyway.
And he is not about to be deceived on that point. He is not about to change his schedule or his outlook.
It simply isn't worth it.
How important is it, he wonders, to have people like him, anyway?
According to the books he has read, it's very important.
He readS this, but does not necessarily agree.
It may be generally applicable, but not specifically to him.
Because his problems are not the problems of others.
His problems are strictly, specifically developmental, pertaining to his ability to sculp and mould this creature, this physical entity which is his own body.
But for that, he has no problems...
And the problem within the problem, the one that looms ever larger, the more he exercises, the closer he comes to perfection, the one with which he constantly wrestles in his mind?
The upper limit of his potential.
Everybody, even King, has one, the sticking point, the point beyond which he can never go, having once attained it.
Although some experts are of the opinion that it can never actually be reached and that therefore nobody ever has to worry about it.
Still, further gains have come more slowly, requiring ever greater difficulty.
And his answer to this is simply still more effort. Which requires still more concentration. Not that he views it as a vicious cycle.
On the .contrary, he feels that he has actually arrived at a plateau, the highest one in bodybuilding, at which the builder is down to the nitty-gritty, the fine points which make all the difference between winning and losing.
Progress of a sort.
But still, it shows him that he is not . yet ready to enter the contests, any of them.
Because it is only when he has reached the point that his further progress becomes so slow as to be imperceptible that he will consider himself ready to compete.
Meaning ready to win, hands down.
"We need a mixed doubles team, Randy," Stan, the manager of the gym, says.
"Why are you telling me this?" Randy Buck, owner of this gym, of the franchise of the chain of gyms of which this is the flagship, asks.
"Because it's important.
"Because we got nobody."
"Plenty of guys, Randy, but no women ta go with 'em."
"So what I was thinkin' was that maybe we could tap one of the other gyms in the chain for a qualified female bodybuilder, put 'er together with one of our guys, and go from there.
"Not the best way in the world ta do it, I'm the first to admit, but better'n lettin' those contests go by the boards another year.
"Sides, we gotta do something to drum up more female membership.
"Look at these figures."
"Okay, okay, okay! See what I can do. We got the time for this?"
"That's why I'm bringin' it up right now, Randy. We move now, we can field something in six months, fer sure."
"Close, buddy. Any less time and we wouldn't of had a shot at all."
Stan smiles.
An Olympic gold medal winner in weightlifting, he knows only too well what it takes, time-wise, to put a team together in the iron game.
Whereas Randy Buck, owner of both a major league football team and a baseball team, a string of restaurants, this gym and the franchise for the chain, is basically an entrepreneur.
All Buck knows about bodybuilding is what he has managed to pick up here and there.
"Well," Stan says, "I'll call around, ask around, like that.
"I'll offer free membership, free supplements and togs.
"Meanwhile, you look around an' see who you want to be the boy half of the couple."
"Already got somebody in mind."
"He here now?"
"Should be."
"Then let's have a look, so I can see what I'm tryna find a partner for."
Stan leads him onto the floor from the office. "There," he says, pointing to King.
Buck nods in approval.
"Monster," he says.
"Wait'll you see 'im in six months. I know pro material when I see it, Randy, and that's exactly what we're lookin' at there."
"Steve know?"
"Not yet he doesn't. Steve works out early and this guy's still gotta work for a living in some warehouse or whatever."
"Hmm. You talk to the boy. He does well an' we can do something for `im."