Thousands of bodybuilders (and those who appreciate them) have been introduced 
to Johnny Galt through his website, Bodybuilding on a Budget.  
(http:www.geocities.com/~frugalmuscle/ ).  Many have asked for more personal 
information, and for those folks, he offers the following:

Introduction to Musclesex

First, a little background.

I'm a farmboy, born and bred. I was raised on a small farm in Iowa by Mennonite 
parents.  (If you're not familiar with Mennonites, think Amish, but upgrade 
their technology to
the 1950's.  That's them, about 50 years behind the rest of American society.)

Anyway, it was a good life, if somewhat lonely.  Our nearest neighbor was four 
miles away; the nearest grocery store was twenty miles away; the nearest movie 
theater was over 60 miles away.  There were 60 kids in my high school graduating 
class.  We were big enough to have a football team, but I couldn't join.  I was 
a big, strong kid with good-
sized, hard muscles from lots of farmwork.  I had buddies on the team, and they 
were always on me to join.  Every summer the coach would drive out to our farm 
to beg my dad to let me play on the team.  And every summer my dad would tell 
him I could play as soon as the coach agreed to do all my chores while I was at 
practice.

So when I left home to attend a small college, I had yet to so much as look at a 
weight bench.  When I looked around campus at my fellow students, I noticed I 
was bigger than all except a couple of the student-athletes.  Moving into the 
dorm I got to know my roommate who was planning on trying-out for the wrestling 
team, and when he saw the size of my arms, he encouraged me to do so, too.  I 
told him I had no experience but wanted to tag along to the fieldhouse with him 
to learn more.  
On our way through the building to an office, we passed the door to the campus 
weightroom.  The football team was training inside, and I stopped a moment and 
watched.  This was something new to me; the smell and sounds seemed to stimulate 
something inside me; I was intrigued from the first moment.

I told my buddy to go ahead without me, and just leaned against the wall to 
watch.  A pair of big guys were closest to me, and I observed their spurring 
each other on to bigger deadlifts.  The thickest of the pair seemed to max-out 
at 460, which he struggled with for several seconds to lift for one rep 
(although at the time, I didn't know what a rep was).  They slapped each other 
on the back and walked across the room. 
To this day, I don't know what made me do it.  But I strolled over to the bar, 
still slick from the duo's sweat.  Without a lifting belt, wearing jeans and a 
t-shirt, I bent over, grabbed the bar (with what I now know was an incorrect 
grip) and just
stood up.  
It wasn't easy; I felt gravity fighting me,  and several muscle groups were 
straining; but it wasn't hard, either.  I put it down and did it again.  And 
again.  And then again. I have no idea how many reps I got out of it, but when I 
started getting short of breath, I just put it down and straightened back up.

Then I noticed how quiet the room had gotten.  In fact, it seemed as though 
every guy in the place was looking at me.  And not just looking; they were 
staring; with their mouths open.  Then, someone in the back corner started 
applauding, and the rest joined in.  They circled around me, shaking my hand, 
patting me on the butt, feeling my arms; tousling my hair.   In this way I was 
introduced to the brotherhood of iron.  It's as though I unknowingly went 
through some kind of initiation and was now a part of a fraternal order.  In 
that moment, I was one of them.

The team's strength coach took me under his wing, taught me the basics, giving 
encouragement and, when necessary, rather strict discipline.  I learned fast, 
taking to the weightroom like a duck to water.  Despite my inexperience, once I 
had the basics down, my lifts skyrocketed.  I went to a couple powerlifting 
competitions and did quite well.  But I wasn't involved for competitive reasons.  
The fact that I could lift more than most others in the collegiate powerlifting 
circles meant nothing to me.  I just liked to lift.

And the changes taking place in my body did not go unnoticed either.  I had worn 
extra-
large shirts since I was a high school junior; now I was tearing the seams on 
the XXL's.  I was having trouble finding jeans that fit at the waist but were 
still big enough for my thighs.  My arms, which even untrained had a nice peak 
to them, now filled out, and thick veins started growing over the arms and down 
to the back of my hands.

And the chicks noticed, too.  I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, but I was 
still a virgin when I went off to college; but that was soon rectified.  After 
years of living in a
conservative, religious, fairly old-fashioned rural community where members of 
my family's faith were looked down-upon, I was suddenly popular and sought-
after.  I was growing in ways inward and outward.

My first bodybuilding competition, the Jr. Mr. Iowa, was in April of my junior 
year at college. I knew nothing of pre-contest preparation; I clearly didn't 
diet long enough; I had no tan (who does in Iowa in April?); I didn't have the 
cash for any of the body dyes that are available; I had spent all of 15 minutes 
preparing my routine; a pair of swimming trunks would have to do for my posing 
suit; and I had never even seen a competition before, let alone being in one.  
But I noticed the guys looking at me in the pump-up room, and it seemed to me 
while nearly every man there was tighter and in better condition,
not one could touch me on size. 
This was confirmed when we stepped out on stage.  The crowd was silent for a few 
moments, and than I heard several males voices say "Christ, where did he come 
from?"  Several voices called out my number during the line-up, and when we went 
into
the compulsory front double bicep pose, the place exploded with noise.  Suddenly 
I heard my number being screamed, other voices shouting out "Beef!" and "Big 
Man!"  I felt the crowd's energy and fed off of it, giving them a big smile with 
each pose.   This was it!  Even if I didn't enjoy training, all the hard work 
was worth what I was experiencing in those moments.  
While I outmuscled everyone in the competition, I had to settle for second  
place due to my lack of conditioning.  But I couldn't have been happier if I had 
won the whole show.  I had discovered another new world, and I loved it.  
I continued to train and to compete.  After getting my degree in political 
economy (a more worthless degree you will never find), I got a job in 
Washington, working for a Midwestern congressman.  And this is where my life 
took another interesting turn. 
Congressman Gunderson (you may or may not recognize the name; he won re-election 
even after being forced out of the closet, retired from Washington, wrote a book 
with his partner, and hasn't been heard from since) expressed an interest in my 
training from time to time, and recommended I meet a friend of his, Jeff, who 
was also into weight-training.   I wasn't looking for a training partner, having 
always trained  alone.  But since I was told he worked-out (and worked) at the 
Gold's across the Potomac in Virginia, I agreed to look him up.   I had wanted 
to train there, but never felt I could justify the extra (rather high) cost.  
When I met Jeff, we hit if off immediately.  He was a farm boy from the south, 
five years older than me, shorter, but outweighed me by a good twenty pounds.  
He was built like a fireplug, with a neck thicker than his head, but a mind 
brighter and quicker than anyone I had ever met in the weight game.  He became 
more than my training partner; he was my coach and a valued friend.

I was in training for the Capitol City Championships (in which I took second; I 
was beat by Don Long.  I'm on of the few bodybuilders who can say "it takes 
someone who makes pro to beat me").  Jeff coached me through the bulking-up 
phase, and held my hand through the tortuous diet phase.  He walked with me 
through every step and I can honestly say that, to this day, I have never felt 
closer to another man.  Much of what I know about bodybuilding (and about being 
a man), I learned from him.

I knew before I met him that Jeff was gay, but his sexuality never came up.  I 
sometimes mentioned whichever fitness chick  I was fucking over a weekend, but 
he never mentioned who, if anyone, he was seeing.  In fact, I had more or less 
come to the conclusion that he just wasn't very sexual, or perhaps had done some 
permanent damage to himself during his younger days.  (He often talked about how 
much "juice" he used in his younger, competitive days, and it's common for long-
term use of anabolics to affect the body's-own testosterone levels.)

So our first sextrip together was sudden and out of the blue.  It was the night 
before the competition, and I was in shape.  I had been doing some moderate 
juicing (with Jeff's guidance and a doctor's supervision) and my body really 
responded to it.  I was big, thick and cut.  At 6 feet tall, I would weigh-in 
the next day at 238 pounds.  I knew I could do some real damage at the show, 
which was definitely the biggest I had ever been in.  Men were arriving from 
Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, New Jersey, Delaware and, of course, D.C., 
but I was ready for them.  Jeff and I had spend a lot of time on my routine,
considered lots of options for music before deciding to go with some Prokofiev 
(cuts from Alexander Nevsky), and we literally spent hours practicing (which 
also served to bring out my cuts and make me harder than ever).

I was standing in the middle of my living room, buck naked on a plastic sheet, 
while Jeff was on his knees applying one last coat of "competition tan".  I was 
playing Prokofiev's entire film score on my stereo and was kind of lost in the 
music while Jeff worked with his sponge.  I was feeling good; mighty good.  
While the deprivation of food (and the pre-contest chemical stack) had affected 
my ability to get hard over the previous few days, I noticed I was sporting a 
"lazy hard-on"; fully extended, but still hanging down between the legs.  At one 
point I looked down and noticed Jeff's thick shoulders shaking 
up and down.  Then I noticed his hand was on my right calf, but it wasn't 
moving.  A few seconds went by and he still didn't move, except for the movement 
of his shoulders.  
"How are ya doing down there?"

There was no response.

I put my hand on his head and asked, "Hey, buddy, what's up?"

Jeff lifted his head to look at my face, and I saw tears streaming down his 
cheeks.  I know he saw the shock and concern n my eyes, but before I could open 
my mouth, he threw his arms round my waist, putting his face against my abs and 
sobbed.

I didn't quite know what to do.  I put one hand on this shoulder,   and stroked 
his hair with the other.  "Come on, Jeff,...pal,...you gotta tell me what's 
wrong.  Did I do something wrong?"

"No.  No, you did everything right.  You have turned yourself into a beautiful, 
fucking muscleman.  And that's what's wrong."

Then, for a man with a reputation for not saying much, the words poured out of 
him.

He talked of being into muscle since he was a young kid; how he knew he could 
never do well competitively because of his lack of symmetry; about how he had 
wanted a bodybuilder's physique so much that it had become an obsession, a 
powerful desire that dominated his thinking.  How he had sublimated that desire 
into his work with me; how he thought my body was the most perfect 
representation of man he had known.  How he grew hard with lust during every 
workout, jacked-off at home thinking about my posing.  How he was so hard, 
putting on the tanning solution and running his hands over my muscles, that he 
was in pain.  How he felt he had to tell me of his need for my body,
even though speaking the truth might end our friendship. 
While he talked, I stroked his face and neck.  I don't know how, but I knew what 
to say to him even before he was through. I told him how much I respected his 
knowledge and
self-discipline, that his friendship and respect meant more to me than any 
person outside my family.  How I was proud of the body I had built, but that I 
had achieved it only through his help and his support.  That while the body was 
not perfect, it was mighty damn good; and that we had built it together.  He and 
I. 
Then I stepped back, pulled him to his feet, and threw my arms around him.  This 
was not the embrace of a couple of lifting buddies slapping each other on the 
back.  I pulled him into my body, and felt him melt against it.  I could feel 
the tears running down his cheeks, and dripping onto my chest.  I could feel the 
hardness of his cock through his baggy workout pants against my groin.  And then 
I noticed the hardness of my dick.

I don't know when it happened, or what triggered it.  But I was at full-staff, 
and I think I even felt some precum leaking out, running down the shaft. 
And Jeff felt it , too.  Without looking at me, while pressing himself against 
me. running his hands over my back and ass, he asked, "I don't want you to do 
anything that makes you uncomfortable, but if you'd go through your posing 
routine, right now, and let me stroke myself, it would mean the world to me."

Again, I shocked myself.  Without even thinking about it, I said, "Sure."  I 
stepped back, walked over to the stereo to cue my tape, and felt my cock bobbing 
against my abs.  I returned to the center of the room, looked into Jeff's eyes, 
told him this one was for him, and went into the routine. 
Jeff had his dick out before the music opened.  By my third hardcore pose, he 
was cumming, but he never sent soft.  He continued to stroke, mouthing words I 
couldn't hear, but the truth is, I hardly noticed him. 
I felt like I was posing on a mountaintop.  That I had transformed into the 
biggest fucking bodybuilder on the planet.  Suddenly I realized I had the power 
to attract women and men.  I felt like I could make anyone, ANYONE, do whatever 
I wanted.  Suddenly, I didn't just want the respect of whoever looked at my 
muscles.  I wanted their adoration.  I wanted them falling to their knees, dizzy 
with desire, cumming at the thought of touching my body.  
I was nearing the end of the routine, and my entire body felt ready to explode.  
The pump was incredible.  My entire body was one giant, hard, pumped-up cock.  
When I went into the last pose, the most-muscular, instead of must pumping my 
hands in front of my body, I grabbed onto my cock, holding it like a hose, 
flexing every fucking muscle in my body. And came.

The cum shot out of me like bullets; big, fat, creamy bullets that flew across 
the room, over Jeff's shoulder, and against the far wall with a splat that 
should have been heard next door.  Jeff moaned, fell backward, and came again, 
his entire body shuddering with the effort.

The next night, after the show, Jeff introduced me to the world of getting 
deepthroated.  Don't get me wrong, I have had at least my share of blowjobs from 
chicks, but he inhaled that musclecock with one swallow and applied suction that 
had me cumming in thirty seconds.  No woman has come close to doing to me what 
Jeff did to me that night and every night until I moved back to the midwest.

Then, once he got me off, we'd settle down to getting him off.  His favorite 
scene was for me to put my hands on his shoulders, force him to the floor, look 
into his eyes, say "Behold your God," and start to strip.  Usually he came 
before I could completely strip, and I enjoyed the power of making him hard 
whenever I wanted.  While driving my jeep, going somewhere with him, I'd tell 
him to look at my arms, flex those guns in front
of me, hear him moan, bring one of them up to my face, and lick the bicep.  
Twice, I had him coming that way, without either of us touching his cock.

Unfortunately, I couldn't stay in DC.  Life on Capitol Hill is a miserable zoo.  
It was a great place to live and work for three years, but I didn't want to 
build a life there.  Since
Jeff already had, I went back to Iowa and, finding the market for personal 
trainers rather weak there, moved here to Minnesota.  Jeff and I are still in 
close contact, we see each other a couple times a year, and I am more than happy 
to show off the latest version of my physique and fuck him til he can't see 
straight. 
So I owe Jeff a lot.  He opened up new worlds for me.  And he'll hold a special 
place in my heart all the rest of my days.


Johnny Galt is known as the Frugal Bodybuilder, and he's always anxious to hear 
from anyone with insights to share about being and getting big. You can reach 
him at frugalmuscle@hotmail.com.