“Did you just order for me?”
“I did. The menu’s in French, so I thought it would just be easier.”
“Did you forget about these?”
He was pointing to his veiny big biceps that bulged huge in his tight shirt. I stopped for a second to admire his gorgeous, hard, muscular arms.
“How could I ever forget something that squeezes me until I almost pass out?”
“These big powerful things don’t need you ordering for me. Just because I’m younger than you doesn’t mean I need to be taken care of. Our waiter may be French, but he speaks the language of huge arms. Trust me – he stared long enough to count all the veins.”
“I doubt it. New ones appear every day.”
“These are not the arms of a child is all I’m saying. I’m pretty sure anyone with good eyesight could easily tell who’s the top in this relationship. These arms make me the man.”
“And what does that make me?”
“Well, Mr. Man, this conversation is pretty childish. I ordered for you to be nice, not to make you feel inferior.”
“Inferior? Again, I’ll point to my big arm. I don’t think there’s ever going to be a time when I feel inferior. When I’m holding your body against the wall with one hand and you can’t break free I’m pretty sure I’m not the one who’s inferior.”
“God, that turns me on. Me squirming like hell and you just holding me there with no effort at all.”
“It’s the arms, dude.”
“I am not a dude. I wish you wouldn’t say that. It makes you sound so jock-ish.”
“I am a jock, dude. Just look at the arms.”
“I look at them all the time.”
“Yeah, you do. What did you order for me, anyway.”
“Well, if you’re the man, why don’t you ask the waiter yourself?”
A big smile crept across his face. He raised his right arm like a school kid asking a question. The biceps bulged nicely beside his head. At the same time he raised his left arm into a biceps flex – making the muscle bunch up hard and huge. He didn’t take his eyes from mine. Instantly, there were two waiters there, racing to help him. He chose the guy who had taken our order, to the more than obvious disappointment of the other waiter. He lowered his raised hand, but kept the other arm flexed as he spoke. He turned and smiled at the guy.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Notice the arm gets a ‘sir.’ I’m so sorry to bother you, but could you tell me what this dude ordered for me. He can’t remember.”
“Of course, sir. For you, he ordered two egg, cheese, and ham croissants and a low fat cappuccino. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“No, thank you. You’ve been most kind. Would you like to feel it?”
“Yes sir. May I please, sir?”
The waiter was so excited the last part of this came out in French. It didn’t matter, however, the muscled younger man knew the answer was an enthusiastic yes. The waiter nervously reached out his small manicured hand and placed it on the huge arm flexed in front of him. The guy let out a few French expletives as he rubbed his fingers slowly across the hard, giant thing. He then let out a quick yelp, jerked his hand back, and took off for the back of the café. The flexed arm was lowered as the two men watched the waiter hurry away.
“I hope he makes it to the urinal in time.”
“It sounded like he didn’t.
“They say Marilyn Monroe used to be able to go down the street and not get noticed if she wanted to. But if she wanted attention, she could take off her sunglasses, let down her hair, and swing her ass in a certain way to make people recognize her immediately. My arms are something like that. People certainly notice them all the time, but if I flex them – that’s when I get undivided attention. Arms always get the most votes for favorite big muscle. I think they show off a bodybuilder’s power and hard gains before anything else. One flex is all it takes. As I said, the arms make the man.”
“They were certainly what I noticed first.”
“Mainly because I was flexing one of the huge things in your face.”
“There was that. I had also noticed you earlier on the dance floor.”
“I noticed you, as well, drinking your dignified glass of champagne in a hot sweaty late night dance club. I figured you were in search of some huge, strong, big-as-fuck arms to take care of you.”
“Watch the language, we’re not at home.”
“Sorry. I forget. Anyway, I thought I’d let my arm be my pick up line, so I just walked up and flexed a big gun in your face and said hello. You actually dribbled a little champagne down your chin.”
“Proving just how dignified I truly am. And you, my big muscled young friend impressed me to no end when I asked what your bulging arm would like to drink and you said a Bud Light.”
“Hey, not fair. I was only twenty-one and had not been introduced to other kinds of beer . . . well, I did know about Corona, but I didn’t like it.”
“A knowledge of beer is not needed when you have enormous arms of steel. I believe that’s the point you’ve been trying to make ever since I thought I was being kind by ordering your favorite breakfast in French . . . at a French café . . . in Paris.”
“Well, when you put it that way, it was kind of nice, wasn’t it? I just don’t want you to think I need babying.”
“My huge young man, every night you pick me up in your arms and easily carry me to bed like a toddler, why on earth would you feel that way. It should be me giving you grief about babying.”
“I do like curling you as we walk up the stairs.”
The younger man pointed to his big muscles again and mouthed ‘the arms make the man.’ The older gentleman took a sip of the coffee that had been delivered and crossed his legs to conceal the growth at his crotch. His young muscle boy knew exactly how to taunt him. The morning light coming through the nearby window made his tanned hard skin glisten and highlighted all the massive bulges in a very inviting way. One of the big arms reached down for what seemed like a small coffee cup in this particular hand but was actually a wide, tall cappuccino cup. This was a drink that the older man had introduced to his big friend. The man felt some pride in that fact.
“You’ve got that superior look on your face again.”
“I do not.”
“Do I need to point at my arm?”
“No. Please don’t. I’m trying to calm down.”
“That’s impossible when these big guys are around.”
The two massive arms went up into a double biceps pose – bulging into the air like the Alps. A waiter, standing nearby, actually gasped out loud and many patrons of the café turned to look at the flexed arms. Marilyn Monroe had needed to be noticed. The guy’s arms were truly magnificent. They showed off years of dedication in the gym and the kind of power usually reserved for giant bulldozers or killer whales.
“What have I told you about flexing in public?”
“Your mouth always says not to do it, but your crotch is always saying something else. Besides, the size of my arms should say I make the rules.”
“And not the size of my bank account?”
“Point well taken.”
The bulging biceps came down and the younger man took another sip of his cappuccino. The café sort of went back to business as normal. All motion had previously frozen for a few seconds. The monstrous man did not look defeated in any way; he just knew the importance of financial stability.
“Why are you suddenly so obsessed about being ‘the man’ in our relationship?”
“I just want to make sure I’m carrying my weight in this romance.”
“My dear boy, with arms like those you could carry all the weight in this and every other relationship in here.”
“See, I recognize that what you just said was a compliment, but then there’s the fact that you called me your ‘dear boy.’ That feels condescending.”
“It’s a term of endearment! And why on earth would I say something condescending to a man that can hold me in the air with one arm.”
“Yeah, see what you did there. When you talk about the strength of my arm you call me a man. That’s my point.”
The older man stopped and thought about this for a moment. His lover had a point. It was when the big muscular arm was holding him in the air that he felt the most submissive – totally defenseless. Being dominated by the young stud could turn him on faster than anything. It had been that way since that first night meeting at the nightclub. The older man always asked to be manhandled as foreplay.
“As you have already said, point well taken. I do, however, want to make some things very, very clear. I call you boy because I love you and not to be derogatory in any way. I call you man because I view you as an equal in some ways and far superior when it comes to muscles and strength. I call you honey, babe, giant, freak, and monster because you usually deserve whichever one I happen to choose. And I call you ‘sir’ when I’m feeling submissive.”
“That’s usually my favorite one.”
“Mine, too. But let’s not forget that you have many different names you call me depending on the mood you’re in.”
“If you want something monetarily, you call me ‘pops.’ If you want to cuddle, you call me ‘sweetie.’ When you want to dominate me, you call me your ‘little pet.’ And when you want hard, nasty, sweaty sex, you call me your ‘muscle pig.’ So, you see, all of your names are not so flattering, either.”
“You always seem to like them at the time.”
“I could say the same about you.”
The breakfast had been delivered and consumed. The second cup of coffee and second cappuccino had disappeared, as well. The big guy was rubbing his right biceps teasingly with his left hand, flexing the hard gun as his fingers caressed it. There was a devilish smile across his face. The older man still had his legs crossed, because there was still a passionate fire at his crotch.
“What would you like to do today, sir?”
“Go back to the room and curl you with these big arms, my little muscle pig.”