Chapter #23An Afternoon in the Life of Jason Lynch by: Seuzz   "Well, I'll catch you girls later. See you 'round, Jessica. See if I can pick me up a matched set." You wink at her, which only makes her frown all the deeper. You feel the eyes of the three girls on you as you saunter back to the gym.
There's usually a couple of other guys working the weights after school, but when you arrive after changing into your workout clothes you find you have the machines all to yourself. The weights feel good--heavy, massive and satisfying--as you lift and push and pull and grunt and strain, tearing your muscles into bigger and bulkier shapes. From down below, on the gym floor, come the shouts and calls of the basketball players practicing, and the squeak of their shoes on the polished floorboards. You set yourself up with some free weights near the edge of the upper floor so you can curl while watching. There are a couple of girls sitting on the opposite of the gym--including Lin Pol and Michelle Estrich (two of the cheerleaders)--but you watch the team. Your eye rests mostly on Gordon. He's not the tallest--Steve Patterson is at least half a head taller--but he is certainly the biggest, with powerful arms and shoulders and a big chest resting atop trunk-like legs. He barks and growls orders at the other players but puts himself to even greater feats of endurance and athleticism, and his short dark hair is quickly plastered by heavy sweat, and a dark stain spreads down the front of his jersey. He's a magnificent beast--arrogant, forceful, and powerful--and you hungrily anticipate making his body your personal possession. You concentrate on him so much, in fact, that you don't notice you've acquired company on the machines until you hear a heavy clank behind you.
It's Sean Mitchell, one of the wrestlers, and you turn to watch as he works the leg press. He's another fine specimen of masculinity, with the limbs of a well-trained wrestler beneath a round head topped with a short shock of gingerish-blonde hair; his complexion mixes pink and white in sharp relief as he strains against the weights.
"C'mon, Mitchell, you can work heavier shit than that," you call out to him. His eyes briefly rise to lock with yours, and then he returns his attention to the weights. "What kind of faggot are you trying to be?"
"I know what I'm doing," he grunts as he rises and crosses over to the bench press, where he changes out the big weights you'd been using for slightly smaller ones. You wait until he's on the bench and has lifted the bar before going over to take up a spotter's position. He pushes them up and down easily.
"Tollefson know you're slacking," you demand. "Those were my weights you changed out. How fucked up is it that you're lifting lighter stuff?"
His face strains but he says nothing. You drop your hands onto the bar as it comes up, but instead of guiding it you subtly press down on it, keeping him from pushing it all the way up. He clenches his eyes shut against the unexpected resistance, and his arms begin to tremble as you push down harder. Then his eyes snap open and he glares at you. You grin back.
The moment hangs, and then you release and pull the bar back so that it slides up and into the cradle. "Fuck you, Lynch," Mitchell barks, swinging around to sit up. "The fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Just helpin' out," you giggle. "You need a real workout, buddy. Don't be a pussy."
"What do you know about pussy, you faggot," he snarls.
Something seems to click inside your head, and the world goes out of focus; your smile tightens into a rictus. But then everything comes back clearly. Mitchell isn't the strongest guy on the team, but he is big, and he knows all the wrestling moves. Much as you'd like to pound his face into raw meat, you know it's wiser to play the moment a different way.
"What do you know about pussy," you giggle back. "Your grandmother's doesn't count. As for what I know about pussy--" You turn your ballcap brim backward. "Just talk to one of the Garner twins. I'm real popular with 'em this afternoon. Which is more than you'll ever be."
His eyes gleam madly, and he tenses. You can tell he's making the same calculation you'd made only a few seconds ago--the odds on his being able to take you. But he too apparently chooses discretion. "Funny, everyone's got you pegged as an ass, man."
You blink, and it takes you a moment to work out the veiled implication. "Oh, that's good," you chortle. "I'll have to remember that." You're suddenly aware of silence from the floor below. "Well, fuck, man, if you don't want my help just say so. I got better people to hang out with." You swagger over to the stairs and down from the loft.
The team has already filed into the changing room, and you follow to change out with them. A brief hope flares that Gordon will hit the showers, so that you can join him, but he just changes into a fresh jersey and sponges the perspiration from his head. "Nice job today, Gordon," you say as you squeeze past him to your locker.
"I'm surprised you can see over the railing," Patterson says from behind you, and you turn to come face-to-chest with Gordon's best friend.
You raise your eyes to snicker at him. "Just gimme some stilts," you shrug. Patterson snorts and turns back to his own locker.
You try making some more talk with Gordon, trash-talking their archrivals at Eastman High, but he just ignores you. That doesn't stop you from tailing along as he and Patterson exit and mount the stairs to the loft that they've set up as a private space. "So what's on the agenda for this afternoon," you ask. "Porn and beer, or is Chelsea showing up later?"
"Me and Steve got some talking to do," he says brusquely as he unlocks the door.
"'s'Fine," you reply. "Just gimme a magazine. I can wait."
Gordon swings his backpack around and jams it into your chest. "Do my homework."
"Sure thing. I got someone covering mine," you grin. "Some asshole I ran into earlier today. Oh shit," you laugh. "What if I can't remember his name?"
You start to follow him into the room, but he turns to block you. "Fuck off, Lynch. Take it to the library."
"Come on, Gordon, don't be like this."
"And I said to fuck off." He slams the door in your face.
Your smile freezes in place. What the fuck is eating at him? If you could get him to talk about it with you instead of that jerkface Patterson--
You shake your head to clear it. Lynch's feelings of disappointment tell you that this isn't atypical behavior by Gordon, but you are surprised at how despondent it leaves Jason feeling. Well, you've got other places you are supposed to be. You hoist Gordon's backpack to your shoulders and trudge out into the parking lot.
* * * * *
"Okay, you homos," you call as you enter the school basement. "Stop polishing each other's cocks. You're gonna get you some masks to polish instead."
The two golems--Will Prescott and Caleb Johansson--glare at you, but you ignore them as you get to work. Prescott has set the materials out for you, and you briskly copy out the necessary sigil and fire off a couple of masks. At a gesture, your double reluctantly picks up a mask, but Caleb just folds his arms. "I don't gotta do what you say," he says bluntly.
"Ooh, brave words from the twig," you sneer. In a trice of quick steps you're over at him, grabbing him and bending him over so his face is at your crotch. "I like this. You know where your original is, right, Johansson? A little sweet talk from yours truly, and I'll have him sucking my cock like a good little whore. You can give me a preview." He twists but you grip him tightly until he stops struggling, then pound him hard on the back, dropping him to his knees. "You wanna fuck with me, or earn your keep?" With a cough and choke he scuttles backwards over to his friend--who is very white--and falls to the floor. With a blistering expression he pulls over a mask and starts to rub it with a cloth.
"I can tell you're gonna need close supervision," you say softly. "Luckily, I got nothin' else to do this afternoon." You wander over to the corner of the basement, where the big mirror is standing, and stare at yourself with a smile. Sandy hair, ruddy cheeks, blue eyes that blaze with gleeful malice, strong white teeth. You fold your arms and press them inside your pits, cupping strong pectorals. Your cock stirs appreciatively, and on an impulse you pull your shirt off so you can admire your sculpted torso. Baby fat in the belly hides the strong abs you know are there, but no amount of dieting or exercise can expunge it. Your dad is quite stout, and your eyes narrow at the thought that you'll also turn into a porker at some point. But for now, you're nicely tricked out. You turn your leg: nice calves, too.
A muttered laugh from behind saves you from further self-embarrassment, and you turn just in time to see Prescott and Johansson ducking their heads and hiding their smiles. But before you can give them a deserved thrashing your cell phone rings. "Yeah," you snarl into it.
"Don't 'yeah' me, you cocksucker," Jessica snaps. "Thanks to you, Cindy and Lin wound up over at Chelsea's, and I wasn't able to get Kendra." She sighs. "I suppose we can use the mask to get Gordon instead."
The thought of having a three-way with Gordon and Chelsea flashes into your mind. "You have the kit there with you? The golemization stuff, I mean?"
"Yeah." She sounds unhappy. Maybe you'd better tell her to save the mask to use on Kendra tomorrow.
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