My Best Friend Said It Helped His Workouts (Patreon)

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Chapter 1: Massage Gun

Max was my most comfortable, long-term friend. By the end of high school, we had jerked off in the same room more times than I could count, and we literally learned techniques together. But that had long stopped, like we had grown out of it or something. It was something I always kind of missed, but never brought up. Thought it would seem too gay. But suffice it to say, we were close. When he got super into working out, it became a secondary hobby of mine to join in, somewhat.

His mom was a nurse who worked doubles at the hospital and his dad was always at work until seven or later. We always had the house to ourselves from noon until dinner, and nobody ever came in to bother us.

I was his spotter, kind of my whole job. It went along with being lifelong best friends with a dude who found his zen in lifting, and didn't have many other hobbies. I was always jealous of his body, and I admit I stared a lot. He was a beast by senior year, and after we turned eighteen he kept joking about "now that I'm legal, it's time to go round up some milfs," but he never actually "got" with any girls. At school there was some back and forth with the ones who were obviously drawn to him, and it fizzled every time, and then he'd be hanging out with me after school again.

He also never wore a shirt in there. He would come out of the kitchen in basketball shorts and nothing else, sometimes with a sock on one foot, the only person I had ever seen walk around like that. And he'd start loading plates. By July this summer, his tan stopped in a hard line above his elbows and another one across his neck, so his chest and stomach were pale in a way that made the muscle look almost fake. His abs were little hills, and there were eight of them.

I had also started padding the program, making him work out more, since I actually enjoyed doing it with him. He wanted to do five days, and I kept telling him his central nervous system needed an extra day, which was something I half-remembered from a video, and he bought it every time because I made it sound convincing. So it was six days a week that we were both in that garage. I still don't really know why I did that.

One squat day, a "max-effort" one, he counted the working sets out loud from the second he walked in. 

"Two-seventy-five, three-fifteen, three-forty, and then we send it," he said, dragging the forty-fives off the rack pegs one at a time and letting them clang onto the bar collar. He chalked his hands over the bucket and clapped, and the dust hung in the natural light coming in, until the fan pulled the cloud apart.

"I've been reading about the recovery window," he said. He talked at full volume even though I was three feet away. "So your testosterone spikes after a heavy compound. Like actually spikes, measurably. But the window is like an hour, and if you don't do something with it, it just dumps. You waste it."

"Do something with it... like what," I said.

"That's what I'm figuring out." He got under the bar for the two-seventy-five and set his hands. "I saw a whole thread on it on Reddit. Guys are doing bloodwork."

I stood behind him with my hands out at his ribs, not touching, close enough to feel the heat coming off his back. That was the spot. Every set, every session, that same six inches of air between my palms and his skin. He went down and the plates settled and he came up talking through his teeth, and I was already hard in my shorts, and I had been since the first plate went on. It started before he did anything and it kept happening after, and I had gotten used to standing at a slight angle so the front of my shorts didn't touch him.

The waistband of his shorts always rode down when he braced. There are two dimples at the base of his spine, right above where the elastic gives up, and I know exactly how far apart they are. I could draw them from memory. He would hit depth and his lower back would arch and the shorts would slip another quarter inch and I'd count the rep out loud.

"Four," I said. "Five. That's five."

He racked it and shook his arms out and grabbed the water jug off the bench and drank about a third of it. He kept going about the thread while he loaded the next jump, something about a guy tracking his numbers weekly, and I said "huh" at the right intervals. He got to three-forty and it moved fine. Then he sat on the bench and put his forearms on his knees and stared at the mat for a full minute, which is what he did before a top set, so I stopped talking, because that was the rule.

Three-eighty-five went up slow on the second rep and he growled the whole way through the third, and racked it hard enough that the pins rang. He stood there with both hands on the uprights, breathing in through his nose, back shining wet under that white window light.

"Something's pulling," he said.

"Where."

"Glute. Right side. Like, right in the middle of it." He reached back and dug his thumb in through the fabric, then made a face. Then he put both thumbs in his waistband and shoved his shorts down to his ankles and stepped out of them, his two big, white globes of ass were showing. They popped out naturally, just barely meeting in the middle where the two circles of butt cheek came together. He stood on the mat looking over his own shoulder at his ass.

I already knew that he didn't wear underwear. What was new was that he was hard. Fully. It stood up off him thick all the way down with a vein up the left side of it, and his balls hung low and heavy and loose from the heat. He was hung. It was much bigger than the last time I saw it hard. I'd known that too, in an abstract way, from locker rooms and from a hundred sessions of him in loose shorts, but seeing it up close and at full mast was a new revelation.

He didn't mention it. He didn't cover it. He didn't move his hands anywhere near it. He twisted at the waist and pushed his fingers into the meat of his own glute and said, "Right there. Feel that? It's like a knot."

"I'm not touching it," I said, and it came out weird and quiet.

"It's a knot," he said again, like I had disagreed about the knot.

He reached over to the shelf above the workbench and got the massage gun, the cheap one his aunt gave him for Christmas with the foam ball head on it, and he thumbed it on, and then he held it out behind himself over his shoulder without turning around.

"You gotta get it," he said. "I can't get the angle."

I looked at his hand holding the gun and I looked at the two dimples and I took it.

He waited there with the gun buzzing in his outstretched hand, and I got down on one knee on the mat, then both, the rubber hot through my shorts. I pressed the massager into the meat of his glute, watching the muscle and skin jiggle rapidly as I pushed into it.

"Higher," he said. "Like where it meets the back of the leg. There."

I moved it in little circles toward where I thought he was asking me to put it. The muscle jumped under it and then softened and he groaned and dropped his forehead against the upright of the rack.

"Oh my god. Yeah. That's the spot, keep it there."

I kept it there. I had my left hand flat on his hip to steady him, which he didn't comment on either, and I worked the head in slow circles into the bottom of that glute where it turned into hamstring. His skin was wet with sweat and the foam ball skidded a little so I pressed harder. From where I was kneeling I could see the whole underside of him, the hang of his balls and the shadow of the crease going up, and above that the two halves of his ass, pale and round and heavy enough that they moved when the gun hit them, and the tan line from his shorts cut across the top of his thighs in a hard edge.

"Go up in between the cheeks," he said. "It's radiating. Like into the middle."

"Into the middle..."

"Yeah, like... in there." He reached back with one hand and pulled the cheek out and away, opening himself up, holding it there. "It's connected. It's all one sheet of tissue back there. Go in."

I did. I moved the head into that space and let it press right against him, and he made a strange noise, half giggling, half grunting. I hadn't heard it before. It was low and went on for a couple seconds, his whole back tensing and his shoulders bunching up. His hand stayed where it was, holding himself open, a chalk print left on his own skin.

"Right there," he said. "Don't move. Just hold it right there."

I held it there as I pressed it right into his hole. My other hand had ended up on the small of his back with my thumb in one of the dimples, and I was so hard it hurt, and I did not move it. He rocked his hips back against the gun, small, a couple inches, and then again, and then he braced both hands on the rack and pushed back onto it steady, and his dick was still standing straight up off him, bobbing every time he moved, and neither of us said a single word about that. Not one. He didn't glance down, even as I saw a bead of clear juice appear at the tip, then slowly drip down, creating a string hanging in mid-air. 

"Tissue quality's trash on that side," he said. "That's from all the unilateral stuff."

"Okay," I said.

He worked himself back against the massager for another minute. His breathing got even heavier than it had been under the bar. I watched the muscle in the back of his thigh flutter, and I watched a bead of sweat come down out of the small of his back and run over my thumb, and I kept the gun exactly where he told me to keep it, because at no point did he tell me to stop, and at no point was I going to be the one who did.

It was at some point while sitting in this position, that it hit me that I was getting a thrill out of this. I knew I had a boner, but those always came and went throughout the day, especially when working out, especially with Max.

Because I'm so relaxed, I would think to myself. That's why I get so many random boners around my buddy.

Then he stood up straight, out of nowhere, and rolled his shoulder and said, "Yeah, okay, that's got it."

He picked his shorts up off the mat and stepped into them and pulled them up over everything, still hard, the shape of it obvious and pushing the waistband out in front, and he didn't adjust it. He took the gun out of my hand and set it on the shelf.

"Dude, your hands are unreal," he said. "For real, that's a recovery tool right there. That's like a two-hundred-dollar table session."

"I just used the massage gun," I said.

He clapped me on the shoulder with his chalky hand and left a white handprint on my shirt. "I gotta eat, I got like four hours of eating to do. There's veggie stuff if you want."

"In a minute."

"Log the three-eighty-five as three reps. It was three. The third one counted." He was already at the door, and the fan wobbled as he pushed past it, and then the door shut.

I was still on both knees on the mat, and the gun was somehow back in my hand, buzzing against my leg. I thumbed it off and the garage got very quiet except for the fan.

"What the fuck..." I muttered out loud to myself. 

I knew exactly what I was going to do when I got home, which was the same thing I did most nights by myself in bed, except tonight I had new material swimming around in my brain. His hand pulling his ass cheeks apart. That noise he made. I was going to use all of it, and I was going to use it for probably two sessions. I still didn't know what I was going to do in the real world about this, but I knew that much.