Luv Dreams Part 4

Luvdreams 4: No Shirt, No Shoes, Big Problems!

My name is Ralph Landris, and I am a reporter for the Star Ledger. I cover Atlantic City and the New Jersey shore areas for the paper, and usually report on crime, health code scandals and the other titillating trivialities of news reporting. Then last summer I got my big break, the scoop of the decade. I was on the boardwalk when I saw HIM for the first time. Up to that time I had been a straight macho news reporter with name recognition at a half dozen strip clubs…then I saw Frank and became gayer than George Michaels in a public restroom. The details of my tale are reconstructed from personal observations and follow-up interviews.

How can I describe Frank Defeo? The first time I saw him, he was shirtless, wearing only a pair of tight revealing gym shorts and a pair of flip flops. He didn’t so much walk down the boardwalk, as srtut like he owned the place, and that he did. Everywhere on his body could be seen the bulge of muscle. He had just finished a contest and a string of photo shoots out on the West Coast and was utterly ripped. His abs were like chiseled granite, a staircase of ridges leading up to two massive pectoral muscles that danced as he walked. The pectorals were set against a backdrop of broad behemoth shoulders connected to arms bedecked with muscular forearms, wrists, bugling biceps and triumphant triceps. Veins laced these twisted cords of sinews, like light festooned on a Christmas tree. From his shorts stretched thews of thighs like tree trunks, leading down to bulging calves. Crowning this vision of virility was a head as perfect as the body. The profile was Olympian with perfectly proportioned ears and nose, chin and cheeks sculpted by a divine artisan, and eyes soft and yet powerful in majestic contrast. I felt a bulge of my own in my pants, and a lump in my throat.

I was not the only one. As this Hercules passed, the crowds of tourists and residents were set a buzz like a hive struck by a rock. Cameras clicked and hearts melted. According to legend several dozen men stricken by their own inadequacies in contrast to the magnificent masculinity of Frank from that moment on were victims of Erectile dysfunction. Whenever they attempted to make love after that, a vision of the he-man paragon that is Frank flashed in their heads and their miniature manhood went flaccid in the despair of their sense of inferiority and shame. Other men in the crowd reddened with anger, as their wives and girlfriends gazes fell lovingly on Frank. Some were tempted to challenge this threat to their male dominions, but a second look at his bulging muscles and sledgehammer fists, and the clear potency and dominance of this spectacular male sent yellow stripes racing up their spines, and in a few yellow streams racing down their legs. For some this was not an issue, as their pants tented with erections.

There was a tittering of lies told by women to girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands and lovers that they didn’t like muscles so big, that it was gross and “icky” and unattractive. Their hardened nipples, slackened salivating jaws, moistened loins and dilated pupils belied their words in the face of the inescapable biological evidence of their attraction. In his days as a bouncer, according to those who knew him then, such women were those that doesth protest too much, they would tell their friends this standard line, but stuff phone numbers and hotel keys in his pants. Alone with the object of their desire, they could not wait to rub their fingers, lips and tongues over the contours of his muscular frame they pretended to despise.

Frank strolled into an ice cream parlor with his buddy, whose presence I only then became cognizant of, so narrowly focused had I been on Frank’s physique. In normal circumstances, I would say his friend would be considered rather buff and athletic, but compared to Frank he somehow seemed diminished, almost puny. They strolled through the door ignoring the NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE sign. I followed up behind to see if anyone would dare to deny this demiurge the frozen delicacies of his desire, after weeks of diet and deprivation to achieve his shredded form. I ignored the sirens of ambulances drawn to the boardwalk by the petitions of pleas over cell phones due to the fact that dozens of tourists had passed out in his wake. They had succumbed to what would be later misdiagnosed as “heat exhaustion”.

In the ice cream parlor, a large cranky middle-aged woman in an apron and paper hat saw in her peripheral vision the flash of abdominal flesh forbidden by the sign. “No shirt, no-” she got one glimpse of Frank and her face and tone softened. “-no charge for you-handsome.” The jowly fifty-ish chunk of a woman was giddy and giggly as a girl of 14, gushing over Frank and by extension his buddy. Moments later the two were leaving the shop with free double scoop ice cream cones, and the lovesick momma was fanning herself like she was having hot flashes.

As the pair left, they were hemmed in from all sides by adoring women, girls, and even some love-struck guys. Glazed over eyes, goofy smiles and the expiration of passionate sighs marked the crowd, which flowed around Frank and his friend, who glided through the onlookers like the bowsprit of a ship plowing through the waves. Some drops of melted ice cream dripped from the cone on to his magnificent chest. Half joking, Frank said to his buddy, “ Hey you think any of these babes would want to lick that off me?” That was when the riot broke out.

The cops arrested Frank for lack of a better plan to restore public order. The cop frisked Frank in a matter that more reflected molestation rather than law and order. It was as if the police officer could not help but admire the magnificent muscles and manhood with the massage of his fingers, the blunt, buff and macho cop becoming a bit bi-curious within the magnetic flux of Frank’s charismatic presence. The cop attempted to keep up his gruff exterior while his manhood ebbed away by Frank induced desires that would later bring him into therapy, and months later leather bars.

Frank was brought in front of a paunchy middle-aged judge who sat bored on his dais dispensing justice to a series of minor mayhems, mishaps and misdemeanors. When he saw Frank, his drew himself to attention in more ways then one. After a few moments, he asked to see Frank in his chambers, and had him take off the ill-fitting shirt he had been given at the police station. The fabric was already straining from the pressure of Frank’s gargantuan muscular chest and arms and as Frank tried to extract himself was reduced to ruin. The judge could not help but reach out to touch the muscle-god, to prove he was not hallucinating. Within moments he was on his knees, his arms wrapped around one of Frank’s quadriceps, professing his love, adoration and devotion. “Worship me bitch!” laughed Frank, and the judge fell prostrate to the ground licking Frank’s toes and apologizing for the inconvenience of Frank having to be booked and arraigned. He promised to make personal restitution for the City’s affront by buying webcam time and joining Frank’s website in perpetuity. He has been a good client of Frank ever since. For form sake, he did have to order Frank not to appear without a shirt in Atlantic City again, which given what happened, Frank concurred was a prudent course of action.