Mr. Meyer Makes a Man of Me

My nightmare—hell, the worst nightmare of any teenage boy—was coming true.

Gym class hell.

God help me.

Growing up as kid back in the 80s, I was… well... skinny. Gangly. Skangly. All elbows and knees with toothpick-limbs holding them together. I was hardly friendless, but I was naturally quiet, and on the shy side, especially with strangers. Raised by a single mom who tried to manage every detail of my life with all the obsession of a chihuahua on Adderall.

In other words, I was a neurotic wimp.

Given all this, I was absolutely ripe for being bullied into oblivion. I know bullying is obviously a problem today, but back then the bullying was done at brutal, no-holds-barred, Leviticus-level of torment.

My usual defense was to hide as much as I could. Vanish into the carpeting. Oh, I know I was earning no points for bravery, but my long-range hope was the big, massive jocks who went around terrorizing people would overlook me and vent their fury on someone else.

But today was the kind of day that made that strategy utterly impossible.

At the start of the new school year, our gym teachers did a few days of testing to set a benchmark for performance over the course of the year. Essentially, every single person would need to submit to public evaluation on how well they could complete a range of physical tasks: how many sit-ups you could do, how many pushups, how fast you could run an obstacle course, and so on.

I had been active as a kid growing up; but in my gangly state, there was no way I could possibly run with the jocks. Worst of all, everyone had to demonstrate these skills in front of everyone. There was no way to hide, no way to avoid showing your frailties in front of Every. One. Else. In. Fifth. Period. Gym.

Everyone would see how much of a physical failure I was.

My one strategy for survival was that by hanging back at each apparatus to the end, I could usually count on the fact that everyone who had gone before me was well-bored of the entire process, and I could squeak by without anyone really caring. It was a risky strategy, born of desperation, but it was all I had.

Well, it was my turn up the bar to do chin-ups. And I was terrified. This was the worst of the worst for me; I was generally fast and had decent core strength, but my puny little arms were an unending source of embarrassment. Ugh.

Worst of all, the monitor was… Mr. Meyer. Crap. Gym teachers sometimes have the reputation of being washed out has-beens with a beer gut, who delighted in making kids do all kinds of physical activity that would leave themselves winded.

Mr. Meyer wasn’t like that at all. He was the jockiest jock that jocks prayed to so they could receive the blessings of divine jockdom. He was a machine.

I didn’t really know much about him, which made him all the more intimidating. He had an amazing body, as if the majors were about to call him up to pitch in the starting rotation in the World Series. Worse, he was… like, handsome. The kind of guy who could easily star as the new James Bond movie. If someone ever printed a poster of Mr. Meyer shirtless, I’m sure half the jocks would have ripped down Farrah Fawcett and put him up in her place.

His age? I mean, from a  schoolboy’s perspective, he was an “adult,” and that could be anything from 20 to 50. I think he was like an assistant athletic director, so he didn’t teach as much as some of the other colleagues. But I did see him around in the gym teachers’ locker room. I know that he taught a few gym classes, and was an assistant coach for... something, and that every woman in the school drooled over him, and drew obscene doodles about him in notes they passed around with each other. Teachers and students alike.

His bare existence made me feel like the clumsiest, scrawniest, most hopeless idiot in the universe. Unworthy in every way.

So, of course he was going to be the official chronicler of my miserable performance on my weakest skill.

I had no choice. Dead last, there was nowhere to hide. I slithered up to the apparatus, desperate no not make any sudden move that might draw someone’s eye. I jumped up, grabbing it….

…and promptly humiliated myself. Even by my own timorous standards.

Part of the problem is that to build momentum, I kicked my legs wildly to the side. Right where Mr. Meyer was standing. Getting him good in the solar plexus. He instinctively doubled over, and looked up at me. I met his eyes. His eyes.

His eyes.

Something… some feeling… rushed through me and my body… quit. Startled, I could feel myself losing my grip, and like a slow-mo assassination scene, I let go… and crumpled to the floor.

Oh God. Oh God. OhGodohGodohGodohGod. My life was over. I had humiliated myself in the worst possible way, in front of the worst possible audience.

Panic. Oh God. Did anyone see? See that I didn’t even do one stupid chin-up? OhGodohGodohGod. I turned to flee. Flee for my life. With whatever was left of my tattered dignity and the wreckage of my life.

But it got worse. I heard his voice. A warm, ringing baritone. Him. He was talking to me.

“Son, hold on a second. Could you come here?”

OhGodohGodohGod.

More dead than alive, my head bowed to hide my burning shame, I shuffled back to him. My panicked gaze dancing every which way, seeing if anyone was watching. So far, so good… I think everyone left in the area was caught up in the rapt conversations of teenagers. Oblivious.

I stood before him. Afraid to acknowledge his—or my—existence.

“Son, that didn’t really go too well, did it?”

I shook my head.

“Can you… do… any chin-ups?”

God. Why was he doing this? Why was he cornering me? Forcing me to publicly admit to my failure? Why couldn’t he leave me alone?

“Son?”

I numbly shrugged. Anything to end this mortifying spectacle.

“That’s a problem, isn’t it? Don’t you want to grow up strong?”

“…I…”

“The other boys are doing good, don’t you want to be like your friends?”

“…I…” Friends. Hah. Beneath my humiliation, I was starting to get mad. So now I wasn’t good enough to have friends, or something?!?

“Don’t you want to be able to… live your life like a real man? To… move furniture, do your job?”

What was he saying? God, stop already. Go to hell… leave me alone…

“Don’t you think….”

“SHUT UP.”

I snapped. I was hissing violently. All the rage, humiliation, and frustration of my whole stupid life boiling up and roaring past all my defenses. Somehow, I was speaking up, for what may have been the first time in my entire life.

Mr. Meyer looked blankly at me, and blinked twice.

“Don’t you think I know how pathetic I am?? Don’t you think I know I’m a loser? Don’t you think I live every moment of my life terrified that… oh, the football team, the wrestling team… hell, the debate team isn’t going make my life a living hell, every single day? ESPECIALLY in the locker room, where I live every day of my life in terror that I’m gonna be thrown into my locker? Or that they’ll drag me into one of the bathroom stalls and give me a swirly?”

Mr. Mayer seemed to recover from his shock and catch his footing. “Easy, there, son. Calm down. If you’re worried about the other boys, why not try out for a team? That’s a great way to get into shape and to….”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?” I didn’t know I could whisper so loud. “Don’t you think I want that??!? But the first time I go out for a team, any team, every idiot on the sidelines is going to see just how pathetic I am. I’ll be the biggest laughingstock of all! Laughed off the line, and then thrown into a locker or given a swirly. And after I’m gone, at every practice til the end of time they’ll gather and tell the story about that one time the pathetic loser tried out and made a fool out of himself. Look! I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know what to do! I can’t get started until I’m in shape, and I can’t get in shape until I get started. What do you all want with me!!?!”

At this point I was nearly in tears. Years of frustration and self-loathing boiling up, unstoppable. I just wanted to run. Run and never stop.

I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder. A big, meaty hand… surprisingly strong. Surprisingly gentle. I looked up, but Mr. Meyer had leaned down, to better look me in the eye. “Can your dad work with you? I’m sure he’d love to throw a ball, teach you a few….”

“He’s gone." I was biting off each word. Divorced my mom when I was six, moved out east. My brother is older, out of the house, in college. And he’s always hated me from ruining the good thing he had going as being the only child. It’s just me and my mom who’s terrified that I’m gonna grow up to be like my dad.”

“Oof,” he gently exhaled. Mr. Meyer looked down, not saying a word for a minute. Well, what for me felt like a 100-year-long minute. His big hand still holding my shoulder. Strongly… with a kind of effortless strength. He looked back up at me. “What’s your name, son?”

“Troy.”

“Well Troy? It looks like you’re marching off to manhood without anyone to show you the ropes. No one should have to do that alone.” There was a long pause. A very long pause. “Maybe I can help.”

I looked at him. Curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters… I could help you get into shape. You said you’re terrified someone bigger’s gonna come around and mess with you. I could show you how to bulk up, build some muscle, get yourself in fighting shape. And show how to take care of yourself. Would you like that? Like being able to stand tall, and be your best self?”

I… I was speechless. No other man in my life had ever talked to me like this. Was… was he serious? Without even realizing it, I nodded. Looking down. But feeling… hopeful. Well, maybe not hopeful, but less terrified.

“There we go!" he enthused cheerfully. "And see, that’s just the start! When you feel strong, you will be strong. Strong enough to look a man in the eye when he’s talking to you,” he said with a grin.

I blushed, and looked up at him. His smile lit a fire under mine.

“Alright! That’s the spirit!” he rustled my hair.

My residual distrust still bubbled up. “But why would you do this, for… well, me?”

Mr. Meyer gave me a glowing grin, which… somehow lit up some deep, cobweb-filled corners of my mind I didn't even know were there. “Troy, growing up is hard enough on its own. It’s easier with a friend. I’m a coach. That’s what I do. I shape people to be their best selves. You’ve been dealt a rough hand, but you’re stronger than you think. That little bit of self-righteous temper proves it!”

I blushed again, thinking about how I had word-vomited all over him.

“Most of my coaching duties aren’t until spring, so the timing is good. Troy, I’ll make a deal with you: Give me six months. Let’s call it February. We’ll make a plan and stick to it. Work after school, and maybe weekends. I guarantee you’ll see progress and start to feel like a new man. If you like it, we’ll keep going. You think you can do that?”

“I… I guess so.”

“C’mon, Troy… is that all you got?”

“Yes. YES. I can do that!”

“Atta boy!” he gripped my shoulder again.

“I just gotta ask my mom first.”

Mr. Meyer stood and fixed a look. “Troy, first lesson is that a man doesn’t ask his mom's permission. He confirms his plans with her!” he said with a wink.

I broke out into a huge grin. “I’m going home to confirm with my mom!”

“Getting there! You’re totally getting there!” His laughter was… rich, baritone. Like honey-stained oak. “Troy, I want to change your thinking. You need to be bold. And the best way to do that is to start acting bold, even if you’re not feeling it. Then, in time, it will be second nature. I want you to always think, ’What would a hero do?’ Lift yourself up. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes I can!” I blurted out. And… God help me… I think I actually believed it.

Mr. Meyer beamed down on me. There was this… enthusiasm in his voice. A masculine enthusiasm. Like we were gonna climb Mt. Everest or swim the English Channel. Together. He… actually made me believe I could do it. That I could make myself into one of those action heroes I was always watching on TV.

What would a hero do. A hero. I don’t know that I ever had many real-live heroes in my life, but at that moment… Mr. Meyer was one of them.

We agreed to meet for our first lesson on Wednesday. I had spent the entire previous night thinking and rethinking what I could wear. His words, “What would a hero do?” still ringing in my ears. I didn’t have proper gym gear—we were way too poor for that—but I pulled out my favorite outfit, figuring a hero needed to like what he wore.

That first encounter… changed everything. And made everything that followed possible.

I got to the locker room at the appointed time. Mr. Meyer, aware of my insecurities, had suggested that I show up well after the final bell to be sure that everyone was out. So I was waiting alone, in the deserted locker room.

And then, in he came.

He must have had teaching or some administrative time, because he came in wearing “civilian gear.”

“Troy!” He boomed out in hearty greeting. “Right on time, and ready to go. Good man! Gimme just a couple of minutes to change gear and we’ll be ready. The Mrs. will get mad if I wreck my good clothes!”

“Ok, sure!” I started somewhat at his comments; kids rarely give one second of thought about their teachers’ home lives. “Are you married?”

“Yep, and even have a baby girl. Well, not a baby anymore… she’s growing up too fast. C’mon back while I get ready!”

Mr. Meyer led me into the gym teachers’ locker room. I had never been inside, just looked in through the windows that looked into the main room. The main part of it was essentially an office with a series of built-in desks. Further back, there was a locker room for the teachers and coaches, with a bathroom and showers. It was all pretty simple and straightforward, but for me it was like walking into a cathedral. It was amazing. Sounds, sights, and even smells overwhelming me. My only frame of reference for gym life was the boys’ locker room. But this was different. A place radiating masculinity. Camaraderie.

Maybe it sounds stupid, but having him bring me back into this forbidden space made me feel extra special, like I was a new initiate being ushed into the Holy of Holies. Into the Citadel of Manhood.

I was so overwhelmed taking everything in, I had momentarily lost track of Mr. Meyer. He continued to talk about this or that, I wasn’t really paying attention. And then I turned back to him.

Oh.

Oh God.

He was naked.

Naked.

And… he… was…

…Jesus….

Of course, I had seen the male body before. Through gym class, I had had to shower around a lot of guys. But they were always my age. Mr. Meyer was… a MAN. He had this… build… to him. Real muscles. He wasn’t a weightlifter or anything, but even so he had this powerful athletic frame. Powerful beyond any of the jocks in school. Radiating strength. Commanding respect.

But it was more than that. I was… shocked… to realize he had… hair. All this body hair. Far more than the guys I showered with. I had been proud when my pubes came in, and when I started growing snaffles of fur around my nipples. But Mr. Meyer had full-on body hair. A wash of dark, curly hair across his iron-cast pecs, which ran down his center to open up again below his belly button. It thickened again into this… freaking… forest… around his dick.

Dick.

Oh… God… his…

…dick…

It was a freaking MAN-DICK to go with the rest of him. I knew I had nothing to be ashamed of in that department, but there was a vast difference between a good-sized teenage dick, and a good-sized man dick. Jesus. It was this huge slab of meat perched over a pair of hairy baseballs. Oh… Holy… Crap….

I couldn’t look away from him. He further riveted my attention; once he had fully stepped out of his pants and underwear, he reached down to his balls and casually shook them off, giving them a stretch and chance to breathe after having been confined all day.

All conscious thought had left my body. There was only this… Thundering Roar of a Man standing before me, in all his manly glory. Unlike anything I had ever seen before.

As I stood there in overwhelmed awe, he continued to chatter about… well, I have no idea. But he kept jabbering. Oblivious to my stupefied state. At one point he casually reached into his gym bag, pulled out a jock, raised it to his nose and gave it a passing sniff. Satisfied, he bent down and stepped into it, positioning himself in the cotton fabric.

At this point, he finally glanced over at me.

I was still struck mute.

“Uh, you okay, Troy?”

Oh God. What was…? How was…? Oh God. Oh… GOD.

I was too terrified to move, let alone speak. What happened? And even worse, what did he think of me?

Mr. Meyer looked at me, his gaze slightly softening. I didn’t know if that was good or bad, or made me feel better or worse. “Troy? Ah… I get it.”

“Uh… you… do…?”

“I get it all the time. I’m guessing you’ve never seen a gorilla-man before. Right?”

I blushed furiously. “None of the guys look… like… you….”

“Yeah, I get stares from little kids at the beach all the time,” he joked. Mr. Meyer shifted his weight to one leg. Looking for all the world like a Greek statue. Only hairier.

I couldn’t laugh with him. A mix of terror, embarrassment, and too many other things hitting me all at once.

Something…changed… in his gaze. Softening it, I think… but I couldn’t really read him. There was a pause while he studied me. Finally, he went on. “Troy, from what you’ve said, I’m sure it’s been hard growing up, without men in your life to show you the ropes. So let me give you a few pointers. Lesson One: every man checks out every man. Every chance they get. It’s in our nature. Men in the natural world are competitive, hierarchical, territorial. And yes, we are particularly competitive about our dicks. That’s the way it is. There is no shame in sneaking a peek. Don’t worry about it. But Troy? You gotta be more careful. Guys don’t like being checked out, regardless of how natural it is. Got it?”

I swallowed, and nodded.

“Good man!” He playfully tousled my hair. “Alright, let’s get to it. Sooner than you realize, you’re gonna bulk up and be able to give all the other guys something to think about!”

And so it began. The long climb towards building up my body.

I have to say, it was… amazing. I essentially had my own personal trainer to help build my body. Over the next few weeks, we worked on a program to build muscle, yes, but to also build overall strength and stamina. You could tell he was a coach; Mr. Meyer was really good—surprisingly good—at being able to push me along. I guess I expected this guy, who looked like the alpha-most of alpha guys, would be screaming at me like I was in boot camp for the Marines. Dumping on me, tearing me down. But he didn’t. He was patient, yet persistent. Instinctively knowing when to prod and when to pull back. Never afraid to give it to me straight.

Plus, he was surprisingly physical. My midwestern upbringing meant that people—especially men—just didn’t touch each other. Ever. But here he was, hands all over me as he moved me into position, changed my stance, or braced me when I needed it. Clapping my back when I nailed a routine. Touching me. Freely.

But it wasn’t just about becoming strong. He took seriously his role of mentoring me into the world of men. Showing me, along the way, all kinds of things that my overprotective, vaguely neurotic mom never wanted me to know. Showing me how to spit. Getting me to feel comfortable adjusting myself. Teaching me how to snap back and bust another guy’s chops. And also, how to embrace life, with a jock-like confidence. His philosophy was “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take,” and that ethos slowly worked its way into my thinking. Not being afraid to go for it.

And that was the true transformation going on. He was leading me to being tough, physically and emotionally. To feel comfortable in the new body I was creating.

And slowly, over time, things started to change. I started filling out more. Even I could start to see the contours of my muscles slowly spring to life. Looking less like a boy, and more like a man.

Mr. Meyer’s body remained my ultimate goal. When I stared in the mirror, he was the body I wanted for myself. Just the… shape of it. The mass of it. The obvious power of his muscles.

Curiously, that chance encounter of seeing him naked on our first day together remained seared into my mind. And… that wasn’t the only time I saw him. He was remarkably casual about getting undressed. Sometimes, he and another coach would be casually bantering back in forth in the office, and one or the other of them would be stark naked. Hidden off to the side so they couldn't see me, I silently gawked at them. I couldn’t get over it. It was so… foreign to me, especially since my mom usually acted like a guy wearing shorts was obscene. I was… amazed? thrilled? that he was so free with his body. Envious of his confidence.

The raw power of his body was reinforced a few weeks later. Later in the fall, we got a late blast of summer weather. In response to the heat, we had stripped off our T-shits, and it was all I could do not to oogle him as he pushed me through my drills. Watching his muscles, now sheened with sweat, in action. The sight… got to me. Stayed with me. Tripped along the edges of my mind… my memory.

Something else happened that day. After I finished my drills, he sent me running to grab our discarded shirts. As I was running back, I… I don’t know what I was thinking, but I … well, I brought his to my nose and… smelled it.

I… it was like… I mean… it just….

Wow.

His scent… filled me. I mean, I was aware that he had a… well, a day-in, day-out scent to him. But this was different. A sharper scent. A scent of sweat, and action, and… man…. It was amazing. Throwing me off. Hitting me in ways I… didn’t… understand.

It stayed with me.

I think it was around then that… strange thoughts started to come into my mind. I mean, as a red-blooded American teenage boy, I thought plenty about sex. I had started the usual… dance… of trying to get the attention of cute girls in my class. Along with my buddies, I had of course snuck peeks at girlie magazines whenever we could get away with it. And, naturally, that Holy Grail of teenage life—sneaking views of dirty videos that my buddies’ dads had thought they had hidden away.

It also should go without saying that I had a very healthy acquaintance with jerking off—and had even snuck a bottle of lotion under my bed so I could enjoy myself at leisure. I trained myself to be deathly quiet to avoid arousing the wrath of my mom.

So yes, I was acquainted with sex, at least from the perspective of a teenager.

But as the weeks drifted by, my thoughts on the subject became... disjointed. Less clear. My daydreams were less about abstract, big-titty women I had seen, but of… I dunno… physical pleasure of a… different sort. One that I couldn’t even put my finger on, and that never quite came into focus.

Besides, it didn’t seem as important. What I was really into was hanging out with Mr. Meyer. Those sessions became the bread and butter of my life. Making me feel confident. Making me feel alive. And somehow, Mr. Meyer became one of, if not the most important person in my life. His opinions started mattering more to me than my buds. I mean, they were just a bunch of kids, while Mr. Meyer was a freaking God.

It wasn’t just the drills, I loved just… doing things with him. Making him proud of me. Making him… pay attention to me. Thinking how good it felt to have his hands on me as he shifted my position, or set my legs or….

It was… strange….

Things became really strange one day when he was working on some drills to build flexibility. He was pushing, I was pushing, and… something happened as our balance got out of whack, and he ended up hands-on, flat-out pushing my butt to stabilize me.

It was only an awkward, passing second, and we reset to get it right.

But that…

…it felt…

Wow.

There was something about that moment that hit my body in a way I didn’t understand. I could feel a… burning… on my cheeks. A… tingling… in my gut. And almost like an… after glow… of his hands. I realized my pulse was up. And not from the workout.

Oh crap. I was bewildered. Confused. And I pulled back. It was weird. I looked at Mr. Meyer. Oh God. What did he think? God, I was such a spaz!

But his look was… curious. Maybe the most curious thing about the whole situation.

I went home. There was plenty of time before my mom got back from work, so I usually enjoyed a bit of uninterrupted “me time.” I slid into my bedroom. I was all set to rub one out. Maybe with a contraband dirty magazine that I had stashed under my bed.

Yeah. That’s what I needed. Clearing my mind by shooting a big load.

I grabbed some lube and slid it around my rapidly-swelling dick. Hoping the rush would burn through the confusion and set me to right. My slick hand worked my meat. Feeling good. It only took a second for my dick to rear up, ready for battle. I was long; seven inches or so when I measured last. Curved slightly back towards my belly, with a good-shaped mushroom head. A good dick for jacking off, giving me lots of surface to work.

I got down to business. I loved the tight feeling as I twisted my hand slooowly around myself. Loving the torque. Loving the pressure. Rubbing my thumb around the tip, teasing my piss slit. Oooooh yeaaaaaah. With my left I started working my nipples. That always got me going. Pulling. Tweaking. Just a brush of hair around them—not nearly hairy as Mr. Meyer’s. His were big and fat too, filling out those might pecs of his….

Aw crap, why was I thinking about… him? I was trying to get myself off! I pulled out my well-used magazine, and opened it to my favorite page. A page of her fingering her twat. God, I wish my hand was there. Without thought, my left hand slid down to my balls, kneading them roughly as I pulled my dick. Loving the feeling of my bush as tickled my fingers. Pushing up on that magic spot behind my balls. Yeeeaahhh. Feeling gooood as my lotion-slicked fingers started working my dick. Harder.

I was enjoying myself immensely, and enjoying the clarity that came from pleasuring myself, all other thoughts gone.

I closed my eyes. Somewhere, unbidden, disjointed visions danced around my mind, in time with my right hand’s motion. Hands. Yeah, they were hands. Hands on me. Hands rubbing me. Rubbing me like I rubbed my dick. Hands. Nice. Smooth. No, not smooth… rough hands. Hands. Under my balls. Hands reaching…

…reaching around my butt…

Hands.

Big, rough, hands.

Hands like his.

Mr. Meyer’s hands.

Mr. Meyer’s hands on my butt.

Hands. Butt.

Oh God.

OH GOD. I realized my left hand was working my butt. God, that was so… wrong. My ass was… you know, like… dirty. You couldn’t play with it. That was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Working. Hands. No, that was wrong! Hands. Rough hands. Forbidden. But setting off something….

Oh God. Oh God.

OH GOD.

All I could see was Mr. Meyer working my butt. His rough, meaty hands behind me. OH GOD. My right hand furiously pounding my dick. His hands. My middle finger lightly brushing into my crack. OH GOD. Furiously pounding my dick. OH GOD. My Meyer’s hand. Feeling me. Feeling me. Me raising my hips for him. His…

His dick.

I looked at my dick. Harder than I had ever been in my life. My cockhead slick not just from lotion, but… from… seeping… cock snot. I saw it. Saw my dick.

And then I saw Mr. Meyer’s.

OH GOD.

OH GOD. OH GOD OHGODGODGODGOD

And just like that, every other thought I had ever had in my life went out the window. All I could see was Mr. Meyer’s huge, angry cock. Hairy as hell. Furious. Seeing him pull his pud as violently as I was pulling mine. Our cocks. Becoming one. Huge. Man cocks. HUGE.

MNNNNGGHAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

Without realizing it, I shot off. Bigger than I had ever shot before. A screaming cannon-blast of spunk that blasted all over my face. OH GOD.

What was that? What was going on? Did this mean I was…. You know….

[…]

[…]

…God, I couldn’t even bring myself to say the word.

No! No way. Those people were… those people. I wasn’t… you know. I was just… I mean, this only meant that…

Oh. God.

Please.