“So, we didn’t exactly have an undying romance going on between us. After we split up—and, for the record, I’m the one who split up with him—Bathony was pissed. He kept bugging me, contacting me, wanting us to get back together. I said ‘no.’ And he freaked out.
“He started bad-mouthing and smearing me on social media, saying I was gay, and that I was a whore. Uh … hello? I am gay, or rather bisexual. I’ve never denied it. No mystery there. Next, Bathony decided he’d ‘expose’ me as a male prostitute and a gay porn performer, which was kind of funny, because my website advertising my services as an escort was and still is right out there, for anybody to look at, and so are all the sites on which my porn videos are available of for sale or rent. Some big coverup, huh?”
“But,” Bob interjected, “wouldn’t you agree that the bodybuilding establishment is still rather homophobic, especially here in a rather conservative country such as Hungary? Protective of its macho image?”
“Damn, you’re a good interviewer, boy!” Adolar exclaimed. “Just the sort of thing I’d like to address.”
They were interrupted when Ferenc brought them their food and wine. Adolar poured wine for both of them, and then he attacked his somewhat peculiar meal. Bob imitated his example, enjoying his salad.
“For example … did the revelation that you’re bisexual, that you escort and do gay and bisexual porn, cause you to lose product endorsements?” Bob asked.
“No, not really,” Adolar replied, mumbling around the mouthful of boiled chicken breast which he was chewing on. He swallowed, and cleared his throat. “I lost a couple of endorsements, sure, from tight-assed companies who didn’t want their fitness products to be associated with a cocksucker,” he admitted, bluntly. “But the irony is that I gained a dozen or more other sponsors—some of them gay businesses, sure, but not all of them, interestingly enough. There’s that saying, to the effect that there’s really no such thing as bad publicity. Money talks. Gay men traditionally have a lot of disposable income. An openly gay, or shall we say, bisexual and definitely gay-friendly, pro bodybuilder—he’s just the kind of role model the gay community likes.
“But the hypocrisy, Bob! Shit! It’s incredible. Do you realize how many men in the bodybuilding industry and culture are gay?
“Then there’s the economic factor. I own a gym, which is doing very well. I win some decent prize money in competitions. I have those product endorsements. I do some modeling—yeah, ‘legitimate,’ so-called ‘fitness modeling,’ but also the nude, explicit stuff. But with all that money coming in, sometimes sporadically, I still couldn’t support myself and my wife the way I think a professional athlete should be able to do.
“So I turned to the escorting and the porn, which, frankly, can bring in some pretty big money. I’ve always been a hypersexual kind of a guy, so why shouldn’t I exploit that to my financial advantage, just like I exploit my physique?
“Bob, it costs me more to prepare for a major bodybuilding contest, than I can ever hope to bring home in prize money! So why shouldn’t I hustle?”
“My personal life is now an open book, which is a good thing. No lying, no subterfuge, no bullshit. It’s all out there, and those who want to judge me are free to do so. But I’d like to point out that I’m hardly alone. I’m not the only muscle whore on the circuit!
“Would you like me to give you a list of the half dozen or more guys who competed in the last Mr. Hungary competition who are either gay or ‘gay for pay?’ Who all have ‘sponsors’ who pay their rent, their gym memberships, their other bills, including groceries, and supplements, and, yes, steroids and other performance enhancement drugs—in exchange for sex, on a regular schedule? I mean, these dudes mark on their calendars the days when they’re expected to put out for their muscle-loving sugar daddies! And the rest of the time, when they’re not working out, they’re free to do their escorting … to set up dates with other paying customers. They’re nothing but a bunch of muscle man whores, the same as me. The difference is, I’m honest about it.”
Adolar proceeded to reel off a list of no fewer than eight names, most of which took Bob completely by surprise.
“But you can’t print any of them,” Adolar cautioned him, with a sigh. “Because the tight-assed, hypocritical bastards will sure you for libel. To still insist on staying in the closet, in this day and age—! I don’t understand it. But maybe I don’t have any right to judge. How other men choose to lead their lives is their business, after all.
“Any of these dudes … for fifty thousand forints [about one hundred and seventy-one US dollars], or less, they’ll do anything you ask them to do. And I don’t mean just strip naked and pose and flex, in private! They’ll suck cock, let themselves be sucked, they’ll rim ass, get rimmed themselves, they’ll fuck, get fucked—everything, the works. Anything for money.
“Then there are certain judges, who’ll be only too happy to give a physique contestant extra points on his scorecard, in exchange for a blow job. And certain gym owners, who have their ‘favorites’ whom they’re happy to ‘sponsor.’ Sex … sex is what drives the whole gym and bodybuilding industry.”
“Even though I can’t mention any names, this is still great stuff,” Bob declared.
“But I’m getting off track,” Adolar said. “So, this sleazy scumbag Bathony … he starts sending me e-mails, more than one, threatening to out me. He’ll tell everybody from the Bodybuilding Federation on down, to my boss at my workplace, and my wife, what a gay slut I am, unless I pay him five hundred thousand forints, in cash. I mean, talk about selling himself cheap! Five hundred thousand forints—I know that’s half a million, so it sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? But that was chump change. [Translator’s note: Five hundred thousand forints is approximately one thousand, seven hundred, and ten US dollars.]
“Plus, what he hadn’t taken into account, was—I didn’t give a shit whom he told what. So I went straight to the cops. They set up a classic sting, with me wearing a wire, and everything, just like in the crime shows, on television. Bathony just couldn’t shut up. He babbled on and on, all about he had me over a barrel, he could ruin my reputation, and I was going to have to pay him to keep him quiet. The dumbass just kept incriminating himself, right and left, doing the cops’ job for them.
“They moved in and busted him, finally, and you should’ve seen the look on his face. The asshole didn’t even have the brains to plea bargain. He pleaded not guilty, and because there was so much evidence against him, he had the book thrown at him. He was found guilty of extortion, and he was sentenced to two and a half years in Balassagyarmat.” [Translator’s note: Balassagyarmat is a town in northern Hungary, and it is also the name of a prison located there.] “I guess he’s having his ass fucked every night by his cellmate, and also being held down in the shower room by a bunch of thugs and gangbanged, on a daily basis. Serves him right.”
“Wow. What a story!” Bob exclaimed. “Now, what’re your future plans?”
“I’m bigger now than I’ve ever been. I’m going to get even bigger, and get huge—for my size!—and hard. And I’m going to continue to the porn work. Let’s face it, I can’t stay at the top of the bodybuilding game indefinitely. A guy in his late thirties is already considered ‘old.’ The masters division starts at age thirty-five, for Christ’s sake! But a guy who stays in shape can still do porn in his forties.”
“Eventually, then, you’ll make the transition to what they call ‘the daddy type’ in gay porn?” Bob asked.
“Huh, you seem to know an awful lot about gay porn,” Adolar teased him. “Yeah, I’ll a be a hot mature muscle fuck, ‘mentoring’ the younger guys who are just getting into the industry. But now let’s talk about you, Bob,” he went on. “For one thing, I’ve never seen you at my gym. If you—and your buddy Urban—are such loyal fans of mine, why don’t you have memberships at my place?”
“We’d love to work out there,” Bob replied. “But the truth is, because we go to Eötvös Loránd, we can wo
rk out at the sports center on campus. For free.” [Translator’s note: Eötvös Loránd University is a prestigious university in Budapest, named after one of its professors, a famous physicist.]
“Ouch. I’m afraid I can’t compete with that. I might offer you guys a student discount. But I’m too hardheaded a businessman to give gym memberships away for free. Is the weight room at the sports center well equipped?”
“Oh, it’s state of the art.”
“Huh,” Adolar grunted, enigmatically. He was thinking, I just bet it’s well equipped … well stocked with good-looking, frisky young muscle pups. Like you! Ripe for the plucking. For the fucking!
“Are there any more like you at home?” Adolar inquired. “Any brothers and sisters?”
“I have an older brother, Istvan. Two years older than me. He goes to Eötvös Loránd, too.”
“Which makes you the kid brother, always in your big brother’s shadow, huh? Is that it?” Adolar guessed.
“Oh, yes. Some of the time. Not always.”
“Is Istvan a weightlifter, a bodybuilder, too?”
“You bet he is. When he started pumping iron, as a teenager, that inspired me to start working out with the weights, too, because—of course—I wanted to be just like him. But he’s bigger than me, damn him. Bigger and harder. But of course, he’s had a head start.”
“So—good genes must persist, in your family,” Adolar suggested.
“Maybe,” Bob agreed. “But developing one’s physique—God knows that still takes a hell of a lot of hard work!”
Adolar sighed. “Don’t I know it!”
Chapter Two: A Muscle Man’s Wife
Adolar arrived home, after his encounter with Bob.
“You’re late,” his wife, Vanessza, said.
“Yes, sorry about that. After the show—I was held up.”
“How’d it go?”
“Very well. Lots of young amateur talent onstage. And the audience seemed to like my posing routine,” Adolar said, modestly.
“They always like you.”
The truth was, Vanessza had ambivalent feelings about her husband’s bodybuilding career.
She was proud, of course, to have such a good-looking, well-built, successful spouse. Adolar was idolized by physique enthusiasts, and as a result, Vanessza was envied. When the couple was out in public, Adolar turned heads. Men—and women—who didn’t know who he was admired his body.
On the other hand, some people who were in the know sneered at Vanessza, behind her back, and even pitied her. She was the wife of an openly and unashamedly bisexual man, who saw no reason why he should be faithful to his wife, betraying his marital vows with the occasional woman, but much more frequently with a succession of male sex partners.
And then there was the real whoring around, on Adolar’s part. The escorting … and the porn videos. It brought in extra money, always welcome, true. But it was disgusting!
Vanessza wasn’t the kind of wife who submitted abjectly to her husband. Far from it! She was independent.
She worked, full-time, as a saleswoman and client consultant in one of Budapest’s most prestigious and exclusive fashion houses, which catered to a clientele of wealthy, discriminating, style-setting women. Vanessza even modeled the couturier’s outfits, occasionally. Inspired by Adolar, she worked out and she kept herself in good shape. But she didn’t aspire to become one of those hardcore female bodybuilders, who ended up looking like haggard, excessively muscular, flat-chested boys, with a woman’s head incongruously set on top of their necks! No, Vanessza was all woman, voluptuous, curvaceous, which was what Adolar liked—in a woman. When it came to his male sex partners, they couldn’t be masculine and muscular enough to suit him!
Her husband’s bisexuality had been a tough thing for Vanessza to swallow, so to speak, at least at first.
As recently as two months ago, when Adolar had achieved his longstanding ambition to win the title of Mr. Hungary, the couple had almost quarreled.
“Another trophy for us to find a place for,” Adolar had said, when he got home that night after the contest, brandishing the large trophy for his wife’s inspection.
“Another trophy for me to dust. Same old, same old. How’d it go, really?”
“Very well,” Adolar admitted. “I was damn good, if I do say so myself. I worked hard, trained hard, as you of all people know. And I deserved it.” Ordinarily, he wasn’t a man who’d boast. He was permitting himself, on this occasion, to gloat just a bit.
“Good. I’m proud of you. But then, I’m always proud of you,” Vanessza declared.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad. That’s what keeps me going,” Adolar said.
The truth was, Vanessza had long ago stopped going to her husband’s physique contests, at his request. Her presence in the audience made him nervous, Adolar claimed. He preferred to be observed, he said, and admired, appreciated, and judged by his many male admirers, many of whom admittedly lusted after him—the sight of Adolar onstage, stripped down to his tiny, revealing posing trunks, tanned, oiled, near naked, pumped up, and bulgingly muscled, driving them insane with frustrated desire.
There was also a secondary consideration. Adolar’s not-so “private” life, as an escort and porn performer, was now well known. It wasn’t outside the range of possibility that, at some physique competition, some homophobe in the audience might yell such insults as “Baszd meg, akkor piszkos izom köcsög! [Fuck you, you dirty muscle fag!]” when Adolar appeared onstage. Adolar preferred to spare his wife such embarrassment.
Vanessza had to put up with certain things. Her husband was one of Hungary’s greatest bodybuilding stars. Vanessza had to accept that fact, and deal with it—she had to embrace that reality. Including the undeniable reality that gay men of all sorts lusted for her man! Adolar was a queer magnet. Gay and bisexual men thronged to him. They wanted him, they wanted to perform lewd, unspeakable sex acts with him, and none of them was shy about expressing his perverted desires.
“It’s all part of my fictitious ‘gay for pay’ persona,” Adolar insisted, when he discussed the issue with his wife, that night, after his big win. “Apart from business, these men mean nothing to me—”
“Oh, you liar,” Vanessza fumed. She was a fiery redhead, with a temperament to match, and there were times when she lost her customary self-control, abandoned herself to her emotions, and flared up.
“I’m being perfectly candid,” her spouse declared.
“Liar! Some ‘fictitious’ persona, when you give it away for free, too. You filthy, cocksucking, ass-fucking liar!”
“Not a nice way to talk, my love,” Adolar murmured, by way of meek protest.
“Man whore!” Vanessza shrieked, hysterically. “Man cunt! You man whore! Opening your mouth … sucking dick. Bending over … spreading your ass cheeks, taking cock up your hole … whore, oh, you’re such a man whore! I bet you’d do it anywhere. At the gym. In a public toilet. In a back alley, behind one of the gay bars you like to go it. I bet you’d even do it out in the middle of the street, in broad daylight!”
“Really,” Adolar sputtered, indignantly. “Give me some credit … for being more circumspect … than that!”
Vanessza’s wrath gradually subsided, and she and Adolar came to an understanding.
They’d have an open marriage. Adolar was free to screw around, and so was Vanessza. But there’d be no lying, no sneaking around. They’d share information about their extramarital sexual adventures. And, whenever possible, they’d also share their sex partners, with each other. Threesomes became the couple’s favorite recreational activity.
And so, when he arrived home late that night after the amateur physique contest, Adolar was perfectly candid with his wife, about exactly why he’d been delayed.
“I ran into this sweet young muscle pup named Bob, after the show,” he admitted. “We went to have a bite to eat.”
“Let me guess. He was—?”
“Luscious,” Adolar admitted, with an indescribably lewd inflection, and a correspondingly rapt look on his handsome face.
“Oh, you nasty dog! Did you fuck him?” Vanessza asked, bluntly.
“Not yet. I primed the pump, though, I believe. He’s interested. Very interested!”
Vanessza laughed. “You filthy pig. I can’t trust you to go anywhere on your own, can I?”
“You’d be well advised to keep me on my leash,” Adolar admitted.
“I know you,” Vanessza taunted him. “Maybe all too well. After showing yourself off onstage, and then flirting with a hot young muscle pup—you’re all sexed up and raring to go, now, aren’t you?”
“Kind of,” Adolar agreed.
“And you expect me to put out for you.”
“That’d be nice.”
“I can tell you’ve been drinking.”
“Just a couple of glasses of wine, with my snack,” Adolar protested.
“Huh.” Vanessza looked and sounded skeptical. “Well, let’s have a nightcap, before we go to bed. Want one?”
“Sure. I’ll make myself a nice stiff one,” Adolar said, without conscious innuendo. “And you?”
“I’d love one. My usual, please. I want to hang up my dress first, though.”
“I’ll bring it to the bedroom.”
Adolar locked up, first, and he also turned off the lights, except for those in the bedroom. At this time of night, the apartment building was quiet, and so was the upscale neighborhood in Budapest which it was located.
Adolar didn’t take Vanessza for granted. He was profoundly grateful that he possessed such a beautiful, sexy, and understanding wife. Vanessza had real class—which, admittedly, she could switch on or off at will. When the occasion demanded, she could be the perfect wife, prim and proper, and apparently subservient to her husband, in a way that seemed like a throwback to the mid-twentieth century, to the Fifties or Sixties. In the privacy of the couple’s home, though, behind closed doors, Vanessza could transform herself into the whore of a man’s most lurid dreams. There, her subservience was revealed to be the cunning deception it was. She could be an aggressive slut—and her husband loved her for that.
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