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(SOUND ON) Gorilla Dads 121 - This Gorilla doesn’t speak much, but his bro’s compliments are all he needs to get fired up for the mission.

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Teddy Garr | COLT Spurs #2 (1978)

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Karim and Brian Cerf for Spurs #24 – M2M Couples 2 (1996)

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Killer Joe and Butch Barnes for Colt Studio Presents #2 — Denim Edition

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Cal Sinclair for COLT Private Collection #2 (1988)

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07-02-25 | Crawford Wayne Barton captured this scene at the Mason Street and Market cable car turnaround on Sunday, June 25, 1978. On that Gay Freedom Day 500,000 people filled Market Street from the Ferry Building to the Castro. It was more than thrilling. I was there. misterlemonzlime.tumblr.com/archive

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I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it. Not at first.

When Marcus told me to skip the family trip—that he had a better plan—I hesitated. My whole life, I’d let them drag me into things I didn’t want. Sitcom smiles, thinly veiled jabs, backhanded compliments about my job, my body, my boyfriend. Especially my boyfriend.  

But Marcus didn’t ask. He just smiled that calm, certain smile, and said, “Let me show you what we *could* be.”

And now we’re here. We had been regular sized guys that morning, and both of us slim.  I mean, Marcus had always been bigger and stronger than me...but now\...well, it's different now. 

Now, since he handed me one of two glowing vials—bright and pulsing like it held some ancient fire—told me "bottoms up!" with that daring grin, and drank his, I hesitated for just a second. Then I drank mine. The taste was electric—warm and sharp, like the beginning of thunder.

And then we started growing.

At first, it was just a swell in my arms. Then my chest pushed out, my back thickened, and my thighs began stretching wider than I thought possible. Our shirts shredded in seconds. The walls of the lab cracked around us. I saw Marcus's smile widen as we exploded through the roof, our heads bursting into open sky.

It didn’t stop there.

Marcus turned to me, still holding my hand in his enormous, growing grip. He looked toward the distant green hills—the ones my family had planned to hike that morning—and tilted his head thoughtfully. Then he just nodded once and said, "Come on."

And so we walked.

With every step, we grew larger. Taller. Denser. More massive. I could *feel* the size flooding into me, feel my muscles stretching impossibly farther, hear the creak of denim clinging to limbs that should no longer fit clothing or logic. Marcus's strides were steady, his breath calm, and all the while our bodies swelled upward through mist and light, pushing past trees, then ridges, then clouds.

Now, we’re standing at the edge of the world—above the hilltop clouds, both of us unrecognizable from the men we were only hours ago. My muscles sit stacked on muscles, thick enough that I can feel my chest pressing outward with every breath, rising and falling like the slow heave of tectonic plates. I shift my weight, and the ground below me seems to groan in response. The curve of my shoulders catches the sunlight, stretching tight across striated delts that gleam with tension and strength.

My arms, longer than flagpoles and twice as thick, twitch with power barely contained. My hands alone could flatten a truck—and they’re only getting bigger. Every movement sends another ripple across the sea of muscle I’ve become. My calves bulge like marble pillars rooted into the mountain itself, denim shorts clinging and tearing against thighs now easily the size of redwoods, pulsing and alive with impossible power.

The clouds curl around my waist, low and thin like fog, barely reaching halfway up our bodies now. I can feel the wind push past my bulk and shift behind me. Each breath fills me with more—not just air, but pressure, presence. Mass. The realization hits me again: we’re still growing, and nothing below can stop it.

And there, just below us, I see them.

My family.

Staring up at me like insects. I don’t think they’ve blinked once. Not since we rose out of the cloudline and they realized who we were. Their mouths are open. Frozen. I can practically feel the judgment melt off their faces.

It’s the first time I’ve ever looked *down* on them—and not just in height.

And I’m still growing.

They were never kind. Not really. Always nudging me to change. Be smaller. Quieter. Easier to manage. I don’t think they ever expected me to stand up for myself.

Now they are so tiny and small...it's hard to believe I was ever frightened of them.

Marcus rests his massive arm across my shoulders, warm and heavy, fingers splayed down my side like I’m something to be cradled. Even now, being this huge and massive, he’s taller. Thicker. Stronger. And I love that. But he never makes me feel lesser. 

He leans in, his beard brushing my ear, thick and soft with the warmth of his breath curling around my neck. His body presses close, the weight of his chest brushing against my shoulder, dense with mass and heat. I can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, low and deep, vibrating through the air between us. His hand gently tightens on my side, fingers spanning the width of my ribs like I’m nothing but a warm stone in his grasp.

And then, with a voice that rumbles just for me, low and powerful enough to crack the silence but soft enough to wrap around me like a blanket, he says it low enough that only I can hear it:

“Look how small they are.  You never have to be afraid of them again… or anything… ever.”

My heart thuds against my pecs—pecs that could block out the sun from where they stand. The sound reverberates through my chest, slow and heavy, like a bass drum wrapped in steel. I swear they can hear it from below.

I flex without realizing it. Just a little. A reflex. My chest swells, thick with confidence. My arms rise naturally, biceps curling into peaks that cast shadows down the slope. I hear denim creak again—the seams losing a battle they’ve long since given up. The fabric strains across my glutes and thighs, warping as I expand another inch.

They see it. Every one of them. My family. My critics. My ghosts. And they’re watching me grow—wider, taller, thicker. It’s not just the size. It’s the shift. The reversal. I am no longer the one trying to earn their approval. I *tower* over it.

And I smile.

Because Marcus was right. He *knew* this would happen. Knew that I just needed to feel it—what it’s like to be untouchable, undeniable.

I’m not afraid anymore.

I turn to him and say, grinning so wide my jaw aches, “Kiss me, you giant slab of beef!”

He grins back, that same teasing glint in his eyes, and pulls me into him. I sink into the weight of his chest, his arms wrapping around me with a force that could crush stone—but only ever holds me with care. And then he kisses me, deeply, hungrily, like the whole world exists in this moment.

I can feel us still growing bigger, our bodies pressing tighter together with every second. The sensation is endless—and I love it. I crave it. I breathe it in with every beat of my expanding heart.

And I never want it to stop.

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Caravaggio (1986) dir. Derek Jarman