Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight

1

Max

So, I’m naked.

In a tent.

The tent only has three sides.

Aaaaaand…it’s in the middle of a parking lot.

But that’s not all.

A woman blocks the fourth, open side of the tent.

She’s a willowy bottle-blonde with a tight black shirt that says “Ride ‘em Shiny.”

And she’s hosing me down.

Now, you may wonder how a man arrives at a scene like this in broad daylight.

I’ve got nothing but time to explain as the woman tells me to spread my legs. I take a wide step, arms in the air, trying not to flinch in the spray.

I’m happy to tell you this story. It will distract me.

So, first, you have to be rock hard.

Hey, now. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Actually, don’t.

I like the gutter.

But right now I mean muscles.

Pecs. Gluts. Biceps. Lats.

To reach tent-in-a-parking-lot level, you’ll work out every day for at least a year, probably two.

Your diet will be strict. Lean meat, measured carbs.

You’ll go through bulking periods to put on muscle, then a cutting phase to burn the fat out of the creases.

On the last day, you’ll have to dehydrate so your skin pulls tight and every sinew is revealed. And you will eat like a maniac, infusing those muscles with carbs so they’ll plump out.

Then, and only then, will you find yourself in a tent behind an arena, butt naked, getting a spray of tan and oil before you go on stage to compete in a regional bodybuilding competition.

That’s where I’m headed next.

You with me?

Well, not with me.

Your eyes might be bugging out if that were the case.

But you can picture it, right?

Me. Naked. Muscles. Oil.

Is your mind in the gutter again?

Good.

The spray is cold and brown, like being pelted with chocolate milk.

Which is kinda…gross.

That might have melted your lady boner.

Sorry.

Well, unless you like licking chocolate milk off—

“Take a quarter-turn, honey,” the woman says. “Got to get all the pale bits.”

Pale bits. I’m not exactly pasty on a normal day here in sunny California. But for the lighting and the stage, you have to be dark for your muscles to shine.

Plus, there are parts of me where generally the sun don’t shine.

“Turn again,” the lady says, and now I’m facing her, all the goods on display. She works like a pro, her gloved hand shifting the dangling parts aside so she can get my thighs.

As she bends, I spot dozens of people milling around the parking lot. It’s a big regional competition. People peer in, and I guess I’ll have to get used to it. If women can stick their heels in stirrups and pop out a kid in a roomful of onlookers like my cousin Greta did, then I suppose I can shut my trap about getting gawked at by strangers wandering by my tanning tent.

I am, after all, expected to put my body on display. The tight competition trunks don’t cover up much more than this woman’s pale blue glove.

“I’m gonna put a finish on it,” she says, and I stifle a wisecrack. I’m sure she’s heard them all. For now, I’ll keep my crusty remarks to myself.

The woman sprays another pass, then steps back to assess me. “Lookin’ good, baller,” she says. “Make a slow turn so I can do a final check.”

I do as she says. Good thing I’m not shy.

“All right. Give it a sec to dry. Don’t touch anything you don’t have to, and don’t scratch any itches!”

She clips a towel over the opening so I can stand there without an audience. I let out a long breath. I’m dying of thirst.

I got to eat a huge breakfast this morning, part of making sure my muscles aren’t “flat” for the big day. It was heaven, honestly, after the dieting of the last ten weeks. Four orders of French Toast, three sides of hash browns, and six scrambled eggs.

Unfortunately, I only got to drink half a cup of black coffee with it.

Prejudging is in a couple of hours, but the evening show is when the audience will arrive. I will probably eat carb loads several times today, but I won’t be able to take more than a few sips of water until it’s all over. Otherwise, I risk bloating my hard work.

I touch my chest. Damn, I’m dark. My arms look like they come from someone else’s body.

It seems dry enough, so I slide my posing trunks on carefully, trying to avoid too much pressure on any one spot. But they’re tight, and it’s like a wrestling match to get them in place.

Nobody tells you about