Jocktober

By The Iron Host

From The Journal Of The Iron Host

Published: October 1st Category: Weightlifting

DENVER — It began late, the way these things always do. Past midnight, past reason. A shuttered warehouse down by the tracks, dock light burning faint, the quiet signal. By 12:15 the men were gathered. Thick necks, broad chests, the smell of chalk already on the air. Boots scuffed the floor, straps hung ready. No one spoke much.

Cal was there, of course. The Bull. Beard damp, thighs stretching fabric meant for smaller men. His shorts already showed wear at the seam. They always did. He’d won last year, and men still told the story of his pull like it was scripture.

At 12:30 the first man took the bar. Good form, quick lockout. But the lights sputtered and he was on the ground before anyone could clap. Out cold, eyes rolled white. No one moved him. They just stared.

That’s when they noticed the stranger. Standing near the back, half-lit by the orange cherry of a cigarette. Boots polished, gloves neat. The kind of man you don’t forget even when you want to. He gave his name only once: Roman.

Another lifter stepped up, pride louder than caution. He barely broke the floor before the bar slipped from his hands and his body followed. The silence grew thick. Some swore Roman’s shadow shifted on its own. Others said it was just nerves.

By 1:00, only a handful remained upright. Roman’s eyes slid to Cal. He spoke low, steady.“Again.”

Cal stepped forward. He didn’t want to. Everyone could see that in his eyes. But fear left no choice. He gripped the bar. His back tightened, seams straining. The weight rose. The crowd exhaled as one.

“More,” Roman said.

Plates clanged on. Cal’s breath grew ragged, sweat running in dark lines, soaking waistband, sliding lower, into the crack of muscle. The lift came slower this time, veins swelling, shirt tearing across his back. A strip of jockstrap peeked through, elastic trembling under strain.

Roman came closer. Close enough that Cal felt the warmth of breath against his neck.“Again.”

The Bull spat chalk-b

loody spit, gripped harder, and pulled. The room held still. Shorts tore wider. His belt dug deep, welt rising. The crowd shifted, uneasy, unmoved, afraid.

At 1:45, there were only two men left besides Cal. Both tried. Both failed. One hit the ground hard and did not rise. The other coughed blood before collapsing. Nobody touched them. Nobody dared.

Now it

was just Cal. Roman nodded to the plates. They grew heavier with each command. Cal’s face twisted with rage, fear, and something else. Sweat streaked his beard, chest heaving, eyes burning red. The weight rose every time.

By 2:10 the room was a grave. Cal was the last one standing, trembling under a bar that should have broken him. He dropped it with a crash that rattled windows.

The lights flickered. The hum in the walls stopped. When vision cleared, Roman was gone. Only the faint smoke of his cigarette lingered.

Cal survived. Barely. He staggered out with torn shorts, belt hanging, body marked with bruises that would never fade. The Bull lived, but no one called him champion.

The report will say “unlicensed contest.” But those who were there will not use those words. They will speak another name, low, unsure if it’s curse or prayer --- Roman.

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EDITOR’S NOTE — you think the Bull’s nightmare was just a story, you haven’t seen the street. On Saturday, Oct. 18 (12–6 PM) at Bearrison Street Fair in San Francisco, Sweaty Johnson straps up with Barbells, Bears & Butts — the Jockstrap Deadlift Competition. Lifters will step to the bar at 1–2 PM and again at 3–4 PM. Chalk, sweat, and maybe something darker in the air.

And for those who make it through October, the Desert waits. Palm Springs Leather Pride runs Oct. 30–Nov. 2, and on Saturday, Nov. 1 (9 PM–2 AM), we sponsor H.O.L. — House of Leather at The Sonoran. Three rooms. Tech-house, sleaze, bootblack shine. Jocktober doesn’t end at midnight.

The Bull