Three grown-up men with swelling biceps pleasure themselves in segments just long enough to inspire you to do the same. Chase, a bit bulky, a Roman god rather than a Greek one, wanders through a rose garden in jeans and a tank top, strips down to candy-red Speedos, and dives into a shimmering pool. Then he lies back in a deck-chair and tortures his horse-like equipment, stroking and caressing it as much as he jacks it. Once in a while he raises his head and gazes at his monster meat. His load catches in his bear-y body-hair rather than running around his firm brown belly. Hawk, slyer and more of a tease than a romantic, lounges outdoors in glasses reading, gradually notices us, rubs his biceps, strips without standing, and massages his manhood while fondling his thighs and his butt-crack. Sticky-stomached, he grins, mission accomplished. In a sleeveless plaid shirt, cover-man Champ puts on thick gloves to chop some wood. It’s sweaty work, so he strips down to well-defined perfection and pours cold water over his furry physique. In black boots on a log, then on a stump, then spread out on the grass, he gets going and lets go first of copious, glistening sweat, then of a shocking white load, right onto his golden-brown thigh.

RETAILING: Three muscled soloists will thrill COLT customers.