Thursday, December 30, 2004

Muscle Madness

Back in the day, I decided to become the strongest woman in the world. I didn’t really give a shit about building muscles to become one of those body-building chicks, and I wasn't doing it just to have a great figure. Pure and simple, I wanted to be fucking strong as hell.

To accomplish this task, I hooked up with a few Hot Chiks from the U of I Women’s track team. These were some big gorgeous Amazon women who knew their way around the free weights and were willing to show me the ropes. They were also fun to go out to clubs with because for once in my life I was the little one at 5’9" and 170 pounds. Stupid jerks in bars don’t fuck with a girl who has a posse of 6-foot tall athletic babe-o-licious hotties who walk in like they own the place.

Once summer break rolled around, my girls split and I was left to fend for myself. I continued to pump iron in the sweaty 3rd floor weight room of the Fieldhouse. My new companions were a bunch of grunting, spitting men who ignored my presence as if I were an unwelcome alien spy from a disease-ridden planet of 3-headed hermaphrodites. I got used to the cold stares, the refusals to spot me, and the messages scrawled on the chalkboard, "No Dykes Allowed." One day one of the brutes actually talked to me.

He had the muscle development of a man who hadn’t noticed that the circumference of his neck had surpassed that of his head. His arms kind of stuck out at strange angles because they were too huge to lie against the sides of his body. It took me a minute to focus on what he was saying because his Cromagnum brow was not only mesmerizing, but it also reminded me that I needed to study for my Physical Anthropology final.

"Commeer, I wanna show you something." He grunted.

I was somewhat startled that one of the muscled horde had acknowledged my presence. Out of a sense of shock and overwhelming curiosity, I cautiously followed the lumbering beast.

We went into an empty room next door. I lingered apprehensively at the entrance waiting for him to say something else, but he didn’t utter a word. Instead, he stood in front of a long row of mirrors, took off his t-shirt and began to pose. He did those body-builder poses that you see competitive muscle-people do on TV when you’re flipping channels. It wasn’t just one or two poses. He did about 15 different poses, and then started over again. The giggles were nearly strangling me, but I knew this wasn’t a joke. When he finally finished, he came over to where I stood red-faced and wide-eyed from holding my breath for the past 10 minutes.

He finally stated his purpose for the grotesque performance I had just witnessed, "Stick with me and I can get you in a bikini by the end of the summer."

WHAT THE FUCK? I wasted 15 minutes of good workout time watching some idiot ‘s narcissistic posturing so he could insult me. First, his comment suggested that I didn’t look good enough. Second, he thought that somewhere in his thick skull, he had the knowledge to help me better than I could help myself. And third, he assumed the goal was to wear a goddamn bikini!
What I really wanted was to be able to win arm-wrestling contests with self-righteous assholes and leave them crying like it was their first day of kindergarten.


At 9:49 AM, Blogger John Q. Public said...

Beautiful - thanks for getting my day started off with a laugh. Oh, and thanks for the link, too!

At 8:25 PM, Blogger Chick said...

I love your goal to be the strongest woman in the world! I once took a self defense course just so I could learn how to flip my husband over my head like a sack of potatoes...(I'm still working on that).

I thanked Andy for his post...because your comment sent me to that deliciously detailed sensuous site...

Now I'm thanking you too!

At 11:52 PM, Blogger theresa said...

Chick: It makes me happy to know that my little discovery might make the world a tad more pussy-positive.
Good luck with throwing your husband around. that's a good goal too (as long as it's consensual).


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