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Oh you don’t know how fucking great I am… You just don’t know…
I work out every day. Even when I’m lying down and being still, the tick-tock machinery of my body is working to the orders of an insane old Russian woman ballet teacher-cum-gymnastics coach-cum-Stalinistic torture expert. I breathe to the rhythm of the glowing pulsing neon red blood-pumping, oxygen bubbles streaming, deepest rivers of super biological life. Veins are my art etchings.
Outside the gym I wear Euro-trash chic clothes like ‘People Of The Labyrinth’ from Holland. I have earphones on almost all the time and they block out the noise of the senseless madness of the unschooled world. I am a god but you don’t know me. You don’t see me. Most people can’t see me. I live a secret double life.
That dumb-bell curl — hell it’s gonna hurt. That next dumb-bell curl, is gonna hurt. Ouch. Oh argh! It fucking blazes in my biceps and when I shift my arm straight back, locked out, the triceps yell back at me! ‘What the fuck are you doing?!’
I stop and the angry bulldogs go back into their kennels and lie down. And eventually calm down.
If I ever unleash my angry pitbull dogs, the energy is frightening. Fiercesomely frightening.
The music gets to that part of ‘Mainline’ by 4 Strings where everything is phazing and the pounding electric syn-koto and heavy zen-tao drums have charged your brain with their melted iron and furnace lava sounds and your consciousness is beyond the earthly natural — a kind of a dream-trauma hypnotic place where you’re going to throw up tears through your eyes because of the joy and the suffering.
Next… Lords of Acid/The Most Wonderful Girl. Sharon Stone intones: “I’m fucking beautiful. I’m the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. God I love myself. I’m sexy/ I’m gorgeous/ I’m wonderful/ I’m beautiful/ I wanna touch myself!/ I wanna touch myself/ I’m touching myself/ God I love myself.”
But you don’t understand. This is not selfishness or ego. This is a celebration and a consecration and a truth. …You have to hear the driving, driving, hard determined driving of the synthesizer accelerator soundzzzzzzz. Going along with the conspiracy of the words… The music and the machine believes it too, it believes in the truth of it all, and it supports the claim. “I got a great body. I love my body, Yeah!
“I wanna touch myself! I wanna touch myself! God I love myself!
“I am the ultimate seduction; I’m gonna feel myself.
“I wanna touch myself” — the voice goes up into a frenzied high-pitched whine.
“I’m gonna touch myself!
“I’m sexy. I’m beautiful. I’m gorgeous.
“So love me.”
Oh god. I have to stop. I take off my earphones. I smell my fingers. They smell of hot wet girl’s cunt. And sweat. Clean sweat. And durty gurl cunt.
Next song. Power Station: ‘Some like It Hot.’
“Fe-ee-el the heat…! Pushing you to decide. Some like it hot and some sweat when the heat is on. Some feel the heat and decide that they can’t go on. Some like it hot but you can’t tell how hot till you tr-i-iy. Some like it hot so let’s turn up the heat till we fry.”
Richard Marx. Kenny Gee’s jazz saxophone. Cool sax. Cooling down now. Everything’s cooling down now.
“I remember every moment of those endless summer nights…”
That guy in the high-end business suit in the shop down the road is a real turn-on. You know the kind. The one that will thrill you every time you sneak a look at him. You don’t even know why this one makes you freaky, sends shivers up and down your spine and down in your gut. Well okay he’s tall. Maybe too tall for you in the normal run of things; people don’t expect that you would or should be with someone like him.
He stands front-on to people when he talks to them. Stoops down a little when that stupid bi-curious chick from high school comes into his shop and asks for whatever trash comic filled with trashy drawings of Scarlett Johansson’s Avenger character is just the very latest one out. They were making the comic character pics actually look like Johansson these days. Forget whatever the Black Widow originally looked like to begin with. Well, okay. Fair enough. That’s how things were. It was the biz. No biz no money no jobs. No jobs no food no gym money no — anything.
Unitards. No underwear underneath. Hot and sweaty beneath the camera lights. That’s what she said in the interview. Bright girl. Sold a lot of movie tickets. Or else it was some cynical studio producer and/or screenwriter who came up with that little spin pitch to E!
She wasn’t too tall herself, Scarlett Johansson.
Not a real hard musclegirl, though. Not really. Not for real for real.
God bahis firmaları but they really made it look for a few screen seconds as if these chicks did have hard bodies in Hollywood though. The big successes along those lines: Debi Mazar as Spice in Batman Forever; Scarlett Johansson as Black Widow. You even took away the impression they had guns, these girls, after you saw their movies. You could swear Mazar was chunky. Clever clever. All the side-on, waist-twist poses. Hands on hips or fists on hips. Upper arm slave clasps over the biceps… Great stage makeup too. Great great makeup. All very clever.
Of course Elizabeth Shue really did have guns! She was about the closest thing to the real deal. Typical floor gymnast build. Also a bit on the short side. Thick, chunky build. Actually is a gymnast in rl. Oh well. A little reality there in Hollywood then.
Me. I’m a genuine star. The reality was I hadn’t been adding salt for weeks and weeks and getting the water out with sweat-equity invested into the star outcome, on the competitive program this Friday night. ‘Sweat equals star-power’ in this game. And you gotta end up being able to handle the sweat running off of your body. Off other people’s bodies too, I guess. And now in the last few days I’m chucking the salt back in and god it’s hard to handle. No I’m not going to overdo it though, I’ve decided. Maybe just back to normal ordinary dash of a little salt here and there. No going over to the dark side in this musclegirl life for me. And for me, even the salt thing was potentially ‘going over to the dark side.’ I’m a superstar naturally. I’m the real thing. All genes, genuine power muscle, genuine work ethic in the weights studio, very aggressive attitude towards the object in mind.
Very aggressive animal attitude towards the object in mind. …Very aggressive animal attitude towards the object in mind.
And what about if that object was the man over there in that crazy rich person’s business don’t-touch-me-I’m-a-serious-businessman’s suit?
Hey, looks like he’s about to leave the shop.
I’ll just quickly get my workout duffle and towel and walk past him and see if he notices.
Down the gladiator’s dark tunnel to the slaughterhouse. Got bag in hand. Walk walk. Quickly. Don’t see a thing around me. Sometimes… I just can’t help myself. I just can’t help myself. Desire makes me weak. I’m walking on the hot pavement outside the GNC shop where I usually work. Everyone knows that I’m slightly crazy at work. Let’s say ‘eccentric.’ Anyway it comes with the territory of serious competitive bodybuilding. Everybody knows that. At least they should know it!
Adrenaline? Pouring out of my armpits as a matter of fact. Lucky my clothes are loose, baggy, frayed, trashy Euro-chic. Hair tied back plain and flat.
He’s got his brand BRAND new crimson red Dodge Viper right outside, pretty much.
And I found out that he was hugely wealthy too. Owned the comic book store ’cause of some kind of hobby interest/obsession since he was a kid or something. His uncle was Charles S. Schwab or someone. Literally a billionaire who lived in Switzerland to escape taxes! Bad man! Tut-tut.
There he is! Right in front of me to the side a little. I’m gonna walk right INTO him.
Oh god. What am I doing? I’ve still got my reading glasses on. I have NO makeup on. I have sweat pouring off me — have had it pouring off all day – and mostly from right under my arms now and full of adrenaline. The stale sweat and the new sweat together is not a good thing! Oh god. I have run right into him too. But its all loose heavy weave fabric on suit cloth and shirt and probably undershirt. No CONTACT. No REAL contact. I should have wacked right into him properly. At least given him something to think about… He’s got such fucking bastard good looks though… He’s so fucking tall. Well at least compared to me he is. He’s looking down at me. He’s laughing like I’m some silly street urchin or mini toy guided missile set off by some dumb kid.
“Sorry.” he says. “I didn’t see you down there.”
‘Sorry??!!’ ‘DOWN THERE??!!’
I shake my head. “Naw. No… It’s my fault.”
“Oh. Okay.” He says, just so — so meaninglessly! No fight. No interest. No concern. And I’m just standing there looking up at him.
“I work in the GNC store back there,” I say, lamely.
“Oh.” And then, shaking his keys at me. “I’ve got to get to my car.”
“Okay Bruce Wayne. Sorry. I’ll get out of the way then.” I said just like a bitch. Aw now that just really fucked it up good and proper probably, didn’t it.
He raised an eyebrow and then just shook his head. “Bruce Wayne!” He muttered, looking and laughing kaçak iddaa over the top of me again, basically as though I wasn’t even really there at all.
And then he got into that damn low gleaming red automobile — that hot automobile — and when he powered up the engine it really did sound like the goddamned batmobile as he drove away pretty fast from the curbside and took off away to wherever Bruce Wayne goes when he just doesn’t give a damn about the sick chick that he’s left in her dismal pool of sweat and drool on some pavement out there somewhere in nowhere’sville. Damn. Damn. Dammit!
The thing about musclegirls that I’m not sure whether you know or not — but some, maybe not all but some, can make their inner labia lips flare out, and even flick them from side to side. Betcha didn’t know that; that some of us can make ’em actually go from side to side, all flared out. Mine do and I can. How about that! Not flick them with your fingers, right? Actually MAKE them move by themselves… Now that’s a pretty cool thing donchathink?
See that’s the thing about body worship. In the end there’s a huge big payoff there somewhere. Not just up… up, over the Achiles tendon, along the line of calf, up and under the back of the knee, across the hammies, up up and into the sulcus line, and over, over high over the bottom cheeks to the two little dimples beneath the small of your back. Over across the sciatic. Check the transverse inserts. Fold over of the soleus on the hip. And down down into the groin towards where the gusset line of the unitards or the latex briefs — or even the black lace panties – meet pussy. Waxed. Shaven. Trimmed. Hairy. Whatever. Whatever you want. To worship. And I do mean WORSHIP. This is me. This is where my soul — or at least a very good and big part of it lives. All the rest is just the road to cunt.
Life is bizarre, isn’t it? Sex is bizarre. We’re all a little bizarre.
You down there Mister Bruce Wayne; Mister BATMAN. Look up with your stunned unbelieving eyes up my inner thighs up to where my cunt is and to where my inner labia lips are flaring out there, and flicking… from side… to side… at you. Like the hooded head and flaring wings of the mystical dragon. Oh you just don’t know what is down there… For you. If you worship there. And if you worship me.
Breathe the fire and smoke of the dragon! Can you get the scent of it?
And just by the way, do you know for just how much money and how long it took me to buy these Christian Louboutins?! Red nail varnish underneath, glossy black amazingly high heels and gorgeous chunky but elegant toe-fronts…
Tonight I am totally totally cut and blasted. I am, as the kids everywhere these days say, fully sick. People are just standing around and staring. I am a disco ball just hanging by a thread. Dangerous. Gleaming. Glittering, actually. Glitter makeup all over me in strategic places. Fireflies all over my hot hard muscly body. People think they would like to dance around with me but can’t move in case the disco ball crashes to the ground shattering all of their dreams.
I am ten million fireflies tonight.
I can click and flash and pop muscles out if I want. I am a total freak-out shaped musclegirl. And I’ve got these amazing long black curled eyelashes on too, with long, almond shaped eyes peering at you over high cheek bones. And beautiful hair up and high and floating/falling arrogantly around my powerful shoulders. My god my hair is stunning! Veins sticking outta my neck…
One of the competitors just hugged me.
I’m gonna walk out into the lobby and kill a few hearts.
People are just turning towards me from everywhere. They are acting stunned in a way, but you can see they appreciate the point of it now that they are seeing what it lives like in the full glamour of high-point super muscle flesh.
There are other musclegirls out here too. We’re all soaking up the adoration and the awe. The place is loaded with uniformed security too — brickyard guys and a few gals too. They act like this is home for them too and they are extra extra protective. There is so much energy in here. Some young dorky guys have come up with pens and programs and are asking for autographs. Too easy. I can write my name!
The smiles I give when I like the people looking are really coming down from a high place. Patronising? What’s the equivalent word here: matronising? Who knows. But you know what I mean.
I think my pussy is squelching when I mince-walk in these amazing high-heels.
Hey! Okay you know who is standing there in a little group looking at us competitors? Unmistakeable plum-red shock of hair, prominent lips. Very kaçak bahis white, milky white skin. But it’s like I kind of expect this and hey you know what, I’m the show-pony for tonight. The marquis entertainers are being entertained. I can feel my nostrils flaring, in fact. I’m really juiced up right now. Unstoppable. I’m the Starstreak anti-drone missile system. Hot. Hungry. Mean, in some sense…
Nobody but nobody can do what all of us musclegirls are doing right now. And everyone else knows it. All of the rest of the people around us, all of the ordinary humans watching, acknowledge that what they are seeing is truly out of this world for the moment. But they are very positive and appreciative because we give them hope about what any human can achieve through striving.
I’m walking in a kind of a dream but it’s like I know what to expect next but it shouldn’t happen under ordinary circumstances but this is not an ordinary circumstance. And neither should it be. As a human I have worked and put in the hours and the dedication and sacrificed to the gods of the body and its godlike perfection and those gods have rewarded me by inducting me into their halls for a short while tonight. I make things I want to happen, happen. Any-things.
I don’t feel any surprise at all when I see the young man that I wanted to see. I see him right there in front of me all of a sudden, from out of the crowd, in a clear space almost by himself so near that I can just take a half a step towards him and speak and he can hear me. He’s kind of looking pretty intently at me, checking out my shoes I think, and then going up to my breasts. The skin cream I use in competition has got lemon and honey and coriander in it and it kind of reeks like an unwashed English bitch in heat — it’s the kind of perfume smell they all use in London City in the worst kinds of stockbrokers’ offices with their slut hooker secretaries. Kind of a bit too strong but HOT!
I stretch out an arm with the muscles in it all popping out and rigidly taking their shape as ‘an outstretched arm!’ …With pretty painted nails on the top of the vicious pretty hand at the end.
“Hi Mister Bruce Wayne. Did you cum in your red batmobile?”
He looked into my face, with a stunned expression. He frowned a little. He wasn’t sure… Who was this girl? He liked what he saw though, because the kind of half-smile he gave was the kind that most women know reflects a special kind of desire is forming in the guy’s mind. Which pretty soon bounces down to his dick with a little encouragement. I wiggled my bottom and my breasts and bent at the knees just that tiny touch. “I hope not too much in your red batmobile…”
I waited a few milliseconds. He squinted. “Yes I said ‘cummmm.'”
I nodded. “I did say ‘cum.’ Does it embarrass you?”
He was locked into my eyes now. I lick a lip. “Embarrass you, does it — that I said ‘cum?'”
“Er, no. Well. Maybe. Although…” He stood back to gain perspective. “No.” He smiled a pretty naughty boy sort of a smile. So I said to him: “Are you being a naughty boy now, Mister Bruce Wayne, thinking naughty boy little thoughts?”
“Pretty much!” He laughed once more. This guy seemed to laugh a lot, I noticed, now that I was getting a little closer look at him. From the shop he always seemed so austere and business-y.
“Because I certainly know how to teach naughty little boys lessons they will never forget.”
It was my turn now to look away past him, past his shoulder, into the distance, over to that girl who claimed in the press once that she always carried condoms in her purse just in case she was going to have to have sudden, casual, spur-of-the-moment sex with an almost complete total, but dishy, stranger.
“I’m going to have to ask that girl if she can lend me a condom, if we are going to have sex this evening, Mister Bruce Wayne.”
I’m not sure if his jaw dropped or if he bit his lip or what, because I was waiting that extra few seconds for a gut-churning super self-confidence effect before I looked back at him. Slowly I let my eyes drift back to him and engage his own again. I stuck a firm tongue into my cheek and looked at him and raised my own eyebrows at him.
“What do you think?” I asked, my own emotions high on the speed of musclegirl power. I was so cold on the outside, and so churning deep down inside somewhere so nice. My superconfidence was overpowering the ordinary normal absolute total FEAR and PANIC of any such kind of conversation with the owner of a very big hard powerful penis. “Are we going to have sex this evening?” I persisted.
“Certainly. Of course. If you wanted it, you can have it. You can have anything. Anything you want.”
“Oh I want it all right. And you’d better know how to help a girl who wants a perfect performance from a boy.”
He was clearly ‘a man,’ of course, but I was letting him know where it was all headed. For now.
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