Appreciating Every Square Inch of Her Muscular Body

Beautiful sexy mama Dena Anne Weiner.

Beautiful sexy mama Dena Anne Weiner.

If you have an affinity for muscular women, it’s not enough for you to want to see her body. You want to touch her body. And not just parts of her body; you want to touch every square inch of her muscular body.

This fantasy is common for guys who love female bodybuilders. There’s a stereotype that guys are visual creatures when it comes to sexuality. I’m not here to debunk that idea, but instead to add to it. It’s true that men love the sight of a beautiful woman (or man, depending on his sexual orientation), but we also appreciate the tactile dimension of human attraction.

Touch matters. Taste matters. Scent matters. There are five senses, not just one or two. Perhaps more than “conventionally” beautiful women, muscular women evoke in our imaginations a desire to experience her with all five of our senses.

On a practical level, how does this play out? Usually through engaging in a muscle worship session with a female bodybuilder/wrestler/erotic provider.

Muscle worship isn’t just about living out one’s fantasies. It’s about experiencing what’s right there in front of you. A muscular woman’s body is the object of desire that sends shivers down one’s spine. What’s important isn’t just enjoying the idea of a strong beautiful woman, but actually being able to meet, talk with, and sensually explore a strong beautiful woman’s physical form. It is this experience that makes our hearts skip a beat and forces time to seemingly stand still.

What explains this? The ethereal nature of female bodybuilders is one explanation. We often treat muscular women like “goddesses” and “angels,” divine beings who are deities incarnate. We know a female bodybuilder isn’t actually a spiritual being in the flesh, but we nevertheless use these types of analogies because they’re the closest way we can describe our affinity for them.

And how are divine beings supposed to be treated? As if you’re not worthy of being in their presence, but you will enjoy being in their presence regardless. When a peasant is fortunate enough to meet the King or Queen, it’s as if they’re meeting God himself. They feel uncomfortable talking to them directly, looking at them in the eye, or offending their sensibilities. It’s not necessarily because they’re afraid of punishment (which could often actually be the case), but rather they’re in awe of being able to be in front of a person of such high political and social power.

Likewise, those of us who are lucky enough to meet a female bodybuilder up close and personal know what this is like. We get a dry throat. Our speech starts to stammer. We can’t think straight or finish a coherent sentence. We act strangely. We cannot sit still if our lives depended upon it. Most of us are able to act cool, calm and collected, but we all have our moments. Like a pyramid-building slave lying prostrate before Pharaoh, we realize we’re no longer in Kansas, Toto. We’re in the same room as a beautiful muscle goddess. Ain’t that something?

Flavia Crisos's lower body is a gem.

Flavia Crisos’s lower body is a gem.

Throughout history, kings and queens were actually treated like deities because their rule was considered divinely approved (or directed). Regal figures may not technically have been considered gods and goddesses, but if the Almighty appoints you the King of France or the Queen of England, who has the right to question your legitimacy?

Today, we realize female bodybuilders are not divinely chosen to be who they are. Yet, that same attitude still persists. If mankind (which obviously includes women) is created in the image of God, aren’t we then logically touching the very body of the Divine?

You don’t need to be a religious scholar to understand why it’s so special to touch a muscular woman’s body. Our psychological and cultural upbringing leads us to treat certain human beings as more than just human beings. The same goes for celebrities, major political figures, world-class athletes and anyone else whose accomplishments we admire. Our admiration for them most likely isn’t sexual in nature, but that doesn’t change the fact our behavior around famous people is very different compared to how we act around “normal” people.

So that explains the shivers that go down your spine when you shake a female bodybuilder’s hand or the giddy feeling you get as you walk down the hallway and approach her hotel room. But once you actually meet her and your session (assuming we’re talking about a muscle worship session) commences, you cannot help but want to touch every single square inch of her gorgeous body. Her body is a work of art and deserves to be appreciated on a tactile level. And in this moment, you’re the one who is allowed to do that.

It’s not just her biceps, abdomen, back or thighs that you want to touch. You also want to touch the parts of her body that aren’t necessarily big and muscular. Her nape (the back part of her neck), her face, her ankles, her wrists, her fingers, her elbows, her flat breasts, everywhere. You want to experience all of her…even if you never would’ve been interested in touching those parts of a non-muscular woman’s body.

You may have a beautiful wife or girlfriend, but odds are she isn’t a bodybuilder. You might find her to be pretty and she may have a great looking body. But you don’t fetishize her fingers. They’re just fingers, for crying out loud! But when you see and feel a female bodybuilder’s hard calloused fingers – tangible proof of her years and years dedicated to weightlifting and busting her tail at the gym – a jolt of electricity surges throughout your entire nervous system. This experience is completely different. A female bodybuilder is a whole other species of human being. You’ve made love to your significant other countless times, but never during your relationship with her have you ever gotten aroused from touching her arms. When you feel an FBB’s swollen biceps and triceps, on the other hand, you feel like you might pass out and fall into a decade-long coma.

What more can be said about Theresa Ivancik?

What more can be said about Theresa Ivancik?

Even if you’ve never participated in a muscle worship session or wrestling match with a muscular woman, this fantasy could still be present inside your imagination. You really want to feel Debi Laszewski’s calves, but you also (for some very odd reason) want to touch her lips, teeth, and chin. It’s strange to possess the desire to do this, but you cannot explain why. Nor do you feel the need to ever explain why. Your desires are your desires and you refuse to apologize for having them.

From personal experience, I can tell you that one of my biggest turn-ons is caressing a muscular woman’s face. Her face obviously isn’t muscular or radically different from any other kind of woman’s face. During my first ever muscle worship session, I took lots of time to caress her cheek. It was the most erotic moment of the evening. The feel of her crow’s feet and wrinkles aroused me like nothing else did. Yes, she was an older woman (she’s just as old as my parents, believe it or not), but that wasn’t the reason. I loved touching her body, even the parts of her body that wasn’t muscular. I loved every moment of it.

During other muscle worship sessions, I’ve felt the weird desire to rub her feet (and I am not a foot fetishist!), feel her callouses, and caress the back of her neck. I wanted to experience every single inch of her. Her muscles are beautiful (obviously!) but they aren’t the most erotic part of her physical self. Her most erotic feature is….everything.

Everything. Every inch of her. Everything.

It’s not just about her muscles. When female muscle skeptics question why guys and gals like us are so into female bodybuilders, it can be difficult to fully explain. To do justice to articulating what it’s like to have a female muscle fetish requires going beyond a muscular woman’s muscles and talking about everything else. It’s not just her wide shoulders, broad back, and rounded calves that we love. It’s also her lips. And the back of her knees. Her veiny forearms. The crinkles around her eyes. The palms of her hands that are covered with rigid dead skin. It’s everything about her.

Female bodybuilders are just like the rest of us, but we don’t always think of them that way. We all know they at one time in their lives looked “normal,” but we cannot help but focus on who they are presently rather than who they used to be. It’s easier to only look at the final product instead of the journey it took to get to that final product. In other words, in the back of our minds female bodybuilders are not actually just like the rest of us, even though we logically know that they are.

They exist on a different metaphysical plane. They might walk amongst us mortals, but they are indeed goddess among men. They aren’t just physically beautiful. They’re intellectually, philosophically, and spiritually beautiful as well. We love them to death but struggle to explain why. Yet, we feel no need to have to explain why. We just do and that’s the end of the story.

If you chat with a fellow female muscle lover, you experience a really awesome sense of unspoken mutual understanding that’s incredibly liberating. You both know why you love FBBs. You don’t feel embarrassed or emasculated admitting to a complete stranger that you love muscular women because they do too. You can admit out loud (or in writing) that you want to lick Alina Popa’s triceps and the other person won’t blink an eye or ridicule you for it. Odds are they want to do the exact same thing! You want to experience every square inch of her, even the inches that not too many of us are keen on. But, they understand and are probably in agreement with you.

Whether you’re lucky enough to meet a female bodybuilder in person or if you just fantasize about meeting one, we all want to do the very same thing with them: appreciate every square inch of her body. Maybe this appreciation is tactile, or perhaps it’s more theoretical. Even the parts of her body that aren’t muscular intrigue us. It’s irrational, but we all know what we’re dealing with here (hence, it goes unspoken).

Jodi Miller knows how to dress herself.

Jodi Miller knows how to dress herself.

So this essay is less expository and more stream-of-consciousness. I apologize if I’m not making a whole lot of sense! This is just a natural continuation of a common theme found in all my writing: female bodybuilders are special in ways that cannot be entirely described. They seem like they belong in a separate caste. Their bodies aren’t just beautiful, they’re divine. And it’s not just their muscles that arouse our interest. It’s every single facet of their beings that makes our hearts skip a beat.

It’s inconceivable why a seemingly limited topic can be subject to millions of essays, conversation threads, blogs, and e-mail exchanges. Compared to conventional topics like politics, parenting, space exploration, Harry Potter fandom, pop music, fly fishing, knitting, or scuba diving, the world of female bodybuilding appears to be limited in scope. After all, is there a single female bodybuilder who is also a household name? Outside of watching the Olympics, how often is the general population exposed to muscular women? Why do FBBs pique our interest so much despite their lack of coverage in mainstream media?

There is no definitive answer. Nor should there be. Female bodybuilders capture our hearts and minds simply because that’s exactly what they do.

Here’s another theory. Sometimes, our minds cannot accept something until we are able to experience it in a more profound way. For example, we all know that we should look both ways before crossing a street. We’ve been taught this by our parents, grandparents, babysitters, and schoolteachers ever since we were little children. Theoretically, we know this is an important piece of advice.

However, we don’t actually start to internalize it until we have a “big scare” moment. Imagine that you’re 16 years old and on one fateful day you don’t look both ways before walking through an intersection. You don’t hear any oncoming traffic so you assume there isn’t any. Before you can take another step, a speeding car zooms by and nearly hits you. If you collide with the car, the car will win 100 percent of the time. You’ll be dead or at the very least severely injured. But assume, for the sake of this illustration, you narrowly escape certain doom and you survive just fine. Suddenly, the old advice of “look both ways before crossing the street” takes on a whole deeper level of meaning for you. Before, you knew on the surface this was important advice. But now, after experiencing a brush with near-death, you now comprehend this adage on a more tangible level.

You don’t just know the words of this proverb. You understand its entire rationale. Will you ever blindly stroll through an intersection ever again? Probably not.

Likewise, we know female bodybuilders and muscular women of all shapes and sizes are real. But it doesn’t actually sink in until you meet one in the flesh. Or when you start to touch her muscular flesh. When you feel her hardness and experience her remarkable strength, as the newer saying goes, “shit gets real.” You know she’s real but your brain struggles to accept that she is who she appears to be.

She’s a woman. She also has more muscles than most men. She’s strong. But most women you know aren’t nearly as strong. How can this be? How does this compute?

Hence, you feel compelled to touch every single inch of her because your brain needs to tangibly experience her physical self in order to fully understand it. Her existence causes cognitive dissonance that isn’t easily shaken. Knowing on a theoretical level that muscular women exist is one thing; being able to see her and feel her body is quite another.

Thai muscle goddess Penpraghai Tiangngok.

Thai muscle goddess Penpraghai Tiangngok.

Maybe this fascination wears off the more often you meet muscular women for sessions. That might be the case for me. Now that I’ve met a fair amount of female bodybuilders (and a few on multiple occasions) over the years, the novelty has sort of dissipated. I still get excited and antsy every single time I’m about her meet one for an appointment, but I’ll admit I’m starting to feel less anxious as the years go on. My electrified giddiness has been downgraded to “eager anticipation.” I used to want to actually touch every single inch of her body.

But now, I’m okay with touching most of it and not bothering with the rest.

However…I still have my moments.

Whenever I watch a video clip of a sexy female bodybuilder preening for the camera, my eyes still cannot leave the screen. I stop dead in my tracks and helplessly stare at:

The veins popping out of her bicep…
Her thick muscular legs spread out wide…
The proud revealing of her juicy big clit…
Her beautiful face smiling at me…
The irresistible sparkle in her eye…
Drops of sweat dripping down her neck and toward her chest…
Long erect nipples that look sooooooooo sensitive to the touch…
A broad back as wide as a refrigerator…
Her meaty triceps…
The striations of her quads…
A chiseled six-pack abdomen that’s begging to be licked dry…………….

…oh, baby….I can’t help but feel, um, uhh, errrrrr………….

<Dramatic pause>

Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggggggggg!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WOW!!! Holy Mother of God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I WANT TO TOUCH EVERY SINGLE SQUARE INCH OF THAT GORGEOUS SEXY MUSCULAR BODY!!!!!!

RIGHT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

<Deep breath. Another dramatic pause>

Oh, I guess I still do feel that way. Silly me.

Facing the Facts: Why a Female Bodybuilder’s Face Still Matters to Me

My eyes cannot help but fixate on Erin Stern's gorgeous face.

My eyes cannot help but fixate on Erin Stern’s gorgeous face.

When you first look upon a photo of a muscular woman, what do your eyes initially fixate on?

For me, if we’re talking about a full-body shot, or a near full-body shot, my eyes immediately focus on her face. This sounds odd considering my natural inclination is being a “leg” guy, but my brain involuntarily tells me to look at this (hypothetical) woman’s face first before anything else.

Before her legs, before her butt, before her hips, before her arms, before her torso, before any of that. Her face is what matters first to me, for whatever reason. Not necessarily the most, but certainly first. This is not the only thing I look at (obviously!), but old habits are hard to break. In fact, natural habits can tell us a lot about our deeply ingrained opinions, biases, and desires.

Even if she’s wearing a sexy G-string bikini. Even if she’s wearing nothing at all. No matter what pose she strikes or what she’s doing in the photo itself. My eyes will almost always go to her face before anything else. Why is that?

When I see a beautiful non-muscular woman walk down the street or step into an elevator with me, my eyes first go to her lower half: her legs, hips, and butt. I try to do this as inconspicuously as possible, as most of us are experts at doing. We’re all horny creeps to some extent; however some of us are better at hiding it than others. Or some of us are less ashamed about it than others.

But when we’re talking about a muscular woman, my eyes don’t look down, but instead look up. I want to see her face. Her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, her bone structure, her smile. Once again, why is that? The information I want to gather is plain and simple: Is she pretty?

A nice full-body shot of Larissa Reis.

A nice full-body shot of Larissa Reis.

If we’re talking about Larissa Reis or Shannon Courtney, the answer is undoubtedly “yes.” If we’re talking about Jennifer Kennedy or Kathy Connors, the answer ranges from “uh, not really” to “I love them…but unfortunately no.” I adore and respect both Jennifer and Kathy very much, so this is not meant to be an insult to them or their beautiful bodies. This is just articulating what many of us are thinking but are too polite to say out loud.

But the question “Is she pretty” is one that is packed with a whole ton of meaning. Why should this matter? Does this make me a hypocrite?

No matter how many essays I write explaining my position that muscles make women more beautiful, for whatever nonsensical reason my eyes still immediately search her face instead of laser-focusing on her hard-earned muscles. When I’m doing a Google or Bing search – and yes, I actually use both with great frequency – of various female bodybuilders, I still gravitate toward their faces first even though I know for a fact the muscles on their bodies are their claim to fame.

What a strange and unusual thing, indeed. What can be derived from this? Are there any lessons or nuggets of truth to be ascertained from this? Possibly. Let’s look at four of them.

1. Beauty still matters

For all the talk about “body image” and that “real women have curves,” at the end of the day the content of her face still matters a great deal. This might not be true for you, but it’s obviously true for me. Theoretically, I know from a cerebral point of view that I’m attracted to female bodybuilders because their remarkable muscle mass provides an aesthetic that I find particularly pleasing. However, my brain still insists on checking out her face first.

A female bodybuilder can control what her muscles look like. Heck, they dedicate their lives toward doing just that. All that blood, sweat, tears, and protein shakes go toward sculpting the most beautiful muscles possible. However, she cannot reasonable control her face. Cosmetic surgery notwithstanding, the appearance of your visage is determined before you were born whether you like it or not. It’s genetics, not hard work. Muscles are built through labor. A gorgeous face is not. So as a fan of female bodybuilders, why does her face still matter to me?

Alright, here's an apt exception. I know where my eyes go first in this photo of Flavia Crisos.

Alright, here’s an apt exception. I know where my eyes go first in this photo of Flavia Crisos.

Perhaps this reveals the truth that deep down inside, traditional beauty is still important to me. I can try to persuade my inner thoughts to value hard work over unearned genetics, but our brains are wired a certain way for a reason. I may not completely understand those reasons, but it is what it is. Beauty still matters. It always has, and it always will. My fetish for a muscular feminine figure may be strong, but my desire for her to still have a pretty face is also strong (if not stronger).

2. The eyes are the windows into the soul

Well, I don’t necessarily agree with this cliché, but there might be some truth to it. We are ingrained into believing the eyes are the best way to really look at a person. When you speak to someone, the polite protocol is to look at them straight in the eyes. Not doing that is culturally inappropriate (in the Western world, that is) and considered rude in most social circles.

So no matter how much six-pack abs, a round butt or swollen biceps turn me on, her eyes are where my eyes initially go. Other than this being a learned behavior, why is that?

I think this speaks to the fact we value the humanity of the people we encounter, even those we happen to be physically attracted to. For all the talk about “objectifying” people, at the end of the day most decent human beings value each other on some level. Obviously we value our friends and family more than complete strangers, but not too many of us wish ill on others without a compelling reason.

I obviously love female bodybuilders. But my appreciation for them isn’t just physical. I love their toughness, self-confidence, drive, passion, dedication, and service to others (many FBBs work as personal trainers or in the healthcare field). So when my eyes first focus on a muscular woman’s face, it’s an indication that I want to learn more about her: her interests, strengths, weaknesses, fears, failures, successes, feelings, thoughts, likes, dislikes, and so on.

There’s way no way I can actually learn any of that just from looking at a photograph of a female bodybuilder, but the natural instinct to want to know exists nevertheless.

3. A subtle bias against muscular women still exists within me

This is probably a bit of a stretch, but it’s worth talking about. I wrote a post recently arguing that muscles are the great equalizer when it comes to assessing one’s physical beauty. I believe this wholeheartedly, but perhaps there’s still a small hint of bias against muscular women that’s hiding deep within my psyche.

I look at a muscular woman’s face first because I want to assess how “feminine” she is. Is her face “man-like,” as many negative stereotypes go? Does her face have masculine features or does she appear to be traditionally feminine? Intellectually, I understand that not every woman, muscular or not, looks “feminine” as society widely accepts that term to mean. I also understand that years of taking anabolic steroids and human growth hormones can change the way your body (and face) looks.

A classic female bodybuilder from yesteryear: Sharon Bruneau.

A classic female bodybuilder from yesteryear: Sharon Bruneau.

The “hardening” of a woman’s face to appear gruffer and less soft – whatever these descriptors even mean – can happen after higher-than-usual levels of testosterone enter the body. I’d venture a guess that these so-called changes aren’t actually real. They’re more perceived due to social stigmas attached to women with big muscles.

These social biases run so deep that even yours truly believes in them to a certain extent. I’d like to think my “street cred” for supporting female bodybuilders should be unquestioned, but even I can admit that I occasionally give in to what popular perceptions teach us. When I look at a photo of a female bodybuilder for the first time – as opposed to a photo I’ve already seen before – my natural inclination to first look at her face tells me I’m still bias toward women who look traditionally beautiful. I still think of FBBs as being “different” or “freakish,” even though I embrace these differences as being a part of her unique beauty.

Bias is not the same thing as hate, however. It’s just what your brain (whether you know it or not) automatically tells you when you’re digesting new information. The first step is to be aware of it. The next step is to recognize that this doesn’t make you a bad person. The last step is to be able to make your own decisions whether the vast majority of others will agree with you or not.

4. It’s not just about her muscles, it’s about her entire self

On a more positive note, one of the reasons why I first tend to look at a muscular woman’s face is because I’m not nearly as fixated on her muscles as one would think. Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker for a pretty face (which I am!). Or it goes to show you that while I love an FBB’s muscles, I actually love her entire self.

Related to point #2, I first look at her face because I want to learn as much as I can about her as a person. Fantastic. But another important observation is that for me, and obviously I cannot speak for anybody else except for me, it’s not just about her muscles. It’s not the mere presence of big muscles on her body that make her extraordinarily beautiful. It’s the entire package.

People who aren’t familiar with the world of female bodybuilding get perplexed when they see a photo of an FBB because they can’t stop focusing on her muscles. Those of us who are more familiar with this aesthetic see past her muscles and appreciate her entire beauty – both external and internal. I recently participated in a muscle worship session with a pro bodybuilder who talked enthusiastically about her passion for helping others. She works as a personal trainer (as many often do) and loves inspiring people to become happier, healthier, and more confident. She spoke of serving homeless young adults, abused women, and emotionally hurt people who have lost their way. Through teaching them how to lift weights at the gym, she saw their lives turn around for the better. Some of her anecdotes were powerful to listen to.

I quickly decided that for as much as I appreciate her external beauty – and she is without a doubt a beautiful person – her internal beauty shines brighter.

Timea Majorova showcasing her assets.

Timea Majorova showcasing her assets.

Whether we’re talking about a slim pop star, a skinny fashion model, or a big and buff female bodybuilder, where your eyes go first when you look upon her depends on what you value, what you’re looking for, and the context of the situation. If a woman intentionally shows off her cleavage, it’s reasonable why your eyes would go there first. If her long gorgeous legs are front and center of the image, I wouldn’t blame you for your imagination running wild with what you’d like to do with those legs.

But for me, I first look at her face. Even if she has big muscles. Even if her muscles are supposed to be the center of attention. There are many reasons for this. Some of them are logical. Others are pure speculative. But it is interesting to reflect on why this happens to me. Do I need to face the facts about my inherent prejudices against muscular women, even though I’m one of the most vocal proponents of female bodybuilders on the Internet (or at least, on WordPress)? Or does this mean that at the end of the day, I appreciate traditional beauty above all else? Or am I so accustomed to seeing muscles on a woman that its affects are starting to wane on me?

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down there! Can it be true that I’m getting desensitized to the sight of a muscular woman? Have I plunged so far into the deep end of the pool that looking upon the strong powerful body of Rene Campbell elicits the same reaction as looking upon the narrow skinny body of Taylor Swift?

I’m not showing disrespect to either Rene Campbell or Taylor Swift, but is my brain adjusting to the reality that not only do I think that muscles on a woman are beautiful, but it’s now an ordinary thing to look at?

Hm. Probably not. I don’t think I’ll ever get “used to” seeing muscles on a woman’s physique. No matter how many thousands of photos or hours of video I experience watching FBBs show off their beautiful bodies, I highly doubt the jolt of energy that erupts inside me will ever dissipate. My heart will always flutter. The “Madness” will never go away.

But if it does, is that an indication that I’ve become so saturated with muscular women that I’ve finally accepted that this body type is both “normal” and “not out of the ordinary?” Is this progress or a signal that I’ve become a female bodybuilder junkie, where my usual “fix” isn’t good enough to sustain my appetites?

Alright, this discussion is getting weird. I’m probably overthinking a fairly normal phenomenon. I like pretty faces. That’s it, end of debate. But like all topics related to female bodybuilders, muscular women, and analyzing why people like me love them so damn much, there are endless things to talk about. I haven’t even scratched the surface yet. I look forward to being able to dig a little deeper next time.

Educating Jonathan – Part Five

This is Jay Fuchs. There is no reason to post a picture of her, but I don't need one!

This is Jay Fuchs. There is no reason to post a picture of her, but I don’t need one!

For the next sixty minutes, the passengers inside the dark red SUV remain silent.

The ride to their final destination proceeds without anybody speaking a single word. None of the three hostages make a sound. The two hostage-takers also choose to not engage in conversation. It is an uncomfortable silence, but one that everyone mutually agrees to adhere to.

Dr. Samantha, who is furiously trying to figure out why these four armed men are targeting her specifically, is too frightened to cry. She struggles to breathe even though she is no longer wearing the clown mask. Mistress Nguvu thinks about whether she will die tonight. Jonathan tries to be upbeat about their situation, but resigns to the fact that their captors hold all the decision-making power.

Sixty minutes may have passed. Or maybe it’s seventy minutes. Or ninety. Or fifteen. Regardless, time ceases to exist. Jonathan guesses they’re heading south, judging from the movements of the vehicle. He knows for a fact they’re on the freeway. There shouldn’t be any traffic on the highway at this time, so they must be travelling at 70 or 80 miles per hour. Everyone speeds at this hour in the morning.

Finally, the SUV exits the freeway and they begin to drive at a slower pace. A few twists and turns later, the SUV finally comes to a complete stop. Then it moves again. Then it stops. Then it moves again. They must be taking side streets. Are they driving through a residential neighborhood? Or are they moving through a business district? The answer is anyone’s guess.

Eventually the SUV comes to a stop and the driver turns off the ignition. This indicates they’ve arrived at their destination.

“We’re here,” the driver announces. The two men leave the car and talk to the other two men, who have presumably also parked as well. Jonathan cannot hear what they are saying. Samantha breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about all of this.”

Mistress Nguvu leans over to Dr. Samantha and brushes her head against her shoulder.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Whatever happens to us, it’s not your fault. It’s their fault. Understand?” Jonathan cannot see, but he senses Dr. Sammy nodding in agreement. He hopes she doesn’t feel too much guilt about their predicament. The Mistress is right. This isn’t her fault.

One of the men comes by and opens the passenger door. “Time to take off your blindfolds. If any of you make any sudden moves, you won’t be making any moves ever again, got it?” The three hostages provide weak audible responses.

“Good. I’m glad we’re all choosing to be so cooperative.” The man reaches over and removes the blindfolds of Jonathan, Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu. He instructs the three to get out of the car. Jonathan leaves first and looks around at their new surroundings. It’s a small concrete underground parking garage. It looks more cramped than the one underneath his apartment building. A foul odor greets him as he moves to the side to give Samantha and the Mistress room to leave the vehicle. After all three are out in the open, the Short Man approaches them with a wide smile on his face.

The gorgeous Brazilian female bodybuilder Flavia Crisos.

The gorgeous Brazilian female bodybuilder Flavia Crisos.

“I trust the ride was comfortable?” He smirks. Mistress Nguvu wants to punch him in the face, but wisely declines after seeing the other three men pointing their guns at their heads.

“Never mind that. Follow me. I’m pleased by how dutiful all of you have been in following my instructions. I have no complaints,” he says. “Fear can be a powerful motivator, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is. You obviously know how to utilize it to your advantage,” Jonathan says. The two women suddenly look at him. Why the hell is he making polite conversation with their captors? Is he out of his mind?

“Yes I do. Come.” The Short Man leads them through a creaky steel door and down a dark and long hallway. There are no windows anywhere. No art on the walls. The paint is starting to chip on the ceiling. A row of dim lightbulbs hang from above, doing their best to illuminate the entire hall. At the end of the corridor is another steel door. One of the armed men opens it and stands guard. The Short Man leads the other two into the room. Inside are three wooden chairs, a small carpenter’s table with nothing on it, a bookshelf with only a small handful of books on it, a toilet, no sink, an old black sofa collecting dust, and absolutely no windows of any sort. After everyone enters the room, the Short Man shows no indication he wants anyone to sit down. All three hostages stay standing.

“Anyone wondering why you’re all here?” the Short Man asks. He looks at all three captives and knows none of them will guess accurately. Satisfied with the level of fear he’s instilled in the three of them, he answers his question for them.

“I’m sure that question has crossed your minds once or twice this evening. Dr. Samantha.”

Everyone in the room turns to face her. Dr. Sammy isn’t crying, but appears to be on the verge of breaking down in tears. Her inner strength will face the ultimate test tonight.

“What?”

“Why do you think you’re all here? Any idea?”

Dr. Samantha lets out a sigh and bows her head. “No idea at all,” she says. The considerable weight of guilt bearing down on her soul breaks Jonathan’s heart. Mistress Nguvu stands tall and proud, defiantly supporting her long-time friend during this ordeal.

A dark ominous corridor.

A dark ominous corridor.

“Really? That’s surprising. Well, here’s the reason why. Your husband, Dr. Matthew Prescott, is the head neurosurgeon at East Wellspring Hospital, right?” Dr. Samantha’s ears perk up. She nods. “Of course he is. He’s without a doubt the most respected employee at that hospital, wouldn’t you say?”

She nods again in agreement. The Short Man’s insistence on tormenting his prisoners by asking endless rhetorical questions annoys both Jonathan and the Mistress.

“So respected, he could literally walk into a restricted zone with no questions asked, am I right?” Dr. Samantha’s patience has worn thin. She bursts out of anger.

“Yes, goddamn it! He practically owns the fucking place. What’s your fucking point, asshole?!” The men with guns laugh at her unexpected display of passion. The Short Man doesn’t blink but glares at his colleagues. They cease their laughter.

“Take it easy there, sweetheart. My point is simple. Every hospital has radiological material stored within it for x-rays, ultrasounds, MRIs, and things like that. Devices containing poisonous radioactive chemicals like cesium-137 are usually stored in a secure location. But he’d be able to access such things, given his prestige at the institution. Do you get my meaning?” Dr. Samantha thinks for a moment to connect the dots. After a brief pause, she nods her head again.

“Yes, I think I do. You want him to steal some of these radioactive devices for you. So you’ve kidnapped me and holding me for ransom. If he doesn’t cooperate or if he notifies the police, you’ll kill us. Am I getting warmer?” The Short Man laughs heartily. The other men smile but do not make any sound.

“Bingo! We want these materials so we can make a bomb. A dirty bomb. Believe it or not, but we’re kind of a big deal in the underground black market. Pretty big deal. Am I right, boys?”

“Hell yeah, sir!” one man responds.

“Fuck yes!” the other one shouts out.

“Yes, we are. We’re not terrorists, but we deal primarily with terrorists. And drug kingpins. And human traffickers. And organized crime syndicates. And third-world dictators facing international sanctions. You know, those kinds of people. The kind of people your media teaches you to hate. You probably don’t like us very much, do you?” The three hostages proudly stay quiet. The short man knows he’s said enough. They get it now. They know why they’re in this mess. It’s now time to break off this conversation and leave them be.

Portable x-ray machines.

Portable x-ray machines.

“I thought so. Well, I shall be off. I have several phone calls to make. Including one to your husband, naturally. There’s an armed guard standing outside this door. If any of you attempt to escape, expect a bullet to be lodged inside your fucking skulls. Got it?” Not expecting an answer, the Short Man and his two cohorts breeze out of the room. The door is locked. The fourth man is still standing at guard. Dr. Samantha, Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu are left there, stunned and stupefied. When will this nightmare end? Will there be a clean way out of this?

Dr. Samantha drops to her knees. She doesn’t cry because she doesn’t have any tears left to shed. Mistress Nguvu squats down to comfort her. Jonathan slumps down on one of the wooden chairs and stares at the steel door in exasperated silence.

For what seems like forever, none of them speak. What is there to say?

A sense of disgust grows within Dr. Samantha’s body. Obviously, these men specifically targeted her and her husband. They must have researched countless hospitals, doctors, and doctor’s wives to pinpoint who would make the most logical target. Much to her horror, she and Matthew are the unlucky participants. She feels even more wretched that the Mistress and Jonathan had to also get involved.

“Don’t worry, baby. Your husband will do the right thing. Nothing is going to happen to us,” Mistress Nguvu says. She knows her words will ring hollow, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t attempt to comfort her friend. Jonathan decides now is the time to chime in.

This is what the interrogation room would look like.

This is what the interrogation room would look like.

“There’s nothing we can do right now. What’s about to happen is about to happen. We’re powerless to change the course of events. That sounds hopeless, but it is what it is.” Defeated, Jonathan falls to the floor and covers his face with his hands. He cannot remember the last time he ever cried, but now would be an understandable time to do so. Instead, he lies there and attempts to rationalize to himself how everything will turn out okay at the end.

Jonathan struggles to come up with a plausible reason.

In another room on the floor above, the Short Man picks up a cell phone and calls the home of Dr. Matthew Prescott. The time is near 4:00 in the morning, so he should be sleeping. Whether he went to bed wondering where his wife could possibly be is a question he is about to have answered.

The neurosurgeon picks up the phone. Groggy and grumpy, he inquires who would be so rude as to call someone at this inconvenient hour. The Short Man explains calmly the situation his wife is currently facing. The doctor’s demeanor is surprisingly level-headed and rational. The hostage-taker lays out his deal: By midnight tonight, he must deliver to a certain address a portable x-ray generator machine to a man driving a black sedan. He will deliver the goods, and after an inspection of the device that (hopefully) leads to the approval by the inspector, the doctor will be given a second address to drive to. There, he will find his wife and her two friends waiting for him, unharmed if all goes well. If anything doesn’t go well, he may never see her ever again. Her friends will also suffer a similar fate.

Inside, the doctor is fuming with rage and uncontrollable fear. But on the surface, he appears gentle and accommodating. He agrees to the man’s terms and hangs up the phone. Dr. Matthew Prescott punches a wall and throws a wine glass across the room. The Short Man leans back in his chair and grins with joyful self-satisfaction. He instructs one of the men to contact their boss and inform him the good doctor is willing to be compliant. The phone call is made. The boss expresses his gratitude to his underlings. The Short Man suggests they open a bottle of champagne and celebrate this crucial first step to creating a bomb that will be the envy of scum everywhere on planet Earth.

Imagine the payment that will come with selling a weapon of mass destruction. Rich drug cartels and apocalyptic terrorists have plenty of cash to go around. The men drink to their health and their future success.

Meanwhile, the three hostages still have not started any conversation. There doesn’t seem to be any need to speak. Quietness permeates the room. Dr. Sammy and the Mistress cuddle together on the floor. The dusty black sofa looks disgusting and reeks of something awful. Mistress Nguvu wants to pee. She eyes the toilet, but decides against it. Now is the time to comfort her friend. The time for personal business is later.

Jonathan, on the other hand, gets up to use the toilet. There’s no toilet paper or running water to clean his hands. Oh well. He returns back to his spot on the floor and places his arms behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling. A light fixture stares back down at him. A spider crawls across one of the bulbs. Normally, Jonathan would freak out at the sight of such a repulsive eight-legged creature, but he has no more fear left to dispense. All he can do is stare at it and wish it well. Odds are, the spider is capable of escaping this hell hole. The humans, however, are not.

He shuts his eyes and tries to think of more pleasant memories. None come to mind. Fuck.

Eventually, Jonathan drifts off to sleep. He doesn’t know if Dr. Samantha or Mistress Nguvu follow suit, but he doesn’t care. He’s too exhausted to care. All he wants to do is sleep and wake up in his own bed and find out everything is just a nightmare. He doubts this will happen.

Bridgette – The Unlikely Porn Star (part two)

Mindi O'Brien, ladies and gentlemen.

Mindi O’Brien, ladies and gentlemen.

Sean takes a deep breath and exhales. Oh boy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a red light flash next to the camera lens. We’re rolling. And this is when things get real. Very real.

Bridgette starts off the action by slowly approaching Sean and putting her arms around his waist. She squeezes him tightly, causing an electric jolt to run down his back. Wow, is she really that strong? What kind of a physique does she have hiding underneath that fur coat?

“Come here, pretty boy. Thank you for coming over to my place,” Bridgette says, the sensuality dripping from her husky voice. “Is there anything I can do to make your Thanksgiving more memorable?”

Sean struggles to come up with something to say. “Roleplaying” was never his strength. He never knew the right thing to say. Besides, how clever could you possibly be given these unusual circumstances?

“I can think of many things, but what I’m really looking forward to is the big Thanksgiving feast,” he finally says. Damn! Is that the best he can do?

“Well, I’ll give you something to feast on!” Bridgette whispers in his ear.

She releases him, takes a few steps back, and reveals her Body. Bridgette unbuttons her fur coat, twirls around theatrically, and drops it to the floor. What Sean sees standing before him makes his whole body freeze.

WOW!!!

Bridgette isn’t just a big lady. She’s a big muscular lady!

Revealing her full figure, Sean’s jaw drops to the floor as he gazes upon Bridgette’s divine body. Finely chiseled, perfectly proportioned, enormously massive, and still unmistakably feminine, her body is a magnificent sight to behold. Big muscles everywhere, by Sean’s estimation Bridgette must be some kind of professional bodybuilder. She must have tons of trophies sitting around somewhere with an incredible physique like hers!

Holy FUCKING shit!!!!!!!!

She also is completely nude, which Sean just realizes. Whoa. She was naked the entire time underneath that fur coat!

“Surprised by what you see?” Bridgette smirks. Sean’s eyes are wider than flying saucers.

“Yes, I am! Holy smokes! You look…incredible!” Deep down inside, Sean has always admired strong women. As a kid, he used to buy old fitness magazines for 50 cents at a local library and sneak into his room and ogle at the pictures of fitness girls. Ever since then he’s secretly had a “thing” for beautiful girls with muscle. Little did he ever imagine he’d actually meet one in real life!

“I don’t just look incredible. I feel incredible. Here, come see for yourself.” She walks toward him, stark naked, and holds up her right bicep for him to feel. Sean touches it, bestowing upon it his utmost attention. Dear God, it’s sooooooooo hard! Sean has never felt biceps so hard before. Looking at Bridgette from head to toe, he’s never ever seen up-close-and-personal a woman with so much muscle. It’s like she’s from another planet…

“Impressed? You certainly looked impressed,” she observes.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m very much impressed. You probably work really hard to look like this. God, I can’t possibly imagine what you have to do to look as beautiful as this,” Sean says. Now completely oblivious to the camera, Sean has been transported to a whole other dimension. Only she and he exist; no one else.

This camera would be difficult to mount over your shoulder.

This camera would be difficult to mount over your shoulder.

“Let’s see what you got, pretty boy.” Bridgette leans forward and unbuckles Sean’s belt. He feels an erection forming. Should he be embarrassed by this?

Sean takes in another deep breath but forgets to exhale once Bridgette successfully pulls his pants down to his ankles. He lifts his feet as she rips his pants off and tosses them across the room. He finally exhales when she begins to take off his shoes.

“You look so good, little boy. From the moment I first saw you, I knew I wanted you to come to bed with me. If you had said ‘no,’ I don’t know what I would have done with myself,” Bridgette confesses. By now Sean is only wearing his underwear and shirt. Bridgette turns around and bends over. Her rounded butt pushes against his now erect penis. Sean’s heart races like a wild horse.

“Spank me. Go ahead. I’ve been a naughty little muscle girl!” Instead of spanking her, Sean cups her firm cheeks in his hands and savors the feeling. So hard. So full. But so beautiful at the same time. Finally, he lightly slaps her on her right butt cheek. Sean watches it jiggle up and down.

“Oh! Yes, yes, yes! That’s what I’m talking about. I like that.”

“What else do you like?” By now Sean has gotten more comfortable “acting” in front of the camera. He’s completely forgotten that a camera crew is watching them. Jimmy, Tony, Lexie and Maggie might as well not exist. They don’t matter anymore.

Bridgette turns back toward him and kisses him on the lips. This sudden act of intimacy steals his breath away. He feels her small breasts and plays with her erect nipples. Oh my God! They must be at least an inch and a half long! He pinches them greedily.

“Ouch! That hurts!”

Surprised, Sean crashes back to reality. He releases her nipples and backs off.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sean apologizes. He could tell she wasn’t really hurt when she throws her head back and laughs.

“Do you really think you could give me pain? I’m a strong muscle girl. No one, especially you, could hurt me. I’m stronger and more muscular than most guys, aren’t I?” She raises her left leg toward him, challenging him to feel it. He touches her thick thigh, a shiver going down his spine as he feels her beautiful leg. Sean, without a doubt, is a Leg Guy.

“So…strong…” Sean says, in a daze. Bridgette puts her leg down and takes off her fur boots. Now completely naked, she strikes a few bodybuilding poses and smiles incessantly. Sean watches in amazement and applauds after she finishes.

“Thank you. You might not be able to give me pain, but you certainly should be able to give me…pleasure.”

Pleasure? He sure hopes so! Sean has never had sex with a white woman before. Only small and petite Asian girls. He’s certain he’s been able to satisfy all of them. But could he match up with a big muscular woman like Bridgette?

“I’d like to think so,” he says. Bridgette goes to him and rips off his shirt. Literally. She grabs his shirt by the collar and tears it apart. Sean nearly climaxes just from her amazing show of strength. Luckily, this is an old shirt that Sean only wears when he doesn’t plan on being seen in public for too long. Going to the store is one thing. Starring in a porno is quite another. So he doesn’t mind not being able to wear this shirt ever again.

This is what I imagine the condo would be like.

This is what I imagine the condo would be like.

Only his underwear remains. His erection, which Sean suddenly becomes very self-conscious about, strains against the blue fabric. Aren’t male porn stars supposed to be well-endowed? Sean doesn’t think he’s small down there, but he isn’t completely confident in it either. His last girlfriend, a 4’11” Vietnamese girl, seemed to enjoy their lovemaking sessions. His girlfriend before that, a 5’1” Japanese girl, also never complained about their bedroom activities. The girl he lost his virginity to at the age of 15 was half Chinese and half Korean. She was on the high school gymnastics team. She was smaller and skinner than the other two girls (if that were even possible!). But Bridgette is something else entirely. She’s probably had many lovers in her life. Her expectations must be through the roof. How would Sean measure up to them?

“Enough of the foreplay. I’ve been ready since the moment I first met you. How should we do this?” Bridgette stretches her arms and legs as if she were preparing for a track meet. Sean expects his erection to burst out of his underwear if it doesn’t come off soon. As if she has extrasensory perception, Bridgette goes to him and pulls his underwear to the floor. She bends down to inspect his penis. Sean starts to sweat. His heart pounds so loudly he wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in the room could hear it.

She kisses the sensitive tip. Goosebumps rise from every pore of his skin. Bridgette then licks the side, tasting it as if it were an ice cream cone. Sean is afraid if she continues to do this, he could come within seconds. He closes his eyes and tries to think of something else to prolong the moment. Nothing productive comes to mind.

“So beautiful. So hard. You’re definitely ready for me, little boy,” Bridgette tells him between licks. She tickles his scrotum with her hard, calloused fingers. All her years of weightlifting has deadened almost all the skin on her hands. The sensation of her rigid touch against his erection forces a sudden gasp to escape from his lips.

“I have an idea. Follow me,” Bridgette orders. She stands up, takes his hand and drags him to the far north corner of the bedroom. Jimmy removes the camera from the tripod and follows them with the camera slung over his shoulder. Tony sneaks closely behind holding the boom microphone. Lexie turns a light toward their direction. Maggie remains where she is, standing and watching intently.

Bridgette takes them to the 180 degree curved window overlooking the sea. She tugs on a rope which pulls back the curtains. Sean looks out, admiring the gorgeous night skyline view. But it’s his view of her that impresses him more. She’s so fucking beautiful! How the hell did he get so lucky for all of this to happen to him? His mom asking him to bake a pecan pie for Thanksgiving dinner was probably the best coincidence to ever happen to him.

“Everyone in the city can see us, can’t they?” Bridgette has finished pulling the curtain back. Sean realizes she’s absolutely right. On top of a hill overlooking the busy downtown, there’s no doubt anyone who happened to look up at this condo building at this moment would have a perfect view of this porno being shot. Oh God, what if someone he knew were seeing this now?

“You’re such a voyeuristic lady, aren’t you?” She’s surprised Sean is able to adequately carry on a coherent conversation.

“I am. So let’s give them a show!” Bridgette turns around, puts her hands against a railing in front of the window, bends over forward and spreads her legs wide open. Sean could see her soaking wet vagina and enlarged clitoris dripping with moisture all the way to the carpet. Her readiness arouses him further.

It’s time to act. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. Fuck all his failed relationships. Fuck his dead end job. Fuck every single time he’s been rejected for anything in his life. It’s time to fuck all if it and fuck this gorgeous female bodybuilder in front of a worldwide audience. It’s time to show the world that I’m a Man and I deserve to be here with her. It’s time to act–

“Shit! Stop stalling! I’m fucking dripping over here! Did you hear me? Go on and fuck me, Goddammit!”

Sean immediately returns back to his senses. His eyes sharpen. His focus is singular.

“Yes, ma’am!”

Sean goes to her and grips her hips with both hands. Jimmy is filming them from the right side. Sean could almost hear the camera buzzing. It’s now or never. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He pokes her sensitive passageway with his index finger and explores her wetness. Bridgette moans. Feeling bold, he puts a second finger inside her and prods further. Her breathing intensifies. Jimmy gets down on one knee so he can get a better angle of her vagina. Sean, desiring to show the world he can be the Greatest Lover in the Universe, delicately pushes a third finger inside her. His fingers move quicker. He knows he’s found her G-spot when a loud groan escapes from her throat. He’s on fire. He’s feeling empowered. He knows this is his time to shine.

Flavia Crisos. I can't even comprehend her.

Flavia Crisos. I can’t even comprehend her.

“Oh, fuck! God, you are so fucking amazing! More, more, more…” Bridgette moans. Her throaty cries embolden him even more. Sean squats down so he can see better. A fourth finger enters her. Then his thumb. He drives his entire fist inside her outstretched vagina and thrusts it in and out at a deliberate pace. Bridgette’s moans turn to screams. Is she acting? Or is she being real in this moment?

After one final push, Bridgette comes and squirts a small amount of fluid onto his fist. He quickly removes his hand from her vagina and watches a pool of her feminine juices form on the lily white carpet. Out of breath, Bridgette leans against the railing but keeps her legs wide apart. Now, it’s his turn. Sean stands up and grabs his penis. He rubs the head of his manhood against her very wet opening and gradually pushes it until it’s completely in. He moans. She moans back. Jimmy scoots back so he can capture every inch of the action.

“Fuck me.” Bridgette can’t wait any longer. Neither can he.

“My pleasure.”

Methodically at first, but gradually getting faster and faster, Sean thrusts in and out of her in front of the entire city. He pinches her butt cheeks and feels the muscles in her broad back. Bridgette’s grip on the metal railing has not loosened. She might break it in half if she’s not careful!

His pace quickens. His thrusts intensify. Her breathing becomes heavy. Out of nowhere, Sean realizes he’s not wearing protection. Bridgette doesn’t seem concerned by this vulnerability. So he doesn’t worry either.

When the lights are shining the brightest, how would you perform?

When the lights are shining the brightest, how would you perform?

Bridgette brings her legs closer together and squeezes her vagina, tightening herself around him. Sean gasps. He claws his fingers against her back then decides to reach lower and stroke her clit. Fuck! It’s enormous! Her clit is almost the size of a small penis! Sean never imagined he’d ever see a woman so well-endowed in his entire life. He pinches her clit, which makes Bridgette jolt upward. She tosses her head back and growls. He’s surprised she didn’t fly through the roof. Sean’s close to coming, but he knows how to control himself. He wants to make love to her for as long as he possibly could.

As her second orgasm builds toward its finish, she rocks her bottom back and forth to complement his thrusts. Sweat drips off her beautiful face. Jimmy is as still as a statue, capturing every moment of their coupling. Even Maggie seems intrigued by what’s happening. She wonders whether Bridgette is “acting” or if she’s actually enjoying herself. As a 30+ year veteran of the porn industry, she’s seen her share of fake orgasms. But Bridgette’s orgasms look and sound very fucking real!

“Oh, God…” Sean mutters under his breath.

Sean can’t hold it any longer. His pace quickens to a maximum level. Bridgette appears as though she’s going to pass out. Finally, after trying to hold back as much as he can, Sean climaxes and empties himself into her. Bridgette tightens and releases her vaginal muscles once more, prompting her to climax after him. Sean releases into her for what seems like an eternity.

“Mmmmmmm,” Bridgette grumbles. Her grip on the railing loosens.

As Sean’s spasms subside, he continues to caress her muscular back with finesse. Completely spent, Bridgette collapses to the floor and curls up in a ball. Sean falls down with her and massages her six-pack abs. He kisses her neck. She lovingly strokes his softened penis with one hand and fondles her swollen clit with the other. Jimmy is now standing over them, the camera pointed downward. Tony smirks. Lexie smiles. Maggie remains stoned face.

Cut. That’s a wrap.

Muscle Worship, Female Bodybuilders and the Greatest 75 Minutes of My Life (Epilogue)

Muscle beauty Flavia Crisos. As you know, none of the women featured in this post is GFBB. Her identity will always remain a secret.

Muscle beauty Flavia Crisos. As you know, none of the women featured in this post is GFBB. Her identity will always remain a secret.

The moment I realize I had forgotten to take a picture of her, I quickly shoot GFBB a text asking her if she’d be willing to send me a photo of herself.

Thoughts started to flood through my mind: Is this a creepy request? Would she be afraid I’d post this on Facebook or somewhere else and people would see it? Is she protective over her image and would refuse? Would she interpret this request as me bothering her (and perhaps becoming obsessed with her)? Will she think I’m being creepy?

Time passes. I hear nothing from her for a long time. Maybe she’s going to sleep. Maybe she’s ignoring me. Maybe I crossed a line by sending her this text…

Finally, GFBB responds. She says she fell asleep before I texted her. Ah ha! This is her exact message:

Sorry fell asleep . I will send u a pic and its not creepy  But that’s because it’s u asking

Whew! That solves that mystery. I knew we developed a positively rapport. I guess all my fretting was all for naught.

So off to bed I went. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, checked my email one more time and finally crashed into a peaceful slumber. Ah, bliss. My life resumed as normal afterward. I went to work the next day. That evening, GFBB sends me a text at 8:19 p.m. PST with the photo I had requested. It appears to have been taken at a hotel room (perhaps by one of her clients). It wasn’t the highest quality picture, but since receiving it I’ve treasured it as it were a precious family heirloom.

Lovely biceps of Zoa Linsey.

Lovely biceps of Zoa Linsey.

If I’m bored and have nothing else to do (usually when I’m at the train station waiting to get home from work), I’ll occasionally get out my phone and look at her photo. Then all the memories of our 75 minutes together would start flooding back.

Sentimental value, perhaps? Yeah, without a doubt!

All joking aside, life went on as it always did. I enjoyed a restful weekend. And come Monday, it was back to the normal grind. No more female bodybuilders, muscle worship sessions or playful text conversations with strong beautiful women for me for a while. I had my fun. Now it was time to see what came next.

Life can be full of unexpected adventures, n’est-ce pas?

***

So now I take you to the present day. At the time of this blog post’s publication, it is May 23, 2014. My fateful session (or is it “appointment?”) with GFBB was on May 23, 2013. Exactly one year ago today.

Wow. One year ago when I had my session with GFBB. While it does feel like a year ago, it’s funny how certain specific moments – even the trivial ones – are as sharp in my memory as ever before.

The first time I looked at her. When we sat down to chat. When the session finally started. When I got to kiss her. When she sent me the text with her photo attached to it.

I can remember the exact spot where I was when I opened that text. It’s funny how innocuous details like that stay with you forever after everything else more “important” passes on. Perhaps this is our brain’s way of telling us what’s really important in our lives.

Asian muscle Goddess Kiana Phi.

Asian muscle Goddess Kiana Phi.

Have I changed at all as a person as a result of this amazing muscle worship session with an equally amazing lady? The truth is, not really. I have changed a bit, but perhaps not as dramatically as I’d like to think. It is true that I’ve become bolder in pursuing adventures and opportunities that benefit me. It is true that I’ve had muscle worship sessions with three other FBBs (while I’ve enjoyed all of them, GFBB still holds a special place in my heart). It is true that my eyes have been opened to a whole other world I never knew before.

But, at the end of the day, I’m still the same person I was the moment before I knocked on her hotel door 365 days ago. In the past year, I’ve never returned to the parking lot of the hotel we met at; even though it’s a mere five minutes away from my apartment. There’s something special about your “first time” that you want to remain special. It wouldn’t feel right to return back there, even for sentimental purposes.

Speaking of sentimentality, that’s probably how I’ll always remember the 75 greatest minutes of my life. Was it truly the greatest hour and fifteen minutes of my time here on Earth? Eh, who knows…but that’s not the point. My feelings, thoughts and unorthodox “friendship” I developed with GFBB will always be a sweet dream that I’ll recount for many years moving forward. That’s valuable unto itself.

I’m still a fairly shy person. I still haven’t had much luck when it comes to women and romance. I’m still looking for full-time employment, although I’m reasonably getting by just fine working at two part-time jobs.

Who wouldn't want to touch the muscles of Monica Martin?

Who wouldn’t want to touch the muscles of Monica Martin?

I’m still Ryan Takahashi. That part hasn’t changed. I’m still me.

But, I’m not the same person I was leading up to 7 p.m. on 5/23/2013. Yes, I realize I’m contradicting myself, but bear with me for a moment. I may still be myself, but something tangibly is different. My muscle worship session with GFBB was, to be honest, one of the first times I’d ever done anything really selfish in my whole life. I paid $360 on something that was purely for me…and nobody else.

It was selfish. It was hedonistic. It was a “treat” I gave myself as a reward for being…well, me.

I deserve the opportunity to express my sexuality, aren’t I? I’m allowed to touch the beautiful muscles of a strong, gorgeous woman if we both consent to the circumstances? Of course!

Later on I will write a blog post exclusively about the concept of muscle worship itself, so I will delve further into this particular social phenomenon at a later date. But for this Epilogue, all I can say is this:

I love female muscle. I love strong women. And I can honestly say that reality definitely matches up with fantasy when it comes to experiencing female muscle up close and personal.

The incomparable Elena Oana Hreapca.

The incomparable Elena Oana Hreapca.

GFBB is a great lady. We briefly exchanged emails months later when she randomly discovered my blog and asked me about it (“Guilty as charged!”). But that’s the extent of our post-session communication. We’ve never spoken again. She hasn’t come back to Seattle since. I don’t know if I’ll ever get a chance to see her again.

If I do, great. If I don’t, well, that’s the way things are. No one ever knows how life will sort itself out. Perhaps our paths will cross again. Or perhaps not. But regardless, I’ll always have my memories. Sweet, sweet memories:

The giddiness of emailing with her.

The nervousness I felt during the week leading up to my session.

The anticipation of waiting in the parking lot.

The deep breath I took before I knocked on her door.

My heart stopping when I first laid eyes on her.

The pleasantness of chatting with her and getting to know her.

The awkwardness of getting started with the session.

The sensual pleasure I experienced during those 75 minutes.

The elation I felt immediately after our session came to a close.

The romanticized maudlin feelings I feel whenever I look at that grainy cell phone picture of her.

All of it. I love reflecting on all of it. I don’t think any future muscle worship session will ever come close to surpassing what I experienced one year ago today. That’s not a negative reflection on all the other FBB out there. No, instead it’s a reflection on my magical “first time” and how that experience can never be replicated. Nor should it ever be replicated. The fact it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience makes it that much sweeter.

If I had to summarize the whole experience in one single word, it would be this:

Damn.