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Inside the Muscle - Part 2

The judge's voice rang out from the darkness over the sound system. "Front double biceps."

My detached consciousness out over the audience began to feel like it was holding its breath. The part of me that was still inside my body was on full alert. I felt an unprecedented level of control and connection with every cell in every muscle fiber. All of the nerve endings in my skin were alive and on fire. The subtle movements of the air around me felt like fingers on my skin, caressing gently, feeling the hardness and density of my mass.

Starting in the "relaxed" bodybuilder position, which, as I have said, is far from relaxed, I did actually relax my shoulders and arms, allowing them to fall slowly to hang at my sides. Well, as close to at my sides as was possible given the bulk of my lats and arm muscles competing for space alongside my torso. Everything felt as if it was in slow motion, though as I saw myself from outside it looked normal. I felt the sheer weight of my arms hanging there, pulling down from my shoulders. I lowered my chin until it stopped, sitting on the protrusion of my upper pecs. As my eyes gazed down over the expanse of my chest muscles, I realized that I actually couldn't see anything of the rest of my front, except the cords of my quads bulging out from the front of my thighs. Some little part of my brain found this funny and wondered if women have the same problem with their breasts.

Raising my arms 90 degrees out to my sides, fists clenched and cocked forward, I paused. Biceps and triceps tensed, forearms bulging, a crazy network of veins appearing everywhere, I allowed the judges and the audience to take in the width of my shoulders and lats flaring out and up from my 29" waist. I tensed up my quads, my feet slightly off center and shifted the bulk of my torso slightly off to the left. This was my favorite pose as I thought it showed off the extremes of my proportions the best.

I continued to contract my biceps, pulling my forearms up to a 90-degree bend. Each of my 24" upper arms grew and swelled, the softball-sized rocks of my biceps coming into razor-defined view. Looking at myself from the front, the depth of the muscles was clearly visible, even from out over the audience. From the inside, I flexed as hard as I could, thinking not about bending my arms, but about tightening the muscles—contracting every fiber as much as it could. The bulk of my forearms and the rocks of my biceps collided, stopping my elbows from bending any further.

I exhaled quickly and tightened all the muscles in my core, showing comic-book character definition in my abs and obliques. And then I smiled. The look on my face was one of quiet confidence. One that said I've worked hard and I am awesome to behold and I know it. I couldn't see anyone in the audience clearly, but I did see the glint of a pair of eyeglasses. I focused my gaze directly on those lenses, wondering who was behind them and what that person thought of the muscle on display for their review.

"Lat spread."

"Side chest."

I went through the sequence of mandatory poses as they were called out from the darkness. As I did, I felt an increasing sense of control over my body, my will causing the muscles to ripple, dance and contract as I shaped my body into each pose. It felt as if my muscles were growing as I posed, the blood pumping further into the fibers, stretching the limits of my dry and shrinking skin.

My thoughts drifted briefly back to the audience, to the person behind the eyeglasses. Who were they? Who was out there? Would there be anyone from the magazines who would want to give me a contract? Would there by anyone from the talent agencies looking for muscle models or maybe porn producers? There would certainly be the usual mix of meatheads and other fellow bodybuilders who were there to appreciate and to support the overall sport. There would probably (hopefully?) also be one or two timid souls, venturing into this new world – this subculture of muscle – for the first time.

There might be a boy who had never seen men this big in person before. Perhaps he had seem some websites and looked through some muscle magazines. Maybe he had glimpsed a big arm or two at the mall. It might be that he had felt something strange, some odd combination of awe, curiosity and longing: something that drew him inexplicably to see more. He wouldn't yet fully understand what he felt, but he would know that he needed more. He would feel a strange turn in his stomach when he saw us up close, moving like normal men yet endowed with the bodies of supermen.

"Abdominals and thigh!"

My thoughts were snapped back to the present. As I exhaled deeply and sank my abs into inch-deep relief, rocking my hips back and forth, the slippery fabric of my poser adjusted almost imperceptibly over my cock, which twitched ever so slightly in response. I fought to bring my focus back to the here and now, lest I continue down what could turn into a very dangerous and embarrassing road.

I popped a frighteningly vascular Most Muscular pose, my fists crossed in front of me and my traps swelling up to my ears with skin-splitting striations.

"Thank you. Exit to your right."

The audience went wild with sheers and whistles. I gave a quick wave, turned to my right, walked to the end of the risers, down the stairs, and into the wings. As I moved, my full consciousness returned to my head, leaving its view from the audience, and time seemed to return to a normal speed. A muscular forearm appeared and drew the black curtain aside.

I walked back to the pump-up and changing room and sat in a chair by my stuff to reflect. I felt alive in a way I never had before. My body was still tingling all over – as if every nerve ending were on overdrive. I thought back to being on stage, just seconds before, moving slowly and flexing my muscles. This was what it was all about. No pretense, no apologies. Just muscle. And men who had tortured themselves in pursuit of the extreme, presenting themselves for scrutiny and inspection, quite literally naked (well, practically naked anyway) for all to see: the ultimate in exhibitionism.

What was this feeling in my stomach? This strange compulsion pushing me forward. This drive to be on display, to flex and to be appreciated. Was it the bodybuilding demon I had long wrestled with and chased, that had driven me to torture myself with weights and food and drugs, to bring myself to the ultimate expression of masculinity and muscle? I had worked at the behest of this inexplicable drive for years, pushing on for reasons I could never define, turning my body in a freakish, cartoon-like expression of muscle and size. And now that I was here, in the process of exhibiting myself, of displaying all the muscle that I had become, that drive turned into satisfaction and I experienced the feeling I had been driving toward all that time. I was a bodybuilder. I was muscle and the muscle was me and I liked it.


This is the second story I've posted to Nifty. My first, "Remembering Ken," is in the Athletics section, though I have as yet to finish it. Please let me know what you think. I'd lover to hear any ideas or requests you have as well as your own experiences and fantasy involving bodybuilders and men with huge muscles. Alex (