Jockbroski34 - Untitled

Thanksgiving Football

Justin sat on his phone. He was so bored waiting for everyone else to start arriving for the thanksgiving dinner. His dad had put the football game on their TV but Justin wasn’t really interested in it. Sports just wasn’t his thing. Everyone in the family knew it. Just looking at his out of shape body was enough of a signal that most people didn’t even need to ask. He wasn’t severely overweight but a belly had started to grow on his skinny frame. Bigger clothes had helped hide it somewhat but it was getting noticeable again.

“Sup big guy,” Cameron tossed a football at his chest. With a loud ‘oof’ Justin was able to catch it. It wasn’t a hard throw but enough to get Justin’s attention. The college football stud didn’t like to be ignored. “Gettin ready for the game! It’s supposed to be a good one!”

“I guess,” Justin just rolled his eyes at the thought. He just kept flipping through his phone as the game played out in front of him. Part of him had always been a little jealous of his cousin. The big guy could light up just about any room and was the size of a tank. People looked up to him literally and figuratively. Being jealous was almost just natural. 

“Come on man! Give me some enthusiasm,” Cameron was goading him. He knew how much Justin hated football. “You know I’ve got just the thing,” Cameron pulled out his phone and started flipping through it. The jock wasn’t known to do something like this. Even if his numerous girlfriends were texting him, he tried to keep the attention to the person right in front of him.

It was enough to catch Justin’s attention. He looked at his cousin a bit oddly. “What do you mean by that?” Just asked. But suddenly felt something really off about his body. He wasn’t sure what it was but something felt a little strange. He opened up his legs a little bit and leaned forward. For some reason his body felt hot. His shirt was sticking to his body. ‘Am I sweating?’ he realized. Pulling at the fabric it felt wet. “Hey Cam…” he panted. “I don’t feel so good…”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll feel great in just a second,” Cameron was still smiling about something. Justin didn’t know what it would have been though. He was too busy looking over his body trying to figure out what was happening to it. Sweat was really starting to pour out onto his clothes. He could see visible wet spots around his chest and pants.

“What’s…” he grunted. “What’s that mean?” Another grunt escaped his mouth. His whole body suddenly convulsed. He fell down onto the couch, writhing at the suddenly sensation overtaking his body. It was something he’d never known before. His muscles felt so strange. It was like they were going through some kind of intense workout. He didn’t know the feeling too well but enough to know what it was like to be tired. His muscles was going into overtime. They just kept contracting and expanding. Over and over. Contracting and expanding.

The first thing to go was his shoes as the front of his feet pushed out in front of the soles. The size 10 shoes were far too small for what his feet were becoming. The rubber and fabric bent around his feet and eventually dropped to the ground. His socks stretched against the bigger feet. His now bigger hands gripped a pillow tightly feeling his jeans and graphic tee pull even tighter around his body. He could hear some part of it starting to tear. Little by little he could feel constricted by his clothing. It was holding him back. With it on he couldn’t grow. He writhed more trying to squeeze out of it.

His shirt pulled at his chest and shoulders while his jeans would barely hold in his thick muscular butt. But it was his thighs that was going to free his bottom half. Their thick, strong nature tore apart the denim at the seams. One seam popped. Then another. Then another 5 then it just tore straight down his legs revealing their massive size. “Fuck…” he groaned. The shirt had raised up showing off the bottom abs surrounding his belling button. It was pulling even tighter against his chest. Two thick pecs weren’t enough to tear it apart. Neither were his 17 inch arms. It wasn’t long before they’d reached 18. Then 19. Then 20. “FUCK!” He let out a muffled scream into the pillow and a flex busting the shirt. The soft fabric didn’t stand a chance against his dense body.

Justin stood up and looked at his cousin. He was only about 2 inches shorter than him now. “How ya feeling?” Cameron grinned.

“Bro. I feel fuckin great!” Justin said excitedly. For a second he tried to think about how he would have normally said it. But all he could do was criticize that part of himself as an aloof idiot. “Da fuck? Why can’t I fucking remember anything?” he asked. Justin wasn’t trying to curse. It just came out naturally. “All I can think about is football and working out!” But those thoughts filled him with joy. If anything he was even more ready for Thanksgiving dinner to load up on carbs and protein. It was the perfect cheat day.

“Sorry that’s part two,” Cameron said. “I got used to it too. Don’t worry. You’ll love it.” He got up from his chair and measured himself next to Justin. Of course he had to be bigger but Justin would hate it. It’d drive them both to working out and training for even more size. “Girls are going to be all over you now!” he slapped Justin’s tight back.

“Huh?” Justin looked down trying to go back to his phone but once he saw the football he grabbed it. “Let’s go play man! I’ve been sitting around all day!”

Cameron got up from the couch. “Yeah!” he cheered, beating his chest. “Let’s go fucking play!” Then realized what he was looking at. “Maybe you should go get some clothes on first though. It’s family today. Don’t think there’s any girls you’re trying to impress now.”

Justin looked down realizing his body wasn’t covered. “Shit man. Completely forgot…”

Mandatory PE Class

Markus walked through the university campus, his face clearly showing his annoyance at the situation he was going through. His school decided to "promote physical activity among the student body", and by "promote" they meant a mandatory Physical Education class every junior had to go through. And Marcus was not happy about it.

Marcus was an introvert - he didn't particularly enjoy parties, going to bars, or other typical college activities. He spent his time reading, researching and weightlifting. This might seem weird for a "nerd", but whenever Marcus put on his noise-canceling headphones and grabbed the bar with 100 or so pounds on it, he felt like he could finally relax.

But even though Marcus enjoyed going to the gym, he enjoyed it when he was there alone - no one with him, the amount of people in the gym at a minimum. These were the perfect conditions for him. This class would not be it. He would have to deal with God knows how many people, plus most likely some smart ass coach, who thinks he's the next Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The university gave him a choice of what he wanted to do during the class and Marcus chose weight training, hoping he would be left alone and allowed to just follow his usual routine without any interruptions.

Marcus arrived at the athletics department's building and after wandering through its corridors he found his way to Weight Room C09. He knocked and heard a booming voice invite him inside. He opened the door and walked into a smallish locker room, where a few guys were getting ready and another man, clearly older than the others, stood on the side and waited. That was probably the coach.

"Marcus, right?" the supposed coach walked up to Marcus. "I'm Assistant Coach Baker and I'll be leading your group this semester." He extended his hand and Marcus shook it reluctantly. He quickly turned around and began changing into his gym gear.

Once everyone was ready (and there weren't many people in Marcus' group - only 6 guys) the group led by Coach Baker moved to the weight room proper. Marcus wanted to walk up to Baker and ask him if he could just do his own routine, but before he had mustered up the courage to do this Baker began warming up and expected the rest to do the same. Marcus rolled his eyes and sighed, before joining the group.

The next hour passed slowly. Baker had the group do a fairly quick and lite set of exercises, lite for Marcus at least. After the class had ended everyone was getting out of their sweaty shirts in the locker room. Marcus put his gear in his backpack and as the rest of the students began leaving the room, he walked up to Coach Baker.

"Sir, could I make a certain request?" He asked, a bit shy.

"Oh, Marcus, yeah? I also wanna talk with you about something. But go on." He wanted to talk with Marcus about something? That didn't sound great. He stood silent for a moment.

"So..." Baker looked at Marcus, his eyebrow raised.

"Oh yeah. So... I was wondering... I, I go to the gym quite often, and have for a few years now... and so I thought... Would it be a problem if during these PE classes I... I just followed my usual routine and you, you just did what you have planned with the rest?"

Coach smiled as he listened. Marcus wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad thing.

"Well, Marcus, I'm glad you see the importance of exercise. But I don't want no divisions in my group, you understand. I want to work with all of you, show something to everyone. Although, because you asked, I'll be sure to adjust the exercises for your level." Marcus nodded, although he wasn't really happy with Baker's response. "And while we're talking, I wanted to ask you something - would you be interested in trying out for our football team?"

This took Marcus by surprise. The football team? Where did that idea come from? He was not about to join a group of brain dead jocks.

"What?" he simply asked, confused.

"Well, I have noticed your strength during our hour together. And I think you would do great on the gridiron." Baker put his hand on Marcus' shoulder. Marcus did not like that.

"Wel, uhm... thank you for the proposition, but... no, I'm, I don't think I would fit in."

"Are you sure? I could help you fit in just right." Baker grinned again.

"Yeah... I'm sure... Mr. Baker" Marcus stood there and avoided eye contact with the older man.

"Call me Coach" Baker laughed. "If you're sure... well, I ain't gonna force ya. Now go, I'll see you next week."

As Marcus left the building he sighed. This was going to be an exhausting semester.

Reality turned out weirder than he expected.

As the months progressed Marcus attended every PE class, his annoyance with Baker's refusal to just let him do what he wanted not strong enough to risk messing with his attendance. Baker meanwhile stuck to his word, and for the most part Marcus was doing what the rest of the group was doing.

Although... this wasn't the whole truth. Because even though Marcus wasn't allowed to do his own thing, while doing the exercises Baker would come up to him and ask him to change something about the movements, add more weight, do another variant of the exercise. So even though he was working with the group, he did get the chance to do way more challenging things.

Baker himself was weirdly invested, at least that's how it seemed to Marcus. He very much got into that role of the supportive coach, he stood next to Marcus, counted his reps, motivated him to "just push further". Marcus found that strange, but didn't want to get into any kind of argument with the coach, so he just went along with this.

As the semester came to an end Marcus also had to admit he got something out of these classes. The exercises Baker had him do were pushing his limits, and he did adjust his normal gym routine to include stuff he learnt from him As he looked in the mirror, standing in his room on the day of the last class before the end of the semester he had to admit he was bigger than 5 months prior.

The last class came and went pretty uneventfully. Marcus beat his PB on the bench by 10 pounds and after an hour he came back to the locker room sweaty and gross. Baker thanked all the guys for coming, asked them to continue going to the gym and said goodbye.

As Marcus got ready to leave the locker room Baker looked at him and said "See you at practice, 90" and went back to the weight room. Marcus had no idea what that meant, but the class was over so he just shrugged and left.

Marcus entered his dorm room and sat behind his desk. He had some work to do on a paper he wanted to submit next week. He opened his laptop and quickly got to work. After a while he needed something to drink so he stood up and walked up to his mini fridge. There he noticed a mug standing on top of it. It was a cup branded with the logo of the Lions, his university's football team.

This was weird, as Marcus did not recall ever getting any merchandise like that. Maybe someone left it here by mistake, Marcus didn't know. But it seemed it was the only clean mug he had, so he quickly poured soda into it and went back to his laptop.

He got into the flow of writing and research pretty quickly. Then, around half an hour later, he was surprised by a notification from some group chat. 10 unread messages from "jungle kingssss 💪". What the hell was that? Marcus was sure he never joined such a conversation. Maybe it was some new kind of scam.

The notifications just kept coming, and at one point instead of deleting it Marcus clicked on it and a chat window appeared.

nah bruh, ya slayed that bitch well dude - steroidss#96

dude concentrate ffs - big dog jake#7

stfu bros where the fuck is tron where ya need him - mike chief#53

hes jerkin of or meal preppin bro, ya know that - steroidss#96

Marcus looked at the chat, even though he had no idea what he was looking at. It seemed he somehow had access to a group chat of some random meatheads. Although the numbers from their nicknames were tickling something at the back of his head, somehow.

if hes jerkin his fat dick ill kick his fat ass, we have state to fuckin beat - big dog jake#7

State? What does it mean they have to beat-- oh yeah, the Lions' next game is against Ohio State.

Wait.

What does that we mean in "we have state to beat"?

How did he know the Lions' schedule?

Marcus felt his head spin a little. Was he sick? He looked at the screen again and suddenly a new message appeared.

am not fuckin jerkin off you piece of shit, got fuckin dumbass school to take care of you idiots - tron's big dick#90

Marcus looked down. His fingers were still touching the keys. HE WROTE THAT!

And that we... It meant the football team! Marcus was reading the football team's group conversation. How the fuck did this happen?!

dunno why i even bother wit any of your stupid fat asses you fuckin shits - tron's big dick#90

Marcus jumped out of the chair. He did it again! His fingers were betraying him. He shut the laptop down and opened the window. Maybe he had to breathe in some fresh air. Was he hallucinating? Was this some infection? What was happening to him?!

He sat on his bed and breathed in, then out. In and out, in and out. In and out. In and out-- was he drooling!? Marcus wiped the drool from his face. It was getting late and he decided it would be beneficial to go to bed early. He turned around to get to his bed only to notice a sweaty hoodie with badly cut-off sleeves. It had the Lions' logo on the front and the number 90 on the back.

This was not happening.

This was just a dream.

Marcus told himself that repeatedly as he got into his PJs. He checked if his laptop was turned off and laid on his bed. He could swear he could feel a faint smell of sweat and... cum? But this didn't stop him from quickly falling asleep.

Marcus was dragged out of sleep by his alarm clock. He slowly got his body into an upright position, then began going through his usual morning routine.

He made himself a protein shake with added creatine.

He ate the oatmeal and eggs he always had for breakfast.

He put on the sweaty shirt from two days ago. It was fine, no one would notice. And he looked hot in it anyways.

He sent a message on the group chat.

you bitches ready to get dominated n pushed into the grass by my fat dick - tron's big dick#90

He got his gear ready and put his duffel bag on his shoulder.

the faggot of the team has spoken everybody - hall/of/glory#38

Marcus walked through the campus. He let out a dumb chuckle as he read the message. Jalen was the best.

not everyone can slay pussy like tron, bitch - tron's big dick#90

He entered the building and walked towards the locker room-- Marcus suddenly stopped and looked around.

Where was he?

He didn't remember waking up.

He didn't remember dressing up.

He didn't remember coming here.

Where was he?

As he tried to understand what the fuck was going on Assistant Coach Baker appeared, walking through the corridor, coming towards him.

"You know why you're here, Marcus?"

"No!" Marcus shouted, surprising himself, but not Baker.

"As I thought. Follow me" the older man waved at him and Marcus instinctively followed his lead. They walked through the football wing of the athletics department until they reached a door. Locker Room L01.

They both entered - Baker first, Marcus second - and Coach pointed to an open locker. Marcus walked up to it and looked inside.

Jersey. Number 90. Schoeder. His name.

Shoulder pads.

Cleats.

Condoms.

Gym gear.

It all reeked of sweat.

So fuckin' musky.

Huhuhuhuh, a proper jock's smell, bro

bro

bruh

WHAT!?

Coach came up to Marcus and looked him in the eyes.

"Do you know why you're here, 90?"

Marcus opened his mouth and tried to answer. But no words came out.

Coach grinned and took a sweaty Under Armour shirt from his locker. He then put the shirt up to his nostrils.

Marcus automatically inhaled and a fog descended over his mind. He took a few more sniffs. So sweaty, so musky. A fuckin' football jock's smell. A stupid grin appeared on his face, drool began flowing from his mouth. Bruh, that was so fuckin' good bro.

"Sick bro..." Tron drawled and put his arms into a double bicep pose. Coach Baker just smiled and took back the shirt before throwing it into the locker.

"Now, 90, put on the gear. I've trained a new defensive end for 5 months. Let's see it it was worth the hassle." He patted Tron on the back before barking at him. "Main field in 2 minutes or you won't be able to walk for a week, 90!"

"Huhuhuhuh" Tron responded with a dumb chuckle. "Yeah, Coach. No worries, dude."

He then quickly got ready and ran out onto the field.

whos ready for a fuckin beatin - tron's big dick#90

I watched from the kitchen door, with a wide grin on my face, as my previously combative, nerdy Stepson watched his laptop, eyes glazed, for the umpteenth time these last 6 months. Nobody would ever remember tiny, snarky little Theodore. They’d only ever see Theo, this bulky, sweaty brute, lifting and fucking his way through college, just like any red-blooded young man should. And it was all thanks to my buddy Sarge’s “attitude adjusting” self help videos, he custom designs for a slew of shady clientele after he retired. Mostly foreign governments, some loony cults here and there. But for me, he’d done a personal favor. I filled out a details chart, every last trait, from his voice to his hair, posture, everything. I thought about everything he’d said about “those sweating, grunting behemoths” that all got into school with free-ride scholarships for athletics. Theo was going to helplessly, desperately, insatiably grow, eating and grunting his way to 215, the weight I’d maintained all through college. He’d also dress, walk, and talk like the testosterone (and a slew of supplements Sarge gave me with the videos) filled cocky young male you see frequenting college courtyards, throwing footballs between bros and chasing pretty sorority girls like lovesick puppies. Their dumb, dopey demeanor would seen pour from Theo’s mouth, his shoulders back, pecs out casually. He’d grope and adjust himself, sitting down with his legs wide no matter where he is. His diet would change, adding raw calories and protein, chuckling dumbly with the other gym rats as he gulps down creatine powder, dry, and chugs a shake to wash it down. The supplements Sarge gave me to add to his meals, ensured he’d bulk up fast, and solid. As long as I fed him enough, which I was warned would triple our groceries, at least, He’d gain the weight, and the thickness I was looking for, while his body would be thrust through a second puberty, allowing for the subliminals to work on other, aspects, of his masculinity. Let’s just say, we all know what they say about dudes with big feet. And his will be a hefty size 14. Too bad for his mother, our house is also going to reek like a Varsity locker room, because those feet, and the rest of him, will be all raw male, all the time. Pumped and ready, brimming with energy, like a Golden Retriever, if it were a 6’2” behemoth. The toughest bit was straightening him out. Giving him that good old fashioned, hot-blooded straight male instinct, making him drool over the coeds and cheerleaders, chasing girls like every young man should. The videos worked their magic well, the supplements setting his balls ablaze, churning out testosterone to fuel his primal need for aggression, for hard work, and effort, and sweat and sex. He fought it until his best friend Jenna, without realizing what her playful teasing was doing to him, had been on the couch with him, and had leaned over, and nibbled his ear one night while watching a movie. He'd lost his gold star that night. Quickly, and with all the confusion and passion that comes with young love and first times. Jenna had been stunned when he’d practically pounced on her, and from there, hours passed, and they wore themselves out right there on the couch. The next morning, he was mortified, but he couldn’t help but kiss her when she woke and complimented him on his… performance. It's been 6 months, and you’d never know he wasn’t always a muscled up, sweaty, straight boy, chasing girls at school, slacking off in class, and riding his new Lacrosse Scholarship that Sarge so nicely arranged when Theo got big and dumb enough to join the team. It seems Sarge knows quite a few coaches, Alumni, and Board members with a good bot of influence. It also seemed the school’s Jock population was skyrocketing, coincidentally at the same time as Sarge added a pool, an extension, and a garage full of classic cars to his house…

So You Wanna Be a Meathead

dedicated to anyone who is just starting out, or who wants to start out

The day comes, and you’re all like, fuck yeah, I’m gonna start working out.  And it takes awhile, it always kinda does at first, you’re just kinda pissin along, you do a ton of cardio and maybe play with some of the machines.  Like testing the waters, you know?  That’s how it starts.  You don’t even know it yet, but there you are, on the elliptical, or the treadmill or whatever, and you come up for air sorta.  You kinda shake your head from side to side and refocus on the digital numbers in front of you.  One is counting down, one is counting up.  You’re halfway to halfway there, and you’re so out of breath, and you keep going, pumping, pushing, and there’s no real reason to stop going, so you just keep going.  The months pass like that.  Sure, from time to time, you get a little frustrated.  You ask yourself, why do I keep going to the gym?  But there’s no answer.  There isn’t even really a question.  It’s like shouting into the wind.  Your voice gets ripped away from you.  It might be a little tiny hiccup of doubt, but there’s a louder, gusting roar going on inside of you.  Something is building.  You start getting a little, oh, what’s the word, obsessed.  Old habits are shedding like dead skin.  It isn’t huge, not like those fantasy stories you read.  It’s a little bit at a time.  Little flickers of thought that lick their way into your head without your even really stopping to notice them.  It’s like seeing something move out of the corner of your eye as you whiz by on a freeway.  Was it real?  Was it really there?  There’s no way to go back and check to see if it was, because you’re hurtling forward, you’re moving so fast, there’s no way you can slam on the brakes.  You actually end up hitting the gas.  You lunge forward.  You’re watching a game on TV.  Could be streaming it, could be at a bar, could be on your TV, whatever.  It’s gonna happen - sports is everywhere, you can’t really escape it.  It trends on Facebook.  You click the hashtag, the link, idly scroll through.  You don’t realize that you have been doing this for some time now, that you seem to continually expose yourself to sports.  You see logos of teams more often than you used to - are more people wearing sports swag, or are you just noticing it now? - but it doesn’t matter, it’s just sort of there, out of the corner of your eye.  You wouldn’t say that it’s an obsession, not really.  Not yet.  Well, maybe a little.  And then there’s the whole world of the Internet spread out in front of you, a buffet of information.  You can choose what goes on your plate.  You look at your bookmarks and you’re genuinely surprised how many of them have the word Bodybuilding or Muscle or Nutrition in the titles.  You don’t remember bookmarking those, saving those links on Facebook.  There’s your watch list, on eBay, and you seem to be constantly getting notifications on your - bling - phone, because another tank-top or sleeveless t-shirt or basketball shorts is ending, and you just gotta cop that shit, you can see yourself wearing it, wearing it to the gym again in the not-too-distant future, and you honestly don’t know what to say when you get a package in the mail like, every day or some shit, and your roommate is like, yo, what the heck are all these packages you’re getting lately?  There’s no way to make up a story, and man, lying about it, coming up with something, just seems so hard, your brain is really fried from the last workout, and you just shrug and say “Gym clothes, bro” and oh my god you just flexed your arm in front of him.  It’s like time stands still, like everything is frozen, even you, and then you drop your arm and laugh a little, and he laughs too, and everything swells into a kaleidoscope of colors in front of your eyes, something like a spiral has been laid over everything you see.  “Gotta show off my gains, right?”  And it’s half-a-joke, half not-a-joke, and he shrugs too, and laughs easily, says something about how you’re a real meathead, and it’s half-a-joke, half not-a-joke.  And he’s telling you about this book he’s reading, and how he knows you’re gonna be super into it, because it’s meta-post something and - bling - Your phone is going off in your pocket, and you ignore it at first, you’re really trying to pay attention to your roommate, and you find yourself kinda nodding, and saying “yeah” a lot, but not really like, connecting, you know, to what he’s saying.  And your phone just keeps going off, and you’re going crazy with distraction, until finally he can tell you’re not paying attention and goes into his room and you dig out your phone and scramble to see what it is. It’s a chat dialog.  Someone with a ridiculous name, actually, not even a name, a number.  Like they’re on a team or something, and a part of you is kind of intrigued. And there’s a game on the TV, and you’re watching it, and you’re lifting a 15-pounder handweight while staring at the screen.  It’s not like you know why, but it kinda makes sense to be doing that.  There’s a mirror nearby too, and you keep looking at yourself, watching the muscle grow and move and shift underneath your skin.  And before you know it, you’re back at the gym.  And then you’re home again, mixing up your first protein shake that you got the protein from that supp center, that one that sells the tanks you see everyone at the gym wearing all the time.  You might get one of those one day, you think to yourself.  You should, it’s like repping, and you wanna rep your supp center, you want people to know where you get your supps.  Right?  Of course.  When you think about it, it’s really kinda weird, it doesn’t make sense.  The day came, you said you were gonna start lifting, working out, going to the gym.  You told everyone.  You posted about it on Facebook.  You don’t remember that you did that, but you did, and you got all these likes, and people are all like, good for you, and how exciting, and keep it up.  Soon enough, that turns into wow, you look good and have you been working out and you’re flexing for people you know - at first, privately, secretly, just to show your friends your work - but then, more and more, in public.  You stretch your arms over your head when you’re tired, showing off your triceps.  Showing off your biceps.  You find excuses to stretch out where people can see.  You wear shorts even when it’s cold.  You want people to see your legs, your calves, your quads.  The day came, and you did it, you started doing it, you never looked back.  You can’t hit the brakes, you’re going too fast.  And sometimes you think about it, you think, why did I make this choice, why did my life change so radically and - bling - You look at your phone, and it could be anything.  Someone commenting on your most recent profile pic on Facebook, your friend #37 just chatting about his leg day at the gym, showing you pics of his quads, the teardrop and the outer sweep starting to really show through, it could be another item of gear ending on eBay that you just have to have.  What were you thinking about?  Something.  It’s hard to recall.  Must not have been that important.  What is important?  Well, it’s getting late in the evening.  Gotta get that protein.  Gotta get to bed.  Gotta rest up for the gym tomorrow.  Leg day, and you wanna be able to show #37 just how hard you worked because you want your own number someday, don’t you?  Sure you do.  It’ll come to you.  One of these days, you’ll just remember that you have a number in mind for yourself.  And then the day comes - you look at the last selfie you took, the dumb one, the one of you with the blank eyes and the big fuckin muscles and well, yeah, you’re shirtless, you’re almost always shirtless at home now, and you’re pretending like you’re surprised, surprised that you got so big, surprised that all the hard work you did is paying off, surprised that you can’t remember your life before, and just for a second, something out of the corner of your eye flickers, and you almost turn your head to look at it, but then you press down on the gas, you leap forward, you lunge ahead, you pick up the weights, you grunt, you sweat, you grow.  And what, you ask yourself, is more satisfying than that? The answer comes loudly, in a rush, like a crowd standing on its feet to cheer:  nothing.  Nothing is more satisfying than that.  And you answer yourself, you grunt to yourself, under your breath: Fuck yeah.

100% Perfection

Dalton Chandler | via Snapchat