07 I was muscle and the muscle was me and I liked it

"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.