Untitled short story of a bodybuilding show by royd-roided

 This is untitled story posted by deviantart user royd-roided on march 5, 2011. royd-roided is a self decribed " huge roided matured daddy-piglet" who produced soft porn of bodybuilders portrayed as muscular bulls and pigs, or slaves for other men to subdue,modify and abuse for pleasure. Anyway, this is one of the less extreme journal entries, but as a short story, shares a remarkable experience of being a bodybuilder in competition. In our time, bodybuilders still must train themselves without help to turn their bodies into works of art for the admiration of others, and to please their own mental images of themselves. Maybe one day that will all change, as mankind realises the full potential that can be achieved by forced bodybuilding.

 ******UNTITLED by royd-roided ********

My name was announced. It was time.

It was natural to be nervous, though I felt oddly confident and had expected it to be much worse. Everything started to move in slow motion and I felt a strange sense of detachment coming over me.

"Go all the way to the "X" in the middle." I heard the voice next to me and an arm helpfully moved the black curtain aside so I might pass. I began to walk out onto the risers, making my way towards the small "X" formed by two pieces of masking tape which was centered in a pool of intense light. To my right was a tall black curtain with a few different colored lights shining on it from above. In my peripheral vision I noticed a bluish area and remarked to myself that it matched the color of the material around my waist. To my left was the black void of the auditorium and the thousands of people it held. They had come from all over. The fans, the enthusiasts, the devotees, the obsessed and other practitioners; they had come from far and wide to see, well, me. Not only me and not specifically me, frankly, as I had never done this before so how could they possibly know they would see me today. But they had come to see the concept of me, the idea of me and the ideal that I was attempting to represent, the perfection of male physical development: the competitive bodybuilder. I moved slowly at first. My pace that of a deliberate walk, aka bodybuilder's waddle, my sense of detachment became stronger and I began to see myself as if from the outside, though I had an acute awareness of the sensations of my body. The air in the auditorium was fairly cool, and I could feel it moving over my skin as I made my way into the light at the center of the stage. My skin felt electric and I felt the air with every nerve ending as it was pushed aside and around my form.

My shiny blue posing suit covered the bare minimum in all areas, amounting to little more than about a quarter inch's worth of elastic between the deeply low-cut pouch in the front and the smallish triangle that tended to get wedged between my glutes. My thumb-sized nipples were tight and hard, pointing straight down at the floor from the shelf of my chest. The rest of my paper-thin skin felt much the same way. I was aware of it almost as if I had put on an impossibly tight, completely transparent bodysuit. It seemed to exert uniform pressure, contracting all around me, and I was aware of my own size pressing out from within my skin. My awareness continued to split itself in two, part remaining feverishly connected to the movements and sensations of my body and part floating outward and up a little as I watched myself moving out onto the stage. Able to glimpse my shadowy profile as I moved towards the `x,' the audience began to give me a welcoming round of applause. They were the applause given out of courtesy and custom to anyone about to engage in a performance of some sort, when that person is completely unknown to the audience members themselves.

As I mentioned, my gait was deliberate. One foot in front of the other, though that isn't quite how I'd describe what it's like to walk as a bodybuilder. When your thighs each have the dimensions of the average man's waist, your legs tend to have to move around each other as you walk, and you have to move your feet somewhat in the pattern of an arc with each step. If you don't let this happen naturally when you walk, your thighs wind up scraping together all the way from the knee up and it tends to hurt as the muscles get pushed around one another. My arms, hanging down at my sides, swayed back and forth to match my gait. Though, again, when your proportions differ from the average man, so to will the way your body makes average movements. The lat muscles are considered to be part of the back and they are trained with the rest of the back muscles, but they are actually something of a "side" muscle as well. When developed to their full potential, they naturally push out on the upper arms, creating a leverage effect that tends to make it look like a bodybuilder is forever holding his elbows out to the sides. From the inside it doesn't feel any different than just letting your arms hang down relaxed at your sides, except that there are several inches of air between your hands and your sides themselves. Some bodybuilders inflate themselves and walk out on stage while maintaining the very artificial, contrived posture called the "relaxed" position. As an audience member myself, I had often thought those guys looked arrogant and liked what they were doing, even though it often comes across that they were trying just a bit too hard and I wondered if it was off-putting to the judges. I wanted to look that way so I just made sure I stood tall and with good posture and made my way out to the "X". And then I got there.

It took two steps, one left and one right, to get from the edge of the pool of light to be standing directly on the masking tape indicator. As I entered the lighted area, the volume of the applause grew dramatically, if automatically, and I was instantly aware of the heat from the lights. The connected, totally-self-aware part of my consciousness hoped my color would stay even, that I wouldn't start perspiring and that the layer of oil covering my body wasn't too shiny. The disconnected, floating-over-the-front-row part of my consciousness as my body moved into the light and turned to face forward. The applause that had grown in volume virtually stopped and there were general murmurs of appreciation and surprise as I did go on to assume the "relaxed" position. My overhead consciousness helped my inside awareness adjust my body into the right position to show maximum muscular size while I waited to begin displaying my physique. Heels close together, feet pointed outwards at about 45 degrees. Knees slightly bent to bring out some tension and definition in the quads. Hands closed in fists to show forearm details, knuckles pointing down. Elbows slightly bent and pointing outward, arms pulled away from the body, shoulders tensed. Deep breath, chest inflated, abs tight but not fully flexed. Shoulders and arms pushing slightly forward, flaring the lats. Breathing is slow and steady, somewhat shallow so the abs can stay tight, focusing on chest expansion and projection. Stand still.

Why that is called the "relaxed" position will forever remain a mystery to me. Try standing still in that position in front of a mirror for several minutes and see how relaxed you feel. Then project what that feels like with probably about a hundred more pounds of muscle on your frame and you'll begin to guess what is really feels like. I watched myself assume the bodybuilder's position and I was very please with what I saw. I saw a man projecting confidence but not arrogance. A man who know he had put in the work and was comfortable with the results he had achieved. I saw a highly developed, 5'8" 250 lb. body carrying about 4% body fat standing there presenting itself for display and review. I saw this from above and felt it from the inside. I heard from the audience's reaction that I fit here, I belonged on this stage, among these competitors, and I felt, for the first time in my lift, the exhilaration that is knowing that your body and your muscles aren't things you work on and show off, that they are *you* and that *you* are on display and that people like what they see.

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 30" 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.