It had been chest day, at the new little gym I’d recently discovered in the downtown district. It was tiny for a cooperate gym, and even at 6PM on a Wednesday, the rush hour crowd was more than manageable. It was a more casual crowd - yoga moms and office guys, sparsely occupying the space, and that made it much easier to move around freely, and more importantly, really dive into my workout.
For quite some time now, building my mind-muscle connection has been a main focus of mine, something I constantly try to improve on. Making sure my form is on point, preventing any injury and simultaneously trying to exert maximum power, tension, and control over the muscle group I’m working. Flexing before the set, throughout, and during rest, always keeping a bit of tension. Always flexed, and at the peak, flexed as hard as possible. Like a bright red string you have to try to hold on to, a direct link between your brain and the target muscle in a gray space - or at least that’s how I started seeing it recently. It’s a strange process that’s constantly evolving, constantly adjusting and correcting with one goal in mind - push that fucking weight so fucking good you fucking GROW.
Breath by breath that’s how my working went, constantly focused on the most efficient way to make my muscles really fucking pop. Today was one of those occasions where I came in wearing a hoodie, with a tank top underneath. I do this because I love keeping the hoodie on until right before my last three sets because I fucking love the moment when I take it off and see myself in the mirror, finally checking out my pump. It’s the best feeling. I work harder wearing that hoodie, knowing the harder I work the better the prize at the end.
I hadn’t been looking at myself much lately though, not for a few weeks. A wrist injury limited me to leg workouts only for about a month, early in my first bulk with my new bodybuilding coach. I was feeling flabby and disappointed, like all I’d accomplished was ruining what I had built in those nine months I had spent cutting, trying to tighten up my body as much as possible, slowly making it hard and hungry to grow with as much rock hard mass as possible. Like I’d wasted the new stuff my coach had put me on. SARMS - it was my first time, and I trust my Coach, so I was looking forward to some serious results.
It was my second week doing upper body in the gym, and fucking loved what I saw when I took off my hoodie before doing some lateral raises (it’s a fucking hot move to pump up with).
I looked beastly. Atleast that was the first thing I noticed. There was an obvious bulge to my traps - sloping, thick, leading into round, broad delts hugging two pumped up, beautifully curved, thick slabs of muscle, and I took it all in hungrily as I watched myself work towards my goal, finally seeing the goal becoming a reality, seeing a new shape. Admittedly, I had been feeling thicker already - more angular I kept thinking, whatever that meant. Definitely shapelier. Stronger. It felt hot, and it was fucking hot to see it.
The other day, I’d noticed I was increasingly hornier, and realized it was because of my legs. The time I focused on them had paid off, and they felt thicker than everything else, so different every time my hand brushed any part of my thigh - it felt like muscle. Big muscle. Bodybuilder muscle. I was growing. Even my calves were starting to get some nice size and shape - I’d been pushing them hard in an effort to bring them up in my pursuit of being hugely muscled all over.
I finished coach’s workout and decided to find a couple more exercises - wanted a couple really good pump sets before the Grand Prize, the moment immediately after when I would head to the bathroom and fucking FLEX and check out that fucking pump. And fuck, it did not disappoint, I could not believe what I saw. I was alone in a tiny bathroom (urinal, stall, two sinks), with the mirror right across from the door, shamelessly grunting as I pushed to flex harder, recording myself in the mirror as I tried to capture the pump. Normally I’d be a little anxious about someone coming in and ‘catching’ me at my most frenzied state of muscle mania, but fuck it. It looked good. I was growing. That meant it was only going to look better.
I was starving at this point. My busy schedule had me behind a meal, and I was spent after that lift and flex session. My body was hungry. My muscles were hungry. I need to feed and grow. That was all I could think about in the unexpected 8PM traffic, my mind completely focused on making sure I grow.
So I get home and put into act the meal I planned in traffic. I liked to play with my diet, making substitutions to my Coach’s meal plan, adhering to the macros in the plan. I was juggling a few different things, moving about with purpose, focused on making the two meals I had decided to combine into one. I’d carefully put it together, checking out the nutrition info for everything, putting together the substitution. ¾ cup of Special K Cinnamon Brown Sugar Crunch and ¾ cup of Fairlife 2% milk (200 CAL, 26C, 4F,16G). I downed the cereal and poured the left over milk into my blender with 1.5 scoops of Whey Isolate, a bit of stevia, some ice, and 100 grams of strawberries (+197CAL, 9C, 1F, 38P = 397CAL, 36C, 5F, 54P).
It got cold at that point so I switched into a t-shirt, noticing it felt different. I definitely filled it out more, and I could feel the fabric stretched across a landscape I knew was mostly growing bodybuilder muscle. My cock throbbed. For my last meal - 96/4 lean beef, rice pasta, green beans and decided to just take a minute to breathe during this meal, to consciously put down my phone and take a moment to just be with myself while I ate, letting my body relax and absorb the nutrients it needed to fuel the growth I’d commanded during that workout. Sitting there, enjoying that feeling and reflecting on everything I’d done in the last few hours, feeling the shape of my body, my awareness of every bulge intensified by the stretch of the fabric, I realized something.
I was a bodybuilder.
I couldn’t believe it. Looking back at my day, I realized how much I fucking live and breathe it, how right it feels, how much I look forward to pushing higher and higher to keep pushing my physique to bigger and bigger growth. And that felt fucking good. I had completely redefined myself. I’d changed my identity, I was focused, and growth was coming, because I was a fucking bodybuilder. I was a diet obsessed, driven, dedicated, hungry bodybuilder.
Man, I couldn’t fucking wait to finish my meal, pump up with some flexes, and fucking cum thinking about my growing, muscle god BODYBUILDER body.