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Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Muscles as the Great Equalizer

Check out the sexy outfit being worn by Kathy Connors.

If I could rewrite a classic cliché that exists with the intent of providing a much needed self-esteem boost to the insecure general public, it would be this:

Beauty is only muscle deep.

I’m not sure if this makes any sense, but that doesn’t matter. Indeed, “Beauty is only skin deep” is a tired and true mantra meant to comfort those of us who are – how shall I say this in a politically correct manner – not blessed with natural good looks. I’m sure every single one of you who is reading this article is as gorgeous as a supermodel, but that’s beside the point. We’re all beautiful in our own way, right?

Well, maybe, maybe not. This is not meant to be a profound discussion about body image, media standards, the saturation of Adobe PhotoShop in fashion magazines, culture, identity, or anything of the sort. Instead, let’s start with the general premise that some of us are genetically wired to be more physically attractive than others. I don’t mean to insult anyone who isn’t considered traditionally beautiful. This is intended to state the obvious, which seemingly needs to be done more often in today’s society.

Call it an unfair advantage. Is it fair that Adriana Lima has made millions of dollars working as a supermodel while the vast majority of us haven’t? Not really. If there are people out there who are willing to shell out that kind of cash for the right to plaster her gorgeous face all across perfume and underwear advertisements, so be it. I have no right to say this consensual transaction between an employer and an employee should not exist.

But that doesn’t stop the feelings of jealousy that boil within us. Studies have shown (to be fair, you can find a so-called “study” that can support almost any position you want it to) that attractive men and women tend to make more money, advance faster in their careers, and enjoy certain “privileges” not easily available to their less-than-attractive peers. I have no logical reasons to doubt these findings. It makes perfect sense. We want to be around people who look good because…well, because. You can fill in the blanks.

But what about my argument that “Beauty is only muscle deep?” Here’s what I mean by this.

Women who are naturally beautiful often are the target of scorn and envy because of the fact they didn’t “earn” their beauty and all of the social and tangible benefits that come from it. It doesn’t seem like handsome men are treated with the same level of vitriol. Trust me, I’d know!

So too often, unattractive women feel like they’ve been dealt a bad (and unfair) hand in life. They’re playing with less chips in the poker game. They have to start 15 meters behind the starting line right before the race begins. It’s a sad world we live in where multi-billion dollar industries exist with the sole intent of convincing women around the world they can effortlessly bridge this gap.

Other than pursing expensive (and often ineffective) plastic surgeries and procedures, there aren’t a whole lot of practical ways a woman can enhance her beauty. Cleverly applied make-up can only go so far. Beauty standards set by society – however you define “society” – can change over time, but your gut instinct is your gut instinct. You know a beautiful person when you see one. No amount of social engineering, peer pressure, or “awareness campaigns” are going to change that.

Who wants to go to bed with Rhonda Lee Quaresma?

However, there is one avenue a less-than beautiful woman can pursue that can, in the eyes of some people, transform her from a Plain Jane into an Irresistible Sex Goddess.

What avenue is that? You guessed it!

Bodybuilding.

While the sport (and lifestyle) of bodybuilding certainly isn’t for everyone, this is without a doubt one tactic a woman – and man – can utilize to improve her physical beauty, boost her self-esteem, and reinvigorate her sense of purpose. For people who love muscular women, we absolutely adore their big strong muscles. We cannot stop thinking about it. Once we’re hooked, we’re hooked for life. There’s no turning back. There is no “on” and “off” switch that can tamper our love for them. We’re completely in their grasp and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Muscles are the Great Equalizer. A curvy muscular frame can transform Cinderella into the Belle of the Ball with free weights, protein powder, and carbohydrates standing in for the Fairy Godmother. A powerful muscular body can more than make up for a less-than beautiful face.

Don’t believe me? In my opinion, there are plenty of real world examples to back me up. Now don’t get me wrong. I have no intention to insult, demean or shame any of these incredible women. I’m just being completely honest here. Women like Kathy Connors, Jennifer Kennedy, Yvette Bova, and Rhonda Lee Quaresma would not be considered traditionally beautiful if you took a straw poll of 1,000 random people on the street. Please don’t get me wrong! I am not trying to be malicious or nasty toward Miss Connors, Miss Kennedy, Miss Bova or Miss Quaresma! Regardless of how you think of them, I find all four of these ladies to be sexy, sassy, and supremely alluring.

I perfectly understand they are not everyone’s cup of tea, but that’s fine. You don’t have to like every single female bodybuilder in existence. Nor do you necessarily have to defend every one of them from Internet trolls. But there are plenty of guys who really dig muscular women who aren’t considered traditionally beautiful, feminine, or desirable by the majority of society. Even hardcore female muscle fans are split as to how they feel about Kathy Connors, Jennifer Kennedy, Yvette Bova, and Rhonda Lee Quaresma. Some are disgusted by them. Others are completely turned on by them. It’s all a matter of opinion.

Hopefully, we can agree that muscles can be the Great Equalizer. Maybe not for everybody, but for many people they can be. We can be so aroused by an FBB’s muscles that we can overlook her unremarkable face, unfeminine characteristics or disagreeable demeanor. Personality matters, of course, but for now we’re just talking about physical beauty.

People who love muscular women have an expanded definition of “beauty.” We appreciate beauty that’s untraditional. We embrace an aesthetic that’s unconventional. It’s not esoteric, but it certainly takes a particular personality to be willing to value a type of beauty that many people are openly hostile toward.

I really want to go to the beach with Jennifer Kennedy.

For us, muscles not only enhance a woman’s beauty, they completely transform it. Lisa Cross went from being a dainty little English girl to becoming a Powerfully Tantalizing Muscle Goddess of Epic Proportions after she started going to the gym. Angela Salvagno went from being the cute dark haired girl next door to a Sexy Muscle Temptress thanks to her pursuit of bodybuilding. Mavi Gioia went from being an astonishingly beautiful Italian lady to someone who could make my heart stop mid-beat if I ever were to look directly upon her. Mavi is a modern day Medusa. Except she has curvy muscles instead of snakes for hair. Either way, I’d turn to stone immediately if I gazed at her beauty for even a split second.

Divine, indeed.

If you were to ask me if I’d rather make sweet passionate love to Megan Fox or Kathy Connors, I’d pick Kathy every single day of the week and twice on Sundays. No kidding. Imagine a magician approaching me – wearing a purple cape and golden Gypsy fortune teller hat, no less – with the offer of making this scenario a reality:

One evening only. A secluded beach house by the ocean. A bottle of wine. A delicious meal of steak and lobster. Candlelight. A picturesque sunset. Not a single soul in sight. The offer of one night of total sensual passion with no strings attached or consequences. No specific sexual activity is off the table. Whatever your dirty heart secretly desires your dirty heart will get, guaranteed, no questions asked. Nobody will ever know. Who would you rather choose to experience this with: Megan Fox or Kathy Connors?

Honestly? I’m still going with Miss Connors. Laugh at me all you want.

Raise your eyebrows in puzzlement if you want to (assuming you are able to, obviously). But this is my honest answer. And it’s not even close. If I had to settle for Miss Fox instead of Miss Connors, I wouldn’t complain. If that’s my consolation prize, then at this point we’re just comparing one brand of champagne to another. This hypothetical situation will never ever present itself of course, but this is in fact what I would do. Sorry, Megan. I drooled over you while watching Transformers (because let’s face it, the rest of that movie was pretty stupid), but you lose this particular battle. A middle-aged female bodybuilder with a deep masculine voice, an unattractive face, and pumped up muscles wins my heart over you. It’s not personal. It’s just my preference.

I realize 99.99999999999% of the world’s population would wholeheartedly disagree with me. That’s okay. I won’t lose sleep over that. But that’s none of my concern. I don’t care too much what other people think. I only care about what I think. And I stand by my assertion that an average to below average looking female bodybuilder is more desirable than a Victoria’s Secret bra and panties model. Or pop star. Or movie star. Or viral Instagram celebrity.

Muscles are the Great Equalizer. Like a Fairy Godmother transforming a slovenly housemaid into the object of affection of a handsome prince, muscles can do wonders. They perform miracles. But here’s another point that needs to be said. Muscles are earned, not handed out.

Yvette Bova rocking a sexy cocktail dress.

This point cannot be stressed enough. A surgical procedure to eliminate wrinkles, reshape your nose or enlarge your breasts are legitimate ways to make yourself appear more beautiful. But there’s something cheap about that. Not cheap in the financial sense, but cheap in the philosophical sense. It seems like a simple and artificial way to conform yourself to other people’s standards. Please don’t misinterpret me, I am not suggesting that people who choose to get surgery done are somehow debasing themselves or “selling themselves out.” That’s not my argument at all. A person has the right to choose what they want to do with their bodies as long as they’re aware of the consequences and all sides are being honest and transparent about what’s happening.

That being said, there’s something glorious about building up muscle mass that isn’t comparable with getting cosmetic surgery. Bodybuilding requires endless hours of sweat, dedication, frustration, pain, determination, grit, and strategizing. You have to earn your muscles. Even synthetic steroids, hormones, and supplements will not magically transform you into a pro bodybuilder overnight. It still takes an immense amount of strenuous work to look that way. Nothing is given to you. You have to take it.

This is why a female bodybuilder “earns” her beauty. She isn’t born with big muscles, unlike Heidi Klum who was born with a beautiful face. I realize many FBBs choose to get surgical work done in addition to sculpting their muscles the old fashioned way, but that’s beside the point. This isn’t about dogma. This is about the basic idea that muscles can make a woman look more beautiful in ways that a single afternoon at the doctor’s office cannot easily replicate.

I think the moral of the story of Cinderella is that beauty is based more on perception than what you actually look like. To my knowledge, the Fairy Godmother doesn’t physically change how Cinderella looks, instead she gives her a sparkly new dress, a high-class horse and carriage, a respected entourage (consisting of mice and other critters, according to Disney), and fancy glass slippers. The Prince notices her not because she looks particularly different than the other women at the ball, but because there’s something unexplainable about her that captures his eye.

What would this antique mirror say about the beauty of female bodybuilders?

He can’t explain it. He just knows. His brain tells him she’s just like any other of the young eligible bachelorettes visiting the palace. But his intuition tells him something else entirely.

It’s the same way with a woman with muscles. She becomes more beautiful. But not just conventionally beautiful. She reconstructs her entire aura that elicit reactions from people that range from utter repulsion to uncontrollable lust. Either way, you cannot look away nor expel it from your mind.

Snow White, a tale from which the mystical chant “Mirror, mirror on the wall” originates, is a character who happens to be more conventionally beautiful than the Evil Queen. This bedtime story compares an apple with a better looking apple. Comparing a magazine model to a female bodybuilder is more like comparing apples to oranges. Or more specifically, comparing an apple with a large, ripe, sweet, and delectable orange.

Muscles aren’t a magic spell. They’re not something an outside power can just grant you with the twirl of a wand. What Snow White was born with and what Cinderella was given by a supernatural enchantress cannot compare to what a determined woman with a plan, a relentless work ethic, and a gym membership can achieve.

Beauty is indeed only muscle deep. But I don’t need a talking mirror to tell me that.

Minna Pajulahti is the Flawless Female Bodybuilder We’ve All Been Waiting For

Flawless? I think so.

Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Stop whatever you’re doing. Right now. I don’t care if you’re sitting in a waiting room about to undergo open-heart surgery and the nurse just called your name to get prepped. I don’t care if you’re about to have tea with the Queen of England (happy 90^th birthday!) or if you’re in the middle of writing your doctorate dissertation that’s due in an hour. Just stop whatever you’re doing and do what I’m about to tell you to do.

Find a device with Internet connection and do a Google search on Minna Pajulahti.

I’ll wait.

Ready to proceed? Great.

I’ve already shared photos of Miss Pajulahti on this blog, but I think now is the time to dedicate a whole blog post to her. She isn’t new to the scene, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t newsworthy at this particular moment. Have you seen what this gorgeous woman looks like? She’s newsworthy 27/7/365. Hopefully we can all agree on that!

There isn’t a whole lot of biographical information about her available, so I’ll summarize what I can.

Minna is a Finnish IFBB bodybuilder who was born on May 4, 1980. At the ripe age of 36 (although she looks 26!), Minna competes in the women’s physique division. She works as a flight attendant and fitness coach when she isn’t busting her butt at the gym.

She placed 14^th at the 2010 IFBB Fort Lauderdale Pro, 7^th at the 2011 IFBB Toronto Pro, 5^th at the 2011 IFBB FIBO Power Pro Germany, 16^th at the 2014 IFBB Europa Dallas, and 6^th at the 2016 IFBB Karina Nascimento Pro. She also participated at the 2010 IFBB Arnold Amateur International Bodybuilding, Fitness, Figure & Bikini Championships. She might have competed in other contests, but the history on that is scant.

In addition to competing in bodybuilding, Minna is also a powerlifter. She says she also enjoys cheerleading and everything related to fitness. Standing at 5’4”, Minna may not be super tall, but her gorgeous good looks, beach blonde hair, and powerfully built physique makes her stand out above the rest. She currently lives in Nokia, Finland.

A strikingly gorgeous female bodybuilder.

Every so often I’ll come across a female bodybuilder whose striking beauty and impressive muscular development gives her enough “crossover” appeal to please both female muscle fans and “female muscle skeptics” alike. We all know (or know of) people who are skeptical and irrationally disgusted by strong women. The stereotype they have ingrained in their brains of a female bodybuilder is someone with a man-like face, grossly unfeminine muscles protruding everywhere, excessive body hair, a voice deep enough to make a 17^th century pirate blush, and overly aggressive behavior. Minna Pajulahti takes all those harmful images and smashes them with the hammer of Thor.

Minna is different. Despite her huge muscles, her curvy figure is undeniably feminine. Her face is as gorgeous as you’ll ever see. She seems approachable, pleasant, and “normal.” But more important, her incredible good looks makes you stop dead in your tracks. You see her once and you’re hooked. How can you not want to check in on her Instagram every single morning?

First impressions matter. I can guarantee you your first impression of seeing pictures of Miss Pajulahti is to be hypnotized by her flawless combination of beauty, muscularity, and etherealness. She’s so physically beautiful she seems almost not real. She’s like a female muscle fan crafted a flesh-and-blood female bodybuilder from scratch and created the Perfect Dream Woman. Minna is that damn gorgeous.

This is how we react. Will others follow and be captivated by her like we are? Maybe, maybe not.

Whether Minna is likely to become a “mainstream” celebrity isn’t the point. Bodybuilders as a whole, even today’s most popular male competitors, are only known to a limited number of people. Guys like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Lou Ferrigno had what it took to become household names, but this isn’t the 1970s anymore. The sport still exists, but it can’t compete with soccer, basketball, baseball, football, and MMA in terms of widespread popularity. Bodybuilding’s market share isn’t what it used to be.

Minna has fantastic muscle development…

In a previous blog post, I talked about the difficulties of maintaining the so-called “perfect balance” of being a female bodybuilder who can appeal to a wide audience. Miss Pajulahti is someone who comes very close. I personally think she hits the nail on the head, but not everyone will agree with me. That’s perfectly okay. They have every right to be wrong!

But seriously, Minna is striking for being two things at once: She looks like a Baywatch lifeguard while at the same time having the muscle mass of an NFL linebacker. For my non-American readers, I apologize if I can’t come up with a better analogy. Heavyweight boxer, perhaps?

If you follow Minna closely on Instagram – and I highly recommend you do if you don’t already – she does everything you’d expect a beautiful woman on IG to do. She posts selfies, photos of what she eats, her friends, her work life, her accomplishments, inspirational quotes, and shots of herself modeling. The fact she isn’t a world-famous supermodel by now astounds me. But I get it. Women with biceps that large can’t possibly draw interest from the general public.

Or can they?

If given a chance, I have no doubt Minna could shake up the advertising industry. If she were 10-12 years younger (though like I said earlier, she looks a lot younger than she is) and were born and raised in Southern California instead of Finland, perhaps things could be different. If she chose to pursue a sport like MMA or if she became famous for posting viral fitness videos on YouTube, Minna could be a bigger international star than she is right now. Today, Minna is only “famous” to people who pay close attention to the fitness/bodybuilding world. But it didn’t have to be that way.

This “missed opportunity” isn’t necessarily tragic, but it is a bit disappointing. Minna is unquestionably beautiful, feminine, and accomplished. She also has bigger muscles that most people aren’t accustomed to seeing on a woman’s body. I can’t fathom how anyone would be shocked or repulsed by her. She would force you to do a double-take, but that’s not the same thing as wanting to turn away from her because you find her appearance unbearably unpleasant.

…and a gorgeous face to boot!

How can you not help but stare at videos of her deadlifting, squatting, and bench pressing massive amounts of weight? It’s impressive for anyone to be able to powerlift all that, never mind someone who also looks like she could be arm candy for Hugh Hefner (try not to vomit when you think about that). I am not in the least bit surprised that she used to be a cheerleader. She definitely looks the part.

Is Minna a “flawless” female bodybuilder? Well, that depends on how we define flawless. I find no fault in her physique, attitude, professional goals, and accomplishments. Will a diverse array of people, both those who are already sympathetic to muscular women and those who are not, like her in the same way? That remains to be seen. Sadly, we may never have the chance to find out. This is the missed opportunity I am quietly lamenting.

I will not attempt to project where her career goes from here. Will she score a small role in a big studio Hollywood feature film and become a major celebrity hereafter? Probably not. The odds of that kind of good fortune are nearly nonexistent. However, that isn’t totally outside the realm of possibility given the pop culture trends we’re seeing play out today.

Superhero movies are more popular than ever. The sci-fi and fantasy genres are about to take off to new heights. The rebooted Star Trek franchise and reinvigorated Star Wars universe are prime avenues for non-traditional looking performers to hog the spotlight. New episodes of Game of Thrones is starting to become a national holiday. Lots of popular sci-fi/fantasy books and graphic novels are ready for an HBO or Netflix executive to greenlight. Nobody knows what the future will hold.

So it’s not outside the realm of possibility for a sexy, gorgeous muscular woman to score a role in a major TV or film project that will attract millions of eyeballs. I won’t hold my breath for such an occurrence to happen, but it’s not inconceivable. It may not be Miss Pajulahti who lands this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity per se, but it doesn’t have to be.

I cannot bring up Minna Pajulahti as being the flawless female bodybuilder we’ve all been waiting for without giving proper respect to Shannon Courtney, Dani Reardon (despite an unfortunate domestic violence arrest), Sheronica Sade Henton, Beata Antoninas, Lauranda Nall, and other young rising stars. I wouldn’t say Minna is my favorite current FBB, but she’s definitely one who’s effortlessly captured my heart.

We will definitely be experiencing some turbulence during our flight this evening.

This lineup of young female bodybuilders who aren’t afraid to build abnormal levels of muscularity is impressive and encouraging for the future of the sport. It is unreasonable to expect the sport to become as popular as tennis or golf, but it doesn’t have to be. The goal shouldn’t be to find ways to expand the brand of female bodybuilding just for the sake of expansion. The ultimate goal should be to maximize the amount of support these incredible athletes receive so that they can feel emboldened to pursue their dreams.

Who knows? Maybe sometime in the near future someone else will emerge as the much-awaited “savior” of female bodybuilding. Perhaps this hypothetical person will be blessed with supermodel-level beauty, a charismatic personality, top-notch performance talent, intelligence, wisdom, grace, humility, passion, drive, the desire to be great, and an unapologetically hyper muscular frame. She’ll love who she is and will refuse to apologize for her muscles. She’ll be an inspiration, a one-of-a-kind pioneer, and someone who we can truly say revolutionized the way society views strong women.

That day may never come. Or maybe it’s right around the corner. Either way, all we can do is wait and see. This Ultimate Female Bodybuilder may or may never arrive on the scene. This could just be a pipe dream. Regardless, until that day comes, we’ll just have to embrace Minna Pajulahti – and hundreds of women just like her around the globe – with a full heart and an open mind.

You Can’t Please Everybody: The Difficulty a Female Bodybuilder Faces in Maintaining the “Perfect” Balance

Dayana Cadeau may not be able to please everybody, but she can sure please me!

There are some people in this world who need to please others. And not just please them every so often; they have this burning desire to please everybody every time with everything they do.

This, of course, is an impossible task. But that doesn’t stop certain people from trying to do so with all their might.

Call it insecurity. Call it a psychological complex. Call it irrational. Or you can chalk it up to good business sense. Being a bodybuilder isn’t just a lifestyle. It’s a business venture. Like all business ventures, success isn’t guaranteed, nor is the formula for success set in stone permanently. In our ever-changing market of goods and services (which is becoming more internationally-driven as the years go on), what works today won’t work ten years from now; just as what worked ten years ago isn’t the same as what works today.

The same is true for how a female bodybuilder has to promote herself to the public. In decades past, there were more “traditional” routes to how she could achieve financial success. Competitions were still fairly lucrative and endorsement deals were there for the taking. The money in it wasn’t always reliable or plentiful, but you knew where it was if you wanted it.

Today, things are much different. Big, brawny female bodybuilders aren’t given the opportunities they once were. They aren’t becoming extinct by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s hard to imagine the glory years of the 1970s and 80s returning any time soon.

Jill St. Laurent is a true saint in my book.

So here’s the fundamental dilemma: The general public – and whether this assertion if fair or not can be up for debate – tends to gravitate toward people who fit “one size fits all” molds. If we’re talking about strong women, they want these women to fit all these criteria:

Tough, yet approachable
Strong, yet vulnerable
Muscular, yet traditionally feminine
Accomplished, yet still physically beautiful
Intelligent, yet not condescending
Individualistic, yet still marketable
Talented, yet unintimidating
A woman, yet not defined by her gender
Speaks her mind, yet doesn’t ruffle any feathers
Dedicated to her craft, yet still has time to do “woman” things like get married and raise children

These hideous double standards are obviously not felt by the majority of male athletes. Whether the typical sports fan would ever admit this or not, this is how we treat our female athletes. In many cases, they feel this way without even explicitly knowing it! Talk about having certain attitudes ingrained into our psyche from birth.

Nobody can chain down Fabiola Boulanger!

If a female bodybuilder were to be one of those types who needs to please everybody every single time, she’ll go crazy and would tear all her hair out. Thankfully, the vast majority of FBBs are mentally strong and ignore useless nonsense like that. But this illustrates the predicament that comes with the territory of working in the industry. Female bodybuilders cannot possibly please everyone. The so-called “perfect balance” of being someone who can appeal to all audiences is a myth. Not even the most popular celebrities in our society are universally popular with all people. Singers, actors, TV personalities, writers, sports heroes, etc. Everyone has their fair share of critics. This isn’t a reflection of them, however. This is more of a reflection of the diverse tastes, opinions, and aesthetic standards we have available to us.

So how does one survive in a business where appeal is the name of the game? After all, if enough people don’t like your brand, your earning power will quickly diminish. Blockbuster Video no longer exists because Netflix (and, ahem, online pirating) replaced it as the consumer’s top choice for purchasing cinematic entertainment. Therefore, FBBs cannot completely ignore the importance of mass appeal.

What is she to do? There are two routes:

Appeal to as many different audiences as possible
Appeal to a very specific audience and take full advantage of this niche market

One could argue an FBB would best be served if she pursued route #2. Non-bodybuilders like soccer players, tennis players, basketball players, MMA fighters, and prominent fitness celebrities are more likely to find financial success if she dips her toes in route #1. But this could very well be wrong.

To an extent, appealing to a niche audience is what FBBs do currently. In many respects this is their only viable option to staying financially secure in today’s world. This isn’t a criticism of the “Female Bodybuilding Business Model.” This is just an observation of what actually works.

Ever heard of the “80/20 Rule?” Also known as the “Pareto principle,” in the business world it states that in general, 80 percent of your business revenue will come from 20 percent of your customers. If you open up a coffee shop in the middle of a busy downtown business district, your most valuable clients will be the people who buy an iced latte or white chocolate mocha from you five days a week. The spunky happy-go-lucky traveler who’s in town temporarily to visit his in-laws and decides to stop by your establishment only one time isn’t. That guy may be a totally nice person, but his value to your business is limited. Your repeat customers who loyally visit your shop on a consistent basis are way more important in the long-term.

Brandi Mae Akers posing in a sexy see-through dress.

For an entrepreneurial female bodybuilder, she must take heed of the 80/20 Rule. She may not have the largest number of clients available to her, but she can have a smaller group of fans who will follower her to the ends of the Earth. They may be small in size, but their return on investment (ROI) may be significant. One person who will buy tickets to a bodybuilding competition, pay you $500 for a muscle worship session, and purchase customized swag through your website is more valuable than 20 people who know your name but don’t want to have anything to do with you.

This small group of fans will adore you for who you are. They aren’t disgusted by your large size, shrunken breasts, deepened voice, and blunt personality. In fact, they love you because of all those things! Sadly, some FBBs feel like they need to get “smaller” in order to survive in the industry. That’s sad and hopefully they choose to look the way they want to look regardless of what other people think. But the pressure of being an elite athlete who remains unambiguously “feminine” persists whether we like it or not.

However, that doesn’t mean an FBB should be compelled to sell out who she is as a human being in order to earn a steady income. If she wants to squat so much her legs grow to the size of tree trunks, then she has every right to do that. If there are people out there who want her to stop squatting so damn much because she’ll end up “looking like a man,” here’s a pithy comeback for them:

Go fuck yourself.

That’s right! An FBB doesn’t have to be that crude, but she can be if the situation calls for it. The truth is, not everyone in the general population appreciates thick strong legs on a woman. But for those of us who know who Shannon Courtney is, a small but significant portion of us do in fact appreciate the finer things in life. Miss Courtney’s legs are definitely in the category of the “Finer Things in Life,” right up there with 50-year-old scotch whiskey, the cinema of François Truffaut, Lamborghinis, and Thai cuisine.

Shannon Courtney’s legs might be the best illustration of the 80/20 Rule. A vast number of us would appreciate her hard work and provide her a “you go girl!” compliment. A smaller number of us would willingly pay her $300 for the right to touch her legs. I have no idea if Shannon offers these kinds of services, but that’s not the point. If she wanted to, she could make a healthy buck on the side. For many female bodybuilders, they actually make a living wage offering customers the ability to touch their hard-earned bodies.

Shannon Courtney - definitely one of the finer things in life. — Shannon Courtney – definitely one of the finer things in life.

In order to survive in today’s interconnected world, a female bodybuilder doesn’t have to appeal to large audiences. She only has to find a specific niche and saturate that market to the best of her ability. And there is no doubt that such a niche market exists. It may not be obvious or widely talked about, but there are plenty of guys and gals in this world who share a keen interest in muscular women.

These are the people who matter to an FBB. Not the rest who are openly disgusted by her life’s choices. An FBB shouldn’t waste her time trying to please people who don’t already appreciate her beautiful muscles. Trying to convert them will be an exercise in futility. Instead, she should focus her attention on cultivating meaningful relationships with clients who already love her muscles. That will reap much more ROI.

Thankfully, most female bodybuilders are already doing this! This essay isn’t telling them anything they don’t know already. But it can serve as a reminder to the rest of us that living life as an FBB can be arduous, frustrating, and unpredictable. There are outside forces working against you. The deck is not stacked in your favor. But all is not lost. There are avenues to success that are proven to work on a practical level. The challenge is tapping into those avenues and feeling confident, supported, and empowered to do so.

Indeed, you cannot please everybody. This requires either maintaining the (impossible) “perfect balance” that appeals to all audiences … or diluting your product. The first option is impractical and the second option forces you to compromise your integrity. Either one stinks. So your third option is probably your best option: Screw what the masses think and embrace what your dedicated fans think.

And let’s be honest. Not even your most dedicated fans will appreciate everything you do 100 percent of the time. That’s totally fine. But you know they’re in your corner, cheering for you every step of the way. They may not make up large numbers, but their proud loyalty amplifies their voices ten-fold.

Educating Jonathan – Part Six

Two hungry tigers loom in the distance, meticulously stalking their prey. A wounded animal lies on the grass, unable to move and paralyzed with fear. The animal knows its time on Earth is short. He senses his imminent death. Too many times in his life he’s witnessed small creatures like himself helplessly stave off death for as long as possible, only to be disappointed at the end.

Nature is a cruel place. The strong will inevitably triumph over the weak. There is no feeling of injustice or bitterness, however. This is a fact of life. This is how it is. This is how it’s always been. From the beginning of civilization to this present moment, the strong always find a way to destroy the feeble. Even if he could change things, the wounded animal would choose not to and let the course of history continue uninterrupted.

The tigers come closer. He hears a rattling in the bushes. The animal looks down at his bloodied torso and notices his legs are missing. They’re probably hundreds of yards away, being chewed on by vultures with little thought to who they belong to. The vultures don’t care. The tigers don’t care. Even his family doesn’t care. They’ve accepted the fact one of their own will be eaten soon. They secretly wish they aren’t next.

The time has come. The tigers jump on the wounded animal. They tear him piece by piece in the most savage way possible. There is no such thing as a dignified death in the Jungle. Any death is treated the same way. It just happens. Fortunately for those who are strong enough to survive, they don’t have to experience the agonizing pain that comes with death. They can sit back and watch with nihilistic pleasure.

With his dying breath, the wounded animal cries out in pain. It’s a useless expression of suffering, one that will not deter the two tigers from carrying out future massacres. But it’s all he can do. What else is left?

What a beautiful fucking world we live in.

Jonathan opens his eyes and instantly forgets what he was dreaming about. Something about two tigers eating a hapless meerkat? Or was it something more pleasant? No matter. That’s irrelevant right now. He sits up, stretches, and takes notice of how sore he is. That’s what he gets from sleeping on a cold, hard wood floor. The room is still dark. There is no sunlight anywhere to be seen. Silence permeates everywhere. Normally, he’d feel at peace right now. But not today.

Fuck. It wasn’t a dream. Last night wasn’t a nightmare. It’s reality. It’s really real. It happened exactly as he remembers it. And he is powerless to make any of it go away.

He looks behind him and sees Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu cuddled together on the floor. They are also sleeping. Jonathan doesn’t know exactly when they fell asleep, but it couldn’t have been much longer after he did. They were all tired. Physically and emotionally exhausted. How could you not be after experiencing all that?

A pounding on the steel door wakes up everybody. Jonathan leaps to his feet. Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu open their weary eyes and take a look at their surroundings. They too also wish the events of last night never occurred. They are both sorely disappointed.

The Short Man enters the room with two of his henchmen. They appear to be still dressed in the same black clothing as the night before. One of the men carries in a pot of coffee. The other has a plastic tray full of bagels, doughnuts, fruit, and pastries. Well, at least these bastards are courteous enough to bring their hostages breakfast.

“Good morning. Or perhaps, I should say good afternoon. It’s a quarter past noon. We let you sleep for a pretty long time,” the Short Man says. “You should thank us.”

The two men place the food and coffee on the carpenter’s table. The third man is still standing outside. Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu get on their feet and glare at the Short Man.

“Go fuck yourself,” Dr. Sammy says. The Short Man gives Jonathan a quick look. Jonathan doesn’t know how to react.

“Women can be so erratic at times, am I right Jonathan?” Upon hearing his captor say his name out loud for the first time, Jonathan refuses to acknowledge his presence. In fact, he agrees that he should go fuck himself. It’s the only thing he could do right.

“Oh well. I don’t exactly expect politeness from any of you. If the situations were reversed, I’d probably say some pretty uncomplimentary things as well,” he says. “As you can see, we’ve brought you breakfast. Don’t worry. Nothing is poisoned. You’re worth more to me alive than dead. So chow down. Enjoy your lunch.”

Nobody moves from their spot.

“Have you heard from my husband? What did he say?” Dr. Sammy asks.

“He said he’s willing to be cooperative. Which bodes well for the rest of you. Soon, we’ll have what we want and you three will be allowed to continue your lives free of danger from us. Sound good?” The Short Man motions for the two henchmen to leave. They promptly exit the room and walk upstairs. Jonathan notices a side door in the hallway that he did not see the previous night.

“Matthew agreed to do what you want him to do?”

“Yes, he did.” The Short Man takes out a cigarette and lights it. He blows a small puff of smoke toward Jonathan’s direction. “I also spoke with my Boss. He’s a very reasonable man. I told him that our kidnapping plot is going just as we planned. He sounded happy. But he also had a hint of intrigue in his voice. I didn’t know why, but now I do.”

The Short Man pauses for dramatic effect. Jonathan’s stomach growls with hunger, but he does his best to get his mind off of food.

“I told him we unexpectedly took two additional hostages. He was okay with that, but mostly wanted to make sure we had the wife in our possession,” he says, puffing more smoke out of his mouth. “However, our Boss decided to call us again this morning. Part of the reason why I’m here is to deliver to you your coffee and munchies. Nobody ever goes hungry under my watch. But…I’ve come here for another reason.”

“And what reason is that?” Mistress Nguvu asks. She takes a bold step forward. The Short Man doesn’t flinch. The man standing guard outside the door doesn’t reach for his gun. They both know the three hostages are smart enough to not do anything foolish.

“The reason involves you two.” The Short Man points at both Jonathan and the Mistress. “My Boss is particularly interested in you two. He wants to learn more. I don’t know exactly why, but I can assure you only positive outcomes will result from all of this. For him, of course. Follow me, please.”

The Short Man turns around and walks out the door. Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu look at each other. Then they look at Dr. Samantha. She nods her head, silently telling them to follow the Short Man to whatever fate lies ahead. Reluctantly, Jonathan and the Mistress walk out the door. The guard shuts it behind them, locking Dr. Sammy in all alone.

Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu walk up a short flight of stairs. Upstairs, the Short Man and his two cohorts have set up camp in a spacious lounge area. Peach yellow wallpaper adorns the room. Like all the other rooms in this God-forsaken building, it is sparsely decorated. Hostage-takers apparently have no interior decorating taste.

The Short Man is talking to someone through a laptop computer. Skype, perhaps? Or a different web communication platform used by shadowy global terrorists?

“Here they are, sir. Both of them. I’ll turn around my computer so you can take a good look at them.” The Short Man rotates his computer so Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu can see who is on the screen. It is an older Mediterranean-looking man with silver hair, a trim beard, dark eyes, and an impeccable tan. When he finally is able to see the two hostages standing in front of him, his eyes widen with sudden and irrepressible lust.

“Oh my fucking God. Ma’am, may I ask you a question?” Mistress Nguvu sighs and nods her head in agreement. The Boss squeals in delight. “How big are you?”

“I’m six foot four.”

The Boss’s eyes widen even more, as if that were even possible. “Delightful! And how much do you weigh? I realize that’s a personal question to ask, but I’m sure you’d be thrilled to inform me!”

“I weight about two hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Wow! Six-four, two hundred and fifty pounds. You are a big girl. I love it. Fuck. Look at you! You have so much muscle from head to toe. Stand back a little, darling.” Annoyed at his patronizing tone, Mistress Nguvu takes a giant step backward. The Boss giggles when he sees more of the Mistress’s muscular body. “I love it! Now, you. Boy. Take step toward me, please.”

Jonathan’s heartrate jumps. He does as he’s told. “You also look like you work out, my boy. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. I’m no bodybuilder, unlike the Mistress here, but I do what I can to look good.”

“Ooh, yes. You do, indeed. Alright. Both of you, get naked. Now! Strip all your clothes for me.” Jonathan and the Mistress stay still. One of the henchmen takes out his gun and points it at their direction. This inspires them to get started. As Jonathan and Nguvu remove all their clothing, they can hear the Boss moaning with delight, as if he were masturbating while watching them strip. Mistress Nguvu drops her corset, panties, and bra to the floor. Jonathan kicks his shirt, gym shorts, and underwear to the side. They stare directly at the computer screen and see exactly what they suspected they were hearing. The Boss is in fact masturbating.

“Oh, fuck yes!” Nobody can see it, but the Boss is clearly jerking himself off at the sight of these two naked people standing before him. Jonathan turns his head away in disgust. He sees Mistress Nguvu’s naked muscular body and quickly becomes distracted by it. Tall, thick, angular, curvy in all the right places, Jonathan notices two remarkable features of her divine body: Hard black nipples that stick out nearly a full inch and a breathtaking clitoris that extends more than three inches outward. Even the Short Man and the henchmen cannot help but stare at Nguvu’s incredible features. The sight of her jaw-dropping feminine endowment gives Jonathan a slight erection. His penis coming to life is enough to send the Boss over the edge.

“Motherfucker! FUCK!!!”

The Boss comes, groaning as he ejaculates all over himself. Thankfully, nobody in the room can see what that looks like. The Short Man turns away, not wanting to witness any of this. The two henchmen are weirded out, but try to remain calm and professional. They do not want to anger their Boss in anyway. The consequences of that would be disastrous.

“Oooooh, yes. Oh baby. That’s what I like. Jerry!” The Short Man, whose name is apparently Jerry, regains his composure and leans toward the computer’s microphone.

“Yes, sir?”

“At first I was pissed off that you decided to take two extra hostages. But now I see you made the right decision. Call it fate or good luck, but I want to personally meet these two. Send them to the airport immediately. I will order a private jet to transport them to my home. Do it NOW!” The Boss turns off the web chat and the screen goes dark. The man with the gun lowers his weapon and puts it back in his jacket. Jerry takes a deep breath and tries to think of a contingency plan. Transporting two of his hostages to the airport was not part of his original plan. That means his team has to split up. One has to stay here to watch over Dr. Samantha and the others have to escort the other two to a different destination.

Fuck. But if the Boss says this must be done, then it must be done. Jerry and his crew are accustomed to adjusting their plans on the fly, but that doesn’t mean they have to like it.

“Wow. Well, you heard the man. Let’s get going,” Jerry says. “Get dressed. Now.”

Ten minutes later, Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu are escorted back to the dark red SUV. As they pass the door where they were locked up for the night, Nguvu stops and looks at it. She wants to say something to Dr. Samantha. She wants to assure her she and Jonathan will be alright. She wants her to know they’ll both be safe. One of the henchmen grabs Nguvu’s broad shoulders and nudges her toward the parking garage. Jonathan doesn’t offer any resistance.

He thinks about Dr. Samantha too, but doesn’t feel any urge to speak to her. Somehow, for whatever inexplicable reason, he senses she’ll be just fine. Her husband will deliver the x-ray machine and she’ll be secure in his arms soon after. Yes, these people will turn it into a radioactive bomb, but Jonathan doesn’t have the inclination right now to think about that. He still wants to know why the Boss wants to see both he and the Mistress so badly.

Like the ride over to the mystery building, Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu are forced to wear blindfolds. They even put it on themselves. Two hours later, Jonathan can hear the sounds of airplanes landing and taking off for flight. The airport is obviously nearby.

Soon, the SUV stops and the driver shuts off the ignition. A voice instructs them to get out of the car. Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu do as they’re told.

One of the henchmen grabs the blindfolds and hands them to Jerry. The Short Man puts them in his inner coat pocket.

“We’re here. I have no fucking idea why the Boss wants to personally see you two, but for whatever shitty reason he does. Enjoy the flight, fuckers.” Jonathan and Nguvu struggle to adjust their eyes to broad daylight. A few moments later, they peer upwards at a small white twin engine jet. There are no logos anywhere to be seen. A short Hispanic woman walks out of the plane and greets her passengers.

“Good day to you both. If you’ll please follow me inside, our flight will take off as soon as possible. The weather looks fabulous, so I fully expect us to be able to leave without too long of a wait.” Wearing a professional flight stewardess’s outfit, the woman goes back inside the plane. Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu look back at Jerry and his henchmen. They stare right back at them, urging them to board the jet. The two passengers walk up the stairs with no questions asked. The Hispanic woman shuts the door behind them.

“Sit anywhere you like. The Boss will be pleased to see you both. He’s very excited about this meeting. If you need anything from me, just push the green button next to your seats,” the short woman says. “I’ll be by with snacks and drinks shortly after we cruise to 30,000 feet.”

A private white jet preparing for takeoff.

Still in a daze that hasn’t left since last night, Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu choose random seats and sit down. They buckle their seatbelts and stare out the window. Jerry and his henchmen have already driven off. A faint cloud of exhaust is the only indication of their presence at this airstrip.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” Jonathan asks the stewardess. She turns around.

“Yes?”

“How long is this flight, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Nguvu leans forward to hear her answer. The engines start to rumble. The stewardess is right. They do plan to take off right away.

“If we leave immediately, we should be able to get to our destination in nine hours,” she says. “The Caribbean islands are pretty far away, after all.”

The stewardess leaves. Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu can do nothing but sit there in stunned silence. Before either of them could blink, the jet slowly starts to move forward and within minutes they begin their ascent.

Believe It or Not, Muscle Worship May Be a More Intimate Activity than Sex

Shawna Strong's last name is sure appropriate, wouldn't you say? — Shawna Strong’s last name is sure appropriate, wouldn’t you say?

I’ve written at length about muscle worship. If you need a summary of what this is all about, please refer to a previous blog post. I’ve even written detailed accounts of two of my past muscle worship experiences with female bodybuilders.

If you have some unquenched need to live vicariously through me (who doesn’t?), go check them out here and here.

One aspect of muscle worship sessions that I’ve formulated in my mind recently is one that I’m not entirely convinced of, but one I believe deserves to be discussed. Muscle worship is, simply defined, an activity involving a muscular participant (it could be a man or a woman) who allows a client to touch their body, usually for sexual gratification purposes. Other side activities usually occur in addition to this, but the crux of the matter involves intimately exploring a muscular person’s physical body in exchange for payment.

One thought I’ve had about this phenomenon may sound crazy at first, but sort of makes sense the more I think about it. Muscle worship may be a more personally intimate activity than sex.

I don’t want to make any blanket statements and say this is always true 100 percent of the time, but in certain circumstances this can possibly be true. Let me explain further.

Sex between two people is without a doubt a supremely intimate act. Perhaps the most intimate act you could do with another person. We won’t even get into sex between three, four, five or six people! So it seems rather odd that I would say such a thing like muscle worship can be more personal than sex.

Obviously, not all sex is created equal. Context matters a great deal. Sex between a long-time married couple who’s going through the motions definitely isn’t the same as awkward teenage lovers wanting to lose their virginities together during a romantic camping trip. There is a great deal of difference between these two scenarios. The same goes between a prostitute meeting a client versus a couple who has just been reunited after several months away from each other (think of a military veteran returning from an overseas war). Context is everything.

For the sake of argument, let’s assume we’re talking about ordinary run-of-the-mill sex between a couple who knows each other well and has no external drama going on. Got it?

Muscle worship, on the other hand, involves a female bodybuilder – and I’ll be talking exclusively about female bodybuilders, obviously! – providing her client access to her body. The degree of intimacy allowed varies from session provider to session provider, but the basic idea stays the same. Generally speaking, sex is an act where two people share their bodies together for the sake of mutual pleasure. Muscle worship is, by and large, a one-way road where the provider shares her body with her client but the client isn’t expected to share anything back (other than monetary compensation).

A female bodybuilder’s body isn’t just the flesh and blood she carries around on this physical planet. It’s her entire livelihood. From head to toe, even if she isn’t competing in contests, her body is what defines her professional identity. Of course, an FBB is way more than just her physical self. She has her own mind, soul, and divine worth. But her means of making a living depends solely on her body. A tax accountant, for example, offers services that are useful but at the end of the day wouldn’t be described as intimate. A tax accountant doesn’t risk anything personal when they work with a client. They don’t put themselves in nearly the vulnerable position an FBB does when they engage in a session with a complete stranger.

If, during a wrestling session, an FBB strains her back and cannot walk properly for a whole month, she loses out on a whole month’s worth of financial earnings. If a tax accountant strains his or her back while raking leaves in the backyard, it would still hurt like hell but he or she could still functionally do their job. Not so with an athlete whose physical body is their entire selling point.

Most female bodybuilders are damn proud of their bodies and have every right to be. And they want their fans to be able to appreciate their hard work with every opportunity they possibly can. But it’s one thing to watch an FBB pose on stage from a distance or watch a video of her on YouTube. It’s quite another thing to be in close proximity to her and feel with your own hands her handiwork. Being a session provider can be a dangerous thing. I’d like to think the vast majority of clients are honest, well-intentioned people, but sadly that isn’t the case for everybody.

You never know these days. There are psychopaths out there who love to do harm to innocent people just to satisfy their sick personal desires. It’s horrific to think about, but unfortunately that’s the reality of our world today. I wonder if FBBs think about this when they exchange e-mails with potential clients. Obviously, they can trust the people they’ve seen before. But what about new people from cities they aren’t familiar with? Can you really trust that the happy-go-lucky person you “talk” to over the Internet is as sweet and harmless as they appear? The truth is, nothing can be safely assumed.

That’s one of the unfortunate realities session providers have to deal with. As mentioned before, the risk factor of facing an accident is also ever present. Injuries happen for a myriad of reasons. You can even hurt yourself at the gym while working out (raise your hand if that’s ever happened to you!). Anything is possible. Session providers who offer wrestling put themselves in harm’s way. It’s not inconceivable for a 250-pound man to inadvertently injure a 180-pound female wrestler during the heat of the moment. Even if the large man got carried away and meant nothing malicious about it, accidents do happen. They’re unavoidable. That’s a fact of life.

An injury can sideline you for days, weeks, months, and perhaps (if it’s serious enough) years. If you are unable to work for several months, how will you make money? How can you continue to lift at the gym and maintain your muscular figure when you’re bedridden for months at a time? Muscle atrophy will eventually kick in. She’ll start to lose her size. After she recovers, she’ll need to build her body back up to where it was before the injury. And that takes time and effort. Think about the lost income that results from that. FBBs who hurt themselves for work-related reasons cannot rely on worker’s compensation insurance to support them during their recovery period. Ouch.

Injury is one valid concern. So is the prospect of a crazy kook wanting to do something harmful to you. Another one is this: The psychological toll of being a female bodybuilder and session provider.

I’ve talked at length about the sexism faced by FBBs. That’s a major issue. But another one is a problem that I’m guessing both male and female bodybuilders face: The pressure to be perfect. In essence, this is what being a bodybuilder – whether you compete professionally or not – is all about. It’s about the continuous journey toward attaining aesthetic perfection. It’s nonstop. There is no end in sight. A bodybuilder can never be satisfied with where they’re at physically. The moment you think you’ve arrived at your “goal,” what is there left to strive toward? Will complacency kick in?

Due to this line of thinking, many FBBs are stuck in a never-ending cycle of insecurity. Women as a whole are definitely stuck in this maddening hamster wheel of self-esteem issues, but FBBs in particular are right in the thick of it. Without a perfectly chiseled body, where would they be? In order for them to be able to do what they love doing, they have to look a certain way. Like professional models, their looks define their livelihood. It’s a brutal world to live in.

I’ve read interviews with Rene Campbell where she talks about being a “bigorexic.” She defines this as being constantly insecure about being small. Anyone who’s ever seen Rene Campbell would know she is the complete opposite of small. She’s huge! She has eye-popping muscles that are as large as you’ll ever see on a woman. She’s a very big lady. But deep down inside, she still thinks of herself as dainty, frail, and weak. Call if “Fat Kid Syndrome.” Kids who grew up overweight still think of themselves like that even when they reach adulthood and are no longer medically overweight. It’s a mental block in your brain that doesn’t ever completely vanish.

Rene’s insecurities about her size is just part of this spiteful equation. Session providers also face other pressures. In addition to maintaining their impressive level of muscle mass, they also have to do whatever they can to look “traditionally” beautiful. Many choose to get breast augmentation surgery in order to look more “feminine.” I’m sure Botox injections and faithful usage of anti-wrinkle cream are also par for the course. There are plenty of clients who do not want to see an FBB who looks “too old.” But age is an inevitability. No amount of medical procedures or cosmetic products will completely turn back the clock.

The vast majority of FBBs I’ve met for muscle worship sessions have been older women. Most were probably older than 40. The youngest was probably in her mid to late 30s. I know for a fact – though I never asked! – a few I’ve met were older than 50. But that doesn’t matter to me. They were all beautiful women. I mean, stunningly beautiful. Yes, they had wrinkles on their face. Yes, they had crow’s feet around their eyes. But they were still absolutely gorgeous.

I think many of these strong female bodybuilders are way more beautiful than “normally built” women half their age. But that’s just me. I’ll bet if you were to meet them up-close-and-personal too, you’d feel the same way.

However, not all guys are think that way. I’m not suggesting I have an “older woman fetish,” but age doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it does other people. You can cover up your age when doing photoshoots, video shoots, and other multimedia projects. Adobe Photoshop is a hell of a software program. Clever lighting can do wonders. There are tricks of the trade to make a 40-year-old woman look like she’s 30. But when you meet her for an intimate muscle worship session, you see her for who she is. Some guys are turned off by this. Others don’t mind it. But regardless, an FBB can’t please everybody. Nor can she stay young forever.

Once again, it’s a brutally unforgiving world we live in.

The idea that people in certain professions have a “shelf-life” is pretty dehumanizing. But it is what it is. I’m not here to lead any kind of social revolution. It’s unnerving that models, athletes, and entertainers (one could put a female bodybuilder in all three categories) have an “expiration date” set by the powers-that-be in their respective industries. But that’s how the system works. The moment you get too old, too fat, too slow, and not as lucrative as you used to be, you get tossed to the scrap heap. There will always be newer and younger people to replace you.

Can’t hit 40 home runs anymore? Don’t draw the sold-out crowds like you used to? Can’t sell perfume like you did 15 years ago? Here’s the door. See you on the other side. Have a good day. Oof. Brutal.

The revolving door will continue to cycle people in and out. That’s why you have to earn every single penny you possibly can while you can. Cut-throat? You better believe it.

Imagine this scenario: You’re a 50-year-old female bodybuilder who is also a mother of three high school children. All three of your kids are considering going to college. You may or may not be married to the father of your children. Money is tight. College tuition continues to rise year after year. You used to compete professionally, but don’t anymore because the winnings weren’t consistent or large enough. You’re still physically beautiful, but you’re also a 50-year-old woman and there’s no denying that. Your name recognition remains strong, but that is by no means secure forever. You regularly travel the world providing muscle worship sessions. You’re always away from your family. You live out of a suitcase for months at a time. Travelling can be stressful. Setting up appointments with clients is equally stressful. You risk injury and physical harm every single time you meet a client. From the perspective of your children, in today’s social media age word can get out quickly that your mom gives out hand jobs to complete strangers in hotel rooms across the globe. That thought is constantly going through your mind. We also live in the Yelp Age where crowdsourced opinions on the web can make or break your reputation. One bad review or two floating around an Internet message board can harm your ability to earn money (even if those poor reviews are written fairly and objectively and without malice). It’s a savage world we live in. If you put yourself in this particular hypothetical female bodybuilder’s shoes, how would you go about your everyday business? What choices would you make?

You’d probably be a bit stressed out. How would you feel if you knew your body, personality, and reputation was being discussed by strangers on the web? Talk about an invasion of privacy. Talk about breaking down the walls of confidentiality with the hammer of Thor.

While the theoretical woman I’ve outlined above isn’t based on anybody in particular, women like her do exist. That story isn’t unique or completely made up out of thin air. There are women (and men too) out there who could probably identify with some of that. Please, think about this the next time you anonymously berate a session provider on a chat forum just because your $400 session wasn’t quite worth every single nickel and dime you paid her.

Jean Jitomir wearing a sexy black cocktail dress.

So when I say that muscle worship may be a more intimate activity than sex, I may not be too far off. Like I said before, context matters a great deal. I could write for days and days on how intimate sexual intercourse can be. But sex is, for the most part, an intimate act that you share with a limited number of people. You do offer your body to another person, but it’s (usually) kept private, low-key, and doesn’t involve your ability to pay your bills. Muscle worship can be dramatically different. As outlined previously, it’s not just your body you put on the line. You put your reputation, health, wellbeing, livelihood, and family on the line as well. That definitely puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?

I’m not trying to make any definitive statements or be dogmatic about anything. I’m just trying to offer some perspective about what it’s like to walk this earth in the shoes of the muscular women we love so much. It’s ain’t easy, that’s for sure.

Intimacy isn’t just defined by what the activity entails. Sex can be intimate. Or it can be casual. Rather, it’s defined by what you put on the line. What do you risk? What is the price of success? Of failure? When your life’s passions are defined by your body, putting your body in a vulnerable position is the riskiest thing you can possibly do. While I wouldn’t go as far as to call this bravery, it does require a level of fearlessness that very few people can match.

Female bodybuilders are strong women. Being able to deadlift 400 pounds or squat 500 pounds requires impressive strength. But being willing to put your body and soul on the line in the name of doing what you love requires a level of strength that is beyond comparison.

Educating Jonathan – Part Five

This is Jay Fuchs. There is no reason to post a picture of her, but I don't need one! — This is Jay Fuchs. There is no reason to post a picture of her, but I don’t need one!

For the next sixty minutes, the passengers inside the dark red SUV remain silent.

The ride to their final destination proceeds without anybody speaking a single word. None of the three hostages make a sound. The two hostage-takers also choose to not engage in conversation. It is an uncomfortable silence, but one that everyone mutually agrees to adhere to.

Dr. Samantha, who is furiously trying to figure out why these four armed men are targeting her specifically, is too frightened to cry. She struggles to breathe even though she is no longer wearing the clown mask. Mistress Nguvu thinks about whether she will die tonight. Jonathan tries to be upbeat about their situation, but resigns to the fact that their captors hold all the decision-making power.

Sixty minutes may have passed. Or maybe it’s seventy minutes. Or ninety. Or fifteen. Regardless, time ceases to exist. Jonathan guesses they’re heading south, judging from the movements of the vehicle. He knows for a fact they’re on the freeway. There shouldn’t be any traffic on the highway at this time, so they must be travelling at 70 or 80 miles per hour. Everyone speeds at this hour in the morning.

Finally, the SUV exits the freeway and they begin to drive at a slower pace. A few twists and turns later, the SUV finally comes to a complete stop. Then it moves again. Then it stops. Then it moves again. They must be taking side streets. Are they driving through a residential neighborhood? Or are they moving through a business district? The answer is anyone’s guess.

Eventually the SUV comes to a stop and the driver turns off the ignition. This indicates they’ve arrived at their destination.

“We’re here,” the driver announces. The two men leave the car and talk to the other two men, who have presumably also parked as well. Jonathan cannot hear what they are saying. Samantha breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about all of this.”

Mistress Nguvu leans over to Dr. Samantha and brushes her head against her shoulder.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Whatever happens to us, it’s not your fault. It’s their fault. Understand?” Jonathan cannot see, but he senses Dr. Sammy nodding in agreement. He hopes she doesn’t feel too much guilt about their predicament. The Mistress is right. This isn’t her fault.

One of the men comes by and opens the passenger door. “Time to take off your blindfolds. If any of you make any sudden moves, you won’t be making any moves ever again, got it?” The three hostages provide weak audible responses.

“Good. I’m glad we’re all choosing to be so cooperative.” The man reaches over and removes the blindfolds of Jonathan, Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu. He instructs the three to get out of the car. Jonathan leaves first and looks around at their new surroundings. It’s a small concrete underground parking garage. It looks more cramped than the one underneath his apartment building. A foul odor greets him as he moves to the side to give Samantha and the Mistress room to leave the vehicle. After all three are out in the open, the Short Man approaches them with a wide smile on his face.

The gorgeous Brazilian female bodybuilder Flavia Crisos.

“I trust the ride was comfortable?” He smirks. Mistress Nguvu wants to punch him in the face, but wisely declines after seeing the other three men pointing their guns at their heads.

“Never mind that. Follow me. I’m pleased by how dutiful all of you have been in following my instructions. I have no complaints,” he says. “Fear can be a powerful motivator, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is. You obviously know how to utilize it to your advantage,” Jonathan says. The two women suddenly look at him. Why the hell is he making polite conversation with their captors? Is he out of his mind?

“Yes I do. Come.” The Short Man leads them through a creaky steel door and down a dark and long hallway. There are no windows anywhere. No art on the walls. The paint is starting to chip on the ceiling. A row of dim lightbulbs hang from above, doing their best to illuminate the entire hall. At the end of the corridor is another steel door. One of the armed men opens it and stands guard. The Short Man leads the other two into the room. Inside are three wooden chairs, a small carpenter’s table with nothing on it, a bookshelf with only a small handful of books on it, a toilet, no sink, an old black sofa collecting dust, and absolutely no windows of any sort. After everyone enters the room, the Short Man shows no indication he wants anyone to sit down. All three hostages stay standing.

“Anyone wondering why you’re all here?” the Short Man asks. He looks at all three captives and knows none of them will guess accurately. Satisfied with the level of fear he’s instilled in the three of them, he answers his question for them.

“I’m sure that question has crossed your minds once or twice this evening. Dr. Samantha.”

Everyone in the room turns to face her. Dr. Sammy isn’t crying, but appears to be on the verge of breaking down in tears. Her inner strength will face the ultimate test tonight.

“What?”

“Why do you think you’re all here? Any idea?”

Dr. Samantha lets out a sigh and bows her head. “No idea at all,” she says. The considerable weight of guilt bearing down on her soul breaks Jonathan’s heart. Mistress Nguvu stands tall and proud, defiantly supporting her long-time friend during this ordeal.

“Really? That’s surprising. Well, here’s the reason why. Your husband, Dr. Matthew Prescott, is the head neurosurgeon at East Wellspring Hospital, right?” Dr. Samantha’s ears perk up. She nods. “Of course he is. He’s without a doubt the most respected employee at that hospital, wouldn’t you say?”

She nods again in agreement. The Short Man’s insistence on tormenting his prisoners by asking endless rhetorical questions annoys both Jonathan and the Mistress.

“So respected, he could literally walk into a restricted zone with no questions asked, am I right?” Dr. Samantha’s patience has worn thin. She bursts out of anger.

“Yes, goddamn it! He practically owns the fucking place. What’s your fucking point, asshole?!” The men with guns laugh at her unexpected display of passion. The Short Man doesn’t blink but glares at his colleagues. They cease their laughter.

“Take it easy there, sweetheart. My point is simple. Every hospital has radiological material stored within it for x-rays, ultrasounds, MRIs, and things like that. Devices containing poisonous radioactive chemicals like cesium-137 are usually stored in a secure location. But he’d be able to access such things, given his prestige at the institution. Do you get my meaning?” Dr. Samantha thinks for a moment to connect the dots. After a brief pause, she nods her head again.

“Yes, I think I do. You want him to steal some of these radioactive devices for you. So you’ve kidnapped me and holding me for ransom. If he doesn’t cooperate or if he notifies the police, you’ll kill us. Am I getting warmer?” The Short Man laughs heartily. The other men smile but do not make any sound.

“Bingo! We want these materials so we can make a bomb. A dirty bomb. Believe it or not, but we’re kind of a big deal in the underground black market. Pretty big deal. Am I right, boys?”

“Hell yeah, sir!” one man responds.

“Fuck yes!” the other one shouts out.

“Yes, we are. We’re not terrorists, but we deal primarily with terrorists. And drug kingpins. And human traffickers. And organized crime syndicates. And third-world dictators facing international sanctions. You know, those kinds of people. The kind of people your media teaches you to hate. You probably don’t like us very much, do you?” The three hostages proudly stay quiet. The short man knows he’s said enough. They get it now. They know why they’re in this mess. It’s now time to break off this conversation and leave them be.

“I thought so. Well, I shall be off. I have several phone calls to make. Including one to your husband, naturally. There’s an armed guard standing outside this door. If any of you attempt to escape, expect a bullet to be lodged inside your fucking skulls. Got it?” Not expecting an answer, the Short Man and his two cohorts breeze out of the room. The door is locked. The fourth man is still standing at guard. Dr. Samantha, Jonathan and Mistress Nguvu are left there, stunned and stupefied. When will this nightmare end? Will there be a clean way out of this?

Dr. Samantha drops to her knees. She doesn’t cry because she doesn’t have any tears left to shed. Mistress Nguvu squats down to comfort her. Jonathan slumps down on one of the wooden chairs and stares at the steel door in exasperated silence.

For what seems like forever, none of them speak. What is there to say?

A sense of disgust grows within Dr. Samantha’s body. Obviously, these men specifically targeted her and her husband. They must have researched countless hospitals, doctors, and doctor’s wives to pinpoint who would make the most logical target. Much to her horror, she and Matthew are the unlucky participants. She feels even more wretched that the Mistress and Jonathan had to also get involved.

“Don’t worry, baby. Your husband will do the right thing. Nothing is going to happen to us,” Mistress Nguvu says. She knows her words will ring hollow, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t attempt to comfort her friend. Jonathan decides now is the time to chime in.

This is what the interrogation room would look like.

“There’s nothing we can do right now. What’s about to happen is about to happen. We’re powerless to change the course of events. That sounds hopeless, but it is what it is.” Defeated, Jonathan falls to the floor and covers his face with his hands. He cannot remember the last time he ever cried, but now would be an understandable time to do so. Instead, he lies there and attempts to rationalize to himself how everything will turn out okay at the end.

Jonathan struggles to come up with a plausible reason.

In another room on the floor above, the Short Man picks up a cell phone and calls the home of Dr. Matthew Prescott. The time is near 4:00 in the morning, so he should be sleeping. Whether he went to bed wondering where his wife could possibly be is a question he is about to have answered.

The neurosurgeon picks up the phone. Groggy and grumpy, he inquires who would be so rude as to call someone at this inconvenient hour. The Short Man explains calmly the situation his wife is currently facing. The doctor’s demeanor is surprisingly level-headed and rational. The hostage-taker lays out his deal: By midnight tonight, he must deliver to a certain address a portable x-ray generator machine to a man driving a black sedan. He will deliver the goods, and after an inspection of the device that (hopefully) leads to the approval by the inspector, the doctor will be given a second address to drive to. There, he will find his wife and her two friends waiting for him, unharmed if all goes well. If anything doesn’t go well, he may never see her ever again. Her friends will also suffer a similar fate.

Inside, the doctor is fuming with rage and uncontrollable fear. But on the surface, he appears gentle and accommodating. He agrees to the man’s terms and hangs up the phone. Dr. Matthew Prescott punches a wall and throws a wine glass across the room. The Short Man leans back in his chair and grins with joyful self-satisfaction. He instructs one of the men to contact their boss and inform him the good doctor is willing to be compliant. The phone call is made. The boss expresses his gratitude to his underlings. The Short Man suggests they open a bottle of champagne and celebrate this crucial first step to creating a bomb that will be the envy of scum everywhere on planet Earth.

Imagine the payment that will come with selling a weapon of mass destruction. Rich drug cartels and apocalyptic terrorists have plenty of cash to go around. The men drink to their health and their future success.

Meanwhile, the three hostages still have not started any conversation. There doesn’t seem to be any need to speak. Quietness permeates the room. Dr. Sammy and the Mistress cuddle together on the floor. The dusty black sofa looks disgusting and reeks of something awful. Mistress Nguvu wants to pee. She eyes the toilet, but decides against it. Now is the time to comfort her friend. The time for personal business is later.

Jonathan, on the other hand, gets up to use the toilet. There’s no toilet paper or running water to clean his hands. Oh well. He returns back to his spot on the floor and places his arms behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling. A light fixture stares back down at him. A spider crawls across one of the bulbs. Normally, Jonathan would freak out at the sight of such a repulsive eight-legged creature, but he has no more fear left to dispense. All he can do is stare at it and wish it well. Odds are, the spider is capable of escaping this hell hole. The humans, however, are not.

He shuts his eyes and tries to think of more pleasant memories. None come to mind. Fuck.

Eventually, Jonathan drifts off to sleep. He doesn’t know if Dr. Samantha or Mistress Nguvu follow suit, but he doesn’t care. He’s too exhausted to care. All he wants to do is sleep and wake up in his own bed and find out everything is just a nightmare. He doubts this will happen.

Educating Jonathan – Part Four

Classic muscle beauty: The incomparable Minna Pajulahti.

Jonathan opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Mistress Nguvu decides to speak next.

“Did you hear me, Jonathan?”

He makes eye contact with her. Her stern look tells him she means business. Jonathan has no intention of getting on her bad side. God forbid that would ever happen.

“Yes, I heard you, Mistress. What kind of help do you need from me exactly?” If there was anything valuable Jonathan learned from that human sexuality class, it was that any dominatrix who is worth anything will always desire to be called “Mistress” whenever possible. Any breach of protocol grants one’s self the right to be punished. Jonathan does not want to be “punished” by this formidable woman.

“Good. Come closer. I want to show you something,” she says.

Like a faithful dog, Jonathan approaches the Mistress as instructed. He feels timid around her but wildly excited at the same time. Mistress Nguvu senses his meekness and relishes the sensual power she has over him. Despite her years and years of experience as a professional dominatrix, she still experiences that tingling exhilaration when a rookie “subordinate” subjects her with proper reverence when called upon to demonstrate it.

“Do you see my cock? Do you see how beautiful it is?” The Mistress strokes her gigantic black dildo up and down its enormous shaft. Jonathan feels a bit insecure, but instead chooses to ignore his emotions. Now is neither the time nor the place to relive his personal insecurities.

“Yes, I see your beautiful cock. It’s so big.”

“Yes it is. And I want to show Samantha here how big and beautiful it can be. Look inside the black bag and take out the bottle of oil,” the Mistress instructs.

Without hesitation, Jonathan goes to the bag and digs inside it. He finds a bottle of baby oil. Dr. Sammy is still on the floor, tears streaming down her face. Jonathan didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her or be creeped out by her behavior. He hands the bottle to the Mistress and holds his breath.

Mistress Nguvu opens the bottle and pours a generous amount of oil onto the palm of her hand. Jonathan sees large calluses protruding across her hand and up her fingers. Decades of weightlifting will do that to your skin. It’s the body’s way of protecting itself from repeated abuse. He wonders if Samantha’s body will demonstrate a similar defense mechanism.

“You seem like an obedient boy, Jonathan. Will you obey my commands?”

Jonathan blinks. “Yes, Mistress. I will obey your every word.” He almost tips over. Thankfully, he retains his balance. The Mistress smears the oil all over the dildo, making sure all nine inches are dutifully covered. Samantha sits up and rubs her eyes. Liquid eyeliner streaks across her beautiful face. She’s stopped sobbing, but still has the sniffles. An ominous roar of thunder makes itself heard outside. All three of them stop what they’re doing and look out the window. Seconds later, a subtle streak of lightning follows, as if on cue. The Mistress rumbles in laughter and touches Jonathan on the shoulder. He shudders at the sensation of her warm fingers brushing against his cold skin.

“We are People of Color. We deserve to teach this worthless white cunt a lesson in humility, don’t you agree?” Jonathan nods in agreement. He doesn’t know if the Mistress sees this, but she proceeds as if she knew how he responded.

“Good. Now is the proper time for us to punish this little fucking white bitch in a way she deserves. Are you hard yet?” Mistress Nguvu reaches down and wraps her fingers around Jonathan’s limp penis. He gasps. Samantha’s eyes widen in anticipation. Her breathing stops. The Mistress lightly jerks Jonathan’s manhood and feels it fill her palm. She smiles, showing off her pearly white teeth. “Good boy, good boy Jonathan. Good boy.”

Rene Campbell showing off her hard work.

Samantha rubs her reddened torso to ease the pain. The worst has already passed, but a faint hint of ache still lingers. She licks her lips.

“Now, go over to her and put your Asian penis inside her mouth. She knows what to do from there,” the Mistress instructs, playfully pushing Jonathan toward the professor. He obliges without protest.

“Don’t you, little white bitch?”

The gorgeous professor bobs her head up and down. Dr. Sammy positions herself on all fours and sticks her bottom out in front of Mistress Nguvu. Jonathan sits down on the edge of the bed and sighs. Samantha obediently crawls toward him. She looks at him and communicates the message “trust me” with her eyes. For whatever reason, Jonathan feels secure by this silent demonstration of consensual verification.

Mistress Nguvu walks over to Samantha and sticks a single finger inside her anus. She struggles to stifle a moan. A second finger enters her shortly after. Jonathan’s erect penis sways back and forth again. The professor extends her tongue outward and licks his sensitive tip. He lets out a deep groan and closes his eyes. The Mistress inserts a third finger and then a fourth. As Jonathan’s entire manhood is engulfed by Dr. Sammy’s mouth, Nguvu’s entire fist finds itself inside her anus. Finally ready to take in the ultimate prize, the strong black woman removes her fist and substitutes it with her oiled up nine inch long strap-on dildo. Inserting it with deliberate intent, she wants to assert her dominance without giving her worthless bitch any unnecessary unpleasantness.

“You know what to do next, slut. Suck on his small Asian cock while I ride you with my large black dick!”

Caught off guard by the Mistress’s description of his manhood being a “small Asian cock,” Jonathan almost makes a sound of protest just as Dr. Sammy submissively starts to perform fellatio on him. At the same time, Mistress Nguvu grips Samantha’s hips and strokes her dildo in and out of her tight anal cavity. The pleasure he derives from the oral sex distracts him from thinking about how the hell a nine inch long dildo can possibly fit inside someone’s anus. The young Asian graduate student decides to ponder such matters at a later time.

“Oh yeah, suck on it. Suck on it real good as I shove my big black cock inside your ass. Take it, you fucking piece of shit.” Still uncomfortable with hearing such foul language, Jonathan closes his eyes again and looks upward toward the Heavens. He feels himself close to climax. Samantha nearly chokes as she once again fights away tears. She’s feeling a tremendous amount of pain from the dildo intruding her tight anus, but she accepts it as a suitable punishment for the generations of systemic racism her people have lashed out against Mistress Nguvu’s and Jonathan’s people.

“When you’re about to come, tell us so this dirty little white slut knows when to stop,” the Mistress instructs to Jonathan. Samantha refuses to relinquish the pace at which she sucks his penis. He tries to concentrate but cannot. His vision blurs. Waves of pleasure roll through his body. He knows he’s close. The Mistress also refuses to surrender her torrid in-and-out thrusting of Dr. Sammy’s abused cavity.

Finally, he senses the end is near. He decides to acknowledge this fact.

“I’m about to come!”

Mistress Nguvu intensifies her thrusts. She slaps Samantha on the back to instruct her to cease the fellatio. She removes Jonathan’s penis from her mouth and waits.

The wait doesn’t last long.

Jonathan groans as he spurts his semen all over Samantha’s beautiful face. The waves of his ejaculation seem to go on forever. Eventually, they stop and he collapses backward onto the bed. Mistress Nguvu pulls out of Samantha’s bottom and peers into her face. It is completely covered in warm white liquid. She laughs, the sound of her husky voice reverberating throughout the whole room.

“That’s a good girl. Yes, a very good girl indeed.” Nguvu strokes Dr. Sammy’s hair like an owner would pet a cat. Jonathan swears Samantha starts to purr like a satisfied feline. All he knows is that he is the truly satisfied one!

A long silence follows. No one knows for sure for how long, but that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone. At last, Samantha stands up and goes to the bathroom. She closes the door behind her. The sound of running water follows. Mistress Nguvu, who has now fallen out of “character,” removes the strap-on dildo from her waist and cleans it with a disinfectant wipe. She takes another wipe from her pack and offers it to Jonathan.

“Would you like this? To clean up after yourself?”

Jonathan nods his head and takes the wipe from the Mistress. He cleans his penis and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. He really needs to pee, but must wait patiently until Samantha returns from the bathroom. Nguvu places the dildo back inside the bag. An awkward moment takes place between Jonathan and the Mistress as they look at each other but have nothing constructive or practical to say. Finally, Jonathan cordially breaks the silence.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jonathan, but you already know that.” He extends his hand toward Nguvu. She follows suit and shakes his hand. Her tight grip takes Jonathan by surprise. Could she break every bone in his body if she wanted to? Jonathan has no doubts she could if she were so inclined to demonstrate her incredible strength. He hopes he never gets on her “bad” side. The consequences would be disastrous.

“Charmed. I was a bit surprised Sammy wanted to start things off without proper introductions, but she was ‘in the moment’ and couldn’t be bothered with basic pleasantries,” Mistress Nguvu observes. “I don’t blame her one bit. She’s a passionate one, that’s for damn sure.”

Jonathan smirks. “Yes, she is. Have you ever read any of her writings? She speaks from the heart. There’s a lot to admire about that.” He realizes he’s still stark naked, but for whatever inexplicable reason he chooses not to clothe himself yet.

“You’re right about that. I adore her. She provides a level of insight that not too many people can match. She’s truly a one-of-a-kind.”

A moment later, Samantha comes out of the bathroom in a much more upbeat mood. She’s put on a bathrobe (a comfortable dark purple fleece robe Jonathan’s grandmother gave him for Christmas a few years ago) and appears to be “out of character” as well. She and Nguvu hug. Then they share a brief kiss. It is at this moment that Jonathan becomes more self-conscious about his nudity and contemplates putting on something to make things less strange.

“Go ahead and put something on, sweetie,” Samantha suggests, as if she could read minds.

Taking her advice, Jonathan puts on a pair of underwear, gym shorts and an old t-shirt. Mistress Nguvu takes out a bottle of water from her coat and drinks from it. Samantha stands behind her and sensually rubs her broad shoulders. Now that the fog of war has cleared, Jonathan takes a long look at the Mistress and marvels at her impressive muscular physique. He’s seen guys with big muscles, but never a woman with so much from head to toe. Jonathan’s never been into “muscle chicks,” but Nguvu is forcing him to reconsider his position.

“You have a nice apartment, Jonathan,” the Mistress says. Jonathan abruptly breaks out of his spell.

“Thank you. I’ve been here for about a year and a half. The rent isn’t too shabby. I like it a lot.”

“It sure beats my crummy little house down in Puyallup. I should consider moving to the big city. I think I’d like it once I get used to it.” Dr. Sammy leans over and kisses Nguvu’s bulging right bicep. In response, the Mistress flexes her arm to accentuate her bicep peak. A tight bundle of muscle emerges from the top of her swollen arm. Dr. Sammy gasps.

“You would sure get a lot more customers if you moved up here, Mistress. You should really consider it.” Mistress Nguvu turns around and wraps her strong arms around the professor. She playfully lifts her up and drops her to her feet. Dr. Sammy audibly moans, as if responding erotically to the Mistress’s impressive display of brute strength. Jonathan chuckles and turns on all the lights in the room so that he could get a complete glimpse of his guests. Spent, Dr. Sammy sits down on a nearby sofa.

“You look so cute together,” Jonathan observes. “Tell me, Mistress. You have got to be a professional bodybuilder, right? I mean, there aren’t too many women in this world who look like you.”

The Mistress takes a step toward him, which sends a jolt of nervous energy through his body. He knows she means no harm, but he cannot help but react this way to her imposing physical presence.

“I used to compete professionally, yes. But not anymore. I stopped competing about five years ago. But in my heyday, I was one of the world’s premiere female bodybuilders. I still lift, obviously!” Nguvu shows off a series of bodybuilder poses, much to the delight of her audience. Dr. Sammy cheers and applauds for her while Jonathan could do nothing but stand there and stare at her. Totally mesmerized by Nguvu’s impeccable combination of size, strength, grace, beauty and femininity, he can say for certain that he’s never met (or seen, for that matter) a woman like her before. He doubts he’ll ever meet a woman like her again in his life. He’s definitely positive about that.

Before the Mistress could finish all her poses, a sudden knock at the door surprises everyone. Dr. Sammy jumps up to her feet. Nguvu turns her head toward the door. Jonathan looks at a clock on the wall and sees the current time is 2:36 a.m. Who could that possibly be? Nobody would ever have any reason to knock on his door at this hour! They weren’t being too loud. These walls are faultlessly soundproof. Jonathan walks toward the door and peers through the small peep hole.

“Who is it?” Dr. Sammy inquires.

“Let me check,” Jonathan says.

The hallway of his apartment building is usually well-lit no matter time of the day it is. The 17^th floor has only four tenants, as most of the residents live on floors one through twelve. However, Jonathan struggles to see who it is that’s waiting on the other side. He thinks there are two or three people, but he could be wrong. Fearing nothing, Jonathan cracks open the door.

“Hello? Who is it? Are we being too loud?”

The person standing directly in front of the door kicks it open violently. Jonathan stumbles backward and falls to the floor. Dr. Sammy screams. Nguvu is frozen with terror. Four men dressed in black storm into the apartment unit and draw guns with silencers directly at all three of them. The fourth man calmly closes the door and points his gun at Jonathan’s head.

“Stand up. Slowly. Don’t try anything stupid,” he commands.

Jonathan does as he’s told. The other three men surround Mistress Nguvu and Samantha, who have huddled together in the southeast corner of the room. All four men are wearing clown masks, black trench coats, camouflage pants, military boots and bullet-proof vests. The fourth man, who is significantly shorter than his henchmen, points his gun in the direction of Nguvu and Dr. Sammy. Jonathan takes that as a hint to move toward them. He shuffles his feet to where they’re quivering and positions his body in front of the women.

“Alright, let’s make this simple. Don’t try anything stupid, any of you. First of all, are you Dr. Samantha Prescott?” Everyone looks at her. Dr. Sammy nods her head. “Good. Now, listen to me very carefully. We’re all going to go downstairs to the parking garage. I don’t know who the fuck you two are, but because you’re here with her, we’re taking you all hostage.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Mistress Nguvu asks. Jonathan senses a level of fear in her voice that he never knew was possible for a strong woman of her stature. Muscles or not, a man with a gun changes the equation really quick.

“That’s none of your fucking business, bitch. What’s going on here, some kind of fetish party?” The man looks around at the dildo, whip, oil and the Mistress’s outfit. “No matter. Kinky bastards. Here, put these on.”

The man motions to one of his colleagues. One of the men takes out three identical clown masks from his coat and hands them to his hostages.

“Do it. Put them on. Now!”

Jonathan, Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu reluctantly put on the clown masks. Two of the men walk toward the front door.

“Good. Don’t say a word. If any of you scream, attempt to run away, or pull off any other stupid shit, we’ll put a bullet inside every single one of you. Don’t test us. Got it?”

The three hostages nod their heads to acknowledge their understanding of his orders.

“Fantastic. Fucking fantastic. Alright, let’s head out. Not a single word will be spoken by any of you, understand? If anyone asks who we are or where we’re going, I’m the only one who will speak. Got it?”

Once again, the three hostages nod their heads.

“Great. Let’s head out.” With that, the seven of them walk out toward the elevator. Not a single soul is in the hallway. Jonathan isn’t very religious, but right now he is praying to every deity known to the Universe. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t know who these men are or what they plan to do with them. He just wants this whole ordeal to come to an end.

They get into an elevator. Forty-five seconds go by, which seem like an eternity. The elevator doors open and the seven clown mask-donning figures walk toward a dark red SUV.

“Get in,” a voice commands.

Jonathan, Dr. Samantha and Mistress Nguvu, still wearing the clown masks, sit in the back of the SUV. Two of the men sit in front while the other two men get into a separate car. One of the men collects the clown masks and gives them black cloth to put over their heads instead. The three hostages put them on. The cloth completely blinds them. They cannot see a thing.

Satisfied with their hostages’ blindness, the driver turns on the ignition, puts the SUV in reverse, exits the parking garage and within minutes they’re travelling on the open road toward an uncertain fate.

You Don’t Have to Like Every Female Bodybuilder

Who doesn't like Cindy Landolt? — Who doesn’t like Cindy Landolt?

There’s a strange misconception out there that people who like female bodybuilders are “into” every single female bodybuilder in existence.

I’d venture a guess and say that a lot of us appreciate most muscular women, but not all. Thanks to the Internet and social media, FBBs can promote themselves in ways that were unimaginable twenty years ago. Today, a muscular woman with a prominent number of followers can post a picture of herself on Instagram (at no cost) and immediately have tens of thousands of people see it within minutes. Wow. Not even ten years ago was this possible. What a time we live in.

Because of this, we are exposed to thousands of women of all shapes and sizes who gladly post photos of themselves at little to no cost to the consumer. Celebrities, singers, models (and wannabe models), politicians, athletes, and the like are out there for our prying eyes to witness. Without social media, do any of us think Kim Kardashian would be nearly as popular as she is today? Maybe so, but her Q Score would not be nearly as high.

What exactly is a Q Score? It’s a metric that measures the familiarity and appeal of a brand, celebrity or company based on a panel of judges pulled from the general population. Obviously, people like Leonardo DiCaprio and Katy Perry have extremely high Q Scores. For the general population, Lisa Cross and Debi Laszewski do not have high Q Scores. However, among female muscle fanatics, these ladies are off the charts. But sadly, not everyone appreciates strong muscular women like some of us do.

Due to this fairly low profile, many people in society tend to group all muscular women into one singular cluster. They’re the big, brawny she-males you see with gross looking faces, man-like muscles, and excessive body hair in places where hair shouldn’t exist. We all know this stereotype exists. To be fair, there are some female bodybuilders who do (to an extent) fit this profile. But there are plenty out there who do not. There are lots of female bodybuilders who are just as “feminine” as any “normal” woman.

Wake up! Victoria Dominguez says it's time for school. — Wake up! Victoria Dominguez says it’s time for school.

Perhaps that’s the key. People who do not like FBBs look at one or two and think that’s how they all are. So when they find out that someone they know really digs women with muscles, they automatically conjure up in their minds all the negative stereotypes they’ve previously held about female bodybuilders. No matter how much you insist your attraction to them is completely normal, preconceived notions can be hard to break.

One can like muscular women without liking all muscular women. Yes, this is possible. Just like it’s possible to love Japanese food but at the same time despise wasabi, female muscle fandom isn’t an “all or nothing” proposition. We all have discriminatory tastes, even when it comes to strong women.

So the lesson to be learned is simple. You don’t have to like every female bodybuilder. You should respect every single female bodybuilder on planet Earth (unless they’ve done something in their lives that you find morally objectionable), but that’s a given. But it’s perfectly fine to be attracted to some but not to others. It’s socially acceptable to find certain personality traits desirable and others repulsive. Beauty is, as the age-old cliché goes, in the eye of the beholder.

My preferences are quite pointed in the direction of Sheila Bleck.

But of course, it’s not that simple. I understand why some of us get defensive about our beloved FBBs, even if we ourselves don’t particular like some of them. I once tried to set up a muscle worship session with an FBB who, for reasons I still cannot figure out, was supremely rude to me. I think there was some miscommunication going on between us, but regardless I felt like she could have handled matters better. Nevertheless, I don’t judge every single FBB as being difficult to deal with just because I had one negative experience. If anything, I might give them the benefit of the doubt because of how much I love and respect them. So there’s that.

For many FBB fans, to admit that you don’t find all FBBs attractive is to open the door toward legitimizing hateful criticisms of these women. That’s why a lot of (or maybe most) social movements tend to view the world in black and white terms. There are absolutely evil people out there and absolutely pure and virtuous people as well. If you’re sympathetic to folks in the latter category, you might be more inclined to overlook their flaws because you don’t want to provide unwanted ammunition to those so-called “evil people” who don’t happen to like “your people” as much as you do. I won’t get into specifics (in order to avoid a shouting match in the comments section), but hopefully you understand where I’m going with this.

This is why I won’t say anything negative about any particular FBB. I won’t even mention the name of the person I just referred to earlier. Heck, I don’t even reveal the identity of the women I write about in positive terms! Maybe I’m being a little too overprotective. Whatever. It’s better to be safe than sorry, I say.

All of this is to say that we’re allowed to have different preferences. Personal choice is an inalienable human right. If you prefer slimmer, “toned” women as opposed to bigger bodybuilders, that’s okay. If you are genuinely disgusted by the large female bodybuilders who compete in the heavyweight category but you get uncontrollably turned on by the “athletic look” instead, I’m not one to judge. There’s plenty of room in the Beautiful Strong Women Lovefest Train. All aboard! Choo, choo!

So in your own minds, you can like or dislike whatever you choose to like or dislike. I will never tell you that you’re wrong. I can tell you that you’re misguided or blinded by prejudice, but that’s not the same thing as “calling out” someone for being in the wrong. However, in the public sphere, I totally get why you tend to get defensive whenever some random Internet troll decides to defame the good names of Shannon Courtney or Danielle Reardon. I’d probably react in the same way, to be perfectly honest.

But I don’t, generally speaking. I don’t have the time nor the inclination to respond to trolls or skeptics. Or people who aren’t trying to start an argument but say something derogatory about a muscular woman anyway. Nah, life is too short to deal with that kind of commotion. I accept the fact (tacitly, perhaps) that not everyone will accept the unique beauty of a muscular woman into the “mainstream” of society. That’s probably not going to happen anytime soon, for that matter. But that’s not a huge tragedy either. There are enough fans like us who adore these women that an aspiring female bodybuilder will never feel unappreciated. Mainstream culture may not completely embrace them, but there are lots of subcultures who will. I realize the word “subculture” tends to carry deviant connotations, but that’s not actually the case. There are countless subcultures in our world. Almost in a literal sense, countless. Many of them are more prevalent than we think. It’s not just talked about. I sincerely believe female muscle fandom is one of them.

Take this message to heart, female muscle supporters out there in the wide, wide world. You don’t have to like every muscular woman you happen to come across on the Internet. Some of you like big beefy bodybuilders. Others of you like smaller, figure competitors. There are folks whose cup of tea is beautiful, feminine athletic women with curves in all the right places. And believe it or not, there are people in this world who really love “normal” looking women who can display feats of strength (either real or pretend) when called upon to do so.

Our fandom stretches across a wide spectrum. I am in no position to say what a “real” female muscle enthusiast is supposed to like or dislike. There are no “real” FBB fans just as there are no “fake” FBB fans. What tears apart fandom culture – whether we’re talking about comic books or punk rock – is infighting from within. This is why I don’t really spend a whole lot of time browsing and posting on female muscle-related forums. I am not against anyone who does, but that sort of thing isn’t for me.

Life is too short to deal with unnecessary negativity.

This isn’t to say that this sort of infighting is common. I have no clue if it is or not. This is also to dispel the myth that people like us who appreciate strong women are unequivocally head-over-heels attracted to all strong women. Everyone has different tastes, which is perfectly fine. Personally, my appreciation range is quite wide. I still get distracted by the cute girl at the gym just as I am by photos of Lindsay Mulinazzi that randomly pop into my Facebook feed. I’m fairly open-minded in that respect. You certainly don’t have to be, but it never hurts!

Do you like the vascular look of Cris Goy Arellano?

Here’s a message for female muscle skeptics out there: You don’t need to find the most grotesque photo of a female bodybuilder who has abused steroids for far too long and shove it in our faces and ask us incessantly, “So, do you like THIS?” That’s unfair. That’s mean spirited. It’s okay for us to say “no” and not be a “sell out” toward the Female Muscle Cause. I’ll be honest here. There ARE a handful of FBBs in this world that I don’t particularly think are attractive. Yes, a few actually disgust me. But that doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. I’m still a committed female muscle fan through and through. My Female Muscle Fan membership card won’t be revoked.

Personal choice. It’s what makes us autonomous human beings. It’s what makes us flawed, but it’s what makes us who we are as people. We have the right to choose what we like and don’t like, what we think is beautiful and what we find to be ugly, what our favorites are and what we’d rather not have to deal with if we can. It all boils down to personal choice.

Thanks to the Internet, we’re exposed to beautiful women of all shapes and sizes. In an age that celebrates diversity and opens the doors to anyone to publicly express themselves, we have more freedom to choose what we want to be into and what we don’t want to be into. There are lots of beautiful women out there. Don’t put any of them into a box. Nor us.

What a time we live in, indeed.

An Evening with a Beautiful Blonde Amazon

None of these photos are of Blonde Amazon herself, but they represent her in different ways. Beautiful legs, indeed!

A frequent request I receive from readers is to describe more of my experiences doing muscle worship sessions with female bodybuilders. My previous five-part retelling of my first ever session (nearly three years ago!) still garners a tremendous amount of page views to this day, so perhaps that’s telling me something.

In my estimation, I’ve done about 13 muscle worship sessions total in the past three years. I’ve seen the same FBB twice on two occasions, meaning I’ve met a total of 11 beautiful female bodybuilders. As expected, some sessions were better than others. Fortunately, I can say only one session was disappointing. It wasn’t because of anything major, but rather because the two of us didn’t quite connect. I don’t harbor any ill feelings toward this particular woman. She just wasn’t my cup of tea. No big deal.

It’s hard to say which one is my favorite, but I can say with confidence that the one experience I’m about to illustrate stands out above a lot of them. I’ve told her about my blog, so she could very well be reading this post as we speak! Hopefully I don’t get a stern e-mail from her complaining about anything I’ve written.

This experience happened last spring. No need to get more specific than that. We’ll call her “Blonde Amazon.” Once again, I’ll conceal her identity in order to protect her reputation. You can ask me all you want who she is, but I’ll just politely decline. You have been warned!

It all started where most muscle worship sessions start: wb270.com. Go check it out if you haven’t already. It’s not the most visually appealing website, but it gets the job done. I frequently check it to see who is planning to travel to my neck of the woods. Lo and behold, one day I see that Blonde Amazon is promising to come to the Pacific Northwest in the spring of 2015. Heck yeah! Like many FBBs who offer muscle worship sessions, I’ve known about Blonde Amazon for quite a while. She’s almost like a mini-celebrity to me.

Blonde Amazon and I had been exchanging e-mails for the past year. She originally planned to come to the Seattle area the year before, but had to cancel due to circumstances beyond her control. That’s understandable. Sometimes life gets in the way of doing business. I was a bit disappointed because I really looked forward to meeting a woman who is an Amazon in every sense of the word: Tall, strong, confident, and beautiful. Standing at a solid six feet tall, it’s not too often you see a woman of that stature who isn’t playing in the WNBA.

A year after her initial cancellation, I receive a message from her out of the blue telling me she’s planning to come to Seattle for real. Would I be interested in seeing her?

In a word, YES!

So we agree on a one hour sensual muscle worship session. Nothing too crazy or out-of-this-world. We establish a time to meet and exchange contact information. I wire her a deposit into her PayPal account and within hours she lets me know which hotel she will be staying at. And with that, we are all set to go. Monday at 9:00 p.m. I could hardly wait!

All weekend I did nothing but watch videos of her on the Internet and search for every last photo I could find. There isn’t much out there, but I saw enough to know what I was getting myself into. I’ve known about Blonde Amazon for several years, so it’s not like she was new to me. In fact, she was probably one of the first female bodybuilders I ever heard of, which added to her intrigue. She truly was a celebrity in my own mind. The general public may not know who she is, but as far as I was concerned, she was Marilyn Monroe.

What intrigued me most about Blonde Amazon was her elegance and striking beauty. She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue magazine. She’s traditionally beautiful and would turn heads everywhere she goes. When I saw photos of her, I thought of her as a gorgeous, statuesque woman who happens to be muscular, not a muscular woman who coincidentally happens to have a pretty face. Blonde Amazon may not be famous in our mainstream pop culture, but if she had chosen a different profession (perhaps modeling or acting) instead of bodybuilding, I have no doubt she could have made it BIG.

From the moment I woke up that morning, I could hardly wait for 9:00 p.m. to arrive. I drove to work like usual. I sat through boring meetings like usual. I worked on my projects like usual. I made small chit chat with my co-workers like usual. I seemed calm on the surface. But underneath my heart raced a little faster and my brain was going off to weird places. Not a single person at my office knew what I was about to experience just a few hours later. But life can be funny at times. For all I know, maybe one of my co-workers was also planning to see Blonde Amazon later that evening! Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

Thankfully, I was able to leave work early. I headed home, got a quick bite to eat, and sashayed to the gym for a brief workout. I try to always get a quick workout in before doing a session because it allows me to burn off some steam and “get my juices flowing” beforehand. I don’t recall what I actually did at the gym, but that doesn’t matter. I showered, got dressed, dropped off my stinky gym clothes at my apartment, checked my e-mail for any emergency messages from her (there weren’t any) and drove off to her hotel.

The drive at 7:45 p.m. was pleasantly smooth. Almost no major traffic hurdles. By then rush hour had ended, so it was practically smooth sailing. I had some difficulties finding the place because the hotel was buried behind a large business complex. A very strange place for a hotel, but that’s the way it was. The hotel wasn’t a traditional looking hotel, but instead resembled a small upper class gated community (minus the gate). I parked my car in the back area away from the other cars in order to draw less attention to myself.

I turned off the ignition and took a deep breath.

Whew.

After several moments, I walked out and tried to find her exact unit. It took me a while because the hotel was split up into four or five different buildings. Strangely enough, I had inadvertently parked my vehicle nearly in front of her room. It must have been divine intervention, obviously. I finally saw which unit she was staying in and checked my phone for the time.

8:30. Damn. I have thirty minutes until I can go knock on her door!

I returned to my car and turned on the radio. Nothing good was on. Oh well. All I need to do is pass the time before I can approach her room. Should I play a game on my phone? Nah, I don’t want to drain the battery before the night is over.

Some random Adele song plays. Then something by Walk the Moon. Finally, it’s 8:50 p.m. I know I said I had thirty minutes until I can knock on her door, but being ten minutes early never hurt anyone. After all, it’s better to be early than late.

So I get out of my car, lock it and walk toward her room. I take in a deep breath and experience the fresh spring air. Nothing about it tickles my fancy. I approach her door and notice she’s drawn the curtains over the front window. Obviously, she wants privacy. I don’t blame her one bit. I would want my privacy, too! I look around to see if anyone is watching me. No one is in sight. It’s a bit eerie, but that’s the way it is. I knock on the door and wait. The wait doesn’t last long. The door opens and I immediately have to tilt my head upward.

Whoa. She’s every bit the six feet tall she claims to be! She says “hi” and invites me inside. I enthusiastically step through the door. I close it behind me and allow my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. I look around and see a simple room that offers exactly what you’d expect: a bed, a small table, an old non-HD square television, a cute little kitchenette (with a modest refrigerator), mass produced artwork on the walls and a bathroom with a shower. You wouldn’t want to live here, but it’s not bad if you’re just passing through town.

I take off my shoes and place my backpack on the floor. The first thing we do is exchange her payment. It’s better to get the money stuff out of the way early so we can just relax and get things going with that out of the way. I give her an envelope full of cash and she quickly puts it in her luggage. Good. Now we can actually begin.

We sit down on the edge of the bed and chat to start off the evening. She talks about her kids and how they’re growing up faster than she’d like. It’s not often FBBs are open to speaking about their families, but Blonde Amazon is obviously an exception. I learned a while back not to ask too many questions about boyfriends, husbands, parents and kids. It’s best to leave family matters out of a muscle worship session. But I was pleasantly surprised that Blonde Amazon was willing to open up about her personal life to a complete stranger like me.

I find out she works in the healthcare industry as a personal caretaker. I tell her that I work at a nonprofit organization that serves the local homeless population. While our businesses are very different, we do share one thing in common: we help people. On that level, we develop a sense of mutual respect.

We chat for a bit about her competitive history and previous sessions I’ve done. Unexpectedly, she knows a few of the female bodybuilders I’ve seen in the past. It’s a small world, indeed. After about 15 or so minutes, we begin the actual sensual session. I stand up and remove all my clothes except for my underwear. I tuck it next to my backpack. Wearing a sexy black negligee, she stands up and poses for me. She isn’t as muscular as a pro bodybuilder, but she’s fit, athletic and looks fantastic. I approach her and feel her beautiful arms. She squeezes her biceps and I try to cup it in my hands. Not surprisingly, my fingers fail to contain her hard mounds of muscle. She laughs and I start to laugh with her.

I then realize that she’s a lot more muscular than I initially gave her credit for. That might be a problem with tall women. She has an impressive amount of muscle mass, but her long frame stretches it out further than it would on a shorter woman. So she is a bodybuilder. It’s just that her height makes it a little less obvious. Blonde Amazon probably has just as much muscle mass as a 5’2” female bodybuilder, but her tall body makes it harder to notice any “definition.”

I get down on my knees and feel her legs. Her long, athletic legs nearly make my heart stop mid-beat. Wow! Never in my life have I ever felt legs as sleek and sensual as hers. I probably spent most of my time feeling up her beautiful long legs. She must have noticed my affinity for her gams because she lifted one of her feet to accentuate her muscular calf. Oh baby! I could die at that moment and be a happy man for eternity. Alas, my faculties continued to operate so I could move on to her upper body.

Her shapely shoulders perfectly complement her curvy figure. Blonde Amazon’s skin feels as smooth as velvet. The texture of her body is music to my fingers. I give her a generous back massage as we continue to talk about our lives. She describes one of her caretaker clients and how compassionate she is toward him. She’s modest, of course, but I could gather that she genuinely cares about her job and the individuals she works with every day. She describes how challenging it is to meet his unique needs. I listen intently. I struggle to imagine what it’d be like to work in a profession like that. I’m thankful that there are empathetic people like Blonde Amazon who do.

At some point during the evening, she takes off the negligee and reveals her lingerie. I cannot remember exactly when, but it was a welcomed choice on her part. As I caress her neck, chest and tummy, she kindly removes her bra and tosses it to the ground. I take advantage of this and feel her gorgeous round breasts. Blonde Amazon is one elegant lady, no doubt about it! I’m serious when I say that she belongs on the front cover of a fashion magazine. Her face is as beautiful as a supermodel’s. No matter her age, she’ll always be unbelievably gorgeous. If there are people out there who are, for whatever reason, disgusted by female bodybuilders, Blonde Amazon will definitely challenge their preconceptions. She’s unquestionably feminine, curvaceous and sophisticated. What’s there not to like about that?

A rounded bottom that you cannot help but touch.

Once we get to the second half of our appointment, we begin to snuggle on the bed. My arousal becomes evident underneath my underwear. Blonde Amazon chooses not to remove her panties and I respect this boundary. Although, we did get on the subject of female anatomy and she briefly pulled down her panties to show me her clitoris. It’s as beautiful as you’d expect. Long and thick, her lady endowment is striking for both its size and natural appearance. She didn’t let me touch it, so I could only look at it in awe. My jaw didn’t exactly drop to the floor, but it might as well have. Anytime I can regard upon a female bodybuilder’s genitalia is a treat for my eyes that I must treasure dearly.

Finally, I look at the clock sitting on a bedside table and see we have approximately 10 minutes left. I think I know what’s about to come next. Like flipping a light switch, we share a simple kiss and Blonde Amazon turns on her “sexy” side with remarkable ease. I remove my underwear and throw it across the room. Who cares where it falls? After tickling my scrotum and giving me a few initial strokes, Blonde Amazon searches for her bottle of lotion and applies a small amount on the palm of her hand. Her captivating blue eyes meet mine. I get another close look at her flawless face. I swear, I cannot believe why she isn’t a famous worldwide celebrity! What gives?

I lay on my back and she slides between my legs. My penis is throbbing at this point and could explode just from a single touch. Thankfully, my “manliness” instincts kick in and I last much longer than that.

Blonde Amazon wraps her callused fingers around my erect manhood and strokes up and down with deliberate patience. There’s no rush. No hurry. She’s obviously not a clock-watcher. I reach over and touch her breasts. The tips of my fingers playfully pinch her erect nipples. I cup her mammaries and experience their fullness. As she continues to caress my penis, I notice something extraordinary. She does an incredible job of “acting” like we were having sex. Her breathing becomes heavy. Her eyes close. She looks up to the Heavens and licks her lips. She even starts to moan and groan as if we were passionately making love. We weren’t, obviously, but the expressions on her face were as hot as I’d ever seen in my life.

This woman knows how to provide a killer sensual session. She didn’t just give a hand job. She pretended like we were having wild, animalistic sex. I didn’t feel like a “john” receiving a run-of-the-mill sexual service from a strange woman. I felt like a “Man” (with a capital “M”) who was confidently making love to a gorgeous supermodel. Looking into her eyes, I felt like we were lovers with an illustrious history together. I felt like we were meant to be together. I realize this is nothing but “make-believe,” but it’s the little things like that that count in a major way.

I feel a surge of energy building up within my body. Blonde Amazon’s fake orgasm coincides with my own, as I eventually climax and ejaculate all over my stomach. My spasms go on for what seems like forever. I’m out of breath. She stops stroking my penis and allows it to deflate. I open my eyes and look at the mess I made. Blonde Amazon goes to the bathroom and returns with a clean white towel. I clean myself off. She then giggles and makes an astute observation about yours truly:

“You can shoot!”

Indeed, I can!

I always assumed this was how all guys were, but when I get excited (I mean, really excited), I can spew out my semen like a porn star. This is probably more about me than you care to know, but too bad! Blonde Amazon comments to me that she loves watching men squirt long distances. Granted, I didn’t exactly shoot out across the room and into the adjacent parking lot, but I guess what I demonstrated to her piqued her interest. Score one for me!

I joke that I should star in a porno one day. She laughs and says she’d love to watch it. She reiterates her fascination with men who can powerfully ejaculate. I guess she gets bored watching guys ooze out their seed like an elderly turtle.

She invites me to take a shower and I accept her offer. After a short rinse off, I dry myself, use the toilet and change back into my clothes. By now she’d put back on her sexy black negligee. I don’t know if she’s seeing another client that night, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to kick me to the curb. As I always do, I request that I take a picture of her. She obliges. I take two with my phone: one serious, the other more silly. The silly one still makes me laugh to the present day. We hug. She promises to return back to the Seattle area as soon as she practically can. I tell her that I’ll always think about the gentleman with special needs that she takes care of. She also wishes him well and hopes he’ll be able to live a happy life.

Blonde Amazon wore a sexy black negligee just like the one being worn by Eva Longoria.

I become bold and tell her about my blog. She says she’ll try to read my writing when she finds the time. Given her hectic schedule, I highly doubt she’ll ever have a spare moment to see what yours truly is up to on the Internet. I promise her I’d send her the link to my website in an e-mail message. She once again agrees to check it out. Swoon!

We share one final kiss (I have to almost stand on my toes to reach up to her lips!) and I leave her room. I’m one happy and satisfied man. As I drive back home, I come to the conclusion that Blonde Amazon is a one-of-a-kind woman who’s inner beauty radiates brighter than her outer beauty. It’s one thing to be physically gorgeous. It’s another thing to be a gracious and hardworking mother who deeply cares for the well-being of the people around her. It takes a special kind of soul to do the work she does on a daily basis. My mom used to do work similar and she got burnt out real quickly. So the fact that she persists with her job is a testament to her fortitude, emotional strength and considerate temperament.

She’s a true one-in-a-billion. Perhaps even more unique than that. Actually, yes, way more unique than that!

When I get home I e-mail her the link to my blog. Within a week, I receive a reply message from her saying she loves my writing (especially, oddly enough, my forays into erotic fiction)! Holy smokes! Add Blonde Amazon to my prestigious list of faithful readers. I hope she reads this particular post and realizes who I’m writing about. Given her intelligence and sharp insight, I don’t doubt for a moment she knew who I was talking about from the get-go.

I’m being 100 percent honest when I say I still think about the guy she cares for. I don’t know if she’s still one of her clients, but he’s quite disabled and needs plenty of caring. I’m sure his family is eternally grateful for Blonde Amazon for being the one who looks out for him.

Thank you, Blonde Amazon. Our paths haven’t crossed since that marvelous evening we spent together last spring. I don’t think she’s been over here since. If she ever decides to return to the Pacific Northwest, you can bet your life’s savings I’ll be first in line to set up another appointment with her!

But until that day arrives, all I can say is this:

Thank you, Blonde Amazon. Thank you for being you.

The Pleasure is All Mine: A Tribute to Xenia Onatopp

Xenia Onatopp. The pleasure was all hers.

Everyone has a seminal moment that defines their youth. Alright, it may not actually “define” their youth per se, but a moment that certainly played an integral role in shaping their transition from childhood to adulthood. It may not have been a specific moment, perhaps a series of moments that culminated into an event. Or, it could’ve been a pivotal “ah ha” epiphany that forever changed how you viewed the world.

For me, it’s pretty obvious. I grew up a James Bond fan. My father introduced me to the old school 1960s Sean Connery Bond films when I was at least 8 years old. Maybe even younger. I don’t remember exactly, but the super suave British spy left an indelible mark on my childhood. Some kids wanted to be Luke Skywalker or Spider-Man or Batman. I wanted to be James Bond. And Indiana Jones, but that’s a whole other discussion.

Can you really blame me? Agent 007 can save the world from the forces of evil while enjoying all the benefits that come from being a charming and sophisticated gentleman. He can defeat agents of SPECTRE while enjoying a vodka martini (a drink I obviously did not know much about as a youngling) and making love to a beautiful woman. Even as a small child I knew that was a special perk, despite being prepubescent and not fully understanding what sex was all about.

However, my eyes opened further when I was introduced to a certain Bond girl (or rather, Bond villain) in Xenia Onatopp. It took me a while to understand the meaning behind her innuendo-laden name. But that didn’t matter. The character is featured in 1995’s GoldenEye, a fantastic Bond film that reinvigorated the franchise after the lukewarm reception to 1989’s Licence to Kill (notice I used the proper British spelling). I personally loved the second installment of Timothy Dalton’s tenure as 007, but that’s just me. Not everyone agrees. That’s fine.

But Xenia Onatopp, played by the gorgeous Dutch actress Famke Janssen, completely altered my reality. I felt my paradigm shift…even though I had no idea what that concept even meant (I still don’t). She wasn’t just a beautiful Bond girl. Nor was she just a typical megalomaniac Bond villain bent on world domination. She was…different. Exceptional. Dynamic. Memorable. Eye-popping. Charismatic.

Sexy.

Oh, yeah. Unbelievably sexy. Without question, Famke Janssen’s magnificent performance as Xenia will forever be remembered as one of the most unforgettable cinematic characters to ever grace the silver screen. Remember, she’s not just a remarkable Bond character. She’s an extraordinary movie character PERIOD. I also spent way too much time playing GoldenEye on Nintendo 64, so perhaps that added to her appeal. But Xenia Onatopp left an impact on my psyche. She definitely had a hand in formulating my love for female bodybuilders. Real life FBBs obviously pushed me over the edge, but Miss Onatopp planted a seed in my adolescent mind that bore beautiful fruit later on.

Xenia could have a classically elegant side, if you let her.

My parents didn’t let me watch GoldenEye when it was first released in movie theaters, so I saw it later in 1996 when I was nine years old. Remember the good old days of VHS cassette tapes? Yeah, of course you do! That’s how I first experienced Famke Janssen’s beautiful face and sexy Russian accent. I was quite impressed with Pierce Brosnan as the James Bond of the 90s, but I wanted to watch it over and over again purely because of Miss Janssen. Can you blame me?

No, of course you can’t.

It should be obvious why Xenia Onatopp captured my attention. She’s a beautiful and badass villainess who kills her opponents by seducing them, luring them into a sensual trap, and slaying them by choking them to death with her strong legs. Very lethal! Not only is she effective as an assassin, but she enjoys herself in the process. What’s the point of living if you can’t feel alive?

Whether she’s killing a Canadian naval admiral or attempting to do the same to James Bond in a hotel sauna, Xenia explodes on the screen. Your eyes cannot leave her whenever she’s in the frame. For an impressionable nine year old boy, her captivating presence worked its magic ten-fold. I hadn’t yet hit puberty, but I knew she was special for a reason I couldn’t quite explain. Her power enthralled me. The way she eliminated her enemies erupted an electric feeling inside me that made my heartbeat race a million miles per minute. I was aroused by her in a way only a prepubescent boy still in his latency stage could be.

As a Bond girl/Bond villain, Xenia is one of the few women who could match Bond’s physical prowess. She isn’t as muscular as a bodybuilder, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a movie, which means you have to use your imagination. Trust me, my imagination went into overdrive when it came to her!

As I got older and I started to re-watch the movie several times over, what struck me most was the realization that Xenia isn’t necessarily an evil person. Yes, she did the bidding of General Ourumov and Alec Trevelyan, but I never got the impression that she was super enthusiastic about their goals. Stealing a satellite weapon that fires an electromagnetic pulse toward a hapless target so that it can be used to rob London of a mountain-load currency? That’s fine, but wouldn’t it be better if I could also enjoy orgasmic-loaded murder sprees at the same time? That was Xenia’s self-indulgent outlook on life.

Famke Janssen was (and still is) one of the most beautiful women in the world.

As a character, she was a perfect specimen for young hormone-raging boys like me. Strong, beautiful, sexy, and not afraid to have fun while killing people. How awesome is that? The rebel in me loved that she could play by her own rules (I somehow doubt her superiors specifically sanctioned her sexually-charged assassination techniques) and enjoy the ride while it lasted. It came to an end, of course (“she always did enjoy a good squeeze”). But what a glorious ride it was, huh?

Later Famke Janssen would continue her fame in the X-Men movies. But no matter how many additional film and television appearances she would make, her role in GoldenEye continues to be her signature piece of work. I don’t know what she’s up to today, but Ms. Janssen will always be my top celebrity crush. Right next to Monica Bellucci and Rena Mero, Famke forever claims a special place in my heart. No matter how old I get (and how old she gets), my whole body might start to convulse in uncontrollable tremors if I were to ever see her in person.

Obviously, the character is a chief reason why I love female bodybuilders so much. Like I said before, Xenia is not an exceedingly muscular woman, but for the sake of enjoying the movie, I suspended my disbelief momentarily and subconsciously thought of her as the strongest woman in the world. As a boy, I secretly fantasized about what it would be like to be wrapped around her strong legs and for her to squeeze as hard as she possibly could. My neck would crack for sure. Breathing would become increasingly more difficult. I might pass out or even meet my Maker right then and there. Either way, I’d be one happy camper. I didn’t know it explicitly at the time, but as a young boy I started to develop my exquisite taste for strong women.

Oddly enough, I don’t get too excited about the prospects of being crushed by a muscular woman. I’ve written before that wrestling, beat downs, and other BDSM-related activities don’t appeal to me all that much. I have nothing against these fetishes, but they just aren’t my cup of tea. I don’t judge anyone who is into that sort of thing, of course. But it’s not for me. So it’s a bit strange why my first foray into the world of muscular women would include a fictional character who kills men with her pure brute strength. Rather odd, indeed.

Other than Wai Lin in "Tomorrow Never Dies," Xenia was the only Bond girl who could match Bond in a fist fight. — Other than Wai Lin in “Tomorrow Never Dies,” Xenia was the only Bond girl who could match Bond in a fist fight.

Maybe I don’t entirely understand myself. Perhaps I do in fact fetishize being trampled upon by a woman but I just don’t know it yet. Or maybe I’m not actually into that and it’s by happy accident that my universe turned upside down the moment I discovered Miss Onatopp and her sexually wicked ways.

Outside of my own narrow perspective, Xenia Onatopp probably isn’t a character the general public will remember all that much, Bond aficionados notwithstanding. What makes her stand out above most cinematic villains is how hypersexual she is during every waking moment of her life. Violence gives her an erotic thrill. Whether she’s shooting up a room full of Russian computer programmers or asphyxiating unsuspecting male victims with her powerful legs, committing violent acts turns her on. In her own sick mind, violence may be the only thing that truly turns her on.

The world of cinema is definitely not shy from mixing sex with violence, but GoldenEye introduced us to a character who took it to the next level: Murder isn’t just an activity that gives her an orgasm; murder is the only activity that gives her an orgasm.

In books, movies and TV shows, we’re accustomed to seeing villains commit crimes for more or less “traditional” reasons: greed, vengeance, ego, hunger for power, etc. Xenia, and to an extent Heath Ledger’s Joker in The Dark Knight, commits acts of violence because it thrills her. I never got the impression that she ever felt any passion for Alec Trevelyan’s personal vendetta against M-16. She went along with it because it gave her an excuse to assassinate powerful men, attack innocent civilians, cook up mayhem and be a “bad girl.”

Symbolically, Xenia throws up her proverbial middle finger at society and then proceeds to masturbate with it just because she feels like it. She’ll stick it to the human race and climax over and over again while they helplessly watch – just for the hell of it.

Violence is orgasmic, a mantra I don't recommend anyone live by! — Violence is orgasmic, a mantra I don’t recommend anyone live by!

In that respect, it’s rather refreshing to see a villain commit crimes not as a means to an end but as an end unto itself. Xenia ushered in a new class of criminal; one who isn’t after anything tangible like money, power, or fame, but instead steals because she thinks it’s good sport. Alfred Pennyworth may have said something similar to Bruce Wayne, but that’s beside the point. From a storytelling perspective, Xenia exists outside of the plot. She was definitely working with the bad guys, but she really had her own agenda. She wanted to have fun. If collaborating with the Janus crime syndicate could provide her with the enough excuses to have fun, so be it.

Obviously, I do not advocate for anyone to follow Ms. Onatopp’s example and kill people for the heck of it. But her character undeniably left an impression on me. My love for female bodybuilders is the most palpable. But it’s not because of the fantasy of being crushed, squeezed and incapacitated by a strong sexy woman. That doesn’t appeal to me nearly as much as you’d think. Instead, I was drawn to her because she did what she did for reasons that are her own and hers alone. She never had to justify herself. She didn’t squeeze men to death because she wanted to prove that she could do it. She did it because she enjoyed it.

In a perverted kind of way, Xenia is one of the greatest feminist characters modern cinema has churned out in recent decades. She exists purely for her own sake. She doesn’t hate men or hold a grudge against them; she uses them for her own pleasure. Xenia is a hedonist in every sense of the word. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Whether she’s conspiring with evil forces to plot an international terrorist attack or she’s screeching in delight from an earth-shattering orgasm seconds after killing a man, everything she did could be summarized in one simple line:

The pleasure was all hers.