fantasy – Page 5 – The Adventures of Ryan Takahashi

Appreciating Every Square Inch of Her Muscular Body

If you have an affinity for muscular women, it’s not enough for you to want to see her body. You want to touch her body. And not just parts of her body; you want to touch every square inch of her muscular body.

This fantasy is common for guys who love female bodybuilders. There’s a stereotype that guys are visual creatures when it comes to sexuality. I’m not here to debunk that idea, but instead to add to it. It’s true that men love the sight of a beautiful woman (or man, depending on his sexual orientation), but we also appreciate the tactile dimension of human attraction.

Touch matters. Taste matters. Scent matters. There are five senses, not just one or two. Perhaps more than “conventionally” beautiful women, muscular women evoke in our imaginations a desire to experience her with all five of our senses.

On a practical level, how does this play out? Usually through engaging in a muscle worship session with a female bodybuilder/wrestler/erotic provider.

Muscle worship isn’t just about living out one’s fantasies. It’s about experiencing what’s right there in front of you. A muscular woman’s body is the object of desire that sends shivers down one’s spine. What’s important isn’t just enjoying the idea of a strong beautiful woman, but actually being able to meet, talk with, and sensually explore a strong beautiful woman’s physical form. It is this experience that makes our hearts skip a beat and forces time to seemingly stand still.

What explains this? The ethereal nature of female bodybuilders is one explanation. We often treat muscular women like “goddesses” and “angels,” divine beings who are deities incarnate. We know a female bodybuilder isn’t actually a spiritual being in the flesh, but we nevertheless use these types of analogies because they’re the closest way we can describe our affinity for them.

And how are divine beings supposed to be treated? As if you’re not worthy of being in their presence, but you will enjoy being in their presence regardless. When a peasant is fortunate enough to meet the King or Queen, it’s as if they’re meeting God himself. They feel uncomfortable talking to them directly, looking at them in the eye, or offending their sensibilities. It’s not necessarily because they’re afraid of punishment (which could often actually be the case), but rather they’re in awe of being able to be in front of a person of such high political and social power.

Likewise, those of us who are lucky enough to meet a female bodybuilder up close and personal know what this is like. We get a dry throat. Our speech starts to stammer. We can’t think straight or finish a coherent sentence. We act strangely. We cannot sit still if our lives depended upon it. Most of us are able to act cool, calm and collected, but we all have our moments. Like a pyramid-building slave lying prostrate before Pharaoh, we realize we’re no longer in Kansas, Toto. We’re in the same room as a beautiful muscle goddess. Ain’t that something?

Flavia Crisos's lower body is a gem. — Flavia Crisos’s lower body is a gem.

Throughout history, kings and queens were actually treated like deities because their rule was considered divinely approved (or directed). Regal figures may not technically have been considered gods and goddesses, but if the Almighty appoints you the King of France or the Queen of England, who has the right to question your legitimacy?

Today, we realize female bodybuilders are not divinely chosen to be who they are. Yet, that same attitude still persists. If mankind (which obviously includes women) is created in the image of God, aren’t we then logically touching the very body of the Divine?

You don’t need to be a religious scholar to understand why it’s so special to touch a muscular woman’s body. Our psychological and cultural upbringing leads us to treat certain human beings as more than just human beings. The same goes for celebrities, major political figures, world-class athletes and anyone else whose accomplishments we admire. Our admiration for them most likely isn’t sexual in nature, but that doesn’t change the fact our behavior around famous people is very different compared to how we act around “normal” people.

So that explains the shivers that go down your spine when you shake a female bodybuilder’s hand or the giddy feeling you get as you walk down the hallway and approach her hotel room. But once you actually meet her and your session (assuming we’re talking about a muscle worship session) commences, you cannot help but want to touch every single square inch of her gorgeous body. Her body is a work of art and deserves to be appreciated on a tactile level. And in this moment, you’re the one who is allowed to do that.

It’s not just her biceps, abdomen, back or thighs that you want to touch. You also want to touch the parts of her body that aren’t necessarily big and muscular. Her nape (the back part of her neck), her face, her ankles, her wrists, her fingers, her elbows, her flat breasts, everywhere. You want to experience all of her…even if you never would’ve been interested in touching those parts of a non-muscular woman’s body.

You may have a beautiful wife or girlfriend, but odds are she isn’t a bodybuilder. You might find her to be pretty and she may have a great looking body. But you don’t fetishize her fingers. They’re just fingers, for crying out loud! But when you see and feel a female bodybuilder’s hard calloused fingers – tangible proof of her years and years dedicated to weightlifting and busting her tail at the gym – a jolt of electricity surges throughout your entire nervous system. This experience is completely different. A female bodybuilder is a whole other species of human being. You’ve made love to your significant other countless times, but never during your relationship with her have you ever gotten aroused from touching her arms. When you feel an FBB’s swollen biceps and triceps, on the other hand, you feel like you might pass out and fall into a decade-long coma.

What more can be said about Theresa Ivancik?

Even if you’ve never participated in a muscle worship session or wrestling match with a muscular woman, this fantasy could still be present inside your imagination. You really want to feel Debi Laszewski’s calves, but you also (for some very odd reason) want to touch her lips, teeth, and chin. It’s strange to possess the desire to do this, but you cannot explain why. Nor do you feel the need to ever explain why. Your desires are your desires and you refuse to apologize for having them.

From personal experience, I can tell you that one of my biggest turn-ons is caressing a muscular woman’s face. Her face obviously isn’t muscular or radically different from any other kind of woman’s face. During my first ever muscle worship session, I took lots of time to caress her cheek. It was the most erotic moment of the evening. The feel of her crow’s feet and wrinkles aroused me like nothing else did. Yes, she was an older woman (she’s just as old as my parents, believe it or not), but that wasn’t the reason. I loved touching her body, even the parts of her body that wasn’t muscular. I loved every moment of it.

During other muscle worship sessions, I’ve felt the weird desire to rub her feet (and I am not a foot fetishist!), feel her callouses, and caress the back of her neck. I wanted to experience every single inch of her. Her muscles are beautiful (obviously!) but they aren’t the most erotic part of her physical self. Her most erotic feature is….everything.

Everything. Every inch of her. Everything.

It’s not just about her muscles. When female muscle skeptics question why guys and gals like us are so into female bodybuilders, it can be difficult to fully explain. To do justice to articulating what it’s like to have a female muscle fetish requires going beyond a muscular woman’s muscles and talking about everything else. It’s not just her wide shoulders, broad back, and rounded calves that we love. It’s also her lips. And the back of her knees. Her veiny forearms. The crinkles around her eyes. The palms of her hands that are covered with rigid dead skin. It’s everything about her.

Female bodybuilders are just like the rest of us, but we don’t always think of them that way. We all know they at one time in their lives looked “normal,” but we cannot help but focus on who they are presently rather than who they used to be. It’s easier to only look at the final product instead of the journey it took to get to that final product. In other words, in the back of our minds female bodybuilders are not actually just like the rest of us, even though we logically know that they are.

They exist on a different metaphysical plane. They might walk amongst us mortals, but they are indeed goddess among men. They aren’t just physically beautiful. They’re intellectually, philosophically, and spiritually beautiful as well. We love them to death but struggle to explain why. Yet, we feel no need to have to explain why. We just do and that’s the end of the story.

If you chat with a fellow female muscle lover, you experience a really awesome sense of unspoken mutual understanding that’s incredibly liberating. You both know why you love FBBs. You don’t feel embarrassed or emasculated admitting to a complete stranger that you love muscular women because they do too. You can admit out loud (or in writing) that you want to lick Alina Popa’s triceps and the other person won’t blink an eye or ridicule you for it. Odds are they want to do the exact same thing! You want to experience every square inch of her, even the inches that not too many of us are keen on. But, they understand and are probably in agreement with you.

Whether you’re lucky enough to meet a female bodybuilder in person or if you just fantasize about meeting one, we all want to do the very same thing with them: appreciate every square inch of her body. Maybe this appreciation is tactile, or perhaps it’s more theoretical. Even the parts of her body that aren’t muscular intrigue us. It’s irrational, but we all know what we’re dealing with here (hence, it goes unspoken).

So this essay is less expository and more stream-of-consciousness. I apologize if I’m not making a whole lot of sense! This is just a natural continuation of a common theme found in all my writing: female bodybuilders are special in ways that cannot be entirely described. They seem like they belong in a separate caste. Their bodies aren’t just beautiful, they’re divine. And it’s not just their muscles that arouse our interest. It’s every single facet of their beings that makes our hearts skip a beat.

It’s inconceivable why a seemingly limited topic can be subject to millions of essays, conversation threads, blogs, and e-mail exchanges. Compared to conventional topics like politics, parenting, space exploration, Harry Potter fandom, pop music, fly fishing, knitting, or scuba diving, the world of female bodybuilding appears to be limited in scope. After all, is there a single female bodybuilder who is also a household name? Outside of watching the Olympics, how often is the general population exposed to muscular women? Why do FBBs pique our interest so much despite their lack of coverage in mainstream media?

There is no definitive answer. Nor should there be. Female bodybuilders capture our hearts and minds simply because that’s exactly what they do.

Here’s another theory. Sometimes, our minds cannot accept something until we are able to experience it in a more profound way. For example, we all know that we should look both ways before crossing a street. We’ve been taught this by our parents, grandparents, babysitters, and schoolteachers ever since we were little children. Theoretically, we know this is an important piece of advice.

However, we don’t actually start to internalize it until we have a “big scare” moment. Imagine that you’re 16 years old and on one fateful day you don’t look both ways before walking through an intersection. You don’t hear any oncoming traffic so you assume there isn’t any. Before you can take another step, a speeding car zooms by and nearly hits you. If you collide with the car, the car will win 100 percent of the time. You’ll be dead or at the very least severely injured. But assume, for the sake of this illustration, you narrowly escape certain doom and you survive just fine. Suddenly, the old advice of “look both ways before crossing the street” takes on a whole deeper level of meaning for you. Before, you knew on the surface this was important advice. But now, after experiencing a brush with near-death, you now comprehend this adage on a more tangible level.

You don’t just know the words of this proverb. You understand its entire rationale. Will you ever blindly stroll through an intersection ever again? Probably not.

Likewise, we know female bodybuilders and muscular women of all shapes and sizes are real. But it doesn’t actually sink in until you meet one in the flesh. Or when you start to touch her muscular flesh. When you feel her hardness and experience her remarkable strength, as the newer saying goes, “shit gets real.” You know she’s real but your brain struggles to accept that she is who she appears to be.

She’s a woman. She also has more muscles than most men. She’s strong. But most women you know aren’t nearly as strong. How can this be? How does this compute?

Hence, you feel compelled to touch every single inch of her because your brain needs to tangibly experience her physical self in order to fully understand it. Her existence causes cognitive dissonance that isn’t easily shaken. Knowing on a theoretical level that muscular women exist is one thing; being able to see her and feel her body is quite another.

Thai muscle goddess Penpraghai Tiangngok.

Maybe this fascination wears off the more often you meet muscular women for sessions. That might be the case for me. Now that I’ve met a fair amount of female bodybuilders (and a few on multiple occasions) over the years, the novelty has sort of dissipated. I still get excited and antsy every single time I’m about her meet one for an appointment, but I’ll admit I’m starting to feel less anxious as the years go on. My electrified giddiness has been downgraded to “eager anticipation.” I used to want to actually touch every single inch of her body.

But now, I’m okay with touching most of it and not bothering with the rest.

However…I still have my moments.

Whenever I watch a video clip of a sexy female bodybuilder preening for the camera, my eyes still cannot leave the screen. I stop dead in my tracks and helplessly stare at:

The veins popping out of her bicep…
Her thick muscular legs spread out wide…
The proud revealing of her juicy big clit…
Her beautiful face smiling at me…
The irresistible sparkle in her eye…
Drops of sweat dripping down her neck and toward her chest…
Long erect nipples that look sooooooooo sensitive to the touch…
A broad back as wide as a refrigerator…
Her meaty triceps…
The striations of her quads…
A chiseled six-pack abdomen that’s begging to be licked dry…………….

…oh, baby….I can’t help but feel, um, uhh, errrrrr………….

<Dramatic pause>

Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggggggggg!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WOW!!! Holy Mother of God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I WANT TO TOUCH EVERY SINGLE SQUARE INCH OF THAT GORGEOUS SEXY MUSCULAR BODY!!!!!!

RIGHT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

<Deep breath. Another dramatic pause>

Oh, I guess I still do feel that way. Silly me.

Size Queens and Muscle Queens

Denise Masino and Roxie Rain are dictionary-definition Muscle Queens.

No matter how many millions of words are published – both in print and on the Internet – talking about female bodybuilders, speculation about certain aspects of their sexuality will always creep into the conversation.

Their sexual habits, preferences, anatomy, responsiveness, desires, and mechanics will forever capture our imaginations. A female bodybuilder is treated less like a world-class athlete and more like a philosophical jumping-off point for important issues pertaining to male/female relations, gender identity, gender roles, definitions of masculinity and femininity, sexuality, media representation, and so on. This blog unto itself is a testament to that.

Without question, female bodybuilders are fascinating. Yes, they’re tremendously beautiful and arousing, but they’re also intriguing on an intellectual level. The characteristics of their sexuality are of particular interest to us. I’ve written at length about female bodybuilders and orgasms, their clitorises, and generally speaking why their genitals mesmerize us. So you can count me in as someone who finds all of this to be compelling.

One subject in particular that continues to show up in Google searches and porn searches is whether or not female bodybuilders are also size queens. For those of you who have never heard of Urban Dictionary or are as sheltered as our nuclear arsenal, a “size queen” is someone who enjoys having sex with a large penis. Size queens could be men as well as women. A man who is a size queen doesn’t necessarily have a large penis himself, but nevertheless prefers men who do. A woman who claims to be a size queen is a commonly featured archetype found in popular pornography.

What factors determine who is a size queen and who isn’t? For the sake of argument, let’s talk exclusively about women. I’m not an expert at human sexuality, but I’d argue it’s a matter of personal preference more than anything else. I don’t think certain women are more genetically or culturally predisposed to being size queens than others. Just as every penis is different, I’m guessing every vagina is different too.

A very erotically charged moment featuring Yvette Bova and a friend (does anyone know who she is?).

What a woman enjoys during sex largely is dependent upon what she’s used to and who she’s with. The same goes for men. However, this discussion is often framed in terms of clichéd stereotypes that we’ve all been accustomed to hearing over and over again. According to casual research (which means a three second Google search), most so-called “penis maps” claim that men from Africa tend to have larger penises than men from Europe/North America, Latin America, and Asia. Of course, the stereotype still persists that Asian men have the smallest penises in the world. I can’t verify whether any of this is true (do professional sexologists go around the globe and ask random men to pull down their pants for the sake of science?), but let’s just assume there’s a statistically significant degree of truth to this.

Alright, is it fair to say that black women are more likely to be size queens because black men tend to have larger penises? Are white and Latina women somewhere in between? Are Asian women less likely to be size queens because they’re (generally speaking) not physically built to be like that? If we assume that “genetics is destiny,” these conclusions probably aren’t too far off from the truth.

But in all seriousness, we don’t actually know the truth. Lots of useless and innocuous ink has been spilled over the years making unverifiable claims about human sexual preferences. I’m not slamming anyone who is a good faith sex researcher, but pop culture has a way of diluting perfectly solid research to become nothing more than unsubstantiated rumors.

Therefore, who is and isn’t a size queen probably cannot be scientifically proven, disproven or accurately predicted. That doesn’t mean you should ignore what popular magazines have to say on the subject (or random bloggers like yours truly), but take everything you read with a grain of salt. People have hidden agendas, personal biases, or are motivated by click rates/page views in order to generate income. Take it with a grain of salt, indeed. Come to think of it, that’s probably the best advice you’re going to hear all day.

But one demographic group within the human female population that piques our interest the most is female bodybuilders. Are muscular women more likely to be size queens than non-muscular women?

It sort of makes sense, I guess. Muscular women are big. They have big muscles. They have big bodies. They also tend to have big personalities, huge levels of self-confidence, and astronomical amounts of drive, determination, and willpower. Female bodybuilders are larger than life, both literally and figuratively. Why wouldn’t they also enjoy having sex with a big penis?

A very sexy outfit being worn by Amber DeLuca.

After all, the vagina is more of a muscle than an organ. It’s an internal organ for sure, but its structure is mostly defined by its muscularity. So it’s understandable why we’d speculate whether or not a female bodybuilder can be sexually satisfied unless she has a big piece of meat pounding away inside her muscular vagina.

Do female bodybuilders have more muscular vaginas, just like they have hypermuscular biceps, quads, and delts? Eh, probably not. Unless they spend 30 to 40 minutes per day doing Kegel exercises (for reasons that have nothing to do with pregnancy or curing urinary incontinence) I don’t see why their vaginas would be any more tight or durable than “normal” women. It’s a fascinating topic to ponder, but I don’t think any peer-reviewed research on the matter has ever been (seriously) conducted.

Yet, fans of muscular women still wonder whether the buff and brawny ladies they love also happen to be size queens. Instead of discussing on a cultural/social/scientific level the veracity of this claim let’s talk about why people like us wonder – or even dream about – the Muscle Queen/Size Queen motif.

A female bodybuilder is not just a woman, but an Enhanced Woman. Or a Woman. Or a WOMAN. You get the idea. As fans, we treat these women as being new and improved versions of their non-muscular peers. They’re superior. They’re the next step in the evolution of womanhood. They’re ahead of the curve. They redefine the limits (or perceived limits) of feminine identity. They’re not just larger than life; they are life and everyone else is in the unenviable position of trying to catch up.

In our imaginations, female bodybuilders do everything bigger, better, and bolder than everyone else. We think of them as superhuman beings who break down every single wall we try to build around them and can reconstruct their identities from scratch. Everything they do is done to push the boundaries of what is possible.

A woman can’t be as muscular as a man? Nope!

A muscular woman can’t also become a successful business entrepreneur? Try again!

A woman can’t be muscular and feminine at the same time? Sorry!

Can a muscular woman prove her doubters wrong every single time? You better believe it!

Can a female bodybuilder turn her muscles into a financial asset? Yup!

Is it possible for a female bodybuilder to be hugely muscular and irresistibly sexy at the same time? Bruh. Do I even need to answer this question?

So not only can a female bodybuilder not be put into a box, she seemingly has no limitations to what she can accomplish in her life. Her potential for success knows no boundaries. And whatever so-called boundaries do exist are nothing more than an invisible fence propped up by your feeble mind. Fans of FBBs perceive these women to be almost like the next step in the Evolutionary Scale, a preview of what humanity will look like in 500 years.

These perceptions also apply to how we view their sex lives. If a female bodybuilder can transform her body to become superhuman, does it not also make sense that her sexual preferences would also be superhuman? And what could be more superhuman than to prefer to have sex with a large penis?

A popular genre of porn features a small, skinny, and petite young lady having sex with a large man with a big penis. Many times it’s “interracial,” but that’s sort of beside the point. We see the young woman tremble, moan, squirm, and quiver in pain as the large piece of man meat penetrates her diminutive body. Even though there’s little scientific evidence that “smaller framed” women have small vaginas while “larger framed” women have bigger ones, porn is rarely ever based in reality.

But many people get turned on by seeing our tiny female protagonist experience a jarring mixture of pleasure and pain as our well-endowed male costar pounds her inexperienced (in other words, “virginal”) vagina into submission. The violent subtext is a bit disturbing, but that’s unfortunately the world we live in today. I don’t really find such porn to be exciting, but I don’t speak for the entire population.

However, if there’s anyone on planet Earth who is tough enough to endure – and unapologetically enjoy – being pounded by a huge penis, it would be a female bodybuilder. She’s tough as nails in the gym, so of course she’d also be tough as nails in the bedroom. She’s “Woman enough” to handle such a prodigious piece of masculine meat.

Not only that, but she also enjoys having such a big penis inside her. Unlike our weak little starlet who is almost on the verge of tears as she’s having sex with her male costar, a female bodybuilder wants him to pound her harder and harder until he gives up. She isn’t experiencing sex with gritted teeth, but instead a smile. This scenario isn’t what I find to be particularly arousing, but once again, my tastes should not in any way be considered universal.

Many of us fantasize about our Muscle Queens also being Size Queens because we love the idea that they’re hard to tame. If you share the “Taming the Wild Beast” fantasy, you know what I’m talking about. As a weaker man (assuming you are a physically weaker man), we cannot lift more than a female bodybuilder or beat her in a wrestling match. So how can we assert our masculinity around her? Easy! We can make love to her and give her such a satisfying, spine-tingling orgasm that she becomes limp, drained of energy, and intoxicated by our male superiority. By Taming the Wild Beast, we men can reclaim our rightful position as being the dominant sex, all through the act of sex. As she’s cuddling up next to you, purring like a kitten, you beam with pride like a Man’s Man.

For many reasons, society tends to associate penis size with one’s level of masculinity. The bigger the member you have, the more “manly” you obviously are. It’s a crude measuring stick (no pun intended), but pop culture is more often than not simplistic and rudimentary. For men who feel insecure about themselves, watching a man thrust his big penis in and out of a muscular woman’s vagina until she reaches orgasmic climax is the ultimate turn-on. It’s vicarious entertainment intended to allow the male viewer to finally be able to dominate a female bodybuilder by proxy.

We can’t bench press more than her, but damn it we can sure as hell give her such a mind-blowing orgasm that she’ll be on her knees begging for more!

This fantasy speaks not only to our desire to see a muscular woman as being sexually superhuman, it also reveals our subconscious yearning to reclaim our masculinity. For an emotionally emasculated man, we see a female bodybuilder as a symbol of what society has become. Women are now in high positions of social, political and economic power. Men are not necessarily lagging behind, but it sure seems like it. So how can we reposition ourselves toward a return to glory? It’s simple:

Sexual performance.

If we can be so desirable that powerful, independent women become putty in our hands, it doesn’t matter how much money is (or isn’t) in our bank accounts. It doesn’t matter what our job titles are (assuming we actually have a stable job) or who our boss may be. In the outside world, we may be weak, feeble, and emasculated. But in the bedroom (or in our imaginary bedrooms), we are strong, powerful, and unquestionable masculine. We are Kings in our own domain, with our trusted Muscle Queen right by our side. She may be physically stronger than us, but she knows ultimately who’s boss.

It’s us. Heck yeah!

She may have more meat on her arms, but we have more meat where it really matters: between our legs. Sexual fantasies can be really weird at times. This is definitely one of those times.

Okay, let’s recap what we’ve learned. First, there exists in the imaginations of female muscle fans the fantasy of our beloved Muscle Queens also being Size Queens in the bedroom. Second, there is probably very little scientific evidence to suggest that heterosexual muscular women prefer larger penises over smaller or average-sized penises. Third, this fantasy is more based in men’s desires to conquer their sexual insecurities by envisioning a muscular woman being tamed and satisfied by a large penis. Fourth, the Muscle Queen/Size Queen narrative is essentially an assumption borne out of who muscular women actually are: larger-than-life superhumans who possess larger-than-life physical and sexual characteristics.

Angela Salvagno showing off the goods of Melissa Dettwiller.

Muscle Queens are not necessarily Size Queens. And who is and isn’t a Size Queen cannot be objectively predicted. Everyone is different. What we like and dislike in the bedroom often times has nothing to do with our race, ethnicity, culture, standard of living, political/social beliefs, or body type. It probably has more to do with our life experience, openness to new things, and willingness to experiment.

This discussion boils down to how female muscle fans think of themselves in relation to the muscular women they love so dearly. Do you view a muscular woman as a prize? As an object of desire? As a means to an end? As an opponent? As an ally? As the flip side of a coin (with you on the other side)? As a barometer of your own masculinity?

This is not, of course, a judgment on the people who ponder such matters. I often fantasize about this too. It does seem rather disappointing for a strong, powerful, and sexually aggressive muscular woman to feel 100 percent satisfied after making love with a normal-sized penis. Wouldn’t she naturally prefer something bigger and better?

Then I realized this: bigger isn’t always better. And this isn’t just a consolation prize for guys who are insecure about the size of their genitalia. Perhaps this is true for many women. Not all, but many.

Like most sexual fantasies, they expose less about the object of desire and more about the person doing the desiring. We love thinking about our cherished muscular women enjoying the pleasures delivered to them by a large penis because, in vicarious fashion, this is an example of a sexually powerful Man asserting his dominance over a Muscular Woman. She may have lots of beefy meat all over her body, but a Man has his meat where it counts. Perhaps this fantasy is more in tune with the Weak Man/Strong Woman motif that permeates the underground world of female muscle fetishism.

He may be a Weak Man, but he is indisputably strong where it matters: between his legs. She may be a Strong Woman, but she can instantly turn into a weakling the moment his powerful manhood penetrates her during intercourse. He’s not just Taming the Wild Beast, he’s also Reaffirming His Own Inner Wild Beast.

<Is he trying to strip her of the “Wild Beast” crown, or is he willing to share it? Hmmmmm…>

But this also speaks to our belief that muscular women deserve better. They deserve to be satisfied by the most sexually potent and competent men on the planet. There’s an altruistic component to this fantasy as well. Not only are we demonstrating to her our masculine powers, we’re also upholding her right to experience maximum pleasure because she is who she is.

She has the right to experience pleasure. And we are privileged to be able to help make that happen.

She’s strong. She’s beautiful. She’s powerful. She’s dynamic. Because of all this, she deserves the best. She deserves to be with an equally strong, beautiful, powerful, and dynamic man. If he happens to also have an impressive endowment, that’s great. He has the best. And she deserves the best. That’s a match made in coital Heaven.

Naked, Proud, and Defiant: The Fantasy of Seeing a Nude Muscular Woman in Public

Who wouldn't want to see Alina Popa working out at their gym? — Who wouldn’t want to see Alina Popa working out at their gym?

I’ve seen a fair share of muscular women in my life. I’ve seen gorgeous fit women at the gym. I’ve met a number of female bodybuilders for muscle worship sessions. I’ve seen most of these female bodybuilders wearing their Birthday Suit, which means (for those of you in which English is not your first language) wearing absolutely nothing.

Seeing a muscular woman naked is like a spiritual experience. It’s like seeing a divine creature up close and not feeling worthy of being able to do so. It’s like being a layman and visiting the Holy of Holies inside Solomon’s Temple. You know it’s strictly forbidden, but your curiosity will always get the better of you.

As a fan of female bodybuilders, I have plenty of fantasies that I daydream about with great frequency. Making love to a female bodybuilder, having a romantic dinner with a female bodybuilder, snuggling closely with a female bodybuilder by a crackling fireplace, and lots of others. Most of them are quite mundane. Most of my fantasies aren’t kinky, violent, or contain any shred of BDSM fetishism. I don’t want a muscular woman to pee on me (gross!) or to stomp her high heels onto my scrotum (ouch!). If that’s your “thing,” so be it. It’s not mine!

One aspect of my female muscle fantasies that comes close to entering the realm of kinky is voyeurism. Voyeurism isn’t all that kinky or bizarre, but it can cross that threshold if taken to certain extremes. Here’s one simple voyeuristic female muscle fantasy that I have that I often think about:

Imagine you’re taking a casual stroll through a crowded street in a big metropolitan city. It’s Sunday afternoon and you see shoppers milling around, people eating brunch, tourists enjoying what the town has to offer, joggers, dog owners walking their pooches, and teenage kids being up to no good. In other words, it’s a typical pleasant carefree day.

You’re walking round aimlessly, minding your own business. Not a chore to do in the world. All of a sudden, out of the corner of your eye, you see a sight that you’ll never forget. Nor will anybody else who is also witnessing this event. On the opposite side of the street, you see a naked woman nonchalantly walking down the sidewalk; and not just any kind of woman, but a drop-dead gorgeous female bodybuilder.

She’s tall. She’s muscular. She’s completely ripped from head to toe with big swollen muscles. Her thighs could crush a watermelon. She can bend steel with her bare hands. Her broad shoulders take up almost the entire sidewalk. Her perfectly round butt bounces up and down poetically with every step she takes. She isn’t wearing a single article of clothing. She’s willingly allowing people to see every square inch of her stunningly chiseled physique.

People don’t recognize her and treat her like she’s an extraterrestrial visitor from another solar system. Nobody can look away. All eyes are helplessly glued to her. In fact, nobody wants to look away from her. Some are disgusted by her. Others are instantly turned on by her. But everybody stops what they’re doing, dead in their tracks, and stares at her theatrical nude promenade.

Everyone sees her – children, families, little old ladies, packs of teenagers, Catholic nuns, stoners, homeless drifters begging for spare change, police officers on patrol, dogs, cats, birds, and every living being within view of her immaculate body.

Not only is she boldly strolling around a crowded public place in the nude, but she’s proud to be doing this! She’s confident. She’s defiant. She’s empowered. She knows she has everyone in the palm of her calloused hand. No one can resist looking at her. And from what she can tell, no one has any desire to resist staring at her powerful body.

The police won’t arrest her for indecent exposure because they’re enchanted with her. The nuns won’t chastise her because they feel like they’re seeing the splitting image of God walking before them. The stoners and drunks sober up immediately. A few homeless folks offer to give her whatever nickels and dimes they have for just the opportunity to get a closer look at her. But she ignores all of these people. She doesn’t have a care in the world. As she continues her triumphant constitutional, she develops a following of people. No one dares touch her, talk to her, or bother her. They react to her with a combination of awe, erotic curiosity, and fear.

The countless individuals who follow her create traffic jams. Cars can’t pass through intersections. A jogger who notices this naked muscular woman accidentally runs into a telephone poll. People take out their cell phones and snap pictures of her. She loves the attention. She craves it. She doesn’t care if her flamboyant performance goes viral. She loves being who she is and will never apologize for it.

She’s worked her entire life to achieve this impeccably muscular body. She knows her body will receive mixed reactions. She knows this exhibitionistic exercise violates social norms. She knows her body is polarizing. But she doesn’t care. All she wants is for the entire fucking world to see it!

Wow. Imagine that for a moment. How would you react if you were one of the thousands of people who witness this moment? What do you think is going through the mind of the female bodybuilder who’s choosing to proudly display her body (and years of hard work) to the masses of onlookers?

But, let’s specifically focus on the narrator of the story. Let’s assume the narrator of the story is a secret admirer of muscular women. He (or she) may be caught off guard by our audacious performer (let’s call her “Ginger”), but once he realizes it’s happening he goes with the flow and loves every minute of it. Or, let’s assume he knows it’s going to happen ahead of time and enjoys watches it unfold just to see how other people will react.

Will Ginger get jeers from unpleasant trolls? Will the police try to arrest her? Will mothers cover the eyes of their children? Will husbands get slapped in the face by their wives because they can’t stop drooling over her? Will the kindly grandmas suddenly become militant and start to lecture her about the lack of decency she’s exhibiting? Will she inadvertently cause car collisions and pedestrians to trip over themselves? How far is Ginger planning to stroll through the neighborhood? Will she ignore the voices hurling unsolicited remarks toward her? Will she do something more daring like pose for pictures or allow strangers to touch her body?

I fantasize about being our protagonist. I’m just as aroused by seeing a muscular naked woman in public as I am witnessing people’s reaction to her. So my fantasy is less about voyeurism and more about exhibitionism. Call it “proxy exhibitionism” or “surrogate exhibitionism.” I’m not the one who’s nude in public, but I’m on her team. By extension, her display of courageous nudity is also mine as well. Ginger and I could be in cahoots. Maybe I’m conspicuously video recording the whole ordeal. Maybe I’m working with Ginger to make her go viral. Maybe I’m collaborating with her to plan and execute this innovative guerrilla marketing campaign.

Regardless, I love the feeling of making other people uncomfortable. No matter who you are, you cannot witness a naked muscular woman in public (or even a non-muscular naked woman) without feeling some sort of visceral reaction. How can you not?

This fantasy is rooted in the desire to break down social norms and shove certain sexual taboos into people’s faces. It’s one thing to see a naked muscular woman in the privacy of her hotel room (and, it should be noted, this whole interaction is completely consensual) and it’s quite another to see her out in public in the least private manner possible. Meeting her for a muscle worship session is intimate; this fantasy is the total opposite of intimate.

I’ve seen interviews with FBBs who say they enjoy getting stares from people when they’re in public spaces. I’m sure there are many who do not like such unwarranted attention. But it’s undeniable that a number of them do receive a thrill from knowing there are hundreds of pairs of eyeballs fixated in their direction. Likewise, I want to see people react to seeing an FBB out in the open. Even though I am not a female bodybuilder, I also receive a thrill (by extension) from the intense attention she receives.

Theresa Ivancik wearing a sexy red dress. Meow.

Female bodybuilders receive two kinds of responses from people: lust and disgust. Just read the comments left behind on YouTube videos of FBBs. Some commenters are completely in love with them, and others are irrationally repulsed by them. There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground. So the fantasy I described above panders to both audiences: it gives the people who lust over her a little “show” that they’re bound to enjoy and it gives the people who are disgusted by her a demonstration of defiance and spite.

The best way to counter the “haters” isn’t to ignore them, but to intentionally shove your successes down their throats.

Ah yes. How sweet it is!

A part of this fantasy can be partially explained by my own personal life. As an Asian man, I often hear jokes about guys like me having a small penis. Even when people aren’t joking, they just assume that I’m “small down there” because of my ethnicity. It’s either people trolling me (and guys like me) or spouting off what they think to be “scientific-based” evidence. Regardless, I get pretty sick and tired of hearing this.

I often fantasize about doing this exact same thing as Ginger. I want to walk down a crowded street completely naked and see how people react to me doing this. I want my body (and penis) to be seen by everyone around me. Will women giggle and whisper to their friends all sorts of insulting things? Will men smirk at me and insist their packages are much larger than mine? Or will neither of those things happen?

Part of me wants to do this (although I won’t ever actually do this!) just for the sake of self-empowerment. It sounds clichéd, but it is what it is. Instead of being ashamed of my body (or a certain part of my body), I want to defiantly show it off no matter what the consequences would be. Likewise, I also fantasize about seeing a female bodybuilder do this. People might make fun of her shrunken breasts. Other will comment about her large clitoris and insist that it’s really a man’s penis. Some may even call her a man. But it doesn’t faze her at all. She’s going to be who she is despite what her critics say.

Naked, Proud, and Defiant.

On a side note, have you noticed that people who tend to say “I don’t care what the critics say” are usually the ones who (ironically) really care what their critics have to say? This claim is a defense mechanism that’s meant to downplay the role that critics play in your life. If you view outside voices as being irrelevant to your life’s choices, then what point is there to getting emotional over what those voices have to say?

If women like Kristy Hawkins strolled around the pool more often, I'd go swimming every single day! — If women like Kristy Hawkins strolled around the pool more often, I’d go swimming every single day!

I often wonder how well female bodybuilders tune out negative voices. To a certain degree, they all can. But realistically speaking, it’s nearly impossible to avoid vitriol in every moment of your waking life. Sooner or later, you’re going to hear hurtful or spiteful remarks directed your way. So how do you counter them? One method is to do what I’ve fantasized about: put yourself so out there that eventually your critics get sick and tired of saying damaging things to you. Obviously you can’t just prance around naked in public areas, but there are alternative methods at your disposal.

You can wear short sleeved shirts. You can wear shorts (in the summertime) that generously show off your thick legs. You can wear skimpy athletic swag at the gym. And of course, you can choose to post photos of your beautiful body on the Internet. These suggestions of alternative ways to flaunt what you got are being done by large numbers of FBBs already.

But the “Naked, Proud, and Defiant” fantasy has less to do with how a muscular woman feels about herself and more to do with how fans of muscular women feel about themselves. We don’t expect a muscular woman to feel compelled to put herself out there. She is under absolutely no obligation to do so. She can be as private as she chooses to be. If her husband (or wife) is the only person on planet Earth who is privileged to see her naked, so be it. As fans, we are not entitled to her body. But in our private thoughts, we can fantasize about whatever we want to.

Deep down inside, female muscle fans want their fetishes to be validated. I suppose that’s true of every fetish, sexual orientation, and kinky interest in existence. We want muscular women to be more accepted in society because, logically speaking, that could potentially lead more women to pursue bodybuilding, CrossFit, and lifting at the gym – which then leads to a surplus of more women with big muscles in the world (yay!).

Muscular women are rare in our society and female muscle fans want nothing more than for that to drastically change. But we all know realistically that’s not going to happen. So, we fantasize about the next best thing and wish that one day we’ll miraculously witness a gorgeous strong woman proudly showcase her nude body to all who surround her.

Seeing a beautiful non-muscular woman in public is not a big deal, though still a pleasant sight nevertheless. Most of us who catch a glimpse of a pretty lady will appreciate how she looks and quickly forget about her minutes after she leaves. For example, yesterday I saw an incredibly gorgeous Asian girl on a public train in Downtown Seattle. I did not think about her again until I wrote this sentence. Why did I forget about her? Because she was damn pretty, but not out of the ordinary. That’s why.

But what if I saw a gorgeous muscular woman (of any ethnicity) sitting on the same train wearing a revealing sundress that leaves very little to the imagination? I can guarantee you I wouldn’t stop thinking about her. Heck, I might write an entire blog post dedicated entirely to describing my experience seeing her sitting on that train! I’d jot down that article in 10 minutes flat and promptly publish it without editing it too much, spelling and punctuation errors be damned. But alas, she was undeniably beautiful but not exceptionally remarkable.

Seeing Colette Nelson in private is one thing, but seeing her dressed like this in the "outside world" would be a totally different animal. — Seeing Colette Nelson in private is one thing, but seeing her dressed like this in the “outside world” would be a totally different animal.

So, this fantasy speaks to my desire to see something remarkable unfold without prior expectation of it happening. When I visit a female bodybuilder for a muscle worship session, I know what to (reasonably) expect. The anticipation, excitement, and nervousness will still be there, but nothing that happens in the next hour will shock or surprise me. On the other hand, running into a complete stranger of a female bodybuilder in the outside world is a whole different matter. In the “outside world,” I don’t expect to run into women who look like Theresa Ivancik. If I were to do so, all bets are off!

But not only do I want to witness something unexpectedly beautiful, I also want others to experience it too. I don’t want to see car accidents happen as a result of a beautiful FBB strolling down the sidewalk, but a sick side of me sort of does! I want people to be stunned by her. I want her shake up our social order. I want her to cause chaos. I want others to be as spellbound by her as I am.

I want a muscular woman to proudly be herself and people who don’t like her can go f**k themselves!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yikes. That’s quite an emotional response, but sexual fantasies aren’t always perfectly rational. To conclude, the “Naked, Proud and Defiant” fantasy can be explained by the pent up frustration female muscle fans often feel when it comes to the women we love. We love them to death, but not everyone else does. People can say the most horrifying things about them, and we feel powerless to do anything about it. Trolls feel emboldened to insult, diminish, and belittle these women, and we feel that they’re also attacking us indirectly.

We feel helpless and voiceless, so we secretly want an FBB or two to take direct action and shut up these “haters” in the most bold and audacious way possible. But we also want them to change the hearts and minds of those who aren’t necessarily “haters” but are either indifferent or on-the-fence about them. Basically, we want them to be more “out there” than they currently are.

Their bodies are beautiful. Like patrons visiting a prestigious art museum, we want to immerse ourselves in beauty whenever possible. The “Naked, Proud, and Defiant” fantasy opens the doors for that to happen.

Sexy Summer Short Story #3 – Three Strikes

Safeco Field, home of my beloved (but frustratingly inept) Seattle Mariners.

Author’s note: The following story is inspired by a reader who recently e-mailed me at ryantakahashi87 (at) yahoo (dot) com and suggested this plot. As someone who always wants to please his readers, I enthusiastically obliged.

Enjoy! Once again, feel free to submit your story ideas if anything in particular strike your fancy. My ears are always open. I may not follow through on all your suggestions, but I will try my best to take your feedback into consideration.

***

I really want to go home. Right NOW.

I usually love going to baseball games, but this is too much. I’m squirming in my seat. I can’t focus on the game…or anything for that matter. Our team just hit a home run. The crowd is on their feet cheering loudly. I, however, feel absolutely no emotions whatsoever. My mind is elsewhere. My thoughts are preoccupied with millions of thoughts, emotions, and reactions.

Thanks to her.

Her name is Gabby. She’s the new girlfriend of my best friend Jake. Jake and I have been buddies since we played little league ball together when we were little kids. We hang out all the time. We’ve been to hundreds of baseball games together. Occasionally, he’ll bring along a cute girl he’s just hooked up with. Tonight is no exception. But what is unusual is the kind of girl he brought with him.

She’s a bodybuilder. Not a bikini model who likes to use the elliptical machine, but a real life bodybuilder. The real deal. Gabby has muscles that are bigger than that of most of the players on the field. Everywhere she goes, she gets stares from strangers. No one can help but look at her. She’s gorgeous, confident, strong, and built like a saber-toothed tiger.

Fuck. I am so fucking jealous of him!

Ever since I hit puberty, one particular kind of woman has always intrigued me: Muscular girls.

Holy shit, they drive me insane. I used to steal issues of fitness and bodybuilding magazines from my local grocery store and jerk off to the brawny ladies who grace their pages. My mom once caught me in the act, which is still the single most embarrassing moment of my life. We never talk about it. Ever.

All my life I’ve wanted a strong beautiful woman to be my girlfriend. But that shit never happens. After all, buff chicks like Gabby don’t exactly grow on trees. So how the fuck did Jake get so damn lucky?

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!

I knew he was dating a new girl, but I never in a million years ever imagined she would look like this. As thick as an oxen but as graceful as a ballerina, she’s without a doubt the Woman of My Dreams. She has arms that can snap a steel rod in half and legs that could crush a watermelon. She’s perfect in every way. I’ve had dreams about women like her. But my dumbass best friend gets to bang her instead! What the fuck is this shit???

When you think of Gabby, think about Georgina McConnell.

Just look at them. They’re sharing a box of Cracker Jack and giggling to each other. He’s feeding her, as if he’s her personal servant. I want to be her personal fucking servant! I want to be her slave! Where the hell do I sign up to become the lover/slave of a gorgeous female bodybuilder?

Jake just nibbled on her meaty shoulder. She gasps with delight. A little old grandma sitting in front of them shushes them to be quiet. They giggle again, knowing they’ve just been caught being naughty. It’s sickening to watch!

FUUUUUCKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!

The past two hours have been torture. All I can do is fantasize about being with Gabby. I want to be the one who makes out with her. I want to be the one who holds her hand in public. I want her to lift me up, drop me on my bed, and savagely make love to me all fucking night long. I want us to be the unstoppable power couple that we were meant to be.

Envy is enough to drive a man crazy. Wow. I really need a drink.

Unable to stand it anymore, I politely excuse myself and walk down the stairs toward the concessions area. There’s a full bar inside the stadium located not far from here. I think I’ll go there instead and down a few shots of tequila or whatever.

“I’ll be back in a few. I need something more stiff to drink, if you catch my drift!” I politely say this with my teeth clenched. Jake nods his head in agreement.

“Enjoy that! We’ll see you around. If we score any more runs, we’ll let you know,” she says. Her lyrical voice is music to my ears. She’s divine. She’s perfect. She’s…meant to be mine.

Damn it. I really need to get out of here!

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting all by myself at the stadium tavern sipping on God-awful tequila. It tastes like gasoline, but it’s all I can afford. Payday is next week.

The bartender is nice enough, but he barely speaks English. I think Polish is his native language, but I’m not totally sure about that.

I'm not much of a fan of tequila, but that sure looks good. — I’m not much of a fan of tequila, but that sure looks good.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jake and Gabby enter the tavern, holding hands and skipping along. They don’t seem interested in ordering a drink. They also don’t seem to notice me sitting all alone at the bar. The bartender just excused himself temporarily because he needed to grab more lemons from the kitchen. It’s dark in here, so there’s a good reason why they don’t see me.

“No one’s in here. Let’s fuck in the bathroom back there!” Jake murmurs to Gabby. He may be speaking softly, but I have really good hearing so I can understand every single word they’re saying.

“Yes, I’d love that!” Gabby responds. She grabs him and kisses him deeply, taking control of the situation. She leads him to a back area and I hear a door open and slam shut.

Intrigued, I immediately leave my seat and scurry in their direction. Sure enough, there’s a unisex single stall bathroom at the back of the tavern. I can hear the crowd roar in the background, but that’s the last thing on my mind. I approach the closed door and hear laughter, sounds of kissing, and clothes being ripped off.

“Quick! Someone may knock on the door! Hurry, Jake!” Gabby begs.

I place my ear to the door and listen intently.

A zipper is unzipped. The kissing has stopped. Jake lets out a passionate groan, which is followed by Gabby also moaning with pleasure. The unmistakable sound of flesh banging against flesh commences. The bartender has still not returned, so I figure no one will witness me listening in on their impromptu fucking.

Gabby screams with reckless joy. Jake tries to muffle his own screams, but fails. His banging grows louder and more furious. Her wails become throaty and fervent. Someone kicks the wall on accident, but that only heightens the situation futher.

“God, yes! YES, Jake, YESSSSSSS!!!”

My penis becomes hard at her exclamation of carnal glee. My breathing speeds up. I press my ear against the door as close as possible.

“Oh, fuck!” Jake yells.

The sound of bodies rustling around suggests they’re switching positions. I hear Gabby’s heels clanging against the linoleum floor. Jake is nowhere to be heard. I think the bartender has returned, but I don’t give a shit about him. My attention is on the here and now. In a meek voice, Gabby proclaims to her lover:

“I’m going to come! I’m going…to come….”

The banging stops. Gabby squeals. Jake sighs. I may not be able to see what’s going on in there, but I think they’re done. I don’t hear any more audible noises. I think I hear water running. Or is that heavy breathing? God, it could be anything…

Suddenly, the door opens. I fall on my face into the bathroom. I look up and see Gabby’s muscular calf right in front of my nose. Jake gasps, pulls my legs into the cramped room, and quickly closes the door, locking the three of us inside. I have no idea if the bartender saw us. Regardless, that’s not important right now.

“Holy shit, dude. Were you listening in on us?” Jake asks.

I quickly stand up. The bathroom is a bit larger than I expected, but still too small for three adults to be inside. Gabby’s muscular frame alone takes up most of the space. She’s just pulled up her panties and straightens out her skirt. Jake still hasn’t zipped up his jeans and has just thrown a used condom into the trashcan. I’m blushing uncontrollably. My mind a jumbled mess, I try to think of a way to apologize for spying on them.

“Yeah, man. I was listening. To all of it, from start to finish. Damn, man. I was sitting at the bar and saw you two storming in,” I confess. “I couldn’t help it.”

Silence.

After a brief moment, Gabby flashes Jake a wicked smile. Jake smirks back. Even though they haven’t spoken a single word, they’re apparently in agreement about something. I’m confused.

Gabby squeezes my arm with a level of force that takes me by surprise. She doesn’t look angry. Neither does Jake. What gives?

Gabby reaches into her purse and takes out another condom. She kisses me on the cheek and whispers into my ear:

“Threesome?”

Sexy Summer Short Story #1 – Room 916

The one and only Italian Muscle Goddess Mavi Gioia.

Hello readers!

With summer in full swing, I’ve decided to spend the month of July writing short single-post sexy stories involving female bodybuilders (who else?) and the men and women who love them. Time is short, we all have busy lives, so who has time to read a massive four-part story when a simple 1,500 word post is sufficient?

I agree, so here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to launch a series of short FBB-focused sexy stories that are no longer than 1,500 words in length. No need for extensive back stories. No need for expository dialogue (or any dialogue, for that matter). No need for follow through. What happens next to these characters, you may ask?

Who cares? That’s up to your imagination!

So, do you have a story idea that you really want me to write about? I’m going to guess most of you are here for my nonfiction articles, but I do know for a fact a small handful of you actually like my fictional writing, so I’m reaching out to you folks. Post your ideas in the comment section below or send me an e-mail at ryantakahashi87 (at) yahoo (dot) com. If you’d like to submit a short story yourself, let me know as well!

Without further ado, here’s Sexy Summer Short Story #1 – Room 916.

***

From the moment she sat down, I could not keep my eyes off her. Nor could anybody else at the bar, for that matter. Her broad shoulders, swollen arms, and killer calves were a dead giveaway that she is no ordinary woman.

The bartender cautiously approached her seat, as if he didn’t know how to behave around her. Why did he have fear in his eyes as he timidly asked her what she wanted to drink? She appears to be harmless. She’s not dangerous. What’s his deal?

“Whiskey. Straight,” she replies.

I like her already!

As quick as a rabbit escaping a predator, the bartender scurries off to a back room to find the perfect bottle of whiskey for this remarkable customer. In addition to myself, there are eight other people sitting around the bar. Six men and two women. One of these women is her. The other looks to be nearing 80 and carries herself as if she’s lived a depressing life. I feel sorry for her.

I quickly glance at the muscle-bound eye candy to see what we’re dealing with here. We look to be about the same age. She’s blonde, although I highly doubt that’s her true hair color. There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?

With her heels on, she towers over everyone. Standing at a solid 6’, she’s probably more like 5’9” or so. I’ve never had a special affinity for tall women, but I’m about to make an exception. I’ve also never been into muscular women, but I’m definitely going to make an exception.

The bartender returns with her whiskey. He sets it down on the counter. She immediately picks it up, downs it, and requests a refill. Now that’s my kind of gal! The hapless bartender pours her another glass. This time, she takes her time and sips it deliberately.

I look down at my vodka and tonic and feel like a little boy playing street ball with the big kids. I’m not much of a whiskey guy, but I may need to reconsider my drinking preferences.

Wearing a tight pink dress that generously shows off every single muscular curve on her powerful body, my manhood becomes harder with every move she makes. The way she sips her whiskey. The manner in which she watches the evening news with disdain. The mechanics of her impossibly rock hard body that’s undeniably commanding yet unquestionably feminine at the same time. She’s truly a one-of-a-kind…

Just as I get lost in my own thoughts, she catches me staring at her. I try to turn my head away as inconspicuously as I can, but I know I’ve been caught red handed. What’s the point at hiding my fascination with her?

She smiles at me. We make eye contact. I feel my blood boiling. My heart flutters. A surge of energy races throughout my body. She doesn’t appear to be offended or creeped out by my voyeurism. In fact, she seems to welcome it.

I smile back. She nods her head, acknowledging my presence. We may only be 30 feet away, but I feel like I’m connecting with her on a spiritual level. It sounds crazy, but my intuition is almost never wrong about these things. A bored couple walk away from the bar. Our elderly friend also goes home for the evening. The bar is located in the lobby of a swanky hotel, so perhaps this Muscular Goddess is in town for a bodybuilding competition. I don’t pay attention to such things – I prefer baseball and football – but I may need to start to follow the sport if she’s involved in it.

Ten minutes pass. I finish my drink. The bartender, more comfortable talking with me than her, asks if I want a second one. I decline and ask him a simple follow-up question:

“What’s she drinking?”

I don’t need to point to her. He knows exactly who I’m talking about.

I already know the answer to this, but I ask anyway because I want her to notice that I’m talking exclusively about her. She clearly has overheard our conversation because she offers up the answer herself.

“Whiskey straight. No ice. Just the good stuff.” All ears turn toward her. Her low rumbling voice sends tremors throughout the room. Never in my life have I ever heard a woman’s voice that deep before. Instead of being turned off by it, I surprisingly find myself helplessly aroused by it.

“Thanks. I’ll have what she’s having.”

The room chuckles in response to my lame joke. She does too. She raises her eyebrow toward me and gives me a sassy smirk. I’m surprised I don’t die from a heart attack right on the spot. Thankfully, my blood pressure remains normal and I don’t appear to be meeting my Maker anytime soon.

Minutes later, the bartender returns with my drink. I try to down it with the veracity of the Muscle Goddess, but I cough like a high school kid drinking beer for the first time. She doesn’t hide her amusement. Embarrassed and red-in-the-face (both literally and figuratively), I laugh it off in hopes of saving my dignity.

We share a few more flirty glances, but exchange no further words. As it nears 11:30 p.m., she finishes her whiskey and gets up to leave. Deflated, I watch her pick up her purse and walk away, knowing I have absolutely no chance at getting acquainted with her.

She makes a sudden turn toward me and drops a business card in front of my empty glass. She doesn’t speak a word. She makes no eye contact. Remarkably, nobody notices this subtle exchange of information. As she walks toward the elevator (which tells me she’s staying at the hotel), I take a look at the business card:

Katrina Catalina
Professional bodybuilder, personal trainer, and nutrition coach

On the back of the card, scribbled in pen, is a simple message: Room 916. Midnight. Be there.

My breathing stops. I can barely move. Is this what I think it means?

Oh. My. God.

A half hour later, I find myself pacing around an empty hallway on the 9^th floor. Standing just outside of room #916, I wonder whether this is a genuine proposition or a mean spirited joke. Well, there’s only one way to find out.

I nervously knock on the door and wait. For what seems like an eternity, I hear footsteps approach the door. My body tenses up. Sweat drips down my face. Is this for real –

The door opens. It’s Katrina. Wearing nothing but a sexy ocean blue negligee, she grabs my hand and fiercely pulls me into her room.

“Come on in!”

Katrina kicks the door closed and leads me inside. We hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes. Without her heels, we see almost eye-to-eye (she’s still slightly taller than me). We kiss. Her tongue invades my mouth. I nearly choke. She giggles and pats me on the cheek. We continue to look at each other for a long moment.

“Shall we fuck?” she asks. Her growling voice is enough to completely turn me on.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I reply.

My best wishes go out to Marthe Sundby, who is battling cancer at the moment. Go Marthe!

She tears off her negligee and exposes her fully naked body. My eyes greedily take in her magnificent muscular frame. I rip apart my clothes and join her nudity. My manhood is rock hard, ready to enter her. Katrina flexes her big muscles, showing off a double biceps pose that sends me over the edge of sanity. I grab her hips and slam her against the back of a leather couch. She gasps audibly and sticks out her firm bottom, beckoning me to take her from behind.

“Fuck me.”

Will do.

Gripping her hips, I slowly push my penis inside her, inch by inch. We share a mutual moan at the exact moment I completely enter her. A few rhythmic thrusts precede more violent ones as I give her everything I got. Katrina bends forward and widens her stance to allow me to penetrate her deeper. Heavy breathing, the scandalous sound of flesh banging against flesh, and uninhibited screams of delight fill the hot and humid air.

Katrina growls like a wild animal, which further heightens my senses. I know I’m about to come, but I don’t want things to end yet. I want to make love to her forever and ever. But before I can slow our pace, Katrina squeezes her vaginal muscles together, bringing us both to orgasmic climax. I empty myself into her as her wet passageway pulsates with orgasm. She buries her face into a pillow to muffle her scream. I groan as the last few spurts of my ejaculation subside.

We remain like that for several minutes. Still hard, I refuse to pull out of her. She doesn’t seem like she wants me to leave her anytime soon.

She turns her head around and we kiss. We don’t utter a single word.

Pure silence.

And that’s the way it should be.

Faster, Female Bodybuilder! Grow! Grow!

An example of FMG art, via David C. Matthews.

Female Muscle Growth (FMG) stories are a staple of online female muscle fandom. After all, who wouldn’t want to spend some quality leisure time reading stories about big and buff female characters doing what big and buff female characters do?

Well, what exactly do big and buff female fictional characters do? Whatever the author wishes, of course! Bashing in the skulls of dastardly villains, taking on a horde of flesh-eating zombies singlehandedly, warding off an alien invasion, or befriending a small and nerdy male protagonist (usually to the erotic benefit of said male protagonist) are all par for the course. Naturally, this genre of fiction appeals to a wide number of female muscle fans out there in the wider world.

Therefore, one would expect that yours truly, Ryan Takahashi, would be an avid fan of FMG stories. And do you know what? I’m……………..not.

Wait, what?

That’s right. As shocking as this might sound, FMG stories don’t really appeal to me. This sounds especially odd since I’ve published lots of female muscle-themed fictional stories on my blog. Doesn’t it make logical sense that Mr. Takahashi would also be a passionate supporter of FMG tales?

Well, not really. I’ve tried to read some FMG stories posted on popular female muscle websites, but they don’t allure me as much as you’d think. I’m not in any way shape or form judging these writers, editors, and contributors in a negative fashion. It’s not the quality of the writing, plotlines or narrative structures that I find unappealing. Rather, it’s the general concept of FMG that turns me off.

Like always, I shall explain what I mean in further detail.

Before you dust off the pitchforks and torches (as well as the tar and feathers), let me provide a little background on the genre of FMG so you can be assured I’m not speaking out of ignorance.

Female Muscle Growth is a subgenre of erotic fiction that features a female protagonist – although the character could be the antagonist – who starts off as a normal-sized young woman but eventually finds herself transformed into a beautiful, sexy and hyper-muscular She-Hulk of epic proportions. Usually this transformation happens for reasons such as a scientific experiment, a magical spell is cast upon her, special DNA is injected into her bloodstream, a supernatural talisman, side effects from a new brand of medication, a potion created by a sorcerer, latent superpowers that she just discovers, and so on.

The specific reason why our modest heroine is transformed into a Super Muscle Goddess changes, but the general idea remains the same. It isn’t because she’s a pro bodybuilder who built her muscles naturally by eating right, working out like a mad woman, strategically using steroids/human growth hormones, and resting in proper increments. That sort of transformation takes months and years, not mere seconds. It’s not magical; it’s scientific.

Popular forums for finding FMG stories include Diana the Valkyrie’s Library of Amazon growth stories, Forum Saradas, and various DeviantArt pages. There are of course individual blogs, websites, and Tumblr sites also dedicated to publishing or sharing FMG content. There might be printed books and e-books that follow the FMG formula, but I haven’t done enough research to point you in any specific direction. Without question, all the FMG fiction you want is just a simple Google search away. Isn’t the Internet a swell place?

As mentioned previously, many times these stories also feature a male protagonist who is usually meek, nerdy, socially awkward, and not very popular with the ladies (of any size). Just like a lot of us! I don’t want to paint all of us with a broad brush, but it’s probably not a stretch of the imagination to say that many of us aren’t what one would consider a modern day Casanova. Yes, I know many of you readers are happily married or are in a stable relationship, but that certainly isn’t every single one of you. I can speak for myself when I say my personal history with women isn’t full of proud successes!

So these stories are a perfect avenue for less-than triumphant guys (some would call them beta males, but that’s a whole other story) to live vicariously through these fictional characters. Even guys who are popular with the ladies occasionally want to fantasize about being with a big and buff female companion…if even for a few moments.

FMG stories are usually accompanied by either illustrations of these ladies (often times in the style of Japanese hentai) or images of real women enhanced generously by Adobe PhotoShop. Or there may not be any images at all. Not everyone is an artist or a PhotoShop wizard. Also, not everyone is unethical enough to steal images produced by another artist or wealthy enough to pay a professional artist to sketch illustrations for them.

That being said, why am I not a big fan of this genre of fiction? Well, there are a few reasons. The first is that I prefer muscular women who earn their muscles through hard work and dedication rather than through supernatural means. In all the fiction I’ve written featuring a female muscle protagonist, all of them are professional or semi-professional bodybuilders who became big and strong the old fashioned way. This better reflects the type of characters I find most appealing.

My love for muscular women isn’t just defined by the fact they have large muscles. I love big muscles just as much as any other female muscle fan, but I also love the context behind their fabulous muscles. I love that they had to earn every single muscle fiber they have on their beautiful bodies. I love knowing they’ve had to make difficult sacrifices in order to get that big (no FBB spends all her free time watching TV, drinking beer, and eating pizza). I appreciate their willingness to restructure their lives around building up the muscle mass they need to compete at the highest level. I love their vulnerability, toughness, emotional fortitude, discipline, and supreme confidence.

In other words, I love strong women because of what it takes for them to become strong women.

FMG stories aren’t my cup of tea because these characters don’t earn their muscles. Their muscles are given to them with little to no effort on their part. A magic potion, one individual super strength vitamin pill, a single injection of experimental DNA and things like that are cheap ways to gain unreal muscle growth. But Rene Campbell, for example, is different. She makes sacrifices. She’s costed herself a stable love life in order to pursue bodybuilding. She gets looks of disgust from people all the time because she can’t simply turn off her muscularity like a light switch. Her muscles are with her 24/7/365. They are a part of her identity. They are embedded within who she is as a human being.

A fan-created FMG interpretation of popular anime character Sakura Haruno.

As fantasy fiction, FMG stories do what they’re supposed to do. They provide quick titillation and entertainment for legions of female muscle enthusiasts. Fantastic! I have no quarrel with that. It’s just not for me. That’s it. I’m not judging the genre, insulting those who love the genre, or calling for the genre to adapt to my specific tastes. My opinion doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this world. Even if it did, I wouldn’t alter the genre in any way. People love it, so they should be allowed to enjoy it. Sound fair?

It’s just not my cut of steak. That’s all there is to it.

Another reason why I don’t particular dig this genre is that the “beta male” stereotype annoys me. I understand not every single FMG story features this archetype, but many do. Look, I am in no way a “man’s man” or anything like that, but the perception that all guys who dig muscular women are somehow emasculated man-children who fetishize being in a hapless subordinate position to powerful women gets a bit tiring after a while.

One other reason is that at the end of the day, I find realism to be much more appealing than fantasy. I realize that all fiction is unreal, but what I mean is “realistic.” Effective erotic fiction should, in my opinion, reflect a certain degree of plausible realism. That isn’t to say that the sci-fi and fantasy genres can’t be erotically appealing. It’s just that on a personal level, I tend to prefer realistic situations that closely mirror real life.

This preference isn’t for everybody, nor should it be. I’m not judging people who don’t share my views. It’s totally fine to disagree with me. This is just how I assess what excites me.

This is why I find the vast majority of mainstream porn to be boring, stupid, and uninteresting. I don’t want to sit down and watch 30 minutes of two plastic surgery-enhanced doofuses have passionless sex all while hurling fake screams and moans in between painfully written dialogue. Wait, there’s actual dialogue in porn? Yeah, I guess there is. If you care about that sort of thing.

The kinds of porn that I do find fun to watch is when I can identity (or come close to identifying) the people involved. The “plotline” in most porn is so unimaginative it’s become an ongoing joke. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl take off their clothes. Boy and girl then have sex. And more sex. Then from different positions. Then a second boy or girl enters the room. Then the pizza delivery guy knocks on the door. Then mommy or daddy unexpectedly arrives home early, carrying with them the usual assortment of whips, handcuffs, dildos, vibrators, rope, and bottles of lube.

Yuck. We all know how it goes.

In similar fashion, FMG stories tend to (although not all of it is like this, to be completely fair) follow the same general outline. The names, faces, and specific situations may change, but not too much. We are introduced to a girl who is shy and weak. Then she miraculously becomes muscle-bound. Then she meets a boy. Then…well, the rest is up to whoever is writing the story.

A more pen-and-paper version of FMG art, via Diana Valkyrie.

I suppose I shouldn’t slam this too much. Lots of guys (and gals) in this world love FMG, so who am I to spoil the party?

Different strokes for different folks, I guess. Perhaps a better approach to this subject is to explain not why I don’t like FMG stories, but why other forms of female muscle fiction appeal to me more. I love browsing through photos of fitness models, female bodybuilders, and other kinds of muscular women. Cartoon drawings of such women don’t entice to me as much. I have nothing but respect for these artists (as the tiresome cliché goes, I can barely draw a stick figure!), however I much prefer the real thing. Just spend a few moments and take a look at Minna Pajulahti’s Instagram account. Oh boy. That’ll get your blood boiling!

Want some examples of female muscle fiction that I happen to enjoy? Read “Chemical Pink” by Katie Arnoldi (who herself is a former bodybuilder) and “Devil and Disciple – The Temptation” by L. J. K. Cross (a.k.a. Lisa Cross, the famed British female bodybuilder). These two novels are fantastic reads. Go check them out if you can! It’s easy to order them on Amazon.com if you have a few extra bucks lying around.

Here is how I will tie this all in together. If you haven’t started preparing the tar and feathers and searching for a railroad track to parade me on, go ahead and do so. I’ll wait. In the meantime, what I’ll say is this:

I love muscular women for many reasons. The main one is aesthetic. I REALLY love how they look. On this point, we should all be in universal agreement. Muscular women are Goddesses on Earth and should be treated as such. There’s a darn good reason why many of us fantasize about worshipping their muscles as if they were deities in the flesh. That’s because in our fantasy worlds, they ARE deities in the flesh. And they have a lot of muscular flesh on their gorgeous bodies, ready for us to touch – if they let us, of course.

The other reason why I love muscular women is because they’re beautiful in ways that they have to earn. Nobody gave them their muscles. They didn’t sign their names on the dotted line and a FedEx delivery guy simply drove their pre-packaged muscles to their homes and dropped them off on the front porch. You can’t buy big muscles at Target. You don’t sign any contracts. You don’t sit around and wait for someone or something to hand them to you.

You have to earn it. Every single day of your life.

And that’s exactly what female bodybuilders do. They earn their muscles. Since we love looking at their muscles, logically speaking they also earn their beauty. Unlike the beautiful Abercrombie & Fitch models you see on wall-sized advertisements, many female bodybuilders (although not all) are not born conventionally beautiful. We often get jealous of professional models because they make a living – although recent news stories have reported that there is copious abuse within the industry, which unfortunately shouldn’t surprise any of us – thanks to their natural God-given looks. In a way, that kind of jealousy is understandable.

But not so with female bodybuilders. Their beautiful muscular bodies were not given to them from birth. Good genetics did not automatically grant them their six-pack abs, bulging biceps, broad shoulders, thick thighs, rounded calves, and toned butt. They had to sacrifice blood, sweat, and tears to get those assets. While we may harbor some level of envy toward women who can bench press more than us, at the end of the day she busted her tail year-in and year-out to be able to do those lifts. If we put in the same amount of hard work, so can the rest of us. It’s that simple.

Personally, I'd rather look at photos of real life female bodybuilders like Minna Pajulahti. — Personally, I’d rather look at photos of real life female bodybuilders like Minna Pajulahti.

Getting to the top of Mount Everest isn’t nearly as impressive as putting in the work, strategic planning, and preparation necessary to be able to climb Mount Everest in the first place. The journey is just as compelling as the end goal. In this respect, I love female bodybuilders because of the arduous journey they’re on. We can appreciate the final product, but we can also appreciate the road they had to travel to achieve that final product.

At the heart of FMG fiction is cutting through that long and windy road and getting from Point A to Point B in a matter of seconds. That’s not intriguing to me; not because a particular FMG story isn’t well written or well-conceived, but rather because it eliminates the very core reason why I love muscular women in the first place. They earned their muscles through strenuous hard labor, not a magic pill concocted by a mad scientist.

I want female bodybuilders to grow and grow just like the next guy. But I want the journey to take as long as it needs to. Give me a photo of a young fitness Instagram model over a hyper-muscular ‘roided up cartoon character any day. But if that’s your thing, go for it! I encourage people to express their female muscle fandom in any way they choose (as long as it’s legal and consensual, of course).

But alas, I digress. If FMG stories are what rock your socks, I am in no position of authority to say it shouldn’t. By all means, read, write, and draw all the FMG art your heart desires! Do whatever makes you happy, I say. This is not a condemnation of FMG, people who like FMG, or people who create FMG. This is just my humble take on the genre. I’d be happy to hear your thoughts and reactions in the comments below or by sending me an e-mail at ryantakahashi87 (at) yahoo (dot) com. I may even write a follow-up post sharing what you write (or rant) to me.

In the meantime, I swear I can smell the tar boiling in the cauldron…

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Kudos goes out to David C. Matthews for being a supremely talented female muscle artist. Please check out his comic series Tetsuko if you haven’t already! The FMG drawing of popular anime character Sakura Haruno is created by Pegius. The illustration of She-Hulk is done by Michele Frigo.

The Bigger the Clit, the Happier We All Are (NSFW)

Angela Salvagno sharing with the world her stretched out labia.

By far, the most erotic part of a female bodybuilder’s body is her clitoris. Some FBBs – Denise Masino, Angela Salvagno, Amber DeLuca, and Brandi Mae Akers being a few examples – are famous for their enormous feminine endowments (Rikochan also deserves recognition, even though she’s not an FBB). On behalf of fans of these women all over the world, I can say with great certainty that we deeply appreciate their collective willingness to share this tantalizingly intimate part of their bodies.

No female bodybuilder is ever under any obligation to share her body with the world. No woman is, for that matter. But those who consensually choose to release photos and videos revealing the impressive nub of meat protruding between their legs are a blessed bunch of women. We thank you all, from the bottom of our hearts!

Without a doubt, men – whether they already like muscular women or not – are fascinated with a female bodybuilder’s genitalia. What does it look like? Is it different than “normal” women’s genitals? Are all their clits huge? What makes their clits so big? Do their clits become more sensitive? Is it really a penis? Do taking steroids make female bodybuilders become men (or take on overtly masculine qualities)? Do female bodybuilders experience better orgasms? Why can’t I stop fantasizing about giving a strong muscular woman a spine tingling orgasm?

Inquiring minds need to know!

Alright, everyone. Let’s slow down for a moment and take some time to dive into this topic.

There are thousands of different genres of pornography out there. Some range from the benign to the bizarre to the freaky to the unethical. And everything in between. Porn is a fascinating topic of discussion, one that we’ll never stop talking about. That being said, out of the countless genres and subgenres (and sub-sub genres) of porn available on the open market, one in particular that is worth mentioning is female muscle fetishism.

Porn featuring female bodybuilders can be just as boring, bland, and tacky as any other kind of porn you’ll stumble across. Some is disgusting, some is legitimately erotic, but a lot of it is crude and unintelligent. But if there’s anything that excites a female muscle fan like nothing else can, it’s close up shots of an FBB’s clitoris. Big, swollen, excited, and juicy, we cannot get enough of it.

Denise Masino is legendary for what exists between her strong legs.

So much so, we keep returning to the kinds of photos and videos that give us what we crave: Big clits. I can say with complete confidence that the bigger the clit, the happier we all are.

Now, before I jump off the deep end of the swimming pool, let’s explore why this is important. I’ve written in previous blog articles why men are fascinated with a female bodybuilder’s genitalia. In this column, I’m going to talk about why it’s empowering for a female bodybuilder to have large genitalia, and why it’s important for the men (and women) who like them to recognize this.

From what I can gather from researching this topic, having a large clitoris doesn’t necessarily provide a woman any further sexual advantages (in regards to her own pleasure) compared to women with normal sized clitorises. There could possibly be some scientific evidence suggesting that women with large clitoral endowments experience sexual pleasure differently, but such research has yet to be conducted to my knowledge. Suffice to say, in terms of physical biology, I cannot say with complete confidence that a large clitoris is objectively significant in any way.

However, having a large clit carries very real symbolic significance. Without getting into too much physiological detail – from which I will admit I am far from being an educated expert! – here is what we know: The female clitoris is homologous to the male penis. In biological terms, this refers to two physical characteristics that are “similar in position, structure, and evolutionary origin but not necessarily in function.”

If what separates a male and female is based purely on chromosomes – XX for females and XY for males – then we can conclude that we were all born genderless but during our development in utero, at some point changes occur which lead to the differences we see after birth. So while the clitoris and the penis are structurally similar, they are nevertheless two distinct parts of the human body. And, they should be treated as such.

Amber DeLuca looking as gorgeous as ever.

It is often pointed out (by sexologists, feminists, and anyone who’s interested in human sexuality) that the clitoris is unique in that it’s the only organ of the human body that exists purely for the purpose of providing sexual pleasure. It may also be more sensitive than the penis, which perhaps gives women more heightened delight from direct stimulation. I’m not a woman, so I can’t verify that claim. But let’s assume this is more or less the truth.

In the process of reproduction, it is often assumed that the penis and the vagina are two sides of the same coin. The man releases sperm from his penis into the woman’s vagina, which carries the sperm through her uterus and eventually to her ovaries, and blah, blah, blah. In a way, the penis and the vagina mostly act as the passageways through which a newborn human being is produced. Boring stuff, right?

Yes. However, things get more exciting once we add the element of sensual pleasure to the mix. Traditionally, we think of human orgasms as being produced by the penis and the vagina. But that doesn’t paint a complete picture. The clitoris is intricately tied to the vagina. Some researchers argue that there is no such thing as a vaginal orgasm, that all female orgasms are clitoral orgasms. The clitoris is far larger than what we see on the surface. The vast majority of it exists inside a woman’s body, not outside of it.

So we really need to think of female pleasure in terms of the clitoris, not the vagina. Fine. Now what? Why is this important?

Culturally speaking, acknowledging that the clitoris is how a woman really achieves orgasm tears down the notion that female sexuality is inherently passive. For thousands of years, we’ve treated male sexuality as a given. Female sexuality, on the other hand, has unfortunately been pushed aside for far too long. During the act of sex, we mechanically think of the penis as the instigator. It is doing the stimulating. It is initiating the reproductive process. Without the penis, sex wouldn’t exist.

Along that same wavelength, the vagina is often thought of as a passive participant. It is the vagina that is penetrated. It is the vagina that is being stimulated. It is the vagina that is part of the reproductive process, not the organ that is activating this process. Without the penis, the vagina is worthless.

This mindset is obviously wrong. Women are completely capable of pleasing themselves without a male companion. But what makes the existence of the clitoris so incredible is that it exemplifies this point thanks to its physical structure.

A strong beautiful black woman named Desiree Ellis. Slaaaaayyyyy!

The penis is an outward organ that is plain for the eye to see. The vagina, however, exists internally and is not easily visible. For the vast majority of women, their genitalia looks like a simple slit that runs down between their legs. That’s it. Schoolchildren often say that boys have a penis and girls have nothing down there. That’s obviously wrong, but that line of thinking makes sense when you think of genitalia purely in observable terms. The penis is easy to observe. The vagina is not.

So once these schoolchildren grow up into adulthood, they have ingrained into their brains the belief that the vagina is subordinate to the penis in terms of providing both partners mutual sexual pleasure. They might intellectually understand that this is a bunch of BS, but cultural teachings can be difficult to fully scrub. An adult man looks at his penis and sees a tool for giving and receiving pleasure. An adult woman looks down between her legs and sees…nothing.

But not so with certain female bodybuilders. Angela Salvagno looks down between her legs and sees…a lot. Oh boy, does she see a lot! Big meaty labia, a thick clitoral hood, and of course, an enormous clitoris itself. For most women, their genitals are mostly hidden inside their bodies, as if it’s almost ashamed to come out into the light. Miss Salvagno, on the other hand, can proudly display her genitalia because of how large, open, and easy it is to see.

That’s the difference. Female bodybuilders with enhanced genitalia prove the point that a woman’s sexual organs don’t have to be small, timid, and passively hidden from sight. Rather, her labia, clit, and vagina can be just as plain to see as a man’s penis and scrotum. She can “let it all hang out” just as a man can. If any of you do a Google search of Angela Salvagno or Denise Masino, you will be fortunate to see just how enthusiastic they are about showing off their goods to the public!

On a symbolic level, having large genitalia empowers you. Men with big penises are considered manlier and more sexually powerful than men with smaller endowments. But does the same standard exist for women? Not really, but female bodybuilders can alter those perceptions. A strong muscular woman with large genitalia shatters the perception that female sexuality must be passive and subordinate to male sexuality. The image of a beautiful and buff FBB with a gigantic clitoris communicates independence, sexual vitality, and female empowerment. I realize the concept of “empowerment” has become an annoying cliché in recent years, but bear with me for a moment. When I see a female bodybuilder with big genitals, I see a woman who is unquestionably and unapologetically in charge of her own sexuality. She controls the terms of her pleasure. She controls her body. She controls how she lives her life. This is incredible. This is important for all of us to see.

A large clitoris may not necessarily give a woman more pleasure, but it definitely creates the illusion that she is certainly more than capable of experiencing pleasure for her own sake. She can actively stimulate her clit to orgasm, just as a man can masturbate his penis to orgasm. Women can also pleasure themselves with dildos and vibrators, but those are still phallic-like tools that merely replace a human penis with an artificial mechanical substitute.

But a large clit changes the game. She can pinch, rub, and squeeze her clit toward a satisfying climax anytime she wants to. She doesn’t need a man, a woman, or a phallic proxy to assist her. She doesn’t need to be penetrated in order to experience pleasure (on a side note, doesn’t the word “penetrate” carry with it subtle undertones of violence and invasion?). She can provide herself external stimulation that further reinforces the idea that she is an autonomous sexual creature who is abundantly capable of experiencing as much sensual delights as her male counterparts.

A female bodybuilder who proudly shows off her enormous genitals creates a whole new paradigm in the world of human sexuality. No longer are women second-class sexual citizens. No longer are they defined by what they don’t have, but rather by what they do have.

Come to think of it, that’s the crux of the matter! Going back to the schoolyard illustration, little boys are fully aware of what they have between their legs. Girls are less certain. Therefore, society is taught to view boys by the anatomy they possess and girls by the anatomy they don’t possess. When an obstetrician delivers a newborn baby, they check to see if it has a penis or not, as opposed to if it has a vagina or not. What a funny world we live in.

As male-centric as our society may be (and still is), we’re slowly but surely starting to recognize the fact that women have sexualities of their own that should be celebrated, taught to our children, and acknowledged as factual reality. Women don’t possess nothing down there. They possess quite a lot! Most of it may be hidden, but all you have to do is conduct a Google search for pictures of nude female bodybuilders and you’ll get a good idea of what a woman actually has going on down there.

When women are empowered to embrace their own sexuality, everyone benefits. Women benefit, men benefit, society benefits. It’s a win-win-win proposition. Female bodybuilders play an integral role in punctuating the point that women can be physically strong as well as sexually potent. Of course, much of this is more symbolic than anything else, but that’s beside the point. Female bodybuilders are not an ideal toward which all women should strive, but rather a pronounced example of what women can become. A big clit doesn’t actually signify enriched sexual power; instead it proves the point with the force of a sledgehammer that women can be independent sexual agents who are fully capable of experiencing sensual pleasure without the need for outside assistance.

If she wants a man to help her achieve orgasm, great! If she wants a fellow woman to assist her, that’s also great. If she wants to act all by herself and assert her own libidinous sovereignty, that’s obviously quite great.

Women are immeasurably important to our world. But it’s a tragic reality that the world is not entirely safe or welcoming to them. There are hostile forces working against women all across the globe that will take generations to stamp out (if it can be defeated at all, which is debatable). However, even if it has a miniscule impact on a few people’s biases, a female bodybuilder’s large clitoris can change people’s hearts and minds forever. Maybe not in an immediate and tangible way, but in a more figurative and representational way.

It may not be much, but whatever you can get is gravy on top. It continuously breaks my heart to read about the plight of women and girls around the world. But judging from WordPress’s analytics, I know for a fact that my blog is read by people who live in countries that are openly hostile toward women (both culturally and politically). This humble article may not achieve much, but at least I hope I can get the ball rolling in a more positive direction.

Here is my expression of gratitude to women with big clits who are proud to show them off:

Thank you! Thank you for titillating us, teasing us, arousing us, and captivating us. Thank you for sharing an intimate part of your body that you have absolutely zero obligation to show off. Nobody forces you to share this private part of your life…you choose to do it voluntarily. Your reasons for doing so may be because of exhibitionism, smart business acumen, or for purely financial gain; but an unintended benefit of doing so is that you’ve opened the doors for women everywhere to freely express their sexuality and for men to witness this first-hand. We all benefit. No matter who we are, where we live, or what we believe. You may not realize this, but you’re doing a tremendous amount of good.

You may not see any tangible benefits right away but rest assured, they will crop up sooner rather than later. Hopefully, much sooner than any of us would think. Women and girls have a long way to go in terms of living in a more just society, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re playing your part – no matter how infinitesimal it may seem – toward cultivating this ideal world.

Thank you!

The Benevolent Voyeur and the Female Bodybuilder – Part Two

Rebekah Kresila looking like a well-trained athlete.

The following morning before breakfast, Rebecca found herself staring long and hard at the $500 lying on her coffee table. It’s as if the smug stare of Benjamin Franklin were directed toward her, with Old Ben warning her not to go through with this madness.

A voice on the television informs her that the captured aid worker was in fact executed by ISIS in the most brutal fashion imaginable. Thankfully, the network spares its viewers the gruesome details, but the general idea remains loud and clear. We live in an unforgiving world. Sometimes, we cannot let reason or logic dictate our actions. This isn’t the way Rebecca wants the world to work, but she accepts this is the way it is regardless of her feelings.

The hour-long jog on the treadmill goes by so slowly Rebecca could have sworn it took two hours. But indeed, only 60 minutes pass before she finds herself taking a short shower with Katy Perry music blasting in the background. Thank God for Katy. We may live in a world with sexually deviant stalkers and international terrorists, but at least a quick listening to “Firework” can be enough to lift your weary spirits.

Thursday is arm day, which is a day no serious weightlifter would ever skip. In fact, it seems like most people only work out their arms and nothing else. Rebecca knows better than that. As a professional female bodybuilder who one day hopes to achieve elite-level status, she must be diligent and strategic while at the gym. Today is no exception.

“Nice arms, little lady!” Rebecca doesn’t need to turn around to know whose voice this gratuitous compliment comes from. It’s Gregory, a somewhat dirty old man who frequents the gym during the early hours of the morning. Rebecca characterizes him as “somewhat” because for an older gentleman (he appears to be in his mid to late 60s), he’s actually pretty handsome. But not movie star handsome. Let’s not get too carried away.

“Thank you, Gregory. What are you working on today?” Rebecca takes a generous swig from her water bottle. The contents are room temperature, which annoy her to no end.

“Oh, shoulders and back. Whatever I feel like doing,” he says. “When is your next competition? Didn’t you last do some a couple of months ago?” Gregory’s silver hair looks as stiff as roadkill. Does his sweat ever mix with the oil he puts in it? Rebecca apparently has time to ponder these things. She takes a look at Gregory’s biceps and notices a significant amount of size growth. She won’t say anything about that to him, however. There’s no need to feed his already oversized ego.

“Yes, I did a competition last March. It was down in San Diego,” Rebecca replies. “The next one is in Houston in eight weeks. I’m hoping to place in the top five this time around.”

Gregory looks up and down at Rebecca’s body, which sends a shiver down her spine. He doesn’t do it in a creepy kind of way, but she is a little bit “on the edge” right now for obvious reasons.

“I have no doubt you’ll place in the top five. Maybe you’ll win it all!” He laughs. She laughs too, forcing every fiber of her body to play along until she can find an excuse to exit this conversation. Thankfully, a gorgeous 40-something blonde woman walks by wearing a skimpy white athletic bra and short shorts that leave little to the imagination. Expectedly, this steals Gregory’s attention. Using Miss Blondie’s presence as an excuse to leave, Rebecca quickly makes a beeline for the free weights room and enters unnoticed.

Conveniently for her, the gym is within walking distance of her condo, as it is for hundreds of others for that matter. The early mornings are usually not too crowded, but by 8:00 a.m. the masses of people start to show up in droves. Rebecca senses now is the time when these folks might start to arrive. She grabs a pair of 65 pound dumbbells and cranks out 12 repetitions of bicep curls. This impresses all the men who are working out near her. They don’t say anything, but she knows exactly what they’re all thinking:

Not bad for a tiny Asian girl!

Rebecca estimates the gym’s clientele consists of 70 percent men and 30 percent women. The guys range from out of shape couch surfers to young men who aspire to become professional bodybuilders like her. But she doesn’t go to the gym to pick up guys. She goes to get to work. And that’s what she always does.

Of the women, there are only three regulars who are as muscular as her. There’s Candace, a 20-something black girl who’s competed before and is actively working on landing her IFBB card. Then there’s Michaela, a 19-year-old track and field athlete with a lean muscular body and breasts even smaller than hers. Rebecca used to be enormously insecure about her flat chest. Today, she’s accepted this fact and has moved on with her life.

Finally, there’s Joyce. Oh, Joyce. Rebecca suspects she’s a lesbian, but a short haircut, tattoos, and a pierced nose doesn’t necessarily mean she’s into chicks. Rebecca is definitely not one to stereotype like that. Joyce can talk your ear off if you let her. She always has something to complain about, whether it’s her flailing personal training business or her mother who’s wondering when she’s finally going to get married. Joyce is probably in her early 40s, so it’s not like she doesn’t have time to find a significant other. But by now maybe it’s a foregone conclusion that she’s not into men.

Or maybe she is. Rebecca doesn’t care either way.

Today, none of these ladies are at the gym. None of the talkative guys who endlessly flirt with her are here either. So perhaps Rebecca will be able to lift in peace and quiet.

“I’m almost done. Just a few more sets,” Rebecca tells herself.

Before leaving the gym, Rebecca sometimes visits the smoothie bar and orders something to help her recover from her workout. Today is one of those days. After finishing her workout and taking a nice long shower, Rebecca dresses and approaches the bar. This morning, a cute guy named Dale is holding down the fort. She and Dale have some history together. A few years ago at a Christmas party they met each other through a mutual friend. They both got really drunk and started to make out. One thing led to another, and before the night was out they returned to Dale’s apartment and almost had sex. They were about to do the deed until Dale, who was more drunk than Rebecca, accidentally hits his head against a wooden cabinet and suffers a bad laceration on his forehead.

Rebecca dutifully ordered a cab and took him to the hospital. They ended up not having sex that evening. That’s probably a good thing in retrospect. Dale is a good guy, but his frat boy days haven’t totally left him yet. He’s nearly 30 but still thinks he’s a freshman in college. Rebecca tends to not gravitate toward men like that.

“What’s up Dale?” Rebecca smiles and takes out her phone to check her e-mail. No messages.

“Hey, girl, hey! Looking good. Oh, not much,” Dale says. “My dog puked all over my bed this morning. That was fun. What about you?”

Learning about Dale’s dog barfing up his breakfast was not the type of news she was in the mood to hear. But that’s Dale for you, ladies and gentlemen.

“Not much. Same old, same old. That’s what happens to people our age. We fall into ruts. I’ll have a strawberry banana smoothie with two scoops of protein powder and half a scoop of energy. I’m going to need it today.” Out of the corner of her eye she sees Gregory hitting on Miss Blondie. This brings a smirk to her face.

“Coming right up!” Dale quickly goes to work. If there’s one thing he does exceptionally well, it’s make delicious smoothies just as you ordered it. So bravo to him for that.

Twenty minutes later, Rebecca almost finishes the smoothie as she parks her car at the physical therapy clinic. She slurps down the rest and tosses the plastic cup into a garbage can. A small army of flies circle around the opening. It looks like it hasn’t been attended to in years. Disgusting.

The work day begins as usual. Only three clients today. None of them noteworthy to mention. In the back office there are several computers that therapists and freelance employees can use. Her usual computer at the back of the room appears to be taken, as someone’s backpack and fleece pullover is lying on top of the chair.

Who could this possibly be? Everyone knows this computer is always reserved for Rebecca Tanaka…

“I’m sorry. Is this your computer? I didn’t know these were assigned to anyone in particular,” an unfamiliar voice says from behind Rebecca’s back. She immediately turns around to see who it is. Standing before her is someone she’s never seen before at the clinic. It’s a devilishly handsome Asian guy with a charming smile and a fit athletic body. Rebecca’s eyes widen as she loses herself in this man’s beautiful aura. She finally composes herself and extends her hand toward him.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there. I’m Rebecca. Pleased to meet you.” They shake hands. His firm grip sends a jolt of electricity through her system. There is something about the way he touches her that Rebecca knows is different from anyone else she’s ever met.

“Hi. I’m Brad. I’m new here. Today is my first day on the job,” he says. Rebecca continues to get lost in his eyes. “I’m the new sports athletic trainer. I had no idea this was your computer.”

“Oh, no. These computers aren’t assigned. I just usually choose this one by default. But I can use the one next to yours.” Rebecca puts her backpack in front of the computer next to Brad’s. He smiles at her again, which sends another jolt of energy through her body. God, what is happening to her?

“Great. I don’t want to step on anybody’s toes on my first day at the job, you know what I mean?”

“I definitely know what you mean!” Wow, is that the best she can come up with? Rebecca turns on the computer and sits down. She admires Brad’s impressive biceps and forearms, which is significant considering she’s seen hundreds of big and buff dudes in her life. “Sports athletic trainer, you say? Julie did say she wants the clinic to go further into that direction.”

“Yeah, I guess most of your clients are elderly people and folks recovering from surgery, right? It’s about time we get some new blood in here. High school and college athletics are becoming a bigger and bigger deal, so it makes sense that she would want to adapt to the times,” he says. Right now, Rebecca is hanging onto every word he speaks. Her eyes move from his arms to his chest, legs, and angular face.

“Where were you before coming here?” Rebecca asks.

“I worked with minor league baseball players down in the Phoenix area,” Brad says. “I just moved up here a few months ago. I couldn’t stand the heat anymore and wanted to go somewhere cooler.”

Before Rebecca could say something, Julie pops her head into the room.

“Rebecca! I’m glad you and Brad are getting acquainted. But Sam is here for his 12:30 appointment.” Well, shit. Time to go to work. Rebecca stands up, gives up on checking her work e-mail, and grins at Brad.

“It’s nice talking to you, Brad. I have to get to work. I’ll see you around,” Rebecca says. She stands up, accidentally places her foot underneath a power cord, and trips as she attempts to take a step forward.

“Whoa there!” Brad saves Rebecca from falling by clutching her in his strong arms. The warm touch of his body against her body provides some dampness to form between her legs. It’s not too often that Rebecca becomes sexually aroused at work (actually, she’s never felt sexually aroused at work), so this is a new experience for her. Also, it’s humiliating to be tripping over herself the moment she encounters a good looking guy.

“Thanks. I can be a klutz at times,” she says. Rebecca regains her composure and exits the room without further antics one would usually find in a low-grade romantic comedy. Brad smirks to himself and makes a mental note to remember Rebecca’s name and face. He too is smitten with her.

Rebecca wasn’t able to see Brad for the rest of the day. Her three clients decide to take up entirely too much time (it’s not her problem, though. They’re willingly paying for her time) and their appointments were lined up one after another. By the time she clocked out for the day, Brad had already gone home. Oh well. There will be a next time, Rebecca supposes.

Typical agility drills done by sports athletic trainers.

After picking up a tub of fresh quinoa and sundried tomato salad from a deli across the street, Rebecca returns home. She makes small talk with Craig and checks her mail. Thankfully, no perverted letters from nutty voyeurs. Rebecca enters her condo unit and decides to take a shower before eating dinner. She usually showers right before going to bed, but her three clients gave her a workout more than she gave them a workout. The daily grind needs to be washed off before her evening could commence.

Self-conscious about preying eyes, Rebecca closes the blinds on all her windows. You never know these days, she thinks to herself. Rebecca strips naked and takes a moment to look at herself in a long full-body mirror. Despite her natural beauty and impressive muscle mass, Rebecca is still insecure about her looks. She looks at her flat chest as a major flaw. She hates her short stumpy legs. She loves the muscle definition on her legs, but she wishes they could be longer. Her short stature combined with her wide muscular frame makes her look like a Hobbit bodybuilder.

Rebecca also hates her eyes. As a full-blooded Japanese woman, her eyes are as narrow and slanted as a cartoon character. Kids used to make fun of her growing up. Deep down inside, she still feels like adult women judge her because of her strong Asian facial features. She knows that’s ridiculous because most people in the Pacific Northwest are more open-minded than that, but those scarring childhood memories don’t ever go away. They’re a part of her psyche for eternity.

Another remarkable feature of her body is her astonishingly large clitoris. Rebecca takes a modest amount of anabolic steroids to help her gain muscle mass, but nothing too extreme. Nevertheless, the additional growth hormones circulating through her system made a certain part of her body grow larger than normal. Even when she isn’t aroused, the thick head of her clit sticks out between her legs like a really tiny penis.

When she is aroused (and when she’s lucky enough for a guy to be willing to give her oral sex), her clitoris can grow to an eye-popping size. Long and thick, she once measured it with an old plastic ruler. Rebecca did a double take when she saw how long it is. Two and a half inches when she’s fully aroused. Only an inch and a quarter when she’s not aroused.

Is that normal? She has doubts about that.

Every time Rebecca goes to the beach and wears a bikini, she uses a piece of scotch tape to hide her clit from public view. It’s embarrassing, but it’s what she has to do to feel like a normal woman. “Real” women don’t have large bulges in their panties. All she wants to do is to not feel like a freak.

Upon finishing her inspection of her body, Rebecca likes what she sees overall and goes on to take her shower. Fifteen minutes later she walks out to the living room still naked and drying her hair with a towel. She turns on the television to see what’s on. Some murder mystery show. The victim died by a sledgehammer being pounded repeatedly into the side of his skull. What an unpleasant way to go. Why do people watch violent shit like this?

She turns off the TV and plops down on her bed. For some unexplained reason, Brad’s handsome face and impressive biceps flash into her mind. Her heart flutters. The dampness returns between her legs. Rebecca thinks now is the appropriate time to masturbate, an activity she hasn’t done as much lately as she’d like.

Rebecca turns off all the lights and takes out her trusty dildo from the bedside nightstand. She dabs a small amount of lubrication on the tip and spreads it all over the shaft. A typical 7 inch long white dildo, she’s had this since college and uses it as her default masturbation toy. She also has a vibrator, but she doesn’t like the annoying humming sound. It gets her out of the mood and ruins her mindset. Rebecca needs everything to be perfect in order for her to optimally get off.

Taking in a deep breath, Rebecca closes her eyes and spreads her legs out wide. She leans back against her pillow and exhales. She playfully taps the dildo against her enlarged clitoris and moans at the sensations this gives her. Rebecca suspects that when her clit began to grow it also started to become more sensitive. She could be wrong about this observation, though. But the added pleasure it’s given her is something she can’t argue about.

Inch by inch, she inserts the dildo inside her moist vagina. She strokes it in and out at a leisurely pace, not wanting to rush anything. It’s been four days since she last had an orgasm, so she wants this to be a good one. Rebecca makes sure the dildo touches every square centimeter of her wet and sensitive passageway, including her g-spot. More moans escape from her throat.

If only “Jones” were able to see this! He’d go crazy and would probably give her $2,000 instead.

The thought of Jones watching her temporarily takes her mind off of pleasing herself, so she immediately refocuses on Brad. Rebecca imagines the dildo being Brad’s erection invading her, exploring her, pleasing her. With her free hand, she pinches her dark brown nipples. Both are sticking straight up into the air. This inspires her to increase her tempo. Faster and faster she stimulates herself. Her legs tense up. She lifts her back up off the bedsheets. Her head almost bangs against the bedframe.

She’s close, and she knows it.

Suddenly, the explicit visual image of Brad kissing her just as he comes inside her unexpectedly flashes into her head. This is enough to set her off.

“Oooooooohhhhh! YES!!!”

Rebecca comes and squirts a small amount of creamy white fluid onto the bed. The walls of her vagina contract wildly, as if this is the first orgasm she’s ever experienced in her life. This is not true, of course, but this is a testament to how strong of a spell Brad has cast over her imagination. Out of breath, Rebecca opens her eyes and enjoys the smaller vaginal contractions that follow the more intense ones. Finally, her orgasm ends and she is left lying on the bed drenched in her own sweat.

Fuck. She might have to take another shower!

She sits up and notices the wet spot between her legs on the bedsheets. Fuck! She’s been able to ejaculate for years now, but she can usually control it by not excessively rubbing her g-spot. She must have gotten carried away this time. Rebecca goes to the bathroom, cleans up the mess with a paper towel, and pees in the toilet. Looking at herself in the still-fogged up mirror, she smiles and says to her reflection:

“Damn. That was a good one!”

Friday is the next day. It is uneventful and boring, just like every other Friday at the office. It is a rest day, so she spent the morning talking to her photographer about finalizing the details of their shoot tomorrow. The weather is supposed to be gorgeous, which is fantastic news.

As it turns out, Brad will work primarily in the field and away from the office. At a weekly team meeting – who holds staff meetings on Fridays? – Julie informs the group that Brad will travel to high schools and college campuses to work with athletes to help them improve their speed, strength, quickness, burst, coordination, and overall athleticism. Rebecca is disappointed to hear this news, but she is still glad he’s part of the staff.

Later that evening Rebecca goes out for cocktails with her two best friends, Lauren and Desiree. These three have known each other since middle school and they remarkably still keep in touch. Wisely, Rebecca makes no mention of “Jones” but did glowingly rave about her new cute coworker.

“Girl! Are you going to pursue anything with him?” Desiree asks.

“Before she can answer that, she needs to know if he’s single. Is he available?” Lauren chimes in.

Rebecca downs her whiskey on the rocks and coughs. Lauren and Desiree always elect to drink “girly” drinks with too much sugar and fruit. Rebecca considers herself to be more hardcore and goes for the hard stuff. Her two friends cannot figure out why she’d intentionally drink that shit.

“I think he’s single, and I’m definitely going to make a move if the opportunity presents itself,” Rebecca assures them. “It’s been forever since I’ve last dated.”

Three and a half years to be exact. Both Lauren and Desiree know this.

Finally, Saturday morning arrives. Rebecca gets up at 6:00 a.m. – an hour earlier than she usually does – and eats a larger than normal breakfast. She cooks herself a veggie omelet made with egg whites, low fat cheese, peas, broccoli, onion, carrots, celery, zucchini, asparagus, and avocado. This is served with a bowl of Greek yogurt with granola and peach slices. She drinks way too much coffee before brushing her teeth (in order to make her pearly whites as white as possible) and heading to the gym.

Leg day. Oh, fun.

Saturday mornings at the gym is the best time to go because hardly anyone is there. But Rebecca is there. Gregory and Michaela are also there. Gregory might be flirting with Michaela by the TRX machine. Gross.

Several squats, lunges, deadlifts, leg presses, snatch and power cleans, and miles running on the treadmill later, Rebecca showers in the locker room but struggles to walk around. She always wants to get an arduous workout in before a major photoshoot. It makes her feel more sexy and alive when she’s so exhausted her body is running on pure adrenaline. She skips the smoothie bar (and having to deal with Dale, who seems to work here every single day) and instead drinks a bottled protein shake. It’s not the same, but it’ll do for today.

The drive to Alki Beach Park from Bellevue only takes 35 minutes, which is pretty damn good, even for a sleepy weekend. Rebecca receives a text from Garrett, her photographer, saying he’s running a few minutes late. This doesn’t surprise her one bit. He’s always late. Rebecca’s Asian heritage doesn’t allow her to be late for anything. There’s one perk of having slanted eyes.

Garrett has been Rebecca’s primary photographer for a solid decade. They work perfectly together. He’s an artsy type who also knows how to shoot commercial shots. He’s also very gay, so she has no worries of him coming on to her. That’s been an issue with past photographers. But no longer.

It’s a gorgeous morning in Seattle. Not a cloud in the sky, but there’s a cool breeze to keep her from getting too overheated. The beach is thinly crowded, populated with a few joggers and little kids making sandcastles. Wearing gray sweatpants and a tank top, Rebecca notices she’s already receiving unwarranted stares from random strangers. A group of bros smoking weed by the public bathroom stalls makes comments about her “wicked shoulders and savage biceps.” Rebecca doesn’t even give them a courtesy smile. Those fuckers don’t deserve it.

Alki Beach on a beautiful summer evening.

Rebecca arrives at the agreed upon meeting area and waits. She sits on a park bench and checks her phone for messages. Nothing. She looks around to take in the sights and smells of springtime transitioning into summer. This is her favorite time of the year. It’s not too hot, but the chilly dewy elements of spring are long gone. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a middle-aged white man wearing a suit and tie sitting down on a bench about 400 feet away from her.

“That’s an unusual thing to wear to the beach,” Rebecca says aloud.

He’s looking out into Puget Sound with a pair of professional-grade binoculars. The man has dark hair with streaks of silver on the sides. His black suit is complemented perfectly with a bright red tie. Rebecca even notices the impeccable shine on his Italian loafers. They look damn expensive. They probably are damn expensive.

For whatever odd reason, Rebecca notices him out of the 40 or 50 other people within view. She doesn’t know why, but all her life she’s had a well-developed sixth sense about certain situations. Every so often, she’ll fixate on something or someone for reasons she can’t explain. Intuition is a strange thing, indeed. The man isn’t doing anything inappropriate or suspicious; the only noteworthy thing about him is his out-of-place suave attire.

“Rebecca! Hi!” Rebecca jumps out of her seat when a familiar but sharp voice calls out her name. She turns around and sees Garrett, dressed like a 1970s Greenwich Village hipster, jogging toward her with an expensive Nikon camera around his neck and a backpack full of photography equipment slung over his shoulder.

“Hello Garrett!” They hug. Garrett playfully rubs her muscular back and whistles.

“Holy fucking shit, Becky. You’re getting bigger and bigger every single fucking time I see you, I swear to God,” Garrett exclaims. “Holy fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca says, blushing a bit. “I do what I can to add quality content to your portfolio.”

Garrett laughs heartily and checks the settings on his camera. Rebecca self-consciously removes her tank top, sweatpants, and sandals and stuffs them inside her tote bag. As always, a hidden strip of tape conceals the bulge between her legs. The brand new bikini she ordered earlier in the week hadn’t arrived yet (the distributor says it’s stuck in Cleveland of all places), so she had to pull out an old frilly Navy blue bikini from her closet instead. Oh well. Life goes on.

“Motherfucker, stop looking like that, girl!” Garrett says. “Well, are you ready?”

Rebecca looks around and already sees a small gathering of onlookers watching them. Some are pointing at Rebecca and presumably commenting on her muscles. She overhears a little girl ask her mother if “that girl is a boy or a girl.” Gee whiz, kid. You just answered your own fucking question!

No matter how long she’s been a competitive bodybuilder, Rebecca has never gotten used to unsolicited stares from strangers and rude remarks from the peanut gallery. But that’s the life she’s chosen to lead. If they can’t handle the sight of a beautiful muscular Asian woman flaunting her stuff at a public beach, they can take their opinion and shove it up their ass.

“I’m ready,” Rebecca says. “Let’s do this.”

Taming the Wild Beast: Giving an Orgasm to a Muscular Woman

If Jane looked like this, would Tarzan still want to be with her?

There is a common belief out there that men who love muscular women also love (or fantasize about) being dominated by a muscular woman. While there is a close link between female muscle fetishism and BDSM, the two can be mutually exclusive. I would argue they can exist independently.

Nevertheless, the weak man/strong woman motif persists for good reasons. Men who pay strong women for sessions do so for the privileges of wrestling them or worshiping their muscles. Either way, they’re willing to shell out $300 to $500 of their hard earned cash because they love living out the fantasy of being physically and emotionally dominated by a stronger woman.

This fantasy goes a bit further, however. Deep down inside, even the most beta male secretly wishes he can win the upper hand against a stronger female opponent. While there are guys who fetishize the idea of being completely dominated by a woman, there exists other fantasies that go along with that. Primarily, the fantasy of “taming the wild beast.”

For as long as human civilization has been around, it has been commonly accepted that men are naturally stronger than women. This has led to men being the ones who’ve organized society’s political, social, economic, and religious structures. For better or for worse, this is still how things operate today, although that trend is starting to move in the other direction. There is no doubt women are gaining further traction in today’s world, but the way business has been done for thousands of years cannot be radically altered overnight.

Perhaps this “changing of the guard” where men and women are enjoying (more or less) “equal” footing in society’s power structures explains the popularity of men fetishizing being dominated by a woman. There are countless men in this world who are in control but do not necessarily want to be in control. Just as Spider-Man could tell you, with great power comes great responsibility. And great responsibility can be a heavy emotional burden.

Sexologists will argue that the male fantasy of being dominated by a woman is borne out of a desire for powerful men to be able to “let go” and be powerless for at least a few moments in his life. Heavy lies the crown, so the adage goes. This temporary abdication of power is a man’s way of releasing his inner burdens and allowing someone else to take control for once. So perhaps we’re looking at this in completely the wrong way. Guys who love muscular women aren’t necessarily beta males who enjoy submitting themselves to feminine power. Instead, they might just be “average, normal dudes” who crave momentary relief from their male “duties.”

We could go on exploring this issue, but let’s return to the main topic. The association of a muscular woman with a “wild beast” shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. Pulp novels of long ago used to portray “jungle women” who would capture, torment, scheme against, and engage in steamy sexual relationships with their male counterparts. The jungle motif continues to be seen today in photoshoots involving female bodybuilders and models. Our pop culture associates a strong, muscular physique with keen survival skills, an animalistic personality, and fierce independence.

Tarzan wasn’t a weakling. Jane might have been, but certainly not her lover. If we turn the tables around and fantasize about Denise Masino or Alina Popa as modern-day female Tarzans, how many of us would put ourselves into the shoes of Jane? Would we be named James? Or John? Or Jim?

However, as much as we love to think of our favorite female bodybuilders as strong, sexy, independent creatures who can kick our ass at the drop of a hat, deep down inside our imaginations exist an interesting layer to this fantasy. We still want to be in charge. We may enjoy being pinned down, talked down to, and humiliated by a strong woman, but at the end of the day we want to assert our God-given dominance in one way or another.

So how do we do that? In this particular fantasy, the answer – of course! – has a sexual component to it.

If a weaker guy cannot physically dominate a stronger woman, he can assert his dominance in a sexual way instead. How is that done? Simple:

Giving a female bodybuilder an orgasm.

Obviously, not every female bodybuilder who offers sessions will allow that level of sexual intimacy to her clients. That’s not what I’m talking about. Instead, I’m referring to the fantasy of giving a strong muscular woman an orgasm. Let’s talk about this point in further detail.

There are many ways men can demonstrate their dominance over a woman. Not all of them are sexist or spiteful, although these behaviors could certainly be taken to those unfortunate extremes. A guy could show off his strength at the gym, flaunt his wealth at a fancy restaurant, impress his date by introducing her to his high-status friends, remind everyone how much influence he has at his job, and so on. Yeah, many of these things can make you out to look like an egotistical jerk, so I don’t recommend you exhibit these manners too often.

A jungle-themed photoshoot with Wendy McMaster.

But…there is another way. It’s less public (at least, traditionally speaking), but it’s a certifiable way to prove one’s dominance. It involves pleasing her in the bedroom. How strange it is that the ultimate act of proving’s one’s manhood involves giving pleasure to a woman. Guys can brag all they want in the locker room about how many women they’ve slept with, but what’s less certain is figuring out how many of these women found the experience of sleeping with you pleasant. You can have sex with ten women in one wild weekend, but if every single one of them left your bedroom bored and unsatisfied, how much of a “Man” are you?

On the other hand, if a man makes love to only one woman – his wife or girlfriend, perhaps – during one eventful passionate evening, and she experiences a multitude of gratifying orgasms, is this guy more of a “Man” than the guy who slept with ten women who didn’t feel a thing while doing the deed with him?

Yes, of course!

This is why a man’s penis is nicknamed his “manhood.” It’s what makes a man a man. Not only does the penis biologically separate a man from a woman, it’s his way of showcasing his dominion over her. Contrast the guy who sleeps with ten women who can’t remember his name with another guy who spends the whole night with one woman who can’t get enough of him. Satisfying climax after satisfying climax, she’s sure she’ll never have it this good ever again in her life. Without question, this guy is much more of a “Man” than the first guy who should really see a doctor about getting an STD test.

A typical "jungle woman" cover from an old-school pulp novel. — A typical “jungle woman” cover from an old-school pulp novel.

Therefore, this explains the fantasy. A female bodybuilder may be leaps and bounds more powerful, confident, strong, and tough than her weaker male lover. However, in the bedroom, it’s a whole other story. There, he can validate his manliness. She may have bigger muscles, but he has a penis that can satisfy her like no other can. All the dildos and vibrators in the world cannot compare to his manhood. Through the act of sex, the tables are turned. During a passionate lovemaking session, he is the dominate one and she is the weaker one – regardless of the size of her muscles.

Women are different than men in regards to what happens post-orgasm. As one young lady I know once told me, when it comes to having multiple orgasms, women “can keep going until they decide to stop.” Good for them! Guys, on the other hand, are much different. We have one…and we’re as good as spent. There’s a reason why many of us like to get off right before going to sleep. It helps us get to sleep! Our energy is drained and it takes at least 15 to 20 minutes before we can get hard again. And if we do get hard again, you can guarantee our level of enthusiasm won’t be nearly as high as it was beforehand.

But let’s ignore this and assume a satisfying orgasm will sap you of all your energy. After successfully providing one’s sexual partner a toe-curling, scream-inducing satiating orgasm, isn’t it like taming a wild beast? The contrast of energy level couldn’t be starker. During sex, people can exert a tremendous amount of energy. Post-sex, it’s like someone took out your battery and flung it out the window. You’re completely and utterly drained.

Tamed, indeed.

This is the origin of this fantasy. Guys who love a wild and dangerous (whether she’s actually wild and dangerous is beside the point; it’s the fantasy that matters most) female bodybuilder feel the intense urge to “cut her down to size” and show her what a real man is like. It’s understandable for a normal-looking man to feel emasculated when in the presence of a muscular woman. Deep down inside, he yearns to be able to make love to her so passionately and so intently that she’s willing to submit to his every whim.

Perhaps submission is the name of the game. One could argue inside every insecure man is an ultra-masculine He-Man ready to jump out and take on the world singlehandedly. I may not feel that way, but I’m sure there are plenty of guys out there who do. I’m not passing down any judgement or trying to psychoanalyze their situation. I’m just trying to make sense out of a fervent fantasy a lot of female muscle lovers share – whether they know it or not.

Post-sex, the image of a strong, powerful female bodybuilder purring like a cat as she snuggles up close to me in bed is enough to get my heart rate going. If she were to whisper sweet nothings into my ear, I might just pass out. Come to think of it, I guess I do share this fantasy!

Taming the wild beast can come in many forms. One could physically show one’s dominance over a muscular woman…but that’s not nearly erotic enough. One could tie her up and play the part of a male dominatrix…but that’s kinky and doesn’t prove anything. Roleplaying is fun, but at the end of the day it’s two consenting adults creating a false reality for the sake of mutual erotic amusement. It’s not real. But having sex with a female bodybuilder and showing her how much of a Casanova you are…well, it’s not like such a thing could actually happen to me, but at least you could consider it an actual accomplishment.

Denise Masino is a wild beast who needs to be tamed.

Right, there, that’s at the heart of this discussion: showcasing an accomplishment to a woman who has her fair share of impressive accomplishments. Guys who love muscular women also want to “prove” to her that he’s a man and she’s still a woman. The differences in physical strength notwithstanding, guys still want to be the one in charge. They might enjoy being dominated by her for kicks and giggles, but when push comes to shove he still wants the opportunity to assert his masculinity. He doesn’t think he’s superior to her (or that she’s inferior to him); rather he desires to let her know who’s who in this relationship.

Giving an orgasm to a female bodybuilder is the premiere way to prove to her what kind of a Man you are. You deserve the capital “M,” no ifs, ands, or buts about it. And you don’t want to do it by fingering her or performing cunnilingus on her. That’s perfectly okay, but you want to show her you’re a Man the old fashioned way: stick your hard manhood inside her and ride her till she begs for more. And when she does beg for more (assuming your fantasy goes this far), you can choose to either fulfill her wishes or deny her what she wants.

And to make matters better, because it takes guys a little while to get hard again, she has to wait for you to be able to make love to her again. Imagine that!

That’s what this is all about. Whether you want to please her till she’s purring like a kitten or you want to deny her what she desires, it’s your choice. It’s fantasy, and you can definitely see how this could play out in reality. You are a Man. She is a Woman. You dream of demonstrating to her who’s who and leaving absolutely no doubt about it.

She’s still an incredibly strong Woman, but you’re a Man, and there’s nothing that can take that away from you. She is a Wild Beast and you must tame her before she gets out of control. You’re a Man. It’s what you’re supposed to do. She knows it, but she wants to know if you know it.

So there you go. You just want to send her a message. And have fun while doing it. That’s a win-win in my book.

“Taming the Wild Beast” is a fantasy that can be counterintuitive. A weak man who’s with a strong woman doesn’t have to feel emasculated. In fact, he can feel quite the opposite. She may be able to beat him at arm wrestling or deadlift more than him at the gym, but he can still satisfy her in bed and leave her begging for more. This intends to shift the balance of power away from her and toward him…where it rightfully belongs.

I believe this is Julie Bonnett. Can anybody say otherwise?

No matter how big she grows, no matter how large her muscles become, no matter how powerful she can be…she can never truly supersede his role as the dominant Alpha Male. A female bodybuilder can pretend to be the Alpha Female, but all that comes to a crashing halt the moment he successfully gives her a fulfilling orgasmic experience. Physical strength can be manufactured at the gym. Sexual prowess is innate. There’s nothing she can do to turn the tide on thousands of years of male/female biological reality.

At the end of the day, he has the penis and she has the vagina. In this fantasy, the vagina is unquestionably subordinate to the penis. Without a penis, the vagina exists in a vacuum. She can masturbate all she wants – and she could very well give herself fantastic climaxes – but there’s still a void left in her sex life. Who can fill that void?

You guessed it. The Man.

Even if this Man is smaller, weaker, and physically unremarkable. Even if the Woman is larger, stronger, and more dynamic. That’s irrelevant. The “Taming the Wild Beast” fantasy ignores those realities and puts the Man in the driver’s seat. This isn’t rooted in sexism, misogyny or even insecurity. It’s rooted in the desire to relinquish control, but not totally give it up. It’s based on the belief that women can be stronger than men, but a man is still a man and a woman is still a woman. Fetishes are often simple to understand. It’s not complicated.

The beauty of this fantasy is the fact that “taming” her doesn’t involve violence or dehumanizing her. That’s out of the question. “Taming” her instead involves giving her sexual pleasure. He gets pleasure out of it as well, but what’s more important is making sure she leaves the encounter happy and satisfied.

She may be a beast on the outside, but deep down inside she can be just as vulnerable as him. It just takes a single passionate carnal encounter to bring these vulnerabilities to the surface. He derives pleasure from giving her pleasure. That’s a win-win indeed.

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.