A common way we frame female bodybuilders is through the archetype of “Slayers of Men.” Within this framework, female bodybuilders are strong independent women who are here to smash gender stereotypes, the so-called “patriarchy,” and the notion that women are destined to be the weaker sex.
This explains why FBBs are often described as queens and goddesses. They are conquerors, leaders, rulers, creators, destroyers, punishers, and decision-makers. This, of course, has more to do with our fantasies involving FBBs rather than how we actually view FBBs. There’s some overlap, but the “Female Bodybuilders as Slayers of Men” trope exists more in our imaginations than in our literal fears.
In real life, female bodybuilders aren’t anymore violent than normal women. Sure, they have the capacity to cause more bodily harm than most, but that’s not the same thing. I’d rather take a punch to the face from Sarah Paulson than Sarah Hayes, but either way neither of them mean any harm to me unless I pose a direct threat first. Which is unlikely.
It is true that the mere existence of female bodybuilders challenges what we’ve previously thought about gender roles and biology – and this fact cannot be underestimated. But there is a big difference between admitting that “women can become stronger than men if they work hard enough” versus “a man ceases to be a man once a woman is able to lift more than him at the gym.” The former is a statement of fact. The latter is a subtle (or not so subtle) admission of insecurity.
There are many reasons why certain guys fear female bodybuilders. They fear them because they’re jealous. They fear them because they remind them that their title of “the stronger sex” isn’t guaranteed. They fear them because FBBs destroy any excuse they have about not getting bigger or stronger. They fear them because FBBs give permission to other women to get stronger – both physically and emotionally – and not take unnecessary bullshit from ungrateful jerks like them.
But it should be obvious that these fears say more about (certain) guys than they do about FBBs in general. Guys who aren’t sexist jerks love strong women because they have no reason to be fearful or disgusted by them. If anything, we have every incentive to lift them up, celebrate them, and appreciate their impressive achievements. Female bodybuilders do not challenge our masculinity because real masculinity and strong femininity can peacefully co-exist together. They are not enemies, but rather two sides of the same coin.
Men who feel belittled by muscular women are actually expressing deep-rooted anxiety about themselves. FBBs remind them of their own weaknesses – both literal and figurative. That isn’t to say that guys who love FBBs are inherently stronger or possess rare emotional fortitude. Instead, guys who love muscular women have learned to move on beyond a cheap, surface-level understanding of gender roles, biology, and relationships. If a rising tide lifts all boats, muscular women also lift up all men.
One other way to look at female bodybuilders is to think of them as surrogate punishers for past sins. They are like movie monsters; larger-than-life creatures who act as destroyers sent to us to teach us all a lesson. Godzilla is Mother Nature’s way of punishing humankind for its sins of environmental degradation. King Kong is an allegorical reminder that pillaging, plundering, and economic exploitation are sins that will one day come back to haunt you. Even in the heart of New York City, a bright shining symbol of Western Civilization’s technological and social progress. Likewise, female bodybuilders are the physical embodiment of mankind’s punishment for sexism, misogyny, domestic violence, and structural gender-based oppression. Maybe not in the literal sense, but certainly in the symbolic sense.
Female bodybuilders aren’t lurking in the shadows ready to bash in the heads of guys who blurt out unsolicited catcalls or grab women’s butts, of course. That’s an avant-garde Frank Miller graphic novel just waiting to be written! However, from a psychological point of view FBBs essentially play that same role; as a constant reminder that if you’re not careful, women can strike back when provoked. And they can surpass you in terms of strength and size if you’re not on top of your game.
Even if the significance is more symbolic than literal, there is something to be said about female bodybuilders acting as proxy “Slayers of Rude, Idiotic Men” and, at the same time, allies of “Kind, Gentlemanly Men.” These battles don’t have to transpire on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram in order for them to have real substance. All they have to do is exist in our minds.
Because this is where the real battles are fought: in our minds. FBBs are often viewed as the Slayers of Men because either we fear that they are or we wish that they could be. It’s sort of like imagining Brandi Mae Akers riding on top of a fire-breathing dragon as it incinerates a town down below, Game of Thrones style. Except in this case it’s Miss Akers who’s slaying the hapless townspeople, not the dragon. Whether Brandi Mae ever ends up ruling her kingdom is a secondary matter. What’s really at stake is whether or not she taught those insubordinate plebeians down below a lesson.
And in this hypothetical scenario, it matters whether you’re rooting for Brandi Mae to succeed or wishing that she’ll fail. Do you love her or fear her? Which is it?
In the real world, this paradigm doesn’t have to exist. Female bodybuilders don’t have to be the actual or figurative Slayers of Men. They can be the Allies of Men. That is, if enough men agree to join in this mutually beneficial partnership. A strong woman does not invalidate the masculine identity of a man – no matter how “wrong” or “contradictory” it may feel. One could argue that there is no such thing as “masculine” and “feminine” qualities in any objective sense. I cannot speak to how valid that perspective is, but I understand where it comes from. For the time being, let’s assume that masculine and feminine characteristics are real – at least from a cultural standpoint.
Masculinity and femininity aren’t two separate spheres in which there is no overlap. On the contrary, there is plenty of crossover. Or maybe, our definitions of these two words are too broad. “Strength” is neither a masculine nor feminine quality. It’s both. Or neither. Maybe it exists on a list of things that aren’t gendered. I’ve argued before that female bodybuilders don’t redefine femininity so much as they expand it. They transform our thinking in regards to gender by forcing us to not think outside the box, but to shatter the box with a sledgehammer. Men and women are different, but not as different as you might think. Or, those differences are arbitrary. Or, those differences can change depending on who we’re talking about.
Your status as a “man” isn’t defined by how many masculine qualities you exhibit. This is because our definition of “masculinity” is unto itself subjective. Nor does it mean that women can’t also showcase a few “masculine” traits without compromising their feminine status. This all sounds complicated because what we’re really arguing about here is definition of words, not objective ideas. Words are more than what the dictionary says they mean. Words also carry heavy cultural connotations, historic baggage, and emotional context. None of those things can be properly conveyed by a simple one sentence definition.
Long story short, who you are as a man isn’t predicated on who women are as well. The same is true going the opposite direction. Seeing a strong muscular woman deadlift more than you at the gym doesn’t mean you’re “less of a man” or not “measuring up” to who you’re supposed to be. We are all allowed to go at our own pace. That woman, whom we’ll nickname Deadlift Lady, exists on her own plain. She is an island, floating around in an ocean full of deep-rooted cultural expectations. The same goes for every guy at that gym lifting weights near her. They are also islands – one particular colloquial expression notwithstanding. Let’s say Typical Dude is deadlifting next to her. He can only lift 215 pounds for one rep. Not bad, but not terribly impressive. But let’s say Deadlift Lady is lifting 375 pounds for 10 reps. That’s quite a lot. Way more than Typical Dude. What do we make of this situation?
Well, not much.
Typical Dude is going at his own pace. He’s setting his own personal agenda. His goals are his and his alone. As long as he’s happy, that’s all we need to know about him. Deadlift Lady, on the other hand, is also going at her own pace. Her personal agenda is probably much different than her male counterpart. After all, no lady who’s deadlifting 375 pounds does so by accident! There’s intention going on here. She’s worked her whole life to make it to this point. The biggest takeaway from this scenario is that the existence of one does not invalidate the existence of the other.
They are two human beings working out. They are trying to improve their strength, health, vitality, confidence, self-esteem, and sense of purpose. He may feel slightly insecure lifting in proximity to her, but that’s perfectly okay. And understandable. But it’s not because he has a real reason to feel insecure. It’s because the culture he lives in tells him that he should feel bad. He has no actual reason to feel that way. Deadlift Lady’s remarkable accomplishments do not denigrate or invalidate the accomplishments of Typical Dude. They are two unique, vulnerable human beings trying to make their way through this hostile universe.
Deadlift Lady isn’t slaying Typical Dude. No matter what people around them are saying or thinking, no one is getting “owned” by these two individuals existing side-by-side. They can co-exist because one does not overrule the other. Strong women do not automatically make men weaker. Guys who feel threatened by strong women feel that way because they’re recognize their own shortcomings. The presence of a strong woman makes those feelings bubble to the surface faster than a malfunctioning submarine. Strong women do not make guys feel inadequate; they only bring out those feelings that already exist.
Female bodybuilders not only directly challenge one’s sense of masculine superiority, they also force us to reevaluate how we draw that line between men and women. Is it a hard line in the sand, or one that can easily be washed away by the rising tide?
Strength and weakness. Confidence and insecurity. Superiority and inferiority. Action and inaction. Accomplished and unproven. Happiness and fear. Self-love and self-loathing. Assuredness and doubt. Self-satisfaction and the endless need to prove one’s self.
These feelings are real, even if the reasons they exist are subjective.
The sooner we realize men and strong women are not in conflict with each other, the better off we’ll all be. Better yet, future generations will thank us. Alas, we are not there yet, but I pray one day we will be. Perhaps we can all make an impact, one grueling deadlift repetition at a time.
Strong women are not the Slayers of Men. Men who hate themselves and other women are the actual Slayers of Men. And how do we defeat this mortal enemy?
Easy. In addition to lifting those weights, lift up the people around you.
Female bodybuilders are no strangers to the hurtful accusation that they’re not actually women. That they aren’t feminine enough. That they’re turning into men or want to become men. That men aren’t going to like them because of their muscles. That “real women” don’t look like that. That they actually look like men. That they’re confused about their gender.
And so on and so forth.
These slurs are so common I’m guessing most FBBs have achieved the ability to mentally block them out. They have a filter installed in their brain that allows them to ignore stupid opinions that have no merit. At least, I hope so. I cannot imagine how dreadfully annoying it is to have your appearance mocked just because you choose to lift weights, supplement, and bulk up like any other gym bro. Or that your personal definition of “empowerment” requires you to look different than the other girls – and that not everybody is on board with that.
Because of this toxic reality, it is not surprising that many female bodybuilders have decided – whether this is intentional or not is difficult to assess – to counter these slanders by presenting themselves in explicitly feminine terms. Think of it as compensating for their lack of “traditional femininity” by acting more outwardly feminine than they normally would.
Some examples of this include:
Getting breast implants
Wearing a lot of makeup (even more than usual)
Wearing sexy dresses
Wearing stylish clothing
Smiling, laughing, giggling, and doing whatever she can to appear less “threatening”
Posting pictures on Instagram of her doing traditionally “feminine” activities like trying on new clothes, shoe shopping, kissing her boyfriend/husband, playing with dogs, playing with kids, being a “mom,” cooking, cleaning, etc.
Promoting brands/products/stores that are traditionally aimed at women
Doing porn in which she has sex with men, with the man (or group of men) being in the “dominant” role and the muscular woman in the “submissive” role
Or doing porn where the man and muscular woman are equals
Choosing not to talk if her voice is too low
Doing photoshoots in which her face is edited to look more feminine and less hard edged
Avoiding talking about steroids, hormonal supplements, and anything that can be perceived as compromising her “womanhood”
It saddens me to think that female bodybuilders do these things not because they want to but because they feel like they have to. Yet, I am torn on this topic. On one hand, I am a strong believer that everybody has the right to craft their own identity to be whatever they want it to be. They shouldn’t give in to pressure to conform, fit in, or go with the flow. On the other hand, if being “traditionally feminine” is what they genuinely want to do, then nothing should stop them from being that. It’s a tough line to draw in the sand because I do not know what every FBB is thinking and feeling.
Maybe some FBBs actually enjoy doing activities that are considered “feminine.” Or maybe they do it because they don’t want to alienate anybody. Or, like I said before, they want to appear less “threatening,” as if the sight of a woman with big muscles is somehow considered inherently threatening. Threatening to whom, exactly?
The Hyperfeminine Muscular Woman is a fascinating case study. What do we think of her? Is she compromising her identity by pretending to be something she isn’t, or is that who she really is?
At the end of the day, we don’t really know. But I do know this phenomenon does exist. For example, I can’t recall where I saw this but I remember reading an Instagram post in which Minna Pajulahti says she sometimes acts overtly feminine because she doesn’t want people to think of female bodybuilders as not being real women. That’s paraphrasing her rationale, unfortunately. So she does things like deadlift a crazy amount of weight, drop the bar to the floor, and strike a Beyoncé-like pose at the end as the “kicker.” Why dance around and strike diva poses? Because it reinforces her femininity, which apparently gets compromised when she’s deadlifting, squatting, bench pressing, and lift a ton of weight.
I am not criticizing Minna, of course. I love her and would never do that! But I will acknowledge that I think it’s a bit sad that she feels the need to do this. Not tragic, but mildly sad. Being strong doesn’t mean she isn’t feminine. Doing masculine-labeled activities does not mean she isn’t feminine. Having a nontraditional physique does not mean she isn’t feminine. All of that is complete and utter bullshit.
Minna Pajulahti is a feminine woman. So is Victoria Dominguez. And Kathy Connors. And Jennifer Kennedy. And Gillian Kovack. And Rene Campbell. And Wanda Moore. And Lauren Powers. And Rhonda Lee Quaresma. And Dena Westerfield. And many, many others.
What do all these beautiful women have in common? They’ve all had their feminine identities questioned. Or challenged. Or denied. I’ve seen them labeled “trannies” or “dykes” and other idiotic slurs. The stupidity of people who feel compelled to insult and troll innocent people is boundless. But that is the world we live in today.
What makes the existence of the Hyperfeminine Muscular Woman so frustrating is that we don’t know if it’s genuine or not. Are they acting overtly feminine because that’s who they truly are or because that’s how they think society wants them to be? To segment that last part even further, do they act aggressively feminine because they want to be accepted by society (whatever that means) or because they feel the need to overcompensate? The negative stereotypes that surround female bodybuilders are real, hurtful, and pervasive. Perhaps some FBBs feel compelled to dispel these perceptions by acting way more feminine than they’d normally want to. Either way, it’s sad.
It’s sad because I don’t want any muscular woman to act differently just because they want to please others. That’s heartbreaking. I want female bodybuilders to be who they are and not apologize for it. If being traditionally feminine is who they are, so be it. If they feel more comfortable being “butch” or androgynous, so be it. If acting and appearing more masculine is what floats their boat, so be it. Regardless, I just want every FBB to feel at home in their own skin. Whatever that entails.
But I don’t want to dismiss the fact that outside perceptions do matter, even if we don’t want them to. As individuals, we do have to conform to certain social standards if we want to fit in. At least, whenever we’re in public. Especially in the professional world. Being viewed as a scary butch devil lady may be fun as an online persona, but it’s not going to help you land any customer service jobs. Many FBBs are also personal trainers. They can’t appear too intimidating if they want to gain new clients.
There’s also the moral obligation to consider on top of this. When female bodybuilders choose to act and look “hyperfeminine,” are they actually doing harm to femininity without realizing it? For example, we tend to hold narrow views of what masculinity and femininity look like. It shouldn’t take a Gillette ad campaign to tell us that. Shouldn’t FBBs act however they want to act as a statement that “feminine” can be a much larger tent than it currently is? This could also challenge whether or not “masculinity” and “femininity” are real things. Or to what extent we’re allowed to box in people in these categories.
It’s unfair to demand that every popular female bodybuilder is obliged to be an ambassador for female bodybuilders everywhere. They are not symbols. They are individuals. Yet, this obligation is unavoidable. Every time an FBB makes an appearance on TV or in a mainstream Hollywood movie, they represent FBBs as a whole – whether they want to or not. Jayne Trcka appeared in Scary Movie (2000) as the comically androgynous gym teacher Miss Mann. She was great in it, even though I cringe watching her scene. It plays for laughs every single negative stereotype you can imagine regarding muscular women. It reinforces the perceptions that women like Cindy Landolt and Aspen Rae shatter with every new Instagram post. Yet, they aren’t invited to appear in movies or TV shows.
But I am not criticizing Jayne. She’s awesome. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, and kind. She isn’t traditionally feminine, but there’s no doubt she’s a woman. She’s a 100% woman. She doesn’t have a secret penis tucked between her legs. And I totally understand why she took that role. You don’t say “no” to a mainstream Hollywood gig. Unless you’re Leonardo DiCaprio or Margot Robbie and you have studios begging you to be in their movie, most working actors have to accept whatever job is available to them. So I don’t begrudge Jayne one bit. I don’t blame her. And I hope none of you do either.
Therefore, Hyperfeminine Muscular Women are caught between a rock and a hard place. They’re damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Female bodybuilders who make absolutely no attempt to act more feminine are also making a difficult choice. They’re also stuck in a Catch-22. But at the end of the day, all this boils down to us. Whether we choose to accept a muscular woman for who she is depends entirely on us. Not her. We choose to embrace her butchness if that’s the road she’s chosen to traverse. We also choose to deny her femininity if she doesn’t uphold our personal standards of what femininity means. It’s a choice. A personal choice. We can either love her for who she is…or not.
Personally, I’ve never questioned the gender identity of any female bodybuilder. Even the ones who are the most masculine presenting. The ones with the deep voice, shrunken breasts, abrasive personality, large muscles, masculine facial features, and large bulge in their panties. They are women, even if 99% of us don’t acknowledge it. They aren’t tearing down femininity; they’re redefining it. Or expanding it. Or challenging us to rethink how we define gender as it is.
The truth is that the “Hyperfeminine Muscular Woman” persona is a performance. The Traditionally Feminine Muscular Woman isn’t. Most likely, an FBB who acts really, really, really, really feminine is putting on a show. She’s intentionally playing a part. She’s an actor and all the world’s a stage. And we are the audience, even if some of us are throwing popcorn at the performers like low-life jerks.
This makes me sad. As it should all of you who sympathize with these ladies. When push comes to shove, I want every FBB in the world to feel comfortable in their own skin. I want them to embrace themselves. After all, how can anyone love you if you can’t even love yourself? I want every FBB to wake up each morning, look themselves in the mirror, and say to their reflection “Damn, I look good!” I want these ladies to take joy in looking the way they look, regardless of what anyone else says.
If they feel beautiful with a butch haircut, tattoos, and piercings everywhere, I support that.
If they feel beautiful with long flowy hair, glowing skin, and pouty red lips, I support that.
If they feel beautiful wearing makeup, I support that.
If they feel beautiful wearing no makeup, I support that.
If they feel beautiful slaying in a sexy red cocktail dress, I support that.
If they feel beautiful wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, I support that.
If they feel beautiful acting flamboyantly sexy, I support that.
If they feel beautiful acting quiet, humble, and lowkey, I support that.
If they feel beautiful with big bulging muscles, I support that.
If they feel beautiful with smaller curvier muscles, I support that.
If they feel beautiful playing the “tough girl” role, I support that.
If they feel beautiful playing the “nice girl” role, I support that.
Hopefully, you get my point. I want every muscular woman to feel empowered to be who they are. I wish every FBB can one day figure out who they truly are. Not everyone reaches that point of self-realization. This conversation shouldn’t have anything to do with haters, critics, or trolls. They can go to Hell. Instead, this should be more focused on what muscular women want out of their lives. Do they want to change the world, or do they just want to change themselves? It doesn’t matter as long as they eventually find the path they want to walk down.
And once they reach the end of that path, nothing should stand in their way. Not the haters, not anyone. Because it doesn’t matter what anyone says. When a female bodybuilder is at the peak of her powers, she isn’t listening to what the outside world thinks of her. She’s only celebrating her accomplishments, her goals, her dreams, her life. She’s at her most beautiful when she’s doing this one simple thing:
The Perfect Female Bodybuilder may not exist. Never has, never will. But “perfection,” like any aesthetic (and non-statistical) standard, is all in the eye of the beholder. Perfection is an opinion more than an objective fact, something we should remember more often. It’ll make our personal relationships much more bearable.
And, of course, no female bodybuilder will ever be universally liked. Or universally fawned upon. Or, for that matter, universally accepted as being “more than okay.” Thankfully, consensus is not always the best measurement of one’s self-worth. Especially when we live in a world where there are five (and counting) sequels to “Transformers.” That’s five too many.
Angela Salvagno isn’t a consensus “favorite FBB of all time” pick. Nor is she someone who is polarizing. I don’t think there are people who love or hate her. It seems more fair to say that there are people who love her, like her, are indifferent to her, and could not care less about her. Hate her? Nah. That’s not a reasonable response.
Oh yeah. “GOAT” means Greatest of All Time. Not “goat” as in what Charlie Brown tried to avoid being labeled on the baseball mound.
Angela Salvagno is a Female Bodybuilder for All Seasons. That isn’t to mean that she’s philosophically, spiritually, and morally incorruptible in the face of external societal pressure. No, that would be Sir Thomas More. Rather, Miss Salvagno incorporates a multitude of characteristics that make up the identity of a modern female bodybuilder. She does many of them well. Not perfectly, but well enough to capture our undivided attention.
Angela Salvagno was born on January 13, 1976 in Willows, California. After growing up in Orland, CA, Angela now lives in South Florida. Or maybe she’s moved back and resides in Northern California again. Who knows. Her biographical information is sketchy at best. She is of Italian, German, and Native American descent. She’s always been sporty, having participated in baseball and Tae Kwon Do before pursuing bodybuilding. She began lifting weights at age 16 and competed in her first show when she was 23 (give or take). She started competing in 1999 and can still be seen on the stage today. That’s 20 years as a serious competitor, for those of you keeping score at home. Most recently, she competed in the 2018 IFBB Tampa Pro, placing 11th in the Women’s Bodybuilding category. Miss Popa finished 1st, naturally.
Speaking of which, unlike Alina Popa very few bodybuilding fans will consider Angela an elite competitor. Her résumé is still spectacular, though. She’s done quite a lot in her career on the stage, but in recent years she hasn’t made large waves. But she doesn’t need to.
I’ve written about “classy” vs. “smutty” female bodybuilders before. As an example, Cindy Landolt and Deidre Pagnanelli are classy while Yvette Bova and Kathy Connors are smutty. Before we continue, I’d like to point out that these labels have nothing to do with who these women are individually. Rather, these are the public personas they’ve each chosen to adopt. This is how they choose to market themselves. Just because Cindy and Deidre keep nudity to a minimum (and never have sex on camera) doesn’t mean they’re prudes. Just because Yvette does videos where she has unprotected sex with a half dozen men all at once doesn’t mean she’s less deserving of respect. Her choice to be smutty is a personal choice. It empowers her. It enlivens her. It provides her with a steady career. And income. Regardless of which path these ladies choose to take, they all demand our love, affection, and most of all, utmost respect. Period, end of story. So this is not a judgement, but an observation.
That being said, Angela definitely leans in the “smutty” side of the spectrum. She is not hesitant about showing off her body. Every inch of her body. She’s worked hard to achieve her physique and she wants the entire universe to see it on display. She isn’t tall (she stands at only 5’ 3”) but she’s statuesque nevertheless. She’s perfectly sculpted. Her olive complexion allows her musculature to stand out. When she’s strutting around in high heels, she achieves full Muscle Goddess status. And when she’s being dirty…well, that’s when she achieves full Sex Goddess status.
Physically, Angela is nearly everything you want in a female bodybuilder. I was surprised to see that she’s only 5’ 3”. Another source says she’s 5’ 5”. Regardless, I was shocked. When you watch her videos and see her photos, she looks like she’s 6 feet tall. Towering. Authoritative. Powerful. In reality, she’s shorter than me. That’s an odd thing to think about. Her skin is perfect. It’s golden brown like the spray tan most bodybuilders have to use when competing. I don’t know if she uses any of that before walking on stage, but it doesn’t appear as though she has to.
Her face is pretty, but not stunning. Angela is more beautiful than the clichéd “girl-next-door” aesthetic, but she isn’t so gorgeous you feel like looking at her will turn you into stone. She has curves in all the right places but just enough muscle mass to appease those who value that sort of thing. She’s feminine but tough. Cocky to the point that it may annoy you, but you don’t care because you’re captivated by her sensual personality. Miss Salvagno’s “bad girl” act can wear thin at times, however that’s a small bone to pick. Overall, there isn’t much I can complain about her. I really, really like her. A lot. She is one of my favorites, after all.
An interesting observation: Like many FBBs, Denise doesn’t do many videos where she’s having sex with a man. She’s done videos where she wrestles guys, but not too many where she’s knocking boots with them between the sheets. There was, however, one noteworthy appearance on Showtime’s reality show Gigolos. Angela appeared in episode 5 of season 4 that aired on May 16, 2013. She has sex with the show’s star, Nick Hawk, after she shamelessly shows off her muscled physique for the camera. You can watch a clip of it on YouTube. You’ll have to dig around for the entire thing.
But other than that, Angela remains surprisingly chaste on camera. She isn’t quite like Denise Masino, whom I will compare Angela to momentarily. Denise is practically virginal when it comes to her on-camera persona. And on the other end of the continuum is Yvette Bova, who loves to stick as many penises into every orifice possible. Miss Bova craves getting it on with the cameras rolling. Denise is more shy – or professionally/morally/philosophically disinclined – about doing that. That’s her choice, of course. Not a complaint.
Angela loves showing off her body and being sexy, even if doing the deed with a guy or gal isn’t frequently part of the equation. I don’t think that’s anybody’s loss. She gives us plenty to enjoy. When she isn’t talking dirty to the camera, Angela can often be seen spreading her legs out wide and giving viewers an up-close look at her genitalia. Here is where it is appropriate to compare Miss Salvagno to Miss Masino.
Like Denise, Angela possesses beautiful genitalia. Long labia, enormous clitoris, pink vaginal walls, and neatly trimmed pubic hair give her the complete package. She’s gorgeous down there. I can’t tell if her clit is larger or smaller than Denise’s, but that’s almost beside the point. Both ladies have memorable genitals that fans cannot get enough of. It’s hypnotic, an addictive drug you can’t shake off. Once you get a good look at it, you’ll want to see more of it, over and over again. And like Denise, Angela knows it’s one of her most prized assets. It’s her moneymaker. Her fans love what she’s packing down there between her thick legs. She’s sporting more meat than some guys can claim to have (although that’s quite an exaggeration, so please forgive me). All in all, Miss Salvagno gives credence to the notion that women are independent and sovereign sexual beings who desire pleasure just as much as men do. If not more. There’s no doubt that Miss Salvagno enjoys her sexual abilities.
Unlike Denise, Angela isn’t as prolific in creating new videos for her fans. She’ll do videos if approached by a multimedia production company like Aziani Iron or SheMuscle. But she isn’t one to take matters into her own hands and film weekly videos of her doing sexy things like masturbating her clit or teasing us while wearing an enormous strap-on. As strange as this sounds in the 21st Century, Angela doesn’t even appear to have a personal website. She’s on Twitter and Instagram, though. But that’s about it. Very odd for a female bodybuilder in 2019.
But that’s okay. Miss Salvagno doesn’t need to produce the same abundance of media as Miss Masino. That would be awesome, but it’s her choice if she prefers to have a more low-key web presence. But what places her in the upper stratosphere of female bodybuilders is the fact that she can do it all. She’s considered “mainstream” within the bodybuilding industry, but also dabbles in “adult entertainment” with gleeful pride. I’m guessing the taboo of female bodybuilders also doing porn has waned in recent years. In the past, I believe such activities would be frowned upon by competition judges. Today, it’s most likely accepted (even begrudgingly) as the cost of doing business. More specifically, there isn’t enough cost of doing business so modern day FBBs need to create their own business in order to put food on the table and keep the lights on.
So she can compete on the stage and at the same time mark her territory in the world of pornography. On top of that, she’s well known among FBB fans worldwide. And she’s considered conventionally beautiful too. Well, maybe not as gorgeous as a Victoria’s Secret underwear model, but beautiful enough to make your heart flutter when you see her. She has a raspy voice, but she knows how to use it to her advantage. Especially when she’s having an orgasm. When she’s coming, she squeaks, squawks, and splutters to her heart’s delight. She doesn’t hold back. It’s quite a sight to see! And music to my ears.
We must talk about this. Angela, like many FBBs, is one well-endowed woman. There’s a reason why she isn’t shy about showing off her clit for the camera. She also has meaty labia that can stretch for several inches. Five or six inches, maybe? It’s hard to say for sure. Her considerable genitalia is a useful reminder that women are not merely men without penises. She may not have a penis, but she certainly has genitals. And unlike many women, her genitals are not entirely internal. Lots of it is external. I’m a big believer in the theory that this is at the heart of explaining our society’s historical attitudes toward male and female sexuality.
It’s easy to see men as sexual creatures because their sex organ is obvious. It’s outward. It’s external. It’s plain to see. Women, by contrast, possess sex organs that are less obvious. The vagina is inward. It’s internal. It’s not something you can plainly see – unless she spreads her legs out wide and parts her folds with her fingers as if she’s preparing to get a gynecological exam. Because of this difference, humankind naturally treats men as the proactive sexual provider and women as the passive sexual recipient. In the act of reproduction, that is technically true. But physiologically and psychologically speaking, that cannot be further from the truth.
The truth is that women are in fact sexual beings. They can be the proactive sexual provider if they are allowed to play that role. And, if they want to play that role. Many cultures forbid women from being the one who initiates sex. However, Angela Salvagno and many of her peers are living proof that this is a social construct, not destiny. Biology doesn’t determine your fate. Miss Salvagno’s meaty genitals prove that not only is she capable of experiencing sexual pleasure, but her genitals exist solely for sexual pleasure. Her genitals are not a commodity but a prize. It’s a tool for pleasure. Her pleasure. If a partner happens to be involved with her journey in seeking pleasure, that’s fantastic. But it’s not a requirement. Far from it.
Instead, she can experience as many orgasms as she wants all on her own. She doesn’t need a partner. She has her own fingers. And equipment like dildos, clit pumps, and vibrators. Her very existence is a slap in the face to the antiquated argument that women are not capable of being in charge of their own sexual destinies. This is part of why Angela is so special. Unlike the countless number of female porn actresses who participate in the world of “adult entertainment,” Angela isn’t trying to flatter her (almost) nonexistent male costar. She doesn’t screech, scream, moan, groan, gasp, swear like a sailor, and cry out to the Almighty just because her male viewers like hearing that stuff and it makes her male costar look like a stud. She screeches and moans because she’s enjoying herself. She’s experiencing her pleasure the way she wants to experience it. With or without a partner.
Because Angela’s gigantic genitals are right in front of you (of course, with a computer screen acting as a pesky medium), you cannot deny her sexual sovereignty. You cannot deny that her clit exists for one function only…and her willingness to utilize its function as often as she desires. Miss Salvagno is a Liberated Woman epitomized. She is who she is and she refuses to apologize if anybody is offended or disgusted by her antics.
Whether she’s measuring the size of her clit when elongated in a clip pump tube or wearing a comically large brown strap-on dildo, Angela Salvagno knows she’s sexy, knows her audience thinks she’s sexy, and doesn’t care that the general public ignores her. Heck, in that episode of Gigolos her scene partner Nick Hawk looks intimidated by her. Perhaps it’s all an act (which is probably closer to the truth since there’s nothing “real” about “reality television”), but he seems to appear like his masculinity is being tested when he’s with her. She has big muscles like he does. She seems in control. He seems more like the client than she does. He feels compelled to prove his masculine superiority because her very presence challenges it.
Does he – and by vicarious extension, every man who is watching this episode – succeed? It doesn’t matter, to be honest. Her feminine strength doesn’t invalidate his masculine strength. She may make some men feel insecure (many FBBs do, for the record) about themselves, but that’s more of a reflection of them than it is of her. She may excel at projecting the “bad girl” image, but that’s not who she really is. She doesn’t want to emasculate you…she just wants you to feel naughty.
Oh so naughty.
But if she happens to force you to reevaluate your own inflated sense of masculine superiority, so be it. If your ego is that overblown that you are genuinely intimidated by a strong muscular woman standing right in front of you, you probably deserve to feel a tad uncomfortable.
She is that multi-talented!
That is why Angela Salvagno is a Female Bodybuilder for All Seasons. She doesn’t have Cindy Landolt’s striking beauty, Denise Masino’s endearing charm, Alina Popa’s eye-popping physique, Yvette Bova’s unrestrained smuttiness, or Minna Pajulahti’s natural feminine grace. But she has just enough of all of those qualities to make her as lovable as any of them. She’s isn’t considered “elite” in any particular category, but she can hold her own when put to the test.
No matter where she is or what she’s doing, she goes about her business with gusto, energy, and pride. She has only one life to live and she’s making the most of it. No matter what season it is.
After brushing his teeth and taking a quick hot shower, Ebenezer Scrooge goes to his bedroom so that he can get to sleep for real. No naps in his lounge chair. No awful Chinese take-out. No cheap brandy that’ll mess with his head the next morning. None of that shit. Scrooge is trying to forget the conversation he had with the deceased Jacob Marley, but how the hell can you possibly get that out of your mind?
It’s not every day that your dead business partner returns to the land of the living with the intent of delivering an ominous message involving ghosts or whatever.
The grandfather clock sitting in his bedroom says it is a quarter past midnight. It’s technically Christmas, if that’s significant of anything. Scrooge doesn’t think so. He wonders if Fred’s party is still going on. But he decides he doesn’t actually care. It’s not like he’d ever get properly dressed and drive over there to see if it’s still popping. No, that would be absurd. He’ll settle for dreaming about ghosts instead.
Scrooge turns off the light and tucks himself in bed. A picture of he and Gail from a random bodybuilding contest in 1993 still sits on his bedside table. He has no intention of placing it in the dresser drawer so that it can be forgotten. For whatever reason, Scrooge still thinks about her. Not so much his three other wives. They can all rot in Hell where they belong. There was something about Gail that causes her to still linger in his cold heart. Something special…
He closes his eyes and promptly falls asleep.
Minutes pass. The grandfather clock strikes one. But it is not the clock’s chime that wakes him up. No, it’s instead the agonizing sound of a tapping on his window. Scrooge alertly sits up, breathing hard. Sweat is pouring down his face. He knows what’s about to happen. He dreads with every fiber of his being the frightening presence of the first spirit Jacob foretold. Scrooge stands up and walks toward the window. Should he open it and let the ghost in? Do ghosts need to be let in, like a dog who’s just taken a shit in the front yard? He never was very religious or took much serious thought about the supernatural. But he decides to open the latch of the window anyway.
A blue streak of light sashays into Scrooge’s bedroom. It twirls, dances, flutters up and down, and eventually stands still in the middle of the room. The light expands, forming a large blue disc that spins in a circle like a flying saucer from an H.G. Wells novel. The disc grows taller, with Scrooge being able to clearly see the shape of a human being inside it. The figure is hunched over. The blue light explodes suddenly, sending Scrooge hurling backwards onto his bed.
“Dear God! Ow!” Scrooge hits his head against the wall. The light dies down. The figure stands up straight and turns toward him. Like a proper host, Scrooge – still wearing his pajamas – attempts to greet it with a certain level of formality and politeness.
“Are you the first spirit who’s coming was foretold?” Scrooge asks. Once his eyes are able to adjust to the darkness, he is better able to see who this ghost is. It appears to be…
…a naked young woman.
Oh wow. Scrooge feels a tingle run down his spine. He may have also felt a surge of electricity enter his groin. When was the last time that shit happened? Scrooge cannot recall. The ghostly figure appears to be floating in mid-air. The blue light has faded, but her angelic glow remains. The spirit turns toward Scrooge and speaks.
“Yes, I am. Good evening, Ebenezer.” Scrooge peers closely at the spirit. He gasps when he sees her face. The ghost bears an uncanny resemblance to Tanya Morganthall, one of the most famous female bodybuilders of the 1970s. Tall, brunette, with striking brown eyes, Tanya revolutionized the sport. She introduced female bodybuilding to the world by exploding onto the scene after being discovered at a small gym in San Diego. It was her appearance on the cover of the September 1974 issue of Fit & Sporty Magazine that changed Ebenezer’s life forever. Her graceful beauty combined with sleek, angular muscles shifted his paradigm: the way he viewed femininity, womanhood, beauty, and bodybuilding. He hid a copy of the magazine underneath his mattress and used it whenever he felt the, uh, “need” to use it. Scrooge may still own it even today.
“My God. You strike a remarkable resemblance to, uh, Tanya Morganthall,” Scrooge squeaks with the nervousness of a school boy talking to a cute girl for the first time. “You aren’t her, are you?”
The spirit giggles, then comes close to Ebenezer. He feels his pulse racing. “Of course not. The real Tanya Morganthall is happily retired in Lubbock, Texas. She’s now a grandmother of four. No, I am merely an apparition that looks like her. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“The Ghost of Christmas Past? How quaint!” Ebenezer scoffs. “What are you going to do? Take me back in time so that I can see how my terrible decisions decades ago forged a path for me to become the grumpy old miser I am today?”
The Ghost of Christmas Past looks stunned. She blinks several times. “Uh, yeah. That’s sort of the plan. Huh. Good for you, knowing what I’m here for,” she begins. “Shall we get to it? Might as well.”
Scrooge stands up to regard the spirit closer. Sure enough, she looks exactly like a youthful Tanya Morganthall. In the nude. Floating in the air. Scrooge met the real Tanya Morganthall once, at a party twenty-eight years ago in Last Vegas. He hit on her, but she rebuked his advances. She was already married and had a child. But Ebenezer never let reality get in the way of him pursuing his fantasies.
“Yes, spirit. Let’s get this party started.” Scrooge puts on a nightcap, as if he’ll actually need it. The Ghost of Christmas Past extends her hand and Scrooge delightfully takes it. The window, which is already cracked opened, shatters into a million pieces. Scrooge, guided by the spirit’s magical touch, flies off into the distance. The horizon explodes with an intense white light that forces him to close his eyes. He can feel the freezing air cascading off his body. He’s flying, but he feels more like he’s floating. It’s strange.
When Ebenezer opens his eyes, he finds himself situated inside a familiar motel bedroom. It’s December 25, 1989. Early evening. It’s somewhere along the Oregon coast. The small picturesque bed and breakfast establishment is perfect for a romantic getaway. That’s exactly where Ebenezer and his future first wife, Gail, were staying on this fateful evening. The room is empty, cold, and dark. Just as Ebenezer was going to ask the spirit a question, he hears joyful laughter off into the distance.
“What a gorgeous evening. What a perfect day this has been, Ebenezer!”
Scrooge immediately recognizes this voice. It’s Gail! He hasn’t spoken to her in decades. They met a few months prior at a photoshoot in Venice Beach. He was enthralled by her. She was too. And when he promised her stardom, she couldn’t resist him. Ebenezer hears the sound of the door being unlocked. Suddenly, it opens. Scrooge nearly dies of a heart attack when he sees the figures of two familiar individuals walking in.
It’s him and Gail!
Albeit, both of them are a lot younger. Nearly 30 years younger, to be exact. Ebenezer marvels at his dark hair, fit physique, and stylish clothing. Why doesn’t he look that good anymore? And Gail looks just as stunning as ever. Long dirty blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and muscles to spare. She was wearing a red overcoat that made her look like royalty. By his standards, she was royalty. The Ghost of Christmas Past guides Ebenezer to the far corner of the room. It then occurs to him whether or not they can see them.
“Are they able to see us, spirit?” he asks.
“No, Ebenezer. These are mere shadows of events that have come before. They are not real, just as I am not real. You are witnessing history, not an active participant of it,” the ghost explains. “They can neither see nor hear us.”
It is at that exact moment that Ebenezer remembers why this evening is so important. It is the first time they ever made love. Before, she kept a strict “respectable Catholic woman” distance from her new boyfriend. But today, she felt comfortable enough around him to shed that visage. Tonight, she was going to allow him to have her. In every way he desires.
“I know what comes next,” Ebenezer whispers to the spirit.
“I know you do,” The Ghost of Christmas Past smirks.
Young Ebenezer and Gail kiss. They drop their shopping bags, then kiss so deeply that even Old Ebenezer can feel his blood boil. The Ghost of Christmas Past watches with a keen sense of emotional detachment. After their lips come apart, Ebenezer approaches the fireplace and lights it. Gail enters the bathroom to change.
“I’ll be right out, my love,” Gail reassures her boyfriend.
Young Ebenezer removes his boots, coat, and hat. Soon, Gail reenters the room wearing nothing but stockings and black lingerie with crotchless panties. She looks beyond comparison. Both Young and Old Ebenezer’s jaws drop. She’s flawless. Gail’s muscles are accentuated by the fire’s orange glow. She poses for him, showcasing her 18-inch biceps and broad shoulders. Not a single inch of her body is weak or soft. She’s 195 pounds of pure female muscle. Standing at a modest 5’ 6”, she packs a punch – both literally and figuratively.
Gail jumps on Young Ebenezer and tackles him to the bed. They laugh, kiss, and touch each other. Young Ebenezer strips naked and takes his turn showing off his well sculpted body. Back then, Ebenezer also was an amateur bodybuilder, though he never had any dreams of competing. He was more interested in the business side of the industry. But that didn’t stop him from lifting and eating like an elite competitor.
Old Ebenezer takes a step toward the bed. He remembers every moment of this encounter as if it had happened last week. He’s been with many women in his life, but none of them quite like Gail. None of them had her strength, fortitude, confidence, intelligence, drive, and sweet personality. He’s yet to meet a woman who can match her. He’ll probably be searching for the rest of his life.
With the romantic glow of the fire filling the room, Gail mounts Young Ebenezer and allows his erect manhood to enter her inch by inch. He’s hard as steel, pulsating with desire, and ready to give her what she desires. She rides him like a cowgirl riding a prized stallion. Young Ebenezer reaches toward her engorged clitoris, which is bouncing up and down with rhythmic delight. It’s the biggest he’s ever seen by far. With his moist fingers he strokes her clit until she starts to moan so loudly he was afraid the guests in the next room could hear them. But at this point, he doesn’t give a fuck if they can.
In fact, he wants the entire world to know that he’s making love to The Most Beautiful Woman on Planet Earth.
Gail knows her orgasm is reaching its apex. Young Ebenezer senses he’s about to come too. She lowers her face toward his and playfully bites his lower lip. It begins to bleed. Mere seconds later both of them come together. He empties himself inside her. Gail revels in the naughty feeling of his warm seed entering her fertile womb. It feels both wrong and right at the same time. Just for good measure, Gail reaches down and masturbates her clit just as Young Ebenezer’s last final spurts subside. She gives herself a second orgasm and collapses on top of her lover.
They remain still for several moments, out of breath and dripping with sweat. Old Ebenezer feels his erection straining against his underwear. Does The Ghost of Christmas Past know this? He’s too embarrassed to ask.
“This is the first time you made love to her, isn’t it? On Christmas night?” The Ghost of Christmas Past asks rhetorically. She already knows the answer to her question, so why ask it?
“Yes, spirit.” Old Ebenezer’s gaze is still fixated on the two naked lovers lying in bed together. “This was also the night that I fell in love with her. Before, I had only lusted after her. For good reason, I might add! But it was this evening, this Christmas evening, when I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.”
“But…” the Ghost of Christmas Past wisely points out. “you didn’t end up being with her for all eternity?”
Old Ebenezer finally turns toward the spirit, looking directly at her. “You’re right. We got married, enjoyed a blissful life together for five years, then divorced. I was heartbroken. But she felt…liberated by it. I could never understand why.”
“Hm. That does seem odd.” The orange glow of the fireplace suddenly dies out. The room becomes dark, then disappears altogether. Ebenezer and the spirit are standing next to each other in a black vortex. “Let’s skip ahead to the moment when your relationship started to fall apart. This may enlighten you or frighten you. Only you will know.”
“Okay,” he responds meekly.
The blackness dissipates. Ebenezer now finds himself standing in a movie studio. It’s Christmas Eve, 1993. Scrooge recalls this evening just as perfectly as the night he and Gail first made love. They’re in Los Angeles at a cheap b-level film studio. The type of studio where low-budget campy horror movies and artless pornos are shot. At this moment it’s being used for a porno.
“No! I’m not going to do this! Absolutely not, Ebenezer!” Gail screams at the top of her lungs.
It’s four years later. Young Ebenezer is pleading his case, but to no avail. Earlier that day he impulsively decided to rent out the studio space for a few hours. The studio is always busy with various projects going on, but not tonight. It is Christmas Eve, after all. No filmmaker or crew would want to work tonight. So, here he and Gail are, alongside Monique, a Nigerian-born former marathon runner turned pro bodybuilder. Monique and Gail have become great friends. So great that Ebenezer suggested they do some “girl-on-girl” scenes together. Gail thought her husband was joking, she so went along with it. Little did she know that he was being dead serious.
“Why not? Come on, do it for me,” Young Ebenezer begs. “It’ll make us tons of money. You know the direction the industry is going, Gail. If a woman bodybuilder wants to be financially successful, she can’t just be a competitor. There’s no money in that. At least, not consistently. You have to earn an income doing other things.”
“Other things?” Gail shouts back. “You mean porn? Smut? What the fuck are you thinking! I don’t do shit like that. You know that! This is dirty and gross.”
Monique is standing by awkwardly. As a bi-sexual immigrant black woman who speaks broken English, she’s accustomed to doing “whatever is necessary” to earn enough money to eat and pay the bills. She’s done lots of porn throughout the years. She’s done scenes with men, women, bodybuilders, non-bodybuilders, and everything else in between. She doesn’t do animals, though. Monique has a little bit of self-respect!
Young Ebenezer switches off the camera. It’s sitting on a rusty old tripod that’s so decrepit Ed Wood probably once used it. Monique is completely nude, her hypermuscular body greased up with baby oil in order to make it shine. Gail is still fully clothed, but her emotions are as raw as can be. She has her enormous arms crossed in front of her chest.
“Come on, baby. I know you don’t usually do this,” Ebenezer implores. “But listen to me. This is the way things are now. Remember that VHS thing Dawn Longfellow did a few years back? God damn, it practically resurrected her fucking career! And that was the very definition of smut…”
“For the love of God, Ebenezer!” Gail smacks a nearby light stand, making it wobble around but not fall down. “Dawn is a slut. I’m not like her. I don’t want my family to see me do stuff like this!” Monique sits down on a chair and mutters something unintelligible to herself. Gail storms off to the dressing room.
“Gail! God damn it, Gail! Get back here. This isn’t my choice. This is what we have to do if you want female bodybuilding to survive.” Old Scrooge cringes at the sight of his younger self screaming so relentlessly at his current wife. The Ghost of Christmas Past glances at Monique and sees she wants to be anywhere but here. Old Scrooge notices how offended his younger self looks at his wife’s insistence that she not do anything against her wishes. How could his younger self be so heartless?
“Stop it, Ebenezer,” Monique chimes in. “If she doesn’t want to do this, then she shouldn’t.”
“Shut up!” Young Ebenezer snaps. He chases after his wife down the hallway. Deep down inside he knows she won’t do this “girl-on-girl” scene. But how can she be so blind? Does she actually think she can earn a steady living just being a competitor? No. You have to make money any which way you can. And the WCBF cannot stay afloat unless they get “creative” in earning more revenue. That’s what Ebenezer and his new business partner, Jacob Marley, discussed with shareholders at last month’s meeting.
Old Ebenezer puts his head down in shame. “My God. How foolish was I? I alienated my own wife. Over what? A fucking low-budget porno? Why was I so stupid?”
“Stupidity isn’t the only reason.” The Ghost of Christmas Past lays her muscular forearm against Scrooge’s shoulder. “You were also prideful. You and Jacob were so sure you knew how to revive the female bodybuilding industry from its inevitable demise. You two wanted to return it back to its former glory of the ‘70s and ‘80s. And you thought blue movies were the answer.”
“I thought they were!” Scrooge defends himself helplessly.
“For some, yes. But not for all. Not everyone wants to do that. And they shouldn’t be forced to, either.”
Monique and the film set fade off into the black nothingness from whence it came from. Scrooge and The Ghost of Christmas Past are alone in the void.
“Is that the lesson I must learn? That I took the WCFB in the wrong direction? That me and Jacob were wrong?” Scrooge fights off a sneeze that is about to explode at the wrong time.
“No, not exactly. That’s one lesson, sure. But not the only one. The other spirit shall show you more, Ebenezer.” The Ghost of Christmas Past also begins to fade away, slowly but surely. Soon, she is just a voice speaking without a body.
And with that, Ebenezer is transported back to his bedroom in the blink of an eye. He glances up at the clock. It is 2:00 a.m. on the dot. The grandfather clock chimes two times, as if on cue. Then, music starts to play downstairs. In the same living room Jacob Marley’s ghost made his glorious entrance. This time, without fear, Ebenezer Scrooge trots downstairs to see what all the commotion is about. The music is Dean Martin’s rendition of “Let it Snow! Let is Snow! Let it Snow!”
As much of a grumpy miser as he is, Scrooge admits that he secretly loves this song!
For some unexplainable reason, the home gym has returned. Except Jacob Marley isn’t here deadlifting. Instead, someone is squatting. 405 pounds! Holy shit…
“Are you the second spirit whose coming was foretold?” The ghostly figure continues to squat, as if it hadn’t heard Scrooge’s question.
“Give me a moment!” a female voice with an Eastern European accent demands. The voice is exotic but not angelic. Finally, she finishes her final repetition and reracks the bar. It makes a loud clanking sound. Scrooge’s heart skips a beat. It skips even more beats after he sees what this second spirit looks like.
Dripping sweat and breathing loudly, a bulky woman with thick muscles, long brown hair, and hazel eyes wearing nothing but a red and green sports bra and skin-tight shorts walks toward Scrooge. She is a dead ringer for Elena Bourean, a world-class female bodybuilder from Romania. Miss Bourean has won the WCBF Heavyweight Women’s Bodybuilding Title eight years in a row. Unless Scrooge decides to change his mind about eliminating the FBB Division, she won’t be able to win a ninth.
“Good evening. I had to get a quick workout in before we go on our little adventure,” she begins, extending her hand toward Scrooge. He shakes it. Her strong grip almost causes every bone in his hand to shatter. “I am The Ghost of Christmas Present. How are you doing, Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge?”
Scrooge tries to not show that he is in pain from the handshake. He doubts he’s a good enough actor to hide it. “To be honest, spirit, my mind is spinning. I’ve experienced a lot so far. It’s not every day that spirits from the Other World come to Earth and interact with me. So you’ll excuse me if I seem out of sorts.”
“Out of sorts? That’s an understatement! Want a cup of hot cider? I get tired of Gatorade day in and day out,” The Ghost of Christmas Present says. She goes over to a stove top (because apparently there’s a stove in the living room, along with a squat rack!) and pours a glass of cider for her guest. “Come in and know me better, man!”
The Elena Bourean lookalike hands Scrooge the glass of cider. He sips it.
“Holy shit, that’s good. That sure hits the spot, especially on a cold winter night like this,” Scrooge proclaims. He chugs the rest. The Ghost of Christmas Present smiles. “Where did you learn to make cider this delicious?”
“Oh, when you’re a ghost you have lots of spare time on your hands.” The Ghost of Christmas Present pours herself a glass of cider too. “Speaking of which, why didn’t you attend your nephew’s Christmas party? Fred knows how to throw a party, if you know what I mean!”
Scrooge sits down on the sofa and sighs. “I don’t know, spirit. I’m not a very sociable person. I prefer to be alone, crunching numbers and doing bookkeeping tasks. I’m afraid I don’t know what to do at parties. I’d be at a loss.” The Ghost of Christmas Present finishes her cider. Scrooge marvels at her flawless physique. He cannot stop staring at her chiseled abdomen. She indeed looks just like Elena Bourean, just as The Ghost of Christmas Past was a doppelganger of Tanya Morganthall. Whoever is in control of the Other World sure knows the right people to replicate when sending ghosts down to the Real World!
“At a loss? Golly, that sounds stressful,” the spirit replies with genuine compassion.
“It can be. Which is why I avoid parties and any other kind of social gathering. Does that make me a horrible person, spirit?”
“Not at all,” she begins. “However, that does mean you do miss out on seeing the other side of your company’s business.” The Ghost of Christmas Present wipes off her gorgeous face with a towel that manifests out of nowhere.
“What other side?” Scrooge is truly perplexed.
“Oh, the side of the WCBF you don’t always see,” she says. “The social side of it. The human side. Not the side that’s only concerned with money, sustainability, and the bottom line.”
“I assume you’re going to show me this?”
The Ghost of Christmas Present winks. It sends shivers down Scrooge’s old spine. “Of course! What were you expecting?” And with that, the spirit extends her hand. Tentatively, Scrooge takes it. But this time, her grip isn’t oppressively strong. It’s more nurturing. A tornado-like swirl of wind and light surrounds them. The music fades away, as does the images of Scrooge’s house. Ten seconds later he finds himself in a large ballroom sometime in the present day.
A larger-than-life Christmas tree adorns the whole room. There are people everywhere – drinking, eating, talking, dancing, and celebrating as if they don’t have a care in the world. It takes a brief moment, but Scrooge soon starts to recognize the people in the ballroom. It’s bodybuilders! And their wives and husbands. Male and female competitors, retired athletes, photographers, personal trainers, sponsors, magazine writers and editors, and significant others are enjoying the evening’s frivolities. Scrooge knows many of them, if not all of them. Once again, he can see them but they cannot see him. Nor can he touch them or interact with anyone. Just like before.
“What is this? Who’s party is this?” Scrooge asks. But before his tour guide can answer, a familiar man walks onto a dais near the DJ and approaches the microphone.
“Welcome, everybody! Thank you for being here! I love each and every one of you,” Mr. Fezziwig announces to the crowd. The room erupts in applause. Daniel Fezziwig is the CEO of WBBA, the World Bodybuilding Association. It’s the parent company that owns the West Coast Bodybuilding Federation. Ebenezer once worked for the WBBA after he left the WCBF. He learned so much about business administration from Fezziwig. After six years working with him, Scrooge returned to the WCBF once the executive job became vacant. While he and Fezziwig didn’t always see eye-to-eye, he always respected him as a man and as a…
“Welcome to the annual Fezziwig Christmas Gala! It’s so great to see many world-class athletes in one room. Thankfully no urine test will be required before you leave!” Everyone in the room laughs heartily. Even Scrooge cracks a smile. “All kidding aside, I’m grateful that we’re able to host this party here in the Emerald City. It’s too bad my old friend Ebenezer Scrooge wasn’t able to come this evening. Then again, he probably wouldn’t want to come even if he could!”
The crowd boos at the sound of Ebenezer Scrooge’s name. Looking around at his colleagues expressing their displeasure toward him, Scrooge is deeply hurt. The Ghost of Christmas Present takes notice of this emotional reaction.
As Fezziwig continues to give his spiel, out of the corner of his eye Scrooge sees a familiar face. It’s Bobbi Cratchit! And she’s with her son, Tim. Tim looks to be about five years old. He’s quite tiny but carries around a lot of confidence. Just like his mother. Bobbi and her son are alone in the corner, drinking punch and eating cookies. Bobbi is dressed in a classy black cocktail dress. Her muscles are visible for all to see. Tim looks adorable wearing a small faux tuxedo.
Suddenly, the room grows quiet. Fezziwig is about to reveal who the guest performer will be! Apparently, the guest performer is supposed to showcase some sort of routine that’s a combination of dance, stylized movement, and traditional bodybuilding poses. Everyone waits with bated breath. Even Scrooge. Especially Bobbi, since she heard a rumor that this year it’s going to be a woman whom Fezziwig selects.
“Without further ado, this year’s guest performer will be…” he teases, enjoying the intoxicating power he has over his esteemed guests. “Gail Moore!!!”
The whole room erupts in a bedlam of cheering and applause.
Gail Moore? Scrooge knows exactly who that is.
It’s his first wife. The love of his life. With a new married name.
She isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Heck, she might even convert you to drink coffee instead.
It wouldn’t be fair to call her “polarizing,” mostly because female muscle fans tend to be pretty open minded about the muscular ladies we love – which isn’t to say that we don’t have our personal favorites. But she definitely has her fans…and people who aren’t her fans.
Yvette Bova is a one-of-a-kind. What one person loves about her someone else may find repulsive. And this isn’t a case of “either you get her or you don’t.” Instead, this is a case of either Yvette appeals to you or she doesn’t. She’s larger than life – both physically and metaphorically. She refuses to apologize for who she is and embraces her uniqueness.
Perhaps that’s the best way to describe Miss Bova: Unique.
Even within the relatively small world of female bodybuilders, Yvette stands out. She isn’t the most accomplished or famous FBB around, but you know her when you see her. She’s a self-made entrepreneur (and not in an annoying Silicon Valley kind of way) who understands what’s appealing about her and does whatever she can to benefit from it. There’s a lot to admire about that approach to life.
Yvette Bova was born on April 6, 1962 in Junction City, Kansas. She grew up in Denver, served in the U.S. Air Force for more than 13 years, and currently resides in Las Vegas. After leaving the armed forces, Yvette competed in several bodybuilding competitions from 1996 to 2006 as both a Middleweight and Light-Heavyweight competitor. Her accomplishments on the stage are modest, but it’s not in the sport itself where Yvette made her name.
It was in the world of adult entertainment.
Starting in 2002, Yvette says she was approached by a porn producer at a gym in Los Angeles – which is probably the most L.A. thing to ever have happened in the history of L.A. – and asked to participate in a porn scene. After doing some “soul searching” for several days, she agreed to his request and did the scene. Chances are there was nothing memorable about this particular scene, but it did spark inside Yvette’s mind the idea that she can make money off of her unique physique.
She’s a strong, confident, sexually liberated black woman who decided to take charge of her life. This definitely counts for something! But she didn’t become this way by waving trendy slogans around or using the right hashtags. She did this by taking action, refusing to bow down to societal pressure, and overcoming any obstacles that came her way. That’s real strength.
Yvette’s original website flamed out because the person she was working with was being difficult (pro tip: never allow your company’s website to be controlled by anyone who isn’t you). Learning from this unfortunate experience, Yvette launched a brand new website and multimedia business known as Club Yvette. Her video production company is YB Entertained Productions, a company she owns and operates. Today, Yvette is a self-made businesswoman who spends her time and energy celebrating the sexy side of female bodybuilders. She loves what she’s doing and doesn’t appear to be slowing down anytime soon. Her videos are mostly about her, but she’s perfectly fine featuring other muscular ladies as well.
Miss Bova may be unique, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have peers.
At first glance, it’s easy to make a direct comparison between Yvette Bova and Kathy Connors, the Devilishly Sexy Muscle Siren. It makes perfect sense. There are a lot of similarities between the two:
Both women are not what you would call “traditionally beautiful.” Yet, they’ve transformed themselves into Unbelievably Sexy Muscle Goddesses through hard work, dedication, and sheer willpower.
Both women have their detractors, but none of that matters because they’ve come to embrace who they are and don’t pretend to be someone they’re not.
Both women are open about their sexualities and happily exploit it for financial gain.
Both women are perfectly cognizant of the fetishistic side of female muscle fandom and do not hesitate to capitalize off it.
Both women understand their niche audiences and do whatever they can to please them.
And finally, both women refuse to apologize for who they are, what they do, and why they do it. They’re confident, bold, empowered, and strategically placed for success.
Yvette – and Kathy as well – has carved out a nice little space for herself on the Internet. Yvette has assets that many people in this world find appealing: Big muscles, comically large breasts, an uncompromisingly sexy attitude, and a willingness to showcase her body and sexuality for leering eyes. There aren’t a whole lot of things she isn’t willing to do for the camera. She’ll participate in a “gang bang” with multiple guys. She’ll do scenes with women. She’ll masturbate. She’ll do BDSM scenes. She’ll have sex with a diverse group of men: old men, young men, skinny men, muscular men, ugly men, handsome men, white men, black men, men who are well endowed, men who aren’t well endowed, and so on. She loves having sex, in case you haven’t noticed! But more than that, she enjoys delivering what her fans crave.
This is part of her genius. If you love Yvette, you can watch her videos and easily imagine yourself in them as well. She has sex with good looking studs, but also gets freaky in the sheets with “average Joes” too. That works to her benefit. As viewers, we can vicariously place ourselves into the video because we see that she loves getting it on with many different types of men: both men who look like us and men who don’t look like us. Because of this, we can seamlessly fantasize about being with her because her “standards” aren’t so high that we aren’t able to meet them.
For example, in one video Yvette will have sex with a guy with a 8-inch long penis and enjoy every minute of it. However, before we start to feel too insecure about ourselves, in the next video she has sex with a more normally endowed guy and still seems to enjoy it. Yes, it’s all an act for the camera, but for the sake of vicarious entertainment it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we love Yvette because she’s a pure Sex Kitten. She loves sex and doesn’t really care who she has it with. Just as long as a dick is inside her, she’s as happy as can be.
This is a complete contrast from Denise Masino. As noted in an earlier blog article, Denise rarely has sex with men in her videos (and if one exists, I’m yet to find it). This tactic also works to her advantage because the lack of a screen partner makes it easier for us to imagine us being her partner. That’s why people get upset when their celebrity crush gets married or announces they have a boyfriend/girlfriend. The fantasy of being with them is ruined. We understand that we have no chance in Hell of actually being with them, but that’s not why we’re upset. We’re disappointed because the fun has been drained out of the fantasy. The image of them kissing and cuddling an actual human being destroys the superfluous façade we’ve cultivated in our minds.
However, Yvette takes the complete opposite approach of Denise, yet they both achieve the same result. Denise doesn’t have sex with any men. Yvette has sex with every kind of man. Either way, we are still able to imagine ourselves getting it on with both of them. In Denise’s case, we can mentally situate ourselves as her missing partner. In Yvette’s case, we feel empowered knowing that no matter who we are, she will embrace us with open arms. In other words, if Yvette is willing to have sex with a fat, old, balding man with a normal-sized penis…so can I!
The major difference between Yvette and Denise is that Yvette is less interested in being sexy and more interested in, well, having sex. Yvette loves having sex. A lot. More than we can comprehend. Unlike Denise, Amber DeLuca, Brandi Mae Akers, Angela Salvagno, or Emery Miller, Miss Bova doesn’t care as much about building her brand as a Powerful Muscle Goddess. Instead, she wants to be known as a Sex Goddess Who Happens to Have Big Muscles. She’s more interested in showing off her skills in copulating than she is in turning up the heat around her. She doesn’t waste time with foreplay, preening, flirting, or building tension. She’d rather get the party started immediately and ignore all the pretense.
This approach doesn’t appeal to everyone, but it doesn’t have to. She embraces the “slutty” label as part of her brand. She loves pleasure, experiencing pleasure, giving pleasure, and having a good time. She loves the joys her flesh – and the flesh of her partners – can bring her. And for viewers who agree wholeheartedly, Yvette is the gift that keeps on giving.
Yvette loves to smile. She loves to laugh. She loves to experience orgasms. She loves to bring her partners to orgasm. She’s tireless in her pursuit of pleasurable experiences. She’s a pure hedonist. She loves to have fun.
She isn’t scary, intimidating, or mysterious. Nothing about her is a mystery. She’s transparent about what she enjoys and what motivates her when she wakes up every morning. Amber DeLuca, on the other hand, is widely recognized as a powerful muscle mistress who will dominate you without mercy. Yvette doesn’t want to do that. She’d rather be a fun-loving gal who will bend over and take it from you with more enthusiasm than you’d think is possible.
What’s jarring is that Yvette doesn’t always “act” like a typical female bodybuilder. In her videos, she’s often in a submissive role in relation to her screen partners. Whether she’s on her knees giving blow jobs to a group of guys or getting pounded from behind by a handsome muscle stud while moaning in pleasure/pain, Yvette doesn’t portray herself as a Dominant Muscle Siren nearly as often as one would expect. Or, she’s seen as an equal to her partner – who isn’t always muscular like she is. Regardless, despite her considerable muscle mass Yvette isn’t afraid to play the role of the submissive one. She isn’t always in control. She allows her partners to control what happens in the bedroom. And this is quite unusual for anyone who watches a lot of female muscle videos (we can all raise our hands on that one).
Despite her status as a strong muscular liberated black woman, she still willingly plays the role of the subservient partner who passively goes along with whatever happens to her. It’s very strange to witness. Is this a strategic choice or an odd coincidence that shouldn’t be thought about too deeply?
I’m willing to bet this provides valuable insight into her worldview. She isn’t concerned with power dynamics or optics. She’s willing to allow an average-looking white man to fuck her on camera and not care about how this looks from a “woke” social justice perspective. She isn’t a postmodern feminist activist who is using the medium of pornography to “right historical wrongs” or “take back the power.” She’s instead a woman who loves to have sex and experience sex in a variety of ways. From her perspective, fun is fun. Fun shouldn’t be limited by subjective elements like appearances, politics, power dynamics, race, or social status. If she’s on top, great. If she’s on the bottom, that’s also great. No matter what, she’s enjoying every minute of it.
If what happens on screen appears to be humiliating to her, she doesn’t care about it. She’s a physically and emotionally strong woman who doesn’t give a single fuck about what society thinks. She can play the role of the submissive because she chooses to. Her videos may be politically incorrect from a feminist perspective, but she’s not here to change the world. She’s here to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh while she still has breath and entertain her beloved fans.
This is why Yvette has a following. The niche she’s found for herself is simple: Politically incorrect hedonism. I don’t know what her political/social beliefs are, but it doesn’t matter. She’s empowering herself in ways that not everyone will approve of. Many will shake their heads in disgust at the choices she makes. Yet, she pushes on, ignores the noise, and continues to live life the way she wants to. Isn’t that the very definition of “liberation?”
For that, Yvette Bova is a guilty pleasure. When you watch her videos, you cannot help but feel conflicted. She’s a female bodybuilder who doesn’t always act like a typical female bodybuilder. She does scenes that don’t always fit our expectations of what a strong muscular woman should be doing. Rian Johnson would be proud of how blatantly she seeks to subvert our expectations. Yvette is perfectly fine having “humiliating” things done to her like having semen smeared on her face or enduring the pain of a large dick penetrating her. She will bend over and let her partner(s) take control instead of the other way around. It perplexes us why she’d do this.
Yet, we must remind ourselves that Yvette has 100% creative control over the content she presents to the public. She owns the production company that produces her videos. She isn’t at the mercy of a misogynistic film producer or a tyrannical studio system. She does what she does because she wants it to be that way. On purpose.
We desperately want her to be a strong independent black woman who takes control of the men around her and reclaims the power that has been denied her ancestors (however you define that). Yet, she doesn’t always do that. She will allow a group of nameless and faceless white men have their way with her and won’t think twice about posting it on her website. The socio-political ramifications be damned. We want her to control the situation, not be handcuffed by it. But for whatever incomprehensible reason Yvette doesn’t always do what we want her to do.
So we enjoy her…and cringe while doing it. We get turned on by her…while reminding ourselves that it’s okay to be turned on by her. We tell ourselves that she’s a powerful woman in control of her environment…even if it doesn’t appear so on the surface.
Naturally, Yvette is unique in other ways. She’s larger than life. She’s a comic book character conceived from the dark recesses of a female muscle fetishist’s imagination. Unlike Nataliya Kuznetsova, Yvette’s muscle mass is impressive but not eye-popping. What is remarkable about her appearance are her enormous breast implants that seem too large to be real. Does she get back pain from carrying around that much weight on her chest?
If you’re a “boob guy,” Yvette is your lady. She obviously has no qualms about going further than most women are willing to go. Everything about her is full throttle. Pedal to the metal. An 11 out of 10. Amped up. Excessive. Bold. Subversive. Provocative. She doesn’t hold back. She isn’t afraid to “go there” and put herself in situations many of us would find uncomfortable.
She’s a porn star who isn’t ashamed of her body, her sexuality, her accomplishments, her desires, her preferences, and her art. Yes, it’s a bit strange to label smutty porn as “art,” but it is nevertheless. It’s not artfully produced, but it does make a bold statement. Her videos say “this is who I am and if you don’t like it you can leave and go somewhere else.”
Her videos also say “however, if you do like it then you are welcomed to stay and enjoy the ride!”
Her appearance can be grotesque, even to the most compassionate female muscle fan. But that’s part of her charm. She knows many people will stumble upon her videos and leave disparaging comments. She knows ignorant trolls will say she “looks like a man” or “women shouldn’t look like that” or “nobody wants to see that!” She ignores that and soldiers on anyway. She understands not everyone will embrace her, but the small number of people who do are in for a treat.
Yvette doesn’t try to be classy. She doesn’t seek your approval. Her brand is trashy and that’s the way she likes it. She produces smut that titillates our senses, not high art that stimulates our brains. She’s that b-level horror movie you giddily snuck into as a teenager. You promised your parents you’re seeing The Poseidon Adventure when you’re actually going to watch Pink Flamingos. She’s a human exploitation film, a delight on screen that you know you shouldn’t enjoy but do anyway. She’s pure smut. You feel dirty after watching her in action. And we love her for it.
Enjoying Yvette’s exploits is like being entertained by a badly dubbed 1970s Hong Kong action movie or laughing at an offensive comedian’s bad jokes. You know you shouldn’t. You know it’s bad for you. You know it’s not socially acceptable. You know there are a million rational reasons why you should walk away and go to your local church to confess your sins. But you don’t. You sit there and smile at what you see unfold before you.
Heck, even the most hardcore female muscle fan may feel apprehensive about admitting that they like Yvette. You may say to yourself “I respect her, but she ain’t my style” while proceeding to jerk off while thinking about plowing your face into her enormous pillows. You may feel ashamed afterward and immediately delete your browsing history, but when the time comes around again you’ll happily repeat the shenanigans.
That’s the very definition of a guilty pleasure!
Yvette Bova isn’t my favorite FBB or even in my top 10. But I have a lot of respect for her. Seriously. She’s a smart businesswoman who has taken control of her destiny. She’s intelligently carved out a small group of fans and has given them exactly what they want repeatedly throughout the years. Like Denise Masino and Amber DeLuca, Yvette understands why certain guys love female bodybuilders and produces content that satisfies their fetishes. Yvette wasn’t born with the same natural beauty Cindy Landolt possesses and that’s perfectly okay. She doesn’t need to be considered conventionally beautiful. She can use her monstrousness to her advantage. She’s a truly Beautiful Monster who creeps us out and devilishly arouses us at the same time.
She isn’t perfect in every way, but she’s perfectly fine with who she is.
Madeline stands up, positions herself right in front of Max, and shows him her double biceps pose. Max remains sitting on the bed, captivated by her flawless physique. She knows she’s got him mesmerized in every way possible and is enjoying every moment of it. Madeline has seen her fair share of guys for muscle worship sessions, but she never tires of the feeling of being adored, revered, and lusted after.
“So hard. So powerful,” Max observes in a trance-like state. “You’re even bigger than the last time I saw you. And you were ridiculously huge even then.” Cupping her bicep peak in the palm of his hand, Max feels his manhood swell with arousal.
“Thanks, sweetie. Good eye for detail,” she says. “In fact, I am a little bigger than I was last year. I’m trying to move up a category the next time I compete.”
By now Max has moved his hands down to feel her hardened abdomen. Madeline’s six-pack abs are more pronounced now since she plans to compete in Europe in seven weeks. As a professional female bodybuilder, Madeline has placed high in several prominent bodybuilding contests across the world – spanning the globe from the United States to Europe to Africa to Australia to Central America to Southeast Asia.
Unfortunately, despite her impressive accomplishments, Madeline doesn’t make enough money doing these competitions. She has a part-time job teaching yoga to little old ladies in retirement homes, but even that doesn’t come close to paying the bills. So, she has to earn money on the side through “alternative” means.
Muscle worship and fantasy wrestling appointments are those means.
And Max – and lots of men (and occasionally women) like him – are her clients.
In Max’s case, this is his third time seeing Madeline. He first saw her five years ago when he was a nervous 19-year-old kid meeting his first ever real-life female bodybuilder. Ever since he was a little boy he’s always had a strange and unexplainable fascination with muscular women. He never could figure out why. They just turned him on more than “traditionally” beautiful women. Of course, he kept this a secret. And he’s pretty sure his mom never discovered the elicit bodybuilding magazines he had hidden underneath the bed.
So when he saw on a bodybuilding forum that Madeline – a woman he’s had a crush on for several years – was travelling to his city, he couldn’t let this opportunity go. He had to pursue this chance to meet her in-person. And he did. Then he did a second time. And now, he’s seeing her for a third time.
Usually they meet at an upscale hotel in the downtown area, but not today. Due to a major comic book convention happening this weekend, Madeline had to settle for a cheaper motel located outside the main city. Oh well. Her fans will follow her to the ends of the Earth for the chance to touch her heavenly body.
“Your calves…my God…so dense,” Max whispers. Madeline accommodates him by raising her right leg and flexing her calf. Wearing a sexy crimson red bikini, Madeline reflects on all the guys she regularly sees. Most of them are men in their 40s and 50s. Very few are in their 30s, never mind their 20s. But alas, here’s Max enjoying the company of a woman like her. Big, tall, bulky, muscular, eye-popping, pretty, and infinitely confident. There aren’t a whole lot of women like Madeline in this world.
Max has moved on to her backside, admiring her curvy butt and broad back. He lightly pats both of her butt cheeks and she wiggles her hips for him.
“You like a woman’s ass?” Madeline asks.
“I like your ass!”
Madeline smirks and bends forward, inviting Max to further explore her glutes. He is glad to oblige.
Meanwhile, a motel employee is putting a large batch of bed sheets into an industry-sized dryer machine. It’s just a typically boring day at the office for her.
It’s almost lunchtime – and as any normal human being can testify to, it’s easy to mentally check out when you have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and bag of Funyuns on your mind. Right now, this employee has forgotten to clean out the lint trap before putting in the new load.
Statistically speaking, it’s exceedingly rare for a piece of hot lint to catch fire and burn down a building. Rare. But not impossible.
“God, it’s hot in here. No air conditioning, no windows, no nothing,” she complains. “Fuck this. Time for lunch.”
She closes the dryer hatch, sets it to the default cycle for white linen, and walks away to the staff break room. Little did she – and every single person in this motel at this particular moment – know that a disaster of epic proportions is about to occur just a few minutes later.
Thirty-six minutes later, Max is sitting on the bed watching Madeline take off her bikini. He’s in awe as she exposes her breasts and genitalia to him. Her boobs are small (she’s chosen not to get implants), but her clitoris is definitely not. She’s not erect yet, but Max still cannot believe she’s that large down there.
“You’re perfect,” he begins. “An impeccable beauty.”
Madeline is accustomed to compliments and does not blink an eye.
“Thank you sweet thing. Thank you.” She approaches him and helps Max strip nude himself. First, she removes his socks. Then she pulls down his jeans after Max unbuckles his belt. Soon, both she and her client are completely naked. Madeline peers out of the corner of her eye at the bedside clock and sees she has about fifteen minutes left with him. Time to end this session on a high note.
And to give him quite a surprise!
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Max,” she says. “I really like you and you’re a great guy. Do you want to go all the way?”
Max’s eyes widen. Did he hear her right? Did she just offer what he thinks she offered him?
“Uh, yeah! I guess…are you being serious?”
Without saying a word, Madeline walks over to her luggage and takes out a box of condoms. She selects a packet, opens the foil, and returns to the bed.
Max silently nods his head in approval. Taking that as her cue, Madeline hops on the bed and tickles Max’s scrotum. He closes his eyes and moans. Wanting to take in every sensual moment, he lies down and allows Madeline to do whatever the hell she wants to do. Eventually, Max’s penis is completely erect, ready to enter Madeline. She dutifully rolls the latex condom onto his penis and climbs on top of him.
“Oh my…you look so sexy right now…” Max finally opens his eyes and looks at Madeline’s beautiful face. “I’ve dreamt of this moment ever since I first met you.”
Madeline slowly lowers herself onto Max’s erection. Facing him “cowgirl style,” she finally takes in his entire penis and deliberately sways back and forth. Her client groans and grabs her fists. Holding hands, Madeline rides him like a stallion until Max sniffs something unusual in the air.
“Um, do you smell that?”
Madeline stops making love to him and raises her nose. She sniffs and shakes her head.
“I have a bad sense of smell. Sorry ‘bout that,” she concedes. “However, it is getting a bit humid in here. I think I have the A/C turned on…”
She resumes making love to Max by raising and lowering her pelvis. Unfortunately, he’s distracted by the distinct odor of smoke filling the room.
“I think something’s on fire…maybe not here, but somewhere else,” he says.
“It’s getting hot in here,” she concedes. “That I can tell. That is rather strange.”
All of a sudden, a loud blaring noise bursts through the building. Ear-piercing and relentless, Madeline and Max immediately know what this sound signifies. It’s the fire alarm!
“Fuck! You’re right!” Madeline screams. “Something is on fire! Fuuuuuuuck!!!”
Both of them jump out of bed and run toward the door. A voice cracks across the PA system – neither Madeline nor Max knew the motel had a PA system to begin with – announcing:
“Attention guests and staff! This is not a drill. There is a fire in the building. Please leave your rooms immediately and head to the nearest exit now!”
Still naked, Madeline and Max don’t think about their nude state because their survival instincts have kicked in. They burst through the door and sprint down the hallway. A small handful of other people are doing the same. At the far side of the hallway is an emergency exit that leads to the south parking lot. A sea of desperate human beings surge through the door to escape certain doom.
White smoke fills the hallways. Nobody running saw it, but an orange glow can be seen pouring out of a door marked “Employees Only” at the opposite side of the building. The sprinkler system has activated, soaking everyone in its path.
“Run for your life!” Madeline shouts.
“Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!” Max exclaims to anyone who is willing to listen.
Moments later the motel parking lot is full of a few dozen people in various states of dress. One young woman is topless. A little girl has no pants on. A middle-aged businessman is wearing only a towel, evident that he’d been taking a shower when the fire alarm started to shriek. Most of the people don’t have shoes on. The five motel employees are fully clothed of course, but that’s to be expected. Madeline and Max are the only two who are completely naked.
“My God, the whole damn building is on fire! Look!!!” a random person in the crowd yells. Sure enough, smoke is seen rising out of several windows on the west-facing side of the building. In the distance the reassuring sound of fire trucks racing to the scene can be heard by everyone present.
Now that the hysteria has died down and everyone has regained their mental bearings, everyone looks around at the crowd that has assembled in the parking lot. All eyes are on Madeline and Max.
“Mommy, look! That boy is naked!” a small boy blurts out. “Is that another boy with him? Or is that a girl…?”
It’s not every day you see a gorgeous nude female bodybuilder and a short nerdy nude young man standing side-by-side in plain sight. Not to mention a young man with a condom rolled on his (miraculously) still-erect penis. The frenzied life-and-death atmosphere has not dissipated his arousal, apparently. A crowd of random people have gathered near the building since the smoke can be seen for miles. Half the people are looking at the motel that’s burning to the ground…but the other half are fixated on Madeline and Max.
“Holy shit…” Max mutters under his breath. His penis has deflated considerably, with the condom hanging on the tip. “People can see us!”
Madeline, on the other hand, is enjoying the attention. She strikes a few poses, proudly showcasing her nude muscular body. A few onlookers cheer. Others have deliberately moved away to avoid participating in this “scene.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, Max! We can put on a little show before the fire department arrives!” Madeline’s side chest pose elicits a “damn girl!” reaction out of someone. One young woman looks at Max’s little penis and giggles.
The crowd disperses after four large fire trucks arrive to the parking lot. Ten minutes later everyone moves to the sidewalk as the first responders courageously do their job. Madeline impulsively picks up Max, holds him up over her head, and pauses for pictures. Several people – mostly men – take out their phones and snap a few shots of this unlikely couple. Max still feels embarrassed, but strangely…
A firefighter offers both of them a blanket to cover up their nude bodies. They graciously accept it. People have switched their focus away from the couple and toward the flaming building. Thankfully, the fire seems to be relatively small. It shouldn’t take too long to tame it.
“Still want to go all the way, darling?” Madeline whispers into Max’s ear.
“Uh, really? Now? Where can…”
Before he could finish that sentence, Madeline sweeps up Max into her strong arms and carries him to the back side of the building. She eyes a large recycling dumpster and plops him on his feet behind it. Away from prying eyes, Madeline notices the condom is still hanging off the tip of his penis.
“You still have it on. That’s cute!”
Max blushes and turns beet red. Sensing his vulnerability, Madeline kisses him and rolls the condom back on. Max feels his manhood become erect again. Then, Madeline turns around, places her hands on the wall, and bends over – exposing her moist entrance to him.
Without hesitating, Max enters Madeline slowly. A soft groan escapes from her throat. Gaining confidence, he grabs her hips and moves in and out of her; leisurely at first, then more rapidly as his pleasure intensifies.
“Fuck, yeah…” Madeline moans. Max quickens his pace as his orgasm builds. Madeline bends her knees slightly to adjust to his short stature. Standing at a striking 6’ 1” barefoot, most guys are shorter than her. Especially Max. Making love doggie style can be difficult if she doesn’t lower herself to the man she’s with.
“Oh, yes!” Max growls.
He climaxes hard, sending chills throughout his whole body. Madeline doesn’t come, but she doesn’t need to. She gets enough pleasure from knowing her clients are receiving pleasure. After his spasms subside, he pulls out of her and violently turns Madeline around to face him. She’s surprised by this sudden move. He stands on his toes and kisses her. When their lips part, she kneels down and takes the condom off his deflated penis. She tosses it into the garbage dumpster and orally cleans him. After she finishes they kiss again.
Moments later, Madeline and Max walk hand-in-hand down the sidewalk in plain view of the entire city as naked as the day they were born. They cheerfully give the blanket back to a random firefighter, who is stunned at what he’s witnessing.
“What the fuck?” he exclaims.
The naked couple continues to walk away from the scene, which by now has been successfully contained. They don’t know where they’re going or if a police officer will arrest them for indecent exposure. But they don’t care. All they care about is sharing this moment together and making it last as long as they can.
“I knew I had no chance of winning,” Jonathan begins. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have run for office. I don’t regret doing something I knew wouldn’t work out.”
By now, the shock that the mystery man is none other than Jonathan Westmore has mostly worn off. Deborah is almost finished with her dinner and probably hasn’t spent a single moment looking away at her handsome host. She’s lost in his deep blue eyes, still fantasizing about what it will be like to share a bed with him – the realization that they will (most likely) make love soon hit her like a ton of bricks – for the entire evening. She smiles and nods, not in a condescending way, but in a genuinely captivated way.
“You gave people hope that we can have more options. Our elections don’t have to be just between two people nobody actually likes,” she observes. “That’s an accomplishment unto itself, trust me!”
He chuckles and drinks the rest of his wine. Deborah quickly glances outside, noticing the sun slowly setting in the distance. Wow, has time flown by that fast?
“Hope. That’s a funny thing. I’ve never put much value into that. I prefer to take action, not sit around and wait for somebody else to do it instead,” he says. And with that, Jonathan runs his finger up and down Deborah’s swollen right bicep, tickling the vein running down the middle. She feels her heart flutter a little. Maintaining her composure, Deborah lays her napkin on top of her plate, drinks the rest of her wine, and stares at her dashing host right in the eyes.
“Are you a man of action?”
“I am. Can’t you tell?”
The sun sets lower over the horizon. The temperature outside may be gradually going down, but the heat inside is being turned up considerably. Jonathan impulsively stands up and positions himself behind Deborah’s seat. He rubs her broad shoulders and kisses her on the neck.
“You are a work of art. A masterpiece, my darling,” he whispers. Deborah feels dampness forming between her massive legs. Jonathan inconspicuously looks down her chest to see the sharp division between her pecs. His manhood awakens from its slumber. And despite their significant age difference, he plans to ravish her like she’s never been ravished before.
“Thank you. I think I know what comes next.” She cranes her head upward to get a better look at him. He smiles, sending shivers down her spine. Jonathan pulls Deborah’s chair out and invites her to stand up. She obliges.
“Before we get to that, there’s something I’d like to show you. Perhaps this will explain why I was so keen on bringing you here tonight.” He takes her hand and squeezes it lovingly. He leads her into another area not far from the dining room. When he opens the door, she’s greeted by yet more art featuring hypermuscular women doing what they do best: show off their beautiful strong bodies.
Paintings of female warriors with bows and arrows. Sculptures of Greek goddesses smiting their enemies. Photographs of female athletes competing in track, basketball, martial arts, boxing, and MMA. Sketches of hypermuscular cartoon characters and celebrities with enhanced musculature (Deborah sees one drawing of Marilyn Monroe looking like she can bench press 500 pounds). All of it looks personalized, as if someone – such as Jonathan himself – commissioned them to be created specifically for one owner in particular. Deborah wonders whether she’ll see a rendering of herself anywhere.
“I think I get the idea. You really love muscular women. Wow.”
Jonathan wraps his arms around Deborah and squeezes as tightly as possible, indulging in experiencing her unbelievable thickness. Deborah kindly flexes for him, challenging his ability to maintain a grip on her massive torso.
“Can’t you tell? I’m not very subtle about my interests. I’m glad you’re not offended by this.”
“Not at all.” She flexes her right bicep. Jonathan sticks out his tongue and trails it along its peak. “So, why me? Why did you ask me to come here, out of the thousands of women like me across the globe?” Deborah turns around to face Jonathan. He lets go of Deborah’s body and looks into her beautiful face. He traces his finger along her jawline and pinches her meaty shoulder. She gasps with pleasure at this bold, unexpected move.
“I chose you because you’re the most perfect woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he says. “I’ve researched most of the women in your profession. But out of all of them, you captured my attention. It’s probably when you were dating William Harris. His death was unfortunate, but it did provide the opportunity for me to be introduced to you. The moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you, one way or another.”
“I was a celebrity of sorts for a while, especially when everyone thought I was a murderer,” Deborah confesses. Jonathan reaches down to rub her abdomen, relishing her hardened core. He knows his erection is poking out of his slacks, but he doesn’t care one bit. “But that was a long time ago.”
“Indeed, it was.” Jonathan plants a soft kiss on her neck. Deborah audibly gasps. He is unable to control his animalistic desires – and Deborah isn’t sure she wants him to. For some inexplicable reason, her thoughts immediately turn to Cassie. Oh, God. Cassie! She wonders what the fuck she’s doing at this moment. Thinking of her, perhaps? Petting Bruce on the head while he sleeps on her lap?
Thankfully, Cassie gave her permission to come here. She’s okay with it, even though they’re both reluctant about the whole thing. The fact she’s given Deborah her blessing has put her mind at ease and given her much-needed peace.
“Enough talk. Follow me to my bedroom, lover.”
Lover? Just hearing that single word uttered from his deep masculine voice is enough to make her knees tremble. Fortunately, she doesn’t fall down to the floor like a pathetic drunk. He graciously takes her by the hand and guides her down the hallway into the room at far end of the mansion.
Jonathan’s bedroom is much more modest than she was expecting. It’s spacious and roomy, with plenty of erotically-charged artwork adoring the high walls (no surprises there, considering where they were just at). Deborah may have seen out of the corner of her eye a watercolor rendering of dozens of nude Amazonian warriors engaging in a massive orgy. Or maybe they were just bathing in a river. Whatever.
Sitting at the far north-facing wall is one of the largest beds – probably a super king-sized one, by Deborah’s estimation – she’s ever seen. It also has the largest number of fluffy white pillows she’d ever imagined could possibly fit on such a bed. Jonathan quietly shuts the door (as if anybody is left inside the house who could disturb them) and presses a button that opens roller blinds that have been covering the entire east-facing wall. It reveals a grand floor-to-ceiling window that boasts an immodest view of their natural surroundings.
“Wow! You can see the entire ocean from here,” Deborah exclaims. Jonathan quickly maneuvers behind her and lightly caresses her wide shoulder blades again, signaling to her that he’s definitely a “shoulder man.” He marvels at how broad they are. He’s seen countless photos of her before – yet being able to finally touch her makes him realize just how massive her body actually is compared to what existed in his imagination.
“It’s a fantastic view, but I prefer the view from in here…”
And with that, Jonathan peels away the layers of Deborah’s Xena costume. She almost forgot she was wearing it. Soon, she’s reduced to just her underwear. Jonathan stands back to regard her entire figure. He lets out a whistle.
“Magnificent. Simply magnificent. You possess a most magnificent body of work, my darling. Just fabulous.” He approaches her as he unbuttons his shirt. Deborah kindly showcases all the bodybuilder poses she knows. The fading sunlight’s orange glow accentuates her muscles in the post poetic way possible. Finally, they’re both wearing nothing but underwear. His erection looks almost painful as it presses against the thin fabric.
Deborah takes a closer look at Jonathan’s devilishly handsome face. He’s got some lines here and there, especially around his deep blue eyes. His hair is peppered with greyness in a way that makes him look “distinguished.” He keeps his body in great shape. She estimates he regularly works out and maintains a healthy diet. That’s probably not too far off from the truth.
“Show me why you brought me here,” Deborah dares him.
He smiles and runs to her.
Caught off guard, Jonathan picks her up and carries her to bed. He plants a deep kiss on her. Deborah forgot to take a breath beforehand and nearly chokes. He meticulously lays her down and unhooks her bra. She responds by squirming out of her panties. Finally, she is completely nude. Jonathan tosses her underwear aside carelessly. He gets down on his knees and spreads her legs out wide.
“Just beautiful…so fucking beautiful…” Deborah is proud of her larger-than-normal clitoris. Cassie constantly reminds her of how enormous it is. “You’re not like the other girls down there,” she’d always say. Right now, it’s fully engorged and ultrasensitive. Cassie once measured it just for fun. She says it can get up to three inches long. Deborah has reasons to believe she was exaggerating, but Jonathan’s fascination with her endowment makes her believe perhaps she was telling the truth…
Jonathan greedily opens his mouth and surrounds her feminine endowment with his lips. He experiments with a few lingering licks and kisses. Deborah moans, feeling the tension inside her body start to escape. All the fantasies he’s ever had of doing this to her is finally being realized right here, right now. He’s feasting on the most beautiful woman in the world. This cannot compare to any other experience he’s ever had in his life.
Pressure builds inside her body. All she can do is close her eyes and feel. Feel his tongue inside her sensitive area. Feel his lips gripping her fleshy bud. Feel every pore on her body emanate with pure bliss. Feel…
Deborah climaxes suddenly, sending jolts of electricity through her whole being. She involuntarily raises her pelvis upward as she orgasms. Jonathan continues to feast on her until her spasms subside. Finally, she falls back down onto the bed and opens her weary eyes.
“My God, Jonathan. That was fucking fantastic.” She struggles to catch her breath. “You’re a real pro. Fuuuuuuccccckkkkkkkkk!”
“My dear…” He leans over and kisses her hard abdomen. “We’re just getting started.”
Jonathan stands up and removes his athletic briefs. He kicks them aside. Deborah sits up and finally gets a good look at him. She’s impressed by his, uh, “endowment.” It’s bigger than she was expecting! A solid six and half inches, perhaps? Maybe seven! Or maybe that’s just because the fading light is playing tricks on her eyes…
Jonathan’s full erection is now liberated, free to be satisfied for its own sake. Deborah will make sure that happens.
“Come here, sweet thing,” she beckons him.
First, Jonathan walks over to the bedside table and takes out a box of condoms. Deborah reluctantly sighs, but realizes it’s the smart thing to do. He finds a single wrapper, tears it open, and sheathes the oiled latex onto his manhood. Deborah watches in anticipation. He comes to her and plants several kisses on her left calf. She kindly flexes it for him, making it jut out further than he thought was possible.
“So hard…so beautiful.” Ignoring all pretenses, Jonathan positions his penis right in front of Deborah’s moist entrance. “I’m taking you. Now.”
“Do it!” she commands.
And with that, Jonathan enters Deborah with the full force of a man who is unsure if this moment is real or not. For years, he’s fantasized about making love to this woman. From a distance of thousands of miles he’s dreamt of this. But now, he gets to fulfill this fantasy. He hooks his arms underneath Deborah’s thick legs and runs his fingers down her sides, feeling the striations of her dense core. He thrusts in and out methodically at first, but then increases his tempo as his furious lust gets the better of him. He’s usually a calm and rational man, but not now. Not today. Not with her in his bed. In this moment, he’s an animal. But she is not his prey; but his lover. His equal.
Deborah moves her hips up and down to match his rhythm. She’s impressed with his ample girth and hardness for a man his age. At first his penetration was painful, but her body eventually adjusts to him. She focuses her eyes on him, watching him grunt and labor as sweat beads down his handsome face. She tries her best to not think about Cassie, the absurdity of her surroundings, or the shock of actually making love to a man she’s admired from a distance. But that distance is long gone. They are as close to each other as is humanly possible, intertwined in a way where physical intimacy transitions to emotional intimacy, which then becomes something closer to…
With one last heave, Jonathan pushes into her as deeply as he can and finally climaxes. It goes on forever. It’s been a long time since Jonathan has this ferociously made love to a woman. Deborah cannot remember what it was like the last time a man penetrated her in this way. Perhaps never?
Totally spent, Jonathan collapses on top of Deborah and kisses her intensely. Still hard, he sways back and forth in hopes of giving her a few more moments of pleasure. She appreciates the gesture.
After several minutes of lying together in complete silence, Jonathan pulls out and removes the condom. Deborah sits up in bed and sighs.
“Fuck. That was worth it. You’re fantastic,” she whispers. Jonathan smiles and walks to the bathroom on the far side of the room to clean up.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that to you. Especially you.” He places the condom on top of a nearby table. Deborah is curious why he’d do that.
“You’re not throwing it away?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Nah, I will later. But not now. Think of it as a, um, ‘record’ of how we’re going to spend this evening together.” Deborah isn’t sure what to think of this, but she goes along with it. She stands up and sees a row of candles next to the condom. She finds a lighter and lights all of them. The gorgeous golden yellow glow illuminates the entire room. By now, the sun has completely set. Jonathan comes out of the bathroom and nods approvingly at Deborah’s initiative.
“Nice choice. Now the ambiance is perfect,” he begins. “Not that it wasn’t before.”
He sits down on the bed and strokes Deborah’s massive quads. She reciprocates by caressing his softened penis.
“It never occurred to me that Mr. Presidential Candidate would be hung like a horse,” Deborah smirks. “But alas, you are.”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite go that far,” he chuckles. “Maybe your standards are too low. Or you haven’t been with enough guys.” She tickles his scrotum in response to his teasing.
“You’re right…I haven’t been with that many men,” she says. “But I like what you’re packing down here…it’s beautiful.” Despite their recent lovemaking, Jonathan’s manhood begins to grow again. Deborah is astonished that he’s able to do that after such little time has passed–
“It’s not how many you’ve been with,” he kisses her delicately on the cheek. “It’s who you’ve been with and how they’ve treated you that really matters.” Touched, Deborah feels her eyes water. Before she can wipe away her tears, Jonathan playfully nibbles on her earlobe, causing her senses to go into overdrive. Cassie isn’t the sentimental type, and if Deborah is to be completely frank, not the most sensual lover. But Jonathan is different. He’s both fierce and gentle. Impulsive and methodical. Calm and unhinged. He’s a complicated man, one who is used to getting what he wants but also cherishes what he has once it’s right in front of him.
“Lie down on the bed for me, lover,” she orders. “I’m about to give you a show.”
From King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table to Indiana Jones, everyone seems to want to get their hands on the Holy Grail. The journey to acquire such a coveted treasure is full of peril, challenging our heroes to face such dangers like bloodthirsty armies, treacherous terrain, nefarious double-crossers, and the dreaded Knights Who Say Ni.
The Holy Grail is famous for allegedly being the cup that Jesus drank from at the Last Supper. Joseph of Arimathea then used it to collect Christ’s blood at the Crucifixion. You don’t need to be very religious to know that this object – whether it actually existed or not – is an immeasurably valuable treasure. There’s no need to get into the etymological history of the term “Holy Grail” because it’s complicated, hotly debated, and ultimately boring.
In today’s parlance, we use the expression “Holy Grail” to describe any object or achievement that we consider to be most important to us. Examples include winning the Super Bowl, getting accepted into an Ivy League university, scoring a date with the hottest cheerleader in school, climbing to the top of Mount Everest, or meeting your favorite celebrity. Sometimes we achieve these goals. Most of the time we never even sniff the possibility of accidentally achieving these goals. Life goes on.
For female muscle fans, we have our own version of the Holy Grail. Hidden deep within our imaginations, we fantasize about certain things that we can only picture in our minds. Occasionally, we are fortunate enough to actually be able to live out these fantasies. But more often than not, they remain just that: fantasies. Situations we conjure up inside our brains that never come to pass.
But let’s not go down this dour path. Instead, let’s celebrate our female muscle fandom by sharing what our personal “Female Muscle Holy Grail” is. I shall start with a few suggestions from my own personal playbook:
Giving Denise Masino cunnilingus
My love for Denise Masino should not be a surprise to anyone. She’s currently my favorite female bodybuilder of all time, mostly for reasons that have little to do with her actual record as a competitive bodybuilder. I wrote a blog post in which I expressed my love for Ms. Masino. I recommend you check it out when you have a spare moment.
Denise is famous (or is it infamous?) not just for her beauty, strength, charm, sexiness, confidence, muscularity, femininity, compassion, and spiritedness. She’s also renowned for what exists between her legs. Between her thick tree trunk legs, Denise boasts the most beautiful genitalia in the world. Think that’s a really bizarre thing to say? It is, but if you have an appreciation for the finer things in life, you’d understand.
For the record, Denise isn’t shy about showing off her most prized asset. In fact, she proudly displays it in most of the videos she produces for her website. She isn’t reticent about the fact she has a larger-than-normal clitoris, thick meaty labia, and a bright pink vagina that seemingly glistens at all times. She understands full well that there are plenty of guys and gals out there who adore her genitalia and can’t get enough of it. We crave it like it’s an addictive drug.
So this isn’t a weird thing to fantasize about. Nor do I think she’d be embarrassed to accidentally stumble upon this post and read about some random guy’s thoughts about it. Denise has made a steady income exploiting (or treating us to) her most famous physical trait. And I don’t judge her at all for it. If you got it, flaunt it. If you have a talent or asset that makes you money, by all means ride that donkey as far as you can. Thankfully for us, she does exactly that with a bright smile on her pretty face.
Being able to perform cunnilingus on Miss Masino would be a dream come true. Her clit is heavenly, one of the best in the world. It’s certainly one of the most famous in the world. Female muscle fans can dispute who possesses the “best” meat between her legs, but Denise should be on the top of everyone’s list – if such a list were to exist. If there ever comes a time when I can attain this Holy Grail of Female Muscle Fandom, I could die right then and there a happy man. I probably speak for many of you too.
Can you imagine spending hours feasting on Denise’s beautiful bits while listening to her passionate moans of orgasm? Music to our ears!
Touching Alina Popa’s entire body
Queen Alina is the Undisputed Goddess of Female Bodybuilding. She may not necessarily be my personal favorite, but she doesn’t have to be. Alina is a special breed of woman. Her charm, beauty, impressive muscularity, femininity, and accomplishments (both on stage and off stage) are second to none. She’s incredible.
What makes her noteworthy, however, is her remarkable muscle control. She can bounce her pecs, biceps, quads, and glutes like no one else. Her ability to completely isolate her individual muscles and flex them for the leering camera is unprecedented. If there’s someone else who can match her in this arena, please let me know!
Therefore, I’d love to touch every single inch of Alina’s gorgeous body. I want to feel her bicep peaks. I want to cup her glutes and squeeze them. I want to rub her quads, hamstrings, and calves with baby oil and see them shine brightly. I’d love to lay down in bed with the Queen and spend all evening worshiping her muscles. I’d take my time. No need to rush things. No need to hurry. This worship session should take as long as it needs to.
Which, ideally, would be a very, very long time.
Her pretty face. Her massive chest. Her broad back. Her meaty thighs. I’d ask her to flex each individual muscle and marvel at her keen ability to make them dance. “Alina’s Dancing Glutes” may not sound like a punk band you’d like to see in concert, but they’re definitely a sacred piece of flesh that deserves to be appreciated with divine reverence.
Witnessing her muscle control in person would alone be worth the price of admission. To be able to place my fingers onto her flawless physique would make that a once-in-a-lifetime bargain deal. Oh boy.
Feeling Karen Zaremba’s abs
This Holy Grail fantasy is probably 10-15 years too late, but oh well. When my female muscle awakening began in 2005 (it actually started a few years before that, but this was when my interest in female bodybuilders skyrocketed), Karen Zaremba was one of the first women I discovered. I clearly remember the countless hours I spent sitting at my computer in my dorm room watching videos of Miss Zaremba strutting around in a bikini over and over again.
I made sure my roommate didn’t see what I was watching, of course. But I still managed to ensure my Karen Zaremba fandom remained prolific.
Other than her gorgeous face and heavenly bronzed physique, Karen is best known for her abdominal muscles. Wow! She didn’t have a six-pack. She had an eight-pack. Or a ten-pack. Or something like that. Yowza!
Karen was my first favorite FBB. Was it strange that she’s more than twenty years my senior? Probably, but that didn’t matter one iota. It is unusual for a teenage boy to be enamored with a woman in her 40s, but in the privacy of my own imagination, nothing is taboo. It was perfectly normal. As it should have been!
Miss Zaremba had abs that were the dictionary definition of “washboard.” You could clearly see the grooves between each individual muscle. You could pour a glass of water onto her stomach and the deep grooves of her abs would catch every drop of it.
I fantasized about being able to put my tongue in between those grooves and lick her abs to my heart’s delight. I still think about such things today, even though Karen has retired from bodybuilding and probably isn’t nearly as muscular anymore. Like I said earlier, this fantasy is a couple of decades too late, but never mind that. Karen will always remain a sentimental favorite of mine, no matter what she chooses to do with her life moving forward. I really like her and still do.
Making love to Cindy Landolt all night long
Oh Cindy. Cindy, Cindy, Cindy. The Muscle Goddess of Zurich is probably the most Beautiful Female Bodybuilder of All Time. She’s the total package. She’s not as large as Alina or as outwardly erotic as Denise, but she’s impeccably sculpted and as gorgeous as a supermodel.
Cindy speaks fluent English with an accent, which is something that lots of American guys find irresistibly hot. I don’t care which corner of the world she’s from or what language she speaks. Cindy is a flawless woman who redefines beauty. She’s a perfect “gateway” FBB who combines traditional femininity with nontraditional muscle mass. She can have crossover appeal for both guys (and gals) who love female bodybuilders and those who are still “FBB-skeptics.”
She doesn’t “look like a man” or a “manly woman.” She looks as feminine as that cute cheerleader you had a crush on in high school. She could be on the cover of fashion magazines and you wouldn’t blink – if not for her large muscles, that is. I think she has universal appeal. I’m guessing there are plenty of folks out there who would agree with me on that.
I fantasize about spending an entire evening with Miss Landolt in a secluded cabin somewhere deep in the mountains. After a tasty meal and drinking an entire bottle of champagne, we light up the fireplace and watch the amber glow fill the room. We kiss. We whisper. We eventually undress. We walk to the bedroom hand-in-hand. We turn off all the lights, silence our phones, and ignore the outside world for the next twelve hours. Nothing matters except for the two of us.
Moonlight romantically streams through the window. Perhaps it’s snowing lightly. The sky is peaceful. It is quiet everywhere. We crack open the window and let the dual sensations of cold air and heat from the fireplace greet out naked bodies. We then make love all night long. We consummate our love in every way imaginable. Maybe we make love for an hour, maybe three hours, maybe literally all night long.
We make love in bed, in the shower, downstairs next to the fireplace, on the staircase, perhaps even outside. It may be chilly, but the heat from our joining bodies cancels out any discomfort that would cause. She showcases for me her stamina, sexual appetite, and sensual imagination. I indulge in everything she desires to do together. It’s a night to remember, one neither of us will ever forget.
It’s pure bliss.
Stroking Deidre Pagnanelli’s gorgeous face
This is a fantasy that might also be a few years too late, but that’s totally irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that Deidre is still one of the most beautiful women on the planet. I’ve probably said that about at least a half dozen other women, but this time I mean it.
Deidre is a 40-something mother of four children – yes, you read that right – who was one of the hottest fitness models of the 90s. Oh wait, she’s still one of the hottest fitness models out there. My mistake. Deidre looks like a supermodel and carries herself like one too. Even if she weren’t muscular, she’d still be world famous. And deservedly so.
She possesses an absolutely gorgeous face. Stunning. Jaw-dropping. Mesmerizing. Captivating. Enthralling. Intoxicating. Her natural beauty is incomprehensible. It’s difficult to imagine how someone could actually be that beautiful. But she is. She’s so beautiful you cannot help but stop dead in your tracks when you see her. To see her is to reject everything you previously thought about female beauty. It’s not too often that you observe a woman who is so gorgeous your brain struggles to process it.
“Did I just see that? Is Deidre Pagnanelli a real person? Or is she an animated avatar that existed in some guy’s imagination?”
Nope. She’s real. She’s damn real. And we’re all better off for it.
If I were to be blessed with having an intimate moment with Deidre, I would definitely want to do all the activities that have been described previously. That goes without saying. But if I had to choose a unique “holy grail” activity to do with her, it would be to stroke her face.
Her cheek. Her jawline. Her mouth. Her lips. Her nose. Her eyelashes. Her forehead. I’d touch it all, in an effort to appreciate her aesthetic beauty in the most tactile way possible. It’s one thing to see it, it’s quite another thing to experience it.
Her divine beauty deserves to be tangibly acknowledged. To feel her flawless face is to be one step closer to Heaven. I’m still on earth (technically), but I might as well be in the Afterlife. Even in her 40s (she may be approaching her 50s!), Deidre has not lost any of her beauty. She isn’t “fading.” In fact, she’s getting more beautiful as time goes on. She’s aging better than most people – male and female alike – are realistically able to. Even if her face contains a few wrinkles and crow’s feet, they just add depth to her beauty. They tell us that no matter how old she gets, Deidre deserves a special place in our hearts.
To see her is to stare into the face of God. At this point, I don’t know if there’s much of a difference.
Alright, what’s your Female Muscle Holy Grail? Let me know in the comments below or send me an email at ryantakahashi87 (at) yahoo (dot) com. I’d love to hear from you and get this conversation going!
Shawna is a professional bodybuilder, personal trainer, model, fitness accessory spokeswoman, pornographic actress, and overall Muscle Goddess. I first got acquainted with Shawna at a fitness expo last year when she delivered the keynote address to a room full of hundreds of nutritional experts. I was among those in attendance on that fateful day.
Shawna is the Most Perfect Woman in the World…and I do not mean that lightly. She’s strikingly beautiful, stands at 6-feet tall barefoot, and has bigger muscles than the typical Meathead Bro you see at the gym. She has long blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, curvy hips, and bulging muscles covering every square inch of her incredible physique. She’s absolutely flawless. I don’t know how old she is, but she probably hasn’t hit 40 yet. Or maybe she has. I don’t know. None of that matters. She’s ageless.
I work for Healthy Living Nutrition, a medium-sized startup company that specializes in producing breakfast bars, protein shakes, and hot to-go meals that people can order via an app. Just download the HLN app and within minutes you can plan an entire month’s worth of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners (not to mention a few snacks here and there).
The app allows users to plot out every single one of their meals in advance and have them shipped to the address (or addresses) of their choice. We began serving clients only in greater Seattle, but have recently expanded to include Spokane, Portland, Coeur d’Alene, Boise, and Redding. We foresee expansion to Los Angeles – which is considered the Holy Grail of markets – and Phoenix within the next two to three years.
But first, we needed a spokesperson who could sell our app to the bodybuilding community. We’ve already enlisted pro baseball, football, basketball, and tennis players, respectively. Now we need an “in” with bodybuilders, figure competitors, fitness models, and anyone who aspires to become one of those. When me and a colleague registered to attend this fitness conference, I knew Shawna could be that “foot in the door” that we so desperately needed.
And as it turned out, she was.
My co-worker Dale and I chatted with Shawna after the expo ended over glasses of wine and plates of cheap happy hour nachos. We told her she can use the app for free for an entire month, report back to us how she felt about it, and choose to endorse it if she wanted to. We told her the percentage of our profits that she can earn in a year, which appeared to go over well with her. She agreed to our deal, downloaded the app onto her phone, and went about her merry way. Dale and I felt happy about ourselves, all the while staring helplessly at her impressive, angelic muscular body.
“Holy shit, she’s perfect. She can’t possibly be human,” Dale quipped after she left.
“The amazing thing is that she is human,” I said. “She looks like that because she dedicates her entire life to looking like that. It didn’t happen by accident.”
“Damn,” Dale replied, downing the rest of his wine. “So fucking gorgeous.”
A month passes and Shawna emails me saying she loves the app and would be happy to endorse it in our upcoming advertising blitz. She signed her name on the dotted line and agreed to keep using the app for at least a year and appear in several promotional videos, radio hits, and social media posts. I got a promotion. Dale ended up leaving the company after being plucked by a competitor. His replacement ended up being a dopey idiot fresh out of college. Life moves on.
Me being promoted meant I had to move to a different city. Now I reside in Santa Monica, right in the heart of where we want our business to expand to. I guess the logic is that if the company moves its best people into a desirable target market…eventually that’ll mean we will successfully penetrate that market. We’ll see if it actually works.
Shawna, coincidentally, also lives in the area – albeit Torrance. We’ve met up a few times to discuss business-related items, chat about our lives, and complain about the things regarding the fitness industry that drive us up a wall. As it turns out, we both hate everything Planet Fitness stands for and would love to see its business model burn to the ground. Great minds think alike, right?
My office is located within walking distance of the factory where we produce our breakfast bars. Every day we churn out tens of thousands of granola bars and ship them to gyms, grocery stores, convenience stores, gas stations, and online retailers across the country. And occasionally, out of the 25,000 we produce daily, a good dozen or so will be “unfit” for sale.
What does “unfit” for sale mean exactly? It could mean a variety of things. A bar could accidentally get smashed, come out wrongly shaped, not fit within the designated packaging, or fall on the floor when a clumsy warehouse worker nears the end of his shift. Regardless, we normally toss out the “bad” bars so that the public doesn’t see them. We can’t allow our newly developed brand to be sullied in any way.
Sometimes, employees will steal a few bars that didn’t make the final cut when nobody is looking. There’s technically no internal rules against that, although the higher ups at Corporate would prefer these misshapen bars never see the light of day. Heaven forbid if a random guy on the street accidentally sees one of our breakfast bars with an unauthorized crack down the middle. That’ll spell our inevitable doom for sure.
Recently, I got the brilliant idea of delivering some of these misshapen bars to our favorite customer – Shawna. These bars don’t taste all that great, but they aren’t supposed to. They pack a nutritional punch, stuffing in every single vitamin and mineral known to mankind in a single bite. They’re supposed to help bodybuilders get “gains,” and that’s exactly what they do. Shawna recognizes and appreciates these benefits better than anyone. That’s why she’s our #1 spokeswoman.
Whew. Deep breath.
All of that is to say that twice a week, I come over to Shawna’s home and deliver to her as many “unfit” breakfast bars as I can manage. I usually visit on Tuesdays and Fridays, but sometimes I come on a Thursday if she plans on being busy the next day. I have no life, so it doesn’t matter to me when I get to meet her. No girlfriend, no kids, no hobbies, no nothing outside of work. It’s depressing, but I try to not think about it too often.
I should also hurry up and mention that because these bars are so super nutritious, they’re also super expensive. $8 per bar. Yeah, that’s quite a lot. But they’re supposed to supply an entire meal’s worth of nutrition in a few bites, so they’re pricy for a reason. The bean counters aren’t just making this up out of thin air. Shawna likes them a lot but can’t afford to purchase too many of them legitimately.
So, that’s where I come into play.
I give her free breakfast bars twice a week. Each delivery could be worth up to $100. That’s a lot of free stuff. Although, it’s not completely free.
Nope. She does pay me.
In sexual favors.
I usually arrive at her house between 7:00 and 7:30 p.m., depending on traffic (and, for the record, traffic really sucks in California). I park my car in her driveway, take out a non-conspicuous looking brown cardboard box out of the trunk, and casually walk to her front door. I knock three times. Within 30 seconds she opens it. We kiss each other on the cheek. We exchange pleasantries for a couple of minutes. Sometimes she offers me iced tea or lemonade. I graciously accept. I politely drink it all, whether I like it or not. She takes the box of contraband granola bars from me and stashes it away in her kitchen.
Then, she dims the lights, closes the shades, turns on some quiet music, and strips naked.
I also strip naked.
We enter her living room and begin the festivities. She poses for me. She shows off her muscles. She goes to the gym and trains five days a week, with Tuesday and Friday being her two off-days (hence, this is why I visit her on these days). She’s a Tall Blonde Muscle Goddess who stands – I believe I’ve said this before – 6-feet tall without shoes on. She’s a marvel to look at. From head to toe, she’s ripped. Completely ripped. Jacked up. Her biceps are larger than my legs. Her legs are larger than my torso. Her torso is larger than…a freight train? A Mack truck? A Boeing 747?
I touch her body. I sometimes rub oil on it. I worship her muscles. We almost never talk during our “play time.” I kiss her skin as she flexes. Occasionally, when she’s in the mood, she’ll lie down on the sofa and spread her legs wide, revealing her swollen clitoris.
It’s huge. HUGE. Three inches long when fully erect. That’s not a fucking joke. I’m not exaggerating one fucking bit. Her clit is that enormous. Unbelievably enormous. It defies science. And that’s an understatement.
Eye-popping. Jaw-dropping. Heart-stopping. And highly erotic.
After she spreads her legs, I get down on my knees and suck on it. I suck on it until she comes. She’ll come multiple times. At first, I was terrible at it. But after repeated attempts, I’ve become exceptionally good at it. Shawna’s coached me on how to properly give her cunnilingus. She explicitly tells me how to use my tongue, lips, and fingers to my advantage. Now, I can play her like a fiddle. I know how to give her pleasure that literally makes her scream.
I know how to give her satisfying climaxes that make her entire body shudder. I know how to prolong her orgasm just long enough to make her beg me to finish the job. I know how to tease her, how to torture her, how to make her teeter just long enough on the edge of orgasm but deny her the conclusion she seeks. And once she does reach that orgasmic climax, it’s the greatest orgasm she’s ever experienced…up to that point, of course.
Once I’ve satisfied her, she enthusiastically returns the favor. Most of the time, she’ll give me a simple hand job. Occasionally, a blow job. But that’s it. Those are my two options. We’ve given each other oral and manual stimulation hundreds of times, but we’ve never had actual penetrative sex. She has strict boundaries, and I respect those boundaries.
I always respect her boundaries.
Although she’s not currently married (she’s been divorced twice before) and doesn’t appear to be in a relationship with anyone (that I can tell), she doesn’t want to cross that threshold with me. She says it’s not personal. It’s strictly a professional choice. I dutifully accept that explanation.
“In a weird way, this is a business transaction,” Shawna once said to me moments after cleaning up my semen off her neck. “An unconventional business transaction, but a business transaction nevertheless. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I would agree with that,” I replied.
So we’ve never had sex – at least, “sex” properly understood and traditionally defined. But we’ve been very intimate with each other. Many times. During the past year I’ve spent countless hours with her clitoris in my mouth. She’s had my semen smeared on almost every imaginable place of her magnificent body. Yet, we’ve never gone “all the way.” I don’t think we’ll ever get there.
Shawna is a unique kind of person, both externally and internally. She obviously looks different on the outside – not too many “normal” women have muscles as big as an NFL linebacker – in every conceivable way. But on the inside, she’s both open to talking about her life and extremely guarded in other areas.
For example, she rarely talks about her kids. During one moment when both of us were slightly drunk, she revealed that she has four kids. She first became pregnant when she was 15. Her second born arrived when she was 17. Her other two kids were born when she was 18 and 20, respectively. She’s now in her late 30s or early 40s, and her youngest child is now old enough to be a college student. Yikes.
The father of her first child was a 15-year-old kid just like her. He panicked, ran away from home, and later joined the Army. He was deployed to Iraq shortly afterward and came home in a body bag. Very tragic. The father of her second child was a Catholic missionary who apparently tried out the “missionary” position with her. That’s no joke. When she became pregnant and refused to have an abortion, he quit his job, renounced his Catholicism, and committed suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills. Yet another senseless tragedy.
Her other two children were the product of her first marriage. I don’t know much about this guy. She didn’t have any kids with her second husband. I also don’t know much about him.
Her first husband was 25 years her senior, and her second husband was born two weeks earlier than she was. She’s now single…and definitely not ready to mingle. She says she has no intention of getting married ever again.
I don’t know which of her kids are male and female. They could all be boys or they could all be girls. Or somewhere in between. It’s probably somewhere in between. But at the end of the day, I don’t know much about this part of her life. And that’ll probably be the way things remain.
As I pull up to her driveway for the umpteenth time, I think about whether or not her kids are aware of what Mom has to do in order to get her daily quota of protein, vitamins, and minerals. I’d rather not ponder that, but how can the thought not cross my mind?
I knock on the door and wait. The wait is shorter than normal.
“Hello sweetie! Come on in,” Shawna greets me after opening the door.
I step into her house and take off my shoes. I try to not notice the glaring hole in my left black sock, exposing my big toe for everyone to see. It’s embarrassing, but Shawna is like an old buddy to me. A buddy with big muscles. And the Universe’s Largest Clit.
Her house smells like freshly coated paint. I hope I don’t start to sneeze.
“Did you finally repaint the bathroom?”
“Yes, I did! Thank you for noticing,” she says. I drop a box full of contraband granola bars on the kitchen counter as Shawna deals with something in the dining room. Cleaning up after dinner, perhaps?
Shawna pokes her head in the kitchen with a glass of champagne in hand. “I have an idea for what we can do tonight. It’ll be fun. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will. In the mood for something more creative?”
“Yes, I am,” she begins. “I’m feeling a bit adventurous tonight, for some odd reason. Probably because I’m still on cloud 9!”
“Oh? What happened to you?” We move our conversation to the living room. I start to undress like usual until Shawna places her hand on my shoulder, indicating I should stop.
“I just got cast in a movie! It’s not a major Hollywood film, but it’s not a typical porno either. It’s something low budget, independent, and artistic,” she announces.
“That’s awesome! What’s it called?” I kiss her on the cheek to congratulate her.
“It doesn’t have a title yet, but it should soon. It’s basically about a middle-aged couple whose marriage is going through the motions. In order to spice things up, they decide to play a game of erotic Truth or Dare.” Shawna sits us down on the sofa. Even when we’re both sitting, I still have to look up to her. “One of the dares the wife makes to the husband is to hire a female bodybuilder for a competitive wrestling match. You can guess who I play in this little drama.”
“Neat! You play the chauffeur, right?”
Shawna laughs. I do too.
“Not quite. We start filming in two months. Locally, so I don’t need to travel anywhere. However, in the meantime, I thought it would be a cool idea to play our own game of Truth or Dare. What say you?” She stares at me, smiling with a big toothy grin. I cannot think of a reason to refuse her offer.
“Of course! Let’s do it. You can go first if you’d like.”
Shawna sits up and blinks a few times. I feel my heart start to race, as this is a very unusual way for our evening to commence. We’ve settled into a routine. She clearly wants to break this routine, at least for one night.
“I would love to go first,” she says. “Alright. Truth or dare?”
“Fantastic.” Shawna clears her throat. “I dare you to have anal sex with me. Without protection. Right now.”
The heat emanating from her coarse, rough skin is palpable. I’ve never experienced skin so abrasive, yet so beautiful to the touch. Tonight is a night of many unique experiences.
Shannon stands tall in her translucent grey high heels, her forest green eyes hovering just above my own. Her eyelashes flutter with musical synchronicity. Right now, her wavy dark brown hair sits right above her broad shoulders, looking as if it’s set just right for this moment. I struggle to find the words to speak to her with, a burden that seems insignificant for the time being.
“Have you ever touched a woman like me before?” she coyly asks.
I nod my head “no,” but realize she wouldn’t be able to see that. So I attempt to make a pithy verbal reply to her inquiry.
“No, I have not. Definitely not. You’re the first, for sure.”
She murmurs something unintelligible back to me, but it’s probably just a slight laugh. She knows she has all the power right now; she knows damn well that I am like a helpless child, with normal thoughts and conversational abilities thrown out the proverbial window. My fingers move down to her wide back, every striation of muscle sending shivers down my spine. Her thick mounds of flesh seem piled on like bricks in a mansion. To reiterate, I’ve never met, seen, or touched a woman quite like Shannon before.
But what a ride it has been thus far.
“Wow. You’re so damn beautiful, Shannon,” I say. “But you already know that, I’m sure.”
Shannon unexpectedly turns around, her piercing eyes staring straight into my weak soul. She rubs her hands down her bare breasts, completely aware of their remarkably small size. Is she projecting her insecurities to me? Or pointing out her flaws (as if she has any)? Or is she attempting to turn herself on? I can only guess.
Next, she hooks her fingers around the sides of her bikini bottom and methodically pulls it down to the floor. Once it pools around her ankles, she kicks them off to the side. Neither of us have any clue where it lands. Not that we actually care.
Now she is completely nude.
“Thank you, Max. I appreciate the kind words,” Shannon begins. “Why don’t you show me how beautiful you think I am, instead of just saying it?”
With the grace of a world-class ballet dancer, Shannon leaps backwards onto the hotel bed and spreads her powerful legs as wide as they can go. She rests her head against the purple satin pillowcase. I think I know what she’s inviting me to do…so I oblige her invitation with very little humility.
I get down on my knees and lean my chest against the edge of the bed. My hands explore Shannon’s tree trunk legs, her calves the size of grapefruits, and her impressive six-pack abdomen. Shannon closes her eyes and moans as I touch every inch of her magnificent body. She’s an angel, a deity, a demi-goddess who is charitable enough to visit the Human World. For this, I am eternally grateful.
My eyes open wide when I see Shannon’s enormous clitoris. Hot, ultrasensitive, pulsing, and as erect as it can possibly be, my tongue laps its broad head with reckless abandon. Protruding out at least three inches in length, I wrap my lips around it and rhythmically fondle it with my entire mouth. Shannon groans in response, intense pleasure building up within her being.
She grabs the bedsheets and squeezes them with all her might. I would not be surprised if she accidentally rips the fabric. Her brute strength is enough to break or tear anything manmade. Loud moans of delight escape from her throat. I clutch her legs to stabilize myself. I continue to suck as meticulously as I can – wanting to bring her to the earthshattering orgasm that she deserves.
Eventually, Shannon does climax. Maybe just once. Or maybe twice. I cannot tell for sure.
“Oh fuck!” Shannon belts out.
She lifts her pelvis off the bed and writhes around involuntarily. Shock waves of orgasm pulsate throughout her body. I try to end on a gracious note by slowing down my oral actions and tickling her clit head with the tip of my tongue. I do not know if she enjoys this or even acknowledges the gesture.
Moments pass. Shannon is out of breath and smiling unashamedly.
“Alright kid. Now it’s your turn,” she announces.
Shannon playfully shoves me backward, forcing me to stumble onto my bare butt. She flexes her bulging biceps, then shows off her jaw-dropping triceps. Next, she squeezes her delts and looks to the ground to provide me with a more advantageous view. I appreciate every second of it. The final thing she does is turn toward the window and strike a side chest pose, demonstrating the results of all these years of bench pressing at the gym. She grins with delight at the conclusion of her little “show.”
She takes a few steps toward me. I am still on the floor, as vulnerable as can be.
There I am, looking up to her. She smiles. I can clearly see the deep grooves between her abs. I can see her shrunken breasts – and the chip on her shoulder that comes with it. She’s still wearing the high heels, which adds her to considerable height. She is all powerful. Omnipotent. Invincible. Indomitable. I am weak. I can do nothing to resist. Yet, why would I?
“I’m in a good mood right now. I know we’ve just met, but I have a special feeling about you, Max.” Shannon stands frozen in time, as still as a marble statue. “I rarely let guys do this the first time they see me, but like I just said, I’m feeling generous.”
She walks toward her suitcase, opens it, digs around it for a few moments, and takes out a condom wrapper. My heart flutters, knowing exactly what is about to transpire next.
Shannon tears it open and tosses it carelessly on top of the bedside credenza. She points to the bed. I immediately get up and sit down on it, as obedient as a pet dog. I remain silent. She does as well.
Seductively, she approaches me and wraps her callused fingers around my manhood. It awakens, growing harder and longer in the palm of her hand. I take in a deep breath, afraid I might prematurely come right then and there. Thankfully, I do not embarrass myself in front of this Gorgeous Muscle Goddess. Eventually – and for what seems like an eternity – she smooths the condom down my erect penis and leans over to kiss me. Our lips meet. Her tongue wrestles with mine. Her strawberry-flavored chap stick invades my senses. Shannon then grasps my wrist and pulls me upward. I stand next to her, my eyes still just below hers. She leads me to the sliding glass door. My breathing stops. She unlocks it and escorts us outside. The chilly early spring air greets our nude bodies. It is still not quite dark yet, so at this moment complete strangers could be watching us if they were fortunate enough to stumble upon this glorious sight:
A lucky nude man accompanied by a beautiful nude muscular woman.
Shannon turns around, braces the metallic railing and sticks her bottom out toward me, offering it to her newfound mate. I place my cold hands against her hips. The tip of my penis brushes against her left butt cheek. I manage to take in a deep breath.
“Now fuck me,” she says in a much louder voice than I thought was prudent.
Without thinking too much about it, I seize her hips with more force and guide my penis inside her. She’s already wet, signaling her hospitality. I thrust in and out of her vagina, not saying a word and secretly hoping somebody would see us. After all, this is the most triumphant moment of my life…I would kill to have some kind of an audience to witness it. Is that too much to ask?
“Oh, that’s nice. That’s great. Just like that, Max…”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn I saw an older couple watching us from a nearby balcony. But I could be wrong. My vision has blurred and I can only concentrate on fucking her with the forcefulness that she requires. Shannon returns the favor by bouncing her pelvis up and down, adding to the sensations running through my manhood. I can only scream.
Pleasure swells to its pinnacle…
…and arrives at a satisfying conclusion.
I come. Much longer than usual. I cannot imagine how much semen I’ve just ejaculated into this measly condom. More than twice than I usually do? Thrice? Who the fuck knows?
Finally, we come apart. Shannon stands up straight, kisses me one final time, picks me up with her burly arms, and takes me inside. I still do not know for sure if we had any spectators see our animalistic coupling just now. I suspect we did. But that’s just a baseless guess.
She drops me to the ground and my knees buckle. I fall feebly to the carpet. Now, I’m the one who’s out of breath. I peer up to see her. Once again, she’s standing over me. That smile has not left her pretty face. Her authority is tangible. It’s frightening how powerful she is right now and how weak I am. The contrast is jarring. Yet, in my weakness, I feel no shame. I feel ecstatic, in fact. I feel…masculine. The most masculine I’ve never felt in my life, ironically in the presence of a much bigger and stronger woman. I don’t feel any humiliation or emasculation. Quite the opposite.
It’s funny how paradoxical life can be at times, isn’t it?
Regardless of the real power dynamics actually going on in this room, there’s one constant that never ceases to exist. There I am, in the presence of the most beautiful creature I’ve ever been privileged to meet. She’s standing tall, I am on the floor.