Nelly boarded the train to the NEC Birmingham, where a bodybuilding expo was being held. The weather threatened to be crappy, but he was in a buoyant mood. Both his expo ticket and his train ticket had been booked months in advance. And now it was almost time! He arrived within the hour and was very unimpressed by the complex, it looked like a collection of industrial units, but the people inside, as he knew they would, blew his mind.
No amount of YouTube or DVDs could compare with seeing it all in the present flesh. The men were absolutely round and lumpy like you wouldn’t believe, so huge they had their own gravitational fields, but the women – wow! Oh wow! There was hardly a full outfit between the lot of them. Bikini babes, figure babes, fitness babes...they were all out in force. Not so true of the muscle babes though, and given the size of the place, he found his favourite muscle babe’s booth surprisingly quickly.
Her name was Ulla Krispe and she was known as the ‘Ripped Princess’, a big woman with a ton of muscle. Her booth was very quiet in relation to the queues and commotion going on around other booths. She wasn’t inundated with people begging her picture and autograph like almost every other male pro. But there were several people gathering around, chatting to her and among themselves. Single guys, like him, for the most part.
Nelly bustled himself through to the front, where his vision was filled with piles of neatly-stacked laminated photographs and creatively-arranged towers of DVDs. There were also T-shirts and caps and various other products bearing her name for sale. Nelly wanted one of everything but he didn’t want to be burdened with bags of goods so early after having just arrived, plus at the moment he was wrapped up in taking in Ulla Krispe’s extraordinarily developed physique. At a glance she seemed to be clad in a skin-tight cat suit of some kind, but closer inspection proved it to be nothing other than a layer of paint applied to her bare skin. All she wore, apart from footwear and earrings, was patches over her boobie tips and a cheese cutter thong barely visible to the naked eye. Nelly thought it must be a promotional stunt. He wasn’t complaining.
Before he could say a word to her, the most annoying thing happened – a fire alarm went off. It was one of those hi-tech alarms that you could almost dance to. After several minutes of people looking confused, most of the visitors reluctantly headed for the exits, guided by security people with microphones. Even Ulla Krispe started packing up her gear, and that’s who Nelly ended up directly behind, outdoors, at fire point B2. It started to rain and the detailed body paint started to smudge on her amazing skin. Nelly could see every individual muscle in her back as if she didn’t have any skin. Every one of them almost flowed into the other like running water.
He felt a little odd perving her up from behind on the sly, because in all truth he still didn’t know how he felt about these muscle women. A small minority of them overdid the performance enhancers, developed male attributes, and gave the rest of them a bad name. He still had time for them, because they were still all women at the end of the day, but he much preferred the skilled select who knew how to strike that perfect balance.
It seemed to him now that the bikini, figure and fitness girls were getting more well-known than the Olympia girls, and that just wasn’t right. He knew that the rules had been changed recently, ordering that the Olympia girls come in smaller on stage if they wanted to place higher. Nelly blamed Governor Schwarzenegger’s Arnold Classic for that, where all these kinds of muscle spinoffs went on. Nelly wondered if it was just a matter of time before Arnold had regular-looking blokes in Speedo trunks on stage.
Nelly’s gut feelings were with the Miss Olympias, and it was more, or beyond, sexual attraction. The slobbering nerds who couldn’t get enough out of seeing a practically naked woman were all bikini and figure lovers. With muscle, it was different: With muscle, it was worship. Or dominance, if you were that way inclined. It was a foggy sport. Bodybuilder women had the odds stacked against them. Perhaps the sport had been doomed from day one. After two minutes of talking with Ulla Krispe in a light drizzle of rain outside of the NEC, Birmingham, he was certain that there was something very flawed and contaminated about it, by today’s terms at least.
How did he know this? Well......
She invited him back to her hotel room, offering a range of services, which included a possible hand job! All for 250 Euros. He was repulsed to his stomach by this and his face struggled to hide it. He hadn’t realised the situation was so desperate. He hadn’t realised his not-so-favourite female bodybuilder anymore was so very literal and accurate in her choice of nickname – as in princess ripped through the middle with a muddy abyss of lewd improperness. Or maybe he was just too squeaky clean.
© Ya what, ha? Productions 2010