SCHMOE: Fiction gone buff
Because a hard woman is good to find
She emerged from the patio half-naked, lugging a Weider weights bench. Sporty hot pants, a tank top, and white Nikes – that’s all she had on. She planted the bench on the lawn right beside me. I absorbed the truly unsettling sight of her: the smooth sweep of her outer thighs, the slim notches of her joints, the grid of her washboard stomach. Her lengthy swaying curtain of pressed-straight hair was like a glorious robe flowing from her delicate skull. Her groovy silver-painted fingernails were......uh, silver and groovy. Her Hollywood-white eyes and teeth sparkled in contrast to her rich bronze tan. She almost didn’t look real: more like a sculpture from a dream.
“What do you lift?” she asked me. My tongue tied itself in knots. I didn’t lift shit. Pints, at the weekend, is what I lifted. I was here by invitation of a friend, see: whereas you and I might gather round a BBQ in the summer with a coupla crates of Coors or Miller (bottles of course), my good buddy Craig and his gym cronies crowd around it with coolers of canned whey protein, surrounded by barbells, dumbbells and a pile of twenty plates. They call it a ‘pump party’. Kind of like an outdoor workout in a restaurant car park. Craig reckoned it made him bigger, eating and drinking while working out, plus he was killing multiple birds with a single stone by working on his colour as well, in the booming sunshine. I’m surprised he doesn’t try to do it all in his sleep, to promote optimum growth.
Because he’s like a broken record, and all he ever bangs on about is the gym, I’ve picked up some of his buzzwords and consider myself capable of socialising as a guest at this muscle fest without feeling too out of my depth. I know, for example, that this extremely odd specimen of a woman (although plenty of haters would call her a man) looked hard, dry and crisp. Before I knew Craig, if someone had described someone as looking ‘hard, dry and crisp’, I’d wonder what the blue yonder they were going on about. It’s like how a cannibal starved to delirium would describe someone, although I suppose it’s no more baffling than Craig describing himself as ‘gas’, which is word on the street for ‘shit-hot’, I believe. Better than ‘waste man’, which is what he calls me sometimes!
“Oh, I lift, er, a hundred,” I replied. When she asked whether I meant a hundred kilos or a hundred pounds, I said, “Kilos, oh yeah, big-time.” Then I scratched it back before the hole got any deeper and admitted that I didn’t lift at all. No point in blagging. Honesty is the best policy (unless you’re answering questions for car insurance, that is). I already respected – and revered – this rare breed of a female far too much to play it any other way than straight. If I was to have any chance whatsoever of appealing to her or impressing her someway (bagging this booty seemed one breed of bird too far), it would have to be with my grey matter, because my body, far from being hard, dry and crisp, was podgy, blotchy and oozing sweaty. Craig always moaned about how tough it was for him to fill out his taller frame with slabs of quality beef, but I was secretly envious of the fact that at least he had a frame. My excuse is that I’m big-boned for my height, to which Craig replies (and he’s supposed to be my friend): “Sure, big arse bone, yeah, and the belly bone, whoa, look at the size of that one.” I don’t call him beanpole or nest legs anymore because he takes it too personally. God forbid I call him lanky streak of piss, as that used to really hurt him. Lanky string of piss was even worse, and could see him sulking at me for days. None of it applies anymore, however, as during the last six months he’s massed-up dramatically (by nothing more than training harder and adding red meat to his diet, he claims).
“I take it you’re Craig’s boy, but what are you doing here?” she said, although before I could strike her off as a narky uppity bee-atch, she winked and added, “Come to watch?”
I’m in, I thought to myself, I’m either in or she’s toying with me, pulling me along on some private joke (the very worst kind of joke, in my opinion). Either way, it was well worth me hanging around, if for nothing else but an eyeful of sun-bed cleavage. It occurred to me then that I had not once taken my eyes off off her since her arrival. She didn’t look uncomfortable under my stalker’s gaze though (quite the opposite, actually). Probably giggling at me, in her head, beside herself with entertainment. She stretched a bit, touching her toes, and then set the bench up. I made myself useful by tossing some Eat to Grow bison burgers on the charcoal BBQ. Eat to Grow is Mr Olympia’s very own cuisine home delivery service. The sizzling heat and the deep aromas had been working up quite an appetite in me, but now I couldn’t concentrate on anything else except for---
Craig came out then, pushing a trolley loaded with equipment (it’s his garden, by the way). Together, once everything was set up, they warmed up with an empty bar, 50 reps each. If it had been two blokes and not a fit muscle babe I would have fell asleep on my feet before the first one could get halfway through. I didn’t dare join in as they piled on some weight for their first working set.
“Drive it,” she growled at him. “No mercy on the bar now. No mercy on these plates. No mercy on this weight. Bang it out, pop, bang it out, pop. Squeeze it, squeeze it, push, push, push. That’s it. Good. Good.”
Craig bellowed the horrible racket of a man dying from severe bowel cramps, his face red and puffy like a lobotomy patient mid-operation. What an unpleasant-looking dude he could be, I reasoned, although I did have to admit that he was practically getting bigger on the spot. He had a bunch of striated cords in his chest which looked like something alien inside him trying to get out. She, on the other hand, had a bunch of striated cords in her ass. Can you buh-leeve that shit? I couldn’t. Her butt cheeks were all pumped and she wasn’t even doing legs! She had big round veiny implanted breasts as well, where her pecs went into them. That’s an area of her I think will take a little getting used to, as the implants look too much like add-ons. The little chips at the sides of her ribs were strange, too. When she hiked up her hot pants to show me the cords in her groin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, I knew she was trying to gross me out, but the fact is I was fascinated by it a great deal. I’ve heard that bodybuilder women can crack shelled nuts down there, and by this evidence I was inclined to believe that maybe they could. Truth or myth? It was a tight call.
Just then the rest of the clan turned up. 2 guys who I knew, and another three hunky sheilas in hot pants and tank tops who I didn’t. They had cameras and baby oil. I tucked into one of Jay Cutler’s tenderized bison burgers (oh Christ), and helped myself to a can of protein ice (not too bad) with nervous anticipation. This was the turning point for me: I was getting myself into Craig’s inner circle; I was getting myself among chiselled chicks; I was getting myself a gym membership.
© Ya What Ha? Productions 2010