Right before his pose down I said I treat him to dinner. He was like a kid, making his veins pop. I could only imagine what he’d look like in an hour, all carbed out.
“My older co-workers gave me this strange book when I joined, they said it would help me get better at my job but all these instructions seem pretty outlandish, maybe I’ll see the results soon”
Called FedEx, said, “… canceling my account, and switching to UPS …”, since I noticed our local delivery guy! Now waiting for a delivery I has risen to a whole new level of anticipation. 
Goddamn! I can’t get enough of this man. Everything about him inspires the fuck outta me and turns me on in equal measure.
He takes obscene mass and makes it fucking beautiful. Look how enormous his forearms are, look at the sweep on those quads, look at the heft of those hams.
Combine that with his shaved head, the metallic copper posers and heavy breathing, and I think I’m about to shoot.
STEROID PRIDE
masculinity stripped of function and reduced to ornamentation. the yoke and bridle self-imposed. the tren coursing through his veins cut with the ego erasing euphoria of being nothing more than an object for another man to admire. no choice left but to pin, lift, and flex. eat, sleep, pose and trance. a procession of identical moments stretching out to the time when the trophy’s luster will fade, and his skin will sag from a webbing of derelict arteries, the glisten of cobblestone subways in flesh. behold the grandeur of this architecture forgotten. its massive arches collapsed. the weighty ballasts now rubble in the dust
