The Confessions of a Muscular Woman
By Laura B. lauraflex@hotmail.com
Chapter Two. How I came to love myself.

This story contains violence and sexually explicit material and should
only be read by adults.

After steadily working out with my brother for a year or so, I started
to notice that my kicks where sending the ball sailing to the other end
of the field. During scrimmages, I could stand my ground more easily,
and in general, my body projected a far greater presence. Instead of
relying on my quickness, I began to control the ball by moving-off the
older guys with sheer strength and muscular exertion. I would lean into
the other players with my shoulders or ass, and dictate their every
movement. Instead of faking them out, I backed them down, and this
totally altered the way I approached the game.

Playing soccer my whole life had given me a flat, strong midsection
that accentuated my large breasts and wide hips. Years of exertion had
layered my meaty quads, glutes, and hamstrings with powerful muscle. As
a freshman I had grown accustomed to having the largest, most well
defined calves on the field (I guess I had taken their formidable
appearance for granted until my encounter with Ted).

However, session after session of lifting soon began to compound my
genetic potential, causing my arms and torso to explode with remarkable
development. In no time, I displayed a radical new look that completely
changed the way I viewed myself. My pecs, back, shoulders & neck all
took a "quantum leap" in response to my exertions. My biceps and
triceps especially amazed me. They bulged when I flexed them, with
prominent veins distending and criss-crossing organically in every
direction. I concentrated with single-minded intensity during my
workouts, blasting my biceps with an obsessive fury. Lifting channeled
all of my adolescent fears and unhappiness into the one vessel over
which I had absolute mastery. Unlike soccer, where I had to rely on
other people, lifting weights gave me all of the power and a feeling of
total control. I became addicted to seeing myself in the mirror: to
watching the ripple and flow that resulted from my efforts. Depending
on how heavily I lifted and which exercises I did, my body responded
accordingly. Each muscle group sprang to life and announced itself with
distinction. I began to realize a new world of possibilities. Building
my body became my consuming passion and began to define my life. I can
honestly say that I fell in love with my own body. I loved the look of
my newfound muscularity; I loved the feeling of increased physical
power. I began to love the new reality that I alone had created, as
other people where forced to reckon with the results of my burning
passion for building muscle. Bodybuilding felt so pure, so right, that
I surrendered myself completely to its elegant logic.

By senior year I had reached my full height of 5'11", and had bulked up
to 171 pounds. As I methodically reconstructed my physique, I also
experienced a profound psychological and emotional awakening. My quest
for muscular development started to affect every aspect of my life.
Pound-for-pound, I had crafted the most chiseled physique of anyone in
my school. My dad loved my dedication, and gladly bought more equipment
for our basement gym. In college, my brother had been lifting a lot
more cans of beer than dumbbells. We agreed to split the cost of
supplements, though I wound up taking most of them for myself. Whenever
he came home to visit, he told me how amazing my progression was and
that he was floored by my strength. I started to consume books on
nutrition and physiology and became completely engrossed in learning
about the anatomy. I gleaned lots of diet and training tricks from
muscle magazines, and mom even fixed me special high-protein meals.

My mom was ecstatic. She kept telling me how proud she was, and that
she felt so ignorant for never having realized what was possible for a
woman to achieve by simply picking up a dumbbell. I remember having
long discussions with her about the implications of the hyper-muscular
female form. We talked about what my development might mean in terms of
our patriarchal society. At 18, I had eviscerated the stereotypical
notions about women's frailty. My biceps strained the measuring tape to
16 inches, and my quads easily registered 27 inches. I started thinking
of myself as a new kind of champion for women's rights. For me,
bodybuilding became much more than just a personal lifestyle choice. It
became a philosophy. I saw myself as a champion for my gender, a new
kind of warrior. I came to regard my muscles as powerful weapons.

At the same time, I began to recognize that there were strategic
advantages to concealing one's arsenal. No matter what I wore, I looked
like a tank. I grew to prefer sweatshirts and warm-up pants, as
shopping for regular cloths presented quite a challenge.
Proportionally, I was wasp-waisted, but my massive thighs and calves
made finding jeans that fit my dimensions impossible. It didn't matter.
The anonymity granted by baggy gym cloths was actually a blessing.
Though it was obvious to anyone who knew me that I had added a
considerable amount of mass, passing strangers simply assumed me to be
overweight. One time, while in line at a cash register, I heard a guy
behind me tell his friend it was, "such a shame about that fat blond
chick," and that, "she could've been pretty hot." For some reason this
made me perversely happy, and I couldn't help but smile as I collected
my change.

By then, I really didn't care what anyone thought. My true friends
totally respected my dedication, while my expanses of sculpted flesh
confounded anyone else fortunate enough to catch a glimpse. I started
to lose interest in the game of soccer. Even though I had accepted a
full-ride scholarship from a school in Boston, I felt like playing was
taking far too much time away from lifting. I had long since begun to
measure personal achievement in increments of five and ten pounds, and
not by the wins or losses of a season. Still, the soccer field was one
of the few places I allowed my brawny limbs to make an appearance. I
started to look forward to practice for new reasons. Our coach totally
respected my dedication and years of contribution. Though I could tell
my physique startled him, he knew he could use me to his advantage, and
selected me to lead the younger players in conditioning drills while he
worked on skills with the upperclassmen.

I couldn't believe that the opinions of the guys on my team had once
bothered me so much. By now, my teammates must have thought that I was
from another planet. My umbros strained at the seams when I stretched
out my quads and hamstrings during warm-ups. As I dribbled down field,
I routinely caught guys stealing glances of my oaken calves, bulging
cartoon-like in knee-high soccer socks. A strange, nervous energy
filled the air. Robbie told me that he had picked up on this too, and
that my body was totally freaking everyone out. I sensed a palpable,
totally sexual vibe from several of my teammates. The younger player's
reactions ranged from utter humiliation to worshipful adoration as I
forced them through set after set of pushups and crunches. Freshmen
guys are simply not equipped to deal (either emotionally or physically)
with an Amazon blasting out 100 pushups in a row in front of them, and
then sweetly taunting their manhood for failing to reach 25. Before too
long, I started to realize that my body had given me total control over
their minds. My muscles had made me the Top Dog; the rest of the pack
couldn't help but to subconsciously supplicate themselves before me.

This situation stirred up intense, primordial urges. I was vaguely
aware of having felt similar twinges during my encounter with Ted, but
they seemed so remote; so distant from my new reality. It was as if I
had known Ted in another lifetime, eons ago. Since then, I had fallen
madly in love with myself. I had grown obsessive over my own body,
literally blocking everything else out. Philosophically, I had rejected
the very idea of manhood. I viewed men in general as thoughtless
oppressors, and strove to celebrate my womanhood in the physical domain
of my physique...

On the other hand, there was no way for me to deny my attraction to
cute guys. As I luxuriated in the absolute power I wielded over the
younger players, I realized that it was I who had been oppressing
myself. I had totally internalized my erotic impulses. I was still a
virgin, but for all the wrong reasons. My body needed more. I began to
realize that I could remain fanatic in my devotion as an architect,
erecting my glorious cathedral of muscle, while simultaneously
indulging the deep, lusty hunger for worshipers. As a yearning for
utter supremacy bubbled up from within, I decided it was time to
finally unleash my sexuality.

This catharsis marked the dawn of my final self-concept. For as long as
I can remember, I've adhered to a gender-neutral interpretation of
muscularity. Genetics+ proper nutrition+ single-minded intensity= a
powerful physique, regardless of gender. At the same time, I love being
a woman. I love the fact that my sturdy, feminine frame has helped to
render meaningless generations of "weaker sex" indoctrination. Weaker
sex? Nothing more than a pathetic joke told by a father to his son. My
corporeal accomplishment is manifest and I will be reckoned with. Any
man I choose will submit to basic reality: When you are with me, you
will ALWAYS be the weaker sex.

(C) 2004 Laura B. All rights reserved.