The blokelifting contest
By Diana the Valkyrie with thanks to Barry and Marty, Kenneth and Hugh.
Linda Daventry helps organise a blokelifting contest.


As a fluffer, you see it all. Big ones, little ones, soft ones, hard 
ones. Mostly little soft ones, otherwise they wouldn't need a fluffer, 
would they? But the economic recession was beginning to bite, and 
there's so many amateur fluffers these days, it was getting tough to 
make ends meet, and a fluffer always wants to do the right thing with 
ends. Sure, an amateur fluffer is as likely to cause a terrible accident 
and premature deflation as she is to get the butterstick properly 
fluffed up, but the guy with the budget sees a pretty face and assumes 
that's the main requirement. Actually, the main requirements are a good 
understanding of the characteristics of the average butterstick and of 
the bloke who's following it around. 

So I was looking around a bit - what else can a fluffer do when things 
are hard? And I heard that the people down at "Bona Gym" were planning 
to put on a bit of a do, so I put on my cream-coloured skirt and jumper, 
plus the best fake pearls I've got, and trolled down there. 

I was greeted by a shriek. "Petal!!!" I turned and looked at a vision of 
loveliness. He was wearing an open neck shirt, open to the navel, short 
shorts designed to emphasise rather than conceal, plus possibly a 
codpiece to help nature along, and the thing on his chest was a merkin 
for sure. "I know you, you're Linda Daventry!" "Yes, right" I said. 
"And who are you?" "How utterly bona to vada your eek" he said. "I'm 
Julian, and this is my friend Sandy". Another bloke appeared, this one 
wearing skin-tight stretch pants and a pink sweatshirt. "Heartface, how 
totally bona to see you, you look gorgeous, utterly dolly" he gushed. 

Gack. You meet this sort all the time. Well, I seem to. "Petal, you've 
come at an utterly opportune momento" he squealed, grabbing me by the 
arm and pulling me into his bijou cottage gymette. "Oooh, Jules, it's 
dolly dolly Linda" he said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Darling, you 
look ravishing, what do you put on your riah to keep it so dark and 
glossy?" 

I thought of making some biting retort about the rug that covered his 
own lack of riah, but it's best not to wind up the potential customers. 
My riah is all my own, and if I do put a bit of a tint on it to delay 
the onset of greyness, that's none of his affair. Not that you should
take this as any kind of admission, you understand, just that *if* I 
did, then it would be my business. Subjunctive case.

"Oh Jules, tell her about the contest." "Ohh, shall I?" "Yes, go on, 
Jules, be bold, tell her, tell her". Sandy egged on his friend Julian, 
and after a bit of urging, he spilled the beans. "Times are hard, 
Linda". Tell me about it, why don't you. "So we're going to put on 
something special." Last time these two put on something special, the 
repercussions included the resignation of a Cabinet Minister and a minor 
Royal Princess suddenly decided to spend a year in Cannes. "Go on, 
Jules, tell her, tell her, go on." 

Jules leaned close to me, and swamped me in what I can only hope was 
aftershave. "Blokelifting" he breathed. "What?" "Blokelifting, Linda." 
"What's that?" "What's that?" shrieked Sandy. "Yes. What the smeg is 
blokelifting?" "Linda, you know blokelifting! You get all the palones, 
real big butch palones, with lallies like tree trunks..." "Tree trunks," 
agreed Sandy. "Tree trunks" he repeated, thoughtfully. "Yes. And each of 
them has her ome, and she lifts him" "Lifts him" repeated Sandy. "Shut 
up Sand, shut up, I'm telling her" "Shut up yourself." "It was my idea" 
"No it wasn't." "Yes it was." 

I banged the table, and they stopped bickering, and looked at me. "And?" 
I asked. "Well, it's a blokelifting competition, see?" 

I thought about this. It sounds crazy. Who would want to watch a bunch 
of women with thighs like tree trunks lifting up men? And then I thought 
about the dafter things I've been involved with, and then I thought, 
well, it beats eating yoghurt because that's all there is in the fridge, 
and I said "OK, ome-palones, count me in." 

On cross-examination, it turned out that they hadn't the foggiest idea 
how to organise a blokelifting contest. Or even a piss-up in a brewery, 
for that matter. But they'd gotten hold of one essential idea; palones 
with big lallies, hoisting omes. And I could see the potential. So I 
started to plan. 

It's nice to start with a clean sheet of paper. Since no-one has ever 
organised a blokelifting contest before, I started off by creating the 
International Federation of Blokelifters, and the IFB committee. We met 
in the Hand and Racquet, and before Jules and Sandy were halfway through 
their first pink gin, quickly appointed a Rules Subcommittee, which 
consisted of one. Then I went off and wrote the rules, and by virtue of 
the preceding manouevers, they were the Official Rules of the Official IFB. 

I used as a model, the rules of the International Federation of Genital 
Weightlifting, with suitable changes, of course. And the weights would 
be a lot heavier, naturally. Which brought me to the first problem; we'd 
need a range of weights, running from, say, 100 pounds for the 
lightweight competitors, up to over 300 for the more butch palones. And 
I had some ideas for how to handle the stronger girls who wouldn't stop 
at 300. 

I felt there ought to be three events, because three is a magic number, 
everything comes in threes. So, I thought, the overhead lift would be 
one; get the ome over your head and hold him there for a count of three. 
And the squat would be the second, everyone likes the squat, and it's a 
great opportunity to show off those tree-trunk lallies. And as I cast 
about for ideas for the third lift, I looked at the rules for the IFGW, 
and it suddenly occurred to me, if a man can lift weights that way, why 
should he just as equally be lifted in the same way? So I made the third 
event the deadlift. 

But when I put that to Julian, he went white as a sheet and started 
coughing and spluttering, and Sandy scolded me. "Now look what you've 
done, you've set him off." "You've set me off" "See, see, you've 
triggered him." "Triggered" "Now he'll be besides himself all evening." 
"Besides meself." "Don't worry, Jules, I'll look after you," said Sandy
to Julian, comforting him.  So I said "Well, OK, they can use a truss 
to lift them up by" and that mollified them somewhat. 

Weight classes for the palones, of course, and drug testing to make sure 
they aren't using anything naughty; also for the omes to make sure they 
aren't on testosterone to crank up their genital development a bit. And 
I wrote down the rules for strict form; when you get the ome above your 
head, you have to lock your knees, that sort of thing. 

Julian and Sandy took care of the marketing, selling tickets to the 
Lift-and-Carry fans, who flocked to the first ever Blokelifting Contest 
like it was the Second Coming. I wrote to a whole bunch of suitable 
palones, mostly the powerlifting women, but also to a bunch of 
bodybuilders who might be interested. Getting the necessary volunteers 
to be weights was absolutely no problem whatsoever, I just didn't bother 
to mention about the deadlift event, which might have slowed them down a 
bit. Best not to worry their dolly little eeks with difficult ideas. 

And so it was, that the great Day dawned bright, fair and panic-stricken 
as Julian and Sandy rushed around shrieking and screaming at the people 
who were putting up the curtains and bunting, because their colour sense 
was offended by the mixture of lime and lavender that I'd chosen. I had 
in fact consulted them, but after listening to them arguing the relative 
merits of lilac and magnolia for three hours, I decided that I'd better 
decide for them. I calmed them down by giving each of them a tub of 
yoghurt from my bag (you never know when a tub of yoghurt will be handy) 
and went backstage to view the chaos there. 

And chaos it was. The palones were getting ready for the event; changing 
into their dolly little costumes and fluffing up their riah. And the 
omes were hopping up and down excitedly, waiting for their turn to be 
hoisted. I'd given them all big numbers to wear on their vests, showing 
their weight in pounds (we were going to video it for the US market), 
and I wondered what their reaction would be when they found out about 
the deadlift. Oh well, worry about that later. 

It was 3pm, time to let in the Lift-and-Carry fans. And there were 
certainly lots of them. When word got out about the blokelifting 
contest, they'd flocked, simply flocked. We were overwhelmed with 
demand, and in the middle of all the other arrangements, I'd had to find 
a larger site to hold the event. I'd gotten in a few extra especially 
butch palones, to stop the fans from getting in backstage, and they were 
swaggering about looking tough. 

They fluttered around, looking for a good seat from which to view the 
action, setting up their monopods and cameras, and flashing 
occasionally. When they'd settled down, I realised that I'd forgotten to 
get an announcer for the show. I glanced over at Julian and Sandy, but 
they were sitting side by side all agog, and I instinctively knew they 
be useless. So, in the tradition of fluffers everywhere, I took matters 
in hand and got things going myself. 

I stood up on the stage, and smiled at the audience until they shut up, 
making it clear that nothing would happen until I got a bit of hush. And 
then: "Ladies and gentlemen", knowing full well that there were neither 
of those present, "Bona Productions, run by Julian and his friend Sandy, 
gives you ..." I scratched the mike with a fingernail, which sounds a 
bit like a roll of drum "the first annual Blokelifting Bonanza". The 
audience exploded (not literally, metaphorically) with excitement; you 
could tell, because some of then clapped a bit. 

We started with the overhead lift, lightweight division, 112 pounds or 
less. I assumed they'd have no trouble with their own poundage, so we 
started them off with 112 pound blokes. 

By the way, it isn't easy to find 112 pound blokes. That's only eight 
stones, you know, and most blokes are a lot heavier than that. I'd only 
managed to find one, so it was just as well that none of the girls had 
any problems with overheading him. Most of them went for a waist grab 
and hoist up, but one of them, I noticed, took the groin grip, which 
gives you two advantages. One is that it's closer to the center of 
gravity, and the other is that you don't have to do the yell, it's done 
for you. 

They all got the 112 pound bloke up, no problem, so we moved on to the 
126 pounder (moving up in one stone increments). One lifter couldn't get 
him up, but the others coped fine. On to the 140 pounders, and here a 
couple of the lighter girls couldn't get them up, leaving just two 
contestants. Only one of those could get the 154 pound bloke over her 
head, the other one got him halfway up, then dropped him. He bounced a 
bit, but I'd put down a couple of blankets just in case this happened, 
and he wasn't too badly hurt. 

So then we did the middleweight division overheads, and I started them 
off at 140. One couldn't get hers up, but the rest went on to the 154 
blokes, which eliminated two more, and then we brought out the 168s. 

At 168, a bloke is starting to look seriously well-nourished, I think. 
So for that size and up, I put leather belts round them, partly for the 
women's convenience, as something to get hold of, and partly because a 
de-trousering accident might have dire consequences for the future of 
the event, since we were presenting it as an athletic contest, not a 
strip show. 

The bigger blokes thinned the field down to just three, so out came the 
182 pounders, big beefy six-foot rugger players, 

Once you get up to that size, it's fairly easy for me to find 
participants. I have an arrangement with my local rugby club; I do quite 
a lot of work on them, both helping out in the baths after the game, 
when the tensions of the match need to be relieved, and also as a kind 
of Trojan Horse, a present sent to the opposing team before an important 
that leaves them more than somewhat shagged out. 

And so it's fairly easy for me to ask them favours, since I have them 
wrapped round my fingers, as it were. And I'd borrowed a selection of 
club members, with weights ranging from the lighter 182-pound wingers, 
fly-halves and hookers, all the way up to the large economy-size center 
backs, verging on the burly. 

So we moved on to the heavyweight division, the huge arms and lallies of 
the earth-shaker brigade, and as a warm-up, I had a real treat for the 
fans. I got all four up on stage, and they stood there, looking huge and 
butch, and my little 112-pounder trolled on like a dolly ome. One of them 
picked him up, and the game of toss and catch began. 

Maybe I should have warned him, but the look of surprise and fear on his 
face as he flew through the air was matched by the incredible enthusiasm 
of the audience, making comments like "Yes" and "OK". We British are 
ever phlegmatic and understated. But eventually, I had to stop the game, 
as the serious lifting was about to start, and we started with the 
182-pound hooker. 

All four of them got him up, no trouble, so we brought out the next 
bloke, fourteen stone of flab and bone, and each of them got him 
overhead too. The next bloke was a 210 pound job, and he proved too much 
for one of the contestants, and with the 224 pounder, the first 
contestant changed her grip from the belt-and-belly she'd been using, to 
a neck-and-groin, which although obviously easier for the lifter, is a 
bit hard on the liftee. Fortunately, I'd arranged a few spare blokes at 
this level, so I wasn't too worried, until the other contestants also 
changed over to that grip, and I began to wonder if maybe I shouldn't 
have outlawed it when I wrote the rules. "Oh well, too late now," I 
thought, "I can't change the rules in the middle of the contest." 

At 252 pounds, two of the contestants couldn't get the bloke overhead 
even with the neck-and-groin hold, so that gave me a clear winner of the 
overhead event, and all the fans cheered politely. 

By that time, it was 4 pm, so obviously we had to break for tea. The fans 
were all thirsty from their unaccustomed displays of enthusiasm, and the 
tea stall (manned by Gentle Gladys, a friend of mine who was temporarily 
thrown of work because the bar she bounced for had closed, the economic 
recession has many ramifications) did thriving business for the next 
half hour. The tea stall was my idea, selling tea, biscuits and 
dispensing yoghurt into paper cups from a five-gallon container (I know 
where to buy bulk yoghurt) attached to a pump that I'd borrowed from a 
friend. The yoghurt was a great success, and the revenue from the tea 
stall was enough to make the whole thing worth while, from my point of 
view. One of these days I'll have to tell you how Gladys got her 
nickname. 

The second part of the event was the squat, and to prepare for possible 
accidents, I laid a couple more blankets on the stage. Again, the 
lightweight girls went first, but because a thrust with the legs is so 
much more powerful than an arm lift, I'd made this into a repetition 
event. And to ensure that the squats were all the way, not the slight 
bends of the knee that one sometimes sees passing for squats, I'd 
positioned out two celebrity judges behind the contestants, so they 
could signal a good or a bad rep. So Julian and Sandy trolled up on 
stage, and assumed their positions with a flair and confidence that made 
it look like they'd been assuming similar positions for yonks. 


We started with the 210 pound blokes. They were lifted up to a platform 
by Gentle Gladys, and told to stand still. Then the competitor stood 
just in front, and they settled themselves round her shoulders. Then she 
took one pace forward, and started to squat. One ... two ... three and I 
waved at the audience, to get them to count in unison. A bit of 
participation never hurts. And Julian and Sandy seemed to miss the whole 
point of what they were supposed to be doing, and just counted along 
with the crowd. Oh well, as long as everyone's having fun. Eventually, 
each competitor reached the point where she couldn't get up from the 
squat position, so Gladys lifted the bloke off her shoulders and put him 
back on the stand for the next one. 

The middleweight division was the same, except they used bigger blokes, 
weighing in at 252 pounds. One of them toppled over, unbalanced by the 
weight, but fortunately, the competitor fell on the blankets, and the 
bloke wasn't too badly hurt by the fall. Gladys carried him off and I 
waved in a replacement, who seemed a bit reluctant until I explained 
that Gladys would be really unhappy if he didn't. I've noticed that 
quite a lot of blokes don't seem to like the thought of making Gladys 
unhappy. 

At the heavyweight end, I'd had a bit of a problem. My rugger players 
only go up to about 280 pounds, and I needed a lot more than that. So I 
came up with the idea of mounting one on another, which sounds a bit 
precarious, but is pretty safe really, as long as the one on top doesn't 
move. And I didn't think he would move, I'd given him a stiff dose of my 
own style of sedative. Half a dozen laps round the track is usually 
enough to make any man woozy, and he looked pretty much out of it by the 
time Gladys came to pick him up. As I took off my glove, I wondered if 
possibly I'd given him a bit too much, but it was too late to worry 
about that. 

The bloke at the top was only a 168, but the bloke underneath was one of 
my bigger chaps, a full 252, so the two together amounted to 420. That's 
not a lot, and I was a bit worried about whether I should have used 
three blokes, but I thought the reps would sort them out. 

It worked fine at first; the 168 climbed on top of the 252, and Gladys 
lifted the combo onto the platform, so the competitor could get 
underneath both and start squatting. And Gladys stood by in case it 
looked like she might be losing her balance, so she could stop the whole 
stack from falling over. 

And what happened then, was the one thing I hadn't planned for. The 168 
was so shagged out that he fell asleep, dozed off in front of all those 
people, while balanced precariously on the 252, who in turn was being 
pumped up and down by two of the most major lallies you'd ever hope to 
encounter, he slumped sideways, and the whole pile fell to the floor. 
Disaster! So I thought fast, mounted a 182 on a 238, and the contest 
continued. 

By the time the squat contest was done, it was 7pm, so we had a dinner 
break. "Back at 8pm, folks". And the fans trolled off to look for 
sustenance. I took Gentle Gladys round to the fish-and-chippy, it's by 
far the most economical way to feed someone her size, and she wrapped 
her eek round enough chips to sink a battleship, soaked in enough 
vinegar to float one. And then we trolled back to the competition. 

For the final event, we'd announced it as a deadlift. And it's obvious 
that to do a deadlift, the blokes have to be lying down, and the women 
have to reach down and grasp something to lift them by. But we didn't 
specify exactly what, not wishing to scare the blokes, and Julian threw 
a conniption fit every time I suggested the obvious. So I handed out the 
trusses and told them to get ready. One or two of them protested, but 
Gentle Gladys frowned at them a bit, so they pouted a bit, but put them 
on. I have to say, they did look rather silly in them. But the audience 
wasn't there to see the weights, it was the lifters they'd come for. 

The light and middle-weight events passed off without anything 
remarkable happening, but when we got to the heavyweight category, I 
realised the flaw in my plans. The biggest weight I had were the 252s, 
and even two of those, one in each hand, only amounts to 504 pounds. 
Which might sound a lot, but remember, this is a deadlift. And as one 
the middleweight women hoisted a pair of 224s, I thought, these 252s 
aren't heavy enough. 

So I thought fast, and drew some sketches on the back of an advertising 
leaflet for health food, and worked out how we could deal with this. So 
that when it was time for the heavyweights to deadlift, I had it all 
worked out. I showed my plan to the blokes, and they blenched, but 
Gentle Gladys talked them into going along with it; she can be very 
persuasive. She just rolled up one of her sleeves. 

So, the two 252s lay down side by side, and a 126 lay across their 
chests, and the 112 across their lallies. Which gave me an all-up weight 
of 742, and that would surely be ample; lighter weights could be gotten 
by taking off the 112 and replacing the 126 with a heavier weight. But 
that left one problem; piling them up like that meant that the women 
couldn't reach down to the trusses. 

However, I had a ready-to-hand answer for that one. If the women can't 
reach down, the blokes would have to reach up, and since they were 
already face-up, I knew exactly how to achieve that. A bit of careful 
fluffing would give eight or ten, or maybe even more (especially if they 
were GD enthusiasts on the juice) inches that could easily be grasped by 
the lifter. 

Well, you can imagine the fuss they made about that! And the sight of 
Gentle Gladys' knuckles didn't soothe them, either. It wasn't until I 
got the enema kit out of my bag and explained the alternative that they 
grudgingly agreed to go along with the idea. And, of course, once I got 
my fluffing hand in place, they were like lambs. So Gladys dragged them 
over to the lifting area, and we recommenced the contest. 

The fans were strangely subdued; up till now they'd been whooping and 
cheering, yelling and hollering, but now they just sat quietly, looking 
a bit nervous. I noticed that some of them had crossed their legs. The 
first competitor strode onstage, bent down enough to get a good grip on 
the weight handles, and gave a strong, steady pull. The weights slowly 
left the ground, the judges signalled "good lift" and she dropped the 
weights. There was a sort of sighing "Ahhh" from the audience, surely 
they hadn't expected some disaster? The human body is quite cohesive, 
bits do not detach easily. 

But it was at that point that my best-laid plans started to gang agley. 
The entire contest went pear-shaped as my weights, not liking the 
direction things were going, hoofed it over the horizon; two of them 
moving somewhat more slowly than the rest, but nevertheless making good 
enough time as to be able to evade Gentle Gladys, who isn't known for 
her speed of movement. A call for volunteers from the audience didn't 
help, either, which meant that the only thing left was to abandon the 
blokelifting contest at just the point when it was at its most exciting. 
Naturally, Julian and Sandy didn't offer refunds, arguing that since 99% 
of the contest had in fact taken place, the fans had been well serviced. 

Afterwards, I thought I'd better go and make it up to the two guys who'd 
been somewhat abused, otherwise I'd have problems when we came to 
organise the event next year. So a few days later, I called for Gladys, 
and we paid a little visit to the Rugger Club, timing it to arrive just 
as they came in after a match. I sorted out the two blokes who were 
still walking a bit awkwardly, and Gladys helped me to herd them into a 
nice quiet room. My approach was three-fold. I got Gladys to lift them 
overhead and position them face down just right so I could rub Oil of 
Wintergreen into the affected parts. Sure it stings a bit, but the 
effect is to stimulate the blood circulation, which aids recovery, and
they seemed to be thoroughly stimulated. Well, OK, it stings rather a 
lot. But they seemed to enjoy being held in mid-air while I applied 
the Wintergreen. 

But what really made them feel better, was when I got out the tape 
measure, and told them they'd each put on half an inch as a result.