Lifting Up And Dumbing Down Part 11

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 11

You groan as your alarm goes off and you open your bleary eyes. No dream this time, or at least not that you remember. You scratch at your chest and slowly rise to pull the earbuds out. Then you look up at the fathead again and offer a brief salute. “Morning, meathead.” You get up and scratch at your crotch as you make your way to the bathroom mirror. You yawn as you stretch, then flex your arm the same way you have been for the last two weeks. “One more day, and you’ll be a proper habit,” you mutter. You put on that easygoing smile you’ve been practicing and let out a chuckle as you relax your gaze, letting your eyes appear to glass over. You pitch your voice lower (you find that so much easier in the morning) and pat your bicep. “Morning, meathead.” A shudder passes through your body, and you feel a slight stirring below. Ever since you started on those recordings, that’s felt better and better to say. You still don’t think you’re nearly big enough to qualify, but time and effort has at least yielded some results. You see a bit more perk in the bicep than you had expected, and the surface is less yielding than it had been when you first started, giving off less of a smack and more of a dull thump on impact. After you’ve showered and dressed in your gym clothes, you make your way to the kitchen, where you fix a massive pile of blueberry pancakes to go with your protein shake, or whatever it was. Part of something called the bulk cycle. You eat a lot of carbohydrates, mostly healthier ones, and then use them to build up mass that you turn into more muscle. At least, that’s how Duff had described it, after Hank gave the order. It went against everything you had come to know as a model, but since this was for the sake of bodybuilding, you had little choice but to trust the experts. You ate ravenously, using the shake to wash down the quick bread, and finished in just a few minutes. You piled the frying pan into the sink and loaded up the dishwasher, taking just enough time to dust in some soap and start the cycle, before running back to grab your keys, wallet, and gym bag, then make your way out the door. You run the pre-workout pump track through your ears as you jog to the bus stop. Your heart races and you feel the surge as the recording goes into full swing. By the time you reach the bus stop, you feel too energized to stop, so you jog in place, while you wait. It’s been getting harder to just sit around for any period of time. If it weren’t for the music in your track, the bus ride would be absolute murder. By the time you arrive near the gym, you’re practically blowing through those doors, where a smirking Hank stands waiting. “Leg day,” he noted casually. You just smirk confidently, the music thumping in your ears. “Bring it on.”

“Damn, man. You plowed through those exercises today,” Duff noted as the two of you passed through the gym’s doors and into the frigid air. Then he laughed. “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes next time. Hank’s just gonna up his game, you know.” “Hey, I made it through the worst of it, didn’t I? I could’ve stopped coming, but I didn’t. If I can adjust to this, I can adjust to whatever he throws at me.” Duff shakes his head and chuckles. “Try to keep that in mind, when you’re going through hell.” “Shut up,” you laugh and punch him softly on the arm. “Seriously, though, I’ve gotta ask. What’re you listening to?” You shrug. “Custom tracks to help me focus as I work out. It’s part of the contract.” “Mandated?” “Pretty much. If there’s anything I don’t like in the script, I can take it back to the doc no problem.” You shrug. “It’s actually pretty cool. She put me in a carousel once, while we were testing to find the right blend for me. It was pretty cool.” “And you trust her?” “She’s a professional, and she strongly advised me against allowing the role to define me as I grow into it. All the tracks are designed to do is give me motivation and help me get into character for brief periods of time. Come to think of it, I haven’t tried one of those yet.” You tap your chin. Duff blushed, even as his lips curled into a smile. “Let’s just say you’re in for a surprise, then.” “A good one, I hope.” “Depends on how much you enjoy it.” Duff shrugged. “I like it, myself. It puts me in the right frame of mind when I’m working out.” “That reminds me, actually. When I first came in, Hank called you a beginner. If you’ve been working in the gym for so long on building up, why’d he say that?” “Probably because I haven’t really bulked up much yet. I’ve been sort of stuck at a plateau for a while now. I think it’s why he’s let us hang out so much. He probably wants us to train together, once you’re at a point where you can handle it.” “Handle it?” “Your body’s only just adjusting to the strain of a more serious workout on a regular basis. I work out almost every day now, both as part of my fitness program and my training here. It’s going to take a couple more weeks at least, before you’re ready to pump that kind of iron on a regular basis.” “But I will be able to one day.” Duff looks at you with a cocked eyebrow. “You sound almost excited about it.” “Determined. There’s a difference.” Duff smirked, then chuckled. “Not much. Think I might be able to watch you? I’m curious to see how you act.” “Think you can handle if I act like a total jerk?” Duff shrugged. “You don’t have to be, if you don’t want to be.” “Touche.” “I’ll take that as a yes.” “Hey!”

I totally agree one hundred percent. I may not like language much, but this artist has a point. One that, unfortunately, hits all too close to home for me. ^^;

It’s Not Fair

As someone pointed out to me tonight, and as something I have known for a long time and I know others know too, I’m just going to say it, even though it sounds childish:

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that the creators of our favorite shows are allowed to hang and display fan art of their shows on the walls, but they can’t even touch fanfiction.

It’s not fair that fan artists can be hired by authors and content creators to design content for them, but writers can’t.

It’s not fair that fan art gets thousands of notes, but fanfiction rarely hits more than double digits (all likes, no reblogs).

It’s not fair that we have to beg for responses to our work.

It’s not fair that people demand us for new updates moments after we put out a new one.

It’s not fair that if we charge “too much” for a commission, we don’t eat dinner that night, but I’ve seen fan art sketches get sold for over sixty dollars.

It’s not fair that every time a writer makes a post about how much it SUCKS to be a fanfiction writer, we get people in the comments saying “artists work hard too!”

We know they do.

It’s not fair that I have to put a disclaimer in to every post like this saying that I recognize how hard artists work, that I appreciate and adore them.

But fandom, every single fandom, creators included, is not fair to its writers.

And it fucking sucks.

The (former) Companion

We spoke just the other day.

You never left me after.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 25

You yawn as you rouse yourself from sleep. Your alarm clock has gathered a thick layer of dust. You haven’t had to use its snooze button for weeks now. You know your routine and you follow it to the letter. You turn to the side and flick on your lamp to bathe your room in its golden glow. Your eyes sting at the sudden influx, but once they’ve adjusted, you smile as you look down at the fine dusting of hairs that have grown in on your forearm. They accent the curvature of the muscle that you’ve been growing, making them appear larger. And bigger muscle is always better. After you take your time to admire this newest addition to your rapidly developing ruggedness, you throw back your covers and swing your legs around to touch the carpet. You wiggle your toes, working through the material, then rise and reach down to scratch at your jock strap through the compression shorts. A dark blue swath over the crotch highlights the heft you’ve developed from all that hard work you’ve put in at the gym. You approach your mirror and scrape at the stubble on your chin. “Lookin’ good,” you rumble, then smirk cockily as you bounce one pec, then the other, back and forth. A somewhat denser dusting of hairs has begun to sprout between the densely packed muscle, like weeds in the sidewalk. You stroke them briefly, and the smirk turns into a cocky sneer. “I think I like you.” You tense your pectorals as the hairs brush against one another, and you let out a grunt. “Mmm ... definitely going to like you.” You reach down casually to adjust the crotch in your underwear, then smirk as you eye the large PUMP circling your waistband over and over. Already, your fingers are twitching. Your heart is pounding. You turn to the weights and jump rope, flicking over your old progress photos taped to the mirror’s surface. The gradual shift from slim and toned to thick and muscular gives you a minor surge of pleasure, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself as that fog descends once more over your mind. “Time to work out, like a beast!” you growl as you pick up the dumbbells and start to lift. With each pump, you psyche yourself up with another phrase, repeating slogans over and over. “You are massive.” Pump. “You are big.” Pump. “You are powerful.” Lift. “You are growing.” Lift. “Growing bigger.” Grunt. “Growing stronger.” Growl. “Stronger muscle.” Pump. “Musclehead.” Good. “Big and buff.” Pump. “Coarse and gruff.” Grunt. “Just a bulky,” You grit your teeth. “Brawny,” Your chest heaves as sweat starts to bead on your skin. “Brute!” The roar tore through your throat, and it felt amazing. “Huhuhuh,” you rumble. “Fuck yeah.” Your phone buzzes on the stand, and you look down at the notification. Time to jump rope, DUMBASS. :p You chuckle again at the sight. Duff must’ve messed with your notifications, when you weren’t looking. You shake your head as you put the weights down and pick up the jump rope, glancing at your face briefly. “Dumbass.” You roll your eyes as you smile and then turn away to start your cardio. “I’ll show you who’s a dumbass.” You chuckle as the familiar clack of the rope snaps in your ears and the fog seeps in again.”Yeah, ... a real dumbass....”

You let out a titanic belch, after you finish another chug session on your protein shake, then place the container on the ground next to your feet. “So, yeah. Things are going great.” You flex a bicep and smirk. “As you can clearly see.” You lean back casually on the couch and spread your arms behind your head to form a makeshift headrest, while exposing your laterals under the Underarmor shirt that’s clinging to your torso. “Truth be told, I’m not so sure there’s much more you can teach me.” Doctor Schroder raised a brow archly. “Is that so?” “We’ve been reiterating and practicing for the last three months, Doc.” You reach up to scratch an itch on your pec and heave a sigh of relief and pleasure as it passes. “It’s literally just one line that we’ve been reciting over and over again, almost mindlessly, with a few splits to other pieces of dialogue to avoid boredom. Well, news flash, I’m bored.” “I suppose that means you’re bored of your contract, too?” “No, I’m bored of having to come here. Like I said, Doc, you don’t really offer me anything anymore. I’ve had my vocal training, and you already said I can’t do hypnosis with you anymore. What’s left to do? You’re not my therapist, and even if you were, I wouldn’t want to talk about anything.” You stretch and let out a long groan. “So, the way I see it, logically speaking, that means we’re done.” You rise up from the couch and reach down to grab your bottle. “I’ll see myself out.” Then you pause a moment, turn, and encompass the doctor’s hand with both of yours. “And thank you for all your help.” Then you turn and walk out the door, leaving behind a speechless voice coach. You walk into the waiting room, where a startled Polynesian girl gapes up at you in some surprise. You just look at her, jerk your thumb behind you, and say, “She’s ready for you now.” Then you swagger out the door with that confident stride, shoulders back, chest jutting out. After all, it’s nice showing off all that muscle, now that the weather’s warming up a little bit. You flip open your cell phone and select the speed dial for Harry. “Yo, Harry, it’s me.” You could practically hear the grin in his voice as he calls your name. “How are you?” he asks. “I wasn’t expecting a call from you for another week or so.” You shrug as you clop down the stairwell. Might as well get some more cardio in. Besides, the elevators take forever. “Nothing much. I was just wondering if you could have a talk with that gym for me. I’ve pretty much finished with Schroder. She’s taught me all I need to know, and things are getting kinda boring and repetitive with her. I’m fine doing that with weights, but people and conversations? I can only do that so many times, if you catch my drift.” “Completely,” Harry agreed. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’ve gotta warn you, kid. They may not like what they hear.” Your mouth pulls up into a smirk. “That’s what I have you for.” Barry sighed, then chuckled helplessly. You could just picture the light shining off his head as he shakes it back and forth in his office. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises, kid.” You shrug. “I’m good with that.” A piece of static suddenly goes off in your ear and you wince briefly, before your face goes suddenly slack. You grip the rail loosely as you stand there, taking up the majority of the staircase. “Kid. Kid, can you hear me?” “I hear you,” you say in a low monotone. The world is spinning as a dizzying pleasure fills you up. Your voice echoes in your head as your mouth opens and your lips move, and even though you don’t think you wanted to say anything else, you ... somehow do. And then, suddenly, it makes sense why, even as you hear yourself saying it.“Tell them I’m willing to take those recordings, if they’ll drop Schroder.” Brilliant idea. Brilliant! “Now that’s something I may be able to work with! I’ll get right on it.” “Yeah. You do that,” you say dreamily. “Leave everything to me, kid. I’ll call you back as soon as I get the details. You just focus on your role.” Focus on the role. “Yeah. I’ll ... do that.” “See ya, kid.” “See ya....” The phone clicked with the end of the call, and the fog lifted immediately. You shake your head, confused as you sway on your feet, grasping the railing with one free hand. “That was ... odd,” you mutter to yourself. You shake your head one more time, return your phone to your pocket, retrieve your bottle from your gym bag to guzzle a few gulps of your protein shake, then resume your descent. A smile pulls at your lips as you begin to bring your legs higher and higher. “Let’s make this interesting,” you mutter. Then you’re high-kneeing your way down the stairs, puffing rhythmically out your chest as you feel the vibration of each impact racing up your legs. The smile soon widens into a grin. “Much better.”

Back in his small corner office, Harry smirked as he laid the receiver down. He leaned back in his swivel chair and let out a contented sigh as he looked over to the tape recorder he’d played into his phone’s mic. He reached into the drawers and pulled out the CD you’d shoved back at him just a few weeks prior. Then he pulled up his contacts and scrolled briefly, until he found the right number. The receiver rung once, twice, and then someone picked up. “Hey, Harry here again. I played the trigger. Kid responded just like you’d hoped. He wants to quit working with the Schroder dame, in exchange for taking the recordings, though. Says he’s learned all he can from her.” He paused to listen for a time, then nodded. “Good. I’m glad that doesn’t complicate things. I assume I can expect the next milestone payment in my account in the next twenty-four hours?” His smile widened into a sneer. “Of course. It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Harrison.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 19

“She took your recordings away? That’s harsh, man,” Duff said as the pair of you worked at the bench press. Hank was down with a nasty head cold, so he’d appointed his right hand man to take his place as you continue towards your goal of muscular perfection for the part. Since Duff still had class requirements, though, you’d agreed to shift your workout schedule closer to the evening for his sake. It actually made for a much more intimate setting. There were a lot fewer gym goers this close to closing time, so they had free rein over the gym. “Yeah, it sucks. I really liked where it was going. I mean, sure, I’m a bit more aggressive than I used to be, but the rest of my changes have all been positive so far. And it just feels so good, you know?” Duff chuckled. “Working out always does, after a while. Healthiest addiction you’ll ever have.” “I wouldn’t call it an addiction.” “Mmhmm. And just how much time do you dedicate each morning to exercises, before you start your day, despite having to come to the gym later?” You decide not to deign that question with a response, focusing on pushing past your previous limit, instead, to add a new set to your reps. “That’s what I thought, dumbass,” Duff joked playfully. “M’not a dumbass,” you grunt as you thrust through another particularly difficult press. Your arms are trembling and sweat is starting to bead your forehead. “Bro, everyone’s a dumbass, sometimes.” A hint of a smirk crosses your lips as you growl, struggling for every inch. “Guess it ... takes one ... to ... know one.” You roar triumphantly as you finally reach your peak and lock your arms in place. Your chest heaves and you feel the sweat that’s pooled along your back. Duff helps you to guide the bar back into place, then offers a hand to pull you up. “Well, yeah, of course it does. I’m smart around the gym and talking about muscles and stuff. That doesn’t mean I don’t have trouble with other stuff, sometimes.” He shrugged. “Happens when you’re hyper focused on one thing.” He chuckled. “To tell you the truth, it’s kind of funny, when it happens. I like to use it to troll people, sometimes, just to see the looks on their faces.” “Really?” Duff chuckles as he leads you towards the squat rack. “Oh, yeah. All the time. I like to fake zoning out at a store checkout or with some of my classmates, during a project. Two words. Fucking hilarious.” You wince. “Do you really have to curse?” “You did it.” “Yeah, the one time.” “And you’ll do it again, and again, and again,” Duff said matter-of-factly. “Sure, it’ll start off as an accident. A tiny slip here, a few sprinkled there. Maybe you’ll get jump-scared by someone. Or maybe some jackass is going to piss you off at just the right moment. But once you start using them, they have a way of sort of seeping into your brain. They burrow deeper and deeper, rewriting thoughts, crossing different paths in your synapses. And before you know it, you’re as hooked to them as you are to pumping iron. They just flow out of you, and they all feel totally natural.” He reached over to the weight storage rack and started mounting plates on the bar. “It doesn’t mean you’re going to be using them in every sentence, just that they’ll be there when it’s the right time. And then, before you know it, someone’s gonna call you out on it, and you’ll realize it. You’ll smack your forehead, and suddenly, either out loud or in your head, you’re going to say, ‘I am such a dumbass.’ And you’ll realize it’s okay to admit it.” Your head felt like it was spinning. The more Duff explained, the harder it was to concentrate. A strange sense of pleasure, almost eagerness, flooded through your body, and you felt that familiar tingle as the blood flowed down into your crotch. You feel something rising in your throat. You try to bite it back, but in your addled state, you can’t seem to fight it. “Fuck,” you hiss slowly, and your body is racked by another shudder. Duff smirked victoriously. “Told ya. Now get under that rack, dumbass. You’ve got squats to do.”

Later that night, you swaggered home with that bow-legged gait you always seem to use after a good leg day. Without your tracks to listen to, the bus ride had been kind of a drag, but you managed to pass the time with an occasional well-timed stretch and flex. It almost turned into a sort of game. See how many times you could pull it off, without arousing suspicion from the other passengers. You scratch your crotch idly, without so much as a second thought. There weren’t any people on the street who’d notice, anyways. They were all inside by now, having dinner or watching a movie, or whatever crap it was they did to waste time. You pull up short for a moment, mid-scratch, then furrow your brow. Since when did you think of those activities as a waste of time? You shake your head and sputter briefly, then resume your tromping swagger. Come to think of it, it’s been a while since you were online. Maybe you should take the time to relax a little, veg out, while you drink your shake. You continue to mull this train of thought over as you resume your stride. The moment you’re home, you lumber over to the sink and open the dish washer, where a neat row of identical bullet mixing cups sit, awaiting your touch. You grunt to yourself, making a mental note to clear out the washer later. For now, you needed your shake. A white paper sign sits on the wall behind the blender, reading: GAINZ. You chuckle and roll your eyes as you lift up your arm for another flex. The pump from your workout hasn’t died out entirely, and you watch as the flat surface rises into a hill. You rub it absently, heedless to the stifling noise of the blender. “Gonna make you a peak,” you grunt to it. Gotta make those GAINZ. You continue to rub the muscle in a sort of half daze. You’re not sure exactly how long you’ve been at it, but by the time you manage to break yourself away from the motion, you notice the shake has finished blending and your shirt is crumpled on the floor. You don’t pay it any mind as you you kick it out of the way, walk over, detach the cup, and twist off the blender attachment to run under the water as you have every day, twice a day, for the last month and a half. Your eyes flicker over the series of posters and slogans you’ve accumulated. Brutish men in singlets and loose workout gear pose for the camera or are caught mid-set. All of them seem so focused, oblivious to the rest of the world. You look down pitifully at your own diminished form and feel the familiar bile stirring within. You hate being so tiny. You thought you were happy before, but now ... now that you’ve seen the possibilities with your own eyes, experienced the growth.... “It’s not enough,” you whisper to yourself, then take a swig of your shake. Motivational phrases plaster the walls along the hall leading to your room. EDUCATION IS IMPORTANT BUT BIG BICEPS ARE IMPORTANTER. No Pain, No Gain. You pause in front of that familiar post you found online. A thick, muscled model is leaning back on some kind of cushion. His eyes are obscured, because his head is tilted back and blurred, but his torso is completely bare. In a manner almost like a prayer, you reach out with your free hand to touch the caption next to the head, then bring your hand back to touch your own head. EMPTY THIS. You’re not sure whether you thought it or said it, but it doesn’t really matter. You perform the the same motions as before, this time with the second caption, and rub over your abs, before thumping against your pec. GROW THIS. You grunt as that pleasurable fog starts to descend again. MINDLESS MEATHEAD The picture showed a heavily muscled builder staring blankly ahead in little more than a pair of short shorts and a switchback cap. A punching bag hung in the background behind him. “Huhuhuh....” You’re not sure if that was you or your imagination, but for some reason, it doesn’t really matter. You find it sort of funny how quickly these meatheads have filled your home. At the same time, though, you can’t picture having those walls without them now. They ... belong here. Muscle belongs here. Another sip, and suddenly you’re sitting in front of your computer. You’re ... not sure how you got there. You look absently toward the corner of your bedroom, where an exercise ball and a weighted jump rope have joined your dumbbells. After all.... Gotta get your morning workout in. You nod your head absently. You know it to be true. Hank told you. Bodybuilders work day and night. You click your monitor out of sleep mode and look over your history. Health sites, diet tips, supplements. You feel two pills on your tongue. You lift your cup. You swallow. You put it down. “I lift things up and put them down....” A dull chuckle forces its way out from your chest, aided by the weight of your muscles. It’s natural to laugh this way now. “Huhuhuh.” And it feels so right. You search the net for a time, reviewing some of the previous favorites and posts that you’d found most prominent in your web history. Finally, your shake is empty. Your head is in the clouds, and you grin dopily as you rise from your computer, not even bothering to close out of the browser. You drift over to your bathroom mirror, where you do as you have done every morning and night, like clockwork. You flex. And, once again, it feels so right. Unbidden, a primal growl rises in your throat, followed by a guttural, “Fuck, yeah.” You don’t even care how your throat itches after. It was worth it. You tromp over to the shower, and your pleasure-addled brain pops up one of those friendly tips Duff is so fond of giving. It’s better to take a cold shower, after the workout. Makes your muscles recover even faster. Faster recovery. Faster growth. You couldn’t get there fast enough. For the first time, you experience the icy surge. And suddenly, the buzz is gone. You yelp in shock as your whole body cringes. Your chest heaves against your will, taking sharp gulping breaths. You can’t get out of that stream fast enough. “Okay, note to self, ease into the cold.” Your teeth chatter as you adjust the knob to turn up the temperature. Then you sigh in relief as the warmth washes away the shock. It takes a while, but you eventually find a balance for the level of cold your body is willing to take, and go with that first. You furrow your brow as you think back to your actions tonight. That ... wasn’t usually like you. The actions felt almost like a dream. The way you flexed, passed through the halls, cast off laundry like it was nothing. For the first time since this venture began, you don’t flex, after you leave the shower. You comb your hair in a handsome part and make your way through your apartment. Each new discovery opens your eyes wider and wider. A thick layer of dust has covered practically everything. The television hasn’t been used, and the remotes are laid neatly by the console. The air smells musty, and the floor is littered with old shirts you haven’t bothered to pick up, after your workouts. Old dishes are piled high in the sink from the many times you promised you were going to clear the dishwasher, but never did. You spent the next two hours clearing, dusting, and cleaning up. You sigh in relief when you reach your room. At least it was somewhat cleaner than the rest of the apartment had been. Your laundry hampers were overflowing, and the majority of hangar space had been occupied by underarmor shirts, track suits, singlets, and other workout gear. Designer shoes had been replaced with Nike, cleats, New Balance, Adidas, Asics. Boxes had been neatly stacked and packed on the sides, out of the main view of the closet entrance. You cut one open, and there are your old shoes and belts. Formal loafers, smart wingbacks, Ferragomos, Hermes, Gucci! “What have I been doing?” you murmur. You rise disbelievingly to your feet and shake your head. Even your bed is an absolute mess. The covers are crumpled in a lump on the far corner of the mattress. Your bed clothes haven’t fared much better, laying haphazardly over a half-exposed mattress pad. A full length mirror you don’t remember buying has been bolted to the wall next to your little workout setup. Then you realize, to your horror, that you’ve been walking around practically naked in your apartment for the last two or so hours. Your race for your drawers, only to find them bereft of the most basic garment you seek. All that remains to choose from are the infamous jock strap and its cousin, the posing trunks. You bite back the urge to curse with a supreme force of will and snarl as you snatch the strap. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire as you slide the bands in place, feeling the air flowing over your bare skin. You do notice with some surprise, however, how well the pouch supports your privates, and you can’t help but catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The bulge is definitely more attractive than those boxers you used to wear. And it does feel comfortable. So very ... comfortable. The beginnings of a smile pulls at your lips as your arm begins to rise automatically to assume that favorite position. Then you gasp, slamming your hand over your bicep with a heavy smack and pulling your arm back down again. You shake your head, dusting out the cobwebs, and quickly unpack some of your more formal dress. A casual set of slacks and a long sleeved button shirt would do nicely. At least ... they would have, were it not for the fact that none of them would fit you anymore. You glare at the clothes swinging mockingly on their hangers. “I hate you all,” you growl. It may have been petty, but considering you’d nearly lost practically everything you used to be in the persona you’d developed, it seemed justified. You resolutely refused to indulge in the pleasurable tingling that spread as you donned a pair of tight compression pants and a thick hoodie, forcing yourself to walk to the laundry closet, despite the nervous energy you feel rushing through your muscles. You sorted the laundry into piles with a deliberate slowness, being careful to ensure nothing was mixed accidentally. It was difficult to maintain focus on the task, but you weren’t about to let laziness cause your clothes to degrade faster. ... Even if you did get new clothes with every modeling gig. You sighed in relief as you lifted the last garments from your first load into the drum, added the detergent, and began the long wash. You smiled in contentment, proud of your accomplishment. However, boredom soon asserted itself again, and you sighed as you looked over the remaining loads. At this rate, you wouldn’t be in bed till after midnight. You sigh again as you look over to the dumbbells and jump rope. You feel a familiar lurching in your chest, almost like an ache as your fingers twitch. “Maybe,” you lick your suddenly dry lips, “maybe just a little cardio. To pass the time.” Soon the rhythmic cycle of whoosh and snap is echoing in your ears as you jump up and down, up and down in perfect time to the washer’s sloshy spinning. ... You don’t even hear the buzzer.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 17

Here’s part 17. Credit goes to Jocknotized for part of this. I drew inspiration from one of his captions, and lifted that portion of text to apply here, since it fit the stereotype the character is becoming and hypnosis is all about repetition, until it sinks into the brain.

Bright flashes are strobing in your face as you stare helplessly, silently into the spiral. You want to say something, want to move, but you can’t. And it just keeps spinning, bending, and twisting over and over. The lines rush out over you like so many waves as you descend into it. And suddenly, you feel like you’re drifting again. Drifting, like that one time with the one lady whose name you ...  can’t ... quite recall. There’s a voice there, whispering in the background, murmuring with the trickling as you slide ever so slowly down along the spiral. It’s almost like an amusement park ride, only warm and relaxing, instead of fast and thrilling. You’re ... not sure which you like more.  You like this better. Down and down. Deeper and deeper. Slower and slower. Feeling those warm, gentle waves lapping as the spiral design flashes, lapping away at your thoughts. It’s funny, how easy it is to just let it happen, bro. You feel a tingling in your crotch. It’s so good, like the tingle spreading through your body as you listen, listen to the murmuring water, listen to the whisper. Feels so good tight, bro. Tight is good, bro. A smile pulls gently at your lips. Bro. That funny little joke between you and Buff Duff. It’s turned into a game. Every time you see him, you have to win call him bro, and he calls back. It’s sort of funny cool, really.  Cool, like this ride. So cool. So steady. Steady as the voice that trickles just on the edge of your hearing. Hearing is good. You want to hear it. You want to listen up, bro. Listen good. Listen tight. So tight, you can’t break free. But ... why would you want to, when it feels so good? And good is tight. And listening is good. Tighter and tighter. Deeper and deeper. Listening, like a good bro should. Cause bros are tight. And you’re tight. So tight. Tight, bro. Good, bro. Good bro.... Bro.... You’re a ... bro? Just a..... What is it saying? ‘Cause that is.... So deep. The voice. Deeper and deeper. Like the spiral. Descending. So ... prett--NO! Have to ... have to stay focused. Have to listen. Cause listening’s good. Good is tight. Hold tight to the voice. Listen to it. What’s it saying? Just a big..... You shudder. You feel your muscles twitch as your voice catches. Your chest is expanding before your eyes as you stare at the spiral. You can’t help yourself. “Big....” you mutter in some surprise. The tingling erupts full force, and you’re lost in ecstasy as your muscles begin to inflate. ‘Cause that is what.... What? “You say somethin’, bro?” Your voice sounds deeper. Your eyes are feeling somewhat heavy. Just a big dumb.... Bro! Your eyes roll in the back of your head as the pleasure redoubles. A low chuckle escapes your lips as it huffs out of your hulking chest so easily. “Dumb....” It takes a few minutes, before you can gather your sluggish thoughts enough to realize how funny that is. Big and dumb. What must that be like? Don’t think you’ll ever know. You chuckle again. “Huhuhuhuh....” ‘Cause that is what you are. What you are. You look down at yourself. Your muscles have practically exploded. You feel the heft of your manhood weighing inside your ... trunks? No, it’s a speedo, bro. Bros show off. Big bros show off. And you’re definitely big. So, since you’re so big, you should, uh ... uh ..... You’re just a big dumb jock bro, ‘cause that is what you are. You hear it this time, and it clicks. “Bro,” you gasp. Then you chuckle. It feels so good! ‘Cause that is what you are. That is ... what you are. Just a big dumb jock bro.... Just a big dumb jock bro. That is what you are. That is what you are. “I’m a big, dumb jock bro. ... Yeah.....”

You blink blearily as you slowly come awake to the blaring of your alarm clock. You hear the dull murmur of static next to your ears and find, much to your surprise, that your earbuds have fallen out during your sleep. The monitors and their hanging attachments that were bolted to your bed the previous afternoon are displaying a constantly moving spiral. You sigh and reach back to flick the switch that will turn them off. Then you follow the earbuds back to the player and look over the file nae on the display. You furrow your brow in confusion. “What’s an RP file doing playing in my sleep? Did I push the randomizer or something?” You stretch, yawn, then scratch your crotch, before turning to get up. You push the arm of the screen at your bedside back against the wall, then stride over to the rack, where your dumbbells are waiting for you. You pull off your night shirt and toss it casually on the floor, leaving you bare-chested as you reach forward and grasp the handles. It’s gotten much easier being shirtless in the apartment. Maybe you’ll be willing to try it in the gym sometime later, if the situation calls for it. But for now, .... “Time to get to work.”