Freedom

Freedom

I’d put in my time, followed every exercise, modified my diet, changed my schedule, altered my social life. Anything it took to get the body I wanted.

Anything.

I worked till my muscles were sore. I pressed until I was ready to drop dead. Eventually, my body just went sort of ... numb. Then I’d push it to the next limit, and my body would ache again. I learned to love that ache. I yearned for it. Whatever it took to carve my body into that perfect bodybuilder shape.

I’d look into a mirror to check my progress, and I would laugh. I used to motivate myself with speeches or the occasional affirmation. Eventually, those would shorten to a few words. Then grunts and growls. I would flex and watch the veins rise from my skin, then bare my teeth. It became about power, strength. The bigger I got, the better the high.

I wanted, needed more. I was willing to do anything.

And then I found it. You’ve heard of Fight Club. Well, this place follows the same premise. A friend, ... well, more like a packmate, really, showed me where to go. Sort of an exclusive club, he’d said. A place where we could really beast out.

I’ll tell you what, that place taught me the meaning of being a big fish from a small pond swimming to the ocean. The men there worked with only one thing on their minds, getting as big as they could possibly get. This “friend” introduced me to the system. All I had to do was work out as hard as I could and grow as big as possible. Cameras would cover everything I did, but sacrificing my privacy seemed a small price to pay for the promise of greater gains.

The place was run almost like a kennel or a prison yard. I’d get my own cell with a twin long bed and a connecting bathroom. A thick metal plate door provided the entrance to my own private gym for the days I wanted to work alone. The walls were lined with mirrors, so I could watch myself grow.

There were only a few rules in the place. No fighting among the builders, and make sure to be in the cells again by lock-up. Meals were provided to us, and we were instructed to finish every piece of them. Sports drink powders and formulas of every kind were available for us to use. I can still recall that incredible sensation of gulping a whole bottle full without breaking a sweat and getting back to work.

The highs I got from those pumps, the sheer power and rush of endorphins. I’d never felt anything like it.

The first few days were a struggle. I had to prove myself to the rest of the workers, show them I was serious about making the gains. It took time to get to their level, but I was determined. The music helped. They’d play things over the speakers. I’m not sure what they were, but they got me riled up every day. That music filled my ears and I was awake like that. It set my pace for morning prep. I showered to it, brushed my teeth to it, got changed to it. Then the track would change, the locks on the doors would disengage, and I would file out to join the others.

Half the time, I couldn’t even recall what food got put in front of me during my workouts. I just wolfed it down and got back to work. I became a creature of habit. I grew as large as the others, and I reveled in that fact. The thought of steroids did cross my mind, but I found no negative effects, whatsoever. No mood swings, no frailties, and best of all, no *ahem* shrinking body parts.

Someone would take my clothes and clean them for me, then return them again. It was a continuous process. I’m still not sure how the laundry crews kept everything straight, but they did. Not that it really mattered, once I shredded out of my old clothes. Once that happened, I really became one of the pack. I got my own set of gym clothes and shoes, just like the rest of the guys. And the bigger I got, the less my shirts seemed to cover. To this day, I still prefer tanktops to anything else. But can you really blame me for wanting to show all this off?

Anyway, you know that numb feeling I mentioned before with my body? Well, the brain sort of functions the same way. If you do the same thing long enough, it’s sort of gonna get bored and shut off, because there’s no stimulation for it, or at least minimal stimulation. That’s the best way I can describe what happened. My brain decided to switch off for a while. It went numb, and my muscles did all the work for me.

I don’t know how long it lasted, really. I just know that when I came to myself, I was this giant of a man with a masculine beard and a perfectly sculpted body. I hardly recognized myself in the mirror. I had everything I wanted, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a different desire. I wanted to show off. I wanted to actually interact with friends, family, people.

You’d think the men at this facility should have counted, but they don’t. They didn’t. Not because I worked with them every day, but because they function on a different level. Their brains were numb, like mine had been. I still remember when I chose to leave. And you know the funny part? The door was never locked. I tested them. None of them were, not really. Maybe they were engaged just before wake-up or something, but it seemed that was all part of the training regimen.

I’d approach a cell and I’d see what, for all intents and purposes, was an animal. Some would ignore me in favor of flexing or sleep. Others would come to the door and glower at me, as if I were some sort of threat. Half the time, I felt my body want to rise to the challenge. But I didn’t want that. Not anymore.

I’d gotten what I wanted. I still remember the shock on the attendant’s face when I approached the stairs that led to the exit.

“They won’t accept you out there, you know. You’ll just be another mindless meathead to them.”

I hesitated for just a moment, but then calm took its place. I’d done my time. I’d gotten what I wanted. If hypnosis was involved in the club, then I guess my subconscious decided it had had enough. I don’t know. All I do know is I smiled at him and responded, “Then I’ll just have to prove them wrong.”

I’m not a meathead, and I’m not some dumb animal. I was once, probably, during my stay there. But I’m not anymore. I’ve worked hard to show that to everyone I meet, and I’m happy where I stand now. I’m a certified trainer with a steady income and a gym that I love, helping customers that I have great personal relationships with.

Is it hard? Of course it is. I usually work out to blow off steam and let my stress go. But I’ll tell you what, it’s worth it. Every second is worth it.

I’m not some dumb animal. I’m a human being, and I’m glad to be a properly functioning member of society.

Looking back, I’m sure you’re wondering if I would make the same decision to leave again, if I had the chance to go back.

I don’t even have to take the time to wonder about it. I’ve had plenty of time to go over it all.

My answer is yes.

Pavel Fedorov

What an incredible story! I had no idea.

dare i say that stuffed animals are one of the single greatest inventions of all time and im thankful every day for the fact that someone thought to make animals but in huggable plush form…..saved me from a lot of bad nights and nightmares as a kid, i love you stuffed animals

This story is a call back to an old series I never completed and need to continue, and since I haven’t done anything military in ages, and I promised a proper military story to @armybrute​ for the help he gave me. I hope that this will suffice as a good and proper story while I ponder how to move forward with Military Daze again.

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Ten Hut

“You’ve been doing such an excellent job.” You hear the voice echoing in your ear. You’ve heard it for so long now. Even when you’re not in class, it follows you. All you have to do is look into the mirror to see how much you’ve changed. Your sweat pants cling to your trim waist, while your swollen muscles press so prominently against your shirt. Army green. It’s almost as though the two were one. “Well done, Private.”

Your parents couldn’t afford to send you to the prestigious academy, but the United Armed Forces Military Academy (UAFMA) was willing to offer you a place in their new Remote Officer program. The school website had a digital library with all the materials you would need to study in order to graduate with honors. They even had audio files to listen to on the GO ARMY.

“Thank you, Sir,” you reply. CO’s voice was kinda scary at first, but once you got used to it, really accepted the fact he was your Commanding Officer, things got easier. You weren’t a troublemaker, and he knew you weren’t a troublemaker. He knew you were there to learn, to listen, to excel.

And boy did you excel.

Hours passed in front of that computer screen like minutes. Tactics, mathematics, history, science, English. Your CO was with you every step of the way. His voice. His smile. That flat buzz cut. It was deep, soft. But it rang with authority, an authority he wasn’t afraid to use if you messed up.

Your parents expressed concern over the fitness portions of your credit. Naturally, this was a military academy. They weren’t about to overlook that necessity.

Drop and give me twenty, maggot!

You could barely manage one the first time. You weren’t sure why you kept trying. Maybe you feared expulsion. Maybe you were tired. Or maybe it was something about his voice. You just had to do what he told you.

And boy was he brutal.

Any time you showed a lack of effort or improvement, he’d be on you. You learned how to explain yourself quickly and effectively. You had to. Otherwise, he’d order you to do more exercises. Debates were encouraged when appropriate. You’d just be checking,

One, two.

One, two.

CO would respond. Back and forth, back and forth.

Got kinda hard to focus sometimes, though. especially when you talked about the pros and cons of various fitness styles. Strength training, cardio, aerobics, anaerobics, diets, supplements, all that stuff for getting buff.

And damn did it feel good to be buff.

You usually lost those debates.

Actually, you hardly even ... remember ... those....

...

What were you thinking about again?

Radio ops was some of the most fun you had in the courses. Analyzing sound waves, crossing signals, identifying codes. Nothing advanced, but it was something ... stimulating. Defending your methods when they were challenged helped to sharpen your tongue, but you didn’t really have the balls to go against your CO for a while. Not till your body really started growing, anyway.

And people noticed.

Old school bullies tried to intimidate you, but they were nothing compared to your CO. Took a good beating for that little adventure when you told them as much. That was when your curriculum changed. Nobody beats up a member of UAFMA and gets away with it.

CO had you in the gym every day. You’d lift weights, jog, squat, do burpies, whatever he wanted. And the whole while, you’d be following along. Sir, yes, Sir. Three square meals a day. Four upstart teens to teach respect. Five sets in every exercise.

Tic toc. Tic toc.

It became easier and easier to keep up the pace. 

Order and discipline became your creed. Follow the program, get the results. It’s that simple. Always is in life. Constant study made finding answers simple. You retained the pertinent tactical data. You hadn’t used your X-bo in months. You had a schedule to keep, after all. You had to build, had to defend the honor of your school.

Honor. Integrity.

Service. Duty.

Obedience. Sacrifice.

Stick to the mission. Stick to the mission.

And you had.Your six-pack was harder than steel, your biceps sculpted pistons, your chest a mighty bellows, your shoulders broader than mountains.

Combat training came at the dojo. CO would arrive personally to ensure you knew how to handle yourself. And you followed his commands to the letter.

“Ours is not to reason why....”

You straightened your shoulders in response and snapped to attention. “Ours is just to do and die.”

You do. You do. You do.

You do your exercises. You do the work. You do the planning. You do the learning. You do the following. You do the obeying.

Don’t blink. Don’t think.

Do.

Do.

DO AS YOU’RE TOLD.

“Yes, Sir,” you say in your deep, deep voice. Deep, like your CO. Deeper and deeper every day. That’s what he’d said. And it happened. Because a good soldier obeys. A good soldier does as he’s told.

Seventy times seven, the bible says. Your study in numerology taught you that was meant to mean perfection. And you had to be perfect for this op. Seven times, you practiced. Seven hundred. Seven thousand.

Study. Train. Prepare. Repeat.

Eight months you worked. Eight months you slaved. Eight months, you grew into the stud you see before you now. You’re fit for service. Fit to dispense a little justice, and a little lesson in discipline.

“Are you ready, Private?” Your CO is asking you a question, and you feel the growl rising in your throat.

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

The buds are already cupped in one hand, the players in your pocket. All you need is the command.

“Report for the op.”

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The squad was professional and focused. Your fellow cadets fell in line for debriefing, which you presented flawlessly. There was no room for weakness or fear in the academy. Courage would win that battle time and again.

The fight had been a short one, in a secluded corner of town where there wouldn’t be any witnesses and no cameras to record the incident.

Nine squad members marched onto the lot. Eight cut off the exits. Seven seconds passed to get the offenders’ attention. Six more to explain the retribution to come. Five combatants stood off against each other. Four juvenile delinquents were easily defeated. Three were tied up and plugged into the players. Two leaders faced off, until one was restrained.

You watched with a cold satisfaction as the manic light fled from their gazes. Their shoulders relaxed. Their breathing deepened and steadied. Finally, they slumped forward with gaping mouths and hooded lids. A curt order had them released them from their bonds. You smiled briefly as you looked to your men and they to you. These boys were in for a rude awakening, and you were going to give them hell as their CO. You braced yourself, took a deep breath, puffed up your chest, then roared at the top of your lungs.

“TEN HUT!”

Twelve fell into line as your CO drove up in the unmarked van. You salute him and grin. A massive hand claps you on the shoulder.

“Good job, Soldier.”

The pleasure and pride were overwhelming as you straightened and clacked your heels together. “Sir, thank you, Sir!”

He chuckled, then looked at the former bullies with a wicked sneer. “Let’s get these recruits oriented. You’re about to get some new classmates.”

does that post about all men being themselves also extend to trans men? bc i'm a transguy and i really like your stories :D!

That’s a tough question for me to answer, because my particular branch of Christianity preaches that the gender we are born is the gender of our spirit, and as such does not support transgender operations. Therefore, I cannot support such a choice either.However, my religion also teaches me to love and respect those who choose that path, even if the doctrines I believe in don’t support it. So, while I cannot personally support your choice, I understand the reasons behind why you decided to go through that operation to become a man, and I respect your right to have made that decision.

So, I guess the long of the short is, I’m gonna let you do what you want and leave the judgment for the big man upstairs. Meanwhile, I’ll treat you like a regular person choosing their path in life, the same as anyone else. We each have to follow our consciences where they lead us. And though we may differ in our roads, choices, beliefs, etc., I like to think we can still all be civil and good friends with one another.

I hope I’m getting my feelings across properly. It’s always difficult addressing this kind of a question, and I don’t want to cause offense to anyone.

Writing is something that you can never do as well as it can be done. It is a perpetual challenge and it is more difficult than anything else that I have ever done – so I do it. And it makes me happy when I do it well.

Ernest Hemingway (via writingdotcoffee)

Words of truth.

The Clothes

The clothes make the man, or so they say. Lance had been wearing the same shirt to his workout for years. He’d used the gorilla as his standard, his ideal. He was FOCUSED. He was DRIVEN. He was a BEAST.

And he was alone.

He sighed to himself as he stared into the mirror. The veins and striations stood out in sharp contrast with help from the single emergency light that flickered behind him. Yes, he had worked hard to get where he was, to earn his place as the top dog in the gym, to start his own business.

He loved his muscles, and was grateful for them. But that didn’t make him an invincible giant, despite what the size of his biceps and traps might say to the contrary. And words have the power to strike in places where one is still weak, even after making everything else strong.

Fuck you, man. At least I actually have a life. The only thing you have is your stupid weights. It’s people like you that give gym goers a bad name. You’re just a stupid fucking gorilla! Get your head out of the weight room and get a life, then talk to me about goals. I’m done with this.

“Is that ... really all I am?” He stared at his face intently. The bright red beard helped to accentuate the defined square aesthetic that he had worked so hard to develop. He could feel the weight of his muscle rising and falling with every breath. The tanktop straps stretched over his broad shoulders and brushed against the boulders his pectorals had become. His hands clenched on the edges of the dumbbells that rested on their rack in front of the mirror. “Am I just some ... dumb animal?”

The light flickered and he grunted as the shadows licked over his face, obscuring his eyes and casting them in darkness, so only the barest glint of light shone through. His brow furrowed as he felt the phantom tingling of a thousand tiny hands massaging, kneading, pricking.

He hunched forward as his traps tensed and he grit his teeth. “Am I really just a gym gorilla? Is that all there is to me?”

His ears tingled. His toes flexed in time with his clenching hands. His calves felt engorged, both from the workout he’d just finished and the tension that now held him captive.

The light flickered again. He leaned forward to get a better look at himself. His gym shorts hugged tightly against his glutes as he bore his sharpened canines. Sure, they were bigger than the average human,but was that really justification for such an insult? He’d worked so hard to get where he was. He should be proud. Why didn’t he feel proud? Why didn’t he feel angry?

He grunted as he light flickered again and reached up with a thick finger to scratch at the higher skull ridge. He’d heard it all his life.

Neanderthal, missing link, cave man.

It wasn’t his fault.

His unibrow bunched up in front of his flattening forehead. “I can’t help what I am,” he rumbled as his thick neck vibrated with his chest. He struck against the chest with a fist as tears blurred his vision. “Why can’t they just see me?”

He roared as the light flickered again. His dark leathery skin shone dully as a hooting sob faded and he regained control. A thick coat of fiery red hair had consumed his shoulders and chest to meet the beard and spread in a carpet over the rest of his body.

“You try supporting a body this big some time, kid. Tell me what free time you have.”

The gym rang with the sound of shattering metal, and he looked down to see the chunk he’d broken off the dumbbell.

“Damn it,” he growled. “Not another one.” He grunted his frustration as the lights flickered again and dropped to his knuckles. “That’s coming out of your deposit, you speciesist scumbag.” He lumbered away on all fours past a number of awards and certificates that seemed to appear with every flickering step. He burst into his office, where custom furniture designed for a big ‘rilla like him could take the brunt of his anger.

He yanked his phone from its receiver and jabbed the sticky-note-sized buttons angrily as he held up a card to his flickering desk lamp.

Simian and Jackman, Attorneys at Law.

“Call me a dumb animal, will you?” He reached down and withdrew a jumbo sized strawberry-banana smoothie from his cooler as the proud logo of Gorilla Wear clung tightly to his massive furry frame. “Let’s see how you feel after I haul your ass to court.”