Workout Addiction - Tumblr Posts

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.