Tuesday, 7 November 2017

The (Mis)Adventures of C. Moore Glootz I

[NSFW - not even remotely, and I think it is probably safe if we all assume that while C. Moore is putting the posts together, ie. for the next four weeks, that will be the case every single day. You have been warned. - ed.]

Day two, and already C. Moore has clashed with FMS editorial.

You want to post what?!

This question mark exclamation mark bold italics kind of tone is clearly one I'm gonna have to get used to while I'm pouring out my heart and soul for this organisation.

Begin at the beginning they told me. So I do...

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In the beginning there was the erection. And lil' C. Moore, sat as he was between his Mum and his Dad among thousands at the Crystal Palace stadium that chilly late summer night, had no fugging idea what it meant, but it felt good to put his hand on it, and even better when he started to stroke it, faster, and a thrill that grew and grew till a wave of euphoria washed over him, and he felt a warm dampness down there.

Denise Lewis, many years before her Sydney gold-medal-winning muscular definition, was competing in the long jump that night, and the pit was right in front of the Glootz family seats. To be honest, I don't know if ol' C. Moore here particularly had a thing for Denise's bod that night or whether the above episode was just a culmination of all the bods that flew through the air in front of my wide little eyes - whatever - but my first she was, and she still has the power to make me drop 'em and get busy every single time I see her on the BBC athletics coverage. Multiple times sometimes.


Athletics. My gateway drug.

Soon C. Moore wasn't missing a single meet on TV, and was scoping out local and in time not so local meets to take his packed lunch and long lens camera to. Sprinters, jumpers, runners, throwers. Muscles, muscles everywhere, and reinforced triple layer underwear - extra supplies in the bag for good measure. C. Moore came prepared.

Fast forward...

Dad Glootz finally starts earning enough to get Sky. C. Moore enjoys all those channels that show abs machine ads on repeat. Enjoys them so much that more than once he has to hastily cross his legs (and keep them crossed) when a parent walks into the room.

Top tip #1 - forget about changing the channel, your priority is and always should be to get that stiff cock out of sight first. Wouldn't you much prefer to answer the "What are you watching?" question than the "What on earth are you doing?" challenge?

Anyway, it doesn't take too long for C. Moore to realise Friday evenings on Eurosport is where it's at - "it" being more beautiful muscular bodies than I can keep up with.

We always had our tea around 6, so C. Moore whacked in a VHS around 5.55 and munched away on his fish fingers or whatever safe in the knowledge that later in the evening, once parents were safely tucked away in bed upstairs, he would be free to review, replay, rewind and frame advance at his leisure, with a pint of orange squash (fluids important, but that hardly qualifies as a top tip) and a box of mansize tissues.

More often than not, I was up all night.

The pattern was set. Compulsion, addiction, whatever you want to call it. From that very first chilly evening at the Crystal Palace, right up to this very moment as I type, I have not stopped being aroused by female muscle in a most extreme and uncontrollable way. In fact, only recently - conditions of the orders being dropped and the tag coming off - have I learned that it is possible to resist the urges brought by such arousal, a lesson that could have saved me from much trouble over the years.

Trouble that I intend to recount in further installments of my misadventures.

You are probably wondering what the fuss was all about. NSFW?! I hear you cry, question mark exclamation mark bold italic tone and all. Yeah, well, C. Moore likes to finish things well, and so I searched for an image to sum it all up. And I found it.


From day one. This is what female muscle has been to me.

(And I believe that is an FMS first!)

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