Where did we leave it? Ah, yes! C. Moore had returned to the UK in less than triumphant circumstances. Had I learned my lesson? Had I f***! Over the next ten or so years, my life went from bad to worse to worser as, unable to resist the powerful urges female muscle brought out in me, I descended rapidly towards my lowest point, the ultimate catalyst for positive change. When I look back on this period now - and I have certainly been over and over it with a fair number of mental health professionals - I do wish I could go back and tell my younger self to make better choices.
Funny thing is though, in my head at the time, these were glory years!
It would take far too long to catalogue all my misadventures from my return from the US to my detention at Her Majesty's Pleasure, so what follows is just a summary.
Taking advantage of free trials at any number of local gyms, I scoped out the best places to get my thrills. And thrills I got for a while, even though I was warned against getting too free with myself in the shower after some other dudes complained.
It all started to go pear-shaped for me when a particularly good-looking and glooteally-advantaged lady was doing a set of squats. C. Moore got himself hypnotised, and when she went down and looked up into the mirror, there he was, behind her. Showing off his appreciation as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Before long gyms in the local area who had never received the benefit of my custom were turning me away. I was a one-man black list. I moved. New area, new gyms, new butts to enjoy. A pattern, a pattern that was repeated many many times. Arrive, join up, get banned, move on. Each new cycle was just a little bit shorter than the previous one. Over and over until I had barely arrived in town before I was moving on.
The last time I counted, I had been struck off at exactly 238 gyms in the UK and Republic of Ireland for violating their codes of conduct and/or laws of the land. Only their desire to avoid the kind of publicity that prosecuting a perve like me would generate prevented me from being formally charged on several occasions.
In case you were unaware, ladies who train gravitate towards the larger males, and these males are not prone to having much empathy and often, in my experience, also have a martial arts background of some sort or another. And what's more, these beefy chaps are, quite understandably protective of their gym bunny belles. Add a higher than healthy dose of the old PEDs to the mix and what you get can be a not quite but pretty damn near lethal cocktail for whoever is on the receiving end, ie. C. Moore.
I have taken some beatings. Outside the back entrances of gyms and contests, and in the street, and at the beach, and even, on one occasion, in a fitting room at a well-known UK budget sports equipment store. C. Moore truly suffered for his art.
So regularly did it start to happen that I reached a stage of no fear. I stopped worrying and did even less than the bare minimum to make my activities appear innocent.
But I was not, at times, lacking in cunning.
An incident at a NABBA North-west show involving some irresistible thong-framed glootz and an urge to show my appreciation up close and personal with the women while they were still on stage caused such consternation that it was decided something had to be done about me. C. Moore found himself being photographed (in headlock), and the image was circulated among UK promoters. I was persona non grata.
Out of necessity, C. Moore developed some espionage skills. I became the proud owner of a fine collection of outfits, wigs and fake facial hair. My earliest attempts to pull them off more often than not ended up with a beard or moustache falling off (completely or in part) and a hasty retreat to the venue's exit. But once I had found the right brand of make-up glue for my sweat, I could happily sneak in pretty much anywhere I wanted.
Did I let the fact that I was trying to go undetected moderate my behaviour at all? Well, at first, yes. But it wasn't long before I'd been asked to leave often enough and forcibly enough that my true identity was uncovered. Wait a minute! I KNOW this guy...
And the next thing C. Moore knew was the inside of the local A&E department.
In the final years before my unfortunate incarceration, C. Moore haunted just about any public place likely to have a higher than normal concentration of female muscle, and pretty much everywhere else too. And once I'd spotted her, I didn't let her out of my sight until she went home, and when I knew where she lived, I... well, some say "stalked", but that does have rather negative, predatory connotations, doesn't it?
And I was never actually charged with that.
Over a period of years I was warned, officially cautioned, given community service orders, then a suspended sentence. "Outraging public decency" was a concept I had not been familiar with, but I knew all its ins and outs before long. I was sent for counselling, and turned both of my first two therapists onto female muscle. The patience of the courts gave me every chance to reform myself, but I failed them. "Indecent exposure" after a chance sighting on a bus of all places and it was porridge for C. Moore.
I emerged a reformed character. Prison therapy - group therapy, led, I think crucially, by a woman, so much more strong-minded than the foolish males I had run rings around before - helped C. Moore out of the darkness and into the light. And in my final - behind bars - installment of misadventures next week, I will tell you how.
[just to be clear, none of the women pictured in today's post have any connection whatsoever with the events described therein - FMS legal.]