Absession

My absession was becoming a problem. Pictures like those of the wonderful Cinderella Landholt above had become burned into my brain as though with a branding iron, and I could think of nothing else. Whatever I was doing, images of muscular midriffs would pop into my head.




At home, at work, on the bus, or just walking along the street, no matter where I was I could, without warning, be transported by my sick mind to a place where I was close enough to reach out and touch a sublime six-pack. And just as abruptly, I would be back in the real world to find my bath overflowing or I'd missed my station or my boss behind me, concerned. And worse, I'd be sporting the kind of unwanted, yet massive, erection that is generally frowned upon in public places. Help was needed. Professional help.



And so I began my search for a cure. Doctor after doctor, therapist after therapist. All had their theories, and all failed. One tried aversion therapy, showing me hundreds of images of toned and muscular tummies while subjecting me to increasing levels of physical discomfort. A total failure in terms of curing me, but the doctor involved has since published a well-received paper on the potential pain-killing properties of images of fit, muscular women as I found that I can endure a lot more pain than I thought I could if I know there will be another sexy six-pack on the screen in front of me in a few seconds...



At the other end of the scale there was abstinence. Ironic, but again, without effect. Having seen so many images of beautifully-muscled mid-sections over the years, denying me new ones is quite ineffective. It seems my brain has become a sort of massive filing cabinet of data. It takes hardly any effort to conjure up a favourite abs shot (see below).



There was acupuncture, which helped me give up smoking, but failed to ease my absessiveness; there was hypnosis, which just made me believe I actually was a female bodybuilder with rock hard abs (if I hear the word 'jocular' to this day I start touching my own stomach, flexing and moaning); there were endless cocktails of drugs, some of which were most pleasant, but none of which stopped me thinking about being on my knees, licking her ridges while she flexed; and there were endless, endless sessions of therapy.



Finally, I started the 12-step program at Absoholics Anonymous. Spending time with other absessives was a great experience, and definitely helped my collection of images of muscular women to grow, but failed to cure any of us. Is absession incurable? Are we all hopeless cases?



I turned to religion. The priest seemed more concerned about how often I was masturbating than my spiritual well-being. The Rabbi felt that if I turned my entire collection over to him he would be able to understand my problem and thus advise me better. He even offered me money, but when I refused, he threatened to inform my boss I was a hopeless pervert. I ended up paying him to keep quiet. The Imam told me I was doomed, but he was totally taking notes when I told him about my fantasy of being kidnapped by a troupe of kick-ass jihadi babes who grant my last wish before executing me. (No prizes for guessing what the last wish is).



And then, my brothers and sisters, I saw the light. The answer was to stop fighting, embrace this absickness and make it work for me, you and everybody else too. We don't need curing, and we don't need spiritual enlightenment. We are not sick, and we became enlightened long long ago.



Our own church, the Church of Abdominalism. A church that welcomes all who think a sexy, muscular mid-section is the most attractive physical attribute a woman can have, and preaches the spread of this gospel. We shall have no priests, we will call ourselves The Abdominalists and go out to spread the word and hasten the the Abdominalisation of the world.



And to those who oppose us, or call us 'ridge-monkeys', we shall turn the other cheek and go home and worship our abdominal goddess and ask that they be forgiven. For he who has not been abdominalised is doomed to never know the pleasure of the ridges, the ecstasy of the abstasm.



We shall oil the abs of a goddess to show our devotion, both as one and in private worship, so she shall know the priceless value of her spectacular abs. We shall lavish her with gifts of lean meat and fresh vegetables that her physique shall always remain so bloody abstastic, and through the happiness of ourselves and our abdominalised women, the truth of abdominalism shall become known by all.



Are you with me?



Or are you all tutting and shaking your heads right now?!