Today, some reflections on an encounter I had a few weeks ago with a muscular woman. I should say straight out that before you start imagining me and a Shannon Peters type getting jiggy, if that's what you're after, I'm afraid that's not what you're going to get. The woman, let's call her Helen, has a kind of a distance runner's muscularity. Very lean, very veiny, defined but by no means big. And there's no jiggy either. Sorry to disappoint, see you tomorrow if you've already had enough!
Anyway, me and Helen - we're both freelancers in the same field - happened to be working at the same place for a few days. We'd met before a few times, but this was certainly the first time I'd seen her shoulders and arms bare because so impressed was I that I can say I would definitely have remembered if I had seen them before.
Think red hair, late 40s but a younger attitude and a real infectious energy. Think distance runner, long and lean. Think not an ounce of fat on her. Think of the kind of definition that produces. Think big blue veins, one running all the way up each forearm, and across the tops of her biceps before they disappear into her pits.
I walked into the kitchen/dining area to get my lunch out of the fridge just as she was getting her lunch out of the fridge. We'd said our hellos earlier in the day - when I'd first seen her arms - so I'd been thinking about my opening line for if and when the opportunity arose all morning. And here was that very opportunity...
"What have you been doing to get such great looking arms?" I said - not too casually, not trying to be too cool, and no stuttering or mumbling shyly either. Loud. Clear. Genuinely enthusiastic and complimentary. Or that's how it sounded to me anyway!
She put her lunch down and looked at her arms. The left, then the right. And as she did so, she squeezed her hands into a fist and her forearms popped and rippled. "You know," she said, bending her elbows and wrists back slightly and forcing her triceps to stand out, "I don't do anything much. Bit of running, bit of yoga... the cycling..."
"They're really impressive. Really." Not scripted, but hey, I'm staring at her arms and she's stopped talking so something needed to be said. And I just reached out and squeezed around the top of one of arms, hypnotically almost. And as I squeezed, she flexed. I felt her bicep harden beneath her skin. And I kept squeezing for as long as I dared. It felt, in a nutshell, like a rock. Not the most original description, but an accurate one nonetheless. A rock solid ball of muscle.
"WOW!" I exclaimed (unscripted). And then she flexed the other arm, not as in a side chest pose kind of way as she's done before, this time a proper single bicep flex. In my face! And it was just as hard as the other had been, and she was absolutely loving the attention. Big smile on her face, and an even bigger one on mine.
"What about yours, then?" she said, hitting me playfully across the chest and sliding one hand up my left arm and onto
MY bicep. Now I should say, for the benefit of any new or occasional readers at least, that I am getting quite proud of my own, er, guns, and I had had a few comments in the previous weeks to boost the ego a little more than my wife's fascination for my arms had already boosted it. So I wasn't shy at this point either, and as Helen squeezed away, I flexed my own bicep with no little relish.
Footsteps along the corridor alert us that we're not going to be alone anymore, and we compose ourselves before one of the staff at the place come into the kitchen. And that was it. All over. And quickly, too. You'll have to trust me on this but it has taken a lot lot longer to describe it than it did to be a part of it.
As mentioned above, this was a few weeks ago. And I've had time to reflect on it since then, really reflect rather than just close my eyes and relive the experience, think about how hard her arms felt, how much she was obviously digging the compliments and the flexing - I did plenty of that in the days after the event, I can assure you.
I have marvelled at how decisive I was about just going for it. In the past I probably would have just admired her arms without saying anything. I would have been hoping she'd pick something up or move her arm in a certain way so that her muscles flexed and I got a cheap thrill. By being straight up about my admiration I was rewarded with much more than that, but I doubt this new attitude would have been possible without the inspiration and encouragement of an online acquaintance.
He fully embraces his female muscle lovin' self.
I make it my business to be around fit strong women, he has told me.
I make the effort to be muscular and take care of myself so appreciate it in my girls. His stories about the rewards this kind of open and honest attitude brings must have definitely affected my own attitude on the day. I hardly recognised myself with such confidence to say what I said and make the move I made. Really. Wondering what has brought about the change has made me reach the conclusion that it was probably a combination of a few things that are pushing me in that direction right now, but his tales of loving the life are a major part of it.
You know who you are and I thank you again, mate.
And the other thing that struck me was that throughout it all, from my first sight of her arms that day to the moment we were disturbed and no longer alone, I was excited, sure, but not uncontrollably so. I was, without being too big-headed about it, cool. Or rather, I felt I was "in control" of the situation. There was no Madness!
This absence of Madness has happened before, just over a year ago (see
The Peakwick Papers III), but on that occasion although the woman I encountered wanted to be muscular, she wasn't actually muscular. This was different - Helen
is muscular.
So, I wondered, perhaps I'm "cured".
This afternoon (ie. yesterday afternoon as you read) made me realise this was not, after all, the case. Hot here in the UK for the last few weeks. Hot and mostly sunny. Lots of female flesh on display, although little of it, sadly, showing any evidence of muscle. But this afternoon I was on my way back to the car after work when the female muscle radar went off big time. She was coming towards me in a sports bra. Deep tan, healthy glow and (OMG!) hard, perfectly (and I mean
perfectly) defined ABS!!!
She walked past me and without thinking I turned around to follow her, adrenalised, my heart pounding, my mouth suddenly dry. My old friend The Madness! Thoughts of how to get in front of her again - run? - and get those abs into view again race through my head as I drink in her deeply tanned and noticeably muscular back and shoulders. I follow her all the way to - surprise, surprise - a gym. In she goes, and it's over. The Madness fades. I turn and walk back in the direction I'd come from.
It's still there then, The Madness. I'm not cured, it seems - far from it, because just before she turned into the gym I was reaching into my pocket to get the phone out and get her on camera. And to be honest, even if I am confused about why it struck me today but stayed away during my Helen encounter, I'm not too disappointed to find I still have The Madness in me. Despite not always - after the event anyway - liking what it compels me to do, the rush of it does always leave me feeling more alive.
So on the one hand here I am glad that I didn't fall under the spell of The Madness on one occasion, and reaped the rewards as a result. But on the other hand I'm also glad that I haven't all together said goodbye to The Madness once and for all.
I'd really miss it if I had!
