C. Moore's remit this time around may be a bit wider than previous guest slots on FMS, but my specific area of expertise then is still my area of expertise now. I am still very much a muscle butt man, and am reminded of the fact on an almost daily basis.
Today's reminder came in the form of Hayley Brylewski's glooty booty.
She got all ripped up recently for the British championships, and as usual the judges were pretty much immune to the charms of her shredded bum. I would love to hear what the feedback was for you, one of her UK Physique sisters wrote on Hayley's IG in the days after the UKBFF's latest debacle. Gonna try get some, replied our glooteal heroine, would like to know. C. Moore immediately opened a channel of correspondence with Hayley and requested she pass on his feedback - "You judge like a bunch of blind cnuts" - while getting hers. No response as yet from HB.
This pic got a response from C. Moore mid-morning yesterday though.
Chances are, if you're a Brit like C. Moore, you've had your fun trying to sneak a pic or two at a Bodybuilding event. Hope you had better luck than me. Would be quicker to tell you the federations that will still let me into the venue than those that won't. It's made C. Moore become a master of disguise, but that's a story for another day.
So, where you going to go to get your female muscle fix?
Sporting events is where.
C. Moore told all about his early athletics fascination the other day. And I still reserve most of my rare forays into the outside world for track meets (as you Americans like to call them). I'm mobile, schedule in hand. End of the back straight for the start of the 200m, right behind the start of the long jump/triple jump run, as close to the pole vault as I can get etc. - wherever the best chance of a glootage filled frame is.
It don't have to be track & field (we call it athletics, you know). Pick your sport, and take your camera. Gymnastics, tennis, beach volleyball (I know that's a popular and gloot-filled one), we have Crossfit events now, swimming used to be good (those body suits are the devil's work) but diving is still a winner... Check your local listings.
Sure, you are probably not going to see any of these top names, but consider this - once upon a time at local track & field events the Papoutsaki bum was on display; once upon a time Chelsea Coleman was on the floor at a state gymnastics competition; once upon a time Heather Watson was grunting at a county level tennis match.
But it doesn't end there.
Soon you realise you've got to take it everywhere. In these increasingly female-muscle-filled times you might pass potential memories every day. Summer and temptation may be around every corner. Winter perhaps not so much, but you won't forgive yourself if you're at the mall and spot some definition and don't have your equipment. Get used to lugging it around. The more it becomes part of you, the more like a real photographer you will feel, and the more genuine you'll seem to others.
And take it to the beach.
Take all the necessary precautions to make sure you don't fug it up by getting sand everywhere by finding a spot just off and putting that long lens to work. Seriously, it's a day out like no other, even if you don't see any great female beef, the prospect that you might will keep you going. And once in a while my friends, once in a while...
It may surprise you to learn that C. Moore is a creature of habit. Rising early, getting the joy trumpet set, and starting work on the first load of the day has been the way it has been for as long as I can remember - even during those regrettable periods when I found myself detained at Her Majesty's pleasure was I able to observe the same routine, even if some cellmates were less understanding than others re my needs.
These days I live an ever more monk-like existence - rarely going out, interacting only with delivery drivers and the occasional hawker. I think of my modest apartment as my cell, my sanctuary, and my morning release as my first daily act of devotion.
The routine keeps me out of trouble, keeps me away from yet more days in court, yet more sessions with the psychiatrists and psychologists, yet more long nights behind high walls with restricted internet access. But the routine is also designed (by yours truly) to maximise the time I have to spend in adoration of the muscular female.
Some say female muscle is their porn. For C. Moore it's religion.
And today my joy trumpet rose - not for the first time, not for the first time this week even, and certainly not for the last time - and rang out in praise of the bum of Bakhar.
BOOM!
I see my hands on her magnificent calves, skin so soft and yet never giving as they continue up to and over her hamstrings onto those monumentally glooty wonders. Quivering with excitement, I wonder if my fingers can fit under those shorts...
BOOM!
The shorts are suddenly gone. Now there is nothing between my face and my objects of worship. I press myself into the centre of her muscle heart just below them, emitting my prayer of devotion in gasps and moans of ecstasy and no little amount of drool...
BOOM!
To the beach. I follow her, like a dog their master, like a bitch in heat. I throb, held in a state of constant arousal by the sheer beauty of her thong-framed rear in motion. "Stop!" she whispers, her words carried on the wind. "Go!", "Come!", "Hold!", "Cum!"...
I pull out. It's too soon. The morning prayer must be a minimum specified length because if too quick, the tribute is too small, and the goddesses would be displeased.
I consider Bakhar from another angle. Her exhibitionism, her fan loyalty, the perks (financial, sure, but also emotional - to be "loved", "worshipped" by a following equivalent to the population of major European city can't be bad for the self-confidence, can it?) of her trade. Her business is that body. Business is good.
BOOM!
She could have 10, 20 guys in that room. 10, 20 joy trumpets sounding out for her so superior posterior. C. Moore obviously arrived a little late and has to take his place at the side, but there are always silver linings and in this case it's the view of both the sacred, untouchable wonder to the front and the excitement and explosions she and her wonders are causing to the side. It feels good to be part of the congregation...
BOOM!!
But even better to be alone with her and them. The garage makes me think of lube for some reason and just as I do my lube of choice starts leaking out. Polish the joy trumpet, make it glisten like her perfect skin sweaty after a hard gloot sesh. My (actual) head begins to tilt back in ecstasy, my eyes begin to roll, and my whole body starts to shake. Moaning, gasping, bucking, gooning, my prayer reaches an ecstatic climax...
BOOM!BOOM!!BOOM!!BOOM!!!
The joy trumpet rings out in four mighty splats against the altar screen. It's the perfect half-gloot peek - the thought she actually walked into the gym like that - which takes me over the edge. I start to chant, "BUM-BA-KHAR-BOOM" as I squeeze out the last few droplets from the twitching, pulsing tribute-maker. "BUM-BA-KHAR-BOOM!"
[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...
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.
Swell's face is a picture. Like it's been slapped by a wet fish's arse.
Him?!
Ol' C. Moore is enjoying the moment even more than he thought he would.
And then it gets better. Then he starts, well, for want of a better, he starts begging!!! Tells J.J. that he knows his numbers is down and that, but he's been working on some great new stuff, stuff so great it'll turn the numbers around and blah blah, and - an unusual emotion for yours truly - there is this wave of sympathy comes over me and I kind of want to interrupt and tell him it's a done deal, that he's wasting his breath.
Long story short, (now 100% rehabilitated, no tag or anything) C. Moore is in.
Four weeks they have in their wisdom given me.
Don't personally have anything against ol' Swell, it was he who brought me into the FMS fam, but his numbers, as was pointed out at his time-for-a-bit-of-a-vacation "meeting", have not been good and have not been showing signs of recovery. And what they want, they say, is a tone change. C. Moore knows what they really want - numbers. Page views. Old fans to return, new fans on board. And C. Moore means to give it to them.
[Just to be clear, it was felt that FMS chief writer 6ft1swell was perhaps in need of a little rest and relaxation and consequently he has taken a four-week leave of absence, during which time the blog will be edited by C. Moore Glootz, a writer who has previously contributed several very successful pieces to the blog when he has been at liberty to do so - ed.]
Featured on FMS in 2013 for her "bullets", Katrin had fallen off the radar rather then, and hasn't returned. Still, this (for her) rather modest pic is worth looking at again if only to remind us the hand she's using to keep the towel up is entirely superfluous.
The CEO of GRRRL clothing captures herself in a rare moment of relaxation and an even rarer moment when she's not dressed in one of her own products, although she's practising what she preaches nonetheless. Not many CEOs you can say that about.
Heidi has been somewhat less talked about on the forums this year than last, though why that should be exactly is a bit of a mystery to me. This year she's not (as far as I know) competed, but she has done a terrific photoshoot with ace lensman Gene X. Hwang, and the rest of the time she's just kept on being the Heidi we adored last year. We might look at the raised eyebrow and imagine she's letting us know that she knows what we really want to see is below the bottom of the picture, but we're way off - unsurprisingly that's not what it's about at all (see the post on her IG for details).
And while we're acknowledging that appearances can be deceptive, would you have guessed (if you didn't know) from this sauna(?) shot that Natalya is not so much a Bodybuilder as a powerlifter? And of some note, too. If your goal, for example, is to deadlift, say 100kg (220lbs) at some point - a fine ambition - then consider that this beautiful young lady from Kazakhstan deadlifts 215+kg (474+lbs). For reps.
And our last, but by no means least, Special K is, according to our (hardly exhaustive) research, the woman who takes and posts more towel-clad selfies than any other.
Forensic Katka-watchers will be able to time and date these with some precision based on hairdo, muscularity, ink coverage, and, I dare say, a multitude of other factors. The layman could care less. The layman's doing what I'm doing right after I finish compiling this post. The layman is only concerned with a happy ending, and this week's posts are going to get one - the last photo on the right, in my case. What divine definition!
If you've anything left in the tank afterwards, perhaps you'd like to check out a rar of 25 images that didn't quite make the edit this week. You would? Great! It's here. Enjoy!
If they were lucky enough to be sticking a camera on Colette Nelson any time in the noughties, the schmotographer was pretty much guaranteed gold, and today's Towel Classic from the HerBiceps "Lost Archive" collection is, without question, exactly that.
Don't know how long it will last on YouTube, so I've uploaded it elsewhere for safe keeping - if it's not showing above on the page, then you'll be wanting to go here.
I'm pretty sure I have posted this magnificent mini-set of the Spanish High Priestess of Hard and Vascular Physique muscle, aka Paloma Parra, on the massage table before, but even if I have, I make no apologies (and expect no complaints) for doing so again.
Just imagine walking in for your 10.00 and being greeted with Paloma's tanned, rippling (and apparently already glistening) magnificence. Don't know about you, but you could easily hang that towel on the result of the excitement that would cause me.
And that towel is nowhere near big enough to clean up the mess I'd make.
The masseur probably pays her, quips one forum bod.
Here's NPC Fitness competitor and self-styled "Lean Queen" Kyla Ford fresh out of a hot shower. Or maybe a cold one. I like to alternate between the hot and cold water for 1-minute intervals, she says, putting the water as hot as my body can handle, and then as cold as my body can handle. The hot water relaxes the body and helps to reduce stress, she explains, while the cold helps to reduce inflammation and stimulates the removal of toxins through the skin and lymph. So... which one's last?
Either way, if I didn't need a cold one already...
Not quite my idea of heaven, but definitely a starting point.
This must be what life with Dani is like. Twice a day, possibly. No wonder her (perfect) skin looks a touch dry. I'll grab the cream. Or even better I'll make some fresh. Cream.
What this woman does to me!
And last, but by no means least, it's to Russia we go. With love...
These are pretty rare items, I would say, because Ekaterina Kuznetsova's standard M.O. re: locker room and bathroom selfies is not to bother with the towel at all - and she's also (most happily) got a penchant for not bothering with the tiny thong either!
Kyla Ford is The Lean Queen on Instagram; in all probability I don't need to point you towards Dani's social media (but just in case, here she is), and you can find Ekaterina, aka "Katyukha", avec et sans thong on "the Russian Facebook" - her VK page.
Rising to a peak of 1,801m in the Romanian Eastern Carpathians, Madarasi Hargita is one of the highest and most visited mountains in the region. And in January this year, Susanna Tirpak was indulging her new passion for photography right there.
"Beauty on highest level" is how she describes the place, even if she might as well be talking about herself. And if you are wondering exactly why I have a picture of a fully-clothed (albeit ravishingly beautiful) Susanna in the snow (even when the way she's holding the camera is sexy!) in a week of posts that feature towels, well, as Susanna says, there's nothing better than "a hot shower after a day out in the freezing cold".
Except perhaps a picture - or indeed two - of a ravishing muscle beauty like Susanna after her hot shower after her day out in the freezing cold in nothing but a towel.
As far as I can tell, Susanna gets more gorgeous on an almost daily basis, but you don't have to take my utterly smitten word for it - see for yourself on her Instagram.
