The (Mis)Adventures of C. Moore Glootz III

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.

BANNED



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.

BATTERED

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.

BEARDED



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.

BANGED UP



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.]

Great Glootz of the 21st Century: PT

My second of five all-time glootz.



So thaight.

And what she does with them on video, on cam...

C. Moore thought he had died and gone to heaven the first time I saw her flex those beauties. And it's still not entirely impossible that that is in fact what happened.



If I am still here, and the last thing I saw was PT's bum in a thong, I'd die with a smile on my face and a massive throbbing erection in my trousers (or possibly out of them).

The glootasm begins after about a minute and a half.



Now watch this.

I've NEVER made it to the topless bit before exploding.



Oh PT...

Incomprehension

Take a good look at Katie.



Take your time, take a really good, long look.

Look at her perfect hair, her beautiful eyes, her sexy pout that says "I know what this is doing to you". Take a look at that huge ball of muscle, the strain it's putting the fabric of her top under, how close to exploding through that fabric it is. Then look again at her eyes, her lips, and hear her deep and sexy voice - "I know what this is doing to you".

And she is not wrong, is she?

Imagine NOT being turned on by her.



Impossible, isn't it?

You've probably got it out and already got to work. I did exactly the same thing when I first saw it up on GWM. A click to open the page, another to see it full size, unbutton...

Zero to rock hard in less than five seconds.

And, you may have noticed, Katie's hardly underdressed, is she? Not exactly the raciest photo I've seen of her, nor the raciest photo I saw that morning, which by the way was the one below and yes of course Tess Stumpf and her not-so-little nugget had exactly the same effect on C. Moore. I was, to say the least, busy that morning.



I'm getting off the point though, which is my attempt to get into the head of the fellas who find themselves impervious to, even repulsed by, the charms of Katie, Tess et al, charms which are so obvious to you and me there's no need for me to describe them.

What do they say, these non-heads?

Well, OK, what I can (just about) imagine is that the biggest of the big are "a step too far" or however they are saying it these days. I can understand that some of the more extreme women are something of an acquired taste and have only minority appeal.



But, I have a couple of problems with this "gone too far" argument.



#1 is that it suggests, very strongly, that they are attracted to muscle women who aren't, in their heads, "too much". Most would deny this of course, but anyone who pays even lip-service to logic should avoid this argument. And #2, none of them seems very able to articulate exactly where they draw the line. Is it all Female Bodybuilders? Does it include Physique women? Where does "too much" become "not too much"?



And don't give me any of that "looks like a man" toss either.

Lisa - huge, ripped, freaky and very much on the extreme side in anyone's book (in our books that's all the better) - doesn't look like a man here, never has and never will.

It's just nonsense.

"I was waiting for a penis to drop out of his shorts" I saw some wag had written on a Marthe Sundby (God rest her soul) YouTube clip once. I don't believe him, and not in the sense that I think his comment is uncouth and inappropriate and beyond the pale, but in the sense that I actually don't believe that was what he was waiting for.

You don't have to be as subjective as you or I to see that while muscle women don't look like your average woman, they don't look like muscle men either, and nor do they look like average men. So, have our wag and the rest of the "looks like a man" brigade forgotten to put their contacts in or is there something else going on with them?

There are two kinds of guys in this world, our currently-on-vacation friend 6ft1swell likes to say. Guys who know they love female muscle, and guys who don't know.



The kind of guy who bothers to post a hateful comment is, according to Swell's theory, in the former group. They are "a knower", and they are living in denial. He pities them, and thinks we all should, even those who leave hateful comments, and he reckons they deserve our pity. They are so conditioned by their society that they are quite unable to redefine themselves as "the kind of guy who likes muscle women", as an outsider, as a freak, and end up trolling because they can neither give in to their lust, nor stay away.



We happy few are the rest of the knowers.

What of the "don't knowers"?

A small percentage of those that don't know, Swell says (and I'm paraphrasing now), a percentage that, in this Age of Information is getting smaller all the time, don't know because they have never seen a woman with muscle. Then there are those who haven't found what he refers to as "their gateway woman" yet, but sooner or later will.



Yer man might like his ladies dark and find enlightenment through Courtney Rheams' beautiful black physique. He might find his way in thanks to Louise Rogers' silicone MILFy rippedness or Guluzar's bulging flat-chested beauty. Look at Juliana and Jodi (three rows above). If you are here you are probably a fan of both, but you also probably prefer one of them. Same with our still-in-the-dark soon-to-be friends.



This "gateway" service is, he believes, probably provided most often by women like Vanessa Lopes Moraes (above), less threateningly shredded, displaying many if not all of the conventional norms of beauty front and centre, just with added muscle.

It's a theory, and these paragraphs are just the tip of the iceberg.

Swell could write a book about it. Maybe he already is.



For me though, the question of incomprehension remains. I, like many I have spoken to, were turned onto this life at such a young age that we can barely remember what it was like before - if we can remember at all. "Our porn", as they say, has always been Female Bodybuilding, and often we began not with the "safer" looks of a Vanessa or a Sandra, but at the more extreme end of the spectrum, and have worked our way away from there towards Swell's "gateway" women as the female muscle world has changed.



Imagine NOT being aroused by Dani.

Imagine NOT being aroused by this beauty (I don't even know who she is!).



It's still impossible, but having tried to understand these deniers/haters/non-believers we might come to the conclusion that it's impossible for a reason. They're just as aroused as we are. Either they just don't know it, or just haven't admitted it yet.



I believe many of them will though.

Fan-tasy: The Best Seats in the House

Our third of four is all "musclejack"'s own work.

Enjoy!

It's a shared fantasy, which I'm sure comes up in chat rooms all the time.


Joanna can see how much we appreciate her

There we are, in the front row, the female muscle jackers. We have the best seats in the house, and we are (this all takes place in some kind of parallel universe!) free to express ourselves and our appreciation. To get naked, to get hard, and to jack off.


Paulina spots her victim... and finishes him

This being a fantasy, the women absolutely LOVE it. All our hard cocks lined up for them. They eyeball their victims, show them where they want it, hit the pose and BAM! another load flies stageward, another poor drooling muscle lover has to start all over again - we're all full of viagra or some such, so staying hard is no issue!


Dayana shows him where; Helle, so superior as another load flies for her

They pose and smile, we goon and cum. And thanks to the power of screen share and suspended disbelief, we can be at any show there's film of, jacking to all the greats.


Yaxeni, making sure she's got it all

After the compulsories and comparisons, the women - we imagine! - have become ultra-competitive. Backstage they compare how many ejaculations they have induced so far. They argue about who got what load during a callout. A points system is worked out (as if!). They get a blackboard going, a league table, and lay bets with each other about how many more they'll get during their routine.


Denise - Top of the League?

A few guys have passed out, but like the good buddies we are, we make sure they're brought back round for the climax. It's posedown time, and despite the fact we have abused ourselves so hard for so long, the ladies make sure they get one last mighty collective tribute from us. We scream out (in pleasure AND pain), furiously pumping our cocks as one, overwhelmed by such an exhibition of muscular sex appeal...


Yax and Dayana share a laugh at our helplessness

All pie in the sky stuff of course, but wouldn't it be nice...


On stage, Autumn can hear you scream

The way it goes, in my experience anyway, is that once this patently ridiculous fantasy is all talked out, the chat turns to something a whole lot more feasible.



Las Vegas anyone? Erica, Jamie, Sheronica and Dani @Physique Olympia 2016

A hotel suite, paid for collectively or by a generous benefactor. A meeting of minds, female muscle lovers (addicts, maniacs). A live feed on massive screens in all rooms. Snacks and drinks (and a big bowl of blue pills) to help yourself to. Clean up stuff might be an idea. The private party to end all private parties. A jackfest, if you like.


Want Alina fed to you?

Amazingly, this seems to actually happen - kind of. Tales have been told of a female muscle brother of means renting a house for the like-minded on the weekend of a show. I've not heard of a live feed and everyone hangs at the house during the show version, but I have heard of an everyone goes and hangs out at the show together version told as a true story. Not saying this happens a lot, but it does happen.


Janine and Lisa - firm favourites

Imagine! Scottsdale, the Rising Phoenix. You, me, and a bunch of other lunatics. Watching the show together, hard as rocks and telling each other so. Gasping and groaning and it's still only the first callout for the Figure ladies. How excited would we be by the time Helle, Sheila and the rest of the cream of pro Female Bodybuilding took to the stage? And how much fun would we have back at the hotel/house as we watched a rerun of the live feed, at last able to express all that pent-up emotion?


Sheila and Helle and us

Jackfest 2018 anyone?

Count C. Moore in!

Huge thanks to musclejack for articulating these dreams (which, as he mentioned at the beginning, many of us who group chat will be all too familiar with) so eloquently.