#I'd not post on Steam if I had to deal with them honest to god

[maleexperience-blog]

6

Let's talk about my body. I'm a muscle head...sort of, depending on who you ask. If you ask Timothy Chalamet, I'm a god. If you ask a 1990s Arnold Schwarzeneggar, I'm a puny little man. I look at myself in the mirror and feel pretty content with where my body is for the most part, which is a far cry from where I was. I have spent years--actual decades, I won't name how many, but we'll say more than one--in the gym. I have spent those years addicted to the pump and lamenting its ultimate deflation and return to my body's baseline. But I'd always go back, because I wanted to look like the John Cenas and the Rocks. "If I just keep going..." "If I just eat more protein..." "If I just try this supplement..." "If I just try this different routine..."

I kept going and I kept going, very few breaks if any. Consistently, every week. On vacation. During my years at school. On summer breaks. After work. In the mornings, in the afternoons, in the late night after my shifts in food service. I prioritized it so very much. This is still so today. Six days a week, now. In all that time, up until around my mid-30s, I never looked how I truly wanted. I still looked like a twinky boy. I looked like a boy who walked like he was supposed to be a man of a different physique, because, some part of me sometimes believed it. At one point I discovered weight gainer supplement; I became stronger within a few weeks and became addicted to throwing up more weight than I'd ever lifted before. It was a game changer. Unfortunately, I'd hit a plateau and got pretty plump. Boy, was my ass phat though. I had black men and older daddies trying to get in my butt. My butt was powerful, it was my power.

You think I wanted to lose my new flat bench max? And my phat fuckable butt? Hell no. So I held that 40-50 extra pounds of weight...I tolerated that windedness, the tight clothes, the elevated heart rates after a short walk, that sweating for no god-damn reason, for upwards of three years, all out of fear I'd lose my only perceived source of love: my fuckability and my ability to lift.

I'd intermittently get plump and "bulk," and lean out, on repeat for close to another 8 years, never quite seeing the man I wanted to see in the mirror. Sure I'd take a pic and be like, "not bad," but for the most part, I looked soft, sometimes bulky depending on what "phase" of body I was in. Generally, I'd say looking back, I probably looked my best when I was little more slim. If I'm being honest, at the time, having a fuckable butt was something I was scared to lose. Doesn't that sound crazy? Or does it sound common? I can't imagine feeling that way now.

So what changed? Well, I had broken up with my boyfriend around 2019. It was a horrible relationship but the sex was great (a recurring theme I'll touch on later.) I had badmouthed steroids for years, always said I wanted to be natural or "natty." (If any of this sounds familiar, it's because you've probably heard some little newbie at the gym or commenting on a muscle head's social media post spouting the same nonsense...) But, I had said, almost as if I had planned it, "if we break up I'm *doing* steroids." As fate would have it, a coworker of mine offered me some old vials of unused prescription testosterone right around when that relationship finally ended. He committed a felony by distributing them; I committed one by accepting them. I always pictured the exchange of controlled substances as some dark-alley deal but, no, I had done so right in the comfort of my office. Just before the COVID pandemic picked up steam in the United States, I'll never forget injecting that little fucking 0.25 mL dose into my left buttock, right outside my gym in the parking lot in the front seat of my car. Oh, the excitement.

For those of you who don't know, 0.25 mL of testosterone is nothing. I was basically partially shutting down my testicular function and replacing it with injectable testosterone. It was lol-able to those in the know, because I did this for many weeks. This should signal just how blind I was to what on earth I was doing. But I finally talked around and got the courage to do more. Fuck, I felt great when I bumped my dose to 0.75. I started seeing a pretty good change until I ran out. So I read up on cycling and took the dive. I bought some overseas gear...the big stuff. T cyp and tren. Oh fuck yea, I dove head first. I was ready. And being the black-and-white codependent muscle head FUCK I was, I said "If I'm going to do this, I'm going to just go full tilt" I was injecting around 500 mg T cyp and around 700 mg Tren E on that first cycle. I ate like a pig, because I was so toxically attached to this idea of "holding onto it" after I came off cycle. Fuck I was plump. I was PLUUMMP. I also fucked like a pig, ready to go just about any time, anywhere, and damn near down to do just about whatever nasty masculine activity with another dude you can think of (damn near....not completely lol)

Then, around week 9 or so, I started to feel sick. Just generally sick. But I pushed and I pushed, kept injecting, kept eating, kept lifting. I checked my labs and they were a wreck. An inflammatory marker said I had a 30% chance of a heart attack in the next year. My cholesterol was through the roof. Yup. I can't imagine why! Naturally, I stopped right around week 12. Let me just say, no amount of PCT (post-cycle therapy) could prepare me for the crash 2-3 weeks post cycle. I suddenly was not a god. I was not a sex pig. I was not veined and horned. I was...depressed, sad, emotional, dumpy. But, it bounced back and I felt normal once again.

Then I received my "invitation."