You Do Realize That, Regardless Of Whatever Pictures You Use And If It Shows A Dick Or Not, Your Content

You do realize that, regardless of whatever pictures you use and if it shows a dick or not, your content is still porn? Like your stories are literally gay porn. They’re good, hella sexy, but I don’t understand why you might not understand that a mod might go below surface level and actually READ the post and flag it?

Please read this all the way through, Anon. You wanted me to address your argument, and this is a very firm rebuttal on all fronts. Read it thoroughly.

Anon, you clearly have a different definition of pornography than I do, and more importantly than the rest of the world does. The content I write has nothing to do with sex, other than perhaps some characters talking about it as their transformations progress, and even that’s iffy. Arousal may happen to some characters, but I am very careful how I handle each instance of that occurring to keep it outside the bedroom and generally touch on it only lightly. I don’t write about masturbation, nor do I write other graphic forms of sexual intercourse. The closest I have come to writing about it has been in Endemic Evolution when it was implied in a conversation overheard by one of the main characters. Is my content arousing to the reader?

I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Which means it would likely fall under the classification of erotica in that sense, at least. Muscle transformation is a niche, and it’s one that I also find arousing as I transform the individuals in my stories both mentally and physically.

But let me make one thing clear to you, Anon. I’m a Christian who takes his morals and his religious beliefs very seriously. I’ve written a total of maybe three works of fiction that involve characters becoming gay as a part of their transformations. These instances were in part to experiment expanding my boundaries in fiction, and in part because it felt right to do that for those characters or was requested as a part of a commission, depending on the case. The rest of my characters when they transform are straight and remain straight.

You’re the one who chooses to turn my writings into lewd thoughts as part of your own fantasies. You’re the one who uses your imagination to carry my work into the field of graphic sexual arousal and acts. So, please don’t go telling me that I write pornography.

To back my claims, here is Tumblr’s own definition of what they consider adult content, along with exceptions to that rule. I’ll bold the most pertinent portions in rebut to your claims.

What is "adult content?"

Adult content primarily includes photos, videos, or GIFs that show real-life human genitals or female-presenting nipples, and any content—including photos, videos, GIFs and illustrations—that depicts sex acts.

What is permitted?

Examples of exceptions that are permitted are exposed female-presenting nipples in connection with breastfeeding, birth or after-birth moments, and health-related situations, such as post-mastectomy or gender confirmation surgery. Written content such as erotica, nudity related to political or newsworthy speech, and nudity found in art, such as sculptures and illustrations, are also stuff that can be freely posted on Tumblr.

So, whether my writing is erotic or not, I can tell you right now that it is not pornographic in nature according to Tumblr’s own guidelines. And whether my writing falls under the classification of erotica or not, it is still protected under tumblr guidelines, hence why I was saying that Tumblr broke their own guidelines, and that they should trust me more in my own judgement about what is and isn’t appropriate.

Also, please note that erotica is defined as any content that leads to arousal. So, by that definition, that means that in the case of pedophiles, viewing, say, a public school yearbook with kids smiling at them could be classified erotica to them, because they may find that arousing.

For the record, I’m not saying I support such behavior. Pedophilia is not okay. It never has been, and it never will be.

But you can see why I differentiate between erotica and pornography here. And more importantly why Tumblr and the world differentiate between the two. The one can cause a person who reads it to feel aroused. The other is deliberately designed for that purpose by portraying or writing graphic sexual intercourse, human genitalia, etc.

So, no, Anon. My writing is not gay porn. It’s not any form of porn. It will never step into the boundaries of pornography, no matter how much you may wish it to do so. I don’t know if you are, but I’m saying it in the event that you may be.

I hope that this reply helps you to understand my position, and that it educated you more on the subtleties and differences between porn, erotica, and plain old fiction/fantasy.

Thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

Omni

P.S.

For the record, I have nothing against gay people or including gay relationships in my fiction. They’re real and should be acknowledged, even if my religious beliefs are opposed to homosexuality. Heck, I have multiple gay friends online, and we get along just fine. Look back to my previous post about transexuals for my standing policy on how I feel I should treat those who are not of my faith and would be considered sinners, sinning, or “living in sin” by its doctrine.

Appeal Update: I am Tired of Red Tape and Bureaucratic Copy/Paste Replies

Things were going great. The staff was helpful and kind. The people I spoke to were patient and understanding, wishing to assist me as I moved along with the appeal process. I was contacted by an employee named Elisabetta who asked for the pertinent information on the post in question, so that it could be forwarded to the moderators, who apparently are a branch called Tumblr Trust & Safety (didn’t know that before).

Even if the ruling came back to stand as it was, I was going to be okay with it, provided I could get a proper explanation for it.

...

Guess what I got, instead, despite my specific request when I linked said information in my reply to Elisabetta?

That’s right, folks, I won a whopping corporate email! A copy and paste standard draft to all users that has no explanation, no specifics, other than the direction to go right back to the guidelines and FAQ support post! It was going so well. I was talking to real people. I felt like I was being heard, understood, and given a chance to present my case. I even told them I wouldn’t be mad if the ruling still stood, so long as they could explain to me why.

I’m a stickler for rules. I don’t like breaking them. If I mess up, I try to do better. But I can’t be expected to do that if I don’t get an explanation for what was so wrong in the original post!

Here’s what Trust and Safety had to say:

Hello, We’ve reviewed your classification appeal. After careful review, we are unable to restore this content because it is considered adult under our Community Guidelines, located here: https://www.tumblr.com/policy/en/community. For more information about what is and isn’t adult, please see our FAQ support post or the Tumblr Help Center. Thank you, Tumblr Trust & Safety

So, yeah, I’m kinda pissed and tired. I’ve been trying to get an explanation from the very beginning, ever since it was marked adult in the first place. I’ve been patient as my ticket has run up the pipeline. I’ve been patient as they’ve reviewed and processed. And though it took a couple of days before the ticket could be picked up by the help desk, that’s perfectly understandable, given the number of users on Tumblr and the fact that we had the Coronavirus pandemic to worry about (and still do). The people I talked to leading up to the review were professional, helpful, and wanted me to feel heard.

And they did that right. I did feel heard. A little peeved once or twice, but heard, with a knowledge that they were doing their best to help me with my problem.

And I’m grateful they were willing to review the image again after the first appeal and how fast it was sent back to me. I really am.

But then, after specifically asking them to tell me what was wrong with the post, really wrong with it, in the event the ruling still stood, I got that piece of garbage up there!

I’m not a dunce. I’m not stupid. I’m a college graduate who majored in English. I can comprehend guidelines easily. What I can’t comprehend is the process and justification which the moderators used to lead to the ruling standing, because that’s not in the guidelines.

And I’ve let them know that in no uncertain terms with the reply email I just sent today. I just want someone to tell me what was wrong in the image, and how that wrong thing violated guidelines. If genitalia or breasts were showing, or a sexual act were being performed, I would understand, because that’s against the guidelines. It’s clearly stated to be against guidelines.

But I didn’t see that in my image at all. And if the piece that I think is responsible for the ruling is indeed the culprit, I’d like to hear it from the moderators directly for how it violated those guidelines. Where was the sex? Where was the nudity/exposed genitalia or breasts? Was this portion of the picture too borderline, and thus decided to be deemed adult for the sake of being safe, rather than sorry? (seriously, some decisions can really be that close, and I understand that and can respect it.)

Tell me, so I can learn and not repeat the mistake. That’s all I ask, @staff. I don’t think it’s asking too much.

Here’s hoping I can finally get that explanation in the next reply.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 1

Ladies and Gentlemen, Jocks and Muscleheads, Bros and Bruhs, it is my distinct honor and pleasure to present to you the long anticipated sequel to Real Men’s Journal and Of Spies and Muscleheads, the School of Buff Jocks! This story is being written on a commission basis, so give thanks to @muscle-jock-bro for footing the bill. And if you want to ease the amount he’s paid for you all to enjoy this, please feel free to throw a few dollars his way. As usual, I am currently open for commissions. Just message me if you’re interested or email me at [email protected] with the subject: Commission Inquiry. And if you wish to support my writing, please feel free to donate via my Ko-fi or Patreon.

Now, please enjoy. The other parts will be coming shortly.

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Stonewall Prep Men’s Academy. You hear words like that, and you’d expect some sort of boarding school for boys or something like that, wouldn’t you? And I suppose it still is. Things are just … different than they used to be. I’ll tell you what, though, we haven’t had to worry about big fights or fancy things like detention and suspension for a long time. Matter of fact, we have one of the best reputations as a no-nonsense school since the business was bought out by its current owner. It used to be called Stone Bluff Men’s Academy, but I guess Coach Stone preferred something stronger.

Can’t say I blame him. It feels so good to be strong. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The name’s Derek. Derek Jones. My friends call me DJ. I’m … sort of a big deal. Folks around the country call me Big DJ. Can’t say I hate the nickname. Feels kinda natural, actually. And, I mean, look at me. I am big. Thing is, I wasn’t always. Nobody is, I suppose. Not at first.

I used to be more of a nerd. Videogames were more my thing. The closest I came to sports was usually with EA Games’ Madden and other sport franchises. That and Wii Sports. I used to have a lot of gamer friends, too. We’d laugh, sass around about things like anime and other common interests. Then things started to change after summer break one year.

Guess that’s where I’ll start, since I’m supposed to tell my story. And, well, my story is the school’s story. I was sitting with a couple of my old bros, Jackson and Slater. We shared classes, had a lot of the same interests. It was a good match for us. And since the prep school allowed for electives to travel in the same circles, we got at least a couple of periods together each day. Being in the same dorm helps a lot for hanging out after, too.

To say we were surprised by our teachers’ appearances was an understatement. Every one of them was ripped. Not in the steroid sense of the word, but we could tell they’d all lost weight, and their new clothes highlighted the tone they had developed over the break. The school’s headmaster was, by far, one of the biggest changes. The man used to be heavyset and overweight. Now he was broad in all the right places. I mean, the man was built like a tank!

The opening assembly gave us a proper explanation.

The headmaster stared at us with flinty blue-green eyes as he spoke over the pulpit. Even without the speakers, his voice probably could have projected to the back of the hall.

“Welcome to another year at Stonewall Prep Academy. Some of you are likely confused by that name, considering the moniker our school has borne for so many years. It has recently been brought under new ownership, however, with new management as a result. There are to be no major changes in your curriculum, nor your daily lives.

“Your schedules will remain the same, save you should choose to alter them. However, the new owner has insisted on a higher budget to pay for greater resources to be utilized by our student body. As a result, the school will be undergoing certain renovations over the course of the year.

“Our computer lab will be updated with the latest in technology to give you all the best chance at learning both digitally and physically. As an additional investment, each of you will be given a personal computer that is to be returned to the school at the end of the term.”

The room was filled with excited whispers at that news. Our own personal computers. There were so many things we could do with those. Stream shows, play videos, post memes. And we could write letters and emails in our rooms instead of having to dedicate time at the computer lab to do it. It was perfect!

“Now, boys, settle down.” The headmaster smiled. “The best is yet to come. Since so many youths are full of nervous energy, our school’s new owner has insisted on donating a heavy portion of his own money to renovate and expand our fitness program, including giving new machines and equipment to allow maximum efficiency for you students and any sports teams. Living conditions will also be improved in due course on a person to person basis. The transitions in your rooms will be simple and swift, so you needn’t fear not having a place to stay. The changes will be superficial at best with updated furniture and amenities. We expect you boys to do your best during this year and immerse yourself in the spirit of health, wellness, and education that this school is meant to embody. With that being said, it’s time to adjourn for a meal. Then you will have free time to prepare for school tomorrow. To all new students, your schedules will be in your dorm rooms, and teachers will be standing by on the first day to help guide you to your classes across the campus. Welcome to Stonewall Prep!”

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Mister Andrews was my teacher for World History that year. The man was a big medieval buff in both senses of the word. He even kept a suit of full plate armor on display in the classroom to show off his dedication to the time period. I heard he used to joust and play tourneys at Renaissance Fairs before he taught at the school. As a result of his hobby, he always kept a solid frame stacked high with muscle mass, particularly in the arms, shoulders, and legs. His stomach had grown over the last few years of teaching as age caught up with him, but whatever he’d done over break had nuked the fat into nonexistence. A thin green froth coated his lip as he switched between greeting students and taking a swig from an intricately carved tankard portraying a knight charging into battle on his horse with sword waving dramatically in front. I figured it must be green tea. I’d heard the stuff was good for cutting fat, and it explained a lot about his sudden change in form.

His deep voice rolled over the class in a no-nonsense tone. “All right, boys, bros, and men, listen up. I’m Mister Andrews. For those of you who intend to participate in wrestling or football this year, you can call me Coach Andrews. I don’t do roughhousing or fighting in this class. You will pay attention, and you will learn. If you do anything to disrupt the other students or my lesson, you will be punished as I see fit. History is no joke, and I intend you boys to take it seriously.” He drained the rest of his stein and slammed it onto his desk. The resulting sound echoed like a gun shot in our ears. “I hope we understand each other.”

Needless to say, Class was quiet and very attentive on its first day of the term. We received our syllabi and were given a general overview of what to expect for the course of our lessons. It took every fiber of willpower I had not to cheer when he said we wouldn’t be doing any papers this year. Like every teen, I hate writing essays. When the period ended, and it was time to clear out to our next classes, I approached Coach Andrews and smiled.

“Glad I got you this year, Mister Andrews.”

Andrews grinned. “It’s been a while, DJ. How’s the gang?”

“Gallivanting as usual, Sir. Were you still planning on DMing this year?”

“With sword and daggers bared,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I hope your party is ready. This year’s campaign, or campaigns as the case may be, are going to be a lot harder.”

I grinned. “I relish the challenge.”

“I would expect nothing less of our Half Orc Paladin.” He smiled. “Now you’d better move it. I won’t be held responsible for you being late to your next class on the first day. You can’t exactly use being a new student as an excuse, now can you?”

I laughed and offered a casual salute. “Yes, Sir.”

Andrews smirked. “That’s my soldier.”

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I couldn’t help but cringe as the scream rent the air, followed by a cascade of sobs. The hardwood floor of the school’s basketball court was now watered, not only by sweat, but by the tears of the goalie that bawled his eyes out as he clutched his crotch. Well, more held his hands gently over it. My grip tightened on my lacrosse stick as Coach Johnson lumbered forward and offered a consoling hand over the kid’s shoulder. The man was about six-foot-three and carried enough corded muscle to show more than his job was fitness. The offending ball now wobbled guiltily on one of the floorboards as he spoke in a deep, soft, and reassuring tone.

“Deep breaths, Kyle. Deep breaths,” he coached. “You’re gonna be okay.”

The teens that had once been so competitive now averted their eyes as Johnson levelled his dark green gaze on them.

“Mister Larson.” The deep quiet tone carried louder than any shout or beration as he looked to his fellow teacher. “Help the boys put away their equipment. I think we’re done for the day. I’m going to help Kyle to the school infirmary.”

Mister Larson nodded as the wails and sobs gradually faded to that hitching hiccup you get when you’re in the limbo between a full-on bawl and silent tears. No man would dare to criticize Kyle for it. Several of us swallowed heavily as our gazes trailed to our own crotches. That could have been any of us, and that was a sobering thought.

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Jackson winced after I gave them the downlow on what happened in gym. One of the first things we’d done was download Steam onto our new laptops and start playing League of Legends. His black hair had that sort of shine that drew the eye and made most people jealous. How he did it, I still don’t know. He doesn’t either. Guess he was just lucky.

“Sucks to be him,” Slater said as he unleashed his character’s highest tier attack on the enemy hordes. His red hair had been cut to short bristles. He preferred high and tight to the longer bowl cut of his younger days.

“Seriously, man?” I asked.

Slater shrugged. “What? I feel bad for the guy, but I’m not gonna cry a river for him. We’ve got our own stuff to worry about.”

“Either way, I’m pretty sure lacrosse is going to be off the table for a while,” Jackson guessed.

“I feel sorry for the one who did the deed. I know it was an accident, but man, did you see the look on Johnson’s face?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s pretty much screwed,” Slater agreed.

“Or he’s just going to have to apologize. It’s not like he’s going to get expelled,” Jackson said. Then he double clicked his mouse and smiled as his avatar wiped out mine and Slater’s.

“Really, man?”

Jackson shrugged. “That’s what you get for putting me on the other team.”

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Coach Johnson and Mister Larson both stood in front of the mass of students. Their voices rebounded from the tiles of the locker room. Larson raised a bundle of straps with a single green pouch high into the air.

“As of this day, all students are required to wear one of these at all times during gym class. For those students who are unaware, this piece of equipment is known as a jockstrap. It’s designed to support your crotch while playing sports.”

Coach Johnson picked up the narrative and raised his hand into the air. A hard curved plastic insert rimmed by what looked like rubber glinted in the light. The dull gray and black were emphasized by hints of bright green to complement the theme of its paired jockstrap. “This is called a cup. It’s used in most heavy sporting events to protect your crotch from heavy impacts. As you can see, this one is designed with shock absorption, shock transfer, and ventilation in mind, including a gel perimeter and inserts to keep impacts from cutting into your skin. All students are required to wear their cups with their jockstraps in order to participate in fitness activities. This is a safety measure to protect you from future harm. We expect each and every one of you to wear them and take good care of them.”

The two taught us how to insert the cup into a pouch and how to ensure a proper fit. I felt silly and embarrassed by the bulge it left in my pants, but the assurance that I wouldn’t end up in a crumpled ball on the floor helped mute that part of me, even if it couldn’t be totally silenced. At least they didn’t force us to just wear the straps alone. Of course, we were teenagers, so at least a few of us had to make the joke about what we were packing.

Huhuh. If only we knew.

“Jocks and cups will be dropped off in each of your rooms this evening,” Larson said. “You’ll be expected to take good care of them and place the used straps and cups in designated bins for washing. Your surnames will be sewn onto the straps inside the waistband for identification and delivery.”

We played for the rest of that period, though the pain Kyle had experienced was still fresh in our minds, and I’m pretty sure most of us weren’t really putting our whole effort into the game. Our heads were somewhere else.

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Somewhere else. That was the answer we’d received when we asked about Kyle. To be more precise, they’d said he was somewhere else getting treatment. The ball must’ve hit harder than we thought. I was biased then, and angry from past bullying. I thought about those stupid dumb jocks and my blood boiled.

I slaughtered in Call of Duty that night.

Later, we had Trig. Mister Dale had just polished off a blended green shake, probably one of those new kale smoothies, or so I thought at the time. He’d grown, just like the other teachers, and he exuded a confidence that I had never seen in him before when he addressed us. Had the teachers all been using the new gym equipment or something over the break?

Mister D’s voice rolled over the classroom in a wave. “Trigonometry, in many ways, has a heavy impact on us and the way we live. Combine it with the laws of physics, and you can predict almost anything. For instance, how many of you have played air hockey before?”

The majority of us raised our hands.

“How many of you have ever watched the puck in action as it slides over the table?”

Again, everyone raised their hands or nodded they had.

He drew a straight line, followed by two exact angles with the aid of a ruler. “One of the basic premises of trigonometry is angle in equals angle out. If you don’t get involved with friction, spin, or other factors along those lines, the bare essentials lead to this inevitable conclusion. If you strike the wall at a certain angle, the object will bounce off at an equal angle. Hence the ricochet we see in air hockey. Or, for those of you who are gamers, the unique bounce of the ball in Pong as it strikes your paddle.”

He smiled at us, despite our lack of enthusiasm. “Likewise, the same can be applied to philosophy and psychological development. Set a person on a particular course, account for various outside factors like environment and personality, let them collide with an obstacle, and see how they bounce back. In a nutshell, that’s basically life, when you think about it. Release.” He pointed to the first angle. “Strike.” He indicated the axis. “Bounce.” He pointed to the second angle. “And repeat. We may not always get the desired outcome at first, but by repeating the motions, one can eventually analyze a situation, figure out the proper factors, and ensure a means to achieve the desired outcome every single time. Ballistics experts use trigonometry on a regular basis as part of crime scene investigation to gather evidence. Now, then.” He pulled down the projection screen and shut off the lights, so a presentation could begin. “Let’s talk about how we calculate these angles.”

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“Homework sucks,” I groaned as I leaned back in my computer chair.

“At least it’s easy stuff for now, DJ.” Slater pointed out as he clacked on his laptop’s keyboard from my bed. “It could be worse.”

“I suppose.” I sighed. “Least we’re not in the hospital.”

“Relax, Derek. It’s not like Kyle’s never coming back.” He rolled his eyes.

“I know. I just don’t really like thinking about it, you know?” I winced and cupped my crotch.

“Yeah,” the others agreed softly. We spent the rest of the time focused on our various assignments. The trig program was pretty easy to follow through on. The exercise module ran sort of like a Prezi slide show. The line would trace and pause at a unique plane, and we’d have to figure out the angles. Wrong answers would generate a new problem as my point of view spun in reverse from the screen, following the line of trajectory. The more correct answers I got, the closer to the end goal I would descend. It wasn’t so bad as far as game designs go. Basic, but entertaining enough to keep the attention. And using games to teach always seemed a better way to go about school to me.

Module one was a breeze. Two and three took me a little more time. A slim amorphous figure voiced a chipper, “Congratulations,” as it flexed at the end of each one. The metaphorical walls and ricochet spun and drilled into the character, causing it to pulse and vibrate until the module had been absorbed. Then it flexed. The barest hint of definition could barely be perceived on its arm. “We’ll be fit for triggernometry in no time.”

I rolled my eyes. Cheesy one-liners for motivation and a mispronunciation. It was pretty obvious to me where this could end up going. The curriculum was the same for all of us, so we helped each other with our homework, then pulled another game night.

We had no idea what was coming.

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When Kyle finally came back to school again, we hardly recognized him. The pudgy boy had lost a lot of weight and gained in muscle and tone. The glasses he’d worn were nowhere to be seen, and the square block of his skull was much more prominent, now that the fat had been trimmed away.

He became a monster in Phys-ed. And Coach Johnson became his mentor. First term flew by, and he threw himself into every exercise Johnson put us through. He wasn’t the only one. The teachers all were growing. Their shirts were tighter, their figures trimmed. Whatever plan they were following sure seemed to be doing them good.

And surprisingly enough, the program was working. The more homework we aced, the bigger our seamless avatar would grow and the higher our overall performance would become in class. Sometimes, he’d be running a track. At other times, he’d be lifting barbells or performing chin-ups. The animations were so cheesy, we couldn’t help but laugh, but the results spoke for themselves.

I particularly enjoyed the English exercises. Synonyms, antonyms, imagery, symbolism, punctuation, structure.

I was a stickler for structure.

I am a stickler for structure.

Because structure is order and order is strength.

And a guy’s gotta play to his strengths, right?

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Second term is where things started to get … different. The renovations were well underway, and most of them had been finished over the break. It’s easier to work when things are empty. Lets you focus more.

My room smelled of rich pine, thanks to an air freshener that had been plugged into the wall outlet. Not my favorite smell, but I wasn’t about to complain. The bed had been replaced with an extra-long full-sized mattress that gave more support. The mattresses were Sleep System brand, so you can understand when my eyes bugged out at that. These things promise a perfect night’s sleep, and they’ll adjust to your frame automatically to help you sleep longer and better.

And trust me, they work. I love that bed more than I love being home with my family, if you can believe it.

Changes were even more prominent in the mess hall. Stainless steel and chrome shone brightly along the passenger lines. The kitchens, or what little we could see of them, had been decked out with brand new equipment. The food smelled and tasted AMAZING! I’m talking meatloaf, steak, mashed potatoes, tamales, pretty much anything you could name, they had. Not all at once, mind you. The cafeteria still followed a set meal schedule and menu, but the quality was and is out of this world!

The headmaster and teachers were all wearing compression gear with the school’s name and mascot on it. He told us we’d be able to wear school gear now to our other classes if we wished, provided it remained within proper dress standards. Our new “casual” uniforms were waiting for us in our dorms later that night. Me and the guys had a little get together to have some fun with the new gear.

I pitched my voice low and pushed the air out my mouth for greater effect as I flexed in front of the new floor-length mirror that had been installed in my room. Jim, the golden flexing fitness avatar, was showing off the goods on my left pec. His waist was obscured by a stone wall, while the words Stonewall Preparatory Academy stood out along the wall’s face.

“Check out these, guns, bro,” I lowed as I fixed my friends with the most vacant expression I could manage.

Jackson chuckled. “At least we get new clothes out of it.”

“There is that,” I conceded.

Not one to be left out on the fun, Slater smirked and popped both arms into the air in a double bicep flex. “It’s workout time, bruhs.” Jackson and I laughed as he got down and actually did a couple of pushups to hype up the act.

“Behold, Slater the Slayer!” I crowed.

Slater smirked as he got back to his feet. “Not a bad name, ‘bruh.’”

“Fuck, yeah,” I guffawed.

“Fuck, yeah,” they repeated.

We all laughed again, doing our best to push through that deep dull bass as we continued our antics.

We had no idea the seeds we were planting that night.

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Ever the lazy kids that we were, a significant portion of the school began to wear the gear, instead of their usual uniforms. I mean, come on, the stuff was comfy and easy to switch into on short notice if you were running late. What teen wouldn’t use that as an excuse to sleep in a little longer?

This, in turn, led to some developments that our teachers definitely didn’t approve of. Students were coming in late. Once or twice over a long period of time is fine, but when it becomes consistent across multiple students in a classroom, discipline has to be enforced.

And boy, was it.

One early winter morning, five boys came careening into the classroom with panting breath. Andrews was just explaining about Greek culture in ancient times, and we were about to focus on Sparta when we were interrupted. Andrews fixed them with a cool gaze.

“Boys,” he greeted them. “Late again, I see.”

“S-sorry, Mister Andrews,” they said in a low and garbled murmur as they averted their gazes and shuffled toward their seats.

After they’d gotten everything ready on their desks and were about to sit down, Andrews raised a staying hand. “Actually, boys, I’d like your help with a demonstration. Come back up here, will you?”

The kids blushed as they approached the front of the classroom again.

“Now, boys, the headmaster and staff have been talking. We’ve noticed a disturbing rise in the number of children who haven’t been making it on time to class. Not only does this indicate an unprecedented amount of slothfulness, but it also reflects poorly on us as your temporary caretakers. As such, a new mode of discipline is to be implemented, starting today. All boys who are late to class will pay a penalty.” He turned to the boys and grinned. “And you five get to demonstrate that penalty today.” He pointed to the floor. “Now drop and give me ten pushups.”

“Ex-cuse me?” one of the boys asked hesitantly.

“You heard me. Drop and give me ten. Don’t move quickly enough, and I’ll up it to fifteen.” He folded his vascular arms over his chest and frowned. “Now, gentlemen.”

The exercise took particularly long for one of the students, since his arms were basically like twigs. Andrews finally had to allow him to do baby pushups on his knees, instead of using his full body weight.

“Thank you, boys,” Andrews said as he ushered them to their seats with the wave of a hand. Then he fixed the rest of the class with a piercing glare. “And to anyone who gets any ideas about teasing these gentlemen for doing the honorable thing and not complaining, I’ll be happy to show you my personal training course for bullies. As it stands, I expect to see you five here in my classroom after the school day is over. We have a lot to discuss.” He turned back to the board. “Now, then, back to the Spartans.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“Damn it!” I swore. My die rolled a two on the table, and Andrews shook his head.

“Language, DJ.”

The gentle whirr of the projector as the game map shone on the screen demonstrated my character’s current predicament. A large Yuan-ti stood next to my character, and I had rolled to avoid being snared by its coils.

I sighed. “Sorry, Mister Andrews. So, what’s the damage?”

He rolled his dice and spoke. “The Yuan-ti’s coils wrap around Lathrok and hold him tightly. Lathrok takes two points in constriction damage. The serpent sneers and blinks as his eyes begin to pulse. He’s preparing to dominate you and will make the attempt on his next turn.”

“Uh, guys, a little help?” I pleaded of my party.

“Our hands are full, Derek. Sorry.” Slater shrugged apologetically to me. “Dealing with an army of thralls is no easy task.”

“Much though I hate to suggest it, it might be better for the rest of the party to retreat for now and try saving Lathrok later,” Jackson noted.

“Seriously, guys?”

“Given the overwhelming number of thralls we’re dealing with, it might be our only option, unless you want all of us to lose our characters with no chance of saving you,” Slater said. “By the way, I’m using my breath attack to clear a path, Mister Andrews.”

“A shrewd strategy,” Andrews praised. He took a deep drag from his tankard, and a button popped off his dress shirt to expose a little more of his chest beneath. We knew better than to comment on something like that in the middle of a campaign. “Let’s see how it works out for you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

“All right!” Jim cheered in my ears as his helper screen popped up on the interactive gym. “Time to up those weights. Let’s see how it works out for you!” It seemed that the teachers were going to insist we interact with the program every chance we could get.

“If you have any problems, go to Jim.”

Granted, the fact it was there to monitor and help transition for the workout equipment was very useful for most of us. Whenever we reached a plateau, Jim would log it in the system and trigger the machines to create a more challenging workout. I … wasn’t a big fan of this, if I’m going to be honest about it. I didn’t like working out back then. But since it was part of a grade, there wasn’t much I could do, other than let things take their course.

Kyle blew through his exercises like a machine. Rep after rep, set after set. He’d bust them out, guzzle his drink, then get back to work. When others asked him his secret, he just shrugged and said, “I just do it. I got tired of being scared and taking hits, and I did something about it.” Then he’d turn and get right back to work. It was no wonder he turned into such a hulk with the way he attacked the program. His version of Jim was jacked as all get-out. I mean rippling musculature the whole way through. Either he put in a lot more time on the modules or he was in advanced placement, because assuming the avatar followed the same principles ours did in their programming, that size shouldn’t have been possible. Then again, he might have worked on the modules while he was away to help pass the time between physical therapy and whatever else he did.

Either way, the irrevocable social laws of teenage dynamics began to set in, and in no time at all, everyone wanted to hang with Kyle. Spotting, eating lunch, whatever. The guy couldn’t seem to catch a break. It was no wonder he asked to join the lacrosse team. At least on the field, he could get some rest from all the people clawing at him and actually work off some steam. His coaches made sure of that.

It took five rounds of grueling physical exercises to finally get the hordes to back off. The coaches even got a couple of recruits out of it. It was pretty clever, honestly. I mean, making us do the fitness would test our limits and let them see exactly who would be the best students to scout for the sports programs.

Fortunately, I wasn’t among those students. Unfortunately, that didn’t matter in gym class during the weightlifting segment. The butterfly press was one of my greatest enemies, and Jim knew it. Every time I was on that thing, he would correct my form. He still does sometimes, but not too often anymore.

“Derek, your form is off again, big guy.” The monitor flashed to reveal a diagram complete with drawn lines and arrows to direct me and ensure I had a proper visual of the form I needed to use. “Raise your elbows to adjust your trajectory and put the emphasis on the proper muscle groups.” I grit my teeth and bit back the curse burning in my throat.

“Someone looks angry.” The recently promoted Coach Larson folded his arms and nodded at me as I growled through the next press. A tablet was clasped in one of his hands. “Good. Use that to push through the exercise. You’re a growing boy. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t show any aggression.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

“No problem.” He strode up to the side of the machine and spoke into his tablet’s mike as he accessed the equipment. “Hey, Jim?”

“Yes?” the AI querried.

“Add another set to the end of Mister Jones’ routine today. Faculty disciplinary action override.”

The weights crashed as I let go and my eyes bulged. “What?”

“Teacher Identification?” Jim asked.

Larson tapped a code into his data pad, and a chime pinged as the data was submitted. “Okay!” Jim said in a chipper voice.

I wanted to scream, but I really didn’t want to have any more fitness added to what already left my body feeling like frozen molasses in the morning. I didn’t know how I managed to pull through that. Honestly, I was so angry, I hardly paid attention to anything till I felt a heavy hand shaking my shoulder. Kyle’s blocky features stared at me. His brow furrowed in concern, and his short flat top buzz cut flashed white gold under the gym’s lights.

“Hey, it’s, uh, … Derek, right?”

“DJ,” I snapped.

“… Okay, DJ, then.” The fact Kyle stayed calm instead of getting offended probably saved me that day. “You know class is over, right?”

I blinked in surprise. “What?”

He gripped my wrists and pulled my arms gently off the press. “Class is over, man. It’s been over for the last hour.”

“Congratulations! Way to go! I’m really im-pressed with your progress!” Jim continued to heap praises and cheesy one-liners. His arms and chest had gained significant definition. Mine, on the other hand….

Let’s just say it hurt to breathe, and my arms felt like they never wanted to move again, now that they were resting on my lap.

Kyle laid a hand gently on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I wanted to snap at him on instinct, but I managed to keep that part of me in check. Kyle wasn’t the jock stereotype I’d had to face growing up. A few months ago, he’d been a lot smaller and a lot less fit. This wasn’t getting picked on. This was someone concerned for my health. I nodded. “Yeah, I … sorry. I don’t know what happened.” My whole body tingled, and the hairs I had on my arms were standing on end.

“Come on. I know what you need.” Kyle smiled and hoisted me out of the chair like it was nothing. Then he guided me to the coaches’ office. The place was more like a lounge than an office. Maybe even a locker room with how much square footage it had. Fridges, freezers, first aid and medical stations, scales, this place had the works. Kyle easily pulled open one of the fridges and broke the seal on a plastic bottle filled with green liquid. “Drink this,” he instructed. “It’s a protein shake. It’ll help soak up all the acid your muscles are producing, so you can recover faster from today.”

“Is this … okay?”

Kyle shrugged. “Coach said I could if I needed it. Right now, I’d say you need it more. If they ask, I’ll just tell ’em what happened.” Then he guided me into the locker room itself. “What you need now is to chug that shake and take a shower. Cold water works better, but anything’s better than nothing. Trust me on that.”

“That, and the fact I’m a sweaty mess?”

“Well, I suppose there is that, too.” Kyle grinned, then looked at his own drenched compression shirt. “You’re not the only one. Did you bring a change of clothes?”

I shook my head numbly, then took a swig of the bottle. It was only then that I realized just how thirsty I’d become. The whole thing was drained in a few seconds, and I chased it with several mouthfuls of water from the drinking fountain after.

“Well, that sucks.” He shrugged, then led me farther back into the lockers, where the tile opened up into several shower stalls, each cordoned off by a shower curtain and bearing identical mounted dispensers. Shelving units laden with freshly folded towels stood in front each entrance. “Don’t know how the school afforded it, but these things are legit,” Kyle said. “Jets and an overhead designed to get a full body wash. Seriously, man, you’ll never want to shower anywhere else after you try it. And after the workout you just had, you’ll definitely need it. Turn on the massage setting. Trust me, you won’t regret it.” He grinned and patted me on the back as he traversed to a neighboring stall.

And he was right. I didn’t regret it. That stall left me feeling higher than a kite after it was done with me. I managed to move my arms enough to engage each of the dispensers and get a proper shower in. Then I just let the massage do the rest. Kyle was already gone by the time I finished, but he gave me a kind goodbye before he smacked down the tiles to get changed and go to his dorm. So far, it seemed, Kyle was actually going to be one of the good ones out there. Maybe he would be able to break my idea of the jock stereotype.

Maybe.

Weird Religious Joke that Popped into my Head

Demon: I am Legion, for we are many!

Unknown Entity: I am religion, and we are many more.

For the briefest of moments, the fabric of the world flickers behind this entity, and with this stripping comes the revelation of god after god, pantheon after pantheon from every race and culture that has ever existed or has yet to exist. Their number is beyond counting, for with them lies their various heavenly hosts and adherents who have passed into paradise. Even those deities whose purpose is to punish stand within the throng, accompanied by their adherents and subjects, sharpening their swords or otherwise bringing their powers and glory or miasma and malevolence to bear.

Demon: *wets themself* Oh, Sh--.

Credit to @willpeter for this image.

This story will have hypnotic themes in it and guiding a character into trance. If you trance easily, make sure you aren’t doing anything that could put yourself or others in jeopardy before reading.

If you like this content, please help support me by joining my Patreon. For just $3.00 a month, you get access to unique story and script content that you won’t find anywhere else on my webpages, along with the privilege of helping to recommend ideas and themes that I will incorporate in later scripts via the Discord Server.

Help me reach a high enough monthly income, and I’ll be able to post more content on a regular basis both here and there. :D

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Lea-durr-ship

(Disclaimer: This story and its title is not made to target mentally disabled individuals. The term “dur” has been associated with people who have moments of lapse in thought, make silly or “stupid” mistakes, and a general pop culture reference to lack of intelligence. Please, do not use this term when referring to mentally disabled individuals. Thank you.)

The camera flickered on as James finished setting up his laptop. The bars, suitcase, and other miscellaneous items and weights were still sitting on the floor behind him, waiting to be unpacked. As per his hypnotist’s instructions, he had stripped to show off the progress he had made in developing his body. They would continue their sessions, despite the work he had to do.

“Good afternoon, Jamie.”

James never let anyone call him that, save for his hypnotist.

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

The screen mirrored James’ body as he stared into the camera.

“I see you are settling in.” The screen remained dark for the other end of the call. His hypnotist preferred to work with just his voice.

“Yes, Sir. I admit that I’m a little nervous, though.” James raised his arms and flexed to show off his progress. Veins snaked through his arms like roots. Apart from his head, he was perfectly smooth.

“Oh? And why is that, Jamie?”

James shuddered. “I ... I have to take charge. I’ve always been following other people. Doing work to hand up the chain. Now, I have to be the one to lead.” He paused to swallow. Silence followed.

“And?” the voice prompted.

“I’m scared, Sir,” James finally admitted.

“Flex for me, boy.” It wasn’t a request.

James shuddered and did as he was commanded. The screen flashed over his glasses as the camera refreshed and the lighting adjusted on his monitor.

“Follow as you flex. Follow your progress on the screen. Follow and listen to my voice as you flex deeper. Deeper and deeper...”

James shuddered again as his underwear tightened. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Very good. So, you are afraid to lead, yes?”

“Yes.” James transitioned into an archer pose.

“Good boy. It is good to acknowledge fear. it is good to understand that it exists. It is natural, just as natural as my voice in your ears, my voice guiding you down, down, down into trance. And you like that, don’t you, muscleboy?”

James groaned as he transitioned to a new side pose to show off his legs and lats. “Yes, Sir.”

“Such a good muscleboy.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Again.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Again.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Good muscleboys listen. Good muscleboys obey. Are you ready to listen? Are you ready to obey? Are you ready to prove you are a good muscleboy?”

The room fell away. All that mattered was the voice and his body on the screen as he pitched his voice lower. “I am a good muscleboy. Ready to listen. Ready to obey.”

“Good. Now listen, muscleboy. Listen deep. Listen well. Listen, and obey. Any time you are afraid, you will flex. Flexing will calm you. Flexing will give you confidence, as it gives you confidence when you flex for me. Flexing puts the fear into your muscles. Flexing clears your mind. Flexing allows you to focus. Focus on your tasks. Focus on what needs to be done. Focus on what I or your superiors tell you. And your muscles will burn that fear away just as easily as they burn calories. It is a natural process. Natural to be confident. Natural to let it go. Natural to burn it away.”

The more James flexed, the more relaxed he felt. He smiled. “Yes, Sir.”

“But all things that burn leave something behind, don’t they? Chemicals, smoke, exhaust. Isn’t that right, muscleboy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And exhaust must be vented.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will vent that exhaust, that excess, by laughing. A simple laugh. A deep laugh. A dull laugh. Blunting your fear. Blunting your worry. Blunting, so you can think clearly and calmly. And you’re feeling very calm right now, aren’t you, muscleboy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re burning that fear and anxiety with every flex, great or small. You acknowledge that there is risk, but that risk holds no power over you to keep you from doing your job, because you are burning the fear, burning the anxiety, feeding the machine that you are to work clearly, efficiently, and well. Now, be a good muscleboy and expel that exhaust.”

“Huhuhuhuh....”

“Good muscleboy,” the hypnotist purred. “Again.”

“Huhuhuhuh....”

“Good muscleboy. Doing just as you’re programmed. So simple. So calm. So relaxed. Don’t you feel silly for all that fuss now?”

“Huhuh. Yes, Sir.”

“So silly. So dull. So stupid. But that’s all right. There are leaders, and there are lea-durrs. Both know how to lead. Both can be intelligent and efficient. Both can be charismatic. One of them just needs a little ... encouragement sometimes. Encouragement from people like me, to help them see how silly they are to be afraid. To help them let go of that stupidity that cripples them and holds them captive at crucial points. It is nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud to acknowledge that you needed help and sought it out. Proud ... to be a lea-durr. What are you?”

“I am a good muscleboy. I am a lea-durrr. Huhuhuh. A lea-durr. Huhuhuh. A lea-durrr.” He laughed and laughed and laughed as he continued to flex for his hypnotist.

“Good muscleboy. I expect a report from you as soon as you finish your first day on the job, understood? You will call me and report, muscleboy.”

“Huhuh. Yes, Sir. I am a good muscleboy. Huhuh. A good muscleboy is a good lea-durr. I will lead. I will obey. Huhuhuhuh.....”

“Good muscleboy. Now get that workout equipment set up. I want to watch you lift today.

James grinned. “Yes, Sir.” He laughed as he got to work. A glassy look began to filter over his eyes. “I am a good muscleboy. I obey.”

Credit to @viralsmorphs for this awesome photomanipulation. Please go to his blog for more great muscle morphs. He really does high quality stuff

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Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

(Please join my Patreon for more unique stories in muscle, hypnosis, and other areas. It’s very affordable, and I could really use the money. For $3.00 a month, you get exclusive content that’s not seen anywhere else online. Join my team of supporters and help me to become a full time writer, so I can bring you guys more fun content to enjoy, please. Thank you!)

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A casual note. Tumblr deemed the reblog I initially captioned for this story as inappropriate and adult. They still haven’t told me why/how they reached that conclusion, other than to look to the guidelines. I have asked in a reply to the email from the team responsible, so I can get specifics on the ruling (and thus avoid another offense). I still haven’t gotten a reply from them back yet. I’m not sure if they’re going to give me one.

So, I’m going to use another image instead to get my story out and modify one or two minor pieces of imagery as a result of the different image. The original post will stay for now, but I will eventually delete it after Tumblr gets back to me. If they don’t, I am going to be very pissed.

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Pothead

You pissed off the wrong gamer, Teabagger.

Nick chuckled as his avatar squatted repeatedly over his latest kill.

Whatever, pothead. Don’t get salty, just because I’m the smarter player.

The response was witty, stinging, a perfect way to end a perfect match after a sore loser tried to nose in on him and his record. In the digital battlefield, it didn’t matter how strong or fast you were. What mattered was knowledge, cunning, and strategy. Here, he could be merciless if he wished without consequence. No bullies to beat on him to nurse their bruising egos and insecurities. No catty popular girls to mock him for being who he chose to be. In this place, at this time, he was the alpha. He ruled the roost. And he would make sure that others knew it.

Or so he’d thought at the time.

The changes started small at first. A few flickers on the screen, a few angry comments, and the beginnings of what he knew would become a great rivalry. He shot his opponent and followed his ritual. When his opponent shot him, the retort came in the chat.

Who’s the pothead now, bro?

It was laughable, really. And soon it became a sort of a dance. Nick couldn’t help but laugh at the language that flowed over the chat whenever he took out another player.

#^$*ing Teabagger, man!

Bro, come on!

Just got #&$*ed by the Teabagger. Talk about necrophilia. Creep.

Hacks. I call hacks!

He scratched his chest that night. It was sore from the gym time with his new personal trainer. Pushups were no joke. It was a wonder his arms were still working well enough to play, but they were.

“Sucks to be you,” he’d said, then smiled and kept going.

-------------------------------------------------

“Keep going. You’re doing great.” The month had flown by, and Nick was surprised at just how much better he felt as he pushed against the floor. His arms still strained with the rest of his body, and his heart raced, but it was easier, and the praise and support was surprisingly enjoyable after all the years of abuse he’d faced in his younger days. “You must be keeping up with those home exercises I gave you.”

Nick smiled. “Yeah, I am.”

“Feels good to just focus on the body sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Whoa there, partner. Let’s not be too hasty.”

The man chuckled. “You’ll get it eventually. Come on. Time to work that core.”

---------------------------------------------------

Nick smirked as the screen flickered with another message:

Teabag or D-bag?

Totally both.

Yes.

Definite yes.

Behold, the two parts of the whole.

Gonna put a hole through his head any minute now.

Nick rolled his eyes and swiftly typed into the message board.

In your dreams, @ M3ath3ad. Hope you’re ready to eat your words.

By the time the match ended, he’d earned MVP. His rival had ranked top on the other team and even hosted the match.

Hope you’re having fun, Teabagger.

Nick smirked.

You bet. Where’ve you been?

A smirking emoji appeared on the screen, followed by:

Taking a little time off. You know what they say. A watched pot never boils.

The hell’s that supposed to mean?

He never got an answer.

------------------------------------------

“It’s boiling in here. Why’s the heat have to be so damned high?”

The trainer chuckled. “Not the heat. It’s you. I told you I’d work you hard, didn’t I?”

“No way it’s just me.” Nick grunted as he pushed through the end of another set with the bench press.

“Maybe you should wear something a little less concealing next time, then. It wouldn’t hurt you to use a tank top, you know.”

“Not really my style.”

The trainer shrugged. “Styles change. So do bodies. Yours might benefit from a little change. Show off some skin, bro.”

“Bro?”

“Figure of speech. Besides, you’d be surprised how addicting it can be, once you start using it.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

The trainer sighed. “In one ear and out the other....”

---------------------------------------------

In one ear and out the other, ‘bro.’ Nick typed victoriously as he finished yet another headshot in M3ath3ad’s avatar.

Dude, not cool.

Really, man?

Why are we still putting up with this asshole?

Because I’m an actual challenge?

The chat was silent for a while.

Everyone’s thinking it. I’m just saying it. ... “Damn it, I hate it when he’s right.”

Bold of you to think he’s a he.

Nick chuckled. Let me stop you right there. I’m totally a he. He leaned against the wall and stretched from his bed. Much though he hated to admit it, his trainer was right. He felt better with less on.

...

Less on.

...

Less on.

The screen flickered. A bout of dizziness struck. “What...?”

The countdown started for the next round. The screen flickered again as the map loaded.

Time to teach you a lesson, Teabagger.

It was Rival. And once again, he was playing host.

Less talk, more action.

The smirk appeared on the chat again, the herald to their ritual of tit for tat. The match would feel wrong without it at this point.

Simmer down, Pothead. Don’t want you to boil before I school you.

Ooh, burrrrrrrrn! Brawn-E typed.

Dem’s fightin’ words! Mu$cl3Mann added.

This is gonna be good! Br4h-n said.

The timer counted down. The match began. The dance began anew.

------------------------------------------

“About time you took my advice.”

Nick’s abs burned as he thrust forward on the chest press. The weight dug into his core and back with every curl. “Shut up,” he grunted.

“You’ve carved a pretty good figure, actually,” the trainer continued heedlessly. “You take well to workouts.”

Nick shrugged. “Just part of the day. I just do it.”

“Without thinking?” The trainer smirked.

“Don’t push me, ‘bro.’“

“Isn’t that why you hired me in the first place, ‘bro?’“

Nick grit his teeth. “All right, you got me.”

The trainer smiled. “Good. Now let’s see what else we can get.”

----------------------------------------

Lucky shot, bro. Don’t get used to it.

Nick frowned as he glared at the message box. Emoji after emoji poured in. Some shocked, others cheering, others popping streamers and so forth.

Ding-dong, the witch is dead!

Nick’s chest huffed in frustration as the kill cam replayed his death. A sniper had just barely managed to get a head shot off a corner of an exposed piece of wall.Two straps perked against his chest as the cotton brushed gently over his pecs. He scratched a pec, then adjusted his crotch. All the work at the gym had upped his metabolism, and with it his testosterone levels. Increased aggression was only natural.

“Never again, bro,” he muttered darkly. “Never again.”

------------------------------------------

“Looking good there, stud,” Nick’s trainer complimented.

Nick thrust himself into his work as sweat streamed down his face, neck, and chest. He walked with a broader step now to keep from putting too much pressure on his crotch. Clothes felt tighter than they had been before, and others had begun to notice his changes. It was nice to receive such gratification, but frustrating to lose it in the one place that had mattered to him for so many years.

So, he did what came naturally. He took it out on the weights.

“Bad time?”

“Don’t wanna think about it,” Nick snapped back.

His trainer shrugged. “Okay, then don’t. Focus on your body. Focus on the weights. Let’s break that plateau today.”

Nick nodded. “That’s not all I’m gonna break,” he growled.

---------------------------------------

That night was a slaughterfest.

Damn, bro. Someone’s steamed.

Teabagger’s bringing it!

%*#&!

Nick sneered as he took out each of his enemies and initiated the same ritual. “That’s right. Nobody talks $^&* about me and gets away with it. I’m a one-man army.” He crept into a door and laid a claymore, then scratched his crotch. “You ain’t got the balls.” He chuckled as he camped in a corner by the stairwell and waited. The claymore went off, followed shortly by several kill shots to the torso as he took out the raiding party. Exultation surged. “Fuck yeah,” he growled. A predatory pleasure ran through him as he chuckled. “Fuck, yeah.”

-------------------------------------------

Nick swaggered confidently into the gym. His grin was wide, his shorts tight in all the right places, and his tank top holding against his torso in just the right way to show off the burgeoning muscle that now surged with the pump of his jog to the gym.

“Someone’s smug today.”

Nick grinned. “Got a lot to be smug about.”

“That you do, Nick. That, you do. Ready for your next session?”

“More than ready.”

“Then let’s go, bro.”

“Can hardly wait, bro.” Nick grinned.

“You really do love arm day, don’t you?”

“What can I say? It’s fun to flex.”

The trainer chuckled. “Yeah, bro, it sure is. Ready to get in the zone?”

“Huhuh. You know it.”

“That’s the spirit.”

---------------------------------------

The screen flickered again over Nick’s computer display. The chat room lit up, and he smiled as he strode confidently to his bed in his sweats and XXL shirt. His biceps strained against the fabric, and he sneered at the feel of the pressure. He could conquer in and out of virtual reality now.

Guess who’s back, &$*#ers.

Oh, snap, it’s Teabag!

Bro, where you been?

Nick chuckled. Life comes first, man. You know that. I had some training meetings I had to attend. Not exactly a lie. He’d let them draw their own conclusions. But now I’m back, and I’m ready to pwn your asses.

Big talk. Can you back it up, bro?

You’ll find out soon enough.

Game cued up. Rival hosted again.

Hey, can you guys talk after this match? Got something I need to say.

Nick raised his brow. Not about to complain, are you?

Nah. I’ll leave that to you, ‘bro.’

Are you mocking me?

Would I do that, pothead?

You’re gonna get it.

Bring it on, dumbass.

Nick grit his teeth. Oh, it’s on.

The match was glorious. Nick sneered as he watched his final kill tab play across the screen. They had reaped the whirlwind. And he was fierce, indeed.

Remember your promise. No complaints, he typed quickly.

The familiar smirking emoji passed over the window with a flicker, and Nick smiled. The repartee was sure to follow.

No complaints. Just concern. I think a few of us are getting a little too hotheaded. It’s time to let off some steam, bros.

Nick’s hands dropped to his sides. He gaped at the screen as his mouth hung open ever so slightly.

Cameras on, please.

A window opened in the screen, divided into a series of boxes. Second by second, they flicked on to reveal another muscled man in underwear staring ahead. Then another, and another in varying states of dress. The message box stayed open above the windows and flickered with another message.

Let’s go, potheads. Time to pour.

The men stood as one. Their cameras adjusted. And then they began to speak. Nick couldn’t hear the words, but he knew them well, and he knew that they knew them, just as he stood with them. Their voices were one, one voice, his voice, their voice, one voice. They were one.

“I’m a dumbass meathead, tall and proud. Growing my muscle is what I’m about. More and more, my meat drives me about, tips me over, and dumbs me down as weights drop in and smarts drip out.”

Good Meatheads.

Nick did what came naturally, having finished the ritual. He righted himself, raised an arm, and flexed his bicep into his handle. His abs tightened and took on more definition as he breathed deep, then did as the song suggested and let his meat drive. “Huhuhuhuhuh....” His body moved on its own as his hands navigated the options in the video game and adjusted his user name. Then he typed into the chatroom as he stared into the camera with dull glassy eyes.

Meatbag reporting in.

The teabagger was no more.