Location: Slaughterhouse Gym, Hobart, Tasmania.
Subject: Blood, Sweatin and Wettin Panties.
I’ve had some killer workouts in my time as a lifter.
Training sessions where the world has just gone past in a blur and I’ve been head to toe with my demons, gripping steel and forging the masterpiece.
Tearing fibres, burning calories, destroying my weakness - going after the little bitch in me with a battle-axe and lust for blood.
Pretty girls walk past me in their little shorts, and I don’t bat an eye. They look, they take a peek, they can smell the fucking testosterone oozing out of me.
It makes their lady bits tingle.
But I don’t notice them. Because I’m somewhere else. I’m not in the same place they are - I am somewhere else, somewhere else entirely, somewhere only those who train like real men will understand.
They can stick their snatch right up under my nose and they can shake their asses in front of me all they like.
But I won’t bite.
I’m at war when I’m training, and the only thing on my mind is absolutely fucking dominating the weights before me. Having a killer session, sweating out all the bullshit, and crushing every squirming maggot of weakness within me. Leaving my heart and my soul on the floor in a puddle of blood and sweat and snot.
That’s my goal when I set foot inside the weight room - that’s how I was trained to train.
It doesn’t happen every time, but it happened today, and I walked out of that place feeling like Ghengis Khan conquering empires on a motherfuckin horse’s back. Headphones in, heavy metal slamming into my eardrums, I smashed through set after set of everything I could possibly do.
Heavy pull-ups, dips, squats, rows, bench presses, curls, chest flyes. I grabbed dumbbells and barbells and plates like the devil harvesting the souls of you weak little faggots sitting on the couch talking shit.
In the dead of winter, sweat dripped off me like I’d just spent six hours in a sauna.Blood pumped through my veins and into my swollen muscles.
My heart thumped in my chest. I felt reborn. I felt alive.
That feeling is the very same feeling that has kept me going back for more since day one, over ten years ago. It’s euphoric, addictive, better than any drug. Seeing a weak and helpless sack of shit transformed through the iron, into a rock solid lump of muscle. Seeing the reaction I get from all the little ponies, when I take my jacket off in a club, or walk through any space where women are.
Yeah I won’t lie, I like the attention, in fact, I love it.
I love having my arms squeezed and my shoulders rubbed by their cute little hands. I love it when they say:
“Wow, y_o_u are so big”
What man wouldn’t love it?
The simps, the mommas boys and the betas of this world can pretend all they like, that women don’t like dudes who are jacked. But it’ll never change how a girl’s biology reacts to seeing a man who looks like the God of War.
She wants to fuck him, and that’s how it is - she simply can’t help it - just like the Alpha lion can’t help eating what makes his belly rumble.
So why fight what can’t be changed?
Why spend your life looking like fresh dogshit when you can look like the Greeks carved you out of stone?
All it takes is decades of hard work and discipline. All it takes is putting on those headphones and going to war every single time you step inside the weight room.
Small price to pay if you ask me.
~ Maverick Brenton.
Filed under · Bodybuilding
