She's The Woman (Short Story)

            I tug my tank top down, feeling it stretch tight across my chest—it fits tight and everything is all right. Perfect even… This is how a hardbody is supposed to look—this is how a man ought to look. I flex in the mirror, watching my muscles swell—pecs standing out, biceps rising and peaking just right. I’m a man’s man. And every man wants to be like me. But they can’t. It takes more than just good genetics; it takes hard work to make this hardbody. Hours in the gym, dedication, sweat—all of it shows right here, in every hard line and chiseled angle.

            I grab a towel and strut out into the gym, and as I take it all in and look around, not a single other man working out even comes close to matching up to me—or my muscles. I can’t help but smirk and once again take in all my majestic glory as I admire myself in the wall mirror of the gym. If I’m looking this good now, just wait until I get my pump on—I’ll be so swole, engorged, and yoked!

            I grab my dumbbells, feeling the familiar weight in my hands, the iron pulling against my muscles, every rep a reminder of my power. I love this—the control, the rush, the way every curl makes me feel like the king of this place. No other man here is even lifting half of what I’m lifting—they’re literally half the man I am. I strut a little, chest out, feeling strong and manly, like the alpha male I know I am. The gym is my territory, the weights my tools, and I’m the one who commands them. If I need any more reaffirmation of how great I am, all I have to do is look into one of the many mirrors that line the walls.

            And I chuckle as I take in the reflected, mirrored kaleidoscope of my muscular manliness.

            And then she walks in.

            I catch her out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly the mirror’s crack—well, maybe just my ego. She walks in, and I swear the sheer size of her reflection alone seemed to muscle my own reflection out of those mirrors. Something’s not right and everything feels off, and suddenly my own dumbbells don’t look so heavy or impressive—especially when she grabs a set heavier than my own.  I’ve never seen a woman like her before—she’s got muscles. Not just any muscles—muscles that would make every man green with envy. Only you’d think she’d be the green one because of those hulking muscles of hers. They’re the kind of thick, powerful muscles that scream strength with every movement, only she’s wrapped them in a stunning package that makes her impossible to look away from. She’s got muscles on top of muscles, all massive and powerful, but she’s still all woman—and a whole lot more. Her beauty is breathtaking—take it from me, even if I felt that she was taking my sanity from me. A woman shouldn’t be this big, this buff, and let me tell you, those big muscles of hers were no bluff as she effortlessly lifted those dumbbells of hers.

            What kind of woman is she?

            She’s a woman’s woman, and then some. A whole lot of some. The kind that every man dreams about, with the kind of beauty every woman wishes she could have, and she has the kind of muscles and strength that everyman wishes they had!

            She’s the woman.

            And as I watch her lift those heavy weights, I see how engorged that gorgeous woman and her muscles become, I see how swole that sexy body of hers can get, and I see how yoked she is, those yawning wide lats and shoulders of hers—not that you’d ever yawn taking in that gorgeously engorged feminine powerhouse physique of hers.

            It’s actually maddening, and just looking at her makes me mad, but also feel like I’m going mad!

            I try to focus on my workout, try to tell myself it doesn’t matter, that size doesn’t matter—yeah right! I spent my whole life believing bigger is better and being weak is for weaklings, but looking at her and how now she’s lifting an even bigger and heavier set of dumbbells—I guess the ones before were her warm-up… I can’t focus, I try not to look at her—but she’s everywhere, reflected over and over like a funhouse mirror, and just seeing her, it’s like she’s in my head.

            But I take a deep breath and focus on my workout. I’m a man’s man… I’m the man and I’m curling my usual 50s, feeling good, but then I glance over, and there she is, lifting more than I’ve ever dared—or could ever lift. Her weights are heavy, stupidly heavy, and she’s tossing them around like they’re nothing. My grip tightens on my dumbbells, my own muscles straining, but it’s hard to feel strong when I’m lifting half of what she’s pressing.

            I tell myself to keep going, that I’m here to workout, but I can’t stop stealing glances. She’s got the kind of muscles that any man would want—the kind I want—every lift, every flex is a show of power that makes me feel smaller with every rep. And as if the impossibly heavy weights alone weren’t bad enough, between sets she’s flexing and posing, showing off like some kind of narcissistic, self-absorbed, shallow, vain showoff! I mean, what kind of person flexes and admires themselves in the mirror like she does…

            Sure, she’s got big muscles—big deal! She’s not some big deal; I’m the big deal—I don’t care how big she is… Or how big those muscles of hers swell and bulge as she pumps them up and flexes in the mirror. A gym is for lifting weights, the bigger the better, not for preening and prancing in front of a mirror. That’s when I decide it’s time for me to man up and show her just what heavy lifting looks like. And that’s when I grab a barbell off the rack, one of the heaviest, and I press that heavy son of a gun over my head… I’d like to see her top that.

            What does she do? Well, I’d like to tell her what she should do—which is to get out and stay out of the gym and leave the heavy lifting to the men—but instead, she just walks over to the same barbell rack and picks up an even heavier barbell, and she proceeds to curl it over and over again. What’s more, after her set, without pausing or stopping, she presses it above her head and cranks out some reps—even more reps than what I just did. And to punctuate it, she drops the barbell like it was some kind of proverbial microphone—or gauntlet—and starts to flex again. She’s twisting and squeezing, pumping and posing, watching her muscles ripple, bulge, and swell like they’re getting bigger and bigger. How is it possible she’s this insanely big, and what’s even more insane is the more she flexes, the bigger she gets. Her biceps flare, her abs ripple, her back’s a map of ridges and valleys that don’t belong on a human, let alone a woman.

            She’s so smug and full of herself and her full-bodied muscular figure… I got muscles too—only my muscles don’t move like that, don’t twitch like that, and God, the envy gnaws at me.

            I move to the bench press, hoping to find my groove, but every time I look up, she’s there, lifting more, flexing more, her muscles making mine look like a joke. I’m supposed to be the man’s man here, but this woman—she’s got me beat in every way. I can feel my frustration boiling, every set a reminder that she’s outclassing and what’s worse—outmuscling me. I try to block her out, to focus on my own lifts, but it’s like she’s overshadowing everything… And I don’t mean that figuratively—like I’m in some kind of proverbial pickle—I mean I’m actually standing and lifting in her gawd damn shadow.

            She’s so fucking huge she nearly blocks out all the light, and I feel myself and my masculinity eclipsed by her… I mean that figuratively—and Christ, I really do feel like I’m not just in a pickle, but like the walls are closing in on me, and that this gym isn’t big enough for the two of us. I need space, and her—that damn bimbo beefcake—is taking up too damn much of it.

            I can’t stand it.

            I leave the free weights behind, slinking over to the circuit machines like some defeated chump. The very machines I used to mock other so-called men for using. These are for girly men, not for guys like me. Real men lift free weights, but I can’t handle it today, not with her over there, lifting those heavy, girly weights that make mine look pitiful. She practically strong-armed me right out of my own gym… Imagine me, a muscular man’s man, outmuscled by a woman.

            I crank out reps on the machine, each one more humiliating than the last. I’m dripping sweat, my muscles on fire, and she’s still going strong, still lifting, still flexing in front of the mirror like she owns the place. I wipe my face, my pride shriveling every time I catch sight of her flexing, making her muscles ripple and bulge over and over again, admiring her own reflection. She loves every inch of her body, and she’s got o’ so many damn insufferably strong and insanely shredded inches. What’s just as insane as the sheer size and scope of her feminine muscularity is that she’s just as fresh as ever, barely breaking a sweat, and I’m struggling just to keep up with my own workout. She’s the woman, the brickhouse, and I’m just a crumbling wall in comparison.

            I’ve had enough.

            I wipe down with my towel, tossing it in the bin as I storm toward the exit. I grab a fresh one, muttering under my breath, ready to get the hell out of this gym that suddenly feels too small—too girly, for a proper man to get a proper manly workout in. I’m wiping my face when I slam into something hard—really hard. I fall down, hitting the ground hard, and it’s like I’ve run straight into a brick wall.

            But it’s not a wall.

            I look up, and it’s her. The brickhouse of a woman—I ran smack right into that hard hardbody of hers, and now she’s towering over me… standing there with that smug, haughty smile, her muscles rippling and bulging as she looks down at me like I’m nothing more than a speed bump she barely noticed. She’s solid, unmovable, everything I thought I was and more. She reaches out a hand, and I can see every muscle twitch, flex, and ripple as she does it.

            I don’t take it—I can’t. In fact, I can’t take it anymore—this woman and her overpowering, bulging beauty, her rippling radiance, her sensual strength. I can’t take the humiliation, the emasculation, the way every glance at her makes me feel smaller, weaker. I can’t stand the belittling of me by those beefy biceps, the way her muscles seem to mock my every rep, every lift. I can’t take it anymore. And I scream—a raw, frustrated yell that tears from my throat before I can stop it, echoing around the gym and bouncing right back at me like the last pathetic gasp of my pride.

            I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding, my face burning with shame. I can’t look at her, can’t bear the smugness in her eyes, the silent confirmation that she’s got me beat in every way. I turn and bolt, running out of the gym like a man on fire—except I’m no longer a man. I’m something lesser, something debased, disheveled, and defeated, with sweat dripping down my face, my muscles aching, and my pride in shambles. I leave everything behind—my gym bag, my clothes, and my dignity. I can’t go back. Not with her there, flexing, lifting, and making me feel like nothing. She’s the alpha, the brickhouse, the woman’s woman who’s got everything—and more—of what I thought made me a man.

            She’s the woman and I’m not even a man anymore, just a scared little beta bitch boy—and I can’t take it anymore!