A Talk About Big Organs And Other Topics

I held 905 pounds last time -- last week. Sounds like a lot, but I think I'm over being impressed with that sort of number. It's just something you train into. The bar is pretty ridiculous-looking though. All collared up to the end with plates, and then there are ropes hanging down with a few hundred more pounds. It's one of the few times having long bones is a distinct advantage. No leverage or distance issues -- just long muscles doing what muscles want to do: contract.

 I have to laugh. I used to be able to do the math instantly, but now I'm all befuddled. It's the different sizes -- well, not sizes, they're all about the same size -- that's the problem. Bumper plates look the same but weigh different amounts. Just confuses me. I was used to thinking in units of 90 pounds, 45 and 45. I've finally remembered how to deal with it. Just add up one side and double it. Pretty elementary, but I have a lot on my mind. The other fellas have all sorts of trouble with the knots. That makes me smile too. Great intertwining lumps, like they were lashing down for a storm. 

 But it's this T thing. Starting the next day I was all hypertestosteronic. Just doesn't seem right, is all. Nothing but a bother. I have more than enough testosterone already, thank you very much. Puh-lenty, just like a real man should, which I am, totally. It must be part of my manly heritage. Can't speak for my brothers, but I have the idea that my father was not an entirely self-contained man. At all. My character is entirely different. That's not really helpful, but at least I can respect myself. Point is, I'd like all surfeit of hormonal output to be administered toward the building and maintaining of strength, not tumescence. Strength and beauty. Masculine beauty, it goes without saying -- like what I am ... totally masculine. 

 I'm going to have to start exercising more. Started a little program of sprints. Well, not actual sprints. Three-hundred-meter runs, with a 150 walk between. Just two intervals at a six minute mile pace, and one at a 5.5. You scoff. But the week before I'd gone even slower, thinking I was being prudent, and pulled a muscle. So I'll add one interval and a bit of speed each week, until I hit 10 intervals at a five mile pace. Then I'll take it off the treadmill and do real sprints. I can handle the even greater influx of androgens. Of course I can. No prob. You do know, don't you, that sprinting is another one of those hormone-raisers, right? But I can deal with it, cuz I'm practically a saint. I am a monster of self-control. That's what I keep telling everyone. 

 And just what exactly is someone like me supposed to do with sex, anyway? Be all philosophical about it, I suppose. Compose a treatise on the myths of testosterone. Organ size and body hair. What is it with large organs? Who thinks that is attractive? Not women, I'm told. Not normal women, anyway -- they like the big butts. Men? Well, certainly gay men. But normal men? You know, like me? Well, no, not like me. Common men, I should have said. What's all this talk about their big organs? I have two insights about this. First, men think women like big organs because men think women have the same sexuality as gay men. Second, men say they have big organs because they think it will make them seem more manly. That is, more manly than they actually are. And since big is a term of comparison, what they're really doing is taking a peculiar and particular interest in the heft and general shape of another man's unit. Now I hope we don't have to speak of this any more. It's just that you kept on asking my opinion on the matter. So now you have it, and we'll just drop it, finally. 

 As for body hair, someone said to me that so and so must have a lot of testosterone because he had a lot of body hair. Is that what people think? Well, I'm not very knowledgeable about women's things, like menses and suchlike, so I suppose it's reasonable that there should be all sorts of ignorance. But body hair is just about family genetics. Active or not-active follicles, responding to normal amounts of hormones. I'm sure there's no correlation at all between chest hair and who wins a fight. Nothing to do with comparative amounts of hormones. I myself am blessed with a magnificent display of chest hair, manly yet elegant, delightfully arrayed across my broad chest as if applied by an artist of the highest caliber. It's more white than blond nowadays, which adds a certain very attractive, undeniable maturity and gravitas to my otherwise amazingly youthful physique. It's magnificent. Less fortunate men are burdened with a hideous carpet of belly hair, like a mud-worn doormat, but my superior genetics are unmutated by that sort of animalistic degeneration. I am ideal. 

 And what's this weirdness nowadays with manscaping? Forty year olds want to be teenage boys? Pathetic. Six percent of caucasian men naturally have no chest hair. That means about 93% of the prettyboy actors wax. Yuck. As for shaving pubes, double yuck. It will vary among ethnicities, but body hair is a sexual cue, signaling adult development. It's not about manliness or womanliness. It's about puberty. No pubes means hands off. Isn't this obvious? 

 There's a guy at the Y, Armenian, which means HAIRY, who manscapes his pubes. I don't stare, but he might have stepped into my line of sight once or twice. And it's not like he doesn't just jaybird all around the locker room as if he were trying to flag in a jetliner. It's like a full moon in the starless sky ... well, a comet. Looks like a moldy donut, if you catch my drift. Furry everywhere except in the middle. Is he a suicide bomber? My automatic assumption is that he's gay. Probably not what he intends. Who knows.

 And what's this back hair and shoulder hair and ear hair all about anyway? We have more hormones in our 40s than in our 20s? Doesn't track. I don't know what it's about. I'll just make up the explanation that it's a part of age degeneration, a sort of blurring of functionality, a misapplication of resources. Grandma with the hair growing out of her nosemole isn't showing off her high testosterone levels. 

 But hey, you're doing it again. What is this weird fixation you have about body hair? It sort of says something about you, if you hear what I'm saying. I try to be courteous, but you're always steering the conversation back to it. It's really not very polite to monopolize the conversation this way, with this freaky fetish of yours. Not everyone is into the same sicko obsessions you are. Word to the wise. 

 I do have to say though that maybe I wasn't telling a completely realistic story before, about what a saint I am. I'm not one of those natural eunuchs, like you are. What a burden. As for you, listen up. We have a deal, now, and I'll be holding you to it. When you start doing some of these T raising exercises, you're gonna stop being such a puffy limp biscuit. So when you at long last start having measurable serum levels of male hormone circulating in your bloodstream, and Mrs. Obsessed-With-Jack-H-And-His-Mesmerizing-Blog becomes gravid with your seed, and you manage to father a son, you know what you have to name him. If it's a girl you will name her Laura. It can be the middle name -- I'm a reasonable man. But you owe me. I turned you from a flaccid schlumpy nebbish into a paragon of virility. Well, at least into a functioning biologically-adult man, finally. So show a little gratitude, fer crumb's sake. 

 J