<$BlogRSDUrl$> spinemaster

Saturday, July 03, 2004


Every morning he followed a routine. He would lie down on his back, bind a dictionary to his head with duct tape, and perform 2300 sit-ups. Six-pack? He had an entire case. He let his fingers move softly over the hard ripples, scrunching them up and down. To his right was a box of Lucky Charms next to a mini-fridge. He poured milk and cereal into the crevices and valleys of his well-defined abs and ate hurriedly from his stomach.
Something was going on.
He could smell it.
He wasted a bit of time examining himself in the mirror. His smooth golden skin stretched taut over muscles and tendons in high relief, like a suspension bridge of flesh or the US Pavilion erected exclusively for the 1974 World’s Fair in Spokane, Washington, about 320 miles west of Seattle, near the Idaho border. He flicked his left nipple softly with a thumb to make it erect and thus symmetrical with the right. And, of course, it felt good. Turning and flexing, standing sideways and doing some pelvic thrusts to watch his perfectly compact ass clinch and release, he could see why everyone wanted to fuck him.
Hell, he wanted to fuck himself.
But he had things to do.
He began to slap himself to get psyched up when out of protective instinct his other hand shot out like a cobra and grabbed his wrist, wrenching it down toward the floor and forcing him to his knees. Okay, okay, he won’t slap himself anymore.
He tried to think of something inspirational.
Today is the first day of the rest of your week.
Bolstered, he began to assemble his crime-fighting uniform.

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