Muscles are magic. They help some guys lift things. And they make other guys drop things, like their pants.
It takes a certain devotion and massive self-absorption to grow these magical muscles just so. And it pretty much carries over into sexual self-absorption too, right? I mean, hopefully. Because when I see a guy with huge, popping, swollen muscles, I'm hoping he wants as much attention paid to his cock as he pays to his muscles.
Muscles are like fuck currency. Like gay world nepotism. It gets you in the door, but you still have to deliver. Say a guy's a big bodybuilder and he's seeking what are called "sponsors" as in sugar daddies (or sugar alternative low-glycemic daddies since diet is important to get that cut look). Well he's got to do his part too, right? He's got to cash the check.
Or if he's putting out a personal ad or app profile about how his muscles are sore from working out and he needs a massage, he has to lay there and get the free massage. It's a tough life.
But muscles can't make magic happen in every instance. Like muscles don't help with levitation or mind reading. Strike that. They do help with mind reading, because those guys hanging around the muscle guy have one thing on their mind. Muscle and cock. Okay, that's two things.
Gee, counting to two is sure hard when you're hard.
Yeah, I get sometimes muscle can be too much. A little crazy. A little obsessive. It's moments like that you should be thankful nobody can actually lift weights with his dick. Well nothing over 15 pounds probably.