I'd played rugby in college, and had the build to match. A body forged from years of sprints and brutal tackles that had packed dense, functional muscle onto every inch of my frame. It was my calves that had earned me the nickname 'Ham.' They were absurd things, thick, swollen hunks of muscle that bulged off the bone like slabs of cured meat, more butcher's counter than anatomy textbook. People couldn't help but comment on them, and the name stuck long after my playing days were over.
I played lock, the engine of the scrum, buried deep in the pack where no glory found you but where games were won and lost. It was a position built for men shaped exactly like me: tall, dense, and powerful through the hips and thighs, capable of driving hundreds of pounds of opposing forward pack backward through sheer leg strength alone. You needed to be relentless in the tight, dominant in the lineout, rising above the chaos to claim the ball at the top of your jump and tough enough to do the ugly work that never made the highlight reel.
Rugby wasn’t the only place my body found good use. I enjoyed choking my thighs around a guy’s neck with his face mashed against my full bush. Later he’d start picking pubes out of his teeth which earned a firm backhand across the face. They could learn to appreciate that honor or get put out with the rest of the trash.
Yeah, I had a decent upper body, but it was my legs where I truly dominated. My quads were massive slabs of muscle that strained against every pair of pants I owned. Hamstrings thick as rope coiled beneath the skin, and my calves swollen like cannonballs bolted to my shins, making my beefy pecs and thick biceps look almost modest by comparison.
People liked to call it genetic predisposition, these top heavy clowns with swollen chests and arms on chicken legs. Whatever it was, I had a flat ass and that disappointed me. Like any man of skill, I watched myself in the mirror moving with an athlete’s stamina, but my glutes always disappointed me. No number of squats, deadlifts, or hip thrusts grew them to the size I wanted.
When something in life fails to meet my expectations, I change it. The world easily bends itself around my will. I’m not exaggerating when I say I always get what I want. Not immediately, but in the end, some sort of predestination asserts itself and I end up satisfied.
Friends had said it was rather Bateman of me, and which I did idolize the character, I disagreed. I didn’t have the donor fat to do it the cheap, easy way. Plus, I didn’t want a fat bouncy bottom’s ass. I wanted two boulders that framed the rest of my perfect body. Giant globes that swelled when I thrust relentlessly into a screaming faggot’s writhing frame. Firm thick glutes that smothered a bitch’s eager face as he ate out my sweaty, hairy hole.
