If you happen to know a bodybulder, I bet you wish you didn't. I've had the misfortune to know a handful of them over the years - and categorically, they're not quite sane. Scratch that - they're far from sane. They're so conflicted, what with all their pretentions of being so butch when they spend every spare moment of their lives in a room full of sweaty men who are all trying to "get hard" or "get pumped." I mean, it's hard to tell whether they're going to a gymn or to a "bath" house.

Guess it all depends
on the time of day.

How convenient it must be to have steroids to blame for the rage and frustration of suppressed sexual desire among men who spend far too much time looking at each others' bodies, standing astride each other on the bench, shaving each others' backs, and rubbing one another with oil on those special occasions ...

... all the while fighting the urge to swap spit.

Sure, maybe when they started, they were doing it to get attention from the ladies - but I bet you could ask a hundred women and not meet one who's ever had a man with a twenty-four-inch neck, though a small percentage might like to. And there's the tragedy of it all: after those fellows invest all that time in getting so buff it's scary, are they any less repulsive than the short, effeminate, pudgy boys they used to be?

Well, maybe not to each other.