This is new. Yeah. From huntedmerciless
I had finished second in the miss Fort Lauderdale pageant. It was my third second of the year. I was so much better then the other girls when it came to performing, and miles ahead of them when it came to answering important questions, but what it boiled down to, was the girls that I were losing to were these prissy little queens. Sure, they had great bodies, but weren’t as built as I was, and especially didn’t have the density of muscle that I did. So, I worked out for a living, was every bit as beautiful as the girls that were winning, but because I was a little too ripped in the shoulders, biceps and triceps, awards were being taken away from me.
I liked competing and always had. I didn’t fancy myself as a beauty queen or anything, but hey, most guys were jerks, and this way I figured that at least maybe I could snag me a rich guy who was a jerk. Alright, money wasn’t all that important, and not all guys were jerks, but all the guys that I had ever dated or slept with were, give or take one, and since he was dead, that wasn’t really a factor anymore.
I hadn’t surfed since the shark attack on him, and since, I had turned myself into a personal trainer and spent three hours a day working out, whether it be running, lifting, kickboxing, tennis, swimming or cycling. J. D’s death turned me into an animal, and made me revaluate things. Okay, so maybe the beauty pageant thing wasn’t the way to go. I didn’t even win in Destin, and come on, all of the contestants there were white-trashy.
The beauty pageant thing wasn’t going to be mine, obviously. Okay, I’m a dog, I admit it. I can’t win, it’s always second, or third, but what I could win, were the fitness America pageants. They weren’t really local, but what they were, were crowns that came with photo shoots and money. Did I mention that I am not opposed to having money? Okay, so, I’ve never had a ton of it and it seems like an appealing thing to me. Then again, I make a good living with my West Palm Beach clients. The possibility exists that I may start training Venus to make a push for number one again, but that is still in the air. I so want that gig. World travel; did I mention that I love tennis? Going to Wimbledon with Venus, who goes on to win the tournament because of her supreme fitness and flexibility. That would be a dream.
For now, I settled on working with my current client, a housewife with an abusive husband, she had been building up her strength to fight back. I told her that she should just leave, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to kick his skinny ass, to quote her, and hey, she was paying me, and I wasn’t a social worker, so I did the job. I had her hitting the bag. I hit her, wearing gloves, and not as hard as I could have, either, to give her some tolerance to pain for when she was struck, and we worked on her speed and strength, with various cross-training exercises. She was actually trying to bench press two hundred pounds. She wasn’t a tiny girl. She probably weighed about 160, and was about 5’8. She was pretty well-muscled, but two-hundred pounds was maybe a one max press for me, but she was working there and wanted to try it.
She struggled with the bar, half way up, and then complained that she was about to drop it on herself. I put my right arm into help her bring it back up, and then there was a crash to my right. There was a car accident outside and my eyes inadvertently went that way. When I looked back at my client, I was holding the two-hundred pounds with my right hand, and barely straining. My client looked at me like I was crazy or like a super hero or something, and for a minute, I just held the bar there. It was a weight bench and therefore, unsteady unless you were underneath it, and yet, I could have easily curled the bar fifty times, or more. It was like a paperweight in my hands.
Yeah. I put the bar down and focused on the bag with my client, who had a new reverence for me. She told me if I wanted to kick her husband’s ass, then she would pay me for that too. I smiled. That was weird.
I liked competing and always had. I didn’t fancy myself as a beauty queen or anything, but hey, most guys were jerks, and this way I figured that at least maybe I could snag me a rich guy who was a jerk. Alright, money wasn’t all that important, and not all guys were jerks, but all the guys that I had ever dated or slept with were, give or take one, and since he was dead, that wasn’t really a factor anymore.
I hadn’t surfed since the shark attack on him, and since, I had turned myself into a personal trainer and spent three hours a day working out, whether it be running, lifting, kickboxing, tennis, swimming or cycling. J. D’s death turned me into an animal, and made me revaluate things. Okay, so maybe the beauty pageant thing wasn’t the way to go. I didn’t even win in Destin, and come on, all of the contestants there were white-trashy.
The beauty pageant thing wasn’t going to be mine, obviously. Okay, I’m a dog, I admit it. I can’t win, it’s always second, or third, but what I could win, were the fitness America pageants. They weren’t really local, but what they were, were crowns that came with photo shoots and money. Did I mention that I am not opposed to having money? Okay, so, I’ve never had a ton of it and it seems like an appealing thing to me. Then again, I make a good living with my West Palm Beach clients. The possibility exists that I may start training Venus to make a push for number one again, but that is still in the air. I so want that gig. World travel; did I mention that I love tennis? Going to Wimbledon with Venus, who goes on to win the tournament because of her supreme fitness and flexibility. That would be a dream.
For now, I settled on working with my current client, a housewife with an abusive husband, she had been building up her strength to fight back. I told her that she should just leave, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to kick his skinny ass, to quote her, and hey, she was paying me, and I wasn’t a social worker, so I did the job. I had her hitting the bag. I hit her, wearing gloves, and not as hard as I could have, either, to give her some tolerance to pain for when she was struck, and we worked on her speed and strength, with various cross-training exercises. She was actually trying to bench press two hundred pounds. She wasn’t a tiny girl. She probably weighed about 160, and was about 5’8. She was pretty well-muscled, but two-hundred pounds was maybe a one max press for me, but she was working there and wanted to try it.
She struggled with the bar, half way up, and then complained that she was about to drop it on herself. I put my right arm into help her bring it back up, and then there was a crash to my right. There was a car accident outside and my eyes inadvertently went that way. When I looked back at my client, I was holding the two-hundred pounds with my right hand, and barely straining. My client looked at me like I was crazy or like a super hero or something, and for a minute, I just held the bar there. It was a weight bench and therefore, unsteady unless you were underneath it, and yet, I could have easily curled the bar fifty times, or more. It was like a paperweight in my hands.
Yeah. I put the bar down and focused on the bag with my client, who had a new reverence for me. She told me if I wanted to kick her husband’s ass, then she would pay me for that too. I smiled. That was weird.