I have been bench pressing for a long time. Not quite as long as I have been squirreled away in my room, brooding and plotting my revenge against the world, but almost. Long enough that pictures from the era when I began benching are uniformly humiliating. Without question, God and/or genetics did not intend me to be a good bench presser. In fact, both intended me, I believe, to die a sickly child. But thanks to the medical knowledge of the 1970's and my general disposition (both too lazy and too stubborn; I'll die later when I feel like it and quit fucking nagging me) I lived to be a piss poor bench presser.
A natural born bencher is barrel-chested and has thick arms. The shorter and more flipper-like the arms the better; he or she should have to stretch and strain in order to masturbate. The short arms in combination with the barrel-chest provides advantageous leverage and means the weight doesn't have to go very far. I was not born barrel-chested and short armed. As a child I could turn sideways and render myself invisible. Helpful when playing hide and go seek, a distinct disadvantage for a gym rat. Like many monkeys and some apes I have long, hairy arms. When I started working out you could've shaved my arms and easily mistaken them for those of a pubescent ballerina. Long and lithe, perhaps even graceful, but not especially helpful for routinely moving large amounts of weight off one's chest for no apparent reason but the mistaken belief that this somehow translates into revenge against the world.
Rather than admit that I was not suited for the bench I chose instead to spend year after futile year trying to improve my bench press. After some six years of concerted effort I had reached the point a typical meathead might get to after about a year or so. Now I at least had the option of lying and saying "well my bench isn't that good yet, but I haven't been doing it very long." In the meantime, I had at least made progress in other areas. Long, hairy girl arms are well suited for picking things up as one doesn't even really have to bend. So I worked hard at deadlifting and despite nearly disabling myself on more than one occasion, I got pretty good at it. Unfortunately meatheads rarely, if ever, say "hey dude how much can you deadlift?" And I have yet to hear a girl ooh and ahh lasciviously over anyone's spinal erectors (calm down perverts, they're the muscles of the lower back). So I continued to labor away at the bench, with pitifully little to show for it. Ok, if the truth be told, were you to shave my arms now (and sandblast off the tattoos) you might mistake me for an adolescent little leaguer rather than a ballerina. And I had convinced myself to be content with such "progress" in the gym. Add to that a dozen or so years of failed, demoralizing relationships that sapped what was left of my virile and manly drive to show the world, and the gym was little more than a habit and the sole, remaining impediment to my becoming a slovenly barfly.
But, ohhhh boy, I went ahead and dragged my sickly ass to the gym yesterday and for no good reason at all was rewarded with what I believe to be a full blown bench press epiphany. If I'm right, in about a year my man breasts will be so big I will no longer be able to pat myself on the back. And then, you'll see, I'll make them all pay.
