Bicep Love (Short Story) (Patreon)

Bicep Love

Written By SteeleBlazer

Do you know what puppy love is?

It’s an intense but relatively shallow romantic attachment, usually associated with adolescents.

Or at least that’s what some online nerd named Webster might tell ya…

But let me tell ya something: I hate all my friends and classmates who’ve come down with puppy love.

Or rather, as I call it—bicep love!

Because, you see, things are not how they used to be.

Or rather, how they should be.

We’re all technically adults here, even if nobody acts like it.

We’re all mature young adults—even if it seems like the girls are maturing way, way too fast, and aren’t just grown up, but really, really grown up—especially those biceps of theirs.

And I know some might say I’m being immature with my little rant here, but I’m not the immature one.

It’s all the boys.

All my friends at school.

They’re not acting the way boys—or rather, the way men—should act. They’re all acting like lovesick pups.

Boys are now fawning over girls’ biceps, and the girls just love flexing and showing off their girly biceps.

I can’t believe they actually find muscles on girls attractive. I personally think it’s a phase, and I really hope they’ll grow out of it. But then again, I also really hope the girls stop growing—because it seems day by day, they just keep getting bigger and bigger and bigger.

Which of course means their biceps are growing bigger, thicker, and denser.

They went from having no visible muscle, to giggling over their golf-ball-sized muscles, to growing them to the size of a softball—only trust me, nothing is soft about those biceps of theirs.

And they didn’t stop there.

They kept growing and getting bigger, to the point where now all the girls are positively beaming over their big, boulder-like biceps, while boys bashfully look on like some lovesick, tiny little puppies.

I think it’s disgusting that boys are fawning over—and in some cases drooling over—girls’ muscles… especially their flexed biceps.

It’s not just wrong that their biceps stretch their sleeves, but I think they stretch the very nature of femininity itself. And it’s just plain wrong for girls to have muscles!

Because really, that’s not the way it should be. Everyone knows it’s the boys who should be stronger, and that girls are just naturally weaker.

Since when do girls have muscle?

And since when do girls have bigger muscles than us boys?

And not just bigger—but way, way, way bigger!

I mean, I’m not some dumb little jerk. I’m a jock. And I’m the biggest boy—

I mean, GUY—at my school.

Only thing is… I’m smaller than all the girls.

Even the nerdy ones!

It’s all just too much. It’s like Mother Nature suddenly decided to go on the juice, take steroids, and bulk up and hulk out all the girls all of a sudden.

And it seems I’m the only one who minds.

Just like I’m the only one who finds it disgusting when a normally pretty and cute girl flexes, and the seams of her shirt sleeves rip and split apart as her big, bulging bicep bursts out of it.

It’s disgusting—and you really should hear it.

Not the sound of the sleeve tearing, but the sound of all my male classmates hooting and hollering and whistling as they fawn over some cute little girl’s big biceps.

Only I guess the girl really ain’t so little.

She’s got great big mighty female muscles.

And that’s another thing…

I don’t just hate their mighty female muscles. I hate that that’s what the girls call their muscles:

Mighty Female Muscles!

And the girls aren’t just constantly flexing their mighty female muscles—they’re also giggling, proclaiming, and shouting for boys to:

“Look at my mighty female muscles!”

“Behold my mighty female muscles!”

What’s worse than that—besides all the boys staring with their tongues hanging out like a bunch of pitiful puppies—is that all this attention emboldens the girls.

And the girls love it.

Almost as much as they love to flex.

So they keep flexing—emboldened and impossibly buff as they are—and then they start saying things like:

“Do you wanna feel my mighty female muscles?”

“Don’t you just wanna touch my mighty female muscles?”

Over and over again. Yapping and bragging and flexing about their mighty female muscles this, and mighty female muscles that.

I hate it.

And I hate how handsy all the boys are with the girls and their great big girly biceps.

They can’t keep their hands to themselves, and frankly, I wish they would.

I don’t want to see their hands—which look almost comically tiny against those great, gigantic girly biceps—and I don’t know who loves it more:

The boys touching those big, bulging biceps, or the girls who giggle with glee over their biceps being caressed and squeezed.

But it gets worse.

Way, way worse.

Because as all the boys—and even my friends—are slobbering over the girls’ biceps, the girls don’t just keep flexing.

They keep yapping and saying things like:

“Don’t you just love my mighty female muscles?”

“Aren’t mighty female muscles just the best?”

“Aren’t mighty female muscles just the biggest?”

“Aren’t mighty female muscles just the strongest?”

And all my friends just nod their heads like puppies wagging their tails anxiously, their tongues drooling and slobbering, as the girls keep flexing their biceps.

And those biceps just keep bulging and swelling—bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger.

But I haven’t even told you the biggest and grossest thing yet.

What happens next—as all the boys, even my friends, crowd in close, fixated on those big, bulging biceps, their tongues wagging like puppy tails, while the girls giggle as their muscles ripple—they say to the boys:

“Why don’t you kiss my mighty female muscles?”

“Why don’t you give my big biceps a lil’ kiss!”

And I know you might be questioning the validity of what I’m saying, but believe me—this all happens daily.

And also, you better believe me when I say the girls aren’t asking the boys to kiss their great big beautiful biceps. I mean—the girls are beautiful. The biceps are gross.

Just as what happens next is gross.

And what happens next is… the kiss of death.

Only the boys kiss the girls’ biceps over and over, their soft lips pressed against those huge, hard, big, brawny, rock-solid biceps of the girls.

They might as well be kissing their masculinity goodbye!

Not me.

I’ll never kiss my masculinity goodbye. I love being a boy—just like I’ll never, ever kiss a girl’s bicep.

Never.

Ever.

Ever!

I’m not like the other boys or all my friends. I don’t have a case of puppy love for girly biceps.

I’m not some cute, tiny, whelping little puppy that wags its tail, begging for affection—drooling over and totally, completely fixated and infatuated with great big, gigantic, gargantuan girly muscles.

Who loves mighty female muscles?

Not me. I hate them.

I especially hate big, girly biceps.

And yet, all my friends and all the boys say the bigger the better.

That’s because they all have a case of bicep love—but not me. No way. No how.

Those biceps may be big, and they may be strong, but there is no way I’ll ever be infatuated with them. To think I used to believe the worst thing a girl could be was fat—now there aren’t any big fat girls.

Only big muscular girls!

And I know all my friends and all the boys love these big new changes, with all the girls having great big muscles—but I’m not a big fan of the changes.

I hate the changes.

But all the boys just say, “The more muscles, the merrier.”

And they don’t just mean more girls with muscles—which, again, is all of them by the way—they mean the more muscles each girl is sporting, the better.

And I could go on about how they took over all the sports.

Which they have!

I went from being the big man on campus for football and wrestling to being a lowly towel boy.

And all the girls are always asking me to towel them off, presenting their big, bulging, bronzed biceps right in front of my face like they want me to polish them.

Just because every other boy goes gaga over great big girly biceps doesn’t mean I will.

I’ll let them wag their tongues and pant and slobber and fawn over the girls and all their gorgeously engorged muscles…

I mean—grossly engorged muscles.

Yeah. That’s what I mean.

I also mean it’s just not right, you know.

It’s just not right at all!

I’ve never had a girl fawn over my bicep—and it’s pretty dang big.

I mean, for a boy. It’s practically fifteen inches.

Yet it just sadly doesn’t measure up.

To a girl’s bicep. Not by a long shot.

My boy muscles just don’t measure up to those mesmerizing, big, beefy, mouthwatering—for all the other boys, not me.

I don’t find their beefy biceps mouthwatering. I mean, they do look savory—but they can’t be.

I mean, save me your pity. I don’t need it. I don’t want it.

I just want things to be back the way they used to be.

The way they should be!

It’s just not right for girls to have great big biceps—or for boys to love ’em!

I mean, heaven help me… and God save me!

But I think I’m in love with those muscle goddesses and their great big Mighty Female Muscles.

I don’t just want to touch ’em.

I want to squeeze ’em.

I want to kiss ’em.

I want to lick ’em.

I just want to scream my love for them!

I’m not just lovesick about ’em—I’ve got a bad case of puppy love over them.

That’s right—I love mighty female muscles!

That’s right—I love great big girly biceps!

That’s right—I’ve got a bad case of bicep love!

And to that I just say:

“Flex for me, girls. Flex your great big, beefy biceps.”

Because I think I’m in love.

I’m in bicep love!