The story below is a work of fiction.
He just wanted to sub to an Instagram account that had decent fitness inspiration, but everything he looked at was filled with brown circle Brazilian backsides on the beach and women that were a little too abby. No different than a strip club photo session; he wanted to inspire workouts, not prurient interest. Unnaturally fit bodies: Photoshop, or anavar cycles, selling a cut-and-paste meal plan or workout regimen. Nothing on there is real. None of it. Are there any, please God, any Instagram accounts that had dudes in them, he’d ask himself. Would that make me a gay. Train passenger sneaking a peek at me oogling a sweaty Chad, who is 14.424 times better looking than every adult human male, demoing a 10 pound bicep curl with a standard carpe diem quote in an Impact font face. Doesn’t matter what that bottom text says. Would I have to Windex my iPhone screen after that to not be a gay, like homophobic Facebook grandmas who watch Kenneth Copeland turned all the way up. Coffee table candy dish and nylons just below their knees. He’s so handsome on the CRT televisions grandmas still use, framed by the vertical green paisley wallpaper. On an HD TV, can see the botox injection sites when it’s mounted to a solid-colored wall. Keep her in the dark; this would crush her fantasies, more so than a Youtube video documenting the times his holographic human body betrayed his lizard-man nature. More so than finding out he’s a scam artist with a hidden pentagram altar in his finished basement. Really abby women he pays to live down there, wearing black bikinis, horned skull masks, perpetually writhing in case he comes down there without texting the lead model first. They have a punch clock, take shifts. Copeland’s social media manager can’t remember his Instagram password.