Look straight ahead. Three male bodies, uninterested in their surroundings. One man, on his own, a force of hyper-masculinity (muscle toned & jockstrapped), with his ass to the crowd repeats a deadlift. Flex your muscles. The noise of the barbell dropping to the floor is amplified, reverberating throughout the small space. Did I mention it’s August (in a warehouse)? The entire room is dripping with sweat, anticipation, lust, denial, aspiration. Meanwhile, a second man (squishier & in boxer briefs) opens two seven-pound cans of vanilla pudding intermingling the aroma of sweatiness with sweetness. The pudding (a seminal consistency, color over-saturated) is forced through a tube into the anus of a safety cone and out the other end as it is gently massaged (or is it jerked) by a third man (in his favorite white briefs). The top of the erect signal erupts, covering his face with stickiness. This indicates a new direction.

You see, we know what drives us. Be hard. The briefed boys move on to join, watch, (worship?) the muscle. The sound reverberating through the space increases. He continues lifting, filling the space with his noise, his sweat, his ass (to the crowd, remember). His body is covered with pudding, attentively and sensually, like applying lotion to dry skin, certain to seep into every crack. From behind they start at his feet, up his legs to his ass (firm, a bit of hair), to his waist, lower back, shoulders. From the front they start at the top with his chest (naturally hairless, nipples erect), down his stomach to that place still concealed (flaccid, unlike the rest of him) then down to the feet again. Once covered, his weights are removed, virile excess interrupted. The three men exit, walking through the crowd to be observed and gawked one more time—now proto-pathetic. We are compelled to wander through these ceremonies of our bodies as a way to understand, undermine, swell and cum.