Manifesting

😏 Two Scoop Paradise Pt. III coming soon 😏

Two Scoop Paradise Pt. II

You drop your gear bag in the locker room.  The dull thud echoes off the empty tile floor.

Today’s training lives in your body the same way a storm does in the sky afterward: dark, heavy, and electric.  Your right forearm aches with that deep, familiar burn of a thousand forehands.  

Your quads are dense slabs, protesting every step yet carrying you forward with the same stubborn pride that got you here.  This is the pro-athlete bargain: total effort, complete exhaustion, and total ownership of the outcome.  The ache isn’t punishment; it is proof of hard work.  And it’s yours.

You begin to strip.

Peeling away the sweat-soaked shirt first, heavy, reluctant.  It drags across the plane of your broad shoulders, the thick swell of your pecs, catching on the hard points of your nipples before finally releasing.  Cool air kisses the sweaty skin beneath, raising a fresh wave of gooseflesh.

You stand bare-chested for a moment, letting the cool locker-room air trace every ridge and valley you’ve carved out of yourself.  The curve of your pecs gives way to the sharp cut of your abs, where a dark trail of hair grows downward like a silent invitation.  Letting it grow out between tournaments.

You run a palm slowly across your torso, absent and almost reverent, feeling the gritty film of dried sweat and the residual heat radiating from deep inside your muscles.

Thumbs hooking under the waistband, you push shorts and briefs down together in one deliberate slide.  The fabric clings for a heartbeat, snagging on the thick flare of your glutes, resisting the meat of your thighs before surrendering.  It pools at your ankles.  You step free.

Your cock hangs heavy between your legs, soft but thick.  The skin is plush and slightly wrinkled over the head, carrying the dense, fertile musk of a full day’s exertion: salt, earth, and testosterone.  The scent rises in the still air, unapologetic, animal.  You.

Shifting weight slightly, you feel the powerful flex of your glutes.  Two thick, rounded scoops earned from endless explosive sprints and the torque of every groundstroke. Your ass sits high and proud, the kind that draws whispers on tour: full, firm, unmistakably yours, dimpling at the sides when you clench.

Beneath the surface, a soft dusting of dark hair trails the cleft, framing the tight, natural ring.  Your hole beautiful, ungroomed, primal, alive with texture.  It easily arouses hunger to trace it, savor it, and worship it.  The hole is waiting, slippery from sweat. Built from sheer ferocity.

You step into the shower.

The water slams into you scalding, merciless, perfect.  You don’t flinch.  You bow your head and let it pound the back of your neck, your traps, your lats.  Red-clay rivers streak down your chest, your abs, your thighs, swirling into the drain like war paint being washed away.  You watch it go with quiet satisfaction.

Cedar-charcoal soap lathers in your hands, thick grey suds against bronzed skin.  You cup your cock and balls with slick fingers, rolling skin back gently, cleaning every fold.  The smell is electric.  Your balls sit heavy in your palm, swollen with the pent-up load you’ve denied release for days now.  The pro-athlete’s vow of retention, channeling every surge of testosterone back into the grind, the court, the win.

It’s a delicious, throbbing ache, hypersensitive to the slightest brush, every nerve ending alive and begging like a coiled spring.  It thickens fast to touch.  But you savor it, this erotic sacrifice: the stored energy humming low in your gut, turning even this simple wash into a tease of forbidden pleasure, a reminder that your body is primed for explosion when victory demands it.

You turn.  Water hammers your back, streams between the heavy globes of your ass.  You soap the cleft slowly.  Fingers sliding through the dark fur, tracing the sensitive pucker.  The foam clings, darkens the hair, then sluices away in foaming rivers down your legs.  You rinse.  Steam rises around you like a second skin.

Cedar, salt, and clean sweat fill your lungs. You tilt your head back, eyes closed, letting the torrent strip the last of the day from your hair.  The white noise wraps you.  You are alone.  You are safe.  You are luxuriating in the body you built.

But then the air changes.

The atmosphere shifts.  It’s subtle.  Like a flicker in the static.

Your intuition, usually so detached and observant, fires a warning shot straight to your gut.

The animal inside you doesn’t growl; it stills. It becomes a statue.

You don’t panic. You don’t startle. You simply reach for the handle and turn.

The silence that follows is deafening.  A rhythmic drip-drip-drip of the showerhead and the frantic thud of your own heart—5th-set tie-break tempo—are the only sounds.  But the air is thick with presence.

You stand perfectly still, water sheeting off your body, ears straining.

Nothing.

But you know.  Your intuition isn’t a guess; it’s a certainty.

Someone is in the outer room.  Someone who shouldn’t be there.

You don’t reach for the towel.  You want to be silent.  You want to be the predator, not the prey.

You step out of the stall, bare feet making no sound on the wet tile, moving like an electric ghost.  You creep toward the corner of the locker bay, silent on the cold, wet tile.

The air is cooler here, away from the shower’s steam, and it licks the drying film of water on your body.  Goosebumps rise in waves, sharp and electric.  Your heart is thudding so loudly you’re sure whoever’s out there will hear you.  Steam rises off your hot body.

You press your back to the wall, the tile biting sharp into your shoulder blades.  You take one slow, silent breath, then another, forcing your pulse to steady.  You’re very good at calming yourself down under pressure; it is, after all, your job.

The locker room feels so small now.  The air thicker.  As if space itself holds its breath with you.  You lean forward, just enough to peer around the edge.

It’s him again. The wolf from the tent with that lingering gaze.

And in his hands – trembling, reverent – are your shorts.

The same filthy, sweat-drenched pair you wore all day.  Clay-stained, heavy with the day’s work.  He cradles them like something sacred.  His fingers move in slow, deliberate circles over the inner seam, the exact place where your cock and balls rested for hours, where the fabric is darkest, stiffest, most saturated with you.

He hasn’t lifted them to his face yet.  But he’s close.

His thumbs brush back and forth across the crotch panel, testing texture, testing warmth, chasing the ghost of your body heat still trapped in the weave.  His shoulders rise and fall faster now, shallow, ragged.  His head tilts forward by fractions, bringing the fabric nearer to his nose, hovering, not quite touching.  As though the moment he inhales everything will shatter.

You can see the tremor in his hands.  The way his knuckles whiten.  The subtle rock of his hips, unconscious, his dick seeking friction against nothing.

Your own cock twitches, thickens, against your thigh, betraying you in silence.  You know this pull.  The ache of wanting what’s forbidden, the thrill when restraint cracks.  For a second, you almost step forward.

The air between you is no longer air.  It is thick, pulsing, electric with shame and hunger and the unbearable nearness of what he’s about to do.

He hasn’t seen you yet. But he’s about to taste you.

Two Scoop Paradise

He drops his swim bag by the door.  His shirt comes off first.  Slow, fabric pulling across his chest, cool air kissing damp skin.  He stands there a moment, bare torso, feeling the day's ache in his muscles, the good kind that says he gave everything.  The room smells faintly of rose and manuka honey, sweet against the chlorine still clinging to him.

Shower next.  Hot water hits hard, steam rising fast.  Soap lathers in his hands, rose-scented, thick.  He washes methodically: chest, arms, down to his waist, thighs, ass.  Palms gliding over the curve, suds sliding between.  He exhales long, letting the water pound his back until the tension melts.

Out now, towel low on his hips, he moves to the sink.  He’s flossing his teeth.  His wolfish smile.  He brushes his teeth slow, foam minty, watching himself in the mirror.  Beard dark, jaw set, eyes tired but calm.  Rinse, spit, tongue scrape last.  Skincare follows.  Olay Regenerist moisturizer scent lingers, warm and golden.  His reflection looks back softer now, cared for.

Gratitude settles in quiet.  He closes his eyes, whispers to God: thanks for the body, the day, the strength.  And for you — the flame that kept him going.  When everything felt heavy, thinking of you pushed him forward.  Desire coming back slow, steady, like the tea on his lips.

He sets his mug of peppermint tea down on the bedside table with a soft clink and sinks deeper into the pillows, letting his body fully relax against the soft fabric.  Phone already in hand, he flicks it open out of habit and begins scrolling through the feed in a slow, unhurried way.  

The usual mix of posts passes by until your face appears on the screen in a fresh practice reel posted to Instagram.  His thumb pauses over the play button for just a moment as his heart starts racing.

He taps play and watches you on the court, sweat already glistening under the hot sun as you move through sharp drills with focused intensity.  Your body claiming every inch of space with powerful forehands and quick baseline sprints.  The sweat of your effort rolls down your perfect body as you run backwards to the baseline to start the drill again.  His eyes widen in bed as he sees your pecs bounce like ripe fruit in 4K.

Leaning back against the pillows, he lets his breath out steadily while the video replays.  He feels the intimate pull of a private ritual.  The wolf inside him stirs slowly with a primal hunger that builds as he rewinds the clip briefly to watch certain movements again.  His mind beginning to awaken with those experimental fantasies that always seem to surface when he lingers too long.

“Just a video,” he tells himself, but the mental kink has already begun to awaken fully as he saves the reel directly into his hidden folder labeled "Sexxxy Babyboy" a growing collection of clips that capture your serves, your focused expressions, and the way your body moves with such commanding presence on the court.

He glances over at the Tongan coconut oil resting on his bedside table, glowing warm in the yellow light with the lid slightly loose from previous nights.  He thinks about how good it’ll feel to rub one out to this.  The deep ache still present in his thighs and ass from the day's demanding weight training.  How good would it feel to release that tension slowly while a sexy little slideshow plays on his phone?

The ritual deepens, genuine and intimate, as he opens the "Sexxxy Babyboy" folder and thumbs through the older clips and hot photos with a racing heart and stiff disposition between his legs.  The oil on the bedside now calling him more insistently as the ache turns into a warm throb low in his body.

The white noise wraps around him like a comforting blanket while he settles in deeper, ready for the night to unfold further in this private, sensual space.

He reaches for the sandalwood spray on the shelf, misting the air in slow arcs.  Candle next, wick flickering to life under the match.  He strikes another match for the rose incense stick, placing it in the holder as smoke curls upward, floral sweetness unfurling thick and heady.  Wrapping the space in layers of scent that pulls him deeper into the ritualistic fantasy.

He unveils the mirror now, cloth tucked away with care, revealing the full-length reflection where he sometimes watches himself.  Body bare and open, movements mirrored back intimate and unjudged.  

But the centerpiece pulls his eye: phone propped in front of the mirror, slideshow already cycling through "Sexxxy Babyboy" images of you flickering soft: your power on the court, body glistening, that commanding presence drawing him in like a magnet.

He grabs the wooden chair and drags it in front of the mirror.  Positions it just right: mirror reflecting the bed behind, phone propped up between, slideshow already cycling through. Eyes on the screen. The slideshow loops: you warming up, racket in hand, body loose but charged.

You stretch first.  Arms overhead, torso twisting, the camera catching the moisture on your shirt, damp patches starting at the pits, spreading down the sides.  You’re doing footwork drills now: quick steps, pivots sharp, your legs driving like pistons, quads bulging, calves flexing hard.  Sweat beads on your forehead, a drop tracing down your temple, catching in the stubble along your jaw.  The focus in your eyes, intense, unbreaking pulls him deeper into a trance-like state, your stare piercing the screen.

But the ass.  Dios mío, the ass.  It commands the frame, demands worship, a masterpiece of muscle and curve that makes fans lose their minds.  He pauses the slideshow on a side shot: you mid-lunge, hips low, the shorts stretched tight across that ass shaped like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream.  Round, caramel-kissed perfection, dimples winking at the top like they're teasing the world.  The heft so full and inviting it's almost comical how they steal every scene. Like the court was built just to showcase this ass.  

Fans call it juicy, a bubble butt supreme, ‘gran culo’ glory.  He chuckles low, the phrases echoing in his head as he stares, the shape so flawlessly proportioned it's like nature sculpted it for flattery, for fantasies.  For making anyone who sees it stop and scroll back twice, three times, lost in the hypnotic swell that promises power and softness all at once.

He rewinds again.  Plays slow.  Power surges through: you explode from the baseline, glutes clenching like twin engines firing, muscle rippling visible under the fabric.  The thrust so forceful it sends a wave through the shorts, seams straining as if begging for mercy.  Each clench of a cheek a demonstration in raw strength.

Fans thirst over it, calling it muscle bubble magic, perfect ass that could crush watermelons.  He feels his breath hitch, the way those scoops flex and release, flex and release, like they're alive with energy.  Built for endurance, for driving you forward with unyielding might.  The kind of power that makes him imagine gripping them, feeling the steel under the velvet.  The overabundance of muscle packed into such a tantalizing shape.

He pauses on a close-up frame now, the camera lingering low during a water break.  Your shorts soaked through at the back, a dark stripe running straight down the cleft.  Ass sweat bold and unapologetic, marking the fabric like a secret map.  

He zooms in, breath catching at the sight.  That stripe to him is so incredibly attractive.  A testament to the heat building deep, blood surging strong through every vein.  “Good blood flows to the extremities,” he thinks.  He knows what it means.

Circulation pumping full, feeding those scoops with life, making them swell richer, rounder, ready.  The sweat stripe gleams under lights, fabric clinging translucent in spots, outlining the curve like it's begging to be traced.  He imagines the scent rising from it, salty, fertile.  The essence of effort poured out.  That stripe isn't just sweat.  It's a promise.

He finds the serve clip next. You leap high for the toss, body arched back in perfect tension, legs driving upward with explosive power.  The landing hits hard, impact rippling straight through your core, sending a visible, heavy bounce through the thick, glorious outline in your shorts.  The resilient bulge bounces once, twice, the fabric lifting just enough to hint at the full, proud shape beneath.   Before snapping back tight against the skin like it’s showing off.

He loops it endlessly: the way his manhood absorbs the shock, that playful, almost cartoonish heft.  No compression shorts in sight.  Swinging forward with each descent, juicy perfection that bobs like it’s daring you to stare longer.  It’s like it knows exactly how ridiculous and irresistible it is.  A bouncing mouthful and then some.

Comical in its sheer confidence, how something so commanding can move with such teasing weight.  The head nudging visibly against the material on every rebound like it’s waving hello.  Jumping around like it’s pulsing with pride, flattering in every frame. 

It’s all making him lean closer, oil forgotten in his hand as he growls low inside, half-laughing at how unfairly blessed you are.  What a vision!

Oil dips deeper now, finger coated slick.  He rubs it slow between palms, warmth spreading.  The slideshow cycles on, the outline of your ass or the bulge in your pants the star in every frame.  Longing coils tight.  He closes his eyes.  His fantasy begins.

*

The room fades.  White noise swells like a cosmic tide.  In the dark, he steps forward, into steam, into shadow.  A locker room forms around him.  Dim lights.  Echo of water running distant.  Showerhead masking steps.

His eyes adjust.  There it is your gym bag on the bench.  Half-zipped.  Dirty kit spilling out everywhere: shorts, briefs, socks.  Ripe.  Used.  Scent hits faint.  Sweat, effort, you.

He looks toward the sound of the shower running.  You’re in there.  Unaware.

Back to the bag.  Shower.  Bag.  Shower.

“Just a sniff, right?”  He thinks to himself. 

Heart pounds.  Wolf flares.  He’ll have plenty of time to run away after, right?  Does he have enough time?  

Enough to get close, inhale that essence, taste the soaked fabric with your day’s effort, then slip away before you step out?

Shower.  Bag.  Shower.  Bag.

He steps closer.  His hand reaches, trembling.  Scents are growing stronger.  That salty, fertile calling.

All he knows is he shouldn’t.

But he wants to.

And at this point, he really must.

Preseason Aches Pt. III

Your hand stays firmly clamped over his mouth.  You feel the vibration of his breath against your palm, hot and desperate, but you don’t loosen your grip.  Not yet.  He’s looking at you in disbelief, pupils blown wide.  His big chest heaving under the thin white tank, shaking with excitement on the exhale.  You love that you arouse this response from him.

You maneuver him suddenly onto his back with a swift twist.  As you pin him down, knees forcing his thighs apart.  He ends up splayed open, legs spread wide, knees pulled in close to his chest by your grip.  The gape at his hole more obvious now, fabric begging to be torn away.

You lean back slightly, just enough to take him in.  Eyes surveying the body he rebuilt while thinking of you.  His white tank clings damp from the evening air, nipples peaked and dark under the fabric, rising with each covered breath.  You look at it.  His nipples.  You slowly trace the outline of it with your thumb, feeling it harden further, then pinch lightly through cotton.  He arches, muffled sound buzzing into your hand.

“I read somewhere you built this body for me,” you whisper low, voice dripping smug possession.  The grin curling at your lips as you watch his reaction.  “All that sweating in the gym… this chest, this waist, this ass.  You put it together for my approval, huh?”

You slide the tank up slow, exposing skin inch by inch.  His chest gleams in the moonlight filtering through the mesh.  Heavy pecs like tits, flexing as he breathes hard.  The faint scars along his jaw catch the light.  Pink lines he hides with a beard, now proud under your gaze.  You lean down, lips brushing the scar before you kiss it, then bite it softly.  Not hard enough to break, but enough to make him jolt, cock jumping under the pajama pants like it's desperate for the same attention.

You sit back up, eyes never leaving his. “I was your spark,” you murmur, fingers trailing down his sternum, circling one nipple again, tweaking it slow.  “So this is mine to play with now.  My property.  Mine to use and abuse.”

Your hand moves to the other pec, cupping the weight, then slapping lightly.  A sharp, playful smack that makes it bounce, skin pinking under your palm.  You watch the flush spread, the way his eyes glaze, body trembling beneath you.  Another slap, harder this time, the sound echoing soft in the tent.  He moans into your palm, hips bucking up instinctive, cock straining against fabric.

“Look at you, all laid out like livestock for inspection,” you laugh low, cocky as hell, hand slapping again, watching the heavy flesh jiggle and redden. “These big pecs? Built for me to slap and suck. My tits I get to play with whenever I want.”

Your hands move lower, gripping his thighs, spreading them impossibly wider.  He doesn’t strain in this position.  Impressively flexible.  The pajama pants cling low, the material dipping where his hole knows what’s coming.  You press your palm there, rubbing circles over the dip, feeling the heat pulse through fabric, the hole twitching nasty and desperate.

"What's this?" you tease, tapping lightly, watching the fabric wetten from inside.  “Is this ass hungry?”

He nods desperately, moans vibrating into your palm, eyes pleading.  You hook the waistband, tug the pants down slow, his dick springing free.  He leaks a steady string of pre-cum that drips onto his waist, pooling in the dip of his obliques.

You grab it firmly, start stroking it teasingly, and then draw your face close to his.  He’s helpless now and he knows it.  Absolutely losing his control under your touch.  Eyes wide but now softening with pleasure now that a hand is on his dick. 

You get real close with his mouth still muzzled: "This is mine too, you know.  I built it... my spark did."  The champion’s energy surges claiming what he believes to be rightfully his.  Your cock throbs in your shorts, pre-cum soaking the fabric as you watch him writhe under your gaze.  His body is open, exposed, and totally yours to objectify like a prize he crafted especially for you.

*

You grind down once, cock sliding along the cleft of his bare ass through your shorts, pre-cum soaking the front of the fabric. The friction is rough, hot, maddening. You feel the heat of him against you, the way his hole clenches when your head nudges through the cloth. You spit down there and watch it drip straight onto the dip, running down, mixing with his own leak.

Your hand leaves his nipple, slides down his side, gripping his hip hard enough to leave prints. You tug the pajama pants lower, freeing him completely. His cock slaps against his stomach, thick and curved, head glossy and dripping. You wrap your fingers around it, stroke once slow, thumb smearing the pre-cum over the slit. He bucks up, desperate, ass pressing back against your cock like he’s trying to pull you in.

You grind harder. Bare now, shorts shoved down, cock sliding between his cheeks, pre-cum slicking the way. Skin on skin, hot and wet, the sounds obscene in the small space: slick glide, his muffled whimpers, your low groans against his neck.

He’s pushing back harder now, ass clenching, hole winking against your cockhead. You spit again, let it run down the length of you, slicking everything. You feel your balls aching, heavy, full from the long buildup: preseason discipline, retention, all of it pouring into this moment.

You line up properly, head pressing against his entrance, teasing the stretch. He pushes back, eager, impatient. You hold it there, just the tip — letting him feel the pressure, the promise, the power, and the touch. His hole flutters around you, hot and wet, begging. You lean down, mouth at his ear, voice low and rough.

“Tan apretado… me vas a hacer correrme dentro,” you whisper.

He nods frantically, moans muffled against your palm, body trembling. You push in slow. Inch by inch, the initial burn hitting him like a spark reignited after years in the dark. Tight, stinging stretch that makes his eyes widen, body tense and yield all at once, a resurrection of sensation long buried under pain and recovery.

As the head pops in, you pull your hand from his mouth, crashing into a kiss. Slow, deep, sensual. Tongues tangle, beards scraping rough and electric, tasting salt and rose shampoo, desire unfurling like smoke.

He breaks the kiss, glances down at the sight. Your cock stretching him open, bodies locked in raw union. The smell hits him then, a wave crashing over: your potent musk, salty sweat laced with raw fertility, regenerating thick in the humid tent air, blending with his sweet manuka honey and rose, pre-cum sharpness cutting through like a claim. Overripe, insistent, fertile promise that makes him moan loud and guttural, like an animal.

Instinct takes over. You clamp your hand back over his mouth, silencing him. His eyes lock on yours, intense, fierce. In response, he pushes his hole out skillfully, loosening the grip like a velvet invitation, letting your cock sink a couple inches deeper. You feel it and love it. His bodily surrender.

The heat is overwhelming, velvet tight and perfect. You bottom out with a shared gasp, balls flush against him, and hold there. Savoring the pulse, the way his walls grip you like they never want to let go.

And then you start to move.

Slow drags at first. Pulling almost all the way out, watching the way his hole grips at you, pink and glistening, before sliding back in deep. Each thrust rocks the mattress harder, the plastic squealing, threatening to give. You set a rhythm: deep, grinding rolls of your hips that make his whole body jolt forward, tits dragging against the sheet, nipples catching on the fabric until he’s whimpering.

Your hand snakes around again, finding one swollen nipple. Pinching hard, rolling it rough between fingers. He bucks back into you, ass slamming against your hips, taking you deeper on every stroke. The sound is obscene. Wet slaps of skin, your balls against his. Sweat drips down your chest onto his side, mixing with his. You can’t stop staring at yourself sliding in and out of his ass. Obsessed with the way the two bodies are joined through sex.

He’s moaning open-mouthed into your hand as you fuck him, hole opening around your cock like he’s close just from this.

Your hand over his mouth transitions slow—testing, sliding two fingers past his lips. He takes to it like a charm, sucking your thick fingers eagerly, tongue swirling while his ass splits open around you. You push boundaries, add a third finger, occupying his entire oral cavity, stretching his jaw like a filthy promise. It hits you then, arousingly clear: he’ll let you do anything to him. It triggers the flip. The thought surges hot, makes you throb, want to cum right then and there.

You pull out suddenly. His whine of protest cut short as you flip him onto his back. You push his legs up, knees to chest, opening him wide. You look down and admire your cock’s destruction. His hole is raw, puffy, and already starting to reshape around the memory of your girth. You line up again, thrust in deep. Missionary now, face to face, eyes locked.

You fuck him like that: hard, relentless, the mattress squealing louder with every slam. His tits bounce with every impact, nipples brushing your chest hair, sending shocks through him that make his hole clench tighter. You lean down, mouth latching onto one. Sucking vicious, teeth grazing, tongue flicking the throbbing peak while you pound into him. He’s babbling now—your name, Spanish curses, pleas for more.

The pressure builds unbearable. balls slapping wet, sweat flying, rain pounding harder outside. His tits are deep crimson, swollen almost purple from the abuse, every pinch and suck making him arch and cry out. Your cock throbs inside him, foreskin dragged back with every thrust, pre-cum mixing with spit.

Layers crash together: your preseason aches throbbing deep in your core, retention uncoiling like a storm; his body’s resurrection, scars alive with pleasure; musks accumulating thick, blended into humid fog. Salty fertility claiming sweet honey rose. Realistic heat, sweat-slick glide. Prostate destroyed and swollen, hanging by a thread. “He’ll let me do anything to him”—his face shows it, eyes glazing, close.

That thought ignites you. Unlocks the flood. You imagine it all. Future filth flashing like lightning. Him bent over a locker room bench, your cock buried deep while you slap that resurrected ass red. Pre-cum dripping from his hole onto the tile. Him on his knees in some hidden hotel suite, mouth stretched around you, three fingers—no, four—gagging him silent as you fuck his throat raw, tears mixing with spit.

You tying him spread-eagle to the bedposts, edging him for hours with toys you sneak in your gear bag, his swollen prostate begging while you whisper ownership over every scar. Outdoor nastiness — pinned against a tree in the bush, rain slicking skin, your hand over his mouth again as you breed him deep, musk marking the earth like territory.

Him riding you reverse in the tent next time, tits bouncing wild, hole milking you while you choke him lightly from behind, testing how far he'll go, how much he'll take because he rebuilt this body for you.

Thrusts faster.

Deeper.

Hole clenches—velvet vise pulling you in.

Balls tighten, heavy with preseason seed, that coiled retention finally snapping.

You growl low, burying to the hilt. The orgasm hits monumental.  Wave after crashing wave, your load unleashed like a dam break, flooding his resurrected depths.  Preseason ache pours into him, hot ropes pulse out, thick and endless, claiming every ripple of his walls.

He takes it all, body arching divine, releasing his own spill all over himself.  You make him cum, hard.  Ropes arcing hot across his abs, splattering those crimson nipples, hole spasming like resurrection fire, sucking you deeper, milking every drop as if his survival demands it.

An orgasm so intense it borders pain. Your core rubbed raw, his prostate swollen to bursting, bodies locked in an erotic storm, sweat and seed blending into something sacred, filthy, unbreakable.

You stay buried deep for long, trembling moments after the storm breaks, both of you gasping into the humid dark of the tent. Rain drums steady on the canvas overhead, softer now, like the world exhaling with you.

Slowly—deliberately—you begin to pull out.

The drag is exquisite torture.  Your cock slides free inch by slick inch, thick and still half-hard, glistening with the filthy mix of spit, pre-cum, and your own thick seed.  As the head pops free with a wet, obscene sound, his wrecked hole stays open for a heartbeat.  Puffy, swollen lips flushed dark pink, quivering like they’re still trying to hold you inside.

Then the first slow bubble of your load appears, creamy white pearling at the rim before it oozes out in a lazy, heavy trickle, sliding down the cleft of his ass and pooling warm against the air mattress.

You watch, mesmerized.

This is the craftsmanship paying off.

His hole—rebuilt through months of pain, physio, sweat, and quiet nights thinking of you—now marked by your work. Forged masterpiece. The gape closes slow, reluctant, the ring of muscle fluttering weakly as more of your seed leaks out, thick ropes clinging to the puffy folds, dripping down to his taint.

You reach down, two fingers gathering the mess, rubbing it in slow circles over the sensitive skin, then pushing back inside—deep and possessive. He gasps, body jerking with overstimulation, hole clenching around your fingers like it’s starving for more even as it aches.

You keep going, feeding your cum back into him, stuffing him full again, making sure he feels every drop. Owned. Claimed. The burn of too-much turns liquid, melting into something softer, warmer—ecstatic afterglow that spreads through his limbs like honey. His heavy chest rises and falls, crimson nipples still throbbing, glistening with his own release. Scars on his jaw catch the faint moonlight, proud now, alive with the proof of survival and surrender.

He looks up at you through heavy lashes, eyes glassy, lips parted, a small, wrecked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You lean down, press a slow kiss to the scar—soft this time, reverent—then to his swollen mouth. Taste salt, rose, and the faint metallic edge of everything you’ve just done.

The tent smells like both of you now: fertile musk, sweet honey, spilled seed, rain-soaked canvas. A scent that will linger long after the morning comes.

You settle beside him, one arm slung heavy across his waist, cock softening against his thigh. The mattress is ruined, sweat and cum everywhere, but neither of you moves to clean up the mess.

Outside, the rain slows to a whisper.

Inside, the ache is different now…  not preseason hunger, not recovery pain… but the good, earned kind of ache.  The kind of ache that reminds you both: that this body, this desire, this moment, is worth every brutal step it took to get here.

Preseason Aches Pt. II

He stands at the water's edge, toes curling into cool, wet sand.  The ocean breathes in and out ahead of him, waves rolling gentle under the last light of day.  Salt air fills his lungs sharp and clean, a sting that feels like waking up.

He steps forward.  Cold water laps his ankles, then calves, then thighs.  The shock is immediate, delicious.  It climbs the heavy curve of his ass, brushes the underside of his balls, and makes his skin tighten everywhere at once.  When it reaches his waist, he dives.

The world goes quiet.  Water closes over his head, muffling everything.  He kicks hard, arms slicing long and clean, body remembering the old rhythm like muscle memory never left.  Olympic strokes come back effortless: kick, pull, breathe, glide, surface. His chest expands wide with each breath to the side, heavy pecs rising, nipples hardening fast in the chill.  The thicker waist twists for power, obliques firing, ass flexing with every dolphin kick that propels him deeper.

He swims out just past the break.  The waves lift and drop him in steady swells.  Salt burns the fresh scar along his jaw, the one from the accident earlier this year.  The crash replays sometimes in flashes: metal twisting, glass shattering, the sickening crack of bone.  Jaw wired shut for weeks after.  Liquids through a straw.  Speech slurred and painful.  Beard grown thick and wild to hide the swelling, the stitches, the mess of healing.  He couldn't open his mouth wide enough to eat, let alone kiss or taste skin.  Body bloated from meds and immobility, heavy in all the wrong places.  Desire deadened and buried under pain.

But now.

Now his muscular arms cut through water with authority. Legs drive strong from thighs rebuilt in the gym. His chest heaves full and free. The beard clings wet to his face, thick and dark, no longer hiding anything, just part of him.  Salt water beads in it, drips from the curl at his chin. The scar tingles under the current, alive, and healed enough to feel pleasure instead of pain.

He flips at a rock outcrop, pushes off hard, explodes forward in a burst of speed.  Body glides sleek and powerful.  He’s still got it, that good feel for the water, which streams over his back, traces down the ridges of his spine, and slips between his cheeks.  Every nerve sings.  Lungs expanding deeper than they have in years.  Heart pounding steady, strong.

He slows near the deeper blue and rolls onto his back, floating.  Stars prick the darkening sky in Northland of Aotearoa.  Waves rock him gently. His cock stirs at last, thick and slow in the cold, blood rushing south as the body remembers what it's built for.  Desire flickers alive after so long asleep.

He closes his eyes.  Gratitude hits sudden and fierce.  Tears mix with salt water on his lashes.  The accident took so much out of him.  Wired shut, trapped in a body that felt foreign and broken.  Months of recovery, slow and brutal.  Beard grown to hide the damage.  Weight gained, then fought back inch by inch in the gym.  Nights spent crying, wondering if he'd ever feel like himself again.

But here he is. Floating. Strong. Whole.

He laughs quiet into the night, a low sound only the ocean hears.  After one heavy exhale he kicks back toward shore with steady strokes.  His body cutting clean through the water one last time.

He emerges dripping, moonlight silver on his wet skin.  Beard heavy with salt.  He looks so manly here.  Intimidating in his element.  Chest rising full. Cock swinging thick between powerful thighs.

The body is back.

*

He walks the short path from the beach back to his friend’s bach, sand still clinging to his feet, the cool evening breeze raising goosebumps across his damp skin.  The little holiday home sits quiet among behind the dune, windows glowing soft from inside.   All the rooms are taken by the family members so he’s in a tent this time.

His spot is the aqua tent pitched on the grass out back, zipper half open, air mattress waiting.  He slips into the main house first, keeping quiet so he doesn’t wake anyone, and heads for the bathroom.

The shower starts hot immediately.  Steam rises fast, fogging the small mirror, turning the tiny space into a warm cocoon.  He steps under the spray and lets the water pound his shoulders, washing away the ocean salt in rivulets that run down his chest.  Soap lathers thick in his palms.

He starts slow, almost reverent, hands gliding over the fuller waist he has learned to love.  No longer the narrow taper of his twenties.  Now it's solid, lived-in, carrying the weight of survival and strength.  Fingers trace the faint stretch marks from recovery, the subtle softness over hard muscle.  He accepts it all.  This body is richer now, more manly.  Sexier in its maturity.

He soaps his chest next, palms circling heavy pecs, thumbs brushing nipples that tighten instantly under the touch.  Sensitive these days, more than they used to be.  A gift from the hormonal chaos of healing.  He smiles to himself mischievously.  He lingers there, feeling the weight of them, the way they move when he breathes deep.  

Beard comes last.  He deliberately grew it long during recovery from the accident to hide the swelling and stitches.  He massages shampoo into it, Herbal Essences roses and strawberries filling the steam with sweet, heady scent.  His hair has grown back thicker too, post-illness, curls heavy and soft under his fingers.  He rinses slow, watching suds swirl down the drain.

Out of the shower, he towels dry with care.  He’s delicate with how he handles himself.  As if his body is a fragile freight package.  Skin still warm, he opens the little jar of manuka honey moisturizer.  It smells Oshun golden, thick and fragrant. He smooths it over every inch: jaw scar first, fingers gentle on the line that once made him avoid mirrors.

Then chest, waist, thighs, and ass.  The honey scent clings warm and sweet, mixing with lingering rose from his hair.  He works it in like a ritual, soothing, celebratory.  This body fought back from the crash, from wires and pain and bloating.  It deserves touch.  It deserves pleasure.  Deserves to feel good under the touch of his own hands.

Stepping into the kitchen now he heats some bone broth, a simple habit from his athlete days. Bowl warm in his palms, he sips standing at the table, staring out the dark window at the moonlit sea.  In this moment he’s just a creature of habit, sharing a calming routine moment to set his nervous system right before bed.  Nourishment to end the day, just like he started it.

He pulls on grey sweatpants that hug the fuller waist and round ass just right.  A white tank clings to his chest, nipples faint shadows under thin cotton.  He crawls onto the air mattress in the aqua tent, sheets cool against warm skin, evening breeze drifting through the tent flap.

With his phone in his hand, there’s one last ritual before sleep.  He opens Instagram quietly, scrolls to your profile.  No new stories tonight.  Just the same training clips from yesterday. Muscle flexing, sweat shining, that focused look he loves, especially when serving.  The heart quickens.  So much for all those calming, pre-bed activities.  All thrown out the proverbial tent window with a few taps on the screen.  He knows he’s lingering longer than he should, thumb hovering, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Through the hectic noise he feels inside, he holds onto a quiet confession: this crush lit the flame.  When everything felt lost: jaw wired, body foreign, desire dead, thinking of you pushed him.  Inspired him to fight harder in physio, lift heavier in the gym, heal not just to survive but to become someone worthy of wanting, of being wanted.

He sets the phone face-down.  Whispers a short prayer into the dark.  Thanking God for the body, for the strength, and for his desire returning.  Breeze cools his skin.  Sheets settle around him.

Sleep drifts close, calm and deep.

*

At some point during the night, the zipper rasps.  Slow.  Deliberate.  Like a secret being undone.

He doesn’t move.  Eyes stay closed, breath steady, but every nerve wakes sharp.  The sound is real, isn’t it?  Or is this that dream again?  The one that’s visited him since recovery began, since the crush took root and refused to let go.

You crawl in and your musk floods the tent.

That thick, fertile, post-training salt and skin.  The scent that lives in his late-night scrolls.  It floods the small space, wraps around him like heat from a forge.  The air mattress dips under your weight, slow shift that presses close behind him.  Body heat radiates before touch even lands.  Your broad chest to his back, thighs slotting against his, lips scraping soft at the nape of his neck as you settle in.

He keeps “asleep,” breath catching only slightly, body responding instinctive.  Ass arching back just enough to meet the grind of your hips.  Your cock, thick and hard, slides between his cheeks through thin sweatpants fabric, pre-cum already soaking through in warm streaks.  The pressure is deliberate, teasing, your head nudging his hole, fabric dragging slick, promising more.

Your hand hovers over his hip first, fingers ghosting skin where tank has ridden up.  Then it slides upward, palm warm and callused, covering his mouth in a gentle but firm hold.  Fingers spreading to seal his sleeping lips, thumb brushing his bearded square jaw.  The touch is possessive, anchoring, silencing any sound before it starts.

He moans into your palm softly, muffled, the first real giveaway.  Eyes open in the haze, moonlight catching your beard-shadowed face above him, eyes dark and hungry, locked on his.

Recognition floods him. Shock at first.  Followed by relief.  Now desire.

Before the moan can grow, your hand clamps tighter, crushing the sound into vibration against your skin, holding him quiet, holding him yours.  Your cock presses hotter now, head pushing at the fabric barrier, seeking entry.

The dream is real.

And it’s only just beginning.

Preseason Aches

The house settles like it always does after midnight on New Year's Eve in La Huerta. A gentle fade, the echoes of laughter lingering in the air like the faint smoke from the fireworks over Los Peligros. You've played your part all night: the twelve grapes shoved in your mouth at the clock's chimes, one for each month, the family cheering when you nearly choke on the tenth grape like every year.

Your mother's turrón sliced thin on the plate, almond sweetness still coating your tongue. Your father's cava poured generously, bubbles fizzing as everyone toasts "feliz año nuevo" with clinking glasses and back-slaps. Siblings teasing about resolutions.

Yours is always the same, unspoken: more wins, less noise. The fireworks crackle in the distance, red and gold blooming against the black sky. The neighborhood alive with distant cheers.

It's warm, familiar, the kind of night that grounds you. But tonight, something pulls at the edges. A low hum under your skin. An anticipation you can't quite name. You hug your mother, kiss her cheek, tell your father goodnight. They know the drill; preseason waits for no holiday. "Mañana entrenamiento," you say, and they nod, no arguments.

The stairs creak under your feet as you climb, each step loosening the day's hold. Your body aches in that good, earned way. Quads burning from the morning sprints, shoulders knotted from the heavy serves, core throbbing like a drum from the endless planks and twists. Preseason is brutal, but it's yours.

The door to your room shuts behind you, lock turning with a soft click. Darkness wraps around you, broken only by the faint lamp’s glow. You stand there for a moment, breathing, the house quiet now except for the distant murmur of the TV downstairs.

You undress slowly, starting with the shirt. It resists just enough, damp with the night’s heat, before giving way and baring skin still marked by effort. Your chest rises and falls, muscle carved by repetition, by discipline.

The pants and underwear follow, dragged down your legs, cool air skating over warm skin. Naked now, you pause.

You look in the mirror, not to admire but to take stock. To recognize what’s been built. The body looking back at you feels familiar in the way a well-worn racket does. An extension, not an ornament. Your shoulders sit easy and wide, arms relaxed but alive, forearms still carrying the echo of impact and spin. There’s a quiet heat in your skin, a sheen that speaks of work rather than display.

Your chest rises slowly as you breathe. Strong, open, marked by effort. Every line has purpose. You turn slightly, watching ripped muscles respond without thought, how control lives so close to power inside you. Narrow waist, hips loose and ready, legs dense with stored movement. Thighs shaped by acceleration, calves by repetition. Nothing wasted. Nothing accidental. All earned.

You meet your own eyes. Steady. Dark. Focused. There’s pride there, yes, but it’s grounded. The kind that comes from knowing exactly what your body can do, and trusting it to perform under pressure. Oh yes, the pressure. Millions on the line. Literally and figuratively. Brands and sponsorship deals. Bonuses. Expectations. But above all this noise it’s the love of the game that drives you really. The insatiable appetite to achieve more.

The ache from training still hums beneath the surface, low and persistent, reminding you that discipline doesn’t dampen desire but concentrates it.

You stand there for a moment longer, letting the silence hold you. The body is tuned. Primed. Held deliberately on the edge. And you allow yourself the quiet satisfaction of knowing it’s yours. This body you honed like a weapon? It’s yours. This body you built with a team of expensive experts, is yours.

The room goes quiet in that way that makes every breath feel loud, every pulse noticeable. The fatigue from training hasn’t left, it’s simply changed its address. What was ache now becomes pressure, a low, insistent weight that gathers and holds.

Preseason has done this to you. All that restraint, all that stored heat, kept coiled and waiting. It sharpens everything, makes the body feel overfull, primed, held deliberately on the edge of release. Not yet. Not here. The court comes first.

And the musk… my god, the musk. It's always there, heavy and potent, regenerating no matter how many showers you take. Clean or dirty, it announces you: a thick, masculine scent of sweat and skin and raw fertility, the kind that fills a room like an unspoken claim. You breathe it in now, your own aroma wrapping around you, stirring the ache deeper. It's insistent, recycling itself. Earthy, salty, with that undercurrent of virility that makes your cock twitch just from scent alone.

You're one of the youngest, hottest athletes in the world—22, built like a god, dark hair tousled, bronzed skin glowing even in the lowest light, powerful thighs and arms that could devastatingly crush or carefully caress in equal measure. Desirable as fuck, but right now, alone, and all in for this moment.

You sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand. Thumb hovers over the screen. Heart drops when you see it: the ring around his profile. Fresh. Waiting. Pulse spikes, dick stirring already, thickening against your thigh. You don't tap it directly. Too risky. Instead, you switch to the third-party app—the one you've used for a while now. The one that lets you watch without a trace. Safe. Secret. Discreet. The little ritual of caution sends a thrill through you every time, like you're stealing something precious, forbidden.

The story loads.

And there he is.

The tent bathes him in that soft aqua light, almost baby blue, the color you know he loves on you. He's laying on an air mattress, white tank stretched tight across his hairy chest, arm cocked behind his head so the fabric pulls up just enough to show a strip of skin and the trail of hair leading down his chest. Beard full and perfect, eyes looking straight into the camera like he's staring right at you. Legs up, ankles crossed, soles of his feet on full display. Inviting, playful, the arches curving like they were made for fun. Grey sweatpants low on his hips, the curve of his ass subtle but impossible to miss, like he positioned himself exactly for this angle.

The caption: “Good morning!” with the tent emoji, a tree, a heart, and the kissy face.

The image has you in a chokehold. The best kind. You zoom in—slow, deliberate—on his chest first. The way the tank clings, nipples just visible under the fabric, soft and waiting. Then lower: the waistband of the sweatpants riding low, the promise of what's underneath—pink, hairless, ready. Then the feet again—soles, toes, the casual way he's offered them up like a gift. You can almost smell the cool tent air, slightly damp, mixed with his morning musk. That potent fertile scent mirroring your own but sweeter, warmer, inviting you in.

Your breath hitches. Dick hardens more now, skin gliding back as you palm yourself through nothing. Naked, exposed in your own room. You adjust yourself, hand diving down, cupping your own balls, shifting your cock to relieve the ache. They're heavy, full, throbbing with that banked testosterone, the retention making every touch electric.

Absentmindedly, your hand comes back up, and you sniff it — deep, instinctive — the musk hits you hard, your own fertile scent mixed with the first hint of pre-cum. It’s salty and potent, regenerating in the air like a promise. Your own raw scent makes you throb harder, balls tightening, the ache deepening like they're begging to spill.

You feel it—body and imagination syncing, brainwaves and the pulse in your hand riding the same wave toward him. Begging you to step in there. To peel down those grey sweatpants, reveal that pink hairless pucker, always ready at a moment’s notice. And that's just the ass. Not even imagining the cock yet, or better yet, those pendulous pecs, nay, tits! You imagine his chest moving like tits when getting railed, the nipples swelling in your mouth, color shifting from fluffy pink to deep crimson as his arousal builds.

You throw yourself onto your bed. The bedroom fades. The fantasy begins.

*

You're stepping through the screen now. His tent flap parting under your fingers. The zipper rasps slow and deliberate in the quiet night, each tooth clicking open like a promise, cool air rushing in. Your hand trembles just a little as you pull it all the way down, the canvas falling away to reveal him there, curled on his side in the dim aqua glow, asleep or pretending to be, his body a landscape of invitation under the thin sheet that's slipped low on his hips.

He's on that honey-yellow pillow, the one you recognize from his Instagram stories. And his head is turned slightly toward you, beard shadowing his jaw like a dark invitation against the soft fabric. His full lips parted in shallow, rhythmic breaths that lift that massive chest — broad as a battlefield, etched with power from endless heavy lifts and swims.

Yet here now, utterly defenseless in sleep, or feigning it, the thin white tank clings damp and sheer to his chest, the fabric so worn and translucent it might as well be invisible, revealing the swell of his pecs in perfect outline, those thick slabs rising and falling with each slow breath, quivering faintly under the strain of their own weight.

Through the cotton, his nipples stand out similar to the way he does: shamelessly. Plush pink peaks, relaxed yet swollen, pressing against the fabric like they're already aching for a mouth. Begging for your teeth to graze them through the cloth first, then bare.

His arm drapes loosely over his flank. The bicep, a cannon of muscle that could hoist you effortlessly, now slack in surrender. Exposing the deep, shadowed pit, damp and musky, a cavern of raw male scent that draws you in like a drug, promising the full taste of salt and heat.

Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, stretched taut over the heavy curve of his ass. Heat radiating through the cotton like a low burn, iron muscle slack in sleep. One thigh hooked high under the tangled sheet, the motion pulling everything tighter, warmer, closer.

The musk hangs thick in the tent air. His sweet and deep, yours sharp and urgent, blending into something overripe, ready to spill. His soles arch up at the mattress edge, pale and smooth, toes loose, undersides exposed like a quiet dare for your hands to press in while he lies there. All that power finally still, waiting for you to break it open with your need.

The air mattress sighs as you crawl closer, your cock throbbing hard now, skin slick with pre-cum, balls heavy and aching from the retention, musk thick in the small space—his mixing with yours, fertile and insistent. You sidle up behind him, body radiating heat, your chest brushing his back, hand hovering over the curve of his hip, ready to pull him close, to wake him with your mouth on that exposed nipple or your cock pressing against his ass.

Will he stir? Eyes fluttering open to find you there, hard and hungry? Or will he pretend a little longer, letting you take what we both know you've been craving?

I'M BACK

Yes, the rumors are true.

My little space on the internet as been resurrected.

Rejoice!

I miss writing.  I guess that’s why I’m back here doing it all over again.  There’s been a lot happening in life lately.  Especially the past 2 years.  My face collapsed. I had surgery. I’ve gone back to school. I’ve also been experimenting with my creative side, trying to find a medium suits me best.  It has been a process of trial and error.

Yet still, I always come back to writing.  I think there’s something about the methodology of the written word that is still so powerful.  The written word is the only medium I know that’s still capable of leaving a stain on the brain that will remain. And thus, the written word remains potent.

Only good things have come from creating this space. I wish to build on this.

So Here I Am (hehe) writing again.  Getting thoughts down. Sharing insights, thoughts, feelings. Who knows what I’ll write about exactly. Last time the pieces people found really helpful generally appeared to be more health focused, so I can definitely share with everybody my “feel good” secrets.

With Law School and the path that I’m on right now, getting things down and working on my flow of sentences will be really helpful.  If I’m not writing about legalese, I should at least spend some time everyday working on words, grammar, syntax, and honing my skill of conveying thought and opinion. This is no easy task. Like all skills: it take practice.

Emotional self-expression isn’t something I struggle with. I almost always know how I’m feeling and why I’m feeling it. Most people struggle with this. Sometimes for others, just pinpointing and identifying an emotion can be tricky. We try so hard to outrun our emotions but some uncomfortable feelings need to be faced head on. We cannot run forever.

Thankfully I’ve been blessed with not only the gift of emotional literacy, but also with the gift of self-expression. I’m hopeful that I have lived a life with enough depth, experience, and emotional insight to be able to relate to others in a way that is compelling. I hope my radical emotional self-honesty here is something that inspires others to live in a similar way. Because let’s be honest: life is way too short to live oppressed and repressed.

What I love doing is helping people gain better insight into better understanding themselves. So I suppose my objective is to be so radically honest with what I’ve been through that it inspires others to gain better understanding or insight into themselves… or whatever!

Who knows? All I know is that I’m back. I feel amazing. My mojo is kicking. And I’m feeling really motivated to take life by the balls and really make something outta myself, do you know what I mean? Of course you do.

December 12th 2023

Write write write, and then write write write some more!  That’s the current mood and vibe.  I’m somewhat nervous picking up this writing project while Mercury is in retrograde but I got to push through these planetary alignments!

I still have a little over two weeks to decide whether I’m moving back to America but honestly I think at this stage I’m going to stay put in New Zealand.  I really feel myself much calmer and level-headed while being here.  I love being around my sisters.  My gosh they make me laugh!  We really are a funny family.  Almost never a dull moment, I must say.

It is my birthday on Thursday, which is a promising sign as this is the day of Fortuna!  I hope this year brings me tons of abundance and plenty of opportunities to capitalize on.  I do have some projects that I would like to undertake but like any good creator I’m going to keep them quiet for the time being.  Can’t have the evil eyes running amok of my plans!

As you all know I definitely believe the act of transference is very real.  I do think we can pick up on the energies of both other people as well as our surroundings.  It isn’t until I’m back home in New Zealand that I wonder if this is the place that I obtained a lot of my beauty from.  If the energy of places can permeate into our frequency, then New Zealand’s beauty definitely rubbed off on me.

I feel very comforted to know that this place is where I grew up.  It wasn’t until I left Auckland City and saw much of the world that I learned how beautiful this place is, and how blessed I am to grow up surrounded by such beauty.

Now don’t get me wrong, Auckland City architecture is atrocious.  The buildings they’ve decided to plop everywhere looks like cement blocks.  Totally hideous and an obvious sign of corruption.  There are certainly cities that are far more attractive in terms of buildings.  Rome and Barcelona are two places that spring to mind when I think of cities that have great architecture.

It is such a shame because geographically where Auckland City sits is incredibly spectacular.  The view of the Waitemata harbor and Rangitoto island are absolutely gorgeous.  When you look westward, you see the Waitakere ranges, which are also quite stunning to contemplate.

When driving down my childhood street on a clear day, you can see the ranges in the distance and there’s something about them that’s somewhat mystical.  When I was living in LA – albeit very briefly – the eastern mountain ranges reminded me a lot of the Waitakere ranges.  Perhaps that’s why I liked looking at them so much?

There’s much to write about and there’s a lot to discuss but I feel this is a good first journaling entry for me to place on my blog.

This isn’t exactly the most productive time of year.  Not only this, but I’m also kinda fat right now.  I know my agents here in Auckland are aware that I’m home but I haven’t reached out to them and probably won’t until I’ve put on a bit of muscle and shed some fat.

Thankfully it doesn’t take long for me to snap back into shape.  In the meantime I’m doing a lot of yoga, tons of meditation, and just getting my regular bodily check-ups done.  Minding my ps and qs so to speak. 

I hope you’re all having a lovely start to the week and I’ll try my best to update here as regularly as possible!

For The Love Of Nicki Minaj

In anticipation of #PinkFriday2 dropping this Friday the 8th of Decemeber, I’ve decided to write about my favorite rapper: Nicki Minaj.

Boy oh boy, where do I even begin with this one?  First let me start off by saying that my adoration of Nicki Minaj wasn’t something that happened immediately.  It was something that I grew into over time.  I’m so ashamed to say that when the original “Pink Friday” came out, I definitely slept on it.  My best friend and roommate Renee told me that it was a very good album and that I should definitely give it a listen.

I wish I’d listened to Renee sooner.  It wasn’t until after college when I moved to New York City that I began to really get into her music.  I can’t say that I found it as much as it found me.  Sometimes things unfold in their own time and you really can’t rush God’s timing.

My friend and fellow writer Lester stayed at the top floor of a Bushwick loft that was absolutely incredible.  In New York City, space is hard to come by.  And every Friday when I was done with my internship, I’d catch the L train out to Bushwick and me and Lester would smoke blunt after blunt while listening to music.  This was my introduction to Nicki Minaj.

“Nicki is my favorite rapper,” Lester would declare definitively while pushing an inhuman amount of smoke out of his lungs.  I distinctly remember him playing “Did It On ‘Em” and my stoned brain went absolutely bananas.  “WHAT IS THIS MUSIC???” I thought to myself as I’d feel the sound reverberating somewhere between my head, heart, and soul.

This was when my love affair began.  I’d sit on the subway and listen to Nicki’s music while reading along to the lyrics.  “Oh wow this woman is SMART,” I’d think to myself as the double and sometimes triple entendre would fly out her mouth with elegance and ease.  This was the best part of the early listening experience: Nicki’s music is for intelligent listeners of hip-hop.  An absolute aural pleasure.  The pop culture references were next to none and outstandingly hilarious.

I’m a creative writing minor so looking at poetry and picking it apart is one of my favorite things to do in class.  Let’s just say that Nicki’s songs leave a lot of meat on the bone for you to pick apart.  There are metaphors, coded language, the sort of things you’d only pick up on if you’re really paying attention.  This is what I love so much about Nicki’s work: it always has been — and always will be — intelligent.

This is just the music, it doesn’t even begin to cover the ground she broke for women in hip-hop culturally speaking.  Thin waif bodies were all the rage. Thinness for the longest time was the only body type that could be considered attractive.  Nicki came through with her Venusian goddess body, bursting onto the scene and thus made every girl want a fat booty!  Not only did she come into the game and change music, but she also changed the standards of beauty.

I remember waiting until midnight to watch the “Anaconda” music video.  It was such a statement of raw female sexuality!  Men can use their force to get what they want, why can’t a woman use her sexuality?  What’s wrong with using your feminine body to get what you want?  Nothing.  The only people that hate this are people who probably can’t do it themselves.

“The Pinkprint” is a very special album to me because it marked the first time I was officially a “Barb,” a moniker Nicki uses for her fans.  This album helped me get through some really difficult times in my life.  I remember crying like a baby when I heard “All Things Go” for the first time.  That song is raw, vulnerable, and so incredibly special to me, I just knew the rest of the album was going to be beautiful.  And that it was!

This album is special because it brought me and my little sister Hinemoa closer together.  We had a fraught relationship. Oftentimes my parents would compare us in really unfair and degrading ways.  This obviously could not have been easy for my little sister.  As her big brother, I left pretty hefty shoes for her to fill.  And not only this but we went to the same High School where I just know the teachers would’ve constantly been comparing us.  Let’s just say this: much like Nicki I definitely know how to leave my mark wherever I go!  Which is mostly a blessing but sometimes a curse.

Me and my little sister are two different people.  I was constantly encouraging lil sis to find her own voice and to forge her own path.  I told her that she didn’t have to do the swimming thing if it wasn’t her passion.  It didn’t matter to me what she did so long as she did it with passion!  It didn’t even have to be a sport, it could be music, or acting, or drawing.  Whatever!  I just wanted her to feel good about herself and to forge her own path separate from my own.

Of course when you’re a hormonal and moody teenager, it’s difficult to see this perspective.  It’s much easier to resent.  So of course this was how our relationship became incredibly frosty and fraught for a while.

When Nicki dropped “The Pinkprint,” it changed our familial dynamic. I’d drive lil sis around Auckland City with “The Pinkprint” playing from start to finish and we’d rap along to every lyric together. We’d roam the streets discussing and dissecting songs, stating which lyrics were our favorite.  We truly bonded and healed our relationship through Nicki’s music. There’s layers to the love I have for this artist.

“Four Door Aventador” was my personal favorite.  I also enjoyed “Favorite,” which is about wanting to be a person’s number one despite them being plenty of others.  Oop!  Art imitating life, let me tell you. 

Lil sis’ favorite track was “The Night Is Still Young” and “Trini-Dem-Girls.”  Our icy relationship defrosted and ever since then we have been incredibly close. Sharing a special bond over Nicki’s music.

Even in the subsequent time when I moved back to America, whenever a Nicki track or feature dropped, I’d call up lil sis and ask if she’d listened to it. We’d pick up right where we left off and talk about our favorite lyrics and best moments of the newly dropped song.

The “Queen” album roll-out was difficult to watch. Much in the same way that others would compare me and my little sister, our favorite rapper would find herself in a similar position: having others compare her talent to those that weren’t necessarily doing the same thing. Hello irony! 

Nicki is a poet, lyricist, mogul, and you’d be really foolish to try and stamp out her flame.  Nicki will be done with music when she’s done with music, not because these cornballs in the music industry have decided her time is up, but when she has decided it is time for her to be done.  She’s a little bit like Cameron Diaz in this respect.  I’ve always adored Cameron Diaz when she stood up for Nicki on a red carpet for a movie they did together.

The similarity of their positions in the music and entertainment industry is this: they’ll retire when they decide they’re done.  This is incredibly unusual in a place like Hollywood, especially for women.  Most musicians and actresses stop working because they stop getting deals and offers.  Oftentimes they retire because they don’t have a choice.  Nicki and Cameron are an anomaly to this: they’ll decide when they’re done and it isn’t up for other people to decide when their careers are over.

This is so powerful.  Especially in an industry as misogynistic as Hollywood.  And this is what “Queen” proved to us:  Nicki is with us until she says she’s not.  And wow, what an honor and a privilege for us to have lived through the Nicki Minaj era of music.  All the 1800 words I’ve written here haven’t even taken into account the fight she waged for streaming numbers to count towards Billboard, which shifted the entire music industry BTW.

There is so much more to unpack, write, and to say but there isn’t nearly enough time.  The music industry understands how impactful this woman is but like most Sagittarius, they never want to give us flowers because we’re cocky af. Honestly, when you live and walk in your truth, why aren’t you allowed to revel in it? Oh well! At least we like ourselves. Can’t say the same for the haters!

They’ll always downplay Nicki’s cultural impact and try to find ways to diminish her success but the proof is in the pudding:  Nicki Minaj runs the music industry.  Everything she creates and puts her name next to sells out quickly.  Just look at the Pink Friday 2 perfume that sold out all over America.  The December issue of Vogue for which she graces the cover (FINALLY!!!!) is difficult to find and at one point was selling for $100 a copy on Amazon. 

Nicki’s a marketing expert and an entertainment powerhouse!  We might never get to experience this type of genius ever again.

So, as you can imagine, I’m incredibly excited for the release of “Pink Friday 2” coming out this Friday, December 8th, which again you can pre-save here.  I can’t wait to sit with lil sis and discuss which songs are our favorite and what lyrics make us giggle, and just soak up the gorgeousness that is the Nicki Minaj vibe!

If it is anything like her career has been so far, “Pink Friday 2” is going to be EPIC.

Learn To Wax Your Body Instead of Shaving

In the pursuit of grooming excellence, waxing your body trumps shaving it for the following 3 reasons:

1. Long-Lasting Smoothness:

   Waxing removes the hair from the root of the hair follicle, leaving a silky smoothness that lasts far longer than the fleeting results of shaving. It is a 6 week smoothness rather than a daily battle with stubble. Say goodbye to stubble and hello to weeks of effortlessly smooth and soft skin!

2. Finer regrowth:

   The blunt regrowth of shaved hair is gross. Waxing by contrast encourages the hair to grow back finer and softer over time. This means not only enjoying longer periods of bare skin but also relishing in the luxury of hair that feels far less coarse and abrasive when it does return.

3. Diminished Irritation:
   Waxing minimizes the risk of irritation compared to the frequent nicks, cuts, and razor burns associated with shaving. Waxing is a more painful process in the short-term yes, but the long term effects of waxing is the gentler approach. Why? Because it ends up leaving the skin undisturbed, smooth, and irritation-free.
   
   I’ve been waxing since I was 20 years old and I’m now 33 with an enviable smooth skin texture. Indulge in the allure of long-lasting, refined smoothness – make waxing your grooming secret for irresistibly touchable skin!

   Wanna turn your body into a luxury? Sign up for my Body Grooming Channel and let me show you how! Here I give body maintenance tutorials (waxing included) that empower you to do it yourself at home.

SHADOWBANNED ON ALL PLATFORMS FOR BEING TOO REAL

Banned On All Platforms For Keeping It Too Real

A couple years ago once the Olympics in Tokyo were over I committed to writing everyday and posting whatever the result was up here on this blog. After careful consideration I think I’m going to do this again. I do believe it helped improve my writing.

Regardless of legibility, I’m going to post everyday on here and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. Recently I’ve had a couple of people try and discourage me from using my voice and platform to pursue a career in content creation: “What I’m wanting from you is that you get a real job,” This is something I’ve always found really funny. Who me? A real job? I have to laugh.

It’s funny because neither of these people making these suggestions are significant nor impactful people. I suppose I should be “grateful” for their insight but I’ve honestly been discouraged by far more successful people. If they were significant and impactful, perhaps they would have a social media following. Maybe they’d be more culturally relevant. Perhaps they’d have some kind of cultural legacy when you Googled their name. Unfortunately, they don’t. Once again, because nobody cares about what it is they have to say.

But people DO care about what I have to say. That’s the point. It’s always people that try their hand in a creative field and never really make it that discourage others from trying to do so. TLDR: they’re bitter they never made it. They’re mad nobody is checking for them or their opinion. So they resent anybody else’s attempt to try.

People know who I am. Whether the numbers reflect it on social media or not, people are aware of who I am. Because I challenge narratives and the status quo, they’re always going to try and keep me down. I know that on Instagram more people are watching my stories than they’re allowing to be seen. I know that my Tweets are being viewed by some powerful people, once again with deflated numbers.

Why do they deflate my numbers? Because they’re trying to discourage me from posting the truth. NEWSFLASH to all my haters out there: AMINI FONUA WILL NEVER SHUT THE FUCK UP ON THE THINGS HE WANTS TO TALK ABOUT AND I WILL ALWAYS USE MY VOICE AS A SOURCE OF TRUTH.

Did you read that properly? Okay. Good. Now carry on with your stupid and measly corporate job and fuck off. I’ve got minds that I need to open.

What proof do I have that these numbers are rigged against me? I don’t have any. It’s just a knowing feeling. Much in the same way I know when the media is lying to the people in their reporting. They keep my numbers deflated and low in the hopes that I’ll go away. They hope, like the other people I mentioned earlier, that I’ll shut the fuck up and just disappear. Unfortunately for them, I’m never going to stop posting and talking and creating content that’s going to get people thinking. It’s what I’ve been brought here to do: bring truth to light on some things.

When you question the status quo, it’s incredibly dangerous. Why? Because the existing power structures begin to get questioned. And trust me, they don’t want you asking questions. They’d rather you be disconnected from the truth and remain in the dark of ignorance because you’re much easier to control this way.

These companies know that incredibly influential people are coming to my page for shits and giggles. When I post certain things, and then I see other influential people alluding to them in their posts, I know that my shit is being seen by some of the greats. Why? Because I’m one of the greats. And like attracts like. They see this and this is all really upsetting for them. So, as a way and means of discouragement, they downplay my cultural impact.

But everybody knows the truth and you can’t keep it hidden forever.

I don’t need a bogus number on a website telling me I’m influential or not. I know my influence. I see it everywhere. I could give examples but why ruin a good thing? I’m just going to continue creating and starting conversations. I’m going to continue challenging people’s belief systems and values and really get them thinking.

Only a true creative genius is capable of doing such a thing. Only a person of intense intellectual thought is going to get people to wake up and smell the coffee. This is what I’m here for. I get people thinking. I get people talking. It’s an incredibly dangerous thing to do but someone’s got to do it.

I remember posting on X a question: if you’re so anti-guns and anti-violence, why do you keep voting for political candidates that continue flooding guns and perpetuating violence all across the world? You can’t say you’re anti-guns and anti-violence when you keep voting for candidates that keep reinforcing the very things you claim to be against.

I’ve worked in public relations, which caused me to see the inner-workings of media at some of the most wide-reaching establishments in the world. What happens in America touches every single part of the globe. I can tell you a lot about how things work. If you can pay the advertising dollars, then you can literally pay for them to write anything. It’s all transactional. This is how it works and this will be forever how it always works: follow the paper-trail.

I’m feeling very vindicated for lots of different reasons right now. The truth is coming to light. How do I know these things? Because there are ancient texts that already predict these outcomes. You’d be a fool to underestimate religion because the way power hungry humans grab onto power is always the same. By sheer force, manipulation, and destruction. Remember: there’s no new game under the sun. The ancient texts of religious doctrine explain to us very clearly how humanity works when we’re left to our own devices and without moral code. Something they’ve been promoting for a while because it’s easier to control you when you don’t know their next move.

I know their next moves 10 steps ahead of when they’re going to take it. They’ll call me crazy but then in 6 months time when it all plays out, they’ll see I’m right.

Tons of gays are going to roll their eyes because they’ve been brainwashed to hate religion, but here is a quote from the bible that rings true. It’s from Mark 4:22 (that means, chapter 4, verse 22 for those of you that don’t study the bible): "For there is nothing hidden except that it should be made known, neither was anything made secret but that it should come to light.”

These people who are trying to stop me from talking are the Godless. They’re loyal to nobody but themselves. And so I’m not going to listen to them. I’m loyal to the truth and nothing but the truth. When and I want to live a meaningless life centered around hedonistic living without any bounds to anything outside of own selfish self, then I’ll sit and listen and hear it is that they have to say. But until then, everything I need to know about the world and about life has already been written about.

This is why they want you hating religion because it’s the very playbook that’s going to get us out of this mess in the first place. Spirituality is the only way forward. The Godless and atheist people are not happy people, I assure you. I posted it on X the other day and it rings true: “If your measure of success is how much money you have in the bank it’ll never be enough.”

And that, my kittens, is the truth. In a world full of lies and constant violation of honesty, you deserve the truth. And I will make it my personal mission to give it to you.

And to the powers that be who control the media and select all the “celebrities” that we see before us, I really wonder how they’re faring now that a lot of the people they’ve selected to become famous are actively seeking to destroy their homeland. This is what happens when you’re disloyal to the truth and you only seek to promote populist ideals: absolute carnage and total destruction.

What happens when the thing that becomes popular is the second coming of the Holocaust? I bet you now you wish you’d made smarter people prolific because these fools are cheering on the very rockets that are shooting into your homeland and killing your people. They’re cheering for the raping of your women. They’re cheering for the decapitated heads of your children. Now all of a sudden, Amini Fonua doesn’t seem to be such a big threat anymore when you have literal nazis marching around in broad daylight. Emboldened by all the lies you’ve been feeding them.

I wish I could tell you that I’m surprised, but I’m not. Ever since the media has been spewing lies for the last 4 years, how can you expect people to suddenly be able to discern the truth? I always knew during the pandemic that the people who believed in the fascist media were going to becomes Nazis. I said to myself: we are a hop, jump, and skip away from the holocaust part 2 and when the shoe drops we’re going to see quite clearly who fell for the propaganda.

It’s the reason why I made a point to visit The Holocaust Museum when I was in Washington DC with my family. It was important for us as a Christian family to pay our respects to something that we teeter on the edge of experiencing once again every day. And you lot are 100% complicit in allowing it to happen. When people are brainwashed so severely by the wrong ideals, all it takes is a few scrolls on a phone screen to radicalize these individuals. Many of whom think destruction is a necessary evil to liberate a very dangerous terrorist organization.

When you’ve been operating on a frequency of deceit for so long, how can you expect people to do what’s right? You can’t. You blur the lines between what’s right and wrong to suit your own agenda and this is the ensuing result. Everybody is out here justifying their moral codes with bullshit. None of it is real. And now, with dire and tragic consequences for the entire world.

I bet you dimes to donuts that wish you’d made people who stand up for what’s right famous instead of idiots whose only currency of operation — and the only thing they’re loyal to I might add — is popularity. If you are willing to continue to spread and perpetuate so much mistrust through sharing half-truths, people are just going to start believing whatever it is they want to.

The media and journalism industry did this to themselves. They chose to print lies for all these years and now this is where we find ourselves: on the brink of WWIII, millions of people displaced with at least half a million dead, a mass migration all throughout Europe unlike we’ve ever seen in history before, and everybody living under constant threat of nuclear annihilation.

I might have been dangerous for a brief moment in time because I question narratives in search of the truth, but now you’ve got anti-Semitics and literal Nazis walking around in broad daylight. But once again, if you’re willing to sew seeds of mistrust and popularize half-truths, you only have yourselves to blame.

All of a sudden, Amini Fonua doesn’t appear to be so threatening.

My New Grooming Channel

I absolutely adore the physical specimen of manhood.  I call it just shy of worshipping man.  And all this adoration makes me feel compelled to want to bring out the best in men’s physical beauty and their appearance. I absolutely love and adore the physical body of a man!  It gets me very excited.  It gets me very turned on.  You could say I’m boy-crazy but I’m really just man-crazy.  I’m just crazy for boys and men in general!

I’m also a huge lover of grooming.  When I moved to New York City 10 years ago I had the honor of working with Out Magazine to do a grooming series for a big corporate conglomerate!  There was a video of me training for the Gay Games and it included a jog down to Brooklyn Bridge Park.  A park that is very special and near and dear to me, of course!

So ten years after my Out Magazine partnership, it seemed like a natural fit for me to start my own Grooming Channel, paying forward all the lessons I’ve accumulated over the years. 

As men, we don’t really discuss grooming. I think because it is embarrassing but mostly because it is deemed “feminine.”  Oftentimes, men want to know how to do something, but perhaps they aren’t comfortable seeking out this advice. Well, if this sounds like you then you’re in luck because this space is for you!

I plan on covering everything.  Starting with the feet.  Foot fetishists, rejoice!  I haven’t told anybody this but you get it here on the BLOG EXXXCLUSIVE.  We will start with grooming the feet. 

Why?  Because feet, well,  they carry us through life.  They are sort of very important to take care of.  I am a very physical guy and my feet sweat a lot, so I’ll show you on the grooming channel all the small things I do to maintain good footcare.  The goal is to minimize sweat, thus keeping bacteria, fungus, and all sorts of gross pathogens at bay.

My wish is to keep things simple and economical.  It costs $65+ to get your legs waxed at a salon (probably more since I last went) and this is non-inclusive of tip.  This is expensive.  Especially when you can spend $9.99 on my grooming channel, $20-$25 on your own waxing kit via Amazon, and learn how to do it yourself… All in the privacy of your own home. Better yet, for the rest of your life!

Footcare first, and then we move up the body to leg waxing next.  And then after the legs are done, well.  You get my drift.  Sometimes it is nice to keep people guessing!

We embrace all forms of beauty here, of course.  If you want to keep your nipples hairy and the patch above your ass-crack hairy, that’s your decision.  But wouldn’t you want to know how to get rid of that ass-crack patch if you wanted to?  Wouldn’t it feel empowering to get naked and feel confident, knowing that everything is exactly as you like it for yourself?  Feeling beautiful: it’s such a gift! And it is a gift I would like to share with you.

Don’t be afraid of the self-indulgence.  I hope if anything, you feel slightly more at east with the idea of grooming and removing the shame and stigma surrounding men’s bodies.  Throughout it all my slogan remains the same: “a little goes a long way.”

So, if you’re interested in turning your body into a luxury, sign-up for my Grooming Channel today!

*kisses*

Still Not Over Carlitos' Nike Shirt

There are some TikTok sounds that run through my mind all throughout the day.  They’ve become more like sayings to live by.  Attitudes to adopt.  The best sounds on TikTok capture an energy and a tone so perfectly.  Lately for me it has been: “The girls that get it, get it, and the girls that don’t, don’t.  Obviously, you don’t get it because you’re not that girl; got it?”

Photo Credit: X

This TikTok sound perfectly and succinctly encapsulates my thoughts and feelings on Carlitos’ shirt at this year’s US Open.  It is a controversial piece.  First of all, it’s sleeveless, which everybody immediately associates with Rafael Nadal.  Nadal obviously wasn’t the first athlete to go sleeveless, but he was certainly the first one to pull it off in a compelling way.

The other is that the shirt is multi-colored.  The base color is a nude flesh tone and the accompanying pattern is a bunch of different asymmetrical shapes in multiple different colors.  When the shapes do overlay one another, the colors change on the shirt adding depth to the garment. 

There’s no real consistency of pattern to any of the shapes either, they are literally all over the place!  Much like the way Carlitos plays the game of tennis on the Arthur Ashe court. Carlitos is famous for his footwork and being speedy around the court.

His most viral videos show the champion running here, running there, and running everywhere! Usually sealing the point with some ridiculous passing shot or drop-shot endeavor.  To me personally, it reminds me of the Spanish painter Picasso.

I’ve been blessed to see Picasso’s paintings at the Met Gala during an exhibit in 2015 (thank you ESTÉE LAUDER). Again, I see parallels between Picasso and Carlitos’ one of a kind playing style that can’t be replicated.  Not many people can pull off this painting style, and not many people can pull off this type of shirt, nor can many people play this type of game: it is a reflection of genius itself!

Photo Credit: AmazonMusic

In some ways it reminds me of Keith Haring in an abstract way, although Haring’s colors were a lot more limited.  Because I’m a Barb, I obviously see similarities between the shirt and Nicki Minaj’s “Pink Friday …  Roman Reloaded” album cover. The one where her body is the canvas and paint is splattered all over the place.

Photo Credit: X

One thing I like about Carlitos is that he’s never dressing older than his age.  Everything is age appropriate.  The player is 20 years old and has a playfulness with fashion that we haven’t seen for a while.  It reminds me of the younger Williams sisters when they were pushing all kinds of fashion boundaries on the court. It keeps the sport exciting!

The people who don’t like this shirt probably wouldn’t look good wearing it.  Accessibility is very important obviously when it comes to creating garments but that’s not the point of this shirt. 

If people could step outside of their vanity and see that the shirt is only meant to be worn by a certain few. That’s the point! I view it as more of a collector’s item.  If he makes a run for it and goes the whole way, this shirt will be a piece of art.  Fingers crossed he pulls it off! Best of luck to Carlitos and his team!

To the haters of this shirt, I leave you with the following TikTok saying once more for emphasis: “The girls that get it, get it, and the girls that don’t, don’t.  Obviously, you don’t get it because you’re not that girl; got it?”

The Type Of College Swimming Coach I'd Be

I like to think of myself as a forward-thinking coach.  Part of being this way is understanding that landscapes are constantly changing in sports.  In this social media era of athletics and sports, it is important to remember and recognize that athletes themselves are now brands.

4 years ago I was at The Standard for a party (I forget which one but my friend Martin was hosting) and I was talking to somebody working at Balenciaga.  You know, before it got canceled.  Anyway, this diva was OBSESSED with Serena Williams.  I asked him why high fashion houses haven’t merged with sports stars yet, as this to me seemed like a marketing no-brainer.  He said he kept putting sports stars forward for partnerships and deals but that it was still a hard sell.  This I understand.  Everything in terms of casting in fashion is always a fight.

World Number 1 and current Wimbledon and US Open Champion Carlos Alcaraz is the brand ambassador for Louis Vuitton.

Fast forward to spring/summer 2023 and we have nothing but sports stars as the ambassadors for high fashion houses.  And no rinky-dink small up and coming designers either but Louis Vuitton babes, have ya heard of them?  Carlos Alcaraz was announced as their new brand ambassador right before winning Wimbledon earlier this year; Félix Auger-Aliassime is the brand ambassador for Dior; Jannik Sinner is working with Gucci and got special dispensation from Wimbledon to carry a Gucci monogrammed bag onto Centre Court this year.  All very prolific fashion brands with all very big sports stars.  We honestly love to see it!  The time has arrived.

The kids these days are walking brands and billboards, drawing great significance and importance to the causes near and dear to their heart.  I mean hello!? The white Nike bucket-hat Carlitos wore at Wimbledon sold out and I’ve seen several white buck-hat knock-offs since.  I walk past one at the Urban Outfitter’s window on my walk to Brooklyn Bridge Park every morning. 

We are living in different times now.  We are so close to living in a time where athletes are able to close deals and keep their full check while also participating at NCAA (college sports) in America.  This was not always the case when I was an athlete myself.

I hate to make it all about me and go Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite on that ass, but back in my day when I was a student athlete, we weren’t allowed to make money off our image.  We had to maintain “amateur” status.  This means we couldn’t swim professionally either.  If we swam professionally and won prize money, we got to keep upwards of what we could prove the trip cost.  So we had to keep receipts and proof of purchase and then whatever was leftover in terms of prize money we had to return. 

Can you imagine how depressing this was?  Winning prize money for your talent and not even being able to keep it.  For non-sensical reasons.  Oh my god how suffocating is that?  It was very strict.  We couldn’t even host swim clinics to make money or anything.  But this of course has all changed and I’m going to tell you how it all changed.

Image Credit: Donatella Versace’s Instagram.

Texas A&M Heisman Trophy winner Johnny Manziel trademarked the name “Johnny Football” and alongside it came a lot of controversy.  It opened a pandora’s box of questioning the NCAA’s exploitation of student athletes.  Why did the NCAA seek to make so much money off the back of their athletes in the excess of millions of dollars yet the athletes themselves weren’t allowed to exploit their own talent, image, and namesake to make a dime for themselves?  It was sort of around this time that the media began tearing Johnny Manziel to shreds.

It did beg a good question at the time though: why is it that all these media companies can make so much money off the back of student athletes and their image, without the athletes themselves making any money off their own image?  It is absolutely non-sensical. 

And the Supreme Court of the United States agreed. In June 2021 during the NCAA vs Alston case the Supreme Court unanimously held that the NCAA may no longer restrict member institutions from offering education-related compensation and benefits to student athletes.  In laments terms: student athletes can now make money from education-related compensation, aka swim clinics.  This is a small step in the right direction but still a far cry from where we need to be.

Now there are legal challenges to the “amateur status” business model that the NCAA holds onto in order to keep their enterprise running.  It is only a matter of time before the student athletes are completely liberated from this very strange desire to keep athletes “amateur,” so media companies can line their pockets up with money.

As a coach in order to anticipate this change, when it comes to social media and trying to control the image of my athletes, I’m going adopt a laissez-faire attitude.  I believe that as a coach, there are far more useful ways for me to use my time.  Like writing engaging practices that are going to contribute to my team’s success.  This is what I’d rather be doing.  Rather than fretting over athletes’ behavior online.

Canadian tennis star Felix Auger Aliassime at the Dior fashion show earlier this year.

Controlling and policing social media isn’t part of the job description of a coach yet it has somehow become this unwritten rule and responsibility.  I have no interest in doing this type of work.  If I did then I’d apply to be a social media manager, not a coach. 

I’d rather spend my time finding ways to inspire my swimmers.  This is what the job is about: extracting my swimmers’ best effort at practice every day.  So much so that they’re going to care more for their recovery and post-practice nutrition than anything else.

As for going out, during my time at Texas A&M they encouraged athletes to limit their alcohol consumption to once per month.  At “Champs Class,” which is a compulsory class every freshman Texas A&M student athlete must take, we had a presentation on alcohol and all the ways it can interfere with muscle development, sleep cycles, and hormonal imbalances.  Once per month ensured minimal damage to the body and it takes about a month of abstaining from alcohol in order for the body to reset its tolerance.

Learning this as a student athlete was so helpful.  The Aggie Athletic department understood that kids are going to do what kids are going to do, so the least they could do is encourage their athletes to drink responsibly and in a way that is going to ensure their academic and sporting success.

This influenced me to only go out once per month.  I honestly think this is what saved my studies and swimming.  Not everybody adhered to this rule of course, but I did notice that the kids exercised more self-discipline and control around alcohol always had higher grades and performed better at the end of year competitions.

Jannik Sinner got special dispensation at this year’s Wimbledon to carry a Gucci monogrammed bag onto the court.

Kids are social creatures.  It is normal after all the stress of tertiary classes and mid-term exams to want to blow of some steam every now and again.  Sometimes it is necessary.  After a night of fun dancing or karaoke on a full moon, I feel more focused for the upcoming month.  It is very important to release tension!  As much as we want to think our student athletes are all going to sit at home and play the sims on their laptop every Saturday night, this is simply unrealistic.  Especially in a city like New York City where there is so much going on.  Don’t be naïve!

I’ve heard stories of coaches punishing their athletes because they posted that they went out on their Instagram stories the night prior.  I find these things really inane and rather silly.  If somebody goes out the night prior but then shows up to practice and turns out a good workout, what else matters?  Furthermore, all because they were out the night before doesn’t necessarily mean that they were drinking and getting rambunctious.  There were plenty of nights I went out in college and didn’t drink.  I was a considerate teammate too and would volunteer to be the designated driver.  Social media is the worst because so much is contextual and making assumptions over what a person is doing is such a waste of time and energy.

I’d like to work with an athletic department that allows me to coach in such a way that encourages but doesn’t restrict.  I think this is the way and this is the future.  These kids and their social media pages are brands.  Whether they are real or caricatures of themselves remains to be seen, but it doesn’t work in anybody’s favor to try and censor athletes.  Let them show off their personalities!  Sports is all about personalities.

Hiring me as a college swim coach is a big risk because I’m a bit of a lunatic online.  But please understand that online persona is simply this: an online persona.  It is performance art.  It is an overwhelmingly large personality in a space where personality is so desperately needed.  The sport of swimming needs to showcase more personalities!

I cannot tell you how refreshing it was to see and hear Cate Campbell talk trash about the American swim team on national television in Australia these last World Champs!  Finally, we are beginning to see some personalities from our swim stars.  People are starting to make things interesting.  I wonder what the inspiration was behind all of this?

America’s Breaststroke sweetheart and multiple Olympic gold medalist Lilly King talked trash right back!  Lilly isn’t new to controversy of course.  Do you remember when Lilly waved her finger in the ready room at Russia’s Yulia Efimova at the Rio 2016 Olympics?  Wow.  What a fabulous moment for sports!  It grew the rivalry and hyped things up for the final.  And all the drama that had led up to the women’s 100M Breaststroke final in Rio made it absolutely electric!

The mature executives in upper-management of athletics need to understand that sports is entertainment!  Yes, we all wish to exercise good sportsmanship but can’t we have some fun at the same time too?  These athletes work so hard for their bodies, can’t they show them off online too?  Nobody here is aging backwards.  Nobody here is getting any younger either.  We should be fostering an environment where people feel proud of their bodies, not shame.

There is so much room to grow in the sport of swimming.  So many stories to be told and lives shared.  It isn’t always the gold medalists that always have the most interesting stories that are needing to be told either: Yusra Mardini taught us that.  There is so much potential to grow this sport through the art of creation and story-telling.  I feel like this is what I’ve been brought here to do.

At the end of the day: it comes back down to the athletes themselves.  That’s the reason why we’re here.  This is why people tune in.  We want to see what the sports stars are wearing.  How they’ve cut their hair.  What brands they’re wearing.  We want to hear about the things that are near and dear to their heart.  We want to listen to what they’ve got to say.  We like it when they feed us parts of their puzzling personalities that are surprising, unpredictable, and interesting.

The time has come for all the worlds of entertainment to collide.  No more artists looking down on athletes and no more athletes looking down on artists, the lifestyle is the same at the end of the day.  We slave our guts out everyday to produce the best quality work that we can, and social media should be seen as the vessel and the medium in which we can choose to express that journey.  I’m a coach that recognizes this as an opportunity and less of a hindrance and I’m a part of that changing landscape and future.

This is the type of coach I’d be.  No nonsense when it comes to the day-to-day practices, but with enough room and space for my athletes to grow and blossom and develop their own winning identities and personalities.  The kids these days don’t even have to be very good to make money from their sport either, they just have to be creative, have an imagination, and develop a following.

The Ultimate Skinny Summer Meal: L'amini Salade

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Pre-Tossed L’amini Salade.

If you’re looking for a cool and crispy salad that’s going to be as tasty as it is refreshing then listen up.  Introducing “L’amini salade,” which is my favorite salad for the past few years now.  I know the name seems silly but it is in homage to the francophile in me.

It might have the word “mini” thrown in there but there’s nothing minimal about this salad. It is very calorie dense.  Most flavorful foods are calorie dense, but these calories I would argue are good calories that our bodies will digest easily. There’s a difference between eating a hearty salad full of calories and natural cheese, and chowing down a full bag of cheez-its that are also full of calories.

Post-tossed L’amini Salade.

We have to stop thinking of calories as a number but also consider how certain foods are easier for our bodies to digest than others. Most of the calories are coming from the dressing, which is really just olive oil, apple cider vinegar, goat’s cheese, and honey. The best part? The dressing is made inside the salad bowl saving time and not compromising on any flavor.

Without further ado, here is L’amini Salade! If you want to download a jpg version of this recipe to save on your phone without the nonsense and pictures then find it linked at the bottom of this post alongside a video of me making this delicious recipe earlier this week.

Amini's Phat Ass Leg Workout

In the 2nd edition of my workout program, here’s what I do for legs:

Please beware, my leg workout is no joke. It really is not for the faint of heart. If you are new to lifting weights, don’t be afraid to do the whole thing with the bar only if you have to. There is a lot of squatting and lunging. My burn set is more of a burn series than a set but it pushes blood to the appropriate places to get a “pretty hot and tasty” (PHAT) ass.

If you aren’t new to lifting, I’d still suggest going easy on yourself. Work your way up to squatting your body weight during the power sets. I know this leg workout might look psycho but it took me 10 years to build up to doing it this way consistently. When I take a break from lifting, I take it easy when re-introducing legs.

Post-gym recovery is especially important when it comes to legs. Make sure you get plenty of water. Leg day can cause more sweat and dehydration than other days. I think this is the reason why a lot of people skip leg day: it’s a mixture of weight lifting and cardio.

I hate it when guys skip leg day because it is so obvious when you look at the body. Everything comes together nicely when it’s being held together by a good pair of legs. So if there’s any motivation to do this leg workout, just think about how well everything will come together as a result of your leg workout.

Always try to keep the weight on your heels when squatting and lunging.. Make sure you protect your back by keeping a big chest, eyes-up and not looking down, keeping the integrity in your back. I know it’ll be uncomfortable but as you squat down it is imperative that you stick your butt out. This is awkward, yes, but it’s almost guaranteed that you’ll protect your back from injuries.

If you can, try and foam-roll directly after doing a leg workout to breakdown lactic acid. Don’t be concerned if you can’t walk for the first 24 or 48 hours after this workout, it means that it is working! Happy PHAT ass growing everybody!!!

GLUTEN FREE GOAT CHEESE AND HONEY SNACK

Not a low cal snack but definitely a personal fave.

Take one Norwegian gluten free cracker, lather honey onto cracker to personal sweetness, then cake on goat cheese and mix with honey.

This snack is Vers: so if you want more sweetness add some prunes. If you want more savory add a couple pieces of ham or chicken sausage.

Enjoy!!!

WHY I'M LEAVING NYC

Toodles!

How To Collagen Effectively

Proof I’m still sexy.

I’m obsessed with collagen.  It is a very important protein and it is very abundant in our bodies up until our 30s.  Once we hit 30, collagen production begins to wane it is recommended that we begin to get it from nutritional sources.

Leaving skins on meats when cooking them helps because that’s basically where all the collagen is.  In the skin of the fat of meat products.  So I try to keep the skins on the chicken drumsticks when cooking. I eat the fatty part of pork chops.  The fatty parts of meat are where the collagen is at.

If you’re wanting the collagen without the calories, collagen supplements are also very helpful.  I’ve been reading that we need 30g of collagen per day.  I get 20gs in my morning coffee, and then in the afternoon I have a hot chocolate where I put my final 10g scoop in.

Collagen needs help to synthesize. Requiring a few different things.  I’ve read copper is crucial for collagen synthesis to begin the building blocks, so I take my collagen with a copper supplement.  I’ve also read that l-lysine helps with collagen synthesis, alongside vitamin C, so I try and eat at least 1 citrus fruit per day.  Grapefruit is supreme, but an orange will do fine. If not that then some lemon water but through a straw to keep my tooth enamel strong.

What to expect from collagen? 

Taste-wise, collagen adds a delicious and creamy texture to all teas, coffees and beverages without adding any dairy.  I kind of miss the way milk changes the texture of coffee, sort of rounding it out and making it less aggressive to the palette. Collagen adds that texture without any lactose.

Collagen is a hormone booster so, you might feel a little more hormonal than usual.  Expect to feel sexy. Expect to get a little more hungry than usual also. You might be a bit temperamental. All the things expected from a hormonal boost. 

Maybe if you see your hormones getting too big of a hormone boost on 30gs, start at 10gs and eventually work your way up.  Expect an energy boost for sure.  Oh and less aching in your joints after 6 weeks of consistent daily use. Reducing fine lines is a vain bonus, but the biggest blessing is the ability for collagen to heal the gut lining.

What collagen to get?

When shopping for a collagen supplement I look for 2 things: as many different collagen types as possible. I also look for whether the collagen supplement has Vitamin C or not. 

You want as many different collagen types as possible, yes.  Here’s a chart for reference:

Supreme: Ancient Nutrition Multi Collagen Protein

You want to make sure you get something that has as many different types of collagen as possible.  I like Dr. Axe’s multi-collagen supplement because it has all 10 collagen strains.  This to me is the best product on the market in terms of collagen supplements. Dr. Axe is almost a hero of mine. I mean have you seen his YouTube channel? He looks like the picture of perfect health. I trust what he says and I find him very inspiring.

Also be sure to look out for Vitamin C in your collagen supplement. They sneak that in there because Vitamin C is used to help synthesize the collagen, but if you’re putting it into something that’s already acidic like coffee, it might be a double whammy and burn away the collagen altogether.  So just be weary of Vitamin C in collagen supplements and if it’s in there use it accordingly for things like tea, or a yogurt + granola snack, or throw a couple scoops into a smoothie, something like that.

Dupe: Horbaach Multi Collagen Protein

If you’re balling on a budget, this Horbaach brand is also really great:

It’s not quite as good as Dr. Axe’s but it is a little cheaper and you get double the amount for a lower price point, and fundamentally it gets the job done.

So there you have it! The collagen supplement supreme, and then their respective dupe. Feel the boost and know that we are on our way to getting our bodies super fit and strong for anything that life has to throw at us!!!