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lately I've been stalking—er, I mean, becoming friends with—a dude from work. He's a fine man indeed. Tall, lean, strong, gorgeous. Ostensibly straight, yet (apparently) quite innocent and friendly.

You get my point.

Let's call him Csaba.

So we've taken to texting each other, Csaba and I, often late in to the night. Usually we use Facebook's Messenger.

As you may be aware, whenever one receives a text message in Messenger, a distinctive "ping" sounds on said recipient's phone. And to be honest, I've started to get hard whenever I hear that ping.

The dude wants to talk? Csaba, is that you?

The CWS is prolly not aware that I have an extensive background in psychology. (I've elected to keep this part of my edumication secret to those outside my Inner Circle.) And what I found, during my undergraduate work (actually, I only majored in psychology for a few months, back when I attended our local Community College, so take all this shit with the proverbial grain of salt, as they say), was that there was this psycho (logist) dude, way back in the day, who had long white hair. He must've had some kind of bestiality fetish, 'cuz he used dogs to prove his shit.

You are familiar with said famous psycho-scientist Pavlov, no? He's remembered for postulating (love that word) the idea what when a bell rings, a dog starts salivating. I've never actually read Pavlov's thesis, but I do find the concept fascinating. Ring a bell, make a dog spit. Who knew? I've actually tried the idea on my Shih Tzu, but it didn't work. That damn dog won't spit for nuttin'. Ring a bell all day long, and the thing just lies (or is it lays?) there.

Anyhoo, what I'm tryin' to say here is that every time that damn "Messenger" bell pings my phone, I sit straight* upright in my bed, and start to get hard. Then, I look at the message from Csaba, blithely respond, then lie (or is it lay?) back on my pillow and jerk off. Just the fact that the dude wants to text makes me ejaculate. Truth.

So now, Ping = Boner.

And I'm a wreck.

Apparently Pavlov knew what he was talking about.

---  ---

* That word has various meanings, okay? 

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The muscle-nurse


you will NOT believe me when I tell you about my visit to the doctor's office today. Seriously.*

I'm still trying to take it all in (in a manner of speaking).

So, I had a hangnail on my left pinky, and I thought I should, you know, let someone examine me—er, it. So I called my doctor, and he just happened to have an opening today. When I got there, the waiting room was full of other muscular bodybuilder-types, which I thought was a bit strange.

Yet, very nice.

Anyway, when an assistant opened the door and called out, "Seanny? Sean Reid Scott?" I immediately jumped up. She directed me to follow, which, you know, I did. We stopped at the scale in the corridor and she said, "Please take off all your clothes and step on the scale."

Which I did.

She eyed me with a peculiar, rather lusting eye, as I stripped. When I stepped on the electronic scale, ala-naturale, she noted my weight with a sniff. "Two-hunnerd-and-45-pounds." Then she glared at me, obviously checking out my enormous, nekkid, physique, up and down. THEN she tried to grab one of my nips. "Two-hunnerd-and-45-pounds of pure muscle, I see," she cooed.

I pushed her hand away and sneered, "Sorry, honey. I don't play on that team."

She harrumphed, and told me to follow her into an examination room.

Which I did.

Wherein she pretty-much tried to rape me. Long story short, by the time the attending nurse entered, I had the assistant-bitch in a full nelson.

"Miriam," the nurse said as he placed his hands on his hips. "You know the doctor has told you to stop raping the patients. For chrissakes, take a stroll out to the waiting room. There just might be a pound or two of muscle out there what might be amenable to your particular fetish."

She looked at the male nurse and said, "Yeah, but this is Sean Reid Scott! Where am I gonna find a man like this? "

The hunky nurse pushed her out of the room. I was still completely nekkid. I held my clothes at my side. He offered to help me dress.

Which I refused.

I did, however, elect to move said clothing in front of my lower torso, in order to hide my growing erection, since the nurse dude was OH MY GOD HOT AS HELL, and had more muscles than should be allowed by law.

The sizzling-hot muscle-nurse took my blood pressure, and my pulse. He was a bit surprised with my vitals. "They're a bit elevated, dude," he said, seemingly genuinely perplexed.

Breaking News: That wasn't the ONLY thing about me that was elevated. Thanks be to the gods I still had my clothes covering my essentials.

I insisted that he take my vitals again. And again. And, actually, again.

"Hmmm..." he finally said. "Maybe I need to do more research here. You're obviously in excellent health, Sean Reid Scott. Your physique is almost as gorgeous-and-developed as my own."

"Almost," I squeaked.

"So, I propose that you let me probe you a bit more. If that's alright with you." He gave me a wink and a smile, and I nearly gave him an involuntary sperm sample right then and there. He patted the exam table and cocked his head to the side. "I'd like you to hop up here, so I can probe you more closely before the doctor comes in."

Which I did.


---  ---

* As is our policy here at MuscleStimulus.com, some of the items presented for your reading (and viewing) pleasure may contain "fake news" kind of stuff. 

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Restroom Encounter


occasionally, I enjoy using the restroom. When I'm at home, I call it the bathroom. In public, it's the restroom. And it's always a pleasurable experience. Back when I was employed by quite a large, multi-national corporation (no, not Fox News Corp.), my fellow workers and I were sometimes subject to random drug tests to ensure that we were straight—er, I mean, drug-free.

One of the popular bumper stickers/tee shirts that protested this invasion of drug-privacy said, "Pee for enjoyment, not for employment." At the time, I had never really considered enjoying the act of peeing. Yet, the concept is sound. I'm not saying I get any kind of sexual fulfillment out of it (other than the fact that when I pee, my hand is in its favorite spot anywhere). My own fetishes definitely eschew the concept of pissing on dudes (or being pissed on by a dude) as a means of sexual stimulation. But that's just my bent, as it were. If it turns you on, piss on. Me, I choose to piss off, if you will.

But I digress. Let's get to the point of this little ditty.

As I alluded above, I was enjoying myself in a restroom recently, and when I emerged from my stall, I bumped into a shirtless guy who was standing in front of the mirror (I think the Brits call them reflectors, no?), taking selfies (I think the Brits call them self-portraits, no?). The dude was stage-ready muscle. Ginormous, ripped and beautifully tanned (in a tank-top-print kind of way). As an added benefit, the phone he used to take said selfies was my favorite brand.

He saw me come out (from the stall) and immediately dropped his hand (holding his phone) to his side, blushing. "Oh, I didn't know there was anyone here," he said. Despite his obvious embarrassment and coy demeanor (which, BTW, gave me a boner—even without the attached body), his voice was deep and resonant (which only added to the bonerific effect of the whole situation).

Noting his obvious distress in having been discovered, I took the opportunity.

"Oh, please," I smiled. "Don't let me interrupt anything, sir. I was just taking a private little piss. You know, getting pleasure from said activity."

He smiled, still shy: "Oh, thank you. I certainly didn't mean for you to see me in this state," he said, glancing down at his well-muscled, bare torso.

"Please," I insisted. "Your state is in no way offensive to me." I made a point of allowing my gaze to caress the aforementioned muscles. He seemed to take note. He lifted one eyebrow (how do people do that?) and seemed to struggle with suppressing a smile. "In fact," I ventured, "I find your development... quite remarkable."

He allowed his smile to fully form now. "Really?" He re-checked himself in the reflector, then looked back at me. "I'm flattered. And pleased."

"Oh, I can assure you: stumbling out of my stall and coming upon such a visage of physical perfection... the pleasure is truly mine."

We talked for awhile, in front of that reflector. He responded well to my requests for an occasional flex and pose. I asked him if he was getting cold, standing there in the stark nakedness of the public restroom. He nodded slightly. Minutes later we were running through the rain, under an umbrella (I think the Brits call them bumbershoots, no?), toward a waiting car.


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Muscle Proliferation

Michael Pearson

does anyone besides me realize how much proliferation of muscle there's been in the past 20 or 30 years? You needn't have been alive in the '70s, say, to understand the "Big Bang" that has happened to bodybuilding. It's been overwhelming.

Not that that's a bad thing!

I mean, just take a gander at some of the old muscle websites from back in the day (like, even just 15 - 20 years ago). They were comprised, basically, of a collection of a few hundred men who were, IMO, second-generation* pioneers in the bodybuilding phenomenon. Muscle hunks like Shawn Ray, Andreas Cahling, Mike Mentzer, Bob Paris, Rory Leidelmeyer, Mike Matarazzo.... 

But today. Just, fresh hell! There are tens of thousands of guys who have lifted themselves to the development levels of those earlier decades. And even higher. They're all over! It only takes a brief scan of hosting sites like tumblr to realize I speak the truth here. Take today's guy (please!). Michael Pearson is jacked, stacked, bulked and ripped like many of the bygone dudes would have loved to be. And he's just one of jazzillions!

I, for one, love it. We are all better for the amount of muscle there is to enjoy. Can you imagine living 100 years ago?


* Obviously, Eugene Sandow is often feted as the father of bodybuilding, but it really started to take off in popular culture in the '60s and '70s with muscle pioneers like Dave Draper, Arnold, Frank Zane, Franco Columbu, and others.

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cleanliness is, of course, next to godliness. Everyone knows that.  It's always good to know that the guy you're going to sleep with is dedicated to good hygiene. Nothin' worse than getting all frisky and horny with a guy and realizing he has BO.

Apparently, today's guy applies quite a bit of diligence to his cleansing regimen. Let's take a gander at some of the things Guy uses to keep his body fresh and clean. First, there's the various bottles of lotions, emollients, and soaps. Obviously, Guy likes to use a full-spectrum approach when it comes to his baths, and his skin care. Note, also, the red mug perched on the rim of the tub. Dead give-away that Guy likes to spend a bunch of leisure time in the tub; this allows the aforementioned emollients-and-such ample time to be absorbed into his skin.

Then there's the glaring presence of the vinegar. WTF? Am I just ignorant of some secret cleansing property in vinegar? I mean, I do use vinegar when I clean my coffee maker. But when I clean myself? Don't think so.

Anyway, regardless, Guy's cleaning regimen definitely meets muster, as far as I'm concerned. Yes, maybe he needs to pay more attention to the rinse cycle, but really. He's fine.

Yet, why does this picture make me think of Mr. Magoo?

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The things you'll see in Wanker's Corner!


now-a-days you can't hardly throw a dead chicken across the countryside without hitting some guy who wants to take off all his clothes in the restroom. This actually happened * to me today!

So, anyway, I was driving down I-205 and realized that I needed to make a "pit stop" in order to keep my pants unsoiled. You know how that goes. Toilets, I've learned, are way under-rated. So, I faithfully engaged my turn signal—or should I say, I tried to engage said signal, only to realize that it had been on for who-knows-how-many-miles. Once I safely swerved across three lanes of traffic, I exited the freeway in search of a place to pee (and possibly poop, but I don't really want to get into the details if you don't mind). 

Fortunately for me (and my bladder/bowels/underwear/car/passenger), directly off the exit I found an establishment that actually sported a restroom. But even more amazing was the fact that my driving companion and I actually found ourselves in Wanker's Corner! Who knew? (Well, Yours Truly should have known, since I've had my MuscleStimulus/MusclePla.net/BuffMuscles.com empire headquartered there since dirt. But my memory loss and geographical challenges are a whole nother story.) Needless to say, I was ebullient as I jumped out of my Maserati® and made my way to the powder room.

But, guess what I saw once I shoved my way pass the paparazzi, into the can? Today's guy! All nekkid and stuff! More importantly, all muscular and stuff! I cleared my throat, and as I brushed (as close as possible) by him, I said, "Pardon me, sir. I just need to use a stall." Then, as I made my way into the nearest one, I turned back and smiled, "You wouldn't care to join me, would you?"


*Some, or all of today's "facts" have been manufactured for your reading pleasure. (Think: "Fake News.")   ;)

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And a meaningful return

Bradley Martyn0222

home sweet home.... I've been to the Bay Area many times, but San Jose specifically? Never. Yet I didn't actually have the pleasure of acquainting myself with SJ proper; upon landing at SJC, I was Uberly-whisked away to the city that hosts the HQ of my absolutely favorite company, Apple: Cupertino.

The Cupe is reallyreally close to San Jose. At One Infinite Loop, I was hosted, feted, and toasted by all of the top Apple execs. [What would you expect? I'm an internationally-known and uber-respected webster and proprietor of not only the best gay porn pix on the Web, but also the best gay romance (and muscle stuff) stories EV er. Right?]

Anyhoo, after I waited in Apple's anteroom for what seemed like hours, a Macintosh representative came out and said that Steve Jobs wouldn't be able to see me today. Seems he had a previous engagement that had something to do with some underground task involving nudging up (or pushing up, maybe?) dandelions (or daisies) or some such flower. Undeterred, I politely accepted their lame story and retreated to my limousine escort, wherein we made our way to meet today's man, Bradley Martyn, at a local gym.

All's well that ends well. 

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A brief, yet meaningful pause


so, tomorrow, Ima need directions to San Jose. Anyone know the way there? You know, like Do you know the way to...? Where's Dionne Warwick when you need her....

Whatever. It might be difficult to get there. Regardless, I'll be a-flyin' down from PDX to JSC. So, if'n you're on my flight, hook me up. Would be nice to talk... 

My trip will be for personal, family reasons. Yet, I fully intend to check out any-and-all "scenery" that might present itself to my lusting eyes whilst I travel. Which brings me to today's pic. Would that I could encounter this kind of stud (even if he's with his girl) standing at the ATM, trying to withdraw cash. Airport ATMs can be so horribly selfish. But god. Take a gander at this guy's thick, broad shoulders. And OMG, that ass!

Yeah, okay. Nevermind if he's wif a chick. He's gon-need some satisfaction that NO woman could ever provide. No ATM either.

If he's interested in a withdrawal, Ima have to refuse that shit.

I'm only interested in a DEPOSIT.


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Oregon, My Oregon

Oregon map

the well-informed Curious Web Surfer is undoubtedly aware that today is VD (that's Valentines Day, for those of you in Boring, Oregon). And the really well-informed CWS is undoubtedly aware that today is also the birthday of the Union's greatest, most beautiful state, Oregon. (Yes, it's also Arizona's birthday, but we've never had the pleasure.) Oregon was admitted to the Union on February 14, 1859. 

So if you'll indulge me—a native & lifelong Oregonian—a brief departure from the normal fare we here at MuscleStimulus.com offer, I'd like to present a short video what I have no part in producing, yet I really love it.

An important tidbit: Oregon's motto is Alis volat propriis, which translated from Latin, is, "She flies with her own wings." As you listen to this song, you'll undoubtedly appreciate that concept. CLICKY ON THE OREGON PIC, ABOVE, TO ENJOY.


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Josh Taubes 101


welcome again, class, to today's lecture. Last time we discussed THIS gorgeous hunk (scroll down to the previous post), and today I'd like to introduce you to a rising star in the world of gorgeous hunks, Josh Taubes, aka diesel.josh on his Instagram account.

Josh not only epitomizes the young innocence of delicious hunkiness, he crosses over the line, and deftly enters the realm of the muscular gods. Which, after all, is the whole reason this here website exists, no? Oh, forgive me. Where was I.... Yes, we were beginning a discussion about Josh. Young, virulent, muscular-beyond-belief Josh.

So, please turn your attention to the screen, while I pull up a clip of Josh doing tricep press-downs. You'll note how big those muscles are....

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Gorgeous Studs 101

hGorgeousello class, and welcome to Gorgeous Studs 101, where each week we’ll examine a prime example of masculine pulchritude.

Today’s man, Todd, is 100 percent pure beef, no? First, let’s take a look at the top picture. Notice his hella-good hair. It’s tipped with just the right amount of blond, accenting his naturally wonderful brown tones. Next, those eyes: dark in the right places, yet bright and healthy. Notice how Todd uses the colors in his Portland-esque, manly, plaid lumberjack shirt to bring out the earthy sensuality of his eye color. This guy knows exactly how to dress to highlight his strengths.

And speaking of strength, let’s look at that jaw line—something that would make Clark Kent green (kryptonite?) with envy. Of course we can’t evaluate Todd without mentioning that strong nose, and those sensual, pouting lips—lips that likely make the straightest of men want to taste. As a matter of fact, let’s have a show of hands. How many of you straight men have gotten hard in the past few minutes since I threw up Todd’s picture here?

Thank you. Yes. Too many to count.

But let’s move on. Before we examine the second picture, note in the top photo the powerful neck. Does not the man look like he could bench 1,000 pounds? There’s nothing quite like a strong, thick neck to exude masculine strength. And what about that adorable, sexy ear ring? Just a hint of flair, and Todd makes YOU swoon, no? And then there are those dimpled cheeks. Show of hands again: How many of you straight men are rubbing yourselves under your desks right now?

Yes. Thank you. I thought so.

Now, let’s take a look at Todd’s second picture. Shirtless, Todd looses none of his masculinity, yet he skillfully adds a certain vulnerability and sexiness. Most men couldn’t pull off this apparent oxymoron of strength vs. beauty, yet obviously Todd is a master at making you ogle his strength, while he pulls you in with his adorable sensitivity. His expression here clearly says something along the lines of, “Hey… If you’re hungry, I can think of a way to satisfy you.”

Then, his watch. Stylish and elegant, without being pretentious.

Obviously, Todd is the kind of Gorgeous Stud most of us would be willing to spend any weekend with, no?

Show of hands?


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Looking forward to leave

mWhensLeavey boyfriend is due home on leave. Can't wait to pick him up at the station. 










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What CHEW Looking At?

sChewo there I was, just minding my own business, glad to be back at the gym after a few weeks off. It's always fun to go to the gym. 'Specially when you're a hopeless muscle addict. Like me.

So anyway, I was finishing my rest between sets (I like to give my muscles a chance to get a full recovery, so, like, I usually rest seven or eight minutes between sets; seems to be working pretty good). Time to stand up and grab those 7.5 pound dumbbells for another set of shrugs. I stand up straight (the only thing I do straight, actually) and just as I begin my first rep, I notice this shirtless muscle-hunk-to-shame-all-other-muscle-hunks doing curls. Being the aforementioned muscle addict that I am, I freeze in place and turn my head to stare. (No one ever accused me of being discreet.)

The stud notices me watching, but he finishes his set. Then, he turns and takes a few steps toward me, cocks his head to one side, and says, "What chew lookin' at?"

I clear my throat—twice, and squeak out, "Sorry, sir. I just noticed that your biceps are abnormally large and incredibly rippling with veins and muscles."

"Is that a problem?" he pressed.

"Only for my cock," I grinned. 


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