Tag Archives: Calves

High Ovulation Training!


power_girl_by_sami_basri_by_deevelliott-d4g9wxm(Previously half-written.)

God!

The littlest thing sets me off when I’m high on ovulation.  When I’m undergoing ovulation it’s my very own natural preworkout as I know how to direct my energy and mind-frame so it works for me in the gym.  I’ve done well channeling and managing some very fantastic personal bests during this womanly time.

So, I met up with the new gym boys Hungarian and Cop.  Both are humongous in size, you know, muscles bulging out the shirt in every which way and I love to stare like a hungry dog with my tongue rolling out like a red carpet (in my head of course)!  But, I have to play like rico-suave and it’s very hard to contain myself when ovulation hits the being of my temple.  Still, the good news is I got to be sandwiched in the middle of pounds of flesh, muscle and beef.

Tonight was arm and calve day brought to me by Hungarian guy (who I would love to fucking have sex with!) who’s one of the beefiest slab son of a bitch in the gym.  He comes over to ask me right before we start, “Do you train for muscle?” (Remember, I’m the new woman on the gym block. So no one knows what I’m about, but now they do!)  I said, “Yes, indeed.”  He nodded me respect and I smiled in my nod.  I knew it was going to be SO ON and believe you me I was fucking ready.

Warm ups sets began with light dumbbells, curl for the girls and hammers to set off clamor.  I felt the oncoming surge.  I was totally excited.  Then Preacher curls on a steep bench came first.  I’ve never been on a bench so steep (plus I’m short), so this was new to me.  So I stood at 35lbs on the barbell as it was a good fit to reach 10 reps for 4 sets.  And every time I grinded the reps, arms shaking, stomach engaged, teeth grinding the inside ring of my mouth, all I heard that made me feel delightful from Hungarian guy was: “Good! Beautiful!  Beautiful!” And, fuck, for what was that for?  It gave me monstrous fuel!

Between us three, we kept rotating.  Next up was bicep curls with multiple barbells on the ground; everyone had their own (at least 3 barbells) for their drop sets set.  My biceps, deltoids and forearms tapped into another dimension for the first three sets and by the time the fourth set came I was not only aroused to no end with both men cheering me on, but my muscles got used to the dimension despite my extra reps as I watched and observed the crazy pump in the mirror with my skeleton tank top.

One of my favorite exercises was next:  Rope Curls!  And if I didn’t mention it before, I was going by what Hungarian and Cop were doing.  Why do my own techniques when I can learn some from the big boys right now?  So, the movement was pull high to the upper chest straight all the way the fuck up and full extension, all the way the fuck down.  That wasn’t the problem.  The problem came into play when I shook my head, lowered my eyes and flared my nostrils like a bull when I saw the big boys do 120lbs in awkward defeat.

There I was closing in on 60lbs (and on this day was my personal best mind you feeding from every ounce of energy our sandwiched threesome brought) pushing through every damn rep.  Pushing past the fucking burn, pushing past the tremendous resistance going against me, barely breathing (bad habit!), abdominal tight as fuck while trying to suck air through an imaginary tiny coffee straw.

I complained loudly how I want to do 120lbs and Hungarian says, “Only the 1% in the gym could do this.  Take your time.  You don’t need to rush.  But you’re a woman.  Why would you want to?”  I said, “I want to be strong!”  Then Hungarian tells the rest of the boys, in particular the new one who just entered the sandwiched to make it a quad and says, “She wants to rush to do 120lbs because she wants to spank everybody in the gym.”  I cracked a smile just like the big shot I am.

Then we hit up tricep rope for numerous sets.  My triceps died.  They were done and swollen.  And then the other guys were doing an uncomfortable tricep exercise with a funny angle with a dumbbell overhead but out to the side at like 30 degrees or something?  I never tried it before and attempted it anyway because I’m a freak in the gym and although Hungarian tried to show me (and he touched me!) I felt too uncomfortable and didn’t like the idea of fucking up my bad shoulder more than I’ve already done.

Plus, I was embarrassed as my underarms were the scent of gang-banging skunks’ (probably?), so I’m like fucking Hungarian is getting a whiff of it.  FUCK MY LIFE!  Ugh!  So I stood on the tricep rope until the other guys were done because I needed to kill my triceps again for dying in the first place.  And by this point, I went into the locker room to get my wrist-straps as now we were on the tricep dip machine.  It was my first time on this machine and caution worked against me here.  I kept picking a weight but continued hitting 15 reps on it when I only want 8-10 at best because it’s how I rolls.

Again, ovulation had me PR’ing on this dip machine with 120lbs and no locking out.  I kept the constant tension on these future horseshoes.  My skin was peeling and tightening on itself like a screw.  Then it was onto tricep dumbbell overhead extension (with two hands).  I usually do the one-arm overhead extension because of not wanting to (once again) continue destroying my bad shoulder any further.  But, you know me; I can’t look bad in front of anyone (not if I could help it anyway).  So I’m on with the boys and again I’m complaining in my head with how they’re using 100lbs-130lbs.  I let the sigh spell d-e-f-e-a-t.

Now it’s been years since I’ve done this exercise and I PR’d on every single set (of course) from 40lb-55lbs for 4 sets with 10 gutted reps.  (From what I could remember I capped off at 30-35lbs back in the days with this exercise.)  Hungarian felt at ease like a true personal trainer to help the dumbbell for the quad sandwich.  I mean, this guy is short, but big and fucking strong, he doesn’t need any person to hand him over the weight from the top.  I’m talking 100lb-130lbs!  And most certainly, I have pride too, but you know, I said, “If he wants to help me with this dumbbell, let me take it.  It’s not everyday where I train with awesome people who are more than willing to assist me to the next level.”

To say my tricep wasn’t super hard (or my deltoids or my biceps for that matter) and tense was pretty much an understatement.  My skin had nothing left to tighten.  My triceps became rocks as I almost went to complete failure on the overhead extensions.  I dug super deep to continue through all those reps because as I said before I’m not trying to look bad if I can help it.  (I have a big ego like that.  Maybe?  Ha!)  Then we capped off with standing and seated calves.  And naturally, as with everything else, I kilt them!  The gym was closing and it was time to go and I was all like man I want to keep going.  And one of the big boys asked me, “How the hell are you not tired?”

I stated, “High ovulation.” 😉

-Pennington

Lack of Drive Kind of Night


Pale Comparison
Today I woke up, among a lack of drive, aches in the center of traps, spinning wheels against the uneasiness of day.  I looked for inspiration in opened paperbacks, dipped into phony motivation within cups of roasted caffeine.  I regretted it once I finished the cup because my mouth tasted like darkness and death.  But, the mood was lightened through warm phone conversations.  I came across a twenty-four hour CVS store, entered awkwardly like an orphanage and lingered in the wellness aisles, until I purchased a 5-hour energy drink.

On the train platform I waited.  Destination to gym was approximately thirty minutes.  Similar to a concealed alcoholic, I glanced over my shoulder; full suspicion, threw my head back and drank junk energy.  Eleven-something-PM and the red line pulled in with swarming bodies.  I entered and a kind middle-aged man took his jacket off the seat, so I can sit and wouldn’t have to scramble for a comfortable standing spot.  I smiled.  I didn’t want to be rude and decline the offer and in return I thanked him.  I sat between him and another man who plainly made love to his dazzling tablet with his eyes.

Smashed in the middle, my arms laid over my book-bag, hands clasped obedient.  Heat rose to caress my face, but it was followed by rolled evil eyes.  I scanned mush-sardines everywhere.  And every now and again, I stared awfully long and awfully hard at the ceiling, prayed to God for bodies to exit the cart or die.  I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take my inner thighs contracting under excruciating tension.  There was wicked edge in my legs and they were about to cramp like Charlie horses in the core of night.  I prayed in excess.  I needed anything and everything to take my mind away from expanding fury.

When I noticed a group of male friends in front of me lined up like bowling pins and how each had the same brand on:  Levi’s.  My heart rate decreased from anger and eased once I searched for the outlines of buttocks:  Who owned the biggest, who was trying to show it off and who was trying to put their glutes out of sight?  Then the kind man who made space for me originally was getting off the train and my heart soared knowing I’d be able to breathe large again by swerving to the left and conquering the corner seat.  Thank god and the heavens!

Walking through the gym doors, I saw the regular night shift receptionist guy put his conversation on hold to greet me with a huge grin; he puts my mind at ease by saying, “Hello!  Have a good one!”  All smiles, passing a row of proud ellipticals; I jog the flight of stairs.  I quickly analyzed the weight-room with a criminal grill, turned the corner to find a caramel-Dominican running on the treadmill in mesh shorts with buttocks hopping in succession.  I slowed down to catch a few seconds of eye-candy and disappeared like magic into the locker room.

Feeling internally flirty, the hair went in a high ponytail, bangs are held back by a bobby pin and I creep to the weight-room floor.  I eye-fucked the first exercise to get me primed and ready to rock and roll:  Seated rows!  And with the lat-pulldown bar attachment, taking the hand placement as wide as the sky, set after set, fifteen full reps each, I burn and flame, burn and flame.  I start to love myself.  The blaze starts to give me repeated drive.

I moved on to dumbbell seated shoulder press and with the first set I reached a full fifteen reps with 30lbs.  But by the third set my triceps were fried (thanks to the bang of the buck of Seated Rows – surely you can figure it out) and my favorite technique, rest-pause took over.  It went from 5 to 4 to 3 reps.  My mental flare shook its head each time in a kind of displeased failure.  Angry, I powerwalked to the back of the gym and sighed at the sight of the pull-up assisted machine.

I know how every rep feels before I perform them:  Difficult, treading through deep water, muddy-like, an overload of massive bodyweight.  Sometimes I wish they were a walk through the park, but deep down inside I would never want this.  Roughly 8 set of tough chins and pulls than kept it moving.  The incline rear-delt flyes are tougher than they appear; the ego lowers itself along with the weight to be used, another exercise that stops the hardcore flare in my mind.  After deep breaths taken, full contraction and 2-3 second holds at the top of every rep, the first set wrapped, and I notice the group of men from the corner of my eyes nodding respect at my performance.

The most challenging thing of the rear-delt flyes is not dropping my face into the bench when I start to fatigue and create grimaces like a mad hulk, to fight any sort of momentum and not go beyond the range of motion to strike a meek nerve.  Then on to the front raise with a barbell, go high above my head, core braced and my entire body tight in one line.  The scorching starts from the top of my traps, slides into my deltoids and enters in the center of my back.  By the end of the sets, I pause on every fourth rep.  I shake my head in partial defeat, and I rise again in full power.

By this time, I imagine the snarl of my vagina rages with odors of unfathomable ammonia, growing more teeth as every bit of exhaustion tries to yank me in submission.   I stuck my hand out in front of my body and examined my fingers for the rush and temp of adrenaline.  I need the shaking reminder, the bearing of fruit.  Happy and high, bent-over rows became the name of the game, pyramided by 10lb increments, pushing through countless reps and the dead hang arm feeling only to row, row, row it back.

Face pulls, a classic, cable tension, good stretch, long step back.  I felt my teres minor flared from the front raises and as a result I stretched for twenty seconds in between sets.  Then the lat-pulldown machine, not cable, actual machine because my muscles respond at a greater frenzy.  Within this meantime, I couldn’t help but enjoy the puzzled look on the woman’s mug, a kind of blasé air, pursed lips on a nipple water bottle, eyes lowered, dragged in slow-motion to the corner to glare towards my action.

I finished with calves on an extension machine I grew to love; abusing it bilaterally until they scream further into mercy unilaterally followed by abdominal exercises.  My entire happy ending came to a halt once I got down on the perky blue mat of heaven and performed 50 reps of Superwoman’s and heard the middle of my back crack.  I found myself in the locker, hands washed, headphones bagged in its pouch, headed down the stairs where the guy receptionist said, “Have a good night.”

And I did.
I did. 

But I’m still struggling from the lack of motivation.

-Pennington