Diary dear, Jack’d tremble because muscular men are the reason I still pay my phone bill. I'm talking about those who walk in like they have a lease on gravity—arms so thick they need their own congressman, chest hair peeking out like "hi girl hi" from 1970s Playgirl.

As soon as they show off their double biceps in the mirror, my gay soul goes into full-on voguing death drop. I don't just want them, I want to BE them—I want my silhouette to make straight men question their sexuality in real time.

These men are walking gay cathedrals, every vein a stained-glass window, every stretch mark a hymn to "I'm reborn in iron."

Yes, I'm tense, but also yes, I'm having a religious experience watching him lift 60 kg dumbbells like groceries. Yes, I want him to realign my spine, but also yes, I want him to watch over me as I cry through my first 100 kg bench press because he knows what it's like to be a "before" photo.

This fascination is older than Stonewall and newer than TikTok—it's ancestral thirst, it's every queer who's been told to shrink finally screaming "watch me grow."

So to every muscle king reading this: thank you for making the gym feel like a club and a church had a baby. Keep lifting, keep serving, keep making us fall in love with ourselves with existence.

The cycle keeps turning and the pump keeps pumping. 🌈💪