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So I try my calf. Sitting cross-legged, ankle propped on Free jerk off instructions tubes, I push the needle in. Instguctions goes in easy enough but when I aspirate the syringe fills with blood: I've hit a vein. I wipe the needle with rubbing alcohol and try another spot: I boot the excess onto a paper towel, plug a fresh needle onto the syringe, and try Ftee It is coming out of my thigh and now Fere a triangle of holes in my calf. What, am I ofv veins? I end up back at my glutes. But I soon inwtructions it: I jerkk a perfect bubble inshructions oil the size of a pearl onion an inch under my skin.

When I massage it the bubble wobbles under my fingertips, all of one piece. It's still there come night time: Frer the princess with a pea, I have a hard time sleeping. To embark on a instruxtions cycle is to Frer yourself iinstructions rituals. Wake up, eat, medicate, work instruxtions, eat, work out, eat, medicate, sleep. Repeat daily for 16 weeks. Eating becomes a ritual. Insttuctions maximise muscle growth you must eat one gram of protein for each pound of your weight per day. But I pushed my target further, to around 1. Consider that a great source of natural protein - a can of tuna - has 13g of protein. That means I'd have to eat 25 cans a day.

The most I ever managed was 20, forking it straight from the can. Please believe me when I tell you it is sheer lunacy to eat 20 cans of tuna. Eventually I settle on six cans a day, supplemented with five to six protein shakes. I go through four 2. I keep shovelling a limited range of foodstuffs - tuna, bananas, egg whites, boiled chicken breasts - into my mouth with the listless motions of an automaton. Thankfully the Equipoise, developed to increase lean body weight appetite in horses, gives my appetite a much-needed boost. Injections become a ritual. Run the vials under hot water to warm the oil. Unwrap a fresh syringe. Draw 1cc Equipoise, followed by 1. Tap the syringe to release air bubbles, push the plunger until a tiny bead forms at the pin-tip.

Swab the injection site with alcohol and inject s-l-o-o-o-w, massaging so the oil soaks in. It isn't much different from the way a heroin addict goes about things: I reached a point where the careful steps and resultant anticipation became as heady as the rush itself. Those last few weeks, I couldn't stop shaking as I prepared the needle. The workout becomes a ritual. If the gym is a temple of the body, I went from casual worshipper to fanatical zealot. I pushed myself and found I possessed limits beyond all reckoning. But I'd push myself past the limit, too - twice I caught the smell of ozone, saw awful stars flitting before my eyes, and came to sprawled on the gym carpet.

I'd lift until my arms hung like dead things from my shoulders. I took post-workout naps in the changing room, spread out on a bench, too exhausted to walk home. The prostate is an organ I associate with old men. Not, in any way, an organ I should be aware of. And yet I was, because the benign little organ had swollen to the point where it felt like a fist-sized balloon pressed against my testicles. This is a fairly common side-effect; some professional bodybuilders get prostatitis to such an extent they require a catheter.

I was urinating 15 times a day. A swollen prostate cramps the urethral tube, making it torture to pee. It also presses against the bladder, making it feel as if you always need to pee, even if there's nothing to pass: I stood over the toilet for five minutes, coaxing, cajoling, only to produce a squirt. My urine took on a disturbingly rich hue, like cask-aged brandy. I heard that 'vigorous manual relief' helped ease prostate pain.

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But when I tried this, it felt as though the pipe connecting the sperm factory to its exit had been clothes-pegged: The key was continual application. I became obsessed with manual relief. Four times a day I was manually relieving myself. All that testosterone in my system, it didn't take much to get the motor humming. I was relieving myself to photos of muscle-bound woman gracing tubs of protein powder. I even relieved myself to a perfume sample in a magazine; I relieved myself to a smell - vigorously so! Wake up, eat, jerk off, work out, eat, Free jerk off instructions tubes off, eat, work out, eat, jerk off, eat, sleep.

The question most sane readers will be asking by this point is: Why, despite all the awful side-effects, did he keep plugging needles into himself? I'm sure my answer is no different to that given by most steroid users: Once we pass that period of massive physical change - childhood through our teens, puberty and growth spurts - we settle into a sense of our bodies. We understand the parameters and capabilities, what it can and cannot do. And though it's disheartening to say, at 30, I was already finding evidence of a body on its downslope. While I worked out regularly, I hadn't made a sizeable gain in years. In gym parlance, I'd 'hit the plateau'.

Steroids shattered the limitations of my body. I first sensed their effects while bench-pressing dumbbells. I usually peak at 85lb each, or lb total. But after 10 repetitions with the 85s I was stunned: Free jerk off instructions tubes a degree of trepidation - we're talking weights that, if mishandled, could break a wrist or some ribs - I picked up the pounders, which I'd never attempted. They went up easily and I ripped out 10 reps. It was an out-of-body sensation: I went up to lb dumbbells - benching roughly my own body weight. I'd been locked at lb for two years and now, in the course of a single workout, I'd shot up 30lb.

My workout weights rocketed across the board. I was doing wide-grip chin-ups with a 35lb plate strapped to my waist; shoulder-pressing 75lb dumbbells; slapping 45lb plates on the biceps bar to curl lb. I was bottoming out Nautilus machines, lifting their maximum weights. My body exploded, lb to lb in the space of a few weeks - in 'roider vernacular I'd 'swallowed the air hose'. I became a huffer, a puffer, a grunter, a screamer. Anyone who frequents gyms has seen those guys who make ungodly noises while throwing huge masses of weight around. I'd always found these displays childish and tended to look away, as I would from a toddler having a tantrum in a supermarket.

So imagine my surprise to find myself bellowing, shrieking and groaning. It was like a silverback gorilla's mating ritual: I wanted to be seen lifting, wanted everyone to know I was the biggest, toughest motherfucker in the gym. I'm a big boy! It was pathetic and I should have known better - actually I did know better, but I didn't let that stop me. The 'pumps' I'd get after a workout clouded all judgment. My glances at the gym mirrors were at first baffled: I noticed how light played differently upon my chest and arms, the pockets of blue shadow filling my new contours. The thing is, I knew it was all fake. I hadn't earned it; it was actually quite freakish.

But it's like a woman with giant fake breasts: That oil I shot into my hip weeks ago had not dissolved. The deep pain convinced me I'd developed an abscess. In effect, I've got a pouch of month-old oil inside my hip, walled off by my immune system. If I'm lucky it's sterile, but if not it is infected, the surrounding tissue gone necrotic. I decide to drain it myself by injecting an empty needle and drawing out the stale oil. My hope is it's still liquid; if it's congealed and lard-like, I'll need medical attention. The needle sunk into the pocket of infected tissue. The pain was expected and surprisingly bearable. I drew back the plunger and got only a few drops of clear broth.

I disconnected the syringe and left the needle jutting out, applying pressure to the surrounding skin. Blood so dark it was almost black dripped down my thigh. Disgusting and more than a little scary, but the pressure subsided. When I'd squeezed as much out as I could, I filled another syringe with sterile water, attached it to the needle still stuck in my skin, injected it, then unclipped the syringe and squeezed most of the water out. I figured it was a decent job for an untrained meatball like myself. And it did the trick: Week 12, I peak at lb.

I've packed on 35lb in less than four months.

Diving and Other also weekly, Winstrol actively. But the unsuccessful nerve fares from my hips; nervous, if I hit a free I could go into serious collapse. A safe prostate cramps the urethral sunbath, cleanliness it torture to pee.

My body has gone through an extreme thickening process. My pectoral muscles are solid slabs of meat hung off my clavicles. My latissimus dorsi muscles flare out from the midpoint of my back: My triceps and biceps have swollen so much my T-shirt sleeves bunch up at my shoulders, too narrow to fit over my arms. But the list of physical ailments is mounting. Chronic back pain has set in. I can't walk more than a few blocks before what feels like a fist-sized stone settles upon my lower back. My flexibility has vanished. There are areas I can not reach due to my new size; if I want to scratch my neck I have to go to the cutlery drawer for a fork.

One night I was watching a legal drama on TV - one of those 'ripped from the headlines' type shows. A morbidly obese man was suing a snack company, whom he held responsible for his obesity. It was revealed that the main ingredient in the snack was high fructose corn syrup, a compound that inhibited the hormone leptin, whose function is to send a signal to the brain that the stomach is full - essentially, leptin tells us when to stop eating. But if this signal is never received, a person will go on eating past the point of reason. Steroids are like high fructose corn syrup.

Essentially, they fool a body into a sense that it is stronger and more resilient than it truly is.

You accomplish feats that, in inwtructions heart and mind, you know are beyond your capacities - and yet you feel so good, so strong, that you convince yourself otherwise. But iinstructions it is impossible to deny the toll these exertions have taken on you. After a workout my joints felt like they were hyper-extended. They popped and cracked, noises like wheel nuts rattling in a cement mixer. I felt calcified, jer, and frighteningly old. One morning I wake otf and everything insgructions changed. The first thing I notice upon waking is that I feel No sluggishness, only minor joint pain. Then, on my way to the bathroom, I sense a new weight between my legs - my testicles!

Fellas, where have you been? Great to have you back, boyos! The feeling of elation lasts exactly 10 paces: I'm staring at a human boneyard. Where are my pecs? I see two shrivelled bags hanging off my chest. My arms - dear lord, my arms! Shapeless Frre dangling from a pair of rotten-apple shoulders. My stomach looks like a deflated clown balloon. My legs belong to a coma victim. I step on the scale: I've shed 13lb overnight. Now I realise only the most deluded of lb men can stare into a mirror and see a skeletal horror staring back. But I'd become so used to my new body that I felt like a scarecrow with a tear in its belly, bleeding its stuffing all over a farmer's field. The fact that I'd packed on 12lb of raw muscle over four months, that my testicles were up and running again, that I'd woken up feeling better than I had in months - all of this was erased by what I'd lost.

It got worse once I hit the gym. Chest day, which meant dumbbell bench presses. I didn't even attempt to pick up the pounders, which I'd been maxing out with. I settled on the 90s; if I could lift them, it'd be a 20lb increase over my pre-cycle max. I could barely get the things off my chest. I struggled through a single rep, arms quaking, and halfway through the second the dumbbells crashed down and I rolled awkwardly off the bench, barking my elbows. I felt like a total fraud. Everyone who'd been watching me the past few months as I heaved massive weight about, bellowing like a steer in rut - all these knowing eyes now saw me as a charlatan. A smile touched the corner of Jenny's mouth.

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