Fridae

It's official - I have become a muscle addict.

Ever since my virginal exposure to those protein-pumped creatures at Muscle Beach 2002, I am driven to constant distraction by images of quivering chests, quaking thunder thighs, six-pecs grinding against each other and perky butt-cheeks peering out of colouring-stained posing trunks. In other words, I have become - to the horror of my partner - a brazen muscle-chasing hussy.

As usual, all would have been for naught were it not for my partner-in-muscled-crime, Fabian, who casually informed me during our gym workout that the much anticipated Muscle War would soon descend upon us once again (at which point I let out a most unbecoming moan and nearly dropped my weights).

For bodybuilding ignoramuses, Muscle War is the premier bodybuilding competition for iron-pumping inter-tertiary students (read: young, fresh and well-packaged meat) organized annually by the National University of Singapore (NUS). The bait this time round was hence even more enticing - a potent mix of brains and brawn featuring the most scantily clad of student bodies.

According to the self-appointed high priestess of body worship Fabian, attending Muscle War is an experience unique in itself.

For nowhere else could you see mousy library-books-hoarding Lisa Loeb dead-ringers transformed into a pack of jostling hyenas, a turnout of who's who in the bodybuilding scene as well as normally cloistered PLUs who find themselves drawn to the event like struggling moths to a candle's flame.

The crowd this time comprised of crazed students, bodybuilding fanatics and badly dressed hostellites. The PLU quotient was also much higher with many a macho marys, homos-in-training and even working "girls" in executive attire turning up in full force.

In fact, the number of PLUs present was so high that were each to apply a river leech to Sarah Ferguson's formidable rear end, the combined sucking would surely result in her being able to squeeze into an unforgiving Herve Leger dress.

As usual, the event opened with the usual mutual ego-stroking and self-congratulatory opening addresses by the Chairperson of the NUS Health & Fitness Club and the Vice President of the Singapore Body-Building Federation who, by the way, spotted a startling poodle perm. The proceedings were so mind-numbing that I was tempted to do a Joan Chen and start eating the petals off the bouquet of Dandrobium Orchids from the clueless girl sitting next to me.

Muscle War only came alive when Contestant No. 1 and eventual winner of the Men's Closed Category (under 72kg), Ben Ha (Shatec), sauntered onstage in an impressive display of muscle power.

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Deserving honourable mention would be Contestant 9, Ricky Wong (ITE Macpherson), who set this writer's heart a-fluttering and hands a-trembling with the sight of his bulbous "package" barely held in place by a pair of flaming red trunks.

In the Men's Closed Category (above 72kg), the over-greased and cocky Contestant No. 12 (and eventual winner of this category), Michael Chia (NUS), clad in magenta trunks, was another contestant worthy to have my talons raked across his muscular chest. But the Muscleman of the Night Award must surely belong to swoonsome Contestant No. 16, Jonathan Khoo (NUS).

When this crew-cut cutie took to the stage in a pair of shiny black trunks that accentuates his perky penis, the PLU crowd responded with a fervor usually associated with unrepentant residents from the St. Theresa's Home For Wayward Women at a hen party.

It is only with great self-restraint and years of pedigree-ed upbringing that yours truly managed to maintain a fa�ade of decorum and dignity while the entire PLU contingent (to my eternal shame) degenerated into hooting harlots in heat.

As with most bodybuilding competitions, there are bound to be those who make the grade and those who obviously don't. For the latter, two contestants were singled out for ridicule (yes, the bodybuilding community can be decidedly bitchy too): the chubby bodybuilder with the flabs for abs who should really (in this writer's opinion) be busy embracing the empire line as his silhouette of choice; and the Caucasian contestant who ought to know that modern interpretative dance steps (even those incorporating Chinese Tai-chi) should be strictly confined to family performances during holiday gatherings.

Halfway through the competition, this Lois Lane of a writer decided to leave the by-now-sitting-in-a-pool-of-drool Fabian behind and venture backstage to get up close and personal with the bodybuilders (all in the name of journalistic research of course).

Marveling at my own ingenuity as I don my multi-colored crocheted poncho for an on-the-spot disguise, I effortlessly snuck past the flabbergasted minders (who were obviously unaccustomed to the sight of statement-making fashion bessies like myself).

My efforts were immediately rewarded (there is a God!) with the titillating sight of my favourite bodybuilder, Tong Chin Wee, receiving a sensual rubdown from his undeserving and obviously prone-to-fawning assistant (how low can one stoop?).

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Just as I was about to approach Chin Wee for an interview, my hopes for a more oral evening were dashed when his scheming assistant hurriedly ushered him back into the Lecture Theater.

Thus with my cheeks utterly bereddened by my close encounter with he-who-is-worthy-to-be-my-consort, I returned to my seat just in time for Chin Wee to take his turn as the evening's guest poser.

As at Muscle Beach 2002, the audience was utterly mesmerized by the sheer bulk of this impressive male specimen.

For his piece de resistance, Chin Wee executed his famous trademark move of pulling up his already-stretched-to-the-limit trunks to better flaunt his enormous thighs (how he managed to keep his family jewels from spilling out all over the stage remains one of the bodybuilding world's greatest mysteries - that and Jojo Sinclair's true sex).

When he swaggered backstage after his lust-inducing routine, the unholy sight of his teeny-weeny trunks riding up his butt crack caused both Fabian and myself (in a rare moment of weakened self-resolve) to emit shrieks of sheer delight. Oh, Chin Wee! You'll make a vixen out of me yet!

All in all, the standard of musculature on display was far more impressive than at Muscle Beach 2002 and the audience far more responsive and appreciative (PLUs-in-attendance: give yourselves a pat on your backs).

Yet despite the thoroughly enjoyable evening, one nagging thought kept flashing across my muscle inundated mind: Why do most bodybuilders (with the exception of ravishing Ricky) have a willy the size of an unextended Estee Lauder lipstick and testicles the dimensions of shriveled sultanas?

Could the major shrivelage be attributed to excessive steroids consumption? Could it be due to the freezing draughts circulating in the Lecture Theatre? Or could the old wives' tale of how musclemen build up muscles as form of over-compensation for that under-sized muscle between their thighs be possibly true?

Tormented by this revelation, my future as a devotee to the body beautiful has never seemed more uncertain...