When my wife started cheating on me, I was no longer a wimp, and so I cannot understand her whorish pursuit of that pencil-necked loser at the Speedway, the guy with the shaved head and trail of tattoos on his arm and neck. My puzzlement is genuine and not the result of any mental deficit on my part. I am a man who deals on a daily basis with subtle differences, such as that between a quick ratio and a current ratio and how a current ratio is a significantly better predictor of liquidity in a recessionary environment, and so I am suitably trained to delve into complex issues. Women, especially not my wife, do not suddenly sprout interests in small-block engines and caliper braking systems without a well defined impetus. Dr. G—- has confirmed this observation. Despite what people say, the profession of accounting does not lack panache. These detractors are misguided, and do not know the nature of my work, of my responsibility to this robust economy, of my key involvement in maintaining financial uniformity and transparency. Ask my clients about the importance of my work. They are well aware of my relevance, and this awareness is the reason why they coerce me into untenable and unethical corners. My clients, who typically have revenues in the range of $5 to $15 million, approach me for audit services either because they want to appease and reassure their partners or they are looking for a neutral, third-party rubber stamp on their less than generally acceptable accounting practices. No bank or venture group wants to provide mezzanine or bridge financing to a company with questionable financials. When I meet with the managing partners or owners of these small, mostly industrial firms, I am forced to sit across from a massive man in his forties or fifties who is accustomed to using his considerable girth and physical presence to squeeze an additional discount or extended term from a supplier and so thinks nothing of insisting that his 6 foot, 129 pound CPA sign off on his company’s financials. I did not think that my wife was capable of whoring around, especially not with that loser who was incapable of understanding her even a little bit, and who was, I thought, entirely incompatible with her. She had always been concerned about miles per gallon, water purification, and emissions control. The anti-conservation streak in the Inland Empire, with its massive mudder trucks, noise pollution, and the curtailing of land for planned communities, disturbed her. She was biding her time, waiting for our return to Oceanside. But she did not wait long enough, and now she does not need to wait anymore, because I am not here for her, and I have not been. She can rot beneath a canvas canopy while she shields herself from the UV rays that pierce through the depleted atmosphere, wrinkling her skin and causing spontaneous cancerous mutations in her genes, while she cheers that tatted up, emaciated asshole at the Speedway. I could care less. Several of my staff at the office, when they discovered my wife’s infidelity, asked me if I should have known better, if I should have seen this activity coming, even if I had expected it, and to all of these questions I answered in the negative. “No,” I said to each and every one of my prying staff of CPAs and secretaries, “I did not know my wife was a whore.” This response, while not an answer to their exact question, at least served the purpose of shutting them the fuck up. Dr. G—- says that the key to adding fat free mass is the maintenance of an anabolic state. Many novices are overzealous in their regimens, allowing insufficient time for their bodies to recuperate and grow, such that even though they are expending vast amounts of physical and mental energy trying to coax size out their deltoids or latissimi dorsi, they do not optimize their anabolic condition. My wife never had to worry about bulking up, because like most women, she had naturally low levels of circulatory testosterone and testosterone derivatives. Instead of adding bulk, she only added tone, which is what most women, including her, desire anyway. I always enjoyed our time together in the gym, even if we had different routines and crossed paths in the weight room only to a limited degree, because neither love nor lust is a bad outlook on life, and I had both for her. “You are my scarecrow,” she said to me on our third date five years ago, back in the days when I remained steadily below 18 on the body mass index. I took this statement as a compliment, as a testament to her interest in me, which I believe, even after her nonsensical affair, had been genuine. Dr. G—- has a laminated body mass index table in each of his four examination rooms, and on my first visit to his practice, he circled my height with a dry erase marker, but was unable to circle my weight since it was too low to be on the chart. He calculated my body mass index nonetheless. Six feet is 1.8288 meters and 129 pounds is 58.6 kilograms, so you can do the math. My clients, the same ones who pound donuts, coffee, and double cheeseburgers, and who have deluded themselves into believing that girth is equivalent to mass, routinely remarked on my wife’s appearance when they saw her pictures in the office. Three pictures sit on the top shelf of the bookcase behind my desk. Two of the pictures are from happier days, and in both of them, she is staring off to a point slightly beyond the eye of the camera. Her love for me in them is obvious. The third picture is more recent and was not taken by me but by that ‘photographer’ in Chino. I dislike this picture even though my clients gravitate towards it. She is ‘modeling.’ My clients, when they saw the pictures, used to say things such as, “She is a good looking girl, man” or “You lucked out, man,” or “You have it like that, huh, man?” The problem of being underweight is correctable, and not just in a manipulative, perfunctory manner, such as booking revenue that will never be realized or restating inventory even though sales are sluggish. The key to modifying a person’s frame is the controlled addition of fat free mass, which as Dr. G—- told me, involves the use of concentric and eccentric movements and the consumption of a high protein, nitrogen rich diet. At six feet, I was never short. I was only sleight, and so the foundation of my frame was paramount in expanding my physique. Based on my potential and Dr. G—-’s techniques, my success was entirely predictable. On his recommendation, I bought The N– E———– of M—– B———–, and studied it, digesting it daily during my lunch break, so that I could implement its techniques in my thrice weekly, post-work workouts. She enjoyed spending this time in the gym with me, and I enjoyed spending it with her as well. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, I left the office in Claremont sometime between 5 and 5:30 p.m., hopped aboard the 10 freeway, and arrived at our house in Rancho Cucamonga. I picked up my wife, who did not need to work out for any cosmetic reasons, before continuing on to the gym. Not all of my clients are assholes. A good chunk of them are decent. They do not request that I abet their fraud. And I know that my hard earned expansion to my body mass index is not the reason for their uprightness because these clients were my clients in the 17.5 body mass index time of my life as well. They have always been ethical. During the first three months of my training regimen, I learned the exercises in the E———–, and implemented them, while Dr. G—-kept me abreast of the latest growth inducing supplements, such as whey protein powders, creatine powders, long- and short-chain amino acid powders and capsules, androgen derivatives, low fat mass gainers, glutamine, and vitamin supplements. The sex life between my wife and me was never lacking. Not only did we love each other, but we were emotionally and intellectually connected, and for these reasons she enjoyed making love to me. During those first three months we spent together i
n the gym, our intimate life only improved. I had not even added any real mass yet. My weight, at 133 pounds, was mostly unchanged. But still, the anabolic furnace was being fed. We have a casual dress code in the office. Male associates usually wear khakis and polo or linen shirts while female associates usually wear jeans and cotton button down blouses. I wear polo shirts. My clients, who are usually running between warehouses and distribution centers in Ontario and San Bernardino, dress similarly to us. The biceps muscle, which runs from the radial tuberosity distally to the coracoid process of the scapula in the short head and superglenoid tubercle of the scapula distally in the long head and whose function is to flex at the elbow, supinate the forearm, and also, to a lesser degree, flex at the shoulder, goes well with polo shirts. By month three of my weight training regimen, I purposely wore polo shirts that had a tendency to inch upwards on my upper arm, and whenever my clients would speak to me in my office, I would smile, lean my elbow on the table, and prop my head on my balled up hand, an action that served to accentuate the increasing height and fullness of my biceps muscle. I did not have issue with my clients remarking on my wife’s beauty but I never liked the surprise or bewilderment in their voices. I am not the richest man in Rancho Cucamonga, but I do okay. I, like my clients, have my own business. I, like my clients, control my own destiny. Month three of my weight training regimen was not only when I achieved 19.5 on the body mass index scale but it was also when Dr. G—- prescribed me t———– in addition to the i—— and h—- g—– h—— that he was already giving me. I added another 10 pounds over the next two months, and entered winter at a body mass index of 20.7.
Contrary to what people say, a person that takes t———– does not routinely suffer fulminant liver failure, wild mood swings, or testicular atrophy. The key to avoiding these real but unlikely side effects is the monitored administration of t———–. As Dr. G—- said, even acetaminophen in excessive doses can cause irreversible liver failure. A person who takes t———– in controlled, therapeutic doses usually feels slightly more confident and euphoric. He thinks more clearly. He has an increased libido. He more easily adds fat free mass and loses subcutaneous fat. Accordingly, t———– is anabolic, and I required an anabolic state to increase my mass. T———– was the proper supplement to round out my anabolic state. Even though she is a whore, my wife is conservative by nature and does not believe that a person should use science to augment his or her body’s natural physiological processes. For this reason, I did not relate to her all of my anabolic techniques. I allowed her to know about the mass gainer shakes and protein powders because we lived in the same house and revelation between spouses is important in maintaining a transparent marriage, but I never told her about the t———– injections and creams. Maybe this need for transparency in a marriage was part of the reason why she made no attempt to hide her so called ‘modeling’ gig. But modeling requires perfectly symmetrical features, stage presence, a height of at least 5’10″, and a uniquely lean frame. Her ‘modeling,’ though, required nothing more than a tan, G-strings, a handful of black, pink, and red checkered bikinis, and high heel shoes. Three of the six secretaries in my office could do this kind of ‘modeling,’ even though none of them, like my wife, can model. Even though she complained that the gym and my anabolic lifestyle made me egotistical, she should have taken a look at herself. Just because she narrowed her hips and flattened her belly and toned her legs and buttocks, does not mean that she was entitled to become a whore. And just because a loser from Chino has a makeshift photography studio in his home and messages you on the internet and tells you that you would make a great model, does not mean that you should follow through on being a ‘model.’ If you cannot be a model, you should not be a ‘model.’ When I was up to a body mass index of 21.4 with a body fat of 12% and drawing all kinds of stares in the office and at the gym, I told her this seemingly obvious truth, but she didn’t take my no-nonsense statement of fact well. Instead she took it as a personal attack, a remark on her supposed belief that because of my new physique I was elevating myself above her. She was wrong. I am not a model, and I know that I am not a model. I am just a CPA with sixteen inch biceps and a forty-two inch chest. I am just someone who can crunch a financial statement and sit on even ground with some of my more physically immense, ethically decrepit clients. My meetings nowadays go smoothly. My biceps peek out from under the sleeves of my polo, and my neck is wide, and I sometimes flex my pectoralis muscles during meetings. My clients do not push nearly as hard as they used to for me to validate their financial statements. Bullying around a sculpted man is a difficult thing to do, even if you weigh 260 pounds and try to squash my hand with your handshake and are the one paying the audit fee. Intimidating a man who does not want to be intimidated is not a pleasant enterprise. And having a wife who ‘models’ is not a pleasant enterprise. Dr. G—- has a wife who ‘models’ but who could very well model. But she is too smart to model, and instead ‘models’ for the advertisements Dr. G—- places in the I—- E—– W—–. When I saw Dr. G—-’s wife in person during a routine visit to his office for a t———– injection, I immediately knew that not only was she was too attractive and physically perfect to ‘model,’ but that she was too intelligent to model, and so I deduced that she was doing neither. Rather, she was working, helping Dr. G—- with his half page weekly advertisements. Her beauty is best appreciated in person, and not via some pictures in an advertisement. T———– increases libido. In fact, testosterone is largely responsible for the sex drive in both males and females. But sex is not a purely biochemical process. My wife is testament to that statement. After she had decided she was good at ‘modeling,’ she decided to pursue it further. She enlisted the guidance of that loser in Chino to expand beyond the internet, and he lined her up with a ‘modeling’ agency from Orange County. These ‘models’ could have been the baristas who work at the S——– across from my office. They were ‘models’ because they were not ‘dancers.’ My wife told me that she did not like the new me, the one with the bulky frame and cocky sneer and disparaging remarks. But she is a whore, so she lacks credibility. When I achieved a body mass index of 23, Dr. G—- said that not only is my physique proof that science can build a better body but that my perfectly normal laboratory values and minimally changed mental profile were evidence that controlled anabolic enhancement was safe. He said that I was his walking atypical result. The addition of fat free mass in the amount of 33% of a person’s initial weight is a remarkable achievement by any measure. Now that I have physical presence, my clients like to slap me on the back and ask me in a jovial manner as to how they can expense their lapdances. But the difference between their tones now versus then is that now they do not really expect me to conjure up ‘creative’ methods to minimize their taxes. They do not attempt to bully me around. They know better. Taco Tuesdays is not a place where models go but it is a place where ‘models’ go. Every girl around here who works behind a counter or answers phones thinks that she is a model but I do not see her in any advertisements for D—- & G—— or even B— or A———- & F—-. Furthermore, neither the ‘agents’ nor ‘photographers’ of these ‘models’ are gay. Accordingly, these girls cannot possibly be models. They are ‘models.’ Excellence requires talent. My ability to completely delineate the health of a company through a dissection of its financial statements is a combination of innate ability and experience. Modeling requires elements of height, beauty, and symmetry, all of which are God-given. These elements cannot be coaxed out of a girl by a loser who is trying to make a DVD about ‘models’ and V8 engines. Even after I achieved 23 on the body mass index, I did not allow my body to become a vehicle of distress. I tried to make gentle, soothing love to my wife. But mostly she resisted my romantic overtures. I told her that if she was allowing random men to ogle her, she should at least allow me the opportunity to do the same. ‘Modeling’ cannot be valid ‘work’ when our joint tax return places us in the highest federal tax bracket and we have a 4,200 square foot house in Rancho Cucamonga with a three car garage and no Mella-Roos and an almost paid up mortgage and a A— sedan for me and a rimmed up C—- T—- with a trailer hitch for her. Ten years is not a major age difference between us. Her youth is not the reason for her destructive actions. Before she started whoring around, she was mature. She understood that a husband and wife needed to form a bond of trust in order to stay together, avoid strife, and be happy. Although I have become impressed with my physique as of late, I have never seen myself as anything other than a CPA, small business owner, and providing husband. Although t———– increased my libido, her toned body did more to heighten my interest in her than the t———– did. But again, I must say that our sex life in the pre-gym, pre-anabolic days was never lacking. Neither of us had reached a point in the relationship where we felt we had to liven up our marriage. We were intellectually
and emotionally in sync with each other and so were sexually connected as well. When I had a body mass index of 19, back in the days before my wife became a whore, I showed Dr. G—- a picture of my wife, and he said, “You did well.” His comment, unlike those of my clients, did not irk me. Dr. G—-’s observation was professional in nature while the comments of my clients during my low body mass index days were part of their psychological warfare on me. My wife did not understand that she could not simultaneously ‘model’ and withhold love from me. These actions are incompatible with each other. “Whores must be whores,” I told her, after we had not made love for almost three months. She did not appreciate my comment. While I was finishing up my Masters in Business Administration at the University of S——- C———, she was dropping out from the College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences. Our respective classmates understood that we were emotionally and intellectually connected and so never remarked on our age difference. Our intellectual and emotional bonds broke after our physical relationship disappeared. I was, I must admit, still physically attracted to her, but my ability to muster up interest in her life disappeared when the sex vanished. Dr. G—-, although not a behavioral specialist but a Board Certified internist who not only maintains a private practice in Claremont but also serves as an Associate Professor of Medicine at L— L—- University Medical Center, confirmed that sex is an important part of a relationship. When the sex is gone, the relationship is over.
When I had a body mass index of 21, my wife’s ‘modeling’ agency added three ‘models,’ and the owner of the agency pimped this new collection of girls out to the Speedway, where the girls walked around on Sunday afternoons, handing out bottle cap openers that were emblazoned with the logos of sponsoring alcoholic beverage and energy drink companies. For $20 a picture, my wife and the other ‘models’ posed with heavyset, greasy, socially maladjusted losers who for some reason felt the need to stand beside a glorified whore. When I reached 172 pounds, Dr. G—- told me that the addition of any more mass to my frame would increase the stress on my joints, thereby creating additional benefit at too great an additional cost. Upon his recommendation, we cut back on my t———– dose, and I modified my weight training regimen so that I would develop the mass I already had in lieu of adding any more bulk. The secretaries in my office compliment me weekly on my ever improving physique but I am careful not to cross the line of professionalism. I am not a vulture. I do not ask them out to dinner or after work drinks. Plus, I am still married, and do not want to be a whore, even if my wife is one. After my wife takes pictures with these losers at the Speedway, she refers them to the agency’s website by handing out a glossy black business card, which lists the name of the ‘modeling’ agency, its internet address, and information on how to book the ‘models’ for private events. The photos are uploaded to the website every Monday morning under a section titled ‘Events.’ The men get the satisfaction of being on the internet with a ‘model’, and the ‘models’ get to think that they are models just because they maintain a body mass index of under 30 and know how to coat their faces with makeup and shop at stores that are geared towards ‘dancers’ but are really intended for strippers. Dr. G—- says that happiness begins within. He also says that unhappiness begins in the home. Unlike many of my physician clients, Dr. G—- has never been divorced, and so has no need to bitch at me about how his spousal and child support payments are killing him. He has no need to tell me about the additional emergency room calls he needs to pick up at the hospital just so that he can keep his ex-wife and kids mired in the luxury that his own life now lacks. If Dr. G—- did not have a successful marriage, I would be less inclined to ponder his outlook on life, but he is happy and peaceful. In the two years that I have known him, he has been universally correct in his assessments, and not just about the maintenance of an anabolic state, and so I subscribe to his viewpoint on happiness, which he says stems from peace in the arenas of health, home, work, and spirituality. I am at peace with two of these elements in my life. Back before my wife became a whore, I used to be at ease with three of them. I am working on the fourth element now. I have purchased several books about non-theistic and monotheistic religions from the B—— at Victoria Gardens, and read them nightly. I must admit that I feel that I will find spiritual peace before I find domestic tranquility. Even though my wife is gone, the bulk of her clothes and personal effects, including her jewelry, cooking instruments, and romantic comedy DVDs, such as S——– in S—— and C— of A—–, remain in the Rancho Cucamonga house. But her ‘modeling’ clothes are gone. I knew about the asshole at the racetrack before I saw the pictures of her and him on the Speedway’s website, but I could not confront her just yet. The key to my confrontation revolved around the fact that the pictures of her and that asshole on the website were publicly available. My wife drove a three ton T—- only because it was my engagement present to her, a symbolic manifestation of the vastness of my love for her. She swallowed her social guilt, and dealt with the truck’s 14 miles per gallon. She pushed that behemoth around the Inland Empire with pride and affection. Whenever I saw her small, 5’3″, 115 pound frame inside the truck, which rode on custom 22″ wheels and low profile tires that I got from one of my clients who owns tuner shops in Pomona, Fontana, and San Bernardino, I wanted to hug and make love to her. When I hit a body mass index of 21, she began using her ‘modeling’ money to trick out her truck, and not just in the purely cosmetic fashion of changing the decal and trim, but in a more performance oriented one. She added headers, a cold intake air system, dual exhaust tips, and a full ground lowering kit. But women like my wife do not throw away their Oceanside values on a whim. Neither do they suddenly gain proficiency in modding out a truck. They need motivation and guidance for their maneuvers. I have a client who owns a security firm that provides low and medium level security services for several of the clubs and minor celebrities in Orange County, and I hired him to trail my wife. Over the course of two weeks, he discovered that she was trekking weekly to Murrieta, where she would meet with this waiflike asshole from the track, this guy who is at least five points lower than me on the body mass index, this guy who thinks that stock car racing is a way of life. When my client provided me pictures of this loser, I had difficulty appreciating the motivation for her infidelity. I still cannot fathom her desire to be with this wimp. Not only is he not a good looking man but he is bony to the extreme. When I asked Dr. G—- if I was morally in the wrong by spying on my wife, he shrugged, and said, “I cannot tell you that answer.” I took his response as ‘Yes’, and so stopped the surveillance. Even though I continue to maintain a body mass index of 23, my physique continues to improve. My body fat percentage, which had reached a high of 14% in the days when I underwent rapid anabolic growth, is now 9%. I am absolutely ripped. Furthermore, my strength is remarkable for my size. Several of the powerlifters in the gym ask me to spot them on the bench press and squat rack. They trust me not only to keep the weight moving but also to protect them from injury. I finally confronted my wife a month ago. On a Friday night when she was actually home, I placed the laptop on our granite counter while she made dinner. I pulled up the pictures of her ‘modeling’ with that loser from the Speedway website. “Look at these,” I said. She stopped salting the pot of water she was boiling. “I’m trying to have you and me reconnect,” she said, “and that’s why I’m here tonight. That’s what tonight is about. I’m not cheating. He’s a client. It’s just work.” I laughed. “I’m trying to stop you from being a whore,” I said. She stared at her fingers for several seconds, before turning off the stove, wiping her hand on the dishtowel, and saying, “I want somebody who understands me, somebody who treats me the way you used to treat me.” I flexed my biceps muscles beneath my polo shirt, and said, “Why the hell would you want to get with that wimp when you have me?” I did not have to look in the mirror to know that the veins of my neck were protruding against my skin as I spoke. I followed her to our bedroom, which she had decorated over the years with puffy pillows, bright colored sheets, and scented candles. “We can have the whole world in our hands if you can just return to Earth,” I said. She didn’t respond. Instead she pulled our wheeled garment bag, the same one we used on vacations, from the top shelf of our walk-in closet. As I watched her pack, I felt a tang of remorse, but even so, I could not be sure if this brief moment of sorrow was genuine or simply a result of Dr. G—-’s lowering of my t———– dose. In either case, she and I had not made love in more than six months. Not only had she resisted on a nightly basis every one of my advances, but she’d also glued herself to her corner of our California king mattress, turning her body away from me and drawing her own separate comforter over her shoulders. When my c
lients learned about my wife’s departure, several of them attempted to comfort me, even suggesting ways to begin my love life anew. They recommended that I begin using internet dating services, hook up with a speed dating agency, or even close the gap in my celibate life with the temporary use of escorts. I am sure that these men would not have been eager to help me had I still been physically sleight. If I were still skinny, they would have expected my wife’s infidelity. But I am not puny anymore. I have presence, and so they are as perplexed as I am about my wife’s whorish activities. Even so, I have not attempted to enter the world of dating. I also have not disturbed the contents of my wife’s closet or of her half of the bathroom counter, just in case she decides that she is done being a whore, and wants to come back to our house in Rancho Cucamonga. I have not touched the rows of clothes that she bought on our trips to Victoria Gardens, nor have I moved any of the half dozen tweezers that she had used to shape my eyebrows and pluck my blackheads. A body mass index of 23 enables me to maintain flexibility, which is a key determinant of strength and overall physical health. Even though I added weight quickly, my mass is not cumbersome. I am not massive to the point that my general health suffers. I always liked my wife’s body, and did not require that she go to the gym with me. Rather we went to the gym together because we enjoyed spending time with each other. Although she looked better when she worked out, she looked good even when she did not. Her weight was perfect for her height. Even during our bad times, when she was isolating herself from me and whoring around, I always complimented her on her physical appearance. I have no plan to disturb her things in the Rancho Cucamonga house, but even so I am not completely sure that I would welcome her back into my home, because she has changed for the worse, and I am not confident that she can change back into the wife I used to have.
Hassan Riaz is a writer, physician, and Paragraph Line veteran. He is a graduate of the University of Southern California, where he earned degrees in creative writing, medicine, and finance. When he is not writing or seeing patients, he can be found scouring Los Angeles for wide receiver talent for his hapless flag football team. He can be found on the web at hassaninla.com.