Fetish Girl by Bella LaVey

Author:Bella LaVey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2018-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

I wasted no time adding a Wrestle Kitty page to my website and posted Manhattan travel dates for the first week of August 1998. Emails from all over the world flooded my inbox. I had discovered a niche I never knew existed.

Maintaining the hard-bodied persona of Evil Kitty required a regimented bodybuilding lifestyle. I hit the gym with renewed vehemence. Monday, legs. Tuesday, chest and back. Wednesday, shoulders and calves. Thursday, biceps and triceps. Friday, legs again. Abs and cardio every day. One rest day. Repeat, repeat, repeat. On the days I lifted weights and did cardio, my workouts were two hours and were followed immediately by a meal.

If anything in life is my downfall, it is this: I get off on swimming in dangerous waters. I am one of those people who has to live to the edge of themselves. I seek an adrenaline rush from not knowing how much is too much or how far is too far.

Pro Body, the supplement shop a block away from Gold’s Gym, was a one-stop shop—grab your protein and your drugs. Doug, the owner, was my mentor when it came to using steroids. He was the drug lord of the Seattle bodybuilding world. He provided his “special clients” with just the right steroids, and he could advise how much of them to take. He knew the steroids that would grow hair on my back, change my voice, or enlarge my clit—all unfavorable side effects I wanted to avoid.

I primarily stuck to Equipoise, Anavar, and Nolvadex. In no time, my body completely transformed. I became a rippled sculpture of Diana the Huntress, a 126-pound scrawny addict turned 160-pound warrior goddess. I skirted a fine edge using steroids, but then again I seem to have a proclivity for straddling edges and poking myself with needles.

My weight yo-yoed as I strove to be the lithe, ripped, feline Evil Kitty and then rebelled against it. I was a commodity to be purchased at three hundred dollars an hour. Working my own gig was certainly less demeaning and more empowering than stripping, but the same issues came up. I loved the way I could modify and transform my body when I did it for me, but as soon as I felt I had to look and be a certain way for them, I bucked against the monster I had created.

Doug was the guru of getting ripped quick. “I’ve got two weeks to my next photo shoot and I’ve been binging like a starved refugee,” I’d say. “Help me, Doc, I gotta lose six pounds.” He’d toss a bunch of fat-burner supplements on the counter and tell me to avoid ALL carbs, increase my reps, and up the cardio. I came to loathe the bodybuilder staple meal—chicken breasts and steamed broccoli.

I gave myself off days to counter the vicious cycles, but it only made things worse. Stories about models obsessively bingeing and purging sounded something like how I was living, though I never purged; I hate puking. I puked enough for one lifetime using heroin.

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