heightmaxxing
I want a perfect body I want a perfect soul
- Joined
- Sep 24, 2023
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Most people’s granddads spend their golden years yelling at the TV, collecting stamps, or losing arguments with squirrels in the backyard. Not mine.
My granddad? Dude’s got a femboy harem.
Not kidding.
It all started after Grandma passed—peacefully, in her sleep, bless her heart. While the rest of the family was grieving, Granddad hit the gym. At 76. Said he was done coping and ready to ascend.
"Time to get shredded or die trying," he told me, straight-faced, sipping creatine like it was tea.
Within six months, the man went from bingo-night beta to silver-fox sigma. Veins on his arms looked like Google Maps. Jawline so sharp it could file taxes. He even maxxed his posture—no more hunch, just pure back-dominance.
Next thing we know, he’s got a TikTok account. Username? @OldmanGlowUp. Dude was dropping gym reels, stoic quotes, and occasional thirst traps. The algorithm loved it. So did a very niche demographic.
Enter: the femboys.
They slid into his DMs like moths to a GigaChad flame. Soft-voiced, eyelinered, high-testosterone in spirit, low in expression. They called him “Sir.” They asked for lifting tips. They sent fan art. Some even wrote poems about his calves.
At first, we thought it was ironic. Then they started showing up to Sunday dinners.
Femboy #1: Ezra. Cyberpunk aesthetic, nails always done, cooks vegan stir fry. Femboy #2: Jules. Wears pearls and bench presses more than me. Calls Granddad “Daddy Dom” unironically. Femboy #3: Luca. Quiet. Sketches Granddad in charcoal like it’s the Renaissance.
They all live with him now. In the house he built with his own hands in ‘62. It's not a harem in the sleazy sense—it’s more like a cult of personality meets cottagecore commune. They do yoga at sunrise, cold plunges at noon, and sauna sessions at dusk. Granddad leads.
My mom calls it a midlife crisis extended into elderhood. I call it peak late-game mogging.
People ask me if it’s weird. I just shrug. Most dudes his age are battling dementia. Mine is battling reps with his androgynous boy brigade. Honestly? Respect.
He looked me dead in the eye once and said, “Son, life’s about continuous improvement. If you ain't ascending, you’re decaying.”
Then he winked at Luca and did a perfect muscle-up.
I don’t know where this is going, but if I make it to 80 and I’ve got eyelinered companions massaging my traps after deadlifts, I’ll know I did something right.
Legacy secured.
My granddad? Dude’s got a femboy harem.
Not kidding.
It all started after Grandma passed—peacefully, in her sleep, bless her heart. While the rest of the family was grieving, Granddad hit the gym. At 76. Said he was done coping and ready to ascend.
"Time to get shredded or die trying," he told me, straight-faced, sipping creatine like it was tea.
Within six months, the man went from bingo-night beta to silver-fox sigma. Veins on his arms looked like Google Maps. Jawline so sharp it could file taxes. He even maxxed his posture—no more hunch, just pure back-dominance.
Next thing we know, he’s got a TikTok account. Username? @OldmanGlowUp. Dude was dropping gym reels, stoic quotes, and occasional thirst traps. The algorithm loved it. So did a very niche demographic.
Enter: the femboys.
They slid into his DMs like moths to a GigaChad flame. Soft-voiced, eyelinered, high-testosterone in spirit, low in expression. They called him “Sir.” They asked for lifting tips. They sent fan art. Some even wrote poems about his calves.
At first, we thought it was ironic. Then they started showing up to Sunday dinners.
Femboy #1: Ezra. Cyberpunk aesthetic, nails always done, cooks vegan stir fry. Femboy #2: Jules. Wears pearls and bench presses more than me. Calls Granddad “Daddy Dom” unironically. Femboy #3: Luca. Quiet. Sketches Granddad in charcoal like it’s the Renaissance.
They all live with him now. In the house he built with his own hands in ‘62. It's not a harem in the sleazy sense—it’s more like a cult of personality meets cottagecore commune. They do yoga at sunrise, cold plunges at noon, and sauna sessions at dusk. Granddad leads.
My mom calls it a midlife crisis extended into elderhood. I call it peak late-game mogging.
People ask me if it’s weird. I just shrug. Most dudes his age are battling dementia. Mine is battling reps with his androgynous boy brigade. Honestly? Respect.
He looked me dead in the eye once and said, “Son, life’s about continuous improvement. If you ain't ascending, you’re decaying.”
Then he winked at Luca and did a perfect muscle-up.
I don’t know where this is going, but if I make it to 80 and I’ve got eyelinered companions massaging my traps after deadlifts, I’ll know I did something right.
Legacy secured.
