The gym is his temple, and the weights, his worship. Our chocolate-skinned Superman, untouched by another's hands, finds solace in the controlled chaos of the iron. As he bench presses, his massive biceps bulge, veins popping like rivers on a map. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each exhale a whisper of his self-imposed exile. His hand, slick with sweat, wraps around his throbbing cock, pumping in time with the beat of his heart, seeking the sweet, solitary oblivion only he can provide.