CODE: BEASTIES: THE HANDSOME MUSCLE UNIFORM

TEXT BY ROB HILL

Beasties Fitness is the gym brand birthed by Jonny Craig—and if your feed’s been looking a little hotter lately, that’s not an accident. Beasties hats and tees keep popping up on all your favorite gym crushes, sliding into mirror selfies, post-lift flicks, and sweaty little victory laps like they’ve always belonged there.

And then there’s Jonny himself. When he walks in, you don’t just notice him—you feel the room adjust. He’s stacked in that effortless way that reads less “trying to impress” and more “this is simply what happens when discipline becomes a lifestyle.” Add the kind of charm that makes people tell the truth without realizing they’re doing it, and yeah… coffee turns into a conversation you don’t want to end.

We met like two friends catching up—casual, warm, no performative hustle talk. Just the real stuff: how Beasties formed, why it landed, and what it means when a “fitness” brand grows beyond the gym into something people wear as identity.

When the idea stopped being an idea

Jonny didn’t describe Beasties like it was born in a boardroom. It wasn’t. It was already alive—breathing, sweating, showing up—before the website even mattered.

Beasties, he told me, was forming organically as a car park workout camp. People were already coming to train. And once a group becomes a crew, you start wanting what every crew wants: something to represent.

That’s when Jonny made a key decision—one that separates “merch” from brand. He didn’t want it to be about him.

He laughed and admitted “Jonny’s Bootcamp” would’ve worked (honestly, it would’ve), but he wanted something more universal—something attendees could place themselves into. A name that didn’t say follow me so much as come belong.

Then social media did what it does when something is real: it amplified it. They posted shots from class. People started asking for the shirts. They adjusted the site so you could order online, and suddenly the tees weren’t just being requested—they were moving.

That was his moment. Not a viral spike. Not a celebrity co-sign. The simplest proof: demand.

The personal need behind the public brand

Every business starts from a personal craving. Jonny’s wasn’t complicated—it was visceral, practical, and honestly kind of romantic if you love style the way I do.

He moved to Atlanta from Los Angeles, and before that he’d lived in New York, London—cities where designer streetwear is basically a convenience store. Jonny loves skate tees. He’s a big guy, and the high-street stuff doesn’t always fit the way he wants. Give him a thin vintage tee, a cut that hangs right, and he’s happy.

Atlanta had good options, he said—but not enough. So he made his own supply.

And here’s where Jonny gets dangerously relatable: the man is a t-shirt connoisseur. He told me his closet is basically a museum of cotton, and he can flip through a thrift store with laser focus—eyes trained on color, material, and condition first.

What’s printed on the shirt? That comes last.

Which, yes, has gotten him in trouble. He’s worn tees that rep teams he didn’t realize he was repping, and suddenly strangers are nodding like they’re in a secret society—until Jonny looks down and realizes why.

That’s Beasties in a nutshell: not just what it says, but what it signals.

Fitness didn’t just shape his body—it shaped the blueprint

Jonny’s been working in fitness since he was 20. He’s 43 now, and it shows but not in a “look at me” way, but in how he thinks. Fitness gave him the foundation: consistency, community, repetition, momentum.

But he’s also clear about something: the only “fitness” thing about Beasties right now is in the name.

The brand took on a life outside the gym.

And honestly? That’s the flex. Because brands that last aren’t stuck in one room—they become a language people use in multiple places.

Jonny told me, smiling like he already knew where I was going with this, that there’s been a trend lately: guys wearing the tees… and showing ass.

He’s not complaining.

Beasties, he explained, has a strong texture of homoeroticism—hidden messages in the designs, some lifting and some resisting. The brand is sexy without begging to be called sexy. It’s confident without begging for approval. It knows the gaze exists and chooses to play with it—smart, not thirsty.

And yes, fitness played a role in bringing the brand to life. It was the spark. But what Beasties became? That’s culture.

The parts nobody posts: doubts, risk, pressure

People love the highlight reel: the drop announcements, the packed orders, the reposts from gym hotties, the “I can’t believe it’s finally happening” captions.

But running a brand isn’t a caption. It’s a ship.

Jonny described the anxiety like it’s part of the job description. When you’re steering something, you don’t ever fully lean back and exhale. Even at your highest achievement, the awareness stays. Not paranoia, responsibility.

Early on, he said, there can actually be fewer doubts because there’s less risk. You’re full of ambition, and the stakes feel manageable. But when demand rises, the questions sharpen:

How do you scale without losing what made people care? How do you take financial risks without sinking the thing you love? How do you keep the message clear while going bigger? The stuff that keeps you up isn’t always fear, it’s the need to stay aligned. And he kept coming back to one word: community.

“If you have community, you have a green light. That’s the proof your moves are landing. That’s how you know the brand is being received, not just consumed.”

Masculinity, confidence, and the history Jonny refuses to forget

When I asked Jonny about gym culture evolving—and how Beasties fits into the new conversation around masculinity and self-expression—he didn’t give me a trendy answer. He gave me a lineage.

He said we have a habit of looking backward to steer how we drive forward. And Beasties designs nod to the past intentionally.

He told me their most recent “Bruiser” tee is a reimagining of cover art from a book of gay short stories and poems first released in the 1930s.

That alone is a statement.

But Jonny went further: he brought up 4 from the circle—a publication that connected “homophile” networks over 90 years ago. He talked about its origins and reprints, and the fact that it circulated during times of stigma and taboo.

His point wasn’t to lecture—it was to locate Beasties inside a longer story of coded identity, community-building, and queer survival. To remind us that confidence and self-expression weren’t always “content.” Sometimes they were risk.

“Are we being pushed back underground?” he wondered. “Possibly.”

And that’s when I realized Beasties isn’t just cute tees with a hot following. It’s also memory. It’s design as signal flare. It’s style as a quiet refusal to disappear.

What he hopes you feel when you put it on

I asked Jonny what he hopes people feel when they wear Beasties in the gym.

He didn’t overthink it. He hopes they feel cute enough to take a picture, post it, and tag them.

And honestly? That answer is more profound than it sounds. Because confidence isn’t always a speech. Sometimes it’s the freedom to be seen without flinching. Sometimes it’s letting your body take up space. Sometimes it’s saying, I like how I look right now and letting that be enough.

Beasties doesn’t demand a transformation narrative. It celebrates the moment.

What keeps him hungry, grounded, and moving

Jonny credits the “day one” Beasties—the original network—for keeping the brand honest. The people who were there early, who show up, who care, who keep the threads tight.

They get excited about new colors, new artists, new items. He mentioned maybe doing shorts—because, apparently, the community struggles covering up their butts.

Again: not complaining.

There’s more coming this year, he told me—some planned, some not yet discovered. Because that’s how Beasties seems to move: it pops up in the most random places, and suddenly it’s everywhere.

Before we wrapped, Jonny hit me with gratitude—genuine, not performative. The kind you believe because you can tell he’s still in awe of what community can build when it decides to believe in something.

And when we stood up to leave—coffee done, conversation still buzzing—I thought about how rare it is to watch a brand grow without losing its soul.

Beasties isn’t just being worn.

It’s being claimed.

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