Hello, I Was Finally Able To Find You, I Have Seen What You Have Done And I Need To Ask You A Favor,

Hello, I was finally able to find you, I have seen what you have done and I need to ask you a favor, my best friend Mario is the personification of the word Twink. He is a good person and a very good dancer, I like him but the problem is that he is only interested in boys.

Could you help me get closer to him while we are on the dance floor, please?

You decide to take your friend Mario out for a night of dancing to celebrate Pride. His dance moves are legendary; whenever he hits the dance floor, his bubble butt shakes and draws a crowd. The lights of the club start to dazzle, reflecting off the sequins and vibrant colors of Pride flags all around.

As you dance beside him, you can't help but notice how the lights begin to playfully blind him. The disco ball sends flashes of light scattering across his face, momentarily obscuring his view but adding to the dazzle of his performance. Neon lights strobe in sync with the music, casting dynamic patterns over his figure as he moves with fluid grace.

You watch with a mix of amusement and awe as your Mario's usually impeccable dance moves seem a bit off tonight. It's as if he's forgotten the smooth finesse of his usual style and instead opts for exaggerated thrusts and awkward gyrations. Normally so graceful and fluid on the dance floor, tonight his movements appear more oafish, lacking the usual finesse and rhythm. It's as if he's forgotten the elegant Fosse-inspired steps he usually effortlessly executes, and instead, he's resorting to simple thrusting motions.

Suddenly, with each powerful thrust, something unexpected happens. Mario's body begins to grow, inch by inch, until he stands head and shoulders above everyone else at a towering 6'5".

His shoulders broaden, becoming formidable masses of muscle, and his chest swells into hefty pecs that draw the eyes of those around him. His arms, once slender, now bulk up with defined biceps and triceps, sculpting his frame into a muscular powerhouse.

However, amidst this impressive growth, there's a stark contrast. His legs, seemingly unable to keep pace with the rapid changes elsewhere, appear diminutive in comparison. His movements, once so fluid and precise, now become awkward and uncoordinated. His feet, now seemingly too small for his larger frame, fumble on the dance floor, disrupting the rhythm and flow of his once-effortless dance style.

The twinkle in his eyes, once filled with joy and confidence, starts to fade. In a moment of both awe and concern, he suddenly shouts out, "Yo babe, watch this!"

His voice booms across the club, deeper and more resonant than before. Despite the attention and cheers from the crowd, there's an unmistakable hint of discomfort in his demeanor. He grabs crotch and begins to thrust like an animal, with each thrust, his cock seemed to thicken even more, stretching the fabric of his pants almost to their breaking point.

As you watched the scene unfold before you, your heart sinks. The once graceful and confident dancer had transformed into a desperate oafish man, seeking attention through his now-enlarged member.

As he "dances" closer towards you, you observe a subtle shift in his facial expression. The innocent, boyish charm that once defined his features begins to fade, replaced by a demeanor that mirrors that of a stereotypical fratbro. His jawline becomes more pronounced, his smile loses its genuine warmth, and his eyes adopt a confident, almost cocky glint. His brows furrow slightly, giving him a more intense look, and his lips form into a smirk that exudes self-assurance.

"Yo, babes, you look so hot tonight," he shouts in your ear, his voice louder than necessary in the bustling club atmosphere. His words carry a hint of bravado, a departure from his usual playful banter. "Why don't you be a good little lady and grab your man a beer."

His tone strikes an unfamiliar chord, catching you off guard. Despite feeling a twinge of resistance, you find yourself responding with a vapid giggle, almost on autopilot. Suppressing your discomfort, you oblige and fetch him a beer from the bar.

"Thanks, babe," he replies with a dismissive grunt as you hand him the beer. Without hesitation, he swiftly chugs it down, his actions more abrupt and assertive than usual. He starts rambling on about some hockey match he watched on TV and you can't remember him ever talking about sports.

As he speaks, his hands wander down to your hips, gripping them tightly as he pulls you closer to him. His touch is no longer gentle or playful; instead, it's rough and demanding. You can feel the heat emanating from his body as he presses himself against you on the dance floor.

"Come on," he whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Don't be shy." His hands move upwards along your sides until they reach the fabric of your top, where they begin to tug at it suggestively. "I know how much you love watching me dance," he says with a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes anymore.

In a haze of giggles that bubbled up effortlessly, you stood before your friend, completely unaware that your brunette locks now gleaming with a shocking platinum blonde hue.

Your lust began to grow uncontrollably. You couldn't help but feel drawn to his imposing figure and chiseled physique. Your eyes traced the lines of his muscles as they rippled beneath his shirt, and you found yourself wanting nothing more than to touch them – to feel their hardness against your soft skin.

Without thinking twice, you reached out and gently touched one of his pecs, feeling its firmness under your well-manicured fingertips. He let out a low groan as he leaned into your touch, encouraging you further. His skin was hotter than before; it seemed like he was burning up from within with desire for something more than just dancing on the floor.

"You're looking so hot, Chet," you cooed, your voice carrying a breathless infatuation, not realizing the change in your friend's name.

Chet turned to you, his gaze seemed to penetrate through your distracted state, locking onto your new vapid sweetness. "Babe," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, "wouldn't it be more fun if we found someone else to join us?" he said with a cocky smile, pointing to some blonde bimbo dancing with a group of gay guys.

With that, his fate was sealed. The once graceful and confident dancer had become just another dumb fratbro douchebag, looking to score with any available woman in sight. His eyes no longer held the twinkle of joy or passion; instead, they were filled with lust and desire for nothing more than a quick hookup.

As he continued to grind against you on the dance floor, it became clear that you were nothing more than a means to an end for him tonight – just another blonde bimbo he could add to his list of conquests. You felt like a mere pawn in his game, your own desires and feelings reduced to insignificance in comparison to his quest for validation through sexual exploits.

As the night wore on, it became increasingly clear that he had become a complete and utter douchebag. His body, once so graceful and powerful, now moved with an animalistic fervor as he groped any woman who crossed his path. His words were laced with lewd innuendos and crude remarks aimed at reducing women to nothing more than objects of sexual desire.

His behavior towards you was no different; each time you tried to break away from his grasp or voice your discomfort, he would only grow more aggressive in pursuit of what he wanted – which seemed to be nothing more than scoring with two blonde bimbos for the night. You realized you were becoming just another dumb blonde cheerleader hookup whom he could easily dispose of once satiated.

As you moved your finger up his tight six-pack abs, feeling the heat emanating from his body, you couldn't help but giggle nervously. "Sure Chet," you said, trying to sound confident despite the butterflies in your stomach. "I'd love to have a threesome with you. You're so hot."

But before you could even finish your sentence, he cut you off with a grunt and dismissive wave of his hand. "Don't go calling me 'babe,' babe," he said mockingly. "Now be a good little girl and grab me another beer while I try to get that chick's number." With that, he turned away from you and began flirting shamelessly with another blonde bimbo who had caught his eye on the dance floor.

Hey I was out celebrating my 21st birthday at my first gay bar with friends when these obnoxious straight dudes came in and started killing the vibes. Me and my friends were able to avoid them for the most part but when I went up to get more drinks one of em started talking to me and asked to play gay chicken? And I just feel like I can't say no

As you stood there in the gay bar with your friends, trying to enjoy a fun night out, the atmosphere suddenly took an unexpected turn when TJ, RJ, and CJ swaggered over, all loud laughs and macho posturing. They started goading you to play 'Gay Chicken,' a game you'd only vaguely heard of and never expected to encounter in real life. You hesitated, unsure how to respond at first, feeling a mix of annoyance and curiosity at their brash challenge.

When RJ mocked you, using a stereotypically effeminate voice and "Aw, the sissy doesn't want to play" swishing his hands around. Despite your initial reluctance, you found yourself agreeing to their ridiculous bet. After all, you thought, you're openly gay and proud—there's no way these straight gym bros could outlast you in this game of awkward confrontations.

Gathering your resolve, you decided to play up the stereotype, thinking it might throw them off or at least make them uncomfortable enough to back down. "So, like, what's your favorite show tune, sweetie?" you quipped, leaning in a bit closer to RJ with a mischievous grin.

But as RJ responded with a deadpan "Hamilton," something felt off. It wasn't the flamboyant reaction you expected. Trying another angle, you asked RJ "Uh, well, um, who the hottest pop star?", you meant to ask who was the best pop diva but it came out all wrong. "Sabrina Carpenter, duh, bro," RJ replied casually.

Confusion washed over you. This wasn't right. RJ's responses were too… normal. Too straight. It dawned on you slowly, like a fog clearing from your mind, that perhaps these guys weren't playing the game you thought. Maybe they weren't playing any game at all. As the realization sank in, you felt a mix of embarrassment and frustration. The discomfort in the air was palpable, and you couldn't wait to retreat back to the safety of your friends, wondering how you'd gotten into this bizarre situation in the first place.

As the scene unfolded in the dimly lit gay bar, you found yourself surrounded by TJ, RJ, and CJ, their presence looming larger and more imposing with each passing moment. What started as a lighthearted challenge now felt suffocating, their energy and bravado pressing in on you like a heavy weight.

You tried to maintain your composure, but a strange sensation crept over you, like a thick fog descending upon your mind. It was as if your thoughts were becoming sluggish and disjointed, slipping beyond your control. Normally, these guys you'd find hot I mean—the tight abs, big biceps. It was the typical guy you lusted after, but tonight, now, they just felt like normal bros. The type of bros you'd love to hang with.

As TJ's voice cut through the haze, asking "Yo, bro, who is uhh huhhuh the best football team in the NFL?" you replied mechanically, "Duh, San Francisco 49ers, bro. Even though they're from fag city hahaha" with dumb chuckle not clocking your use of slur you'd never uttered in such a way before. The word 'bro' slipped out effortlessly, a small detail that should have struck you as odd, but it passed unnoticed in your increasingly befuddled state. Meanwhile, you felt a strange sensation in your body, a subtle yet undeniable shift. You became aware of your muscles tightening, swelling almost imperceptibly beneath your skin. Your pecs and biceps seemed to thicken, veins pulsating faintly along their contours. Even your stomach felt different, a slight layer forming over your abs, hinting at what could develop into a beer belly.

CJ's voice broke through your confusion next, asking you "Dude, who is like they haha, hottest girl you'd ever seen?" You'd never really found girls attractive in that way, but to your horror, your mouth moved before your brain could intervene. "Sydney Sweeney," you grunted out, the name unfamiliar yet somehow fitting the image forming in your mind.

As your mind began to process the information, you couldn't help but feel a strange sensation washing over you. It was as if all the memories of hooking up with guys were being erased from your mind, replaced by an intense desire for Sydney Sweeney. You could practically see her in front of you, her perfect body begging to be touched and explored.

Your heart raced as you imagined motorboating her tits or feeling her soft skin against yours. The thought of being with a woman like Sydney made everything else seem insignificant; it was almost as if she had been destined for you all along. As for hooking up with dudes, well...the very idea now repulsed you completely.

The thought of hooking up with a guy now made you feel physically ill. The very idea of being intimate with someone who wasn't some big tit blonde bitch repulsed you to your core. You couldn't believe how quickly your sexuality had shifted, but there was no denying the intense attraction you felt for her now. Every time she crossed your mind, heat would rush through your body, making it impossible not to imagine what it would be like to have her in bed beside you.

It was as if your very identity was slipping away, reshaping itself under the influence of their expectations. The fog in your mind thickened further, obscuring rational thought and replacing it with a strange compliance. You wanted to resist, to shake off this bizarre transformation, but with each passing moment, it felt harder to grasp onto who you truly were.

The realization hit you like a wave crashing over your head—you were losing 'gay chicken' in the most unexpected and unsettling way possible. As panic surged through you, you longed desperately to break free from their hold, to reclaim your sense of self before it was completely swallowed by this surreal and disturbing game.

As TJ's final question pierced through the noise of the bar, "Bro, who is the hottest chick in this bar tonight? You should totally try to bang her!" you felt an unfamiliar surge of confidence and bravado take hold of you. Without hesitation, your hand shot out, pointing towards a random blonde bimbo, who looked drunk enough to sleep with. A cocky grin spread across your face, and in that moment, something within you shifted.

Your clothes seemed to morph on their own accord, transforming into the typical attire of a fratbro: khaki shorts, a polo shirt with the collar popped, and boat shoes. With each step you took towards the blonde bimbo, your swagger grew more pronounced. Your posture straightened, shoulders broadening with a newfound muscularity that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. It was as if your muscles had swelled under your skin, sculpting a physique that exuded strength and confidence.

As you approached her, you noticed a haze settling over your thoughts, blurring the edges of reality. The fog of being in a perpetual state of drunkenness seemed to envelop your mind, dulling your senses and inhibitions. You felt like you were living in a perpetual frat party, where the only goals were to party hard, hook up, and assert your dominance among your bros.

"Hey there, gorgeous," you slurred with a grin, the words coming out with a casual arrogance that was foreign yet strangely comfortable. "What's your name, bro?"

She hesitated for a moment before answering softly, "Lisa." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it did nothing to quell the fire burning inside. With renewed confidence fueled by alcohol and testosterone, you reached out and grabbed her ass – only for her to slap your hand away while simultaneously throwing her drink in your face! "Hahaha, what's the matter babe? Don't dress like a slut if you don't wanna little action" you respond as she walks away to dance with her friends.

You walked back over to my group of friends – TJ, CJ, and RJ– who were all laughing hysterically. As soon as they saw you approach with an angry expression on your face and wet clothes from head-to-toe due to Lisa's retaliation, their laughter only intensified further still!

"Damn AJ," said RJ between fits of giggles,"guess she wasn't drunk enough after all!"

You were caught in the whirlwind of frat life, where muscles and bravado spoke louder than introspection and self-awareness. As the night unfolded, you embraced the role of the loudmouthed, party-loving fratbro, lost in a haze of alcohol and the relentless pursuit of the next adrenaline rush.

The rest of the night is a blur as you continue to drink with your best bros, TJ, CJ and RJ. You spend the rest of the night hitting on bimbos and drinking until you black out.

You wake up the next morning in the frat house, in bed with some bimbo bitch whose name you can't recall. As your eyes slowly adjust to the light filtering through the curtains, you notice her perky tits on display and feel a raging boner ready to go. Without asking for permission or even introducing yourself properly; she crawls underneath your sheets and starts sucking on your cock like it's an ice cream cone! Soon you find yourself pushing her back on the bed as you crawl on top of the bimbo bitch and begin fucking her into the morning. Your drunken state makes it difficult to maintain control, and soon enough you're slamming into her with reckless abandon. She moans loudly as your cock hits all the right spots.

You can feel yourself getting closer to cumming but decide to prolong the pleasure by pulling out just before reaching orgasm. You then proceed to cum all over her face, laughing maniacally as she tries desperately wipe away your seed from around her mouth and eyes.

You realize that not only have you become one of those dumbass straight bro who gets drunk every weekend but also an object of ridicule among your peers for getting slapped by Lisa last night. Your reputation has taken a serious hit, and there's no way out of this mess now...

I’m a gay guy who wants to become the stinkiest, gassiest, straightest guy I can be. Turn me into a total douchebag.

You walk into the locker room after your workout, feeling the satisfying burn of exertion in your muscles. You glance at yourself in the mirror, expecting to see the gradual progress you've been working so hard for. But as you look, your heart sinks. Despite months of dedication—cardio, weights, cutting back on indulgences—the reflection staring back at you isn't what you hoped. Your toned physique remains elusive, still the stubborn love handles and soft patches around your chest. It's disheartening, to say the least

Shaking off the disappointment, you head towards your locker to change, wrapping a towel around yourself. The routine seems familiar and comforting. You reach for your deodorant but your hand comes up empty. Panic flares up as you frantically search through the locker. Your change of clothes, meticulously packed, is nowhere to be found.

You turn around, hoping to find your gym clothes hanging on a nearby hook. They're gone too. Frustration wells up inside you. Could this be one of those annoying pranks by the jocks? You glance around the empty locker room, feeling a chill despite the warmth of your workout.

Then, relief washes over you as you spot a can of Axe body spray and a spare set of gym clothes left on the bench. It's not your preferred brand, but it'll have to do. You check again to make sure you're truly alone, then grab the body spray and clothes with a mix of resignation and determination.

It starts innocuously enough as you pick up the can of Axe body spray, preparing to mask the lingering sweat of your workout. But as the mist envelops you, your nose twitches in surprise. This isn't the usual fragrance of Axe you're familiar with. Instead, it assaults your senses with an overpowering blend of odors that hit you like a wall. It's like stepping into a locker room right after football practice—a cacophony of sweaty bodies, old beer, gaseous farts, and the lingering scent of greasy fast food.

Despite the initial shock, your nostrils widen involuntarily, almost as if they're drawn to absorb more of this pungent aroma. Your mind starts to cloud over, thoughts slowing down as if submerged in a thick fog. Suddenly, a burp escapes your lips, echoing strangely loud in the otherwise silent locker room.

In your mind's eye, you hear the clang of weights hitting the ground hard, accompanied by deep, primal grunts reverberating through the gym. Words like "bro," "dude," and "broseph" echo in your thoughts, drowning out any semblance of coherent thinking. Concepts like math and logic are replaced by a bizarre language that seems strangely familiar yet foreign—Algebrah.

You look down at the oversized gym clothes in your hands, noticing the unmistakable musky smell of sweat emanating from them. Despite their apparent dirtiness, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to put them on. The tank top, stained with sweat, clings to your skin as you slide it over your head, feeling the moisture meld with your flesh, darkening your complexion as sweat drips down your body.

A deep grunt escapes your chest, and you feel your facial muscles shifting. Your jaw widens, your features chisel into a look of contemptuous arrogance. Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing into a perpetual glare that seems to belittle everyone around you. A smug grin plays across your face, never quite reaching your eyes, hinting at a mocking amusement at the expense of others.

As the oversized gym clothes settle on your body, an electric surge courses through you, igniting every fiber of muscle and fat. It's as if a dormant power has been awakened, propelling you into a state of heightened physicality. Your chest expands, muscles rippling and tightening with newfound definition. Abs form like chiseled stone, each crevice pronounced under the fabric. Biceps swell metaphorically, bulging like mountains under the strain of the sleeves. Your body takes on the imposing shape of a competitor, exuding strength and dominance.

Legs balloon with muscle, each movement accentuated by the powerful stride of an athlete. Your Adam's apple protrudes prominently as your voice deepens, resonating with authority and command. Veins pop on your arms and neck, pulsing with the rush of heightened testosterone.

Driven by an overwhelming surge of energy, you can't resist the urge to pose and flex. Every movement feels instinctual, showcasing your newfound physical prowess. A metaphorical cloud hangs over you, casting a shadow on your former kindness and empathy, draining them from your soul.

A fire burns within you now, a primal desire to assert dominance, to claim what you believe is rightfully yours. The notion of superiority takes hold, fueling a sense of entitlement that grows unchecked. You're no longer content to blend into the background; you crave attention and respect, demanding acknowledgment of your prowess.

With each passing moment, you embrace this transformation into an alpha presence. The gentle demeanor you once knew gives way to a boorish, obnoxious attitude. Confidence borders on arrogance, laced with a spiteful edge towards anyone who might challenge your newfound status.

The gym mirrors reflect a figure that commands attention, exuding an aura of power and dominance. You've become a force to be reckoned with, driven by a relentless pursuit of being the best, surpassing every man around you in both physique and attitude.

You feel the change taking hold of you, a sense of entitlement washing over your body. You're no longer just another guy at the gym; you're the alpha male everyone should look up to. When you catch someone staring at you, resentment grows within you. "What are you looking at, fag?" You scream at him with all your might. Your voice echoes throughout the locker room as everyone turns their heads towards the source of that deafening sound.

You chug down your protein shake and feel it slosh around in your gut as a hot protein fart rips through the air like a cannonball shot from hell itself! PFFFFFFFRRRRPPP The laughter that follows is deafening - "HAHAHAUHUHUHUHUH" you dumbly chuckle to yourself.

You scratch your balls, feeling them swell in size as you watch your dick grow long and hard. The smell of cum fills the air around you as gym shorts stain.

As you leave the locker room, instead of entering the gym, you find yourself at a raging frat party! Music blasts from speakers while beer pong tables line one wall and kegs stand ready for more drinking games. Everywhere people are grinding on each other or playing some kind of alcohol-fueled contest. And there's no way anyone can challenge your status now - they're all beneath you!

With a swagger in our step that matches our massive cock size, you make your way through the crowd looking for someone who might catch your eye (or lustful gaze). It doesn't take long before someone does just that - an attractive girl stands alone by one of the pong tables watching everyone else have fun without her…and now it's time to show her who really rules this place!

Before you can make your approach, your best bro Jackson greets you with a beer. You sneer at him and think to yourself, "Fuck, his muscles are huge…no homo." Chugging down the beer in one go, you let out the loudest, most obnoxious buuuuuurrrrrp right in Jackson's face. Your muscles swell even further as your hair begins to bloom from your chest and pits - reeking of sex, beer and sweat.

You feel like a beast - unstoppable and dominant. The smell of sex fills the air around you as people turn their heads away in disgust or lustful desire. As if on cue, another obnoxious fart escapes from your body -"coming out the other end bro!" PFFFFFFFRP The smell is enough to make anyone gag but somehow adds to your newfound confidence instead of diminishing it.

With a roar that could shake mountains apart comes another loud beeeeeeeellllch followed by laughter echoing throughout the room; no one can challenge you now – you rule this place!

As intelligence leaves your body, you feel yourself transforming into an obnoxious 20-year-old frat bro asshole - a fucking douchebag. You start acting like one too: spiking punch bowls with vodka, throwing up gang signs in pictures, making out with random girls at the party and then leaving them hanging when they ask for your number.

With your bros by your side, you decide to pull some pranks on unsuspecting guests. First up is filling all the kegs with pure vodka instead of beer which leads to chaos. Next comes sneaking into the bathroom and replacing every roll of toilet paper with wax paper - resulting in disgusting messes left behind by those who dare use them afterward! Finally, someone suggests stealing one of those inflatable pool floaties shaped like giant beers.

At the party, you spot the hottest, sluttiest girl who looks like she's about to pass out drunk. Letting out another loud buuuuuurrrrp, you grab a beer and start flirting with her.

"Hey there," you say in your most obnoxious bro voice. "You look like someone who needs some help getting home." She giggles drunkenly before nodding her head yes. You lead her over to an empty couch where she collapses onto it with a contented sigh.

Your hair lightens to a shade of blonde as you continue flirting - telling her how hot she is and how much you want to fuck what's left of her brains out (if there even is any). She laughs dumbly at your crude jokes while playing with one of your now massive biceps; apparently size does matter after all!

Chugging down another beer, you feel even more entitled than before. "This girl doesn't deserve someone like me!" You think to yourself as your cock starts growing harder in anticipation for what's about to happen next…

"Hey baby," you say in your most douchebag voice possible. "Wanna go somewhere private where we can get better acquainted?" She nods drunkenly before stumbling after you towards an empty room nearby - clearly looking for a quick fuck without any strings attached.

You take her up to your bedroom - a disgusting bro-pad filled with dirty clothes, empty beer cans and used condoms strewn about. The smell of sweat, sex and stale pizza permeates the air as you close the door behind you.

"Make yourself comfortable," you say in your most obnoxious voice possible before flopping down on the bed next to her. She giggles drunkenly at your crude humor while trying not to gag from the overwhelming stench of testosterone-laced filth surrounding them both.

You drunkly fuck her brains out; she moans like a slut as you flex your massive biceps for her. "Hunter… Hunter fuck me baby!" she pleads between breaths.

She starts working your cock like a dumb little slut, desperate for any kind of attention from this obnoxious frat bro asshole in front of her. As you pass out from exhaustion she slips away without leaving so much as a note or thank you - typical!

Waking up to the smell of beer and sex lingering on both yourself and everything else within reach confirms what has become apparent: You've become the stinkiest, gassiest straightest guy around! A total douchebag through-and-through who doesn't give a shit about some random chick! She was just some slut to bang, and there were plenty of bimbos on campus that hadn't serviced the Hunter's cock. Letting out another gassy fart that fills the air with its putrid stench, you dumbly chuckle to yourself – damn your life was great!

Hey, man! Any chance you'd be able to send me back as one of those too cool for school greaser types? James Dean ain't got nothing on me!

As you push open the creaky door, a musty scent envelops you, mingling with the faint aroma of old leather and decades of memories. The thrift store is a maze of curiosities, each corner revealing a new layer of forgotten treasures. Shelves overflow with a chaotic assortment of oddities — from mismatched teacups to vintage vinyl records, from antique dolls with missing limbs to faded concert posters.

Your gaze drifts across a rack of clothing that seems to span generations. There are sequined gowns next to faded band t-shirts, military jackets hanging beside neon spandex. Among them, a worn leather jacket catches your eye. It hangs slightly apart from the rest, as if waiting for you to discover it.

Drawing closer, the jacket reveals its story upon closer inspection. It's well-worn, the leather softened by years of wear. The scent is unmistakable — a blend of old cigarette smoke and a hint of musk, with an underlying tang that suggests a history of adventure. Traces of dried blood mar one sleeve, hinting at a past encounter, perhaps a brawl or a daring escape.

Initially repelled by its gritty appearance, something compels you to touch it. The leather is supple under your fingertips, and despite its flaws, it exudes a rugged charm that speaks of defiance and independence.

Without fully understanding why, you shed your own jacket and slip into the weathered leather. It feels like a second skin, molding to your form as if it had been tailored for you. Just as the jacket settles around your shoulders, a sudden snap echoes through the air, and everything shifts.

Blinking in confusion, you find yourself no longer in the cluttered thrift store. Instead, you're standing in a dimly lit malt shop straight out of a bygone era. Checkerboard floors, chrome-trimmed stools, and a jukebox playing Elvis Presley in the corner transport you unmistakably to the past.

A smirk crosses your face almost involuntarily. The leather jacket feels different now, imbued with a sense of rebellion and nostalgia. Adjusting your attitude to match its aura, you suddenly feel like a character from a James Dean film — a rebel without a cause, ready to challenge the norms of this new-old world.

The journey through the time vortex has not only transported your physical form but seems to have shifted something within you. As you look around, the scene feels strangely familiar yet surreal, as if you've stepped into a story where you are now the protagonist.

With newfound confidence, you stride towards the counter, the leather jacket now a badge of your altered identity. The past beckons with its promises of adventure and intrigue, and you can't help but wonder what other surprises this unexpected journey through time may bring.

The transformation was electrifying. As you don the weathered leather jacket, a surge of confidence courses through you like a jolt of adrenaline. Your posture straightens, shoulders broadening, muscles tightening beneath the fabric of the jacket. It feels like the jacket itself is empowering you, turning you into a larger-than-life figure.

With each step, you feel taller, more imposing. Your movements are smoother, more purposeful. Your hair, previously tousled, now slicks back effortlessly into a classic greaser style. The air around you crackles with an aura of cool defiance.

In the corner of the malt shop, you spot a scene that embodies everything you now embody disdain for. A preppy-looking guy, all blazers and polished shoes, is attempting to impress a girl, Sally, with his rehearsed lines and perfectly combed hair. His voice is smooth but lacks the raw edge you now possess.

With a cocky grin, you stride over, the sound of your boots echoing against the checkerboard floor. Without a word, you snatch the preppy guy's malt from his hand and casually drop it to the ground, the clatter drawing the attention of everyone nearby.

The preppy guy splutters in shock, momentarily speechless. Sally's eyes widen in surprise, but there's a glint of curiosity beneath the initial astonishment. You lean casually against the counter, the leather jacket accentuating your newly acquired swagger.

"You don't mind if I borrow your lady for a moment, do you?" you drawl, your voice low and edged with a hint of danger.

Sally's gaze flickers between you and the preppy guy, her lips curling into a small smile. "I… um, sure," she stammers, clearly intrigued by the sudden turn of events.

You turn to her with a smirk, locking eyes with hers. "So, Sally," you begin, your tone smooth yet laced with a hint of mischief, "you come here often? Or is this your first time getting caught in the crossfire of misplaced charm?"

Her laughter tinkles like chimes, charmed by your boldness. "Actually, it's my first time here," she admits, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "And I must say, it's definitely more exciting now."

You chuckle softly, the sound rich and deep. "Well, they say life's too short for boring encounters," you reply, leaning in a fraction closer. "So, what do you say we make the most of this unexpected rendezvous?"

Sally's smile widens, her eyes sparkling with newfound interest. "I'd like that," she says, her voice softer now, carrying a hint of admiration for your fearless demeanor.

As the jukebox switches to an upbeat rock 'n' roll tune, you offer Sally your hand, the leather jacket fitting you like a shield of confidence. Together, you step into a world where rules are meant to be bent, and adventure waits around every corner.

You lead Sally through the crowded malt shop, her hand clasped tightly in yours. The music pulses around you as you make your way to the back exit, where a cool breeze whispers against your skin.

Once outside, you guide her towards an abandoned warehouse just beyond the alleyway. As soon as they step inside, the world around them fades into obscurity - only their hearts beating wildly against each other's chests remain illuminated by moonlight streaming through broken windows high above.

Without breaking eye contact or releasing her hand, you push Sally gently against one of the rusty metal walls lining the cavernous space. She gasps softly at your sudden forcefulness but doesn't pull away; instead she leans into it with equal fervor. Her lips part slightly in anticipation as she waits for what comes next from this mysterious stranger who has captured her heart (and body) so effortlessly tonight.

The warehouse is dimly lit, casting long shadows across the dusty concrete floor. Rows of abandoned crates and discarded machinery lie scattered about like forgotten relics from another time. The air is thick with anticipation as you press your body against Sally's, feeling her soft curves molding to your hard frame.

Her eyes are wide with desire as she looks up at you, her lips parted ever so slightly in invitation. You lean down towards her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her perfume mixed with sweat and adrenaline from their earlier encounter inside the bar. Gently tracing your fingers along the line of her jawbone, you trail them downwards until they reach the hemline of her dress - already hiked up past mid-thigh by eager hands earlier tonight.

As you undo the remaining buttons on Sally's dress, revealing more of her creamy white skin beneath, a sense of power and dominance washes over you. You feel like a badass Greaser fucking some dumb preppy bitch - an image that would make any other guy jealous.

Your cock throbs against your jeans in anticipation, aching to be freed from its confines and plunged deep into Sally's waiting pussy. With one final tug, her dress falls away completely, leaving her standing before you in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties - both soaked through with arousal.

What happens when a whole gay friend group suddenly is converted into straight guys? How long does it take for them to morph into your average straight friend group.

A mass transformation is actually quite simple. It's quite quick even. You and your friends are out at the bars, dancing joyously amidst a sea of rainbow flags celebrating Pride. The music is pumping, filling the air with infectious energy and laughter. You're singing along to ariana grande and chappell roan. Suddenly, a thick fog rolls in, casting an eerie shadow over the festivities. You squint through the haze, bewildered as the vibrant rainbow flags above you slowly transform into University of Alabama banners, their crimson and white stark against the dim lights.

The once sweet aroma of cocktails is replaced by a pungent blend of stale beer and used gym socks. You crinkle your nose in distaste, exchanging puzzled glances with your friends who are equally taken aback by the strange shift in atmosphere.

Even more disconcerting, your trendy, expressive outfits begin to warp before your eyes. What were moments ago stylish Pride attire now morphs into tacky, gaudy bro outfits—tight tanks, polos, basic jeans, cargo shorts, and baseball caps that clash horrendously.

In your hands, the vodka crans magically transform into ice-cold beers, condensation dripping down the sides. Without missing a beat, your friends instinctively clink their bottles together, the chilled beer splashing onto your newly acquired bro-shirt.

As the fog settles into your mind, a strange heaviness descends, dulling your thoughts and making them harder to grasp. You blink, trying to recall how you ended up here, surrounded by the pulsating beats and colorful lights of the bar. The TVs that once played vibrant pop music videos suddenly flicker and transform, displaying intense football, baseball, and basketball games.

The plays, the scores, the athleticism—it all draws you in, stirring a primal excitement deep within. Your friends beside you are equally ensnared, their cheers and yells blending with the roar of the crowd in the bar.

As the games unfold, you and your friends grow more animated, more boisterous. You shout at the screen, criticize referees' calls, and passionately debate strategy. The atmosphere around you intensifies, fueled by adrenaline and the communal thrill of competition. The usual cares and worries dissipate, replaced by a temporary escape into the world of sports and beer, where passion and intensity reign supreme.

You realize that your perception of your friends has changed. They're no longer individuals you find attractive or admire on a personal level; they've become your "bros" in the most superficial way possible. The thought of hooking up with them is now gross as fuck. You only want to hook up with chicks from now on.

A memory forms of working out at the gym with your bros and catcalling at girls as you flexed your muscles under the weightlifting machines. The smell of sweat and stale air clings to your body, reminding you of how much time you spent there trying to impress girls instead of focusing on schoolwork or hanging out with actual friends who cared about more than just physical appearance.

You begin to see your bros only as people who share similar interests in sports, video games, and partying - nothing more than that anymore.

As the night progresses, your fixation on women's bodies intensifies. You find yourself unable to look away from any woman who walks by, constantly staring at their breasts and imagining what it would be like to touch them. The thought of hooking up with a "dumb slut" consumes your mind, making it impossible for you to think about anything else.

Your friends seem just as obsessed as you are, leering at every chick who passes by and making vulgar comments about their appearances. It's clear that this altered state has taken hold of all of you in different ways but with one common goal: finding someone willing (or unwilling) enough for a drunken hookup.

Your friends join in on the catcalling and lewd remarks as they pass by, egging each other on with crude comments about how "dumb sluts" they are for dressing so provocatively. The thought of hooking up with any one of them fills you with an intense horniness that makes it difficult to focus on anything else.

With your bros egging you on, you start to rate each girl loudly and openly, "A total 10"...."Dude she's like a 5, tops" "Bro, that's a fucking 9!" reducing them to mere objects. The laughter and camaraderie that once felt genuine now echo with a hollow, performative quality. The bar, once a place of celebration and community, becomes tinged with a sense of toxicity as you and your friends revel in this distorted version of masculinity.

In this altered state, the fog not only obscures your thoughts but also distorts your values and inhibitions. What began as a night of dancing and celebration for Pride has veered into a troubling territory of objectification and disrespect and above all else straight Pride. Your muscles begin to swell and bulge beyond their usual size. Your abs tighten and define themselves, while your pecs become more prominent. Your biceps grow thicker and stronger, making it easier for you to flex them whenever the opportunity arises.

Your friends undergo a similar transformation, their figures becoming more imposing with every passing moment. Their postures become more confident and aggressive as they flex their newly enhanced muscles to get the attention of various chicks in the bar,

You grab around of shots for you and friends. You struggle to recall their names, but suddenly it clicks in your mind. You're Brock, and your friends are Bryce, Brody, Brady, Brad, Brayden, and Brandon. It feels oddly comforting to remember these names, as if they've always been there, waiting just beneath the surface.

Your surroundings seem to echo with a thick Southern accent, every thought and word peppered with its distinctive cadence. The pride in being associated with the University of Alabama swells within you, a deep-rooted allegiance that feels unquestionable and natural.

In this altered state, a surge of conservative beliefs and values begins to replace the liberal, progressive mindset you once held. The fog in your mind acts as a catalyst, erasing the complexities of nuanced thought and replacing them with a stark, black-and-white worldview. Suddenly, concepts like political correctness and social justice seem foreign and misguided to you.

You feel a growing disdain for what you now label as "liberal snowflakes," dismissing their concerns as overly sensitive and irrelevant. The camaraderie with your friends intensifies as you bond over shared conservative ideals, mocking those who don't align with your newfound worldview.

As the night progresses, you and your friends continue to embrace your transformed identities with a fervor that surprises even yourselves. The once inclusive and open-minded individuals you were have been eclipsed by personas of Southern pride and conservative values. It's as if the fog has not only altered your physical appearance but also reshaped your entire psyche, leaving behind starkly different versions of yourselves -just a bunch of dumb fratbros looking for a good time.

As drunkenness sets in, so does a sense of entitlement born from privilege: believing that because you are men, you deserve whatever women offer them without considering their opinions. You just want one thing. Sex.

With each passing moment spent hitting on various women at the bar comes an increasing desire to bring one back home for some drunken fun – no matter how shallow or meaningless it may seem at first glance – driven by primal urges fueled by testosterone coursing through newly enhanced bodies thanks to this foggy haze surrounding them all night long.

Another type of pride

Ashton was buzzing with anticipation as he paced around his apartment, the beats of Lady Gaga pumping through his speakers. Pride weekend in New York was his time to shine, and he intended to make the most of it. He had meticulously planned his outfit, a blend of glitter and bold colors that screamed confidence and pride. Pregaming shots by himself seemed like the perfect way to get into the celebratory spirit, each sip adding to his excitement for the night ahead.

Suddenly, a sharp knock on the door pierced through the music, and Ashton practically skipped over to answer it, expecting his friend Dylan. Dylan was the epitome of a twunk—tall, muscular, with an effortless charm that made heads turn wherever he went. Ashton couldn't wait to hit the parade with him, knowing they'd be turning heads and living their best lives.

But when Ashton swung open the door, Dylan's easy smile didn't greet him. Instead, standing there was Jessica, her mascara running down her cheeks, a picture of heartbreak.

"Zayne just broke up with me. It's my fault, Ash," Jessica choked out between sobs, her hands trembling.

Ashton sighed inwardly, familiar with Jessica's history of falling for charismatic yet insufferable straight douchebags. Zayne, with his rugged good looks and charming persona, was just the latest in a string of disappointing choices.

"Jess, come on," Ashton said gently, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "You know you deserve better than these douchebags."

Jessica sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I know, but… I can't help it."

Ashton glanced at his watch, aware that time was ticking and the city was already alive with Pride celebrations. "Look, Jess, I'm really sorry, but it's Pride weekend. I wish there was something I could do. But it's Pride! We've been planning this forever. Can we deal with this later?"

Jessica looked up at him with watery eyes, her expression shifting suddenly to one of determination. "Ash, I have something that can make everything better," she declared, a glint of mischief in her gaze.

Ashton raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to expect next from his unpredictable friend. "What do you mean?"

A secretive smile curled Jessica's lips as she rummaged through her purse. "You'll see," she said cryptically, producing an old, worn cap hat.

As Jessica began to murmur something under her breath, Ashton felt a flicker of unease. The room seemed to darken slightly, and a chill ran down his spine as Jessica's words took on an almost mystical cadence.

"By my will and ancient power," Jessica intoned softly, her voice carrying an otherworldly weight, "this hat shall transform in the darkest hour. From mind to muscle, charm to boast, let arrogance and obnoxiousness engross. May my vision of the perfect fool arise, as this curse takes effect under moonlit skies."

The lights in Ashton's apartment flickered ominously, casting strange shadows around them. He took an instinctive step back, his eyes wide with disbelief and a hint of fear.

Jessica chuckled, her laughter ringing strangely in the charged atmosphere. "Doesn't this hat look good, Ashton?" she asked, her voice teasing.

Ashton shook his head, trying to clear the sudden fog in his mind. "No, Jess, this isn't right," he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest.

Jessica's laughter echoed in the room as she held up the old cap hat, a mischievous glint in her eye. "It's Chet's old hat… or was it Chad's? Who cares— let me put it on," she teased, stepping closer to Ashton. But Jessica moved closer, her hand reaching up to place the hat on Ashton's head before he could protest further. He felt a jolt as the hat settled into place, a surge of unfamiliar energy coursing through him.

Ashton, feeling an inexplicable haze settling over his mind, couldn't muster the will to resist as Jessica placed the cap on his head. A strange sensation washed over him, like a thick fog clouding his thoughts. He blinked slowly, feeling his awareness dimming.

"Yo, bro," Ashton mumbled, his voice now deeper, the once-present lisp vanished, "my head feels all funny and shit"

Ashton stared blankly at Jessica, his eyes losing their usual sparkle of wit and intelligence. The transformation had begun, and he was becoming increasingly aware of changes happening to his body.

His pride outfit, meticulously planned and vibrant, swiftly morphed into something entirely different. The glitter and bright colors faded away, replaced by a smelly tank top clinging to his burgeoning muscles and athletic shorts that reeked of sweat and the gym floor.

A surge of energy flowed through Ashton, igniting a transformation that defied belief. Muscles that had been barely noticeable before now swelled and expanded. Pecs emerged where there was once a flat chest, defined and powerful. Abs rippled into existence, carving lines across his abdomen that had previously been smooth. His biceps, triceps, and lats bulged with newfound size and strength, each muscle group accentuated by the growing definition and mass.

Even his legs ballooned with muscle, thighs thickening and calves sculpting into powerful forms. Ashton felt the weight and strength of his transformed physique, a stark contrast to his former self.

Jessica watched with a mix of awe and amusement, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Looking good, Ash," she remarked, her voice filled with a knowing amusement.

Ashton blinked again, trying to comprehend the radical changes he was experiencing. The fog in his mind persisted, making it difficult to grasp the full extent of what had happened. He flexed experimentally, feeling the power in his newly muscular frame, a strange blend of confusion and a burgeoning sense of self-assuredness washing over him.

Jessica looked at Ashton's boyish, babyface. "Oh, this won't do" retrieving a gaudy, oversized gold necklace from her purse. Its ostentatious design shimmered under the dim light of Ashton's apartment, catching the eye with its exaggerated opulence.

"Behold this token of swagger and noise," Jessica proclaimed theatrically, holding the necklace aloft, "from gold's glint I summon a jock's poise. With this necklace, I bestow the brash and bold, transforming their essence to fit this mold!"

Ashton stared at the necklace dumbly, his vacant expression betraying the confusion swirling in his mind. Without a word, he reached out and took the necklace from Jessica's outstretched hand, the chain clinking softly against the pendant as he clumsily put it on.

Instantly, Ashton felt a shift within himself. His previously boyish charm and hint of baby fat seemed to melt away, replaced by a jawline that sharpened and chiseled into a more rugged, masculine form. His features morphed, taking on a douchey fratbro aesthetic—strong, angular, and exuding a cocky arrogance.

A dumb, cocky grin spread across Ashton's face, permanently plastered there as if it belonged. He blinked slowly, his gaze settling into a new-found swagger that seemed to emanate from his very core.

Jessica clapped her hands in glee, delighted with the transformation she had wrought. "Perfect!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mischief and satisfaction.

He flexed unconsciously, admiring the rippling muscles that now adorned his once slender frame, reveling in the newfound sense of confidence that coursed through him.

Ashton's mind felt like a jumbled puzzle, scattered pieces that refused to fit together. The once sharp and witty thoughts were now elusive, slipping through his grasp like sand. He blinked slowly, feeling a disorienting fog settling over his consciousness, blurring the boundaries between clarity and confusion.

The Lady Gaga song that had been pulsing through his apartment suddenly shifted, morphing into a Kanye West track. Ashton let out a dumb chuckle, finding humor in the unexpected change, though he couldn't quite remember why.

He ambled over to the TV, his movements clumsy yet filled with a strange new energy. With a sluggish movement, he flicked on the screen, the bright colors and exaggerated personas of a WWE match captivating his attention instantly. Ashton hollered and shouted at the screen, his voice loud and boisterous, caught up in the drama unfolding before him.

In the midst of the chaos on TV, Ashton forgot all about the Pride parade he had eagerly anticipated just moments ago. The vibrant colors of his carefully planned outfit faded from his memory, replaced by the primal excitement of the wrestling match playing out in front of him.

His phone buzzed with messages from friends asking where he was, but Ashton barely registered them. His focus was consumed by the spectacle on TV, his laughter and shouts echoing through the apartment, drowning out the outside world.

His demeanor shifted, becoming more boorish and oafish. He lounged on the couch, spreading his legs wide in a blatant display of dominance, taking up as much room as possible. It was a gesture that seemed to amplify his newfound sense of entitlement and arrogance. Gone was the consideration for others' space or feelings. Ashton's behavior began to border on jerkishness, his actions driven by a need to assert his presence and dominance in every interaction.

Memories jumbled themselves in Ashton's mind, reshaping his sense of self. Thoughts of kissing boys and celebrating Pride blurred into a desire to appear as the hottest, biggest guy around.

Ashton's memories twisted and warped before his eyes, leaving him feeling disoriented and confused. The once-vibrant images of Pride parades filled with rainbows and joy were now replaced by hazy recollections of hooking up with random girls at a frat house. His mind fixated on the idea that he was no longer attracted to men, but instead found himself drawn to women - specifically Jessica, whose breasts seemed even more alluring than before.

A growl escaped Ashton's throat as he tried to make sense of these newfound desires. He couldn't help but notice how her chest heaved enticingly under her tight top, causing an unfamiliar stirring in his pants. His cock began to harden rapidly, growing thicker and longer until it stood proudly at an impressive 12 inches long - a size that would make any man envious. The thick shaft felt almost painful as it stretched the confines of his jeans, begging for release.

"Hey, Jessica," Ashton called out with a cocky grin, flexing his newly muscular arms for her. "You like the gun show, babe?" His voice had taken on a deeper tone, laced with a self-assuredness that bordered on arrogance.

Ashton's transformation was nothing short of staggering. His once-average physique had been replaced by a chiseled masterpiece, every muscle defined and bulging beneath his tight tank top. Jessica couldn't help but stare at the impressive display of masculinity before her, her eyes tracing the contours of his newly sculpted abs and pecs.

"Oh my god," she breathed out, squeezing one of his biceps gently. "You look incredible." Ashton flexed for her again, enjoying the way she ogled him like he was some kind of sex god. "Almost perfect, Ashton" she cooed in admiration. Ashton's cocky grin widened as he heard Jessica's statement. "Who the fuck is Ashton?" he asked, clearly unaware of who he truly was beneath all that muscle and bravado.

Ashton's commanding tone left no room for argument as he turned to Jessica, ordering her around like a loyal dog. "Grab me a beer, babe," he grunted before adding with a smirk: "Then you can suck my cock."

Jessica couldn't help but feel her heart race at the thought of pleasing him in such an intimate way. She nodded eagerly, unable to resist his charm or the allure of his massive cock. "Anything for you---Zeke" she replied breathlessly before hurrying off to fetch him a beer from the kitchen.

As soon as he heard the name "Zeke," everything clicked into place for Ashton. He was Zeke - a 26-year-old obnoxious douchebag who partied hard and fucked even harder. Memories flooded his mind of hooking up with whatever slut was dumb enough to give him the time of day, treating them like disposable playthings once he got what he wanted from them.

His behavior had always been obnoxious, but now it seemed even more so in retrospect. He loved nothing more than showing off his muscles at the gym or flexing in front of mirrors, admiring how much bigger and better he looked compared to everyone else around him. And when it came to women? Well, they were simply there for one thing - his pleasure - and once that need was satisfied, they could go back to being nothing more than background noise in his life.

Zeke couldn't help but feel a sense of pride at who he had become since becoming Zeke again; an unapologetic alpha male who took what he wanted without remorse or regret.

As Jessica returned with two cold bottles, Zeke took one from her hand and downed it in one gulp. He then motioned towards his crotch with his head, indicating that it was time for Jessica to put her mouth where her mouth was - literally. With trembling hands, she undid his belt buckle and unzipped his jeans before taking out his impressive member - hot and throbbing with anticipation. Without hesitation or any sense of shame or regret, Jessica wrapped her lips around Zeke's cockhead and began sucking him off like the obedient slut that she truly was. The moment he came, she'd be out the door.