My Roommate Spencer Has Always Been The Nice Scrawny Nerdy Type. A Bit Of An Activist, Straight Ally,

My roommate Spencer has always been the nice scrawny nerdy type. A bit of an activist, straight ally, always in his books when he's not making a sign, always empathetic. The only thing is that he's taken up an interest in the frats on campus after he met this bro during one of his usual runs in the gym.

The guy came from some fraternity that practically stands against everything Spencer stands for! I told him about it, but he said I shouldn't judge a book based on its cover and that the guy was really friendly. I really hope nothing changes between us...

As you enter your apartment, Spencer's presence immediately captures your attention. He's sprawled out on the couch, legs wide apart in an exaggerated manspread, sipping on a beer—a sight that surprises you since you can't recall the last time you saw him drink. The TV blares at its highest volume, broadcasting a football game, and Spencer is fully engrossed, chanting loudly, "Let's go Philly! Let's goooooo!" with his fist pumping in the air.

Taking a closer look, you notice something unsettling about him. Spencer seems larger than before, his muscles more defined, his shoulders broader like that of a linebacker. But it's not just his physical appearance that strikes you; there's a noticeable change in his demeanor too. He appears… simpler, less sharp-witted than usual.

"Hey, man. What's up?" you greet him, setting down your bag.

"Watching the game, bro. You should join. Beers in the fridge," he grunts in response.

You sigh, shaking your head slightly. "Oh, that's fine. I'm not really into football—or beer. I didn't think you were either."

"Dude, what are you talking about? I love football and beer, bro! Especially my man Zeke's home brew. It's sick. You should try it," he insists, his tone unusually forceful.

"I don't know," you reply, unsure of how to respond to his insistence.

Spencer suddenly stands up, towering over you at least 6'4" now, his demeanor more imposing than you remember. "That wasn't a question, dude," he says, walking towards you. You feel a knot of unease forming in your stomach. "Open up, bro," he commands, grabbing you and forcefully pouring the beer down your throat.

You choke and gag as the liquid hits your throat, and you involuntarily let out a loud burp right in Spencer's face.

"That was sick, dude," he says, laughing as if it's all a big joke.

"What—what—why do I feel so weird?" you manage to say, feeling disoriented and dizzy.

"It's the brew, man," Spencer replies casually, though his words seem muffled and distant to you. "It's going to help you fit in."

As he speaks, an intense headache suddenly grips you, as if someone has slammed a football helmet into your head repeatedly. The pain is overwhelming, and you struggle to focus. Football plays, statistics, and scores flood your mind, pushing aside your usual clarity of thought. It feels like your brain is being reshaped, rewired into something… different.

You stumble back, trying to make sense of the confusion swirling in your mind. Spencer's words continue to echo faintly, but you can barely comprehend them. The headache throbs relentlessly, and despite your efforts to resist, you feel yourself succumbing to whatever strange influence that beer seems to wield.

A sensation starts to wash over your body. It begins with a subtle warmth spreading from your core, as if a furnace has been ignited within you. This warmth intensifies into a radiant heat, enveloping your muscles and skin, making you acutely aware of every inch of your body.

Your chest tightens slightly as you feel it begin to expand, muscles beneath your skin pulsating and growing with newfound strength. Each breath feels deeper, more powerful, as if your lungs are expanding to accommodate the changes happening within. Your abs tighten and firm up, the muscles contracting and defining themselves with a chiseled precision you've never experienced before.

Moving down your arms, your biceps and triceps swell noticeably, filling out with solid, sinewy mass. As you flex your arms, you can see the veins standing out prominently beneath the surface, a testament to the increased blood flow and muscle development. It's as if every fiber of your being is responding to an unseen command, transforming your physique into something more robust, more powerful.

Simultaneously, your legs grow thicker and more muscular, each muscle group defined and strengthened. The sensation of power surges through your thighs and calves, making you feel grounded and steady. Your legs feel like they could propel you forward with incredible force, a newfound agility and strength coursing through them. Your mind is bombarded with memories—vivid recollections of intense workouts with Spencer. You remember the sweat-soaked gym sessions, the grueling sets of weights, and the challenging runs. Spencer's voice echoes in your mind, urging you on, pushing you to your limits. The heat radiating from your body intensifies, almost as if the memories themselves are fueling this transformation. You remember the weightlifting sessions in Spencer's makeshift gym in the apartment. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of sweat and iron. You pushed through sets of bench presses and squats, your muscles burning with exertion. Spencer egged you on, his voice mixing with the clinks of weights and the grunts of effort, the stale air of the gym lingering in your mind and in the air around you. You blink, trying to shake off the disorienting sensation, and as your vision clears, you notice the transformation of the room. Empty beer cans litter the floor, scattered haphazardly around a new gaming console that gleams under the dim light. Pizza boxes, once filled with greasy remnants, now lie discarded and crumpled.

You shake your head, trying to clear the cobwebs from your mind. As you look around, you notice that the posters on the wall have changed. Cheerleaders and famous actresses wearing barely any clothes now adorn the space, their images taped half-hazardly to the walls. One in particular catches your eye - Sabrina Carpenter.

"Damn," Spencer says, pointing at her picture. "She's fucking hot right? Don't ya just wanna shove her to her knees and have her suck your dick?" You blink in surprise; this isn't like Spencer at all. He never talked like such an asshole before… but then again, maybe it is him? The way he grunts and leers at Sabrina Carpenter makes it seem more likely than not that this really is Spencer… only different somehow.

"That's it bro," he continues with a grunt of satisfaction as if reading your thoughts correctly. "Let all those pathetic faggy thoughts just fade away bro." You stare at him blankly for a moment before realizing what he means by 'faggy'. This isn't just any change; this is a complete transformation – both physical and mental – into someone who doesn’t even remotely resemble who you used to know as Spencer.

You blurt out, "Yeah, bro. She's so fucking hot." Immediately, you cover your mouth with one hand as if to hide the words that just came out of it. But it's too late; they've already been spoken.

As you stare at Sabrina Carpenter on the poster, something strange happens within you. A warmth spreads through your body and settles between your legs where a growing bulge begins to form beneath your jeans. It starts small but quickly grows larger and harder by the second until it feels like an iron rod is pushing against the fabric of your pants. The very idea of being gay washes away as if it never existed in the first place – replaced by this overwhelming desire for female flesh wrapped around a cock.

And on the couch where Spencer sat moments ago, there's now a worn-out, ratty piece of furniture, a testament to the passage of time and the changes that have unfolded.

As Spencer tosses you the sweat-stained tank top, gym shorts, and baseball cap, you take them without hesitation, slipping into the familiar attire. The tank top fits snugly around your newly bulked-up chest and arms, while the gym shorts hang comfortably on your powerful legs. The baseball cap sits low on your forehead, casting a shadow over your eyes, so you turn it around like the bro you are.

As you dress, you feel a subtle shift in your demeanor. Your expression morphs into that of a typical "dumb bro"—a confident smirk playing on your lips, eyes slightly narrowed with a laid-back, carefree attitude. It's a look that speaks of muscle-bound bravado and a penchant for partying.

"Thanks, man," you say with a grin, raising your hand for a high five. Spencer reciprocates eagerly, the sound of your palms meeting echoing briefly in the room.

"This party is going to be sick," Spencer declares with enthusiasm, and as he speaks, memories begin to flood your mind. Images of rushing the Beta Rho Omicron House—B.R.O. for short—flash vividly before you. The brotherhood of the B.R.O. boys, renowned for their muscular physiques and wild parties, fills your thoughts.

Suddenly, memories flood your mind. Wild frat parties where you got blackout wasted and hooked up with random hot chicks. Talking about your gains at the gym with your bros, laughing as they high-five each other over their latest conquests. You realize that this is who you've become – a dumb frat bro who lives to party and pick up chicks. There's no room for anything else in this new reality; there's only one person who could ever understand or accept this version of yourself. You've become a dumbass bro. You love your muscles and the way they make you feel powerful. Your cocky attitude is second to none, and nothing gets you going quite like showing off for the ladies or getting drunk as shit with your bro Spencer. The thought of another night filled with beer, boobs, and bad decisions makes your heart race in anticipation.

You nod to Spencer, a knowing grin on your face, ready to embrace the night ahead with the same fervor and enthusiasm that has defined your time with the B.R.O. boys.

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!

Born Proud on the 4th of July-500 Follower Story

Milo Higgins stood tall and broad-shouldered in his backyard, a picture of American pride and muscle. His olive-drab t-shirt strained against his chest, showcasing his rugged physique honed by years of military training. The yard was a sea of American flags fluttering in the summer breeze, interspersed with military memorabilia and a meticulously maintained home gym in one corner.

As the football game blared from the outdoor television, Milo hollered over his shoulder, "Suzie, bring me another beer and some wings!" His voice carried a gruff authority, a remnant of his military command style. He believed in traditional roles, firmly believing women belonged in the kitchen and that his word was law in his domain.

His routine was disciplined and intense. He woke at dawn for his military-style workouts: push-ups, pull-ups, and weights, all executed with a grim determination. His evenings were spent watching football, wrestling, and Fox News, occasionally barking orders to Suzie or grumbling about politics.

Today was special—a Fourth of July party for his military buddies and their families. The guests began to arrive, a mix of fellow servicemen and their children. Among them was Julio, Suzie's best gay friend and Milo's least favorite person on Earth. Julio, always impeccably dressed and effortlessly charming, greeted Suzie with a warm hug.

"Hey Suzie, you look amazing!" Julio said with a wide smile.

"Thanks, Julio! So glad you could make it," Suzie replied warmly. She turned to Milo, gesturing towards Julio. "Milo, this is Julio."

Milo glanced at Julio with thinly veiled disdain before muttering, "Hey," and quickly walking away towards the grill where he flipped a few burgers with unnecessary force.

Julio followed him, undeterred by Milo's cold reception. "Hey, Milo, happy Fourth! Thanks for having me over."

Milo grunted in response, not making eye contact as he adjusted the heat on the grill.

Julio persisted, maintaining his congenial demeanor. "You know, Suzie talks so highly of you. It's great to finally meet you."

Milo turned abruptly, fixing Julio with a steely glare. "Listen, Julio. I don't need you putting ideas in Suzie's head, you hear me? She's my wife, and what she thinks ain't your concern."

Julio raised his hands placatingly. "Hey, man, I'm just here to celebrate, like everyone else. No worries."

Milo's jaw clenched, his dislike for Julio simmering just below the surface. "Just watch yourself," he warned, before turning back to the grill, effectively ending the conversation.

Julio's face fell as Milo launched into a tirade, his words stinging like a slap. "Listen here, you little punk. I don't care what you think about me or my wife. Just keep your filthy mouth shut and stay away from her. You're nothing but a damn faggot, Julio! And your woke politics can go straight to hell. This country was built on traditional values, not your queer ideals. And don't even get me started on how much of a hypocrite you are. You come into our home acting like some kind of saint when really you just want to corrupt my wife with your perverted lifestyle."

He couldn't believe the man was so narrow-minded and hateful. Suzie had always spoken highly of him, but it seemed she was married to someone who couldn't accept the truth about people or their relationships.

As Julio tried to gather his thoughts, he glanced over at Suzie, hoping for some sort of support or understanding from her. But she just looked uncomfortable and embarrassed by her husband's outburst. It hurt Julio to see her like that; he knew how much she loved Milo despite his flaws.

Taking a deep breath, Julio decided it was time for action. He wouldn't let Milo get away with this kind of behavior without consequence—not if it meant hurting Suzie in the process.

Julio sighed inwardly but plastered on a smile as he rejoined Suzie and their friends, determined not to let Milo's hostility ruin the festive atmosphere.

Neither Milo nor Suzie knew that Julio practiced brujería, a tradition steeped in mysticism and rituals. Julio, despite his charming exterior, had a deep knowledge of spells and hexes passed down through generations of his family in Mexico. Among his abilities was the art of cursing objects, infusing them with intentions and consequences.

As the Fourth of July party continued, Julio spotted Milo at the grill, his usual stern expression etched on his face.

Julio, frustrated with Milo's dismissive attitude and simmering hostility towards him, decided to take matters into his own hands. He knew he had the power to influence outcomes through brujería, and with a mix of irritation and determination, he focused his energy on the bottle of beer in his hand. Under his breath, Julio muttered an incantation, his eyes briefly glowing with a faint, otherworldly light:

"Por los poderes de la luna y el fuego, Transformo esta cerveza en un maleficio. Que el odio y el desprecio de este hombre hacia los gays, Se vuelva en su contra como una maldición.

Con cada sorbo de esta bebida, Su masculinidad tóxica se desvanece. Se transformará en lo que más desprecia, Un estereotipo gay que lo abochornará."

With a subtle wave of his hand, Julio completed the enchantment and then approached Milo, offering the beer with an inscrutable smile.

"Hey, Milo," Julio greeted with a disarming smile, holding out the beer. "I brought this from my hometown in Mexico. It's one of the best beers you'll ever taste."

Milo looked at the bottle skeptically. "I don't know, Julio. I'm not really into Mexican beers. Today's about celebrating America, you know?"

Julio's eyes glinted momentarily as he maintained his pleasant demeanor. "Come on, just try it. It's a gesture of peace between us."

Milo hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright, fine. But just this once." He took the bottle from Julio's hand and popped the cap, taking a long swig.

As the cold beer flowed down his throat, Milo felt a strange sensation. He coughed suddenly, suds spilling over his lips and onto his shirt. Julio watched closely, concealing a small smile as he subtly chanted under his breath:

Milo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unaware of the subtle changes beginning to take place within him. A warmth spread through his chest, and an inexplicable feeling of lightness replaced his usual heaviness.

"What did you put in this beer, Julio?" Milo asked gruffly, his voice sounding slightly different, softer.

Julio chuckled lightly. "Just some magic from my homeland. Enjoy it."

Milo frowned, feeling strangely vulnerable yet oddly at ease. He glanced down at his beer-stained shirt and then back at Julio, who was still smiling warmly. The party continued around them, unaware of the subtle transformation unfolding within Milo Higgins, the patriotic soldier who suddenly found himself questioning the very ideals he had staunchly upheld.

Milo Higgins felt an intense heat surge through his body, as if an internal inferno had been ignited. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced—his muscles, once rippling and defined, now pulsed and trembled. His biceps, which had strained against his olive t-shirt, began to shrink, losing their mass and definition. His abs, once a symbol of his strength, softened and became less pronounced. Even his pecs, once proud and prominent, faded away under his shirt. His legs, accustomed to carrying his imposing frame, lost their bulk and power.

Panic gripped Milo as he felt himself getting weaker and weaker. He looked down at his hands, which seemed smaller and more delicate. He felt a strange sensation of shrinking, inch by inch. At 6'3", he had always towered over others with a commanding presence. Now, as he shrunk, inch by inch, fear washed over him. At 5'4", he looked around in horror at the people around him, who suddenly seemed taller and more imposing.

The beer can slipped from his weakening grip, clattering to the ground. Milo stumbled towards Julio, his voice trembling with fear and confusion. "Wha… what did you do to me, you freak?" His Adam's apple shrank, and his voice emerged with a distinct effeminate lisp, each syllable peppered with uncertainty. "Wha's wrong with my voice?"

Julio met Milo's panicked gaze with a coy, sinister smile. "Oh, nothin' Miley," he replied casually, drawing out Milo's new name with deliberate playfulness. "Just thought you needed a taste of your own medicine."

Milo's hands shook as he touched his softer, smaller features, a mixture of disbelief and horror etched across his face. His mind raced with questions and fears about what had happened to him. The once imposing soldier now stood before Julio, diminished and vulnerable, his identity and masculinity in flux.

Milo screamed, "No, no, no! You have to thtop thith! Where are my muthtcles? What'th happening to me?"

Julio smiled maliciously. "Hush now, little guy. You won't have to worry much longer. The mental changes will soon make you exactly what you hate—exactly what you made fun of in the past. Now, I'm not sure what exactly you'll become. Your own mind will take you down that row. But it seems like you think---or thought, that all gay men are whiny, short effeminate little twinks. How fun" But the time you're doing you'll be---" He leaned in close and whispered menacingly, "The perfect gay."

Milo tried desperately to resist but couldn't shake the feeling that his own mind was taking him down a path he never wanted to go on. The changes were becoming more apparent, he realized that Julio had been right all along—he was becoming everything he had once despised.

As Milo Higgins stood there, his mind began to undergo an even more profound change. It was as if a bright light bulb in his head, not that it was ever very bright to begin with, was gradually dimming. The thoughts and memories that once defined him—anger, resentment, and a rigid adherence to stereotypes—started to shift and rearrange themselves.

Milo's face contorted in confusion and fear as Julio spoke. "Twinks? What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know, Milo. The young, slender gay men who act very feminine and are often seen as objects of desire by older men." Julio grinned maliciously. "It seems like your own mind is going to turn you into the very thing you despise most."

Milo stared at Julio in horror, his body trembling with fear and uncertainty. He couldn't believe what was happening to him—or that he was even considering becoming something he had always despised so much.

Gone were the memories of military service, where he had prided himself on his strength and loyalty to his country. The camaraderie of college football days faded into the background, replaced by new memories and experiences that began to flood his consciousness.

Instead, Milo found himself recalling moments of activism and protest, standing up against unjust wars and marching alongside women and LGBTQ+ communities for their rights. He remembered the exhilaration of going to school for art, where creativity and expression took precedence over conformity. Acting in community theater brought him a sense of fulfillment he had never felt before, a stage where he could explore different identities and emotions.

Singing show tunes with his bestie Suzie and Julio replaced nights out with his former buddies, where they would rate women and boast about conquests. Drag race, musical theatre,

As Milo's mind rewired itself, he began to feel a newfound openness and acceptance. The rigid boundaries of his previous beliefs dissolved, replaced by a curiosity and empathy for others. He felt a stirring of attraction towards Julio, mixed with admiration for the confidence and courage it took to confront him.

As Milo's mind rewired itself, he began to feel a newfound openness and acceptance. The rigid boundaries of his previous beliefs dissolved, replaced by a curiosity and empathy for others. He felt a stirring of attraction towards Julio, mixed with admiration for the confidence and courage it took to confront him.

Milo's head spun as he noticed all the men around him—their muscles straining against their shirts, sweat glistening off their hot bodies. His straight self seemed to dissolve before his eyes; women suddenly seemed icky and gross compared to these strong, virile men. A lust built up within him as an emptiness crept throughout his big bubble butt—he needed to be filled by one of these sexy straight men!

The straight men around them began teasing Milo playfully now that they realized how turned on he was by them. They called him names like "sissy" and "faggot," laughing with Julio as they watched Milo blush in embarrassment. But the embarrassment only seemed to turn Milo on further; his dick started to get hard, leaking precum as he watched the muscular military men flirt with him shamelessly.

Julio quickly grabbed Milo's hand. Julio's touch on Milo's hand was electric, sending a jolt through Milo's body as he blinked in confusion. Suddenly, they were no longer in Milo's familiar Patriotic Pad of the Patriarchy. The surroundings shifted around them, and Milo's eyes widened in disbelief as American flags morphed into rainbow flags that fluttered proudly in the air.

They found themselves in the midst of a bustling gay nightclub, pulsating with vibrant music and colorful lights. Milo stood there, momentarily stunned, as the atmosphere enveloped him. The air was alive with laughter, dancing bodies, and an undeniable sense of freedom.

For a moment, Milo's thoughts flickered to Suzie, his blonde wife, and the plans they had for the Fourth of July party. But those thoughts quickly dissolved amidst the energy of the nightclub. He felt a surge of excitement and liberation that he had never experienced before.

As Milo looked around, he noticed people of all shapes, sizes, and genders embracing who they were without fear or shame. He saw barely dressed twunks with their abs on display; cute twinks flirting shamelessly with muscle bears; daddies in leather trying to score with hot muscular men in jockstraps. A lust burned within him—a horniness that couldn't be contained any longer. He always thought gay men were just horny sexual deviants looking for sex at every turn...and that's exactly what he was becoming.

He started to move with the music, his body swaying instinctively to the beat. A smile tugged at his lips as he let go of inhibitions he never knew he had. His movements became fluid, graceful, and filled with a newfound confidence.

Milo's demeanor shifted dramatically. He felt a surge of expressiveness and flamboyance bubbling up from within. His voice, once gruff and commanding, softened into a melodious lilt as he engaged in conversations filled with laughter and camaraderie.

Gone was the rigid masculinity and narrow-mindedness. In its place, Milo embraced his love for theatre and the arts with an enthusiasm that surprised even himself. He found joy in discussing plays, musicals, and the latest performances in town. His gestures became animated, his laughter infectious as he connected with others who shared his passions.

Milo's eyes sparkled with a mixture of wonder and excitement as he realized he was becoming the very stereotype he once dismissed—a cute, bubbly, theatre-loving, liberal twink. As Milo looked down at himself, he gasped in disbelief. His attire had transformed into cute booty shorts that accentuated his toned legs and a colorful tank top that hugged his newly slender frame. His face seemed to lose any hint of sharpness, aging backwards in time. The years dissolved before his eyes, smoothing out wrinkles and refining features into something more youthful and boyishly charming. His hair darkened and grew unruly, framing his face in a way that accentuated its newfound softness. His once rugged face seemed to soften before his eyes, losing any harsh edges as if time itself was rewinding.

His blonde hair darkened to a rich brown and grew unruly, framing his face in tousled curls that added to his youthful appearance. Milo's features became smoother, his jawline more delicate, and a deep brown tan spread across his skin, giving him a radiant glow.

In this moment of transformation, Milo's old name seemed to evaporate into the air, replaced by a new name that echoed through his consciousness—Ishaq. A deep, bronzed tan spread across Milo's skin, giving him a healthy glow that seemed to radiate from within. Memories flooded Ishaq's mind—days of arriving in America as an immigrant, navigating a new culture with broken English and a charming lisp.

Ishaq was proud of his Middle Eastern heritage, and his newfound identity as a cute, bubbly, theatre-loving, liberal twink felt both exhilarating and liberating. He embraced his sexuality and his cultural roots with equal fervor, a proud expression of who he was meant to be.

Beside him, Julio danced with infectious energy, their movements synchronized in perfect harmony. Ishaq wore a cute and flashy outfit that shimmered under the nightclub lights—a sequined jacket adorned with colorful patterns, fitted jeans that hugged his curves, and stylish sneakers that completed his ensemble.

In the midst of the music and laughter, Ishaq reveled in the freedom to express himself authentically. He twirled and spun with Julio, their laughter ringing out like a chorus of acceptance and love. For Ishaq, this moment was not just about embracing his new identity—it was about celebrating life, love, and the beauty of being true to oneself.

The nightclub throbbed with pulsing lights and a bass-heavy beat as Julio and Ishaq moved gracefully across the dance floor. Ishaq's outfit, adorned with sequins that caught the strobe lights, shimmered with every step he took. His Middle Eastern accent and gentle lisp were evident as he spoke passionately to Julio.

Ishaq leaned in close over the music, his eyes bright with excitement. "Oh, Julio, darling, do you thee how fabulouth thith night ith? The vibe, the freedom... it'th all tho ex-hil-arating!"

Julio grinned, matching Ishaq's enthusiasm. "You're right, Ishaq! You always bring such energy to the club. By the way, who's your ultimate drag queen from Drag Race?"

Ishaq's face lit up, his hands gesturing animatedly. "Oh, hon-they, it hath to be Sasha Velour! Thhe's tho creative and revolutionary, and her lip thyncheth are pure art!"

As they danced, the DJ seamlessly transitioned into a playlist of pop hits. Suddenly, the familiar beats of Beyoncé's "Single Ladies" filled the air. Ishaq gasped in excitement and turned to Julio, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Oh my God, Julio, thith ith my jam!"

Ishaq pulled Julio closer, their bodies moving effortlessly together to the infectious rhythm. In the midst of the pulsating music and swirling lights, Ishaq gazed deeply into Julio's eyes. "Julio, you know what? I can't help but thay it... you're the cuteth thing I've ever theen."

As the night progresses, Julio and Ishaq's flirtation escalates into something more. They begin to make out passionately, their tongues dancing in each other's mouths. Ishaq whimpers and begs Julio to take him, his eyes filled with desire. Julio smirks, knowing he has complete control over the situation.

Without hesitation, they rush towards the bathroom where they lock themselves inside. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoes through the walls as they lose themselves in their lustful desires. Ishaq moans loudly as Julio takes him from behind, pounding into his tight hole with unbridled force. He screams out "Yassss daddy!" begging for more of this rough treatment from his new lover.

When they finally reach climax together it's like an explosion - both men crying out in ecstasy at being so deeply connected physically and emotionally at this moment in time . After coming down off their high, Julio tosses a wad of cash at an exhausted looking but satisfied Ishaq saying "You were worth every penny boy ,I'll be sure tell my friends about your services." With that said, Ishaq forgets about being friends with Julio anymore .He was just another gay whore now who happened to have given him pleasure earlier tonight .

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.

What's with all these surfer dudes lately? I'm only trying to find a quiet spot on the beach, they're so obnoxious!

Dude. Bro. There's nothing obnoxious about this beach, this is a surfer bro paradise. You're just annoyed that you're not just like every dude bro here. Don't worry, we'll soon fix that, let's start with those silly little IQ points of yours.

As you soak in the sun on the sandy shore, dude, you start feeling something weird happening, like your brain's catching a gnarly wave outta town. It's like, whoa, your IQ points are like, dropping, man. You can almost see them tick down, like each thought is a like, little bubble popping in your head. It's all chill though, 'cause you're feeling this rush of bro vibes taking over.

Your muscles, bro, they're expanding like air pumped into a wave-ready surfboard. Every inch feels beefier, stronger, dude! You flex and you're like, "Whoa, check it out, my pecs are like, gonna burst through my tank!" You feel your biceps swelling up, pushing against the fabric of your tank. It's like they're trying to break free and show off their newfound size. The veins on your arms stand out more prominently, making it clear that you're not just any ordinary dude anymore. Your muscles are screaming for attention as they grow bigger and stronger by the second. You can feel the power coursing through your body, begging to be unleashed on something – anything! This transformation is incredible; you never thought something like this was possible. And then your biceps, they're all like, "Brah, I'm pumped! Let's catch some sick waves!"

Your voice, dude, it's booming across the beach now, full-on surfer bro mode engaged. You're yelling stuff like, "Yewww! That wave was totally epic, brah!" and "Catch ya on the flip side, dudes!" It's like, your words are echoing louder than the crashing waves, and you're stoked beyond words. You sound like a total bro, dude! Your voice is deep and booming, echoing across the beach as you shout out surfer lingo. Every word comes out with extra emphasis. You're totally oblivious to how dumb you sound; all that matters is feeling the power of your newfound muscles and letting everyone know about it. It's like you've become a caricature of yourself – but hey, if being a surfer bro means looking and sounding ridiculous while having fun in the sun, then sign us up!

And your face, man, it's transformed into this classic surfer bro look. Your grin is mega-watt, showing off those pearly whites like they're the shiniest shells on the beach. Your eyes? They're sparkling like the ocean at sunset, all chill and totally spaced out.

So yeah, bro, you're feeling it. The IQ's on vacation, muscles are maxed, and the surfer bro spirit? It's riding high, ready to catch whatever life (or the next killer wave) throws your way. Gnarly vibes, dude. Totally gnarly. Your abs are growing tighter and more defined with every passing second. They're like a wall of muscle, ready to protect your vital organs from any oncoming waves or potential shark attacks. Your pecs are pushing outward, making it difficult to contain them within your shirt – they're begging for attention and ready to be flexed at a moment's notice. Your legs have transformed into the perfect surfer legs; toned and powerful, able to support you as you ride those monster waves without breaking a sweat.

As your brain continues to catch that gnarly wave out to sea, dude, you're totally feeling those muscles bulging. Your biceps are like beach balls, pumped and ready to show off. You give 'em a flex and you're like, "Whoa, these guns are unreal!"

Feeling all fired up, you strut over to the beach bar, feeling like the hottest dude on the sand. Your shades are on, your tank top's hugging those gains, and you're ready to mingle with your bros and maybe scope out some fine beach babes.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot her. A hot blonde bimbo who's totally catching your eye. Suddenly, you're like, "Whoa, chicks are so hot, dude!" The moment you lay eyes on her, your heart skips a beat. She's the epitome of a surfer chick – blonde hair, toned body, and an attitude that screams "I'm not afraid to get wet!" Her bikini hugs her curves perfectly, leaving little to the imagination. As she walks past you, water dripping from her hair and down her body, you can't help but stare at how hot she is. Your dick instantly hardens in your board shorts; all thoughts of finding guys attractive have been replaced by an overwhelming desire to ram your cock into this beautiful woman. You turn to your bro and holler an obnoxious "Dude! Chicks are so much hotter than dudes!" before making a beeline for the blonde bombshell. You can't believe you ever found guys attractive, all you see are sissies and fags who don't know how to ride the waves or lift weights properly. Your newfound masculinity has completely erased any attraction towards men; they just seem weak and pathetic compared to your muscular physique and confident demeanor. In fact, every time you see a guy checking out another dude instead of focusing on catching some killer waves, it only reinforces your belief that they're nothing but sissies who should stick to their bubble baths and manicures.

You saunter over, your bro-cred in full swing, and you lay on the charm thick. "Hey there, sweetheart," you drawl with a grin. "You must be a mermaid 'cause you've got me hooked!" You throw in a wink for good measure, thinking you're smooth as the glassy waves at dawn.

She giggles, flipping her hair like a sea nymph. "Oh, you're such a charmer," she coos back, eyes sparkling like the ocean at high tide. "What's your name, handsome?"

You puff out your chest a bit more, reveling in the attention. "They call me Taj," you say with a smirk. "But you can call me Wave Rider tonight."

She laughs, a sound like seashells tinkling in the breeze. "I like your confidence," she purrs, leaning in a bit closer. "Maybe we could catch a wave together sometime."

As you get closer, you can't help but check out her ass – it's perfect! You grab her hips and pull her towards you, pressing your hard cock against her stomach. "Hey there, beautiful," you whisper into her ear. "I couldn't help but notice how hot you are." She giggles nervously before responding with a flirty smile. "Thanks… I think." You continue to grind against her as your hands wander up to cup her breasts through the fabric of her bikini top. "You know what?" You say as you lean in for a passionate kiss while grabbing one of those massive tits through the bikini top.

You pull away from the kiss, a smirk on your face as you whisper into her ear, "I'm going to fuck you so hard tonight that you won't be able to think straight." She giggles vapidly in response, clearly not taking your words seriously. Little does she know that once you take her back to your beach house and start pounding away at her tight little body, there will be nothing left of either of your brains – all that matters now is surfing and fucking. And with every thrust of your cock inside her wet pussy or every time she rides one of those massive waves onto the shore, another piece of their former selves disappears forever.

And just like that, dude, you're riding high on the surf of your newfound surfer bro charm. The sun's setting, the waves are crashing, and you're feeling like the king of this beach, ready to catch whatever (or whoever) comes your way. Totally epic, bro. Totally epic.

Hey there. A little bit about me? I'm a tall, mostly attractive actor from Iowa now living in New York. My chest hair won't stop growing, and I'm always cast as the awkward, gay comic relief in shows. I guess that's why I'm here. It's silly but I've always had a crush on The Situation and most of the cast of the Jersey Shore. I was hoping to rent one of seasons before I have an audition for a more manly part I'm going in for.

[Thank you so much to everybody who submitted requests! I have nothing close to the bandwidth to get to all of them, so this is going to be my final Be Kind Rewind post for the time being. I’ve got so many other types of stories I’m excited to work on as soon as I’m able, but I do apologize if your request wasn’t selected! Here’s a bit of a long one though, as a finale.

This is a gay-to-straight story. If you’re not into that, feel free to keep scrolling, but I bet you'll like it anyway. Read my G2S ethos here.]

You eagerly rip open your Be Kind Rewind delivery and a die falls into your hand. Oh yeah, their weird promotion thing. You toss it on the coffee table, not noticing that it lands on 5. You’re too busy pulling out the Jersey Shore tape you ordered, excited to have access to one of your favorite guilty pleasures and use it as research for a particularly manly role you’re hoping to score, which could finally break you out of being typecast as awkward and effeminate.

As you push the tape into your TV’s built-in VCR (that you could have sworn wasn’t there when you bought it), you realize it’s already at the end credits, so you hit rewind. While you wait for the tape to be ready, you decide to run your lines some more.

“Hey baby, why don’t you bring that fine ass over here?” you say, cringing at how utterly wrong those words sound coming out of your mouth. You sound like a nervous pre-teen at a school dance, not the overconfident douchebag that the part requires.

You clear your throat and repeat the line, trying to artificially deepen your voice when you say it.

“Hey baby, why don’t you bring that fine ass over here?” you say, your throat tingling as it delivers the words in a perfectly sultry, slurred bass, with a hint of a New Jersey accent. Holy shit! You nailed it!

“Hell yeah, bro!” you shout, pumping your fist, too excited to notice the uncharacteristic slang you unconsciously used. You decide to see if you can replicate the voice for the other lines on your sides, and each word comes out perfectly.

“You’re looking fly, my man,” you say, dapping up an invisible buddy. Fuck yeah, that line sounded even more perfect than the last one! The deep tones of your voice echo through the empty room. You don’t even notice as the color leaches from your pants and they grow baggy and thin. However, you can’t help but be aware of the cold sensation slithering across the back of your neck, wrapping around the front to form a tight circle that feels like a necklace chain. A golden metal knot at the end of the loop seems to be stretching the circle with its weight, pulling it down toward your shirt collar.

It never makes it to your collar. The neckline of your shirt begins to scoop lower and lower as the knot progresses downward, the crew neck becoming a V, expanding into a deep V, and eventually stretching into a drooping U that leaves your shirt loose and baggy, practically exposing your nipples. The necklace and the shirt seem to be racing toward your navel, and the shirt wins. The necklace gives up somewhere around your chest, the knot unfurling into a golden cross that rests between your slightly toned pecs. Conversely, your shirt collar goes all the way down to the bottom, splitting the fabric in two as the color fades to black and the edges sprout rows of metallic teeth, becoming a zipper.

Now, you consider yourself plenty attractive, but you still feel self conscious and exposed with your entire torso hanging out, even if you’re completely at a loss to understand how this is even happening. You link the zipper together and pull on the tab, trying to cover yourself with the strange new garment that has appeared on your body. But something stops you from zipping up too far past your belly button. You suppose you’re subconsciously afraid of getting your hand anywhere near the magical necklace that suddenly appeared on you. Sure, that must be it.

However, thinking of the necklace makes you freak out a bit, so you decide to try and take it off. When you reach up to unclasp it, your fingers thrum with energy and you feel a sudden urge to keep rehearsing your lines. Yeah… Maybe the getup will help you embrace the character.

“When you look like I do, bro, you don’t gotta fuck with dating apps,” you say. Although you were still perturbed, this line also came out perfectly. You decide to lean into whatever strange thing is happening because, even if it’s fucked up, you’re definitely getting this part. In fact, you’re even starting to move like your character. You just scratched your chest by reaching under the hem of your hoodie and exposing a strip of your abdomen in the process.

You repeat the line, hooking your thumbs under the open part of your zipper, flaunting your chest. As the last word rings out in a perfect, reverberating tone, your chest swells with pride. No, wait, it’s just plain swelling. Your toned chest becomes downright swole, like someone has taken a bicycle pump to your pecs. Six bulging abs surface from your stomach beneath them, forming neat rows while your biceps and quads inflate to twice their previous size.

Although the hoodie now clings more tightly to your expanding mass, you can still see your belly button if you look down. That’s how you notice the tribal tattoo inking its way in a curlicue pattern around your navel, licks of inking flame forming the shape of the Sun. You chuckle deeply. Thinking about the solar system, you laugh at the fact that this tattoo makes it seem like the world revolves around your abs. Hell, you think, if you had abs like that, you’d probably agree. Wait a minute… For whatever reason, you DO have abs like that. Fuck…

You walk over to the mirror, admiring your new physique. You flex, enjoying how your muscles bulge, even through your clothes. You’re flooded with a surge of confidence and you rub your crotch, thinking about how hot you look.

A deep tan color emanates from the tattoo around your belly button, engulfing your old skin tone in an orangey brown, spreading over your legs, chest, back, and even face. You give a little smirk, embracing the newfound changes. You notice that the expression is one your face has never made before. It’s contemptuous, commanding.

You’re an actor. You need to hone your craft. You try out a few more expressions that you’ve seen on sleazy guys at bars. Condescending. Seductive. Proud. Angry. Each one looks completely new on your face, yet perfect, probably because your bone structure has been quietly shifting to give you high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.

You rub your bulging muscles one more time, annoyed by how much hair covers them. You’d have to wax at least once a week if you wanted to show off this definition properly. However, as you rub, there is less and less hair rustling between your fingers. You lift up your hands to see baby-smooth patches of skin beneath where they rested. Enthused, you scrub your hands up and down your body, the hair vanishing like marker from a dry-erase board. Once, you’re done, you admire your perfectly smooth and shiny figure.

However, that hair as has to go SOMEwhere, as it turns out. Your armpits, which were feeling more and more resistance as you moved your hands, are now bristling with jet black hair. You lift up one arm and give a tentative sniff, your nose flooding with a ripe musk. You try to swipe the hair away with your hand, but it won’t budge. You shrug. Nothing a little Axe body spray won’t fix.

That thought surprises you, because you’re pretty sure you use a different type of deodorant. However, you suddenly can’t remember the brand. And the mist of Axe floating around the room certainly suggests you use it all the time. Oh well. Chalk it up as one more weird thing about this afternoon.

The hair growth as clearly also affected the top of your head. Your hair is growing out into haphazard spikes that jut from the top of your head, forming tapered cones that begin to shine as if they’ve been coated in a year’s worth of gel.

You look… ridiculous? No. Douchey? No. Fucking hot? Hell yeah, bro.

You return to your script, fiddling with your hair to give it the perfect spiky muss at the back.

“Bros before hoes, dude! You know that!” It sounds like your character really believes that line as it comes out of your mouth. And why wouldn’t he? Hoes might be a good distraction for a night of fun, but bros are for life. Your memories of dancing the night away at gay clubs begin to morph. You’re still dancing with a group of men, but now they’re all spray-tanned, juiced-up Jersey Shore rejects rather than fashionable young gays. And you’re still rocking a half-chub in your memory, but it’s from watching a female go-go dancer shaking her moneymaker on a platform, rather than you grinding up against some cute twink or other.

You groan deeply as the memory tugs against the core of your identity. You look hot now, and you’re gonna get the role, but you don’t want to lose EVERYTHING. But it’s too late. It feels like your mind is expanding, but not in a Limitless kind of way. Instead, each individual thought you have becomes much, much bigger, taking up more brain space than it used to. Your memories of ex-boyfriends, Pride parades, and anything even remotely gay begin to circle the drain of your cerebellum, washed away by just a few base urges. Partying. Playing beach volleyball. Hitting on chicks.

You grab your script again to recite a few more lines, but the words start swimming in front of your face. It’s not that you can’t read. It’s just that, suddenly, reading is the last thing in the world you want to be doing. A sudden craving for beer pops into your head. It's the biggest thought yet. It shoves almost everything else out, and you drop the paper on the ground, where it vanishes into thin air while the room around you transforms into a beachside cabana.

You emerge into the dusty sunset of the Jersey Shore, admiring a few hot babes in bikinis who wander by while you make your way to the store. You lift up your shirt to show off your abs to a few of the hottest ones.

You pick up two six-packs of beer at the store and, why the fuck not, a pack of condoms, along with some other snacks and supplies. You decide to hit up the clothing store on the way back for some new threads, because your impulses are ruling you like never before. As you head to the checkout, you spot the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. You almost drop your beer, she’s so hot. Your dick is already stiffening as you say, “Hey baby, why don’t you bring that fine ass over here?”