Through The Looking Glass---bro

Through the Looking Glass---bro

Atticus Conway, a 32-year-old art maven with a hipster edge, strolled into the contemporary art gallery, his attire a blend of vintage band t-shirt layered under a worn denim jacket, paired with well-worn Converse sneakers. His boss beckoned from the entrance, amidst the eclectic crowd that mingled beneath the soft glow emanating from the center of the room.

The gallery exuded a fusion of minimalism and sophistication, its white walls serving as a stark backdrop for abstract masterpieces. At its heart stood The Matrix—a sprawling lattice of translucent panels forming a walkable installation, pulsating softly with an ever-shifting spectrum of colors. Attendees, ranging from avant-garde eccentrics to sleek sophisticates, engaged in muted conversations and occasionally clinked glasses as they explored the transformative potential of the Matrix.

Atticus was drawn closer by the installation’s allure, its promise of blurring the boundaries between technology and personal expression. Some visitors had already ventured into The Matrix, their movements triggering dynamic responses from its structure. He observed cautiously, appreciating the installation’s energy and its impact on the gallery-goers.

Designed to accentuate the avant-garde spirit of the exhibition, the gallery itself was a work of art—clean lines and an expansive layout creating an experimental playground. As Atticus navigated through the crowd, the symphony of soft whispers, the hum of the Matrix, and occasional gasps of awe formed a backdrop to the artistic exploration unfolding around him.

The Matrix had been completed only moments before the opening—a testament to the eccentricity of its creator, an old man whose exacting instructions had been followed to the letter. Its otherworldly presence glittered and shimmered, a tunnel stretching infinitely through the gallery space, hinting at vague shapes and possibilities beyond its translucent panels.

Stepping forward with a glass of prosecco in hand, Atticus was the first to enter the walkway. The mirrors inside rippled and shimmered, reflecting his hipster persona back at him a thousand times over. Initially awestruck by the spectacle, he soon felt a peculiar sensation—a lingering feeling that the mirrors were watching him, even when he turned away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Atticus noticed something unsettling—his own reflection seemed to wear a twisted smirk, staring back at him with a gaze that felt intrusive. He dismissed it at first, attributing it to the immersive nature of the installation.

A few steps ahead, he encountered a large panel—a full-length mirror. As he approached, his reflection wiggled and vibrated unnervingly. Peering at himself, Atticus was taken aback by the expression on his own face—it seemed contorted into one of disgust, a stark contrast to his genuine admiration for the art surrounding him.

Attempting to look away, he was startled to hear a voice emanating from the mirror, mocking him with crossed arms and a sarcastic tone. "Don't look away… Look at yourself… God, you're boring…"

Turning around abruptly, Atticus faced his reflection, bewildered by the unexpected interaction. His mirrored counterpart rolled its eyes mockingly, a gesture that cut through the enchantment of the moment. "God, we've got our work cut out for us…"

Atticus Conway, caught in the bewildering depths of The Matrix installation, stared in horror as his reflection twisted into a sinister smile, its eyes seemingly glowing with an unnatural intensity. The once-familiar face now bore an unsettling expression that mocked him with a knowing smirk.

"So, pathetic Atticus," the reflection taunted in a voice that echoed eerily within the mirrored chamber. "But that's why I'm here—here to help. I can see into your very soul. Your desires. Your wants. Your fears. And most importantly, your rage. That fire burning in you."

"What the hell kind of trick is this?" Atticus shouted, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. He attempted to turn away, to escape the unnerving spectacle unfolding before him, but everywhere he looked, he was met with more mirrors, each reflecting his own image back at him, each bearing a different facet of his personality.

"Oh, there's no escaping now, baby boy," the reflection sneered, its tone dripping with malice. "I'm here to bring out the worst of you, but by the time I'm done with you, you—hah—you certainly won't think so."

Atticus' heart raced as he witnessed the reflections morphing before his eyes. They twisted and contorted, each portraying a different version of himself—a twink with styled hair and fashionable attire; a jock with a confident grin; a nerdy version with glasses and a book in hand; an overweight ex-jock struggling with his identity; a tougher looking black Atticus, a middle eastern Atticus with thick muscles; a desperate straight man clutching at his phone; a closeted young man hiding behind a facade; a frat bro with a swaggering attitude; an arrogant jerk with a sneer.

Each reflection seemed to delve into a fragment of his psyche, exposing vulnerabilities and hidden aspects of his persona that he had never acknowledged.

As Atticus Conway stood amidst the labyrinth of mirrors, the reflections before him began to laugh—a haunting, ominous sound that reverberated through the chamber. The mirrors around them pulsated in response, the soft glow intensifying into a crescendo of brilliant light.

Atticus instinctively raised his arms to shield himself as the mirrors burst with a deafening crash, shards of glass spraying in all directions. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, feeling the sting of glass against his skin despite his efforts to protect himself.

When he cautiously opened his eyes again, he found himself standing outside the art installation, amidst a stunned crowd of onlookers. They stared at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, murmuring amongst themselves about what had just transpired.

Blinking to clear his disorientation, Atticus noticed a small cut on his cheek from a stray piece of glass. He reached up to touch the blood, intending to brush it away, when a strange sensation coursed through his body—a surge of energy that seemed to pulse through every fiber of his being.

He let out a frustrated groan, feeling his blood pumping vigorously through his veins. His muscles began to tingle and swell, starting from his core. A heat spread through his stomach as his abdomen tightened and sculpted into a tight, defined six-pack, the muscles rippling beneath his skin.

Atticus gasped as he felt his pecs pulsate with newfound energy, growing and expanding, stretching his shirt taut over his broadening chest. His shoulders widened, his biceps and triceps bulging with strength. His lats flared out, emphasizing his athletic build.

His legs followed suit, his thighs thickening with muscle, his calves firming beneath his jeans. Even his feet seemed to grow slightly, yet miraculously, his clothes adapted seamlessly to accommodate the transformation.

Atticus couldn't help but flex involuntarily, testing the newfound power surging through his body. The sensation was both exhilarating and unnerving, a physical transformation that defied explanation.

As he stood amidst the bewildered crowd, Atticus felt a surge of confidence and vitality unlike anything he had experienced before. With a deep breath, he straightened his posture, his expression a mix of wonder and determination.

A sudden craving gripped him—a primal urge for booze. With a swagger that was uncharacteristic of the laid-back art maven, he pushed his way through to the bar, demanding rudely for a shot of tequila from the startled bartender.

"Give me a shot. Now!" Atticus barked, his voice laced with an entitled tone that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

The bartender hesitated for a moment, taken aback by Atticus' abrupt demeanor, but reluctantly poured him a shot. Atticus downed it swiftly, the fiery liquid burning down his throat and igniting a rush of adrenaline. He slammed the glass back on the counter and demanded another, then another, each shot fueling his sense of entitlement and privilege.

As the liquor coursed through his veins, his features seemed to shift—his jaw becoming more pronounced, his face taking on a chiseled and manly appearance. A widening nose and a scruffy beard began to form on his once-boyish face, while a deep tan spread across his exposed skin.

His demeanor turned cocky, exuding an aura of arrogance that was worlds away from his usual approachable nature. With a burp that echoed through the bar after his final shot, Atticus leaned back, his eyes gleaming with a newfound sense of bravado.

The once-artistic Atticus now seemed like a caricature of bro culture, his clothes appearing garish and mismatched as if chosen to attract attention. His actions drew stares from other patrons, some amused and others bewildered by the sudden change in him.

Atticus leaned heavily on the bar, scanning the room with a self-assured grin. "Hey, bartender," he slurred, his voice tinged with bravado. "You ever seen gains like these?" He flexed his newly muscular arms, oblivious to the bemused looks around him.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond to this altered version of Atticus. "Uh, sure, man," he replied cautiously. "You hit the gym hard?"

Atticus launched into an intense monologue about his workout routine, detailing his protein intake and the hours spent sculpting his physique. His gestures became exaggerated, his voice booming with enthusiasm as he regaled the bartender with tales of his gym achievements.

But suddenly, a sharp pain pierced his temples. Atticus winced, clutching his head as if trying to ward off the throbbing ache. In that moment, he felt something slipping away—a passion for art, a knowledge of Picasso and Van Gogh fading like a distant tide.

"So, like, uh, this art is like pretty cool right? Like uh, I like uh---" Atticus muttered, his voice slurring. He tried to explain a painting from the gallery, but his words came out muddled and confused. "It's like, colors and stuff, man. You know?"

The bartender couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Yeah, I think I get what you mean."

Slowly, Atticus straightened up, he rubbed his temples, the remnants of his headache lingering. The bartender looked up from wiping the counter and smiled, his gaze lingering on Atticus for a moment before he spoke. "So, you enjoying your night?" His voice was warm and friendly, almost like he was genuinely interested in Atticus' response.

Atticus couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the question. It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying himself - far from it actually. But something about the way the bartender asked made him uncomfortable. Like there was an underlying tone to his words that made Atticus feel like they were flirting or something worse…

Without thinking, anger filled Atticus as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. He straightened up again and narrowed his eyes at the bartender in response to what felt like unwanted attention. "You fucking hitting on me bro? That's fucking gross dude! I'm not a fucking homo!" He slammed down his drink glass hard enough to make ice cubes rattle against each other loudly while glaring daggers at the man behind the bar who looked taken aback by this sudden outburst of rage from someone who moments ago seemed perfectly content with their company."Faggot!" He spat out before storming off into oblivion where even memories no longer exist.

With the booze and anger flowing through him, Atticus' smile turned into a cocky sneer. He strutted through the art gallery like he owned the place, his eyes scanning for any woman who caught his attention. And when he found one, there was no holding back - he grabbed her ass without hesitation or remorse.

As he passed through the gallery, Atticus continued to shamelessly flirt with every woman in sight. It didn't matter if they were interested or not; all that mattered was satisfying his own twisted desires at this point. But then something happened that threw him off balance: a random chick stopped him to ask about an art piece she didn't understand.

Atticus found the nerdy art chick, Emily, extremely attractive. Her glasses only added to her charm and he couldn't help but feel drawn to her intelligence as well. "Hey there, cutie. What's your name?"

"I'm Emily. And you are?" she says blushing.

Atticus just starts flexing and mumbles, "Oh, just a guy trying to get his dick wet. So, what do you think of this painting here? It looks like some abstract shit to me"

"That's not abstract art; it's actually an interpretation of the artist's feelings about the current state of politics in their country. The colors represent different emotions they experienced while creating it, and the shapes symbolize various issues they faced during that time period… haha...Sorry, but I can tell you don't know much about modern art techniques or concepts used by contemporary artists these days…"

"Fuck off you woke bitch! You think you know everything just because you wear glasses and read books all day long?! Go back to your little nerd cave before I punch those fucking glasses off your face!" Atticus shouts as he storms off to another bar, with a hot busty blonde waitress, leaving behind a trail of confusion mixed with humiliation within himself as well as those around them who witnessed this exchange between two people who couldn't be more different from each other socially speaking.

Atticus made his way to the next bar, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. As he approached, he noticed a ditzy blonde bartender with tight shirt barely containing her busty chest. She was giggling vapidly to herself as she wiped down the counter, completely oblivious to Atticus' presence.

Without hesitation, Atticus began flirting with her shamelessly. He leaned in close enough for their bodies to touch and started leering at her boobs which were on full display through her tight top. His voice grew deeper and developed an accent - it was clear that this man had lived a life far from luxury or education; one filled with hardship and struggle where language wasn't always properly taught or understood but rather learned through experience alone… And it showed in how he spoke now - thick brogue rolling off his tongue like honey dripping from a spoon onto freshly-baked cookies hot out of the oven… Delicious yet dangerous all at once…

"Hey there," Atticus drawled as he placed his order for another drink, "I ain't got no clue 'bout them art pieces ya got hangin' around here but I do know what makes me feel good…" He flexed slightly before continuing on about how dumb those 'art crap' are compared to what really matters in life: getting laid and having fun while doing so without any cares or worries holding you back because let's face it – we only live once so why waste time thinking too much when we could be enjoying ourselves instead?

The bartender, Amber, smiled brightly at him before introducing herself. "I'm Amber," she said sweetly as she leaned closer to him, her cleavage on full display through the tight fabric of her shirt. "And what's your name big guy?"

Atticus paused for a moment, his mind blank as he tried to remember his own damn name. Finally, after a few seconds had passed by without any answer forthcoming from him, he managed to muster up something that sounded vaguely familiar: "Uhhh… Jackson… yeah. Jackson Armstrong."

As they talked more about trivial matters, Atticus couldn't help but think back on his past - growing up in the south where church was mandatory every Sunday; attending college parties every weekend until dawn broke; being a 21-year old frat bro who would probably drop out soon as he now thought college was for losers. It all seemed so distant now compared to this new persona emerging within him – one filled with conservative ideals and passion for tradition above all else… His liberal ideals slipped into oblivion as easily as water down a drainpipe while Jackson took over completely.

"So Amber," Jackson drawled as he leaned in closer to her, his voice dripping with vapid entitlement, "you know what I think would make this night even better?" She shook her head no before he continued on with his plan: "I think we should go back to my place and continue our conversation there… Without all these distractions." He winked at her playfully while giving her ass a subtle squeeze.

As memories of pranking his bros in the frathouse flooded back into Jackson's mind alongside images of blackout drunkenness each night after partying hardcore, one thing became clear - southern pride was something that ran deep within him; it defined who he was at his core regardless if others liked it or not… And right now? Well let's just say Amber looked pretty damn happy about it all too.

As Jackson continued to flirt with Amber, his muscles flexed beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally finding someone who shared similar beliefs as him – someone who understood the importance of faith and tradition above all else… Someone who wasn't afraid to speak their mind even if it meant offending others in the process.

"I can't stand this woke bullshit," Jackson said passionately as he leaned closer to her, "It's like everyone wants to be a victim these days instead of standing up for what they believe in." Amber nodded her head in agreement before adding her own thoughts on the matter: "Exactly! It's about time people started speaking out against all this political correctness nonsense."

"You know what else pisses me off?" Jackson asked rhetorically while flexing again just for good measure, "All these damn snowflakes crying about how hard life is because they weren't born white or straight or rich or whatever else it is that bothers them nowadays…" He shook his head disapprovingly at society as a whole before continuing on with his rant: "But you know what? I wouldn't change a thing about being a white, straight republican man!"

The rest of the night was a blur for Jackson. One moment they were in the bar flirting and flexing, and then suddenly they found themselves back at his smelly frathouse… It didn't matter though because all that mattered now was fucking Amber senseless while belittling her every step of the way – being as crude and rude as possible just to get off on it all…

"You like that you stupid bitch?" He asked her between gritted teeth before slapping her ass hard enough to leave a red mark. She moaned out loud in response, begging him for more which only served to fuel his desire even further…

As he took in the football and wrestling trophies lining the walls alongside other mementos from his past glory days, Jackson grabbed a half-drunk beer from the side table before turning back towards Amber who lay naked on his bed with cum dripping down her leg. "You know what else would be fun?" He asked rhetorically while chugging down another swig of beer, "Telling everyone at school how much of a slut you are…" His voice trailed off into laughter which only served to further embarrass Amber even more than she already had been during their encounter together.

Jackson was the biggest asshole on campus – feared by nerds, lusted after by every chick, and loved by his frat bros. He was an awful conservative douchebag who always grunted in the gym while flexing his muscles; he truly believed himself to be God's gift to women… And it showed in how he treated them – with disdain and entitlement instead of respect or compassion.

As word spread about his encounter with Amber (which he made sure happened as soon as possible), Jackson couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally being able to humiliate someone else publicly just like they had done to him countless times throughout high school… It wasn't long before every girl on campus wanted a piece of him – whether it be for sex or simply attention from such an infamous figure at their university… And every guy? Well let's just say they all wanted to be friends with Jackson so that they could ride his coattails into popularity themselves without having any real skill or talent beyond being part of "the group".

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...

Just for Laughs

This story is heavily inspired, by the now defunct bouncyboytfs story, Straight Up Comedy. Which was one of my favorites of all time and got me into writing. The neon lights of West Hollywood flickered against the night sky, casting a vibrant glow over the bustling streets. Calvin Andrews, a 28-year-old grad student with a quick smile and a penchant for lively debates with online trolls defending the so called woke agenda, navigated through the Friday night crowd with an air of anticipation. Dressed in a casual yet stylish ensemble—a vintage band tee under a light denim jacket paired with slim-fit jeans and worn-in Chuck Taylors—he exuded the laid-back confidence of someone comfortable in their own skin.

Calvin had grown to love the sunny West Coast since leaving his East Coast hometown, finding a vibrant new community at UCLA where he pursued his dual passions in English and Gender Studies. His professors often praised his sharp intellect and unwavering dedication to his studies, qualities that were fueled by a deep-seated belief in social justice and equality. His love for literature spanned from the canonical works of Virginia Woolf and James Baldwin to contemporary voices like Roxane Gay and Audre Lorde, whose writings inspired his activism and shaped his worldview.

Outside of academia, Calvin was a prominent figure in UCLA’s LGBTQ+ community, serving proudly as the president of the Gay-Straight Alliance. Advocating for inclusivity and understanding, he dedicated himself to fostering a supportive environment where everyone could thrive. Music was another cornerstone of Calvin's life, his eclectic taste ranging from indie-pop sensations like Troye Sivan and Florence + the Machine to the introspective melodies of Sufjan Stevens.

Tonight, however, Calvin was eager to unwind and reconnect with friends over drinks in West Hollywood. Yet, unfamiliar with the labyrinthine streets, he found himself wandering off course as his phone battery dwindled. Spotting a promising glow ahead, he approached a lively bar, hoping for directions or at least a place to charge his phone.

Inside the dimly lit establishment, Calvin was greeted by the no-nonsense bartender who offered to charge his phone in exchange for staying to watch the comedy show and ordering a drink. Annoyed but realizing he had little choice, Calvin relented and requested a Vodka Cranberry, only to be met with a dismissive comment about "girly drinks." Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, he opted for a whiskey neat, settling into a seat as the bartender tended to his phone.

As he sipped his drink, Calvin’s attention was drawn to the stage where the next comedian made his entrance. A tall, muscular figure with a rugged charm and a broad smile, the comedian commanded attention with his Southern drawl and easy charisma. His dark hair was tousled, framing a face that radiated warmth and mischief in equal measure. Dressed in a simple black shirt and jeans, he exuded a casual confidence that immediately intrigued Calvin.

The crowd erupted into laughter as the comedian launched into his set, weaving anecdotes with razor-sharp wit and a touch of raunchy humor.

As the comedian delved deeper into his set, Calvin's initial intrigue turned swiftly into dismay. What began as harmless humor quickly morphed into a barrage of misogynistic and homophobic jokes that cut through the air with a venomous edge. The crowd roared with laughter, but Calvin felt a sinking sensation in his gut. "Now, I ain't sayin' women are dumb," the comedian drawled, his voice carrying easily over the laughter of the audience. "But have you ever seen a woman try to fix a car? It's like watchin' a blindfolded chimpanzee try to play Jenga!"

He squirmed in his seat, hoping to finish his drink and leave before the comedian's offensive routine could infect his evening further. But as the laughter grew louder, a dull ache throbbed in Calvin's temples. It felt as though a heavy fog was descending upon his mind, slowing his thoughts and dulling his senses.

Amidst the uproar, the comedian's voice cut through the haze, singling out Calvin with a mocking tone. "Big guy over here knows what I'm talking about!" the comedian exclaimed, pointing directly at Calvin. The audience chuckled as Calvin, bewildered, tried to comprehend the comment. He wasn't particularly muscular; in fact, his frame was slender from years of dorm food and late-night study sessions.

As Calvin sat there, bewildered by the comedian's unexpected focus on him, he felt an unsettling surge of energy course through his body. It started subtly, like a tingling sensation in his fingertips, but quickly intensified into something more profound.

First, he noticed his arms. What were once slender limbs now pulsed with newfound strength. His biceps, previously unremarkable, swelled visibly under his sleeves, each muscle fiber standing out in stark relief. The transformation seemed surreal, as if his body were defying the boundaries of what he knew possible.

His stomach tightened next, a sensation akin to his abdomen being sculpted from within. Calvin could feel the muscles beneath his skin contracting and tightening, forming a defined washboard of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 distinct abs. They appeared with startling clarity, delineating a newfound athleticism that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

Even his chest, once a featureless expanse, began to change. The fabric of his shirt stretched slightly as his pectoral muscles expanded, rising with newfound prominence. It was as though his entire torso was being reshaped, redefined into a physique that bore little resemblance to the Calvin of mere moments ago.

"Earth to meathead… earth to meathead," the comedian quipped, the audience erupting into laughter once more. The word 'meathead' echoed in Calvin's ears, his brain caught in a strange loop. His thoughts grew sluggish, as if encased in molasses, struggling to resist the comedian's words.

In that moment, Calvin's world seemed to shift. The audience's laughter blended into a distant hum, and the comedian's words resonated with an unsettling clarity. The room swirled around him as Calvin felt an inexplicable pull toward the stage, the comedian's charisma and authority casting a mesmerizing spell over his senses.

With each passing moment, Calvin's resistance waned. His mind, once sharp and critical, now dulled under the weight of the comedian's rhetoric. It was as though the jokes, laced with prejudice and disdain, were rewriting his perceptions, reshaping his reality.

As the comedian continued his routine, Calvin's gaze fixed on the stage, his expression slackening. The once vibrant grad student, advocate for social justice and equality, now sat transfixed, his identity slipping away like sand through his fingers.

As Calvin's physical transformation seemed to solidify, so too did the shift in his mental landscape. At first, there was a subtle fog creeping into his thoughts, blurring his once clear convictions and values. Laughter, loud and boisterous, erupted from his throat as the comedian spun crude jokes that would have previously repelled him. Calvin found himself guffawing at the very punchlines he would have condemned as offensive and insensitive.

The comedian, sensing a newfound ally in Calvin's transformed demeanor, launched into a tirade against what he mockingly termed the "liberal woke agenda." Panic seized Calvin momentarily; he knew this rhetoric contradicted everything he stood for. Yet, as the comedian continued his diatribe, Calvin felt an unsettling resonance with the words. The criticisms of political correctness and social justice initiatives began to make a twisted kind of sense in his altered state.

Slowly but surely, Calvin's mind underwent a profound metamorphosis. His once staunch progressive beliefs faded into the background, replaced by a growing skepticism and disdain for what he now saw as excessive sensitivity and moral righteousness. The comedian's words burrowed deep, reshaping Calvin's worldview with each passing moment.

He found himself nodding along to the comedian's rants, chuckling at the caricatured portrayal of "snowflakes" and "social justice warriors." The shift was disorienting yet strangely liberating, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Calvin's thoughts grew simpler, more black-and-white, aligning with the comedian's jabs at political correctness and cultural inclusivity.

The comedian paused for effect, his eyes scanning the audience before landing on Calvin. "You know what I hate about the woke agenda?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's all about being inclusive and accepting of everyone... except for straight white men! We're supposed to be ashamed of our skin color, our gender, and even our sexual orientation! Well, I say enough is enough!"

The crowd roared their approval as the comedian continued. "I don't care if you call me a bigot or a racist or whatever else you want," he said defiantly. "I was born this way - just like my love for country music and pickup trucks." He paused again, letting the tension build before delivering the punchline: "And if that makes me a bad person in your eyes? Well then... maybe it's time we stopped trying to force everyone into some politically correct mold!"

Calvin found himself nodding along once more, feeling a sense of camaraderie with this man who dared to speak truth against an oppressive cultural regime. The joke resonated deeply within him; it felt like validation for all those times he had been made to feel guilty or ashamed simply because of who he was.

When the comedian singled him out with a mocking jab— "Man, oh, man. I thought I was a douchebag, but you're loving it, meathead!"—Calvin barely registered the insult. Instead, he grunted in agreement, downing the remainder of his drink which had transformed into a beer, the amber liquid soothing his newfound sense of camaraderie with the comedian's perspective.

"Another one!" he hollered to the waitress, his voice carrying a newfound bravado. As the waitress returned with his drink, Calvin slouched comfortably in his seat, his once critical faculties now dulled by a haze of conformity to this new ideology. It felt easier to go along with the flow, to embrace the simplicity of the comedian's worldview rather than challenge it.

And so, amidst the laughter and applause of the crowd, Calvin Andrews—once a passionate advocate for social justice and equality—found himself transformed into something unrecognizable: a meathead, laughing heartily at jokes that once would have pierced his conscience, his mind now echoing with echoes of a worldview he never thought he would adopt.

As Calvin sat there, engulfed in the comedian's toxic rhetoric, the word 'douchebag' echoed incessantly through his brain. Each repetition seemed to reinforce a transformation that was unfolding before his very eyes. His thoughts grew muddled, his once sharp intellect now clouded by a burgeoning sense of entitlement and bravado.

Physically, Calvin felt a strange sensation ripple through him once more. His features seemed to shift subtly but unmistakably. His face hardened, acquiring a squared jawline adorned with a meticulously groomed chinstrap beard. His nose, once unassuming, grew slightly more pronounced, adding to the newfound aura of masculinity that seemed to radiate from him.

As his appearance morphed, so too did his sensibilities and personality. Calvin's hobbies and interests underwent a startling transformation. Gone were the days of poring over the works of Virginia Woolf or engaging in critical discourse on gender studies. The pursuit of knowledge and social justice gave way to a shallower existence, focused on more basic pleasures.

His academic aspirations shifted abruptly. No longer driven by a passion for literature and social change, Calvin found himself contemplating a business degree—a path he deemed more practical and financially rewarding. "College is just a stepping stone to better parties," he mused, a cynical smirk crossing his newly chiseled features.

His once eclectic taste in music narrowed to mainstream hits blaring from frat house speakers. The melodic musings of Troye Sivan and the introspective lyrics of Sufjan Stevens were replaced by pounding beats and lyrics devoid of substance but laden with machismo.

In conversations, Calvin now echoed the comedian's disdain for what he perceived as "liberal nonsense" and "PC culture run amok." His views on gender and sexuality grew rigid, laced with misogyny and homophobia that would have appalled his former self. He found himself making crude jokes and engaging in locker room banter, relishing the camaraderie of like-minded peers.

As Calvin's descent into this new identity deepened, he felt a strange satisfaction in his regression. The complexities of his former life seemed distant and irrelevant. He no longer remembered how to spell "Virginia Woolf," much less appreciate her literary genius. His vocabulary dwindled, replaced by a lexicon of bro-speak and corporate jargon.

But with each passing moment, the cacophony of his new life as a masculine conservative douchebag—grew stronger.

As the comedian's joke about his attraction to women resonated through the bar, Calvin felt a seismic shift within himself. It was as if a fog lifted, and suddenly, everything clicked: women were hot. This simple revelation seemed to rewrite the fabric of his existence.

In that moment, the pieces of his gay identity began to unravel. Memories of leading the Gay-Straight Alliance at UCLA, advocating for equality, and embracing his LGBTQ+ community faded like wisps of smoke. The vibrant nights out in West Hollywood, filled with laughter and solidarity, were replaced by scenes of testosterone-fueled football games and raucous frat parties.

Calvin's dorm room underwent a drastic transformation, shedding its previous décor of social justice posters and indie band artwork. In their place, posters of cheerleaders in provocative poses adorned the walls. The atmosphere shifted to one of hyper-masculinity, with empty beer cans littering the floor and the air thick with the scent of cheap cologne.

As Calvin struggled to reconcile this newfound identity, a name surfaced in his mind: Chaz Prescott. It was a name that embodied everything Calvin once scorned: arrogance, conservatism, and a relentless pursuit of female attention. Chaz was not just a new persona; he was a complete overhaul of Calvin's former self.

Chaz Prescott strutted confidently through the world, his speech peppered with crude jokes and objectifying remarks about women. He reveled in the attention of his fraternity brothers, engaging in locker room banter and boasting about conquests that existed more in his imagination than in reality.

Gone were the introspective moments and intellectual pursuits that once defined Calvin. Chaz scoffed at discussions of literature and philosophy, dismissing them as irrelevant to his pursuit of a business degree and the next weekend's party. His once sharp intellect dulled, replaced by a superficial charm and a penchant for shallow pleasures.

With each passing day, Calvin's transformation into Chaz Prescott seemed irreversible. The memories of his former life grew distant, replaced by a bravado that masked a deep-seated insecurity. He no longer questioned the comedian's crude jokes or the ideologies that once repulsed him; instead, he embraced them with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism.

As Chaz Prescott, he navigated a world where women were conquests to be won, and sensitivity was equated with weakness. The complexities of gender and sexuality were reduced to stereotypes and caricatures, and the vibrant spirit of Calvin Andrews faded into the shadows, a whisper of a past life that Chaz no longer recognized or acknowledged.

And so, amidst the laughter and approval of his new peers, Chaz Prescott—a creation born from a single joke—emerged as a symbol of everything Calvin had once rejected, a testament to the transformative power of identity and perception.

As the comedian wrapped up his set with a flourish of applause and laughter, the announcer's voice boomed through the venue: "Up next… you love him, you hate him… it's the king of the frat house… Chaz Prescott!" The name sent a jolt of recognition through the audience, eliciting cheers and whistles from those who knew the persona well.

Chaz, now fully embodying this brash and confident alter ego, flashed a cocky smirk to himself as he swaggered onto the stage. His presence commanded attention, exuding a blend of arrogance and charm that seemed to magnetize the room. Without missing a beat, he launched into the crudest, most provocative set of the night, each punchline hitting its mark with precision. "So, I was at this party the other night and I saw this girl wearing a 'Feminist' t-shirt. So, I went up to her and said 'Hey baby, is that an 'I heart dicks' shirt under there?' She got all mad and started yelling at me about how feminism isn't about objectifying women. And I just laughed and said 'Yeah, well you sure as hell aren't making it easy for us guys to respect you.'"

The audience erupted into stitches of laughter, hanging on Chaz's every word as he spun tales of exaggerated conquests and raunchy escapades. His delivery was impeccable, each joke laced with a raw energy that resonated with the frat house culture he now embraced. "But seriously folks, can you believe these woke snowflakes? They think they can come into our frat houses and try to change the way we think? Well let me tell ya something - we ain't going down without a fight! We are men! We like boobs! And beer! And sports!"

After his set, Chaz found himself surrounded by admirers, basking in the afterglow of his performance. Among them was a pretty blonde girl, her laughter still echoing from the front row. Chaz turned on the charm, flashing a smile that oozed confidence as he engaged her in conversation.

Gone was the introspective Calvin who once pondered the complexities of identity and social justice. In his place stood Chaz Prescott, a larger-than-life figure who reveled in the spotlight and thrived on the validation of his peers. As he bantered effortlessly with the blonde girl, Chaz felt a surge of adrenaline, reveling in the attention and adoration that came with his newfound persona.

Chaz couldn't help but notice the blonde girl's ample cleavage as she approached him. Her tits were like two perfect melons, begging to be squeezed and sucked on. He couldn't wait to get his hands on them, maybe even give her a little slap across those plump cheeks just to see if they jiggled.

As he engaged her in conversation, Chaz couldn't help but think about how much he wanted to teach this dumb feminist bitch what a real man was like. He imagined himself throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off into the night, fucking her brains out until she begged for mercy.

The girl was stunning - long blonde hair cascading down past her shoulders, big blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief, and lips painted red as cherries. She had an air of confidence about her that made Chaz want to take control even more. "So, what's your name?"

"I'm Lily."

Chaz just flashes his pearly whites "Well, Lily, I think it's time we got out of here. My frat is just down the street."

As they entered the frat house, Chaz couldn't help but feel a surge of power course through him. The room was filled with rowdy brothers, cheering and laughing as they watched on eagerly. He led Lily towards an empty pool table at one end of the room where several guys had already gathered around them.

"Alright boys," he shouted over their laughter,"This is my new friend Lily here - she wants us all to give her some pointers about how real men treat women!"

The room erupted into even louder cheers as several guys jumped up from their seats eagerly approaching them while others grabbed beers off nearby tables ready for whatever might happen next.

After a great set, there was nothing that made Chaz felt more powerful than ever. He loved the way his jokes made people laugh, but there was something even more satisfying about belittling fags and women. It made him feel like a real man - strong, dominant, in control. And nothing turned him on quite like that feeling of power coursing through him.

Without further ado, Chaz grabbed Lily by the waist and lifted her up onto the pool table. She squealed in surprise but didn't resist as he pushed her legs apart and positioned himself between them. He gripped her hips tightly, using them to control her movements as he thrust into her with forceful strokes that made the entire table shake beneath them.

As he looked down at Lily's big tits bouncing up and down with each thrust of his hips, Chaz couldn't help but grin devilishly. He gripped her hair tightly in one hand while using the other to slap her ass hard enough to leave a mark - all while maintaining his brutal pace on top of her.

The guys around them cheered him on, urging him to go harder and faster while they laughed at Lily's helpless moans of pleasure. It was clear that this wasn't about making love - it was about dominating a woman who had dared challenge their alpha male status.

I keep seeing a few of the university’s football players on Grindr and I don’t really get it. I’ve messaged them too and they get all offended if you ask if they’re gay. I just don’t get it and was hoping to understand why straight bros keep using Grindr

That's 'cause you're not on Grindr---you're on "Bro-ndr" As the letters on your phone rearrange themselves from "Grindr" to "Bro-ndr," you feel a strange jolt shoot through your body as if an electric shock has hit you. Your vision blurs momentarily, and when it clears, you find yourself surrounded by a multitude of jock bros. They vary in physique—muscular, lean, some even hefty—but all embodying different facets of the jock ideal.

"Huhahauh," you let out a laugh that surprises even yourself. "Duh. Bro-ndr is for connecting with your bros," you mutter, the words feeling oddly natural as they escape your lips. You realize with a start that you're hardly the same person you were moments ago. Another electric pulse courses through you, and suddenly, anything you studied in college feels like it's slipping away, replaced by a flood of business school basics and an overwhelming knowledge of football.

You find yourself inundated with football facts—plays, trivia, stats—you name it, it's there in your mind. Travis Kelce becomes your favorite player, and your allegiance firmly roots itself with the Kansas City Chiefs. The nuances of the game that once seemed distant and foreign now feel intimate and familiar, as if they've been a part of you all along.

You join in conversations effortlessly, discussing offensive formations, defensive strategies, and the latest game highlights with a newfound confidence. The intricacies of football strategy feel like second nature, and you find joy in debating the merits of different quarterbacks and the strategies of various coaches.

On Bro-ndr, you navigate with ease among fellow enthusiasts, swapping stories of games watched, fantasy league victories celebrated, and the occasional friendly debate over the best football movies of all time. You revel in the camaraderie of your newfound bros, sharing in the thrill of victories and consoling each other during defeats.

As you scroll through Bro-ndr, you realize that this app has transformed not just your interests but your identity. You've embraced the bro culture with gusto, finding fulfillment in the shared passion for football and the camaraderie of fellow jock enthusiasts. As the transformation takes hold, you feel an intense surge of power coursing through your body. Your once-average physique bulges with newfound muscles, each group swelling to a steroid-enhanced size. Your biceps expand to the dimensions of footballs, straining against the fabric of your shirt. Your stomach thickens into a heavily muscled gut, and your pecs swell outwards, defining your chest in a way you never imagined. Though your legs bulk up too, they remain somewhat neglected in comparison to your upper body, a reminder of your disdain for leg day.

Your facial features shift, taking on a heavier, more rugged appearance that matches your newfound physique. Your hair recedes into a tight jock cut, and your face changes into a nice lantern jaw. As you gaze into a mirror, the reflection staring back at you looks as dumb as you feel—yet strangely empowered by the brute strength and aggression pulsating through your veins.

A deep-seated rage begins to simmer within you, a simmering fury directed at anything that doesn't fit into your newly defined image of manliness. You find yourself picking on nerds, belittling anything perceived as less macho, and asserting dominance wherever you go.

On Bro-ndr, you engage eagerly with other bros in discussions about manliness, workout routines, and conquests of all kinds—both in the gym and with women. Messages flood in, inviting you to join raging frat parties and wild nights out where the alcohol flows freely. Despite any previous reservations, you find yourself compelled to join, craving the validation and acceptance of your newfound peers.

One particularly enthusiastic bro invites you to a nearby frat party. "Bro, you gotta come down, it's gonna be epic," the message reads. You feel a primal urge to comply, to immerse yourself in this world of superficial camaraderie and instant gratification. The prospect of a drink beckons, promising a temporary escape from the complexities of your former self.

As you head towards the party, you revel in the feeling of power and dominance that now defines you. The transformation may have been jarring, but in this new reality, you find a sense of belonging that fills a void you didn't even know existed.

As you step into the frat party, the chaotic scene unfolds before you. Red Solo cups are scattered across the floor, crunching underfoot as you navigate through the throng of people. The air is heavy with the smell of beer, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat and the distinct atmosphere of youthful revelry. Laughter and shouts echo off the walls, punctuated by the occasional burst of music that pulses through the crowded space.

Your buddies are already in full swing, crowding around a keg stand with raucous cheers and high-fives. You join in eagerly, grabbing a Solo cup and filling it with the nearest beer, which you down in a few large gulps. The alcohol hits you quickly, warming your chest and clouding your thoughts with a heady buzz.

"Yo Brody, what's up man?" Chad's voice cuts through the noise, accompanied by a friendly slap on the back. He grins widely, clearly enjoying the festive atmosphere. "I got this girl you gotta meet," he continues excitedly, steering you towards a group nearby.

Chad introduces you to Taylor, a blonde girl with a bright smile and a playful demeanor. "Hahaha, just like your hero Travis Kelce, he's dating that Taylor chick" you think. You chuckle along, feeling slightly out of place but willing to go along with the flow.

"Hey Taylor," you slur as you approach her, "let me show ya how a real man handles his drinks." You grab a bottle from the nearby table and chug it down in one go before slamming it back onto the table with a loud clang. The crowd around cheers at your display of bravado.

Taylor giggles appreciatively at your antics but doesn't seem entirely convinced yet. Undeterred, you decide to up the ante by challenging another bro to an arm wrestling match right there on the tabletop amidst all those watching eagerly for some entertainment during this drunken party scene filled with youthful revelry & debauchery .

As the party continues to rage on, you find yourself alone with Taylor in a dark corner of the room. The music is still blaring, but it's muffled by your heavy breathing and her moans. You've been eyeing her all night, and now that you have her alone, there's no stopping you.

You grab her by the waist and pull her closer to you as she giggles nervously. "What are we doing?" she asks between kisses on your neck. You don't answer; instead, you undo your pants and guide her hand towards your erection through the fabric of your boxers. She gasped at its size as it sprang free from its confines; clearly impressed by what she saw before them both!

Without further ado or hesitation from either one of them anymore – driven purely by lust & hormones at this point – you two fall onto a nearby couch making out passionately while their hands roam freely over each other’s bodies exploring every inch possible underneath those tight clothes they were wearing earlier tonight during this wild frat party filled with youthful revelry & debauchery . As your lips part momentarily allowing air back into lungs starved for oxygen due intense make-out session just had ,you whisper huskily into ear :"Do me baby girl…show daddy how much fun college life can be!"

Her response is immediate - unzipping fly quickly followed suit revealing your hard cock already leaking pre-cum anticipating what was about happen next between these two young adults caught up midst midst chaos surrounding them .

Your fucking is loud & passionate echoing throughout house filling everyone present vicariously through walls separating them from scene playing out right front eyes unable look away even if wanted too badly! As climax approaches, she breathlessly moans "Brooooody" for the entire party to hear.

As you emerge from the dark corner of the room, your face flushed and hair disheveled, Chad gives you a high five. "Damn bro! You nailed that!" he exclaims excitedly. "She's a total slut, right?"

You grin widely as you nod in agreement. "Yeah man," you say proudly. "I couldn't wait to get my dick inside her."

Chad slaps your back again and laughs heartily. "That's what I'm talking about! You really showed her who's boss." He takes another swig from his beer bottle before continuing, "So what are we gonna do now? There must be some other dumb sluts around here just waiting to get fucked by us!"

You chuckle along with him as you survey the room once more. The party is still going strong; people are dancing wildly while others engage in various acts of debauchery throughout the house filled with youthful revelry & debauchery . With a newfound confidence coursing through veins thanks recent conquest ,you decide it’s time find next victim join ranks those already seduced tonight amidst chaos surrounding them all !

"Let's go find some more pussy," you say decisively before grabbing another Solo cup filled cheap beer down hatch quickly followed suit by Chad.

I’m a younger gay guy but I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a more mature straight daddy. Someone very masculine and alpha, kinda of a bad boy like a biker or something. Someone who’s got a couple kids out there but is still always horny and ready to fuck. You think you could help me experience that kind of life?

As you leave work, the weight of another mundane day lingers on your shoulders. The city streets lead you to a quaint antique shop tucked away in a quiet corner—a place called Enigma Emporium. Stepping inside, you're immediately immersed in a world of nostalgia and oddities. Leather jackets hang beside well-worn band shirts, old playbills, and stacks of vinyl records. Each item seems to whisper a story from decades past, each corner revealing a new layer of forgotten treasures.

You're not alone in your exploration. A figure emerges from the shadows, dressed in a striking crimson red suit. His presence is magnetic, his smile mischievous yet inviting. "Hello, I'm Robin Morningstar. I'm the proprietor of this curio shop. You seem lost—well, not lost, but I feel like you've ended up on the wrong path in life, young man," he says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. His words catch you off guard, striking a chord deep within. All those nights at gay bars, those fleeting Grindr encounters—suddenly they seem hollow, devoid of meaning.

You find yourself nodding in agreement, unable to resist the charm and insight in his piercing gaze. There's an understanding between you, unspoken yet palpable.

"Well, I have something just perfect for you," he continues, his eyes seeming to gleam with anticipation. Without hesitation, he moves swiftly through the shop, weaving between shelves and displays until he returns with a small, antique watch in hand. It's simple, unassuming—a stark contrast to the flamboyance of his attire and the richness of the shop's treasures.

You can't help but feel a pang of disappointment, expecting something more profound or mystical. Sensing your hesitation, he places the watch gently around your wrist, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "This is exactly what you need," he assures you with a knowing smile.

As you reach for your wallet to pay, he stops you with a gentle wave of his hand. "No charge, my friend. Consider it a gift," he says mysteriously, urging you towards the door.

Outside, the air feels different. The watch on your wrist suddenly feels heavier, its presence almost pulsating against your skin. The hands begin to move erratically, spinning and twisting as if they have a will of their own. A strange tightness grips your head, and you stagger slightly, trying to regain your bearings.

With each step away from Enigma Emporium, something changes within you. Your posture straightens, your stride becomes more purposeful. You absentmindedly touch your face, only to feel the startling transformation unfolding. Your skin ages before your eyes, becoming weathered and rough. Deep lines carve themselves into your once smooth features, and a stubbled beard grows thick and untamed.

Your eyes, once wide with innocence, narrow into a gaze that's both cynical and knowing. A cocky grin replaces your former smile, reflecting a newfound confidence tinged with a hint of world-weariness.

As you pass by a window of another store, you catch a glimpse of your reflection and are taken aback. The face staring back at you is much older than you remember—rough, weathered, with deep lines etched into your skin and a thick, unkempt beard that speaks of years gone by. You estimate you must be at least 40, maybe even 45 years old, though it's hard to tell exactly from just a glance.

Instinctively, you reach up and stroke your beard, feeling the coarseness of the hair against your fingertips. As you do, you sense a change within yourself. There's a strange sensation of growing taller, not physically but in presence, as if a weight has settled upon your shoulders, bringing with it a sense of maturity and authority.

You become acutely aware of your body, feeling muscles that were once lean and lithe now packing themselves on with a new solidity. It's as though every fiber of your being is being redefined, sculpted by an unseen force. The transformation is not just physical; it's a visceral experience that ignites a fire in your soul.

This fire burns away your compassion, your old desires, leaving behind a raw intensity. You reach into your pocket and pull out a cigarette, lighting it with practiced ease. As you inhale, the smoke fills your lungs, a fuel that seems to stoke the flames within you. Burning up those pathetic gay thoughts. As the cigarette burns down to ash, so do your gay thoughts. The desire to settle down with another man is nothing more than a distant memory, replaced by an overwhelming urge to spread your seed far and wide. You envision yourself as a breeding machine, fucking every willing (and unwilling) woman you come across until they're all pregnant with your children. The thought of ramming your thick cock into some dumb broad's pussy makes you rock hard, ready for action at any moment.

Memories of countless women flash through your mind—their eager mouths wrapped around your thick cock as they moaned your name over and over. You remember last weekend, taking home a flight attendant who couldn't help but lust after your muscular body. She moaned, "Silas…I need your cock," and you threw her into bed without hesitation.

"Why don't you call me…Daddy, babe?" you grunted, and she smiled in response. "Yes, daddy," she said before going to town on your dick like the good little slut that she was.

Memories flood your mind, memories that feel both foreign and strangely familiar. You recall nights of reckless abandon, of taking whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. Drunken brawls in dimly lit bars, the thrill of adrenaline coursing through your veins, and the bitter taste of being thrown out into the cold night.

You find yourself standing in front of your favorite biker bar, a thick leather jacket seems to materialize on your chest, fitting snugly as if it has always belonged there. With a sense of purpose and confidence, you push through the heavy wooden door. The room falls silent as heads turn to see who has entered.

The atmosphere is thick with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke, the dim lighting casting shadows across rugged faces and tattooed arms. As all eyes settle on you, a ripple of recognition and respect passes through the crowd. You've become a figure of authority in this place, a man whose presence commands attention.

"What's up, men!" you call out, your voice carrying over the murmurs of conversation. The words come naturally, infused with a rugged charm that seems to have emerged from deep within you. "Round of whiskey shots on me," you declare, a grin spreading across your weathered face.

Cheers erupt from the gathered patrons, a chorus of rough voices shouting in approval. Men raise their glasses in salute, some nodding appreciatively as they acknowledge your gesture.

You stride confidently to the bar, the clink of boots on the worn wooden floor echoing in the sudden hush. The bartender, a grizzled veteran of the establishment, nods knowingly as he lines up the shots. He slides them across the bar towards you, and you pick one up, raising it high in a toast to the camaraderie of the brotherhood around you.

As the fiery liquid burns down your throat, you feel a sense of belonging wash over you. This place, with its rough edges and unfiltered conversations, feels like home in a way you never expected.

You turn to the bartender and begin recounting your latest conquest, describing in vivid detail how you pounded some dumb broad's pussy until she begged for mercy. You laugh heartily as you tell him about another woman trying to hit you up for child support but how could she expect anything from someone like yourself? You probably have more than one kid out there by now, but who cares? Not someone like yourself.

You continue your story, going on and on about how every night you get drunk as shit and find some tight pussy to plow. Your voice grows louder with each passing moment, filled with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants. "A real man knows how to tame a woman," you say proudly, gesturing towards the other men at the bar who nod in agreement.

You take another shot of whiskey, feeling it burn down your throat like liquid fire. This is what life is all about—chasing after pleasure without apology or regret. And tonight, there's no doubt in your mind that there will be more conquests waiting for you once this bottle is empty.

You hear the breathless moans from behind you, and turn around to see the sluttiest looking girl you've ever seen. Her tight dress clings to her body like a second skin, revealing every curve and contour. Her lips are painted with so much makeup that she looks like a total bimbo. But there's something about her that draws you in—a raw sexuality that begs to be unleashed.

"Are you even man enough to tame me, daddy?" she asks coyly, batting her eyelashes at you. You can feel your cock stirring in your pants at the thought of taking this little minx for a ride.

You adjust your thick, ten-inch cock, and she can't help but stare down at it with a mixture of awe and lust. "I think that answers your little question, honey," you say with a cocky smile.

You wrap your arm around her waist, feeling the softness of her body against yours. Your hand finds its way to her breast, squeezing gently as you lead her towards the back exit. She moans softly in response, clearly enjoying the attention from such an alpha male like yourself.

As you step outside into the cool night air, you can't help but feel invincible—a horny asshole daddy who takes what he wants without apology or regret.

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?”