The turntables hummed under my fingertips, the bass vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat. I closed my eyes, losing myself in the rhythm, imagining a crowd screaming my name instead of the empty bedroom walls surrounding me. The dream was so close I could taste it—the flashing lights, the sweat-slicked bodies moving as one, the freedom of making music my life instead of just my escape. But the rent was due in two weeks, and my last gig had barely covered groceries.
I needed time. Just a few months to grind, to network, to prove I could make this work. But the numbers didn’t lie—I was short. Way short.
Granddad’s house smelled like old leather and pipe tobacco, the same as it had since I was a kid. He sat in his armchair, the newspaper spread across his lap like a shield. I took a deep breath and just said it.
His eyebrows shot up. "For what?"
"To go full-time as a DJ. Just enough to cover my expenses for a few months while I—"
"You’re still on that?" He scoffed, folding the paper shut. "You need a real career, son. Not some fantasy."
"It’s not a fantasy. I just need a little runway."
He leaned back, studying me like I was a puzzle he’d given up on solving years ago. "You know, if you’d just straighten up—in more ways than one—I might be inclined to help."
There it was. The same old song. My jaw tightened. "We’ve been over this. I’m not ‘choosing’ anything. This is who I am."
"Everything’s a choice," he said, waving a hand like he was swatting away a fly. "Discipline. Self-control."
A reckless idea flickered in my mind. I’d been messing around with that old spell book I found at a thrift store—mostly harmless stuff, little charms for luck or focus. But there was one page I’d dog-eared, half as a joke.
"Okay," I said, crossing my arms. "You really think it’s that easy? That you could just ‘choose’ differently?"
"Then prove it." I pulled the book from my bag, its cracked leather binding creaking as I flipped to the marked page. "One month. You live my life, in my body, and if you can make it through without hooking up with a guy, I’ll drop the DJ thing. But if you can’t… you give me the money. No strings."
He laughed, a dry, dismissive sound. "You’re not serious."
His eyes flicked to the book, then back to me. "You expect me to believe in magic now?"
I didn’t answer. Just traced the symbols on the page, the words foreign but familiar on my tongue. The air between us thickened, charged like the moment before a storm breaks.
Then Granddad’s face went slack. His fingers twitched.
And just like that—we weren’t ourselves anymore.
He looked down at his hands—my hands—and his breath hitched. "What the hell did you just do?"
I grinned, flexing his old, arthritic fingers. "Let’s see how easy it is now."
Granddad—now in my body—ran his hands over his (my) arms, tracing the tattoos he’d always scoffed at. He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and for a second, I saw a flicker of excitement in his eyes. Being young again, even in a body he didn’t approve of, was clearly intoxicating.
"You’re on," he said, smirking with my face.
I tossed him my keys. "Go live my life. Try not to freak out too much when you see my bank account."
He scoffed but didn’t argue, heading out the door.
I sent him back to my apartment, where Morgan would be waiting. That was my ace in the hole. Morgan was gorgeous—tall, lean, cropped dark haircut, with this effortless charm that made everyone fall for him. And the chemistry between us? Electric. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. There was no way Granddad, no matter how stubborn, could resist.
Still, I couldn’t tell Morgan what was happening. How do you explain to your boyfriend that your seventy-year-old homophobic grandfather is currently inhabiting your body? He’d never believe me—and even if he did, he wouldn’t want to touch me knowing it wasn’t really me in there. No, this had to play out naturally.
I got a text from my own number:
"You didn’t tell me he was here."
Morgan was affectionate, always kissing my neck while I cooked, pulling me into bed at night. Granddad was going to have to navigate all of that. And I knew Morgan wouldn’t push if I (well, he) seemed off—but he wouldn’t just ignore me either.
By day three, the texts got terser.
"Yeah, that’s what boyfriends do."
"You’re in a relationship. That’s how it works."
"He’s… very good looking."
My Instagram notifications were blowing up.
Granddad—my Granddad—had posted a selfie.
There he was, in my body, wearing one of my favorite jackets, showing off my tattoos, and wait … had he gotten a NOSE RING?
The caption? "Feeling fresh."
I choked on my coffee. How the hell did he even figure out how to use Instagram?!
Scrolling through the comments was surreal:
"Damn, looking good!" —Morgan
"Since when do you post selfies?" —my friend Jake
"🔥🔥🔥" —some rando
The outfit wasn’t gay gay—he could still pass for some artsy straight guy if you squinted—but the posture, the confidence… Oh, he was feeling himself. He was definitely going to lose.
This time, he was wearing Morgan’s leather jacket. Morgan’s. The one I always said smelled like him. The caption? "Borrowed something nice."
The comments were a mess.
"Since when do you two share clothes?" —Jake again
"You’d better give that back." —Morgan, with a winky face
I texted Granddad: "You’re flirting."
I got a late-night text from my grandfather—or rather, from my phone, with my face attached to the message.
"I stopped pushing him away."
"Morgan. When he tries to… cuddle. At night."
I could feel the reluctant admission in his words, like he was forcing them out through gritted teeth. A slow grin spread across my face.
"And nothing. It’s just… comfortable."
"You’re the one cuddling my boyfriend."
This time, it was a photo.
There, in the golden morning light, was me—or rather, him in my body—propped up against the headboard, looking down at Morgan sprawled across his lap, tousled-haired and half-asleep.
"You win. I’ll give you the money."
I stared at the screen, a weird mix of emotions. I should have felt weirder about it.
My grandfather, technically, fucked my boyfriend. Or—more accurately—my boyfriend probably fucked him. And yet, all I felt was a strange kind of pride. It must’ve taken a lot for him to get over that.
"Took you long enough," I replied.
But we still had two weeks left on the bet.
I chewed my lip for a second before typing:
"Keep the body. Go crazy. Enjoy being me for the rest of the time. We’ll swap back at the end of the month."
"Yeah. Consider it a free trial."
But I knew him well enough to hear the quiet gratitude in that single syllable.
On the last night of the month, I had him stay over at his place—well, my place, technically. We figured it’d be easier to swap back if we were together when the clock struck midnight.
I woke up the next morning still in his creaky, seventy-year-old body, and he was still in mine—young, tattooed, and currently staring at me in horror from across the bed.
“Why the hell are we still like this?” he demanded, voice cracking with panic.
I scrambled for the spellbook, flipping through the brittle pages until I found the incantation we’d used. My stomach dropped.
“It was a covenant,” I muttered, tracing the faded text with my finger. “The swap wasn’t just for a month—it was a test. To swap back, you had to go the full thirty days without having sex.”
I looked up at him slowly.
Then, very quietly, he said, “…Oh.”
My eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you had sex?”
He hesitated. Glanced away. Cleared his throat.
I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “Granddad.”
“It was Morgan,” he said defensively. “You try saying no to him.”
“I don’t! That’s the whole point!”
He crossed his arms—my arms—and sighed. “Well. Now what?”
I stared at the book, then at him, then at the ceiling like I was begging the universe for patience.
“Now,” I said, “you gotta figure out how to keep it in your pants.”
The first two days, I told Morgan I wasn’t feeling well.
"Just a stomach thing," I muttered, rolling away when he tried to pull me close.
He frowned, pressing a warm hand to my forehead. "You don’t feel feverish."
"It’s… subtle," I insisted, avoiding his gaze.
I could see the doubt in his eyes, but he let it go. For now.
By the third day, I was running out of excuses. Morgan, sweet, relentless Morgan, had spent the whole afternoon making me soup from scratch, brewing tea, tucking blankets around me like I was some fragile thing. And then he smiled at me—that smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners—and I was done for.
What’s another two days on top of thirty? I reasoned, as his hands slid under my shirt. I’ll just tell Matthias we need to wait a little longer when the time comes.
So I caved, letting Morgan have his way with me.
After that, though, I was good. For two solid weeks, I didn’t let things go further than kissing. I made sure we ate heavy meals—spicy curries, garlic-laden pasta, anything that would give me a believable reason to keep my distance.
"Not tonight, babe," I’d groan, rubbing my stomach dramatically after dinner. "That vindaloo is fighting me."
Morgan would sigh, amused but frustrated. "You’ve been ‘fighting vindaloo’ for fourteen days straight."
"Indian food is powerful," I insisted, trying to keep a straight face.
He wasn’t stupid. But he also wasn’t pushing. He loved me, and that love made him patient.
By the twenty-seventh day, though, Morgan's patience was wearing thin. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched when I brushed off his advances, in the way his fingers lingered just a second too long on my skin. He was frustrated, and I was running out of excuses.
That night, Morgan went out with some friends. He invited me, but I couldn't risk it. Alcohol lowered inhibitions, and Morgan was already temptation incarnate. I knew that if I got drunk, I'd probably let him fuck me in a club bathroom if he asked. So I stayed in, telling him I needed to rest.
Alone in the apartment, I tried to distract myself with a book, but my mind kept wandering to Morgan. To his hands, his mouth, the way he moved inside me. I was horny, desperate, and my resolve was crumbling. I found myself reaching for the dildo in the nightstand, a poor substitute for the real thing but better than nothing.
I closed my eyes and thought of Morgan as I slid it inside me, imagining his hands on my body, his voice in my ear. It didn't take long before I was cumming hard, my body shuddering with release. But as soon as I was done, exhaustion hit me like a wave. I barely managed to pull the dildo free before collapsing into the sheets, leaving it lying shamelessly beside me as I passed out.
I woke up to the feeling of Morgan's naked body pressed against mine. He was a little drunk, his movements slow and deliberate as he cuddled up to me. "You're a naughty boy," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "I'm glad to see you're horny again."
Before I could react, I felt his throbbing cock sliding into my already stretched-out ass. My eyes still closed, I arched my back and smiled softly, lost in the haze of pleasure. But then reality hit me like a bucket of ice water—shit, I shouldn't be doing this.
But it was too late. Morgan knew this body's needs well, and he stroked my cock at the perfect pace, driving me wild. I came again, even harder than before, my body betraying my resolve.
The next morning, we were still naked, tangled in the sheets. Morgan woke up with a grin, his hand already wandering down my body. "Ready for another round?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep and desire.
At this point, why not? I thought. Matthias would be mad, but what's done is done. I pulled Morgan close, ready to lose myself in him one more time.
Do they ever make it back to their own bodies?
Of course
There's a new Matthias in town
Voting ended onJun 6, 2025
