So me and my 3 best friends, Michael, Lars and John just all recently turned 36, I just turned 36 so we’re going out for drinks, the guy behind the bar seems only about 24 maybe even younger, looks like he would had a bad work ethic, looks like he’s in a frat and probably lives on TikTok because of that hair he’s got. But he gave us these drinks on the house and none of us were going to say no so we all drunk them, but after a few more, we all feel kinda weird. Like, John just talked about bimbos, despite us all being gay men, Michael just called Lars something different, Lars just said the word “Rad”, what is happening to us?!
The bass thumped through your skull like a migraine with a beat. You swirled the last of your overpriced cocktail, the red liquid catching the dim bar lights as you glared at your friends. Thirty-fucking-six. Every single one of you. Pathetic.
"Another round?" Michael asked, already flagging down the bartender.
You barely nodded before some kid who couldn't be older than twenty-two sauntered over. Blond hair styled into that deliberately messy look that screamed "I still live with my parents but pretend I don't." Tank top showing off arms that probably came from doing curls while watching TikTok tutorials.
"First round's on me, fellas," he grinned, sliding four drinks across the bar.
John actually giggled. Fucking giggled. The man who'd been organizing pride parades since before this bartender was born.
You grabbed your glass—something called RED 180—and knocked it back. Cheap. Sweet. Immediately wrong.
It tasted like what you imagined a gas station air freshener would taste like if you liquefied it and choked it down. You grimaced, setting the glass down with a heavy clink. "Jesus, what is this shit?" you muttered, rubbing your sternum. The fabric of your button-up felt suddenly abrasive, tight, constricting. You fumbled with the top button, needing air.
Across the table, Michael was already halfway through his second glass. He slammed it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's fucking free, who gives a shit," he grunted. His voice was different—deeper, rougher around the edges, stripped of its usual melodic cadence.
He'd been a tenor in the church choir for years; now he sounded like he gargled gravel. He stretched his arms over his head, and you watched, bewildered, as the muscles in his forearms seemed to bunch and tighten right before your eyes, the sleeves of his expensive shirt straining at the seams.
John blinked slowly, his eyes hazy. He stared into his empty glass like it held the secrets to the universe. "Dude," he said, his voice a low rumble you'd never heard before. "I feel... fucking jacked."
He flexed a bicep, and it swelled against his shirt cuff in a way it hadn't moments before. He'd always been proud of his lean, dancer's physique. Now, a dumb, animalistic grin spread across his face. "Bet I could bench press a car right now."
Lars, the meticulous architect, was staring at his own hands. He turned them over and over, his brow furrowed in concentration. "My... my knuckles are bigger," he said, a note of panic in his voice that was quickly being drowned out by something else. Awe.
He made a fist, and the knuckles stood out like crude stones. "And I... I suddenly have this urge to punch something." He looked up, and his eyes, usually so thoughtful and discerning, were wide and vacant. "Like, really, really punch something. Hard."
You felt a strange, itchy heat crawling up your own spine. You shifted in your seat, and the way you sat felt wrong. You uncrossed your legs, planting your feet flat on the floor and spreading them wide.
It felt better. More... stable. You looked down at your own hands. They seemed... thicker. Dumber. The long, elegant fingers you used for typing and sketching now felt like clumsy sausages.
"What the fuck is happening?" you asked, but the words came out slurred, thick in your mouth.
"Who cares, bro?" Michael laughed, a harsh, barking sound that made a nearby couple flinch. He flagged down the bartender. "Another round! And this time, bring us four of whatever's cheapest and strongest."
The bartender nodded and started mixing another batch of that sickly red poison. As he worked, John's head swiveled, his eyes tracking a waitress across the room. She was young, with a tight top and a bored expression.
"Holy shit," John breathed, his voice dripping with a crude lust you'd never heard from him. "Look at the tits on that one. Fucking perfect."
Your stomach turned. John, who cried during Brokeback Mountain and could quote every line from A Single Man, was now openly leering at a woman like a construction worker from a bad movie. "Dude, what the hell?" you managed to say.
John turned to you, his face blank for a second, then broke into that same dumb, aggressive grin. "What? She's hot as fuck, bro. I'd motorboat those knockers till I passed out." He grabbed his crotch, adjusting himself with a casualness that was utterly alien. "Got a fucking boner just looking at her."
The new round of drinks arrived. You didn't want to drink it. Every fiber of your being screamed that this was a mistake, that you needed to get up and leave. But Michael was already handing you a glass, his eyes intense. "Drink up, pussy. Don't be a little bitch."
The word "pussy" hit you like a slap. And yet... something in you responded. A flicker of annoyance, of competition. You didn't want to be a pussy. You grabbed the glass and knocked it back. The chemical sweetness flooded your system again, and this time, the changes accelerated.
Your shirt was definitely too tight now. The buttons across your chest strained, and the sleeves felt like they were cutting off circulation to your biceps. You could actually feel the muscles in your arms swelling, pushing against the fabric. It wasn't painful. It was... good. It felt right.
"Fuck yeah," you grunted, the words tearing out of your throat. You grabbed the hem of your shirt and ripped it open, buttons flying across the bar. You weren't as built as the others, not yet. Your chest was flatter, your stomach softer. But it was changing. You could feel your pecs tightening, becoming firmer, more solid.
Michael laughed and tore his own shirt off. His body was lean and wiry, with long, defined muscles and sharp abs that cut down his stomach. He looked like a swimmer who'd started lifting. He struck a pose, admiring his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Looking fucking shredded, boys."
Lars followed suit, his shirt coming off to reveal a physique that was already looking polished and symmetrical. His abs were perfectly defined, his chest full but not bulky. He ran a hand over his stomach, a look of pure narcissistic pleasure on his face. "God, I'd fuck me."
John was the last to strip, and when he did, you all stared. He was the tallest and broadest, with a thick, powerful chest and large, rounded pecs. He looked like a college quarterback, all-American and aggressively masculine. He flexed, and his biceps bulged like softballs.
"Come on, little bro," John said, turning to you. "Your turn. Don't be the only one dressed like a fag."
The word hung in the air, ugly and sharp. A week ago, you would have been enraged, hurt. Now... now it just made you angry. Anxious. Like you were failing a test you didn't know you were taking. "Fuck you," you shot back, but it lacked heat. You pulled the ruined shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. You were the smallest, the least defined. Average. And it pissed you off.
"Look at this little guy," Michael teased, nudging you with his elbow. "Trying to hang with the big dogs. You gonna hit the gym with us tomorrow, runt? Or you gonna stay home and jerk off to your anime again?"
You didn't even know what anime was, but the insult landed. "I'll fucking out-lift you, bro," you snarled, puffing out your chest. "Watch me."
"Sure you will," Lars chuckled, already scrolling through his phone. "Hey, check this out. This chick from my stats class just posted a bikini pic. Fucking slam piece."
He held out his phone, and you all crowded around, peering at the image of a smiling girl in a tiny bikini. A new, powerful hunger surged through you. It wasn't just lust; it was a possessive, demanding need. You wanted to fuck her. You wanted to own her.
"Damn," John breathed. "I'd wreck that."
"Bet she's a freak in the sack," Michael added.
You just nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. Your cock was rock hard, pressing painfully against your jeans. All you could think about was pussy. Getting pussy. The smell of it, the taste of it, the feel of it wrapped around your dick. Your entire life, your entire personality, your hopes and dreams and memories, were all being overwritten, replaced by this single, all-consuming drive.
"Another round," you yelled, waving at the bartender. "And bring us some fucking shots of tequila!"
As the new drinks arrived, you felt the last pieces of your old self crumble away. Your love for art and literature dissolved into a vague contempt for anything "gay." Your political beliefs, once firmly progressive, hardened into a simplistic, aggressive Republicanism. Taxes were theft. Guns were good. Liberals were pussies. And fags... fags were the worst.
You slammed a shot of tequila, then another. The world blurred at the edges, but your new reality came into sharper focus. You were a frat bro. You were a pussyhound. You were a Republican. You were one of the guys.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," Michael announced, standing up and grabbing his wallet. "This bar is for faggots. Let's go to The Doghouse. Bet there are tons of hot sluts there."
"Hell yeah," John and Lars yelled in unison.
You scrambled to follow, eager to prove yourself. "I bet I can get more numbers than you guys," you boasted, your voice loud and desperate. "I'm the fucking pussy master."
"Yo, check this out," John grunted, stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk. He planted his feet, clenched his fists, and let out a deep, guttural groan. A long, silent hiss of gas escaped his ass, the smell hitting you a second later—a foul, hot cloud of protein and beer farts.
"Jake, what the fuck?" Michael coughed, waving a hand in front of his face, but he was laughing. "That's fucking rank!"
John Jake just grinned, a stupid, proud look on his face. "That's a real man's fart, Mason. Fucking potent."
Lars, ever the image-conscious one even in his new state, wrinkled his nose. "Save it for the gym, you animal." But he was smirking too.
A new, competitive urge sparked in your gut. You had to top that. You stopped, spread your legs wider, and pushed. Nothing happened. You grunted, your face turning red, pushing harder with your new, thicker core muscles. Finally, a loud, wet sputtering noise ripped from your ass. It wasn't as long as Jakes's, but it was louder, wetter, and somehow more offensive.
The three of them burst into laughter. It was a harsh, mocking sound that made your face burn with shame, but also with a twisted sense of pride. You'd gotten a reaction.
"Nice one, fart machine," Mason jeered, slapping you on the back so hard you stumbled. "You're definitely the loudest."
You puffed out your chest, trying to look like you'd planned it that way. "Damn right," you slurred. "I'm the king of farts."
Jake, who had been silently scanning the crowd like a predator, suddenly grinned. "Fuck that. I'm not leaving till I get my dick wet." He pointed with his chin toward a gaggle of girls near the pool tables. "Logan, check out blondie. The one with the fake tits. She's been eye-fucking me since we walked in."
Lars Logan snorted, not even looking up from his phone. "She's been eye-fucking all of us, dipshit. It's called being a slut in a bar. It's what they do."
"Whatever," Jake shot back. "I'm gonna go talk to her. Watch a master at work."
As Jake strode off, Mason turned to you. "And what about you Wyatt, little bro? You gonna try again? Maybe aim for a girl who's actually, you know, awake this time?"
The insult landed, sharp and humiliating. "Fuck you," you grumbled, but your heart wasn't in it. You were already scanning the room, your new, simple brain calculating odds. You needed a win. You needed to not be the pathetic joke of the group.
Your eyes landed on her. She was sitting alone at a small table in the corner, nursing a colorful drink and scrolling through her phone. She wasn't a knockout. Not like the girls Logan and Jake were after. She was average. Maybe a little heavy around the middle, with a face that was pleasant but forgettable. She was perfect. She was your level.
"I got this," you announced, your voice full of a confidence you absolutely did not feel.
Mason raised an eyebrow. "Go for it, champ. Don't fuck it up."
You grabbed a fresh beer from the bucket, the bottle sweating in your hand, and made your way over. Your walk was all wrong, a clumsy, rolling gait that felt powerful but probably looked ridiculous. You stopped at her table, blocking out the light from the nearby neon sign.
"Hey," you said. It was all you could come up with.
She looked up, startled. "Oh. Hi."
"You here alone?" you asked, your voice rougher than you intended.
"Um, yeah," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just waiting for some friends."
"Cool," you said, then stood there in silence, your brain completely blank. Say something, you idiot. Say something cool. "So... you come here often?"
She actually winced. "Sometimes."
This was a disaster. You were bombing. Hard. Panic started to set in, cold and sharp. You could feel Michael's eyes on you from across the room, laughing. You had to salvage this.
"Look," you said, leaning in closer, lowering your voice to what you thought was a seductive growl. "I'm not gonna bullshit you. I'm horny as fuck and you look like you'd be a good time. You wanna go... I don't know... fuck in the bathroom?"
Her eyes went wide, then narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," you pressed, your desperation turning into aggression. "Let's go. Right now."
For a second, you thought she was going to throw her drink in your face. But then, something shifted in her expression. A flicker of... interest? Pity? Boredom? It didn't matter. She sighed, then shrugged.
"Fine," she said, standing up. "But you're buying me another drink after."
"Deal," you grunted, your heart pounding with a triumphant, animalistic glee.
You led her toward the bathrooms, your hand possessively on the small of her back. The men's room was exactly as you'd expect: grimy, wet, and smelling of piss and industrial cleaner. You pushed her into the larger handicap stall and locked the door behind you.
No finesse. Just a clumsy, frantic fumbling with clothes in the cramped, foul-smelling stall. You hiked up her skirt, she fumbled with your belt buckle. Your cock, already rock hard and desperate, sprang free. You didn't even bother with a condom. You just pushed her against the cold tile wall and shoved yourself inside her.
The first thrust was awkward, a clumsy lurch that missed its mark. You corrected, shoving deeper, and a jolt—not of pleasure, but of raw, transformative energy—shot up your spine. You felt a strange, pulling sensation in your face, the skin tightening around your jaw.
The faint lines you'd earned by thirty-six, the crow's feet that had started to form, simply vanished. Your skin felt smoother, tauter. You looked in the girl's wide, unimpressed eyes and saw a younger version of yourself staring back. Thirty. Maybe a little less.
You grunted, a sound of confusion and exertion, and thrust again. Harder this time. Deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a tight, wet heat that short-circuited your brain. Another jolt, stronger this time.
Your shoulders, which had begun to ache with the dull stiffness of middle age, felt suddenly loose, powerful. The muscles in your chest and arms, which had been softening, hardened with renewed vigor.
You felt your entire frame compress, growing leaner, denser. You were twenty-five again, a raw, aggressive bundle of hormones and ego, and the only thing that mattered was the feeling of being inside her.
"Fuck," you grunted, the word tearing from your throat. You started to find a rhythm, a clumsy piston-like motion. Each slam against her ass sent another wave of change rippling through you.
Your thoughts, which had been complex and layered just an hour ago, were simplifying, boiling down to a single, primal directive: more. More pleasure. More power. More of this.
The memories of your old life were fading, like photographs left in the sun. The face of your ex-boyfriend blurred, replaced by the generic image of a cheerleader from a movie you couldn't remember watching.
Your apartment, once filled with books and art, transformed in your mind's eye into a messy dorm room littered with pizza boxes and protein powder tubs. Your job, your passions, your entire identity—it was all being washed away, replaced by this new, brutal reality. You were a frat bro. A dumb, horny kid. And you were getting younger with every thrust.
One last, desperate shove. You buried yourself as deep as you could go, and the final, most powerful wave of change hit you. It was like a lightning strike, a white-hot flash of pure, unadulterated youth.
You felt your features soften, your jawline becoming less defined, your eyes widening with a stupid, vacant optimism. Your entire body buzzed with the boundless, arrogant energy of a nineteen-year-old who thinks he knows everything. And then you came.
It wasn't a climax. It was a collapse. A shuddering, grunt-filled release that was over almost as soon as it began, leaving you breathless, empty, and irrevocably changed. You were twenty. The age was a fact, a truth as solid and undeniable as the tile wall you were leaning against. You pulled out, stumbling back, your legs feeling like jelly.
The girl fixed her skirt, her expression a mixture of pity and disgust. "Well," she said, her voice flat. "That was... something."
"Yeah," you grunted, your voice now a higher, dumber tenor. "Awesome."
She left without another word, leaving you alone in the stall with the smell of sex and your own crushing inadequacy. You washed your hands, splashing cold water on your face.
In the mirror, you saw a complete stranger. A slightly chubby, average-looking kid with a dumb, dazed expression and a bad haircut. A pathetic try-hard who'd just had the most anticlimactic sex of his life.
But you were also twenty. And you were hornier than you'd ever been in your life.
You burst out of the bathroom, a stupid, triumphant grin plastered on your face. "I did it!" you yelled, your voice cracking with youthful enthusiasm. "I fucked her! I'm a man!"
The guys, who were now all unmistakably twenty-year-old assholes, looked up from their beers. Mason lean and athletic in a backwards baseball cap, raised an eyebrow. "No shit, runt. Took you long enough."
"How was it?" Jake asked, his broad, jock-like frame practically vibrating with energy. "Did you wreck her?"
"Dude, I fucking destroyed her," you lied, puffing out your chest. "She couldn't even walk after."
Logan, who was now the picture of a smug, preppy pretty boy, just shook his head. "You lasted, like, five seconds, didn't you?"
"Fuck you," you shot back, but there was no heat in it. It was just the way you talked now. The way you all talked.
"Whatever," Mason said, standing up and grabbing his beer. "Who cares. We're all twenty-fucking-years-old and we're in a bar full of sluts. Tonight is gonna be epic."
"Hell yeah!" Jake and Logan yelled in unison.
You grabbed your beer, your earlier humiliation forgotten, replaced by the boundless, arrogant confidence of youth. You were one of them. You were a pack of dumb, horny, obnoxious frat bros, and the entire world was your oyster.
"Let's get fucking wasted," you yelled, raising your bottle. "And then let's go find some more pussy!"
The roar of agreement from your new bros was the sweetest sound you'd ever heard. You were home.
