Eh.. another day of my life has passed. I am a 27-year-old doctor working in a clinic, gay, quite fit, in a relationship with a nice guy. But every time I leave my job, I dream that I would be a good actor or director. Model looks, athletic body, lots of money. I would like to have such a fate…
You offer a tired, practiced smile to the receptionists, a wave that's more reflex than genuine greeting. "Night, ladies. See you tomorrow." Your mind is already adrift, floating on a sea of what-ifs, the familiar, aching fantasy of a different life. Not this one. Not the stable, respectable, predictable life of a doctor.
No, you dream of the raw, chaotic energy of a film set, of calling "Action!" and watching magic bloom from your vision. You imagine the tailored suits, the effortless charm, the way people would hang on your every word. Model looks, an athletic body honed for the camera, a bank account that didn't require you to think about co-pays.
"I dream that I would be a good actor or director. Model looks, athletic body, lots of money. I would like to have such a fate…"
You're so lost in this daydream that you walk right past him. The male nurse in the vibrant red scrubs, leaning against the reception desk, a lazy, confident smirk on his face. He's flipping a coin, a simple silver quarter that catches the harsh fluorescent light with each rotation. It catches the shitty fluorescent light, spinning... spinning... tails.
But all you hear is the jingle of your own keys in your pocket as you approach your sensible, practical, soul-crushingly boring sedan.
"Shit," you mutter, fumbling with the key fob. Your fingers, usually so steady, feel clumsy, thick. A sudden, searing pain erupts in your forearms, a white-hot agony that feels like your very bones are being snapped and re-set. The keys slip from your grasp, clattering onto the asphalt with a sound that echoes unnaturally in the quiet parking garage.
You double over, gasping, bracing yourself against the cool metal of the car door. The pain is a tidal wave, and it's washing everything away. The years of medical school, the grueling residency, the sleepless nights, the quiet pride in your work—it all dissolves into a meaningless static, replaced by the roaring echo of a canned laugh track and the cheap, sticky smell of beer on a dive bar floor.
The transformation begins in your face, a grotesque, intimate betrayal. You feel your expression slacken, the intelligent, thoughtful lines around your eyes smoothing out into a dull, bovine emptiness. Your jaw, once defined but refined, grinds as it widens, bone shifting and thickening into a brutish, aggressive square.
A sharp, throbbing ache starts in your chin as it juts forward, just enough to give you a permanently pugnacious look. Your skin prickles, flushing a blotchy, angry red, as if you've been standing too close to a fire. Then comes the hair. It's not a gentle growth; it's an invasion.
Thick, coarse stubble erupts across your cheeks and neck, dark and rough. Your meticulously styled hair, usually so cooperative, becomes a riotous, greasy mess, thickening and falling into your eyes in an unkempt curtain that you instinctively try to shove back with a meatier, unfamiliar hand.
Your memories are the next to be violated. You try to hold onto an image of your boyfriend, Liam—his kind eyes, his gentle smile, the way he fit perfectly against your chest. But the image warps, melts like wax.
Liam's soft features sharpen, his hair bleaches to a brittle blonde, his body curves in ways that are suddenly, disgustingly, appealing to you. He's not Liam anymore. He's... Stacy. Some bimbo extra you once banged in a dressing room. The memory is vivid and foul: the smell of cheap perfume, the scratchy fabric of a costume, the way she moaned your name. But it's not your name.
No! a voice inside you screams, a desperate, fading echo. I'm gay! I love Liam!
The thought is crushed under a boot heel of pure, unadulterated ideology. 'Faggot,' a new, harsher voice snarls in your head. 'That's degenerate shit. You're a man. A real man. A man of God.'
The physical change accelerates, fueled by this mental corruption. Your shoulders wrench apart with a series of sickening pops, the seams of your expensive dress shirt screaming in protest. Your entire frame expands, bones lengthening, muscles swelling with an impossible, painful speed.
Your chest balloons out, pecs becoming hard, slabs of meat that strain the fabric until a button flies off, skittering across the pavement. Your torso lengthens, your waist thickening into a solid trunk, any trace of your former leanness erased by brute, masculine bulk. Your arms, once lean and strong from surgery, become grotesque pythons of flesh, biceps and triceps fighting for space under your skin.
You stumble back from the car, your reflection swimming in the tinted window. You see a stranger. A big, dumb-looking jock with a dead-eyed stare and a face like a fist. And the thoughts... the thoughts are a cesspool. You remember being a star quarterback in some shitty high school you never attended, the cheers of the crowd, the feeling of power.
You remember going to a state college on a football scholarship, barely passing classes, majoring in 'Chilling' and 'Fucking Sorority Chicks.' You remember moving to LA with big dreams, only to find out you couldn't act your way out of a wet paper bag. You got a few bit parts as 'Jock #2' or 'Musclebound Thug.' A regular role on some shitty sitcom. You did some underwear modeling, the photographer telling you to just 'look pretty and try not to think too hard.'
Then came the podcast. You remember it clearly. You were drunk, bitter about your failed career, and some bro with a microphone invited you on to rant. And you did. You ranted about Hollywood elites, about the 'gay agenda,' about how women were too emotional and men were being emasculated. You said every toxic, ignorant thing that had been festering in the dark corners of your new mind. And people loved it. For a while.
The world tilts again, and you're no longer in the parking lot. You're in a courtroom, or maybe it's just a memory of one. A DUI. The shame, the public mockery. Your agent dropped you. The sitcom you had a small recurring role on was canceled. You were radioactive. The internet hated you. You were a pariah, a washed-up, homophobic, alcoholic has-been at the ripe old age of 27.
You thought it was over. You were ready to crawl into a bottle and disappear. Then the call came. From 'Faith & Family Pictures.' They were making a Christmas movie. They needed a 'strong, masculine lead' who understood 'traditional values.' They didn't care that you were a toxic asshole; in fact, they seemed to prefer it. You were their guy.
The spinning stops. The oppressive heat of the San Fernando Valley sun beats down on you, baking you alive inside a scratchy, hideous Christmas sweater. You're on a suburban street that's been plastered with fake snow. You're holding a prop—a ridiculously large candy cane—and your lines are shit. Something about finding the true meaning of Christmas in the heart of a small-town baker.
"Derek! Honey, focus!" The voice is high, saccharine, and annoyed. You turn your head. The actress playing your love interest, a busty, spray-tanned blonde named Tiffany, is tapping her foot. Her name tag for her character, 'Holly,' is pinned precariously over her left tit. "We're supposed to be falling in love here, not staring into space like you're contemplating your next beer."
You're not contemplating anything. You're just looking at her. At the way her tight jeans hug her ass, at the swell of her breasts pushed up by her bra. Your wife—yes, you have a wife now, some poor woman you married back when you still had a little money—would be pissed. But who gives a shit? You're Derek Theler. You do what you want.
"Sorry, Tiff. Just getting into character," you grunt, your voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Character's a little distracted by the... scenery."
She rolls her eyes, but a flicker of something else crosses her face. She knows what you are. She knows what this is. "Just say your lines, you Neanderthal."
You muddle through the scene, your delivery flat and uninspired. The director, a wiry little man with a permanent sheen of sweat, eventually yells, "Cut! That's a wrap for today!"
You don't wait. You grab Tiffany by the arm, your grip like a vise. "My trailer. Five minutes." It's not a question.
She's there in three. The moment the door slams shut, you're on her. Your hand, big and calloused from a gym routine that's your only true religion, shoots out and grabs a fistful of her blouse. The fabric gives with a series of sharp, satisfying pops, buttons skittering across the linoleum floor like terrified insects.
You don't kiss her; you devour her, your mouth crashing down on hers in a bruising, possessive kiss that's all teeth and tongue. It's not an act of passion, it's an act of conquest.
You spin her around, your new, massive body an unfeeling machine of brute force. Your hands clamp down on her shoulders, shoving her forward. She stumbles, her hands slapping against the small, cluttered table to brace herself, sending a stack of scripts fluttering to the floor. "Derek, what the f—" she starts, but the words die in her throat as you yank her jeans down over her hips, the denim catching on her thighs before you tear it the rest of the way.
You fumble with your own belt, the sound of the buckle loud in the silent trailer. Your cock, already rock-hard and straining against the fabric of your boxers, springs free. You don't use a condom. The thought doesn't even enter your head, a concept as alien and irrelevant as quantum physics. This is primal. This is ownership.
You thrust into her, hard and deep, a guttural groan tearing from your own throat. "Unghhh... fuck... yes..." The sound is low, animalistic, a noise of pure, unadulterated gratification. It's the sound of a man taking what he believes is his. Each powerful, punishing drive of your hips is a hammer blow, driving out the last remnants of anything else.
With each brutal thrust, the world dissolves further. The memory of your boyfriend's face—Liam's gentle, loving face—shimmers like a heat mirage before being incinerated. 'Faggot,' a voice snarls in the ruins of your mind. 'Weak. Soft. Gone.' Your PhD, your intelligence, your kindness—they're just ash in the wind.
Your phone buzzes on the table. It's a cheap, burner-style model, the screen cracked. You swipe it open. A text from your agent, a sleazy little weasel named Gary. 'Good news, buddy! 'Christmas Prayer' is testing through the roof with the 65+ demographic! Network wants to talk about a sequel. Maybe a Valentine's Day movie? We could call it 'Cupid's Conservative Arrow!'
You feel a surge of black, bitter amusement. A sequel. Another round of this purgatory. You're not an actor. You're a prop, a mascot for a political and cultural movement you don't even truly understand, a set of abs and a jawline for people to project their simplistic, angry fantasies onto.
"Fuck... you like that, you little slut?" you grunt, your voice a thick, predatory rasp. You don't care about her answer. This isn't about her pleasure. It's about your dominance. You're not making love; you're making a point. You're Derek Theler, the man they tried to cancel, the man who still takes what he wants.
Your mind, now a barren wasteland fit only for simple, ugly thoughts, replays your greatest hits. The podcast rant. The DUI arrest. The tweet that got you blacklisted. Each memory, each act of aggression, fuels your movements. You remember the agent who dropped you, the producer who called you a liability, and you fuck her harder, as if you're punishing all of them through her body.
Your moans become louder, more guttural, a chorus of masculine triumph. "Yeah... take it... take this fucking cock..." The words are filthy, degrading, and they feel more honest than any line of dialogue you've mumbled on this shitty set.
You feel the pressure building at the base of your spine, a coiling serpent of pure sensation. Your vision tunnels, the cheap trailer furnishings blurring into a meaningless smear of color. All that exists is the feeling of her body under yours, the sound of your own ragged breaths, the thunderous beat of your heart in your ears. You're not a doctor. You're not a loving partner. You're not even a failed actor. You are just this. A cock. A pair of fists. A walking, talking monument to toxic masculinity.
With a final, violent lunge, you cum, a deep, shuddering groan escaping your lips as you empty yourself into her. The release is total, absolute. It's a reset button. It's the final nail in the coffin of the man you used to be. For a few seconds, there is only blissful, mindless emptiness.
Then you pull out, stumbling back a step. The air is thick with the smell of sex. You look down at her, still bent over the table, her body trembling. You feel nothing. No remorse, no affection, no connection. Just a dull, sated emptiness.
You've done it again. You've sealed your fate with another base, animal act. You are Derek Theler. You are the star of a Christian Christmas movie. And you are completely, irrevocably, hollow.
As you finish, a wave of profound, sickening finality washes over you. It's not just a physical release; it's a spiritual sealing. You slump back, your heavy body thudding against the flimsy wall of the trailer, your breath coming in ragged, satisfied grunts.
Tiffany is already fixing her hair in the small, cracked mirror, her expression a mask of practiced indifference. She'll probably be pregnant. It's happened before. You're a one-man baby-daddy factory for a certain type of desperate, aspiring actress.
"Get out," you rasp, not even looking at her.
You yank open the trailer door and step back out into the blinding California sun. The fake snow on the ground is already melting into pathetic, gray sludge. A P.A. scurries past, avoiding eye contact. You are Derek Theler. You are the star. You are a success story. And you have never, in your entire, miserable life, felt more like a complete and utter failure.
