The new hire at my office job is not someone you'd expect. He's a southern redneck kinda dude and definitely has some backwards views of the world. Everyone else kind of shuns him, but I think maybe I can talk with him and change his opinions. He seems at least willing to talk with me and the few times we have seem to have gone well. He shows my pictures of himself on his ranch, hunting, etc and I show him pictures of me and my boyfriend. He gives his side of things and I give mine. I reckon... I-I uh think we're becoming friends.
Youād gotten used to your office being a kind of bubble. Quiet hum of computers, the familiar buzz of gossip, people in pressed shirts and modest shoes. It wasnāt glamorous, but it was steady, and you had found your place here: the funny one, the one with a little style, the one who could make a dull meeting tolerable with some quip under your breath. Your boyfriend teased you about being a ācorporate gay,ā but you knew he was proud when you dragged yourself home late and still had energy left to cook or cuddle.
The first day, you smelled him before you even saw him. That sour-sweet tang of chew mixed with sweat, like a man whoād been in the sun too long but hadnāt bothered to shower. When you looked up, there he wasācamo ballcap tugged low, shirt tucked sloppily into faded jeans, boots that left faint mud prints across the gray carpet. His jaw was scruffy, his eyes squinting like he was suspicious of the fluorescent lights themselves.
Everyone else recoiled instantly. You could feel the tension in the air every time he spokeāthick drawl, too loud, throwing out words that didnāt belong here. Words like queer, muttered like they were dirty. Comments about ācity women dressing trashy.ā About how people āaināt got morals anymore.ā The kind of language that made everyone around him freeze, eyes darting to HR, waiting for someone to step in.
Nobody did. They just avoided him.
You told yourself it wasnāt pityāit was principle. Youād spent years telling people that ignorance was only cured with exposure, that real progress meant talking, not shunning. And hell, he wasnāt screaming slurs in your face. He wasnāt threatening violence. He was justā¦ rough. Wrongheaded. Maybe you could soften those edges. Maybe you could prove to everyone else that even someone like him could learn.
The first time you sat across from him at lunch, his tray reeked of greaseātwo burgers, onion rings, a mountain of fries slick with oil. He ate with his mouth open, ketchup on his fingers, but when he talked, he looked you in the eye. He showed you a photo of him on his ranch, shotgun balanced across his knees, a gutted deer at his boots. The kind of image that made your stomach clench.
And what did you do? You smiled. You pulled out your phone, showed him a picture of you and your boyfriend at the beach, laughing with matching sunglasses, rainbow towel under you both. You waited for the sneer, for the joke. It didnāt come.
Cole just squinted. āReckon yāall live different than me,ā he said finally, chewing slow. āBut hellā¦ you seem alright.ā
The words shouldnāt have meant anything. But they did.
You kept talking with him after that. A photo of his dog, chained to a cinder block in the yard. A photo of you at Pride, glitter stuck to your skin. Heād grunt, shake his head, mutter something about ānot my style,ā but then heād show you another picture, like a trade. A pickup sunk axle-deep in mud. A girl in cutoff shorts with a beer can between her breasts.
Each image left a residue in your head, like grease you couldnāt wash off. Youād go back to your desk and smell smoke where there wasnāt any, hear the rumble of engines in the silence of keystrokes.
When you came home, Marcus wrinkled his nose. āYou smell likeā¦ I donāt know. Gas station food?ā
You laughed it off, but he wasnāt wrong. The cafeteria didnāt usually cling to you like this. You hadnāt noticed how, sitting too close to Cole, his odor soaked into your shirt. Smoke, sweat, cheap soap that didnāt quite mask anything.
At night, you lay in bed and caught yourself thinking about those pictures. Not the Pride one, not the beach, not the moments that made you proud. The ones heād shown you. Him in the mud, squatting on a log, middle finger up at the camera. Him and his buddies, shirtless and drunk in a barn, red plastic cups spilling onto straw. That girl draped over the hood of his truck.
You feltā¦ something twist inside. Not quite attraction. Not quite disgust. Just something heavy, pressing down.
When you shut your eyes, the images stayed. And in the morning, you swore you could still smell him, faint on your skin.
It doesnāt happen in one crash, but in tiny humiliations you almost convince yourself arenāt there.
You sit with him more often now. Not because you love the company, but because nobody else will. Everyone else treats him like a rashādonāt touch it, donāt spread it. You tell yourself youāre better than that, that patience matters, that change happens face-to-face. But really, itās because he doesnāt look at you like youāre fragile.
The first thing is the smell.
After lunch with Cole, you come back to your desk, and the fabric of your shirt clings damp at the armpits. You didnāt even sweat, but there it isāsour musk, smoke, fried food. You try washing your hands, even dabbing your collar with paper towels in the bathroom, but the odor hangs stubbornly, faint but undeniable.
Your coworkers notice. The receptionist wrinkles her nose once when you lean in to sign something. Your manager gives you a subtle look when you join the weekly meeting, like sheās not sure if you skipped a shower.
Marcus notices the worst. He hugs you when you walk in the door, then immediately pulls back, face sour.
āYou stink likeā¦ like some barstool uncle. What the hell?ā
You laugh, mumble about cafeteria grease, promise a shower. But even under hot water, even scrubbing hard, thereās a phantom residueāhis smell baked into your pores.
One afternoon youāre in a meeting, scrolling notes, when you hear yourself say it out loud: āYāall.ā
The word sticks in the air. You never say yāall. Ever. Your coworkers glance up. You fumble, correct yourself, push on with the presentation, cheeks burning.
Later, texting Marcus, you slip again: āHell yeah.ā He sends back three question marks, then: You been hanging around that redneck too much?
You donāt answer.
At lunch the next day, you catch yourself laughing the way Cole laughsāloud, barked, a little mean. It startles you. He notices, grins wide, like youāve finally told the right joke.
Your body betrays you too.
Youāve always carried yourself neatly, shoulders back, spine straight, hands folded on the desk. But lately you catch yourself slouching lower, legs spread wider. Boots scuff on the floor. You lean back in your chair the way he does, hands folded behind your head, stomach jutting forward. It feels crude, exposed, but weirdlyā¦ easier.
In the bathroom mirror, you catch the shape of yourself bent like himāhatless but still with that same tilt of the chin, same lazy slouch. It unsettles you so much you snap upright, smooth your shirt, force your shoulders back until they ache. But the next day, without thinking, you slip back into the sprawl.
It builds until the others start treating you differently.
You overhear whispers. āHeās always with Cole.ā
āGod, he smells now too.ā
Someone leaves an air freshener by your desk, as a joke maybe, but nobody admits it.
You try to laugh it off. You try to tell yourself youāre in control, that these little slips mean nothing. But at night, Marcusā kisses get shorter. His complaints sharper. āYou sound like him sometimes,ā he mutters. āLike youāre trying to be him.ā
You deny it. You swear itās not true.
But when you catch yourself in the mirror, shoulders rounded, drawl creeping in when you mutter under your breath, smelling faintly of stale grease even fresh from the showerāyou canāt shake the feeling that maybe heās right.
It starts subtle. You notice it when you sit at your desk, typing an email, and your arm feelsā¦ heavier. Not sore, not tiredābut heavier. You glance down and catch a glimpse of your forearm. The skin looks rougher, slightly tanned where the sun never touches your office. Thereās a faint sheen of sweat even though the AC is blasting.
You shake it off. Probably just nerves.
But the next morning, your boots feel tighter around your calves. You notice your biceps lookā¦ different. Not bigger in the gym-bro senseāno, this is something coarser. Your veins stand out, thick and dark. You flex experimentally and flinch at the way the muscle responds, more powerful than it should be, harder than itās ever been.
You tell yourself itās nothing. Just a good stretch, maybe a weird lighting trick.
It starts faint. Youāve just showered, soap clinging to your skin. But as you reach for your cup of coffee, you sniff your arm andā¦ there it is. Cole. Not the scent of perfume or deodorantāhim. Grease, sweat, tobacco, the faint tang of rot and barnyard mud. You scrub harder, douse yourself in body wash, even run a washcloth along your hair. Nothing lifts it. The odor has burrowed under your skin. You gag. Marcus wrinkles his nose when he hugs you, recoiling just slightly.
You want to scream, but the words wonāt come.
Then the subtle changes in posture.
You notice it in the bathroom mirror after lunch. Your shoulders slump slightly, chest jutting forward like his. You shift your stance, try to straighten, but the sprawl feels easier, natural. You catch your reflection and cringe. Your face in the mirror isnāt fully yours anymoreāthe cheekbones sharpen slightly, jaw square, eyes squinting as if judging everything around you. And the hairāshorter along the sides, growing rougher along the top, as though your scalp itself is adjusting to this new, harsher version of you.
You touch it, your fingers fumbling through thickening strands. The feel is alien, bristly, coarse. You canāt help but wince.
And then your voice betrays you.
Youāre on the phone with Marcus, explaining some mundane office issue, and you hear it before you even register: that gravelly, lazy drawl thatās not yours, creeping into your words. āYeahā¦ reckon I can do that, babe,ā you murmur. āAināt a problem.ā
Your heart races. The words make you flush with shame. You try again, consciously: normal, clean, careful. But the tone keeps sliding back, slipping from your control.
By the afternoon, itās undeniable.
Your arms are thicker now, muscles tense under your sleeves, flexing unintentionally when you reach for the stapler. Your chest feels heavier, almost awkwardly so, and when you shift your weight on the office carpet, you hear a faint creak in your jeans, as if they werenāt made for this body.
And the smellāoh, the smell. Itās everywhere now. Clinging to your clothes, your hair, your hands. You sniff yourself and gag. Itās him, this hick, rough, sweaty Cole energy, bleeding into your pores. You scrub in the bathroom, hands raw from soap, towel chafed, and even then you canāt escape it.
The humiliation is sharp, almost physical.
Marcus notices the shift first when you come home. His eyes flick from your forearms to your shoulders, lingering on your chest, then to your hair. āWhatā¦ whatās happening to you?ā he asks. His voice is careful, but thereās fear there. You try to explain, but even your words sound wrong, heavy, lumbering.
You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror. Hatless, slouched, jaw tighter than usual, eyes half-lidded. A muscle twitches in your forearm, thick and rigid. You brush your hand over it and feel itāreal, undeniable. And beneath it, that stench. The way your skin seems to carry his barnyard musk, his grease, his sweat.
You want to run, to cry, to wash it off, but a small, perverse part of youādeep downāthrills at the rawness, the power, the masculine primality bleeding into your own body. You despise it. You fear it. And yet, it excites you.
You clutch the bathroom counter, knuckles white. āThis isnātā¦ me,ā you whisper to the reflection, voice thick and strange, betraying you even as you deny it. But in the mirror, you already see the first shape of whatās comingāa body rougher, larger, more him than you.
And thereās nothing you can do to stop it.
The first morning after that bathroom mirror moment, you wake with your arms and shoulders tight, sore in a way that isnāt fatigue but somethingā¦ insistent. You sit up, swinging your legs over the bed, and notice the subtle stiffness in your backāan odd, uncomfortable bulk pushing against your spine, like your muscles remember some labor they never did.
The scent hits you immediately. Not bad, exactly, but thick, lingering, like grease mixed with sweat, sunbaked earth, faint smoke. You sniff your pillow and gag. You shower anyway, scrub hard, until your skin burns. Even then, the smell clings faintly, as if itās part of you now, etched into the pores, the hair follicles.
When you walk into the kitchen, Marcus frowns. āGod, what is that smell?ā
You shrug, trying to laugh it off, but your voiceāitās off. Just slightly lower, rougher, a gravel that wasnāt there before. You clear your throat, try again: āCoffee. Justā¦ coffee.ā But even the words sound lazy, pulled-out, like someone else is sneaking into your mouth.
At work, you catch yourself before you even realize it.
Cole slides into the break room as you sit eating a sandwich. The smellāhis, not yoursāhits you full force. Fried meat, sweat, tobacco, dust from barns, diesel oil. You wrinkle your nose, but the more you try to resist, the more you notice the faint trace already on your own skin, under your shirt, in your hair.
You laugh at one of his jokes. Itās dumb, coarse, cruel in a casual way. You almost choke on the sound of it. That laugh isnāt yours. You know it, but it feelsā¦ right. Wrongly right.
And then your body follows. You catch your reflection in the glossy elevator doors: shoulders thicker, chest subtly broader, forearms veined and hardening. Your posture is slouched, legs spread, weight back on your heels. A movement you made unconsciously, copying him, has stuck. You stiffen, try to pull it back, but the slouch feels natural now.
By the second day, language begins to betray you.
Youāre typing emails when a coworker asks a simple question. Your reply slides out before thought: āReckon we could handle it this way.ā
āExcuse me?ā they ask, eyebrows raised.
You freeze. Reckon? Youāve never said that in your life. You try again, cleanly, formally. āYes, that soundsā¦ acceptable.ā But later, in a phone call with Marcus, you find the word slipping again. āYeah, reckon I can swing by later.ā The drawl creeps in, slow, lazy, almost imperceptibleābut impossible to fight.
Every word feels like a compromise, a tiny erosion. You notice yourself smiling in ways he doesāwide, lazy, cockyāeven when you know itās a mask.
The smell worsens each day, mingling with sweat that isnāt yours. Your shirts cling damp and pungent by mid-morning. Coffee doesnāt mask it. Soap barely scratches it. Marcus refuses hugs, steps back, mutters complaints that sting more than any insult.
And your thoughtsāoh, your thoughts.
You catch yourself daydreaming about Coleās world: the open land, the girls sprawled over tailgates, the mud, the trucks. You tell yourself itās just curiosity, anthropological maybe. But at lunch, youāre scanning the photos again, not Pride or beach memories, not Marcusāno, the dirt, the girls, the beer. Your stomach knots and twists, a pull you didnāt think possible.
By day three, your body really starts to hum with difference.
Your forearms bulge under your sleeves. Your biceps flex involuntarily when you type. You feel a strange heat in your chestāmuscles tightening, shoulders shifting heavier, spine tilting forward like his. You try to stretch it back, straighten, force your old posture, but your limbs have memory now, muscle memory that isnāt yours, and they ignore you.
Your reflection in the bathroom is starting to lookā¦ coarser. Jawline harder, cheekbones sharper, eyes half-lidded, scowling even when relaxed. Skin smells faintly of the farm, the barn, the diesel, and grease. You scrub, you soap, you scrub again. Nothing lifts it.
And your mind is slipping too.
You notice it when you pause over your notes, unable to concentrate. Topics that used to matterāpolitics, activism, art, literatureāfade to static. The only things you can think about are your body, your new strength, the smell, the girls, the dirt. You catch yourself humming Coleās old songs in the office, tapping fingers against the desk to a beat that isnāt in your playlist.
Little compulsions creep in. You want to spit sometimes, to chew, to flex, to scratch. You find yourself adjusting your sleeves to show off the bulging veins in your forearms. You lean back in your chair, spreading your legs, just like him, and your back aches when you try to sit āproperly.ā
Even the way you eat changes. You throw down your sandwich with a little more force, bite into the fries with more chew, open soda cans like youāre pounding them down for effect. Marcus wrinkles his nose when you describe lunch later. āYouāreā¦ not even the same person.ā
You grit your teeth and try to deny it. Youāre you. This isnāt happening. But every mirror, every subtle odor, every lazy drawl slipping from your lips tells you otherwise.
And the worst part? You donāt even hate it yet.
Some tiny, shameful part of you feelsā¦ alive in a way youāve never felt before. The crude, primal energyāit hums under your skin, makes your muscles tense, your hands twitch, your cock stir when you think of the girls Cole shows in his photos. That part whispers that this is just the beginning, that maybe itās not punishmentāitās freedom.
And that whisper is getting louder.
By the fifth day, youāre barely recognizing yourself.
It hits first in the mirror before you leave for work. The reflection isnāt subtle anymore. Your shoulders are broader, bulked with muscle you never earned. Veins thrum along your forearms and biceps, thick and dark. Your chest is heavier, your pecs firm beneath the shirt, stretching the fabric in ways that werenāt there before. You tilt your head, half-lidded eyes staring back. That lazy, cocky squintāitās no accident now. Itās yours. Or maybe itās his.
The smellā¦ oh God, the smell.
Soap barely touches it. It clings to your hair, your skin, your clothes. A mixture of sweat, smoke, grease, sunbaked earth. You dab at your neck and wrists with a towel, sniff your fingers in disbelief. Marcus wrinkles his nose the second you hug him, recoiling as if youāve returned from a week-long farm crawl through mud and barns.
You try to apologize, to say itās justā¦ something lingering from the office. But your voice betrays you, low and lazy, drawl curling over the words before you can catch them. āNah, babeā¦ itās all good.ā
By mid-morning, itās in your posture.
You slump into your chair, legs spread wide, back curved forward, elbows braced against your knees. Your fingers drum a rough rhythm on the desk, like Cole tapping against a truck hood. You straighten, force yourself upright, but it achesāyour muscles have memory now, insisting on the slouch, the spread, the lazy dominance.
You shift in your seat and notice your forearms flex under the sleeves without thought. Your veins stand out, your biceps tighten. Every subtle movement draws your eyes to them, and a perverse thrill races through you. You want to flex. You want to show. You want someoneāanyoneāto notice.
Language begins to unravel further.
Youāre on a call, trying to discuss a report, when a single word slips: āReckon.ā
You choke on it mid-sentence, red in the face. āSorryāuhā¦ I meanāā
But itās too late. The word feels right. Comfortable. Natural. Your sentences begin to coil into that lazy, lazy drawl. āYāknow, Iām just sayināā¦ā āAināt no big deal.ā Even your swearing changes: rough, casual, careless. You catch yourself muttering ādamnā under your breath at mistakes in a spreadsheet, a word youād never have used before.
Itās humiliating. And yetā¦ somehow satisfying.
Then the compulsions hit.
During lunch, you find yourself reaching for greasy fries with the same slobbering enthusiasm Cole displays. You chew loudly, smack your lips. Salt sticks under your fingernails. You donāt care. You like the feeling of grease and salt coating your hands.
You catch yourself flexing at your reflection in the cafeteria window. Your forearms, your pecs, your veinsāthey thrum beneath the thin cotton. Heat rises in your chest. You adjust your shirt, then leave it alone. Why cover something thatās finallyā¦ yours?
You notice the pull toward the girls in your office, on the street, in passing. Itās not just curiosity anymore; itās a gnawing hunger. You think about them constantlyāthe curves, the softness, the way they look at you without realizing the way your gaze lingers. You want them. You need them.
And when you glance at Coleās photos again, your stomach twists with desire, aching with a raw, primal pull you didnāt have before. You feel a flush of shameābut itās fleeting, overtaken by a deeper, undeniable craving.
By the end of the day, your body has fully betrayed you.
Jeans snug at the waist, sleeves straining across your bulging biceps. Shoulders and chest broad and strong. Muscles rippling under your skin with every move, flexing unbidden. You run a hand through your thickening hair and wince at the rough textureāitās coarse, bristly, as if itās adapting to a harsher world.
You catch your reflection in the elevator doors and freeze. That smirk. That half-lidded stare. The lazy cock of your chin. Your eyes squint slightly, judging. You lookā¦ dangerous. Magnetic. Wrong. And entirely, undeniably, someone else.
The mind follows, insidiously.
Old interestsābooks, politics, art, LGBTQ+ activismāthey fade like smoke. Every time you try to focus, your thoughts drift back to your arms, your chest, the girls you pass, the smell clinging to your skin. The world you used to care about becomes background noise, dull and meaningless. You scroll your phone, not reading the news, not laughing at memesājust checking images of girls, girls, girls.
And Cole? Heās everywhere in your habits now. You sigh in the morning exactly like he does. You sit like him, chew like him, even curse like him. Your body hums with a crude, primal energyāmuscles taut, veins throbbing, cock hardening with the thought of someone new, someone soft and willing.
You catch yourself grinning at the reflection in the mirror, half-lidded eyes daring the world to challenge you. That confidence, that arroganceāit isnāt just a mask. Itās real now. And you hate yourself for liking it.
But the worst, the truly agonizing part?
A part of you still knows who you were. The intelligent, funny, cultured gay man, proud of your identity, your relationship, your interests. That part screams in the back of your skull, shrieks at you in the mirror: Stop. Youāre losing yourself.
But you canāt stop. You try. Every flex, every glance, every thought about a girlās soft skin is like an electric pulse driving the old self further down, compressing it, suffocating it.
You slump against the bathroom counter, hand on your hip, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded. That primal pull in your gut. The smell. The slouch. The drawl curling around your words like smoke. The muscle memory of someone elseās posture. The craving.
And you know, deep down, youāre already too far gone to fight it.
It starts the moment you wake.
Your body stretches, tight and coiled, every muscle humming with tension. Veins stand out along your forearms, biceps bulge under your skin, chest thick and taut. Your hair is short on the sides, coarse on top, bristling like wire. And the smellāoh Godāthe sweat, the grease, the sunburned, earthy musk clinging to you as though itās been stitched into your pores. You breathe in and gag a little. Soap does nothing. Your pillow smells like itās been rubbed with dirt and oil.
You glance in the mirror, and the reflection isnāt you. Not really. That half-lidded cocky squint, jawline sharp, chest broad, arms heavyāthe whole form radiates lazy, arrogant masculinity. Your smirk is permanent, the smirk of someone who knows the power in his body and doesnāt give a damn who sees it.
You run your hand over your forearm. Thick. Veined. Hard. Every touch sends a shiver through your chest. You flex, and the muscles respond without thought, rolling and shifting in a rhythm that isnāt yours but somehow feelsā¦ right.
Your mind has almost completely changed.
Thoughts of books, art, politics, your boyfriend, activismāall gone. Empty. In their place: girls. Curves, softness, sweat, dirt. Trucks. Mud. Beer. Power. You think in short, lazy phrases now. Words slide from your mouth in a lazy, slow drawl, punctuated by coarse laughter and guttural satisfaction. āDamn, look at that,ā you mutter under your breath at a girl walking past the office. Not thinkingāit just comes.
Lunch is a mess. You pound fries into your mouth, grease smearing across your fingers. You donāt care. You love the stickiness, the salt. You flex subtly in the reflection of the cafeteria window, forearms rippling beneath your tight sleeves. You feel alive, coarse, like youāve finally become the person your body wants to be.
By mid-afternoon, posture is fully corrupted.
Slouched. Legs wide. Back bent just so. Elbows braced. A small, cruel thrill dances across your chest when someone notices the casual dominance in your stance. You lean back in your chair, arms resting behind your head, showing off your muscles. Your veins throb. Your chest gleams faintly under the office lights with sweat and grease. The smell rises againāundeniable now, inescapable. Marcus wrinkles his nose, disgusted, but the gesture makes you grin. You flex subtly, smirk widening.
The sexual pull is unbearable.
Every girl you pass ignites your mind. You think about them constantly, want them. Need them. The memory of your boyfriend feels distant, alien. You imagine wrapping a girl over your knees, bending her, feeling her softness press against you. Your cock responds without warning, twitching, pulsing. You shift, adjusting in your chair, trying to hide the bulge, but the primal thrill is impossible to suppress.
You catch your reflection in the elevator, eyes half-lidded, smirk permanent, chest heaving slightly, forearms bulging. You flex subtly, testing it. Heat coils in your gut. You want attention. You need attention. You crave validation from anyone who notices how different, powerful, raw youāve become.
By evening, the change is irreversible.
You leave the office early, unbothered by deadlines, your uniform of clean office wear replaced with worn jeans, a tight t-shirt that shows off every bulge, every vein. You walk like someone else entirely: slow, wide-legged, arms swinging. Your hands carry the faint tang of oil and sweat, and you donāt even noticeāexcept when you smell yourself and grin.
Coleās world has become yours. Dirt, grime, sweat, lazy drawls, sexual hunger, and that coarse arrogance saturate every fiber of your being. Your thoughts are short, crude, obsessed. The old selfākind, intelligent, gay, thoughtfulāscreams sometimes in the back of your head, but itās faint, weak, drowned out by the thrill of your body, the pull toward girls, the coarse dominance you feel in every motion.
You stop by a bar on the way home. A girl smiles at you from across the room, curls bouncing. Your cock twists with desire. You lean in the mirror behind the bar, flexing your forearms casually, smirk cocked just so. That half-lidded stare isnāt a choice anymore. Itās your default. Someone notices and winks. You grin, swagger over, voice low and lazy.
āHey there, darlinā. Wanna grab a drink?ā
And when she smiles, your body hums. Muscle memory, instinct, and obsession all coiling together. You take her hand. The old youāthe kind, gentle, thoughtful selfācouldnāt imagine this, but it doesnāt matter. It canāt matter.
Your name doesnāt feel like yours anymore. Not really. Somewhere deep, a thought surfaces: youāre something new. Bigger. Stronger. Dirtier. Louder. Hornier. Entirely crude. Entirely raw.
You feel a grin spread over your face, teeth flashing in the dim bar light.
This is who you are now. And you like it.
The first morning in your new apartment, you wake in a bed that smells faintly of last nightās sweat and cheap beer. You stretch, muscles coiling and rippling beneath your skin automatically. Forearms thick, veins popping. Biceps flex even without thought. Your chest, broad and hard, gleams faintly with oil and sweat. You breathe in deepāand the smell, your smell, hits hard: sweat, grease, earth, sunlight baked into your pores. You grin, half-lidded eyes catching yourself in the cracked mirror by the dresser. That smirkāitās yours now. Always yours.
You roll out of bed, jeans tight, t-shirt stretched across pecs, hair bristling, short on the sides, coarse on top. The muscles in your legs tighten as you walk, each step confident, lazy, a little arrogant. Posture? Slouched, back curved, legs wide. You notice it, flex subtly in the mirror, grin widening.
Breakfast is a burger from a drive-through, eaten with your fingers. Grease smears across your palms. You donāt care. You like it. You flex your forearm idly while chewing. You can feel the veins, the thickness, the raw power in your body, and it hums under your skin.
At your new āpart-timeā office job, itās the same show every day.
You swagger in late, sleeves rolled up to show off forearms, chest tight under your t-shirt, jeans low on your hips. The drawl is permanent nowālazy, slow, careless. Words slip before thought: āReckon Iāll handle it this way, yāknow?ā āAināt no problem, bro.ā You laugh coarse and loud at jokes that wouldnāt have touched you before. People wrinkle their noses at the smell, at the cocky energy, at the arrogance radiating from youābut you donāt care. The smell of your own sweat, your own grime, is intoxicating, thrilling.
Every glance at your reflection in a window, elevator door, monitor screen, confirms it: this body, this stance, this lazy, brutish charismaāitās yours. The old self? A fading echo, barely audible beneath the pounding pulse of your muscles, your instincts, your obsessions.
Everywhere. You scan them constantly, noticing curves, softness, the way their eyes linger without them knowing it. You imagine them pressed against you, soft and warm, and your cock hums beneath the denim. When one smiles at you on the street, a primal thrill races through your body. You grin, lean back slightly, half-lidded stare aimed to provoke, daring, confident. The drawl rolls over your tongue effortlessly.
āHey, darlinā, wanna grab a drink?ā
You take her hand. She laughs. You swagger down the street, muscles coiling, veins popping, chest glinting faintly with oil and sweat. Each step feels lazy, confident, perfect. You hum Coleās old tunes under your breath. You talk like him, move like him, smell like himābut somehow, even more potent, more real.
City life adapts around you.
Your apartment is messy, cluttered with protein bottles, beer cans, cheap furniture, and a faint lingering stink of sweat and grease. You love it. You sleep wherever you damn well please, crash on couches, spend days wandering the streets, working part-time only when it suits you. Your body is your obsession now. Every morning is a ritual: flex, check the veins, adjust the sleeves, smell yourself, grin at the reflection in the mirror. Your muscles hum. Your cock stirs at the memory of girls, at the thought of dominance, of conquest.
Friends? Coleās old crew is yours now. You drink beer, tell crude jokes, race trucks, revel in the dirt and grime and heat of the city. You mimic his gestures without thought, posture slouching lazy and wide. Speech drips with drawl, slang, coarse laughter. Youāre filthy, sweaty, horny, lazy, and fully aware of itāand it delights you.
And inside, the old you is gone.
No politics, no activism, no boyfriend, no Pride, no intelligence or thoughtful care. Just instinct, desire, arrogance, lust, dominance, sweat, and grime. The old thoughts surface only in dreams sometimes, ghosts that vanish the moment you wake. In their place: raw hunger, muscle memory, obsession with girls, lust, and your own body. Every day is a performance, a display, a flex.
Your new name surfaces naturally, unforced. Rhett. Short, coarse, confident. It rolls off your tongue. You answer to it, think in it, feel it. You are Rhett. You live Rhett. Every motion, every word, every glance confirms it.
The mirror confirms it. Half-lidded, cocky stare. Chest broad, veins thick, biceps taut. Smell thick, body warm and alive with desire. You flex subtly. Grin. Swear. Drool a little from the thrill. Lean back. Let the world see.
