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.
You’d 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 wasn’t 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 “corporate gay,” 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 who’d been in the sun too long but hadn’t bothered to shower. When you looked up, there he was—camo 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 spoke—thick drawl, too loud, throwing out words that didn’t belong here. Words like queer, muttered like they were dirty. Comments about “city women dressing trashy.” About how people “ain’t got morals anymore.” 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 wasn’t pity—it was principle. You’d spent years telling people that ignorance was only cured with exposure, that real progress meant talking, not shunning. And hell, he wasn’t screaming slurs in your face. He wasn’t threatening violence. He was just… 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 grease—two 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 didn’t come.
Cole just squinted. “Reckon y’all live different than me,” he said finally, chewing slow. “But hell… you seem alright.”
The words shouldn’t 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. He’d grunt, shake his head, mutter something about “not my style,” but then he’d 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 couldn’t wash off. You’d go back to your desk and smell smoke where there wasn’t any, hear the rumble of engines in the silence of keystrokes.
When you came home, Marcus wrinkled his nose. “You smell like… I don’t know. Gas station food?”
You laughed it off, but he wasn’t wrong. The cafeteria didn’t usually cling to you like this. You hadn’t noticed how, sitting too close to Cole, his odor soaked into your shirt. Smoke, sweat, cheap soap that didn’t 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 he’d 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 felt… 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 doesn’t happen in one crash, but in tiny humiliations you almost convince yourself aren’t 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 rash—don’t touch it, don’t spread it. You tell yourself you’re better than that, that patience matters, that change happens face-to-face. But really, it’s because he doesn’t look at you like you’re 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 didn’t even sweat, but there it is—sour 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 she’s 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.
“You stink like… like some barstool uncle. What the hell?”
You laugh, mumble about cafeteria grease, promise a shower. But even under hot water, even scrubbing hard, there’s a phantom residue—his smell baked into your pores.
One afternoon you’re in a meeting, scrolling notes, when you hear yourself say it out loud: “Y’all.”
The word sticks in the air. You never say y’all. Ever. Your coworkers glance up. You fumble, correct yourself, push on with the presentation, cheeks burning.
Later, texting Marcus, you slip again: “Hell yeah.” He sends back three question marks, then: You been hanging around that redneck too much?
You don’t answer.
At lunch the next day, you catch yourself laughing the way Cole laughs—loud, barked, a little mean. It startles you. He notices, grins wide, like you’ve finally told the right joke.
Your body betrays you too.
You’ve 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 weirdly… easier.
In the bathroom mirror, you catch the shape of yourself bent like him—hatless 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. “He’s always with Cole.”
“God, he smells now too.”
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 you’re in control, that these little slips mean nothing. But at night, Marcus’ kisses get shorter. His complaints sharper. “You sound like him sometimes,” he mutters. “Like you’re trying to be him.”
You deny it. You swear it’s 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 shower—you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he’s right.
It starts subtle. You notice it when you sit at your desk, typing an email, and your arm feels… heavier. Not sore, not tired—but heavier. You glance down and catch a glimpse of your forearm. The skin looks rougher, slightly tanned where the sun never touches your office. There’s 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 look… different. Not bigger in the gym-bro sense—no, 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 it’s ever been.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just a good stretch, maybe a weird lighting trick.
It starts faint. You’ve just showered, soap clinging to your skin. But as you reach for your cup of coffee, you sniff your arm and… there it is. Cole. Not the scent of perfume or deodorant—him. 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 won’t 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 isn’t fully yours anymore—the cheekbones sharpen slightly, jaw square, eyes squinting as if judging everything around you. And the hair—shorter 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 can’t help but wince.
And then your voice betrays you.
You’re on the phone with Marcus, explaining some mundane office issue, and you hear it before you even register: that gravelly, lazy drawl that’s not yours, creeping into your words. “Yeah… reckon I can do that, babe,” you murmur. “Ain’t a problem.”
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, it’s 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 weren’t made for this body.
And the smell—oh, the smell. It’s everywhere now. Clinging to your clothes, your hair, your hands. You sniff yourself and gag. It’s 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 can’t 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. “What… what’s happening to you?” he asks. His voice is careful, but there’s 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 it—real, 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 you—deep down—thrills 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. “This isn’t… me,” 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 what’s coming—a body rougher, larger, more him than you.
And there’s 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 isn’t fatigue but something… insistent. You sit up, swinging your legs over the bed, and notice the subtle stiffness in your back—an 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 it’s part of you now, etched into the pores, the hair follicles.
When you walk into the kitchen, Marcus frowns. “God, what is that smell?”
You shrug, trying to laugh it off, but your voice—it’s off. Just slightly lower, rougher, a gravel that wasn’t there before. You clear your throat, try again: “Coffee. Just… coffee.” 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 smell—his, not yours—hits 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. It’s dumb, coarse, cruel in a casual way. You almost choke on the sound of it. That laugh isn’t yours. You know it, but it feels… 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.
You’re typing emails when a coworker asks a simple question. Your reply slides out before thought: “Reckon we could handle it this way.”
“Excuse me?” they ask, eyebrows raised.
You freeze. Reckon? You’ve never said that in your life. You try again, cleanly, formally. “Yes, that sounds… acceptable.” But later, in a phone call with Marcus, you find the word slipping again. “Yeah, reckon I can swing by later.” The drawl creeps in, slow, lazy, almost imperceptible—but impossible to fight.
Every word feels like a compromise, a tiny erosion. You notice yourself smiling in ways he does—wide, lazy, cocky—even when you know it’s a mask.
The smell worsens each day, mingling with sweat that isn’t yours. Your shirts cling damp and pungent by mid-morning. Coffee doesn’t mask it. Soap barely scratches it. Marcus refuses hugs, steps back, mutters complaints that sting more than any insult.
And your thoughts—oh, your thoughts.
You catch yourself daydreaming about Cole’s world: the open land, the girls sprawled over tailgates, the mud, the trucks. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity, anthropological maybe. But at lunch, you’re scanning the photos again, not Pride or beach memories, not Marcus—no, the dirt, the girls, the beer. Your stomach knots and twists, a pull you didn’t 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 chest—muscles 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 isn’t yours, and they ignore you.
Your reflection in the bathroom is starting to look… 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 matter—politics, activism, art, literature—fade 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 Cole’s old songs in the office, tapping fingers against the desk to a beat that isn’t 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 “properly.”
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 you’re pounding them down for effect. Marcus wrinkles his nose when you describe lunch later. “You’re… not even the same person.”
You grit your teeth and try to deny it. You’re you. This isn’t happening. But every mirror, every subtle odor, every lazy drawl slipping from your lips tells you otherwise.
And the worst part? You don’t even hate it yet.
Some tiny, shameful part of you feels… alive in a way you’ve never felt before. The crude, primal energy—it 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 it’s not punishment—it’s freedom.
And that whisper is getting louder.
By the fifth day, you’re barely recognizing yourself.
It hits first in the mirror before you leave for work. The reflection isn’t 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 weren’t there before. You tilt your head, half-lidded eyes staring back. That lazy, cocky squint—it’s no accident now. It’s yours. Or maybe it’s his.
The smell… 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 you’ve returned from a week-long farm crawl through mud and barns.
You try to apologize, to say it’s just… something lingering from the office. But your voice betrays you, low and lazy, drawl curling over the words before you can catch them. “Nah, babe… it’s all good.”
By mid-morning, it’s 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 aches—your 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 someone—anyone—to notice.
Language begins to unravel further.
You’re on a call, trying to discuss a report, when a single word slips: “Reckon.”
You choke on it mid-sentence, red in the face. “Sorry—uh… I mean—”
But it’s too late. The word feels right. Comfortable. Natural. Your sentences begin to coil into that lazy, lazy drawl. “Y’know, I’m just sayin’…” “Ain’t no big deal.” Even your swearing changes: rough, casual, careless. You catch yourself muttering “damn” under your breath at mistakes in a spreadsheet, a word you’d never have used before.
It’s humiliating. And yet… 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 don’t 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 veins—they thrum beneath the thin cotton. Heat rises in your chest. You adjust your shirt, then leave it alone. Why cover something that’s finally… yours?
You notice the pull toward the girls in your office, on the street, in passing. It’s not just curiosity anymore; it’s a gnawing hunger. You think about them constantly—the 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 Cole’s photos again, your stomach twists with desire, aching with a raw, primal pull you didn’t have before. You feel a flush of shame—but it’s 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 texture—it’s coarse, bristly, as if it’s 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 look… dangerous. Magnetic. Wrong. And entirely, undeniably, someone else.
The mind follows, insidiously.
Old interests—books, politics, art, LGBTQ+ activism—they 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 memes—just checking images of girls, girls, girls.
And Cole? He’s 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 energy—muscles 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 arrogance—it isn’t just a mask. It’s 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. You’re losing yourself.
But you can’t stop. You try. Every flex, every glance, every thought about a girl’s 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 else’s posture. The craving.
And you know, deep down, you’re 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 smell—oh God—the sweat, the grease, the sunburned, earthy musk clinging to you as though it’s been stitched into your pores. You breathe in and gag a little. Soap does nothing. Your pillow smells like it’s been rubbed with dirt and oil.
You glance in the mirror, and the reflection isn’t you. Not really. That half-lidded cocky squint, jawline sharp, chest broad, arms heavy—the whole form radiates lazy, arrogant masculinity. Your smirk is permanent, the smirk of someone who knows the power in his body and doesn’t 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 isn’t yours but somehow feels… right.
Your mind has almost completely changed.
Thoughts of books, art, politics, your boyfriend, activism—all 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. “Damn, look at that,” you mutter under your breath at a girl walking past the office. Not thinking—it just comes.
Lunch is a mess. You pound fries into your mouth, grease smearing across your fingers. You don’t 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 you’ve 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 again—undeniable 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 you’ve 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 don’t even notice—except when you smell yourself and grin.
Cole’s 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 self—kind, intelligent, gay, thoughtful—screams sometimes in the back of your head, but it’s 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 isn’t a choice anymore. It’s your default. Someone notices and winks. You grin, swagger over, voice low and lazy.
“Hey there, darlin’. Wanna grab a drink?”
And when she smiles, your body hums. Muscle memory, instinct, and obsession all coiling together. You take her hand. The old you—the kind, gentle, thoughtful self—couldn’t imagine this, but it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter.
Your name doesn’t feel like yours anymore. Not really. Somewhere deep, a thought surfaces: you’re 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 night’s 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 deep—and 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 smirk—it’s 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 don’t 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 “part-time” office job, it’s 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 now—lazy, slow, careless. Words slip before thought: “Reckon I’ll handle it this way, y’know?” “Ain’t no problem, bro.” You laugh coarse and loud at jokes that wouldn’t have touched you before. People wrinkle their noses at the smell, at the cocky energy, at the arrogance radiating from you—but you don’t 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 charisma—it’s 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.
“Hey, darlin’, wanna grab a drink?”
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 Cole’s old tunes under your breath. You talk like him, move like him, smell like him—but 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? Cole’s 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. You’re filthy, sweaty, horny, lazy, and fully aware of it—and 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.
