Hey so I’m 35 abs just got accepted into the big brother house, but all the other guys are younger than me and dumb and hunky and freshly shaved, they’ve also got names like Chad, Eric, Trent, Mateo, Carson, Brad and Joshua. Whereas mines just so… nerdy…
I’m literally the oldest in the house and I think they’ll vote me off. The ladies are young too and clearly pretty dumb, I feel like I entered the wrong show because I’m gay and smart.
I’m bald and have a beard but the guys have no beards and are clearly made for tiktok as they look like the shave all their hair but the hair on their head which they all have that tiktok boy hair, the middle parts or the surfer dude hair but shorter. They’re also all throwing out rancid jokes and farts like they’re nothing.
The second you walked into the house, you knew you didn’t belong.
They were all already there — the boys, the real cast, the ones the cameras wanted. Shiny skin, cropped hair, trimmed bodies. Names like weapons: Chad. Eric. Trent. Mateo. Carson. Brad. Joshua. Every one of them sculpted, dumb, loud, bodies shaved slick except for the ridiculous “TikTok boy” hair flopping across their foreheads.
Thirty-five years old. Bald. A beard that made you look more like somebody’s divorced uncle than a star. Your name — Martin — felt embarrassing to even say in your head compared to theirs. The producers had called you “the wildcard,” but you knew what that meant: cannon fodder. Background noise. The guy who gets voted off before anyone even bothers to remember him.
You sat on the couch while they chest-bumped and ripped protein-shake farts at each other, watching them all shout “bro” and “dude” like it was a native language. Every one of them looked like he was born for this — born to strut shirtless under hot lights, to pull pranks, to make America laugh and cringe at the same time. You watched Brad spray whipped cream on Trent’s abs and the whole house roared like it was the funniest thing on Earth.
You didn’t laugh. You didn’t belong.
The girls were no better — bright-eyed, fake-lashed, airbrushed dumb. They shrieked and clapped, bouncing between the bros like cheerleaders who’d been paid in vodka sodas. You thought of your own friends back home, people who actually read books, who talked about politics, who knew what the word “irony” meant. Here, irony was dead, and you were the one holding the shovel.
The cameras followed you, hungry, waiting for you to do something. Anything. But what could you do? You weren’t going to rip your shirt off and body slam Chad. You weren’t going to spray fart jokes at the girls. You weren’t going to trend.
By the time they called you into the confessional room, your chest was tight with panic.
The room was bare, cold. Just a chair, a spotlight, and the hum of unseen cameras. You lowered yourself onto the seat like a man being strapped into an electric chair, sweat prickling under your arms.
You forced a smile at the lens. Tried to play it off. But the truth bubbled out like bile.
“This… this was a mistake,” you said, voice cracking. “I don’t fit in here. Look at me — I’m older, I’m bald, I’m gay, I’m… smart. And they’re all…” You swallowed hard, picturing the bronzed torsos, the dumb grins, the names. “They’re what people want to watch. They’re the ones made for this. Not me. I already know they’ll vote me off first week.”
The silence after you spoke was suffocating. You stared at the lens, blinking, wishing you could melt into the chair.
Finally, a voice slid through the air vents. Smooth. Low. Amused. Not the producer you’d met before — something heavier, hungrier.
“That’s exactly what we wanted to hear, Martin.”
“We don’t cast losers. We cast stars. And we can make you into one. The kind of man who wins. The kind of man who makes millions. The kind who makes people watch.”
Your palms went slick. “I… I don’t…”
“Just sit back,” the voice purred. “Relax. You don’t have to try. Let me in. Let my voice inside you. Let it do the work. That’s all you have to do.”
The light above you buzzed, brighter, hotter, until it was burning into your scalp. The chair vibrated under your thighs, just slightly, like a pulse. You could feel your own heartbeat syncing to it, thumping slower, heavier, like a drum you couldn’t stop.
You tried to stand — but your body wouldn’t move.
Your breath came faster. The air was thick, syrupy, impossible to swallow. You wanted to speak, to shout, to call for someone — but the words stayed stuck behind your teeth.
And the voice just kept rolling, deeper, smoother, seeping into your bones.
“Don’t think. Don’t fight. You said you wanted to be the kind of guy who wins. The kind of guy who belongs. That’s what we’re giving you. That’s what you are now. Listen. Feel it. Let go.”
Your skull buzzed like bees were swarming inside. Your chest felt tight, too tight, like something under your skin was straining, swelling, begging to break free. You pressed a trembling hand against your ribs — and felt heat. Real heat. Like your body was cooking from the inside.
You sucked in a breath, shaking, and tried to whisper a protest. Only one word made it out, cracked and pitiful:
But the hum was louder now, and the voice was smiling as it whispered:
“Oh, yes. This is only the beginning.”
The heat didn’t pass. It built.
It crawled up from your chest like a fever, spreading across your arms, your gut, your throat, until every inch of skin buzzed like it was about to split open. You clutched the chair arms, knuckles white, sweat dripping from your bald scalp into your beard.
And then you felt it. The first loss.
Your beard — the one thing that made you feel solid, mature, like you had an identity in this house of overgrown frat-babies — it was… thinning. You touched your jaw in panic and felt the bristles falling away, disintegrating under your fingers, leaving only raw, vulnerable skin.
“No, no, no…” you whispered, shaking your head. But the word sounded weaker, higher. Not your steady tone, but something looser, less controlled.
The voice coiled through the air like smoke.
“Stars don’t have beards, Martin. Stars are smooth. Slick. Easy to digest. People don’t want to see you. They want to see what we’re making you.”
You gasped — and then jerked as hair vanished across your chest, your arms, your stomach. It was like invisible hands were shaving you down in a single, merciless stroke. Smooth skin gleamed in the harsh light, the raw shine of oil, of sweat, of youth.
You tried to cover yourself with your hands. But even your fingers looked wrong now — thicker, swollen, veins rising under the skin like worms.
You blinked at them, terrified. And then, worse — proud.
“Shit, these… they look kinda strong…” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your lips shaping them with a grin that wasn’t yours. You slapped a hand over your mouth, horrified.
“That’s it,” the voice purred. “Don’t fight the thoughts. Let them come. They’re not mistakes. They’re you.”
You shook your head violently, bald scalp slick with sweat. “No. I’m Martin. I’m not—”
But your chest lurched. Muscles ballooned beneath your skin like they’d been pumped full of concrete. Your pecs rose, heavy and obscene, dragging your nipples forward. The chair creaked as your back widened, shoulders cracking into a new, brutish breadth.
A groan tore out of you — deep, guttural, almost pornographic. You tried to twist it into a cry of pain, but it came out smug. Hungry.
Your eyes went wide. That wasn’t what you meant. But it was what you said.
You grabbed the arms of the chair again, nails digging in, trying to hold yourself together. Every breath pulled your stomach tighter, etching lines into a core you’d never earned. Each exhale tasted dumber, shallower, like blowing out the last air of the man you’d been.
“I… I read— I like books, I’m not…” The thought tried to form, but the words slurred into something cruder:
“Books are… fuckin’ boring, bro.”
You slapped your forehead. “No! No! That’s not me, I didn’t—”
But your reflection in the mirrored wall sneered back. Your jaw had sharpened into a cocky angle, your lips plumped with arrogant curl. Thick black curls sprouted on your scalp where there’d been nothing but baldness, falling into an effortless middle-part that framed your face like every dumb TikTok boy you hated.
You shook your head, the hair bouncing, mocking you.
The voice whispered, slow, sweet, merciless:
“Who’s Martin? Look at him. He’s fading. You don’t want him anymore. You want this. You want to be the kind of guy who wins. Loud. Shameless. The one everyone watches, even if they hate him.”
You wanted to scream back — I don’t, I don’t want this, I don’t want to be that — but your throat betrayed you.
What came out was a snort. A laugh. Obnoxious, nasal. “Hahhh, fuck, I look hot as shit.”
You felt your face flush, humiliated. Those weren’t your words. But you couldn’t unsay them. Couldn’t unwind the satisfaction curling in your gut when you flexed your new arm and saw veins pop like rivers.
Somewhere in the fog of your head, Martin was still clawing at the walls. You remembered the books on your nightstand. The activist meetings. The man you’d loved once. The self-respect.
But that voice, syrup-thick, was drowning it all.
“They’re laughing at you now, Martin. But soon they’ll laugh with you. At the things you say. The things you do. That’s all that matters. Being unforgettable. Be the man they can’t stop watching.”
And your lips, trembling, parted around a word you didn’t choose.
The little wooden confessional had turned into a coffin. Not for your body, but for your self. Every breath you took came out heavier, muskier, like the wood panels themselves were exhaling through your lungs. Sweat rolled down your temples and into the collar of a shirt that no longer felt like yours—collar digging against the thickness of a neck too young, too swollen, too cocky to have ever belonged to you.
You pressed your palms to your knees, but your palms weren’t yours. Broader, coarser, darker. Your fingers flexed, fidgeting with some phantom phone, itching for a camera lens to capture your smirk. You hated that itch—yet it only got worse.
Think. Hold onto something. Hold onto yourself.
But your thoughts slipped out from under you like sand through your fingers. That voice—your voice—kept snagging, snagging on crude intrusions. A stray phrase you’d never use bubbled up, uninvited, disgusting:
It rang in your head like an echo. Not you. Not you. Yet it came again, sloppier, louder, spilling from your lips in a mutter before you could stop it:
“Yo, f’sho, bro… tha’s wild…”
Your hand clamped over your mouth. But it wasn’t just words. It was the way your jaw moved, the lazy, slanted way your vowels dragged like gum on hot pavement. You tried again—tried to say I’m still me, I’m still— but it cracked into something sloppy, sneering, flavored with contempt:
“Nah, bruh, dat shit’s gay as hell.”
Your stomach dropped. The words sat sour in your mouth, vile, humiliating—yet they felt natural. Like you’d said them a hundred times before. Like the world had always been a stage and you’d always been the star running your mouth for cheap laughs.
Your chest seized. Then swelled. A low groan left your throat as the soft slope of your pecs thickened, meatier, slamming into your ribs like weights you couldn’t drop. The shirt strained. Each breath made them bounce heavier, cockier, like they wanted to be seen. Your nipples pushed forward, obscene, hungry for attention.
You buckled forward, clutching at them, but the growth didn’t stop—your shoulders widening, your arms thickening, your biceps inflating with twitching, dumb power. Veins bulged against tan skin, twitching as if mocking you with each pulse.
And your brain buckled right with it. Memories of careful conversations, of witty jokes, of tenderness—you tried to reach for them, but they were shoved aside by a stream of louder, nastier, dumber noise. Punchlines. Catchphrases. Half-formed jokes about women, about fags, about money and clout and grindset. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t find yourself.
“Bro, real talk tho… y’ever notice bitches just—heh—just be doin’ shit fer attention?” The words tumbled out, dripping with arrogance. You wanted to scream. You wanted to gag. But instead you snickered, the sound ugly, cringey, satisfied.
Your thighs ached. They didn’t just ache—they exploded, tearing wider, meatier, crammed against the wood of the booth. Jeans shredded into distressed denim shorts, designer and tacky, exposing hairy tan legs that stank faintly of gym and cologne. Your ass spread, heavier, shameless, cock grinding against the zipper with an urgent, horny pulse.
That pulse carried up, straight into your head. The last shreds of you rattled, screaming, but the beat was too strong. A Zoomer tempo. Fast, crass, unrelenting. TikTok rhythms replaced old melodies. Quick edits, dumb soundbites, cheap laughs.
You tried to whisper your name. The name you’d always had. But when you opened your mouth, another name came out instead—loud, cocky, practiced for the camera:
“Yoooo, it’s Amir, bro! Back at it!”
Your heart stopped. No—no, no. But the echo of that name fit. Amir. The cocky douchebag influencer. The sexist comedian reality star. Nineteen years old, a self-proclaimed alpha, a walking cringe factory who didn’t give a single fuck. That wasn’t you—couldn’t be you—
But then the door creaked open.
You didn’t step out. He did.
Tall, tan, broad-shouldered, reeking of cologne and sweat. A gold chain gleamed against his swollen chest. His chinstrap beard framed a smug grin, eyebrows arched with toxic confidence. His voice boomed instantly, like he needed an audience:
“Yooo, confession time ova, bruh—amiright? Shiiit, let’s go viral wit dis!”
He whipped out a phone, already recording, already smirking. No trace of you left in those eyes. Just Amir—the Middle Eastern alpha douchebag, homophobic, sexist, cocky as fuck, and ready to clown the world for likes.
And the lock clicked shut.
You lean back on the couch in the Big Brother house, spreading your legs wide, making sure everyone sees how much space you take up. The cameras are always on you, and you know it—you thrive on it. Your chest is puffed, your gold chain glints under the bright studio lights, and you catch your reflection in the sliding glass door. Damn, you look good. Nineteen, jacked, tanned, that sharp jawline catching every angle.
“Yo, babe, you tryna sit here?” you call out, patting the cushion next to you with a cocky grin when one of the girls walks by. She rolls her eyes, but you smirk, loving the attention.
Everything you say comes out loud, unfiltered, obnoxious. You think you’re funny as hell—even when you’re not. Especially when you’re not.
“You seen my TikTok? Bro, it’s fire,” you tell one of the dudes in the kitchen, flexing your biceps while leaning against the counter. “Got like, mad views. Girls can’t resist me, bro. I swear. Like… come on, look at me.”
You can’t sit still. You’re constantly making noise—slapping the table, cracking jokes, laughing too loud at your own lines. You’re not smart, not even close, but you don’t need to be. You’ve got swagger. You’ve got the voice, the accent, the laugh. You’ve got the kind of cringey charisma that makes the audience groan and yet can’t stop watching.
“Yo, you know what’d be hilarious?” you say, standing up suddenly, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at one of the girls. “Pillow fight, bro!” You bark out a laugh, loud, ugly, nasal, but you don’t care. You’re the center of the room.
In the confessional later, you lean close to the camera, eyebrows raised, lips wet, cocky smirk plastered on your face.
“Bro, I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to get clout, get the girls, and make history, you feel me? Big Brother never seen a king like me, bro. Amir’s in the house, baby. Amir runs this shit.”
And you believe every word. You don’t remember ever being anyone else. You can’t even imagine it. You’re Amir—nineteen, hot, loud, cringey, toxic, unstoppable. The star of the show.
