Jake used to be the smart one in the apartment. Straight-A’s, poli-sci major, always reading some dense theory book or arguing about systemic inequality in the group chat. Skinny, glasses, hoodies three sizes too big, the kind of guy who said “actually…” way too often. His roommates—Chad and Bryce—called him “the nerd” behind his back and sometimes to his face. They were the opposite: gym rats, backward caps, MAGA trucker hats hanging on the wall, protein shakes in the fridge, always blasting bro-country or some alpha-male podcast while they did curls in the living room.
One Friday night Jake came back from the library late. Chad and Bryce were already half-drunk, sprawled on the couch in nothing but basketball shorts, phones in hand, smirking like they’d been waiting for him.
“Yo, Jakey-boy,” Bryce drawled, “c’mere. We found somethin’ sick.”
Jake rolled his eyes but sat down anyway. He was tired. He figured they’d show him some dumb TikTok or a thirst-trap edit. Instead Chad held up his phone. A black screen. Then it bloomed into a glowing white spiral, pulsing, slow at first, then faster, colors bleeding in—red, white, blue, red again. A low bass hum started leaking from the speaker.
“Watch,” Chad said, voice suddenly calm, almost gentle. “Just watch the spiral, bro.”
Jake snorted. “What is this, some Reddit hypnosis bullshit?”
But his eyes stayed glued. The spiral seemed to pull at the center of his forehead. The room got quieter. The hum got deeper. Bryce leaned in from the other side.
“Relax, dude. Let it happen. You don’t gotta think anymore. Thinking’s hard. Thinking’s for betas.”
Jake wanted to laugh. Wanted to stand up. But his body felt heavy. Warm. The spiral spun faster and the words kept coming, overlapping now, Chad and Bryce trading lines like they’d rehearsed this.
“Every spin makes you dumber.” “Every spin makes your cock harder.” “Smart thoughts leak out. Muscle thoughts flood in.” “Obey Chad. Obey Bryce. Obey the bros.” “Real men don’t think. Real men lift. Real men stroke. Real men vote red.” “Old Jake was weak. New Jake is strong. New Jake is empty. New Jake is horny.” “Stroke for the spiral. Stroke for MAGA. Stroke for the bros.”
Jake’s hand moved on its own. Slid under the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until the first groan slipped out. His mind flickered—wait, what the fuck—but the spiral ate the protest. Swallowed it. Replaced it with heat. Pleasure. Blankness.
Inside his skull the old Jake was screaming.
This isn’t me. I’m not this. I have midterms. I have opinions. I have a personality—
But every time he tried to grab onto a thought, another pulse of the spiral would hit and his fist would tighten around his cock and the scream would turn into a whimper, then a moan. The more he fought, the better it felt to give up.
Chad reached over, casual as anything, and tugged Jake’s hoodie off. “There we go. No more hiding that body, bro. Gonna get you jacked. Gonna get you looking right.”
Bryce was already pulling up a shopping app on his own phone. “Basketball shorts. Stringer tanks. Backward cap. Gold chain. We’re dressing you like a proper fuckboy. No more nerd shit.”
Jake’s eyes never left the spiral. His hand never stopped moving. Slow, steady, mindless pumps. Drool started collecting at the corner of his mouth.
The old Jake clawed one last time: I’m Jake. I’m—
A louder pulse. Red-white-blue flash. A voice—not Chad’s, not Bryce’s, but something deeper inside the spiral—whispered straight into the core of him:
You’re nothing now. Just a gooner. Just a cock. Just a dumb jock bro who obeys. Trump 2028. Lift. Stroke. Obey. Lift. Stroke. Obey.
The last fragment of old Jake shattered like glass under a barbell.
His eyes glazed completely. Mouth hung open. Hips started bucking weakly into his own fist. Chad and Bryce grinned, high-fived over his head.
“Good boy,” Chad said. “Now say it.”
Jake’s voice came out thick, slow, empty. “I… I’m a dumb gooner bro… gotta lift… gotta stroke… gotta obey… America first… bros first…”
Bryce turned the spiral off. Didn’t matter. It was already burned into Jake’s brain. The second the screen went black he whined, desperate, like a dog that lost its treat.
“Nah nah, you don’t need the phone anymore,” Bryce laughed. “You’re hooked. You’ll do it just thinking about it now.”
They dragged him to the gym the next morning. Jake—now just “Jock” to them—wore the new clothes they’d ordered overnight: red gym shorts that barely covered anything, a sleeveless MAGA tank so tight it looked painted on, high socks, backward cap. He stared at himself in the mirror between sets and felt his cock twitch every time. Smarter thoughts tried to surface—this is humiliating, this is wrong—but each one got crushed under the memory of that spiral, under the pulse of pleasure that rewarded obedience.
By week three he couldn’t form a full sentence that wasn’t about lifting, stroking, or owning the libs. His grades tanked. Didn’t care. Professors emailed. Didn’t read them. Phone stayed on porn and workout TikToks. Every pump of iron made him hornier. Every edge session in front of the spiral (they still played it sometimes, just to watch him melt) made him dumber. Every time Chad or Bryce said “flex for the bros” he popped a boner instantly.
Inside, old Jake was gone. Just a faint echo sometimes, right before he came, a tiny voice that whispered help right as the orgasm drowned it forever.
Now he just grins like an idiot, drools a little, strokes himself stupid in the living room while Chad and Bryce film it for their private group chat labeled “Project Goonbro.”
“Say cheese, Jock,” Bryce laughs, phone up.
Jake flexes, shorts tented, eyes vacant, voice thick with permanent haze:
“Y-yeah bros… own the libs… stroke for Trump… fuck yeah…”
And he cums again. And again. And again.
No thoughts. No future. No escape.
Just a braindead gooner in basketball shorts, addicted to the spiral that lives in his head now, forever.
