#bald tf

[octuscle]

Turkish Apple Tea

Life sucked! Just a moment ago, he was the celebrated quarterback who had a happy relationship with the most popular cheerleader in the entire college. He was president of his fraternity and an absolute alpha bro. And then, after a night of heavy drinking, he gets caught in his cool Mustang with another guy, whom he is giving a blow job. The coach suspended him, his girlfriend left him, his fraternity kicked him out. Damn it! There was no eye contact! It wasn't gay. And the guy... Cool Turk, hot body, cool clothes, cool haircut. And a huge, circumcised cock. Boy, that guy moaned his soul out of his body and shot it out of his cock.

Anyway, Hunter was done. He had taken a small room in a guesthouse in the neighborhood called Little Ankara. Just to be closer to the cool guys who probably wouldn't mind if you sucked them off. Without eye contact. And that was definitely easier if you looked a bit like the alpha Turks who hung out in the hookah cafes. So Hunter decided to go to one of the numerous barber shops. New phase of life, new haircut. Yes, that was a cool idea.

The first shop he saw was simply called “Murat's Barber Shop.” Simple. No frills. Perfect. Hunter entered the shop. It smelled of hookah, leather, sweat, testosterone. The man who was presumably Murat was cleaning the long hair clippers. “Haircut?” he asked. “Please!” replied Hunter. “Trimming the ends, Golden Boy?” asked Murat with a grin. Hunter said he had moved here at least temporarily and wanted to fit in a little. Murat grinned again. “How much do you want to fit in, brother?” “Do what you can!” Hunter replied. “At your own risk, Altın Çocuk! Let's start with a scalp massage. A truly life- and consciousness-changing scalp massage!” Hunter sat down in the chair.

Murat spread oil in his hair. It smelled good. Masculine. Like hookah, leather, sweat, and testosterone. Hunter's eyes grew heavy. Lanetli! The man was good, really good! And then Hunter fell asleep.

“Can kardeşim uyan artık!” Hunter opened his eyes. Murat was pouring him apple tea, and he could see himself in the mirror. Lanetli! That wasn't him! Was it? Or was it? Lanetli! Something was wrong here. Something was wrong. Next to him lay the Hürriyet newspaper from June 28, 2025. Yes, that was today. One headline read “Türkiye rekor seviyede petrol ve doğalgaz üretimine doğru ilerliyor.” That was definitely some kind of Erdogan propaganda. Yes, the man was a great leader, but the economy of his home country... Stop! Home country? Of course, Turkey. His parents had emigrated with him when he was two years old. That was almost 40 years ago now. His parents still didn't speak a word of English. And he, Can, also preferred to speak Turkish with his bros. That's why he loved it here in Little Ankara. He could do his job as a cobbler, go to the café, go shopping... He could go weeks without speaking a word of English. Murat handed him his apple tea. “Memnun musun kardeşim?” “Gözünden öpüyorum kardeşim!” replied Can. He drank his apple tea and looked in the mirror again.

Murat was right... Nothing but a shaved head suited him!

[badguyswin]

Sequel to this and this

Tyson Caldwell strutted into Mia’s Halloween party with the swagger only a trust fund could buy. At eighteen, the star swimmer of Lincoln High was lean, chiseled, and openly gay, his cocky grin and designer sunglasses a fixture at every social event. His family’s wealth gave him a golden ticket through life, and he wielded it like a weapon, flirting shamelessly and tossing cash at any problem.

For Halloween, he’d gone all out, choosing a circus strongman costume to flex his ego: a fake handlebar mustache glued to his lip, a bald cap that gleamed under the fairy lights, a leopard-print leotard stretched over his swimmer’s physique, and a prop barbell slung over one shoulder. “Step right up, see the strongest queer in town!” he crowed, striking a pose for a group of admirers as he entered the pulsing chaos of the party.

The house thrummed with bass, fairy lights casting eerie shadows across zombies, werewolves, and a pirate slashing the air with a plastic sword. Mia, in her slutty nurse outfit, handed Tyson a cup of punch, her eyes lingering on his sculpted arms. “Strongman, huh? You selling tickets to the gun show?” she teased.

Tyson winked, flexing. “You can look but can't touch, nurse.” The punch was cloyingly sweet, with a metallic sting that made his lips curl, but he downed it, grabbing another. “Time to own this circus!”

The warmth hit like a slow tide, pooling in his chest. Tyson shrugged it off, tossing his prop barbell to the floor and flexing for a group of girls, who giggled at his exaggerated mustache-twirl. “Ladies, gentlemen, feast your eyes!” he boomed, his voice dripping with theatrical flair. But the warmth turned to a burning ache, his muscles twitching as if rebelling.

He paused, mid-pose, as his arms began to swell. His lean swimmer’s build thickened, biceps bulging unnaturally, veins popping like cables. His breath hitched, a dull panic rising. “What’s—?” His voice deepened, booming like a carnival barker’s, but it wasn’t his choice. His bald cap felt tighter, as if fusing to his scalp, and the mustache itched, rooting into his skin.

The horror surged. Tyson stumbled to a bathroom mirror, his reflection a grotesque distortion. His sleek frame ballooned into a caricature of bulk, his shoulders widening to cartoonish proportions, his chest barreling out like a strongman’s from an old-timey poster. His legs thickened into tree trunks, straining the leotard until it tore at the seams.

The bald cap was his scalp now, smooth and glistening, and the fake mustache had become real, curling thickly across his face. His face aged unnaturally, jowls forming, eyes sinking under a heavy brow.

Worst of all, his mind cracked. His confidence, his sharp wit, his pride in his identity as a gay man—they shattered, replaced by a primal, performative urge to dominate, to lift, to be the center of the circus ring. But it wasn’t his swagger; it was a grotesque, exaggerated machismo, a strongman’s bravado that erased his charm and replaced it with a hollow, bellowing ego.

Tyson—no, Titus—roared, his voice shaking the walls. “Behold the mightiest man alive!” The words weren’t his; they poured out like a script, his mind trapped in a cage of its own making. Inside, he screamed, I’m Tyson! I’m not this freakshow!

But his body lumbered forward, heavy and sluggish, his arms flexing involuntarily as he grabbed a table and hoisted it overhead, splintering it to cheers and gasps. His mind was a storm of horror: every thought of his sleek swimmer’s life, his boyfriends, his trust fund parties, was buried under a suffocating need to perform, to be the strongest, to crush anything in his path.

The party was a nightmare unfolding. Titus lumbered through the crowd, his bulk knocking over chairs, his mustache twitching as he bellowed, “Who dares challenge Titus the Terrible?” His eyes locked on Bryce, whose skinny frame and limp wrist were a mockery of everything Titus’s new self demanded. “You, weakling!” he roared, grabbing Bryce by the collar and lifting him like a ragdoll. “This circus ain’t for fairies!”

Bryce’s tearful lisp—“Pleath, I’m thorry!”—only fueled Titus’s disgust, his mind recoiling at the sight of the twink he’d once willingly associated with. He tossed Bryce aside, the frail boy crashing into a wall, and turned to Eli, seeking approval from the party's new alpha jock.

Eli sneered, his red hat tilted. “Nice lift, circus freak, but keep that queer shit away from me.” He shoved past, Mia giggling on his arm, leaving Titus seething. The rejection stung, but not as much as the internal horror: Tyson’s soul was a prisoner, watching his body perform like a trained beast.

He tried to speak, to beg for help, but only booming boasts came out: “Titus fears no man!” Inside, he clawed at the walls of his mind, I’m not this monster! I’m Tyson, I’m rich, I’m free! But the strongman persona crushed him, his every move a grotesque parody of strength.

The night grew darker, the air thick with the punch’s sickly residue. Titus’s cruelty escalated. He smashed chairs for applause, roaring at anyone who didn’t cheer. He cornered a zombie-costumed girl, demanding she “bow to the strongman,” her terrified screams ignored as he lifted her overhead. His mind screamed in horror—I’d never hurt anyone! I’m not this!—but his body obeyed its new instincts, driven by a need to dominate the ring.

Like everybody else at the party, Titus’s transformation was sealed at midnight. He lumbered out of the party, his leotard in tatters, his mustache curling like a villain’s. The house was a wreck—spilled punch, broken furniture, transformed teens growling or weeping.

Titus was a shadow of his former self. His trust fund life, his swimmer’s grace, his gay pride—all gone, replaced by a bellowing brute who lived for the crowd’s cheers. Inside, Tyson’s horror was eternal: every roar, every lift, every act of cruelty was a betrayal of who he’d been. The strongman had no friends, no lovers, only a stage where he performed alone. Halloween’s curse lingered, a permanent trap, his soul screaming in a body that wasn’t his, forever the monster he’d mocked.

[derekhighwaytf]

InstaCub

I loved the Cha Cha Room.  It was as exclusive as it was expensive, but hey that’s the price you pay when you’re a social media sensation.  Being Trey, the sexy instagram model wasn’t without its downsides, however.  The worst thing was when guys who should’ve known that someone of my caliber wouldn’t be interested in them tried to hit on me.  Sure, I fucked my fans regularly, but only the ones that shared my dedication to beauty.  I couldn’t help that I was born gorgeous.

My entourage, an aesthetically curated group of other models (all only slightly less attractive than myself) walked into the Cha Cha Room, ready to be gawked at, each of us oozing beauty and charisma. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, their eyes filled with awe, desire, and, my favorite, envy.

But amongst that sea, there was one guy that forced me to do a double take.  Doug, rounder and balder than anyone else, didn't fit the usual demographic that came to Cha Cha. It was a mystery how he must’ve slipped his way in when security wasn’t looking, because there was no chance they’d ever willingly allow someone who looked like that to enter such exclusive premises.  And, to make matters worse, when he caught me staring at his odd appearance, he began to make his way toward me, a small, devious smile playing on his lips.

"Can I buy you a drink?," he asked.  I raised an eyebrow, my lips curling into a smirk.  Sure, he was far beneath my standards, but I loved teasing my inferiors, especially when it comes with a free drink.  "Well, aren't you a sweetheart," I replied, trying to hide my disdain for his smelly, musky demeanor.

As we talked and I pretended to listen, he must’ve farted at least three times, but I wanted to be nice, so I held my breath and counted the seconds till I could rejoin my way cooler group of friends.  However, when Doug began flirting, I couldn’t help it.  A chuckle bubbled up from my chest and I shook my head, saying "Doug, was it?  No amount of drinks in this club could make me think you're anything but fat, smelly, and bald."

“And what’s wrong with that?” he said earnestly.  “This is a bar for fat, smelly, bald guys after all.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.  Just as the words escaped my lips, I noticed something strange. As my eyes scanned the crowd, I realized that everyone, even my formerly flawless friends, looked just like Doug. They’d grown beards, their hair on their head was gone, and they all had guts the size of bowling balls.  I felt a chill run down my spine as I started to walk away.

“I must be in the wrong place.  I don’t belong here,” I said, just barely missing the door.  But before I could free myself from this hellhole, Doug stopped me and said, “Yes you do.  I think you fit in perfectly.”

Suddenly, my Gucci shirt felt tight around my midsection, and my once firm arms now felt doughy. As I turned to leave, a full-length mirror on the wall revealed a shocking transformation.   I reached up and where once were lush and thick chestnut locks, was now greeted the cold, bare skin of a rapidly receding hairline, retreating with alarming speed, creating an expanding dome of skin I’d never seen before.

Clumps of my hair began to detach themselves from my scalp, falling gently to the club floor. Each strand felt like a piece of my identity, a piece of Trey, falling away to reveal the bald truth underneath. I watched in frozen terror, feeling each follicle detach until all that remained was nothing but a smooth, shiny surface. I was as bald as an egg.

And then I farted.

Pffffffft.

I was disgusted with myself for only a moment, until I started to let a hearty chuckle much deeper than my old voice.

I looked in the mirror again, my face so much more different than it was ten minutes ago—familiar, but not the one I had painstakingly maintained for the world to admire. Suddenly, the world seemed to shift as a flood of memories washed over me. I wasn't Trey, the Instagram sensation. I was Tom, a twenty-something, bald, overweight man who didn’t shower, farted every five minutes, and fucked anyone who’d have me.  This was my bar and I was gonna make sure all my fellow cubs had a good time

As the rock music blared and the crowd at Tommy’s Den started to become increasingly alluring to me, I was suddenly hit with a wave of unfulfilled desire, a need for cock.  So I pulled Doug aside to the bathroom and…well you can guess what happened next.

I was Tom now, and, honestly, my life was so much better…

Pffffffffft.