Transforming Men

Male transformation stories, focusing on G2S

[transform4u]

Oberon: The Punisher of Sin and Pride

The boardwalk stretched forever beneath a bruised purple sky.

Neon lights buzzed overhead in sickly rainbow colors, flickering through the sea mist rolling in from the black ocean beyond. Music thundered in the distance where crowds gathered for the coming Pride parade — laughter, dancing, celebration, freedom.

Oberon hated every second of it.

He sat upon his throne at the center of the carnival pier, enormous and still, carved from warped black wood and twisted amusement park metal. Rusted carousel horses jutted from its back like screaming gargoyles, their painted smiles cracked wide with rot. Above him glowed seven dying neon signs:

PRIDE. GREED. LUST. ENVY. GLUTTONY. WRATH. SLOTH.

Each pulsed with its own color, together forming a poisoned rainbow over the boardwalk.

The King of the Dark Fair Folk rested one clawed hand against his cheek, his long fingers stained with ash and gold dust. His antlered crown scraped sparks from the neon overhead whenever he moved. Around his throne skittered imps and chaos demons, creatures with too many teeth and eyes, scampering between arcade machines and overturned cotton candy carts.

Every city belonged to him eventually.

New York. Miami. San Francisco. Chicago. London. Berlin. Seoul.

Humanity believed cities changed with time. Oberon knew better. Cities only changed masks.

And Pride…

Pride was simply the doorway.

Greed.

Lust.

Envy.

Gluttony.

Wrath.

Sloth.

The Seven walked behind Pride like wolves behind a parade float.

And tonight, Oberon would feed them.

A grin slowly spread across his pale face.

“Bring me the lucky seven,” he whispered.

The imps shrieked with delight and scattered into the city streets.

Somewhere, seven men would soon receive messages. A free drink. A private invitation. A chance encounter beneath carnival lights. Each would think themselves chosen by luck.

But Oberon never chose at random.

He chose the lonely.

The bitter.

The insecure.

The angry.

The hungry.

The vain.

The exhausted.

He would ask each man a single question:

What sin have you committed?

And mortals, desperate to confess themselves while pretending not to, always answered honestly.

One would admit envy of stronger men.

Another would confess endless lust.

Another his greed for status and wealth.

Another his pride.

Another his rage.

Another his gluttony.

Another his laziness.

And Oberon, smiling kindly like a false god beneath neon halos, would raise one elegant hand.

Then he would help them.

A jealous man would awaken beautiful beyond imagination, adored by everyone around him until admiration became narcotic.

A wrathful man would become powerful enough to never fear weakness again.

A slothful man would never need effort because the world itself would bend around him.

A prideful man would become the center of every room he entered.

Every gift perfect.

Every transformation tailored.

Every desire fulfilled so completely it hollowed them out from within.

Because Oberon understood something humanity never did:

The worst punishments were the ones people begged for.

Down the boardwalk, the parade lights began to glow brighter.

Music roared.

Crowds cheered.

And upon his throne of rust and neon, the dark fairy king smiled as seven drinks rolled from seven waiting machines across the city.

June approaches, and Oberon, the dark king beneath the neon boardwalk, seeks seven brave souls willing to bare their sins.

Come off anon. Confess honestly.

Tell me the worst parts of yourself — your pride, your greed, your lust, your envy, your wrath, your gluttony, your sloth. CHOOSE ONE. The quiet thoughts. The ugly desires. The flaws you hide behind smiles and screens.

The seven most interesting confessions will have their fates rewritten for the month of June.

A gift. A curse. A transformation tailored perfectly to the sin that defines you.

Consider this my last little send-off before I take a short break from writing.

Make them good.

Pride, unclaimed

Greed. unclaimed

Lust. claimed

Envy (Body of a God)

Gluttony. unclaimed

Wrath. (Body of an Alpha)

Sloth (Body of a Dirtbag)

[transform4u]

I choose wrath. After losing my job last year it’s been tough to find work. I hate feeling so powerless against a cruel world. I want to make a change! I don’t want my life as a short Asian nerd to be defined by cruel men in power who don’t care for the planet. I want to define who I am! I want the power to make a change!

The stench of desperation clings to you like cheap cologne as you navigate the concrete canyons of the city, each step a reminder of your failure. Your stomach gnaws at itself, a hollow ache that mirrors the emptiness in your soul.

Another day, another rejection email sitting unread on your phone, a digital dagger twisting in the wound of your unemployment. You've stopped opening them. What's the point? They all say the same thing: "While your qualifications are impressive..." – corporate-speak for "You're not what we're looking for, and you never will be."

"Find the fairy! Find the fairy and your heart's desire!"

The voice cuts through the urban symphony of car horns and distant sirens, sharp and commanding. You turn your head, drawn against your better judgment, and see him – a man who looks like he was chiseled from confidence and sin, leaning over a rickety card table that seems to defy gravity.

You know this game. You know it's a hustle designed to separate desperate fools from what little money they have left. You should keep walking. But your feet stay planted as his eyes lock onto yours, dark and knowing.

"Well, well, well," he calls out, his voice smooth as whiskey. "Find the fairy, looks like I already have." His gaze rakes over your scrawny frame, your cheap clothes, your Asian features that have always made you feel like an outsider in your own country. "Find Oberon, the Dark Fairy King, and your heart's desire is yours."

He flips the cards over with theatrical flair, revealing a twisted version of the King of Hearts – a dark, malevolent fairy with eyes that seem to shift and watch you, promising things you dare not hope for. "Your turn, fairy. Find Oberon."

The insult hangs in the air between you, sharp and cutting, but you bite your tongue. You need something to change, anything. Your hand trembles slightly as you hover over the cards, then tap the middle one. The man's smile widens as he flips it over. Oberon stares back at you, but now his lips curve into a knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Well, well. The fairy finds his king." The man leans closer, his breath hot against your ear, smelling of expensive whiskey and something else, something ancient and dangerous. "You've committed the sin of wrath, and you will be justly rewarded."

The city sounds explode around you – car horns, sirens, shouting – until it's all one deafening roar that threatens to split your skull. The cards scatter like shrapnel against your face, and then...

White.

Blinding, sterile white surrounds you, so absolute it feels like a physical presence pressing against your eyeballs. The walls, the ceiling, the floor—they're all the same shade of clinical, soul-sucking white, the kind of white that exists only in places where hope comes to die.

You're suddenly standing in the center of a bedroom that looks less like a place for rest and more like a surgical theater where identity goes to be scalpeled away. The bed is massive, a king-sized monolith of white linens so tightly tucked you could bounce a quarter off them. Empty white frames hang on the walls like ghostly windows to nowhere, their blankness a judgment on the emptiness inside you.

Your body is a battlefield of pain. Every muscle screams with an intensity that steals your breath, a deep, agonizing ache that feels like you've been torn apart and reassembled by some invisible, sadistic force. It's not just soreness; it's a cellular rebellion, your very fibers protesting against a violation you can't comprehend.

You stumble forward, your legs barely supporting you, and pull open the closet door. The sight that greets you is somehow more unsettling than the sterile room: row after row of identical white shirts and white pants, all in your size, all perfectly pressed, hanging in military precision. Not a single speck of color dares to exist in this wardrobe.

"What the fuck is this?" you manage to gasp, but the sound that emerges from your throat shocks you into silence. It's not your voice. It's deeper, richer, resonant with an authority you've never possessed. The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you expect an answer, but the room remains silent, absorbing your confusion like it absorbs everything else.

You catch your reflection in the full-length mirror and freeze, a knot of horror and fascination tightening in your gut. The person staring back isn't you. Your chest has expanded into a solid wall of muscle, pecs thick and powerful, straining against the fabric of your shirt with every breath you take.

Your arms hang heavily at your sides, biceps straining against the skin, veins like rivers mapping your new territory. As you watch, transfixed, your body continues its grotesque metamorphosis—shoulders broadening until they strain the seams of your shirt, abs etching themselves into your stomach with razor-sharp definition, legs thickening with muscle until your pants feel uncomfortably tight around the thighs.

You lift a trembling hand to your new chest, feeling the unfamiliar hardness beneath your palm, the raw power thrumming just beneath the surface like a caged beast. But something else is happening simultaneously, something far more terrifying than the physical transformation.

You clutch at your head as a war erupts behind your eyes. Memories of your parents—their faces etched with worry as they counted tips from the restaurant they ran eighteen hours a day, their thick accents explaining complex tax forms to you in broken English—begin to fray and dissolve like old photographs left in the sun.

Their sacrifice, their love, their entire existence crumbles into dust, replaced by a new lineage. A different history takes root, one of old money and impeccable breeding. You can almost smell the leather and cigar smoke of a study you've never seen, feel the weight of a silver pocket watch passed down through generations of your family.

Your ancestors didn't just come to America—they fucking founded it. The Mayflower. The Revolution. Your family has been calling the shots for 250 years, and you've inherited every bit of that entitlement like it's encoded in your DNA.

Your skin tingles as it loses its golden hue, becoming pale and privileged, the color of men who've never known a day of hardship or want, who've never had to earn their place because it was carved out for them generations ago.

The memory of your father's insurance company shifts—it's not just some business, it's a 200-year-old dynasty that you were born to rule, a legacy of power and influence that flows through your veins like liquid gold, hot and intoxicating.

"Jesus Christ," you groan, rubbing your temples as more memories assault you, each one more vivid and more alien than the last. High school wasn't about AP classes and debate club—it was about football championships and cheerleaders, about being worshipped for your strength and your looks, about learning early that your physical presence commanded respect and obedience.

College wasn't about earning scholarships—it was about frat parties and touchdowns, about establishing yourself as an alpha male among other alphas, about learning to navigate the social hierarchies that would later become political battlegrounds.

The room responds to your transformation. The empty picture frames on the walls suddenly fill with images of a life you're beginning to remember. There you are, older now, maybe twenty-five, in a cap and gown, standing in front of a building with ivy-covered walls that looks suspiciously like Yale.

Another frame shows you in a football uniform, your body already thick with muscle, hoisting a trophy. In another, you're shaking hands with a man with a shock of blonde hair and a red tie—Trump, you realize with a jolt of recognition that feels like an electric shock. He's clapping you on the back, his smile wide and genuine.

The ache in your muscles intensifies as they swell with the memory of countless hours in the gym, the kind of work you never had to do but chose to because power demands a vessel worthy of it, because you understood early that appearance was reality in the world you were destined to rule.

A wave of nausea hits you, and you double over, gasping for breath. You're on the bed now, and someone's moaning above you. For a fleeting moment, it's a cute twink—exactly your type. But the image warps, twisting like a reflection in a funhouse mirror into a busty blonde with vacant blue eyes and tits spilling out of a tight pink sweater.

Wait. No. You were gay. You remember that with certainty, with the clarity of a fundamental truth, but the thought feels foreign, disgusting, like something you've scraped off the bottom of your shoe. Faggots. Fucking queers. The hatred rises in your throat like bile, hot and acidic, a visceral revulsion that makes you want to vomit.

You've always hated them, always known they were destroying this country with their perversion and their demands for special treatment, with their rainbow flags and their parades and their insistence on being seen as normal when they're anything but.

"Fuck yeah," you growl, the sound of your own voice sending another thrill through you. It's deeper now. More commanding. You flex your biceps, watching with satisfaction as they swell. The nerd hobbies you once cherished crumble to dust. Pokemon? Doctor Who? What kind of faggot bullshit was that?

Real men played football. And you were damn good at it. Memories of frat parties and winning touchdowns replace memories of comic book stores and video game tournaments. You're not 26 anymore. You're 27, then 28, then pushing 30, and every year brings more muscle, more confidence, more power.

Your abs tighten as you clench them, the muscle memory of a thousand crunches blending with the memory of a hundred homophobic rants delivered to cheering crowds of true Americans, people who understand that God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.

You remember the church now, not as a place you occasionally visited with your parents, but as the center of your life. You can almost smell the old wood and the expensive perfume of the women in the front pew, feel the weight of the heavy Bible in your hands. You remember the sermons, not about love and forgiveness, but about sin and judgment, about the wages of sin being death and the glory of righteousness being power.

"God hates the sin, not the sinner," a voice that sounds like your own echoes in your head, but you know the unspoken truth: God hates both, and so do you.

The room changes again, the white walls softening to a warm beige, the sterile furniture replaced with heavy, ornate pieces that speak of wealth and tradition. A massive oak desk appears in one corner, covered in neat stacks of papers.

A flag stand materializes next to the window, holding an American flag and a flag with some kind of insignia you don't recognize but know represents your family. The bed is now covered in a masculine comforter in shades of navy and burgundy, fabrics that speak of power and tradition. A cross hangs on the wall. Family photos show you with various women, each one blonder and bustier than the last. You're older now. 35. 40. 42. You entered politics in 2018, riding the red wave Trump created.

Your campaign was built on family values and anti-gay legislation, the kind of platform that made liberals foam at the mouth. You've been a congressman for eight years now, and you've fucked more interns than you can count. All of them young, blonde, and dumb as rocks. Perfect.

The room solidifies around you – a suburban master bedroom, complete with a photo of you and your wife. You remember her clearly now: 21 years old, perky tits, empty head, perfect for the image you're crafting. Perfect for your Senate campaign. Perfect for producing the heirs who will carry on your legacy, your name, your bloodline, you can't fucking wait to knock her up.

"Congressman!" Her voice floats in from the kitchen, breathy and eager. You love when she calls you that. It reminds you of everything you've achieved, everything you own. Every vote bought, every backroom deal struck, every intern you've bent over your mahogany desk. It's the sound of victory. The sound of power.

You push yourself up from the leather armchair, your body a monument to disciplined aggression and expensive personal trainers. At forty-two, you're a brick shithouse of a man, thick with muscle that speaks of testosterone and authority, not the pathetic, wiry strength of your forgotten youth.

Your custom-tailored polo shirt strains across your broad chest, the fabric barely containing the solid mass of your pecs. Each step toward the kitchen is a statement, the heavy thud of your expensive leather dress shoes on the hardwood floor echoing the weight of your presence.

There she is. Tiffany. She's bent over the granite countertop, her blonde hair cascading down a back exposed by a crop top that's two sizes too small.

Her short skirt rides up, revealing the curve of her ass, the pale flesh a perfect canvas for your ownership. She's stirring something in a bowl, her movements clumsy, her mind clearly elsewhere. Probably on some reality show or which handbag to buy with your money. Perfect.

"Making something for your man, sweetheart?" Your voice is a low rumble, laced with the condescending affection you've mastered. It's the voice you use on camera, the one that makes suburban housewives wet and liberal men shrink in their seats.

She turns, her blue eyes wide and vacant. "Oh! Congressman! I was just, uh, trying to make that protein shake you like." She gestures to the blender, a mess of powder and spilled liquid on the counter. Useless. Beautiful, but utterly useless. That's how you like them.

You close the distance in two long strides, your shadow falling over her. You don't bother with the shake. You grab her hips, your fingers digging into her soft flesh, and pull her back against you.

She gasps, a small, practiced sound of surprise that you know is part of the act she puts on for you. She can feel your hardness pressing against her through your expensive slacks. She always can. Your cock is as much a tool of your power as your vote or your family name.

"Congressman," she whispers, wiggling her ass against you. "The chef will be here soon to make dinner."

"Fuck the chef," you growl, your breath hot against her neck. You can smell her perfume – something expensive and floral that you picked out for her. "I'm hungry now." Your hands roam her body, possessive and rough. You squeeze her tits through the thin fabric of her top, feeling her nipples harden at your touch.

Your mind flashes with a brief, confusing image of a man's lean chest, of tracing lines of dark hair with your fingers. The thought is sickening, a flicker of poison in your perfect world. You crush it immediately, replacing it with the glorious reality of her soft, yielding body. Fucking faggots. Disgusting. You thank God every day for cleansing you of such weakness.

You spin her around, her back hitting the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator with a dull thud. Her expression is one of mock shock, her lips parted in a perfect 'O'. You grab her face, your thumb and fingers pressing into her cheeks

. "Open," you command. She obeys instantly, her mouth dropping open. You spit in it, a raw act of dominance that makes your dick twitch. She swallows, her eyes never leaving yours, a flicker of something unreadable in them before it's replaced by the vapid adoration you demand.

With one hand, you rip her flimsy top down the middle, the fabric tearing with a satisfying sound. Her tits spill out, tanned and perfect, capped with pink nipples you paid for. You bend your head, taking one in your mouth, biting down just hard enough to make her yelp. Your other hand is busy with your fly, freeing your thick, angry cock. It's a weapon, a scepter, and right now, it demands tribute.

You hike up her skirt, tearing her flimsy lace panties with a single, impatient tug. She's already wet, her body conditioned to respond to your aggression like a flower to the sun. You lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around your thick waist as you position her against the fridge.

Your muscles bulge with the effort, the veins in your biceps standing out like ropes. This is real power. Not the hollow, intellectual kind you remember in nightmares, but the physical, undeniable ability to take what you want.

You thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying yourself to the hilt in her tight, wet heat. She cries out, a sound of pain and pleasure that's music to your ears. You don't give her time to adjust. You set a punishing rhythm, your hips pistoning, your abs tightening with every thrust. The fridge rocks with the force of your fucking, magnets and photos clattering to the floor.

"Who do you belong to?" you grunt, your voice thick with exertion and contempt.

"You, Congressman! I belong to you!" she moans, her nails digging into your shoulders.

"Damn right you do," you snarl, fucking her harder. Your mind is a torrent of righteous anger. You think about the commie libreal who holds the Senate seat you're after.

That weak, pandering fool who talks about equality and climate change like they're anything more than distractions for the feeble-minded. You'll crush him. You'll bury him under a mountain of attack ads and moral outrage. You'll use your power, your money, your God-given right to rule to grind him into dust.

"Say my name," you demand, your pace quickening, the familiar heat building in your groin.

"Congressman!" she screams, her head thrown back against the cold metal.

"Not good enough," you growl, your hand wrapping around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes widen in fear and excitement. This is what she lives for. This is what they all live for. A strong man to tell them what to do, what to be. "I'm going to be a Senator. I'm going to be President. Say it."

"Senator! Oh God, Senator Carrington" she chokes out, her body convulsing around you as she cums.

That's it. That's the trigger. The word, the power, the absolute submission. Your vision whites out, your body tensing as a wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy crashes over you.

You roar, a sound of triumph and conquest, as you empty yourself deep inside her. Each pulse is a victory, a rejection of that weak, pathetic life you almost had. A rejection of the faggot in the mirror, of the whiny liberal politics, of the powerlessness that once choked you like a noose.

You are Senator Richard Carrington. Rich. Entitled. Cruel. Powerful and filled with hate.

You hold her there for a long moment, your body pinning hers to the fridge, your breath ragged. Slowly, you lower her to the ground. She stumbles, her legs shaky, a blissed-out smile on her beautiful, empty face. Cum trickles down her inner thigh, a visible claim. Your mark.

You tuck your cock back into your pants, adjusting your clothes with an air of finality. You look at her, at the mess on the floor, at the torn top hanging from her shoulders.

You feel nothing but satisfaction. This is your world. You made it. You are the master of it, the architect of its reality. And you will burn it all to the ground and rebuild it in your image before you let anyone else take it from you.

"Clean this shit up," you say, your voice cold and dismissive. "And for God's sake, wear something appropriate. Nothing that makes you look like a whore.We have a fundraiser tonight. Need to remind those rich old fucks who owns their souls."

You turn and walk away, leaving her there, a beautiful, used thing in your perfect kitchen. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out. It's a text from your chief of staff. "The abortion bill rider is attached. We have the votes."

You smile, a slow, predatory stretching of your lips. God is good. And so are you.

"America First," you whisper to your reflection, and the man in the mirror smiles back, a cold, calculating smile that promises victory at any cost. He has everything he ever wanted now—power, money, influence, and a country that will bend to his will. And if anyone gets in his way? Well, they'll learn what wrath truly means. They'll learn that crossing you is the biggest mistake they'll ever make, and that your vision for America is non-negotiable.

"Let's bring back family values to America" you whisper to your reflection, and this time, the words feel like a prayer, a promise, a prophecy. And you, Senator, you are the prophet, the messiah, the chosen one who will deliver America from the wilderness and lead it into the light of a new dawn, a dawn where family values reign supreme, where God is worshipped and feared, where men are men and women know their place.

A dawn where you are king, and God is your co-pilot.

[transform4u]

The sin I’ve committed is Envy for sure. I’m a slightly fat gay guy with no luck dating but I see all these stud Jocks that are super hot, super fit and can get anyone they want and I wish I had the kind of body they do. I get so envious and jealous they have the perfect bodies with great looks where I’m average looking with a slightly fat body.

You shuffle deeper into the alley, the damp chill seeping through your thin jacket. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of desperation and shame. The coin in your palm feels impossibly heavy, its edges digging into your skin as you clench your fist.

Ahead, the fountain looms, a monstrosity of carved stone barely visible in the sickly orange glow of a single flickering streetlamp. It's a face—cruel, ancient, undeniably masculine—with water perpetually spewing from its sneering mouth into a scum-covered basin.

"Oberon," you rasp, the name scraping your throat raw. "I... I need your help."

The confession feels like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "The sin is envy. I know it is. I fucking know it." Saying it out loud doesn't bring relief; it just solidifies the rot that's been festering inside you for years. You're gay. Not just gay, but hopelessly, pathetically so.

A doughy guy whose dating life is a barren wasteland of ghosted messages and awkward coffee dates that lead nowhere. It eats at you, a constant, gnawing hunger that you've never dared to speak aloud.

Everywhere you look, they're there. The gods of this world. Those jocks with muscles that seem carved from marble, stomachs so flat they look like they could be used as an ironing board, jaws so sharp they could slice paper, and that effortless, liquid confidence that makes everyone gravitate towards them. They walk into a room and the atmosphere changes. People lean in. Laughter gets a little louder. Eyes follow them. They don't even have to try.

And you? You watch. You compare. You burn.

You envy the way their tight t-shirts stretch across sculpted chests, hinting at the power beneath. You envy the easy way people flirt with them, the casual touches, the hungry looks.

You envy their comfort in their own skin, while you spend half your life pulling at clothes that never seem to fit right, strategically positioning yourself to avoid any reflective surface. They have the bodies you were cheated out of. The looks you were denied. The magnetic presence that makes people want them instantly.

Every time one of them passes you on the street, something sour and toxic twists in your gut. A bitter cocktail of longing and self-loathing.

You don't see yourself as ugly, not really. Just... average. Painfully, crushingly average. Soft where they're hard. Blurry where they're sharp. Invisible where they're the main event.

You close your eyes sometimes and imagine it—being them. Waking up in that body, with that face, that confidence. Imagine walking into a room and having heads turn. Imagine people desiring you the moment they see you, instead of looking right through you.

The envy is a physical presence now, a heavy stone in your gut that grows a little larger, a little heavier with every perfect body that parades past you.

You stumbled upon this place by sheer, desperate accident. A cobblestone side street you'd never noticed before, tucked away behind a row of grimy warehouses. And there it was. The fountain. A last-ditch prayer to a dark fairy king you weren't sure was real, but what choice did you have?

"Please," you beg, your voice cracking, sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Take this... this thing from me. This envy. Make me like them. Make me one of them."

With a trembling hand, you flick the coin into the murky water. It hits with a disappointing 'plink,' sending a few weak ripples across the scummy surface. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Just silence. The distant wail of a siren. The drip, drip, drip of water from the stone face.

Then, the ripples change. They grow faster, more violent, churning the basin into a frothing, angry whirlpool. A strange, electric tingle shoots up your arm from your fingertips, a buzzing, invasive energy that quickly spreads through your entire body.

Your muscles seize up, locking in place as a wave of intense heat washes over you. You gasp, stumbling back against the damp brick wall, your eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dawning hope.

It's starting.

You can feel it. The fat. It's not just melting; it's being actively purged, siphoned from your body with an alarming efficiency. You watch, mesmerized, as the soft pouch of your stomach tightens, the flesh seeming to shrink and retract right before your eyes.

Your thighs, once doughy and thick, feel leaner, the skin pulling taut over newly emerging muscle. It's painful, a deep, cellular ache, but it's a glorious pain, the pain of becoming.

Your mind begins to fray and reweave itself. Memories flicker and shift like faulty projector reels. That disastrous date with the philosophy student? Now you remember him hanging on your every word, his eyes wide with adoration as you held court on a topic you barely understood.

That humiliating Grindr hookup where you couldn't get it up? Poof. Replaced by a memory of some twink begging for your number, his hands trembling as he touched your arm. The comparison, the constant, soul-crushing comparison to the college studs, the gym gods... it's fading. Why would you ever compare yourself to them? When you're... you're becoming...

A god.

The thought slams into you with the force of a physical blow. YES. A GOD.

The transformation kicks into high gear. Your chest balloons outwards, the soft flesh replaced by two thick, heavy slabs of muscle that strain against the fabric of your shirt. Your pecs feel solid, powerful, each breath causing them to flex and ripple.

Sweat beads on your skin, running in rivulets down the newly carved valleys of your abdomen. Your waist cinches in, the fat vanishing completely, revealing a set of razor-sharp, deeply etched abs. You run a hand over them, the sensation alien and electrifying. They're hard as rock, each ridge perfect, symmetrical. The kind of stomach people stare at with a mix of blatant envy and raw hunger.

Your arms are next. They swell, biceps rounding into perfect peaks, shoulders broadening until your shirt seams groan in protest. Veins, thick and blue, snake beneath the thin layer of sweat-slick skin, mapping out the new terrain of your power. There is no softness left anywhere. No trace of the person you were a minute ago. You are pure, engineered potential.

Your brain is on fire, synapses firing and rewiring with brutal speed. The awkward mumbling, the self-deprecating humor, the desperate need for approval—all gone. In their place rises a slick, effortless charm. A cocky, knowing smirk feels natural on your lips.

You remember conversations where you didn't just participate, you commanded. You remember people laughing at your jokes, hanging on your every word. Your ego isn't just growing; it's exploding, inflating like a hot air balloon, lifting you high above the petty concerns of mere mortals. You're not just important. You are the center of the fucking universe.

More memories flood in, displacing the old, worthless ones. You see yourself in a bright, sterile bathroom, flexing for your phone's camera. You remember the exact wording of the captions you'd post. "Another day, another pump. Who's mirin'?"

You remember shilling overpriced, useless protein powder to your desperate followers, the notifications of sales pinging on your phone like a dopamine drip. You remember the adoration, the worship. And you remember getting hornier. So, so much hornier.

Your phone, suddenly in your hand, buzzes. A message. From a guy. Some dude named Kevin. 'Hey man, you look amazing. Any chance I could take you out? My treat.' Your dick, already stirring, gives a half-hearted lurch. Then... nothing. A wave of disgust, cold and sharp, washes over you. Pathetic.

That's what he is. Look at him. Begging. He probably can't even bench his own body weight. And the way he's looking at you... that desperate, hungry look all those fucking fags get. It's gross. It's weak. A new, ugly thought coils in your mind: they're all so fucking gay. The word hangs there, dripping with contempt. Homophobia. It's not just a thought; it's a core belief now, as fundamental as your newfound muscles.

Your phone buzzes again. And again. A torrent of notifications. But these are different. Profile pictures of women. Stunning women. A blonde with lips so plump they look like they're stung by bees, posing in a bikini. A brunette with hair cascading over perfect, surgically-enhanced tits. Models. Influencers. Bimbos.

FUCK.

Your cock, which had been merely interested, now erupts with a vengeance. It thickens, lengthening with alarming speed down your thigh. 6 inches... 7... it keeps growing, pushing against the restrictive denim of your jeans. 8... 9... 10... it's a monster, a thick, heavy rod of meat that pulses with a life of its own. 11... 12 fucking inches. It feels incredible, a source of immense, primal power. Your ego swells to match it, a feedback loop of pure, unadulterated self-worship.

The last vestiges of your old life are being systematically erased. College? A hazy, irrelevant dream. You remember high school, but it's different now. You weren't some awkward nerd. You were the star quarterback. The captain of the wrestling team.

You remember coaches slapping your ass, cheerleaders fighting over who got to hold your jacket. You could have gone pro, everyone said so. But college? Nah. Too much bullshit. Too much reading. You were too dumb, too horny, too fucking important for all that. Why sit in a classroom when you could be in the gym, or better yet, in some chick's bed?

Now, the memories are crystal clear. You're a personal trainer at Equinox, downtown. The most exclusive one. Every bored, rich housewife and every daddy's-little-princess in the Chicago Loop wants a piece of you. They pay you a fortune just to watch them sweat, to occasionally "adjust their form," your hands lingering on their soft, perfumed skin. And you're happy to help. For the right price. Or the right look.

Your sense of entitlement solidifies into granite. You weren't just given a silver spoon; you were born with a fucking golden platter in your mouth. You've always had the best. The best car, the best clothes, the best body. You deserve it. The world doesn't just revolve around you; it fucking orbits you, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Politics? You don't follow the details, that's for losers and eggheads. But you know what you believe. You're conservative. Strong. Like your father, whose money you now remember inheriting without a second thought.

You hate the other side. You hate their whining, their weakness, their blue hair and their "safe spaces." Especially those bitchy, woke liberal chicks. God, you fucking hate them. And yet... you love fucking them. You love the challenge of breaking them, of fucking them so good, so deep, so relentlessly that they forget all about their little causes and their little protests.

You love seeing that fire in their eyes go out, replaced by a vacant, adoring need to please you. You fuck them until they're just as stuck, just as vapid, just as conservative as you are. It's a public service, really.

Your mind, once a library of facts and feelings, is now a stripped-down engine with three simple functions: lifting, fucking, and looking good. The dumbing-down process accelerates. You can barely remember how to do long division.

History? A blur of names and dates you couldn't give a shit about. Science? Something about... weights and reps? You're a fucking moron, and it feels glorious. People might call you a himbo, but that implies a certain, affable stupidity, a gentle giant quality. You're not gentle. You're not affable. You're a fuckboi. A crude, vulgar, self-absorbed fuckboi, and it's the only thing you've ever wanted to be.

Your body, now a masterpiece of physical perfection, pulses with this new reality. The rare combination of brute strength and elegant proportion makes people instantly, painfully aware of their own shortcomings when they stand next to you. Men don't just want your physique; they resent it. They want to be you, and they hate you for it. Women want your body, but more than that, they want your attention, your approval, your seed.

And your face. God, your face. It's the final, devastating touch. The jawline is sharp enough to be a weapon, a stark, angular frame for your mouth. Your eyes, once a soft, forgettable brown, are now a dark, intense, almost predatory blue.

Your hair, damp with sweat, is pushed back from your forehead in a way that looks careless but is utterly perfect. Your expression is a masterpiece of arrogant seduction, a slight smirk playing on your full lips as if you've just been told a dirty joke or are thinking about the last person you utterly ruined in bed. It's not a delicate beauty; it's a consuming one. The kind of face that haunts people, that they replay in their minds long after you've gone.

You don't just look attractive. You look untouchable. You are the gold standard, the living embodiment of what everyone else secretly measures themselves against and fails.

The stone face of Oberon in the fountain suddenly looms in your vision, growing impossibly large, its cruel features overwhelming your senses until it bursts—not with a bang, but with a silent, blinding rush of water that engulfs you completely. You sputter, wiping your eyes, and the grimy alley is gone.

You're standing in a steam room, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and expensive sweat. The air is warm and heavy on your perfect skin. Across from you, two women are staring, their mouths slightly agape. They are breathtaking.

A blonde, improbably tan, with tits that defy gravity, barely contained by a tiny bikini top. Her lips are glossy and plump, perfect for... well, you know exactly what they're perfect for. Next to her, a brunette with dark, sultry eyes and legs that seem to go on forever. Her hair falls in perfect waves over shoulders that would look even better draped over your face.

You don't hesitate. You flex.

It's a small movement, just a tensing of your bicep, a slight puffing out of your chest, but it's like a starting gun. They move towards you as one, drawn by an invisible force. Their hands are all over you, touching, stroking, worshiping. "Oh my god," the blonde breathes, her fingers tracing the veins on your forearm. "You're... you're even better than your pictures."

The brunette moans softly as her hand glides across your slick, hard pecs. "I used to work for the DNC," she murmurs, as if confessing a sin. "I used to care about... things." She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a new, desperate purpose. "But I don't care about any of that anymore."

The blonde nods in agreement, her hand sliding down to grip your impossible ass. "I wrote those awful protest songs. So angry. So stupid." She giggles, a high, vapid sound. "Now all I want to do is make you happy."

Your whores. Rich, reformed, perfect whores.

The lust that has been simmering, building, now boils over, consuming every remaining thought. There is no envy. There is no past. There is only this. The sin of Lust, and it is your religion. You lust for flesh, for the feeling of their bodies against yours. You lust for attention, for their adoration, for their worship. You lust for sex, a primal, all-consuming need that will never, ever be satisfied.

They aren't people anymore, not in the way you used to understand the term. They are accessories. Trophies. Living, breathing proof of your power, your conquest, your sheer, unadulterated dominance.

"I... I can't even believe you're real. Your body is... it's like it was carved by angels to make other men feel like shit." breathes the blonde, her voice a high-pitched, needy whine, her lips, swollen and glistening, are parted slightly.

The brunette, nods vigorously, her dark hair clinging to the sweat on her temples. "I used to think I was happy," she confesses, her hands roaming freely over the chiseled landscape of your abdomen. "I had my master's degree in gender studies. I volunteered. I protested. I thought I was making a difference." She lets out a short, bitter laugh. "What a fucking joke. The only difference that matters is this." She squeezes your bicep, her fingers failing to even make a dent in the solid muscle. "This is real power. This is what matters."

Their words wash over you, not as praise, but as simple confirmation of reality. Of course your body was carved to make lesser men feel inadequate. Of course your physical presence is the only true power in this world. Any residual empathy, any capacity for seeing beyond your own reflection, any shred of understanding for the "plight" of others—it's all gone.

"You're right," you say, your voice a low, confident rumble that vibrates through your chest and into their eager hands. "All that other shit is for people who have nothing to offer. People who are... soft." You spit the word out like it's poison. "Weak. They need their little causes and their committees because they can't look in the mirror and see a god staring back."

You reach down and cup the blonde's face, your thumb stroking her jawline. "But you're not like that anymore, are you? You're smart now. You know what's important." You guide her head down, and she goes willingly, eagerly, her glossy lips parting. The brunette watches, her own hands busy, one stroking your powerful thigh while the other disappears between her own legs, her breath hitching.

"I used to date this guy," the brunette pants, her eyes locked on the scene before her. "He was so sensitive. He wanted to talk about his feelings." She shudders, a look of genuine disgust on her face. "God, I was so stupid"

You smirk, a cruel, knowing expression that feels as natural as breathing. "That's because you're a woman," you state, as if explaining gravity. "It's biology. You don't want a partner. You want an owner. You want to be claimed by something stronger than you. It's not your fault you were confused. You were listening to a bunch of weak, liberal fags who were too scared to be men."

Now this. This is a proper reaction. This is the natural order of things. A thick, primal lust reasserts itself, crowding out the momentary irritation. Your cock, which had been semi-soft, surges back to its full, terrifying 12-inch glory, a veined pillar of granite demanding satisfaction. You look from the phone to the two women before you. They are not just whores; they are your first converts. Testaments to your power.

"Get up," you command, your voice leaving no room for argument. They scramble to their feet, their bodies slick with sweat and anticipation. You grab the blonde, spinning her around and bending her over the smooth, tiled bench. Her ass is perfect, round and tan, and you give it a sharp, stinging slap that leaves a red handprint on her skin. She yelps, but it's a sound of pure pleasure.

"You see this?" you say to the brunette, grabbing a fistful of the blonde's hair and pulling her head back. "This is what you were meant for. This is what all women were meant for. To be on their knees, or bent over, waiting for a real man to put them in their place."

You position yourself behind the blonde, the head of your colossal cock pressing against her entrance. The brunette moves to your side, her hands running over your heaving back and shoulders, her mouth whispering filthy encouragement in your ear. "Yes, fuck her. Show her what a real man feels like. Ruin her for anyone else. Breed her."

The word 'breed' sends a jolt of electricity through you. Yes. That's it. That's the ultimate purpose. Not just the fleeting pleasure of the act, but the biological imperative. To pass on this perfection. To create more of you. It's the most conservative, the most fundamental, the most important thing in the world.

With a powerful, guttural roar, you thrust into the blonde. She screams, a high, keening sound of pain and ecstasy that echoes off the tiled walls of the steam room. You don't hold back. You don't ease into it. You fuck her with the brutal, unthinking force of a tidal wave, your hips slamming against her ass, your hands gripping her hips so tightly you know you'll leave bruises.

A hammer blow against the wall of the old world, shaping it in your image. Your body is a blur of motion, a symphony of flexing muscle and raw, animal power. The steam room fills with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the blonde's incoherent screams of pleasure, and your own guttural grunts, the sounds of a primeval god claiming his territory. The brunette is everywhere, her hands stroking your sweat-slicked back, her nails digging into your ass, her lips whispering a constant stream of filth and encouragement that fuels your fire.

"Look at you," she moans, her voice thick with lust. "So fucking strong. So fucking perfect. God, I wish every man on earth could see this right now. I wish they could all see what a real man looks like so they'd know to just give the fuck up."

The thought sends a surge of pure, unadulterated ecstasy through you. Yes. They should see. They should all be forced to watch. To see the gap, the insurmountable, genetic chasm between them and you.

You picture it: all the weak men, the sensitive men, the liberal men, the gay men—all lined up, heads bowed, forced to witness this act of pure, masculine conquest. They would weep. They would finally understand their place in the world, which is nowhere. They are obsolete. You are the future.

"We need strong men!" you'd roared, and the crowd, a sea of adoring, beautiful women, had gone wild. "We need men who aren't afraid to be men! Who aren't afraid to build, and protect, and BREED! We don't need thinkers! We need doers! We don't need talkers! We need fuckers!"

The blonde is trembling beneath you, her body convulsing with one orgasm after another, each one more intense than the last. She's broken. Remade. You've fucked the DNC out of her, fucked the liberal arts degree out of her, fucked every thought except for the singular, all-consuming need to please you out of her pretty little head. She is your creation. A testament to your power.

"Tell me what you are," you growl, your voice a harsh command as you pound into her relentlessly.

"I'm yours!" she screams, her voice cracking. "I'm your whore! I'm your little Republican cumslut! Just please... please don't stop!"

You laugh, a deep, arrogant sound that vibrates through your entire body. You have no intention of stopping. You could do this forever. This isn't just sex; it's your purpose. It's as natural to you as breathing. The pressure builds at the base of your spine, a tidal wave of molten pleasure gathering force, ready to annihilate everything in its path.

The sight of them, both completely lost in their worship of you, is the final trigger. The dam breaks.

You grab them, one in each powerful arm, and you fuck them. Right there in the steam room. You fuck them relentlessly, your body a piston of pure, unadulterated power. You are a god, and they are your sacrifices. You hear them moaning, but it's a distant sound, background noise to the roaring in your own head. They're moaning your new name.

"Sebastian... oh god, Sebastian..."

Yes. That's it. Sebastian. Of course it is. With a roar that seems to shake the very foundations of the building, you cum. It's not just a release; it's an explosion. A volcanic eruption of pure, concentrated alpha essence. Your body convulses, every muscle straining, as you unload what feels like a gallon of your seed deep inside the blonde. The force of it sends another shattering orgasm through her body, and she collapses onto the bench, a quivering, moaning mess.

You pull out, your cock still firing, and grab the brunette by the hair, spinning her around. You paint her back and her perfect ass with thick, white ropes of your cum, marking her as your property. Your territory. It's a primal act of ownership, and it feels more right than anything you have ever felt in your entire life.

You stand there for a long moment, your chest heaving, your body slick with sweat and steam and the evidence of your conquest. The two women are on the floor, at your feet, exactly where they belong. The air is thick with the scent of sex and eucalyptus and your own overwhelming, masculine presence.

You feel... solid. Complete.

You scoop your phone off the bench and open the camera, switching it to selfie mode. You look at your reflection. At the sharp jaw, the intense blue eyes, the sweat-matted dark hair. At the body that doesn't just look good, but looks unfair. You smirk, the same arrogant, knowing smirk that has made countless women weak and countless men seethe with jealousy. You take a picture. Perfect.

You type a quick caption. 'Done with the gym. Picked up a couple of new whores for dinner.'

You don't need to wonder. You are Sebastian. You are a god in human form. A vapid, egotistical, lustful, homophobic, conservative douchebag. And the world, honestly, does revolve around you. You look at the two women, already beginning to stir, their eyes finding you again, filled with that familiar, desperate hunger. You feel your cock begin to stir again. The lust is never sated. It is a fire that can only be fed. And you will spend the rest of your perfect, beautiful life feeding it.

As the last tremor subsides, you stand there, steam curling around your perfect form, two beautiful women clinging to you, and you know, with absolute certainty, that you are complete. You are Sebastian. The most beautiful, sexy man alive. A vapid, egotistical, lustful man with the body of a God. And the world is your oyster, ready to be fucked.

[transform4u]

Sloth.

Which is funny, because nobody in my life would ever pick that one for me.

I’m in my thirties. Graduate student in an intense field. Type A to the point it feels pathological sometimes. My calendar is color-coded. My apartment is clean. I answer emails too fast. I say yes when people need help even when I’m already drowning. I optimize everything. Sleep, workouts, study schedules, meal prep, networking. I built an entire personality around being dependable because the second I stop moving, I feel guilty.

And I’m so, so tired.

Not “need a vacation” tired. I mean soul-deep exhaustion. The kind where I fantasize about missing deadlines on purpose. About letting dishes rot in the sink. About ignoring texts. About staying in bed while my phone dies and the world burns without me for once.

My boyfriend says I don’t know how to relax. He’s right. Because if I stop being useful, productive, impressive, I genuinely don’t know who I am.

The ugly truth? Sometimes I envy lazy people. Deeply. Bitterly. The guys who drift through life without ambition or shame. The ones who nap at noon, skip class, smoke on the balcony, laugh things off, let somebody else take care of it. I hate how badly I want that sometimes.

I think if you gave me permission to stop trying, I’d collapse into it completely.

And part of me is terrified I wouldn’t ever come back.

You're staring at your ceiling at 3 AM, your mind racing with the thousand things you should be doing instead of sleeping. Your dissertation isn't writing itself, but you can't make your fingers type another word.

You feel something shift in the room—a cold spot that smells of ozone and damp earth. "You want to stop trying so hard, don't you?" a voice whispers, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

You sit up, heart pounding, as a figure materializes at the foot of your bed—tall, unnaturally handsome, with eyes like polished obsidian and hair the color of midnight. Oberon, the fairy king you'd read about in some obscure folklore text. "I can grant you what you truly desire," he says, extending a hand. "The freedom to be useless."

Before you can respond, he's gone, but the air still crackles with his presence. You fall back into a restless sleep, dreaming of deadlines you've missed and opportunities you've squandered.

When your alarm blares at 7 AM, you slam it off without a second thought—something you've never done before.

As you stumble to the bathroom, you catch your reflection and freeze. Your face looks... softer. Younger. The fine lines around your eyes have vanished. You run a hand through your hair, which suddenly feels thicker, coarser. "What the fuck?" you mutter, your voice sounding deeper than usual.

You stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go. The spray hit your skin, and a groan escaped your lips. It wasn't pain. It was pure, ecstatic pleasure. You watched, mesmerized, as your body began to reshape itself.

Your lean, runner's physique swelled. Shoulders broadened, bursting outward with new mass. Your chest expanded, pecs becoming thick, heavy slabs of muscle, soft but powerful. A dusting of dark hair sprouted across your torso, swirling around your nipples and thickening into a treacherous trail that plunged down toward your groin.

Your stomach, once flat and disciplined, grew warm and padded, the definition blurring into a solid, lived-in gut. You looked powerful in a careless, animal way, like a bear that had spent its life gorging and sleeping.

"Whoa..." you grunted, running a hand over your new, solid stomach. "Sick."

You stayed in the shower for what felt like hours, just letting the water cascade over your new form. The steam filled the small room, mingling with a new, stronger smell. It was the scent of your own body, but it was different now.

It was musky, rank, the sharp odor of unwashed male. It should have disgusted you. Instead, you inhaled deeply, a primal sense of satisfaction rolling through you. Yeah. That's the smell of a real man.

When you finally stepped out, the bathroom mirror was completely fogged. You wiped a clear spot with your hand and stared. The face looking back was almost entirely new. You were maybe twenty-two, with a heavy brow, a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken, and dark, hooded eyes that held a vacant, entitled gleam.

Your hair was longer, a mess of damp, dark curls that fell across your forehead. Your arms were the most shocking part—they were no longer lean. They were bulky, veined, and almost completely covered in a chaotic tapestry of dark tattoos that snaked from your shoulders down to your wrists. They looked like weapons.

"Damn, bro," you said to your reflection, a smirk twisting your new mouth. "You look like you could fuck some shit up."

The voice in your head—the old you—was screaming. What is happening?! This isn't me! I have a boyfriend! I have a life! But the thought was distant, muffled, like hearing someone shout from underwater.

The new you, the stronger you, just laughed. Boyfriend? Nah, man. I'm not a fag. I love tits. The thought was so simple, so absolute, it was instantly true. You tried to picture your boyfriend's face, his kind smile, but all you could see was a blur, replaced by the image of a pair of large, tanned breasts spilling out of a bikini top. Your dick, which had been impressively altered along with the rest of you, twitched and began to harden.

You walked out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the floor, and stopped dead. Your apartment was... different. The sleek, Scandinavian furniture was gone. In its place was a massive, worn leather couch covered in stains.

The floor was littered with empty pizza boxes, beer cans, and discarded clothes. Your pristine bookshelves were now sagging under the weight of tubs of protein powder, cheap liquor bottles, and bongs. The beautiful view of the city skyline was the same, but the room itself looked like a frat house after a particularly destructive party.

"Holy shit," you breathed. "This place is a fucking dump."

And you loved it.

You ambled over to the coffee table, your new, heavy gait feeling natural. You ignored the glass of water you'd intended to get and picked up a packed bong. You didn't hesitate. You put the mouthpiece to your lips, flicked a lighter, and inhaled deeply.

The acrid smoke filled your lungs, and with it, the last of your old self was scoured away. Your mind, once a fortress of logic and reason, became a swamp of lazy, simple thoughts. Chicks. Working out. Beer. Football. That was about it. You coughed out a massive cloud of smoke, laughing as you did. "Duuuude," you said to no one. "I'm so high."

The old voice made one last, pathetic attempt. We were in love! He was gentle and kind!

You snorted, a disgusting, phlegmy sound. "Fuck that. Fags are gross." The thought was accompanied by a wave of visceral disgust, so powerful and real it made your stomach turn. You were straight. So fucking straight. The idea of being with a man was repulsive. The idea of a woman on her knees for you? That was nature. That was right.

You scratched your balls idly, then your ass. A faint itch reminded you of something. Oh, yeah. Gotta hit the clinic tomorrow. That bitch from St. Patrick's Day gave me the clap. You didn't feel shame or worry. It was just an inconvenient fact, like needing to buy more beer.

Just then, the bathroom door swung open. A girl stood there, barely wrapped in a tiny, threadbare towel that did little to hide her curves. She had that bleached-blonde, slightly used look that you'd always found inexplicably compelling. Her eyes, heavy with last night's makeup, raked over your new, muscular body, and a slow, predatory smile spread across her face.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she purred, her voice a husky rasp. "You're finally up, you lazy fuck. I was about to start without you."

She dropped the towel. It pooled at her feet, revealing a body that was tanned, toned, and generously gifted in the areas that mattered most to you. Your already hard dick strained, thickening painfully against your thigh. All higher brain function ceased. There was only one thing in the universe, and it was standing naked in your doorway, waiting for you.

"Get over here," you growled, your voice a low, commanding rumble you didn't recognize but instantly owned.

She didn't need to be told twice. She launched herself at you, a tanned, perfumed missile of desire. Her legs wrapped around your waist, her arms around your neck, and her mouth was on yours, all wet heat and probing tongue.

You stumbled back, slamming her against the wall with enough force to make a picture frame crash to the floor. You didn't care. You bit her lip, not gently, and she moaned into your mouth, a sound that vibrated straight to your cock.

You entered her in one brutal thrust, sheathing yourself to the hilt. She was wet, ready, and she took all of you with a guttural grunt that sounded like victory. You didn't make love. You didn't even really fuck. You claimed. You possessed. Each movement was a statement of ownership, a physical declaration of your dominance. The apartment, this girl, this life—it was all yours by right of conquest.

"Fuck, yes," you snarled, pistoning your hips. The smell of her cheap perfume mixed with the rank, musky sweat pouring off your body, creating a miasma of pure, unadulterated sex. You were an animal, rutting in your own filth, and it was the most alive you had ever felt.

The old you was a distant, fading echo, a ghost screaming into a hurricane. This is wrong! This is a violation! We loved someone! We had a purpose! The thought was so pathetic, so weak, that the new you—the real you—almost felt pity. Almost. But then the girl arched her back, her perfect tits pressed against your chest, and the last ember of that old life was snuffed out forever.

"Harder," she gasped, her nails digging bloody furrows into your back. "You fucking asshole, harder!"

You obliged. You grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. You bit down on the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder, marking her. She screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that was the sweetest music you had ever heard. You felt yourself getting close, the pressure building at the base of your spine.

"What's my name, bitch?" you demanded, your voice ragged.

"Tyler!" she cried out, her body convulsing around you. "Tyler, Tyler, TYLER!"

The name was a key turning in a lock. It was a baptism. As you erupted inside her, a volcanic release that seemed to drain every last drop of your old self, the name became law. You were Tyler. You had always been Tyler.

The memory of a color-coded calendar, of a loving boyfriend, of academic anxiety—it was all just a weird, confusing dream you'd had. This, the sweat, the sex, the stink of your own body, the mind-numbing high, the absolute certainty of your own superiority—this was reality.

You pulled out, staggering back, your chest heaving. You looked around the trashed apartment, at the girl slumped against the wall, at your own magnificent, tattooed body. A slow, stupid grin spread across your face. This was it. This was heaven.

You were a twenty-two-year-old college dropout who'd never worked a real day in his life. You were a heavy drinker, a recreational drug user, a toxic, homophobic, sexist douchebag. You were a frat bro legacy, a lazy, entitled piece of shit who would never amount to anything... and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Your phone, a cheap Android with a cracked screen, buzzed on the counter. You picked it up and swiped it open. A string of texts from a group chat named "FIJI BROS 4 LYFE" lit up the screen.

Chad: Yo Ty where u at? Pre-game at my place starts NOW Brad: Bring that fire ass weed u got last time Zack: Dude I saw Stacy from Alpha Delta is single again, we gotta lock that shit down tonight

You grinned, typing back with clumsy thumbs.

Tyler: omw. got the goods. and stacy can suck my dick. be there in 10.

You looked at the girl, who was already pulling on a tiny skirt. "You coming?" you asked, already losing interest.

"Nah, I gotta work," she said, fishing a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her purse. "Have fun, though. Don't fuck any fatties."

You just laughed, grabbing a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the counter and taking a long, burning swig. You didn't bother with a shirt. Why would you? You grabbed your keys and headed for the door, leaving the girl and the wreckage of your morning behind. The sun was high in the sky, and you had a party to get to. Life was good.

[transform4u]

The Last Drop

Nobody knows when RED180 spilled its final drop. Maybe it happened quietly in some flickering gas station cooler at 2:13 in the morning. Maybe the last can hissed open in the hands of someone desperate enough to ignore the warnings.

Or maybe there was never a “last can” at all.

Some say the drinks were pulled from shelves after too many stories surfaced — people changing overnight, voices deepening, bodies warping, memories rearranging themselves into someone else’s life. Security footage corrupted. Missing persons reports quietly buried. Smiling faces that no longer matched old photographs.

Others whisper something stranger.

That the curse simply ran dry.

That whatever lived inside RED180 and DARK180 finally exhausted itself after years of feeding on lonely people, unhappy people, curious people. That the magic drained out one transformation at a time until all that remained was stale liquid in dead aluminum cans.

Now the shelves sit empty.

Dust gathers where the crimson and black labels used to glow beneath fluorescent lights. The forums are silent. The sightings have stopped.

But every now and then, someone swears they spot a single can in the back of an old convenience store cooler, cold as ice and waiting patiently for someone foolish enough to crack it open.

Until next time....

[hunnam]

[kaizsche]

GLEN POWELL as BEN RICHARDS THE RUNNING MAN (2025)

[stachedmen]

Matthew Gaston via Instagram

[hunnam]

[internetstuds]

Nick Urankar

[internetstuds]

Nick Urankar

[mentity]

[transform4u]

Huh... so I can just input some info and I get a free drink? Let's see... As far as my beliefs go, I'm a 22 year old science teacher and believe that all kids need a good and well-rounded education going into adulthood, even in subjects they don't like, to understand the world around them, form their own beliefs, discover themselves and respect others' lifestyles. Otherwise, we'd just be left with self-centred and entitled young adults with one track minds and a narrow worldview. And as for what I hate, I guess it would be social media as a whole. There are so many hateful and dangerous beliefs, bigotry, model after model giving people body dysmorphia. This kinda stuff is radicalising the young and impressionable, destroying their mental health in the process. And sent. I doubt this drink stuff is legit but I doubt there's any harm in sending a message.

You stand there, staring at the glowing screen of the vending machine. A free drink just for filling out a survey? Sounds like some bullshit marketing gimmick. Still... free is free, and you're broke as hell.

Your fingers punch the keypad as the prompt asks for your beliefs.

You type:

You're a 22-year-old science teacher, and you believe every kid deserves a decent education before they become brain-dead adults. Even the boring subjects matter.

People need to understand how the world works, learn to think for themselves, figure out who they are, and respect people who aren't exactly like them. Otherwise, society just fills up with self-centered assholes with narrow minds and no curiosity beyond their own pathetic little lives.

The machine hums as the text uploads.

Then the next question appears.

What do you hate?

You laugh before typing again.

Social media. All of it.

The endless hate, the radicalization, the conspiracy theories, the bigotry. Perfect influencers and fitness models fucking up people's self-image until insecurity becomes normal.

Kids growing up comparing themselves to filtered strangers while algorithms feed them anger 24/7. It's poisoning people's minds, especially younger generations too stupid to realize they're being manipulated.

You hit SEND.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the vending machine gives a heavy mechanical clunk.

A single can rolls forward into the tray below.

Cold.

Waiting.

You stare at it, uneasy now despite yourself.

Still... it's just a drink.

Right?

You pop open the can of DARK180, and it tastes... okay... like a flat Pepsi. You never really cared for Pepsi but you'll take whatever you can get. Wait. That's not right. You drink more of the DARK180. It's just okay, you wouldn't rush out to buy it again, but you'd heard it was disgusting or at least more like a Red Bull but this is fine.

That's when the first real wave hits you. Not a physical one, not yet. This is different. It's like a cold draft blowing through the back of your mind, extinguishing little pilot lights of memory and personality. You remember the names of your ex-boyfriends—Matty, with his stupidly perfect teeth who always left wet towels on the floor.

Carlos, who read poetry in bed and made you feel seen for the first time in your life—but the faces attached to those names are already starting to blur, like old photographs left out in the sun.

The warmth you felt when Jacob kissed you, the way your heart raced when David looked at you across a crowded room—it's all fading, replaced by a dull, indifferent static.

You try to hold on, to really focus on the memory of your first date with Josh at that little Italian place downtown, how he'd laughed so hard wine came out of his nose, but it's like trying to cup water in your hands. The details just slip away.

Then comes the physical change. It starts as a deep, bone-rattling shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature of the drink. Your vertebrae feel like they're stretching, popping softly one by one as you gain an inch, then two.

Your shoulders broaden, pulling at the fabric of your button-down shirt. You run a hand down your chest and feel it. Hair. Not the soft, sparse trail you were used to, but thick, coarse, dark hair spreading across your pecs and down your stomach.

It's uneven, dense in the middle and thinning toward your shoulders, giving you that standard suburban-dad look you've always seen on other men and vaguely pitied.

The pecs underneath aren't muscular so much as heavy and slightly sagging, built from age rather than training. Your arms still carry traces of old strength, but it's softened now — more practical than impressive, the kind of arms made for carrying grocery bags or mowing the lawn on weekends.

"What the hell?" you mutter, your voice sounding deeper, rougher than before. You look down at your hands. They're changing too, the fingers thickening, the knuckles becoming more pronounced. Your skin feels different, coarser somehow.

Your stomach lurches, and for a terrifying moment, you think you're going to be sick right here in the school hallway. You stumble against the vending machine, the metal cold against your back.

The ringing in your ears intensifies, a high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else. The hallway sounds shift—the distant screams of students, the general chaos of a school day—it all crescendos into an unbearable roar, then cuts off abruptly, leaving behind a silence so profound you can hear the blood rushing in your own veins.

In that silence, the real horror begins. The memories of college, of late-night study sessions and passionate debates, of discovering who you were and who you wanted to be—they're dissolving.

The memory of your first Pride parade, of holding hands with your boyfriend and feeling so brave and so seen, it's fading to gray. The very concept of science, the thing you've dedicated your life to teaching, it's starting to seem... trivial.

Just another one of those liberal nonsense words like "pronouns" or "inclusion." No, that's not right. You remember being passionate about this, remember crying when your students grasped a difficult concept, remember feeling like you were making a difference. But the emotion attached to those memories is draining away, leaving behind hollow facts without meaning.

You try to fight it, to hold onto who you are. "I'm a teacher," you whisper, but the words feel foreign in your mouth. "I'm gay. I believe in... in..." But what did you believe in? The names of political leaders you admired—Bernie, Biden—they're slipping away, replaced by a vague sense of disgust.

"Those damn liberals," you find yourself thinking, the thought appearing fully formed in your mind without any trace of how it got there. "Always talking woke nonsense." The thought feels both alien and profoundly right, like something you've known all your life but just forgotten.

You crave tradition now. Morals. The need for discipline. You voted Republican, straight red ticket. It's what your father voted for. It's what your mother listened to your father to vote for.

There were rules and you followed them to the T. The memory of your father—a stern man with a booming voice and hands calloused from working at the plant—appears in your mind, clearer than any memory of your actual life.

You can almost smell his aftershave, feel the weight of his disapproval when you told him you were gay. But the hurt you felt then, the defiance—it's all gone. All you feel now is a deep, abiding respect for the man, for his values, for his way of life.

As the last traces of your upbringing fade, you're left with the kind of man people forget five minutes after meeting. Your body looks less sculpted than assembled out of routine and convenience — broad enough to seem vaguely masculine, soft enough to show comfort has long replaced effort.

There's a layer of padding over your stomach, not huge, not terrible, just the quiet middle spread of someone who stopped caring after his mid-thirties. Your abs disappeared years ago beneath soft flesh and faint creases that bunch when you sit down.

You begin to age rapidly now, the years piling on like snow in a blizzard. You're no longer the first-year teacher with idealistic dreams. You've been here awhile, as lines of five years of your life begin to etch themselves into your face.

Teaching doesn't sound right anymore. Why would you care about teaching? The idea of shaping young minds, of caring about the next generation, of influence—no, that was never you. You wanted to take a back seat to life, to be normal, utterly depressingly normal.

Another five years are added to your life. You're now what? 32? Hmm, could be better. Interests seem to disappear. Campy movies and Drag Race, all those perfectly crafted wit and references to gay culture—they're meaningless now.

Why would you want to watch some fairy boy who thinks he's a chick dance on stage? God didn't make dudes to be chicks. He made dudes to fuck chicks. The thought appears in your mind, crude and ugly, and it feels right. So profoundly right.

A hunger stirs in you, an overwhelming need to be straight, to be strict, to be right. Right-winged, right in decisions, to never question the decisions you make because you have God on your side. And God told you men are right, and faggots are disgusting. The word—"faggot"—appears in your mind, and it doesn't shock you. It doesn't even register as hateful. It's just a fact, like water being wet or the sky being blue.

Memories of Church, of God, of some boring ass state school begin to hit your mind. Dull, average, everything about you is utterly dull. You realize with horror that you're becoming the most average, boring, dull straight white male imaginable.

You try to see if there's anything else in the vending machine to change you back. You're shaking the vending machine, your new bulk making the metal rattle. "Come on, come on," you mutter, but nothing, nothing at all.

As a slow acceptance slowly drowns out more of your exciting old life, of caring about whether your students were on social media or having influence—you didn't crave attention, you didn't crave anything but a decent life, a decent job and a decent wife.

No, that thought felt so wrong but so right. The word is now like a hot metal branding, over and over on your skin: right, right, right. Your mind slipped further into this depressingly boring worldview, conservative, strict, and you've been toiling away for years.

As you get another 5 years older, memories of your helpless dates slowly start to filter in. It took you awhile to finally land someone. God, those Hinge dates were depressing.

You'd have maybe 2 or 3 dates with every girl, sleep with her because you were attractive enough, and then never hear from them again. And why would they? On dates you didn't talk romance or about your hobbies, which were the most generic of any white straight man living in the suburbs.

You watched The Big Bang Theory and The Office and thought it was the height of comedy for crying out loud. No, no woman would care about you beyond those few dates because there was nothing there and the sex was mid, though you didn't know what the word "mid" meant anymore. That was for kids and you didn't have any.

Finally one night you change your age range. Instead of searching for respectful, 35 to 45 year olds like yourself. Wait, 45? You weren't 45, were you 38? Well, you're not quite 45, you're 44 but your birthday is in a few months. Instead, you filter it down to 20 to 25 year olds, and my god, the matches keep coming in

They want to be spoiled, they want a daddy, and you do make a decent salary. Your father got you a good job at his law firm. You weren't a particularly good lawyer but you won most of your cases by pretty much boring people to death. But these 20-somethings couldn't stop messaging you, and you couldn't help indulge. You were finally getting that attention you didn't know you wanted.

The memory solidifies, becoming more real than the fading remnants of your old life. You can feel the cheap vinyl of the bar stool under you, taste the watery whiskey you'd ordered to look sophisticated.

You remember swiping through the profiles, the initial sting of rejection from women your own age, their bios filled with talk of "partnership" and "emotional availability" that just sounded like a lot of work. Then, the algorithm's suggestion. A change in settings. A new pool.

You look so much older and more established than the other guys on here.

The message from a girl named Kayla. 22. Her profile picture showed her in a crop top, pouting at the camera. A week later, you're sitting across from her at a chain restaurant, listening to her talk about her "toxic" boss and how she just couldn't deal with boys her own age.

"They're just so immature," she'd said, swirling the straw in her overpriced cocktail. "They don't know what they want, you know? They can't take care of a girl."

You'd nodded sagely, like you understood, like you weren't just thrilled to be here with someone this pretty and this young. You'd felt a surge of something, a mix of pity and possessiveness. This girl needed a man. A real man. Not some kid in a beanie who worked at a skate shop.

Finally your face shifts in the present, the memory fading back into the fabric of your new self. Your face is painfully ordinary. Slightly tired eyes, permanent stress lines beginning to settle around your mouth from years of furrowing your brow at junior associates and liberal news anchors.

Your stubble looks less rugged than lazy, a patchy gray-speckled growth that you'll shave off tomorrow morning before church. Your dark hair is thick but unmanaged, pushed back without thought, already showing the subtle signs of recession at the corners.

Nothing about you stands out. You look like every forty-something husband standing silently in the kitchen during a commercial break, half-listening to the TV while wondering if the trash got taken out.

Even your posture feels resigned — shoulders slightly slouched, stomach relaxed outward, expression hovering between mild annoyance and exhaustion. You don't look dangerous, exciting, or especially confident. Just settled. Predictable. Average in every possible way.

Every can in the vending machine seems to drain of its liquid, the labels curling and fading. The bright light of the machine blinds you until you find yourself somewhere else entirely.

The smell hits you first. Lemon-scented cleaner and brewing coffee. You're in a generic, suburban home, dull, with crosses on the walls and a pristine coffee table displaying a stack of magazines with headlines like "5 Ways to Spice Up Your Marriage (God's Way!)" and "The Threat of Critical Race Theory in Our Schools."

The lawn outside is immaculate, a lush green carpet bordered by pristine edging. A small, tasteful Trump sign nestles near the mailbox. Flags—American, "Don't Tread On Me," and a blue "Thin Blue Line" flag—adorn various rooms. Bible verses about submission and obedience are framed on the walls. Typical. Modern. Dull and boring.

And then you see her in your kitchen. She's making you breakfast, her back to you, humming a tuneless pop song under her breath. She's modestly pretty, far better and more attractive than you deserve, with long, straight blonde hair that cascades down her back.

She's wearing one of your dress shirts, the sleeves rolled up, the hem barely covering her perky butt. She turns and smiles, and you see she has natural tits, the kind you've always preferred, not the fake-looking ones you see on the internet.

She loved when you called them tits, found it empowering and hot, though you still found it a little disrespectful, a little too crude for your fiancée. She's a redhead in your mind's eye for a second, a flash of the girl from Hinge, but then the image solidifies. Blonde. Of course she's blonde. It's what you prefer. What's right.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she says, her voice bright and cheerful. "I'm making your favorite. Scrambled eggs and bacon. None of that healthy oatmeal crap."

You move behind her, your arms wrapping around her waist. Your body feels solid, heavy. "Morning, sweetheart." The words feel natural, easy.

She wiggles her butt against you. "Someone's happy to see me."

You can't help but grin, a lazy, entitled smile. "Always happy to see this." You give her ass a playful squeeze.

She turns in your arms, her hands coming up to rest on your chest. "Careful, old man. You'll pull something."

The words, "old man," send a jolt through you. A jolt of pride. That's right. You're the man here. The provider. The experienced one. She's just a girl. Your girl.

"Forty-four is not old," you rumble, your voice a low gravel. "It's distinguished."

"Oh, is that what they're calling it now?" she teases, standing on her tiptoes to kiss your chin. "I just call it 'daddy.'" She says the word like it's a joke, but her eyes are serious. Hungry.

You kiss her, a deep, possessive kiss that tastes of coffee and her strawberry lip gloss. She presses against you, more aggressive than you'd expect, her hands roaming up your back, tangling in your hair. She wants this. She wants you. The thought is intoxicating, a potent mix of validation and power.

"God, I love being with an older man," she breathes against your neck, her lips hot on your skin. "You know what you're doing. You know how to treat a girl."

Every time she speaks, every time she calls you old, every time she looks at you with that adoring, slightly desperate look, your old life slips away further. The memories of drag shows, of intellectual debates, of caring about your students' emotional well-being—they're like scenes from a movie you watched a long time ago.

They have no emotional resonance. They mean nothing. You're becoming more dull, more average, and more boring with every passing second. But she's your wife to be, and you love her. You know you love her. It's what's expected. It's what's right.

You lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around your waist. "Let's go back to bed," you command. It's not a question.

She giggles, a light, airy sound. "But breakfast!"

"Fuck breakfast," you growl, and carry her back to the master bedroom. The room is large and sterile, with a king-sized bed made up with beige linens and more generic landscape art on the walls.

You lay her down on the bed, your body covering hers. She's looking up at you, her eyes wide. "Tell me I'm a good girl," she whispers, her voice suddenly small, needy.

The request strikes a chord deep within you. It's so perfect. So right. "You're a good girl," you say, your voice thick with authority. "The best girl."

"Tell me how hot it is being with a 19 year old," she begs, her hands sliding down to undo your belt.

The number is wrong. She's 22. You know she's 22. But the lie, the fantasy of her being even younger, more innocent, it's too powerful to resist. "So hot," you groan, the lie feeling more true than the truth. "So fucking hot."

You enter her, and the sensation is overwhelming. It's right. It's how it's supposed to be. This is what a man does. This is what a woman is for. The thought is ugly and primal and absolute.

She moans your new name—"Robert"—and as you thrust into her, the last vestiges of your old self are torn away. You're not just having sex; you're fulfilling a purpose. You're claiming what's yours. You're being a man.

As you cum, your life is sealed. As the most boring, hopeless, average, dull, suburban guy, a dull nothing of regret, of no influence and nothing to show for it beyond a corporate title and a pretty young wife. But you love your life. You're content. You're right.

As you fall asleep, her head resting on your chest, the TV in the background drones on. The news anchor's voice cuts through your post-coital haze.

"...and in a final, bizarre story, the controversial energy drinks RED180 and DARK180 have been voluntarily discontinued by the manufacturer following numerous reports of adverse psychological effects..."

You smile, your eyes already closed. You don't know what that is, but it sounds... nice. A shame.

[transform4u]

Hello sir. Sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you could help me. You see, on Saturday i'll turn 30 and I feel awful and miserable. I hate my life, I hate my body, I hate myself. Most of the time I feel out of place and lonely. I just wish for a brand new start for this brand new chapter of my life and if possible in a jock body full of confidence and muscles. I wish for a big dick, sex every day and sexy men all around me. I wis for gym, for a job I love and to find true hapyness. Can you help me?

You're slumped on your ratty couch, the one with the mysterious stains that you've stopped trying to identify, scrolling through mind-numbing content on your phone.

The glow of the screen illuminates your face, highlighting the dark circles under your eyes and the perpetual frown etched onto your lips. Another Friday night wasted, another weekend of loneliness stretching before you like a desolate highway.

Your thumb hovers over a dating app before you scoff and toss the phone aside. What's the point? You're a pathetic excuse for a man, and you know it.

Without any real thought, as if guided by some desperate, primal impulse, you find yourself opening a notes app. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out a message to whatever cosmic entities might be bored enough to listen.

"Hey there, Mr. Trickster God or Imp God or whatever the fuck you call yourself. Yeah, you. The one who gets his kicks messing with mortals for shits and giggles.

I want to be the guy who gets laid daily, surrounded by other hot dudes who worship the ground I walk on. I want to live for the gym, love my job, and finally feel what it's like to not be a miserable piece of shit."

You hit send before you can chicken out, then immediately feel like an idiot. A cosmic DM? Really? You're losing your damn mind. You delete the message, convinced you've finally snapped.

I watch your pathetic message flicker into existence on the cosmic web. A grin splits my face, sharp and predatory. "Oh, this is rich," I chuckle, the sound like grinding glass. "Another mortal who thinks the universe is a fucking wishing well." My own celestial birthday is looming at the end of the month, and I'm feeling... charitable. Or maybe just bored.

My first instinct is pure, unadulterated mischief. I snap my fingers, and an image of your future forms in the air before me: you hairy, with a dad bod and a love of Christ, with most unimaginative boring life.

You're standing in a suburban lawn, screaming at a kid to get off your grass while your wife nags you about taking out the trash. "A boring suburban dad," I muse aloud. "I've been mighty keen on those lately. The sheer, soul-crushing mediocrity is just... chef's kiss." It would be so easy. A perfect, cruel twist of fate.

But then I sigh, a long, dramatic sound that echoes through the void. "Eh, fuck it. Against my better judgment, I'll give you exactly what you asked for. It's my birthday month, after all." I wave a hand, and your pathetic apartment winks out of existence, replaced by a scene I find much more entertaining. It's your birthday.

"Alright, you miserable little shit. Blow out those candles and make your wish. Make it count."

Saturday comes and goes, and nothing happens. Of course not. You spend your birthday alone, eating stale pizza and feeling sorry for yourself while your neighbors throw another party you're not invited to. What a joke.

But when you wake up Sunday morning, something's different. The air in your room feels strangely cold, but your body is burning up from the inside out. You're sweating buckets, your sheets soaked through, and your skin feels like it's stretching, shifting, changing in ways that defy biology.

"What the fuck?" you groan, the sound tearing from your throat like gravel. Your attempt to sit up is a pathetic failure; your body feels like it's been filled with wet concrete, heavy and alien and fundamentally wrong.

Every single nerve ending is screaming, a symphony of pure agony and something else... something sickeningly close to pleasure that makes your stomach churn with revulsion.

Your eyes snap open, and the first thing you see is your hand. But it's not your hand. Your fingers, usually nimble and pale, are swelling before your very eyes, thickening like rising bread dough, the knuckles becoming raw, calloused monuments to a violence you've never known.

You watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the skin stretches taut over expanding bone and sinew. A strange warmth spreads up your arm, a creeping fire that leaves a trail of molten change in its wake.

"No... no, this isn't... stop," you whimper, but the words are swallowed by a low, guttural moan that escapes your lips. Your vocal cords feel like they're being sandpapered and re-woven, each vibration coming out rougher, deeper, coated in a bovine, broish vocal fry that feels utterly foreign.

The heat intensifies, a furnace blazing in your core. Your spine arches violently off the bed, a searing pain lancing through it as vertebrae crack and pop, elongating, stretching you taller.

You can feel the individual bones in your legs shifting, your shins burning with an itch so deep you're convinced you're being torn apart from the inside. Your feet throb as they lengthen, stretching the fabric of your pajama pants until the seams scream in protest.

30... 28... 26... The numbers materialize in your mind, a countdown to your own erasure. With each number that falls, another piece of the old you is chipped away, replaced by something crude and simplistic.

Your chest suddenly explodes. It's not a gradual growth; it's a violent, painful blossoming. You gasp, your hands flying to your pecs as they surge forward, becoming two thick, meaty slabs of muscle.

The sensation is overwhelming—your sensitive nipples, now hard and rubbing against the fabric of your shirt, send jolts of electricity straight to your groin. Your waist cinches, stomach muscles clenching and carving themselves into a solid, undeniable six-pack.

Your memories begin to warp, the colors bleeding into each other. The face of your first boyfriend, a sweet, gentle man named Alex, dissolves like sugar in water. In its place, a new memory solidifies: you and your dad at a country club, him pointing out the "faggoty" waiter and laughing as you, a younger version of yourself, joins in with a cruel cackle that doesn't feel like yours but is.

25... 24... The mental reprogramming accelerates. The art gallery you loved becomes a sports bar you've frequented since you were old enough to fake an ID.

Your collection of classic literature is replaced by a mental library of locker room insults and crude jokes about women's bodies. A wave of intense, visceral disgust rolls through you at the mere thought of two men together, so potent it makes you want to puke.

"Fuckin' disgusting," you growl, the words tasting right in your new mouth. "Should all be put on an island somewhere."

Your hips buck as your dick suddenly engorges, thickening to the width of a beer can and shooting up to a solid, intimidating eight inches. It strains against the fabric of your shorts, a throbbing, insistent demand for attention.

A wave of pure, animalistic lust washes over you, so powerful it whites out your thoughts. All you can think about is fucking, burying this new monster cock in something warm and tight.

Images flash through your mind, but they're not of men anymore. They're of women—women with huge, bouncing tits, with plump asses and wet, eager mouths. Specifically, older women.

Your English professor, Mrs. Davison, with her tight sweaters and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Your best friend's hot mom, who always sunbathes in the backyard. The thought of them, of their experienced hands and bodies, makes your dick twitch violently.

"Fuck yeah, MILFs," you hear yourself say, a stupid grin spreading across your face. "But nobody over 30, though. That's just gross. Like, who wants to fuck a grandma?"

More memories flood in, replacing the old ones. You're not from the city anymore; you're from a wealthy, gated suburb. Your parents aren't liberal academics; they're conservative, country-club Republicans.

Your dad isn't a writer; he's a "businessman," a vague term that somehow translates to him being mayor or some other important shit. You remember him patting you on the back after you beat up a kid for looking at you "the wrong way."

23... 22... Your thoughts become simpler, coarser. Complex sentences dissolve into grunts and one-word answers. Your vocabulary shrinks, replaced by a lexicon of sports metaphors and misogynistic slurs.

"Bro," you say, testing the word. It feels good. Natural. "This is sick."

Your arms continue to swell, biceps becoming round, dense spheres of power. Your forearms thicken, veins popping like highways on a map of muscle. You run a hand through your hair, and it's different now—blonde, curly, damp with sweat. It feels right, feels like you.

Your face reshapes itself, your jawline becoming sharper, more angular. Your features soften into that all-American, boy-next-door look that's so disarming, so perfect for hiding the toxic asshole brewing underneath. A cocky, entitled smirk settles on your lips, as if by divine right.

21... 20... You're getting dumber, so much dumber, and you don't give a shit. In fact, it feels great. All that worrying, all that thinking... what a fucking waste of time. It's so much easier to just be a dumb, horny jock.

The room around you shimmers, the walls of your small, lonely apartment melting away to reveal a lavish dorm room, one that's clearly been paid for by someone with deep pockets. And beneath you, there's a woman. Not a girl—a woman, maybe 29, with glasses and brunette hair pulled back in a severe bun.

She looks smart, professional, but damn, what a rack. That's the first thought that cuts through the thick, soupy fog in your head. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose, her brunette hair is pulled back into a tight, and she's probably got some fancy-ass degree from a school you've never even heard of.

But none of that matters, not really, because her tits are fucking phenomenal. They're straining against the fabric of her button-down blouse, two perfect, round globes of flesh that you just know would feel amazing wrapped around your cock.

"Fuck, Mrs. Davison," you grunt, your voice a low, guttural rumble that you barely recognize as your own. "Your tits are... fuck."

She blushes, a pretty pink creeping up her neck, and pushes her glasses up her nose. "Language, Tanner" she says, but there's no real heat in it. "And it's 'Professor Davison' in the classroom."

You laugh, a loud, obnoxious sound that makes her tits jiggle. "Yeah, whatever, Teach. But right now, you're just a MILF with a tight pussy that's begging for my dick."

You're not sure where the words are coming from. They're just... there, bubbling up from some dark, primitive place inside you. The old you, the one who was respectful and considerate, is gone, replaced by this... this thing. This vain, self-centered, entitled asshole who says whatever the fuck he wants, whenever the fuck he wants.

You thrust into her, hard and deep, and she cries out, her back arching. "Yes! Oh, god, yes!"

"That's right," you growl, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer. "Take it. Take all of it."

You can feel yourself changing, even as you're fucking her. Your thoughts are becoming simpler, more focused on the here and now, on the pleasure coursing through your veins. The world outside this room, with its books and its rules and its expectations, doesn't exist. All that matters is this, this moment, this feeling.

Memories continue to warp, the old ones dissolving like sugar in water. You remember your mom, not as the warm, loving woman who read you bedtime stories, but as a cold, distant figure who was more interested in her charity events and her tennis lessons than in her own son. You remember her looking at you with a mixture of disappointment and disgust, as if you were a bug she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.

"Is that all you are?" she'd say, her voice dripping with condescension. "A disappointment?"

The memory makes you angry, a hot, burning anger that fuels your thrusts. You'll show her. You'll show everyone. You're not a disappointment. You're a god. A fucking sex god with a giant dick and a body that's built for sin.

You look down at yourself, at your sweat-slicked muscles, at your thick, powerful thighs, at your massive, pistoning cock. You're perfect. A fucking Adonis. And you know it.

"Who's your daddy?" you grunt, your voice a low, guttural growl.

"You are," she moans, her eyes rolling back in her head. "You're my daddy."

"Damn right," you say, a smug grin spreading across your face. "And don't you forget it."

You can feel your balls tightening, a familiar pressure building at the base of your spine. You're close, so fucking close. You're going to cum, and you're going to fill her up with your seed, mark her as yours.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," you grunt, your voice a low, guttural growl. "I'm gonna fucking cum!"

"Do it," she cries, her nails digging into your back. "Cum inside me! Fill me up!"

You let out a roar, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph, and explode inside her, your hot, thick seed flooding her womb. It's the most intense, most powerful orgasm of your life, and it goes on and on, until you're completely spent, your body trembling with exhaustion.

You collapse on top of her, your weight crushing her, but you don't care. She's just a hole, a warm, wet hole for you to fuck. That's all she is, that's all any woman is.

You roll off of her, your body slick with sweat and cum. You lie there for a moment, your chest heaving, your mind a complete and utter blank. You're dumb, so fucking dumb, but you don't care. It's easier this way. No thinking, no worrying, just fucking and fighting and being the best.

"Fuck yeah," you say, a smug grin spreading across your face. "That's what I'm talking about."

You're Tanner. A dumb, horny, self-centered, entitled, misogynistic, homophobic, racist, classist piece of shit. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

You grab your dick, your hand stroking its length, and grin. Life is good when you're a brainless jock with a giant dick and a rich daddy.

[badguyswin]

30 and Thriving

for my bud @transform4u's birthday

Robin Morningstar sat alone in the dim glow of his apartment, the cursor on his laptop screen blinking steadily as he typed the final lines of his latest story.

At twenty nine years old, with his thirtieth birthday racing toward him at the end of May, Robin had carved out a devoted following in the transformation fantasy world. His tales were deliciously taboo, always centered on the same irresistible premise: a young gay man stripped of his desires and remade into a straight, conservative pillar of the community. Liberal ideals crumbling under the weight of family values, rainbow flags traded for crosses and American flags, slim bodies swelling into thick, masculine dad frames.

Robin loved every forbidden second of it. His cock was already half hard beneath his loose shorts as he described the protagonist's final surrender, the man's mind flooding with thoughts of a traditional wife, weekend barbecues, and keeping the neighborhood pure and God fearing.

He paused to stroke himself slowly through the fabric, savoring the ache. The fantasy felt so real, so dangerously close. A soft buzz pulled him from the moment. His phone lit up on the desk beside him. Unknown number. Robin frowned and opened the message. Three simple words stared back at him: You made me.

He chuckled, typing back a quick "who is this" before setting the phone down. Probably some fan playing along with one of his stories (but how did they get his number?). Or a bot - yeah, that was more like it. Nothing to worry about.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, a strange heat bloomed deep in his chest. It spread outward like liquid fire, racing down his arms and legs, pooling hot and heavy in his groin. Robin gasped, his hand flying back to his cock as it surged to full hardness in an instant. The sensation was electric, better than anything he had ever written.

What the hell? He stood up on shaky legs and stumbled toward the full length mirror in the hallway. His reflection looked the same at first, lean and smooth, boyish features still holding onto that late twenties softness. Then the changes began. His skin featured new lines etching themselves at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead in the most handsome, authoritative way.

Robin watched, mesmerized, as his chest pushed forward. The flat planes of his pecs thickened, swelling outward into heavy, striated slabs of muscle that rose and fell with each ragged breath. His nipples darkened and hardened, sensitive peaks atop the growing shelf of his new chest.

He tore his shirt off, hands roaming over the expanding muscle, and moaned loudly as his abs carved themselves into a deep, eight pack that tapered into sharp obliques. The heat surged lower. His shoulders broadened with audible pops, deltoids rounding out into cannonball caps while his biceps ballooned, veins snaking across the peaks like ropes.

Twenty, twenty five, thirty pounds of muscle packed onto his frame in seconds, turning his once slender build into the powerful, gym hardened physique of a man who lived for heavy lifts and discipline.

Robin groaned, hips bucking involuntarily as his cock throbbed harder than ever. It felt thicker in his grip, longer, the head flaring wider as it leaked a steady stream of precum that soaked through his shorts. But the arousal twisting through him was shifting, twisting into something new and terrifyingly right.

Images flashed behind his eyes, unbidden: a soft, smiling woman with kind eyes and a modest dress, her hand on his thigh as they sat in church. His wife. The thought should have horrified him, yet his cock jumped at the mental picture of her on her knees later that night, taking him deep while the kids were asleep. Robin tried to cling to his old fantasies, to the memory of hard male bodies, but they slipped away like smoke. In their place came thoughts of curvy hips, full breasts, the way a good Christian wife should look spread out beneath him in their marital bed.

His face was changing now. The smooth jawline squared off, becoming strong and angular. Stubble erupted across his cheeks and chin, thickening rapidly into a full, well trimmed beard that framed his mouth perfectly. His hair shortened on the sides into a crisp fade, the top just long enough to style neatly, the kind of cut that screamed responsible family man. Robin - no, the name already felt wrong on his tongue, but what to call himself? - ran a hand over the new beard and growled at how good it felt. Masculine. Right.

More memories poured in, unstoppable now. He saw himself at forty-two years old, standing in a sunlit garage with black hexagonal dumbbells at his feet. The name Clay Smith echoed through his skull, louder with every heartbeat. Yes, that was it it. Clay Smith, husband to his beautiful traditional wife Sarah, father to four kids, the oldest already in his twenties and the youngest still navigating high school.

He remembered coaching their sports teams, leading the family in prayer every night, and spending his weekends making sure the neighborhood stayed exactly the way it was supposed to be, straight, conservative, and unapologetically Christian. No more rainbow nonsense on lawns. No more liberal talk at the block parties. Just good old fashioned values, the way God intended.

Clay's body continued to refine itself to perfection, matching every inch of the powerful form he now recognized as his own. His thighs thickened into tree trunks, quads splitting visibly under the skin as he flexed. His ass rounded out into two firm, powerful globes that filled out his shorts until the fabric strained. Sweat glistened across his tanned, hair dusted chest, just like it would after a hard treadmill session at the local gym. He could already feel the memory of that morning's run, heart pounding, muscles pumping, the stares from the other dads who wished they had half his discipline.

The final pieces locked into place with a rush of pure pleasure that made Clay's thick cock pulse and shoot a heavy load into his shorts without him even touching it. Liberal opinions dissolved completely, replaced by rock solid Republican truths. He believed in hard work, personal responsibility, the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman, and protecting his family and community from anything that threatened those values. Toxic? Only to the weak. He was a man now, the kind who spoke his mind, who led by example, who kept his house in order and his neighborhood the same.

Clay blinked, the last traces of Robin Morningstar fading like a half remembered dream. He looked at his phone and smiled, the unknown number still on the screen. He did not reply. He didn't need to. He knew exactly who had sent it.

Later that afternoon Clay stood in the driveway of his spacious suburban home, the garage door open behind him revealing the home gym equipment he maintained with pride. He wore nothing but a pair of green shorts that hugged his muscular legs and left his powerful torso bare to the warm sun. Two heavy dumbbells rested on the concrete at his feet, ready for another set of curls. His biceps peaked as he lifted them, veins standing out in sharp relief, the burn in his arms feeding the quiet satisfaction that filled his chest. This was his life now, simple, strong, and good.

That evening Clay Smith stood tall and broad at the massive black grill on his back patio, the sun catching every ridge of muscle beneath the fitted plaid button down shirt he had thrown on over a snug white undershirt. The sleeves were rolled up high on his thick forearms, the fabric stretched tight across his powerful biceps and the heavy swell of his chest, a faint sheen of sweat already glistening on his tanned skin from the heat rising off the coals. He gripped the heavy spatula in one big hand and gave it a practiced twirl, the motion making his forearm veins pop as he flipped a row of thick burgers with effortless control. The rich, smoky aroma of sizzling steaks and patties filled the air, mixing with the distant scent of fresh cut grass from the perfectly manicured suburban lawn.

Sarah moved around him like she always did, her soft hand brushing along the small of his strong lower back in that familiar, affectionate way that sent a low, possessive heat curling through Clay's core. She was the perfect traditional wife, curvy in all the right places, her modest sundress hugging her hips as she set down a tray of condiments and leaned in close enough for him to feel the warmth of her body against his side. "Smells amazing, honey," she murmured, her fingers tracing the hard line of muscle just above his belt before she gave his firm ass a quick, loving pat.

Clay turned his head, his bearded jaw flexing into a satisfied grin as he looked down at her. "Only the best for my family, babe," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying that steady, commanding tone of a man who knew his place as provider and protector. He wrapped one thick arm around her waist for a moment, pulling her flush against his solid frame, the contact making his cock twitch faintly in his jeans at the reminder of how good she felt beneath him later that night once the kids were in bed.

Their four kids were scattered across the yard in that perfect, chaotic energy only a big Christian family could manage, laughing and arguing in voices that filled Clay's chest with pure pride. Jake, their twenty two year old son home from college for the weekend, was tossing a football back and forth with his sixteen year old brother Tyler, both of them built strong like their old man but still growing into it.

"Come on, Dad, when are those burgers gonna be ready?" Jake called out, catching the ball one handed and grinning wide. Clay chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his broad chest as he speared a thick steak and flipped it over, juices hissing on the grill. "Patience, son. Real men wait for a good meal. Builds character." Tyler rolled his eyes dramatically but laughed anyway, the teenage energy bouncing off him as he argued back, "Yeah, yeah, but I'm starving after practice today!"

Emily, their nineteen year old daughter, sat at the patio table with her nose in a book but kept glancing up with a smile, her long hair tied back in a simple ponytail that made her look every bit the wholesome young woman Clay and Sarah had raised her to be. She hopped up to help Sarah carry over a bowl of potato salad, her voice light as she teased, "Mom, Dad's showing off his grill master skills again. You know he's gonna make us pray extra long tonight just to thank God for the food."

Clay shot her a wink, his blue eyes steady and full of that unshakeable paternal authority. "Damn right, sweetheart. Nothing wrong with giving thanks where it's due. This country's gone soft enough without forgetting who put all this on our table."

Madison, the youngest at fourteen, was chasing their golden retriever around the yard, her laughter ringing out as she dodged her older siblings' playful jabs. "Dad! Tell Jake to stop hogging the ball!" she yelled, and Clay just shook his head with a deep, rumbling laugh that made his pecs strain against the plaid shirt.

He stood there at the center of it all, spatula in hand, flipping another burger while the family buzzed around him. The weight of his muscular body felt right, grounded, every flex of his arms and the solid press of his thick thighs in his jeans reminding him of the man he was meant to be. Sarah brushed against him again as she passed, her hand lingering this time on the hard curve of his shoulder, squeezing the dense muscle there with quiet appreciation.

Clay's mind stayed crystal clear, filled with nothing but deep gratitude to God for this life, for the beautiful wife who still made his blood run hot, for the strong kids growing up right in a world that needed more families like theirs. He had a duty to keep it that way, to make sure their neighborhood stayed straight, conservative, and rooted in the old values that mattered. No distractions. No nonsense. Just him, his family, and the simple, rock solid joy of providing for them.

The next weekend found him on the beach with his family, the bright Florida sun beating down on Clay Smith’s broad, shirtless shoulders like a warm blessing from above. His tanned skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat and sunscreen, highlighting the deep cuts of his pecs and the thick slabs of muscle that made up his chest. The patterned swim trunks clung low and tight to his powerful thighs, the fabric stretched across the heavy swell of his quads and the firm, rounded globes of his ass, leaving nothing to the imagination about the thick, heavy cock that rested against his leg.

Sand dusted his bare feet as he posed for a photo with his oldest son Jake, one massive arm slung casually around the twenty-two-year-old’s shoulders. Both of them grinned wide, teeth flashing in the sunlight, owning the moment like the confident Christian men they were. Clay’s abs flexed naturally under the bright light, every deep ridge and line carved into sharp relief, the kind of body that turned heads even among the younger crowd lounging nearby.

Sarah stood just a few feet away in her modest one-piece swimsuit that still managed to hug her curvy figure in all the right places, her eyes lingering on her husband with that familiar spark of desire. Clay caught her gaze and felt a low, possessive heat stir deep in his core. He gave Jake a firm pat on the back, releasing the boy with a proud chuckle, then turned fully toward his wife.

“Come here, babe,” he rumbled, his deep voice carrying easily over the sound of waves and distant laughter. He reached out with one big hand, fingers wrapping around her waist and pulling her close until her soft body pressed flush against the hard wall of his torso. His palm slid slowly down the curve of her back, stopping just above the swell of her ass where he gave a gentle, appreciative squeeze. “God, you look incredible today. That suit does things to me I shouldn’t be thinking about out here in front of the kids.”

Sarah laughed softly, a flush rising on her cheeks as she placed both hands on his chest, fingers tracing the thick muscle there. “Clay, you are trouble,” she teased, but her touch lingered, nails lightly scraping over one of his nipples in a way that made his cock twitch noticeably inside the tight swim trunks.

He leaned down, beard brushing her temple as he whispered hot against her ear, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Trouble that’s gonna take care of you real good tonight once the kids are asleep. Been thinking about bending you over our bed all morning, watching that pretty ass bounce while I remind you who you belong to.”

Sarah shivered against him, her fingers sliding lower to trace the deep V of his obliques, dipping just under the waistband of his trunks. “You keep talking like that and I’m going to drag you behind one of those dunes right now,” she murmured back, eyes sparkling with the same playful hunger that had kept their marriage strong for twenty-plus years.

Clay’s grin widened, pure masculine satisfaction rolling through him as he flexed his pecs under her hands, making the heavy muscle jump for her. He loved how she still looked at him like he was the strongest, most desirable man on the beach, how her body responded so perfectly to his touch even after all this time.

The kids were scattered around them in the sand, completely unaware of the heated little moment between their parents. Tyler and Madison were building a massive sandcastle a few yards away, arguing loudly about the best way to shape the towers, while Emily lounged under an umbrella with a book, occasionally glancing up with an amused smile. Jake had already run off to join a pickup game of beach volleyball with some other guys, his laughter carrying back on the breeze.

Clay kept one arm looped possessively around Sarah’s waist, holding her close as he glanced out over the water, his free hand resting possessively on the firm curve of her hip. The sun continued to bake his broad back and shoulders, highlighting every vein and striation earned through years of garage workouts and early morning treadmill sessions. He felt powerful, grounded, exactly the kind of man God had intended him to be.

Sarah tilted her head up and pressed a quick, loving kiss to the underside of his bearded jaw, her hand giving his thick bicep a firm squeeze. “I love you, you big, stubborn, wonderful man,” she said softly.

Clay’s chest swelled with pride and something deeper, more primal, as he looked down at her. “Love you more, babe. Wouldn’t trade this for anything.” He meant every word.

Monday morning he was back at the gym, black performance shirt stretched tight across his massive chest, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He snapped a mirror selfie after a heavy chest session, the phone held steady in one big hand while the other arm hung relaxed at his side, biceps still pumped and full. The logo on his shirt, High Performance Nutrition, was one he had come to know well through years of dedication. In fact it was his fitness company that he co-ran with a few other dads from the neighborhood. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his beard perfectly trimmed, his eyes steady and confident. This was who he was. Clay Smith. Forty-two years old. Husband. Father. Leader.

He sent the photo to Sarah with a quick love you, babe and headed for the treadmill. The belt hummed beneath his running shoes as his powerful legs drove him forward, heart steady, mind focused.

After his run, he switched out his black performance tee for a weighted tactical vest and crushed a workout that would break lesser men. The gym mirror had captured him perfectly in that moment, shirtless under the heavy tactical vest loaded with plates, his tanned skin glistening under the overhead lights as beads of sweat rolled down the deep valleys between his massive pecs and over the ridged armor of his abs.

His bearded face stared back at the camera as he recorded a video to challenge other dads to keep up with him, with that intense, unyielding alpha stare, green eyes locked on, short hair damp and tousled, every line of his rugged forty-two year old features radiating raw masculine dominance. Clay had flexed hard right before snapping the shot, making his deltoids and traps balloon even bigger, veins popping across his biceps and forearms like ropes, his thick cock giving a heavy throb inside the gray sweatpants as he imagined Sarah’s reaction when she saw exactly what her man looked like after pushing himself to the limit for God, country, and family.

His mind laser focused on the only life that mattered anymore. No more stories. No more fantasies. Clay felt a deep, burning wave of contempt wash over him at the memory of Robin Morningstar, that pathetic, soft twenty-nine year old writer hunched over a laptop in some dark apartment, jerking off night after night to his twisted little transformation tales about gay men becoming straight and liberals learning what real values looked like. What a weak, beta excuse for a man Robin had been, wasting his life spinning make believe garbage while secretly craving the very thing he now lived every single day.

His disdain ran even hotter when he pictured the beta males still out there, the sad little keyboard warriors lurking in those same forums, desperately wishing they could trade their soft, confused lives for the kind of traditional alpha existence he now owned completely. Pathetic boys with their liberal whining and rainbow delusions, fantasizing about becoming real men but never having the balls to actually surrender and let it happen. They would never know the bone deep satisfaction of standing at the head of a God-fearing family, of burying themselves balls deep in a devoted Christian wife like Sarah every night, of raising strong sons and daughters in a straight, conservative household while keeping the entire neighborhood pure and right.

Clay smirked through the burn in his lungs, sweat pouring off his brow and down the thick cords of his neck as his chest heaved inside the weighted vest. Those betas could only dream of having a body like this, thick and built and unapologetically masculine, the kind that turned heads and commanded respect without a single word. Let them stay weak and lost. He had won everything. He had rejected that old life completely, erased Robin Morningstar like the irrelevant footnote he was, and embraced the ultimate taboo with every fiber of his powerful, straight, Republican soul.

Only the real thing remained now, the life he had always been meant to live. Strong. Straight. Conservative. Unshakably right. The treadmill belt thrummed louder beneath his driving legs as the last whispers of his former self dissolved forever, leaving nothing but Clay Smith in his place: a mid-forties, suburban dad, husband, father, and proud alpha protector of everything good and traditional.

Somewhere deep down, in a place that no longer mattered and would never resurface, Robin Morningstar had finally gotten exactly what he had written about for so long. He had made himself into the ultimate taboo, the perfect stereotypical white straight Christian republican husband and father, and it felt better than any story ever could. Clay smiled to himself, heart pounding with pure, masculine satisfaction, and kept running forward into the only future that counted.

[transform4u]

FFFFFFFuckkkking perfect broooo

[transform4u]

So me and my 3 best friends, Michael, Lars and John just all recently turned 36, I just turned 36 so we’re going out for drinks, the guy behind the bar seems only about 24 maybe even younger, looks like he would had a bad work ethic, looks like he’s in a frat and probably lives on TikTok because of that hair he’s got. But he gave us these drinks on the house and none of us were going to say no so we all drunk them, but after a few more, we all feel kinda weird. Like, John just talked about bimbos, despite us all being gay men, Michael just called Lars something different, Lars just said the word “Rad”, what is happening to us?!

The bass thumped through your skull like a migraine with a beat. You swirled the last of your overpriced cocktail, the red liquid catching the dim bar lights as you glared at your friends. Thirty-fucking-six. Every single one of you. Pathetic.

"Another round?" Michael asked, already flagging down the bartender.

You barely nodded before some kid who couldn't be older than twenty-two sauntered over. Blond hair styled into that deliberately messy look that screamed "I still live with my parents but pretend I don't." Tank top showing off arms that probably came from doing curls while watching TikTok tutorials.

"First round's on me, fellas," he grinned, sliding four drinks across the bar.

John actually giggled. Fucking giggled. The man who'd been organizing pride parades since before this bartender was born.

You grabbed your glass—something called RED 180—and knocked it back. Cheap. Sweet. Immediately wrong.

It tasted like what you imagined a gas station air freshener would taste like if you liquefied it and choked it down. You grimaced, setting the glass down with a heavy clink. "Jesus, what is this shit?" you muttered, rubbing your sternum. The fabric of your button-up felt suddenly abrasive, tight, constricting. You fumbled with the top button, needing air.

Across the table, Michael was already halfway through his second glass. He slammed it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's fucking free, who gives a shit," he grunted. His voice was different—deeper, rougher around the edges, stripped of its usual melodic cadence.

He'd been a tenor in the church choir for years; now he sounded like he gargled gravel. He stretched his arms over his head, and you watched, bewildered, as the muscles in his forearms seemed to bunch and tighten right before your eyes, the sleeves of his expensive shirt straining at the seams.

John blinked slowly, his eyes hazy. He stared into his empty glass like it held the secrets to the universe. "Dude," he said, his voice a low rumble you'd never heard before. "I feel... fucking jacked."

He flexed a bicep, and it swelled against his shirt cuff in a way it hadn't moments before. He'd always been proud of his lean, dancer's physique. Now, a dumb, animalistic grin spread across his face. "Bet I could bench press a car right now."

Lars, the meticulous architect, was staring at his own hands. He turned them over and over, his brow furrowed in concentration. "My... my knuckles are bigger," he said, a note of panic in his voice that was quickly being drowned out by something else. Awe.

He made a fist, and the knuckles stood out like crude stones. "And I... I suddenly have this urge to punch something." He looked up, and his eyes, usually so thoughtful and discerning, were wide and vacant. "Like, really, really punch something. Hard."

You felt a strange, itchy heat crawling up your own spine. You shifted in your seat, and the way you sat felt wrong. You uncrossed your legs, planting your feet flat on the floor and spreading them wide.

It felt better. More... stable. You looked down at your own hands. They seemed... thicker. Dumber. The long, elegant fingers you used for typing and sketching now felt like clumsy sausages.

"What the fuck is happening?" you asked, but the words came out slurred, thick in your mouth.

"Who cares, bro?" Michael laughed, a harsh, barking sound that made a nearby couple flinch. He flagged down the bartender. "Another round! And this time, bring us four of whatever's cheapest and strongest."

The bartender nodded and started mixing another batch of that sickly red poison. As he worked, John's head swiveled, his eyes tracking a waitress across the room. She was young, with a tight top and a bored expression.

"Holy shit," John breathed, his voice dripping with a crude lust you'd never heard from him. "Look at the tits on that one. Fucking perfect."

Your stomach turned. John, who cried during Brokeback Mountain and could quote every line from A Single Man, was now openly leering at a woman like a construction worker from a bad movie. "Dude, what the hell?" you managed to say.

John turned to you, his face blank for a second, then broke into that same dumb, aggressive grin. "What? She's hot as fuck, bro. I'd motorboat those knockers till I passed out." He grabbed his crotch, adjusting himself with a casualness that was utterly alien. "Got a fucking boner just looking at her."

The new round of drinks arrived. You didn't want to drink it. Every fiber of your being screamed that this was a mistake, that you needed to get up and leave. But Michael was already handing you a glass, his eyes intense. "Drink up, pussy. Don't be a little bitch."

The word "pussy" hit you like a slap. And yet... something in you responded. A flicker of annoyance, of competition. You didn't want to be a pussy. You grabbed the glass and knocked it back. The chemical sweetness flooded your system again, and this time, the changes accelerated.

Your shirt was definitely too tight now. The buttons across your chest strained, and the sleeves felt like they were cutting off circulation to your biceps. You could actually feel the muscles in your arms swelling, pushing against the fabric. It wasn't painful. It was... good. It felt right.

"Fuck yeah," you grunted, the words tearing out of your throat. You grabbed the hem of your shirt and ripped it open, buttons flying across the bar. You weren't as built as the others, not yet. Your chest was flatter, your stomach softer. But it was changing. You could feel your pecs tightening, becoming firmer, more solid.

Michael laughed and tore his own shirt off. His body was lean and wiry, with long, defined muscles and sharp abs that cut down his stomach. He looked like a swimmer who'd started lifting. He struck a pose, admiring his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Looking fucking shredded, boys."

Lars followed suit, his shirt coming off to reveal a physique that was already looking polished and symmetrical. His abs were perfectly defined, his chest full but not bulky. He ran a hand over his stomach, a look of pure narcissistic pleasure on his face. "God, I'd fuck me."

John was the last to strip, and when he did, you all stared. He was the tallest and broadest, with a thick, powerful chest and large, rounded pecs. He looked like a college quarterback, all-American and aggressively masculine. He flexed, and his biceps bulged like softballs.

"Come on, little bro," John said, turning to you. "Your turn. Don't be the only one dressed like a fag."

The word hung in the air, ugly and sharp. A week ago, you would have been enraged, hurt. Now... now it just made you angry. Anxious. Like you were failing a test you didn't know you were taking. "Fuck you," you shot back, but it lacked heat. You pulled the ruined shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. You were the smallest, the least defined. Average. And it pissed you off.

"Look at this little guy," Michael teased, nudging you with his elbow. "Trying to hang with the big dogs. You gonna hit the gym with us tomorrow, runt? Or you gonna stay home and jerk off to your anime again?"

You didn't even know what anime was, but the insult landed. "I'll fucking out-lift you, bro," you snarled, puffing out your chest. "Watch me."

"Sure you will," Lars chuckled, already scrolling through his phone. "Hey, check this out. This chick from my stats class just posted a bikini pic. Fucking slam piece."

He held out his phone, and you all crowded around, peering at the image of a smiling girl in a tiny bikini. A new, powerful hunger surged through you. It wasn't just lust; it was a possessive, demanding need. You wanted to fuck her. You wanted to own her.

"Damn," John breathed. "I'd wreck that."

"Bet she's a freak in the sack," Michael added.

You just nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. Your cock was rock hard, pressing painfully against your jeans. All you could think about was pussy. Getting pussy. The smell of it, the taste of it, the feel of it wrapped around your dick. Your entire life, your entire personality, your hopes and dreams and memories, were all being overwritten, replaced by this single, all-consuming drive.

"Another round," you yelled, waving at the bartender. "And bring us some fucking shots of tequila!"

As the new drinks arrived, you felt the last pieces of your old self crumble away. Your love for art and literature dissolved into a vague contempt for anything "gay." Your political beliefs, once firmly progressive, hardened into a simplistic, aggressive Republicanism. Taxes were theft. Guns were good. Liberals were pussies. And fags... fags were the worst.

You slammed a shot of tequila, then another. The world blurred at the edges, but your new reality came into sharper focus. You were a frat bro. You were a pussyhound. You were a Republican. You were one of the guys.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Michael announced, standing up and grabbing his wallet. "This bar is for faggots. Let's go to The Doghouse. Bet there are tons of hot sluts there."

"Hell yeah," John and Lars yelled in unison.

You scrambled to follow, eager to prove yourself. "I bet I can get more numbers than you guys," you boasted, your voice loud and desperate. "I'm the fucking pussy master."

"Yo, check this out," John grunted, stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk. He planted his feet, clenched his fists, and let out a deep, guttural groan. A long, silent hiss of gas escaped his ass, the smell hitting you a second later—a foul, hot cloud of protein and beer farts.

"Jake, what the fuck?" Michael coughed, waving a hand in front of his face, but he was laughing. "That's fucking rank!"

John Jake just grinned, a stupid, proud look on his face. "That's a real man's fart, Mason. Fucking potent."

Lars, ever the image-conscious one even in his new state, wrinkled his nose. "Save it for the gym, you animal." But he was smirking too.

A new, competitive urge sparked in your gut. You had to top that. You stopped, spread your legs wider, and pushed. Nothing happened. You grunted, your face turning red, pushing harder with your new, thicker core muscles. Finally, a loud, wet sputtering noise ripped from your ass. It wasn't as long as Jakes's, but it was louder, wetter, and somehow more offensive.

The three of them burst into laughter. It was a harsh, mocking sound that made your face burn with shame, but also with a twisted sense of pride. You'd gotten a reaction.

"Nice one, fart machine," Mason jeered, slapping you on the back so hard you stumbled. "You're definitely the loudest."

You puffed out your chest, trying to look like you'd planned it that way. "Damn right," you slurred. "I'm the king of farts."

Jake, who had been silently scanning the crowd like a predator, suddenly grinned. "Fuck that. I'm not leaving till I get my dick wet." He pointed with his chin toward a gaggle of girls near the pool tables. "Logan, check out blondie. The one with the fake tits. She's been eye-fucking me since we walked in."

Lars Logan snorted, not even looking up from his phone. "She's been eye-fucking all of us, dipshit. It's called being a slut in a bar. It's what they do."

"Whatever," Jake shot back. "I'm gonna go talk to her. Watch a master at work."

As Jake strode off, Mason turned to you. "And what about you Wyatt, little bro? You gonna try again? Maybe aim for a girl who's actually, you know, awake this time?"

The insult landed, sharp and humiliating. "Fuck you," you grumbled, but your heart wasn't in it. You were already scanning the room, your new, simple brain calculating odds. You needed a win. You needed to not be the pathetic joke of the group.

Your eyes landed on her. She was sitting alone at a small table in the corner, nursing a colorful drink and scrolling through her phone. She wasn't a knockout. Not like the girls Logan and Jake were after. She was average. Maybe a little heavy around the middle, with a face that was pleasant but forgettable. She was perfect. She was your level.

"I got this," you announced, your voice full of a confidence you absolutely did not feel.

Mason raised an eyebrow. "Go for it, champ. Don't fuck it up."

You grabbed a fresh beer from the bucket, the bottle sweating in your hand, and made your way over. Your walk was all wrong, a clumsy, rolling gait that felt powerful but probably looked ridiculous. You stopped at her table, blocking out the light from the nearby neon sign.

"Hey," you said. It was all you could come up with.

She looked up, startled. "Oh. Hi."

"You here alone?" you asked, your voice rougher than you intended.

"Um, yeah," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just waiting for some friends."

"Cool," you said, then stood there in silence, your brain completely blank. Say something, you idiot. Say something cool. "So... you come here often?"

She actually winced. "Sometimes."

This was a disaster. You were bombing. Hard. Panic started to set in, cold and sharp. You could feel Michael's eyes on you from across the room, laughing. You had to salvage this.

"Look," you said, leaning in closer, lowering your voice to what you thought was a seductive growl. "I'm not gonna bullshit you. I'm horny as fuck and you look like you'd be a good time. You wanna go... I don't know... fuck in the bathroom?"

Her eyes went wide, then narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," you pressed, your desperation turning into aggression. "Let's go. Right now."

For a second, you thought she was going to throw her drink in your face. But then, something shifted in her expression. A flicker of... interest? Pity? Boredom? It didn't matter. She sighed, then shrugged.

"Fine," she said, standing up. "But you're buying me another drink after."

"Deal," you grunted, your heart pounding with a triumphant, animalistic glee.

You led her toward the bathrooms, your hand possessively on the small of her back. The men's room was exactly as you'd expect: grimy, wet, and smelling of piss and industrial cleaner. You pushed her into the larger handicap stall and locked the door behind you.

No finesse. Just a clumsy, frantic fumbling with clothes in the cramped, foul-smelling stall. You hiked up her skirt, she fumbled with your belt buckle. Your cock, already rock hard and desperate, sprang free. You didn't even bother with a condom. You just pushed her against the cold tile wall and shoved yourself inside her.

The first thrust was awkward, a clumsy lurch that missed its mark. You corrected, shoving deeper, and a jolt—not of pleasure, but of raw, transformative energy—shot up your spine. You felt a strange, pulling sensation in your face, the skin tightening around your jaw.

The faint lines you'd earned by thirty-six, the crow's feet that had started to form, simply vanished. Your skin felt smoother, tauter. You looked in the girl's wide, unimpressed eyes and saw a younger version of yourself staring back. Thirty. Maybe a little less.

You grunted, a sound of confusion and exertion, and thrust again. Harder this time. Deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a tight, wet heat that short-circuited your brain. Another jolt, stronger this time.

Your shoulders, which had begun to ache with the dull stiffness of middle age, felt suddenly loose, powerful. The muscles in your chest and arms, which had been softening, hardened with renewed vigor.

You felt your entire frame compress, growing leaner, denser. You were twenty-five again, a raw, aggressive bundle of hormones and ego, and the only thing that mattered was the feeling of being inside her.

"Fuck," you grunted, the word tearing from your throat. You started to find a rhythm, a clumsy piston-like motion. Each slam against her ass sent another wave of change rippling through you.

Your thoughts, which had been complex and layered just an hour ago, were simplifying, boiling down to a single, primal directive: more. More pleasure. More power. More of this.

The memories of your old life were fading, like photographs left in the sun. The face of your ex-boyfriend blurred, replaced by the generic image of a cheerleader from a movie you couldn't remember watching.

Your apartment, once filled with books and art, transformed in your mind's eye into a messy dorm room littered with pizza boxes and protein powder tubs. Your job, your passions, your entire identity—it was all being washed away, replaced by this new, brutal reality. You were a frat bro. A dumb, horny kid. And you were getting younger with every thrust.

One last, desperate shove. You buried yourself as deep as you could go, and the final, most powerful wave of change hit you. It was like a lightning strike, a white-hot flash of pure, unadulterated youth.

You felt your features soften, your jawline becoming less defined, your eyes widening with a stupid, vacant optimism. Your entire body buzzed with the boundless, arrogant energy of a nineteen-year-old who thinks he knows everything. And then you came.

It wasn't a climax. It was a collapse. A shuddering, grunt-filled release that was over almost as soon as it began, leaving you breathless, empty, and irrevocably changed. You were twenty. The age was a fact, a truth as solid and undeniable as the tile wall you were leaning against. You pulled out, stumbling back, your legs feeling like jelly.

The girl fixed her skirt, her expression a mixture of pity and disgust. "Well," she said, her voice flat. "That was... something."

"Yeah," you grunted, your voice now a higher, dumber tenor. "Awesome."

She left without another word, leaving you alone in the stall with the smell of sex and your own crushing inadequacy. You washed your hands, splashing cold water on your face.

In the mirror, you saw a complete stranger. A slightly chubby, average-looking kid with a dumb, dazed expression and a bad haircut. A pathetic try-hard who'd just had the most anticlimactic sex of his life.

But you were also twenty. And you were hornier than you'd ever been in your life.

You burst out of the bathroom, a stupid, triumphant grin plastered on your face. "I did it!" you yelled, your voice cracking with youthful enthusiasm. "I fucked her! I'm a man!"

The guys, who were now all unmistakably twenty-year-old assholes, looked up from their beers. Mason lean and athletic in a backwards baseball cap, raised an eyebrow. "No shit, runt. Took you long enough."

"How was it?" Jake asked, his broad, jock-like frame practically vibrating with energy. "Did you wreck her?"

"Dude, I fucking destroyed her," you lied, puffing out your chest. "She couldn't even walk after."

Logan, who was now the picture of a smug, preppy pretty boy, just shook his head. "You lasted, like, five seconds, didn't you?"

"Fuck you," you shot back, but there was no heat in it. It was just the way you talked now. The way you all talked.

"Whatever," Mason said, standing up and grabbing his beer. "Who cares. We're all twenty-fucking-years-old and we're in a bar full of sluts. Tonight is gonna be epic."

"Hell yeah!" Jake and Logan yelled in unison.

You grabbed your beer, your earlier humiliation forgotten, replaced by the boundless, arrogant confidence of youth. You were one of them. You were a pack of dumb, horny, obnoxious frat bros, and the entire world was your oyster.

"Let's get fucking wasted," you yelled, raising your bottle. "And then let's go find some more pussy!"

The roar of agreement from your new bros was the sweetest sound you'd ever heard. You were home.

[transform4u]

So I'm doing a 24 hour stream to kick off pride month. Im 23 and i know i have a feminine voice and it doesnt help i have long hair and cant really grow facisl hair correctly, but i dont mind. Im proud of myself and its why im doinf this stream to helpmother be proud too.

Anyway enough abkut me, i stocked up on some snacks and drinks. Before stream, but the clerk must have mixed up somethinf because i got this Red 180 can in my bag instead of my favorite strawberry energy drink. I never heard of this drink or brand before but maybe it won't be so bad.

You're sitting in front of your webcam, adjusting the rainbow flag draped behind you. The stream's about to go live, and your heart is pounding like a drum solo. You're 23, queer as fuck, and ready to kick off Pride Month with a 24-hour marathon. Your voice has that feminine lilt that always gets you misgendered, and your shoulder-length hair contrasts with the patchy beard you've been trying to grow for months. But you're over caring what people think.

"Alright chat, welcome to my Pride Month kick-off stream!" you chirp, your voice bouncing with excitement. "We're going 24 hours straight, no breaks, just queer energy and probably way too much caffeine."

You glance at the mountain of snacks you bought—chips, candy, microwave meals, and enough energy drinks to power a small city. But one can catches your eye. It's deep crimson with aggressive lettering: "RED 180."

"Must've grabbed the wrong one at the store." The can feels unnaturally cold in your hand, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through your cheeks. You're a little flustered, a little excited.

You shrug, popping the tab with a sharp hiss that cuts through the low hum of your computer fans. "Well, no sense in letting it go to waste," you chirp to your empty room, your voice a light, melodic tenor that still surprises you sometimes. "Bottoms up, I guess!"

The first sip is a mistake. It's not the syrupy sweet strawberry explosion you're used to. It's acrid, chemical, like licking a battery with a metallic aftertaste that coats your tongue and makes your teeth ache. You grimace, setting the can down with a clatter. "Ugh, that's… that's really not good." You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. "Definitely not my brand."

A shiver runs through you, a deep, bone-rattling cold that has nothing to do with the drink's temperature. Your joints begin to ache, a dull, persistent throb starting in your knuckles and spreading up your arms to your shoulders. You roll your neck, trying to work out the sudden stiffness. "Okay, anyways, welcome to the 24-hour Pride Month Kickoff!"

You force a wide, genuine smile, waving at the camera. The chat immediately begins to scroll, a rainbow waterfall of usernames and emojis. You feel the familiar thrill, the warmth of community spreading through your chest and momentarily chasing away the strange chill

. "Thank you! Thank you all so much for being here! We are going to have so much fun tonight. I've got snacks, I've got games, and I've got a whole lot of rainbow energy to share!" You grab a handful of sour gummy worms, shaking them at the camera. "First things first, let's get this party started! What are you all most proud of today? Let me know in the chat!"

You lean in, scanning the comments, your finger hovering over the mouse to highlight the best ones. The first comment pops up in the chat: "User88: You sound like such a faggot with that lisp. Talk like a real man."

You bristle, ready to give a sassy comeback, but the words catch in your throat. It feels... scratchy. Raw. "I—uh, thanks for the input," you try to say, but your voice comes out a full octave lower than usual, rough and gravelly. You clear your throat, confused. "Like I was saying, Pride is about visibility and—" you start, trying to maintain your bubbly persona, but the words come out wrong.

Your voice cracks, dropping another full octave into a gravelly register that feels alien. "That's… that's not very… prideful." You clear your throat, a thick, hacking sound. "We're all about love and acceptance here, so…"

But as you try to continue, your throat feels tight, constricted. The lisp you've had since you were a kid, the one you used to hate but have grown to love as part of who you are, is just… gone. The words feel clumsy in your mouth, thick and dull.

ChristianDad4Life: You should be ashamed. God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. You need Jesus.

The words hit you like a physical blow, a wave of heat washing over your body that has nothing to do with your ring light. Your chest, once a canvas for your fitted rainbow shirt, now feels constricted, tight. You glance down and your eyes widen in horror.

The fabric is straining, pulled taut across a torso that is suddenly... solid. Where once there was soft, undefined flesh, there are now two distinct, solid slabs of muscle. Pectorals.

You run a hand over them in disbelief, feeling the unfamiliar firmness, and then you recoil. A light dusting of dark hair has sprouted across your chest, swirling in coarse patterns around your nipples and trailing down the center of your sternum. It feels alien, masculine, and utterly wrong.

"I... I respect different beliefs, but—" you stammer, but the words come out choked. Your voice, already deepened, now has a gravelly, commanding edge that doesn't belong to you. Another comment pops up, this one from a user named RealTalk88. Grow up. Stop whining about your identity. Talk about something important for once.

The word "important" echoes in your suddenly foggy mind. What is important? The rainbow flag on your desk seems to blur, its vibrant colors bleeding into a meaningless smear. Your collection of funko pops and anime figures on the shelf behind you lose their charm, looking childish and... well, gay.

The warmth in your body turns into a distinct ache in your shoulders, which begin to widen with an audible creak. You roll them, trying to ease the discomfort, and feel the fabric of your cute, fitted t-shirt stretch taut across your expanding frame. The soft, rounded features of your face feel like they're being pulled from behind, your jawline squaring, your brow becoming more prominent.

"You're right," you hear yourself say, the deep voice feeling more natural now. "Identity politics is... divisive. What we should be focused on is traditional values. The foundation of this country." Where did that come from? The thought feels both foreign and profoundly correct.

The chat erupts. YES! Finally someone talking sense! LOL he's waking up You should get a real job instead of this streaming nonsense.

"RealAmerican88: Trump 2028! Make America straight again!"

The comment flashes, and with it, a seismic shift in your mind. It's not a thought; it's a conviction, blooming fully formed like a poisonous flower. He's right. The idea is so powerful, so correct, that it momentarily blanks out everything else. The chaos of your identity, the vibrant colors of your world, they all fade to a dull, sensible gray.

A sense of order, of righteousness, settles over you. The anxiety about your stream, your appearance, it all seems so... trivial. What matters is strength. Tradition. Making things right again. You shake your head, trying to fight the invasive thought, but it's already taken root, feeling as natural as breathing.

Your rainbow shirt feels like a shroud of lies, suffocating you. You rip it over your head, the seams popping, and toss it aside. Underneath, you're wearing a plain white undershirt, and the relief is immediate. It feels right. "You know, the left has become obsessed with dividing us into these little identity boxes. Whatever happened to just being Americans?"

The chat erupts. YES! Finally someone talking sense! LOL he's waking up.  "WhiteCollarWarrior: You should get a real job instead of this streaming nonsense.

A real job. The phrase resonates deeply. Your memories of barista shifts and art school classes flicker and die, replaced by the fluorescent hum of an office, the satisfying weight of a corporate keycard in your hand. You can almost smell the stale coffee and printer toner.

Your body responds. Your arms, once lean and defined from casual yoga, swell with a new kind of bulk. It's not the muscle of a gym rat, but the dense, solid mass of a man who does yard work on weekends and lifts heavy boxes at the office. Your fingers, which used to fly across a keyboard composing witty comebacks, now feel thick and clumsy, better suited for gripping a golf club or a power drill.

"I have a very respectable job, actually," you find yourself stating to the camera, your posture straightening into something stiff and formal. "I'm a regional accounts manager. It provides for my family."

The word "family" hangs in the air, and with it, a new comment appears: 

MortgageDadUSA: Family is everything. A man needs a wife and kids to be complete. Time to settle down, buddy. You're almost 30, you know. That's 5 years of adulthood you've wasted on this... stuff.

The number hits you like a physical blow. Almost 30. The thought is a key turning in a lock, and suddenly, five years of your life are gone. Poof. Your 23rd birthday party, that disastrous trip to Cancun, your first real apartment—they're all gone, replaced by a blur of office meetings and takeout dinners. Y

You're 28 now. The ache in your shoulders becomes a permanent dull throb of responsibility. Your hairline, once full and bouncy, recedes just a fraction at the temples, giving your face a more mature, settled look. And just like that, she's there. Not physically, but in your mind, so vivid it's like a memory being downloaded directly into your brain. Sarah.

Her plain, smiling face, her boring brown hair, her sensible shoes. The image of her in a conservative one-piece bathing suit at the community pool. The feeling of her hand in yours. A dull, thudding ache begins in your left hand, and you look down to see a simple gold band materialize on your ring finger.

The long, colorful nails you'd painstakingly painted for the stream shrink back, becoming short, clean, and utterly unremarkable. Your apartment, with its eclectic thrift-store furniture and rainbow-themed decor, dissolves around you. The walls turn beige. Your gaming setup is replaced by a bulky, outdated desktop computer on a plain wooden desk. You're in a home office, in a suburban house, in a cul-de-sac.

"Sarah and I... we've been married for five years now," you say, your voice a steady, unemotional monotone. "We're... thinking about starting a family soon." The statement is a fact, as solid and undeniable as the floor beneath your feet.

"RepublicanPride: The only flag that matters is the American flag."

Your eyes dart to the vibrant rainbow flag draped proudly behind you. A hot flush of embarrassment, of shame, crawls up your neck. It's gaudy. Unpatriotic. Disrespectful. You stand up, your new, heavier frame making the movement feel solid and deliberate.

You take the flag down, your hands working quickly to fold it into a neat, tight triangle, the way you've always known how to do it. You shove it into a drawer. From the same drawer, you pull out a small, crisp American flag on a wooden stand and place it prominently on your desk. It feels better. Right.

ChurchLeagueSteve27: Good Christian man. This is what America needs. What's your stance on the issues? You're 28, time to stop playing games and start thinking about your legacy. Another 5 years will fly by and you'll be in your mid-30s with nothing to show for it.

Mid-30s. The weight of those years settles upon you. Another five years evaporate into the ether. You're 33 now. The fine lines around your eyes, once laugh lines from nights out with friends, deepen into permanent creases of worry and concentration.

Your stomach, once flat, softens slightly, taking on the comfortable paunch of a man who eats his wife's casseroles and considers walking to the mailbox his exercise for the day. The thought of "starting a family" solidifies into the reality of two small, noisy children. A boy, Tyler, and a girl, Emily. Their faces, their names, their annoying habits are all suddenly as real to you as your own.

Issues. The word triggers another cascade of changes. Your patchy facial hair fills in, becoming a neat, conservative trim that frames your now-hardened jaw. A dull pain spreads across your chest as your pecs flatten and a light dusting of hair appears.

"Well, as a Christian," you say, the word feeling right, true, "I believe in traditional marriage. Between a man and a woman. It's biblical." The thought of your former life, of men, of desire, now seems not just different, but... repulsive. A sickness. "And I'm a Republican, of course. I believe in fiscal responsibility, small government, and strong national defense."

The chat rolls on, a chorus of approval.

MAGAManager77: TRUMP 2024! Finally, a real American. Build the wall! You're 33, man. Almost 35. You should be a father by now. A leader in your community. Not some... guy on the internet.

Almost 35. The final push. Another five years dissolve like mist. You are 38. The transformation completes itself with a sickening finality. Your hair, now a short, practical sandy brown, is thinning noticeably at the crown.

Your face is a roadmap of bland, suburban stress. Your body is solid, thick, and utterly unremarkable—the body of a man who mows his own lawn and thinks that's a workout. You stand up, almost involuntarily, and adjust the waistband of the khaki pants you're now wearing. You look down at yourself.

A plain white polo shirt tucked into dad jeans. A black leather belt. Brown loafers. You are the very picture of suburban, conservative masculinity. You are utterly, profoundly, boringly average.

"I've voted for Donald Trump three times," you declare to the camera, your deep voice filled with a conviction you didn't know you possessed. "And I am proud to say I will be voting for him a fourth time! He's a strong leader who stands for our values."

"BoringDad2024: Dad jokes are the pinnacle of humor. Try one."

You open your mouth to deliver a scathing retort, something witty and cutting, but what comes out is entirely different. "Why don't scientists trust atoms?" you hear yourself say, your voice flat and serious. "Because they make up everything." A strange, unfamiliar sense of paternal pride swells in your chest as the chat fills with groans and laughing emojis. It's a good joke. Solid. Clean.

"ChristianValues: Sunday school is where real men learn their values."

Your posture becomes ramrod straight, your shoulders squared. A new purpose solidifies in your mind. "Actually," you say, your voice a deep, authoritative boom that surprises even you, "I do teach Sunday school. It's important to instill good Christian values in our youth. The Bible is clear." The words aren't just words; they are doctrine. Absolute truth.

"DadBod2024: Six-packs are for gym rats. Real dads have beer guts."

The solid muscle of your stomach softens, a layer of comfortable flesh settling over it. Your waist thickens slightly, creating a distinct, solid paunch that presses comfortably against the waistband of your jeans. It's not fat; it's substance. The mark of a man who provides.

"WhiteCollarWarrior: Real men work in offices, not prancing around on camera."

The chaotic, colorful backdrop of your apartment dissolves. In its place, the sterile, beige wall of a home office resolves. A degree from a state university in business administration appears in a frame. Beside it, a photo of you and Sarah on your wedding day, and another of the four of you at a pumpkin patch. You know their names without question.

"HeteroHero: Real men love pussy."

A surge of intense, almost aggressive desire for Sarah hits you. It's a primal, possessive hunger. The thought of men, which once sent a thrill through you, now curdles your stomach. It's sick. Wrong. An abomination.

Finally, the stream ends. The viewer count drops to zero. You blink, looking around the room. It's not a streaming setup anymore. It's just a home office. Your computer pings—it's a Zoom call for your regional sales meeting.

Six other faces stare back at you—all white men, all around your age of 38, all wearing similar expressions of corporate seriousness. They are your friends. Mark, Todd, Kevin. You play golf with them on Saturdays. You complain about your taxes with them. Your life is an open book of predictable, conservative mediocrity.

"Matt, are you with us?" a man named Greg asks from the top left box.

Matt. That's your name. Matt Reynolds.

"Yes, Greg," you reply, your voice a perfect baritone. "I was just reviewing the Q3 projections. I think

You discuss quarterly reports and synergies for another twenty minutes. The conversation is as dry and bland as unbuttered toast. It's perfect.

Your mind, once a whirlwind of creative thoughts and witty observations, is now a calm, placid lake of corporate jargon and predictable schedules. You find yourself nodding along as Greg drones on about market penetration, a faint, satisfied smile on your face. This is what matters. This is real.

"Honey, dinner's ready!" a woman's voice calls from somewhere in the house. Sarah.

"Gentlemen, I have to sign off," you say professionally, your voice a steady, unemotional baritone. "Family comes first."

You click the red "End Meeting" button and stand up, your body moving with the stiff, practiced efficiency of a man who has been doing this exact same thing for years.

You walk out of your home office, down the beige hallway, and into the dining room. The air smells of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Sarah is placing a steaming casserole dish on the table. She's wearing a beige cardigan over a beige shirt. She is perfect. She is boring. She is your wife.

"Hi, honey," she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "How was work?"

"Productive," you reply, pulling out your heavy wooden chair. "Closed the Henderson account. It's going to mean a nice bonus, enough to finally get the gutters replaced."

"Oh, that's wonderful, Matthew," she says, her voice filled with a genuine, if muted, pleasure. "Tyler was just saying his soccer team needs new uniforms. Maybe we could make a donation."

You nod, a sense of paternal pride swelling in your chest. "That's a good idea. We should always support community initiatives."

Dinner is quiet, save for the clinking of silverware and Tyler's excited chatter about his game. Emily, your eight-year-old, picks at her food, lost in her own world. You ask about their day, not out of genuine curiosity, but out of a sense of fatherly duty. It's the right thing to do. It's what a good father does.

Later that night, after you've read the kids a story and tucked them in—Tyler a thrilling tale of a football hero, Emily a bland but morally sound story about a helpful bunny—you find yourself in your beige bedroom, under a beige comforter. Sarah is already in bed, reading a book on parenting. You climb in beside her, the mattress groaning under your solid, average weight.

You have sex. It is quiet, quick, and missionary. There is no passion, only the mechanical fulfillment of a marital duty. You think about the Henderson account, about the gutters, about the lawn that needs mowing this weekend. It is exactly what you want.

"Oh, Matt!" she moans softly, her voice a familiar, unexcited whisper.

As you climax, a final wave of certainty washes over you. It's not a pleasure, but a confirmation. The last flickering ember of your former self—the cute, quirky, bubbly gay twink—is extinguished, drowned in a sea of beige conservatism. You are Matt Reynolds. You are 38 years old. You are a Christian. You are a Republican. You are a husband and a father. Your life is a masterpiece of boring, average, generic normalcy. And as you roll over and drift off to sleep, you dream not of rainbow flags or wild parties, but of a perfectly manicured lawn and a fourth vote for Donald Trump. It is a good dream. A proper dream. A dream for a man like you.