Genetic time bomb

by BRK   

A frustrated young model/extra is tired of his baby-face casting, not realizing an entirely new kind of gig is just around the corner.

“Sal, please tell me you have some real gigs for me this time!”

Sal, my modeling agent, glanced up from his laptop and arched an eyebrow. “I dunno, Jimmy. You hit puberty yet?” he snarked.

I scrunched my face at my friend and tormenter. “Ha, ha. And also, ha.”

Sal held my gaze. Though he only had five years on me he looked older—but then, most people did, I thought ruefully. He was decent-looking, in a Hollywood truck driver kind of way—stubbly face, long barely combed hair, and looked like he drank a lot of six packs, despite possessing an actual (admittedly slightly soft) six-pack under those baggy $5 Hanes black tee shirts he always wore.

He also had more hair in that dark, bristly eyebrow he’d cocked at me than I had on my entire body from the ears down.

Sal seemed to find my grumpiness amusing. “You’re making bank with that pretty face and smooth look you got going,” he said reasonably. “Why rock the boat trying to punch above your weight?”

I ignored the mixed metaphor and leaned toward him, feeling hot with frustration. “I’m ‘making bank’ doing bouncy castles and playing the adoring son for backyard barbecue ads!” I shot back. “I’m eighteen, not twelve!”

He tilted his head at me in a “get real, Jimmy” kind of way. It was a look I knew well. Everyone else in the bustling upscale downtown café had been ignoring us, but in my peripheral vision I noticed the hipster with the well-groomed van dyke at the next table along the little mezzanine we were seated in was now avidly watching us over his steaming “mugaccino” (“for when you want more than a cup”).

Whatever. I ignored him, too, and kept my focus on Sal, because I’m professional like that. “You remember the shoot I had last week?” I went on, undaunted. “School clothes! For Target! High school back to school clothes!”

Someone snickered. Possibly van dyke guy.

This was my problem. No one took me seriously, and I knew it was because I was pretty much as smooth as a baby’s bottom at all latitudes below my admittedly generous complement of floppy ginger head hair. I couldn’t even grow sideburns. It was like, instead of dipping me in the river Styx as a baby, my putative divine mother had dunked me in a vat of Nair.

The exceptions to my hairlessness were worse than the main condition. My upper lip offered up a pathetic smattering of barely-there peach fuzz, which I had to shave every couple of weeks or it looked like dirt. There was pencil-thin line of hair leading from my navel to my meager pubes, which was so invisible against my peaches and cream skin-tone that I had to point it out to people. I did a shirt lift for one guy at a club once who’d called me a naked mole rat or something, pointing out my would-be treasure trail, and he actually bent over, squinted at it from two inches away, and said, “Nope, no treasure, cap’n!” Then he winked at me and sauntered off, the smug normal-body-hair-having bastard. (The joke was on him. I actually have a pretty big dick, but some people think it looks weird surrounded by an amount of hair most guys had tangled in their combs.)

I didn’t understand it. I come from a long line of hirsute men (and women) on both sides. My dark-haired Scandinavian uncles all look like bears. Not the gay stereotype, actual bears. My swarthy Mediteranneo relatives on my mom’s side were even hairier. Uncle Lukas could shave in the morning and have a beard by lunch. It was like they couldn’t keep it in.

Everyone was dark on both sides, too—my light coloring a rust-colored hair was a fluke, not unprecedented but unusual. No one could figure out where it came from, though I looked enough like both my parents that no one blamed the postman. “Maybe the ginger is holding it back,” my mom always teased me when I complained about my follically-challenged state. It gave me a crumb of comfort, like my true hairiness was trapped behind a dam owing to me weird redheaded condition, but at eighteen I was becoming fatalistic about that dam ever being breached.

I tried working out, but no amount of iron could make me look anything past “fit”; in clothes my defined physique just didn’t show. Instead I just looked healthy and energetic, which got me a lot of “fresh-faced youth”-type gigs opposite burly dads and soccer moms or mixed in with other supposed “plays teen” types, most of whom looked every day of their 20+ years.

I got extras gigs, too, on top of the modeling shoots, mostly in teen dramas. My last credit was “Forlorn Boy” on an episode of Hothouse High. I scored one good reaction shot with five other kids when my supposed crush was very athletically kissed by the hairy-chested bad-boy second male lead.

It was all really getting to me, and—I didn’t know why, but that day after years of putting up with this shit I felt like I was at my breaking point. Something snapped, and it seemed to take me over physically. My skin felt hot and itchy under my pricey white-and-raspberry baseball tee, loose jeans, and ankle boots. Real rage was burning somewhere high in my chest. It was like an old propane refinery had finally exploded right behind my rib cage and everything in me was hot chaos.

Sal was now staring at me, jaw hanging slightly loose. I felt like I had an advantage, and I pressed harder. The air around me seemed warm and stifling. I was getting turned on, along with everything else, which in that moment was both annoying and distracting. “I want a real gig,” I growled, driving my stare into him. “An adult, male, manly gig. Because I am a real man, Sal.”

Somebody muttered something from somewhere behind me that sounded like “Holy shit”—there was a lot of hurly-burly in the busy café, so I couldn’t be sure.

“Uh, Jimmy—” Sal began.

I saw movement in the corner of my eye—a phone, maybe. I kept myself laser-focused on Sal. “Don’t fob me off on how good I have it,” I warned him. “‘All the other models are jealous,’ ‘you’ve got so little competition for your kind of gig,’ ‘you’re the hottest smooth model in the biz,’ blah blah blah. I’m done playing Doting Son and Pocket-Protector Kid #3! I—”

Sal broke into my rant. “Jimmy!“ he said urgently.

I blinked, annoyed at being interrupted. I was panting lightly—why was I panting? “What?!”

We were definitely being filmed from a few different phones, but I didn’t look. What was going on today?

Sal cleared his throat. “Jimmy, would you, uh, touch your face for me?” He sounded calm, now, but strained.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What?” I said again. Sal seemed to be speaking nonsense. For the first time I worried my current febrile state was melting my brain and making me miss things.

“Just humor me.”

With a frown I curled my fingers and raised them to brush my knuckles against my cheek, expecting to find smooth skin burning with the fever that seemed to be burning me up. Instead, the backs of my fingers came into contact with something entirely unfamiliar: beard. Thick, silky beard.

Not breathing, eyes on Sal as he watched me carefully, I moved my hand experimentally. Maybe it was just in that spot, somehow? But no, my face was thickly bearded everywhere, from temple to jaw and all around my mouth, even all the way up my cheekbones. I had gone from no beard to the heaviest beard I’d ever encountered.

It felt alive, somehow, like it was still growing out, the soft, thick follicles pushing against my hand as I moved it over the growing expanse. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed my forearms were completely covered in dark red fur, almost the color of mahogany now. Staring at my arm, I saw that the coat now reached all the way up onto my hands and dove under the three-quarter sleeve of my baseball tee at the other end. Before I could really get a good look or explore further, something shifted, the back of my neck tickled, and then a gout of dark-rust hair fell over my eyes, completely obscuring my vision.

I jumped to my feet in alarm, the heavy wood chair scraping against the floor behind me, and pushed my hair out of my face with the fingers of both hands. It was really long, and thicker than ever.

I looked around. People were staring. Staring, and recording video. Probably some were livestreaming. The café and the street outside were still mundanely noisy, but just around me there was a lull, rapidly spreading outward like I was an awe-bomb that had just detonated right there in the third-priciest coffee shop on Demeter Street.

Then commentary started up,—just little bits at first. “I’ve heard of hulking out,” someone muttered archly, “but what do you call this?”

“Sasquatching out?” another voice suggested.

A few people tittered.

As the murmuring picked up I stared down at myself, arms spread, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. And feeling, because the thick, glossy reddish brown hair now covering all of my exposed skin from the cheekbones down, barring only my palms and the ends of my fingers, was matched by the outpouring of furry growth under my clothes, resisting the fabric with considerable resilience, like it was protecting my flesh from contact with cotton in any form. I felt the thick hair on my legs, my ass, my crotch…. All of my torso, too. Back, front, arms, the whole shebang. Everything under my baseball tee shirt was bristling with hair, the white parts translucently giving away the color as well as the quantity through the semisheer fabric.

My appraisal fell to my chest, and I gaped at it, astonished. I had so much chest hair it was pushing the fabric outward, making it look like I actually had pecs topping my flat stomach, instead of just more flat. I could almost believe it. I felt warm and a little itchy, but also very strong and full of energy, like I’d had more than one form of growth spurt in the last five minutes.

I was aware of it all, like I’d invented senses just to register how thickly covered in hair I was. I could feel the hair, against my skin and against my clothes—but I wanted to feel it for real. I wanted to touch it, all of it, every square inch of thick, soft pelt covering my hard, defined, newly revised body.

Or have someone else touch it. That would be even better.

The murmuring was building into a hubbub as I looked back up at Sal. For the first time I saw a glint of appreciation in his clear brown eyes, and my heavy cock reacted accordingly in my jeans amidst the riot of crotch hair. I stared at him wordlessly, and he cracked a small, sly smile, amused as always by my body predicaments.

“I think you just lost the bouncy castle gigs,” he said in a low purr, leaning forward and eyeing me intently. “How do you feel about chainsaws?”

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