Living fantasy

by BRK   

Sometimes when a guy starts to look more attractive as the night goes on, it isn’t about the beer goggles.

I sat down at the bar on the only available stool. “This seat taken?” I asked the lanky guy in the designer brown leather jacket with the shoulder-length dirty blond hair. I wasn’t sure why I picked him. “Cute but alone” probably meant trouble. But my gut told me he was just down and not being very encouraging to the Blue Adonis’s regular roving crowd of stubble-jawed, glassy-eyed hotties on the make. Probably all Jacket Dude needed was a pick-me-up.

He barely gave me a glance as I settled in, but I knew he was aware of me. “I guess,” he said, answering my question, if with a sort of non-sequitur. I didn’t try too hard parsing it. “I guess”… it is now? “I guess”… you can sit there? Whatever.

Out of habit, I clocked myself briefly in the mirror behind the bar. The “before” shot. I’d tried taking actual pictures, but it turned out photographs didn’t retain the shifts any better than the memories of the guys I met. I was the only one who ever knew. I was fine with that, mostly.

The me that looked back at me was the me I saw in my own mirror. Ordinarily handsome regular guy. Trim build, 5-foot-10 in good shoes, short dark brown hair, brown eyes. Black tee shirt, dark blue jeans. Friendly looking. Harmless. It was my normal look.

Satisfied, I nodded over at the spiky-blond bartender, and he lifted his chin amicably to acknowledge me as he finished serving someone else at the other end of the long, well-maintained bar. He was wearing a shirt—the Blue Adonis wasn’t a crazy laser-lights, mob sex on the dance floor, fucking in the bathrooms kind of place. It was a bustling gay hot spot, though, which meant the bartender still had to look like an achingly beautiful porn star with the arms, pecs, and package to match, all deftly accentuated by the in-house uniform of tasteful navy vest, sleeveless blue muscle shirt, and snug black trousers.

Actually, on second look I recognized this guy. Wade? Pretty sure he was called Wade. I’d ended up looking like Wade more than once after picking up dudes here at the Blue. Wade caught the imaginations of a lot of guys, it seemed. Mine too, actually. Too bad I couldn’t work my mojo on myself once in a while.

I checked in with Jacket Dude. He was leaning forward on the bar surface, not quite fully present as the Blue Adonis’s many patrons burbled and teemed around us. In front of him was something amber on the rocks, half gone and with the ice starting to melt. My guess was it was his first and he was nursing it pretty negligently. “What are you having?” I asked.

He glanced over at me, slightly surprised to be addressed twice in a row. This time his gaze lingered. “Old fashioned,” he said, eyeing me curiously.

I resisted the urge to check my “progress” in the mirror. “No kidding?” I said. “I didn’t know anyone actually drank those. Besides Don Draper, that is.”

Jacket Dude smiled grudgingly. It was a little crooked and really endearing, revealing a slight dimple in an otherwise smooth cheek. “He gave me the idea, actually. I wanted to try it and figured it was okay. Seemed to fit, me being in marketing,” he added shyly. He was still wary, but he was opening up slowly, giving me more of his attention as I became more and more what he was looking for.

Of course, from his perspective I’d been this way the whole time. While we were together none of my conquests remembered the generic me I’d looked like when I sat down with them… just like, the next morning, none of them remembered the custom-fantasy version of me they’d unconsciously steered me into becoming. I’d often mused that my existence was living proof that everything in life was fleeting and ephemeral, and yet, at the same time and without contradiction, persistent and unchanging. Cyclic and eternal, like the ancient Egyptians always said. Sic transit pulchritudo mundi.

Wade appeared and took my order—one old fashioned for my friend John, and a Manhattan for me. I wondered idly if a bit of the spiky wet-dream blond might get added into the mix this time, but it seemed things were far enough along that John was not really paying the hot bartender much attention. It happened faster with some guys. I wasn’t sure why, though I had a few theories.

We talked for a while, first about Mad Men, then Super Bowl commercials and other ads and famous campaigns we remembered. Wade brought our cocktails, taking away John’s half-finished glass, and we drank as we talked. John had never seen the Apple 1984 spot we’d studied in my media history class, so I related the story and the debate about whether its impact was immediate or retroactive,, a product of the hype about the hype. He was interested and engaged. John specialized in mass market dynamics, so the art of wowing the crowd appealed to him, and we chatted about expectations and incongruity as a force in gaining popular attention.

By this time John’s blue-green eyes were fixed on me, and whenever I was talking and he was listening he’d unconsciously lick his lower lip or brush it with his teeth, like he was checking to see if it was still there and all the pleasure receptors were working in case he needed them later. I still hadn’t checked the mirror—I liked being surprised—but I could sense the added heft I’d accrued on my shoulders and chest, and my cock, half-hard from the start of the encounter with the knowledge that expectations almost always became a reality, felt pleasantly heavy curled and torpid in my boxer-briefs. Nothing out of the ordinary so far.

There was a litany of common denominators. Thanks to modern standards of male beauty I could generally count on some kind of boost in the upper body, minor or extreme, and in a limited number of other areas—the roundness of my ass, for example. Frequently there was height, though usually just a couple inches. Sometimes it went the other way and I got shorter, which was fun. My apparent age of 28 seemed to be a good median; a few years might be shaved off, or a bit of mileage might be added, but the norm was for it not to change much.

And almost always there was a fantasy cock. Usually, a considerable upgrade in size and thickness was involved, though by no means was this a sure thing. The change wasn’t always an increase in my phallic presence. Sometimes the point of the fantasy was more the shape and curvature than the size; sometimes it was circumcision (or lack thereof, more often—a lot of cut guys were fascinated by the “turtleneck”); and sometimes there were… more unusual changes down there.

With John, the process continued. As we talked I started to feel hair tickling my shoulders. At first it was just the brush of a few locks, then a bit more, enough I was aware of the weight of my hair against the skin of my traps and neck. I smiled. Long hair was in lately, so I was getting this effect more and more. From experience, I knew that hair length and how it was styled was one of the things that tended to vary dramatically from decade to decade in the fantasies that reshaped me, the way chest hair or jewelry did. Ten years down the road I’d probably have a neat, close-cropped military cut. Or maybe something more exotic, like “the wet look” or a mop of curls à la Weird Al.

I turned my head a little this way and that, letting my hair drag along my shoulders a bit. I liked the feel of it. He watched me, fascinated. It felt lighter and silkier than was normal for me, and I could tell he couldn’t wait to card his fingers through it as we made out. A second later more hair appeared, this time in the front and sides, and I had to brush a long curtain of auburn locks out of my face and tuck it behind my ears.

I sensed we were almost ready. I licked my lips, feeling a slight bump in their plumpness, and John drew in a little breath. Our conversation was limping, but my gut told me we needed another minute, so I drank the last of my Manhattan and waited.

One of the strangest things about my admirer-driven temporary mutability was that it wasn’t just gradual; it seemed to happen in stages, as the respondent allowed himself to free increasingly intense and intimate layers of his fantasy. The ideal vision he had of me might start out tame and “acceptable,” something within reach; but once I became (say) Timothée Chalamet, the id would go, “Yeah, okay, but what I really want is Timothée Chalamet with a fitness-model body,” and I’d get that second boost. And then the lizard brain would say, “Yeah, that, and I really need him to have a ten-inch uncut dick as thick as a soda can, and maybe those shoulders should be a few inches wider,” and I’d get that final twist into something deep and personal—a custom-tailored sex god. All without any actual awareness on my admirer’s part. I’d looked like this the whole time.

It was fun, but on the whole I was also grateful it was temporary. The crazier outcomes might be weird to deal with in everyday life. Almost anything was workable if it was only for a night.

Then we’d fuck, and over the course of a few minutes I’d revert to baseline—which is to say, the exact body I’d had before he started changing me, down to the mitochondria. Every night out involved a return to that chalk line on the track I’d begun at, and the whole thing would start over with someone else whenever and wherever I chose.

Or not. Sometimes I waited a while; sometimes it was every night for a month or a year. I suppose the frequency of my dips into the pool were a way of trying to exert my own sense of control over things. Whatever.

That night with John the final push came as it always did, signifying the last stage where he was giving in to his deepest desires. I did get a little extra mass in the shoulders and chest, and down below I felt my ass and cock swell and thicken—always a rush. I’d have to adjust myself for sure when I stood up. What I didn’t expect was the weight that settled on the upper bridge of my nose as sexy scholar glasses appeared from nowhere. I grinned at John, all slow and lopsided, brushing back my hair and adjusting my new glasses. For a second his breathing got a little ragged. So cute.

I had to smile. Sometimes the final push was startlingly radical—an extra foot in height, or just an extra foot (I’d been three-legged twice so far)… muscles bigger than humanly possible… or a cock the size of a concrete traffic bollard. I’d ended up as twins a bunch of times, which was usually hot as fuck. So far as I could remember, though, I’d never had an encounter where the final push was squarish, steel-rimmed, sexy scholar glasses.

Our faces were kind of close, somehow, and I could feel my own warmth as well as John’s, so I just thought “fuck it” and moved in for a long, gentle kiss. When we broke, I sensed a presence and turned to see Wade standing there with a knowing smirk on his gorgeous face. “Check, please,” I said, playing up my part in the scene. Wade handed me the bill—he’d gotten it ready, naturally—and I paid with cash, leaving a very nice tip.

I glanced back at John, getting lost in those blue-green eyes again. “Your place?” I suggested. To my relief, he nodded. Sneaking out of someone else’s apartment after I’d devolved back to my basic, boring form was a lot easier than the alternative.

I glanced at the mirror as we got up and almost laughed. I’d been a shit-ton of movie and TV stars over the years, and tonight… tonight I looked exactly like A-list action hero Andrew Chen. That is, if Andrew Chen had long reddish-brown hair, an even buffer body than he already showed off in every installment of The Volatile Spy series, and adorable gunmetal-gray rectangular-framed glasses.

John was a top, it turned out, but verse enough he was willing to trade places for round two, and so he got both sides of the fantasy. I didn’t start to revert until he drifted off to sleep, a look of utter contentment on his angelic face. Guess he got that pick-me-up after all.

I took a very quick shower, and by the time I was out I looked like me again in the mirror. I resisted a sigh as I watched myself pull on the black tee shirt (which was back to being a medium from the XL it had been earlier). I tugged on my jeans and boots and left.

Maybe someday I’d find the guy whose ideal lover was the dude I saw in the mirror every day. I wasn’t all that fussed, though. In the meantime, there are too many men in this town with very rich fantasy lives.

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