Wrappers

by BRK   

I’m a little oblivious sometimes, but when you walk into class and all your students look like the same young and hunky actor, you start to get a clue that something is up.

It had probably been happening all day. It must have been, without my even realizing. God, what a thought. Spreading wrappers all over campus…

Wait, sorry, got distracted. I’m pretty easily distracted. And I’m not talking about littering candy wrappers. I don’t even understand that. Why do people—?

Start again? I’ll start again.

So like I said, it had probably been happening all day. But I didn’t notice until I burst into my first class of the semester, an upper-level course on Romance Literature.

Six pairs of blue eyes looked up at me. Six identical pairs of blue eyes.

I stopped dead in the doorway and stared at them as they stared at me. I felt myself blushing, further adding to my embarrassment. I took a deep breath and finally, with a resolution I’d never before been able to marshal, I wrenched my eyes away from my students and, looking straight ahead, walked step by step to the desk at the front of the room, feeling every eyes on me as if each of them had reached out and grabbed a corner of my jacket. I literally pulled their eyes across the room to the desk, and fixed them there as I stood behind it, still stubbornly not looking at them. I fought an urge to laugh.

I began to unpack my papers and books from my satchel, setting them in neat piles on the desk to gain time while my brain, which had stalled during the walk across the room, suddenly began spinning madly in overdrive. What the fuck?? I screamed inside my skull. As a brand new teacher at New England’s top all-male college, I had naturally wondered all summer how distracting it would be if a few of my students were good-looking; but this was—this was— I don’t even like Brendan Fraser, I told myself. Not that much. Not enough for me to be imagining that all six of the students arrayed around the classroom’s big oblong table looked exactly like him. Exactly like, down to the dimples. Circa “George of the Jungle.” Down to being long-haired, tan, and buff. And shirtless, every goddamned one of them. Thankfully they were all wearing cargo shorts and not the “butt flap” George had worn in the movie. Some consolation! In any event I could still see their long hairy legs and big bare feet stretched out under the table.

My bag was empty—there was nothing else to unpack. I leaned forward on my fists and risked a brief glance up at the class. Yep, still there.

Only the Brendans were not all looking at my face anymore. To my dismay I suddenly realized that my, well, I guess I can say generously sized cock was stiff as a board, in fact had been for a while; and on the heels of this realization came the recollection that I was wearing loose boxers and thin slacks. I grinned and shook my head. As I turned to write the class title and my name on the board I wondered if I would have the courage to turn back around. Maybe this was the wrong room, the wrong class. But nothing happened when I wrote “Romance Literature and Class Divides” on the board. No one objected. This was the right room, I sighed to myself.

Meanwhile, as I wrote, on another plane—the plane that would otherwise have been preparing my remarks on Byron and the Brontes—my brain was feverishly deconstructing what had happened. I tried thinking back. I had gotten almost no sleep the night before, fretting about my first day. I had finally forced myself to lay down in bed and watch TV and try to disconnect my brain. Somehow I had hit on the Brendan Fraser channel—or rather, some local channel in my new hometown was showing a Brendan film festival. I had finally drifted off to “George of the Jungle” after watching “The Mummy” and “Blast from the Past” (fortunately I’d missed “Airheads”).

That, I thought with a certain chagrin, explained the content of my hallucination—but not its power, its absolute verite. I knew the power of my imagination, and while I was certainly able to conjure up fantasies to jack off to when I closed my eyes, I’d never before experienced anything like the concrete reality of the six lithe, sexy men lounging around the table behind me. I started to panic about my sanity, but I managed to distract myself by thinking about my other problem.

My unfortunate boner had not, of course, softened in the slightest during the twenty seconds I had allowed the class to stare at my back. I bit the bullet and did what needed to be done: I adjusted myself. Actually it took some doing, but I managed to maneuver my surfboard cock around to a straight vertical, held in place by my belt, the top inch and a half hidden by my shirt. I heard some good-natured chuckling as I did this, which actually relaxed me quite a bit, enough to joke about it as I turned to face them.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” I said, earning a couple more chuckles, “Let’s begin.” The Brendans dutifully sat up and opened their notebooks, and I picked up the stack of syllabuses and handed it to the nearest of them, trying not to watch their muscles jump and play as they passed them around. I leaned against the front of the desk, trying to act casual, and asked them to go around and give their names.

No, they didn’t all say “Brendan.” They all gave regular names, although one of them, bizarrely, really was named Brendan. As they spoke different characteristics emerged—accents, confidence, deference, enthusiasm—and as we slowly progressed into the meat of the class not only was I able to relax along with them and get excited about the material we were all there to discuss, but I could start to differentiate between them by personality. And a curious thing started to happen: As the class progressed they no longer looked exactly alike either.

For example, I asked everyone as part of the getting-to-know-you part of the class what they did when they were bored. One of the boys—John, who was sitting nearest me on the right—had mentioned that he usually ended up at the gym; and later, he casually made a gym-related analogy when talking about the difference between Heathcliff and his rival, Edgar. Later on I noticed that he looked pumped. His muscles seemed to bulge more than his classmates’. At first I thought I was imagining it thanks to the power of suggestion. But, well, maybe I was imagining it, but by the end of class John still looked like Brendan to me, but a Brendan who worked out twice as much as his other identical sextuplets.

The boy next to him, Alex, kept running his hands unconsciously through his long hair, and suggestion had somehow made his hair a little straighter and about eight inches longer than the others’ by the end of class. The boy whose name actually was Brendan mentioned he was from Hawaii and was part Japanese, and over the course of the hour I realized with some amazement that his skin-tone had deepened, his hair had turned blacker, and he was wearing a puka necklace.

I’ve known two Lukes in my life, both of them very blond, and so I guess I wasn’t so surprised (once I started realizing that my hallucinations or whatever were slowly shifting) that the Brendan Fraser named Luke had become a dirty blond by time we were winding up. Dylan didn’t make much of an impression on me, and so I was somewhat amused to see that he hadn’t changed a bit—he still looked exactly like Brendan Fraser (circa “George of the Jungle”) as he was gathering up his things and slinging his knapsack over his brawny shoulder. I was actually distracted by this and felt a little sorry for him as he left without looking at anyone. In fact I actually resolved to find something interesting about him at our next meeting.

And then there was David. He sat nearest me on the left, and had seemed the most flustered by my king-sized boner—and it was partly his fault that it stayed hard as long as it did, almost halfway into class, because he kept glancing at it. He also kept unconsciously adjusting himself, as if his own boner were giving him trouble. At some point I glanced “inadvertently” in that direction and suppressed a gasp—something like two inches of wide cock was sticking out of David’s loose cargo shorts! What was even stranger was his eyes met mine and they carried some embarrassment, as if he were aware of his predicament—which was absurd, since his “predicament” was entirely inside my own addled mind.

Finally the class was over, and the students started to disperse. I sitting on the edge of the desk, noting with interest that John and Alex seemed very close, when I sensed one of them was standing next to me. I turned and saw that it was David, and automatically my eyes dropped down to his waistband for a fraction of a second—long enough to see that at least four inches of wrist-thick cock was thrusting straight up out of his shorts. Holy shit! I forced myself to meet his gaze. He looked worried.

“I need your help, professor,” he said softly. The others were just out the door, more than a few glancing back at us with a grin. Then we were alone, and the room seemed empty after containing all those young, boisterous hunks for so long.

“Sure, David,” I said. “What do you need?”

He seemed to force himself to say it. “A shirt,” he breathed. “I need a shirt.” And he glanced down fleetly at his huge, irreverently visible erection, just as I had. “I have to get across campus, and…” he shrugged his broad shoulders expressively.

My world was rocked. He needed a shirt to cover an erection that was all in my head—??

As if in a dream I unbuttoned my own cornflower blue dress shirt and drew it off, leaving me in just my white V-neck undershirt as I handed it to him. He took it and quickly shrugged into it. It was too small in the chest but he could button it up half-way. He left it untucked. I just stared at him open-mouthed, my heart pounding, as he picked up his gym bag, which he used for school stuff. He turned to go, then turned back and said, a little bashfully, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful—so grateful. And I like the Brendan Fraser thing. Just—if—I know it’s hard—I mean, difficult,” he corrected himself, blushing a little, then pushed himself to go on: “Just—if you can try not to make it much bigger…” He trailed off, smiled sheepishly, and then turned and walked out into the corridor.

I sat there stunned for a minute, then sprang after him. I caught up to him in the hall and reached up to grab his shoulder—I’d forgotten the actor was 6’3”. David was four inches taller than me. He looked down at me uncomfortably, shuffling his feet a little.

I spluttered, unable to frame the confusion in my mind into any kind of articulate utterance. “How—how do you—how do you know?” I gasped.

He frowned. “What do you mean? I just know.”

I shook my head. “What do you know?”

David knit his brows. “I just know. I can’t—”

“Try to put it into words.”

He shrugged. “I know that this is how you see me. It’s like—it’s like knowing what somebody thinks of you.”

I stared at him. “But—even if that’s true—why did you need a shirt to get across campus, just to hide—to hide the way I see you?”

He looked at me as though I had asked a dumb question. “Because strangers will see me like this now,” he said, gesturing toward his new Brendan-hunk bod and now-hidden monster cock. “I mean, I know people are always cool with whatever it is, but I’m just not used to the attention. People don’t walk around with giant boners in Davenport,” he added with a crooked grin.

“Strangers—but what about—”

“I know, I know, it’ll take a few weeks for my new look to, you know, phase into my friends’ perceptions of me,” he said quickly. “That’s all right. But it’s just, strangers will see it right away, and even though I know they’ll be okay with it—”

“But what makes you think—how do you know all that?” I said, a little desperately.

He shrugged wordlessly.

“David—” I began helplessly.

“Look, professor, I’m sorry this is weird for you, but it’s not weird for me, honest,” he said, “and I gotta get to my next class, okay?”

I swallowed. “Okay.” I nodded and offered him a small smile, which he returned.

“Thanks for the shirt,” he said, backing away. “I’ll bring it back clean.” Then he turned and jogged down the corridor and around a corner.

I was alone with my beating heart.

I wandered back into my classroom to gather my stuff. My cock, which had only softened a little during class, was rock-hard again, the head clearly visible under my thin undershirt. I smiled ruefully to myself—now I needed a shirt.

I pulled my papers together and pushed them into my satchel, all the while trying to sort out what was going on. By the time I got to building’s main entrance I had somehow accepted that I was doing something. Projecting something…

In the vestibule of the Humanities building there were a bunch of vending machines, and out of habit I glanced at them, looking for my favorites, Hershey bars in their brown wrappers.

Wrappers.

A new angle coalesced in my mind. Wrappers. That was the key. Somehow, and without knowing what I was doing, I had given each of these kids a Brendan Fraser “wrapper.” That had to be it. And this wrapper was there on the outside for strangers to see right away, people who’d never met him before and had no image of him of their own. But if you knew the person, if you already had your own image of him, it took longer. A few weeks to “phase in,” David had said. Probably longer if you’d known him longer, I mused. For parents? Family? I wondered. Maybe never?

And David had been both aware of the wrapper and almost nonplussed by it. So (I reasoned to myself as I walked out to my car) this wrapper came with some kind of understanding and acceptance of its nature. Somehow I had projected onto these six young men both a new appearance and a new knowledge and acquiescence, at least. And David said there was a built-in acceptance of the wrapper by whoever saw it, too.

A thrill took me as I started to fumble with the implications—quickly doused by a sudden intrusion of ethics: Did I have the right?

I had to shove my boner to the side in order to be able to get into the car. Maybe if I do no harm, I thought, grinning because I knew I was thinking with my dick. I started the car and pulled slowly out of the parallel parking spot into the quiet street.

These are only just theories, I told myself as I drove down College Street. I decided I had to put them to the test. A plan formed in my head, and I drove home pensively.

My new digs were in a three-family house not far from campus. Above me lived a couple, Li and Jason; Li was a fellow English teacher and we had already kind of made friends. Downstairs from me had been empty, but a new tenant—another teacher, supposedly—was supposed to have moved in today. As I pulled in I saw the movers were just getting started with the new guy.

I parked and got out. Hauling boxes with a couple of hired movers was a young, handsome bodybuilder with black curly hair, wearing a tank-top and cutoffs with a pair of old sneakers. I met him as he came back out and we shook hands. He said his name was Rob. I asked him if he’d met the other neighbors yet, and he said no. I told him I’d go upstairs and see if they wanted to help.

I ran up the steps and rang Li and Jason’s doorbell. After a few moments they answered the door together, arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning madly and blushing. Jason was shirtless and Li’s shirt was unbuttoned and askew, his loose slacks tented. They both immediately noticed my hard-on and Jason smiled and asked me, semi-seriously I thought, if I wanted to come in.

I grinned at them, sizing them up. Li was tall and lanky, with bright eyes, a killer smile and the body of a tall acrobat. Jason was more solid, square-shouldered and beefy; I decided it would be more interesting if I gave him the wrapper.

“Do you mind if I try something?” I asked, and without waiting for an answer I did it. Now that it was conscious I felt the facility in my mind, the way you suddenly notice your hand has a second thumb, and you wonder why you never saw it before. It was there in my brain, the capacity to see someone differently. In between moments, Jason went from looking like Jason to looking exactly like Li, complete with an identical shirt, identically askew, and identically tented slacks. Jason looked down and a broad grin broke out on his face.

Li was looking at me and at his grinning lover with raised eyebrows. “Try what?” he asked me saucily. Meanwhile Jason caught my eye and mouthed a fervent “Thank you.” I felt a thrill through my body. Awesome, fucking awesome. My cock pumped some precum onto to my abs, causing a spot to develop on my undershirt.

“Nothing,” I said. “Hey, the new tenant is downstairs. Want to meet him? C’mon.” I turned and hurried back down the stairs, leaving them to follow me at a trot. As I came down the stairs I decided to give Rob a bit of a wrapper too, just for fun, and when we got down to the truck Rob still looked like himself, but more handsome, a bit taller, more muscular, and with more cock. I had actually had it in mind to double the size of his cock, but I got distracted by the word “double” and, well, you’ll see.

Jason and Li stood behind me and drank in their hunky new neighbor, arms around each other and heads leaning into each other. Rob smiled at me and then caught sight of Jason and Li and was immediately entranced. He shook hands with them, shaking Li’s left hand so they wouldn’t have to disengage from each other.

“You didn’t tell me they were twins,” he whispered to me, as Jason and Li whispered to each other. “I’ve always wanted—”

He suddenly realized we were all staring at his waist—two huge cocks were slowly stretching and hardening out of Ron’s short shorts. Already several inches had emerged and he clearly wasn’t totally hard yet. “Shit,” he said. “Speaking of twins…”

“They’re beautiful,” I said softly. “I only wish there were one for me.”

Rob looked up at me and winked. “Well,” he said with a huge grin, “that’s up to you.”

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