Mathew furiously entered some statistics into the Chronivac. He had to work fast—the men in the bar were looking at him, hungry for fresh meat.
Mike, the bartender, sauntered over. He placed a meaty hand on Mathew's shoulder just as Mathew pressed "Enter" and the two locked eyes. Mike's face began to change around his brown irises. The wrinkles and bumps that previously adourned his skin seemed to fade away, and overall his face turned several shades paler until it almost seemed to glow in the light of the bar. His lips, once rough and chapped, became smooth, moisturized, and plump. His beard, a massive red mess, filled with dirt and stained with the stench of alcohol, withered away, revealing a perfectly smooth, shaven face. The grimy auburn hair, tangled down to his shoulders, lightened to a platinum blonde, shortened, and stiffed up in a perfectly coiffed quiff. Around the sides and back, his hair was a fade to his white skin, almost incredibly short. The eyebrows, once thick and messy, became dainty, smooth, and trimmed into perfect arcs on his soft brow. His nose thinned, and a hoop appeared on the right nostril. Mathew, still making eye contact, watched the brown irises become a rainbow of hypnotizing colors, then fog into a muddy gray, then finally set on a sky-blue—behind them lay little intelligence. On the shoulder, Mathew felt the hand shrink and change from grimy and rough to smooth, petite, and delicate. The intoxicating smell of nail polish filled the air, and Mathew glanced down to see bright, glittery, pink manicured nails shining in the bar's dim glow.
Mathew looked away, staring around the room. All around, the wife-beaters and lumberjack flannels were changing, becoming tighter and skinnier. Plaids changed to flower print before his very eyes. Earrings appeared underneath strikingly blonde hair, some of it freshly dyed. All around, hugely muscled men became skinnier and skinnier, until it seemed they may not be anything more than bone. Jeans became tighter, often changing to black. Sometimes they changed outright into yoga pants or far-too-tight striped shorts. From those shorts he could see long, thin legs, devoid of all body hair. Those who once had beards lacked them—every face im the room was clean-shaven to the follicle.
And then there were the butts. All around him, people, already shorter than previous, seemed to gain new posture. As if by inflation, simultaneously, every boy in the room's ass grew. Some became tight bubble butts, some larger, more flowing rotund masses. But not a rear was left untouched by the Chronivac. It was almost chaos. Asses grew until it seemed they would burst from the pants they somehow managed to get in. Every single new twink was left with a new, frankly amazing, posterior.
Suddenly, it was as if time had restarted. Boys began grinding all over each other, vividly making out, as a Lady Gaga song played. Mike kissed Mathew on the lips—hard—and left back to his bar. Amongst the crowd and the chaos, Mathew picked up Ashton off the table, hoisted him over his shoulder, and walked him outside, asses rubbing all over the two of them the whole way.