You sit down and start to think when a tone chimes from your pocket. You reach in and pull out a cell phone.
“Unopened Chat from Taylor HOTTTT” flashes on the screen. You tap on it and a photo of a gorgeous girl, flirtatiously winking from behind a strategically placed towel, comes up with a caption bar that says, “Waiting for you down at 18th Avenue beach, big man”
Your mind goes to dismiss it—you’re gay, after all—but suddenly you’re painfully aware of your own straining erection. You may have been gay, but this body clearly isn’t. You find yourself imagining the two of you making our, and you grunt softly. You open up Snapchat and send a snap back with your tongue hanging out and a caption of, “Gotta do my workout but Imma come get dat ass”.
Wait… workout? You look down and you subconsciously had picked up a gym bag. You stare for a second—where do you work out and what do you do for exercise?—before the body’s autopilot takes over. You run to your messy dresser and grab a pair of shorts, a tank too, and some tennis shoes. Throwing them on, you grab a water bottle and head out, trusting this body to know where it’s going.
When you get to the high school, you instinctively head to the weight room, a huge place with forty squat racks. Obviously this is a rich school! You toss your bag on a bench and head over to where the other students are. A huge Black man yells, “There he is! The late great Billy Deal! You just in time to finish off this pull-up contest… guess you gon do it cold!”
Pull-ups? Not your forte. Your previous workout regimen involved uninspired trudging on a treadmill or an elliptical trainer followed by ten minutes with some light dumbbells.
But once again your new teenage swagger takes over and you saunter up to the squat rack and jump up.
“One… two… three… oh damn, Vella, you got competition, he don’t even look like he workin here! Thirty two is the number to beat. Six… seven… Deal, you don’t gotta do chest to bat!”
You snort, while your body just pulls out rep after rep. “Twenty-three, twenty-four… damn, whoever heard of a linebacker doing pull-ups like this? Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty… he slowin’ down, he slowin’ down! Thirty-one, thirty-two… thirty-three… you could stop now, you beat him… damn! Forty… forty-one…”
You smirk and hop down. “Damn, Vella, you just got your ass smoked by a FRESHMAN!” crowed one of the other kids.
“Yeah? Look at him, he’s a fuckin’ gorilla!”
You casually flip him the bird. “You wanna try again with bench press, you scrawny motherfucker?” you retort.
The coach breaks it up and sends you over to get barbells. You go through what should have been an exhausting workout: heavy power cleans followed by line drills and seated box jumps, followed by rope climbs. Your body clearly craves the exercise, though, and you work up a great sweat.
As you shower off, you look down and realize you’re bigger than when you arrived. Your muscles are pumped, you’re at least 6’3”, and your cock is no small thing. You think about that Snapchat and it rockets to attention, but you turn the water to cold and towel off. The ointments you swept into your bag in your room peek out at you as you throw on some pants and flip flops.