The terrible episode with the vodka fruit punch was a few weeks ago, but I still think about it every day. Nothing makes me feel worse than seeing a physical reminder of how small I’ve become.
But that’s not the only problem. About two weeks ago, I noticed my chest hair—which had been growing like crazy after the testosterone of a 6’10” non-natty bodybuilder started flowing in a 5’3” body—was starting to thin out. The hair that had been crawling over my shoulders and down my back never grew back after I waxed it.
I didn’t really think anything of it, but then I noticed my libido was through the roof. I couldn’t get sex off my mind. I’d be walking down the street in my slightly-too-big clothes and suddenly I’d be sporting wood. And not just any wood—the most firm erections I’d had in many years. The merest thought of a man sent my head reeling. I started developing a crush on Chase. I’d always found him attractive but I found myself daydreaming about sex with him.
This brings us to last night… or really this morning. I had been having insanely erotic dreams and waking up with morning wood, but this morning I woke up and felt dampness around my crotch. A wet dream! I haven’t had a wet dream in probably ten plus years. And despite the wet dream, I was still horny as hell.
I stumbled to the bathroom and realized my underwear were slightly loose. I yanked the boxers down and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It didn’t look like me! A teenager looked back at me, a teenager at the gawkiest phase of development, with my once-thick beard reduced to some downy hairs at the edges of my mustache and a wispy set of mutton chops starting. A few zits pockmarked my face, and my teeth seemed too big for my head. My hair was wild and long and covered more of my forehead than I remember. I stretched my arm overhead and only a few barely-brown hairs interrupted my smooth armpit.
Looking below wasn’t any better. My chest hair had retreated almost completely, with a few downy hairs in the center and a few hairs on each nipple, a faint treasure trail, and then… oh, God. My erection straining for all its adolescent ability, my once-proud eight-inch fuckstick, reduced to what looked like five inches. My balls were smaller, too, and my legs were skinny and there was only hair at the ankles. My feet hadn’t changed much other than the hair; they looked enormous on my body.
“What the fUcK,” I said and clapped my hand to my mouth at the honking, pitchy sound that came out.
I ran over to the height chart I’d installed at the door and made a new mark… then measured and winced as the tape measure read out “59.71”. I wasn’t even five feet tall! And somehow whatever this disease is managed to turn me into the most awkward teen boy ever. I stared at the lanky reflection in the mirror in horror.