Jim had always idolized the stereotypical surfer--hot, dumb, and carefree--but growing up in the Midwest, far from any beach, he had barely ever even had the chance to meet a real surfer, much less to try surfing himself. But his new high school was in a seaside town in California. He knew that the beach was a popular hangout place for the kids at his new school, and that surfing was a prominent activity at the beach, and while of course not everyone that surfed or hung out at the beach met the stereotypes he could spy a table of guys in the corner that most certainly did: tanned, ripped, handsome, long-haired, mostly blonde, wearing board shorts and sandals or flip flops, and laughing and joking without a care in the world. They were exactly what he had in mind. All through the long, hard years of high school he had wanted cool, laid-back friends that he could just chill, hang out, and fit in with, and now the opportunity to fulfill his dream was finally within his grasp. Jim made up his mind, pushed through the crowd, and approached the group of surfers, who stopped in the middle of their recounting of a particularly gnarly wave to turn and look at him.
Jim froze in sheer terror for a moment but finally gathered enough courage to awkwardly greet, "...Hi, I'm Jim."
Jim felt a strange warm sensation in his ring finger that started to spread through his body as the world around him seemed to slow down. The warmth seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it reminded him of--the sun, warm seawater, the exertion of a workout, a body next to his (it didn't occur to him that the latter three shouldn't have been familiar to him at all). Whatever it was, though, he felt it changing him. It was a throbbing, pushing him outward with each pulse. He was growing and swelling in every direction. His average frame stretched to become tall and broad-shouldered. Muscles pushed their way out of flab, arms and legs thickening into pillars of toned meat as abs, pecs, biceps, and more all inflated. Jim wasn't huge but he was big, and he was certainly ripped, with the sort of definition that he never could have dreamed before. And something else WAS huge, or getting there at least... his cock lengthened to a formidable size, another pillar of meat, and his balls ballooned to match.
Jim's skin tanned and bronzed to the golden shade of someone who spent a lot of time in the sun. His brown hair grew out into a shaggy mane that reached down to his shoulders and lightened to a sun-bleached blonde, and his brown eyes likewise lightened into a striking (if somehow dull and washed-out) shade of blue. His face shifted to become remarkably handsome, and for a brief second flickered into the cocky, grinning expression of someone who knows it, before he returned to observing the changes in wonderment. Jim's clothes, straining against his new size and about to rip, suddenly reshaped themselves. His shoes shifted into flip-flops, his jeans shortened into board shorts, and his T-shirt became a button-down shirt, with as many buttons open as he could get away with (he would open the rest once school got out, like he always did... but how did he know that?). A tribal armband tattoo faded into existence around his right bicep, and a seashell necklace materialized around his neck.
Before Jim could appreciate his hot new body, the pleasant warmth that had suffused it withdrew from it and moved, settling down and concentrating in his head. The warmth became an intense heat in his brain that made it impossible to think, and it was changing him just like it had changed his body. Neurons were frying. Memories of his lonely old life, academic knowledge, and critical thinking abilities all evaporated as mental connections were broken. He could feel his mind dulling and slowing permanently. Dull, like him. New connections were being carved out too, though not nearly as many as he had once had. In place of English, science, history, and math, his head was now filling up with knowledge of surfing, exercise, partying, and sex. Actually, not just knowledge, but also memories: he remembered this new life that no longer felt new. He had spent it with his friends, his bros, catching waves and chasing chicks, partying, working out, getting high, and he loved every minute of it. A new personality was forged, swamping out his awkward former self. Sure, he knew he was dumb, but it's not like he needed to think anyway, so who cared? Why worry about anything? Just chill and let it goooooooo, dude. He was shot, he had his dudes, he had his chicks, he could surf and do what he loved all the time, and life was good. He had nothing to worry about.
Time unfroze, and Jim greeted his new, old friends once again (not that any of them remembered the previous greeting) in a voice that was deeper, slower, mellower, and with a distinct California accent. "Sup dudes, you guys hittin' the waves after school?"
He grinned dumbly at the chorus of "You know it, brah," and "For sure, dude," that he received in response, and sat down in his usual spot to chatter with his friends about after-school plans and hot girls (the two were often the same) just like they always did. Life was good, and always had been.