Nick awoke with a start. It was dark. Something moved next to him and he suppressed a scream of fear. He looked to his side and calmed down. It was his wife. No, wait. It was Nicholas’ wife. That horrid woman whom he’d run into at the mall. The last vestiges of his businessman self dripped away: The wrinkles around his eyes receded and his black coif once again fell down around his ears in a long blonde surfer cut. He suddenly realized he was naked. He removed the covers and crept out of bed. The woman stirred but didn’t open her eyes.
Good, thought Nick. She probably wouldn’t be too happy to see a naked surfer standing above her bed, gay or not. He silently stole down the stairs and out the front door, blinking in the morning light. A movement. Nick hid behind a low hedge. A lawn mower roared and Nick saw a bedheaded man mowing the lawn across the street. Crap. He needed to find some clothes, and fast, before the whole neighborhood woke up.
Nick crept behind the hedgerow and into the next driveway, where he found an open garage door. The concrete room was empty except for a small love seat and a battered old TV. He spotted a box in the corner with the words “Salvation Army” written on them. It was full of clothes that seemed to have been collected at some church fund-raiser or other: conservative dresses and blouses, obnoxious Jesus sweaters, and… A-ha! Nick triumphantly pulled out a pair of Simpsons boxer shorts and slipped them on. It wasn’t much, but at least he wasn’t naked anymore.
A lock clicked. A door opened. Nick hid behind the love seat and watched as a young man, probably about 18, walked out of the front door and down to a battered looking VW Bug parked at the curb. He was slim, dark-haired, and unremarkable looking, except for his prodigious bubble butt. Nick watched the boy’s ass as it swayed and rolled in his tight jeans. He wanted to call out to the boy. He wanted to know his name. He wanted to… Damn.
He could have tried to quell his boner, but he knew what was coming and gave in. He flicked on the TV and sat on the love seat, hoping that at least he wouldn’t have to be so old this time. As he watched an old MASH re-run, his shoulders cracked and broadened, and his muscles expanded, giving him a bulky, square frame. He was the perfect shape for a linebacker: big, brutish, and strong. His jaw grew wide and square, his nose puffed out into a doughy mushroom shape, and a shock of black hair fell over his eyes. He stood up straight, admiring himself.
‘Not bad,’ thought Nick. ‘Oh, wait, there we go.’ As the tiny TV rose into the air and hung itself on the wall, it expanded into a huge widescreen that dominated the room. The channel flicked onto a football game as the loveseat behind him stretched into a shabby leather sofa. A fridge appeared in the corner, beneath a sign that suddenly popped into existence, reading “Nick’s Man Cave.” His body filled with an overwhelming thirst and he strode over to the fridge, pulling out a six-pack of Bud and setting it on the floor next to the couch.
He popped the tab on one of the beers and chugged it. With each swallow, his body seemed to age five years. Gulp. The elastic on his boxers tightened as his abs disappeared beneath a new layer of flab. His longish hair receded into a slicked back, businesslike cut. A treasure trail and a small goatee appeared.
Gulp. The goatee vanished. A bald patch appeared on the back of his head. Long, itchy hairs crawled up from his treasure trail, enveloping his gut and his softening pecs. His love handles jiggled as he drank.
Gulp. The hairs spread around his back, crawling up his shoulders, leaving a layer of soft, downy fuzz. The bald patch was the size of a sand dollar now. His pecs finished their conversion into full-on moobs, which rested dejectedly on his protruding belly. Blood vessels burst on his nose, giving it a corpulent, red look.
Gulp. A couple greys appeared in his chest hair. His gut now spilled so far out in front of him that he couldn’t see his toes. The remainder of his thick black hair shed out onto the carpet, giving him a thinning horseshoe of male pattern baldness. Once again, wrinkles settled in around his eyes.
Nick scratched his ass and belched, then flopped onto the couch to watch the game, the leather creaking in protest. He passed the time watching ESPN and finishing his six-pack until a woman appeared in the doorway, clearing her throat and tapping her foot.
“And what,” she said, “Have you been doing all day in your underwear?”
“I was… applying for jobs,” said Nick guiltily, ”Online.”
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. Your injury was a year ago. It’s time for you to get back to work. I can’t support this family all on my own. Now come in, I made spaghetti for dinner.” She turned briskly on her heel and stomped off.
“Women. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em,” grumbled Nick.
“I heard that!”
With a heaving sigh, Nick pulled a grubby T-shirt and shorts over his ample frame and waddled into the dining room. His wife and son, a slim, dark-haired youth, were already seated at the table. He started piling his plate with noodles.
“So, Christian,” said his wife. “How was school today?”
“Great!” said the boy, “Our drama teacher said the auditions for Grease are this week, and I think I might actually have a shot at getting the lead!”
“Aw, honey, that’s wonderf-“
“Grease?” sniffed Nick, “The musical? Do you want the other boys to think you’re a sissy?”
“Now, Nicholas.”
“No, I didn’t raise my kid to be some namby pamby fairy boy!”
“You didn’t even raise me at all!” shouted Christian, storming up the stairs and slamming the bedroom door.
“Apologize,” said his wife, “Now.”
Nick groaned and stood up reluctantly. He walked up the stairs and knocked on Christian’s door.
“Son?”
“I don’t want to talk to you! Go away!”
Was it just him, or did his son’s voice sound a little deeper? Oh well. Whatever. He tried. Nick shrugged and headed back downstairs into the garage, ignoring his wife’s glares. He locked the door behind him.
Nick got another six-pack from the fridge, then reached under the couch cushions and pulled out two battered copies of Penthouse magazine. Screw them both. He was going to have a good time tonight, no matter what.