Frustrated and upset, Christian slammed his bedroom door behind him. He reached into his backpack and pulled out his Grease script, thinking that maybe he could make his angry energy constructive and channel it into his audition. He was worried about his chances of landing the role of Danny Zuko because, although his friends and parents didn’t know it, he was gay, and he worried that he wouldn’t be able to channel the proper masculinity and bravado that the role required.
He leafed through the pages of the script, leaving black smudges on the page corners as he did so. Confused, he looked at his hands, which were inexplicably coated in a viscous black substance. Was that… engine grease? A knock sounded at the door.
“Son?”
Rage suddenly exploded inside him. Rage at his own shortcomings, at his father for noticing them, and at the world for being so unfair. His voice tore from him in a deep, commanding, unfamiliar bark.
“I don’t want to talk to you! Go away!”
‘Wow, that was pretty good,’ thought Christian, ‘I can work with this.’ He probed the dark, angry black hole that had just opened up in his mind and felt his body swelling with teen angst and anger. No, wait. It was actually swelling. Christian’s thin frame hardened into taut, lean muscle as it stretched to a height of six feet. His biceps grew the most, bulging in a manner that rivaled even Popeye. He rolled up his long sleeves to show them off, only to have the wither away into nothing, leaving him in a sleeveless black cotton shirt.
Energy coursed through his wiry frame, and his dick jutted out, hard as a rock. He touched it experimentally and his mind exploded with images: making out with chicks in the back seat of his souped-up speedster, fixing up cars with his buddies down at the auto shop, cruising around town in his tight leather pants. He felt a pinching around his bubble butt and instinctively knew that the leather pants had appeared around his waist. He tucked his thumbs into the unused belt loops for the first time, though it felt immediately like an old habit.
His chest soared with confidence. His memories of studying and doing homework were withering – he ditched class more often than not. But his motor and people skills bloomed, giving him the talent to charm his teachers and get away with it. He smiled, his straight, shiny teeth glinting in the lamplight.
Something tickled his ears. While he’d been standing there, his dark hair had been growing by several inches. It now hung around his face like limp, black spaghetti. Knowing exactly what to do, he rubbed his greasy hands together and slicked back his hair into a gorgeous pompadour. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pockets and wiped off his hands. As he did so, a small tattoo of a bird inked itself on his right bicep.
Honk honk!
A car horn shattered the suburban quiet outside. He peered out the window and saw his friends hanging out of a car they had fixed up together, a couple hotties in tow. He grinned an easy grin, slung a leather jacket over his shoulder, and vaulted out the open window, bounding off toward whatever misadventures the night offered.
As he got in the car, he donned his jacket, which was emblazoned with a logo: The T Birds. The car sped off into the waiting darkness.