I had 7 appointments – or “go-sees” – that’s what they call it in the modeling business. I would be racing all over Miami, zipping in and out of casting and production offices, trying (desperately) to land another job.

I had done really well when I first arrived in Miami about two years ago. I was the new guy on the scene (although my agent often referred to me as the new “boy”). I was a new face – and I booked a couple of high profile jobs: Dolce & Gabbana, Prada, and one for American Crew hair gel. It was awesome.

But now the novelty seemed to have worn off. Casting directors knew my face, and knew what I could do. And the public had seen me a billion times on the sides of countless buses, advertising the fucking hair gel.

I asked my agent if there was danger of being overexposed: the American Crew ad was everywhere, part of a huge national campaign. At first he said, “No, don’t worry about it. You’re still the new boy, the freshest face in town.”

But by February of that year, it was clear that I WAS overexposed – my face was burned into the public’s eye as a clean cut young man, with a full head of thick blonde hair, carefully combed and neatly slicked back. Advertising Weekly said about the American Crew ad: “Just another timeless and stunning, if somewhat repetitive, representation of effortless, dewy youth. The model’s face is simply perfect. As is his hair – of course.”

But on Tuesday, things didn’t seem so perfect. At the first three appointments, either the casting director or the photographer greeted me sarcastically with, “Hey! It’s the American Crew guy!” They took my picture and I gave them my photocard, but I could tell that I wasn’t getting these jobs. Fuck!

To make things worse, this asshole Todd was at every single appointment that day. He’d been modeling for just as long as me. And recently, he had booked every job I couldn’t get. I knew, because we had the same agent. And for some reason my agent kept casually dropping Todd’s name – constantly reminding me that Todd was cleaning up while I was struggling to land another job – ANY other job. Why was my agent always rubbing my nose in Todd’s success? Was he trying to make me jealous? Make me jealous to make me work harder? To piss me off? Fucking agents.

I jumped into my little car (a silver Porsche Spider convertible – there are SOME benefits to being overexposed) and raced across town to my 4th appointment. At least I knew Todd wouldn’t be at this one because I just passed him on his way into my last.

Crap! Why wasn’t I booking any new jobs?! I pounded my fist on the steering wheel (accidentally honking the horn). What was wrong with me? Would I never work again?

I looked in the rearview mirror. I was young. 24! Fresh faced and clean cut (the classic “All American Boy” my agent always said). Thick blonde hair that hung in a messy cut down to my eyes. But, really, I had built my career on my bone structure – my face. Sleek and angular. “As if constructed by the Gods” some photographer had snarled at me once. High, sharp cheekbones and a straight nose. Symmetrical pale blue eyes with long blonde eyelashes. And the kind of chin that careers are hung on – strong and square. And all clean-cut and freshly shaven – like an ad from the 50’s. A perfect face.

“You have the perfect face” my agent said on the day I met him. I laughed nervously when he said it – because I was new to modeling – and also, I didn’t know if he was a fag or not. He did seem kind of gay to me, and I had heard that male models were constantly being hit on by gay guys. Whatever, it was a compliment and he was a powerful agent. I had a perfect face – great – I wanted to put it to work and earn some fucking money. I still had college debt back then and I was living in a dumpy apartment 2 hours outside of town. So let him hit on me – whatever – it didn’t mean anything. He signed me on the spot and promised big things.

So why was I unemployed now? Fuck! I stepped on the gas and raced through traffic. Modeling is a fucking weird job and it makes you really fucking self-conscious. Always looking in the mirror – like a girl! Always wondering about your appearance, comparing yourself to other guys. I hated that part. I hated all the gay, girly stuff. I just wanted the money. I wanted to be famous. I wanted to be fucking some hot chick from some show on the CW or the WB or whatever they called it now. And I wanted to work!

Fuck! I slapped the rear view mirror aside so I couldn’t see my face in it. Jesus Fucking Christ – I WAS a girl now. Constantly checking my skin and looking for wrinkles and zits. Constantly worrying if I was good looking enough. Fuck it. Hated it.

But after about 10 minutes of sulking and cursing, I knew what the real problem was. Fuck. There was no avoiding it.

It was my body.

Yeah, I was in shape. I worked out for 3 hours every fucking morning. I ate like a goddamned yoga-astronaut and used the most expensive moisturizers on every inch of my body (again, like a girl!) But there was no denying the fact that I was just – small.

I was a smaller guy. I was only 5’9’’. On the short side for male models. I had a 28” waist. And my muscles, while toned and ripped and cut and blah blah blah – just weren’t that big.

I looked like a really hot 17 year old kid who is the champion swimmer in his high school. No body fat. Every muscle defined. Perfectly proportioned.

But slender, sleek, tight, cut. And small.

It didn’t matter too much. My face was my calling card. And my body was good enough for the fucking Dolce & Gabbana ad (I’m wearing silver underpants in that ad, standing on a football field with 3 other guys. They were all 17. I was 22).

My agent said, “Don’t worry about it. You have ‘a look.’ I would kill to be as skinny as you. And your face will open any door.” And he smiled that weird mysterious smile – as always. Probably a fucking fag.

But fuck. I just knew that I wasn’t going anywhere until I put on some muscle mass. Until I got bigger. Until I was a MAN. Not this sleek, hairless little girl-boy with the pretty face and long blonde lashes. Fucking lashes! I didn’t even use the word “lashes” before I started modeling – and turned into a fucking girl!

Fuck! Sometimes I hated modeling! “I’m a GUY!” I yelled into traffic as I pounded the steering wheel again and floored it.

The rest of the day sucked. Asshole Todd showed up at my 4th appt – and every one after that. And he was laughing, as always, laughing with the casting directors, laughing with the photographers, laughing with the models. Wearing aviator sunglasses and sauntering around – like a cock. Fuck him.

It’s true that attitude is half the game. Todd was a cocky, confident fuck. And it showed. People loved him and gravitated towards him because he was so self-assured. No insecurities. Just a carefree, fucking stud. Fuck him.

I went into the bathroom at appt #7 and looked into the mirror for the 100th time that day (such a fucking girl!) Why wasn’t I more confident? Why wasn’t I booking more jobs? I have a perfect face! Why did everyone love Todd so much – and NOT ME? Fuck! I hated being a model. I smashed my fist against the mirror and cursed.

Then I went back into the lobby just in time to see Todd high-five-ing the casting woman for the Calvin Klein job. He got it. I knew it. He knew it. He saw me out of the corner of his eye and his smirk amped up to full. FUCK!

I hated him. I hated modeling. I gave the casting woman my photocard and I just fucking left. My phone rang: “FREDERICK” – it was my agent calling. With bad news for me – and subtle hints about Todd’s skyrocketing career – I’m sure. FUCK! What did Fred want me to do? I couldn’t BE Todd. Maybe I should just quit.

On the drive home I passed my own face on seven different buses. When I looked at the ad now, all I saw was some wimpy, perfect boy. Just a delicate face with perfect blonde hair. A simple, harmless pansy. God my face was so fucking cute! No wonder I couldn’t get any chicks in Miami into the sack. I was prettier than all of them!

FUCK! I pounded that steering wheel and raced home.

Home was a brand new condo on Waymore Street (again, overexposure has its benefits). Two stories, three bedrooms, “the best of everything.”

“But what is it good for!” I yelled into my garage, pissed. I parked the Porsche next to my motorcycle. A motorcycle I never rode. I was too slight to ride it. I couldn’t keep it balanced on the road. It was a huge BMW KS-400 bike. A giant motorcycle. And I looked like some pretty little blonde high school freshman perched atop it. Ridiculous.

As I ran up the steps into my kitchen, I cursed my DNA. What good is being pretty if you have to be “slight”? What good does the perfect face do atop a stringy, wiry body? Fuck my Danish ancestors and their delicate, blonde features. Their strong, wiry bodies. Oh, it was easy for me to get stronger – but impossible for me to gain mass. I just couldn’t do it. Three personal trainers had quit me after years of trying. I could lift more and more, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at my arms. I stripped off my shirt and looked in the full-wall-mirror in the kitchen. I had definition. And no body fat. I just wasn’t imposing – at all.

But – I had to admit – I was gorgeous (see? I’m self-obsessed now – just like a girl). My face WAS perfect. And my body was sleek and defined. Like some 17 year old Olympic athlete, I figured. “Oh fuck you” I muttered at my reflection. Beauty – but not a beast. A slender, hairless girl.

I wanted to be big – manly. I wanted to be imposing and powerful. I wanted to be hairy and masculine. I wanted to be cocky. I wanted to be... to be...

Todd.

I wanted to be Todd. Well, maybe not BE him. I just wanted his body (I didn’t want it for, like, for sex – nothing gay – I just wanted his instead of mine).

Fuck! You know, I never would have noticed Todd’s body a few years ago, back before I got into modeling. Back before I was constantly comparing myself to every other guy at every audition (like a 13 year old girl waiting for her fucking tits to develop!)

But Todd had what I would never have. He was thick with muscle. He was 6’2’’ and had thick, black, Italian hair – worn usually in a cocky mock-pompadour. His nose was blunt and flat, kind of thug-ish. His arms seemed to pop out with muscle in some bizarre way. He wasn’t a body-builder. He was just thick in all the right places. Giant arms, a massive chest, a tiny waist (he must work out with some incredible trainer – probably some expensive celebrity trainer), and... well, again I never would have noticed this before – but he had a huge pouch in his jeans where his dick probably was. He was most likely hung like a horse. That asshole! His skin was tan, olive – and his teeth were bright white. But the thing that made me the most jealous (not in a gay way though – in a professional way) was his heavy black stubble. It was almost like a black cloud over half of his face. It must be like sand-paper to the girls he goes out with. And his whole body was coated with long, silky black hair.

I mean, I know when I say silky it sounds gay, but it’s just a professional term I know from modeling. When you fill out a size card for shirtless jobs they want to know if you have chest hair, and if so what kind. And I was in a studio room with Todd once when he had to describe his chest hair to a casting director and photographer. He called it silky. He laughed and all the other models laughed. Then he pulled off his shirt to show off this fucking massively hairy chest. And it was kinda silky actually. Long black hair swirling around his pumped up tits – a chest like a fucking 70’s porno star. Or whatever. Asshole. I always just marked “smooth chest/hairless” on my size cards. As if I shaved it – but really I just didn’t really have any substantial body hair. So whatever – it’s not a gay thing to call his chest hair silky– it’s just a modeling term.

Fuck. He had the body and the confidence to book any job. And I just wanted my perfect face - but on his body. That would kick my career into overdrive. My face – his body.

“Like that’s ever going to happen!” I yelled at no one as I kicked off my stupid $600 Prada shoes and ridiculous $2000 leather Dolce & Gabbana pants and got into the shower on the sun deck above my house. Fucking fancy clothing! Girly shit.

I could see myself in the reflection of the glass wall surrounding the shower. And beyond my face, the skyline of Miami.

“Fuck you, pussy” I said to myself. “Fuck you, girly. Can’t you be a fucking man? Why can’t you be like Todd?”

I stood there and let the hot water beat on my delicate, slender (but perfect) shoulders as I watched the sunset fall over Miami.

Maybe this was as far as I was going to go in my career. Maybe I had already had “My Moment.” The hair gel ad wasn’t a buyout – and I had earned a huge fucking deal of money in residuals. I could do whatever I wanted – whenever I wanted. And I could buy almost anything. At least for another year or two.

“Fuck fuck fuck...” I pounded my fist against the shower wall. And then I looked at my reflection again – for the millionth time that day (modeling will do that to you! It makes you crazy. Obsessed with your appearance.)

Anyway – I looked good. I was hot. My body was in great shape – no matter how slender – and my face was, as always, perfect. My eyes drifted down to my cock. And I was at least grateful that not everything on me was small and delicate. I smiled, half-heartedly. I had a pretty good cock. I knew that. Not that it would get me the Calvin Klein job! But it was kinda long. 7 inches hard, and about 5 inches around. A nice piece of meat. Probably not as nice as Todd’s – but whatever. A nice piece of meat.

I took the soap and lathered up my cock. My pubic hair is basically white (all my body hair is so fair and light) and it filled with soap quickly. I wondered who could see me up here fondling my cock above the city.

I looked at my reflection as my cock stood slowly up against my tight, slender abs. Thank god for this cock. At least I have that. Not that I ever get to use it, I thought, closing my eyes. Because that asshole Todd is out fucking every chick in the city. Every fucking chick in the city wants Todd. Because he’s in the Madonna video. Because he’s Italian. Because he’s supposed to have a big fucking cock. I mean, at least, that’s what I heard some fags at the gym say. Fucking fags at the fucking gym. I lathered my cock and leaned back against the shower wall. Stupid idiot gay guys hitting on Todd at the gym and trying to time it so that they would be in the shower when he was in the shower after his workout. Asking him out. Todd laughing “thanks but no thanks.” Showing up in fucking Vanity Fair at the fucking Oscar party with some 22 year old bitch actress. He’s fucking all of them with his big cock and his big modeling career. Probably gonna get that part in the Gus Van Sant movie. Fuck him. Asshole.

I jacked my cock thinking about ME fucking the 22 year old bitch actress for once. Giving it to her good. I’m just as good as Todd. Fucking her with my perfect face. Fucking her and showing her that the American Crew gel guy has an awesome cock and can fuck just as good as Todd! Sinking it into her!

And then I came. Just a little load. I don’t cum much. Just a fucking pansy...

And then I open my eyes. It’s night now. And I can see my reflection in the shower wall perfectly.

And I look like a little boy. A perfect, slender, blonde little boy.

And I am sick of it.

FUCK!

-----

Frederick, my agent, he’s the one who suggested I meet Marty.

It was now June and I hadn’t had a job in a full fucking year. The American Crew hair gel campaign was long over. But my face was still too closely associated with it. So I couldn’t get any work for other products. I had tried eating more and working out more. But my body just didn’t want to get bigger. It remained toned and slender. I was at a stand-still. I was 25 now! I had to work!

Todd, of course, was recording his first fucking album for Capital Records. That ASSHOLE! The Gus Van Sant movie had made him a minor star (very minor) but there was a lot of buzz. My agent said, with a sly smirk, that Todd really couldn’t afford to model anymore. It would look bad for his acting career. He was moving up in the world.

“Fuck!” I yelled in my agent’s office and slammed my fist into the leather couch. “That’s what I want! To move up! To work! I want what he has! Jesus Fucking Christ, Fred! Why can’t I have a career like that?!”

Fred smiled. He knew that I was at the end of my rope. Sometimes it seemed like he had engineered it to be this way. But that was ridiculous. I just couldn’t book a job. It was me, not him. I was the American Crew hair gel BOY – nothing more. I still had enough money left to live well for a year – but then, nothing. I had to do something. And SOON.

After a long weird silence, Fred took a small business card out of his desk. It was made of metal. It was really heavy. There was only a phone number etched into it. No name.

“Oh. Very dramatic Fred. A metal business card? Ha ha. What’s this? Your dealer?”

Fred didn’t say anything for like 2 minutes. He just smiled and watched me. And that’s one of the things that pisses me off about the modeling business. You HAVE to have an agent. Like some sort of parent figure who is in control of your career. And Fred was like this weird, powerful guy who held my life in his hands. Well, it seemed that way when I couldn’t get work. Oh I don’t know. Whatever.

“So Fred, really, what is this?”

“That’s Marty’s number, kid. You should call him. He can help you get what you want?”

“He can get me the Versace job?”

Fred smirked, his eyes dark. “No.”

“Then he can help me get what? Who is he?”

“I thought you said you wanted Todd’s career?”

I looked at the card nervously. “Is he – another – agent? You want me to...”

Fred laughed. “No. He’s not an agent. He’s a... Well, he’s like a doctor.”

“I’m not doing steroids, Fred! They shrink your fucking balls! And you can get fucking cancer. It’s not worth it. I mean, I’d rather quit modeling than...”

“Relax. He doesn’t deal steroids. There are procedures involved but – nothing toxic. Just call him.”

I sat there quietly, looking at the card.

“You really think I - need something like this?” I asked, holding up the card nervously.

Fred stood up from his desk and walked over to me, on the couch.

“Stand up, kid. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

I did what I was told. Fred stood behind me. Both of us looking at me in the giant wall mirror across the room. Both of us appraising my body.

“You have a perfect face. You’ll always have a perfect face. But it’s not enough anymore. Your face is... too closely associated with a client now. It’s time to reinvent yourself.”

“You mean change my face?”

“Not exactly. But – you could let your stubble grow in, let your hair...”

“I don’t get stubble. I only have to shave like once a week. I hardly have any body hair.”

Fred stepped up closer, behind me, speaking more forcefully, more persuasively now: “And that’s great. It was great. You built a career – a small career but a bright career – on your natural assets. You are a beautiful boy. A classic All American Boy. But now it’s time to be a man. A real man. An adult. I mean, first of all, look at what you’re wearing.”

I had on grey flannel athletic pants cropped at the calf. I was wearing a pair of $800 leather sneakers. My T-shirt was a light metallic color. It was tight and you could just see my nipples. My hair hung down just above my eyes. It sounds kind of gay, I know, but I always dressed like this when I came to see Fred. I don’t know – it was like it was expected of me. Like he was my pimp or something. That’s just how it is in modeling. You’re always trying to sell yourself to someone.

“You look like an incredibly stylish, very wealthy prep-school boy. But you’re 25 now. You are beautiful – but not manly. Whereas Todd...”

“Fred, c’mon! I don’t want to hear about Todd. I’m a totally different type than him. Why...”

“Todd is a man, through and through. When advertisers look at him they see a vibrant, healthy male who is going to go home and fuck his wife in half. Every woman wants him. Every man wants to be him. YOU want to be him. Don’t you...?”

I just stood there silently. I could feel the cold metal business card in my hand. I knew that Fred was right. Oddly, it seemed like I was on some weird precipice – about to make some life altering decision.

Fred stepped up right behind me. He was almost touching me. I was worried for a moment that he was going to pull some faggot shit. And for a quick moment – a sudden flash of reality – I thought: what the fuck am I doing here? I used to play basketball! I used to ride my bike home from high school. I had had a girlfriend and I convinced her that we should lose our virginity together. I fucked her – and I fucked a bunch of girls in college. I was a guy. I am a guy!

But now – what am I doing in this weird room in this sleek Miami building? Dressed like some high fashion weirdo – my hair all styled – looking at myself in a mirror with some other guy? Letting this large, powerful man with the mysterious smile talk me into going to see some pseudo doctor? What is going on? What is this?

I looked at myself in the mirror. And I saw Fred’s odd smile behind me. And I don’t know – fuck it all - he was right. I did want to be a man. I wanted to be Todd. I wanted to take the next step. Whatever it was. I wanted to – grow up, I guess. To be a man. Not a boy anymore. A perfect little boy.

Also I just wanted to keep working and keep the money coming in so I could keep living like a king. That was huge on my mind.

For just a fraction of a millisecond I almost felt Fred pressing against me from behind. I turned swiftly, smiling, no harm done. He’s my agent – have to flirt and keep him happy.

“OK, I’ll call him. But don’t you have any appointments for me this week?”

Fred smiled. His eyes seemed very dark, mysterious. “Martha will call you with your schedule, as always. Have a good afternoon. Let me know what Marty says.”

He drifted back to his desk. I left the building and went to the street to get my car. For a moment I felt like a whore – dressed like this on the public sidewalk. Business people in suits brushed past me – just a beautiful boy on the streets – a slight slender boy. Gorgeous and rich – for another year.

Why the fuck did I ever get into modeling? Why the fuck did I move to Miami? Just because some weird-ass talent scout had stopped me in the airport in New York right after college when I was on vacation. He took a Polaroid of me – right there in the airport, I remember. And he had that same weird smile that Fred has. And I don’t know – it all just happened so quickly. And now I was like, rich as hell and living in Miami all alone – desperate to get another job. I didn’t really know anyone here and I was single and everything was just fucked. Fuck – life couldn’t be over at 25 could it?

I sat down in my car. My little silver Porsche. And I watched people walking by – people who recognized me. Older women who smiled and fags trying to flirt. Fuck. This is hell.

I called the number on the card from my cell phone.

A man answered.

“...Hello?”

------

By the time I got in to see Marty in his office – three more fucking months had passed. After I called him – it took a month to get an appointment. And then I had to miss my appointment because I thought I had a job (Ralph Lauren). But then I didn’t fucking get it. So I had to reschedule with Marty. And I guess he’s just so fucking busy it took another two fucking months!

And by this point I still haven’t booked any work and I could see the day 9 months from now when I would be out of money. The very beginning of desperation was starting. And some small part of me was thinking “Fuck it, maybe I will do steroids. I’ve go to do something.” I guess I was more open minded than I thought. Whatever.

So anyway – finally – in November – I walk into this office. It’s Thursday afternoon – 3 o’clock. I was wearing faded, torn D&G jeans, a white T-shirt and flip-flops. No gay shit today – no hair gel, no fucking expensive bullshit. Just the basics. I wasn’t selling myself today. I was buying.

So I go in.

And Marty’s office was huge. Dark metal walls and polished cement floors and some really sleek, expensive shit. But no receptionist sitting at the desk. Nobody around really. I could hear music playing a few rooms back – so I wandered down the hall. The whole place was huge – and deserted.

And I found this guy putting golf balls in a large, empty, carpeted conference room. He was really heavy, overweight. Mostly bald. And he had some food stains on his shirt. His clothes were rumpled. Like somebody’s mad scientist dad, I guess.

It was weird because after 3 months of trying to get in here – and dealing with his schedule which was supposedly WILDLY busy – I walk in and the whole place is empty? And this is him? Some fat middle aged guy alone in a conference room? Killing time with golf balls? Whatever.

But he was friendly and cool. Low key. More confident than you’d think a fat guy would be. He had a very casual, friendly manner. He walked all the way across the conference room to shake my hand. And I saw that he was wearing socks – no shoes. He smiled:

“Hi, how are you – Fred sent you – right?” he asked.

“Yeah – you’re Marty?”

“Oh. Yeah. Want a drink?”

He got me a bottled water and we just shot the shit for a while. I watched him putt balls across the whole conference room (there was no furniture, no chairs, just a giant empty room with beige carpet).

And basically that’s how the whole first hour went. We just talked about whatever. My hometown. My parents. How long he had been in Miami. Where he lived. Where I lived. Whatever, it was cool.

So finally, I’m finished with another water (making it 4) and I’m ready to talk business, or talk something. And I kinda start in with:

“So, uh, Marty...”

“Oh, you gotta go? No problem. I’ll see you later.”

“No. Wait. This is fucked up. I’m here for – Fred sent me for some – I don’t know – some procedure?”

“Procedure? What do you mean?” he asked, confused.

Fuck. This whole thing had been a waste! But then he said:

“Oh. Yeah. Right. You’re the one who wants Todd Hammerling’s body” he said with a smile and a small laugh.

I didn’t know what to say, how to respond. Finally, I said “No – it’s not just that – I mean, what I want is – I haven’t booked a job in almost 2 years and I need to work and – I mean, I have money to pay you for whatever it is that you do – I dunno, if you do anything at all, I mean. Fuck. Look, I need to change my look. I want to be bigger. And I don’t really want to do steroids and I don’t really want to fuck up my health. But you know, if it’s just a short course of steroids or if it’s like harmless or if you have some other system, then, yeah, I mean – I don’t know. I don’t want to BE Todd. I just want – I need to be...”

“Bigger” Marty said – not smiling anymore. Totally serious.

“Yes” I said.

“You want to be a man – not a boy.”

“Yeah!”

And for a moment, he was all business, and quickly his eyes ran up and down my frame. Not in a gay, sexual way. But, like he was appraising me scientifically. It was quick and subtle. And you could tell he knew what he was doing. Knew something. It was a lightning fast, snap decision.

He stepped back and looked at me slowly.

“Yeah, we could do that.”

“...Awesome. But... what do I...”

“It’s 70 thousand.”

WTF? 70K? Was he kidding? He hadn’t even told me the fucking procedure yet! Jesus Fucking Christ. That would take my savings down and only leave me with 4 more months of money. Shit.

“But what” I stuttered, angry “I mean, what the fuck does that pay for? I mean, what are you gonna do? How do I know it works? I mean, what is this?”

Marty just stood there looking at me. He was very serious. And you know how sometimes people say something with absolute authority and you just believe them because you can tell it’s true? They just speak with complete confidence? That’s how Marty spoke now. And he said. “It’ll work. We’ll make you a man. Add about 60 pounds of muscle to you. And maybe even an inch or two in height. All your measurements will increase. Hugely. Your penis will probably grow – just a little bit. It will get thicker for sure. And your balls – definitely. They’ll swell. The whole thing may be painful for a while. And all your secondary male characteristics will be...” he made a firecracker sound and gesture with his finger, “off the charts. But it does hurt – in the beginning.”

I stared at him. I could tell it was true. It was real. Then he said:

“But it’s 70 thousand. Do you have it?”

“Yes. Not on me. But I can get...”

“Oh, you don’t have to pay TODAY” he laughed. “I know where to find you. Fred, your agent, and I – we go way back.”

My head was swimming. I asked, “And – is it safe? I mean, it’s not gonna give me cancer or destroy my liver or shrink my balls or anything? It’s totally fine and safe?”

Marty just stared at me with a weird solemn look. He was a really quiet guy when it came right down to it. Like some wise old scientist or wizard (with the body of a dumpy corporate middle manager from fucking Detroit or somewhere. [AND if this procedure really worked - then why didn’t he use it on himself? He could probably get some chicks to fuck if he did right? Because nobody would fuck him as is.]

Then he spoke. “No, it’s not gonna give you cancer or shrink your balls. It won’t hurt your liver. At a certain point, we have to stop – otherwise it can be harmful. To your kidneys. And to your brain. But we always stop way before that. It’s totally organic and natural. A process I developed myself, actually. It’s totally fine. Are you single?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Straight?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Planning on having kids someday?”

“Probably. I don’t know. Yes.”

“We’ll have to take a sperm sample then – just in case.”

“What the fuck does that mean??!”

“Nothing. Relax. It’s not dangerous. But some men experience...” he stopped and smiled, “Excuse me, some boys experience a drop in their sperm count as we turn them – into Men” he chuckled like it was all harmless and fine, no big deal. “Don’t worry, as soon as you stop your sperm count will shoot back up. But just in case you get married and want to have kids while you are IN the program, then the sperm sample is just a back-up. A safety precaution if you will.”

I thought about it. Marty stared at me. He still seemed pretty low-key, like there was no pressure. Just a decision to make. And I knew I would do it. Fuck kids. Fuck sperm count. I wanted to be bigger – to be a MAN. I wanted to work and have that sex appeal Todd had. It was this or nothing. At least – that’s what it seemed like at the time...

Only a small part of me was worried about the money. What if my money ran out before the procedure had kicked in? How quickly would it work? Would I book a job before I went broke?

“So when do I start? When do I come in for the first...”

“Oh we can start right now. If you want. Do you want to?”

I hesitated. It all seemed a little bizarre. But...

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

-----

So...

I sat, for one hour, every day, for three months, in a little silver chair in a sterile all white room.

Marty was all business. Very friendly. But no nonsense.

He had a small glass jar filled with some sort of goo. He kept the jar in a tiny refrigerator (the only other furniture in this room). The glass jar looked space-agey and sleek. With a pressurized top. It opened with a pop! every time.

The “goo” was, apparently, a giant dose of testosterone, mixed with massive amounts of human growth hormone. As well as what Marty called “organic steroids.”

And every day he would put on rubber gloves and dip his finger into the jar.

And then he would spread the thick, clear goo onto my balls.

I sat in the chair with my pants around my ankles.

It wasn’t gay or anything. I just sat there in this windowless room while Marty wiped this shit all over my balls.

It was kind of like glue. A thick paste. It would collect on my balls – thick and clear. And once he had coated them with about 4 layers – he would blow it dry with a hairdryer. The hairdryer was the one piece of equipment in the room that looked normal and cheap. Like it was from the real world. It was connected to a wall plug with a cheap, scraggly extension cord (like he couldn’t afford something better with my 70K?) He had removed the heating element from the hairdryer so it just blew cold air. And he would blow cold air on my balls until the gel had hardened into – well, basically a clear shell.

It was almost like my balls were encased in glass. But it was soft. You could press your finger into it and leave a mark. And it was slightly warm.

Marty said the warmth was my body heat – not the goo.

And every day I would leave with this weird glass goo hardened all over my balls. And I would go straight to the gym and workout for 3 hours – as normal. I just had to be really careful with my balls. And not walk too quickly or move too fast. And I didn’t shower at the gym or let anyone see my balls – ever. And by the end of the day the goo had always been absorbed into my sac. It was just gone – usually by about 5 p.m.

I guess it just slowly seeped into my balls? I don’t think it was rubbing off in my pants or underwear. And by the end of the day my balls would be extremely soft, extremely swollen and incredibly painful.

The pain didn’t start until about 9 pm each night. So I was always in bed with the remote by then. And I would lie there with an ice pack on my fucking balls, legs spread, just trying to get through the painful part.

Usually, by midnight, if I took a few Advil, I could get to sleep. But I really couldn’t move around much or even get up to go to the bathroom. The one time I tried, I bumped my balls against my leg and it hurt so badly I basically started crying and had to lie down right there on the fucking floor for the rest of the night.

But every morning I woke up, feeling fine. The pain was gone. My balls were back to normal – if still slightly swollen. But otherwise, I was OK.

And I would go back – every morning at 8 am (so it wouldn’t conflict with auditions and appointments and whatever the fuck came up) to Marty’s office to start the whole process all over again.

Three whole months of this. Three whole month of swollen painful balls. 70 thousand dollars and three months.

I would sit there every day and Marty really didn’t say anything. I had asked him how long it would take for it all to kick in, and he would just say “Oh it depends. I don’t know. We’ll see. It’ll work.”

Every day for three months.

Half of November. All of December. All of January.

And all the way up until Valentine’s Day.

And at first...

All I really noticed...

Somewhere along the way...

At some point in February...

Was that I was shaving - every day.

And if I didn’t shave – I had thick blonde stubble all over my face. My face glowed golden with the short blonde hairs.

I didn’t even realize it was happening. I don’t even know when I noticed it or became aware of it.

But one day Fred said to me, “I have an audition for you. It’s another Calvin Klein job. But it’s not until two weeks from now. I’m just telling you today because I want you to stop shaving and let your stubble grow in. Beards are very hip right now. So stop shaving and let’s see what you have in two weeks.”

And I realized – holy fucking shit. In two weeks I could have a really light beard. A beard.

I stood in the bathroom and stared at my stubbled face.

I could grow a beard.

But was this all Marty’s treatment was doing?

I thought I should be angry – pissed really. I hadn’t noticed any difference in my workouts or in my muscle mass yet.

In fact, I hadn’t noticed anything else yet AT ALL. Nothing else was different. My balls were slightly swollen but that would probably go away. Right?

Somehow it didn’t matter. I kinda didn’t care about anything else at that time. I ran my hand over my face. The stubble was soft and spiky. I had an extremely light blonde beard. I was shaving every day for the first time in my life.

I couldn’t believe it.

And then – I booked the Calvin Klein job.

I made $43 thousand dollars in one day.

My blonde stubbled face would be on plastic packages for Calvin Klein perfume boxes sold all over Europe and Asia. It was a big buyout. I was working again. Stephen Meisel did the shoot and Fred came along to watch.

Fred clapped me on the back and grabbed my fuzzy chin in his hand when it was over. He smiled.

“You’re working again, kid. You’re working. Congratulations.”

I smiled. I was so fucking happy.

“Now maybe you should talk to Marty about going in twice a day.”

-----

By August, I was going in three times a day.

Each morning I would go in for the “glass balls effect” as I started calling it.

Then I’d workout – up to 4 hours now.

And then back in at 2 pm for a series of injections – in my arm and in my butt cheek.

And then home for dinner – a huge meal.

And then back at midnight (yeah, weird to be there so late. But it had to be timed precisely. And oddly Marty was always there, always awake, never tired. This was just his home and his life I guess). At midnight he gave me one shot, and one thin layer of some other gel on my balls (I applied that one myself) and then the worst part:

I had to put this big suppository up my ass.

It was a rubbery orange pill the size of a large gumball. Or like, a jawbreaker.

Marty always left me alone to do it. He would have me coat it in the new gel, and then pop it up my ass.

It was really fucking hard to do at first. And I was glad he didn’t watch because it seemed pretty fucking gay to put something up your ass. But I guess a lot of medication gets taken this way. It absorbs quicker.

And after a week or two of doing it, I didn’t mind it or care at all.

I had booked a few smaller catalog jobs. And I was back in the work flow.

I had paid Marty ANOTHER fucking 70 thousand dollars. But money was coming in so it didn’t seem that tight – or desperate.

And –

I couldn’t argue with the results.

I had gained three inches on both arms. And 6 inches to my chest. I don’t know if you know anything about bodybuilding – but that is a MASSIVE amount for 8 months.

My thighs were thicker, stronger, heavy with muscle. And my calves were getting bigger as well.

I noticed it most in my arms. When I walked, I could feel them swinging heavier at my sides.

And I had actually grown just under one inch taller.

My cock wasn’t longer. But it was – fatter. It was like a hefty meat sausage now. And my balls seemed (to me) to be twice their original size. My ballsac hung lower with the extra weight.

I felt like a real fucking stud!

I had always heard that there were side effects to steroids or testosterone or whatever. That people got angry, got acne (but this stuff was supposed to be organic and safe?) But I didn’t really seem to notice any of that. Or maybe I did – I couldn’t tell.

I was really fucking focused all the time now. I seemed to move my body with urgency and power whatever I did.

And it’s not like I couldn’t wear any of my old clothes. Everything was just a big more snug.

And I was always aware of my cock. Where it was in my pants. How hard it was (it always seemed to be half hard – or semi-erect).

I actually cut the pockets out of some of my jeans so I could keep my hands on my cock at all times. When I was walking down the street I was actually holding my cock – gripping it – feeling the girth and the warmth.

I was getting bigger.

I was working. A few times a month now – new shoots, new jobs.

And I was shaving now – every single day. And if I didn’t – I had a heavy blonde shadow over my face. I wanted so badly to stop shaving all together and really let it grow in – but Fred had me working for a few catalogs (Banana Republic and J. Crew) and the look was more clean cut. Whatever, I could stop shaving soon...

And every day I felt stronger. A little bit bigger.

And Marty kept dosing me with whatever it was he was using.

It seemed like everything was on track.

It had crept up on me. I didn’t notice anything and then suddenly it all seemed to be coming along.

Maybe that’s just how things work.

I wasn’t really horny at all. In fact, I never really jacked off, that I can remember. I had weird sexual dreams. And one time I woke up after a wet dream. But I wasn’t really out looking for pussy 24/7.

I was too focused on my career – and my body. I made a note to myself to ask Marty about sex drive.

I came home every day and stripped and examined myself in the mirror. The soreness had subsided months ago. And now I just spend time checking out my body – what was bigger – how much bigger – how did I look?

My fat cock hung a bit lower now. Maybe longer? Or maybe just longer when soft. But it was hardly ever soft. I don’t really know.

And every night I oiled myself up with moisturizers and took my pills and got into bed.

I was getting bigger. It was like a second puberty almost. I was becoming a man.

Funny how it all just crept up on me. Like I hadn’t really noticed at all. I guess life is like that. You don’t see the icebergs shifting – but they move like a foot a month. Which is a lot for a big fucking hunk of ice.

Every day, every day, the treatments, the money, the work...

I was going to be a man.

-----

I guess it was a year later that I really had that moment where I thought “Holy shit – look at me now. Look at what’s happened.”

I was now 6’1’’. I had gained 50 pounds in sheer muscle.

I had stopped shaving and I had a full blonde beard. I kept it pretty short and trim – but it was thick as hell.

I let my hair grow long. It was thick and curly now.

I looked like a fucking Viking.

And my muscles were massive. My pecs looked like fucking implants they were so fucking pumped. If I looked straight down I couldn’t see my abs anymore, or my feet. I had massive thick muscular tits.

My arms were killer – the best arms in the business. Every muscle stood out – ever vein popped. I was the envy of every model. And I was only 27 now!

I had done the cover of Men’s Fitness twice. I wasn’t as big as a body builder. I wasn’t disgustingly huge or obscene.

I was just a thick fucking brick shithouse.

I was a huge blonde man.

My cock was longer. About 9 inches now. And almost 7 around.

I had the tip pierced one day – a giant silver PA hanging proudly from my monster. (Marty was really surprised when he saw that. He almost jumped back. And I laughed – my voice was deeper now. I was a big fucking man. I don’t know why it surprised him so much. Or why he shook his head when he saw it.)

And my whole body was so fucking hairy. I didn’t wax or shave any of it. I let it all grow in. And most of it was slightly darker than my light blonde head hair and beard. It was golden brown. Long silky hairs swirling all over my body – like some 70s porn star. Just like that fuck, what’s his name, Todd. That stupid model I was so fucking obsessed with so long ago. His name was Todd, right? Whatever. Who the fuck cares.

Now I was the one swaggering through auditions and laughing with photographers. Gay guys at the gym were following me into the shower. Whatever, let them stare.

I didn’t really have a sex drive. I didn’t jack off in my rooftop shower anymore – or at all really. My cock got hard, for sure. I mean, it was almost always hard. I couldn’t really remember not having an erection. Like it was just this way now – always hard. Like wood. And I was always really intense and focused. But none of it seemed to come out as sex. I would see chicks in bars and on shoots and they would throw themselves at me. But I just didn’t want it. I didn’t want them. I don’t know what I wanted.

I guess I just wanted to be bigger. To be more manly. I wanted my cock to be larger. I wanted bigger, fatter, hairier pecs. I wanted to be the biggest fucking stud in the world.

Fuck that asshole Todd, that model I was so jealous of. What the fuck happened to him anyway? His career didn’t go anywhere, right? Who ever heard of him again? Now I was the one getting movie auditions.

I was huge. Fuck! I would look in the mirrors in my house and I would see a big fucking hairy blonde man.

But I didn’t want to jack off. I don’t know why. I wanted something – else. Something – I don’t know. My fat cock just lay there, hard, in my pants at all times. Like a gun. Like a fucking rifle. Ready to shoot. But at what?

-----

It must have been a year after that... Or two?

I wasn’t really working anymore.

I did that campaign for – Versace? I dunno. I played that blonde greek god. Whats-his-name. Fred made me an amazing deal. And I had my own fragrance. I don’t know what it was called. Faggots bought it. I had a book out – pictures of me I think.

I had enough money now. I was tired of working.

Marty now lived in my house. In my building really. I owned this entire apartment building. And Marty and Fred both lived downstairs. They each had their own rooms or floors or something.

Marty was with me at all times, giving me pills and treatments, putting weird gels on my balls.

I was really fucking enormous now.

My beard was out of control. So thick. Like my head hair. It was hard to cut. I used this thing – like a hedge-clipper – to keep them tame.

My cock was enormous. Always fat. So long. My balls enormous. I think my cock was 10 inches long and around now. But I never measured. It was always hard. I just propped it up in my underwear and snapped the waistband around it. Whatever. I didn’t really feel too much in it – it was just hard – like an arm or something. Like a bone almost.

The silver ring in my piss hole had been stretched out so huge. I think it was 0 gauge or bigger. I don’t know now...

I rode my motorcycle everywhere.

I would walk down the street and feel my power. I was a giant blonde stud – wearing incredibly expensive fine designer clothing. Suits that cost 200 thousand. Fred kept me well dressed. I could feel my cock slapping my abs and my balls swinging in my pants. I was a monster.

I didn’t want to fuck – I wanted... I wanted...

Anyway, I was this big blonde monster. Did I already say that? I had taken to smoking cigars. Giant fucking cigars. I would get my beard trimmed down to an acceptable level and put on some amazing D&G suit and ride my motorcycle to the best cigar bar in Miami. My PA almost poking up over my waistband – almost in plain site. And I would smoke my cigar and think about my body. Think about my hair and my massive cock.

What did I want to do with it? What was I going to do now? Did I have what I wanted? Did it matter?

I was a giant monster.

I guess I was having sex. I don’t know. There were parties – or something. I remember people groping my muscle. Trying to get me to have sex with them. People begging me to fuck them.

I just wanted to... have my picture taken, right? Or... I wanted something...

Months went by...

I was 29 now... 28?

Marty and Fred and I were living like millionaires. Marty and Fred were always talking quietly when I got home from – wherever I was. They had meetings all day long with – each other? They were always whispering.

I lay in my massive bed and ran my hands over my huge hairy body all night. I didn’t need to sleep anymore. And Marty had to come in every few hours to put something on my balls or give me a shot.

My cock got bigger – harder. I had to have a custom ring made for my piss hole. The PA was heavy – like a small silver bracelet.

I would sit for hours, naked, in the sun. Thinking about – something...

I wanted something but I didn’t know what it was.

One day I overheard Marty saying to Fred “I think he’s ready...”

And Fred said “I think he’s depressed...”

And Marty said “That will go away.”

But I don’t know...

I would sit. No, I would sleep. I would lie in bed. A giant monster.

I had a huge blonde cock. But what was I doing with it?

One day when Marty was gelling my balls, I asked him “What am I for, Marty? What do I do now? What...”

And he just smiled and said “You are ready, aren’t you?”

But I don’t think I answered him. He gave me a shot later. And I think I slept for the first time in like, a year. I fell asleep. My hand stroking my thick fucking beard. Like a fucking bottle brush. So bristly. So masculine...

My cock was harder than ever that night. Like a molten hot lead bar. It felt like it could have burned my stomach where it was lying. It was a giant raging monster. Red hot.

I fell asleep, my hand on my beard, my cock throbbing...

-----

Someone was slapping my face. My eyes were fluttering. I was asleep.

I opened my eyes. It was Fred. Marty stood nearby. We were – in a hotel? This didn’t look like my room. Where were we?

It seemed like I had been asleep forever. I didn’t know where I was.

Marty was using smelling salts on me – or something. I didn’t know what was going on.

“Hey,” I said, weakly “hey cut it out! Cut it the fuck out!” I yelled.

They both stood back and smiled.

“He’s back” Fred said.

And suddenly I was fully awake. The smelling salts had worked. I looked around the room. I was completely alert.

I looked at Marty and Fred. It seemed as if I hadn’t seen them in years.

“What’s going on? What happened to my...”

For a minute, I panicked. Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe I was still a little boy with a thin little body...

But Fred and Marty stepped apart and there was a mirror behind them. I could see myself. I was lying in a hospital bed in an all white room.

And I was still huge.

I still had the beard. But it had been trimmed back – it was short and well groomed now. Although my mustache was thick and bushy. And my hair was choppy and jutted out in all directions. It was a sexy look. I tried to touch my mustache but I realized my hands were secured to the sides of the bed.

“What the fuck is going on Fred? Marty??”

Marty stepped forward and spoke softly.

“Don’t be alarmed. You’ve been asleep for about two months. There was one final step in your transformation that you couldn’t be awake for. And now you’re all healed. You’ve been on the program for about five years now. Longer than anyone has ever done it – ever. And I don’t know how much you remember. You were in a fog for most of the last few years. Just working out and eating and going through the procedures. But now it’s all done. We had to stop. Otherwise your brain and kidneys would never have rebounded. There were other changes that had to be made. We didn’t quite expect the extent of it,” he and Fred smiled. “But we’re all going to be very pleased now. Your transformation is complete. Well, you may choose to alter your body further. But the major work is done. And you should be very proud of yourself.”

I didn’t really understand half of what he had said. And I didn’t care. I just wanted to know “Why the fuck am I tied to this bed?”

Fred stepped forward “Just a precaution, kid. You’ll be untied in a few days after you get used to the changes. All the changes. But we didn’t want you accidentally hurting yourself when you first came out.

Changes?

I looked in the mirror again. And I couldn’t see anything different. My massive, hairy pecs poked through the hospital gown. And I could see my legs poking out from under the sheet beneath me. What changes? I felt exactly the same...

Well, no. Actually, I felt something... I felt something I hadn’t felt in a really long time. I felt a desperate longing for... food? Was it food? Was I hungry?

Marty saw my face contorting in confusion.

You’re feeling it now. A lot of things were suppressed for the last few years. And those things are going to come back now” he smiled “with a vengeance.”

“Like what?” I yelled.

“Like your sex drive. It’s been totally dormant while you went through the process. But it’ll bounce back.”

Fred laughed. “And how” he said.

Then Fred came and put his hand on my arm. My giant bulging bicep.

“You made it kid. Nobody else has ever gone this far. You may have lost some time and memories back there in the last few years. But you modeled and worked through the whole thing – you’re a millionaire now! We’re all rich! And now it’s time for you – and us – to enjoy the rewards.”

I just stared at Marty and Fred like they were crazy. What the fuck were they talking about? They looked so happy and so smug. But they certainly didn’t look rich! Well, Marty didn’t – he was still dumpy and had food stains on his shirt. Fred just looked cold and mysterious behind his smile. Like he always did.

They slipped out of the room quickly and I was left alone with my image in the mirror. One whole wall of the room – in front of the bed – was a mirror. It seemed like I spent my whole life in front of mirrors.

And I was looking at myself. And I looked fucking hot. The beard was so fucking sexy. And I was a big fucking stud like I had always wanted to be. God I couldn’t wait to get out of this bed and find someone to fuck, or...

It was the first time I had thought about fucking in several years. God I was so fucking horny! I closed my eyes and it was almost like I was overcome with rapture. Just imagining fucking... sex... my cock sliding into some deep dark hole... I thought of Todd, that asshole model...

What? What the fuck? Todd? I looked back into the mirror. I was hotter than Todd now. By far. And he had disappeared years ago right? Fuck him.

God it was like hot flashes or something – I was overcome with sexual longing. I actually tipped my head back and moaned. I wanted to put my hands on my cock so badly. I tried to rub my legs together – to feel my cock – and I discovered my feet were tied to the bed as well.

But somehow just flexing my muscles, rising up and down on the bed as my ass flexed – it felt like sex – or like something... I felt so fucking horny. It was like a different kind of sex. Like I was building up to some sort of spontaneous orgasm. I rolled my eyes back in my head:

“Jesus Fucking Christ am I horny...”

And I lay there, undulating, writhing on the bed, for three full days.

-----

On Friday (there was a calendar on the wall – and I was surprised to see that it was MY calendar – that I was posing as Mr. September – that I was all of the months – a hot muscular blond guy with a thick fucking beard in various poses) Fred and Marty came into the room and told me today was the day to get out of bed.

I knew now that we were in my home – my apartment building. And I guess I remembered owning a whole building. This floor was some sort of medical clinic floor or something. And today I would be getting out of bed and going up to my own room. It all sounded familiar.

There was another doctor there. He was short and Japanese. He was very efficient and quiet – and very quick with tasks. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing. And I could hear other voices speaking in Japanese out in the hall. I guess I had a Japanese team of doctors watching over me now. Did I pay them?

The Japanese doctor made a few quick notations to a chart and took my temperature. He gave me some pills to swallow and glass of water. He took my blood pressure. Everything seemed to be in order. Then he reached under my blanket and started removing some sort of rigging.

I don’t really know what was going on under there – but I had been wondering how I was shitting and pissing and never getting out of bed.

Then the Japanese doctor turned to me and spoke quietly. He said “This will be – very sensitive” in heavily accented English. And then he began to pull something out of me.

I guess it was a huge tube up my ass. I must have been shitting into it all the time I was out? But it felt deeper. And not quite back in my ass. I don’t know what it was. He kept having to unwrap various bandages and pop off certain snaps. And he just kept pulling this giant wet device out of me.

I was going to start complaining but suddenly the pleasure was so intense that I couldn’t speak. It was like I was having an orgasm all over my whole body. I was worried actually that I would shoot a load all over the doctor. I tried to push his hands away or stop him – or maybe I was trying to get him to push whatever it was back into me. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t want to be embarrassed when I shot a giant monster load into his face.

The pleasure was insane. Like 100 orgasms in one. For the first time in my life I felt like my nipples were on fire – they were so sensitive that I almost couldn’t stand the feeling of the hospital gown brushing against them. And my head was sensitive – I couldn’t believe how great it felt to rub it against the pillow – the feeling of my thick hair being mashed back and forth. I turned to the side and bit the pillow – I thrust my tongue out and sucked at my thick bushy mustache. Jesus Christ what was happening to me? As I moaned and writhed in the bed, I could see Fred and Marty laughing and jumping up and down and clapping their hands. They were so happy. What the fuck was that about?

But I just couldn’t concentrate on it because I was almost blacking out from pleasure. It was too intense. I felt something long and wide and wet sliding out of me – it was like giving fucking birth. For a moment, I thought, “Jesus Christ – if this is what anal sex is like then I’m gonna be gay from now on.”

But I think it was also just that I hadn’t shot a load for about 3 years! It was a massive built up orgasm. And hot tears were rolling down my face. It was too much...

And then I did black out.

I was out for about five minutes they told me. There were now a number of Japanese nurses in the room and Fred and Marty were patting my face and shoulders and everyone was cheering or laughing and I came to slowly – very confused. What had just happened?

Before I could speak I saw what must have been the device inside of me sitting on a sterile table in the corner. It was a massive, black rubber device shaped like an oven mitt. It was coated in clear, viscous gel, and it had tubes and wires running all over it. The Japanese doctor was pointing to it and explaining how it worked (in Japanese) to another doctor.

And for a moment, I wanted to interrupt him and ask him to shove it back up my ass. I stared at it and couldn’t wait to have that feeling again. To feel that intense orgasm again.

Which made me realize I must have shot my load. And I also realized that I was sitting up, and that I was untied. I reached casually for my crotch, to see if I had a huge puddle of cum on me. It did feel like I was sitting in a large cold wet spot...

But Marty pulled my hand away and stood me up. Fred and the Japanese nurses joyfully pulled my hospital gown off. And suddenly I was standing there naked in a room full of Japanese people. Everyone was cheering – it was a big celebration.

And I looked at my body. And while some of my muscles seemed slightly smaller (there had to have been some atrophy while I was out for 2 months) I was still pretty built. I was the tallest person in the room. And my body hair was incredible. Thick and swiriling. It was silky – like Todd’s hair so long ago. And my blond head hair and beard and thick bushy stache made me look like some incredible blonde Viking stud. Actually I realized I looked lkind of ike Aquaman. The comic book version with the flowing blond hair and the thick, bristly beard and stache. And a massive fucking chest coated in blonde hair. I was all man. A super, hairy blonde stud. Just what I had always wanted.

And then I noticed that where my dick and balls should have been – instead of my massive manmeat with the giant silver ring in my fat cock tip...

I had a fresh, fat, dripping, wet pink pussy instead.

I passed out.

-----

-----

TO BE CONTINUED IN:

A MODEL PUSSY, PART 2: THE RETURN OF TODD

(also known as: model pussy learns to get fucked like a girl)