Sample: The Old Push Broom (Patreon)

Here’s a commission piece of mine, to give you a taste of my writing style and usual themes: transformation, mind control, and masculinization. If you enjoy it, consider subscribing to one of my membership tiers! Either $3 for one new story per month or $5 for two new stories per month. Happy reading!

As Rooney let Griff into the old hardware store and locked the door behind them, he did a double take. Then his smooth, ruddy face lit up. “Good morning, mustache,” he teased.

Griff touched the light brown chevron adorning his upper lip. He examined his coworker’s expression for a moment, trying to judge his reaction. Rooney appeared amused, but not disapproving. Griff grinned at his red-faced friend. “I had a full beard by the end of my vacation” he confessed. “When I went to shave it off this morning… well, I guess I couldn’t bear to part with this little guy.”

“Suits you, bro,” Rooney nodded. He took a sip of his coffee and added, “Looks boss.” He handed Griff a money bag for his register and returned to his own station.

After a week spent on a Mexican beach, the old hardware store felt almost alien. Griff had an odd sense of novelty when he gazed at the high tin ceiling and the apothecary drawers full of seeds. Even the tangy odors of plant foods and pesticides seemed strange to him. Well, that was probably natural after being away from a place for so long. He settled in at the checkout counter and glanced across the sales floor to the other counter. Rooney was busy setting up and didn’t notice him.

Griff had never known his coworker to wear a mustache or any other facial hair. The man shaved his scalp clean to hide a severe case of premature baldness. His ginger eyebrows comprised the only hair on his head, and they seemed to be working overtime to compensate.

It took longer than usual to set up the register. The password eluded him for a minute, and he mixed up a few of the steps. Vacation mode, he reminded himself. He also couldn’t stop thinking about Rooney’s tossed-off compliment of his mustache. Rooney was twenty-eight to Griff’s twenty-two, so there was a brotherly component to their relationship. It was nice getting approval from someone more experienced and — he had to admit— cooler than himself.

On his first bathroom break, he lingered in front of the mirror. The mustache had been a whim, but it felt like a keeper. He was short and a bit pudgy, with a noncommittal hairstyle, not really short or long. His face still carried some baby fat, and his pale blue eyes were large. He looked boyish. Almost to a fault. The mustache lent him authority. But his hairstyle worked against it. He ran his chubby hands through his hair, combing it back, just to see how it looked. He liked it.

Normally, Rooney’s register had longer lines than his own. Today, that was reversed. At one point, a customer in Rooney’s line stared over his shoulder at Griff and got in line behind his customers. Rooney threw his arms up in the air in mock frustration, crying, “What the hell, man?”

The owner, old Mr. Burbank, arrived at noon and took over at Griff’s register. That freed Griff to restock shelves and fetch orders. More than once, customers getting advice from Rooney would suddenly ask for Griff’s opinion if he was nearby. “I’ve actually worked here longer than him,” Rooney announced to his customer when it happened for a fourth time.

“I’m so sorry,” the customer blurted out. “I just assumed he was your boss!”

From the opposite register, Mr. Burbank craned his neck to see what was going on. In a voice ravaged by a two-pack-a-day smoking habit, he croaked, “What’s that? What did they say?” His twangy rasp climbed two octaves as he spoke.

Stifling laughter, Griff excused himself from the conversation.

After work, Griff and Rooney had some beers at the Vietnamese place across the street. Rooney teased, “Maybe you should ask Mr. Burbank for a promotion. Might as well, since all the customers just assume you’re in management.” It was worded like a joke but there was an uncomfortable edge to his voice.

Griff thoughtfully stroked his mustache. “If anybody deserves a promotion, it’s this little guy under my nose. He did all the heavy lifting.” He looked down and pretended to address it. “You hear that, buddy? You’re in charge now.”

“Damn,” Rooney breathed. “Maybe I should grow one.”

A pang of jealousy cut through Griff’s relaxed demeanor. Based on Rooney’s hypertrophic eyebrows, a mustache on the guy’s face would make his own attempt look like garbage. Griff took a sip of his beer and tried to affect an air of nonchalance as he remarked, “You’d just look creepy with a mustache.” The comment earned him a sock in the arm, but it was worth it.

The next morning, Griff spent a long time in front of his bathroom mirror, admiring the mustache. It was one of the best decisions he’d ever made. It was very manly. And commanding. As he shaved the rest of the face, he was careful not to nick a single hair on it. He knew it was a silly thought, but he felt it had to be protected at all costs. More than that, it could use some pampering. He had seen ads for facial hair grooming supplies like oils and waxes and brushes. He gazed adoringly at the reflected ‘stache and joked, “I need to take good care of you, don’t I, Boss?” He nodded at himself.

After showering, he took stock of his hair. It was floppy and fluffy, with far too much volume. It needed to be tamed. His regular matte clay wasn’t going to cut it. Following his intuition, he dug through the plastic bins of medicine beneath his sink. At last, he found it: petroleum jelly.

Was it too extreme? With the jar in one hand and his comb in the other, he suddenly wasn’t sure it was a good idea. While he pondered this, he found himself opening the jar and dipping the comb into the jelly. He realized that deep down, he must want to try out this new look. And if he didn’t like it, he could just hop in the shower and wash it out. Slowly, methodically, he combed the jelly through his bouncy chestnut locks, flattening them against his skull. Every line etched into his coif by the comb’s teeth had to be perfect. When he felt satisfied with the results, he stepped back and took another long look at himself.

He looked older, for sure. And very much in charge. But with his hair hanging down to the base of his neck, there was something unsavory in the style. It didn’t communicate “serious” so much as “felonious.” But that could be remedied with a trip to the barber. As he stepped away from the mirror, he thought he noticed something odd. Swiveling on one foot, he approached his reflection again and stared closely at the mustache. It was only an optical illusion caused by comparison with his newly sleek hair, but it looked like it was a bit fuller and darker than it had been the day before.

When Rooney saw him that morning, he said nothing about Griff’s hair. He did look quite bemused, though, which irritated him. Later, Griff overheard Rooney give incorrect advice for planting oakleaf hydrangeas. He hated the idea of a customer blaming the store for a poor result, so he gently but firmly inserted himself into the conversation. Rooney stared at him in a combination of disbelief and annoyance. Then he cut him off at the knees by telling the customer that Griff was there on a work-release program and was due “back at the penitentiary” soon. Griff bit his tongue and slinked away. He could hear the customer tell Rooney, “I thought there was something fishy about that guy.”

They had some beers at a dive bar three blocks away. Rooney was unrepentant. “You’re butthurt over a joke? I give you shit all the time. You know it doesn’t mean anything.”

Griff knew his friend was right, but it still stung. “I guess,” he muttered. “I mean, I know. Sorry, man. I don’t know what got into me.” Absently, he stroked his mustache.

Rooney imitated him, rubbing at an imitation mustache. “I know exactly what your problem is. Those rat pubes on your upper lip. And now the hair? Don’t kill the messenger, bro, but you’re not exactly Roman Reigns. You still look like your regular fat self, only with a fake-looking mustache and greasy hair. Congrats.” When he caught Griff glaring at him, he added, “I’m joking! Don’t be so fucking sensitive.”

Griff excused himself not long after that to go find a barber. At a chain salon in a strip mall, the receptionist asked if he wanted a specific stylist. There were two female stylists and one male. He felt like a man would understand better what looked best with the mustache. He petted the ‘stache and said to it, “No worries, Boss. You’ll be in good hands.”

The stylist was named Corey. He was a tall, broad-shouldered guy with the typical bro-dude undercut featuring a severely defined part and a painstakingly groomed beard. He smiled wryly at Griff and observed, “I’ll need to give you a shampoo before we do anything else.” As he lathered and rinsed the jelly out of Griff’s hair, he asked him what he had in mind. Griff realized he was at a loss. He just wanted it to look mature, so it would go with the mustache. He thought if he just opened his mouth, he’d start saying something off-the-cuff. He’d learned that trick a few years back when he was trying to get comfortable chatting with girls at clubs. This time, he froze. The decision was too dire. He eyed Corey’s highly regimented undercut. In a deep, decisive voice he’d never heard before, he said, “I want hair like yours.”

“As you wish, sir,” Corey answered.

Griff felt his cock perk up at the word “Sir.” That was new for him. He liked it.

The stylist added, “It’s going to make you look older. I hope you don’t mind that.”

“Older is what I’m going for,” he heard himself respond.

As Corey went about his work, Griff drifted into a daydream about how he’d look with his new, mature hairstyle. It would probably piss Rooney off again. Tough shit. The guy was probably jealous because he’d lost his hair in high school. Shaving the head was an alpha move, sure. But so was this. He could see himself strutting down the sidewalk and looking like a real tough customer.

Except… with his body, he’d be waddling down the sidewalk. Shit. He’d look older, sure, but like somebody’s fat dad. The mustache would work a lot better if he could lose some weight.

Corey did a fantastic job. The top was trimmed, styled, and sprayed into a rigid little pompadour and faded down the sides and back into bare skin. Despite the pudginess of Griff’s face, the mustache and hair helped him look more like someone who knew what they were talking about. And once he lost some weight, the mustache would look even better on him.

Before he paid Corey for the haircut, he let the stylist talk him into about a hundred dollars’ worth of shampoos, conditioners, and pomades. For some reason, just thinking about the future was giving him a boner. He leaned against the counter, trying to hide his bulge. He glanced at the buff Corey, who was running his debit card. With their matching haircuts, it was easy to picture having a body like his.

“Here you go,” Corey said, handing him his debit card. He smiled handsomely at him.

Griff felt heat rushing to his cheeks. He grabbed the card and fled.

Corey called after him, “Wait, come back!”

Griff forced himself to stop. When he worked up the nerve to turn back around, he saw the stylist holding a shopping bag filled with his purchases. Their hands touched when he took the bag. Corey laughed – a nice laugh, not like Rooney’s. Griff laughed, too. It sounded forced.

At home, Griff put the hair products away, fetched two beers from the fridge, and went online to find the best grooming products for the mustache. Everything had to be natural, he knew. No harsh chemicals, no plastic combs with their microscopic pits and barbs, nothing to ruin the hair. He chose a specialized shampoo, a wooden comb, a small round boar bristle hairbrush, and a light wax. Only the best for the Boss.

He sank deeper into his sofa, one hand on the mustache and one on his crotch. He saw himself walking into the hardware store, busting with muscles. Hot babes would flock to him for help. Rooney would, too. The wiseass would apologize to him on bended knee. And he’d tell him, “Earn it.” He didn’t even know what he would mean by that. It just seemed like a boss thing to say.

The beer was cold in his mouth and warm in his belly. Drowsiness settled over him like gently falling snow. He snorted, startling himself momentarily into clarity. He looked at his phone. Somehow, he had navigated away from the men’s grooming products website and onto a store for “adult toys and novelties.” Probably due to some popup ad he’d accidentally put his thumb on. He put the phone back down and pulled up an action movie on his TV. The screeching tires and machine gun fire blended into white noise. He snorted again. This time, it didn’t jolt him awake.

The alarm on his phone was going off. He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling. He had tumbled off the sofa and onto the floor.

The alarm continued blaring. It sounded far away. After a few tense minutes he located it in the bathroom. He stared at the thing in disbelief as it rattled on the laminate countertop. He couldn’t recall going to the bathroom before he fell asleep, and it worried him. Had he been sleepwalking? That wasn’t like him. He had to jostle himself out of his drifting thoughts before he remembered to shut off the alarm.

Notifications waited for him on the home screen. He’d apparently made some purchases. God only knew what they were. He knew he’d have to cancel them, probably. But the next thing he knew, he was setting the phone back down and examining his hair. It was a mess. He showered and found that his cock was red and raw, as though he’d been jerking it. He forced himself to ignore this. When he was done toweling off and grooming himself, he glanced at his phone. He was about to do something before he’d gotten distracted by his reflection. Now he couldn’t recall what that was.

“There it is,” Rooney said as he let Griff into the store that morning. “The old push broom.”

Griff laughed. It sounded easy and natural. He’d been practicing on the drive over there, and he had been ready for Rooney’s shitty remark. He could sense Rooney staring at him while he put money in the register. At last, Griff slammed the drawer shut and demanded, “What? You clearly want to say something.”

“Oh, I don’t dare,” Rooney said. “I’d hate for Ned Flanders Junior to shit his pants in outrage.”

Griff just smiled and shook his head. “If you want me to fuck you, bro, let’s find a supply closet and get it over with. Because your foreplay is getting boring.”

The remark hung in the air for a while. Griff put his hand over his mouth. The words had spilled out without warning. In that moment, his voice had been as deep and confident as it had been at the salon. It made him feel as though he hadn’t said it, himself. It seemed more like a radio station being broadcast through his tongue.

He wondered if he should apologize. But that would be giving in, and he wasn’t ready for that. Griff didn’t say anything. But he could see that Rooney was furious.

Things were tense between them after that. They barely spoke. After they closed for the day, Mr. Burbank pulled them into his office for a meeting. He told them that he didn’t want any unhappiness between his “boys.” He made the two of them shake hands. Griff went along with it. He wanted to squeeze Rooney’s hand hard enough to break the jerk’s fingers, but he restrained himself.

They were cordial after that, but with none of the sibling warmth they’d enjoyed before. More customers were drawn to him. It was the mustache, partly. But Griff knew it was more than that. It was confidence, too, and the way he carried himself. Without intending to, he was mimicking the minimal, efficient movements and ramrod straight postures of authoritative men he’d known, from his high school principal to an uncle who was in the Marines, to Mr. Burbank himself. He cast a disapproving eye on Rooney. The guy had swagger, not authority. The bald bastard walked with a swinging, loose-limbed gait. His body was always folded over the counter when he wasn’t working on a task. Like he was a scarecrow constructed from licorice ropes.

Griff found a body weight workout app and started exercising. He knew it would be a long time before he saw results, but the sooner he began, the sooner he would see changes.

The mustache continued to darken and bulk up. Within a week, the uppermost hairs had grown almost all the way down to his lips and the whole thing had spread another quarter inch in width on each side. It seemed to be getting denser as well, with short new hairs appearing between the longer original ones. It reminded Griff of a cop’s mustache. Large and in charge.

That was how he wanted his body to be. He weighed himself every morning but found he wasn’t losing any weight. And yet, he didn’t look chubbier. His gut was getting smaller, and very quickly. He remembered reading that muscle was denser than fat and he felt a bit better.

Packages started to appear by his door. He remembered buying some of it. But not all. There were motorcycle boots, belts with metal studs on them, leather cuffs and an odd sort of leather vest with no zipper, snaps, or buttons. He wondered how much of this he could wear to his job without Mooney razzing him. Probably none of it. At night, he would dress up in the gear – sensing that “gear” was the right term for these items – and model it for an audience of one. Himself. He’d pace in his tiny bathroom in front of his mirror, stroking his mustache. His cock would get hard very quickly. Still in the leather, he’d grab the pump bottle of cocoa butter lotion from under the sink and pleasure himself. He summoned up his harem of fantasy girls from his imagination. Plump, curvy women, mostly, with huge asses and fat, jiggling tits. In the old days, they’d be the aggressors, pulling him along with them by his cock, tickling him, squeezing his nipples, and gently pushing him onto the bed so they could ride his rigid shaft like rodeo performers on a bronco.

Now, his fantasies had him in his gear, manhandling the girls. He’d roughly play with their boobs, spank their asses, grab their luxurious manes of hair and plant sloppy, invasive kisses on their mouths, his mustache rubbing their faces raw. The girls themselves grew increasingly unnecessary. His mind began to focus on himself in these scenarios. At times, it almost felt like he was being fucked by himself.

And every time, his mind would disassociate from his body while he came. He would feel his shaft stiffen up even more as he brutalized it with his lotion-slathered hand. He would see his cum shooting across the room, much further and for much longer than it ever had. But he got no pleasure from it. Afterward, he would stumble like a zombie to his bedroom and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling and struggling to form a coherent thought. His fingers would stroke his mustache. It was his main source of comfort. He could get lost in petting it, combing it, brushing it, and applying oils.

He lost a Saturday. More packages had shown up at his door on Friday night. There was a pair of leather chaps, a Muir cap, and a very thick wallet chain that felt like it weighed about ten pounds. He stared at these things in utter confusion. He had no memory of ordering any of them. Was he being hacked? Was it a prank by someone he knew? He didn’t have a ton of friends. Was it Mooney? It was Mooney’s sense of humor, but he couldn’t see him breaking the law by accessing his bank account for the sake of a joke. He put the boxes in his closet and went on with his night. He couldn’t stop thinking about them, though. His mind fixated on them as he ate dinner, gamed, and exercised. With a sigh, he took them back out of his closet and put them on, along with his other gear.

He appraised his reflection. Now that he was working out, the outfit didn’t look so silly on him. He was amazed at how quickly he’d lost his gut. He pulled up the hem of the plain black T-shirt that he’d chosen to go with the vest and looked approvingly at his belly. Not only was it flat, but there was a suggestion of abs starting to plump up beneath the soft expanse of flesh. A dark, narrow treasure trail extended from below his waist and went a few inches past his navel. That was new. He had heard of a few guys who continued to get hairier into their twenties. This was an extended adolescence, then. It would also explain why the mustache seemed to be growing denser. The sides were starting to hang past his lower lip. For now, it was still a chevron shape, if much bigger and bushier than originally. He could picture it developing into a walrus or even horseshoe configuration. Then, he’d really be flying a freak flag. Mooney could tease him all he wanted. He didn’t care anymore.

His brush and a bottle of hair oil were in his hands. Griff beamed at the mustache. “Let’s get you all dolled up, Boss,” he said to it.

And then it was Sunday morning. He was in his bed, mostly naked. “Mostly,” because he was still wearing the leather cuffs and because the Muir cap was covering his face, like he was getting a suntan at the beach. His limbs were sluggish, and his tongue felt like it was coated in fuzz. A steady throbbing in his temples confirmed it: he was hungover. He didn’t know how much time he had lost until he checked his phone. When he saw the date, his stomach turned upside down. He swallowed his terror and sat up, feeling cool air on his sweating body. He had to get his bearings.

A soft rumbling soaked through the cheap walls. It was coming from his bathroom. Someone was showering. Swearing under his breath, he scooted backwards on the mattress and then tumbled off the bed. The phone went flying and slid under the dresser. The shower was turned off. Trembling, he flattened himself against the cheap carpet, his thoughts scrambled, uncertain about what to do. Then a warm, low voice called out, “What are you doing on the floor, Daddy? You want me to ride your hog down there, too?”

He was on his feet, then, his posture straight as an arrow, his head tilted cockily to the side. He was looking at a very handsome ginger chub with a shaved head and a curling red beard, wearing a towel around his waist. The deep voice he’d only heard a few times before issued from his throat, saying, “Dropped my phone, boy. Playtime is over. You’d better get along, now.”

The chub adopted a coquettishly hurt expression, all pursed lips and puppy dog eyes. “Not even one more spanking? I can take it!” He twisted about and dropped the towel, displaying a bubble butt that was bright red, like a baboon’s ass. “See?”

“None of your foolishness, now,” the deep voice said. “Grab your shit and get out.”

The chub fanned himself with a pudgy hand. “Whoo…! Sir, yes, sir!” Griff watched him hurriedly don an ensemble of a cotton jock, cutoff denim shorts, sandals and a football jersey with the bottom half cut off. With that, the chub bustled off, blowing him a kiss and cooing, “See you around, hot stuff!”

Without thinking about it – which was how he found himself doing a lot of things, lately – Griff marched into the bathroom and gave himself a stern look. The mustache was raised up on one side, pulling his mouth into a sneer. Griff could almost hear the deep, stern voice in his head. It said, “Do not embarrass me again.”

It was too much. With a ragged sob, Griff burst into tears. He didn’t think he was gay. He’d never even flirted with a dude, much less fucked one. And now he’d had some kind of stroke or something where he’d gone out and bagged himself a “chub” – whatever that was. He wondered where he’d heard the term before. Probably the same place where he’d met the guy.

He retreated to the kitchen and made a big breakfast for himself. While he worked, he did his best to recall the lost time. He failed. Apparently, he’d gotten blackout drunk. He hoped that he at least had enjoyed himself, since jacking off while sober wasn’t doing anything for him anymore.

When he got dressed for work Monday morning, he found that all his clothes were tighter than they should be. Worse, they seemed to be shrinking horizontally, with the cuffs of his pants stopping above his ankles and the hem of his shirts stopping at his waist. Something was wrong with the washers and dryers in the apartment laundry room, he decided. That was the only explanation. Because if it wasn’t, that meant he was getting taller. Impossible, unless…

Protracted adolescence, he remembered. Did guys start growing again in their twenties? He didn’t think so, but it was an exciting idea. He’d have to get new clothes, though. And his budget was already getting strained from buying all the leather gear. Worse, charges were showing up on his bank account for X-rated apps and websites that he didn’t recall paying for. He stroked his mustache and said to it, “Are you doing this? You’re a horny little dude, huh, Boss?” It made him laugh. A little. The sense of unease persisted as he put on his loosest-fitting clothes and hid the shrunken hemline of his pants by wearing the motorcycle boots over them.

Mooney smiled broadly and shook his head as he handed him the cash bag that morning. “Work it, girl,” he teased. “Show off what your mama done gave you. Do a little spin for me, huh?”

“Clothes shrunk,” Griff said, his misery apparent in his voice.

“Apparently! Your junk looks huge. How many pairs of socks did you have to stuff into your undies to make that happen? Four? Five?”

“If you wanna see my monster rod,” the deep voice shot back, “I can whip it out right now.”

Mooney looked away and said in a much quieter voice, “So serious all the time, lately. Jesus…!”

The mustache glowered at him.

After work, Griff went driving in search of a thrift store he remembered seeing in the area. As he neared the hair salon, his hands gripped the steering wheel and made a hard turn into the parking lot. A sudden urge to see Corey had popped into his head. It didn’t matter if his clothes made him look foolish.

The stylist’s face lit up as Griff strutted into the waiting area. He was busy shampooing an old man’s hair but he gave Griff a friendly nod. Griff told the woman at the register that he was waiting to see Corey and then he took a seat. He pawed through the heap of magazines on the table next to him. Nothing looked interesting except for a “look book” of trendy male hairstyles. His eyes fell on an exaggerated pompadour worn by a model with a chevron mustache, sideburns, and a good amount of stubble. The next moment, the page had been ripped out and was getting stuffed into his pocket. He stared at the offending hand, feeling like he was watching a crime being committed from across the street.

He fell into his now usual daze, and the next thing he knew, Corey was calling his name. The stylist was at the counter, saying he could see him after his next client.

“No haircut today,” the deep voice responded. “I was thinking we could see each other outside this place. Y’know, for coffee… or drinks.”

“I’m flattered,” Corey demurred. “But I’m into ladies. Mostly.”

A sigh of relief whistled through Griff’s mustache. He hadn’t planned to ask Corey out and never would have if he’d been in his right mind.

The stylist eyed Griff’s tightly clad form. “You look great, though. I can tell you’ve been working out, like, a lot.”

Griff recalled the pushups and lunges he’d been doing. There was no way they could have given him a body like this already. He hadn’t even thought about that until just now. Corey was still talking to him. Something about a gay cousin who worked at a New Age store selling crystals. Corey gave him the man’s name and phone number. Griff smiled moronically and thanked him.

Corey grabbed a business card and a pen. “Should I write that info down for you?”

“No need,” the deep voice told him. “I’ll remember.”

At the thrift store, he mechanically sorted through the merchandise and filled his shopping cart full of items that were too large for him, including shoes and boots. He couldn’t even think why. It was just something that he felt driven to do. In the back of his mind, he could picture himself walking into the hardware store looking like a clown and Mooney giving him no end of trouble about it. But he couldn’t summon the will to put the things back on the racks. At home, more packages waited for him. He piled them on the dining table, shucked off his old clothes, and shuffled into the shower so he could masturbate.

The steam and the heat helped to relax him. Since he’d started exercising, he’d been plagued by aches. The warm water massaged his muscles and eased his mind. He lathered his body, feeling the fresh growth of hair that spread across his stomach and the bottom half of his pecs. Rubbing his cheeks, he found thick stubble – far thicker than a half day’s growth used to be for him. He liked it. But he’d have to buy a stubble razor to keep it in check. Nothing could distract from the Boss.

He was in the living room again, decked out in his gear, reclining on the sofa with his legs spread wide, grappling with his swollen cock. And smoking.

It felt like a moment before, he had been showering. He took the large, straight-stemmed pipe from his jaw and stared at it, feeling very cold. He didn’t smoke. He sure as hell didn’t know how to pack and light a pipe. But there it was, the smoke still curling upward from the bowl, in a hand clothed in a thin leather glove that he hadn’t seen before. He watched the hand place the pipe back in his mouth. Operating on instinct, he took a long, deep draw, and exhaled the smoke through his nose in two powerful jets. It felt incredible. He plucked the pipe from his mouth again, releasing more smoke into the air. He heard himself say in his new bass-baritone voice, “Fuck…!” The voice roared like a tsunami crashing into a beach. A wave of primal, devastating force. His whole body spasmed. His cock was ground zero, shooting ropy white cum onto the coffee table. He felt nothing.

“This is fucked up,” he told himself. His voice was back to being tremulous and high-pitched. He knew he had to get help. He couldn’t keep blacking out like this. What if it happened while he was driving? He could hurt someone. Grabbing his phone, he intended to pull up the map app and locate a nearby hospital. His thumb refused to obey him and tapped on the camera function. His legs walked him outside to the courtyard. There was some dramatic landscape lighting out there. His mind was getting pushed outside his body. There was no choice for him but to watch himself pose against a tree, scowling into the lens and breathing smoke like a dragon as he took countless selfies.

Rooney jerked his head back scrunched up his red face in disgust. “What the fuck, bro? Are you wearing lifts…?”

Griff screwed up his own face in response. “What the hell are you talking about? Why the hell would I be wearing lifts?”

“For real? Y’know what? It must be the heels on the biker boots. My bad, Undertaker! I forgot you were in your Attitude Era now.”

Griff didn’t understand the reference, so he tried to shrug it off. For the rest of his shift, he tried to keep his distance from his former friend. The few times they were standing near each other, though, he had a sickening sense of something being wrong. It was hard to figure out what, though. For some reason, he was having trouble concentrating whenever he thought about his changing body. The term itself – “changing body” – was annoying to him, making it feel like he was an adolescent girl trying to make sense of her first period. But he figured out what was amiss soon enough. He was the same height as Rooney today. And he knew for a fact that the heels wouldn’t be enough to account for it.

He’d tried to deny it before, blaming the shrunken clothes on malfunctioning washers and dryers. But here was proof. He was getting taller. Even now, though, his brain felt like it was trying to shut down that line of thought. His concern was evaporating. He asked Mr. Burbank if he could take his break early. Maybe, he decided, if he could get away from his work duties for a few minutes, he could concentrate on his alarming medical condition. Mr. Burbank agreed. Griff scurried out the back door and into the alley. His hands dug into his pockets and produced an abbreviated “nose warmer” pipe, a tobacco pouch, and a lighter. As he smoked, his worries floated away on the breeze. By the time his break was over, he had forgotten why he’d wanted to take it in the first place. He moseyed back inside the hardware store, scratching gently at the skin on his arms. The dead epidermis flaked off, revealing the first signs of colorful imagery beneath it. He didn’t notice this. But his hands went to work, rolling down his sleeves to hide the emerging tattoos.

At home, he cleaned the nose warmer pipe while helping himself to a beefy Oom Paul with a rusticated finish. The two pipes had been among a dozen he’d found in the packages from last night. He had also apparently ordered a few different types of tobacco, a pipe tool, a variety pack of cigars, a cutter, and two different types of lighters. A pipe lighter that shot its flame from the side instead of the top, and a torch lighter for the cigar that blasted a wide, continuous flame from the top of its cylindrical body. He had never used any of these things before the previous evening. But he was smoking like an old pro now.

He didn’t understand why he was doing any of these things. He knew that he liked to watch himself smoke, especially when the smoke threaded through his bushy black mustache, scenting it, caressing it. The mustache had grown completely over his upper lip at this point, extended a half-inch in width past the edges of his mouth, and one inch downward on the sides. His cheeks, chin and neck were gray with stubble, adding to his display of virility. He took selfies of himself with chunky pipes and obscenely fat cigars in his mouth, and he watched himself post them on a site for leather bears. His phone buzzed constantly with alerts from the site, usually from guys falling all over themselves to praise him and to beg to see his cock. He decided to ignore them. He knew his other self would answer these pleas, no matter how much Griff didn’t want him to.

That night, he pounded beers and gorged himself on fried chicken. After he ate, he sat in the dark, chain-smoking cigars and beating off to increasingly violent gay porn on his phone. His body ached horribly. He couldn’t stop scratching at the skin on his arms. It started to peel off in wet strips. With dull eyes, he observed the riotously colored tattoos that were showing through. It was haunted house imagery. Upturned gravestones with zombies crawling out, bat-winged vampires, werewolves in ragged clothing. Nothing he would have chosen for himself. He watched himself stagger up from the couch at 1:30 in the morning, grab the picture of the young man in the pompadour and attach it to the center of the wall with a push pin. And then he retrieved a large drawing pad he had no memory of owning, along with a handful of technical pens, and he began to draw.

He started drawing young men like the one in the “look book” page. Rebellious dandies with towering, greasy pompadours, sideburns, and huge mustaches. He drew them as vampires, werewolves, skeletal ghosts, scaly aquatic monsters. The images were pinned up around the original portrait. His hand, by now bearing a light coating of short black hairs, darted maniacally over the pages, delineating graveyards, crumbling mansions, demonic temples, apocalyptic skies, muscle men impaled on spikes with their oversized dicks stiff from rigor mortis, hulking beasts tearing their way out of human bodies, deadly labyrinths, blank-eyed madmen, corrupted flesh bubbling and devolving into protoplasm. When he ran out of paper, he started drawing on the walls themselves. All of it in the same art style as his tattoos.

He woke up face down in his bed, naked. The aches were gone. His phone rattled incessantly on the bedside table. He picked it up and saw that Mr. Burbank was calling. He set it back down. He swung his powerful legs off the bed and stood up, feeling energized.

He had grown again. By a lot. His broad hands roved over his stocky, muscular body. His pecs were meaty and adorned with swollen red nipples that had been artificially distended, taking the areolae with them; it looked like two thumbs were protruding from his chest. His abs were gorgeously defined, his thigh muscles were like cannonballs, his delts like great triangular slabs of meat sitting on his back, his pecs like grapefruit. All of it covered in thick, curling salt-and-pepper hair. He strode with purpose into the bathroom to admire himself.

He guessed he was about six-foot-six in height. His rod was nearly a foot long and as thick as a soda can. His balls were the size of oranges, pulling his sack down to the middle of his thighs. His hair had grown out quite a bit. His sinewy hands found a comb and some pomade and swiftly arranged it into a glorious pompadour, shiny black with strips of gray at the temples. He sprayed it with a fixative to freeze it into place. His sideburns had thickened up into strictly defined strips that went down to his jawline. His perfect stubble was perfectly groomed, all hairs the exact same length. And in the middle of all this was the mustache. His pride and joy. It had flourished into a gargantuan horseshoe shape, covering his lower lip, and stretching out an inch-and-a-half on each side, the ends hanging down past his square jaw by the same length. Griff felt his lips pucker up and blow himself a kiss.

He blinked and found himself walking in a bad part of town, dressed head to toe in leather gear. Everything fit him like a second skin. He puffed on a cartoonishly oversized pipe – a “Boswell Jumbo,” whatever the hell that was – covering the top of the bowl with a gloved hand to keep the breeze from extinguishing the flame.

Unhoused men huddled in doorways and next to garbage bins. The telephone poles were covered in fading flyers about missing pets. A weathered face stared at him from a flyer amid the pictures of cats and dogs. He stopped and regarded the visage of the square-jawed man with the huge horseshoe mustache. He had disappeared around the time of Griff’s vacation. His name was Brent Bozarth, but he answered to “Bozz.” Griff had a bittersweet laugh at that before ripping the flyer down.

A few people on the street were staring at him now. A cigar-smoking man hosing down the sidewalk in front of a shitty bar stopped what he was doing and watched him pass by with a dumbstruck expression. Griff had no idea where he was going. His legs were just moving on their own, or more likely, being moved by whatever personality had splintered off his own. He tried to turn around, just to see if he could do it. He managed to slow himself down, but the legs steadfastly refused to change direction.

He finally stopped in front of a business advertising itself as a barbershop and tattoo parlor. The logo was in a nearly illegible, thorny-looking font and featured a goat-headed figure with a pentagram carved into its chest, brandishing a straight razor. The windows were tinted black. The door was locked, with a hand-written sign reading “Closed Indefinitely” taped on it. He ducked into an alley and reached into the downspout of a rain gutter. Something was stuck inside it with duct tape. A key.

He unlocked the door, and his legs took him inside. His fingers found the light switch. The narrow establishment featured a few barber chairs on one side and the furnishings of a tattoo parlor on the other. The walls of the tattoo side were covered in drawings like the ones he had created the night before.

Griff panicked. He couldn’t say why, but he knew he had to leave, immediately. He concentrated on his legs and forced them to take two steps back. They shook but they obeyed. Turning around was still impossible. His head swiveled from side to side, looking at the barbershop accoutrements and at the tattoo imagery. One hand rose to his face and stroked his formidable mustache. It was getting darker at the edge of his vision. Whatever else was in his skull was reducing him to a passenger in his own body. His head turned in the direction of the barber chairs again. In his peripheral vision, he glimpsed a set of electric hair clippers.

The mustache.

That was how this had all started, he thought. Maybe if he could get rid of it…

He focused all his willpower on his unruly body, even as his vision grew dimmer. He could feel his stiff muscles loosen up as he exerted his mental energies on them. He darted forward, seized the clippers, and turned them on. Then his other hand was on his wrist, holding it firmly. His head turned to glare at himself in the mirror.

It was like looking through binoculars, he thought. He seemed to be very far away inside a circle surrounded by darkness. He observed his own grim face as he slowly shook his head. From beneath the mustache, the deep, confident voice growled, “Goodbye, Griff.” The circle closed in on itself, and then there was nothing but darkness. Forever.