If I had to choose a sin, between many, is there a world where I wouldn't choose lust?
Perhaps the tragic thing is that my life is moved by lust wholly, yet I rarely put into practice what it inspires. The dark influence of lust is limited to my imagination alone, as I'm too afraid to ever pursue the pleasure of the flesh in company of other men.
Just worshipping them from afar, within the safe compounds of my brain. So removed from my own self that I wished to be them, to have sex as them instead of being with any of these men. Regardless of how achievable was to get with any.
I just wish I was able to live my erotic fantasies. I don't care what sacrifices it would mean. I don't care how much it'll change who I am. How much I would have to lose is so utterly irrelevant to me...
Why would I want to keep being this tall, skinny fat man? A latino that's so pasty I may as well be white? Intelligent yet a testament of unfulfilled potential? Why be that when I could be so much better? So much hotter? So much sexier?
The bass vibrates through the sticky floor of the Abby, a pathetic name for a place that smells like cheap vodka and desperation. Your skinny-fat frameāsix-foot-two but built like a string bean with a potbellyāsways awkwardly near the edge of the dance floor. Your eyes, hungry and desperate, devour every piece of man-meat that passes by.
"Jesus, Miguel," Maria sighs, swirling the olive in her third martini. "You're practically drooling. Close your mouth before you catch flies."
You can't help it. Your gaze locks onto a beefcake dancing on the bar, thick and hairy in all the right places, his body glistening with sweat as he grinds against the air. Your dick strains against your jeans, and you shift uncomfortably.
"He's perfect," you whisper, more to yourself than to Maria. "I'd give anything to be him."
Maria rolls her eyes. "You're fine just the way you are, you know. You'll find someone."
"No woman gets it," you snap, turning away from her. "None of you understand what it's like to want something so badly it hurts."
As you turn, you bump into another pairāa twink and his fag hag. They stare at you, and the girl wrinkles her nose.
"Sorry," you mumble, the apology barely audible above the pulsing bass that seems to match the frantic rhythm of your heart. But she's already turned away, her words a venomous whisper to her friend that somehow cuts through the noise with surgical precision. "Such a waste. All that height and nothing to show for it. Like a clothes hanger with a beer gut."
The words land like physical blows, each one striking a different part of your consciousness, reshaping you from the inside out. You feel a strange tingling sensation starting at the base of your skull, spreading down your spine like warm honey. The skinny-fat Latino who craved the touch of other men begins to dissolve, molecule by molecule, replaced by something else entirely. Something harder. Something stronger.
The twink beside her giggles, a high-pitched sound that grates on your suddenly sensitive ears. "He looks like my dad, actually. A sad, divorced dad who still thinks he can hang with the cool kids."
Divorced dad.Ā The phrase echoes in your mind, bouncing off the walls of your consciousness like a pinball. Suddenly you're remembering a marriage that endedāno, that's not right, you've never been married, have you? But the memory feels real, tangible: signing papers in a sterile office, the cold satisfaction of knowing you'd won, kept the house, the business, the respect. The memory of a woman's tears, and your indifference to them.
Maria pulls you away, her hand feeling smaller suddenly, more fragile in yours. "Pay them no mind," she says, but her voice seems distant, muffled, like she's speaking to you from underwater.
The words are distorted, muffled, meaningless. Her face, once a source of comfort and camaraderie, now blurs at the edges, her features softening into an indistinct mask of concern. You can't focus on her. A pressure builds behind your eyes, a physical ache as if your very skull is reshaping itself to accommodate new thoughts, new truths.
Your gaze is dragged, against your fading will, to the warped reflection in the polished chrome of the bar's edge. The face staring back is yours, but it's a draft version, a sketch in the process of being heavily edited. Your jawline, once soft and undefined, is now carving itself into a sharper, more angular structure.
You feel it happening, a dull, grinding ache in the bone as if invisible fingers are pinching and pulling it into a new, more formidable shape. The warm, tan undertone of your skin seems to be receding, draining away like a low tide, leaving behind a paler, flatter canvas.
"Miguel, you okay? You look... pale," Maria's voice cuts through the fog, but the name itself feels like a shard of glass in your mind. It's wrong. It's a name for someone else, someone weaker.
"Miguel?" she insists, her hand now on your arm.
The touch is repulsive. Not because it's a woman, but because it'sĀ her. It's familiar. It's connected to the life that's being violently excavated from your head. You flinch, pulling away. "Don't call me that," you grunt, the vibration of your own voice surprising you. It's lower. It has weight.
The realization doesn't just cross your mind; it physically settles in your chest, a dense anchor pulling you down into a new reality. The voice that emerged from your throat wasn't a mere change in pitchāit was the sound of your entire being shifting on its axis, a fundamental recalibration of who you are, or rather, who you're becoming.
Maria's face swims back into focus, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. "What did you say? Your voice sounds... weird."
You try to respond, to reassure her, but the physical transformation accelerates, stealing your breath. A deep, structural ache begins in your femurs, a bone-deep remodeling that feels like your skeleton is being stretched and reinforced.
Your skinny frame, once a source of shame, is now being forcibly expanded. You feel your thighs thicken, the soft flesh hardening into solid muscle as your legs grow longer, sturdier, built to support a new, heavier mass. The cheap fabric of your jeans groans in protest, pulling taut across your expanding quads.
Before you can process this, a passing bartender leans over the bar, his eyes appraising you. "Water for you, big guy? You look like you could use it. Building up a sweat just standing there." He winks. "Starting to look like a proper man. Thirty, maybe thirty-two?"
The number "thirty-two" lands like a lit match. The mental pain is immediate and excruciating. It's not a headache; it's a violent, invasive rewriting of your personal history. Memories of your twenty-sixth birthday, of celebrating with Maria at a drag show, are suddenly drenched in acid.
The joy burns away, replaced by a sterile, corporate memory of closing a major business deal on your thirty-second birthday. The pride in that achievement feels real, solid, and it pushes out the old memory like a splinter being forced from flesh. As the new memory solidifies, you feel your shoulders broaden another inch, your deltoids swelling with a newfound sense of corporate authority.
"Miguel?" Maria's voice is a desperate whisper. "What's happening to you? You're... bigger."
The name feels wrong, but the physical change is undeniable. You run a hand over your chest and feel it thickening, the soft tissue giving way to hard, fibrous muscle. Your pecs are taking shape, forming a solid shelf that pushes against the fabric of your shirt. A strange prickling sensation spreads across your sternum, and you watch in the warped reflection of a beer tap as dark, coarse hairs begin to sprout, thickening into a rugged carpet that proclaims a masculinity you never possessed.
A woman at a nearby table, a severe-looking blonde in a power suit, catches your eye. "A man should be a pillar of strength," she says, not to you, but to her companion, though her voice is pitched to carry. "Not just physically, but morally. The foundation of a family. Without that, everything crumbles."
Her words are a sermon, and you are the willing congregation. The concept of "family" embeds itself in your mind, not as a choice, but as a divine mandate. The pain returns, sharper this time, as your old life is violently purged. The memory of your first, clumsy kiss with a boy in high schoolāonce a cherished, tender momentāis now rewritten as a disgusting, sinful aberration.
The new memory that takes its place is stark and cold: your father, a man you barely remember, teaching you to shake hands firmly, to look people in the eye, to be the unshakeable pillar. The memory feels so real, so foundational, that you feel your posture change permanently, your spine locking into a rigid, upright position. You're becoming the foundation.
"That's right," you hear yourself say, your voice dropping even lower, gaining the gravelly texture of command. "A man provides. He protects. He leads." The words feel ancient, eternal truths being revealed to you for the first time. As you speak, your arms continue their transformation. Your biceps swell, pressing against your shirt sleeves, veins snaking across your forearms like rivers on a map. Your hands grow larger, your fingers thickening into tools for work, for command, for discipline.
Maria is crying now, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. "Please, Miguel, come back. This isn't you."
The name is a physical assault. It triggers a convulsive wave of change. You feel your facial structure contorting, reshaping itself into a new, more rigid mold. Your jawline squares, your brow thickens, and your nose seems to sharpen, becoming more prominent, more authoritative. The warm, olive tone of your skin continues to fade, replaced by a paler, more generic complexion. You're not just becoming a man; you're becoming a specific type of man. A white man.
"Miguel is a boy's name," you say, the words tasting like ash. "I'm a man. A husband. A father." The titles feel like they're being branded onto your soul. You're probably forty now. No, forty-two. The age settles on you, bringing with it a sense of gravitas, of life lived and lessons learned.
A man at the end of bar, wearing a "Make America Great Again" hat, raises his glass to you. "That's the spirit! This country needs more men who understand their God-given responsibilities. Too much weakness these days. Too much... moral ambiguity."
"Moral ambiguity." The phrase is a key turning a lock in your mind. The floodgates open. The pain is blinding as decades of your identity are incinerated in seconds. The memory of coming out to your parents, their tearful acceptanceāit's burned away, replaced by a new, stark memory: your father, stern and unforgiving, lecturing you on the dangers of deviation, on the importance of tradition, of the church, of the Republican party. The memory feels so real, so foundational, that you feel a cross materialize in your mind, a symbol of unshakeable faith and righteous judgment.
"Sin is a choice," you declare, your voice booming, silencing the chatter around you. "Weakness is a choice. And I choose strength. I choose God. I choose country." As the words leave your mouth, you feel the final stages of the transformation take hold. You're taller, broader, your entire being radiating an aura of power and certainty. You're forty-nine now. The age feels final, complete. You are the patriarch. The alpha.
Maria stumbles back, her face a mask of horror and disbelief. "You're a monster," she whispers.
You look at her, but you don't see your friend. You see a test. A temptation from a past life. "I am a man of God," you correct her, your voice calm, steady, utterly devoid of the warmth you once felt for her. "A man of principle. A man who will raise his, no, our children to know the difference between right and wrong."
Maria's eyes widen in fear. "Miguel, stop. You're scaring me."
Something shifts inside you ā a strange, unfamiliar impulse. You lean in, your face inches from hers, and kiss her. Hard. It's not a gentle kiss, not a friendly kiss. It's a claiming. A possession. A transformation.
As your lips meet hers, you feel something change ā in her, in you, in the world around you. Her body relaxes against yours, her fear melting into something else ā desire, submission, adoration. When you pull back, her eyes are glazed, her lips parted in a soft smile.
"Michael," she breathes, her voice different now ā higher, softer, more feminine. "I've been waiting for you."
You look at her, really look at her, and see that she's changed too. Her hair is longer, blonder, styled in perfect waves that cascade over her shoulders. Her makeup is flawless, her lips plump and glossy. Her body has changed too ā curvier, softer, more delicate. She's not Maria anymore. She's someone else. Someone yours.
"Maria," you say, but the name feels wrong on your tongue. "No, that's not right."
"It's Marissa now," she says, giggling. "Your third wife. The pretty one."
Third wife? The thought should shock you, but it doesn't. It feels right, natural. As natural as the salt-and-pepper hair you can feel starting to sprout on your chest, the lines forming around your eyes, the ache in your joints that speaks of age rather than youth.
"Come on," you say, standing up and pulling her with you. "Let's go home."
"Home?" she asks, her eyes wide with adoration. "To Staten Island?"
The world outside has changed too. The city lights seem dimmer, the streets quieter. As you walk, your body continues to transform ā your shoulders broadening, your chest thickening with muscle and hair, your gut hardening into a solid wall of abs. Your face ages, lines deepening around your eyes and mouth, your jaw squaring into a stern, authoritative shape. By the time you reach the car ā a black SUV that materializes out of nowhere ā you're a different man entirely. Older. Stronger. More powerful.
The drive to Staten Island passes in a blur. Marissa chatters excitedly about the house, the kids she wants to have, the life you're going to build together. You nod along, your mind already racing with plans ā business deals, political campaigns, church functions.
You're not Miguel anymore. You're Michael, a 49-year-old conservative Christian Republican, a fitness influencer, a devoted husband and father. A man who believes in discipline, tradition, and the natural order of things.
The house is exactly as you remember it ā a sprawling mansion on a hill overlooking the water, perfectly manicured lawns, a three-car garage filled with expensive cars. As you lead Marissa inside, you feel a strange sense of homecoming, as if you've lived here your entire life.
"Let's go to bed," you say, your voice a low growl. "I need to claim you properly."
Marissa giggles, following you up the grand staircase to the master bedroom. The room is huge, with a king-sized bed dressed in silk sheets, a view of the ocean, a walk-in closet filled with expensive suits and designer dresses. It's your room. Your life.
As you undress, you catch sight of yourself in the full-length mirror ā broad shoulders, thick arms, a chest covered in salt-and-pepper hair, abs that cut sharply across your stomach. Your face is stern, authoritative, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that seem to see right through people.
Marissa watches you from the bed, her eyes glazed with desire. "You're so big," she whispers, her hands roaming over her own body. "So strong."
"I am," you say, joining her on the bed. "And you're mine."
The kiss is hungry, demanding, a claiming of territory. As you enter her, you feel the last remnants of Miguel dissolve, replaced by the certainty of Michael, the authority of a husband, the power of a man who knows his place in the world. Marissa moans beneath you, her body arching to meet yours, her submission complete.
"Fuck me, Daddy," she whispers, and the word sends a thrill through you. Daddy. Husband. Father. Man.
You oblige, pounding into her with a rhythm that speaks of ownership, of possession, of a love that's as much about power as it is about passion. As you reach your climax, you feel something shift inside you ā a final transformation, a cementing of your new identity. You're Dad. Husband. Provider. Leader. A man who believes in God, country, and family. A man who despises weakness, who values discipline, who knows that true strength comes from dominating those around you.
As you collapse beside Marissa, her body soft and pliant against yours, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. This is right. This is natural. This is who you were meant to be.
"I love you," Marissa whispers, her head on your chest.
"I know," you reply, your voice deep and steady. "And you'll always be mine."
The night passes in a haze of passion and possession, each thrust cementing your new reality, each kiss sealing your transformation. By morning, you're fully formed ā a 49-year-old conservative Christian Republican, a fitness influencer, a devoted husband and father. A man who despises liberals, who fears God, who loves his wife and children with a fierce, possessive intensity. A man who has finally become the object of his own desire ā not by wanting to be someone else, but by becoming someone else entirely.
As the sun rises over Staten Island, you hold Marissa close, your body relaxed, your mind clear. The past is gone, replaced by a future that's as certain as it is conservative. You're home. You're whole. You're finally the man you were always meant to be.
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