Men TF Collection

Click here for an alternative Tags & Links page (Open in Archive | Web Only)

▮ male transformation ▫ male possession ▫ male body swap ▫ male hypnosis

▮ muscle growth ▫ muscle loss ▫ muscle theft ▫ weight gain ▫ merge ▫ bodysuit

▮ age progression ▫ age regression ▫ hair growth ▫ race change

▮ mental change ▫ mind control ▫ dumber ▫ language change ▫ accent change

▮ reality change ▫ identity theft ▫ role reversal

▮ straight to gay ▫ gay to straight ▫ female to male

▮ daddy tf ▫ bear tf ▫ wolf tf ▫ otter tf ▫ jock tf ▫ twink tf ▫ bodybuilder tf ▫ himbo tf ▫ redneck tf ▫ stoner tf ▫ ginger tf ▫ surfer tf ▫ cowboy tf ▫ preppy tf ▫ pornstar tf ▫ stripper tf ▫ military tf ▫ cop tf ▫ lumberjack tf ▫ pirate tf ▫ lifeguard tf ▫ celebrity tf ▫ animal tf ▫ inanimate tf ▫ animate tf ▫ upside down tf ▫ devolution

▮ hunk ▫ frat boy ▫ blue-collar ▫ southern ▫ wrestling ▫ go-go boy ▫ cub ▫ pup ▫ slob ▫ pig ▫ slave

▮ clothing ▫ jockstrap ▫ underwear ▫ cap ▫ shoes ▫ singlet ▫ harness ▫ leather ▫ latex ▫ collar ▫ piercing

▮ fetish ▫ musk ▫ armpit ▫ feet ▫ sweat ▫ nipples ▫ milking

▮ alcohol ▫ beer ▫ smoking ▫ cigar ▫ tattoo ▫ chronivac ▫ catfish ▫ curse ▫ wish gone wrong ▫ plan gone wrong

▮ unwilling ▫ imprisoned ▫ loss of body control ▫ corruption ▫ humiliation ▫ debt ▫ retribution

▮ bouncyboytfs ▫ changingmen ▫ cinaedefuri ▫ doublesidedtf ▫ dreaming-star20 ▫ dumb-and-jocked ▫ dutchutch ▫ evantyde ▫ greyswap ▫ idesofrevolution ▫ johnbrand ▫ makingrealalphas ▫ maleageprogression ▫ maleagetransformation ▫ maletfsstories ▫ maletransform ▫ mrwavellswaps ▫ newyoutf ▫ occamstfs ▫ rotguttheclown ▫ shapedbydesire ▫ tfcaptions ▫ tfhuman123 ▫ tfstation ▫ the-craftsman ▫ TravisTheDemon ▫ tyranitartf ▫ ultram0th ▫ yournewbody

==========Archival Blogs==========

TFCaptions Archive

Dumb-and-jocked Archive

Tyler Martinez slumped over his desk in his Boston apartment, the glow of his laptop illuminating his chins. At 24, he'd already watched his dating life circle the drain faster than his hopes of finding a decent guy. College had been different—back then, he was the cute twink who couldn't keep the guys away, his slim frame and infectious smile making him the life of every party.

But since starting his tech engineering job, he'd let himself slide. From twink to twunk to otter to whatever the hell he was now—chubby, awkward, and invisible. The money was decent, sure, but his social life consisted of occasional drunken hookups that left him feeling emptier than his wallet on rent day.

He'd swiped through Grindr, Tinder, and Hinge until his thumb was raw, matching with nothing but bots and guys who ghosted after three messages.

"Another night, another rejection," he muttered to himself, scrolling through his phone with a sigh.

Then one night, while scrolling through some random forum, a pop-up caught his eye: "He's Got Male." Tyler snorted at the cheesy name but clicked anyway. The app promised something different—no pictures until both users agreed, one match at a time, and mandatory week-long conversations before meeting. "Bringing back old-school romance," the tagline read. "Whatever," Tyler muttered, downloading it. He needed something new.

His first match popped up almost immediately: a guy named Mark, 38, whose profile screamed "daddy." Tyler groaned. Not his type at all. But the app's rules were clear—one week of conversation, no exceptions. He sighed and typed out a half-assed "Hey, what's up?"

Mark replied quickly, his messages warm but firm. "Good evening, Tyler. Hope you're doing well. How was your day?"

Tyler rolled his eyes but responded. "Fine. Just another boring Tuesday at work."

"Work is important," Mark replied.

Mark's next first message pinged, a stark white bubble appearing on the black screen of Tyler's phone. "Bet you've got that boy-next-door thing going." Tyler rolled his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips as he flopped back on his worn-out couch.

Another generic message from another generic profile picture-less man. He almost swiped the app closed, right then and there. But a strange, nagging curiosity, the kind that only comes from profound loneliness, made his thumbs hover over the keyboard.

He decided to play along, to get through the mandatory week and then block this "Mark" character forever. "Haha, just your average tech geek, nothing special," he typed back, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth.

The reply was almost instantaneous. "Don't sell yourself short. I can tell from your profile you've got a strong jawline. Real men have defined features, none of that soft, feminine bullshit."

As Tyler's eyes scanned the words, a bizarre, tingling warmth spread across his face, starting at his chin. It wasn't painful, just... strange. He reached up to scratch an itch and froze. The soft flesh beneath his fingers felt different, firmer. He scrambled to the bathroom, flicking on the light.

His reflection stared back, but it was subtly, terrifyingly wrong. His jaw seemed sharper, more angular, the hint of a double chin gone, replaced by a taut line. A dark shadow of stubble was already forming where his skin had been smooth just minutes before. "What the fuck?" he whispered, his own voice sounding a little deeper to his ears.

His phone buzzed again. "What do you do for work? Something practical, I hope. None of that coding nonsense." Tyler, a senior software engineer, started to type out his defense of his career, but the letters felt wrong on the screen.

He blinked, and suddenly the memory of debugging Python scripts felt alien, replaced by the visceral thrill of closing a multi-million dollar deal. He was a broker, a venture capitalist. Of course he was. He'd always been. The thought of sitting in a cubicle all day was pathetic, for betas. "I'm in finance," he typed back, a surge of unfamiliar confidence coursing through him. "Making real money."

"Good man," Mark replied. "That's what builds this country. Not whining liberals and their gender studies degrees. You watch the news? Fox? Tucker's been on fire lately." Tyler had always been more of a PBS guy, but the name Tucker Carlson now sparked a flicker of something else—respect.

That evening, he found himself turning on Fox News, not out of curiosity, but out of a sense of duty. The words felt like truth, pure and simple. The world was black and white, and he was finally seeing it clearly.

The liberal arts classes he remembered taking were replaced in his mind by lectures on supply-side economics, the memory of a college debate club dissolving into the roar of a football stadium where he'd been the star quarterback.

He felt stronger, not just in his changing body, but in his convictions. His shoulders were broadening, his chest expanding with new muscle, a light dusting of dark hair spreading across it. He looked in the mirror and saw a man taking shape, a man of substance.

The days blurred into a haze of messages and metamorphosis. Mark's words were the chisel, Tyler's mind and body the marble. "Family is everything. A man provides, protects, leads." The concept of "family" hammered into him, reshaping his desires. The fleeting thoughts of finding a boyfriend curdled, replaced by a primal urge to find a wife.

A pretty, submissive wife who knew her place. He started going to church, the incense and solemn prayers feeling like home, a home he'd apparently always had. He remembered kneeling and praying before every meal, thanking God for the bounty he, as a man, had provided.

The gnawing in his head was constant now, a battle between the ghost of Tyler and the burgeoning reality of... whoever he was becoming. He tried to fight it, to type, "Stop, who are you?" but his fingers would only obey the new programming, responding with "Damn right" or "Tell me about it."

By Thursday, Tyler was 26 now, his body thickening with muscle. His shoulders broadened, chest expanding with each breath. He found himself at the gym, lifting weights like he'd been doing it for years. Mark's message popped up as he finished his set.

"Good man," it read. "Physical discipline builds mental strength."

Tyler nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yeah," he typed back. "You're right."

Friday brought more changes—Tyler was 27 now, his mind filled with thoughts of responsibility, of providing, of leading. "Father," he muttered, testing the word. It felt... right. Mark's message confirmed it.

"Family first, as Trump says" Mark wrote. "Protect your own. Lead with strength. Trump is right on that one"

Slowly a bright red MAGA hat began to form around Tyler's head, as it continued to drown out his thoughts, as it started to grow dumber and dumber. His brain filling with Fox News sound bites.

He was aging rapidly, his face losing its last traces of youth. Fine lines etched themselves around his eyes, his hairline receding slightly at the temples, giving him a distinguished, powerful look. 29...31 ... 33... Each message from Mark added another year, another layer of corrosive belief. "Gotta be careful in this city. Full of degenerates and parasites." Tyler looked out his Boston apartment window with a newfound contempt. This place was a cesspool.

He belonged in the suburbs, in a big house with a white picket fence, a place to raise a proper, Christian family. His apartment morphed in his memory into a sprawling mansion, complete with a trophy wife he barely acknowledged. He was 34 now, a senior partner at his firm, a man people feared and respected.

"Politics is the only way to really make a difference," Mark's next message read. "Real men aren't afraid to stand up for what's right, for traditional values." Tyler felt a calling, a destiny. He wasn't just a broker; he was a leader. He could feel it in his bones, which were thickening, his entire frame becoming heavier, more solid.

His torso tightened, abs carving themselves into a solid wall of muscle beneath his dress shirts. His biceps strained the fabric, veins snaking down his forearms. He was a predator now, dressed in bespoke suits, and he was hungry for power. He remembered donating millions to conservative causes, remembered whispering in the ears of senators. He was a force.

Then came the final day. The week was up. "Ready to meet?" Mark asked.

The last vestige of Tyler, a tiny, screaming voice in the back of his mind, begged him to say no, to run, to smash his phone. But the new man, the 39-year-old titan he had become, felt only a grim sense of inevitability. He typed, "Yeah. Name the place."

The response that came back was short, brutal, and absolute. "Sounds good bro. No homo tho."

The words were a psychological nuclear bomb. The final, fragile barrier in his mind shattered, and a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated disgust and revulsion washed over him. The very concept of homosexuality was now the most vile, unnatural thing he could imagine, an abomination against God and nature.

His entire being convulsed with a violent, overwhelming heterosexual lust. He craved women—specifically, the generic, interchangeable beauties that populated his new world: bottle-blonde housewives with fake tans and suspiciously perky breasts, the eager young interns from the city, the bored suburban MILFs at his church. They were objects, beautiful and pliable, for his pleasure and for bearing his strapping, conservative children.

His memories completed their violent, final rewrite: a string of women he'd used and discarded, his sweet, Christian wife whom he loved in his own way, even as he cheated on her with a procession of younger, dumber models. He was Dave Miller now. A generic, basic, white suburban husband and father of two, a Republican candidate for Congress from some blue-state district he was determined to flip red.

He put down the phone, the screen now showing a message to his new "bro" about meeting at a sports bar on the Upper East Side to watch the game. He looked down. The 20-year-old NYU student he'd picked up at a bar was on her knees between his legs, her head bobbing in his lap. He tangled a hand in her over-bleached hair, pushing her down further.

She moaned, a muffled, practiced sound vibrating around his cock. "That's it," he grunted, his voice a low, authoritative growl that sounded completely natural to him. "You like that, you little slut?" She looked up at him, her eyes glassy with a mixture of adoration and lust. "Oh, Mr. Miller," she whimpered.

Mr. Miller. The title felt right. For now. But as he felt his release building, his eyes drifted to the television, where the President was giving a speech. A bigger, grander vision filled his mind. President Miller. It had a nice, solid, all-American ring to it.

His release was a violent, shuddering thing, a final expulsion of the last ghost of Tyler as he emptied himself into the eager mouth of the NYU student. He held her head in place, his thick fingers tangled in her cheap extensions, a guttural groan tearing from his chest.

The pleasure was sharp, animalistic, and utterly devoid of affection. When he was finished, he pushed her away, not roughly, but with the casual dismissiveness of a man putting down a tool he no longer needed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a practiced, almost proud smile on her face.

"God, Mr. Miller, you're incredible," she breathed, her voice a syrupy, vapid imitation of seduction.

He took a long, slow sip of the scotch, the burn a familiar comfort.

"You're not even going to ask for my number?" the girl's voice cut through his thoughts, a note of wounded entitlement in it.

Dave turned, a cold, thin smile on his lips. He walked back over to her, his expensive leather shoes silent on the plush carpet. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She smelled of cheap perfume and his semen.

"Listen slut" he said softly, his voice dripping with a condescending charm that was more terrifying than any anger. "I'm a married man. A man of God. A public servant. I would never do anything to jeopardize the sacred vows I took before my Lord and Savior." He paused, letting the holy bullshit hang in the air. "But if you're ever in Washington and need a real man to show you a good time, you know who to call."

He straightened up, leaving her there, speechless and confused. He dropped a few hundred-dollar bills on the nightstand. "For a cab. And maybe some dinner." It wasn't kindness; it was a transaction. A way of reinforcing that she was something to be bought and used. He finished his scotch in one gulp, placed the glass down with a decisive click, and strode out of the room without a backward glance.

In the elevator, riding down from the thirtieth floor, he checked his reflection again. He adjusted his tie, smoothed down his suit jacket. He was Dave Miller, Congressman. A husband, a father, a Christian. A man who stood for everything decent and traditional in this great country.

And as the elevator doors opened to the lobby, revealing a world of people he was better than, he felt a familiar stirring in his groin. There was a young reporter from Fox News waiting for him, a pretty little thing with a cross around her neck. He gave her his most charming, trustworthy smile. The work was never done.

Please, you’ve gotta help me. I don’t know what’s happening. I need to get to the hospital or something maybe, I feel like I’m on fire. Everything aches and- HAUG. OW! Fuck. I keep hearing these voices man. Telling me to- no I can’t. It all started at the gym dude. I was getting changed after finishing my cardio for the day. Trying to be responsible after my last doc appointment. Okay, okay. I was in the sauna when this big guy comes in. Muscles for days man. He has these pecs that are off the charts. They’re thick, firm slabs of meat that just hang from him like pillows. So soft and so firm- OW, my chest. God, where was I? Yeah, so I’m in the sauna and he sits really close to me. Plenty of room, but parks right next to me. You know I don’t swing that way, but I’m kinda checking him out. He has these beautiful tattoos that curl around his biceps, a sleeve on the side next to me. As he’s relaxing he’s kind of flexing his arms and these things ripple like magic on him. They look so good. Augh. Crap. I feel so itchy dude. But he’s leaning in close. I don’t really even register that he’s talking to me. It’s this deep baritone that rubbles in my head, but it’s the way it bounces that I remember. I was zoning out, and started laughing. Bro- huh- I wish I remembered the joke- huhu- it was so-huhuhu ha. Shit bro. So he pulls me close to him, right in his big, strong arms. At this point I don’t know what’s happening to me. All I know is that he’s got me feeling strange. So loose. So free. Before I know it I’m face down on the bench. Sauna is pumping out this heat, steam surrounding us. But I’m not processing that. Behind me, there is a rhythmic pumping, pumping, pumping. Dude, I’m getting railed. But, like, I don’t even mind. In fact, it feels soooo good huhuuuuu. But that voice. He’s talking. Saying how he wants to breed me. Spread his seed. Make another muscular, tatted up stud like him. And I don’t know what happened. My body shivered when he said that. Suddenly it wasn’t my body anymore. It was his. His to use and shape however he wanted. It was like I was being reprogrammed from the inside. He was telling me how thick he wanted each muscle, how wide my neck needed to be. How thick my waist. How coarse my hair would be. Owww, shit this hurts. But it hurts so good. Maybe he wasn’t telling me bro, but I just felt it deep in me. And then, it happened. Man, it was so hot. I felt this twitch and pulse, and I was so full all of a sudden. It rushed through me. My… his… the cock just exploded deep in me. Coated my insides. I felt so good, like I knew what I needed to do- mmmmm fuuuck meeeeee…

What? What’s wrong? Look at myself?

Dude! I’m freaking huge. It looks like new me ate the old me. Bro, these muscles are sick. Look at how they stretch, I bet I can pull mad chicks with these. Girls would love to have these arms wrapped around them, holding them tight, flexing for them as I bury this- wait, dude, LOOK at this python. It’s practically stretched out of my briefs! I look just like me! Or, was it him? Or maybe us. Augh, it’s so confusing. My thoughts are like pudding. I feel so confused and angry and pent up. You have to help me. Dude, you okay? You’re looking at me funny. WOAH bro? Hey, that’s not funny. Stop looking at me like that. Stop looking so cute. Haha, no, dude I’m just-I’m just joshing. You’re just looking so… so good after your gym pump. I guess. Got me feeling kinda weird. Wait, no. Bro, something’s happening. Do you think it’s the muscles bro? These thick, juicy, sweaty muscles? Ngl, they do sound hot bro. You wanna feel them bruh? Huhu I bet you do. Just take a look at these. Boom. Yeah, looks pretty hot right? You’re not too bad yourself bruh. Why don’t you slip off that shirt and join me. It’s good to let those muscles breathe. No, bruh, you can’t go. You can’t leave me like this. Get me all riled up and leave. You’re looking so breedable right now brah, you must be focusing on those glutes. But why work so hard? Why not just let me train you, let me work out your sweet hole babe. I don’t know what will happen. That’s it. Good boy. Just let me hold you. You’re going to look so much better when I’m done with you. Yeah… I know what I want bro. No. I know what I need. I need to fill those fertile guts with my top notch seed. Yeah. That’s right. Calm down bro. Let me tell you what I think. I think you’re going to use my seed and grow into a stud yourself.

"You shouldn't go. They are going to prank you and release it to the whole school," warned David

"Yeah, but what if it's not a trap? What if it's just Sandra inviting me over and showing me she's a friend," replied Scott

"But it's not. You're a nerd. You don't just get invited to cool parties to hang. You only want to go because you're madly in love with your bullies. Those guys tease you and push you around all day, and they're perfectly straight. There's no chance," David explained, Scott not listening at all.

"But..." Scott tried to say before being cut off by David,

"You know what? Go. Go to that stupid party, and I will say I told you so on Monday or Tuesday. That's if you're brave enough to come to school, knowing you'll be laughed at, everywhere you go," David finished. Scott, yet again, didn't care or try to convince him. He said goodbye and left David, speeding off to the party.

Scott was currently studying computer science and at the top of his class. Scott was quite shy, largely due to the fact that at his school, being a nerd meant a wedgie or getting slammed into a locker on a daily basis. His friend Sandra, who was friends with everyone at school, had invited him to her party. It was unusual, but Scott wanted to see what it was like, and his crushes were there tonight. Scott had many common crushes of hot porn stars or celebs, but he also had some guilty ones. The bullies around the school were well built and extremely good looking. Although if they knew Scott was into them, he would probably end up in the bin. The main guys that he loved were Asher, Callum, Josh, Kyle and Dan. There wasn't too much difference between them. They all had the same perfectly sculpted abs, beautiful faces and well-groomed hair. Despite all being physically similar, they had some differences. Asher was much smarter than the others, achieving above-average grades and some B+'s. Callum and Josh were tall and both played lacrosse. Kyle was so strong and muscular, he could already lift like a professional bodybuilder. And finally Dan. He may be smaller in stature, but underneath his sweatpants was the largest shlong of meat around the school. Well, that's what all the girls said. But all the girls rated them all highly, which obviously meant Scott had no chance with them at all. And even if he did, they would probably just give him a wedgie.

Scott arrived at the house not long after leaving David. He went and rang the doorbell. As he did, he realised that he was hot, sweaty and looked in a bad state. Even if there wasn't a prank waiting for him, everyone here would see him as an absolute mess. The door opened before he could do anything to solve the issue. Sandra greeted him and let him in.

"Oh wow, you've really gotten a lot," Said Scott, seeing all the drinks and food out. He had never been to a party, and his usual gatherings only had a couple of pizzas and drinks.

"Oh, it's a bit, but there's more coming. You look a bit tired and sweaty. Maybe you should have a quick wash," offered Sandra.

Now, now which nerd did you beat up to write that for you? I know you think computers are stupid bro but you should be worrying about those pecs mate, not gonna pump themselves. Yea bro, you know you wanna wear those sneaks, baller shorts and half cut off shirts, gotta show those nerds whose boss bro. Thats right bro, flex for me.

Here's a sailor transformation, after weighing the options hopping into the Navy just seemed too good a deal to refuse.

In other news I'm nearing 1500 followers (!) Think I'll just throw up a poll and let y'all select the prompt, if you have any suggestions do send them in! -Occam

March 1st:

It’s not like I’m a bootlicker right? I’m just down on my luck and from my point of view it seems joining the military is far and away the quickest path forwards to my stability. Just a few years and I’m set up to live the life I’ve always dreamed of, and in the meantime I’ve just gotta scrub decks? Easy as anything-

Literally everyone I know who’s in the navy is always posting pics of them jacking around in ports around the world anyway. Still though, it gnaws on my conscious to join such a genuinely violent and shitty institution, but it’s not like my hands will lead to any amount of difference here, let alone in active combat my word! I’m just here to whittle away the time and collect a paycheck, with free college to boot at the end of my romp around the world!

I just finished up basic training, only just squeaked by, but I’m sure the officers appreciated someone with a brain signing up so they waved me through, hah! On the way to my ship now and I’m a little nervous. It was easy enough to put on the whole patriot nonce act for the handful of weeks in basic but hopefully I’ll find someone on board who shares my sentiments lest I just lose my mind! 

Bus is pulling up to port now- Wish me luck! 

March 8th:

Heyo! Don’t even know what I was worried about! Obviously not everyone was gonna be a model soldier or whatever, but it’s fair to be a little worried yeah? I met this guy named Asher (pictured above) who is so on the same wavelength as me though! He’s been here for a hot minute longer so he’s kinda showing me the ropes on how to slack just enough to not get written up. He truly seems like the expert on keeping the officers off his back.

Beyond that though- he is really such a cool guy, reminds me of a lotta of the crowd I hung out with back home. It’s just nice that someone around here is helping me feel like less of a black sheep. Most of our platoon/cohort/whatever are real drink the koolaid type of USA Supremacy guys so it’s nice to have someone to blow off steam with at the end of the day.

Oh, saying that though he’s also been a little on edge talking about some enhanced training program that the higher ups are tossing around, but he’s like, weirdly cagey about it? Almost scared of it even? But like girl, we both did basic how much worse can it be right? No way its worse than the brainwashy cult shit they hurled at us there, and not like we’ll be able to skip out on it or anything so just chill out, keep your head down and get ready to power through-

Fit Camp to Frat Camp

The summer he was fourteen, Ethan's parents sent him to Camp Cedar Ridge.They called it a "fitness retreat." But even the sign in front of the camp said “Fat Camp.” 

Honestly, it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd expected. The food wasn't completely terrible, the counselors at least tried to be encouraging, and after a week of hiking, swimming, and pretending dodgeball counted as "team-building," he'd somehow made two good friends.

There was Owen, who could turn any conversation into a lecture about fantasy novels or some bizarre science fact, and Miles, whose social skills were almost impressively awful. He never meant to be rude—he just had an uncanny talent for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong moment. Together, the three of them had quietly become the camp's resident weirdos.

One afternoon, while wandering through the woods behind the cabins, Ethan came across an old storage shed that looked like it hadn't been opened in decades. Most of it was junk, piles of broken lanterns, moldy boxes, rusted tools. But tucked inside a dusty wooden chest was something that was different.

It looked like a dried-up monkey's hand. The leathery fingers were curled into a fist, and somehow it felt warm despite being covered in dust. As he turned it over in his hands, a half-forgotten story drifted back into his mind.

A monkey's paw and three wishes, maybe he had seen the movie but he barely remembered. He knew it was just all just an old superstition. Even so, as he stared at the shriveled paw, he found himself wondering what he would wish for. 

He took it back to his cabin, obviously, it was a shriveled animal part and he was a fourteen year old boy. He also wanted to show it to Owen and Miles, who were in the cabin's small kitchenette when he arrived, loudly debating the integrity of a real life alien invasion. They didn’t even notice then come in, only looking up at the slam the door. 

“Yo, look what I found.”

Owen glanced over. “...That's either a preserved primate paw or the world's least appetizing beef jerky.”

“I found it in the old shed,” Ethan said. “I think it's supposed to be one of those monkey's paws. You know, the wish thing.”

Owen snorted. “Magic violates several fundamental laws of physics.”

Miles looked up. “Also, if it grants wishes, why'd it end up in a dusty shed?”

Ethan frowned. “You two are no fun.”

“I wish you guys were cooler”

Their clothing instantly began to change, replacing their old outfits with a new wardrobe that hung awkwardly off their still-scrawny frames. Owen now wore a pair of khaki shorts and a navy hoodie, while Miles stood beside him in matching shorts and a fitted black T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a sports team neither nerd recognized. Both sported baseball caps, carelessly turned backward as though they'd been wearing them their whole lives.

The oversized clothes looked ridiculous on them, like toddlers playing dress-up in their fathers' wardrobes. They still had the soft, slightly pudgy bodies they'd always been embarrassed by, and neither boy looked comfortable in the new clothes. Glancing down, they watched their hands begin to change. Their fingers lengthened, palms broadened, and knuckles thickened into large, rough-looking hands as a healthy bronze tan slowly spread across their skin.

The color continued creeping over their bodies, replacing their pale complexions with the sun-kissed glow of boys who spent every free afternoon outdoors. Their feet stretched in tandem with their hands, widening and lengthening until Owen's size eights became solid tens while Miles' pushed all the way to elevens. At the same time, muscle began swelling beneath their skin. Miles instinctively flexed, watching his biceps rise into firm, rounded muscle with an awestruck grin.

"Bro... you're hot," Owen blurted, staring at his friend's rapidly broadening physique. But the changes didn't stop there.

The soft bellies that had always been a source of embarrassment suddenly tightened as though an invisible vacuum were pulling inward from beneath the skin. Every trace of fat vanished, sculpting defined pectorals and sharply cut abs across both torsos. Miles was already convinced his were an eight-pack, even if anyone else would call them a six.

The soft bellies that had always been a source of embarrassment were sucked inwards, like a vacuum sucking from beneath the skin. Every trace of fat vanished, leaving only identical sets of pectorales and immaculate six packs, although Miles would always claim to have an eight pack.  Owen’s khakis became noticeably tight as it filled with a plump bubble butt while miles backside remained tight and muscly. Their entire builds broadened, shoulders widening, chests thickening, and arms filling out until both looked like they had spent years in the weight room rather than behind computer screens.

Both their dicks expanded, flooding their minds with a sudden rush of pleasure.

"Fuck ya, bro!" Miles shouted, his voice dropping into a deep, relaxed drawl that carried no trace of the nasal, awkward nerd he had been only moments before.

Owen laughed, his own voice sounding lower and brashly confident. He absentmindedly scratched beneath his backward cap as dark hair pushed outward, growing longer until thick curls spilled from underneath the brim.

Their faces shifted into place as the final pieces of the transformation settled. Miles' nose broadened, giving his features a stronger, more rugged look, while Owen's jaw sharpened into a broad, square shape that seemed carved from stone. Their cheekbones became more defined, their eyes settled into relaxed, self-assured expressions, and even their smiles took on an easy arrogance. The two boys looked at each other and couldn't help but grin like the narcissistic jocks they had become. 

Ethan stared at them, waiting for one of them to crack the facade of bravado. 

"...Owen?" 

The curly-haired boy frowned. "Who's Owen?” He asked. "My name's Oz, dude."

Ethan laughed nervously. "Very funny. You were just talking about aliens," Ethan insisted. "And fantasy books."

Oz looked genuinely confused. "I don't read, I don’t even know how, lil bro.”

Miles shrugged. "Books are kinda for geeks."

Ethan's smile slowly faded. "But... you guys are geeks."

At that, both boys burst out laughing.

"Good one," Miles said.

As they talked, Ethan noticed the cabin wasn't quite the same anymore. A battered mini fridge now sat beneath the window where a bookshelf had been. Empty pizza boxes rested on the counter. Someone had tossed a hoodie over a chair, and a pair of muddy cleats lay in the middle of the floor like they'd been kicked off after practice. The room felt messier every time he looked away.

Oz grabbed a bottle from the fridge. "Dude, we're almost out of protein shakes."

"We'll grab more after conditioning," Miles replied.

Ethan stepped toward them confused. "Guys... what's going on?"

Oz looked him over for a moment before recognition crossed his face. "Oh, what do you want Ethan?"

"You remember me?"

"Sure," Miles said with a grin. "You're that weird kid."

Ethan blinked. "No... we're friends."

Oz exchanged a glance with Miles before both of them laughed. "Dude," he said, "why would we hang out with you?"

"You seriously need to chill," Miles added. "Maybe spend less time indoors."

The two of them wandered back into the kitchenette, still chuckling to each other. Ethan backed away slowly before hurrying into the bedroom. slamming the door behind him, he immediately started digging through his backpack until his fingers found the monkey's paw.

It was warm in his hands, One finger had uncurled. Outside, Oz and Miles laughed as another loud thud echoed through the cabin, making Ethan look up.

“I wish I had my friends back”

His shoes vanished instantly leaving the portly teen barefoot. His clothes had also shifted, camp tee becoming a white tank and cargos becoming black sweatpants, every piece of clothing fit him completely wrong.  But he didn’t notice, as looking down, his feet seemed to be moving? His toes grew thicker and longer and his feet became long and broad as they resized to a meaty set of 11s.  Simultaneously a dark tan spread across them and hard callouses formed on the bottoms.

In the span of a breath his whole body gained a similar tan, though he was noticeably paler than the other jock bros. His hands expanded to match his feet and grew into meaty mitts. He stared as veins began to pop out from his skin, starting from his hands and continuing up his arms and throughout his body. 

“No, I don’t want this” he shouted, desperately trying to reach the monkey's paw that had fallen off the bed. 

But the changes didn’t stop there, happening too fast now to stop. A large pectoral shelf jutted out, nipples standing erect in the cool air of the cabin.  He lightly tweaked one with his meatier hands, his brain failing to register the movement. His hands moved down the usual curve of his stomach replaced by rigged abs covered by a light treasure trail. His body began to emit a strong odor, a mix of dried sweat and hormones, helped by the much larger bulge in his sweatpants.

 He grabbed it roughly, feeling the extended length in all its glory. A deep sound coming from his throat, a far cry from the voice of a fat nerd yet to go through puberty. The newly minted bro felt a small pressure in his ears when a small pair of studs appeared and his hair became dark and well groomed. His face got wider and his jaw became square shaped giving him the typical looks of a dumb jock. He wondered why in the world we wouldn’t want to be one as he grabbed his phone to pull up his favorite porno, wanting nothing more than to try out his new equipment.

After finishing Ethan flopped onto the couch, his sweats still sticky. He absentmindedly scrolled through his phone, looking for another, maybe to watch with his bros. Speaking of his bros, Oz and Miles stood in the kitchenette shotgunning diet Pepsis. He shook his head in silent laughter at them before something poked against his thigh.

"Huh?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out the shriveled monkey's paw. "Yo, check this out."

Oz looked over from the mini fridge. "Dude... what the hell is that?"

Miles immediately sauntered over, eyes lighting up. "Bro, no way. Is that an actual monkey's paw?"

Ethan shrugged. "Found it somewhere, I think."

Oz carefully took it, turning it over in his hands. "This is sick."

"Isn't this one of those things that grants wishes?" Miles asked with a grin. "Like, three wishes and all that cursed magic crap?"

"Probably fake," Oz said, still unable to stop staring at it.

"Even if it is," Ethan laughed, "it's the coolest thing I've found all summer."

The three crowded around the tiny shriveled hand, tossing out increasingly ridiculous wishes and daring each other to try one, none of them realizing two of its fingers were already uncurled. Ethen looked at it, wondering what to wish for, then it hit him.

“I wish everybody here was as cool as us”

The wish had barely left Ethan's lips before the monkey's paw grew almost too hot to hold. He instinctively dropped it onto the couch, where it landed with a dull thud. For a moment, nothing happened. The cabin remained exactly as it was, with Oz and Miles still arguing over whether they could organize a volleyball tournament before dinner.

Then a strange sound rose somewhere outside, like a chant or cheer shouted in deep voices. It wasn't especially unusual at first. Campers were always yelling about something. But another voice answered it from farther down the path, then another from the lake, then several more from the athletic fields until the entire camp seemed to hum with too loud laughter and shouted conversations.

Across the grounds, subtle changes rippled through Camp Cedar Ridge. The campers transforming all at once, awkward postures straightening, Self-conscious expressions melting into easy confidence. Conversations about calorie counts and homesickness drifted naturally into plans for football games, lake competitions, and which cabin was going to dominate the end-of-summer tournament. Everywhere you looked, baseball caps had somehow become more common, camp T-shirts fit broader shoulders, and groups of boys who had barely spoken yesterday now greeted each other with effortless familiarity.

Even the camp itself seemed to adjust around them. The nutrition posters lining the dining hall walls quietly disappeared, replaced by faded championship photos and intramural banners that had hung there for years. The recreation lodge gained battered sweat stained couches and a pair of old refrigerators stocked with sports drinks, while the all of cabins gradually accumulated the sort of clutter that came from dozens of teenage frat boys sharing the same space, duffel bags left open, footballs under bunks, hoodies draped over chairs, protein bars scattered across countertops.

Bodybuilder legal huge counselors walked the paths smiling like it was normal, greeting campers with casual fist bumps instead of reminders about weigh-ins or meal plans. The schedule posted outside the dining hall had changed too. Hiking and nutrition seminars had quietly given way to tournaments, lake relays, and evening socials. 

Oz leaned against the doorway where Ethan stood and looked outside.

"Whatca looking at?" he asked.

Ethen looked at him, his thick brows scrunched up like he was trying to sort though his meager thoughts. "Just thought this place was…different, ya know,"

Miles laughed at this, shouting loudly from his place unto the fridge, “bro, it’s always been like this. Welcome to frat camp!”

A tall blonde guy wearing a holey hoodie and basketball shorts stopped at the steps of the boys cabin. He set down several cases of cheap beer and leaned against the railing, tossing a football up and down.

"Is this cabin six?" He asked. "Heard y’all was having a big party tonight."

"Yeah, bro come on in," Ethan replied, remembering him and Oz telling some of the other cabins to come around tonight.  

Word had seemed to spread on its own after that. As the sun dipped lower behind the trees, more boys drifted toward Cabin Six in small groups, some bringing snacks, others carrying speakers or folding chairs they had borrowed from somewhere. A camp wide party quickly forming, the cabin filling with conversation that spilled loudly out onto the porch and into the clearing beyond.

Watching everyone arrive, Ethan reached into his pocket and absentmindedly felt the monkey's paw. It had gone cold and when he pulled it out, all three fingers were tightly curled once more, looking like nothing more than an old, dried curiosity. He stared at it for a second before tossing it into the back of a drawer, where it disappeared beneath a pile of forgotten odds and ends. He had a rager to throw, this was frat camp after all.

Ever since we got to the beach, my son's been acting different…

At first I convinced myself it was just vacation excitement. Tyler had spent the entire six-hour drive curled up in the passenger seat with a dense fantasy novel balanced on his knees, occasionally interrupting his reading to point out historical facts about the towns we passed through. That was my son, or what he used to be like, bookish, quiet, endlessly curious, and so painfully shy that ordering his own food at restaurants still made him nervous. I was grateful for a son who loved to spend time with his mom, in just wished he’d spent more time with kids his age. A week by the ocean seemed like exactly what we needed before school started again.

Our rental overlooked a long stretch of white sand, and Tyler had barely carried his suitcase inside before announcing he was going down to the beach. That alone wasn't strange, but he was gone for nearly three hours. I eventually wandered down to look for him, expecting to find him collecting shells or sitting alone with a book.

Instead, he was in the midst of people.Three college-aged guys were throwing a football back and forth while Tyler laughed with them comfortably. I stood there for a moment, shocked, convinced I'd somehow mistaken another teenager for my son, until he caught the football one-handed and flashed me a grin.

"There you are, Mom!" He jogged over, spinning the football effortlessly on one finger.

"I didn't know you played football," I said.

He looked nervous for a second, but flashed a casual smile. "I don't really play. Just messed around once or twice?"

That answer was wrong. Tyler had never been interested in sports. When he'd been twelve, he'd hidden in the bathroom during gym class to avoid playing flag football. He'd once explained the complete rules of a fictional wizard duel to me over dinner but he didn’t know how many points a touchdown was worth.

 Now he tossed the football back with a perfect spiral before returning to the game without another thought. I watched him for several confused minutes before heading back to the house, telling myself this was a good thing.

The next morning surprised me even more, Tyler wandered into the kitchen shirtless, rubbing sleep from his eyes while asking if we had any eggs. I was so shocked, I nearly dropped the coffee pot.

He'd always been thin, not unhealthy, just lanky and thin in the way teenagers often are before they fill out. Overnight, though, his frame seemed to have changed. His shoulders looked wider, his chest firmer, and faint definition outlined his arms and stomach. It wasn't as though he'd become unrecognizable, but it was still odd, like months of puberty had hit in a day. My son didn’t look like someone who spent every afternoon gaming online, but an active youth who regularly swam and played beach volleyball 

"You've been working out?" I asked.

He glanced down at himself, looking genuinely puzzled. "I mean... not really."

"You look different."

He laughed. "Probably just the lighting."

Then he opened the refrigerator, grabbed half the leftovers from dinner, and started eating directly over the sink. Tyler usually complained if two foods on his plate touched, maybe it was just puberty.

But over the next few days, the little changes kept piling up. His glasses disappeared sometime after our second morning and when I asked where they'd gone, he frowned at me in confusion.

"What glasses?"

"The ones you've worn since second grade."

He blinked a few times before laughing. "Oh. Those. I guess I don't really need them anymore."

"You don't need prescription lenses anymore?"

"I can see fine."

His personality shifted just as quickly. The shy teenager who once rehearsed conversations before speaking to strangers now struck up conversations with anyone who happened to walk by. He greeted surfers like old friends, joined pickup volleyball games without being invited, and somehow knew everyone's name within hours of meeting them, it was like he was a completely different kid.

Even the way he spoke had changed, everything was "awesome.", everything was "sick.”, and everyone was "bro.", even me. Over dinner, he asked to rent paddleboards,  as opposed to visiting the local bookstore. When I suggested spending an afternoon at the aquarium, he gave me an amused look.

"Mom, fish are way cooler when they're actually in the ocean." He sounded so sure of that that I almost laughed. But then I remembered Tyler had once cried during a nature documentary when a shark ate a seal.

The more I noticed these things, the more I felt a crippling sense of unease. Sure it could be puberty, but nothing I’d ever read in preparation for this had mentioned a total 180 in personality and almost instantaneous growth. The more time went on, the more a strange terrifying thought began to emerge, this wasn’t my son.

But I tried to brush that thought away, but something even more horrifying was what was starting to happen to my memories. As if my own mind was trying to convince me he'd always been this way.

 I'd remember him winning the middle school science fair. Then, moments later, I'd hesitate, Hadn't he won the regional surfing competition that same year? That couldn't be right, but could it?

The memories overlapped like photographs left in the sun too long, each version fading into the other until I couldn't tell which one had come first. By the fifth day of our vacation, I found myself staring at my son from across the beach, trying desperately to remember what he'd looked like before we arrived. 

That evening I tried to prove it to myself, prove it before I forgot what I needed to prove. 

After Tyler had gone out to meet friends for a bonfire, I sat at the kitchen table with my phone and began scrolling through old photos. I remembered birthdays spent at museums, afternoons building model castles out of cardboard, Halloween costumes stitched together to match whatever fantasy series he was obsessed with that year. There should have been hundreds of pictures.

Instead, I found beach after beach, Tyler surfing at ten, smiling with a sun-bleached group of friends at twelve. I found a photo of him standing proudly beside a fishing boat at fourteen, his arm slung around my shoulders while we both laughed into the camera.

I frowned. I couldn’t remember the last time we had stepped foot on a dock, much less an actual boat. I opened another picture, but it was the same boat, just a slightly different angle. A cold knot settled in my stomach as I zoomed in on my own face. My hair looked shorter than I remembered wearing it. My skin was deeply tanned, and there were laugh lines around my eyes that hadn't been there a week ago. The timestamp insisted the photo had been taken three years earlier, but I had no recollection of that day. 

That night, I dreamed I stood ankle-deep in moonlit water while the tide rolled gently around my feet. Pale figures drifted just beyond the waves, their faces hidden beneath shimmering reflections. I tried to ask who they were, but seawater filled my mouth instead of words. It tasted warm, and bitter and when I woke, my pillow smelled faintly of salt and the taste was still in my mouth. 

I couldn’t ignore changes after that, I found myself waking earlier every morning, eager to get outside before the crowds reached the beach. Sitting indoors suddenly felt unbearable. Even my body felt different, the walk to the beach no longer left me winded. Carrying coolers and folding chairs seemed effortless. My shoulders ached with the dull soreness that followed long days of swimming, despite the fact that I couldn't remember going into the water for more than a few minutes.

When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I couldn't decide whether my reflection had actually changed or whether I was imagining it. My face looked wider and there was more gray in my hair than I remembered, but somehow it suited me.

But I didn't realize the extent of my own changes until Tyler commented.

"You've gotta stop wearing those shoes," he laughed one afternoon. "Come on, Dad. Bare feet are way better."

One of the words stuck out to me, and I stopped walking.

"What did you call me?"

He looked genuinely confused. "...Dad?"

"I'm your mother." 

"Good one."He laughed, assuming I was joking. Then he jogged ahead toward the volleyball nets before I could say another word.

 I stood frozen in the sand, and it all hit me in a rush. I looked down and saw myself as if for the first time. 

Broad feet buried in the sand, tanned and roughened by years of walking barefoot over hot beaches. The toenails were clipped short and unpolished, the skin across the heels thick with calluses that hadn't come overnight.

My legs were huge. Powerful calves flexed as I shifted my weight, corded with lean muscle. My thighs stretched the faded board shorts I had been wearing all week, massive and athletic from countless mornings paddling through surf and afternoons chasing waves. I had a solid, capable frame that looked like it had been built by years of intense training and testosterone.

"No..." my deep voice coming out warm and easy. I stumbled toward the nearest restroom by the parking lot, nearly tripping as unfamiliar muscles carried me forward with an effortless confidence that felt completely alien. Looking in the mirror I saw a stranger staring back.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe a little older. Tall and broad enough that he nearly filled the narrow mirror. Thick, dark curls sat in loose disarray, still damp with seawater despite the fact that I couldn't remember swimming today.

His face was handsome in an uncomplicated sort of way. Square jaw hidden beneath a neatly kept mustache and short beard. Sun-darkened skin that spoke of years spent outdoors instead in the fluorescent lights of an office. Laugh lines rested comfortably around bright eyes that had spent a lifetime squinting into reflected sunlight.

His shoulders seemed impossibly wide. Rounded deltoids flowed into thick, muscular arms that looked strong without seeming sculpted. They were the sort of muscles earned by hauling surfboards, carrying coolers, throwing footballs with neighborhood kids, and lifting children onto broad shoulders to watch fireworks over the water.

One arm disappeared beneath an intricate sleeve tattoo that wrapped from shoulder almost to wrist. Dark ink curled around every muscle, waves, geometric patterns, sea life, roman numerals crossed part of my forearm. A weathered sports watch rested comfortably against my wrist, its band permanently faded by years of sun and salt.

My chest rose and fell beneath a scattering of dark hair. Not bodybuilder enormous, but thick with practical strength. Broad pectorals softened just enough to make me look approachable rather than intimidating. A dark dusting of hair started at my chest and went down lower still. Covering a firm stomach that showed the faint outline of abs beneath healthy layers earned from beach cookouts. 

I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, a smile that came far too naturally. I splashed water on my face. When I looked back up, the panic in my expression already seemed ridiculous.

Why was I freaking out, I'd always looked like this. My gaze drifted over my tattoos. I remembered getting the first one after Tyler was born, a sea turtle near my shoulder. The memory was so vivid, the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the smell of antiseptic and little Tyler asleep in his stroller while the artist worked.

Outside, I heard my son shouting. "Dad! You coming or what?"

I stepped outside into the sunlight, catching the volleyball Tylor tossed me with one hand.

Tyler grinned. "Nice one, old man"

I looked at my son, his wind swept curls the same dark color as mine, His shoulders broad over his well maintained body.  He balanced and stood outstretched like a sunbathing golden retriever, gripping a football with his right hand. We always came out in the evenings to throw a ball back and forth. A tradition since I'd taught him how to throw at 5.

I remembered a five-year-old Tyler, laughing while I steadied his tiny board. I remembered his first successful ride, not that day, but a few weeks later. He used to throw a fit every time he had to school, gasp, 10 minutes away from the beach. He'd much rather spend a day in the water than inside with a book.

I looked at my son, who was gesturing impatiently. I must have missed him saying something. "Sorry. Guess I zoned out."

He grinned and shook his head, "Race you to the water?"

"You're on."

I yelled and shook the kid off me, red on my arm from where he bit me. Luckily for me his big brother had seen the whole thing, thanking me for keeping him from falling after he had tripped. My injury looked like little more than a surface scratch, despite a lot of blood, but the surfer dude insisted on getting alcohol and bandages. 

They turned out to be unnecessary as it seemed the blood must have come from the boy's mouth. My arm didn't have a mark on it. You'd think that would have been the end of it, but the older boy, who introduced himself as bodhi, wanted my name and address, and kept asking me to see some special doctor he knew. I just drove away, not wanting any hippie herbal treatments, and I figured that was the last I would see of them. 

I had forgotten all about the encounter, but a month later, a sudden knock startled me. Answering, I found bodhi waiting on my front porch. My sudden scowl made him step back and raise his hands. "Sorry to bother you. I tracked you down through your license plate." Considering the trouble he must have gone through to find me, I sighed and waited. When I did not invite her in, she said "My... um, lil bro. He like, startled when he started to fall and fear made him react bad to your grab." 

I nodded, hoping to speed him on his merry way. The young man flushed, then said "I know it seemed like nothing, but he really did bite you. And that was your blood." At my dubious look, he continued. "You just healed super fast. It's like the infection doesn't want to be known about" He sighed. "Like a Werewolf curse." OK, he was a nutcase, probably high on weed right now too.

“Um, right. Well, I haven't tried to chase cars, but I'll keep that in mind, OK?" I started to shut the door, only to have him persist. 

"Teddy isn't really my brother. He's my Gramps." That comment made me make a renewed effort to get him to leave. 

"Sir, I need you to leave. Please." I could see he wanted to argue, but then shook his head. 

"I'II go." I watched him return to his scrappy truck and drive away, resolving not to answer

the door to strangers for a while.  At least until it started to turn dark, Trick or Treating started at 6 PM. I stepped out to check my porch light and noticed that we had a full moon. then suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. 

I grabbed the side of the house and then staggered into the yard, expecting to throw up. As I did, my jeans cut off at my knees, the excess Dinum dropping to my ankles, making me nearly fall over. The sick feeling passed, leaving me bewildered by the sudden cool breeze on my chest, which was somehow now bare?

 I stared as I lifted each leg, easily pulling free of the pooled up fabric of my pants. Muscular, hairless legs and smooth bronze skin. They looked like they had spent countless hours in full sun. My (also tan) hands jerked up to feel a hairless chiseled face, long blonde hair hanging in my eyes, just like… "Dude." I recoiled from the deep slow voice, which I remembered from earlier that day. Turning, I saw Bodhi looking at me with a sad smile.

 "There was always a chance that you would be immune, or there wouldn't be enough change for you to notice much." He remained where he was, hands by his sides. "But it looks like you got hit full force. As far as I can tell, you are just like anyone else hit with the surf wave" I looked at my arms, biceps bigger than my head used to be and then up at the night sky.

 "Am I going to turn into a monster?" I asked, my voice cracking like I’m going through puberty. 

He shook his head beneath his green hoodie. "You aren't a werewolf. And you won't change again." That last was said with such finality that I looked back at him, puzzled. 

The surfer sighed. "Lil dude is only contagious during the full moon. He was hit with a weird variant of the wave, cursed to always be a little surfer boy instead of a young adult. None of us can figure it out.  I knew I should have kept him home, but even though he misbehaves a lot, he's never bitten anyone in all the months since he changed. Until you." 

I stared, comprehension dawning. "But that means..." He

 nodded. "Grandpas was like 80 years old, and now he’s 12 years old. His mind is that of the child too, now memories of his past life. And, I'm afraid, you will be joining him in that

too." I wanted to deny this, but even as he spoke I realized I couldn't remember half of my life. 

He held out a hand. "I'm sorry, we don’t normally transform those who don’t truly need to be something else. But at least you won't be alone, there’s a lot of us now. You, me, and the lil guy are related too it seems. And with me and him as brothers, that will at least be easier than being alone." 

I stare at his outstretched hand and then back at a house I can't even remember living in anymore. Then I slap his palm in a dab up and let him lead me toward towards the truck he shares with me. I am confused, the past fading and new stuff filling in the gaps, but not sad. Actually, I am getting excited to meet new friends I have never met before, and a lil bro. Even if he was the one who turned me into a were-surfer.