Normal TFs

Harry had signed up for the class as a joke. His office offered various employee discounts to encourage health and wellness. Baseball tickets, golf memberships, pickleball lessons–anything to get their employees out and active and not to become financial liabilities. When Harry had been scrolling through the options with his fellow queers, they had all laughed upon discovering a class titled “Yoga for Men.” It declared that after one session it could “awaken your masculinity!” They all agreed Harry had to register; the group then made plans after the class so they could discuss the experience over drinks.

Like the prettiest poodle at a dog show, Harry strutted onto the roof-top terrace in his best attire: a matching black ensemble that hung loose but still showcased his smooth, flexible form. He was no stranger to yoga, having practiced regularly since graduation, so he was surprised to see that no equipment was required. “Bring nothing but an open mind!” Cheesy, but Harry obliged, finding a spot in the back.

The other men found their positions and eventually the instructor walked onto the green. He was massive, a size only suited for bodyguards. For a moment Harry worried that he had entered the wrong class.

“Yoga for Men!” the instructor called out like an army cry, silencing Harry’s worries. “After 60 minutes each of you will reach your true masculine potential. Are you ready?”

Some of the men called back. Harry found it pathetic: were they trying to rush some frat? “I said: Are You READY?!”

A bit fearfully, Harry and the rest of the men shouted a quick “Yes!”, satisfying the instructor. “Good, we will start with Warrior II.”

The instructor oriented himself into a variation of the pose. It became apparent right away that due to his size, the instructor was certainly not fit to teach yoga. He was anything but flexible, making Harry cockier as he showcased his perfect form. Like a snake Harry slithered his arms out smoothly. Some of the other men tried to do the same, but none held the pose as delicately as him. 

“Impressive.” The instructor’s eyes swept the lawn before him, clearly disinterested. “Now we are going to move down onto the ground. On all fours.”

Harrison mentally prepared as he lowered himself. His bet was on Downward Dog being next.

“Our next pose is called ‘Top Her’.”

Harry held back a cough. There was no way a pose was called that. But the instructor calmly shifted into the so-called position, with his elbow arched slightly towards his knees. Harry felt himself blush as the instructor then began to drive his pelvis slightly down and forward. There was something carnal about the motion, private and unfamiliar.

Harry did not want to follow the instructor’s guidance, but after realizing all the other men had begun performing the “Top Her” pose, he found himself doing so anyway. At first the position was a bit uncomfortable; Harry was impressed by the exertion that was required from his arms. Legitimate pose or not, it certainly was an exercise for the thinner limbs. After a while though, Harry became more comfortable thanks to the increasing strength in his biceps and triceps. Every thrust brought a little more meat to his bones. By the time the instructor called out the next position, Harry’s upper arms were tight against his sleeves with veins coursing down to his larger hands.

The “Toolbox” pose was next, another Harry was unfamiliar with. The instructor got up and squatted slightly, forcing his bottom out towards the class. With his gargantuan arms, he reached down and arched his back. Then he lifted the “toolbox,” thrusting his midsection forward in the process. Again the instruction looked ridiculous: the man was clearly doing some kind of squat rather than actual yoga. But all the others followed along, so Harry did too.

Drop down, push out, pull up, shove in. The cycle repeated itself swiftly at first, but after a while Harry began to slow down. His legs were feeling heavier, weighed down in a way he was unfamiliar with. He did not realize that with every squat his thighs grew slightly thicker, his calves slightly rounder. The hair Harry had shaved away quietly grew back, tickling the edges of his shorts as they crawled farther and farther up his expanding quads. 

“This next one is the ‘Motorboat’!” the instructor yelled. Harry, surprising himself, silently sighed in relief. His lower body felt tense, tighter than ever before. Before he could dwell on it further the instructor began his demonstration of the next pose. Although the position was new to him, Harry assumed it had to be mimicking a literal watercraft. Would he be grasping an imaginary steering wheel? Instead, the instructor threw his behind out and faced the class, placing his hands on either side of his head. With a sly grin, the instructor stuck out his tongue and began wiggling his massive body left to right. Harry’s already low expectations for the class plunged further: the instructor had been referencing a different type of "motorboat."

Shaking his head, Harry refused to partake. It was demeaning to women, and he was gay! Yet the prickly thorns of peer pressure got to him as one by one the other men fell forward into their imaginary pairs of fake breasts. Harry was the final student to surrender. He felt humiliated at first, and a bit confused due to his lack of experience. But eventually he grew more consistent, which helped him become more confident. The active position also helped fatten up Harry’s back-end, every vibration plumping his buttocks and gently closing his hole. 

“Now stretch those arms up and behind!” the instructor commanded, and without hesitation Harry followed. A small tear cried out from Harry’s shirt. Harry adjusted to investigate, but the instructor shouted: “Under and up again!” Harry obliged and again another tear, although this one sounded a little more dramatic. 

“There’s multiple names for this position,” the instructor announced as Harry and his classmates continued. Up, back, under, rip! “Some call it the ‘Pitcher,’ others the ‘Weed-Whacker’.” Up, back, under, ripppp! “Me? I call it the ‘Spanker’!”

The instructor let out a boisterous guffaw, the laugh bouncing around inside his tank of an abdomen. He was clearly proud of himself and was validated by the vocal applause from some of his students. Harry was subconsciously smirking, too busy to recognize his own response as he was focusing on his movement. Every swing hardened his core, pumping it larger. A cold breeze tickled the hairs on his chest, but Harry did not flinch. He was not bothered by the fact that hairs now existed on his chest, or that the cold breeze signaled his shirt had fallen away. 

Slowly, the instructor regained control of himself and moved the class into the cool-down set. The students were told to take a seat on the grass, stretching out their legs before them. Harry found himself oddly delighted by how cushioned his seat was.

“Airing out is crucial to a good workout…I mean yoga,” the instructor caught himself. Nobody made a comment, so the instructor continued. “Let’s start by reaching towards the heavens. That item on the top shelf that only a man could grab.”

Harry obeyed silently. His arms stretched up, up, up; much farther than he had expected. A strange scent tickled his nose after a few seconds of holding the pose. It was sharp and musky, foreign to his senses. Harry then became distracted by the crawling sensation emerging from his armpits. Thick hairs twisted and twirled into wispy bushes, tickling his underarms. Because of this, Harry struggled to stay in his position, forced to resist the urge to scratch. When he finally caved, Harry found himself struggling to maneuver his own arms. He felt heftier, bulkier. Finally the itch was scratched, and without thinking about it, Harry brought his fingers to his nose to sniff.

“Now time for the legs. Gotta make sure your in shape for leg day.”

The students followed orders and stretched out their lower limbs.

“Let’s air out the dogs too!” the instructor said. “Arch those soles and let those bad boys expel their manly funk.”

Harry’s feet tingled inside his shoes, expanding outwards. The fabric quickly became tight.

“As men you need feet that can carry you and your family, hold the weight of your responsibilities, and stomp out any dissenters!” Harry winced as one of his big toes shot through the lining of his shoe, causing a major tear to separate the remaining materials. His other foot remained enclosed, barely.

“And you know what they say about guys with big feet,” the instructor added. Harry’s bulge surged forward, as if in a race with his feet to see who could grow faster. They finished in a tie but shared the prize for size and masculinity.

The instructor, proud of the sea of men now seated before him, smiled wide. “In traditional yoga, classes are often ended by saying ‘Namaste.’ In Yoga for Men though, we end our session by saying ‘I’m-not-gay’.”

The instructor then ended the class as demonstrated; his students conformed appropriately and followed. Slowly, Harrison arose from his spot in the back, his body uncomfortably sore. It was not the kind of aching that he was familiar with after years of strength training. This tension reminded Harrison that he was not built to be flexible and “delicate.” Those bodies were for women and faggots, and Harrison was definitely neither.

“Thanks for the class, bro,” Harrison said as he passed by the instructor. Something in the back of his mind told him it was strange that they were similar in size. “Don’t think I’ll ever do it again though.”

The instructor laughed. “Good, yoga is for pussies.”

Like a trigger, Harrison grabbed at his pouch, feeling something stir within him. 

The instructor nodded knowingly. “Yoga for Women is on the third floor.”

When Dustin’s uncle passed away, neither he nor his boyfriend Carl had expected for him to be the sole heir of all his earthly possessions. There was some logic to this decision as Dustin was the only grandchild on his father’s side. However, Dustin and his uncle had never really gotten along. Either way, Dustin had to take a few weeks off from the nonprofit he worked at to clean out his uncle’s house and prepare it for the market. The house was buried in suburbia, far enough out that Carl would not be able to assist due to his academic responsibilities.

“Don’t worry, think of it as a little vacation away from me,” Dustin had joked before giving his boyfriend a goodbye kiss. “I’ll make sure to call as often as I can.”

Both of them knew Carl would never pick up, as he was often too tied down to his studies. The transcripts were their silent love language. Whenever Carl had the opportunity–over lunch, on a walk, in the bathroom–he would open his missed calls and read over his boyfriend’s monologue to catch up on his day.

—

"Hey honey-bunches, it’s me, your long-lost love. To think I’m only an hour or so away from our apartment and it’s like a whole different world out here. Everyone is constantly mowing, grilling, or driving a car meant to seat seven or more. Every time I get back to my uncle’s house I think I’ve escaped this alternative universe only to find myself tricked. You would not believe how straight this place is. Old posters, neon beer signs. There are pictures in his office from when he was on the football team in high school. It’s all kinda nauseating, and apparently the distaste is mutual. Everyone here gives me and my little Honda strange looks whenever I go out. It must be against the law for a man to dye his hair I guess. Anyway, after a long first day I’m hoping to just lay back in my uncle’s old recliner and watch some tv. Before I left this morning I made you some cupcakes–please enjoy!"

—

"Hey honey, I miss you so much already. I know it’s only been a couple of days but I’m starting to feel like I’m losing sense of time. Every wall is white, every person here is white too. I long for your touch and crave your undivided attention. That is, when you're not studying and being important of course, wink wink. My days have been pretty dull so far. Mostly paperwork and divvying out some duties here and there. On my list for tomorrow is visiting the local church. Turns out my uncle was their resident financial advisor among other duties. There’s some documents I unfortunately have to sign off in-person, which now that I think about it I don’t think I brought any appropriate clothes to wear. Maybe I could dig through my uncle’s closet and borrow something?...oh yeah, anyway I’ve got the tv thing figured out. Turns out all I had to do was re-register my uncle’s account. It took me a bit to get through the facial identification sequence–I swear I watched that loading screen spiral on forever, “recognizing” me–but yeah I’m in. Think I’ll just kick back for the rest of the night and chill.”

—

"Carl! Can you believe it’s already the weekend? I’m sorry I’ve forgotten to call in a while, things have just gotten so bogged down here. What I thought was going to be a simple task has turned out to be quite the project. Thank God I took off so much time; turns out I really needed a break from the nonprofit. Speaking of work, I’ve been able to tidy up a few loose ends with my uncle’s business. You’d be surprised how easy it is to assure clients that 'their money’s in good hands.' Some of them remain worried though, so I’ve scheduled a few in-person meetings to settle things. My uncle’s assistant, Gabby, has been a huge help in this process. She’s even offered to show me around town tonight, a grand tour followed by dinner. Maybe I can double dip the outfit I already chose for church tomorrow. Can you imagine it: me in church? Neither can I, but the pastor has asked for me to step into my uncle’s role as long as I’m in town. What can I say, I’m a people-pleaser. Anyway, might as well go watch some tv before my night begins. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

—

"Hey, I saw your message. Sorry about missing that deadline to renew our lease. Been so bogged down with clients and other stuff. Every night once I’m done I either plop myself in front of the tv or go out with my uncle’s friends. I didn’t think I’d take such a liking to them; you’d be surprised by how much we have in common. Anyway, I don’t think I’ve ever drank so much beer in my life! And I think it’s showing–I’ve started wearing more of my uncle’s closet because my designer shirts no longer fit. They must’ve shrunk in the wash but I don’t know, I feel like I’m bulking up a bit. Luckily my uncle had pretty generic taste, his polos and shorts could cover any man. His suits fit me pretty well too–I might honestly snag them for myself. All right, I need to start getting ready for tonight. Gabby has asked me to accompany her to some festivities. To be her date! I think you’d really like her. She’s pretty basic but in a calming way, like you never have to try so hard to be something special around her.”

—

"Leaving you a message on my way to work. After you abruptly hung up last night, I just watched some tv and felt myself melt into the chair. I hadn’t realized how angry we had both gotten. I understand you’re stressed but I feel like you aren’t recognizing that I’m stressed too. Yes I’ve been busy managing my uncle’s estate but it’s come with a lot of responsibilities too. I now have clients to take care of plus a house and lawn and a truck and a whole lot more. Don’t get me started on the social responsibilities too. I don’t think you understand how much I’m doing over here, being the adult and all. I’ve got a stacked day and then I’m heading over to watch the game with the neighbors. It’s supposed to be a wild match tonight, you should take a break and catch it. That reminds me I need to stop by the liquor store after work…”

—

"Hey buddy, just checkin’ in. I don’t got long–Gabby’s got a big surprise for me tonight apparently–but I haven’t heard from you since my last voicemail. I know we haven’t been on the same page recently but I think a lot has just changed since I’ve moved here. I got my first paycheck since taking over my uncle’s position; I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many digits in my bank account before. The boys took me out shopping to celebrate. They’ve been trying to get me into golf, and after a few rounds at the simulator and I was hooked. My church obligations have been going really swell too. The pastor has asked me to stay on full-time. I should admit I’ve been considering it, but obviously that would mean I would have to move. You know the wifey would love that! Oh yeah, that’s become my new nickname for Gabby: wifey. She’s always taking care of me, cooking my meals and ironing my clothes. The button-ups have never looked better. Ding! Oh, that must be here. Anyway, call me when you can.”

—

"Hey uh…saw I just missed your call, sport. My bad. Hopefully it wasn’t anything…unnh…too important. Maybe I can…oh yeah…call you back later? I’m probably free uh…oh fuck Gabby, yeah right there…mmm you like that? You like my cock? Say it. I like your cock. You love it. I love your cock! Yeah…oh yeahhh…oh, right. Uh…unnh…unnh!...I think I’m free-eeuh! Fuck Gabby who taught you that? I wanna fill you up. I wanna make you my…myyuhh…unnh! unnh!...my wiuhh-wiuhh-wif…take my seed! Fuckin’ take unnh! my kids and unnh! be my unnh WIFFFEEE!!! unnnnnnhhhhhaaaaa!!!!!!.......................................Lordy...I’m…so blessed to have you...Gabby…fuckkk………oh right, uhhh…I call you later, kiddo…”

—

A month after the final voicemail, Carl arrived at the home of Dustin’s uncle. He had not heard from his boyfriend since that last missed call, but Carl had also not tried to contact him during that time. He was surprised to find the house looking quite lively–lights on, driveway filled, lawn obsessively maintained. The house could not have been on the market for long if a family had moved in already.

Passing the cross and Blue Lives Matter decals on the back end of the truck, Carl made his way to the front door. His hand moved to the doorbell but paused. His eyes lingered over to a nearby window, displaying a scene of suburban opulence. In the living room sat multiple heterosexual couples, enjoying a variety of safe party snacks and cheap beers around the television.

Each of them appeared fairly identical in their basic shirts and dresses, their pale skin broadcasting their privilege and normalcy. One however stuck out to Carl: the man in the red polo. By the way he was lounging Carl could tell he was the homeowner: his feet on the table, his baritone proudly broadcasting throughout the room. The man was confident of his standing and proud of his suburban kingdom. The expensive watch on his wrist declared “I am a man of power,” the ring on his finger said “I am a man who takes what he wants.”

Jace and Casey giggled like school girls as they snuck into the stadium. The majority of the students had gone home for the fall break, hoping to recover from the onslaught of midterms they had endured. The two sophomores had other plans in mind though, deciding to spend the week like young lovers often do. They had sex in their dorm rooms, sex in temporarily-abandoned classrooms, sex in between the bookshelves of the library. It was Jace who had had the idea to do it in the empty stadium, the crown gem of the university.

“Let’s show it to the establishment!” Jace had said as they snuck through hallways. The bottom of the two, Jace acted as if he was on some political mission. Having gay sex in the football stadium was symbolic in a way Casey did not understand nor care. Eventually, they made it to the locker rooms but found themselves stopped by an electronically locked door.

“Now what?” Casey asked. He was dressed as he usually was, baggy jeans and even baggier hoodie. He liked to keep things low maintenance, hence why he opted for a buzzcut.

With a wicked grin, Jace grabbed a small screwdriver from his pocket. Unlike Casey, Jace was wearing a tight ensemble including a tiny tee and fashionable black pants. Casey had expected Jace to use the screwdriver as intended, but instead his partner jammed it into the key card scanner. Its tiny green light flashed orange and then red; a small ping signaled defeat as the door unlocked.

“Jace…”

“No turning back now, right?” Jace answered before ushering the pair into the locker room. Instantly they were sprayed with a sticky mist, the liquid clinging to their pores.

“Looks like you broke more than the door!” Casey yelled, grabbing Jace’s hands and rushing through the strange haze. The pair dashed across the locker room to the other exit, slamming the door behind them. Jace and Casey then gave a once-over of each other’s bodies. They were surprised to find themselves rather dry. 

“What do you think that was?” Casey asked.

“I don’t know,” Jace replied. “Water maybe?”

Casey took a timid sniff. “Kinda smells like body spray.”

Jace mirrored his partner, a small grin coming to his face. “Smells good, bro.”

“‘Bro’?” Casey grimaced. The term had not rolled off Jace's tongue, particularly as hr was the smaller, more feminine of the two.

“I think it’s AXE,” Jace continued. “And if not, Old Spice for sure.”

Before Casey could question how Jace would recognize either of these brands–he was very particular about his fragrances–Casey’s eye caught on Jace’s shirt. A set of buttons had begun to emerge from the fabric, riding on a wave that flattened out into a collar. The fabric itself then lightened into a pastel blue before rippling downwards into a wider fit.

“We need to get out of here, Jace.” For some reason, Casey could not vocalize what he was witnessing: his partner’s black pants cinching up into a pair of plain white athletic shorts. He did not realize his own jeans had done the same, or that his hoodie had upgraded into a polished pink polo to match. “Something’s obviously up, bro.”

“We cAN’t give up now!” Jace’s voice cracked mid-sentence before dropping to a lower register. “The stadium is like, just down this hallway.”

Before Casey could stop him with a thickening hand, Jace paced off into the distance. Casey was surprised to find the footfalls growing louder the farther his partner went. Summoning some strength, Casey went after Jace, his own feet fattening out as his sandals reshaped into larger sneakers.

When Casey finally caught up, the man before him was unrecognizable. Jace was covered head-to-toe in a natural tan, a striking difference from the artificial color he had adorned earlier. He had grown more athletic too–shapelier calves, stronger arms. Jace’s hair had fluffed into a trendy mullet and his face had sharpened into a squarer shape. He had undergone some sort of TikTok-ification, as if Jace’s being was now structured by the algorithm.

“This is exactly what I wanted to see, bro!” There was a lack of personality behind Jace’s words. “This stadium is exactly why I chose this school.”

“I thOUGht-” Casey coughed. “I thought we came here to have sex. Casey’s voice had lost its depth, no longer strong enough to hold its own.

“Sex? You think I’m some fag, bro?” Jace laughed. “I’ve been fuckin' Tiffany since Orientation, man. I thought you knew that?”

An image of a girl with long, glossy brown hair entered Casey’s mind. Soft and pliant, the type of girl that could easily be manipulated by Jac…Jackson. Casey could see it now, the pair eternally aroused by their own dynamic. Tiffany wanted a man who radiated security and stability–someone with wealth but was not necessarily interesting beyond it. Jackson wanted someone who would not bother him with words of affection or silly feminist ideals.

“Oh yeah, sorry bro.” Casey rubbed his hand across his head, scratching at his stylized sandy waves. 

“You can be so dull sometimes, Cliff.” Jackson shook his head. “If it weren’t for those All-American good looks, I don’t know how Chloe would’ve ever been interested in you.”

Another image flashed, this time of a blonde who was sharp and hungry. She lusted for his thick legs. She licked the sweat off his perfect abs. She told him what to do, how to act, and where it felt good. It was the perfect set-up for Cliff; all he had to do was comply. 

“You’re like, so right, bro huhuhuh…” Cliff’s laugh was empty, as if he had never felt a bit of stress in his life. 

“Anyway, should we head back?” Jackson asked. “I hear the frat’s has got a big party tonight.”

“Sounds awesome, bro!”

The pair took one last look at the stadium before heading back the way they came, unknowingly leaving their past behind.

Accept Message Request?

Frankie looked around the terminal nervously, buzzing with a bit of the excitement that comes from mystery. When he had opened the chat log, he had been surprised to find that his mystery sender was nearby, perhaps even in the same gate as him. Was it the older man sitting with his feet placed wide apart? Perhaps the younger college student displaying his alma mater proudly across his wide chest? The businessman with the red tie? The attendant ignoring his duty at the desk? Honestly, Frankie would have been satisfied with any of these options.

Frankie was not picky when it came to men, and he wanted to get laid fast. His flight was set to take off in an hour. Columbus, Ohio was never anyone’s first choice when traveling, but Frankie had a shoot scheduled in the mid-tier American city the next morning. His agent had said that he was “just the kind of fabulous model the team is looking for!” Frankie had tried not to take the emphasis as offensive.

Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are before? ;)

Frankie blushed, taking a swig of his lavender latte. Just like every other model, he loved attention. 

You like what you see?

Frankie bit his lip, waiting for the reply.

Who wouldn’t? But to be fair, I like any man over six feet.

Frankie frowned, a bit embarrassed. He was only 5’8–every one of his scouting sheets said so. His mystery sender must have believed they were talking with someone else.

You must be at least 6’2. 6’4 actually.

Frankie adjusted himself in his seat, throwing out his long legs a bit farther.

Really? Delicious!

Frankie chuckled, waiting for the other party to continue.

How old are you? 23. Yeah like, two decades ago!

Frankie was surprised by this. His youthfulness was a major part of his brand; smooth edges and glowing skin kept the money rolling in.

Don’t worry, I like a man with a few wrinkles. ;) And I can see those flecks of gray at your temples from here.

Frank considered this, running a hand through his thinner hair. His mystery sender was close enough to spot his crow’s feet from afar and the creases on his forehead. Frank did another sweep of his gate, eliminating a good chunk of strangers from his list of possibles as if he were playing a round of Guess Who?

Alright you caught me. Age ain’t nothing but a number. And besides, I’m too distracted by your body to worry about your face.

Frank nodded, thanking himself for choosing such a tight-fitting outfit earlier this morning. His lithe frame was available for all eyes to see.

You have that kind of body that says “yeah I work out, but I have a life too.” I bet it comes from your job–what do you do for work?

Frank adjusted himself again, a wave of soreness tightening his muscles. He rolled his heavy set of shoulders back and relaxed back into his seat, his meaty frame touching the sides of his armrests. Frank began to type out his response, having to concentrate a little as his fingers took up more space on the keyboard. His mystery sender got to send button first.

Based on the outfit I’d guess something blue collar. Manual labor? Construction consultant.

Frank scratched at the chest hair peeking out from the collar of his cheap tee.

Tall, handsome, muscular–for a girl with daddy issues, you’re certainly the real deal.

Frank stunted his breath, the candidates he had lined up before all falling away. Something was not right; he had to stop this conversation. Unfortunately, his thick fingers were too slow.

I can see the ring from here. Any kids? 2. Boys.

Frank grunted, thinking of his twin sons: Gabriel and Elijah. Although they were still young, they both already had very separate personalities. Gabriel had already joined the swim and debate teams. Elijah had stuck to soccer and Sunday School obligations. 

Lucky man. You must be proud of your wife.

Frank’s mind shifted from his offspring to his woman, a tall blonde named Brenda. They had met at a bar in a suburb outside of Columbus. The wedding came fast, then the kids, then the growth of his construction business. That was why Frank had come out to this dirty city in the first place, to place a strong bid with a potential client. Now all Frank had to do was occupy himself for another 30 minutes, just like he had to on every business trip.

You wanna fuck?

Frank got straight to the point, he was tired of these games.

Family restroom to your right. I’ll go first. Knock on the door in two minutes.