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transform4u · 2 months

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My biological father was a drunk, gassy and musky construction worker who ran away not long after I was born. Do you think I could see what it's like being in his shoes, to better understand his actions?

You sit in your tiny apartment, the cozy space filled with the soft glow of your iPhone 15 Pro Max. Grey's Anatomy plays on Netflix, a rerun that offers comfort in its familiarity. You absentmindedly scroll through Instagram, double-tapping on posts of guys who catch your eye, a small indulgence in the midst of your evening routine.

Your thoughts drift towards your father, a complicated figure in your life. There's a part of you that longs to understand him better, to bridge the gap that seems to have grown between you. You contemplate picking up the phone to call him, wondering if tonight might be the night to break the silence.

Suddenly, the clock on your phone catches your eye. Its numbers begin to rewind, ticking backwards in a surreal reversal. Your sleek iPhone 15 Pro Max begins to morph before your eyes, shrinking and changing into an iPhone X, then an iPhone 6, then further still until it resembles an older, basic model from years past.

The transformation isn't limited to your phone. Your apartment around you starts to shift and change. The modern decor fades away, replaced by the more utilitarian furnishings of a dorm room. The air feels different, charged with a strange energy that sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can make sense of what's happening, the door bursts open with a force that startles you. A tall, robust figure strides in confidently, exuding a familiar but younger vibe. "Sup, bro? Ready to hit the town?" he booms, his voice echoing in the small room.

Your head throbs painfully as you struggle to understand. He continues, a grin spreading across his face, "Need to get fucking wasted! I can't believe Obama got elected. McCain was my man!" He tosses you a beer from a nearby mini-fridge with a nonchalant gesture.

The mention of Obama and McCain strikes you as bizarrely out of place. Those were events from years ago, not recent history as he seems to think. The man sitting beside you now, burping loudly in your ear, looks uncannily like your father—but younger, much younger.

As his echo reverberates through your body, a chill runs down your spine. This surreal encounter defies logic and reason, pulling you deeper into a past that shouldn't be. You're left grappling with the unsettling feeling that you've stumbled into a moment beyond time, where understanding and reality blur into a disorienting haze.

The chill ran down your less-than-average body, a testament to years of neglect and occasional indulgence. You were weather-faced, with a hint of weariness etched into your features. Your clothes, a mismatch of old favorites, hugged uncomfortably close to the bulges and love handles that had crept up over time. Taking a sip of the beer offered by the coyly smiling guy next to you, you felt a strange sensation wash over you, as if your body was shifting, morphing in ways you couldn't comprehend.

Aches spread like a full-body hangover, making you lurch forward slightly. It was a sensation akin to a sudden surge of energy coursing through you, transforming the weight you carried into something stronger. You felt heavy with the potential of pumped-up muscles, ones honed through sporadic workouts and the occasional pick-up football game under the sun. Your chest swelled with an unexpected pride, pushing against the fabric of a worn-out tank top that seemed to fit better now than it had moments ago. Sinewy biceps and veins pulsed visibly under the dim party lights as you raised your drink in a toast, feeling every bit the reckless young college freshman.

Your face, typically unremarkable, now bore a flush from the night's indulgences. Your jawline, softened by the haze of alcohol, relaxed into a carefree grin that spread from ear to ear. Hazel eyes, dulled by the night's revelry, gleamed mischievously under tousled blond hair that caught the party's chaotic energy.

Dressed in classic college attire—khaki shorts that rode comfortably on your hips, showcasing the toned muscles of your thighs, and a faded tank top adorned with the emblem of your fraternity—you felt surprisingly at ease. Well-worn boat shoes adorned your feet, tapping eagerly to the beat of the music as if anticipating the next spontaneous dance move.

In your dorm room, the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and the promise of a wild night ahead. The dude next to you, your roommate, was practically vibrating with excitement as he poured you a shot and shouted, "Let's rage, bro!" You couldn't help but get caught up in his enthusiasm, clinking your shot glass against his and downing the fiery liquid with a cheer.

"To being the best roommates and finding a rager tonight!" he declared, his voice filled with the exuberance of youthful optimism. The burn of whiskey warmed your throat as you joined in his toast, the alcohol quickly beginning to blur the edges of reality.

In an instant, you found yourself transported to a raging frat party. The room pulsed with the infectious beat of "Low" by Flo Rida, reverberating off the walls and mingling with the raucous laughter and shouts of rowdy frat bros. They were everywhere, clad in nothing but backwards baseball caps and gym shorts that showcased their chiseled physiques. Beer dribbled down their defined pecs and abs, catching the light in a tantalizing display that drew your gaze involuntarily.

You felt a strange mix of admiration and arousal, intensified by the haze of alcohol and the charged atmosphere of the party. Your buddy nudged you with a grin, pointing towards a girl across the room. "She's so hot, right?" he asked eagerly, oblivious to the pounding headache that was beginning to throb in your temples.

As "Low" continued to pump through the room, you let out an awkward burp, the taste of whiskey lingering on your tongue. The sound seemed to echo in the chaotic din around you, a stark contrast to the once-clear thoughts that now seemed distant and unreachable. Intelligence slipped away like sand through an hourglass, replaced by a growing sense of intoxication and confusion. "You ain't checking out Zeke and Brock are ya? You ain't no fucking faggot now is ya?" He punches your arm playfully but there's an edge of seriousness in his voice that makes it clear he wouldn't tolerate any homosexual behavior from his friends under any circumstances You look at him, of course you're a fucking fag---a homo---gay. But a pain and rage coarse through you "I ain't no fag! That's fucking gross bro. You know I need dat fine pussy over there" pointing to some slutty looking blonde girl.

Your desire to breed and dominate women burns bright within you, pushing away any thoughts of being a sissy or gay. You point to the blonde across the room whose curves have captured your attention entirely. A part of you knows what it means to be gay – a pain and rage course through you at just thinking about it – but all rational thought flees as lust takes over. All that matters now is claiming this woman for yourself; breeding her and proving once again who holds court here tonight. With every step she takes closer towards where both of you stand, primal instincts kick into high gear: blood rushes southward leaving nothing but pure adrenaline coursing through veins primed for action! It's time for dominance –

As the blonde chick approaches, your desire to breed and fuck chicks burns hotter than ever. The thought of being a fag recedes into the background, replaced by primal urges that demand satisfaction.

You sneer at the very idea of being a fag, letting out a low growl as rage builds within you. You couldn't wait to punch some sissy senseless and prove your dominance once more – but for now, this woman has captured all your attention. Her huge tits sway seductively in time with every step she takes towards where both of you stand; it feels like an animal in heat ready to be claimed by its mate!

You flex your muscles as best you can in your tight t-shirt and approach her confidently. "Hey there beautiful," you say smoothly, as slight Jersey accent forming, flashing a pearly white smile that might be charming if it wasn't so obvious that you were already well past drunk. She giggles at your flirtation before introducing herself as Ashley. With a playful wink, she invites you to join her on the dance floor where The Killers' "Mr Brightside" is playing loudly enough for everyone to sing along with gusto.

The night seems endless; filled with more alcohol than food and countless conversations about nothing important at all - just like every other frat party ever thrown by these guys who think they know how to have fun but really don't understand much beyond getting wasted and trying not think too hard about tomorrow morning when reality will inevitably come crashing back down on them again.

"I'm uhhh---ummm" it's not that your drunk, which you are, but you can't even rememebr your name "I'm uhhh---Tanner, hahaha but everyone calls me T-Dawg," you say, your voice thick with confidence your accent deepening. As if on cue, a deep unnatural tan washes over your skin while gel coats every strand of hair on your head. A gawdy gold necklace wraps itself around your neck as if it were always meant to be there. Looking like a Jersey Shore reject.

You take Ashley by the hand and lead her over to a ratty, beer-stained couch in the corner of the room. She hesitates for a moment before following you – perhaps she can sense what's about to happen next or maybe she just wants it as much as you do.

Once seated on the couch, you force her head down towards your crotch without hesitation or remorse. The smell of sweat, beer and musk fills the air; it's intoxicatingly familiar yet new at once – like being wrapped up in an old blanket after coming home from war. The scent makes you feel like an alpha male through and through – unstoppable force ready for anything life throws at him! She takes hold of your hardened shaft with one hand while using her tongue expertly against its sensitive underside; moans escape her breathlessly. With each stroke upwards towards your tip followed by retreat back down again (and sometimes sideways too), you grunt approvingly knowing that soon enough you will find yourselves lost within each other completely oblivious to everything else.

Ashley's eyes widen in surprise as she stares up at you while your cock throbs inside her mouth. With a primal roar, you let go of all control and release your load directly into her face, causing her to gag on the thick cum that spurts out of you like a geyser. She quickly pulls back with a look of shock mixed with arousal before standing up and brushing off her hands like nothing happened.

"Now be a good bitch and get me a beer," you slur drunkenly, using the only word in your vocabulary that seems appropriate for this situation. Ashley giggles vapidly before turning around and walking away without another word - clearly already planning on finding someone else to satisfy her needs since yours were so easily fulfilled just moments ago.

As the night wears on, you and your buddy continue to live up to your reputation as fearless bro-conquistadors. Between shots of tequila and chugging beers straight from the keg, you take turns seeing who can faaaaarrrrrrrrt the loudest without holding back. PFFFFFFFFFFFFT The smell is pungent enough that it makes most of the other bros at the party recoil in disgust but neither one of you seem to care - instead choosing to revel in your newfound gas-passing skills as if they were some sort of art form all their own.

Between fart battles and flirting with every half-dressed girl who crosses your path, memories start blurring together into a hazy montage: flashes of bodies grinding against each other on dance floors filled with strobe lights; faces contorted into drunken smiles underneath twinkling strings lights hanging from trees outside; laughter ringing out through crowded rooms packed full from wall-to-wall people desperate for fun before they have responsibilities tomorrow morning.

After a while, you black out. When you wake up, it's in your dorm room – but something is off. The smell of the loudest, most obnoxious fart assaults your senses as soon as you open your eyes. "Dude," says your roommate and best friend from across the room, "you fucking stink."

You feel yourself through last night's hangover; morning wood still firmly in place despite it being 9 AM. Your buddy tosses you a beer without any hesitation or judgment; he knows exactly what kind of college bro life is all about! And so do you – there's nothing quite like starting the day with a cold one before heading out to class or whatever else life throws at them on any given day… Even if that means letting loose an enormous burp right into his face after taking that first sip from his freshly opened can of beer… Because fuck yeah! College was awesome!

As you get ready for the day, you see yourself in the mirror – and what do you see? A dumbass, loud-mouthed obnoxious college freshman! A total Jersey Shore fratbro.

Your roommate high-fives you as if to say "Let's make 2008 are fucking bitch bro!" It turns out that not only are you living in the past now but with the dude that used to be your dad! Not that you'd remember. You let out a wicked, ranky faaaaaaaarrrrt that fills the room as you nostrils flare taking the smell in.

You both let out a huge laugh at this revelation before deciding it's time to score some hot chicks and get day drunk. Who needs class anyway? With that thought in mind, another gassy burrrrrrrrrp escapes from deep within your gut – a reminder of just how much fun being an unapologetically straight college bro can be… So why not embrace it wholeheartedly?

#gay to straight #male tf #transformation #douchebag tf #nerd to jock tf #jock tf #ask #twink to jock tf #dumber #homophobia #Time travel #Time tf

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