Charged 4 (musc tf)
by kdumd
There was a battle being waged inside Evan’s mind, and inside his (but not really his?) body. Through some sort of divine providence or a cruel twist of fate, the simple act of donning a black, skintight Under Armour shirt had changed him radically. The physical changes—the instant, massive musculature he acquired, and the transformation from a pasty white kid to a dark black man—were enough to overload his senses.
But as the minutes went by, and Evan continued to ogle his new form in the mirror, grabbing and touching and caressing every crevice of muscle and sinew with his now larger, thicker, darker hands, it was the mental upheaval that threw Evan for a loop.
It started with words, words Evan had never uttered in his life—or at least his previous life. Words he had only heard spoken by hardened thugs (and stereotypical caricatures thereof), or by rappers on the radio and in bars and clubs. The words floated through Evan’s psyche like drops of vinegar shaken into oil. His WASPy tried to reach out, grab the words, push them to the side—but it couldn’t. They were just there—they just were. And then, even when Evan could manage to assemble a coherent thought in his “old” voice, when he tried to put voice to those thoughts, it came out in an entirely different language, and with an entirely different timbre: gruff, deep, accented, slangified. The language of the streets, spoken with the voice of a street denizen.
Almost as quickly as the words came, so did the sensations, the feelings, stimuli to which Evan could not assign a definition. As if it was trying to punch its way out of a plastic bag, his scrambled mind was projecting alternating bursts of aggression, sexuality, arousal, anger, curiosity, dullness, and razor-sharp awareness.
Evan’s mind, put simply, was a mess. But his body...Evan’s body was a spectacle.
Still staring intently into the mirror and seeing those unfamiliar-yet-familiar eyes, lips, nose and corn rows, the reflection flashed Evan a crooked smile. The light from a lamp in Evan’s bedroom hit his mouth just so, creating a menacing gleam on his gold and platinum teeth. “Ayo homie,” Evan’s throat uttered, the bass-beyond-bass voice laced with raw sexual energy and hard-earned grittiness.
As inexorable seconds passed by, Evan began to wish he could grab his mirrored reflection, tear off its baggy shirt and jeans, and hump it like a dog in heat.
It was at that moment when Evan—the real, original, not-a-thug-pinup Evan—asserted himself inside the mental maelstrom.
STOP THIS NOW. STOP. NOW.
It was enough to force Evan—the hulking, prison-tattooed, intimidating-as-fuck black giant created by magic compression shirt—to start undressing in a hurry. First came the do-rag; if Evan had still been watching, he’d have noticed his corn rows begin to slowly rearrange into a more conservative, but very tight, fade. In rapid succession Evan stripped off his t-shirt (as the tattoos faded into his not-quite-as-dark skin), faux-gold chain (as the scars and pock marks melted away), boots (as his teeth became, well, teeth again), oversized jeans (as his brow regressed slightly, losing a bit of its primal nature) and finally, that blessed—or cursed—Under Armour shirt.
As quickly as his psyche had taken emergency measures to protect itself, Evan had completely undressed. And as quickly as he had done that, the hardened, urban tough guy had once again become the everyday, white-as-mashed-potatoes guy Evan had always been.
Breathing as heavily as if he had just run a mile uphill in the snow, Evan looked at the clock. It felt as if that exhilarating, terrifying, awful, amazing experience had lasted for hours.
It had been 23 minutes.
“What the…what the fuck…” Evan gasped between ragged breaths, hands on his naked knees as he struggled to control his lungs. He took a look around the room in an effort to reorient himself. It was all as it had been; even his “thug” outfit had returned to the way it had looked before he put it on his magically charged body. “Well, I guess I should be glad all this hoodoo didn’t change anything permanently.”
Evan took a long step over the pile of clothes and collapsed onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling, still breathing rapidly, trying to get perspective on what had just happened to him—and what could happen to him again if he put that shirt back on.
His gaze wandered from the ceiling to eye level, where he saw his naked dick, smallish and white as it always had been; if there was going to be a permanent remnant of that trippy episode, Evan wouldn’t have argued against keeping black Evan’s massive endowment.
Then his eyes moved to the floor. To the piles of clothes. And on top of that pile, his eyes zeroed in on the Under Armour shirt.
The fog in his mind seemed to have cleared; the foreign vocabulary and overwhelming surge of unfamiliar senses, emotions and urges had all seemingly vanished. Evan looked and felt exactly as he had before his trip to the store, before the lightning bolt, and before his out-of-but-still-in-body experience.
There were things his mind, back to normal as it was, couldn’t process. Evan realized his body had changed—he saw it with his eyes, every phase of it. But why did it take one form when Evan put just the magic shirt on, and then change again when he added the street-type clothing? Why did there seem to be an Evan-to-black-Evan-to-thug-Evan translator automatically installed between his brain and his mouth, so that what he meant to say came out in an entirely different manner? And did his ordeal cause any as yet undetectable long term side effects?
But yet, despite Evan’s many questions, worries and traumatic afterimages, he couldn’t take his eyes off that damn shirt. Evan was fixated on it. Do I really want to put that thing back on? That was a little intense, what just happened, he mused internally.
Evan took a beat, considered what that shirt had done to him, to his mind, to his body, and how close he had come to losing himself in the inexplicable transformation.
“Yes,” he said out loud, “I really, really fucking do.”
To be continued?