Klutz (musc)

“Happy BIIIIIIRTHDAY, dear Matt-yyyyy…happy birthdaaayyy too yoooouuuuuu!”

A rotund young woman in a printed dress tenderly placed a cake in front of the man of the hour. Eight friends, crowded into the Brooklyn apartment’s kitchen, circled around the small table.

“That was…beautiful,” Matty grinned. “I hear the Mormon Tabernacle Choir has some spots open.”

“Hey, fuck you man, we sound great,” Matty’s friend Kenny laughed. “And none of us are Mormons.”

“I was raised Episcopalian,” a voice piped up from the back.

“No one cares,” another replied. Everyone in the group laughed.

Matty looked down at the cake. Thirty candles. Looked more like a bonfire than a cake. “I can’t believe I’m thirty.”

“I can’t believe you’re still single!”
Another Stooge cracked a joke. “I can’t believe you’ve survived this long without falling in front of a bus!”

Matty laughed. “Shut up! I’m not THAT clumsy.”

“Maybe not, but dude, you’re pretty damn clumsy.”

Matty rolled his eyes. “Yeah yeah yeah.”

Beth, the girl in the print dress, rubbed Matty’s shoulders. “Make a wish, Matty!”

“Yeah, Matty, make a wish.”
“Yeahhhh, Mattster! Big 3-0!”
“Golden birthday! Make it count!”

Matty’s brow furrowed. “Golden birthday?”

“It’s the 30th day of the month and you’re turning 30! We only get one in our lives. Wish big, dude!”

“What do I wish for?”

“A girlfriend!”
“A better-paying job!”
“Kenny to lose weight!”
“Kenny to find God!”

Everyone laughed, again.

A wily grin spread across Matty’s face. A voice in the back popped up, “Awww yeah, boy’s wishin’ for some lovin’!”

Matty shook his head and laughed. Then, he closed his eyes, sucked in enough air to blow out thirty candles…

…and wished.


“Venti hot chocolate with a shot of caramel and extra whipped cream, please.”

The Starbucks employee behind the register smiled. “I know your order by now, man. Regular or Signature?”

Matty’s teeth ground together. What a hard decision. “Ooooh…y’know, let’s do Signature. Already got a little gut, why not pad it some more?”

“Alrighty. Name for the cup?”

“Matty. No, Matt. Just Matt.”

“Oookay, Matt.”

Matty stepped to the pick-up line and called his boss. “Hi, Margaret. I’m at Starbucks. I’ll be up in a few.”

“That’s fine, totally fine. Pick me up a bottled water on the way? I’ll pay you back.”


The Starbucks employee made conversation as he mixed up drinks. “You work in the building?”

Matty nodded. “Programming department of Guru.”

“Oh cool, good channel, I like that channel.”

“Heh, thanks. Hey, I need a bottle of water for my boss, is that like a dollar or so?”

The kid handed the drink to Matty along with a bottle of water. “Water’s on the house.”


“You’re in here all the time, we owe ya.”


Matty left the coffee shop and trudged into the massive lobby of the skyscraper where he worked. The elevator finally arrived and he pressed the button for his floor. Slowly, the car filled, with customary silence. God forbid anyone actually talk to one another.

He didn’t realize it, but as he was pressed to the back of the car, his cup tipped slightly further back and droplets dribbled onto his wrinkly blue Oxford.

Shit! He almost cursed out loud but caught himself last second. Shit shit shit. Every single fucking day.

The elevator dinged and Matty swiped his keycard to enter his floor. “Hey Lindsey.”

The floor’s secretary – by far the prettiest girl on the floor, as the secretary should be - smiled. “Morning, Matty.”

Matty casually walked to the left of the secretary desk.

“Do you have a meeting with Margaret or something?,” Lindsey asked as he walked past.

“Uh, no…I don’t really meet with Margaret much. Why?”

“Well, you’re headed in that direction.”

“I have water for her,” Matty said incredulously, “and my desk is this way.”

“You’re turned around, honey. Hung over?”

“A little bit, why?”

“Your office is down the other hall.”

“Lindsey, no it isn’t.”

“Yes it is, Matty, what’s wrong with you?” She produced a laminated office list. “See? Matthew Oliver, 3546.”

“I…I swear that wasn’t my office last week.”

She shrugged. “Well, it was. Sorry if I’m coming off like a bitch.”

“You’re not, you’re not, just doing your job,” he lied. Just a little bit of bitch this morning, Lindsey. Sheesh. Who pissed in your oatmeal? He headed down the hall to drop off Margaret’s water.

A wayward trashcan had made its way into the wall, waiting to be emptied. Matty had never been a terribly observant guy – certainly part of the reason for his chronic klutziness, along with his relatively bad eyesight – and his right foot kicked it. Without knocking it over, he tripped slightly and mostly avoided it, spilling a few more drops of his chocolate drink in the process. “Shit.”

A voice rang out from Margaret’s office. “Good morning, Matty!”

He rounded the corner and set down the water. “Hey. How’d you know it was me?”

“Tripping and cursing in the hallway? Who else would it be?”

He blushed. “I’m not that clumsy,” he said defensively. “Do people honestly think of me as being that bad? Do they not take me seriously or something?”

“Well, that and the fact that you’re a grown man who goes by ‘Matty’ and drinks hot chocolate,” she said, in that joking-but-not-really tone.

Matty bristled but decided to let it slide, being congenial instead. “Well, I gotta go wash off these drops from my shirt.”

“Where? I don’t see any.”

“Right here,” he said, pulling his shirt out. “See, it’s-” Wait, wasn’t my shirt blue? What shirt is this?

He was wearing a very crisp white shirt, exquisitely tailored and pressed. The bleached white color glistened in the light. There was no chocolate to be seen.

What the fuck…

“I, uh, I tucked the parts in that I spilled on. Never mind.”

She laughed. “Check your email when you get to your office. I sent you the acquisitions reports.”

“O…kay.” Matty, completely befuddled by now, backed into the hall and headed to the restroom. “Anybody in here?”

No response.

Good. He unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off to hold in front of his panicked eyes. Where the hell did this come from?

The label said “Tom Ford.” Matty hadn’t ever heard of Tom Ford, but he figured it was an expensive shirt, really expensive – probably worth several hundred dollars, maybe even a thousand. He shrugged it back over his shoulders and buttoned it up, leaving the neck open. Man, it was a gorgeous shirt. It looked so good, too…like it would amazing on anybody. It would look even better with a tie. Even hides my little spare tire. Jeez, who tailored this? Looks incredible.

Matty’s pants were different, too, but he wasn’t about to take them off. They weren’t silk, but felt like it to the touch. Beautifully starched and pleated black dress pants, the hem resting on top of wing-tipped leather dress shoes. God, I look great. What’s happened here? How hung over am I?

By now, he was a little panicked, trying to reason why he was forgetting how he’d dressed this morning. There has to be a rational explanation. I don’t remember buying such nice clothes, where did these clothes come from?

He briskly walked behind Lindsey, hoping she wouldn’t say anything about his clothes. If she saw, she didn’t mention it. He swiped his card to head toward 3546.

MATTHEW OLIVER, the plate on the door read.

Is someone playing a joke on me?

He gingerly opened the door, half-expecting to see someone sitting at the desk staring at him quizzically. But the office was empty, and in fact, he recognized all of his desk paraphernalia: his stapler, his coffee mug full of souvenir pens from the places he’d had to fly for work, his trusty stress ball, plus photos of his family – his two sisters, his nieces and nephews - and the road trip he’d taken with his buddies to Canada. There was almost nothing he didn’t recognize, save for a few cards congratulating him on his promotion. One was from Margaret, and it was dated a year previous.

With trepidation, he started his work week. All the e-mails, all the phone calls, and all the visits from coworkers were related to Guru’s programming, but thankfully he knew how to answer most of the questions. Any that he didn’t know, he would just mumble something about the standards department or about a “hang-up in Online” and that seemed to do the trick.

Maybe this is how we do promotions here. Drop the promotee right into the thick of it and pretend to not know anything, just to avoid questions. Fucking weird.

His phone rang and he recognized the number as his father’s cell phone. How does he know this office number? A quick check of the screen revealed his extension to be the same it had always been, so Matty – slightly less freaked – answered.

“Hey, Dad.”

It was wonderful to hear his father’s voice, something familiar and unchanged. The abnormality of the day was starting to get to poor Matty.

His relief was short-lived. As he scooted back, he discovered too late that his phone cord was shorter than it had been at his original desk. The coil snapped straight and pulled the body of the telephone upward, clattering it violently. In surprise, Matty shot forward and slammed his knees into his desk.


“Y’alright, Matthew?”

“Yeah, Dad, yeah, I…I…I’m…fine?” Oh my God, my voice…

“Good. Hit your knees on your desk again?”


“I remember when your clumsy phase started as a kid, we thought you’d grow out of it and ya didn’t,” Dad chuckled.

Matty tried to raise his voice up to its familiar pitch, but it sounded strange. “Heh, yeah,” he agreed emptily. “Messy Matty, that’s…me, I…I was always the clumsy one.” I sound so…trained. That was the word. He sounded like he’d been going to speech lessons for the past five years. His voice was rich and modulated. And deeper. Much deeper. He had become a low baritone in a matter of seconds. His whole speaking cadence had altered, the words tumbling out rhythmically and smooth.

He reached up to itch his neck and felt an unfamiliar bump. What the… Instinctively looking down, he saw a gold-speckled tie resting comfortably on top of his brilliantly white shirt. Not only that, he was now wearing a suit jacket that matched his pants perfectly.

“Hey Dad, I…” My VOICE! “I gotta go. Uh, meeting. I got a meeting.”

“Wait! The whole reason I called was to ask where you’ll meet us for the show tonight. Somewhere for dinner beforehand, or just the theater?”

“Aw, gee, Dad,” Matty got chills as he listened to his smooth businessman tones. “I, I got some stuff I gotta do tonight. I’d love to have dinner, but I think it’d be best to just meet outside the theater. Ten ‘til eight?”

“Great. Alright, I’ll let you go.”

What happened next would replay in Matty’s mind for weeks on end. He lurched out of his rolling chair, intent on finding a mirror to check out his suit – a suit that looked like it cost more than he made (or used to make…my salary’s probably double now) in three months.

But the chair’s wheels caught on nothing and the chair stopped before Matty expected it to, leaving him not so much getting out of the chair as being get launched from it.

OH NOOOO was the only thought he had as he flew across the office. Matty pulled his elbows toward his ribs, desperately trying to not hit anything, but his knee caught the couch by the door nonetheless.

Before Matty even had time to react to the second instance, everything seemed off. He teetered uncertainly as the world spun. His desk was…shrinking. So was the couch. The floor squashed lower under his feet and he covered his head with his hands as the ceiling dropped toward it. The very walls seemed to shiver like jelly, and Matty was completely disoriented for a few seconds. He reached down to steady himself and almost fell onto his desk, as his hand dropped several inches further than he expected. “Fuck, that was weird,” he muttered, clutching his head while blinking rapidly to refocus his vision.

Matty straightened his spine up and looked around the room. Everything was so much smaller than it was before. He felt like he was in the cottage from Snow White. Am I imagining things? Why did the room shrink?

Matty stepped out of his office, feeling like he’d hit his head on the ceiling. A guy walked by, saying “Hi, Matthew, today your one day in?” as he walked past. The guy was so short – 5-1 or 5-2 at most – that Matty almost forgot to respond. He should work in my tiny office!

“Uh, yeah, one day…” My one day in? What the hell does that mean? Does he think I work one day a week? What an asshole.

Matty briskly escaped from his dollhouse-like office and the almost-midget, and he gingerly entered the other restroom on the floor. He walked slowly and carefully, anxiously attempting to not jostle, or trip over, anything.

“Oh shit,” he whispered out loud to his reflection. “Oh shit.” I’m…HUGE. The room didn’t shrink, I got taller! SHIT!

He was long-legged and slender, excess weight pulled tight over his taller body. In fact, he looked almost skinny now. He’d always been average weight, not terribly thin but certainly not fit. But now, he looked like he was on stilts – all legs. He guessed his height to be about 6-6 or 6-7, but it was difficult to tell because his beautiful suit and the Tom Ford shirt still fit him perfectly. He looked down at his feet. They’re bigger too. So are my hands…

“What’s happening to me?” It was a soft whisper, almost muted.

Matty stared at himself, barely able to process the sight of his own body. He tried to breathe in and out regularly, but panic set in, and he started to hyperventilate. His long legs shot across the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he vomited.

No sooner had he puked than he felt a sensation, what could only be described as a radiance, on top of his head. “No, no, that doesn’t count, that…that wasn’t a mistake, I needed to throw up, please…”

The sensation faded, but Matty already knew something had happened, most likely to his hair. He was almost afraid to stand, but he did so very slowly, amazed at how far his body had to stretch to reach its full height. No one in my family is even close to being this tall. Do I want to look?

He paused before he could see himself in the mirror, but went for it and quickly darted his head into the view.

A silent gasp spilled out of Matty’s gaping mouth. His hair was still closely-trimmed, a quarter of an inch all over, but it was blond. And not just blond, but beautifully blond, the color of undiluted sunshine. It shimmered like windblown wheat as he ran his big hand through it. His hair had always been brown, a nice dark brown, slightly curly. The curls and the brown were both gone now, eradicated from the DNA that composed him.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening to me. What am I becoming? Why me?!

“I have to get out of here. This place is changing me, something’s changing me…”

He made a move for the door. In a sick twist of fate, Matty’s waist ran smack into the janitor’s cart as the cleaning man entered the bathroom.

“Sorry, sir,” the janitor tried to say, but he was interrupted by Matty gasping “No, NOOO!” practically hurdling the cart en route to his office.

Even before the door was shut, Matty could feel it. “Stooppp…” A fire burned in his groin, a flame growing stronger with each breath. His large hands flew down in between his legs and he collapsed onto his knees, frantically trying to undo his pants. This was the first time whatever was happening to him had hurt, and it hurt like hell. It felt like two hands wrapped around his dick, giving him an Indian rugburn like he’d gotten on the playground in grade school.

Short breaths hissed through grit teeth and sweat poured down his face. “STOP,” he said in the most commanding tone he could muster, but the feeling only grew. He knew what was happening even before he yanked his Calvin Klein boxer briefs down. His mouth dropped open in amazement at the sight in between his legs. Everything he knew about himself had suddenly changed. The small dick that a college conquest had called “adorable” was radically altered. It was more than twice its original length, and much thicker. He rubbed his index finger up the hard shaft, against the thick vein that ran the considerable length of his rod. Instead of hanging to the left like it always did, his manhood was perfectly straight, standing out above balls that were exactly the same size. The way his ballsack hung reminded him of two giant foam dice hanging off of someone’s rearview mirror. Big, round, symmetrical, and coated in a silky layer of blond hair.

It was a textbook-perfect cock. Matty couldn’t help but stare at it in stunned silence. It looked like something you’d see in porno, or photoshopped in a magazine. He kept grabbing it to make sure it was real. It was the first penis he’d ever seen that he could honestly describe as…beautiful. And it looked perfect on his tall frame, even a little too big to be proportionate. Matty couldn’t believe the pride he suddenly felt. What a man I’ve become. His masculinity was increased tenfold.

He tenderly touched the cut tip of his gorgeous dick, and grew hard as his hard fingers brushed the baby-smooth skin. “Ohhhh…” Rolling back to sit on the floor with his cock sticking straight out, Matty began to play with himself.

I shouldn’t be doing this, he suddenly realized. What if I…

Before he even thought the word, white-hot cum shot out of the Holmes-like appendage he now sported. “NO!” He placed his hand over his dick, trying to stop the spill, but the touch made him even wilder and drenched his hand.

He felt a tickling on the top of his ears, and his free hand dug into his hair, where it was quickly overtaken by spontaneous growth. “No, that’s not right, my hair already changed, no…NO…”

The movement atop his head was intensely uncomfortable, and he yanked his hand out of the brush to scratch furiously. He could feel the strands take on a mind of their own, working their way down the back of his head in some sort of style. Their silky-soft waves got a little harder, as if some sort of styling product was on his hand. Matty tried to clean up the cum from the floor and ignore the vibrations. When it finally stopped, he disposed of the paper towels and, as calmly as possible, walked to his computer. Instead of risking leaving my office, I’ll just turn on the webcam, he thought. A quick power-up revealed his face on the monitor.

It was a slightly altered face. He now had hair that matched the high-class airs his suit exuded. Instead of a blond crew cut, wavy blond tresses were neatly combed back and held with gel, their ends meeting in a straight line across the back of his neck. It was beautiful, shimmering hair, slightly plasticine, like hair he’d see on Wall Street brokers or young CEOs or men on the soap operas his mom watched. He also sported neatly trimmed sideburns, manicured perfectly to meet his earlobes. The haircut – or hair growth – made his round face look more handsome and radiant, a man who truly cared about his appearance and wanted to look as best as he could.

But it was almost all Matty could take. His mind was dangerously close to snapping, shutting down completely. Hair can’t grow twelve inches in the span of a moment, can it? Please, someone explain what’s going on in my body…this can’t be normal…

“Please,” he begged through clenched teeth, head raised to the ceiling. “Please, no more.”

For most of the day, Matty confined himself to his office, afraid to move more than a few inches at a time. He wrote down every clumsy move he could think of and tried to connect the dots with the changes he was experiencing.

Elevator spill gave me a promotion.
Kicking the trashcan changed my shirt and pants.
Knee hitting the desk changed my voice.
Office chair made me grow nine inches (estimate).
Knee on the couch…?

What happened when I hit the couch? Did that just make me grow even taller?

Throwing up turned me blonde (not fair).
Janitor cart made me hung like a horse.
Cum made my hair like Gordon Gekko’s (sort of).

Am I forgetting anything? Don’t think so…but what about the couch hit? And why the hell is this happening?

He scribbled “WHY?” at the top of the yellow business pad, and circled the word several times.

When it came to the couch, he got his answer throughout the day. He got more office visitors and calls once word leaked out that Mr. Oliver was actually in his office for once, and they all addressed him as “Matthew.” He’d never really gone by Matthew, only his parents called him that. To everyone else, he was Matty or Matt. It was even his email address: [email protected]. But now, he was [email protected], which wasn’t nearly as fun.

Looking at himself, though, he understood. Matthew was his image. There was nothing “Matty” about his hairstyle, his very glamorous way of dressing or his imposing voice and height. He was a Matthew now.

Knee on the couch made me Matthew.


Matthew was just sitting in his office chair, motionless and trying to decipher the meanings of emails he had received, when he received a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he said, mustering up a commanding voice from somewhere.

Lindsey entered, a dry cleaning bag hanging from her left index finger. “Matthew, your theater clothes are here from the cleaners, and they were still a little wrinkly so I steamed them for you.”

“Uh, wow, wow, thanks, Lindsey.” Theater clothes? What kind of dapper dandy am I? And she steamed them, who even knew we had a steamer on this floor?

“Coat rack, right?” she asked, as if she’d done this a million times before.

“Sure,” he replied, clearing his throat faux-authoritatively. “That’s fine. Thanks, Lindsey.”

Matthew could hardly wait to tear the plastic covering off the hangers to see what beautiful clothes lurked underneath. He was already standing up when he noticed Lindsey still standing in the doorway. “You look really good today, Matthew,” she said with a smile, watching him stretch to his full height. “That suit, mmmm.”

“Uh…thanks.” Oh shit, she’s hitting on me. What do I do?! “Thanks Lindsey, you look good today, too.”

She did look good, he liked her dress and she really was the prettiest girl on the floor. “Oh, you’re just saying that,” she grinned flirtatiously. She stuck her head out in the hall momentarily. “Oh, my phone’s ringing. Damn. See you, pretty boy.”

And like that, she was out of the office. Matthew exhaled. That was close.

Easily excited, he jumped up out of his chair before realizing he needed to move carefully. Practically tip-toeing across the office, he reached the bag and unzipped it.

“Lord,” he breathed. They were beautiful garments, that was for sure. A navy blue velvet jacket by Gucci, a royal blue Tom Ford cotton shirt with French cuffs and a contrasting white collar, black wool tuxedo pants – also Gucci – and two separate bags containing sapphire cuff links, a silk plaid pocket square, and black leather Laurent loafers.

I’m wearing this to see a Broadway play with my parents? Dad’ll think this is weird. And these clothes, God, these clothes must be worth thousands of dollars. How much money do I make now?!

Matthew decided immediately he would just wear his current clothes. The beautiful suit he wore at the moment was perfectly fine for the theater. He backed away carefully from the incredible clothes and seated himself back in his chair. Without looking away from his theater clothes, he took a sip of his Starbucks drink. Only too late did he realize that tiny droplets were escaping from a spot where the lid was loose and falling onto his trousers. With lightning speed, he set the cup down on his desk and tried to flick the fluid off his lap, desperately hoping that whatever was changing him wouldn’t notice.

But deep down, he knew something was going to happen.

In fact, it already was.

The same rising feeling he’d had in his groin minutes before was now boiling within him, all through his body. He wriggled in his chair. “Noooooo…I didn’t mean to…”

The awareness of growth compounded upon his brain and he didn’t know where to look first. He could feel the fabric of his dress pants straining on the side, and he looked downward, by now completely afraid to move any limbs even though he was desperate to shake all over. What he saw made his eyes bug out.

He could physically see his ass growing outward, taking up more room in his seat. But as his butt and thighs swelled larger, his hips were shrinking along with his stomach, making his horse cock look even bigger in comparison. Matthew’s pleas turned to frantic moans. He tried to control the pleasure consuming his body but it was impossible. He clutched the armrests of his chair as if his life depended on it.

To Matthew, the sensation was comparable to swimming. He felt like he did when he was a kid and he’d try to touch the floor of the deep end of the pool, and then shoot up to the surface. This was the same feeling – the unstoppable rush, the force, the big gulps of air. His eyes were fixed on his lower torso, but as he watched, two mounds crept into the bottom of his vision – pecs. Nicely worked pecs, too, beautifully shaped, pulling his shirt tight and then bursting the buttons. Unlike when he had grown taller, this time his clothes weren’t growing with him.

Fuck, it’s gonna make me wear the theater clothes was a thought that flashed through his overwrought mind. He gasped rapidly, trying to hide his smile from the joy. He could feel his shoulders taking up more space in his jacket, just as his neck did within his collar. Muscle. I’ve never had this much muscle.

Despite the finery he wore, he could see he had grown considerably and that his body had adapted from its slightly doughy form into a more masculine, athletic one. Buttons had popped off his shirt and he wriggled out of the clothes that were now deeply uncomfortable, too small for his strong body.

He stripped down to his underwear. It was a huge task, undressing himself without looking down upon or touching a body that he knew was magnificent. Matthew blocked all the thoughts he had about it, knowing that if he came he would change further. So, hesitantly, he pulled the royal blue shirt onto his upper body. It was hard to ignore the two solid boulders that were now on his previously-flat chest. They felt unnatural and out-of-place, but he buttoned up the shirt as well as he could, leaving the top two buttons undone because they simply wouldn’t close – just the way he felt and moved, Matthew estimated he had gained nearly 50 pounds of muscle. He could feel the muscles in his arms and shoulders rubbing up against each other as he used them. He wriggled into the pants and felt them clasp around his waist, brushing into abs that he couldn’t believe he possessed. His thighs clung tightly to the silky wool material, barely encased by it as they rippled with power. He threw the velvet jacket on over his burly shoulders and beefy back. He could feel the slope of the material as it ran down into his lower back and then was pushed outward by his mighty ass, and to his surprise, that was the most erotic feeling he’d had yet – the way his fucking jacket fit. By the time he’d slipped on the loafers, clasped the cuff links and arranged the pocket square, Matthew was overwhelmed with confidence in himself. He knew he had an incredible body, and he knew he looked awe-inspiring in the clothes he wore. It was an odd emotion, a combination of blistering self-esteem and complete, petrified dread.

I can’t look at myself. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Matthew sneaked a peek, just a peek, down at himself – the way the shirt was stretched across his chest, sloping down into a flat stomach and a noticeable bulge in between his thunderous thighs…and his hands, his big strong hands…

No. He snapped his head back up, but the image of a beautiful body in beautiful clothes was already seared into his mind. He could see it when he shut his eyelids, and it made him so horny he was amazed he didn’t cum. Getting better at self-control. That’ll be handy in the sack.

Walking with altered strides due to his painful erection, Matthew slowly made his way over to his chair and sat back down in it, rejoicing at the way the fabrics of his clothes felt against his skin as he moved. Ohhhhhhh…

He only had three more hours until the theater. I can make it. For some reason, Matthew identified the end of the work day with the end of his changes. He needed something to anticipate, to keep him sane. Three hours.


“There’s my boy!”

Before Matthew rounded the corner to arrive at the theater, he had had to psych himself up. Why am I so nervous? Everyone else knows me, why wouldn’t my family? But the clothes, the muscles, the height, the hair…none of it felt like him. Thus, Matthew Oliver was still a little surprised at his parents greeting. He had to essentially crouch to embrace his mother, and his dad seemed so short now. He positively towered over both his mother and father. This is bizarre.

How are these people my parents? Mom and Dad were dressed nicely but casually, not in ultra-chic attire like their 6’7” gym rat of a son. Matthew’s father would never wear his shirts as open as Matthew, and a velvet jacket? No way. Dad had always been a simple man, more focused on work than appearance. It was ironic that his son had grown up to be to be so defined by fashion.

No one in his family was blond, either. Still, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver didn’t seem bothered at all, and no indication was made of anything being out of the ordinary. Just the customary, “You look so handsome, Matthew,” and the usual talk about work and life. They were interested in his job but clearly couldn’t comprehend much of what he said, so he steered the conversation to family and the play they were seeing. As they made their way to their seats, Matthew was impressed with how quickly he adjusted to his own newfound regality. He moved with fluid grace, not the clumsy jolts of before. There was respect and admiration in people’s eyes as he passed them. People even stepped out of his way as he journeyed to his seat. They stared up at him in reverence. He could see a small boy pointing at him, and imagined the thoughts. I want to be that man when I grow up!

As he sat, Matthew smiled genuinely for the first time that day. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all. He even turned and apologized in advance to the people he was sitting in front of, and told them to tap his shoulder if he was blocking their view. As the lights dimmed and the actors made their way onto the stage, he felt his mother’s hand run across his very broad back, and he looked down – far down - at her and smiled. “It’s good to see you,” she said to her youngest child.


The bathroom at the Cort Theater.

It’s not a place where one expects life to drastically change, even after experiencing life-altering transformations all day. When Matthew entered the small, cramped space, he immediately knew it was a bad idea. Bathrooms like this were built for men in the early 20th century, and those men certainly did not have the height or mass that Matthew now possessed.

He’d been joking with his father before entry, even smiling as he ducked to enter the bathroom. Immediately, he was ill at ease. Matthew pulled in his elbows and shuffled awkwardly throughout the throng of men, trying as hard as he could to not touch anyone. Jesus, it’s too bad I have to piss so badly, otherwise I’d just leave.

Men moved to avoid Matthew’s bulk, some brushed up against him without specifically nudging him, but nothing seemed to happen. Finally, he reached the last stall in the restroom and exhaled. In the clear! His large hand threw open the stall door.

“Occupied, sorry!”

“Oh, oh, sorry,” Matthew stammered, pulling the door shut before he crumpled against the wall.

Not here! Please not here! But the heartless changes continued. His hands flew up to his nose and he felt the oddest sensation, a collapsing of his nose, as if it was crumpling in on itself. He could feel his nasal bridge reconstructing itself, a thinning of his nose’s tip and a narrowing of his nostrils, like a nose job without scalpels or surgeons. His large hands were more than up to the task of covering his nose, but Matthew Oliver was hardly a professional actor, and there was no hiding his wild eyes or frantic breaths.

“You okay, man?”

“Please go away,” Matthew murmured. “I’m fine, just please leave me alone, please.”

“Alright, jeez,” the guy said, walking away.

The stall’s door flew open and struck Matthew in his hip. Stunned, he fell back into the wall. That’s two more, no, no! NO! PLEASE just let me get in private…

The pounding in his head was immediate – a strange pulsing throughout the nerves in his face, like a bizarre pain-free migraine. He practically threw the exiting man out of the way and leapt into the stall, pulling the door shut and clutching his head with a soft moan.

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

The bones in his face were shifting…and expanding. The pressure at his temples was matched in his chin and jaw, and he could feel his skin being stretched. It’s lengthening. His round face was stretching out into a more rectangular shape. The formation around his eyes was pushing out – both eyebrows and cheeks expanding into sharply defined structures. The slope of his jaw was as sharp and hard as a diamond, and he could feel the grooves of the bones shooting upward into the etched shapes of his cheeks and temples. Then, a burning in his eyes made him scrunch his eyelids shut. For a brief moment, his eyes itched horribly – are my eyelashes getting longer? When he opened is eyes again, everything was sharper and clearer. Matthew had never worn glasses before, his vision was fine, but now everything was so strikingly clear and vibrantly colorful, he felt like he had fallen into a movie.

One hand went up on each side of the stall. He wobbled.

Don’t puke. You’re disoriented, but don’t puke.

Matthew puked.


It felt like a punch in the mouth, literally, down to the swelling of his lips. Matthew could feel his teeth shifting and he groaned in discomfort.

“Heelllpppp,” he said, in a voice so soft and feeble that no one heard. He struggled to his feet, teetering on his long legs like a newborn colt.

And there Matthew stood, for a long time, waiting, waiting, waiting, until everyone was out. He emerged and cautiously made his way to the old mirrors.

All the air was sucked out of him when he saw his own face, and for the life of him he couldn’t gather any more in.

“P-perfect.” I look perfect. Who am I? How am I this man?

Bone structure like a mountain range – cheekbones, browbones, jawbones – all connected harmoniously as if carved by the finest European sculptors. His chin was perfectly shaped, a sharp square on his finely chiseled face. All roundness was gone and replaced by edges and angles. He peeled his upper lip back and was nearly blinded by the whiteness of his unnaturally straight teeth.

For some reason, Matthew expected his eyes to be blue. It just went with the blond, he had figured, but the eyes peering out from his masculine brow were a beguiling, mischievous hazel. And yes, his eyelashes were much longer. Even his eyebrows had changed shape. All these features rested on golden skin, spot-free and smooth as glass.

I don’t look like my family. How can I go sit next to those people? How will they know who I am?

It felt like cold steel in his stomach. Deep, penetrating, profound sadness. Matthew knew he should be rejoicing that he had become so flawless, but he didn’t recognize himself. It was so strange.

By the time he had worked up enough bravado to walk back into the theater, the second act had begun and an usher had to help him find his seat.

“Where were you?” his mother whispered.

“Bathroom had a line,” he said emptily. She seemed to be able to see his face well enough, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t know if that was great or horrible.

A half hour passed. The play was excellent, but Matthew couldn’t make himself enjoy it. His soul was shaken as he questioned who he was, if he was even Matthew Oliver at all anymore. If a man metamorphosizes into an entirely different body, how is he the same man?

“’scuse me, son,” his Dad whispered in the darkness as he stood.

Matthew wanted to cry out, to scream, to say NO, but he opened his mouth and only air passed through, as his Dad tried to scale over Matthew’s knees but failed and rather awkwardly dropped on top of them.

“Sorry,” Dad chuckled, unable to see the horror all over Matthew’s face. “I’ll just go to the bathroom later I guess. You take up too much room!”


He expected his mind to melt away, like watching a projector melt the film. But that didn’t happen. The same creeping he’d felt before washed back into him, and he could feel his clothes begin to get tighter.

More muscle?! Not again, I…I…oh no…oh nooo…unnnnnggghhhh….

He panted in and out like a dog, trying to stay quiet as pleasure tickled his nerves. The feeling of his chest expanding was like an orgasm in and of itself, but this time he could feel his arms blowing out at the same rate, and he came, unable to hold it in any longer, which triggered more growth, which triggered more cum…


He realized, in a glimmer of hope, that his clothes were this time growing with him. Even this malevolent force had some consideration for his modesty.

Ass again.

All muscles swelled larger and prouder and Matthew nearly screamed with joy, his briefs soaked with cum. The wet fabric was pushed into his skin as his ass grew so large it stuck out like the bumper on a car. He shifted back and forth on it and felt the muscles roll. He grasped one beefy bicep with his large hand and couldn’t fathom the power contained in it.

It’s over. Gasp, gasp, gasp. It’s…ov…er…


“Matthew Jeremy Oliver!”
He felt a smack on his face. “Wh-whuh…”
“Wake up!”

The hazel eyes flared open. “Where am I?!”

“At the theater, silly.”

Oh, right. He remembered it all. The muscle, the model face, the changes, the cum. I fell asleep, just like after sex.

“Work must be running you ragged. I’ve never seen you fall asleep at a show before.”

“Yeah, it is.”

As he meandered up the aisle with his parents on each side, Matthew tripped slightly on his own large feet. Hot panic raced to his mind. No more! Please!

Nothing happened.

“You alright, Matthew?”

“Nothing…it’s nothing…” A smile spread across his beautiful lips. “It’s nothing!”


It took poor confused Matthew two hours to get home. A trip back to Brooklyn revealed that he no longer lived there and that his apartment was now occupied by a Puerto Rican woman, who instantly took quite a liking to him.

And why wouldn’t she? He was everything perfect about the male form, rolled into one body. At 6’7”, his 325-pound body was all beefy bronzed muscle. It undulated underneath his clothes as he moved. His shirt was buttoned up to mid-chest – as high as it could go – showing off his bounteous pectorals and the top of his torn-up abdominals. His neck was veiny and thick, and atop it sat the head of a top fashion model with wavy blond hair and spellbinding hazel eyes. And when he spoke, his thunderously deep voice washed away all inhibitions and cares.

Through lots of phone calls, Google searches and detective work, he found his apartment: a sensational Soho townhouse with a walk-in closet that would make David Beckham seethe with jealousy. After masturbating several times over, he settled his naked body into silk sheets and a ridiculously comfortable mattress.

It feels like I’m laying on a cloud, but I can’t sleep.

He sat for an hour, thinking. He hit his head against his headboard over and over, trying to change his thoughts and alleviate his confusion. If I’m in this body, I want to behave like it. I don’t match.


Make me match! Please!

Thump, thump, thump.

But I still want to be me! He snapped his head back and stared down at his body. I want to be myself.

He panted. The big chest heaved up and down. Enough is enough.

Standing, he pulled on a white dress shirt and designer jeans, jogged down to the 24-hour garage and pulled out his car – thankfully, the space was written on a Post-It he’d found by his door.

I drive a Lexus. Nice.

He was headed out of the city when he saw something that nearly made him crash his car.

It was an ad on the side of the building, one of those massive ones that runs the entire height – a good 200 feet long. He saw it from four or five blocks away. With his mouth gaping in amazement, he pulled over and stared, aghast.

It was…him. A black-and-white photograph of him sitting, oily and naked save for a pair of very skimpy white briefs. His bulge alone took up several stories. His head was tilted downward and his eyes – well, his whole face – smoldered with sexual desire. One thumb was in his mouth, being nibbled on casually, and the other was hooked into the waistband of the teeny tiny briefs. There was no hiding his height, or muscle, or enormous cock.

“DIVINITY,” the sign read in elaborate script, an afterthought in an ad that was clearly designed to sell his magnificent, inhuman body. “A New Fragrance” was printed below the first line, and then underneath it – in handwriting that Matthew recognized as his own – was a legible signature. “Matthew Oliver.”

And below that, the phrase that made his blood run cold. “What have you wished for?”

He put his hands up above his head, digging his fingers into his hair, and screamed. He wanted to tear off the beautiful skin, the incredible hair, the muscles, the godlike visage…


“Make a wish, Matty!”
“Golden birthday, make it count!”

I wish to not be clumsy anymore, I wish everyone loved me, and I wish to find true happiness.
I wish to be a god among men.

“I’m a…celebrity,” he breathed. “I’m a model.”

I wish to be a god among men…

He scurried to his Lexus and peeled out onto the highway.


It was 9 AM when he arrived at his destination. Matthew sat in his car for an hour, fiddling with his clothes, trying to distract himself. When he finally got out of the Lexus, he could feel the sun making his hair shine and magnifying his muscles. He loved being out of the city, and he breathed deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. He looked down at himself.

Fuck, how can one person look this good?

He was at a nice house, in the suburbs. It was Tuesday morning. 36 hours before, he’d been nice, average Matty. Now he was superhuman, flawless Matthew.

The doorbell triggered footsteps inside. He shivered in fear.

The little girl answering the door was four years old, with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks. She held a doll in her hair.

She barely comes up to my knees.

“Uncle Massew?”

Matthew burst into tears. He reached down and swept up his niece into his strong arms and held her close to his chest.

“Why are you crying, Uncle Massew?”

He kissed her cheek. “There are a lot of reasons, honey.” Still can’t believe the way I sound when I talk.

“Are you happy or sad?”

“I…don’t know.”

The whole time he was holding his niece, he could hear footsteps coming from the kitchen. A pretty woman, in jeans and a sweatshirt, rounded the corner.

“Kyra, who’s at the…” She stopped and gaped. “Matthew?!”

“Kristen!” He quickly set down Kyra and hugged Kristen, his sister, his beloved sister. She had once not seemed that short to him, but now he was more than a foot taller. She wrapped her hands around his torso and buried her head at the base of his chest, when previously she had rested her chin on his shoulder.

I’ve grown so much.

“Why are you here?! What’s wrong? Kyra, go play in the kitchen.” She saw his tears. “Baby brother, what’s wrong?”

He smiled. I love it when you call me that. I’m your baby brother. I’m a six-foot-seven muscle monster but I’m still your baby brother. “It’s been a horrible weekend. I needed to get away from the City.”

“You should’ve called, Matty.”

Matty! She still calls me Matty!

“I know…I’m sorry. I can leave, I’m a little out of sorts, I just…”

“No, no, no, you’re staying. Don’t be ridiculous.”

He assured her everything was mostly okay, that he wasn’t drunk or high. “I just had to see you.”

They talked about a lot of things. As he probed, Matthew started discovering, in this new life, how exceptional he was at everything. High school quarterback, voted best dressed, dated all the good girls. He also picked up that he was kind of an asshole in his early twenties, but he didn’t want to seem too curious.

A theory set into his mind. Did this body always exist in some kind of alternate universe? Did I somehow make that universe collide with my old one? Did Matthew wish to be a better man on his thirtieth birthday, too?

He enjoyed the hypothesis. He imagined the body he was in now, bent over and sobbing in confusion, feeling its cruel thoughts get twisted and changed into kind and good ones.

Elevator spill gave him love for his family.
Kicking the trashcan changed the way he treated women.
Knee hitting the desk destroyed insensitivity.
Office chair made him grow a heart.

As Matthew took on Matty’s mind, Matty took on Matthew’s form, and combined we make…a very good man.

He looked above the piano and saw a framed photo of two brown-haired girls standing over a playpen, cooing affectionately at a cherubic male toddler. The little boy was staring at the camera with wide, questioning eyes. Soft blond curls surrounded his face.

Wow, what a beautiful child.

There was a beat.

Oh my God, that’s me, isn’t it? The new me as a baby. That’s me with my sisters.

“Remember when we were that small?” She said as she rubbed her hand across his back, just like Mom had the night before. “I loved you so much. You were mine.” Kristen leaned her head against Matthew’s arm, feeling the curve of his massive tricep. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “I still love you, Matty. Y’know, when I drive past those billboards of yours, or see your face in a store display, I think of that picture. You were always so gorgeous. Kelly and I were so proud of you! We had the best brother on the block.”

She saw tears form in his eyes, and he spoke without taking his eyes off the image. “I…I don’t feel like I look like any of you.” He paused. “I wish I did.”

“Remember, though? You’re an experiment in recessive genetics, we joked about it in Rose’s biology class. You have Mom’s Dad’s eyes, Uncle Benny’s jaw and face shape, Aunt Shirley’s cheekbones, uh…” She looked at him, itemizing in her head. “Grandpa Oliver’s coloring, Grandma Oliver’s mouth...” She grinned and wrapped her hands around his powerful arm. “And the milkman’s height and body type.”

He laughed. “Shut up.”

“I can’t believe my baby brother is 30 now.”

“You were 30 when Kyra was born, right Kris?”

“Yeah. You got babies on the brain, Matty?”

“Sort of.” He sighed. For the last few minutes, he’d felt so at home. Peaceful. “When a man reaches this age, he starts to think.”

“Well, the human race would love for you to procreate.”

It hit him like a ton of bricks.

My friends aren’t enough. I want a family - that’s my happiness. I want a companion. I want children.

Holy shit, he realized. I’m lonely.

He patted Kristen’s shoulder and she rubbed her hand back and forth. The tears that had been sitting on his eyelids for minutes finally rolled out and down his face.


The next morning, Matthew kissed his sister’s family goodbye and hopped back into his Lexus. He drove through Starbucks.

“Can I have a hot tea?”

This body didn’t want sweets, it wanted to be healthy. He no longer craved sugar. Now that he already had muscles, he wanted to keep them.

His step was bouncy, no longer burdened by the fears that come with a new physicality. It would take him a while to love this new body. He already admired it, he already was growing to understand it, but he didn’t love it quite yet. When he did, though, he knew he’d love it intensely.

He loved the fine life he lived, the gold Rolex on his wrist, the luxury car, and the well-fitted white shirt. He loved his muscles. He even loved being thirty.

But it was the newfound purpose that spurred him on. The twenties had been all about him, him, him. But now that he was the man he’d always wanted to be, it was time to share that being with others.

And make sure their golden birthdays are fruitful.

The wind whipped through his golden hair as he drove. He felt absolute joy.

Matthew drove on, and smiled.