The Lab

by Cris Kane

When he went into biological engineering, Bret had never expected to feel so inadequate as he did at his new job. In college, his classmates had been your average assemblage of nerds, geeks and introverts, with the occasional well-adjusted, reasonably attractive person to throw off the curve. Bret was glad that he had chosen to devote his life to science, where he would be judged by his mind and his ideas, not by his physical attributes or deficits. But his colleagues in the lab at NuGene were...extraordinary.

The leader of the team, Doctor Gupta, was a giant in his field...and almost literally a giant, towering over most of his employees at six foot ten with a powerful build that seemed impossible for a man who had to be in his sixties at least.

Only Dr. Gupta's assistant, Cedric, had the boss beat in the height department, his lean body topping out at seven feet even, not counting the spikes of his mohawk, his long muscular arms inked with elaborate tattoos.

Hayley, who worked at the station next to Bret, was "only" six feet tall (still four inches more than Bret), with a meek demeanor that seemed at odds with the voluptuous figure which her tight lab coat only served to emphasize.

Even Min-Wan, who was only a couple of inches taller than Bret at five-ten, had a physique most gymnasts would envy. His crystalline blue eyes and wavy blond hair combined exotically with his more typically Asian features to give him a breathtakingly handsome appearance.

By contrast, Bret was so scrawny that he wore a belt and suspenders to keep his pants from slipping down, due to his flat, nearly-nonexistent ass. Horn-rimmed glasses dominated his pleasant face, and he kept his short brown hair slicked back. He tended to slump, which only made the height discrepancy with the others in the department more pronounced.

Mirror Images

by Cris Kane

"Ramon!"

Esteban leaned through the open car window and pressed firmly on the horn. He had been attempting to summon Ramon for the past ten minutes, to no avail. Agitated, Esteban glanced at his platinum Patek Philippe. He was in no danger of missing his flight, as he was important enough that the airline would delay takeoff if he had not yet arrived. In fact, the only person on earth who didn't jump into action immediately upon Esteban's command was his son.

At long last, Ramon shuffled drowsily out of the front door of the chalet, scratching his fingers through his short sandy hair. Ramon was trim and fit in his preferred ensemble of a zipper-front black polo, matching black cargo pants, and gleaming white trainers. Bored by the tedium of choosing a new combination of clothes each morning, he had settled on this outfit several years ago and rarely wore anything else. He was so fastidious about his appearance that, the moment his shoes became slightly soiled or scuffed, Ramon would discard them in favor of a fresh pair, and he was so spoiled that his father allowed him to continue this wasteful practice, even now as he reached adulthood.

"What is it, papa?", Ramon grumbled with annoyance, squinting even on such an overcast day. An outsider might chalk up this morning irritability to a hangover, but Ramon was too particular about his body to contaminate it with alcohol.

The Boost - Part 2

Read the first chapter.

Jay escorted his former boss Henry into the health club like a proud tour guide showing a foreign dignitary around the White House. Henry was awestruck -- not by the building, which was a bit run-down and grungy, at least compared to the slick and sanitary big-name chain gym his wife had bought him a membership to a few years ago (and which he visited a handful of times before deciding he was a lost cause). No, what caught Henry's eye was the clientele. He was practically getting whiplash noticing all of the stunningly well-muscled guys circulating around him. The place was hard-body heaven.

Henry only had a single boosted smoothie the day before, a freebie that Jay had given him at the office, and his response was essentially the same as Jay's after his first one. Henry had become incredibly energetic and productive on the job, his instincts keener and reflexes sharper than he had ever experienced. Even colors and sounds seemed more vivid than usual. This was followed by a wave of overwhelming fatigue that set in with a vengeance around suppertime. All afternoon, the rejuvenated Henry had hoped to surprise his wife Diane with an uncharacteristically vigorous night in the sack, powered by his sudden surge of virility, but he was already snoring on the sofa before Vanna lit up a single letter on "Wheel Of Fortune". Diane dutifully dragged her near-comatose hubby into the bedroom and hooked him up to his sleep apnea machine, where he remained deep in slumber until dawn.

So much for romance.

The Boost - Part 1

Jay's new year's resolution was to get in shape, but it was already late January and he hadn't made much progress. He had always been a spindly beanpole without much interest in sports or working out, and it had never really bothered him much. In fact, he enjoyed having a metabolism that allowed him to eat pretty much any crap he wanted without gaining an ounce.

Despite his sunken chest and scrawny arms, his ex-girlfriend had always insisted that she liked "skinny boys". Then again, she always claimed to to like his reddish-brown hair and pale complexion, right up until the day she dumped him for a tall, blond, tanned surfer who looked like he had just stepped off an Abercrombie bag, only he was in color.

Jay had discovered one problem with taking up exercise in his mid-twenties was that he had never built up much endurance. Even though he made a concerted effort to get up early each morning to come to the health club before work, he found that his energy waned quickly once he got there. He would plod along on the treadmill for a while before he grew winded and pooped out, sometimes venturing toward the weight machines in a futile attempt to beef up his twig-thin limbs but barely working up enough of a sweat to merit a shower. It didn't do his already low self-esteem much good to start off each day surrounded by the extremely buff dudes who populated the place. Seriously, every guy here looked so jacked, Jay wondered if there was something in the water or a radiation leak.

One morning, after a particularly unproductive session, Jay was on his way toward the exit, fondly pondering the sausage and egg biscuit he planned to buy on his way to the office, when he heard the whiz of a blender echoing his direction from the gym's juice bar. Jay realized that he was not helping to reach his fitness goals by stuffing his face with a pile of grease every morning, so he spun around and headed back to grab himself a smoothie.

The Ride

I've been told that it's foolish to hitchhike in this day and age, but I actually prefer it as a way of meeting new people.

You really get to know someone on a long drive, much more than on a plane ride when the person next to you tends to watch a movie or read a book or pretends to sleep in order to avoid contact, and the whole trip is over in a few hours. Trains used to be my travel option of choice. You could spend days getting acquainted, and the private sleeping cars were perfect for my purposes. But times change, and I have adapted.

If there's one thing shape-shifters know, it's how to adapt.

Some people feel that hitchhiking is just too dangerous, and that you can never be sure what kind of person you're riding with.

That's why it's valuable to be able to read your companion's mind.

And as for being dangerous...well, I have yet to encounter anyone who I couldn't handle.

One of the perks of being able to change your appearance at will when you're hitchhiking is that you can tailor your image for maximum appeal to those most likely to offer you a lift. I had been wandering the midwest for the past six months and was yearning to see the ocean again, so I began thumbing my way westward. To improve my odds, I very rarely pose as a man. Even the meekest, most harmless looking nerd can be perceived as a potential serial killer when standing alone on the dusty gravel shoulder on a bleak Nebraska afternoon. Perhaps it's unfair, but I have also discovered that drivers also assume that a man should be able to figure his own way out of whatever jam he finds himself in without anyone else's help. That's why, when I'm traveling, I generally choose to look female.

At least to start.

Customer Service

by Cris Kane

I pulled up to the gate in my rusted-out Mazda and pushed the buzzer for the intercom. When I didn't get an immediate answer, I double-checked the address, never having been to this part of Beverly Hills before. Finally, a deep voice crackled through the speaker. "Barry?"

"Uh, no, I'm Cameron. Barry couldn't make it today." My boss Barry usually did this kind of customer service appointment for our elite clients himself, so I was stunned when he asked if I could go instead this time.

I could hear the guy at the other end mutter "Shit" to himself before saying, "Okay, Cameron, come on in."

I heard a buzz and the wide gate swung open, revealing a lush rolling lawn sloping upward to a stunning modernist mansion. Whoever lived here must be flabbergastingly rich. I parked in the driveway and walked to the front door, feeling extremely underdressed in my hoodie, board shorts and Vans slip-ons, until I saw the man of the house straddling the front doorway wearing nothing but a pair of orange briefs.

I had lived in L.A. long enough to become pretty blase about seeing famous people, but this was a major exception. Shane London had been my first major celebrity crush. He was only a couple of years older than me, but by the age of seventeen, he had already become a huge star playing Trace McCoy, the teenage sleuth who could turn invisible on the hit show, "Untraceable". As a short, scrawny geek in rural Idaho, deathly afraid that my peers would discover that I was gay, I would watch that show alone in my bedroom and nurse two impossible fantasies: that I could be Shane London or that I could be invisible.

Shane could scarcely have been more visible as he waited for me at the door. He stood over six feet tall, his well-defined muscles offering a thorough anatomy lesson on his lanky, no-body-fat frame. His shaggy brown hair was slicked back from a face that had only grown more handsome as he hit his mid-twenties. He stared at me with the slight smile of someone who was a bit less than bright or a bit more than stoned.

The Recruit

by Cris Kane

"So, is it true? Ya know, about the formula?", Casey asked eagerly, kneeling on the bed of the San Diego motel room, his lithe body dressed in nothing but his camouflage-patterned briefs.

"What formula?", said Andre, the incredibly muscular young man wearing nothing at all. Andre stood by the window, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks as the morning light seeping through the blinds cast flattering shadows across the impressive contours of his body.

"You are such a bad liar!", Casey giggled, rolling onto his back. "You do that scratching your face thing every time you fib. You must be terrible at poker."

To A Tee

Teddy and his older brother Tommy seemed to have been born with "Kick Me" signs on their backs.

Short, anemic kids focused on science, literature, and chess instead of sports, girls, and getting high, Tommy and Teddy's very existence seemed to offend the popular jocks. Neither of the brothers could ever understand what these muscleheads thought they were proving by delivering bruising punches to the brothers' arms when they passed in the hallway or administering frequent swirlies in the boys' rest room. The jock's physical superiority was obvious to anyone with eyes, yet they still resented the brothers' intelligence so much that Teddy and Tommy were subjected to constant abuse.

But since Tommy had headed off to college, he had undergone an amazing transformation. When he returned home for Thanksgiving that first semester, he had sprouted five whole inches and put on thirty pounds of muscle. His face had lost its remaining baby fat, from which a sharply masculine bone structure had emerged. He radiated thoughtful maturity and requested that everyone in the family start calling him Tom.

Punked

Rick Asher strode confidently down the sidewalk, treating it like his own private fashion runway in his tailored chocolate-brown Gucci suit. Without even being aware of it, he constantly checked his reflection in the windows of the parked cars he passed, admiring his handsome visage and perfectly-combed short brown hair.

Seeing a taxi heading his direction, he pivoted quickly and dashed toward the curb, immediately plowing into someone whose presence he hadn't previously noticed. Rick toppled backwards, the back of his skull bouncing off the cement sidewalk, his briefcase popping open and spilling its contents. Dizzy, Rick boosted himself up on his elbows and looked past his Prada loafers to the man lying in the street. The taxi driver slammed on his brakes, saying a prayer in his native tongue, and the front right tire of the cab came to a halt pressed gently against the cheek of the man sprawled on the asphalt. The stench of burnt rubber wafted in the air.

Farm-Grown

by Cris Kane

"I've decided that you're gonna spend this summer working on your great-uncle's farm!"


The way Dad said it, I guess I was supposed to think it was some great reward, not a prison sentence. I was not exactly your farm-boy outdoorsy type. Puberty had come and gone, leaving me a spindly asthmatic seventeen-year-old who had topped out at five-foot-seven and still had a goddamn baby face. Mom still bought my clothes in the friggin' boys' department at Walmart, for god's sake.


"Do I look like I'm built for doing chores?", I asked Dad, extending my scrawny arms to emphasize the point. It was one of life's mysteries how a tall and hardy guy like my dad could produce a puny kid like me. If we hadn't shared the same blond hair and dark eyes, I'd have been sure I was adopted or switched at birth...or maybe that my spaceship had crash-landed in the backyard and Mom and Dad had decided to raise me as their son.


"Trust me, son, you're gonna love it," Dad said with enthusiasm that I found dubious. "The summers I spent at Uncle Cyrus's made a man out of me.”



In the weeks that followed, I kept making alternative proposals for what to do with my summer, but Dad would have none of it. On June first, my folks loaded me onto a bus for the 36-hour ride to Texas. I walled myself off from the other riders, popping in my headphones and escaping into my music until the battery wore out.




Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

As Jack squeezed his bottle of Axe body wash, he heard nothing but a flatulent sputter. 



He shook the bottle but could only dislodge a few last dribs of soap from the container. Water gushing onto his face, he blindly grabbed for something else in the rack below the shower head. He felt an unfamiliar tube and flipped open the cap. He couldn't place the scent exactly -- pineapple and coconut, maybe, or something more exotic. He usually went for something more musky, something that better fit his nickname of Squatch (short for Sasquatch), bestowed on him way back as a high-school freshman due to his height, stockiness and, even then, abundant body hair. Now, as a collegiate wrestler, he found it helped his odds if he stank a bit during matches, but he didn't need to reek the rest of the time. Whatever this stuff was, it ought to do the job for today.

Jack squirted a hefty portion of the goo into his palm, kneaded it into his hair and scrubbed his scalp, quickly working up a healthy head of lather. The smell was potent, nearly knocking him off his feet, but he couldn't say he disliked it. In fact, it was so intoxicating, he was starting to feel light-headed, like he'd just smoked a bowl. He smiled eagerly as he squeezed out another shot and began rubbing it across the thick curls that carpeted his broad chest and cobblestone abs. The hot shower water mixed with the creamy substance sent another aromatic wave wafting toward his nose, and this stuff seemed to be seeping into his pores and stimulating them.

Jack figured this had to be shampoo that his roommate Trey had left behind. He was still furious with and confused by Trey's recent flake out. Jack and Trey had bonded right away when they met at their first college wrestling practice. They were two big guys who liked drinking beer, chasing chicks and raising hell, as long as none of the above interfered with their wrestling. Trey was a few inches shorter than Jack but stocky by nature, and he always had trouble making his weight, but that still didn't explain why Trey would just split before their meet three days ago without any warning or explanation. Just a couple of cryptic text messages to Jack and the coach and, since then, silence. As a result, the team had to forfeit in Trey's weight class and lost the meet. It was highly uncharacteristic, because Trey was by far the more responsible of the two buddies. In fact, Jack likely would be off the team or even out of the college if it weren't for Trey tutoring Jack and generally acting as Jack's conscience when Jack's usual tendency was to slack off.

Nu-You: Genesis

by Cris Kane

Nathaniel stared at his reflection in the mirror as his thumb hovered over the "TRANSFORM" button on his iPhone. He knew that only a fool experimented on himself, but he was desperate to see if his calculations were correct, and waiting until he got back to the lab on Monday felt interminable.

Nathaniel worked as a coder at the software company DigiWarp, working in the virtual-reality division. In an attempt to create a full sensory experience, DigiWarp had been experimenting with nanobots which would enter the user's body and create the appropriate corresponding sensations. If the virtual character sipped a cold lemonade, the nanobots would rush to the tongue, lower its temperature and stimulate the taste buds which register sweet and sour. If the character was lying on a tropical beach, nanobots would elevate the temperature of the user's skin and trigger signals in the brain that made the user think they were inhaling salt air. The breakthroughs were impressive, but Nathaniel was sure they could push the envelope further and actually cause physical changes to the user's body.

When his superiors raised various ethical and legal issues which would make it impossible for DigiWarp to implement Nathaniel's ideas, he began to work on them at home, tapping surreptitiously into the company's computer network overnight as he refined his concepts. Many times, he would come home from a twelve-hour day at the office and spend another twelve hours working on his secret project at home. He rarely slept and often forgot to eat. He had always been scrawny, but he was wasting away to skeletal proportions.

It was finally time to see if all his work would pay off. He stood in his bathroom, shirtless and wearing his lucky baseball cap. He had preset the parameters for the changes the nanobots would make and felt confident that he hadn't missed anything crucial. He could see his thumb trembling, and wondered if his thumb had more sense than his brain did. Maybe he should do just one more review of his calculations, to be sure he hadn't overlooked anything. That would be the prudent...

The screen of his phone flashed "TRANSFORMING". His jittery thumb had brushed against the screen and initiated the process. Oh, well. Nothing to do now but hold his breath and see what happens.

Overshadowed

by Cris Kane

Whenever anyone would comment on how pale Lance looked, he always thought it was because he had grown up in the shadow of his brother Alec. He had been referred to so frequently as "Alec's little brother Lance" that you'd think that phrase was his given name.


Lance was only twelve months younger than Alec, but he was definitely the overlooked little brother. He always figured that, by the time he arrived, his mom had been pregnant for practically two straight years, so when she finally got him out of her, she left him to fend for himself, just as Lance's father had left all of them around the time he heard there was a second baby on the way. 



Alec was the definition of "tall, dark and handsome", a lanky six-two athlete with thick brown bangs swooping down over entrancingly pale eyes. In addition to his skills on the football field and basketball court, he was an excellent student and a popular guy, having won his senior class presidency unopposed. They might as well just elect him prom king by acclamation and save everyone the bother of voting. He was still weighing his options for college next year, with scouts from several universities wanting him to play football for them, and many of the same schools thinking he would be a prime catch for their electrical engineering departments.


Lance lacked his brother's natural advantages. He was skinny and a full seven inches shorter than his brother, possessing none of Alec's athletic skills. Lance wore nerdy glasses for his poor eyesight, but wasn't studious, nor was he interested in geeky subjects like video games or comic books. Unlike Alec's chiseled features. Lance still had a bit of baby fat on his oval face.

Clearly not a candidate for any of the school's cool subgroups, Lance figured his natural home must be among the weirdos, the emo kids, the goths and the scenesters. He bought a new wardrobe, heavy on Hot Topic tees and skinny jeans in bright colors. He got pierced in several painful places where nature had wisely chosen not to put holes in the first place. He dyed his hair the color of a cherry Slurpee.

The Perfect Guy Goes Viral

By Cris Kane

Inspired by Erick S.'s "The Perfect Guy" series

I enter my darkened little one-bedroom apartment, lugging my briefcase and a McDonald's meal, having already devoured most of the fries during my commute. I felt like such a pig, wolfing down fries as my Hyundai idled in the chugging traffic, but everybody knows McDonald's fries have a half-life of about thirty seconds before they start to devolve from yummy treats into petrified wood. I know I'm not helping my fitness goals, but some nights you just feel like bagging on the gym and eating something horrible for you.

Besides, one night isn't going to make a big difference, right?

I take a seat at my Ikea desk (a BORGSJÖ, if I remember correctly from the assembly instructions) and power down my grilled chicken sandwich while I boot up my laptop to check my personal emails, the kind you don't dare open at work. Looks like the standard assortment of spam selling cheap boner pills, dubious-sounding dietary supplements, and entreaties begging me to take millions of dollars off some foreign stranger's hands.

I'm about to delete another email from a sender whose name I don't recognize when the subject line catches my attention.

"Re: The Perfect Guy"

I figure it's probably a come-on from some gay dating service or maybe a link to a porn website, but it piques my interest enough to click it open.

 To my new friend,

 Another night alone at home? Here's a game to amuse yourself.
 Have fun! I know I did!

 Your new friend.

Tumbled

by Cris Kane

I knew it was time for a trip to the laundromat when I entered my apartment and it smelled like the litter box needed to be emptied. You see, I don't own a cat.

I stripped off my t-shirt and jeans, which were soaked through with sweat after my shift washing dishes at the restaurant, and tossed them into the hamper with my other dirty clothes. Man, did they reek. The only reasonably clean clothes I had left were some hole-ridden cargo shorts and a single black sock. I pulled on the shorts, with no choice but to go commando under them, and slipped a pair of flip-flops onto my bare feet. I stuffed my laundry into a plastic basket and grabbed a hefty fistful of quarters from the change bowl beside my bed.

Of all the things I disliked about my dismal little apartment, and there were plenty, the worst was that it had no washer and dryer. That meant I had to lug my clothes nearly a mile to the nearest laundromat, the Wash-N-Dri, which gave me one more excuse for putting off laundry day until it was absolutely unavoidable. I guess it was good exercise for what few muscles I had on my scrawny-ass frame, but by about block three, I was wishing to hell I owned a car. Not much chance of that on a dishwasher's salary.

When I got to the laundromat, it was empty as usual. If you're already feeling lonely or depressed, do not go to an empty laundromat. It will not cheer you up. I did notice that a couple of loads of clothes were tumbling in two of the dryers, but the place was otherwise silent. I packed all of my clothes into a single machine, bought one of those tiny boxes of detergent and dumped it in.

The Shortcut

by Cris Kane

I'd always known my dad was disappointed to have such a nerdy bookworm for a son. Dad had been the captain of his high-school football team, which went all the way to sectionals his senior year -- an accomplishment which, barring a sudden and very unexpected nomination for a Nobel Peace Prize, would likely go down as the greatest achievement of his life. He is still a formidable physical presence, even if these days his body is built primarily out of cholesterol and Old Milwaukee.

He did attempt to bond with me by tossing around a football when I was seven or eight, but his first gentle pass broke my nose and shattered my eyeglasses. From that point on, he focused his attention on my little sister, who had all the natural grace, ferocity and athleticism I lacked. Now she's the goalie on her soccer team which won the state title last year. I think Dad gets perverse joy out of knowing his pretty blonde daughter could easily beat the crap out of her skinny geek of an older brother.

Most parents would be happy to have a kid with a 4.0 GPA who was being wooed by Ivy League colleges and was likely to be his class valedictorian. Heck, I should have been happy with that.

But when I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt almost as disappointed as Dad did.

A Few Small Repairs

Read Part 1 HERE.

Read Part 2 HERE.

Read Part 3 HERE.

 

by Cris Kane

Shiloh and I stood in the dimly lit street, our astounding bodies each seven feet tall and bursting with more muscle than I'd ever seen on a human being -- if that's even what we were any more. Our shoulders and biceps were bigger than beach balls and solid as steel. Our lats flared out so dramatically that neither of us could lower our arms fully to our sides. A street light behind us showed off our musculature in sharp relief and cast long brutish shadows along the pavement. I was glad I'd had the presence of mind to switch us into stretch pants when our bodies became so gargantuan, so at least we weren't naked.

Guys had run outside the Manhole and the other gay establishments of 69 Street once people heard the sounds of our frenetic battle with the guy who had taken Cole away with him. Everyone was keeping their distance from the two silhouetted giants in the middle of the road, but every-goddamn-body had a camera on their cell phone and was taking pictures and videos of us like two sasquatches who had just landed in the gay-borhood.

Ironically, Shiloh and I were the only ones who didn't have a camera, and we were the ones who really could have used one, since it was my magical camera that had gotten us into this mess. Too bad Shiloh had accidentally stepped on it, his enormous weight grinding it into irreparable bits.

A Few Simple Changes

Read Part 1 HERE.

Read Part 2 HERE.

 

by Cris Kane

I had no inkling where to start my search for my roommate Cole, having selfishly turned him from an abusive nincompoop into a frisky cocksucker just to satisfy my own sexual needs. Despite having boosted my intelligence substantially with the astonishing camera which my father had given me, I had little clue where my transformed roommate might have gone.

Cole's cell phone, which I had retrieved from the pocket of the cargo shorts he left behind, began to vibrate. The screen displayed the name "SHILOH" with an accompanying photo of one of Cole's posse extending his middle finger. Those gentlemen were all class.

A Few Little Tweaks

Read Part 1 HERE.

by Cris Kane

After I texted my dad the photo showing how much his camera had changed me, I zonked out pretty fast. Growing six inches and eighty pounds in one night will do that to a guy.

 

Not sure whether it was the sound or the smell of the fart that woke me up, but the combination of the two was lethal. I rubbed my eyes and held my breath as I heard the low chuckling of my dumbshit roommate Cole. The fucker was plastered, and his idea of subtle humor was to wake up his roommate at 3am and fart in his face.

"Hey, baby, can I borrow a diaper from you?", he said in a demented whisper, hardly able to contain his laughter. Even his dimwit buddies hanging in the doorway were telling him he was being immature and should leave me alone.

I just reached up and gripped his wrist, then twisted his arm around his back, amazed by my strength. He sure wasn't expecting that from his wimpy roommate.

"Ow, ow ow!," he yelped. He whispered to his pals by the door, "Fuck, I'm in the wrong room!" His loyal friends freaked out and ran away.

"No, you're in the right place," I whispered. "You just fucked with the wrong guy." I climbed out of bed while maintaining hold of his arm. I flipped on the light over my bed and could see clearly on his face just how much pain he was in, so I let go. His arm fell slack at his side. He rubbed his shoulder and turned around. I got a real kick out of watching his eyes as they caught their first glimpse of my broad chest and my giant arms, then moved up and up until he saw me grinning down at him. I now had a good couple inches on him and, except for the part covered by my exercise pants, all of my new muscle was on prominent display.

A Few Minor Adjustments

by Cris Kane

Hello. My name is Ryan and I am a geek.

Honestly, I've tried to make myself look cooler with pierced ears, tattoos, and bling, but I'm afraid all of that only emphasizes how desperately I'm trying not to look like the short, skinny white boy I am.

In high school, I did have a few girls who liked me and told me I was cute, but it's not like they were ever gonna date me. No, they wanted to date the jocks, then call me on the phone afterwards and dish, weeping about what a jerk the jock had been. To them, I was the "gay best friend" that every romantic comedy and sitcom told them they needed as an accessory.

Never mind that I wasn't actually gay.

I suppose I couldn't blame them for making the assumption. It's not like I was doing anything that would prove them wrong. Like, say, having sex with a girl.

I'm only five-seven and I've always had, like, zero muscle-mass. My folks knew how much it bugged me to be so puny, so Dad bought me a set of weights, but sweating and straining just to curl a fifteen-pound dumbbell was not my idea of a fun time. Besides, all that exertion never seemed to add an ounce to my lanky-ass body. The weights sat in a corner of my bedroom, growing cobwebbier by the day.

I started college with the naive hope that it would be a less superficial environment than goddamn high school and people would put more value on intelligence than appearance. As my parents were wishing me goodbye, Mom couldn't stop crying and calling me "my baby", right there in my dorm room, right in front of my dick of a roommate, who was barely stifling his laughter. I just knew he would be mocking me and calling me "Baby" from then on.