Be proud - part IV

When Miguel got home that evening, the plain black bag sat on his bed like a dare.

It wasn’t gift-wrapped, just zipped, heavy, discreet. But he already knew what was inside. He had felt it in John’s eyes when they’d hugged goodbye. The way John had said, “No pressure. Just… when you’re ready.”

Miguel stared at it for a moment, heart thudding. He ran a hand through his dark curls, hesitated—then unzipped it.

The rubber suit slid out like water. Midnight black. Glossy. Sensual. His throat tightened.

Am I really doing this?
He laid it out. Touched it. Let his fingers trail over the chest, the arms, the collar. It was soft, pliable, almost warm to the touch. He brought it close, inhaled the scent—clean, dark, rich.

He swallowed.

Ten minutes later, in the quiet of his room, he stepped into it. One leg. Then the other.

The cool hug of the material climbed his skin, snug, relentless. Every inch of him wrapped, compressed, held. Like being seen. Like being known.

When he zipped it up fully and looked at himself in the mirror, he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t cringe.

He just... stared.

And then he smiled.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

The suit fit like it had been made for him. His skin sang inside it, his thoughts buzzed with nervous joy. But beneath the thrill, something deeper stirred. A question. A longing. A dare.

John’s video had shown him what was possible. The look. The transformation. The man in the clip — gleaming rubber, bald head, no eyebrows — had unsettled Miguel the first time he’d seen it.

But now?

He wanted it.

Not just the suit. Not just the feeling. The look. The statement. The total surrender to this new self.

He paced the room, arms folded tight across his chest.
Could he really walk into a barbershop and say:
“Everything. Take it all.”

Would they laugh?
Would they ask questions?
Would they even do it?

He caught his reflection again. The grin returned.

Maybe he didn’t need courage. Just momentum.

Maybe it was time.

He stood in the bathroom, alone. The door locked. The rubber suit clinging to his body like a second skin. In his gloved hand: a razor.
On his face: thick, white shaving cream, carefully spread over each eyebrow.

He laughed.

Not nervously — not anymore. It was the laugh of someone surrendering. Of someone stepping through a door and knowing it would close behind him.

There would be no going back after this.

Not just because of how he'd look. But because of what it meant.
No brows. No mask. No compromise.

This was his moment. Just him, the mirror, and the promise of transformation.

He raised the razor.

“Let’s do this,” he whispered.

One slow stroke —
And the old Miguel was already fading.

His eyebrows were gone.

He stared into the mirror, razor in hand, the foam still clinging to his skin like ghosts of who he used to be.

And then—he laughed. A short, high-pitched giggle at first. Then louder. Almost manic. The kind of laughter that tries to keep fear at bay.

He could feel his pulse hammering in his chest. His breath came fast, shallow.

"This is crazy," he whispered to himself.
"But it's me, right? It's really me."

No turning back now.

He raised the razor again, hand trembling. The beard — his last anchor to the familiar — would be next.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding inside his head.

"Alright, Miguel. Let’s finish what you started."

He pressed the blade to his cheek — and the next layer of his old self slid away.

He stared at his reflection — eyebrows gone, beard gone — holding the clippers like they were a detonator.

His voice trembled as he whispered:
“Oh my god… what am I doing…”

But the question didn’t need an answer. He knew. Deep down, beneath the panic and adrenaline, he knew.

This wasn’t destruction.
This was creation.

His finger hovered over the switch.

Click.

The buzzing filled the bathroom like a war drum.

He parted the last of his long black hair with shaking gloved fingers, placed the clippers at the base of his scalp—
—and began.

His hand glided over the bare skin — smooth, cold, perfect.
His breath hitched, and then—

Laughter. Hysterical, uncontrollable laughter.

He didn’t know whether to scream or celebrate.
He looked insane — and he looked right.

All gone. Every strand, every trace of the old self.

He was bald. Beautifully, shockingly bald.
And beneath the terror, a dangerous truth bubbled up:

He loved it.

The stares didn’t bother him.

Not anymore.

Not the double-takes, not the whispering couple near the helmets, not the guy pretending to browse tactical gloves while clearly staring at his polished head and gleaming rubber.

He felt it — the tension, the curiosity, the hunger.

And he fed on it.

This was his first time outside like this.
Sleek. Bald. Unapologetic.

And as he stepped into the fetish shop next door, his heart beat faster — not with fear, but with anticipation.

He was ready for more.

He knew it the moment he held it.

The gas mask.

Black. Heavy. Unapologetic.
Not an accessory. A statement.

It felt right. Not like a costume.
More like a promise.

A promise to himself.
That he wouldn’t go back.

Not anymore.

“Rob! Oh my god, Rob!”

Miguel beamed as if the sun had risen just for him. Rob, meanwhile, blinked hard, trying to take it all in. The bald head. The latex suit. The gloves. The unapologetic presence.

“Miguel?”

“Actually... it’s just M. But yes. It’s me!” He laughed and clapped his hands. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“You look— I mean— wow.”

“I feel incredible. Like I’m finally me. You remember how I used to hide in those boring grey hoodies and always say ‘maybe later’ to everything fun?”

Rob gave a dazed nod.

“No more of that. It started with the razor, Rob. One swipe and I knew. And then the suit, the mask, the gear... it’s not a costume. It’s a key.”

“A key to what?”

Miguel leaned in, whispering theatrically: “To freedom. To control. To joy.”

Rob raised an eyebrow.

“You still into work gear?”

“Uh… yeah. I mean—”

“No but, Rob.” Miguel grinned. “You’d look amazing in neoprene. I know a place. Come with me. Just try it.”

Rob hesitated. Looked at Miguel’s grin. At the shine. At the confidence.

“…Maybe just to look.”

“That’s how it always starts,” Miguel said, winking.