Date Me, Kyle Jones

The campus was crawling with hot gay guys. Like, statistically improbable levels of hot. You couldn’t throw a reusable water bottle without hitting an Andrew Christian ad. Even the so-called nerds were suspiciously buff, with tight polos and shiny hair and sculpted glutes.

I'm a five. Five-and-a-half if I wore my tightest jeans. I wasn’t ugly, just... forgettable. Average height. Average build. Dark curly hair that frizzed if I skipped product. I had a decent smile, but nobody looked long enough to notice.

Being a five should be average, but here I was just… half.

Because of Kyle Jones.  Kyle Fucking Jones.

Kyle was nice. Like, genuinely nice. He’d ask how your day was going. He’d compliment your Payless shoes. If you told him about a podcast, he'd actually listen to it.

And he dated.  A lot.  Mostly straight guys.

Didn’t matter what they looked like going in, they walked away hot and gay. Nerdy freshman? He'd end up shirtless at every party with a six-pack and a backwards cap. Theater kid with noodle arms? He'd be benching his bodyweight and showing off with sleeveless hoodies. One particularly awkward guy in my bio class  had bulked up and started wearing neon crop tops.

Nobody talked about it, but everyone knew. One date with Kyle Jones, and boom – you were a hot gay jock.

In a twist of unfairness, Kyle never even looked my way. Not a smile. Not a text. Not a follow.

I’d give anything for a date with Kyle Jones. Anything. A coffee. A kiss. One night. Whatever it took.

It just wasn’t fair.

----------

Jack was trying to read, and I was ruining his life.

"I'm just saying," I repeated, pacing the planck length of our dorm room. "One date, is that too much to ask? It's been months since I've hooked up with anyone… but one date with Kyle…"

"Statistically speaking, you should be doing fine," Jack said without looking up from his laptop. "Like twenty percent of the guys on campus identify as gay, right? There must be someone out there who wants your dick."

"Yeah, well, most of those are Kyle's work," I said. "They're out of my league."

"So ask him out."

I stopped pacing. "What?"

Jack finally looked up. "You keep complaining like it's this cosmic injustice, but you haven't even asked him out. Just ask him. Worst case, he says no and you remain tragically average."

"It doesn't work like that," I said weakly.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not — it's just not that simple."

Jack stared at me, deadpan. "Look, dude. I've got a paper due Monday on the sociopolitical impact of textile tariffs in early modern England. Can you either hit on the guy or shut up about it?"

"I can’t." I flopped onto my bed and groaned. "He’s not even on Grindr."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, makes sense, I guess. I heard a rumor he only dates straight guys."

"No way that’s true," I laughed.

Jack shrugged. "That’s the rumour.  I’ve got more of a chance with Kyle Jones than you.  But… if the rumour's wrong, there are other ways to reach out, right?  Or does that break gay protocol?"

I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram. Kyle's profile was exactly what you'd expect: sweaty gym selfies, beach photos, a couple of shots at parties.

I hovered for a second, then typed out a quick message.

>Hey. I know this is kinda random, but would you maybe wanna grab a coffee sometime?

Sent.

"He’s not answering," I said.

"Dude," Jack said without even glancing up. "Give it time."

I slumped further into my mattress, phone still in hand, hope already curdling into self-loathing. Time. Sure. Maybe in another life.

----------

Two days later and still no reply.

No "seen." No heart. No emoji. Kyle tossed my message into a black hole.

I tried not to take it personally, which was about as successful as trying not to sweat during cardio. By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, I was vibrating with pent-up frustration. So naturally, I came up with a brilliant idea.

"Okay, hear me out," I said, bursting into the room and nearly tripping over Jack's backpack. "What if I do a full social media campaign. Like a "look what you're missing" strategy. Show off the goods, make it look fun, tag him in everything."

Jack didn’t even pause the video he was watching. "That sounds like the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

"No, listen! It’s storytelling.  Make it look like I'm having a blast, and maybe –"

"This is embarrassing, dude," Jack cut me off.

"I don’t care."

"You’re going to become an influencer just so Kyle Jones will text you back?"

"I’m going to become a beast," I corrected. "Once he texts back.  You won’t be laughing when I’m packing muscle."

Jack finally looked up, one eyebrow raised.

"If you get a sponsorship before you get a date, I’m moving out."

----------

The camera opened on me grinning like a goof.

"Movie night!" I said, turning the phone to catch a shaky pan of the theater lobby. My friends Matt and Jordan were in the background, each holding a jumbo popcorn and already arguing about trailers.

"We got milkshakes, we got dumb jokes, we got overpriced snacks," I added, stepping into the frame again. "You don’t need a date to have a good time, right?"

I forced a grin. It came out a little too wide, a little too eager.

"Seriously, we can just hang out!" I said, trying to sound breezy. Chill.

And then, like a total clown, I held up a sign.

DATE ME, KYLE JONES!

Jordan groaned in the background. Matt laughed and gave a double thumbs-up.

I ended the clip with a wink and a slurp from my milkshake.

Subtlety was for quitters.

----------

The video opened on me outside the club, breath fogging slightly in the night air.

"It’s rolling?" I asked, squinting toward the lens.

A muffled voice off-camera: "Yeah, go."

I gave a lopsided grin. My tank top clung to my chest, soaked in sweat, and my hair was artfully tousled—thank you, bathroom mirror touch-ups and tequila confidence.

"Okay, so... a bunch of us from Pride went out tonight," I said, stumbling slightly as I shifted weight from one foot to the other. "And we’re having a blast."

A flash of club music thudded in the background as the door opened and closed behind me.

"I’ve been dancing for hours," I went on, pointing a finger at the camera with mock-serious intensity. "Just ducked out to get some air and... well, I want you to see what you’re missing."

I pulled the familiar sign from my back pocket and held it up with both hands, cocky as hell.

DATE ME, KYLE JONES!

I grinned wide, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to my forehead, drunk enough to believe this was definitely a good idea.

The camera swayed a little before cutting off.

----------

The video opened on me bundled in a puffy jacket, goggles perched on my forehead, the snowy slope behind me gleaming in the winter sun. A chairlift rumbled in the background.

"Hey!" I waved at the camera, cheeks pink from the cold. My breath came out in clouds.

"We ended up in Vermont this weekend, checking out the mountain," I said, shifting my stance a little. The ski boots made it awkward. "I’m not like... the best skier. Actually, I’m not even a good skier."

I laughed.

"But if I was a little more athletic..."

I shrugged, grinning.

"Look, you know how this goes."

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the now-crumpled-but-still-committed sign.

DATE ME, KYLE JONES!

I held it up with gloved hands and gave the camera my most charming, wind-chapped smile.

----------

It was a quiet night in the dorm — just a tinny beat from Jack’s laptop and the occasional shuffle of board game pieces.  I hadn't stayed in lately, and honestly… I was too broke to do something more insta-worthy.  Jack asked how my social media campaign was going.

"It’s not working," I admitted. "I feel kinda pathetic."

"I mean… maybe you’re not dating Kyle," he said, looking up from the board.  "But you’ve actually been getting out there. Having fun."

"Yeah, great… my average ass is having fun."

"Not everyone has to look like an underwear model," Jack smirked.

"You’re straight," I groaned, flopping backward onto my bed. "You don’t get it."

"Still," Jack said.  "You’ve been more alive this semester than all last year. That’s gotta count for something."

"Whatever," I muttered. Then I sat up. "Anyway… can you hold the camera?  I don't wanna break my streak."

"Fine," Jack sighed, catching my phone.  I put on my social media face.  He hit record and flashed me a thumbs up.

"Hey!" I said brightly. "I’m hanging out with my roommate tonight. Say hi, Jack!"

"Uh… hi," he said, flat as ever from behind the camera.

"We’re playing Risk," I went on. "Which… there’s no risk with me." I grinned. "You’d have a great time."

I held up the now-classic sign.

DATE ME, KYLE JONES!

Then I took back the phone, tagged both Jack and Kyle, and added the usual hashtag.

#DateMeKyleJones

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Look, if you feel so strongly about this guy, maybe it’s time to try the direct approach."

I rolled my eyes.

"Uh… how could I be more direct?"

He shrugged, chuckling. "I dunno. Maybe try talking to him?"

----------

I looked him up in the campus directory. Kyle Jones. Room 202, Dalrymple Hall.

This was going to be the most iconic moment of my life.

The wind was sharp, slicing through my jacket, but I was still sweating. As I crossed the quad, I passed two guys coming the other way—both tall, both jacked, both in shorts so short they’d be illegal in several states. Their tight tees clung to pecs that could crush a soda can. I recognized one of them from the Pride formal last month. Fresh meat, courtesy of Kyle Jones.

They were grinning, laughing about something I couldn’t hear. As they passed, one gave me a friendly wave.

I blushed and nodded back, trying not to stare. This campus. This fucking campus.

Dalrymple Hall had to be a hundred years old. As I opened the door, a guy in jeans and a tank top came whistling down the stairs. He looked like a frat bro poster boy — tan skin, clean jawline, biceps on full display. He glanced at me, then did a cartoonish double take.

"Hey," he said, checking out a guy for the first time ever.

"Hey," I muttered back, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes.

"Kyle Jones lives that way, right?" I asked, nodding down the hallway.

"Room 202," he said, winking. "Two dates in one night... Kyle's a fuckin' machine."

I walked down the hallway, heart pounding. Room 202. I stared at the number for a solid ten seconds. This was insane. What was I doing? I should just go back to my room and watch a movie. Something with plenty of hot guys and zero chance of rejection.

But Kyle was just on the other side of that door.

So I knocked.

After a few seconds, the door swung open. There he was—Kyle Jones, standing there in nothing but a pair of grey sweats, hair messy, abs carved out of marble.

"Hey," he said when I didn’t say anything right away. "What’s up? Too much noise?"

"Hey," I managed. "I’m Cameron, and… uh… I was wondering… do you wanna go on a date sometime?"

He squinted. "Wait. You’re that guy. The one who’s like… stalking me on Insta."

"It’s not—" I stammered. "That’s not… I’m not trying to stalk you. I just wanna get your attention."

Kyle gave me a soft look. Pity.

"Hey, I’m sorry man… you’re just not my type," he said.  "But, uh… thanks? I’ll see you around."

"Uh, yeah," I said, not sure what else to say. I took a step back.

Kyle closed the door.

----------

When I got back to the dorm, the door was open a crack and I could hear the sound of ice clinking rattling against plastic. Jack was sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing basketball shorts and a hoodie, sipping something from his oversized Nalgene.

He looked up when I came in.

"Well?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

I just shook my head. "Not his type."

"Huh," Jack said. He swirled his water bottle like he was about to deliver a TED Talk. "That tracks."

I tossed my jacket onto the chair and collapsed into my desk chair. "What are you drinking?"

"Vodka and emotional damage," he said flatly, then turned his phone screen toward me.

It was a message. From Kyle Jones.

>hey jack. u free tomorrow?

My stomach dropped. "You’re kidding."

"I guess you got his attention," Jack said, voice tight.

I just stared. "You’re telling me I’ve been throwing myself at this guy for months, and he asks you out?"

Jack shrugged. "It’s your fault. You tagged me in that fucking post."

Sure enough, the message from Kyle was a direct reply to the dorm night video.

"That was not the plan," I muttered.

"Yeah, well," Jack said, taking another sip. "Apparently the plan sucked."

"So… what are you going to do?" I asked.

Jack shrugged, staring at the message.

"What can I do? I’ve got a date with Kyle Jones. I’m supposed to meet him for a beer after class tomorrow, so… I’m gonna enjoy my last night as a heterosexual man."

"Have fun hooking up," I shrugged.

"Nah, man," Jack said, fishing into his mini fridge and tossing me a cold can. "We’re gonna get drunk and watch Marvel movies."

"That your version of last rites?" I chuckled.

"Exactly," he said, clinking his can against mine. "To America’s Ass… whatever happens to mine."

----------

We made it twenty minutes into Endgame before I made it all about me.

"I just wanted to be one of the hot gays," I said, half to the TV, half to my beer. "Like… part of the species. Not a visiting scholar."

Onscreen, Cap tightened his shield strap and shouldered through a corridor; a few scenes later, he was grappling with his 2012 self, suit painted on, arms pumped to cartoon levels. I jabbed a finger at the TV. "Why is that so easy for everyone else?"

Jack snorted. "Dude, it’s not easy. Most guys who wanna look like that spend years in the gym."

"Years," I echoed like it was a slur.

"Yeah. Years," he said, not unkindly. "Lifting. Eating boring food. Sleeping enough. Failing a bunch. Then doing it again."

Cap slammed the shield, it ricocheted with that satisfying thunk. The little green pit in my stomach stirred.

"Have you ever even gone?" Jack asked.

I opened my mouth and closed it without speaking.

We watched in silence for a bit.

"No," I admitted.

If Kyle wasn’t going to pick me, I’d have to pick myself.

"But I’m gonna," I said finally.

Jack glanced over. "To the gym?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow. I’ll figure it out."

He raised his can in a little salute. "Okay."

"You’re not gonna talk me out of it?"

"Why would I?" he said. "You’re allowed to try hard at something. Even if it’s for dumb reasons."

I smiled despite myself. "America’s Ass really is persuasive."

"I guess we're both re-inventing ourselves tomorrow," Jack smirked.

Onscreen, a shield bounce flattened a bad guy.  Chris Evan's looked really good. I pulled up my notes app and typed a single line: Gym. Tomorrow. No excuses.

I set the phone face down and sank into the mattress. "I’m gonna be one of the hot gays," I murmured.

"You’re gonna be sore," Jack said. "But then… yeah. Maybe."

We clinked cans and got lost in the movie.

----------

I paced our room like a dog waiting for a walk, checking the time every three minutes. Jack’s date was at seven. By seven-oh-eight I’d memorized the pattern of scuffs on our linoleum. At seven-fifteen I lay on my bed and tried to breathe.

I couldn’t take it. If I didn't distract myself, I was going to start live-texting Jack like a psycho.

I stuffed gym clothes into my backpack – shorts I brought to sleep in, a college tee, the water bottle from orientation – and headed for the campus weight room.

The place felt empty. Fluorescents hummed. A single treadmill whirred somewhere. The whole room smelled like rubber mats and rubbing alcohol.

I hovered by the dumbbell rack, pretending I knew what I was doing. A guy in a cutoff hoodie was finishing his last set on the bench, earbuds in, face glazed with focus. I picked up a pair of fifteens. Too light. I grabbed the twenties. Too heavy. I went back to the fifteens and tried to look competent.

My form was probably a crime. I swung, I grunted,my arms burned.  It felt pathetic and promising.

I wandered to a machine with a diagram.  A cartoon man whose back was politely highlighted. Lat pulldown, apparently. I sat, pulled the bar to my chest, and lifted out of my seat. I fumbled to adjust it, then pretended like I only needed the one rep. I tried the row machine and managed ten reps.  It felt like rowing a canoe through pudding.

Between sets I stared in the mirror. Not in a "damn, who’s that" way—more like trying to decode a magic eye poster. Average height, average build, T-shirt puckering weirdly at the shoulder seams. I flexed a little. Nothing happened. I straightened my back and rolled my shoulders like Cap did in Endgame. Still me.

It was all… a lot. Too many handles. Too many settings. Too many cartoons with red highlights.

After forty-five minutes of reading the machines, I ended where everyone starts: back at the dumbbells, doing curls again. Count to ten. Breathe. Don’t drop it on your foot. Try not to cry.

I rested my forearms on my thighs and let my head hang for a second. My breath fogged the mirror. Somewhere on campus, Jack was probably laughing at something Kyle said.  I wondered if he was gay yet.

That last guy had left a few minutes ago.  It was just me in the gym now.

I racked the dumbbells and stared at my reflection.  I was totally lost.

But at least I was here.

"Hey," I heard behind me.

I looked up into the mirror and my eyes went wide. Kyle Jones was standing a few feet back.

"Oh hey," I said, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. I picked up a dumbbell and pretended mid-set was a normal time for conversation.

"Jack told me I might find you here," Kyle said. "After our date, he was telling me — look, it’s nothing personal, okay? I don’t date gay guys."

"Seriously?" I barked a laugh. "That’s your excuse?"

"Yeah," he said. "It’s this power I’ve got. It make a guy into my fantasy. Athletic, sexy as fuck, and… a total gay top. If I fucked gay guys, there wouldn’t be a single bottom on this campus. Honest, it’s getting hard to find one. There are like… twenty tops here for every bottom, and I’m only making it worse. I’d date you, dude, but… your ass is the most valuable commodity around."

"But I wanna be hot…" I heard myself say. It came out smaller than I meant.

"I know," Kyle said. "Jack explained it to me. You don’t just wanna fuck jocks. You actually wanna be one."

"Yeah," I shrugged. "Even if I gotta take the slow road."

I grabbed a twenty-five off the rack to prove a point and the weight yanked my shoulder forward.  I dropped it like that was the plan.

Smooth. Real smooth.

"Whoa there," Kyle said, hands up like he was calming a skittish puppy. "I don’t date gay guys… but I guess I could... once."

"You’re fucking with me," I said.

"Yeah," he grinned, easy and charismatic.  "But not the way you think."

"Really?"

"Really," he said, stepping closer until I could smell his body wash. "But here’s the deal. I’m not just gonna jock you. I’m gonna give you a little of my gift. Once I finish with you, you’ll be a top — ’cause that’s my thing. You’ll be on the hunt for bottoms. But… when you go on a date, you’ll get what you need. Any guy you date will end up a total bottom. You’ll never run out."

"For real?" My voice came out hoarse.

"For real," Kyle said, dimples out. "I get like a hundred texts a day from guys bitching I don’t make bottoms. Whaddaya say? Wanna bring balance to the Force?"

My heart was thudding so loud it felt like a club beat. I gulped, suddenly aware of how my shirt clung.

“Let’s call that a yes," Kyle said.

Everything snapped still. Even the hum of the air conditioning cut out. It was just us and the mirror.

"Listen up, Cameron," he said, gentle and absolute. "You want to be gym gay, huh?"

"Yeah," I heard myself say—and my shoulders answered first. They rounded and set with a confidence I’d never earned, traps rising, neck thickening, posture clicking into place like it had been there all along.

"You ever want to look hot on Grindr, dont'cha?"

"Yeah." It seemed obvious, the way he said it, and my body responded like it was true all along. My tee didn’t sit right anymore. Heat rolled under my skin—pecs swelling, lats flaring, the seam of my sleeves biting as my delts capped over—so I grabbed the hem and peeled it off before it ripped, tossing it on the rack. Bare chest, better. I knew those words now… and not just cause of the cartoons on the machines.

Kyle's grin tilted. "Be honest — it's about size, right?  You wanna be bigger…"

"Yeah."

"Bodybuilder bigger?"

I swallowed.  I never thought of it that way before, but…

"Yeah. I want to be a bodybuilder."

"Good," he said. "First step: admit it.  And for our second step…"

I grew.

My body stretched and I felt off centre. I started off around five ten, but the floor was quickly getting farther away—six-three became six-seven, became seven. My legs thickened into pillars; my shorts clung indecently as my quads swelled. I toe-heeled my sneakers off, kicked the socks away, hooked my thumbs in the waistband and shoved my shorts down before they split, stepping out of my underwear as my thighs outgrew the fabric. My calves carved in; my glutes rounded hard and high. My arms were obscene—veins like cables, forearms dense, biceps rounding into perfect peaks. Bare chest, hard abs; every breath made me look bigger.

Memories flowed in: setting my alarm clock for an early lift, my notes apps full of sets and reps, a trainer’s voice counting for me when every ounce of my focus went into the iron.

Kyle smiled, like a craftsman admiring his work.

"That’s the look."

He kicked off his sneakers, peeled out of his joggers, and stripped down to a jockstrap like it was the most natural thing in the world. He turned, slow and playful, letting me take in the cut of his back and the perfect, high curve of his ass.

"So whaddaya say?" he teased over his shoulder. "Feel like a top yet?"

Dude was tiny… but look at that ass…

I palmed his hip and guided him back onto a flat bench, one hand on his chest to sit him down.

“Here,” I said, bracketing him with my knees as I lined us up. I set the pace, his hands gripping my waist and guiding me in. I stared myself in the mirror — the way I towered over him, the way my body took charge like it had been built for this.

I tried topping a couple times when I was a freshman, but it never felt like this…

The bench creaked under us. I set my feet wide on the mat and drove from my legs. Slow at first. Controlled. The motion started in my hips and recruited everything—glutes firing, lower back bracing, then legs and torso—until my whole frame moved as one machine. Heat spread across my chest and shoulders.

Kyle tipped his chin up toward me, eyes half-lidded and cocky, hands light on my waist. I found the angle.  My world narrowed to pressure, rhythm, breath. In the mirror I watched us become a loop, locked into a steady beat.

Every push drew a moan from him. I rode the line between control and hunger, kept it there, fed it.

“Yeah,” he gasped, voice breaking. “More…”

I squared my shoulders and went deeper.  Heavier. My pulse hammered in my throat. Sweat ran down my spine. In the mirror I looked huge and confident, the kind of guy I’d always lusted over.  I couldn't wait for everyone to stare at me.

When he finished — when his whole body tightened and his exploded with cum — I felt a bolt of power rip through my chest and out through my limbs.  A circuit was closing.  It knocked the breath from me. I staggered back a step and watched my cock tremble.

I didn’t blow my load. I couldn’t yet.

The charge crackled under my skin. I was wound tight, dizzy with excitement, alive and hungry.

"There he is," Kyle moaned softly.

I looked at myself — huge, hot, and undeniable.

I was so fucking horny.

"Holy fuck," I gasped. The sound of my own voice startled me — low and heavy, like my pecs. Thought lagged behind feeling. All I could think about was fucking someone into submission. Now.

"You like that?" Kyle asked with a smirk. "Good. It’s your everything."

He stepped in close and gave my cock one last tug.

"I’m gonna get some sleep," he said. "You should find someone to take care of that."

I swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He pulled up his joggers. "Start with your roommate. Seems only fair."

The hum of the room started back up. I buzzed like a live wire.

I stared into the mirror a second longer, chest heaving. I was totally naked in the weight room, with that twenty‑five just sitting on the mat where I’d dropped it. Instinct kicked in — the new kind. I bent, picked it up, and re‑racked it without thinking. It felt tiny in my hand, like a prop.

My eyes slid down the rack to the sixties. A part of me wanted to grab them and get a quick set or two —just enough to see the pump. A louder part of me needed something else .

I scooped up my gym clothes – a black compression tank and baggy gym shorts.  Sure, I'd love to show off my quads more… but a dom top wears torn up boxers.

My cock's too big for short shorts anyway.

----------

The gym was dead, but the quad was still awake. A few groups drifted between buildings, laughing loud on a Friday night. My brain tuned out the words and locked onto motion — the way denim hugged a pair of glutes, the tightness of elastic on joggers, the curve of a thigh under shorts.

I couldn’t stop staring at ass. Gay, straight, didn’t matter. My head turned on a swivel. My pulse sat high in my throat. The pavement felt springy under my feet, like I could stalk up behind anyone and—

I stopped. Shook it out. The charge under my skin made it hard to think about anything past what I could see. I wanted somebody right now. The idea of grabbing some random guy in the alley behind the gym flashed across my mind, hot and stupid.

Jack.  His name flashed through my mind.  Hold your load for Jack…

I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept moving. Two guys in letterman jackets jogged past, laughing; I could smell their cologne and whatever food truck they’d just hit. A nerd with a stack of books was headed for the library. A skater ghosted along the quad path, wheels whispering. I was fuckin' feral..

Another turn. Another courtyard. I could see our dorm across the lawn, windows stacked in a grid. I rolled my shoulders, breathed slow, counted it out.  Just a hundred yards til I was home.

Focus.  Find Jack.  Don't blow your load.

I picked up the pace.

----------

I pushed the door open and froze.

He’d shrunk — five‑four, maybe — and his build had gone tight and lean, like a wrestler cutting to make weight. Broad shoulders for his size, thick neck, dense arms, waist tapered hard. He was lying back on his bed, eyes glassy, gay porn playing full-screen on the TV. His hand was working his cock, slow and needy.

“Bro,” Jack whispered when he saw me fill the doorway. “Cam… is that you?”

“Like… yeah,” I rumbled. The sound of my voice was a floorboard creak. I stepped inside and shut the door with my foot. “And I’m happy you’re horny. Wanna get fucked?”

“Uh… sorry, bro,” Jack groaned, palm pausing but not leaving. “I’m a top. Guess Kyle made you one too, huh? Like… everyone on Grindr’s searching for ass. Too bad… I kinda thought you were my dirty little secret.”

I crossed the room, climbed onto the mattress, and kissed him. His hand slid off his cock and onto my chest. He kissed back, hungry and confused.

“Uh… bro,” he panted into my mouth. “Wanna like… jerk off together?”

“Nah,” I growled. “But I’ll jack off.” I smirked at my own dumb joke and kissed him again, deeper.

“Dude, that’s so dumb,” he said, but he was smiling, pupils blown. “And like I said… I’m a top.”

“You sure about that?” I asked, letting my fingers trail down, then tickle his hole with one knuckle. I’d never been this confident in my life, but I knew exactly what to do. Under my hand I felt his hole twitching.

“I’m not sure about anything…” he confessed, breath fast.

“I am,” I said, kissing him slow and certain. “You’re a bottom bitch.”

Jack moaned, hips rolling up. That was consent enough, small and desperate.

I reached past his nightstand and into mine — I'm big, but the room isn't —and came up with lube. I warmed some in my palm, rubbed it over his hole.  My finger slid inside easy.

“The jock thing’s hot,” I whispered in his ear while I worked him, keeping eye contact just to watch him melt. “But you’re gay now, brah… time to look the part.”

The air fizzed. Whatever Kyle gave me… I felt it changing the room around us. His Pink Floyd poster blinked into a Jonas Brothers print. The bathroom counter filled itself — serums, toner, a lineup of hair products. Jack's underwear drawer become nothing but jockstraps.

Jack swallowed hard. “What… are you doing to me?”

“Kyle changed me,” I said.  "In more ways than one…"

I lined up and pushed in. He grunted, tight for a breath — then opened, the resistance turning to heat. I slid all the way, bottomed out, and he grabbed the back of my neck like he didn’t want me going anywhere.  One thrust, and he was a bottom for life.

My balls slapped his wrestler ass; the sound bounced off the cinderblock walls. With every stroke I felt little shifts take hold. His lips puffing, soft and plush. Just enough fat to jiggle his ass.  His pecs rounding fuller under my palms. He gasped at the sensation of his own body changing, then moaned when I pushed in deep and stayed there.

“Cam —”

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing a fistful of hair. It blushed from brown to platinum in my grip, strand by strand, until he was a dumb blond… just the way I like 'em.

He came first — back arching, breath stuttering — and dragged me over with him. I drove my cock deep one last time and the release hit like a flashbang, a hot, clean rush that poured out of me and lit him up from the inside.

“Oh my god,” Jack gasped. He fell back, chest heaving. He collapsed on pink satin sheets.  When he rolled to one side, I realized he was wearing lip gloss and the lightest touch of makeup — such a pretty boy.

“That was like… oh my god…” he breathed, dazed and happy.

I kissed him again, slow and deep.  Reality was solid again.

He curled into the little spoon by instinct.  I held him tight. One hand holding his chest, the other idly combing through his blond hair.  His porn played in the background, and I could have stayed in that moment forever.

But my thoughts were already moving.

Who next? A rugby boy with those cartoon thighs? A swimmer with that clean V? Maybe the whole offensive line just to see who would love it the most.

Or how about some straight bro with a backwards cap and too much confidence. Shatter his whole world and catch him on the way down.

Didn’t really matter.

All I knew was I liked ’em buff. I liked ’em dumb.

And… I only dated bottoms.