I Wanna Snog Brian Storm free porn video

It was August, so it was already starting to get chillier at night. Me, Debra, and my friends Patty and Connie were waiting outside the theatre alley, amongst the screaming girls. Patty made some comment to me about how annoying the younger fans were. But there was one thing on my mind: the lead singer of the band the Mockers, Brian Storm. Previously Patty and Connie and I, friends since elementary school, were waiting in the alley the past three nights after their concert, amongst the banshees of fans, all with a goal of getting in to the after party. We were even more desperate, as this was the last night of the band's time in LA. They were going to San Francisco the next day, and I had no vacation days left. I needed to get in there. Who knows when Brian Storm would be back? There were even rumors about him leaving the band and starting a solo career, or going to join the Beatles in India. The girls surrounding us were adolescents. They had no idea that they wouldn't be called back by their roadie. After all, the Mockers weren't that depraved. Although they were known for their escapades with their of age fans. I was not looking forward to the tantrums. If I got in, fingers crossed, I hoped the younger fans wouldn't throw their souvenirs at me. I heard they could be quite volatile. Me, I was twenty-one, and I valued my maturity. We all wanted to see different members. Patty wanted to see Oliver, the hook nosed-bassist, as in her words "big noses make me 'randy'" she said appropriating the British slang as all three of us American girls were wont to do. Connie's target of choice was the long-haired drummer, Eddie. "I bet his eyes are beautiful," she would say. And me, I wanted Brian, the lead singer and lead guitarist. He was five-foot-eleven, a whole nine inches taller than me. He had black shaggy hair in a mop, the bangs almost covering his deep hazel eyes. He was lean, I had seen the pictures of them swimming, but not too muscular. His long face had cheekbones to die for. And his voice, a perfect tenor, made even sexier by his posh London accent. And that was just his looks. His charisma on stage, his talent, his mod style. It was too much. The love I felt for him when I saw him leading his band on the Ed Sullivan show a few years ago had become even more intense, where almost no other man could do. I sought men after men who vaguely looked like him. But they weren't as smart as him, weren't as charming as him, weren't as naughty and witty as him, and weren't as British as him. My Mom thought I was foolish, pining after him, and kept on trying to set me up with sons from her friends at their bridge games. My brothers teased me. They even destroyed one of my favorite posters of him back when I still lived with them. Many had left me before I came because I accidentally called him by his name when I was about to come, so I resorted to using my bathtub faucet. Pretending that it was him inside of me, brushing his perfectly sized--what I assumed it was, I saw that one picture of him in jeans--dick into me, ravaging me, treating me like a princess. But now, I wanted to real thing, I needed the real thing. And this was the last night. I wouldn't rest until I, borrowing from the British vernacular, snogged him. Then maybe, I could be over him and move on with my life. Finally, the burly roadie popped out of the door, wearing a "Mockers '68 World Tour" t-shirt. Everyone grew quiet. This was our fate. My heart was nervously pulsing. "They want you," I pointed to one lucky young woman, "you, you," He pointed to several more bombshells, "you," He pointed to Connie, "you," he pointed to Patty, "aand," he kept us in suspense, "that's it!" he smiled a malicious smile. The fans shrieked, I almost wanted to join them, as Connie and Patty made their way to the door with the other chosen ones. I saw Connie and Patty point to me, being good friends, and trying to talk the roadie into letting me in with them. "No," I heard him say, "no plus ones. They don't want her." They went inside regardless, leaving me amongst the tantrum-ing fans, throwing whatever they could find at them. I wanted to join them. Some friends they were. The cries and whiny threats of violence were capitulated by a slimy, stringy-haired paparazzo, taking pictures of us in the throes of disappointment with a sadistic grin. I stormed away, biting my lip, but it was no use. Silent tears were falling out. I could see in the shop windows I was walking past down the street on my way home, that my perfectly applied make-up was running. "Looks like you'll have to take me up on my offer." It was that woman again, who I had encountered the past few nights on the street corner. She had long blonde hair, a peasant shirt, and a long paisley skirt. She looked like someone I'd see from those photos of those people on Haight and Ashbury in San Francisco. "I can make it so he falls for you," she repeated, "I can turn you into the person he'd fall in love with." I was desperate. And had planned on taking her up on her offer. So, I brought the money she asked for. One hundred dollars. A week of my salary I made as a secretary at my ad agency. "Guess I'll have to get used to instant noodles for the next week," I said. "Or maybe you won't." She handled me two ornate bottles. One turquoise and one magenta. "Drink the turquoise one and it will turn you into Brian Storm's ideal lover. Then drink the magenta one when you want to go back. Or if you want to go back." "I just hope it doesn't turn me ugly," I said. "No, I promise, you'll be gorgeous. Brian does have excellent taste. You'll be snogging him in no time." I knew she was a crazy hippie, I knew that magic wasn't real, but I was desperate. I took the two bottles and continued down the street to my small one-bedroom apartment. But then a question dawned in my mind. "How will I find him?" I turned around. She was gone! Whatever, I was desperate. I walked down the street, past the scary hole in the wall bar next door to my home that I never went to because it seemed scary, and ignored the catcalls turned sinister from the drunks leaving the bar, and the construction workers waiting for their bus home. I finally made it to my place, decorated with posters of the band, where I cut out pictures of myself and pasted them on so it looked like I was snogging Brian Storm. There was even a fake wedding picture I made. Soon I'd have the real thing. I placed the magenta bottle on my kitchenette counter, flipping the portrait I had of my Bubbie who, despite being the most supportive family member, would call me "mashugana", facing down, and took a deep breath. "Here goes one hundred dollars," I said, as I took a deep breath and drank the potion out of the turquoise bottle. I crossed my fingers, hoping it wasn't just water with food dye, or even worse, LSD. The potion tasted like a mixture between mint and jasmine tea. But then it morphed into a cinnamon flavor, followed by a hot pepper. And I liked it. I felt hot all of the sudden. And aroused. My pussy was wet, my boobs were titillating with pleasure. I noticed a lock of hair in my face was changing, from its mousy brown to a beautiful orangish-red. "It's working!" I said. I stripped off the mod dress I wore, and kicked off the high go-go boots. I stripped off my lacy bra that I bought specifically for tonight and saw my nipples on my C-cup were erect. My lacy panties were soaked. My hair was turning the same shiny red color. I always wanted to be a red-head. My wavy hair then straightened. "Yes!" I said to myself. I always wanted straight hair. Then, I felt a tremendous pain for a quick second in my eyes and closed them. But then the pain stopped. I opened them. My brown eyes had turned green. They looked beautiful. My pleasure continued. I was closer and closer to snogging Brian Storm. It was different from the usual crescendo to an orgasm I felt though. I felt energized instead of overwhelmed. Like I had just drank a black cup of coffee. But instead of artificial it felt real. I felt, powerful? My hair shortened until it came up just below my jaw, leaving it in a shaggy mop style. I guess Brian Storm likes girls with a cute short hairdo. Those were starting to be all the rage anyway. And then my boobs got more erect, I touched them, groped them. It felt amazing! I noticed my eyebrows--now red--were getting thicker. "Guess he likes the natural look," I reasoned. But then I noticed something. My breasts were diminishing in my hands. They went from a C-cup, to a-B-cup. I released them, despite them begging me for more. I hated to say goodbye to them, but maybe Brian Storm is one of those men who isn't a boob guy. I noticed my nose was no longer tiny, but was slightly longer. Maybe he digs that. Whatever, I was turning closer and closer into his dream girl. I noticed I shot up a few inches. "He likes taller girls," I reasoned. All for the better, I wished I was a few inches taller. And I was becoming tan, something I could never do because I burnt easily. I looked like I had just went on a holiday to the Bahamas. Holiday? No! Vacation, right? I noticed the pleasure I was feeling all around my body was now concentrated to my clit. I could picture Brian Storm ripping my wet panties off with his teeth and sucking it, massaging it with his tongue. I slipped off my panties, and then I noticed. My clitoris looked bigger. My breasts went down to an A-cup. I grasped at them with my hands, saying goodbye to them, when I noticed in contrast to my breasts shrinking, my hands were growing. And so were my feet. They were...big. My ass deflated, becoming flat, along with my hips, and my waist filled in on its sides, losing its slight hour-glass shape, instead turning into a V? What? And then my A-cups completely receded, leaving me with a flat chest. I reached for them, trying to bring them back when I saw that my hands were even bigger. And the nail polish I expertly put on was gone. And even my shoulders were...broader? I looked at my face, the make-up was gone too. And I felt a slight tickle. I was growing sideburns? Women don't have sideburns. They don't have big hands, flat-chests, flat asses, flat hips, or big feet, and their skulls weren't as big as mine was becoming. And their clitorises don't look like... a penis? My orgasm became more concentrated again. My clitoris was growing bigger, and bigger. It was starting to look like... something women do not have. I felt a dull pain of pleasure in my stomach, if that was possible, my lower stomach, where I heard some rumbling and gurgling and I felt amazing! I tried to reach for my slit with my growing hands, when two spheres pushed out of it, and the hole became too small! It closed up. My clit fluttered with pleasure, it turned into a scrotum! And those two orbs that popped out of my closed vagina--they were? Testicles? And they grew bigger. And bigger. Along with my dick. My dick? Girls don't have dicks! "I'm turning into a man!" I cried, but suddenly, my tears dried. "Men like you don't cry," said a voice in the back of my head, belonging to the hippie. "I'm not a man!" I argued. Instead of sadness, and fear, I felt... anger? As my testicles and dick grew bigger, I felt like my body was pumping, like my blood was moving faster. My heart was beating faster. My body was no longer curvy and smooth, it was firm. "What..." my voice turned from a soprano to an alto, I slowly grew, the, floor getting farther, the bathroom becoming smaller and smaller. My neck thickened, and I saw a slight Adam's apple bulge out of my throat. It grew with every syllable I spoke. And was I speaking differently "The..." my voice now sounded like a woman pretending to be a boy--an angry boy. My dick grew bigger, hair sprouted all over my body, on my now flat chest, happy trails on my stomach leading to my now hairy crotch, on my legs, my arms, my even bigger feet, on my now powerful knuckles, on my ass. Peach fuzz appeared on top of my lip! "Ever-loving," my voice cracked. I sounded like a boy who just hit puberty! I shot up another few inches. My veins bulged out, as if they were flowing with something, quickly transferring it into my body. If I remembered my sex-ed correctly it was testosterone. All of the sudden my flat chest became muscular. I had pecs--I never thought I'd ever use high school anatomy again. My hairy arms became muscular, biceps, triceps. Even my shoulders and back. My ass even. And my legs, which became even longer. And then I felt six pops. On my slightly hairy stomach, there were abs, and that v thing I realized that guys are obsessed over became more accentuated! I had only saw those on one of those kung fu posters my brothers had. "Fuck!" I surprised myself, I never said the word fuck, ever! My voice was now at a falsetto like tenor, a few pitches above Brian Storm's voice. My eyes became narrower, my brow became more defined, my ears grew bigger and dropped. My lips thinned. I grew cheekbones, the girly fat pads left my face. Stubble decorated my lower face, cheeks, and chin. My jaw became squarer, like the jaws of those superheroes in comic books. I was starting to feel like one. My thoughts turned to defeating that villainous hippie. "Deed thaet." My voice dropped again, to a baritone and sounded more masculine. And there was something going on with the way I was speaking in addition to that. Powerful, pugnacious, yes, I thought as my muscles grew bigger, toned, stronger. But was I developing an accent. I sounded alien, but somehow sexy. "Fucking bitch of a wummin." mMy voice was now at a lower baritone, my syllables more edged and rougher, a nicely styled angular horseshoe mustache-- no moustache grew above my lip. "Do tae me?" I bellowed in my now rumbly, powerful, rich, commanding bass, vibrating in my throat and chest. I reached my final height, well above six feet, six foot five, I reckoned. My veins went back into a normal size. Their job of pumping testosterone was done. My muscles were big, hard, and powerful, my body was trim, fit. My body hair was appropriately dusting my muscles, highlighting my masculine figure. And my dick now reached its final size, it was girthy, and reached three quarters down my thighs. I had never been with a man who looked like this. With a dick that big, with muscles this toned and strong, this tall, this hairy. I no longer felt scared. No. I felt angry, as my hairy knuckles pumped into a fist. "That fucking horny hippie," I grumbled in my manly voice, "She probably wants to fuck me!" I reasoned. I had a vision in my head, I'd find that hippie lass in some hippie place, like a coffee bar or bookstore or flower shop and force her into the bathroom. My cock grew erect at the thought of what I was planning. "Oh," she'd grin, "so it worked." I'd rip off her dress and give her what she wanted. "Give it to me!" she said. "My perfect lover!" I'd force her down and make her suck my now erect monster cock as she choked on it. But my erection went down, I wasn't as turned on. "I'll fix that," she said. She conjured up another potion and drank it, Her body grew, her face changed, she became Brian Storm. In real life my dick grew erect again. I forced her--no him, by the back of his head to engulf my dick with his mouth, practically pushing it down his throat. He'd choke but power through it. In real life, I grabbed my now erect penis and started stroking it. It was an intense pleasure unlike any I felt. I let out a manly laugh. "Ha-ha-ha! I'm liking this!" my voice boomed. I no longer wanted Brian Storm inside of me. "I want to be inside of him," I growled. My strokes became harder, faster, and rougher, as the imaginary hippie turned Brian Storm sucked my dick, caressing it with his tongue. Until it became too much. Despite being a bloke for less than five minutes, I knew this intense feeling. In my fantasy I took the dick out of hippie-Brian's mouth much to his dismay, but then I came all over his face and chest, marking him as mine. My seed shot out of my dick forcefully in a wonderful explosion, causing me to collapse against my bathroom wall in pleasure. I felt amazing, exhilarated, even manlier. And then it was gone. I slid down to my bathroom floor, surrounded by my semen. I took a break for about five minutes, savoring the afterglow. Then I opened my eyes. Oh yeah, I was still a bloke. "Fuck!" I roared. Thank god there was a cure! I scrambled to my big hairy feet, about to get the antidote that would turn me back into Debra Moscovitz, when I looked in the mirror. I stroked my moustache. I let out a manly chuckle. I normally didn't like facial hair on a man, but I liked how it felt. I flexed one of my biceps. It felt amazing. I ran my hand across my hairy torso. My abs hard. I could wash clothes on them! And I had that perfect v-shape! I noticed my face seemed older. Twenty-six I reckoned. Brian Storm was as well. I felt a bit more mature, and not like that whiney, helpless lass I thought I was. "That fucking hippie was right, I am gorgeous," I exclaimed, "well, best drink that potion--" I walked to the kitchenette, noticing my gait had changed into a masculine one, and how easily I adapted to walking with this monster in between my legs. I noticed the bar across the street. The scary bar. I reckoned looking the way I do, and for some reason, feeling braver than normal, I could go in there, grab a drink, and then go back. "Or maybe even fucking have a skite," I said allowed. Skite? I meant bender, right? "Clothes! I fucking need some clothes," I bellowed, "I'd look like a twat like this," twat? Why was I saying these words? Fortunately there was the pile of ex-boyfriend clothes in my tiny closet. I lumbered in there. The men I slept with were much smaller. However, the nice pair of blue jeans and black V-neck did show off my muscles and bulge nicely. I paired it with a red leather jacket and Chuck Taylors I accidentally took home last Hannukah by mistake from my brothers, but refused to give them back because I was still mad at them for destroying my favourite Mockers poster. "Fucking twats. I bet I could break em like a twig." I flexed my muscles. I added a newsboy cap to complete the ensemble, and took some money out of my purse, men don't carry purses, and put it in my pocket. I peered through my keyhole, making sure no one would see this handsome, redheaded stranger with the weird accent leave my apartment and walked down the street. The drunks and construction workers waiting for the bus were across the street, but instead they ignored me. I grinned under my moustache. I was invisible. Then I passed two lasses: Connie and Patty. I gave them a swatch. I wasn't attracted to them in the slightest, despite them being beautiful. They seemed much more delicate as I towered over them. And I was still fucking pissed at them. I was about to say something but then I remembered they didn't know me. That didn't stop them from giving me some appraising glances. Not like I wanted anything to do with them. "That was a drag! I didn't even get to first base with him!" pouted Patty. "And Eddie's eyes were ugly!" whined Connie. I grinned to myself. It's what they deserved. They looked up into my apartment window. The lights were out. "Guess Debra's gone," sighed Patty. "Bet she's having an amazing night." I had to suppress one of my new loud chuckles. She was wrong. Debra was right by them. "I'll show you ladies a good night!" slurred one of the drunks. They made their lude comments and catcalls and insinuations. Ones that even the rough man I was now wouldn't dare utter. Still, they were my mates. "Oi!" I bellowed at them and gave them a glare. They looked over at the man who could punch their lights out. It felt so good to see them afraid of me. They shut up. I snickered to myself. "Thank y--" they said, but I waved my hand, cutting them off. I had no time for them. I looked back and saw their hearts break again, I laughed to myself when I was out of earshot. I took a deep breath and opened the door to the scary bar and found that it wasn't so scary after all. It looked like a regular pub. Sure there were some rough looking people there, but the drunks had all but cleared out. These guys were just tough looking lads wanting some alone time, or to play pool, darts, catch up with friends. Just regular salt of the earth men, along with a few cops. I couldn't believe I was afraid of it. I sat down in the bar. The barmaid, an attractive but hard-looking woman in her forties walked up to me. "What will it be, sir?" Sir! She was calling me sir! I thought of the manliest thing I could think of--although I wasn't much of a drinker. "Give me a nip," I frowned, she looked confused, so did I, "sorry, shot of your strongest whiskey straight up," I said in my new, foreign accent. She frowned at my ambiguous order. "Luv," I added which seemed to perk her up. As she got my drink ready I pondered where my accent was from. I didn't sound like Brian Storm. I sounded like one of the Beatles. There was a bit of roughness to it though, and the intonations were slightly different, which didn't mean it was from Liverpool. I noticed instead of saying "to" I was saying "tae" and instead of you, I was prouncing it "ye". And I had no idea how instead of shot I said nip? Was this changing the words I was using. Even in my head when I started seeing my skin tan, I thought about holiday, and not vacation. Then when I thought about going on a bender I said skite instead of bender. It kind of reminded me of that one fairy tale with the nice young lass--there I go again--who was granted the ability to cough up jewels every time she said something nice. Maybe this potion was doing the same thing, only it was with random words I was saying, neither good nor bad. Instead of a word it'd replace it with a translation to whatever place I was from instead of a diamond. Much rather prefer a diamond so I didn't have to rely on instant noodles. The bartender served me my whiskey. I downed it, effortlessly avoiding getting my moustache wet. It was the most delicious thing I ever drank, and took my mind off of whatever the hell was going on with my accent and vocabulary. "Ha! That was bloody good!" I exclaimed. "Would you mind leaving the bottle, luv?" The small voice inside of me that was still Debra knew that I'd be eating instant noodles for two weeks. But I don't care. Man me wanted to get bloody wrecked. I took out the money from my pocket. Then a melodious British accent sounded next to me. "Put it on my tab, Myrna. As long as you mind sharing a bit, mate." I looked over at him. He was taller than Myrna, but smaller than me. Despite the hat and tinted glasses he was wearing, he looked handsome. My cock stirred a bit in my pants. Bloody hell, I was gay? A rough looking man like me who could punch someone's lights out? Well, what did you know! "Really? You don't have to." I sounded uncouth compared to him: I said dinnae instead of don't. Still was as smart as girl me even after a shot of strong whiskey, thank god for that! Never judge a book by its cover, my Bubbie always told me. Well, what everyone's Bubbies probably said. "Nah, don't mind. I need to get bloody wrecked as well," I had to suppress a snicker at his posh voice saying that, "besides, it's nice to hear someone else across the pond, other than these yanks. No offense, Myrna." Apparently, I was from Britain as well. Still didn't know where, though. She gave him a saucy grin. She knew him. He took his wallet out and paid her. He popped up on the stool next to me. Myrna poured him from our now shared bottle and he nursed it, before downing it. "Woo! That stuff is bloody good!" he said. He studied me. Almost like he was appraising me, like how a man would appraise a woman. And I was surprisingly ok with that. "Edinburgh, right?" He pointed at me. Ah, so my accent was Scottish! I was Scottish! "Aye. How did you ken?" I said, trying to sound natural. I knew "Aye" meant yes. "Ken" I assumed was a magic Scottish potion replacement for "know". "My favourite Aunt lives there. Spent a bunch of summers. Better than London. Better people as well." Was he coming onto me? I still couldn't believe I was Scottish. Debra Moscovitz was Jewish-American, her ancestors from Russia. She had not an English bone in her body. But me? I was Scottish, and based off of my new vernacular, very Scottish. I couldn't believe the potion could change my culture and nationality. I should have been afraid but I was liking it. "Don't have an Aunt there, but I could say the same thing about London," I said in my deep voice, in a slightly seductive rumble, "even though it's filled to the brim with fucking posh Sassenach bastards," I added pugnaciously, meaning to call him a Londoner. I had no idea why I wanted to tease him but it felt right. And he liked it. Very much. He laughed and put his hand on my shoulder and patted it. It stayed on there a little more longer than what I'd see other men do when they pat each other on the back. My crotch stirred again. Oh my god. He liked it. He was gay. I was gay. Was I going to go through with this? "Well, since we're going to be drinking mates for the next few hours, mind telling me your name." Shit! I needed a name. Moscovitz wouldn't do. And Debra obviously wouldn't do. I searched my new increasingly Scottish brain for a new Scottish name. "Gavin," I said shakily. "Gavin Greer. Gavin Greer," I said more confidently. "Nice to meet you, Gavin, Gavin Greer, Gavin Green." I slightly turned riddy under my tanned skin. Man-me tanned well, I reasoned--reckoned. "And you are?" I asked, raising one of my thick eyebrows. It was almost as if I had taken him equally as off-guard as he did me. "Jim," he said, "Jim Daniels." I noticed his eyes were fixed on the bottles behind the bar. Jim Bean and Jack Daniels. He was making his name up too! But why? "Nice to meet you Jim Jim Daniels," I said shaking his hand too. My big tanned hand dwarfing his pale white one, but the fingers felt muscular and had calluses, like someone who played the guitar. Bloody hell! He was Brian Storm! And he was fucking gay. He sucked at lying, but he was fucking gay and was coming onto me. At least I hoped he was. Of course the potion turned me into his ideal lover. A handsome, muscular, manly, gay Scotsman. And he was a bloody idiot. At least if you're gonna lie about your name, be bloody original. I could understand, though. He was a possibly gay man, he didn't want to get found out. Imagine what would have happen to his image. But I knew I couldn't let on. I decided to humour the daft numpty for the time being. If I played my cards right, I could be snogging Brian Storm by the end of the night. As long as I turned back. I couldn't go back to work the next day looking like this. I needed to earn back my money. And besides, I'd look like a dunderheid trying to type on the typewriter with these big meaty hands. "Cheers, mate! To new friends!" "New friends!" we clicked glasses. "Now," I said taking advantage of the fact that I felt dominant, "let's get bloody bladdered!" I bellowed, as an order. We both downed another nip. Our night went on, we talked about what we liked about Los Angeles. It was fun to pretend I hadn't grown up here. "So what is it you do, mate?" I asked. "Whiskey seller," he said. That daft numpty was lying again. Oh my god, he was adorable, did he want to get found out? "What about you?" Oh my god! I realized I could be anyone I wanted to be. I was strong, Scottish, and very manly. "Rugby," I said. Then again I didn't know shit about rugger, and Brian Storm was intelligent, cultured. I didn't want to come off as a dumb jock. At the same time, Brian Storm was a rockstar. He lived an exciting life. And I figured he needed a lover with an equally exciting life, and a reason why he was in LA. I quickly formulated my career history. Giving myself something exciting, manly, so he wouldn't be able to resist me. I thought about something my brothers were obsessed with, that would make them bloody jealous, "I quit, though. Too bloody monotonous. No one put up a fight. So I did a bit of amateur boxing, worked as a bouncer at a bar, did some personal training as well. And then this big producer from the states was there and saw me break up a fight and save his arse, and he looked at me and said, 'I could use you.' He was filming a movie in Edinburgh and needed a stuntman. It was probably the most challenging job I had. It's a lot harder than punching people and telling people how to lift weights. You have to memorize cues and choreography, how the actor moves, and you have hold off on your strength." "So you I take it you know your own strength." "I can unlearn it for a night." I gave him a wicked moustachioed grin. "So you obviously did well, I mean you're here!" "Aye, been doing it for almost four years." "Can you tell me who you stand in for?" I rattled off a list of names of actors I knew were manly, but also that I'd think it'd be fucking hilarious to find out they didn't do their own stunts. "Really, him? I can't believe it," he let out a melodious laugh, "don't you ever get a bit envious? I mean, you don't get any of the credit." "I mean, yeah. It may sound haver but I always wanted to act," it was true. Growing up as a lass in Los Angeles, I was surrounded by the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. I could never get past the chorus in high school plays. When I wasn't spending my money on magic potions, I was wasting it on acting classes, and I hadn't even gotten an audition, let alone an agent. I decided to give Gavin some better prospects, "although my agent did tell me today that I got a callback for an acting role. Nothing big, but it's a start, y'know." "Well, cheers to that!" We shared another toast and downed another shot. I was finally buzzed. And I felt a need to look after "Jim Daniels" so he didn't pass out. And keep him somewhat sober. I may look like a brute but there was no way I was taking advantage of him. "You'll never know. Someone could put a good word out for you. No favours in return." Was he trying to help me with my fake career? "So tell me, Gavin, which roles do you like to play more. Heroes or villains?" "Tough question. I do like to be the goodie, running in to save the day, protecting the bonnie lasses and sometimes lads from the evil masterminds. But, I like playing the baddies to," I stroked my moustache like a villain making Brian laugh, "dominating people, using all my strength, making them work to give me what we both want." "I'd like to see that," he said. "I can arrange for Gavin the baddie to come out." Man he was laying it on thick. We both were. We still wanted to finish this whiskey though. After all, I practically gave an order to get bloody blootered. And I knew I had to find some way to let him know the truth--not about me, I wasn't an idiot, about him. I somehow steered the conversation to music. We talked about our favourite singers and bands. I felt like a Rolling Stone reporter having an exclusive interview with Brian Storm. We surprisingly had a lot in common. We were discussing the intricacies of the Beatles' White Album. "You seem really interested in music, Gavin." "Aye, well my Da did force me to play the clarinet in primary school," I was getting a bit too drunk to come up with lies anymore, although I was amazed that my Scottish brain filtered out elementary school with primary school and Dad with Da, "felt like a right tosser though." "I dunno, I heard learning wind instruments can help you in other ways, especially all that tonguing they do." "Aye, I was very good with tonguing. Need a bit more help with fingering though. Started playing guitar," this was true, I attempted to learn some of the Mockers songs on the guitar, sucked at it, "bollocks at it though, I could use a tutor." "You know any songs?" "Been trying to play the Mockers. They are my favourite group." I had to seal the deal. I also noticed how smooth man-me was. "Really?" Brian raised one of his luscious eyebrows. "Yeah. Although I can't stand the lead singer." "What?" he said taken aback. "Yeah, I mean. He's rather daft, isn't he. I mean he comes in a bar wearing the most paper-thin disguise ever," I reached across and pulled his glasses down a bit, and brushed my hand against his temple, "comes up with the most bloody obvious pseudonym, I mean, the whiskey's bloody behind me, of course someone's gonna figure it out." His expression changed into a wide, titillated grin. "Although," I said with a wicked grin, turning my voice into a sexy growl, "I do find it rather ballsy for him to step out in public like this, despite being fucking famous, trying to find someone to snog him to oblivion. You know why I can't stand him? Because I want to fuck his bloody brains out." I ran my hand down his thigh. "When did you know it was me?" "As soon as you named yourself after whiskey." "You're smarter than you sound." "Eh I can sound posh-like like you," I imitated his accent surprisingly well, "I went to Eton college and fucked Prince Phillip up his ass while the Queen watched and flicked her royal twat." I had no idea what Eton was but now I did. I made him laugh, his beautiful laugh. "But, y'know I prefer to use my regular accent." I saw the bulge in his pants, and clandestinely grabbed it for a short second. "Drives the lads crazy." He whispered in my ear. "I need you..." And that caused me to suppress a whimper. "I've been coming here every night, waiting for someone like you." I noticed the toughs I was afraid of were also sitting close to one another. A man helping another man shoot pool, practically thrusting him in the arse. A couple of men walking towards the bathroom with their hands in each other's pockets. I was in a bloody gay bar! I couldn't believe I lived a bawhair away from it. Not feeling afraid anymore, in the company of men with the same predilections like me, I grabbed his face and kissed him, roughly, ravaging his mouth. My heart skipped a beat, it skipped several as it hopped in my chest. Using the tongue-work I picked up from the clarinet, and he gave as good as he got. God, even his breath tasted nice. "I need you now..." He broke free. "Well," I said gesturing to the bathroom, "it's fucking occupied by some lucky bastards. If I could, I'd strip you down right now and fuck you on this bar, but Myrna wouldn't like that." "You ever been in a penthouse suite, Gavin?" Oh my god! I was going to snog Brian Storm in his penthouse suite! No, I was gonna fuck him in his penthouse suite. Yeah. We went outside the bar, waiting for a taxi. He took off his glasses, as it was nearing midnight and black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat. I wanted him, now. But I looked at my apartment. It was close, but decorated with girls' stuff. And posters of him, especially the ones with pictures of me-Debra, not Gavin-posted in so it looked like we were kissing. And I could tell Brian wouldn't want that. And neither did I. Feeling slightly scunnered waiting for a cab, I bent down and instinctually brushed my moustache against his cheek for a while, he let out a moan. That's when we both saw a flashing light. That stringy-haired slime-mold from that alley was back, with his camera. "I knew it! Brian Storm is a faggot! Say cheese faggot!" Brian had lost all his confidence and swagger. And for a moment I did too. But I wasn't Debra Moscovitz, who cried over not getting her way and paid someone one hundred dollars to fix it. No, I was Gavin Greer. I was dominant, manly, strong, I was a stuntman after all. "Shut yer pus!" I shouted to him, the words coming out of my mouth, knowing it was the right thing to say. I stormed over to him. "Don't you dare call him a faggot you stringy-haired twat!" my bass voice rumbled menacingly. "Oh the big faggot is gonna try and fight me!" "Lay off him if you ken what's good for you." "Or what?" I effortlessly yanked the camera off his neck strap, and threw his camera against the brick wall, breaking it. I swept the remains with one of my big feet into the sewer, erasing all evidence. "This faggot will do the same to you." "I'm calling the cops!" I effortlessly picked him up and held him by his shirt collar and got in his face. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. Swear I saw a few in there, and the rest of them are family men who have daughters who would be very upset if they put their favourite Mocker in tin pail. Besides, they'd never listen to you, you stringy hair slime-mold." He was near tears. I dropped him on the ground and he ran away, pissing himself. I turned to Brian, knowing that would make him he was hurt. Despite being a gay man for only a few hours, the word he used stung. I slowly walked back to him. "Awright you wee bawbag?" the words just came out of my mouth, based off of saying it, my Scottish brain knew it was an endearing phase. And smiling slightly he knew I said. "Cm'here," I said, as I pulled him into a comforting hug. As a woman I liked simple comforting hugs, no strings attached, and had a feeling that Brian could use one. "No one has never done that for me before, ever." His eyes were sparkling. "No one's ever gonna do that to you again." I clenched my hand into a fist. "That makes me want you even more, Gavin the Goodie." "You'll love Gavin the Baddie," I said as a cab pulled up. We got in and spent the most awkward, titillating ten minutes ever. We couldn't talk, because what we were going to say was pretty scandalous. We couldn't do anything to each other. I sighed, if only it was acceptable-like for blokes to like other blokes in public instead of hiding. Especially when liking them could ruin your career. We did have a bit of fun, though. Both of our cocks were clearly getting harder, and we had to squirm in our seats a bit to adjust. We both exchanged looks, holding back laughter. We finally arrived at the luxury hotel the Mockers were staying at. We made a run for the elevator. "They're gone the whole night," Brian assured me murmuring in my ear, "but they already know." Oh my god, he was worried that I'd be worried about people finding out Gavin was gay. "No shit off my ass. I like to fuck blokes, so what." I squeezed his ass, owning him. "I knew there was a reason I liked you." "But I'm discreet," I assured him, "I ain't telling people you like other men's big cocks. Even though you are a Sassenach bastard." "You made that abundantly clear to--what did you call him--stringy hair slimemold?" I was surprised how different in personality Gavin was to me. Or I was to Debra. But in a way, Gavin was someone who I secretly wished I was. Someone brave, someone who took matters into his own hands, someone with a better, more exciting career. And someone who snogged Brian Storm. The elevator door finally opened, right in the penthouse. Debra would have squealed delightful, and would have ran around, looking at this taste of luxury. However, Gavin didn't care. Because all that mattered was Brian. The blood in my cock surged as I pushed Brian against the wall, grabbing his face. Snogging him roughly, him snogging me back. I remembered he played the harmonica on some of the Mockers' earliest work and can see why he was so good. "Let me take that bloody hat off," I pushed that hat off his head and ran my fingers through his hair roughly. He did the same. "It's beautiful," his hands massaged my head, "I dig redheads." "Then you'll love it when I do this!" I stripped off my leather jacket and my tight black v-neck, showing my tan, muscular chest and torso dusted with red hair. He ran his fingers through it. He bit the now erect nipple on my muscular pec, and I let out a deep rumbling moan. I slid him out of his jacket and ripped his button down shirt down the middle and saw his skinny, but lean body. I bit his nipple even rougher. I could feel his demin covered dick brush against me. As a woman, in my wildest dreams I wanted to unzip his pants and suck his cock. But as a man, I had other, more exciting plans. "No, you gotta work for it!" I growled. He smiled. "Gavin the baddie!" He knew exactly what I meant. He got down on his knees and unzipped my pants with my teeth. My cock burst out, erect, longing for him. I ran my hands through his perfect mop of hair again, and pushed him towards my monster cock. He kissed it, like he was happy to see it. "It's the biggest I've ever seen." "Prove to it that it's the biggest." I stroke his hair and rubbed my hand against his cheek, coaxing him. He grabbed my ass to balance himself which caused me to moan, and spurred my cock even more. He then kissed it more and more, an appetizer before opening his mouth, slowly engorging it. "I thought I said you have to work for it!" I pushed his head towards my cock so that he practically swallowed it. I slowly moved him closer and closer, deeper and deeper to my cock. He coughed a bit. "We can stop anytime, Brian," I said gently, stroking his hair. I liked that when guys said that to me, and I wish more did. I meant it, though. His eyes sparkled and his ministrations with his tongue became quicker and more intense. It was overwhelming, and I let out another sexy deep moan. I was inside Brian Storm! Finally! And his tongue lavishing my cock, how perfect it felt in his mouth and down his throat, he'd clearly had practice, not that I minded. It made sense, he was an accomplished musician, nobody gets that way without persistent, studious practice. And I assumed Brian applied that to more than one facet of his life. My breath grew ragged, my heart was beating even harder than when I first kissed him. I knew it! I knew I was going to! "No!" I exclaimed and pulled my dick out of his mouth. "Wha?" Brian was speechless. "You were perfect!" I bent down and gave him a passionate yet rough kiss. "You are perfect. I don't want to finish like this. And I ken you don't want to either!" He smiled at me. "What are you thinking." "A reward!" I picked him up easily, making the handsome Rockstar laugh. "Which way?" I asked. He knew where I was taking him. He pointed ahead and I pushed the door open to his bedroom. It was gorgeous. The view of Hollywood was amazing. However I didn't care. All I cared about was Brian. Making him laugh and moan with ecstasy. I dropped him on the bed, and did the same to him: undid his zipper with my teeth. There was his cock. It sprang out, as big as mine. "Just like I pictured," I said. "Really?" "Saw those pictures of you in those jeans. That's when I knew I wanted to fuck your brains out." I pulled down his pants. I turned him over and saw his arse. It was muscular and almost like a bubble butt, but not fatty. It was... "Perfect." I gave him a loving slap. "Like yours'," he said. It was true, I did have an awesome arse as a man. "On all fours, Jim Daniels!" I boomed, ordering him. "Yes sir!" Still sounded weird, calling me sir. I could get used to it, though. I pulled down my pants and shook off my shoes. There was a lull. "What?" "Condoms?" I practically gasped. He laughed. "I knew I liked you." He reached into his nightstand and got out a condom. He tenderly put it on my cock, as if he was honoring it, and preparing it. "I like you too, Brian. Now, as you were!" He got on all fours. "Now here's your reward," my bass voice coy. There was no going back. I never considered doing what I was doing, and never even thought of it as a girl. But as a man, it was on my mind the moment I saw Brian Storm. Was the potion fucking with my head, my wants and desires? Whatever, they were better desires and I couldn't give a fuck either way. The only thing I gave a fuck about was Brian Storm and making his last night in LA one to remember. I slowly thrust my cock in his ass. It was tight, muscular, and I love how it felt against my waist. It felt amazing, enveloping. He let out the melodious moan I heard in the coda of one of his songs. With my big hand I bent over and grabbed his beautiful monster of a cock, stroking it, letting out another malicious moans. Like the musician he was, the moans were rhythmic. I kept them up slowly increasing the tempo. "I'm gonna do everything to keep you singing like that!" "Keep talking to me! Your voice is so sexy!" I raised a brow. I guess it was. "No one has called my voice sexy before." Which was true, as I got it only a few hours ago. "Think it's rather scary actually," thought aloud. It also true, it's weird speaking with a voice that isn't your own, especially a ridiculously deep, Scottish one oozing in power and masculinity, "but it's been growing on me." It was true, I liked it compared to my thin reedy girl voice. I like how it rumbled in my chest and throat. I sounded like superhero--if they were Scottish. With my thick square jaw and body I even looked like one--if they had a moustache. In a way, I was Brian's hero. I saved his English arse. That only made me harder. Quite honestly, this whole male me was growing on me. I looked amazing, I sounded amazing, and I was fucking Brian Storm. "It's growing on me too. Well, it's making things grow," his breath ragged. "Coming from a songwriter, I expect a better entendre." I made it so that my thighs slapped his ass harder. He moaned. "You like that?" "More!" I continued fucking him until it became unbearable. My cock twitched and in my hand that was stroking him I felt his cock twist too. We were both going to cum. Until I remembered, he liked it when I made him work. "I think I'm gonna call it a night," I said my strokes becoming weaker and slower, my pumping becoming lazier. "No, please! I want to finish!" he pleaded, "I want you to come in me!" "No, you have to work for it!" I taunted, "Say something!" I boomed, "say something that makes me feel like a man!" I wanted to hear it from him. I was getting off on this. On being a man. "What? But you are a man, you're the epitome of masculinity!" My thrusts got quicker again. But not as fast as before. "Say something else," I continued. "You were my hero tonight!" That felt good. I rewarded him by going faster. "Say something else! Say something that makes you worthy for my cum! Worthy for my strokes!" "You're the sexiest man I ever fucked! I want to go force every one of them to watch us fuck and have them wish they could fuck you!" I moved quicker, wilder, my strokes became harder. "You're perfect! You're my ideal lover! And I'm not just saying that to make you cum!" I laughed to myself. That fucking hippie really was right. Still, deep down I felt, no I needed to hear one more thing. "You ken I ken you're perfect! Even if you weren't a fucking Rockstar I'd fuck you until your ass was raw!" I roared. "One more thing!" "I love you! I love you Gavin Greer!" My heart skipped a beat. Oh my gosh. That did it. My strokes became harder and slower, my pumping became slower and deeper. We both moaned. And finally, we felt the most fucking amazing thing ever. We both came at the same time. "I love you too, Brian Storm!" I murmured. And I felt it, deep down in my relaxing heart. We stayed in our positions for a minute. I came inside Brian Storm, and I had Brian Storm's cum in my hand. I never thought my night would end like this, and that this would be what I wanted. We finally and reluctantly broke apart. I took my hand gingerly off his dick and licked his cum. Brian Storm's cum. It was amazing. "You taste amazing, Jim Daniels." He let out his beautiful laugh and his perfect smile. I gently put my finger in front of his face, and he licked his cum off my finger. "Now you ken why everyone loves you. You are irresistible." I gave Brian a tender kiss. I collapsed onto the bed and turned on my back, again savouring the afterglow. Brian laid his head on my larger chest, nuzzling my chest hair. I wrapped my hairy, muscular arms around him and we both fell asleep. Satisfied. Happy. I awoke an hour later, Brian Storm's head still on my muscular, hairy, flat chest. I liked holding him like this. As a woman I had to rely on what sparce boyfriends I had. But as a man, I could protect someone. Brian Storm was intelligent, brave, and damn sexy to boot, but he was also vulnerable. He was a gay man in a world that would turn against him if any word got out. If I remained like this, I could protect him. I liked the feeling. Then again if I stayed like this I would remain a gay man in the same world. Albeit a gay man who could kick arse, but still someone people hated just because they liked English cock. Besides, I wasn't sure Brian Storm loved me. He was just saying that to get me to come. But it worked. Guess this rugged Scotsman's a romantic deep down. Who knew? Almost as if he read my mind he said, "I meant it, you know." His eyes opened. "I love you." "Bet you tell all the lads that." "No, I mean it. Despite my writing, I'm not the most romantic person. But seeing you tonight, being with you. It's as if we've known each other for years. You don't treat me any differently, but at the same time you treat me like I'm the most important person on earth to you. And the way we felt together--" "It was magical," I stroked his head, "I never thought you'd be attracted to me." I never knew Brian Storm was gay. "I never thought you'd be attracted to me." "Quit pretending to be modest. Everyone's crazy about you." "Attraction, physically is one thing, but I never thought I could be attracted to a whole person as I do now. I feel like the people I write my songs about. Like they were preparing me for when I met you." "I never heard someone talk about me like that," the truth is, I didn't, "I never thought I could fall in love this quick." I heard myself say. "I love you, Brian Storm." The words came out again. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you!" I wanted to hear that so bad. "Let's not be too hasty," I chuckled. "I mean it!" "You can't! You're on a tour, and I'm stuck here." That was true. Debra was stuck here. And Gavin Greer wasn't real, even though he felt more real to me than Debra Moscovitz ever was. "Actually, and don't repeat this--" "I think we established I'm discreet," I chuckled. "But this is our last tour. We're splitting up." "I'd hate to be known as the twat that broke up The Mockers." "No, not me. Ollie wants a solo career." "Fucking Ollie?" "He wants to do country." "Ha! Ollie wants to do country?" I laughed. "I know! It's ludicrous! I can't believe he's the same guy I started a band with!" "OI, Ollie!" I shouted in my booming voice, in between laughs, hoping he was in the penthouse. "You're a fucking wallaper!" We both laughed and shared a tender, gentle kiss. "I was actually thinking of settling here. I have enough for a house, and I've been working on some songs that are more complicated for either Ollie or Eddie." "Especially for Ollie BECAUSE HE WANTS TO DO FUCKING COUNTRY MUSIC LIKE A BAMPOT!" I shouted. That made him laugh again. "I do like making you laugh," I said, stroking his chin. "And my agent's planning on getting me in some movies." "Well, you better work on your improvising skills, Jim Daniels, whiskey seller!" Earning me a laugh and caress. I was being tough on him (because he liked it) but I'd seen the movies the Mockers did and their appearances on variety shows in the sketches. Brian was a bloody brilliant actor so he'd be fine. And I liked his songs so I knew his solo career would be successful. Then again I was biased because I loved him. I loved him, right? "I actually am planning on closing in this really cool flat this afternoon before we go to Honolulu. And then moving in after the tour is finished a few months later. Still keeping my place in London though. But I don't know anyone out here really, and I'm a bit scared to make this next step. Except you, Gavin Greer." He was relying on me to make the biggest choice in his career, in his life. But Gavin Greer isn't real. Gavin Greer is just a fangirl with a stupid crush on Brian Storm. "I can do it either way, but, I want to spend the rest of my life with you." I wanted to too! But I had a life to go back to! I had friends, a family, a job, some really nice tits. Gavin didn't have any of that. All he had was Brian. "This is rather big," I said. "Sorry to spring it on you at once." "I need some time to think about it." The words just came out of my mouth even though I knew I had to turn back. "I am pure done in. I have a shoot at six I have to be ready for, or else the director's gonna be up my arse and he's not my type." That earned another laugh. God, I'm going to miss that laugh. I gingerly got out of bed and put on my pants. I went back into the living room and gathered my shirt, realizing I forgot I tore it and tossed it aside, putting my jacket on and zipping it up so it covered my muscular chest and torso. Brian stepped out of the bedroom wearing a silk road. God, he was sexy. He handed me a slip of paper. "Here's the number direct line to my room. Call me. Please." We shared another tender kiss, passionate, with longing, because I knew I couldn't see him again. "I love you Gavin Greer." "I love you too Brian Storm." I bit back tears. I called up the elevator and it arrived much too quickly. I boarded it, the doors closing on Brian Storm. It went down. I hailed a cab and thought if I was going to break both our hearts. Did I really want to go back? As I got in the cab I thought of pros and cons. Pro, wouldn't be getting periods anymore or have to worry about getting pregnant. Con, orgasms would be different. But I liked a male orgasm and it was much easier to have. Was that a pro, really? Okay, Con, my family would freak out about me missing. Pros, I was still pissed at Patty and Connie, and my brothers were assholes. Con, I'd be missing my Bubbie who made the best rugelach. Pro-I'd get to swear a lot more and wouldn't have to shave my legs every day. Con-I wouldn't be able to wear make-up or dresses or nail polish anymore. Pro-I'd get to be a stuntman and closer to being an actor. Con-I made that up. I had a job as Debra. Gavin isn't real, I don't know shit about being a stuntman, Gavin doesn't have a job and can't impress Brian. Pro-I'd get Brian Storm in my life instead of probably settling down with the next guy my parents try to set me up with because I was that sad and desperate. Con-I'd be a gay man. There's nothing wrong with being gay, however, I remembered this one kid in high school who was found kissing another man. He was beat up within an inch of his life by all the other kids. And they were just kids! Imagine what adults could do! But then again, pro, I proved that I was strong enough and imposing enough to kick anyone's ass. But con, being in a relationship with another man could put a target on Brian's back. And he could end up within an inch of his life or even dead. But I'd be there. Pro. Despite being a straight woman six hours ago, I felt like a gay man, and I saw what being called the f-word did to Brian. It even hurt me. With his fame and influence and my strength and support and love, we can make the world a safer place for people like us. But then Con. I didn't love Brian. I couldn't love Brian. I had a crush on him. I wasn't real. I was a woman, and he wasn't attracted to women. I was a mistake. And if it did. What If it didn't work out? I'd remain a man for nothing. The taxi pulled near my flat. I saw the construction workers out again, working through the night it looked like. I noticed Myrna outside closing up the bar for the night. They started the catcalls again. Then they saw me get out. I glared at them. They stopped. God that felt good! I was going to miss it, being able to feel safe at night, being able to be brave. I opened the doors to my now tinier flat and went to the kitchenette and picked up the magenta bottle. Here it was. The bottle that would turn me back from Brian Storm's ideal lover into regular Debra Moscovitz who didn't stand a chance with him. "Wait a second," I mumbled to myself. I was Brian Storm's ideal lover. Not fucker, not bang, not lay, not screw! I loved him! I was in love with him. It felt stronger, more positive than Debra's crush on him which was desperate and shallow and would change within a few months. It was so desperate she changed herself just to fuck him. But I loved him. I could picture spending the rest of my life with him. I could picture giving up my femineity, five or six years of my life if I was right about the age thing, my family, my career, my safety, even my privacy, all for him. And the way he spoke to me, instead of the fake onstage charm or how he talked during interviews, it was real. And I had a hunch how to fix everything else. If that hippie woman was a witch or something, she was probably into symbolism. If I rejected turning back then maybe, just maybe... "If she could turn me into a stacked Scotsman, she can turn me fully into Gavin Greer." I opened the magenta bottle, took a deep breath, hoping this would work, and poured it down my drain. I closed my eyes for a mo, opened them and looked around. I saw my living room and kitchenette was changing right before my eyes. Yes! My now permanently green eyes lit up and I laughed joyfully and smiled. The girly posters were replaced with pictures of kung fu stars and soccer--no football and rugger players, all who I found myself knowing the names of. My rock posters remained, but, fortunately all the pictures that had girl me superimposed on Brian Storm were gone. A well-worn punching bag appeared in the living room, along with a set of weights and barbells. There were even story-boards for fight scenes posted on the wall. I looked in the kitchenette and saw my food was changing. Gone was my cookie jar, instead it was replaced with protein powder. And I actually liked the stuff. There were a few beer bottles lying around, a whiskey bottle on top of the fridge. While still pouring the last bits of the potion, I peeked in the fridge next to the sink. Mainly meat, grains, and vegetables, and some more beer. No more instant noodles for me! I noticed my calendar had changed. In addition to the handwriting on it, my schedule was completely different. I had to go to set in a few hours. Still, thanks to the new testosterone in my system, the awesome sex I just had, and how my body was healthier, I thought, no knew, a kip would suffice. I had finished pouring the potion down the drain. I threw the bottle in the trash--no it was the rubbish bin-- making sure it broke. There was no going back and I didn't want to go back. Making my way to the bathroom to take a leak, I saw that it had changed too. The girly, fruity shampoo and soap was now manly. There was no little razor for my legs, but there was a regular one for my stubble, and a beard and moustache trimmer. The cum was still on the floor. Clean it up before it crusts, I reckoned, as I did so quickly. I noticed I could pish standing up now, something else that was a pro. I made my way to my bedroom. My bed a bit bigger, thank god. My barely used guitar still there--I wondered if I could get Brian to teach me. I still needed a bigger place, though. Fingers crossed the acting gig goes through! I noticed there were some more weights and work-out stuff in my room, even a pull-up bar above my door. The girly stuff, the stuffed animals and magazines and romance books were gone. Instead there were sports magazines, scripts, horror and action books, and books on martial arts and acting. I looked in the closet. Not a dress or blouse or skirt in sight. And definitely no bras. There were T-shirts, nice and tight looking, some gym shorts, jeans, slacks, some nice, stylish button down shirts, some blazers, leather jackets, an old rugger shirt, and some suits and ties. Much bigger shoes, boots, and loafers. Much bigger socks. Oh, and boxers. I noticed I had a second, duplicate calendar with the same schedule as in the kitchen. I was a bit more anal as a man, I snickered. I looked at it. Next to it were a few pictures of me from Edinburgh and of my family growing up. I noticed my purse had been replaced with a wallet which had my passport in it. It had a picture of myself with my new name, Gavin Greer, and my new birthdate. I was right about the age thing: I was still born on the same month and day, however instead of 1947 it was 1942. Whatever, it was still only five years. Sure I felt more mature, but I also felt more energized. I noticed I had a bit more cash, and had a condom in there. And that I had an out of state driver's license. Did I have a car? However, I had no idea what was going on with my past, or even if I could what I said I could do. Just then I had a dizzying, yet wonderful feeling. I was remembering everything! My whole history and life story was flashing through my eyes. Growing up in Edinburgh, school, my rugger stint, how I worked as a trainer, a bouncer, and did underground boxing a up until a few years ago. The first time I snogged a guy, on a school trip, the first time I had sex, after riding a Ferris Wheel, behind a funhouse--I knew a lot of ways to please a man and make them please me, now. And I wanted to use them on Brian. How many friends I had who kept my secret, true mates, compared to those lasses I saw walking down the street whinging about how ugly Brian's bandmates' eyes were. I even had a small group of mates here. We'd work out together and play a bit of football sometimes. I still had a family. They were Scottish, still the same. My Da still made me play the clarinet in primary school. My Ma, who is still trying to fix me up with someone, this time a nice girl. My brothers who were still rowdy arseholes, but I could fight back against them. I was still pissed at them for some inane reason, more ridiculous than them tearing a poster. And instead of a Bubbie I had a Granny who made the best pasties in all the world. She was the only family member who knew I was gay, and surprisingly was accepting of it. At least I had a good support system. I still needed to write my weekly letter to her, and I had a collection of postcards from her on my wall. I still had some faint memories of my past as Debra, but mainly they were emotions, and vague. I didn't really think about them. At all this intensity I stumbled backwards, afraid I was going to fall, fumbling when I quickly regained balance and jumped up and stood on my feet. I really was an athlete, a fighter. I looked into my mind. I knew boxing, martial arts, weapons training, and fight choreography and all the technical terms. I even knew some better acting from tips that some of the actors gave me and the lessons my agent, Mal, sent me to. I ran back to the living and found something, a knife. I tossed it in the air, making it flip, and caught it with my other hand. I went to the punching bag and gave it a round-house kick. That potion really did the trick. It turned me not only into a full-fledged man, but into a full-fledged stuntman and fighter. And, with the rate my life was going, soon I would be a full-fledged actor, too. I laughed, a big booming, joyful laugh! "I'm an athlete! I'm a fighter! I'm a stuntman! I'm gay! I'm bloody Gavin Greer! Ha-ha!" I heard a thump on the floor. Woke one of the arsehole neighbors up with my celebration. I was getting too excited, I reckoned, and decided to turn in. I stripped off my clothes, set my alarm, and closed my eyes for a quick nap. The alarm woke me up! I felt refreshed and ready for anything, Debra and what I left behind not even on my mind. I looked at my chest, still tan, muscular and hairy, my abs, hard, muscular and hairy, my dick, long and hairy. "Yes!" I boomed in my deep voice, still Scottish. "Still a man!" I kissed my muscular triceps and biceps. I put on some gym shorts did my usual warm-up, fifty push-ups, twenty- five on each hand, and went to the bar hanging on my door and did my chin ups. I did my one hundred sit ups, and did ten minutes of boxing and kicking drills--weight lifting days were every other day-- before going to the bathroom and taking a shower, with my new, not flowery soap. I scrubbed my hairy body, giving it a nice massage with a loofah. I knew I needed to hold up on rubbing one out. I had a gig I needed to get to and an important call I needed to make. I put on some deodorant and cologne, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, shaved my stubble, trimmed my moustache effortlessly, like I had been doing it for years, since I was twenty, I remembered. Only grew it longer a few years ago, though. I dried myself off, went to my bedroom and picked out my outfit for the day. I knew they'd put me in whatever the actor was wearing, but since I had a feeling I'd have an important date after this I'd have to dress nice. I put on some boxers, socks, some faded black jeans, some trainers, and for a shirt, I picked out a nice navy button-down with small black dots, and a brown suede jacket. Moving to the kitchenette, I made a cuppa and while I waited for it to brew, cooked some porridge. It was wicked how my brain filtered oatmeal to porridge and cup of coffee to cuppa. "You really are Scottish, aren't you, Gavin." The cuppa was ready and I added some protein powder in and stirred it in, and drank it giving me an energy boost to help me get through my day. Some people couldn't stand the taste of protein powder, but I fucking loved the stuff! I poured the rest of the coffee, and a scoop of protein powder, into a thermos for the rest of the day. I ate my porridge and thought about the shoot I was doing today, rehearsing in my mind the choreography. I was gonna be standing in for a big-named actor, playing the hero. He was a cop, doing a hostage exchange, but when that failed, it would devolve into an all-out rumble, where I would take over. It'd start out as a gun fight, but when we'd run out of bullets, it'd turn to hand-to-hand combat, with a little bit of martial arts thrown into the mix, but not so that it was recognizable, more so that as stuntmen we had some control. And then I thought about Brian, and figured what I wanted to say to that handsome bastard. I took the phone number from my pants pocket from last night and called it. I was a bit nervous when it rang. My heart skipped a beat. "You're Gavin Fucking Greer and you are Brian Fucking Storm's perfect lover. You got this!" I coached myself. On the second ring, Brian picked up. "Hello," he sounded tired on the other end. "Oi, I want to speak to Jim Daniels, that whiskey seller?" "Gavin!" He perked up. "You are never gonna let that go?" "Never. So listen, I have this shoot in about half an hour, but the good news is that they can only get it done at sun-up, and I will fucking make sure we get it done in one take, so I'm gonna be free the rest of the day. I think I'll take a quick nap, stop by that posh hotel they got you at afterwards, say maybe nine-ish, pick you up--" I looked at my car keys. I realized I drove a used Mustang I got cheap, "just to warn you my motor isnae like that Rolls Royce or whatever you sassenach bastards drive-- anyway there's this diner I like, the one I told you about at the bar, we could grab you some breaky, then maybe I can show you around a bit, get you a better disguise firsthand, the one you had was shit, you can close on that flat you're looking at, and we could go grab a bevvy, and then I'll go to your place, or you can come to mine. And I'm gonna show you my tonguing skills. And it's gonna be so good that you aren't even gonna fucking dare run away with some ukulele player, because it's gonna be the best head you ever got. And then we're gonna have the best sex you ever had and then after you come back we're gonna spend the rest of our fucking lives together. How does that sound?" I could sense him smiling on the other end. "Sounds like a plan," he said. "Good!" I said, then added tenderly, "I love you, Brian." My eyes sparkling with happy tears. "I love you too, Gavin," he said dearly. And I knew we were gonna spend the rest of our bloody lives together. I tied my bowtie and looked in the mirror. Despite some laugh lines and a few wrinkles here and there, and a bit of grey in my now stylishly cropped hair I had done just for the wedding, and moustache, which I changed to a Van Dyke after the 70s were over, and the fact I had to use reading glasses sometimes (which Brian dug), I still looked like the stud I became that day in '68. I was still bloody fit. I brushed my hand against my washboard abs only slightly hidden by my white button down shirt and tuxedo waistcoat. Gavin Greer was a fucking health nut. I had to be. The call back I told Brian about--that I made up--was real. Within a month, I was a henchman in a Bond movie. Then I got some leads in some B-movies and by '75 I was a full-fledged A-list action star, gracing blockbusters and a few dramas or comedies here and there. I even got a few BAFTAs and a Golden Globe. MTV movie awards as well. Quite a lot of them. Got an Oscar Nom too but nothing came of it--although Brian won some. Whatever, I got a Kids Choice award in '93 and those have kaleidoscopes in them. Does an Oscar have a kaleidoscope in it? I didn't think so. I played goodies and baddies, and Brian liked both. I played all sorts of roles, from an explorer, a soldier, a spy, a criminal. Mostly they were Brits, my accent game was strong thanks to my training--also possibly my brain being malleable to taking on accents, after all I developed one within minutes--and most people didn't know I was from Scotland unless I used my natural accent. I played Australians, Irishmen, South Africans, even French, German, and even a Swedish character. For the life of me, though, I could not do and still cannot do an American accent. Despite technically being born there that's the only accent I can't do. I guess my brain doesn't want to acknowledge my origins. Whatever, it's kinda become an inside joke amongst.. well pretty much everyone, so it wasn't really an inside joke. When I hosted Saturday Night Live there was even a sketch making fun of it. I looked again in the mirror. Damn, I was a handsome bastard! At the age of 72 there was no fucking way I was slowing down. Besides the slight greys, I looked not a day over forty-five and still felt like how I did the night I decided to throw that bloody potion down the drain. Was it my diet, exercising, magic? Or was it Brian who kept me young--some of which involved exercising and our constant sex which was magic? Whatever, I made the best decision ever. I left my tuxedo jacket hanging and strolled out of the rented room across the hall to Brian's room and knocked on the door. "Florist!" I said in a nasally voice. "Come in," I heard his beautiful voice, and my cock spurred in my tuxedo pants. I opened the door and saw him, wearing the same tux as me, looking amazing as always. He aged better than me, which is saying a lot, as I said, I'm a fucking handsome bastard who doesn't look a day over forty- five. His androgynous looks really aided him with that. That and me riding his arse about staying fit and healthy--by ironically refusing to ride his arse unless he did his exercises and stuck to his diet. The only reason was I needed him to keep up with me in bed, and so he didn't get a heart attack after that scare in '85. Gas bubble but it was cute. He's still ridiculously trim. There's this rumour on the internet that he's immortal or an alien. A relief compared to the other rumours early in our relationship. "Bloody hell, you look fucking amazing," I said in my deep voice and pushed him against the wall, snogging him passionately, which he gladly returned. "You have to leave, though, it's bad luck for the groom to see the... other groom before our wedding!" "Have you gone daft? We're already married you sexy idiot!" I kissed him again. He wrapped his feet around my waist and we continued our horny snogfest. It was true, we had dual citizenship so we married in our second home, Los Angeles, after that prop 8 bullshit, on the courthouse steps, making a big deal of things. We figured it was the right time. We only decided to do a big wedding here because we wanted to kick our friend Elton's arse with an even bigger gayer wedding, and I thought it would piss a bunch of people off. By then people knew we were gay. About a few years after Brian and I got together, rumours started being spread. Nasty rumours. In a way our relationship became the worst kept secret in Hollywood. We never responded. "It's none of their fucking business anyway," I said to Brian as he snuggled next to me after a particularly nasty night, wrapping him in my strong arms. Although we gradually started to joke about it. We never came out for years--I didn't want to ruin Brian's career--but we kept people on their toes. "No, we're just really close friends," he'd say while giving me longing looks and slight expressions that he only made when he was horny, and only I was aware of. He even wrote a few songs that were vaguely about me. Quite a few songs. It was Brian's choice. He had more on the line, and I wouldn't until about a few years later. As soon as the Mockers broke up his career skyrocketed. He became one of the best- selling, most successful rockstars in history. He had some acting gigs as well, and even composed a few Oscar-winning soundtracks, joining his Emmy's and several Grammy's and BAFTAs, and some other ones I don't remember the names of. I, on the other hand, didn't really worry, even when my career picked up. A simple glare, a pugnacious threat in my deep bass voice, or sometimes a bit of a fight if I knew I had the upper hand, and no one dared to hurt me or Brian. It especially helped in the chaos of the 80s, when the rumours got worse, the press became more obsessed, especially in England, and both became downright malicious. By the time the 90s hit, we were a bit more open about it. We didn't come out, but we were a bit more on the nose, rather naughty actually. It wasn't until 2009 when that twitter came around that we decided to come out. Brian wrote it in his bio. We 69'nd every chance we got for a whole week after that. Brian's fucking active on that bloody twitter and that instagram. Always posting cute pictures of me with our cats, or me drying off after a work-out with our cats, me wearing my reading glasses, looking over a script with our cats, me making us dinner, with our cats. I can't make heads or tails of that insta-twitter thing. It's one of the few things I fully give him total control over in our relationship. And I can't type worth shit. Ironically, in addition to not being able to do an American accent, I also suck at typing and texting, compared to my secretarial job as a woman. I have to use voice to text which makes me use my posh Queen's English accent cause it cannot fucking understand the heavy Scottish accent I was given by that hippie potion. That's another thing Brian loves posting, me trying to use voice to text which has become what they call "viral". I surprisingly still know some Yiddish though and love rugelach, so I still have some remnants in my life. We knocked over a vase in our snog-fest. "Gavin..." "Excuse me?" "Sir Gavin," he sighed. I was knighted a year ago, for my charity work with the LGBTQ organization I secretly started in the 80s, and how I helped spear-head a fitness and nutrition campaign with Parliament. Although Brian was knighted in '98, because he's Brian Fucking Storm, so he would constantly pull the same shit I was pulling, only responding to Sir Brian. Fucking hated him for it. Whenever he was on top he'd tease me and only make me cum if I called him that. Although I was, and still am primarily the dominant one. I love being inside that English Bastard. And he loves it when I take charge and tease him. "We're going to destroy the whole room the way we're going." The mansion was a rental. "I'm sorry, I just can't stand to be away from you." I brushed my moustache against his cheek like he liked and placed him down on the couch. He lied there like Kate Winslet in Titanic and it turned me on and he knew it, "think about it, the ceremony will be an hour long, afterwards we have only thirty minutes alone until the after party, and you ken I don't like quickies, we have four fucking hours of this party." "Macca's performing," he tried to appease me. "McCartney, McFartney! And I ken this wedding is pissing everyone off and making them jealous so it's turning me on and on even more." "What are you gonna do about that Gavin--" I cleared my throat. "Sorry, Sir Gavin." "Well, Sir Brian, I might have to fuck your fucking sexy brains out right there during afters!" "Gavin, William and Kate are going to be there!" "Oh, lovely," I switched to my fake posh accent that made Brian laugh the first time we met, "I can tell him about the time I fucked his Granda Prince Phillip in the arse while his Gran flicked her royal twat." That caused Brian to release his beautiful musical laugh. "Actually, Harry's gonna be there. He might like it!" he said. "A lot of his family's gonna be there. You ken they're gonna like it!" We shared a laugh and tumbled on top of one another. It was insane going back to England for holiday in '71. Considering I was born there but never actually lived there. After introducing Brian to my family--my Amercian family had transformed into a Scottish one, it was bonkers--resulting in an argie-bargie while my Granny and Brian had tea in the kitchen, both of them gushing over me, and our tentative armistice, I got to know more of Brian's inner circle who he cultivated during his time with the Mockers. Including some members of the British aristocracy who had some interesting predilections, not the creepy ones though, we avoid Charles's one brother like the plague. Besides, despite appearing stuffy they had excellent taste, knew the hottest spots in town, liked how I didn't kiss their arses and talked to them like people (and liked how I made their dear friend happy), and knew how to have a damn good time. Princess Royal Anne was our favourite and is still a dear friend. "Alright, you ken I don't like quickies, but I can't avoid holding off on pounding your cute English arse so..." I flipped him over pulled down his pants, and unzipped mine. My dick was monstrous and ready to ravage him. I was a bit nervous though, despite my bravado. "Come on, Gavin, I'm waiting. You got me all horned up for this." "Brian, can I really encapsulate how much I love you in fifteen minutes tops?" "Gavin, we've had plenty of practice. For almost forty-six years." "Exactly forty-six years." I chose the British wedding as soon as it was legal the same day I first turned into a man and fucked Brian Storm's brains out and we fell in love. I put the rubber I had in my back pocket over my monstrous dick and plunged it into his still firm ass. "Should we have invited the hippie?" he asked in between pumps, strokes, and moans. Yeah during an acid bender early in our relationship, I might have told Brian some things. We went to the corner when I met her, and she was there, knowing I told him. She explained everything. The fact I changed myself for him, while keeping Debra's good qualities: her passion, her taste in music, her horniness, while embracing a new personality and relishing, while using what Debra liked in a lover to make myself into the ideal lover-- it made him love me even more. And he kind of knew something was different about me. How, despite being a rough hardass of a man, I wasn't afraid to talk about my emotions or listen to and empathize with his. How I knew surprisingly a lot about women's fashion, despite having no interest in wearing women's clothes or make-up, which later came in handy when Brian went through his glam rock phase, I'd say "oi, that shadow isn't making your eyes pop out as much" crap like that. How I could relate to his female friends--once we had Ollie's ex, Janet, living with us for a few months after that country singing bastard broke up with her and she got her period, and I ran to the drugstore and got her pads, tampons, and Motrin, no questions asked, and then we talked about how much her ex-boyfriend was a twat, and I held up on sex, we ordered in, and we watched re-runs of the Dick Van Dyke show. Janet's a good mate to us to this day and is part of our wedding party. Although I was a bit worried as we invited both Ollie, out of obligation, and Eddie who turned out to be a real mate, to the wedding. We're having a bit of a Mockers reunion and the press is having a field day. I'm even considered an honorary uncle to Janet's children and an honorary great-uncle to her grand-children--her grand-daughter says I sound like Merida, whoever the hell that is. But I'm rambling. Anyway, me being a woman before, it made sense. And seeing the man I had become, that he got to know and fell for, he was accepting of it. "She'll probably find her own way. If she could turn a tiny American lass into your ideal lover, she can sneak into a star-studded gay British wedding." I made sure Brian was ready, and together, we came. "I love you Gavin, Gavin Greer, Gavin Greer." "And I love you too, Jim, Jim Daniels."