This Ain't the Summer of Love

He had been doing exercises to build up those muscles for two weeks, exercises he had looked up online specifically to give himself more of a bubble butt, to be more attractive sexually to the man who had just taken him for, what, maybe the thirtieth time this summer? He wondered if Roger had been able to see the difference. He suddenly felt very pleased with himself, in spite of his position, in spite of the sensation of lube and semen oozing out of his rectum and down over the back of his scrotum. Or because of it.

A couple of minutes ago, with Roger bending him in two backwards by the hair and slapping his flank, he had felt like a wild pony being broken. At the moment, he wondered who had broken whom.

Roger rolled off of him, and tousled his hair. "You're letting this grow out?" he commented.

"Uh huh," Brandon replied. "Is that okay?"

"Okay?" Roger asked with a chuckle. "You don't need my approval."

"I know," Brandon huffed. The thing is, he wanted Roger's approval. Or rather, Roger's lustful appreciation.

"Sure, I like it," the older man said. "Gives you kind of a surfer dude look."

"I was actually going more for Argentinian mid-fielder," Brandon joked. "But I'll take that." It was true. He certainly wasn't trying to cultivate a feminine appeal, and he didn't think that was Roger's thing, anyway, based on the photographs in the next room. Roger seemed to like young men, not t-girls. And more than anything, he wanted Roger to like him. He wanted to be the object of Roger's lust.

He wanted to be in one of those photographs. He wanted to be Roger's favorite memory.

Then he felt Roger's hand cupping one of his buttocks, which he hoped were noticeably more muscular since he had begun his exercises.

"Mmm," Brandon murmured. "I like that."

"Me too," Roger hummed. "You've been working on them?"

"Mm hmmm," Brandon acknowledged, feeling both pleased and a tad embarrassed.

"Nice," was all Roger said, his hand moving in circles around Brandon's right cheek, grasping and releasing.

"I want to be in one of your photographs," Brandon blurted out.

"I'd like that, too," Roger replied. "By the end of the summer, we'll do a photo shoot."

Brandon smiled. He liked the idea of five more weeks to work on his glutes before Roger took the pictures that memorialized him for all future visitors as this summer's fucktoy. He assumed Roger was thinking the same thing. Wasn't he? Or did he have yet something else up his sleeve?

"What do you have in mind next for me, Roger?" he asked, his own voice sounding... coy, even coquettish.

"Oh, I can think of a couple of things," the older man replied.

Brandon felt a shiver run down his spine. Roger kept assuring him that he didn't care about labels or stereotypes; but the cliches were running through his mind anyway. Twink. Femboy. Sissy. Crossdresser. God, how far was he willing to go?

"I'm not trying to turn you into anything," Roger said, reading his mind again. "The thing I'm enjoying is helping you find the limits of your comfort zone. And then helping you go a little bit further."

Brandon bit his lip as he considered that. He wondered what the professor had in mind next. Whatever it was, he was sure he would have reservations about it, and then get over them. And at any rate, as Roger kept saying, the sexual things they had been doing -- the casual nudity, the kissing, the ass-to-mouth fellatio -- were an activity, a hobby, not anything that defined him.

The physical changes in which he had acquiesced were temporary as well. The body hair would grow back. The tan would fade. Even the effects of the workouts to develop what he once would have considered a feminine derriere would dissipate once he stopped exercising. Eventually this intense but inconsequential summer would be nothing but a memory. He sighed, and let Roger kiss him.

***

That fall, back at school, Brandon found himself fitting more or less seamlessly back into his comfortable milieu.

He was sharing a house off campus with two friends, so no longer sharing a dormitory shower room with sixty guys. Classes were, at this point, almost easy. He returned to enjoying all his regular extra-curricular activities -- in the fall, that was flag football, ultimate frisbee, and playing his guitar on the roof outside his room's little dormer window. And he eventually added a couple of new hobbies.

His renewed relationship with the girl he had asked out back during spring finals week went quite well, for a while. Until it didn't.

She had liked running her fingers through his longish, wavy hair, which he was now wearing in more of a grunge look.

Later, as they became more intimate, she had found his smooth, lithe hairless body and legs to be quite acceptable; even something of a turn-on, she admitted.

She didn't object to his provocative tan lines, immediately. But once they finally got completely naked together, he found that she just couldn't accept the delicate scrollwork of the tramp stamp tattoo across the small of his back.

Oh well.

The bears at the gay bars down by the warehouse district liked it.