What Just Happened?

“What the fuck??”

You stumbled back. Literally one second ago, you were at your sink washing dishes. Now, you’re in a gym—an unfamiliar gym. Instead of a dirty cake pan, you’re holding a ninety-pound barbell. The weight drops to the floor as you stare at a pair of unfamiliar arms, an unfamiliar chest…

This isn’t your gym… and this isn’t your body.

“Yo, Tom,” a voice calls from behind you, “you doing okay?”

You start to panic; did I just swap bodies with a random person? A hulking gym rat is probably standing in your body in your kitchen, freaking the fuck out. At least he doesn’t have an extra hundred pounds of muscle to deal with. You waddle around, astonished by the sheer size and vitality of “Tom’s” body as you search for the voice in the bustling gym. His thighs are so thick, you feel them brush up against each other in Tom’s gym pants. He must have been mid-set when you swapped, as your tank top is wet with sweat and an unfamiliar musk wafts off his glistening golden skin.

“Tom,” you hear again. This time from directly behind you. You spin around.

A towering bodybuilder with a forest of amber scruff on his face stares down at you. A lump settles in your throat. “I saw you drop that weight back there,” the brute of a man says, “you okay, bro?”

“I… I…” what do you say? That you randomly swapped bodies with “Tom” just a few seconds ago? That you have no idea who “Tom” even is? That you’re actually “Rob,” a boring insurance salesman for Minnesota?

Your new companion puts a hand on Tom’s boulder of a shoulder. “I think it’s time to hit some back, wouldn’t you say?”

You find yourself nodding. But in the back of your head, you know you can’t “hit” anything. You haven’t gone to the gym in over three years, and while Tom looks like he’s gone every day for the last three years, it won’t be long until Paul Bunyan here figures out that you are not him.

The ginger bodybuilder leads you to a seated row machine, and sets the weight to almost 300 pounds. Are you insane!? you have to stop yourself from crying out. He motions for you to sit. “This should make you feel better,” he says, “you always say back is your favorite muscle to target.”

Back might be Tom’s favorite muscle, but there’s no way you’re lifting 300 pounds with any muscle. You take a deep breath. Okay… calm down, you think to yourself, I’m in the body of a muscled up meat-head. I won’t be able to lift that much, but HE might…

You take a seat, glancing around to make sure no one besides your “buddy” is watching. If you’re going to embarrass yourself, you might as well have a modicum of privacy.

But there’s nothing private about this. You’re in a crowded gym, rocking the biggest, bulkiest body of all, sweating straight through your shirt... if you could even call it that; the cool breeze on your nips suggest most of your chest is exposed. You can feel the eyes of a dozen horny gym goers studying your tremendous pecs.

You grip the handle of the machine, focusing all your energy into your left arm. Your bicep flares, your back tightens, and you begin to gradually pull back.

Christ, this is heavy. The machine creeks and you pull and pull and pull, watching through squinting eyes as the weight bars slowly rise. You’re doing it!—or rather, Tom’s body is doing it. At this point, you don’t even feel like you’re telling the muscles what to do. It’s as if they have a mind of their own.

“GAAAAGH,” you growl in a deep, guttural voice. You twist your upper body and contract the muscles in your back, pulling the handle back towards your chest as far as it will go. As you release, you feel those same muscles breathe and expand. It’s like they’re growing in real-time. It’s mesmerizing, euphoric, even erotic. THIS is what it feels like to have the perfect body, to have arms the size of boulders, and a back as wide as a mountain range.

“Ugh… Tom,” your gym buddy says, “you wanna a slow down a bit there?”

But you’re in the zone, pulling reps like nobody’s business. This body was built to be worked out, and right now, nothing matters but the weight, your back, and the desire to get as big as goddamn possible.

“Twelve… thirteen… fourteen… FIFTEEN!” You let go, and the weight crashes down with a hard slam. If the whole gym wasn’t staring at you before, they sure are now.

Let them stare, you think as you get up and strut to the nearest mirror to get a better look at those traps. You’d never flexed a day in your life, and yet Tom’s body seems to know instinctively what to do.

You tear off your drenched tank top and strike a perfect bodybuilding pose, feeling the muscles undulate under your taught skin, and watching as they bulge like hardening concrete in the harsh fluorescent light of the gym.

You’re a fucking beast.

It wasn’t long before your companion—or “Dale” as he was called—figured out that you weren’t actually Tom. But by then, Dale didn’t care; you might not have Tom’s mind, but you’ve got his body, so working out together was a breeze.

A few days go by, and you start to forget that you ever had a life before the swap. Your only reminders are the incessant calls you kept getting from your old phone number. Tom really wants his old life back. Honestly, who could blame him? You traded up, and you aren’t willing to let go of this body anytime soon.

Besides, if you think Tom is great at the gym, just wait ‘till you see him in bed. I’m sure Dale would love to help out in that department…