That’s my bush!

by BRK   

Gerry had no body hair, much to his chagrin. He’d always thought it made him less masculine. So he felt a little called out by the ads appearing on his web pages lately for a brand of hot underwear worn only by the most manly of men.

It was the internet ads the first caught his attention. “Want to be EXTRA MANLY?” demanded the text, over images of comfy-looking boxer-briefs in rich, masculine burgundies and ceruleans under bold, blood-red elastic, laid out flat on weathered surfaces like old flat planks and battered ex-barn doors. At the bottom of the ad was the rough-textured, testosterone-raging logo for XIRILE and the tagline, “The only shorts for virile men.”

Though intrigued, Gerry was also a little chagrined to be seeing these ads crowding the edges of his web feeds and daily reads. He wondered what kind of cookies and cyber-impressions he was laying down that were leading the relentless A.I. of the internet marketplace to determine that his deepest need was for more masculine underwear. He felt a little defensive. His black department-store boxer-briefs did the job perfectly fine, thank you. His balls were cupped in 58% cotton like the gods had meant them to be, and that was all he needed.

Gerry kept thinking about the ads, though, and he knew he was feeling targeted because of a simple accident of genetics: his complete and utter lack of body hair. Below the neck every inch of him was, notoriously, as smooth and hairless as Timothée Chalamet’s bare buttocks. It was like a curse. Whenever he undressed he relived the teasing and odd glances he’d gotten in every locker room ever. Every phys-ed class. That time he’d gotten it into his head to try out for college intramural rugby. That one weekend he’d been swapping into his trunks in a Croatian beach changing tent and was surprised by a fellow tourist who’d seen his hairless balls and scrunched up his face in an almost comical expression of dismay. Somehow word had spread at the coffee shop where he worked, so that not only was he getting looks of wordless sympathy from his sasquatch coworker, Colin, and surreptitious giggles from those three girls who never did anything, he’d actually had a wispy-goateed new hire named Paul snatch up his shirt at the end of shift one day as if to confirm his criminal lack of anything like a treasure trail. He’d looked astonished, and even reached instinctively for his phone, as if such an anomaly had to be documented to PicThread immediately.

It didn’t matter that he was decently provided for in the cock and balls department, being average-sized, uncut, and a “shower” to boot. He made sure to get enough regular sun for his pasty look to be a thing of the past, and grew out his kinky head hair, as if just to say, “Hair, see! Look!” He’d started working out, too, just to look less adolescent, and yet even now, tanned and fit, with a soft but just-visible four-pack, the beginnings of actual pecs, and nearly enough definition in his legs to show the meaning of the name “quads,” his perfect hairlessness from his ears downward still seemed to equate with emasculation. He knew it was mostly in his head, but that didn’t help much.

So when he rounded the menswear aisle in Myway! one Saturday and saw the all-XIRILE endcap display, he gave in, tossing a cognac-colored three-pack in his trolley and moving on. He told himself he was doing it as a joke, but the truth was, the ads had worked. He could laugh at himself for it, but his balls would now be cupped in shorts worn only by manly men.

The first thing he noticed that next day was that the new shorts were both insanely comfy and a bit itchy. That last part seemed like a bad sign. Could crabs be woven into the material at the factory or something? Boll weevil hatchlings in the cotton, maybe?

The second thing he noticed was that the ads for XERILE suddenly vanished from all his web pages, which was… uncanny. Even Googling XIRILE produced no results. The new shorts were real, though. He stuck with them through the whole first day, and even slept in them overnight, ditching his usual pajama bottoms. He was kind of reluctant to take them off, to be honest.

When he finally pulled them off to shower for work Monday morning, he looked down and gasped in horror.

Hair. His crotch was densely carpeted with a new growth of thick, dark hair, like a desert turning into a verdant lawn overnight. It was like his new shorts were catalysts of unearthly fertility, growing virility from nothing at all. Even his dick seemed to have grown, looking long and heavy despite the newborn swath around it.

It was like—like the very fabric of the shorts contained some stimulating factor that—

A sudden thought came to him, and he grabbed his ass, almost crying out at what he felt there. Sure enough—soft, copious hair covered every inch of his glutes.

He stood there in the chilly, all-tile bathroom, the chest-up medicine cabinet mirror showing only his stricken expression and not the transformation that caused it. He stared at his reflection, then down again, trying to understand his reaction. He’d have thought he’d be thrilled, but in the moment the truth was stark and impossible to avoid. “I don’t want body hair!” he said, aloud. He looked up at his reflection again, eyes wide, expression pleading. “I don’t want it! I liked how I was!”

Angry and dismayed, he saw the reddish-brown briefs by his feet and kicked them aside, then snatched them up and tossed them in the little bathroom wastebasket. Then he pulled them out of the basket and brought them to the kitchen and shoved them into the trash there, making sure to mash them into the remains of last night’s kung pow. There was no rescuing these things now, no matter how much he wanted to pull them on again.

In the shower he scrubbed at the new hair, feeling foolish when it didn’t “come off.” Of course it didn’t come off—it was hair, not soap scum. He’d have to shave it. Except it would grow back, and he knew it would make sure to make itself all itchy and annoying as it did so.

Waxing? He shuddered at the very thought. Men thought they were strong, but what women had to do to meet social standards he couldn’t even contemplate.

His cock did feel bigger in his hand, but Gerry put it down to the weirdness of the moment. He stroked his hefty-feeling equipment as always, coming to a powerful climax unusually quickly, then rinsed off, exited the shower, and toweled himself dry, preoccupied less by his impossible changes than by his own unexpected reactions to them.

He found himself standing naked in front of his dresser, his underwear drawer open in front of him. The two remaining pairs of cognac XIRILE shorts were folded neatly on top of his other black no-name underwear, waiting patiently for him to put them on.

He tried reaching for the other shorts. He really did. It just… didn’t work out that way.

Monday, day two, was worse. He could feel the hair growing and curling under his shorts. Part of it was the existing hair minutely lengthening, but he was somehow sensing new follicles coming in too, the newbies shouldering their way past their already densely-packed day-old siblings. Not only that, the hair zone was spreading. It had started creeping up past his waistband to chart a thin line straining relentlessly northward across the uncharted expanse of his groin muscles toward his navel. And the fertility was still working on his junk, too, with his bait and tackle feeling seriously heavier over the course of the day as the carpet around them thickened.

It wasn’t just him sensing the changes, either. He didn’t know whether there was a musk involved he wasn’t smelling, whether his progressively more virile nether regions were emitting subtle pheromones that only real, manly men produced, but his coworkers were noticing him. There wasn’t anything outwardly visible about his changes—okay, maybe more of package, but Gerry was sure he was only seeing that because he was looking for it—but the giggling girls now seemed to be tracking his movements with expressions that were more lecherous than mocking. Sasquatch Carl gave him a grin and a fist-bump at the shift change, and tall, wispy-goateed Paul almost dropped a tray of mugs while Gerry was bent over to get something from under the sink.

Then, Tuesday. Day three.

He’d glared at the expanded hair that morning when he was naked again in the bathroom. It was still short but thicker and developing toward what could almost be called a bush. His butt… his butt was fuzzy. He didn’t want to be called Fuzzy-Butt Gerry. His dick looked huge, half again the size he was used to in length and especially girth, as if his hair could only be stimulated so much and all the excess growth had had to go into his wang, with a bit saved for his nuts. He’d shoved the second pair into his kitchen garbage as before, this time even getting out the fake maple syrup and dousing the briefs with breakfast muck where they sat in the bin. He’d showered, scrubbing and soaping his new crotch hair—this time to eliminate any “come-hither” odors—and jerked his massive tool with gusto.

Then he stood in front of his dresser, staring at the last pair. He growled at them. And then day three, however against his will, began.

His junk was big enough now that he had a little trouble zipping up his fly. He growled at the shorts again as he hid them from view with a final yank.

Customers were eyeing him now, not just scoping his visibly large basket but seeming to take in the sexy manliness of his whole package, as it were. Sasquatch Carl was treating him like a brother, and he was having to actively ignore the useless trio, who’d graduated to active flirting.

During a dead moment between rushes Gerry was in the back room, retrieving a bottle of hazelnut syrup, when he turned around and found Paul standing there, right in his face. “Oh, hey,” Gerry said.

“Hey,” Paul replied. He looked embarrassed, but he didn’t step back. His breath hinted of mocha latte.

Gerry looked at him, wondering how he hadn’t noticed how cute Paul was. A little hipsterish, maybe, but then this was a coffee house, and that thin goatee really suited his angular face, messy curls, and steel-gray eyes. Paul’s lips were full and rare-steak red, and Gerry found himself wondering how they tasted. Gerry’s slowly expanding junk, already heavy—he was now probably literally twice as big as before, with a fat, ponderous wang and plum-sized balls—seemed to thicken even further and push out against his zipper, and he could almost imagine that the dense jungle of short hairs he hadn’t had so much as a whisker of three days ago was keenly aware of its brother jungle and attendant monster just inches away, behind the straining black denim of Paul’s own work pants.

“Uh—?” Gerry prompted weakly, too distracted by the warm rush of Paul’s masculinity and his own to be articulate.

“Yeah,” Paul said, his face showing exactly the same intensity of need. His smile grew winsome. “I just wanted to apologize for, you know, pulling up your shirt the other day.”

Gerry loosened his shoulders a little. “It’s okay,” he said. Without really understanding why he added, “You can do it again, if you like.”

Paul’s smile slid a little further up on one side, exposing a dimple. “Yeah?” he said playfully.

Gerry decided that, yeah, he wanted to see the guy’s reaction. Might as well get something fun out of this, he thought resignedly. He just smiled back at him, and his attractive coworker took the hint.

Not one to miss an opportunity, Paul did as directed and lifted up Gerry’s work polo as Gerry stood there, syrup bottle in one hand, waiting. Paul’s expression of amazement was gratifyingly entertaining.

“Du-u-ude!” he crooned, looking up with a grin. “Treasure trail!”

“Grew it just for you,” Gerry teased.

“Yeah?” Paul said, delighted in his own laid-back way. He obviously didn’t believe him, but he was definitely willing to play along. This was a guy who was untroubled by unimportant details.

He moved forward again, his face close to Gerry’s. “Mind if I… follow it sometime?”

Inwardly, Gerry sighed. He’d been hoping this “virility” thing would all go away, but… maybe he could put up with it after all. “Trial run first,” he said, moving in for a kiss. Paul grinned and eagerly closed the remaining distance, and soon he was showing Gerry just how talented his treasure-trail follower truly was. Meanwhile Gerry’s own upgraded junk, swollen between its dense new bush and the briefs that had done their job and then some, throbbed thickly in giddy anticipation.

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