You can always tell the kind of people who are “so ready” when the first jag of warm weather descends upon the land. As if, like a Chippendales dancer, they were ready to rip their pants off all along and showcase as much skin as possible. Likewise, you can always tell the people who aren’t ready at all. The people who cling to their fall and even winter clothes until the absolute last possible minute. That last minute generally being when they start to melt à la the Wicked Witch of the East. But even then, they might still try to hold out. To keep wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants instead of shorts so as to somewhat better conceal, well, a combination of things really. Namely, being too fat and/or pale to be “palatable” for public consumption.

Reston felt that he fell into both categories. And while he knew it wasn’t “manly” to concern himself with such levels of “female” vanity, he couldn’t control his self-consciousness now that the first snatches of blazing hot weather were making themselves known. Forewarning of consistent “I’m melting” weather for the next few months. But no amount of “forewarning” a.k.a. “preview weather” could truly prepare Reston for how difficult it was going to be to endure summer in “cold-weather clothing.” Try as he might to “train” for it during those errant days of sweat-inducing sunshine that arrived in the germinal part of spring.

Yet, because the season was still “making up its mind” at this point, Reston continued to enjoy the benefit of those rather consistent cold and rainy days that falsely let him believe winter might last forever. Which is usually the last thing anyone wants. That is to say, anyone who feels comfortable in their own skin (which, contrary to popular belief, is clearly a surprising number of people). Alas, for as long as Reston could remember, he had never felt comfortable in his own skin. His father, Oliver, had made sure of that basically from day one. And Reston genuinely felt it was day one since, when he popped out of his mother Carol’s vagina, he had disappointed Oliver by not being the girl that both parents were promised.

Yes, that’s correct, for arguably the first time in history, there was a father that was actually hoping to have a girl rather than a boy. Later, Reston would learn that it was because Oliver had been deeply affected by the Oedipus Rex story. A classic tragedian narrative that he had studied in high school. And, ever since, the notion of having a son seemed terrifying to him. Like it would inevitably seal his doom. Or at least ensure that he was “overshadowed” by his male progeny. Oliver didn’t want that. Nor did he want to feel like his son was getting “too close” to Carol, who, as far as Oliver could tell, was clueless about everything. Almost willfully so. And yet, he reminded himself, wasn’t that at least part of the reason he had fallen in love with her? Because of her naïveté? A quality he admired in her but disdained in Reston.

Maybe that’s part of why he was so cruel to him from such a young age. He wanted to make his son understand the inherent brutality of the world. Its ruthlessness, its savagery. But no matter how harshly he acted toward Reston, it seemed to have the opposite effect of his intentions. That is to say, rather than becoming “harder,” Reston grew softer. Figuratively and literally. Granted, he started out at a “normal,” “healthy” weight before gradually turning to eating for comfort, as so many people do. And then, before he knew it, he was the rotund, pasty creature he saw in front of the mirror every day. The “thing” that would rather boil to death, risk very glaring sweat stains and heat stroke than alter his wardrobe to suit the spring and summer weather. But Reston could feel the season was about to come to a breaking a point. That he would have to cave to its searing temperature sooner rather than later. That “sooner” arrived on June 18th. A new “personal best” for his “pushing it” capabilities. Though, technically, in the past, it had been easier in general to go for longer without succumbing to weather. Back when weather was more consistent, reliable.

Now, it was as erratic as all get-out. As undependable as any man. Though Reston didn’t count himself among such men. If only a woman would give him the chance to prove as much. But of course the problem was that all they could see was his exterior, never looking beyond it to notice if there might be more beneath the surface. Try as he might not to become an incel—and not to, correspondingly, hate women—as a result, Reston could slowly apprehend this was the shape his mind was taking the more that time went on. The more he could hear the snickers as he walked by in his “summer attire” (a massive, tarp-like black t-shirt and jean shorts—his go-to uniform for optimal “coverage”), the more he could feel his blood boil, his ire stoked.

Until the day that something both strange and wonderful happened. Or so he would initially believe. Coming out of his usual coffee shop in the morning before lumbering down the stairs and onto the train, Reston noticed a different homeless man than the one who was usually there. The one who looked much older and more decrepit. Now, in his place, there was a younger, more “strapping” man. Though he still had the same bedraggled hair and disheveled clothes. In fact, Reston thought to himself that it was almost as if this man had undergone a kind of “Benjamin Button” phenomenon overnight. Perhaps sensing that Reston was intrigued by him, the man called out, “Yes, it’s me. The same man you see every day.” Reston could have kept on going—and probably should have—but his interest was too piqued to walk away. His slight hesitation was all it took for the man to snap his fingers and make time stop. Everyone and everything around them froze in the midst of whatever they were doing.

Reston kept blinking his eyes to make sure he was seeing correctly. The man didn’t give him much time to think twice about the current reality, motioning for him to come over. And then, when Reston didn’t do so immediately, it was as if an invisible force pulled him toward the man, who was now holding out what can only be described as a “potion bottle.” One that contained an amber-looking elixir that the man uncorked and held out to Reston. “Here, boy, take this. And your life will change. For the better.”

Reston, for as terrified as he was, still found the courage to ask, “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen you. Every day. Just as you’ve seen me. You’re as invisible as I am because of how you look. Do you want that to change or not?”

Reston couldn’t deny that was exactly what he wanted. To look different. That is, if he couldn’t be another person entirely. So while a “saner” person might have tried to turn down this man’s elixir in the hope of getting him to just reset time again and leave him alone, Reston had been driven mad by his “unattractiveness.” Therefore, conceded in spite of his initial attempt to appear “wary” of taking some unknown substance from a strange man with unexplained magical powers. Truth be told, it was as if the elixir, with its ostensibly glowing contents, hypnotized him—transfixed him—into taking it. And the moment he had gulped the last drop, time accelerated again and the man was suddenly nowhere to be seen.

As for Reston, it appeared as if everyone was seeing him. For the first time. Particularly the women that passed him by as they started to get on the train. Indeed, they couldn’t bring themselves to keep going down the steps once they caught sight of him, stopping in their tracks not only to ogle him, but to touch and caress him as if he were there solely as a sexual free-for-all. At first, Reston was too stunned to move, to react. It was such a novelty to be perceived in this way, let alone touched at all, that it took him several minutes before he could actually think to remove himself from the clutches of these women.

When he finally managed to escape far enough down the block for them to give up on chasing him, Reston had the sudden epiphany that he was able to run without his heart racing at an alarming rate or being completely out of breath. It was a genuine revelation. A glorious epiphany. And that’s when he looked down at his body for the first time to see that not only was his ensemble suddenly more fashionable and form-fitting, but that the flesh before him was no longer flabby or pale, but firm, toned and tanned. In short, everything he had wanted for most of his life (not to mention everything his father had wanted for him, too).

Taking in his new form, Reston rushed to the nearest clothing store so that he could look at himself in the mirror, readily ushered there by the saleswoman who was practically salivating as she looked at him looking at himself. And the sight he beheld was something he truly never could have imagined. It was as if James Dean had been reincarnated—he was that “smolderingly sexy.” No wonder the women around him couldn’t keep their hands off.

That’s when he remembered the saleswoman’s presence. How could he forget? For it didn’t take long before she was pouncing on him, sending him fleeing from the store and back out into the even more feral streets. A place where he was far less safe. And by the time he made his way home, what should have taken five minutes to walk took a full hour as he finally learned the true meaning of the phrase “beating them away with a stick.” And as he caught himself doing this—literally using a stick he found on the ground to bloody and bruise the women who suddenly wanted nothing more than to “love” him (even if it was only for his body)—he understood that he was a woman-hater in either carapace: the “hot” one and the “busted” one.

Once he was at last inside the safety of his abode, Reston leaned against the front door and let out a sigh of relief. That relief quickly mitigated by the revelation that it was just as much of a nightmare to be stuck in this body as his old one. In truth, right about then, he very much missed his former undesirable “shell.” Even though, if he had to find a silver lining (apart from regular ejaculation into something other than a sock), it would be rather pleasant to be able to wear next to nothing for the rest of this hellish summer, and every one thereafter. That is, if he wasn’t killed by a mauling as he paraded his now ripped, “spontaneous orgasm”-inducing body in public.