The Fixer

I have two guys already waiting in my salon when I finished my morning meditation. Tony–my ex–sends them to me. He’s still out there living “that life”--hanging with young dudes (usually at gyms), making them major promises, making good on those promises but then sending them to me when they get more than they bargained for.

One of the two guys is a real giant, too big for the chair he’s sitting in. He’s in a sweatsuit and, sitting down, looks like he was plopped down out of a mashed potato scoop: all round, hard mass. He looks like he’s in pain (which, carrying around all that muscle, he just might be). The other guy looks like a gnat in comparison, but at second glance he’s just an average-sized dude, a little on the thin side, maybe.

I tell them I’ll be right out, offer them some tea–they both decline–and get a better look at the smaller one. Good god, he has a face like an ANGEL: bright blue eyes, large sensuous lips, a permanently smoldering expression on his face. I can almost diagnose him just by that: looks like the work of a Diametrian soapstone with amethyst harmonization. But I haven’t had my own breakfast yet, so I towel off my face, head inside, and pour myself my own cup.

Before I invite either man–interesting word, for even though they both look like they’re in their late twenties, they’re clearly messing around with forces too powerful for them to control and getting into trouble, which denotes more of a BOYISH nature, to be honest–in, I consider calling up Tony and having a talk with him about his behavior. He sent one guy over yesterday, two the day before. I don’t plan on spending my retirement sweeping up what he’s broken. I do it for the money, of course, and because it helps me sleep at night knowing that I’ve left things better than I found them.

When you spent your 20s the way I did–mystical mayhem, unleashing chaos for fun, sticking your metaphysical dick in every metaphysical hole you can find–you end up spending your twilight years doing good just for the sake of doing good. At first, it felt like guilt. Now I realize there are people who break things and people who heal things. Everyone is one or the other. I’m proud to know which one I am now.

I invite the little one in first. He seems sullen while the massive guy seems like he’s in a panic, all nervous frenetic energy (which, in a big body, can be frightening to someone who hasn’t seen what I see). I tell the big fella I’ll be right with him. That doesn’t seem like enough for him, but I’m not afraid of a pile of muscles, and we all know that they need me. I’m not the dumbass youngster on the wrong end of the curse.

I introduce myself–”Clyde, nice to meet you,” and his name was Max--as I sit down the little stunner and look him over. He’s about five feet tall, his body all lean and sinewy. Tommy sold him a charm that would “amplify his weakest trait”--but he never gave him the amethyst to temper the enchantment.

“What did you think your weakest trait was?” I ask.

“My calves,” he says, his face sinking. Poor Max had been a big bodybuilder before, and he thought the Diametrian charm would bring his lagging bodyparts up to match his big pecs and massive shoulders. Had he simply held a piece of amethyst in his hand, it would have realigned the enchantment to focus on his OWN perception of his weakness; he would have gotten what he wanted with no price to pay.

As it happened, Max’s spell caught the perception of others. All those muscles aren’t necessarily that appealing to some, so it shrank the poor guy down but made him a pure heartthrob. It happened over the course of a week, all of his muscles melting away while he got shorter and smaller, weaker and more submissive, but all of the sudden, all eyes were on him. Everyone has to have the little stud, but he’s now a little man in a world he used to look down on.

I have to chuckle as I watch him, silently suffering, that his beauty was so great that it was a pleasure just to watch him feeling sad.

A younger Clyde would have been smitten with this little beauty, but I know better now. Nine times out of ten, the gorgeous men in this world are just the result of some twisted magic and/or universal imbalances. At least, that’s what I’ve found in my experience.

I tell him I can help, of course, but not without a price. He shoves cash into my hand but I tell him that twisting the nature of things always leaves a mark; reversing a spell is never clean and easy. The original is always blemished in some way. I should make these young bozos spend a couple of days thinking it over. They were desperate enough to get into this situation, then they come to me desperate to get out. Not one of them is thinking soundly when I put a potentially dangerous solution in their laps.

Luckily for Max, his solution isn’t dangerous. I bring him back to a quiet room and lie him, face down, on my table. “This one’s easy,” I tell him, and I never lie about that stuff. I light some incense, strike a single pure note on a crystal chime, and tell him to wait it out. Then I leave him and get back to the Hulk before he starts crushing my furniture.

What a beast this guy is! I’m at eye-level with a pec that’s so thick I could balance a tray of drinks on it. He has to stoop and turn sideways to get his wide body through my doorways. His frustration grows with each cramped little room in my house I ask him to navigate with his unwieldy bullish frame. Honestly, I could have treated him in the salon, but a little adversity teaches these young guys a lesson.

“So what’s the matter? You get too big?” I ask.

“No, I’d get even bigger if I could!” he says. Not in my house, you won’t. Turns out his name is Trent. He used to be about six feet tall, broad-shouldered, nicely muscled. He shows me pictures, and I tell you, I would have KILLED to look that good at that age–which is kind of what I did, to be honest, but that’s a story for another day. Trent wanted to jumpstart his growth, be one of the BIG BOYS finally, and was considering steroids but ran into Tony instead.

I tell him it looks like he got his wish, but his face turns bright red. I urge him to tell me exactly what went wrong. He drops his sweatpants, staring at the floor.

There, perched just above legs thicker than my waist, I see a tiny little acorn above to shriveled little balls. I have to lean in just to make out exactly what it is. “Is it… functional?” I ask.

He pulls his pants up. “Yeah,” he says, “but… it’s like… I barely cum anything, even though I have these gigantic orgasms now.”

I shrug. “I don’t see the downside.” I’m not even being cheeky; he seems to have the perfect setup there.

But poor Trent defines his manhood by the unit hanging off his groin. It’s not my place to judge (although I still do; so many men would be a LOT happier if they would just get over their hangups and become vers).

I’m grateful that Tony is still using these dime-store enchantments and one-dimensional wizardry, because the spells are easy to undo. I have an ointment blended with powdered onyx and moonfish scales that will take care of this. Big Trent scoops a huge amount onto his thick, beefy fingers, and smears it over his teeny-weenie dick. At that point, it’s too late to warn him about the side effects. If he had waited just a second more, I would have told him that only a small amount is necessary.

Big Trent shrivels like a deflating balloon! One moment, I’m looking up at him, then he sinks down so short he’s looking into my chest. Those huge arms just shrink down, his shoulders collapsing, clothes held up by his protruding pecs and glutes drooping before falling right off his body. When it’s done, he’s only wearing his sweatshirt and it fits him like a collapsed tent.

Despite the fact that he’s thin and reedy now, the little shit has a HUGE boner. Rather than lifting up the heavy shirt, he actually pulls the gaping neck hole forward to see, and we both do: Trent now has a big ten-incher between his legs. I can see a lot of things rearranging in poor Trent’s mind: he’s a fraction of the man he was before (even before Tony hit him with magic), but he’s got a steel-rod for a cock now with two lemon-sized balls swinging below.

I tell Trent I’ll get him something to wear, but as I start rummaging through my dresser, I hear the door to my back room open, followed by the thudding footsteps of Max, now large-and-in-charge once again. I return to find the two men staring at each other, both entranced, each one afraid to make a move.

Max’s soap opera star face is gone, now wide and bullish with an almost piggish nose and a thick jaw. His boxer shorts are stretched to capacity, threads popping with every movement, but it’s clear his endowment, while not as embarrassing as Trents had been minutes before, was less than half the rod poking up at him from the pocket-top before him at that moment.

I can see Trent staring up at Max with a look of envy–clearly he misses having big muscles, being the largest man in the room, knowing he dominates by sheer size alone–but he’s learning something new. He takes a step forward and Max sinks to his knees. Trent is learning that there’s another muscle that gives orders in this world.

“THat’s it, that’s it, get the fuck out you two!” I call. They swap clothes and leave, hand-in-hand. I’m grateful that I can have a peaceful afternoon without dealing with the abrasive energy of two men in heat.

I won’t see them again, I know. Even if I saw them on the street, they would just think I was some crunchy old man smoking a rolled cigarette. But during my afternoon meditation, I have to reflect that, perhaps Max and Trent were meant to find each other exactly the way that they did. Perhaps Tony is actually an active force in the design of the universe, rather than a glitch in the system.

It makes me want to call up Tony to work some magic with him. The idea is fleeting. I’m too old for that nonsense now. I prefer my peace and quiet, and the serenity I get by setting things right.