Keoni the Surferdude Becomes Dylan the Hip Hop Thug
by
kooldoggie
Once again, Keoni the chill, studly surfer, who once had been Ryder the emo skateboarder, would be forced to adjust to his new environment?
Keoni actually showed fear in his bright blue eyes, his tight surfer muscles trembling as he got out of the moving truck, his bare feet slapping onto the hot sidewalk. This was an urban ghetto, as inner city as you could get, miles from any beach, the possibility of surfing lost to him forever. Fuck, thought Keoni, his heart beating nervously under his heaving bare pecs, he hadn?t wanted to move, but his ?rents? new job again had forced him to uplift himself from where he was most comfortable, the chill Southern Cali beach, and they couldn?t afford to live in a better area anymore.
Keoni groaned in disappointment, as he took in the ravaged, trash-filled streets, the graffiti sprayed everywhere, the sketchy, thuggish types, most of them looking drugged out, on every street corner. And now the groan came from feeling the need to change, as the 6?6?surfer doubled over, leaning against the truck, as his long-fingered brown hand tucked unconsciously into his low-hanging board shorts, caressing his thick member. Fuck, he thought, his anxiety rising, he simply couldn?t be a surfer here, but he could be something else?
He had felt so exposed here, so vulnerable, on these tough urban streets. Keoni spent every day on the beach nearly naked, nothing but his flowery board shorts on his slender, 28? waist, and he often could chill completely naked at the secluded nude beach, getting high while he surfed the day away. His slight muscles trembled, under the dark tan skin, knowing that life of exposed freedom was over. Another groan? He adjusted his long member, looking down to see that his board shorts had returned to becoming a pair of boxers, as they had been when he had been a skateboarder. He took his hand out of the underwear, brushing against the fine dark treasure trail that ran up to his deeply indented navel. Dark? Yeah, Keoni had had nothing but a few fine blonde hairs on his body, his golden pubes usually fully exposed by his low-slung shorts, but now the hairs were a dark brown, and he pulled up his boxers a little, so his lush brown pubes wouldn?t be so noticeable.
Keoni felt much less anxious now, as he took a deep breath of the smog-filled air, knowing everything was going to turn out cool. He stretched his lithely muscled arms, allowing the sun to beat down on him, but he noticed he looked quite a bit less tan, the dark mahogany of his surfer complexion reduced to a light glow on his perfect skin. The sunlight glinted off a pair of silver rings piercing his brown nipples. Cool, thought Dylan. Yeah, Dylan, that was his name, and these streets were his home. His bare feet slapped against the sidewalk again, and he lifted a big size 15 foot to see the dirt on his soles. He frowned. Keoni had been a dedicated barefooter; he hated shoes and would never wear them, but Dylan loved his fresh kicks, and it made no sense to be barefoot on these glass-strewn sidewalks. Also, why the fuck was he just in his underwear? He went back to the truck, finding a pair of baggy, torn jeans inside. He slipped those on, allowing them to drop on his slender waist so most of his boxers were exposed, and they were pushed down in the rear just under his firm, tight butt. A studded belt slipped around his waist, followed by a thick silver wallet chain that hung nearly to his knees. Yeah, that looked so much better. He took another deep breath, lifting his bare chest to the hazy, urban sky, the breath seeming to pump up his svelte muscles slightly. The light physique of the lazy, carefree surfer needed to grow a bit, to keep up with the sketchy character of the hood. He lifted his now whiter arm to run a hand through his thick, long, bright blonde dreadlocks, which Keoni had been proudly growing out since he was a little grommet, but Dylan felt those dreads retracting into his head; they no longer touched his back but had crept to above his shoulders. He was distracted by the pleasing swell of his pumped bicep. Yeah, he was pretty jacked, not as thick as a bodybuilder by far, but Dylan worked out nightly at the weights in his garage, and his hard muscles looked mean. He felt the ground getting closer, as his height reduced a lot, the better to make his muscles stand out, down past the six feet of Ryder the skateboarder, until he leveled out at 5?10?, decently tall enough, though now his pecs and abs didn?t appear so stretched out, but thick and hard. He noticed that the tribal sun tattoo that had adorned the surfer had faded away, but it had been replaced by an elaborate Gothic script across the top of his curved pecs that spelled out DYLAN. Yeah, he was a bit of a poser for sure, but that was sort of required on these tough streets. Subtlety, which had been Keoni?s mark, would get you killed here.
Another groan? His body settled into its new shape, freshly pumped teen muscle on a thickened, stronger skeleton, again not that of a bodybuilder but just slightly larger than a fitness model, just enough so no one would think to mess with him. He remembered the discomfort of his bare feet and once again went to the truck, taking out a pair of white athletic socks and bright silver high-tops. He slipped those on, tugging a little to try to get them on his big, broad surfer feet, but the feet retracted until they fit, returned to the size 12 they had been for the skateboarder.
Almost there, thought Dylan, his confidence growing, his IQ rising a bit to meet his needs, his thoughts and speech a bit quicker to get out of dangerous situations. His surfer drawl and slang was replaced by a ghetto dialect, often rhyming, as the once-skateboarder?s poetry skills resurfaced, this time molded to fit a fast-rhythmic hip-hop. Rhymes were constantly going through his brain, and he showed off his skills constantly on the streets and in the underground clubs.
He took another deep breath, noticing he was still shirtless. He often did go barechested on the street, better to show off his jacked muscle, but he knew he had a cool muscle shirt here somewhere. He found it in the back pocket of his low-slung baggies, next to the bright red doo-rag that again sent a signal to the gangs in this area not to mess with him. He was often getting into scrapes with the thugs, and he had a few scars on his torso. He slipped on the tight, white wifebeater. It was small and didn?t even meet the waistband of his exposed boxers, instead showing off quite a bit of his carved lower abs up to his navel. His DYLAN tattoo could be seen just above the scoop of the form-fitting shirt.
He sighed, again smoothing his hand against his scalp, finding it felt quite a bit different. No more dreads. He found a cracked mirror set out by some nearby trash cans, and he looked into the glass to assess the final changes. He now had a very stylish short, almost punkish hairstyle, bleached blonde spiky hair on top, the sides buzzcut into some abstract pattern to show off his natural dark brown fuzz. He looked like a young Vanilla Ice, though way prettier, he thought. He liked being a pretty boy, his long, dark lashes over beautiful, laser-sharp eyes that had changed from gentle blue to a more exotic greenish-brown. He had the face of a big-city male model: His cheekbones were sharp and angular, his nose pert, a small stud on the side. His ears were pierced with several silver rings on each, and the puka shell necklace of Keoni had been replaced by two gold chains around his slightly thicker neck, hanging over that cool, elaborate tattoo. He sneered into the mirror, a wicked half-smile that was totally Dylan?s.
Yeah, he was there, man, a hip-hop thug who could own these streets, jacked just enough that he could own his carefully groomed pretty-boy looks and compete with whoever gave him shit. He could feel his still long member thickening a bit within his baggy jeans, not as apparent as it always had been in Keoni?s board shorts, as he thought about some of the better-looking thugs. He was still very much a gay boy, though he couldn?t really advertise that in this neighborhood, and he could still party at some of the clubs in the gay district just a few blocks away, but he had to be totally discreet about it. That was something Dylan knew how to do; he was highly intelligent, in his ghetto way, and though he still smoked weed, he wasn?t constantly stoned as Keoni had been. You couldn?t be that out of it in the hood, where it paid to be alert and on your feet. But tonight he could chill in his new ghetto-apartment room and smoke it up some to mark his successful transition. He sneered at his reflection again, muttering ?coo- coo-? under his breath and snickering, and then he took off with a confident urban swagger down the ravaged streets of his new hood.