Dylan the Hip HopUrban Stud Becomes Keiran the Hippie Boy
by
kooldoggie
As soon as he turned eighteen, Dylan made his choice andheaded out of the ghetto. He was over it, man. Sure, he'd had some fun, mostlychilling, getting high, partying at the gay clubs discreetly while rapping atthe straighter underground scenes and raves, but he'd been getting into morescrapes with the Latino and black gangs in the area lately, especially aftersome had seen him kissing a boy, and despite redoubling his efforts at hisweightlifting to pump himself up enough to defend himself, the fights werewearing him down. He'd made the bad mistake of smoking weed before going out,and so he wasn't alert enough when they had jumped him. He needed a change.
He was finally free of his `rents, so he hopped in histreasured lowrider car with the flame decals and drove up the Pacific CoastHighway north, something telling him that's where he should be, as he rappedalong to the kewl hip hop playing at full volume. But as he got further andfurther away from the urban scene, toward the more rural north of CentralCalifornia, he was finding himself less in love with the beat and the lyrics.
Finally, he arrived in Santa Cruz, noticing all the chillliberal types on the streets, many of them hippies, and hippie-surfers down atthe beach. He remembered something about having been into the beach scene.Maybe he could get back into it. Dylan parked on top of a cliff overlooking thebeach, shrouded in morning mist. What looked like a commune with long-hairedyoung people working around their timber cabins lay at the edge of a forestedarea. Dylan felt his spirits rising. "Kewl" he said in his low, ghetto-tingedaccent, but now that seemed really foreign to him. He frowned. He got out ofthe lowrider, stretching his muscled limbs, taking in the salt sea air and thescent of pine, so very different from the smoggy tainted air of the ghetto. Heinhaled deeply, feeling his urban tensions melting away, a look of tranquilityreturning to his model-pretty angular face with its punk piercings and wildhairstyle keeping him edgy. But that didn't fit in to the scene here, and heknew the change was already taking effect.
As he took another deep breath of the brisk air, he took offhis tight wifebeater, revealing his fit, muscled, hairless torso with its DYLANtattoo across his broad pecs. Already, though, the dark ink seemed to be fadingaway, while his lightly tanned white skin was darkening slightly, the tone ofsomeone used to being outdoors more often. He tucked the shirt into his baggyjeans, slung low to show off his fashionable boxers. Some barefoot surfersjogging to the beach while carrying their longboards looked him up and down,admiring his sculpted torso, but they seemed to smirk at the "poser" fashionsense of the saggy baggies, the thick gold chains around his neck showing offhis love of bling. But that didn't seem right anymore. He took off the chains,flinging them off the cliff. They vanished midair, as if they never had been.
He took another breath of the fresh air, his musclesdeflating, becoming less thick and more tight and defined, slender rather thanpumped. His frame was adjusting, the bones becoming lighter and less accustomedto a dangerous life, his height descending as well, until he stood only 5'6",his weight dropping to a mere 120 as the ghetto muscle melted away, leavingbehind the physique of an androgynous youth, definitely more boy than man.
Keiran sighed. He felt so much better this way. Yeah, hisname was Keiran, and he didn't have a care in the world in this perfectcommunity in harmony with nature. He looked down at his flat chest with theshallow six-pack, firm but small, as the silver rings in his small nipples felloff and disappeared. The DYLAN tattoo was now gone, no longer confusing him,and there was only a small peace sign tattoo on his left bicep, which headmired for the slender, tight, tennis ball of muscle it had from his work onthe commune, or when he paddled out to the surf for his occasional surfing. Hewasn't a hardcore surfer at all, more hippie than athlete, but he did enjoy thefeeling of uniting with the earth out there in the ocean.
He felt a tickle on his shoulders, and he raised a slender,much smaller tanned hand to feel the silky yellow locks that had descended fromthe once spiky haircut, hitting his shoulders and tracing a few inches pastthem. Long, straight, perfect hair the color of the golden sun, some of itgathered into an intricate braid with some beads intertwined. He did thatoccasionally, letting whatever boyfriend he had at the time braid the locks forhim the way he liked.
Nearly all of Dylan had washed away. His feet felt itchy. Hewasn't used to wearing shoes, so he kicked off the silver high-tops, tooostentatious anyway, and tossed those over the cliff as well. His curled histanned toes into the dirt, so much better, so much more natural. Sometimes hewould wear a pair of leather thongs, but only if necessary, where they wererequired in the village, and that was rare. His size 10 feet were cute andtoughened in the soles. The baggy jeans and boxers had slipped further off thesize 26 waist, unable to cling to the smaller hips, and Keiran giggled,thinking he'd be left naked in no time, not that that didn't happen often inthe commune. He tugged down the jeans and boxers, revealing a slightly smaller,uncircumcised penis ringed with fluffy blonde pubes. He noticed his real jeanson the ground, and he shimmied into them, the worn bellbottoms hugging his tinywaist firmly. They had many patches sewn on them, and he obviously didn't wearunderwear ever.
Keiran stretched his toned, lithe body, tossing about thelong, blonde hair. This felt right, just the bellbottoms on, shirtless andbarefoot. Sometimes he wore an old button-down shirt, left open to reveal hissinewy torso, but today he just wanted to let the crisp air and warming suntouch his body as much as possible. He had moved away from the lowrider, nolonger recognizing it as his own. He didn't really own anything, except for hisguitar, and the longboard he would use for the occasional surf. He stared atthe car and shrugged, then paced slowly, with teenage ease, toward the cliff towatch the people frolicking on the beach. His eyes, once a laser-sharpgreenish-brown, had returned to a sky blue, larger and carefree, the longblonde lashes shading them as they looked out over the scene. His face, thoughstill attractive, had grown much, much cuter and more elfin, the face of onewho had never had a worry. Tiny pert nose, no longer with the stud on the side,splashed with freckles, slightly rounded, tanned cheeks, pointed chin, and asmall, perfect mouth with just-so plump, kissable rosy lips. Most of thepiercings in his ears had vanished, leaving only simple, small gold hoops ineach that matched his golden tone, a tone somewhere halfway between the healthylight tan of Dylan and the deep, dark mahogany of Keoni.
This was now an undersized kid in tune with his environment,his body keeping only the slight, lithe muscle it needed to perform natural activities. He was still 18 but could have passed for 15 or 14, maybe even 13on a good day. Angelic and golden to the core, constantly flashing a peace signat his neighbors and giving them a friendly, bright smile, Kieran would grow tobe a beautiful asset to the commune. It was time, though, to go back to theporch and strum a bit on his guitar, while he smoked some of the high-qualityweed available in this area, keeping him chill as hell. He might even get tosleep with his fellow cute, hippie boyfriend of 19 years tonight; they loved tocuddle naked overlooking the crashing surf. He stretched once again, standingon his tiptoes of his strong bare feet, then skipped back home, a happy boy atlast.