Death to the NCMC!

"Would you like another cucumber sandwich?" Jesse asked me, offering up a tray of neatly arranged triangles.

"No." I said, barely containing my disgust. I glared at Jesse, daring him to read the torturous thoughts brewing in my brain. Typically, he just gave that stupid little stepford fag smile of his and walked off to offer some other girl his fingers.

Mark walked over to me. "Hey Randy, how's it going?"

"Fine!" I said, knowing that if I had replied "Shut the fuckup, Mark, you stupid useless nancy," he would try some "conflict resolution" bullshit on me.

Sadly, he took a seat and began to prattle on and on. "I like the new headquarters, don't you?" he said, not really expecting an answer. "I know it looks a little bare at the moment, but I saw some beautiful fuschia cushions that would look just fabulous over there by the piano. Marco said his boyfriend can get some curtains for the wall - we were thinking a sort of Arabian Nights vibe for the place. OOOOHHH You know what would look great by the main entrance? A large open-necked blue ceramic jar ... with bleached drift-wood!"

He was actually getting excited. I wanted to vomit. What was wrong with these people???

"Get away from me," I said, dangerous and low.

Mark, "conflict resolving", walked over to Paul, who was much more receptive to Mark's decorator dreams.

I looked around the room. There were nearly two dozen middle aged fags congregating around the small table of snack food. Twenty-four people, and not a single MAN amongst them.

Apparantly some magical fag time had been reached, and Jesse moved to the podium next to the threadbare stage. With his limpest wrist, he tapped gently on an empty wine glass.

The group tittered, afraid it might break, and then quickly fell silent.

"Quiet please everyone," said Jesse, unnecessarily I might add. "It's so fabulous to see you all here. It's such a great turn out at our new venue."

I think he actually began to tear up. The others gave applause - not too much, just a girly tinkling that wouldn't be amiss at a golfing tournament attended by tinkerbell and her family.

"It is with great pleasure, that I declare tonight's meeting of the North Chicago Musical Choir open!"

Again there was applause. Julian yelled out "bravo!". He was a fat man with a big red face, who liked to dress in Pro Hart shirts, making him look like a giant, ROUND, meat ball. It didn't help that he carried around a small dog in his "handbag". A dog so annoying, ugly and small that Paris Hilton would've been envious.

"We've come a long way," said Jesse, beaming. "Over the years we have established the largest gay choral society in Chicago, and now we have finally purchased our own building. Sure, it's not much ... at the moment ... but with a bit of fairy dust ..."

At this point in the speech, Mario, a muscle queen from Canada, waved a rave wand that sprinkled glitter over the estatic crowd.

"... and some hard work, this will be our HOME!' finished Jesse triumphantly.

The small group clapped, and then launched into a stirring rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In..."

I wanted to drive a spike through my ears. Heaven forbid they sang anything interesting.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my grenade. I primed the device and rolled it into the centre of the room. There was a bang, and the room quickly filled with a pale red smoke. I was wearing my gas mask, so I was unaffected.

It was great to watch these men, who preened and primped themselves every moment of every day, lurch around the smokey room, coughing and spluttering.

The gas cleared quickly, and in the confusion, I removed my gas mask.

"What was that?" squealed Jim.

"Perhaps it's a terrorist attack!" said another.

"That gas, what if it stains?" asked one man draped in a billowing white mu-mu he probably thought flattered his considerable bulk.

"Gentlemen, please, remain calm," said Jesse from the podium. "It was probably just a left over bug bomb from the cleaners last week."

A few of the men nodded, a few of them looked worried about the fumes. One of them started crying, "Oh, those poor precious bugs, every one was one of God's precious creatures."

I groaned.

Mark looked at me. "Randy, did you have anything to do with this? I notice you didn't move the entire time!"

Mark had such a bitchy streak. It was very unbecoming.

Luckily for me, the changes started.

Jesse tugged at his Calvin Klein collar. "Is it hot in here? Can somebody please turn on the air conditioner?"

"I can open a window," said Marco.

"No, I don't like outside air," whined Jim, who was also moping his sweating brow. "I need humidified air or nothing at all."

I didn't even bother pointing out the wankery of that comment.

"I'm going to open the window," said Marco with uncharacteristic gruffness. The others seemed taken aback. He marched over the window and gave it a tug. "Ow, a splinter!" he said, prancing back, sucking his thumb.

"Well, I did try and warn you," said Jim.

Julian pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He was sweating like a pig, and his prada shirt had huge stains under the arm pits and down the back. His hair was also strangely unkempt. "Let me have a go," he said. He pulled on the window, but it wouldn't budge.

Suddenly, all the men wanted a turn. It had become a kind of test. Only Jesse stood at the back.

Marco had another go. He was pulling on it, when a strange noise came from his mouth - a grunt. He had actually grunted with effort. The other men tittered. Marco pulled again, and this time the window sprang open. At the same time, his shirt split a seam.

"Shit, I tore my shirt," said Marco.

I looked around. The men closest Marco had blanched at the swear word, and some had gone "tsk tsk".

Suddenly, one of the other men's shirt split ... and then another.

It seemed that all the men in the room were slowly growing larger.

"What's happening to us?" one of them yelled. Worried about breaking their favourite clothes, they quickly shucked them off and started walking around topless. I knew they were in for more surprises.

"Oh, Marco, I didn't know you were letting your rug grow back in," said Timothy admiringly.

Marco glanced down at his chest. Normally he kept it twink-smooth, but now it had a light dusting of hair.

"I shaved this morning," he said. Then, he added, "anyway, it's none of your business."

I could tell that Marco was still burning up. He lurched around the room. "Man, I could really use a drink right now. A beer. Yeah, that'd be good."

Jesse looked at him, "There's plenty of chardonnay - and some Australian sparkling white..."

"I don't want WINE!" said Marco. "I said BEER!"

The other men nodded in agreement. I looked at each of them in turn. They were growing. They were taller and had larger muscles. The fat ones were toning up and the thin ones were beefing up. Their faces looked heavier, with squarer jaws and more pronounced foreheads - almost like cavemen. They were also hairier. A lot hairier. All those with shaved heads now had the beginnings of a crew cut, and the ones that had immaculately coiffured hair were now sporting long wild hair. Most of them were sporting five o'clock shadows. A few of the more radical gay men that had arrived with neat facial hair lines had had them OBLITERATED. "Good riddance," I said of those faggy beard trimmings. Now they had beards on their way to being REAL beards.

I could tell Jesse was scared. He tried to get the meeting back on track. "Alright, no matter what has happened, we're still here to sing. Now, can I get everyone to pick up their Gilbert and Sullivan Song Books, and we can..."

"Boo," said Marco in a deep voice. "I don't want to sing tonight. I just want to drink."

"And maybe watch some footy," said Jim.

"Hey, yeah," said Marco.

Mark lumbered over to the two of them. "Me too."

They had kept growing this entire time, and now the room was filled with topless, hairy, seven-foot tall men, with hairy chests and wild, dark hair. Their pants had become too tight and so many of them began to take them off. The few that didn't soon felt them rip and fall off anyway.

It was remarkable. Not only had the gas caused these changes, but it has also discoloured and eaten away at their underpants. I had deliberately added an agent that fed off "lycra/cotton blends", knowing that every gay man in the room would be pointlessly wearing a pair of those useless undies. Now the underpants were all grey and holey ... just like a man's underpants should be.

By now the sweating men were beginning to stink, but none of them seemed to care. For the first time in years, I couldn't smell one colonge or deoderant, and I was in heaven. The smellier the better!

Jesse didn't agree. He must've ingested less gas than the others, and so the changes had really begun to affect him yet. He was trying to get to the snack table, but was unwilling to push past so many large, sweaty, hairy men.

"Ugh," he said as two bumped into him.

"Come on, Jesse, relax," I called out. "I thought gay men would enjoy being in room with hunky, naked men."

"You may like, Randy, but I prefer my men with some hygiene standards."

God, what a prissy priss-pot.

"I notice you haven't changed, Randy," said Jesse, finally giving up trying to get to the snack table (it had been besieged by rude, greedy men), and had instead come over to me. He looked at me accusingly.

"Don't blame me," I said. "I can't help it if your precious coven of stepford fags has finally been converted in to a batch of real men."

"You and your `real men' fixation. I happen to like being a nice, clean, quiet man. I like reading books and gardening. So what if I'm scared of spiders and guns?"

Blah blah, it was the same old chestnut.

I glared at him, and he glared at me. Suddenly, we kissed. I don't know who kissed who first, but we were going at it hammer and tongs. We fell off my chair and on to the floor. Some of the men turned to watch.

"Oh yeah, look at Jesse and Randy get it on." said one of them.

Some of them whooped, and gave each other high-fives. It was typical jock behaviour, but I didn't really notice it.

Jesse pulled down my pants. "You want a real man, do you?" I was stunned. He pulled out his cock, rock hard, spat on it, and rammed it up my ass. It hurt like hell but I let him do it. Jesse! This prissy runt was the girliest of the whole lot. Why the hell was I letting him do this to me? "Oh fuck," I groaned, as he pumped away.

"Shut up, bitch," he commanded, delivering me a backhand. The men all clapped.

"Ride him hard!" said Mark, who had turned into some sort of cowboy.

My dick was hard and I was really enjoying it. I was getting off on being fucked by this man I hated, and with two dozen hot studs rooting him on.

With in minutes, it was over, I could feel him unload into me, which drove me over the edge, making me splurt hot cum over my chest. "Oh fuck," I said again.

With a grin, Jesse leaned over, gave me a kiss and then withdrew.

"Someone else's turn now," he said.

I came out my post-cum haze and quickly looked around. The men had all formed a circle around the two of us, and had taken out their dicks sometime in the last few minutes. Now they were all pumping them. It was an amazing sight.

Marco walked up to me. Jesse stood aside. Marco knelt down, and before I could protest, he rammed his giant cock where Jesse had been only minutes before. He had found lube somewhere - thank god, but my ass was already raw from the pounding Jesse had given me. Somehow, my body responded, and my dick became hard again.

"Wow, you're such a bottom boy slut," said Marco. He grunted (his new favourite sound) with each powerful piston into me. "Uh ... Uh ... Uh" I said, matching his rhythm.

I was fucked by each and every man in that room that evening. It was amazing, but by the end of it I was so bow-legged I doubted I would ever walk straight again. Perhaps my zeal for "real men" had been a little too ... much.

As for the NCMC? Well, they never did sing another faggy song again. But the organisation didn't end that day. They still had the building, which turned out to be just perfect for weekly frat-style parties, with kegs of beer, rock and roll music, sport events on the large television ... oh, and plenty of FUCKING ME UP THE ASS.

The NCMC was dead, long live the NCMC! •

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