Dylan and Justin Become Radical '80's Style Surfers
It wasn't until the next day, after a harrowing journey involving walking around sketchy neighborhoods, trying to look gangsta enough that no one would bother them, finally a few bus trips, where they finally had the opportunity to nap, leaning their bleached-blonde heads against each other's shoulders, that Dylan and Justin finally made their way back to Venice Beach. Stepping off the bus, taking in the ocean air and the warm sun, the two hip hop studs felt a lot mellower, ready to return to the lives of chill, sand, surf and halfpipes they had missed. Justin removed his now too-hot leather jacket, stretching his muscular, pale chest as he let the sun hit it, while Dylan, doing the same, removed his tight sheer wifebeater and twitched his pecs, letting the sun glint off the barbell piercings.
They sauntered along the boardwalk, the urban swagger very out of place at the beach, as the itch to change circulated through them, but not strong enough yet. They looked for some of their skater posse, hoping that the closeness to some of those dudes and their style would help it kick in, but for some reason, no skaters were out this morning. "Aww, shit," Dylan complained huskily. He scratched at his shaved, buzzcut brown temples, wondering what the gay thug couple should do now, and Justin shrugged toward the ocean, suggesting they just chill on the sand a while, watch the waves, maybe smoke some weed until the change hit. "Coo- coo-" agreed Dylan, and they paced across the sand, the beach only starting to get filled with some rather retro looking frolickers. From a nearby pavilion, loudspeakers were playing 1980's rock, a pretty foreign sound to the urban thugs, especially the more sugary pop tunes. But this morning they were feeling the music for some reason, and between that and the happy, partying beachgoers in their bright, neon swimwear, the uncomfortable dudes felt the extreme need to join this scene. It was some "80's music fest going on, and the two tired boys lay out on the sand, turning their muscular bare chests toward the sun, feeling the heat centered inside them finally, starting to kick in the changes...
After a while, Justin started tapping his feet, still in the chunky basketball shoes, to the music, a smile starting to grace his all-business face. "Pretty rad tunes, huh, dude?" Justin mentioned in a voice that had grown much higher and lighter, a lot of surf twang starting to creep into it. "Yeah, totally," agreed Dylan, as he sucked in another deep breath of the fresh ocean air, stretching out his well-muscled tattooed arms and raising them above his head, latching his hands together to cradle his punkish scalp. The inhalation did its magic, allowing the fiercely jacked body to give up some of its muscle, no longer necessary in this totally chill world. The proud pecs deflated, rearranging to form a tight, lean chest, the nipples shrinking until the piercings fell out and vanished. Justin watched, fascinated, his own muscle deflating to the same rhythm, while his bleached blonde buzzcut was growing out considerably, looking more natural and shaggy; he was a natural blonde again, as he had been in his skater body, but this hairstyle was looking a bit more retro, layered perfectly so it had sort of a mullet feel to it. His crystal blue eyes grew ever so gentler but still with a touch of mischief in them, while his sharp cheekbones disappeared in a rounder, cuter face, the face of your average Cali surfer white boy. He no more needed any kind of menacing look to him.
Nor did Dylan, who was now thinking his name was spelled Dillon, just like Matt Dillon, that stud from the 1980's movies they loved. But weren't they in the 1980's currently? With his foggy memory, the period music pumped around them confusing him, he just couldn't remember, but he certainly couldn't remember any type of information from after the mid-80's. In perfect response, his look changed to fit the role: The brown hair again turning a natural surfer wheat-blonde, just like Justin's, growing out until the buzzcut sides vanished, the spikes collapsing into natural, windswept bangs across his much more tanned forehead. He leaned up into a half-sitting posture, sighing and watching the perfect curls out there, propping himself up on his much skinnier but athletically defined arms, now totally devoid of tattoos, as was his hairless, deeply tanned chest. He now looked like the perfect period pin-up boy, and the lower half needed to match as well. He needed those stupid high-tops off, and he kicked them away, leaving him barefoot as he should be, the tanned feet growing to a size 13. He also needed the baggy, ripped-up jeans off him; who the fuck wore those anyway, except sketchy gangsters from the hood? He reached out to pull them off, encouraging Justin to do the same. Once off, they revealed that their boxers had changed into perfect 1980's surf shorts, reaching no further than mid-thigh to show off their well-worked, svelte, thighs, hairless and tanned. Dillon's were a little looser around him, while Justin's were a bit shorter and rather tight, more early 80's than Dillon's more fashionable threads. Both were loud, neon colors, hot pink in Dillon's case, orange cr塾e for Justin's.
Justin looked into the eyes of the hot pin-up surf model next to him, noticing the once hard greenish-brown eyes were again sea blue, maybe a shade darker than his but essentially the same. All the gold chains and any other bling that he might have had were gone, leaving behind a naturally built surfer in just his cool surf shorts, pretty as hell, the boy he spent every day in the swell with, when their shorts weren't swelling so much that they had to return home for some fun. Justin found his neon yellow visor beside him and put it on, sweeping back his perfectly styled bangs, as he rose to his feet, saying, "That was some bitchin' surf out there today, dude, it's pretty gnarly!"
"Cha, totally gnarly!" Dillon parroted with his mellow, carefree surf twang, as he also rose to his bare feet, kicking a little sand playfully in his lover's direction. He seemed to remember something about having been a surfer before, but that dude had been a bit more pumped up and darkly tanned than Dillon was, a more natural boy, something like a Hawaiian hippie with the weirdest long hair. Dillon was a totally stylish, rad SoCal surferdude, always following the latest trends and making sure he fit in with the locals of which he proudly considered himself one. And so he applied some more of the neon pink Zinka sunscreen to his nose, matching his cool shorts. He went to his colorful, stenciled shortboard and picked it up, Justin doing the same as they jogged over to the enjoy the music fest, with all those bitchin' tunes...
Their time as funloving retro surfers would be short, as soon the skaters would be out again, but the transition from surfer to skater would be a lot simpler and less of an ordeal than had they been hip hop thugs, and perhaps this time they would become even more like the 1970's skateboarders they emulated...