Tyler the Candy Raver Becomes Marcello the High-Class Male Model by kooldoggie
The elevator doors opened into the upscale living room of a Beverly Hills penthouse, and Tyler the raver boy stepped out, exclaiming "Whoa..." under his breath as he immediately felt out of place in these spiffy surroundings. There was money here, thought Tyler, LOTS of money, and he immediately regretted not having charged more for the tabs of Ecstasy he had agreed to sell these newest clients tonight for their party. Tyler was always broke, after all, the sensory-driven boy spending what little he made on drugs and raves, and he made most of that money from his low-key drug-dealing.
Tyler shuffled his flip-flop covered tan feet as he assessed the situation, growing ever more self-conscious as his deceptively innocent blue eyes took in the crowd in the room, all of them stunningly hot young guys. Sure, Tyler was a total pretty boy, but among these studs he seemed to fade into the walls. Their beauty was of a totally different class. Whereas Tyler radiated a boyish ease and natural why-do-I-have-to-give-a-fuck cuteness, from the floppy blonde bangs of his semi-surfer undercut to his pixie nose and smooth tan face, these dudes were studies in well-crafted hotness: not one under six-feet, most much taller with chiseled, honed physiques, perfect faces, stylish haircuts ranging from short to very long tresses, obviously attained from the most expensive salons... He recognized quite a few of those faces, from giant billboards all around town, or in the fashion magazines. Tyler smirked; yeah, they were all male models, and his heart beat a little faster as he glanced at a few whose images he had jerked it to when alone, flipping through men's magazines in his small room of the shared West Hollywood apartment.
Tyler, by contrast, looked goofy around these sophisticated studs, still wearing his super-baggy raver pants with a chunky studded belt wrapped around the waist, wallet chain past his knees. He'd worn his sleeveless bright orange puffy vest open over his recently gym-worked bare chest, which glistened with a thin layer of sweat this hot summer night, showing off the colorful stones in his nipples and shallow navel. His bare biceps showed off his barbed wire tattoo and rainbow triangle that advertised a proud gay boy. A bunch of candy bracelets on his wrists and his neon pink visor worn backwards completed his raver look, but it looked stupid here, man, Tyler found himself thinking, and with that one thought a burning sensation kicked into his chest. The tight, round pecs heaved slightly, and Tyler reached up with his pink-shaded nails to grasp the candy necklace around his neck, as if to assure himself he still had raver cred. He would remain unconscious of it, but the change was already kicking in.
One of those perfect male models in a tight club shirt sauntered up to him, smiling. He towered over Tyler, who despite being six-feet tall felt like one of the shortest guys in the room. "Hi, Ty, I'm Chaz," he introduced himself in a sultry voice, sweeping a hand through his perfectly cut dark blonde hair. "You got the stuff?" Tyler nodded, unable to find his voice. He took the tabs from a deep pocket of his jeans and handed them over while Chaz placed a few bills in the boy's sweaty palm. "Come on, enjoy yourself with the boys," offered Chaz, gesturing toward a pool just beyond the glass walls of the living room. Tyler's bright blue eyes popped with excitement as he caught glimpses off all the naked studs skinny-dipping on this warm LA evening, the pool overlooking the glittering skyline of the city.
The burning grew stronger in his chest as he followed the model outside, stopping just once to sneakily poach what looked like an expensive gold statue from off a bureau, slipping it into the deep pocket of his baggies, where it was as well-hidden as the boner that was increasingly rising among all this hot-as-hell flesh. Tyler wasn't an ethical boy after all, survival and the ability to party the only things on his mind. And these guys, with all their cash, wouldn't miss it...
A cool breeze hit Tyler's pecs as he stepped out onto the deluxe patio, giving him some relief. He shrugged off his vest, determined to enjoy himself, but still he felt a bit self-conscious as Chaz commented that he should have a swim. "Dude, I didn't bring a swimsuit," Tyler offered lamely, to which Chaz laughed, "Come on, man, we're not hiding anything, why should you?" Tyler nodded nervously, taking off his visor and allowing his blonde bangs to hit him in his cute face. The change was working faster now, especially after Tyler, struggling to relax in this atmosphere, found himself a little irked by the conversations going on between the naked or nearly-naked male models, of the cool places they'd been to around the world, the fine dining, the wines; a few of them discussing sophisticated arts and literature of which Tyler knew nothing. These weren't your average models, Tyler realized, making him feel ever smaller and insignificant. These were the highest-paid, high-class, educated studs, with beautiful minds to match their obviously stunning bodies. Tyler was worlds below what they had achieved, his average IQ unable to grasp, nor caring about, a lot of the topics he overheard. But still it made him angry, a feeling the happy raver boy never permitted himself. Why the fuck should these guys have this cool life, all this money, and not him? Wasn't he pretty enough? There were guys lining up all around the city to have sex with him, a lot willing to pay as well, and Tyler wasn't above taking their money if they offered. But pretty wasn't going to cut it. The change was working its magic, the raver boy doomed to die this night.
Tyler shrugged and thought what the fuck. He let his baggy jeans drop to the concrete and slipped off his boxers, kicking off his flip-flops as he did so. All the clothes vanished, but Tyler didn't notice. He stretched his gym bunny body, the bones popping, as he gained an inch. He felt great, and he dove into the water, joining the other boys who were laughing and splashing water at each other. As Tyler emerged from his dive, smoothing the water over his glistening skin, his blonde hair appeared a bit darker. His face also seemed a bit less round, more chiseled, and as he opened his eyes they were no longer that deceptively innocent blue but a dark hazel, brimming with intelligence and confidence. Tyler smiled, the now brown-haired boy no longer a blonde angel who could get by on that innocent look alone. No, he had to work a bit for it, and he had, getting into UCLA early on a scholarship and graduating just this year at the young age of 20 with a marketing degree. Getting out of college early was part of the plan, an asset so he could focus on being young enough to pursue his modeling career, keeping the degree as a fallback should things not work out. Not that he would probably need it. Chances were that after a good decade of two of modeling work he could retire and relax with enough money for the rest of his life. College had been mainly more for the intellectual experience for Marcello anyway, since he loved the arts and liked learning about as much as he could about, well, anything.
Yeah, Marcello, that was his name, he thought, wondering where that stupid Tyler moniker had come into his head from. Tyler, like some generic American idiot who didn't know much that wasn't on reality TV. He smirked, his smile hot and perfect on his increasingly exotic face. He dove in again, admiring the naked bodies underwater and caressing the side of his model friend and frequent lover Lorenzo. As he came up, Marcello looked even hotter, his body now towering even in the pool, reaching up to 6'4" as he stretched seductively once more, taking in the warm night air as the cool water evaporated on his tan skin, a tan that was more genetic than the silly tanning bed version that the West Hollywood raver boy had to rely on.
Marcello had, after all, the perfect genetics from his Swedish father and Romanian mother, both diplomats, who had given their son, Italian born and named, an international view of the world that had made him a worldly, sophisticated young man. His tall body, probably inherited from Viking ancestors, was complemented by dark Gypsy good looks, from his eyes to the slender dark eyebrows, to the dark brown hair, ever-so stylishly cut, that had some playful blonde highlights running through it, the mostly short cut left a bit long on top. The gym muscles of Tyler had retracted a little, more fitting this tall, lithe, perfectly cut body, more the result of professional adherence to the standards of male modeling than the raver boy's desperate attempts at looking hot enough to get all the boys in his bed.
For Marcello was a calmer, more measured youth than Tyler ever had been, yes, a bit of deserved European arrogance there, but he was never mean to anyone, his polished education and worldliness having shown him that "we are all as One", and his ability to speak several languages flawlessly making him an asset on modeling shoots around the world. He spoke his English with a slightly posh British accent, in a subtle, soothing tone that appealed to anyone he met.
He was done with his swim now, and the tall, stunning youth now climbed out, sitting on the edge of the pool, allowing his long, tan, nearly hairless legs to wade in the warm water. All the other models gazed on him longingly, for he was surely their king, a flawless David statue come to life. The cheesy piercings had vanished sometime during his swim, even the many silver hoops in his ears, which called way too much attention when all the focus should be on his body itself. He now sported more subtle yet sophisticated tiny diamond studs in each ear, but he chose to keep his body free of tattoos, considering his own body a priceless work of art.
Finally, Chaz returned, leaning down to give Marcello a small kiss on his perfect lips, Marcello's face having just the merest sexy stubble of beard on his chiseled cheeks, and he offered the Euro stud a glass of Burgundy. Marcello took a sip and then stretched, finally standing onto his big size 15 feet to towel off and put on just a speedo to return to the party in the living room. There were quite a few others just in speedos on this warm night, and when he did wear his stylish clothes, usually clubwear, they were usually pretty revealing.
A perfect end to a perfect night, thought young Marcello, as he put a well-muscled arm around Chaz, and tomorrow it would be off to another photoshoot in Barbados, or was it Cancun, or Ibiza? He didn't really remember, and anyway, he could get along wherever he went. Marcello was happy.