Marcello the High-Class Model Becomes Taegan the Stoner Rasta Boy By kooldoggie
Back in Seattle, a sad and lonely Justin continued to hold out hope that his beautiful Scene Kid emo boyfriend would return to him, although nearly every day now was spent in tears, and he wondered why he even bothered applying the dark eyeliner when it was bound to smear. Total romantic that he was, he stayed celibate, although many in his emo skateboarder posse thought he should just get over the lost boy and kindle up some loving with one of them. Justin was too fine a boy to stay single. The furthest he was willing to go was an occasional cuddle with some of his friends, who often stayed the night to cheer him up, but he wouldn't dare get completely naked with them; he would peel down to his boxers, so his caring, yet of course horny, friends could roam their hands over his slender chest, their hardons sometimes painfully obvious against his butt, yet Justin held firm. He would find his soulmate. That confidence was redoubled when, looking out the window of the coffeehouse one day, he saw a beautiful, exotic face on a billboard, the body on display flawless as a sculpted chest ran down to eight-pack abs down to a small swimsuit. The model looked more strongly built and thicker than Ryder could be, but Justin knew without a doubt behind those soulful eyes was his boyfriend. Now he was on a mission, to find out the name of the model and stalk him, determined to get Ryder back where he belonged.
On a pristine, nearly isolated beach on Jamaica, Marcello the Euro stud model had just finished his photoshoot, his long, graceful legs leading him back to his chair on the sand so he could relax a bit while the photographers packed up their equipment. He would be going back to California tomorrow, but part of him just wanted to stay here, drinking in the tropical sun. He was still in his speedo, which he had practically lived in during the several days he was here, recalling that at the beginning of his career he had hoped to model some more upscale threads, such as high-fashion suits, but his managers had noted, correctly, that his perfect physique would be more useful the less it was covered, and so he had found his niche in underwear and swimwear modeling. He smiled, having learned that really suited his exhibitionist personality best, for when he wasn't on the beach he would relax in his Newport Beach deluxe condo in just his high-fashion underwear, or simply butt naked if he wasn't expecting anyone. When he went clubbing with his friends he would wear the best in satiny tight pants and silky shirts, sometimes left totally unbuttoned to show off his literal moneymaker, but he would usually wind up within an hour or two later dancing shirtless, rubbing up his body against his fellow model friends.
But he felt different today, not at all his normal, positive self as he looked at the palms, the waves, his hazel eyes gazing upon a cantina in the distance. He heard reggae music coming from down there, causing his long bare foot to flex and tap to the beat. Cool, he thought, perhaps he should see how the natives lived here. He loved experiencing new cultures, after all, and he was a bit disappointed the modeling had become so mechanical: get to the location, shoot, leave. He found himself enjoying it less as he found less time to immerse himself in the local flavor.
He walked toward the cantina, staying at the perimeter of the scene, where a group of laughing Jamaicans were dancing to the reggae band, others drinking some beer and smoking. Marcello felt the strong scent hit him, causing a hunger to emerge in his brain from out of the blue, remnants of his old personalities telling him this was the shit, especially the Jamaican weed. Marcello shook his head, stunned by the thought. He was by no means a stoner, sure, he took a few puffs now and then at parties, but he stayed mostly clean for modeling. But now he was feeling a longing, to join these cool-cool, relaxed natives in a smoke, enjoy the reggae. He admired their elaborate dreadlocks, their African-style clothes, the tie-dyes, none of it his high-class style, of course, but it was growing on him.
Marcello shrugged, thinking maybe it was best to just return to the set and get ready to go back to the five-star hotel, but when he turned around he saw that everyone already had left. He had been left alone on this isolated beach far from any tourist locations. The studly model felt a panic rise in his chest, the burning starting as he knew he had to join this scene or die. But part of him knew Marcello had to die anyway, he had to let go of this life, fun as it had been for a while, but as the whiff of pot grew stronger, causing the lids to droop over his hazel eyes, he knew this was right; he just needed to chill, kick back. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes they had returned to that innocent, sky blue that had marked Tyler, as well as a few of his other personas. He felt his long, graceful model body moving in beat to the music and he smiled, breathing in the fresh tropical air. He passed a hand through his hair, finding it a bit shaggier than he remembered, as if he hadn't put enough gel in it for the photoshoot. Oh, well, who cared about that stuff, man. The shaggy hair already seemed to have reached the nape of his neck, the blonde highlights spreading out and seeming to blend into the dark brown tresses, so that they were looking a shade that seemed to skip between dark blonde and light brown.
As he responded to the music, he danced over to the group of Rasta stoners, greeting them with a bright smile as he went to sit with them. The friendly stoners acted as if they had known him before, high-fiving him and passing him a blunt. Taegan sucked in the smoke and held it in, feeling the bliss and ease of a never-ending tropical day passing over him. Oh yeah, this was the life, man, no responsibilities, just chilling with your Rasta buds, taking it day to day. And as he thought that the once perfect model body, having lost its reason for being, began to shrink and fade, the muscles much less pumped, the natural tan fading as his exotic blood returned to being just that of a pretty average white boy. The height retracted, inch by inch, until he was under six-feet, finally topping out at 5'8", a much more reasonable, inconspicuous height for Taegan.
The reggae was in his blood now, this his adopted culture, which he was dedicated to until death. The muscles had remained firm and still had the barest of definition, but had gotten as small as they could get for this thin, agile, but rather lazy boy. The speedo sort of hung off him now and didn't seem natural at all; with his small frame, it actually seemed a bit cold out here in the shade, but in his stoned haze he didn't have many inhibitions as he unselfconsciously pulled the swimsuit down his skinny, boyish legs, tossing it into the sand. The native stoners laughed at the silly sight of the naked white boy, sparse brown pubes around his average six-inch penis, which lay against a firm but svelte thigh. Taegan glanced around, looking for his real clothes. After taking another puff, he realized the denim shorts and hemp belt were hanging on a chair. Why the fuck had he taken them off? He slowly got to his unsteady feet and went to put them back on. There, so much better, although his skinny torso with its slight pecs and six-pack, just a bit of sparse hair running up the middle of his belly, still seemed cold. He found his tie-dye tanktop, with a map of Mother Africa on it, also on the chair. He slipped it on, noting the tattoo of Bob Marley on one lightly tanned arm. He now noticed he wore a hemp choker around his slender neck, and a second later the growing hair cascaded into a mass of thick blondish-brown dreadlocks, collapsing around his face until they brushed his shoulders, yeah, the dreads he'd been growing out since Taegan was a young teen. He shook them out, a smile coming to his now pretty, elfin face, definitely more Tyler to it than Marcello, though the freckles splashed across his cheeks and across his nose, with the small stud on its side, were more reminiscent of hippie boy Kieran. There was indeed a lot of Kieran in Taegan, though the Rasta in this small pretty-boy was deeply pronounced. He stretched out his lithe, 110 lb. body, wiggling the tan toes of his small size 8 feet in the sand. He usually stayed barefoot, not having bothered to bring any footwear with him to Jamaica. The airline had been cool with that.
And with one last puff, bringing up a little more the healthy tan he had earned from a life on the Venice Beach boardwalk, Taegan was born. His hazy blue eyes were clouded; he stayed stoned as often as he could get, much like surferboy Keoni before him, living the maxim, "Smoke two joints in the morning, smoke two joints every night..." He smiled at his Jamaican friends, high-fiving them once more, then picked up his rucksack and made his way up the beach, where he would chill the rest of the evening in stoned bliss until he would catch his flight back in the morning.