Uncle Midas Touch

Chapter 1 

Owen was late. As always. 

Jake had already ordered the oysters and the champagne because that’s what Owen liked: tiny rituals of indulgence. They were seated at Le Manifeste, a velvet-curtained French bistro where the menus were priceless and the waiters didn’t speak unless summoned. Jake had reserved the terrace, hired the quartet, and even made sure the kitchen brought out Owen’s favorite smoked truffle salt for the butter. 

He’d been planning this dinner for weeks. 

Owen strolled in without apology, thumbs still dancing across his phone. His tight black tee clung to a swimmer’s frame, gold chain winking against sun-warmed skin. His stubble was just uneven enough to look effortless, and his lips glistened with whatever balm he used to stay camera ready. 

He looked 22. He was 30. 

Jake stood and kissed Owen’s cheek. Owen barely acknowledged Jake’s presence. 

“Sorry,” Owen mumbled. “I have to finish a convo. This guy I know just met a cop who looks exactly like that silver fox from the news. Like, fuck me, right? 

Jake smiled, thin and practiced. “It’s our anniversary.” 

“Oh. Shit.” Owen slid into the seat, finally setting the phone down, but not far. “Has it really been a year?” 

Jake nodded. “Two years.” 

The waiter arrived with a dozen oysters fanned on ice, glistening and obscene. Owen slurped one with a theatrical moan. “God, I’d let that salty bastard fuck me raw.” 

Jake blinked. “You mean the oyster?” 

“No. The shucker.” Owen leaned back, gesturing to the kitchen doors. The waiter passed through, giving a clear view of the focus of Owen’s attention. “Did you see his arms? DILF central.” 

Jake sipped his wine as Owen downed another oyster. 

Things unraveled fast. Twenty minutes in, halfway through the halibut, Jake was in the middle of a story about the family estate in the Berkshires when Owen’s phone buzzed twice in rapid succession. The familiar rhythm repeated itself a few seconds later. Jake sighed. The hook was dragging through the meat. 

Without hesitation, Owen picked up his phone, scrolled, tapped, and swiped. Jake stopped talking and just watched the familiar red and orange glow of Poundr, Owen’s preferred hookup app, reflect back onto Owen’s face. 

After two minutes of Owen’s distracted silence, Jake reached across the table and took the phone from Owen’s hands. 

“Hey—” Owen started. 

Jake glanced at the screen. A profile pic of a thick-bearded man with a Santa gut stared back, hungry and shirtless. 

“Really?” Jake said, turning the screen back to Owen. “You couldn’t wait until after our anniversary dinner?” 

Owen rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I’m fucking him in the coat closet or something. I’m just looking. You know that’s my thing.” 

Jake’s voice was calm. “That’s the problem.” 

“Oh god, don’t get all wounded.” Owen crossed his arms. “You know what this is.” 

“Do I?” 

Owen smiled. “Come on, Jake. You’re gorgeous, sure, but you’re not… you know… my type. You’re more like…” He searched for the right word. “My lifestyle.” 

Jake didn’t flinch. There it was. Named. 

“I mean, you make everything so easy.” Owen waved a hand at the terrace, the champagne. “All this? I never had this before you. I just didn’t think you’d start asking for romance.” 

Jake placed his napkin on the table. “I never asked for romance.” 

Owen blinked. “No?” 

Jake stood. “I asked for respect.” 

He pulled out his wallet and threw a few crisp $100 bills on the table. 

“Enjoy the wine,” he said. “It’ll be your last on me.” 

Later, after midnight, Jake stood barefoot on the cold stone floor of the old greenhouse. Lanterns glowed low, casting vines of shadows across his bare chest. The silk robe he wore open to the navel clung damp to his skin. 

Anna, his sister, knelt inside a circle, tracing lines in the dirt. She dusted the outline with salt, ash, and a red-tinged powder from a bottle Jake didn’t recognize. 

“You sure about this?” she asked. 

Jake didn’t hesitate. “He doesn’t want me. He wants his type.” 

Anna nodded. Her fingers moved quickly, muscle memory taking over. 

“Then we give him what he wants.” 

The glyphs Anna drew in the dirt flared in sequence. One blinked red, another gold. The air thickened with the scent of honey and scorched fur. Her voice cut sharply through the night air. 

“Midas, red with hunger. Midas, prince of want. Let touch be shape. Let longing become curse.” 

She poured water onto the ground, which hissed as it muddied her symbols. 

“It’s done,” she said as steam rose up from the wet earth. 

Jake didn’t smile. He just stared into the center. 

“Let him have his daddies.” 

Miles away, Owen swiped right on a profile of a man who looked like a retired fire chief. He had no idea that very soon, he wouldn’t need the app anymore. Soon, every man he touched would come to him, and the fantasy would never stop. 

Chapter 2 

It began, as most things in Owen’s life did, at the gym. 

Orange-gray morning light pushed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Owen’s legs ached from a night of dancing and very little sleep, but he’d promised himself a “reset” after the breakup with Jake. New day, new body—the kind of performative wellness vow he made often but seldom kept. He pulled his hoodie tight, stepped onto the treadmill, and tried to ignore how empty the gym was at this hour. 

He lasted 10 minutes. 

A guy passed behind him on the way to the weights, one of those bouncy, tight-bodied muscle pups who always seemed to show up in ever shorter shorts. Their bare forearms brushed in passing. Nothing flirtatious, or even intentional, but something passed between them. 

Heat surged through Owen’s skin. He stumbled slightly. The other man paused midstep, gripping the dumbbell rack like he’d just been gut punched. His back arched, and for a moment, Owen thought he was having a seizure. 

Then the changes began. The man’s shirt strained across his chest, the fabric tightening with each breath. His biceps thickened, veins standing out like sculpted rope beneath his skin. A line of silver stubble erupted across his jaw, roughening the softness of his face. His gut rounded slightly, becoming firm and heavy, the kind of weight that only comes with middle age and beer. His neck widened, his traps rising like his shoulders grew. 

He looked at Owen and smiled. It was a hungry smile, like out of a vintage porn. 

“Damn,” he said, licking his lips. “You look good enough to ruin.” 

Owen took a step back, his breath shallow. The man shifted his stance, adjusting himself with a lazy confidence. 

“You need a spot, handsome? Uncle Ted would love to watch you squat.” 

Owen didn’t answer. He walked fast, almost running, toward the locker room, ignoring the burn in his legs and the rising panic in his chest. 

It didn’t stop. 

Later that day, a barista at the coffee shop handed Owen a latte. Their fingers touched for less than a second. 

The guy was probably college age. Pale and rail thin, he looked like the type who wore oversized sweatshirts year round and never made eye contact with anyone unless he had to. But after that brief connection, he gasped and stumbled back, gripping the counter for support. 

Owen watched transfixed as the barista’s acne faded. His jawline sharpened, then thickened. Patchy stubble filled into a magnificent mountain man beard. His clothes grew tighter around a thickening chest, sleeves straining to hold his new arms. Chest hair curled over his collarbone. His body was still swaying, like it hadn’t caught up to itself yet. 

“You ever been to The Den, boy?” the man asked, his voice now a low, voracious rumble. “Tonight’s jockstrap night. First round’s on me.” 

Owen didn’t answer. He left the latte on the counter and walked out into the cold. 

The third time, he didn’t run away. 

It was a delivery driver, tatted and wiry, probably younger than he looked. Owen opened the door barefoot, wearing a pair of joggers and nothing else. The man handed him a package, his knuckles brushing against Owen’s wrist. 

Owen knew what to look for now, and he immediately noticed the changes. The driver’s eyes widened, his breath quickened, and his knees buckled just enough to knock him off balance. Then came the widened shoulders and the torso growing thick with muscle and softened fat. Chest hair bloomed up from beneath his shirt, almost connecting with the thick beard descending from his face. The tattoos even looked different on his new, older body. Instead of skulls, roses, and shaky, misspelled calligraphy, his sleeves now sported anchors, compasses, and “MOM” in block letters encircled inside a heart. 

His voice dropped like a boulder into a lake. “Hey there, sugar,” he said, eyes sweeping over Owen’s bare, toned chest. “Need help unboxing that? Or maybe you need a bigger package delivered.” 

He grabbed himself and thrusted his hips forward. Owen leaned against the frame and opened the door wider. 

“Come on in.” 

For a little while, it was everything he’d ever wanted. Every man became a shape he adored: bearded, bulky, thick armed, and belly proud. Some wore flannel. Some wore sweat-stained tank tops. Some had the slow confidence of bar bouncers, others the teasing patience of truck stop regulars. 

They called him pet names like Sport, Pup, and Champ. They touched him as if he were breakable or edible. One whispered “sweetmeat” against his throat before bending him over the kitchen counter. He no longer needed apps or pickup lines. The transformations and hookups just… happened. 

For a time, Owen basked in it. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t want answers. But before long, he started hearing the same words over and over again. 

“Uncle’s gonna make you sing, sport.” 

“You look like you need a firm hand.” 

“I haven’t had an ass like yours since basic training.” 

The details started to blur. The gruff, gravelly voices all sounded alike. The men, though different on the outside, carried the same energy. Identical cravings, identical phrases. 

At parties, when someone bumped into him, they changed. At brunch, a waiter who brushed against him returned two minutes later with a completely different demeanor. They grinned wider and leaned closer, the scent of cedarwood and sweat heavy in the air. None of them seemed to remember who they used to be, and no one else but Owen seemed to notice the change. 

He stopped going out. He started wearing gloves. He flinched at casual touches. The erotic thrill soured into panic. There was no one left to seduce. No more chase, just echoes of his own kink trailing him everywhere like shadows. 

Then came Benjamin. Owen hadn’t seen him in years. Benjamin had always been gentle—slim, soft featured, with painted nails and a warm laugh. Owen had broken it off, citing vague incompatibilities. “Too delicate.” “Not enough edge.” 

They ran into each other at a bookstore. Benjamin smiled like nothing had ever gone wrong between them. His arms opened for a hug before Owen could think to stop it. Their bodies touched. Benjamin’s hand slid across the back of Owen’s neck. 

Benjamin gasped. His knees shook. The book slipped from his hand. 

Owen saw the shift in real time: shoulders broadening, jaw thickening, the soft roundness of his face vanishing beneath muscle and fur. The sweater stretched across a newly grown chest, veins pulsing along bulging forearms. 

Benjamin stared at his hands like they were foreign. “What was I saying?” he asked. But the voice wasn’t Ben’s anymore. It was lower, heavier. More confident. 

Owen stepped back, frozen. “Benjamin?” 

Benjamin blinked slowly, then gave a crooked smile. “Nah. That doesn’t sound right. Benji. Yup. Uncle Benji.” 

He scratched his beard, eyes traveling down Owen’s body. “You look good, pup. Wanna grab a drink?” 

Owen turned and walked out, hands trembling. 

What had once been a fantasy—a private, curated aesthetic—had become invasive. Ubiquitous. Compulsory. His desire didn’t live in his mind anymore. It infected everything he touched. 

Chapter 3 

The rain hadn’t stopped all day. It slid down Owen’s face, soaking through his layers, pressing his hoodie to his scalp. His gloves were coming apart at the seams from hours of clenching and unclenching his fists. Underneath the coat, the jacket, and the hoodie, he was shaking. He hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. He hadn’t eaten. Nothing tasted like food anymore. Everything reeked of what his world had become: cologne, motor oil, sweat, leather, musk. 

A kingdom of uncles. And Owen, its architect and its prisoner, stood outside Jake’s loft like a man returned from war. 

The buzzer clicked. The door opened. Jake stood in the threshold, dressed in a black linen suit, clean shaven and barefoot. He looked calm and rested. Even his skin seemed refreshed. Tan, smooth, and sunlit, he looked like he’d spent the last month meditating on a mountainside. He didn’t look surprised to see Owen. 

“Come on in,” Jake said. 

Owen stepped inside, dripping water onto the polished floors. Jake shut the door behind them slowly. He didn’t ask what Owen wanted; he just waited for the moment to reveal itself. 

Owen stood in the center of the living room, arms folded across his chest as if he could hold himself together with pressure alone. 

“You’re a mess,” Jake said. It wasn’t cruel, just an observation. 

Owen’s mouth opened, then closed. His voice cracked as it emerged. “Fix it.” 

Jake tilted his head slightly. “Why should I?” 

“Because I get it now,” Owen whispered. “I know what I did to you.” 

Jake said nothing. 

“I used you,” Owen continued. “I used everyone. I didn’t want a partner, or even a person. I wanted to be wanted. I just wanted to feel impossible to walk away from.” 

Jake’s gaze remained level as Owen closed the distance between them. His words tumbled out now, fast and desperate. “I can’t touch anyone anymore. Not without changing them. I can’t fuck. I can’t flirt. I don’t even find them hot anymore. They’re all the same. Sweaty. Lewd. Obnoxious.” 

“But they’re your type,” Jake said coolly. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“I thought it was,” Owen replied. “But it’s like eating wax fruit. No matter how much you eat, you’ll still starve to death.” 

Jake’s eyes widened at Owen’s uncharacteristic self awareness. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. 

“Please,” Owen begged. “Undo it.” 

Jake exhaled. It sounded more like exhaustion than anger. “You made this bed. Now lie in it. With every uncle you ever dreamed of.” 

Owen snapped. He stepped forward and reached out, gloves shed, hands bare and trembling, and grabbed Jake’s wrist. 

Jake didn’t flinch. Nothing happened. No sudden bloom of stubble. No expanding gut. No voice dropping into a thirsty, baritone growl. 

Instead, Owen gasped. His stomach lurched as if gravity had changed directions. A flash of heat exploded beneath his skin. His spine arched violently, vertebrae popping. He staggered back, clutching his ribs. 

It was him changing. His body. 

His thighs ballooned, muscle and fat folding over one another like molten wax hardening too fast. His chest surged outward, pecs softening into heavy slabs, nipples thickening and hypersensitive. Hair erupted across his torso, swirling in dark patches down his belly. His arms grew into enormous ham hocks with sausage fingers and wrists like tree trunks. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

His jaw ached as bristles burst through the skin, a salt-and-pepper beard spilling across his face. His cheekbones thickened. His brow pulled downward. His eyes sank into deeper sockets. 

His voice, when it finally came, was no longer his. 

“Uhnn… Wha—what’s happening…?” 

Buttons popped off his shirt. His belt snapped. His boots tore open at the seams, feet expanding into wide, callused slabs. He smelled himself: pipe smoke, bourbon, engine grease. Leather. Sweat. Something musky and old. 

He reached up with a hand that didn’t feel like his, touched a face that didn’t feel familiar. 

Jake watched, silent. When the transformation stopped, Owen was breathing heavily, doubled over. He looked up and caught sight of the hallway mirror and froze. 

The man staring back at him wasn’t a stranger. He was worse. He was every man Owen had ever wanted, merged, compressed, and stylized into one. A dom. A daddy. A beast. He looked like someone who lived alone in a log cabin, smoked cigars on porches, gave long hugs, and said “Attaboy” in bed. 

He looked perfect. Perfectly trapped. 

Jake stepped forward, his voice calm. “The curse was never about them, Owen.” 

Owen’s breath hitched. “Whadaya mean…?” 

“You weren’t just reshaping others. That was just a prelude.” Jake’s expression softened, almost sad. “The curse was about you. It was always going to end this way. You weren’t building your fantasy. You were becoming it.” 

Owen turned back to the mirror, staring at the bear staring back. Thick arms. Damp beard. Heavy. Forgettable. “What… what am I now?” 

Jake opened the door behind him. “Just another uncle.” 

Owen looked at him, eyes wide and sad. “I don’t want this.” 

Jake didn’t look away. “I don’t care what you want.” 

Then he stepped aside and let him go. 

The street was quiet except for the sound of rain, and Owen walked without knowing where he was going. His clothes barely fit. Every step felt unfamiliar, weighted, and sluggish. Heads turned as he passed, but not in the way they used to. Not with curiosity, or even with hunger. Everyone simply looked past him. 

He walked through neighborhoods he had once owned. Bars that once glowed with recognition didn’t blink when he entered. Nobody changed anymore. Nobody transformed, because there was no need. The world was full of men like him now. The spell had run its course, and Owen, who had once commanded every gaze, was invisible. 

Epilogue 

The years didn’t pass so much as blur. 

Uncle Owen never left the city. He told himself he would; he needed somewhere slower, cheaper, with more trees and fewer mirrors. But he stayed anyway. He haunted the old bars and the new ones that inevitably replaced them, walking through neighborhoods that once held his name like a password. The faces grew younger every year. The slang changed, the fashion grew sharper and more ironic, with less exposed skin and more structure. Everyone walked like they were being watched. Or wanted to be. 

No one noticed Uncle Owen. 

He was still broad shouldered and reasonably well kept. He trimmed his salt-and-pepper beard, took care of his skin, and bought new clothes when his flannels wore thin. But he couldn’t hide the extra weight, neither around his middle nor behind his eyes. The weight of memory, of having once been extraordinary, was his constant companion. 

There were rumors, whispers passed between older bears over pints at the Ram’s Horn or the Boiler Room. They told stories about the Uncle Maker who could turn a twink into a full-grown Daddy with just a touch. No one ever quite remembered where they’d heard it, or even if it was true, but they repeated it anyway. They said he disappeared. Moved to Berlin. Died. Ascended into gay heaven. 

But Uncle Owen hadn’t gone anywhere. He was there every night. Sitting. Watching. Waiting. 

The Ram’s Horn had gone to seed. The paint peeled, the leather cracked, and the scent of sweat and cleaning solution had baked into the walls. It was no longer ironic to drink there; it was just what you did when you were too old for irony. Uncle Owen took his usual perch near the back wall where he could see the dance floor without having to stand up. He nursed cheap whiskey and traced rings into the condensation with his thumb. His shirts never fit the way they used to, but he still kept them unbuttoned down to the nipples. Habit. 

The bar was always full of men just like him. Bearded and heavy, confident in the way thick men are told they should be. Loud and handsy, but harmless. They laughed too hard, danced too stiffly, gave each other bruising bear hugs, and talked about smoking cigars they never actually smoked. Uncle Owen couldn’t tell them apart anymore. They looked like reflections of each other. Of himself. 

He still searched for contrast. That had never changed. Even now, when he’d long since given up on dating apps or hookups or anything that required performance, he scanned the room for difference. For softness. For someone smaller and cleaner, untouched by the aesthetic that had consumed him. Someone delicate enough to cradle, not conquer. 

One night, he thought he saw one. 

The young man danced in a cage at the Boiler Room. He was shirtless, his smooth torso glowing under the black lights, with a shock of blue hair and a matching neon jockstrap. He moved like he didn’t care who was watching, even though all eyes were on him. 

Uncle Owen bought him a drink. “You’re a rare sight in here,” he said, offering it gently. 

The dancer took the glass but didn’t drink it. He gave Uncle Owen a once over. 

“You guys all think you’re rare,” he said. “Like I haven’t been hit on by five of you tonight already.” His voice was sweet and sharp at the same time, like citrus on a cut. 

“What are you gonna do?” he continued, leaning close. “Call me pup? Tell me you give good hugs? Ask if I’ve ever been with a real man?” 

Uncle Owen swallowed but said nothing. 

“You’re all the same.” 

He walked away, disappearing into the lights and bodies, and leaving the drink behind. 

He kept trying, though the intervals grew longer. A conversation here, a glance there. He’d strike up something soft and casual, but it would crumble before it got off the ground. Some of them were polite, but most weren’t. He could predict their replies before they opened their mouths. 

Once, a college kid said, “You look like my friend’s stepdad.” 

Another night, a twink barely old enough to be drinking told him, “I love when the old ones try. It’s kind of cute.” 

Owen laughed and said something clumsily charming in response. He pretended it didn’t sting, but the truth sat like a stone in his gut: there was no magic now. No transformation. No shift. 

Not in them or in him. He had become the fantasy, fully and irreversibly. As it turned out, the fantasy was only powerful when it was a contrast, not a mirror. When it wasn’t what everyone already expected. 

Now he was just another version of the mold. A stock character. The object of someone else’s rejection. 

On the good nights, Uncle Owen found peace in routine. The whiskey was warm, the music was tolerable, and the company of his fellow uncles was predictable. He chatted with other bears about boots, tattoos, and vintage erotica. They thought he was sweet. They didn’t know who he had been. Or what he had done. On the bad nights, he drank too fast, left too early, and walked home in silence, replaying old voices in his head—ones that moaned for him, whispered to him, touched him like he mattered. He missed those voices. Even if they’d been illusions. Even if he’d stolen them. 

And this, he realized one night while lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, was the real curse. Not the beard or the belly or the thick, graying body that groaned when he stood. Not even the fact that his touch no longer held power. 

The curse was memory. The unbearable knowledge that once, he had felt special. Desired. Singular. And now, no matter where he went, he was just another body in the crowd. 

Still searching. Always watching. 

Never touched.