HIPSTERED

Sitting in the coffee shop, I see this Hipster ordering coffee at the counter. He's not overly handsome, but has a great look to him, and I suddenly wish I was young again. He's wearing a thick green bow tie, a vintage vest and has a killer tweed hat on, the end of his thick mustache curled perfectly on the ends above just the right amount of beard and scruff. Like I said, not overly attractive, but he has THE LOOK. He is the definition of young Hipster.

He nods at the girl at the counter and I notice his great smile and how the girl at is totally into him as he pulls his pocket watch from the front vest pocket to glance at the time. He’s put together from head to toe and I find myself wondering what it would be like to BE that guy. What would it be like to have that confidence? To know who you are completely? What it would be like to bend that barista over the counter and bang the shit out of her? I can almost feel it. I COULD totally live that life . . . I wish.

My head begins to hurt and I go dizzy. The world begins to blur away for a split second, and I blink through it, everything feeling strange and then . . . suddenly, it all comes back into focus, but I’m not sitting behind my computer anymore watching the counter. I’m standing at the counter. I’m looking into the eyes of that young barista as she smiles up at me, like she wants me.

“I’ll call you up when it’s ready.” She writes something on the ticket and hands it to me. After a second of zoning out, I take the ticket from her and notice that it’s not my hands and she’s written her phone number on the back of the ticket.

I manage to say “Thanks” before walking away. My voice is deeper, confident. I walk away, glance down at my body. I see the vest, the pocket watch, the tips of the bowtie. I feel the hair on my face and hear my polished wingtips clicking against the floor as I make my way to the men’s room.

That’s when I see my reflection. It’s not me anymore. It’s the hipster. I’m in his body . . . and it feels incredible. I reach up and touch my thick moustache. I straighter my bow tie and feel my thick dick getting hard. I can’t help but unzip my pants and take a look. It’s a nice cock, barely man-scaped and uncircumcised. Interesting how different it feels.

I zip back up, resisting the urge to jerk one out before looking into my wallet, at his/my license. My name’s Peter Ratcliff. I’m evidently a writer. Cool. Putting my wallet away I give Peter one last look in the mirror. I remove my hat, take in my full reflection one last time before coiffing my moustache. I’m a damn handsome hipster.

It’s only a couple of minutes later that I come back into the bathroom, but this time I’m not alone. I’ve got that barista with me. She’s kissing me hard and my cock is almost exploding from my pants as she runs her hands through my hair and I unzip. She’s bent over the counter in seconds and I feel my massive cock dive into her. I look at myself in the mirror as I plow her from behind. She loves it, barely noticing that I can’t take my eyes off my new reflection. My cock is huge and I feel it pushing in and out of her as she begs for more. HOLY FUCK. This is my life now. I’m Peter Fucking Ratcliff and I am a huge-cocked hipster who loves his coffee.