Chuck's DSL

Chuck’s alarm buzzed at 7:00 AM, just like always. He slapped it off without opening his eyes, rolled onto his back, and scratched himself. The hum of the city filtered in through the cracked window—honking cars, distant shouting, some kid’s music bleeding from a second-story window. Normal morning.

But his lips felt weird.

They tingled. Heavy, maybe? Puffy?

He smacked them once. Then again, harder.

"What the hell…" His voice came out muffled. Off.

Eyes still squinted, he rolled to the edge of the bed, scratched again, and padded across the hardwood to the bathroom. Hungover from nothing, he rubbed his face and clicked on the light.

And froze.

There, in the mirror, was a man he sort of recognized. Broad shoulders, patchy stubble, the same faded "Metallica World Tour" tee. But his mouth—

His mouth was a porn star's dream. Glossy, obscene, luscious lips—thick and full and ripe. They shimmered like they’d been kissed already.

Chuck stumbled backward, nearly tripping on the corner of the bathmat. He clutched the sink, leaned in again. His heart thumped once. Then slowed. Something about the mirror calmed him. Like it was whispering, It’s fine. You’re fine. This is normal.

“No. No, no, no. This is not normal.”

He pressed his sausage-fingers into the plush of his new lips. They didn’t feel fake. No prosthetics. Just skin—warm, soft, alive.

He’d seen lips like this before. On women. Hot ones. The kind he used to call "cum dumpsters" when he was out with the boys. He’d pointed them out from bar stools, smirking. “Bet she’s got DSL,” he’d said more than once, laughing into his pint.

Now he had DSL.

Chuck backed away, shaking his head. “Nope. Nope. I didn’t sign up for this.”

He stormed back to the bedroom, checking his phone. Nothing in the news. But his notifications were full—selfies, memes, half the planet texting photos of themselves with luscious lips. Girls giggling. Guys trying not to cry. One dude had used a lipstick filter on Snapchat before realizing it wasn’t a filter.

Chuck’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t gonna be one of those people. No way in hell. He was a man.

He went to his closet. Jeans, flannel, boots. Pulled them on, trying not to look at the tiny box now sitting on his nightstand.

It hadn’t been there last night. He was sure of it.

Matte black. Sleek. Elegant.

He picked it up like it might explode.

Inside were three tubes: cherry red, dusty rose, and a deep, sultry plum. Beneath them, a tiny slip of card:

Pick what suits you best. The world is watching.

“F*** you,” he muttered, tossing it aside.

But he couldn’t leave.

He couldn’t look like this—not raw, not exposed. The lips were too shiny, too ****. And somehow… unfinished.

The mirror pulled him again. He tried to resist, but his feet moved. He leaned in. They were already shaped perfectly. High Cupid’s bow. The lower lip pouted just right. He looked like a goddamn sex doll.

He imagined stepping outside. Men with lips like his. Women touching them in conversation. News anchors painted up. Cops. Teachers. Guys at construction sites. All of them wearing lipstick like it was no big deal.

It was a big deal.

But no one was panicking.

He exhaled slowly. His hand reached for the cherry red before he told it to. The cap clicked off. The scent—vanilla, sweet, rich—filled his nose.

“No,” he whispered.

But he was already leaning in.

With practiced precision—instinct—he drew the color along his bottom lip. Then the top. One pass. Two. Smack. Press. Blot.

His lips looked… perfect.

Chuck stared at his reflection. The man looking back was still him. But hotter. Confusingly so.

He swallowed.

"Shit."

And somewhere deep in his gut—past the resistance, past the bravado—something fluttered.

Excitement.