7:00 AM and my eyes flutter open as I’m pulled from my sleep by the insistent blaring of my alarm clock.  I lash out with my hand to hit the snooze button, and I’m rewarded with the sound of my fist flattening the alarm clock like a wad of tinfoil and smashing through the nightstand as though it were made of balsa wood.  With a rueful moan I rub the sleep from my eyes and look to the floor where the crumpled alarm clock lies amidst the splintered remains of my bedside table.  The device offers a last plaintive wail before going silent, the red digital numbers on its face fading to black.

Sadly, this isn’t the first time it’s happened.  Lately I’ve been going through alarm clocks like most people go through underwear.

With a heavy sigh, I pull the blankets off of me.  I have to use two to keep myself covered—one for my lower body and one for my upper.  Then with a grunt, I propel my hulking body into motion, throwing my legs over the side of my beds.  Yes, that’s right—beds, as in plural.  I sleep on four twin-sized mattresses to be precise, arranged to basically create one giant bed that’s double the normal width and length.  There’s a moment of disorientation as the soles of my feet connect with the floor sooner than anticipated, but in a second, I remember the reason why—a mattress that’s two feet off the ground for a normal person seems only to be one foot high for me.

The mattress springs groan in relief as I lift my heft from them and pull myself to my feet.  With my strength, it’s easy to forget how much I weigh—my powerful legs barely register the gravity of the inordinate mass packed onto my frame.  Weeks after attaining my current size, it’s still difficult to fathom that there’s over half a ton of muscle rippling beneath my skin.

There’s a lurch of perspective as I draw myself up to my full height, the tips of my sleep-mussed hair brushing the lofty living room ceiling.  Dad measured the room’s height last year to check how big a Christmas tree we could get; as I recall, he said the ceiling was just a few inches shy of teen feet high.

The curtains have been closed to guard against those blood-sucking paparazzi, so the room is still in darkness.  Blindly I reach down and begin to gently draw my fingers along the stretch of wall level with my mid-thigh, groping for the light switch.  I have to remember to keep my strength in check—I can tear through the plaster like tissue paper if I apply even a little pressure.  After a few seconds of searching, my fingertips brush against the switch, and I flick it on.

The chamber illuminated, I pad to the opposite end of the room—I can cover the distance in all of three strides.  I tread as lightly as I can on the expensive wood flooring, but still my footfalls send shockwaves through the room, causing the furniture to shake and the wall hangings to rattle about on their hooks.  If someone didn’t know any better, they might think an elephant was marching around in here.

The living room has become my unofficial new bedroom.  It’s a lot more spacious than my old room, and it’s on the first floor, so I don’t have to risk going up and down the stairs.  A high, sturdy table stands against the north wall of the room with a large mirror affixed just above it.  Atop the table, I’ve arranged my makeshift washroom—a jug of water and a basin, some towels, soap, and various other toiletries.  My parents don’t want me attempting to squeeze into the bathroom anymore, you see.  I made something of a mess the last time I tried…

I pour some water in the basin and splash my face; it’s cold and helps to wake me up.  Toweling off the excess water, I lean forward to get a good look at myself in the mirror—the top only reaches my chest, so I really have to bend down to see my face’s reflection.

I guess I’m what you might call a “pretty boy,” though I personally prefer the term “bishounen”—sounds a lot less sissy that way.  My features are smooth and delicate and possess a certain effeminate aesthetic.  Kind of like the lead singers for those cookie cutter boy bands, you know?  Then there’s my hair, which I wear in a pseudo-emo style.  I don’t dye it black or anything, but I keep my bangs long and brushed to the side, usually covering my left eye.  I think a lot of girls dig the look, but in my experience, there are drawbacks to being a guy with a pretty face and emo hair.  The local bullies have addressed me by some pretty colorful expletives over the years, and they even roughed me up on a couple occasions.

Of course, they haven’t given me any trouble since I’ve had my little change.

Well, big change.

I’m still not sure what happened to me.  Some dormant genetic mutation that suddenly became active, perhaps.  Maybe an exposure to radiation of some kind.  Hell, it might have even been aliens.  All I know is that thirty-seven days ago, I went to sleep a normal fifteen year-old and woke up a god.

I take a step back, sending another booming vibration through the room.  My eyes are fixed on my reflection in the mirror, my gaze slowly drifting downward from my face.

My head rests atop the corded pillar of muscle that is my neck.  It’s so thick that my head almost seems a size too small by comparison.  From the base of this mighty column, my traps flare out dramatically, flanking my neck on either side like a pair of flesh-covered footballs.  These in turn give way to my shoulders, two basketball-sized spheres of brawn so broad that they seem almost detached from my body’s frame.

Next comes my chest; never in your entire life have you seen a set of pecs like mine, let me tell you.  Two full, gigantic squares of beef rounded off at the corners, my pecs are so thick and protrude so far that they stick out from the rest of my body like a shelf, forming a shadow beneath them and causing my nipples to point downward.  Hell, they stick out so much that if I look down, I can’t even see past them.  And they’re not just massive; they’re ripped—definition like you wouldn’t believe.  A deep divide separates my pectoral hemispheres, like a ravine cutting between two mountains—you could probably stick a rock in there as big as your fist, and I could crush it into gravel with a simple flex of my massive meaty mounds.

Of course, we can’t neglect the abs—cut like a diamond.  My abs go far beyond the classic “six pack” you hear people talking about so much.  The two parallel muscles running vertically down my abdomen are so defined, the grooves separating them so deep and clearly cut, that it looks as though my stomach has been chiseled out marble by the hand of some master sculptor.  They’re all bunched together and so beautifully rounded that it’s almost like there’s half a dozen eggs embedded beneath my skin.

Supporting my immense torso are my legs, and what a sight they are to behold.  My thighs must be as big around as the trunks of mighty oak trees.  And my quads are so beautifully detailed that each of the bulging muscles can be seen clear as crystal.  I’m particularly proud of teardrop-shaped muscles on the inside of my thighs, just above the knees—they’re so full and developed they look near to bursting!

And lest I forget, there are my arms to consider.  Slowly, I lift my right arm and bend it at the elbow.  As I tense my arm, a monstrous mountain of muscle grows, a vein thicker than your thumb running along its peak.  It’s absolutely breathtaking.  Just staring at my ballooning bicep, I begin to feel week at the knees.

At only fifteen years of age, I possess a body superior to any adult on the planet.  Not even the greatest of bodybuilders can compete with my physique.  There are probably hundreds, thousands of men who would kill for just a taste of what I have.  I am the ultimate fusion of size and definition.  Perfect symmetry and form.  I am pumped.  Shredded.  Built beyond imagining.

Allowing my arm to relax, I draw my attention away from the individual components of my frame and take in my reflection as a whole.  I wish you could see it—the head of a teenager coupled with the most magnificent body the world has ever known.  You would think that two such contrasting aspects should never belong together, but there is something undeniably beautiful about their marriage.  Like yin and yang, they come together to create a strange and spectacular whole.

Regrettably, reality pulls me back from my reverie.  I need to get a move-on, or I’m going to be late.

I pour out more water and work the soap up into a lather.  The tiny bar is difficult to hold in my immense hands and almost slips through my fingers several times.  I run the soap over my vast body, lovingly cleansing every inch of my brawn, making sure to wash between the crevices of each rippling muscle.  Given my considerable size, it takes a while to clean myself this way, but I’m afraid I don’t have any alternative.  I haven’t been able to fit into the shower since my transformation.

After rinsing myself off and toweling dry, it’s time to get dressed.

Now we arrive at one of the more unfortunate drawbacks of my change—clothing.  The sad reality is that not many outfitters cater to 9’7” Herculean teenagers.  So I’ve had to make do with what I can get my hands on.  Today’s selection—a jumbo pair of yellow sweatpants and a gray T-shirt that reads “XXXL” across the chest.  Both are woefully undersized for me.

I struggle into my outfit as gingerly as possible.  One false flex, and I could rip through the fabric like gauze.  Somehow I manage to squeeze myself into the shirt and pants, and believe me when I say that calling them a snug fit is a flagrant understatement.

I go check my appearance in the mirror, and I frown.  I look ridiculous.  I fill out the clothes so much that they’re skin-tight on me, hugging every contour and bulge of my body.  The shirt stretches so much across my massive pecs that the lettering on the front is warped almost beyond legibility.  The shirt’s bottom doesn’t even reach my second set of abs, leaving my mid-riff exposed.  Even worse are the pants—the cuffs of the legs only come down to a little way below my knees.  The fabric is ripped in a couple places along the seam, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the knotted muscles of my thighs.

And then there’s the issue of my…crotch area.

You may have noticed that I’ve yet to mention a very specific part of my anatomy.  Well, to satisfy your curiosity, I might as well come out with it.  When I went through my change, it wasn’t just my height and musculature that were enhanced, you see.

Um…how best to put this?

You know how some men claim to be hung like horses?

Well I guess you could say that I’m hung like an elephant.

And it’s nowhere near as awesome as you’re probably thinking.  It’s more embarrassing than you can ever imagine.  When your member gets to be as large as mine is, there’s no way you can hide it, especially when the clothing you wear is so tight that it’s practically painted on.  Not to mention that my thighs are so big that they push my package forward so that it’s even more noticeable.

My oversized manbits are filling the crotch of the pants up so much that it’s pulling the waistband obscenely low.  I try rearranging my meat and potatoes as best I can to make them appear a little less discreet.  Sadly, my efforts are in vain.  The fabric of the sweat pants leaves virtually nothing to the imagination.

And it’s not just something I’m making up out of paranoia.  Other people have noticed.  Don’t believe me?  Go check out Jamiebulge.com.  It’s a website someone started a few weeks ago featuring nothing but pictures people have taken of me that highlight my overstuffed crotch.  I asked dad about suing to get the site taken down, and he said he’s talked to our lawyer and that it’ll take a long time to get something done about it, if anything can be done about it.

I pull once or twice more at my groin to make myself more presentable, but it doesn’t seem to do much.  With a sigh, I give up trying and set about finishing my preparations.  I fix my hair in my preferred emo style, and then I brush my teeth.  Of course I manage to snap the toothbrush like a toothpick—tenth one I’ve been through in a month.  As a final touch, I grab my studded belt.  It’s always been kind of a good luck charm for me, and I’ve taken it everywhere I’ve gone for the past two years.  Of course, it can’t fit around my waist anymore, so I wear it cinched around my upper arm, like one of those arm cuffs you always see in Egyptian art.  I think it looks pretty cool—makes me look kind of tough.  Not that my giant stature and muscles didn’t do that already.

I grab my backpack—I can’t wear it on my back, so I just carry it around in one hand—and go booming out into the hallway.  I put on my flip-flops at the front door.  Dad found them at a novelty store—they’re supposed to be comically over-sized, but they only just fit me, barely.  Still, they’re the only shoes I have.  Better than going barefoot, I guess.

Before going outside, I take a look out the window.  There look to be about a dozen vans and cars parked outside.  Finally, the numbers are starting to thin out.  You should have seen what it was like when news about my altered state first got out—there were literally hundreds of vehicles outside, most of them belonging to news crews.  Believe it or not, when everything began, there were a few days when I was on the front page of every paper in the world.  I didn’t care for the attention that much, and I pretty much stayed inside the house ‘til the commotion died down a bit.

There are still some news crews every day, but lately I’ve been attracting a different group of people—people looking to make money off me.

Agents from virtually every professional sports team in the country have been by or called, wanting to sign me on.  I guess I can see how having a ten foot guy built like an Olympian playing for you can come in handy.  And they’re all willing to pay to get me to join up with them.  I’m talking big bucks.  Still, I’m not that interested—I’ve never really been much of a sports fan.

Then there are the scientists.  All the big universities and medical centers want to do studies on me in order to learn more about my condition, no doubt selling their findings to the highest-bidding publisher.  Admittedly, I would like to know more about what’s happened to me, but I don’t feel like being treated like some guinea pig.

Then there are the talk shows, the magazines, the modeling companies, so on, and so forth.  Some corporation wants me to be the spokesperson for their muscle-building supplement.  There was even a man who—honest to God—wanted me to star in a porno.  Dad called the police on that guy.

Screwing up my courage, I ready myself to head out into the fray.  Grasping the doorknob gingerly between my thumb and forefinger, I call up the stairs: “I’m headin’ out, mom!”

“All right, dear,” comes the reply.  “Be safe, and remember not to sign anything!”

Gently, I push the front door open.  The sound alerts the people milling around on the front lawn, and immediately they rush toward me.  I try to make it out as quickly as I can, but doorways are one of the banes of my new existence.  In order to fit through normal-sized ones, I have to crouch down and ease myself out sideways.  My pecs are so huge and thick that they get stuck against the doorjamb.  I have to take things slowly, or I’ll rip the whole doorway clean off the front of the house…again.

By the time I free myself and get to my feet, I’m already surrounded.  They gather around me, like a flock of vultures, clamoring for my attention.  There’s about two dozen of them, I guess.  It’s funny to think that they’re all full-grown adults; on average, they’re only about eye-level with my navel.  It’s like a bunch of little children are jumping up and down all around me.  I try to suppress my smile and push my way through the crowd.  They follow after me, having to half-run to keep up with my long stride.

“Jamie!  Jamie!” they all seemed to cry out in unison.  “Over here!  Jamie!”

“What’s your reaction to the eight-figure signing bonus the Patriots are offering you?” one woman asks, holding a microphone up toward my face, but bringing it nowhere even close.

“I’m Dr. Zimmerman of the Columbus Research Institute,” says a bearded man, sprinting at my side to match my pace.  “Young sir, it is imperative that we be permitted to—”

He’s cut off by a man in a suit who yells out excitedly, “Jamie, buddy!  How’s it going?  Listen, have you had the chance to look over those papers we were talking about yesterday, because we cannot wait to have you with us!”

I start to walk faster in order to outdistance the crowd.  The increase in speed is causing my rather prodigious package to begin to bounce about, so I hold my backpack over my crotch in an effort to retain some of my modesty.  Still, I soon manage to outstrip my pursuers.

“Jamie, buddy!” cries the man in a suit, sounding out of breath.  “At least think about it, will ya!?”

As I race on ahead, leaving the group far behind, I actually do begin to think about it.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to sign a contract or two, as long as I have dad and our lawyer look over them first.  I could certainly use the money, to pay back my parents for all the damage I’ve caused to the house, and to offset the cost of my various living expenses; the price of keeping me fed alone is putting the hurt on dad’s wallet—that’s why I started eating breakfast at school, and right now I could sure go for a couple pounds of scrambled eggs and a loaf or two of French toast.  At the very least, I could use the money to get myself some specially-made clothes that actually fit, and most importantly—a jumbo-sized jockstrap offering full support.