Chav - One of the Locals

As soon as Charlie walked into the pub, he could feel the eyes of the locals watching him. Dour faced men turned around from the sports blaring out of the television, acknowledging his entrance with little more than an eyebrow raise. Charlie smiled weakly, somewhat relieved as the men turned back to their drinks and quiet conversations. He headed to the bar, taking a seat on the old stool that creaked as he sat on it

He had been visiting the UK for a week now and didn’t feel like he had truly experienced it. Even though it was far smaller than his homeland in the US, he felt as though he had seen most of it, except for the people. He had gone quickly from one destination to another – the London Eye, the Tower, Windsor Castle, but he found that he was surrounded by people just like himself – tourists. It wasn’t the real experience of the country, and on his last day in the country he promised himself he would try and experience something genuine. The bar (or ‘pub’ as he kept reminding himself to call it) was going to be his last chance to experience it - something that the other tourists wouldn’t be able to get. A woman was behind the bar and Charlie clicked his fingers at her. Her expression immediately changed from one of calm indifference to frustration as she walked over.

“Why are you clicking at me?” she asked, annoyed. Charlie had to strain his ears for a moment to understand her accent – a far cry from the received British pronunciation he had been used to occasionally hearing in the US. She was sturdily built, probably approaching forty, and dressed practically for the pub – a simple t-shirt and jeans.

“Sorry, I wanted a drink”, he said, his own accent now sounding a thousand times stronger in his ears, themselves now swiftly turning red in embarrassment.

“We don’t do that here”, the woman said, curtly.

“Sorry”, Charlie apologised. “I’m just visiting, I’m still getting used to all your different customs”.

“That’s fine”, she said, her voice softening. “You’re from the US, right?” she asked, Charlie nodding in agreement. “We get Americans here a lot”, she said, tapping her hands on the wooden bar top. Her voice was momentarily drowned out by a chorus of cheers from the men in the corner, bursting into celebration at something on the TV.

“What are they watching?” Charlie asked, turning around.

“Rugby”, the woman said, looking over herself.

“I’ve heard of that! It’s a bit like football, right? I mean, American Football.”

“Similar, I guess. Though there’s a lot less breaks, and different rules. No padding, either.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yeah”, the woman said with a small smile. “So, what can I get you to drink?”

Charlie looked across the labels attached to the bar pumps. The drinks were all a mystery to him. There were ales named in curious, almost whimsically old-fashioned ways, and several European sounding imported lagers that seemed impossible to pronounce correctly. “I’m afraid we don’t serve many US beers here”, the woman said, noticing his confusion.

“Have you got anything a regular would drink?” Charlie said, pointing over to the dark drinks that were half drunk on the table full of the enthusiastic sports fans. “Something that will make me fit right in.”

“Something that will make you feel like a local?” the woman said, a small smile creeping to her lips. “I know just the right drink. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll go get it from the back and bring it over”, she said, gesturing towards one of the corner seats in the pub. Charlie smiled thankfully, heading to his place.

The seat was comfier than Charlie expected. He found himself sinking deep into the well-worn groove. He ran one finger along the faded fabric, briefly wondering how old the furniture was. The date outside the pub meant it was older than his entire country – a fact that still baffled him. He at least hoped that the furniture had been updated since then. Soon, the woman returned with a dark drink in a pint glass. She set it down on one of the cork coasters on the stained table in front of Charlie.

“What is it?” he asked, looking at the swirling liquid.

“If I you that, you probably wouldn’t drink it”, she said with a laugh. “But I guarantee it’ll make you feel like you belong here”, she said, sliding the drink closer to him.

“How much is it?”

“Four pounds”, the woman said. Charlie quickly pulled out his wallet, trying to count out the oddly shaped and sized coins onto the table. Each felt unfamiliar in his hands, though the many slang phrases he had overheard the locals using for them feeling even stranger.

“Is that enough?” Charlie said, counting out four coins, the dull metal no longer gleaming.

“It’ll do”, the woman said with a smirk, sliding the coins into her hand. “Let me know if you need anything else, and enjoy your drink!” she said, heading back behind the bar.

Charlie stared at the dark liquid in the glass. It smelled faintly hoppy, but it looked different from any ale or stout he had drunk before. Slow, large bubbles worked their way up to the surface, bursting lazily in the foam. Tentatively, he took a sip. Keenly aware that the woman behind the bar was watching him, he stifled his disgust. The drink was far more bitter than he had expected, the taste feeling as though it was clinging to his throat. He swallowed and prepared for another taste. Perhaps it would be better the second time round?

The American was surprised to find that he was right. The drink had tasted foul at first, but Charlie realised that was likely due more to his surprise than anything else. He looked once again over to the sports fans table, his own drink looking slightly different than theirs. He couldn’t understand a single word they were saying to each other, their thick accents practically impenetrable to Charlie. Leaning back in the chair, he slowly tried to relax.

For the first time since he had arrived in the pub, he felt refreshingly unnoticed. The whole space felt more relaxed than a bar, and far more casual. Here, he was just another man sat down and enjoying a quiet drink before his flight home, and no one could tell he was a foreigner unless he opened his mouth to speak. Earlier, he had been straining his ears to understand what the woman behind the bar had been saying to him, but now her voice was just one of many others, slowly blending into a cosy, homely soundscape of clinking glasses, quiet conversations, and the laughter of friends. Charlie was beginning to understand why the pub had been around for so long. Back home, a bar would open and close within the same year. Here, he realised, the old building was the centrepiece of the community.

As Charlie took another drink, his body began to change. The man was too focused on the atmosphere of the pub to notice. One by one, his body hair was falling out. He stretched his legs beneath the table and a small pile of hair tumbled out, mixing with the grotty floor of the pub. Beneath his jeans, his legs were smooth and hairless. Charlie felt a slight itch around his groin as more hair was painlessly plucked across his genitalia. He felt embarrassed for scratching at it and adjusting in his seat, then realised that no one was really watching him. Everyone on his side of the pub was either staring at their drinks, chatting with their friends, or watching the television, engrossed in the game. He began to loosen up. Beneath his underwear, Charlie’s groin was now free from hair, save for a small bushy patch just where his shaft connected with the rest of his stomach. Charlie felt a slight chill in the air, unthinkingly rubbing at his arms to warm himself beneath his thin jacket. His hair shrivelled away, soon followed by the coarse hair across his chest. The stubble on Charlie’s face that had emerged since shaving that morning receded, leaving his jawline smooth.

Charlie continued drinking, the dark beverage now more enjoyable with every sip. Splotches of darker skin began to form across his flesh, soon connecting up and transforming from a patchwork into one continuous shade. This was no shift in the melanin of his skin, but instead a thick layer of cheap fake tan. Charlie caught sight of his fingers, surprised at their suddenly darker hue. He chuckled softly to himself. It looked as though despite the notoriously gray British weather, he thought, he had somehow managed to build a slight tan.

Charlie yawned loudly, stretching out his body. He had thought that he had adjusted to the jet lag by now, but it still seemed that his body was unsure of what time of day it was. As he yawned, Charlie’s bones adjusted with painless crackles, the sound being lost amongst the other noise surrounding him. Charlie could hear them, but assumed it was nothing more than the fizz of the drink popping inside his mouth. In a second, his legs elongated, his feet now sticking strangely out of the bottom hem of his jeans. His feet shrunk down, his shoes now hanging loose. He was soon swamped by his shirt and jacket as his torso compressed down. Charlie pulled at his clothing, trying to work out the cause of the sudden size change. Just when he began to feel himself getting confused, his changing mind was able to provide an answer – the British food he had been eating for the past week was completely different to what he was used to. If he had managed to lose some weight eating it, then that was simply a bonus from his vacation. His body was now lithe and skinny, his whole form shrunken down into a smaller, more petite shape.

The game of rugby was becoming easier and easier for Charlie to watch. The short comments between the other men watching it were gradually becoming more intelligible, and he found himself agreeing with the outbursts they were making. What once had been an incomprehensible clash of bodies on a field was now slowly forming into something resembling a game. When the referee wrongfully called a foul, he yelled at the screen in anger, drawing approving laughs from the locals who did the same. His accent was losing some of its edge, slowly slipping away.

By now, Charlie realised he had drunk almost half of the pint. Now taking a sip had swiftly become muscle memory, something his hands were desperate to do as he watched the game or listened in on the conversations surrounding him. He reached under the table to tie the laces of his shoes and stop them from flopping around, but a different pair of shoes was on his feet than he expected. The smart brogues he remembered packing for the trip were gone, now replaced by a pair of cheap white sneakers (or trainers, as he found himself thinking of them), that were now well fitted to his smaller feet. He looked at them confused for a moment, before a memory formed – he bought these whilst he was here in the UK, finding the different shoe sizes a strange difference that he was growing used to. His jeans shifted from the dark denim into a light grey cotton, now clinging tighter to his thinner body. The fabric crept up his legs, finishing just above his waist. Deep down, Charlie knew that they weren’t his usual fashion choice, but he found the sweatpants surprisingly comfortable. Underneath them, his fitted boxers warped and changed, becoming a pair of tight leopard print panties that barely covered his manhood, slowly reducing in size. His shirt tore and reformed across his chest, now a tight sports bra, low cut and showing his midriff. Charlie felt exposed for a second and pulled his jacket closer around himself instinctively. The smart blazer he knew he put on that morning in the hotel had gone, transformed into a cheap tracksuit top, the silky, plasticky material doing little to keep his smaller, more sensitive body shielded from the elements. He could tell that something had changed, but somehow knew that the outfit was all that he could afford so he might as well try and make it look good. He took another sip of the drink, finding that he enjoyed the sensation of the tacky fabric clinging to his body more than he realised.

As he swallowed another mouthful of the dark drink, Charlie’s hair shot out longer, bursting into bright strands of shining blonde hair. He could feel it tickling at his neck and found the sensation irritable. Unthinkingly, he reached to his thin wrist, finding a hairband that he knew had not been there only seconds before. Charlie decided not to question it further, skilfully tying his dyed hair up in a high ponytail as if he had done it a thousand times before. By now, it was swaying at his waist as he leant forward to take another sip.

Fat began to bubble across Charlie’s body. He found himself adjusting his seat once more as his rear swelled, the tracksuit bottoms shifting to accommodate his round, perky behind. His manhood shrunk down even further, with no bulge now visible. Now fully engrossed by the rugby, Charlie cheered as a player scored a try, his voice now higher than ever. His American accent was now almost lost. He could notice the change but reasoned he had just picked up some of the local dialect and phrasing in his short time in the country. The sports bra was soon filled by a pair of growing breasts, the nipples erect and visible behind the thin fabric that did little to cover his modesty. Strangely, Charlie found he didn’t care as much to keep himself covered. He leant back in the chair; his cleavage exposed and could feel the eyes of the men in the pub staring at him – when they weren’t glued to the screen.

Charlie’s face shifted last. With two short bursts of pain, he felt his ears get pierced, two fake diamonds now studded in his ear lobes. His lips puffed up, his jawline growing sharper. His cheekbones reformed until his whole face was now sharp and feminine, losing the masculine squareness that it had had before. Charlie caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mostly empty pint glass and couldn’t help but smile. A vacation, no - a holiday was a good time to try new looks, and he found that he was enjoying this one far more than he expected. He would have been the perfect model of feminine beauty, if there wasn’t a sudden burst of makeup across his face that enhanced his features to almost grotesque proportions. His lips were brighter and puffier, sharp highlights now adorning his face. Finally, massive fake eyelashes fluttered above his large, doe like eyes. It was a face of perfect, chavvy makeup, far removed from the refined beauty the UK was known for.

He looked down at his body. Now, there was almost nothing tying himself to his masculinity, but Charlie couldn’t see anything wrong with how he looked. As he reached forward for the pint glass, he heard his longer polished nails clinking against it, soon followed by the metallic chiming of the gawdy bracelets he now wore. The sound triggered a thought in Charlie – something was wrong. He looked at his nails, trying to work out what it was.

“Fuck sake – need to get my nails sorted”, he said, his voice now fully British. The polite tone his voice had once was gone, his vowels now drawn out, his voice rude and dismissive. One of the men stood up from the table nearby and walked past Charlie. His small nose twitched and he could smell something – the rich, earthy smell of tobacco. Charlie had never smoked, but he suddenly found that smell utterly intoxicating. He knew he needed it, and he needed it fast, the addiction taking hold of him in a second. He downed the last of his drink with a quiet burp and reached for his wallet, somehow not surprised to find a (fake) designer handbag in its place. He left the pub, following the man to an alley beside it where he was just lighting up his cigarette. Charlie knew the word for it, but it felt strange in his head. By the time he spoke, the British phrases had taken hold.

“Give us a fag, yeah?” he begged, helplessly coming in closer to the man to breathe in that disgusting smell he craved. The man took a drag on his cigarette, blowing it rudely towards him.

“Fuck off, Charli”, he said. Even though the name sounded the same, Charlie knew somehow the man was using it to refer to someone else. He put the thought aside, his eyes locked on the glowing cigarette held carefully between the man’s two fingers, the ash falling in the fading evening light. Charlie somehow felt as though he knew the man. Then, he looked at the pub he was outside – of course he knew him, this was his local. Charlie walked closer to the man. All thoughts of shame and disgust were gone now, the need for nicotine overwhelming him. He knew he’d do anything. He took a deep breath and spoke.

“I’ll suck you off for one”, Charlie said, barely believing the words leaving his mouth, his accent now sounding completely normal to his changing mind. The man laughed, moving deeper into the alleyway. He pulled down his tracksuit bottoms and revealed his manhood, already semi-erect.

“Go on then, you slag”, he said between puffs. Once, Charlie wouldn’t have understood the word. But now, he accepted it, and became it. He fell to his knees, wrapping his thin fingers around the shaft. Tentatively, he licked at the head, feeling it swell with his touch. The taste was repulsive, but Charlie knew he had no other choice. Yet, just like the drink from earlier, the more he tasted, the more he found he enjoyed it. The smell of his sweat went from horrendous to delicious. Soon, he was sucking the man off with vigour as if he was well practised, his puffy lips slurping and quivering as he expertly brought the man closer and closer to orgasm. Moments later, he felt the man tense, and then with a soft moan, he came. Charlie felt his seed splatter inside his mouth, his small tongue licking at the head to get every last drop. As the man pulled out, Charlie swallowed, the warm, salty flavour sliding down his throat.

With that, his manhood slipped up inside of his body. A young, fertile vagina formed, well used to service all of the local men. The now satisfied smoker held out the last of his cigarette to the dazed, kneeling woman, and she accepted it eagerly.

“You’re a dirty tramp, Charli”, he said as he pulled up his tracksuit bottoms, heading back inside. Charli barely heard him, relishing the warm, burning taste of the nicotine as it flooded through her system. Slowly, the young chav pulled herself to her feet, savouring the last few puffs of the cigarette. All memories of Charlie were gone now, replaced by Charli. Just as the cigarette reached the filter, she threw it down, standing on the stub with her trainers. Charli took a deep breath, her head clearing. She briefly imagined she had a plane to catch, and she dismissed the thought. That was impossible. Her life was here, and always would be.

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A commission for Username93845! It's been a while since I've done a cultural change so this was a nice little challenge to do. I hope you enjoy reading it!

This also marks the end of my Christmas break - expect more frequent stories to come!