"Darnit, I wish this wasn't so weird," he said, and then he gasped. "No, no, I mean -- !"
There was a flash, and Jon's head went fuzzy. It passed in a moment's time, however, and then he took a deep breath.
"... was that it?" he asked no one in particular. There didn't seem to be an answer to his question, so he shrugged.
"Are you coming down?" he heard his mom call from the kitchen, and Jon really couldn't think of any reason not to. Halfway to his door, though, he realized with a twist of dread that that's what had happened: he didn't find anything wrong with this. The wish had made it not be weird by making him accept it.
"Crap! No, this is wrong!" Saying it out loud, though, there was no real feeling behind it. No, new memories started to intrude on his mind, memories of leather and cuffs and satin, and he felt himself growing hard in response, but the memories weren't of some girlfriend, but his own mother. In lurid detail. The more he thought about it, the harder he got, and the worst part was that any lingering feelings of shame were fading more by the heartbeat.
"Jon?" his mother called one more time.
"... crap." Shoulders slumped, Jon sighed and headed downstairs.
