Life was Simple Pt. 1

 

A year ago, my life was simple. Too simple. I was just a guy—Matt—tagging along with my best friend Ryan. We spent that afternoon wandering an antique shop, laughing at the dust-covered junk, until we saw it: a strange gold medallion labeled The Medallion of Zulo.

I put it on as a joke, and the joke was on me. My body shifted in a rush of warmth and pressure—chest swelling, waist narrowing, my entire frame reshaping until I was staring at a stranger in the mirror. A woman. Me.

Ryan just stood there, eyes wide.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Lisa.”
“Lisa?” I asked, touching my new face, my new hair.
“Yeah. You don’t look like a Matt anymore.” He smirked. “You’re Lisa now.”

I thought it would just be a weekend problem. But Ryan had another idea.
“You’ve got the body. Be my date tonight. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The worst—or best—was that one date turned into something more. Dinner led to drinks, drinks led to kisses, and kisses led to me on his bed, trembling as his hands slid over curves I didn’t even know how to handle yet.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hovering over me, like he didn’t want to push me.
I swallowed, my heart pounding, my new body burning with need. “Just… don’t make me regret this.”

And then he was inside me, and I realized nothing about this was pretend. Every thrust lit me up, every moan was real, and when he whispered my name—Lisa—it didn’t feel like play anymore. It felt like me.

That should’ve been it. A one-time thing. But the medallion always reset on Monday, and by the next Friday, I was curious again. So we made it a routine. Every weekend, I became Lisa, and every weekend, Ryan picked me up like I was his girlfriend. Dinner, a movie, then his bed. I started walking different, laughing different, teasing him shamelessly.

“Careful,” he warned one night, hands on my hips as I swayed past him. “You keep moving like that, and I’ll never let you go.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I shot back with a grin.

Five months in, it happened. We’d been drinking, kissing desperately, his hands gripping my thighs as he drove into me harder than ever. He groaned, “I’m close—should I pull out?”

I should’ve said yes. Instead, I wrapped my legs around him and gasped, “No… stay in me.”

The shock on his face melted into raw pleasure, and then he emptied inside me, filling me in a way that made my toes curl. In that moment, I wanted it. I wanted him, all of him, consequences be damned.

And the consequence came quick, when I tried to use the medallion again… nothing. I was stuck. Then the nausea hit. Then the test. Positive. And The pregnancy had locked me in permanently.

Now here I am, Lisa full-time, seven months pregnant, belly round and impossible to ignore.

This morning, we stood in front of the mirror, me in a tight white dress that showed off every curve, my bump front and center. Ryan wrapped his hand around my belly, grinning like he’d won the lottery. I snapped the photo and laughed.

“Look at me,” I teased. “A year ago, I was your wingman at bars. Now I’m your barefoot, pregnant girlfriend.”
“Correction,” Ryan said, kissing my cheek, “you’re my barefoot, pregnant gorgeous girlfriend.”
I rolled my eyes. “You mean baby mama.”
“Same thing,” he smirked.

The teasing never stops. When the baby kicks, I’ll groan, “That’s your fault, you know. You just had to finish inside me.”
He’ll grin and press his ear to my bump. “Best accident of my life.”
Sometimes I’ll poke his chest and mutter, “You know, most guys give a girl a ring before they knock her up.”
Ryan laughs, kissing me. “You’re happier about the bump than you’d ever be about a diamond.”
I grin. “Maybe. But you know what I’d be even happier about?”
“What?”
“Another one. Ring or no ring, I’m riding you till you knock me up again.”

He chokes every time I say it, but I mean it. The medallion made me a woman. The baby made me permanent. But Ryan? He made me Lisa. His Lisa.

And soon, I’ll be his Lisa with a baby in my arms—and maybe a second one growing inside me, if I get my way.

Bet’s a Bet

 

I used to be Alex. Average guy, twenty-five, unlucky with women, and best friends with Brian since forever. We’d drink, trash-talk during video games, and joke about how pathetic our love lives were. If you told me back then that in less than a year I’d be pregnant with his kid, I’d have laughed in your face.

But then came that stupid bet.

We were on his couch, beer bottles on the table, game controllers in hand. He beat me so bad I couldn’t even blame lag. “Bet’s a bet, man,” he said with that cocky grin. “Open MorphX.”

I groaned. “That app? What do you want me to do, give myself cat ears?”
“Nah,” he said, eyes glittering. “Full swap. Girl mode.”

I thought he was kidding. But the second he grabbed my phone and tapped confirm, my whole body buzzed like I was plugged into an outlet. My chest swelled, nipples pushing against my shirt until I gasped. My waist cinched, my hips spread, my voice cracked high when I swore at him. I stumbled into the bathroom and froze.

A girl stared back at me. Soft skin, full lips, long hair, breasts straining against my T-shirt. I touched my face, my chest, my thighs. My hands shook. “No way,” I whispered.

Behind me, Brian coughed. “Holy… wow.” His eyes glued themselves to my chest.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that,” I hissed, crossing my arms, which only made my boobs push together.
“Not my fault you’re hot,” he muttered, ears red.

That was the start. It should’ve been a joke. A temporary thing. But I felt different in that body. The curves, the softness, the warmth between my thighs whenever Brian looked at me too long. I was still Alex inside, but my body? It wanted things.

A week later, his hand brushed my thigh and I didn’t move away. We kissed. Hesitant at first, then hungry. He pulled back, breathless. “You sure?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I whispered, “but yeah.”

That first time was terrifying. His hand slid under my shirt, over my new breasts, and I moaned so loud it shocked both of us.
“Alex,” he whispered, “you okay?”
“Don’t stop,” I gasped.

When he finally pushed inside me, I almost screamed. The stretch, the fullness, the wet heat — I’d never felt anything like it. My body clenched, my nails dug into his back, and every thrust had me moaning like my brain had disconnected. I thought, I can’t believe I’m loving this. I’m not supposed to like this. I’m his best friend. I’m a guy. But holy hell, don’t stop.

Afterward, panting and ruined, I lay there staring at the ceiling. “Holy shit… I liked that way too much.”
Brian laughed softly, kissed my forehead. “Guess we’re doing it again.”

And we did. Again and again. Nights blurred together — sneaking into each other’s rooms, tangled sheets, me craving the way he filled me, craving the way I felt as a woman.

Then came the night we screwed up.

We were already half-drunk, kissing, desperate. Brian groaned, “Shit—Lena, we’re out of condoms.” (Yeah, by then I was calling myself Lena. Somehow it fit.)

I hesitated. My body was begging, my brain screaming warnings. “Just… pull out,” I whispered.

He looked at me like I’d given him the keys to heaven. “You sure?”
“No,” I admitted, grinding against him. “But I need you.”

The sex was insane. Raw, bare, every nerve on fire. He thrust into me and I nearly screamed. “Oh my god, it’s so much better without—Brian—don’t stop—”

I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, even as I kept gasping, “Just don’t finish inside.” Every thrust had me moaning, shaking, body betraying me.

Then it happened. He tensed, groaned my name, and I felt it — hot, thick, flooding into me. My eyes flew open. “Brian! You didn’t!”
“I tried,” he panted.
“You tried?!” I shoved at him weakly, still trembling from my orgasm. “Congratulations, you just deposited your sperm like it’s direct deposit.”

We laughed it off. He swore it was a one-off. Then my period ghosted me.

Two weeks later, I was in the bathroom, clutching a positive test, mascara streaked down my cheeks.
Brian knelt in front of me, hand trembling on my stomach.
“I’m pregnant,” I whispered.
He stared, then said, “So… pull-out’s officially a scam.”
I smacked him with the test.

Now I’m 24 weeks in. Belly round, tight, and impossible to hide. The baby kicks constantly — sometimes so hard I yelp mid-sentence. Brian loves it. He presses his ear to my bump, murmuring to the baby, kissing my stretched skin.

Me? I crack jokes to stay sane. “You realize I went from being your wingman to waddling like a penguin because of your kid, right?”
He kisses my stomach. “Best upgrade ever.”
“You knocked up your best friend because you couldn’t pull out.”
He grins. “Worth it.”

Sex hasn’t slowed either. If anything, pregnancy hormones made me worse. One night I whispered, embarrassed, “Brian, I think I’m hornier pregnant than I ever was as a guy.”
“Not complaining,” he muttered, already pulling me onto his lap.
When the baby kicked during sex once, I gasped, “Oh my god, our kid knows you’re in here!”
He groaned. “Don’t say that.”
“We’re a threesome now.”

And tonight? Tonight’s the big one. Dinner with his family. First impressions, 24 weeks pregnant.

I stood in front of the mirror, tugging my floral top down over my belly, slipping on earrings. My hand rested under the bump automatically. I took a selfie, smirking at the absurdity of it all. This is me. Lena. Pregnant. About to meet his mom. Formerly Alex.

Brian leaned against the doorframe. “Damn, you look amazing.”
“Yeah, until your mom figures out her son’s best friend couldn’t keep her legs closed.”
He laughed. “We’ll leave that part out.”
I sighed. “Don’t you dare tell her the pull-out story.”
“I might. Depends how dinner goes.”
I smacked his chest. “I’ll tell her you came inside me like you were making a down payment.”

He wrapped his arms around my bump, kissed my neck. “You ready?”
“No. But at least I look cute while your mom judges me.”

And as we stepped out the door, he whispered with that damn grin:
“Bet’s a bet.”

Luckiest Idiot Alive

I still can’t look at that picture without laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Seven months pregnant, belly round as a basketball, wearing a dress that barely fits anymore, my hand pressed under the curve of my bump like I’m some glowing earth goddess. Except I wasn’t glowing. I was sweaty, craving fries, and trying not to pee while taking that photo.

And the kicker? A year ago, I wasn’t even a woman.

I was just Jake. Average guy. Mediocre at flirting. Okay in bed, I think—though most of my exes would probably put me in the “meh” category. I’d been single for a while, striking out with women left and right, when I saw this late-night ad pop up on my laptop: “The Venus Clinic – See the world from the other side.”

I thought it was some sketchy cam site at first. But no, it was legit. The clinic offered gender transformations. Temporary ones, like a trial run. “Three months minimum, six months maximum,” the fine print said. My dumbass brain went, well, if I can’t get good with women as a guy, maybe I’ll learn something by being one. Like some messed-up version of undercover dating.

So yeah. I signed up.

Walking into the clinic felt like walking into IKEA, if IKEA sold vaginas instead of furniture. Clean white walls, too much glass, nurses in pastel scrubs with perfect smiles. They sat me down, went through all the paperwork, and asked if I had any “preferences.” Height, weight, breast size, hair color… it was like building a sim character. I panicked and just said, “Uh, make me normal, I guess?”

Normal, my ass.

I woke up in a hospital bed after the procedure, and the first thing I noticed was weight on my chest. I looked down and almost passed out. Breasts. Real, heavy, perky breasts that rose and fell with my breathing. I sat up, and hair—long, dark, silky—fell into my face. My hands shot down between my legs, and when I didn’t find what I was used to, my stomach dropped.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, and then said it again, higher-pitched.

The voice. The curves. The soft skin. The way the hospital gown clung to me. It was real. I was a woman.

The first week was chaos. Pads, bras, the sudden urge to moisturize—it was a learning curve. I FaceTimed my sister Emma two days in because I couldn’t figure out how to clasp a bra behind my back. She laughed so hard she cried.

“You’re seriously insane,” she said. “Only you would think, ‘Hmm, I’m bad at dating—time to grow boobs and see how it feels.’”

I stuck my tongue out at her, tugging at the straps. “Don’t act like you’re not jealous I get a restart button. You’ve been bitching about guys for years.”

Emma smirked. “Yeah, but unlike you, I didn’t volunteer to trade my dick for a diva cup.”

That became our thing—constant banter, her roasting me every step of the way.

But honestly? I adapted faster than I thought I would. Clothes fit differently, sure, but they looked good. Strangers held doors for me. Guys smiled at me in bars. Girls complimented my hair. It was like living on a different difficulty setting—still tricky, but in a new way.

And then came the hookups.

God.

The first time I slept with someone as a woman, I was drunk, nervous, and buzzing with curiosity. He was this guy from a bar—tall, broad shoulders, smelled like whiskey and cologne. When he leaned in to kiss me, I thought, I can’t possibly do this. I’m still Jake under here. But the heat of his mouth, the way his hand slid down my side—it shut my brain up real quick.

When we finally stumbled back to his place, my heart was pounding like a drumline. Clothes came off clumsy, my new breasts bouncing, his eyes locked on me like I was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. And when he pushed inside me—Jesus Christ.

I moaned so loud I startled myself. It was different. Intense. Every nerve ending lit up. I clutched at him, nails digging into his back, and thought, Oh my god, I’ve been missing out on this my whole life. I couldn’t stop moaning, couldn’t stop moving my hips, chasing the rhythm. By the time we were done, I was drenched in sweat and shaking, wondering how the hell women ever went back for round two because I felt like I’d been hit by a truck—but in the best possible way.

I didn’t stop after that. If anything, it opened a floodgate. One-night stands, flings, messy hookups in bathrooms, cars, cheap hotel rooms. I joked to Emma once that I was running field tests for science.

“Field tests?” she snorted. “Bitch, you’re running a brothel in your pants.”

Five months in, though, I met him.

Ethan. My sister’s ex.

I swear I didn’t plan it. Emma had dumped him months before—some vague story about him being too clingy, or too boring, or not ambitious enough. I didn’t care; I was just hanging out at a friend’s party when I ran into him. He remembered me vaguely—Emma’s “friend.” Because that’s what I told him I was. Emma’s friend. Not her brother. Definitely not the guy he’d shaken hands with once at a barbecue.

We flirted. We drank. We danced. And then we ended up back at his place.

The sex was—fuck, it was something else. Ethan was slow at first, careful, hands roaming my body like he was memorizing it. When he slid inside, I gasped, clutching at him, every inch filling me in ways I hadn’t felt before. I moaned his name over and over, nails dragging down his back, begging him not to stop.

At one point, I actually thought, Why the hell would Emma dump him if he’s this good?

I came hard. Twice. The second time, I nearly cried, burying my face in his shoulder, my legs trembling around him. And when he finally groaned, thrust deep, and came inside me, I didn’t stop him. I should’ve. I knew I should’ve. But I didn’t.

A few weeks later, the clinic told me I was pregnant.

I stared at the test results, hands shaking, my mind reeling. Emma was the first person I told. She spat out her drink, doubled over laughing, and then yelled, “YOU GOT KNOCKED UP BY MY EX?!”

I groaned, hiding my face. “Please don’t make it sound like a Maury episode.”

Emma was merciless. “Oh my god, this is gold. My brother turns into a woman, bangs half the city, then gets pregnant by my ex-boyfriend. Netflix could not write this shit.”

I flipped her off. “Not funny.”

She grinned. “It’s hilarious. What’s next, you naming the baby after me? ‘In memory of the dumbass sister who introduced me to my baby daddy by dumping him.’”

Now here I am, seven months in, belly huge, still hooking up with Ethan. He doesn’t know the truth. To him, I’m just Emma’s old friend, the one he reconnected with. We’ve been on a “holiday” together recently—beach, sun, me waddling around in maternity dresses while he takes care of me.

That’s when I sent Emma the photo—the one where I’m standing by the water, hand on my bump, dress clinging to me. “Your ex got me this way,” I texted her with it.

Her reply came seconds later: You’re the worst. Also, your tits look huge. I hate you.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

Last night, Ethan and I still ended up tangled in bed, despite my belly making things awkward. He kissed me breathless, hands roaming everywhere, and when he pushed inside me, I moaned so loud the neighbors probably heard. Pregnancy hormones made it worse—or better, depending how you look at it. I couldn’t stop rocking against him, couldn’t stop gasping his name, thinking, If he keeps this up, I’ll get pregnant all over again.

Emma asked me the other day, “So, are you guys official or what?”

I snorted. “What, like boyfriend-girlfriend? I’m literally carrying his child, Emma.”

She smirked. “That’s not an answer.”

I shot back, “Neither is your dating history, but we don’t bring that up, do we?”

She nearly choked on her wine.

So yeah. That’s my life now. I went in trying to learn how to talk to women and came out with stretch marks and a baby on the way.

And every time I look at that photo—me, round and glowing by accident—I can’t decide if I’m the luckiest idiot alive, or just the biggest one.

My Life Now

I’m eight months pregnant, and sometimes I catch myself laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. I mean, look at me now — I just took a photo in my living room, lounging in sweatpants with my belly bare, one hand underneath, one on top, giving this little smirk like, yep, this is my life now. If anyone from my old life saw it, they’d never believe it was me. Because a year ago, I was a guy. A regular, beer-drinking, hockey-watching Canadian dude. Then the Great Shift happened, and everything I thought I knew about myself went up in smoke.

The Shift was chaos. One second, I was in Toronto, half drunk and laughing with friends. The next, I was blinking under fluorescent lights in a German train station, people yelling at me in a language I didn’t understand. I stumbled past the glass doors and saw my reflection — blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, a chest that was definitely not mine, and a waist that curved in like someone had airbrushed it. My first words in my new body? “No way. No freaking way.”

Turns out I’d landed in the body of a woman named Anna. German. Mid-twenties. Soft lips, long legs, and a closet full of clothes I didn’t know how to wear. I couldn’t even speak the language. The first time I tried to buy groceries, I asked for butter and somehow ended up with six cans of dog food. And don’t even get me started on the first time my period hit. I sat in the shower holding a pad, muttering, “I can’t believe this is my life now.”

Two months of stumbling through that mess and I’d had enough. Thankfully, Canada had this repatriation program — they couldn’t give you your old body back, but at least they could bring you home. So back I went, new passport in hand, officially Anna-but-not-Anna, trying to figure out how to live as a German woman in Toronto.

That’s when I saw Dan again. My old buddy. Somehow, the Shift skipped him. He spotted me in a coffee shop, squinted, and then his jaw dropped. “Wait… holy shit, is that you?”

I laughed nervously. “Yeah. Long story short, the universe decided I’d look better in a bra.”

He blinked, then grinned. “Well, they weren’t wrong.” His eyes flicked over me, and I caught it — that half-second of checking me out before he remembered who I used to be.

We started hanging out again. It was weird at first, catching up with him while I sat there crossing my legs in a skirt, pushing hair out of my face, feeling eyes on me in ways they never had before. And something shifted between us too. I caught myself staring at his shoulders, his smile, his hands. Hands I used to slap in high fives now looked strong and… well, hot.

The night it happened, we’d gone for dinner, then back to his place. We sat on his couch, laughing, and he asked, “You’re really you in there? Like, my buddy from before?”

“Yeah,” I said, softer than I meant to. “It’s me. Just… different wrapping.”

He tilted his head. “And how do you feel about that?”

I wanted to crack a joke, but instead I blurted, “Honestly? Lonely. Confused. Horny as hell.”

He laughed, then leaned in close. “Horny, huh?”

I kissed him before I could chicken out. My body reacted before my brain caught up — skin buzzing, chest pressed to his, a moan slipping out when his hands found my hips. It felt like falling off a cliff, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

When we got to the bedroom, I froze at the edge of the bed, whispering, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I used to be a guy.”

He kissed my neck, his voice low. “Then stop thinking. Just feel.”

And I did. God, did I feel. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust lit me up in ways I didn’t know were possible. I clutched his shoulders, gasping, moaning louder than I meant to, my hips moving without me even thinking about it. My head spun with thoughts like So this is what I was missing? No wonder women moan like this. At one point I even cried out his name, shocked at how natural it felt.

Afterward, I collapsed against him, sweaty and trembling, whispering, “If I get pregnant from this, I’m blaming you.”

Well. Guess what.

One night. One time. That’s all it took. When the test came back positive, I sat on the bathroom floor laughing and crying at the same time. “Of course. Of course this would happen to me.”

Pregnancy has been its own rollercoaster. Morning sickness that had me puking into the sink before brushing my teeth. Cravings that made me dip fries into ice cream like it was gourmet cuisine. Mood swings that had me sobbing over dog food commercials. And my body? I barely recognize it. My hips widened, my boobs got heavier, and my belly just… exploded.

Now, eight months in, I waddle everywhere like a penguin. Rolling over in bed feels like a five-point turn. The kid kicks me at three in the morning like she’s training for soccer. Sometimes I just sit, like in that photo, hand on top of the bump, hand underneath, smiling because I can’t believe there’s actually a little person in there.

Dan’s been here through it all. Midnight runs to the store, rubbing my swollen feet, laughing when I grunt just to pick something up off the floor. Sometimes I catch him staring at me with this goofy grin, like he still can’t believe his old buddy turned into this pregnant woman carrying his baby. And honestly? Neither can I.

But when she kicks, when I feel her move, I smile. Because yeah, the Great Shift flipped my life upside down. But it also gave me this. And somehow, in this crazy, twisted way, it feels right.

I still tell Dan, “You owe me. Diapers, midnight snacks, back rubs for life. This is on you.”

And he just grins and says, “Worth it.”