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.