The Florida Affair

Phil Carpenter stepped into the hotel bar, the cool air a stark contrast to Florida's humid embrace. His reflection in the polished surfaces revealed a man clinging to remnants of his past—his hair, a traditional crew cut, stood in defiance of the world's recent transformations. The sides were neatly faded, the top slightly longer, styled with a touch of gel, a nod to the masculine identity he once knew.​

Yet, the rest of him told a different story. The snug blouse he wore, chosen out of necessity, accentuated his waspish waist and the undeniable presence of his knockers. After the last glitch, he'd reluctantly discarded his collection of masculine shirts. They no longer fit his altered frame, both physically and socially. The world had shifted, and so had the expectations.​

He adjusted the strap of his leather shoulder bag, its weight a comforting reminder of his profession. Selling shower fittings might not be glamorous, but it was familiar. The conference had been a blur of handshakes, product pitches, and **** smiles. Now, in the dimly lit bar, he sought solace in a glass of bourbon. He paused, scanning the room — low lights, jazz on the speakers, soft clinking of ice in glasses, and laughter bubbling from groups of industry reps and salesfolk winding down from a long day of booths and brochures.

The humidity clung to the windows, diffused by golden backlight. Everyone looked the same these days — young, 18, thin, soft-voiced, dolled up. Skirts swished and heels clicked. Painted nails tapped at phones or cupped martinis. Heels, lips, tits. The world had become a funhouse mirror version of itself. Phil didn’t miss his old body. His back didn’t ache anymore. His knees didn’t creak. But still there was a sense of loss that he couldn't shake, despite the fact that most of the changes quickly became like second nature.

He sat at the bar, crossing his legs out of habit — because that’s what you did in a skirt — and ordered a gin and tonic. His blouse had ruffles and clung tight across his knockers. God, he couldn’t even think the word 'chest' anymore. Knockers. Jugs. Funbags. Like someone had reached into his brain and rewritten the lexicon.

"Rough day?"

The voice beside him was light, playful, and already half-laughing.

He turned.

She was stunning. Short hair that gave her a kind of edgy glamor, a smart wrap-top, navy skirt that shimmered like ocean water. Her lips glistened in the low bar light.

"Depends how you mean rough," Phil said. His own voice had that playful lilt he couldn’t shed. He didn’t try to. "I did spend three hours talking about shower heads."

"That is rough," she said, laughing. "Alex."

"Phil."

He bought her a drink. Then another. Then two more. Their knees brushed. They leaned in closer, their giggles a touch too loud. He caught himself watching the way her painted fingers toyed with the cherry in her cocktail.

Was he really going to do this? He was married.

But he and Tina had drifted long before the glitches. The k1ds had grown and gone. They’d stopped being lovers and become... polite roommates.

And Phil was in Florida. His body was 18. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t in decades.

When Alex suggested they head upstairs, he didn't hesitate.

They stumbled into his room, giggling, kissing. Her lips were soft, insistent. Her hands slipped under his blouse, grazing the underside of his jugs. His breath caught.

They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, lace, and heated sighs—

Then—

A lurch. A blink.

He blinked again.

Everything shimmered. Tilted.

When the dizziness passed, he found himself still holding Alex — her breathing ragged, her thigh pressed against his.

But her hair had changed. Braided pigtails cascaded down her shoulders, framing her flawless, doll-like face.

He reached up — startled — and felt his own new haircut. Soft, sleek. A bob with little bangs that brushed his brow.

"Well, damn, sugar," Alex said, biting her lip. Her voice dripped with flirtation. "You are working that little haircut. You look like a total tease."

Phil stared at her, stunned.

Then he looked down.

Alex's skirt had ridden up slightly, and—

Phil's breath caught.

Alex was a man.

He froze.

Alex tilted her head. She wasn’t hiding it. There was no shame in her eyes. Just warmth. Anticipation.

Phil stared at her face again. So beautiful. So feminine. Her voice, her body, her softness — it all blurred the lines he thought he understood.

He’d spent years selling water pressure and temperature valves. Years thinking the world made sense in straight lines.

But the world didn’t follow those rules anymore.

What even was a man?

Phil breathed in deep.

He smiled.

And then he kissed her again, harder this time.

He was in Florida. He was on a business trip.

He was going to have fun.