The Fishing Trip

The boat ramp shimmered under the early morning sun, a slick ribbon of moss and concrete leading into the lake. Kyle kicked off his sneakers at the edge of the dock, letting his bare toes dip into the cool water. The breeze lifted through the trees, catching his shirt just enough to remind him of the silky whisper of his skin underneath—smooth, hairless, flawless. Like everyone else now.

“Nice and straight, cutie,” he called out toward the truck, his voice light and airy, bouncing up at the end like a question—flirty, unintentional. It still caught him off guard.

Behind the wheel, his dad—Bill—gave a wink and a mock-sassy thumbs-up. Kyle’s heart fluttered, and not in a romantic way. Just in that weird, residual way where everything sounded like a compliment, even basic directions.

The Ram rolled back slowly, trailer dipping into the water. Kyle tugged the boat forward with the bow rope, watching it rock gently beside the dock.

Bill stepped out of the truck, wiping his hands on his jeans. The man looked like a dad, still—stocky, strong, sun-browned skin. But with that smooth face, no beard, no stubble. And those glossy lips—cherry red and full, involuntarily puckered just a little. Same as Kyle’s.

That was just life now. Four months ago, those lips would’ve made Kyle laugh out loud if someone told him he’d have them. Now? They were just… there. Part of him. He even caught himself admiring the shine in the mirror sometimes, checking the angles.

“Think she’s gonna float today, sugar?” Bill teased, his voice high and sweet like it belonged in a rom-com trailer.

Kyle snorted—dainty, unintentionally. “Only if you don’t sink her first, cupcake.”

Their voices. That was still the strangest part. Not just the pitch—high, breathy, undeniably feminine—but the tone. It was impossible to sound serious. Everything came out playful. Coy. Flirty. And it wasn’t just them—it was everyone. Newscasters, baristas, cops, professors. The whole world sounded like they were halfway into seducing someone, even when they were just ordering coffee or issuing traffic citations.

Kyle crouched beside the boat, reaching for a loose rope—and that’s when he felt it.

The shift.

It wasn’t sharp or obvious. Just… a ripple. A new awareness. A barely-there sensation brushing against his hips, chest, thighs. He paused, brows pinching—not that they needed pinching. They were already perfectly shaped, like they’d been threaded ten minutes ago. The last glitch had done that. Eyebrows, body hair—gone. Just clean, smooth skin everywhere. It made the sensation even stranger.

He reached under his T-shirt. His fingers grazed lace.

Kyle blinked.

Lace?

He lifted his shirt.

A bra.

A very pink, very lacy bra. Thin straps. Scalloped edges. A bow right in the center.

“What the actual hell,” he whispered.

He looked down at his shorts. Slid a hand under the waistband.

Panties.

Not boxers. Not briefs. Panties. Lacy, high-cut, and dangerously skimpy. The kind of thing he’d seen on mannequins and felt embarrassed for looking at too long.

“Umm… Dad?” he called out.

Bill was tightening the rear strap on the boat when he paused. “Yeah, honey?”

Kyle's throat tightened. “You might wanna… check your outfit.”

Bill straightened up, brushing his flannel back. He lifted it casually, expecting nothing.

Then froze.

Kyle watched his dad stare down at the pink lace bra stretched across his now-smooth chest. He didn’t even need to check the rest—Kyle could see the telltale waistband of matching panties riding above his jeans. Same cut. Same shade.

Bill gave a soft, slow blink. “Huh.”

Kyle swallowed. “This is… new.”

Bill tilted his head. “Definitely not in the fishing plan, sugarplum.”

They stood there for a beat. Kyle didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or strip off everything and swim across the lake.

Finally, Bill just shrugged and said, “Well, I guess lingerie’s part of the dress code now.”

Kyle blinked. “You’re seriously this calm about it?”

Bill gave a half-smile, lips gleaming. “Sweetheart, I’ve lived through shoulder pads, boy bands, and New Coke. A little lace isn’t gonna kill me.”

Kyle shook his head, stepping toward the boat. “I hate how comfortable that bra is.”

“Right? It’s got like… actual lift,” Bill added, climbing in behind him.

As they pushed off into the lake, Kyle stared down at the water, watching the ripples spread. His fingers traced the curve of the steering handle, then paused. He looked at his dad—his strong, practical, totally unshakeable dad—sitting in a matching bra and panties, a tackle box in his lap, and shiny red lips pursed thoughtfully as he adjusted the drag on his line.

What even is masculinity anymore? Kyle wondered. The man he’d always looked up to hadn’t changed who he was, not really. He was still Bill. Still Dad. But now he wore lipstick. Talked like a valley girl. And fished in lingerie.

And somehow… he still looked like the most grounded person Kyle knew.