"So you're bailing on me for Chad?" I roll my eyes, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder while flipping a paper-thin slice of ribeye. "What happened to 'girls' night, lesbians forever'?"

"It's not a Chad," Mia laughs through the speaker. "His name's Elliot, and he's a philosophy professor."

"Oh, so a Chad with a PhD." I drizzle olive oil into the cast iron, adding shaved garlic that sizzles instantly. "Traitor."

"You'll survive one night without my brilliant lesbian tutelage," she teases. "Besides, aren't you, like, temporarily lesbian at best?"

"How dare you," I mock-gasp, reaching for the X-Change pill sitting beside my cutting board. "My tits might be temporary, but my energy is eternal."

The steak sears perfectly—just fifteen seconds on each side. I layer it on toasted sourdough with arugula, a whisper of horseradish cream, and flaky salt. My pre-fuck ritual meal: light enough not to weigh me down, substantial enough to fuel a marathon.

"You taking it now?" Mia asks.

"Bottoms up," I say, popping the pill and washing it down with sparkling water. "Thirty seconds to boobs."

I prop the phone against the backsplash, angling it so Mia can witness the show. The warmth hits my stomach first, then radiates outward like liquid fire. My vision blurs slightly as my center of gravity shifts, hips widening, shoulders narrowing.

"Holy shit," Mia whispers, "I never get tired of watching that."

I examine my reflection in the microwave door—brunette waves now cascading past my shoulders, cheekbones higher, lips fuller. The change is complete in under a minute. I flex, admiring the new body. Tits on the smaller side, but my ass? Chef's kiss.

"Not bad for thirty-five bucks," I say, turning to give Mia the full view. "Think the black bodysuit was the right call?"

"It'll look amazing," she assures me. "Where will you go instead?"

"That new gallery downtown. Place will be crawling with tortured artist types who need to get laid."

I take a bite of my sandwich, moaning appreciatively. "This. Is. Fucking. Orgasmic."

"That's what she said," Mia quips.

"That's what I'll say, about six hours from now." I wink, then glance at the clock. "Shit, gotta do my face. Have fun with Socrates. Text me if he starts mansplaining Nietzsche."

After we hang up, I slip into the bodysuit, adjusting it over my new curves. The fabric cuts perfectly between my ass cheeks, creating a heart-shaped frame that wobbles deliciously when I practice a little shimmy. I apply winged eyeliner with surgical precision—this isn't my first rodeo.

"Aaron," I say to my reflection, watching my made-up face break into a grin, "time to be Erin for the night."

I down the rest of my sandwich and grab my gold block heels. Tonight, some lucky photographer, painter, or sculptor is getting the full X-Change experience.

And honestly? After the week I've had, I need this as much as they do.

---

I catch his eye between two massive sculptures—him pretending to adjust his lens settings, me pretending I don't notice the way he's tracking my movements. When I deliberately bend to examine a lower piece, my black bodysuit revealing the curve of my ass, I hear a soft "Damn" escape his lips.

Game on.

"Those yours?" I nod toward a striking series of photographs capturing solitary figures illuminated in crowded spaces.

"That obvious?" He lowers his camera.

"Your eyes kept darting over to check people's reactions." I extend my hand. "Erin."

"Langston." His grip is confident, calloused fingertips brushing my wrist. "You an artist?"

"Just someone who appreciates good composition and knows when she's being watched." I hold his gaze, gold block heels putting me at eye level with him.

"So you're what—a professional muse?" His eyes do a quick sweep down and back up.

"More like an amateur critic." I step closer to one of his photos. "Most people shooting 'urban isolation' go for the obvious empty park bench. You caught people at their loneliest in crowds. That's... honest."

"Honesty's underrated." He moves beside me, close enough that I catch his scent—sandalwood and something earthy.

"So is directness." I turn to face him. "Your work is getting me wet. Is that honest enough?"

His laugh is deep, surprised. "Shit. They teach that in art appreciation class?"

"Self-taught." I smile. "I have other skills too."

"Such as?"

"Breaking photographers' beds." I watch his pupils dilate. "Making them forget their fancy camera settings."

"Bold claim."

"Empirically tested." I lean closer. "Look, this gallery closes in twenty minutes. We could pretend to discuss negative space over overpriced cocktails, or you could take me back to your place and frame this outfit on your bedroom wall - since you seem to be admiring it so much."

His eyebrows shoot up, then settle into an appreciative grin. "Straight to the point."

"Always."

In the Uber, the energy between us is electric. He slides in first, I follow—close enough that our thighs touch. His hand finds my knee almost immediately.

"So you mentioned something about breaking photographers' beds?" he asks, voice lower than in the gallery.

"It's my specialty." I shift slightly, letting his hand ride higher on my thigh. "I've got this move where I grip the headboard and just"—I demonstrate a subtle hip roll that makes his eyes darken—"let gravity do half the work."

"Physics major too?"

"Just excellent research skills." I lean closer, whispering, "I've found artists pay more attention to... details. Where to touch, how much pressure." I brush my fingers against his wrist. "Totally underappreciated demographic."

---

The Uber hits a pothole, bouncing me slightly against him. Neither of us moves away.

This is the hard part.

"Full disclosure," I say, "I'm on X-Change. Basic pill."

His hand pauses mid-stroke. "For real?"

I nod, watching his expression shift through surprise, curiosity, then something more guarded.

"That's... interesting timing." He withdraws slightly.

"Problem?"

"Let's just say I've had enough 'BBC experience' seekers to last a lifetime." His tone is light but his eyes are serious. "I'm not some fantasy fulfillment service or box to check off."

I let out a short laugh. "Do people actually say that shit out loud? 'BBC experience'?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Well, the pill's wearing off in less than 24 hours, and I'd like to use them wisely." I hold his gaze. "Look, I take X-Change because it lets me get out of my head. Feel things differently. Honestly, you're hot, you're talented, and I'm horny. Why complicate it? But if you want me to bounce, just say so."

A moment passes. His eyes track over my face, looking for deception. Then: "You know what? I believe you."

"Good call," I smile, leaning back in with renewed confidence. "Because I'm going to ride you so FUCKING GOOD that you're gonna dedicate your next gallery to my ass."

He laughs, tension dissolving. "Driver," he calls to the front, "there's an extra twenty if you ignore the speed limit."

---

CREEEEAK. CREEEEAK. SLAP. CREEEEAK. SLAP. SLAP.

My thighs burn as I drop it DOWN on Langston's cock, gripping my gold heels for leverage, still strapped to my feet. I'm bouncing in reverse cowgirl, giving him a perfect view of my ass jiggling like two planets colliding each time I slam down.

"FUCK! You weren't... lying..." he groans, hands digging into my hips.

The black bodysuit is pulled to the side, fabric cutting into my thigh, my pussy making obscene wet sounds every time I bottom out. I arch my back, looking over my shoulder to catch him staring at his cock disappearing inside me.

"You recording this?" I moan, spotting his phone propped in the mirror.

"Fuck yes," he grunts, reaching up to twist my nipple through the fabric. "Need... reference... for my next... project..."

My thighs slap against his, sweat making everything slick, the SQUELCH-SLAP-SQUELCH rhythm building as I increase the tempo. The heat inside me is volcanic. His cock hits that perfect spot and I throw my head back.

"Holy FUCK," I cry out, clenching around him. "Right there, RIGHT THERE!"

---

WHOMP!

Suddenly I'm facedown on the bed, ass in the air, Langston looming behind me. He grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back as he SLAMS inside in one brutal thrust.

"My turn," he growls, other hand coming down HARD across my ass cheek with a crack that echoes through the room.

"YES!" I scream, fingers clawing the sheets. "HARDER!"

Each thrust pushes me farther up the bed, my face buried in pillows, muffling my animalistic moans. My pussy is a sopping mess, clenching and spasming around him, juices running down my thighs.

"Gonna cum," he warns, voice tight.

"Face!" I manage to gasp. "Cum on my—"

"Holy FUCK," I laugh, collapsed beside him, his cum drying across my chest and face. I wipe a streak off my cheek, catching my breath. "That was... intense."

"That's one word for it," Langston chuckles, chest still heaving. "My neighbors probably think I was murdering someone."

"Death by orgasm. Not the worst way to go." I roll onto my side, tracing patterns on his sweaty chest. "You know, I've got another pill..."

"Another X-Change?" His eyebrow raises.

"Mmhmm." I walk my fingers down his stomach. "Fair's fair, right? I showed you mine..."

He laughs, but I can see him considering it. "And what—you'd fuck me?"

"I'd fuck you into next WEEK." I lean in, licking a drop of his own cum from his chest. "Plus, imagine the photos—before and after. Could be your next exhibition."

"'The Swap'," he muses, pulling me closer. "Might be worth it just to understand how the hell you took me that deep."

"So that's a yes?" I grin against his lips.

"That's a 'let me recover first, you fucking animal,'" he laughs, kissing me deeply. "But yeah... I'm in."

As our breathing syncs, I realize I've never felt so perfectly matched with anyone. X-Change or not.

---

My doorbell rings at 7:30 PM, three days after our gallery adventure. I'm back to being Aaron—lanky, slightly muscular from rock climbing, with a five o'clock shadow I couldn't be bothered to shave off.

I check my phone one more time, re-reading the text:

I can't believe I'm doing this. I look ridiculous. If you laugh, I'm leaving.

The doorbell rings again, more insistent.

When I swing the door open, I'm not prepared for the sight: a petite Black woman with a perfect spherical afro, curves packed into a sundress that hugs every inch, and—most importantly—a DSLR camera pointed directly at my face.

CLICK

"That's going in the exhibition," she says, lowering the camera to reveal a face that's unmistakably Langston's—softer now, with fuller lips and longer lashes, but those same amber-flecked eyes. "Your face is priceless."

"Holy shit," I manage, still staring.

"Yeah, yeah, get it all out now." She rolls her eyes, but I can see the nervousness underneath. "It worked, okay? Happy?"

"You look amazing," I say honestly. "What should I call you?"

"Langston still works," she shrugs, fidgeting with the camera strap.

"No way. You need a girl name." I lean against the doorframe. "Langstalina? Langstonia?"

"Fuck off," she laughs, tension breaking. "I was thinking... Leila."

"Leila," I repeat, testing it out. "I like it."

She looks me up and down, eyebrow arched. "You're skinnier than I expected."

"And you're shorter."

"Mmm-hmm. And you still owe me dinner," Leila says, adjusting her dress. "I'm not just showing up like this for a booty call. This is a whole production." She gestures to her outfit, the carefully applied makeup, the small purse under her arm. "I had to YouTube three different tutorials for this eyeliner."

"It looks great," I say, meaning it.

"Damn right it does." But her confident tone wavers, and she glances down. "This is weird, right? But like... good weird?"

"The best kind of weird," I agree, grabbing my jacket. "Where are we going? My treat."

"That Thai place on Seventh," she decides. "I need spicy food to match how I'm feeling."

"Which is?"

"Fucking terrified." She grins suddenly. "But also... I don't know. Excited? You made this look easy."

"Natural talent," I shrug, closing the door behind us.

"By the way," she says, turning to face me with a flicker of her former swagger, "I expect the same treatment I gave you. I want the full package."

"We'll see if you earn it," I tease.

She stops walking, eyes widening. "Ohhh, so it's like that now? You got jokes?"

"I've got more than jokes." I step closer, surprised by how natural it feels to look down at her. "I've got skills, remember? Empirically tested."

"Yeah well," she says, blushing slightly but holding my gaze, "my expectations are high after your performance."

"Good thing I rise to challenges."

We stand there grinning at each other like idiots until Leila breaks the spell by raising her camera again.

CLICK

"For the 'before' shot," she explains.

"Before what?"

Her smile turns wicked. "Before I find out if you can back up all that talk, on the flip side."

As we walk to my car, our hands brush once, twice, before her fingers intertwine with mine.

"You know," I say thoughtfully, "we could make this a regular thing. Trading places."

"Hold up," Leila laughs. "Let me survive tonight first."

But she doesn't let go of my hand.