I Asked to Become Another Man and Woke Up as Another Woman

The bass from the party thundered through the walls like a чужд heart. Friday night, and the whole campus beat with a life Bruno and Sergio only knew about secondhand.

—Listen to that —murmured Sergio without taking his eyes off the screen—. The Omega Phi party. They say girls came from other universities.

—As if they’d ever let us in.

It wasn’t a complaint. It was a fact, as unchangeable as gravity. Bruno was thin in all the wrong ways: scrawny, with shoulders that seemed to apologize for existing. Sergio carried twenty extra kilos cruelly concentrated around his stomach. Together they formed the perfect duo of everything the university despised.

—Brett Vance dumped a cup of beer on me yesterday —said Bruno, flatly, like someone reporting the weather—. He said it was an accident. He laughed for five minutes.

Brett Vance. One ninety of muscle and privilege, with a fraternity that treated him like a god. The whole world bent itself to make room for him.

—I wish we could be like them —whispered Sergio, and there was something dark and hungry in his voice—. Just once. Be the ones who laugh.

Bruno paused the game and turned the laptop around. For weeks he’d been secretly reading the transformation forums: links that vanished, stories too specific to be fiction. And a name that came up again and again, always in digital whispers.

—Madame Muñeca —said Sergio, and the word tasted like danger on his tongue.

An already-written email waited on the screen: “We want to be transformed. Both of us. We want to be like them, the ones who run things. We can pay.” The cursor blinked over the send button. Sergio nodded. Bruno pressed it.

The reply came three days later, brief and elegant, smelling of sweet perfume even through the screen: “Two for the price of one. Interesting. Beaumont Hotel, suite 1612. Friday at midnight. She’s not expecting you.”

***

The Beaumont was black marble and chandeliers that cost more than tuition. When the private elevator opened directly into the suite, the two of them held their breath.

Everything was pink. Not the pastel pink of a little girl’s room, but an electric, vibrant pink that pulsed like something alive. And at the center, seated in an armchair that looked like a throne, there she waited.

She was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Curves wrapped in pink latex that shone like wet skin, platinum hair cascading down, lips the color of blood. But her eyes were cold, calculating, the eyes of someone who saw exactly what you were and what you could become.

—My little losers —she said, and her voice was poisoned honey—. Tell me what you want.

—We want to be like them —Sergio blurted in a rush—. The popular ones, the Brett Vances of the world. The muscles, the attitude, all of it. We want people to look at us with respect instead of disgust.

Madame Muñeca tilted her head, like a cat watching mice.

—You want power. You want to be feared. —She rose to her feet; the latex gave a soft creak—. I can give it to you. But transformation has a price, and I’m not talking about money.

—We’ll pay it —said Sergio too quickly—. Whatever it is.

—Oh, I know. You always do. —She extended a gloved hand—. Do we have a deal?

In some corner of their brains, a tiny voice was screaming warnings. But that voice had been drowned out for years by the laughter at their expense. Both of them reached out at the same time.

—Deal.

—Perfect —she whispered—. Remember, darlings: I always keep my promises. —And something in her eyes finished the sentence without words: but never in the way you expect.

***

The suite had become a temple. Two stretchers covered in pink silk, candles giving off an intoxicating scent.

—Take your clothes off —she ordered—. I need to see what I’m working with.

They stripped away their layers of protection until they stood exposed. She watched them like a sculptor examining a flawed block of marble.

—Lie down. Close your eyes. Listen only to my voice.

Bruno felt a heaviness in his limbs and a lightness in his mind; his fears began to blur.

—Sergio —she said, beside the other stretcher—, you first. You’re the kind of man who says “bro” all the time. You always have been. You’re the kind of man who thinks in short sentences. Long thoughts tire you out.

—Bro —murmured Sergio, and the word sounded strange at first. Then something clicked, like a piece falling into place—. Yeah. Simple is... better.

Her footsteps approached Bruno. Her gloved fingers touched his chest, cold and electric.

—And you will be physical first. You’re the kind of man who goes to the gym every day. It’s your temple. You haven’t missed in months.

Bruno opened his mouth to protest —he hated exercise— but the words died. Hadn’t he gone yesterday? The image of himself lifting weights appeared as clearly as a real memory.

—I... go to the gym —he said, confused by his own certainty.

—Of course you do. You’re the kind of man who takes pride in his body. Now sleep. Your bodies have work to do.

***

The first week was a blur of sweat and iron. Bruno woke before dawn with an energy he had never known, and his body carried him to the gym without his mind questioning it. In the mirror, after only five days, he saw changes that defied biology: broader shoulders, arms with definition where before there had only been bone.

But his mind was still the same. He looked at that new body and felt like he was wearing a costume. It was like living inside someone else.

—Bro —said Sergio, appearing behind him.

Physically he was still just as skinny, but something in his eyes had changed: harder, colder. The complicity of years of friendship had mutated into something that felt like evaluation.

—Your chest looks kind of soft, bro. Machines are for weaklings. I’ve always said that. Free weights or nothing.

Always?, Bruno thought. A week ago you didn’t know the difference between a dumbbell and a phone. But the conviction in Sergio’s eyes was absolute. He genuinely remembered having always thought that way, as if Madame Muñeca had not changed who he was, but revealed who he had always been.

That afternoon, in the locker room, three freshmen came in talking. Sergio looked at them with something Bruno had only ever seen in Brett Vance.

—Less noise —he barked.

They shut up instantly. Bruno recognized Ethan Soto from the chess club, who now looked at him with the same fear Bruno used to feel. I’m one of them, he thought. I’m still one of them inside. But his body no longer reflected it, and Sergio didn’t see him that way either.

***

The sessions multiplied. Every “you’re the kind of man who...” was a chisel striking marble, carving something new from raw stone. Bruno felt confident without a shirt. Sergio now spoke only in monosyllables, laughing at the people who were like he used to be.

Three weeks later, in front of the gym mirror, Bruno saw a muscular stranger who was starting to look like someone he had always wanted to be. But it wasn’t enough. They returned to the suite with new greed.

—We want more —said Sergio, simple and direct.

—It’s not enough —Bruno added, surprised by the hardness in his own voice—. Brett Vance is still bigger. We want to be more.

Madame Muñeca remained motionless for a long moment. Then she began to clap slowly, latex against latex sounding almost sarcastic.

—Wonderful. I gave you the gift of transformation, and in three weeks you think you deserve the world. —Her smile sharpened—. You wanted to be like Brett Vance. Very well... I’m going to teach you a lesson he never learned.

She turned to Sergio.

—You’ll continue as you are. Fratboy. Exactly what you asked for. —Her eyes returned to Bruno, gleaming with cruel amusement—. But you wanted more. So I’m going to give you more. You’ll be perfect.

The word drove into him like a hook. And in that instant, with the icy terror of someone watching the knife fall, Bruno understood that his greed had cost him everything.

She laid one gloved finger on Sergio’s neck.

—You’re the kind of man who fully supports his friends. Whatever Bruno chooses to be, you’ll celebrate it. You’ll never interfere with his... evolution.

—I support it —repeated Sergio in a hollow voice—. Always.

Madame Muñeca moved closer to Bruno. She didn’t lead him to the stretcher; she didn’t need to. Standing in the middle of the pink light, she began to work.

—Look at me. You’re the kind of man who cares for his skin. Full routine, every night, every morning.

No, Bruno thought with sudden clarity. I’m not one of those. But he felt something turn like a rusty hinge. His mind resisted —I chose to remember, this isn’t real— and the resistance was like pushing against water.

—You’re the kind of man who waxes his entire body. You like smoothness. —She circled him like a snake—. You’re the kind of man who prefers tight clothes, clothes that show every curve.

Curve? Men didn’t have curves. But the protest died before it was born. She stopped in front of him, her eyes piercing his.

—You’re the kind of man who notices when another man is attractive. Who fantasizes about other men. There’s no shame in it. It’s part of who you are.

Images surfaced without permission: Sergio shirtless, sweat gleaming on his arms; Brett Vance, muscles moving beneath bronzed skin. Men. So many men.

—And you’re the kind of man who feels comfortable being feminine —she whispered against his ear—. It’s simply who you’ve always been.

Feminine. The word should have caused panic. What Bruno felt was relief, like a door that had been locked for years finally opening.

—Feminine —he repeated, and his lips curved into something like a smile—. Yes. That’s fine.

***

The days that followed were strange. His skin looked softer, hairless. His clothes had migrated toward bright colors, fitted, very fitted. And men... Bruno couldn’t stop looking at them: the way Sergio’s biceps flexed, the smell of male sweat that had once disgusted him and now lit something in his belly.

One night, alone in his room, he touched himself for the first time thinking of a man. Of Sergio, his deep voice saying “bro.” The orgasm hit him with an intensity he had never experienced, and when it was over, gasping, he felt no shame. He felt hungry for more.

At the gym, the leggings he now wore marked wider hips, a rounder ass. A trainer in his thirties came over, openly letting his gaze travel over him.

—Your squat form is good —he said, his eyes shamelessly dropping to Bruno’s ass—. You’ve got potential.

Bruno should have rejected him. Instead, the word came out before he could think it:

—I’d love that.

That night he crossed another line, imagining those arms holding him, touching him. The pleasure left him wrecked. Madame Muñeca had broken him, and the worst part was that a growing part of him was enjoying it.

***

Against all logic, they went back. Not because they wanted to, but because the suite called to them like a siren song.

—I knew you’d come back —she purred—. Hunger always brings you back.

She laid Sergio on the stretcher and completed his descent. When she stood back up, he was a fratboy by the book: gleaming muscles, granite jaw, eyes empty of complex thought. The boy who had once quoted Sartre drunk had disappeared under layers of simplicity.

—Your turn —she said, turning to Bruno.

He wanted to run. But his body stayed, and the velvet voice wrapped around him as the last resistance dissolved. He felt his hips round out, his chest fill, his waist narrow beneath her gloved hands. When it was over, the person in the mirror was a stunning woman, with impossible curves and shining lips.

—Ah, Bruna —purred Madame Muñeca, appearing in the reflection even though the doors never opened—. My masterpiece. Do you like what you see?

Bruna looked at herself. And for the first time she felt no horror, only recognition, as if she were finally seeing the person she had always been waiting for beneath the surface.

—Yes —she whispered, and it was true—. I like it.

—Of course. Because it was always you. I only helped you remember.

As the elevator descended toward a new life, Bruna understood that the past had been rewritten around her, soft and complete, like water filling every crack. No one remembered Bruno anymore. Only Bruna. Always Bruna. And she, anchored to her memories by her own choice, was the only one who knew the truth of what she had been.

She discovered that she no longer cared. After all, she had always been the kind of woman who enjoys being exactly what she is.

Deep in the campus, a fratboy named Sergio smiled for no reason he could name, feeling that something important had changed, unable to remember what. Madame Muñeca kept her promises. But never in the way one expected.