Par for the Course
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Title: Par for the Course
Once upon a time, Frank was the king of Saturday men's golf league. His rip-roaring drive and laser-like precision made him virtually unbeatable. However, a tiny interference threatened his dominance - a very determined woman, specifically, his wife Gail.
Gail had mandated Frank into 'body swap therapy' - a rising trend in their little suburb, to boost relationship empathy. When Frank emerged from therapy, instead of the usual 6ft2 golf behemoth he was, stood a petite and curvaceous woman with a pixie bob. He'd effectively become his wife Gail.
The transformation didn't at first seem a significant factor to the Saturday golf sessions; it was a game of skill, not physical strength. However, it became a bit awkward for me. A big reason? Well - Gail, or should I say, Frank-in-Gail, was hot, and uncomfortably amusing.
"It won't be that bad, would it?" I mulled as we teed off on our regular sunny Saturday.
I'd underestimated the awkwardness. For starters, he fluffed his swing, and his newfound breasts bobbed hilariously with each effort. He got flustered at the constant giggles from the other members, his cheeks a flaming shade of red.
"Just a bit of trouble with the āfront-end balanceā, eh, Frank?" Tim, our long-time rival, barely managed to say between chuckles. Frank could only huff in reply, adjusting his delicate frame for a tricky par 3.
Frank's swing was profoundly off-kilter, and the ābreast factorā hadnāt done any favors. Newfound curves and unfamiliar balance mechanics meant he often ended face down on the putting green. His borrowed breasts were a humorous spectacle, much to his chagrin and our amusement.
"Heās using his body to win," I joked, but Tim was convinced it was a ploy by Gail to win their long-standing rivalry. "His golf skills were always no better than a kindergarten's; now Gail's cleavage is knocking a few strokes off," he claimed.
I couldn't care less. To me, it was an exciting addition to our mundane matches. My resolve to keep a straight face didn't stand a chance to Frank's feminine waddle or his new penchant for reading golfing tips apparently titled "Golf&Bust".
Over time, Frank managed to figure out his golf swing. The laughing fits subsided, but our Saturday games remained more vivid and comical than ever before. Regardless of who won or lost, the spirit of these golf outings was more important, and 'Frank Gail' brought a load of that.
The moral of the story? Maybe we should all designate a 'body swap day', using our lady bodies to overthrow the staleness of our routines. After all, if Frank-in-Gail could tackle the daunting game of golf with all the right curves, maybe we could too. All this while knowing, of course, that we might end up with questionable swings and an unending string of jokes at our expense.
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAIās large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALLĀ·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a body swap story My buddies wife forced him to go to body swap therapy. He went and now heās stuck in her body. The good news is he can still play our round of golf today, itās just awkward because his wife is hot, I hope he doesnāt use his body to distract me but his new breasts have effected his swing quite a bit.
Response: Title: Par for the Course Once upon a time, Frank was the king of Saturday men's golf league. His rip-roaring drive and laser-like precision made him virtually unbeatable. However, a tiny interference threatened his dominance - a very determined woman, specifically, his wife Gail. Gail had mandated Frank into 'body swap therapy' - a rising trend in their little suburb, to boost relationship empathy. When Frank emerged from therapy, instead of the usual 6ft2 golf behemoth he was, stood a petite and curvaceous woman with a pixie bob. He'd effectively become his wife Gail. The transformation didn't at first seem a significant factor to the Saturday golf sessions; it was a game of skill, not physical strength. However, it became a bit awkward for me. A big reason? Well - Gail, or should I say, Frank-in-Gail, was hot, and uncomfortably amusing. "It won't be that bad, would it?" I mulled as we teed off on our regular sunny Saturday. I'd underestimated the awkwardness. For starters, he fluffed his swing, and his newfound breasts bobbed hilariously with each effort. He got flustered at the constant giggles from the other members, his cheeks a flaming shade of red. "Just a bit of trouble with the āfront-end balanceā, eh, Frank?" Tim, our long-time rival, barely managed to say between chuckles. Frank could only huff in reply, adjusting his delicate frame for a tricky par 3. Frank's swing was profoundly off-kilter, and the ābreast factorā hadnāt done any favors. Newfound curves and unfamiliar balance mechanics meant he often ended face down on the putting green. His borrowed breasts were a humorous spectacle, much to his chagrin and our amusement. "Heās using his body to win," I joked, but Tim was convinced it was a ploy by Gail to win their long-standing rivalry. "His golf skills were always no better than a kindergarten's; now Gail's cleavage is knocking a few strokes off," he claimed. I couldn't care less. To me, it was an exciting addition to our mundane matches. My resolve to keep a straight face didn't stand a chance to Frank's feminine waddle or his new penchant for reading golfing tips apparently titled "Golf&Bust". Over time, Frank managed to figure out his golf swing. The laughing fits subsided, but our Saturday games remained more vivid and comical than ever before. Regardless of who won or lost, the spirit of these golf outings was more important, and 'Frank Gail' brought a load of that. The moral of the story? Maybe we should all designate a 'body swap day', using our lady bodies to overthrow the staleness of our routines. After all, if Frank-in-Gail could tackle the daunting game of golf with all the right curves, maybe we could too. All this while knowing, of course, that we might end up with questionable swings and an unending string of jokes at our expense.
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