Title: "The Fem Virus Chronicles: Confessions of a MILF Variant"
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I used to think that Monday mornings were the worst thing that could happen to a guy. You'll have to forgive me; I was young and stupid back then—two weeks ago, to be precise. If you’d have told me then that I’d be lounging in a pool of estrogen in just 14 days, I would’ve said you were nuttier than a squirrel’s breakfast.
Anyway, I got the Fem Virus. More specifically, the MILF variant. And let me tell you, it was like getting hit by a hurricane that turned me from “Broski” to “Buxom.”
It all started with that sneaky little cough. The next morning, I woke up with these two major—uh, character developments—and a new-found appreciation for Lifetime movies. It only went downhill from there. Quarantine was a blur of researching bra sizes, the sudden urge to bake, and discovering that “breasticles” are not a valid Scrabble word.
By the time my two-week sentence was up, I’d become something straight out of an Insta-model casting call. Hair? Red and flowing like an Irish Setter from a fairy tale. Body? Let’s just say I finally understood why jeans have all those buttons; I was packing a government bonus package in the hip department.
The toilet woes alone deserved their own sitcom episode. I wish I could say my time in isolation was educational, but mostly it was just confusion stacked on confusion.
Friday finally came, and I heard the familiar knock at the door. My best friend Jason had decided to brave the SILK—Sudden Involuntary Lady Kinetics—outbreak to drag me to the beach for some “much-needed fresh air.” I threw on my best bikini, adjusted the girls in their cups, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
I could see the cogs grinding in Jason’s head as his eyes widened like dinner plates. “Dude, thank God you’re here! Are you ready to head out or what?” I said, as casually as one might when newly possessed by Wonder Woman.
Jason blinked, looked behind him to see if he’d teleported into a very different neighborhood, then looked back. “Uh, Charlie? Is that you?”
“Who else?” I responded, plopping a sunhat on my head and striking a beach-ready pose. Jason still looked as disoriented as someone reading an IKEA manual upside-down.
“I thought you caught the Fem Virus. Not the... whole Home Improvement channel lineup.”
“Yeah, turns out I got the deluxe package,” I said, twirling and showing off my fabulous new assets. “MILF variant. They were giving it out like charity samples at Costco.”
Jason still seemed lost at sea. “I… You… This is… Wow.”
“Summers,” I said, clapping my newly manicured hands. “We can gawk later. The beach awaits!”
It was a day of new experiences for both of us. For instance, Jason learned the hard way that wolf-whistling at women doesn’t go down well when one of them bodychecks a volleyball directly into your face. On the other hand, I discovered that suntan lotion requires so much more real estate than before. We both appreciated free drinks from admirers which was nice, but it was Jason's near emotional breakdown from discovering metric oodles of sand can get stuck in a woman’s bikini that made the day truly memorable.
By the time the sun started to dip below the horizon, a new bond had been forged. Jason had picked me up and carried me across the ocean of my newly acquired female experience. I'd grown accustomed to twirling bits of my hair while considering how to navigate this new world.
We watched the last rays of sun fall into the water, feeling like movie stars or Alopecia Barbie at least, adjusting to the quirks of my now estrogen-fueled life. I elbowed him gently and said, “Well, thank goodness for the adventure. What’s next?”
Jason hesitated, before giving a thoughtful nod. “Maybe we can tackle finding someone who isn’t solely interested in your—uh—'twins.'”
I snorted with laughter. “Maybe. But until then, I could totally use a few pointers on WiFi settings and shaving knees.”
And with that, we stumbled into the dusk—two friends adjusting to new norms, busting stereotypes and (mostly) bras along the way.
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a story with dialogue where The Fem Virus was very contagious and only affected men. It would change their genders and make them women. When my friend caught it he had to stay in quarantine for two weeks. Finally I was able to visit him, he sis’s he wanted to head to the beach for some fresh air. So I went up to his front door and knocked on it. When the door swung open a saw a Busty and Curvy redheaded MILF in a sexy looking bikini strut over and look at me with a smile. “Dude thank god you’re here, are you ready to head out or what.” The MILF says to me. I was confused at first but I found out that the MILF in front of me was my best friend who had gotten the MILF variant of the Fem Virus. Write the story from the friend who caught the virus perspective.
Response: I used to think that Monday mornings were the worst thing that could happen to a guy. You'll have to forgive me; I was young and stupid back then—two weeks ago, to be precise. If you’d have told me then that I’d be lounging in a pool of estrogen in just 14 days, I would’ve said you were nuttier than a squirrel’s breakfast. Anyway, I got the Fem Virus. More specifically, the MILF variant. And let me tell you, it was like getting hit by a hurricane that turned me from “Broski” to “Buxom.” It all started with that sneaky little cough. The next morning, I woke up with these two major—uh, character developments—and a new-found appreciation for Lifetime movies. It only went downhill from there. Quarantine was a blur of researching bra sizes, the sudden urge to bake, and discovering that “breasticles” are not a valid Scrabble word. By the time my two-week sentence was up, I’d become something straight out of an Insta-model casting call. Hair? Red and flowing like an Irish Setter from a fairy tale. Body? Let’s just say I finally understood why jeans have all those buttons; I was packing a government bonus package in the hip department. The toilet woes alone deserved their own sitcom episode. I wish I could say my time in isolation was educational, but mostly it was just confusion stacked on confusion. Friday finally came, and I heard the familiar knock at the door. My best friend Jason had decided to brave the SILK—Sudden Involuntary Lady Kinetics—outbreak to drag me to the beach for some “much-needed fresh air.” I threw on my best bikini, adjusted the girls in their cups, took a deep breath, and opened the door. I could see the cogs grinding in Jason’s head as his eyes widened like dinner plates. “Dude, thank God you’re here! Are you ready to head out or what?” I said, as casually as one might when newly possessed by Wonder Woman. Jason blinked, looked behind him to see if he’d teleported into a very different neighborhood, then looked back. “Uh, Charlie? Is that you?” “Who else?” I responded, plopping a sunhat on my head and striking a beach-ready pose. Jason still looked as disoriented as someone reading an IKEA manual upside-down. “I thought you caught the Fem Virus. Not the... whole Home Improvement channel lineup.” “Yeah, turns out I got the deluxe package,” I said, twirling and showing off my fabulous new assets. “MILF variant. They were giving it out like charity samples at Costco.” Jason still seemed lost at sea. “I… You… This is… Wow.” “Summers,” I said, clapping my newly manicured hands. “We can gawk later. The beach awaits!” It was a day of new experiences for both of us. For instance, Jason learned the hard way that wolf-whistling at women doesn’t go down well when one of them bodychecks a volleyball directly into your face. On the other hand, I discovered that suntan lotion requires so much more real estate than before. We both appreciated free drinks from admirers which was nice, but it was Jason's near emotional breakdown from discovering metric oodles of sand can get stuck in a woman’s bikini that made the day truly memorable. By the time the sun started to dip below the horizon, a new bond had been forged. Jason had picked me up and carried me across the ocean of my newly acquired female experience. I'd grown accustomed to twirling bits of my hair while considering how to navigate this new world. We watched the last rays of sun fall into the water, feeling like movie stars or Alopecia Barbie at least, adjusting to the quirks of my now estrogen-fueled life. I elbowed him gently and said, “Well, thank goodness for the adventure. What’s next?” Jason hesitated, before giving a thoughtful nod. “Maybe we can tackle finding someone who isn’t solely interested in your—uh—'twins.'” I snorted with laughter. “Maybe. But until then, I could totally use a few pointers on WiFi settings and shaving knees.” And with that, we stumbled into the dusk—two friends adjusting to new norms, busting stereotypes and (mostly) bras along the way.
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