The Genderforge consultation suite was silent but for the hum of refrigerated injectables and the faint clink of surgical tools being rearranged just out of view. On the far wall, a looping animation showed a skull undergoing a sequence of increasingly improbable osteotomies—cuts folding into cuts, bone plates resected and re-anchored like cruel origami.
Riley Phoenixblatt sat behind their desk, unmoving, gloved fingers steepled before them like a surgeon-priest. Their eyes were cold, alert. Hungry.
The door swung open.
Don Hutt lumbered in, coughing like a rusted furnace. His flesh bulged and sagged in unpredictable places. He was wide, pink, and glossy, like something pulled too early from a meat smoker. Smelled like basement and rotten garlic. His beige shirt had surrendered entirely, stretching into topography. He laughed before even reaching the chair.
“HAW hawwww! Jesus Christ, doc, this place smells like a funeral and a whorehouse had a baby. You’re the Phoenixblatt, huh?”
Riley nodded once. “You must be Mr. Hutt.”
He collapsed into the consultation chair like an avalanche of upholstery and mucus.
“I’m here for the full transformation. Feminize me. But not some dainty thing—I don’t wanna be a wilting flower. I want to be one of those jezebel hussies that start wars. You know the one. That little minx on the socials. Sabrina—Sabrina Carpenter. That’s her.”
Riley regarded him as a butcher might a hog with aspirations.
“You want to be unsettlingly desirable,” they said, rising slowly. “I can work with that. But we won’t just ‘feminize.’ We’ll intervene.”
Don’s eyes lit up. He sniffled.
Riley began to circle, voice low and steady:
“First, we perform a multiplanar zygomatic osteodisjunction—a three-part segmentation of the cheekbone. Not to lift, but to reorient the zygomatic flare medially and forward, forcing an artificial infantile contour that will never quite relax.”
Don blinked. “Hell yeah.”
“Then, a pterygoid hamulus reshaping—deep in the skull. Completely unnecessary for aesthetics. But it’ll subtly alter your resonance. Your voice will carry a faint throb of subjugation.”
Don laughed, then coughed. “That’s filthy.”
“Next, we do a custom infranasal excision, where we don’t just shorten the philtrum—we carve a false dip that creates the illusion of a moan caught mid-breath. Your smile will always look on the verge of being interrupted.”
Don whistled. “You’re a demon, doc.”
Riley continued, circling tighter. “We’ll carve a dissonant orbital rim asymmetry—one side subtly higher than the other, imperceptible to most, but enough to produce unease in anyone trying to make eye contact. And I’ll subdermally thread bioinert microfilament into your lower eyelids to produce a faint puffiness that looks like you just finished crying after sex you shouldn’t have had.”
Don squirmed in his seat. “Goddamn. You’re really gonna make me into a wanton little strumpet, huh?”
“I’m not done,” Riley murmured. “We’ll split the mental protuberance into three parts, then reassemble it with slight rotation—creating a chin that pulls away from the symmetry of the skull. Your entire lower face will look like it’s second-guessing its own gender.”
Don wheezed. “Oh, doctor, I want that. Oh, oh, I need that. Oh, my God! Oh, Oh!”
“We’ll perform a retro-maxillary plate recessing, not for projection, but to bury the upper alveolar ridge slightly—subtle dental feminization through skeletal neglect.”
Riley leaned in now, whispering into his ear.
“And finally… I’ll shave the interpalpebral fissure down by 1.3 millimeters with a custom scalpel I forged myself. It will give your eyes a vague, accusatory narrowness. Like you’ve seen sin… and liked it.”
Don trembled slightly, jowls aquiver. “Will I survive it?”
“Survival,” Riley said, stepping back, “isn’t guaranteed. But narrative is. Your legacy is. We are going to doll you up good, Mr. Hutt."
Don said, "Well sling my slop and butter my biscuit and call be a butt, doctor!" He let out one last HAWWGH-laugh and slammed his hand on the table. “Let’s do it. Slice me up, make me into a problem. I wanna walk into a Cracker Barrel and make men ashamed of their wives." He began suddenly yelling: "I need to turn every head in the Denny's!"
Riley smiled, slow and terrible. “Then sign here. And after that, I’ll take your photos. Don’t smile in them—I want your ‘before’ to look like it knew what was coming.”
