Preface

In a spacious convention hall adorned with vibrant banners and booths, the scene was anything but ordinary. "The Body Exchange" was in full swing, a groundbreaking event where individuals could voluntarily swap bodies---age, gender, and physical condition all negotiable---so long as both parties agreed. Under the soft golden lighting, a wide shot revealed a curious contrast: a handful of young men in polo shirts and slacks mingling among a sea of middle-aged, plus-sized women clad in bright floral dresses.

The energy in the room was surprisingly upbeat. Laughter bubbled from every corner, conversations were lively, and despite the strange premise, there was a strange camaraderie forming. High ceilings and elegant decor gave the whole thing a sort of grand, almost surreal respectability, like a job fair or a country club gala that had taken a sudden turn into sci-fi.

Heath, just 23, walked slowly among the booths, absorbing it all. He was tall, fit, wearing a blue shirt and tan pants, and looked like the kind of guy you’d see in a coffee ad---clean-cut and a little too aware of his own good looks. He had signed up for The Exchange on a whim, half-curious, half-daring himself to go through with it. Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to think.

“Hi sweetie,” said a cheerful woman with bright lipstick and soft, jiggly arms as she stepped in his path. “Name’s Lori. I’ve had three kids, but you wouldn’t know it by how tight I keep my tummy.” She gave a wink that made Heath uneasy. “You’d be surprised how fast this body can lose weight. Seriously. Get me on a bike and it just melts off.”

Heath gave her a polite smile and shuffled to the next table.

Another woman---taller, with sharp eyes and short dyed-blonde hair---leaned in with a knowing grin. “I haven’t gone through menopause yet,” she said. “Which means you still get a full hormonal profile---hot flashes not included.” She laughed loudly, and Heath chuckled awkwardly.

Booth after booth, it was more of the same.

“My body is super sensitive, if you catch my drift…”

“I never had children. Tight as a drum.”

“I have had children. Five. But I know how to live in this body. I can teach you.”

Each woman pitched herself with a strange mixture of salesmanship and longing, their eyes always drifting to Heath’s trim frame and smooth skin. They weren’t just selling their bodies---they were trying to buy his. Some were nervous, others assertive. Some flirted outright, while others tried to strike a tone of mentoring, like they were offering him a shortcut to womanhood, with all its mess and mystery laid bare.

Heath started to sweat under the collar of his polo. No one had warned him it would feel this weird. They were all older. They were all overweight. And though their personalities varied, they somehow all felt like the same person in different floral prints---bubbly, bold, and just a little too eager.

He paused near a refreshment table, uncertain.

He could back out. But he knew what that meant---no match, no exchange, maybe no second chance.

Still, none of them felt right. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, exactly. Something different? Younger? Someone like him?

But The Exchange wasn’t about that. It was about who was available. And most women his age weren't lining up to become a man---even a young one. Especially when the men who were available tended to look like him. The power imbalance was stark and unspoken.

Heath scanned the room one last time, unsure if he was making a life-changing decision---or walking into a trap disguised in lavender perfume and promises of rapid metabolism.

"Make a choice," he muttered to himself. "Or leave empty-handed."

He took a breath and turned back toward the crowd of women, each watching him with a hopeful spark in her eyes.

Chapter 1

At The Body Exchange---where science met sacrifice in a convention center dressed like a wellness retreat---the atmosphere was both clinical and intimate, buzzing with murmurs, shifting feet, and the occasional anxious laugh.

In one special wing of the hall, things were different. Here, the pairings weren’t about permanent swaps or identity experiments. They were about relief. Temporary exchanges. Specifically: middle-aged men, often in good health, volunteering to carry the last three to five months of pregnancy for women who’d already done it before---and, frankly, didn’t want to do it again.

It was a strange corner of modern medicine and social progress. But for those involved, it had quickly become a practical, if surreal, solution.

Richard made his way to the convention hall. He passed the lady's room on the way. A long line of heavily pregnant woman waited for their turn outside. Many with a look of desperation.

Entering the hall, Richard stood awkwardly at a booth taking in the sight. He had arrived late to the convention, as he had lost a great deal of time convincing himself to go.

Richard was a handsome man, rugged around the edges, with salt-and-pepper hair and a build that came from years of weekend tennis and just enough self-care. He was pushing 50 and had never imagined he’d be standing under a banner that read "Empathy Through Experience: Shared Pregnancy Opportunities."

His wife Sharon had convinced him. “It’s just a few months,” she’d said, curling her fingers through his. “You always said you wished you could’ve taken some of it for me. Well, now you can. You’ll be helping someone.”

Now that he was here, though, surrounded by heavily pregnant women, fanning themselves and eyeing the dwindling number of middle-aged men with increasing urgency--- Richard was not so sure. Still he plastered a smile on his face and mingled with the other convention people.

A woman named Becca walked over to him.

“Hi,” she said, her voice breathy but sharp. “Thirty-three. Baby number three. I’ve got a toddler and a six-year-old at home. This one was a surprise, and I am done.” She looked him over with frank eyes. “I’ve carried enough. Time for someone else to waddle to the bathroom four times a night.”

Richard managed a polite smile.

Next, a blonde with freckles named Dana: “I’m thirty-one. It’s a girl. My second. I had a really hard first trimester, but now it’s just annoying and exhausting. I can coach you through everything. I’ll even make you freezer meals. Seriously.”

Another: Nina, dark curls pulled up in a messy bun. “Twins. My back’s killing me. I’m thirty-five and not ashamed to say I hate being pregnant. These two little goblins are kicking my bladder like it owes them money. Please, take them.”

Richard shifted on his feet, overwhelmed by how real they all were. These weren’t abstract women---they were tired, swollen, hormonal, and desperate. He could see it in the way they leaned forward, in how their voices cracked from trying to stay persuasive. Each woman had her own personality, her own reasons. Some were sweet and funny. Some were sharp and no-nonsense. But all of them wanted out.

And the number of men left to choose from?...Very few.

His phone buzzed. It was Sharon.

He stepped aside, pressing it to his ear.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Well?” Sharon asked immediately. “Did you pick someone?”

He hesitated. “Not yet. I’m still--- looking.”

There was a pause.

“You’re having doubts,” she said flatly.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s a lot. The whole idea sounded noble when we talked about it, but standing here, listening to them pitch their pregnancies like it’s a timeshare deal---Sharon, I’m not sure I can do this. I don’t even know how---”

“Richard,” she said, her voice cutting in. “You can do it. You’re healthy. You’re kind. You always said you wished men could take on more. Well now’s your chance. Don’t back out because it feels weird. Of course it feels weird.”

“I just---” He looked around. Some women were staring at him now, hope flickering in their eyes. One was quietly crying.

“You made a commitment to consider, Richard. That woman out there? The one who’s tired and terrified and still has a few months left of carrying a person inside her? She made the brave move to show up. Now you have to meet her halfway. IF YOU'RE NOT PREGNANT BY THE END OF THE DAY, DON'T COME HOME!”