Having no use for her uterus she decided to sell it to the highest bidder. It was healthy, disease free and most importantly, up to the task of baby building. She put her details on the transplant register, sat back and waited for offers from barren billionaires to roll in. She didn’t have to wait long.
The highest bidder was a Mr. Stiltskin. It seems he’d been promised a few first born children but all had reneged on the deal, so now he was eager to incubate one himself. She signed on the dotted line.
A week later she awoke in her hospital bed covered in bandages like an Egyptian mummy. She hadn’t read the small print. Mr. Stiltskin had taken everything. He wanted to begin life anew as a woman, not a freaky hermaphrodite. She was now featureless. A tabula rasa with the money to become whatever she pleased.
She lay in bed, wrapped in her bandages, pondered the possibilities.
Copyright April 2013