"MILF Madness: A Gender-Swap Comedy"
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I totally wasn’t going to say it out loud, but walking up to David’s house—knowing he was actually his mom right now—I had a lot of thoughts. Like, wow, David, your mom’s got… *assets*. And technically, that’s you now? Reality TV is getting out of hand.
I rang the doorbell. It flew open. In the doorway stood David-as-his-mom: wild red hair barely tied up, makeup smeared, wearing nothing but a pink, lacy apron and, unless my eyes deceived me, his mom’s underwear. Which didn’t cover up too much, to be honest.
“Dude,” I blurted, already laughing and not sure where to look, “you realize you opened the door to the mailman like that, right?”
He yanked the apron tighter around all the new curves. “Like I care. If one more person tells me I’m ‘brave’ for ‘aging gracefully’ I’m going to burn this house down.”
I tried so hard not to grin, but a snort escaped. “You gonna let me in, or is this a scam to see if I’ll tip you?”
“Just shut up and get inside. The neighbors have a view of the driveway from their kitchen.”
“So modest, Mrs. Robinson,” I teased, stepping in. “It is Mrs., right?” I tried to wink, but I’m not sure if it was more of a full-face twitch.
David huffed and padded into the kitchen, heels clacking on the tiles. “Don’t call me that. You have *no* idea how hard it is to walk in these shoes. I almost rolled my ankle fetching the yogurt this morning.”
I followed, eyeing the disaster of flour and eggs scattered everywhere. “Baking?”
“I tried to make French toast. I caught my reflection in the oven and the sheer…jiggle… made me drop the pan.”
I burst out laughing. “What’s it like having, you know, mom parts?”
He scowled, his lips pursed in a way that was distinctly not-David—but the hands on hips were pure David. “Dude, I’ve never been more terrified of myself. I have to wear these giant bras, and every time I move, it’s like, *physics experiment*. Plus Mom’s group texts. Apparently, I’ve been roped into a bunco night and I have no idea what the hell a bunco is.”
I looked at him. “But why the apron? Not that I mind. Never seen a MIL—-”
He threw a dish towel at me. “One word and I’m blocking you on every platform. Also, apparently you can’t just laze around the house all day. People keep *needing* things from me. I have to make snacks. I had to yell at my little brother for coloring on the dog. I get why my mom hides candy in the laundry room now.”
I grinned. “Yeah, you don’t sound very authoritative right now. You sound like you’re about to list Tupperware on Facebook Marketplace.”
The oven beeped. David-as-mom startled so hard he almost lost the apron. “God! Will I ever get used to these things?” He glanced down warily.
I held up my phone, aimed the camera at him, waggled my eyebrows. “Say cheese, ‘Mom’.”
“Don’t. You. Dare,” he warned, lunging at me—but misjudged his shiny, curvy trajectory and slammed into the fridge instead.
We both howled with laughter, clutching our sides (well, in his case, definitely more to clutch).
He flailed at the strings of the apron. “The second I get my body back, you owe me a week’s worth of pizzas. You have *no* idea how many squats my mom has to do.”
“You survived forty-eight hours as your mom. You deserve your own reality show,” I said.
David rolled his eyes—my friend, trapped in a real-life MILF body, mascara smudged, apron clinging on for dear life—and for the first time, he even managed to laugh about it with me.
“Yeah,” he said. “But only if you sign up as my dad next season. Fair’s fair, bro.”
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: Body swap story with lots of dialogue When I heard my friend’s family got selected for the new show Family Swap I thought it was insane. Apparently, everyone in his family was going to swap bodies with each other. The producers decided a son mom swap would be the best story. So now he is stuck as his mom. He invited me over today he said he needs to hang. I’m not sure why he’s only in his underwear and an apron but I’m not going to complain his mom is a MILF. Make it funny His mom is a busty redhead with big boobs and a curvy ass
Response: I totally wasn’t going to say it out loud, but walking up to David’s house—knowing he was actually his mom right now—I had a lot of thoughts. Like, wow, David, your mom’s got… *assets*. And technically, that’s you now? Reality TV is getting out of hand. I rang the doorbell. It flew open. In the doorway stood David-as-his-mom: wild red hair barely tied up, makeup smeared, wearing nothing but a pink, lacy apron and, unless my eyes deceived me, his mom’s underwear. Which didn’t cover up too much, to be honest. “Dude,” I blurted, already laughing and not sure where to look, “you realize you opened the door to the mailman like that, right?” He yanked the apron tighter around all the new curves. “Like I care. If one more person tells me I’m ‘brave’ for ‘aging gracefully’ I’m going to burn this house down.” I tried so hard not to grin, but a snort escaped. “You gonna let me in, or is this a scam to see if I’ll tip you?” “Just shut up and get inside. The neighbors have a view of the driveway from their kitchen.” “So modest, Mrs. Robinson,” I teased, stepping in. “It is Mrs., right?” I tried to wink, but I’m not sure if it was more of a full-face twitch. David huffed and padded into the kitchen, heels clacking on the tiles. “Don’t call me that. You have *no* idea how hard it is to walk in these shoes. I almost rolled my ankle fetching the yogurt this morning.” I followed, eyeing the disaster of flour and eggs scattered everywhere. “Baking?” “I tried to make French toast. I caught my reflection in the oven and the sheer…jiggle… made me drop the pan.” I burst out laughing. “What’s it like having, you know, mom parts?” He scowled, his lips pursed in a way that was distinctly not-David—but the hands on hips were pure David. “Dude, I’ve never been more terrified of myself. I have to wear these giant bras, and every time I move, it’s like, *physics experiment*. Plus Mom’s group texts. Apparently, I’ve been roped into a bunco night and I have no idea what the hell a bunco is.” I looked at him. “But why the apron? Not that I mind. Never seen a MIL—-” He threw a dish towel at me. “One word and I’m blocking you on every platform. Also, apparently you can’t just laze around the house all day. People keep *needing* things from me. I have to make snacks. I had to yell at my little brother for coloring on the dog. I get why my mom hides candy in the laundry room now.” I grinned. “Yeah, you don’t sound very authoritative right now. You sound like you’re about to list Tupperware on Facebook Marketplace.” The oven beeped. David-as-mom startled so hard he almost lost the apron. “God! Will I ever get used to these things?” He glanced down warily. I held up my phone, aimed the camera at him, waggled my eyebrows. “Say cheese, ‘Mom’.” “Don’t. You. Dare,” he warned, lunging at me—but misjudged his shiny, curvy trajectory and slammed into the fridge instead. We both howled with laughter, clutching our sides (well, in his case, definitely more to clutch). He flailed at the strings of the apron. “The second I get my body back, you owe me a week’s worth of pizzas. You have *no* idea how many squats my mom has to do.” “You survived forty-eight hours as your mom. You deserve your own reality show,” I said. David rolled his eyes—my friend, trapped in a real-life MILF body, mascara smudged, apron clinging on for dear life—and for the first time, he even managed to laugh about it with me. “Yeah,” he said. “But only if you sign up as my dad next season. Fair’s fair, bro.”
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