chrishell
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2024
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Jenny had done her research. She was well into her transition and wanted to put the icing on the cake with facial feminization surgery. She’d read the FFS forums, watched the videos, sifted through horror stories and glowing reviews alike. Still, nothing prepared her for the moment she stepped into Dr. Riley Phoenixblatt’s office for a facial feminization surgery consultation. The green walls were stifling. Riley—bloated, glistening, and grinning behind thick glasses—extended a gloved hand and launched into a monologue before Jenny could even sit. Riley’s energy was manic, breathless, dollybusted, and evangelical. They waved a handheld mirror like a magician’s wand and asked, “Do you want real gender? Or do you want aesthetic emancipation?” Throughout the event, Jenny caught no less than nine whiffs of Riley's breath: some peculiar mixture of rotten eggs, sulphur, and floral incense.
The consultation quickly spiraled into something grotesque. Something slopslung, something slungslopped. Riley proposed a 20-part surgical journey, one that began with jaw deconstruction and nasal cartilage liquefaction, and ended—somehow—with experimental vocal nerve rewiring and a proprietary technique referred to only as “cheekbone frothing.” They detailed each phase with gruesome enthusiasm, occasionally interrupting themselves to cite obscure papers or quote Judith Butler in mangled Latin. At one point, they pulled a laminated chart from a drawer titled “The Seven Pillars of Genderbone Manipulability.” Jenny tried to keep up, nodding politely, but her stomach began to churn as Riley casually mentioned harvesting “unused epiglottal tissue” from non-consenting cadavers. “It’s not technically illegal,” Riley added with a wink. “It’s transgressive.”
By the end of the appointment, Jenny felt less like a patient and more like a guinea pig in a Kafkaesque performance art piece. This doctorate-holding enby was devoid of all altruism. The paperwork in front of her was dense, written in a mix of bureaucratic jargon, and what seemed like improvised legalese, a veritable towncelled salade de mots à la carte. Riley was now pacing, rhapsodizing about “gender asymptotics” and a new surgical frontier involving powdered bone. Jenny stood up slowly, murmured a thank-you, and backed out of the office as Riley began outlining a bonus procedure to “feminize the soul.” As the door shut behind her, Jenny let out a shaky breath. She had come seeking transformation—but left certain that Riley Phoenixblatt was not a surgeon. Riley was a hack, a deluded zealot cloaked in latex gloves and ideology, and Jenny was lucky to have escaped before becoming another of their tragic footnotes.
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