Chapter 2: The Clinic Consultation
The scent of expensive cologne couldn’t quite mask the sterile smell of anticipation. Ashraf had insisted on lighting a sandalwood candle, a futile attempt to ground the room, but the air in the penthouse living room still felt charged, thin. The laptop sat open on the mahogany desk like an unblinking eye, its screen dark but waiting.
Mehdi paced. The plush ivory rug swallowed the sound of his footsteps. He wore soft linen trousers and a simple silk camisole, his hair pulled into a loose bun. He’d repainted his nails that morning—a calm, pearlescent grey. A focusing ritual.
“You’re wearing a trench in the wool,” Ashraf said from the sofa. She was deliberately still, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, dressed in a crisp black henley and dark jeans. Her posture projected a real estate agent’s calm, but Mehdi saw the tightness in her jaw.
“It’s 7:55,” Mehdi said, not stopping. “She said eight our time, which is… what? Three PM for her?”
“Four. Sweden is ahead.” Ashraf’s voice was patient. “Come sit. You’re making me nervous.”
“You don’t get nervous.”
“I do when you look like you’re about to levitate.”
Mehdi forced himself to stop at the floor-to-ceiling window. The city’s neon pulse was muted in the morning light, everything washed in pale gold. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass. “What if she says it’s impossible? What if she laughs?”
“Then we have a funny story for our therapist, and we focus on the surrogacy path. But she won’t laugh.” Ashraf stood and came up behind him. Her hands settled on his shoulders, their weight immediate and calming. “Dr. Eva Larson is a pioneer, not a comedian. She answered your initial email, didn’t she? She agreed to the call.”
Mehdi leaned back into her, feeling the solid wall of her chest. “Yeah.”
The laptop chimed, a sharp, cheerful sound that made them both jump.
“Showtime,” Ashraf murmured, giving his shoulders a squeeze before striding to the desk. She clicked to connect.
The screen resolved into a well-lit, minimalist office. A woman in her late fifties with a severe silver bob and wire-framed glasses smiled politely. “Mr. and Mr.Khan? I am Dr. Larson.”
“Please, Ashraf and Mehdi is fine,” Ashraf said, smoothly taking the lead. She angled the camera to include Mehdi, who had glided into the chair beside her.
“Of course. Thank you for your time,” Mehdi said, his voice steadier than he felt.
“The pleasure is mine. Your query was one of the most detailed I have received.” Dr. Larson’s accent was soft, her tone precise. “You wish to explore the feasibility of a uterine transplant for gender-affirming purposes, with the goal of gestation.”
“Yes,” Mehdi said. The words, spoken aloud to this authority, made his skin prickle.
“I will be direct. The procedure is experimental for cisgender women with uterine factor infertility. It involves a living or deceased donor, a complex vascular and ligamentous connection surgery, immunosuppressive therapy for the life of the graft, and eventual IVF for embryo transfer. The first successful birth from a transplanted uterus occurred less than a decade ago. We are pioneers on a very narrow ledge.”
Mehdi nodded, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “I’ve read all the major studies. The one from the Baylor trial. The Swedish team’s protocols. I understand the graft survival rates at two years are around eighty percent.”
Dr. Larson’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You have done your homework. That is correct. But you must understand—those rates are for recipients whose pelvises are… anatomically congruent. Your transition has involved genital reconstruction. A vaginoplasty.”
“Yes. I had a penile inversion vaginoplasty twenty months ago.”
“The neovaginal canal is typically created between the bladder and rectum. To introduce a uterus, we would need to identify and connect to stable, robust vascular pedicles in that region—the internal iliac arteries. The surgery would be… uniquely complicated. The risk of fistula, of graft necrosis, of catastrophic hemorrhage, is not insignificant. It would be a world-first. No team has attempted it.”
The room felt very cold. Mehdi heard the clinical terms not as rejections, but as obstacles on a topographical map. He leaned forward. “But is it anatomically possible? In theory, if you have a donor uterus with sufficient vessel length, could it be anastomosed? Could the ligaments be anchored?”
Ashraf made a small, choked sound next to him.
Dr. Larson was silent for a long moment, studying him through the screen. “In theory,” she said carefully, “given meticulous pre-operative imaging and a surgical team with microvascular expertise in both transplant and transgender surgery, it is… a conceivable mountaineering expedition. But I would not call it a path.”
“What would you need from me?” Mehdi asked, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Extensive imaging. MRI, CT angiography. A laparoscopic exploratory surgery simply to map your pelvic vasculature in detail. Then, a psychological evaluation that would be more rigorous than any you have undergone. You must prove not only your resilience, but your understanding that failure is the most likely outcome. That you could undergo this and never carry a pregnancy. That the graft could fail in a month, a week. That you would be on immunosuppressants for nothing.”
“I understand,” Mehdi said. And he did. The risks were terrifying, real things that clicked into place in his accountant’s mind like entries on a balance sheet. The liability column was massive. The asset column held one item: a possibility.
“Why?” Dr. Larson asked, her professional detachment softening by a degree. “Surrogacy is a well-established, safer path to parenthood.”
Mehdi felt Ashraf’s gaze on him. He didn’t look away from the screen. “Because I want to feel my child grow inside me. I want the first kick. I want the backaches and the heartburn and the swell. I want to look down and see my body changed by our creation. A surrogate is a solution. This… this would be an integration. Of everything I am.”
The silence on the call was heavy. Dr. Larson removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I will not give you false hope. This is a decade away, minimum. The ethical boards alone… it would be a fight. But.” She put her glasses back on. “Your imaging would be valuable research. If you were willing to undergo the exploratory laparoscopy, the data could contribute to the field, regardless of your personal outcome.”
“We’ll do it,” Mehdi said immediately.
“Mehdi,” Ashraf said, her voice a warning rumble.
“We’ll do the imaging,” Mehdi amended, reaching for Ashraf’s hand under the desk. He found it clenched. He pried her fingers open and laced his through them. “We can discuss the exploratory surgery after we see the maps.”
“That is reasonable.” Dr. Larson nodded. “I will have my coordinator send you the information for the specific scans we require. You can have them done locally and send the DICOM files to me. We will speak again after I review them.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Ashraf said, her professional mask back in place. “We appreciate your honesty.”
“Good luck,” Dr. Larson said, and the screen went black.
The hum of the laptop fan seemed suddenly deafening. Mehdi let out a long, shuddering breath. His body felt light, buzzing.
“A decade,” Ashraf said flatly, pulling her hand away. She stood up and walked to the window, her back to him.
“She has to say that. To manage expectations. If we have the maps, if the anatomy is there, it could move faster.”
“If.If. If.” Ashraf turned, her expression strained. “Hemorrhage, Mehdi. Graft necrosis. Immunosuppressants for a maybe. You heard her. It’s a mountaineering expedition on a cliff no one’s ever climbed.”
“I know.” He went to her. He didn’t touch her, just stood beside her, looking out. “I heard every word. They’re just things. Problems to solve. We’ve solved bigger ones.”
“We solved your ones. This is different. This is creating a whole new set of problems from scratch.” She ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. “I just got you. I finally got all of you, here, healthy, alive, fucking vibrant. And now you want to hand your body over to the world’s most experimental meat-cutters for a chance at something that might kill you.”
“It won’t kill me.”
“You don’t know that!”
Her shout echoed in the quiet room. Mehdi didn’t flinch. He saw the fear beneath the anger, raw and pulsing.
“I don’t,” he admitted softly. “But I know that not trying would kill something in me. Slowly. I’d wither, Ash. You’d watch me wither. We’d have our baby from a surrogate, and I’d love them with every piece of my soul, but there would always be this… ghost of a feeling. A phantom limb where a uterus should be.”
Ashraf stared at him, her chest rising and falling. The fight seemed to drain out of her shoulders. “God, you’re a stubborn bitch.”
A slow smile touched Mehdi’s lips. “Takes one to know one.”
Ashraf barked a short, helpless laugh. She dragged him into a hug, crushing him against her. “I hate this. I hate being scared for you.”
“I know.” He melted into the embrace, his face buried in the cotton of her henley. “So let’s be scared together. And let’s get the damn pictures taken.”
They held each other for a long time, the city moving silently below.
The surrogacy agency was in a beige building downtown, all soothing colors and potted ferns. The consultant, Linda, had a voice like warm honey and a folder full of success stories.
“The process is quite straightforward,” Linda explained, smiling at them across a wide oak desk. “You’ll create your embryo—we work with several excellent fertility clinics for IVF. We then match you with a pre-screeted gestational carrier. All our carriers are financially compensated, of course, and the relationship boundaries are clearly defined from the start. You can be as involved in the pregnancy as you and the carrier agree.”
Mehdi listened, nodding in the right places. He asked intelligent questions about legal parental rights, about health insurance for the carrier, about average timelines. Ashraf, in her element, negotiated the potential fee structures, her sharp mind cutting through the jargon.
It was all so sensible. So clean. A flowchart to a family.
In the elevator going down, the silence was thick.
“She was nice,” Mehdi offered.
“She was a salesperson selling a very expensive product,” Ashraf said, buttoning her suit jacket. “But the product works.”
They stepped out into the midday bustle. The sun was harsh. Ashraf slipped on her sunglasses. “Do you want to get lunch?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Me neither.”
They walked a block without direction. They passed the bar Mehdi had mentioned weeks ago—the one with the pool tables. The door was open, releasing a gust of cool, beer-scented air and the crack of balls.
Ashraf stopped. Looked at Mehdi. A challenge sparked in her eyes, cutting through the medical fog. “You wanted to know what it’s like.”
Mehdi’s stomach flipped. “Now?”
“Why not? We just talked about making a human. What’s a little flirtation compared to that?” She took his hand, her grip firm. “Come on. One game. See how it feels.”
The interior was dark, cavernous. A few guys clustered around tables, the green felt illuminated by hanging lamps. Country music played low from speakers. The air smelled of stale beer and pine cleaner.
They chose a table in the back. Ashraf racked the balls with practiced efficiency. “Break?”
“Go ahead.”
Ashraf leaned over the table, the line of her body powerful and focused. She cracked the triangle with a thunderous shot, scattering colors. Two solids dropped.
A man two tables over whistled low. “Nice break.”
Ashraf didn’t look up. “Thanks.” She sank another ball. “Your shot, babe,” she said to Mehdi.
Mehdi took the cue, his fingers trembling slightly. He lined up a simple shot on the three-ball and missed entirely.
“Tough angle,” the same man said. He was in his forties, with a goatee and a friendly, curious face. He ambled over, holding his own beer. “You guys new here?”
“Just passing through,” Ashraf said, her voice neutral. She chalked her cue, her stance protective.
“I’m Greg.” He nodded at Mehdi. “You’ve got a great stroke. Just need to loosen your wrist a little.”
Mehdi felt a flush creep up his neck. The attention wasn’t threatening. It was… appraising. Greg’s eyes lingered on Mehdi’s hands wrapped around the cue, on the line of his neck, on the subtle swell of his chest under his blouse. It was the look of a man noticing a woman.
“Thanks,” Mehdi said, his voice a little breathy. He tried again, focusing on his wrist. The cue ball struck the three, which wobbled and dropped into the side pocket.
“There you go!” Greg smiled. “See? Natural.” He took a swig of his beer. “You two a couple?”
“Yeah,” Ashraf said, sinking the eight-ball with a definitive clack. Game over. She straightened up, meeting Greg’s gaze directly. “We’re married.”
“Right on,” Greg said, unfazed. He was still looking at Mehdi. “Lucky guy.”
The words hung in the air. Guy. He saw Ashraf as the man. He saw Mehdi as the other man. The math of their appearance added up to a perfectly ordinary equation in his world.
A wild, giddy thrill shot through Mehdi. It worked. In this dim, anonymous bar, their truth was the only truth. He felt a smile spread across his face, genuine and bright. “I am,” he said, looking at Ashraf. “Very lucky.”
Greg smiled back, tipped his beer, and wandered back to his friends.
Ashraf moved closer, her body crowding Mehdi against the edge of the table. Her voice was a low growl in his ear. “See? You’re a natural. In every way.” Her hand slipped down, giving his ass a firm, possessive squeeze through his trousers. “Now let’s get out of here before I decide to put on a real show for him.”
Back in the penthouse, the tension from the morning had transmuted. The medical mountain was still there, but the afternoon had proven something else—their life, as they lived it, was already a success.
That night, Ashraf’s lovemaking was different. Not the reverent worship of the previous night, nor the aggressive possession of the rooftop. It was deliberate, a reclamation. She laid Mehdi on the deep velvet sofa under the window, the city lights his backdrop. She undressed him slowly, kissing each nipple, each piercing, the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.
“Greg was right,” she whispered, her mouth hovering over his smooth, hairless pussy. “You are a natural.” She licked a slow, teasing stripe, and Mehdi arched off the cushions with a cry.
Later, when he was boneless and sated, Ashraf carried him to the bathroom. She ran a hot bath, pouring in lavender oil. They slid in together, the water sloshing gently. Mehdi sat between Ashraf’s legs, his back against her chest.
Ashraf’s arms floated in the water, hair swirling around the powerful muscles. She nuzzled his damp hair. “We’ll schedule the scans tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“And we’ll put a deposit down with the surrogacy agency.”
Mehdi twisted to look at her. “Both?”
“Both paths. At the same time. Like we said.” She kissed his shoulder. “We climb the mountain on paper. We build the family on the ground. We do it all.”
Mehdi turned fully, sloshing water over the rim, and straddled her lap in the tub. He framed her face with wet hands. “I love you. So much it feels like my new ribs can’t contain it.”
Ashraf’s hands gripped his hips under the water. “I know the feeling.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes serious. “Just promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“If the mountain looks too steep… if the doctors say the cliff is sheer… we walk back down. Together. And we never look at it as a failure. We look at our kid, in our house with the green fridge, and we call it victory.”
Tears welled in Mehdi’s eyes, mixing with the bathwater on his cheeks. He nodded, a lump in his throat. “I promise.”
She believed him. He saw that she did. It was enough. For now, in the warm, scented water, with the pulse of the city a distant heartbeat, the two paths ahead seemed not a divergence, but parallel tracks, both leading home.
For now, in the warm, scented water, with the pulse of the city a distant heartbeat, the two paths ahead seemed not a divergence, but parallel tracks, both leading home. Ashraf’s hands slid from his hips up the slick plane of his back, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned fully under the surface. The water displaced around them, a warm wave sloshing onto the tile.
“Remember that god-awful suit you used to wear?” Ashraf murmured, her lips moving against the shell of his ear. “The grey one that made you look like a haunted accountant?”
Mehdi laughed, a low, liquid sound. He rested his forehead against hers. “It hid everything. I wanted it to hide everything.”
“It did. It hid this.” Her hand slipped between them, fingers finding him under the water, stroking with a knowing, slippery pressure that made him gasp. “Fuck that suit. Fuck that scared little man who zipped himself into it every morning.”
“He was so quiet,” Mehdi breathed, his hips moving rhythmically against her hand. “He never made a sound.”
“I know. I lived with him. Now look at you.” She increased the pressure, her thumb circling his clit with a precision that shattered his thoughts. “You’re so fucking loud. You scream. You beg. That quiet man would have died of shame.”
“He’s dead,” Mehdi panted, the words tumbling out. “You killed him. Every time you fuck me, you kill him again.”
“Good.” Ashraf’s voice was a dark promise. She shifted, lifting him effortlessly in the water, turning him so his back was against her chest again. Her arms locked around his torso, one hand still working between his legs, the other palming his breast, pinching his nipple through the wet silk of his camisole. “And what about that pathetic little dress you tried to make me wear to your cousin’s wedding? The pink one with the flowers.”
Mehdi groaned, arching back into her. “You looked miserable.”
“I was drowning. It was like being wrapped in a sickly-sweet apology. I looked like a goddamn cake topper.” She bit his shoulder, not hard, but with possession. “You like this better, don’t you? This chest? This cock? This is what was underneath that pink disaster the whole time.”
“Yes,” he hissed, his hand flying down to cover hers, urging her fingers deeper, faster. “I dreamt about it. I dreamt about what was screaming to get out.”
“You got it out. You set it free. And now it’s mine.” Her thrusting fingers mirrored her words, claiming, filling. “My big, thick cock that your old useless little dick could never even dream of being. Tell me.”
“Yours is bigger,” Mehdi choked out, riding her hand, the water churning around them. “It’s so much bigger. It fills me up in ways he never could. He was a ghost. This is real.”
“Damn right.” She withdrew her hand suddenly, leaving him empty and trembling. Before he could protest, she stood, water cascading from her body. She hauled him up, stepping out of the tub, and carried him, dripping, to the bedroom. She tossed him onto the disheveled sheets.
She loomed over him, a powerful silhouette against the ambient city light. “Spread your legs. Let me see what I paid for. Let me see what replaced that sad, hairy mess you used to have between your legs.”
Mehdi obeyed, trembling, exposing himself completely. The cool air hit his wet skin, pebbling his nipples, tightening everything.
Ashraf’s gaze was a physical touch. “Smooth. Perfect. An actual fucking pussy. No more pretending. No more tucking that sad, shriveled thing away and hoping no one noticed.” She crawled onto the bed, settling between his thighs. “He could never take me like you do. He’d have cried.”
“I would have cried,” Mehdi admitted, reaching for her. “It would have hurt. It would have felt wrong.”
“This doesn’t hurt.”
“It never hurts. It just feels like coming home.”
Ashraf sheathed herself inside him in one deep, unforgiving stroke. Mehdi’s back bowed off the bed, a raw sound tearing from his throat that was pure pleasure, pure recognition.
“Talk about her,” Mehdi gasped, his nails scoring her back. “Talk about that sad girl you buried.”
Ashraf began to move, a relentless, driving rhythm that shook the bedframe. “She was weak. Her hips were too wide, her voice was too high. She made people comfortable. I hate making people comfortable.” Each thrust punctuated a word. “I. Want. To.Make. Them. Nervous. I want this cock to make them nervous.”
“It does,” Mehdi cried, wrapping his legs around her waist, taking her deeper. “It makes me nervous. In the best way.”
“Good.” She slammed into him, her breath hot and ragged against his neck. “That girl would have been a mother. She’d have done it the ‘right’ way. She’d have been miserable. You’re going to be a mother my way. On my terms. With this body we built from the ashes of that fucking dress.”
The profane poetry of it unlocked him. His climax hit without warning, a silent, breathless seizure that clamped around her, milking her own release from her with a guttural shout.
She collapsed atop him, a welcomed, crushing weight. Their sweat and bathwater mingled on the sheets. The only sound was their ragged breathing slowly syncing.
Mehdi traced the hair on her forearm. “We’re so mean to them.”
“They deserve it.” Ashraf kissed his collarbone. “They were terrible tenants. They left the place a wreck.”
He smiled into the dark. The ghost of the haunted accountant and the ghost of the woman in the floral dress seemed to dissolve completely, exorcised by the sweat-slick, trembling reality of the bodies they inhabited now. The parallel tracks gleamed ahead, clear and certain.