The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the warm, comforting embrace of my partner’s arm around my waist.

Which, since I went to bed alone and single, meant I had hopped again. Not convenient, but I’ve woken up in a new body in far less comfortable situations, so I’m not going to complain.

Speaking of “less comfortable”, though, the second thing that I noticed was that I had to pee.

After a quick “hardware check” of this body’s sensations - female, able-bodied, and not obviously pregnant were the relevant ones at the moment - I gently moved my partner’s arm and used my body’s memories to guide me to the bathroom. After emptying my bladder, I took the opportunity to examine myself in the mirror. 

The woman whose body I now inhabited had opinions about how she looked, especially in the morning, but I find it useful - especially when I’m in a woman’s body - to ignore the years or decades of negative self-image created by beauty culture and use my own fresh perspective.

It was a policy that paid off today. I could tell from my body’s instincts that her early morning routine was to fix her perceived flaws - minor imperfections in her skin, hairs out of place, teeth less than perfectly white. Fortunately, I was in charge this morning, and I instead admired the face that greeted me. Her dark brown hair, rumpled in a way that wouldn’t take much effort to fix, gave an impression of playful disarray. Her gray eyes sparkled as she (I) gazed at her reflection for the first time. Her lips naturally curved into a smile that was welcoming and pleasant without seeming too eager or creepy.

Looking down, I assessed the rest of her body. I adjusted the shoulder straps of the camisole she slept in to cover her modest breasts, and her hips flared just enough to give definition to her slim frame. This was a woman whose body, whether she liked it or not, put her in the daily position of “cute”, with an option of “beautiful” if she was willing to put in enough work. Not a bad body to see in the mirror for as long as I had it.

I crept back into the bedroom, intending to be respectful of my partner’s sleep (and possibly get back under the covers for some more of those wonderful, regulating cuddles?), when I saw that I’d already blown it - she was awake, using her elbow to prop up her head on her hand and watch me walk into the room. Unlike my body, she’d slept naked, and if she had attempted to cover up with a sheet, it had fallen, leaving her bare breasts open to the world - or at least to me. “My love,” she said, “how is it that you always look so gorgeous coming back to my bed every morning, pretending that your pitiful struggles to peacefully escape my grasp left my slumber undisturbed?”

I let out a giggle, feeling warmth spread through my body, and I know I’m going to like my time here. This isn’t the kind of warmth you feel when you get a compliment about your body, or when you’re a 7 who managed to bag a 10, or even when you’re in that opening time of getting to know someone who might become someone special. This is the warmth that comes from being regularly and deeply cared for and loved by someone who accepts you for who you are, and even though that’s a feeling that I’ve never been able to experience for myself, the physical sensation of it courses through the person I inhabit, giving me a contact high unlike any other.

Which means I owe it to the person who will remain when I leave to return the favor.

I strike a pose, thrusting out what hip I have, pushing out my chest, and gazing at my partner through loose strands of unstyled hair. “What, this?” I say in a tone of false protestation. “I just woke up this way…”