My homie hated his daily commute - an hour both ways on a cramped train, fighting for seats, and he hated having to surrender his seat to pregnant women. So he asked for my help in his little scheme.

It's a mystery how plastic surgeons charge so much - it isn't exactly brain surgery. Just two incisions under his nipples and one over his belly button to install the sacks, then we hooked him up to the pump to fill him fill of silicone gel.

He's never had a very masculine figure and, as his breasts and belly began to bloat and distend, it masked his narrow hips and tight male ass well. I laughed as he jiggled about the apartment, but I wasn't laughing on monday when a gallant gentleman proffered his seat.

Three years later, after three years of his permanent 'pregnancy', the other commuters are starting to get wise, only giving up their seat when he asks sweetly, and then only begrudgingly. He's started dressing and acting the part to improve his chances, to limited success.

Today he's had no luck at all, and turns to me pleadingly, to which I merely laugh and pat my knee. He sulkilly settles his ass in my lap as the train bumps and grinds along.

"Maybe you just don't look pregnant enough," I sooth him, running a finger over his valves, like the inflation nozzles of beach balls, buried discretely under the skin below his breasts. "We still have that gallon drum of silicone gel left over. We can have you looking ready to pop by tomorrow."