Every homeless in the city had their spot, and the place beside the Gender Vender was Jonah’s. He was proud of it. The booth had been installed at the entrance to the train station for commuter access, and often they'd throw a few coins into his cup, since only the well-to-do had the cash for genital rental. Jonah had wedged his bedroll and meagre possessions down the right side of the booth, near the vents. They always blew a steady stream of warm, slightly meaty air, which was very much appreciated during the winter months. They were an unpleasant source of heat and moisture in summer, but even then he rarely dared to leave such a prized position for fear of somebody else taking it.

Jonah got to see the inner workings of the machine whenever the engineer came to repair it. Skins filled its rear compartment, hanging like lumpy pink coats in a wardrobe, turned inside out to expose the inner blood vessels to the nutrient mist that filled the interior, and kept warm by blasts of oxygenated air. Stray dogs liked the area too, and were always sniffing around, trying to determine why it smelled enticingly like a butcher.

The people who used the vending machine often did so regularly, twice each day. They would drop their skins off in the morning before work and collect them in the evening on the way home. He knew most of their faces well - both of them. Here came Roger from the 07:15 train, puffing across the concourse in his ill-fitting suit, his focus fixed on his mobile phone. He was watching TikTok - not because he wanted to; he simply lived in mortal fear of being considered out of touch. Roger glanced up from his phone and gave a cheery 'hullo' as he stepped up to the machine's terminal. He slotted in his credit card and keyed in his details.

"Welcome back, valued customer," said the Gender Vender. "Your face is being prepared. One moment."

"Morning, Roj'. Still eating tide pods?"

"That was last week. It's the Benedryl Challenge now," Roger said glumly. "Bloody kids."

"Bah, I was doing that before it was cool," Jonah squarked.

"Would you mind holding my coffee while I change? I hate it when bits of skin fall in it."

Jonah took the cup with a toothless grin. "Wouldn't want a skinny latte, eh?" He chortled at his own joke.

Roger clutched his gut and tensed as if sensing a jibe. "Oh, haha, yes. Very good." He reached into his pocket and dropped a few coins into Jonah's cup. "You doing alright?"

"You know me, can't complain." Jonah inclined his head at the booth as it whirred, its internal mechanisms sorting through its dozens of stored skinsuits. "You know I think it's a shame that nice people like you have to pretend to be something they're not to get by in life."

"Yes, well, I'm not keen on it either," Roger sighed. "I'd give it up tomorrow if I could."

"Always a spot for you if you do," Jonah said amicably, patting the cold concrete floor beside him.

"That's... kind of you," Roger replied weakly.

The machine chimed to announce that his skinsuit was ready, and the front glass panel swung open. He squeezed his broad body into the inner compartment. The panel swung closed.

Wet squelching and the buzz of a circular filtered through the vending machine's vent. The slick peeling noises no longer phased Jonah, nor the slap of meat hitting the floor. Ten minutes of automated surgery later, the panel swung open and disgorged a slender young woman. Her tanned skin was an ornately tattooed art piece.

"Thank you," she said, taking the coffee from Jonah's hands. She paused to flick a hairy scrap of male flesh from one shoulder.

Roger worked in digital marketing, and was the most senior member of his team by around 200%. Their youth was a terrifying enigma. 'They're so bloody cool. So damn confident,' he often said enviously. 'They know nothing and act like they know everything!' He was terrified of being found obsolete. Perversely, the only way to alleviate his imposter syndrome had been to become someone else.

Sienna was a 20-something, almost painfully hip young zoomer. She was a militant vegan, and loved Taylor Swift, K-pop, and all the other drivel that Roger's 40-year-old brain cringed away from. He squirmed inside her tight skin, smoothing the creases of his shorts over his pert rear. Despite appearances, she remained every bit as awkward as the man she was, albeit pretty enough to pass it off as quirky.

Jonah glimpsed Roger’s dangling, dripping fleshsuit being pulled deeper into the Gender Vender by machine limbs. The front panel snapped shut. The booth wished Jonah a pleasant day, sang its little recorded jingle after him, and tried to upsell women's underwear. A metal token dropped into the machine's slot - the coat-check ticket for his face and genitals. Roger wedged it carefully in the skin-tight pocket of his shorts and left for work.