Myanmarese Neck Coil Forced Feminization has to be a brand new sentence.

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King Kyi Zin could be excused for lacking the patience for visitors. He has lost more in the last year than most men ever dream to possess, starting with the coup that saw him toppled from power. The indignities did not stop there, with his recent forced concubinage to his rival and successor, the ruthless King Yadanar.

And yet he is a sweet and gracious host. Sweeping into the hall with a sinuous, feminine gait, he welcomes us with a tray of tea and sweet delicacies. We are at first taken aback by his appearance. The once muscular man is stretched thin. A delicate silk htaingmathein shows elongated limbs, painfully slender to look upon. As parched as the team is from our journey through the heat of Burma, we question if it is breaching court protocol to be served by a king, even a former one.

"Who?" he replies timidly. "I've never heard of this king you speak of. I am Thiri Yadanar, a mere third concubine to Yadanar. Please, sit, rest, and tell me about your travels."

I can't help but laugh at that. To think that we've traveled weeks on foot through what remains a wartorn country to meet him, only to find ourselves interviewed in turn. But Kyi Zin deflects our questions, politely insisting that he is nobody important and will not speak ill of 'her husband', while casting furtive glances to the two hulking guards that flank the door. When he can be cajoled into talking about himself, he discusses only court fashion, new clothing and jewelry his 'husband' has gifted him, and other feminine matters.

The fall of the king exposed a previously unseen Burmese cultural practice to the wider world. National Geographic has devoted much paper and cellulose to the neckcoils that the Kayan ethnic group use to beautify themselves. Brass coils are wrapped around the neck, progressively lengthening it, a tradition that was thought limited only to women. Kyi is the first example of the practice being punitively applied to a man.

Our host talks for hours, plying us for news of the outside world. Kyi had been well-traveled as a King, a cosmopolitan modernizer who became a familiar fixture of global politics. It is clear the status of concubine has starved him of gossip and attention. At the chiming of midday, a team of handmaidens gather around him. He blushes as they unceremoniously strip him naked, and we see the thick bronze rings binding his flesh. These rings are carefully removed and replaced with ones that are ever so slightly smaller. "I must look beautiful for my husband," he explains breathlessly, as the corset of unyielding bronze crushes another inch from his waist. The soft meat of his thighs bulge upwards above the coils, forming the illusion of generous buttocks, while his chest is forced downwards and out into plump breasts by the weight of metal above. They freshen his make-up and spritz him down with a floral perfume. I ask if he objects to this intimate process being captured on film.

"Of course not. I'm happy for the outside world to see what is happening here," he says through a sweet, strained smile, baring himself for the camera.

Afterwards, he walks us to the palace gate, with the guards closely in tow. "This has been wonderful. You must come back tomorrow," he insists. "Or perhaps I shall find some way to visit you. You're staying at the American embassy, yes?"

Of course, we'll return! How could we possibly turn down the invitation of the most beautiful woman in Burma?