Around puberty, people begin to worry—some say women do this more than men, but I’m not convinced—about the shape and size of their bodies. They think about it a lot, though the sensible know their bodies will never provide the satisfaction they desire because it is their appetite rather than their frame that bothers them. Having an appetite, of course, alters the shape of your body and how others see it. Starvation; fasting; dieting. These can seem like decent solutions to the problem of appetite or of desire.

The appetite of my new body seemed to be reviving, too. I was coming round because I was aware of a blaze of need. But my form felt like a building I’d never before been in. Where exactly was this feeling coming from? What did I want? At least I knew that my stomach must have been empty. First, I would wake up properly; then I could eat.

My watch was on the bedside table. I could see the numbers with perfect vision, but the strap wouldn’t fit around my thick new wrist. At least I knew it was morning and I’d slept through the night. It was time for breakfast. I could not walk out of the room in my new body without preparation.

I continued to examine myself in the mirror, stepping forward and backward, examining my hairy arms and legs, turning my head here and there, opening and closing my mouth, looking at my good teeth and wide, clean tongue, smiling and frowning, trying different expressions. I wasn’t just handsome, with my features in felicitous proportion. The nurse had asked me to examine my eyes. I saw what she meant. There was a softness in me, a wistfulness; I detected a yearning, or even something tragic, in the eyes.

I was falling in love with myself. Not that beauty, or life itself, means much if you’re in a room on your own. Heaven is other people.

The door opened and the surgeon came in.

“You look splendid.” He walked around me. “Michelangelo has made David!”

“I was going to say Frankenstein has just—”

“No joins or bumps either. Do you feel well?”

“I think so.”

But my voice sounded unfamiliar to me. It was lighter in tone, but had more force and volume than before.

“Go and have a pee,” he said.

In the toilet, I touched my new penis and became as engrossed in it as a four-year-old. I weighed and inspected it. I raised my arms and wriggled my hips; no doubt I pouted, too. Elvis, of course, had been one of my earliest influences, along with Socrates. When I peed, the stream was full, clear, and what I must describe as “decisive.” Putting my prick away, I gave it a final squeeze. Who wouldn’t want to see this! My, what a lot I had to look forward to! My appetite—all my appetites, I suspected—had reached another dimension.

“Okay?” he said.