The Truth About My Cousin’s Body

My cousin was born without a uterus and with a sealed vaginal canal. Medically speaking, she was intersex. But that didn’t stop her from spending nearly every night out with a different boyfriend, flaunting her supposed sex life like it was some kind of trophy.

One day, she leaned in close with a conspiratorial grin and whispered to me, “You know, Fran, there’s more than one way to make a guy happy.”

I tried to talk some sense into her, warned her about the infections, the risks, the sheer lack of hygiene and honestly, she’s just asking for an STD. But she just laughed it off.

Then she fell for some rich boy—second-generation money, the kind that came with an estate and a last name that mattered. And suddenly, she wasn’t so cocky anymore. She asked me whether she should get surgery to “fix” herself, to make everything work the way a man like that would expect.

I warned her—surgery comes with risks. A woman’s body isn’t some tool made to satisfy a man. If she wanted to be with someone, she had to put her own health and dignity first.

But she wasn’t interested in being careful. She believed her tricks in bed—or whatever version of it she could manage—would be enough to keep him around.

On their wedding night, no matter what tricks she pulled out of her twisted little playbook, he still turned on her. Said she disgusted him.

Word spread like wildfire. The guy’s family kicked her out like yesterday’s garbage. The engagement was called off before the wedding cake had even been cut. Her dream of marrying into wealth? Dead in the water.

She lost everything—her pride, her place in high society and the engagement.

Her dream of marrying into wealth? Dead in the water.

And then she blamed me for it all.

She poured gasoline on me and set me on fire.

“You bitch! If it weren’t for you talking me out of the surgery, I wouldn’t be a laughingstock right now!”

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that exam room—the very day she told me her secret.

——

“Seriously, Fran, it’s the 21st century. You really gotta stop thinking like a nun,” she giggled, twisting her waist like she was auditioning for a music video.

“There are so many ways I can make a guy happy—way more than just that one,” she purred, licking her lips seductively.

“Last night, my boyfriend and I went at it again. He was so wild. We went through eight condoms. Strawberry flavor.”

She actually looked proud of herself. Beaming. Glowing, like she’d won some kind of trophy.

Meanwhile, I just sat there, trembling. Every word from her mouth hit like a knife, dredging up memories from the life I’d already lived—and died for.

I took a long, shaky breath and forced myself to stay calm. My hands clenched into fists under the table, but I smiled.

“Impressive,” I said flatly.

She mistook the sarcasm for praise and lit up even more. “Of course I’m impressive.”

Then she leaned in, that fake smile slipping into something sharper. “Anyway… you’ve been with Owen for what—two years? And you still haven’t done it?” She clicked her tongue. “Aren’t you afraid someone else is gonna swoop in and steal him while you’re out here playing the Virgin Mary?”

I didn’t answer.

“You know, guys don’t care about whether you’re a virgin. What they do care about is whether you can please them. Keep ‘em happy and they’ll never leave.”

Of course she brought Owen into this.

The “boyfriend” she claimed to have had a wild night with? That was Owen Pollard—my boyfriend.

In my past life, I didn’t find out until after I died that she’d been seducing him behind my back. They were already tangled up in each other long before I realized it—right up to the night I was supposed to get married to him.

And even after she burned me alive, Owen still sided with her. He signed an official statement asking the court for leniency on her behalf.

Watching her fake innocence and twisted pride now, I nearly crushed my fists under the table.

“Owen respects my choices,” I said tightly. “That’s why I love him.”

For just a second, something flickered across her face—envy. But it disappeared quickly, replaced with her usual smirk.

“I don’t get it,” she scoffed. “You’re totally healthy, but you treat your body like some priceless relic in a museum. What a waste.”

She leaned in even closer, voice like poison-laced honey. “But hey, if you’re so set on staying a virgin, maybe try taking a few lessons from me.”

I pulled off my gloves and gestured toward her clothes. “Aren’t you worried your mom’s gonna find out?”

That wiped the smirk clean off her face. Her hand froze mid-button and her eyes narrowed.

“She won’t find out,” she said sharply. “Not unless someone tells her. And you’re not stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds you, are you, Cousin?”

Back in college, when I lost both my parents in a car accident, it was Aunt Hannah who stepped in and paid my tuition. She made sure I graduated from med school.

But that generosity came at a price.

Aunt Hannah wasn’t a saint. She used to be the mistress of a powerful businessman, hoping to lock down her place in the elite by giving him a son. But life played a cruel joke on her: she gave birth to Alison—intersex, sterile and entirely useless to her dreams of marrying up.

So, she took the hush money, raised Alison alone and never gave up on the fantasy of trading her daughter for a shot at high society.

When I became a doctor—an OBGYN, no less—she saw her chance.

She wanted me to operate. Clear the canal. Stitch on a fake hymen. Make Alison look like a blushing virgin so some rich man would never know the difference. And since post-op care would be an ongoing thing—hormones, maintenance, therapy—I’d be the perfect built-in solution.

But she didn’t know was that her daughter’s been actively destroying herself.