Changing one's sex is nothing new. Christine Jorgensen did it long ago, when I was a kid. For a week or so afterward we all made jokes about going to Denmark and then forgot about it.
The process is horrendously expensive, as I understand it. Yet another thing that only people with Big Money can manage to do. I heard a story once about a man who married a woman with Big Money and then nagged her to buy him a sex change operation. The wife gave in to her husband's incessant demands at last, only to find herself married to another woman. I mean, now what? Everyone at the family weddings and funerals was embarrassed to death for her.
What we non-rich people do when we get the urge to become men, or women, or dogs, or movie directors, or peers of the realm, or any other thing that we aren't, is to become novelists. You can write an entire book from the perspective of the world's sexiest woman, for example, dressing yourself up in size six designer gowns and four-inch heels that would cripple your actual feet, and then spend the night in bed with George Clooney or whoever, all from the comfort of your dining room table, without losing a pound or going near a single surgeon. Hell, this is why we write.
Or one of the reasons. Your wild fantasy will sell better if it has a compelling plot, of course, but that's an issue for another day.
© 2015 Kate Gallison