My Life at Bovinity

Chapter 1

"Fuck! Fuck... fuck... fuck!"

I said it under my breath, standing on the sidewalk outside Bovinity Inc.'s Los Angeles facility, staring up at the building like it might suddenly sprout teeth. My phone was still open to the job confirmation email, the one that had seemed like a lifeline three days ago and now felt more like a trap.

*Bovinity Inc. Los Angeles Laboratory Department. 1247 Sepulveda Boulevard. Please arrive at 10:00 AM for intake processing.*

It was 9:47.

I could still leave. I could turn around, walk back to the bus stop, go home, and pretend I'd never seen the job posting. I could keep doing data entry for that soulless marketing firm, keep splitting rent with two roommates in an apartment where the shower pressure was a joke and the kitchen smelled permanently like someone else's curry. I could keep checking my bank account every morning and feeling my stomach drop.

Or I could go inside.

The building didn't look sinister, which somehow made it worse. It was all glass and steel, modern and clean, with the Bovinity logo, a stylized "B" that curved in a way that was definitely supposed to look like a breast, etched into the front doors. There were people going in and out, normal-looking people in business casual, like this was just another office. Like they weren't running a facility that paid women to produce milk from their bodies.

Human milk.

For sale.

In a world where drinking cow milk was considered as revolting as eating insects, where every coffee shop and grocery store had been stocked with oat and almond and soy alternatives for as long as I could remember, Bovinity had somehow convinced people that human breast milk was the ethical, premium choice. Sustainably sourced. Nutritionally superior. Totally natural.

And I was about to walk in there and offer to become part of their supply chain.

My hand went to my chest, pressing against the soft fabric of my blouse. I'd spent twenty minutes that morning deciding what to wear, standing in front of my closet in my bra and underwear, trying to figure out what you wore to an interview where the job was literally about your tits. I'd settled on black jeans, the good ones that actually fit my hips, and a fitted green blouse that I'd bought two years ago for a friend's wedding. It was one of the few things I owned that made me feel pretty and put-together, feminine in a way that didn't feel like I was trying too hard.

Six years on estrogen had been good to me, in some ways. My face had softened. My hips had widened, just enough. My skin had changed texture, become smoother, more sensitive. And my chest, God, my chest. I'd gone from absolutely nothing to a modest B-cup, maybe a small C depending on the bra. They were real. They were mine. I'd grown them, cell by cell, month by month, and I was genuinely proud of them even though they were smaller than I'd hoped.

But they'd never done anything. They were just... there. Decorative. A marker of femininity that I'd worked for and earned and loved, but not functional in any practical sense.

Until now, apparently.

If I went through with this.

My phone buzzed. Another notification, my credit card company, probably, or my landlord. I didn't look. If I checked my bank account right now, I'd lose my nerve completely, and I couldn't afford that. Literally. Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars. That's what I had. My HRT refill was coming up in two weeks, and that was another sixty bucks I didn't have, and my roommate had already Venmo-requested me for utilities, and I was so fucking tired of being broke.

Four thousand dollars a month. That's what the job posting had said. *Compensation* $4,000-$*8,000/month depending on production metrics.*

Production metrics.

I still wasn't entirely sure what that meant.

The email had been vague. The website had been vague. Everything about Bovinity was vague in that specific way that made you know something was off, but not off enough to be obviously illegal. I'd spent two hours the night before scrolling through forums and Reddit threads, trying to find people talking about working there. I'd found a few testimonials, all positive, all weirdly polished, like they'd been written by the same person. I'd found some conspiracy theories about hormone experimentation and body modification. I'd found one thread that claimed Bovinity was a front for a sex trafficking ring, which seemed extreme but also didn't not make sense given how little information was publicly available.

And then I'd closed my laptop, taken a melatonin, and decided I was desperate enough not to care.

Except now I was standing outside, and I did care. I cared a lot.

What if this was a scam? What if I walked in there and they asked me to do something I wasn't comfortable with? What if they took one look at me, at my body, at my medical history, at the "M" that was still on my driver's license because I hadn't been able to afford the legal fees to change it, and decided I wasn't what they were looking for?

What if they knew I was trans and that changed everything?

The job posting hadn't said anything about it. The application hadn't asked. But that didn't mean it wouldn't matter. It always mattered, eventually. People always found a way to make it matter.

I thought about the last time I'd been to a new doctor, the way the nurse had looked at me when she saw "testosterone blocker" on my medication list. The way she'd paused, just for a second, before asking if I was sure I'd checked in under the right name. The way I'd had to explain, again, that yes, I was sure, and yes, this was my legal name, and no, I didn't need to see a different kind of specialist.

What if Bovinity was like that?

What if it was worse?

My chest felt tight. Not in a dysphoric way, I'd worked through most of that, or at least learned to live with what remained, but in an anxious, fight-or-flight way. My body wanted me to leave. My brain was screaming at me to get on the bus and go home.

But my bank account was screaming louder.

I took a breath. Smoothed down my blouse. Checked my reflection in the glass doors, hair okay, makeup okay, no visible signs of panic, and walked inside.

The lobby was aggressively corporate. Polished floors, minimalist furniture, a reception desk with a young guy in a button-down who smiled at me like I was a client at a law firm. There was a waiting area to the left with leather chairs and a coffee table covered in magazines. To the right, a hallway with frosted glass doors. Everything was clean. Professional. Legitimate.

It didn't feel like a scam.

It felt worse, somehow. Like a real company that did real things, and I was about to become one of those things.

"Hi," I said to the receptionist, my voice coming out smaller than I wanted. "I'm here for an intake appointment? At ten?"

He glanced at his computer. "Name?"

"Sylvani Reeves. Um, Syli."

"Got it. Have a seat, someone will be with you in just a minute."

I sat down in one of the leather chairs, my leg immediately starting to bounce. There was another woman in the waiting area, blonde, maybe twenty-five, wearing yoga pants and an oversized hoodie that said MANIFEST in gold script. She was filling out a form on a clipboard, her pen moving steadily across the page like none of the questions bothered her.

I envied that.

A woman in navy blue scrubs appeared from the hallway, carrying a tablet. Her name tag read *JESSICA - Intake Coordinator*. She glanced around the waiting area, then smiled at me. "Sylvani?"

I stood up too quickly, nearly knocking my purse off the chair. "Yeah. Uh, most people call me Syli."

"Syli, great. Come on back."

I followed her down the hallway, my heart pounding. The frosted glass doors on either side made it impossible to see what was happening in the rooms, but I could make out silhouettes. Someone sitting in a reclined chair. Someone standing, maybe talking to someone else. It looked medical. Clinical.

That should have been reassuring.

It wasn't.

"So," Jessica said, glancing at her tablet, "you're here for a milker position interview. Have you done any research on what that entails?"

"Some," I said. "I read the website. Watched the video."

The video had been all soft lighting and testimonials from smiling women talking about empowerment and taking control of their bodies. It had felt like an ad for a wellness retreat, not a job where you sold your breast milk.

"Good," Jessica said. She stopped at a door marked CONSULTATION 3 and opened it. "Dr. Okoye will go over everything with you in detail. She's one of our senior physicians. You're in great hands."

The room was small but comfortable, more like a therapist's office than a medical exam room. Two chairs faced each other across a small table. A poster on the wall showed a cross-section diagram of a lactating breast, labeled with terms I only half-recognized. Another poster featured the Bovinity logo above the tagline: *Nourishment. Naturally Human.*

I sat down in the chair closest to the door, just in case.

Jessica lingered in the doorway. "Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Dr. Okoye will be right in."

The door closed with a soft click, and I was alone.

My eyes went to the anatomical poster. Mammary glands. Milk ducts. Areolar tissue. It was weird seeing it all laid out like that, clinical and educational, like something from a biology textbook. I'd spent so much of my transition focused on other things. Hormones, yes. Breast development, sure. But lactation? That had always seemed like some distant, theoretical thing. Something that happened to other people. Cis women who'd been pregnant. Not me.

Except apparently it could happen to me.

If I let them make it happen.

My hand went to my chest again, fingers pressing gently against the curve of my breast through my blouse. I could feel my heartbeat, fast and uneven. I wondered what they'd do. What the process actually looked like. The website had mentioned "hormone therapy" and "mechanical stimulation" but hadn't gone into detail. Would it hurt? Would it change how my body looked, how it felt? Would I still feel like myself afterward?

Would they even want me, once they knew?

The door opened, and a woman in a white coat stepped inside. She was tall, Black, maybe in her forties, with natural hair cropped short and glasses that gave her a serious, intellectual look. Her name tag read *DR. AISHA OKOYE - Endocrinology*.

"Syli," she said warmly, extending her hand. "I'm Dr. Okoye. Thanks for coming in today."

I shook her hand. Her grip was firm, confident, and something about it made me feel slightly less like I was about to pass out. "Thanks for, uh, seeing me."

She sat down across from me and set a slim folder on the table between us. "So. I've reviewed your preliminary application, and I want to start by saying that everything we discuss in this room is confidential. This is a judgment-free space. My job is to make sure you understand what we do here, what we'd be asking of you, and whether this is a good fit for both parties. Does that sound fair?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Definitely."

She opened the folder and pulled out a single sheet of paper, a simplified version of some kind of intake form. "Let's start with the basics. You're thirty years old, you've been on hormone replacement therapy for six years, and you're currently taking estradiol and spironolactone. Correct?"

My stomach dropped. "You, how did you,"

"It was on your application," she said gently. "Under current medications. You listed them yourself."

Right. I had. I'd been so focused on whether they'd ask that I'd forgotten I'd already told them.

"Is that... is that going to be a problem?" I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

Dr. Okoye looked at me over her glasses, her expression calm and matter-of-fact. "Not at all. In fact, it's an advantage. Trans women on estrogen often respond very well to lactation induction protocols. Your body's already primed for it, in a sense. You've been developing breast tissue for six years, that gives us a strong foundation to work with."

Something in my chest loosened. Not all the way, but enough that I could breathe a little easier.

"Okay," I said. "Okay, that's... good."

"It is good," she said. "And I want to be very clear about something, Syli. We work with all kinds of people here. Cis women, trans women, non-binary folks. What matters to us is that you're healthy, that you understand the process, and that you're consenting to participate. Your medical history is just that, history. It's information we need to do our job safely. It doesn't change how we see you or treat you. You're a woman. You're here for a job. That's all that matters."

I felt something hot and unexpected sting behind my eyes. I blinked it away quickly, nodding. "Thank you. I just, I wasn't sure if,"

"I know," she said. "And I'm glad you asked. This is exactly the kind of thing we should talk about up front." She glanced down at the form. "So. Let's talk about what we actually do here, and then you can decide if it's something you're interested in. Sound good?"

"Yeah. Please."

Dr. Okoye leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed and open. "Bovinity's core business is human milk production. We work with adult volunteers, we call them milkers, who agree to undergo a lactation induction process. That means we use a combination of hormone therapy and mechanical stimulation to train your body to produce milk, even if you've never been pregnant or nursed a child. Once you're producing consistently, you come in for regular pumping sessions, usually three to five times a week, and we handle the collection, processing, and distribution. You get paid based on volume. The more you produce, the more you earn."

"And the hormones," I said. "What would that involve? Would it mess with my HRT?"

"We'd be adding prolactin, which is the hormone responsible for milk production. We might also adjust your estrogen levels temporarily to optimize output. Everything is monitored closely, you'd have weekly check-ins with me or one of my colleagues, and we'd track your health markers to make sure you're responding well. If anything seems off, we adjust the protocol or, if necessary, discontinue your participation. We're not in the business of harming our milkers. This only works if you're healthy and comfortable."

Comfortable. That was a funny word for it.

"What about side effects?" I asked.

"Breast tenderness and swelling, especially in the first few weeks. Some people experience nipple soreness from the pumping. Occasionally, mood changes, prolactin can affect emotions, though usually not dramatically. Most people adjust within a month or so." She paused. "The good news is that because you're already on estrogen, your body's used to hormonal shifts. You'll probably have an easier time than someone starting from scratch."

I nodded slowly, trying to process it all. It sounded... reasonable. Medical. Legitimate.

So why did I still feel like I was missing something?

"And the actual job," I said. "What does that look like day-to-day?"

"You'd come into the facility three to five times per week, depending on your production schedule. Each session lasts about an hour. You'd be in a private room with a hospital-grade breast pump, much more efficient than anything you'd buy at a store. We handle the collection, storage, and processing. You show up, you pump, you go home. That's it."

"That's it?"

"That's the core of the job, yes." She smiled slightly. "I know it probably sounds strange. But it's really very straightforward. We're not asking you to do anything dangerous or degrading. You're providing a product that people want, and we're compensating you fairly for it."

I looked down at my hands. My nails were painted a chipped dark purple, I'd done them myself a week ago and hadn't bothered to fix them. My fingers were shaking slightly.

Four thousand dollars a month.

Medical benefits.

Flexible schedule.

I thought about my apartment, the one I shared with two roommates in a building where the hot water only worked half the time. I thought about my student loans, the ones I'd taken out for a degree I never finished. I thought about the last time I'd bought myself something nice, really nice, not just thrifted or on sale, and came up blank.

"Okay," I said. "What do I need to do?"

Dr. Okoye pulled out another sheet of paper and slid it across the table. It was an intake form, the real one, not the simplified version. "Start by filling this out. It's pretty standard medical stuff. Then, if you decide to move forward, we'll do a full physical and bloodwork to establish your baseline health. Assuming everything looks good, we'll begin the induction protocol. That takes about four to six weeks. During that time, you'll come in daily for stimulation sessions. Once you're producing consistently, we move to the regular schedule."

I picked up the form and started reading. The first few questions were easy, name, date of birth, emergency contact. Then it got more specific.

*Have you experienced lactation in the past 12 months? If yes, please describe volume and consistency.*

I checked "No" and kept going.

*Do you have any tattoos, piercings, or body modifications that might interfere with chest monitoring equipment?*

My thumb went to the small silver hoop in my nose. I wrote "nose piercing" in the margin and moved on.

*List all current medications, including dosage and frequency.*

I wrote down my estradiol and spironolactone, my hands steadier now. It felt less scary when it was just information on a page. Just data. Just a job application.

Dr. Okoye watched me quietly, not rushing, letting me take my time.

When I got to the end of the form, there was a section titled ADVANCED PARTICIPATION OPTIONS. I skimmed it quickly. *Enhanced protocols. Pharmaceutical augmentation. Specialized collection methods.* And at the bottom, in smaller text: *Compensation for advanced participants begins at* $10,000/month and may exceed $*20,000 depending on program requirements.*