Go Read Anna Karenina

You can say all you want that YouTube is just cheap dopamine, that the content there is like fast food for your brain — but sometimes, one single video can turn your life so far around, there’s no coming back.

Rayshon, a twenty-year-old guy from the South Bronx, with tattoos scattered across his fingers, cropped jeans, and sneakers that always looked like they were halfway falling off, wasn’t a nerd or a bookworm. He was into beats, concrete courts, and not getting shot just for looking the wrong way. But one day he stumbled on a video — a Black book vlogger, charismatic as hell, dreads swinging, talking about Russian classics with fire in his eyes.

— You, yeah you, read fucking Anna Karenina, man! Not ’cause it’s about rich white folks, but ’cause it’s about pain, passion, and how society breaks a person. Even you, bro.

Rayshon scoffed at the screen, but didn’t skip. Something in the guy’s voice hit deeper than he was used to. Not like some school-ass lit teacher, but like a brother from the block preaching about something that actually hits. A few days later, Rayshon finally got his hands on an old-ass copy of Karenina from the library, where the smell of mold and other people’s stories soaked into your skin. He read it every free moment he had, leaning back on his pillow, hoodie up, while outside someone was pounding like crazy on the neighbors’ doors.

One day, right after a wild scene in the book — where Anna looks into Vronsky’s eyes and for the first time can’t breathe from that twisted mix of fear and desire — he suddenly, nervously snapped his head to the window, ready to shoot everyone out there for breaking the damn moment with some yelling and shattering glass from the street:

— Fuck! — Rayshon slammed the book shut. — Fucking hell, die already, you bastards! I swear to fucking God, I don’t wanna live in this shit — I wanna live like that damn Anna! Drama, feelings, carriages, dresses, all that gasping and moaning... not this bullshit where your neighbor fires into the ceiling ’cause the "music was too loud"!

He threw the book at the wall — and in that moment, instead of a dull thud and maybe something breaking — there was silence. Like something cracked in the air. The light dimmed, and suddenly...

He woke up... sitting on some soft-ass couch. The air smelled like powder, sugared flowers, and something sharp, like old wood soaked in centuries of talk, secrets, and forbidden wants. Rayshon blinked — lace patterns swam before his eyes, drapes, and sunlight filtering through thick burgundy curtains.

— What the… — he started, but cut off. The voice. It was... higher. Softer. With some breathy kind of velvet to it.

He jerked up, sat straighter — and then his chest. The weight. Huge. Warm. Moving on its own like it had its own fucking life. Full breasts, tightly packed in a corset and lace underwear, pushing against the fabric of the dress with every breath.

— NO... — he breathed out (she?), grabbing at himself, desperately hoping this was just some crazy-ass dream. But the fingers — thin, soft, manicured like some stranger’s — touched smooth, silky skin, slid downward, and hit the curve of a thigh wrapped tight in petticoats.

That’s when a voice came from behind:

— Anna Arkadyevna… Are you feeling unwell?

He turned — and it was like he’d fallen into a theater scene, but with no exit to backstage. Standing in front of him was a young maid, cheeks flushed red, eyes full of worry, and this almost real, aching concern.

— Uhhh… what the fuck is this shit!? — he hissed, more to himself than to anyone else. But it came out smooth and melodic, like it wasn’t some street rapper with cracked lips from the cold, but a refined lady at a ball who’d just been served bad tea — and completely forgot her manners.

— I beg your pardon? — the maid recoiled, her cheeks flaring red. — I… I’ll call the doctor at once!

Rayshon — or was he now Anna Arkadyevna? — jerked, trying to grab the girl’s hand, stop her, but stood up so suddenly that he almost immediately staggered. New hips, the unfamiliar weight of tits, and those fucking heels did their job. He collapsed back onto the couch, feeling the tight corset dig into his ribs, crushing his lungs and making it impossible to breathe. It didn’t just feel female — it felt exaggerated, like every cell in his body was screaming: "You ain’t a man no more. Forget that word altogether."

— Wait… stop, don’t call anyone! — he said in a shaky voice, clutching her slender wrists, looking into the maid’s eyes. — I just… uh… slept badly.

She frowned, studying her — him? — with suspicion, but finally nodded.

— You must lie down. I’ll have valerian brought and… — the maid’s voice cut off, like a crack in an old record. The doors flew open.

He — Rayshon, now Anna — flinched. His heart, already used to pounding dumb-fast and high up in his chest, nearly burst out of the corset. A man stepped into the room. No, not just a man — Vronsky. Tall, confident, one of those who owns the room just by standing in it. And fuck, he was handsome. Like out of the damn book. Like in one of those fucking dreams where no one’s firing guns outside the window.

— Anna Arkadyevna… — he said in a soft, almost intimate baritone. — I was told you’re not feeling well.

Rayshon bit his lip. Not out of habit — from the sudden cramp in his stomach. Something inside twisted up, like his whole new body instinctively knew: this man was the goddamn blueprint of masculinity on Earth.

He swallowed. His throat felt dry. Not from fear — from something worse. Embarrassment. From not being able to take his eyes off Vronsky. Off his confident walk, off the way the gloved fingers moved slightly, almost like offering a touch…

"What the fuck, are you staring at him?!" — the voice burst inside him, raw and street and masculine. The voice of Rayshon, the way he used to be. And as Vronsky took a step closer, Rayshon felt everything inside him tighten and pull down — deep down under the corset, where his dick used to be. Still was. Maybe. Somewhere.

"I’m not gay… I’m not… fuck, am I getting off on this guy?!" — he screamed in his head. Vronsky sat down next to him. His knee — male, strong — touched the fabric of the dress. Not even skin. But that was enough. Rayshon’s body reacted. His nipples, pinned down under lace lingerie, spiked up like they had a mind of their own, like they were offended no one had touched them too.

— Anna Arkadyevna, — Vronsky’s voice sounded like a dream, — you’re pale. Allow me…

He raised his hand to touch her cheek, and in that moment, Rayshon squeezed his eyes shut. Not out of fear. Out of the terrifying need he felt. He wanted to lean his cheek into that hand. Like a girl. No — like a heroine in a novel. Like Anna.

"Holy fucking shit, this is so fucking good…" — flashed through Rayshon’s mind with such a pure wave of bliss he almost moaned out loud. Vronsky’s fingers only barely brushed her cheek, but that touch made her whole body melt. Her cheek — burning. Her heart — pounding in her ears. And her tits… God, it was like they were calling out, begging to be touched too. For those strong, confident hands to trace the edge of her corset and squeeze, feeling their weight.

— …ahhhhh… — finally escaped as a short, almost whispering breath.

And right then — BAM. A thought hit his brain like a punch to the back of the head.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

He jerked back. So sharply that his elbow knocked a small silver vase off the couch. It hit the floor with a dull clang and rolled away.

"You just… you just almost fucking came from a guy touching you?!" — panic tore through his chest like an explosion. — "Have you lost your fucking mind, bro?! That’s him! That’s Vronsky, for fuck’s sake, the hero of the novel! And you, you’re a bitch in a dress who just almost moaned when he…"

He tried to pull away, but his body didn’t listen. His brain screamed “Stop!”, but his tits somehow leaned forward again, reaching out toward Vronsky’s hand. The corset creaked faintly with the motion, making it more obvious, and Rayshon realized — he was actually reacting like a woman. Not because he wanted to. But because everything inside him, every muscle, every nerve — it was different now. New. His.

The maid squeaked in fear and stepped closer:

— Anna Arkadyevna?! Are you alright? You're... you’re red as a poppy!

— I… — Rayshon looked up, but had no idea what to say. He was gasping. Literally — from shame, from arousal, from pure fucking terror.

"I just thought I want him to… FUCK! NO!"

He grabbed at the corset, like he could rip it off, like he could somehow reach under this body and flip reality back around. But instead, his fingers hit his breasts again. Soft. Firm. Hot. Fucking cursed.

And it was humiliating. Because even with all the hate for what was happening — his body was aching with desire.

Vronsky frowned and stood up slightly:

— You’re clearly unwell. Should I call for the medic? Or maybe lie you down?

He reached his hand to her — his — waist, as if about to steady or embrace. And Rayshon, terrified by how badly he wanted that touch, exhaled:

— No! Don’t… I… I’m just… too... sensitive today…

The maid blushed even harder and let out a faint giggle. And Vronsky raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pull his hand away.

— A woman’s nature… — he said softly, almost tenderly. — It’s alright, Anna Arkadyevna. I’m here. In case you’d ever want to… talk. Or… something else.

The corner of his mouth curved slightly. He knew. He understood something. Or felt it. And that made Rayshon’s knees go weak. He sank back into the cushions and shut his eyes — to keep from crying. Or moaning. Fuck knows which would be worse.

"This isn’t real… I can’t actually have tits… I’m not a chick?!?!" — he screamed inside. — "But why the fuck do I want him to touch me, goddammit, to touch me! Do I really want that?! And… and for him to admire how beautiful I am! Fucking hell, why do I want that so fucking bad?!"

Rayshon growled through clenched teeth, taking a deep breath and staring into the distance — when suddenly the door creaked again, and not knowing what else to do, he forced a smile onto his face, hoping it was him, Vronsky, coming back. To light up the room again with that goddamn angelic beauty.

But… it was just the wind creaking the door open.

"Fuck! I just wanted to escape my fucked-up shitty life…" — Rayshon thought, still holding that dumb smile, still feeling the trace of that touch on his cheek, still sensing his body craving, his stomach pulling tight, his nipples swollen and waiting — "…and now I’m sitting here like some bitch in a ballgown, praying he comes back and touches me again."