Sexy Book of Sexy Sex (38 page)

The Sexy Pill of Sexy Sex

The ultimate compendium of sexual knowledge in convenient pill form. Do not take while operating heavy machinery or risk losing virginity to a backhoe.

The Sexy Suppository of Sexy Sex

All the benefits of the Sexy Pill of Sexy Sex without having to track down a glass of water. Great for babies and pets. Not so great for chili cook-offs.

The Sexy Ride of Sexy Sex

Sex can be an emotional rollercoaster. So why not learn about it on one? This educational thrill ride will make you scream one way or another. Like all good sexual encounters, be prepared to wait in line.

‘THE GAZELLEMO AFFAIR’

Nothing is more annoying than having to slice a throat in an antigravity chamber. Blood floats everywhere like a snow globe from hell. When you rotate the dial back to
g
you have to brace yourself for things to land where they may. You never commit a murder in a floater. It’s impossible to hide the evidence. The only good thing is that a jury will know it’s not premeditated. This was a crime of the heart.

It was 3010 when I signed up with the Marines to fight China. They printed my name wrong on my anti-incinerating vest: Jesse Bain, instead of Jessie, the spelling for girls. I don’t fault them, I’m as androgynous as they come, and it would be another year till I sprouted milk mounds. In the battle zone, people couldn’t tell if I had balls or was just crazy. Watching me test Chlnese vapor shields without my prosthetics was thrilling at first, and then it just became bad for morale. The officers pulled me off combat. My new assignment was to dig a secret hole connecting China and the States. I got an acid blaster, a portable cipher drill, and some alone time. Five days later I was lost in Pakistan. I should have dug east. Never did have a good sense of direction.

In Pakistan I got myself straightened out. On the outskirts of Karachi they were trafficking gazellemos. I traded my digging equipment and a few privileged military secrets for five gazellemos and transportation back to New York. I knew I had come out on top in the deal. For the first time I was excited about living.

Gazellemos are half gazelle, half human. Fifty years ago a lonely deviant successfully mated with a domesticated gazelle and out came a gazellemo. As soon as that baby freak was spotted in public the world became obsessed with gazellemos. People were fornicating with poor gazelles left and right. Before long a tiny population emerged. I have to admit, I’m no kinky creeptard, but they are stunning to look at. Their human ears and twisting horns frame enormous eyes. Long, elegant cheekbones connect their snouts. Walking upright, they are completely covered in shimmering caramel body hair with a striking black stripe down their sides. Their feet and hands are the only unsightly thing on them. It’s like they couldn’t figure out whether to be hands or hooves so they came out as stubs, or halves as we call them. But no one notices the halves. Their esoteric beauty exudes an exotic sexiness. Which is why they’re so illegal.

It took awhile for the powers that be to realize that the root of all evil wasn’t money any longer—it was sex. And they did a bang-up job of putting a lid on it. Now we reproduce like fish. Eggs are dropped in a lab and sprinkled with sperm a few days later. Pregnancy is illegal, unsafe, and discriminatory. All people and genders must be equal. Babies grow in tutoring incubators. By the time they can breathe on their own they’re fluent in two languages and have a sixteenth-grade reading level. People don’t hook up, they don’t watch porn, and they definitely don’t masturbate. All of those things are punish-able by life-passing. But the government doesn’t want to be inhumane, so before you come out of the incubator a vibrating chip is planted in your genitals. It goes off once a day as long as your heart keeps beating. Everyone is given a different time so the entire world doesn’t pause together for an orgasm break. Mine happens at 4 AM. Which blows because I never get a full night’s sleep. But at least Fm always alone.

The government’s strategy has paid off. People cling to their work for stimulation. The only desire left is for productivity. Anything with a hint of sex is terminated. Entertainment is a thing of the past. Sleep and dunks are our only escape. When the gazellemos came on the scene they were a bigger threat than China. They were banned from the U.S., and exterminated. But that didn’t stop people from wanting them.

So I decided I would supply for the demand. I hid my gazellemos in textile orbs and successfully smuggled them to my dunk in Hell’s Kitchen. My dunk was next to Hudson Field. After the river dried up the soil was rich enough to harvest potatoes. That’s all we eat now. Dried riverbeds are the only land left for crops, and potatoes are the one vegetation that can survive the polluted atmosphere. The potato pickers come to my dunk after work for moonsheen. Some of the pickers are old enough to remember when there was whiskey. I wish they’d shut up about it. If I ever turn into a geezer drinking dunk slosh and bitching about it, I’ll know to end it with a scythe pen. I keep one coded to my inner thigh.

The basement of the dunk used to be an ancient strip club. Since stripping was outlawed the place was worthless and my mother figure, or MF, bought it on the cheap. MF and I found a survcillance hologram recorder hidden behind a booth, and we watched how they used to strip. It was beautiful. Back in the day the females had large milk mounds and looked really feminine. Today there are only a few subtle characteristics separating men and women’s appearances. My MF might as well be a FF, it wouldn’t matter. The sexes have identical roles. The only benefit of living with another woman is we can split a de-nesting cake in the mornings. Obliterates the uterus painlessly over time.

MF was unconscious in a plasma bed when
I
brought back the gazellemos. She had suffered from thin organs all her life, and she was steadily becoming transparent. We didn’t make enough off moonsheen to get her into a floater. If she could at least sleep nights without the big
g
pulling on her tissues she would live past 120. But the way she was looking, throwing her a century party was going to take a miracle.

I needed to make some major ching off my gazellemos.
I
was nervous when
I
let my contraband out of their orbs. How was
I
going to teach them to strip when they couldn’t master English or even Arabic? Turns out
I
had nothing to worry about. The French fry solved everything. The gazellemos were starving, and they learned fast for a treat. The hardest part was designing their magnetic outfits, since their clumsy halves can’t work a hook or a zipper. In just a few days I had my secret gazellemo club up and running. And in one month, MF was waking up in a floater.

It’s hard to know whom to trust when you become the wealthiest person in Hell’s Kitchen. I had ching dripping out of my tunics. The word was out that
I
had the goods. My dunk was packed every night. At first it pissed the pickers off. What the hell were these ching-rollers from fancy-pants Queens doing in their dunk? But then
I
paid off a tomb curator to swipe some whiskey from an old life-passer’s tomb. The pickers shut up for the first time in their lives. Their mouths were filled with sweet liquor. And they were right, that stuff’s amazing.

I had to hire help.
I
needed a few bouncers to collect the ching, protect the gazellemos from overzealous patrons, and look out for busts. Solar was the first person I hired. He could pay off the cops for me because he used to be one. He looked like me, except broader and happier. His smile always got bigger when he got paid. And everyone was getting paid. Even the gazellemos, who couldn’t leave the basement, were pampered.

I
hired a personal fryer to crisp their potatoes. For a while
I
even bought five oversized tutoring incubators to see if they could learn language. But it was a waste. Their tongues were too long, and they would instantly fall asleep in the cube’s warmth. My failed efforts to integrate them into modern society only connrmed my view of them as a commodity. They often tripped and fell on the stage due to their halves, but their gaze was intoxicating. They knew how to remove their costumes slowly. People would pay any price to see it. My gazellemos became more precious than hybrid crank. The price inflated to 65,000 chings for admission, for a one-hour show. A few cops became secret regulars. We didn’t have to pay them off too much, as long as they got to touch the gazellemos.

MF became involved after seven months of being in her floater. She was more solid; her tissues had rejuvenated and were at least ten years younger. She had a memory of one or two talk songs that were around when she was younger, before music devolved into digital tone. She was able to replicate the sounds on an antique synthesizer. It brought the dunk down.

I
began developing a bond with Solar that was new to me. Romance was a term I overheard a babbling cranked-up geezer mention, something about flowers and fingering. Not sure what a fingering is. But there was something between Solar and myself that transcended the daily interactions and ching transactions. We were living a life in defiance of the law. We were breaking rules ingrained in us since our conception, and there were certain body parts that were sounding off a rebel yell. Mainly my female tube. Every time Solar came around, the Hudson River flooded back to life under my tunic. At 4
AM
my daily orgasm was now accompanied by a vision of Solar. I noticed Solar got his at 9
PM.
I knew that because he would look at me right before he tore off his juice absorber.

But I didn’t know what to do about it. To my knowledge there was no record of these emotions that I was having. It wasn’t the desperate lusting that my audiences felt when they watched a gazellemo undress. There was an odd tenderness. I wanted to be around Solar all the time. I wanted to be him. It made me sick. It got so bad at one point I even put the scythe pen to my wrist. But the thought of never seeing Solar again stopped me. I needed to do something or I was going to lose my mind.

“Thanks for meeting me here early.” The words fell out of me like broken radiation crystals. We were in MF’s floater. It was the only place where we could be alone. MF was downstairs doing the gazellemos’ hair for the show.

“What is it, Jessie? I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.” He was shaking. I immediately got rid of the gravity so it wouldn’t be so noticeable.

“No, you’ve been great. I just felt there might be something we are not saying to each other.” My palms were dripping, what was wrong with me? Solar looked even worse. He was as white as a comet parade. We were lighter than air, but the anxiety was weighing us down.

“Jessie, I’ve been very up-front with you about where the ching is going. Everyone in the precinct is covered.” Why was he all business? That was the furthest thing from my mind. Frustrated by a lack of words, I started to pull off my tunic. I did it slowly like the ancient strippers and the gazellemos did it. I bobbed in the chamber with my exposed milk mounds pointing right at Solar. Now we were both speechless. Neither of us had any idea what to do.

Solar took off his tunic too. And then his juice absorber. I took off my shell sheath, and both of us removed our crocks. It was like we were back in the incubator again, but with no teacher. Solar’s body was thin, revealing every vein and most of his organs. I couldn’t stop staring at his male tube. He noticed and instantly covered it.

It’s bigger!”
I
looked at Solar in disbelief. Was he okay? Solar pressed it harder against my hands.

It’s aching!” He began to cry. I’d never seen this before, but I had a feeling it had something to do with romance. I needed to comfort him. I pushed his body against the side of the floater and pinned us together by holding onto some pegs.
I wrapped my legs around his pelvis, and to my surprise I felt his male tube go right inside my female tube! We both gasped in fear and wonder. We froze for a few moments, afraid that if we moved something would break and this perfect fit would end. My sweaty grip failed, and I started floating backward. Solar grabbed me and pulled me back toward him. Our tubes were still joined. It felt wonderful. I let go again, sliding backward on his male tube, and he waited till the last second to pull me back. The sensation was so pleasurable. It felt natural. We started laughing like children. We continued to do this. The more we did it the better it felt. We went faster and faster till we felt our vibrating chips go off. But it wasn’t our scheduled time. We stared at Solar’s milky juice floating up between us.
The absorber was useless now. I let go of Solar and we floated around each other, in awe of what just happened. I wanted to do it again.
I
wanted to seal the floater and do it forever. I understood instantly why this became illegal.