Today’s Numero Uno has a prepub fetish, so naturally I put on the prostitot body. He comes into my velvet-draped workplace and sees a twelve-year-old, tall for her age, with a yam-orange ponytail, white turtleneck, blue denim miniskirt, white ankle socks, and white and blue designer tennis shoes. He’s new, but I still judge him perfectly: he wants the self-assured, tomboyish type. As always, I’m right, and he comes as quickly as if someone were standing over us with a stopwatch. The body is just half of what the johns come for, and the only half that can be mass-produced; every payday proves that I know what I’m worth.
The next john wants me to wear the body of a ten-foot giantess. To accentuate the difference, he’s got a borrowed bod too, no bigger than a toddler, though the brain has enough cortex for adult cognitive ability. There’s nothing immature about the dwarf body’s sexual development—I feel a squirt of semen against my inner thigh when I’ve got him halfway up my vaginal canal.
Numero Tres is a foot lover. For this I need the proteusyn body: normal down to the waist, with hips, legs, and feet all bigger than those of the giantess. Like the last john, he’s in a dwarf body. I cover him completely with my right tootsie while he tries to get off. It’s not an easy working position for a masturbator, and he has two false climaxes first.
Next up wants a straight lay, the kind suitable for launching the next generation of johns. He didn’t specify a body, which is rare, and I pick the wispy girl with black waist-length hair and a teardrop face—it’s the favorite getup that spends most of its time shoved to one side of the closet. The john is about twenty-eight, or the body he’s using is, and he goes out of his way to be nice. He seems sad, and I think he must have broken up with someone a few weeks ago and this is just a stopgap. Most people would say he’s the kind of guy to spirit me out of this job, but I know better. He’ll go home feeling guilty and a little unclean, and I won’t see him again.
Numero Cinco—back to Kink City. The john is a necro, and this time the engineers have outdone themselves. I put on a body that has pasty skin with lividity patches, cloudy irises, a low body temp, and a vascular setup that works without respiration or a perceptible pulse. It even smells like a corpse, and I notice it; there’s nothing wrong with this bod’s olfactory sense. The only good thing about this assignment is that there’s no real effort on my part. Corpses don’t move, so the john has to do all the work himself.
The day wears on. In this order, I am: an African tribal woman with lip plates and copper neck coils; a mare; a platinum blonde with no pain receptors, so I pretend pain when the john shoves skewers into my anus; a mare, again; a stallion (there’s no reason a beastie can’t also be a homo); a woman with mammoth green and yellow breasts that really do look like watermelons and release a clear, sweet red fluid when the john sucks them.
It seems to me that my shift should be ending, but eight johns come in for group sex and they want me to don a brand new creation, one with more honeypots than the French peasant lady in “Four Wishes.” I’m about to transition when the speaker says, “Your services will not be needed for sixteen hours.” Saved by the bell. Betty or Lulu can handle these johns—I’m outta here.
The sun is still up and I decide to go home on foot, only twelve minutes. As I always do off-duty, I wear the body I was born with: knock-kneed, freckled, too big around the gut, an ill-favored thing but mine own. Of course, I’m not alone on the street. On foot and in vehicles of all description, I pass people, things that look like idealizations or travesties of people, things that are alive and have no resemblance to people, and things that act autonomously but obviously aren’t living and never were. Every one of these things I see is controlled by a human intelligence, complete with his own beliefs and values, his own material needs and his own desires.
How little I don’t know about those desires.
I recline on the bed of silk pillows in my apartment, all alone, feeling the warmth of the fireplace, smelling the spicy aroma of cypress logs. I hold a silver cup of sauce de la reine in one hand, made more inviting by a generous stir of 300-year-old brandy. It won’t go down, not even to service the metabolic needs of Birth Body. BB was in delta state all the time I was working. I couldn’t be better rested, but the only desire I feel at this moment, an urge overwhelming everything else, is to sleep, sleep, and never wake up.