(Last updated: March 15, 2022)
Ihatem: A Feminist Utopia
by DR Wolfe
{From “The Dirty Little Secret About Transparensee” Series}
(Includes strong language and some descriptions of sex.)
The two dark-haired women who were now standing directly in front of him, began taunting him with some suggestive, humorous gestures. He smiled, and pretended to ignore them. They were both cute, but he noticed the shorter one was really attractive.
Without turning his eyes away, he slowly began rotating his wrist. First, back and forth, then up and down, doing his best to avoid the sharp edges. He guessed the metal bracelet moved about a quarter inch each time. Eventually he would reverse the direction, rotating his wrist before working the bracelet back the other way. This was one of the thirteen exercises he had concocted to stay alert during his twelve hours on duty.
He developed an extensive routine designed to keep him healthy, both physically and mentally, which kept him alive. He noticed, physically damaged men didn’t last very long around the northwestern territory. So not appearing “defective” was the only way a man could extend his life and prolong his parts in Ihatem.
One firm rule was not eating or drinking anything for at least two days prior to being posted. It was the only way to make sure one didn’t need to discharge any sort of bodily fluids or engage in what would be, under any other circumstance, a normal human bodily function.
Much to his shame, he discovered publicly discharging some bodily functions was worse than others. The “good news”, he was told when asking about bathroom breaks.
“There’ll be plenty of bathroom breaks for you future servers,! In fact, as many as you desire, as long as you don’t leave the stage.” With a smirk, the Master Server informed him of this special courtesy in his usual deep baritone.
And far, far worse than suffering the embarrassment of soiling yourself while up here, he thought, was the consequences of falling asleep while on display. A man who fell asleep would be quickly taken down and carried away, never to be seen again. And it wasn’t like any one was ever going to ask aloud, “Where did number so-and-so go.” For the men, keeping themselves sharp was the only thing that mattered.
He spent a good deal of his time up here memorizing his surroundings. He noticed he was mounted in the middle of an enclosed area. It was like a small town public square. Other than the open archway off to his left, there was an overlapping ceiling that connected to a thirty foot wall that surrounded the entire area, in every direction.
He estimated that it was about a hundred feet or so between him and the nearest wall. And each wall was made of two-foot square Cinder blocks, painted every color imaginable. Along with the hundreds of women who were gathered along the perimeter watching the festival, and dozens of servers, the floor was covered with hundreds of benches, marble tables, gardens and fountains, and lots of bushes and small trees of every variety you could imagine. The colorful scene was, at moments, hypnotizing. Seeing all of this, one would never know of the extent of the damage that lay beyond these walls.
The visible sky was completely covered by a large blue tinted dome, which, along with the moderate temperatures, gave the impression of being a clear blue summer day. He figured they were able to make it look this way because of the indirect lighting mounted along the tops of each wall, since the true sky, on the rare occasions when you got a quick glimpse, was always gray and overcast.
He carefully glanced to each side of him, without being to obvious about it. Staying completely focused on the viewers was part of the “job”, he was told. There were dozens of other men to his left and right, all attached to the same riser as him. the wooden stage sat about eight feet off the ground so that the women could reach out and touch the lower half of his legs with the ends of their floppy canes, if they wanted. The men directly to each side of him were facing the opposite direction, and the next man in the row was facing the other way as the previous. This way, the men could be simultaneously observed by the viewers from both the front and back.
It was almost impossible for each man to see who was directly behind them. And maybe that’s why most of the slaps and bumps he took came on his back side, or what many of them said was his better side.
He looked down at the two excited dark complected women and stared deeply into the eyes of the shorter one, who was smiling back at him with what he thought were these incredibly beautiful big brown eyes. He continued to smiled back, warmly, and sincerely. They were giggling and having fun with him, and his embarrassing circumstances, but in a playful way that wasn’t intended to shame him any further.
It was funny how he was able to understand his viewers so well, simply by watching their behavior for a few moments. Either one of these two, he thought to himself, would be a nice change, which probably meant that it was very unlikely that either would be chosen to be his temporary handler.
Most of them who would pass bye made obscene gestures and yelled out all sorts of amazing crude cat calls, some of which made him blush. And a few of the women would describe aloud the specific horrifying details of what they intended to do with him, and his parts, once selected. A promise they always made, but thankfully, only one would be able to keep.
“I hate you!” a woman wearing a almost see-through short bright purple dress, with scruffy black hair, yelled at him, as she approached from his right. The line was slowly moving from right to left.
“I hate him!” She angrily told a tall, muscular woman to her right. He couldn’t help but notice her anger. The taller woman’s strong jaw line nicely contrasted with her gentle blue eyes, and he noticed she easily shrugged off the angry woman by just barely moving her head.
He imagined three or four thousand years ago, she would be one of the fiercest warriors in her tribe. He instantly decided that he would be proud to be one of her mates and followers. And he hoped very much that she would be the one selected.
His mind began to wander, and He imagined being her mate in a time long ago, as told to him by his brother, before the final war. It was a time when the women were responsible for overseeing the matters of the tribe, and men were mostly left alone to explore and hunt for food. Men could play games in the woods with other men and think about their next mate. And without shame, proudly discharge their bodily fluids upon mother earth!
An angry shout distracted him from his primitive thoughts. When this happened, he tried to ignore the most outrageous comments from the women, but that only seemed to infuriate the meanest. The trick was to pretend to listen, without hearing anything.
Other than his silence, he had no real voice in any of it. Men had lost the right to vote in 2038, and lost all rights to citizenship three years later. All men were now legally defined under the new constitution as “chattel”, just as women had been labeled for thousands of years under man’s law.
“I’m going to get you fucker!” she screamed, as she moved in front of him, smashing her fist again and again into her erect thumb and grinning, savagely. He watched the top of her head with some sort of perverse distracted interest, realizing that he could actually see each individual hair on her forehead moving. He watched closely as the hairs moved together again and again, in unison when she shook her head. It reminded him of a sporting event he once attended with his dad when he was about six.
He could still remember being there in the stadium, watching the fans across from him. First they stood, than quickly sat down, all in sequence. It looked like a raising and collapsing wall of colorful, elongated shadows moving across the stands, reacting together in formation. It fascinated him so much, as a school project he used the computer to make a series of three dimensional transparent drawings depicting the evolving and transforming pattern of shadows forever moving across the screen.
he leaned forward a little and smiled the best he could into her bright red face and greenish-gray eyes, and pretended to be excited by her promise of violence and trauma. Despite his effort to defuse her anger with his playfulness, the luminous, burning eyes kept glaring at him, into him…determined to leave an eternal mark burnt into his skin!
he knew that particular look, and knew if this one got to collar him for a full session, it wasn’t going to be a good time, or at least not for him. This one had a considerable amount of animosity built up toward men, and at this moment, it was completely focused on him…and unfortunately, on some of his more fragile body parts.
As he took a breath, he took a chance and closed his eyes for a moment, hoping she would be hurried along by the crowd.
He knew in his heart it wasn’t because of who he was, or because of anything he had done in his short life. It was because he was a man and she needed to blame some male figure for being alone, or that’s how he rationalized the undescribable hatred that many of the women seem to have toward all men.
He remembered how it was between men and women back then, about twenty years ago, before the war. No one seemed to be really happy about anything. But he felt, people had a damn good reason to be unhappy, the way they were all being played against each other by the billionaires and trillionaires, and the media played a big part in it.
According to his oldest brother, Marty, there was a ‘war against men’ and a ‘war against women’ all at the same time. And he said there had always been an endless ‘war against sex’ ever since the patriarchal religions took over most of the earth, about three or four thousand years ago.
He went on to say that around 1990 the oligarchy launched an undeclared, highly-strategical hidden war that was specifically designed to divide the genders, just as blacks and whites, straights and gays, liberals and conservatives, and many other people had been divided.
Other than most of the media and the politicians, no one else realized how they were being used against each other, mostly based on fear and misinformation, until it was way, way too late to stem the animosity, which many felt led to the final war.
Meanwhile, the billionaires and trillionaires were getting more and more wealthy off the sickness and countless wars. The money they made was used to buy politicians and judges by paying for their million dollar elections, which was perfectly legal at the time. This made the elected officials beholden to anyone who was willing to fund their next campaign.
The billionaires and trillionaires knew by purchasing key elected officials and controlling the flow of money and information they would control the society.
The evening news, the radio and television talk shows, along with the editorial boards from most of the print media, were all well-paid instigators on behalf of their corporate masters, and their real job, and a few probably didn’t even know it, was to promote fear, hatred and ignorance in America and most of the world.
Marty said, “They got these think tanks that are made up of thousands and thousands of the most brilliant scholars recruited from all around the world. They are specifically hired by the billionaires and trillionaires to devise a million different strategies about how to best divide Americans from each other, which keeps anyone from asking the real important questions.”
“Like how is it possible that one of the alleged 911 high-jacker’s passport, presumably tucked securely away in a jacket pocket, was able to safely float to the ground, undamaged, while over a thousand human bodies were completely disintegrated, including the body of the passport’s alleged owner?”
“And this was the best evidence they had pointing to this guy who died of kidney decease a few months after September 11th, Osama bin Laden.”
He was right. This hostile, fearful, ignorant environment gave rise to the slow dismantling of the constitution by both the courts and politicians from both parties. He said, “They gave us laws such as the Patriot Act, the MDDA and other well-hidden Draconian measures intended to take away more of our freedoms, which Congress never bothered to read.”
According to Marty, another similar unjust law they pushed through back then that specifically targeted poor and uneducated men, was based on the murder of a five-year-old boy named Adam Walsh.
He went on, “As a result of the publicity from Adam’s gruesome murder, his father, John Walsh, became the FBI’s public voice for expanding the prison industrial complex. He did this by constantly vilifying average men on his weekly crime show, but wouldn’t touch the wealthy rats who had private islands and private jets where they were raping kids as young as eleven-years-old.”
“Ironically, John Walsh went on to be law enforcement’s best tool, “Marty said. “And the prison population boomed. Everyone demanded law and order, even if a few innocent people got put away or executed. Even the future President, Joe Biden, joined with that sleaze bag president, Bill Clinton, to promote this thing called the Crime Bill, that put more than a million and a half Americans behind bars.”
Marty said, “A decade later Walsh and his wife agreed to use their son’s name to create the Adam Walsh Act.”
Along with some similar state laws, the law was allegedly written to protect all children from “all these sexual predators.”
“Ottis Toole, who they said murdered Adam Walsh, was given as an example of how all poor men acted, if they weren’t behind bars. But apparently, they didn’t want to protect children from the elite, like Jeff Epstein, or some of his sleazy friends, like Bill Clinton and a sleazy lawyer named Alan “Douch-o-witz”. Or that’s how Marty pronounced it.”
“There was no evidence that Adam was ever sexually assaulted by Tool or anyone els, which raises questions about John Walsh’s true motivations in exploiting his son’s name and murder on a bill like this. Or was he played by the FBI and the media?” Marty rhetorically asked. Then he answered, “I think so.”
He went on, “Meanwhile, most average men were being completely destroyed over any sexual allegation. It was really sick how this gender war all started!” Marty screamed. And got up and began pacing the room, but never stopped talking.
Marty ended his rant by saying, “And you know what’s really nuts? Along with Douche-o-witz, Epstein was being defended by a guy named Ken Starr. And Starr was the same sick government lawyer who a few years earlier was pretending to prosecute Clinton over having stained a young intern’s blue dress with his fluids,” if you know what I mean. He pointed to his crotch.
You see, “The report Starr wrote for the trial was more pornographic than most books written for adults, if you know what I mean. But everybody in the media just played along, siding with either the Creeps or the Cons. In fact the Republican Senators on the committee that were impeaching Clinton, all had mistresses.”
He wiped his forehead and continued. “One of Epstein’s victims was Virginia Giuffre, although she was known as Virginia Roberts at the time. She described how there were hundreds of these hook ups between very young girls and these powerful men from everywhere, like the CIA, the State Department and even the Cornell Science Department. And this went on all the time, on Epstein’s plane, his island, and his homes in Florida, New York and New Mexico. But the local police and persecutors did nothing, isn’t that curious?”
Virginia said that this French guy, Jean-Luc Brunel, had sent Epstein these three girls who were younger than you, only twelve-year-old.” suddenly He stuck his finger into my chest, and I jerked back in surprise. And as though nothing had happened, He continued. “It was a birthday gift. Virginia said Epstein made her watch while he had sex with all three of them.”
“then Brunel was murdered in prison, probably to keep him quiet, and as a warning to the other victims who might speak out, like Virginia did. She had settled a law suit with the Prince of England about a week before Brunel was murdered in prison, but I’ll get back to that.”
“You see, unlike Jeff Epstein’s fake hanging and secret funeral, and the Injustice Department’s cover up, Brunel was really dead. And Epstein probably is hidden away on some luxurious Israeli resort with McVey, Scalia ‘Kenny Boy’ Lay, and a lot of very, very young girls.”
“Getting back to the Prince. When Virginia Roberts was still a minor, she said she was forced to had sex with this creep, Prince Andrew, several times, and she said he sweat like a pig. He was forth in line to become the monarch of England at the time, so this was a real big deal, or it should have been. But she decided to sign the non-disclosure agreement and take a multi-million dollar settlement in 2022, and who can blame her after putting up with this crap all these years. There were a few who said she sold out the other victims, rather than sending the dirty bastard to prison. But there was no way to know what would happen to the Prince, even if a civil jury found him guilty. I mean how many times do rich people ever go to jail for anything? It’s not because they don’t commit horrific crimes, we know that.”
He wiped his brow and continued. “But because of the agreement Prince Andrew was never allowed to say he didn’t rape Virginia Roberts, and at least that proves something. And Virginia never stopped talking about the privileged elite, and their special privileges.”
He thought about what his brother had said, and imagined that’s probably why the elite started the war with Saudi Arabia, rather than Israel, which changed everything. When the Saudi’s started selling oil in the Yuan, the Chinese currency, it was the perfect excuse the banksters needed to start the war. And Marty always said, “Banksters love all wars, but they never fight them.”
His brother went on, “meanwhile, the elite are blaming the poor man by using the persecutors to persecute the poor man. This is how the Deep State protects the wealthy pedophiles, by looking like they’re doing something, while they continue to persecute the poor while continuing to rape children. So it’s business as usual for the elite.”
Then Marty looked me in the eye and said, “Non-disclosure agreements probably should be illegal. Since they only serve to protect the rich, for the crimes they commit against the poor.”
“Then this clown named Bobby Mueller took over as the FBI Director, just one week before September 11th. Isn’t that a curious coincidence?” Then he winked, and took a long drink of his water.
“Years later, many started calling him Bobby Mole because of his pathetic two and a half year investigation of Trump, who was accused of conspiring with Russia to win the 2016 election. But they found nothing! Meanwhile, at the same time the Deep State was spying on the newly elected president, with the help of the new FBI Director and some sleazy judge from this secret court, called the FISA Court.” Isn’t this treason?” He asked sarcastically.
So according to Marty, no one had anyone to root for any more, but the media kept telling everyone who to hate.
“A massive witch hunt had begun, from both the left and right. They were going after everyone who was anybody, not just the little guy any more. Not that most of these rich sick fucks didn’t deserve it, little brother.” He paused, and looked me in the eye.
“Meanwhile, more land is being swallowed up today by the Chinese Government and more and more Americans are being made houseless, and being fed more and more of the corporate made poison they call food, that makes men think they’re women. It’s such a joke! I mean how it all got this crazy little brother.”
He closed his eyes and thought about how when his big brother was talking politics he would sometimes pause for a moment, and for no reason slap him on the back, and then go on with his rant, without missing a beat.
From Marty’s writings, he remembered, the oligarchy was also indoctrinating young girls into the gender war at the time, by brain-washing them about how to be “happy”. Teen magazines, television and social media, were all used to convince them that motherhood and having children, along with hairy, muscular men with low paying jobs were all gross things to be absolutely avoided if they wanted to be successful. And they were trained to believe true success could only be rationally judged by one’s
personal wealth, along with one’s primary means of transportation.
“Having a perfect body, not scarred by motherhood,” would be one of the keys to their success, they were told by the corporate media and their mentors.
Meanwhile, openly suggesting that all male defendants needed to be raped repeatedly as part of both their pre and post-conviction punishment was a normal comment among most Americans when they discussed any sort of sexual allegation brought against a man, who wasn’t wealthy. In fact, one congressman, who was later shot in a park, began handing out bats to everyone and said we need to go after these same accused men who had no lawyers with even tougher laws, while the rich did what they wanted.
While at the same time, some “radical feminist” in the alternative media began suggesting “Rape was anything a woman said it was.” And they added “No woman who was victimized should ever be made to face cross examination if it makes her feel uncomfortable.”
Marty said, “For most American men the only good-paying jobs was fighting in one of these endless wars.” The alternative is being labeled a bum,” in what Marty said had become a massive surveillance-prison-state.
“A place where new powerful tasers and psychotronic weapons are being used by law enforcement, and most people don’t even know. Shoot first and ask questions later, is the standard policy and practice for most police and federal agents when it comes to incidents involving angry, unemployed men.”
Marty said when it became clear to most American men that a blatant policy of reverse-gender discrimination existed within the entire society, especially in the public education system and the courts. The unspoken anger that men felt, who couldn’t afford private lawyers, could no longer be contained.
Many of the women told him they believed this is what led to the oligarchy’s decision to launch the “Final War.”
Marty wrote, “Wars have always been fought by mostly men…and throughout history, when the men in a culture become discontented, the leaders would take the men into war, rather than risk a possible revolution and loss of power.”
They were eating ice cream Marty had brought home for breakfast as a birthday surprise. It was his favorite, Raspberry Chunky Crispy Cream!
Thinking about it now, he could actually taste the sweet, cold raspberry cream dripping down the back of his throat, and he could clearly see his brother brushing back his curly brown hair from his face as he began speaking. It was a visual clue letting him know that he better pay attention to what’s coming next and stop counting hairs.
Ever since he was young, whenever people spoke to him he had this bad habit of counting the individual hairs while they spoke. Usually on their head. But once, he met a friend of his dad’s who was bald, and so he began counting the hairs inside the man’s nose, until he was noticed, and reprimanded.
“You know, men should have realized that it started going really, really bad for the average man when the Clinton’s took over the White House and the Republicans went after Bill Clinton for the exact same thing that they were all doing!” He said that the whole “Monica” scandal was scripted.
He swore, “Clinton knew that it was a big puppet show. He knew he wouldn’t be kicked out of office, but would have the legacy of being the greatest presidential womanizer in American history, getting it under the presidential desk like that while on the phone! Then he would be even more famous than his hero, John ‘f-me’ Kennedy, which I think meant more to Clinton than anything else. And of course, they promised him that if he and Hillary went along with the plan. That is, set us up for 9-11, he would get rich by selling a million of his crappy books and she would get to be president too.”
“That’s how all these politicians are being paid off by the oligarchy, That is, except the ones who take these really sweet jobs as lobbyist, and then poof! You never hear about them ever again unless they become some politicians sleazy chief of staff, while they keep cashing in these phat checks from their corporate murdering masters.”
He remembered reading one of Marty’s papers that was marked with a bright red “F” that began, “Under former-President Obama, universities and colleges were required to begin adopting grossly unconstitutional rules involving the processing of sexual misconduct allegations in order to receive further federal funding. ‘the new rules gave female students a disproportionate level of power in bringing any sort of sexual related allegation against a male student, which not surprisingly has led to an abuse of the system by any woman who has felt regretful, for any reason. Or maybe felt embarrassed, like if she had a boyfriend or parent back home who found out. Or maybe felt vengeful, like if she never got a call back, but expected one.”
While he could remember this one paragraph Marty wrote, almost word for word, he couldn’t remember who his brother had credited this last line to, but it always stuck with him as being absolutely true, in those earlier times.
“Men almost always regret the sex they don’t have and women often regret the sex they do have.
Everyone knew it was an inside job, and Israel had been involved. But when the selected papers of the 9-11 attack were released and the war with Saudi Arabia began, his brother was killed. Marty was a medic and not surprisingly, was one of the first casualties of the war. He started going through Marty’s personal papers, including his written series called “The Coming Gender War.”
There were a few other papers, including a few newspaper articles. But they were mostly Marty’s failing papers from school about how men were being systemically, slowly forced out of American colleges and universities, and society.
One of the papers was a review Marty had written about a Rolling Stone Magazine story involving a young woman named Jackie, who had apparently made up much of the facts involving an alleged gang rape at a fraternity. Some of the horrific allegations were not fully investigated, but were included in the original article anyway. The publication of her story led to numerous sanctions being immediately imposed on the falsely accused fraternity.
This was done under what was called “exigent circumstances”, Marty explained, which was a common lie political figures use at the time to deny poor and uneducated people due process when they know they are creating unjust laws and rules, and don’t want them challenged in the courts before they can be implemented.
Marty explained, “Politicians and administrators know, rarely is any law already on the books ever removed by the law-makers or the courts, no matter how unjust it is.”
He remembered how another article had what he thought of as a kind of humorous headline, given his current circumstances… He smiled. The headline read something like:
“WHILE DRACONIAN SEX LAWS MAY SCREW YOUNG MEN IN THE FUTURE, ONE YOUNG SEATTLE WOMAN HAS ALREADY SCORED BIG!”
Apparently, she had written an ap for any cell phone or PC that could easily create a contract for consent, where a couple could each quickly make a private video clip granting verbal consent to the other for sex. For the next twenty-four hours each person would then be able to access the other’s video and confirm that consent had been given, explicitly describing what sexual activities would be okay, and any that would not.
Each person would be able to view the fourteen second clip once, but only once. and no one else would ever have access to its content. And no one else would be able to confirm that any person had given their consent to anyone else. It guaranteed complete privacy.
The couple could never return to their original recordings if they wanted to watch it again, although they could delete it if it hadn’t been sent, and withdraw consent. The video would be completely sealed and secret to the public, and would only be revealed under a court order.
“Otherwise,” as the ap’s ad claimed, humorously:
“Without this e-sex-insurance, the only way you men can ever again truly experience safe sex is to have two witnesses and a notary present during the act, or go it alone.”
By the start of the Twenty-First Century not only had the universities and law schools begun openly discriminating against men, through their admissions process and graduation rates, 60% to 40%, any man that had ever had any sort of sexual allegation made against them, innocent or not, were completely blocked from receiving any sort of secondary education in America after 2028.
When he was a little older he began seriously reading Marty’s writings, and began to remember all of this gender discrimination stuff they were talking about back then, when he was still a kid. He knew, it had led to what Frank and Bobby and some of their friends had done.
He would always feel guilty for showing Marty’s writings to them. They went ballistic! They first posted it on the Internet, and then made hundreds of copies of Marty’s work and passed them out, disappearing for days.
He was scared of his other brothers after that, since mom and dad, and Marty, weren’t around any more.
His two remaining brothers and some of their really nutty friends, would march around the house with their guns and penis’s hanging out, which they always assured him were both fully loaded. They were ranting about marching off to fight in the “Gender War”, singing, “THIS IS MY WEAPON, THIS IS MY GUN. We men are ready, you Dykes, better run!”
They got especially riled up after these men’s rights rallies, being held on the weekends somewhere up in the hills east of town. They explained, “all of us men who have lost our jobs and kids to women get together and share our outrage, and talk about how we’re gonna take this country back! You’ll understand soon enough little brother”, they would say.
Thankfully, he wasn’t made to go with them. And he never wanted to go, since he was still a kid. At the time, it didn’t really make a lot of sense to him why they were so angry over this gender stuff, but he figured it had something to do with Marty’s sudden death.
He knew the insults and threats from both guys and girls online were getting more and more vicious, and it made him really uncomfortable when a thread he was on went downhill. It was almost like people were sitting in their cars or bedrooms waiting for an excuse…to spit something slimy out online, rather than biting their tongue and swallowing it.
He remembered reading about how Marty said some French “journalists” were intentionally publishing obscene cartoons about another religion’s leader, knowing that some people would overreact. Marty said that many of the media creeps from both the left and right were eating it all up, and privately laughing about it.
He said they were always intentionally pushing all the right buttons between different groups of people, not just men and women, waiting to report on the inevitable violent result And maybe even hoping for it….to make their point, that some religion’s or genders are more ruthless than others, or about needing more gun control, or about needing more prisons, and needing more and more laws.
For the corporate owned media It was always, always about keeping the most powerful ones out of the conversation, and focusing on fear, celebrity and sports nonsense, and stoking the next war and handing out peanuts to the foolish liberals.
The final result was, and the only one that mattered, in the year 2047, verbally abusing, and in some cases physically injuring, a man was what was expected of every strong woman, in order to protect the human race and keep the dangerous animal “man” in his proper place, where he can never do harm again!
He thought about this angry woman, who was standing in front of him. And he knew, if she was the one who was selected for him, for those three days he would be the one who represented all the men who she hated, or pretended to hate, or maybe needed to hate.
And he knew, if she ended up being his handler he would probably have to have some additional plastic surgery done, once again.
There were a couple of times when one of what he thought of as the “truly kind ones” was selected for him. But it was rare. In the beginning, it was a big thrill for most of them to have him, a real man, there at their beckon call. there were so few intact men around, and they weren’t ever likely to be with an undamaged man, ever again.
As his time to leave would draw near, he noticed the women would start getting more and more angry, as if he were to blame for being chosen. Nothing he could do was right or good any more, and “It was their obligation to correct man any way they felt appropriate. We owe this to the sisterhood,” it was said, “So that the next handler would have a more enjoyable experience with this man.”
He pictured the pinched face of the woman with the wooden spoon, the one who had so, carefully explained to him about her duty as a “virtuous woman”, as she slapped his manhood with her spoon, over and over .
Even though he could still hear the dark haired woman screaming at him, he didn’t open his eyes. Instead, he smiled broadly and let is mind drift away, back to the thoughts of Wendy. He could smell her hair. It reminded him of a gentle breeze blowing threw a fresh cherry grove.
He would never forget those incredible 72 hours they spent together. The smell of her hair, the taste of her skin, the sound of her gentle voice, and the way she would kiss him for hours.
Usually, he was more than grateful to leave.
But returning to the center that one particular time was one of the most painful things he had experienced, knowing that he would never see her again. But that was just how it was for all the men who were posted here in the city of Ihatem, along the Columbia River, in the western territory of Atwood.
When ever he thought of Wendy it made him feel appreciated, and maybe even allowed him to imagine being loved for a short while, in this ugly place. And this was the name he first thought he heard her say to him in her mind, and so, he began secretly calling her Wendy, as they lay together, naked, in the sleeping chamber.
Sometimes they would briefly put on their robes and sit together by the table that looked out over the Columbia. And a few times they even stopped making love to consume something of substance, besides each other. He never ate much during these times since the booster also suppressed his appetite.
He especially remembered how she kept holding on to his hand as they sat at the small wooden table. She would gently run her fingernails up and down his forearm while staring into his eyes without ever saying a word. It was that particular memory that kept him alive, and kept him hoping that…that maybe someday, when this was all over, he would see her again, just once.
There were some things that a man never ever spoke of aloud if they wanted to survive. But the truth was he thought about Wendy almost every day, or that was what he called her. He felt that she had telepathically sent him this very personal information. That is, her actual name, while they were making love.
The women were not allowed to ever give their name. And the men never knew the true name of their handler. To ask for this or ask any other personal question from any woman, was an automatic capital offense under the Atwood Constitution. And they knew they were always watching.
It depended on the nature of the inappropriate question asked or the indiscretion committed. But, in a few cases the server was subjected to something that was said to be worse then death. That was, being locked in the isolation Dungeon with a barrel of water for forty-two days next to the ones who had already gone mad… screaming and pounding on the walls and doors all day and night.
Like obedient soldiers guarding the Dungeon’s gate from the sweet Seductive Angel of Sleep, it was said each of these tireless screamers would take their scheduled turn screaming and pounding, just like clockwork. The few men who came back from being locked in the isolation dungeon were quickly turned into servers. They said the dungeon was designed that way by some real monster, to make every sound echo over, and over, and over, and over, and over.
“WHACK!” His eyes flew open wide. He felt a massive sharp pain on the left side of his head and faintly heard something crack in the distance.
It was odd, he thought to himself. While the pain told him it was definitely his own noggin that had been struck by something, the sound of the object hitting his head seemed like it was much farther away than that. But he recognized the pain and knew it had been a rock, jammed inside of something like a piece of fruit.
Ice balls, eggs, and packed fruit, along with the narrow cane polls that some of them carried, were the most favorite weapons of choice among the more aggressive women who came up each weekend to Ihatem for the festival. Leaving the safety of their valley settlements and risking exposure was the sacrifice they each made. That is, the ones who won the first phase of the Lottery.
During the Weekly Fest a few of the friendly ones would throw flowers or what he thought were wonderfully exotic smelling undergarments. He would try to catch them in his teeth, which would always make them laugh and applaud. But many of them seemed angry. He figured they already knew they had little chance of being selected since Only a dozen of them each weekend would be chosen to be handlers.
Throwing any solid or hard object at any of the servers, who had no way to defend themselves, was a violation of the rules, so they said. Yet, many of the women did it anyway, and there were no real consequences. The worst that would happen is that they would be asked to leave. But this only happened if the server was really bloodied or knocked unconscious.
The men were easy targets. Their hands were tightly chained to a rail that ran the length of the platform, a foot above their heads. Their feet were chained to eye bolts in the floor, and they were all completely naked.
He felt a trickle of blood run down his cheek, and tried not to think about the pain the best he could. And he forgot about Wendy, for the moment.
He looked to his left where the rock came from, and stared into the blazing eyes of the same screaming woman who vowed again, “I’m going to get you! I hate you! I hate ’em! I hate you fucker! Do you hear me, I HATE YOU!” She screamed.
He watched carefully as she reached into her pocket and yelled, “Better wake up fucker!” Several of them laughed when he flinched and briefly loss control of his bladder, in response to her suddenly pulling her empty, clinched hand from her pocket and hurling it at his face.
He closed his eyes and felt a couple more objects thump against his backside. This was both a relief, since it wasn’t his head being struck, yet still extremely unpleasant, being publicly pummeled like that.
This time he responded exactly as he was taught, and shyly smiled. But the screaming woman, who was now being shuffled along by the other women, wouldn’t give up. She pointed her finger back at him and mouthed the words, “I’m going to get you fucker!” He quickly looked off in the other direction and tried the best he could to not think about her.
It’s funny, but he once believed for any man being selected for posting was a whole hell of a lot better than any of the other options available. A few of the servers, who he now began to think of as the lucky ones, agreed to have their private parts removed in exchange for being permanently assigned as day workers. Being a day servant involved, along with being around the women a lot of the time, cooking, housekeeping, “moving heavy things around, and firing up the Bar-B-Q,” the day workers would say, jokingly.
It depended on how you look, as far as where you ended up. Like for example, men couldn’t be too unattractive, or they would have to be permanently removed from the gene pool, even if the deformity or physical defect had nothing to do with genetics. It was much like the “Ugly Laws” that once prohibited certain physically-disabled Americans from coming into town, uncovered.
Following the final war, and because of the virus, there were only a few males of any age who were left alive. Among the few children who were born after that only a few were ever born as male children. No one really understood why the gender of the babies being born were also effected, other than it had something to do with a residual affect of the virus.
Among the six or seven million humans known to still be alive on earth, almost every one of them were female. And most of the adult women were not shy about saying they felt it was the fault of men that the war had begun simply because of “the inherent stupidity of men”.
After the war, a new religion emerged among the surviving women. They called it a Neo-Goddess religion. but unlike the goddess religion of the past, women were not the gentle nurturers and benevolent governesses of the society, but rather, the ruthless masters over the useless men, whose only true value was to serve as “reproductive devices.”
They taught that the war had led to the virus being released as a weapon and it really didn’t matter which side had been the first one to release it since the destruction and loss of life, including almost all of the men, was unforgivable. There was this really deep hatred among most of the remaining women toward men. He felt maybe it was because they all had lost their lovers, husbands, fathers, sons and brothers, and they just needed someone to blame for their loneliness.
It was the common belief in this new culture that there was something defective with the male human gene. They taught, there was plenty of evidence to prove that this has always been the case among humans, beginning with the dissolution of the goddess religion, which was replaced by violent, patriarchal religions and systems.
Similar to how Marty had once told him, the Neo-Goddess followers would point out that these dominant religions ruled over most of the earth for almost five thousand years and as a result billions of human beings, who were mostly poor and uneducated, died in hundreds of these barbaric wars.
In this new world, less than one tenth of one tenth of one percent of the remaining population were male, and because of it, they had no real voice when compared to the wishes of the angry majority, Eventually, all males were considered to be only slightly more valuable than the bull. And everyone knew the bull’s only true purpose in life was to serve the cattle, who because of their superior genes were selected by nature to give life and produce milk, not just donate sperm.
‘”437, your assigned to the second level,” he was told. “And get that cheek fixed up by the medic before you head up to the rest chamber.” The Master Server told him, without looking up. He scrunched his nose, and added firmly. “Shower first.”
“Sure thing Master,” he answered, assertively. “But I can assure you I’ve had a lot worse than this,” he added, pointing to his cheek. “And to be perfectly honest sir, the one down here hurts a hell of a lot more.” He pointed below the table and made a frown.”
“In my expert opinion 437, I think it’s just your pride that’s hurting,” the Master replied, with a quick grin that was barely noticeable, as though he were concerned that someone might be watching.
Following the green walkway to where the showers were located, he turned into one of the empty stalls and dropped his bundle to the floor. Stepping into the circle and pressing the raised triangle, he felt the sonic waves roll across his body, first back and forth, then up and down.
He felt his fingers and toes tingle, and felt a thousand invisible pin pricks pierce his skin, which became numb for a moment and then went away. It only took a couple minutes for the shower to clean his skin and remove any new hair, and he was sure glad. The pulsing sensation always bothered his central nervous system, and made him feel really weird all over until the instant that the microwaves stopped.
After putting on the florescent red robe given to him by the overly-sympathetic Master Server, he followed the opposite hallway down toward the medical unit. As he approached, he saw another server he knew walking off and nodded to him.
He also recognized Number 111, the day worker on duty. One Eleven was a small, older man with a long, curly white beard, which was well trimmed and extremely distinguished looking, in his opinion. It was one of the other advantages of being a day worker, you could let your face and body hair grow out, and no one cared as long as it was kept clean.
He thought, because of the long beard and oversized white robe he wore, the tiny, thin-faced medic’s diminutive size gave the impression he had some special unseen mystic powers. Stepping onto the platform, he imagined the medic tossing some magic dust into the air and chanting an ancient melody, while casting a fertility spell upon him.
But instead, the medic ran the little metal box he called an automated skin leveler across his body, from top to bottom. While reading the output, the medic held it over his face and groin a little longer than anywhere else. Then he punched something into a key pad and opened the top drawer of his desk.
Pulling out a cylindrical tube, 111 pressed it to the inside of his wrist and pulled the clip. The tube beeped as it discharged the contents. He felt the booster take effect almost immediately as the warmth flowed through him. It instantly picked him up, considerably. He was sore and exhausted from being on his feet for the last twelve and a half hours, but suddenly he felt a whole lot better. Even so, he was glad he would still have a few hours to eat something and rest before heading across the walkway into the engagement chambers.
The uptake booster was designed to slowly release the polymers into his blood, and thereby, maximize his sperm and potency and endurance over the entire seventy-two hour stretch. The drug would allow him to sleep for a little while and then take full effect in about four hours from now, keeping him completely awake and alert during the entire time he was with the handler. It definitely worked well since it was rare that he met a woman who could keep up with him.
He awoke to an awful sound that reminded him of an old fashion horn he once had heard coming from an antic car. Apparently, these horns were once used by everyone to announce their arrival even though most of the horns sounded exactly the same as every other horn. Like a lot of things, it didn’t make sense to him, not to mention, how annoying it would be to be constantly surrounded by these blaring identical personal announcements, that told you nothing.
He jumped to his feet, which instantly silenced the alarm. After using the water lift and spraying, he put on the robe and left.
He crossed the bridge, and paused to take in the cloudy view of the mostly gray sky and valley. He was told, this particular view of the valley faced northwest, which was usually gloomy.
When he got to the chambers, he looked around for a minute before locating the door with his number posted in large Roman symbols. “IV III VII.”
He paused for a moment before pressing the light that would automatically open, and then close and lock the door behind him for the next seventy-two hours. He waited for another second and took a deep breath before going in. This particular moment always made him nervous, knowing that there was still a small possibility that it wouldn’t be so bad.
Entering the room he instantly lost his breath at the sight of her walking toward him. Dropping to his knees, he cried aloud, “Oh my god, oh please Wendy!”
She brushed back her short, dark hair and quickly moved toward him. She was cupping something metallic in her hand and smiling, sardonically.
“I told you that you’d be mine, fucker”! She smiled wide, and took another step toward him as she unfastened the front of her bright purple dress.
“But first, there’s something else you can do while you’re down there-”