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JÁ VOTOU NA FINAL DO PEREBA DA GALERA? VAI ATÉ DIA 06/12

Interessant bericht van het RIVM. Er is een onderzoek gedaan naar HIV besmetting in Nederland. Het blijkt dat er (naar schatting) 21.500 mensen in Nederland zijn met een HIV besmetting. Van deze groep heeft 55% deze besmetting opgelopen door homoseksueel contact, 40 % door heteroseksueel contact en 4% door injecterend drugsgebruik.

De reden waarom ik dit een interessant bericht noem, is deze: ik was niet bekend met cijfers en percentages en heb me lang afgevraagd hoe de verhouding tussen HIV besmetting door homo- of heteroseksueel contact was. Er zijn binnen christelijke kringen namelijk nog steeds mensen die HIV besmetting zien als een straf van God voor homoseksualiteit (google). Dat is vaak gebaseerd op de aanname dat alleen homoseksuelen of mensen met een zeer promiscue levensstijl HIV besmetting oplopen.

Feit blijft dat HIV ook een SOA (seksueel overdraagbare aandoening) is. Dus een nog belangrijkere conclusie dan de verhouding hetero- / homoseksuelen is het feit dat 40% van de mensen met HIV besmetting zich niet bewust is van deze besmetting. Dit percentage is het laagst in de grote steden en het hoogst in de buitengebieden. Ik hoop/vermoed dat daar de aandacht op gevestigd zal worden: bewustwording.

J’ai entamé 2009 en relation avec Caroline … Relation qui a duré jusqu’à mai …

La séparation a été indolore pour moi. Le soir où nous nous séparions, j’allais au sport comme tous les soirs. Bref , une indifférence dramatique.

En juin, lors de mon retour sur Paris, j’ai partagé mon lit pour une expérience unique. Un plan cul avec une femme mariée. Super fantasmant, très belle femme.

A la même période, j’ai reçu la visite à domicile du fameux bloggeur chrisbi. Des échanges buccaux de toute sorte et des mains très inquisitrices …

Toujours à la même période, mes yeux ont croisé ceux d’une belle plante asiatique dans un bar. Son nom était synonyme d’orgasme culinaire. Nous avons passé ma dernière nuit parisienne à flirter et à effectuer d’autres câlins.

Entre juin et mi-octobre, aucune reelle relation.

De mi-octobre à fin octobre, je me suis laissé charmer par une belle marocaine. Nous avons flirté et échangé quelques substances buccales. J’ai trouvé tellement mignon et déprimant sa “naïveté” ! Je plains les nanas de là-bas !

A mon retour sur Paris, j’ai fait la rencontre d’un lecteur, un charmant jeune homme. De bons moments passés à 2. Il m’a redonné goût au sexe entre mecs. Grace à lui, j’ai beaucoup moins peur de prendre du plaisir avec un mec. Je suis même devenu prêt à avoir une pseudo relation avec un mec…

J’ai également rencontré VCL, charmante cochonne provinciale … Femme avec laquelle je partage beaucoup ! Elle m’a permis de m’aerer la tête pendant une petite semaine chez elle à mon retour du Maroc.

Il y a eu aussi la RH de ma boite. Pourquoi ? J’en sais trop rien. Peut-être parce que je suis qu’un con orgueilleux. Depuis, dans toute ma splendeur masculine, je l’evite …

Il y a eu aussi une très bonne amie avec laquelle les choses ont dérivé. J’ai peur que nous prenions trop goût à nos escapades … Relation qui ne mènera nulle part.

Medhi, jeune homme qui s’étiquette bi avec lequel j’ai eu un flirt un peu poussé … Lèvres douces et entreprenant … Idéal !

Et bien sur dans tous les jours que j’ai vécu cette année, pas un seul n’a été sans une pensée pour Christine. Ma vie serait idéale si je pouvais l’exclure de mes pensées… J’en peux plus !

Mention spéciale pour Hancock, film qui me parle et qui m’a accompagné toute cette année.

Ce soir, ma mère m’a appelé. Mon père a pleuré car il a grillé le cadeau de Noël que ses enfants lui font … J’en suis encore tout bouleversé.

Publication via iPhone

Edit : J’ai oublié de mentionner le flirt très poussé avec Marie, une nana du sport …

jeme suis inscrit sur meetic suite à ce film, l’imaginarium du docteur parnassus, que j’

Nous nous sommes fait mettre dehors, avec beaucoup de délicatesse vu l’addition, par les serveurs car il se faisait bien tard … Nous attendions avec Sylvie dehors que son homme vienne la chercher sur son beau destrier motorisé …

Ma belle voulait prendre un taxi pour arriver au plus vite chez moi … Je l’en ai dissuadé, j’avais ma petite idée derrière la tête !

Une fois dans le métro, nous attendions sagement que notre rame arrive … Enfin, sagement … Elle est venue s’asseoir sur moi et m’a embrassé de façon toujours autant indécente … Mes mains sont venues entre ses cuisses à la recherche de son string … Mes doigts se sont pressé en elle !

Elle se laissait faire … Des gens n’étaient pas loin mais ça ne nous perturbait pas ! Et puis, on a dû offrir un chouette moment au gars derrière sa caméra de surveillance !

Nos jeux ont continué dans le wagon … Une fois arrivés chez moi, enfin dans mon immeuble, nous avons commencé à nous embrasser … Nous avons commencé à monter les marches qui nous séparaient du 1er étage ! Arrivés à mi-étage, elle s’est arrêté et m’a collé … J’avais envie de la prendre là, maintenant, dans les escaliers (oui oui, la transgression … A toutes les sauces !). Je suis parti à la recherche de son string pour lui enlever.

Elle s’est mise à genoux et m’a sucé … Comme ça ! Poua !!!!!!!!!!!! Elle m’a regardé, il faisait très sombre mais je voyais encore ses yeux … En se relevant, elle a fait glisser sa robe ! Elle était nue dans mon putain d’escalier … Entièrement nue … Elle s’est retourné, s’est accoudé et m’a tendu ses fesses …

Je suis rentré en elle … J’ai beau être un obsédé et être dans une situation hyper excitante, j’avais un peu de mal à bander (probablement à cause de l’alcool)  ! Je l’ai baisée comme ça … A poil, dans l’immeuble … Nous étions surexcités … Tellement excités que j’ai commencé à entreprendre son petit trou … Elle ne disait rien … J’ai placé mon gland contre cet endroit si sensible et j’ai poussé … Et je lui ai prise le cul assez sauvagement !

N’importe qui rentrait ou sortait de chez lui, nous voyait … Il n’y avait aucun moyen que nous ayons le temps de nous rhabiller … La scène a dû durer une vingtaine de minutes !!! Je lui ai demandé de monter pour que je puisse la prendre dans ma chambre, elle a ramassé ses affaires et a monté les marches… J’ai buté dans une chaussure de femme, malgré mon état éthylique avancé, j’ai réussi à la ramasser et à la suivre …

A peine chez moi … A peine, elle était à genoux à me sucer … Toujours nue … Avec son visage d’ange … Visage d’ange que j’ai immortalisé en action !

J’ai été minable au lit mais elle a (semblé) pris beaucoup de plaisir … Je confirme que l’alcool (à forte dose) diminue clairement les capacités sexuelles … En plus, ça donne trop envie de pisser, m’enfin ! J’ai réussi à tenir une petite heure avant que nous nous endormions comme des merdes …

La nuit fût très agitée et j’ai adoré ouvrir les yeux et voir ce visage me sourire … Situation plus qu’agréable ! Elle était douce et salope à la fois … Bref, elle avait assez confiance en moi pour se donner entièrement … Elle m’a confié que c’était sa première sodomie et effectivement, je me souviens qu’il y a quelques mois que nous avions abordé ce sujet et qu’elle avait dit “jamais un mec s’approchera de mon cul, c’est trop déguelasse !”. Au final, un peu d’alcool, de discussion, de feeling et hop … Elle se laisse tenter !

Mention spéciale au petit coup de flip eu au réveil le matin quand elle ne trouvait pas une chaussure … J’ai cru que j’en avais oublié une dans les escaliers … Mais au final, nous n’avions pas décuvé car la petite chaussure manquante était … Sur la table

J’ai peut-être une théorie sur le pourquoi elle s’est lâchée dès le premier soir … Théorie que j’exposerai plus tard

Publication différée

Inúmeras e incontáveis vezes eu ouvi pessoas se referindo a vida homossexual como “aquela vida.”
E isso, com certeza, é uma das coisas que mais me irritam nesse mundo.
Em primeiro lugar, por que restringir toda a vida de uma pessoa apenas ao ponto amoroso dela?
Quer dizer que gays e lésbicas vivem pra o amor? Não existe nada além disso pra nós?
Trabalho, amigos, família… Nada? Só relacionamento amoroso?
E por que rotular uma pessoa de algo apenas por um de seus gostos?
Eu adoro verde e conheço pessoas que amam branco, e não sou chamada de gay ou sapata por isso.
Não, eu não me incomodo com a palavra gay ou lésbica ou o que quer que seja. Adoro ser chamada de lésbica, só acho estranho eu ser julgada e mal vista por algumas pessoas por um único gosto.
Pra que tanto “auê” por apenas mais um gosto diferenciado dos demais?
Existem coisas das quais eu gosto que muita gente não gosta e nem por isso as igrejas me chamam pra uma reunião do tipo “Jesus vai te livrar do seu pecado de comer doritos”.
Ok, pra ser honesta, concordo que comer doritos devia ser sim um pecado. É tão prazeroso quanto comer uma… Enfim, bobagens a parte, vamos ao que interessa…
A pergunta que não quer calar.
Por que diabos achar que todo homossexual vive “daquele jeito”?
Uma das primeiras coisas que a maioria das pessoas pensa quando sabe que alguém é homossexual é na vida que ele leva.
E resumem tudo a álcool, drogas, rock ‘n roll, sexo e prostituição.
Engraçado como é baixo o número de pessoas que pensam em nossas carreiras, famílias, filhos…
Acho que ser gay está tão ligado a algo errôneo que acabam associando todo o resto e criando uma grande bola de neve de supostos pecados morais.
Mas quem disse que todo gay bebe, que todo gay fuma e que todo gay fode?
O que as pessoas não entendem é que existem SIM, gays que se prostituem, se drogam e fazem coisas ilícitas, como também existem héteros que o fazem. Mas que existem aqueles que constituem família, que tem filhos e que tem sucesso profissional.
Existem gays que nem vão a baladas, que não bebem/fumam/fodem e que levam uma vida totalmente saudável, longe de drogas e tudo o mais que é prejudicial a saúde e a sociedade.
Somos pessoas como todos os outros de todo o planeta terra. Só que temos um gosto diferente no quesito sexo.
Como também podemos ter um gosto diferente no quesito música, no quesito livro, no quesito filme.
Por que o sexo é tão mais importante que o resto?
Por que não existem terapias religiosas para pessoas que gostam de forró? Por que não existem pessoas fazendo piadinhas de outras por causa de uma preferencia com cor?
Por que existem pessoas matando outras por causa de sexo?
O que pouca gente entende é que o mesmo amor que alguns sentem quando levam seus parceiros (as) pra cama, nós sentimos quando levamos os nossos.
É amor, igual, puro.
Então por que julgar tanto e discriminar mais ainda toda a nossa existência por uma única e banal diferença?

Esse é meu 24º Post publicado no LiBaNetto.

É dia 11/11

Nada Mais Justo do que usar esse post tão sugestivo para falar de Homossexualismo e Homofobia.

(Vou decorar o Post com imagenzinhas bem Gay)

Sabem, a maioria das pessoas acha que não existe homossexual homofobico, mas eu sou da seguinte opinião: os Homossexuais, em geral, são Homofobicos.

Calma, eu vou Explicar:

Vamos começar pela etimologia de homofobia:

HOMO – Igual / Homem

FOBIA – Medo / Aversão

Logo, Homofobia = Medo ou aversão ao seu Semelhante.

Os homossexuais não aceitam qualquer tipo de manifestação contra seus hábitos, suas praticas ou ideologias. Qualquer tipo de reprovação publica as praticas homossexuais são motivo de revolta, piti, ameaças de processo judicial contra o autor da declaração, etc.

Agora eu pergunto: se no Brasil o povo fala que todo Crente é idiota, que todo Pastor é Ladrão, que todo Político é Corrupto, que todo Policial é Bandido, que toda Loira é Burra, que todo Japonês tem P… pequeno, enfim, se pode falar mal de todo mundo, por que não se pode falar mal de Homossexualismo?

Não, eu não sou homofóbico, não odeio os homossexuais, não tenho nada contra os homossexuais em si, eu sou contra o homossexualismo.

“Ãi… mas é a mesma coisa…”

Não, não é a mesma coisa.

Eu posso ser contra o cigarro e ter amigos fumantes

Eu posso ser contra o veganismo e ter amigos veganos.

Eu sou contra o homossexualismo, mas tenho amigos homossexuais, na faculdade, no bairro, no salão onde eu corto o cabelo… Sempre os respeitei e eles sempre me respeitaram.

Mas mesmo assim, vai ter gay/lésbica/simpatizante que vai ler esse post e continuar pensando que eu sou um porco, machista, racista, preconceituoso, bobo, feio cara-de-mamao.

Sabe por quê?

Porque, como eu já disse, eles não gostam de rejeição.

Já tentaram tirar o programa do Pr Silas Malafaia do ar porque ele fez declarações como essas que eu estou fazendo aqui…

Algo bem parecido com o que ocorria no tempo da Ditadura, aonde o que ia contra o governo era censurado e tirado de circulação.

Querem um exemplo bem legal?

Todo ano tem parada gay.

Fecham uma avenida e dá-lhe passeata pelo “Orgulho Gay”.

Agora, vamos fazer uma Passeata do orgulho Heterossexual. Vamos sair as ruas pra defender o Heterossexualismo!

Melhor não, sabe por quê?

Porque no dia seguinte ia ter um monte de GLBT na televisão dizendo que na passeata tinha um monte de Homofóbicos, que discriminação e crime, que aiai, que uiui…

Enfim.

Quem tem mais “Aversão ao Semelhante”? O Hetero para com o Homo ou o Homo para com o Hetero?

Eu a essa altura, realmente não sei…

Sometimes I prefer cyberspace to meatspace.  After I finished writing that little lot, I logged on, found my girlfriend and got her to read it.  I asked her if I’d written a jazzy rollercoaster – that’s what André Brink said about Moxyland, after all.  “No,” she said, much to my disappointment, “it is like reading about another country that is fascinating, that you feel you ought to know about and are a bit embarrassed, because you don’t.”  I’m not sure what that means, but the addition of the comment enhances the whole meta thing, don’t you think?  Now it’s interactive too.  So hip.  So postmodern.  Plus, it bumps up the word count a little without me having to write and gets the thing proof-read at the same time.  Win!

Scar felt just a little foolish seeing the photo.  She’d probably ridden past Java Divers Coffee Shop on Main like, about a billion times, without taking any notice of it at all.  Well, it was a Hetero Hangout and if she’d walked in through the front door, her whole appearance, never mind the pink triangle, would have alerted Security to an unwanted Queer presence and she’d have been ushered out, possibly with a cattle-prod.  Was the shop just a front, or an unwitting and unwilling accomplice?  Bizarre to think that at least in theory, Scar’s future would be full of places like that and devoid of places like Charmageddon.  She thought about her brave and beautiful tribe and felt a wave of pure sadness.  Justice is for winners; whoever said that was spot on.

Still no joy with Troy’s posts, they still all seemed to be all about coffee – no subtext.  Or did they change the code when a new batch infiltrated, to maintain cover?  If only Helen or Anders would stop being quite so freaking Het!

In fact, Helen and Anders seemed rampantly Hetero.  They strolled hand in hand, they sat with their knees touching and although their public displays of affection were never lewd, they formed a barrier Scar couldn’t get past.  Helen’s hair was growing more slowly than Scar’s mop, but it was far more femme; she had that whole sleek and gamine raven’s wing bob thing going on.  Scar wondered how a girl’s haircut got a boy’s name anyway.  Helen had a mannish way of walking, but a decidedly feminine way of doing everything else and Scar found she was spending more and more time gazing at her.  Anders was beautiful too and constantly attentive.  Scar would say howzit, the twosome would give her one serene smile and Scar would shuffle and retreat again.

She couldn’t even find Helen on Facebook.

Another night spent reading endless data about coffee.  No reply from the Empress, nothing new from Troy – nothing but bloody coffee.  More days spent smiling at Carrie and discussing possible jobs, hobbies, lives.  Scar felt like she was so damn deep undercover she’d never escape.

I signed this project up for NaNoWriMo too, as a way to stay motivated.  I think I started on the 9th of November, when everyone was supposed to have something like ten thousand words done already.  Will I catch up?  Who knows.

Staring despairingly at a small, white pill on yet another breakfast tray on yet another morning, Scar became aware of Maria hovering rather expectantly on the periphery.  “Here we are now,” said Scar to Maria, “entertain us.”  She had no clue why she’d said it.  Maria grinned suddenly, a smile like a sunrise.  She sat down opposite Scar and toasted her with her own little medication kit and cup.  “What a drag it is getting up,” she said.  Scar laughed and the day began.

She wondered if she knew Maria from Charmageddon maybe.  She wondered why she didn’t recognise anyone in the clinic.  She wondered where the fuck the revolution was anyway.

I found out later that there were more clinics – I just didn’t know how extensive the operation was at the time.  So of course what they did was split Queers up on a geographical basis.  People I knew were indeed getting deprogrammed at the same time as I was, some of them right there in Generika City.  Meantime, there I was, stuck and going rapidly batshit.

Scar found her mood lifting slowly, imperceptibly and she assumed it was due to the pills, until she found herself gazing with even more intensity than usual at Helen one day.  She hauled her emotions out, picked through them and diagnosed a big, fat crush.  Unrequited – the purest kind.  That face, framed by that hair … that smile … the way the muscles of her ass still showed under those skirts … yup, Scar was officially Helen-struck.

“China, you wanna maybe slap on your shades when you’re doing that,” said Maria at breakfast one morning.  “What?” squeaked Scar and Maria rolled her eyes.  “Mooning about after Helen, man – it’s lank obvious and you know the rapists are gonna freak.”  The rapists, therapists; inspeak, clinicspeak.  Scar felt a blush race up her face and Maria grinned, “Lekker!  You can take the Queer outa the ghetto, but …”  Busted.

Thing was, Maria could have been a mole.  The Queer Quarter had been full of tales of spies and the Hetero Superstructure certainly had the time, the resources and the dedication.  Scar had a feeling she wasn’t going to be able to bluff her way out of it though.  She also had a feeling that Maria might very well be cool.  Fuck it, she thought to herself and grinned back.

You Can’t Take the Ghetto From the Queer

“Oh Maria, the hills may be alive with moles, but I don’t think I give a shit today,” said Scar, giving Maria a very direct and old fashioned sort of a look.  Maria laughed, tapped the side of her nose, winked and walked off.  Scar realised she was shaking, sweating and grinding her teeth gently.  Shit, shit shit, what if …?

Welcome, Siri!  You have [1] new message.
Click …
Java Divers has chosen YOU to receive a limited edition loyalty card, with a 10% discount on all FatMugs of house-blend served at Java Divers main branch this year!  Simply use the code JAV/7894 and enjoy your favourite coffee at 10% off!

Oh yeah, like she was going to get out of Queercatraz in a hurry.

Maria just waved from across the canteen the next day, Helen was in a huddle with Anders and so Scar just swallowed another pill, daydreamed Helen into a pair of ass-hugging jeans and wandered off to therapy.  Carrie seemed even perkier than usual, which put her on about the same level as a chipmunk on acid.  “Siri, you’re integrating so well, that the board has decided to give you a City pass-out!” she warbled.  Scar perked right up too.  It meant you could go on supervised and approved trips to venues in Generika, it meant she’d get to go breathe some decent pollution for a change and hang around places that weren’t goddamn pastel.  It meant that for a while at least, she would be under heightened scrutiny, but it meant some freedom too.

Anders didn’t seem especially enthralled to be assigned as Scar’s trusty the following Saturday, but Scar didn’t care.  Looking ruefully down at her shaved legs, she imagined the reactions down at Charmageddon – woooo check out the femme!  The clinic shuttle dropped them off on Main and Anders chose a table smack bang in the middle of the place.  There wouldn’t be any cosy conversation then.  He keyed in his order into the JavaPad on the table and raised two perfect eyebrows at Scar.  She asked for house-blend and he keyed that in, then muttered, “Gotta code?”  “Pardon?” asked Scar and Anders looked slightly impatient.  “Discount code, yo.” quoth he.  Scar fumbled it out of her (oh gods) handbag and handed it over.  Was she imagining it, or did Anders’ left eyebrow elevate just a little higher at that point?

The mugs arrived and Scar sat back to watch the passing parade.  Anders examined his fingernails, his mug; he hardly spoke at all.  Just before the shuttle arrived outside afterwards though, he touched Scar lightly just above her right elbow and made eye-contact.  “Search Troyville on Facebook.” he said quietly, then got into the shuttle and ignored her for the rest of the ride.

The rest of the day blurred by as usual, strictly according to schedule.  Scar felt renewed, like she’d been given a key.  She itched to get online and after the usual bland evening meal, she logged on to Java Divers and Facebook.

Welcome, Siri!  You have [1] new notification.
There is [1] new post by The Empress.
Click …
Nothing is pure vanilla anymore, it’s all that poncey stuff from Madagascar.  Stick to the house mix kiddo and all the best.

Replies had been disabled, the thread locked.

Facebook, then.

Search: Troyville
Results: 357 733
Filter: Applications
Results: 1
Click …
Troyville needs to access your profile, blah blah blah …
Allow

Welcome to Troyville, Siri!  If you have a voucher, please input it now.

JAV/7894

Choose your avatar.

Scar’s eyes widened as she scrolled through all of the little cartoon possibilities – they were, well, exceedingly dykey.

Hair: brown
Length: no.1
Physique: average
Eyes: blue
Nose: average caucasian
Mouth: small
Trousers: ripped, faded jeans
Shirt: retro geek tee
Shoes: blue Converse like Kurt’s
Accessories: wallet-chain, heavy silver rings, goddess symbol
SAVE

Holy fuck, but that felt good.

You have now reached the encrypted page YOVILLE+TR

*VOTE VETO*

She almost wept.  This was it, this was the underground, in all its one-dimensional  glory.

Input Troyville details here!
Name: Scar

You have been assigned the rank *Maniac*

Welcome to your new apartment!  You have *10 000* TroyGold to spend.

A whole heap of clicks and drags and saves later, Scar had a virtual space that made her feel like herself again.  Bookshelves crawled the walls around serious screens and street art filled the rest.  The bathroom was clean and private, the double bed was comfortable and blue.

What Goes on in Troyville Stays in Troyville

That was the last message Scar saw before the screenfeed clicked off for the night, leaving her wired awake in bed, wondering what was going to happen next.

What happened next was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.  She got up, exhausted and went to breakfast.  Maria gave her a friendly smile and suggested vitamin B.  Helen and Anders floated around in their bubble.  Carrie bounced about in hers.  Stephen graduated and was off to a job in cybernetics and an apartment in a halfway compound for rehabbed Queers.  Carrie put Scar’s added cheerfulness down to the stability of her medication and involvement in the programme.  Scar kept her pass-out privileges and the next time she went out, Helen was standing at the shuttle stop.

“Hey there, Siri!”
“Hello” (Can’t she tell I’ve dedicated all of my orgasms to her?)
“Ready to go?”
“Sure” (Oh hell yes, if you only knew …)

Off to Java Diver again and Helen picked a booth in a corner.  Orders keyed in and codes too and Helen took a deep breath, making extended and pleasurable eye-contact.  Scar felt her knees buckle.  For fucksakes, this wasn’t the time to be such a drip.  “It’s not safe to say too much hey,” said Helen, “but you do need to know that I’m your liaison and that Plan Q is going well.”  Scar started to ask her what the hell Plan Q was all about, but Helen shook her head and said, “Troyville, ne?” and so Scar shut the fuck up again.

“Anders?” she asked, dry mouthed as the Karoo.  Helen grinned and said, “All fake, man, all fake.  The faggot’s just playing a part, like all of us – like you, I hope.”  Helen refused to say more, refused to even tell Scar whether Maria was cool or not.  The only other info Scar got, was that her Troyville neighb0rgs would include her fellow clinic inmates, but that the cover must not, under any circs, be blown.  Scar just nodded and drank yet another mug of muddy brown house-blend.

She spent her nights in Troyville trying to peel the queer from the neighb0rgs and work out who was who in the meatspace zoo.  She was pretty sure Helen was Her0 – her avatar looked fairly close to her offline self, she was just dressed way different.  Scar sent her flowers.  Maria was mercifully easy to work out, she was, unbelievably, even more femme in cyberspace and went by the name Kitten.  Veto was there, but busy and rarely accessible and happily, joyfully, disturbingly – Dave!  Dave was there as Bear, of course, just the same as when Scar had last seen him.  Turned out he was still out in the Queer Quarter, that he’d been behind Scar’s migration all along.  Scar wasn’t sure whether to hug him or smack him.  Stephen was there too, the Halfway Hero, telling the clinic-bound about the other Queers there on Planet Hetero, planning his own infiltration, getting instructions from Veto.

Helen of Troyville was now disturbing my days and nights almost full time.  I was smitten, to put it mildly and beyond the damn revolution, I just plain liked her. I checked out the books in her virtual apartment and sent her other books I thought she’d like, since the flowers hadn’t seemed to have impressed her much at all.  I became obsessed with holding her hand, grabbing her butt and … I wanted to dive into her with my tongue and never leave.  Even knowing the Anders thing was a set-up, I was as jealous as hell.  I wanted time with the woman – acres of it.  She started sending me books too, we started hanging out online a lot; it was fucking brilliant.

Message: Her0
Subject: intel
Content: skin on skin the revolution begins … {alix olson}
Send

The screenfeed died and Scar spent another sleepless night, groaning alternately in pleasure and despair.  Another day, another tray … more therapy.  Running the cross-country course later, just to get some alone time, Scar’s footfalls echoed to her own marching beat, “I’m lonely, leave me alone …”

“Scar!”

Scar screeched to a halt.  “Helen?”  Helen was morbing, Scar had never seen her without that trademark smile before.  “Your message ..” Scar blushed and shuffled her feet, feeling like a bashful boi again.  “If only,” said Helen, sadly, “but the Plan … well, I graduate tomorrow.  Anders and I are leaving.”  Scar felt as though she’d been flung, splat into some kind of Juliet and Juliet plot.  The sky grew even lonelier, but wait a minute; Helen liked her!

Helen put her hand on either side of Scar’s face … and kissed her.

Then she ran, shockingly fast, towards the main building.  Scar fell over trying to follow her and then she couldn’t find her.  Maria found Scar weeping, got her a sleeper and sent her to bed.  Good thing too, or who knows what might have happened.  Something inappropriate and futile for sure.

Skin on Skin

Days blurred by again and somebody upped Scar’s meds.  Carrie reassured her that transitions were always tough and gave her an extra pass-out.  That time, Scar landed up sitting morosely at JD with Maria, slurping house-blend.  Rifling idly through the newspaper on the table, Scar stopped at a full-page of rather different print.

Plan Q

“Read it,” said Maria, “ and then leave it.”  Maria buried her head in the job ads while Scar read.

So the revolution didn’t work.  Pride marches didn’t work.  Violence didn’t work and neither did non-violence.  In less than a century, heteronormative society managed to segregate and hate queers again.

Scar found herself nodding, till Maria kicked her shin sharply under the table.

The only way we’re ever going to regain any liberties at all, is by infiltration.  For that reason, many of you have had to leave your homes and whatever security you might have had, to either go underground, or to the front lines.  More of you than we care to consider are stuck in mental institutions, medicated into passivity.

Scar palled, she’d heard about things like that and never wanted to believe it.

Your mission – and it’s too late to refuse it now, is to continue with the heterofication process, remain compliant and wait for further instructions.  You’ll be transferred to a halfway house within a week and assigned a liaison officer.

This message will not self-destruct – we hope you won’t either.

They finished their coffee and returned to the clinic.  Everything went on as inexorably, as tediously as before, but there was light at the end of that particular tunnel now.  Troyville continued to keep Scar relatively sane, especially the night she got a message from Her0.

I miss you.

Feverishly, frantically she replied, I miss you too!  She hit refresh over and over, hoping Helen was online.  Nothing.  She rearranged her virtual books and moped around.

Her days altered gradually as her graduation date loomed.  They didn’t make a fuss about it publicly, they didn’t want the regime of the clinic disturbed, but there was an air of expectancy.  At her final session with Carrie, she was given a WatchFeed – she’d definitely been escalated.  Hets always got the best tech and now she’d be connected, to everything, 24/7.

Halfway to Somewhere

The shuttle dropped Scar off at what looked like a Tuscan rabbit warren – a style invented by Queers and promptly ripped off and commercialised by the Hetero world.

OK, most lesbians might not be famed for their sense of style, but jeez that place was just maxed out kitsch, man!  Picture my little halfway home, all tricked out in subtle shades of reds, pinks, oranges.  Not a glimmer of blue anywhere, which made me shake a bit.  I just don’t feel right without blue, man.

Scar didn’t recognise any of the other denizens of the halfway point.  Then again, there wasn’t time for too much socialising now; meals weren’t communal anymore, Scar’s medication arrived by courier in weekly batches.  She geared it down to one pill every two days, ground the rest up and fed them to a Yucca.

After an intensive vocational session, Scar had been put forward for a low-tech, behind the scenes job in the city’s Intermodality Node.  She oversaw a bank of computer panels that connected shuttle stations.  Her days became a dance of connected colours, with a rhythm only ever disturbed by occasional power-outs.  She had coffee at JD once, with a guy called Devon from work; the newspapers in the coffee house were devoid of Plan Q and keying in her discount code, Scar felt lonely again.

You have [1] new message.

It was her watchfeed, pulsing discreetly.  Scar felt her saliva dry as she flicked her fingers over the display, accessing the message.

Stay Queer!

Ha, thought Scar, as if she had an option about that.  If there was any chance of turning authentically Hetero, she’d have done it by now.  The tech was so good, but no ways was her whole soul going to bend to make her a practising Het.  She’d tried out sex with a dude when she was 17, after all and she just couldn’t do it.  Not dissing men, she muttered, it just doesn’t work for me.  At all.

Being Queer had become so political.  Scar thought back to when it was mainly about same-sex relationships and fashion, not social marginalisation.  Back in the day, when you could get any job and buy any tech you liked.  Scar sighed; she missed the Quarter, even with all its restrictions.  She missed seeing pink triangles on woman and wondering which woman was the one.  She wondered, if she’d found her, if she’d have left at all.

Scar stayed queer.

You have [1] new message.

Click!

OK Scar, damn you, but here’s the thing.  I can’t stop wondering about you, I think I’m obsessed.  Actually, I think I’m in love.  I think you’ve got a trojan virus, yo.

As Scar ran virus checks and security updates, she wondered whether the pun was a chat-up or a threat.  System was clear anyway and Scar smiled wider than wide.

There was no doubt Helen was a true blue lesbo – confessing love before the first date, never mind the second.  Well, there was that kiss.  Scar smiled stupidly as she replayed it; the kiss that had literally taken her breath from her and left her feeling stoned.

I asked my mate Hippolyta to read my shit too – she said she loved it, even though it’s rough and needs editing.  Fucking grammar nazi … I love that woman, but if she thinks I am editing this crap, she can go jump.  All I care about is hitting the word count target and right now I am on 8 851.  Head’s aching and pounding like a total bitch too and while I’m at it, I can’t even read other shit to unwind.  I’m awash in fucking words.  Mika looked surprised yesterday when I told her I’d just signed up for NaNoWriMo.  “You haven’t got much time left, Petal,” she said in her odd mix of Geordie-German English.  Yeah, I know, I am supposed to be writing away in tortured and splendid isolation, but have you taken a look at cyberspace lately?  Words jostling around shielding their binary, yelling for attention and gone in three seconds.  Everything’s disposable man; you, me, the world – everything.  I’m just trying to pin this butterfly to the board before it all changes again.

Helen … talking about love in the time of trojan viruses seems strange to me – and wonderful.  I think we’re on the same page, like those jargon loving Hets say.  When can I see you again?  Dammit, when can I kiss you again?

Another incoming Facebook notification popped up in its merry little red square.

You have been invited to join “I bet we can find 1 000 000 Trojans on Facebook!”
Accept?
y/n

yes.

Those were just the kind of messages that Scar habitually sent to the trash.  How the fuck was a Facebook group ever going to change anything?  Constant barrages of join my cause, join my group, become a fan of me … what was the use of any of it?  But she couldn’t resist anything Helen related.  She had no intention of resisting Helen.

Oh Scar, you can kiss me now.  If only.  Where are you in this demented city?  I just got a job managing Java Divers – you can guess the implications.  Can you make it here anytime soon?

Could she?

Helen, if you fuckers would open 24 hours I’d be there now.  Instead, Generika’s newest Intermodalities Connection Technician (3rd class) will be at your door as soon as possible after tomorrow’s early shift.  I wouldn’t bother with lipstick if I was you.

Scar!  I think you mean, “if I WERE you.”

Helen … no I didn’t.

The shift passed achingly slowly, colour to colour, connections buzzing and whirring their way around the city, getting the drones to work and home and shops.

You have [1] new message.

Click …

Thank you for joining I bet we can find 1 000 000 Trojans on Facebook!” – shifting the system sideways, one face at a time.

Oh, yup.  Whatever.

Scar didn’t bother changing before she raced off to JD.  Civvies would have meant a dress, since rehabbed Queers’ dress style was watched fiercely by the board.  Her techie outfit, however, was almost dykey.  Orange city overalls with the Intermodality cable logo on the pocket – nerdy, but still better than a dress, no doubt.  The safety boots were the best part of the ensemble, Scar felt almost like her old self as she pushed the door open, casting anxiously about for Helen.

There she was, standing behind the counter, brow furrowed in deep conversation with a barrista-bot.  Scar hadn’t realised you could converse with those things, or was Helen about to reprogram it?  Helen looked pretty fit in the Javalicious corporate uniform – one of those severe business suits, all pencil skirt and straight (ha!) lines.  And lipstick.  Scar grinned.

You youngsters might think it was trivial of me to be chasing skirt during a revolution, but you gotta remember that the whole infiltration process was a painfully slow and gradual thing.  What took under a year for me, had already been in motion for about five years.  That year felt like ten anyway.  Also, what’s the point of being queer if you can’t, you know, be queer?  You know what I’m saying?  Anyway, I know you’re all drooling to know if we kissed, if I ever got my hands on Helen’s perfect ass and all that, but I just hit my word count target for the day, so I’m going to go chill the hell out now.

My girlfriend says I need to do some character development.  OK, that may be true on a personal level too, but in this case she means my writing.  Soon as she said it, I thought what the fuck, I mean, it’s autobiography.  Also, it’s just the start.  I think it’s a shitty parable, but here it is – the start of yet another first novel the world doesn’t need.  It almost certainly especially doesn’t need a queer, cyberpunk, meta style autobiography.  Still, I couldn’t dream up this shit, it’s all true, every word – and it only happened last year.

Scar and the Board of Human Affairs

Scar leaned on the counter of her local lesbian bar in a stereotypically laconic, dykey sort of a way and began to count clichés.  High femme lipstick lesbian over there in the corner, defying the rules by buying her own drinks.  Baby boi dyke hustling around with a pool cue, acting tough and praying for someone to love.  Old school butch with the obligatory ill-fitting jeans and a bulky cellphone clipped to her bulky waist.  The newer, more androgynous models, drinking overpriced things with groovy names.

Tribe.

Queer folk had their own spaces, they weren’t allowed to mingle.  Straight society had played with tolerance for generations, before admitting that actually, it didn’t want perverts anywhere near its wives and children and cattle, thank you very much.  For those Queers who didn’t naturally dress Queer, there were pink triangles to be pinned to lapels, so that they could be identified and shunned by the mainstream breeding population.  And Queers weren’t allowed near children.  At all.  Society knew what them Queers were like around children and it was having none of it, thank you very much.

She ordered a clichéd beer and drank it straight from the bottle, in a clichéd kind of way.  She began to peel the label from the frost-sweating bottle with her clichéd short nails while she examined her clichéd comfortable workboots to make sure they had the right level of clichéd anti-fashion scuff marks.  Everything was perfectly clichéd, from her clichéd button-down shirt to the clichéd distressed jeans and the clichéd well-tailored and exquisitely battered leather jacket.

As she counted off the clichés in the bar, she counted exes too.  As a fully accredited dyke, Scar had been out with around a fifth of the bar’s floating population, had consoled another fifth when it was heartbroken and listened to about nine tenths of it complain about their girlfriends at some point.

Obviously Scar wasn’t Scar’s real name; her real name was something feminine and clichéd and Scar was the nickname she’d picked up back in the day when she hated herself enough to indulge in some clichéd self-mutilation.   Scar looked around at all the women she knew, all the clichés she recognised in her adoptive family – because when you’re queer, your real family generally poisons you with clichés and you have to indulge yet another cliché, go out and make your own new queer clichéd family, just so you have somewhere warm and comfortable to go.  Scar was sick of clichés.

The following day, she showered off a mild hangover and rode a clichéd motorbike through a generic city (queer people have to live in cities, because, on the whole, smaller communities are just too full of gossip and rejection) to the Human Affairs Office.   She stood in line to get forms, then she stood in line to get the forms stamped and then she stood in line to see a consultant.

“So,” quoth the officious official behind the desk, “so you think you can be a Human?  What makes you think you qualify?”  Scar scanned the official, remembering that for people to accept you, you need to make yourself as much like them as you possibly can.  So she tried to look bored and pretend her wallet was stuffed with photographs of her children and that she was liable to apply make-up at any moment.

“Well, I have the right DNA, for a start …” but as she was saying it, the official was already shaking her head.  “DNA can be manufactured these days, you know this.  We’ll need more.”

Scar thought it over.  What was common to all humans?  “I belong to the species at the top of the food chain!” she yelped, delighted to have thought of it.  The official shook her head again.  “No, you don’t.  You’ve been designated ‘Queer’ which, as you really ought to know by now, puts you slightly above chimps, but far below chihuahuas.”

It was true.  It didn’t seem right, but it was true.

She thought some more and then said, “I weep tears when I feel sore and I am euphoric when I am in love.  I can think and feel and learn.  Surely those things make me human?”  The official carried on shaking her head until Scar began to be concerned about whiplash.  “What you have to understand,” said the swivelling official, “is that once the Societal Norms Authority has designated you ‘Queer’ you immediately have fewer rights than Humans and are more likely to end up depressed, ill and dead – Queers are worth very little to us I’m afraid.  Look, just go back to your cliché-niche and be grateful you are still permitted to process oxygen.”

Scar inspected her newly shined boots and wondered what to do.  The official sighed and reached for a rather toxic looking leaflet and handed it to her.  “Achieving Heteronormativity within the Mainframe Mainstream Heterosocietal Structure,” she read.  The official began nodding, “This is the only way you will ever be reclassified as Human – and it’s well worth it.  You’ll instantly gain all the benefits gained by Conformist HeteroHumansTM.  Take it home, read through it and then contact the Agency.  There’s a course and an exam, but we’ll help you.”

The road home was blurred, as roads are when the journey’s unclear.  Scar sat in her kitchen drinking coffee and staring at the pamphlet.  It was covered in clipart, the colour had bled beyond its firm, black lines.  There was a helpful checklist of things to do to become Human.  Scar thought about all of the things that made her look and feel like a dyke and was suprised to find that of all of them, only one featured on the official list.  She slept with women.  She’d thought that if she grew her nails and wore different clothes, she’d be regarded as Human.  She was even willing to trade in the bike for a hatchback and the boots for something more feminine.  She’d been prepared to relinquish vegetarianism in favour of steak and even to contemplate drinking beer from a glass.

Apparently the criteria for being classified as Human were simple for her.  All she had to do, was have relationships solely with men, or simply forego relationships altogether and hey presto, people would stop looking at her sideways, society would accept her.  To be Human, Scar would basically have to give up any hope of love.

It seemed inhuman.

Poignant, that last line, don’t you think?  Too blatant though, all of it.  I thought I’d do some scene setting and character development next, so this is what I came up with.

Home was an apartheid-era concrete monstrosity kind of like an Alcatraz for hamsters.  Well, of course it was; this is that sort of story.  Scar chained her boney to a monstrously concrete pillar and sloped off upstairs.  You had to lock your wheels down tight, but front doors weren’t even necessary they were so pointless.  Not only were you under strict orders to have your domicile accessible to the security forces, but if a Hetero felt like strolling in and helping itself to your possessions, there was no protection, no recourse.

The revolution had already taken place, you see … pink triangles out on the streets in peaceful and then violent force.  Fists and slogans and the media rushing around like delightedly headless chickens – the whole damn shebang.  After the revolution, somehow the same society which had managed to embrace the “love see no colour” slogan, had completely rejected Queers, mostly because they didn’t breed and had sex that the Heteros didn’t want to think about except when they were completely alone.

Queers had been assigned flats, two to each flat – one male and one female.  Anybody whose gender didn’t fit snugly on to the binary went into communal digs.  The “logic” disregarded science completely and was geared towards the strange hope that once in a confined space, a man and a woman would eventually give in, fuck and therefore be bisexual at the very least, if not Hetero.

Scar’s flatmate, Dave, was as butch as she was.  He was, in fact, butch enough to pass for Hetero and be accorded Human status, but he was too stubborn.  “We’re living in a fucking post-armageddon cyberpunk cliché, darling!”  he called to her as she slammed the unlocked front door.  “You’re wearing my jeans.” said Scar, “Also, this shit is steampunk.”

Another good reason to be Human – they got the best tech.  Queers got last years obsolete, clunky machines and low-priority connections and always, always, the threat of complete disconnection.  The solution?  ID theft, of course.  A more personal kind of a closet.  With your real ID, you logged on and danced to their tune.  Any supposedly subversive information and communication went on to the fake ID and you hid your tracks compulsively for fear of getting bust.

At that point I realised I was writing the damn commentary instead of the story, but if you’ve ever tried to wrestle a plot out of your life, you know how hard that is.  So I rebooted my brain.

Scar shoved her way into her flat through a fucked up plywood door and flopped out on the fucked up couch with her boots on.  Time to log on to the underground i.e. an old school bulletin board (remember them?) online, that had been around since the time of dinosaurs and dial-up.  The moment of connection still made her saliva dry a little and her palms sweat a little.  Scar loved the internet with a serious amount of addiction and devotion to its safety and its surprises.

Who do you want to be today?

Some hacker’s parody of a vintage software marketing slogan welcomed her along with a login pop-up containing her real name and the names of two unknown Heteros, dead for all she knew, their identities hijacked and sold.  Software all masked and secured so that any snooping authorities just see some housewife in Texifornia checking out the latest state approved news or whatever.  Veto the hacker told Scar that all approved net services had the word “breed” embedded in every single image, as Hetero indoctrination and Scar believed him.

As usual, there wasn’t a lot on the Java Divers Bulletin Board and what was there seemed pretty tedious, but that, of course, was the kick.  If you made it on to the site as a legit browser, you’d retreat pretty fast for fear of death by boredom, but if you were in the know, you knew … you knew that every innocent seeming word in the place was coded communication.

Alright I have to interrupt myself here, to say that no way am I going to paste any code key here – just in case.  So all you’re going to get, is the translations.

The Empress, in her dark, subcultural corner, was setting up some kind of pagan power festival, involving sex, fetish and apparently, the birth of another revolution.  Scar looked up to the Empress and was terrified of her.  Further down the board was what Scar needed – information about the Human Infiltration Scheme.  That particular initiative did exactly what it said on the lid.  It assisted Queers in rejoining Humanity, with the aim of overthrowing it.  So far as far as Scar could tell, all that happened, was that people vanished.  One day you were having a beer with Jay down at the Charmageddon, the next, Jay was gone and if you tried to find out where, strangers began to follow you around.  You soon learned not to ask.  Talk at the Charmageddon the next night would revolve around Jay’s treachery and how she was never a real Queer anyway.  Like there were degrees of Queer or something.

She opened the Humanity thread and scrolled down the instructions yet again.  Stage one, complete.  Make contact with the Board of Human Affairs.  Go home and do nothing.  The initial contact would already have alerted the authorities of another migration possibility, Scar would now be firmly on their radar.  Stage two, a telnet address, a MUD written to teach wannabe migrants to pass.  The authorities had their own slick software for it, but this was different.

Click …

Username: input the reference number assigned to you by the BoHA.
Password: input your Java Divers username

Welcome to HeroWorldTM!  Do you really wanna be a hero? y/n

Scar paused.  Did she?  Well, to be honest, no.

yes.

User RF5374/8 input your chosen nickname.

Oh shit.  Shit, shit, shit.  This was where she had to start using her real first name for the first time in two decades and it felt all wrong.  Flashback to rejection, confusion and pain.  Fuck that, she’d been incognito and on the run far too long.

Jane

Your nickname does not match your ref.  Try again.

Fuck.  OK.

Siri

Thank you Siri!  You are now a level 1 migrant to HeroWorldTM – you have reached the Departure Lounge.  As you walk through the door, you notice a bar counter, a flatscreen and another door.  Type /look to see who else is here!

/look

You see Robert, Molly, Helen and Jia.

/look Robert

You see a tall, dark man, with a wry smile.  Comms enabled.

/look Molly

You see a woman.  Comms limited.

/look Helen

You see a woman.  Comms limited.

/look Jia

You see a woman.  Comms limited.

No same-gender hook-ups here then.  No gender guessing either.  Scar decided that a bar without the ability to check people out was fairly pointless and was tempted to quit, when …

Robert: Hello Siri!
Siri: hi

Using title case in telnet?  Robert’s a bot.

Robert: If you need anything, just yell!

Definitely a bot.

Siri: i need a drink
Robert: Type /get drink
/get drink
*A crystal glass of white wine spritzer appears before you as if by magic*

Of course, white wine fucking spritzer.  Drink of heroes.  Scar knew the drill, she had to stay in character.  She spent another half an hour making mindless conversation with Robert the mindless bot and reading Molly, Helen and Jia’s equally mindless chats with him.  She sipped her spritzer, bade the bot a polite farewell and …

/quit

Back to Java Divers to read the instructions yet again, her new mantra.  Too risky to download them, but she needed to see them again, despite having a rather accurate copy stowed in her mind.

Stage Three – spend twenty minutes minimum on a minimum of four days a week in HeroWorldTM – no routine, stay in character at all times.  No matter what.

To cut a long, boring and raw text based story short, that’s exactly what I did for about a month or so.  My long-forgotten Siri-self hung out in that departure lounge talking to Robert for about a week before any other male appeared.  Suddenly I was talking to this guy called Anders, who I assume is a faggot and as uncomfortable as me with the whole thing.  I imagined him as completely effeminate, which helped me flirt with him publicly.  The other players must have been doing the same thing and Anders must have been going the text based equivalent of deaf with all the line noise.

Stage three – continue to frequent your local Queer shebeen, do not arouse suspicion.

Or anything else, Scar supposed.  No prowling allowed while migrating.  No love.  Not even sex.  Scar began to look at everything with goodbye eyes.

“Honeybunny,” said Dave, “what is wrong?”  Scar shrugged.  Rules of the game, she couldn’t tell anyone anything.  It was the part that hurt the worst.  She could fool Dave easy enough, she was often depressed.  She lay in bed stimming – twirling her right foot slowly round, first one way, then the other.  Just another sign of her Siri-self re-emerging; soothing and disturbing at the same time.  Sleep seemed utterly foreign, might as well log on.

Welcome to HeroWorldTM please type /read message to access [1] new message.

/read message

*Please type /open door*

/open door

*You are now at the gate.  Your intro phase is complete and you are ready to approach Stage Four.  You know how.*

The telnet terminal promptly closed.  Autoquit.

Stage Four – refer to BoHA brochure, apply.  Do not attempt a make-over.  Follow procedure.

Shit shit double shit.  Siri was going offline.

Scar stood in front of the mirror and stared.  Her hair had grown out a little in the telnet month and she’d hardly noticed.  That explained the lack of attention at Charmageddon – she thought she’d been giving off unapproachable vibes, but clearly she was just fugly.  No good being a dyke about town with a hairstyle copied directly from the bastard child of Elvis and a cockatoo.  She still didn’t think she resembled Siri, despite the lengthening mop of greying brown hair.

This third person shit is just shit.  Here’s what I looked like back then.  Hair as described and a bit curly.  Oh hell I hated those curls.  Blue eyes and two of them.  Unremarkable nose and mouth and a permanent scowl.  Body – well, not bad, but hardly athletic.  Thing is, as soon as my hair got longer, I felt chaotic and untidy.  Usually my hair’s about the only tidy thing about me and it’s shaved to a number one regularly.

It was a Monday Scar wouldn’t forget.  Ever.  She got up and freaked Dave out completely by making him some toast.  She slung on her leathers, hopped on to the boney and rode the city arteries to the BoHA building.  She’d emailed the address on the brochure and made an appointment with some clone-drone Hetero called Justin.  Justine smiled just like a croc.

“Siri …”  he said, smiling, “… um … rag .. er ..”  “Ragnarra,” replied Scar.  “Rhymes with rug.”  Neither of them made the obligatory rugmuncher joke – that was a first.  Scar wondered if Justin wanted to though.  He told her how it all worked and how it worked made Siri go dizzy immediately.  If she wanted on to the Hetero Programme, she’d have to decide and go, like, now.  No turning back, no passing go, no going home to say bye, nothing.  It was the gate again and Scar wasn’t at all sure she wanted to go through it.  Did she really want to go this far for the cause?  Was she subconsciously hoping she’d really end up Hetero?  Suddenly Scar wasn’t remotely sure who the fuck she was or what she wanted.

Who do you want to be … right now?

It was massively confusing.  She stared at Justin; a slight guy with a rather metro look to him.  Was he ex-Queer?  Was she allowed to ask?  Probably safer not to.  “Listen,” said Justin, “what you are now I once was.  Just go through the fucking portal, yes?”

Not what she’d expected him to say at all; Scar had been prepared for some serious beaurocratic aerobics, instead she felt like she was in an RPG.  Well, game on, motherfucker.  Scar got to her feet and said, “Let’s go.”

It was intense, man.  I was kidding around about the third person disorder earlier, but dead serious, I have it.  I used to get told to stop treating myself as a work of fiction more times than I care to count and at that moment I felt like I had retreated right to the top of my skull and everything was hissing and buzzing around me like white noise.

Sounds dulled and Justin’s mouth kept moving, but Scar couldn’t lip read beyond the fish tank glaze over her eyes.  He made a phone call, he opened his office door and Scar found herself or lost herself walking down a long, white corridor.  Could things get any more metaphoric?

Panic set in with a vengeance.

“Siri?” said somebody and Scar didn’t react.  Again, “Siri?”  Scar tried to focus.  Yet another drone was motioning her towards a shuttle, Scar couldn’t hear anything but her new old name, so she just got in.  She sat hunched forwards, her hands cupping her cheekbones, jaw clamped tight, eyes screwed shut and a headache brewing behind her sweating forehead.  Sometime or other, the shuttle stopped.  Somebody ushered Scar into a building, somebody took her into a small room.  Somebody gave her a pill and some water and Scar slipped into sleep like she’d been pushed there.

“Deprogramme!” yelled the annoyingly perky cheerleader with the pom-poms, “Reprogramme!  Breed, breed, breed!”  What. The. Fuck?  No remote, no way to switch off the screenfeed in her room and nothing heavy to throw at it either.  Scar groaned, remembering that she’d gone through the fucking portal, yes.  The alarm-screen was followed swiftly by her door opening and the entrance of another drone, smiling warily.  “Siri!” warbled the drone, “Welcome!  I’ve brought your clothes and when you’re dressed and ready, just press the bell and I’ll come and show you where to get breakfast and meet everyone.”  Exit drone.

These are not the clothes I want, thought Scar, as she hauled the dress (dress!) over her head awkwardly.  There wasn’t a mirror and it was probably just as well.  Scar didn’t want to see her bandy legs protruding from a dress, thanks all the same.  She pushed the button, the drone arrived and Scar followed her meekly down another corridor.

“Het! Het! Het! Hooray!” squawked a loudspeaker somewhere and Scar flinched.

The dress felt truly bizarre, flapping around her legs.  Air was going where no air usually went and Scar was certain she could feel her leg hairs being fluttered by the aircon.  A canteen, a queue, a tray, a table and Scar was having breakfast surrounded by strangers.

“Hetero is the way to go!” burbled the loudspeaker.

We’re here, we’re queer, thought Scar, sadly.

“Hello noob,” said the man next to her.  Scar blanked him and had a look at her breakfast tray.  It looked like retro-millennium junkfood; stuff in a bun, no chewing required.  Stuff in a cup.  A pill.  OK, what did she need the pill for?  The man leaned in, “Anna’s aesthetics, my dear.  Do yourself a favour and take them like a good girl or they’ll blow them down your throat through hosepipes.  You’ll soon learn the routine.”  Unable to bring herself to speak, a very depressed Scar swallowed the pill.

An inane grin crept over her face and she began to greet her fellow inmates.  Stephen, Marcus, Maria, Helen, Roland … the name Helen seemed familiar, but it was a common enough name and the effort of recall only made Scar’s head ache like a bitch.

Scar, Interrupted

Look, those pills were nice man.  Dinkum sleepers, honed and zoned to chill.  I spent about a week feeling heliumed and smiling more than I ever had before in my whole sorry life.  Eat this, Siri – sure!  Yum yum.  Drink this, Siri – hell yes, yum.  Take a shower, say hello, walk this way.  Whatever.

One morning the pill wasn’t there and the people around Scar started to make sense – it was horrible.  Stephen looked sympathetic and said, “It’s hell when they take them away, but you’ll be alright.”  Scar wondered how on earth she was going to cope with this odd version of reality.  A few more sluggish days of trays and sleep and screaming screens and the timetable began to change drastically.

A drone did something fussy to Scar’s hair and another drone buffed and shaped her alarmingly long nails.  More dresses appeared in her room.  The auto-screenfeed was now interruptable and Scar had access to authorised TV programming and net access.  “Being Het makes me wet!” murmured the screen on a late night porn channel.  Scar resisted the urge to throw up and deactivated it for the night.

Interminable dazed days full of group therapy and worksheets followed and Scar got lost in her own quiet sadness, never speaking unless it was unavoidable.  A pill of a different shape and colour appeared on her breakfast tray and Scar just swallowed it.

“The programme takes as long as it takes,” said Carrie, Scar’s very own counsellor, “it’s completely up to you.  It’s not about mindless compliance either, we want you to work it – you’re worth it!”  Scar’s eyes felt bloodwashed and she began to dream of shattered bones and screams.

My girlfriend suggested I treat writing as a job; do it from 8 till 3 and take an hour for lunch.  I love that woman.  I wrote a thousand of these words one day, a couple of hundred the next and I’ve now been sitting here for a couple of hours, the word count is 4224 and I am fading fast.  Some of this shit is just really tough to relive, you know?

By the time Dr Rose offered Scar the choice of clinical depression rehabilitation or compliance, Scar was medicated and resigned enough to comply.  Maybe the HeteroHuman option was the way to go anyway.  Since the revolution appeared to be passing her by, why not just admit defeat and get the perks.  Blessed are the meek, for they get the best seats on buses.  The ever-increasingly benign Carrie was thoroughly delighted.  “Now we’re getting somewhere!” she parpled.  “Let’s get you debriefed.”  Scar couldn’t even be arsed to make the obligatory underpants joke.

When did you first suspect you might be Queer?
When I was a little kid, I guess … I kept falling in love with my English teachers.  And Olivia Newton John … that smile and …
OK, never mind that.  Right.  Ahem.  How old were you when you had your first queer experience?
21
Had you had … relations with a male prior to this?
Kind of, but it just never worked and sometimes it was really sore and …
OK, OK, your physical was clear and we’re working on the psych side of life now, yes?
Yes.
When was your most recent Queer experience?
About 6 months ago I think, then she started to …
OK, OK.  So you’ve been clean for 6 months.  I just want to say that is a great start, Siri, I am very positive about your future.

And that is pretty much how all of Scar’s individual counselling sessions went.  Carrie would ask her stuff, she would start to reply, she’d start coughing, make a frenetic little note in her notebook and move rapidly on to the next question she didn’t really want answered.  Group sessions consisted of sharing hopes for the future, which for almost everyone seemed to consist of bright and sunny days strolling arm in arm with a member of the opposite gender.

A little later down the counselling conveyor belt were Queers Anonymous meetings, were people would “share” by shuffling nervously and saying, “Hi my name is Dwayne and I have been clean for 18 months.”  Or whatever.

Hi, my name is Siri and I have been clean for 8 months.
Hi Siri!

What a fucking rip.

Hi, my name is Helen and I have been clean for 11 months.
Hi, Helen!
Woooop, she’ll be getting her one year chip soon and probably a Laura Ashley fucking dress to go with it.  Joy.
I just want to tell all of you that for the past 3 months, I have been dating Anders!
Yay!
Whut. The. Fuckitty. FUCK?

Was she Helen the freaking Hero?  Would she admit it to Scar if she was?  Because if she was, then she was theoretically either part of the revolution, or a turncoat like Scar.  Surely she’d have remembered her name, Siri wasn’t common in those parts.  The instructions had been explicit – real names were a must, but no recognition should be shown on the outside world.  Scar had to get online, fast.  How the hell was she going to contact Veto the hacker?

What do you want to do today?

Generic connection screen, generic connection, under the authentic identity of one Miss (Miss!) Siri Ragnarra, no longer a rugmuncher.  I want to hack the fuck out of this system, thought Scar at scream pitch, why the suffering fuck did I never learn how?  Blessed are the geeks, for they shall inherit freedom.

Breathe.

There must be a way.

Java Divers!  It was on the open net, perfectly innocuous, perfectly authorised.  Hell yeah.  Yeah!  Scar could feel her hands shake as she typed in the URL and her lungs felt paralysed during the few seconds it took to kick up the content.

Shit.  If she used her usual JD login, Scar would run the risk of being bust.  OK.

Register
Click
New account

Better just be completely upfront, use her legit details and then slide right into very careful code indeed.

Welcome, Siri!

Java Divers, your online community for serious coffee adoration.

Love that coffee, thought Scar as she scrolled anxiously through the threads, hoping the gig hadn’t been busted, hoping that this was still the way.

At this point I realise I will have to blow the code, even though I refused to earlier.  I’m not going to change what I said earlier either, it’ll just lower my damn word count.  OK, by the time you read this, JD will no longer be the place.  Sorry.

Scar felt like air-punching when she saw the Empress, still there in her corner, offering liberation and perversion.  She hit ‘reply’ and said, “I prefer vanilla latté, but I adore your style.”

The humanity instructions were still there and Scar read them again.  There was still no data beyond the scheduling of that appointment – no help there then.  Damn.

Original poster: Troy
Show all posts
Click

Showing 101 of 3245 posts.

Fuck.  At least she was on a priority connection now, but that was still a lot of reading, she’d definitely be monitored if all she did was sit and read them online.

New tab
Enter URL
http://www.facebook.com

There, that should generate enough crap to smokescreen her.  Scar did a few quizzes and signed up for three moronic sim games.  Facebook did its thing, auto-refreshing compulsively, while Scar read lots and lots of words about coffee.    Despite her knowledge of the code, unless there was new stuff, stuff she didn’t know, just about everything Troy had posted was, in fact, about coffee.

Scar persevered.  She might as well – it gave her a goal and got her through the mundane brainwashing of the clinic.  She watched Helen intently at meetings and after a few meetings, got to see the famed and fabled Anders.  Subversive or revolutionary?  How was she ever going to find out?  Her attempts at conversation with both Helen and Anders were met with courtesy, but that’s all.

She told Carrie about Facebook and Carrie was thrilled, especially when she saw Siri’s profile.

Name: Siri Ragnarra
Interested in: Men
Looking for: Friendship, Networking, A relationship

Facebook was Hetero, binary-gendered, approved.  She mentioned Java Divers too and Carrie thought that coffee shops made for great dates and that it all boded very well indeed.

Scar read about coffee and played backgammon and vampires and did a million quizzes that told her what kind of guy she’d marry and what literary character she was and Scar got bored.  She clicked her way off the JD bulletin board on to their main page and was confronted with a cutely corporate coffee logo and a photograph of a coffee shop on Main in the city.

Essa semana um amigo meu me fez essa ilustre pergunta.
Disse que não conseguia acreditar e/ou entender, disse que tudo isso era apenas pelo simples motivo de não ter achado um homem certo.

Verdade seja dita, homem errado certo eu realmente não achei, em 17 anos de carreira hétero só me apareceram dores de cabeça; Tudo bem, nem todos… Tive sim namorados um só exemplares; Mas não, este não é o real motivo da minha escolha.
Isso não tem nada a ver com homens ou mulheres. Acredito que isso tenha algo a ver comigo mesma. Eu e meu íntimo.

Ainda não descobri o fator real desse gosto peculiar, mas posso garantir com toda a certeza existente em mim, nada me deixa mais animada do que um belo par de seios

Quem nunca teve aquela amiga super linda e hétero que vive para te dar corda?
No começo você ficou interessada com o repentino interesse dela por você e tentou aquela tática super infalível: “Vou chegar, como quem não quer nada e ver qual é a dela”, e claro, ela te dá a maior bola, sorri, chega perto, te toca enquanto conversam e te lança aquele olhar, e aí, quando você pensa: “Tá na mão”, e parte para o bote, ela te breca e fala: “ Eu sou hétero, não leve a mal!”
É, você fica com aquela cara de mamão podre.
Mas depois de alguns dias, a sua amiga “desculpa, sou hétero”, vive te ligando pra saírem juntas, mandando mensagens de texto com frases de segundas intenções, se troca na sua frente com aquela cara de criança inocente e ainda tem a cara-de-pau de perguntar “Você não se importa, né?”
E você, com cara de pamonha… ” Não, tudo bem”.
Quando vocês estão juntas em algum local público e com amigos ao redor, ela faz questão de chegar perto e aproximar o rosto do seu, com aquele maldito olhar novamente.
E sem contar aquelas brincadeirinhas “Eu só quero a (Seu nome) …”
E quando você pensa: ” Agora vai…”, e a põe contra a parede, ela sorri, com a cara mais SÍNICA do mundo e fala: “Pára eu já disse que sou hétero!”
E isso continua e continua e continua…
É, ela realmente nos irrita, nos confunde… Mas fala, o que seríamos sem elas?