"No," her voice abrupt and jagged as chipping ice.
"Yes," he said. His left hand circled around her waist like a seat belt, his inner arm feeling the comforting, demanding warmness of her cleavage. His right hand started the downward pull on her shirt. He could imagine how her tits would look popping out, the care-free caress of gravity making them perk and bounce ever so seductively, like a girl flashing, the drunken, weary shock on this girl's face like the effect from a camera. He almost wished some errant security camera was catching all this, just to see if his mental recording matched the voyeuristic, authoritative gaze of a true-to-life recording.
He eventually forced her down, her still saying "no" and "please" and "someone help me," pushing him back, futilely pushing against his shoulders. She was drunk—the slut—and the alcohol—the slut—seemed to sedate her. A little disappointing.
She knew it wasn't just a grope after he started ripping off her pants. The tits—full, firm, frustrating—are the most scenic, the most fulfilling, but he needed to be inside her. Pussies were not as fun as the breasts—the wet disgusting sloppy cave; he had once looked at one online spread completely open with medical tongs, and it had made him sick—but they were necessary for complete satisfaction.
Pushing on her throat, he heard the crack! of her head against the brick wall. He noted the almost romantic way her dying hand stroked his inner lower lip on its descent. He unpried her bare (slut), unguarded mess—no frat boys and their bottle's tonight—spread it with a V of his fingers, and, surprisingly soft, forced his way inside.
"No," she murmured.
It was so tight. So tight, so wet, it was a little area of perfection and protection, a little gift he needed to take, something perfect from something so horrid, wretched, and inscrutable.
It was so tight.
So tight.
So fucking tight.
Screaming. He was screaming for dear life. Something was wrong.
(Twenty minutes before Cliff's forced entry, someone else who frequented Cliff's preferred chat rooms—known to his legion as "PearlyWhite"— caught his own prey and was in the process of pounding away. PearlyWhite made sure to bleed his bitch—the satisfying, vindicating taste of her own blood; a practice PearlyWhite could not foretell would became M.O. amongst his ilk. PearlyWhite had caught himself a real live one).
Cliff knew it was too tight.
It was so fucking tight.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Cliff's mind was exploding. He was stuck.
It was shrinking.
Her hole was literally shrinking around his penis. She couldn't just let him have this. She had to take away the prize.
(and his friend with the internet handle PearlyWhite would flee after he was done, leaving his prey crumpled and worn like a cum-soaked blanket, and she would cry and wish for another life.
Elsewhere, another boy with an internet handle unbeknownst to PearlyWhite or Cliff was preparing to go out hunting, but a message in his cell phone from "Flashfest" offered a free trailer for "Tricked College Tricks," and as he watched the four minute trailer, perused their offerings, loved the derring-do, come-hithering, put-ons and ultimate domination of these college bitches, he decided, fuck it, I'll stay in.)
But Cliff was stuck.
Her wetness was like glue, thick and burning, like the times he masturbated with soap in the shower.
"FUCKING HELP ME!" he screamed
And like a carnivorous flower she folded upon him.
He tried to tug, hard, and finding he couldn't, screamed to arise passions, awaken passersbys like no female scream could elicit in this alcohol-saturated downtown.
Like a battery, the girl had gone out. Through mechanical reflex, her cervical muscles clamped down and tucked inwardly, her dying brain transmitted an electronic S.O.S to nearby police units.
A cop received it on his LCD device.
Downtown. Fortieth and Q, the message instructed.
If Cliff was learned in the sciences, he might have noticed how all the blood from his penis watered down the vaginal glue—but he knew nothing and screamed.
*
"Tell me your name."
"Eliza Morton."
"Eliza, that's a pretty name…"
"Ha, thanks. I notice you didn't say anything about Morton."
Dr. Mooney smiled.
"I guess you just gotta keep it real," Eliza smiled.
"But Eliza, is that…ethnic? Is that, say, taken from a family member?"
*
"Gloria. That's a nice name. I figure that's a name that cheers people up. You know, like 'glorious?'"
Gloria smiled. She was authentically pretty, tan, bronze skin— half African/Vietnamese, an alluring mix—but it was her smile that convinced Mooney she deserved to be in the program.
"Why thank you. Mooney is a nice name too. Astral. I am sure it makes people think of the solar system and space and what-not. That's pretty nice too."
She smiled again. He was pretty sure she was playing coy, low-key smart.
*
"No, Eliza came outta nowhere. No one I know of has this name. I like it though, boys seem to like it, girls seem to like it, it's all good."
Mooney smiled again.
"So what brings you here, Ms. Morton."
Ms. Morton upper and lower lip tucked together: a sign of slight but noticeable cognitive stress, a sign of remembrance.
"I remember filling that out on the form."
"Yes, I know, please, indulge me—in your own words."
"Well, it's a good cause. It's horrible what's going on out there. My friends and I don't feel safe. All of these people should be brought to justice, should be punished, and if this is the least I can do…"
"Yes. I am glad you feel that way."
She smiled inwardly. "Plus, in some ways, it is kind of flattering."
Truth be told, this was the first time he ever heard that, and he was surprised, both at himself for not remembering if anyone had ever said that before and equally surprised at such a simple, unlooked equation: Flattery + Justice, private compliment and public benefit, a simple satisfactory sum. It was the perfect ego pleaser.
"Well, I do appreciate your honesty. Some might not view it that way. I do not want to dissuade you, but some might view it, as, well…."
"Creepy?" Gloria guessed.
"Ha, I guess it's not that hard to jump to the conclusion. Yes, I told her some people thought it was creepy, but Eliza, thankfully, thought otherwise. Some people have problems with it. I try and be sensitive to people's misgivings, and I try and explain—fully—what they are getting involved with."
"I can see why it's flattering, to be honest. Even though, if I am correct, it is all composite, still, a part of you is represented, is used to achieve the final product. And it feels good, to know, we—we are making the streets safer. I have the utmost respect for you, sir. To be honest, I plan on going into law, and I am realistic enough to know that I probably won't be able to go into prosecution or public law—I know I am still a romantic utopian at heart—but part of this makes me feel better about myself. I—well, part of me, whatever part—can help get something done, help take these people off the street.
And," a smile returned, "you are sort of immortalized forever. And, well, standing in the waiting room with all those beautiful model girls, it makes you feel nice just to be a part of it. I mean, these girls…these girls are so beautiful. Heh, promise me you'll let me see the final product. Damn, with all these girls being used to make that you'll need to keep me away!"
He made a mental note of how ironic her societally-sanctioned bisexual quips are, but smiled anyways, because all these girls are usually pretty humble.
*
"I have two more questions for your, Eliza."
"I have two more questions for you, Gloria."
"And one request."
"And one request."
"Yes sir?" Eliza had responded.
"Yes?" Gloria had responded, in the same interview an hour after Eliza.
"Are you claustrophobic? What do you think of when I mention dark rooms—dark like midnight?"
"Nothing," Eliza had said. "I mean, I would hate to be in one, but I'm not claustrophobic."
"Ummm," Gloria stammered, reaching for an answer. She was afraid a wrong answer could disqualify her. "Nothing really. I'm not claustrophobic or anything. I don't really like the dark, but probably no more any more than anyone else."
"One more question. In one short, terse, to-the-point sentence: What is your absolute worst memory?"
He looked, hoping they knew what "terse" meant, wanting to see if their brows creased, if they were taken slightly aback at the get-in-and-get-out approach of revealing their most intimate and painful experience.
Eliza: "I was in a car crash when I was young. My brother was driving and he was killed."
Gloria: "My sister telling me that she was date-raped."
*
At one time, he remembered, a month ago, one of the girls he was interviewing for the program had asked him a question he was surprised wasn't asked more:
"What if they get someone whose innocent?"
"None of them are innocent" he had said.
Before she could ask the inevitable and obvious follow-up, he explained:
"They never say 'yes.'"
*
This point always demanded more elaboration. Early in-house testing of the original female archetypes was too good at picking out fakes; the algorithmic response unit given to the "girls" could always be boiled down to a reductive pattern. There are incalculable variations on the whole "saying no" when confronted by a violent rapist, but the nature of mechanical reaction gave the early archetypes a detectable, rhythmic cadence to their voice. Attack; internal calculation; response. Of course, these rapists wouldn't be kidnapping these girls and interviewing them over tea and crumpets, so on the streets, in-and-out rapists would hardly be able to test the girl's response times and speech patterns (but never underestimate a fetish scorned: the staff soon envisioned rapists kidnapping girls and subjecting them to oral tests before determining whether they were "real").
These bugs had all been ironed out. Before these "girls" were just the equivalent of an obstinate machine— a machine set to "frustrate"— but new methods in AI allowed these girls to deduce for themselves (not that it's a hard deduction) to resist violation.
But still, a girl like this could not be "charmed" or "tricked" in agreeing (never underestimate a fetish scorned; he could imagine rapists setting up impromptu "reeducation camps"). These "girls" had their own, independent response mechanisms—as all people do—but they're like rats in a maze who can pick only their own route.
Never underestimate a fetish scorned: Mooney predicted rapists would soon be bleeding women on the street, to see if their blood tasted real enough
*
"One more request, if you will indulge me?"
They would always tighten up right here. Everyone knew they were scheduled for an hour, and since the interview had only taken twenty minutes up to this point, they would sit here wondering how this request was going to take the rest of the time.
"Can you please take this test? It tests reading comprehension, analytic and logical reasoning. It helps us immeasurably.
"I greatly appreciate the time, commitment, and unquantifiable service to the community you are offering us. I assure you, there will be many women—and their families and friends—who will not be able to thank you enough."
They had both gone in to take the test. The staff's skills had stumped him. Next to "Eliza" and next to "Gloria" and next to almost all the girls, the little box laid empty, indifferent. His inability to check that box signaled his transportation into a Dickian unreality.
The little box read: "Real?"
He could no longer tell. Just like that Japanese girl slumped on his desk, a saboteur his staff had mixed in with the real girls, just to drive the point home. The point: we're good.
Or maybe, "we deserve a raise."
One of these girls was real, the other one wasn't, and he couldn't tell.
*
Real? A new "girl" laid out before him, brought to his attention while the crew hovered about, riddled with nervous excitement worthy of an angry bee's nest trapped in an overturned jelly jar.
This "girl" had caught a perp last night, although more like the perp had caught her.
Her name was "Theresa."
Everyone was watching with rapt attention.
There seemed to be no bruising anywhere easily accessible to the human eye. A nod of her neck revealed some evidence of bruising on the back of the head. But nothing terrible.
This was the innocuous little wonder, the first non-victim, the first catch. The perp, some nobody named Cliff Ordelling, was in custody, caught by the most satisfying trap ever invented. Mooney liked to think, like a panoply of fraternal twins, every willing participant who contributed to this alien, composite beauty— the 23-year old South African bombshell studying physics at University, the 19-year old Irish, Chinese mix just graduating high school—could revel in the glory of their first success. He wanted to call every fantastic girl who participated and gush all over them, invite them to dinner, thank them until his phone exploded from overuse.
When he fully undressed Theresa, the extent of the damage could be seen. Her lower body had been treated, well, like those private sex dolls you can buy downtown. Quickly, he thought of Japan—America could hardly keep up with Japan in terms of disgusting pornography, delinquent sex toys and exotic fetishes, yet still, you don't see rapists prowling the streets like you do in America. (Or maybe just not as many are reported). Mooney's mind shot off to a faraway study that he still believed in:
"But objectivity requires that an additional question be asked: 'Does pornography use and availability prevent or reduce sex crime?' Both questions lead to hypotheses that have, over prolonged periods, been tested in Denmark, Sweden, West Germany and now in Japan. Indeed it appears from our data from Japan, as it was evident to Kutchinsky1, from research in Europe, that a large increase in available sexually explicit materials, over many years, has not been correlated with an increase in rape or other sexual crimes."2
He still believed that to be true.
Yet here he was, with this public/private doll.
He wondered how a footmark could faintly be seen above her bladder, and wondered whether this model (at one staffer's suggestion) was made to fart during her attack: nothing brought out male fury—and more criminal charges— like a feminine transgression of the sexual order.
People around him were holding hands, one had slight tears in her eyes, out of happiness or regret was currently immaterial because a minute later when one out-of-the loop staffer came in and told them the perp's name, people cheered. One name off the streets, one fucking rapist asshole off the streets.
Later that day, the thank you letters would come streaming by the truckload. Every project manager on the website—which, mind you, was password protected—had a stuffed e-mail account filled with effluent praise.
*
The next day, after they repaired the damages, Mr. Mooney brought her back to life.
"Theresa? It is Theresa, correct?"
She awoke from a light nap. "Hello," she said chirpily, still on the gurney.
Mooney smiled. "Hello…. Are you alright?"
"Sure."
He put her back to sleep.
Later, she awoke again, walked around in jeans and a baggy flannel shirt, looking both attainable in her lil-ol-American girl garb and something remote and fantastic, like a coveted, warm prize. She smiled sheen.
"Do you feel alright?"
"I feel fine. What's going on here?"
"Do you know why you are here?"
Her lips pouted for a second, "Nope."
"Do you remember anything from last night?"
"Um, I remember waking up in a white room…is everything okay?"
"Everything is fine, Theresa. We are gonna go soon. You can go home. Before you go, what music would you like to here?"
"Anything?"
"Anything."
She thought for a second, and said, "it would be weird without the girls, but how about Born in the USA?"
"Sure."
It played through the room.
She was going home.
*
Late at night she would emerge from an exclusive, dark crawl space tucked away in consenting bars and clubs to flood the market and walk the night anew. Every night she was born anew, eyes and mind perpetually fresh.
*
Just like BaitCar, Cliff's video went online. A little camera embedded under Theresa's breast had fulfilled Cliff's aberrant wish. "Street's Watch: Take Back the Night, Reclaim our Communities: if you rape, you pay the price." If even one of these perverts were deterred after seeing Cliff writhe, it would be cost-effective. Along time ago, one of the staffers thought that, perhaps, this would make a great database: track downloads on the site, get information on these potential perverts, if we bust one, cross-reference them through the site, track their IP address, use it to show premeditation, to show that they knew the consequences and still acted. Think, he had said, this could be a database for legions of potential perverts.
The plan didn't fly, for obvious reasons.
And face it— 20,000 thousand downloads a month can't all be from rapists.
Notes:
1 Kutchinsky, Berl. Pornography: Impacts and Influences: Critique of a Review of Research Evidence. 1994
2 Diamond, Milton and Uchiyama, Ayako. Pornography, Rape and Sex Crimes in Japan.
J.R. can be reached at authorcontact80@gmail.com.