Razor Wire Pubic Hair CHAPTER ONE Lime-flavored tattoo on the back of her neck as she tells me, “You’re going to give me a baby.” The metal of her eyes click, goo-white film over black orbs, old dog eyes, her smile a cluster of purple poison thorns. And arms slender locust-like when she pulls me out of my home, my coffin/drawer on the side of a sky-caressed building, my red-womb where I’ve lived in half conscious dreams of multi-lives for the past six years, being fed through meaty tubes controlled by women workers within. The slender female attaches me to chains and walks me out of the wet-wasteland of city, hands around the sandy hip, tiny body overpowering my body. “You’re much thinner than the others,” the woman says to me, a wheel-squeak voice. “I like them weak and more feminine like you.” I’m not all feminine, I argue with my eyebrows. A raspy giggle, “I love girly fuck toys.” CHAPTER TWO “We must hurry through,” the woman pierce-whispers to me, rubbing a metal hook-like fingernail against a breast and penis head. “The rapists will be out soon. The wastelands are full with them.” Rapists? my nipples ask. “Barbaric and sex-crazed, infected with nymphomaniac disease. They mutilate and fuck every living and non-living thing they come across.” My bare feet go crunchy through the crab-textured landscape, howls around me, intense nerves under my skin. “Don’t worry, we’ll be there sooner than you think,” she tells me. “Just don’t slow your feet. The rapists could be right behind us.” CHAPTER THREE She strings me from the ceiling of her living room and removes all my fresh plastic wrapping. “Here is your new home,” she tells me, smiling and licking her face with a sticky dragon tongue, rattle-stepping into the next room to remove her metal clothing and limb attachments, stripping the clank-materials away until only cobweb strings remain, too tight around her flesh to remove. And she arrives to me to expose her cute sickly skin, shriveled slightly and white from wearing her heavy clothes too regularly, thick metal, chains, leather clothes, her skin rarely exposed to the gray sun. Ropes and plastics sewn through her leg and arm meat, the latest fashion styles. The woman circles in her stringy nakedness, cutting into me with sharp eyeballs. “I promise not to kill you first,” she says. “I normally wear my hook-nails when mating and get fast-fast excited, I just can’t stop cutting.” Her head cocks. “They just don’t survive long enough to ...” Her eyes click. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen with you. I am mature enough now to know how to mate for pregnancy instead of pure pleasure purposes.” I’m too weak for you right now, I tell her with my fingernails, body swaying in the nerve- openness. “You’re not used to being disconnected from your container.” I should eat first. “I’m impatient,” the woman responds, dipping her poison tongue. “After I plug you in, you should forget about hunger and weakness.” My teeth whimper, I hope I am satisfactory. “Yes, yes,” replies the woman, jiggling an enthusiastic breast. “I want you to last for a second child.” Is that possible? “It happens,” the woman circles to my back and shuffles mechanical trinkets in a box, and I shiver uncomfortable. You are very beautiful, shaky-telling the woman, but she only answers with more shuffling. The other females who considered purchasing me were not as high quality as you are. “Don’t call me high quality,” she says. “I am above merchandise.” Then plugs a cold metallic rod into my excretion shaft and flips the power on, driving a claw of electrical waves into my body, up my ass, erecting my two members to full extent, the skin ready to pop and peel, hardening my nipples, my vagina hairs standing up into needles, spiky and tickling. It’s not that bad, my voice now panic-harsh and gyrating, gasping lungs. “What is?” asks the woman. Being merchandise. “Maybe for you it is satisfactory, you are part male,” she comes to me, eyes twisting under pasty film in circles, “But a woman is too free-spirited to be controlled. There is nothing that can hold us down.” What controls a man? I ask. The woman begins to rub her faded nipples into erection. “His penis, of course,” grabbing one of my solid members. “They lived, they loved, for sex. Slave to cunts. That’s why they run extinct. Only women and flesh-creations such as yourself can live in today’s society.” When I was in the testing period, I enjoyed drawing, I say. It is what made my artistic rating so high. If I were not a manufactured product for women, I would have lived for art rather than sex. “As long as you have a penis and testicles attached to your body, you will live for sex.” No, sex is not that important to me. Sex is just a game to play. A game adults can have fun with. “You are a fuck toy, created for sexual purposes,” says the woman. “If sex is so unimportant to you then let me cut off your sexual organs,” drawing a blade razor from a flesh pocket in her wrist, bringing it underneath me. “If I can cut them off I will allow you to live in my home freely for the rest of your natural life, free to draw and paint. You can become like a woman.” Are you sincere? I ask, gentle-green. “Yes,” clicking her eyelids, “I am sincere.” You don’t care that you will lose money on me? “I am sincere.” I stare at my penis and testicles, and then my other penis and other testicles, they are so stimulated, cringe-crawling. The vagina and breasts would be so lonely without them . . .