"Mike O'Driscoll - The Future Of Birds" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'driscoll Mike)

The Future of Birds
a novelette by Mike O'Driscoll

Foreword

The story in its original form was written in the early 90s, prompted by
public and media reaction to HIV and AIDS, and by my own coming to terms
with a couple of friends who were diagnosed in the mid 80s with HIV and
who've since died of AIDS related illnesses.
I'd written a couple of stories prior to this about AIDS as a political
issue, and about the scapegoating of those infected with the virus. The
immediate catalyst for this story was watching a documentary on television
about the transsexual scene in Rio de Janeiro. The participants in the
documentary were, on the whole, motivated by financial need into
undergoing gender reassignment - the simple economics were that young male
prostitutes could make more money after gender reassignment than if they
had continued to work as males.
The programme prompted me into thinking about what else might provoke such
drastic surgery, and it wasn't too long before I came up with the notion
of a gender specific virus, one which, as in the story, targeted only
women. This allowed me to explore the ways in which those who were
unaffected might relate to or exploit those who were infected. Although
other factors such as poverty, ambition or sexuality might have motivated
the two main protagonists, the fact remains that in assuming a female
sexuality, they joined the ranks of the used and abused. Whatever other
horrors HIV has forced us to confront, at least it isn't, like my invented
virus, gender selective.

The Future of Birds by Mike O'Driscoll

While Dr Kleinfeld carries out his gynaecological explorations, I try to
recall a life beyond the Sanctuary. It is an old game, one whose necessity
is greater than ever now that the parameters of existence are closing in
on me. The old dream has become a sour and sterile reality; my new dreams
are of the disease.
Dr Kleinfeld completes his probing and unhooks my legs from the stirrups.
He makes notes in silence, ignoring me; his report is for Spengler's eyes,
not mine. Seeking some reassurance, I ask him, "And how is my cunt,
Doctor?"
He says, "Is it necessary to use such terminology?"
"That's what it is."
"No no," he protests. "Had you undergone reassignment surgery in Brazil,
then such a crude appellation would be appropriate." And then he's off
into his spiel about the techniques he developed to construct my labia,
clitoris and vagina, and the breakthrough he'd achieved in being able to
lubricate the vagina from the seminal vesicles and cowpers glands, on and
on like some demented Frankenstein.
"I've been having dreams," I cut him off.
"Isn't that the purpose of dreamdust," he says, an attempt at sarcasm that
doesn't become him. "Why do you need that stuff?"