"Norman Spinrad - Journals of the Plague Years 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spinrad Norman)

The guys said that the interior lining was the max, tight and soft and
wet, the stim programs the best there were. But what did they know? Who among
them had ever felt real meat?
Oh yes, it was a wonderful sex interface my parents gave me to protect me
from the temptations of the meat.
And of course I hated the damned thing.
Worse still when the guy I was balling with it insisted on wearing his
interface too. Yech! His penile sheath in my vaginal insert. Like two sex
machines doing it to each other. I remember an awful thing I did to one wimp
who really pissed me off. I took off my interface, made him take off his,
inserted his penile sheath in my vaginal insert, activated both interfaces, and
made him sit there with me watching the two things go at each other without us
for a solid hour.
And then there came Rex.
What can I say about Rex? I was eighteen. He was a year younger. He was
beautiful. We never made it through two interfaces. I'd wear mine or he'd wear
his and we'd go at it for hours. It was wonderful. We swore eternal love. We
took to telling each other meatporn stories as we did it. This was it, I knew
it was, we were soul mates for life. Rex swore up and down that he had never
done meat and so did I. So why not . . .
Finally we did.
We took off our interfaces and did meat together. We tried out everything
in those meatporn stories and then some. Every orifice. Every variation.
Every day for two months.
Well, to make the usual long sad story short and nasty, I had been telling
the truth, but Rex hadn't. And I had to learn about it from my parents.
Your boyfriend Rex's Got It, they told me one bright sunny morning. He's
been black-carded and they've dropped him in San Francisco. You and he never .
. . you didn't . . . because if you did, we're going to have to turn you in, you
know that, don't you?
Well of course I freaked. But it was a cold slow-motion freak, with
everything running through my head too fast for me to panic. I had a whole
month till my next ID exam. I knew damn well my card would come up black. What
should I do? Let them drop me in San Francisco and go out in a blaze of
meatfucking glory with Rex? Yeah, sure, with the lying son of a bitch who had
killed me!
I thought fast. I lied up and down. I threw an outraged temper tantrum
when my parents suggested maybe I should go in for an early check. I convinced
them. Or maybe I just let them convince themselves.
I found myself an underground doc and checked myself out. Got It. I
drifted into the Berkeley underground, not as difficult as you might think for a
girl who was willing to give meat to the secret Living Dead for a few dollars
and a few more connections. I learned about how they kept ahead of the Sex
Police. I learned about the phony blue cards. And I made my plans.
When I had hooked enough to score one, I got myself a primo counterfeit.
As long as I found myself a wizard every three months to update the data strip,
it would show blue. I could stay free until I died, unless of course I got
picked up by the SP and got my card run against the national data bank, in which
case I would turn up null and it would all be over.
I hooked like crazy, three, four, five tricks a day. I piled up a