He slides the prong from its jack with a greasy, measured motion, holding his breath and unconsciously tensing all the muscles from his thighs to his neck as he does. It is always an unsettling and repulsive and…yes, delicious moment. But how grossly vulnerable he feels, then, even all alone under those fuschia light racks. In that moment of transition, how revealed and unpeeled and defenseless and suddenly deprived of the glowing circuit-lit haze of comfort, his artificial womb.
It’s like a day of rimjobs on Ecstasy squeezed into an unhappy half-minute at the Dentist’s Office, he thinks, his head agoo with the strange, bright energy often careening about his mind in the wake of the Plug. Almost lost my way in the Milky Way, he thinks, turning off the timer.
He pauses to squint through a darting cloud of bright and dark in his vision; it is as if he is blacking out in reverse.
“A Swarm of Pinprick Stars as your own royal mosquito horizon,” he shouts, partially to keep himself oriented. “The bloody track marks of Cosmic Dust all spattered across your mental margarine!”
Undoing the straps, still breathing hard. Rising from the cockpit. The echoes of his voice go on for a long time.
“Remember!” shrieks the attractive, large woman by the pod, “We don’t count visits to your own lifetime or consciousness!”
You’re not really here he thinks, not believing himself. But she flickers with a blue sheen and vanishes, still smiling warmly as he passes her. She reappears ahead of him at the door.
“I thought you wanted to talk,” she says, suddenly sounding sad. “I stayed up late.”
He walks on, the walls of the room fading behind him. He is tempted to turn his head and see if she is watching him, but he knows there’s no point to that. The seduction quality of static is overrated. He especially feels that way at the end of a session. There’s a wet spot in my soul, he thinks, and laughs at the thought.
Outside, he jumps into a Zoomer and begins rolling up his sleeve hurriedly.
“To the Oval Office, of course,” he says to the driver. “And remember to follow me on Twitter, you fuck.”
“Yes, Mister President” says the man in whiteface as they come to a traffic circle. “Though I prefer Google Chat for all my professional interactions.”
Beautiful and dreamy…. You’re a wonderful writer. But that comes to me as no surprise.
thank you, catgirl.