Consumerism Ch. 30-34

30. Psychological Self-Assessment

I can't remember. The last time I felt socially anxious. He does literally everything for me. Feeds me, washes me, clothes me, beds me, fucks me, hits me, and entertains me. I don't talk to other people anymore. Only to him. It's impossible to screw it up. Speaking with him. He just tells me to do things and I do what he wants. I'm so happy to be free of it. All that anxiety. Yay.

31. The New Loneliness

It's never been this bad before. The loneliness. It's always haunted me. But not like this. In the past, I always had me. My own best friend. The person I spent hours alone with in my room. Curious, learning, reading, writing, thinking, and self-loving. Experimenting in the kitchen, eating spicy egg and steak sandwiches. I hardly spend any time with myself anymore. I thought my marriage was lonely but this. It's a far nastier presentiment.

32. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

It's busy in my office. Lots of important people meet in the executive boardroom. My boss, Mr. Bentley is there along with Dr. Welker. The Associate General Counsel as well, Mr. Fackler. I wonder if Samantha sucked his dick in the bathroom today. The other two men I don't recognize. They don't work at this office. That much I know. But their suits remind me of his own. Expensive designer brands. As our attorney escorted the two men inside, I saw one of them was holding a stack of papers bearing the title, Project Janus.

The base of my neck tingles as I keep glancing over at the executive boardroom. My nose wrinkles. Why are they all so secretive about it all the time? They're going to let Mr. Fackler in on it. A man who literally got caught with his pants down in the women's bathroom. But not me? C'mon Chief. Haven't I done enough to earn your trust at this point?

My eyes stare at the conference room door. It looks kind of thin. I swallow and blink. My feet touch the ground while my body rises from my chair. I creep over to it being careful to avoid clacking my heels against the terrazzo floor. My hand cups behind my right ear and I press it softly against the wood door.

"These non-disclosure agreements are all good," My. Fackler says. "It's ok Anne. You can go ahead and talk to them about it. The little project you and Brad have been working on."

"Gentleman," her voice addresses them. "What we're discussing here today is a revolution in the field of psychiatric medicine. The first ever non-therapeutic, elective psychiatric treatment program. For a long time now, we've classified certain surgeries and procedures that aim to improve appearance as cosmetic. I propose a new category of medical procedure. Self-emancipating healthcare. Treatment that liberates the patient not only from her own body but also her own personality. As the anarchist philosopher Max Stirner once said, 'Whoever will be free must make himself free. Freedom is no fairy gift to fall into a man's lap. What is freedom? To have the will to be responsible for one's self.'"

She pauses and the room is completely silent. Fuck, I still don't even know what Project Janus is but the way she sells it. It sounds badass.

An unknown male voice speaks, "And you think this is something you can patent? Someone's personality."

There is tapping against a table. "No," she responds and pauses. "This is a medical process combining different approaches in an innovative way no other individual or company has imagined. Everyone these days is obsessed with it. Identity. All the tribalism, social media, and self-labeling. Identity is the hot commodity. We see it in our own existing customers. They identify themselves with their diagnoses; schizos, bipolars, and addicts. There are many people who do it. Characterize with their own consumption. Goths, gamers, vegans, the endless number of niche political ideologies people adopt that echo their social media expenditures. But there are certain identities, not as immutable as race or sex, but not as voluntary and easily accessible as the sort of consumer choice a mallrat teenager might make. I'm talking about sexuality and gender. Our soon to be patented process changes this. It allows people access to the sexuality and gender of his or her choice without the biological baggage imbedded inside his or her own DNA, sex hormones, and chromosomes."

"But this is part of what makes us wary," the unknown male voice complains. "Even if what you've created is patentable, as attorneys we do not want to be associated with something that might put us in the crosshairs of the LGBTQ community. What you're proposing. It sounds like something that existed in the past. Conversion therapy."

I hear a heavy sigh and foot tapping. "Really?" she asks. "Our program is based on voluminous scientific data, not religious prejudices and parochial sentiments. No one wants to be straight anymore anyways. This is going to be celebrated by the LGBTQ community. I promise. Look, everything I believe is based on the non-aggression principle. People should be free to make their own choices and contracts with others. Things should not be forced upon them. Which is exactly what happens with birth and puberty. Let's assume a man is gay. He is attracted only to other men. Maybe he wants to be straight to avoid prejudice. That's sad, contemptible and reflects poorly on our society. But we've not walked in his shoes, lived his own experiences, or understood what's on his mind. We'd be cruel dictators to refuse him treatment that may lead to his own greater happiness and mental health. Freedom should always come first."

How is this even possible? My eyes look down and stare at my large breasts. I swallow hard and feel sick to my stomach.

She inhales deeply through her nose before exhaling through her mouth. "We went with the obvious things first," she explains in a steady, low-pitched voice. "Stuff with sex appeal. It attracts attention. But Project Janus is so much more than that. Through medication, hormones, and proper conditioning, we eventually will offer to change anything about a person. Their personalities, preferences, and manner of thinking. The full liberation of the individual from the tyranny of his own innate biology."

Someone clears his throat. "These are bold claims you're making," another unknown male voice says. "Is there any scientific proof that your process actually works? It could be all placebo effect. Someone who wants to be gay goes through some unorthodox treatment and then is it really surprising he gets what he wants? Also, where are we at with the FDA? Don't the trials need to take place first? This is like decades aw--"

"The FDA is not going to be an issue and we're not doing trials," My. Bentley interjects with blunt edge. "We're done with the bullshit. The pandemic proved all that crap is for suckers anyways."

There is a sharp inhalation of breath followed by a woman swallowing. "Yes," she agrees. "What's far more important is the patent approval. To answer your first question, we do have scientific proof. An uncontroverted example. One where it has succeeded without the possibility of a self-fulfilling placebo. I'll let Brad explain what he's accomplished. He's been instrumental in this part of it. The photos. You will be shocked when he shows you the before and after."

"Uh huh," Mr. Bentley responds. "Right, photographs. Uhm, hold on a minute. I need to visit my office. I'll be right back."

I hear footsteps and quickly retreat from the door to the conference room. My heels clack against the terrazzo floor. The door swings open and Mr. Bentley flaunts into my office. He squints at me and his eyes lower and focus on the fact that I am not sitting behind my desk. He plasters on a smile and slightly nods. "Hello sweetheart," he says, approaches me and presses the back of his right hand up against my left cheek. His hand grips my chin, tilts it up and he kisses me on my lips. His cologne compliments my perfume and smells excellent. "Can you please step out for a second? I'm craving it. My usual sushi order from that restaurant we like. You'd like the opportunity, right? Get out of the office on a nice day like this. Treat me to something pleasurable that I crave. Let me repay the favor later in our bedroom."

He just wants to get rid of me. Should I confront him? Accuse him of hiding something from me? The relationship I have with Project Janus. My stomach churns and limbs tingle. Fuck, what if he fires me and kicks me out of our apartment? I'd have to grovel to my wife to move back. The prospect of her allowing it when I'm unemployed. Unfathomable. This is my fault. I should have pushed back a long time ago. It's too late now. These people control me. Just have to trust this will turn out in the best. She said the end goal of Project Janus was liberation. Maybe one day she will help me. Figure out my real sexuality, gender, and get rid of this awful social anxiety. I sigh dejectedly, slump my shoulders, and avoid looking him in the eyes. "Ok..." I relent. My heels clack against the floor as I exit my office.

As I ride the elevator down, I stare intensely at the button panel. My jaw feels tense and I keep squeezing my right hand into fists. Chief may be a cruel bastard but at least he takes care of me and fucks me all the time. That bitch doctor though. She is the brains behind this, I'm sure. It's not right. Doctors are supposed to help people.

33. Downtown Police Station

I ask the aide where you're at.

"We don't release officer locations due to safety concerns," she says.

"Look, it's important," I stand behind perfectly stacked Styrofoam containers wrapped in a plastic bag full of fresh sashimi standing on a police reception desk. It smells slightly like brine.

"He's not on duty right now," she retorts. "You can use my phone and leave a voicemail."

I think about it. Too much pressure. Need time to think, process, and proofread. "Can I... leave my message in writing instead?" I ask, lean towards her, raise my eyebrows, gently bite my lips, and swallow quickly.

She sighs heavily, pinches her face, grimaces, crosses her arms, and relents, "Fine."

I write to you.

The psychiatrist who gives me the drugs. Her name is Dr. Anne Welker. Look, I'm sorry I left like I did. I miss you. Please continue to investigate. But be careful, I worry about you often.

Love,

Jamie

My face grimaces, head turns down, and skin blushes. "Please give it to him," I entreat, hand her the inscribed note, grab the sushi, turn, and shuffle towards the door with clacking heels.

34. Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division -- My Office

I tilt my head, blink my eyes, lean back and frown at the big fat man who just waddled into my office. This man in his purple polo shirt with armpit stains, khaki pants hung low under his fat belly, holding a bag of Cheetos, crunching and chewing, plastic crinkling, and with orange on his right-hand fingers, seems so out of place here. I don't want this. Him crumbing my office. Look, what I am about to say may offend some. It's a fair criticism. To call me a hypocrite about this. I'm flawed and gross in many ways. My anxiety, social problems, and strange sexuality. There are aspects about me that many would find unhealthy and off-putting. So, when I say I dislike fat people, I don't convey I think I am better than them. It is just a particular vice that I as an individual do not like. I've always closely managed my own diet and stayed thin. I studied nutrition in college. My dream job was to work in the school system and get healthier foods for the kids to eat. Instead, I end up here feeding my older boss coffee alongside many other little favors.

He crunches chips, stares at me, licks his lips, and pants. His eyes are glued to the exposed cleavage of my breasts as they hang out of my long-sleeved black and white checkered Ferragamo dress. I wear underneath black Mila lingerie, a garter belt, dark stockings, gold Tiffany bangle, and charcoal Blahnik heels. He holds out his stained right hand towards me. I stare at his hand. "I don't think we've met luv," he says with a wink still staring at my boobs. "I'd never forget. A gal like you."

My lips curl, throat tightens, and nose wrinkles. "Uhm, who are you?" I ask still grimacing. The lewd way he ogles me is repulsive.

He snorts loudly, shrugs, scratches at his ass with his strained fingers, and causes the right leg of his trousers to ride up on his leg. "You must be new here if you don't know who I am," he brags. "I'm the Consumer Safety Officer assigned to Vanholt. Everything your company does. It's got to have my seal of approval." The bag crinkles and he crunches on chips.

How could a man this fat and gross oversee the regulation of food and drugs? I feel queasy watching him eat while enduring his sleazy leering. My mind recalls when I applied for his job. They interviewed me. The FDA. I would have loved working there. Helping to protect people. It went poorly. I got anxious and it was awkward. They didn't offer me the job. I sigh.

"I came here to talk to Brad," he says as he licks grease off his fat stubby fingers. "But I don't mind it. Sitting in here a while. Shooting the shit with you luv." He winks at me again.

My hands briefly squeeze, eyes narrow, and jaw clenches. "I'm sorry, but no," I say. "This is a private office. I don't care you're FDA. You're not on my list of expected visitors. If you want to leave your name and phone--"

"Nah, Brad and I go way back," he thwacks my desk with his Cheeto stained hand as he walks right past me crinkling his bag. My sleek white desk smudges.

I stand, follow, clack my heels, and pester him, "Hey. You can't go back there. This is trespass. You don't have a warrant." I grab him by the shoulder.

He finally turns around, leers at me face to face, and grabs my left boob through my dress in squeezes it roughly with his chubby right hand. "Did I get you hot and bothered, luv?" he asks, smirks at me and chuckles.

I yelp, slap his hand, tighten my face and frown. My eyes spot Mr. Bentley standing in the doorway between our offices. He grins. "This man just assaulted me!" I accuse. He does not react. "He disrespects us behaving like this, Chief. Let me call Fleming. You and I can watch him get thrown out of the building together."

Mr. Bentley rolls his eyes at me. "This is Peter Petrosky," he introduces. "You hassled him and grabbed him first. Besides, he and I go way back. Here's a lesson for you as Executive Assistant. I used to hate outside meddling from the state as a corporate manager. Then I learned the secret. Treat the government as your partner. Same as it is with kids. It's easier to discipline the children. When you act properly as husband and not as antagonists. All it takes is a strong relationship, good communication, and adherence to certain wifely duties. Besides sweetheart, those tits of yours are company property and frankly I'm the only one with a proper right to decide who does what with them. Now sit down in your little chair. Shut the fuck up and pout like a little bitch while I catch up with my old friend in my office."

I do as he says, clack back, sit and pout in my chair. Of course, he has to side with that fat bastard and not me. My teeth clench. Shouldn't he be jealous or something? I breathe through my nose. He is right. These breasts are his. He really ought to take better care of them. I fiddle with my Tiffany bangle underneath my left sleeve. The sound of roaring laughter emanates from his closed office door. God what does he seen in him? Chief is always so stylish in his swanky suits, handsome cologne, and his manly V shaped body. Why would he waste his time with such a fat schlub?

After a while in his office, the two men emerge both grinning at me. "Sorry 'bout before luv," Petrosky says as he places a Chanel bag on the desk in front of me.

My eyes narrow at the bag, head tilts, and face frowns. I recognize the bag from earlier this week when my boss had taken me shopping. Were they trying to make fun of me or something? I feel Mr. Bentley step behind me. His hands rub my shoulders through the sleeves of my dress. I wish this fat prick would hurry up and leave and let me be alone with my handsy boss. A large breath escapes my mouth, my right eyebrow raises, and I reach for the bag. "What the fuck is this?" I ask as I pull out the largest tub of Vaseline I've ever seen.

Both men burst into obnoxious laughter. Mr. Bentley massages me, leans in, and whispers into my ear, "C'mon sweetheart, don't be a little tease today. Remember, you work for me. You have to do what I tell you to do. You're my Executive Assistant after all. There's a reason your salary is high. I let you live in my house and sleep in my bed. The clothes you wear, the food in your stomach, the shampoo that I squirted into your hair this morning, it's all from me. Sometimes in this line of work you have to grease a few palms. You haven't complained before about it. Getting all lubed up. Treat Pete here like you did me on my birthday. No reason for you to make this any harder than it needs to be. Help out the company by bribing a fed with that nasty mouth of yours."

My eyes widen as Petrosky stares intensely at my glossed lips. His mouth is watering. I swallow, tense my arms and legs, glance around the room, grimace, and slowly whisper, "I can't do that. Chief, I follow your orders and let you use my body because... Well, I crush on you and enjoy the romance. If having you threaten me, hit me, and do all the other things you do is what it takes to get that, I'll endure it for you. But please don't make me do this Chief. Those intimate moments were always meant to be between you and me and us alone. I can't just whore myself out to a stranger like that. It's too much. If you need a prostitute, I can get you one. With the office computer or if you'd prefer, I can pull up on your phone--"

Mr. Bentley removes his class ring from his right hand, slips it into his jacket pocket, slaps me so hard I fall over sideways and my torso sprawls over my sleek white desk. "She acts this way sometimes so that I'll hit her." he says in a calm, unemotional voice. "Go ahead and lock the door while I blindfold her. I don't want anyone walking in and seeing what we're doing in here."

I feel disoriented. Cloth stretches up against my aching face. All I see is yellow spirals. There is the familiar metal click of my front office door locking. My ears detect ruffling followed by a sliding noise. I wince, clench my teeth, and prepare for him to strike me with his belt. He does not hit me. His hands clamp around my wrists, pulls them behind my back and I feel his leather band twist around my wrists It tightens, and my joints hurt. I struggle to free my hands but fail. My body is lifted off my desk only to be slammed back down on top of it. I feel aching in my breasts.

I think of when I was in second grade. A neighbor, tall and strong like him. He punched me like an adult man punches another grown man, tossed me against the hard ground, then carried me across two acres to my parent's house while I screamed and cried with a black eye. His daughter had lied. Said I had pushed her off her bicycle. As I remember this, the blindfold feels moist. The last time my hands were like this was when I was in your bedroom. I wish I was there right now with you. Instead of here.

"You got to be a bit rough with this one," Mr. Bentley says as he holds my torso face down over my desk. "I know how you are. A breast man. Well, these tits of hers. Accounting paid for the surgeon. But the implants themselves, Vanholt made. Our latest and greatest from our in-house prosthetics division. Very realistic, natural voluptuous breasts. Here, help yourself. Inspect them. Make sure they're up to quality consumer standards." He lifts my torso up off from the desk as he grips my body tight.