Ennui Ch. 02

As the lower edge of the door rises, an assembled greeting crew slowly comes into view. Perhaps eighteen pairs of high-heel shoes, then calves, then thighs. They know, from the database (partly public data, but also partly proprietary Baumgartner data that they have gathered from me over the last year and keep as trade secrets among their employees under strictest NDA's) exactly the kinds of shoes that make me most crazy. I love all forms of high heels, but the strappy, stiletto style really stirs something in me, enhances my androgen production. Exposing colored toenails, that wiggle as they shift weight about, getting into position. I like deep red best, but, in a crowd, I'm more stimulated by variation; the inability to focus my eyes on one spot because of legs, heels, and toes of varying hues, always in my peripheral vision, drawing my gaze to another as I stare at one.

This is well-documented, in my case in particular; one Norwegian researcher published a series of papers on me and the exact path my pupils trace when presented with such a panoply. I do love it. That research was a pleasure to participate in. (Plus, the Norwegian doctor was so smart and sweet; I was quite in love with her by the end, which ended up harming and terminating the study as it corrupted the results.) My pupils are likely now following about the same sequence as the door rises to reveal more and more perfect skin--toes, calves and thighs, slender-yet-muscular to right about my optimal documented preference and then... labia (shaved, waxed, and with optimal powder and makeup per my database; behind the scenes, there may be one or two hair and makeup artists for each of the facilitators here before me). Below, I feel the billion-dollar genitals start to stir, a slight pre-leaking sensation that always portends a highly profitable session.

For the first year or two, the world had trouble getting its ethics right. The joyous celebration of the news that earth might survive--the arrival of a speck of hope, however small--was still adulterated with lingering old-reality prudishness. The treatment of donors and the imperative for higher and higher sexualization of their lives was not spoken of in the polite medical journals, except in broad euphemisms. However, it was soon found that the euphemisms were slowing progress, impeding clear communication and research. So, the science of donor arousal went from being the red-headed stepchild of fertility research to one of the three or four most prestigious areas of scientific activity. A quarterly journal was started dedicated entirely to the field, and funding poured in from all major public and private medical grant sources. This is the fate of humanity we're talking about, so why not?

And the research paid dividends; using state-of-the-art science, yields are now typically triple what they were in the early days of the field--three times more babies per donor, just from increases in yield per donor. That quarterly journal is now weekly, joined by many competing publications, and the field may indeed be one of several advances that save humanity.

My mind wanders to the Norwegian doctor. Her career was about equally buoyed and harmed by the renown generated by her research and the subsequent criticism of her role in corrupting it. I've not heard from her since. How I loved the lilt of her soft voice; the brilliance and precision of her elocution, even in English, a foreign tongue to her. And her tongue, always a slightly lighter shade of red than her deep red lipstick. Those beautiful lips would mesmerize me as she spoke a scientific vocabulary I didn't even understand or follow; I just let the lilt wash over me. Glancing down, my erection is full force.

I look up just as the faces come into view. Yes, so achingly, startlingly sexy and beautiful. Again, a variety, but all exactly according to the recommendations of the database. I don't know how exactly their recruiting works, but Baumgartner has the best system in the industry. I presume they scour the planet, and the match, the alignment with the data on my preferences is perfectly exact.

The expression on all their faces is very similar. I'm quite used to that expression. It's... the artificial joy to see you of a waiter, or a club hostess. It's the delight to be in your presence of a yacht steward, a dancer at an elite strip club, or of an exclusive Fijian resort manager or jet-set call girl. Not so far from the face of a CGI porn star, telling you how much she loves what you're doing to her, as she begs you to buy tokens for another ten minutes. That familiar feigned, practiced welcome pervading the hospitality industry in the broadest sense, where professional meets personal, and their job is to make your welcome feel personal.

That part I could tolerate, but I hate the sense of *responsibility*, since the market went so sky-high. Too much money has made it too serious. The weight and import of everything; that companies rise and fall with my erection. I can feel the stress they all radiate--the tension that lies just below the flawless skin of every professional I encounter. They need me. I am their lunch bucket. I am their mortgages. I feel trapped.

The car starts forward as I'm consumed by these thoughts, and, to my own surprise, I say, sharply, "Stop!"

There is a small jerk and slightest of tire squeals as the car lurches to a stop. The driver turns, startled, but I am already opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk. I begin to walk. I hear a muffled gasp of surprise, then a scuffling as dozens of heels scrape on pavement. I glance back to see a growing number of perfect, nearly naked female bodies streaming through the gap between the car and the doorway edge, balanced on their tall heels, gradually filling the sidewalk, staring at me walking away.

What--what am I doing? They and I wonder. As I glance back again, the odd, unscripted awkwardness of their movements, in their stunned surprise, is suddenly arousing to me. God they are hot. And their faces are no longer curated, fake pictures of professional welcoming. They are all over the place--shock, surprise, pleading, concern, fear. Suddenly they are just women, unscripted. Hot women.

I hesitate, because I know this is cruel to all of them professionally, career harm they don't deserve. An odd mixture of repulsion and regret; sympathy for them and desire for them, and a need to run away.

One girl stumbles as a heel inserts in a crack in the pavement. She nearly skins her palms and knee; her perfectly slender and tanned limbs wobble spasmodically as she flails. Four other women dart their hands forward involuntarily, their lightly muscular and toned arms jerking at the shoulder sockets, as they catch her, prevent her from harm, but the impulse sends them all off-balance; all stumble and lean upon each other, as breasts heave and thighs quiver. Human, fallible women, each one. Oh, I'm hard.

I hesitate, mind swimming. I have reached the pedestrian entrance at the corner, under an elaborate awning.

My own indecision is my constant companion and hateful to me. I'm irritated at how capricious my whims have become, from these years of all catering to them, and I'm yet more irritated at how my childish whims are yet obeyed, however they yank on the strings of the puppet-like hospitality professionals around me. It's corrosive to the soul, I think.

Nevertheless, my whim rules. I impulsively decide maybe I should go in after all, for their sake and mine, but rather than make an awkward return to the garage, I decide to enter here. I reach for the handle, but two doorwomen open both doors simultaneously. Just before stepping inward, I look sideways down the sidewalk. The women, with a jolt of surprise, begin re-entering the garage, at best speed possible on the teetering heels. I hear some shouted orders as the sidewalk clears. I step into the reception area, where the women behind the desk are looking over their shoulders down the hallway behind them, trying to make sense of the clearly-audible commotion within.

I am wearing the "suggested" pants; it's not clear to my lawyer whether they are obligatory under law or just a moral imperative, but I've never resisted. They are ultra-loose and airily unconfining; everything dangles and keeps scientifically-optimized scrotal temperature. So thin that my erection now effortlessly tents them with virtually no sensation of constriction.

A sound of running in the hallway, and the first girl arrives from the garage area. I recognize her toenail color, though now her shoes dangle from her hand, running barefoot. She runs up to me, concern and urgency on her face. She comes to stand within a foot of me, straightens and her face transforms into practiced welcome--though a bit off with worry. She smiles. Attempts a smile.

Behind her, a peloton of hotness hurries into the lobby, filing through the doorway in disorganized fashion and roughly fanning out into the shape they'd had in the garage, without the precision or ease.

The barefoot smiling girl has brunette cascading hair, now imperfect with strands askew in all directions. A drop of sweat leaves her forehead and runs down the bridge of her perfect nose. Her smile fades as she dips her face to wipe her nose on her shoulder sleeve, then returns as she looks back at me. "Sir--" she says, hesitating. I find all of their discomfiture--their break from perfection, the window of real-ness, their flaws and human-ness showing--extraordinarily arousing.

I am silent.

"Sir, are--are you coming--are you coming in for extraction?"

All fall silent. I glance around the crowded lobby; they are breathing heavily.

"I--I'm not sure--"

"Please!" The barefoot girl's word is whispered, but with the emotional content of a shout. "Please," she repeats. "Please do." I now remember her from last week. Carrie. She glances over her shoulder at the assembled crew. "Or else--or--we--all of us--"

I understand the implication--that most of them could likely be fired. This is a potentially career-ending billion-dollar disaster, to lose my business. I resolve that even if I leave, to come back, make it up to them. Perhaps send an email to management, making my future business contingent on *not* firing anyone here today. But, perhaps it's best to just stay. I stare at Carrie's concerned, parted, full, soft red lips. Yes, perhaps best to stay. I try to suppress my rising irritation at my own pathetic, capricious indecision.

Carrie shakes herself, forcing away the panic on her face. The smile resumes. "Please, sir, you are so very welcome here." She glances down at my tented pants, then across at a slightly older woman, who nods tersely.

Carrie transfers her shoes to the other hand, then reaches her palm to my erection. She massages the underside through the ephemeral fabric material, sending delicious jolts of pleasure through me as she leans in, whispering now, "Please, come in." Oh, it feels good. I close my eyes and this is perhaps taken as a signal. I hear footsteps. I look down as three more women kneel beside the barefoot girl, their heels crossing over behind them. The center one reaches both hands to pull out the elastic of my waistband, lowering my pants. Per scientific consensus, I have no underwear. My erection leaps free before the three faces, and the barefoot girl's hand backs away an inch as the fabric descends, then recontacts my bare skin.

Through the jolt of pleasure, I lift my head and scan the half-circle of a dozen still standing. The staring fear on each face suddenly vanishes into a practiced, frozen, welcoming smile. Some of them have grabbed, on the way to the lobby, perhaps as a form of persuasion, some of the toys and props and outfits that normally are introduced much later, putting them on, though a bit hastily, crookedly strapped or only partially inserted. All of these items I'm documented to like and respond to, but, here in the florescent light of the lobby, their absurdity leaps out. I feel sorry for them, looking ridiculous. Sorry for me, knowing ultimately their ridiculousness is my own, that they are willingly humoring and mirroring back at me. The utter fakery of it. They think me ridiculous, surely. Can the fate of the earth possibly depend on *this*? They read the anger and frustration that shows on my face, which, of course, makes their faces instantly show fear.

"No!" I shout, jerking back. I take a step back, pull up my pants, over my erection. A muffled gasp of horror from all; they fall into a silent stare. We stand looking at one another. A sniff. Carrie wipes the corner of her eye. I must run.

I look around at them, then say, facing toward the security camera over the desk, "I am going but--but--I will definitely come back. Definitely. I find all of you so very attractive. You're all so very good at your work. I'm just--in a mood today. But I will definitely come back." But as I say it, I *dread* it. Dread returning here. And just like that, I realize I will never return, even if that means unemployment for all of them. I can think of nothing to say, so I spin and sprint out the doors, still held open by the doorwomen.

I am walking down the city street, with a raging erection tenting paper-thin pants. People in passing cars often have the app, get the notification. The amused honks mix with a different sentiment.

One car slows, making me nervous. I try to will my boner down but it will not. The window rolls down and an older woman says, very sincerely, "Thank you for your service." I break into a run.

I know I should feel lucky. Lucky to be in the USA, for example, where the laws are quite favorable to my kind. Not long after the Bhutan case was discovered and the screening began, some countries "nationalized" us, declaring we were an asset owned by all humanity. In Venezuela, a top-100 FC was put into in-home "protective custody", the singular national treasure. The people's property. The rumor is that, two years later, after a suicide attempt, he was moved to a wing of the fertility institute in Caracas under such security that he is essentially imprisoned within three rooms, when not strapped to an extraction machine and will be for the rest of his life, barring major political changes. While the rooms are reportedly very luxurious, the institutes' harem employees move freely and continuously in and out, but he cannot leave. Venezuela has forbidden export of his gametes, and are basically planning the entire future of the country to be based on his exceptional yield. There is pressure from human rights' organizations to free him, but the government's position is that he is happy, and tout their exceptionally skilled fertility staff; pointing to published medical papers that they achieve among the highest production per donor in the world. I believe them; those Venezuelan women are quite creative and of course beautiful. I know that for a fact since they sent a team of their best to America for an in-home demonstration last year, along with a contract of unbelievable dollar value, to essentially lure me to "visit". Like I would ever fucking go there--even for a day. They might never let me leave.

I'm pretty careful about that. Even with all my newfound wealth, I almost never travel internationally, and when I do, my lawyer spends weeks getting assurances from all the countries I might transit through or even where my plane could conceivably need to make an emergency landing. But, I was open to letting the Venezuelans try to persuade me, and my FBI contact assured me they wouldn't be able to kidnap me from American soil. That was a phenomenal night.

As I walk, I get a text from my FBI contact, Barnes.

"Walking?"

"Paprika. Yes, all ok."

I think that was the right code word--it changes weekly. I have all kinds of electronic shit implanted in me, so he always knows where I am. At first, I was leery, but Barnes was right, I sleep better knowing his team can track my every movement. Even in the USA, kidnapping is a real concern; people would do much worse for the millions of dollars I could produce, even at the 10X lower price for black market illegal sales.

A few minutes later, I wish to get off the streets; I'm in a more run-down part of town. But I can't enter a bar or restaurant with a raging erection that refuses to subside. If anything, there is an insistence and need in it like I've never experienced, and the pants make it sillily obvious. I notice a medical clinic to my right. A sign tacked to the corner of the main sign says, "Gamete donations taken". In the other corner, a sign says, "Payday loans"

I have heard of such places before. They cater to the barely-profitable, or breakeven. Clients with an FC so low that virtually no one wants to buy it, but with enough volume of donors and vast amounts of enrichment, a small profit can be scraped together. Here, the key is speed, short time-per-client, low-operating-cost, low rent, low-paid employees. But, such places are still part of the effort. Such places fertilize of 1-2% of babies worldwide, but hey, every little bit helps.

Often, as appears to be the case here, such low-rent extraction businesses co-locate with other services to offset costs and to generate other revenue from the foot traffic, which really may be their main line of business, such as medical services for the uninsured and high-rate short-term loans and other fleecing. I used to manage a place not so unlike this before gamete collection existed.

I'm unsure what to do. This is way, way below the low-rent kind of place I had been searching for earlier. It's not even a specialized facility, just a place with a small side-business in gamete collection. I glanced down and sigh. In any case, they probably have a private room where I can sit peacefully rather than advertise my erection on the street.

I walk in the door and stand before the check-in desk.

But, oddly, no one notices me. That is pretty much unprecedented. I pause before the desk, but the receptionist is turned slightly away, a phone cradled between her ear and shoulder as she types while nodding. It occurs to me that, oddly, incongruently, perhaps no one in here has the app.

"Excuse me, can I--"

She holds up a finger, shushing me with it as she listens to the phone, still typing with one hand, and then points the finger at the clipboard on the counter between us. "Sign in," she mouths. Her lips have a cheap orangish lipstick, smudged and inaccurately applied. But full lips. Perhaps it's my erection talking, but I find her rather captivating, in a very real-world way.

The clipboard has a pen attached by string. I add my name to the list. My time of arrival and gender and birth date. At the far right are several narrow columns, for checking either injury, dental, health-other, or "gam. don." I check gam and sit.

The waiting room has two other people waiting. The couches are *severely* worn. One middle aged overweight woman sniffles and dabs her nose with a tissue as she flips pages of RealityTV magazine. I put a magazine over my lap and scroll the news on my phone. Honestly, I enjoy being here. I suddenly feel more relaxed than I have in months.

Twenty minutes later, I have softened. The receptionist calls, "Liam Pardot". She pronounces it like 'dot'.

"Here!" I say, leaping to my feet.

The receptionist is flipping through the pages of the clipboard, holding it in her pinky, ring and middle fingers as her thumb and index bend and flip the pages. She studies it as she walks, using her elbow to nudge the lever and shove the big door open with her shoulder in a practiced motion, gesticulating behind her with the fingers of the other hand for me to follow her. "C'mon," she murmurs.

I follow as she walks without watching, her footsteps knowing the distance as she looks down, flipping pages. Her body is a bit heavy from what I'm used to, but the curves are nice. This--this is another harm that the new world order has done to me--rotten my brain. I sexualize every woman, every situation, and... here's the kicker: every last human in the world applauds that I do so. They want me to, desperately--everyone, from Ph.D.s to random people on the street, want me to sexualize and objectify every woman I encounter if that will increase my gamete output by even 5%. So, I've obliged, and feel rotten inside. Nevertheless, I note that the receptionist's hips are wide in the perfect way, so one can almost feel the softness as her rear shifts side-to-side, inducing tiny propagating wobbles with each step. She leans against door number 3, again nudging the handle with her elbow, opening it six inches. I stand. Her eyes rotate up to my face, inquisitively. "Aren't you going in?"