Speakeasy

"Tell me if this is OK," Blanca insisted to a mildly distracted Ashanta.

"Say what?" Ashanta asked. Turning her attention away from the bottomless waiter just then leaning over the bar several feet from their booth, the bright-eyed girl feigned renewed attention.

"You can't be looking at him," Blanca cautioned. "Gawking at males is illegal, especially when they are not wearing pants."

Ashanta, rolling her eyes, reluctantly reassigned her gaze to reality, which meant back to Blanca.

"I don't get why we can't look," Ashanta grumbled. "What's the harm? Women used to stare at people who identified as males all the time, did other things too."

"That was in the past, Ashanta," Blanca curtly responded. "It was before women were free of all that relationship stuff. Now pay attention. I need to read you the start of my paper. It's due Monday. Tell me if my introduction, ya know, if it makes sense."

Ashanta motioned her to continue, but, employing her standard display of boredom, she leaned forward, yawned, and hunched her narrow shoulders in a statement of courteous indifference.

It is Friday, and the women are doing what they habitually do at the close of a busy week, stopping for cocktails at Chumley's, New York's premier speakeasy. Speakeasies, unheard of since the Jazz Age, are suddenly everywhere, their reappearance resulting from the passage of the 29th Amendment.

"OK," Blanca resumed, "It starts with, ya know, with some background on how the 'cum manifesto' ever saw the light of day. Then, I point out how women, ya know, even with all their education and stuff, how they still believe that weird study's creepy conclusion. Remember I told you about the Albany Study?"

"I remember. And I half-believe it too," Ashanta, matter-of-factly, admitted. Blanca, pursing her lips and leering dismissively, flipped the pages of her draft.

"What's the title?" Ashanta, glancing at the waiter again, indifferently asked.

"It's called '2032: Feminism's Triumph over the Male Vote.' Are you sure you're listening?" A nodding Ashanta faked attention, prompting her friend to continue. "Anyway, here goes:

'The 29th Amendment,' Blanca began, "'coming on the heels of the 28th, which declared the male vote illegal, drew overwhelming support from the electorate. The 29th reads as follows:

--The generation, sale, direct transfer (from persons identifying as male to persons identifying as female) or transportation of human semen within the United States and all territory subject to the jurisdiction thereof is hereby prohibited' " --

Pausing, Blanca looked up to double-check on her girlfriend, who, amazingly, appeared attentive, prompting her to continue:

"'Part 1 - 'EXPOSING THE MYTH THAT SEMEN AFFECTS FEMALE EMOTION -

No one predicted it,' " she began, "'No one appreciated that an off-the-wall research study would be accepted as factual, if only by a minority of foolish women still clinging to the old ways.'

"See what I'm saying, Ashanta?" Blanca digressed, "I'm, ya know, I'm saying people still buy into this shit."

"I know what you're saying, Blanca," Ashanta aloofly maintained. "But it's boring. I learned about cum in fourth-grade Sex-Ed. Now I'm in college! And guess what? Of all the girls in my dorm, I'm the only one who has ever seen semen, let alone tasted it.

Even to get pregnant, look at what they make us do? We go to boring state-run labs where sperm is under boring lock and key. Conception happens in boring Petri dishes through the wonders of boring science! It's all so fucking B...O...R...I...N...G!

"Don't you get it? Girls want the real thing! Even Chumley's, this...this speakeasy; it's a pacifier for bored-stiff women...an illegal one at that! If the Thought Police catch us here, we'll get twittered to death and..."

"...well, ya know, boring or not, that's how it's done, girlfriend," an irritated Blanca broke in. "I need my feminist studies degree, and rocking the college boat isn't high on this girl's list! No way I'm handing in a paper that bucks the system. I live by one rule: 'cooperate to graduate.'"

Ashanta, unmoved, averted her eyes, her attention, wandering over the speakeasy's rapidly swelling assembly in search of their server, the tall, handsome Kenvante Sparks, about whose cock she obsessed.

Not seeing him, she assumed the worst—that he was taking his break before the nightspot filled to the brim with bored, irritating women, women she assumed found their way here in response to the same carnal craving she craved.

"Ashanta!" Blanca suddenly snapped. "HELLOOOOOO...I'm over here! PAY ATTENTION! Come on, will you? I need your opinion before I hand in this assignment and get a fucking 'F.'"

Ashanta, once again responding to her friend's pleadings, temporarily suspended her visual search. Instead, her eyes returned to Blanca, who continued reading. "'Only anti-feminists accept the Albany Study as scientific, and even today, few women stand by its shameful verdict.

"'Initially, the work of sexual response researchers Gallup and Burch, the 'Albany Study,' determined that exposure to semen affects mood—women's mood. By insinuation, it even makes the point that females have a right to perform their own extractions of the off-limits male bodily fluid.

"'The study shockingly determined that by returning to the old freedoms, women can once again experience passion, bliss, the fulfilling emotional health some say females enjoyed before sperm's prohibition.'"

With that, pausing, she awaited her friend's reaction. Ashanta, however, barely offered a trifling nod, hardly the level of support Blanca expected. Disregarding her friend's vacuity, she soldiered on:

"'Females had free access to sperm as recently as the early 2020s. They, according to popular belief, deliberately milked males through something called 'copulation.' These same women allege the outcome spawned cheerfulness, and that, conversely, the offensive fluid's denial (yes, sometimes males deprived women of said access!), meant girls inevitably experienced symptoms of chronic despair and gloom.

"'This, it is believed, encouraged the flourishing abuse of mood elevators and depression medications, too often prescribed by doctors in an ill-advised attempt to compensate for semen's fictional health benefits.'"

Blanca, stopping again, pleadingly asked, "Does it, ya know, does it kind of sound scholarly, Ashanta?"

"Yeah...I guess so. It sounds like you know what you're talking about—which we both know you don't!" Blanca, sticking out her tongue, playfully glared at her friend but continued:

"'Today, we view the study as fake news, and it is unlawful to debate the venomous fluid's value since the courts insist there is none. Indeed, President O.A.C. was elected based on a promise to purge society's obsession with the highly addictive fructose-based extract.

"'Researchers Gallup and Burch reached their conclusions before women's power compelled America to admit that men are unnecessary, cannot be trusted, must be suppressed, and, most of all, must never vote. In effect, society acknowledged the obvious: men are men!'

"Do you like it so far?" Blanca asked, her blazing black eyes searching for approval.

"I guess so," her girlfriend lukewarmly answered. "But it's the usual stuff, right? Why don't you write something shocking, like women should be free to relate to men in old-fashioned ways? That will get your professor's panties in a knot!"

"Because," Blanca replied, "those so-called researchers got put in jail, that's why not! And they're not getting out! If we're going to get our careers on track and stuff, ya know, we need to conform. We need to accept that the way things are is good for us—for women!

"Besides, the truth back then should have been easy to see. Instead, the self-styled scientific findings had to be hushed-up by Google, and eventually—after ANTIFA protests and stuff—they were. HHS Secretary Chelsey Clinton even warned women to avoid all debate, which prompted skepticism with a minority of people who identify as women and demand to seek sperm as they please! Can you imagine? As they please! And do you know what else, Ashanta?"

"What?"

"Well, I don't know if this is true, but supposedly, women, ya know, a long time ago, women retained it—semen—in their bodies! And guess what else?"

"What?"

"Some women...ya know, at the finish of, ya know...some women did other outrageous things too, like...well, I won't even say it because the stories are discredited now. Anyway, I include another part about the HHS Secretary. It's right here, so listen:

"'She said that government of women, by women and for women, is prepared to severely punish any woman found spreading unscientific results, with fines and imprisonment, awaiting rebellious women." Pausing, Blanca smiled, eagerly eyed her friend, and said, "There...see what I mean? Is my paper super great or what?"

By then, the easily distracted girl, mindlessly nodding, had looked away. Saying nothing, she gazed longingly at Kenvante, who, having just reappeared, was energetically working his tables. The obsessive girl waited for him to make eye contact, and when he did, Ashanta, smiling in that way that she does when she is excited, waved him over.

"His cock is at least nine inches, Blanca," Ashanta observed. Animated, she watched the man's approach, only taking her eyes from his bobbing member to ogle his sinewy thighs and washboard abs. "I heard speakeasies hire boys based on dick-length—other things too, but mostly dick-length."

Meanwhile, a wary Blanca eyed the other patrons. Several, due to Ashanta's obsession with Kenvante's cock, cast blatantly disdainful looks her way. Some sucked cigarettes, a federally banned product freely obtainable at Chumley's. All regarded the girls hostilely. Ashanta, despite noticing their ill-feeling, cavalierly ignored them, instead fixating on the handsome waiter.

"I so adore him," Ashanta blurted. "And, I hate that these so-called women get to touch him," she added, her eyes returning to Blanca. "They have a lot of nerve if you ask me."

A frowning Blanca, disregarding the comment, looked up, her eyes, hurriedly searching the message board positioned just above their table, the one listing the day's drink specials.

"What'll you ladies be having tonight?" Kenvante, now standing at their table's edge, brightly asked. Pulling his pad from his vest pocket, he touched the tip of his pencil to his tongue, beamed—and waited.

"I'm leaning toward black," Ashanta, ogling the man's cock, categorically offered. "Your big African dick has put me in the mood. Oh," she added, "and tell your bartender I want mine 'neat,' just like last time."

"Black!?" Blanca suddenly exclaimed, her tone exasperated. "I thought we agreed that for good luck, we'd, ya know, order the opposite color of whichever server happened to wait on us! Kenvante is black, and...well, we should order white. Honestly, Ashanta! It's you who insists we stick to agreements! I don't see why I'm friends with you. I just don't!"

Noting their selection, the server shifted his attention, asking, "And how about you, Blanca?"

Blanca, just then joining her friend in eying the man's now fully engorged cock, leaned forward and touched the tip. Looking up, she asked, "No precum tonight, Kenvante? Can't a girl get a little taste? A sampler?"

Kenvante, affectionate and, as always, perfectly behaved, smiled and guardedly shaking his head, replied by parroting the speakeasy policy. "No ma'am...them's the rules. Nitty-gritty only gets served up at Chumley's in drinks, that's it. From-the-tap samplers are strictly taboo." Both girls frowned.

"I'll have white," Blanca contrarily ordered.

"Straight up, or on the rocks?" the waiter asked.

Broodingly crossing her arms, the willful patron thought a moment, nodded, and said, "Straight up—and steaming."

"Coming right up," the waiter announced. Turning away, he returned to the bar.

"I'm not leaving a tip," Blanca bitchily insisted. "He could have given us a sampler. It's just precum, what's the big deal? Anyway, hey, guess what I heard?"

"What?" Ashanta asked.

"I heard he let some Bronx girl have, ya know; he allowed her to squeeze a few drops from his dick for herself. Whoever she is, to get him to do it, she must have slipped him a fifty."

"Probably," a begrudging Ashanta concluded, adding, "Bronx girls are sluts."

By then, Kenvante had returned. Occupying his tiny circular tray were two glasses, one with ice and banded in white, the other, without ice, banded in black. "I almost ordered Asian, Kenvante," Ashanta playfully taunted. "I heard a girl gets a better buzz off Asian jizz."

"No...no...No!" Kenvante insisted. With delicate hands, he placed the drinks on the table. Setting the glass with the white band in front of Blanca, he set the black-banded glass in front of Ashanta, then stepped back and smiled.

"Nothing's more flavorful," the efficient waiter continued, "and nothing's more mood-altering than good old-fashioned black African sperm. Asian—follow the science proves, girls—is barely a distant second. They say both Native American and white man's sperm is 'comme ci, comme comme ça,' you know—about the same. But you ladies judge for yourselves. Enjoy!"

Walking off, the girls watched him disappear into the crowd, even as two Trans-women affectionately patted his butt as he passed them by. "Trans girls are floozies," Ashanta complained.

"Don't pay attention to them," Blanca ordered. Raising her glass high above the table, she said, "Bottoms up, girlfriend!"

With a clink and a swig, Ashanta downed the sticky black sperm, even as Blanca vacillated, allowing the white liquid to pool where it naturally pooled, under her tongue, where she savored its taste. There, letting it steep, and as if time was on hold, she swooned, shut her eyes, wavered another moment, then swallowed.

"Yum," Blanca, opening her eyes, murmured. "That's really good. Illegal or not, I so love cum."

"And you said the Albany Study was mistaken, that semen has zero effect on women's moods!" Ashanta accusingly reminded.

Seconds later, the girls, obviously afflicted with the sperm's baffling opiate effect, found themselves looking into each other's starry eyes. "Let's have one more for the road," Blanca suggested.

"Wait...what? What about your term paper," Ashanta prodded. "What about being true to the feminist gospel that nut's effects are insignificant?"

Blanca, wryly smiling and already half-inebriated, sluringly answered, "Fuck that...life's too...too short. Yes, let's do it; let's have another." Ashanta, clearly agreeing, raised her hand and motioned for the busy waiter to return.

"I wonder about something, Blanca," Ashanta questioned, her expression strangely sober. "I wonder where the speakeasy gets its supply of semen. I mean, look at these women, downing shot after shot. Chumley's must sell loads every night."

"Shanta, don't be naïve. By law, boys are milked, even Kenvante! The all-female Supreme Court ruled in Women v Men that guys, monthly, are required to discharge their sperm at, ya know, at licensed government creameries.

Anyway, it's illegal for males to, ya know, manually discharge their cum between federally supervised siphonings. Otherwise, where would babies come from? I mean, where would fertility clinics obtain quantities of certified sperm?"

"I know, I know," Ashanta, perturbed and shaking her head, exclaimed. "I already understand that. What I mean is, where does Chumley's get the delicious nut for its specials, the cum we gulped down every Friday?"

"Oh, that," Blanca corrected. "It's...it's from all over. It's black-market stuff, you silly girl...hijacked trucks, cartels...the FBI says the Canadian border is jizz-mania. Changing the subject, she went on to say, "this is what I call a good start to the weekend."

The best friends forever—grinned.

The End