“You realize,” I said, “there is no way we can build an IntelliFlesh vagina that will do the folding thing. Or the rippling, or whatever. Maybe we could add a vibrator . . .”
“Older K’srillan females sometimes lose a certain amount of strength,” Zmivla offered. “There is a procedure that allows the female to fasten her channel into place, and when having sex with a female who has had this procedure, the male thrusts. It should work.” The tips of his tentacles turned pink and I wasn’t sure whether he was embarrassed, sexually aroused, or something else entirely. “Though this vibration option you mention . . .”
I had brought the tape measure but I wound up having Liz do the measurements. I made a sketch and had her call out the measurements as I noted them down. Eighteen inches was a rough estimate, it turned out: one branch ran 18.25 inches stem to stern and the other branch was 17.8 inches. Girth of the trunk portion was comparable to a soda can; the branches were a lot more slender and tapered toward the tip, like extremely long carrots. The K’srillan penis is blue, I noticed, or at least it’s blue when he’s sexually aroused, sort of a dusky violet-blue that would indicate in a human that he’s oxygen-deprived or possibly freezing to death. There are visible veins in the sides.
“I don’t suppose you know how typical you are,” I said. “I mean, for a K’srillan male, are you on the large side or the small side, are you more or less asymmetrical than most, how does your girth compare…”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t think it would be too hard to find out. There are about a thousand K’srillans living in this apartment complex, after all, and I know two dozen others with human wives.”
*
I spent two entire days measuring K’srillan penises.
The good news was that K’srillan penises turned out to be reasonably uniform. I mean, they ranged in length from 16 inches all the way up to 20, and they ranged in girth from pop can to coffee mug, and there were some penises where one branch was noticeably shorter, even by as much as six inches. But human penises also vary. I mean, the average length for an erect dick is about five inches, but the record holder was 13.5 inches long. (Not to overshare but that just sounds like it would be painful.)
The variety of sizing in human dicks has not prevented the successful marketing of any number of artificial vaginas (or “masturbation sleeves,” to use the technical industry term.) I mean, just like with dildos you can provide a set of different sizes but they are not all THAT customized, and given that IntelliFlesh is a lot more adaptable than silicon, I was pretty sure we’d be able to come up with something that would work.
Anyway, that was the good news. The bad news was that I had to spend two entire days measuring K’srillan penises.
Fortunately, K’srillan men seem to be pretty secure in their masculinity. I mean, imagine the reaction if you came at the average human male with a tape measure. My former brother-in-law actually measured his own dick at some point and it was 4.5 inches long, so a whopping half-inch shorter than the average. My sister told absolutely everyone, after the divorce, but the problem wasn’t really his very-slightly-runty dick, it was the ways in which he compensated and the fact that he was a complete loser in the sack, one of those men who thinks that his penis is magic and if you can’t climax in two minutes just from him sticking it in you, you must be broken. One-half-inch-less than average length: not a problem. Complete boredom in the sack: definite problem.
(Sorry. Very few people in my life seem to share my no-overshares policy.)
Anyway. There was one K’srillan who shrank at the sight of the tape measure, but then he laughed (K’srillans actually have a physical response to humor, I found out, but the voice synthesizers are programmed to pick up on it and translate it into a ha-ha-ha sound) and said, “Give me just one moment” and swelled back up to full size within a few seconds. K’srillans all grew up in K’srillan society, which has its own set of gender roles and expectations that are absolutely nothing whatsoever like human gender stereotypes, and then they were plunged into human society and forced to adapt. One of the men noted, as I wrapped the tape measure around the trunk portion at the bottom, that in K’srillan society it is the woman who is expected to make the first move; a man who propositions a woman is shameless and forward, and he thinks human women like that, once we get used to the idea.
“Maybe,” I said, and measured his length on the left-hand side: 17.85. “How’d you meet your wife, anyway?”
“I thought they told you?” he said, a little mournfully. “I have not been so fortunate yet, but I volunteered for this exciting project because it will perhaps raise interest in our kind.”
“Wouldn’t you honestly prefer to marry someone of your own species?” I said.
“Among my own kind I am considered unattractive,” he said.
I stepped back and took a look at him. Over the two days, K’srillans had stopped looking like roadkilled squid to me, but I still wouldn’t call any individual attractive as such. I finished the last measurement, wrote it down, and tossed my gloves into his kitchen trash can. “Thanks for your help,” I said.
*
I was back in the office, finishing up my prototype design, when my phone rang.
“You do us an injustice,” said a synthesized voice on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Who’s calling, please?”
“For days you come to our settlement and measure the male organs,” the voice said, distressed. “And now I find out it is so that you can make false female organs for human women.”
I scratched my head, wondering how I’d gotten myself into this. “Look. You do realize that we specialize in false organs of all varieties for humans—both women and men.”
“Yes!” the voice said, furious. “And I am a K’srillan female married to a human male. Why are you not going to make false K’srillan male organs? What is my husband supposed to do to please me?”
*
So in the end, I’m sure you’ll be shocked to hear, we made both. We made K’srillan vaginas: as I warned Liz, they’re not capable of the K’srillan pre-sex vaginal origami action, but they do simulate the muscle movements with the addition of an adjustable vibrator. We also made K’srillan penises, though due to limited market penetration at this point we have only one size and shape (pop-bottle girth at the bottom, 17.85 on the left-hand size, 18.1 on the right-hand side).
What I find the weirdest these days are not the human/K’srillan couples. It’s the human/human couples that buy one from each set and have sex with the detachable genitals instead of the compatible set they already had. Or, maybe it’s the porn of humans having sex with the K’srillan artificial genitalia. Or possibly the gay porn of humans having sex with K’srillan artificial genitalia. Or possibly the absolute weirdest is the porn of K’srillans having sex with artificial human genitalia—they can’t do that with IntelliFlesh (years of research into their neurology remain to be done) but there’s always the good old-fashioned strap-on option on one side, and an artificial vagina on the other.
Because really, there are two immutable laws of nature at work here: number one, love will find a way; and number two, if a sexual act can be conceived of, someone will pay money to watch it.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that first rule, lately. Because I told my sister about the “unattractive” K’srillan and jokingly—I swear I was joking!—pointed out that at least she’d never be bored in bed. She jokingly—she claims she was joking—asked me for his number. I told her she could have it if she promised to never tell me the details of their sex life, and she pointed out that I already knew this guy’s penis size down to the quarter-inch . . .
Yeah, they’re dating. They’re not rushing into anything, so this story doesn’t end with, “And the wedding’s next week!” But I have to say—you do get used to the seven eyes looking at you over the after-dinner drinks and I’ve learned to spot the physical cues of the laugh even before the synthesizer goes
“ha ha ha.” And Gintika (that’s his name) definitely doesn’t make me think of roadkilled squid anymore. He makes me think about how sometimes we have more in common with people than we realize; he makes me think about all the ways to form a connection. He makes me think about the look on my sister’s face when she talks about him. He makes me think, love finds a way, and hey, sometimes finding a way, finds you love.
Author’s Note
The online magazine Strange Horizons (which has published several of my stories, including “Comrade Grandmother”) has a list written by their editorial team a few years ago describing stories they were seeing too often. Some are vintage clichés I remember being warned about when I first started submitting stories in the 1980s (“In the end, it turns out it was all a dream.”) Others are a lot weirder.
A Facebook friend of mine linked to the list one day. The thread turned into banter about pairing these unwanted stories with “in bed” (like you do with Fortune Cookies) or “in space” (actually, it might have been “in spaaaaaace.”) I scanned down the list, hit on Someone calls technical support; wacky hijinx ensue and joked about turning that into a story where someone calls technical support for an interstellar vibrator.
And within five minutes I knew I wanted to write this story.
HONEST MAN
iddle Game
November 15th, 1943
Washington, D.C.
A cold rain was falling when Iris came out of the Department of Justice building onto Constitution Avenue. Worse, she’d stayed late filing and had missed not only her usual bus but the next bus as well. There was a diner across the street from her bus stop: she could see an OPEN sign and the tempting glow of light. She started to count the money in her purse, but her hesitation was blown away by a gust of wind and a fresh sheet of rain. She dashed across the street and into the diner, coming in out of breath, lipstick smeared and hat askew, the bell over the door clanging as she wiped her feet on the mat and looked around for a place to sit.
The diner smelled of fried eggs, clean floors, and slightly scorched coffee. It was nearly empty; a man in a suit sat up on a stool at the counter, a man in a long, well-worn raincoat sat in a booth near the door, looking out at the rain. Iris took a seat at the counter. “I’ll just have a cup of coffee, please,” she said to the waitress. I have perfectly good food at home, I can go home and make some supper for myself. But the rain was falling even harder, so she looked over the menu, sighed, and said, “Oh, just the grilled cheese and a cup of tomato soup, please.”
The man in the suit caught her eye while she was waiting. “Nice weather, huh?” he said. “Do you work for Mr. Hoover?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” she said. “Typing and filing.”
“Good for you. I’m just passing through town, myself. I’m an art dealer, when we’re not at war.”
“I don’t expect there’s much call for that, during wartime.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. You’d be surprised. But I wanted to contribute more directly to the war effort, so right now I buy and sell surplus—getting scrap from scrap drives delivered to places where it’s needed, that sort of thing. Art is just a sideline for now.” He glanced up to smile at the waitress as she refilled his coffee. “My name’s Leo.” He handed her a business card: it said Leonard Franklin. “Leo like the lion, Franklin like the first name of the President of the United States of America.”
“My name is Iris. Iris Kirkwood.”
“Iris! You’re serious? I have a sister named Iris, can you believe it?”
The waitress arrived with Iris’s coffee, steaming hot. “I’ve always just been thankful my mother didn’t name me Petunia,” Iris said with a game smile.
“I think it’s a beautiful name.” He gave her a smile warm enough that Iris started to wonder if she should mention her boyfriend serving in the Infantry, but he made no further overtures and she decided he was just being friendly. The waitress came out of the kitchen with Iris’s sandwich and soup, then continued to the table up front to give the man his check.
Iris’s supper, at least, was really good. The bread was fresh, the cheese tart, the tomato soup creamy. Or maybe it was just the lingering chill and the rain outside that made everything taste so good. Iris glanced up at the art-dealer-turned-scrap-dealer, and since he was looking away from her, dunked a piece of her sandwich in the soup. She was never certain whether you were allowed to do that sort of thing in restaurants.
“Excuse me . . .” The man from the front of the restaurant was talking to the waitress, his face obviously distressed. “I am so, so sorry, ma’am, but I just realized that I left my wallet back at my room. I’m going to have to go get it before I can pay, but I don’t want you to think I’m running out on my bill. I can leave my instrument here as security . . .” He had a violin case, Iris saw; he opened it up to show the waitress the violin inside. “This is a good violin. I paid fifty dollars for it, a few years back, but I think it’s worth more.”
The waitress glanced at it and grunted. “It looks like it’s worth more than your meal, anyway. Go ahead and get your wallet.”
“I’ll be right back,” he promised, and went back out into the rain.
Iris was finishing her sandwich when she heard Leo say, “Can I take a look at that?”
“What, the violin?” The waitress shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
Leo opened the case and took out the instrument, turning it over in his hands and holding it up to the light. She heard him let out a long, appreciative breath, and looked up to see him swallow hard. For a moment, his eyes darted around the room, like a man with a poker hand that he knows will win the night. Then he looked back up at Iris, and at the waitress. “My God,” he said. “This is a Stradivarius.”
“Strada-what?”
“One of the rarest and most valuable violins ever constructed. Most are in the hands of collectors, museums . . . It’s worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Maybe more.” At the waitress’s skeptical look, he gave Iris another warm smile. “I was just telling Miss Kirkwood here that I was an art dealer, before the war; these days I mostly deal scrap, but I do make an exception when fate throws the truly exceptional piece my way. I would happily pay two hundred thousand dollars for this violin. Cash. I’m quite sure that when the war is over I’ll be able to resell this instrument for many times that.”
“Oh, won’t that man be happy,” Iris said. “You could tell he didn’t have much money.”
“Where did he say he was going?” Leo asked the waitress.
“Back to his room. He didn’t say where it was, but it can’t be that far . . .”
Minutes ticked past. Leo reverently set the violin back into its case, then checked his wristwatch. “Oh dear,” he said. “My train . . . well, another couple of minutes won’t hurt.”
They waited. Iris finished her coffee; the waitress, watching the door, left her cup empty. Another sheet of rain came down outside. Iris looked at the clock on the wall; she had just missed the next bus, but this was exciting enough that she didn’t care.
“I really can’t wait any longer,” Leo said, finally. He gave the waitress his business card. “When the man comes back, and surely he’s planning on coming back, give him my card and tell him to call me, collect, tomorrow morning at my office in New York City. I will be pleased to offer him two hundred thousand dollars for his violin, and in the meantime I do urge him to take very good care of it.” He put on his hat and raincoat. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kirkwood,” he said, and went out in a jingle of bells and a blast of damp wind.
“Well,” the waitress said in amazement, and looked down at the violin on the counter. Suddenly realizing that it might be vulnerable to a spill, she moved it over to an empty table and then refilled Iris’s coffee cup. “Dessert for you today, ma’am?”
Iris had already mentally counted out the money for dinner against the money she had left before next payday. “No, thank you,” she said. “But thank you for the coffee. I’
ll have to admit I don’t think anything could get me out of this restaurant before that man comes back for his violin. Think of the look on his face!”
Not five minutes passed before the man was back. He had a ragged wallet in his pocket now, and carefully counted out the money for his meal. “So, about that violin,” the waitress said, and glanced nervously at Iris. “You know, my nephew is thinking of taking up violin and my sister could really use an instrument. Would you be willing to sell it?”
“But—” Iris whispered. The waitress pulled down a piece of the peach pie, Iris’s favorite, and set it down in front of Iris like a promise.
“Oh, I couldn’t sell it,” the man said. “It’s my livelihood. I play on street corners . . . even in wartime, or maybe especially in wartime, people like to hear music. It lifts their spirits. I’d be happy to play for you, to thank you for your understanding about the wallet . . .”
The waitress shook her head impatiently. “Surely you’d be willing, for the right price. You said you paid fifty? I’ll give you a hundred.”
The man shook his head. “I paid fifty, but it’s a better violin than that. I couldn’t let it go for less than five hundred.”
“Two hundred,” the waitress said.
“Wait,” Iris said, with a glare at the waitress. She elbowed the pie aside. “Don’t listen to her. There was a man here a few minutes ago who said your violin was really valuable. He said he’d pay two hundred thousand dollars for it, and you should call his office tomorrow, collect. He lives in New York City . . .” She dug in her own coat pocket and triumphantly produced Leo’s business card. “Leo Franklin. Leo like the lion, Franklin like the President.”
The waitress’s glare could have soured whiskey; Iris averted her eyes, feeling a little guilty, but really, how unfair and wrong, not to tell a man what his property was worth if you knew. “I think you should wait and sell the violin tomorrow.”
Cat Pictures Please and Other Stories Page 24
