Romance in the Age of the Fematron

It has been about six months since my girlfriend took her country matters to a nunnery or moved to Boston or whatever the shit. I didn't want to be on this date. This girl was Mediterranean and I had a strict keenness associated with Croatian women that smoke occasionally, know hip-hop dance and like watching kung-fu naked.
Something seemed pseudo bogus as she recited those very interests back at me. Vaguely annoyed I stroked my unshaven face. I honestly wasn't some sort of prick, but I was irritable and foul since being dumped. I had been walking around my sterile work environment dragging my fingers along the walls and wondering how long it would take before they'd leave dirt/oil streaks… or eventually when my fingers were used up and dried out, they'd crack and leave a bloody trail of my pacing.
I had submitted to this date based on obligation. I was undeniably far from the burden of loneliness. Coupled people ever so politely assume unattached folk writhe in agony. Filled with solitude every chill filled night they're left without another body with which to tangle limbs. I basked in the unencumbered weirdness. I was glad to return to home, shed my clothes and cook black bean burritos in my boxers. I'll be goddamn honest, I dislike people and I'm surprised that I can smile in a mirror. My girlfriend weight (about 30 extra pounds) certainly didn't help me out when I stepped out of the shower and in front of the reflective glass. What was once chiseled had become unsightly and slightly lumpy.
My ex never cared for my boxers. She called them "faggy". For about two months I thought she was saying "saggy. I knew this had to be a miscommunication because I have a big butt. When I eventually figured out what she was saying, I certainly didn't appreciate the implication. My sister's friend is gay. What sort of girl says "faggy" anyhow?!

Romance in the Age of the Fematron

It has been about six months since my girlfriend took her country matters to a nunnery or moved to Boston or whatever the shit. I didn't want to be on this date. This girl was Mediterranean and I had a strict keenness associated with Croatian women that smoke occasionally, know hip-hop dance and like watching kung-fu naked.
Something seemed pseudo bogus as she recited those very interests back at me. Vaguely annoyed I stroked my unshaven face. I honestly wasn't some sort of prick, but I was irritable and foul since being dumped. I had been walking around my sterile work environment dragging my fingers along the walls and wondering how long it would take before they'd leave dirt/oil streaks… or eventually when my fingers were used up and dried out, they'd crack and leave a bloody trail of my pacing.
I had submitted to this date based on obligation. I was undeniably far from the burden of loneliness. Coupled people ever so politely assume unattached folk writhe in agony. Filled with solitude every chill filled night they're left without another body with which to tangle limbs. I basked in the unencumbered weirdness. I was glad to return to home, shed my clothes and cook black bean burritos in my boxers. I'll be goddamn honest, I dislike people and I'm surprised that I can smile in a mirror. My girlfriend weight (about 30 extra pounds) certainly didn't help me out when I stepped out of the shower and in front of the reflective glass. What was once chiseled had become unsightly and slightly lumpy.
My ex never cared for my boxers. She called them "faggy". For about two months I thought she was saying "saggy. I knew this had to be a miscommunication because I have a big butt. When I eventually figured out what she was saying, I certainly didn't appreciate the implication. My sister's friend is gay. What sort of girl says "faggy" anyhow?! Her brother turned gay when it became hip. There was a whole craze for a while caused by a surge of sitcoms and lack of Christian based local governmental guided behavioral suggestion. Who was she to get homophobic about underpants? They were cotton and tattered, I'd call them unfortunately severe in their heterosexuality due to their care and condition and holes and smell.
Now I have this gal across the black iron table from me, carrying on about some unnaturally loud finger snapping ability. I did find it intriguing and attractive, it was within my "hot list" but I didn't trust her. They were making these things all together too convincingly human nowadays. I scratched my head. Bringing my hand back into my lap, I checked my watch real sly-like because though I had a television appointment, I didn't want to aggravate her delicate ego system.
Unrelenting in its itch, I had to scratch my head again since it was beckoning something fierce. Resisting the urge I tried to play coy and laid my mitts in my lap. I couldn't resist and wailed on my noggin with an unencumbered attack of satisfying scratches. Checking my fingers upon conclusion I wondered if I'd disturbed a sleeping scab. Eschewing coy, I glanced twice at my untrimmed fingernails. They were speckled with blood. I ran them through my hair again. They came back moist with a thin coat of blood. Dragging them casually across the napkin laying in my lap, I peered down again and saw a mild discoloration of my fingerprints.
I wasn't going to let a little blood letting make me sweat in front of this gal. Being a Robert and of royal blood I had the hemophilia and was likely to keep bleeding for a while without damage, so the main objective was to keep my cool. I wasn't going to become uncouth about a little blood loss while on a date with some bourgeoisie babe.
I was becoming increasingly convinced that my meal companion was of the newer model of Fematron. At least my idiot friends had sprung for the updated version. They'd obviously programmed her responses perfectly. She was gingerly observant of my every gesture and even giggled an offhand off-color comment I'd made about the waiter that I could have sworn was under-breath. This gal was perfect. But, that was exactly the problem.
Some gender altercations had led to a radical change in population numbers. After Ramitgood (and several following erection drugs) had been introduced, a discrepancy between the male libido and female willingness caused a severe gender rift. Most of the old buggers able to afford the exorbitant cock drugs were also able to force legislation down the throats of congressmen. We would say congresspeople but let us be unfortunately honest here most of the Deciders in government were men.
So this legislation basically allowed rape. If the stiff codger declared his intent he was allowed to conquer any female he could overcome. They were allowed a class RWRW (Rape While Rich and White) license. Most American women had subsequently fled the planet via a Canadian Space Program and thus left a disparagingly discourteous ratio of good men to good women. I was one of the men. And since my awful ex-girlfriend could not be counted among the good women and had found a fond mockery of my undergarments, I was left flaccid and lacking confidence.
Through a revolt of hormone driven dorks, the Fematron was invented. It was a programmable female prototype intended to replace the recent planet ditching "fairer sex". Some "real" females did still exist, but they were all married, ugly or psychopathic beasts (ie. my ex).
The Fematron was obedient, ready on time and unobjectionable to any foul smell, drunken behavior, innocuous muscle flexing or conversations involving sporting statistics. Seemingly perfect.
I didn't much care for them. I had always been a guy who preferred a chick who would challenge your shtick. I wanted the sort of gal that would snort in my face over some debate involving the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox. That debate had unfortunately become moot since New York had absorbed Boston after the September 11th Poor New York Proclamation. Monks in Tibet now wear "Free Boston" patches on their robes.
She talked about news and current events I cared about. Her News Communicator Television Conduit was programmed for the same topics as mine. Nowadays you choose your news. That's actually the selling line "You Choose YOUR News". Warring factions slaughter each other mercilessly without restraint but all the Sally SUVs can get updated reports on new fusion bred puppies sans the pesky discomfort of human suffering.
This chick had to be plastic. I guess these prototypes were achieving unbelievable levels of accuracy. Her answers were like forethoughts of thoughts I was about to think about thinking. But, hot damn, she had the body to back it up. I liked the way her clean fingernails glistened as she reached up to lift her mocha mug off of the waiter's tray. Arm stretched as she brought the porcelain cup close to her face, she looked at me and caught me analyzing the arch of her armpit.
I lamented the fact that she wasn't real. I had forgotten about my headwound for a minute and stroked my wavy locks checking for blood. My hand revealed plenty of crimson that my dark hair would not display. I wondered if they had uploaded my Identity matrix into her cirquitboard?
We shared the same feelings and emotions regarding roadkill.
This had to be some sort of elaborately rigged rouse at my expense. She could tell when I wasn't being genuine and yawned when I talked about my non-existent portfolio of blue-chip stocks. I tried to bore her with a tirade about Brick reserve embargos forcing down the price of Chimney Corp's stock. She smirked and shook her head,
"You're a terrible liar. But, it's cute. Why are you trying to bore me?"
I wanted to be cruel to her. Just to test the docile levels within her subservience matrix. I said mean things but, she laughed them off. I was certain that my eyes explained away the intention. She was most likely able to read my twitches and each glean of the cornea that would tell my true story.
Every drop of blood that coursed through my veins carrying traits of my father and the portion that slipped from the top of my head from where that idiot savant in the next room over hit me with a cane. The twisted winding genetic combinations of my mother's feistiness and my father's fortitude could be read verbatim in the pulsating flesh that revealed a pulsating vein in my forehead. I was not my own. I was simply a combination of their elements. I had nothing of my own. My fingernails resembled my uncle's cuticle peculiarities. My knuckles grew hair in the same crooked fashion as my mother's father. Nothing was mine. Everything good I'd done had been as a result of the gifts I'd gotten. I had nothing. I was nothing. I didn't deserve anything of this world. Oh shit. I better take my pill. Smirking at her, I darted my head in the direction of some non-existent distraction. She took the bluff and looked. I slipped the pill into my mouth and swallowed it with a swift guzzle of beer.
I had spent this date criticizing this robot gal for being a programmed product. But, here I sat… Nothing but a simple chemistry experiment between my father's family and mother's family. What would happen if we combined a little of this and a little of that. Begat begat begotten. And there I was. The result of a double dice roll. Because of the quality of these family genes, my road to greatness was virtually guaranteed. I simply had to wake up each day and go through the motions. I hope the pill kicks in soon and shuts these fucking thoughts up.
My Fematron was beginning to stir and I was sure she could read my thoughts through my troubled eyes. These thoughts that had made me bang my head against my room wall until speckles of red colored the white concrete. God please catalyze the medicines chemicals in my tummy and distribute the healing properties through my blood. Heart pump the quieting fix through my system. Please please. I want to be quiet. I want to be subdued. I want quieter happiness. I want to be quiet on the inside. I want my brain to be silent. I want to succumb. The pill was doing nothing. I was having that feeling again. That feeling again. I had a propensity to fuck up. A driving desire to disappoint and break the family pattern of success and goodness. That feeling was rising again. Here I was with a robot girl, acting like I was on a normal coffee date. Off of work for the evening and enjoying the crisp fall air. I wanted to take my shirt off. I wanted to peel my skin with a carrot peeler the same way an insurance agents longs to loosen his tie.
The pill wasn't working. Hell, I could simply order this droid girl to look the other way while I downed another dose. I didn't know why I was being cordial to her. I guess it's just in my nature and I kind of liked pretending. Imagining I could handle this world. Escaping to some semblance of normal existence. Go to work. Come home. Honk horn. Check email and mail. Watch television. Believe the news. Eat processed food. Drench system in alcohol. Hug wife. Lay in bed. Repeat forever and be happy. I guess that's why I felt the need to treat this like a real date. I knew this world could use another good person, who was unstable.. acting stable… because whenever everything in the world turns unstable.. I'll be the one who knows how to react. Even though I take these pills to quell all of the unsettling elements in my personality, I couldn't betray my true nature. Even though that true nature convinced me it would be a good idea to break a chair over the president of my company's back. I knew that it was a bad thing. I knew I was doing wrong. It just felt right… well.. felt right, right up until right before I right well did it, right? There it goes. There it goes… I can feel the medication pulse… Like coke snot it coats my being. It soothes like a salve.
Thoughts now change. Thoughts become echoes or former friends. The voices of high school chums disrupt the nonsense reflection. "Maybe you should hit that shit from the back". Since these fematrons were designed for servitude, I should serve her properly. A killer glaze veiled my vision. She ordered Belgian ale after her coffee. This model was weird and I liked it. I now really wanted to see her body bend.
The flirtations ruminated. The consecrations were automated. I was in love with this gal. I didn't know why. It was probably a build-up of lust chemicals in my body combined with the crushing insecurity of being alone for so long. My auto-erotic behaviors weren't especially confidence building. I could use the strength of a woman and her soft reassuring mannerisms. It would help me back up. I don't care if she's some complex configuration of circuitry. But, what if a wire came lose and she started to question her place in my home. She started asking to get her own career. She wondered about other men. That minor malfunction of data streams could ruin me. A droplet of sweat threatened to fall from my brow into my pint glass. They must have a stellar repair program. Send out a tech guy to straighten her out. Repair things and mend feelings.

I was going to do it. This was going to be my girl. I wondered if I'd have to sign legal waivers or anything. Contracts? Obligatory initialing? This was my first Fematron. Was there a manual? Would it come later in e-mail PDF form? Could I text message personality adjustment requests to some corporate headquarters. Oh fuck it. It'll work out.
I slid my thumb across the bar tab ticket, it beeped and the waiter nodded, extending his arm and escorting us to the door.
I walked by her side. She gave me a coy smile. I was elated and probably grinning like a buffoon. I looked her over thoroughly, pleased with myself and the decision to keep her. She intertwined her arm with mine lay her on my shoulder as we proceeded to the mass transit.
"It's gorgeous tonight." She lifted her head and looked at the lunar lasers. I checked my shoulder where her head was. On my oxford white shirt was a speckling of blood. I grabbed her by the chin and turned her head violently to the side, inspecting her ear.
"Your ear is bleeding! Your ear is bleeding!!!! You're a human! You bleed! You bleed!" I clapped my hands and hopped. She clutched at her ear, eyes flared, wildly confused.
"You're human! You're a human! You bleed!" She stared at me.
"You're fucking nuts.. you fucking weirdo. Get the fuck away from me you fucking psycho."
She ran away from me.