Now, in the twenty-first century, human evolution has passed the point at which the species can be reproduced only by sexual intercourse—that is to say, by the powerful attraction between the sexes; in a (not very romantic) era of artificial insemination, sperm donors, uteruses for hire, and surrogate mothers, a dazzling blond female is no longer essential but has become a luxury item, like an expensive sports car or a yacht—a thirty-room mansion overlooking the Pacific … If you can afford these, Daddy, you can afford me.

My promise is that, being dazzling blond, and nude, which means barefoot, I will not ever demand equality from you; I will not—ever!—decide that I want to be you by defiling my perfect female body—having ghastly surgery to remove my breasts or to remove my velvety-red vagina and replace it with …

Ugh!—I know. Just the thought is—nauseating.

(And people wonder why so many disgusting “trannies” are raped, slaughtered, cast aside—as if rogue females are not inviting misogyny by refusing to be feminine.)

Not Miss Golden Dreams! Not me.

Here before you, lying as naked and docile as an infant, is the apotheosis of what was once celebrated as femininity.

Yes, I am proud of myself—this “self.” Flawless creamy-white skin, moist blue eyes, girl’s pointed upturned breasts and narrow (twenty-two inches!) waist and tender bare feet with toes tucked under.

What a thrill for you! (And you, and you.)

That special low-down-dirty thrill knowing that Miss Golden Dreams was paid so little to abase herself, naked; paid so little to pose for the image from which PlastiPlutoniumLuxe Miss Golden Dreams has been fashioned by the miracle of twenty-first-century robo-technology.

It’s a thrill, too, don’t deny it, that in a fury of sexual competition with your brother-rivals, you will bid millions to own me; and once you have won me, and brought me home with you, and locked the door after me, you will keep me to yourself—for the remainder of your natural life.

You’re a rich man, you have taste. You’ve acquired Renoirs, Matisses. Those late, erotic drawings by Picasso celebrating the elderly satyr and the always-young voluptuous girl-children who entice him.

You own silk screens by Warhol—Jackie, Liz, Marilyn.

But these are flat, two-dimensional. The (ugly) Warhol Marilyn is a cartoon figure, no life, no breath, no soft white arms to embrace you until you cry out.

And so your collection is not complete. Not until you acquire me.