Then you felt the dildo pushing against your asshole, and you opened your eyes and cried out—a wordless shout. The tip was in, and though you clenched down, trying to drive it back, Jill braced herself with her hand against your throat and drove it in. It opened you up and was in you.

“Ahhhhh—” you cried.

“Keep your hand moving,” said Jill, and it moved.

She fucked you with the dildo and it felt good, and now you were crying. Christ. You were a faggot. This meant you were a faggot.

“Open your eyes,” said Jill. “And now come.”

Hot white liquid, and a sound like thunder, and darkness swept in from the edges of your vision, and you felt Jill, far away, catching you, her arms around your chest, as your body left its footing.

You got out of there the next morning, when Jill was still asleep.

There was a little snow on the ground outside the clinic. You stood under a tree a little way from the guys with the signs, listening to them shout. They kept looking at you like they knew why you were there, like they were just waiting for you to come over and shout with them, but they knew you weren’t ready yet. A guy pulled up in a taxi, dressed in a suit, and sauntered by the protesters.

It was cold. You scuffed your boots and rubbed your hands together.

You were late to work. What the hell were you going to say to Rhonda? Just not go near her?

You couldn’t seem to make yourself move to the subway.

“Hey! Hey you!”

It was three girls in a car at the curb. Not cute girls—kind of punk girls, angry clothes, blaring loud music. Cars were nosing around them.

“You in the blue jacket! Over here!”

You walked over to them. The driver and the one in the back were giggling. The other one leaned out of her window. A fat girl, maybe twenty, with a mohawk and square glasses. “Get in,” she said, daring you.

You reached for the door.

A woman’s thumb and fingers closed around your wrist, pulling you back.

Sophie.

“Gary? What are you doing?” Sophie said.

“Oh Gary,” Sophie said. “But why didn’t you come in for your one-week evaluation?”

“I didn’t know there was one,” you said.

“But didn’t you read the brochure? Didn’t—” she sighed.

You put your face in your hands.

“It’s not supposed to be like that,” Sophie said. “Your sexual transference acclimation is overdetermining your sense of self-agency. I’m booking you today for an emergency readjustment. Stay, Gary. Just wait an hour or so in this room, okay? Until the lab techs are set up. We’ll fix this. We’ll make this better.”

“Okay,” you say.