Copyright Page

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2019 by Lauren Beukes

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

eISBN: 9781542091442

Cover design by David Drummond

1

1

The recording booth has always been somewhere Nats can disappear. It’s just her and the microphone alone in the air-conditioned dark, with the director’s voice coming through the headphones, via fiber from somewhere in California. She wasn’t paying attention when Greg Gold introduced himself. Palo Alto, probably. That’s the epicenter of the industry, isn’t it? But voice-over talent is cheaper in Cape Town, and she’s grateful to be paid in cash dollahs. Win-win for everyone. Thank you, exploitation of the developing world and market crashes.

And it makes a change from doing crappy radio commercials.

“You got a pseudonym you wanna use?” Director Gold says, gruff and smoky; chewing-tobacco flavored, she thinks. He could do his own voice-over work. There must be Clint Eastwood fetishists out there among the growjob aficionados. She wonders what that would look like, how they would age up the bodies. Would they even need to, with the interchangeable heads? She’s never seen one in real life.

“Do I need to?”

“Oh yeah. I’d recommend it. You don’t want these weirdos tracking you down. Even in a whole other country.”

“Cutter,” she says. “Cookie Cutter.”

His bark of a laugh comes down the line clear as if he’s standing next to her. “As long as you’re anything but, sweetheart.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. DeMille.”

“I find it’s best to warm up with some moaning.”

“Mmm,” she says. “Ohhh. Like that?”

“That’s great. Just riff.”

“Ohhh, mmm, that’s it. Oh god, yes, baby.”

“You’re a natural.”

“Mmm, yeah, daddy, fuck me,” she growls in the affirmative, not too close to the mike, you don’t want it to catch the plosives and fricatives. But this isn’t only talent, it’s practice. Better than a natural, she’s a goddamn professional.

2

2

Scott Parker has doubts. What rationalist wouldn’t? Especially in the moments just before, sitting in the green room, for example, already miked up and sipping his matcha latte, with a PA in a black pencil skirt and sensible heels who alerts him, “Ten minutes to call time, Dr. Parker.” Or when he is standing in the wings, backstage, perfect posture (posture is a keystone), hands behind his back, waiting for the MC to wrap up the opening spiel for the crowd, a thousand strong today. In this, the before time, he entertains the idea that he could walk away from the particular show-pony hell of the speaking circuit. He considers what it would be like to be a private citizen rather than a public intellectual. He could advise his audience to just watch his YouTube channel already; it’s not like he hasn’t covered all this before. Maybe buy the fucking book, and hey, actually read it this time and apply it, because understanding without action is what? That’s goddamn right. It’s meaningless. And the only thing we are here to do, the very reason we are here for the very short time we have, is to make meaning, to wrest it bloodily from the chaos and disorder that surround us. It is our own kind of conscious birth. And he is the prophet-obstetrician.

So despite his chronic low-grade exhaustion, the inevitable jet lag—because flying first-class isn’t a miracle cure for transmeridian dislocation—and the nagging temptation to call it quits and surrender to the quiet life, he goes out anyway. Because he said he would. There’s power in honor.

The MC’s voice rises, his cue. “Please give a warm Seattle welcome to Doctorrrrr Scott Parkerrrrrr.” There is a musical intro here, but it’s drowned out by the percussion of the crowd, stamping their feet, clapping their palms red.

He strides out onto the stage, six foot three, 198 pounds, in the best physical shape of his goddamn life at fifty-six years old, thanks to his own personal journey. We are all the caterpillar and the moth.

He shouts to the crowd, “Rise up!” He can’t see them past the glare of the lights, and they can’t hear him over the ruckus, but they know what to do, have anticipated this, some of them already on their feet.

“Rise up!” he screams with all his might, despite what Dr. Harlen said about his vocal cords, and hear that, that answering roar? That’s the sound of the rational man howling: no surrender, no compromise. They need him.

They all need him.

3

3

r/adoptagrowgirl

Vesh_A891

This VERY good grow girl came home with me today. Meet Mandy Pandy! Eighteen years old, fresh out the vat and perfect in every way!

<video embed: GGG_Mandy.mp4>

[video description: A blank-faced girl with big blue eyes and long blue hair in bunches and a panda onesie sits on the edge of the bed. The onesie is unzipped to show off the pert mounds of her breasts. Off-screen, a man’s voice: “Mandy! Say hello to my Reddit friends, Mandy!” The man leans in, so you can see only his arm, and raises her wrist and waves it side to side. When he lets go, she continues to wave. “Hi,” she says. “Hiiiiii!”]

>>Y0Carl000000000000

Fuck yeah boi! You put her through her paces already?

>>>Vesh_A891

What do you think? ;) It’s been 5 minutes since they delivered her already.

>>Duncandonut

Ya boiiiiiiii! I would fuck the shit out of her.

>>>DoctorDickSubtle

They dont shit, moron

>>>>throwawayaccount4billionandthree

Not unless you pay extra

>>Bewarethelobster

Dish on the specs! Looks like an LXS, grow 4?

>>>Vesh_A891

Lookit the expert over here. LXS-4, measurements 24-22-24, A cup.

>>>>philosophrkng

Depth?

>>>>>valleyofthefukdolls

She deosnt have any!

>>>>>>DoctorDickSubtle

Like normal bitches then

>>>>>Vesh_A891

Deep enuf. ☺ Let’s say it’s a snug fit. ;) ;) ;)

>>>>>>philosophrkng

You going to have her bend over and show us?

>>>Vesh_A891

Now, now. Reign it in, gents. Mandy’s my good girl.

>>>>valleyofthefukdolls

aficionados before hos

>>>>>DoronIZaKs

Sharing is caring.

>>>>Duncandonut

“REIGN IT IN, GENTS.”

>>>>>DoctorDickSubtle

Motion to rename this sub

>>>>philosophrkng

We all want to see the fat little pussy you bought. And that delectable asshole.

>>>>>Vesh_A891

Sorry my boiiiiis. Mandy Pandy only knows one true master.

>>>>>>Duncandonut

And only *you* get to wear her one true ring?

4

4

Friday afternoon at Hello Sailor, all four of them, Nats, Zukiswa, Mel, and Luvo, squeezed around one of the wobbly outside tables for happy hour double gin and tonics. It’s good, Nats thinks, being out with her crew of hustlers, Petite Noir playing on the sound system, the summer heat baking down.

“You know what the problem with Obs is?” Mel waves her hand-rolled cigarette vaguely at the bustle of Lower Main Road. She’s their “token white friend.” Blonde, blue eyes, freckles, corn-fed. They tease her about coming all the way from America to do sex work in Africa. Zukiswa roared in delight when she found out: “You’re telling me there’s no demand for skinny white bitches in Connecticut?”

“Not much in the way of affordable master’s degrees in sociology more like,” Mel countered.

“Is it the pervasive urine smell?” Luvo offers now. He’s dressed to party, or just because. Either way, he looks head-turningly amazing in a black tank and mesh top, with a dusting of glitter along his sculpted cheekbones and his temples, bright blue eyeliner. “The traffic?” A white minibus taxi hoots its outrage at a delivery truck that has dared to stop in the loading zone outside the hardware store, as if to demonstrate his point.

“Not enough vegan food on offer,” Nats says.

“Too much vegan food!” Luvo counters. “We evolved these big, beautiful brains of ours thanks to our animal protein–eating ways! Too many self-righteous vegans.”

“Too many oblivious meat-eaters!” Nats retorts.

“Gasp,” Luvo says, like that, the whole word. “I’ll have you know I only eat lab grown, cruelty-free.”

“Guys!” Mel tries to interrupt. “I’m trying—”

“Too many drunk and feisty students at four p.m. on a Friday afternoon,” Nats says.

“Hey, we are not the bad guys here,” Zukiswa jumps in. She’s a third-year medical student, which means they’re always pestering her to test their party drugs or get them Adderall, to which she snarks that she doesn’t ask them for freebies. “How about gentrification? That’s the problem, this influx of hipster idiots,” she snarls at a white guy with arms full of old-fashioned tattoos and his long hair piled on his head. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, mustache-wad!”

Nats chips in, “Dude. I think that’s the owner of the restaurant. Or former owner.”

“Still a mustache-wad, babes,” Zuks mutters.

“There’s a new owner? Since when?” Luvo asks.

“It’s changed hands a couple of times,” Natalie reassures him. “Hang on. Is that the problem with Obs, the lack of internal consistency?”

“’S related,” Mel slurs. “Would you let me talk?”

She’s already quite drunk, Nats realizes, or it’s that dank cheese they smoked, stealthily and huddled up in Zukiswa’s room at Lilian Ngoyi res overlooking the Baxter theater, breathing out the window, because even though cannabis is technically legal, smoking in the university residences is definitely not.

“The problem . . . ,” Mel continues, compensating by overenunciating, “the problem with the previously artsy, boho-as-fuck suburb of Observatory, Cape Town, ZA, is that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to tell the legitimate homeless from the barefoot anarcho-cryptocurrency-tranceheads who haven’t come down from AfrikaBurn yet.”

They sit with that for a second, and then Luvo sniffs. “I still maintain it’s the smell of urine.”

“Speaking of urine . . .” Mel raises her eyebrows, an effect lost behind her heart-shaped sunglasses.

“Oh no.” Zukiswa rubs at her shaved head. “I do not want to hear about your Tuesday man. You could not pay me enough, babes. For any of it. I don’t know how you guys do it.”

“That’s not the hard part,” Nats teases.

“I don’t want to hear about the hard parts either!” She covers her ears. “La-la-la-la, I can’t hear you.”

“No, man.” Luvo elbows her gently. “She means Nats’s big acting job.”

“Please. They’re all acting jobs, even the radio commercials,” Nats says.

“Ohhhhhhh.” Zukiswa leans forward on her elbows on the table. “Yeah, that I want to hear about. Tell me everything, dahling. And I do mean everything. All the dirt.”

Nats shrugs. “What do you want to know?”

“Can you get me a gig?” Luvo says, batting his lashes.

“Says the guy who has two back-to-back bookings lined up for tonight, instead of coming to the beach!” Zukiswa says.

“I didn’t know you were considering the lifestyle,” he snaps back. “You want me to make an intro for you? You’d be a natural whore.”

“Ethical slut, thank you.”

“Just giving it away . . . Besides, tonight isn’t back-to-back, it’s a double with the gorgeous Malik. And you know how much I love playing with my friends.”

“Didn’t I already send you the audition link?” Nats frowns.

“Maybe? I’ve got a hundred and eight unread messages.”

“From clients? I hope you’re charging extra for chitchat. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

“I think they’re mostly from my mom.”

“Babes! You still haven’t come out to her?” Zukiswa burns her fingers on one of the jalapeño poppers that have materialized on their table, and drops it back to the plate, swearing.

“She’s still dealing with me being queer,” Luvo shrugs. “Not to mention dropping accounting for English lit last year. One thing at a time is all her beautiful heart can take.”

“So, tell us everything.” Mel lights another one of her disgusting cigarettes and leans back in the chair. “What was the script like?”

Nats wafts the smoke away. “Uninspired. I had to ad-lib most of it. Standard stuff. ‘Oh my fucking god, you’re sooo big!’” she moans, tangling her fingers in her curly hair, startling an elderly woman getting out of her car. The old lady gives them a dirty look and scuttles into the liquor store.

“What was the dirtiest thing you said?”

“Oh, I know the answer to this one. Definitely butt stuff.” Mel has an infectious giggle, mischievous as hell. Which is different from the “oh, how interesting and funny you are, what a great joke” ego-stroke titter she uses with especially annoying clients.

“Can we get a dramatic reenactment?” Zuks asks.

“Okay, okay.” Nats clears her throat and takes a moment to compose herself, head down, hands on her lap. She milks it, lets them wait, and then raises her chin. With wide eyes, blowjob-face on, she says in an adoring purr, “You’re so wonderful. I’m so lucky. How did I ever end up with someone like you?”

“Oh, ew!” Zukiswa shrieks in horror, throwing up her hands. “Ew, ew, ew!”

“Aren’t you worried you’re going to put yourself out of business?” Luvo says. “You’re like the little mermaid, giving her voice to the sea witch who wants to destroy her.”

“I’m diversifying. Besides, it’s not like my clients have that kind of cash to blow,” Nats says.

“I don’t know how anyone could actually have sex with any of those things.” Luvo shudders. “They don’t even have heads. It’s disgusting.”

“You eat lab-grown meat, don’t you?”

“Yes, but you couldn’t pay me to fuck it!”

“And for you, that’s saying something!” Mel laughs and kisses him.

“You’re so wonderful. I’m so lucky. How did I ever end up with someone like you?”

5

5

The young man in the long queue of would-be interrogators shuffles up to the microphone stand to take his turn. Scott Parker resists the urge to check the time on the teleprompter at his feet. That would be unprofessional and, worse, inconsiderate to the people who have paid $335 apiece to be here. He takes a deep, focused inhalation, tenses and releases the muscles in his arms and legs. Breath control is mind control is life control.

He knows this type. Dark, floppy hair that hangs in his eyes, a Rick and Morty T-shirt, dark blue jeans. Twitchy with nerves. One hand is clamped above his elbow, bracketing his chest like a shield. He can barely make eye contact. So many lost boys.

“Thank you for coming to talk to us today, Mr. Parker,” he says in a rush of words. “It’s been an honor to have you sharing your insight and wisdom with us—”

“It’s been a privilege to be here.”

The young man slaps his hands over his mouth, a girlish gesture. “Dr. Parker, I mean. Sorry! I’m so embarrassed. Dr. Parker.”

“You know my philosophy on this. We don’t need to apologize if we intended no harm. Did you have a question or . . . ?”

“Well, it’s more of a comment. Or maybe it’s a question. Uh.”

Scott opens his hands to say “I’m ready for you, whenever you are,” even though the weariness is crashing down on him again. How many questions like this has he heard?

“So in a society where young men are angry . . .”

“Rightfully angry. Where you’re told that your essential masculinity is poisonous to society, that it’s all your fault.”

“Yeah.” The boy shifts. “And it’s hard, like, it’s really hard to know what to do or what to say. And everything you do is wrong?”

“The worst part is how being told that, repeatedly, does create a poison, one that poisons you. Self-loathing, repudiation, guilt. It’s not fair, is it, to be made to feel bad for being who you are?”

“Yeah, all of that. So like, when you don’t know what to say, or do . . . with women, I mean?”

“Because of this toxic messaging in society that has overtaken the cultural narrative,” Scott fills in, helpfully.

“With all that going on”—he’s visibly trembling—“is it really so bad, is it really, like, a failure to, you know, express your sexuality and your essential human need for love and acceptance, like you said, with . . . with . . .”

The audience sucks in its collective breath.

“. . . a growjob?”

Scott steeples his fingers, giving this due thought. He nods and purses his lips, then he hefts himself out of his chair, drawing himself up to his full height. The audience gasps again, lets out a titter of anticipation, as if he is going to tear this poor kid a new one.

“If you are broken down, what do you do?” He strolls to the front of the stage, looks down into the audience, directly at where the young man would be, although he’s blinded again by the front lights.

“Uh, you get up,” the kid says. Another rippling titter.

“And whose responsibility is that?”

“Mine. Always mine.”

“It’s yours. But is there another culpability here?”

“Uh.”

“Who is culpable for breaking men down, for undermining you and making you feel this way, for bringing out the rage and the chaos?”

“Society? Uh.”

“Don’t you deserve more?”

“Women, I mean. Women and society.”

“What is your name, young man?”

“Um.”

“Um isn’t a name.” The crowd roars, good-naturedly.

“Kyle. Kyle Cesternino. Sir. Uh. Dr. Parker.”

“Aren’t you worthy, Kyle?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m worthy,” he stammers.

“Of what?”

“Of love.”

“Yes. You are worthy! Of being loved and loving. A real person, not those revolting living fleshlights. You are worthy, Kyle Cesternino, of a good woman who will stand at your side, who will support you and care for you and love you.”

“But—”

“But what, Kyle?”

“But where do I find someone? I don’t know. I’ve tried, I—”

“My heart breaks for you. Goddamn, but my heart really breaks, for you, and for all of us. For how this society has twisted us up, for how it makes you feel worthless and unworthy and lets you think that you should settle for a . . . a repulsive meatbag or a sex robot.” He lion-prowls across the stage, lowering his voice, conspiratorial. “Or a prostitute who doesn’t care about you, the very personification of dark chaos energy, using your real human needs for love and intimacy against you, to devolve you to your basest self, for what, for money? Is that how you want to live? Is that all you think you’re worthy of?”

“No, but—”

“I want to tell you one thing, Kyle Cesternino. One thing. Are you ready to hear it?”

“Yes?”

“Do not settle. Never fucking settle.”

6

6

A DirtyHarry.tv Exclusive

Sexanaut Files: I Fucked an Organogrow So You Wouldn’t Have To

By Annie Guedes

Organogrows are not people. Keep telling yourself this, because god knows everyone else will. Yes, they’re alive, but only in the way a sea urchin is alive, or one of those headless chickmeats in the lab farms, except instead of growing extra drumsticks and juicy breasts, organogrows are live-flesh incubation units to grow organs for transplant to humans.

Like the chickmeats, they don’t have heads, which means, according to the Berlin 2022 Accord, that they do not possess sufficient brain stem to generate consciousness and therefore cannot be classified as human or subject to AI laws. Which means no robo uprisings or pesky human rights and you don’t have to feel bad when you cut one open for a new liver cloned to match your genetic profile.

“Un-Person of the Year,” according to Time magazine, which hailed organogrows as the medical breakthrough that will eliminate the black-market trade in organs, as well as the dubious practice (ahem, looking at you, China) of harvesting them from prisoners, and even the interspecies ick of growing replacement human bits in live pigs.

They’re not pretty: headless torso without arms or legs, no sexual characteristics or orifices, no identifying marks, and in that beige-pink Caucasian color, because, surprise, racism endures and most people prefer their bespoke organs to come from white meat. You wouldn’t look at one and think, Gee, that looks like something I really want to smash my genitals up against.

Except, Rule 34, someone did. GloryMorning, the Bahamas-based teledildonics company, realized that while everyone else was racing to create more “realistic” sex dolls with that “warm body feeling,” they could skip the uncanny valley entirely and license the organogrow technology to create actual living, warm bodies with a few minor tweaks.

They introduced hormones to grow secondary sexual characteristics, including genitals and breasts of whichever flavor you’re into, and pulled the trigger on the genetic instructions to grow out the limbs, so the “growjobs” could be fully poseable and present as more human.

Growjobs don’t need to eat, or evacuate. You simply submerge them in a nutrient bath at the end of the day. Of course, they have enough of a nervous system to hold themselves up, doggy style or reverse cowgirl or [insert Kama Sutra position of choice here], and the latest models are wired with the same kind of electronic circuitry mesh used in state-of-the-art prosthetics, so you can get them to repeat certain simple motions, such as waving hello or pumping a closed fist up and down with a not-too-firm grip.

There are free-to-download and premium-paid voice libraries, from petulant bratty Trixie to the Deep South country and western purr of Louisa-Jean or the plum upper-class British dom Aurora, with over a million possible response combinations and personality types generated from prerecorded audio, like a dumbed-down personal home assistant.

Most importantly, they come with interchangeable and fully customizable heads in TPE or silicone, licensed from RIALDynamics, with RIALfeel™ mouths, catering to every pervert’s bespoke fantasies. Kelly and Loli-chan are popular favorites, but there are also fantasymods, like the horned (and horny) SuccubusQueen™ with light-up eyes and adorable “sexy” bat wings, or Rainbowponylitebrite™, who has a multicolored mane and a matching tail butt plug.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!