GLOBALIZATION: A FUCK STORY

Nick Mamatas

 

 

I ask Daphne.

I ask Daphne to look me in the eyes while she fucks herself.

I ask Daphne to look me in the eyes while she fucks herself—it’s all encouragement. That’s right, push it in. Easy, easy. Don’t look ’round. Look at me. That’s it. Good girl. No menace, or even authority.

All encouragement, with a realistic-looking dildo. No menace, or even authority, like a conductor with an orchestra.

All encouragement, with a realistic-looking dildo, except that it is both translucent and electric blue. Like a conductor with an orchestra, not a foreman growling over a brace of workers.

A brace of workers, necks sweaty and eyes on their work. Don’t look ’round. Don’t look ’round. Don’t look at the foreman. No encouragement. That’s right, put it together. Faster, faster. Don’t look ’round.

A long line of realistic-looking dildos. Fat cocks, rumbling down a conveyor belt. Women on either side, handling them with gloves, spraying them down with puffs of blue or pink glitter.

Blue or pink glitter. There’s a theory. Blue cocks are for boys; pink are for girls.

Blue cocks are for boys; pink are for girls. Blue cocks are for boys, and they are produced Monday through Wednesday. Pink are for girls, and they are produced Thursday through Sunday. Both are carted out by the hundred.

Both are carted out by the hundred, every day, held tightly in packaging that keeps them from rumbling as they do when they go down the conveyor belt. Held tightly in packaging that keeps them from rumbling as they do when they go down the conveyor belt, plastic glans coming around by wiggles and jerks to point at the workers.

The plastic glans, wiggling and jerking along the border of Daphne’s pussy lips. Because I ask for it to happen. Part your thighs, a little wider, yes Daphne, yes good girl, thank you. Thank you thank you I say, as I am all encouragement. Part your legs, that’s kind and poetic, not like spread your legs (whorish, dirty) or open your legs (clinical, bureaucratic, like 9:00 AM).

Fuck yourself. Look at me and fuck yourself. I just stand there, not even offering a stroke or a caress or a finger to slide over the forehead. If there’s a hand guiding Daphne’s splayed display, it’s an unseen hand.

The unseen hand. The unseen hand that traces the cock and strikes the mold. The unseen hands that capitalize the factories, and bring in the contracts, and drive the women from the countryside into the crowded cities, where they sleep five to a room and are thankful for it. The unseen hand that pushes up the sign and sounds the factory whistle, the same hand that silenced those whistles and stilled so many women in another countryside.

The seen hand. The seen hand with long fingers, half-sweaty, wrapped around the base of the dildo, pushing it in deeper. Deeper deeper. Spectacle, not tactile, push it all in. I bite my lip. I bite my lip from the spectacle. Daphne smiles.

The seen hand doesn’t package the dildos. The seen hand doesn’t load them into trucks that drive down pitted dirt roads and over slabs of concrete. The seen hand doesn’t fill the shipping containers. The seen hand doesn’t build the containers. The seen hand doesn’t sail the ships. The seen hand doesn’t drill the oil. The seen hand holds the gun.

A woman holds a dildo in her hand. A woman is seen holding a dildo in her hand. A woman is seen putting a dildo into her pants. Into her pants, not like a man. Into her pants, like a thief. The seen hand grabs her by the collar of her work togs. The seen hand slaps her across the face. The seen hand produces a gun from a pair of pants. The seen hand puts the barrel of the gun in the woman’s mouth. The gun is a Glock. The Glock has no external safeties. The Glock has a “safe action” system. The seen hand reaches into the woman’s pants and retrieves the dildo.

Somewhere, someone remembers a clause in a contract about contamination and handling of product. Throwing the dildo away is required. Throwing the dildo away would be a safe action. The seen hand puts the dildo back on the assembly line.

The woman with the Glock in her mouth. The woman with the Glock in her mouth starts to cry. The seen hand. The seen hand makes a demand. The woman purses her lips. The woman purses her lips around the barrel of the gun. The woman purses her lips around the barrel of the gun and starts to suck. A whistle sounds like a scream.

A scream sounds like a whistle. A quick clambering from the chaise longue, a wet hug, and a long, half-droop exhausted smile. Then the hands. Hands unseen. On my back. On my ass. My back. Sweat. Sweat smells like ink. Ink tastes like salt. Salt tastes like heart.

Air. Air tastes like cool. Air tastes like cool on my ass as my pants come down. The snap. The snap of gloves. The unseen hands. The unseen hands, powdery gloves. Safe action. Daphne smiles. The seen hand. The seen hand is all force. The seen hand is no encouragement. I don’t part. I don’t open. I spread. I spread my lips. I spread my lips over my teeth. I do open. But I don’t part. The dildo. The plastic glans. Unsafe action. The taste: buttered noodles. The seen hand, right on my throat. The unseen hand, wrapped around the base of the dildo. Deeper deeper. Push it all in. I can’t bite my lip. Daphne smiles.

The seen hand. The seen hand slaps me across the face. The product falls to the floor. Throwing away the dildo would be a safe action. Daphne kicks it under the bed. The seen hand grabs me by the collar. The seen hand bends me over. Now all hands are unseen. The seen hand is the selfish hand. The unseen hand is every hand. Working toward its own ends. The unseen hand works toward the greatest end for all. My end. My end is parted. My end is open. My end is spread. There is no safety. There is no safety, no warning click. No warning click, like the first moment of a clock radio. There is the Glock. There is the Glock in the seen hand. There is the Glock in the unseen hand.

There is the Glock, being pushed. There is the Glock, being pushed into my ass.