A Case of Penetration

ALR Volume 26: Winter 2014

Dr Ren had never seen the real thing before. He’d read about it, of course. He’d seen pictures. He knew the penalties, like everyone else.

‘Where was he found?’

‘On the other side of the Blue Zone,’ replied the burly officer, still wearing a sanitation suit, his voice passing through the synthesizer in his facemask, making him sound tinny and remote, but with a voice that carried traces of fear and loathing. ‘An obvious case of penetration,’ he added.

‘Obvious,’ muttered Dr Ren as he hastily closed the drawer on the cryofreezer unit that contained the corpse.

As the door mechanism hissed and clunked shut, a microscopic dose of hormone pulsed from an embedded vial and entered his bloodstream. Dr Ren didn’t feel a thing. Neither would he have noticed the subtly suppressive effect. But Dr Ren did think it rather strange, later and on reflection, that he experienced no physical reaction to what was, after all, evidence of that most primordial of natural urges – to fuck.

Natural reproduction was what society had once called “sex”. In today’s world, sex was another word for death, and this was what had brought Dr Ren to the city morgue.

Queenie Pang hoisted her liquid crystal display as the noisy group of revellers approached. She was tired. It was four in the morning but business was brisk.

“PENETRATION HERE – NO COVER CHARGE.” Her wafer-thin, hand-held screen flashed alternately in midnight blue and champagne pink against a green background.

‘This way please,’ she ventured, first in English, then in Cantonese, her mother tongue. Whoops – Japanese. She hurriedly flicked at a switch on the screen to change the language display and grabbed her personal mic, repeating her solicitation so that it was voiced in Japanese. It wasn’t really necessary. The group was already quite drunk. The 10,000 Asean Reals they had shelled out to get into the Blue Zone had been wasted, Queenie reflected.

It paid to numb the senses a little on entering the Blue Zone. The first hurdle was a crowd of officials eager to inject extra doses of Solution, the hormonal suppressant. The trick was loosely padded clothing to stop the laser-guided airgun from penetrating the skin on the way past. Then, assuming the Blue Zone facilitators had not laid a pre-penetration hold-up to relieve you of all your cash, there was a clear kilometre or so of murky waste ground before the entrance to the underground strip of bars and penetration salons. That meant paying some slimy low-life an extra few thousand AR for an electron gondola glide across.

Penetration itself was of course extremely hazardous: first timers often went catatonic. Many, unaccustomed to the sudden surge in blood pressure, suffered mortally. There were doctors in the Blue Zone, but it was always cash first, resuscitation later. And, assuming all went well, there was always the risk of a post-penetration ambush – because by then you’d have no recourse to any form of authority. In official eyes you had crossed the line, already a grim statistic.

One of the Japanese lurched towards Queenie. His flubbery face pouted through a large-lensed ocular accessory flashing neon blue. In here, she pointed with her sign, recoiling from the flashing blue maniac. In there was the entrance to a dark recessed space pulsating with light and sound.

‘Welcome to Penetration Park!’ Another liquid crystal sign blinked in a riot of ever-changing colours.

Inside Penetration Park the first thing the Japanese group saw was a pair of converted women “coupling” rhythmically on a raised stage to an underground ditty titled “Triangle of Love”. The number spliced a heavy techno-beat to some very heavy breathing. It drove the customers wild. Men and women sat in the flickering shadows drinking fluorescent turquoise “activators”. These were important. If your hormones were still imprisoned by Solution, penetration would be impossible. It was a licence to print money: mix a little chemical with coloured water and charge a small fortune.

‘Drink, Sir?’ asked a leather-clad hostess. She had a large target painted over her abdomen.

‘Ah, so. Activrator, prease,’ said Wasabe-san. ‘Six. Arigato . . . ’

The hostess punched a dial on her wrist and wafted off leaving Wasabesan a view of the blinking liquid crystal bull’s-eye on her naked backside.

Wasabe Tanaka was your typical penetrator. Middle-level executive in a large faceless China-owned Corporation that sucked the blood from its employees and spat them out, virtually lifeless, at forty-three. The pay was good – while the job lasted. The stress levels were high. That meant a small fortune in partner fees. The only legal way to cope with basic emotional instincts, those not suppressed by Solution, was to hire an approved partner with the right chemical modifications. You had only two choices: male or female.

Illicit partnerships, or underground partners (UPs), were always talked about, in whispered office corners or cafés. Getting caught incurred a mandatory death sentence. The risk of penetration was too high. For a brief and only marginally safer escape into the old natural world, there was the Blue Zone.

‘Let’s go, yeah?’

That was Sadaka, Wasabe’s colleague. He’d never penetrated and was eager to try.

‘Wait. Have a few Activators first, otherwise it’s useless,’ warned Kenji, Wasabe’s immediate boss. The illicit outing to the Blue Zone was in his honour. This would be his second penetration. His gleaming rotundity was a source of some encouragement to the others. He’d already survived the experience.

‘Yeah. Come on. Let’s get another round in quick,’ said the small, weaselly Ling, their half-Japanese, half-German manager.

‘Got your dildos ready?’ Kenji blurted out, swaying somewhat dangerously to another reprise of “Triangle of Love”.

‘What’s a –’ Wasabe started to ask.

‘You’ll find out,’ said Ling, summoning another hostess.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom in Penetration Park, Wasabe could see the place was packed. Men and women sat around talking to hostesses and watching the stage show, or stood in the long queues to the penetration booths. Video screens around the bar showed scenes of animal penetration: horses, pigs, dogs and so on – illegal pornography. On the table in front of him an electronic screen scrolled through the available penetratees, men and women. To choose sex, press the blue panel. To select, press the green. There were hundreds of choices. Wasabe pressed the blue panel to select Female, which annoyed Ling. He wanted to look at the Male choices first. The women all wore strange expressions; some had their tongues hanging out.

Whatever for? Wasabe wondered. To Wasabe they looked sick. The very face of, what did they call it? Lust? Made him feel queasy. Obviously, he hadn’t had enough Activator.

The Mama-san approached. All penetration bars were managed by Mama-sans, usually surviving penetratees and always female.

‘You gentlemen ready yet?’ she asked in a thick city accent. ‘Come onlah. I see you’re on the second Activator. That should be enough-lah.’

‘Almost. Don’t worry.’ That was Kenji using his personal digital mic. For some reason, he’d selected Thai, but the Mama-san nodded knowingly, clucked a little and moved on.

‘What were those scars on her face?’ Wasabe asked his boss.

‘She’s a survivor,’ he said.

‘What did she survive?’

Kenji drew closer to his subordinate and cupped a hand to his ear.

Wasabe gasped. ‘You mean . . .?’

‘Yes. That’s what it looks like. There’s no cure. I guess she just got lucky and survived. Some do, you know.’

Wasabe suddenly got cold feet. Now that he’d come face to face with the whole reason why this once natural act was outlawed, he wanted to turn back and head for the city. But he was with his colleagues; and with his boss, no less. He would lose a lot of face, perhaps even his job. Then he’d never be able to afford the exorbitant monthly partner fees for Archie, the lithe Thai-boxer. He convinced himself that if Kenji could penetrate a second time, he might as well persevere. Kenji’s face was still smooth and healthy.

They had deliberately come very late. The queue at the penetration booths was always long until five or six in the morning. If there was no rush for the next penetration, you could take more time to savour your turn, or so they said. Kenji led the way. He’d selected a female. Ling went for a male. Wasabe followed Kenji’s example and selected a slight, brown-skinned female, probably Islands in origin.

The booths were operated electronically with the pre-paid time cards issued at the front door. Once your time was up, the lights went on and a loud buzzer sounded. Simple, really. And of course there was a freshly sealed Dildo.

Disinfected Libido Operators, or Dildos, were cumbersome contraptions the male attached to his urinary tract organ before penetration. Failure to use the instrument properly or at all meant almost certain infection and a slow, agonizing death. The Dildo was devised in its basic form when penetration was still legal, as a means of keeping down the rate of infection. But too many people, in the heat of passion, either failed to install the clumsy contraption properly or dispensed with it entirely. Low Dildo usage, particularly in poorer and less educated environments, helped tip the balance in favour of outlawing penetration on a global basis.

‘Cash or credit,’ whined a plump little hostess at the penetration payment booth.

‘Oh, here,’ mumbled Wasabe as he reached for his credit chip.

‘Booth number pourteen, sir. You have pipteen minutes. You wan mor time, please insert card in slot and punch in your PIN. Thank you. Pirst time, Sir?’

‘Uh, yes.’

‘Have a good penetration . . . Wait! Don’t porget your Dildo, Sir.’

Wasabe’s colleagues disappeared into various booths. He headed towards booth number fourteen. Twelve . . . thirteen . . . Ah, fourteen. He noticed his hands trembling. His knees felt weak and there was a rumbling in his stomach. Strangest of all, he felt a weird stirring in his groin, just around the urinary tract.

Must be the Activator working, he thought.

The booth glowed pink. To his right a kidney-shaped bathtub hugged the wall. A large mattress placed on the floor and covered with a sheet took up most of the space. An air-duct blew in cold air and a smoke alarm winked red above him. There was no one in the booth so Wasabe, thinking he had made a mistake, turned to leave. Just then a young girl, her long, dark hair let down, walked in. Her skin was dark also, a deep tan. She was

wearing a robe made of a shiny pink material.

‘Hello, Sir.’

Wasabe thought: Definitely an Island girl.

‘Aah . . . ’ he stuttered. The Dildo burned in his hand. His groin now ached. What kind of fun is this?

‘Clothes here, Sir,’ said the girl, pointing to a row of hooks beside the bath.

‘Ah . . . Ah-so,’ Wasabe managed. He felt his throat constricting, and desperately wanted a drink.

She moved towards the bath and as she did so a glimpse of her brown-skinned leg slipped through the robe. The ache in Wasabe’s groins grew worse. His heart raced.


Wasabe nodded as he started to undress. His hands were fumbling with his loose shirt buttons. One of them spun off across the tiny booth. The girl busied herself with the taps and a selection of plastic bottles containing perfumed oils and disinfectants.

Wasabe wasn’t used to undressing in front of a stranger. He hesitated and fussed and almost tripped over his trousers. Then, standing in his socks, he wasn’t sure what to do next. The girl pointed to his pants. Something strange also alerted him to that general area. He felt a hardening of the urinary tract organ – something he’d never experienced. It shocked him but it felt, well, strangely pleasant. Wasabe had no idea that the flaccid little nub of skin had such potential.

This, he thought, is it.

The hot, fragrant water soothed him so much he almost forgot the purpose of his presence in the booth. Then the girl produced a towel and beckoned for him to get out of the bath.

‘Lie down, Sir.’

Wasabe did as he was told.

Now she had the Dildo in her hands, tearing at the foil wrapping. Wasabe’s breathing became laboured. He began to feel uncomfortably hot and clammy. As he lay on the bed, his eyes fell on the now bulbous head of his inflated organ, aiming at him like a gun. The girl said nothing. She was still wrapped in her robe, but it had fallen loose and he could see a pale firm breast and an erect brown nipple peeking through. It distracted him, and felt strangely pleasant.

How odd, he thought. The breasts he saw all the time in the local park on his early evening strolls had no such effect on him. He allowed his thoughts to wander along in this direction some way before realizing he had never before considered such things as breasts and blood-gorged urinary tract organs. His head began to swim.

Perhaps, he thought again, it was the Activator.

It was one of the last thoughts Wasabe Tanaka had before the wall of one of his main arteries ruptured, close to his heart.

‘Another blow-out,’ the young girl reported to the mama-san as she threw the unused Dildo in the trash. ‘Number pourteen.’

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