Graphic below: Escape, acrylic on glass by jH

Women Seize Control -- Part 1

by Caroline Freedom Ross

Prologue…

She knows when he roars up the rutted muddy driveway in his truck that she’s in for it tonight. By now she’s developed a sixth sense about it — if he parks a certain way, if he tosses away his cigarette butt without flicking it with his nails to see how far he can make it go, if he looks up at the house with squinted eyes to see if she is waiting for him — all those are the early warning signs that his mood is sour and he’s going to take it out on her.

Tonight she’s prepared herself with the same special care that is required every night. Freshly showered, hair styled a certain way, dressed in a tight sweater and mini skirt, high heeled boots that make it hard for her to walk across the room — all the clothing he loves and she hates. Still she does it. Years have passed since she possessed the gumption to fight back or think for herself.

It’s a bad night, too, a real bad one. He hits her across the face six times, busting her lip and blacking both eyes, leaving his brand all over her body in the form of black-and-blue bruises. He only quits hitting her because he’s too stoned to continue.

She isn’t sorry that he hit her though, not anymore. Used to, she’d felt trapped, helpless, and powerless. But the women at the clinic, her sisters they say, told her about something she could do to make it stop, to make her husband quit hitting her, to make men quit hitting women everywhere. All she has to do is take a shot, have sex with him, and that’s the end of it. The virus will activate when his testosterone levels reach a certain height during sexual intercourse.

The next morning, when he’s finished his bacon, eggs, grits, and fresh-made biscuits in complete silence, only grunting when he wants a coffee refill, he leaves for work. “Tonight,” is the only word he says as he goes, but she knows what it means, that she’ll be having sex with him tonight and she should be properly sanitized and deodorized when he gets home.

As soon as she’s sure he’s gone and won’t come back to check up on her — he sometimes does that — she dresses in jeans and a tee-shirt, puts on her Atlanta Braves baseball hat and big dark shades, and walks the two miles out to the main road where she can catch the bus. It’s raining by the time the bus comes, but she finds a seat and rides the fifteen miles to the clinic in silence.

Later that day when she gets back home, she erases any evidence that she has been out. She even stopped at the grocery store on the way home as cover. Sometimes he checks the speedometer on the car and she has to tell him everywhere she went that day. It doesn’t matter what she tells him, he beats her anyway. Nevermore, they told her at the clinic.

Nevermore.

He demands sex as soon as he comes home, and for the first time in years she’s a willing partner. She surprises herself when she realizes she’s turned on and is wet between her legs.

Later that night he wakes her and says he has a terrible headache. Before she can get back with aspirin, he vomits all over the bed. By morning he’s dead.

Chapter One

Spring

Yassel dropped her hands from the computer keyboard in exasperation and twisted a curly lock of brown hair around and around her finger, a mannerism she had acquired as a child. Barefoot, red toenails flashing, she padded across the smooth, hardwood floor to the arched doorway of her partner Maxcy’s office.

“Sorry, Gal,” Yassel said. “I can’t find anybody to fill that last slot at the dinner.”

The long-awaited event, an elegant dinner party at Maxcy’s house, was a celebration of their tenth year in business. With everybody’s full schedules, it had taken a lot of back-and-forth to arrange to have all their friends together for an evening. Still two weeks out, they wanted every detail to be perfect.

Maxcy’s angular face froze and her hand fluttered to her throat, as it did whenever she felt the need to cover her emotions. “Did you try Kirin? Janus?”

Yassel’s curls bounced with each shake of her head.

“Girl, I tried everybody. I even invited Jazz Weatherman.” Yassel answered. Both women grimaced.

Maxcy took a deep breath, then another, closed her eyes and visibly relaxed. Okay. No reason to panic. Sure, the dinner party was important, but nothing was worth the anxiety she was feeling.

She lightly touched her temple with two fingers while Yassel closed her eyes and did the same. After a moment, understanding dawned on Maxcy’s face. “Come ’ere,” she said, “You’ve done so much work toward our party and I haven’t said how much I appreciate you.” Her strong fingers massaged Yassel’s bunched up shoulders. Yassel closed her eyes in ecstasy, groaned in exaggerated pain. Nobody had hands like Maxcy — that magically found all the tension spots and worked them out.

“So who’s the flavor of the week?” Maxcy asked.

Yassel leaned into the massage, eyes closed in ecstasy. “Her name is Suze. Same one as last week. She lives over in McBea.“

Maxcy worked her hands in silence.

“Got it!” Yassel grinned with a snap of her fingers, “Your massages always inspire me! We’ll hire a Masculon!”

Maxcy’s dark eyebrows drew together in a frown, her chin lifted and her gray eyes blazed, but before she could speak, Yassel continued.

“Oh, don’t go getting all fired up at me, Girl. I’m not scared of you and that bitch temper of yours. Now listen, it’s not at all unusual to have them at business dinners. It’s done all the time by the avant-garde. Times have changed. It’s uncool to hate males. It’s been over 30 years, time to move on, put all that stuff behind us.” She waved her hands around to illustrate. “We’re in power now, and no way men are getting back in control.”

“It’s not as if we’ll be discussing secrets,” she continued. “Besides, who would he tell? Those Masculons don’t have the intelligence to keep up with a conversation. They’re like children. He’ll be recognized as simply a pretty face, ornamentation. Since the women we’ve invited are as progressive as we are, let’s ask for a Relic. It’ll be fun — sort of snubbing our noses at convention. At least they aren’t cloned in those…those awful six choices.” Teeth flashing, she put her arm around Maxcy’s waist. “Come on, Girl. Give it up! Let’s do it!” She snapped her fingers and wiggled her tiny hips in a little cha-cha movement. Maxcy considered the different angles of hiring a Relic. They were carryovers from pre-virus times, men who were born before the virus struck and who had miraculously survived to do service. All of them had been reconditioned and were controlled, like FemMales and Gens, by a cocktail of chemicals, vitamins and hormones — much in the same way a fine stud horse is handled.

But there were still hard feelings toward Relics; after all, these were sons of the men who had caused the suffering of millions of women Before, and memories die hard. Still, Relics were tolerated for their sperm, and more and more women were inviting them to outings as decoration and conversation pieces, or as examples of their derring-do.

The modern-day peer of the Relic was the regular Masculon, males cloned in multiples. Regular Masculons, the clones, were all physically beautiful and could be ordered in a choice of six models. Relics were referred to as Masculons, the name “Masculon” signifying a male conditioned to satisfy women’s sexual desires.

“So…?” Yassel continued. “Pretty or rugged looking? White man, or you wanna try one of us darker-skinned types — African-American Mandingo warrior? Wise oriental sage? Strong and silent American Indian? Or how about something different — a hairy Scottish savage?” she grinned at Maxcy, flashing her mocha-skinned arms around in illustration of darker ethnic groups.

“You crazy woman, what do you think we should get?” Maxcy laughed in reply. Yassel sized up her skinny 5’8” partner and said, “Tall. Big dick.”

Both women laughed. They had been friends for years, since Special Training when they each had earned a dual degree in English and Business Management. Yassel had been sitting on the front porch of a small café located in an old home on Main Street, sipping cappuccino and pretending to read the book section of the Women’s National Sunday newspaper when actually she was looking at the personal ads.

Springtime had surrounded the porch with giant hibiscus, big as dinner plates, in a creamy red color. Industrious bees buzzed busily. The lawn stretched out like a fairway, and scattered here and there were students sprawled on colorful blankets — some studying, some sleeping, others making out.

Yassel was rubbing her temple as she carefully studied each notice. A voice spoke inside her head, saying, Why you slut puppy! Find anything yummy? Her laughter rang out, loud and long as she looked around at the small crowd of about 25 people gathered on the porch and lawn.

Suddenly her eyes met the grinning face of a tall, skinny woman with cheekbones like razor blades. Yassel beamed back at her, and that was the start of a lifelong friendship. Finding a like-minded soul who shared The Link meant everything to them both, and they clung to their friendship like ink on a page. Remembering that early time in their alliance made both women smile.

That had been ten years ago. Just a few years after graduation they had opened a business called The Wordsmythy in an old Victorian house right off Main Street in Fabry, North Carolina. In celebration of their tenth anniversary in business, they had planned a fancy dinner party with close friends.

Yassel ticked off a checkmark on her official Masculon order form, and continuing down the page she asked, “Blonde or brunette? Hairy or smooth?”

The women exchanged an arch look. “Hairy!” they said in unison. Maxcy was known to prefer men with body hair. With a big laugh, Yassel sashayed her 90-pound, five-foot frame to the office door. “Let’s have him dressed in pink silk pants, and since he’s got a hairy chest, some kind of chestvest. Let’s get one with muscles. I’ll make the call.”

Maxcy watched her go, a grin on both their faces. She turned back to her task of editing a manuscript, and Yassel poked her head around the door. “One last thing. Sex or not?” When Maxcy hesitated, Yassel prodded, “It’s springtime! Juices are up! Go for broke, Woman. How long’s it been?”

Maxcy laughed. She hadn’t been with a male in ages.

“Too bad you ain’t lez and make it easy on everybody. I got a whole Little Pink Book full of juicy delicious girls.” Yassel’s saucy butt disappeared around the door again.

Maxcy turned her attention back to the manuscript and called after her absently, “Women, not girls.”

~ Dinner party business laid to rest, it was time to get back to the daily work of publishing. Not only did the two women write, but they taught as well, classes in grammar and composition rules, workshops on how to get an agent, how to get published, peer discussions on works in progress. It created a hectic schedule for them both. With only two weeks left until the day of the party and so much energy expended on it, they felt pressured to keep up with the workload.

Waiting for Yassel to complete was a long article on the ancient Tybee Island lighthouse, a short story about relationships and the importance of maintaining romance in them, and a class to plan in grammar.

Maxcy was editing the submissions of the women in the workshop, reviewing a few for forwarding to Women magazine for publication. In addition they had two promising students: one a lovely oriental woman, so bright and gifted they were awed by her work. Yassel made a note in her planner to contact an agent about this woman’s writing. The other student was an older woman, a verbal storyteller. They planned a program where she would visit young girls’ training centers. There she would tell stories about Before, carefully supporting the teachings that males were beasts brought down by the wrath of the Goddess —males had to be controlled.

For Maxcy, each day was much the same as the one before it, starting when her alarm woke her at 4:30 a.m. with heavy-metal rock music. Stretching this way and that — much like her cat Queen did when she woke from one of her frequent snoozes — Maxcy padded on bare feet to the bathroom in her panties and tank-style undershirt and went straight to the sink to brush her teeth. Friends had teased her since childhood about her priorities in the bathroom in early morning, but she remained adamant about brushing her teeth before anything else.

Finished, she wandered back into the bedroom and crossed to the bay window. Outside the sky glowed, the faintest of gray beginning to dilute the dark of night. She dressed in loose navy shorts and a faded pink tee shirt that bore the fame, “Queen Bitch,” and rummaged in her drawer for socks. When she sat on the side of the bed to put them on under her running shoes, Queen’s head rose indignantly from the covers with a sleepy Brrrt? Maxcy rubbed her cat’s head, and ready now, she went out the front door and down the cracked walkway to the sidewalk in front of her house. Her neighbor, Edie Hadley, waved from the front porch next door where she welcomed the daily sunrise at exactly 5:00 with coffee cup in hand. Maxcy called to her in greeting.

In a small town like Fabry, people were used to waving at Maxcy as she breezed past on her five-mile morning run. Her route never varied, and her neighbors joked about her punctuality. You could set your watch by that woman, they’d say as she rounded the corner of Plum Street where she lived and turned right onto Main Street’s wide sidewalk. There she comes, right on time, they’d say, checking their watches in the café as her sprint down Main veered left onto Oak, a street aptly named. For a mile she ran under the canopy of the ancient oaks, through a neighborhood of beautiful estate-like homes, most of them that now housed the Mothers.

At the end of Oak Street she started uphill into the Overlook area, puffing and hauling it up the steep incline, then at the top, around and around Love Circle. By the time she reached the water reservoir and stopped there, bent over with hands on her knees, controlling her breathing, the sun was rising and the sky was crayoned in shades of pink and orange. She could see part of Main Street stretched out below her and she picked out the big yellow house that was the home of The Wordsmythy. The treetops of Fabry, tender green with the hope of early spring, stretched out below her like a pale shawl tossed over the small town. The tops of the tallest homes peeked through the trees, the highest point being Blue Weatherman’s strange house with its rounded turrets and towers.

A few deep breaths and Maxcy was off again, back down Overlook to Oak, Oak to Main, smiling and waving at the townsfolk as she ran. When she passed Jan Lee’s produce stand on the corner with its colorful yellow- and red-striped awning, Jan tossed her a Granny Smith apple.

“Have a good day!” she called.

Home again, she turned the corner and raced without slowing, thundered up the front steps and gasping for breath, checked her timer watch. Good, she thought. A quick shower, a glass of fresh carrot juice, and she was off to the office to write, edit and teach for another day.

And so time passed until the day of the party.

Chapter Two

“Oh, Miss Maxcy,” her head FemMale simpered, one hand on his cocked hip. “If you’d only buzz me, I’d pick up your packages for you.”

She handed her parcels over to him with a slight distracted smile. Bitch, she thought. That perfectly androgynous body and slicked-back hair, the slight undertone of condescension — sometimes she wondered why she didn’t just turn him in for a new Fem. But on the other hand, he was brilliant, dependable, discreet, and someone who organized her home life with the same persnickety anal retentiveness as her own. And he loved the house as much as she did.

The house…her treasure — a Victorian monstrosity with ornate curlicue trims, massive carved mantels, 18-foot high ceilings, and best of all, a huge ancient clawfoot bathtub, big enough for two. Maxcy had lived here since the virus…she and her mommy had come here to Grand-mère’s house, and died not long after. She died of a broken heart, Grand-mère always said, turning the pages in her photo album with liver-spotted hands that looked like lilies waving in the garden.

In her will, Grand-mère left the house and its furnishings — and enough money to insure a comfortable lifestyle — to Maxcy. And Maxcy had made only one change to the house — the Red Parlor.

To the left inside the front door, it drew the attention of every visitor. Deep red walls blended into the long window treatments. Crimson and navy patterned rugs overlapped on the floors. Beautiful oils hung on the walls, evidence of Maxcy’s love of visual art, a vital part of life as far as Grand-mère had been concerned.

Grand-mère had possessed a fine but small collection of the paintings of an Impressionist, Mary Cassatt. One of Maxcy’s strongest recollections of childhood was of watching Grand-mère stand before Cassatt’s work for long periods of time.

Why do you look the paintings for so long? Maxcy had asked. Always Grand-mère gave the same response: Because she used the same brilliant colors as the impressionists, but went after something far more enduring.

In Maxcy’s memory, she waited as she had when she was a child. She waited for her grandmother to turn and open her arms, offering the warm cocoon of approval and acceptance in her embrace. Even today Maxcy imagined she could smell the hugs — a mixture of patchouli and ginger cookies.

She shook her head to break the spell woven by her memories. What a long day it had been. Difficult clients — that Janie Dell was a pain — led to a lingering headache, and on top of that, she’d had no lunch. How nice to go up for a long soak in a steamy tubful of aromatic oils. Her eyes followed the line of the grand staircase. The last rays of sunset lit the stained-glass window — blues and cool greens — at the landing. As a child Maxcy had been enraptured of the mystical sea goddess depicted there, and often when nobody was watching, she had copied the pose. One out-flung arm commanding a fiery serpent, chin raised in mighty defiance. Maxcy recognized that raised chin, a gesture that heralded her own flashes of temper.

But her guests would be arriving soon and she had just a few short minutes to relax and prepare her mood. For that exercise she headed into her favorite room.

She wasn’t sure what you would call the room, this comfy space with its faded chintz armchairs pulled close to the flat-stone hearth. She laid aside her mail and touched the columns of carved oak that flanked the fireplace. The carvings stretched from floor to ceiling, elaborate angels with delicate, folded wings. The mantle was a slab of flawless pink marble cluttered with the silver-framed photographs of centuries of her ancestors. A fire burned in the grate and she warmed her hands, turned and warmed her behind. The spring night promised a chilly wind, and a crackling fire added great ambience. Her guests would appreciate its warmth.

With a sigh she turned her thoughts back to the present. Over her shoulder she could see HeadFem, hovering. Always perched just behind her. She eased down into an armchair and felt the resultant ahhhh of her body relaxing. She shuffled through the mail, and began to read a letter from a friend who was in a remote part of the country training for oil-rig handling. Although Before women had made up 50% of the workforce, that figure didn’t represent an across-the-board balanced ratio in all areas of endeavor. Before, women’s jobs tended to be heavily concentrated in certain areas and lacking in others. Maxcy felt the usual surge of satisfaction that a woman was doing what had once been considered a “male’s job.”

She turned her attention back to the mail, flipping through the stack, distracted. “HeadFem, we ran short on bodies for tonight’s dinner, so Yassel ordered a Relic. Show him what to do, will you? Let me know when he gets here so I can look him over beforehand.”

Behind her, HeadFem sniffed and tossed his head, a particularly effective gesture when used correctly. “A Relic?” he sniffed, his hand fluttering to his chest. “Well, really. I mean, I just think that women — as powerful and evolved as they are,” he added, “…have no idea how disgusting the entire FemMale race finds those Relics. They may have survived the virus by some bizarre fluke, but in my opinion they are nothing more than a walking penis. And furthermore, those…creatures… are only tolerated for their sperm and everybody knows it…although their learned ability to gratify a woman has been a deciding factor in their fates.”

“Fem.” Maxcy spoke the one word from her chair, never breaking her focus on the mail. Over the years with Maxcy as Mistress, HeadFem had learned that tone of voice. It brooked no argument.

HeadFem threw back his flawlessly coiffed head. Well! He was, after all, a FemMale. Because he really loved his fellow man — every chance he got —he occupied a much higher station in life than merely being a sexual slave to women. He shuddered at the thought.

“Not that it does any good to tell you anything,” he mumbled under his breath. HeadFem gave up trying to bait her and left her to the mail.

Maxcy paused in reading letters when she heard a brrrt noise from the corner of the room. That sound heralded the awakening of Queen — the fattest, most fastidious and spoiled cat in all creation. Queen’s thick, gray coat was evidence of her diet, and she was so lazy that she would lie for hours when offered, being stroked, petted and properly worshiped.

“Queenie, you beautiful woman, come here.” The cat jumped onto her lap with a brrrt sound, her purr a hymn of pleasurable contentment. Maxcy rubbed and massaged the cat’s plush fur, her eyes drifting toward the French doors that looked out onto the English garden in back.

From her seat she could see the antique water fountain, always a point of joviality and interest for visitors. It was a rare souvenir of the days Before, a granite fountain, cracked now in many places, worn smooth in others, covered in rich green patches of algae. Atop poised a statue of a young boy gripping his tiny penis. Water ran from the boy’s penis and from his eyes. Time had eroded the stone penis until it was a bare nub, and the general consensus was that the stone boy was crying because his penis was so small. It gave Maxcy, a history buff, the opportunity to show off her knowledge and explain to guests that pre-virus males did indeed have small penises, and erectile dysfunction was sometimes a problem. Her vivid explanations were most often met with loud laughter and snide comments about modern improvements creating new clones that sported the regulation 12” rod.

All joking aside, women were still angry about the days Before, when males ruled. Although most of the women alive were born after the Year of Our Mother, or the year of the virus, rumors and legends had been whispered for thirty years, and enough was known about former times to keep women enraged and on guard against male dominance.

Maxcy became aware that a Genboy was standing nearby. He kept his eyes properly downcast. Genboys and Masculons were not allowed to make eye contact with females; Fems were allowed that privilege, but only with permission.

“What is it, Gen?” she asked kind, keeping her voice soft. Whenever she saw these poor creatures, these abominations — test-tube babies neutered and muted in vitro, amorphous, emotionless, with their pale almost transparent skin and large eyes — she felt a pang of pity and rage that rendered her speechless. According to developers, the intelligence of a Genboy was equal to a chimpanzee’s, but Maxcy had her doubts. Mostly they reminded her of sheep, little lost lambs.

The Genboy handed her a written note that said: “Miss, you asked me to let you know when Relic arrived. HeadFem.” The Genboy slipped away.

With a sigh Maxcy dislodged Queen from her nap and dropped the cat gently back onto the chair. Queen regarded her through sleepy half-lidded eyes, jumped from the chair and stalked from the room, tail flicking.

“Sorry, Queen. Duty calls,” Maxcy called after her — then laughed at herself for apologizing to a cat. The hall to the left of the grand staircase led back to the kitchen, the center of bustling of activity as the Chef and SousFems prepared the festive dinner. Maxcy stopped to inhale the pungent aroma of roasted salmon with olive-mustard butter. She motioned to ChefFem and asked, “What else is on the menu?”

“There’s orzo, and a ricotta and fava bean brushcetta. Butter greens with shitake and sesame vinaigrette.”

“Wine?”

“One of the pinot noirs from the cellar. And the two bottles you brought home with you.”

She touched him briefly on the shoulder in appreciation. Her friends had lectured her time after time about being too kind to all the Masculons, but she ignored them. Her grandmother, long dead, had reared Maxcy after her mother’s death. Granmeré had been a loving woman, conscious of the soul that dwelt inside each-and-every person, female and male. She educated Maxcy about the sanctity of life.

And somewhere in Maxcy’s past lurked a father that she couldn’t remember, but a father nonetheless, and that knowledge prevented her from mistreating any Masculons — Fems, Relics or Gens. Maxcy’s attitude branded her a stranger in a strange land. She lived in a woman’s world, a world where males were reviled and persecuted; yet she abhorred those actions and attitudes and found ways to resist them at every opportunity. As a result she was regarded as a rebel of sorts.

Winding her way through the activity in the kitchen, she found HeadFem in the dark rear entrance area where the old servant stairs went up the back of the house. The Fem stood stiffly beside the Relic, a tall, striking male — not handsome but appealing and older than she had expected. Thick brown hair, longer than average, tumbled over his collar. His shoulders, especially compared to Fem’s hormonally induced androgyny, were wide and thick, and his arms were muscled and roped with large blue veins. Square jaw, green eyes — altogether an unexceptional-looking Masculon. She couldn’t imagine what The Service had in mind in sending such a plain Relic to ornament her party. She realized finally that what saved him from dull plainness was his mouth. Full and sumptuous. The top lip formed two perfect peaks. She finished her inventory of his body, pleased to see he had a patch of hair peeking out of the top of his chestvest; and she took special note of his pink silk pants, the locked gold codpiece.

“Go ahead and unlock his codpiece. Take the catheter out,” she instructed HeadFem. She referred to the required codpiece that kept a Relic from spilling his valuable seed.

“Thank you, Mistress,” the Relic murmured, appropriately — and genuinely —humble.

“Face me. Let’s see you smile,” she ordered. A grin spread over his face that —regardless of its practiced air — was powerful enough to transform his face from average to irresistible. Maxcy responded by smiling back at him, her hand fluttering to cover the pulse in her throat as it did whenever she felt the need to hide her emotions. HeadFem gasped. How improper, he thought, and the moment passed.

“He’ll do fine,” she said, but when the males began to move away she stopped them with a gesture. The Relic kept his head respectfully lowered, his eyes downcast. What a wealth of information this male must be, she reflected. Her excitement accelerated. “How old were you when the virus struck?”

“Fifteen,” he answered.

Her historian’s mind whirled. Fifteen? Oh that means he was old enough to have coherent memories. He could be a goldmine! I can think of a thousand questions to ask him. How was co-ed education carried out? How did males keep women from being educated as well as they were themselves? How did property ownership work? As a writer she had sudden visions of being awarded a Pulitzer Prize.

The Relic watched her face from beneath his lashes, noticing the play of emotion that flickered in her gray eyes. Males were not allowed to look at a woman’s face without explicit permission; it was something that was punishable by severe reconditioning. Even eye contact between males and women was strictly taboo. When Maxcy came out of her reverie and focused her eyes on him, he dropped his head as required.

“You’d better be careful, Masculon. You can go to the camps for that,” she reminded him. This might be an arrogant one. She had heard that Relics could be that way — stubborn, willful, and hard to train. She drew back from him, turned and walked away. Her hand moved to her throat again as she called back over her shoulder, ”Fem, find him something else to wear. Those pink pants are ridiculous.”

~ Hours later, when evening came and the dinner party was well underway, Maxcy surveyed the narrow room. Long windows flanked one wall, looking out onto the secret garden outside. On the wall opposite the windows, a hand-painted mural.

depicted the garden. The long cherry table stood in the center of the room under an antique chandelier. An aromatic floral and herb centerpiece decorated the table. From her vantage point at one end of the table Maxcy watched the guests, all of their faces softened by candlelight.

Seated at her immediate left was Miss Lillie Red Flower, an 80something, full-blooded Cherokee woman who as a young woman had been active in The Sisterhood, and who lost her husband and sons to the virus. She still lived in the old farmhouse far outside the city limits that had been her married home. Unlike most of her peers, she had chosen to live away from society where she could maintain her privacy. She wanted to live alone with her memories. Miss Lillie sometimes felt she would never adjust to the changes since the horrible plague took her man.

In the aftermath of the virus, the death rate all over the world was staggering. Thousands of decaying and disease-carrying male bodies littered homes and offices. Conducting mass burials and tending huge funeral pyres became constant occupations for women who were suddenly — and completely — responsible for the earth’s care. As the death toll climbed, the bodies piled up and it was impossible to dispose of them quickly enough to prevent the spread of cholera. Women died from contamination; the water supplies in some larger metropolitan areas became tainted. Wild animals fed on the carcasses. Death and disease were constant companions, resulting in wholesale depression and suicide for women.

The former First Lady, in the absence of any surviving males on Capitol Hill, stepped into the president’s place and met with female members of Congress to make immediate decisions. The new-world leaders aided the surviving women in moving away from major cities into small towns, relocating libraries and art galleries, and warehousing retail merchandise, medical supplies, non-perishable foods. With an all-hands-on-deck mentality, women pitched into the effort to strip the cities of salvageable goods. Then, in an effort to end the near-plague of cholera that had begun to spread worldwide, wholesale bombing and burning of the former centers of commerce, industry and government took place. What had once been a country of flourishing metropolitan areas became a union of small towns that resembled Mayberry RFD.

In less fortunate nations, what the virus didn’t destroy was finished by cholera, smallpox and swine flu epidemics — all created by poor sanitation. Many overseas countries were now virtually unpopulated. The new Women’s Government of the former US relocated to rural Virginia and housed in the museum home of a former US president. There the First Lady formed a cabinet of legislators who wrote and signed the Feminist Declaration of Independence, a document that laid out the premise of the new society. In surviving countries, similar situations emerged.

Decisions about what businesses would survive, how training for women would be arranged, and the provision of psychiatric and medical treatment for the survivors became paramount. Specifications for the survival of the species were desperately needed.

In the early confusing months following the virus, the few surviving males were herded together, and unthinkingly many were killed. If the human race was to continue, immediate rules protecting males had to be put into place. Any remaining males were captured, locked up, and milked twice a week for semen at medical facilities hastily adapted for that use. Viable sperm became a precious commodity and artificial insemination the only accepted method of conception. No longer was abortion an issue; women who wished to be impregnated simply applied for legal Mother status.

Mothers were screened and checked, specially trained in gestation and child rearing. Since many women still longed for children, they were encouraged to breed as often as their personal health allowed. Artificial insemination made it possible to impregnate mothers exclusively with the xx chromosome, guaranteeing that only females were implanted. By contrast, males were cloned in cold clinical surroundings without a care for their emotional needs, and their conditioning began at birth.

Only one cardinal rule in society prevailed: Every woman was considered a sister to whom all loyalty was due. Any signs of undercutting or backbiting another woman meant a reconditioning spell at Tyguard, a facility that had been constructed after the virus. Its purpose was to teach a better attitude to those who faltered in their love for their fellow woman — and showed it by acting with complete bitchiness. Results from Tyguard were good; no woman wanted to be there, and no woman wanted to have others know she had been there.

That 32-year era since The Year of Our Mother had been a tremendous time of transformation, one that Miss Lillie had experienced as an adult. Now she sat, her American-Indian features serene, her black hair — shot with few streaks of silver — in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She chatted with the young woman seated beside her, Joy. The 17-year-old Mother was roundly pregnant and blooming with good health.

Maxcy’s eyes slid over to her and she said, “Welcome, Joy. How nice to have you.” She noted Joy’s beautiful hair, green eyes and creamy white pore-less skin.

Joy smiled her thanks and lifted her long red hair off the back of her neck, let it fall around her shoulders again. She couldn’t help but know what a striking attribute her shining hair was, her crowning glory, guaranteed to turn heads. When she went back to her conversation at the other end of the table, Maxcy admired the animation she showed as she laughed and talked to the woman on her left side, Jazz Weatherman.

Jazz was another story — a staunch militant with an unfortunately prickly personality. Her mother, Blue, had found great hilarity in naming her daughter for a genre of music. “I like Blues, and I like Jazz,” she had been heard to quip many times, all big eyes and batting lashes. While Blue may have been referring to the musical genre, in reality liking Jazz the person was a challenge. Unlike her mother, Jazz didn’t posses a vivacious personality or a stunning wit. Even their looks were opposite. Where Blue was a natural light blonde with a movie-star body, by contrast her daughter was a greasy and drab brown bear with a big, bulky body. Her arms seemed too long and she sported a dark line of hair on her upper lip.

Never having been one to stay in touch with reality, Blue treated her daughter like a hand puppet, mindlessly training her to passionately hate males, and planting in her the desire to destroy every one of them with her own hands. Blue had been a longtime member of The Sisterhood, even Before, and rumor said that Blue was one of the Chosen who personally infected at least 50 males with the virus. That was a lot of intercourse! Maxcy looked down the table at Yassel, her partner in business for ten years. They locked eyes and Maxcy raised her wine glass in silent tribute. She didn’t have to link with Yassel to know what that woman was thinking right now — Maxcy could see the air of pride at her achievements that surrounded Yassel like an aura.

Yassel slid her eyes toward Jazz turned up her nose. She hadn’t wanted to invite Jazz in the first place. Instead she’d hoped to ask a luscious brunette who worked in the art gallery in the next town, but Miss Lillie had asked her to invite the mother and daughter together, saying she felt she owed it to Blue. Blue had ducked out of attending at the last minute — typical for her — and it would have been impossible to “uninvite” Jazz by then, so they were stuck with her for the evening.

Looking at her now, Yassel noticed the sneer on Jazz’s face. Although Jazz was surly at the best of times, at the moment she exuded hostility toward Joy.

Joy espoused the wonders of pregnancy at every opportunity, and her excitement at the impending birth of her child — an event that was expected in a few short weeks — was an experience that she advocated ad nauseum. What a stupid cunt, Jazz thought.

On Yassel’s other side sat the oldest woman in town, Winter Thacker, a 91-year-old genius who had won the Nobel Prize just prior to the outbreak of the virus. Rumors had always circulated about Winter. In her youth she had been a radical feminist and was reputed to have brought about major changes in society. Exactly what those changes were had never been openly discussed, so an air of mystery surrounded the woman. Now, in her latter years she stood tall and stately, with white hair that she kept sheared to a 2” length overall. Her intelligence, patience and keen sense of humor were well known. Now she responded to Joy with real interest, having never had a child herself.

”Are you looking forward to being a mother?” Winter asked. “I’ll bet you hope that baby girl has your beautiful red hair. Joy, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with hair more shining and luxurious.”

“Thank you. I can’t wait to be a mother, to hold my daughter! I’ve looked forward to this for the past four years, since I came into womanhood. I think it’s such a wonderful world, now that there are no males to mess everything up,” Joy gushed. “No wars, no army, no fighting and guns, no violence in the whole wide world! We’ll be so close, my daughter and me.” Joy bubbled on. “My teacher, Venus Armistead, says life is so much better this way, without males butting in.”

Miss Lillie and Winter exchanged glances. Well-known as a man-hater, Venus was a leader in the military branch of the Sisterhood — and a staunch advocate of punishing males without provocation. Several times she had been called down for violence. The Sisterhood had not espoused brutality Before, but everything was changing, and the Sisterhood that Winter, Miss Lillie, and many others worldwide had known was disappearing.

“Venus says that women were treated really bad Before. That in some countries women had to keep all their skin covered up, and if a woman showed an arm or an eye, the males beat her! And in some countries, honor killing was the norm. Males could actually kill women to somehow prove their honor. Isn’t that weird?”

They had all heard these stories, of course, but speaking them aloud was disturbing, inspiring a strange mixture of rage and fear. No woman would allow that time to come again — a time when males ruled — and the feelings invoked by the images Joy described made them all uncomfortable, stirred their ire.

Winter quoted one of her favorite Sisterhood chants from memory: “Hell for vaingloriously vapid women who undermine other women! We live in a world geared for men’s benefit and we have become dependent upon men.” She raised her fist in the air.

Miss Lillie joined in and said in chorus with Winter, ”Nevermore! Nevermore!”

From her end of the table Maxcy looked at her guests. The more analytical part of Maxcy, the one always eager to ask questions, spoke: “I’ve heard so many tales, but I think most troubling to me is the idea that somehow males were able to crush the spirit out of a woman and make it impossible for her to function in all ways. One of the phrases I hated from that era was referring to an action as a feminine one or a masculine one. As if actions could have a gender.”

Winter spoke, and in her voice was a tinge of still-raw rage. “And the judicial system was a nasty mixture of corrupted officials, bribes and the “good ole boy” network. As a result, women felt constantly on guard, unable to ever reach full potential.”

Several heads nodded in agreement.

Maxcy said, “What bothers me is the covert undermining of a woman’s self esteem. According to the studies, the male ruled most couple’s lives. If a woman and her male disagreed over how some daily detail should be handled, the male’s will prevailed. It’s unnerving, almost as if the woman’s opinion was of no worth to the male. I can’t imagine the anger women must’ve felt toward their husbands, and they had to live with them day after day under those circumstances... and be penetrated by them during the sex act. No wonder women rebelled and formed secret societies! It would take a lot of moral support to live a life like that without being in constant depression.” She paused. “That or kill them while they slept.”

“Girl, you are so droll,” Yassel said, lifting her wine glass in tribute. “Woman, not girl,” Miss Lillie corrected her.

Joy said, “Well, Venus says it was their own fault! Those women didn’t have to put up with it!”

A silence. Then Miss Lillie said, “Child, don’t forget that women are more forgiving by nature than males. And sometimes a woman had to stay where she was for financial reasons, or out of fear. Divorce had become very common Before, and when I checked statistics, women sought most divorces. That was when I was a girl. Later on, in my middle age, it seemed that the girls were having babies and raising them without any male interference, other than insemination. It set the stage for what happened later, I think.”

Winter nodded and said, “Yes, I agree. But it was difficult to earn a living then. Women were paid less for doing the same jobs as a man. Some women even married and stuck it out because they wanted to stay home and raise their children. The day-care centers back then were atrocious.”

Maxcy said, “I’ve read so many diaries and journals from that time, and women had such a raw deal, but all males weren’t bad.”

Winter snorted. “Oh sure,” she added. “But they all felt superior to women. They felt they were naturally endowed with more brains, more rationale, and more reasoning ability than us poor dumb women. So they instructed us on how to do everything. It was maddening. And there were males who actually believed — or said they did — that women naturally loved to be in the kitchen, or were happy to be stuck with the children while the males played golf, or went to bars and sporting events with each other.”

Jazz had been building up a head of steam listening to these idiot women babble on about situations and concepts they were too dumb to understand. What would a bimbo like Joy know about the real world? She was educated in Training! How could she have any real information about the Truth? And these other bitches, they lived with the wool pulled over their eyes — even today when women ruled. These old cows know nothing about The Sisterhood as it is today! Stupid cunts.

With a sneer, Jazz turned toward Joy, who instinctively drew back in alarm and covered her rounded belly with both hands. Maxcy watched with a look of alarm on her face and raised her hand to cover her throat.

“I’ll tell you what it was like before!” Jazz’s voice echoed off the walls, made the candles flicker. “Males were bastards! They used women as slaves, as whores!” Her voice rose like an oxygen-fed flame. “It wasn’t all about the horror stories of women who were buried up to the neck and stoned till dead for some stupid male infraction. In everyday life, women faced an unbelievable amount of stress. They were taken advantage of at every turn! At home they provided slave labor by doing all the chores and all the cooking!” Her voice had risen.

“Sometimes they were beaten. And outside the home, women and males did the same jobs, but in the workplace, women made less money.” Her breath came out in angry puffs that made the candles flicker. She twisted the linen napkin from her place setting around and around in her hands, as if it were a male.

“Even bosses made a move on their assistants; I guess they thought they paid for sexual favors with the salary!” she continued. “For some idiotic reason, males thought that women were just waiting to perform sex on them! Even women who rode the subway had to be careful because males would rub up against them during the crowded ride! And if they protested, they were called prick teasers or frigid!”

Winter spoke up. She was almost 60 years old when the virus struck and she was an authority on Before. “True. All true. What bothered me most, and what I still think about, was the way we were programmed to be one step below males. Even when I spoke at science engagements, the males were given top billing. Most of them were less educated than I. And certainly less decorated!” She grinned. It was easy to see that she had once been striking; she still had the same strength in her face.

Jazz’s nostrils flared at the use of the word man. Only old coots like Winter and Miss Lillie used words like that anymore. She stared angrily at the Relic. “What’s he doing here?”

Winter had known Jazz’s mother, Vida Blue, since girlhood. They had been in The Sisterhood together before the virus broke out. Winter knew that Blue brainwashed her poor daughter since birth to hate males, and she also knew why. Prior to the virus, when she was a 20-year-old virgin, Blue was brutally raped, beaten and disfigured by a stranger, a drunken male who needed to prove his might. She spent two weeks in the hospital recovering. The day she was released, she had stalked and found her rapist — and murdered him in cold blood on the spot. Crime-scene officials said later that they’d never seen anything like it. That woman had done things to the body that defied description. The memory of that slaughter stayed with each investigator until he died. Prosecution had begun against Blue when the virus erupted.

Not too much later, she missed her period for the third time. The unimaginable horror became a fact of her life. Inside her body, she carried the spawn of her tormentor. She had killed and mutilated this child’s father. The irony of it amused her.

Things had never been quite right between Blue and Jazz.

Things had never been quite right with Jazz, period. Now Jazz glared across the table at the rented Relic.

Winter saw the look and spoke, “He’s just an ornament, Honey. Now let’s get back to what we were saying about Before. Women were successful only if they behaved like males — dressed in a manly way, became aggressive and tough. Even television programs and movies showed women fighting like males. And women who dared speak out against the male hierarchy, who dared thumb their noses at convention, like the goddess Oprah...” — a murmured Blessed Be went around the room before Winter continued — “…were persecuted and misunderstood. Women were miserable, and resentments against males had been growing for some time. Let’s face it — we’re different! Males liked to pick things apart and analyze them, and we all know women are just not analytical creatures!”

A wave of laughter. Long ago males had actually supported the theory that women were incapable of scientific thought. Maxcy signaled for more wine to be poured. She caught Yassel’s eye and both discreetly raised a hand to their temples. After a moment they nodded at each other. Miss Lillie noticed the gesture and commented, “Why, you ladies have the Link, don’t you?” A brief silence at the table and faces turned toward Maxcy, then Yassel, in expectation.

“Yes,” they confessed in unison. To have the Link was rare, a mutation or evolution, depending on your point of view, that had begun to manifest after the virus. The Link was encouraged and looked for in Training, but only one out of every five young ladies was so gifted. Maxcy and Yassel discovered the gift quite by accident in a Training class where they were learning relaxation techniques.

In one exercise the little girls had massaged their temples to precipitate relaxation. Suddenly Maxcy had twisted around in her chair and looked at Yassel who sat across the room. Both girls had laughed with glee. Their teachers understood what had happened and explained to the group that Maxcy and Yassel were able to communicate with each other without using words. Thus began the lifelong friendship of Maxcy Mae and Yassel Ann.

Now, remembering that early discovery of The Link, they smiled at each other across the expanse of the table. That had been ten years ago. Shortly after graduation from college the two women opened a business called The Wordsmythy. Tonight, in celebration of their tenth anniversary in business, they organized this small yet festive dinner. Having The Link had made a major difference in their lives.

“How fantastic!” cried Joy. “I hope my baby has the Link! I wish we all did!”

Winter spoke up with great conviction. “I believe all of us have The Link. But male dominance bred it out of us. In the old days, males laughed at women’s intuition. We were shamed into suppressing our natural abilities. Now we’re building a purer breed, a breed without aggression and a culture without violence. A matriarchal society, a true sisterhood.”

The room was a fairyland of twinkling lights — candles burned on the table, the mantel and sideboard and in sconces on the walls. Fine old china, crystal and silverware — remnants from Maxcy’s grandmother’s life — changed the light into a golden glow.

“Tell us about Before. Please, please, please?” Maxcy begged. She clasped her hands under her chin as if in prayer.

Miss Lillie’s eyes shone as she said, “I was against it. The virus. I thought there had to be a better way. Why I wouldn’t have done that to Albert! I was married to him for over 30 years. He was the only male I ever loved.” She looked into the eyes of each woman at the table. There she saw a mixture of emotions — alarm, acceptance, shock, uneasiness, love. She noticed that Jazz was breathing hard and clutching the tablecloth with her fists, but still she continued to speak, her eyes glued to Winter’s in some tense, unseen battle.

“We were married when I was just a teenager. Eighteen years old. And ooh wee, we were so in love.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I still miss him. I never expected… it’s just that so many good males died along with the bad.”

Jazz jumped to her feet so abruptly that her chair crashed to the floor behind her. “That’s disgusting!” she snarled. She pointed an accusing finger at Miss Lillie, “How can you be disloyal enough to your sisters that you’d talk that way about a male?”

She tossed her balled-up napkin onto the table, knocking over her wine and Joy’s water glass in the process, and stormed from the room. Her path to the front door could be traced by the sound of her heavy boots striking the floor. The front door slammed. For a long, long minute the room remained silent and the echo of Jazz’s fury ricocheted off the walls.

Joy’s voice trembled. “Maybe Venus is right! Maybe we should just kill all the males!”

Tense silence in the room before Maxcy spoke. “Well, we just about did.”

Yassel rolled her eyes and laughed, winked.

But their humor did little to alleviate the strain. Miss Lillie and Winter eyes were still locked.

Winter said directly to Miss Lillie, “No virus could be that selective — to simply wean out the bad males and leave the good. That would never have worked, Lillie. You know that. Even if only half the males in the world were alive today, we’d still be under their thumbs!” Her low voice sounded strained.

“Well, you can’t convince me that anything could beat the way our society is run,” Yassel chirped. “Crime is abolished, rape is unheard of,” she counted on her fingers to illustrate, “we don’t have to cook if we don’t want to and our children don’t carry guns to school and kill their playmates. Women Rule!” She raised her fist into the air with a laugh, and the women around the table followed suit, laughing and raising fists.

Throughout the recitation Maxcy had looked thoughtful. She spoke with careful consideration, “I’ve wondered about the position of males in our society. True, we have a kinder, gentler culture, and very few crimes crop up, but there have been a few reports of violence — hate crimes against Mascs. Even some lynchings. What bothers me is the hate crimes against women who fall in love with males.”

Joy’s face showed her shock. “What do you mean fall in love with…?” She looked sickened. “How can that be? How could a woman fall in love with one of those…?” She indicated the Masculon with a tilt of her red head. “They’re less than animals.”

“Words of wisdom from Venus, no doubt,” Maxcy teased, then continued in a matter-of-fact manner. “Look, it’s inevitable that there would be some unrest along the way. It’s been over 30 years since the virus, enough time for the pendulum of hatred against males to begin to slowly swing the other way, and there are some women who don’t want the hatred to end. I think we can expect a lot of changes in the future, and one of those will be that males will be accepted more in public. No matter what Venus says.” Joy grinned and stuck her tongue out at Maxcy.

Miss Lillie said, “Maybe what you’re saying is true. I’m an old woman now, and I don’t know much about all that. But I do know I loved my husband with all my heart and my boys too.” Again she looked at Winter as she spoke. “They didn’t deserve to die.”

With that said she turned up her wine goblet, drained it, and signaled the WineFem to refill it. Her eyes shone and spots of high color appeared on her cheeks. “Now,” Miss Lillie continued, leaning forward as if she were sharing her deepest secrets. All the women leaned forward in anticipation.

“Now, let’s be naughty. There’s nobody here but us, there’s nobody to snitch on us.” She burped and covered her mouth with ladylike fingers. “Sorry, I’m a little tipsy.”

Yassel cut her eyes toward Miss Lillie. “What you mean let’s be naughty?” She drew her head back and arched an eyebrow. “Girl, if I’d known we were gonna be bad, I would’ve brought somebody with me.”

“Woman, not girl,” corrected Maxcy.

“I know what Lillie means,” Winter interjected. Her eyes skated toward the Masculon. “She wants to talk to…him.” Indicating the male with a quick tilt of her head.

“Go ahead, Lillie. Talk to him,” Winter scoffed.

It never ceased to amaze her how backward Lillie remained. What about The Cause? What about The Sisterhood? How could the death of a few males be measured against the undeniable good the virus had done? And now this. This playing with a male. She frowned.

To converse with a Masculon was taboo, but by then the guests felt mellow, glad that the incident with Jazz was smoothed over — and anxious that another one not occur. For those reasons, Maxcy gave the Masculon the nod. “It’s okay,” she told him. “Speak freely.”

For Miss Lillie and Winter, women who had lived around males Before, it was not so unusual to sit at dinner with a male. No amount of modern-day brainwashing could sway them from their early years of life in interaction with males. For Maxcy, who had been born after the virus struck and remembered the heavy militant air that hung over the land for the first ten years, this was an interesting first. Maxcy felt that Grand-mère was looking on, pleased with the liberal thinker she’d reared.

For Joy and Yassel, who were sitting side by side now, even looking at a man’s features was a new occurrence. Joy was young, impressionable — and had little experience with males.

Turning aside to Joy, Yassel said, “I don’t expect much of a Relic; he’s only a male after all. But I’m sure willing to have this kinky conversation for the fun of it. What about you, little girl?” She stroked Joy’s brilliant hair. “Look at his face,” Joy whispered to Yassel.

Yassel answered, “Yeah, they call that a strong jaw. Look at that rough stubble growing out on his face. That would hurt, wouldn’t it?” The two women giggled. Around them the older women were talking quietly, having their goblets refilled, settling in for a long chat.

“He’s got a big Adam’s apple, that’s kinda sexy,” Yassel continued in sotto voice. Joy wrinkled her nose in distaste and said, “There is nothing about this male that I find attractive. Well, maybe he is a little bit cute.

“Nice mouth, Yassel thought.

Joy continued, “But he’s so old.”

The Relic was well kept, as required. Included in the daily training activities of a Relic was a vigorous physical work in the weight room. Their schedules also required that they run a minimum of eight miles every morning. Yassel whispered back, “Look at how tall he is. Not the regulation five-foot eleven. And he’s biiiig, look at those broad shoulders.”

Joy snickered and tried to cover her laugh with her hand.

The other four women were wrapped up in discussing the restrictions against conversation with males, saying how insane it was to have such boundaries to dialogue.

Yassel continued in a low voice, “And ummm, look at that hairy chest.”

Joy hooted with laughter and the other women turned to her with hesitant smiles, ready to share her humor. After a moment Maxcy continued.

“This Relic was 15-years old when the virus killed so many people. He was one of the rare exceptions to the rule: a male who survived.” She indicated the male with the sweep of her white hand as if he were an exhibit in a museum.

The male watched her from beneath hooded eyes and remembered the horrible week of pain and sickness when the virus struck him. Nothing would erase the dreadfulness of that time. And while he had recovered, every one else he knew and loved, succumbed and died. He was a survivor in many ways: not only did he live through the horrible virus, but he had developed endurance skills that helped propel him successfully through the quagmire of women’s emotions. His very life depended on it.

He flashed a white grin and his eyes twinkled. Maxcy felt as if she had fallen three floors in an elevator. She felt disgusted with herself for responding. Miss Lillie smiled at his male attractiveness. Yassel pinched Joy’s fanny on the sly and winked at her look.

“When I was 15,” the Relic said in a low voice that caressed the ears of the women. “I was a junior in high school. Back then boys and girls went to school together, and our school had a football team. Football …was a sport where one team played against another.”

Joy interrupted him, “Yeah! I heard about that from my teacher! Venus says males crashed into each other and knocked each other down, and that’s what the game was about. Sometimes males were even maimed or killed!” The Masculon responded with a charming smile and just the right touch of humility. He lowered his eyes. In the moment before he answered, Maxcy had the feeling he was enjoying himself. “You’re probably right about all that, but we loved to play football. And boys who played were popular with the girls in school. Sought after. I was a key player on the team, a quarterback. That was important because it made the girls like me.”

Yassel interrupted this time to ask, “You mean you had sex with a lot of girls?”

“Ah,” he said, “A gentleman would never kiss and tell.”

Yassel persisted with a teasing smile on her face. “You have to tell us! I command it!”

“Okay,” he continued. “It was different back then. Sex wasn’t…it…our society encouraged us to be married before we had intercourse.”

Disbelieving laughter burst from Yassel and Joy. Almost-invisible Genboys floated around the room, clearing away the dishes. Points of light reflected off the sterling silver on the table.

Joy laughed, “Wow, you must’ve been horny all the time!”

The Relic continued. “We sneaked around and did it anyway. But that was Before. It was different.” His hands moved in an effort to express himself, and Maxcy noticed that his fingers were thick, and dark hair grew on the backs of his hands and wrists.

“In those days sex was supposed to be private and hidden,” continued the Masculon, keeping his eyes diverted from Joy’s face. He smiled at the irony of what he was saying. “But the truth was that sex was all over advertising, movies, and magazines. Even girls at tender preschool ages were dressed as sex symbols,” he continued.

“What do you mean, ‘sex was all over advertising’? Maxcy asked.

“Well, for instance, women with great bodies and little clothing were photographed draped over 16-wheelers, or muscle cars, or even tractors. And males bought calendars like that, with busty young women in haystacks,” the masculon responded.

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me!” Yassel quipped in a little flirty voice, looking at the Masculon through lowered lashes. She had heard that Relics became sexually aroused with the slightest titillation and she wondered if she could play with him and arouse him — even though sex with a male didn’t interest her.

Maxcy’s eyes narrowed and her chin lifted. ”Yassel, will you let him finish?” she asked, and her voice sounded harsher than she meant for it to.

Yassel’s hand went to her temple, a way to connect and validate — maybe even scold a bit — but Maxcy turned away and refused to respond in kind. The Masculon could sense the tension between the two women, so he continued his story. His conditioning had included many lessons, especially the coaching about the subtle moods of a woman. He wanted to see Maxcy smile again.

Joy’s eyes brightened. “Tell us a story about the old days,” she begged. “What was it like to have babies back then? Were there nurse midwives? Home births?”

“Oh please, Joy! Must we hear this again?” Miss Lillie inserted.

Laughter filled the room.

“Actually, it would be nice to hear a story.” Maxcy encouraged him. A flush stole across her cheeks and her hand fluttered at her throat. Winter found herself watching Maxcy’s reaction to the Masculon. She saw the blush coloring Maxcy’s sharp cheekbones, the parted pink lips and quickened breathing. So, there’s sexual energy between the two of them! It pleased her that Maxcy was showing an interest in sex, even if it was only with a Masculon. Maxcy tended to close herself off and live life like a cloistered nun. The Masculon settled back in his chair and smiled.

“There once was a woman.” He started. “She was a brave warrior, a fighter, and one day she was sent on a journey to find the mystic’s holy grail, in this case a beautiful statue of a woman made of pure gold. The warrior began her quest at the forests’ edge, and as she progressed the woods became darker and ominous. In her fear she began to run, and she came to a path in the woods. She took the path on the left, which wound around through the dark forest. As the path began to climb the mountain, she saw ahead of her a huge dragon, breathing fire and brimstone. In her heart she knew she had to slay the dragon to continue the quest, so she drew her sword and sliced off his head. It took two hours for her to climb around his carcass, and she could see ahead of her that the path’s ascent became sharper and rockier. As she climbed, she could look down on the valley and see the two paths. The other path, the one not taken, was lined in flowers, patched with bright sunlight, and the air around it was filled with butterflies and the songs of birds.” He stopped speaking. “What was the moral of the story?” asked Joy. She had been leaning forward listening to the tale with rapt attention.

He smiled and looked down at the table. “Oh that,” he said. “She wished like hell she’d taken the other path!”

Winter threw back her head and laughed loud and long. It was a wonderful ending to a Masculon story, and she did enjoy a good yarn.

“Well at least he’s a good storyteller,” she said to Maxcy, still chuckling. She looked around at each woman, her eyes glowing.

“Do you realize each of us represents an archetype?” she asked. “Look around at us. Yassel is obviously the Lover/Seductress.”

At that, Yassel struck a pose and fluttered her eyelashes.

Winter continued, “Before, when males ruled, women’s sexuality was repressed. Woman’s orgasmic capacities are greater than man’s, so out of fear of not being able to satisfy her, males repressed woman’s sexuality.” She turned her hooded old eyes to Yassel. “But remember — without the full understanding of sexuality, it’s impossible to understand spirituality.”

Winter sipped her coffee. “Joy, you represent The Mother. Your true need is to provide shelter and protection for all your loved ones in the same way you protect your children. Only when this need is satisfied will you find deep inner satisfaction.”

Miss Lillie interrupted her. “If that’s all true, then you would qualify as The Creator/Destroyer.”

They locked eyes and after a moment Winter responded. “Miss Lillie, you are The Priestess/Wise Woman. You show us the intuitive wisdom we possess as women. Your wisdom shows us that there is no end to the human search.” Maxcy began to smile. “Then that leaves me as The Muse — or The Virgin,” she grinned and lifted her glass in tribute.

“Ah, it’s true.” Winter turned to her with softened eyes. “You are the maiden beginning to recognize that you are no longer a child, but a woman. You live on the borderline between sainthood and sin. Your body is pure and untouched in an emotional way, yet you long for true unity with a mate. You hunger to view life through the veil of love.”

The Relic raised his head and looked at Maxcy, considering Winter’s words.

“Now, if you ladies will excuse me, it’s time for an old woman to go home to bed.” She gathered up her miscellany: her bag, her glasses, her shawl, and rose from her chair. Almost in unison the other women made polite noises about the time and the need to be on their separate ways.

Maxcy apologized, “Everybody must be exhausted. Sorry we kept you so long. I’ll get Fem to help you out, Winter. We have DriveFems to give each of you a lift home. They’re waiting outside. I hope you all enjoyed this evening as much as I did.”

Hugs all around and promises to get together more often exchanged. The warm smiles on her friends’ faces assured Maxcy that the dinner was a success. Off to the side, stood Yassel and Joy. “Hey, Little Girl,” Yassel said, lowering her lashes and running her fingers up Joy’s arm. “Wanna play with me?” Joy smiled her innocent bright smile, lifted her glorious red hair off her neck, then leaned close to Yassel’s face and said, “Yeah, and I’ll show you that I’m not as little as you think.”

Chapter Three

Being serviced by a Masculon took on a certain routine: she undressed and lay spread-eagled on the bed, waiting for the male to arouse and satisfy her. Tonight was no different than any other time she had used a male; she disrobed and laid her clothes across the bench for FashionFem to attend to in the morning. When she was naked, she looked up and saw the Masculon standing, still as stone, watching her.

“Shall I have MedFem bring you a shot of Stiff?” she asked in sympathy. “You had a heavy meal and consumed alcohol tonight. It’s late. It wouldn’t be unusual for you to have trouble getting an erection.” The Masculon recognized the innate kindness that dwelled in Maxcy. If a Masculon failed to achieve erection he would often be beaten senseless — a mercy compared to other punishments. In worst-case scenarios, his penis would be mutilated. For that reason the Masculon quickly dropped his pants. Plainly, arousal was not his problem.

Maxcy’s dark eyebrows arched in question. She had always heard that Relics had very small penises. “Well, that’s one myth laid to rest,” she quipped as she lay across the bed. “Whew, I’m more tired than I thought! A little dizzy. Come lie down for a minute till I recover.”

He lay at her feet.

She laughed and said, “Up here. I’m too drunk to shout at my feet. I don’t want the night to end yet; I want to talk about the party. And there’s nobody to talk to but you.

Miss Lillie had gone home in a happy mood, a rare feeling for her anymore. Although it was an unpopular stance, she liked males and missed having them share her life. From the very beginning, she had taken the stand that she would use no Fems or Genboys as servants. And tonight, talking to a real male had so uplifted her that she longed for the casual companionship of males. She missed her husband. Her days had nothing to occupy her since the old cat, Chollie, had died. She had nobody to look after. Even her garden looked limp and lifeless. All the “juice” had drained out of her life, and she was left with the shell.

~ Winter, on the other hand, had never felt more alive. True, she was older than dry land, 91-years old next week, but she felt strong and vibrant. Her strength had kept her going over the years, especially at first, after what happened.

As a young woman in college, she had joined a secret society called The Sisterhood. In the beginning she was lured there by animal lust. She had pretended to be hetero during high school, but when she went to Southern Cal for her degree in microbiology, on full scholarship, she decided to “come out” and profess her lesbianism. She always said it was a chance encounter that led her to The Sisterhood, but it was Fate.

During her college years, it wasn’t uncommon for Winter to spend every evening at the library studying. She loved her chosen field, she loved the study of infectious diseases, viruses and germs and contamination, and she had been courted for a job at the CDC in Atlanta, Georgia, beginning right after graduation. She committed to the job and continued her education at Caltech. One night when she had studied later than usual, she looked up in surprise when the library lights flicked off and on, signaling it was time to clear out for the night. She looked at her watch, a going-away gift from her dad, and hurriedly gathered up her books and papers and pens.

“Here, let me help you.” In response to the voice, Winter looked into the face of the woman who would change her life forever. As they hurried from the library under the disapproving glare of the librarian, who had a date after work and was in a hurry to get home, they introduced themselves.

“I’m Winter,” she said, swinging her sheet of shining black hair to the side so she could extend her hand. Her eyes were full of intelligence and humor. “Carter,” said her new friend, taking her hand briefly. In that moment Winter felt the hardness of the other woman’s hands, the calluses on her palms, the dry skin. This was a workingwoman. And her body supported that view. She was large and muscular. Winter felt a little breathless. If this woman was like her — and how could she not be with the feelings she stirred — then Winter might finally be able to be with one of her own.

She had been so lonely. They left the library together, and outside they found a beautiful balmy spring night. The leaves on the trees were a delicate shade of green, a promise of the verdant summer yet to come. Pink flowers bloomed along the path where they walked.

“Tell me about yourself, Carter,” Winter said in a musical voice. As they strolled along, drinking in the sweet night air and the company of each other, Carter told her all about her family from Hall County, Georgia, a rural red-clay small southern area. Her father was a fireman, and it had been Carter’s dream for as long as she could remember to be a fireman too. Winter understood her passion; she shared the same fervor for researching DNA and its susceptibility to invasion and change. Their backgrounds were very different, but their hearts were mutual in feelings and motives.

From that night on the two were inseparable. Nothing could explain the bond of trust that formed between them from the first moment: It was as if they had known each other in former lives. Both of them knew they were fated to be together, and neither of them wanted to waste any time. They moved in together after one week, and only waited that long because they couldn’t borrow a truck until then. The night they moved into their adorable eyrie — a tiny two-room apartment located at the top of three double flights of stairs and with no air conditioning — they held each other and made plans for their life together. To them the crowded hot space was heaven. They placed the bed beneath the large windows that looked out over the ocean in the distance. Carter painted stars on the ceiling, using dayglo paints. At night when they laid together a canopy of the heavens stretched over their ceiling. The lovemaking was astonishing, a feat they attributed to their intimacy and honesty with each other.

Although Carter had only a high-school education, she was very knowledgeable. Early on, Winter had asked her why, if she wasn’t a student, she was in the library that night. Carter explained that she loved to read and learn, and that she spent several evenings a week educating herself on topics of interest. Winter believed it was Destiny.

Every day Carter found some magical way to show Winter that her love was a treasure. How many times had Winter come home from work, exhausted, to find an elegant dinner table laid, a fragrant meal waiting, a hug, a pat, a word of support? How many times had she found little love notes in her textbooks? Flowers on her workspace counter? Carter was a fountain of appreciation, a never-critical cheering section for Winter’s life. In return, Winter convinced Carter to fulfill her wildest dream — to try out for the fireman’s job she had wanted all her life.

So great was their trust in each other that Carter introduced her to The Sisterhood, an international underground group of women activists who had reached the boiling point on the ways women had been mistreated by males. They planned revolution, anarchy, bombings, murders, coup d’état. They marched on corporate sexism; their political voice became strong. All over the world, women were teetering on the brink of insurrection.

Near the end, as a united force they joined hands in undermining the careers of males in small untraceable ways. In the beginning it was latches that wouldn’t open on briefcases — an event that seemed to happen over and over whenever the Boss made an important presentation. Ledger books where funds were misrepresented were produced for audits. Investments went sour. All over the world males began to feel an insidious pressure from an unseen force — unseen because, of course, women were invisible to males in the business world. Males began to lose confidence, to become depressed, to take desperate measures to save businesses, homes, and families from ruin. But the shenanigans of women were small beans compared to what was in store. The Sisterhood was going to settle the issue of manpower for the last time. Winter had no idea at the time what a tremendous force they were unleashing on the world, and what an integral part in it she would play.

That spring when Winter and Carter first met was a magical time, and they built a wonderful life together. Their apartment was a statement to boldness, painted in strong expressive colors — rich reds and brilliant yellows, deep purples and vibrant orange, hung with female nudes and the gorgeous work of Robert Maplethorpe’s “Lady”. They were in faultless agreement on every subject. Their life together was perfect.

Too perfect.

One night Carter was very late getting home from a meeting of volunteer firefighters. She had been vying for a

That night after drills, they dragged her into the alley beside the fire hall and began to shove her around. Carter showed no signs of fear and fought back, but the group of males began to punch her with their fists, breaking her nose in two places and splintering the bone under her left eye. When she fell to the ground they kicked her, breaking ribs. One beefy redneck stomped her lower legs, breaking the bones with loud snaps that drove the bone through her flesh and made her bite her lips to keep from screaming. Another began kicking her head, and on the third kick fractured her skull. The immediate swelling in her brain paralyzed her, making it impossible to defend herself as her tormentors began to rape and sodomize her. When they finished she laid, bleeding from her vagina and anus where one of the males, Angus, had repeatedly shoved a broken beer bottle inside her. This is what a real male feels like, you cunt, he had said, ramming. When they had finished violating her in every way they could imagine, they all pulled out their penises and peed on her face. Carter was alive throughout it all.

At home, Winter amused herself by reading, watching the kittens play with each other and straightening the already immaculate room. She wandered to the window often to look for Carter but she had no intimation, no clairvoyant vision, that warned her that the love of her life was in danger. And as the life ran out of Carter, Winter, in their love nest across town, did not feel her love ebb. A little after midnight, when she was frantic with worry, she was nonetheless startled by the phone and answered with her heart in her throat.

“Miss, this is the police trying to reach the family of Carter Johns. I have some very bad news for you. Miss Johns was attacked earlier tonight. I’m afraid she’s dead. Her body is down at City Morgue, and we need for you to identify her remains.”

Carter had known there was strong resistance from the males in the fire department to her becoming one of them, but she was unprepared for the assault. They beat her until she was unrecognizable. Her battered body was covered in huge black bruises, wide knife cuts and Happy-stick burns. Cause of death: she had bled out from her wounds.

Winter was devastated.

Without the support of The Sisterhood, she would surely have died from grief and starvation. Any attempt to put food in her mouth ended in a fit of vomiting. Her weight loss became alarming. The Sisterhood surrounded and protected her, ran interference for her, took care of her in shifts. They fed her thick milkshakes made with ice cream and eggs, with a dash of liquid sedative, and later spoonfuls of rice that choked her going down. She slept all the time and woke when her caretakers aroused her for a nice warm bath in the huge tub where she and Carter had… Often she dissolved into hysterical weeping. Still her friends were ever-present, their love evident, and in time Winter began to wake from her long sleep of mourning. Like Phoenix rising from the ashes, Winter rose from her deathbed determined that Carter’s life would be avenged — and she knew just how to do it.

With steely resolve, a “new” Winter applied herself to completing her Master’s and doctorate in record time. Her laboratory skills were renowned. With her faultless thought processes, she was considered an exemplary scientist. She treated males with total disregard, surviving in the scientific/academic world based solely upon her brilliance.

In the darkened room the Relic tried to explain to Maxcy that in the old days the relationship — connectedness — was what created great sex. It wasn’t a mechanical act separated from the heart. A lone candle flickered its light over his face and Maxcy realized that her heart was pounding in her throat. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his chest, his arms, the shadowy area between his legs — and if she did manage to look away, her eyes slid back without her awareness.

“What was your name Before?” she whispered.

“Rand.”

Jamison Randal Grant was fifteen years old when the virus killed almost everybody he knew. His parents, his buddies, his teammates — all died. Even his girlfriend moved away after the virus ended.

Rand, as he was called, was a mature, intelligent and headstrong young male born to wealthy and loving parents. His father was the famous concert pianist, Daren Grant. His mother, Roberta Ross, was a kindhearted and highly educated woman from Pittsburgh, the only child of steel mogul, Robert Ross.

Daren and Roberta met at a neighborhood party, and both agreed it was love at first sight. That night they had danced only with one another, twirling in each other’s arms beneath the colored paper lanterns. They were married three months later, and Rand was born a week after their first wedding anniversary.

He was their only child and they loved him— enough to teach him that he was loved, that he could rely on himself when needed; enough to force him into tux and white gloves to attend cotillions where he was a “Deb’s Delight”, enough to send him to an exclusive prep school against his ardent protests. His tutoring included honing his etiquette and conversational skills to a fine art. He was a dutiful son, and although he thought for himself, he attended to his parents’ wishes out of deep love and respect for them. He had one true passion in life, and that was football.

Even as a young boy, Rand had loved football. He loved the feel of gripping the ball, of putting a tight rotation on it, the art and grace of arching a pass that hit the receiver at full stride 45 yards downfield. The name Rand Grant became something of a legend in his home state of Connecticut. After a successful career in prep-school football, college recruiters had made a nuisance of themselves with their offers and counteroffers. He was offered a full scholarship to the University of Florida and accepted with joy, realizing that his chances for a National Football League career were excellent. Education was secondary to him at that time in his life. Football was king. But his preparations and plans all fell through.

He graduated high school in June. The next month the virus struck and wiped out his coach, his football team, his scholarship, his friends, his dad and his future. He still had no idea — and had heard no explanation for why — he had survived when others did not. It was not easy to explain why he lived when even women who were pregnant with males had succumbed to the illness. He did not die, although he spent a week in bed, weak and vomiting, with diarrhea and a blinding headache. His mother tended both he and his dad, but one morning she came in and he could see she’d been crying.

“Mom, what is it?” he said in alarm. He struggled to raise himself into a sitting position, but she sat beside him on the bed and urged him back down. She had smoothed his covers and said in a calm voice, “Your father is dead.” Rand crawled out of bed the next morning, determined to conquer this killing germ in his own body. He found his mother in bed beside his dad, dead by her own hand.

She had left him a final message that read, “Rand, I love you with all my heart, but I can’t live with my part in all this. I have killed your father and almost killed you. Please forgive me, and protect yourself. Mom.”

He was alone in the world.

Weeks had gone by, a disturbing time of physical exhaustion, working to dispose of the dead, coming home to an empty house every night, overwhelmed by grief and confusion. One day he realized that women were giving the males instructions on what to do and when to do it. He was a volunteer, wasn’t he? Yet soon enough it became apparent: — women were in charge.

In his hometown there was only a handful of surviving males, and he befriended them all. Sometimes a day would come when one or the other of them didn’t show up for work detail, and later rumors circulated that militant feminists had lynched them, or they had run for freedom to LeapOff, whatever that was. Rand lived a life of fear, and when he was free from work detail, he stayed hidden in the home where he had been born and raised.

A day came, though, when isolation was not enough to save him and the militants came for him. Fortunately for Rand, there had been some organization in the last months, and women were urged to preserve living males for their sperm and DNA. So the militants were polite; they didn’t handcuff him, but they took him over to Hermitage Hospital and sucked the sperm right out of him with an adapted milking machine. It was a humiliating experience, males lined up in a row, their dicks stuck in a tube and a prod up their asses. When a slight current was passed through the rod, it stimulated the prostate and caused ejaculation.

Nothing could have been more mortifying than that experience, and to have to tolerate it twice weekly was almost unbearable. The procedure broke the pride of many a male, and more than many had attempted to take their own lives.

After that Rand was scheduled to come in every Tuesday and Friday for sperm milking. Masturbation, or the spilling of his precious seed, was forbidden. He was expected to produce healthy viable sperm, and to accomplish that end he was fitted with a red and gold codpiece that locked over his groin. A small catheter tube was inserted into his penis so that he could urinate without having to remove the chastity belt. He was forced to wear it 24 hours a day, unless he was on a service call.

As time passed and his sperm proved to be healthy, he was removed from work detail and allowed to stay at home and pursue his own interests. He puttered around in his mother’s herb and flower garden, devising ways to enhance it with small ponds and fountains, drooping wisteria vines, small carpets of thyme that, when crushed underfoot along the path, produced an aroma that aroused the senses. It kept him from madness.

He was not allowed to watch what little television was available anymore, and he was not allowed to read the newspapers. As a result, he became more withdrawn. Finally in desperation he began to read his mother’s library of paperback books. He had always teased her about reading “girl books” and now he devoured them, one after another, and was surprised to find they weren’t gender-oriented at all. He read She’s Come Undone, The Painted House and The Bluest Eye. He read books by Rosamund Pilcher and Maeve Binchy. He read Bridges of Madison County and Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. He read anthologies of women’s poetry and was surprised to find several poems written by his mother were published in the books. His mother’s library contained no adventures or true romances but the shelves were stocked with a large collection of literary novels, spiritual guidance books, books by the Dalai Lama, gardening, cooking, a Bible and several study guides, furniture refinishing books, books about English grammar and style, even several books his mother had written herself.

He hid his mother’s library as a precaution in the shed concealed in the woods behind their house, and he doled the books out to himself one at a time so he could quickly hide evidence if needed. After almost a year had passed, one night several police officers appeared at his door to search for “subversive materials.“ They found nothing.

Rand couldn’t figure out how they could consider his mother’s books subversive. In the beginning when he felt lonely all the time, he would open the books at random and raise them to his nose to smell. Some had the musty aroma of times past; some had the sharp smell of ink or the moldy smell of old paper. Each book seemed to have its own perfume, much as he’d heard each human has a scent that’s discernable to animals.

The long summer a year after the virus had passed into fall, and the smell of snow was already in the air when they came for him. This time they insisted that he pack a few personal items and come with them. They transported him to a now-defunct ivy-covered university. That’s when his conditioning began.

Fortunately for Rand, he loved women. He loved the way they smiled and waved their hands around when they talked; he adored their little laughs, and the earrings they wore in their ears — or bellybuttons. He loved the smell of a female’s skin and hair. He found every part of a woman’s body beautiful and mysterious. He had never seen a woman’s vagina before, except for sneaking a look at the magazines he’d found hidden under his dad’s old box of pipe wrenches. But that all changed when, at the tender age of 17, Rand was tutored and taught to know a woman’s body.

Much time and attention was devoted to Masculon training. His teachers were all patient people who had been carefully screened to be excellent providers of information. Some were females, women who volunteered to teach males the anatomy of a woman’s vulva; and some were Fems, males who wanted to preserve their own species in any way possible, even if it meant teaching young fellows how to service a woman.

And so Rand’s very first sexual experiences, other than petting with his girlfriend on the schoolhouse steps, were with a Fem named Rod. Rod taught him about touch and tenderness, then later about kissing. He taught Rand the art of slow arousal, deepening kisses, long afternoons of foreplay. When he felt Rand had been properly awakened in the sensuality of love making, he taught him about penetration. After the months of training in foreplay, Rod was a willing receptacle for Rand’s penis.

Winter prepared for bed. Every night since she was 17 she had smoothed a special moisturizing cream on her face, a ritual she continued even now at the age of 91.

“Vain old woman,” she muttered to her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She brushed out her long salt and pepper hair and braided it, flossed her teeth, dressed in her ancient Sheryl Crow tee shirt and panties and climbed into bed. Sometime around three a.m. she woke to a slight noise, and was so thrilled and happy to see Carter standing in their bedroom door, with no evidence of the beating that had caused her death, and surrounded by a blazing white light.

“Come, my love,” said Carter, extending her hand, “I’ve missed you. It’s time for us to be together again.”

Maxcy watched Rand as he talked. She felt comfortable with him, curious and calm. Hearing what he had to say about Before was of genuine interest to her, and she fired questions at him in rapid succession until he laughed and held up his hand in surrender.

“Enough!” he laughed, “You’ll tax my feeble Relic brain!”

When he rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head, she felt a stirring of genuine desire. Looking at his naked body and the pattern of hair that grew over his chest and belly put her at war with her analytical mind. On the one hand she wanted to pepper him with more questions; on the other she wanted to roll on top of him and rub herself all over that hair.

As usual with Maxcy, reason ruled over passion and she asked him: “What do you think our lives would’ve been like if the virus had never happened? Did you ever consider that possibility?”

“Only a thousand times,” he answered honestly. “When I was younger, right after my parents died, I used to dream about it all the time, but as I’ve matured I just find it easier to make the best of the way life is until it changes.”

“Do you think things will change? Do you think we’ll ever go back to a patriarchal society? That women will ever allow that to happen?” Maxcy’s voice had an edge of real anger in it. He saw that her chin was raised and her eyes blazing.

“Well, I sure hope not!” He chuckled and the tension was diffused. He unfolded his arms from behind his head. Great muscles. “Women were mistreated, misjudged, undervalued, and I for one don’t want to go back to that. But I don’t like this much better. Now the tables have turned and males are learning firsthand what women felt for all those centuries. That should make a difference right there. My dream is to find a way for all people to live together In harmony.”

“A lofty vision, no doubt.” Maxcy said drolly. “And it sounds good, but I don’t know how realistic it is.”

“How can you say that?” he asked her. “We’re made to be together. Look at the way our bodies are made. We were built to fit together sexually, do you think that’s an evolutionary mishap? If our bodies fit, then surely our souls do too.”

“Nooooo, I disagree. I believe the nature of males has been proven to be incompatible with our own. Males are controlling, fierce, and prone to fighting, and as a result women choose not to live with males.” “More fierce and prone to fighting than women like Jazz, for instance?” he asked. For a stunned moment she glared at him and considered having him punished, then her temper cooled and she reminded herself that she had asked for this conversation. Maybe, she told herself, she was irate because the barbs of truth in what he said stung her.

“Well, you’re sure right about Jazz. She’s always been a little scary, but she was on a rampage tonight. You can hardly blame her, her mother brainwashed her to hate males.”

It was Rand’s turn to be silent and consider what Maxcy was saying. He asked: “What would happen if no brainwashing took place? If the expectation was for women and males to live together in a symbiotic existence where both sexes were treated equally and fairly? Our prejudices aren’t innate, they’re acquired, and as long as little girls are taught their superiority to males, nothing will change.”

“Are you suggesting we should just forgive and forget?” she asked, chin rising again.

“Maybe we’ve evened the score by now,” he suggested.

She asked him to pour her a glass of water, and he rose and crossed the room to the carafe. As he went, she studied his behind. She could see his malemeat swinging between his legs. At this point she would not have resisted him had he moved to service her. They had lain naked for hours without touching, just talking, and somehow that endeared him to her. She thought he was an interesting male.

Rand continued: “The thing is, we don’t understand each other. We can’t communicate because our frame of reference is so different from a female’s.”

Maxcy laughed. “Yeah, if only you had the Link.”

Rand turned to her, his mood serious. “That’s the thing. I think we do. Did. I think women and males were linked during lovemaking.” He said in exasperation, ”Males had it all wrong Before. They just didn’t understand a woman’s sexuality or emotions.”

“And you do?” Maxcy asked.

With a laugh, Rand answered, “Hardly. But I have made it my life’s work to study women!”

Maxcy laughed with him, saying, “As if you had any choice!”

“Ah!” he said, turning to face her, eyes twinkling. “But with me it’s not work, it’s fun!”

She laughed again. “I was interested in what you were saying at dinner, about the almost chivalrous attitude that males had toward women: you know, not spreading it around that they were having sex when it was taboo. How did you put it…don’t kiss and tell?” Maxcy said.

“Yes, but it’s a stretch to say that males were chivalrous. They wanted their woman to like sex but at the same time be some kind of model of virtue. No matter how a woman molded herself to please her mate, he wasn’t satisfied and usually pressured her to change. And when she changed, he hated her for it. It was a lose-lose situation for women. That’s what caused the revolt.”

“Revolt?”

Rand stretched and turned on his side to face her. “Well yes. That’s what I would call the virus. It wasn’t an accident; even I could figure that out. I’m lucky to have survived.”

“It can’t be any kind of life for you,” Maxcy said, “the life of a Masculon.”

He looked at her with twinkling eyes. “It has its compensations.”

“Speaking of,” Maxcy turned toward him, all business now. “I’d like to experience sex the way it was Before. My grandmother was a professor of history at a prestigious women’s college. I can remember so many times she wove magic tales for me that held be mesmerized for hours. Little did I know every one of them was true. She collected so many books about history, and she left them to me. History has found its way into my writing, and I use examples from the past to make my point. There’s so little information remaining about sex between women and males. Most of the books were destroyed that depicted those kinds of relationships. I’m just interested from a scholarly point of view, of course.”

Rand looked blank. He had learned over the years of service that an impassive face could be his savior. In his life, a misconstrued remark or expression could be deadly. And on the plus side, any wonderful attribute could be assigned to him as long as he remained expressionless.

At the moment he felt it was important that he remain deadpan in order to mask his embarrassment. While she had been talking, he’d felt a stirring in his groin, and he knew he was already erect. “Ah. Well, it’s different from what you’re used to. There’s not much emotional attachment to being serviced by a Masculon. Lovemaking Before was poles apart from that.”

“Nevertheless, I want to try. I want to start with kissing.” The thrust of her chin, the steely look in her eye, the tension in her jaw — all told him she was determined to have her way. He knew she had no understanding of the power of the sexual union when true feelings were involved. How empty her couplings with the clones must’ve been, he thought.

Carefully, he took her hand and placed it on his cheek. He felt the small puffs of her breath against his face. For long minutes she let it lay there, getting accustomed to the feel of him. It was a new experience for her, but for Rand it was more common than she would have imagined. He had found that most of the women he serviced developed an attachment to him, and their expressions of tenderness were frequent. Rarely had he found a woman who hired him to use as a victim of her own anger against all males. Maxcy’s fingers moved slightly and he knew she felt the stubble along his jaw line.

“What do we do first?” she said in a choked voice.

What he wanted to do, what his body craved, was to press her to him and pleasure her until she cried out. It took great strength of will to rein it in, this lusty beast, and allow her fragile innocence to guide her. He touched her throat where it pulsed.

“Nothing,” was his whispered answer. “Just do whatever you feel.” Her eyes searched his. Her fingers moved and she touched his earlobe, ran her fingers through the hair at his temples, down around to the back of his neck. He looked at her face so close to his and saw her expression of wonder and desire. Her hands trembled. Finally her searching fingers moved across his mouth, and when his lips parted in response, he took her hand and held it against his chest.

Swallowing hard, he said, “You’re shaking. Don’t be afraid.”

Her mouth moved closer to his. “Oh, I’m not afraid,” she whispered, sliding her hand up his chest. “I want to eat you alive.”

That night a door opened in his heart.

Later they dozed, woke and kissed some more. Maxcy stretched and said, “Now I understand why they call it lovemaking. Is it always like that?”

He smiled at her, handed her the After Pill, and said, “Only if you’re lucky.”

Just before daylight Queen was awakened from a deep sleep by movement and sound in the kitchen. She padded into the room and saw her mistress and the hairy one eating food right out of the refrigerator! Her mistress was disheveled, in unaccustomed disarray, laughing at the creature with her, the male. Queen could smell them and knew they had been mating. Humans. She lifted her tail high into the air and showed them her behind as she left the room.

Overpowering and killing a male was not a major crime, merely a misdemeanor, but it indicated a sickness in a living and breathing member of society, an infection that would spread.

On the news that night there was a story about a grisly crime, another in a recent string of Genboy murders and mutilations. That kind of violence — that had seemed to die out with the near-extinction of males — had lately revived in a bizarre series of slayings. The newest atrocity was similar to the others: a Genboy, neck broken, small penis cut off and not found at the crime scene. There were almost no clues, no fluids left behind, no evidence of hair on the body, nothing under the fingernails. The case was closed.

~ FemMales managed domestic duties, freeing women to pursue the careers of their choice. Any career would do. In the years since the virus, the possibilities for women in the workplace were limitless. Against social pressure Maxcy had not chosen a science-related field, but had selected instead the profession that the women of her family had chosen for generations: She was a writer.

Her great-grandmother, Franky Gibson, had been a poet of some renown, the poet laureate of her home state. Carrying on that tradition, Grand-mère wrote historical pieces for the newspaper and short tales about elves and fairies. Maxcy could hardly remember her parents, but she had the wonderful diary her mother had kept, and the memoirs were delightful and well written. Maxcy had begun writing herself when she was nine years old, and the awards flowed in. Grand-mère had encouraged her, had bought Maxcy her first computer.

Naturally Maxcy became a writer. Her very blood was saturated with prosaic cells.

Prolific on her best days, she wrote articles and essays, poetry and prosaic short stories, and always in the background there was a fat novel in progress. She was a celebrity of sorts, known for her work — but not recognized on sight and hounded for autographs if she went to the grocery store. Like most writers, she wrote for the sheer love of it.

Sometimes she became immersed in the tale she was weaving and shut herself away in her office for days with her computer — with a supply of Godiva chocolates and lots of hot cappuccino — writing almost without pause. At those times her fingers couldn’t move across the keyboard fast enough to keep up with her inspirations. SecFem would find her, head bent over and resting on her desk, sleeping soundly.

But on the night following the dinner party, Maxcy had slept in her own bed.

At least, part of the time.

At dawn the day after the party, when her alarm woke her, she looked at the Relic who had fallen asleep beside her. A wicked smile crossed her face as she recalled their intense lovemaking. Yummy.

She padded to the bathroom and brushed her teeth first. Friends had teased her since childhood about her priorities in the morning bathroom, but she remained adamant about brushing her teeth before anything else.

In the dark she began to dress in her running clothes. A pleasant soreness had settled between her legs and she thought, Ummm, I could get used to this. What she wanted to do was to crawl back into bed and taste him again, but she was a creature of discipline and her morning run awaited her. She began stretching as she left the room. HeadFem would handle the Relic for her that day. She got up, dressed and stretched, did her morning run. Afterward, a quick shower, a glass of fresh carrot juice, and she was off to the office for another day. She figured she’d had three hours of sleep, and the lack showed on her face. She made a pot of coffee at the office and drank several cups in succession, went to her desk, promptly fell asleep — and slept without her usual nightmares.

Yassel found her that way when she let herself into their office that morning. She could smell scorched coffee as soon as she opened the door, so she made a beeline for the kitchen to turn off the coffee pot — they’d have to buy a new carafe — then wandered back through the house to Maxcy’s office. Maxcy lay sound asleep, her cheek against her desk, a line of drool running down onto the blotter.

“Maxcy,” Yassel whispered, touching her friend on the arm to wake her. “Maxcy, wake up, Darlin. Winter’s died.”

***************** TO BE CONTINUED in future ACR updates *****************