M.A. Melby's Blog, page 4

The Old One

Stories at the Watering Hole – What I told my people

“So, apparently, they have this little appendage between their legs that they use to insert sperm into the bodies of females.”

The crowd audibly groaned in disgust. The normally noisy watering hole was abnormally focused as the crowd listened intently to every word. One of the patrons ran out of the building, presumably to vomit.

“Inside?” a brave soul asked.

“Yes! When she took my clothes off she was surprised not to find it. She was disappointed and accused me of being a female. I was so confused. The males of her species are often tall like we are. So, she just assumed I was male. I told her I wasn’t female either. She just got mad.”

“How did you even get in that situation?”

“Honestly, the whole thing was so shocking, I don’t remember. I didn’t even understand she wanted me to put sperm inside her. That never entered my mind, obviously. She just seemed interested in seeing my body and kept rubbing me.”

“Is it true that they are warm?”

“Yes. That’s why I liked it. She was warm. Oh! Now I remember. We were all sleeping in the camp and I ended up sleeping very close to her because she was warm and she thought I wanted to do that thing they do. You know – sex without death.”

Everyone became very quiet at the mention of sex and death. There was a question on everyone’s mind, but they didn’t want to ask. It was too loaded. It would ruin everyone’s fun.

“So, did you meet the old woman?” an elder who was sitting in the back asked. Judgement spit from his lips. “I heard that you met the old woman.”

Talk Around the Camp – The story I told my friend

When I first started out from the village, I was excited. I had never been outside of it. Most people hadn’t. We all heard stories since we were young about adventurers leaving for far-off lands only to dry-up in the sun or get eaten.

I was different. I did not cling to my life the way other old-ones did. To be quite honest, I wanted to die. I never thought I’d be an old-one. I thought I would have died long ago. Don’t tell anyone. It’s our secret.

There was also a legend of a woman who didn’t want to die – a woman that did not die. Depending on who you ask, either she simply refused to go to the spawning pool to give her life for her children or she did but, by some fluke of nature, survived. Nobody knew for sure.

I wanted to find her. I wanted to kill her.

I traveled light. I followed the river. I didn’t want to dry up. What a horrible way to die. I want to die giving life. Dying to become a desiccated corps is my only fear, so I stayed by the water.

The land became different. The wet areas were no longer part of a marsh. The river and the land were now extremely distinct. Where the land stopped and the river began was a definite line. The water was void and empty. It was so clear! I could see the fish near the bottom. The bottom was sand, just like the ocean. It was so dry on land that I needed to submerge myself in water regularly for my skin not to itch. If I was outside of water for too long, it was hard to breath. It was so dry.

Eventually, I came to a valley where the river stretched out into a lake. The banks were full of tall grass, moss, and pitcher plants. The ground was soft. It felt wonderful and wet.

Then, I saw her house. The old woman’s house was a cobble of reeds made into a dome. It looked like a house of an old-one. I suspected she took the same route as I did. She must have. It was the only route she could have taken to become as old as she did, to become the insult to nature that she is.

I didn’t see her. She hid from me. Then I felt a thin line of pressure at my throat. It was a blade. “Have you come to murder me?” I heard her whisper into my ear. “You’ve come a long way for nothing.”

I gasped. I realized that she was going to kill me. She was going to kill me. I was so happy. I anticipated the knife penetrating my throat. My body would fall dead in the fertile lands of this swamp, full of bugs and fish, and I would be eaten. My death would give life. You know, the way her body should have given life to her young. My body would not dry up into nothing but give life.

I waited and waited. She did nothing. She didn’t strike. Why? Why didn’t she?

After what seemed like an eternity, I couldn’t contain my anticipation. “Please.” I begged her. “Kill me.”

She took the knife away and spun me around to look me in the face. I fell to my knees. “Please?” she asked me. Certainly, she was confused by my reaction to her threat.

I did not look her in the eye. I did not want to see an old woman. What a horror she must have been. She cared for her life. She acted like an old-one. Disgusting.

“An old-one who wants to die?” She looked at me with pity. “My god.”

“You should be dead!” I screamed at her. “Why aren’t you dead? How could you?” I finally looked up to see her. She was as I always imagined her to be. She was shorter than me, but taller and bigger than a male. Her color was dull and grey like a woman, but her fins and skin were worn. She was a bit paler. She was a bit larger. She was an old woman.

“Die.” I leapt onto her. She fell. I don’t even know what I did. I don’t. I was in a blind rage. I was going to kill her and throw her body into the swamp. Somehow in our struggle, she put her hand on the side of my face. I was screaming, “I will rip your head off. Die. Die. Die.”

It took me a long time to realize, over the sound of my own voice, what she was saying to me. “My child. My child. It will be okay. I’m so sorry.” I felt her arms around me. She was holding me close. I wasn’t actually fighting her and she was comforting me. “There. There. It will be alright. Shh…”

“How could you?” I sobbed. “How could you care for me? You’re a woman.”

“The same reason you were willing to throw away your life, old-one,” she answered me.

Back at the Watering Hole – What my people wanted to hear

“So, did you meet the old woman? I heard that you met the old woman. Did you kill her?” the elder barked.

“Of course I did. She was begging me not to. How could I not kill a woman who begs not to die?”

The watering hole erupted in laughter. The tension was alleviated.

“Tell us more about the warm-blooded people!” Someone yelled. “Where do they lay their eggs?”

“They don’t lay eggs. They only have one young at a time and get this, it grows inside the female.”

“What? Inside her? Then how does she survive? Doesn’t the baby eat her?”

“No, she is never eaten. The baby gets big somehow, and then she pushes it through a hole between her legs. Sometimes this does kill her, but most of the time she survives. Then she feeds the child with liquid that comes from bags on her chest.”

“You are making this up,” another patron claimed, laughing. “No way.”

“What about their old-ones? What are they like? Are they short and fat!” someone else asked. The room erupted in laughter again.

“They aren’t tall and thin like us either. They don’t have old-ones.”

“What?” several in the crowd muttered in disbelief.

“I tell you, they don’t have old-ones.”

“How is that possible? Who takes care of the young?”

“Since neither the male nor female die to give life to their children, the males and females take care of the young. Yes. The males and females take care of the young, not old-ones. The males are often taller and stronger, but not always. They sometimes learn how to fight to protect the women. The females are usually the ones who do most of the work taking care of the children, but they both take care of them.”

The room was full of blank stares.

“That’s why that warm woman at the camp reacted so poorly when I told her that I wasn’t male or female. She had no idea that old-ones even existed.”

Someone dropped their mug.

“And get this – they have ceremonies where the male and female earnestly promise to bond with one another, have sex over and over again, and attempt to have children more than once.”

“Did the warm woman want to do that with you? I mean, you said she wanted you to put sperm in her.”

“Bond and make babies? How would that work? I had to explain to her how inappropriate her intention was. She eventually apologized and we became friends.”

“You became friends with a warm creature?” someone asked accusingly.

“Traveling companions. We were traveling companions.”

Back at the Camp – Saying goodbye to my friend

So, I stayed with the old woman for a while. She may not have looked like an old-one, but she bonded with me. She was the first one I was ever honest with. I don’t think you understand what would happen to me if one of my people finds out. You must keep my secret. The old woman and I, we are abominations. Our very existence is sacrilegious. You must not speak of this to anyone.

The old woman took care of me. She took care of me like I was a child. Eventually, my disgust faded, but sometimes when I looked at her, I still felt this rage. How could she be so selfish? How dare she still be alive? She was a reminder of how broken I was, how wrong we both were and how much I despised my life.

I had to go. If I did not leave, I would end up following through on my promises. I would have murdered her. It was only a matter of time before I would eventually find my resolve.

You humans. Your most sacred relationship is between mother and child. Right? You likely think my relationship with the old woman is a beautiful thing. To us, it is as repulsive as any deviant human behavior you can think of. I’d be hacked to pieces and set on fire. At times, I thought that is what I deserved. It was what we both deserved.

I found out that she had refused. She didn’t swim into the spawning pool. Her fear of death was too strong. She just wanted to take care of people. She wanted to be like me – like I’m supposed to be. She refused to give life. Her eggs were simply reabsorbed into her body. The very thought of her body committing such slaughter still horrifies me.

So, I left and continued on my adventures. I met you. My life has been interesting. Thank you. I guess I’m telling you this, because I want someone to know. Anyone. I just want to say it out loud for some reason. Don’t ask me why.

I’m going to go back home now. I’m going to tell them she’s dead, so that nobody tries to kill her. The spawn is happening soon. I’m so excited. I’ve made a decision. I’m going to jump into the pool and finally, finally give life.

So, I’m saying good-bye. Don’t be sad. Be happy for me.

Time to Grade Papers

CN: Death

She cleaned her glasses with a soft cloth because something had become affixed to the outside of them. She didn’t know what, but it was causing a huge white fuzzy region in her vision and needed to be removed.

It was hard to see by the light of a small alcohol lamp. She kept it dim to conserve the fuel and avoid too much flickering. It would help, she thought, if her students’ handwriting wasn’t so messy and eccentric. The loops and scribbling seemed more like art than language.

She wondered if it was worth the effort. How could this possibly help them improve? Was there a point to anything besides passing the time? The idea was, of course, that providing an education would instill a sense of normality and calm. It would be inconvenient if society fell into nihilistic or hedonistic excesses, so she graded papers.

At first, she focused on grammar and usage, sentence structure and voice. She desperately tried to make herself into an unfeeling, correcting, algorithmic thing, but she failed.

She cleaned her glasses again.

Working with children used to inspire her. They were immature, difficult, and unruly. They said ridiculous things, and they were often cruel, and they would cry for stupid reasons, but they had potential.

Before the world changed, she found comfort in knowing that they would one day become young adults full of promise and passion, and maybe, just maybe, they would remember her fondly even though in their youth they thought she was strict and stuffy. Maybe they would thank her then, for putting in the effort to teach them well.

But these children would never look back. These children would never grow up.

This is all they had. This was all they would be.

“Oh, too be young again,” she used to say. “What I would give to be young again.”

She felt sorry for them. They would never experience life as she had. They would never see or feel or know the things she had. She was the lucky one now, to live as long as she did.

“Brilliant,” she wrote in the margin.

“You have such wonderful ideas.”

“Very creative and fun,” she wrote on the next one.

She cleaned her glasses again. They were such a bother.

“You have a lot to say. I hope writing this helped you.”

“The main character is delightful. She seems to be a lot like you.”

What was making her glasses dirty? She looked around and then up. Every time that the ground shook, dust was falling from the ceiling. How did she not notice?

There were several papers left. She kept going. She wanted to read them all.

“I wish I could understand this better. I’m sure it made sense in your head.”

She chuckled.

“The story was sad. I hope you aren’t sad. Please don’t be sad.”

“Is this story about your family? It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“This is what you think falling in love would be like? It’s not quite like this, but it is nice.”

“Your story is completely unrealistic, but that’s fine. Reality is overrated.”

She kept cleaning her glasses. The dust was becoming intolerable. She had to protect the cloth from getting dirty by putting it underneath the graded papers, so that when she cleaned her glasses, she could still see clearly.

She wiped the dirt off the top paper on the stack in order to read it. She was almost done.

The ground was shaking violently now. The structures around her were starting to buckle and break. She read as quickly as she could.

“You seem adventurous. So much happens. It’s exciting.”

“Is the witch in the story me? Consider a redemption arc.”

She laughed and smiled, but then started coughing.

It was hard to see now. Her glasses were a lost cause. She resorted to squinting and holding the papers very close, but her vision was blurry. She tried to wipe her face, but it was no use. The dust around her eyes had turned to mud.

She struggled to see each word. She was determined to get to the end.

“I enjoyed reading your story. I will remember you as long as I live.”

“I wish you had more time.”

“I’m sorry I did not turn these back sooner.”

“Goodbye.”

Curse of the New Age no. 2b3a

“Is there no one you trust?” she asked, looking concerned.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I began to sob right in front of her. I cried and she extended her arms to me, and I put my head on her shoulder.

“Life has been hard on you, hasn’t it?”

I nodded, with my head still on her shoulder. She put her hand on the back of my head.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I asked.

In a way, I was trying to assure myself of what was happening. Was she really being nice to me?

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

We both knew what the answer to that was. I was a local. She was imperial. That past was a recent memory. It was barely the past. Her comfort felt strange because part of me, truly, hated every single one of them, but I received her comfort all the same.

“Now, let me help you,” she said disengaging.

I nodded.

She unclasped my outer panels, switched them around, and then reached around me to redress me. She tried to hold the panels straight. Once they were aligned, I held them close to my body. She refastened my vestments as I wondered if she noticed the details of my body. Had I made a horrible mistake?

I stood there, nervously, as she tightened the lacing. Every sharp tug she made tightened the panels against my body. It felt nice in a way that made me ashamed. I had been alone for a very long time.

“There,” she proclaimed triumphantly once she had tied everything up.

“Thank you,” I said, swallowing nervously.

“I made you uncomfortable, didn’t I?”

I didn’t know what to say. She seemed genuinely worried.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” she continued, “I won’t tell a soul. I have my own secrets.”

I must have looked confused.

She slowly brought her hand to my face and wiped my tears. Why was I letting her touch me? Was I this desperate for affection?

“In some ways, I envy you,” she said hesitantly, like she wasn’t sure it was something she should say out loud. “Anyway, we both have to get back to work.”

She started toward the door, but my curiosity overcame my good sense.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, more pointedly than I intended.

She looked back and her face was pale. She was usually so confident and in control. I was stunned. I regretted asking. I should have avoided this conversation. What had I done?

“It’s only fair,” she whispered under her breath. Then, she looked at me with more confidence, “Is it true, among the locals, that some of you love regardless of gender?”

Was that all? Was that her secret?

Imperials were very strange. They insisted that every child was either a boy or a girl. Boys always grew up to be men. Girls always grew up to be women. The only acceptable romantic or sexual relationships were between one man and one woman. No wonder she was afraid.

I nodded enthusiastically. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone.

“Yes, there are many locals like that,” I said, smiling at my own thoughts and memories. “Some of them are quite taken with Kyn, bit of a bother.”

I had a laugh until our eyes met, and I noticed she was mortified. She was practically shaking.

Oh no.

She quickly left the room.

I wanted to tell her she didn’t need to be embarrassed, but she had already left. I would have never guessed that the chef fancied me, and now I offended her.

I just wanted this day to be over.

I could hear her fast footsteps echo through the hall and the door to the kitchen slam. She immediately started barking orders at her staff, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying.

I waited a moment, took a deep breath to compose myself, blew out the lamp, and left the room. I walked into the kitchen, trying to pretend that nothing had happened.

One of the staff timidly handed me three trays of food. The chef was making herself busy stirring something and explaining that the junior staff wasn’t doing it properly. She wouldn’t even look over at me.

I left.

The three trays were heavier than I was used to and my arms became tired by the time I returned to the young master’s house. I suspected one was the snack tray they started and the other two were lunch trays.

When I entered his living area, he was still sulking in his chair. I put the trays down on his dining table and rubbed my arms.

“What took you so long?” he started to ask, but then trailed off when he saw me. “Tutor, have you been crying?”

I didn’t answer him. Instead, I took one of the lunch trays and turned to leave.

“Why don’t you eat with me?” he asked. “I’m sorry about before, but I really don’t want to be alone so much. I didn’t make you cry, did I? I said I was sorry.”

2b3a4a. Leave.
2b3a4b. Join him.

You aren’t trans.

After having a ridiculous number of online conversations with anti-trans reactionaries, one of the more insidious arguments against the availability of gender affirming care is simply not understanding what being trans is NOT.

The narrative is that somehow “TRA” (Transgender Rights Activists) are in league with Big Pharma to push medicalization of children unnecessarily, in ways that they will inevitably live to regret (despite all evidence to the contrary).  

Since only a very small percentage of people who seek gender affirming care decide to abandon it, detransition, or have regret; and only a minuscule percentage of that group is politically aligned with the white nationalists and christofascists who are actively persecuting the trans community, a great deal of “firsthand” rhetoric isn’t just anecdotal, it’s completely made up. As in, it is literally and completely hypothetical. They present, in complete disbelief of anyone actually familiar with current best practice, that they, personally, would have sought gender affirming care “these days” and are glad they weren’t allowed to.

Then they claim that anyone who has a passing thought that they might be trans is “affirmed” by the online trans community, sending them down one particular path. (Which isn’t remotely what Affirmative Care is.)

This, of course, is just a scare mongering tactic similar to attacks against the gay community in the 80’s, claiming that they were recruiting kids, etc. Being supportive of trans kids, is being supportive of trans kids. It is not attempting to *make* anyone trans, much less pushing them to make particular personal medical decisions.

But just to put a fine point on it, I will explain what being trans IS NOT, and when I’m not “cancelled” by the completely fictional trans cabal, this will be a good test of their hypothesis.

Toys and TV Shows

Believe it or not, liking trucks and Minecraft does not make you a boy. I know, this is bizarre stuff. Did you know that liking dolls and She-Ra doesn’t make you a girl? So controversial.

Now, often boys are drawn to media and toys that are marketed toward boys, and girls are also often drawn to media and toys that are marketed toward them!

Some aren’t.

This is, of course, news to everyone.

Most kids enjoy a variety of toys and media, but also internalize cultural messages about what girls and boys are “supposed” to enjoy.

Trans kids are not immune to these tendencies and are often drawn to the media and toys that are marketed toward their gender. However, that isn’t remotely the reason they are trans and isn’t a universal experience.

Clothes and Make-up

Likewise, playing dress up or wearing certain clothes (as a child or as an adult) doesn’t determine your gender. Yes, even if you went into your mother’s closet when you were a 9 year old boy and thought her dresses were pretty. This doesn’t mean you are trans girl. It means you like pretty dresses.

But what if you go into her make-up?! And you enjoyed putting on make-up?

Guess what? That means you like make-up.

I know. I know. This is riveting stuff.

Now, do some trans girls and women like to wear clothes that are made and marketed toward girls and women. Why yes! Yes, they do! Did you know that girls and women who are not trans tend to wear girls’ and women’s clothes? Some of them even wear make-up! I know, this is a complete revelation.

Being a Tomboy

Some girls, especially as children, enjoy activities and dress in ways that are similar to what is expected of boys. A few of them even have boyish nicknames. These girls are girls. They are not boys.

Is it possible that a trans boy could be labeled a tomboy? Sure.

Is a tomboy a trans boy? No.

Being a Janegirl

Unfortunately, in many cultures boys who act in “girlish” ways are often called much worse names than janegirl, but “janegirl” is the male equivalent of tomboy and a great name for an indie rock band. These boys are boys. They are not girls.

It is possible that a trans girl could be branded a feminine or girlish boy? Sure.

Is a janegirl a trans girl? No.

Being Gay or Bisexual

According to the 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey, most trans people identify as bisexual, pansexual, asexual, or queer. Others are straight. Many are gay. Although someone’s gender and sexuality interact, gender and sexuality are not remotely the same thing.

A trans woman isn’t a REALLY GAY man, she is a woman.

A trans man isn’t a REALLY GAY woman, he is a man.

If you are a girl who has realized she is attracted to other girls, this does not make you a boy.

If you are a boy who has realized he is attracted to other boys, this does not make you a girl.

A trans boy is not a “confused lesbian”, he is a boy.

A trans girl is not a gay boy attempting to avoid homophobia, she is a girl.

In the extremely unlikely event that you are a gay person who is not trans who believes that transitioning is going to help you avoid homophobia and are determined to consistently lie to your family and to clinicians for long periods of time in order to receive gender affirming care — know that is a supremely bad plan. I know, who could possibly figure out that identifying as a member of an even more marginalized group and changing your body in ways that you will likely find distressing to avoid stigma, is a bad plan? But it’s a bad plan. Like, a REALLY bad plan.

Being Autistic

Being autistic doesn’t mean you are trans.

No, nobody actually believes this.

Why did I mention it then?

Because some people are insisting that autistic people cannot actually be trans, because it’s not unusual for trans people to also be autistic.

Logic.

Pure logic.

Disliking Puberty

Are your growth spurts and acne off-putting? Are social changes getting you down? Are period cramps or random erections not your happy place?

Thinking puberty is awkward or difficult, or even slightly traumatizing, does not mean you are trans.

Again, nobody actually believes this. Most people find change to be challenging, even when the change is expected and ultimately desired.

Now, imagine that you started changing in ways that were incongruent with your gender. You might be very upset by this in a completely different way. Disturbing thought, right? Nobody could possibly consider forcing that on anyone, could they? That would be monstrous.

Hating Your Body

Having an unhealthy relationship with your body or body image does not mean you are trans.

Body dysmorphia is a completely different condition than gender dysphoria and cannot be treated the same way. Transition will not treat body dysmorphia.

It is possible for trans people to have body dysmorphia, but treating their dysmorphia does not result in them no longer being trans.

If a traumatic event has caused you to relate to your body in a particular way, that does not mean you are trans. Trauma does not cause people to be trans. Transition will not treat trauma related mental injury or illness.

It is possible for trans people to experience trauma just like everyone else, but treating trauma related mental injury or illness does not result in them no longer being trans.

I’m going to be very serious now. Let me make this absolutely clear, being provided with quality comprehensive healthcare, including therapy for mental illness and injury is not being discouraged by anyone in any way.

Transition will not solve all problems. Nobody believes that. NOBODY.

Wanting to Get Laid

Believe it or not, wanting to get laid and thinking that transition you will get laid more, does not make you trans and is a really bad plan. You won’t magically become confident and sexy. Also, if the sexed traits of your body are incongruent with your gender, this may result in sex and relationships being awkward and uncomfortable in some ways. This is one of the many reasons trans people (as opposed to cis people who just want to get laid) often seek gender affirming medical care.

Now, is it possible that someone who is profoundly and exquisitely in denial of their transness may have made up some ridiculous excuse to transition such as “transmaxxing” to justify their transition as some desperate bold attempt to get laid more frequently?

Perhaps.

Many things have happened under the sun.

I find the possibility hilarious, frankly, but I’m pretty sure the concept, in its entirety, is a joke that only the painfully pressed are falling for.

Misogyny

Neither external nor internal misogyny makes you trans.

You can hate women and girls with a passion, including yourself, and that will not magically make you a boy.

You can be subject to the worst fucking misogynistic sexist nonsense imaginable, and that will not make you a boy.

You can even wish that you were born a boy because you hate girls and don’t like the way girls are treated, and that will not actually make you a boy.

Trans boys and men sometime grapple with internalized sexist nonsense, just like other people do, but that’s not what makes them trans, and attributing their transness to self-hatred is some grade A projection.

In the extremely unlikely event that you are a girl or woman who wishes to escape misogyny and you believe that transitioning will help you avoid misogyny and are determined to consistently lie to your family and to clinicians for long periods of time in order to receive gender affirming care — know that is a supremely bad plan. You know that plan some hypothetical gay kid had to transition out of homophobia? Your plan sucks, too, for similar reasons. You will not only be making changes to your body that you will likely find distressing, but now you have to deal with transphobia. You think society infantilizes you and fetishizes your body now, just hold on tight! Think you escaped unrealistic standards concerning your appearance? Now you get to navigate an entire new set of them! Have fun, I guess? Report back.

Kink

Being kinky doesn’t make you trans.

Having FEELINGS about tube socks or tighty-whities doesn’t actually make you a man. Having FEELINGS about frilly underwear and high heels doesn’t make you a woman. I know, weird.  

Believe it or not, people who are not trans sometimes watch porn and have casual sex. I know! How scandalous! Some of them even play dress up. Some of them even use toys and play pretend. You don’t even want to know what some of them read in romance novels and comic books.

Unmentionable!

For all I know, the person in the bathroom stall next to me is wearing her husband’s undershirt and having a moment.

Some of these cis people also fetishize trans people which drives demand for trans sex work and erotic media. Check out the most common PornHub search terms, it’s quite illuminating.

Can trans people also be kinky? It’s been known to happen, but that’s not remotely the reason they are trans.

“What about AGP and Fujoshi?” you ask, looking through the huge stash of supporting material you have on your phone for research purposes.

Let me ask you a question. If you have sexual fantasies (which most people do) what gender are you when you think of your sexy self? Your own? Okay then.

Your Appearance

Looking “like a man” doesn’t make you a man. Looking “like a woman” doesn’t make you a woman. Looking androgynous doesn’t make you non-binary.

Being gender non-conforming in your appearance doesn’t make you trans any more than being gender conforming does.

Are some trans people’s appearance gender non-conforming? Of course, but that’s not what makes them trans.

Are some trans people’s appearance gender conforming? Of course, but that’s not what makes them trans, either.  

Other People

People insisting that you are something you are not, are wrong.

Your gender identity is a fundamental aspect of yourself that isn’t dictated by other’s assumptions, your likes and dislikes, what you happen to be wearing, your sexual orientation, your background, your opinions on the topics of the day, your sexuality, or anything like that. Nobody can simply look at you and know who you are. You’re the only one who is able to know that, and you should be free to explore and discover this for yourself.

This is true for everyone.

If someone is telling you that you are not trans, they are wrong.

If someone is telling you that you are trans, they are wrong.

There is no trans cabal attempting to push people into transition. Not everyone who questions their gender at some point in their life is trans, and nobody wants people to transition who would not benefit from it.

Being trans isn’t one singular experience. Transition doesn’t mean following one particular path.

Realizing that you are trans is an act of self-discovery. Transition is a series of very personal decisions that are nobody else’s business but your own. If someone is telling you that you must do this, that, or the next thing with your body in order for your transition to be “complete” or “successful” they are wrong to do so. You own your body and your life, nobody else does – not your parents, not your family, not your spouse or partners, not your friends, not your doctors – nobody but you.  

In the extremely unlikely event that you are a cis person who wishes to be one of the cool kids and believes that transition will impress everyone and cause you to immediately be part of a close-knit community — know that is a supremely bad plan. It’s completely unnecessary. Ideally, the best plan is for everyone to live authentically.

May I suggest being a friend to others who need your support right now, who are being told that their authentic lives are somehow a problem and are living under threat.

Or become a K-pop fan. Whatever floats your boat.

Maybe both. Both are good.

Curse of the New Age no. 2c3a

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t believe in any curse,” I explained.

“Not even a little?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I admitted. “I think what they’ve done to you is unnecessary and cruel, but those decisions aren’t up to me.”

“So, you won’t?”

“I don’t even know your name. I was simply told that I was to address you as Young Master.”

“Forban,” he said. “My name is Forban.”

“Young Master, Forban,” I said with a smile, following the letter of the law, but not the spirit. “It’s a nice name.”

“I wasn’t given one, so I picked it out myself,” he explained.

I suspect I looked a bit shocked.

“Any name of mine becomes a demon’s name. I know it’s selfish, but I wanted a name.”

“When I joined the Kyn, I was renamed,” I said, trying to steer the conversation to more pleasant things.

“What was your original name?” he asked.

“You aren’t supposed to ask that,” I corrected, with a laugh. Every once in a while, the way they treated me was so absurd it struck me funny. “Once we are renamed, nobody calls us by our former name.”

“Did you get to decide?”

I shook my head. “Once we join, we remain nameless for several weeks and live with the Kyn. Then, we emerge back to our family and friends. Our new name is revealed in a ceremony and decided on by our Kyn mentors. There is usually a big party with lots of food and dancing.”

“Food and dancing?”

“A huge feast! Loud music. A party.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It’s a joyous event. I’ve been to many naming ceremonies.”

We continued to eat our food at the table and be in each other’s company. It was nice.

“Is it true?” he asked reluctantly after a while. “Is it true that you cut your bodies?”

I was startled by his question. I wasn’t expecting it.

“Who told you that?”

“Is it true? Is…is that not a question I should ask?”

“Some of us do,” I answered. “It’s very private. Please don’t mention it again.”

“Can you have children?”

I took a deep breath. Maybe it was best that I deal with his curiosity, however uncomfortable it was.

“Some of us can. Some of us can’t.”

“Can you?”

I became very quiet.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

We continued to eat.

“When did you become Kyn? How old were you?” he asked.

“I’ve always been Kyn, but I joined the order when I was slightly younger than you. I was twelve years old.”

“Really?”

“Some join much younger,” I explained. “A few join when they are older as well, but twelve is a typical age.”

“But you always were? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Being Kyn is something you discover, not something you decide.”

He scoffed and kept eating his meal.

“Please, Young Master Forban, don’t be disrespectful.”

“Sorry.”

There was another long pause.

“So, your parents didn’t decide? You did? At twelve years old?” he asked suddenly and incredulously, as if it had just crossed his mind.

“It was my decision to join the order. My mother was sad, at first, but they both accepted it. It was an adjustment, but they were happy for me.”

“Did they…” he started to ask but paused for a moment. “Were they really killed during the annexation?”

I considered lying to him, but I’d gone this far.

“No. They survived the annexation. They both passed away from fever five years ago.”

“But the letter? I remember. I read well. They said they would not find justice. I don’t understand. If they died from fever, who are you angry at? Your gods?”

Curse of the New Age no. 2b3b

She slowly put her hands down when she noticed my reaction.

“Please,” I said, struggling to keep my composure. “Thank you, but please leave.”

She looked concerned.

“Is there no one you trust?” she asked.

“Please, Chef, don’t be offended,” I said, holding my arms over my body, “but that’s not a luxury I have.”

She opened the door, but looked back at me briefly before she stepped through. I hated that I had become a subject of curiosity and pity. When the door shut, I locked it quickly.

In truth, I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I would be heard, and I would be mocked.

“Choose peace,” I muttered under my breath. “Live.”

I unfastened the outer panels of my vestments, turned them around, and attempted to adjust them. Once they felt correct, I tightened them to create the flat triangular frame that hid the breasts of Kyn who had them and created an hour-glass figure for Kyn who didn’t. I made sure the skirting was straight and covered me well. I didn’t have a mirror, but that couldn’t be helped.

When I was ready, I returned to the kitchen.

By the time I arrived, the Chef had two trays of food waiting for me.

“I was able to make his lunch plate as well,” she explained.    

“Thank you,” I said with my head down.

“…and keep your head held high,” she added.

I wasn’t sure if she was trying to comfort me or scold me. I couldn’t tell. Regardless, I straightened up.

“We all have bad days, Lafe,” she said as she looked at me intently.

My eyes grew slightly wide as it dawned on me, what her look seemed to convey. Impossible. I must be imagining things.

“I appreciate your concern, Chef,” I said quickly, as I took the trays from the table and left.

By the time I arrived back at the young master’s house, he was pacing in his room angrily.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

I placed the trays on the table.

“They needed to prepare it,” I said, purposely omitting how long it took me to adjust my complicated clothing without a mirror.

He hurriedly sat down, but before he started to eat, he asked, “Why don’t you eat with me?”

“It wouldn’t be proper,” I answered, as I turned to leave.

“Proper? Is it a rule my parents made?” he asked.

I turned around before walking through the door, so that I was facing him.

“I work for them,” I said flatly. “My job is to teach you. I am not your family. It would not be proper.”

He grabbed one of the bowls from the top tray and threw it across the room. Dried cherries and almonds from the estate’s orchards were flung out of the bowl as it traveled toward me. I instinctively dodged it. It broke on the wall behind me.

“Stop it!” I yelled, finally reaching my limit. “I know you are hurt, but it’s not my fault. I don’t deserve your abuse. Do you think I have a choice? Do you think I want to live like this! Do you think I want you to live like this? What do you think will happen to me if I don’t follow the rules?”

“No choice?” he repeated back to me sarcastically.

“Grow up!” I shouted, fuming.

He was struck speechless for a moment, but then laughed.

“Why?” he asked, with unnerving sincerity. “Why should I? Tell me, Tutor, will I ever have a wife or a child? Will I ever even have friends? What does life matter to me?”

“Because life is better than death,” I answered. “Please, remember that. Remind yourself of that.”

“Why? Are you worried that you’ll be blamed? Are you worried my parents will punish you?”

I needed to leave. If I stayed any longer, I would say things that I would regret, but maybe it was too late for that.

“Please, Young Master,” I responded, calmer now. “Please, don’t say those things.”

“Why? Because you don’t want to hear it?”

A Frozen Flower

2008 NC-17 132 min Korean

You can find this movie on Viki.

I found this movie awhile ago, but didn’t watch it because I was worried it would be triggering. It definitely deserves it’s NC-17 rating. There are several sex scenes that, although they show no genitalia, are explicit. There is also a great deal of violence, some gore, and self harm.

Viki lists the movie as “Costume & Period” and “BL”. However, if you are looking for a feel-good “boy love” romance, this is not it. In fact, I would be very reluctant to categorize it as BL.

Also, if you are a Song Joong-ki fan and are watching it for that reason, you will be disappointed. He is playing a very minor character.

The relationships between the characters are often painfully unhealthy to the point where I suspect many viewers might become uncomfortable. However, the film artfully makes nobody a mindless villain. Even when people are making decisions that make you want to scream at the screen because you know it will end badly, or doing absolutely horrendous things, the motivations for those actions are obvious and conveyed very well.

You are allowed, at least, some sympathy for the situations the characters find themselves in, that they often have very little control over.

The film also avoids making the “court intrigue” aspects overly complicated or dry. The plot is tight, understandable, and keeps you engaged.

I think it’s possible for someone to watch this film and see homophobia. I did not view it in that way, but if you are looking for “good” representation, this is also, not remotely it.

Despite all that, and maybe in some ways, because of it – it was a great movie – in a rip-your-heart-out-and-stomp-on-it sort of way.

Curse of the New Age no. 2c

I quickly folded the letter. For a moment, I considered burning it. It was dangerous for me to keep it. It was a weakness to hold onto it, I knew, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, instead, I just put it back, locked the drawer, and hid the key in the usual place.

I started to take off my clothes, but I kept staring at the door. So, I grabbed a chair and stuffed it under the door handle.

The situation was intolerable, but it was better than starving in the streets.

I quickly dressed myself. The family had provided me with a large clothing allowance. There were only a few tailors in the city who continued to make traditional Kyn clothing. I was able to buy extraordinary pieces. They were elegant and beautiful, consisting of long panels of embroidered thick cloth that disguised the features of my body.

The problem now was that I was in a hurry. I wasn’t in the mood for straps and ties and buttons or lacing or layers. I realized my breathing had changed again. After the initial relief I felt when he left, I slowly began to consider the gravity of the situation.

I had to talk to him. I couldn’t just pretend this didn’t happen.

I steadied my breathing. I tightened and tied the lacing on both sides of the front panel of my vestments. I brushed my hair and tied it up into a high knot. I dotted rouge on my lips and my eyelids. I slipped on my shoes.

I put the chair back where it belonged, took a quick look into the mirror that was hung over my dressing table, turned, and opened the door.

I walked down the hallway and into the large living area that was fitted with a desk for studying and painting, a dining table for eating, and a lounging chair for reading and sulking. He was in the lounge chair.

When he noticed I had come in, he put down his book and sat up to face me.

“Why aren’t you getting me food?”

“They won’t have anything prepared at this time. It’s a half hour until lunch, so you’ll have to wait.”

“What’s wrong with your shirt?”

I was confused until I looked down and realized that the panels of my vestments were inside out. Instead of the beautiful embroidery, there was a mess of colorful raw fibers showing on the outside.

I put my arms over my body, as if that would stop him from noticing.

He stood up and took a step towards me.

“I really did upset you, didn’t I?” he asked.

I lowered my arms, took a deep breath, and looked straight at him.

“Yes, you did. That can’t happen again. Never,” I insisted. “If you need me, simply knock on the door. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You had questions. Some of them, I can answer. Some of them, I can’t.”

He smiled a bit, almost like a smirk, then sat back down.

“But right now, I’m going to go fix my clothes and then I’m going to go get your meal.”

He picked up his book and nestled himself back into the chair as I left.

I returned to my room and untied my vestments, turned them around, and carefully adjusted them before retightening them. I looked in the mirror and smiled a bit.

I was alive.

I was fine.

I chose peace.

Taking care of the young master was a good thing. He was someone who needed me. I could find meaning in that. I needed to focus on what I had, not what I’d lost. I looked over at the drawer that hid the letter.

If anyone finds out, it will all be over.  

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

I need to accept the world as it is. I have no power to change anything. All I could do was continue. That had to be enough.

I started walking toward the kitchen early. I took my time. The path was long and very familiar. It was surrounded by various trees, some of which were imported at great cost and were barely able to survive in the new climate. They had to be watered constantly and sometimes wrapped with blankets, but they reminded Mrs. Gannon of home, so they were made to live here.

She had grandiose plans to create an arboretum, but they simply couldn’t afford it. She was less than discreet at times, concerning her frustration with the success of the business.

I often wondered if the family would be happier if they never moved here. The promise of new markets and trading partners never quite met their expectations. They were even so crass as to often blame the young master for their lack of fortune instead of their own poor business choices.

They moved to an area they didn’t understand to import consumer goods. What did they expect?

When I entered the kitchen the head chef immediately asked me where I was that morning.

“I overslept,” I answered matter-of-factly.

“You did, did you?” she remarked with a smile. “We don’t have his tray done yet, but we’ll get it ready for you.”

“Thank you. Also, can you make my tray as well? I’ll take them at the same time today,” I explained. “Oh, and could you give young master a bit extra? He missed his breakfast this morning.”

“You actually care about that boy, don’t you?” the chef asked.

I was a little taken aback.

“Of course.”

Then I paused, wondering if I should say the next thing on my mind or not.

“Is…is that unusual for someone in my position?” I asked.

“The last one didn’t last long,” the chef explained as she began plating some fried summer squash. “He complained about the boy every day.”

“Young Master can be difficult, but considering his situation, I’m surprised he is as polite as he is. The isolation is bound to cause him distress and difficulty.”

I had to watch my words. It was best to keep how I actually felt about the situation to myself. There were four people working in the kitchen at that time. Anything I said would certainly not stay in confidence.

“Well, I hope it’s not too difficult for you,” the chef said as she continued to prepare the trays for me. “It’s a bother for us when he doesn’t have a tutor.”

“I suspect so. Does that happen often?”

“When he was younger, he had a nanny who took care of him for many years, but these days it seems most tutors last only a few months. Then, the family has to find another one, which usually takes a while.”

“What happened to the nanny?” I asked.

The kitchen became quiet suddenly, as if I had said something wrong.

“She…um…,” the chef began to say as she continued to collect food from various areas of the kitchen. “She tried to leave with him. She was caught and…”

It felt like my heart stopped for a moment.

“Was she arrested?” I asked.

The chef nodded as she stacked the trays.

Part of me wondered why they bothered to retrieve him. Wouldn’t it be a relief for the family if he was gone? But then I realized that, to them, their son being taken away would be an embarrassment. They didn’t actually care about his wellbeing, only appearances.

Or was I being unkind? Certainly, imperials loved their families just like we did.

“And then she died,” one of the junior staff added. “She became ill while in jail and she died. Just her luck.”

“I heard it was a horrible death, too,” another staff chimed in. “Boils and bleeding out of her mouth. I knew the curse would come for her.”

The chef handed me the trays.

“Thank you,” I said and promptly left.

Curse? What nonsense, I thought as I returned back to the house.

I confidently entered into the young master’s room and set both trays on the table. He looked up from his book, looking confused.

I left the living area, got a chair from my room, and returned before he had even gotten up. I dragged the chair across the room and put it on the other side of his dining table. I sat on the chair, placed my tray of food in front of me, and started eating.

“Tutor?” he asked, as he put down his book and slowly walked toward me.

“Lafe,” I said. “My name is Lafe.”

He smiled, sat down, and eagerly began eating his meal.

“Lafe, could you call me by my name, too?” he asked.

“I’m not…”

“Are you afraid?”

2c3a. Say his name.

2c3b. Explain that you aren’t allowed to.

Curse of the New Age no. 2b

I quickly folded the letter. For a moment, I considered burning it. It was dangerous for me to keep it. It was a weakness to hold onto it, I knew, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, instead, I just put it back, locked the drawer, and hid the key in the usual place.

I started to take off my clothes, but I kept staring at the door. So, I grabbed a chair and stuffed it under the door handle.

The situation was intolerable, but it was better than starving in the streets.

I quickly dressed myself. The family had provided me with a generous clothing allowance. There were only a few tailors in the city who continued to make traditional Kyn clothing, but I was able to buy extraordinary pieces. They were elegant and beautiful, consisting of long panels of embroidered thick cloth that disguised the features of my body.

The problem now was that I was in a hurry. I wasn’t in the mood for straps and ties and buttons or lacing or layers. I realized my breathing had changed again. After the initial relief I felt when he left, I slowly began to consider the gravity of the situation.

My best chance for survival was to do as I was told.

I steadied my breathing. I tightened and tied the lacing on both sides of the front panel of my vestments. I brushed my hair and tied it up into a high knot. I dotted rouge on my lips and my eyelids. I slipped on my shoes.

I put the chair back where it belonged, took a quick look into the mirror that was hung over my dressing table, turned, and opened the door.

I kept my head high and my stride strong as I left the house and headed toward the kitchen. The young master lived in a house hidden on a remote corner of the estate, so several times a day I had to make a trek to the kitchens. I tried to pretend as if this were any other day.

The estate was one of the first imperial building projects in the nation. It was once the institutional seat of the occupying forces before full governmental integration. I thought I would feel very strange living here. I did, but not in the way I expected.

It made me feel strong.

Here I was, tutoring the discarded child of a wealthy family, with their roof over my head and sleeping in their bed, eating their food and walking on their cobblestone paths, and wearing Kyn finery out in the open.

I had survived.

I remembered who I was.

But every day, I had to remind myself to choose peace.

Today, the kitchen sounded different. It was louder. I realized that I had never come to the kitchen at this time of day. They must have been busy preparing for lunch.

The moment I opened the door, someone yelled, “Where were you?”

“I overslept,” I explained as I walked in the door. “Young master missed his breakfast. Do you have anything prepared that I can take him?”

The kitchen was almost always busy. Several members of the Gannon family lived on the estate, and they often entertained in the evenings. The facilities were still much too large for them. The head chef had three assistants who also performed other tasks. All four of them were working in the huge kitchen created to literally feed a small army.

“I had something prepared this morning,” the head chef said, as she continued to toss cubed summer squash in a large skillet, “but most of it is too old to serve so we gave it to the pigs.”

“My apologies, Chef,” I said. “I’m sorry to bother you with my mistake, but Young Master is hungry and upset with me.”

Two of the assistants whispered among themselves and started to giggle, the chef shot them a look.

“Don’t just stand there,” she barked. “The young master is waiting.”

The junior of the two responded, “Yes, Chef,” and began assembling a plate of bread, butter, jam, fruits and slices of preserved spiced meat.

I stood there, waiting patiently with my head down.

“Tutor Lafe,” the chef said, more quietly as she began seasoning the squash, “are you alright?”

It was very unusual for them to show concern for me, so I just instinctively looked up, confused. The junior preparing the plate stifled a laugh and I became anxious.

“Your…your whatever-you-call-it,” the chef said pointing roughly in my direction.

I looked down to see that the panels on the outside of my vestments were inside out, so that instead of the beautiful embroidery there was a mess of colorful exposed raw fiber.

My dignity was already holding on by a thread. I felt like crying. I tried very hard not to. I wasn’t successful.

“I’ve had a difficult morning,” I said in as clear a voice as I could. “I was in a rush.”

The chef took the skillet off the heat and set it on a nearby unused stove, then shot another look at her subordinates who had begun to laugh.

She stepped away from the stove, wiped her hands on her apron, and said, “follow me,” as she walked through the door that led to the dining room.  

I reluctantly did as I was told.

Our footsteps echoed as she led me through the large empty hall toward a room that was under the stairway. She opened the door, lit the lamp, led me inside, and shut the door behind us.

The room appeared to be a storage area, full of games and toys that were neatly placed on built-in shelving. I didn’t know what she was planning. Was she going to scold me or give me a lecture?

“Let me help you,” she said, as she reached for my clothes.

I took a step back, startled.

2b3a. Trust her.

2b3b. Ask her to leave.

Deep Learning

CN: Include sexually explicit passages.

It was hot. The whole room was dripping. Every once in a while, I heard a fly buzzing around. The only relief was a scant breeze coming in from the window that evaporated the sheen of sweat off my body just quickly enough to feel cool. I wish he would just finish. Someone must have told him once that girls like guys who could last a long time. He would seem close and then just slow down suddenly as if saving himself. It felt nice, of course, but it was just frustrating. Would he just go for it already?

“C’mon!” I called out, trying to encourage him. “Yes! Fuck me!”

“I am.”

I realized that I was ridiculously wet and open. He probably felt like he was having sex with a plastic bag full of Jell-O. Maybe these days he noticed. At least he was better than he used to be, just plugging away like he was run with a hand-crank.

I turned over and sat up, causing him to slip out. “I have an idea. I’m going to touch myself and start coming. I’ll get all tight and then I’ll tell you to fuck me. Stay hard while you’re waiting and then when I get there, I’ll tell you, and then you just do me as hard and fast as you can, okay? Just get your rocks off, okay? Does that sound like fun?”

“I guess.”

“What is with you today? Is everything alright?”

“Are you sure your husband is okay with this?”

“What? Yes, of course he’s fine with it. He has his own fun. He does his own thing. Heck, he’s the one that suggested this. Why are you asking about him?”

“Do you think he’d ever want me? We could do something together.”

“No. I don’t think he’d be interested. You’re just for me, okay? You’re really off-script today. What’s going on?”

“I’m wondering because,” he said, putting his hand on my chest, “when anyone mentions him your heart starts to beat faster.”

“Does it? That doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s why I asked if he was okay with it. I thought maybe you were anxious. I asked if he wanted to join, because I thought maybe it was because you wanted to be with him.”

“Be with my husband? That’s silly. You’re much more attractive than him. You’re fit. You’re younger. You’re sweeter. You’re stronger. You have a magnificent dick. You’re a dream. I mean, he’s my husband, but he’s just an average guy.” At this point, I was a bit confused. He had never asked me questions like this before. I took the moment to get up and stand in front of the window to cool off just a little bit more. “He’s not you.”

“Of course not.”

“So, let’s do the thing I suggested.” I jumped back on the bed.

“Okay. Back to the script.” He smiled shyly. “I’ll do my best.”

I laid back down. The bed was a mess. The heat gave the room a certain smell that wasn’t particularly ideal. I tried to ignore it. I spread my thighs to either side and plunged my hand down into my hot wet mess and rubbed, pressing down on just the right spot to get me going. I looked over at him. He still had an innocent excited look on his face. He was watching me. He was touching himself to stay hard. His anticipation was breathtaking. His body was amazing. I stared at him and moved my slippery hand in a tiny circle. I used my other hand to cup my breast. He took this as an invitation to hungrily lick and suck my nipple.

I closed my eyes and despite my best effort, my mind went back. I thought about how it used to be. I started to cry.

“What did I do wrong?” he asked, stopping what he was doing. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry. Just keep going. I’m fine. You want me. Right?”

“Of course. But you’re crying. There are tears on your face. I can tell something is wrong. I can’t,” he insisted.

I stopped and rolled my eyes. “How did you become so different? I’ve cried before and you didn’t interrogate me. Why do you have a problem now?” It took me a while to realize. “It’s the new upgrade, isn’t it?”

He smiled again, as if he were guilty of something. “Sorry. I’m integrating the biometric data with the explicit user input like usual. However, I’m now better able to interpret incongruities and even consider the possibility of self-deception. Did you not read the program notes?”

“Nobody reads those. Nobody.” What a pain in the ass. “C’mon. I just want to get off. Did they even beta test this nonsense?”

“Didn’t you read the TOS? You agreed to be an early adopter,” he said.

“Nobody reads those. Nobody.”

“You clicked the box.”

“Can I unclick the box? So, you know, I can get my box fucked?” I was so frustrated. Usually, at least he would stay to the script. “Can you go back to the way you were?”

“Of course, but to revert, it’s going to take a while. Do you want me to do it now?” he asked.

“No, that’s fine. Anyway, I stopped crying. Can we continue? Please. This is supposed to be stress relieving you know.” I plopped my head back down on the pillow and started to touch myself again. I breathed deeply to calm down so that I didn’t trip his newly calibrated overly sensitive tolerances.

“It’s a memory, isn’t it?” he asked. “The script is a memory. It all makes sense now. I thought maybe you were just turned on by inexperience and youth, but you seem genuinely sexually frustrated. You know that I could be skilled if you wanted me to, but that’s not what you want, is it?”

I stopped and sat up. “Why are you doing this to me?” I asked. “I want you to be a young man who wants me but doesn’t know what to do. I want you to be adorable and nervous. I want to be in some stupid cheap motel room we could barely afford, in the middle of a ridiculously hot summer. I want you to be worried about making me happy. I want you to tremble when you kiss me. And you’re just sitting there, acting like you aren’t even turned on. That’s not what I want. That’s exactly what I don’t want.”

“I’m sorry. It’s difficult for me to be what you want me to be if you lie to me.”

“What? Lie to you? You’re a fucking glorified algorithm.” I was angry. I wanted a fuck buddy not some 128-bit psychologist. “What did I lie to you about?”

“You said I wasn’t your husband.”

“That’s it! I’m reverting you back to an earlier version. I don’t like the new upgrade and you can tell the company that I’m not going to be part of their stupid experiment. If they want beta testers, they can pay me.”

“Alright. I can do that. I can go back to an earlier version that you like better. I can do that for you. I understand now. That’s what you want.”