I am a little man. A little, casual, unnecessary presence in the universe. I begin to adapt my existence to this notion: I avoid all human contact unless I'm strictly compelled to confirm my existence.
I have to breathe. So, I breathe. I have to eat. So, I eat. I have to sleep. So, I sleep.
I start there.
Chloe demands my attention too; that's inevitable. She physically depends on me for nourishment and protection.
But, apart from these basic necessities that even an animal could understand and that even an animal would have to submit to, I can't find anything else that's truly vital.
This realisation that I can shed almost everything from my existence, that everything is, after all, unimportant, instead of making my existence lighter, less encumbered, makes it heavier. There's a part of my being that still strives for a life that's not strictly survival. There's a part of me that's not just an animal.
But this more evolved part… I don't know what that is. I don't recognise it, and I don't understand it, and I don't know what it needs and what to feed it to keep it alive.
I resolve to look for a job.
That's another unavoidable part of this new bare-bone existence I have decided to lead until I can add new parts to it to reshape it to an image I recognise as my own.
I therefore peruse the various websites. I do it with some curiosity, as if I wasn't looking for a job for myself, but for someone else that I vaguely know. I don't know what he might like to do, so I try a few different things. I write the resumés quickly and efficiently, but without feeling any connection to the life I am recounting: I am now vaguely aware of this other person that resembles me, that lives in my apartment, that eats my food, that wears my clothes, and that is now in search of a job. He cannot speak for himself, so I do it for him, but I am not sure I can truthfully represent his opinions and his abilities.
I realise that this invisible man I am vaguely conscious of is my humanity. I am now just pure bodily functions. I am pure, unavoidable Physics. He is something else.
Now and then, I feel hunger, so I search for food. But I don't believe I taste it. Every night, I feel sleepy, so I close my eyes until morning. But I am not aware of any dreams.
I stop seeing Doctor Connor. She calls me, but, as explaining why I don't want to see her is not part of the basic laws of Physics I am bound to, I don't answer. I don't believe I resent her. I guess I have no feelings whatsoever towards her. The other man, this presence I live with, might feel obliged to explain, but I don't. It's not necessary.
I take Chloe to school when it's my turn, and, when I'm there, I avoid Cynthia and her friends. I don't do it out of spite, but, as I have said, I don't desire anything anymore. They see me and try to attract my attention. They do it discretely: they are still bound to the conventions that regulate human life. But I'm not human. I am a casual phenomenon, a finite collection of atoms coerced to coalesce for a while.
Cynthia and her friends now smile at me and now frown. They wave, they try to approach. I don't have eyes to see them, or ears to hear them. And, if the image of them could eventually reach my visual cortex, I don't have any understanding of its meaning, I wouldn't have any ability to connect that image to any expectation on their part, and I wouldn't have any interest in fulfilling those expectations. Atoms are blind to the world: they're just bound to each other by unfeeling forces.
I receive a call from a recruiter asking to meet. He has received my resumé and is interested. I may be the ideal candidate for a role he's advertising.
I have a vague understanding that my presence at the interview is required, that a certain set of answers are expected, and that this is tied to my ability to feed myself and to feed Chloe. So, the atoms drag themselves to the interview. They answer the recruiter's questions. They are even able to make small talk and elicit a few laughs from the recruiter, in a perfect imitation of a human being.
I explain that I am capable of work. That stress doesn't affect me. I explain that I can take everything that comes my way without making it personal.
I am truthfully speaking on behalf of the unfeeling atoms and on behalf of the human being I am here to represent.
A few days later, I am told that the hiring manager wants to see me, which tells me that human life amounts to a set of rules, just like the rules that govern the natural world. But, while gravity cannot be resisted, the laws of human society can be broken. They can even be resented. But, as long as they're abided by skilfully, there's no reason to fear repercussions.
I realise I have to smile even if I feel no mirth, and that this would endear me to people. I realise I have to say yes, even if I want to say no. I just need to let the social norms cast their influence on my atoms without any resistance.
And these other people who want things from me?
It's not their fault. Cynthia, Doctor Connor, my old boss. Nobody is at fault. I simply mistook them for humans, but they're probably just atoms like me, forced to behave a certain way and forced to treat me a certain way. They are made of glands that need exhausting, needs that need to be met and that I can assist in fulfilling, desires I shouldn't stand in the way of. I can either submit to their desires or I can fight them. It doesn't matter either way.
I get a contract for a new job, which I sign.
I don't fully understand what the position is, but I calculate that the salary is enough to meet my needs.
I am to start in a few weeks.
One day, I see Alice at school.
I smile.
It's a genuine smile that possibly stretches the atoms outside their normal positions which the laws of Physics dictate.
'I have read the book. Thank you,' I say. 'I will bring it back to you.'
'Oh, you can keep it,' she replies.
I notice a sad expression on her face, which, surprisingly, raises some curiosity within me, and even a spec of pity. I also seem to recognise this emotion on her face as my own. I see a piece of myself in this woman, and I sense that this piece is not made of atoms. It's something else…
There's a part of me that's not the laws of nature, I remind myself, not fully believing it. She has it too. Alice once gave me a book…
'It helped me, you know,' she said.
She had recognised that she and I were similar, that there was something bonding us that went beyond what the atoms want. Unlike Cynthia, Doctor Connor, or my old boss, she had no other desire to fulfill but that of helping me.
Alice looks at me for a moment, then walks off.
The bell hasn't rung yet.
Cynthina, Yvonne, Rachel, and I have never exchanged phone numbers, but they know my schedule. They have it figured out because their atoms need me, and they have to obey their atoms.
I have just dropped off Chloe at Sarah's place, which used to be my place, but which I have no right to inhabit anymore, and I am walking along the poorly lit walkway that takes me to my new building. The dusty light globes, half hidden through the leaves of the garden plants, cast a gloomy halo that barely lights the pavement. I see a shadow near the front door, but I feel no interest in figuring out who it might be. There are many units in the building, many inhabitants, and people are entitled to having guests over. It's just more atoms.
'Hi!' the shadow says.
The light above the door has been broken for months, so the landing outside the door is pitch black. The shadow is holding a mobile in her hand, and I can just guess the outline of her Scandinavian-looking face.
'Hi,' I say back.
'I haven't seen you around,' Rachel says.
There is nothing to say to this, so I wait for her to say something.
'I need a favour. I hope you can help me,' she says.
I have no reasons to refuse, just like I have no reason to accept. I don't desire her company, and I don't wish to reject it. I let the atoms decide.
'Sure,' the atoms that make up my phonation organs say.
I open the door, and we walk upstairs.
Rachel looks around. The apartment is finally clean because even clutter costs me energy I don't want to expend. Then, she says:
'I would like you to help me with something.'
Again, I say nothing.
'I let it grow,' she says with a giggle.
'It?' I ask.
'All of it,' she says. 'I want it off. Is it ok?'
Rachel hasn't even asked me how I was doing. It's all about her need.
'That is fine,' I say because saying no would require an explanation and a violation of the social rules I have begun to accept as inviolable as gravity or electromagnetism.
She smiles.
Rachel is all in black. A loose, sleeveless top, and a pair of wide black pants. The golden buckle that ties her tall belt and a heavy golden necklace are the only touches of colour.
She puts down her bag on top of the table and takes out a little pouch.
'This is for you. If that's ok…' she adds, suddenly remembering the fact that I may have my own opinion, but she's clearly impatient and doesn't wait to hear if it's ok.
Rachel removes her necklace and unbuttons her top. She wears no bra underneath, and she is suddenly topless. Her torso is thin and pale. The breasts are almost non-existent.
She then unbuckles her belt and takes off her pants. She remains in a pair of cotton undies.
'See?' she says.
Rachel lifts her armpits that are covered in dark-blonde stubble.
'I normally shave them,' she explains, 'but I let the hair grow.'
I remember in my youth I found the sight of a woman's hairy armpits very moving. There is something a little dirty in this image. It reminded me of old, vintage pornographic images. A bald armpit is just another piece of skin. It can be shown in public: it's respectable; it's sanitised; it's dehumanised. But a hairy armpit becomes a sexual object, an object that can be desired and explored and smelled and fingered and licked.
'Open it,' Rachel says pointing at the pouch.
I unzip it.
Inside is a little collection of scissors, tweezers, eyelash curlers, and other little implements.
Rachel is smiling at me. She's waiting.
'Do you want to sit down?' I ask.
'No, here is fine.'
She raises her arms and leans against the wall.
I pluck one hair. I watch the follicle rise under the skin and eventually pop out.
'Ouch!' she says jokingly.
'Like this?' I ask.
She nods.
I pluck another hair.
'Eeeth!' she hisses. 'Keep going.'
My face a few inches away from her armpit, I look up to her. I pluck again.
She just exhales, trying to control the pain.
I look up towards her, and I see her eyes are welling up.
She sniffles:
'All good. Keep going.'
I get into it. I methodically pluck each hair under the armpit. Each time, it's a little noise.
Now and then, Rachel hops around.
'Ok, ok. Give me a minute,' she says.
Then, she returns to her original position and asks me to resume my work.
I can see a few drops of sweat forming through the hair. They eventually drop and run along her ribcage and vanish. I can smell her faint body odour now.
I put my free hand on her pubic mound, offering to masturbate her while I remove her impudent fur.
'No cheating,' she says.
I lift my hand off her pube.
Even though that might make the whole operation easier on her, I guess she wants to feel things as they truly are. She wants to feel pain as pain, not as a collateral of pleasure.
'Ouch!'
I pluck again.
When I'm done with the first armpit, she takes a bottle of body lotion out of her bag.
I put a few drops on my hand and rub it on the skin. Then, I gently blow some air on the shiny red surface. The smell of pachouli fills my nostrils.
'Thank you,' she says. 'Now, next one, please.'
I move to the other side and start again.
'Fuck!' she yelps. 'I guess the other one got desensitised after a bit.'
I keep going without paying any attention to her little cries now. I can't even hear them.
'Finished,' I announce.
'Now, the tricky part,' she says.
Rachel drops her underpants. She runs a hand on her downy crotch, feeling the stubble scratch the skin.
'I need to sit down for this.'
She sits on the couch, with her legs spread apart, high against her chest.
The short, blonde bristles cover her front, the top of her external labia, and reach the anus. Some stray hair grows into the inner thighs.
'Where should I start?' I ask.
Rachel thinks about it.
'Here,' she says, pointing at the front. 'Then,' here she runs her finger down along the middle of her vulva, 'down here, and finally,' now she points at the anus, 'here.'
I nod.
Pluck.
'Ish!' she says.
Pluck.
'Fuck!'
I get into it.
'No cheating, no cheating…' she says, staring at the ceiling.
Pluck.
'Shit!'
Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.
'Alright… Can you?' she asks.
I put my left thumb against her clit and start to rub it. With my other hand I handle the tweezers.
Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.
I have almost completed the front, when Rachel begins to moan loudly.
I work on her clit with more intensity now.
'Keep going… Fuck… I might come.'
I keep plucking and rubbing.
'Mmmh… Faster please… Mmmmh'
Pluck. Pluck. Rub. Rub.
'Yeah. Don't stop… Oh, my fucking God!'
Rachel is rocking back and forth now.
I move my thumb up and down on the clit, stretching her vulva, revealing the opening to the vagina. Even her asshole now and then seems to gasp, opening and closing briefly like the mouth of a fish out of water, as she moves towards me.
Rachel is now clasping the cushions and is begging me:
'Come on. Pull! That's it… Mmmh…'
Her face has a desperate, pleading expression painted on. Her mouth is hanging open, drawing small gulps of air in between the small, white teeth. Her eyes are a slither, and I get glimpses of the blue irises now and then, as they roll back in their socket with each sharp stab of pain as each hair is uprooted.
'Yeah… That's it. Please… Go… Now! Mmmh… Yeah? Yeah! Aaaah!'
She puts a hand on my wrist to tell me to stop tormenting her clit.
I run my hand along her labia and peruse her opening. She is very wet now.
'Ok, ok,' Rachel says catching her breath. 'Keep going.'
As I get closer to the anus, Rachel shuts her legs when the pain becomes too searing.
Each time, I wait.
'It's all done,' I say finally.
'Oh, Christ,' she says. 'Put some lotion, please.'
I spread the ointment and blow on the pink skin.
'Oh, that's better,' she says.
She lies in this position for a moment.
'Alright,' she says eventually getting up. 'Do you need me to do anything?' she asks, quite matter of fact.
'That's alright,' I say.
She smiles.
'Come on,' she says, 'let me check.'
She puts a hand on my crotch and laughs, feeling the change in my atoms.
'Don't worry. I'll take care of it,' she says.
I let her unzip my pants and take out my penis. It's hard. Another law of nature I cannot control. I let her get on with it.
She starts to masturbate me.
'I think you deserve something better this time,' she says. 'Come on.'
Then, she lies on the carpet, her legs spread apart.
'Come on,' she repeats with a smile on her lips.
I couch myself between her legs. I stare at her pussy, which is glowing red.
'You might need to be careful,' she says. 'Or maybe not,' she adds, laughingly.
I put my dick inside her in one slow, but uninterrupted movement.
'Fuck!' she cries.
I begin to screw her.
She gives out little cries with each thrust.
'Ah, ah, ah…'
Then, I ask her to turn around.
She shows me her rear end, which is tight and muscular.
I spread her cheeks and lick her pussy voraciously, tasting her flavour, which is delicate and tart. I explore her vagina, going in an out, fucking her with my tongue. I then give the clit a few licks.
Rachel is now moaning quietly.
Then, I stand behind her. I hold my dick and push it inside her.
Rachel draws air into her mouth noisily.
I wait a moment. In this position, I have full control of the depth of the penetration. I reach down with a hand and put it on her clit, stroking it with the tip of my middle finger.
Rachel turns her head and looks at me. Her pale skin is flushed. She licks her lips and gives me a little nod.
I push.
'Mmh!'
I indulge on the clit and wait.
Then, I push again.
'Mmh!'
I now being to move freely. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Rachel is still looking at me as I fuck her.
'Yeah, yeah…' she whispers.
She comes first with a little cry.
'Oooh!'
Then, I take out my wet dick and give it a few strokes until I come on her back.
I lie next to her for a moment.
She stares at me, lying on her tummy.
I'm sure she wants to go home as soon as possible.
'I have lost my job,' I say.
It's not a confidence, which would require some sympathy on her part, which I don't expect, and I know she cannot offer. This is a statement of facts.
'And my life is a mess.'
'I'm… sorry,' she says, a little unsure, and probably troubled by the sudden intimacy. After all, this should be an efficient trade. Nothing else.
The human that lives in my apartment, the human that shares my name and who looks like me and who used to be me wants to hug her. It doesn't have to be Rachel: he wants to hug someone. He wants someone to understand. He wants someone to feel the same thing he is feeling.
But I am not him. I am just atoms, and I simply say:
'Don't be. I don't feel anything.'