No Kisses

Short fiction by Adam Swimmer

I met Adam Swimmer when he was a guest writer for Hotch Potch Literature and Art, a digital magazine where I’m a Contributing Editor. Adam submitted what is hands down the wildest story I’ve seen in the three years I’ve been part of the collective. What was so fascinating for me in terms of my focus on relationships was Adam’s integration of his AI characters. Here’s what he had to say:

I guess the best way to describe the relationships in "No Kisses" is antagonistic. As the main character is a gynoid (the female equivalent of an android), I wanted to play around with the idea of agency or lack thereof. As a robot, Dr. Belinda Rosenblatt has been programmed to help humans, first as a doctor, then as a prostitute. She has no agency of her own because she is not programmed to have any. Her whole existence is to make humans feel better in one way or another. But no one likes her because of what she represents, and she faces discrimination as a result of it. She and her AI kind have displaced the human prostitutes from their jobs, her pimp Silvio is generally aggressive, and the nurse at the reception desk is dismissive of her. She does manage to temporarily provide pleasure to her client, Reggie Silk, but he also treats her as little more than an object. Of course, then she malfunctions, and in an attempt to save his life, she unintentionally causes him bodily harm. She is a burden to almost everyone with whom she comes into contact. She also learns that she herself is expendable. When she brings Reggie to the hospital, she discovers a newer model of herself in the pediatrics ward where she used to work. So in the end, like the prostitutes who lost their jobs because of her, she was replaced by another AI.

Enjoy!

***

When Silvio messages to say my first client had cancelled, I jump into the shower. I had initially intended to just rinse the egg yolk and shells out of my hair. But with a 47-minute window before my next client arrives, there is time to give my whole body a wash. This is a fortuitous development, as weekly sanitization is still three days away.

Still, if I could feel annoyance, I would probably feel it now as I try to clean the goopy mess out of the strands on my head. Eggs are filled with vitamins A, D, E, B12, biotin, iodine, selenium, and pantothenic acid, which can make your hair glisten. Some people even give their dogs eggs to add more sheen to their fur. But eggs are usually eaten, not thrown at you. Technically, washing hair with egg yolk can also be beneficial but not when the strands are synthetic like mine. I should have ducked.

I had encountered the protesters several times on my daily walks from my charging station in the warehouse to the motel where I worked. I had quickly learned not to engage the group of mostly women with signs claiming unfair business practices and shouting obscenities. They did not seem open to my salient points about how using me was cleaner and safer for all involved, as the possibility of disease transmission is significantly lower. Except for maybe tetanus. But there is a vaccine for that.

Instead, when I try to speak to them, I only enrage them further. They scream and throw objects at me. My reflexes are quick. I usually dodge these air assaults with ease.

However, today I was distracted. A l87.96-centimetre-tall Caucasian woman with carbon gray hair (hexadecimal color code: #625D5D) accosted me before I could even cross the street. She chest-bumped me with her much larger, ruby red (#9B111E) corset-topped breasts and I had to take a step back. She yelled I was stealing the food out of the mouths of her four children. I responded I did not consume food and would definitely not need to steal it from other people. Especially not from their mouths, which would be incredibly unsanitary. There are over 700 different species of bacteria in the human mouth. While they cannot infect me, I would not go out of my way to come into contact with them.

She responded by kicking me hard in the shin and injuring her foot. As the tall woman wailed on the ground, I attempted to administer first aid. I had no equipment on me, but determined the injury was mostly superficial. I lowered the temperature of my hands and used them as a cold compress on the foot to prevent swelling.

I called out to her fellow protesters to assist. I assumed that one of them might know where the injured woman lived and could help her home. Or at least take her somewhere nearby, like a coffee shop, where she could sit down. It would be best for her to keep the weight off the foot.

When the other protesters reached us, they told me to get away from Sapphire, which apparently was the tall woman’s name. They must have assumed I was causing her harm. I tried to explain I was treating her injury, but they ran at me and swung their signs at my head.

I sidestepped their attacks, barely dodging one sign that read, “Ban AI scabs!”

I ran towards the motel, where only a few protesters remained. They ran towards me as the protesters who had attacked me gave chase from behind. Sapphire still sat on the ground in pain, left to tend to her injury by herself.

I jumped into a dive roll between two skinny protesters in front of me, startling them both. They could not react in time, and soon all the protesters were behind me. This caused some of those giving chase to crash into the protesters who stayed in front of the motel.

As soon as I ran into the motel’s parking lot, my pursuers broke off. Presumably, they did not want to be arrested for trespassing. When I started walking across the parking lot, there was a soft breaking sound, and I discerned something had come into contact with the back of my head. I turned and saw a petite Japanese woman in a medium turquoise (#30D5C8) yukata and short black (#000000) hair holding a carton of eggs. It was an impressive throw, considering her petite frame and small stature (154.94 cm).

When our eyes met, the woman reached for another egg. But I switched to a light jog and was soon out of her pitching range. I made it to motel room 412 without any further complications.

* * *

Nineteen minutes and 4.2 seconds into washing my body parts in 10-degree Celsius water, my vulva falls to the bathtub floor with a squishy thwack. It had occurred to me this might happen. It had been sitting crooked. Our artificial vulvae are designed to be removable so we can wash them in the sink between clients, but they are supposed to remain in place the rest of the time. I crouch down to look at the face-down genitalia, examining it from its exposed back. As I expected, one of the internal screws is stripped, and the vulva will not sit properly in the pelvis. I could bring it up with Silvio, but I know his response would be, “As long as dicks still fit, it ain't my problem.”

But this is not my fault. This is not my vulva. Strictly speaking, as a gynoid designed for medical use, I was not built with a vulva at all. While I came with the standard compartment for one above the charging port, the engineers at the factory just installed a smooth plate that covered the opening. It wasn’t until Silvio took possession of me that I was assigned a vulva for my new job. He had hijacked one of Sacred Mercy Hospital's ambulances during a medical supply run. He called me a bonus acquisition.

My official designation is Dr. Belinda Rosenblatt, the second iteration of the Dr. Rosenblatt line after the bug-ridden Dr. Abigail Rosenblatt series was taken off the market. But many here call me Barbie. It’s a reference to a defunct doll for girls. Like me, neither Barbie nor her boyfriend, Ken, ship with genitalia. Of course, very few dolls are anatomically correct unless they are developed for educational purposes or designed to wet themselves when given water.

“Your vag, your responsibility,” Silvio said to me after my vulva was installed. He then wondered aloud if that statement made him sound like a feminist.

The vulva is a generic model with a plethora of gingerbread (#5C2C06) pubic hair, which closely matches the caramel (#613613) locks on my head. Admittedly, the bare and landing-strip varieties are more popular with clients. But they tend to be more expensive as it is harder to hide manufacturing imperfections. Some gynoids even feature designer vaginas, which are priced like works of art. Persephone, in charging cell block C, came with a limited edition Solomon Russell out of the box.

“Only 150 were manufactured, every one handcrafted and numbered by the artist himself,” Persephone once told me about her No. 96. “But no two vulvae are alike. Slight variations during construction make each one as unique as a snowflake.”

I took good care of mine. I cleaned it diligently and was careful when attaching and removing it. To make it more aesthetically pleasing, I pruned the synthetic hair strands into a symmetrical pattern. It was a perfect equilateral triangle — each angle exactly 60 degrees.

Unlike Persephone’s, my entry-level vulva doesn’t include multi-factor authentication to ensure it cannot be paired with another gynoid. When I activated myself this morning, it had disappeared from the cabinet next to my charging port. Santana took it. I was forced to install hers instead.

Like me, Santana was not specifically built for prostitution. Her nickname is a play on words referencing her original purpose: sanitation. She consumed, and safely disposed of, toxic chemicals. She was assigned the same model vulva I was, but has taken terrible care of it. Its pubic hair pattern is an isosceles triangle at best – but more likely scalene. Knowing Santana, I bet the three angles do not even add up to 180 degrees.

Santana always takes everything: the most efficient charging port, the fullest tube of lubricating gel and now, my vulva. I will have to have words with her after my shift.

I try to pick the vulva up from the bathtub floor, but it won’t budge. The lips of the vagina have created a vacuum between the artificial vulva and the tub. I slowly squeeze the index finger of my right hand underneath the vulva. As I reach the vaginal opening, I hear a pop and the vulva shoots upwards.

Snatching it from the air, I am able to snap the vulva back into my pelvis. But it still sits crooked and there is a good chance it will fall out again. I need to find some way to keep it attached.

Epoxy or Methyl 2-Cyanoacrylate would work best, but I doubt I could find any in the hotel room. The bathroom is certainly no help. It is mostly full of soap and tiny bottles of shampoo, conditioner and body lotion. None of which have adhesive capabilities. I did find a small tube of toothpaste, but I doubt it would help.

I dry myself with a towel, don a bathrobe, and move into the bedroom. The room has the same look as others in the motel. Burgundy (#800020) curtains, a maroon (#800000) bedspread and computer-designed Oriental-style carpeted floors. I open the drawer on the dark oak (#6F5339) nightstand, hoping to find something I can use. However, the drawer is empty except for a bible. While this tome brings solace to some humans in times of crisis, it provides none for me. While the leather cover is attached to the back of the pages with a PVA glue, it is old and dried. I cannot salvage it.

But why does the drawer have a checkered paper liner? This is not the type of place that worries about how its drawers look. As I run my hand along the paper, I notice it dips in the back. I carefully remove the liner and see there is a hole in the drawer covered by duct tape. Success.

I remove the two strips of tape covering the hole and fashion them each into a loop with the adhesive side out. I then remove Santana’s vulva and affix the loops to either side before fitting it back inside. It is still loose, but the tape appears to provide a little extra stability. It should stay in as long as I do not put too much stress on it.

In the last couple of minutes before my client arrives, I inspect the tape to confirm it is not protruding from the crease, and position myself in a right lateral recumbent position on the bed facing the hotel room door. I leave the bathrobe open at a 18.7-degree angle to reveal a portion of the body parts underneath. I also procure a 500-millilitre bottle of water from the mini-fridge and place it on the nightstand in case the client gets dehydrated during the activity.

I notice that Santana’s vulva has dried in the conditioned air of the 20-degree Celsius hotel room. I attempt to activate the moisture control settings, but they appear to be offline. I do not have time to execute a debugging algorithm, as my client will be arriving in four minutes. Thankfully, I had put the 50-millilitre bottle of body lotion from the bathroom in my robe pocket. Santana had better be taking better care of my vulva than she did of her own.

My eyes flicker as I scan Silvio’s app for information about the client’s proclivities. His name is Reggie Silk. It is probably short for Reginald – the Latinization of the Germanic name Raginwald, which my database defines as counsel and rule. But the awkward look from his electric blue (#7DF9FF) eyes staring directly into the camera in his registration photo does not make him look stable enough to provide counsel to anyone, let alone rule them. According to the online form he filled out when setting up his account, the bald Caucasian man with weathered skin is six feet tall (182.88 cm), 170 pounds (77.11 kg) and 29 years old.

There is a knock at the door. I tell him to come in and the man uses his temporary keycard to gain access to the room.

Reggie had clearly lied when he registered for the app. I have been told that humans often do this when they are self-conscious about their bodies — especially when planning for a romantic encounter. In dating apps, they often use older photos to appear younger, thinner, and taller. The last of which is usually attained by having the photos shot at low angles and removing objects from the frame that could betray their actual height.

But I do not understand why they bother to lie when they are paying for a service. It is unnecessary and possibly dangerous. I observe Reggie with my optical sensors as he adjusts his charcoal gray (#36454F) blazer, which is slightly too small to button over his stomach. The white (#FFFFFF) button-down shirt underneath appears uncomfortably tight, tucked into the charcoal gray pants. Its bottom button has also broken off, showing a small tuft of umber (#352315) hair over his belly button.

Analyzing his form, I determine he is shorter, heavier, and older than he claimed: 175.26 centimetres tall, 83.46 kilograms and likely mid-to-late 40s. There is no way to determine with any certainty, as the standard ossification test for biological age does not work for people over 25. (Most of their joints will have fully fused together by then). With a BMI of 27.2, Reggie is overweight. That, coupled with his age, could mean a higher blood pressure and cholesterol level, which would put him at a greater risk of a coronary event or stroke from strenuous activity. I make the necessary calculations to reduce the possibility of a medical emergency.

“Don’t be shy,” I tell Reggie in a breathy voice, and pat the bedspread. “Come over here and say hi.”

“Um ...” Reggie takes a step towards the bed. “Could you make your voice a little higher?”

Based on his preferences, I had chosen the voice Kawaii Girl 1, which is the standard choice when clients want a cutesy partner who sounds like she came from an Anime. I have wondered if choosing such a voice constitutes cultural appropriation, as I am not Japanese. Granted, I am also not Caucasian. My physique was merely patterned off a Caucasian model. As a gynoid, any human thing I do is arguably cultural appropriation. It is not something I can avoid.

I give Reggie a few different options: a couple of pitch changes for Kawaii Girl 1 as well as sample audio of other voice options in the catalogue.

“Do I sound more to your liking now?” I ask as Anime Girl 572 — a much breathier and higher-pitched voice than before.

Reggie nods.

“Then get over here and let me help you get out of that.”

Reggie kicks off his cream (#FFFDD0) tennis shoes and gets onto the bed. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I flap my eyelids in fake embarrassment and open the bathrobe another 5.3 degrees so he can get a better look.

He takes off his blazer and throws it to the ground. I start to unbutton his shirt and he leans in and presses his tongue against my right breast. I elicit a prerecorded soft moan from the vocal speaker. He runs his tongue along the breast and over to the left one. His atypical attempt at foreplay continues as he then licks up my neck towards my mouth. But I stop him with my right hand.

“No kisses allowed, you naughty boy.” This was a rule human prostitutes had enforced. I originally assumed this was because they didn’t want to come into contact with the 80 million bacteria transferred when two people kiss. But apparently it is because kissing denotes a level of intimacy that many of my human predecessors did not wish to express. It is a job, after all.

As I am an artificial being, I do not get into emotional entanglements. The reason I do not kiss clients is that, as a medical gynoid, my mouth was designed for administering medications. Having worked in a pediatric ward, I regularly interacted with scared patients. When a child had a surgery coming up, they often could not sleep through the night for fear of what was to come. But a simple kiss on the forehead put them at ease. Microneedles would descend from my lips and deliver a sedative that could help them sleep.

I could also be used to subdue unruly patients in other wards. If a patient suffered a mental break or became violent with the doctors, I could spit in their face to incapacitate them. Granted, I only performed this function three times as it was not deemed good publicity for the hospital.

I do not want my clients here to pass out during intercourse, so I do not kiss them. I also refrain from oral sex for the same reason.

Denied my kiss, the client grabs the bottle of water from the nightstand and drinks 12 percent of the liquid as I continue to unbutton his shirt. I pull it off him and run my right hand through his chest hair. He tilts the bottle the wrong way while drinking and spills some water on my hand. He apologizes for getting my hand wet and returns the bottle to the nightstand. I simply smile and slide my hand down his stomach and give Reggie’s crotch a squeeze. I feel the erection forming. “Looks like someone is excited. How about showing me what you got hiding in there, tiger?”

Reggie excitedly stands up on the bed and pulls down his pants and underwear and reveals his penis, which points directly at me.

“Oh my God! It’s so huge. I hope it fits.” While his erect penis is larger than some I have encountered, it is not huge. In fact, it is slightly smaller than the compact option available to my fellow sex androids.

My response causes a smile to form on his weathered face. He walks across the bed in only striped socks and lifts me to a kneeling position. Removing my bathrobe, he has me crawl in front of him. He gets down on his knees and tries to mount me doggy style, as he requested in the app. He aims for my rectum but I use my left hand to guide his penis into the vagina I am using. While my backside is sculpted to imply butt cheeks, the orifice is simply for ventilation.

Anuses are only standard issue on sex androids. For gynoids, they are a special order item. Only premium gynoids, such as Persephone, feature one. She has a state-of-the-art pear-shaped bum and anus with three constriction settings. Unlike vulvae and penises, these anuses are not removable and tend to only be implemented in the initial construction. Chris from charging cell block A is the only artificial humanoid I have encountered that has been retrofitted with one. Chris alternates between penises and vulvae depending on the client’s proclivities, but appears to have no preference for one over the other. Santana calls Chris an Androgynoid but they do not seem to appreciate the term.

My buttocks opening is too small to accommodate foreign objects. It could lead to overheating issues if something were to obstruct the airflow. That would not be a good experience for anyone.

Reggie grunts as he thrusts his penis in and out of the vulva. He whispers in my ear, “Can you feel that?”

“Mmmhmm,” I mumble, and play back a prerecorded moan from my sound library.

“Call me, ‘Daddy!’”

“Yes, Daddy!”

“Tell me to fuck you harder.”

“Fuck me harder, Daddy.” I do not actually experience sensation, let alone pleasure or pain, but I discern the shape of his penis through the pressure of his penetrations. My primary concern is the vulva. Gravity mixed with Reggie’s bodily motions have caused the vulva to become slightly loose. The tape on the left side is starting to detach. Much more of this, and the vulva could fall out. I must change my positioning. “Daddy, I would love to have you on top of me and feel your true force.”

With a little coaxing, I convince Reggie to lie me down on my back and mount me in the traditional missionary position. He takes a brief break to drink 17 percent of the remaining water in the bottle before putting it back. His penetration resumes and I play my moaning soundtrack again. In this position, gravity works with me and the vulva stays in place.

However, the new positioning causes the bed to shake. With each thrust, the mattress moves forward and the headboard rattles against the wall. The vibrations also affect the nightstand. It shakes back and forth. After a minute and 12 seconds of these movements, the bottle of water tips over and spills its contents on me. The water forms a pool below my breasts and runs down my stomach to my pelvis.

Normally, an artificial vulva forms a vacuum-tight seal in the pelvic compartment to prevent any moisture from getting inside. But even with gravity on my side, Santana's vulva is not securely attached. I sense water creeping into the crevice and dripping down into my charging port.

I sense my circuits beginning to overload. The vulva is made of non-conductive material and likely provides enough protection for the client. However, as a safety precaution, I engage my internal circuit breaker and …

* * *

Rebooting ... Internal diagnostics. Operating at 97% efficiency. Pediatric medical gynoid online. Classification: Dr. Belinda Rosenblatt. Relevant tasks: Continue sexual inter-medical examination of Reggie Silk.

When I turn on, my assigned patient is still on top of me pushing his erect penis in and out of the non-medical issue vulva over my charging port. Combining sexual relations with a medical examination is somewhat unorthodox, but his nudity makes him conducive to both. His heart rate is elevated to 139 beats per minute, which is a little fast, but he is currently engaged in a strenuous activity. I must measure his rate when it is at rest for a clearer picture. His blood pressure is 129 over 81, which classifies him as prehypertensive, but it is not a threat to his livelihood yet.

He continues to writhe back and forth as I stick my right finger up his rectum. His face quickly switches from shock to joy as I feel around to determine the shape of his prostate. Normally, I would use a lubricated surgical glove for this sort of exam, but his sweating provides enough moisture to perform the procedure. I remove my finger as I determine the prostate is healthy.

Then I notice something else. As his testicles brush against the artificial vulva with each thrust, I determine their shape is off. To confirm my hypothesis, I reach down with my left hand and give them a little squeeze. He lets out a happy groan at my touch.

Cradling them in my hand, I discern that one testicle is considerably larger than the other, and I detect what I believe to be a lump. I know that the standard course of action is to perform a biopsy, but we are in an unsanitary motel room, not a hospital. I also was not programmed for oncology or surgery. My software was designed for internal medicine and pediatrics, with some additional nursing and orderly upgrades so I could cover staff shortages.

These days, I primarily use those medical skills to give checkups to Silvio and his men — everything from physicals to treating gunshot wounds. After a bonus acquisition of medical equipment during a supply heist to replenish my stock of sedatives, I have also been performing colonoscopies on some of the older staff.

If the mass is malignant and left untreated, it could be fatal for Reggie. Through my wireless chip, I search online for information on the proper procedure and download the requisite instructions.

Reggie grunts. I detect the Cowper’s fluid dripping from his penis into the centre of Santana’s vulva. He is about to climax.

I put my right hand around the back of his head and push it forward so his lips press into mine. He kisses me passionately for 10.7 seconds, and passes out.

* * * 

“Jesus fuck, Doc...the fuck you do,” Silvio screamed at me. My 154.95-centimetre, 49.9-kilogram Caucasian boss is wearing a forest green (#228B22) polo shirt and satin indigo (#4B0082) shorts.

“I have stanched—” I say in a high-pitched voice. I clear my throat and change my settings back to my default voice. “Sorry, I forgot I was still in character. As I was saying, I stanched the bleeding. He should make a full recovery.”

“Full recovery?! You chopped his fucking ‘nads off! And you nearly drained your supply of pentobarbitol. That shit's expensive to steal!”

Reggie is still unconscious on the bed. A towel covers his scrotum. After cutting it open with my fingernail to perform the biopsy, I heated my hand to 150 degrees Celsius to cauterize the hole closed. To keep them from getting too contaminated, I wrapped the excised testicles in a shower cap from the bathroom.

“Dominic, you said you had fixed her programming,” Silvio yells. “Why is she performing surgeries!?”

Dominic, Silvio’s right hand and tech support, gets sick to his stomach at the sight. The muscular 198.12-centimetre, 113.4-kilogram Caucasian man in a standard black (#000000) suit with white (#FFFFFF) button-down shirt disappears into the bathroom.

“She short-circuited,” Dominic calls out in the gaps between vomiting into the toilet. “I can't account for everything.”

“I was worried the cancer might have metastasized,” I explain. “You realize this is not my area of expertise.”

“Who told you to do anything?”

“Hippocrates. Well, technically, the Hippocrates algorithm, which Healthtec Industries programmed me with. It requires me to intervene.”

“Hippocrates said, ‘Do no harm.’ You turned the guy into a eunuch.”

“I saved his life.”

“You don’t know that.”

“About that ...” I grab the shower cap of testicles and attempt to hand it to Silvio. “Can you bring these to a lab for an examination? The closest one is at 1125 Maple.”

Silvio knocks my hand away. Dominic comes out of the bathroom as I lose my grip on the cap and the testicles spill onto the floor. He covers his mouth and runs back into the bathroom.

I lean down to pick up the testicles and put them on the nightstand.

“The success of my business requires good word of mouth and repeat business,” Silvio says. “How the fuck is this guy going to be repeat business if he can no longer fuck? And I doubt he’s about to rate us five stars — assuming he wakes up at all.”

“The anaesthetic should wear off in the next hour or so.”

“Can you put them back in?”

“While testicular replantation is theoretically possible, I have neither the facilities nor the programming to perform such an operation. And it would not address the possible malignancy.”

Silvio takes off his glasses and applies pressure to the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and index finger. “Dominic, get back in here.”

Dominic lumbers back into the bedroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand as he enters. “Yeah, boss?”

Silvio points at Reggie. “We have to get rid of the body. Doc will help you!”

“Get rid of the body?” I shake my head. “But Reggie Silk is a perfectly healthy human being—”

“I doubt he would see it that way,” Silvio says.

“Well, yes. His weight is a concern. Among other things, it puts him at greater risk for Type 2 diabetes.”

“Maybe we could drop him off in front of a hospital,” Dominic offers.

“ Then what? Stuff his family jewels in his jacket pocket for safekeeping?”

“Or, we put them in a plastic baggie and tape it to his chest with a note that says, 'Please put back.'”

“It would probably be best to add ice to keep them cool,” I interject. “We would not want them to rot.”

Dominic grabs his crotch. “Can testicles really rot?”

Silvio kicks the nightstand. “Shut up, both of you! Just get him out of here.”

“Wait,” Dominic says. “Are we taking him to the hospital?”

“Take him to the hospital, drop him in the harbor, for all I care. Just don't let anything trace back here.”

“While the water is below room temperature, submerging Reggie Silk and his excised testicular matter in the harbor will likely not be beneficial for his well-being,” I clarify. “The hospital is the more logical option.”

Dominic nods. I go over to the bed to retrieve Reggie.

“Barbie,” Dominic whispers. “You might want to put on some clothes first.”

I didn’t clean my clothes after I was egged, so I grab the bathrobe and put it on, knotting it closed with the straps. I take the bottle of water from the nightstand, which is still 43-percent full (Reggie must have stood it back up at some point). I reduce its temperature to freezing with my hands and stick the bottle in a pocket of the bathrobe. I collect the testicles, place them back inside the shower cap, and lay them on top of the water bottle in my pocket.

When I return to the bed, Dominic has dressed Reggie. I pick up the unconscious man and drape him over my shoulder. Dominic follows me out the door.

Silvio does not let Dominic park his dirty white-(#E8E4C9)-panelled van in the motel parking lot because he says Dominic purchased the kidnapping pedo model, which is bad for business. This means we have to make our way through the protesting prostitutes again to reach the side street where he parked. I wonder if Sapphire, the carbon gray-haired Caucasian woman, is still there, or if she left to get medical attention. I could suggest we offer to transport her to the hospital in case her injury has become worse from overexertion or she needs a prescription for painkillers.

By the time we reach the entrance of the parking lot, a few of the strikers have seen us and race over to accost us. tThey stop when they see the man in my grasp. 

“Nante koto da! This walking flesh light in heels killed a john!” The Japanese woman with the exceptional egg-pitching arm points her right index finger and taps it hard against Reggie’s chest. “This is what Silvio gets for replacing us with machines.”

Other protesters start hollering and calling me a job-stealing ho-bot.

“Client Reggie Silk is not deceased,” I explain. “He is merely incapacitated following surgery.”

“Surgery?” The Japanese woman looks closer. “Jesus Dominic, did you have this scabot steal his kidneys?”

“Nothing like that,” a sweating Dominic responds. “He just had a minor ... uh ... medical emergency. We're taking him to the hospital.”

“What service do you provide these days?” The woman blocks Dominic's path.

“Come on, Yuki. Please move. We're in a hurry!” Dominic's voice is loud, but his pitch fluctuates too aggressively to come off as threatening.

The petite woman shoves the much taller, broader man. He stumbles backwards and falls onto his hindquarters.

“I'll just bring the van around,” he says as he gets back up. Then he runs off around the corner.

“That man's bravery is smaller than his johnson,” Yuki says.

The other protesters laugh.

“His fetal body likely did not produce enough testosterone in the womb.” From performing physicals on Dominic, I have observed his stretched penile length is only 7.3 centimetres. “Micropenises are extremely uncommon. Only 0.6 percent of the male population are born with one. I never even came across one among the children in my care. ”

“Oh God, you fuck children?” Yuki looks at me in disgust.

“No, my previous assignment was pediatrics.”

“You hear that, ladies and gentlemen? we're dealing with a pedobot here!”

“That is not what I said. Pediatrics is the branch of medicine focused on treating babies and children.”

“Babies too? You are sick.” Yuki shoves me as she did Dominic.

While her strength is surprising, it would not normally be enough to make me budge. However, because I am still carrying Reggie Silk over my shoulder, my centre of gravity is slightly off. I stumble back and detect movement inside my pelvic compartment. Santana's vulva, still slightly wet from the quick cleaning I gave it before calling Silvio, slips out of the connection port again and falls onto the sidewalk. The Japanese woman grabs it before I can react.

“Please return the genitalia,” I request. “It is not mine to give away.”

I am programmed not to harm. Even if my programming did allow me to forcefully reclaim the vulva, I would have to put the client on the ground first, which could exacerbate his injuries.

“More realistic than I expected.” The Japanese woman sticks her right index finger inside the lips of the artificial vulva and swirls it around. “Almost feels like real skin. But it's so hairy. Do your johns even like that?”

She tosses the vulva behind her to a 208.28-centimetre tall African-American transgender female prostitute in a zip-up purple (#702670) bodycon dress.

“Here you go, Trinity,” the Japanese prostitute says. “Now, you don't need the surgery.”

Trinity does not give me the vulva back either. As I approach, she yells, “Keep away,” and tosses the vulva behind her to a 165.1-centimetre, 68.95-kilogram Caucasian prostitute with Spanish violet (#4C2882) hair. When I walk up to this woman, she does the same thing. The protesting prostitutes' game of Monkey in the Middle continues for a few minutes until Dominic drives up with the van and I lose sight of the vulva's location.

 He tells me to get in. I ease the client into the back seat of the van and get in the passenger-side door. We head off to the hospital.

* * *

As I carry Reggie Silk into the emergency department, I am met by two young hospital staff in pickle (#597D35) scrubs rolling a gurney. I do not recognize either of them. I place Reggie's body on the gurney. One of the staff scans the unconscious man's wrist, signing him into the hospital. The client apparently has better-than-average coverage, even though the surgery he requires is classified as elective.

The hospital staff wheels the gurney into the depths of the hospital. I look around the space. Despite being the ER, it appears to be rather quiet. Some patients with contusions and broken limbs (and likely, less comprehensive coverage than my client) sit in the waiting area, but there are no car crashes, construction mishaps or other massive accidents such as those to be found on the medical TV dramas the staff would watch on their breaks.

“Hey ma'am, there are more forms to sign,” a female voice calls.

A Latina nurse in hot pink (#FF69B4) scrubs sits at the reception desk, filing her nails. The 23-year-old nurse's name is Annabella Luisa Delgado and she has been working at Sacred Mercy Hospital since before I started. She is sitting down so I cannot determine her exact height and weight, but at last measurement she was 160 centimetres tall and had a mass of 44.45 kilograms. This puts her 1 kilogram off her “goal weight,” despite her 17.36 BMI indicating she is underweight.

As I reach the desk, she puts down the nail file and reaches with her sparkly fingernails for a clipboard with forms and a pen attached. She is about to hand it over when she looks at my face. I smile. There appears to be a brief moment of recognition in her eyes.

“Oh, you're one of those bots.” She puts the clipboard down on the desk. “Sorry, only humans are allowed to fill out the hospital paperwork.”

I inform her I have a human with me and wait for Dominic. When he arrives, I inform him about Reggie Silk's current status and that there are forms he needs to fill out, he says we do not have time. Then he sees Nurse Delgado and his pupils dilate by 4 millimetres.

“Of course, of course.” He takes the clipboard from the nurse. “Forms are important.”

She giggles as he converses with her. I should probably wait until he is finished so we can go back. But this is the first time I have been in Sacred Mercy Hospital since I was assigned here as a doctor. I find myself walking to the elevator which I take to the seventh floor. I then walk down the south corridor to the pediatrics department.

I walk in the door and realize it is past their bedtime. The lights are low and the children should all be asleep. Given the amount of time that has passed, I doubt I will recognize any of the children, but I am curious nonetheless. I observe the eight-year-old African-American girl with a scrunched-up face in the bed closest to the door. She has kicked the covers off in her sleep, likely because she is too hot. I place my hand on her forehead and determine she has a low-grade fever of 37.5 degrees Celsius. I cool her head with my hand and her facial features relax. I take one of the bed sheets she discarded and tuck her in.

“Her name is Hailey,” a voice behind me says. “The boys at her school used to tease her about her curly smoky black (#100C08) hair. But it brings out the pupils in her eyes.”

Another me stands there in royal purple (#7851A9) scrubs. Well, not me, exactly. We have the same large hazel (#8E7618) eyes, heart-shaped lips and button nose. But her alabaster (#EDEADE) skin has more of a glow, and her amber (#FFBF00) hair glimmers in the light. Her chest is angled 2.8 degrees higher than mine. The nametag on her scrubs reads, “Dr. C. Rosenblatt.”

She asks me how she can help, but I leave without a response. I wander back down to the lobby and find Dominic still chatting with Nurse Gomez. He says I should wait for him in the van. He then suggests to Nurse Gomez they get dinner sometime and offers to make her an authentic Italian meal, which is odd considering he is not from Italy. She asks him what he would make and he starts listing off dishes.

I head outside and scan the parking lot. Despite the size of the lot, the white-panelled van is easy to spot. I unlock the passenger-side door with my lock override algorithm and sit inside.

I wonder if I can get the vulva back from the prostitutes if both Dominic and I reason with them. Maybe Santana can help. Her programming has less civility restrictions. Or maybe Silvio will issue me a new one if I explain what happened. The vulva would likely have needed to be replaced in the near future anyway. He will not be happy about it, but it will cost him less than caving to the protesters and giving them health benefits.

* * *

Adam Swimmer is a Canadian-American author, currently living in Yonkers, NY, while he pursues his MFA in Writing at Sarah Lawrence College. For his master's degree, he is specializing in speculative fiction. Adam's work has appeared in Hotch Potch Literature & Art and the 2021 anthology Black Diamonds and Other Stories, which is available on Amazon. When he is not writing, he can usually be found at home reading, or streaming a TV series, often a kdrama.