Holograms paint sex in vivid light. Atop skyscrapers, heartthrobs, either silky smooth or rugged, sell watches, aftershave and cosmetic implants. Pouting supermodels jut from buildings like gargoyles, and aerial drones project hunky gods and curvaceous goddesses into the sky. Sex empowers women, we pretend, while making men drooling dogs. And men are dogs, salivating for bitches in heat. Wherever they look breasts protrude and parted lips offer a silent promise. No wonder they merge with Psychnet porn: their wives cannot live up to the dream we force-feed them.
Skinny, freckled forearms, honey-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and a long, straight nose. Fine mascara lines the nurse’s blue eyes, eyes that ask, ‘Why?’
“The doctor will be along soon to put the stitches in,” the nurse says, smiling. “By the looks of it, you will only need one.”
Angry, numb, I look at my forearms and feel confused. What happened?