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JUNKFOOD SEXLIFE
by Jessamyn Violet
tiny tin heart
Dedicated to Venice Beach
“This junkfood sexlife kills.”
-Maybe, Little Sandwitch
Introsextion::
Sex is everything and sex is nothing.
Sex can be good or bad, filling or emptying,
junk or treasure.
Sex can be a weapon. Sex can be protection.
Sex can be a vice.
Some sex expresses love. Some expresses hurt.
Sometimes, hate.
Sex can bring lightness or incredible darkness.
Sometimes, both.
Sex can be bought or sold, prided or shamed.
Sex can rule you, sex can fool you.
Sex is dirty, messy, and divine.
Don’t let anyone else’s ideas of sex shape your own.
Do what you want with it.
Mold your sexlife as you wish.
It’s your canvas. Choose your colors carefully.
Or don’t.
It’s your appetite. Choose your calories wisely.
Or don’t.
Present Day, USA::
The year is 2029.
The robots are fixing everything.
History is finally sick of repeating itself.
The people will elect celebrities to govern no more.
The creators of President TBD 3000, the current model robot President of the United States of America, claim that it’s going to “restore the Great American Dream” during its stay in the White House.
Things are, in fact, starting to improve since the damage done by the last human president, celebrity reality television star George Fuckwad. There has been much less progress than expected. When Fuckwad and his cronies were in the White House, there seemed to be nothing they couldn’t ruin. Developments and growth in most industries had ground to a standstill. There was another Civil War brewing.
Scientists, physicists and engineers had secretly gathered funding to develop a President Robot while Fuckwad was in office.
TBD 2000 had a stunningly effective campaign. The team behind it proclaimed the only ways out of the disastrous conditions of the country created by four years of brainless bigots in office were – surprise, surprise, oh, what a shock: Science and math. The American people listened, and voted to hand over the reigns to robots. That was two versions of robot presidents back. Engineers had been continually upgrading the technology and algorithms and now, at last, TBD 3000 was said to be a robot with just the right amount of intelligence, personality, and perseverance to restore the country to its original breeding ground for commerce and creativity, innovation and art.
President TBD 3000 claimed to be incorruptible, un-hackable, and only wanted what was best for the numbers.
What else could it want? It didn’t have an ego to protect, a demanding spouse to appease, mistresses to be blackmailed by, or households to uphold. Hell, it didn’t even have any spoiled children to send to overpriced, corrupt universities.
The robot just wanted to run things, and to run things right.
Oh yeah, and restore the Great American Dream.
No glitches, no guts, no glory.
Odessa Messa::
“Disaster is laughing at us, baby.”
Odessa Messa stood tall before the bathroom mirror, surveying herself through the looking glass speckled with toothpaste. Her surly, curly, bleach-blonde hair twisted around her cocoa-colored pixie face like a wig of tiny golden snakes. Her bikini top barely covered her small breasts with little bright blue triangles that looked like eyes over a pierced-bellybutton nose and the jagged smile of hips adorned with ripped jean shorts.
Her black and white cat stared up at her from the checkerboard linoleum floor with wide green eyes.
“It is, Felix. I swear it. Laughing at our lack of land lines, laughing at our gravity, laughing at our escape vehicles. I mean, what if a Tsunami warning came in tonight? What would we all do, jump in our cars and sit on Venice Boulevard in a gridlock?”
“Purrrr-ow,” said Felix. He stood up and rubbed against her bare legs in an effort to reassure her, or maybe himself.
“Don’t worry. I’d shove you in my backpack and we’d at least bike the hell out of here. I’m in good enough shape to beat a Tsunami, right?”
Odessa sniffed the air and thought she could smell the familiar stank of blunt coming from her roommate’s room. She swayed her hips to nothing in particular and then bounded down the hall.
Knock, knock. “Wacko, you in there?” No response. “I can smell you’re home.”
Finally a muffled, “Open the door, then.”
Odessa found Wacko slouched into his L-shaped couch, listening to hip-hop and hitting a blunt the size of a permanent marker. His unruly copper-red hair matched the state of his room. He sported high top sneakers, slightly baggy jeans, and, at the moment, a nostalgic kitten sweatshirt. He took his time shifting his gaze from the ceiling to his underdressed roommate.
“Let me hit that,” she said cheerfully.
“Come and get it.”
She collapsed next to him. He looked at her stomach. “Tan.”
“Still Moroccan, asshole. Besides, the beach... We live practically on it, you know.”
“I am barely a human being,” he said.
Odessa plucked the blunt from his hand even though he hadn’t offered it. She took a champion pull off of it and tilted her head back on the exhale, staring upwards. Despite being a total slacker, Wacko had somehow pulled off an impressive sticker collection on his ceiling.
“Get lost, Felix,” he said flatly.
Odessa lifted her head to see Felix slinking in. The cat knew he wasn’t allowed
