I figured if I posted a bit of this new story to my blog, then I’d be committed – I’d have to go through with it. I have a pretty good premise, I think. And a kind-of plan. I just hope it doesn’t get too reminiscent of George Orwell’s 1984.
Critique/questions welcome – here or Facebook or Twitter. 🙂
On the train journey from the suburbs into the city, I fantasised about the coffee I was going to buy when I got to the university. The shop around the corner sold the best vanilla lattes I’d ever tasted, and I was going to need the caffeine-and-sugar rush to get through the morning.
All things considered, though, I was doing okay. Last night’s risky orgasm had taken the edge off, and I was almost cheerful. I just had to keep in mind that in just under six months, I’d have a week to go wild without worrying about the repercussions. A whole week to do whatever – and whoever – I wanted… provided the recipient of my plans was willing, of course.
The menials looked at us as if we were crazy – staring at the ice-blue tattooed bands around our wrists as if what had been done to us was against our will. Their gazes were often dismayed and pitying.
I understood. God, I understood. And I hadn’t wanted to be suppressed, either, though it had been my choice. “It’s okay,” they’d told me, once I’d passed my third year and proven I was determined to be a damn good doctor one day. “Once you’ve had the procedure, you won’t miss the sexual urges. That might seem impossible to believe now – especially at your age – but it’s true. And we can’t have our doctors distracted. The patients insist on focused medical personnel, and so do we.”
I’d been worrying about it since I started – be suppressed and save lives, or keep my sexual urges and work in a coffee shop for my entire life? I’d come down on the side of being a doctor, reluctantly. After all, at least they didn’t suppress the urges entirely. I’d have a week per year to have as much sex as I wanted, as long as I didn’t go anywhere near the hospital. So I went in for the procedure, the pride and approval of family and similar-minded friends ringing in my ears.
An hour or so later I came around, and they tested all five of my senses with sexual stimuli. In the most clinical and result-recording way possible, of course, seeing as the doctors had been suppressed themselves. Within the first five seconds, I was breathless with desire, and the clinical disinterest became frowns of confusion and disapproval.
They scheduled a second appointment for the following week, and I returned home in tears, cursing my body for its resistance to the treatment. A week later, I went through the whole thing again, with the same results.
My final appointment was made for in two weeks’ time, when they’d finished studying my physiological map for irregularities. Three strikes, and I was out. I’d never be a doctor. And-
A crackly announcement over the PA system jolted me back to the present, and I only just made it to the platform before the train set off again. My good mood a little dampened by the dark memories, I headed out of the station and down the hill toward the university.