Ezra Hooper

The Sex Factory  

CONTENT WARNING: Contains graphic sexual content.

Richard shivers. Working here sometimes feels like being under a glacier. Apparently the chilled  climate is essential for the dolls to stay preserved. Richard and his co-workers call this place the  “Sex Factory”. They’re not in the prostitution business. Or even the porn industry. No, they produce  the next best thing. Sex dolls. Not just any sex dolls, though. The absolute best of the best.  

There’s a high demand for these beauties, (and they are beautiful, nobody can deny that) Last year PleasurePro sold 11.2 million dolls globally.  

People want these things, and fair enough. Long term relationships are considered outdated.  People in their teens will screw anything that moves and people in their thirties are getting divorced.  A few years ago only male, middle-aged hermits bought them. But things have changed rapidly  since then. For one thing, women have entered the market. So now there’s a big demand for male  sex dolls. Richard knows that soon there won’t be a demographic immune to the luring appeal of  these things.  

Everyone is hooked on porn by the age of ten. By thirteen, it’s only a matter of time before curiosity takes hold. By twenty, many order one online.  

Some call it expensive, luxurious masturbation, others a cure for loneliness.  

There are three models of sex doll on offer at PleasurePro.  

The first is the “standard” model. Firm arse, sizeable breasts, slender torso, generically attractive  facial features. They generally last five years and cost six hundred dollars.  The second is the the “luxury” model. Added suction and moisture in the vaginal, anal, and oral  regions. Their vocabularies are larger, (more dirty talk) and their eyes roll into the back of their  heads when climaxing. Third is the “advanced”. These possess the most life-like qualities. Vocabularies as large as dictionaries, (so even more dirty talk). Their eyes can display a great number of emotions; anticipation,  excitement, lust, (even something close to love). They have sweat glands, salivary glands and can  even squirt on occasion for a treat. Their hands can do anything from massage your shoulders to  jerk you off. Their plump, voluptuous mouths deliver incredibly pleasurable kisses.

Soft, moist tongues that slide and flicker between wet, pillowy lips. They’re like fruits you never tire of gorging on. These dolls will stay intact and functional for over twenty years, (depending on what you do to  them, of course) The coast is 15,000 dollars. Buy one or get two for the price of 10,000 dollars under the new PleasurePro policy. These beauties will rub you, suck you and hump you so good you’ll be coming back for seconds. At PleasurePro, we provide to please!  

Richard skipped breakfast this morning out of fear of being late. He didn’t even get a chance to kiss  Natalie goodbye, or give Lola, their pet poodle an affectionate tummy rub. Luckily tonight he’ll  have plenty of time.  

Occasionally Richard questions the severity of PleasurePro’s influence. Sometimes he finds himself  standing in this cavernous place with its shadowy hallways and icy air, wondering how long it will  be before people forget what a nuclear family is. What it meant to be in bed with another body of  bone and organs and blood-pumping veins. What it meant to have fantasies that were never to be explored.  

At one o’clock Richard has lunch with his colleagues, Kevin and Spencer. The three sit inside a cafe  opposite the factory, eating sausage rolls and drinking flat whites.  

‘Got any freaky orders this morning?’ asks Kevin, grinning.  

‘Nah,’ says Richard. 

‘I had one,’ says Spencer.  

‘Oh yeah,’ says Kevin, ‘do tell!’ 

‘Some guy wanted a doll with three breasts and two heads.’ 

Richard and Kevin burst out laughing.  

‘I’m serious, he was really specific about it too. He wanted it to have one brunette head with  brown eyes and another blonde with blue eyes.’ 

‘Some guys just can’t make up their minds,’ says Kevin.  

‘I bet PleasurePro will be making stuff like that in the next few years, though,’ says Spencer.  Richard raises his eyebrows, ‘you reckon?’ 

Spencer nods, ‘everyone has a kink, even if they don’t know it yet.’  

Richard stares down at his flat white, and wonders if Spencer is right. 

A shipment of standard and luxury male sex dolls arrives at the factory around 2pm. Richard is assigned with unloading each model, which stresses him out, as he knows the slightest breakage can  potentially cost tens of thousands.  

No female dolls today, only males. The market for male dolls flip flops from one extreme to the  other. But now a pattern is emerging, Christmas and Mother’s Day are the two big surges in sales.  Recently divorced mums wanting a bit of fun or bisexual men purchasing an expensive new toy for  their wife to spice things up for Christmas.  

Standard model. 6’1, non verbal, choice of hair, jet-back or honey blonde.  

Luxury model. 6’2, limited vocabulary, upsized genitals and buttocks, heat pads implanted under  abdominal tissue, choice of hair, curly brown, strawberry blonde, silver-grey.

Advanced model. 6’3 to 6’5, enhanced vocabulary, adjustable heartbeat, inbuilt reflex system, capable of performing cunnilingus, inflatable/deflatable abdominal tissue in order to provide adequate  comfort in addition to satisfactory aesthetics. 

Richard finds the male dolls weirdly intimidating – like staring at Greek gods. Their eyes are a  particular kind of small – not beady or squinty, but thin and deep-set. Their mouths are narrow and  full-lipped. Pointed cheek bones, chiseled jawlines, dimpled chins, bulging Adam’s apples. Long  torsos with firm abs, nothing overdone.

It has been established that the vast majority of women don’t want Olympic athletes or bodybuilding juice heads. So not too many throbbing veins, no  swollen biceps, no eight-pack abs where dehydration looks as though it’s coming into effect. A legion of healthy-looking alpha males, primed and ready to march forth and give multiple orgasms. 

When Richard arrives home, things seem eerily quiet. Then he remembers, Auntie Vivian is looking  after the kids this weekend. Natalie must have dropped them off at her place earlier today. Good, more space to unwind.  

For dinner Natalie cooks steaks with roasted potatoes and beans, a meal which Richard endures  far too often. Together they go through their routine. She tells Richard of the drama that plays out at  the solar energy farm where she works. In return, Richard gives her a G-rated version of what happens at the factory. Lola moves under the dining table, occasionally poking her head out and sniffing the meat-scented air.  

‘I’d like to go on a holiday, I reckon,’ says Natalie.  

‘Where are you thinking?’ says Richard. 

‘Maybe Europe.’ 

‘Bit expensive. And over populated.’ 

‘Oh we could easily afford it, and who cares about crowds.’ 

‘Not just crowds, the massive riots going on. Haven’t you seen the news?’ 

‘Every city has its protests. Well anyway, if not Paris or Berlin how about New York then?’ Richard tilts his head from side-to-side. ‘That could be nice. I reckon you’d like it.’ ‘We’d like it, you mean?’ 

‘Nah, I can’t take the time off work.’ 

Natalie frowns, ‘of course you can, don’t be stupid.’ 

‘Look, I’ve got no problem with you going off on your own for a week or two. I’d rather just stay here and you know, keep working.’ 

‘Fine, I’ll give you a few days to think it over. I need a holiday, even if it’s on my own.’ She  shoots Richard a resentful glare.  

‘No problem there, do whatever you like, I really don’t mind.’ 

Richard pours himself a glass of wine, turns on the electric fire-place. He lies on the couch and  scrolls through his phone, trying not to think about tomorrow, or the day after. Working five days a  week at the factory is beginning to wear him out. A holiday would definitely do him good – but a  holiday with Natalie? No way.  

At first the sex factory seemed fresh and interesting, yet the sight of all that synthetic flesh no  longer evokes arousal, if anything the scenery is a little sickening.  

Every need must be provided for, that’s all this is. Pornography, masturbation and unstoppable  sexual appetites have existed forever. Now technology has caught up with people’s desires – who  knows, maybe a decade from now the entire world will learn to accept people for what they choose  to do behind closed doors. No more judgement, no more time for scandals, certain fetishes will no  longer be frowned upon, hopefully. Pleasure is good, and if everyone needs a sex doll in their home  in order for a certain thirst to be quenched, then so be it.  

In bed Richard lies next to his wife, awake. He wonders if she’s in the mood for any foreplay, then  remembers all the excuses she comes up with; headaches, tiredness, a need to get up feeling fresh in  the morning. It’s been ages since they’ve done anything, a few months at least. In moments like  these Richard becomes envious of the younger generations, the ones who dodged marriage and pursued unlimited satisfaction. 

Once humans were animals driven by primal needs; eating, mating, sleeping.  No weddings, no diamond rings, no joined bank accounts.  

Once Natalie is finally snoring, Richard tip toes downstairs.  

He enters the basement, locking the door behind him. He then slides open the cupboard, which  looks like any other part of the concrete wall. He’s jittery and almost breathless with excitement as  he activates his very own doll. He grabs it by the collar and pulls it toward him. The big dark eyes  look up, glinting lifelessly. He runs a hand over the smooth, silky fur. Tonight is well deserved, he tells himself as he rubs its damp, black snout. Nobody will ever know. 

Astraea  

Ezra Hooper  

‘I can’t deal with people who say they’re anti-abortion,’ said the Daughter. 

‘They’re just very religious,’ said the Mother.  

‘What? No,’ the Daughter shook her head, ‘it’s more than that. I honestly think religious values  have little to do with it. Some men just can’t handle the idea of women having control of their own  bodies. Pretty much just basic, unfiltered misogyny.’ 

The Mother drained her champagne flute and looked out onto the ocean, the glare from the late  afternoon sun reflected in her sunglasses.  

‘Thankfully abortion isn’t as common as it used to be,’ she said.  

The Daughter frowned. ‘Huh?’ 

‘What? Huh? What?’ The Mother barked, ‘manners, gosh. I meant in terms of — you know,’ she  grasped at the air for the right words, ‘not — ah, the abortions related to genetical factors, complications, that sort of thing, those have decreased.’ 

The Daughter pouted her lips. ‘Genetical complications aren’t always that bad — like, I’d rather  give birth to a kid who couldn’t walk at a time when I’m ready, then ruin my life by giving birth at 18.’ 

‘Mmm… I wouldn’t be so quick to say so.’ 

‘Huh — I mean, sorry Mum?’ 

‘Well, both your father and I made sure you weren’t at risk of anything.’ 

‘What d’you mean?’ 

‘Your genetic code,’ said the Mother, biting on the c and d. ‘I was closing in on forty when I had  you, don’t forget. So we decided to try the latest IVF, and obviously,’ she gestured to the daughter,  ‘it worked wonders!’ 

‘They can really do that?’ The Daughter raised her eyebrows.  

‘Oh they can do just about anything, honey. The embryo may be tiny, but these doctors can alter things on a cellular level; edit this, tweak that, delete, enhance. Remarkable stuff, if you’re able to  afford it.’ 

‘What did you see that needed to be, like, altered?’ 

‘There was a chance you could develop bad eye sight as a teen, so I had them reduce it.’

‘Bad eye sight,’ the Daughter repeated.  

‘Yes, both your older brothers need contact lessens, why should you? Acne as well — I told them  you weren’t getting that.’ 

The Daughter stayed silent for a minute, listening to the waves. ‘Was that all?’ The Mother leaned back in her chair, twisting her neck from side-to-side.  

‘Oh my god Mum, you have to tell me — the cats outta the freaking bag!’ 

‘Alright, alright! Your dad and I argued over which features you’d have more of. We settled on  giving you my hair and his eyes, and left the rest up to chance. They were little off the mark with  that one, though — your hair’s not quite the same blonde as mine.’ 

‘What the actual-’ 

‘Oh don’t be so melodramatic,’ the Mother scoffed. ‘The tests were thorough. I made sure you  would never develop arthritics, or pass on any horrific conditions like MS or NF. You really don’t  understand, but you will once you get pregnant, you’ll pay for the tests and scans and the sampling  just like I did. It’s every mother’s nightmare to give birth to a crippled child-’

‘Mum,’ the Daughter winced, ‘don’t say it like that-‘ 

‘What would you call it? Disabilities, diseases, chronic illnesses, anyone you lives with them  would say it’s crippling, degrading. The worst god damn thing ever. And you know what, honey? It  used to be all up to chance, can you believe it!’ The Mother let out a shrill laugh. ‘Genetic mutations are never pretty, you don’t have to count yourself lucky — I made sure nothing monstrous laid a finger on you.’ 

The Daughter folded her arms over her chest. ‘There’s one more thing you did, isn’t there?’ The Mother shrugged and shook her head. 

‘Oh my god, you’re the worst liar Mum! Just tell me, or I’ll – I’ll wring it out of Dad, anyway.’ ‘Ok fine,’ the Mother sighed. ‘I made sure you were left-brained.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Because, better career opportunities. Who wouldn’t wish to be a logical thinker, to be effortlessly skilled with numbers, the benefits are-’ 

‘Stop, just stop!’ The Daughter scowled. ‘Why the hell did you have to — have to tamper with  the way my brain works. That’s – that’s messed up!’ 

‘Again with the melodrama,’ the Mother chortled, shaking her head. ‘Did you really want to end  up like your brothers?’

The Daughter set her champagne flute down on the round glass table. ‘You know, it’s not like  either of them are horribly flawed people. I would never alter someone’s genes, and to eliminate the  possibility of that person being right-brained as opposed to left, that’s just ignorant, and – and cruel.’ 

The Mother adjusted her sunglasses, lips pressed into a thin red line. ‘My grandmother was an artist, and three of my aunts were very talented; musicians, painters and what-not. And d’you what?  All committed suicide. Cursed by their right-sided brains. So you see, there are enough negative  traits running through my side of the family, and your Dad’s as well.’ 

‘Doesn’t matter,’ the Daughter snapped. ‘Make all the excuses you like. Nobody should have the  right to tamper with people’s genetics. Human embryos aren’t just things that can be coded and  edited for someone’s pleasure, to remove freckles or increase mathematical intelligence or whatever. It’s sick.’  

‘What was it you said about abortion?’ the Mother lowered her voice. ‘Everyone should have the  choice, to keep or terminate. Yes?’ 

The Daughter took one final sip from her champagne flute, shuddering as the sweet fizz ran  down her throat. She could not think of anything to say.  

‘The time for taking unnecessary risks is over,’ said the Mother, smiling. ‘You’re beautiful, intelligent in the best of ways and as healthy as humanly possible — and that’s all that matters.’

Bell’s Dream 

Ezra Hooper 

Bell awoke to heat and silence. She never drew back the curtains, and thus her room was always  dark, though her eyes had adjusted to the dusty gloom. Every morning brought forth a fresh wave of  blinding sunlight and sweltering humidity. At least at night she had an excuse to lie still, to shut her  eyes and hope for a long, dreamless sleep. Long maybe, dreamless — never.  

Last night she had one of those strange dreams again, a dream where events from her past came  flooding back; chunks of raw meat, buckets of squirming grubs, Jeremy’s sanctimonious laugh.  Memories felt like tumours at this point. And yet Bell had nothing else to do but piece it all together. To reminisce.  

Bell had spent almost a decade working for a company that specialised in produce harvesting.  She and half a dozen others developed lab-grown meats, with the goal of making them taste good as  well look aesthetically pleasing. No consumer would be tempted by greyish, mushy products.  

Once Bell and her colleagues mastered the cell-grown steaks and sausages, her director insisted  on splicing different animal cells together.  

First came bork, a cross between beef and pork. Though this endeavour was deemed a failure —  as the taste testers claimed the meat was dry and over-salted, and one of them even reported vomit ing afterwards.  

Next came cham, a cross between chicken and lamb. This was more successful than bork, and  was welcomed by many countries across the globe. However, a few viral clips of how the cham was  produced was enough to make the distribution profits plummet.  

Yet Bell’s superiors weren’t willing to suffer defeat, and instead changed course. From then onwards, all resources went into harvesting and genetically modifying insects for human consumption. Witchetty grubs were easy to engineer. The whiter and plumper the better. Bell knew they could  have pumped them up to the size of bread loaves if they wanted to. But that would’ve surely made  their consumers recoil and gag. 

Then Bell and her team worked on developing ants. By the end, what were once common back yard black ants were three inches long, their mandibles and antenna shorted to ineffectual stubs, and  their abdomens the size of grapes. Tart and juicy.  

‘About time we reintroduce bees,’ her director had said. Bell knew it was true, bees were an irreplaceable component to Earths environment. Only little did she know how different these new bees  would appear. Their genes were spliced with hornets and dragonflies and even dung beetles. Until  the end result was an insect the size of a small bird, with thick skin and a stinger that would never  dislodge no matter how many times it was wielded in defence.  

The idea was to make them as invulnerable as possible, since they were to replace a near extinct  species, no predator, whether it be mammal, reptile or other insect was allowed to endanger these  new golden-brown honey-makers.  

The company collapsed once the billionaires who bankrolled it lost interest in their pet project.  Well, lost interest was a euphemism — one shareholder was assassinated and the co-CEO sold  everything he owned to become a cashless nomad.  

At that point Bell and her colleagues were engineering huntsman spiders. First step was to pluck  out the mandibles. According to the taste testers, the legs were quite delicious when deep-fried and  slathered in garlic source. 

 

Bell sipped her coffee, ran a hand through her dry grey hair. Outside her cabin the sky was  breaking — clouds were melting away before a burst of red-orange sunshine, the colour like molten  iron. Far from the lemon-yellow suns of childhood drawings.  

Another memory came floating into her minds eye. Again, another part of her dream. Jeremy  was driving her somewhere, waffling on about one of his obsessions. It didn’t feel like he was driving me to work in the dream, Bell thought. We were just heading nowhere.  

Jeremy never listened. He belonged to a different sub-culture. The technocrats, men obsessed  with plunging head-long into virtual worlds. Bell was the first to admit she was drawn to Jeremy  because of his nonplused, care-free approach to life, though how much of that was unsympathetic nihilism she would never know.  

Still, for a while things worked. Bell made a living through genetic engineering while Jeremy supervised teams of vitamin-deprived coders. 

Together they bought an apartment, far away from the scorched lands and lapping waters.  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Jeremy once said, wrapping his arms around her waist.  ‘Yeah?’ Bell was cooking breakfast. An omelette packed with feta, mushrooms and cherry tomatoes.  

‘We could maybe give it a try?’ Jeremy’s breath was hot in her ear, smelling of coffee.  She had pursed her lips then, letting the omelette hiss on the black frying pan. Neither of them were strangers to the idea of having a child, in fact it was one of the deal breakers on their very first date.  

Hey, so do you want kids?  

Christ no. 

Neither.  

Finally the thought had crept back into their lives, like some sort of surreptitious gatecrasher.  ‘Well, what would you like?’ Bell had asked.  

Jeremy shrugged. ‘I’m not – I’m not against it, Izzy.’ 

‘Who’s that?’ Bell gave Jeremy a hard stare. She had despised her name from the very beginning, and swore she would never be Izzy. After a while even Isabella sounded strange to her ears.  Must be some of sort of psychological defect related to onomatopoeia, her mother used to say.  The girl thinks Izzy sounds like the noise mosquitos make.  

Bell washed out her coffee mug in the sink and stared out the widow. Somewhere in her dream  lurked a shape, an animal of some kind, obscured by fog. She was running from it down a tunnel  made of cobwebs or melting ice — she wasn’t sure which.  

A friend mentioned a gristly story once. Bell didn’t believe it, that was until she saw the footage  for herself. Some celebrity had live-streamed himself being savaged by a polar bear.  The guy was a Scandinavian actor-turned-activist. He was known for his versatility and method  acting, as well as his Academy Awards speeches which spiralled into desperate pleas where he  would weep, bellow at the top of his lungs, froth at the mouth. All an act, people said, just an attention seeker. Well, he certainly died as he lived, then, Bell had thought. She watched the footage to quench some morbid fascination.  

In truth, the bear was on the verge of death, so emaciated it looked like a yellowish-white rug  draped over bare bones. It pounced upon him, slavering, and tore his throat out with one heavy  swipe of its claws. The phone fell to the ground, recording for the entire world to see as white turned to pink, and the bear enjoyed one last feast, its nuzzle berried deep into the once beloved  movie stars back, where the blood and gore spurted and oozed. Steam rose from the wounds, as if  from a boiling kettle.  

‘Yeah that’ll work,’ Jeremy rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s all feed ourselves to polar bears, that’ll stop  the floods and bring our coastlines back. God, what a tool.’ 

‘First to martyr himself in the name of nature,’ said Bell. ‘Might end up being more impactful  than all those other celebs. Poor animal looked starving.’  

‘Still a pointless virtue signaller,’ Jeremy wrinkled his nose. ‘People will forget, the guy’s movies  weren’t even that good.’  

Things quickly led to another argument, and Bell could no longer contain herself.  ‘You’ve just given up hope completely.’ 

Jeremy laughed, tilted his head to one side. ‘Where I work, everyone’s a realist, hun. No way  humanity is surviving for another century in its current form. You can try to convince people to eat  worms and arachnids and whatever — but the truth is cyber space is where our souls will live on  forever. Our bodies have gobbled up everything and shat everywhere, only our minds can be saved.’  

Shortly after midday Bell left the house. She felt in need of fresh air. On days like this it was  easy to forget how much things had changed. Yes it was hot, but trees still stood, grass was green.  That’s only because I’m hundreds of miles away from civilisation, she thought.  

The bushes surrounding her cabin were dense and grey, and the ground a sea of twigs and pine  needles. Here and there she spotted a bleeding tree, the sap thick as caramel, trickling at snail speed  down the coarse bark. Bell closed her eyes, breathed in the smell of dry soil, mingled with the sharp aroma of pine needles. In the shade everything was cool. Out here she could be the last human  alive. At first she wasn’t sure if her mind was playing tricks on her, but then the humming grew  louder. Bell’s eyes snapped open. The hum was that of a swarm of bees. They surrounded her like a  golden-brown cloud, a shimmering haze, buzzing incessantly.  

No ordinary bees, she realised. These were the size of eggs, with heads that were black and  gleaming, legs thick with muscle — bristly hair sprouted from their torsos, and every swollen abdomen was perfectly striped, as if painted by some meticulous artist. Slashes of woody brown alongside dark gold.  

Bell did not shrink away as the swarm approached her, each bee drifting a little closer. Curious  yet tentative. I am one and you a hundred, and yet still you’re afraid, she wanted to say. Don’t be, this is your world now. 

About Ezra Hooper

Ezra Hooper is a student at RMIT studying a BA in Creative Writing. He writes short stories as well as long-form pieces. He enjoys delving into the genres of realism, high fantasy and dystopian sci-fi. One of Ezra’s favourite writers is Margaret Atwood.   

Copyright Ezra Hooper, September 2024. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Ezra Hooper.