A Canadian Story, c.2100
Coming off the subway, fighting upstream like a spawning fish, he tripped. “Damnit”, he muttered to himself, “stupid cuffs….”
Proving all things are cyclical, the baggy style of the ’00’s was back yet again; the only thing new in fashion was the extremes to which it swung. Not even a decade ago, he knew from older webshows, kids were wearing what were practically unitards; ridiculous things that looked painted on. Why would anybody dress like that, unless in gymnastics or dance? He wondered, while pulling up his pants for the tenth time that day. He knew the baggy look was in, but even Jeremy had to admit it was getting stupid. Everyone under 16 looked like they were wearing their fathers clothes, but if this is what it took to fit in, he’d do it. Fitting in wasn’t easy lately.
He tried to be a ‘normal’ boy, honestly he did. Track team, junior football club, he even tried out for the Junior High rugby team this year, only to be rejected due to size and a suspicion by the coach that he was ‘a little bit queer’. ANY queer these days was not something you wanted to be accused of. You did anything to avoid THAT stigma. Not that the kind, gentle GovMen wouldn’t let you be gay, oh no, it was perfectly ‘allowed’, just not in public or at home; tolerance, of a sort, was the rule of the day, after all; the Government went to great lengths to tell the people how wonderfully inclusive the country is these days… not to say there were not consequences for being a NSH.
NSHs’ were “accepted”, after all. You could be as non standard a human as you want, but you always paid a heavy price. Well… in some cases, not quite so heavy, but still, for many, it was a price you could only pay once.
Jeremy knew a few ‘fish’, the common vernacular for NSHs’. Everybody did. Murderers, rapists, boozemakers, thieves, athiests; they all were still with us, if somewhat declawed. Made safe, if you will. None of them would commit their ‘crime’ again; they always got some form of work that would, after they underwent their minor adjustments, keep them happy.
Or at least, as happy as they could be, being a few ounces lighter.
Jeremy was a normal boy, too; he knew it. He HAD to be. These stupid, maddening queer-thoughts he had were just the Devils’ influence, perhaps a holdover from that terrible flu he had a few months ago. Maybe being so sick allowed the Devil to attack him; maybe some other actually queer kid coughed on him and got his fag germs all over him, he didn’t know. Wherever they came from, they sure as hell didn’t come from HIM. He had lived all his 11 years so far without any real sexual feelings at all; why would they suddenly start out of norwhere like that, if the feelings didn’t come from outside? It wasn’t, couldn’t be his OWN thoughts that made him look at his mates the way he did lately. Stupid devil.
Living with just his dad, he didn’t even want to bring up his fears. Not with him, no way. He might have with his mom if she was around, but dad? He’d have him adjusted within the hour if he thought Jeremy was even remotely gay. He was a nice enough dad, a proper church-going dad who sat every week at the Regional Central Church, worked hard at the job he was placed at upon graduation (he had been lucky, being allowed to finish grade 9; not many low-caste went past grade 8), and tried to teach Jeremy all the right behaviors the best he could. His dad loved him, he knew that, but if Jeremy broke the law by believing or feeling or acting on something so outrageous as being gay, Dad would definitely call the GovMen, even knowing he’d not likely ever see him again. Dad would never enter the queers’ realm.
Not that they were kept in one place, as far as Jeremy knew, but they were kept hidden, kept in their Group Homes, or walking the streets with their husbands, un-recognizable as those ones would be. He was certain that’s what happend to Franks big brother after seeing that chick at the supermarket last week. Nervous-looking, holding hands with a high-caste kid, he knew she wasn’t a born girl, and too uncomfortable in her movements to have been adjusted for very long. If only there were more women around.
“There’s Frank”, Jeremy muttered to himself, as he came out of the stuffy subway zone into the smoggy air of the city. He flipped his hoodie over his head and scurried along, not wanting to talk to him right then. They had been friends, good friends, until Chuck, Franks’ big brother, was taken by the GovMen last year, but since then, Frank seemed to want nothing to do with him. As if he suspected Jeremy might be the same as his brother. “Why would he think that?” Jeremy wondered,, and suddenly stopped walking for a second, a flash of a memory occuring to him. “Oh for craps sake… could it be that?” He shook his head, writing off what happend in the tent between them as simple childhood play. Sure, it was not something they would have admitted to ANYbody outside of themselves, and it was incredibly minor, but it was still illegal, immoral, and unchurchly behaviour. Knowing that didn’t make the memory go away, though… nor the realization that he wished it would happen again. “NO!”, he yelled mentally at himself, rejecting the thought as harshly as he could.
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Jeremy peeled off his shoes as he entered the door. Sock-like, made of a flexible but incredibly strong fabric, they looked similar to sneakers of olden days but when removed, they flopped to the floor like a pair of ankle socks.
With a quick “I’m home,” he walked barefoot into the kitchen, grabbing a squeezer of ‘fruit’ (yeah, right) juice and backtracking to the living room where he flipped on the ‘net viewer and started surfing. “Mom would have had something out for me…” but lamenting the loss of his Mom to the female plague was hardly going to make him feel better. It was a few years since they lost her, and while the memories were fading, he would never forget her. He slipped off his pants and undies, tossed them along with his shirt towards the laundry chute, and got comfy on the couch.
“For the Good Lords’ sake, boy, don’t leave your filthy clothes on the floor, the chute is only a meter away!” His dad berated, kicking them down the chute himself, listening for the mechanics of the system as they chemically and electrically zapped any dirt out of them, dropping them at the end of the chute into the hamper that caught the clean garments. “How was the meeting?”
“Okay, I guess… doesn’t look like they are gonna let me play in the D-line, though” he answered with disappointment. He really did enjoy playing football, but he knew he was barely making the team, and now they wanted him to just play wide receiver on the third line; he knew full well that was going to entail lots of bench-warming, but at least he wasn’t relegated to support. Kids who had been adjusted, if they were in school at all, never actually played sports; they were support only, waterboys, towel-holders, massagers… nothing important. “Thank Good Lord I still have my balls”, he thought, unconciously cupping his said items with his hand. He noticed his dads pointed look, and realizing his action, let go of his package. Nudity was nothing for prepubescents, but playing with yourself, that was hardly appropriate.
Jeremys’ father furrowed his eyebrows, wondering again about his son. He never touched himself when they talked about girls, but it happend with grim regluarity when talking about sports, other kids he knew, and the boys at Scouts. He knew… just KNEW there was a problem here. To admit it out loud was something he was far to shy to do, however. All he needed was some sort of final proof, a definitive sign from the boy, and he could act. Perhaps he would be lucky and be able to keep the lad at home after adjustment; it did happen, after all, in certain circumstances; not often, but considering Jeremy Sr. had at least one well placed friend in the government, perhaps it could be arranged…. IF it turned out the boy was queer as per his suspicions.
Jeremy just watched the Netstream, trying not to think about how cute the boy on Sawing for Teens IV was.
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The sleepover the next weekend was great, until late evening.
Jeremy must have popped a dozen boners throughout the night before his best friend and team-mate Kyle finally reacted. They had been friends for a while, Jeremy insisting to himself it being due to their mutual love of football, burying deep the feeling that he wanted to hug him. It’s hard to hide your reactions when every lower-Caste under the age of 13 habitually hung-out at home with no clothes on; for years, decades, this was the norm, strange as that may seem in such a religious state. However it allowed a child nothing to hide, and made spanking offences that much easier to mete out.
They were sitting on the floor, working on a 3-D lego layout; these tricky blocks were no ‘little-kid’ toys, requiring a fair bit of intelligence to build anything decent with. Kyle kept bumping Jeremy with his legs, as they moved around the area, building parts of their layout, and Jeremy couldn’t stay soft half the time; it was all he could do to keep calm, infatuated as he was with his year-older friend. Stretching out, Kyles foot sole was suddenly flat against Jeremys boner; without thinking, he humped against the warm, clean foot only twice before suddenly erupting in the most amazing orgasm he had had since he had his first one, a few drops of clear semen squirting out, dampening Kyles foot. Jeremy froze, his heart stopped for a beat, and a torrent of panic-driven tears threatend to fall from his eyes, the overwhelming emotions of erotic contact versus moral-driven fear confusing him badly. He was briefly relieved by Kyles mild reaction.
“Oh, ick… what…!? JEREMY!” Kyle gasped, pulling his foot away from his crotch. “I can’t believe you did that!” Jeremy sat in stunned silence as he saw his father, at his desk, peeking over his chair at the outburst. “Actually, I guess I can… you’re a queer, right? Are’nt ya? Like Franks brother! Oh, dude, you poor kid…!” Kyle laughed slightly at the confirmation of his suspicions, while he wiped at the small amount of slippery lubricant off his toes with a tissue. Seeing the look in Jeremys eyes, he assured him, “Don’t worry, bro… I won’t say anything, but dude, you’re as gay as a shitty cock, that’s for sure; how long you think you can hide it?”
Jeremy gulped, face turning redder than it was already, seeing his dad slowly shake his head, get up, look briefly at his only son, and leave the room. “He knows…” Jeremy sighed, fear and panic raising goosebumps on his body. “He knows..!” Slumping back to lean against the couch, he saw Kyle turn to see Mr. Cryderman walking away. At least Kyles’ wide-eyed look upon seeing his dad confirmed for Jeremy that his friend did not, in fact, know the man was within earshot of his comment. Kyle turned back and looked sadly at his friend.
“Yeah, guess he does, eh? Shitty… I’m sorry I spoke out loud, Jer!”
Jeremy just felt cold inside.
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As it turned out, Jeremy Sr.’s biggest mistake was thinking that Mr. Davidson was really his friend. Considering the status that separated them, he should have known better, but he really thought the fact they went to the same grade-school mattered. Mr. Davidson listened to him, and gently assured the low-caste man that he would do what he could, but that Mr. Cryderman should tell one of the GovMen immediately what he just told him. In fact, quite suprisingly, Mr. Davidson called one up right then, insisting that his former friend “get this process started as soon as possible, any delay indicating support for, and therefor, an indication of willingness to hide, a queer-minded kid”. Jeremy Sr. figured that this must be a particularly heavy moral concern for Mr. Davidson, as he seemed very interested in immediate action. Thus, the Cryderman house received a phone call the next morning, requiring both father and son to visit the local Governmental Adjustments and Placements Department the next day.
Jeremy dressed as tough, as straight as he could; he would have worn his football uniform if his Dad had let him, but settled on jeans and a NFL t-shirt. Neither choice would have helped him one bit.
Upon explanation of what he saw to the official investigating the boys case, Mr Cryderman left the room after hugging his son. The offical wanted to talk to his son alone for a few moments. Jeremy didn’t bother denying anything, knowing that Kyle was willing and able to spill the beans despite what he said, the rewards for being truthful and voluntarily turning anybody in that they knew committed an offence of any kind being too great. Hell, Kyle probably already phoned this in, he figured.
The GovMan interviewing him was friendly enough, and consoled the young boy upon hearing all the evidence and reviewing the phone call they had, indeed, received from Jeremys’ so-called friend. The only question in the mans’ mind was where to allocate the boy for adjustment. Confirmed queers, ones with so much evidence against them like the poor kid in front of him who were also good looking were not so plentiful these days; either they were better at hiding their inclinations or they were being weeded out genetically, he figured, even though that flew in the face of the modern belief that gays aren’t made that way by genetics, but by environment. Which would have implicated his dad, if he had not already been investigated and found to be as straight as anyone.
He almost missed the notation from Mr. Davidson, a quite important man in these parts, and a member of the second-highest Castes in the country, which was the highest that a person born into a lower caste could possibly attain. Mr. Davidson, it turned out, was a ruthless businessman, having been selected for advancement when 14 years old, after he managed to organize a school-wide homework-for-pay scheme that netted him hundreds of credits during his 8th grade of school.
According to the note, the lad, if found guilty of homosexuality, was to be enrolled at a nearby Group Home for such children. The GovMan was suprised; this region was particularly lacking in genetic women for the last five years; most good-looking, cute gay kids, he thought, would go directly for gender re-assignment. This one espcially, he though, looking over the note at the girlish faced and slender limbed Jeremy. However, being outranked by Caste, the man did as per the instructions, and informed an obviously shaken and nervous Jeremy that he was to go home with his father for a last night with his family and report at Governmental Childrens Group Home A-16 on Rupert street by 8:00 am the next morning. The boy sniffed back his tears while his father came back in to collect him. “I aint gonna cry, I aint gonna cry, I AINT gonna fuckin’ CRY….” Jeremy repeated over and over in his head, holding his head up as he walked home with his father for perhaps the very last time. His only consolation was that from what he understood, having had it explained by the GovMan before his dad returned, his sadness and shame would not last for too much longer.
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He asked his dad, that night, why he reported him so quickly. The response made him really start to wonder about his world. Dad seemed to think that the GovMen would know, soon, about Jeremy whether he reported him or not; what kind of surveilance did the Government have, anyway, he wondered? What, were there cameras set up in homes? That could be, of course; he knew his dad didn’t own their house; no low-Caste family did. They were all Government Housing units, all houses were, except the ones lived in by members of the highest three Castes. Who knew what kind of cameras and sound-pickups were around. Pity, he thought, that he never wondered about this before. Strange, he thought, how none of his friends thought about these kinds of questions. But then, society was too peacefull, to ordered, to really worry about such things; that is, as long as you were not some kind of criminal. Which, apparently, Jeremy was.
But didn’t everyone profess that everybody, crime- and moral- law-breakers included, were allowed their life, their right to pursue happiness, their freedom? Didn’t everyone say that it is OK to be gay, that queers, just like thieves, were free to be themselves, just… not in public, not where they could ‘infect’ family members? What kind of tolerance was one where they allowed you to ‘be yourself’, but squirrelled you and all other Non Standard Humans, the NSH’s of the country, into neat and tidy boxes, places where their strangeness could be used as a strength, places where only some lucky ones could see their families again?
He tried not to thing of what the kids at school figured the murders got to do. Army, most of them, but perhaps some were made into hit-men, or executioners, or… yuck.
The simple thieves, the stupid ones, ones that caused more monetary cost in their damage than they got from their robbery or dumbly stole from their friends mothers purse and get caught too many times, were simply castrated, taken from school immediately or upon completion of 7th grade, and put in training for menial labour.
However, the lucky ones could indeed be lucky. If, by the 9th grade, some student was found to have snookered the system, to have inventively got around the checks and balances to do some particularly risky crime or prank, they would find themselves in a similar situation to Jeremy, but these kids got further, specialized education; some became international lawyers, for Heavens’ sake, boosted in Caste to the point they could buy their own mansions and have multiple children, and a real, actual, genetic woman for a wife!
Also, some anti-religious nuts, the ones who skipped the twice-weekly Church services and got caught, if intelligent enough, were the ONLY people allowed to pursue certain scientific studies. Most common scientists, allowed to graduate a full 13 years of childhood study and go on to University studies, were involved with the Church, and therefor unable to study certain areas of science. That only made sense, Jeremy figured, but it seemed unfair to him, facing a rather different future as he was.
Not that he had any idea what his future might be, beyond the possibilities which he had already encountered; Chuck, now obviously living with a different name, being Possibility Number One; Jeremy shuddered at the idea of being turned into a girl. He was a BOY, damnit, a real BOY who was tough, strong, and showed just the right amount of strong-arm behavior and rebelliousness to get his teachers eyes; they respected such things in the kids, a touch of rebellion being a sign of intellectual strength.
Of the other ways his life could go after tonight, he had less knowledge. Everybody, the teachers, the police, the GovMen during their monthly school meetings, said that even gay kids got to be themselves, that there was a good life for them under the direction of the Government; those particular talks had started in the last year or two, sometime around when Jeremy turned ten. At first, he had no idea why they seemed to talk about queers. Until then, the only crimes the GovMen really discussed were the childhood basics; behaving, not stealing, keeping yourself clean. None of the kids wanted to be assigned as garbage men for the rest of their lives just because they were filthy all the time. Few felt a desire to be Army men, soldiers being in high demand but mortality being equally high. Ever since the Americans had nullified the power of nuclear bombs with their cheap, radiotope-neutralizing fibernet that was kept suspended over their territory, conventional war was the rule of the day and Canada had long since abandond its roll as simply a peacekeeper; the Canadian military was now known as perhaps the fiercest on earth, thanks in no small part to what happend to little boys who bullied their classmates too much.
Jeremy knew at least four boys who had simply been at school one day, and gone the next; the teachers always told them why, that Billy or Johnny had been diagnosed as hyper-aggressive. Those kids, if picked in early grade-school, stopped normal schooling immediately to start their genetically-boosted life, learning to handle weaponry and combat skills from that day forward. Some of them obviously wanted it; some of them not, but it didn’t matter. Within a week, the teachers assured the remaining students, every one of those boys would be eagerly participating, relishing the idea of being big, strong Army Men soon. And amazingly unconcerned about the typical 50% mortality rate for low-ranking cannon-fodder infantry within their first ten years of service.
But gay kids? Ones caught experimenting more than once or twice, or constantly rubbing up against their mates in the showers? Of them, he was less certain, but there were rumors beyond the forced transgenderization of some. They knew other things happend, but just what was pure conjecture on their parts. None of the ideas discussed on the playground sounded pleasant.
He slept, finally. And awoke, far too soon, had a quiet breakfast with his dad, and caught the bus to a new life.
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It was cold, laying on the clinics’ steel exam table.
By 8:05 his Dad was gone; indeed, Jeremy would not see him again. Nor would he see his balls again, he was told, as a nurse quickly and efficiently castrated Jeremy while he reclined, rather numb in body and spirit, curiously watching it happen, as unconcerned as the drug in his body could allow. She was done in 8 minutes, with not a drop of blood spilled; laser surgery with bio-fill glue made healing virtually instant. After she put the tube of glue down, she had him roll over on his side and injected the hormone that would cause his bones to fuse on the ends within 6 months, a healthy, non lifespan-reducing method that effective stopped the very cute boys’ growth. Certainly not all kids brought to the Group Home got this injection, but Mr. Davidsons’ instructions were specific and she was bound to follow them. She certainly understood why; Jeremy was one of the cutest boys she had enrolled since becoming an employee of the Home. She finished up, taking the dazed but calm boy to his room. Private, for now. Untill he was made comfortable with what would happen.
They knew he only liked boys, was un-interested in adult men, within a day. There were no fancy nanobots, mysterious rayguns, or synthetic, drug-induced brainwashing here; just long, well-directed talks with enthusiastic father-figures and big-brother-like men extremely well trained in coersive psychotherapy. Drugs, yes, but not for much more than ensuring the subjects were relaxed and happy. It took longer to get Jeremy interested in being cuddled by adult men, and longer still before he was eventually happy to perform sex with them, but he was well on his way within a few days.
And, yes, he was happy; the Group Home was a fun place, full of games, net-viewers, and a ton of new friends. Within a week, he was in a larger bedroom with four other boys. And, indeed, he could do whatever he wanted, sexually, with any of them, if they wanted. In the beginning, he felt his confinement; they never left the Home in any kind of normal outing, although he knew some of the others who had been there for over a month or two would be absent frequently; however while they never talked about what they did ‘outside’ with Jeremy (he knew they did talk about it amongst themselves, though), they seemed to enjoy it, and he was having his suspicions of what they did.
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Three months later, Jeremy had his own first outing. He was told he was going to visit an upper Caste man; he would be taken to a nice home and spend some time with him. By this time, Jeremy was automatically snuggling up with any man who worked at the centre; being affectionate and cute earned him all sorts of things, like outings to ride horses at the Group Home directors’ house, extra snacks, time in the hot-tub normally reserved for staff. He had lost interest in masturbation; he had never done it much, yet, but the interest seemed to somehow disappear a month or so ago. Nor did he remember having an erection in ages; the staff, though, told him this was fine, and with half the kids in the Home ball-less, nobody bothered him about what he was missing. It was pretty cool to never have to worry about hurting them, he had to admit, and curious boys or men were always trying to see if they could coax a boner out of him. He liked that! It felt nice, and he didn’t really understand why the boys with balls thought that the same actions felt so much better, just because they could get hard.
The only part he really disliked at all still was the one other surgery they did to him on his third week. They had done something to his butt; it felt all kind of weak back there ever since. He could hold his bowels, but sometimes it did seem like he was only just making it to the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if it was the sessions with the butt-plug he was having a few times a week or the surgery itself, but it didn’t hurt when they put things up there, although it didn’t really feel that good, either. But, never mind. They told him it was just training, that he would learn to not mind at all when men would play with him back there, and besides, he got a personal netviewer all his own when he took his training like a good boy. Darn few of the other kids had one of THOSE! Not even realizing he would have blushed furiously at doing so four months before, he proudly told his friends in the Home how he earned the viewer, delighting in their obvious jealousy. Suckers!
Mr. Davidson, the man who he went to visit on his first outing, was pretty cool, he decided. Kinda wierd, but nice. He was a real cuddler, it turned out, spending hours just touching him all over, petting him really; Jeremy loved the attention and reacted as well as he could, now being quite well trained to seek the appreciation of the men around him. He had never known before that upper Caste men could be gay; who would’ve known? But some were, it turned out, and Mr. Davidson turned out to really like boys like Jeremy. Even his feet; the man had played with just them for practically a whole hour! Jeremy giggled throughout the assualt.
He was a bit suprised when Mr. Davidson fucked him, though. None of the staff at the Home had done that, although they had said it would happen, eventually. He was cool with that, and Mr. Davidsons’ penis was certainly no bigger than the rubber things the staff members pushed into his bum so many times since that surgery. The man had sat on the couch, with Jeremy sitting on his lap, both facing the netviewer which was showing a crackling fire, as if there was wood burning in the set; never having seen a fire in a home, it seemed silly to Jeremy, who sat on the lap, being bounced by the man who seemed to constantly play with his tight scrotal skin while fucking the boy. Jeremy could tell he seemed to like the fact he had no balls. He wondered why, and whether or not it was this mans’ fault that they were gone.
Afterwards, he continued to just cuddle with Mr. Davidson, who seemed to explore every inch of him, obviously infatuated with him. He gave Jeremy a new pair of shoes, making a point of saying that they were the same size as he arrived at the Home wearing, and how he would never need a bigger size. Bullshit, thought Jeremy. All kids feet grow at my age, don’t they?
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Jeremy met a fair number of other men by the time he reached adulthood. By then he knew that it was perfectly OK for an upper Caste to be gay; they could be anything they wanted; as long as their businesses or governmental concessions were successfull, at least. Upon reaching age 18, the boy, now officially a man, still looked at most 12 or 13 years old, obviously not ready to enter the work-force. The GovMen who ran the Group Home knew he would be usable in the same way he had been thus far; they made sure he was moved into an adult Group Home that had the right clients to use him for as long as possible.
He had had no schooling since he was taken for being gay at age 11, though, but he wouldn’t need much more, they decided. He had adult male model potential, and they were putting him through acting classes, to see if he would be usable in ‘Net shows.
As happy as he seemed, it turned out, his freedom was virtually nil. He did as told; went where told; slept when told, and ate when told.
But, of course, he was freely pursuing being a gay male in his world; that’s what they told him, and that’s what he believed.
The ancients were right;
Ignorance is bliss.
End.
The author appreciates feedback; email me, without spaces, at stefan _ is _ me _ 09 at hot mail d.o.t. com