LOVE HURTS

by Peter Tennant

artwork by Carole Humphreys.

 Changing her name to Droid had seemed like a good idea, so Annie went ahead and did it.

 ‘Hello,’ she’d say, meeting someone for the first time. ‘My name is Anne Droid.’

 Then: ‘I’m a machine. Society won’t let me be a person.’

 Saying stuff like that really turned her on.

 Annie’s sisters in the Lysistrata League were not impressed however.

 ‘How can you expect to be taken seriously as a feminist when you resort to such cheap tricks?’ Sister Sally had wanted to know. ‘You make us all look silly.’

 ‘You don’t like my new name?’

 ‘No!’

 And the other Lizzies had agreed, so Annie told the Lizzies to go and fuck themselves. They’d done nothing for her and she didn’t need them.

 ‘It’s her money,’ Sister Sally explained when all the dust had settled. ‘You can’t expect someone in her position to relate to the problems of ordinary women. To her it’s all just a game.’

 Which was an unfair comment as Annie took her feminism very seriously indeed. She had been an ordinary woman herself at one time and in many ways she still was. It wasn’t her fault that she happened to be fabulously rich.

 In many ways Annie’s life had been the Cinderella story of modern times. Ever since she’d first developed breasts men had shown an interest in little Annie Armstrong, and she had made her way in the world through exploiting them, graduating from the role of high school good time girl to a fully fledged career in prostitution. When a billionaire industrialist had become obsessed with her favours and declared his undying love, Annie was able to appreciate both the irony and the romance of her situation. He had asked her to marry him and she had agreed. No sooner was the ink dry on his new will than the wealthy octogenarian had died of a massive coronary. At the time he and Annie had been engaged in a bout of strenuous activity that involved the imaginative use of a toffee apple and a bucket of whipped cream. Sweet Tooth, as Annie liked to call him, had died with a smile on his face. The will had been challenged by his relative and the court case had dragged on for several years, but at the end of it all Annie was left in charge of a considerable fortune.

 The Lizzies hadn’t approved of Annie’s past either. Men were just as much victims of the system as women and you weren’t supposed to exploit them. Most of the Lizzies were career women and middle class intellectuals, intent on making their own way and proud of it. As a group they found poor Sister Annie remarkably naïve about feminist issues and, although not intentionally so, their manner to her was often condescending. Admitting Annie in to the League was an act of charity many of them had come to regret and her abrupt departure was greeted with a voluble sigh of relief in some quarters. For her part Annie had soon become disillusioned with the Lizzies and their wet brand of feminism. Life on the game had exposed her to all the worst traits of the opposite sex and left Annie thoroughly prejudiced against them, though hiding her distaste came as easy to her as faking an orgasm had been during her active years. In Annie’s view men were arseholes and deserved all they got from women. When the time came for giving Annie would be at the head of the queue.

 Annie met the Professor at an exclusive Hollywood party, the kind you have to be either a dope fiend or a lesbian to attend, and preferably both.

 ‘Hello,’ she’d said, introducing herself to the Professor. ‘My name is Anne Droid.’

 ‘Sue Guthrie,’ replied the Professor without blinking. ‘I’m in to androids.’

 Annie wasn’t sure if this was an unsubtle put down or an equally unsubtle come on, and neither option held much interest for her. The Professor was about fifty pounds overweight, with thick, black greasy hair and spots; not her type at all.

 Later someone explained to her that the Professor really was in to androids. An experimental physicist working at Caltech, Sue Guthrie was one of the world’s leading authorities in the field of cybernetics. Everybody said what a shame it was that she’d been passed over for the Nobel Prize.

 Annie was so excited that that night she couldn’t sleep. In the morning she called the Professor and arranged to meet her for lunch.

 ‘I’d like you to make one for me,’ Annie explained over tea and caviar.

 ‘An android?’ inquired the Professor, her interest pricked.

 ‘Well actually,’ replied Annie, dredging the word up from her memory of an old Science Fiction story she’d read many years ago, ‘a killdroid…’

 So the Professor quit her job at Caltech and came to work for Annie in a labour of love. First impressions to the contrary, in the Professor Annie had found her perfect soul mate. Both the scientific establishment and academia were dominated by men, and Sue Guthrie’s experiences at their hands had left her all too ready to embrace Annie’s low opinion of the opposite sex. Given this deeply felt and shared world view it was almost inevitable that their professional relationship should carry over into the bedroom. The two women became lovers a week after their first meeting. The Professor started to lose weight and take more care with her appearance, while phrases such as ‘positronic brain’ and ‘alpha-beta wave sync’ began to crop up in Annie’s conversation with a regularity that her friends found daunting.

 They gave the android the name Marilyn, after the old time actress Marilyn Monroe whose life and tragic death Annie considered the perfect example of how women were used and discarded by men. She’d seen the actress’ biopic more than a dozen times, the last time in Sue Guthrie’s company, and it never failed to reduce her to tears. The android would avenge her namesake.

 Putting Marilyn on the drawing board took the best part of an afternoon. Getting her up and about took considerably longer; over fifteen months and close to a hundred million dollars. Annie had numerous business contacts courtesy of her dead husband and most of the work could safely be contracted out, but there were certain necessary refinements that only Annie and the Professor were privy to. To this end Annie supplied Sue Guthrie with what was probably one of the best equipped private laboratories in the world. Given a free hand and unrestricted funding the Professor produced the finest work of her career. Marilyn was to be her crowning achievement, the vindication of her life as a scientist and a woman.

 Annie was not altogether pleased when she saw the finished android for the first time. It was as if all the pieces in the jigsaw had finally come together but the resulting picture wasn’t anything like what was on the box.

 ‘She’s a stereotype.’

 ‘Men think in terms of stereotypes.’

 ‘She looks like a tart,’ said Annie, who hadn’t looked anywhere near as good even in her billionaire enticing heyday. ‘I imagined her with more personality.’

 ‘The kind of men we’re after aren’t interested in personality. They want big jugs.’

 Annie nodded and looked over the android again. Of course the Professor had to be right, but Annie still felt unsure what men would make of this blonde, leggy, fiercely mammalian Amazon.

 ‘She’s ideal for what we plan to do,’ said the Professor. ‘You’ll see.’

 The Professor was worried about Annie. Lately she’d begun to call her Marilyn when they were making love, as if the creation and its creator had become confused in her mind. When the error was pointed out to her Annie furiously denied that she’d said any such thing. The Professor feared that her lover was losing touch with reality.

 Marilyn functioned perfectly on her trial run. They sent her to the sleaziest bars in Los Angeles and followed her progress via an aerial minicam that all but the most diligent of observers would mistake for an insect in flight. Several men tried to pick her up but Marilyn was programmed to reject their advances without giving offence. She ignored the catcalls and the shouted offers of money for sex as she walked down The Strip and the cars cruised by. A police officer warned her of the dangers for a woman out on her own so late at night, much to Annie and the Professor’s amusement.

 On the second night a man in a singles dive just off Laurel Canyon Boulevard seemed reluctant to take no for an answer, but the bartender intervened before things could get out of hand. With mounting excitement Annie and the Professor watched as the man followed Marilyn out of the bar five minutes later.

 ‘This is it,’ said Annie.

 She switched to MANUAL and took control of Marilyn, trembling with barely suppressed excitement. The Professor stood behind her, eyes fixed on the telescreen and its unfolding chain of events. Annie guided Marilyn away from the bright lights and the crowded thoroughfares to an alley ideal for what both prey and predator intended.

 The man could have walked away but he quickened his pace and moved up alongside of Marilyn instead.

 ‘You live round here lady?’

 The man wore an expensive Italian suit and there was a gold Rolex on his wrist. He was over six foot tall and had the powerful physique of someone who worked out regularly with weights. His hair was dark, flecked with grey.

 The man seemed unsteady on his feet. Annie could detect the mingled notes of anger and desperation in his voice. He didn’t know what to do or say, and so soon he’d hit out instead.

 ‘What’s the matter bitch? Aren’t I good enough for you to talk to?’

 Marilyn turned and started to walk rapidly back the way she’d come.

 ‘Bitch.’

 Suddenly the man was standing in front of her and barring the way. He smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about the expression.

 ‘Let me by,’ said Marilyn.

 ‘Say please.’

 ‘Please let me by.’

 ‘I hate cunts like you. You come round here flaunting yourself, but when push comes to shove you don’t want to know. No-one’s good enough for you.’

 ‘Please let me by.’

 ‘Like some of this bitch?’ The man patted the bulge of his crotch. ‘Bet if I shoved my cock up your arse you’d sing a little sweeter.’

 The Professor snorted in disgust and Annie tightened her grip on the controls.

 The man hit Marilyn twice and the second blow knocked her off of her feet. He was on top of her before she could recover, his weight pinning her to the ground. Her dress was short and easily bundled up over her waist. She wore nothing underneath. The sight of her crotch seemed to drive him into a frenzy. The man hit her again, slamming her head back onto the concrete. He forced her legs apart, his nails brutally clawing at her genitals and thighs.

 ‘Do it now,’ urged the Professor.

 Annie ignored her. She waited until the man was inside Marilyn. It didn’t seem fair to deprive him of that small pleasure. Once penetration had been achieved Annie released control and sat back to watch with a serene smile on her face. Marilyn was being violated and her programming allowed her to respond in only one way.

 Marilyn’s arms and legs wrapped themselves around the man. At first he seemed to welcome this sign of reciprocal passion, thrusting into her with greater urgency. But then he started to writhe violently in her embrace. His head shot back, the muscles standing out on his neck and his eyes bulging in their sockets. Marilyn’s teeth sank into his unprotected throat, ripping the flesh away and spraying blood. She flexed herself once, twice. His spinal column snapped like a dry twig and the life went out of him.

 Getting to her feet Marilyn pushed the carcass aside. There was a gaping wound where his genitals had been. Marilyn’s vagina was lubricated with an acid capable of dissolving human flesh.

 The android was programmed to take an evasive route back to the Professor’s laboratory after making a kill. She returned in the early hours of the morning. The two women were waiting for her, anxiety and elation on their faces in almost equal measure.

 They stripped off Marilyn’s torn and bloodied clothing, rearranged her mussed hair, washed off the mud and dirt, smoothed the bruises from her perfect artificial skin, stopping over and over again to hug and kiss each other. Finally the Professor put on protective gauntlets and inserted her fingers in Marilyn’s vagina to swab out the putrescent mush that had once been the most essential part of a man.

 ‘Men are bastards,’ said Annie.

 ‘Who needs them?’ replied the Professor.

 ‘I love you.’

 The Professor smiled and stretched out her arms, but Annie walked straight past her to Marilyn. She embraced the android and kissed it passionately on the lips.

Watching this tender scene Sue Guthrie felt her heart begin to ache. It was as if a trapdoor had suddenly sprung open at her feet and she was now falling helplessly through endless space.

Melissa was walking on Wilshire Boulevard when the Cadillac pulled up outside an exclusive furriers and a woman who looked familiar got out. To judge by the wheels and the designer threads Annie had done well for herself in the years since they’d shared a cold water flat and a pimp while working the sandwich game on The Strip by night. It was every working girl’s dream, to marry a wealthy john.

‘Annie.’ Melissa called her name.

The woman turned to look at her but there was no sign of recognition in those cold, uncompromising eyes.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were somebody else.’

A sudden gust of wind tore away the scarf that covered the lower part of the woman’s face and Melissa stepped back in horror. The woman had no lips. Her teeth were cracked and charred black, the skin around them hideously burnt and deformed. The woman raised a bandaged hand to replace her scarf. There were two stumps where fingers should have been.