The A.V. Club

A Novel by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Soft Plague

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. Everything in this story is imaginary and is not meant to represent any real-life people, events, or medical conditions. It contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that's not your thing, or if reading this type of material is unlawful where you reside, don't read it. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older, even if it seems otherwise for dramatic or narrative purposes. Please enjoy this story responsibly and do not repost without permission. This story is copyright©2016 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

There was a tap on my bedroom door Saturday evening at seven-thirty. Dinner had been uneventful, if not particularly delicious, and I was clearing my mind studying.

"Yeah?" I called out.

"It's me," Alison replied. "We need to talk."

"Come in," I said, and she did. She was holding my tartan thermos.

"I need a refill," she said. She handed it to me. Sure enough, the jug was empty.

"You're going through that stuff pretty quickly," I said. "I told you to take it easy."

"I didn't chug it all in one day, Grandad," she said. "Just at mealtimes. And snack-times."

I looked at her. Alison's complexion was good, but she'd always been luckier than me in that respect. There was a distinct flush of health and an upbeat tone about her that was new, however. Her hair was more lustrous and her eyes were brighter. Her boobs didn't look any bigger, but it was still a little early for that.

I thought of my redheaded dickgirl friend in Buckner, Andrea Betts. I wondered if my kid sister ever worried about catching Seahag. I hefted the empty thermos; if she kept chugging back the J-juice like that, she'd never have to worry about that, ever.

"Okay," I said. "I'll have more for you tomorrow."

She opened her mouth, and I could already hear her comeback:See that you do, dorkface.

"Thanks," she said instead. She turned to go. "Oh, Mom says that guy you like is coming on PBS at eight."

"Which guy?"

"I don't know, she didn't say."

"Thank you," I said. "That's very helpful."

She rolled her eyes. "You're welcome, dorkface."

~~~

WhenBetween the Headlinescame on at eight, the 'guy I like' turned out to be the Canadian communications professor, Marshall McLuhan.

"Allright,"I exclaimed, plunking myself down in my dad's chair. This would be a rare treat.

The interviewer asked McLuhan right off the bat what he considered to be the greatest inventions in human history. He rhymed them off right away: the wheel, written language, the printing press and the electromagnetic circuit.

"The wheel allowed our primitive forebears to extend our capabilities in physical space." As always, his speaking voice was dry, polished and weirdly noncommittal, as though he were discussing the weather. "For the first time, we could travel further than our feet could take us, and carry more than our backs could bear. Written language allowed us to extend our memories, via the external storage of data. Amassing previously unimaginable stores of information - libraries - became possible. We were even able to conquer time, after a fashion - writing down our ideas, or even literally carving them in stone, allowed our intellectual products to extend beyond our own lifetimes."

The man spoke in dense syllogisms that were pure brain candy for me. He was an anarchic and delightfully intellectual shot in the arm to the dumbed-down world of sixties television.

"The printing press," he went on, "allowed for more than just the rapid dissemination of information. It created national identities. For the first time, nations had an informedreading public. People read and wrote about their shared concerns and fears. Publics discovering their commonality of experience, that quickly, only became possible in the Gutenberg age."

My mother looked up from her Agatha Christie. "I don't know what you see in this man, Bobby. I have no idea what he's talking about."

"Shh," I said. Mom and I had the living room to ourselves. Alison was yakking on the phone in the kitchen while Dad was in the basement making one of his topographical sand tables of the county. It was work-related, but also one of his hobbies. My siblings and I were expressly forbidden from going down there while he was working on them.

Professor McLuhan was still holding forth. "Modern electronics allow us to conquer both space and time in an even more profound way. It has made the Gutenberg communication revolution both worldwide and instantaneous. The national reading public has become a globalviewingpublic. A trueglobal village."

I hung on his every word. I was a little bummed Alison was hogging the phone. I would have liked to have called Emily or Frank (Donnie, Jack and Mark were all working) and let them know McLuhan was on, but I didn't want to miss a second of this.

The interview ranged over several topics, and the format allowed him to answer at length. It was great. The host asked about McLuhan's concepts of 'hot' versus 'cool' media and he obliged.

"Ahotmedium, like movies or print, comes with a great deal of sensory information baked in, whereas a cool medium, like the telephone or the telegraph, requires the user to 'cook' more of the sensory content in for themselves."

"How would you respond to critics calling your ideas subversive?"

"I would disagree. I don't believe I'm subverting anything. And truly subversive ideas tend inspire silence rather than debate."

From there, it went on to a discussion of the nature of what different cultures consider subversive, or taboo. The interviewer put forth that the tenets of the radical Left were America's biggest taboo at the moment, and pointed out the recent riots in New York and on the West coast to prove it.

That's when McLuhan dropped his bomb.

"I would disagree," he said in his matter-of-fact tone. "The most taboo subject in America today manifestly isn't communism or civil rights, but rather Acquired Xenogenic Andromorphism."

My jaw dropped, and so did the interviewer's. His professional demeanor went with it.

"Seahag Syndrome?"he squawked, agog.

"Of course," McLuhan said in his usual imperturbable fashion. "Here we have a condition that affects over one-and-a-half million women and girls at last count, and yet, receivesnoattention in the newspapers nor any other news media. It's incredible. And it receives no attention from the scientific community, either. After twenty-five years of inconclusive research, they have, more or less, thrown in the towel. No one is investigating AXA these days."

"Well," stammered the host, "it's hardly considered a fit subject for serious...consideration. It's um, not a life-threatening condition."

"Yes, but it is alife-alteringcondition, and surely not just for the women who have it, but the people around them as well. I am very curious as to how these communities adapt to their presence. There is no way their impact could not have been profound."

"Hardly that," said the interviewer quickly. "These are simply women with a...condition. It's inconvenient to them, of course, but no one is dying from it."

"And yet," answered McLuhan, "aside from some very fringe pornography and the tawdrier tabloids, there is no mention of it inanyAmerican media. This is doubly telling when it is clearly a topic ripe for sensationalism. It is a phenomenon that is both ubiquitous and invisible in Middle America. It's fascinating - a widespread affliction that no one talks about. A plague that everyone seems content to ignore. A soft plague."

That phrase -soft plague- resonated with me. I got chills.

"Perhaps," struggled the host, looking very much like he wished he was elsewhere, "they don't talk about it because there's nothing to say. The women who have it simply go about their lives as best they can. Despite their unique...handicap."

"But then why all these restrictions? The so-called Jane Grow laws. If these are just ordinary women with a handicap, as you say, surely there is no reason to prohibit them access to the full range of opportunities other women have."

"You raise some very interesting points, professor." The interviewer was holding a hand to his ear, clearly listening to a producer on his earpiece. "However, seeing as our time is limited, I'd like to steer us back to some points you made in your bookUnderstanding Media,about format versus content."

"Certainly," McLuhan said amiably.

They discussed media and messages for the next ten minutes, bringing the hour-long program to a close.

"Well," said the host, looking noticeably relieved, "that's all the time we have for tonight's episode ofBetween the Headlines.I'd like to thank Professor McLuhan for a stimulating and informative conversation."

"You're very welcome," McLuhan said politely. "Thank you."

The station cut to the next program, a Boston Pops concert.

I continued to stare at the screen for a few moments without really looking. I was stunned.

"They pulled the plug," I said wonderingly.

My mother looked up from her book. "I beg your pardon?"

"Professor McLuhan was talking about..." I caught myself before I saiddickgirlsto my mother. "Never mind. It was a good show."

"That's nice, Bobby, I'm glad you liked it." She was already back in her book.

I was buzzing. I looked towards the kitchen. Alison was still talking. I wanted to call my friends, but I couldn't commandeer the phone without explaining why. I shot to my feet.

"I'm heading out for a drive. I'll be back soon."

"That's fine, dear," she said without looking up fromOrdeal by Innocence.

~~~

I drove out to Caruso's Pizzeria and Italian Bakery. It was a two-storey building sitting on its own out on county road 232 near the township line. Donnie and his family lived on the second floor.

It was Saturday night, and the place was packed. Chattering working-class families in casual shirtsleeves stuffed the booths while teenagers on dates sat at small round tables with red-check tablecloths. I looked around but Donnie was not in sight. I guessed they had him working in the kitchen.

Around a corner from the main dining area there was a pay phone by the restrooms. Travel posters of Rome and the leaning tower of Pisa flanked it. I dropped a dime in the slot and dialed Frank's number.

"'Ello?" It was Frank's dad. His parents had thick deep-woods Louisianan accents. They were authentic Cajuns who came up north to take jobs at the big Indian Creek distillery in nearby Bethel. One of the managers was a cousin on his dad's side. Frank grew up fluent in French. It was another reason the local jackasses called him Frog Boy.

"Hello Mr. Audette. It's Bobby. Is Frank around?"

"Ey Bobby." He always pronounced it Bob-bee."Yuh, he here. One moment."Unh momaun.

Frank came on and blurted out, "Bobby, did you seeBetween the Headlinestonight?"

"That's what I was callingyouabout. I'm amazed they broadcast it."

"It was live. They had no choice. Did you see how the host received instructions to derail the AXA conversation?"

"Wow, you caught that?"

"I'm not blind." He paused. "Though I understand how that might surprise you."

"How did you even know Marshall McLuhan would be on? I only found out at the last minute."

"You do know that TV guides exist, correct?"

"Sorry, did I call Mark by mistake?"

"Hilarious," Frank said dryly. "I always read mine cover-to-cover. You should too. That way you can plan your TV hours accordingly."

"You really do that?"

"Sure. I budget five hours per week for television."

I blinked. "That's less than half an hour a day."

"Well, I only watch the news,Between the HeadlinesandStar Trek.And maybe a rerun ofThe Twilight Zoneif it's on."

I thought of something. "Do you think McLuhan knew what he was doing? I mean, he must have known he was stirring up a hornets' nest by mentioning Seahag."

"It's possible, but just as likely he didn't know. He's a foreigner, after all. That's why I never miss'Headlines.Their live format allows for some hilarious stuff. About a year ago Norman Mailer lost his temper on air and swore at the host for three minutes straight."

"Wow."

I remembered why I called. "Anyway, did you hear what McLuhan called Seahag Syndrome?"

"The 'soft plague,' yes. An evocative, if somewhat inaccurate title."

"Whaddeya mean?"

"More often than not, Dickgirls are hard."

I brayed laughter into the phone. Part of it was how keyed-up I was, part of it was how surprising it was to hear that from Frank.

To clarify: what Frank and I had just witnessed had never happened once in our lifetimes. A well-respected television pundit had not only addressed Seahag Syndrome live on air, but also criticized the Jane Grow laws on humanitarian grounds. This was unheard-of. That andJointmagazine defying the censors made me feel like the world was changing around me, and in some pretty momentous ways. I could almost feel it shifting under my feet. It was disorienting and thrilling. I felt like whooping and hollering and dancing.

I saw Donnie walk past the mouth of the corridor, wearing his busboy's whites. I waved. "Donnie!"

He looked up, saw me and came over.

"What's up?" he asked. "And please don't tell me you've got more bad news."

I shook my head. "The opposite. Check this out, Marshall McLuhan was onBehind the Headlinestonight." I lowered my voice. "He talked about dickgirls."

"What?" Donnie's eyes went wide with shock. Now that he wasn't wearing those thick lenses anymore, I could actually see his eyes. They were deep brown and flecked with tan around the pupil. "No way."

"The host changed the subject pretty quick," I said. "But not before McLuhan criticized Jane Grow."

"You're shitting me," Donnie exclaimed.

I could hear Frank squawking through the handset. I lifted it.

"Sorry," I told him. "Here's Donnie." I handed Donnie the phone. "It's Frank."

"Frank, hi," said Donnie. I could hear the yammering in his ear. Knowing Frank, he was probably recounting McLuhan's words verbatim. His memory is that good.

"You're shitting me," Donnie exclaimed again. "Thesoft plague?"

I nodded and grinned as Frank's yammering grew emphatic.

"Damn," said Donnie. "I can't believe I missed that."

I thought of something. "Is Mark here?"

Donnie shook his head. "Out on deliveries. But he only had a couple, he should be back soon." Frank buzzed in Donnie's ear. "What? Okay, I'll ask him." He looked at me. "Frank wants to know if you can pick him up and bring him here."

"Sure," I said.

~~~

Frank's home, like Jack's, sat at the end of a winding dirt road. Unlike Jack's, it wasn't so far into the boonies that he couldn't ride his bike to and from school and work. Caruso's was out of his range.

The Audette house started life as a single-story shack back in the forties. It had been added onto many times over the years. Extensions and renovations were a shared family obsession; every spring and fall there would be a renewed burst of construction. It was still a bungalow, but now itsprawled.It had wings and decks in every direction. I knew for a fact the place was structurally sound (Frank's family were capable), but it still looked ramshackle as hell.

The house, and all its apparently haphazard additions, were why the Audettes were politely regarded by some as eccentric, and less politely regarded by others as batshit crazy. When they came up from Louisiana they never fully integrated into their new environs and mostly kept to themselves. It was a shame. They were nice people. They were nothing but friendly and hospitable to me and all of Frank's other friends and his mom's cooking was fantastic, if a tad spicy.

Frank was waiting out front next to his family's two pickups. He broke into a jog the second the bananamobile turned the last s-bend and came into the yard.

I reached over and opened the door for him and he practically leaped inside.

I'd never seen him so energized. "I called your house ten times after the show," he said. "I kept getting a busy signal."

"Alison," I said with a shrug. "Running up Mom and Dad's phone bill, as usual."

He looked disapproving. "You should talk to her about that."

I laughed. "Maybe you should try. I'm sure she'd listen to you."

"I don't think that would be my place."

I grinned. Frank failing to recognize sarcasm made me feel like the world was stable and understood.

~~~

When Frank and I got back to Caruso's, the Beast was parked out front. Mark had finished his current round of deliveries. He and Donnie were having an animated conversation at the side of the building.

Frank and I hopped out and joined them. Mark had a stunned expression as he turned to face us.

"Did McLuhan really say 'dickgirls' live on air?"

"What?" I yelped. "No."

"I didn't say hesaidit," said Donnie. "I just said hementionedthem."

"He did more than mention them," said Frank. "He brought them up as a major point he was making about the nature of cultural taboos."

"Yeah," I chortled. "And the host looked like he was about to shit kittens."

"Well if he didn't say 'dickgirls,' what did he say?" asked Mark impatiently.

"He called it the soft plague," Frank said reverently. "The way the whole dickgirl phenomenon has meshed into the social fabric of Middle America. He gave it aname."

A gleam ignited in Mark's eyes.

"I don't know what that means," he said. "But it sounds awesome."

"It might have been a backhanded reference to William S. Burroughs' novelThe Soft Machine,"noted Donnie. "I wonder if that's what McLuhan had in mind."

"But what does it mean?" asked Mark.

"The 'soft machine' was a metaphor for the human body," said Donnie. "It's a really weird book."

"No," said Mark impatiently, "what the hell does 'soft plague' mean?"

"Supposedly," I explained, "Seahag Syndrome is this big blight upon the land. At least, that's the official position. But it's a blight no one's keen to resolve." I shrugged. "A soft plague."

"It totally describes the way dickgirls have quietly become subsumed into our society and culture," said Frank excitedly. "By the outlaw sub-culture that's formedaroundthem. Officially frowned upon, but socially accepted...conditionally. This is the first time anyone has addressed that on national television."

"Wow." Mark looked a little overwhelmed. "Times really are a-changing, huh?"

I could tell he had that same sense of the world shifting under his feet that I did. I nodded. "Big time."

"Jack needs to know this," said Donnie abruptly.

"He works until midnight, Saturdays," said Mark. "They always make him stay for clean-up after the late show."

"And you got more deliveries waiting in there." Donnie nodded toward Caruso's. "I'm bussing tables til at least eleven."

"No problem," I said, clapping Frank on the shoulder. "We'll come in and wait with you."

~~~

Frank and I got a booth. We split a large pizza and slowly ate our way through it as we talked. Every now and again Donnie would come by and chat with us as he cleared tables.

As the big decorative Leaning Tower of Pisa clock on the wall inched along, the restaurant slowly emptied. By ten-forty-five, Frank and I were the last patrons. We helped Donnie and Mark with the clean-up and then headed out for the Admiral. Mark, Donnie and Frank went in the Beast while I followed in the bananamobile.

The A.V. Club - Chapter 22

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