Levels: The Host (8 page)

The me is not the body
....

And so here they stood, donor and host, Watly and the Stranger. They were still leaning against that same East Fifty-seventh Street upright, occasionally covering the hosting cuff with a casual brush of the hands. Watly had gone from acute awareness of his situation, to his mental chanting, to reciting history, and back to awareness again. Hard as it was to admit, he was actually growing bored. Who knows how long they’d been standing there. The donor seemed quite content to lean back and watch the First Level world go by through Watly’s eyes. Occasionally he’d fix his borrowed vision on a passing rear end or thinly covered bosom. Both sexes were ogled. Again Watly would sense a twinge in his donor’s rented genitals and an unfamiliar tensing of the groin muscles. The fellow was hot to trot.
All right already—let’s get on with it,
Watly thought.
Don’t be
a chicken!

At that moment, the donor leaned forward from the girder. The movement was so abrupt Watly at first thought the donor had heard his thinking. But no. There was a wall between them. It was an impenetrable mental shield. They had a sense of each other’s presence but nothing more. In fact, Watly was at the advantage in this department. At least he had the donor’s behavior to go on. The donor had nothing but
the body.

Watly realized they were turning and had begun to walk swiftly. The donor’s pace and footing were strong and sure now. After a few blocks it became clear what direction they were heading. Watly and the donor were going southwest—into the heart
of Sexsentral.

CHAPTER 8

I
t took Watly’s donor only a few minutes to walk from that girder on Fifty-seventh to an entrance into Sexsentral. They headed rapidly down Sixth Avenue, wending through the thickening crowds. During the short walk, Watly wondered if he should feel happy for the change of scenery, or nervous about what might happen next. He settled on an uncomfortable combination of
the two.

Watly had never been in Sexsentral. In his one month of Manhattan living he had avoided the entire area. It extended from the Riverwall on the west over to Fifth Avenue, and from Fiftieth Street down to Twenty-third. Of course, there was some spillover into other neighborhoods, but that was
basically it.

A rusty old banner announcing the zone stretched from upright to upright above them as they entered. There was an abandoned guard box standing to the left of them as they passed under the banner. It looked like someone had made the box into a home. Watly knew there were banners across every street and avenue that entered Sexsentral.
Now Entering Sexsentral
, they said in glowing red letters.
No one under puberty permitted
. In the old days, the police had enforced that. There would have been guards posted in the boxes, ready to check for authentic pubic hair on anyone who looked too young. Now, it was just silly. Watly couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone who looked under twenty-five, let alone near puberty. There was no need for
guards now.

Entering Sexsentral was like entering a different country. The crowds were much heavier, but there were no tenters at all. Gaudy signs and drifting floaters of increasing explicitness became more prominent overhead. Watly’s donor had to duck more than once to avoid them. Some of the floaters had lost their program and never been repaired. These bounced about overhead out of control. Mangy-looking cats scattered as Watly’s body approached. Street vendors sold porn and high- and low-tech sexual devices. A lot of the daylites had been vandalized or shot out, so the lighting was sporadic. One got the feeling of a perpetual evening lighting setting. Lots of hosting-cuff-wearers meandered by. This made Watly feel better. All around him he could see others with trapped consciousnesses inside—consciousnesses praying fiercely that theirs was a wise and gentle donor. A donor with a lot of luck. Naturally, the area was bustling with men and women who didn’t have cuffs, as well. Some locals and some probably from outside of Manhattan on visitor’s passes. Sexsentral was a very popular place and attracted
all types.

Watly’s donor went quickly past the crowds near the Rockefeller Center area and cut across Forty-eighth Street to Seventh Avenue. On the corner of Forty-seventh and Seventh was an enormous bar called The Prick. The door to the saloon was shaped like some generic thick-lipped human orifice. Vagina or sideways mouth—hard to say. Probably vagina. Every ten seconds or so a gigantic phallus the size of a bus came thrusting out of the opening onto the street. The donor stood staring at it for a moment, obviously taken with the display. Watly was equally impressed. It was an incredible effect. The phallus was very realistic. It must have been made of some kind of heavy-duty neoskin. The doorway was flexible and would bow outward slightly with each
lengthy thrust.

The donor watched for a while longer as a few customers went inside. They were not having an easy time of it. To enter the saloon, one had to wait for the phallus to withdraw and then, at just the right moment, dive through the hole. Watly supposed that if you missed you’d either be shoved outward or crushed against the side of the opening. Dicked
to death.

Watly’s donor stepped forward and approached the entrance. It was apparent he intended to go inside.
I hope your reflexes have improved,
Watly thought. The donor’s eyes tracked the huge thrusting organ for a few moments in what seemed like an attempt to gauge the timing. In-out. In-out. Standing that close to the gigantic display gave a strange impression. It felt to Watly as though they were all inside an enormous woman. Inside a vagina, looking out. The street, everyone here, Manhattan
itself
, were being screwed. And not very delicately.
We are being raped, not fucked. This is not a niceness, this is a nastiness.
That was probably the effect intended, Watly realized. And then Watly felt his body leaping into the almond-shaped doorway. It was an awkward, sideways dive—flying out of the womb—both arms outstretched, hands fisted. They landed with a thud on a hard metal floor and felt the blast of air as the penis sped behind them.
Cleared it by a mile,
Watly thought.
That’s
my donor!

In the next few hours, Watly’s donor—and by association Watly—had three strong shots of booze, two women, and one man. Quite
an afternoon.

The same-sex sex had thrown Watly. When his donor had purchased a male’s services, he had mentally cringed. In principle it was fine with him, but he was troubled by the approaching reality of it. Watly had always been comfortable with his heterosexuality, but he wondered if what his body was about to do would somehow compromise that. Was this some kind of threat to his masculinity?
His straightness?

Apparently it was a very common thing for donors to try. Though not illegal, among the upperfolk homosexuality was considered bad form compared to straight sex. It was not officially sanctioned. It was accepted and ignored up there, as long as one did not engage in it openly or admit to it publicly. Very First Level kind of behavior, don’t you see. So naturally, anyone on Second Level who was so inclined would give it a shot while a donor, so as to keep his/her reputation intact. Watly had been prepared for this. On some level, he’d expected it. He’d felt a tad hinky about it, but he’d expected it. And, as it turned out, the experience was not as devastating as he’d imagined. It was actually quite mundane. Boring, even. Though not aroused by it, Watly certainly didn’t find it sickening. It was just another body and another empty sex act. The smell of sex, the heavy breathing. One more sweaty person and one more
sweaty climax.

The me is not the body
....

The straight sex was no better. Watly thought his donor’s technique was surprisingly unimaginative. He found himself mentally coaching. The donor’s style was rough and simple. There was no joy involved.
Don’t be so serious
.
Have fun with it!
Watly wanted to say.
This isn’t supposed to be work. This is play. Slow down, fella.

It was remarkable how differently the stranger used Watly’s body—especially at a time like this. There was an awkwardness to the movements, an extreme clumsiness, and an almost brutal aggressiveness involved in the whole act. Beginning to end. It was all about genitals and nothing more.
Look at her face, my friend. She’s pretty. Look into her eyes. Kiss her. Inhale her. Make some kind of contact. You don’t do this
to
her, you do this
with
her.
See
her. Celebrate the sex. And look! Breasts! Aren’t breasts wonderful?
But the donor kept his borrowed eyes closed and his face buried in the pillows. Eventually Watly gave up the cheerleading and let his mind drift away. He settled, finally, on an image of Dr. Tollnismer and her
brilliant smile.

Watly sensed each physical orgasm as if it were far away and belonged to someone else. After all, it was and
it did.

The donor had paid for sex with the man and the first woman. Watly had glimpsed a huge pile of bills in the shoulder bag as his own hands pulled out payments and tips. The second woman had not been a professional. No money changed hands. She and the donor had engaged in a Sexsentral “layperson’s lay.” With so many different types out seeking pleasure, this was
not uncommon.

After the drinking and the sex, Watly’s donor rode the big prick out of The Prick and began to wander the streets of Sexsentral. It was dripping heavier than it had been earlier. Had Watly been in charge, he would have pulled out a hat for protection, but he really didn’t mind going without. The donor didn’t even know Watly had a hat, having never checked the pockets. Oh, well. If the donor didn’t mind getting dripped on every few steps, then neither did Watly. Fine and
bolehole dandy.

The booze had left Watly slightly light-headed, but fortunately not drunk. When the drinking first began, Watly had had another panic attack.
Don’t get us drunk, my friend. Please keep your head. Our head.
But the three drinks spread over time (and a lot of bouncy-wouncy) had only loosened them up a bit. Watly had been deeply grateful the donor hadn’t gone farther. That could have been dangerous. The moderation probably hadn’t been out of any sense of responsibility. No, more likely the donor hadn’t wanted to jeopardize his sexual gymnastics. Three times in as many hours could sometimes be difficult enough sober. As they walked, Watly wondered if maybe this hosting would be wearing off soon. It must have been over four hours already. Maybe it would end shortly. Maybe he’d
get out.

The thought of being free soon—of being in control again—gave Watly another powerful spasm of claustrophobia.
Think narrowly,
Watly.
He pulled his mental reins and started
the chant.

The me is not the body.

The me is not the body.

The me is neither hand nor face nor sex.

The me is Watly Caiper, I.

(A sense of self.)

The body is an it.

The body is a that.

It could belong to another.

For the me is a movable thing.

The me is a movable thing.

The donor was heading west to a more desolate area of Sexsentral. He seemed to be wandering aimlessly. Killing time. Looking
for action.

There were fewer daylites in this area, and those that did work were in bad disrepair. It was obvious no one—person or machine—had been around to clean in a while, if ever. The streets were filthy and there were piles of garbage in huge drifts against some of the buildings. Wild cats were everywhere. A few floaters careened wildly overhead, bouncing against buildings, girders, against the dark, corroded-looking ceiling, and against each other. There were hardly any other pedestrians in the area. Unattractive people of both sexes (and some in-between) stood in the shadows of doorways and whispered, “Sets! Good sets! You wanna have sets?” as the donor passed. When they were a few steps behind they’d yell up ahead to their associates, “Hosting comin’ up on ya! Cuffer comin’ up with
a bag!”

Watly was getting hinky. They were on Forty-fourth Street approaching Eleventh Avenue. This was not the best of neighborhoods.
Don’t get any stupid ideas, donor. How about we
turn back?

Watly became aware that his body was sweating and his breathing was shallower. At first he thought it was his own fear showing. Then he realized it was the donor. The donor was scared. Or was it excitement? It was hard to tell. The two emotions had similar manifestations. Watly saw the dark street zip back and forth as the donor began scanning rapidly. The eyes
blurred some.

“Cuffer comin’ up wit’
a bag!”

“You wan’ sets, mister?”

“Hey donor! Wan’ some
sets cheap?”

“Low-tech sets right here on the street? I make you
happy good.”

An unmanned copper whizzed by, going too fast to do anyone any good. Watly’s feet kept walking.
Where are you heading, you sofdick beanhead?
he thought.
You want to get us killed?
At least try to cover the cuff. And
the bag.

“Donor moving up
on ya!”

“Sets?”

Just when Watly thought the donor might reconsider the dangers of the neighborhood, they turned and headed down an alley that was even darker than the street. A few shadowy forms moved about up ahead. The donor squinted but kept on. To the left and right were more piles of garbage and pieces of scrap metal. Chunks of broken cemeld lay in powdery mounds. The shadowy figures moved closer. Soft mewings of a new litter came from some
far corner.

“What you got inna bag, cuffer?”

“The bag for
some sets?”

“You a pain-freak, donor?”

Watly felt trickles of sweat dribbling down his back. Still more drops came down his forehead and stung his eyes. Whatever the donor was feeling, the guy was feeling it strongly.
For rape’s sake, don’t turn into a pain-freak on me, fella. I like excitement as much as the next person—dangerous neighborhoods, strange characters—but I’ve had my fill today,
thank you.

Watly was on the verge of another chant recital when his donor tripped over a pipe and fell head first into an oily puddle. There was a soggy splash. And thump. Watly was temporarily stunned. Nothing seemed to be seriously hurt. Then there was a frenzied sound of footsteps rushing forward and within seconds Watly could tell they were closely surrounded. Lots of them. A terradamn crowd. The shoulder bag was violently ripped from
his arm.

Watly’s donor turned and half sat up, leaning on one arm. Watly’s eyes slowly scanned the faces. All around were strange and frightening people. They wore tattered clothing in browns and blacks and grays, but all had extremely ornate makeup on. Bright splashes of abstract shapes in vivid colors covered each face. Masklike. Most of these creatures were of indeterminate gender. They looked dangerous—coiled. Behind the paint they had hatred in their eyes. They seemed to be waiting for Watly’s donor to make a move—any move at all. One of them was ripping open the shoulder bag and spilling out what remained of the donor’s money. It looked like a lot—thousands, maybe.