“How are you, Montagne? A few words about the procedure. I’m sure you know how this works, but nonetheless, I have to warn you that you might experience some discomfort for a few days, yes? The mouth is delicate area. No chewing, only cold broth and water for the next twenty four hours”. Mary-Ann says.
Very dark blue iris, bun-haired, full lips, his faithful purveyor of fleshdelight. She’s wearing thin Circle on the back of her left hand, even though she doesn’t have to: she’s not Feelie herself. Still. She redid it today: he can see the little pinprick in the centre, where she stuck the oldskool compass in her flesh. She does that everytime the two meet, like ritual, and he’s grateful.
“Goodydood, no problem, I know the drill”.
“Indeed you do”, the surgeon nods, placing two fingers on his internal slider, checking it’s downway. On the tray next to Montagne’s operating chair, sheets of greenish DermoNeural Culture soak in a jellified saline solution. They resemble tessellated leaves with pink hexagonal nervures plucked from some blood-orange tree. Mary-Ann gets them from Switzerland, grown in precise vats, top qual for skin grafts. Not stuff that can be found in beauty shops for thrills or dates.
Montagne is Feelie. A touch-addict with extra nerve endings grafted over his dermis. He covered his penis and genitals years ago, then the palm of his hands and the back of his neck. Did both his wrists recently, and today he’s back at clinic to have work done on his mouth. Epiglottis, buccal mucosa, down to part of his larynx.
He has sub-cutaneous slider on his right forearm that he caresses up or down to control level of responsiveness from his grafted DNC cutaneous layers, and to protect himself from overload. He may allow himself to gasp when he shakes hands. A crammed Caterpillar is bathing in carbonated water. A rave is random flashes of pleasure when he’s bumped into, when a noobeat-panting girl, or a man, brushes his arms with their hair. When in the shower, he tilts his head forward and lets droplets fall on his nape and it’s bliss.
Every day is one-notch upgame, a challenge to thin his defenses, to slide higher, to more. Rarely, very rarely, he even sets the controls to random, and he won’t know if this collision with a stranger on the pavement will burst his heart or have him come.
It may happen that some random personwill spot his Union symbol, the Circle, and tune in to his craving and play along, in an Underground train, breathing down his neck, letting themselves stumble and gripping his elbow. Such encounters are rare and ever-cherished, thanked with a beatific smile and a wink. They respond with a knowing smile coming off the train, and he wants to follow them home and buy them presents, dreaming of morphing into sofa for them to sit comfy in.