The Paramour Project

         The red light districts of America had long ago earned the seedy reputation as filthy, dangerous pigpens for lustful men to satisfy the internal growl that decades of mundane marriage had suppressed. The pious shook their heads in disgust and hastened their amble to avoid any contact with the sinful strip, lest Satan himself seize them by the wrist and drag them to the innermost layers of his infernal kingdom via the nearest cathouse where busty, hollow succubi arched their backs against fingerprinted and smeared mirrors like scantily-clad lionesses, arrogantly stretching after the first hunt of the day.

         When the dancer wrapped her legs around a pole and spun around with a ballerina’s grace, thrust her perky, bare bosom into the faces of engrossed patrons, and gyrated upon her customer’s exposed lap to the rhythm of a steely, grinding metal song, one could swear that the wanton Lilith had somehow possessed this ordinary woman and transformed her into a sultry, hungry demon leaning in to devour the man’s soul. In a way, she would, and once the unsuspecting client could just barely feel the remainder of his humanity slipping between her cruel, gleaming lips, she would pilfer his frantically-beating heart and hide it away in the cold metal locket around her little neck.          

         For a small added fee, the smitten man could possess this woman for a short while with all heads turned away from the illegal activities in the back room. As long as he paid her adequately, she would do anything that he asked. She had lost her modesty long ago and by the end of the night, it hardly mattered to her who had seen her nude as long as she walked out of that club with a loaded pocket.
         However, the only ones who appeared to take note of the dangers of the clubs were the stage girls. Managers ignored the drunk patrons, even when the ladies were assaulted during the shows. Glass boxes protected some girls during their shifts, but helped little outside of work. Men often ended up stalking some of the workers,  threatening them, or even raping them. Traveling home was often the most hazardous part of the job.

         To the relief of the peep show industry, Hellene Erving, a virtual reality specialist and former call girl who was quite familiar with the perils of  risqué business, developed a computer program that sparked a revolution in many red light districts: women could pre-record their acts to be used as the night’s entertainment. While the bar was closed for the daylight hours, the dancers scheduled appointments to arrive at work and perform for a high-quality camera. Once the establishment opened for customers, a rather lifelike projection of the girl would appear and give her nightly performance. The customers did not take to the idea at first, revolting against paying for an unreal female, but as the trend of projectors spread, the patrons had limited options. 

         By 2032, the program had taken a step further; private appointments between client and call girl had been perfected. The patron was to recline nude in a large chair and wear a set of goggles connected to a computer. A series of small electrodes would then be attached to the sensitive regions and pleasure receptors of the body. Once he was fully wired, he could choose any computer-generated male or female, environment, and kink he wished for. All the while, an operator sat behind a two-way mirror with the computer’s controls. When the man would speak, the artificial intelligence of the program could return conversation. The simulation made the patron feel as if he were actually in the situation thanks to the receptors and interactive characters. However, while it was safer for the live girls, who made plenty of money from their daily recording sessions, the program soon proved to be far from flawless.
         
              Mister Harold Tuckett befriended his tragedy at a virtually invisible hole-in-the-wall club that appeared to be nothing more than a brick wall in the middle of a strip of shady downtown head shops and bars. The general area was filthy. The windows in the shabby buildings boasted a layer of thick grime and a few cracks here and there. Some shop keepers attempted to give the illusion of care by wiping down the glass, only to leave abrupt, murky streaks. Miami had a tendency to remain cloudy thanks to frequent Florida rainstorms and when the sun occasionally peeked through the clouds, a large interstate bridge cast its towering shadow across the strip as if attempting to hide the buildings in shame. The only remarkable feature of Mister Tuckett’s favored club was a buzzing neon sign that scrawled “Absinthe” in tacky aqua cursive.

         Mister Tuckett had been a faithful and frequent patron of Absinthe for at least two years. His marriage had begun falling into the pits of monotony and he felt that, as a hard-working business man with two noisy, disrespectful pre-teenaged children and a cold, frowning wife, he deserved a bit of leisure time and Absinthe offered just the sanctuary he sought. He would sit down, toss back a few shots, and occasionally observe a dancer from his distance at the bar. Tonight he caught himself staring blankly into the wooden bar counter, arms folded.
         “Not orderin’ tonight, darlin’?”

         Tuckett lifted his head and found himself  staring into the large, brown doe eyes of the bartender. “Oh, uh, just the usual, Junebug.”

         She grinned happily, her thickly-applied pink lipstick giving the illusion of her lips stretching twice as wide as they normally should. “One tonic ‘n gin comin’ right up,” she chirped in a twangy Southern drawl. Her Daisy Dukes rode up slightly as she stretched on tiptoe to reach the dusty gin bottle on a high shelf. Junebug was rather short, maybe reaching five feet at best, with a slender body and a tiny chest with which she attempted to cause an illusion of deeper cleavage by tying her handkerchief-patterned top up under the bottoms of her breasts. She often kept her shaggy, ruddy hair in short pigtails and her make-up barely covered the spatter of dark freckles across her nose and cheeks. To Tuckett, she seemed too child-like to be sexually attractive.

         Each girl at Absinthe enjoyed having a character. For Junebug, it was the Georgia peach.

         “Here ya go, honey!” She happily set the glass in front of him, winked, and blew a kiss. Tuckett blushed and sighed.

         He slid two dollar bills towards the little barmaid. “I know what you want, June.”

         She giggled childishly and tucked the bills in her barely-existent cleavage. “Thank ya very much, kind Mister. Maybe one o’ these days you’ll pay that tab o’ yers.”

         Tuckett simply snorted in reply. Junebug shook her head and merrily skipped off to respond to a summoning co-worker.

         Tuckett rubbed his eyes with his palms, lingering with the balls of his hands pressed against his eyelids. “Lord, there’s no way that little girl is twenty-one,” he muttered under his breath.

         “She’s not.”

         Tuckett slowly lowered his hands and looked to his left to see a tall, leather-clad blond on the stool next to him, resting her back against the bar counter and holding a bottle of beer. “Pardon?”

         The blonde scowled, seemingly a bit annoyed by Tuckett’s inquiry. “I said, she’s not twenty one. That little brat’s only nineteen.”

         Tuckett furrowed his brows. He was not so sure that he liked this woman. “Then isn’t it illegal for her to be serving liquor?”

         The tall woman laughed in a fashion that sounded more like a scoff than a sound of amusement. “You’re questioning the legal and moral values of a titty bar?” She shook her head in amusement and took a large swig of her beer.

         “Guess you’ve got a point there.” He wished this woman would stop harassing him. He had come to Absinthe to be left in seclusion.

         “You know, I see you in here a lot. Don’t you have a life? You know, kids and a wife and crap like that?”

         Tuckett remained silent and shrugged, hoping it would deter her from further conversation. He picked up his glass to drink.

         The blonde giggled maliciously. “Oh, I get it. The Missus can’t raise the flags anymore.”

         Tuckett slammed his glass down. “Will you just stop it?”

         The blonde went silent for a moment. “You know, I know something that can pull you out of that mood pretty fast. I’ll even give you a fifty-percent first customer discount.”

         “Will it get you to shut up and leave me alone?”

         “You should be more polite when speaking to a lady,” she chided in mock disgust.

         Tuckett sneered. “Since when were we discussing good values in a titty bar?”

         The blonde slammed her beer down, ignoring the retort and stood up, practically lifting Tuckett to his feet. “Follow me.”  She again dragged him behind her, weaving through the drunken patrons and to a secluded back room. The only things in the small, empty room were a wall mirror and a reclining chair like one that would be found in a dentist’s office. A variety of odd wires were suspended on the chair’s back.

         “I’m going to need you to please remove your clothing and take a seat in this chair.” She nodded her head towards the seat in the middle of the room.

         “Why would I need to take off my clothes?” Tuckett was not enthused by the idea of sitting nude where others had been. “That’s disgusting.”

         The blonde sighed impatiently. “We disinfect the chairs and equipment thoroughly after each visit. I take it you are unfamiliar with The Paramour Project then?”

         Tuckett cocked an eyebrow. “The what?”

         The blonde raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Seriously?. In all of the time that you’ve visited here, you’ve never heard of this? Wow. Alright, then.” She extended a hand professionally which Tuckett shook nervously. “I go by Blume. I’m the formal operator of Paramour here at Absinthe.” She extended a hand towards the chair and wires.  “This beautiful machine uses virtual reality and pleasure stimulations to create the ideal interactive experience with any lover of your choice.”

         Tuckett was not impressed. “So, it would be like cheating on my wife.”

         Blume chuckled lightly. “Not any more so than a wet dream. It’s only a simulation, after all.”

         Tuckett pondered the idea and finally sighed. “Alright. Can you turn your back for a moment?”

         Blume’s unreadable smile remained plastered on her face and she turned her back to allow Tuckett his privacy.

         Tuckett’s hands shook as he attempted to unbutton his shirt and pants. After a bit of struggling with sweaty, trembling fingers, he managed to strip down and situate himself in the odd chair. “Alright. I’m ready.”          

         Blume turned on her heels swiftly, still grinning with her sinister, red lips. “Alright, Mister…”

         “Tuckett. Harold Tuckett.”

         “Alright Mister Tuckett, I need you to please close your eyes and relax your muscles.” She slipped the large goggles over his head and tightened them so that no light could peek around the rims. “After a while, you’ll forget they’re even on. I swear.” She then fixed an electrode on each nipple and one in the center of his chest, working downwards. By the end of it all, there were electrodes attached at the base of his genitalia, each palm, the inside of each elbow, each side of his pelvic girdle, each knee, and one on the bottom of each foot.

         “Okay, now I’m about to activate the machine. You may feel a slight shock at each electrode.” Blume’s voice came from an intercom.

         Tuckett braced himself as Blume powered on the machine. Suddenly, a strong volt pulsed into each electrode. Tuckett clenched his teeth and stifled a pained groan. Suddenly, a screen in the goggles lit up and displayed the message “Welcome”.

         Blume’s voice came back over the intercom. “Okay, to navigate, just nod your head in either direction. The confirm your selection, squeeze your right hand and the palm electrode will act as a button. Enjoy!”

         Tuckett, a bit unsure on how this was supposed to work, selected the option that read “Female”. A busty brunette appeared on the screen, dancing in a sultry fashion in her lingerie. Arrows on either side of her invited him to navigate. He nodded towards the left one and a new woman slid on screen, this one a tall blonde in a sheer, powder blue nightgown trimmed with lace.

         Some of the women in the menu were rather peculiar. Some wore heavy leather bondage gear and mumbled threats about punishment while others donned various degrees of fur suits themed after bears, rabbits, kittens, and the like.

         Finally, he found the perfect one. She shyly sat on the ground and combed through her long black hair with her fingers, batting her eyelashes at him innocently. He squeezed his palm and the menu changed to ask him which setting he would prefer. He settled on a plain bedroom.

         The screen dissolved into a dimly-lit, three-dimensional bedroom. Tuckett was still nervous, but he had to admit that he was impressed with how realistic the surroundings were. He was even in a new suit of clothing.

         On the middle of the bed sat his chosen girl. She was delicate and lovely, her ebony hair spilling down her back. Her soft, lacey chemise draped around her petite frame.

         Tuckett wasn’t sure what to do or how to move without actually using his feet. He cleared his throat and was surprised to find that the girl heard the sound and looked towards him. She smiled sweetly. “Oh hello! You must be here to see me.” She stood up and walked over to him. She was considerably shorter than him but far more matured than Junebug. She appeared to be at least in her mid twenties. “Call me Firefly. What’s your name?”

         “I’m Harold. You certainly are beautiful, Firefly.”

         She beamed up at him and embraced him. “That’s so sweet of you, Harold! And what a lovely name!” She pulled him by the hand over to the bed then sat him down and plopped down beside him excitedly.

         “Oh, Harold. You sure are handsome, you know that?” She batted her eyelashes and nuzzled his arm with her nose.

         Tuckett felt a blush rising in rolling, hot waves and glanced in the opposite direction. “You’re just saying that,” he mumbled. Tuckett was pushing forty, lanky with salt-and-pepper hair, and frequently wore a stern expression that emphasized the sleep-deprived bags under his eyes and his deep frown lines. He had never considered himself particularly attractive, especially with the constant exhaustion.

         “No, I really mean it! It’s nice to have a real man for once.” She kissed his arm and snuggled into his side.

         She’s so soft! he thought. This is a pretty impressive piece of equipment. Props to the creator. He glanced down at Firefly and stroked her gleaming dark hair. The blush in his cheeks deepened and his heartbeat increased. Relax, old man. She’s just a simulation. A super realistic, gorgeous, soft hallucination.
         Firefly shifted position to lying down and patted the bed beside her. Tuckett envisioned himself moving and suddenly lurched forward. So that’s how you do it!

         Firefly laughed, startled. “Careful now!” She pulled Tuckett closer to her as he situated himself. “Tell me more about yourself, Harold. More specifically, tell me why you frown so much.”

         Tuckett was not sure what to say at first so he told her about his job at the insurance company and then about the boredom of everyday tasks. Eventually, he found himself expressing his discontentment with his wife. All the while, Firefly stroked his chest, unbuttoned his clothing, and offered small, consoling kisses. Eventually, the talking melted into kissing and the kissing led to undressing.

         Tuckett clung to Firefly, their chests heaving as they attempted to regain their breath. Oddly, no warm air emanated from Firefly as she exhaled. She beamed at him and eventually fell asleep in his arms. Tuckett nuzzled into her silky hair and fell asleep as well.

         No sooner than he had closed his eyes, the goggles were lifted from his face and he heard Blume’s familiar voice chiming like an alarm clock’s bell. “Simulation is over, Mr. Tuckett. How’d you like it?” She removed the electrodes and tossed a rag at Tuckett. “Please clean yourself up. I will leave to give you proper time to become decent. I will hand you the bill in the bar.” She then slipped out of the door and allowed Tuckett his privacy. As promised, she handed him a somewhat-steep bill in the bar. He knew his wife would be unhappy, but it was worth it to him.

         Blume smiled and waved. “If you decide to do it again, just ask for me!”

         For the next several days, Tuckett could only think of Firefly and her genuine interest in his life. Even if she had just been a simulation, she had been a fantastic lover and wonderful company. A week later, he gave in and ran a second simulation.

         It was the same routine as the last time. Firefly greeted him from the bed with a shy smile and coquettish eyelashes before exposing her true playful nature. “Oh , hello! You must be here to see me!” She stood up and walked over to him. “Call me Firefly. What’s your name?”

         Tuckett found himself unexpectedly dismayed that she did not remember him. “Firefly, it’s me, Harold. Harold Tuckett?”

         Firefly simply feigned shame and began to fuss over how silly she had been for not recognizing him. From there, the scenario played out similarly to last time. She complimented Tuckett gratuitously and spoke with him about his day and life until the conversation eventually led to inevitable sex. Again, he was dismayed to find that the session was over.

         Tuckett began to visit Firefly every couple of days. He did not care about the price; he just knew that he needed to see her. Every single time she would inquire about his name then begin to fuss over Tuckett once he reminded her. He rarely spent any time at home any more and the time that he did stay inside, he thought only of Firefly.

         Tuckett refused to admit it to himself, Blume, or even Firefly, but he had fallen madly in love with an artificial being. After three months of simulation sessions, he had also forgotten that Firefly was not real.

         In December of 2033, Tuckett filed for divorce and insisted that his ex-wife take full custody of the children. He was ready to begin a new life with Firefly and move away from the gloom of Miami’s memories. He sternly marched into Absinthe and asked for Blume to come to the front bar.          

         For once her impish smile was wiped from her face and replaced with frustration and irritation. “Sorry, Mister Tuckett. The Paramour system has been down for the last several hours. I don’t know what’s gone wrong but we can’t do any sessions until the repairmen come and since we have to use a specially trained official from the head company, it could be a while.”

         Tuckett remained adamant. “I’m not here for a session today, Blume. I have a proposition. Sit down, if you will.” He took a seat at the bar. Blume followed suit, still appearing rather annoyed. Junebug stood behind the counter, sorting old bottles and trying not to appear as if eavesdropping.

         Blume was not amused. “What do you want, Mister Tuckett? I really need to be trying to get in touch with the head company. This is bad for business.”

         Tuckett fished around in his pocket then tossed a clipped stack of hundred dollar bills onto the bar.

         Blume shook her head and stared at the money, confused. “You’ve already paid for your sessions and I told you, the system is down.”

         “And I told you that I’m not here for a session. Look, Blume. You’ve got a lot of girls on that server. Nobody is going to be too upset if you let one of them go to live a happy life outside of this dump. As you can see, I’m willing to negotiate.”

         Blume’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh, you can’t be serious. Tuckett, she’s a friggin’ plastic chip full of memory bites! This is ludicrous!”

         Tuckett clinched his teeth, enraged. “Don’t you dare say that again. Firefly is real and I love her. And she’s in love with me too, Blume!” He began to raise his voice. “Where is she?”

         By now, Blume was standing, furiously staring Tuckett down. “She’s not real, Harold! She‘s a hologram!”

         He slammed his palm down on the bar, and stood up. He had begun to yell at full volume. “Don’t lie to me, Blume! I know she’s here somewhere and you are holding her captive so that she won’t leave and you won’t lose money! And if you won’t tell me where she is, then I’ll go find her myself!” He sprinted towards the session room with Blume in pursuit.

         Tuckett slammed the door open and forced open the door leading to the operation room. “Tell me where she is!”
         Blume pushed him aside. “Okay, fine. You want to know where Firefly is?” She kicked open the gargantuan computer and yanked out an unimpressive floppy disk. She thrust it into Tuckett’s face. “Do you see this? This is your faithful lover!”

         Tuckett softly took the disk with his fingers. A label across the front read “PPRS: FIREFLY: Version 3.0” .  He shoved the disk into his pocket and drug his feet dazedly towards the exit. Before he left, he ripped the electrodes and goggles from the computer and sprinted out of the building before Blume had a chance to catch up.

         Upon arriving home, he barricaded himself inside and lugged the computer and tower into his bedroom. He managed to connect the goggles and electrodes to the computer’s tower with ease. He stripped down, attached the electrodes to their proper places, and shoved the floppy disk into the tower’s drive before yanking the goggles over his head.

         The quality was crackly and sketchy, but Firefly was there as always, perched in the middle of the large bed nonchalantly until she noticed Tuckett’s presence and walked to introduce herself.

         Tuckett allowed himself to be totally absorbed into the world of Firefly and left the real universe behind. As long as there was Firefly, he would be happy enough.

         Nobody heard from Tuckett for several weeks. He could not be reached by phone, the neighbors never saw him leave the house or turn on any lights, and the mail was piled up. Sondra, Tuckett’s recent divorcee, was called to investigate the situation. She uncovered Harold Tuckett in his bedroom, nude and apparently dead of starvation. He was still connected to his computer.

         Sondra slid the goggles from Tuckett’s face and over her eyes briefly. A beautiful, petite girl in a lacey white chemise perched on the bed, combing her healthy dark hair with her fingers. “Oh, hello! You must be here to see me,” the little lady chirped. “Call me Firefly. What’s your name?”