Transmission Link 1% synched
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Everything is dark. It’s always dark when it all starts over again. I can feel the lukewarm breathable fluid that encompasses my body and the neuroconnection cables attached to my head and limbs. As the synching process progresses, darkness becomes first dim, then bright, until I experience what feels less like the transportation to another material realm that is, somehow, what is taking place, and more like an awakening within a body that isn’t mine. Actually, three bodies.
Transmission Link 10% synched
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At 10%, the sensorial input from the three CAMechas starts outpacing the transmission pod which confines my real body. The visuals are fuzzy and pixelated, but I notice through the camera of CAMecha #1 that I am in my usual starting point for the big show: the expansive convalescence room in the Pitanguy Memorial Clinic’s branch adjacent to the TV Sistema studio in the Ponta do Seixas neighborhood of Novajampa. The room couldn’t be more bland: just a cubicle of sterilized whiteness with rounded corners. The synch is too low to see more features, but that was not necessary. I’ve been here before. Too many times. Nothing changed except for what the room harbors at its core, and even that, it’s just the same thing under a new wrap.
No. Not a thing. A person. A human. Surrounded by monsters. Monsters of my own making.
Transmission Link 25% synched
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The link is reliable enough now for the activation of the fourth Mecha: the BOOMecha. Whereas the three CAMechas are identical gyroscopically balanced cylinders standing on wheels and topped by a state of the art camera, the fourth Mecha is a compact hovering drone equipped with a boom microphone. The BOOMecha doesn’t have a camera outlet, but I can control it nevertheless thanks to the visual input of the three CAMechas. I park it midair, just above the closest source of noise in the room, which happens to be Dr. Divo Pitanguy, clad in his signature purple lab coat and barking at one of the makeup artists that had been dolling up his stretched face for the upcoming big show du soir. As a mere herald for the star he sure acts as if he were the star himself. The best way to irritate him is to call him by his birth name: Divino Silva, too evocative of his humble origins in the poor suburbs of Novagyn. I get his choice for the name Divo. He is the best at his craft. And so am I.
Transmission Link 50% synched
Audience 0
At 50% the link is now fully functional, although I’m headed to full connectivity in order to withstand signal variation output. I test the wheels for each of the three CAMechas, moving them back and forward and right to left while keeping the optimal triangular position relative to each other, through which they can cover a maximum of visual input without showing up in each other’s line of sight. That’s when I notice again our Star. She’s sound sleep on a table as pristinely white and glossy as the rest of the room. She is also naked, an ostentatious demonstration of the fine work from Dr. Divo’s team. This is not simply a woman, this is a perfect woman. Immaculate.
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“Can you hear me, Franco?” asks Valentina through her vocal fry pitch in my ear implant.
Like me she’s not really in the room. Unlike me, she’s not in a transmission pod. Her job is to control the controller. by monitoring every single visual and sound input I relay to her and deciding which footage from one of the three CAMechas they are going to show live, as well as writing chyrons, pushing product placements, calling commercial breaks and showering me with instructions. Valentina Perondi used to be an assistant editor and is now the head producer of what used to be my show. When she made her case for “incremental improvements” to the fat cats of TV Sistema, her pitch was centered on boosting profitability. The executives loved her: who doesn’t want the prospect of getting more money from something they don’t give a shit about? In 2090, just before the show’s fourth season, ’The Newest New Woman’ was renamed ‘The Newest New Virgin’ . “So we can drop the act and focus on what really matters,” she said, back then, with the most shit-eating of smiles. She got everything she asked for except my head. And now she is in my head.
Transmission Link 100% synched
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“Synch is up to the max,” I confirm, “I’m ready when you are, Valentina.”
The makeup artists scurry away as Dr. Divo stands in front of CAMecha #2 and opens a smile with a whiteness which outmatched the room’s walls.
“Control room is ready, Franco. Go for it.”
I eject a teleprompter screen from CAMecha #2, with recommended lines for Doctor Divo, although he often goes ad lib, as I inform:
“Doctor, we will be live in 3, 2…”
Transmission Link 100% synched
Audience 147 392 289
“Good evening and welcome to ‘The Newest New Virgin’, Neobrax’s number one show for the fifth year in a row!” announces Dr. Divo cheerfully as he follows the script on the teleprompter, “You might all know our guest tonight from when she announced on social media two days ago her wish to transition, through the hashtag #MakeMeVirginAgain! As usual we shall not refer to her old name, but only by the new one she has chosen, which is…”
There is always a certain effective and positive suspense in announcing the name. Glad that Valentina didn’t mess up with that.
“…Beatriz,” finally says Dr. Divo.
“Franco, in the last episode it took more than 30 seconds for the name to start trending online, make sure the Doctor says it often”.
I highlight Beatriz’s name on the teleprompter and enhance the font’s size.
“…And I’m very happy with the work we have done with my patient. We didn’t have any trouble with the glandular infusion and replacement nor with the skeletal remodeling, after all Pitanguy Memorial Clinic is the best one in Neobrax. Feel free to check a complete list of procedures and our fair rates online and make a free appointment! We have clinics not only here in Novajampa, but also Novassampa, Novafortal, Novorrio, Novabelô, Novapoa, as well as information desks in every major neocity! I—
Divo flinched and would have frowned if his overstretched forehead skin had enough plasticity left for that as I make the teleprompter flash, while enhancing Beatriz’s name’s font size even more.
“But we are not here to talk about me!” reluctantly says Divo after this brief interruption, “We are here for Beatriz! Beatriz is my finest work!”
I groan as he says that. Every time he claims he has a finest work. I type on the teleprompter the sentence “Wrap it up”.
“Are you ready to meet Beatriz?” asks Divo, with a wink.
Thank god he’s finally shutting the fuck up.
I approach CAMecha #3 to Beatriz and close up on her face. I notice for the first time the details of her particularly delicate features, with long curly hair cascading along her brown shoulders and spilling over the white bed. Maybe Divo for once was not bullshitting and she is his finest work after all.
I’m slightly startled when her eyes open after a nurse that I was keeping off cam injects her with a blocker for the sedatives that kept her sleeping until now.
“Are… we done?” asks a woozy Beatriz. Her voice is a surprising alto. Almost all of Newest New Virgins request the full package, which includes having their vocal cords reformed to become sopranos. Did Divo skip a step?
“You are done, Beatriz,” purrs Doctor Divo. With this cue, Beatriz opens a cautious smile and promptly starts doing what almost every Newest New Virgin does at this exact moment: tentatively exploring her brand new body. The hands, with sparer muscles encasing the thiner, sanded bones, feel the novelty of curves where straight lines once ran, valleys that replaced plains, the mounds of now absolutely hairless breasts crowned by broadened nipples and, of course, the shyer, slight prod at the reformed genital. All that occurs as I focus exclusively on a face beaming in teary joy upon the tactile confirmation that she is the person she was meant to be and refuses to look down, as if she is afraid that none of that new physiology is real despite its literal tangibility. But it was real. And when the head finally tilts down and her eyes gaze at her new body, the exultant wet eyes drop several tears that, under the rule of gravity, need to circumvent the enormous smile blossoming on that face as they try to find their way to the ground.
“Fuck that mellow shit, Franco. Less water, more skin.”
I ignore Valentina. Beatriz’ body is real and her face acknowledges that enough. It’s too early in the evening to suggest that she’d need to pay the terrible price to be whom she is now and always should have been. And I’d record every image and sound of that for millions of peeking, voracious eyes. The same ones that were basking in her innocent joy, live, right now.
“You know that sex sells, right?”
I keep the camera focused on Beatriz’s face and ignore Valentina’s insistence on trying to persuade me to scan the body. It is her show now, but I am still her eyes. And right now my eyes are recording a person, not a body. That’s when Dr. Divo, probably by Valentina’s suggestion, intervenes:
“Are you ready to get dressed, Beatriz?”
Transmission Link 100% synched
Audience 149 948 146
I follow Beatriz to a dressing room adjacent to the clinic room. While the latter was a bubble of sheer whiteness, the former is a kitsch profusion of fake Louis XVI wardrobes and mirrors. The content of the wardrobes is usually selected by the “Mentor” of the night, whom, in Valentina’s take on the my show, is also a host of sorts. Beatriz’ mentor, unfortunately, happens to be Karla Keiroz, the first participant of the show after Valentina took over and renamed it. Karla is now a model-actress-singer-dancer and, considering that she had agreed to be in the show tonight, I assume her celebrity status had been waning and desperately needed the media exposure. As soon as Beatriz emerges into the dressing room, this time covered in a hospital gown, Karla claps enthusiastically and, let’s be honest, annoyingly:
“Look at you, gatona! Who wants to party?!”
Beatriz just smiles politely as an answer.
“Franco, this girl is boring as fuck. That’s the last time I let you pick a participant!”
Beatriz knew what she had signed up for, but clearly, if all this were on her terms, it would be different. She was wise enough to let Karla guide her through several wardrobes filled with an assortment of party dresses that required less fabric in their making than a floss bikini bottom, more fit for a Novafloripa resort-casino than for the simple girl from the countryside that Beatriz was at her core.
I seize the moment when Karla is too distracted by her sartorial frenzy to finally say something to Beatriz:
“Check the wardrobe all the way in the back.”
Anyone who isn’t in the room can only see Beatriz breaking the fourth wall for the first time. I had adjusted the mics attached to my avatars to not detect the frequency of my voice. I was only supposed to silently see without overseeing. Beatriz complies with my suggestion and dumps the glittery canopy of tule and nylon that Karla had been stacking in her arms and darts to the wardrobe I indicated. Inside she finds a single dress patterned with yellow ipê blossoms on a white field. Beatriz’ favorite flower, something producers would know if they had bothered to investigate our stars instead of just designing the routines they expected them to adjust to.
When Karla turns back with another dozen outfits for the newest new virgin’s consideration, Beatriz is already dressed up. She looks quaint and pretty in the dress and the golden tiara and sandals of weaved capim-dourado, an homage to her humble roots in the countryside of Southeast Neotocantins.
“Did you go through all that just to become a basic bitch?” provokes Karla, to which Valentina howls in enthusiasm in my ear implant. Bickering between mentor and mentee always performed well with the audience. However, to Karla’s disappointment, Beatriz doesn’t react to her provocations, and just smiles with a demure demeanor. Karla could drain all the oxygen from the room, but Beatriz was still breathtaking. And yet, she was on her way to the slaughterhouse just like all those before her.
This time I had vowed that it would be different. I have had enough.
Transmission Link 100% synched
Audience 162 303 786
When the CAMechas emerge from the tunnel connecting the clinic and into TV Sistema’s studio, I’m taken aback. Valentina might not be aware of my upcoming move, but she sure could feel in her guts that I had something in store for her tonight, otherwise she would not have set up this… theme.
The studio was always uniquely decorated for the Newest New Virgin, based on her upbringing. A participant born in the Upper Solimões river, in the Amazon, was once welcomed by a sultry grove of leaves with real endangered monkeys hoping through the vines dangling from the ceiling. Another participant, from the Northeastern coast, was welcomed by a deluge of palm trees amid patches of fine white sand. For Beatriz, somehow, Valentina decided to ignore my suggestion of highlighting the unique intersection of rainforests, savannas and semi-arid caatinga from the corner of her homestate of Neotocantins she came from and make, instead, a bizarre tribute to an age. That is conveyed by immense golden letters on the wall that read END OF MILLENNIUM.
Nothing was matte and everything was slick. The Millennium they were referencing was the second one,. Vinyl pillars displayed holographic performances of so-called transformistas of a now century old TV Program, which was incredibly progressive for its time and, simultaneously, as regressive as it gets. The TV segment featured the transformistas first lip syncing a pop song, and then informing their contact number for “private shows”, aka hookups. After that a jury decided who delivered the best performance and earned a small money prize. By bringing this imagery to The Newest New Virgin, I feel Valentina is throwing a Lascaux themed party for a celebration of Michelangelo’s artwork.
As I’m flabbergasted by the sight of the the holographic transformistas delivering in choir an old song called Vogue, I almost forget to do my job and let the CAMechas film the usual fauna that populate these halls. Most of them are paying guests who are just here for the chance to see and be seen on the most popular TV show in Neobraxian television. The tickets were expensive, and a minor yet important source of revenue for TV Sistema, with a 6 month wait list.
But the most important guests were the matches. They were celebrities and power players, from sports, soap operas, politics and the business world and, just in case someone had been living in a hole in during the last few years, one could tell who the matches are by the fact that they are all wearing a golden sash around their torso. They also are all men.who, horny or not, wanted to fuck the Newest New Virgin.
In the early seasons under my helm, the Newest New Woman would meet the guests and decide to go or not to go on a date off camera with one of them. I made sure the guests were aligned with the Newest New Woman’s tastes – not only cis men, but also cis women, trans persons and enbies from all social strata. Now, under Valentina’s auspices and the silent ascent of the viewership’s eagerness to watch what the show had become, there is instead a competition between powerful cis men to claim bragging rights based on the century-old institution of defloration of a coveted, unexplored, manmade vagina. And there is nothing more virginal than a vagina that was created a mere couple of hours ago. Fresh. Pure. For the taking.
Straight men in Neobrax call the process “tirar o lacre” (unsealing), and for them unsealing the newest new cunt meant that you were at the top of the food chain, part of the wolf pack. Respect. Access. Power. At the end of the night Beatriz would need to pick one match that would have the privilege to, according to some, make a woman of her. And the privilege was hers too, most would say. These were the most coveted men in Neobrax after all.
The CAMechas could detect sound and image, not odors. And yet, I could smell the saturation of both natural and synthetic testosterone just by looking at the six matches of the night. I was hoping for some twinky neosertanejo singer with more makeup on his face than Beatriz or an older businessman with low stamina, but it seems that Valentina had been noticing that the Newest New Virgins in the last episodes had been avoiding men from a certain segment of our economy. Every single match tonight is an athlete, bioengineered to excel in their sport and prevail physically.
One of them is an 8 foot tall, relatively lanky volleyball star. It was his first time in the show and he stands tall and somehow lonely amid the crowd, fidgeting with his racquet-sized hands and looking around with a face of confusion and regret. He seems harmless compared to the two MMA wrestlers lumbering around the room with their bulky bodies that would have looked like fridges if home appliances were made of flesh and equipped with monstrously muscular limbs. Finally, there were also four soccer players, one goalie that was almost as tall but much bulkier than the volleyball player and three others that were much shorter but stood out thanks to their bioengineered watermelon-sized calfs topped by yoga ball-sized thighs. A sight to behold when seen from up close, as those million dollar legs were carefully designed to kick a ball to the goal and beyond. Hell, they could kick the ball out of orbit if they tried. Concussions and broken bones were common in soccer matches among players who didn’t excel at positioning themselves well on the field.
“Focus on Nilmauro, Franco,” asks Valentina.
Nilmauro was the only one among them who was part of the national soccer team, the Seleção. He was the team captain and main striker no-less, and although the Seleção had fared poorly in the last World Cup in part due to Nilmauro’s irascible cockiness, he was still the most popular athlete of the most popular sport in Neobrax. It was the fifth time that Nilmauro was on the show, a humiliating ordeal considering his status in the country’s social food chain. On online forums, a massive fanbase was rooting for him to finally have a shot with a Newest New Virgin, so his temper could be quenched in time for the upcoming World Cup.
I follow Valentina’s suggestion and slowly corner Nilmauro and his numerous and boisterous entourage with CAMecha #1 and #3. The contract stipulated that at least one of the CAMechas had to always stay close to the Newest New Virgin du soir, but there is a loophole that I should be filming her necessarily. I seize this technicality to drift CAMecha #2 past Beatriz and whisper quickly:
“Follow me.”.
I drive CAMecha #2 to a wing of the manor that had been under construction, hoping that Beatriz is just behind me. As I cross the tarps concealing the area, I arrive to a vast room with an enormous bathtub. Whatever the purpose of this facility might be, I just hope Valentina will not try to use this new area on the very night when I decided to ruin the show she ruined. As I turn CAMecha #2 around, it’s with relief that I see a puzzled Beatriz standing diligently behind me.
“We don’t have much time,” I say “We need to get you out of here unharmed.”
“What do you mean? I need to pick a match, right?” she asks, diligently.
“Is that what you want?”
The cogs inside her head seem to turn for a moment, and then lead her to shift gears, from the demure, shy stance to a smile that is too big and broad to be real.
“I’m here for the hunks.”
“This is not live. Right now they are focused on my footage of Nilmauro crushing watermelons in between his thighs. But that’s gonna get old soon.”
Beatriz studies the lens of the CAMecha for a moment, uncertain about what to do. Or how to act.
“Think about this as taking a break from the show,” I explain, “You can be yourself.”
“I just want to play my part and get this over with,” Beatriz admits.
“Remember Geisa, the Newest New Virgin before you?”
“Of course, she picked Jairão do Racha, Flamengo’s defender.”
“She is in the hospital right now. Several broken bones. The contract stipulates that she can’t go public about that. I had enough. This is not what the show is supposed to be. If you—”
Beatriz turns on her heels and follows back to the party.
“Where are you going?”
“Earn my body.”
“Beatriz, wait.”
She halts, but doesn’t turn back to face me.
“I’m working on ways to make it possible for you to not need to make a choice. But if I fail and you need to choose, pick the volleyball player. He seems to be the lesser evil among—”
“I think they already chose someone for me.”
“You don’t need to pick Nilmauro unless you want to.”
“No disrespect, but I won’t take advice from a machine.”
“I’m not a machine. I’m… just operating it.”
“Who are you?~
“I’m someone who thinks you deserve better.”
“That’s why I am here.”
Before I can argue, Beatriz returns to the main stage to find her fate.
“Did you see this?” I ask and a lanky man leaves his hiding spot behind a corny sculpture of a jaguar. Jorge is clearly uncomfortable and scared by the sumptuosity of the environment around him and the stakes of the task ahead.
“I should leave,” he says, approaching the CAMecha.
“It’s your call. You can leave through the same backdoor you came in and Beatriz will never know you were here. But if you are gonna stay, stick to the plan.”
Transmission Link 100% synched
Audience 175 186 926
Beatriz returns just in time to the fake party when Nilmauro’s shtick with the watermelons is starting to get old.
“Avoid filming the floor, Franco. It looks like a Neomatogrosso slaughterhouse at the end of shift”
I diligently surround Karla with the CAMechas and pop up the teleprompter screen from one of them, even though I’m sure she also has an ear transmitter connected to Valentina. The show was about to start.
“Hello gatinhas, gatões and other gates in this Neobrax of my goddess!” announces a frenetic and coked up Karla, surprisingly following the script, “This is the Newest New Virgin, the most watched show in Latin-America. I am Karla Keiroz! Dancer! Actress! Singer! Lover! Now live from Novajampa!”
That’s it. Now the show will involve Beatriz being courted by the matches for hours. They will sweet talk her with the utmost reverence, as if she had any power. Is the power to pick your executioner a power at all?
“How are you feeling, Beatriz?” asks Karla.
“I’m feeling great!” answers Beatriz, diligently and honestly. The new body gives her the elan she needs to go through the charade.
“Feeling sexy?”, asks Karla, glad and relieved that Beatriz is being more communicative.
“Feeling horny!”
A battery of laughter floods the room.
“How does it feel to be wet for the first time?”
“It’s alright, I’m trying this tampon thing.”
Witty and vulgar. She sure is playing the part.
“Wet for whom?
Beatriz looks around at the golden sash wearing matches.
“It’s too early in the night to decide.”
I realize, then, that Karla halts her reading for a moment. Her expression is of surprise. Delighted surprise. I skim through the teleprompter text. This is not what usually we deliver to the hosts. This isn’t right.
“Guess we are going to spare you from the burden of deciding, gatona!” announces Karla.
As soon as she says that, an enormous disco ball descends toward the center of the studio, while the holographic transformistas sing another old-timey song called Ray of Light. This is a regular segment, where the disco ball conceals a family member or a best friend that will advise the Newest New Virgin on her choice of a match for the night. Valentina usually tries to invite someone who is not totally on board with the gender affirmation, such as a conservative mother, a transphobic brother or a resentful former partner or spouse.
Jorge, Beatriz’s boyfriend until the moment when she decided to transition and he was as sure of his homosexuality as she was of her transsexuality, could not be the one inside the ball. After all, Jorge and Beatriz had parted ways in amicable fashion. Also, he was in the adjacent room waiting for his cue to set my plan in action and end this whole monstrosity of a show.
“I… don’t know her,” muttered a surprised Beatriz when the disco ball landed on the ground and opened like a flower of glass, revealing Helena Lucena,.
Helena was one of the staunchest critics of the show when it was still named The Newest New Woman, accusing me of fetishizing transsexuality. According to her several emails, social media posts and opinion pieces, even if my intent was good, my show was prone to commodifying gender affirmation procedures and enforcing a standard of beauty that only trans women with money or willing to go through the super-exposure of the show could attain. I should have listened to Helena while I mattered. She was also the last person I expect to see in the show laying on a table, clad only in an assortment of sushis and sashimi that hid her genitals as well as two pointy temaki rolls covering each nipple.
“Did you think I hadn’t seen that you are trying to fuck me up, Franco?” hisses Valentina, “Everybody has a price, even that fucking whore over there. You should have taken the severance money instead of disputing stipulations for your contract.”
“What are you doing, Valentina?” I ask.
“Taking this show to the next level, so your dumb trannies can get all the attention they crave”.
“Folks and People, it seems that The Newest New Virgin has new rules!” announces Karla with the smuggest of smirks pasted on her stretched face, “Our matches of the day will have to undergo a series of trials. Only one man will stand at the end, the man that will make Beatriz, the Newest New Virgin, a woman!”
Beatriz remains surprisingly stoic at this announcement. Is she aware of this rule change or is she just indifferent to the altered course that would lead to the same undesired outcome?
“For the first attraction of the night, we thought about something filling,” continued Karla, “Has that girl with the sushi skirt been operated on or not? Each match will have a chance to make a guess, and consume one piece of sashimi or sushi, until the truth is revealed! Those who guess wrong will be eliminated, of course. Get your chopsticks, gentlemen! The game starts—“
“No!” A familiar voice, to me at least, yells. About time.
A sweaty and red Jorge storms through the wall of burly matches, and approaches Beatriz.
“We are getting you out of there, let’s go!” says Jorge, grabbing Beatriz’s hand. For once she seems to finally have lost some of her composure.
“I’m not going anywhere, Jorge!” says Beatriz, pulling her hand out of Jorge’s grasp.
Two enormous, bioengineered security guards are already cornering Jorge and ready to snatch him out of the studio.
“Who’s that freak, Beatriz?” asks Karla in a teasing tone.
“He’s my ex,” says Beatriz, meekly.
A wave of shocked “woos” floods the room, and even the security guards stop in their tracks, probably oriented by Valentina as she spots a spike in the viewership numbers.
“Ex, huh?” provokes Karla, “Guess what, she’s too good for you now, fugly-boy!”
“That’s not what this is about!” argues Jorge, as he turns to CAMecha #1, “You people want to hurt Beatriz! Did you know that—“
The Security Guards quickly snatch Jorge, covering his mouth.
“Whatever, you are still not on the guest list, loser!” says Karla.
That’s when Karla and everybody standing close to Helena’s table is suddenly showered by flying sushis and sashimi. Helena is now standing, completely naked, as she performs a gyrating move with her genital known popularly as the pirocóptero. Her endowment is impressive enough to make it look like a Quixotic mill.
“Women can have penises too! Don’t let the genetic-cosmetic industrial complex say that you need to be either born without one or lose it!” roars Helena, “Suck her dick! Suck her dick! Suck her dick!”
The whole stage becomes chaotic, with half of the audience repeating enthusiastically Helena’s catchphrase, and the other half scurrying around. One of the matches, a midfielder for the soccer team Cruzeiro Novo, took Helena’s words as a command and immediately wraps his lips around her rapidly stiffening penis.
Despite Helena’s delighted face hinting at the consensual nature of the blow job she is receiving, an extra detail of security guards arrives and drags both Helena and her newfound midfielder lover out of the studio. And with that commotion, even though I have three sets of eyes in the room, I lose track of Jorge for a moment.
CAMecha #3 finds him chatting with the towering volleyball player and I quickly maneuver the BOOMecha above them to catch up on their conversation.
“…this is fucked up and I don’t want any part of this,” says that athlete, as he removes his golden sash and transfers it to Jorge. The sash’s tip touches the ground, as it is now worn by a much shorter man.
Karla, probably alerted by Valentina, rushes to the scene:
“Matches were carefully picked by our producers and you can’t give away your sash. Please take it back.”
“Come on, give Jorge here a shot with his ex,” says the volleyball player not to Karla but to the CAMecha #1. If he he is doing this out of benevolence or in an attempt to raise both his profile and that of volleyball in a country that usually only has eyes for soccer and martial arts, it does’t matter. Soon, every guest in the room joins him as he yells repeatedly “Give him a shot! Give him a shot! Give him a shot!”
The appeal soon gains support among the other guests who eagerly repeat the sentence while both Karla and the burly security guards freeze on the spot, subdued by a battery of conflicting instructions they are receiving in their ear plug transmitters I know that because I am listening to the same conversation. Valentina argues with Miro Abranches, the executive producer of the show who only rarely descends from Olympus to intervene. That is good news for someone like me who wants to see this show leveled to the ground as Miro was an absolute imbecile with power anointed on him by nepotism.
“Stop shooting this,” Miro commands, and I was happy to comply, by turning the three CAMechas to the wall.
Transmission Link 100% synched
Audience 168 565 364
“What the hell are you doing, Franco?” complains Valentina, “We are losing viewership!”
“Just following orders form the boss,” I say with a far-fetched meekness that I was aware Valentina would perceive as provocatively fake but not Miro.
Suddenly, the loud jabbering noise of the attendees in the studio was gone, and only music remained.
“Show us what is going on,” instructs Miro, and I comply. As I spin the three CAMechas on their axes away from the walls and toward the action, I and millions of others can see that, somehow, Beatriz had climbed one of the vinyl pillars where a holographic transformistas had been singing another old hit. Beatriz is on her knees, performing a lip-sync of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer”.
Transmission Link 100% synched
Audience 182 263 067
The Newest New Virgin wasn’t a show about subtle moments like this. Hell, The Newest New Woman wasn’t either. The aesthetics of both are maximalist, bright, over-the-top, camp, with the exception of the initial reveal where I still have leeway to focus on the emotional, subtler truth of the moment of recognition of one’s true self. But after that, it’s a cascade of lights, glitter, sweat and noise. Not this time. It didn’t matter that the song was about giving blowjobs. Surrounded by the pantyhose-clad legs of the transformista hologram, Beatriz looks like an angel ready to take-off.
“You have things under control, Valentina,” whispers Miro, “Carry on.”
Valentina doesn’t bother to acknowledge the command. We watch Beatriz’s performance in reverent silence, as she adapts to the crescendo of the song by standing up and dancing frenetically, first on the pillar, and then performing a breathtaking dive into a mosh pit filled with the muscular arms of her matches. They gently put her back on the ground next to a sash-clad Jorge as the music fades away instead of ending, as was fashionable back in the 1980s.
Transmission Link 100% synched
Audience 234 828 105
“Valentina, this is the highest audience in the history of the show,” I say, “Please, drop the the competition and let her pick her ex.”
Valentina doesn’t answer, probably too busy communicating instructions directly to Karla, who promptly hugs Beatriz while fake tears cascade on her face.
“That was so beautiful, gatona! You are a natural talent!”
“And the show will move on!” announces Karla with glee, “Please follow to the next room where the competition between these fine studs for the holy grail of the newest, freshest, juiciest, veejayjay in the country will continue… after a brief commercial break!”
The matches and the attendees follow to the vast room where I first met Jorge when he broke into the studio. In between the time I talked to him twenty minutes ago and now, some things had changed. A golden throne with details in burgundy velvet had been prepared and set next to the bathtub, which is now filled with warm water and what seemed to be dozens of soap bars. Karla shows Beatriz to the throne, and she sits in it stiffly, the lightness she demonstrated during her lip-sync performance completely gone.
“Unfortunately, the erotic sushi trial was cancelled, even though we already have two eliminations… and one new contestant,” briefs Karla, “But we can now move to our second trial of the night! Two matches will enter the bathtub and, for one minute, one of them will need to collect as many soap bars as they can and toss them out of the tub. After that they will swap. The match with the most soap bars out will move to the next stage!”
I focus CAMecha #3 on Jorge’s scared, pale face. Valentina is probably showing the footage of the two other cameras, but if there was a chance to show to the country the unfairness of what is at stake for him, at least I did my part. I position CAMecha #2 next to Beatriz.
“There is an exit in the back of the room. That’s how Jorge snuck in,” I say in the safe frequency, “They will be too focused on the action in the bathtub. It might be your only chance to run away.”
“Why do you even care, you don’t know me,” whispers Beatriz while covering her mouth.
“I told you, this show is hurting the women it was supposed to help, I—“
“I assume I’m talking to the reclusive, mysterious, creator of the show, Pedro Franco.”
“That’s me.”
“You are gonna need to give me more than that for me to believe you are more than the robot I’m seeing.”
“Why do you even care about whom I am?” I point out, “I’m trying to help you.”
“All I see is a 300 kilogram metal cylinder with a camera in it trying to help me. Is there even a human in there?”
“Not in there. I’m not even in the studio.”
“Who are you, Pedro Franco?”
“I go by Franco, but this is not about me, this is—“
“Yes, it’s about you,” refutes Beatriz, “You created this. Why should I trust the person who came up with all this.”
“First, as you may be aware, Valentina Perondi runs the show now. Second, I’m not sharing my identity with you. If you don’t want my help—“
“If you are not gonna tell, I’m gonna assume. For instance, I assume you are some rich, shallow playboy from Novassampa with transit in the right places at the right time, the ones that made Neobrax what it is. You always got everything you wanted in your life, I bet, and after your little shiny toy of a show was taken from you, you’d rather destroy what you can’t have.”
The other CAMechas are busy showing the muscular athletes and Jorge stripping down to their briefs, in a display of sheer homoeroticism that is keeping both Valentina and the audience busy. What is good, because for a moment I am mentally paralyzed.
“That is not fair,” I finally mutter. It’t not because it’s not fair that it doesn’t hit close to home.
“And now you want to help me, someone the whole country sees like a dumb hick from Jalapão,”
“You are clearly not… dumb.”
“You dressed me in this ugly, tacky dress that I wouldn’t wear even for the square dance of my hometown’s parish June festival.”
“I thought ipê flowers were your favorite.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to wear them. Also these sandals hurt my feet. Nobody wears capim dourado anymore, we only make those for the tourists.”
“Fine, I don’t know you, you don’t know me.”
“Before I’m on board with this little savior knight fantasy of yours, you are gonna need to tell me why you are bothering to help me.”
Fuck it. Beatriz deserves better, hence she deserves my truth:
“I like happy endings. Couples kissing with the sunrise behind them and big letters in the sky that read ‘The End’. But that’s not what happens here. Every time the show is over when the Newest New Vi… Woman picks her match, they are fucked in all senses of the word. And I’m forced to see the whole thing for the post-coital interview. And then edit all that. When I am done it’s almost morning.”
“I take it you don’t see big letters in the sky when you leave work.”
“I like to go to this little kiosk… here in Novajampa, on… Manaíra Beach, which is one of the few places that are open both late at night and early in the morning and order a tapioca. I’m never hungry, though.”
For a moment Beatriz only reacts with a smile. Is that a scowl? A sneer?
“I guess I was wrong when I assumed you were from Novassampa,”
“Actually—”
“We like tapioca back in Neotocantins too. But for breakfast, not dinner.”
“It’s both for me.”
“You must be skinny.”
“Compared to the meatheads over there, yeah, I am.”
“Jorge is not a meathead.”
“That’s… relative.”
“You must be really skinny, then. Because Jorge is a twink.”
“I guess I am.”
“Like a stick.”
“Maybe.”
“You should eat your tapiocas, skinny man.”
“When you and Jorge are out of here I will have you two over for some, deal?”
Beatriz gives an amused frown to the camera, but before she can answer, Karla makes an announcement:
“Very well, now that we got to see some skin, time for action. The first contenders are… Quebranozes and… Jorge!
Jorge, now wearing swimming trunks, is in awe at the almost seven foot tall, speedo-clad behemoth leering at him. Neander “Quebranozes” Tavares had been the MMA champion in the bioengineered heavy weight category three years ago. Since then, other fighters had risen and out-bruted him, which only compelled him to become even bigger, heavier and deadlier in his desperate attempt at a career comeback. Earning the laurel of “unsealing” the Newest New Virgin would be, for him, a fine shortcut to a similar glory.
“Do something!” begs a terrified Beatriz.
“The exit is behind that tarp to the left of your throne. Focus on your escape when they are distracted.”
“That monster is gonna kill Jorge!”
“You are the show here, not Jorge. If you leave, the show will be over and he will be free to go.”
“Fine, I—”
“The first round will involve Quebranozes picking up the soap bars and Jorge trying to deter him,” informs Karla as both man leap into the bathtub, “Remember, only grappling, no punching! It starts in three, two, one… Go!”
Quebranozes immediately starts looking for the bars of soap in the milky waters of the bathtub while Jorge tries futilely to make him stop by grasping his leg and arm. It is as if an ant attacked an rhinoceros, as the bioengineered hulking man does not even move despite Jorge’s relentless attempts to deter him in any way. On the other hand, the enormous wrestler’s clumsy big paws struggle to snatch the slippery soap bars with his sausage-like fingers, as the soap bars either slip when he coils his fist or are smushed to paste. Quebranozes’ failure in such a simple task makes him seek an outlet for his growing frustration, which turns out to be Jorge, whom he grabs by the throat. Jorge’s squirms frantically while Quebranozes peruses the surface of the water as he seeks the elusive white soap bars floating in the white water. Only in the last ten seconds does he realize that what his hands lacked in dexterity they had in width, and instead of grabbing them he could just lay his hands flat and raise the soap bars from the water. He only manages to toss four soap bars out of the bathtub before his time is out. More important: for some reason, Beatriz is still on the throne, clutching its handles so hard that her fingers tips are white.
“Why are you still here?”
“It’s… too tense! I couldn’t look away!”
“Go now before you miss your chance.”
Karla picks up the four soap bars and put them in a transparent bowl.
“Well, Quebranozes, that’ssome flop dick results.”
“That’s fine, it’s not like he will get any,” growls Quebranozes while eyeing Jorge with an evil glare, “If he gets a single piece of soap out of the bathtub, he’s dead.”
“He can’t do that… can he?” asks a terrified Jorge.
“Now, now, he’s just joking,” dismisses Karla.
“I’m not,” Quebranozes states flatly.
“What a teaser,” shrugs Karla, “Now, studs, on your marks, it’s up to Jorge to try get 5 soap bars out of the tub in 3, 2, 1… Go!”
None of the men move for a moment. Quebranozes has his thick arms crossed over his soapy, moist, bare chest, looking down with an inscrutable expression at a nervous Jorge. With the most cautious of movements, Jorge approaches his hand to a floating bar of soap. That’s enough to trigger the vicious giant in the bathtub, who immediately grabs the smaller man in a tight bear hug. The movement, which was meant to crack Jorge’s ribcage, has a different outcome: the soapy and slippery Jorge is squeezed out from Quebranozes’ embrace and flies a couple of meters in a parabolic trajectory ending at the outer rim of the tub.
The laughter of the attendees floods the room, the only ones keeping a grave composure are Beatriz and Jorge, who stands up and gets ready to dive back into the tub, clearly unaware that he barely escaped a gruesome death, and would find a certain one if he makes it back into that water. Poor vascularity due to bioengineering induced muscular hypertrophy makes the vast majority of professional athletes like Quebranozes resort to libido enhancing drugs when they need to deliver in bed. Such drugs, to work around their accelerated metabolic cycle, need to be taken in advance before the act, meaning that Quebranozes was already horny as a hell, and men like him get violent when horny.
“Help him, please,” pleads Beatriz.
I use CAMecha #3 to barrel into Jorge, pushing him away from the tub, while I wheel CAMecha #1 toward the tub’s rim. The device topples and falls into the water, which fizzles and shines with the massive electrical discharge of CAMecha #1’s battery. As the lights recede, all that remains is the electrocuted dead body of the oversized wrestler floating in the milky water.
“You did that on purpose, you little bitch!”
“It was an accident,” I lie.
“You are done. I’m plugging you out now!”
Transmission Link 99% synched
Audience 281 385 457
Valentina couldn’t plug me out right away, my pod of control was hermetically locked and could only be opened after the desynching process was complete. She could still rely on the stationary cameras scattered across the studio’s ceiling, but she knew that their angles were shit: I made sure to place them where they were useless. That means that I have less than five minutes until she can open the transmission pod and put one of their own inside. And then it would take at least 10 minutes for the synching to reset, assuming that person knew how to plug all the neural connectors into their body in just a few minutes. Valentina could either wrap the show now or—
“We are moving to the last trial of the night, folks,” said Karla without her usual exuberance. She looked almost ashamed, which is particularly uncanny considering that she is a shameless person.
“Tag Game Battle Royale!” continued Karla, “The first match who touches Beatriz will have the honor to turn the Newest New Virgin into a deflowered woman! Go!”
I look back and noticed that both Beatriz and Jorge had made a run out of the studio. My relief is short-lived as they were going in the wrong direction. And worse: the tall goalie is standing at the doorway they were running towards.
I use CAMecha #3 to charge the goalie, and Beatriz and Jorge take the move as a hint to go through the doorway. The Goalie quickly stands up, leaps toward the CAMecha, toppling it to the ground. The other two matches, a defender and the other wrestler, join him in the pile up on CAMecha #3, pushing, kicking, tearing the plates out with savage glee. They did not even notice when I drove CAMecha #2 and the BOOMecha past them.
Transmission Link 80% synched
Audience 281 386 103
The connection is still optimal but I can feel the slightly delayed ping as I arrive at the balcony perched high over the ocean. The balcony has no other furniture but a round bed in the center. This is the setting for the final scene of the show, where the Newest New Virgin and her pick say farewell to the cameras. And then they fuck, under the stars, in the open yet without anyone to see them but my lenses.
Beatriz and Jorge realize that they are trapped as there was nowhere to go but down, a fall to the pointy rocks below, where the sea waves crash furiously, that only someone seeking a painful death would choose.
“We need to get you two out of here,” I say.
At first their reaction is a nod, but soon their eyes widen and stare past me. With a single CAMecha now I have to spin it on its axis to see what they were looking at. Nilmauro, marching toward us with the queasiest of grins on his face.
Transmission Link 70% synched
Audience 281 385 638
“Let’s make things easy, Beatriz. Strip. Lay on the bed. Get fucked. Walk away.”
“No!” replies Beatriz.
“You don’t understand, I need this,” appeals Nilmauro, “Some players on the Seleção got to fuck a Newest New Virgin, but not me? Come on, already! I’m the striker! Do it for Neobrax!”
“No means no, man!” Interjected Jorge, as he stands protectively in front of Beatriz, “Plus, I’m a match too and I… got her first. So yeah, I’m claiming her, even though I disagree with the whole logic of claiming women as property that—“
“Fine, fuck her, then,” commands Nilmauro.
Jorge turns her attention to Beatriz, gulping at the sight of her.
“Yeah, you can’t do it, can you, viadinho?”, says Nilmauro, “Let a man do her, and if I’m feeling generous I can have your faggoty ass as a dessert.”
This time, Beatriz steps in front of Jorge, with an angry scowl on her face.
“Leave him alone, you douche. I’d rather get fucked by a cactus than you.”
“Not your choice,” states Nilmauro, as he suddenly sprints toward Beatriz and Jorge.
Transmission Link 60% synched
Audience 277 313 031
I aim the BOOMecha for Nilmauro’s head, and the drone quickly dives toward its target. However, Nilmauro uses his athletic prowess to perform a bicycle kick. Propelled by his massive legs, his sneaker-clad foot hits the drone mid-air, turning the machine into a shower of metallic and plastic scraps. He continues his fast advance toward Beatriz, who retreats toward the very edge of the balcony, leaning over the balustrade while hugging tightly an equally scared Jorge.
Transmission Link 50% synched
Audience 268 938 105
I block Nilmauro with the bulk of the CAMecha, but he does not even slow down, dropping down and toppling the device with a swift slide tackle.
Transmission Link 40% synched
Audience 241 776 893
With the CAMecha on the ground and below the synching functional threshold, I struggle to use its extensions to resume its working vertical position. The camera is still turned to the Beatriz and Jorge, who squeeze each other in terror. They are framed by Nilmauro’s beefy legs as he approaches them, step by step, like some sort of giant monster from a 20th century Japanese movie.
Transmission Link 30% synched
Audience 217 029 905
Nilmauro is even closer to them now, but the image input starts becoming fuzzy and pixelated. I’m losing them. I’m losing it.
Transmission Link 20% synched
Audience 198 315 342
I see more legs amid the blur. Rough shapes. Maybe the other matches barged in, and are now fighting over Beatriz, tearing her limbs apart. Since they can’t all claim her new virginity, perhaps they decided instead to snatch a little piece of her virginal new body and call it their own.
Transmission Link 10% synched
Audience 163 352 579
Fuck this show. Fuck this country. Fuck cis straight men. Fuck me.
Link 1% synched
Audience 134 831 053
Everything is dark. It’s always dark when it all ends yet again. I can feel the lukewarm breathable fluid that encompasses my body and the neuroconnection cables attached to my head and limbs. I’m back to my pod. It’s dark and humid. And lonely.
I hope Beatriz and Jorge are not hurt. I hope they are alive and well.
Link 0% synched
Audience Unknown
The breathable liquid recedes and the pod opens from outside, but instead of the gentle helping arms that usually assist my climb out of the machine, a beefy hand grabs me by the neck and yanks me out of it. The neuroconnection cables pop out of my head painfully as that brute drags my naked body out of the pod and to a small office where I’m locked in alone.
I notice they left my day clothes on a table and dress up. I pat my pockets, my wallet is there but not my phone. I have no choice but to wait and bask in the quietude of these beige walls in order to not go insane.
It takes a couple hours until that door opens again. Instead of the corporate goon I was expecting, I meet the head of HR herself, who is slightly disheveled from being awakened late at night to make it to the office. She explains in an almost apologetic tone that the broadcaster will need to let me go due to breach of contract, but the company is ready to give me a generous severance. The number of zeros in the contract makes me sign it immediately. I’m gonna need that cash now that I’m unemployed and probably unemployable.
As soon as the HR lady leaves, two police detectives enter. Neither of them is holding handcuffs. Instead, they just want me to tell my version of the facts, which I do, even though I’m sure they had a chance to see it for themselves, as my eyes were theirs during the incident. I stress the fact that I was sure that Quebranozes was going to murder Jorge and nobody else on that show seemed to give a damn about it. After collecting my statement they inform me that I am a crucial witness in a case of neglect leading to the death of Quebranozes.
The detectives leave the door open when they walk out. I look through it. The corridor outside has no denizens. It is like the end of every night, when I am the last one leaving. This time, however, I am leaving for good.
I need food after such a long night even though I can’t stomach it. I exit TV Sistema’s headquarters in the Jardim Danfer neighborhood of Novassampa and head toward my usual morning destination. It’s almost 6 am, and the silence is brutal. Even the numerous homeless people in the streets are sleeping.
I soon arrive at the little shack in a dead end street with plastic tables and chairs and with a ceiling of dry palm leaves where I often “celebrate” the wrap of a new show. The late night patrons were gone and the early morning patrons are not there yet. It is just me and the graveyard shift cook/maitre d’/waiter, a chubby man named Floriano who simultaneously smiles and rolls his eyes when he sees me arriving.
“The usual?” asks Floriano.
“The usual,” I answer.
“The offer still stands. If you take a bite, it’s free.”
I smile politely as he prepares on the stove a tapioca filled with condensed milk and cocada branca. I was hungry and couldn’t eat, but I liked the smell of it.
“So you just stare at the tapioca?” asks a familiar voice behind me.
“Every damn night, Ma’am,” answers Floriano on my behalf to the newcomer.
I stand up and turn around slowly. It was Beatriz, now clad in jeans and a white embroidered blouse. Before I can’t say anything she tightly hugs me.
“Damn, you were not lying when you said that you were skinny.”
“You… are alive.”
“Yes, I am, silly.”
“Did he—“
“No. He was about to touch me, but then his manager showed up. Apparently there is a new show called New Virgin in Town on TV Orbe that was released when the bathtub thing was going on, so people started tuning out of The Newest New Virgin. I guess I’m only the second newest new virgin in the country now.”
“You are… alive,” I repeat.
“I think you need some sugar in your system. Sit down.”
I comply sheepishly while she picks up the fork and knife, slices a bit of my tapioca and mouth feeds it to me. God damn, it is delicious.
“More?” she offers as she slices another piece.
“Yes, but I think I can… feed myself.”
She gives me the cutlery and I wolf down the tapioca. I’ve been hungry for years.
“You are a liar, Pedro Franco,” says Beatriz with a forced frown betrayed by her smile, “There is no shack in Manaíra Beach in Novajampa because there is no Manaíra Beach at all, that whole area was claimed by the ocean when it rose.”
“How did you find me here then?”
“I was right in my guess that you were from Novassampa, not Novajampa. The network offered to take me on their private jet whenever I wanted and I thought it would be a good idea to check what is going on in the only street of Novassampa called “Manaíra”. It wouldn’t be possible if there weren’t some bits of truth in your lie.”
“I’m glad that I didn’t lie better,” I tease, “Did Jorge come too?”
“No, he flew back home. He’s a really good… friend.”
Beatriz stares at me as I finish my tapioca. Scrutinizing. Probably wondering if I am trans too, one that didn’t go through the expensive care of Doctor Divo Pitanguy. A face that is still too smooth and almost hairless to be manly. Broad hips. I don’t think—
“I hope we can be friends too,” she mutters, shyly.
I smile. I shouldn’t have smiled. I look like a dork when I smile. I have to say something. Anything:
“Please, don’t feel like you need to answer this question, but I was wondering why you decided to not get the vocal cords reformed in your gender confirmation surgical package.”
“Does it matter?” she asks, her smile diminishing a little, the bonfire becoming a matchstick. Still warm enough. Warmer than anything in my life during the last few years.
“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business, I—“
“When I saw myself in the mirror… it didn’t matter what I did with my hair or the clothes I was wearing, I’d still see a man. But I always felt I sounded like a woman. My voice reminded me of what I am. I didn’t want them to take it from me.”
“Your voice is beautiful.”
“What about you?”
“You mean, my voice?”
“Are you trans too?
“Does it matter?” I ask back, maybe too defensively.
“We wouldn’t be here if it didn’t,” she states, as she turns her gaze away from me and to the sky, which starts brightening with the mauve and fuchsia of dawn.
Illimani Ferreira 