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Satisfaction By XoYo Somewhere down the hall a vacuum cleaner came to a whining stop. The sound of metal bins clanked together by heavy-handed cleaners came and went. Armitage blinked, trying to make his eyes feel less gritty. The numbers and letters remained simply numbers and letters, refusing to succumb to his brain's attempt to make sense of them. Maybe coffee would help, he decided. If not, at least it would give him an excuse to get up and move around a bit. Joints clicked and crunched as he stood up. Easing the tendons in his legs back to work, Armitage walked over to the window. The company car park was picked out by a few half-hearted lights, leaving little bright islands of reality in the artificial-looking night. Armitage's eyes started to focus on his reflection in the glass and he turned away quickly. He didn't need to look to know how pale and thin he was. Every time he saw himself now, it was like seeing an older relative, someone with his features, but with more lines and grey hairs. Time had crept up on him while he wasn't looking and now he was on the verge of middle-age. So why did he still feel like he was waiting for his life to begin? The walk to the kitchen took Armitage past the storage facility. Sometimes, when he was the only person working of an evening, it made him uneasy to look through the window and see all the bodies lined up in their cold glass coffins. Tonight he stopped and looked properly. He hadn't been inside the room since the tour of the plant on his first day. It had almost been a year now since he had joined Bodyworkz. A year! Armitage shuddered. He wondered idly if his security pass would let him in. Looking through the plate glass was enough, he decided. Rows of bodies, sorted by model and options, were lined up in long rows like freezers in a supermarket. A clambake of blonde beach-bunnies here, a cabal of thin, gothic men there. As the initial disquiet passed he felt a deeper sense of loss. Here was as much company as a person could want, all young and good looking, just a room away. For a silly moment he felt like a gatecrasher at a party full of people much too interesting and popular to want to talk to him. Not very good conversationalists though, he thought, and headed on to the kitchen. * * * The coffee tasted pretty bad, Armitage decided, but it least it had caffeine in it. He looked at his watch. Not even nine o'clock. His colleagues had gone home hours ago, but he had decided to work late again. If he left around eleven then there would only be about an hour to kill before he was ready for bed. Maybe the cinema would be a better idea. No one was going to be impressed by all the long hours - it's not like there was really enough work to justify them. No. There wasn't really anything worth seeing. Anyway, he always felt self-conscious buying a single ticket. There was something about seeing so many young couples in one place that made Armitage feel very old and alone. Work. Yes, work. The white glow of the screen mapped directly onto two points of pain at the back of Armitage's eye-sockets. He stretched the aches out of his shoulders and turned to the pile of customer satisfaction surveys sitting on the side of his desk instead. 'How would you rate your Bodyworkz rental experience?' Armitage always glanced at this question first. A row of numbers ran alongside it, as with the other questions, and a couple of underlined rows lay underneath to allow elaboration. The first-timers tended to ring ten on the one to ten scale and put something suitably gushing underneath. Even repeat customers rarely scored the whole experience as less than an eight. It was, after all, a pretty remarkable thing. Until even a couple of years ago, the prospect of walking around in a stranger's skin was the stuff of fantasy. Armitage felt a small glow of pride every time he thought of the wonders his company offered, even if his role in it was so minor. And there it was, sitting on the page in front of him. A ring of ink around number two. Armitage had seen a couple of sixes before. He had even seen a few ones, but in each case the customer had misunderstood the scale, rating one as highest. This had to be what had happened. He looked down for an explanation underneath, but there was nothing. He checked the scores on the other questions. The customer had rated staff helpfulness as an eight. Could it be that he had really enjoyed the experience but found the staff obnoxious? Armitage didn't know which he hoped for. There was nothing at all written in any of the text boxes, just a series of hasty circles around scores indicating an overall happiness with the facilities but disappointment with the experience itself. Armitage realised that he was holding the form hard enough to crease it. He put it back down on his desk and smoothed it gently. You need a holiday or something, he told himself. It's bad, but it's not personal. Still, he felt a heavy disappointment in his abdomen. There had to be some mistake. He looked at the customer details and then checked his watch. Quarter past nine: not too late to call, he supposed. Before he had really made the conscious decision to do so, Armitage found himself dialling the phone number. After a couple of rings a slightly groggy sounding voice answered. "Hello?" "Oh, I'm sorry to be calling so late. Is this Mister Lovegrove?" There was a slight pause. "I'm not interested in buying anything." Armitage gave a slight half-laugh that he hoped sounded friendly. "That's all right - I'm not selling anything. My name is James Armitage and I'm calling from the customer services department at Bodyworkz. It's about your rental of the twenty-fourth last month." "Oh, right." The man's voice sounded slightly quizzical. "Is there a problem?" "That's what I was hoping you could tell me." "I'm afraid I don't follow." Armitage tried smiling as he spoke. "You rated your overall satisfaction with the rental experience as a two. Might I ask if you were really that disappointed?" Another pause. "I suppose so. I must admit, I didn't really know what to expect, but that wasn't it." "What wasn't?" Armitage found himself flicking his pen against his fingers in irritation and made himself stop. "You've looked at my records haven't you? You know what kind of body I rented?" Armitage looked up at his screen and checked. "Uh-huh. Model name Trisha, hair colour blonde, eye colour..." "So you know it was female?" the man interrupted. "Well, yes. Of course." "And isn't that unusual?" "Not at all." Armitage could hear the reassuring tones in his own voice and was pleased with how genuine they sounded. "The majority of our rentals come from men trying female bodies." "Really?" There was a palpable relief in the man's voice. "Yes. It's just natural curiosity. Most people wonder what it feels like to be a member of the opposite sex. We simply make it possible for them to find out." "Oh. I thought I was, well, some kind of pervert." "No. Not at all. You're just one of thousands of men who've rented one of our female bodies. The only unusual thing is that you've reported that the experience was extremely unsatisfactory." "Well, it was." Armitage tapped his pen harder until it stung his fingertips. "Would you mind telling me why? We're always on the lookout for ways to improve the services we offer. Feedback is an invaluable part of the process." "I suppose so. It's kind of personal, though, so I'd appreciate it if any notes you kept didn't mention me by name." Nodding unconsciously, Armitage said, "I don't think that will be a problem." "All right. First of all, let me say that your company is very professional. Everyone I've dealt with has been courteous and attentive. I don't have any problems with that side of things. The problem was purely the body itself." "Did it feel too artificial? Was there any disorientation or synaesthesia?" "No, it was all very real. The problem was that I just wasn't ready for the experience of being a woman. I suppose I'd been a bit stupid. I deliberately chose a model I thought was extremely sexy and feminine. You know the one - kind of like a pneumatic Barbie doll. She had stupidly large breasts and everything wiggled whenever I moved. It just felt so wrong walking around as her. Every step was alien." "Some people find that arousing." "Yes, I suppose I can see why. It was exciting at first, but then it was just, well, wrong. I can't really think of another way to put it. I decided I was going to see the rental through, though. It was something I wanted to try, after all. No one made me do it. So I went out." Armitage let the silence past naturally. A trace of emotion had crept into Mister Lovegrove's voice and Armitage thought it best to let him continue at his own pace. "Do you know how men stare at women? Especially women like that? Have you ever tried one of these bodies for yourself?" "No, I'm afraid I haven't. I've meant to, but you know how it is with work and all that." "Well, I'd recommend that you don't. It was the most dehumanising experience of my life. I felt like I'd stopped being a person, that I'd become some kind of sideshow attraction. Men just stopped and stared at me openly, not caring how I felt about it. I must have been propositioned over a dozen times, just in the course of one evening." "And you didn't enjoy the attention?" "Well, the novelty wore off pretty quickly. I mean, I'm not exactly a master when it comes to chatting a woman up, but I've developed a new-found respect for my own abilities. It's depressing how many men don't aim much above 'Fancy a fuck?'. What scares me is that, given the continuing existence of the human race, that approach probably works." Armitage laughed despite himself. He had tried to keep a professional, detached attitude throughout the call, but he couldn't help it. "Well," he said, gathering himself again, "Maybe it would have been different if you'd chosen a less, well, exaggerated model." "Maybe, but that doesn't change things. I chose that body for the day. If I had really been that woman, that would have been my life. The experience shook me. I'd never really thought about men being such louts before, but now, every time I catch myself staring at a woman's tits I flash back to what it felt like to be wearing them myself. I don't know if I'll ever go back to feeling like a whole man." "I'm very sorry you feel like that, sir. As I've mentioned before, most of our customers find the whole experience extremely satisfactory and settle into it quickly. A fair number even use the body for sexual experimentation with pleasing results." "Ah." The man coughed, but it sounded forced. "Sorry. Did I say something wrong?" "Don't worry. It's me." He coughed again. "I just wondered if the sexual responsiveness of the body was natural or enhanced." "It's mildly enhanced, but I believe from talking to female customers that it's not wildly so. From what I understand it's the novelty of the sensations that makes them feel more intense." "Gosh. I just assumed that... Never mind." "Do you mean that after what you've said, you still...?" Armitage let the question hang. "How could I not? I mean, it was probably a once in a lifetime thing. It would have been a waste not to." "And it still didn't change your mind about the rental experience?" "Not really. Don't get me wrong - it felt good. Really good, in fact. It was just afterwards. The man I let pick me up just rolled off me and got dressed without saying anything. I've never treated a woman like that, but he just made me feel like a vessel, just some place warm to stick his cock. After he left I felt sick and very alone. It made the whole experience sour. "You see what I mean. None of this is really the fault of Bodyworkz. That's why I didn't complain. It wasn't the service you sold me that was at fault, just the experiences I had. It was a mistake and it was _my_ mistake." "Thank you for your candour, Mister Lovegrove. I'll put your comments on record anonymously, in case they can be used to enhance our services." The man snorted. "Good luck," he said. "Well, thank you again. Good night." "Good night." The line clicked into the buzz of the dial tone. Armitage put the receiver down slowly. For a minute or two he looked back and forth between the form on his desk and the blank database entry on the screen. "Sod it," he said finally, and went home. * * * Armitage remembered just in time that there was no food in the flat. Well, there was a prepared salad that had begun to turn to liquid in its plastic bowl and a selection of bread rolls that spanned several shades of green, but nothing edible. His stomach gurgled gently, mixing its load of coffee and bile. He swung back at the next roundabout and headed towards the supermarket. The car park was mostly empty. After around eight in the evening there was very little custom, with only shift-workers and insomniacs drawn by the boon of twenty-four hour grocery shopping. Armitage found a space near the entrance and sat quietly for a few minutes before getting out. The lighting in the supermarket seemed almost impossibly bright and it took Armitage a few moments to gain something approximating normal vision. He grabbed a handbasket and walked down the first aisle as quickly and purposefully as he could, fighting disorientation. He had never liked supermarkets - the combination of too many people, lots of bright colours, noise and garish lights added up to a sensory overload that always robbed him of his equilibrium. Shopping was never anything less than a chore, something to be dispensed with as quickly and painlessly as possible. He filled his basket with an almost random selection of convenience food - nothing that would take more effort than unwrapping and maybe microwaving. After a brief deliberation, Armitage headed down the alcohol aisle. Last time he had been here there had been a special offer on half bottles of generic whisky. As he scanned the selection, he noticed someone else moving down the aisle. He half turned his head to look; it was a young woman, maybe mid-twenties. She was unremarkable, but had the bloom and vitality that only the young possess, giving her an attractiveness that transcended her features. Armitage looked her over quickly and then made a conscious effort not to stare. He was just putting the bottle into his basket when he noticed someone else with the woman, a man around the same age. He might have been a boyfriend, husband, secret lover - the details were unimportant. He touched the woman with a casual familiarity that filled Armitage's chest with a stabbing emptiness. Armitage found himself clenching his fists until his fingers hurt. Reddening, he turned and walked over to the registers. "Need any help, luv?" The woman on the till snapped him out of his thoughts. "Help?" Surely I don't look that bad, he thought. "With your packing." The woman gave him a friendly smile that bordered on patronising. Armitage looked down at the few items in his single basket and tried not to snort. "I think I'll manage, thanks." Why did woman have to call him 'luv'? He hated that, hated the implied warmth that was always a mask for indifference and habit. He packed his groceries away angrily. As he passed his payment to the woman, he checked her ring finger reflexively. Married, of course. There were no single women any more. * * * Armitage dropped the bag casually in the passenger-side footwell and sat in silence, staring at the supermarket entrance and its glowing white halo. The only sound was his breath, loud in the confines of the car. He dug his fingernails into the vinyl cover of the steering wheel, screwed his eyes up briefly and then sat back and tried to calm himself. The minutes passed slowly. The only movement in the car park was a rat sniffing cautiously around the litter bins. Eventually the young couple came out of the entrance. Safe and unhurried in the darkness, Armitage watched. The couple packed their bags away in the boot of their car, taking care to keep everything upright and secure. Armitage admired the grace of the woman's movements, the curve of her buttocks in silhouette as she bent over the trolley. He cast a quick glance over at the man. Ten years ago that could have been me, he told himself, back before all the years disappeared to God only knows where. He couldn't make himself believe it, though. He knew that whatever it was that brought people together, made them love and care about each other, whatever you could call it, it was missing or at least broken inside him. The couple got into the car and headed off. Armitage started his car and followed them from a discreet distance. A mile or so on, they turned off the main road down towards a nearby estate. After a moment's hesitation Armitage kept going and eventually made his way home. * * * Another late night turning figures into colourful graphs and putting papers into neat, ordered piles. Sometimes, on nights like this, Armitage fancied himself an anti-entropy machine, bringing order where there had been none, fighting the forces of chaos and apathy. Sadly, it felt like apathy was winning. He sat stirring cold coffee with the end of his biro, watching patterns of emulsified light break up on the surface. Another hour, he told himself. Another hour and it would be too late to notice how empty and quiet the flat was. Late at night everywhere is quiet. It seems less unnatural. On a whim, Armitage took his security card out of his pocket and flipped it over between his fingers. His manager had authorised its reprogramming to allow him out-of-hours access to the office, happy to let Armitage work as many hours of unpaid overtime as he wanted. Surely it wouldn't hurt to check... Without giving himself a chance to change his mind, Armitage got up and walked down the corridor to the store room. He passed the card through the reader with a decisive swipe. Soundlessly the red LED on the side of the reader changed to green. Armitage stood and looked at the reader, waiting for the light to change back to red. No alarms went off. No security guard appeared behind him to lay a heavy hand on his shoulder. He swiped the card again and pushed the door open carefully. A chill of air-conditioning wafted through, accompanied by the soft hum of machinery. With only a quick glance behind, Armitage stepped into the room. The room looked much larger from the inside. Glass cabinets stretched down to a back wall that seemed almost impossibly far away. Armitage walked over to the nearest row. The cabinet contained a tall, solid looking black man with inhumanly perfect muscle definition and facial features that were as close to beautiful as Armitage had ever seen on a man. He put a hand up to his own face and ran it over the weak contours of his jawline. With a pang of depression he turned away and started down the other side of the aisle. A short run of amazonian beauties lay side by side, differing only by eye and hair colour, here a blonde, there a raven-haired temptress. Slowly, Armitage walked down the row. The base model changed to a smaller woman with a slight, almost boyish build. Armitage stopped in front of one with dark auburn hair and almond eyes. Even in her stillness she still had the power to make Armitage's breath catch. Her cheekbones were sharp and well defined in her heart-shaped face. Her lips were full enough to lend her a sense of naughtiness. If only she were real, Armitage thought. If she were real, he realised bitterly, I'd fumble any words I tried to speak. My brain would seize up and my cheeks would go red. Here, though, lying dead and cold... Hardly noticing he'd even done it, Armitage opened the cabinet. The mini-spots in the cabinet walls came on, throwing the body's features into stark relief. There was a brief sucking noise as the seal released and then there she was, perfection in artificial flesh. He leaned over and touched her face; it was cool, but lifelike. His fingertips thrilled at the softness of her skin. He ran a finger over to her eyeball and poked it gently to remind himself of her unreality, but was still slightly surprised when she didn't blink. What am I doing? Armitage thought. He traced his hand down from the body's face, down her torso, following the line between her small breasts and down her taut belly. Part of his mind became conscious of the sweat beginning to soak the back of his thin cotton shirt, cold and clammy in the chilled air. This is wrong in so many ways, he told himself. Her pubic hair was soft and fine. Armitage circled his finger, letting it get caught in a delicate tangle. Using his forefinger and thumb he parted the labia and felt inside the fold. It was smooth and dry to the touch. He brought his hand up to his face and sniffed. Clean and odourless, perfectly sanitary and completely unreal. The spell teetered on the verge of breaking. Quickly, clinically he put his hand back down between her legs and poked an exploratory finger up her vagina. His eyes met the lifeless sheen of hers and he started, snatching his hand back. Armitage stepped back quickly. He looked down at this dream woman again, seeing a construct of cold, plastic meat. He felt a brief lurch of nausea and slammed the lid of the cabinet closed. The sound jarred him back, away from any remaining traces of the dream. What the hell had he been thinking? He looked around at the door and the long glass windows, but there was no one there. Such a stupid risk. Surely he would get sacked if anyone had discovered him. Security cameras! What if there were CCTV cameras hidden in the room? He felt sick and fevered as he imagined not only being sacked, but videotapes of his exploits being passed around the office like playground currency. Armitage backed down the row a few steps, then turned and bolted. He didn't go back to the office, and left without switching off the computer or the lights. * * * Back at home, he sat on the settee, in front of the blank screen of the television. With only a table lamp on the shadows looked darker and more carnivorous than ever. The silence battered his eardrums like heavy machinery. His pulse calmed slowly as the adrenaline began to leave his system. And in the darkness and quiet, Armitage lifted his fingers up to his face and sniffed. With a quick probe of his tongue first, he licked the length of his index finger and then smiled to himself. * * * Armitage never worked well in the afternoon. The noise of telephone conversations and clacking keys chipped away at his concentration. He looked around to see if anyone was paying him any attention and, when he had decided they weren't, closed his eyes and took a number of deep, slow breaths. No one had confronted him. No one had even made some snickering hint about his nocturnal activities. He had got away with it. He had expected to feel relieved, but instead there was only a sense of emptiness. He ignored it as best he could and turned back to his computer. Flicking idly through the entires for today's rentals, he stopped cold. After a quick check that it was genuinely today's entries he had pulled up, he looked again and there it was: Alan Lovegrove. Maybe it was a mistake: maybe someone had typed in the wrong name, or re-entered a booking from last month. Maybe the database was corrupt, or there were two people with that name in the Milton Keynes area. Armitage opened the record and examined it. The address and telephone number seemed to tally, and the entry was definitely for today. In fact he was still being processed. Quickly, Armitage glanced at his watch and then called down to the operations department. "Hi, it's James up in customer services. Can you tell me if you have a Mr. Lovegrove in with you? Uh-huh. And he's still being prepped. Good. ETA?" Armitage checked his watch again and once more to be sure. "And which body is he renting?" He listened, eyes shut. "Thanks," he said and put the receiver down. "Got to go down to ops," Armitage said in the general direction of his supervisor. "Don't know when I'll be back." He heard a grunt of confirmation as he headed out the door. * * * The only times Armitage ever went to reception was when a customer turned up in person with a complaint or problem, which was a rare occurrence. This time he just sat in one of the plush leather armchairs facing the door to the operations department and waited, ignoring the questioning glances from the receptionist as best he could. He flicked through the selection of fashion magazines on the smoked glass table and picked one at random. He barely looked at the pages as he turned them over, not wanting to miss his prey. Every time the door opened, his pulse quickened. Eventually, after the longest twenty minutes he could remember, a familiar figure walked out. There must have been times he had seen customers wearing this body, walking off to their cars or coming through the entrance to return them. Armitage couldn't think beyond how she had looked picked out in the cold light of the mini spots, though. This model was slightly different - she had a mop of dirty blonde hair, carefully arranged to look casual, and clear blue eyes. Armitage stood up and walked towards her. "Mister Lovegrove?" he asked. The woman looked startled for a moment. She twitched and tried to adjust her bra straps, as if to diminish her breasts. "Do I know you?" "James Armitage," he said. Armitage extended a hand to shake and wondered for a delirious moment whether he should kiss the new woman's hand instead. "We spoke on the phone the other night." "Oh yes, yes, of course, yes." She looked towards the door and then back again. "Is there a problem?" "No problem. Sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to ask you a few questions, out of professional curiosity." He indicated a two-seater. "If that's no problem." Mister Lovegrove hesitated for a moment and then sat where indicated. She experimented with crossing her legs and got it right after a couple of attempts. "What did you want to know?" "Well, I mean, what it is... What I'm trying to say is, well, er, why?" Armitage wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "After everything you said the other night, why would you want to go through it all again?" There was a long silence. Armitage was afraid that Mister Lovegrove was simply going to walk out without even dignifying his question with a response. Eventually she spoke, though, slowly and thoughtfully. "It's complicated," she said, "But I'll try to explain. As I told you before, I hated almost everything about the experience of being a woman. There was one thing, though, that stuck with me: people noticed me." Armitage tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear and tried hard not to look at Mister Lovegrove's breasts. "I thought you said you hated that?" "I did." Mister Lovegrove laughed, producing an disconcerting mixture of a hearty, masculine laugh delivered in a feminine pitch. "I never promised that this would make sense." She paused and looked Armitage directly in the eye. "Mister Armitage, do you know what it feels like to be lonely?" "What?" Armitage felt his ears grow warm. "I mean, really lonely. Not just the kind of 'My friends are busy and there's nothing good on the telly' lonely, but genuine soul-destroying, gut-twisting loneliness. When you feel like you can't connect with other people, like you're not even the same species as them... Do you know what that's like?" "Well, I don't... That is, I mean..." Armitage struggled for composure. "I didn't think so." Mister Lovegrove smiled prettily. "I doubt many people do, or at least I hope not. Anyway, to cut a long story short, this helps." She indicated her borrowed body with a flowing gesture. "This bridges the gap. People, well, men mainly, make the effort for a beautiful woman. They go out of their way to make contact, however fleeting and ill-conceived it is. It made me realise something important: being used is better than being ignored. I don't think I could live like this, but at least it helps me feel like I'm not missing out completely." "But couldn't you have gone for an exceptionally handsome male model instead? We do have a few of those." "I suppose so. There's still a degree of effort involved, though. Women expect men to do the chasing. Unfortunately, when you've got as little self-confidence as I have, that becomes almost impossible. This way, though, I'm the chased. No confidence required." A deep sadness clouded the perfect blue eyes, making Armitage want to reach out and stroke her cheek. "I see you've gone for a less pneumatic model this time, at least." Mister Lovegrove giggled. "You wouldn't believe how much those double D-cup monstrosities get in the way." He cupped his breasts appraisingly. "These should be a lot less intrusive." "Ah, I see." Armitage shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to disguise the first stirrings of an erection. "So we can expect to see a better rating from you this time?" "I hope so." Mister Lovegrove looked out through the clear glass of the door at the late afternoon sky. "It depends what's waiting for me out there." "Do you want to go for a drink somewhere?" Armitage had known unconsciously for some time that he was going to ask, but it still came as a shock to him. Mister Lovegrove turned to face him and blinked in surprise. "A drink?" "Look, I'm sorry I asked. I shouldn't have." He suppressed a smile. A wave of excitement built inside him, making him feel that anything was possible. "That's all right. Don't you have to go back to work, though?" Armitage looked at his watch. "It's not long till knocking-off time. With the number of hours I've put in recently I'm sure they won't begrudge me one early day." "A drink sounds just fine, then." Mister Lovegrove smiled warmly. "Great." Armitage stood up. He looked over the woman who was Mister Lovegrove carefully, appraisingly, almost tasting her vulnerability. His blood felt alive in his veins. "I'll go and get my coat," he said. And he did. The End