the pearl


I keep these stories private, more private than my sex diaries, more private than my work in the Ganzfeldt Tank, more private than the late night conversations with Kerry, where I tell her what's happening. Brand new episode, same time, same channel.

I can't even begin to explain why I have them, why I type them on this monstrously old laptop (a laptop! with keys and a tiny screen and everything!) and hide the laptop under my bed, next to that old shoebox filled with boy band memorabilia (I once heard someone say that there was a boy band craze at the end of every era — the sign of change. The Beatles, The Osmonds, New Kids, *NSync...fear of change led to development of pre-packaged pop). It's something...I don't's not a part of my main work. It's something different.

I've been reading up on what I'm doing, in an attempt to explain where it comes from. Jenkins had something similar, and the text-net had a few things from the turn of the century, a couple of articles here and there, and it's sort of what I'm doing. The Mary Sue phenomenon, the self-insertion of a character that's perfect in every way.

And maybe that's why I'm hiding these stories. Maybe that's why I pretend they don't exist. I can't have these in the main story — I can't make myself too perfect, too popular, too...

I can't sleep with everyone. Screwing King Mob is bad enough, or so Kerry says. Of course, Kerry says that everything I'm doing is just an post-corporate-fandom variation. When guerilla fandom disappeared, all that was left was me and the liquid logic processors...

...and these stories that I'm still too ashamed of.

Except I'm not ashamed of them, not really. Genderbend bisexuality is passe — everyone's done it, so it's not that. I think it's that I've written myself into the story as a specific creature, and these stories, as appropriate they may seen to me now, do not seen appropriate to the continuity.

Ragged Robin goes in, saves the world, and has King Mob for a bedpartner. Kay has these stories where Ragged Robin and Jolly Roger spend a few hours outside of La Dulce fucking.

Sometimes I slip up, though. Sometimes I'm in the Tank, and I'm on Sky, and I'm writing, and, suddenly, Roger's sliding a hand up my thigh, kissing me and tasting of cheap beer and gunsmoke, pushing me back against their examining table to completely and utterly fuck with their reality by fucking on their instruments...

I have to shake myself back into the plot — I have to move things around all over again. Robin's not with Roger. Robin's not in the same room as Roger. Robin's called "Leather babe" and gets the finger and is too busy giving King Mob the best sex he's had since he was 11 and having his first wank to be doing this.

Close my eyes, shift the words around me, and slide back into what's supposed to be.


The front door slams behind me. I can hear that prepackaged wetware blaring from the other room, but all I'm focused on is octopus and chili noodles and that box under my bed.

I slurp the last of my noodles, the chopsticks slipping between my fingers as I reach under my bed and pull out the box, grabbing the laptop from the middle of glittery valentines and creased letters. It takes a minute for it to boot up, and once it does, I pull open the first file.

I lie back on the bed, the laptop burning on my lap, and I read.


The truck hood is searing hot and Robin winces when her back is pressed up against it, her tank top thin and scruffy and no protection for her back. She swears into Roger's mouth, arching her back away from the truck and pressing her breasts up against Roger's.

Roger's nipples are rock hard and her mouth is rough, bruising Robin's lips the way that KM loves to do, but there's no stubble, there's no cock, there's just those girl girl girl parts all over the place. Soft lips and softer chest and one thigh between her legs rubbing and stroking and just bang bang bang, like the shot of a gun, like the crack of a punch pushing further and further into the pressure.

She slides up, she slides down, rubbing herself on her thigh, the seam of her cutoffs riding up against her clit and against her thigh. Roger's fuckvoice is growling, spitting out a stream of profanities Robin's only heard in fuckflicks. She imagines Roger starring in one, shouting out those words while getting it up the ass and the cunt and the mouth and all over from big hairy men with giant penises and that sends her off again.

Bang bang bang. All you need to make a movie is a gun and a girl, and it's like gunshots up and down her body. Roger keeps on swearing and shaking and Robin thinks she's coming, she has to be coming, because Robin's sure coming, and it's just bam! Bam! Bam!

After awhile, all they can do is lie there, skin burning on truck and in sunlight, panting in unison and laughing tiredly, breasts shaking, hands wrapped together.

"Fuck, baby," Roger says, looking at Robin. "Where the hell have you been?"


I'm sitting up. I don't remember sitting up, but I'm sitting up now, and I'm slowly rocking back and forth on the bed, that slow rocking you learn when you're a kid and keep up because it's the only jerking off method you know.

I glance at that one drawer in my bedside table, the one with vibes in RealSkin(tm), CyberSkin(tm), FuckSkin(tm), remote controls, wetware, hardware, everything you can imagine a young girl has when plain old missionary position has just become boring.

But they're over there and it's all so...impersonal. These are my fantasies and this is my jerkoff session and to bring in anything else would make it...public. Proper. Natural.

Not totally fucked up.


Robin's only seen the 4-d armor used as armor. Wrapping around in nauseous horror, migraines and nosebleeds and miscarriages wherever they walk.

Roger's found one. Roger's found one and got someone to fuck with it. Maybe she fucked with it herself, but Robin doubts that. Despite the meditation and the weapons knowledge and the ability to kill a man twenty-three different ways with her bare hands, Roger isn't the type to sit and study some deep tech.

Roger's built dildonics into it. Roger's fucking her with it.

Being fucked in 4-D is unlike anything she's been through before. There's the cock and the arms and the grunts. There's the push and pull and oh-fuck-yes-right-there. But then there's the feeling of being penetrated in time. Penetrated in thought and mind and spirit and rubbing up against your ka and your karma.

In. And. Out.

In. And. Out.

Robin starts wondering what it'll be like to come in four dimensions, but before she can form a sentence, she feels that burn rising up up up and then it's rising through and fuck, that's astounding, that's amazing, that's beyond an orgasm. It's a realitygasm. She thinks her third eye is opening and it's right where her g- spot is.

Roger's all in black with shining silver dots where her eyes would be, and her mouth is wide open, shiny shiny teeth inside, and she's laughing. Laughing so hard.


A faint shiver runs through me, the kind of orgasms I used to have when I was ten, and it's just enough to take off the edge, to stop me from reading.

I close the files, I turn off the laptop, and I lie back on the bed. A few deep breaths, inhaling the scent and taste of stale noodles and heated girl, and I'm back to where I should be.

I am Kay. I write about Ragged Robin, Invisible.

She never fucks Jolly Roger.

This The Invisibles story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at And you can feedback her at