There followed the usual media commentary; I listened to it primarily because I needed to know how much they were going to slant things. It turned out that for once, they were helpful; after the usual blah, blah, blah, the talking head from the major news network commented, "The President made mention of fertility as an emigration criterion, something that many women may consider a bar to their selection due to age or fertility problems; however, the Administration's press packet provides some surprising information on that score. It seems that our alien allies, the Darjee, have extensive medical knowledge, and are sharing that knowledge with us; as a result, many physical issues can apparently be resolved -- including infertility. Menopause can be staved off for a few years also, in some cases, per the information that we have received. Eventually, these services should be available globally; however, initially, these benefits will be limited to those volunteering for the Defense Forces and those emigrating." He leaned forward. "According to documents released by the administration, this means that there are effectively no physical limitations for volunteers for the Defense Force; those with the proper CAP scores will have whatever physical maladies they may have dealt with in order to make them fit for duty. Likewise, emigrants may have their physical issues dealt with at the discretion of their Defense Forces sponsor. Undoubtedly, this will produce a substantial increase in the number of volunteers..."
Actually, that wasn't the whole story; we were experimenting with a certain amount of physical augmentation in some volunteers -- not gills or tentacles or anything, merely and increase in physical capabilities. We still weren't clear on the physical capabilities of the Sa'arm, but they stood just a touch over two meters, on average, so a bulked-up soldier stood a better chance, hand to hand. Since we weren't trying to create a new race, we wanted everything to be reversible, however.
When I plugged back in, it was to hear the newscaster hit another hot button...
"The Administration had further released documents indicating that it intends to recommend a change in the Federal guidelines for prosecution of statutory rape to reduce the effective age to thirteen and makes a further recommendation that the individual states follow suit. This is in synch with the requirement for all fourteen year olds to undergo CAP testing and would make it legal for fourteen year olds to be selected for emigration." He dug through his papers. "The Administration's position paper names several historical and even biblical precedents, and has already been released to the headquarters of several religions in expectation of some backlash for the more fundamentalist segments of our society." Here, he assumed an amused expression, adding, "One wonders how the previous administration would have handled such a thing..."
'Yeah, right, ' I thought. 'I wonder... '
Somebody changed the channel to where the press secretary was fielding questions from the usual horde. The first question he got after we switched over was, "Is it true that our alien allies, the Darjee, don't recognize the sanctity of marriage?" I could see that the Religious Right was in there, swinging...
The press secretary looked mildly amused. "Apparently, you have misread your briefing materials," he said. "The Darjee mate for life; however, anyone capable of analyzing statistical data on divorce can see that WE don't... They'll tolerate any ceremony or social system we care to put into place, actually, but the most effective modality for emigration to proceed requires that we maximize the opportunities to very the gene pool. That demands a somewhat different lifestyle than most of us have been pursuing..."
The Mormons had a field day...
Two weeks later, it was time to deliver a demonstration of the nature of our brave new world. The top four runners up of Season XV all volunteered to join the Defense Forces -- and we lined up four hundred women for them to choose their limit from in a two-hour spectacular -- or at least, it STARTED that way...
I had my first indication that things had gotten out of hand when I heard the producer, Tony, tell the guys, "Okay, you need to cull fifty on the first pass. I don't care how you do it, but it has to be quick. Has anyone explained the guidelines?"
Joey Martone shook his head. "Not really."
"You get two for every major digit in your CAP score above five. The whole thing doesn't really kick until six point five, since that's where the Defense Forces set their mark, but that's where it starts -- if you have a six, you get two, sevens get four, eights get six... I don't have to go any further in this group, do I?" He didn't; the CAP scores run to a bell curve -- there are few nines and even fewer tens, while a six point five is pretty easy to find. Our low guy, Bob, or "Big Papa" Spruell, had a six point eight.
"If the woman has kids, they don't count against your numbers unless they're fourteen; while you don't HAVE to accept them, it is seriously encouraged, for obvious reasons. If she has a husband or something, well, she shouldn't be here -- but it's instant divorce time; you have NO obligation to pick HIM up." Tony grinned. "Other relatives are also irrelevant -- we have to draw the line somewhere. If she's trying to ship her sainted mother, that's sweet, but unless Mom can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, why bother?"
"What?" I said it aloud, I was so shocked.
"Oh, hey, Steve," Toby waved. "We got a couple of things from the administration -- a blanket exception to policy from the FCC for one -- so we're doing this thing for real. The Administration wants people to see what's going on and to set expectations -- you're gonna be surprised." He turned back to the contestants. "Chicks, of course, can pick guys, and we'll get into that on the follow-on -- it's not your problem. In the unlikely event you want a guy for some reason, he goes against your numbers no matter what the source. The thing is, we're not looking to ship your family, dig? We want you to start a new one -- a BIG one. Bear that in mind when you're making your choices. Any questions?" There were none. "If you come up with something in process, let me know and I'll get you an answer."
Tony gathered himself. "Okay. Like I said, cut fifty on Round One -- we don't care how, as long as it's quick. You can use CAP scores to pick a woman, but you are not obligated. If you want a big-titted blonde with a CAP of zero point two, that's cool -- and, frankly, a lot of people will breathe easier out in our audience. Obviously, a chick with a seven CAN volunteer, just as you did -- so why is she in the line- up?"
This had been an open question when we were setting emigration standards; the assumption was that whoever it was would be looking for domestic duties, rather than whatever the Forces handed out...
Tony grinned. "Remember, though, that we can make adjustments to your chosen -- hmmm, let's call 'em concubines. If her tits aren't big enough, that's an easy fix. Crooked teeth? No problem. Nose a bit long? Also no problem. You're gonna learn first hand that the physical piece is easily adjusted. On the other hand, remember what this woman's job description is gonna be -- she's a domestic goddess, whore, and baby-factory. There are indicators for maternal instincts on the CAP -- I recommend that you find out what they are in the next couple of hours. Just because she's a near-genius doesn't make her a good mother -- in fact, just the opposite might be the case..." My mouth was open, but Tony was holding up a hand, forestalling comment. When he finished, he told the contestants, "Hang on, I have to do a quick briefing -- be right back," and headed toward me.
"You're making some pretty bold statements," I pointed out.
"It's deliberate," Tony replied. "The Administration gave us a full pardon in advance for anything that happens -- they want the general public to realize that this ain't no picnic. Take a look at this -- we've been running it for several hours with our commercials." He pointed me at a monitor and spoke into his headset, "Cue the warning messages."
The screen lit with a banner in white on black with red highlights that said, "WARNING! Parents are strongly cautioned! This will be a live event -- and it will NOT be censored for content! Graphic content is expected, to include sex, strong language and possible violence. While the exact content cannot be predicted, we are provisionally rating this program NR-14."
I blinked. "No censor? What's NR-14?"
"Wait," Tony replied, nodding at the screen.
The warning faded, to be replaced by a second warning panel, which said, "NR-14 is a new standard rating devised to fit new Administration standards. NR-14 is for Not Rated, with a recommended audience of 14 years. Be advised that programs with an NR rating are expected to have graphic content -- but that, in conformance with new guidelines on CAP testing and emigration, the content may be of interest to individuals of age fourteen and up, despite its graphic nature."
I eyed Tony. "What is this?"
He shrugged. "It's simple, really. Fourteen-year-old females are fertile, and fourteen-year-old boys can inseminate. They may not be at their peak, but they are physically mature and their basic mental patterns are set -- which is why they are being CAPed. You know that. Well, they can now fuck -- and BE fucked -- and they can emigrate -- so they need to know what they're getting into. At different points in history, kids that age were considered adults; only recently have we started coddling them until they were over twenty. That's got to go if we're going to get the maximum yield in offspring." He eyed me. "I KNOW you know this."
"Yeah," I agreed. "I know."
"Well, this is it. They're adults. They're gonna have to make adult decisions, starting now -- so they get the same briefing as every body else. Period."
"What else has happened?" I asked.
"We've extended the thing to four hours," Tony informed me. "The first two are on network, starting at nine -- the second two are on cable, starting at eleven. We figure things are gonna be wild and woolly by then."
"How wild and woolly?" I asked. "You can't..."
"But I can!" Tony replied, grinning. "We're going out live, and totally uncensored. The audience gets warnings at every commercial break, but the FCC has been told to take a nap while the show is on. Anything goes."
"How did you manage that?" I asked.
"It came from the top," Tony replied. "Executive order. The Man says it's time to pull the gloves off."
"Shit, I guess..."
"I gotta go back..." Tony returned to his quartet of contestants. "Okay, guys, Round Two is where the gloves come off. You need to chop to twenty-five -- and you can use any means -- and I DO mean ANY -- to separate stuff out."
Big Papa frowned. "What's 'any'? This is network TV..."
"Only for the first two hours, which should get you into Round Two, but you may not finish. The second two hours are on cable, and all restrictions are lifted -- but we have a special dispensation for the first two hours, too. Remember, you're hiring a piece of ass, here. Don't buy a pig in a poke!"
"So..." Joey looked thoughtful.
"So if you want to sort them by tit size, do it. If you want to wait for Round Three to count the hairs on their pussies, that's fine, but, frankly, you can do THAT, too!" Tony told them. "Don't worry about it."
"Jeezus!" Fred Tafton exclaimed. Fred was an electrical engineer with an eight point five, our highest scoring candidate.
"For Round Three," Tony continued, "you need to go for the kill. As a recommendation, you might want to give your finalists an opportunity to sell themselves..."
Everybody got it -- you could tell by the shared glances. Fred asked, "What about..."
"Fred, once we go to cable, if you want to bend one of them over and test-drive her, feel free. Remember, this is the real thing -- you're stuck with it. Oh, you can probably trade or something, maybe even buy or sell, if necessary, but that's later, after you're on the ground in your new homes." Tony looked around. "Anything else? Frankly, if you get the urge, you can fuck one while we're still on the network feed, but we're trying to give the FCC a break."
"You're gonna fuzz 'em out and shit, right?" Big Papa asked.
"No." Everybody blinked. "Next?" Nobody could think any more, at that point. I know I couldn't -- it was a serious departure for American TV. Tony eyed everyone. "You know, the Europeans don't pussyfoot around with casual nudity like we do -- we're just stepping up to the plate, here. Relax. I'll come back for you guys in a couple of hours. If you need anything, get one of those gofers over there to tighten you up." He turned and strode off.
The guys ducked heads and went into serious discussions. After a moment, Fred waved me over. "Steve, this is going to be a circus. Is he nuts?"
I sighed. "I'm thinking that the answer is no. Look, guys, it's like this -- we can't open a facility and say, 'Everyone who has been selected, report here.' The place would be mobbed with people who want to get off- world. Similarly, if we give most guys an opportunity to get organized, they'll want to ship a lot of excess baggage, usually in the form of the old ball and chain and probably both your and her relatives -- just because it's the right thing to do. Problem is, it ISN'T the right thing to do -- you've added to the gene pool with her, for better or for worse, and we want you to start fresh. Oh, we'll take the kids, but if a guy wants to keep the old lady he's got, she'd better be within ten feet of him at all times."
"Why?" Joey asked. None of these guys were married, but Joey was divorced.
"Because we're going to be picking up selectees in small groups, usually in public places," I replied, "Basically, a normal selectee is going to have to make the same decisions you're making today -- probably with a lot less time to do it in -- and from a lot smaller pool."
"I don't get it." Big Papa complained.
"We can't tell people to go someplace, or it would be mobbed with people we don't want -- so we'll be going to them. We'll be throwing a barrier around a place with a half-dozen or so selectees in it, popping in and telling them, 'Hi, you're out of here -- look around and find something to take with you.' And they're gonna have to go 'Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, ' pick a couple of people from whatever supply is in their immediate vicinity, and we'll all be gone like Santa Claus -- poof!" At Fred's raised eyebrow, I amplified, "Molecular transporter, like Star Trek."
"So..." Joey drawled.
"So if your old lady wants to go with you and she is too lazy to follow you around, one day she's gonna send you to McDonalds and you won't be coming back -- and she'll be shit out of luck," I amplified. "It's gonna suck for dual income families, but..." I shrugged.
Fred looked bothered. "There are going to be some social changes."
I nodded. "Guys and gals with high-end CAPs may take to hiding it to keep from acquiring an entourage that follows them wherever they go. Sexual harassment may disappear, as an issue, except for guys with low CAPs. For guys with high CAPs, 'No means no!' may turn into 'No means I'm not feeling well, how about later?' Low CAPs are going to be hunting high CAPs looking for a ticket out -- and you might get a taste of what lengths they're willing to go to tonight."
"Any advice?" Joey asked.
"Remember that you're setting up a household that will end up containing kids -- and you may not be around a lot," I advised. "If you pick an idiot with wide hips and a dairy farm on her chest, better pick someone smarter for her to report to. Oh, and this isn't marriage -- it's more like chattel slavery. They aren't your equals. You're the breadwinner, and your word is law -- you can go slack on that if you want, but it's the bottom line. Ultimately, they're replaceable -- and you're not. We're not used to that any more -- but it's that way it's going to be. If you say jump, they'd better already be in the air when they ask how high, because if they become a problem, you literally have the option of dumping them out the nearest airlock and hunting down a replacement."
Dean Branson, who had said exactly nothing to date, made his debut with, "Jeezus."
"Yeah," I nodded. "Did I mention that you're responsible for whatever shit they get into? And you're judge, jury, and executioner." I rubbed my face. "It's a brave new world out there -- and you're fortunate that you're out of here before it all sinks in, but you'll be pioneering the far side of things, too -- which won't be any picnic, either. Tonight is apparently an exercise in rubbing the viewing public's nose in the fact that things have changed -- a lot! What you do is going to set expectations, and while I'd like to be able to advise you to take the high road, I think it would be a disservice to those who follow. Make sure you get yours, whatever it is -- people are going to have to learn that when the train pulls in, they've got a couple of minutes to get their shit together, then it's gone and all they can do is wave bye- bye." Fed up with preaching, I waved a hand and left; I had my own problems.
A hundred women is serious variety. Four hundred is just ridiculous. There was no way we could have gotten through this thing in two hours; I was glad someone had been thinking. This batch had already been pre-culled, once, by the producers; there weren't any fourteen year olds, but there was an age range that ran from eighteen to forty-five. There were different shapes and sizes, but no one was seriously obese. That left an amazing variety of shapes and colors and ages -- I was glad to be on the sidelines.
Our talking head kicked things off and pulled no punches: "Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to the Average Joe Defense Forces Selection Special. In case you've missed the disclaimers, this is a unique event in reality television -- we are live and TOTALLY uncensored! You will see our contestants make their selections in real time, and you will see anything and everything that occurs, without editing. Since some of the criteria our contestants will be selecting for are related to sex and reproduction, we expect that there may be considerable graphic content -- parents with young children are strongly cautioned. However, since recent regulations and CAP testing guidelines extend to age fourteen, it may be instructive for teens between fourteen and adult to view this program despite the expected graphic content. So, let's get to it, shall we? Let me re- introduce our contestants, all four of whom have been selected for the Defense Forces..." Yak, yak, yak... I guess it could have been worse -- it could have been that Seacrest guy... "So, Fred, what are you going to use for your initial criteria?"
Fred scratched his head. "Well, CAP scores -- but not the general scores. I'm going to be looking as some specific indicators that vary a lot." He chuckled. "Of course, in some cases, I may wing it..."
Our host changed targets, "What about you, Dean?"
"First pass? Eyeballs, mostly," Dean replied.
"Joey?"
"CAP scores -- sorta like Fred," Joey replied. "I'm only doing three -- I'm gonna take the mother of my kids with me, and she takes a slot." He grinned evilly. "It's gonna be a lot different than when we were married, though."
That gave the announcer an opportunity to talk about how the selections were apportioned by CAP score, and a quick aside into certain of the other criteria, such as transport of minor children -- then he turned to Big Papa, "And you? How are you going to make the first pass, Big Papa?"
Big Papa shook his head. "I haven't come up with anything that I'm totally comfortable with," he related. "I'm gonna wing it. Could be anything. Maybe I'll pick the ugliest ones." The studio audience laughed, but I was pretty sure Big Papa was serious -- and who knew? It might work... I could think of several valuable criteria that tended to run higher on ugly chicks. The talking head made the obligatory "After the break..." noises and we got to learn all about hairspray, or some such. I hate commercials.
We came back to a room that would make your average gym seem small. There were four hundred women arrayed there, a hundred against each wall and four sets of double doors that were going to see a lot of use in the next hour or two, too. Each of the guys had a cameraman dogging him. Our host had them draw straws; Dean won, so he got to pick which wall he was going to make his selections from -- like it mattered, really... In very little time, the contestants were walking their line of women, examining the merchandise.
The women wore whatever they thought would make an impression. We told them no nudity on the first round, and no bathing suits -- but made it clear that the rules basically ended there. We had everything from elegant gowns to cropped T-shirts and jean skirts that didn't cover much. Some women opted for the traditional garb of their culture -- I saw a couple of Indian women in saris, for instance. Some aimed for elegant, some for outrageous -- I saw at least two serious Goth chicks, one in a Hooters T-shirt and shorts, and a couple in pajamas. To each her own, I guess...
Fred was operating basically as advertised, examining CAP cards -- closely, drilling down into the psych data, apparently, just as he'd said he was going to. CAP wasn't the only criterion, however; I saw him take a couple of cards, examine them, shake his head and raise his thumb to point to the door -- then eye the woman, stop her, and have her get back in line. From watching, you had no better idea what his showstopper was than his standard criteria.
Dean's criteria were just as clear as Fred's were muddy. He dumped fifteen out of line in a walking pass that lasted all of thirty seconds -- then went back for a second, slower look. Breast size seemed to be important.
Joey was moving pretty slowly though his collection, examining cards also -- but he allowed several more exceptions than Fred. I found myself wondering if he was going to get down to fifty -- and if so, how long it was going to take to get there. From the looks of things, his ex had better not be making any big plans...
Big Papa was stopping to have a word with every woman. Usually, he got two or three beyond a woman before looking back and saying, "Honey? We're done. Thank you." I thought it was pretty slick; some of the others were catching a lot of histrionics from the ones that got bounced, but Big Papa would wait until they settled down, THEN drop the bomb. Most went quietly. Big Papa's cameraman asked him what he was doing; Big Papa pulled him aside so the women couldn't hear but the audience could, and said, "I'm getting rid of whiners." The guy was certainly unique...
In fact, Big Papa surprised us, throwing a monkey wrench in the works about halfway through Round One. Dean had let some chick go -- a stocky brunette in a short skirt over leggings -- and Big Papa looked up and waved at the host, asking, "Hey, can I get an eye on that one?" The host, caught flat- footed, made a lightning decision and had one of the bouncers catch the woman and turn her around. Thoroughly confused, she found herself in front of Big Papa, who had a couple of words with her and asked the host, "Hey, can I keep her?"
The host shrugged and said, "As long as you only have fifty when you finish..."
Big Papa said, "Go get in line down there," and the brunette stumbled off to join his group, dazed, her dreams dashed and resurrected inside of a minute.
At that point, it seemed like everybody grew eyes in the back of his head. Fred examined two of Big Papa's and kept one, Dean eyeballed no fewer than six of Fred's and kept two, and Big Papa examined one of Fred's and one more of Dean's -- and kept the one he took from Fred. Joey was having such issues that additional distractions were beyond him.
Things went at wildly varying rates. Dean was done in twenty minutes, except for poaching from Fred. Big Papa made two passes and started a third before he got down to fifty -- and I was starting to think he WAS using the ugly stick. Fred finished up with forty-eight -- but after a hurried conference it was decided that it wouldn't do any good to bring back women he'd already rejected just to fill a quota. Joey took an hour and fourteen minutes and had to be leaned on to dump three and get down to fifty.
What with commercials and such, we were over ninety minutes in; I was beginning to think that we might not embarrass the FCC too badly. We went to commercials and when we returned, the women had been moved to four separate -- and smaller -- rooms. We were on four-way split-screen, but then Dean hogged the limelight by announcing, "Okay, Ladies, get those tops off! This is a reality show -- I want to know whose tits are real!" There went keeping the FCC happy... We HAD to go there, too, obviously, so Dean hogged three- quarters of the screen, feeling up women's breasts, while the others were busy with less controversial activity -- and largely ignored. Still, it was simple, straightforward, and easily understood as criteria went; six women were artificially augmented and eight more Dean classified as 'droopy' -- which left him with eleven to weed out in the remainder of the round. He finished up with nipple size -- or at least, that's what it looked like. At that point, we managed to shift away to the others.
Big Papa was talking to his again, holding their hands and engaging them with questions like, "Do you like kids?" and "Do you know what you're getting into?" His cameraman asked him what he was looking for, and Big Papa replied, "I'm trying to sort the ones who can put up with my big ass from the ones just looking for the door." In most cases, the answers to the questions didn't seem to matter -- the exception being the woman who answered the second question with, "No, does anybody?"
With Dean all finished, we could give half the screen to one candidate and split the other half among the other two. Big Papa got a lot of screen time, initially, but he seemed to get what he needed to see from the women fairly quickly, so we were able to shift to Fred, who was finally getting somewhat personal with his collection. Fred had a couple of standard questions, the primary on being "Why are you here?" After a bit, I noticed a pattern; women with a CAP score over six got that one, and very few answers were satisfactory. One woman apparently hit the ball out of the park, though, with, "I've done big business -- I want to be a housewife and mother."
Fred asked her, "Do you think you'd be any good at it?"
"I don't know for sure," she replied, "but my biological clock is getting pretty insistent."
Joey was a mess; he seemed to be hitting his in some complicated pattern that allowed him to return to a woman several times, unpredictably. Women left the room, but it all seemed to me to be just too agonizing. They were serving drinks in the other three rooms to kill time when Joey finally reluctantly let go of Number Twenty-six. I had no idea what his criteria were, but my gut said he was screwing up.
Round Three finally arrived. Our host reminded the audience that Fred would be able to keep six of his women, Dean and Joey would be allowed four, and Big Papa only two -- which got 'boo's from the studio audience, but that's life... I pretty much agreed that Big Papa was much more likely to control and appreciate four women than Joey, but CAP scores were the defining factor. Based upon this little exercise in futility, I figured that I might need to talk to the rules committee about drilling down a bit in the criteria to ensure the sponsor had the capacity to handle the family he was going to be saddled with. I flashed Tony a look and he muttered, "Once Big Papa has his blood pressure and weight under control, he'll probably pop over seven..." Physical criteria weren't big in the CAP, but there were indexes for sexual potency and such -- and physical improvements tended to drive the numbers up a bit.
Safely into our cable network window, we decided to let the other groups relax while we turned Dean loose -- and he didn't disappoint. "All right, he announced, gathering his twenty-five applicants, "Let's see the rest of it." One of them opened her mouth to protest, and the thinning was under way -- Dean gave her about three syllables to determine whether she had a question or was just bitching, and pointed to the door. Everyone else got the hint. Slow response getting out of the rest of their clothing got another couple of girls shown the door; leaving her socks on got a Goth girl the boot. "EVERYTHING goes, Ladies -- I need to see EVERY SQUARE INCH!" Dean declared. We were watching the studio audience, and in general, nobody was freaking -- most were being entertained by the whole thing.
Presented with twenty naked women, Dean had them bend at the waist so he could see their asses, and spread their legs so he could see their pussies. One couldn't handle the embarrassment and hit the door, leaving nineteen. Dean went around squeezing butt cheeks and asking questions; the younger ones got, "So have you used this thing?" and the older ones got, "I know you have, but did you like it?" Next up was "Anybody got kids? Where are they?" Dean had no use for virgins or women who felt that sex was just for procreation; on the other hand, raising a hand in answer to "How many of you have been to a gang- bang?" got two women a ticket out -- and I was willing to bet one of them lied. Three women had kids; the one who didn't have custody, however, hit the door -- which made sense to me. "Anybody got a problem with being barefoot and pregnant?" he asked. Some idiot raised her hand and Dean rasped, "What the Hell are you doing here, then?"
Down to ten, it was apparently time for trick questions. Dean had them all kneel before him, telling them, "You're gonna spend a lot of time like this." He stepped up to the first woman -- a twenty-five year old bleached-blonde with a salon tan and asked, "So, do you play with yourself?"
The woman looked like she was going to cry -- what a question to hang the rest of your life on! And EVERYONE was going to know the answer... Should she lie? Finally, she hung her head and muttered, "Yes."
"What was that?"
"Yes."
"Show me."
Tears rolled, but she reached between her legs. "That's good, Honey. Don't go nowhere, you passed this one. Frankly, I didn't think you were gonna," Dean told her, and moved on. "Ever been butt-fucked?" he asked the next one.
"No." This one was young. She flushed scarlet.
"Why not?"
"Nobody ever asked."
"So if I told you to turn around and bend over..." Dean began. The girl got up and ran out. "What about you?" he asked the next one -- a black girl.
"No."
"No what?"
"No, Sir!"
Dean chuckled. "This isn't the Army, but I like your style. Back to the question -- have you ever been butt-fucked?"
"No, Sir."
"Why not?"
"Nobody ever wanted any."
"What about you? You ever want any?"
"I..."
"Come on, Honey -- it's a yes or no answer," Dean chided.
The black girl, feeling the breeze of that lonely hilltop where the wrong call rolled you to the bottom, swallowed and said, "I might like to try it."
Dean nodded and moved on. "How many dicks have you sucked?" he asked the thirty-something redhead who was probably the oldest of the group.
"Different dicks or different times?" she clarified.
"Both."
The woman gathered herself. "Ummm, maybe five different ones -- okay, ten at the outside. I don't know how many -- a lot."
"Over a hundred?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You're good at it, then, huh?" Dean prompted. The woman blushed, but nodded. He moved on. "Do you eat pussy?" he asked the next woman. This was a twenty-something blonde who had somehow passed the natural breast test -- I, personally, thought she was a liar.
"I... No."
"What are you gonna do if I'm gone a couple of weeks?" Dean asked. "Chase dick?"
"Uh, without."
Dean eyed her a moment and moved on. "What about you?" he asked the next candidate. "Do you eat pussy?"
"Yes," the dark-haired beauty kneeling before him replied. This chick was Hispanic, and she was HOT!
"Are you into it?" Dean prompted.
"It's okay," the girl said carefully. "I like dick better."
She was young. "How many boys have you fucked?"
"Four."
"And you like it?"
"Uh huh."
Dean turned back to the blonde. "Git." Then he moved on to the next supplicant -- the least impressive of the lot, a somewhat chunky woman with mouse-brown hair, probably in her early thirties. "Would you fuck another guy if I told you to?"
"Yes."
"What if I didn't?"
"No, then."
"What if he smelled bad?"
"Yes."
"If I didn't tell you to and he smelled bad?"
"Uh, no, then."
"Make up your mind. What if I told you to and he only had one leg?"
"Couldn't I just suck him?"
Dean snorted and waved his hand. The woman got up and made it halfway to the door before he said, "Get back here. I'm not done with you." He moved on to the next finalist -- an Indian woman. "So, you ever been butt-fucked?"
"No, Sir, Please, Sir -- that's abomination!"
"Run along, Honey -- I don't want to mess with your religion." Dean moved to the next supplicant. "Are you wet?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"The questions you're asking..."
"Git." He turned to the last of the ten. "Are YOU wet?"
She knew the right answer. "Yes."
"Show me." She wasn't. "You lied. Git!" And then there were five. Dean circled back to the bleached blonde. "You're cute-looking, but high- maintenance. I don't know if we're gonna have tanning booths where we're going. Why should I keep you?"
The woman locked eyes with him, drew a breath -- and reached for his fly. Dean almost recoiled, but he didn't. Instead, he waited to see if she was going to follow through. The bleached blonde surprised him; she lowered his trousers a bit, collected his cock, and began to suck.
"Well, well, well..." Dean mused. "Come here, Red, I need a comparison." It turned out that the redhead knew her way around a cock, too. The black girl didn't, but she was game. The woman with the mouse- brown hair was an accomplished fellatrix. That left the little Chiquita -- who was also game...
They all passed the "Are you wet?" test, too. In the end, he had to let the Hispanic girl go, despite her looks, because she didn't like having her ass played with -- even though she tolerated it. "Damn, Honey, this is probably the hardest thing I ever did, 'cause you're hot, but I'm sending you home to Mama," Dean announced, and selection of the first group was over. The studio audience had been massively entertained -- that was obvious; I wondered what kind of crap we would get from others over the whole thing. I was amazed at his final selections, but I had to assume that he knew what he was doing.
Fred was the next one to present something unique; he asked for dance music -- stuff he could slow-dance to. He eliminated fifteen women for being graceless, or not feeling the way they should in his hands -- or for being flat unable to dance. After that, he finally got down to physical appearance and managed to cut the required four women based upon his opinion of their naked forms, leaving him with his six winners. It wasn't as exciting as Dean's final culling, but they DID get naked...
Big Papa had the toughest job; he was only allowed two -- and he was VERY popular from the series. Women weren't going to excuse themselves, and they weren't going to back down; he had to find ways to eliminate them, one by one -- ways that he was reluctant to come up with, generally. This group he escorted to the door gently, individually, giving them a kiss as he sent them on their way, generally crying. Big Papa used trick questions, too, but they weren't the rough ones Dean used; he usually found a back way to determine a woman's unsuitability to his particular needs.
When he got down to a dozen, there was no way he could continue to avoid the physical -- but even then, he took things in stages. Standing in a bra and panties revealed most of what he needed to see and disqualified six women -- over simple things like the shape of a foot, or the way a woman's legs did or did not curve. It was esthetics, generally, but Big Papa had nothing else left; in order to keep them from embarrassment, he avoided telling them the exact nature of their failures.
Next came bra removal; the set of their breasts disqualified two more -- but then it got REALLY difficult! Examining their pussies didn't resolve it, kissing didn't resolve it; finally, he had to take each of them aside and actually fuck them -- just for a few strokes -- to determine that the chunky brunette he'd stolen from Dean and a feisty black woman were the most limber pair, and therefore the winners.
In the meantime -- and we let it run concurrently, because otherwise everyone would have gone insane -- Joey stumbled through his selection process. In general, it was painful to watch, as he couldn't make up his mind -- but it DID have highlights, like the cat fights...
There were at least three. Joey would trigger them by wandering back and forth between two women, comparing them, until they started comparing themselves. Then the insults would fly, and after that... Twice, the ultimate result was that Joey sent both combatants on their way, but it didn't happen the third time; Joey eventually eliminated one of the combatants during a lengthy comparison with someone else, but the other one hung in there and survived.
Six women just walked out -- and I couldn't blame them a bit.
When he got down to five, I noticed that he was asking questions like, "Do you have any problem taking care of someone else's kids?" He harped on that kind of thing for a bit, and I couldn't help grinning, knowing he'd given up on his cherished dream of sticking it to the ex in person in favor of sticking it to her in absentia by taking the kids and giving them to other women to raise. When his fifth candidate finally gave up, we moved on to the previews of coming attractions -- including the announcement of the selection of four women from the night's pool who volunteered for the Defensive Forces and the plan for their mate selection, to be aired two nights hence.
"Joey was murder!" Tony groused.
"He's likely to BE murdered," I replied. "We need to fine-tune the criteria -- and we need to make sure nobody that indecisive ever flops like that on TV again! He'll never hold down those four..."
"Those witches are probably worse than his ex," Tony laughed. "Some people never learn."
"Another problem we need to overcome," I agreed.
"Well, we did it, though," Tony sighed. "We're off the ground. People are testing, volunteering, emigrating, and have some idea what to expect. What do you plan to do, long-term?"
"Get assigned to a fighter wing," I replied, turning to walk out.
"Politics is making me as mad as Ch'teek!"