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Chapter 7: The Cradle of Beauty
Buckle up everyone. Beth's with a client.
“A little rougher,” Amber panted. They were in the Kennedy room, the older woman spread-eagled on the huge antique four poster, her wrists and ankles held at extension by leather cuffs. The silk sheets were cool against Beth’s knees and the palm of her right hand. With her left she cupped Amber’s throat, her thumb against the line of her jaw. Without speaking, she quickened her tempo. It was Friday. Her shift ended in two hours, and her cock felt like molten lead.
Grootch would like you, the reader, to believe that the bunker has so many women clamoring for a mediocre dick-down by an estrogen poisoned sex pest that there are SHIFTS in the whorehouse.
Maybe it’ll slough off of my body, she thought, taking her hand off Amber’s neck so she could spit in it and rub it on the other woman’s flushed and puffy cunt and the base of her own dick. Maybe it’ll drip onto the sheets and burn holes in the mattress.
Beth mournfully wishes his dick would fall off right before he uses saliva as lube and inserts it into a human woman. This well stocked bunker has everything except medical equipment and personal lubricant, apparently.
Once the client leaves, Beth reminisces fondly about his time as a street walker in Boston. This is not how women talk about prostitution, something they are often forced into out of economic need.
She’d had regulars. She smiled at the memory of a fat, gentle programmer who liked to be sodomized with the handle of a hairbrush. That hadn’t been so bad.
Pretty sure that was Micah.
This is just a job. It’s just a way to keep from being drawn and quartered by the Knights of J. K. Rowling.
Wait, have we heard mention of this knighthood before? I am thinking this is just a stupid one-off line ultimately signifying nothing rather than a reference to an actual organization in this universe.
Later, Beth eats "family dinner" with Robbie and Fran in Indi's apartment. No Indi though, because she totes has an eating disorder and has to eat in shame and secrecy. Beth misses some other hulking man troon that would make him feel better about how little he passes as a woman and starts crying into his pork chops.
Then we have a sex scene between Robbie and Fran that gives me a headache with all the nonsense pronouns. Trying to decipher who is doing what to whose asshole is confusing as hell when all the body parts are described in a backwards way and the pronouns are upside-down.
She pulled away, strands of mucus and jism stretching and snapping between her cock and his open mouth
Cum has hentai viscosity in
Manhunt.
Alien muscle jacked into his body’s throbbing substrate.
I have no idea what Grootch is saying here. I mean, I'm fairly certain Robbie is getting her pussy licked, but the way it is being described is so off-putting and un-sexy it's hard to be 100% certain.
Fran looked up from his sopping slit, her face slick up to the cheekbones, traces of dark menstrual blood on her lips and chin and the tip of her nose. She looked like a hyena pulling its muzzle out of a carcass.
In case you, like me, forgot that Robbie is on her period again.
He swallowed. “Can you hold me?”
Her smile faltered. She wiped her face on her forearm. “Yeah, of course.”
For a while they lay together in the quiet, Fran’s arms around him, the only sound the distant rumble of the Screw’s pumps and generators. She probably wanted me to hold her, he thought sadly. He licked his lips and tasted her again. I should remember that next time.
Just a woman, requesting a man hold and comfort her, being made to feel guilty that she didn't center his own desire to LARP as the little-spoon woman.
Fran starts to tell Robbie about his day, meeting with XX TERFs. Robbie gets angry that Fran is risking himself which Fran takes as transphobia.
“What, worried those geniuses are gonna clock me?” She sniffed. “Half of them look more like men than I do.”
This is a common thread for troons. They seem to think a butch lesbian, with close-cropped hair and cargo pants, somehow is under the obligation to "pass" as a woman. Passing implies falsehood. Natal women, however masculine they may appear to be, do not need to pass for what they already are. Trannies like Grootchen hate this because they are extremely regressive and conservative in how they believe women should present themselves.
Fran storms off to make an appointment with Sophie. You would think a newly invited member of the bunker would take care to dress nicely, smell inoffensively, ANYTHING if he were to meet with the leader of that bunker. Out of respect. No. Fran isn't even described as wiping the menstrual blood from his face before we jump ahead to their meeting. I'll let you imagine how filthy he is.
“Nam-joo said you did, like, so well in the meeting.”
Please don't make me read poorly written vocal fry. This is cultural appropriation, Grootch. You aren't from SoCal and you'll never be a California Girl so just stop.
She was wearing a black zip-front jumpsuit and a plain leather dog collar with a stainless steel ring. Fran wondered where she got her eyeliner and lip gloss and who did her beautiful cornsilk hair.
Sophie was wearing a DOG COLLAR? What?! Peak troon fashion sense, there.
“You should never devalue yourself like that,” she said, her tone deadly serious. “You’re a powerful woman now. You have to own your power. You have to believe in it and not let anyone take advantage of you.”
Big Pharma shouting YAAASS QWEEEEN while mutilating mentally ill men and women sounds pretty much exactly like this. Remember that's essentially what Sophie is, now that she's cornering the estrogen market for profit.
“I just think it’s such a, like, such a fuck-you to those bitches,” Sophie chattered as they careened down Rainbow Road, karts skidding over the
track’s technicolor film. “Like, okay, you want our shit? You wanna deal with us? You have to talk to our dickgirl and, like, recognize her humanity.”
Sophia reveals that she sent Fran to the day's negotiations to troll the TERFs because obvs Fran is totes a "dickgirl." Fran and her play Mario Kart, no really they do, and drink chocolate milk before Sophie invites Fran to take some molly with her.
We cut to Beth and Robbie talking shit about Fran while they take a nice little nature walk.
“That’s just what she’s like,” said Beth as they slipped out single-file through the narrow gap of the bunker’s blast doors, which one of the motor pool attendants had opened for them with a nod to Robbie. Her eyes were still red-rimmed from crying. “She’s always been that way. If you tell her she’s doing something wrong, you’re a cop. If you tell her she’s being a cop, you’re a counterrevolutionary.”
This is a pretty accurate roast of most Twitter troons.
A few years ago he might have gone limp and slid back into self-pitying misery, finding someone to listen to him snivel about what a monster he was until guilt moved them to pull him close into an instantly resented embrace and tell him No, no, you’re just sick, we’re all traumatized, we’re struggling, you know what you did is wrong and wanting to change is what tells me you’re—and on and on until he’d vomited up all his curdled, putrid rage and could pretend he’d processed his feelings.
Robbie is just regular crazy BPD pussy. Grootch is doing a very good job at illustrating trans men as personality disordered women.
Beth and Robbie pass out cornbread to children in the nearby shanty town. Noblesse oblige and all that. Well, Beth hands out cornbread. Robbie seethes internally that she didn't think to bring anything for the kids and how this makes her look bad in front of Beth. Big BPD red flag.
“You should just let her do what she wants,” said Beth. She turned into the breeze and let it run its fingers through her sandy hair. A tear ran down her scarred cheek, its trail glistening pale gold in the
last light, a buttery brushstroke of yellow over the treetops. “If you make her look at herself, she won’t love you anymore.”
Exactly what every degenerate man trooning out on his wife of 15 years says too, funnily enough.
We cut back to Fran and Sophie, now having drug-fueled sex in Sophie's bed. Grootch gifts us with the worst description of cunnilingus I've ever read, and that's saying something considering what this book has already offered up as far as cunnilingus descriptions.
She kissed the pink bud of Sophie’s clit and imagined sucking it out of its hood of tender skin, drawing it like a
snail from its shell into her own body where it might take root and change, drawing her cock up into her flesh, parting the soft curtains of her sex.
There are no words for how disgusting this is.
Robbie returns to the apartment alone only to find that someone has slipped a message into her pocket while she wasn't paying attention.
Midnight tomorrow. 11-E. Come alone.
Back to Fran and Sophie sucking each other's snails out of their shells or whatever the fuck. Sophie reveals there is a surgeon from Tampa (maybe that teetus deletus doctor from TikTok?) that practices bottom surgery and offers to bring her to the bunker to cut Fran's dick off. They fuck some more as the scene fades to black.
That's all folks! Will Robbie follow the instructions in the note she found? Will Fran be gelded by a Floridian doctor in a bunker with no medical instruments? Will Beth ever find another hulking ogre troon to ease his self-esteem issues about passing? Will Indi ever eat anything in front of people? We'll have to wait and see!
Oh for fucks sake.
) is being criticized is because she’s (
