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Of course, as you can tell from the EPI stenciled on my forearm,
my see-through skin is top-shelf from Epidermix Paracellular, Inc.,
the leader in synthetic skin replacement. It has a stae-of-the-art
tactile underlayment crafted by their subsidiary Neuralite, which glows
green in lowercase letters on my wrists when I stand in black light.
My knees, see, are from Polycap Plus, and I must uncover them
when the temperature reaches 17 degrees Celsius due to
Polycap’s reciprocal agreement with the shortswear division of
the Hilfiger-Fubu-Gap conglomerate, whose fishnet muscle shirts
likewise reveal the key to my Javirkorp-PaceCon-Cardiodyne heart.
My 75x1 zoom ocular implants are the latest from Optivue, and
they flash like lighthouses for five seconds every hour, projecting
OV logos on my eyelids, on bystanders, on movie screens, and
the bedroom wall of the newlyweds in the penthouse across the park
—as the Phalluform trademark stretches to its full length in my hand.
Freebies for trade name placements are common now, but transparency
is still so freakish that I haven’t touched a woman since my pulse raced
without needing a subcutaneous switch and my blood had no Siliphon
chips to play the HemoSynth jingle near Multisonic towers and my
heart was as hidden and mysterious as the skin beneath my clothes.
But now that I’ve found you, Viv, I can barely believe my lenses—
Vibratip fingers powered by Eveready Eternalizers, under the fishnet
perfect breasts from MastePiece over Pneumothonic lungs and under
that black skirt the finest Spandivex Gynecanal money can buy. Oh, I’m
sure. I can feel it, baby. Can’t you? We were made for each other.
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