I try it by myself first, which, for many reasons, is a no-go.
The letter that came with the vials (almost insultingly tiny vials, only slightly larger than test tubes) was addressed (who gave those basement dwellers at super-duper-secret-CIA our address anyway?) to both me and Steve, so it’s a good thing I found it first. I’m home more than him anyway, so I guess it was inevitable.
(“home” is a tiny rental apartment in Brooklyn, because being a veteran and a superhero only pays in the satisfaction of a job well done. And the lack of death threats from people asking why you didn’t save those people from that, this time. Like you’re God or something.)
So they want my cum. Gross. But a thousand dollars is a thousand dollars. As the guy with the most laughable résumé of the 21st century (Yes sir, I would love to work for you. Why, the last time I lifted a finger, I was in the army with your dad! Or is it grandfather already?), I’m not turning up my nose at it. Stevie would, though.
Which is why I’m – well, lying is a strong word, such a shame it’s the right one.
Well, here’s my reasoning, right? They’re not gonna get anywhere studying that shit. In the letter, they called it “super soldier semen” or something like that, I didn’t read it twice. I’m guessing their hope is whatever was done to us is inheritable or maybe they wanna inject the next poor kid with it (R.I.P.), see what happens. Either way, I doubt they’ll really get anything out of it. My jizz doesn’t glow in the dark or anything, it’s normal. Those Nazi grandchildren can huddle together to sniff it in their musty underground until the end times, for all I care.
So yes, I’m doing it, and yes, I’m enlisting Stevie’s help. He’s been really pushing for me to “explore my fantasies” (that’s his therapist’s psychobabble rubbing off on him) with him ever since he got that collar for himself (which, to be fair, was kinda fun) so all I’ve gotta do is say it’s some deep-hidden fetish of mine and he’s down. The only hard part is swallowing my pride to look him in the eyes and say that, out loud, but that’s something I’ve been getting a lot of practice in.
What I make for it can be most accurately described as “some sort of contraption”. I cut a tiny hole at the end of a condom and slip the vial through, and after a few tries (and discarded condoms) I get the size of the hole just right so that the latex expands enough for the body of the vial but stops right before the rim, keeping it snug against the tip of my head (the other one). I’m actually a little proud of it at the end of my slippery arts and crafts session, though it looks like a torture device and should probably be classified as one. Well, you know, all pleasure comes with a little pain. Or the other way around.
I optimistically expect to find it hot in the moment, for the discomfort and dehumanization to awaken some deep animal thing in me that’ll give my brain a chemical cocktail I’ll still be craving again in another 50 years, but all I can really feel is the agonizing coolness of the glass rim against hot skin and the being weighed down like a pregnant cow, and as soon as I fill the damned thing, I banish it to the bedside table and insist to Stevie that we go for a round where I’m not producing merchandise.
It’s a week later, and I’m smoking with Nat on some forgotten building’s fire escape.
There’s a calmness here. It’s a cold morning; I like it when the wind bites. I don’t know why she likes the weather, but she does, too.
Nat is a relief. She’s not loud and neon-colored like everything else here. And she’s not sorry for me.
(On that note, Stevie is “glad I’ve made friends” in the 21st century, something so condescending it makes me want to pretend I’ve been “activated” again just to give him a scare. But that’s just that dark corner of my mind speaking, and I don’t listen.)
Speak of the devil and he texts you.
[We got a letter. Please come home. We need to talk.]
I can guess what it’s about. Maybe because I felt the need for friendly advice for the first time in my life, or because my heart is beating faster than a mouse’s for the first time since I was just a shitty little kid and just like back then, I want to delay facing the music as long as possible, I shove my phone back into my pocket and look up at her.
“Hey, Nat…”
I spill my guts. I maybe even give a little too much detail, but she doesn’t blush (not in her nature) and (this one out of the goodness of her heart) doesn’t even cringe.
She thinks I fucked up. She’s right, of course.
“I get why you accepted that offer, but you could’ve left Steve out of it.”
“Touché.”
The one embarrassing detail I don’t tell her is that I couldn’t, actually – I can’t really get off on my own anymore. I was never ambidextrous, and the feeling of metal on my dick just makes me sick. Never mind that the thing will probably get a thousand types of rust if I don’t clean it just right, and I’m tired of asking Tony fucking Stark for favors. And then there’s the things Stevie and I do together that you can’t really do to yourself…
Sensing the unspoken what-the-fuck-do-I-do-now, Nat sighs and puts out her cigarette on the metal railing.
“Go home. Apologize. Hide the money.” And right before she turns around to walk down the stairs, she adds, less sternly, “Good luck.”
I recognize the logo on the (opened) envelope on top of the kitchen table (slash-living-room-table-slash-dining-room-table) right away, so I know my guess was right. Steve is sitting across from it, and he’s probably been frozen there with his arms crossed, glaring at the front door ever since he texted me.
“Hi Stevie,” I say, turning around to lock the door, because I’m not gonna be the dramatic one here.
“What the fuck, Barnes.” Hm. Off to a great start.
“It’s a thousand.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Look, they’re not gonna get anywhere with this, it’s just a bunch of mad scientists throwing money around, and honestly, I’d say we deserve it.”
“Not like this!”
I sigh. I’m seated now, across him. I look down at my hand, fiddling with the metal thing.
“I’ve been stuck here three months–” Three months without a job. Three months living off his back, wasting time, every day, waiting for him to come home – or for the next disaster to strike.
He cuts me off. “Alright, you’re bored. You feel useless. So what, you sell yourself? To these people?”
I don’t know why he’s surprised. I signed up for an army, got brainwashed into another. Not exactly the type to stick it to the man. He should know that, he really should. All this disappointment is making the air a bit thin up here in this pedestal.
(And oh, he’s so right, he’s so good. Stevie doesn’t cheat, Stevie doesn’t sell his body, Stevie would take a bullet for anyone. He’s mister fucking America. Captain, actually.
I used to be real proud of that.)
He gets up, and I know he’s about to leave, but he looks at me in a way and I know he’s about to drop one of those that hurt, the type that still stick with me from when we were kids till today, the type that I can’t twist out of in any fucking way.
“You used me.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
He leaves.
I can’t feel relieved. What if he really leaves? Who the fuck do I turn to? Nat? No offense, but she’s more of a little sister. Who else? These children that fill the streets? Museum exhibits, old records? The self-absorbed assholes we’re supposed to be saving the earth with weekly? His fucking therapist?
If Steve leaves and stays left, I’m done for.
For now, I just sit here, wishing it was still as easy for me to die as it once was.
On a lighter note, he left the envelope and all its contents behind. The money I quickly hide in my jacket like it burns me. The letter is a bit more fun. Turns out, they sent me some fun facts about my sperm, like an awkward thank-you note for playing along that only socially stunted mole rat people like them could come up with. Among a bunch of other data I can’t even begin to figure out, one item of the “lab results” section is laid out in plain English: I’m infertile.
First good news I’ve heard in months.