“Developing story in Central America: leaders of the República Femenina de Centroamérica confirmed today that RFC forces have secured control of El Triunfo, marking the first sustained crossing of the Mexican border. Spokeswomen for the movement say the advance was ‘largely uncontested,’ with several local security forces reportedly standing down without resistance.
RFC leader Paulina Morales released a brief statement earlier this morning, reiterating that the movement has no interest in ‘male-led governance structures’ and that areas under RFC control will immediately transition to female-only civil and military authority. International observers are urging calm, though officials at the US State Department acknowledged that traditional diplomatic channels have been ‘limited’ in recent days, with the RFC refusing outreach from President Knox. The Office of incoming President-Elect Marlee Martin has-”
The television was already on when I came into the break room, an episode of the Kathleen O’Connor show, but I switched to Channel 5 to get to the news. The early afternoon broadcast was already underway and muted captions crawled along the bottom of the screen while the gorgeous brunette anchor, Alicia Ray, spoke with a calm, professional cadence. Were they trying to make all this madness sound reasonable?
So, Journal, I didn’t turn it off, or mute it. I didn’t want to miss Melissa’s in-studio interview, which was scheduled during this broadcast. Instead I stood there, ignoring the formu protein drink lunch that Lakshmi had mixed up for me and trying to decide whether what I was feeling was concern or simply recognition of something irreversible that has already happened. There was no outrage or even concern in the news anchor’s delivery. It was just narration, as if the world had already agreed to move on, and I was the last one still processing the implications.
That’s when Amelia walked in.
She didn’t acknowledge me at first. She grabbed a sparkling water from the fridge, popped it open with one hand, and leaned back against the counter. I tried to keep my eyes off her but it was hard: platinum hair, immaculately pink nails drumming lightly against the can, a knockout. Gum, as always, along with the chronic air of aloofness. She must have been seeing patients today in one of the other clinics; she was wearing scrub bottoms but a tight white tee, long-sleeved but scoop-necked to show off her mighty gazongas.
“Sit,” she said, as she herself stood back up and stepped towards me.
I sat at a little table, on one of the cheap breakroom chairs. My feet didn’t quite touch the floor.
She pulled out another chair and sat next to me. The chair complained with a sharp squeak under the heft of her big ass. She checked her nails...
“Not drinking your lunch?” she asked.
I told her no. I told her I wasn’t hungry, which was actually not true. There was something about the formu protein drink that made me feel like ‘having space’ from Melissa should also mean not drinking this stuff, if it was based on her, uh, “lactation profile”. I didn’t know how long I could keep it up, though, not eating anything. I was actually feeling hungry to the point of being lightheaded.
Amelia shrugged, acting unconcerned.
“Missy’s thing on yet?”
“No,” I answered her. Amelia had come to watch, too, the Channel 5 segment, Melissa’s interview that Lexi from marketing had set up to help manage the spin from the bomb scare yesterday. I for one had found myself absurdly looking forward to a glimpse of her today, my first as we’d taken the day apart, for space to think. She’d be, I thought with growing excitement in my cheeks and in my pants, framed by studio lights, coiffed and composed. What would she have decided to wear? I’d found myself wondering.
Meanwhile, the anchor had moved on. The chyron had changed:
RISING FEMALE-ON-MALE VIOLENCE IN SCHOOLS - A CHANNEL 5 REPORT.
The words crawled across the bottom of the screen while Alicia Ray’s perfectly composed face filled the center. She spoke in that calm, measured tone the network loved - beautiful, authoritative, with dark eyes nearly as impossible to look away from as the healthy cleavage she had proudly on display.
“As we reported earlier this week, new data from the Department of Health and Human Services confirms what many of us have been saying anecdotally for years: adolescent girls are now outpacing boys in height, weight, and physical strength. Experts attribute the shift to a combination of improved nutrition and environmental factors, while others are calling it an ‘unexplained physiological acceleration in female development’.”
Cut to B-roll: middle-school hallways, grainy phone footage of a tall, confident girl in a hoodie towering over a smaller boy against a locker, her friends laughing behind her. Another clip - two girls easily lifting a boy off the ground by his backpack while he flailed. The footage was labeled “viewer-submitted.”
The news anchor’s voice continued, smooth as silk, deep for a woman. “While many incidents remain non-violent, reports of girl-on-boy bullying in middle schools have risen dramatically in the last three years. School administrators say traditional disciplinary models are struggling to adapt.”
I felt my stomach knot.
Amelia let out a low, amused hum beside me. “More girl bullies, huh?” she repeated, popping her gum. “Cute. But they’re just figuring it out now?”
She shifted her weight, and the motion made her chair squeak again in protest. Her scrub bottoms rode low on her hips, the tight white tee stretching immodestly across her big chest as she leaned forward, elbows onto the table. More than six feet tall, she didn’t even have to try to loom to make me feel small - she just did. Long platinum hair spilled over one shoulder, framing a torso that I’d heard she’d been using on cam chats to make bank from adoring weirdos. That tiny waist, flared hips, and those ridiculous breasts that strained every seam of her top had put her, Randi had mentioned, in the top 5% of earners on one of those new platforms. The scoop neck dipped just low enough to reveal the edge of a pink bra that clearly had its work cut out for it. The girl knew how to dress to hold the eye - I had to pull mine away again.
I looked back at the TV. We both watched the girl-bullies report.
“What’s it going to look like, twenty years from now?” I wondered aloud, considering that these middle schoolers would be the adults of the country in a generation’s time. I tried to keep my focus on the screen. I really did.
“Twenty years?” she said, voice both lazy and amused, stretching her long legs out under the table. “It won’t take that long. It’ll be everywhere. Girls will have outgrown boys in high school, college, the workforce. Women taller than men in every room, wives taller than husbands. Not special, like with us. Just…normal.”
The segment rolled on - footage of blurred school hallways, a reporter’s voice-over talking about “incidents of intimidation,” “size disparities,” “changing social dynamics.”
Amelia turned her head, slow, and looked down at me - way down - with those cool blue eyes.
“Imagining it?” she murmured, letting the words linger but looking back at her nails, checking her pink manicure, “Every hallway, every office, every street - women like me, like Melissa, like the Coronado girls…looking down at men like you. And the boys learning early that pushing back doesn’t work anymore.”
My mouth went dry. My mind supplied the images before I could stop it: classrooms where the girls sat in the back row, legs stretched out like Amelia’s were here, taking over the space, boys shrinking in their seats like I was in mine. Office meetings where the women took up all the authority. Dates where the girl has to bend down to kiss him goodnight, on his front porch. Sports fields where the girls’ teams dwarfed the boys’. Playground hierarchies rewritten before puberty even hit. Was that the future?
Amelia leaned in, so that her breasts squashed onto the table and their upper swells ballooned out of her neckline. The heat of another erection shot straight through me.
“They’re already learning they can get away with it,” she said, voice low, “A push here. A tease there. No consequences. And when these girls grow up?” She looked at my face, which was probably plain to read. “The world’s going to look very different for the weaker sex.”
My stomach tightened. I pictured not just the schoolgirls but darker things. Not just the casual shoves that sent boys stumbling, or the laughter when a smaller boy tried to stand his ground and ended up on the floor. How will this budding generation of young women treat men when they have all the power? Not just physical, in height and strength, but when they have the economic, political and social upper hand as well?
I couldn’t speak. My heart was hammering. My cock - traitor that it was - was straining against my pants again.
Amelia’s eyes flicked down, just for a second, and her smile changed.
“I know this is probably scary,” she said, still in her insouciant calm - she was looking at her nails again - but with a new, atypical warmth. “I also know Melissa.”
I went still.
“Don’t stress. She won’t let that happen to you,” she continued, matter-of-fact. Not comforting, but certain. “Not to you. Not to anyone she cares about.”
The words settled into me with alarming ease.
“She loves you. So she’s making us all stronger to protect you,”
I realized, then, how badly I’d needed someone to say that. Not ‘it won’t happen’ or ‘there’s no danger’. Not ‘it’s exaggerated’. But rather: ‘she won’t allow you to get hurt by it.’
The distinction mattered more than I wanted it to.
The segment ended. Commercials began. Amelia checked her phone, already half gone and I sat there, alone in my thoughts again, with the faint hum of the vending machine and the television murmuring to itself, feeling something precise settle into place inside me.
So, Journal, here’s the thing I can’t stop circling: Melissa’s love isn’t safe, not in a gentle way. It isn’t neutral. It doesn’t preserve what it touches. It reorganizes.
I’ve spent most of my life believing that love - real love - was about restraint. About not imposing yourself. About letting other people remain intact. But Melissa doesn’t love like that. She loves like a force of nature loves, by reshaping the terrain until it can withstand her. And the worst part - the part I’m only barely admitting to myself - is that when Amelia was talking about the future and the violence men may face, when she said ‘she wouldn’t let that happen to you’, my body didn’t recoil.
It relaxed.
I felt…covered. Claimed. As if danger itself had been reassigned, told to look elsewhere.
Yeah, I know. That should terrify me. Instead, I found myself waiting for her face to appear on the screen, wondering - not for the first time - how much of myself I’m willing to let her consume, if it means I never have to stand unprotected again.
I don’t know where that leaves me.
—J
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