A different kind of boi...

You are Chase Cassidy, a twenty something reporter (the something got added when you hit 25 and you don't plan to be more specific until you hit thirty). You have been skeptical about the so called bimbug since it was first reported. A virus that turns men into 'bimbois' based on their vision of an ideal woman is inconceivable enough. A virus that doesn't work on women or 'true studs' suggests that this bug is buggy, or that the propaganda around it is. You don't believe in the concept of a real man, or an ideal woman for that matter, but the simple lie seems more easily digestible than the messy truth.

The messy truth is your specialty. You have been dealing with it since you first realized you like your boy friends more like boyfriends. But real friends either supported you or saw it as a chance for some side action, and you've never regretted losing a bigot as a buddy.

You dealt with it when you parents learned that just because you date a girl in between guys sometimes doesn't mean you are suddenly straight, nor are you going into the closet. Your parents probably got the picture when you dated a couple at the same time, but you don't worry to much about them figuring out the complexities of sexuality as a spectrum when they still have to call you to explain how to switch the TV from cable to Netflix.

You dealt with it when you didn't want to wear girls clothes for some repressed roided out reprobate and be his 'bottom bitch'. When you made him cry and cum with just your pinky, he seemed to learn a lot about how preferences in bed are not all binary and that the thing you like to do best with a 'true stud' is make him cum in ways that he never dreamed of. Plus, he looked sexy as fuck stretching out the dress he picked for you.

So you don't buy this binary bug. It certainly exists, but you suspect it's more of a feature than a bug. You believe the virus has been designed or perhaps discovered then modified. You are planning on proving this with the help of an underground researcher you met online with the handle Dr_Fucks. It's certainly not the safest bet you've ever made, but it's also not the riskiest. Though you have to admit, pulling into the parking lot of an abandoned sex shop with a sign that reads 'The En__ant__ Fo__st' is a little less promising of a lab than you were hoping for.

You proceed cautiously to the front door, noticing an electronic lock and a steel door which seem much newer than the decaying storefront. You press the buzzer and wait with baited breath. After what feels like hours waiting to get mugged or tossed in an unmarked van, you see the door slide open and your mysterious Doctor_Fucks standing before. To say they weren't what you were expecting is an understatement to say the least.