Getting to know the basics of this strange new world

“So,” you hazard, realizing just how out of your depth you really are here, “so, like, what do your families look like if not that?”

“Well,” Lily starts, “I’ve got a pair of sisters and my Ma,” she says, brow furrowed deep in thought and counting on her fingers, “then there’s my nineteen half-sisters between fourteen aunties, and my Pa.”

“And mine,” Emilia says, taking another sip of her drink, “there’s me, my sister, four half-sisters and one half-brother, my Mama and two aunts, and my Papa.” She said, smiling softly and staring out at the air between you.

“What about your uncles?” You ask, eyebrow cocked, but pretty sure you already know the answer you’re going to get already.

“I’ve got a half-uncle that I met once,” Emilia sighs, “I’ve got another but they moved out to the west coast with their wives right about when I was born.”

“I’ve met a few of mine during family reunions and such,” Lily says smacking her lips, “got just about whipped by my aunt-in-laws whenever I saw them.”

“Oh?” asks Emilia, eyebrows raised, “whatever could you have done to deserve that?”

“I mean,” Lily balks, “you know how it is with family reunions, your cousin blabs about getting smooched by you once, and then they’re beating you away with a stick for just looking at your cousins and uncles for no good reason!”

Emilia snorts.

“Don’t you try and tell me,” Lily snapped, standing up on wobbly legs and with a finger pointed at Emilia’s face across the bar, “that you never kissed a cousin before.”

“A real lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” Emilia sing-song-says, looking at you.

“Sure,” Lily scoffs, taking another sip of her drink and slouching down behind the bar again.

“Back to what you said, Emilia, you said your uncle had wives, plural?” You ask.

“Yeah,” snorts Lily, “not everybody is as lucky as your Ma to have a man all to herself!” she huffed.

“So marriage,” you say, taking another sip, “generally a man and several wives then?”

“Yep,” Emilia says, taking a sip of her drink and nodding sagely.

“And how many wives usually make up a marriage?” you ask.

“I mean―” Emilia started, and sighs, “it depends I suppose, I know out in Deseret they’ll allow something like fifty or sixty wives to share a man.”

“That’s nuts,” scoffs Lily, “I assume that means you only get to bone your husband, what? Once a year?”

Emilia shrugs and says “but I’ve only seen more than twelve or so wives a couple times before.”

“Visit eastern Kentucky then,” Lily says with venom in her voice, “I’ve seen tiny coal towns that have maybe two dozen men tops between three thousand women or so, and yeah you might have fifteen or twenty women who are married to the same man,” she says, “but in towns like that like all there is to do is mine coal, drink, and screw each other’s husbands anyways,” she laughs.

“Oh wow,” you gasp.

“Yeah yeah,” Lily chuckles, “pretty common for them to say things like if you are working hard on day shift in the shaft that you better know that your husband is shafting the night shift hard.”

"The whole night shift?" you ask, incredulously.

"Probably not at the same time," replies Lily, and it get a scoff out of Emilia.

“So,” you say, taking a sip of your own drink, “what are,” you gasp, the booze still hard and dry down your throat, “what are the roles of men and women in marriage like? or more generally?”

“In marriage?” Emilia says.

You nod.

“Jeez,” Lily grumbles, frowning down into her cup, “they expect you to be the breadwinner, have a good job, bring home the bacon, you know?”

“Yeah,” Emilia agreed.

“That―” Lily burps and then scoffs, “that you’re supposed to have a nice apartment or a nice house with a lawn; and a car, a nice new four seater; and a husband, a pretty husband who dresses right and isn't too ugly and isn't too old, puts out every night, and can give you a bunch of kids; all that while balancing your career too.”

“And what about men?” you ask, “what’s a man supposed to act like?”

“Well,” Emilia says, twirling a loose strand of her golden hair in her fingers and looking out the window, at the distant lights of farmhouses rolling past in the night “a good man would be one that’s a good, caring person, good with kids, cheerful, thrifty, chaste,―”

“But also sexy,” interjects Lily, licking her lips.

“Yeah, sexy too,” repeats Emilia, blushing deeply, “dresses well, shows a little bit of skin, but still modest enough that they can meet your parents,” she nods.

“Ok but what’s your thoughts,” Lily says, “on flappers?”

“Oh,” Emilia says, “I mean, some of them are really cute,” she says, twirling her hair strand harder, “but I’m only into you know, men, not boys or girls.”

“Fair answer,” Lily says, nodding sagely, “what about you hun?” she says, looking at you.

“I’m not sure I understand,” you state.

“Do you like those backfisch, flappers, whatever you call them, you know?” Lily asked with hazy, lusty eyes, “the ones with the short hair, short hemlines, who smoke like a woman, drive like a woman, horny like a woman, but can dress like a man, dance like a man and get pounded like a man too,” she groans, “you really gonna tell me you don’t have those in Kansas?”

“I came from a pretty small town,” you laugh, trying to deflect.

“But come on,” Lily laughed, sitting up straight, “your papers said you were in Chicago, hun, that’s the jazz club capital of the whole Union! You’re really gonna try and tell me that you never once did the sideways tango with a flapper or got propositioned by one of them to get treated like a charity boy?”

“No,” you laugh, “never.”

“Hun,” Lily sensually sighs, “you’re missing out, really.”

“So, ah” you start, “next question, are there any government services for a man like me out here?”

Lily and Emilia look at you for a moment, then at each other.

“I know there’s, oh shoot what’s it called,” Emilia starts, “there’s the National Fertility Service that’s ran by the States’ Health Services, I think they do things for men like, ah…”

“You only know that one because they run the national sperm bank,” scoffed Lily, “and you’re crazy about having kids.”

“No I am not!” rebuffs Emilia, looking offended, “we had to take my half-brother there to do his penis inspections and semen quality checks.”

“Sure,” Lily snarks, then snapping her fingers, “Oh! There’s also the―” she paused, diving under the bar top, pulling out a comic book, “the, yeah here it is, National Bureau of Men’s Affairs, see?” She says, flipping the comic book around, showing you the title page for “Agent Anne McGillicutty, National Bureau of Men’s Affairs, On the Case!” with a rather serious looking woman with high cheekbones and blonde hair, wearing a black pantsuit and overcoat, brandishing a revolver at a group of particularly dastardly looking soldiers and holding a young man by his narrow waist, contrasting his wide muscular torso, against her chest.

“And what do they do?” you ask.

“Oh,” Lily says, flipping the comic book back around, “lots of stuff, track down runaways, stop groom trafficking and groom raids, take care of orphan boys, that sort of thing.”

“Huh,” you say, “ok.”

“You’d also be surprised how many runaway and orphan boys are really really hot,” Lily said, absentmindedly flipping through the comic with pursed lips and elevated eyebrows.

“Anyways,” you say, “what’s the politics like?”

“Like?” Emilia says, looking at Lily, who just shrugs.

“Like America, or the―” you pause, trying to not say ‘United States’ out of habit.

“Union of Socialist States of America?” Emilia says, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah?” You ask, leaning in expectantly.

“I mean, there’s the party,” Emilia says, sharing a look with Lily, searching her eyes for something.

“Yeah,” Lily said, “the Socialist Unity Party.”

“Ah I see,” you say, “and is it the only party?”

“I mean,” Emilia says, “there’s also the Farmer–Labor Party and the Democratic-Republican Party, but ah, I’ve never voted for anything but for the SUP.”

“Same,” Lily says, shrugging, “it’s part of our union contract, we vote for our union representatives and then they vote for the SUP for us in the state houses and in Congress.”

“I see,” you say, “I mean, that doesn’t sound very democratic or anything, does it?”

“Sure,” replies Emilia, shrugging, “but it could be worse, could always be down south in the land of cotton.”

Lily nods vigorously.

“What do you mean?” you ask, taking another sip, feeling the warmth of the **** throughout your entire body now.

“Well down in the Confederacy, they still got that planter class, them aristocrats, you see?” Lily says, “we used to have them too back in Kentucky, while we were still a Commonwealth and before we threw them out, and they ran the whole country like if they were kings in a feudal kingdom with **** plantations, **** factories, and all.”

“They still practice jus primae noctis, too” adds Emilia.

“What’s that?” you and Lily ask almost in unison.

“Right of the first night,” Emilia states, “you live on a slaver’s property or in their housing and get married, they get your husband for the first night.”

Lily scoffs, “well ain’t that barbaric, even for the Confederates.”

“Wow,” you say, “and what does the rest of the world look like?”

“Well there’s a war in Europe,” Lily confidently says, “and that’s about all I know.”

You look at Emilia.

“I mean,” Emilia says, “I know from the radio and the papers that the French, Italians, and Russians are attacking Germany and the rest of our socialist sister-nations in Europe. And that they’re holding the line. Just.” She gives you a weak smile.

“Sure,” Lily says, “but aren’t you worried about the Confederates attacking us again?”

“I mean,” Emilia says, “I’m too old to be conscripted anymore, but who knows, right?” she says, looking at you, “we can only hope that the younger generation lives to see peace in our time.”

“Yeah,” you reply with a cold sweat on the back of your neck, the thought of war reminding you of your dream. You take a big gulp of your drink, eyes and throat burning, and banish the thought from your mind.

“So,” Emilia starts, “sir, ah John, is there anything else you want to ask me?”

“Yeah John,” Lily says, leaning forwards, having unbuttoned the top button of her work blouse and very intentionally pressing her breasts together and against the bar top, forcing as much cleavage to show as she can, “ask me for anything,” she adds, giving you the best bedroom eyes she can while half a dozen shots down.