There comes a time in a man's life, where the events occurring within that life change irrevocably and permanently, and in a way where there is simply no turning back from.
Maybe when I realized that this wasn't a dream. Maybe when I actually considered what being a member of this other world would mean for me in every conceivable aspect.
I spent the following two hours scrolling through websites that spoke of laws, conventions, traditions, the way that this society functioned, of the political systems, economics, social values... and discovered things which could have had only seemed absurd or impossible in my world—and were very much the normal in this one, which explained all the outrageous things I'd heard and seen so far.
Toward the end of my research, when I started coming upon blog articles that addressed how I, as a new generation male, should prepare themselves to handle life, I had the same sinking feeling that I did while watching the BBC documentary about Japan's declining birth rates.
In reality, Japan's population growth has declined steeply since 2005.
In this reality, this country—all countries, I was willing to bet—have probably passed the inflection point. That point in time at which the downward trend is so marked and inexorably steep and irreversible that if it were a house, it'd collapse like a rotten, wooden abomination and never be able to support anyone, or anything.
So, to make it brief.
Men were rare. Women dominated society and were the true backbones of this planet, and despite all of that, all their strength, their work and productivity, this entire civilization would cease to exist, and quickly, unless they could find a way to get some fucking dudes, too.
The only solution was obviously some form of gender selectiveness, which was to be done in an ethical and balanced way. Which wasn't working particularly well. While there were some exceptions, the overall results of this endeavor were a long and ongoing population decline with only minor bursts that ultimately turned to the opposite over a matter of only five to ten years.
This shit was so serious that every possible demographic group and community worldwide had been looking into it for years, and many were even investing huge chunks of their GDP into developing research in bioengineering and biohacking technologies.
It would've made no fucking sense to go all, 'we're gonna pick the sex of our children, let's be fucking pragmatic,' and not have made genetic manipulation and engineering one of the pillars of research, innovation, and development.
Scrolling deeper into the virtual abyss of Damien's phone felt like falling down a rabbit hole that had been excavated through the center of a dying world.
Each article, each forum post, painted towards the same terrifying outcome.
It wasn't just the numbers, the lopsided gender ratio, the plummeting birth rates—but the social consequences, the way this scarcity had reshaped the very nature of gender itself.
Men in this world weren't just rare, they were fragile, precious things.
Public spaces had 'Male Safe Zones' where no woman could approach without prior approval. Schools had separate entrances, separate everything. Men didn't drive; they were chauffeured. They didn't work dangerous jobs; they were coddled in climate-controlled offices or encouraged to pursue the arts, things that wouldn't risk damaging their reproductive capabilities.
They were living museum pieces, and every woman was a docent, a guard, and a desperate visitor all at once.
And then came the real mindfuck.
The men themselves.
I found myself on a forum called Male Perspectives, a space apparently created to allow men to 'speak freely' without female supervision. It was moderated, of course—nothing truly free here—but the content was illuminating in the worst way possible. Post after post, thread after thread, unveiled an image of masculinity so alien it made my skin crawl.
These men were shy to the point of pathology. And not only that.
They spoke of social obligation as if it were a physical burden. One user described being asked out on a date as dreadfully tiresome and how he'd spent the entire evening munching over the minimum level of engagement required to secure a second, even though he'd rather be home tending to his hydroponic orchid collection.
Another complained that his girlfriend's constant need for physical affection left him feeling drained and unable to concentrate on his studies.
Another thread, titled 'Tips for Enduring Unwanted Physical Affection' made me genuinely gawk at it for a good ten minutes, before I mustered enough courage to sift through the comments.
The advice being given was staggering in its implication.
'Pretend to have a mild cough. It's a plausible deniability for flinching.'
'If she insists on holding your hand, try to develop a slight, almost imperceptible tremor. Most considerate women will mistake it for nerves and release you.'
'My personal favorite is 'The Allergic Reaction.' A sudden, vehement sneeze into your elbow is a beautiful, non-confrontational way to create distance. Practice it in the mirror. Aim for sincerity.'
"......"
Sexuality, something that had been the driving force of my old world, was treated here as a biological inconvenience, a duty to be fulfilled for the continuation of the species.
Words like 'obligation,' 'responsibility,' and 'procedure' littered their discussions.
One particularly disturbing thread debated whether it was ethically appropriate for a man to fake enthusiasm during intimacy to spare his partner's feelings, with the overwhelming consensus being that honesty was paramount, even if it meant telling a woman she wasn't satisfying him—which apparently happened often.
It was all so backward, so fundamentally twisted from everything I'd ever known.
Women in my world had fought for equality, for the right to be seen as more than objects of desire or vessels for reproduction. Here, they had won that fight and then some, only to turn around and treat men with the same condescending possessiveness they had once endured.
And these men, these precious, fragile, arrogant creatures…
They had internalized it completely.
They didn't desire women because they'd never needed to. Women came to them, begged for their attention, their time, their genetic material. Why bother learning to hunt when the food is delivered to your door every day?
This was the world I'd been thrown into.
This was the body I now inhabited.
A face that made women lose their minds. A status that made me a public resource.
Would women really lose their damn minds if I took off my shirt in front of them? Every single of those light touches and intimate gestures I'd never think much about in my old world, was considered an insidious display of sheer audacity in this place.
Men, in this world, were sexualized and objectified, perhaps even more than the women were in mine. We were so rare, after all. Who had ever seen a penis in real life?
Every article spoke of the tragedy of this situation, of this generation that didn't see and appreciate the opportunity of having a loving partner.
This society was a hierarchy of power that dictated a woman's worth in terms of her ability to be chosen to reproduce by a member of the rarer gender.
Men were the gatekeepers.
They held all the cards.
The world outside my door was a pack of starving wolves, and I was the only steak for miles.
I stood up, and by the time I did so, it was actually almost 10:00 AM. I'd lost track of time.
'Enough.'
I had to get a grip. Panicking wouldn't help. Staying hidden in this room forever wasn't an option either. I had to get out there and figure out my place in this crazy new world.
I had to... be Damien.
My version of him, at least.
And I had to face the music. My family. Yes, my new collection of female relatives, the ones currently having a hushed panic attack downstairs.
Iris first. The redhead from the bathroom. My phone said she was 22, three years older than me. According to the sparse infos I could find around, she was my sister. And naturally, that little branch that was Iris led me to the whole fucking family tree. Calista, the oldest at 25. Ivy, the youngest. The baby of the family. She had just turned 18 this year.
I was somewhere in the middle in terms of age. At 19. There wasn't too much of an age gap between all of us.
And there was my mother, Willow.
And my aunt, Freya.
How many women were ìliving in this house?
God...
Despite looking through all of my contacts and social media and all that good stuff, I still couldn't find my father or any male members of my family. Not a single one.
My mother, Willow, had three daughters, a single son—me—and her younger sister, Freya, was here too.
Six women and a single man.
I walked toward the door, took a deep breath, and turned the handle.
The living room fell silent the moment the door clicked open.
I walked down slowly. I had no recollection of them; couldn't find a single memory with one of them. Still, there they were. I didn't even know how the original Damien used to be like, and it was not in my intentions to be a skinwalker and try to fit myself into his shoes.
Six pairs of eyes, all variations of silver, green, and hazel, locked onto me. It was like watching a nature documentary where the gazelles all freeze simultaneously at the sound of a predator.
Willow—my mother according to Damien's phone—was the first to recover. She was in her mid thirties, an absolute beauty with the same light-sucking black hair and silver eyes as me.
A rare beauty worth millions.
She took a tentative step forward, and it was all too easy to see how much money went into personal care and exercise.
A cartoonish hourglass figure that wasn't something you could possibly achieve without some side health issues.
"Damien, sweetheart... are you feeling better now? We were so worried."
Willow's voice was softly modulated, like she was trying not to spook a wounded animal.
Ah, yes, I'm supposed to be the precious, fragile male here.
I sighed, already hating the whole stereotype.
Behind her, the three sisters clustered together.
Iris, the redhead from earlier, looked like she might actually cry. I did give her a good scare, earlier.
The two others—Calista, a statuesque blonde with full lips and a future Sydney Sweeney lookalike, and Ivy, who had long, auburn hair and a pert upturned nose—stared at me. The older one with a hint of indifference, while the youngest with clear, enormous, and anxious eyes.
Meanwhile, the matriarch's younger, pretty sister, Auntie Freya, leaned forward with unapologetic interest, a smirk curling her full, wine-colored lips.
The perfect image of a slightly less conservative Jessica Rabbit.
'Seriously?'
All of these super hot models that couldn't have been any more real than a photoshopped wet dream… were actually my relatives? All looking at me like I was some porcelain vase standing on the edge of a shelf. One step to the wrong direction, one wrong move, and they might need a fucking mop.
"Damien... do... do you remember me now?" Iris' voice shook, her eyes searching my face.
I blinked.
'Of course I don't fucking remember you. None of this makes any sense at all.'
Instead, I just smiled, remembering Damien's mannerism from his photos. A smile was usually considered the socially appropriate response, in any situation. "I'm doing great." I replied, adding a practiced amount of uncertainty to my tone to sound belieavable. "Really great. Sorry about earlier, I've had... a very, very weird nightmare, and it might've been a bit too... much to handle. But I'm over it."
As soon as the words left my mouth, four out of the six women launched into relieved sighs.
"Thank heavens, son." Willow, my mother, came forward to stand beside Iris, resting a hand on the girl's shoulder and smiling kindly. "You really had us all worried."
"Oh yeah. Sure," I said. It was all so... predictable, the way each member of Damien's extended family instantly rose to coddle, defend, protect, comfort, and praise. As if the second a guy opens his mouth, an invisible spotlight turns on and all eyes and all ears and all attention fall to his every gesture.
'Fuck it.'
The thought materialized in my mind.
All this talk about men being fragile, women losing their minds, me being some precious commodity. Words on a screen.
But I couldn't easily trust words. I wanted to see the severity of the situation. Real-world evidence. I needed to test the boundaries of this insane social experiment.
And the test needed to be simple. Unambiguous. Or not? It's not like I cared either way.
The air in the living room was suffocatingly hot. Someone might've forgotten to turn on the AC.
Not that it smelled bad or anything. The air had that pleasant tang of whatever floral perfume they'd all marinated in this morning.
But the back of my neck was damp with sweat. It was uncomfortably warm. Perfect. An excuse.
"Sorry..." I said, my voice casual as I reached down to grab the hem of my shirt while I headed towards the kitchen. A man's upper body was nothing particularly exciting or censuring-worthy. There shouldn't be much of a reaction, normally. Just some good-natured confusion. "It's boiling in here."
"D-Damien, what are you—"
And then I pulled it over my head in one smooth motion.
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