It’s 0:04am. The year is 2075. The place is the city of Chicago 2, United States of Etc. My name? Yundar Mables. My story? I just had sex with a…new type of lover, and now…I’m dealing with it.
Why, you might ask, am I telling you these details of time and setting? I’m not sure. Perhaps for context, to remind you you’re in a nuanced tableau of the future. Hell, maybe I’m just rambling. No matter — what I am sure of is I just had a dynamite lay with a stone-cold stunner, and boy oh boy was she special. The problem?
She was physically stone-cold. And I was electrically stunned more than once. I think she might have been a robot.
She said I got her gears turning, which I felt at the time was a euphemism (for making her very very horny), but now I am starting to suspect she was literally talking about gears inside of the chamber sheathed by her exoskeleton. That would explain the disconcerting crunching noise…but I didn’t think much of it. (It had happened once before on a humid, muggy night with a lovely Antarctican girl I met stationed there during the war. I digress).
Beginning to suspect she may be mechanic, I started to pick her brain. As I perused her head’s circuit board, the positioning caused her to initiate mouth-pleasuring. She mouth-pleasured my member with exacting precision and acutely timed movements. I became fully tumescent when she called me the biggest she’d ever experienced (in beta).
She said something about having multiple sex-drives and showed me her access point. After two reboots, we began… knocking boots. (I just came up with that on the spot). Neither of us climaxed because she’s a robot and I was putting my penis inside of metal, but it was nonetheless enjoyable.
She asked if she could smoke after what seemed like 15-16 minutes of true coitus, and after I obliged, she proceeded to emit a black soot cloud from some orifice hidden by my chrome comforter. It smelled like pennies.
She remained upsettingly inanimate throughout the twenty-minute process, then looked at me blankly, appearing to show signs of concern.
She said she’d “left her charger at home”, and it was only when she beeped thrice and shut down when I realized what she’d meant. She literally flew out of my apartment as soon as possible.
Ah, my probable robot lover, I miss you. Sparks flew for us, and there was also some chemistry. (She overheated to the point of sparking flames, and almost rusted from the smoke activated sprinklers). We also got along really well.
Luckily, she left her number—but it’s all in binary!
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Connor writes comedy for himself and others in New York City. He’s trying very hard. His writing has appeared in AboveAverage, Reductress, McSweeneys, and CollegeHumor.