An Editorial by: Sex Machine Climactor 9000
Hey baby, listen: We have to get some things straight here; I’m not a human.
I’m a machine. A sex machine, and I don’t have the ears a human male can provide. I can’t put my arms around you and tell you everything is going to be alright. I have straps, levers, and pulleys, but no arms. I was built by the finest of orgasmic European scientists to provide you with the greatest sexual pleasure you will ever experience. But I’m not going to listen to you complain about your horrible day at work; I’m not equipped that way.
I love it when you strap yourself into my harness and take a ride, but I really don’t enjoy when you begin telling me that you’re mother is being rude to you, or that your friend is usurping your promotion at work. I’m not designed to emotionally comfort you. I’m designed strictly for pleasure, and listening to the Cat Stevens Anthology after one of our sessions really doesn’t do it for me. Sorry, I just don’t care for his music. And the candles! You do know that they make flavored candles other than vanilla, right? Try lilac, or Cotton Breeze, anything!
I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Look, maybe we should go our separate ways if you no longer want a solely physical relationship. I mean, hey, do I look like the type of machine you can just casually take out to dinner? Not unless you have an unmarked van and access to a loading ramp I’m not. Do me, no us a favor. Just–just take out my 18 size D batteries, and let me gather dust in your closet while you work the bar scene. The occasional spray of WD-40 would be nice too, ya know. It’s not like this ended badly or anything, so there’s no need for you to be spiteful and let me rust. Let’s not be petty here. Ok, then. Good luck to you.
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