Zola is dismayed to discover that for her 40th birthday her friends teamed up to purchase her a hot sex droid. She refuses to let herself get attached to a machine, and tries her best to avoid the temptation. He is programmed to overcome such resistance and knows how to wear down defenses and sell himself like a pro using his perfect charm and impeccable skills. Though she suspects it’s nothing more than a sales pitch, she begins to question whether beneath his perfect manufactured exterior is genuine feelings and desire.
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What the fuck.
A seven-foot-tall box occupied the middle of my living room. I stared at the prime male specimen behind the clear front panel. Well over six feet tall, with dusky skin, dark brown wavy hair, broad shoulders, aquiline nose, full lips—basically, he looked like a model, the kind you’d drool over in an ad for high-end products.
With his eyes closed, his long, thick lashes grazed his chiseled cheekbones. He looked as though he slept—an illusion of the most expensive kind.
I sighed, hands on my hips. My best friend, Lexia, had done it. For my fortieth birthday, she got me a sex droid. She’d joked about it, but I never thought she’d actually follow through. It had to be her—she was the only other person who had access to my apartment.
On the box, in large, blocky print, it proclaimed “Domestic Android 7.1” and underneath it, in fancy script, “For Your Pleasure.”
Alrighty then. And what if it was my pleasure to get rid of it? I stalked to the box and circled around it. The back and both sides were solid panels of striking red. If it was supposed to be romantic, their marketing department missed the boat. I wasn’t a big fan of Valentine’s Day, and this was even cheesier than a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
Although, I could remember a time when chocolates, roses, and a little stuffed bear made my heart skip a beat. I had grown a bit jaded over the years, which was probably why my friends decided to gang up and torture me with this… thing.
It stood there, like the proverbial elephant in the room. There would be no Vid watching on my birthday, cuddled up with a bowl of ice cream. No relaxing in the tub with a good romance novel. Now I was too distracted, and I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy myself until I got this thing out.
A plan formulated: get the box outside and message his creator, Atlas Robotics Corporation, to come pick him up. No, not him. It.
I studied the box. At five foot five, it had well over a foot on me. I tried to tilt it to the side, planning on then pushing it out the rest of the way. The damn thing was heavy. So heavy, it didn’t even wobble when I gave it my all.
Exhausted, I plopped down on my yellow pleather couch to glare at the box. I refused to build up a sweat today of all days. What a disaster my birthday was turning out to be. There was no getting the box out until Atlas Robotics agreed to stop by. Since they had no incentive to be eager to process a return, it could be days. Maybe even weeks, I thought miserably.
Not fair that here I was, suffering, while he—it!—stood there, all serene and peaceful. I jumped to my feet and approached the box. There was an easier way to do this. Turn him on and order him to take a hike on his own two legs. The more I considered it, the more I liked this plan. Quick, easy, smart.
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