My dumb friend touched my right nipple last night. We were in our bunk beds and he slid down and under my cover and stuck his right index finger on it. I thought an alarm would go off, but it didn’t.
My friend said, “home.”
I felt myself feeling friendly and a bit happy with this situation, and let him rub my lonely nipple for quite a while.
Then I said, “What was her name?”
“Siris or . . . Slina! No, wait! Yes, it was Sasha. No, Stacey!”
On Monday my stupid friend and I are introduced to a robot named TRIXIE. The tag gave us some basic function description, but most of her we would have to figure out on our own.
TRIXIE is programed for pleasure, and she is called A TRIXIE. She has large, nipple-enhanced cone-shaped breast fixtures (detachable?) and a hollow belly button area, which seems to serve as a slim flower vase. Additionally, there is an area between her legs that appears to be sporting a tiny-handled manhole cover.
She comes with attachments and suction-enhanced fish lips, her tag says.
“Hello, Trixie!” I say. My dumb friend is, unfortunately nibbling an invisible grapefruit in the corner–too busy to notice The TRIXIE. Sadly, I think, he may be near death.
I feel strangely grateful for the perky-nippled visitor. Perhaps she comes with a cooking application, better than my own.
My own instructions have me kicking the wall and screaming instead of relaxing for the next guided exercise, and the thousands of guided exercises after that one. Calming myself, staying “mindful”, that is my only job between exercises–why is it so difficult?
“This is not like him,” I say.
I hope she will not be displeased. I like her kind eyes. They are purple and green in the center column.
My dumb friend was probably not stupid. This bothers me. I do not want to be this dumb, but I will be . . . soon.
He says, “I can’t make grapefruit.”
Then he asks, “It’s just what Dr. Jensen said?”
“Yes, Dr. Jensen knows things and help will soon be here.”
Then I am angry and say, “but fucking shut up, Okay?”
“Okay, and I will make a grapefruit.”
“Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!” I shout, exasperated. I wave at the blue screen which is now golden yellow. Flash my tits to the hand waving back.
My stupid friend shuts up, finally, and walks in tight curls and bigger semi-circles. I make a note of it and upload it into my organ. The one they transplanted into where my spleen used to be. It has a handy dandy opening and a little sign on the door that says, “Improved.”