“All we talk about anymore is sex,” she said, scraping the goo off her face, as her robot lovers waddled off towards the shower.

And she was right. All we did talk about was sex. Wanting it, having it, paying for it, being paid for it, emailing about it… She liked to send me little updates on her orgasms, like a little girl telling me about her cat having kittens. “Four more last night,” she mentioned, and I imagined her moments of intense passion in wet, mewling forms. 

“Do you think,” she asked me, stripping of her latex and strap-on body-parts, “that fucking is more like a blade or a bomb? You know, something sneaky the slides in and does irreparable damage, or something just goes off, and take the roof with it.”

“This is a very gendered conversation,” I noted, as our genitals connected with the soft ‘clink’ of half-empty wine-glasses. Her cunt was smooth and polished, like a very expensive automobile from the 1950’s; something designed for highway racing. My cock was like the space-shuttle, a costly way of investigating strange new worlds we’d probably never return to a second time. 

She flicked my nipple, and inadvertently, broke my heart.