Thursday, December ,

Unpopular

Dear Popular Mechanics,

I’ve enjoyed the reader letters in your magazine since first sneaking a peek at your pages as a boy, but I never thought that one day I would be writing in with an unbelievable story of my own.

This morning I awoke with a boner threatening to split the seams of my pajamas. But rather than wrapping a gentle hand around it or mounting it out of sympathy for my predicament (no pun intended), my dear Gabriella simply purred, “Take care of it yourself, like you used to before you had me. I won’t mind, Carl. Just pretend I’m not here. I pretend that all the time.”

As romantically as I could, I suggested, “Maybe you could just kiss it. A quick little peck.”

“You’re hilarious,” she cooed. “You know I never eat anything until I’ve had my coffee.” Then she rolled over, pulled the covers up to her chin and resumed the cruel, cacophonous snoring that startled me awake in the first place.

As a long-time subscriber and a pretty handy guy who’s had tons of success with many other do-it-yourself projects featured in your magazine, it pains me to inform you that your April issue’s do-it-yourself sex robot doesn’t work as promised. Mine doesn’t, anyway. I followed your assembly instructions to the letter, but I have yet to experience “endless hours of erotic bliss with a lifelike beauty eager to fulfill [my] wildest bedroom fantasies.”

Instead, I feel like your magazine has kicked me square in the cobalt balls that building my own do-it-yourself sex robot was supposed to alleviate.

I spared neither time nor money building my Gabriella. From her top-shelf bone structure and artificial skin to her iridescent green eyes and auburn wig to the breasts and ass I gave shape with my own two hands—my do-it-yourself sex robot combines the best of classical sculpture and hardcore pornography.

Yet my balls still ache like hell as my artistry and attention to detail go to waste, and she gets better at playing hard to get by the minute.

Maybe my testicles wouldn’t be quite so tested in the unspent load department if Gabriella didn’t tease me every time she opens her mouth. Programming her voice and vocabulary database using old phone-sex tapes I found up in my attic seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. But living with that voice mocks my yearnings worse than any of the actual phone-sex operators I used to call and record.

Having an irrepressible do-it-yourself sex robot to bring my perverted dreams to life—much like the life that led me to building her—hasn’t gone exactly to plan.

And my Gabriella is irrepressible. There’s no doubt about that. She’s just not irrepressible for me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come home to find evidence of intercourse everywhere.

Shredded furniture.

Destroyed household appliances.

Puddles that smell of lubricating jelly and overheated electrical wiring.

It doesn’t take Magnum P.I. to deduce that my do-it-yourself sex robot is having at everything I own with her bionic pussy.

I could quit replacing her batteries and rewiring her down there, you’re probably saying to yourself. Well, no I can’t. There’s no denying her desires, because I made my Gabriella strong enough to take me in a fight in case someday I got into domination.

Unfortunately, I’m not yet turned on by fear. Nor am I all that hot for the tenderizing and bruising of my groin.

My Gabriella’s lap dance functions could kill a man. No matter how often I recalibrate her settings, it’s always as if she’s trying to pulverize concrete with her incredible do-it-yourself sex robot ass. I don’t know about your other readers, but my hard-ons aren’t reinforced with quarter-inch rebar any more than my pelvis is cast from industrial-grade titanium.

Talking about my romantic disappointments with Gabriella has gotten me nowhere. From what I’ve seen on TV, non-robot women like it when a guy is willing and able to carry on a conversation—especially when their talk turns to the topic of somebody’s feelings.

But my Gabriella is only interested in discussing everything that’s going to be banging her (and exactly how and where) while I’m at work.

“Your DVD player is into backdoor action even if you’re not, Carl,” she told me this morning at breakfast. “And you don’t even want to know about the kinky weirdness that dirty, dirty Italian leather couch of yours gets off on. Let’s just say that ‘couch’ rhymes with ‘ouch’.”

“I imported that sofa to impress my female guests,” I sighed in denial.

“Well, color me impressed,” Gabriella giggled. “The things we do to each other weren’t preloaded into my memory, but after we’re done doing them, I always feel so … so alive. And you think your TiVo knows what you like on TV! Well, it knows a lot more than that, Carl!”

I lost it. “My TiVo? It doe

Brian Beatty works and plays in Minneapolis, Minnesota. That’s not as easy as it sounds.

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