1:45am in a Dive Bar Booth

"I’m looking for a machine which understands pleasure."

That was the total of Roger’s personal ad. He had a serious fetish for humans who believed themselves to be robots. It didn’t matter the shape, size, or sex. Just as long as they wholly believed themselves to be androids. That’s all that mattered.
We sat facing each other in a green, leather booth. A nearly depleted pitcher of beer and two glasses on the littered table. The bar was quiet - most of the clients had stumbled home. The jukebox sat silent - humming to itself. The waft of stale urine and Fabuloso emitted from the ancient restroom which had catered to a million fairies since 1956.
Roger was a handsome man in his late thirties. Tall, thin, angular. His black hair coiffed high above his asymmetrical head. He wore a charcoal gray, button-down shirt, black slacks. He had a handsome face and appealing smile. But, his eyes - his eyes were cold, impersonal. No life in them like the eyes of a dead fish.
Fucking robots.

I asked him once, “Do you have sex with them?”

“Yes I do,” he nodded.

“Do they... I mean, can they achieve orgasm,” I said.

“Oh yeah,” he nodded faster.

“So then, is the turn on seeing something so rigid in its ideology come undone, overcome by sexual pleasure? Is that moment addictive because you see someone compromise their complete identity as they’re spontaneously overwhelmed by the organic sexual pleasure response? And in that moment they truly become authentic beings who’ve opened themselves to a..."

“No, dude,” Roger interrupted. “Robots...they just like to fuck. I ain’t met one yet where we didn’t fuck like animals all goddamn night.”