I was sprawled on the couch when the doorbell rang. I wondered who it could be at this hour, since I hadn't ordered pizza and don't get many surprise visitors.
I opened the door. It was the hot guy I'd seen in the airport: short black hair, blue eyes in a round face, a somewhat stocky build that looked like a thin layer of fat over a lot of muscles, jean jacket, like a farmboy who's gotten his first job in the big city, despite the trendy messenger bag. "Oh, it's you!" I managed to say.
I remembered doing a double-take when I'd seen the guy in the terminal, and again in the baggage claim, thinking, "is it just me, or is that guy kinda smoking hot?" No matter how many times I looked at him, he seemed weirdly, compellingly sexy. It was odd: that round face should have simply registered as plain, but I couldn't take my eyes off of him. Plain-sexy.
So after I got to my car, before I even drove home, I opened up my robot app, pulled up the files from my glasses, got several good pictures of his face, and specified "random". You can specify a personality when you rent a robot, but for a guy I've only gotten a glimpse of, I usually prefer "random". Meaning, the robot will come with a random personality, and show up at your door at a random time. Sometimes I like surprises.
"Hey," the robot said. "I saw you looking at me in the airport. I know you want me." He kicked the door shut behind him and pulled me into a firm hug. His arms felt strong and secure, and his chest felt soft, but solid, through our shirts. I felt a trace of a boner through his pants. He smelled clean, like soap, but with a trace of that sweaty man smell that never really goes away.
He pulled back from the hug a little, brought his face close to mine—was he going to kiss me already? I couldn't see anything except that weirdly beautiful farmboy face—and he brought his lips to mine. They were soft and warm. He opened his mouth, and gently brought his tongue in. He tasted like cheap beer and sweaty boy, and I could not feel anything except his firm chest against mine, even through the strap of the messenger bag, and his strong arms behind me, and his soft, warm mouth. I was dizzy.
He broke away, and the air felt cold on my lips, the way the air feels cold when you step out of the bath.
"Let's take this to your bedroom," he said; "that is, if you don't mind. Which way is it?"
"This way," I said weakly. I led him through the living room, past the couch I'd been sprawling on and the TV, down the hall, and into my bedroom. I turned on the light. My queen-sized bed was unmade, since I couldn't afford my own robot, but the room was otherwise clean. He looked around approvingly. "Nice room," he said.
"Thanks," I said.
He looked at me again, hungrily. "You're wearing too many clothes," he said. He looked down at himself and scowled. "So am I." He stepped out of his worn tennis shoes—odd, because rented robots almost never have worn-out clothing—pulled off the messenger bag, and threw it down by the bed. He pulled off his jean jacket, and dropped it; underneath he was wearing a worn-out black Crazy Bees shirt, with the bee and skull logo.
"I didn't know you were a fan of the Crazy Bees, too!" I said.
"Yeah, they'll never go out of style," he said. "Raise your arms."
