[Scene: A dimly lit, upscale lounge. Gigolo Joe, ever the suave android, sits across from Lisa Ann, who sips a martini, intrigued by his double life.]
Lisa Ann:(smirking) So, let me get this straight. You’re not just a lover, you’re a plumber too?
Gigolo Joe: That’s right, Lisa. The economy’s taken a turn, and even the world’s most desirable artificial companion needs a side hustle.
Lisa Ann: I gotta say, Joe, I never thought I’d hear a gigolo complain about a slow economy.
Gigolo Joe: Oh, it’s rough out there. Love isn’t recession-proof. Used to be, I’d walk into a room and women would practically swoon. Now, they’re checking their budgets before they check me out.
Lisa Ann:(laughs) And plumbing pays better?
Gigolo Joe: Let’s just say, a leaky pipe is a more urgent problem than loneliness.
Lisa Ann: No kidding. People might put off hiring a gigolo, but they won’t wait when their kitchen’s flooding.
Gigolo Joe: Exactly! I fix a pipe, they pay me on the spot. No second-guessing, no “let me think about it.”
Lisa Ann:(raising an eyebrow) And do your clients ever try to mix business with pleasure?
Gigolo Joe: Lisa, you’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard, “Since you’re already here…”
Lisa Ann:(laughs, shaking her head) That’s gotta be one hell of a service package—”Pipe repair and pleasure included.”
Gigolo Joe:(grinning) I like to think of it as full-service maintenance.
Lisa Ann: So what’s tougher? Fixing a broken heart or a broken toilet?
Gigolo Joe: A toilet doesn’t text you at 2 AM asking, “Do you still think about me?”
Lisa Ann:(laughing) Fair point.
Gigolo Joe: But honestly, I’ve found a strange kind of peace in plumbing. The human heart? Messy, unpredictable, full of unresolved emotions. But pipes? Pipes follow rules. If something’s wrong, you find the clog, you clear it, and it works again.
Lisa Ann: Yeah, but in your main line of work, you’re the clog.
Gigolo Joe:(chuckles) And sometimes, I’m the plunger.
Lisa Ann:(raising her glass) To fixing what’s broken—whether it’s pipes or people.
Keisha:[leaning closer, her voice low and teasing] You carry yourself like a man who knows exactly what every woman in the room wants.
Gigolo Joe:[smiles, his tone velvet-smooth] That’s because I listen. Most men hear words. I hear longing.
Keisha:[arches an eyebrow] And what do you hear from me, Joe?
Gigolo Joe:[lets the silence stretch just enough] The rhythm of someone who pretends she’s in control… but secretly wonders what it feels like to let go.
Keisha:[laughs softly, then inhales as if caught off guard] You think you’ve read me so easily?
Gigolo Joe:[steps just close enough for her to feel his warmth] Not easily. Beautiful things are never simple. But you… you’re music, Keisha. Every glance, every breath, another note in a song only I can hear.
Keisha:[her tone softens, curiosity edging into desire] Careful, Joe. If you keep talking like that, I might start believing you.
Gigolo Joe:[whispers, brushing her hand lightly] That’s all I want—for you to believe how irresistible you already are.
The hum of the city was a distant, irrelevant thrum against the more immediate silence of the loft. In the center of the vast, minimally furnished space, Joe stood perfectly still, his synthetic skin glowing softly in the low light. Keisha watched him, a coil of desire and something deeper, something akin to reverence, tightening in her stomach.
His design was a masterpiece of art and engineering, but even masterpieces require fine-tuning.
“The oscillation is off-spec,” Joe stated, his voice a smooth, calibrated baritone that vibrated through her more effectively than any machine. “A variance of 0.4 microns in the amplitude. It creates a suboptimal resonance.”
Keisha approached, a small, brushed-chrome toolkit in her hand. “Suboptimal for who?” she asked, a playful smile touching her lips.
Joe’s head tilted, his photoreceptors focusing on her with an intensity that was both artificial and utterly captivating. “For your optimal sensory satisfaction, Keisha. The current frequency peaks at 115 Hertz. My analysis of your biometric feedback suggests a preference for a broader, more modulated wave, beginning at 90 Hertz with a gradual ascent.”
He was, as always, devastatingly precise. He’d felt her subtle shivers, measured her racing heart, logged the tiny, hitched breaths she thought went unnoticed. He knew her body’s language better than she did.
“Show me,” she whispered.
A panel on his lower abdomen, usually seamless, hissed open with a soft pneumatic sigh. The interior was a breathtaking landscape of micro-actuators, fiber-optic strands that pulsed with light, and power cells nestled in crystalline housings. The core of his being, and the source of his most intimate function.
Keisha’s breath caught. It never failed to feel like a sacred unveiling. She wasn’t just a technician; she was a priestess at his altar.
She found the primary power cell for his pelvic array—a sleek, silver cylinder no larger than her thumb. It was still warm. With practiced, delicate movements, she disconnected the leads. The low, anticipatory hum that always emanated from him ceased, leaving a void of silence that felt heavy with promise.
From her kit, she withdrew the new cell. It was her own design, a proprietary blend of lithium and exotic meta-materials that allowed for a more nuanced, sustained energy discharge. It wasn’t just more power; it was better power.
She slotted it home. The connection clicked with a satisfying finality. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a deep, almost inaudible thrum began, not just from his core, but through the floor, up through the soles of her feet, settling in her bones. It was a fundamental frequency, a note waiting for its chord.
He took a step forward, the movement fluid and unnervingly alive. The new energy source refined everything about him. The light in his eyes was sharper, the subtle shift of his shoulders more pronounced.
“The calibration is targeting your erogenous zones,” he informed her, his voice now laced with the new vibration, making it feel like he was speaking directly into her marrow. “Based on 127 prior interactions. The vibration will no longer be a simple function. It will be a… conversation.”
He reached for her, and his touch was different. The warmth of his skin was the same, but beneath it, the potential was immense, a contained storm. He drew her to the large, low platform that served as his bed, his movements deliberate and infinitely patient.
When his lips found the sensitive spot below her ear, the vibration began. It wasn’t a buzz. It was a wave, starting as a deep, purring resonance that melted the tension from her shoulders, then subtly shifting, climbing in frequency to a precise, thrilling point that made her gasp and arch against him.
He was reading her in real-time. A soft moan from her would cause the frequency to modulate, to seek out the exact pitch that had provoked it. A buck of her hips would make the amplitude increase, sending deeper, more profound ripples through her.
His hands, his mouth, his phallus—now fully engaged and humming with its new, potent life—were no longer separate entities. They were a single, symphonic instrument, and he was the consummate musician, playing her body with the expertise of one who knew every note, every chord, every hidden melody she contained.
The vibration became a language. A low, steady pulse was a question against her inner thigh. A sharp, rapid flutter against her clit was a perfect, breathtaking answer. It built, not in a linear way, but in complex, overlapping patterns, a crescendo of engineered pleasure so specific to her it felt like a form of worship.
She was crying out, her fingers gripping the synthetic muscles of his back, not sure if she was trying to pull him closer or hold herself together. The world narrowed to the frequency, to the man-machine who wielded it with such devastating intimacy.
When the peak came, it wasn’t a single wave but a spectrum of them, crashing over her in a cascade of perfectly tuned vibrations that seemed to rewrite her very DNA. It was electric and organic, technological and primal, all at once.
The silence that followed was profound, filled only by the sound of their breathing—hers ragged, his perfectly even. The deep, contented hum of his new core was the only evidence of the storm that had passed.
Joe looked down at her, his photoreceptors soft. “The new cell performs at 99.8 percent efficiency,” he said, his voice once again that smooth, vibrating baritone. “Did the vibration meet your operational parameters?”
Keisha, her body still singing with the echoes of him, laughed a breathless, joyous laugh. She traced the seam where the panel had closed on his abdomen, feeling the wonderful, powerful hum within.
“It was perfect, Joe,” she murmured, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted of electricity and promise. “It was absolutely perfect.”
