She Was Everything A Man Could Want, But...

Her eerily human charms could seduce even a fried-chicken- loving president. If only she wasn’t so into women.

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Get up, uh, get on up, like a sex machine, get on up.” James Brown

“Whadya think, Pence?” President Trump is saying as I unwrap Melania2, a first generation prototype in the courtesan series, and possibly the only functioning sexbot capable of smiling. This requires 300 sensitivity wires set to a program that activates with lewd comments or an Arby’s Cheese Melt.

The president walks around her, touching her fibre9 hair and epidermal10 skin. Everything is based on human form metrics, and advanced replication. Since she’s still in the developmental stages, we haven’t taught her to flinch yet. Remarkably, she does, anyway.

She even throws up in her mouth.

“Very lifelike, Mr. President,” Pence replies. “The breasts are rather big.”

“They’re supposed to be big, Pence. I asked for big. I’m a builder. Look at my towers. You think I want a robot with bee stings for breasts?”

“It’s just that your wife doesn’t — ”


“She doesn’t have — ”

“Say it, Pence. Big honkers, buzingas, cattle bags...”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“So I asked for a few extras. I’m the president, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Pence follows Trump around the room, arms crossed, one white knuckle stuck between his thin lips. Other members of staff are doing the same thing. White knuckles are everywhere.

The First Lady looks particularly bored. Since no one is looking at her breasts, she decides to throw up in her mouth, too. The likeness is remarkable, except the sexbot throws up scrambled eggs while Melania throws up pickles and pumpernickel toast.

We programmed Melania2 to organize items, and she goes about it now lining up six half-eaten drumsticks in a row.

“You know what this means, Pence?” President Trump is saying. “We can fill the whole White House with these things. No more law suits over stupid sexual improprieties. And no back talk. Why didn’t Weinstein think of this?”

Harvey Weinstein, co-founder of Miramax, and now working at KFC, came by earlier, delivering the president’s favorite lunch. The remains of six Value Meals sit on Trump’s desk. We programmed Melania2 to organize items, and she goes about it now, lining up six half-eaten drumsticks in a row.

While her movements are mechanical, she’s still more lifelike than Kellyanne Conway. The counsellor to the president is sitting on the couch, taking pictures on her phone.

“Can she do cartwheels?” she asks. My supervisor warned me about Kellyanne Conway. She can be difficult. She’s always asking staff if she looks gorgeous. Fortunately, Melania2 is programmed to do cartwheels, which she does while Trump finishes his sixth Pepsi of the day. She lands on Kellyanne’s lap, causing the counsellor to squeal like a Blue Ribbon sow.

Secretary of Defense, “Mad Dog” Mathis, quickly pulls out two pearl-handled automatics. Both barrels are aimed at Melania2’s head. Given Mathis’s age and eyesight, he’ll probably hit Kellyanne, or the picture of George Washington, now wearing a Zorro moustache.

He gave Melania2 a pat on the rear which made her throw up in her mouth again.

Everyone hits the floor, except Trump, who tosses his Pepsi can on the rug. Melanie2 quickly jumps up, tosses the can in the wastepaper basket, then wipes the president’s mouth with a KFC napkin.

“Put your guns away, Mathis,” Trump says. “I haven’t even passed her by the Ways and Means Committee yet. They may make me return it.”

He gives Melania2 a pat on the rear, making her throw up in her mouth again. “So, okay,” he say to me, “she can do cartwheels and arrange my chicken. What’s she going to do about my sex life? Can’t have Melania doing everything, can I?”

“Of course, Mr. President,” I say. “As you know, Melania2 is still in the trial stages. We’re currently working to approximate heightened sexual arousal, eye flutter, heavy breathing and pelvic thrust — ”

“You’re telling me she can do cartwheels,” Trump says, “but she can’t even give me a suggestive wink? I’m the president, for cryin’ out loud. What’s the point of being the most powerful man in the world if I can’t even get a wink?”

“I understand, Mr. President,” I reply. “We had hoped to have her winking by today, but she seems to only respond to women.”

“She’s taking all my makeup off,” Kellyanne squeals.

Melania2 quickly cartwheels over to Kellyanne’s lap again, sticking her mechanical plastic tongue in the counsellor’s ear.

“Hey, I don’t swing that way,” Kellyanne yells. Melania2 pulls out a WetWipe and goes to work on Kellyanne’s face. “Cripes, Mr. President — ” Kellyanne squeals, “what’s she doing now?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I reply. “Melania2 wasn’t programmed to select one gender over another. Our technicians think it’s some form of sympathetic automation.”

“She’s taking all my makeup off,” Kellyanne squeals again.

Pence and Mathis both throw up in their mouths.

“It seems sexbots are more adept at pleasuring women than men,” I explain. “We had one that suddenly broke into Annie Lennox’s ‘Sisters doin’ it for themselves.’”

“I don’t like the sound of that at all,” Trump says. “Annie Lennox hates my guts. She’s a bit of a butch, too. Are you telling me this is a lesbo robot?”

“No, Mr. President,” I say. “Somehow Melania2 identifies with women over men. Again, we think it’s sympathetic automation, not preference.”

“Why isn’t she winking at my wife then?” Trump asks.

“Possibly she thinks she’s another sexbot,” I said. “The similarities are certainly there, Mr. President.”

“Tell him no shooting missiles over our vacation hotspots. This is so flagrant, it isn’t funny.”

“You think my wife might be an older model?”

“Hard to say, Mr. President. She could be one of the experimental X9385s.”

“Mr. President,” Pence interrupts. “We’ve just heard that North Korea is planning another nuclear test. They intend to shoot a missle over Hawaii.”

“Hawaii!” Trump yells. “I like Hawaii. I have friends in Hawaii. Nobody likes Hawaii more than me. What are we gonna do about this, Mathis? You gotta set that Kim Jong-un straight. Tell him I won’t tolerate shooting missiles over our vacation hotspots. This is so flagrant, it ain’t even funny.”

“I’ll give him a severe talking to, Mr. President,” Mathis replies, pulling out his guns again. “Maybe I’ll fire these over the phone. He hates that.”

“Well, get on it. I’m up to my neck in problems here. My sexbot prefers women, my counsellor has no makeup on, and my wife might be a robot. Hey, what if we send Kim Jong-un a sexbot? Let her do cartwheels all over his office.”

“We could wire it with a bomb,” Mathis suggests.

“Given the status of women in North Korea, it’s quite possible a sexbot could go unnoticed for years. Russia might have two or three over there as we speak.”

“I don’t want to blow the little asshole up,” President Trump says. “They’ll just replace him with another asshole. Can’t we just take all his makeup off? Look how pissed Kellyanne is right now.”

“Mr. President,” I say. “Given the status of women in North Korea, it’s quite possible a sexbot could go unnoticed for years. Russia might have two or three over there as we speak.”

“Two or three! For chrissake, we can’t have that. Ship this one over to Kim Jong-un right away, Mathis. And tell that little bastard we won’t tolerate nuclear bombs flying over Hawaii. I don’t mind him blowing up The Easter Islands. I hate those stone statues. They stare at me like I’m a mouse turd.”

“I’ll take care of it, Mr. President.”

Secretary of Defense, Mathis, proceeds to pick up Melania and put her under his arm.

“For cryin’ out loud, Mathis,” Trump says, “that’s my wife.”

“Sorry, Mr. President, I got confused — ”

“And tell that little craphound, Kim Jong-un, we’re playing hardball here. If he wants to go around shooting nuclear missiles, we’ll take every bit of makeup off his porky face. Hey, give him some of this chicken, too. Not the breasts, Mathis. I’m not trying to sweetheart the little prick.”

“Well, then, send Pena Nieto a sexbot, too. Let’s see how he likes Annie Lennox songs.”

“Anything else, Mr. President?” Mathis asks.

“Bill him through the nose. If I’m making the Mexicans pay for the wall, I might as well charge Kim Jong-un for a sexbot. What do these things go for?”

“Mexico won’t pay for the wall, Mr. President,” Pence says.

“Then send Pena Nieto a sexbot, too. Let’s see how he likes Annie Lennox songs.”

“We’ll get right on it, Mr. President,” Pence says.

“Tell him he can shove NAFTA up his butt as well.”

“Will do.”

“How long before these sexbots starts liking men?” he asks me.

“Hard to say, Mr. President,” I reply. “We’re trying to replace sympathetic automation with some form of male attraction. So far, the sexbots keep complaining about women’s rights and unequal pay.”

“Boy, give a sexbot an inch, huh?”

“We’ll sort it out, Mr. President.”

“You know me, I want it yesterday.”

Vice President Pence escorts us out while Kellyanne Conway consults Trump on his next news conference. Without makeup, her skin reminds me of our first experimental epidermal1.

As the door closes, Melania2 jumps out of Mathis’ arms and waves to Kellyanne.

“Bye, sugar,” she says, sounding like Marilyn Monroe.

“She just called me ‘sugar,’ Mr. President,” Kellyanne says.

“If that’s not a lesbo sexbot, I don’t no what is. I better get a straight one next time, or I’m really gonna be upset. Make a note of that, Kellyanne.”

“Yes, Mr. President. No lesbo sexbots. Anything else?”

“Yeah, put some makeup on, for cryin’ out loud. You’re scaring me half to death.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“You sure you’re not a sexbot, Kellyanne?”

“Of course not.”

“Just asking. I mean, hell, if Russia’s got three sexbots in North Korea, what’s to stop them putting a few here?”

“First of all, Mr. President, I get horny. Sometimes twice a year.”

Melania2 breaks from Mathis’s arms and cartwheels over to Kellyanne.

“Knock off the sexy talk,” Trump says. “You got that thing hotter than a pepper sprout.”

“Hey, she’s feeling my boobies!”

“What’d you get her all worked up for then?”

“I wasn’t trying—wooooo! That’s some tongue!”

“Can you fit this thing with a hidden camera?” he asks me. “Look at the way Kellyanne’s eyes rolls back. That’s hysterical. I’d love a picture of Kim Jong-un doing that. Maybe with a chicken leg in his mouth. Make it happen, guys.”

“Mr. President,” Kellyanne says. “Permission to take this thing to my office.”

“Sure, why not. Give her back to Mathis when you’re finished.”

Robert Cormack is a novelist, humorist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores (now in paperback. Check out Yucca Publishing or Skyhorse Press for details.

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I did a poor imitation of Don Draper for 40 years before writing my first novel. I'm currently in the final stages of a children's book. Lucky me.

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