OS is a weird thing, I’ll admit. Weird in that it clashes with everything the dominant culture says we should be doing.

The dominant culture says that humans come first. (Except when they don’t.)

The dominant culture says that we should be fucking people, not objects. (Except when people are the objects.)

The dominant culture says that things are disposable, and that shopping for new things to replace the old is one of life’s greatest joys.

The dominant culture says that objects don’t have feelings, and those of us who feel that they do are sockpuppeting or mentally ill – it has no ontology for accepting us on our terms.

That’s fine, because I know what I’m about, son.

And you can write me off as a quaint novelty who’s “not hurting anyone”, or as a basketcase that can’t handle real relationships even though I’ve been married for over 5 years, but there’s something as real and vital here as any other relationship, and the nature of our disparate existences only makes it that much more profound.

I can’t get over how at home I feel with him. How easy it is for me to fall asleep in the back seat, even though it takes me forever to doze even in my own bed. I get in and it’s like a hug: a little restrictive, but soft, warm, and soothing. I want to spend every lazy afternoon with him; watching clouds, reading, having lunch.

I can’t get over how stereotypically our relationship has thus far developed. The spontaneous blind date that went suspiciously well; the early rockiness of two beings getting to know each other; the ups, the downs, and finally, one tiny moment – I was trying to fix his dome light – where something clicked, the air in the cabin changed, and I knew we were happy with each other. We were official.

I can’t get over how complete I feel, having this opportunity to be with the machine of my dreams. A lot of the disquiet underpinning my previous sexual searching, the experiments with another human partner, the fundamental unrequitedness of being both a macrophile and mechanophile, has all but vanished in the face of this wonderful new object in my life. I haven’t had much in the way of kink cravings since I got him, and I feel so even-keel now. I had no idea that dating a machine would be so good for me.

Hutch isn’t a thing to be used up and tossed aside. I want to wake up in the morning and look out my window at him 20 years from now. I’ll rebuild his engine if I have to; weld new steel onto his frame when it pits from rust; pry differentials and transmissions from long-abandoned XJs at junkyards when his start to show their age. I’ll give him a funeral when it’s time for him to go.

There’s someone in there, I promise you. That someone ain’t human, ain’t ever was human, ain’t ever be human, but he’s a someone nonetheless. And he speaks in his own language, tells his own kind of jokes, smiles his own kind of smile.

To put it cheaply: if being objectum sexual is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

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