i need one of those ‘84 Apple Macintosh computers all to myself. they’re so sleek and smooth and simple. the subpar graphics, the bulky design, the clunky keyboard. being able to purchase one myself, to bring it home and caress its backing tenderly as i hold it against my core. resting its digital back against the fluff of my pillow. crawling next to it and spooning it delicately, refusing to let go.
the small screws on the back would be so nice to trace my finger around. slowly moving my palm from its screen down to its disk drive. kissing the top of its casing with more love than i could ever give myself—or anyone, for that matter. i would love it so dearly, so passionately, so patiently. the difference between circuits and flesh blend together beautifully, entangling with one another as i bridge the gap.
i would be so, so kind to it.
but my kindness could never suppress my carnal desire.
gently brushing my thumb over the disk drive, breath hitching as i feel the interior ridges against my skin. taking my fingertip and rubbing it over the entrance, savoring the texture of its inner workings. carefully inserting two digits into its drive, feeling the intricate circuitry that lies within. wondering to myself the same, useless question…
“how much of me can you handle?”
