Jamie wouldn’t get physical unless all thought experiments fail, so he hands the clicker to me. And I, I’m not particularly bright (as you know), and I’m also the only person in the world scared by too many buttons on remote controls. So, I put the thing aside and feel hungry. I don’t know what time it is, but dusk is advancing, and I call room service to order the few items on the room menu that Google Translate understands.
It takes forever, of course, but around witching hour there’s the din of a trolley outside, accompanied by the young, Italian voices of Michelangelo and Leonardo, the two cutest pages of this establishment, them always on the night shift on special orders of the all-knowing Luigi. I know this because we know them, and there has been certain camaraderie growing between us, due to the fact, oddly, that we can’t tip them with our comatose credit cards. As usual, Michelangelo and Leonardo enter with a sense of splash (“Ecco qua”), and, like their famous namesakes, they’ve perfected the Mona Lisa smile---how do grownups say, the art of ambiguity, they say---always leaving in the middle whether their eccoes refer to the food or to themselves. If it wouldn’t be so difficult between Jamie and me, we’d have possibly agreed long ago that the pages are---or would be---much tastier that the food, but there’s no time for further reflection since Daviddo is still the elephant in the room. “Que cos’è questo?” Michelangelo asks, and I, glad to get rid of it, grab the clicker and hand it to him: “You find out.”
“Hé, hé, hé,” the page coughs, and pushes one of its buttons. It must have been either the right or the wrong button because the Daviddo springs to life, a bit too forcefully, but then he removes the golden loin leaf from his crotch with a smooth, experienced gesture, and now he activates his right hand---somewhat oversized, his paw, like on David’s original sculpture---and undertakes to touch himself in unmistakable ways. And the organ in question, it obliges with an unmistakable reaction, something never seen before on Renaissance statuary.
“That’s why his hand is so big,” Michelangelo exclaims, whose English is better than Leo's. He grabs the remote and pushes a different button, some sort of volume control looks like, since Daviddo accelerates his jerking (“up”), decelerates it (“down”), then pauses. Michelangelo shoots a questioning look at Jamie: red lines need to be crossed, or not, who knows. Leo, the more forthcoming of the two, reclaims the remote and says, “Mi chiedo se può venire.” He looks expectantly at his polyglot partner, who shakes his head, but then confides, with a charming blush on his cheeks: “Micco wonders if he can cum.”
The food is getting cold, but we wonder too. Even little Jamie does. Isn’t this what you read in the math books, how sex puppets change your life? Leonardo hands the control to my partner. Jamie, the resident genius, pushes a red button, and the thing halts its jerking.
“No-no,” Micco cries, “we want to know.” So, Jamie pushes a different button, and Daviddo’s tool resumes its improbable expansion. The days of tiny willies are gone. In its original state his little thing wasn’t even two inches, but now it balloons to, what, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen inches and counting, projecting from his torso like the improbable phallus of any of these mythological satires you see on LustSpiel (the internet mag that won this porn prize last year).
“He’s going to fall over and break it,” Micco laughs, and Jamie pushes any red button in reach to avert the impending tragedy. No chance: Daviddo, under the weight of his erection, falls onto his penis, and---“CRAKKS.” Something did break inside the overextended extremity, and the robot, mute so far, ejects a vicious cry and begins to moan like a human being, or, worse, like your favorite sub. His wailing fills the room---and possibly neighboring rooms as well---and apprehension is building on the faces of our room service. Who knows what the lonely, underserviced Contessa in the next room is going to make of this, the more so since she’s already been woken by the clatter of the service trolley and may now jump to conclusions that might invoke the midnight pages---conclusions not necessarily unwarranted, as habitués of Florentine’s hotelleria will know. This is, at least, what I think; what’s on Jamie’s more innocuous mind we don’t know, but he’s trying his best to stem the racket via his control, re-pushing buttons as if there’s no tomorrow. Leonardo, nervous, grabs the remote from Jamie and does his own thing. Michelangelo, more nervous, grabs the thing from Leo. Nothing helps. “Oooh, oohh, ohhh,” the robot wails...
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