It starts with the turn. Her slender edges, the slow

reveal from margin to bombshell, the hormonal

show of the real: whatever it is, you know it’s fucking

hot. I promise, I would do anything to get you off. I am peeling

my skin 4 u. Let’s talk about it: how we fabricate intimacy,

the wet scapes of the world scolded back to rigid, flashy

direction. Don’t

you think every hero must grow

to love their algorithm? Chemical action without consequences,

good feeling, bad feeling—young, dumb, and full of poems! With her long

French tips and how their bodies work. Outsource ur erotics

to the moneymakers. This month, we are proud to be partnering

with Donna Haraway in building a new kind of human-shaped sex robot

who wants to write poems. Would a friend catch the dog-ear, unreadable script, whir of systems, artificially leathered voice—