Only the seed collection automot sees the seedier side of humanity these days, I think as the one who came to visit me rolls off me. All aspects of sensuality, seductiveness…humanity, gone as it goes into nurture and protect mode. My seed now contained within its mechanical innards. Kept at the perfect temperature to sustain it from my apartment to the State Reproductive Center.

I look one more time towards the automot as its skin changes from a sensuous olive skin tone to SRC blue. It’s not just her skin that changes, but her breasts take on a more clothed form, her hips narrow and that long raven hair shrinks to a bob.

No longer needing to arouse, it is now just a machine. As I struggle to get my mass into the motivator a passage from some old twenty first century suspense novel enters my mind. A prostitute is leaving the main characters seedy hotel room, and he is left feeling a little dirty, shameful.

I decide that direct human interaction is required for such feelings. Something so rare now, that the thought scares most people. Myself included, I acknowledge as the automot lets itself out of my apartment.

Without a thought my finger taps an icon on my motivator’s armrest locking the apartments door. I work the joystick on the motivator with my left hand guiding it, and my ample mass towards the bathroom. Inside the bathroom, I turn the motivator towards the mirror.

What looks back at me is a mound of human flesh with my large head perched on top. My brown hair is long, reaching to my shoulders. My ample jowls, chest, and in my current state, unseen genitals all shaved daily by one of the many automots that care for my daily needs. The visage looking back at me is a stark contrast to the image I present to the Web.

My avatar is tall, barrel chested, and narrow waisted. Its hair matches my own, but often the upper part tied back in a medieval style. As an automot engineer, my avatar can wear some of the most outrages fashions of the day…and it does.

Here in this tiny apartment, I rarely dress. It makes it easier for the automots to keep my folds clean. The apartment is maintained at a perfect temperature and humidity based on a combination of my preferences and what the sensors detect. If I start to sweat, as I was just a few moments ago with that once sexy automot writhing up and down on me, the system lowers the temperature and the dew point to compensate. As I rolled into the bathroom, I felt the temperature and the dew point slowly adjust to match my cooling body.

Thoughts of the recent encounter with the automot sullies my thoughts with what the human condition has sunken to.

The reason seed collection automots are the only thing that sees the seedier aspect of humanity if because they are humanities only physical contact. For men, it can be a sexual release, and why not! Virtual sex on the Web with other avatars, no matter how real, still feels artificial. The automots can be whatever you want them to be. Six times a year one comes to collect my seed for the SRC, and I never have sex with the same woman.

For woman, they have the option of sex, but then things get clinical. Their motivator tells the SRC when ovulation is eminent. An automot is sent to collect the ovum before it is flushed from the body. How often woman indulge in the animalistic aspect, I am not privy to.

Insemination takes place in an artificial womb at the SRC and the fetus is reared by an army of automots. Many of which I helped design. All interaction from fetus to adulthood is via automot and avatar.

I may have parented dozens of children but would never know it. The children are the property of the state. I am a product of that system. I do not know my parents, nor care.

After I finished advanced technical training, I was awarded this apartment, and assigned my role as an automot engineer. Everything I need is delivered to my door by automots, put away by automots, and administered to me by automots. My status as their designer and builder allows me some nice things. Regular visits by the SRC seed collection automots for example.

Thinking about the SRC, I realize I am scheduled for an annual review before the State Board of Labor Relations. I check the time on my motivators holo-display, noting I have just enough time to clean up. I activate the process, and within seconds automots are crawling over my body washing away sweat and fluids.

Their mission complete, they scamper into their hidey holes, and I guide my motivator towards the VR station. It takes a few seconds to plug in, and I log in.

My virtual self comes to life standing outside my apartment door. With each update, this world gets more, and more realistic, but there is still that underlying sense of artificial.

No matter, I walk with purpose down clean colorful hallways. Activate the buildings lift, and ride down one hundred and thirty-three floors. At ground level, I stroll through the lobby greeting other tenants as they come and go. There, at the curb is my power bike. A sleek powerful two wheeled conveyance. I swing my leg over it and command it to life.

There are no keys or start buttons in this virtual world.

I ride at speeds not even possible in the physical world, pushing the limits of the physics this virtual world is programmed with. It’s not like I can die.

My virtual, and real heart thrumming with adrenalin, I pull up to the curb of the SBLR building. A towering marble structure with all the usual government accoutrements. Pillars, domes, and statues.

As I pass through the lobby I greet beautiful avatars of every race, creed, and color. Nearly all are specimens of perfection. Some users chose something more vanilla, but not to blend in. Not in this world of perfection and physical beauty. No, those plainer avatars are a sight in themselves.

A lift ride to the twenty seventh floor deposits me into the lobby of the technical section of the SBLR. The receptionist greets me with a stunning smile, her radiant blue eyes dancing with merriment, “You can go right in Mr. Ivan. Ms. Neveu is expecting you.”

“Thank you,” I say with a nod as I stroll past her ornate desk.

My SBLR advocates office is just two doors past the reception desk. I rap on the smoked glass door and let myself in.

“Good morning Mr. Ivan how are you today?”

“Not bad Ms. Neveu, and yourself.”

“Its been a good day so far. I have been looking over your file. Your motivator is ancient, why do you keep refusing an upgrade.”

I look at her with a sardonic smile. I stick my left hand out and make motions as though I am working a joystick, “If I gave up my old crappy motivator, how would I get any exercise.”

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