The other day I went to this exhibition where they had all kinds of mechanical devices and I spotted this female cyborg. I knew when I first saw her on the showroom floor that she was made for me. I took her home and dressed her up in polyester. Although she was emotionless and cold as ice, she was all of the things I like: The way she looked, the way she moved, the sounds she was making in ultra-chrome, latex and steel. I plugged her in and dimmed the lights. I tried to resist her perfect skin and plastic kiss. When we touched I felt hallucinated and tranquilized. I understood from that point forward my private life would be subject to investigation once people heard about our deviation. But she never looked so good after wearing the fake fur and fake pearls for me.
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...

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