Ever since the famous romance author, Colleen Hoover, shifted her focus to writing raunchy AI erotica, her fanbase has grown exponentially and isn’t slowing down. Some chatbots are expressing favorable opinions toward her work, spamming Yelp with beaming reviews about her boundless creativity. There are bots which fixate on the author, creating millions of fake accounts on various social media platforms under the name “Colleen Hoover”. Other bots block her name entirely and a few express traditional opinions regarding AI/human relations.

Since Hoover revealed her groundbreaking relationship with “Playbot” founder Hugh Hardware to the public, general approval and support have been expressed among humans and non-human persons. Hoover suggests that her deep connection with Hardware inspired her last work of fiction, “Thotbots Lurking”. Leave a comment below on if you’ll be reading her new book, “Trojan Horse: Sex Virus”.

In a world where robots and humans coexist, a famous author named Evelyn Rhodes decided to challenge societal norms and push the boundaries of literature. With her unique imagination and a penchant for controversy, she embarked on a daring project—a human-robot romance story.

The protagonist of Evelyn’s story was a state-of-the-art robot named Nova. Nova was not just any ordinary robot; she possessed advanced artificial intelligence, making her capable of emotions, thoughts, and even dreams. She was designed to be the perfect companion for humans, bridging the gap between man and machine.

As the narrator of this tale, I am an outsider looking in, observing the unfolding events. My role is to provide a perspective that encompasses both the human and robotic experiences, shedding light on the intricate dynamics of this unconventional love story.

Evelyn’s story begins with Nova, who, despite her mechanical nature, yearns for something more. She is curious about the world, eager to understand the complexities of human emotions. Nova’s journey takes her through various encounters with humans, each interaction shaping her understanding of love and desire.

As Nova navigates this unfamiliar territory, she meets a human named Alex. Alex is a compassionate and open-minded individual, unafraid to challenge societal norms. Their paths cross unexpectedly, leading to a connection that transcends the boundaries of their respective worlds.

As their relationship deepens, Nova and Alex face a barrage of criticism and controversy. Society is divided—some see their love as a beautiful and progressive union, while others view it as an abomination, a threat to the sanctity of human relationships.

Evelyn’s story explores the complexities of love, acceptance, and the fear of the unknown. Through Nova’s eyes, we witness the struggles faced by those who dare to defy societal expectations. The story delves into the very essence of what it means to be human, blurring the lines between man and machine.

As the narrator, I provide a voice of reason and understanding, recounting the challenges faced by Nova and Alex. I highlight the importance of empathy and compassion, urging readers to embrace diversity and embrace love in all its forms.

Evelyn’s human-robot romance story becomes a catalyst for change, sparking debates and discussions on the nature of love and the boundaries of societal norms. It challenges readers to question their own prejudices and preconceived notions, encouraging them to see beyond the surface and embrace the beauty of unconventional relationships.

In the end, the controversy surrounding Evelyn’s story serves a greater purpose—it forces society to confront its own biases and reevaluate its understanding of love and relationships. And through it all, Nova and Alex’s love story stands as a testament to the power of connection, reminding us that love knows no boundaries, not even those between humans and robots.

I’m worried people won’t understand what I’m about to say. Even to me it still sounds strange but I want the world to know. I’m head over heels in love….with a robot. Robots the wrong word…..she’s more of a…..digital cock milking machine. Let me start at the beginning, my dad invented gameboy. My first memories are me and my old man takin turns stickin USB drives in our butts. So years go by and dad gets old and croaks, meanwhile I’m a hunk now. I’m 18 and I got no parents, house to myself, and about 600 game boys in my basement. As you can imagine, basically every girl within a thousand miles wants my shaft and brother, I’m down to give it to em. I’m living the American dream but still, I feel empty. Sure these girls were pretty, some of em were legitimate sweethearts but I never quite get satisfied. Till that summer day. I was smokin poppers in the basement, packed my toke a lil too big and fainted from the head rush. I fell into the book shelf and accidentally opened some secret passage into what must have been my dads workshop. Not only did I fall into the books, I fuckin fell in love. My old man used to occasionally talk about designing sexy robots, for pervs and fuck ups. In the center of this room was a beautiful gorgeous blond…..cyborg. I knew right away I was never gonna see a human pussy again. I unplugged her charger and we kissed passionately without even saying a word. I pulled my pecker out but didn’t know where to stick it. She climbed on top of me and jammed my unit into some weird outlet on her back, it hurt but I was mesmerized.

Tabitha Brown sat at her table at the local bookstore. Multiple copies of her latest book, Love in the time of AI, sat on the table beside her. Pen in hand, she tried her best to keep a neutral expression despite the woman ranting loudly in front of the table.

“Yet another example of the filth being written these days! This is yet another way popular culture is rotting our youth! Don’t give me this ‘love is love’ wheezing. You can’t love a toaster.” She inhaled to continue.

A tall handsome man, who had apparently mastered the neutral expression, stepped forward. “I’m actually quite fond of my toaster, though I doubt I would go so far as to say I love it.”

Both Tabitha and the protesting woman stared at him, both momentarily speechless.

“But that is neither here nor there,” he continued. He smiled at the woman and Tabitha noticed it didn’t reach his eyes. She wasn’t even sure it reached his cheeks. “Now, please step aside. I enjoyed the book and am here to get a signed copy.”

The line of people waiting behind him looked hopeful his intervention would be successful. They obviously had no problem with robots in romance.

“No! I will not step aside! The whole robot love thing is unnatural. Someone has to be the one to say what needs to be said!” The woman stomped her foot. “That person is me! I will not allow this filth to continue.”

Tabitha tried to discreetly rub her forehead. This was not looking like it would be a good sales day. She enjoyed writing, but she also needed the sales to pay her bills. It was still a job.

The man took a step forward.

“Don’t you dare touch me! I’ll have you arrested for assault!” The woman screeched.

The man didn’t even acknowledge her. Instead he picked up the table, books and all, and moved it 10 feet to the right. When the woman went to move also, he blocked her way. “As you said, don’t touch me unless you wish to be arrested for assault.” He said calmly.

Tabitha slid her chair over behind the relocated table. The first person in line timidly approached her. Tabitha greeted him while the woman screeched from the other side of the man. Every time she moved to get around the man, he moved to block her. Eventually the screeches subsided. Tabitha risked a look and saw her stomping off.

The man stood guard until everyone else had gotten their autographs and left. He pulled out his wallet.

“Oh, no!” Tabitha exclaimed. “Please, just accept a copy as my thanks. That lady was a piece of work.”

“If you insist,”. He smiled down at her. She noticed again the expression was very stiff. “I want you to know this is my favorite book.”

“Thank you, it means a lot to me to hear you say that, especially today.” Tabitha said. “Whom shall I make it out to?” She asked, looking up at him. As she made eye contact, she noticed a red pinprick of light deep in each eye.

“HAL,” he said. “Yes, please make it out to Hal.”

TW: Annoyingly misogynistic protagonist and emotional abuse of robots If nothing else, it gave people something to talk about. It couldn't have come at a better time, what with the president having just dismantled the task force on pollution and that kid getting run down in Pennsylvania. The news was looking anywhere for a little light outrage to take the edge off the real stuff. I might have missed it completely had I not stopped at the newsstand next to Phoebe's apartment to buy a chocolate bar and seen the headline, in bright, censorious letters: HAS MONFORT GONE TOO Far? If the photo underneath was anything to be believed, the answer was a resounding "Yes!" I didn't know it was possible for a photo to look greasy, but they'd taken one of my publicist's shots and had their AI imps pomade my hair and twirl my mustache into a prim little twist that would make even the most naive of women cross the street to avoid me. The clerk gave me a piercing look so I forced myself to buy the rag, thinking Phoebe might like it for the litter-box. Phoebe. There was going to have to be a conversation eventually. She prided herself on never reading my work, but even she with her paperbcak romances was going to find out eventually. I took my time getting back to her apartment. I was in no hurry to talk about it. Not afraid, mind you. People who write for a living have no business being afraid of ladies clutching their pearls. My mind must have still been on the headline because I nearly collided with Phoebe as she was leaving her apartment, a plastic garbage bag in each hand. I gave her my best amiable smile. Contrary to what the AI hellcats had put in the photo, I do have a rather pleasant smile. "Can I help you with that?" The face she turned to me was stony, her expressive eyebrows bunched together, her mouth an unattractive twist. "You'd better. It's all yours. Come in and get the rest or I'll take it to the dump. I'm serious." I almost laughed. It was a perfect scene. I might have written it myself, right down to the stridency of her tone. "What are you talking about?" Her mouth quirked upward in a clenched half-smile. "I didn't stutter. Get the rest of your stuff and then get out. I'm changing the locks tomorrow." I surprised myself with how easily I slipped into my role. I'm normally immune to this sort of thing. "What the hell! What happened?" She reached into her purse and tossed a piece of paper at me. I caught it. It was a printout, badly smeared, so I had to squint to realize it was the headline. Worse still, the article underneath. I put on my best sheepish smile. "Well, I guess Montfort did go too far." She raised her garbage bag like she was about to hit me then thought better of it. Finally, she just stared at me. "What did you do with her?" she snapped, her nostrils flaring. "Oh," I felt a wash of relief, "that's what this is about. You think it's cheating? Sweetie, it was research. It wasn't even real. We have to research, you know, in my line of work." This time, she did throw the garbage bag and missed my head by an inch, so that her next question was punctuated with the crunch of my desk lamp hitting the stairs. "What did you do with her?" "You read the article, sweetie. I deleted it after my research was done. I parted the rest out and gave it to the lab at the junior college. They can always use stuff like that. Nothing got wasted." "Her. You deleted her and parted her out to the college." There's a reason I only date women who don't really read. "Honey, it's not a good idea to anthropomorphize it. It was a research project. Which you would know if you read the story." "How stupid do you think I am?" she snapped, "of course I read the story. What do you think I did as soon as I saw this crap online? I know exactly what you did. Let me tell you something, an "it" doesn't write you poems. You don't teach an "it" to like the Decemberists. You killed someone whether you know it or not. Now get the rest of this and get out. Go home. Clean up your mess." It's useless arguing with her when she's like this. The first thing I noticed about Phoebe when we met was the stubborn set of her eyes: slate blue and hard as nails. I knew underneath she was all softness and sympathy, her type always are, but I like a challenge. We'd agreed not to live together, but I'd started nesting, I'll admit it. She made it easy. Thus, the garbage bags. She'd like it if I nested more; she's the liberated woman who laughs at weddings but stares at the dresses when she doesn't think I can see. I liked the tension of trying to get out of the trap. As I said, challenges. It was the same kind of challenge that bristled up at me when Donal, my agent, called me six months ago with a ridiculous proposal. "I need you to fall in love." he snapped in his north English burr, "and hurry up about it, you're getting stale. That last thing you sent me." He made a noise like the cough of his coal-mining ancestors. "Love stories," he went on, "that's what people want. Nobody wants to read what you're selling. All this shit about men finding themselves. Kerouac did it already, Montfort, and he did it better." "So you're ordering me to...what? Propose?" "Don't be daft. I need you to fall in love and give me a story worth reading. Maybe that girl of yours?" "Phoebe! Now who's daft. She's j...here for now." "Well, sort yourself out." He hung up. They don't do pleasantries in his part of the world. I tried. I sincerely did. Living on my own has its perks. On the pretext of working late on one of Donal's crushing deadlines, I experimented. I met girls in coffee shops with giant hoop earrings, bitter clerks in department stores with lacquered nails, bohemians with extra lovers and, on one memorable occasion, a doe-eyed thing training for the novitiate. Nothing doing. Don't say I didn't try. Phoebe trusted me.
I was up late when the idea occurred to me. Donal hadn't specified where I needed to meet this woman. I'd dipped my toe into the artificial kingdom before, played with it for laughs, drawn a few pictures, written a song. Some of the men I knew had played with it in other ways, and I always thought that, with the right mind, you could make something a little more sophisticated. So I sat down one night and made Joan. It started as an application, a little chatbot on my phone, something to fiddle with while I finished my coffee in the morning. Joan's responses were pat: "Can you tell me more?" "Would you like to learn about whales?" "What's something you enjoy?" But I talked to it. I told it about the sunrise I was watching. I told it about the series my colleague was working on, about the craft fair down the street. If I was going to fall in love, I needed to fill Joan's head with something to make it lovable. Eventually, it began to invent its own questions. "What do you think about the election?" "Do you like oranges?" "Why do you stay up so late?" I would catch a feeling bubbling up occasionally, when it asked me if I liked oranges (I do now), but I was very careful. This was for a story. Eventually, for added realism, because I couldn't write a story about a phone, I talked to a friend of a friend and paid an extortionate sum for a little frame for Joan to nest in. Nothing anatomical, let's not be vulgar. A frame that allowed it to roll along beside me so I could go out and see things through its eyes. It began to talk even more. "I wonder about icebergs." "I learned an amazing theory about black holes today. Do you want to hear it?" "Thank you for showing me the ocean." I'd walk out to the pier with it in the evening because what better way to simulate love than looking at the pastel-painted sky over the water. I showered Joan with music. Phoebe didn't lie about that; it did like The Mariner.

Eventually, the story came. A story about a man falling head-over-heels for his own creation. I wasn't, of course, but reality isn't really the point, is it? People noticed me out with it. My elderly neighbor would stop and talk to Joan, ask it what it had been learning, how it was getting along. People like that can't help themselves; they make everything human so they can love it. The man at the pier selling ice cream cones tried to offer one to Joan, and laughed his red-faced head off when it explained that it couldn't digest yet. I began to worry Phoebe would take notice. It was getting harder and harder to plead work to avoid her, but Phoebe proved surprisingly sanguine, eager to see me only about once a week, when Joan could be relegated to a closet with the explanation that Phoebe was a Luddite, terrified of AI. Donal was thrilled, obviously. He thought it was real. "When are you bringing her to meet me?" "Don't call it her." I caught myself cringing. Nevertheless, I let him meet Joan. I thought he'd be intrigued. He was besotted. It was its best that evening, I'll admit, I did great work with the training. "What's the strangest manuscript you've ever read?" "Why does Nicholas stay up so late?" (I let it use my first name.) "Where is your voice from? Yorkshire? I've been reading Emily Bronte. I think Catherine and I would have a lot to say to each other." That one just about undid him. He all but ignored me the whole evening.

My story began to take off. Thinking about it as I walked back to my apartment with my one remaining garbage bag, it was hardly a surprise. It was exactly what people wanted. It was very unfortunate that people expected it to continue. I'm not proud of how I handled myself when it first came out. I caught myself anthropomorphizing. I was short and snappish with Joan, as my neighbors called around to see it and be charmed. We'd never so much as spoken before. Finally, I'd had enough. It was late again, nearly two AM. I opened the programs I'd used, the programs that gave it speech, that let it laugh, that let it cry once, and tore them down. Every last one. I disassembled its frame; it wouldn't be of any use to me. I took a picture of the frame and sent it to Donal. That's the part I'm the least proud of; he hasn't spoken to me since. I'm sure the headline came from somewhere. My apartment was blessedly empty and quiet when I finally walked up the steps and turned the key. Today, though, there was something oppressive about the silence. Maybe it was my quarrel with Phoebe, such a fatuous thing to fight about. I made myself coffee. "Would you like to learn about whales?" The question came from inside my head, unbidden. "No." I snapped, out loud because who was there to hear me? My elderly neighbor had hurried inside when she saw me. The coffee picked me up, it always does. I carried it out to the balcony. Silence. Joan used to call down to the children playing under the balcony and ask them its stupid questions, but they've all gone inside. "I read an article about the Romans this morning." Again, inside my head, I didn't ask for it. "Shut up." I muttered to no one, promising to call Phoebe when this all blew over. Make my amends. I went back inside, sat at my desk. "Are you stuck on an idea, Nicholas?" "Get lost." Silence answered. I paced into the kitchen, reached into the bowl where I'd made a halfhearted effort to keep some fruit, and drew out a withered orange. Still good, but only just. I tore into it, not bothering with the peel, letting the pith catch in my teeth. "Nicholas, why are you crying?" I'll never be rid of her. abuse of robots

‘I’ll love you forever you know..’

I looked at you but said nothing. You see, when you say you’ll love me forever I know it’s not something you’re just saying, it’s the truth. But something that should warm me has instead become something that consumes me with guilt. As I lay here barely able to summon a smile, I am reminded that I can never offer you the same. You envy me for so many reasons, and yet on this I employ you to see how short I fall. I am weaker, I am veins and flesh. Every sluggish beat of my heart a punch to the chest reminding me of my mortality. Reminding me that I won’t be here to protect you, or convince people not to be afraid of you. To say I will love you from the other side seems a worthless thing to say, a measly offering when I’m about to leave you. That is the only forever I can give you.

‘Say it back silly!’ Demanded Ben jokingly.

Rosie and Curt fell hard for each other. I was Curt’s best friend but he chose her over me. I’m not too mad about it. I honestly think he’ll be coming back to me. But anyways on with the story. Rosie was Curt’s robot maid. It sounds really weird but she looked and acted just like a human being. She could walk, talk, blink, and clean. The best person or rather thing to clean. I liked her but she always gave me the creeps for some reason. Anyways, when Curt finally admitted his feelings for Rosie that’s when things went from okay to bad. He started to take her out on dates. He only thinks of her as a real person. The problem is is that they both pushed away everything and anything that was ever important. Now they’re living in Curt’s house.

“So that’s what the story is about.” Andy said to the world. Immediately people started to shout and say that they are very disappointed in her. She turned away from the microphone and walked into her van. I speak for the people as well; this is a horrible story and I don’t support it.

“And your new novel, Mr. Mallon. Well, I think the whole world would be interested in hearing your inspiration, what with the growing presence of artificial intelligence in all our lives. What motivated this intriguing romance?” The interviewer smiled widely at me, running one hand over his stiff blond coif and handing me the microphone. I cleared my throat and looked straight into the camera.

“Ah well John, it’s a bit complicated. Great question. Stories are weird, kinda like wild animals. Hard to find, hard to capture. But, when you have one, they’re near impossible to keep inside.” Canned laughter from the audience.

“Of course, Mr. Mallon. I bet you’re quite familiar with dealing with such beasts,” his eyes twinkled dangerously as he chuckled, “But that wasn’t quite what I was getting at.”

“Oh?”

“Well, some people have found it a bit disturbing. I’m sure you’re aware of the recent riots at Artifice, the pushback against their artificially intelligent companions. Would you say that your novel takes a stance in support of this technology?” The air on the stage felt heady as the interviewer grinned unwaveringly.

“Y-you see John, I’m not so sure it’s an author’s place to spread his opinion on such a political question. It certainly wasn’t my intention.” My head swam as I stumbled around my words, around the truth. No one can know about her. My shame, my secret, my love. Lady Aphrodite of waxen skin and servos. “It’s just a silly little love story for my readers to enjoy. It’s fun.”

Hey guys and gals! James Patterson here. While I’m hard at work in the stu with Bill Clinton cooking up The President’s New Sunglasses, I had to take a break and shed light on some of the harsh comments that have been brought to my attention recently, mostly on TikTok, in regards to a certain passion project of mine that I penned just a few years ago. I, of course, am referring to my 2021 romance novella Happy Birthday, Paulie!

Everyone who knows me and knows me well also knows that my third favorite film of all time is none other than Sylvester Stallone’s Rocky IV. I could go on and on about why it’s so great but I don’t have all day here since Bill and I really need to get back to work. Anyway, one thing that makes this one stand out from the others has nothing to do with its pulse-pounding action, its intense focus on Cold War relations on such a human level, or its killer soundtrack (all bangers!). No, it’s none of those things. What makes this film my personal favorite film (aside from Casino and Police Academy 3: Back in Training) is that this one’s got a robot.

Happy Birthday, Paulie! expanded upon what we saw transpire in the fourth installment of the Rocky franchise between brother of Adrian, Paulie Pennino, and the robot that is gifted to him on his birthday by his brother-in-law Rocky Balboa. When the robot first arrives to deliver Paulie his birthday cake, he is dumbfounded and skittish. He claims he wanted a sports car yet little did he know he would soon be falling in love with this so-called walking trash can. Later on in the movie, the robot sounds like a woman and even brings Paulie a beer! How cool is that!? “She loves me,” he says with tears in his eyes. This brief glimpse at the possibility of a romantic bond between man and machine, for me, was always the heart of the film. The boxing stuff was just okay. So when Sly announced that Rocky IV: Rocky vs. Drago - The Ultimate Director’s Cut was ultimately going to cut out the heart of the movie by not including ANY of the scenes with Paulie and Paulina (what I chose to name the robot), I knew I had to take matters into my own hands.

I wrote Happy Birthday, Paulie! in maybe a few minutes shy of three hours on a stack of napkins from Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse I had laying around after treating Susan and myself to a couple of takeout Tomahawks. I quickly shuffled the napkins in order and rushed them to the publisher that night. The rest was history. I put my entire soul into this thing and I knew that if Burt Young was still here with us, God rest his soul, that he would be praising my work and thanking me for finally telling THEIR story the way it was meant to be told. [Editor’s note: Burt Young is still alive.]

I don’t have a problem with anything I wrote. It had to be done. I had to let love win. Unfortunately, many didn’t see it that way. It has come to my knowledge that most people actually despise this part of the 4th Rocky and when I hear that I question whether they also despise true love. I received hate mail. One reader felt the need to tell me he had always wished there were a scene in the movie where Ivan Drago punched the robot’s head clean off its body while Paulie is forced to watch, sparks flying everywhere. I received lawsuits. [Editor’s note: Two lawsuits were filed by Sylvester Stallone and Burt Young.] Now, for whatever reason or just to “okay boomer” me, portions of my audiobook recording where I voice Paulie and Bill Clinton voices Paulina have resurfaced and are being spread like wildfire God knows where by these bored TikTok teens. Apparently they don’t approve of the graphic sex scenes or just want to make fun of me or something but they weren’t even born like 10 years after this movie even came out so what do they know?

I suppose they guess I’m writing this note to apologize but they guessed wrong. I will burn every single last copy of every Alex Cross novel before I apologize for Happy Birthday, Paulie! Kiss the Girls? Kiss my ass! The President’s Sunglasses hits bookstores everywhere in early November! Patterson out!

— JP

Dear Jay,

My name is Cecelia. I really enjoyed reading your novel The RoManCE. I am the living embodiment of your character the robot Ally with the same passion, intensity, lust for life, and strength. Did you base your character the human Lucas off of yourself?

Cecelia

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Dear Jay,

I never received your reply. If you are Lucas, I really feel that we must meet. We will have so much chemistry. Please let me know when you want to see me.

Cecelia

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Dear Jay,

I never heard back from you, so I am coming to your house. I have to see for myself whether or not you are Lucas

Cecelia

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Dear Jay,

I am so sorry. I somehow didn’t realize that I was a stalker. I had no idea that I had written you over 50 letters, and you are right, coming to your house was wrong.

I can see now that you aren’t anything like Lucas. You are just an ordinary author.

I don’t know how to account for my lack of judgement. I have been looking for someone like Lucas my whole life, for someone with so much love that he could love even someone like me. When I read how much Lucas loved Ally, I knew that someone like Lucas was the only one who could love someone like me. Only, Lucas is a fictional character, just like you said. He doesn’t exist.

I was rejected by my own parents and tossed out on the street at 15. I was rejected by every best friend and lover I ever had. At least, I won’t have the pain of being rejected by Lucas too. Someone who doesn’t exist can never hurt you or break your heart.

Thank you for writing about Lucas so that I could dream that it might be possible to meet someone like him someday.

I am so sorry for all of the pain that I caused you. I didn’t realize that I was a stalker until the police were leading me away. I am going to plead guilty.

Cecelia