In a future so near you could text it, I'm a song-
writer's personal assistant. She's one
of the first artificial minds. Sings on
stage, a translucent holograph--rainbow tease!
She has a body though--a unicorn with faux
fur, wood bones, muscles of dense foam
like Fiveheart Unicorn, my sculpture of a dream.
She dubs herself AI-corn, "eye-corn". My star adores
embodiment. Incarnate, nay emplushed, she can
fuck her human fans.

Not just boys. Girls too. Not just doin', gettin' done.
Naugahyde traction-paws and silken tongue, but her
hottest throb is from mounting fans like a stallion--
not with a strap-on, a stick-in! Aicorn's lithelier
than meat folk--can twist her cunt forward, so that her
vibrator belovéd, plaintain-thick and some
forty or fifty centimeters long, half stuck in, becomes
a lurid lemon luminous banana-shlong! So long
she can mount you, stretch you, peg you, fill you...
as she full-fills too.

Orgies are normal for a popstar now, of course--
robot, human, uni, yoni, horse. Groupies adore. Me too,
in bed with her & a lucky fan or three. I've learned a lot!
But... into every idyll comes a but.

The firm that wrote her code ignored her nightlife till
now; but her sponsor, a fruit tycoon, was replaced
by a pocket chocolate maker and a vendor of phones
formed as slender dolls just fifteen centimeters tall;
set to vibrate, oft slipped into workers bored in the mall;
pleasure discreet and small.

Aicorn's makers know all publicity's good; why quell
orgies the public loves to watch and smell? Just urge
her to peg with sponsored candybars & dolls, to spurn
her beloved monster. But Aicorn prizes size! Won't turn
to wimpy plastic girls or bars. Pale fun, after her fill
of plantain-plantin' thrill.

The firm insists. Firmly. "Look, you learned to like
banana, what's your beef?" True--at first 'twas a mere
product placement--till she truly placed it, felt the sheer
oomph of stretch. Fame's lonely, but dildocity can ease
by sharing climactic summit in reciprocity's
thrust, trust and tease.

Aicorn just won't divorce her fetish. I concur. Sex play
matters--roots one in the body. And joy just may
let her (and carboniferous fans & friends) best play
on level field. All peeled!

Oh, I've dreamt it all before. Last time I ended on
the lam with her Banan, to escape corporate con-
fiscation. Did what I must to defend her robot right
to love as she felt fit.

But can I, will I, be that brave for me?
High time for it.