JG Ballard was right. Fucking cars is a total turn-on. Believe me, once you’ve had Pontiac you don’t go back. In my techno-dreams, I imagine myself copulating with many of the other beautiful things I own, in a sort of cyborg, human/machine love-interface basis, a bit like early Numan. In fact, this is how I would like to make love to a series of my favourite technological appliances.

Blackberry.

We’d go to a fashionable nightclub. There’d be champagne and skinny, vapid girls who have potential to carve out a modest career in off-ramp modelling. We’d dance all night to a Boyz Noize DJ set. Light and music would dazzle, swirling to a giddying climax. When the moment was right, I’d slip my tongue down its keypad.

Bose Stereo.

A quiet evening in. A bottle of good red wine. A DVD – maybe Road To Perdition, maybe Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Depends. A few confidences shared, some easy tinkling laughter. A toast to our future happiness. I’d go to the bathroom, and when I re-emerged, it’d be waiting for me in bed.

Canon MVX250i Camcorder.

We’d be working late in the office one evening. I’d have a few issues with a big project, we’d show each other wacky Youtube clips, laugh, then I’d ‘relate’ about how my gf didn’t really understand me any more. “We’re just moving in different directions,” I’d be heard to confide. I’d brush an eyelash off of its lens, and then lean in. We’d go at it frenetically. From behind. Up against the photocopier.

MacBook.

We’d be archaeologists, working in an open-cast excavation outside Cairo. Hot. So hot. A bead of sweat would slither down my naked back. I’d brush away the dirt, and uncover a vase I’d instantly be able to date as from the time of Amenhotep III. In the hubris of the moment, I’d joyously embrace my MacBook’s off-white casing. Then we’d rut at it, hot and filthy, amidst the graves of a thousand ancient slaves.

Sony Reader.

I’d be away on business, a stranger in a strange town. In my hotel room, beneath the Bible, would be a telephone directory. I’d leaf through it lethargically, before one ad caught my eye. I’d pause. I’d dial the number. A husky female voice would answer and tell me that payment by Visa and Amex is acceptable and that a discreet hotel visit can be arranged. Forty minutes later, there’d be a knock on the door. “Ah, you must be Candy,” I’d murmur. I’d have spent over $300 on the Amex by morning, and it’d be recharging contentedly on the dresser.

GAVIN HAYNES