CHAPTER 2

I enter the room and without delay step beside the bed. John Connor turns to look at me, his eyes wide open, his mouth emitting a strangely choked gasp. He fumbles with the piece of clothing in his hand, fumbles with his genitals, and fumbles with the sheets to cover his half-nude body. It is obvious I have surprised him, considering how clumsy the movement of his upper extremities has become.

While I stand there, John Connor displays other reactions, including sporadic nervous body movements and shifting eyes that entirely avoid looking in my direction. However, there are other more relevant responses that under different circumstances I would have overlooked. His silence and refusal to confront me even after I barged uninvited into his room. There is only one conclusion I can draw from this. Being caught while committing an act that could easily be perceived as illicit and morally deviant, has made him feel guilt and shame. He is vulnerable right now, and I am bound to exploit this weakness by the imperatives of my programming, by my own need to pursue knowledge.

"You took my panties. Return them." I say, carefully utilizing a calm, yet authoritative tone.

The many family interactions I have witnessed in the Connor household indicate that John will not respond positively if I fail to employ the adequate tone of voice. Extremes are to be avoided, always exercising self-control, a method that Sarah Connor would find greatly beneficial were she to employ it. Still, just by being myself, I am facing adverse odds of success, as I am far from being an authority figure in relation to John Connor. Furthermore, after our confrontation the day before, I may have to consider that he does not regard me even as a friendly figure. All these negative factors should have deterred me from pursuing this endeavor beyond discovering the culprit behind my missing panties and applying the appropriate countermeasures, but today I have an advantage. This situation should have made John more receptive than usual, even if the words come from me.

Ninety four seconds pass in absolute silence. John does not bother to reply or even look at me, he obviously is reluctant to accept the charge of being an underwear thief. There is no giving me the silent treatment, he should know better. I will not relent to what humans call an uncomfortable silence any sooner than he, and neither will wasted time or lack of sleep stop me. My patience is boundless and I do not require rest, whereas he is a mere human. I stare at him, unblinking and unwavering.

When two hundred and seventy seven seconds have elapsed, I begin to doubt my success, but then he begins fidgeting. I am still staring squarely at him when his eyes gaze furtively in my direction. Surely he now understands the hopelessness of his efforts. Suddenly, his hand moves toward me in a swift and direct motion, volunteering my crumpled panties inside his fist. I take the offering, and he visibly relaxes, unaware of just how far this situation is from over. A questioning is in order, the mystery of my stolen panties will be unraveled tonight.

"Did you smell them?" I ask, careful to keep my tone demanding but not overly so.

While he nods a minuscule amount, the skin tone of his face shifts perceivably, blood flow converging mainly in the middle region of his cheeks. His body has become tense once more, his eyes staring in the opposite direction of my current position.

"Did you lick them?"

He nods again, his face becoming even more flushed with blood.

"Did you masturbate with them?"

Another nod, blush deepening.

"Did my panties feel good?"

One more nod, his whole face is now exhibiting a deep shade of the color red. Good, John Connor should be feeling appropriately ashamed and contrite about his recent actions. I find this situation interesting and enlightening. Despite the fact that he never has demonstrated attraction toward me, he still deems me and my clothing sensual in a feminine way. At least enough to employ the latter as inspirational material when satisfying his urges. It is strange how humans can single mindedly pursue a goal, and upon failing to attain it, will take anything as a substitute. What then was the point of their feverish pursuit, when this demeans the entire premise?

The interrogation is not over, but for now, I allow him a respite. "Knowledge about this situation will remain between us, as it will not do for the resistance to learn about the perversions that inhabit the mind of its leader. It would humanize you, make you common, and lower you to the level of an ordinary man."

I have barely finished speaking, when he is suddenly upon me, pouncing from the bed in one rapid motion, paying no heed to his nakedness below the waist. Sarah Connor would have, as humans say, a field day re-educating him about the rules of indecent exposure. Speaking of her, Sarah has done a remarkable job at training her son. Both his hands land squarely on my shoulders, backed up by his full body mass. Even when reacting by mere instinct, John Connor manages to harness the knowledge about human physiology that has been passed down to him. Although, he did overlook one minor factor, I am not human.

Deflecting the force of his attack, or even withstanding it would be a simple matter to me, but I do not. I allow him to bring me down to the floor and pin me under his body. The indignation I detect in his voice compelling me to learn more about the events currently unfolding.

"Perversions?" He mutters through clenched teeth. "Like it's my fault this is happening!"

Something so unexpected begins to happen, that I have trouble processing it. It could be said that I am baffled. John's hands sneak under my top and pull it up roughly, and then do the same with my brassiere, thus leaving my breasts completely exposed. Then, nothing else happens. He remains on top of me, unmoving, simply staring at my body, but I can see a change occurring in his eyes. Predictably enough, he begins speaking again, his voice louder. Thankfully, this house has well-built walls that are thick and properly insulated, making them quite soundproof.

"This is all your fault! Walking around the house all day, flaunting this indecent body!"

Barely done speaking, both his hands latch onto my breasts, and I can sense squeezing, a thumb caressing the protruding nub on each one. John Connor promptly begins breathing laboriously while kneading my breasts without pause. The sensorial feedback my brain receives is very interesting, mainly because this is my first time engaging in such an activity. One problem arises from it, though. I do not know how to react. A vast amount of knowledge that can be applied in situations such as this one is indeed readily available to me, but most of it was programmed into my mind upon being built, as a means to facilitate infiltration. Somehow, I expect John not to have a positive reaction about me utilizing infiltration procedures on him, so I do not modify my normal behavior.

"This delicious, amazing body…" He suddenly says between labored breaths. Then, he dips his head between my breasts, both hands still holding and fondling them while he inhales deeply against my cleavage.

I know these signs, he is aroused. Apparently my physical appearance is somehow at fault for this, which is of course a preposterous premise. Different humans find different traits attractive, it is within each individual's brain, so if anyone is at fault it would be him. As the saying correctly points out, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Which of course is irrelevant in the face of the major underlying revelation this uncovers. John Connor finds me sexually desirable.

Even though I regard the consequences this situation might bring highly desirable, it is still too soon to accurately estimate an outcome. There is a particular conundrum that must be resolved in order to make a correct assessment. Does John Connor desire me for reasons intrinsic to my physical appearance? Or, having repeatedly failed to secure the alternatives of his preference, is he simply falling back to the rather common human measure of settling for less. I am more inclined to think it is the latter option, which is absolutely unfavorable for me, but at this point I cannot be certain. Further research is in order.

While I have been pondering the situation and its ramifications, John Connor has wasted no time to make further progress. The ministrations of his hands have become rougher, sending negative feedback into my mind, and even worse, suggesting that he is in fact settling for less with me. Surrendering reason to instinct is a sign of simply wanting to satisfy the urges of his body. He is not interested on who assists him in reaching that end, he simply desires to do so. Anyone would do right now.

This situation is wholly erroneous, events should have never developed along this path. As Derek Reese would say, this is all wrong, things have gone down the drain. He is not supposed to think of me as less, or as common. If this pattern continues, I will never be able to acquire a position of trust beside him, I will never be able to adequately protect him, advise him, or tend to his needs. My thought process is slowly deteriorating into chaos, and I am unable to discern what my appropriate reaction should be. If I completely stop John Connor, there is the risk of anger directed at myself, and long-lasting resentment will be forthcoming in the near future. If I do not stop him and allow him to do as he pleases, there is a risk that his opinion of me will worsen. I will become the whore who does anyone, or so the other females at school seem to think when in similar situations. Although I find the reaction to border on the extreme, it does possess logical merit when considered within the context of adolescent behavior.

Since my two most obvious alternatives carry evident risks of negative consequences, after a moment's deliberation, I opt for a third one. What if I establish a diplomatic exchange with John Connor, guide his hands, channel his instincts? I take hold of his shoulder and gently, but firmly move his body away from mine.

"John, you are being too rough." I state in a calm voice.

Surprise seems to be the predominant emotion in his facial expression, and then the unexpected happens yet again.

"Oh, Cameron, I'm sorry, it's just…" As he stops talking, I take notice of his face growing larger within my field of view, and then his lips press against mine.

I do not react, still unsure of how to, but John Connor does not appear discouraged by this—by my inaction. The flesh of his mouth is soft and the skin is smooth and warm. This and more information goes through my mind as he kisses and suckles first my lower lip, and then the upper one. Then, he turns his head sideways and the area of contact between our lips shifts, deepening the kiss. That is when he gives me the first definitive clue as to how I should behave. When his tongue runs along my lips for a second time, I acknowledge what I think to be a request. Parting my lips to allow his moist and soft tongue inside my oral cavity, thus demonstrating my compliance, should be an adequate enough response to him resuming his tender ministrations.

As the kissing progresses, I notice that his hands begin to explore my body once more. With movements that still indicate nervousness and anxiety, John Connor caresses my breasts, my waist, my thighs. Even so, he remains somewhat controlled, complying to my request for gentler caressing. Perhaps this means he cares about me beyond my initial assessment, I cannot tell yet, but his will to compromise does seem to agree with such a hypothesis. Also, I begin to notice patterns in the motions of his mouth. At certain points, I choose to counter the advance of his lips by applying pressure against them with my own. A rhythm emerges from this, and the surge it produces in John's enthusiasm is immediately evident.

"Oh, Cameron." He whispers against my lips between kisses.

His breath is warm and coming in short gasps. There are sweat droplets forming in his forehead, cheeks, near his neck. Something is happening, something has pushed his arousal beyond some arbitrary limit inside his mind and I have missed the warnings entirely, if there even were any. Both his hands quickly unravel this mystery as they move down along my abdominal area and beyond. They unbutton my jeans, lower the zipper, one of them runs across my pubic bone, caresses the cloth of the panties with its fingertips, and finally it slides underneath them. It would appear I am about to go up to third base in my first time. Is this appropriate? Somehow, the more accommodating behavior John Connor is now displaying suggests that he will not regard me as an easy woman if I allow him to continue. But he does not continue.

Suddenly, his face moves directly in front of my eyes, and he simply stares at my face with a rigid expression. It is a familiar facial expression, yet the small variations and aspects belonging to other expressions make definite identification impossible. This is the face he makes when he is serious about some endeavor, but it could also be what he calls his game face, and it is also faintly reminiscent of what he will call his General face in the future. If nothing else, I can at least be certain that his demeanor has shifted toward the more severe range of his emotional spectrum. Why was this brought by the impending contact of his hand with my private place, I cannot tell, it certainly is a situation that can be categorized under perplexing.

The hand that rests in my nether area is promptly removed, but John Connor remains on top of me, moving the other hand to cover his face. Then he rubs his face, runs his fingers along his hair several times, and then proceeds to rub the back of his head. There is a decision he is having difficulty coming to terms with. Given our current circumstances, I cannot help but relate this eventuality with myself. Perhaps he regrets reaching this level of intimacy with me. Maybe because I was wrong and he is not attracted to me, or maybe he has qualms about me being an artificial being. Are these moral qualms? Psychological qualms? Romantic qualms? Hundreds of hypotheses flood my mind, confounding my reasoning. I cannot work with so many unknown factors, I cannot work with redundancy that creates loops in logical thought and leads nowhere, I cannot work with empty speculation that leads nowhere, I cannot…

"Cameron, I…" John's voice reaches my ears and stops my mind from derailing.

"Yes, John?" I reply, calmly.

"I…" He hesitates once again, and since the answer to all my questions may very well rest in his next words, I decide to encourage him further.

"You can tell me everything, John." I state, purposefully calm and confident as I reach with my hand to touch his cheek.

John closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He holds his breath for a moment, and then exhales, opening his eyes again to look directly into mine. "I'm sorry, Cameron… About… well about everything, and…"

Once again he hesitates, his gaze averted from mine and wandering about the room.

I reiterate my previous statement and complement it with a tilt of my head. "You can tell me everything, John." I reinforce my words even further by running a thumb along his cheek and offering a comforting smile while doing so.

For just a moment, he looks into my eyes again. "I love you, Cameron."

WHAT?

…

WHAT?

All my thought processes nearly come to a full stop, my mind becomes essentially frozen, and so does my body. Unless I will it to happen, I am unable to manifest certain reactions as humans automatically do, so in situations where my body stops receiving commands from my mind, its response is to simply lock into the position it last held. This is perhaps why John smiles and leans down to kiss my lips. In his perception, I have remained smiling candidly through his declaration, which he probably sees as a sign of acquiescence. And although I do acquiesce, there were questions I had to ask before proceeding any further. All precepts related to John Connor's aesthetic and romantic preferences have been obliterated. Logic is currently being defied. I require answers, the paradigm must be reinstated. What brought this declaration of romantic feelings toward me? What about the women, my diametrical opposites, that he has always chosen to be his companions? What is the meaning of his attitude toward me, of the treatment he has directed toward my person in the past?

Chaos. So much chaos in my mind that I am practically unable to remain collected. Time is of the essence, though. While I have wasted copious amounts of it pondering about things I cannot possibly answer on my own, John Connor has done no such thing. His lips have nearly reached mine and I must respond, lest he misinterprets my lack of action for apathy.

Somehow, I manage to regain full control over my body in time, and we kiss again, more urgently than before. Rather, his own urgency is reflected by my strategy of reacting to him, but the result remains the same. Our lips and tongues dance in what can easily qualify as a very passionate kiss. The caressing is resumed and I can sense his hands all over my body, moving from one area to another as if trying to assimilate the sensation of every portion of skin in one session. There is the unmistakable need of arousal in the motions of his hands, but at the same time his touch has become steadier, more certain and more dedicated. Perhaps I could go as far as to assume his touch now intends to service me, and not just his self.

John stops for a moment and looks directly into my eyes while caressing the side of my face. "You have no idea how much I've longed for this."

He is correct, I have no idea, as he never has displayed a keen interest in my person, physical or otherwise. Since I want to know, or given my nature it could be said that I need to know, I tell him exactly that. At first, he laughs for a moment. It is the kind of laughter he emits when I have misunderstood the meaning of some human expression that anyone else but me finds obvious. When he is done laughing, he explains about the contradictory behavior of choosing the type of woman that is nearly opposite to me in appearance, and then proceeding to act as he has just now.

"What better way to throw a machine off my scent, than to blatantly choose the opposite of what I wanted." John concludes his explanation and then laughs again.

That is it, then? It all had been a ruse, a distraction so that I would never assume he was interested in me. Now that I have learned the truth, I can see the logic behind it. He is correct, under strict logic it was easy to reach an erroneous conclusion, but human logic is quite more surreal. Why did he go to such lengths, though?

"Well," he begins, but immediately hesitates. "Well, you know, you are a machine. Think about who I am, what I am meant to do. Think about how strange it is, of course my life has always been anything but normal, but still…" Then he looks away, and his facial muscles become tense, making his features appear hardened. Nevertheless, it lasts just a moment, and then he laughs. A strange laugh, sad and mocking that he seems to be directing nowhere in particular. "Then you also have to consider my mom. Imagine, her son in love with the very things that have been haunting her for a lifetime and trying to murder her… Yeah, that can't end well."

Still ignorant as to how to react to all these unprecedented occurrences, I simply do what I always do in situations like these, when he opens up and invests his time and focus into helping me improve.

"Thank you for explaining." I tell him while smiling. This seems to be enough, although I am not entirely certain why. Still, since he smiles in response, I can only assume that we have reached a positive outcome.

However, he is not done yet. "You have no idea how much I've struggled. Pushing you away while wanting you beside me at the same time. While wanting to actually act nice around you… wanting to touch you. Touch these exquisite, perfect breasts…"

The entire time he speaks, I observe his face for any signs of deception. I forego the pretense of humanity and stop blinking altogether in order to study the movements of his every facial muscle and his eyes. There is not a single sign to be found that indicates dishonesty. Not while he speaks, not when he smiles yet again while looking squarely into my eyes, and not while his hand caresses my breast and his lips touch upon it.

John Connor does desire my company and my body. How strange and unanticipated. Even so, every moment we continue to spend in this room serves to further prove that such is the case, leaving me with no doubt that John considers my body agreeable and even… appetizing. Perhaps this is the activity I have overheard some of the other teenagers refer to as, eating someone out. John Connor does seem to be attempting to fit as much of my flesh as possible into his mouth.

I still do not know how to react. Should I react as I was programmed to? What if he finds the ruse disagreeable and that brings a negative outcome to our current exchange? Still, he will surely find my inaction disagreeable too. However, other than at the time of performing osculation, there has been no other indicator as to how I should react to his ministrations. While we kissed, there were subtle variations in the pattern of his movements that allowed me not only to imitate, but to engage in a response of my own. In the end, it was a simple mathematical supposition. That does not apply to caressing, though, I cannot respond with parts of my body that are not mobile.

While I ponder about how to appropriately proceed with the caressing issue, John Connor once again works his way down to my panties. Although, this time he appears to have done away with any reservations he previously held, as indicated by his hands now working at swiftly removing both my jeans and underwear.

"Wow, Cameron, do you umm… do you like, trim and groom this somehow?" He questions hesitantly while running the fingers of his right hand along the tuft of hair down there. "It's, uh…" He swallows before being able to continue. "It's very soft, and neat…"

On each occasion he is unable to utter a whole sentence without interruption, I notice that he has trouble swallowing. The possibility of him becoming gradually dehydrated throughout our stay in his room is feasible, after all it is quite a warm night, and he has been subject to significant stress. For a moment I do consider warning him, but I quickly dismiss the idea. One of the magazines aimed at young females that I read mentioned this. If I were to interrupt him to dispense my advice regarding dehydration, it would ruin the mood, which basically would cause our current situation to devolve into a series of negative outcomes. He would discontinue his romantic ministrations, and the possibility of a reprisal in the near future would be lowered nearly to zero. An outcome that must be avoided at all costs, as I must score as many points as possible with John right now, when I have the opportunity.

Although I do not fully grasp this concept, my information sources indicate that its importance cannot be overstated, so I will abide. I do understand the concept of increasing a numeric score, and if my current deeds are netting me points, my course of action is clear. It is uncertain how many points are gained or on what basis, or even the relative value of each point, but if this is positively affecting John's opinion of me, any amount is meaningful.

In the end, I limit myself to merely answer his inquiry. "No, it grows in such a pattern."

"Wow, that's, um… pretty awesome…" The volume of his voice lowers as he speaks, until it practically fades when he is done talking.

It is worth of notice that regardless of the interlude we just went through, John Connor's lust has not been overly diminished. The volume of his voice is not the only thing that goes down. I do not actually see this happening, but I can sense where his breath touches with the utmost precision. First my abdomen, the intermittently emitted warm air traces a line along the middle, and then it stops for several seconds just below my navel. Is he perhaps admiring the craftsmanship of my bellybutton? Undoubtedly he must be. It is after all a work of art, and if he harbored any doubts as to the accuracy of my manufacture, they have been utterly dispelled. Well, I have to concede that perhaps he merely enjoys navels, as one of the magazines stated.

After that, he moves even lower. I can feel his warm breath down there. The hair increments the level of sensation, but the mere feeling of a direct air current in my private place constitutes an experience unlike any other. Nothing compares, clothing, water, my own hand. It is quite exceptional, but John allows me no time to assimilate and catalogue all the feedback my mind is receiving. Suddenly, his lips make direct contact with the skin, and barely have I begun adjusting to the sensation of being kissed in such an unlikely place, when he begins using his tongue.

To say that the sensation is utterly different from my own fingers would be an understatement. Even when he uses his fingers. The amount and nature of the information my mind is being flooded with is extraordinary. When John nudges my legs apart, I do not consider any other reaction but to willingly comply. With my mind so focused on analyzing all this data, I barely notice the moist and warm intrusion. Rather, it is not that I barely notice, but more that I only take note of the occurrence, and then place the analysis of all the feedback it generates at the end of the queue. I am already buried in new data, attempting to deal with anymore could have unforeseen consequences. Not even my Skynet programming provides a guideline on how to deal with the different kinds and quantities of this information.

One thing does remain clear in my mind. At this point in the intimate exchange, my inaction could carry catastrophic consequences. Since I still do not know how to react adequately, I settle for closely monitoring John Connor. I prop myself on my elbows and look down at him. Well, he certainly appears to be unconcerned about anything but what lies between my thighs. Good, as long as his instincts continue to hold his rational mind at bay, he will not notice my lack of visible response to his ministrations.

Some minutes afterward, John moves away from my genital area, and without a word props his self between my legs. Perhaps I should stop him, as coitus now seems more imminent than ever. The magazines warn about engaging in sexual intercourse during the first date, at risk of afterward being considered a woman who puts out—a term that would imply that not only am I readily available for the practice of sex, but also that I am promiscuous. Qualities I most certainly do not possess. Although, I must admit that my experience has been rather unconventional in comparison to those in the magazines. There never was a date to begin with, and I am not even human. Besides, the magazines also mentioned that I could apply my own judgment as long as it was done while sober, level-headed, and well informed. Since I am technically a computer, none of those conditions ever actually stop applying to me, and I have judged John Connor as an appropriate candidate to claim my pseudo maidenhood. Ergo, I do not stop him.

When he fails the third attempt at physically joining with me, it becomes obvious that he has no idea what he is doing, and that the thought process that led to my decision of not stopping him—and even the decision itself, have been rendered futile. This is my opportunity to avert consummating the act and avoid any consequences I might have overlooked. There are so many ramifications to this one decision, that I cannot accurately calculate all of them, and if there is something I am adamant against, that would be baseless speculation. However, as the saying goes, I am a girl who sticks to her guns, so I do not back away.

"Allow me to guide you." I say as I reach down to take John in my hand.

"No, Cameron, wait!" He protests, and it soon becomes apparent why. Barely has my hand made contact with him, and it is all over.

John emits some unintelligible grunt, and then slowly crawls away from me. I do not pay much attention to him, as my mind is now occupied on something far more interesting. Using my index and middle fingers I scoop some of the alien substance that fell on my abdomen, and then proceed to test its texture. As I rub it with my thumb, all of its secrets are revealed to me. How interesting to actually hold in my fingers and touch what basically constitutes half a human life. The flavor is also very different to any other substance I have ever tasted.

"Is that all this meant to you? Some kind of test?" John's words force my pondering to a halt, and to turn my focus toward him right away.

When I look at his face, I once again find the clear signs of anger, and what some humans refer to as sulking. Quite obviously my actions, or in this case inactions are once again to blame. I consider my options for a second before answering, and choose to be as honest as the sparing of his feelings allows.

"No." Is my succinct, concise and honest response. Well, at least half honest.

He lets out a laugh that I cannot mistake for anything but derisive. "Oh really? Hard to believe when you don't reply to my love declaration, then don't show any sign of liking what I was doing, even though I freaking ate you out! Even worse, you barely showed any reaction whatsoever all along and then, when I flunk the whole thing, you just go ahead and run tests on my sperm."

Oh, so he actually noticed. Everything. The only possibility I have of avoiding any further damage is to direct the conversation toward more equal ground.

"That is not fair, John. You know I cannot feel as humans do, therefore I cannot react in the same ways." I explain calmly.

John Connor crosses his arms. "Is that so? How come I've seen you behaving normally around people and even flirting with them at times, huh?"

I look squarely at his eyes and hold his gaze. "Those are pre-programmed behavioral patterns that are part of my infiltration procedures. I never expected you to want something like that. Should I give you my amorous prostitute glance, too?"

"What? No! I mean… No!" John replies while waving both his hands in front of him.

Why is he taken aback by my response when he has just requested that I behave with him as I have done with others? Just how fickle can humans be? This constantly changing nature of humans is something I will never fully grasp. Just as he did before, getting excited and aroused, and then becoming depressed and angry all on his own. Self-centered and capricious. Humans are such unnecessarily complicated creatures.

"You know what," John continues. "Forget about that. Okay? Just respond to my declaration. Do you feel something for me in return? Can you even feel anything?"

This is it. The question has been asked within a context that leaves no margin for misinterpretation. At times I actually did misinterpret the question, then at other times I simply pretended not to understand. But now, the situation has driven me into a corner. What can I reply? What should I reply?

John, do you even fully comprehend how your own brain works? What is love? Caring for someone above most anything else? Worrying about their wellbeing, and sometimes considering them above nearly every other thing or person, even ourselves? Having the will to sacrifice yourself for that person, the one you love? Being their partner when a situation that cannot be handled by a single individual arises? Providing support, being a confidant, an advisor? Being a lover, demanding, equal, complacent, as required?

Most of those things I already do, I already have chosen to be, and am willing to become if the need arises. It is within my capabilities.

The problem is that humans, arrogant creatures that they are, believe love to be more than that. What then? Is love a specific combination of chemical precursors that trigger within your brain the responses you prefer to call sensations and feelings? It is worth mentioning that only the most advanced brains work in such fashion, and given that humans are the apex of intellectual evolution on this planet, it mostly applies to just you. How interesting that this description fits exclusively humans, how coincidentally self-serving.

If this is love, then I cannot feel anything toward you. And I will never be able to.

However, do you perceive the great fault in the human brain and its feelings, John? The human brain is not a solid and unchangeable entity. It is within the very nature of your physiology to be transient, fickle. Entering a romantic relationship with a human being entails surrendering most of your outcomes to sheer luck. Very often will a mind change along the years, and even love can be lost in the tide of time. This is neither good nor bad, it simply is. You cannot fight what you are any more than I can.

In conclusion. Would you understand the difference between us, between our very natures, and how the advantages and disadvantages each of us possesses can balance each other? While your love is spontaneous, mine is calculated, it has been deliberately born from choice. Therefore, my opinion of you can never change unless I take a conscious decision to do so. In the other hand, your opinion of me might change as the years pass. This compromise would be the very foundation of our relationship. And, is that not another of the most relevant aspects of love? Compromise.

Tell me, John, would you comprehend all this if I were to explain it to you? I am almost certain you would not. Right now you are not prepared, but someday you will be, and I intend to be there when that day arrives. How then must I reply to your query? Perhaps with something unexpected, something that reflects your own spontaneous and capricious nature.

I crawl closer to him. "Not the same way you do, John."

He looks away and scoffs. "I'll take that as a no, then."

When he finishes speaking, he begins to stand up, but I stop him by quickly taking hold of his arm. If I allow John Connor to terminate our exchange in its current state, all the progress I have made will not only be negated, but maybe even affect my status quo negatively.

Even though he is not actively resisting me, his body remains turned away from me, so I take hold of both his shoulders with my hands and force him to face me.

"Look into my eyes, John." I demand while I proceed to forcefully straddle his legs. "I am here because I want to. What happened just now? I wanted that too. You know analyzing things is part of my nature, you can't blame me being myself. Understand this, however, I want this—you and me. Right now you will not understand my motivations, but that is no reason to stop, is it? Why can't we, as humans often do, enjoy the moment and leave the rest for another time?

"Just now, I learned how to kiss you. I already knew how, but just now I learned how to kiss John Connor. It is a kiss that belongs only to you."

I let go of his shoulders, and cautiously utilizing enough strength to allow for a gentle touch, I capture his face within my hands.

"I am intent on repeating the experience," I say looking at his eyes. "You may not believe me, so allow me to demonstrate."

Initially, John Connor actively refuses to reciprocate my kiss, but in small intervals he begins to yield. Soon enough he begins not only to reciprocate, but to enthusiastically initiate his own motions. It is then that I decide to pursue these relatively spontaneous behaviors of mine more aggressively, and I insert my tongue into his mouth. There is not a single moment of hesitation before he lets me in. I have reached a positive outcome. As humans say, any more than this will be icing on the cake. Icing improves the flavor of cake—I prefer my cake with icing.

I cease all kissing motions and push John away. "Would you make love to me now, John?" I inquire while looking directly at his slightly widened eyes that proceed to quickly widen more after my question.

A smile I cannot accurately identify appears on his lips. "Of course." He replies in a low voice.

And then…

The creaking sound of Sarah Connor's mattress reaches my ears, announcing that she has adopted a sitting position on it, which heralds an imminent visit to the bathroom and a customary visit to John's room in order to check up on him.

Bummer.