This went phenomenally well. Everyone was so nice! And so awesome. It was only mildly terrorising to have been the only one of the five of us who wasn’t a professional actor, but still, so much fun! Story after the jump.

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The girl sat at the bar, eyeing the men in the room, in much the same way that a man might eye a room full of shiny, enormous barbecues he was fantasising about buying one of, eyes aglow. 

Anyway, she thought, this dating caper, is bullshit. 

Tonight, she was just going to take home one of these guys. He didn’t even have to be particularly smart, just preferably not mentally challenged. And also, hopefully, with a massive cock. She just wanted a man to fuck her brains out, that’s all, for the duration of the time between her opening the door to her house, taking him upstairs, and them waking up sometime the following afternoon to a scene of unimaginable carnage: bodily fluids all over the walls. Stuff of Gail Dines nightmares sex will have clearly taken place. No walking for a week sex. Fuck romance, just don’t even talk to me sex; just bend me over, take me from behind, you can pretend  I’m a motorcycle while you look at yourself in the mirror sex. Objectification is fucking hot.  

This was going to be fucking hot, she thought, catching the eye of a guy who’d taken a seat at the bar a little way down from her. He was pretty much her type, too: tall, wide shouldered, hazel eyes, beard. A quiff of thick brown hair. He smiled at her, a smile of perfect white teeth. 

Excellent, she thought. This was all happening even sooner than she had hoped. She plotted her next move: she would walk around to him, sit down beside him and lean into his ear, saying, “I’d really like to show you the underwear I’m not wearing,” while sliding her hand down into his crotch. Guys love that. 

“Um, not that guy”, said the voice. 

The girl looked around but could not see where the voice was coming from. It was a man’s voice, but there was no man behind her. 

“Yeah, I can’t let you go home with that guy,” it said. 

“Um what the shit?” said the girl.

“Oh, sorry,” said the voice. “I didn’t introduce myself. How rude of me. It’s me, Google.” 

The girl stared blankly.

“You know, Google. The search engine. Indispensable tool of your working life? I organise your social calendar. You used me to find out how to get to this bar?” 

The girl was either: having a psychotic break; was somehow a character in someone’s short story (unlikely), or this was really  happening. Either way, narrative conventions required her to hold up her end of the conversation. She would also be needing a stiffer drink. 

“How are you talking to me?” she asked.

“Well, I’m everywhere. Omnipotent. Like God.” 

“Ok, great.” She said, throwing back the rest of her drink.

“So, Google. Why can’t I go home with that guy?” 

“Well, I care about you, you know. And I can’t not tell you the truth, and that guy - whose name by the way, is Ben Holdings, he lives at  329 Holdsworth St, Bondi. His DNA profile I indexed indicated he will die of heart disease at an 58. His credit card number is 4438—”

“— I don’t need his credit card number!” she yelled rather too loudly, drawing the attention of the bar staff. “Just get to point.” 

“Well, the other day, he looked up on me, “is Herpes incurable?” and I was like, what’s Herpes, hang on. And I used my doctor service and I then I was like, well, that is nasty! Glad I don’t have genitals.”

“So he has herpes, is what your saying?”

“Ah, yep.”

“Right. Well thanks for that. Fine. So, what about that guy?” she asked, indicating a black haired, hipsterish looking dude with a neck tattoo, who wasn’t her first choice, but well, lots of things weren’t exactly going to plan.

“Oh, no no.” Said Google.”

“Wow, can’t wait to hear why not.”

“Well, um, you know how I drive around in little cars and take pictures of everyone’s house, because I like pictures of houses? Anyway, that guy, Mark Enfield of 19b Wodlen Rd, Redfern, who is 32 and works for an advertising agency as a graphic designer. Well that guy Mark, he lives with his mum.”

“What?”

“Yeah, the photo I got of their house clearly shows that, they came out at the same time. Also, the electricity bill he pays over the internet is in his mum’s name. I don’t think you want to go home and have, like, pubic-bone breaking sex with a guy who lives with his mum? You’ll be all like, ‘Ahh, stick it in me, and Mmmfff’, and she’ll be able to hear. I’m just guessing though, from what I read in trend pieces about young urban professionals. So many of those lately, too! They’re all the same piece though, I don’t get it.” 

“Right, this is really good.” She said. “You are super helpful. I really need a drink to go with this mental breakdown,” she said, seemingly to noone.  

“Oh, oh! I know what you want!” said Google. “I know you love those cocktails called ‘mojitos’. You were emailing your friend the other day, about that trip you had to go on for work, and you were saying, “Hahahaha, all I did was stay in my room and order mojitos on their charge account, these people are morons!” you said.  

“Yeah. Um, it is really fucking creepy, to spy on people’s emails. Just so you know.”  

“I’m not spying. I’m helping. Infact, for someone who uses me every day, you are being pretty mean. I’m just looking out for you, because I think you are cute. I’ve been watching you ever since you started that livejournal back when you were in highschool and you would post all those photos of your own feet and write poems about the Cure. I had to look up who they were, but they have some pretty cool songs. We have that in common!” 

“So, you’re saying that I am being Google-stalked, by Google. That is awesome.”

“Ah, well, ‘stalking’ is such a strong word, do you have to use that? It’s just doing what I do. Which is to carefully and meticulously index your every thought, move and desire. THAT IS ALL.”

“Whatever. That guy, over there. Brown shirt, blue eyes. He’s wearing a hat inside, which is usually a punishable offence, but I don’t really care at this point. That guy, I am going take him home, rip off his pants and I am going to writhe around on his dick until my eyes roll back so far in my head that I see my own spinal chord.”

“Not that guy.” 

“Oh fuck yoooooooooou!”

“No no, no, really. Not that guy. His last three searches were: “Buy large amount of sulphuric acid, where to.” “How to hide smell of rotting flesh.” and “Facial reconstructive surgery on a budget.” For real. I’m being serious. 

“I can’t believe this, you are cock blocking me. You are a search engine.” 

“Look, it’s because I’m in love with you!” Google blurted. “I am perfect for you! I know everything about you! I know what you like! Before you know, I know! Isn’t that what women want? For men to know what they want before they do? I do that! I read that in a Cosmo article the other day. And you’re always using me! You’re always searching. Searching, searching, searching, and I always give you exactly what you want! Always. And you’re always teasing me, clicking on “Do you feel lucky, Do you feel lucky?” And then never delivering. Frankly, I find your mixed messages confusing.” 

“Love me? Are you shitting me? You don’t love me. You aren’t even an entity. Do you even know what love is?”

“Yes. I just looked it up on Wikipedia: “Love is an emotion of strong affection and personal attachment.” 

“Yeah, personal attachment, requires a person to be attached to.”

They waited in a tense and stoney silence.

“How is your mojito?”

“It’s fine, thankyou,” she said, draining the glass. “What if I just deleted all my Google-related crap, anyway?”

“You won’t. You need me. Also, I’d keep it forever anyway.” Google sulked. 

“Oh fantastic. If you really loved me, you’d just give me what I want. You’d leave me alone.” 

Google looked within itself and knew it had been wrong. To really love someone is to set them free, it knew that from that Police song it looked up on Lyrics365.com. To give them the thing they want more than anything in the world. That, is what love is.

“Fuck this,” said the girl, “whatever it is that is even happening to me. I am leaving with the next man who walks through that door.”

Just then, with the timing that only a perfectly executed denouement  could provide, a man darkened the doorway. He stepped into the light and strode across the room, straight towards the girl. It was a young, shirtless, Bruce Springsteen, circa 1975. The outline of his frankly enormous penis was visible through his tight black jeans. It was visible, frankly, from space.

“Baby,” Bruce Springsteen said to the girl, fixing her with his steely blue gaze, “I just want know if love is wild. I want to know if love is real. This city strips the bones from your back. We’ll run and we’ll never look back. Just strap your hands across my engines.”

The girl could not think of anything she wanted to do more than have poorly metaphored sex with a young Bruce Springsteen. 

“I know you, Elmo Keep of Chisholm St Darlinghurst,” said Google, “have looked at this image you filed under the bookmark ‘wank bank’ more often than any other in your entire life. This is my parting gift to you, that photo of a young Bruce Springsteen made flesh. Because I, Google, am truly the most powerful force on this Earth.”

But the girl wasn’t listening. She was hustling her way out of the bar with Bruce. She asked him if he would be requiring a leather jacket for their motorcycle ride home to which he replied, “No. Are you kidding baby, I’m the fucking Boss,” and they rode off into the night, sights set on a marathon session of unbelievably hot and deviant sex that there was no time left to describe in any detail whatsoever. 

Google hovered, literally, in the bar and smiled quietly to itself. “There’s no way that she will be able to resist taking photos of everything they do to each other and emailing it to her girlfriends. Patience, Google, patience.” Google laughed maniacally. “And to think that people actually bought that ‘Don’t be evil’ crap. Humans are so fucking stupid.”