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“Another day, another dollar,” Spamton G. Spamton sighs wearily, letting the door to his apartment slam shut behind him. He blindly feels for the light switch while toeing off his shoes, then tosses his suit jacket towards the unstable coat rack in the corner, where it falls to the ground in a heap. “I really wish they’d pay me more. A single dollar doesn’t go as far as it used to, nowadays.”
He trundles to the fridge and grabs a can of LEDwiser, cracking the top and greedily slurping up the foam as it bubbles out of the opening. He would need to eat dinner at some point... but that was a later problem. For now, he brings his liquid gold to the couch, his tired grimace morphing into the beginnings of a smile as he picks up the remote control. His television, a 20-inch Tennasonic CRT, blinks to life with a hum and a crackle of static.
Spamton feels something in himself unclench. He’s home for the weekend, with a fresh beer in hand and his TV to keep him company. It didn’t matter that tonight would be the same as every other night, and that the weekend would be the same as every other weekend. He’s alone, and he likes it that way. Prefers it that way.
He grits his teeth as his last relationship bubbles to the surface of his mind, unbidden: an ill-advised fling between himself and a coworker. The sex had been decent, while it lasted, but he couldn’t think of another nice thing to say about the guy. And then he was gone, onward and upward, climbing the corporate ladder and landing something stable and salaried while Spamton was left exactly where he was — exactly where he would always be.
It had never ended well for him, and likely never would. But an inanimate object would never let him down. His most cherished mug, bearing the logo of his favorite diner around the corner, the site of many hungover breakfasts and late dinners after long hours of overtime. A comfortable quilt, handmade by a relative, threadbare in patches and carefully, inexpertly mended. And his television, a portal to other worlds, better worlds. Places where he could forget the dull reality of his own life, if only for a few hours.
The night was his. It was time to relax and enjoy.
The evening news blares out of the speakers, and Spamton quickly changes to another channel, averting his eyes. No time for that. Too much going on nowadays. Keeping up with the news is a full time job on its own, and one he doesn’t have time for. His current gig in sales keeps him plenty busy, and a side hustle running a one man auto shop sucks up what little time is left.
No, he wants to watch something different. Something fun.
He flips through the options before landing on an old sitcom. The laugh track fills the room, and Spamton slips a few shirt buttons loose and settles in.
Three beers later, he’s howling along with a late night talk show, all his earlier woes forgotten. An empty container of noodles, chopsticks still inside, lies on the coffee table in front of him. There really is nothing TV and takeout can’t fix.
The show cuts to a commercial break, and Spamton’s gaze turns soft. He absentmindedly strokes the remote, each rubber button catching on the pad of his thumb. The raised braille on the numbers sends tiny jolts through him. He traces the space between each bump with his nail, lower lip in his mouth, his breath coming heavy and slow. His pants grow tighter by the second.
He thinks of something else TV could help with.
With a grunt, Spamton eases himself down to the ground and reaches under the couch towards an unassuming cardboard box. Removing the lid reveals rows of VHS tapes, all with handwritten labels like Twinkmageddon III, Business Loving Businessmen, Friday the 69th, Big, Hard and Fast, All I Want for Christmas (Is a Dick in a Box), and Space Raptor Butt Redemption (a well-worn favorite).
Spamton picks one at random and shuffles around the coffee table to kneel in front of the television. His thumb drifts longingly over the empty slot, teasingly pushing in and out to make the flap dance. The TV’s static seems to pulse in time, rhythmic. He eases the tape into the player, a warm shiver cascading down his spine as it seats itself with a thunk and a grind, then he crawls back to the couch and hits play.
It’s a fairly uninspiring gay porn, one he’s seen countless times. Two men are going at it: one broad and hairy and tattooed, the other waifish and pale and uncannily flexible. They kiss, frotting against each other, their gasps mingling in the stale air of the bedroom set. The lighting is flat and the close-ups are too tight. Spamton knows it all by heart.
He unzips his pants and pulls himself out of his boxers as soft music and loud moans wash over him. His dark eyes watch the screen like a hawk, but his mind drifts in a different direction, thinking about how he would direct his own scene. Some big hands on him, to start, and soft, kissable lips, and something hot and wet against his bare thigh. Those same hands would move down his back in a gentle caress before their touch would turn harder, needier. They’d grab him and grope until he moans, then his hand would be snatched and guided between a pair of quivering thighs...
His free hand drifts back to the remote, and a fresh kind of pleasure sparks in his gut.
Spamton fingers it like he would a lover, mixing his pace and depth, swirling in abstract patterns before ramming hard in one spot over and over. His breath comes faster. His cock strains for more, leaking at the tip and twitching in his grasp.
And then the actors are moving: not just on the screen, but in his own physical space. The screen floats up, and up, and up, and Spamton’s head tilts to follow it, in utter disbelief.
In the darkness, he struggles to make much out. Then the scene changes. His dingy living room becomes bathed in white light.
His television stands above him.
The massive box is mounted on a pair of broad shoulders, which are clothed in a well-tailored red suit jacket, and hunched over to keep from bumping into the ceiling. Spamton’s gaze follows strong arms down to a small waist, accented with a gleaming metal buckle, and further down long legs that end in a pair of bright yellow oxford shoes. A humanoid figure, to be certain, but far, far taller than any human he had ever seen.
The television shifts.
Spamton screams and leaps behind the couch, praying that this is a drunken hallucination.
“Hello?” A voice booms from the speakers — masculine, tenor, and very loud. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you!”
This doesn’t make Spamton any less startled. But he does peek out over the top of the couch, his curiosity getting the better of him. The handsome sentient television (Wait, handsome? his mind supplies) has its hands up in surrender. It appears to be making itself as small and non-threatening as possible... which only goes so far, when you’re as tall as the room, and when you have a TV for a head.
The repetitive slap of skin on skin echoes around the space. Spamton dives for the remote at the same time that the handsome sentient television reaches for the stop button. The tape ejects itself, and large hands place it delicately on the coffee table. The explicit sucking and fucking gets replaced with a friendly smile and a large pointed nose.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” the handsome sentient television starts again. “I didn’t mean to barge in on such an 
moment.”
Spamton’s eyes bulge out of his head at the pink cursive writing that appears in front of his eyes, then disappears just as quickly. Belatedly, he realizes his cock is still hanging out of his pants. He tucks himself back in sheepishly, glad for the cover of the couch.
“‘S alright. Could have happened to anyone, right?”
“Well, not exactly,” the handsome sentient television laughs nervously. “I’m here because your desires stretched across the Wickedverse and brought me to life.”
“The wicked... you lost me.”
“We’re still workshopping the name,” says the handsome sentient television, wringing his gloved hands. “It’s kind of generic, especially for erotica, and the author doesn’t use this username anywhere else, but that’s not the point.”
“The author? Username...?” Spamton’s head was spinning.
“Okay: too meta, too fast. Here, come on, sit down.” The handsome sentient television gestures to the couch and smiles reassuringly. Spamton nods and comes out from his hiding place, settling on the center cushion uneasily. “Let’s start from the top. Hi, I’m Mr. Ant Tenna. But you can call me Tenna. That’s a lot shorter than ‘handsome sentient television.’ And you’re Spamton, of course.”
Spamton’s mouth hangs open. “How do you know my name?”
The handsome sen— Tenna’s brow furrows. “I’m your television. Of course I know your name.”
“Of course,” Spamton parrots dumbly. “I’m Spamton. Spamton G. Spamton, the name so nice I use it twice!” The line has been practiced a thousand times, but falls flat in the moment. His patented salesman grin is more than a little lopsided. “Seriously, what are you doing in my house.”
“I’m here to give you a night you’ll never forget,” Tenna purrs.
“Pretty sure you can already check that off the list.”
“What I mean is, I’m here to satisfy you. Sexually. That’s what you want most right now, and those desires brought me to life.”
Spamton sighs and presses his palms together. So much for a quiet night of watching TV and jerking himself to sleep. “Tenna, right? Let me get this straight. The universe is taking pity on my sad ass and sending me... my own television. To help get me get off. Am I getting that right?”
“Your ass is far from sad, and I would know,” Tenna quips, “but yes, in essence.”
“Great,” says Spamton, deadpan. “And how exactly are you supposed to help with that?”
“By pounding you in the butt,” Tenna says with a giggle.
“Whoa now,” Spamton yells, backpedaling. “I don’t bottom on first dates, and— this isn’t a date, what am I saying! I have to be hallucinating. There’s something in this beer, or I’ve had too many beers, or—”
Suddenly, he finds a warm hand on his cheek. It stuns him into silence, and Tenna takes that as clearance to add his other hand, cupping Spamton’s face more gently than any partner he’s ever had.
“Spamton. I’m here for you, and only you. I want you to 
” Tenna rounds the coffee table and kneels in front of him, all soft smiles. “I’ve wanted to take care of you for so long — to be able to do something for you, to help you. This is a golden opportunity for both of us.”
“But you already do so much for me—!!” Spamton blurts, surprising himself. “You’re always there, no matter what kind of day I’ve had. No matter what kind of person I am...” He trails off, letting his eyes slip shut. The weight of what he’s about to say makes his words come out quietly. “It’s more than I can say for anyone else in my shitty life.”
He feels the couch dip next to him, and then Tenna pulls him into a sidelong hug. “It’s okay to want more,” Tenna soothes. “It is. The universe hasn’t been very kind to you, and your life has been shitty, in a lot of ways.” (“Thanks,” Spamton mutters under his breath.) “But it’s okay to want more than what you have. You should want more. It’s your life, and you deserve to live it on your terms, with all the things and people that make you happy.”
“Okay, I get it, wanting stuff is okay,” Spamton grumbles, his words muffled in Tenna’s chest. “But wanting doesn’t mean having. I can want all I want, and it’s not gonna get me anywhere.” He sighs hard and swallows a lump in his throat. “I think things are just... destined to not work out for me that way.”
“You don’t know that,” Tenna says patiently. He takes one of Spamton’s hands in his own, rubbing his knuckles tenderly. “Just because that’s how it’s been so far doesn’t mean that’s how it will always be. There’s more 
in the universe than anything else, it’s just a matter of seeking it out. You brought me to life with the power of your own love, for crying out loud! Now let me give some of that back to you. Okay?”
Spamton feels his face heating up the more Tenna talks, but as much as he wants to deny the words, he can’t make himself do it. He does want love. But it’s hard to admit, and it makes him feel ashamed, inadequate. Does he deserve it, as he is now? His eyes sting as he contemplates the question.
“You deserve love, Spamton,” Tenna says emphatically. “From others, and from yourself.”
“Stop reading my mind,” Spamton groans.
“Then accept it! 
that you deserve love, and let me give it to you.” Spamton finds his chin pinched between Tenna’s fingers and is forced to meet his gaze (or, technically, lack thereof). “I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
And just like that, Spamton’s defenses crumble.
“Okay,” he croaks.
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, warm, soft lips cover his own. Tenna swallows Spamton’s weak moan and meets it with one of his own. He tastes like hot plastic and ozone, static snapping on Spamton’s tongue like popping candy.
Those large fingers deftly undo the rest of his shirt buttons and skirt admiringly over his torso. Spamton smothers a laugh — he’s always been ticklish — but as Tenna rolls his nipples, he shivers at the touch.
Spamton feels his pants grow tight again alarmingly fast. He closes the remaining distance and presses himself against Tenna, shamelessly rutting against him. With a thrill, he realizes Tenna is hard, too.
“Let’s see what my handsome sentient television is packing,” Spamton murmurs. He fumbles with Tenna’s belt buckle (shaped like his head, a bold fashion choice) until it falls open, then quickly unzips his pants and shoves them down his thighs.
When he pulls back to get a better look, he gasps in surprise. Tenna doesn’t just have a cock, but a pussy as well, his folds puffy with arousal.
Spamton whistles low, stroking Tenna appreciatively and earning a low whine. “You have both? I didn’t see that anywhere in your manual...”
“I’m a handsome sentient television, Spamton. I’m not bound to societal expectations of what genitals should look like.”
“That so?” Spamton can’t help but stare at the pretty cunt before his eyes, damp with slick and glinting in the low light of the apartment.
“You can fuck me another time, big shot,” Tenna winks. “That’s my preference, anyway.” He says it distinctly to a space past Spamton’s head, like he’s addressing someone behind him.
Spamton hums. “And who’s to say fucking you isn’t what I want, too?”
Tenna looks at him plaintively, as much as was possible without a set of eyes. “Spamton, we established this. Were you not paying attention several paragraphs ago? 
is about you. I’m here to leave you satisfied and certain that you deserve to be taken care of. And the only way I’m going to get that through your thick head is by fucking you up the ass.”
Spamton’s mouth puckers tighter than his asshole. “You know, Tenna, as nice as that sounds, I’ve known you for all of fifteen minutes. How do you really know that’s what I want?”
Tenna scoffs, affronted. “We’ve known each other much longer than that! We go 
, you and I. You’re telling me you don’t remember bringing me home the afternoon of June 4, 1996? Taking me out of the box, carefully removing the styrofoam cradling my body, lovingly affixing my antennas, plugging in all those cords to the back of my head...?”
“That... is incredibly specific.”
“You gave me 
, Spamton! I could never forget such a gift, so I’ve been watching over you ever since. I see 
that goes on in your apartment: everything you say, everything you do, everything you watch.”
Spamton’s face turns the same red as Tenna’s suit jacket.
“That’s how I know,” Tenna concludes. “Do you believe me now?”
“I can’t believe you’ve been watching me the whole time,” Spamton pouts.
“You’ve been watching me, too,” Tenna points out.
“That’s— argh! Fine. If I say I believe you, can we keep going?”
“Yes,” Tenna says, pressing a kiss to the side of Spamton’s neck.
Spamton’s hands wander until he gets to Tenna’s length. For a handsome sentient television, it’s proportional — even on the short side. But to Spamton, it’s massive, easily larger than the biggest dildo in his collection.
His mouth waters. He wants to taste.
And so, following Tenna’s advice to go for what he wants, he decides to do just that.
He pushes Tenna back on the couch and situates himself between his legs. The ozone smell is even stronger down here, with a heady note of musk. Spamton licks a long stripe down his length, dipping low to slide between his folds and taste there, before taking the head of Tenna’s cock in his mouth. It stretches his lips wide, and he feels like a Grade A whore, but then Tenna moans so loudly he has to slap a hand over his mouth, and Spamton is reminded of why he likes giving head so much.
Tenna tries to keep himself still, but in no time, Spamton has him bucking and writhing beneath him. Quiet praise and half-bleeped curses fall freely from his lips; the censors aren’t quick enough to catch them. Spamton relaxes to take Tenna deeper, moaning as the head of his cock hits the back of his throat, then swallows around him, breathing through his nose as he lets himself adjust to the fullness.
If this is how it feels in his mouth, how would it feel up his ass?
Suffused with a sudden desperation to be filled, Spamton pulls off, gasping for air and rubbing Tenna’s dick with short strokes to distribute the spit and precum. Tenna’s not doing much better, his fists balled in the couch cushions; Spamton thinks he sees a flash of sharp claws, but they’re gone before he can get a better look. Then, Spamton is pulled onto Tenna’s lap. His thick member rubs against the cleft of Spamton’s ass, a teaser trailer for what he’s about to experience.
“You ready for me, 
?”
“Tenna, is that thing gonna fit...?”
“Yes.” Sharp canines scrape against Spamton’s neck, and a broad tongue flicks his earlobe.
“You’re not gonna prep me, or...”
“Don’t need to. 
. Don’t question it.”
“Even though the author is yelling at us from behind the screen?”
“Yes, even then,” says Tenna.
Spamton squints. “I think he’s brandishing a bottle of lube and pointing, quite emphatically.”
“Just leave him be. He’ll tire himself out eventually.”
Spamton shrugs, unable to resist the siren call of good dick any longer. He lifts himself up and rubs the tip against his hole. It’s slick enough to press inside him without any resistance.
“God damn, that feels good,” Spamton grunts.
“Just wait ‘til it’s all in,” Tenna rumbles. “Your mind is gonna be blown.”
Spamton sinks down further, gasping for air as he’s stretched beyond anything he’s taken before. It’s awkward, and more than a little tense, but surprisingly painless. Deciding not to pry apart the minutiae of handsome sentient television cock, he drops himself the rest of the way down until Tenna is fully seated inside him. He clenches around the full length and sighs shakily, willing his body to relax and accept it.
“Mind blown yet?” Tenna whispers, rubbing circles into Spamton’s lower back. “You took that so well.”
“Shut up and fuck me already,” Spamton snarls.
The attitude is summarily knocked out of him as Tenna slides out, then slams back in with a powerful thrust. Spamton throws his head back and gives himself over to the feeling.
Tenna is a considerate lover, grabbing his backside and lifting him up and down so Spamton doesn’t have to do all the work himself. (That, or he’s an ass man, Spamton thinks, as Tenna squeezes him. Noted.) His cock goes deep enough to make Spamton see stars. Spamton’s own cock is trapped between them, smacking against Tenna’s soft silicone stomach. He’s so hard it hurts.
“Fuck, Tenna, it’s been so long. I needed this... I didn’t even know I needed this until you showed up.”
Tenna giggles, high and breathy. “I told—”
Spamton shuts Tenna up with a finger to his lips. “Don’t say I told you so, boob tube. Just let me have this.”
Tenna kisses the pad of Spamton’s finger and sucks it into his mouth, tongue swirling around it and flicking at the tip. His thrusts turn faster, deeper, and he gyrates his hips every time he bottoms out. It’s all Spamton can do to hold on for the ride. He loops his arms around Tenna’s neck and moans without shame into his surprisingly soft chest.
All too soon, he can feel the crest of his orgasm approaching. A powerful ache churns in his gut, and his muscles start to tense in pleasure.
“I’m not gonna last much longer, silver screen.” Dimly, Spamton becomes aware that he’s trembling.
“Neither am I,” Tenna admits. Smoke leaks from the vents on the side of his head. Spamton squints; the clouds form into hearts before dissipating into the air.
“Then make it count,” Spamton smirks and reaches around to slap Tenna’s magnificent ass. “Fuck me like your life depends on it.”
Tenna matches Spamton’s grin with one of his own, smiling wide enough to show the points of his large canines. “You asked for it.”
Spamton is yanked off Tenna’s dick and thrown to the couch. His back hits the cushions hard, and Tenna holds his legs in the air as he repositions him like a doll before pistoning into him, gritting his teeth to stave off his own climax. Every thrust hits Spamton’s prostate, and he howls, doubling over in ecstasy.
“Harder! Harder, cathode, I can take it...!” he shouts.
“Fuck! Oh my god, Spamton, you feel so good,” Tenna moans, throwing his head back. “Just like that, baby. Gonna fill you up...”
Spamton wraps a hand around his own neglected cock with a shaky whine. With just a few pumps, he tips over the edge, screaming Tenna’s name as he quakes, cum shooting across his stomach in thick ropes and tears leaking from the corners of his eyes — a good, hard orgasm. Tenna curses and follows him over, filling Spamton’s ass with his spend until it starts to leak around his rim and drip down his thighs.
With an exhausted sigh, Tenna pulls out, then tugs Spamton into his arms and eases them both down to the couch.
It takes several minutes before either of them can speak.
“Holy... shit,” Spamton whispers.
“Yeah,” Tenna says blissfully. Spamton thinks if Tenna had eyes, they would look just as dopey as his wobbly smile.
“Nothing to add? Where’d all those words of yours go, hmm?”
“A good director knows when to let the moment breathe.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles out of Spamton’s mouth. Out of habit, he nearly stifles it with his hand, but around Tenna, there was no need. Tenna starts to laugh too, until the two of them were holding their stomachs and wiping away tears.
“I don’t even know what we’re laughing about!” Tenna exclaims. “But it’s good to see you so happy and relaxed.”
“Yeah,” Spamton sighs. “I guess I have you to thank for that, huh? My good ol’ TV.”
Tenna beams, and a pink flower erupts from the tip of his nose. Spamton stares in surprise as Tenna demurely plucks it off and sets it on the coffee table. A light flush appears on his screen, stretching across the bridge of his nose.
“Happy to help, ahaha! So, did I get my point across about being loved?”
Spamton snuggles into Tenna’s chest, eyes drooping. “You did. I’m not saying it’s gonna sink in right away, but... you gave me a lot to think about.”
Tenna nods, running his fingers through Spamton’s hair. “That’s all I can ask for.”
“It’s not like one night of sex with a handsome sentient television is going to magically fix everything in my life.”
“It won’t. But it can be the catalyst for change, if you let it. It starts with you.” Tenna presses a finger to the tip of Spamton’s long nose, and Spamton huffs a laugh. “I love you, and I hope someday soon, you love you, too.”
“You’ll just have to keep coming back until you get it through my thick head,” Spamton mumbles, sleep pulling him under.
Tenna laughs, deep and warm. “That, I can do.”