The first time Jim fucked a photocopy machine was back in the spring of '89. Perhaps "fucked" is too strong a word to capture what had transpired. Indeed, in Jim's mind, they had a mutually respectful relationship. Jim was always loyal to the machine, always attentive to its needs, allowing it to power down for one hour each day at noon, as recommended on the quick reference card. Jim even brought it flowers once in a tall Bud bottle.
"Porked" suggests the affair was not kosher. To say he "copulated" with the copier is physiologically incorrect. Was Jim "making love" to the copier? Probably not. Despite the deep  affection Jim developed, he eventually came to understand that what he had felt was not, in reality, love. The phrase "having sex with" the copier would work if not for the preposition "with" which suggests the photocopier was having sex back. To say Jim "raped" the copier is out of the question. Jim's approach was nothing if not gentle. And certainly, it offered no resistance to his advances.
If one wanted to be truly accurate about things, one could only say with certainty (leaving all biases on word choice aside) that what happened on that particular night in '89 was that Jim "damaged" the copy machine.
As assistant manager of the Fourteenth Street Kinko's, Jim had in his care the operation of six copy machines and one oversized Canon blueprint reproducer. At first, he found the work purposeless and hard on his feet, but you couldn't beat the benefits package. After a while, Jim created little games for himself to keep his interest up, like keeping at least one of the copiers going at all times. When that was no longer a challenge, he increased the number to two, then four. He soon found it easy to keep five of the six machines constantly in operation. He learned to listen for the subtle change in pitch each machine made as it neared the end of its copy run.
It didn't take long for Jim to figure out which photocopier was the best: the Sanyo LS34334, a small, unassuming-looking Japanese model manufactured in the early '80s. It didn't have the hip sleekness of the Panasonic 298T42LX, nor the hi-tech active color matrix control panels of the Minolta BS427, but Sanyo copy was always clean, sharp and well-centered. The Sanyo rarely jammed, the copies were never toner-stained and the contrast was always right on. If the original was faint, the Sanyo compensated, as if by intuition.
It was only natural for Jim to prefer the Sanyo over the other machines. But what began as a general preference gradually turned into something more. On one Thursday, the store was especially busy and Jim was called upon to take over a difficult copy job. The originals were way too dark, and the typeface was crooked. He knew he could straighten it out, no problem, but when he turned from the customer and saw Greg standing next to the Sanyo with an 800-page copy run already going, Jim felt something. It was more than just frustration at not being able to use the machine. He excused himself and went to the restroom, where, after a moment of quiet introspection, Jim realized he was jealous.
See, the Sanyo had its own song. When it was in the middle of a copy run, it played a percussive rhythm you could dance to, like one of those music machines from the 1920's with a piano roll, a woodblock, a tambourine and a slot in the side with a sign that says, "Two Bits." CLICK CHICK KACHANG CANK WHOO SHUP KATICATACK. CLICK CHICK KACHANG CANK WHOO SHUP KATICATACK. Every night, Jim's head was filled with an image of the Sanyo clacking, humming and pumping out copies, which he counted off like soporific leaping sheep.
One early morning at three a.m., Jim was alone in the store, busy with a 700 copy order of a promotional mailer for Alexander's Pizza. Sanyo was chugging along tirelessly, as usual. Jim, on the other hand, was exhausted.  He leaned against the machine to check how many pages it had left to copy. Jim's eyes shivered with sleepiness and before he realized, the vibrations of the machine against his crotch had given him an enormous erection. Jim stepped away from the machine. He hadn't seen a customer in over four hours. He locked the entrance, dimmed the lights and turned to Sanyo. The soft glow of the exterior flood lamps through the windows rounded the copier's hard edges and lent a rosy hue to its eggshell exterior. No doubt about it — Sanyo was downright sexy. Jim strode past the more squarely masculine Canons and Ricohs, shutting the power down on each machine as he passed.
He caressed Sanyo's ventilation slits, pressed his palms against Sanyo's sides, then firmly tugged on her paper tray. It gave way to his pull. Jim dramatically ripped open and fanned a ream of paper, its gentle breeze ruffling his hair. He filled the tray with paper, not just to the full line, but past it — right up to the edge of the tray — and solidly, but considerately, pushed the paper cassette into Sanyo's port. She was packed full, practically brimming.
The increased weight of the paper tray caused Sanyo's internal feeder to sit lower in the slot carriage and buzz against the vibrating drive-relay mechanism, making the machine hum and jitter. Jim was sweating nervously as he unbuttoned his trousers. He lowered his boxer shorts to his ankles, and his engorged penis sprung forth.
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