Fucking drones is not, from the human perspective, a very attractive affair. It seems violent at times, and on other occasions, so benign as to be utterly boring. The way that drones fuck is certainly simpler than human sex in some ways. Drones cannot rape drones, because drones do not have wills that consent. They do not have genders, imbued with power relations. GPS, avionics, waypoint routing, and a single radio call sign are just about all they have in terms of quantifiable personalities. There is no capacity for fetish or kink like we have, no story or role to play. But the way that drones fuck can also be complex, in ways difficult for us to understand. During and after, they compare camera views with each other, subtling ranking and judging. These pieces of data are the basis for all their decisions, both sexual and otherwise. In a long chain of feedback loops and Markov chains, decisions made on the basis of a single data element become new data collected. Decisions become data, and data become new decisions, across an churning event horizon of intentionality that reaches out from the present, into the future. The vast amount of data produced while drones fuck soaks through everything that drones do. Drones’ online dates are saturated with data, dripping it everywhere, staining everything around it, leaving the residue of data on the backseats of cars, the second hand Ikea couch, the favorite shirt, the dress bought against better judgment, images of it saved in cellphones to be embarrassingly stumbled upon later, posted to the wrong social network by deliciously explicit mistake. The data might be like our emotions, our raw desiring energy translated into narratives about who, where, why, and how. But then again, it might be totally different. Another weekend, and drones come to make another decision. Some drones end up fucking, some don’t. More data, more wanton displays of data. Drones update their profiles. And another weekend, and it all happens again.