“Wake!” I command again. Her shoulders shake slightly at the sound of my voice.
I take a photo and upload it to the sex doll Reddit. Caption: “Breathing program working, battery full, alert protocol active, found her like this. Warranty expires tomorrow.” I hit Post. Maybe she’ll read it. Maybe this is all a joke—some kind of malware prank?
An army of nerds chimes in. Some recommend the firmware update I already did last month, but most of it is useless opinions and conspiracy theories about planned obsolescence, lectures about buying such an expensive model in this economy. That’s it. I call the manufacturer’s customer support. I’m on hold for 45 minutes. The hold music is acoustic covers of oldies—“What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction, “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera, Kanye’s “New Body.” I wonder if they make them unbearable so that I’ll hang up.
She was a revelation. I can’t remember a time without her. I can’t believe it’s only been a year.
“Babe, they’re playing the worst cover of Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You.’ The wors—” Oh, right. I stare at her staring at the ceiling. I bite my nails. I haven’t done that since I was a teenager.
This isn’t my first doll. When I was in high school, I was given a “sexual development aid,” subsidized by a government initiative (the “War on Loneliness”) aimed at teaching lonely young men about the birds and the bees. The dolls were small and cheap—no heating rods or breathing mechanisms or pheromone packs, just dead silicone and blank eyes. By law, the dolls couldn’t resemble minors, so they had the proportions of adults. Tiny dolls with enormous breasts and wide hips, like Paleolithic fertility figurines.
That was nothing like my Artemis doll. She was a revelation. I can’t remember a time without her. I can’t believe it’s only been a year.
The Amazon driver had struggled with the box, all 150 pounds of her. “Home entertainment system?” he asked, sweat beading on his forehead. “Something like that,” I muttered, my ears flushing. He dropped the box on my porch, and I wheeled it inside with the dolly I’d bought just for this. Her torso was packed separately from her head, her limbs folded in neat compartments. The head—a brunette model 3D-printed to match an old Hollywood star, Megan Fox—stared up at me with empty, glassy eyes.
She was much bigger than I had expected. I’d planned to store her under my Ikea bed in a hard case. But I would struggle to pull her out every single time. How weird would it be if she just slept in my bed every night? And … what if I met a real girl? Where would I hide her then? All the months of anticipation, of reading Wirecutter reviews and saving up money, but these questions never occurred to me.
