I read in an article online that by 2050, human-on-robot sex will be more common than human-on-human sex. So when I enroll in the Android Companionship Trial, I convince myself that I’m only doing it for the advancement of science.
Not because I’m desperate and alone.
“So how does it work?” my girlfriend, Ally, asks me as I complete the 50-question questionnaire. “Do you have to fuck it a specific number of times a day to get accurate data? Do they film you?”
“No, it’s a little more discreet than that.”
“So it’s a sex doll that can move?”
“They say it’ll look just as human as you and me.”
Ally shrugs and pops a stick of chewing gum in her mouth. “This sounds too much like a porno plot.” She snickers. “Mmm mmm, fucking a robot.”
“They prefer the term ‘android,'” I correct her.
“Hmm, robots have preferred pronouns now too.” She kicks her legs off the couch and sits up. “Babe, if you’re that desperate for some peen, I’ll hook you up with one of the assholes at my job. It’ll be all sex, no strings. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to date these guys.”
“It’s because the dating pool has pee in it that I’m signing up for this!” Thirty-five years with not so much as a broken engagement has taught me all I need to know about the crop of men available to me.
Why not try an artificial one instead?
Even when knowing that he’s not real, I’m still too shy to make the first move. I wasn’t prepared for how realistic he would look—expecting at least a lock and screw somewhere, a part of his body that doesn’t bend because of a large lithium battery housed inside, skin made of the same silicone material as the dildo I keep in my closet.
I can’t store him there. It would feel too cruel.
“Do you have a name?” I ask.
“I am called ANDROID-13W,” he says with a voice that’s anything but mechanical. “But you may call me Andrew.”
“Andrew. Okay.” Knowing his name will make this feel less transactional. I shake my arms hoping to expel my inhibition. This man won’t hurt me, I assure myself. I won’t have to worry about STDs or pregnancy or a jealous baby mama trying to fight me for ownership of him. He won’t steal from me—he belongs to me. He’s that dildo in my closet, just with a face and arms and body that all feel real.
Too real.
“Should I take my clothes off?” I ask.
He slowly nods. “If that is what you would like,” he answers, but neither of us moves.
I hate that I sound like the men I criticize—cutting right to the chase, no foreplay, no teasing to make me wetter and loosen me up to receive the package.
“Maybe a kiss first?” I suggest instead.
He nods and leans forward to press his lips against mine. Again, I am surprised by how real they feel. I kiss him back, sucking on his bottom lip. I put my hand on his neck and pull him closer. His pulse quickens. I wonder where is his heart? What makes him tick? My hand drops down to his lap.
“Is something wrong?” I ask when I feel nothing.
“No.”
“I thought— Well, I guess I expected—”
“Android companionship is more than just sex,” he says. “I can be your lover, your friend, your confidant, your therapist.”
I pull away and chuckle to myself. “I can’t fuck my therapist,” I say.
“No, you cannot.”
What he doesn’t say aloud, he says with his eyes. And instead of removing my clothes, straddling his lap, and commanding that he rise, I get off the bed, wipe my tears, and ask, “Do you cook?”
As long as Ally keeps her mouth shut, everyone will believe I met Andrew at the gym. He’s a fitness instructor, and that’s why no one has ever seen him eat. He’s on a strict diet.
At the six-month follow-up, I confirm via an online survey that we have not had sex yet, but by all definitions, he is my boyfriend. We live together, but we also go out on dates. We hold hands while in public. He drops me off at work with a kiss and promises to be waiting for me when I get off at five. He rubs my feet after a long day and listens to me complain about my incompetent coworkers. When we stay in, he is my sous chef in the kitchen. He picks the movies we fall asleep to. He cuddles me in bed and never asks for more unless I want it.
“When will you want it?” Ally asks me one Sunday at brunch. “I’m sure the guy is burning. Built for one thing only, and he gets the one girl who won’t give it to him.”
“I wish you’d stop projecting your man problems onto Andrew. He is not the same.”
“All men are the same. Even the robotic ones.”
“That’s because you date men with bolts for brains.”
When I return home, he greets me at the door with a hug and a kiss.
“I know you just ate, but I found this recipe online that I think you will love,” he says, and I can smell the fish fresh from the ocean, the cajun spices. I can hear the sizzling oil in the cast iron skillet.
It makes me nostalgic for my Grandma’s Deep South cooking—fried catfish, shrimp n grits, seafood and andouille sausage gumbo with a rich red roux base. My mouth should be salivating, but Ally’s words linger in my brain.
He gets the one girl who won’t give it to him…
All men are the same…
I let my purse fall off my shoulder and hit the floor. When he bends down to pick it up, I ask, ” What happens after a year? When the trial is over? Will I get to keep you? Will you go to someone else?”
He shakes his head. “I will be broken down. The lead investigators will use the data to build an improved model. It will still be me, just a better version.”
“And this version of you?”
“Destroyed.”
“Even though we never—”
“We cannot risk it.”
“Okay then,” I say, “let’s have sex.”
For a split second, I fear he may reject me. He is frozen, and his eyes stare blankly ahead. Then suddenly, as if the rest of his body has finally received the signal from the control panel in his brain, he blinks, bows his head, and follows me to the bedroom.
We lie naked in bed, and the same shyness that overwhelmed me our first night together makes an unwelcome return.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say as my heart flutters in my chest.
“This is your first time? In the enrollment questionnaire, you answered ‘No’ for ‘Are you a virgin?'”
I’m not surprised that he knows this. That questionnaire could have easily been a compatibility test. Did they download all of my answers into his AI consciousness? Is that why he knows me so well? Better than I know myself? At least it helps to make him feel less real, knowing that his love is artificial. Still, a part of me feels betrayed, not in the way men in the past have betrayed me, but that I’ve spent the last eight months falling for a love that can never exist. And after a year, he won’t even be mine.
“Are you having second thoughts?” he asks.
“Just wondering why I chose to do this when I’m still going to lose you anyway.”
“It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” he says, appealing to my literary answers in the hobbies subsection of the questionnaire. Yes, it definitely has been loaded into him, which means we are compatible, even if only one of us is real, and as long as I have not yet lost him, I choose to love him.
“Just pretend I am a real human male,” he says in a comforting tone. “It will be more pleasurable.”
“Okay,” I say.
He rolls over and positions himself on top of me. “Would you like for me to kiss you like before?”
“I would love that.”
We kiss, and this time I can feel him. I feel all of him, and then I let him fill me.
© 2022 Nortina Simmons
Where on earth did this bizarre robot companionship story come from? Courtesy of The Twilight Zone episode “The Lonely.”
And if you thought the article about robot sex becoming the norm was just a part of the story, well, see for yourself…
I think my marathon this year will have to stop at 12 episodes, unfortunately. I’m fizzling out, and I don’t want to give you guys stories that are half-baked simply to get to 24 by midnight. But I hope you’ve enjoyed these 12 I’ve given you today, even the reruns. 😉 And if you still want a marathon to read every hour into the new year, check out last year’s marathon starting here.
Nortina's Writing Inspiration Well 
Giiirlll…you are on fire! You should be proud of yourself!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! ❤
LikeLike
💜
LikeLiked by 1 person