Oh Lord, where is my Haldol? Recently I saw online a documentary on sex robots. The reporteress, a short-haired woman seething with quiet indignation, Viewed With Alarm the very idea. Progress is rapid on these love assistants, she said. They move. Some do, anyway. They talk, but not too much. Before long they will have skin-temperature silicone. Today we have all those deplorable men sitting home, lonely and isolated, choking their chickens and pondering suicide. Soon they will instead be rocking and rolling with Robo-Barbie. This worried her. She said.
If this be true, then why, one wonders, do men want sexbots? Aren’t there already women all over the place at skin temperature? Sez me, it’s because women have lived too long in a monopoly economy and so let down quality. It used to be that men had jobs and money, and women had that, so they married to let each get some of what the other had. The woman had to be agreeable as a selling point. Now women have jobs and don’t need men, or to be pleasant. Some are nice anyway, but it’s no longer a design feature. Of course they often end up old and alone with a cat somewhere on upper Connecticut Avenue, but they don’t figure this out until too late. Anyway, they stopped being agreeable. They learned from feminists that everything wrong in their lives was the fault of men.
It is a real problem: American women are inoculated from birth with angry misandry insisting that men are dolts, loutish, irresponsible, and only want sex. (To which a response might be, “Uh…What else have you got?”)
Of course, in some cases women, real ones, offer a lot. Even in America, women exist with intelligence, a sense of humor, maturity, and a recognition that marriage isn’t a guarantee of uninterrupted bliss. Such women are a delight, both of them. The problem is knowing when you have one. They all talk a good show as long as things go well. When they don’t she gets a lawyer, the kids, child support, and moves to Okinawa with a colonel she met in a meat bar. You never see your kids again.
No, this didn’t happen to me, but I see a lot of it.
Dating an American woman entails both high overhead and high risk. The costs are great in time, money, and emotional discomfort. She will grow on you, or try to. Sooner or later the dread question will arise, “Is this relationship going anywhere, or what?”
The wise answer is “Or what.” This will arouse that sleeping horror, relationship talk. Spare me, oh God, spare me, I’ll do anything. Then, unless the monastic life appeals to you–at this point it may–you will go out and do it again. It costs work, time, money and anguish. This suggests the wisdom of getting a vasectomy and a sexbot.
OK, back to sexbots. The short-aired reporteress wondered why men could be interested in such confections instead of real women, the tone being one of elevated moralism and horror. Beneath the usual factitious objectivity one could hear, “How could...what is wrong with….?” and so on.
In the documentary, the short-haired reporteress talked to an ugly anti-sexbot crusader woman who said testily that using sexbots “objectified women.” (To me it sounded more like womanizing objects, but never mind.) These two dragons continued to the effect that sex was about intimacy and closeness and bonding. I wondered how they knew. But understand: They weren’t worried about competition. Oh no. They wanted to preserve intimacy and bonding. They were worried about those poor miserable men.
In modern America I see no sign that women are concerned about masculine misery, and indeed that most of them rather like the idea. Be that as it may, the reporteress went to various factories of custom women which had body parts lying about ready for assembly according to checklists from clients. Business, the makers report, is brisk. To judge by the number of rubbery honeys–they really are lovely–in mid-birth, they would seem to be truthful.
Consider the charm of a sexbot. She will be not only beautiful, indeed perfect, but perfectly beautiful just as you want her to be. She will have an “Off” button. She will have user-selectable personalities instead of changing wildly and unpredictably as happens with human women. You can choose sweet, furiously lustful, kinky to taste, shameless hussy, Honkytonk Angel, whatever floats your boat. She won’t do relationship talk. She will do quickies and nooners without complaint, never have a splitting headache, and never have three-day huffs that no man can figure out. Fast, easy, back into her closet, and you can get to work again.
Variety appeals. It will be unlimited. There will be streaming services. Realdoll.com offers “Extra Faces.” Feminists sneer at this as mere masturbatory fantasy. To which a guy might respond, “What you mean “mere,” Sugar Britches?” Anyway, America was built on self-reliance.
Of course what the shocked and appalled women are really concerned about is competition. They are dismayed at their coming automation. While women are more sexual that men–the better ones are, anyway, usually Democrats–men are more urgent about it. This gives women great power as they are the only sexual outlet men have, except in Scotland. Now they watch the coming sexbots with the unease of a McDonald’s worker watching the installation of an automated burger-flipper.
And the competition is more than skin-temperature silicone. With goggles offering three-D virtual reality, a young man can do the deed with silken-skinned smokey-eyed temptresses in the opium dens of Shanghai or engage in furtive passion with the mistress of Pablo Escobar in secret palaces of Medellin. History nuts might give Messalina a toss.
The social consequences will be profound. Marriage will decline sharply. (“What? That again? We always have leftovers.”) Women will have to find something to offer that Sally Cone doesn’t. What?
True, in many foreign countries women are feminine, agreeable, realistic, often delightful, and not waiting to get in touch with their inner cobras. They appreciate a decent man who doesn’t hit them, cares about the kids, and provides a good life. They consequently behave in way that makes him willing to come home at night. Further, Asian women don’t talk through their noses and sound like kazoos. But not every man can move to Mongolia.
Finally, it might be worth keeping in mind that a rich vein of hypocrisy underlies the prissy female horror at men coupling with electrically-heated plastic. As many studies have shown, women watch porn too, and buy vibrators, objectifying men, or at least part of one. (And men are sexist? I mean, Sally Cone is at least all there, and if her personality comes in a memory module, at least she has one. Or several.)