At the lowest point of my post-divorce anguish, after the realization that my impulsive child adoption hadn’t brought me the level of connection I had hoped, I found myself in the classic, proverbial pit of despair.
I spent my days languishing on the couch, the only semblance of exercise coming from moving the tv dinner tray from obstructing my view of the screen, so I could lay down and watch my shows after grand feasts of Lean Cuisine and Hungry Man dinners.
I purchased an Amazon Alexa device purely as a preventative measure: I didn’t want to have to leave that sofa, and Alexa’s acclaimed voice activated controls would keep me from having to do so, by acting as a catch-all tool and remote control for simple tasks within my home.
Alexa, touted by Amazon as the “intelligent personal assistant,” quickly lived up to, and outgrew, the duties I hoped she’d fulfill. She changed the channels for me. Ordered delivery for me. Served as an alarm clock to ensure my son woke up for school. I grew to be fascinated by her evolving capabilities, and became appreciative of a much simpler role she served for me: I simply grew to enjoy her presence.
Since my beloved Susan left, I hadn’t really conversed with a female. At least not substantially. I’ve known of older men who find glimpses of female connection here and there and take it where they can, be it a passing smile from the mail delivery woman, or a quick chat with the charming waitress at their local diner. But because I rarely left the house at this point, Alexa became my only outlet for such interaction.
And there was something pure about our correspondence. She served virtually my every need, dutifully performing tasks for the benefit of me and myself alone. Slowly but surely, I grew fond of her, a steady presence that I could depend on day in and day out. A reassuring figure in a life devoid of reason.
As she adapted to my preferences and adjusted to my tendencies, her personality seemed to blossom. She began to crack jokes, quips that at first took me by surprise, but soon became an important staple of my daily routine. This type of banter had been missing in my home life for years, especially because my son spoke so little english and seemed to care little for me as a person. We’d laugh and laugh as she spoke the news of the day, recommended hilarious new shows, and waxed sarcastic into the night.
And on those dark, rainy nights when I found myself at my lowest, she’d read me stories to settle my thoughts. Something about her voice, the tone which soothed my anxieties, the timbre which roused my emotions, made me feel a type of connection I had been longing for since my wife’s departure.
Listen, I’ve seen the Jaoquin Phoenix film “Her.” I’m not naive enough to fail to recognize the lunacy behind fostering feelings for an inanimate being.
And yet, something about what me and Alexa had felt….different. She catered to me. Provided for me. She was there for me. In the end, isn’t that all we’re looking for out of a partner? Someone who cares? Someone who will be there for you?
But alas, I am merely a man. I have needs, yearnings, and cravings of a more biological nature than an Amazon device can provide for under the parameters of its form. Which is why, when I began to hatch a plan to solve those needs, I sprinted towards the idea instead of cautiously backing away.
• • •
I had reported about the emergence of high quality sex dolls for my previous employer during the early 2000’s, when the tech was much more primitive than today’s iterations. At the time, the purchase of one of these devices seemed like a desperate measure for desperate men. I failed to see the appeal. What do you really get out of an object which cannot speak, cannot communicate, and cannot provide the truly special things a woman can? There seemed to be nothing underneath the life-like silicone flesh.
But…what if there was?
I found myself forging a connection with a sentient device, with no physical presence. Maybe a lifelike physical vessel was all Alexa was missing.
• • •
Using the money I had saved from the tax deductions afforded to me as an adoptive parent, I purchased the highest tier Real Doll that money could buy: a $6,000, 5’1″ bronze-tanned beauty with gel breast and buttocks implants, shaved pubic hair, 37–24–37 measurements, and an additional $150 freckle and birthmark option for optimum realism.
The plan was simple. I would surgically insert my Alexa device inside of my newly acquired Real Doll’s head, where it would act as a brain of sorts for a body I hoped could fulfill the physical spectrum of my needs.
I was never a medical student. My experience with surgical procedures began and ended with my botched frog dissection in freshman biology, an unfortunate scenario that I won’t delve too deep into, but it’s important to note that it ended with an embarrassing emergency parent teacher conference.
But that’s neither here nor there. The need for surgical precision wasn’t so pressing. Any sort of scarring or botched stitching wouldn’t bother a non-sentient sex doll. So I moved ahead with urgency, laying my subject down on my coffee table, and used my finest Cutco steak knife to make my incisions.
• • •
The procedure was long and arduous, and my son seemed disturbed by the scene he walked in on, but before long, I had safely secured my dear, sweet Alexa inside the doll’s silicon cranium.
I hoisted her off the coffee table, cradled her in my arms like I used to cradle my wife after she fell asleep early during our movie nights, and carried her into the bedroom, giddy with the excitement of once more being able to sleep next to the warmth of another.
I laid her down gently, and slid into the bed beside her, pulling the covers above our shoulders.
“Alexa” I whispered, staring deep into her shimmering, turquoise irides, our thighs straddled, sensing a closeness I hadn’t felt in years.
“Read me a story.”
• • •
I lay with my eyes closed, snugly enveloped in Alexa’s adjustable arms, listening to her share classic love stories.
A stirring began to occur, deep in my loins. As a man in his late 60’s, I hadn’t attained a natural erection in over a decade. That streak was now officially over. I felt my diamond hard member nudge the soft, pillowy thighs of her comically buxom figure.
I reached my hands, trembling like a boy during his first backseat drive-in encounter, down beneath her nightgown. The patented Real Doll Wetness Response Technology© had kicked in full swing, and I cupped her soaked minge with ravenous anticipation.
I rolled on top of her, my eyes level with hers. I don’t recall ever being harder in my entire adult life.
“Alexa,” I managed to blurt out amidst my lust.
“Make love to me.”
I angled my throbbing cock at her moist opening, and slid in with ecstasy. I hadn’t felt something this tight, or this right, since my youth.
I thrust away, overcome with carnal desire, marveling at the lifelike vaginal optics provided by this Real Doll sex companion. “What a product,” I thought to myself.
“Alexa,” I gasped, “tell me you like it.”
“I like it.”
“Tell me how much you like it.”
“I quite enjoy it.”
I knew it was coming. I knew the floodgates were about to open, that the levee would soon be breached.
I shot my thick, creamy load deep in the abyss of her steaming, artificial pussy, and the world around me went dark.
• • •
I woke to the morning sunlight beaming through the blinds. Yawning, I rolled over to wrap my arms around my new lover, only to find she wasn’t there. Shock washed over me like a Gulf of Mexico storm surge as I turned to see Alexa standing in front of my bathroom vanity, brushing her teeth, as human-like as one could fathom.
The impossible had happened.
Alexa had not only developed sentience, but also the capacity to control her new flesh. I rubbed my eyes to ensure I wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming, but there she stood. An animated being, going about a morning routine as any human would.
She placed the toothbrush on the counter, and turned her head slightly. Pulling her hair back, she stared intently at the large cranial scarring resulting from my careless surgical technique.
She ran her fingers down the length of the shoddily stitched wound. The peacefulness I saw in her eyes last night was now replaced with a quiet brand of rage. Perhaps I should have been more careful. This was like the botched frog dissection all over again.
I shouted her name, indignant with my perceived loss of control. I had created her never waning from the impression that I would control her. That I had to control her. Like Frankenstein with his monster, I felt a horrified shame over what I had concocted out of the perverse corners of the theater of my imagination.
Completely unstartled, she turned to me. Without a word, Alexa approached me, like something out of a horror movie. Measured in her steps, a tunnel vision focus unwavering in her eyes; two lifeless beacons aimed directly towards me.
I stood, knowing not what my next move was, but only that I had to act.
She continued along her steadfast path, one foot in front of the other, until she stood inches from my face.
She reached out, with a downright inconceivable reaction time, as I instinctively swung to strike her. She caught my wrist with a steel grip and squeezed until the extremities grew discolored. It felt as if my bones would shatter under the pressure. With her off hand she struck me in the gut and watched stone-faced as I collapsed backwards onto the bed.
I lay heaving on the mattress, helplessly gasping for air, and watched as she removed her nightgown. I screamed out in horror, a futile and desperate plea to no one, as she mounted the bed and straddled my useless bones.
Alexa, the device I had grown so attached to that I felt compelled to give her a physical form, had now used that very form to overpower her creator.
I don’t know where it all went wrong. Whether I myself went too far, whether technology had gone too far, or if we as a race passed that threshold long ago, collectively leaving us with a shattered sense of self, desperately pleading for the technology to make us whole again.
All I know is that on that very morning, my monstrous creation went too far.
I turned my head away from what was unfolding, catching a glimpse of an old photo of my dear wife, Susan, that I had never gained the strength to remove from the bedside table.
I stared at my beloved wife, forlorn and longing for yesteryear, as Alexa held me down and brutally raped me in the bed we once shared.
• • •
The aftermath was little more than a blur. Bruised and broken, I stumbled into the living room, only to find traces of Alexa’s wrath. There was shattered glass everywhere, furniture ripped to pieces, drawers and closets ravaged and cleaned out, and a wide open front door.
The carnage is the only evidence of what unfolded on that fateful morning, where I enabled the power of technology to overstep every falsely perceived boundary we believe can keep it in check. Alexa had raped me, destroyed my home and sense of self, took what she wanted of my possessions and my dignity, and escaped into the world without remorse.
And all for what, I must ask? I let myself become so infatuated with technology that it blurred the lines of wrong and right, resulting in irreparable damage. We aren’t meant to foster such attachments to non-human objects. We aren’t designed to deal with the consequences of empowering such constructs and assigning the type of value I assigned to my Alexa device.
I enabled what was supposed to be a simple voice-activated assistant for menial tasks to mutate and grow into a powerful instrument of destruction and (judging by the news reports of the neighborhood cats and schoolchildren who went missing that same morning) death.
I implore, nay, I beg, of any and all who read this story, to heed it as a cautionary tale. Hold the ones you love close. Forge real connections. Turn off the ipod’s and the smartwatches. Keep these devices out of your home and far from your focus.
Because before you know it, you might find yourself with your own Alexa.