We – when I say we, I mean of course they – have come a long way since the early days of the blow up sex dolls which took so much puff that, once you’d inflated her, you’d no energy left to do anything with her.
I discovered this week that there are now sex dolls – really they are marketed as robots – that you don’t need to blow up: they come fully formed with perfect similitude to the female form divine. And they only cost ten thousand quid apiece,
Sexual cybernetics has made such progress that now these dolls can talk. I read of one which – who? – speaks “in a soft Scottish accent.” I’m glad they said soft. You wouldn’t want to fork out £10,000 to find yourself waking up next to Sir Alex Ferguson, would you? You’d need subtitles in English. Anyhow, we’re spoiled for choice because her voice can be customised as that of anyone you fancy. I think I’ll forgo speculation here and leave it to my readers, if any.
Now, it’s one thing having a doll that talks, but quite another thing her having something to say. I imagine having retired with my lady automaton to discover that, just as I’m stirring myself into action, she says: “You know Peter, that damp patch on the ceiling is getting to be a real eyesore.”
Roll over and she continues: “I hear Fred Arkwright’s missus has run off Elsie Thirkettle’s old man.”
The manufacturer’s blurb says, “She will, on demand, get moody, jealous, insecure or throw a strop.” They will even sell you one that can feign a headache.
Topics of conversation can be tailored to your preferred pillow talk. I wouldn’t mind one that could discuss the Aussies’ ball-tampering, but with my luck I’d probably end up with a Remoaner in a perpetual sulk who yapped on all night about the glories of the Common Agricultural Policy in a voice like Michael Heseltine’s.
Some blokes go in for verisimilitude in a big way and take their mechanical molls for dinner in posh restaurants. I read of one chap who took her shopping for knickers in Oxford Street. Another took her along when he wined and dined his wife.
Thankfully, the sex-robots are fully compliant with so called British Values. I mean, there’s no sexism here, no homophobia and no transphobia: for the robotic lovelies are bisexual, fully AC/DC and swing all ways.
“I’ll do something about that damp patch in the morning, Sir Alex: so just stop nagging will you or I’ll hide your oil can!”