Everyone wants to fuck a robot. Our mechanical lovers have been all over our pop culture for years, as if our longing has conjured the tech: Battlestar Galactica, Blade Runner, and Star Trek, when Data and Tasha Yar had that thing. The sexbot is happening and, at least in our quiet, private moments, we’re pretty much all on board.
It triggers that salivating twinge: some object that can be all-satisfying, all-consuming, that we can get right up next to and do what we want with, but won’t judge us even just a little. A sexbot, custom designed and programmed to our own perverse specifications. A tool of masturbation unlike any other. More a companion, a cyborg lover, than a vibrator or Fleshlight, and wanted by men and women alike.
Who really needs relationships anyway? They’re a pain in the ass. Partners are difficult. They want us to be our best selves, to quit drinking, to stop leaving dirty socks in the bathroom. Partners have feelings, emotional realities, flatulence, bad breath, opinions, debts, wants, needs and desires than can clash with our own. Partners want things from us even when we just want them to shut up and get cozy. But the worst thing about partners, the worst part about romance, is the potential for rejection.
