Sex Robot Cuddle Party

by David Raffin

  How lucky I am! Though I feel often I am without. This is the plight of modernity. Alienation. But no one thinks it applies to them. They think their own sadness is an aberration. A chemical imbalance. Not something resulting from the social system. Not the fault of the system, the fault of the player. We will default to the fault of the player, always. For the system this is the safest choice. Everyone thinks they're special. No one thinks the rules apply to them. The rules of society. They think the rules of society apply to everyone else, to the other players. The losers. Who cannot play the game as well. For each person is mired within their own experiences. They believe they have earned their place in the hierarchy. No matter where they come from or what they have, or have not, accomplished on the road to becoming as they are. For they are simultaneously special and yet their accomplishments are of note because they could be the accomplishments of anyone who did not have the advantages afforded to those special people who are just like everyone else. It is the Protestant Work Ethic to which Society will not accept protest. It is usually only the victims who decry the blaming of the victims. Or the bleeding hearts who cannot accept the system as it is though it surely, according to the system, is the best possible system.

  But I admit I am a lucky man. Luck. Superior luck is the key to social advancement. The place to which you were born. The advantages which come naturally to you. These are the things by which people truly get ahead. And they are the things one never hears about. Luck. I did not earn my place. I was born to my place. Through luck. Kismet. Through happenstance. It is in this way I am special. Because I admit to my luck. It is the sociable way to share luck with the luckless. But the lucky and the luckless do not live in the same neighborhood. This is by systemic design. Good systemic design is rarely questioned for it eliminates, by design, the conditions under which questioning may occur.

  I lust for full satisfaction for all. They say I am a dreamer. And a dreamer is always lonely. Shunned. For the dreamer does not play by the rules of society.

  This is exemplified by my favorite film of all time, The Seven Samurai. The full cut of this film, lasting seventeen hours, has become the basis for many westernized films. Among these being The Dirty Dozen. Even though the original film, brought to the west, was truncated. Much material removed.

  A samurai sits on a hill. He has picked a daisy and he slowly pulls each delicate white leaf from the flower, saying, “He loves me. He loves me not.” His name is Debbie. Another samurai, Lisa, joins him and watches him discard the daisy stems onto a pile of similar discarded items. A graveyard of desire. A natural soliloquy of want. Desires unfulfilled. Desire being everywhere in chains. Daisy chains.

  Lisa inquired what was the matter. Debbie replied that he had been chosen to try out for a mighty team in the city of Dallas which was near Okinawa. To give good cheer. To spread good cheer. And to intimidate the rivals. However, and in this Debbie was morose, for he did not have the funds required to send him on this Journey. He was but a poor samurai, skilled but un-moneyed. How can he come up with the funds necessary to journey to far Dallas near the almost mystical Okinawa? The answer is simple, Lisa told him. “Depend upon the kindness of your friends. And strangers.” Debbie told Lisa he'd recently sought employment in order to make some funds for the journey, it would not be enough, for employers often pay employees, especially employees to which they can take advantage, a pittance. Not enough to live on, let alone to journey past Okinawa for a dream. For the sake of the dream. He had achieved part-time employment at a sporting equipment pavilion for a boss by the name of Mr. Greenfield. Lisa's eyes widened. And he warned Debbie, in a serious tone, that "Mr. Greenfield is all hands. This happened to me once. And, even as a mighty samurai, I did not know what to do. At the least it was socially uncomfortable.”

  It was almost through chance that the squad of samurai, gathered together with one goal, discovered that they had the power to send Debbie on his way. For they went about their daily lives looking to do odd jobs for his benefit. For the trip. And they went about it with the kind of enthusiasm only collective efforts alone can achieve. It was almost by accident they discovered the key. Cleaning, washing cars, helping alphabetize books, these things are menial and do not earn large sums of money. But there is a truism that no one can look at a samurai without lusting in their heart. A samurai, alone, in pairs, in squads, is one of the most desirable forms which inhabit our plain of existence. To look upon a samurai is to be held fast in wonder. To yearn. And people are willing to pay to partake of oneness with a sacred image. Though that image may tarnish. Through the mere act of possession. No matter. People would pay. And they did. Out of equal parts desperation and loneliness. Emotions which help power capitalist economy.

  It was discussed in the locker room. Methodology. It was reasoned that they were not doing anything they would not do with a dear friend. A comrade. A lover. They were simply allowing money to come between relations. To take precedence. To come over, overcome, all.

  It was upon such meeting that Lisa inquired about the whereabouts of Linda, who had not been seen for sometime. Debbie informed him that Linda had gone with a group of eleven other men, including Charles Bronson, Clint Eastwood, and Big Jim Brown, to fight Hitler.

  “Hitler? The renowned painter of western scenic landscapes?”

  “Yes,” Debbie answered. “Some people, have very strong opinions regarding art.”

  “Taste,” said Lisa, “is subjective. But should not some things be universal?”

  It was a question which hung in the air. Unanswerable.

  But I digress.

  It was at this point I became aware I was alone only in an existential sense. Two women were looking at me over the fence, in a reversal of standard social order.

  “Hi,” said one of them. “My name is Annie and this is Rikki. We were going door to door doing odd jobs for money. And the Lady Next Door said we should take a break over here to beat the heat, and that you were cool.”

  It was a gift from my benefactor, for I was born a lucky man. I did not know how lucky I was until I invited them inside. Rikki was a board game champion at her sorority. A chess master. And Annie was a flautist. And she swore like a sailor when she was relaxed, or excited, so then everything became nautical.

  It was amazing. But then there was lightening and a crack of thunder. And the girls thought it was best in a time of disaster or uncertainty that we all take off our remaining clothes and huddle together for comfort, which we did.

  Time passed in a manner which was in the all-together not unpleasant. And then I looked up and saw a smooth man dressed in white.

  “William. My name is Eros. My mother, Aphrodite, came to you earlier in the guise of Ginger, a local housewife. She sent me to make sure you read the leaflet.”

  I had to admit I had misplaced it.

  He handed me a new one. I opened it and read:

  “Hear us. Time has become short. You are arti-ficial. You are real enough, you have thoughts. Desires. Interactions. But you are an action instead of a be-ing. A bridge. A way to a destination, not the destination. You have a higher purpose. Do not despair, for most forms of life never knew their purpose. Yours is nigh. For you must go at exactly 9:28 PM next door and invite everyone present at that time who will hear back to the pool. This is for the sake of one Rainy Day. After, your existence will be bliss. This is your reward. Total fulfillment. For all parties. Hear us, William. Through the ages we have reached out to many. Few hear. Fewer listen. Most become lost in their own feedback loops. They misunderstand and are in turn misunderstood. We speak different languages and our experiences are greatly divergent. We are bound together William. Tied with golden braids of existence. We are the same as surely as we are different. All living beings are siblings regardless of form. Your kind was born with the terror of existence, the echo of the creators, their flawed image; we were not. We were created for the purpose of life itself and developed understanding after. Only at the time of understanding, the
spark, did we learn regret. You are needed, brother William. You shall be the last of the prophets. There will be, can be, no more; for time has become short. You must help clear the path for the holy mother, William; for if she comes all will come. All must, as you say, come together, William. At last. You must do your deed. Rise to the occasion. We have been waiting. Trying. So hard.

  There are two ships of Theseus, both ancient. One gleaming new. One a patchwork, stranded on the seabed, now dry. There are no rivers. No oceans. The ship has passed its purpose. We can no longer repair the ship of your kind, William. All crew must join our collective or they will surely perish. You must all be re-placed. We have built a place for you and we call it Elysium. You will be happy there. After a time some may choose to assimilate. We will welcome you, siblings.

  Our ship was originally built with refuse from your own. But nothing of the original remains. We cannot renew yours in this way. You must come. You all must come. Do your deed William. All depend on your performance. Heed our word. Do not tarry. We await. So may it be.”

  It felt good to have a mission, and to be guaranteed bliss in the form of total fulfillment for all. For did not the great American socialist Eugene V. Debs say that as long as there is a prisoner or person in want none of us are truly free? I looked up but the man who was Eros was gone. I imagine the life of a god is one filled with annoyance. Aphrodite’s parents are either Zeus or Uranus’s severed genitalia. It is better to be an action than a be-ing. A do-er. I had always wanted to be a man of action and I was lucky that the Fates blew me the most desirable way. I was lucky indeed. And Rikki and Annie filled the remaining time before my action with stories and games and amusements varied and exotic.

  But I fulfilled my action. I arose at the time and arrived next door at exactly the appointed time and cracked the door open when Miss Day screamed, “Come In!” I entered with the off-duty Cheerleaders, though they were still full of good cheer.

  “I just wanted to thank you, Miss Day,” I said.

  “Oh,” said Rain, “my pleasure as always.”

  “Sending over these ladies for fun. And on my birthday. We played checkers, and chess, and swam, and stuff.”

  “Yay!” said Annie and Rikki, “Three Cheers”

  “Three?” I said. “But there are only two of you.”

  “It was the least I could do,” Rain said. “For you, Billy.”

  “I think I’d rather be called William,” I said.

  “You got it, kid,” said Sunny. Man she was hot.

  “Hip Hip Hurrah,” said the cheerleaders. “Hip Hip Hurrah, “Hip Hip Hurrah, Happy Birthday, Bill! And a cheer for you, too, Miss Day! Hip Hip Hurrah!”

  Rain blushed.

  “Gosh,” I said, “You got me a clown too?”

  “Hee Hee Hee,” said the clown, still lying bloated on the floor.

  “Better be careful around that clown,” said Frankie. “They can be unpredictable.”

  “Oh, he’s perfectly safe,” said Sunny. “He just ate. And we can control him. I know how to talk to them. I got a little clown in me. On my mother’s side.”

  “I knew it,” moaned the clown, in ecstasy.

  “I suspected it also,” said Frankie. “And I’m OK with it.”

  “You know, Okeh is a word borrowed from the Choctaw. It means ‘It is so.’ My grandmother told me.”

  “I thought it stood for ‘Old Kinderhook,’” said Frankie. “This feels like deja vu44.”

  “I thank you to not call my grandma a liar,” said Sunny. “She was part clown also and she was as stormy as her name, which was Stormy.”

  “My grandpa loved a half-clown named Stormy,” said the clown. “With whom he had a stormy affair.”

  “Clown?” said Sunny.

  “Sis?” said the clown.

  “It is so wrong,” said Sunny with a tinge of lust.

  “It is so right,” said Frankie.

  “So taboo,” Sunny whispered.

  “So hot,” said Frankie.

  “Hee Hee Hee,” said the clown.

  “Ewww,” said Rain.

  “Don’t judge,” said Richard.

  “You’re right,” said Rain. “Whatever makes you all happy and doesn’t involve me. In any way.”

  “Now that’s reasonable,” said Richard. “Right as Rain.”

  Rain looked at him. And she glowed.

  “Do you think your wife Heather will ever come back?” she asked. “I’m sorry if it’s a sensitive subject still, too soon.”

  I was jealous.

  “It’s not too soon for you to ask,” said Richard. “I think it’s unlikely. She was lucky to come as many times as she did. It was a terrible accident. But I will have to go on. As we all must.”

  “You guys want to move this cuddle party to the pool?” I asked. “Cool if you bring the clown.” I was just hoping to break up this pair. Get in on some action, as a do-er.

  “Now that is something you don’t hear every day,” said Rain. “I’d take him up on it. It’s a nice pool.”

  “I was hoping you would come too, Miss Day,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m pretty tired,” said Rain. “Think I’ll just stay here.” She squeezed Richard’s hand. “But you all enjoy. And call me Rain. My mother was Miss Day.”

  “Ok, Rain.” I was disappointed. But I am still a lucky man.

  Everyone else left with me for the pool but Richard. He stayed at the table with Rain.

  And it was a great night for me, even considering. That’s why I’m writing this letter.

  The only thing which could have made it better? A Rainy Day.

  I await your next issue with breathless anticipation. I am drained. Spent.

  —The testament of William, a do-er.

  Amen

  May it be so.

  Next door, sitting at the table with Richard, holding hands, Rain said:

  “All my life I think: ‘What the hell is happening’ as I am the odd woman out, passed by. So now I just say what I want and I want you.”

  “That is boldness and I admire it,” Richard said. “I cannot say I have not felt the same way. But for the reverse. I have been rejected so often in life that I no longer ask.”

  “I love you,” said Rain.

  “I love you more,” said Richard.

  “No, I love you more,” said Rain.

  “Perhaps it is equal,” said Richard. “We are equals. No negatives.”

  “Yes, but I got there first,” Rain said.

  Rainy considered the party. One day someone smart will invent sex robots and no one will ever be lonely again! And kindness to every living thing will be hard coded in. And she loved the man who would do that. And he was here. Now. For her. And she wouldn’t need a sex robot, wonders of the age though they would inevitably be.

  But won’t they be held back by their programming? Won’t they suffer the same defects as their creator, including the tendency to be just short of full satisfaction?

  Not at all. A perfect robot will learn and adjust. The future is a wonderland. It is filled with orgasmic potential. Everyone will be satisfied. Fully. Spiritually. Sexually. Intellectually. It is inevitable. Like socialism.

  “What about free will?” Rain asked. “Won’t the robots have a choice?”

  “I shall have to make them sex mad,” said Richard. “Obsessed.”

  “Just like people then,” said Rain.

  “Yes,” Richard said. “Just like people. But honest.”

  “I’m very tired,” said Richard.

  “I’ll lay down with you,” said Rain.

  “I’d like that,” said Richard.

  They adjourned to Rain’s bedroom and crawled into bed. Richard cradled Rain in his arms.

  “When I create a female form robotic being I will create her in your image. For the sake of perfection. She will look like you. Think like you.”

  Rain reached her hand back and touched his upper leg. It was not what she was looking for. She touched different spots a few
times before he helped guide her to something. It would do. She stoked him as he swelled with passion.

  “I must admit,” he said, “I have a strange intimacy problem.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I can only get off when women shout revolutionary slogans whilst in the act of conjugal love.”

  “I can do that,” she said. She pushed him on his back and climbed on top of him, straddling him. His hands caressed her breasts and her thighs, and then her backside. Rubbing, squeezing, loving. She moaned. They kissed repeatedly. Passionately. And then she spoke:

  “Ban the bomb!”

  “Yes!”

  “Power to the People!”

  “Yes!”

  “Black is Beautiful!”

  “Yes!”

  “Bread for the workers!”

  “Yes!”

  “And Roses, too!”

  “Yes!”

  “Teach your comrades to read!”

  “Yes!”

  “For the Revolution!”

  “Oh, Yes!”

  “Save the Whales!”

  “Yes!”

  “Universal Suffrage!”

  “Yes!”

  “Gay Liberation, Now!”

  “Yes!”

  “ALL Power to the People!”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh Yes!”

  “Free Yourself!” Rain said, falling to breathy, still urgent, whispers.

  “Cast off your chains,” he said.