by Penny Reid
. . . Why stop there? Why not write about his Compassion AI?
A seed, an acorn of something, sprouted in my mind.
The professor straightened away from me, frowning severely, obviously disliking my response. “You’re very closed-minded.”
What?
Who says that? Especially to a person he doesn’t really know?
He really was a weirdo.
I huffed an aggravated laugh. “And you’re irritating.”
I’m not closed-minded.
For the most part.
Or maybe I was.
Maybe I was closed-minded.
And maybe I needed to work on that about myself. How could I call myself an objective journalist if I was prejudging his research without understanding it? Maybe I did need to consider the possibility of AI as a solution.
I could write a story about his Compassion AI, but I knew it would need to be balanced by an alternative solution equally as farfetched.
“Fiona said you’re a reporter. I thought you’d be more open to novel concepts, innovative solutions to old problems. But evidently my first impression of you was correct.”
“Just because I’m a reporter doesn’t mean I don’t get to have an opinion about people.”
“And your opinion of me is?”
“Very low.”
His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “Is it my hair?”
I flinched back, automatically checking out his hair. “No. There’s nothing wrong with your hair.”
“You don’t like Star Wars?” He gestured to his shirt. “You’re a Trekkie? You should know, I’m an equal opportunity space drama aficionado, whether it be BattleSTAR Galactica, STAR Trek, or STAR—”
“I get it, you like science fiction.”
“Ah ha!” He lifted his index finger between us.
“Ah ha, what?”
“You’re a fantasy reader, aren’t you? That’s what’s going on. What’s your favorite TV show? Buffy the Vampire Slayer, right?”
I lifted an eyebrow and crossed my arms, disliking that he’d guessed correctly. “What I read and watch isn’t the central issue.”
“Have you received your Hogwarts letter?” he asked, and his tone was so serious, I almost mistook it for a real question.
“Listen, it’s not our genre differences that are the problem. You lied to me. You pretended to be someone—”
“You shouldn’t hold it against a person for employing deception in the pursuit of science, for the greater good.”
I blinked once at Matt, very slowly. “Can you hear yourself speak? Disliking a person based on their penchant for deception is entirely appropriate.”
“But that’s not why you dislike me,” he challenged, a hint of his wily smile returning. “Admit it,” he pushed, giving me the sense he enjoyed trying to get under my skin, “you don’t like me because my work challenges your small ideas.”
Okay, mister. The gloves are coming off now.
Gritting my teeth, I stared at Professor Matt Simmons, the urge to upset his preconceived notions of women like me almost overwhelming. Clearly, he was small-minded, too. But in a different way.
“You think so, huh? You think you know me so well because, why? Because you’ve read my profile and I’m basically the same as all the other women out there within my demographic?”
“More or less.” He tilted his head back and forth in a considering motion, and I couldn’t figure out his goal.
Why was he keeping me here? To insult me? To argue with me?
Unless he truly believed he held the key to knowing people, what they wanted, what drove their motivations. And if that was the case . . .
Hmm.
I decided I wanted his data. I wanted to see his findings. I needed him to work with me.
But how could I convince a researcher—who was understandably territorial about his research—to share it with me?
You either trick him or force him to do it, just like he tricked you.
“Everyone is predictable?” I narrowed my eyes on him, a fully formed idea blossoming, and it was a beautiful idea. Maybe the best I’d ever had.
“Yep.”
“Based on data? Based on the advances of technology?”
“Yep.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s good news.”
His grin wavered. “Why is that good news?”
“Because, Professor Matthew,” I patted his shoulder, “you’re going to show me your findings and research and I’m going to write a story about you and your advances in AI.”
And my editor will love it. I hope.
His grin fell. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.” Now I was grinning.
Matt took a step back, his tone growing combative. “I’m not showing you anything.”
“You have no choice.”
“You think so?” His glower returned, and I detected the edge in his voice.
“Yes. I know so. Because if you don’t show me your findings—and interpret them to my satisfaction—then I’ll write a different news story, warning the women of this fine city of a deception study being conducted by two douche canoe researchers from the University of Chicago in the pursuit of developing a sex robot.”
His jaw ticked, a storm gathered behind his expressive eyes, his glower persisted, but he said nothing.
“And how biased do you think your data will be then, Matthew?”
For a long moment, he remained silent, though I did get the impression he was trying to shred my soul with his stare.
“Fine,” he ground out, looking positively irate. “But you have to give me something in return.”
I snorted, crossing my arms. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes. You do.”
“I’m not giving you a damn thing.”
“You’ll consent to the questionnaire—”
“Fat chance—”
“Or else I’ll share nothing,” he said, granite in his voice, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Write your article, tell the city, tell the world about our study, it doesn’t really matter. We’ll just pause our data collection, wait for the story to blow over, then start again. Sure, the time delay will be irritating and costly, but not devastating.”
I took a deep breath, considering him, trying to figure out if he was bluffing. The professor was difficult to read.
“Consent to the study,” he whispered, like a taunt.
“That’s coercion.”
“And what you’re doing isn’t?” he volleyed back.
I was still gritting my teeth, frowning. He had me there.
“Fine,” I stuck out my hand, “I’ll consent. You can do your imbecilic questionnaire and use my data. Happy?”
He took my hand, shook it once, and then dropped it.
“I’m so far from happy, I’m not even sure what that word means,” he ground out, his eyes flashing. Truly, he looked pissed.
Oh well.
Pissing off people who were never going to like me didn’t bother me much. Occupational hazard.
I could definitely understand why he was angry, but I’m not one of those people who get angry just because someone else is angry. In fact, faced with an angry person, usually I grow calmer.
Turning away from me, both of his hands now in his pockets, he said, “Congratulations,” more a growl than a word.
“For what?” I called after him.
Pausing outside the door next to Fiona and Greg’s and withdrawing his keys, he said unhappily, “For being unpredictable.”
6
Arria
An analyst and a writer in one, this AI "reads" complex data (such as financial or meteorological) and writes accurate, easy-to-read reports for general consumption.
Source: Arria NLG plc
“I’m thinking that this could be a series of articles, about how we—and by we, I mean women, all of female humanity—can replace romantic relationships by using either paid services or robots.”
I bit my lip, c
hewing on it, knowing I had no way to snatch the words back now. They were out there. Both Tommy and my editor had heard them. I just had to . . . commit to the crazy.
Clearly, I was mentally disturbed.
The idea had solidified late Friday night—technically early Saturday morning—and I couldn’t let go of it. As a counter balance to Matt’s Compassion AI, I realized paid services were the answer. Whether Matt knew it or not, he’d provided a solution to my angst. The angle would be: no one needed a romantic relationship, not if they didn’t want it, not in today’s age of technology and access to information and services.
Not anymore.
And I was going to prove it. I was going to free women from the shackles and disappointment of modern companionship.
Why put myself through the misery of egotistical men with their FOMO and inferiority complexes? No. Never again. I was going to give single women everywhere the tools they didn’t know they needed to live relationship-free, never settling for adequate—never settling at all—and womankind would be happier for it.
“You’re joking,” Daniella deadpanned, sighing tiredly from her end of the conference call.
“No, no. Hear me out,” I rushed to explain. “So, have you heard of professional cuddlers?”
“Yeah. I think so.” She sounded bored, irritated.
“Okay, so, I think we can all agree that being single and being invested in finding a fulfilling, long-term, monogamous romantic relationship in today’s current dating environment is an effort in futility. Especially for people in their thirties and forties. Men—and no offense, Tommy—are plagued by FOMO, fear of missing out. Fear of missing out on the supermodel-playmate sex fiend who loves to cook, clean, and do laundry while working a high-paying job and waxing like a porn star. This is what men in their thirties want and expect.”
“If I may,” Tommy cut in, not sounding exactly perturbed, but something like it, “and women want a billionaire bodybuilder who can read their mind in the bedroom, is domineering and possessive—but not too domineering and possessive—and has tattoos—but not too many tattoos—and is in touch with his feelings—but not too in touch with his feelings.”
I had to laugh at that. “Okay, okay. Fair enough. Not all women feel that way. Some women just want a good guy, an adult, someone with a job who treats his woman like a person, not a servant. Who cares about her well-being. A guy they can snuggle with on Sunday mornings. But I concede that media depictions of the ideal for both men and women have gotten out of hand. People seem to want Instagram relationships on both sides, I get that. So, the article I’m proposing would give women—our readers—viable alternatives to the abysmal state of trying to find a romantic partner.”
“Go on,” Daniella prompted, skeptical but no longer bored.
“One part would discuss the viability of using paid services—other people—to fill the voids created when not in a romantic relationship, and what would that look like. Can we—legally, ethically, morally—replace another person with multiple paid services, and how much would that cost? Both financially and emotionally. Professional cuddlers and massage for touch. Professional dry humpers for thrilling touch. Escorts for dinner dates, life coaches for affirmation, personal trainers for activity and movement, meditation salons for—”
“What about sex?” Tommy asked, and I knew just by the sound of his voice that he liked where I was going with this, but had reservations. “Prostitution? Are we really going to go there?”
“I was just getting to that, actually. Prostitution—let me be clear here, the exchange of money for sex acts—is illegal in all but one state in the US. And, aside from its legality, most research shows that, in the US, it contributes to the exploitation of the powerless. And even aside from the exploitation issue—which should be enough—it enforces objectification and malevolent attitudes, placing people in the box of object rather than person. And that has far-reaching consequences to the rest of society.”
“Do you think that’s because it’s illegal?” Daniella asked. “What does the research show about countries where it is legal, where transactions occur in a safe environment and are regulated, taxed, etc.?”
“Listen, we could do a whole series on the ethics of prostitution and how it’s handled across the world, but that’s not what this article is about. So, for the purposes of this article, it’s not a viable option. Plus, it feels too prosaic. I want to focus on creative alternatives. As an example, meditation salons that provide guided orgasm therapy are legal, and are not based on the subjugation of one—weaker—person for the benefit of another—stronger—person.”
There was a short silence, broken suddenly by Tommy’s confused, “What?”
“Oh. I know what you’re talking about,” Daniella jumped in. “Those places where men are paired with women, but the men don’t get paid, and they bring the women to orgasm with their fingers. They call it a type of guided meditation.”
“Yes.” I was sitting on the edge of my seat, excited that I might have won her over. “It’s called OM.”
“Is this real?” Tommy asked, his tone incredulous. “Are you making this up?”
“No. I’m not. This is real. And it’s legal. Because neither party is getting paid. It’s instructional, where both the men and women pay the instructor in order to learn how to do it.”
“Holy crap,” he exclaimed, then with an introspective mutter added, “How did I not know about this?”
“What’s that place called, the meditation salon, the one that does the instruction?” The sound of Daniella typing on her keyboard was just audible.
“Single Sense is the name of the company. I’ve been researching them all morning.” I doodled a series of nervous and excited triangles on the notepad in front of me.
“Yes. Here’s their site.” Daniella cleared her throat. “It reads, ‘Orgasm Meditation is a 15-minute, partnered consciousness practice where a stroker strokes the clitoris of a strokee with no goal other than to feel sensation. The practice combines the power and attention of meditation with the deeply human, deeply felt, and connected experience of orgasm.’”
“So you propose fulfilling the single person’s desire to orgasm with orgasm meditation?” Tommy asked.
“Yes. Exactly. But this would be at least a two-part series. As I said, one part of the series would focus on replacing a single person’s need for a romantic relationship with paid services instead—cuddlers, life coaches, other positive-focused services, etc. as we’ve just discussed. The other part would focus on replacing romantic relationships with robots, and that’s where we tie in the technology angle.”
“Oh no, this isn’t going to be about those sex dolls, is it? Those things creep me out. With their cold, dead, lifeless eyes.” I could almost hear Tommy shivering in disgust on the other side of the line.
“No. Not at all. Actually, I have a lead on an AI scientist working with the University of Chicago, and his entire research platform is geared toward solving this problem. Meaning, he is hoping to create companion robots—artificial intelligence—that can address all the same items and issues I’ve just mentioned: touch, affirmation, physical activity, and so forth.”
“So, a sex robot?” Daniella asked.
“No. Not a sex robot. Although I imagine it would be capable of that activity. Just like two people in a romantic relationship can’t be boiled down to ‘sex partners,’ these robots couldn’t and shouldn’t be called ‘sex robots.’” I was vaguely surprised by using Matt’s words from Friday, but they were apt. “They provide companionship first and foremost, tailored to each individual person’s—” or type of person, I thought bitterly, “—preferences and needs.”
“And he’s legit? He’s not some quack?” Was that reluctant excitement I heard in Daniella’s voice? I knew she trusted my judgment, but hearing her almost approval had my heart beating faster.
“Oh, he’s very legit. He has a grant from the federal government for his research. His companion robots�
�which he calls Compassion AI—could potentially serve multiple purposes, not just romantic. They could ultimately become childcare workers, foster parents, elderly companions, and so forth. This guy is a scientist first and foremost, but he seems to want to solve the problem of loneliness in our world. I believe his aims are altruistic.”
“He wants to solve loneliness . . .” she repeated thoughtfully. “Solving Loneliness. That’s the name of this series. That’s how we’ll spin it.”
YES!
I grinned, throwing my hands in the air and doing a little dance at my desk. Albeit, a quiet dance.
“Yes. Okay. Good. This is very good. I love this.” Daniella was typing again, it sounded rushed and excited. “Marie, send me over the concept blurb, with a storyboard of each article. We could stretch this over a few months, starting in November and through the season, when people are suffering from holiday blues.”
“Yes. I will. I’ll send it over today.” I scribbled a few notes on my notepad, briefly distracted by the buzzing of my cell phone. It was my mom, but I would call her back after my work call was finished.
“I’d like both the male and female perspective on this, especially the paid services part. Is cuddling essential for men? Who knew? And orgasm meditation, what does the man get out of it? If anything.”
“Great,” Tommy agreed readily. “Maybe I’ll fly to Chicago, Marie can show me around while we cuddle and dry hump.” Then, as though realizing what he’d just said, he quickly amended, “Not each other, obviously. Sorry. That came out wrong.”
I chuckled. “How about you check out the cuddlers of LA, and I’ll do the same here. Then we can write the OM and dry humping pieces together.”
“Sounds like we have a plan. I have to dash. I’m excited about this. This is going to be great. Talk later.” Before I could say another word, Daniella hung up, ending the conference call.
Breathing a sigh of relief and gratitude, I picked up my cell and navigated to my mother’s number.
She picked up instantly. “Marie! Sorry, did I interrupt you?”
“No. Not at all. Sorry I didn’t pick up; I was just finishing up a work call. How are things?” I asked with a smile in my voice, still feeling the rush of victory.
