Page 5 of CHOICE Lover
A logo pops up on the screen, CHOICElover, in block letters. Each letter ofCHOICEmatches the rainbow, minus violet, which is reserved forlover.The screen changes to a different man on a computer. He’s on some type of shopping site, selecting checkboxes. I look closely at what he picks, and a voice says, “It’s easy. First you select your CHOICElover’s temperament. You can choose up to ten characteristics.”
The man selects the following: agreeable, sexy, sweet, kindhearted, empathic, charming, caring, adventurous, sexual, and respectful.
Please join me with a collective eye roll. The more exaggerated the better.
Somehow, I know where this is going. I wonder what boxes Res6 selected for me. Because clearly this is what I was meant to be. A CHOICElover, which is some sort of futuristic sex doll for this man, hence his forward comments. This time when my stomach dips, it isn’t in a cute, fluttery way. It’s in anI think I’m going to be sicksort of way.
I keep watching. Because by the end of the video, I presume I’ll have some answers.
The actor clicks NEXT.
A new screen pops up that looks like an online catalog. But instead of handbags or boat parts, it’s people. A button at the top says FILTER. The man clicks it and the voiceover says, “This is the fun part. Just click Filter, and choose your ideal partner. CHOICElover will do the rest!”
The man clicks female, blonde, 5’3” – 5’7”, blue eyes, soft curves (the other choices are voluptuous, athletic and androgynous). There are other criteria to narrow down, but the man leaves those alone. He presses search and the field of people to choose from narrows. He scrolls for a while until he finds the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman he wants. When he clicks on her headshot, a new window pops up with the same woman but her full body. And guess what? She’s nude.
At this point I give Res6 athis can’t be forreallook.
“Keep watching,” he says, as if he doesn’t think this the least bit insane.
Apparently, during my brief interchange with Res6, the man has checked out because he’s begun a new scene. The man is collecting a package from an oversized mailbox. The label reads “Fully Customized CHOICElover Kit.” Then there are a bunch of letters and numbers that don’t mean anything to me. Almost like a mailing label.
The scene changes again, and the man is in a bedroom plugging the little scale-like thing into a wall. Then . . .oh God.He unwraps what looks like a giant patty of Spam, all pink and gelatinous. It quivers as he sets it on the scale. He takes a bottle of water and pours it into a little slot. Green lights come on and the little meat patty gives a jolt.
I can’t peel my eyes away from the time-lapse video that plays next. Every few seconds, the man comes back and speed-pours water into the slot when the lights turn red. He goes away and the meat patty morphs into . . . I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s a pink blob that, with each bottle of water, becomes even more gelatinous. And bigger.
They say the human body is 60 percent water . . .
Eventually, the thing goes from looking like a phallic blob to Gumby if he were made of canned dog food. Then it becomes more humanoid, and skin appears. I assume that inside the creature, the loaf of wet dog food is transmuting into organs and blood, etc. Hairs sprout. Eyelashes and fingernails. The definition of lips and nipples. Her clit and labia form before the pubic hair fills in. The last thing to gain LifeLike color are her irises. The man comes in with a final bottle of water and surveys the creation. His grin as he assesses her turns my stomach.
Suddenly, all I want to do is take a scalding hot shower. To scrub every single inch of my skin until it’s raw.
Now the woman is blinking. The man sets the unused bottle aside and leans down to the scale thing. He punches a few buttons, and, unlike me, the woman doesn’t react. He stands and offers her a hand, which she takes. She steps off the scale, giving him the sweetest trusting grin.
“Hello, darling,” he says to her, and her grin becomes toothy. “What would you like to do today?”
Even though I know what’s coming, I still brace.
In the most compliant Stepford wife voice, she says, “Anything you like.”
The video ends with the man from the beginning giving the rest of his spiel about how with a small down payment, a CHOICElover, the premium manupartner of our time, can be yours. “So, what are you waiting for? Make the right CHOICE today!”
I stare at theBUY NOW button, a little dumbfounded. The implication is that this is what Res6 and his lab coat buddies did to get me. But how? This is too elaborate to be fake or a joke. I spin the chair to face him. I’m shocked and angry and in desperate need of an outlet.
“That is the most horrific, disgusting, and pathetic thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. You . . .” I get to my feet, my words staggering like the rest of me. “You thought, what? That I was going to be some type of sex toy for you? Is that it? Can’t get an actual woman to spread her legs for you? So you needed one of those things . . . what was it called?”
Res6, for his part, remains calm. “A manupartner,” he supplies.
“So creeps like you just pull women from the past to be their sex slaves. Is that it?”
His expression clears. “CHOICElover is not just for men. In my opinion, the commercial geared toward cis straight women is even more graphic.”
Is he offended? Never mind. I don’t care. I don’t want to imagine a woman speaking to the camera while simultaneously pushing a man’s head down, out of view. I think back over the video. I’m missing a few key details, like the significance of the woman morphing into existence from a meat patty. But I’m freaking out. Palms sweating, bile churning, I’m-going-to-vomit freaking out.
I jab a stiff finger into his chest. “If that’s what you think you’re going to get with me, you clicked the wrong buttons, asshole. There is no wayI’m having sex with you, and if you try to force me, I’ll fight you the entire time. I promise it won’t be fun for you.”
My blood runs cold. So very, very cold. Frigid and icy and bone-chilling. If he tries to force me . . . Is that what he wants? Did he pick me and my traits because he knew I’d be more likely to fight him? And he gets off on that? I take several quick steps back, scanning the room for the exit. I have to run away. I remember the beach outside. Surely there’s a resort somewhere nearby with security.
He slowly lifts his hand like I might startle if he moves too quickly. “Easy. I’m not going to force you. There is more you need to know. Please come sit back down.” He looks like every word he speaks is an effort.
