Living Doll


It’s hard to believe that the first inflatable doll was commissioned by Louis the XVI, mainly because it’s not true. However, there is a wealth of evidence to suggest that he wouldn’t have minded. Before the rubber love-doll appeared in the middle of this century, men had two basic options to get their rocks off; other people or their own hands. It soon became clear that there was a continuum between these two forms, and that depending on one’s mood, the inanimate was more appealing than the animate, I’ve-got-a-headache-no-not-like-that kind of partner. Cantaloupes, sheep and vibrating furniture filled the gap (if you excuse the pun) for a while, but when twentieth-century plastic technology helped create the first inflatable woman it was quite a coup for the lonely onanist.

The only problem was that the classic love-doll, which has been mass-manufactured for decades now, is a ridiculously unnerving artifact. While newer models have lots of bells and whistles, including the vibro-vagina, there is no hiding the fact that she is basically a glorified lilo. Having a face like Munch’s existential Scream doesn’t do much for the libido either. The same effect could be had drawing a smily face on a balloon and humping a hole in the wall. And so the love-doll has pretty much been restricted to bachelor parties, frat movies and particularly desperate men. Until now that is . . .

Allow me to introduce you to the RealDoll. This "young woman" is a quantum leap from polythene pammy, mainly due to her articulated steel skeleton and advanced silicone skin-system. Her breasts are a wonder of modern engineering, on a par with the Sydney Opera House. Each strand of hair is authentic and hand stitched. You can select from five different torsos and five different heads, mixing and matching your own techno-lovebabe. Of course, standard models are available, the brooding Celine, or the blonde starlet, Stacy. Both are only available from the RealDoll site on the Internet and will set you back four to six thousand US dollars, depending on your specifications (multi-penetrating, easy cleaning etc). This price kind of rules out the traditional whip around before the bachelor party, "Come on, put in $500 you tightwad! It’s for Davo!"

The RealDoll letters column is jam-packed with satisfied customers, attesting to the life-like nature of the product, and the numerous sexual ills she has cured. Couples write in to tell of their acrobatic menage-a-trois, minus the jealousies and embarrassments which would accompany a real woman. New York "shock-jock," Howard Stern had sex with his RealDoll on air, and swore that he had fallen instantly in love. "She feels better than a real woman! . . . . My wife isn’t as good as this," he confided to millions of stupefied, but curious listeners.

While many people would see this phenomenon as further evidence of the decline of civilization, others would argue that it is a step towards its apex. Indeed, Mr. Stern is in some pretty exulted historical company. The urge to create a "mechanical bride" was discussed by Marshall McLuhan in the 1960s, and long before that, decadent novelist Villiers D’Adam wrote a book about a robotic mate called The Future Eve. Even the father of modern philosophy, Rene Descartes, had an automaton called Francine, who kept him company on long winter nights. "I frig therefore I am."

The cult-classic b-grade science fiction movie, Cherry 2000, is an entertaining meditation on a near future where cybernetic sex robots are almost indistinguishable from their "real" female counterparts. An encoded personality (albeit a little limited) is recorded onto a micro-chip allowing her to simulate the behaviour of an insatiable Spanish girl after too much Rezzina: "Once you get one of these babies fired up it’s like slammin’ an octopus." The RealDoll may just be viewed as the prototype for this kind of future.

So it seems we have been craving kinky, artificial sex for centuries, and yet we panic as the possibility becomes realized. French philosopher and all round shit stirrer, Jean Baudrillard, has made the compelling point that the more we simulate our world, the more the world threatens to disappear into its mirror image. For instance, the event disappears in the news, as OJ Simpson or the death of Diana illustrated. The territory can disappear in the map, just as music threatens to be engulfed in its hi-fidelity digital reproduction. Baudrillard’s has insisted that sex itself disappears in hi-tech pornography, and this was before the invention of the RealDoll. ("I can’t get over how real she looks," writes one happy customer, "the photos do not do her justice.") Indeed, the Japanese – always one step ahead in these matters – have invented a doll with her own secretion glands . . . now we know why there isn’t a cure for the common cold! All our brilliant scientific minds have been working on this kind of stuff.

Whether sex is everywhere or nowhere is, as they say, academic. However, there is no denying that the RealDoll represents a fascinating leap forward in technology and cyber-surrealism. Cherry 2000 finishes with a moral dilemma, to take the robot and her advanced software, or take the real woman (in this case, Melanie Griffiths) with all her authentic femininity, good and bad.

Check out www.realdoll.com and decide for yourself.