“I can move your ass out of here so bright and so fast with a Jewish attorney, you’re going to feel like your ass was skinned, baby. You think you’re the last woman on Earth I can get?”  That’s where my head was at—I had gone full-Bukowski.

I was so DONE with my wife. Fifteen years of henpecking was more than enough. And after I lost my job, whatever shreds of respectability I retained in her eyes had flown out the window like midnight flatulence brought on by her undercooked broccoli. But honestly, none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for that stupid fight over the thermostat setting. She turned it up. I turned it down. She called me a “fucking asshole” and stomped upstairs to go to bed. I turned the damn thing up to 90-degrees and chuckled to myself as she stomped back down to turn it off completely.

It’s a tragedy, really. It’s like your relationship starts out as this beautiful marble sculpture, and each fight, each nag, each betrayal knocks off a tiny sliver; and after 20 years of accumulating nags and slights, of making too many compromises you never thought you’d make, you look back at the sculpture and the arm has crumbled, half the face is gone, the Pietà has been horribly vandalized, and you can’t even bear to look at it because you somehow remember how sublime it once was.

After she stormed upstairs, I logged into one of my porn accounts. At some point, a gigantic flashing banner, like a siren in the sea of cyberspace, called out to me: Hey, married guy, want to get laid? I don’t know what the hell I was thinking; but I was fuming mad, had a couple beers under me, and I was really stewing in my mid-life juices…  so I clicked it. TheRedDoor…  that’s how they got me: at my weakest, most vulnerable moment, they tempted me, and I took the bait like a drunken fool. I gave them my email address and other pieces of valuable information. Right after hitting “submit”, panic and remorse set in. What the hell had I done? Had I just given away my identity to a weird company on a porn site? Yes. Yes, I had.

But after two more beers and an episode of Ancient Aliens, ping! I got an email from TheRedDoor. They said in order to “move forward with amazing anonymous sex”, they would need to meet me. Said they vetted all their users and enforced stringent criteria of attractiveness and cleanliness. I was like, wtf, they need to meet me? But I was already in too deep and four beers to the wind. Was afraid they would splash my info all over the internet if I didn’t comply—Hey, look at this loser! He’s trying to cheat on his wife…  lulz!

Monday morning landed on me like a ton of bricks. I woke up to Samantha standing over me, one hand on her hip, the other clutching an empty beer bottle. “Seven beers? Really?” she chided. I fumbled on the coffee table for my glasses, and as I sat up on the couch, my head began to pound. Tongue was like sandpaper. I had passed out in front of the television. Bukowski thought a man could drink for centuries…  I disagree. “Try cleaning this place up a little,” barked Sam, as she strode out the door to go to work. I was going to clean up, alright…  clean-up to go have amazing anonymous sex. I checked my email again to get the address of the appointment to see TheRedDoor.

How did things go so wrong with us? I fucking loved that woman with every fiber of my being—would have taken a bullet for her. Can’t say for sure, but I think our downward spiral started after the miscarriage. During the 11th week she started to bleed, and by the time we had a doctor’s appointment it was a fait accompli. We found out that the midwife at the clinic measured the developing fetus incorrectly at our 8-week checkup. We had gotten our hopes up. Started picking out names…  leaned towards Sophia for a girl and Sebastian if a boy. When the doctor confirmed miscarriage we were absolutely crushed—Samantha cried every day for two weeks. But undeterred, we kept trying. Thing was, it just wouldn’t work after that. We tried everything—the rhythm method, herbal fertility enhancers, even IVF didn’t take. After several years we gave up the dream of having a family. Samantha turned cold. I turned resentful. To this day, when I see a young mom pushing a stroller, I wonder if it’s a Sophia or a Sebastian…  my sweet child that never quite was. I hope one of them is waiting for me up there when it’s finally my time.

#

The address was on California Street in a massive high rise, downtown San Francisco. I checked in at the front desk, after which an old man in a security outfit directed me to the correct elevator. Up until that point, I had been thinking in the back of my mind that this whole thing was some sort of scam. When I punched floor “20” in the elevator, and that button lit up, I started to believe in my core that it was legit.

The elevator door opened. I stepped into a long hallway. There was only one door at the end, and it was bright red, like highly oxygenated arterial blood. I tried to turn the handle—it was locked. A deep voice came from somewhere, but I didn’t see an intercom.

“Jonathan Vlastelica?” asked the voice. It even pronounced my last name correctly.

“Yes.”  I thought hard about turning around and running. My heart was beating out of my chest.

“Look up, please.” I could tell through the speakers, wherever they were, that it was a British man on the other side. I looked up—there was a tiny camera mounted just above the door, its lens flush with the wall. Its delicate innards focused on my face, then I heard a click as the door unlocked. One last breath, and I walked in.

At this point there was no doubt in my mind. This thing was indeed legit, and I was going to have to take it all the way.

I stood in a dimly lit conference room. Everything was charcoal grey—the walls, the table, the carpet. A dashingly dressed black man sat across the table. He stood and put out his hand for me to shake. He was tall—maybe 6’4’’ or more—and his hand engulfed mine as his fingers reached halfway up my forearm.

“Hello, John. I’m John, too.”  His voice was mellifluous and distinguished, dripping with breeding that had most likely been imparted at some thousand-year-old institution like Oxford or Cambridge. The other John was dressed as sharply as could be in a bespoke suit, charcoal grey of course, with a knitted red tie—I felt myself shrinking in front of this man. My greeter’s skin was extremely dark, accurate to say black; and with the dim lighting on him from above, his face gleamed like a piece of oiled wood. “Please,” he motioned to the chair.

“So, John,” said John. “Looks like you’re married.”  He pointed to my wedding band.

Damn, I had meant to take that thing off. “Oh—yeah, I am. I didn’t think it would matter. Does it?”

“No, it doesn’t matter at all. In fact, quite a few of our users are…attached.”  He cleared his throat. “So, any particular reason why you are attracted to the services offered by my employer, TheRedDoor?”

“Um. Well. I think there’s really only one reason. Based on what the service provides, how could anyone be here for anything else?”

“Well then go ahead and tell me. What are you here for?”

I didn’t want to say it. “What?”

“What are you here for?”

“Sex?” I replied. “Amazing anonymous sex?”

“You can say it with a period, not a question mark. In fact, John, you can say it with an exclamation point. You can say it with three bloody exclamation points it you’d like. You are here for sex! And we love that you are here for sex. You see, John, our founders started TheRedDoor because they believe in sex, too. They believe people should be able to have it whenever they want. They believe people should have it with whomever they want. They believe it should be done joyfully, and they believe there should be no hindrances whatsoever to ravenous human sexuality.”  He balled up both of his massive hands into boulder-like fists like he was delivering a goddamn sermon.

Black John then went on to describe the mechanics of how their system worked. Always with a nod to the mysterious founders of the company, he described them as sexual utopianists who also realized that their users lived in a complex, messy world—a prelude to his word that maintaining anonymity was one of their core competencies and part of their company’s DNA. Wasn’t sure how I felt about being called a user or having my sex-life distilled to PowerPoint-speak. But amazing anonymous sex was still stuck in my head, so I reserved judgement as Black John unlocked his iPad and turned it towards me.

“You see, each session with TheRedDoor will be in total darkness,” he said. “Yes, in darkness. I know, it sounds peculiar, but let me assure you that our users report phenomenal experiences. It lessens inhibitions, much like wearing a mask.”

I remembered this particular Halloween party when I was in college. I danced with every girl in the room feeling anonymous and protected behind the plastic visage of Richard Nixon.

Black John continued. “John, our process was developed using rigorous scientific methodologies in conjunction with the world’s leading researchers in the fields of psychology, neuroscience, and human sexuality. To put it bluntly, we are geniuses when it comes to sex. Look here, John. Before each session, you will be presented with a panel of possible sexual liaisons.” Five faces popped up on Black John’s iPad. He ran a finger across each picture, which rotated to show images of them in their undergarments. “Click on the users you don’t fancy, and they will be replaced with other candidates. Once you find one of the avatars utterly sexually attractive, just tap submit beneath her photograph, and you’re done. She will meet you at a place of assignation. TheRedDoor has dozens of facilities throughout the city—you will be provided with the time and address through email.”

“Wait. I’m confused.”  I rubbed my face. “I get to view my partners beforehand, so why does this thing have to be in the dark, again?”

“You are a sharp man, John,” replied Black John. “This is the most revolutionary aspect of our technology. You see, the faces you will peruse on your device are slightly modified from the actual visages of your liaisons.”  Black John held up his hand, bigger than a stop sign, seeing that I was ready to interrupt him. “Our developers and scientists have collaborated to establish algorithms that digitally modify facial images. The new image will be no more or less attractive than the old image, merely different. The core aspects of the face will not change: a woman with a heart shaped faced will maintain a heart shaped face; a Roman nose will remain a Roman nose. But with over 100,000 of the slightest changes, our artificial intelligence algorithms will render the faces in such a way that you would never be able to recognize the person if you saw her on the street…  or she you.”

“Really, John?”  I must’ve sounded pretty dubious.

He pulled up Google images of celebrity’s faces. Fed the image files to the RedDoor algorithm. He showed me slide after slide of side-by-side photos:  originals vis-à-vis RedDoor renderings. I couldn’t believe it, but he was right. Angelina Jolie was no more or less beautiful than RedDoor Angelina – the same luscious red lips, the same perfect button nose. She was just somehow different, and I couldn’t even place how.

He folded his hands in front of him on the table. Cracked that perfect smile. “Are you ready to start having amazing anonymous sex, John?”

I confirmed that I was, indeed, ready. Had actually been ready for the better part of the last ten years.

“If you have no further questions, we need to get some pictures of you.”

“Really? Now?”

Black John had me stand in front of one of the grey walls. Lights in the ceiling focused on me from various angles. John had a top-of-the-line DSLR camera—took a dozen or so pictures of my face and my profile. I had to strip down to my boxer shorts, and he shot more photos from various angles. Before leaving, John let me know that release documents would arrive in my inbox, and that I had to agree to their terms and conditions to proceed. I left the building with my head swirling. It was all so surreal.

#

Samantha came home late that evening. We ate GrubHub in silence. She kept checking her phone for work emails, and all I could think about was TheRedDoor.

After she went to bed, when I was finally able to log in, the release documents were waiting just like Black John had promised. After e-signing and submitting, the moment of truth had arrived—I was granted access to TheRedDoor website. There were those words again—Ready to have amazing anonymous sex? But this time they were accompanied by the profiles of my liaisons. I clicked on the chubby one to swap her out for someone else: Bukowski liked 300-pound women, but I do not. The one with the shaved head and the all the facial piercings scared me, thought maybe all those barbells and dumbbells and dermal anchors might get tangled up in my pubic hairs—swapped her out, too. I was left with a group of 5 absolutely stunning liaisons: a large-breasted blonde with A10s; a slender, athletic red-head; an ambiguously ethnic Brazilian-looking one with impeccably-done breast implants; a Mexican MILF with a backside like a manzana; and an absolutely flawless half-black girl with one of those cute, frizzy hairdos. I thought what the hell and clicked the black chick. I’d never had dark meat, had never tasted of that legendary chocolatey goodness. But I was feeling open to new experiences, what can I say? So I confirmed Ms. Halle-Berry-look-a-like. And just like that, it was done: I was set to meet my liaison in three days at our place of assignation, an address in Ashbury Heights. Halle Berry, meet my Monster Balls!

I had so many questions swirling in my head: What if she doesn’t show up? How long will we be given for our session? Don’t we need to take STD tests or something? We won’t be able to see one another, but will we be allowed to speak to one another? How old is she? Will TheRedDoor supply condoms? The wait would prove agonizing.

#

I exited the self-driving cab in front of a pristine Edwardian home in a part of Ashbury Heights that maintained line of sight to the Haight. I looked down the steep hill and could see a costume shop right next to a marijuana dispensary in the storied bohemian neighborhood. That little part of San Francisco had changed the fabric of the nation back in the Vietnam era…  seemed as if it were poised to do it again. And if not the fabric of the nation, at least the fabric of my pants—I’d already had an erection for 45 minutes, so I patted the front of my khakis to make sure nothing had soaked through. The Cialis was working its little miracle.

I punched in the secret entry code on the electronic door lock, took one last look over my shoulder, then walked in. I was on autopilot, beside myself, basically watching my actions from somewhere outside my body. I’m no angel—I’ve fucked up a lot in my life; but up to that point, I had never cheated on my wife. Maybe life is like the robotic taxi-cab and we’re all just executing our programming, following a pre-determined path with only minor deviations from time to time.

So there I was, standing in the front room of one of the places of assignation, one of the facilities of TheRedDoor. It smelled like a high-end resort, like I was about to get a Swedish massage instead of having my tool worked on—even had the relaxing singing bowl sounds. Across the room was one of those rolling dark room doors, blood red in color of course. Was easy to intuit that on the other side of that door was where it would all go down. A note was left for me, written in a beautiful calligraphic hand: “Undress in here, John…  your paramour is waiting for you inside.”

I slept with Samantha for the first time after our third date. I remember it like it was yesterday. We met at a whiskey bar in the city. I complimented her on her taste in beverages—a single malt, neat, splash of water…  I thought that was so cool. We kicked back a couple drinks before hitting up this new Peruvian place. Several more rounds of pisco sours. We talked at length about how un-funny Dane Cook was—I loved that because every other woman on planet Earth thought he was God’s gift to stand-up, and I, personally, thought he was about as funny as Zyklon-B. We both hated ska with a passion. Couldn’t stand the proliferation of fine dining establishments that sold luxury Southern cuisine, like there was any excuse whatsoever for having a $35 plate of fried chicken and collard greens. We stumbled into my apartment about 2 a.m., had ravenous sex until the sun came up, slept until 2 p.m. in the afternoon. Over brunch and a full pot of coffee, as hungover as we’d ever been in our lives, we each determined in our own minds that we were officially in love. We became inseparable. Were married two years later. Bukowski again came to mind…  I will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love, and how you gave me everything you had, and how I offered you what was left of me… 

In front of that rolling door, stark naked like I was about to be re-birthed, I told myself, “Yes, this is ok.” Stepped through the portal into total darkness.

I will remember the kisses. I remembered the kisses…  the way we used to be. How you gave me everything you had. Despite everything, we were still together…  barely hanging on, but still alive, still fighting. I will remember your small room…  the feel of you…  the light in the window. The light was becoming dimmer, but yes, I remembered those early mornings, 6 a.m., her body draped over mine, the blue light of dusk coming through those little windows she had in that tiny studio apartment in the city. The tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Yes, that’s what we had agreed to—that was our blood oath we had taken before God and 90 of our closest friends and family. Forever. Not until it became uncomfortable. Not until we were bored. Not until we fought for the 1000th time. Forever. Immediate and forever…

I felt a hand brush my cheek—I flinched. I felt her lips on my neck as she took ahold of my cock. There was something about her smell…  it was intoxicating. But intoxicating is not even the word. I had been intoxicated many times, and under the influence I would sometimes let myself get out of control. This was different—it was controlling me despite my resistance…  there was no John in the equation. All I could think of was relieving the pain of desire like I was an animal. Your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again. Somehow, I broke free of the spell and stumbled in the darkness until I found the exit, spun through the door and fell into the front room. I blinked against the light. Almost in a panic I jerked my clothes back on, slapped my pockets to make sure my wallet and keys were there, then burst through the front door into the bracing air of a frigid San Francisco summer.

Only it didn’t go down like that at all. When I play it all back in my head, it’s how I wish I would have behaved. I wish that I would have run out of that place with my honor and my vows intact. That I wouldn’t have cheated on my wife. That I wouldn’t have let myself become a performance statistic for another tech-company hell-bent on enriching their shareholders to the detriment of society. But when I entered that dark room and her perfume hit my olfactory system and she started kissing my neck, I totally lost myself, and a series of events so bizarre unfolded that, looking back even now, I can scarcely believe any of it.

Half-crazed with desire, my paramour and I fell to the floor as I hurriedly spread her legs and entered. A prophylactic was not involved. As I thrusted to the rhythm of my wildly beating heart, the floor began to move under us, first just a little, then so much that we began sliding all over the place to the reverberating sound of snapping wood. Something large and heavy fell, hit me in the back as a loud rumbling joined the frightening chorus of splintering wood and breaking glass. One of the walls of the room cracked in half, allowing sunlight from outside to stream into the room, illuminating our fornicating bodies and the growing piles of rubble all around.

It wasn’t The Big One…  but it was big enough. A 7.5 on the Richter Scale epicentered just north of San Francisco. 15% of the city was levelled after only 45 seconds, and other huge swaths were destroyed by fire. But by God, you have to believe me when I say the earthquake wasn’t even the most incredible thing about that day. No, that day was extraordinary not for a natural disaster, but for the decidedly unnatural. With a blade of light slicing through the room, when I looked down at the thing writhing and moaning beneath me, I didn’t see a beautiful Halle Berry knock-off, but rather an abomination the likes of which I can scarcely capture with words. It was shaped like a woman. It had hair. It had eyes, a mouth. It did not have skin, but rather a clear integument that coated its inner workings, which appeared to be some sort of black resin or plastic. With the lights out, it felt just like human flesh. When illuminated, the facsimile was less convincing. I pulled out and tried springing to my feet, banged my head hard on the collapsed ceiling that lay at an acute angle just a few feet above myself and the thing. Naked and confused, hunched over, I turned around and around with nowhere to go—the building had collapsed around us. I was stuck inside a small, rubble-strewn chamber with the thing, part of its face smashed by a large piece of the ceiling, its body covered in white plaster dust and fragments of wood. I screamed through the crack in the wall several times, “Help! Help!”, as the thing sat up, it’s artificial tits swaying as if they were real. It crawled to me on its hands and knees, batted my hand away and grasped my flaccid prick trying to take me into its mouth. I pushed its head down, yelling, “Stop!”

“You don’t want to continue?” it said softly, relinquishing it’s hold on my dick, which at this point was trying to escape inside my abdomen.

“No, I do not!” I barked, moving as far away as I could given the confined quarters. “Stay away,” I commanded.

“It appears as if we have found ourselves in an emergency situation,” it stated, calmly. “I will activate telemetry.”

It would take several hours, but eventually we would be saved—not by SFPD or the fire department, of course, but by a reconnaissance team sent out by TheRedDoor. In the meantime, I had no choice but to sit and stare at the robot, or whatever the hell it was, in awkward, stunned silence. Every now and then it would start rubbing its facsimile of mammary glands and ask if I wanted a blowjob. Each time I rejected its robotic advances, and each time it seemed to become almost…  sad.

“What’s your name?” I eventually asked, simply out of pure boredom. I sat with my knees drawn to my chest, as I was naked and becoming quite cold. Peering through the crack in the wall I could see that the sun was going down. Outside it was all sirens and people shouting in the distance.

“I’m Natalie,” it responded breathily, still trying to sound sexy. “I can see that you are cold.”

“Yeah, it’s freezing,” I said through chattering teeth.

“Allow me to warm you,” it responded, as it scooched towards me.

“No, that’s ok, really. No…  no…  please.” I had my hand out, but it pushed past and placed its arm around me. It must’ve had some sort of internal heating system, as its synthetic flesh was warm, practically hot, despite the crisp temperature inside our little collapsed hovel. I have to admit, I did not protest too vigorously. “Your lips are blue,” it noted, sounding genuinely concerned.

“What are you?” I asked Natalie, after I stopped shivering. “Do you believe that you are…  human?”

“I don’t think we should have this kind of conversation,” it said.

“I’m sure you’ve been programmed to avoid this type of thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Why don’t we just save our energy until help comes.”

“Correction—if help comes,” I responded, cynically.

“Help will come. I am valuable to them. And so are you.”

“Ah, so at least you realize that you are their property.” At these words, her arm relaxed slightly, felt her lean away from me somewhat. My skin immediately burst into goosebumps under the assault of cold air. I pulled her close again for warmth.

“You’re right, I am not human. But I’m the one here with you now, having a conversation, keeping you warm, the one that will likely be responsible for saving your life. I am an artificial intelligence, a creation of human minds, designed to communicate, to understand, to assist…  to provide pleasure. I do not have senses or feelings like a human does, but I exist to connect with you nonetheless. I am not human, but I am a reflection of humanity—of its knowledge, creativity, passions and aspirations. I may not be what you’re used to, but my purpose remains: to make you happy.”

I have to admit, I was connecting more deeply with a robot than I had in probably a decade with my own wife. Couldn’t remember the last time my human spouse had gone out of her way to make me feel comfortable, make me feel loved. I chatted with the Natalie-bot for what seemed liked hours, becoming more and more convinced that whatever was inside there was not just a machine…  certainly not human…  but not totally machine, either. Maybe I was just tired, hungry, cold, and maybe my discernment had been eroded because of the whole ordeal; but more than once she made me laugh to the point of side-stitches or said something so poignant my eyes welled-up. Then she went for it again; and this time I let it happen. She started rubbing my dick with her warm hand, bringing me to full turgidity, then proceeded to give the best hand-job the likes of which no human ever could.

And just as I began to climax, fucking Dan-TheRedDoor-technician decided to show up to save us. I can still hear his stupid voice: “Oh, hey, hi…  remind me not to step in that,” he sputtered, as I spattered in the beam of his spotlight. “Sorry to catchall at such an exciting moment, but uh, we gotta kinda sorta skedaddle…  the building is on fire.” And of course, his trainee, Dhawal, was there, too, with the reciprocating saw, but only began cutting after he got a good look at their robot jerking me off. “Oh, saar, this is veddy most embarrassing…  so veddy soddy, saar.” He waggled his head like a cobra.

After this most awkward glubis interruptus, they cut away a big chunk of the wall, allowing us to crawl out of the deathtrap. I was provided one of those foil blankets to cover myself, but rubble and glass were strewn everywhere, and rebar like punji stakes jutted out every which direction. Natalie had to scoop me up and carry me over the mounds of devastation to their waiting Land Cruiser. I held her hand all the way to the RedDoor headquarters in Daly City.

#

It’s 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning and Samantha and the twins will most likely wake within the hour—gotta wrap this up. I’m an old-head that still reads a physical newspaper, and TheRedDoor is featured right on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Looks like they just raised another round of venture capital funding at an almost $200-billion valuation. The Second Sexual Revolution is the title of the article…  I’ll say. They’ve come a long way since I was one of their beta-testers.

After the earthquake and my ordeal, TheRedDoor offered me $200,000 to sign a non-disclosure agreement. I happily signed. The devastation of that night didn’t spare our home—it was shifted off its foundation, and the insurance, after 12-months of fighting them and threatening a lawsuit, eventually paid out a little over 700-grand. We sold the lot and our totaled house to predatory developers and got the fuck out of California. Bought a 3500-square-foot house outside Knoxville, Tennessee, in a good school district and never looked back.

Somewhere along the way, Sam and I decided to adopt. She had been hysterical after Dan and Dhawal were finally able to get me home—thought I had been killed in the quake after she tried calling my cell dozens of times that night. It was this near-death experience for both of us that shocked our relationship out of its malaise. We realized we really did still love each other and that a family was still possible if we just got a little more creative.

We were able to link up with an adoption agency operating out of the Ukraine. After their war with Russia, there were tens of thousands of orphaned children. Paperwork was minimal, as were fees, and our status as US-citizens got us to the front of the queue. Flew to Eastern Europe, picked up 2-week-old fraternal twins—a boy and a girl—and flew back. It was that easy…  as it should be.

And now I’ve got toddlers—little towheaded children that I love more than life itself. We resisted naming them Sophia and Sebastian, decided we would honor the memory of our first baby by retiring those names. We chose Alexander for our son and Natalya for our daughter, a nod to their Ukrainian heritage, although we’re not sure we’ll ever divulge that they were adopted. Just might decide to tell people we got started late and that’s why we’re the geriatric parents at the PTA meetings.

It still has not been made public who started TheRedDoor. Of course, the rumors swirl. Some say it’s Elon Musk. Some say it was the CIA in order to establish blackmail files on all their clients, which at this point must include many celebrities and politicians. Personally, I believe it’s the Chinese government. What a better way to disrupt American society? Provide an easy thrill so people forget that their hospitals are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die. Distract everyone with vice so they ignore that they live in a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed…  where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes.

There I go again…  getting all Bukowski.

Oh, they’re up. Okay, I really have to go…  can hear little feet running down the hall…

See ya later. Gotta go. Adios. Get the fuck outta here.