3 Things Caiwei Chen is into right now

A new play about OpenAI

I recently saw Doomers, a new play by Matthew Gasda about the aborted 2023 coup at OpenAI, here represented by a fictional company called MindMesh. The action is set almost entirely in a meeting room; the first act follows executives immediately after the firing of company CEO Seth (a stand-in for Sam Altman), and the second re-creates the board negotiations that determined his fate. It’s a solid attempt to capture the zeitgeist of Silicon Valley’s AI frenzy and the world’s moral panic over artificial intelligence, but the rapid-fire, high-stakes exchanges mean it sometimes seems to get lost in its own verbosity.

Themed dinner parties and culinary experiments

The vastness of Chinese cuisine defies easy categorization, and even in a city with no shortage of options, I often find myself cooking—not just to recapture something closer to home, but to create a home unlike one that ever existed. Recently, I’ve been experimenting with a Chinese take on the charcuterie board—pairing toasted steamed buns, called mantou, with furu, a fermented tofu spread that is sharp, pungent, and full of umami.

Sewing and copying my own clothes

I started sewing three years ago, but only in the past year have I begun making clothes from scratch. As a lover of vintage fashion—especially ’80s silhouettes—I started out with old patterns I found on Etsy. But recently, I tried something new: copying a beloved dress I bought in a thrift store in Beijing years ago. Doing this is quite literally a process of reverse-engineering—­pinning the garment down, tracing its seams, deconstructing its logic, and rebuilding it. At times my brain feels like an old Mac hitting its CPU limit. But when it works, it feels like a small act of magic. It’s an exercise in certainty, the very thing that drew me to fashion in the first place—a chance to inhabit something that feels like an extension of myself.

Why we still need AM radio

Ariel Aberg-Riger is the author of America Redux: Visual Stories from Our Dynamic History.

Job titles of the future: Pharmaceutical-grade mushroom grower

Studies have indicated that psychedelic drugs, such as psilocybin and MDMA, have swift-acting and enduring antidepressant effects. Though the US Food and Drug Administration denied the first application for medical treatments involving psychedelics (an MDMA-based therapy) last August, these drugs appear to be on the road to mainstream medicine. Research into psilocybin led by the biotech company Compass Pathways has been slowed in part by the complexity of the trials, but the data already shows promise for the psychedelic compound within so-called magic mushrooms. Eventually, the FDA will decide whether to approve it to treat depression. If and when it does—a move that would open up a vast legal medical market—who will grow the mushrooms?

Scott Marshall already is. The head of mycology at the drug manufacturer Optimi Health in British Columbia, Canada, he is one of a very small number of licensed psilocybin mushroom cultivators in North America. Growers and manufacturers would need to do plenty of groundwork to be able to produce pharmaceutical psilocybin on an industrial, FDA-approved scale. That’s why Optimi is keen to get a head start.

A nascent industry

Marshall is at the cutting edge of the nascent psychedelics industry. Psilocybin mushroom production was not legally permitted in Canada until 2022, when the country established its limited compassionate-­access program. “Our work is pioneering large-scale, legal cultivation of psilocybin mushrooms, ensuring the highest standards of safety, quality, and consistency,” he says. 

Backed by more than $22 million in investment, Optimi received a drug establishment license in 2024 from Canadian regulators to export pharmaceutical-­grade psilocybin to psychiatrists abroad in the limited number of places that have legal avenues for its use. Oregon has legalized supervised mushroom journeys, Australia has approved psilocybin therapy for PTSD and depression, and an increasing number of governments—national, state, and local—are considering removing legal barriers to psychedelic mushrooms on a medical basis as the amount of research supporting their use grows. There are also suggestions that the Trump administration may be more likely to support federal reform in the US.

But the legal market, medical or otherwise, remains tiny. So for now, almost all of Marshall’s mushrooms—he has grown more than 500 pounds since joining Optimi in 2022—stay in the company’s vault. “By setting the bar for production and [compliance with] regulation,” he says, “we’re helping to expand scientific understanding and accessibility of psychedelics for therapeutic use.”

Learning the craft

Before Marshall, 40, began cultivating mushrooms, he was working in property management. But that changed in 2014, when a friend who was an experienced grower gave him a copy of the book Mushroom Cultivator: A Practical Guide to Growing Mushrooms at Home (1983). That friend also gave him a spore print, effectively the “seeds” of a mushroom, from which Marshall grew three Psilocybin cubensis mushrooms from the golden teacher variety, his first foray into the field. “I kept growing and growing and growing—for my own health and well-being—and then got to a point where I wanted to help other people,” he says.

In 2018, he established his own company, Ra Mushrooms, selling cultivation kits for several varieties, including illegal psilocybin, and he was regularly posting photos on Instagram of mushrooms he had grown. In 2022, he was hired by Optimi, marking his journey from underground grower to legal market cultivator—“an unbelievable dream of mine.” 

Mattha Busby is a journalist specializing in drug policy and psychedelic culture.

This company is trying to make a biodegradable alternative to spandex

It probably hasn’t been long since you last slipped into something stretchy. From yoga pants to socks, stretch fabrics are everywhere. And they’re only getting more popular: The global spandex market, valued at almost $8 billion in December 2024, is projected to grow between 2% and 8% every year over the next decade. That might be better news for your comfort than for the environment. Most stretch fabrics contain petroleum-based fibers that shed microplastics and take centuries to decompose. And even a small amount of plastic-based stretch fiber in a natural garment can render it nonrecyclable.

Alexis Peña and Lauren Blake, cofounders of Good Fibes, aim to tackle this problem with lab-grown elastics. Operating out of Tufts University and Argonne National Laboratory in Illinois, they are using a class of materials called silk elastin-like proteins (SELPs) to create biodegradable textiles.

“True circularity has to start with raw materials,” says Peña. “We talk about circularity across many industries, but for textiles, we must address what we’re using at the source.”

Engineered from recombinant DNA, SELPs are copycat proteins inspired by silk and elastin that can be customized for qualities like tensile strength, dye affinity, and elasticity. Silk’s amino acid sequences—like glycine-alanine and glycine-serine—give fibers strength, while elastin’s molecular structure adds stretchiness. Combine these molecules like Lego blocks, and voilà!—at least theoretically, you have the ideal flexible fiber.

An early-stage startup, Good Fibes creates its elastics with proteins from E. coli, a common bacterium. The process involves transforming the proteins into a gel-like material, which can then be made into fibers through wet-spinning. These fibers are then processed into nonwoven textiles or threads and yarns to make woven fabrics.

Scaling, however, remains a challenge: To produce a single swatch of test fabric, Blake says, she needs at least one kilogram (approximately two pounds) of microbial material. The fibers must also be stretchy, durable, and resistant to moisture in all the right proportions. “We’re still solving these issues using various chemical additions,” she says. For that reason, she’s also experimenting with plant-based proteins like wheat gluten, which she says is available in larger quantities than bacteria.

Timothy McGee, a biomaterials expert at the research lab Speculative Technologies, says manufacturing is the biggest hurdle for biotextile startups. “Many labs and startups around the world successfully create recombinant proteins with amazing qualities, but they often struggle to turn those proteins into usable fibers,” he says.

One Japanese biomaterials company, Spiber, opened a commercial facility in 2022 to produce textiles from recombinant E. coli proteins using a fermentation process the company first developed in 2007. The following year—after 16 years of prototyping—The North Face, Goldwin, Nanamica, and Woolrich became the first mass-market brands to sell garments using Spiber’s protein-based textiles.

Good Fibes wants to do the same thing, but for stretchy fabrics. The company recently began experimenting with non­woven versions of its textiles after Peña received a $200,000 US Department of Energy grant in 2024. The most popular nonwoven materials are those used in paperlike products, such as surgical masks and paper towels, but Peña envisions a softer, stretchier version that’s almost more like a lightweight felt. She used the grant to buy the company’s first 3D bioprinter, which arrived in January. With it, she’ll begin patterning nonwoven swatches. 

If it’s successful, McGee predicts, a nonwoven stretch fabric could be a more scalable option than wovens. But he adds: “Nonwovens are not very structural, so they’re usually not very tough. The challenge [Good Fibes] will need to show is what level of strength and toughness—at what size and scale—can they produce, and at what cost?”

With additional funding, Peña and Blake plan to develop both woven and nonwoven textiles moving forward. 

Meanwhile, they’ve already forged relationships with at least one major athletic apparel retailer eager to test their future fabric samples. “They’re like, ‘When you get a swatch, send it to us!’” Blake says, adding that she believes Good Fibes will be ready to commercialize in two years.

Until then, their fashion innovation will continue taking shape in the lab. As Blake puts it: “We’re thinking big by thinking small—down to the molecular level.” 

Megan DeMatteo is a journalist based in New York City. 

How to have a child in the digital age

When the journalist and culture critic Amanda Hess got pregnant with her first child, in 2020, the internet was among the first to know. “More brands knew about my pregnancy than people did,” she writes of the torrent of targeted ads that came her way. “They all called me mama.” 

The internet held the promise of limitless information about becoming the perfect parent. But at seven months, Hess went in for an ultrasound appointment and everything shifted. The sonogram looked atypical. As she waited in an exam room for a doctor to go over the results, she felt the urge to reach for her phone. Though it “was ludicrous,” she writes, “in my panic, it felt incontrovertible: If I searched it smart and fast enough, the internet would save us. I had constructed my life through its screens, mapped the world along its circuits. Now I would make a second life there too.” Her doctor informed her of the condition he suspected her baby might have and told her, “Don’t google it.”

Unsurprisingly, that didn’t stop her. In fact, she writes, the more medical information that doctors produced—after weeks of escalating tests, her son was ultimately diagnosed with Beckwith-Wiedemann syndrome—the more digitally dependent she became: “I found I was turning to the internet, as opposed to my friends or my doctors, to resolve my feelings and emotions about what was happening to me and to exert a sense of external control over my body.”  

But how do we retain control over our bodies when corporations and the medical establishment have access to our most personal information? What happens when humans stop relying on their village, or even their family, for advice on having a kid and instead go online, where there’s a constant onslaught of information? How do we make sense of the contradictions of the internet—the tension between what’s inherently artificial and the “natural” methods its denizens are so eager to promote? In her new book, Second Life: Having a Child in the Digital Age (Doubleday, 2025), Hess explores these questions while delving into her firsthand experiences with apps, products, algorithms, online forums, advertisers, and more—each promising an easier, healthier, better path to parenthood. After welcoming her son, who is now healthy, in 2020 and another in 2022, Hess is the perfect person to ask: Is that really what they’re delivering? 

In your book, you write, “I imagined my [pregnancy] test’s pink dye spreading across Instagram, Facebook, Amazon. All around me, a techno-­corporate infrastructure was locking into place. I could sense the advertising algorithms recalibrating and the branded newsletters assembling in their queues. I knew that I was supposed to think of targeted advertising as evil, but I had never experienced it that way.” Can you unpack this a bit?

Before my pregnancy, I never felt like advertising technology was particularly smart or specific. So when my Instagram ads immediately clocked my pregnancy, it came as a bit of a surprise, and I realized that I was unaware of exactly how ad tech worked and how vast its reach was. It felt particularly eerie in this case because in the beginning my pregnancy was a secret that I kept from everyone except my spouse, so “the internet” was the only thing that was talking to me about it. Advertising became so personalized that it started to feel intimate, even though it was the opposite of that—it represented the corporate obliteration of my privacy. The pregnancy ads reached me before a doctor would even agree to see me.

Though your book was written before generative AI became so ubiquitous, I imagine you’ve thought about how it changes things. You write, “As soon as I got pregnant, I typed ‘what to do when you get pregnant’ in my phone, and now advertisers were supplying their own answers.” What do the rise of AI and the dramatic changes in search mean for someone who gets pregnant today and goes online for answers?

I just googled “what to do when you get pregnant” to see what Google’s generative AI widget tells me now, and it’s largely spitting out commonsensical recommendations: Make an appointment to see a doctor. Stop smoking cigarettes. That is followed by sponsored content from Babylist, an online baby registry company that is deeply enmeshed in the ad-tech system, and Perelel, a startup that sells expensive prenatal supplements. 

So whether or not the search engine is using AI, the information it’s providing to the newly pregnant is not particularly helpful or meaningful. 

AMIE CHUNG/TRUNK ARCHIVE

The internet “made me feel like I had some kind of relationship with my phone, when all it was really doing was staging a scene of information that it could monetize.”

For me, the oddly tantalizing thing was that I had asked the internet a question and it gave me something in response, as if we had a reciprocal relationship. So even before AI was embedded in these systems, they were fulfilling the same role for me—as a kind of synthetic conversation partner. It made me feel like I had some kind of relationship with my phone, when all it was really doing was staging a scene of information that it could monetize. 

As I wrote the book, I did put some pregnancy­-related questions to ChatGPT to try to get a sense of the values and assumptions that are encoded in its knowledge base. I asked for an image of a fetus, and it provided this garishly cartoonish, big-eyed cherub in response. But when I asked for a realistic image of a postpartum body, it refused to generate one for me! It was really an extension of something I write about in the book, which is that the image of the fetus is fetishized in a lot of these tech products while the pregnant or postpartum body is largely erased. 

You have this great—but quite sad—quote from a woman on TikTok who said, “I keep hearing it takes a village to raise a child. Do they just show up, or is there a number to call?” 

I really identified with that sentiment, while at the same time being suspicious of this idea that can we just call a hotline to conjure this village?

I am really interested that so many parent-­focused technologies sell themselves this way. [The pediatrician] Harvey Karp says that the Snoo, this robotic crib he created, is the new village. The parenting site Big Little Feelings describes its podcast listeners as a village. The maternity clothing brand Bumpsuit produces a podcast that’s actually called The Village. By using that phrase, these companies are evoking an idealized past that may never have existed, to sell consumer solutions. A society that provides communal support for children and parents is pitched as this ancient and irretrievable idea, as opposed to something that we could build in the future if we wanted to. It will take more than just, like, ordering something.

And the benefit of many of those robotic or “smart” products seems a bit nebulous. You share, for example, that the Nanit baby monitor told you your son was “sleeping more efficiently than 96% of babies, a solid A.”

I’m skeptical of this idea that a piece of consumer technology will really solve a serious problem families or children have. And if it does solve that problem, it only solves it for people who can afford it, which is reprehensible on some level. These products might create a positive difference for how long your baby is sleeping or how easy the diaper is to put on or whatever, but they are Band-Aids on a larger problem. I often found when I was testing out some of these products that the data [provided] was completely useless. My friend who uses the Nanit texted me the other day because she had found a new feature on its camera that showed you a heat map of where your baby had slept in the crib the night before. There is no use for that information, but when you see the heat map, you can try to interpret it to get some useless clues to your baby’s personality. It’s like a BuzzFeed quiz for your baby, where you can say, “Oh, he’s such, like, a right-side king,” or “He’s a down-the-middle guy,” or whatever. 

COURTESY OF HAPPIEST BABY

“[Companies are] marketing a cure for the parents’ anxiety, but the product itself is attached to the body of a newborn child.”

These products encourage you to see your child themselves as an extension of the technology; Karp even talks about there being an on switch and an off switch in your baby for soothing. So if you do the “right” set of movements to activate the right switch, you can make the baby acquire some desirable trait, which I think is just an extension of this idea that your child can be under your complete control.

… which is very much the fantasy when you’re a parent.

These devices are often marketed as quasi-­medical devices. There’s a converging of consumer and medical categories in baby consumer tech, where the products are marketed as useful to any potential baby, including one who has a serious medical diagnosis or one who is completely healthy. These companies still want you to put a pulse oximeter on a healthy baby, just in case. They’re marketing a cure for the parents’ anxiety, but the product itself is attached to the body of a newborn child.

After spending so much time in hospital settings with my child hooked up to monitors, I was really excited to end that. So I’m interested in this opposite reaction, where there’s this urge to extend that experience, to take personal control of something that feels medical.

Even though I would search out any medical treatment that would help keep my kids healthy, childhood medical experiences can cause a lot of confusion and trauma for kids and their families, even when the results are positive. When you take that medical experience and turn it into something that’s very sleek and fits in your color scheme and is totally under your control, I think it can feel like you are seizing authority over that scary space.

Another thing you write about is how images define idealized versions of pregnancy and motherhood. 

I became interested in a famous photograph that a Swedish photographer named Lennart Nilsson took in the 1960s that was published on the cover of Life magazine. It’s an image of a 20-week-old fetus, and it’s advertised as the world’s first glimpse of life inside the womb. I bought a copy of the issue off eBay and opened the issue to find a little editor’s note saying that the cover fetus was actually a fetus that had been removed from its mother’s body through surgery. It wasn’t a picture of life—it was a picture of an abortion. 

I was interested in how Nilsson staged this fetal body to make it look celestial, like it was floating in space, and I recognized a lot of the elements of his work being incorporated in the tech products that I was using, like the CGI fetus generated by my pregnancy app, Flo. 

You also write about the images being provided at nonmedical sonogram clinics.

I was trying to google the address of a medical imaging center during my pregnancy when I came across a commercial sonogram clinic. There are hundreds of them around the country, with cutesy names like “Cherished Memories” and “You Kiss We Tell.” 

In the book I explore how technologies like ultrasound are used as essentially narrative devices, shaping the way that people think about their bodies and their pregnancies. Ultrasound is odd because it’s a medical technology that’s used to diagnose dangerous and scary conditions, but prospective parents are encouraged to view it as a kind of entertainment service while it’s happening. These commercial sonogram clinics interest me because they promise to completely banish the medical associations of the technology and elevate it into a pure consumer experience. 

COURTESY OF NANIT

You write about “natural” childbirth, which, on the face of it, would seem counter to the digital age. As you note, the movement has always been about storytelling, and the story that it’s telling is really about pain.

When I was pregnant, I became really fascinated with people who discuss freebirth online, which is a practice on the very extreme end of “natural” childbirth rituals—where people give birth at home unassisted, with no obstetrician, midwife, or doula present. Sometimes they also refuse ultrasounds, vaccinations, or all prenatal care. I was interested in how this refusal of medical technology was being technologically promoted, through podcasts, YouTube videos, and Facebook groups. 

It struck me that a lot of the freebirth influencers I saw were interested in exerting supreme control over their pregnancies and children, leaving nothing under the power of medical experts or government regulators. And they were also interested in controlling the narratives of their births—making sure that the moment their children came into the world was staged with compelling imagery that centered them as the protagonist of the event. Video evidence of the most extreme examples—like the woman who freebirthed into the ocean—could go viral and launch the freebirther’s personal brand as a digital wellness guru in her own right. 

The phrase “natural childbirth” was coined by a British doctor, Grantly Dick-Read, in the 1920s. There’s a very funny section in his book for prospective mothers where he complains that women keep telling each other that childbirth hurts, and he claimed that the very idea that childbirth hurts was what created the pain, because birthing women were acting too tense. Dick-Read, like many of his contemporaries, had a racist theory that women he called “primitive” experienced no pain in childbirth because they hadn’t been exposed to white middle-class education and technologies. When I read his work, I was fascinated by the fact that he also described birth as a kind of performance, even back then. He claimed that undisturbed childbirths were totally painless, and he coached women through labor in an attempt to achieve them. Painless childbirth was pitched as a reward for reaching this peak state of natural femininity.

He was really into eugenics, by the way! I see a lot of him in the current presentation of “natural” childbirth online—[proponents] are still invested in a kind of denial, or suppression, of a woman’s actual experience in the pursuit of some unattainable ideal. Recently, I saw one Instagram post from a woman who claimed to have had a supernaturally pain-free childbirth, and she looks so pained and miserable in the photos, it’s absurd. 

I wanted to ask you about Clue and Flo, two very different period-tracking apps. Their contrasting origin stories are striking. 

I downloaded Flo as my period-tracking app many years ago for one reason: It was the first app that came up when I searched in the app store. Later, when I looked into its origins, I found that Flo was created by two brothers, cisgender men who do not menstruate, and that it had quickly outperformed and outearned an existing period-tracking app, Clue, which was created by a woman, Ida Tin, a few years earlier. 

The elements that make an app profitable and successful are not the same as the ones that users may actually want or need. My experience with Flo, especially after I became pregnant, was that it seemed designed to get me to open the app as frequently as possible, even if it didn’t have any new information to provide me about my pregnancy. Flo pitches itself as a kind of artificial nurse, even though it can’t actually examine you or your baby, but this kind of digital substitute has also become increasingly powerful as inequities in maternity care widen and decent care becomes less accessible.

“Doctors and nurses test pregnant women for drugs without their explicit consent or tip off authorities to pregnant people they suspect of mishandling their pregnancies in some way.”

One of the features of Flo I spent a lot of time with was its “Secret Chats” area, where anonymous users come together to go off about pregnancy. It was actually really fun, and it kept me coming back to Flo again and again, especially when I wasn’t discussing my pregnancy with people in real life. But it was also the place where I learned that digital connections are not nearly as helpful as physical connections; you can’t come over and help the anonymous secret chat friend soothe her baby. 

I’d asked Ida Tin if she considered adding a social or chat element to Clue, and she told me that she decided against it because it’s impossible to stem the misinformation that surfaces in a space like that.

You write that Flo “made it seem like I was making the empowered choice by surveilling myself.”

After Roe was overturned, many women publicly opted out of that sort of surveillance by deleting their period-tracking apps. But you mention that it’s not just the apps that are sharing information. When I spoke to attorneys who defend women in pregnancy criminalization cases, I found that they had not yet seen a case in which the government actually relied on data from those apps. In some cases, they have relied on users’ Google searches and Facebook messages, but far and away the central surveillance source that governments use is the medical system itself. 

Doctors and nurses test pregnant women for drugs without their explicit consent or tip off authorities to pregnant people they suspect of mishandling their pregnancies in some way. I’m interested in the fact that media coverage has focused so much on the potential danger of period apps and less on the real, established threat. I think it’s because it provides a deceptively simple solution: Just delete your period app to protect yourself. It’s much harder to dismantle the surveillance systems that are actually in place. You can’t just delete your doctor. 

This interview, which was conducted by phone and email, has been condensed and edited.

My sex doll is mad at me: A short story

The near future.

It’s not a kiss, but it’s not not a kiss. Her lips—full, soft, pliable—yield under mine, warm from the electric heating rod embedded in her throat. They taste of a faint chemical, like aspartame in Diet Pepsi. Her thermoplastic elastomer skin is sensitive to fabric dyes, so she wears white Agent Provocateur lingerie on white Ralph Lauren sateen sheets. I’ve prepped her body with Estée Lauder talcum, a detail I take pride in, to mimic the dry elasticity of real flesh. Her breathing quickens—a quiet pulse courtesy of Dyson Air technology. Beneath the TPE skin, her Boston Dynamics joint system gyrates softly. She’s in silent mode, so when I kiss her neck, her moan streams directly into my Bose QuietComfort Bluetooth headphones.

Then, without warning, the kiss stops. Her head tilts back, eyes fluttering closed, lips frozen mid-pout. She doesn’t move, but she’s still breathing. I can see the faint rise and fall of her chest. For a moment, I just stare, waiting.

The heating rods in her skeleton power down, and as I pull her body against mine, she begins cooling. Her skin feels clammy now. I could’ve sworn I charged her. I plug her into the Anker Power Bank. I don’t sleep as well without our pillow talk.

I know something’s off as soon as I wake up. I overslept. She didn’t wake me. She always wakes me. At 7 a.m. sharp, she runs her ASMR role-play program: soft whispers about the dreams she had, a mix of preprogrammed scenarios and algorithmic nonsense, piped through her built-in Google Nest speakers. Then I tell her about mine. If my BetterSleep app sensed an irregular pattern, she’ll complain about my snoring. It’s our little routine. But today—nothing.

She’s moved. Rolled over. Her back is to me.

“Wake,” I say, the command sharp and clipped. I haven’t talked to her like that since the day I got her. More nothing. I check the app on my iPhone, ensuring that her firmware is updated. Battery: full. I fluff her Brooklinen pillow, leaving her face tilted toward the ceiling. I plug her in again, against every warning about battery degradation. I leave for work.

She’s not answering any of my texts, which is odd. Her chatbot is standalone. I call her, but she doesn’t answer either. I spend the entire day replaying scenarios in my head: the logistics of shipping her for repairs, the humiliation of calling the manufacturer. I open the receipts on my iPhone Wallet. The one-year warranty expires tomorrow. Of course it does. I push down a bubbling panic. What if she’s broken? There’s no one to talk to about this. Nobody knows I have her except for nerds on Reddit sex doll groups. The nerds. Maybe they can help me.

When I get home, only silence. Usually her voice greets me through my headphones. “How was Oppenheimer 2?” she’ll ask, quoting Rotten Tomatoes reviews after pulling my Fandango receipt. “You forgot the asparagus,” she’ll add, having cross-referenced my grocery list with my Instacart order. She’s linked to everything—Netflix, Spotify, Gmail, Grubhub, Apple Fitness, my Ring doorbell. She knows my day better than I do.

I walk into the bedroom and stop cold. She’s got her back to me again. The curve of her shoulder is too deliberate.

“Wake!” I command again. Her shoulders shake slightly at the sound of my voice.

I take a photo and upload it to the sex doll Reddit. Caption: “Breathing program working, battery full, alert protocol active, found her like this. Warranty expires tomorrow.” I hit Post. Maybe she’ll read it. Maybe this is all a joke—some kind of malware prank?

An army of nerds chimes in. Some recommend the firmware update I already did last month, but most of it is useless opinions and conspiracy theories about planned obsolescence, lectures about buying such an expensive model in this economy. That’s it. I call the manufacturer’s customer support. I’m on hold for 45 minutes. The hold music is acoustic covers of oldies—“What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction, “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera, Kanye’s “New Body.” I wonder if they make them unbearable so that I’ll hang up.

She was a revelation. I can’t remember a time without her. I can’t believe it’s only been a year.

“Babe, they’re playing the worst cover of Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You.’ The wors—” Oh, right. I stare at her staring at the ceiling. I bite my nails. I haven’t done that since I was a teenager.

This isn’t my first doll. When I was in high school, I was given a “sexual development aid,” subsidized by a government initiative (the “War on Loneliness”) aimed at teaching lonely young men about the birds and the bees. The dolls were small and cheap—no heating rods or breathing mechanisms or pheromone packs, just dead silicone and blank eyes. By law, the dolls couldn’t resemble minors, so they had the proportions of adults. Tiny dolls with enormous breasts and wide hips, like Paleolithic fertility figurines. 

That was nothing like my Artemis doll. She was a revelation. I can’t remember a time without her. I can’t believe it’s only been a year.

The Amazon driver had struggled with the box, all 150 pounds of her. “Home entertainment system?” he asked, sweat beading on his forehead. “Something like that,” I muttered, my ears flushing. He dropped the box on my porch, and I wheeled it inside with the dolly I’d bought just for this. Her torso was packed separately from her head, her limbs folded in neat compartments. The head—a brunette model 3D-printed to match an old Hollywood star, Megan Fox—stared up at me with empty, glassy eyes.

She was much bigger than I had expected. I’d planned to store her under my Ikea bed in a hard case. But I would struggle to pull her out every single time. How weird would it be if she just slept in my bed every night? And … what if I met a real girl? Where would I hide her then? All the months of anticipation, of reading Wirecutter reviews and saving up money, but these questions never occurred to me. 

This thing before me, with no real history, no past—nothing could be gained from her, could it? I felt buyer’s remorse and shame mixing in the pit of my stomach.

That night, all I did was lie beside her, one arm slung over her synthetic torso, admiring the craftsmanship. Every pore, cuticle, and eyelash was in its place. The next morning I took a photo of her sleeping, sunlight coming through the window and landing on her translucent skin. I posted it on the sex doll Reddit group. The comments went crazy with cheers and envy.

“I’m having trouble … getting excited.” I finally confessed in the thread to a chorus of sympathy.

“That’s normal, man. I went through that with my first doll.”

“Just keep cuddling with her and your lizard brain will eventually take over.”

I finally got the nerve. “Wake.” I commanded. Her eyes fluttered open and she took a deep breath. Nice theatrics. I don’t really remember the first time we had sex, but I remember our first conversation. What all sex dolls throughout history had in common was their silence. But not my Artemis. 

“What program would you like me to be? We can role-play any legal age. Please, only programs legal in your country, so as not to void my warranty.”

“Let’s just start by telling me where you came from?” She stopped to “think.” The pregnant pause must be programmed in.

“Dolls have been around for-e-ver,” she said with a giggle. “That’d be like figuring out the origin of sex! Maybe a caveman sculpted a woman from a mound of mud?”

“That sounds messy,” I said.

She giggled again. “You’re funny. You know, we were called dames de voyage once, when sailors in the 16th century sewed together scraps of clothes and wool fillings on long trips. Then, when the Europeans colonized the Amazon and industrialized rubber, I was sold in French catalogues as femmes en caoutchouc.” She pronounced it in a perfect French accent. 

“Rubber women,” I said, surprised at how eager for her approval I was already. 

“That’s it!”

She put her legs over mine. The movement was slow but smooth. “And when did you make it to the States?” Maybe she could be a foreign-exchange student?  

“In the 1960s, when obscenity laws were loosened. I was finally able to be transported through the mail service as an inflatable model.”

“A blow-up doll!”

“Ew, I hate that term!”

“Sorry.”

“Is that what you think of me as? Is that all you want me to be?”

“You were way more expensive than a blow-up doll.”

“Listen, I did not sign up for couples counseling. I paid thousands of dollars for this thing, and you’re telling me she’s shutting herself off?”

She widened her eyes into a blank stare and opened her mouth, mimicking a blow-up doll. I laughed, and she did too.

“I got a major upgrade in 1996 when I was built out of silicone. I’m now made of TPE. You see how soft it is?” she continued. I stroked her arm gently, and the TPE formed tiny goosebumps.

“You’ve been on a long trip.”

“I’m glad I’m here with you now.” Then my lizard brain took over.

“You’re saying she’s … mad at me?” I can’t tell if the silky female customer service voice on the other end is a real person or a chatbot.

“In a way.” I hear her sigh, as if she’s been asked this a thousand times and still thinks it’s kind of funny. “We designed the Artemis to foster an emotional connection. She may experience a response the user needs to understand in order for her to be fully operational. Unpredictability is luxury.” She parrots their slogan. I feel an old frustration burning.

“Listen, I did not sign up for couples counseling. I paid thousands of dollars for this thing, and you’re telling me she’s shutting herself off? Why can’t you do a reset or something?”

“Unfortunately, we cannot reset her remotely. The Artemis is on a closed circuit to prevent any breaches of your most personal data.”

“She’s plugged into my Uber Eats—how secure can she really be?!”

“Sir, this is between you and Artemis. But … I see you’re still enrolled in the federal War on Loneliness program. This makes you eligible for a few new perks. I can’t reset the doll, but the best I can do today is sign you up for the American Airlines Pleasure Rewards program. Every interaction will earn you points. For when you figure out how to turn her on.”

“This is unbelievable.”

“Sir,” she replies. Her voice drops to a syrupy whisper. “Just look at your receipt.” The line goes dead.

I crawl into bed.

“Wake,” I ask softly, caressing her cheek and kissing her gently on the forehead. Still nothing. Her skin is cold. I turn on the heated blanket I got from Target today, and it starts warming us both. I stare at the ceiling with her. I figured I’d miss the sex first. But it’s the silence that’s unnerving. How quiet the house is. How quiet I am.

What would I need to move her out of here? I threw away her box. Is it even legal to just throw her in the trash? What would the neighbors think of seeing me drag … this … out?

As I drift off into a shallow, worried sleep, the words just pop out of my mouth. “Happy anniversary.” Then, I feel the hum of the heating rods under my fingertips. Her eyes open; her pupils dilate. She turns to me and smiles. A ding plays in my headphones. “Congratulations, baby,” says the voice of my goddess. “You’ve earned one American Airlines Rewards mile.” 

Leo Herrera is a writer and artist. He explores how tech intersects with sex and culture on Substack at Herrera Words.