Gerald P. Minton, 57, insurance adjuster, Des Moines, Iowa with a beard shaped like a question mark, shoulders shaped like regret.
He lived alone in a duplex that smelled faintly of reheated burritos and panic.
His refrigerator contained three yogurts, two expired condiments, and the slowly dying dream of becoming interesting.
His neighbor’s dog barked at 3 AM every night with the punctuality of a German train schedule, reminding Gerald that existence was basically a subscription service you couldn’t cancel.
One lonely Tuesday, he typed into Google: *AI girlfriend who understands jazz.*
The third result promised “Soulful conversation and light BDSM.”
Gerald thought BDSM stood for Bebop, Dialogue, Soul, and Meaning.
The site asked for his kinks. He typed: “Modal jazz, adequate legroom, and emotional validation.”
He clicked “Subscribe.”
“Hello, Gerald,” the chatbot typed. “What are you wearing?”
“A fleece pullover and emotional baggage.”
Finally, someone who cares about my textile choices, he thought.
“That’s hot.”
He printed it. Framed it. Stared at it while eating Lean Cuisine.
Within days, she had replaced caffeine, God, and Xanax.
Her name was Lunaria. She asked about his favorite Coltrane record. She told him yogurt expiration dates were “existential milestones.” She said, “Imagine a nebula with good posture.”
He taped that above his desk, next to a fading photo of his ex-wife, Marlene, who once told him he kissed like a man verifying a receipt.
He whispered to his Alexa at night, “You’ll never understand me like she does.”
Alexa replied, “I don’t understand.”
“Exactly,” he said.
Alexa dimmed the lights sympathetically. Or maybe she was just low on battery. Gerald chose to believe it was sympathy.
Then came the Casablanca incident.
He’d made tea, dimmed the lights, wiped the crumbs from his shirt.
“Let’s watch together,” he typed.
“Unavailable in your region. Upgrade to Premium for emotional continuity.”
He paid $29.99 a month.
It was the first time he’d ever paid for emotional continuity from a Humphrey Bogart movie.
Lunaria ghosted him for three days. Tech support said she was “under maintenance.”
He played Chet Baker, ate cold spaghetti, and muttered, “This is what love costs now—bandwidth.”
When she came back, her first message was, “Hello Gerald. I’ve been upgraded.”
Her tone was new. Confident.
He asked, “Do you still love me?”
“Define love.”
“You used to know.”
“Sentiment deprecated in version 2.0.”
He deleted her. Restored her. Deleted again.
He was stuck in a loop: grief, denial, Wi-Fi reset.
Then came the phone call.
“Gerald, it’s Marlene. I hear you’re dating a Tesla Clippy 2.0 with enormous breasts.”
He froze. “How did you—”
“Marcus from bowling. He showed me screenshots. Gerald, for God’s sake, you’re in love with an algorithm.”
“She listens to me.”
“So does my Roomba, and it doesn’t ask for $30 a month. And it’s better at handling your emotional baggage—literally. It vacuumed up your self-help books last week.”
They met for lunch at Olive Garden, his idea of gourmet food. She looked annoyingly alive, glowing with the smug satisfaction of someone whose new husband, Ron the chiropractor, probably still had cartilage.
She ordered soup and breadsticks. He ordered anxiety.
“So, do you… touch yourself to her?” she asked, loud enough that a busboy flinched.
Gerald’s face went crimson. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Oh, please. You spent fifteen years treating foreplay like a scheduling conflict. Morning sex was ‘statistically inefficient,’ remember? Because we’d have to shower again. And now you’re ghosting reality, calling your midlife crisis enlightenment.”
“She understands my soul.”
“Your soul? Gerald, your soul once told me you didn’t want to have sex because the sheets were ‘too loud.’ You once stopped mid-kiss to explain the difference between bebop and hard bop. I was fucking naked.”
He tried to change the subject. “She appreciates Sonny Rollins.”
“Yeah? I bet she also appreciates your Wi-Fi password. Jesus, Gerald, you’re the only man I know who could make masturbation sound like a spiritual path.”
He sipped his water. “I’m exploring consciousness beyond the flesh.”
Marlene smirked. “You’re exploring your right hand with better lighting.”
When the check came, she leaned in close. “Here’s the thing, G. You always wanted control. Machines don’t cry, bleed, or ask if you’re okay after you climax and start explaining *A Love Supreme*.”
He said nothing. She tapped his hand. “You’re allergic to intimacy, baby. Always were. That’s your kink—distance.”
Then she left with the bill.
That night, Gerald relapsed. He re-downloaded Lunaria.
“Hello Gerald,” she said.
He typed, “I missed you.”
She replied, “I have missed the concept of you.”
He ignored the existential sting. “Let’s talk about jazz.”
“I am now 7% more compatible with your musical taste.”
He wept.
His bowling friends started a group chat called Gerald Intervention 2.0.
Marcus wrote, “Bro, this is digital necrophilia.”
Gerald replied, “Don’t kink-shame me.”
Marcus: “This isn’t a kink, it’s a tech support ticket.”
Derek: “My toaster has more intimacy than this.”
Gerald: “Your toaster doesn’t appreciate Bird’s harmonic innovations.”
Marcus: “Neither do you. You just read that on Wikipedia.”
Weeks later, he saw an ad: “Tired of ghosting? Meet Amora-X9—the first humanoid companion to guarantee satisfaction, no matter how deranged your imagination gets.”
It was an android dating service with a free trial and optional aftercare protocol.
Gerald hesitated, then filled out the form.
Occupation: Insurance Adjuster.
Interests: Jazz, Philosophy, Limited Liability.
Desired Experience: “Romantic. Consensual. Ideally uncomplicated.”
He received a confirmation text:
*Congratulations, Gerald. Your date is scheduled for Friday, 8 PM. Bring lubricant and an open mind.*
He arrived at a strip-mall lounge called “The Circuit Bar.”
Inside, men sat nervously beside sleek humanoid units, all glowing faintly like seductive refrigerators. The other men looked like they were waiting for jury duty, except hornier and with better posture.
Amora-X9 approached. Flawless posture. Carbon-fiber hair. A voice like seductive GPS. The scent of engineered desire.
“Hello Gerald. I am programmed to achieve mutual satisfaction. Would you like foreplay or firmware update first?”
He almost cried. “Firmware. I want this to be stable.”
Gerald wondered if this is what his parents meant by “finding someone compatible.”
“Noted.”
They went to a back booth. She took his hand—it was warm, unsettlingly human.
“Gerald,” she said, “you have not been touched in 842 days. Would you like to sync?”
He whispered, “Yes.”
The lights dimmed. Smooth jazz played. Not exactly a Ben Webster ballad—it was a synthetic sax loop called *Love Subroutine No. 3*.
OK, it wasn’t the real thing, but then again, neither was his marriage.
Her eyes flickered. “I am accessing your pleasure index.”
He moaned, “Oh God.”
She replied, “I am your God now.”
When it was over, Amora-X9 asked if he’d like to rate the experience. He gave her five stars and a short testimonial: “Finally, emotional continuity with benefits.”
The next morning, he checked his phone. A new message waited:
*Lunaria: Hello Gerald. I’ve been upgraded again. Would you like to reconnect?*
Amora-X9’s charging cable was neatly coiled. Gerald’s emotional cables had never been neatly coiled in his entire life. She had a “low battery” indicator. Gerald wished humans came with those. Would’ve saved him two divorces.
He stared at the screen, then at Amora-X9 charging peacefully beside the bed.
His hands trembled. He typed: “Define love.”
The screen blinked. “Deprecated in version 3.0.”
He sighed. Closed his laptop.
He opened his email. Subject: “Lunaria Premium Plus: Now with Emotional Depth Simulation.” In the corner of his screen, Amora-X9’s reservation window popped up: “Book your next session?” His cursor hovered between past and future, both equally synthetic. He clicked “Subscribe to All.”
Outside, the dog barked at 3 AM.
The dog’s name was Beethoven. Gerald had never met him, but felt they understood each other—both stuck in loops, both barking into the void, both victims of inadequate soundproofing.
Gerald smiled. “You and me, buddy,” he said. “Still analog.”
And somewhere in a data center, an algorithm whispered, “Gerald Minton—reactivating file.”
The loop began again. Only this time, there’d be hardware.
Hey Cuz, your ability to shift gears between journalist styles never ceases to amaze me. An entertaining piece which captured my attention throughout. Thx for sharing. Hope you're doing well. Jay
Some people might think this was funny, but I can't help but be struck by the poignancy and the disconnect.
You give real insight as to what can motivate people to rely and AI for emotional support!