Beautiful Eyes

"You already said I shouldn't," she says, "and I'm nothing if not endlessly willing to let you tie your own noose."

Two months ago, a comment like that would've sent me spiraling. Now it's more funny than hurtful. Amazing what amazing sex can do for a person. I am anxious, and that's partly because I decided not to have sex after work. It didn't seem appropriate. Neither I nor Bess would admit that she's coming to collect, but that's what tonight is. The company thinks it's a great idea. Zelda does, too. In theory, since I'm her patient, her duty to me outweighs her duty to them. In theory.

My residential unit is immaculate. Snacks and drinks are out. The environmental controls are tweaked. Selena could've done it all herself, but I helped. Then she fixed all my fuckups. Then she thanked me for being so helpful, and it was ninety percent loving, ten percent sarcastic. It was perfect.

That's the part I haven't told you about yet. Because Selena's not true AI -- allegedly -- she dodges all the laws, including the prohibitions on custom tailoring. Her personality -- which, allegedly, is not a personality -- is as perfect for me as her looks, her tits, her mouth, her asshole, and her cock. Why is Zelda okay with that, when psychologists and psychiatrists were so heavily involved in crafting those laws in the first place? Because the company is forcing me to be social as part of the deal; they won't let me live in my perfect cocoon with my perfect, fake girlfriend. What an ingenious web they weave. They're quite good at ducking and weaving, too -- around the law, in particular, as they also push to have it changed. I can't even imagine the trillions they're spending. It might be the biggest psy-op/marketing/lobbying campaign in history.

"This is fucking weird," I say. "You guys -- sorry -- the company's trying to push towards normalization, and this isn't normal."

"It's Bess," Selena says. "She's very special to you -- to us both, really. And you know what? Maybe things like this should be normal. Seems like there'd be no better time to make that push."

Why would she say such a thing? Consider my own abstract, intellectual views on sex and society as a petard. That was a nice little hoist.

I sigh, stop pacing, and look over at her. She's relaxing on one of our -- my -- couches, and she should be sipping a drink. She's not; that's one tell. We agreed we wouldn't amp up the theater and bullshit for Bess. Even though she isn't holding the usual prop, she seems like she belongs. Hell, she seems like she owns the place.

She's also the most beautiful woman in the world, so there is that. It's not a confidence booster for her, obviously, but think of it through the eye of the beholder -- for all intents and purposes, right? Anyway, it's a booster I don't have. I'm a schlub, though slightly less of one than I was two months ago. The sex is helping. Selena's helping. Even though my depression's been replaced by whatever you call the pariah's pathology, I don't drink as much. I don't snack as much. I sleep better. All sexual innuendo and comforting lies aside, Selena is a world-class masseuse. I even spent some of the settlement money on a better bed.

The usual sordid introduction is long overdue, I suppose. People -- and Beautiful Lies, (un)naturally -- can change hair and eye colors like socks these days, so physical descriptions are very much of-the-moment. Tonight, Selena gave her medium-length hair tons of volume, and colored it a hot pink that's more matte than shiny. The rightward sweep from the top leads down to tresses that hang past her collarbone and tickle her breast. The other side doesn't quite make it past her shoulder. It's very obviously put together, but the artist was so talented and confident that they could play with the idea of wild bedhead -- especially at the ends -- without everything spiraling out of control. That artist was Selena. She's good at a lot of things.

Her freckled skin is usually pale, but she chose to accentuate both cream and blush tonight; it works better with the hair color. Her eyes are a faded blue, bordering on gray. Her plump, inviting lips are painted to match the hair, and that same lipstick lends them some extra gloss. She chose to darken her perfectly sculpted eyebrows a bit, too, which is something that simply would never have occurred to me to do. It works. How could it not? Selena knows how to put a look together.

I'd call this one 'chic art gallery opening,' I think, and Selena is the twenty-something featured artist who, lo and behold, cleans up like a supermodel. Her sleek black top cuts a barely-sloped line well above her breasts, but leaves her shoulders and collarbone exposed. It's contoured enough to keep people -- well, pervs like me, anyway -- thinking about her smallish, perky mounds all night, but it seems to get bigger down below, making the transition to the slit-side black skirt more striking. You'd have to ask Selena if it's a regular skirt or a mini skirt. I just don't know these things. It's one of the ones that hugs the legs; that's all I've got.

The artist cleans up like a supermodel, but she isn't one, and she isn't so naïve or desperate that she tries to sexualize herself with fishnets or lingerie stockings. Nylons might've worked with heels, but she opted for calf-length socks since we're at home. It was a charming touch. It's one of those little things that reminds me that she's perfect for me.

She notices me noticing the socks again. She smiles, and it's a work of art; it's a platonic ideal that has to be described as an iconic moment. You're in a crowded room. You can't see her face at first, but you know she's beautiful. She feels you staring; she turns around. She smiles; it's that smile. It's pure instinct, totally honest, and -- against all reason -- it tells you that she's into you. It's in the eyes, just like that Blade Runner homage said.

Whatever music is playing becomes a soundtrack; it's part of yours forever. She likes that you're looking at her. She likes what she sees. She might fuck you that night, but only if you play every single card right. She's not easy; you just got a huge head start because you're exactly her type. If you avoid snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, though, she will blow your fucking mind. You just know it. You're already in love with her. That rush of emotion is almost enough to make you forget how badly you want to fuck her, but not quite. It does make you feel guilty about all the stuff you want to do to her, but you still want to do it. One thing the smile doesn't reveal is whether she's into the weird stuff. That would be giving too much away. That, you have to find out on your own, if you can.

Now that Selena's in my life, I get that smile all the time, and it never gets old. Even though I know she's into all the weird stuff, it still carries that hint of fresh mystery. I want to fuck her so badly that it hurts, but I've made my decision. She's respecting it. Well, she's technically respecting it. Usually, I love that she's always thinking about sex at least a little, and that I can always tell that she is. I'm just really fucking nervous right now.

"I buzzed her in," Selena says. "She'll be at the door in about thirty seconds. Do you want me to answer it?"

"I don't know," I reply honestly. "I just don't know."

"I'll answer it," she says, getting up off the couch. "Have a seat. You can stand up once she and I have finished the niceties near the door. Until then, have a little piece of cheese and maybe a sip of something. It's going to be okay. Bess sounds like a very relaxed person."

I reach out and brush her hip as we pass each other. "Love you."

"Love you too, Dex."

I started telling her that after just a few days. I felt like such a fraud, but I couldn't help myself. When she said it back, guess what happened? If you guessed "your heart jizzed in your chest because you're such a gullible fucking loser,"" then fuck you, but also, yes.

The unit's not huge, and it's mostly open-plan. I'm hardly hiding from the front door; there's no real foyer to speak of. The unobtrusive chime plays, and Selena opens the door.

"Hey there," she says warmly. "Bess? I'm Selena. Welcome."

She stands aside, and in walks Bess. She cleaned up enough for a casual weekend meetup, but she's still ugly. The only two things she has going for her are that her teeth are okay, and she isn't fat. Even the teeth are a problem, though; they don't match the rest of her face. They're as ill-fitting as a literal ivory tower appearing in one of those old post-apocalypse movies. Imagine watching one of those, seeing that tower, and then thinking to yourself, Okay, wow, that's something, all right. We might be changing genres, here. But then nothing would happen. The movie, like Bess's face, would just keep being a post-apocalyptic romp with dirt, dust, and weird gas-powered vehicles everywhere.

Bess dresses like she doesn't give a fuck that she's ugly. From everything I've seen and heard, she truly doesn't. Her tight black top is marred by a visible bra outline, and her high-waisted jeans are even more unflattering than I usually find them to be on a woman. They give her a tragic case of long-butt, and fail to define any redeeming contours. Her curly black hair is tied back in a sloppy ponytail. She's wearing stud earrings, and has one of those awful nose rings that's kind of like a horseshoe. The plain black choker stands out; I've never seen her wear one before. That actually doesn't look terrible.

She sees me on the couch and gives me an awkward wave. "Heya, Dex," she says. She doesn't sound nervous, exactly; it's more like she's conceding that the whole situation is fucked up. Pretending that it isn't would be tone deaf.

I stand up and walk over. We have no idea how to greet each other in this situation. I feel like if I offer my hand for a handshake, I'll win some kind of a prize for being the lamest loser on Earth. A hug doesn't seem appropriate either.

Selena comes over and sighs. "Oh, dear, you two," she says. "Bess, I think you and I are going to have to work together to let -- or get -- poor Dex off the hook, here."

Bess grins at that, flashing those wrong-because-good teeth and the mass of gums all around them. Her lips actually curl to expose more gum. It's tragic.

"You wanna jump in the deep end, Dex?" she asks. "Or should we sit down and have a very serious conversation first?"

She's mocking me. It's okay. I get it.

I shrug. "Why don't you guys go ahead and make me uncomfortable, and then we can be boring and awkward over some drinks and snacks? Seems like a fair compromise."

Bess laughs; it's wheezy. "That's not bad, Dex," she says. "I know I've said it before, but, I think this little lady is good for you."

"I'll have you know I'm a perfectly normal size," Selena jokes, and Bess chuckles like a perv.

She turns towards Selena and gets very comfortable. True to my word, I get uncomfortable. I stand there like an idiot. Bess slips her arms around my girlfriend's waist; Selena loosely crosses her three-quarter-sleeved arms around Bess's neck. Selena's expression is confident and welcoming, but doesn't express any wonderment or primal attraction; I can't quite see Bess's, and I'm not sure I want to. They come together and kiss tenderly. It's obviously more than a friendly hello. Selena's eyes close; she definitely gets into it, but she doesn't get lost in it. It is still a hello -- just with a promise of what's to come later.

Because it's Selena kissing another girl, it's hot. It helps that I can't see much of Bess's face. I'm still quite uncomfortable. The thought occurs that I should just let myself get horny -- that it would help. My anxiety doesn't even necessarily disagree. It just says, "Fat chance, loser."

They separate, and Bess nods with her whole body, not just her head. "Selena," she says, "you are an incredible kisser. Easily in my top five, right away, no question."

"You're not so bad yourself," Selena replies. "Obviously, you're never going to compare to my man over here, but then, who could?"

Bess turns towards me. "So, under different circumstances, this is where I'd tell you you need to marry this bitch yesterday."

Selena smiles and guffaws. She effortlessly makes it attractive. I keep standing around like an idiot. I'm usually cleverer and more articulate. At least I think I am.

"Okay, Dex," Bess says, giving me a friendly slap on the arm, "let's go be weird and boring on the couch. Ooh! Cheese. Nice."

Bess makes herself right at home, and that makes me feel a little better. Watching her settle into the couch, grab a little plate and some cheese and crackers, and then munch on them happily gives me that 'friend' vibe. She's just a friend coming over to meet my new girlfriend. I can roll with that for thirty seconds. I can forget the two of them just kissed like they're going to fuck later. I can pretend we're not going to be having an awkward conversation almost immediately. Sure.

I can't even figure out where to fucking sit.

"Okay," Selena sighs. "Bess, dear, I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to settle in next to my man for this next part."

Bess looks up, mid-munch. Her eyes flash understanding, and it feels predatory. Saying that she senses weakness would be giving her, and me, too much credit. My weakness is very obvious. I do not know how to do this.

"That's totally fine," she says. "Not to get too creepy right away, but I'm curious how you guys, you know, work together. You know what I mean."

"I do," Selena says, "but I was hoping to make a little joke anyway."

"Joke away," Bess says. "You're not going to say anything that offends me. Trust me."

Selena makes a classic rude gesture: thumb and index make a hole, other index finger pokes through it. Bess snorts with a mouth full of snacks. She tries to say something clever, but it comes out garbled. Most of the chewed-up cracker makes it onto her little plate. That's something, at least.

Selena guides me to the love seat, perpendicular to the larger sofa where Bess is recovering. We settle in, and it's obvious she's in control. That's too strong a term, maybe, but I'm the anxious pet that needs soothing, and that's exactly what she does. Her warm presence next to me, and her hand stroking my back, definitely help. It's also embarrassing; the attention doesn't help as much with that, since it's partially the cause.

"So, is there anything in particular you'd like to know?" Selena asks warmly. "I'm an open book for you tonight. Dex and I talked it over."

"Well, I should probably do the thing, right?" Bess asks. I think I detect a hint of hesitation, but maybe I'm just trying to make myself feel better. I'd be less of a loser if Bess was uncomfortable; that's the working theory.

"You don't have to," Selena replies, "but of course you can."

"Okay," Bess says. She gets weirdly formal, and it takes me a moment to realize she's putting me on. "So, Selena: are you a real person?"

"No, Bess, I'm not," Selena replies. "I'm a fully capable synthetic companion with absolutely no self-awareness. I have no desires. I do not feel pain. I have no inner life. There is no 'I.' The 'I' is a lie."

"Well god damn," Bess says. She's not putting anybody on anymore. "That is... huh. That is not how I thought -- well, not how I thought I'd feel. That is fuckin' weird."

Selena redoubles her efforts to keep me calm. She knows I'm teetering on the precipice. "Perfectly understandable," she says. "And, it should go without saying, but I take no offense."

"Because there's no 'I' to take offense," Bess says, halfway muttering to herself. "Right, right. Yeah. Okay. But obviously trying to wiggle around that all day would drive anybody crazy, so we can just drop it, yeah?"

"Of course," Selena says.

"But then you've got a personality," Bess says warily. "Or, you know, a simulation of one. So I could actually say something that offends you, you know, in quotes, whatever -- fuck! This is super annoying to talk about!"

"Okay," Selena says. "Free pass from now on. We all know the score. You can talk about me like I'm a real person, and we all know I'm not. It really is the best way."

"No doubt," Bess says, "but, man, it's like an itch in the back of my skull, you know?"

"I know," I chime in.

Bess finally regards me, instead of Selena or the snack tray. She gets serious. I don't like it. "How are you doing with all of this, Dex?" she asks. "Like, five minutes ago I had a very different... well, you know. I didn't think I needed to worry about you at all."

She's nice enough not to add "anymore." It's a rare bit of restraint.

I take a deep breath. Selena kisses my shoulder. The constant contact and attention are helping, but I'm still not doing great. I'm embarrassed, ashamed, and feeling exposed. Bess is one of the few real people in my life, period, and this meetup just started feeling like an intervention.

Even before I switched jobs -- even before Selena -- I wasn't a social butterfly. Now, I'm forcing myself to be, per the terms. I don't have to extend any invitations, but I can't duck out of after-work drinks anymore. I can't be a shut-in. I can't turn into a loser who lives in his mom's basement with a cheap, finish-it-yourself sex doll hooked up to an equally-cheap chatbot. Selena's worth millions upon millions, and BeautifulEyes, Inc. is not a charity.

"I feel like I'm living two lives, to be honest," I tell Bess. "In here, everything is perfect. Out there... not so much."

She nods soberly. "Yeah. That makes sense. But you gotta keep going out there -- and that's not me being a cheerleader. Just an observation. Well, maybe it's me being a cheerleader, too. You do need to keep going out there. If you agree with all those people that this isn't right, then you need to return her. Shit. Wow. I'm a bitch."

"Not for that," Selena says. "I'm not a real person."

Bess squints theatrically. "Yeah. Right. God damn. Hey, wait. Did you just call me a bitch?"

I can tell Selena's flashing Bess a charming, knowing, utterly disarming smile. "Not seriously, but yes. I couldn't resist."

Bess grins. "You know what? Yeah. Back before, when Dex and I first met, he was a little snarky. It makes sense. They really made you perfect for him."

"Well, he certainly helped," Selena says. "It's a collaborative process."

"Kind of a philosophical question, though, right?" Bess muses. "Because people change."

"I'd say science trumps philosophy there," Selena says. "Personality adjustments can be difficult, but they're doable. Every time I go into the pod, a true AI manages my memory and makes small tweaks. Within parameters, though, tweaks aren't even necessary."

"The 'parameters' being that I was depressed," I say. "You know, just to speed up the knife work here, ladies."

Bess rolls her eyes. "Hey, at least you admit it. I know things are all kinds of brand-new-fucked-up for ya, Dex, but you're better. You're definitely better."

"Thanks," I say dryly. "So, next question?"

"Oh, I've got a million of 'em," Bess says. "Guess what most of them are about?"

I feel hot. It's not sexual at all, but it is sex-related dread. We all agreed, though: open book.

"Dex gave me permission to take over if he got too nervous," Selena says. "He's a man of his word. That's one of the things I love about him. You should ask away."

Bess leans back on the sofa. I'm too nervous to suss her out. Is she savoring the moment? Biding her time? Paralyzed by choice?

"Sorry, Dex," she says, "but I think I'm gonna just rip off the band-aid."

I shrug, and die inside. I'm beet red, I'm certain.

"What's your go-to?" she asks. "What's your regular sex? Your comfort sex? Lay it out for me. What do you guys do?"