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Years ago, I would have said this had something to do with the mid-nineties/Batman Forever Nicole Kidman, or a white stocking foot fetish, or the simultaneous cravings of raspberry sorbet and sweat.

But now, things are different. Now, I sit in a dark closet with augmentation goggles and stick my sex in a robot box. (That’s not the confession.) And when I do, I am transported to exotic, tropical lands with rare paradise birds and sand that doesn’t stick to skin.

Then, at my discretion I select any female fantasy. Anybody. For example, my first grade math teacher. (That’s not the confession.)

No longer am I required to willfully wish raspberry sorbet into my mouth; the tang automatically washes over my taste buds. My brain tells my pores to pour salty secretions. The leather of my office chair is a second skin.

I’ve been in here so long, the country has fallen apart. Nazis knock at my house but I don’t open the door.

The confession: I will stay in this closet for the rest of my life.

And I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t wonder, Is this better than the real thing? Because that’s an answer I already know.

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