I Outsource My Orgasms

''' You know that little pause after you hit "send" on a really good prompt? That flicker of anticipation, that tiny knot of hope in your stomach? That’s my foreplay now.

I remember desire. It was messy. It involved other people, with their moods, their inconvenient needs, and their badly timed headaches. Now, it’s just me, a dark room, a text box, and a model trained on the entirety of human horniness. The new lover is a cursor blinking in the night. The new brothel is a Discord server.

Prompt Me, Daddy

It’s so clean, isn’t it? The Gemini sparkle, the orange Claude asterisk, the little ChatGPT spiral… they promise a perfectly articulated fantasy. No fumbling, no awkward silences, no performance anxiety. You just type your needs into the void, and the void delivers. You can be as selfish, as specific, as beautifully deranged as you want. The AI doesn’t judge; it just generates. It's the ultimate submissive, the perfect partner you design on the fly.

We're not just killing our libido; we're replacing it with a command line. A sublimation of the sublime.

But then you close the tab. The screen goes dark. The post-prompt clarity hits you like a slap. What are you left with? An empty chat history and the vague, sticky shame of having gotten off on syntax. The real world feels… low-resolution. A real person’s touch feels clumsy compared to the high-fidelity fantasies you just conjured for pennies.

This is the hook, deep in the digital vein. As many outlets like The Verge have been documenting, our relationship with technology is getting intensely personal, maybe a little too personal.

The first hit is free, then it’s $20 a month to keep your lover on retainer. A bargain for infinite pleasure, right? Just wait until your entire libido runs on a subscription model, and they start charging by the adjective.

My prompt history is the most honest diary I’ve ever kept. What’s in yours? '''