What do we talk about when we talk about <<Beauty>>?

Commonly, when we say that something is beautiful, we make a value judgment in which we express that the object in question has caused us a pleasurable aesthetic experience.

Aesthetic experiences can be provoked by sounds, images, smells, ideas, and so on.

Among various objects, we can find certain characteristics in common that facilitate their categorization, and give us a glimpse of the primary elements that trigger these experiences.

Art can be considered an example of the above. If an object is considered <<art>>, we can probably group it with others that have similar elements.

In the case of a Love Doll, categorization may be more problematic. We can, for example, associate the desire for a rewarding sexual experience with the utility of a custom-made product.

It should be added: The most recent research in neuroscience shows that aesthetic experiences not only depend on the object itself, but also, and to a greater extent, on the emotional state of the subject, their beliefs, their context, etc. Someone from another culture, for example, might not consider a Love Doll as something beautiful, but as something aberrant.

The ancient Greeks once believed that there was a perfect beauty, which was an innate attribute of virtuous or useful things. It turned out to be a lie.

But for a few moments

you rested your skepticism

and knew

what it was like

to believe it

"Uhhh... Uh-huh," was all you managed to mumble.

She tilted her head. "<<Uh-huh>>? Looks good, doesn't it?"

"Y-yes."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Perfect," you smiled.

She smiled back blushing, "I'm surprised you actually spent money on me." She lowered her gaze, "Thank you."

Does she plan to look beautiful in every move she makes, or what?

And we call her <<beautiful>> so we don't open the dictionary and try to exhaust her looks with every synonym for beauty we could think of.

You contained the urge to cry with happiness.

How could we describe her?

Perhaps as the book that should be read every day, and the only one that deserves to be saved from the flames.

As the painting that deserves to be hung in every corner of the planet, and to be seen by everyone.

She, she was the work of art the world needed!

We have completed our work as humanity. This is peak. We can go now. Last one to leave, please turn off the light.

"You are beautiful, too beautiful."

Few times has it hurt you more not being able to express a raw feeling. Butler rightly said that language is **** against the ineffable.

"Thanks again... Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes..." You tried to catch your breath. "And you like it?"

"I do."

She was almost smiling.

So it was time to sleep.

("I'll take off my clothes to not wrinkle them. Please don't watch."

"Yes. You should definitely take off your panties."

No reply.

"I didn't mean it that way."

Silence.)

That was one of those nights where it could have rained at any moment, but it didn't.

You in your bed, she in her pod. You had given up on convincing her to sleep with you.

How many hours had you already spent staring at the ceiling?

Something in your chest ached. You didn't know what.

The most beautiful thing that will ever exist was sleeping in your room, relatively close to you. You have the privilege of being its witness and owner. Shouldn't you feel happy?

What is this? Sadness? Melancholy?

You turned the pillow to feel its cool side, for the sake of clearing your thoughts.

You've decided you don't feel guilty. It's not regret, either.

So what is it?

Is it simply not having enough will to sleep?

Why weren't you feeling horny?

Sleep, sleep, sleep. You need to sleep.

Please mind, shut up.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Eyes tired of staring at nothing.

So close to hearing a breath other than yours, and still, the hurtful loneliness present.

Ah,

loneliness,

old friend. You have finally revealed yourself.

That's it. There, mystery solved. Off to sleep.

A discomfort with vague cause stings your heart.

Today she almost had a joyous moment.

You reached under your pajamas and touched your shaft. You stroked it a couple of times. Nothing. There was no desire.

Weird, no doubt.

You closed your eyes and no longer dreamed of fucking her, nor her fucking you. You dreamt her hugging you, kissing you, cuddling together.

Yes, it happens sometimes. Wanting to hug, wanting to be hugged.

You hoped she felt the same way.

"Hey, 2B…" you whispered, almost pleading. You looked at her; that beauty submerged among shades of white in the darkness.

She turned to look at you softly. Didn't look like she had been sleeping.

"Are you excited about tomorrow?"

"Excited?"

You yawned, "Or nervous, I think nervous is the word."

She laughed weakly, "Sleep, Timothy."

Why were you still waiting to fuck her, anyway?

The question perhaps causes more agony than the answer.

“2B…”

"Shhhhhhhhh..." Her gaze went to the ceiling as well.

Staring at the ceiling: the last resort of both.

Finding no relief in something, and taking refuge in nothingness.

Damn clouds, move faster.

Your eyes went back to her.

Her lips moved without uttering a sound. You never knew what she said.

Your gaze caressing her face, inspecting each of her features, trying to see behind the synthetic. Who was that breathing? Was that her, really?

Perfect features. Excess of perfection.

You got tired of sending thoughts into the void:

"Listen, my dear. That which does not exist in me now, nor in you; that is possible that exists now in both of us."

Then you woke up.