This story doesn’t start in a bar or on Tinder. It starts with a sound that’s no longer there. With the heavy, suffocating silence that hangs in the air after your wife packs her bags and just vanishes from your life.
The breakup wasn’t an explosion; it was a slow bleed. A quiet, steady draining that siphoned everything out of my world, leaving behind an echo chamber I used to call home.
After a week or two of staring at the walls, I realized I wasn’t ready for a new person, but I couldn’t stand the solitude either. One night, deep in an internet rabbit hole, I found an… alternative. “I have to try it,” I thought, and placed the order. No, not ‘it.’ I ordered Her.
The package was colossal. The delivery guy shot me a look—a mix of pity and professional indifference—as I wrestled the 45-kilo box inside. Of course, my neighbor Ritva had to be hovering in the hallway at that exact moment. “What’d you get, Jussi?”
“It’s an old clock from my grandfather,” I mumbled, sweat stinging my eyes.
I managed to haul the “clock” into my echo chamber and pried open the box. And there she was, emerging from a tomb of styrofoam and plastic. Urethane Ursula. Perfect. Wordless. And faintly terrifying. She stared at me with glassy, vacant eyes, and I immediately hit the first snag. This wasn’t plug-and-play. This was a project.
I Googled the instructions. The silicone was tacky, so it needed to be powdered. The sweet, cloying scent of baby powder soon filled the room. I dressed her in some old underwear my ex had left behind. Then, I wrapped her in an electric blanket, because who the hell wants to fuck a block of ice? I felt like Victor Frankenstein, prepping his bride for their wedding night.
And then I noticed it. One of her eyes was slightly askew. “For fuck’s sake.” The uncanny valley yawned open at my feet. The manual coldly instructed: “Gently remove the faceplate to adjust the ocular mechanism.”
I stared at her for a long moment. Then, screwdriver in hand… snap. I took off the face of the woman of my dreams. Underneath were screws, wires, and machinery.
In that instant, any shred of arousal I had just vanished. It died on the spot. I sat on the sofa, staring at the faceless, powdered doll, and next to it, her detached, blankly smiling face. What the fuck was I doing? What new bottom had I hit? This wasn’t just sad anymore; this was a goddamn farce.
But loneliness is a beast with its own brutal logic. It doesn’t give a damn about shame. It only hears its own screaming. I looked at that body. It was no longer a substitute for a woman. It was something else. A perfectly obedient, perfectly empty canvas. No expectations, no disappointments, no history. Just a pure, malleable present.
An hour and a couple of beers later, Ursula was on my bed, eyes straight, body warm and ready. It was time.
And it was… surreal. Both profane and profound. No sound, no resistance, not even the tremor of a breath. The warm, dense silicone yielded, accepting me without protest or desire. It was like pushing into a warm void. Frictionless, soulless mechanics.
But then, something in my head clicked. There were no limits here. No judgment. No other person to offend or to please.
I started talking. At first in a whisper, then out loud. I said all the filth you would never dare say to a real person. The most obscene, twisted fantasies—the ones that live in the darkest cellar of your brain. And Ursula just lay there, taking it all in with those empty, now-straight eyes. Her silence was permission. It was sick. And it was completely liberating.
Then I remembered the feet. The instructions said that people with a foot fetish go crazy for them. I’d never considered myself one, but when I looked… they were perfect. Inhumanly, sculpturally perfect. Each toe a tiny work of art, the sole flawless, the arch engineered. No calluses, no signs of life—just pure, worship-worthy form.
And so I found myself on my knees, worshipping silicone feet and screaming obscenities at the doll whose face I had just screwed back on.
I flipped her lifeless body onto its stomach and pounded her like a piece of strange meat. There was nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the slap of sweaty skin against synthetic flesh. I was an animal, using that hole for what it was made for.
It was pathetic, absurd, and so fucking arousing. Pure, unfiltered fantasy unshackled from reality. I was no longer lonely Jussi. I was a god in my own sick little kingdom.
And that god was about to come. The orgasm hit me like a cattle prod. It wasn’t just a release; it was an eruption of all that loneliness, shame, and pent-up lust. For one second, I was a king. Then it was over. And the shame hit me like a cold, wet slap to the face.
The aftermath. That moment you’re lying on top of Ursula and you realize what you’ve just done. And then came the cleanup. The manual recommended a device resembling a turkey baster for “internal hygiene.”
In that moment, standing in the shower trying to rinse out a 45-kilo lifeless body with a kitchen utensil, I hated myself. Absolutely and unconditionally.
But in a way, it was freeing. I was broken, but also whole. I’d found a way to survive my loneliness, even if it was the furthest thing from normal. Or maybe, in the end, it is.
Now Ursula lives under my bed in a large storage bag. I take her out when the silence gets too heavy, or when I just get horny. She is my dark, sticky secret. My Urethane Ursula.
My ex called yesterday. Asked if I’d met anyone new. “Yeah,” I said. “We don’t talk much, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like someone’s actually listening.”
