Words by Arantza Garcia
Trigger Warning: Mentions of sexual violence
A friend told me the other day that she was grateful for blow-up dolls.
It came out of nowhere, a comment made in passing – as if it tried to hide under a disguise of polite conversation. It failed in its undercover mission, stopping me in my tracks with its very obvious red flags stuffed desperately in its too-small pockets.
“What?”
She sat across from me, scrolling aimlessly through TikTok.
“I said I’m so grateful for Blow-Up Dolls. Like, seriously.” She wore this funny little smile.
“Uh… why? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well, they take a lotta shit so we don’t have to, don’t they?” She chuckled. Later, she showed me the TikTok that had prompted her drive-by comment. It was a video of a boy (probably our age, only just legal) throwing a blow-up doll into a pool from a rooftop. Seven or so men dive into the clear waters with cries that mimicked battle chants, arms reaching for the already thrashing floating device, pulling her downward. The video ends with raucous laughter and one victor, my friend rolling her eyes at the ridiculous ‘boys will be boys’ moment captured on video.
Loud feminism is easy. It’s roaring fires that drown out direct attacks, it’s booming critiques at just-as-loud sexism. But quiet feminism? The kind you need to use on your own mother when she comments on your wardrobe, or your friend when she laughs at her own oppression? That shits much harder.
To be fair to her, I had never thought that much about sex dolls either until that moment. They were like shadows in the back of my head, the knowledge that out there exist factories manufacturing plastic, glossy, inflatable caricatures of my body. With perfectly circular tits, and nipples that have zero nerve endings. Two holes – one in between her legs, and one where her smile should be. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. White. Truly, a man’s wet dream; a woman built for his pleasure.
And yeah, they do take a lot of shit. A lot of shit I wouldn’t want to take. A lot of shit other women have had to take, forced into a caricature of their own body. But I wouldn’t say I’m grateful for them.
“Would you be okay with your boyfriend having a Blow-Up Doll?” I asked out of nowhere, a few days later.
“Huh?”
“Like, imagine one day you walk into your room – and tucked into a corner of the wardrobe was a deflated Susie. Would you be okay with that?” My explanation did nothing to change her bewildered expression.
“Of course not? The hell?”
“Why not?”
“Well… why does he have a Blow-Up Doll if he has me?” This time, quiet feminism isn’t needed. We both wince at her comment. We are not blow-up dolls. We will not equate ourselves to blow-up dolls. We are human, and women, and were born from a mother – not a factory. She retracts her statement.
“I just meant that, like… If he has sexual needs, he should talk to me about it. If he isn’t being fulfilled in some way, I would like to know. Communication and all that rot.” She seems satisfied with her answer, and continues scrolling on her phone.
“Anyways, what’s the difference between that and like, me having a vibrator? Or a dildo? Sex toys aren’t a bad thing.” And, well, she got me there.
Because sex toys are a good thing. An essential practice in your sexual health, a needed tool for self-exploration – often ways to “spice up” a couple’s sex life. Close to no cons, so long as you keep them clean and don’t wear them outside your own home, you voyagers. Why then, do I have an in-built defence mechanism against blow-up dolls? What makes them different?
And I came to a conclusion a few days later. Like most things, the reason is a result of having to live in a patriarchal, capitalist, hyper-sexualised (as a result of the previous two adjectives) society. Patriarchal, because of the centering of men’s pleasure above a woman’s safety, and capitalist, because of course corporations would recognize this need and find a way to profit off of it. Off of my body. And it sickens me that this has become so culturally accepted. Has become a form of quiet feminism, as opposed to loud.
And when I looked up the pros of using a sex doll, I found very little besides, “won’t end up broken-hearted”. “Provides satisfaction”. “You’re in charge”(1).
I am not grateful for blow-up dolls. I think I feel sorry for them. And I know, that might seem stupid – they are objects, they don’t have sentience, they don’t feel. But all I could think of was me, being thrown off a roof, by a boy my age (only just legal). Landing into a pool surrounded by men, watching them leap from their ledges, arms stretched out and battle cries on their lips. Hungry eyes. A thrashing floating device, sinking to the pit of a demon’s stomach. Raucous laughter and one victor – and someone in the distance, watching. Rolling their eyes, muttering ‘boys will be boys’.
On Dit 