The Day I Quartered a Sex Doll With My Ex-Husband

A very normal story about my midlife reinvention.

Grab the popcorn.

This is one of those stories you don’t hear every day - unless, of course, you receive emails from me.

A few years ago, and I can’t remember exactly how, I ended up emailing with what I assume was a Chinese company making sex dolls and toys. They offered to send me one and pay me a grand in exchange for a sponsored video on YouTube.

My rational mind thought: Great. I’ll get this product for free (because I would never buy it) and I’ll make a lot of content with it for my page.

My soul was rolling her eyes and facepalming.

This happened twice. First, there was Britney. Then, later, there was Mark.

I don’t know if you’ve ever watched unboxing videos but, with all due respect, they are boring as hell. For me, this became a challenge. And I love a challenge.

So I did what I love the most: I created.

I made something entertaining out of it. Something absurd, slightly ridiculous, and hopefully funny. For Mark, I even adapted a Marilyn Monroe song and sang it (video below).

Basically, I had a lot of fun creating those videos and on top of that, I was being paid for it. Win-win.

Worth mentioning: I did get in trouble with YouTube because, naively, I did not think spanking or squeezing silicone naked half-bodies would be offensive or against the guidelines.

I mean, some people are so sensitive.

Now, did I ever make all the extra videos my mind had planned?

Absolutely not. Not a single one. Ever.

I made the unboxing videos, put the dolls back in their boxes, and then kept them in the house taking up a ridiculous amount of living space for the next couple of years.

Without going too off-track, but taking advantage of the momentum here… I understand why now.

That’s not me. I don’t really want to screw a plastic man - well, a piece of one - or play the naughty girl with a silicone boob torso. No shame, no judgement. It’s just not for me.

And these huge, heavy boxes have been doing my head in. I knew I had to get rid of them. The problem was: how?

Dump them, yes. But where? Certainly not in my bin.

The only place I could think of was the recycling centre. There is a container there that says Bulky Waste, and I imagined myself driving in, throwing them in there, and driving off as fast as humanly possible.

But there was one small problem: I cannot lift the bloody things.

My masculine energy does not match my body. So I would need to ask the men working there for help. And more likely than not, they would ask what the hell was inside these suspiciously heavy boxes.

And having to say, “These are sex dolls,” is not something I wanted to say. Period.

So I have been stuck with them for a couple of years.

And this week, determined to reclaim my living space and my dignity, I did what I usually do when I need help with something heavy, awkward, or emotionally questionable.

I called my ex-husband.