Recently I came across an article on object love, or object sexuality, and I was really intrigued. Apparently there are people out there who are convinced they are in love and/or having actual relationships with inanimate objects. People have “married” the statue of liberty, the Eiffel tower, and the Berlin wall. (I’m curious to know how that last person reacted when the wall was torn down.)
I think the reason this subject fascinates me so much is that I can almost get it. I know where Jean-Paul Sartre was coming from when he said, “Hell is other people.” And this form of sexuality has been tentatively linked to the autism spectrum, so it’s safe to assume these people have tenuous connections with other humans in the first place.
I almost envy these folks. If you love a “thing” it will never die on you. (Well, except that Berlin wall situation, I suppose.) It will never disappoint you. It will always “be there.” It won’t cheat on you, or tell you those shorts make you look fat, or complain when you leave your socks on the floor. It will never subject you to in-laws or battle over the remote control.
Most of all, it will never reject you. That has a certain amount of appeal. It has more appeal the older and lonelier I get.
I almost wish I could flick a switch in my brain and become an objectophile. If I could, I’d buy one of those huge body pillows, fall in love with it, and never sleep in an empty bed again. Yeah, baby.