Sex robots are on the rise like never before. The days of the blow-up doll, with the constantly surprised expression, is a thing of the past.

Brothels specialising in sex robots are opening up all over Europe with Spain and Germany at the forefront. Experts, or more to the point, the people who make them, claim they are now as good as the real thing. We thought that this was a bold claim that needed to be put to the test. And who better to dive into this particular rabbit hole than our very own, Joey Robero… After all, he will try and fuck anything that moves and all those attempts work out to a pretty good average, which gives him a perfect field of comparison for such an experiment.  

“So with an ashtray full of pre-rolls we set off straight up the M11”

Finding someone who would let Joey fuck a doll was not easy. It would have been much easier for him to find a real-life lady to fuck so we weren’t off to a good start. Buying one, a decent one at least, was also not an option as prices start from £1500 and our budget was pretty much what we had in our pockets. We’re writing for Public House here, not Playboy.”

Although £1500 may get you a doll, this is nowhere new the top end of the ‘robot’ market. There is no top price but £30,000 would get you something special, or so we’re told. One that will smile and blink as well as numerous other facial movements. Some will even hold a conversation, have a laugh with you, tell jokes and have a hard drive installed to remember birthdays and other things you may wish them to remember. And all the advertisers love to get this bit out; they will have sex whenever and however you want.

We tried a few places but no one was willing to loan us a doll even when we told them it was for journalistic purposes. We had all but given up but then we found a ‘try before you buy’ option located up North, not far from Newcastle. £50 a go – no pressure to buy. The one found was the lower end of the market at a few grand but it was clearly the best offer we were going to get.

“We both laughed and I tapped Joey on the back, wished him luck and got the hell out of that fucking room.”

The prospect of a ten-hour road trip was almost enough to put me off but Joey talked me round. When I picked him up at five in the morning, I think he wished he hadn’t. Obviously still wired from the night before with little to no sleep, Joey racked up a few lines of his favourite habit and I wondered if he was taking this seriously. But too late now, so with an ashtray full of pre-rolls we set off straight up the M11. Of course, our conversation quickly turned to sex robots and we both seemed to agree that even at the low end of the market, a few grand is still a lot of money to spend on fucking an inanimate object. Let alone the top end of £30,000+ which is stupid expensive. I mean, if you’re lonely or horny, that type of cash is a great aphrodisiac for the ladies. It’s also the equivalent to a shit load of prostitutes. Despite these reservations, we agreed to approach the situation with an open mind and give it a fair go.   

“One question remains unanswered…… Who fucking cleans them out!?”

The Sat-Nav led us into an industrial site where forklifts were darting all over the place. I checked the address a few times and there was no doubt that we were at the right place. It was the type of weather that you wouldn’t put the bins out in so I was reluctant to get out of the car, despite being stuck in the thing for the last five fucking hours. But we had come all this way so…

After a sprint through the rain, we found ourselves in an old industrial unit with some high-viz wearing, hairy-arsed bloke talking us through ‘the wonders of the modern world – sex robots’, and how this is just the start. When he spurted out that we would ‘one day get to a place where we would no longer need women’ I switched off. The place was seedier than an Eastern European whore house and I doubted there was a woman within a three-mile radius. Joey chatted away, face red, nose dripping, he seemed jittery. I was not sure if it was nerves, excitement or just the nose candy. After the initial pleasantries, we were taken to the back area of the unit where we were led through a door into an even seedier room that consisted of one mattress with red lace curtains wrapped over a wooden frame made from old shipping pallets. We both laughed and I tapped Joey on the back, wished him luck and got the hell out of that fucking room.  

Joey’s post bang breakdown – prior to the door shutting, I hadn’t considered how I was going to approach this bizarre act. The meter was running so I decided my best plan of attack would be to enter my own little bubble, detaching myself from my surroundings and treat the whole experience as a glorified wank – a little trick I learnt whilst entertaining fat birds…

Soon as I assumed the position I knew this was no substitute for a woman. Although the skin has a bit of sponge to it, you know full well you’re groping a mannequin, a bit like caressing the mat of a boxing ring.

Having fucked a traditional ‘blow-up doll’ previously, I can get over the plastic feel for the sake of satisfaction. My second hurdle was manoeuvrability. A benefit advertised by many of the companies is the luxury of moulding this synthetic slapper into every position an experienced swordsman like myself desires. The only problem with this is when spontaneity takes hold, ‘switching-stances’ requires a passion-killing time-out whilst performing ‘forced yoga’ on something that looks like a rigour-mortis version of Jean-Claude Van Damme. The final flaw is the eyes, popped fresh out the sockets like Steve Buscemi, added to the body of Stretch Armstrong –  it’s all a bit much to forgive.

To summarize, if you’ve got some dark fetish about chucking ya nuts up an inanimate object or playing ‘hide the sausage’ with a fresh dead chick then this is undoubtedly your bag. For me personally, it’s two thumbs down…. However, one question remains unanswered…… Who fucking cleans them out!?   

After Joey’s departure from the seedy little room, we were gone. No formal goodbyes, no pressure to buy. I wondered if they even sell them or if it’s just a cover for a whore house of plastic. Not that it matters, either way, other than in legal terms, which may well be the point of the try before you buy set up? There was definitely an air of shame floating around the car on the way home. And it’s a long fucking journey. The shame was not in screwing a piece of plastic, rubber and electronic clobber, nor was it the seedy nature of it. The shame was the fact that we had just wasted so much time and money on something we should have been old enough and ugly enough to know would’ve been shit. As a man, God gave us the perfect tool with a hand. Masturbation, to a certain degree, should be treated like a medical procedure: need to spunk, have a wank – done. Obviously, with a woman it’s different, it’s the journey, not the destination. Giving them pleasure, knowing they are getting off as much as you – it’s one of the biggest turn-ons. When you hit those right spots and they’re grabbing that arse, smacking your chest, screwing up the covers, the screams, the pants, the scratch of the back, until you can’t take anymore and you both burst together – that’s one of the greatest feelings on earth. One that can’t be replicated by a robot.   


Joey Robero and Duke Cassady