We’re pretty sure that’s not a sex doll, but who fucking knows? It could be! (Don’t ask Jeff, though, because he doesn’t know!)
MIAMI, FL—After waiting several minutes for a long-awaited orgasm, billionaire bullshiter and Amazon Empire King, Jeff Bezos, was soon confused about whom or what he’d just had sex with.
Entering his 800-square-foot, black marble shower with 10 jetstreams for water, Bezos wondered if he had just had sex with his new wife, Lauren Sanchez, or a sex doll.
Even though it was morning, and he could see well in the light during the erotic event, he was still puzzled over the appearance of the person or thing he’d just entered.
“It couldn’t have been the plastic one . . . but . . . wait, they both have similar plasticity levels,” Bezos mumbled to himself as he used a $500 bar of soap to wash his ballsack. “Yes, one is entirely plastic, but by my estimates, the real one is 86.2% plastic.”
“She made noises, though, Jeff,” Bezos said to himself. “But, then again, so does my sex doll.”
When he considered other attributes about the “person,” some quite intimate, he still found himself befuddled, saying out loud, “They’re so similar. The feel, the . . . but did she touch me back?”
Trying to recall if the person or object was physically engaged with him, Bezos had difficulty remembering that as he thoroughly washed his asshole.
“Did she just lie there? I can’t remember!”
Although he liked to think that his sex life with his wife was adventurous, physical, and erotic, he found himself questioning their compatibility, realizing now that she wasn’t nearly as engaged in the act as he was.
While continuing to shower, Bezos continued to retrace his experience, but remained confused. He still had not determined if it was his wife or a sex doll he’d penetrated.
Once out of the shower, he found his wife sitting in her $100 million-renovated room, which she had turned into her own boudoir.
“So, about this morning,” he said sheepishly, hoping to get the answers he desperately needed about whom he had sex with an hour earlier. Sanchez had her head turned to him and was staring at her plasticized face in the mirror. Her eyes seemed to light up, but given that her face was a mask, it was hard to read her emotions.
“Oh, Jeff,” she replied. “Last night was fantastic. I felt like your baby doll.”
He suddenly realized that his sex doll could say similar things, and praised him repeatedly throughout the act and afterwards. In a panic, he suddenly couldn’t determine if he was talking to his wife or his sex doll.
“Who are you?” Bezos bellowed, losing his usual calm composure.
“I’m your baby doll,” either his wife or the doll repeated back to him.
“Stop saying that!” Bezos grabbed his head in sheer terror.
“But isn’t that what you wanted? Making love to a baby doll, as you and I like to say during our time together?” The doll or his wife was having difficulty moving their lips that opened up to enunciate the question.
“Why can’t you speak properly?” Bezos asked, now trembling in fear.
“What do you mean, Jeffy-boy? I always speak this way.”
The sex doll he had created before meeting Sanchez looked so much like her and was fully automated that he found himself wondering still if he was speaking to his wife or to “it.”
In a mad panic, Bezos bolted out of the boudoir, ordered his staff to prepare his new thousand-foot yacht, and left in horror.
Bezos was recently seen in Venice, alone this time, wandering the streets muttering to himself, “She’s not my baby doll. She’s not my baby doll.”