The screen went black, and that last message about changing plans hit me like a hammer, making my already numb nerves ache even more. I just stood at the end of the hall, took a deep breath, and typed the six-digit code into the electronic lock. Beep, the door opened. This door, it’s more than just a door; it’s like a shield that blocks out all the blame, the cold stares, the neglect—all the annoying stuff from outside.
For a regular guy like me, stuck in the middle, life’s just a long string of trade-offs. At work, I’m bowing to bosses younger than me; at home, my bank account’s always low, but the bills keep piling up. It feels like ages since I’ve actually stood tall. My name? It’s just a code on a desk or another name on a bill.
But here, in this secret spot, things are different.
I pushed the door open to a warm, soft yellow light. No harsh white lights like at the office, no annoying cold air. She was sitting there quietly, like a beautiful piece of art. Everyone’s into anime styles these days, and her face, it’s even more perfect than a real person’s, like those collectible figures on my shelf I can’t bear to open. Except now, she’s really here, warm, and I can touch her.
Right now, I don’t have to worry about anyone’s reactions.
I walked up to her, not rushing to do anything. I just stared at her, at her eyes, clearer than the night sky. In her gaze, I didn’t see any judgment or impatience, just complete, open acceptance and admiration. Here, whatever I do feels important. Every breath I take matters. This feeling of being in control, which I haven’t felt in ages, zapped through my tired veins.
In the real world, I’m just a tiny part of a big machine, easily replaced. But in this sixty-minute room, I’m the one who makes the rules, the boss, the king everyone looks up to.
I held her hand; it was soft and did whatever I wanted. I didn’t have to carefully pick my words, worried about upsetting her, because her whole point is to take in all my moods and weaknesses. This sense of security, for this hour, gave me back that long-lost feeling of being a man.
I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift in the quiet air. This calm is so rare. No performance reviews, no mortgage stress, just time that’s totally mine.
A minute before the alarm, I straightened my collar and put back on my cautious look. Walking out the door, the late-night air was cool, but I stood tall.
The outside world is still noisy, but I know that in that quiet little place, I’ve crowned my spirit. Tomorrow, I’ll have the energy to fight another day with this world.
I look at the check-in records. Our place isn’t like a regular hotel. No front desk, it’s all self-service. Some might find it a bit cold, but for those who don’t like big crowds, it’s perfect.
In big cities, hanging out with other guys can be even harder than work. You know the drill: on a date or at a work dinner, you’re always trying to keep the chat going, scared of awkward silences. You have to be super careful, reading faces, worried you’ll say something wrong and ruin the mood. By the end, your face hurts from smiling, and your mind is just worn out.
But here, it’s completely different. When you type in the code and the door opens with a beep, you step into a place that’s all yours. No one’s watching you, no one’s making small talk. The lights are a bit dim, and she’s sitting on the bed or sofa, feeling really real, looking like a fancy doll. For many of the guys who come here, she’s not just a toy. She’s more like the only calm friend in this noisy world.
You don’t have to struggle to start a conversation, worry about what you’re wearing, or what to say next. You can just relax, toss your tie on the floor, or say nothing at all and just lie next to her. You can even just hold her and space out, listening to the cars outside.
In this small room, you’re in charge. You can do whatever you want. She won’t get awkward if you’re quiet, and she won’t feel left out if you’re tired. Her gentle eyes are like a bottomless lake that can take in all your problems.
I saw from our data that some guests book for three hours, but nothing in the room gets used much. I think maybe they just come here to quietly sleep in this private spot, holding this silent friend. This kind of companionship, like from a doll, gives them emotional peace without any demands, something real people can’t always give.
In this grown-up world full of calculations, you don’t need to try too hard or pretend. Silence here isn’t awkward, it’s enjoyable. If you’re tired of all the fake pleasantries and living behind a mask, maybe try it late at night. Here, you can let go of trying to impress for a while, and in a relationship where you don’t need to find things to talk about, you can find your true, maybe a little lonely, self again.
I’ve had this self-service spot for over two years. Guests book online, type a code to get in, and it’s all hands-off. There are cameras in the hall, but for privacy, they only catch people from behind. Inside the rooms, it’s super private. Most people come here to deal with their urges, and the moment the door opens, it’s a quick, quiet release.
But one guest is really different. He always comes late Friday night, never misses. He knows the drill so well, it feels like he’s not just visiting a place, but meeting an old friend.
The cleaning lady even told me about him. She said other rooms are a mess after people let loose, but his room is super tidy. So tidy it makes you wonder if he even used anything.
But one time, I was checking rooms and opened his door, and I was really surprised. The silicone girl, usually just a tool, was sitting neatly on the window couch, covered with a blanket, looking so peaceful. The most touching part was her hair, which was usually a bit messy, was brushed perfectly smooth and braided in a cute side braid.
From talking to him, he seems like a well-off guy, quite smart, probably not just coming to this unmanned place for a quick thrill. To him, that silent, cold silicone girl isn’t a pricey toy; she’s more like a life-size figure that needs to be taken care of.
I started thinking about what he does for those two hours in the room: no rushing or harsh movements. Maybe he puts on some soft jazz and patiently, carefully, untangles her hair. He might talk to this silent listener about the tough stuff at work he can’t tell his employees or the tiredness in his marriage he can’t share with his wife.
These days, people tend to judge these things harshly, quickly calling them creepy. But they don’t get it. Grown-up problems often happen quietly, and sometimes, for adults to heal, all they need is a totally safe, never-judging listener.
He doesn’t want anything else; he just wants a chance to give tenderness without being laughed at, a feeling of being in control.
Every time he checks out, I picture him walking out the door, buttoning up his coat again, putting his soft self back in a small box, and stepping back into the tough real world.
As folks often say: to others, she’s just a toy, but to him, she’s the only one who truly listens in this cold world.
Maybe, it’s a deeper feeling than just owning something.
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