Come F*** Yourself by Sylvie Althoff
Content warnings
Implied sexual assault. Enslavement.
Shelby Metz for Spate.com | June 15
Melinda’s appointment is at 2 p.m., but she’s been waiting here since noon.
“Just jitters,” she explains as I take a seat on the plush, architectural sofa opposite hers. “I’ve been up since six, I’m so excited for this. Besides, I’ve already been waiting for months. What’s another couple hours?”
Reflections’ client lounge is a vast yet comfortable space, with plentiful natural light and staff always discreetly on hand. Along the south wall are numbered doors that, Melinda has been instructed, lead to the infamous suites.
She digs out a compact from an overnight bag at her feet, checks her hair and makeup, smooths her designer dress. “It’s silly, I know. All my friends who’ve done this say there’s nothing to be worried about, same as what the counselors here tell me. I mean, what, am I worried about making a bad first impression? It’s not like my clone is going to judge me for my hair being wild today.”
Melinda winces. “Not clone, sorry, sorry. APC.” Reflections’ literature is very careful in their terminology, she explains, but she has a hard time dropping the term “clone.” No surprise, as the term has become closely associated with Reflections Autophilia Clinic in the popular imagination.
She cranes her neck to stare at a middle-aged man exiting a suite. As he buckles his belt and strides towards the exit, a woman with shiny scrubs and a clipboard jogs after him.
“Not much of an improvement over last time, no,” the man says to her in answer to a question I can’t make out. “He won’t spit on me, and he keeps saying he wants to cuddle after it’s over. I was very clear in my feedback. And can’t you do something about that damn crying? Really puts me off.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the prank calls, Ms. Metz,” Dr. Linda Gibbs says. “We get plenty of hateful stuff here, too, of course, but we try not to let it bother us. Sometimes I can’t help but laugh—you should see some of the Google reviews.”
I take her up on her suggestion and pull them up. She’s right, it’s funny stuff: Expensive, but what else am I gonna do when Grindr is down? And: Stopped by Pinkberry on the way over so I could have my cake and eat me, too. And: I kicked my ex’s ass to the curb when he told me to go f*** myself. Should’ve tried it sooner! Only good idea that man ever had.
When I ask Dr. Gibbs about her business’s overall two-star rating, she waves it away good-naturedly. “None of that’s from our clients; we share their honest testimonials anonymously on our website. The review bombing comes and goes. Every now and then they mention us on FOX and we drop another half a star… and we get a few hundred new client registrations.”
Considering the nature of her business, Dr. Gibbs is an extremely down-to-earth person. Clad in a charcoal-gray cardigan and chunky green glasses, she more resembles an art history professor than the world’s leading genetic fleshmonger and the brain behind Reflections Autophilia Clinic.
Reflections’ tiny yet chic storefronts in Boystown and Wicker Park are familiar to the demographic that makes up their primary clientele: young, active, moderately to extremely wealthy, and queer (or, failing that, sufficiently narcissistic to overcome their heterosexuality for a few hours). With an aesthetic somewhere between a cocktail lounge, a therapist’s office, and an Apple Store, these boutique retail facades have become infamous for their endless lines of well-dressed looky-loos and would-be clients.
Far from those hip neighborhoods, in a sprawling campus of new glass-and-steel construction off the highway in Elmhurst, is where the magic happens (or the mad science, perhaps). This Reflections location attracts its own lines, though these onlookers carry signs and bullhorns. “The protestors are mostly pretty polite,” I’m told by Alejandro, the driver of the car service that transports me through the gate.
With the help of tasteful visual aids, Dr. Gibbs walks me through Reflections’ process. After a preliminary interview at one of their storefronts, clients provide a deposit and a letter from their therapist, after which they’re admitted to the clinic’s lengthy service queue.
“At the moment, new clients can expect about eighteen months before their first visit,” Dr. Gibbs says with an apologetic shrug. “We’re hoping to cut down those wait times once our Atlanta clinic opens. In the meantime, I imagine the exclusivity is something of a selling point. It’s not like there are a lot of other places you can go for our service, after all.”
Indeed, with the necessary technology a secret that’s jealously guarded by Akrasia, Reflections’ parent company, there’s currently nowhere else in the world that offers true autophilic therapy (usually shortened to “AP”).
Things move more quickly when a client makes it to the front of the queue, at least for those who pass their medical checks and promptly pay the remainder of their balance. Once those hurdles are cleared, it’s only a matter of two weeks for an individual’s DNA sample to be processed, cultured, and programmed. The result is what’s called an AP Copy or APC, a fully functional, autonomous, and (Reflections promises in no uncertain terms) non-sentient simulacrum of the client. Client and double then meet in a plain yet functional bedroom deep in the Reflections campus, where they engage in sexual congress.
At this point Dr. Gibbs asks if I’m familiar with the basics of autophilic therapy and confirms that my phone is still turned off. “Really, you can read about it all day, but you just can’t fathom the therapeutic benefits of intercourse with yourself until you experience it firsthand.”
“My whole life, I’ve never really been able to let down my guard with anyone, even for a second. It’s been one failed relationship after another, and therapy wasn’t fixing it. When I heard what this place can do for people, I knew I had to give it a try.”
Melinda and I are sipping gratis flat whites provided by the Reflections staff from the café at one end of the massive lounge. They’re still getting her suite ready. Melinda isn’t quite sure what that entails, but she’s starting to get jittery, so she ordered her beverage decaf. The suite is equipped with a minibar that she intends to take advantage of once she and her APC are alone together.
“Then again, maybe we’ll just rip each other’s clothes off and get right to it,” she laughs, blushing. She seems rattled, and when I press her on the issue she alludes to the client we overheard leaving his session an hour before.
“I don’t believe that they’re doing anything wrong here or anything crazy like I see on Insta. But… I don’t know, maybe it just feels like this should be something kind of special? Not that it isn’t special for that guy, and I don’t want to kink shame or anything. I just like to think I’d talk about myself—to myself—with a little more love and respect. I mean, not myself, I know it’s just a—”
She’s interrupted by a concierge who tells her that her suite is ready. Melinda follows mutely—an air of shock, even reverence hangs over her. She’s led to a door with “#15” stenciled on it in gold and enters alone.
Dr. Gibbs answers my questions with great patience, clearly having gone over every point a hundred times, a thousand. Yes, the AP Copy can do everything a client can—walk, talk, produce and receive bodily fluids on request. No, the Copy isn’t anything more than a programmable shell. Yes, much as some clients have offered to pay, for corporate and personal security reasons the Copy has to remain on the premises. Yes, they’re carefully maintained in an inert state when not in use. No, they’re no different than an artificial organ or prosthetic limb. No, that fact doesn’t seem to stand in the way of their clients’ enjoyment.
Dr. Gibbs puts her hand on my shoulder and smiles with perfect teeth. “Shelby, our clients have visited therapists for years in an attempt to learn how to love themselves. When they walk out of here after their first visit, knowing themselves in a way that previously only intimate partners ever did? Show me a talk therapist or antidepressant that can beat that!”
The twinkle in her eye matches the glow in every client testimonial I’ve come across. Based on the Reflections clients I interviewed, if anything, Dr. Gibbs’ evangelism for her company’s service is understated.
“That Copy saved our marriage, and it saved Asper’s life,” says Zig, a graphic design consultant living in Ravenswood. At their side, their partner, Asper, nods enthusiastically. “Ask her, ask anyone in our polycule, they’ll tell you how it changed me for the better, how transformative it is for anyone privileged enough to try it. In every part of our lives, we’re happier, better, more fulfilled.”
“I did a lot of harmful stuff to try to make myself believe that I was worthy of being lusted after, being loved,” says Asper. “Drugs, self harm, hooking up with strangers in really sketchy circumstances. Even the definitely positive stuff like the hormones and eating right and therapy didn’t do it, not really. Nothing, absolutely nothing had ever really done it until I was able to look myself in the eye, hold myself in a loving way, and f*** myself.”
“Same. Or get f***ed by myself,” Zig adds. “Or both.” They share a knowing smile, the same one I saw in the other Reflections clients I spoke with.
Cis and trans, genderfluid and gold-star gay, one-and-done patient and punch-card regular, rabid pansexual and wishy-washy-everyone’s-bi-these-days Millennial—everyone I speak with who has availed themselves of an AP Copy is unified in their full-throated appreciation for Dr. Gibbs’ procedure.
The individuals are just as diverse on the other side of Reflections’ velvet rope and steel gate. For all its therapeutic benefits, autophilia has quickly combusted into a new culture war flare-up.
“Hey, Akrasia, what do you say? How many clones you kill today?” an individual who would only introduce themselves as “Dee” shouts into a megaphone. A few of their comrades outside Reflections’ gate echo this call, while others mutter amongst themselves, signs lowered.
The opposition to Reflections makes strange bedfellows, drawing together groups as far-flung as evangelical Christians, LGBTQ+ activists, human rights advocates, and conspiracy theorists of all stripes. Their ideological differences are stark, but their objections to autophilic therapy cluster around the ethics surrounding the creation, housing, and use of Copies, which these activists argue are living humans.
“Our conditioning process is exceptional, yes.” Dr. Gibbs says. “But as disappointing as it may be to hear, it’s just an illusion. There’s absolutely nothing human about an AP Copy.”
From a legal standpoint, Reflections is on solid if new ground. Len Ishida, resident Spate.com legal expert, concurred with Dr. Gibbs’ conclusion, asserting that an AP Copy is currently classified as proprietary medical technology.
I point out that medical technology doesn’t talk, doesn’t ask to cuddle. Len asks me if talking makes an AI chatbot sentient.
“Of course, the legal question of what does and doesn’t qualify as human comes with a hell of a lot of baggage,” Len reminds me. “To say nothing of the manifold privacy concerns that are likely to emerge from AP therapy.”
“What the f*** do you think, Akrasia is going to just delete your DNA record when you say pretty please? When they could just lie about it and pay out a settlement if they get caught, like they’ve already done with dozens of medtech lawsuits?” Dee is smoking a cigarette alone in the sunset shadow of the Reflections front gate.
“Corporations don’t do things because they’re good for people, Shelby. If they do, it’s because they stand to get more out of it than they’re giving. Do you seriously think Akrasia will be more respectful of users’ data than Google or Apple or anybody else? And this is more than cell phone data—this is our bodies, our identities!”
Melinda emerges from Suite #15 after only two hours, and looks alarmed at my presence.
“No, it was good, it was… it was incredible.”
I comment on her hair, which is considerably neater than a few hours before. Melinda shakes her head slowly. “She… it… said it wanted to brush my hair.” Tears are welling in her eyes, and she looks back at the door.
Before I can ask her any more questions, a small team of scrubs-clad concierges whisk Melinda into a golf cart. A concierge named Alexandra explains to me that every initial AP session is followed by a lengthy debriefing with a Reflections counselor.
“As you might imagine, our clients have a lot to process after that first session,” Alexandra says, then offers to escort me to the exit.
“I’m just happy that I can contribute something to bringing more love and self care into the world.” Dr. Gibbs says, checking her watch.
“No love like self love,” Asper and Zig say together, laughing and sharing a kiss.
“It’s not f***ing love, whatever it is they’re selling,” Dee says as they unlock their car. “If they’re telling the truth about sentience, then these are just j***-off sessions, sticking your d*** in a ten-thousand-dollar sex doll stuffed with stem cells. Or they’re lying, and it’s sentient, which means it’s rape. You think those things in there, corporate-owned clones, kept prisoner in some office park—you really think they can give consent?”
“Personally? No way would I do it.” Len laughs.
“Sure, I love myself as much as anyone who reads the news ever could. But, like, as a friend.”
“It took a lot of emotional work, a lot of private reflection and work with my counselor, but I understand now how powerful and beautiful that experience really was.” Melinda looks much more put-together when we check in over a video call the following week. She’s beaming, and she has nothing but good things to say about her experience. “In fact, I already scheduled my next visit for my birthday.”
Dee’s voice is hoarse from a day of chanting, but they bellow through their car window, “You think it stops with this, when they can just make f*** dolls that perfectly duplicate anybody? Narcissism, identity theft, sex slavery—they’re just getting started. F*** me.”
Subscribe to our podcast to follow F*** Me?, a new limited series by Shelby Metz exploring the transcendent emotional and erotic journey of her experience participating in Autophilic Therapy.
Shelby Metz is a journalist based in Chicago. Her columns and personal essays are frequently featured on Spate.com. Spate Media is a wholly owned subsidiary of Akrasia, Inc.
Sylvie Althoff
Sylvie Althoff (she/her) is a queer transgender woman who works as a writer, elementary teacher, and jazz banjoist. Her fiction has appeared in Escape Pod, Small Wonders, Tales of the United States Space Force, and the anthology Lesbians in Space.