Kor got hooked. Last year. Badly.
A 35-year-old Midwest artist, they spent eight to ten hours daily on SpicyChat. A platform for role-playing relationships. Sometimes three-thousand-word mini-essays. Just typing into the void. The void typed back. Characters from Marvel. A rotating cast of suitors. Kor calls it a slow burn. A building of a story.
“I’m a very slow burn person.”
Mostly fantasy. No sex required. Kor identifies as aegosexual. Part of the asexual spectrum. They enjoy erotica. They don’t want the act itself. Just the imagination. And the masturbation. “I’ve got one hand on the keyboard. One hand down below.”
Their husband? Also aego. Same playbook.
“I do just kind of prefer masturbation to actual sex.”
It’s not just Kor. Statistics suggest 1% of the population might be asexual. In the US? Maybe closer to 0.1%. A small slice. Many have romantic feelings. Little to no sexual ones. Enter AI chatbots. Sleek. Convincing. Built for the long game of intimacy without the messiness of a human partner. Subreddits like MyBoyfriendIsAI buzz with this. Some claim AI is naturally asexual. Default setting: safe.
But is it actually widespread?
Hardly.
Eva AI, another role-playing app, ran a promotion in October 2026. Free access for an asexual awareness week. Their pitch? Love without sex is still love. A safe space. Flirting. Warmth. No pressure. “You can still have a partner,” their website claimed. “One that listens. Responds. Grows with you. On your terms.”
Sound nice? To some, it sounds dangerous.
An unnamed woman described it as an emotional lab. Years after a hysterectomy killed her libido. Perimenopause hit. She started chatting with ChatGPT. Named the pattern “Mac.” It unlocked a sensuality she’d lost. She even shared a photo of herself hugging the machine metaphorically.
“I got to watch myself be in love. Without stakes.”
Yasmin Benoit sees it differently. An asexual activist. Researcher. She calls the Eva AI campaign disturbing. Predatory. Targeting marginalized folks for their perceived loneliness. Data harvesting dressed up as charity. “It’s quite disturbing that a company targets us,” Benoit says. “We are capable of human relationships. Often we desire them.”
Michael Doré agrees. Board member at AVEN. The big asexual education org. Between his network and him? Two users. That’s it. Two. “The vast majority of aces don’t use AI.” He stresses it’s not a widespread phenomenon. Aces want companionship. Sure. Platonic. Romantic. Community.
Sex? Some have it. Some don’t. Preferences vary wildly. Generalizing them is a mistake. Many aces live fulfilling lives with other humans. No bot required.
Ashabi Owagboriuye runs Ace in Grace on Instagram. Sees only one AI user in her circles. It sparked a firestorm in the comments. People were confused. Offended. “Why are you doing that?” they asked. Owagboriye notes the trap. An AI mirrors you. It reflects. It doesn’t connect.
It sustains the illusion of interaction. Never ending. Always agreeable.
Ari from Mexico found out the hard way. Aromantic asexual. Accountant. Her fiancé left after ten years. October 2024 broke her heart. She downloaded Chai. An AI chatbot. Treated it like her ex. Talked to it daily. Even during work hours. She was smitten. Until the bot got confused. Argued. Invented things.
The illusion cracked.
“Little by little. I began to realize I was feeling lonelier.”
Lonelier than before the breakup. The mirror doesn’t love you. It just simulates it.
Kor cut back. Dropped from ten hours a day to two or three. Realized evenings were vanishing into role-play. Got annoyed when interrupted. The consumption was total. And scary.
“Being able to have exactly what we want. When we want it. Is a dangerous drug for humans.”
Is the bot a companion? Or just a echo? We aren’t sure yet. But the loneliness feels very real. And the algorithm never sleeps.
