Check Out This British Couple’s $150,000 Sex Doll Collection

03/14/2012 1:01 PM |

Meet Bob and Lizzy, a British couple featured on last night’s My Crazy Obsession, who keep 240 sex dolls—or as they prefer to call them, in a MAJOR misunderstanding of what someone might find weird about them—”love dolls.”

“A majority of people buy love dolls for sex, but that’s not the case with Bob.” A majority. Sure, that sounds about right. It is almost charming (?), throughout, how Bob is like oh god no, of course I don’t have sex with these dolls I bought who have realistic molded silicone ass, mouth, and pussy holes, with little clean-out-able jizz reservoirs. UGH I’m not some kind of PERVERT! Oh, Bob.

Bob (pulling a blond doll’s lips open to show the camera a row of straight white teeth lining a fuckable hole): “For me it’s purely a collection.”

Bob (speaking to a sex doll in pink lingerie, her mouth slightly ajar, a white rose shoved into the straps of her bra): “I’d never make love or have sex with the dolls at all. That’s not what I do. I buy the dolls because I collect dolls. That’s my thing.”

That’s my thing! Note that there are no non-fuckable dolls in his collection. I guess that is not his thing. We find out later that the flower is actually included with every new doll by the manufacturer, to represent…her virginity. “Her” “virginity.” Eek.

Obviously, he stores the dolls in coffins. Because it’s a nice secure box to put them in. Just the most convenient human-shaped box. Let’s not make too much of it.

I don’t want to ruin the whole thing, but you DO get to see Bob and Lizzie having tea and biscuits (they’re British, remember?) with a doll who, were she an actual alive thing that needed to breathe, would be prevented from doing so by throat-crushing balloons of tits. Also don’t miss Lizzie’s sort-of heartbreakingly vague explanation of how the dolls saved their marriage.

Oh, Bob. Oh, Lizzie. Oh, 250 sex dolls sitting quietly in your coffins, become sex doll old maids, your wilting flowers constant reminders of your quickly retreating silicone youth. Oh, TV.