I twisted the key and entered my apartment, the microwave hum filling the air with the faint scent of Chinese food. It was easier and cheaper to buy than cook, a common ritual in a world of convenience. The food was palatable but left a chewy, rubbery aftertaste. As I sat down to eat, I remembered the cows I saw today—doleful, slow creatures chewing film posters next to garbage piles, as if they were cud—discarded plastic and film their food. 

I looked at the empty container in the waste bin; styrofoam. Where does it go from there? Easy to use, and throw! I lost count of how many of those containers I had. Cheap, durable, shiny. Plastic. What stories could they tell, living beyond us? In pursuit of immortality, humans had created objects that would last far beyond our own mortality. 

Sometimes, I wondered what would happen to my Google account after I died. Or who would find my vibrator—and how they’d react to it. In those moments of doubt, I’d turn to the solace of masturbation, the only pleasure free from judgment, free from plastic expectations. Hot, steamy, sultry moves with no one to stifle my needs. I could… The thought sent a shiver down me. 

I entered the bathroom. Slowly, I shed one skin after another. It felt good. With each movement, the skins I had wrapped myself in fell. I peered into the mirror: frizzy hair, bulging tummy, dark circles. I sighed. I needed a hairstylist. I touched my face. Botox? Fillers? When younger, I thought I’d age gracefully, letting white hair and crow’s feet take over. But now, at 37, it felt sad. The white hair didn’t cover all of it. My knees were knobbly, skin flakier, and a double chin was soon to come. 

These thoughts didn’t stop me from caressing my breasts. Sweet pleasure. Unclasping my bra, I liked my eyes, my neck, my calves. My fingers traced my skin. A familiar sensation spread through me. It had been a long time. But I was a woman on a mission. 

I thought of my vibrator, Andy, my reliable tool. I tried to feel pleasure not from someone else, but from my own body. In a world obsessed with objects and images of perfection, I longed to reconnect with something real inside me. The plasticity of my vibrator felt comforting and disorienting, mimicking a false connection while offering undeniable release.

I stopped. Did I need porn? Silicone breasts, plastic surgery, body modifications—all merged into a singular vision of beauty, desire, nausea. Plastic has become not just a material, but a metaphor for how we relate to ourselves and each other. 

I sighed and settled back into myself. Not a quick fix, not fleeting indulgence. A slow, deliberate exploration of my body, my desires. The plastic, the body, the food—all of it melded into a hybrid of organic and synthetic. In the end, perhaps the only thing that wasn’t plastic was the human experience, fleeting and imperfect=

Author Bio:

Purnima is a story collector and writer. She currently works as a researcher with The Banyan in Bengaluru in India. Her research lies in the intersection of urbanism and mental health, technology and qualitative methodology.

Banner Image Credit: Emily Bernal on Unsplash (Free to use under the Unsplash License)