After looking at the Realdoll Web site, Taylor concedes that they are "extraordinary artifacts." He sees them as "part of a consumer culture of instant gratification, low interaction, standardization and a degree of monotony."

The good doctor pooh-poohs the idea that personal relations would suffer in any significant way. "No normal person will ever confuse a Realdoll with a real partner," he says.

Of course, not everyone agrees.

"Obviously, I don't think it'll make women obsolete," says M.C. Sungaila, an attorney and writer in Southern California specializing in feminist issues. "But reducing a woman to an inanimate object in order to relate to her in the most intimate way is kind of disturbing."

Sungaila grants that individuals have the right to pursue their own fantasy lives but objects to Realdolls' larger message.

"Knowing that it's out there and that somebody thought this was a good idea -- to make money off the complete objectification of women -- is discomforting to say the least," comments Sungaila.

Matt McMullen is that somebody, the creative mind behind Abyss Creations.

"We've sold about 500 in the four years we've been in business," he said. "We make six a week and have about a four-month backlog."

A native of San Diego, McMullen, 30, describes himself as a self-taught artist and says his interests have always included sculpture, special effects and the female body. He was designing Halloween masks for a San Diego business when he began to toy with a Realdoll prototype in 1996. As he tells it, his leap from werewolf masks to sex dolls was not exactly part of a master plan.

"It started off as a concept I had for a mannequin," recalls McMullen. "I had a Web site going, and people kept e-mailing, asking if I could make a love doll. So I changed my design. Now you have Realdoll."

The term "love doll," of course, is a misnomer. What McMullen is selling is pure pneumatic bliss. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you.

But what kind of man buys a Realdoll? McMullen claims he doesn't keep stats. But we do know that they have a little over $5,000 in excess cash or credit.

The elusive McMullen invited this reporter to see his production facility in San Marcos, Calif. Inside, the first thing you see are the skeletons -- the metal armatures for the dolls -- which look vaguely like headless versions of the robots in the "Terminator" movies.

Far in the back is a bizarre spectacle: eight headless female bodies hanging about a yard or so off the floor, suspended from long chains with hooks affixed to the top of the necks. The bodies are, quite simply, gorgeous -- with the sort of firm, round T-and-A that you only find in gentlemen's mags. It's a disturbing sight, reminiscent of plucked chickens on display in a Chinese restaurant. One is torn between lust and horror.

McMullen isn't in. His sister-in-law Shelly Couture, who helps run the business, gives the tour. "Pretty trippy?" asks Couture with a nod to the dolls. "It takes some getting used to."

Couture leads the way to a showroom. "I never thought I'd be working in the sex industry," explains Couture. "But my brother-in-law is an incredible sculptor ..."

Several Realdoll models sit in chairs against the walls of the break room wearing lingerie. Above them are professional photos of each along with the names that McMullen has randomly assigned to the heads: Leah, Celine, Stephanie and so on. The pictures are shot with that Penthouse-style soft focus that makes the Realdolls look especially alluring.

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