Friday, October 30, 2009

The Male Vibrator (an Immodest Proposal)

Auto-stimulation, anyone? Are you mature enough to read this post?

I propose to point the way to technologies never before dreamed of. But before we start, there are two facts you should be aware of. The first is that the vibrator, a labor-saving device for the overtaxed men who used it to achieve hysteria-reducing therapeutic organic responses - "hysterical paroxysm" -  from female patients, was among the very first electrical appliances to be marketed for home use.

The second is that almost everything else about the advancement of technology was stimulated by the masculine desire to find discreet peepholes into what women might look like fully naked and actually wanting them, men, to do what we used to get paid for and be bored about when dressed up in white lab coats as doctors.

Yes, these are rude facts, though not nearly so rude as the other facts about how technology has been driven by quests to win at manly contests; mainly warfare. In today's post, we're going to stick with the more modest, ahem, facts of life. We're going to follow the trajectory of technological development to its conclusion: final liberation from the mess of being human!

The problem, apparently, is to get men and women onto the same page. Or into the same cloud space. Geek Rapture from a totally different point of view! Truth will rain down upon us. Our eyes will be bathed in coolest glory.

So, you understand, the actual deep throated Adam's apple got consumed that recently, when the vibrator showed up in porn and got turned into some sort of taboo object, discreetly not to be spoken of. Hidden then at the back of secret drawers. Illegal to market in many states. At about the time we dropped the bomb, Eve. At about that same good old time.

I feel pretty guilty, to tell you the truth, about how I came up with my invention. You see many many years ago, like when I turned 40, my dear sweet Mom, meaning the gift in all honest earnest - she was actually excited to have thought of it - gave my brother and me nose-hair trimmers at Christmas. I was so rude as to embarrass poor Mom by thanking her for remarking my passage over the hilltop to where I had to clip my nose-hairs.

But that's not what I feel guilty about. No, this morning, trying earnestly to make myself presentable for an actual woman, I realized the thing had finally stopped. I mean, what's that, maybe 15 years on the same battery? My orifice hair is pretty bushy, yuch!, and even for sitting on a shelf, that's a long long time for a battery to stay alive.

It reminded me for all the world of that lightbulb in Gravity's Rainbow which the Nazi SS has to track down for their sponsors, General Electric. The one that beat the odds and wouldn't burn out and was set to destroy the Empire with its apparent sentience, since no dumb heat and light producing device would ever dare to last that long. Die, zombie, die!

Truly, I hardly ever use the thing, since it tickles my nose beyond endurance. I mean, you just can't stand it, although it's OK in the ears now and then. I wonder who invents this stuff, or if maybe everyone who has one just lets it sit in their drawer for special occasions. Maybe it's really a vibrator in disguise, and I'm just not in on the joke? Mommy?

But I felt a kind of superstition throwing away that magic battery, kind of like a perpetual motion machine I'd stopped believing in. And just before I threw it out (the battery, not the lowly prized machine!) the little vibrator-shaped torture device gave a final purr. So sad!

But the new battery really whizzed it, and so I tried it anew with resolve . . . and could still no more bear what it was doing than I could stand staring into the sun.

Then I sneezed! Which also happens when I walk out into the sun. Thank goodness that hardly happens around here anymore. It's always clouds and rain for me.

But I remember reading open-minded children's books meant for my young charges back in the oh-so-over-the-top 70's (I couldn't read them to them. Yuch!). Somehow we thought that kids needed to know all sorts of truths, and those books described orgasm as "like a sneeze" after showing how all the boring plumbing worked. I've always remembered it as a pretty good analogy, and have hoped I could use it some time.

And that's when it hit me. The perpetual e-motion retro hyper truth machine! The device to bring hysterical women and bored men together for simultaneous hyper-super-duper satisfaction "sneezes" without any need for transactional exchanges of any sort at all. Merest hint of overstimulation and then, wham, bam, thank you again and again and again.

Think about it now:

We guys won't accept mechanical substitutes for our private stimulation, preferring manual labor and a kind of exquisite control if we can't get the real thing. We love our machines for taming the material world or the material girl, but nobody's going to use them on us!

What sends us right over the edge is some kind of can't-not-look simulacrum of what our first naked female actual body looked like back in the day. No, not what the body looked like, but what the looking at the body looked like, (which it turns out can be simulated by adding fulsome maturity to an eighteen year old body gaging by what seems to work for folks).

It's a sort of layers of the onion game of removal where the thing to do is to keep up the edge of excitement, always hinting at something eye poppingly too hot to bear. Something you maybe once almost had, but then maybe not quite.

And then suddenly, it's boring.

That's the part that needs fixing. We got the perpetual return to renewed interest figured out, or at least it seems built in almost like Chomsky's black box of linguistic grammar. It's the interval which needs tweaking. The timing. And the always new part. The wiping clean of the mental slate of too much jaded knowing.

So, women want machine sex for their physical satisfaction after the fantasy man inevitably fails to remain interested. Men want the real thing, but only if it - sorry, *she* - pretends to be right at the spot the men are at when on that edge of fantasy.

There's a mismatch, can you see it?

So, what machine-like device could work for men, I wonder? If a vibrator is better than a man at giving a woman what she wants, then what could be better than a woman for a man? (well, apart from dirty magazines, glory movies, cold beer, hot cars, and all those other modern products).

Now, I know this is evolutionarily unlikely, that women are just programmed to want us a lot less and less frequently once they get us where they want us, leaving a kind of satisfaction-boredom gap pretty much identical to the mine-shaft-gap from Doctor Strangelove, and come to think of it pretty much identical to the supposed satisfaction gap in love-making where men get all the pleasure and the women are left wanting from a kind of who's on top contest.

And I know women always get the short end of the, whoops, stick. I know that. I mean any machine would have a lot of ground to cover for men, and it would probably have to equal the thrill of launching rockets or blowing shit up, or building really really tall Ayn Rand style buildings. I'll bet she was really hot, Ayn Rand.

But I understand the vibrator thingies work pretty well for women. And men just want a fantasy chick. OK, I'm just picturing two bored and jaded married folks with nothing left to talk about. I'm talking about bringing private fantasies to actual life. Scary, huh? Kind of Terminator scary if you know what I mean, but in a good way.

But this machine might actually save the planet, because the men wouldn't be, you know, blowing shit up all the time, and the women wouldn't always be going after the ones who do. Figuratively speaking. I'm really talking about the ego stuff, you know, but it all ends at the same place. Big machines with lots of power making up for what we're not getting at home. Money standing in for security. That kind of thing.

So, here's how it works, my perpetual e-motion machine. I think it could be so good that it could work for both men AND women, and it would even put the vibrator out of business, and even keep women from going back to being hysterical all the time. (Am I making you hysterical?) It could make the bomb just plain unnecessary any more. OK, breath, I'd better breath.

You ready for this now?

You take the Stepford look in the ideal woman's eyes and match it with that look I've been told men have in their eyes when there's really only one thing on their, um, our, um, minds.

No, I'm not talking about a vibrating ring, since I'll just bet that's already been patented, and it would probably just push things in the wrong direction. Well, I don't know, you tell me, I'm not the one who's all hepped up on technology. I'm just a lonely guy trying to make a million bucks so the hot chicks will dig me.

Just think for a minute now. What could be better than a universal machine to stimulate fantasies of the opposite sex? What is the next and logical extension beyond virtual reality, beyond sex robots, beyond even total immersion brain implantation of a kind of waking dream?

Well, what if we could just plug in to some kind of truth net? What if we could, you know, make ourselves believe that what we want to be true really is true. What if we could make all sorts of strange coincidences surround our looking into the eyes of our beloved just like they do when we're projecting our fantasies onto some God-removing machine, clunky plotted, narrative fantasy show up on that big or little screen?

Here's how it actually works. You put yourself into a sensory deprivation tank until you start hallucinating. Any old womb with a view will do. Then you are given VR goggles and a kind of virtual keyboard glove, complete with tactile and auditory feedback, and you start typing love notes to someone set up identically on the other end of some, er, wire (if necessary).

You pretty much keep up the communication until there is nothing else in your cosmos except for that one, supposed, person at the other end of the line. Like Facebook, or Twitter, or email if you still do that. You conjur that person into something actually real, in your mind anyhow.

And then one day you meet! Deus ex machina!

I'm telling you, I've tried it and it works like an absolute charm. You utterly absolutely and completely don't want and won't need any machine assistance ever again for anything. You will so crave actual touch that you almost don't even want any representations at all on any screen. I mean, they're boring, blah blah, boom, blah blah, chase, blah blah good guy, blah blah. Once you've seen one, you've seen 'em all. It's the same freaking plot over and over and over.

Of course there is a catch. You have to be able to keyboard things which are interesting to the person at the other end, and they have to be able to do the same for you. It isn't easy to find such a person, and so you might have to troll around for a while.

Hey, you could do it on a blog! Send me your number, and we'll give it a whirl.

Bam! Gotcha! I'm already spoken for. Better luck next time in your quest for that eternal allergic reaction. Atchoo!!!

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