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December 22, 2009

The Sexbot as Stocking Stuffer


As a full year of fairly vigorous, sweaty-fingered blogging winds down, I can’t help feeling amazed and a bit appalled at the vicissitudes of my monthly visitor count. It has become abundantly clear that when I provide my usual canny analyses of such topical matters as Michael Jackson’s passing or Malcolm Gladwell’s books or the enduring appeal of Lost and Dexter, or try to provide practical advice to writers who may wish to navigate the grimy underworld of self-publishing that I know all too well, the world at large yawns. Many of you sadly shake your heads and move away. “Nothing to see here, folks,” you mutter to your cyberfriends, if you bother to mutter anything at all.

But should I shine my light on nineteen-year-old Japanese blowjob specialists, or revel in the joys of retro-nudity in the original Emmanuelle, or provide a detailed comparative breakdown of the quality of exposed bosoms in the HBO series Rome and Deadwood, or extol the underrated delights of a well-executed handjob, well, that’s quite another matter, isn’t it? Don’t try to deny that you come here for the filth and stay for the elegant and insightful writing. My hosting service lets me see the searches that lead you here, and not one of you arrived by way of a search-string for “elegant and insightful writing.” You animals.

Okay, so let’s talk artificially induced orgasms. Not because I want to, mind you, but just to keep you happy. An old friend sent me this link the other day to an article titled “Sexbots will give us longevity orgasm.” The news here, of course, is not that “sexbots” are being developed, nor that frequent orgasms are good for everyone’s health. The news here is that my friend evidently was astonished to learn one or both of these things—so astonished, in fact, that he felt compelled to ask me for my comments.*

Good heavens, the idea of lifelike sex-providing robots was already old when the original film version of The Stepford Wives came out in 1975. Since then, just off the top of my head, there’s been Darryl Hannah as the “pleasure model” replicant in Blade Runner, the John Hughes classic Weird Science, hordes of fetching female Terminators, the Fembot foes of Austin Powers, ruthless killing- and breeding- machine Sarah Palin and no doubt countless porn knockoffs of all of the above.

The bad news is, the only full-sized sexbots likely to be made widely available in the lifetime of middle-aged mouth-breathers like me will be (a) prohibitively expensive—such that we’ll probably only have access to them on a short-term rental basis, and only after hundreds of other horny desperados have ejaculated all over, around, and through them; (b) not much more lifelike than a department store manikin—a bit off-putting if you’re expecting Summer Glau or early-Eighties Darryl Hannah—and (c) likely prone to glitches, such as occasionally tearing a user’s penis off like a corn tassel or char-broiling him whole. Rest assured, Matt Drudge is already composing the horrific banner headlines in his warped little mind. What you see here is probably as good as it’s going to get until the 2030s.

The good news is, you don’t need a full-sized, lifelike sexbot. For one thing, they are awfully hard for a married man to hide in a sock drawer. What is available now, and can be hidden in a sock drawer—take it from one who knows—is this nifty little number, marketed here in Japan as the “Rolling Fella Bomber.”
I don’t want to give too much away about the Rolling Fella Bomber because I intend to describe it and the wonders it performs in depth in my upcoming book Wussie: In Praise of Spineless Men. This is what we in the trade call “a tease,” don’t you know.

In the meantime, well, there it is in the picture at the top of this post: a pink, polyurethane eyeless, forehead-less, battery-powered, speed-controlled thing-a-ma-bob capable of bringing you to greater heights of ecstasy than you’ve ever known. Wait—I can’t make good on that. I don’t know what heights of ecstasy you’ve ever known. For all I know, you’re Tiger Woods. God knows you’ve got the time for web-browsing now.

But for me? Based on the ecstasy that I’ve ever known? You betcha.



I found my first Rolling Fella Bomber (I’ve been through a few of them by now) in an adult goods store in the Shinjuku district of Tokyo. It was packaged in this pretty pink box, the copy of which promised “Explosive spermifying!” and “Intense fella-play!” before adding perhaps the easiest question ever addressed to male consumers in the history of ad copy: “Do you like being fellated?” There was the picture that you see here of an annoyed Japanese woman with her mouth wrapped around some obscured cylindrical object along with a cartoon balloon that has her saying (or more likely just thinking), “Please excuse me for making you feel too good,” a sentiment that her expression coats with sarcasm.

The “Intense fella-play!” message is reiterated on the back of the box, along with a website for fans who have further questions, and in fine print:

Please recycle after use.

No, I’m not joking.

I have much more to tell about my Rolling Fella Bombers, but it’s going into the book. Oh, what a tease I am!

In the meantime, best wishes for the new year, readers.


* Speaking as a one-time copy editor, I must say that it is also newsworthy that a grammar or punctuation error was made in the article’s title and nobody caught it. But that’s just me.