|January 19, 2010
Oh, All Right You Big Babies: More Sex Toys!
|I wrote about sex toys for men (aka blowjob simulators) a few posts ago and you animals seemed to like that: My daily average of unique visitors
immediately tripled. So now I’m torn. On the one hand, I fear a second
post on this subject would pigeonhole me as “the sex-toy guy,” which would
be as unfair as pigeonholing Mark McGwire as “the teary-eyed steroids guy” or John Yoo as “the doughy torture memo guy.” There’s so much more to us than sex toys, steroids, or doughiness, don’t you see. On the other hand, I like being a popular writer for once in my life. So what the hell.
Besides, it turns out that an inordinate amount of male sex-toy related news has broken in the weeks since my first foray into this topic, and I’m just vain enough to suppose that someone, somewhere out there has been wondering, “Just what does that Sex-Toy Guy—Muggins? Is that his name? Or am I thinking of Yoo?—make of all this?” I refer to the following two widely reported items:
Item: World’s First Bona Fide Sexbot Going On Sale
Excuse the outmoded term “sexbot.” The politically correct term, of course, is “interactive sex-android,” which sounds much less offensive and much more likely to make the right sort of bloke shell out between $7000 and $9000.
An outfit called True Companion introduced the world, via the AVN Adult Entertainment Convention Expo in Las Vegas, to Roxxxy, who “can hear you, speak to you, feel your touch,
carry on a conversation, judge a reality show, and have an orgasm.” (I
may have thrown an extra in there.) Moreover, she “comes preloaded with
five separate girlfriend personalities” and is capable of learning her
master’s likes and dislikes. Sounds more and more all the time like something
a desperate major party candidate would recruit as a running mate—albeit
without fears of its Going Rogue.
Well, then. As I pointed out last time, the problem with male sex toys in general is the stigma attached to them—the
humiliation that comes if and when they’re found by, say, your spouse or
your freshman writing class, or any of the other six billion living human
inhabitants of this planet. That stigma will fade in time. No one, for
example, bothers to deny anymore that they strum on their old banjo to
online porn, which marks a near total overthrow of a stigma that seemed
just as unshakable thirty years ago.
In the meantime, not many of us are going to feel comfortable with something
the size and appearance of Roxxxy propped up next to the ironing board
in our utility closets. You’re not going to pass her off as a flashlight, after all.
I still say that the primary purchasers of Roxxxy and her inevitable successors
will be hotels, which will offer her as a room-service item or perhaps
even as a permanent fixture in a certain subset of rooms. And would-be
users will have take a leap of faith in supposing that, when Filipina maids
are obliged to rinse Roxxxy out prior to a new guest’s check-in, their
devotion to duty will somehow trump their devout Catholicism.
Item: Pro Athletes’ Wives Promote Male Sex Toys for Use on Road Trips
I can’t improve on this post by And A Player To Be Named Later, so I’m copying and pasting here, hoping that the author will forgive me when I note that he strikes me as a highly astute and underappreciated sports blogger:
|And finally, in the wake of Tiger Woods, (as well as Steve Phillips, Roger
Clemens, Alex Rodriguez, Steve McNair, Rick Pitino, Kobe Bryant, Derek
Lowe, etc, etc), 3 athlete's wives—Tia Robbins, Jasmine Silva and Jerika
Johnstone—started a company called Off The Market. Says Robbins:
"My husband told me that since he had that ring on his finger, women have been flocking to him more....We have to be open with each other and we think we can help with these unique relationships....We want to help athletes sustain a positive and sexy relationship with their mates."
So how are they gonna do that?
"We'd like to offer a private lesson for strip pole dancing one day or even offer to have a strip pole built in a home. (We have a male sex toy that)...our men can use this product on the road and that will help them stay straight at home"…
Hmm… On the one hand, there's an admirable breakthrough in awareness here.
After a mere two millennia of the monotheism-inspired zero-tolerance policy
toward extramarital activity, these women have stumbled upon a line of
reasoning that seems to go something like this:
Well, they’re men. Seems like they’ve just got to ejaculate into something. If they’re not ejaculating balls into hoops, they’re ejaculating semen
into ovulating groupies. That being the case, far better that they should
ejaculate into a vibrating chunk of polyurethane than into an ovulating groupie.
That represents the proverbial quantum leap in female understanding of
the male sex drive.
On the other hand, these women are risking opening Pandora’s Box. (Pun,
I’m sorry to say, intended. But while we’re here, wouldn’t Pandora be a
much more attractive name for a sexbot--er, interactive sex android--than
“Roxxxy”?) I mean, really: Do these sports wives honestly think that a
single, inanimate rival will be any less threatening to their primacy than
a series of living, breathing, ovulating ones?
I’ve just spent half a day clicking around on sex-toy sites and reading
reader testimonials. Granted that the type of person who actually submits
testimonials to sex-toy websites is probably not the type of person in
a position to compare sex toys and liquored-up groupies in terms of their
capacity to provide satisfaction, but one does come across a lot of enthusiastic
endorsements, like this one from a fellow so stunned by the stimulative
prowess of his sex toy that he has momentarily lost blood flow to the sectors
of his brain governing spelling, grammar and punctuation:
Damn!! The way this thing makes you cum is unlike anything I experienced, it’s like your cum pores out then shoots out because the way it feels the whole time! Its like a 100 slippery tongues all over your dick! So it’s a extra 30secs cum!!!! I never cummed like that before!!!
Well, you know what they say: Once you go polyurethane, you’ll never go… Oh, hell, don’t let me spoil the fun—you fill in your own rhyme.