I’ve always admired women who are able to sleep their way to the top of the corporate ladder. Because in a way, I think it takes more drive and dedication to blow a stodgy, old CEO on the copier than it does to do his mindless grunt work. Unfortunately, I don’t have it in me to screw the boss. Don’t get me wrong: I lack morals in many aspects of my life—Retard jokes! Stealing from the penny dish!—but with my career, I’ve always felt that I have to “earn” my way by working hard and doing my best. It’s a horrible quality, really. Still, as a sex writer and former columnist for Penthouse magazine, the line between work and sex occasionally blurs, but it’s all part of the job.
For one of my columns, I wrote about “teledildonics,” a new technology in cyber sex that enables toys to be controlled by a computer and was most likely the result of a lonely tech geek who had too much time on his hairy-palmed hands. The basic mechanics involve plugging a toy into the computer, plugging the toy into your genitals and, just like that, someone in Abu Dhabi can get you off by hitting the F7 key. I was to inform our readers how these tools could improve the cyber-sex life they shared with their long-distance girlfriend or, more realistically, the 72-year-old pot-bellied pervert posing as a horny teen girl in the barely legal chat room.
So I researched five toys, wrote them up and filed the story with my editor, who bounced it back to me for revisions.
“It’s looks great, Laura,” she said. “But it needs more insight. Let me know which one you want to review, and I’ll call it in for a test-drive.”
I looked down at my virginal white MacBook and thought, “We’re about to take our relationship to the next level.”
I scanned my sex toy options. My first choice was the iVibe Rabbit, an Internet-enabled vibrator and part of the infamous Rabbit series that, in one form or another, is part of most women’s nightstand arsenal. I’ve jumped a bunny or two in my day, so it was an easy decision to upgrade to the cyber version. Sadly, it wasn’t Mac-compatible. And the other options—a licking machine, robo-spanker and a device that could remotely squirt a liquid into my face—were a bit too much even for my open mind.
I went with the Virtual Sex Machine, or VSM, a $400 piece of equipment defined on its Web site as “an interactive virtual reality sexual stimulation system.” Translation: It’s a robotic vagina that synchronizes to porn. The VSM comes with a specially encoded erotic film, shot from the viewer’s perspective, which allows you to experience the scene as if it’s happening to you. So if the girl is giving a gentle handjob, the machine is giving a gentle handjob, and if the girl is bopping up and down quickly, so is the VSM. Thankfully, you don’t ever see the actress give toothy head. Clearly, the toy was made for wiener; and in case you’re not paying attention, I don’t have one. So I sent out a mass email to my guy friends, asking for a volunteer.
The first to respond was an ex-boyfriend who I refer to as the anti-cuddler. He loved sex but hated any sort of intimacy that came along with it, so it was no surprise that he wanted to screw a machine that wouldn’t expect him to spoon or talk about his feelings afterward.
“Can I deflower your sex machine?” he wrote.
“Yes, but under one condition,” I replied. “I get to watch.”
Of course, I had seen him have sex before, so how different could it be? He agreed, so we set a date. The following week, I brought over his new robotic girlfriend, stuffed in the kind of silver briefcase you would normally see full of unmarked bills or bags of blow.
We opened the case and examined the contents together. The main component, the part that would be hooked up to the computer and his wang, resembled those canisters you put your money into at bank drive-throughs. We made a few obvious deposit jokes as we poked at the red, squishy interior that would later become the mouth, vagina or ass, depending on which scene was playing. Once we had a proper understanding of how the machine worked, he was ready for his date. So he plugged the machine into the computer and laid a towel on the floor; then he dropped his drawers while I quietly sat on the bed and prepared to watch my ex-boyfriend fuck a robot.
He popped the porn VSM Presents Sammy 4 U into the computer and was offered his choice of four episodes: “Full-Service Stripper,” “Rough Rider Sammy,” “Ass Hammer” or “Pussy Fart Surprise.” Unfazed by the obvious spoiler ending, he clicked on “Pussy Fart Surprise,” and we watched Sammy begin with some blowjob magic. As she started sucking, so did the machine—but not in a good way. The level of noise produced by the VSM would make you think it was matching Sammy’s vigor, since it sounded like a train crashing into a pile of jackhammers; he compared the experience to “getting sucked off by a palsied nun.” Sammy then flipped onto her stomach and got railed from behind. I hoped that the VSM’s version of doggy-style would be better than its fellatio, but the look of defeat on the ex’s face said it wasn’t. He was ready to give up, and he said as much.
“No, you can’t give up yet!” I pleaded. “You have to finish. You owe it to my column! And to the machine!”
I was not a quitter, nor would I allow my robot-screwing ex-boyfriend to be.
“Fine, but can you at least help?” he asked. “Show me your boobs or something. And hold this thing. My arms are getting tired.”
Because I’m a dedicated employee, I did the meaningless grunt work: I stood topless in front of him and held the virtual sex machine between my legs. And as he grabbed onto my ta-tas and humped the robot vagina underneath my fleshy one, I whispered dirty words of encouragement. Then what came next was no big surprise: He finished inside the ‘bot, Sammy farted out of her pussy, and I had never felt dirtier. But at least I still had my work ethics.
Laura Leu is a freelance writer, accordion player and cheap date. She lives in Manhattan. You can read about her less robosexual adventures on her blog at lauraleu.com.
For one of my columns, I wrote about “teledildonics,” a new technology in cyber sex that enables toys to be controlled by a computer and was most likely the result of a lonely tech geek who had too much time on his hairy-palmed hands. The basic mechanics involve plugging a toy into the computer, plugging the toy into your genitals and, just like that, someone in Abu Dhabi can get you off by hitting the F7 key. I was to inform our readers how these tools could improve the cyber-sex life they shared with their long-distance girlfriend or, more realistically, the 72-year-old pot-bellied pervert posing as a horny teen girl in the barely legal chat room.
So I researched five toys, wrote them up and filed the story with my editor, who bounced it back to me for revisions.
“It’s looks great, Laura,” she said. “But it needs more insight. Let me know which one you want to review, and I’ll call it in for a test-drive.”
I looked down at my virginal white MacBook and thought, “We’re about to take our relationship to the next level.”
I scanned my sex toy options. My first choice was the iVibe Rabbit, an Internet-enabled vibrator and part of the infamous Rabbit series that, in one form or another, is part of most women’s nightstand arsenal. I’ve jumped a bunny or two in my day, so it was an easy decision to upgrade to the cyber version. Sadly, it wasn’t Mac-compatible. And the other options—a licking machine, robo-spanker and a device that could remotely squirt a liquid into my face—were a bit too much even for my open mind.
I went with the Virtual Sex Machine, or VSM, a $400 piece of equipment defined on its Web site as “an interactive virtual reality sexual stimulation system.” Translation: It’s a robotic vagina that synchronizes to porn. The VSM comes with a specially encoded erotic film, shot from the viewer’s perspective, which allows you to experience the scene as if it’s happening to you. So if the girl is giving a gentle handjob, the machine is giving a gentle handjob, and if the girl is bopping up and down quickly, so is the VSM. Thankfully, you don’t ever see the actress give toothy head. Clearly, the toy was made for wiener; and in case you’re not paying attention, I don’t have one. So I sent out a mass email to my guy friends, asking for a volunteer.
The first to respond was an ex-boyfriend who I refer to as the anti-cuddler. He loved sex but hated any sort of intimacy that came along with it, so it was no surprise that he wanted to screw a machine that wouldn’t expect him to spoon or talk about his feelings afterward.
“Can I deflower your sex machine?” he wrote.
“Yes, but under one condition,” I replied. “I get to watch.”
Of course, I had seen him have sex before, so how different could it be? He agreed, so we set a date. The following week, I brought over his new robotic girlfriend, stuffed in the kind of silver briefcase you would normally see full of unmarked bills or bags of blow.
We opened the case and examined the contents together. The main component, the part that would be hooked up to the computer and his wang, resembled those canisters you put your money into at bank drive-throughs. We made a few obvious deposit jokes as we poked at the red, squishy interior that would later become the mouth, vagina or ass, depending on which scene was playing. Once we had a proper understanding of how the machine worked, he was ready for his date. So he plugged the machine into the computer and laid a towel on the floor; then he dropped his drawers while I quietly sat on the bed and prepared to watch my ex-boyfriend fuck a robot.
He popped the porn VSM Presents Sammy 4 U into the computer and was offered his choice of four episodes: “Full-Service Stripper,” “Rough Rider Sammy,” “Ass Hammer” or “Pussy Fart Surprise.” Unfazed by the obvious spoiler ending, he clicked on “Pussy Fart Surprise,” and we watched Sammy begin with some blowjob magic. As she started sucking, so did the machine—but not in a good way. The level of noise produced by the VSM would make you think it was matching Sammy’s vigor, since it sounded like a train crashing into a pile of jackhammers; he compared the experience to “getting sucked off by a palsied nun.” Sammy then flipped onto her stomach and got railed from behind. I hoped that the VSM’s version of doggy-style would be better than its fellatio, but the look of defeat on the ex’s face said it wasn’t. He was ready to give up, and he said as much.
“No, you can’t give up yet!” I pleaded. “You have to finish. You owe it to my column! And to the machine!”
I was not a quitter, nor would I allow my robot-screwing ex-boyfriend to be.
“Fine, but can you at least help?” he asked. “Show me your boobs or something. And hold this thing. My arms are getting tired.”
Because I’m a dedicated employee, I did the meaningless grunt work: I stood topless in front of him and held the virtual sex machine between my legs. And as he grabbed onto my ta-tas and humped the robot vagina underneath my fleshy one, I whispered dirty words of encouragement. Then what came next was no big surprise: He finished inside the ‘bot, Sammy farted out of her pussy, and I had never felt dirtier. But at least I still had my work ethics.
Laura Leu is a freelance writer, accordion player and cheap date. She lives in Manhattan. You can read about her less robosexual adventures on her blog at lauraleu.com.
