If Amazon reviews are indicative of the sex machine community at large, those are exactly the type of people you want around if you ever need to escape a hostage situation with only two paperclips and an apple corer. Maybe it seems intuitive that the same people who have sex with machines would be gear heads, but this extends beyond a casual enthusiasm. Most of these people sound like they could put a car engine together blindfolded.

And it's not just their knowledge of mechanics that's impressive. The creativity they display when fixing or adapting one of the machines so it pounds genitals better is downright inspiring. They customize their rides with such regularity that I'm curious why our country keeps complaining about a shortage of female engineers.

Oh, did you think the apple corer was an exaggeration? Bless your heart.

Not a single one of them is an off-the-shelf masturbator. They all put a lot of man hours into tricking out a machine they can never, ever show off. But easily the most surprising takeaway from these reviews is the staggering amount of care owners put into their sex toy before each individual use. Their patience threshold is enviable. I don't want to speak for everyone reading this, but spending an hour greasing pistons and tightening bolts when you're ready to have sex right now sounds infinitely more frustrating than just finding a willing human to slap against.

I have never planned anything as far in advance as these people have planned to hump an electric dildo saw. It seems like there should be some sort of rule that masturbation aids never require you to pour in more maintenance than an actual relationship.

Naturally, the limitless power of the human imagination has ensured that for everything in the world that rumbles, thrusts, or spins, someone has figured out how to f**k it. Each earnest review on the adapter's product page about how great it was at removing kitchen grout is buried under five more reviews of how hard it made someone c*m. The poor tool purists try their hardest to ignore the sex toy reviews, like they're hoping that if no one says anything, the perverts might all just dissolve into the ether like a fart. The only hint that the carpenters know their favorite tool has been sexually usurped is in the emphatic way they mention the home improvement project they are working on, lest someone mistake them for the kind of person who would wrap their genitals around a reciprocating saw.

It's so important to that guy that you know he used this tool for cleaning grout that he says it four times in one paragraph. But the sex toy enthusiasts hate being ignored. They've started penning subtly erotic reviews in the hopes of tricking some simple handyman into agreeing that it was helpful.

And then there are some reviews that have passed so far through the ceiling-mounted looking glass that their tone is impossible to discern. Either they are comedic geniuses, or they are suffering from sitcom levels of obliviousness.

For a group of people who have no problem hiking up their metaphorical skirts and exposing all of their deepest crotch secrets to Internet strangers, they sure are bashful about divulging their relationship status. This is not a hobby group that likes to be tied down (figuratively). They steer clear of labels like "boyfriend" or "wife" and opt instead for weird, clunky names for the person who presumably stands in the room watching their significant other pounded senseless by a steel robot.

After reading so many of these, even "partner" sounds strangely intimate. I like to imagine the person writing that review agonized for half an hour on whether "sexual associate" wouldn't be more accurate. And for some sex machine enthusiasts, putting any label at all on the condition of the relationship is unthinkable. Instead, they just leave the noun out completely like it was all just too much work to think about. This happens with such regularity it's hard to believe it's a mistake.

It all feels like a secret language only they speak and no one ever acknowledges it out loud, because, let's be honest, no one outside the community spends 12 hours reading sex machine reviews hunting for patterns. It seems more likely that they've been waiting for me all this time, burying clues for me to find like some sort of lascivious Moriarty. It would certainly explain why they all spell "heed" as "head" with absolutely no indication they realize their own sexual pun.

I know we are all built differently, and that sensitivities vary from person to person, but I'm genuinely concerned that some of the reviewers might be pounding themselves into paralysis. They engineered vibrating monstrosities out of pneumatic tools and flew too close to the sun aboard their flying/f*****g contraptions, I'm sure of it.

The machines they are discussing, by the way, are essentially sexualized jackhammers. It's not a feathery tickle that these people can't feel -- it is a rubbery nightstick that strikes at 150 thrusts a minute. I don't think a problem this massive can be solved by throwing money at Amazon.com. I think only hospitals know how to deal with someone who is this dead from the waist down.

Also, here's a tip for all you ladies, and I'll leave you with this: If you start a conversation with me with the words, "I'm a woman who can take a beating," I am immediately afraid of you. You have cracked a door into the terrifying, haunted trauma house of your life and then immediately shut it, leaving me to guess at everything inside. Call me prudish, but I will never be able to give you what you want, because we walk different sexual paths, you and I. And that's absolutely fine, but I will do my best to never end up in a room alone with you.

Soren is a Senior Writer for Cracked.com. You can follow him on Twitter or Tumblr which he's dedicated almost exclusively to homemade sex machine DIYs.

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