5 Terrifying Sex Toys That Prove We're Overthinking Sex
Disclaimer: I'm no prude. Anyone who knows me will spit out a thousand creative insults about me before landing on "prude," and even then they're just probably misspelling something more interesting. Yet sometimes when I sit in front of the fire in my smoking jacket, idly sipping Scotch and browsing through the latest issue of Sexy Sex Sexology on Sexual Sexiness, it occurs to me that we, as a society, are totally overthinking boning.
I mean, I like looking at boobs as much as the next guy. But there is a point where things that are supposed to be nice and sexy stop being either and evolve into over-engineered mutant contraptions that are to harmless fun what Cthulhu is to local fish populations. Cases in point:
A10 Cyclone SA
Look, everyone knows Japan is going to feature on this list in one way or another, so let's just get their kink out of the way first, shall we?
The A10 Cyclone SA is named like an industrial vacuum cleaner, and damn if it doesn't look like a scale model of one, too. According to Kotaku, it was introduced to the unwary world as a "sexual home appliance," which is corporate speak for "Yo, here's a Hoover you can finally fuck without ending up in the ER!" But despite its clunky, business-like exterior, let's not rain doom all over this thing right away. Plenty of sex toys look way goofy; it's how they function that counts.
With that in mind, allow the nice lady who is probably really happy to have her image forever associated with this fucking thing give you a quick peek at the gadgetry that lies within:
That looks like a good way to lose a finger, even before it starts spinning at high speeds.
Yes, inside that unassuming shell lies a bona fide, rapidly spinning electrical sander vortex, ready to repeatedly rotate-brush any and all nearby dicks to oblivion. I guess that can be seen as a good thing if you're very literal-minded about polishing your pole, but for the casual masturbator that shit is just overkill. Oh, and because dong-flaying tornado machines only score a solid 6 on Japan's sliding scale of insanity, the Cyclone is also Bluetooth enabled so you can rig it to move in synch with, say, the play-by-play of last year's Super Bowl. Why would you ever want to do that? I don't know, because I'm not the one who's contemplating shelling out $300 for a customizable dick sander.
Squirting is a peculiar gush some women experience in their nether regions when they why am I explaining this? You know what I'm talking about, don't pretend that you don't.
Marcus London, who you just know is either a porn star or a villain in a Jason Statham movie, is an equally peculiar person who has devised an algorithm that lets any schmuck fondle female genitalia in a fashion that is "guaranteed" to pave the way to a lady-part hose-down. He calls it, I shit you not, the TimeToSquirt, and it comes in the shape of a wristwatch.
Because nothing says "pleasant sexy time" better than wearing a diver's watch in bed.
The actual watch is just a part of the TimeToSquirt system. The real meat comes in the form of a 200mb, password-protected guide that you can download from the product page after you've made the purchase. This tome contains Mr. London's ultimate hand techniques, which the website describes in a manner that makes me feel I'm not qualified to discuss this thing, for fear that someone, somewhere gets an internal injury for misunderstanding my words. Here, I'll let the website explain:
Yeah. Basically it's all about memorizing the manual, and that stupid watch is just a glorified traffic light for your action hand.
I'm not saying the system is entirely without worth. Its aim is to bring pleasure, and some women have gone on record saying that these climaxes can actually be quite powerful. However, I am saying that no matter how magical Mr. London's hands may be, a goddamn wristwatch is the absolute worst way to put his techniques to use. If you don't see the problem here, try wearing one to bed come next Bone Time and surreptitiously glance at it every 10 seconds. Unless your significant other is really into hate rodeo, I promise it won't take two minutes until they push the eject button.
"Honey, you don't understand. I wasn't bored, I was just using a cheat code to turn your vagina into a fire hose."
Back in the early 1990s, when "cyber" was a word no one sniggered at and hoverboards would surely arrive any day now, the world was introduced to the concept of teledildonics. Created as an umbrella term for the scientific research of long-distance fucking, it was both the most accurate description for dicking around the computer ever invented and the best excuse to dick around even more.
Well over 20 years later, the hottest shit in the field of distance boning is a device known as LovePalz, and I'm guessing if those early 1990s scientists would have seen it they probably would have called it quits, opting instead to find cancer cures or whatever.
LovePalz consists of a male and a female unit that you plug into your respective computers. Then you fuck them, and they basically respond to whatever is going on with the other unit, thus creating an illusion of screwing a piece of plastic in a fashion that is somehow more meaningful than usual. I could go on and on about the specs and haptic achievements of this product, but come on -- that's not what you really need to know about LovePalz. What you really need to know is what they look like when they're operational:
Hahahahaha! Isn't that just the most adorable thing ever? One of them churns. The other flops about. Together, they fight crime.
What the product website carefully downplays (but the user blurbs actively suggest) is that the product is also used for the nascent art of quite literally fucking yourself. Which, come to think of it, is totally like 98 percent of all the possible reasons anyone would ever purchase this thing. After all, cloning technology is expensive.
Still, at least there's a chance that one or two of these were sold to people who are actually using them for each other's benefit. There's no way the same can be said about ...
As you may have noticed from the previous entry, I have a tendency to believe that at the end of the day, people just want to screw themselves as hard as they possibly can. I realize this is a pretty heavy attitude, and I'd be happy to adjust it ... if it wasn't for the fact that things like the Glance app keep proving me right.
You may have heard of Glance in January, when it made its debut under its original name, Sex With Glass. In one fell swoop, it managed to combine the worst facets of all the realms of geek dickery: It was designed for Google Glass, it gave the platform a giant middle finger by actively advertising the sex aspect in its very name, and its whole point was face-swapping the person you're fucking with, well, you.
"Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
For that is the whole point of Glance, whether they admit it or not (they can't, because for a supposedly cool company Apple has some serious issues about sex). When you make an app where the whole point is swapping viewpoints with another person, you know full well what that shit is going to be used for. They even hint as much on their website:
Moments are more beautiful when we experience something we've never seen before. Glance makes even the simplest experiences more special, surprising, and delightful.
Take note of that vaguely Camembert-like stench wafting by your nostrils, for that is the smell of innuendo. Well, that, or the smell of your partner's taint, playing a harmonious tune with the view of your own, enjoyed through their Google Glass. Is that an image you would cherish? Because it's not an image I'm going to cherish. Get your pasty, Google-Glassed asses out of my living room.
And in case you're curious, I can save you the price of the app by saying your O-face looks like this. Everyone's O-face looks like this.
If you're not comfortable with the idea of a grown-ass man lubing himself up and stuffing himself in a huge rubber dragon head for kicks, walk away now. I hear there's a nice article about bunnies just next to this one.
Still here? Good.
To be human is to be a prisoner of your urges. We can discuss wines and argue about French philosophers all we want, but we're still basically animals with a prime evolutionary directive to procreate. We sure as shit are striving to become something else, though: For whatever reason, at some point in history our brains decided that watching other people screw is cool too, and that's how the sex industry became such a major player on every field of innovation. That's also how we've become jaded and willing to experiment more and more. Hell, I myself have been known to while it with a and a lawyer . We all have our innocent little secrets, even if we're one day going to get zapped big time by some passing alien fleet because of that shit you're up to, Steve.
The thing is, occasionally someone's particular interests wind up so convoluted and overthought, they're as far removed from ordinary sexuality as taxes. Consider vores, a tribe of fetish enthusiasts that reside in some of the darkest jungles of the Internet. They get off from the idea of either eating or being eaten by someone or something, and usually both the eater and the eaten are represented by a luscious catgirl or a dragon with boobs or some shit. Well, those guys have sex toys too:
I went to the website to check if this thing has air holes so you won't have to, and I'm sad to report that it has.
That's a "head nommer," and ahahahahahahaha holy mother of balls I can't even finish this sentence without collapsing in laughing fits. The manufacturer talks a big game about "drool-scented lubricant" and "saliva pumps" and whatever passes for ambition in circles where your highest dream is being fed to a hentai character, but come on -- that thing is clearly a massive artificial vagina for your face, and also the best goddamn thing I've seen all week. If they had a butt version of that, I could cross like six names off this year's Christmas shopping list alone.
Oh, and there's also that dragon thing I was talking about earlier. Sadly, it's not quite finished yet, but even more sadly, it looks like it eventually will be.
Now, imagine a 300-pound, bebonered man, slathered in oil and struggling to enter the mouth.
Pauli Poisuo is a Cracked columnist and owns barely any of this stuff, honest. Follow him on Twitter.