Wednesday, May 03, 2017
House of Dolls
Would you believe there is a brothel in Barcelona staffed by sex robots? I had to pinch myself when I saw this article to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. (I have yet to awake from a dream after pinching myself – maybe it’s time to replace that old saw with biting your toe or something.) The Spanish company behind this venture is called Lumidolls, and they are planning to open a similar establishment in the UK, where brothels containing flesh-and-blood women are illegal. They hope to attract customers by advertising the following features:
• a wide selection of “totally realistic” girl robots, with “angelic faces” and “penetrative gazes”;
• the opportunity to enact fantasies you “would not dare to do with a woman”;
• the use of “special antibacterial soaps” to disinfect the robots after they have entertained their clients.
The key question for potential customers is in what sense these simulacra are “robots” rather than just “dolls”. To the naked eye, they look like dolls – I can’t detect any moving parts and the expressions on their faces are decidedly fixed. Maybe they emit squeaks when you squeeze them, like children’s toys, but I doubt that will satisfy punters looking for an interactive experience.
Naturally, I forwarded the article to the manager of the safari camp, hoping to be enlightened by his take on the robots/dolls, but he was more concerned about what they were charging for using them:
“82 pounds an hour!” he exclaimed. “That’s almost as much as a real woman costs!”
“But you are ignoring the advantages they have over real woman,” I replied mischievously. “They won’t laugh at men who whinny like horses and go cross-eyed when they climax.”
“Have you been talking to my wife?” he asked suspiciously. “I could tell you a few things about her.”
Even if the brothels were to lower their fees, they would not be popular with everyone. Feminists argue that men who use sex robots will get into the habit of treating women like objects. This may well be true in some cases. Other men, however, may suffer from the opposite delusion. I remember reading an article about a sad old codger who had fallen in love with his sex doll. The poor fellow was convinced she was a tender creature who loved him dearly. He might well have left her everything he had in his will – I suppose the money could have been used to repaint her skin or replace parts that had lost their elasticity. Or maybe he gave instructions for her to be buried with him. Sex doll or not, you have to be sorry for a girl who suffers that fate.
What can one say about these psychosexual dilemmas? I don’t pretend to have the answers. There are no sex dolls in the jungle, and if there were they would be torn to shreds by the baboons. All one can do is observe the foibles of humanity and record them faithfully for posterity. There is no hero but the truth, as Tolstoy said.
Labels: Barcelona, brothels, sex dolls, sex robot
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
Love droids
A Californian company called RealDoll has announced it will be selling an artificially intelligent sex doll next year. If they’d put it on the market a month ago, I would have bought for the manager of the safari camp as a Christmas gift. His wife isn’t the jealous type and might have appreciated sharing her conjugal duties with a robot. If nothing else, it would have given her time to catch up on her bedtime reading.
RealDoll haven’t said what their AI-enhanced sex doll will be capable of doing. It’s not difficult to imagine what functions the typical customer would want, but I suspect these early models will be fairly limited. Maybe the dolls will just moan and wiggle their tongues. Mind you, that’s probably more than many human partners provide. Hef’s playmates have surely mastered the art of playing possum, with the aid of a sedative if necessary.
A bunch of academics recently held a conference in London to discuss the way ahead for human-robot couplings. One of the speakers was Dr David Levy, the author of a seminal work called Love and Sex with Robots, published in 2007. Maybe I should have read it before writing this post. On the other hand, it might have given me the yips. A highbrow British periodical described the book as follows:
David Levy's thesis, in this utterly fascinating, scholarly and rather uncomfortable book, is essentially that we'll fuck anything (which we knew), and that we love pretty much anything that looks as though it might love us; or, at least, is blank and malleable enough for us to project that idea upon.
Yet almost 10 years after publication, Dr Levy’s idyllic vision of tireless and technically proficient sex machines is a long way from fruition. At the end of the conference, a member of the audience summed up the current state of play:
“We can't agree what a robot is, we can't agree what sex is. We are almost sure that no sex robots currently exist. What we are developing is very crude and almost no-one wants it.”
This is the problem with most advances in technology – the big breakthroughs happen in unexpected places rather than where everyone wants them to. There’ll be intelligent kitchen appliances long before sex robots are a common bedroom accessory. Refrigerators will make sarcastic remarks when men fill them up with six packs. Washing machines will scold women who sit on them during the spin cycle. Once machines have intelligence, there’ll be no end of cheek from them.
I personally doubt that androids will ever possess the sexual characteristics of a biological entity. Living flesh has a certain texture that cannot be replicated by inorganic substances. The human butt cheeks, when spanked, emit a noise that is instantly recognisable and probably unique in the solar system. Instead of trying to make artificial humans, the sex toy industry should think about creating a device like the Orgasmatron. It was all action and no talk, which is want people want from machines.
Labels: artificial intelligence, orgasmatron, sex dolls, sex robot, spanking, technology
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Swiftian satire
The exciting news from America is that Taylor Swift is being pursued by two men. They aren’t literally chasing her, of course. The human male is not a horse, even though some can snort and whinny with the best of them. The rivals for Taylor’s fair hand are a sportsman called Sean St Leger and a record producer called Calvin Harris. The sportsman looks as if his head was carved from a block of wood, which may be part of his appeal. There is much to be said for a mate who can crack walnuts with his chin.
Will Taylor’s gallants fight for her favour in the time-honoured way? I’d like to see them square up like a pair of feuding silverbacks, fisting each other’s concavities, (but not biting each other’s testicles, which is what chimpanzees would do). Sadly, I suspect they will settle their differences in the modern metrosexual way by allowing Taylor to choose between them. It won’t be an easy decision. Those in the know say she hasn’t slept with either man, so she may as well toss a coin.
But maybe there’s another way. If Taylor is truly as chaste as they say, she could ask each contestant to demonstrate his skills by making love to a sex doll. She wouldn’t watch them herself, of course. The blush that would bring to her maidenly cheeks would be worse than sunburn. A panel of judges would evaluate their performance from behind a one-way mirror, giving points for agility, inventiveness and staying power. The doll herself would have no vote, but would receive a thorough douching after her ordeal. The judges I would appoint are Lady Gaga, Ellen Degeneres and Barry Manilow. It’s what we call a balanced hen coup in the jungle.
To those of you who think that Barry Manilow is a worthless old has-been, I have some stunning news to announce. The great man has recently married his long-time manager and partner, a gentleman by the name of Garry Kief. What, you never knew that Barry was gay? You should have asked. Why should he volunteer information if you don’t take an interest in his life? Fittingly enough, his “best man” was the actress Suzanne Somers, a close lady friend. It all goes to show that the old dog has plenty of waggle-power in his tail.
A more radical solution to Taylor’s dilemma would be to marry both her suitors. Before you dismiss the idea as flagitious and impractical, cast your mind back to a classic film called Paint Your Wagon. In that epic musical western, a pioneer lady was unable to choose between a pair of prospectors played by Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin, so she married both of them. They soon came to an amicable arrangement where the husbands would visit their wife on alternate days or something like that. No different, in principle, from two buddies sharing a mountain bike. This was precisely the kind of pragmatic adaptability that enabled homo sapiens to thrive in the Badlands.
Labels: Barry Manilow, gay marriage, polyandry, sex dolls, Taylor Swift
Monday, November 19, 2012
China syndrome
I can’t understand why a Chinese airline has introduced a smelly armpit test for its pilots. Hainan Airlines will not allow anyone with a malodorous underarm to fly its jets. Why in the name of Confucius did they not introduce this test for the flight attendants, who unlike the pilots actually mingle with the passengers? All too often, my blameless olfactory organ has been offended by human body odours while travelling in a commercial jet. These unwelcome aromas were usually emitted by the cabin crew, extending their arms to open overhead lockers or leaning across my seat for no good reason.
It is possible, of course, that Chinese pilots make a habit of hobnobbing with the passengers. I remember being accosted by one such character on a flight from Hong Kong to Taipei – he burst out of the cockpit when the plane had reached cruising altitude:
“Ho! GB!” he exclaimed. “Tell me about your life in jungle. You gorillas always fucking eh? Haha!”
“Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?” I asked.
“No worry about that!” he replied jovially. “Autopilot fly plane and co-pilot keep eye on everything. Unless he playing with his dick! Haha!”
“That’s all well and good, but I’d rather you were in the cockpit doing your job,” I said. “After we land, I’ll be more than happy to grant you an interview.”
So he returned to his post, muttering something in Cantonese which I could not translate.
I shouldn’t give you the impression that I view the Chinese as ninnies, because they’re coming up with some brilliant innovations that ought to be copied in the West. One such idea is the angry room, invented by restaurant owner Zhou Jun, which is a place where staff can abuse pictures of their boss. It is hoped this will defuse their pent-up frustrations and diminish the urge to empty a pot of hot soup over Mr Zhou’s head. Note the pragmatic attitude of Chinese bosses, who don’t mind being hated as long as their workers are happy and productive.
The nearest thing to the anger room in the West is the Justin Bieber sex doll, an amazingly lifelike replica produced specifically for men who have “issues” with Justin. It’s a sad fact that Bieber’s macho persona makes a lot of guys feel puny and worthless, disabling their capacity to engage in manly pastimes. Some of them react to their low self-esteem by wearing ladies’ underwear. Others experiment with butt plugs. It is thought that acquiring an effigy of their bête noire (and sodomising it at leisure) will enable them to rediscover their sense of self-worth. This will allow them to return to their ranches and lumber yards to explore their virility with renewed vigour.
Speaking as a gorilla who would pose no threat to Justin if we met in a dark alley, I welcome this attempt to deflect the animosity he inspires. Any invention that prevents Bieber from getting buggered is worth its weight in gold.
Labels: air travel, body odour, China, Justin Bieber, sex dolls
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
Disposable waste
I notice a spate of incidents in which sex dolls have been rescued from rivers and oceans. One presumes they were dumped there by their owners. Is it possible that men who buy sex dolls grow bored or disenchanted with their company? I find the idea quite upsetting.
I discussed this ugly development with the manager of the safari camp.
“Couldn’t they have offered them for sale on eBay rather than callously disposing of them in that fashion?” I asked.
“What makes you think anyone would want to buy a second-hand sex doll?” he replied. “If I ever bought one I’d want her to be a virgin.”
“You might be disappointed,” I said. “I’m fairly certain they’re tested in the factory before being shipped to customers.”
“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the manager. “I pity the poor fool who has that job! I wonder if his wife gets jealous – if he has a wife.”
“Why would she mind unless he brought his work home with him?” I said. “Would your wife be jealous if you copulated with a sex doll?”
“Yes,” answered the manager.
I didn’t argue the point. He knows his wife better than I do and presumably has reasons for his belief.
I personally think it should be a crime to treat sex dolls like garbage. They may not have feelings, but they possess a stoic dignity that ought to be respected. The fact that they were mistaken for real women before being rescued from drowning shows how beautifully crafted the latest models are. The virginity issue is nonsense, of course. I’m sure they’re as good as new after a thorough douching.
Some of you might be wondering whether I own shares in a company that manufactures sex dolls. I am happy to answer your question. Yes, I do. I once asked the directors, at the annual general meeting, why we didn’t make dolls that looked like famous actresses or pop stars. They said the women would sue us. When I suggested asking them for permission, everyone just laughed.
One female celebrity who might agree to have a sex doll made in her likeness is Lady Gaga. She prides herself on being unconventional and “out there”, so maybe she’d take it as a compliment. Her latest avant garde exploit was to be photographed naked on the toilet. She claims she did it to highlight the eating disorders she endured in her adolescence. I don’t quite see the connection unless she suffered from constipation.
What fascinates me is how small the toilet bowl is compared with Miss Gaga’s bottom. I’m sure this isn’t because her bottom is particularly big. My theory is that she will only sit on small toilets because of a morbid fear of falling into the bowl. Maybe she did actually fall in when she was a little girl, and now has a phobia.
I admit the above is pure speculation on my part; but if I’m right, she ought to have plenty of sympathy for sex dolls that get dumped in the sea.
Labels: falling into a toilet, Lady Gaga, sex dolls
Friday, November 23, 2007
Sex doll relationships
The latest human sex dolls are getting very realistic. The company I own shares in printed photos of their new “Supersnatch” model in their annual report. In a recent TV documentary, a client confessed that he’d fallen in love with one of these dolls. Admittedly, he was a 78-year-old man with custom-built model based on his 22-year-old ex-girlfriend. The doll’s physical likeness to the girl was extraordinary. Her personality and conversational skills were pretty close as well, apparently.
The future of the sex doll industry depends on further improvements to the “internal cavity”, as those in the trade call it. Although it currently delivers a decent squelching sensation, clients who have unprotected sex are vulnerable to the “dick-rash and douche” syndrome. No man in a relationship with a sex doll wants to use a condom – he may as well pay a woman for that. The plan on the drawing board is for a new organic cavity harbouring jism-eating bacteria. There are few problems beyond the reach of modern science.
An industry insider once asked me whether there’d be a market for gorilla sex dolls. I told him they’d never catch on because you can’t afford dead weight in the wild. A female gorilla must do more than provide a sexual orifice – she’s got to pull her weight in the foraging, gathering and baboon-chasing departments as well. No one gets to be a passenger just because they’ve got a super-elastic cha-cha that stays permanently moist in the dry season. To be part of a gorilla band you’ve got to be a team player, keeping your eyes and ears open for any dangerous critters that might sneak up on your comrades. An alpha male always prefers to have feisty apettes in his harem, even if it means they’ll occasionally mob him and use him as a pouf. Being sat on by females is a lot better than sitting on a snake.
The march of technology being what it is, the sex doll may one day be replaced by the sex android. This concept was explored in The Stepford Wives, a movie in which the menfolk of a town replace their flesh-and-blood spouses with battery-powered replicas. The androids adore cleaning and cooking; they speak in dulcet tones; they croon with delight when their husbands mount them. Yet such automatons would never fool a gorilla. Lacking a primate soul, the absence of rhythm in their booties would be obvious during our jungle festivities. For all their doting subservience, the matrimonial robots never dared accompany their husbands to the discotheque or ballroom for fear of making complete asses of themselves.
Constrained by its programming, the android spouse is incapable of the innovation and spontaneity required to keep the spark in a marriage alive. One doesn’t want a mate who’s totally unpredictable, of course. As any gorilla with a harem knows, too many surprises from the females lead to stress and irregular bowel movements. But a complete absence of conjugal tension causes you to become a fat, complacent slug. The ideal mate is one who keeps you on your toes without going completely loco and putting insects up your nose when you’re asleep. A proper balance between yin and yang is the secret of a contented life.
The future of the sex doll industry depends on further improvements to the “internal cavity”, as those in the trade call it. Although it currently delivers a decent squelching sensation, clients who have unprotected sex are vulnerable to the “dick-rash and douche” syndrome. No man in a relationship with a sex doll wants to use a condom – he may as well pay a woman for that. The plan on the drawing board is for a new organic cavity harbouring jism-eating bacteria. There are few problems beyond the reach of modern science.
An industry insider once asked me whether there’d be a market for gorilla sex dolls. I told him they’d never catch on because you can’t afford dead weight in the wild. A female gorilla must do more than provide a sexual orifice – she’s got to pull her weight in the foraging, gathering and baboon-chasing departments as well. No one gets to be a passenger just because they’ve got a super-elastic cha-cha that stays permanently moist in the dry season. To be part of a gorilla band you’ve got to be a team player, keeping your eyes and ears open for any dangerous critters that might sneak up on your comrades. An alpha male always prefers to have feisty apettes in his harem, even if it means they’ll occasionally mob him and use him as a pouf. Being sat on by females is a lot better than sitting on a snake.
The march of technology being what it is, the sex doll may one day be replaced by the sex android. This concept was explored in The Stepford Wives, a movie in which the menfolk of a town replace their flesh-and-blood spouses with battery-powered replicas. The androids adore cleaning and cooking; they speak in dulcet tones; they croon with delight when their husbands mount them. Yet such automatons would never fool a gorilla. Lacking a primate soul, the absence of rhythm in their booties would be obvious during our jungle festivities. For all their doting subservience, the matrimonial robots never dared accompany their husbands to the discotheque or ballroom for fear of making complete asses of themselves.
Constrained by its programming, the android spouse is incapable of the innovation and spontaneity required to keep the spark in a marriage alive. One doesn’t want a mate who’s totally unpredictable, of course. As any gorilla with a harem knows, too many surprises from the females lead to stress and irregular bowel movements. But a complete absence of conjugal tension causes you to become a fat, complacent slug. The ideal mate is one who keeps you on your toes without going completely loco and putting insects up your nose when you’re asleep. A proper balance between yin and yang is the secret of a contented life.
Labels: sex dolls, Stepford Wives, yin and yang
