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      Sex Machine

      December 1, 2002

      By ROBBIE DILLON


      Photos by Martin Laporte
       

      Be honest. How many painful hours have you and your erection spent pretending to listen to the inane prattle of some excruciatingly self-absorbed twit while wondering whether or not she’s ever going to shut up and let you stick your hands in her pants? How many times have you found yourself thinking: “Is this really worth the trouble? Isn’t there some way — aside from wanking — that I could milk the mongoose without actually having to interact with yet another annoying, vapid (not to mention smelly) human being?”

      Well, if you’re like me (and you are, whether you care to admit it or not) the answer is far too many. But unless you live in close proximity to a large flock of sheep, there was never really much that you could do about it.

      Until now, that is. Yes, after only a few millennia, science has finally pulled its gene-splicing, space-shuttling, nuclear-missile-building head out of its ass and invented something that will actually improve the lives of human beings.

      Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the SEX MACHINE.

      Following in the inspired footsteps of Einstein and Edison, Montrealer Patrick More came up with the idea for his creation while polishing his car with an industrial-strength buffer. After noting that the machine sent waves of pleasant vibrations through his crotch, he set out in search of a way to share this sensual revelation with the world.

      The final product is an eight-foot-tall sheet of Plexiglas, molded into the shape of a voluptuous woman as if, say, Pamela Anderson had run into a wall of molten plastic and had her every curve and bump preserved unto eternity. Between the legs of said indentation is a metal tube that has been lined with an inflatable blood-pressure cuff. The client slides a specially designed latex sleeve (with French ticklers on the inside) over his enthrobbed magnificence, inserts it into the tube, and pumps up the cuff to achieve the desired tightness. A nearby rotary dimmer switch allows him to control the degree of vibration that surges through his genitalia, all the way from a delicate brushing of butterfly wings, to an oo-ooh m-mm-my g-g-g-god I-I’m f-f-fucking a d-d-um-p-t-t-ruck effect.

      Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, a very naked young lady presses her body into the indentations in the Plexiglas and wordlessly urges the client towards an orgasm that could be described as a religious experience if going to church ever made you feel like cum was shooting out of your eyeballs.

      For those who care about such things, the whole deal is completely legal, according to the Supreme Court of Canada, because there is never any physical contact between the hostess and her client.

      So where do I sign up? you’re asking. Sadly, this world-shattering technology is currently accessible only to those who dare to journey into the heart of Montreal’s red-light district. But it seems only a matter of time before the sex machine replaces television as the primary source of home entertainment.

      The implications are stupendous. Men, no longer forced to waste innumerable hours nodding and smiling in the hopes of swabbing the honeypot, will use their newfound time to move our civilization forward, create magnificent works of art, and invent an even better sex machine, something Patrick says is already in the works. Women, so used to fending off unwanted propositions, will suddenly find themselves liberated from their role as sexual objects and do whatever it is that women do when drunks are not harassing them in bars.

      Frankly, the future never looked so bright.

       

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