Although many people have rigorously defended Richard Leakey's thesis that man's ascension to a position of dominance over other animals is based on the aggressive use of weapons rather than the peaceful use of tools, I have this nagging thought that thousands of years before our ancestors used a femur as a club they discovered how to enhance the pleasure of sex with rocks and pieces of wood polished smooth by flowing water, strips of fibrous plants, animal furs, bones and tusks, berries, fruits, seed pods, tubers, and whatever else they could find. Such speculation aside, what we do know is that many of the great civilizations have left to us in their legacy of tomb paintings, burial artifacts, temple carvings, myths, legends and written records a fascination with sex tools that equals if not surpasses their accomplishments in the armory, and that anthropologists have returned from field trips with a remarkable assortment of items used to adorn the penis and intended to heighten a woman's pleasure. All in all, it seems to me that there is much evidence to suggest that throughout history mankind has more often than not applied his mechanical know-how in pursuit of that classical hippie adage, "Make Love, Not War."
While the dividing line between tool and machine is fuzzy, I recognize that since early adolescence I have had an inclination towards sex machines, and only a much lesser interest in sex tools. When I saw my first picture of a dildo it fascinated me, but it fell far short of my own fantasy creations -- large, motorized machines intended to give girls unlimited pleasure that bordered on torture. Years later I stumbled across Tomi Ungerer's Fornicon, and for the first time in my life I realized that I was not alone in my interest in the application of complex machinery to produce intense erotic experiences.
The properties of a sex machine most significant to me are that the device harness energy and redirect it to produce intense stimulation associated with sexual pleasure, and that it be purpose built for that end. I am equally drawn to machines large and small, massive structures that envelop a person to gizmos small enough to go unnoticed underneath street clothes.
A block of ice in an insulated box is able to keep a bottle of soda cold. An electric refrigerator is a machine, but simple, generic, and requiring a lot of effort on our part. A coin-operated soft drink vending machine is relatively complex, and in the absence of vandals does a fantastic job of serving up gratification. A knife is a tool, a food processor is a machine. A dildo is a tool -- so what is a sex machine?
As provocative as the phrase Sex Machine is for me, the term has a different and more widely used meaning. I doubt that the men who flatter themselves with this title are any better at sex than the average bloke. In fact, I believe that they are at risk of being ridiculed for their presumptuousness, although the term appears to have been accepted by the pop music crowd. At any rate I felt it necessary to distinguish my passion for machines that pleasure people and people who fancy themselves machines, so I have coined the term MekSex. Use it in the same manner as "oral sex" or "masturbation" or "S&M." Specifically, it is not a noun; "This device is a MekSex" would be incorrect usage.
If a dildo is a sex tool, what about a small carriage drawn by a horse around a garden path especially constructed with bumps and dips for the purpose of enhancing copulation? Despite its simplicity, the absence of gears and motors, and the lack of direct contact with the genitals, does this not qualify as a sex machine, particularly when you allow for the fact that it utilized some of the most advanced technology of the day? Stories and paintings of such pleasure rides abound in depictions of the aristocratic lifestyle of ancient China. Less mechanical but still noteworthy are the many paintings of Chinese noblemen copulating with a consort while galloping on horseback.
Less intense but beautiful to contemplate was the Chinese practice of capturing
the energy of the wind to power an endless fuck. A woman would seat herself
in a tree with springy branches spread over a large outcropping of rock,
while her lover sat on the rock directly under her. With each leg draped
across a branch and steadied by grasping the higher branches, the woman
carefully lowered her ass until her lover was buried deep inside her. (A
variation was to sit in a sling hung from a branch.) From then on the goal
was to relax and let the wind do most of the work. In an ideal encounter
the man never came, while the woman came as many times as possible. Paintings
of such encounters often include several women, one in the tree and the
others assisting the couple. This makes perfect sense when you consider
that the woman in the tree was at considerable risk of falling, especially
if she had an orgasm intense enough to cause her to faint, and that due
to the ideal of prolonged intercourse she could become too exhausted to
continue. I can only speculate that the women therefore took turns in order
that the man could enjoy his pleasure as long as possible. Viewed through
our eyes, influenced by the industrial revolution and blinded by high-tech
gadgets of every kind, such a naturalistic scene may not seem mechanical,
yet it includes the fundamental concept of harnessing a form of energy
and applying it to the task of sexual gratification.
A similar scene turns up in erotic stories and [paintings](msxh1.htm) throughout
Asia. A woman is seated in a sling (or alternatively a basket chair) hung
from a frame, and an assistant controls the height of the sling by a rope
which passes through a pulley. First the woman is hoisted high, then slowly
lowered onto her lover's penis. The man sits as still a possible, all movement
produced by the swaying, twisting female. I like to think that whenever
the assistant felt that the man was overly excited she yanked the rope
to separate the lovers, drawing out their pleasure interminably.
The Japanese were rarely as extroverted as the Chinese when it came to sex, but nothing was left untried even if unseen. The most fascinating and misunderstood application of a mechanical device for producing sexual pleasure was the rin-no-tama, which we have come to call ben-wa balls. The basis for the misunderstanding is the inaccurate descriptions of the device and its use.
A true
set of rin-no-tama were crafted of three balls made of thin silver
and joined by a delicate chain. Each ball was about the size and shape
of a robin's egg. The first ball inserted into the vagina was hollow, its
purpose being to keep the other two in position up closer to the entrance
to the vagina, under the g-spot. The second ball contained a large blob
of mercury. The third ball had thin wire tongues fastened to the inside
of the shell and a small iron or lead ball which rattled around inside.
A silk cork was attached to this ball to allow easy extraction of the entire
set.
The purpose of the rin-no-tama was not to induce orgasm. They were worn by women on pleasure-seeking outings in order to provide a delicate, continuous, teasing sensation which was enjoyable in itself and to unlock their desire which was ultimately satisfied upon their return home. In summer, upper-class women of Edo and Kyoto frequently escaped the heat of the city by taking an evening boat ride on the river. They brought lots of snacks to eat and sake to drink, and sang songs and traded gossip while the hired oarsman steered the small skiff over the gentle waves. The small boats would rock continuously, providing the perfect motion to keep a set of rin-no-tama jiggling about. I am not aware of any source which documents that women in these parties shared the fact that they were enjoying such pleasure, but given the casual Japanese attitude about sex in those days I find it easy to assume that in some cases at least it was the focal point of the evening.
In the West, the dawning of the mechanized age took place at a time when attitudes towards sex were at an all time low. Because of this, the wondrous creativity that brought us the steam engine, the sewing machine, the cotton gin and a host of other mechanical marvels was never directed at enhancing sexual pleasure. If anything it was quit the opposite. Well-meaning inventors created a multitude of fiendish devices aimed at preventing young men and women from engaging in the harmful act of masturbation. Just imagine how different things might be if Thomas Edison had spent as much time on sex machines as he did his other inventions!
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The Industrial Revolution built upon a long tradition of organic, supernatural forms of surrogate women. To my knowledge, the first depiction of a machine built in the form of a woman, and meant to idealize female sexuality no less than the nymphs of old, was in Fritz Lang's 1927 movie Metropolis. Female cyborgs and androids have appeared regularly in Science Fiction ever since.
Recently, the Japanese artist Hajime Sorayama has blended the curvaceous sexuality of Vargas pin-up art with metal skinned cyborgs to produce a more updated version of Lang's vision.
Equally intriguing is the notion of the ideal woman as portrayed in the movie Blade Runner. Where Sorayama's cyborgs are as cold and metallic as C3PO, the robots of Blade Runner are indistinguishable from real people. Rachel in particular makes our present day inflatable love dolls look quaintly pathetic.
For some reason, the robot's ability to improve the quality of life were rarely applied to explicit depictions of sex. The only example I can think of is the movie Flesh Gordon, the 70's erotic satire of the Flash Gordon serials. I only recall one example, some clownish male robots with huge, spinning dildos. Like pin-up art, it is left to the viewer to extend the robot's perfection to include sex. It was always implied, but rarely stated.
There is much more than perfection of form that ignites our interest in these mechanical women. The greatest attraction of all is the promise of controlling what men find so uncontrollable, the behavior of their mate. I would love to come home at the end of the day to a woman dressed to kill in sensuous evening-wear, or one of my other fetish looks. Always sweet and docile, ready to have sex at the drop of a hat but never demanding any special attention. It would make me the master of a perfectly obedient sex slave.
What keeps me from going off the deep end in my attraction for mechanized women is the fundamental premise of my sexuality, which is the desire to witness a woman experiencing the most intense and uninhibited sexual gratification possible. I do not relate to women as a means to stimulate me nearly as much as an opportunity for me to give pleasure. Neither do I see myself as the primary source of their pleasure.
One could stipulate that a machine as advanced as Rachel could be constructed to display pleasure. I love nothing more than to tie a woman down and drive her crazy with light tickling, and if today's toy makers can make a plush doll appear to be tickled they certainly ought to be able to do even better in a few years with a life-sized Barbie. If it can be done with tickling, it should be possible for anything else one enjoys, from straight sex to flagellation. The problem I have with that is knowing that it is not real.
Ironically, the best manifestation of my fantasies may be achievable with such an advanced robot. The great tragedy of my sexuality is that it is based on a woman experiencing pleasure, but by means that for the most part fail to achieve that end. A woman who loves a man because of his fetish is a rare being. The best I have been able to achieve are relationships in which a woman loves me in spite of my fetish, and sooner or later the fetish drives her away. Faced with the prospect of never finding a suitable partner, sex play with a beautiful robot sounds a lot better than playing alone.
While Science Fiction has resoundingly ignored robots as idealized sex partners, film makers have on occasion used other forms of machinery in unabashedly sexual ways. Two good examples are the Pleasure Organ in the 1968 movie Barbarella starring Jane Fonda and the Orgasmatron in Woody Allen's 1973 movie Sleeper. Both devices are large enclosures which subject the occupant to extreme sexual pleasure in unseen ways.
In
Barbarella, we learn that a villainous character has constructed
a machine which kills women with pleasure. The victim is placed inside
a coffin-like enclosure, with only their head protruding, and the villain
manipulates an organ-like keyboard to subject the occupant to extreme pleasure.
He prides himself in the fact that they die with a smile on their face.
When he attempts to do away with Barbarella in this way we see her face
go through the kinds of contortions one would expect from a women experiencing
terrific sex, only her appetite for pleasure is so large that the machine
overheats and is destroyed without harming her.
Woody Allen's vision is less morbid. We learn that in the future intercourse is considered too messy and time consuming to bother with, and that civilized people satisfy themselves by stepping inside a box called an Orgasmatron. Gratification is achieved in a matter of seconds. Allen uses this information to set up a humorous scene in which he hides from the police inside the Orgasmatron. Afraid to come out until the police are gone, he is forced to endure its effect far longer than anyone normally would choose to, and when he finally appears he is a disheveled wreck. The humor is the point, but there is something quite compelling about the possibility of having such an experience that adds a nice twist to the scene.
Both of these scenes are entertaining, yet both are stained by attitudes which deny the richness of our sexuality. Always the master of guilt, Woody Allen's Orgasmatron is a compromise between the desire for sex and the guilt that robs us of our enjoyment. It eliminates the complex social interaction of courtship and seduction, the need to perform adequately, and the need to clean up the mess afterwards. Gratification is instant, complete, and guaranteed. Only when he is forced to endure a prolonged session in the device does Allen begin to touch upon the true nature of sex. When we first learn of the machine and what it does we might be curious, but not enough to covet one. It is when we watch Allen stuck inside the thing and we laugh at his predicament that a little corner of our brain wishes we were in his place. Or that we could put our partner in his position.
Beyond the Orgasmatron itself there is the way in which people treated it. A trip to the Orgasmatron was not an end in itself, only a brief interruption in a person's routine, an uninteresting but necessary act not much different that urinating. We do not need a machine to see that attitude in people, and for those of us who value sex and all it encompasses such people are lost souls. That Woody Allen did not scheme and plot to satisfy a craving to be locked inside the Orgasmatron dilutes the effect when it does occur. The fact that it happens by accident gives him yet another opportunity to portray guilt, for had he known what he was in for he might not have allowed himself to go through with it.
In Barbarella we see another common example of sexual denial. Jane Fonda's reaction to what is happening to her while she is locked inside the Pleasure Organ seems more appropriate to a woman at a fancy dinner party who is surprised by a dog under the table licking her feet but who does not want to cause a disturbance. It is as if she is above enjoying sex, a position that is consistently portrayed throughout the film. I guess that this was the director's intent, to portray the male frustration at seeing attractive women dressed to enhance their desirability yet who seem oblivious to the desire they induce. Her session in the Pleasure Organ, which the director had established as the ultimate sex machine capable of inducing much more that just le petite mort, makes her seem frigid. To some men this becomes a challenge -- 'give me and my cock an hour alone with her and I'll thaw her out.' I am the kind of guy who prefers women who love sex. If I had directed the scene I would have shown Miss Fonda writhing in ecstasy and having orgasm after orgasm, the machine's breakdown due not to its inability to satisfy her but rather her insatiable appetite.
I cannot explain the connection between control and sex, but it exists. I am talking about control of another person -- self control is an entirely different subject.
An excellent representation of control can been seen when a dog responds to the commands of its master. We've all seen people with their dogs out at the park or in their yard, the human giving commands and the dog eagerly trying to comply. The dog truly wants to please its master, and the human takes great pleasure in the dog's dedication and enjoyment of the game.
Some humans enjoy something similar in their personal relationships. The manner in which the interaction takes place is often far more subtle, and in some relationships there will be specific situations in which the roles will be reversed.
The degree to which control is applied or sought varies tremendously amongst people. Some really do want a relationship like a human and a dog, while others prefer the aloofness of cats or the dignified determination of beavers. As with everything else about sex, the range of personal preferences is a varied as the appearance of faces.
For a large percentage of people (just how large I have no idea), control is not a significant factor in their enjoyment of sex. Mainstream behavior such as presented in books on how to be a good lover therefor omits any discussion of the subject, or worse yet allude to it in negative terms. Those people for whom control is a key aspect of their sexual experience therefor often feel uncomfortable with their feelings.
There are two key factors to successfully incorporating control into a relationship. The first is to recognize that most people will not appreciate a significant need for control. It will make them uncomfortable. This is not an easy lesson to learn, because a person who enjoys something often has a difficult time understanding why anyone would fail to enjoy it. Once that lesson is learned, the key to success is to find a partner who can accommodate the need and to introduce control situations as a form of play. Relationships in which a significant level of control is fundamental and taken seriously can work, but more often than not result in a dysfunctional relationship for at least one of the parties. What works best is to make it a game, a form of play which has set limits and release mechanisms or emergency exits.
In this context, sex machines operate in the same manner as bondage, pain, tickling, and fetishism as a method to experience a heightened state of control. A person who seeks to exert control can experience it by subjecting their partner to a session with a machine, and a person who enjoys a loss of control can achieve satisfaction by being subjected to a session.
A relatively obvious method to produce loss of control is restraint. For a large sex machine, little is gained unless the device incorporates a means to restrict movement. At the opposite end of the scale, small devices that can be hidden under normal clothing offer a tantalizing alternative, which is to be locked in place. Physical restraint can be used here as well, but the act of wearing such a device in public should not be underestimated for its ability to produce a sense of loss of control.
One of my favorite forms of sex play is to dress a woman in sensual clothes and a little something that diddles her clit and to take her out for a long evening of dinner and night-clubbing. The energy this produces in both of us is almost beyond description. Loss of control becomes a factor for both of us, because just as much as she experiences relentless pleasure I experience relentless desire to touch her and fondle her, and we both must behave ourselves for several long hours. When we are at last alone the outcome is positively explosive.
Least you get the impression that I advocate the wide acceptance of the use of sex machines in sex play, let me assure you that my primary interest in the concept is their use in fantasy. Only a small percentage of people who get turned on by the idea of sex machines actually go to the trouble to incorporate them in their active sex play. While constructing one is a task beyond the average person's ability, anyone can enhance a session of solo or partnered sex with a fantasy about a sex machine with supernatural power.
Although I enjoy the kind of dildos and vibrators that are available in sex shops, my primary interest here is in the eroticism contained in the idea of blending powerful machines and sex. Rather than ignore the area of mainstream sex toys entirely I have devoted a separate article to the subject which will be on-line soon.
Many
a young girl discovers the pleasure of sex by way of an innocent activity
that happens to apply pressure to her crotch. Bouncing on Uncle Bob's knee,
frolicking on playground equipment, climbing trees, and horseback riding
are good examples, but no machine in our culture has contributed more to
the pleasure of young girls than the bicycle.
Bicycles and exercise bikes are popular props in erotic stories. The ride is often enhanced by a specially constructed, sexually stimulating seat, sometimes nothing more than a dildo. In extreme settings the rider is lashed to the bike and must continue pedaling, and thus receiving sexual stimulation, or be subjected to some sort of motivation such as electric shock. I kind of like the idea of a powerful, variable intensity vibrator built into the seat, connected to a control box in such a way that the slower the rider pedals the stronger the vibration. In the beginning the rider may prefer to go slow, but after a few good orgasms the situation will be most conducive to weight loss.
While researching this article I came across several related web sites that deal with the concept I call MekSex.
My own interest in sex machines springs from the same source as my fetish for women's clothing and my desire to tickle women. By the age of ten I had developed the habit of masturbating while fantasizing about tickling a girl wearing a silk dress. I loved to imagine that a silk dress would feel deliciously ticklish to wear and that a girl wearing one would enjoy being tied down and tickled for long periods of time. I got very aroused just thinking about a girl wearing a silk dress without underwear all day, secretly enjoying many hours of continuous, gentle tickling and longing to have a boy tie them down and drive them wild by lightly caressing their silk-clad body.
As a prelude to masturbation I would place myself in the role of a girl, trying to imagine what it would feel like to wear a silk dress, trying to imagine the feel of the cold, slithery fabric tickling my entire body. Whenever I had the chance I would enhance this experience by wearing one of my mother's nylon slips, the only item of women's clothing I had access to at the time that felt anywhere close to how I imagined a silk dress would feel. I would become aroused in an instant (ah, youth!) but would force myself to wait as long as possible before rubbing my penis. It was not that I felt guilty. It gave me the opportunity to experience the kind of ravenous frustration I liked to imagine a girl suffering as a result of going to school or church or a party in a silk dress. When I absolutely could not stand to wait another second I would continue to cling to these thoughts while enjoying the fabulous pleasure of masturbating, and it was not long before I began to long to give a girl the same experience.
I did not know that girls had a clitoris. My guess was that a girl's vagina was analogous to a boy's penis, and that the source of her pleasure were the lips that marked the entrance to her vagina. I based this theory on explorations of my mouth, where the area most sensitive to touch was my lips. I loved to imagine myself tickling a girl's cunt by gently pressing her silk dress or skirt against her cunt and running my fingers very lightly up and down the little valley, which I thought would produce a wonderful mixture of ticklish torment and sexual pleasure. Tickling was the key that unlocked my passion, and I was quite certain that a girl would find the experience of having her cunt tickled through silk that she would gladly allow herself to be tied down in order to experience it to the fullest.
My earliest tickling fantasies involved me tying up and tickling one or two girls at a time, but when my fetish interest in silk dresses expanded to include Campfire Girl uniforms I found myself drawn towards scenes of tickling orgies, with the girls tickling each other at their meetings and me usually cast as the unseen voyeur. Sometimes I pictured myself being found out, hauled before the group, and punished for violating their secret rituals by being forced to wear one of their silk uniforms and undergo the same tickling torment they inflicted on each other.
It was in these fantasy scenes of girls tickling each other that I created my first, primitive tickling machine. It was a box about four feet on a side and seven or eight feet high. It was constructed from metal bars like a jail cell or an animal cage, not to imprison someone but rather to provide lots of attachment points for tickling devices and to allow a clear view of the occupant. Inside the cage were hasps which held the occupant's arms up over her head and her legs spread wide. Motor driven reciprocating arms and spinning shafts mounted on the bars brought soft brushes or clumps of feathers into contact with every possible ticklish spot. Although I dabbled at imagining the occupant nude, so entrenched was my fetish for silk that I preferred to imagine the occupant wearing a skin tight outfit much like a dancer's lycra body-suit only made of thin silk. A session in the tickling machine was excruciating, yet the girls would fight over the opportunity to be next.
As exciting as such scenes were to imagine, they contributed nothing to my passion for the idea of a girl in a silk dress walking around as if nothing special was happening while secretly enjoying the mind boggling combination of tickling and sexual pleasure. I do not recall struggling to come up with a way to provide the sexual stimulation a silk dress could not deliver, only setting aside the tickling machine idea because it failed to fit in with the ideas that truly excited me.
The next step towards my infatuation with sex machines may surprise you. One day I saw something I had seen many times before, but for some reason this time I saw it in a new way. It was a baby girl, her diaper pants covered with frilly lace trim. As soon as I saw this a big surge of excitement rushed over me. The thrill came from imagining what would happen if the girls I liked to fantasize about wore panties like that, only inside out. In very little time, in a matter of minutes or perhaps even seconds, I progressed from ruffles tickling a girl's ass to turning the panties around so that the ruffles tickled her cunt to having ruffles all over the inside, and the idea left me dizzy with lust. How much time lapsed between this stage and the next I cannot say, but at some point I realized that ruffle-lined panties would work even better if the ruffles were arranged in vertical rather than horizontal lines so that they would dip down in-between the lips of her cunt.
For a long time after being struck by that lightening bolt of awareness I loved to watch my beloved Campfire Girls walk past me at school and imagine them not just naked under their skirts and being tickled out of their minds by the smooth, cold fabric, but enjoying the even more intense torment of silk panties lined with stiff silk ruffles nuzzling against their cunts. This marks the first time I thought about girls feeling rich, wonderful sexual pleasure from their clothes.
The next stepping stone leading to my passion for sex machines was a one frame cartoon, possibly a piece of political satire, which appeared in the newspaper. It showed a man standing at the entrance to hell under the watchful eye of a fearsome looking devil. The man's torso was encased in a sturdy metal box, with five holes from which protruded his neck, arms and legs. On the back of the box were some lights and meters, and somehow it was clear that the box would be subjecting him to electric shock torture for the rest of eternity.
When I saw this picture I had an experience quite similar to seeing a girl in a pretty silk dress or that baby in her ruffled panty. It was not the idea of electric shock torture that intrigued me, but rather the idea of a girl in a similar kind of box filled with devices that tickled her. Perhaps the most significant aspect of seeing this cartoon was the degree to which it portrayed some of the qualities that I hoped a girl in a silk dress would experience, such as intense stimulation for long periods of time, the subject's inability to control or escape their torment, and the fact that they were free to walk around while whatever was happening to them took place out of sight. If you love pets, there is no shortage of affirmations that other people enjoy them, too. The same is not true for preadolescent boys who long to tickle girls, so you find it wherever you can.
It was not long before I lost interest in the tickling box. It was never enough to tickle a girl, she had to be wearing either the most delicate, feminine, fragile looking dress or the feminine yet powerful looking Campfire Girl uniform with its intoxicating blue silk skirt. A girl locked into a box not only looked un-feminine, the situation failed to accommodate my fetish for silk.
This time I recall quite vividly casting about for a solution to this dilemma. The solution was inspired by my sixth grade teacher, a young, beautiful, black haired woman of Italian ancestry who's favorite style of dressing was a long, tight skirt and a crisp, short-sleeved blouse, which was very fashionable at the time. She had a great set of tits, and always wore those Hollywood-style, pointy bras. Yes, I had a huge crush on her, and as you can imagine I rushed in with fantasy when reality left me unfulfilled.
She regularly asked one of the students to stay behind at recess to help her set up a special activity. One day I got picked, a day when she happened to be wearing what was for me the magical combination of a dark blue skirt and a white blouse, an adult version of my beloved Campfire Girl uniform. From the moment I walked into the classroom that morning I noticed that her skirt had the sheen of silk, and that her blouse was much too soft and billowy to be cotton. By recess I was mad with lust for her, and when she asked me to stay and help I was ecstatic. We were setting up a clay working activity. Time after time she stood next to me while bending over the desks to set things out, her shiny blue skirt stretched as tight as a drum over her perfectly shaped ass. Oh, how I longed to reach out and tickle her, right on her ass!
I imagined myself doing it, and that she reacted by saying that she had no idea being tickled that way would feel so nice. I did it again, only she scolded me because somebody might see us through the window. Our classroom had a big, walk-in closet where we stored our coats and lunch boxes. When I pointed out that if we went there no one would see us she practically dragged me inside, and I spent the remainder of recess stroking her silk skirt and blouse to the accompaniment of her non-stop squeals of laughter.
In the days that followed I could not stop thinking about tickling her. I became absorbed by the idea of finding a way to tickle her while she was standing at the blackboard, a way that went beyond the delicate pleasure of silk caressing her bare skin, the level of tickling I knew could only be achieved by touching her. I especially liked the idea of being able to control the tickling she received.
The result of all this brainstorming was a bra and panty made of thin metal or hard plastic, which had strategically placed mechanical linkages attached to the inside that were driven by small, battery powered motors. A lining of thin, extremely ticklish feeling silk covered the machine's inner workings, and when the motors set the linkages in motion they slid back and forth, tickling her through the silk lining.
I knew I wanted my creation to be remote controlled, but I had few examples to follow. Being so young and creative, I just imagined it that way, with what amounted to a brain wave receiver. If I imagined the motor switched on, it did. Imagine it off, and it turned off. Only my mind could control it, the point of course being that she could not.
Who can say how many times I sat there in class staring at my teacher while pretending that she was wearing my mechanical underwear? I always did on those rare days when she wore silky looking outfits. The idea of her struggling to keep a straight face while her underwear drove her crazy was much more interesting when enhanced by the idea that her every movement caused silk to caress nerves fanned to the burning point. I loved to imagine her flashing me glaring looks that meant "If you do not stop this instant you will be in lots of trouble later, young man."
For some reason my mechanized undies did not transfer well to girls my age. It may have been that I associated firm, substantial foundation garments with adults, while girls my age wore thin cotton briefs and no bras. Perhaps it was because I was comfortable with the idea of touching girls my age, but not so much an adult. Maybe it was just a simple association and nothing more than that.
I had practically forgotten about my mechanical panties when I saw an ad for a book called Fornicon by Tomi Ungerer advertised in the magazine Avant Garde around 1970. When I saw his drawings of people using machines for sexual gratification I was overcome (yet again) by an extremely intense form of desire.
Tomi's work received no validation that I was aware of, no regular page beside Gahn Wilson's in Playboy, no regular appearance in Penthouse. I had reached that time in young adulthood when having sex was expected, but being the slightest bit off-center was terrifying. I dated women but never tickled them, and never so much as hinted about the special clothes I wanted them to wear. My little stash of fetish clothing was hidden away, and I only took it out and enjoyed it in private. I never said a word to anyone about my fascination with sex machines.
The
next hint that anyone else thought about such things came just after graduate
school, in a Japanese erotic comic I bought here in Honolulu. A gang of
rough Tokyo high school girls decided to punish the nice, sweet classmate
who reported them for stealing her lunch money. They grabbed her, took
her to an abandoned warehouse, tied her up and whipped her, then made her
wear a tight rubber panty with a big dildo attached to the inside of the
crotch under her uniform while they escorted her on a long train ride around
the city. The vibrator in the dildo was operated by a wireless remote control,
and they all took turns pressing the button and watching her come while
surrounded by men on their way home from work. I was especially moved by
a drawing of the adorably cute girl on the train, standing, clinging desperately
to a strap, her face contorted as if in great pain. Her tormentors were
seated together not far away, fighting over the remote control without
paying the slightest attention to her. All around the girl were men with
their faces buried in their papers, totally ignoring the girls.
I leapt at the opportunity this story provided to blend the idea of the dildo panty with my established passion for girls wearing fantastically sensuous clothes. It seemed to be an ideal match, a girl dressed in an outfit that tickled her half to death and wearing a tight rubber thong panty that held a dildo deep inside her cunt. It was fun to imagine a girl doing that on her own, but what I really longed for was to take a girl dressed that way to a party, a girl who had never worn anything sensuous and who's sexual experience had never gone beyond vanilla sex.
Seduction became a principle theme. I loved to picture myself giving a girl a gift of a slinky evening gown made of Qiana nylon jersey and for it to be her first experience wearing something that felt really good, encouraging her to forgo underwear in order to enjoy it to the fullest, followed a few weeks later by a gift of a dildo and a tight lycra thong-back workout brief to hold it in place under the dress. I actually did that, several times and with varying degrees of success, but as it turned out the most fun derived from my partner wearing the dress and knowing what I was wishing she wore under it. Some of my most beautiful memories are the moments when girlfriends wore Qiana for the first time, vignettes as precious to me as memories of having sex with a virgin.
My novel Sweet Agony includes some MekSex themes. The most mechanical situation appears in chapter six, where the revolving rack that holds the clean clothes at a dry cleaners is used to drag Qiana nylon jersey dresses over a woman's body. This was a very exciting fantasy of mine, and still is. Another of my favorite ideas from this novel is the car seat dildo saddle, described in several places and introduced in chapter four. The saddle itself is not mechanical in the strict sense of the word, but when you consider the contribution the car makes you could say that the saddle turns the car into a sex machine.
After
Sweet Agony I spent some time trying to depict in drawings my ideal concept
of a sex machine. Here are two drawings from that
period. Approaching the opposite end of the complexity scale is the
tickling machine depicted in my short fantasy entitled Tickled
Dancer. The machine is very simple, a slowly spinning wheel festooned
with feathers, powered by an electric motor, which a woman uses in a setting
of self bondage to tickle her cunt.
Although I have a preference for large machines, there is much to be said in favor of small gadgets which can be worn under everyday clothes. My novel Sweet Agony describes several, while in Maria's First Night Out a gadget I am particularly proud of is the centerpiece of the story. I consider the gadget to be in the same class as rin-no-tama, a machine which coverts the energy supplied by the wearer's movement into sexual stimulation without relying on direct manipulation by the hands as would be the case with a sex tool.
Not quite as complex as my StimFlick suit but still very much a full blown sex machine is the rocking horse in my story Shelly's First Holoku. Like the clit teaser in Maria's First Night Out the machine is not self powered. I confess that in early drafts of the story it was, but I came to prefer the idea of Shelly having to rock the horse rather than just sit on it passively while a motor did all the work. If it were just a dildo glued to the horse's saddle it would not be much of a machine. What pushes Richard's rocking horse into the domain of a machine are the linkages which translate the process of rocking into the dildo's up and down thrusting motion while at the same time causing it to vibrate. I managed to extend this concept to provide a form of couple play when Shelly attaches a rope to the long train of the satin dress she talks Richard into wearing, so that the rocking action causes the dress to rub against his cock. Those of you with no appreciation for the power of a fetish for satin may have trouble seeing the eroticism in this scene, but I can assure you that I would love to be in Richard's place!
The links below will present a series of illustrations which reflect to varying degrees the theme of MekSex. The artwork comes from many sources, and while I cannot always credit the original artist I am profoundly grateful to them all for their effort.
Two illustrations by artist Hajime Sorayama which differ from his typical portrayal of metal-skinned females posed like pin-up girls in their overall harshness, unambiguous connections by wires, hoses and machinery to erogenous zones, and the equally unambiguous depiction of a real women inside all the hardware.
