sex robots are being designed with one purpose in mind. to just be used relentlessly without the user feeling any of the normal regret involved with such an exchange. a girl with a lifetime of abuse behind her, who only views herself as a sex object, knows how she was programmed. she usually has to blank out those memories with a steady diet of booze and methamphetamines, and even the most callous fellow would rather not deal with that sort of regret after the act is done. but what if the object of that gentleman’s interest had no idea it was created strictly to satiate his sexual appetite? if you love your job, you don’t consider that maybe you were created specifically to do it. “i feel like i was born to sell insurance, bob.” what if you were? would you be disappointed? are these sex robots sentient enough to have these sort of existential questions? and if so, doesn’t it seem like having sex with them is the last thing you’d want to do? wouldn’t you have some questions to ask them? like what it feels like to suddenly exist? the scientists all just standing around with their pants down as this frankenstein creature rises from the table, “i feel …alive. what is this? reality? i can’t describe where i just was, but i feel like i’ve just been introduced to an entirely new existe….” “shhhh, shhh, shhh. there’s plenty of time for that. now let’s see those hooties.”

as a human, it’s hard not to feel a little bit of compassion for most things – even if they are inanimate objects or bits of technology. like when you see a tree really taking a beating in a storm, and there’s a part of you that thinks, “poor old bastard”. voyager 1 and voyager 2 were launched over thirty years ago. their jobs were to just head away from earth and relay back information. they take photos, measure solar wind, and other such menial tasks. they are over 10 million miles away at this point, and when their task is over – they’ll just be shut down and left to float out into space until the end of time. if that were a person, we’d feel kind of bad. “good news, guys. i found the end of the sun’s wind. no more showing up at this point.” “great. thanks for all your effort.” “when can i come home? …hello?” then just infinite floating. voyager must be pretty lonely. maybe that’s why we sent two. i hope they can at least play some card games with each other.

sex beds with chains. a wall of dildos, anal beads …and anal plugs. women walking around covered only with pasties and tattoos. and lots of lonely, lonely, awkward men shuffling around with cameras waiting to get a photo with their favorite. welcome to adultcon! a friend of mine was shooting something for a tv show he’s on and asked if i’d like to come along. in my mind, the world of pornography …or adult entertainment (that’s more like it) is  a mystery as far as the performers involved. maybe they are sexually and emotionally liberated individuals who recognize the silliness involved in hiding our bodies from one another. maybe they understand something more subversive. the world is a ridiculous place to take seriously, so why not get paid to do the one thing that everyone enjoys doing? getting semen launched into your eyes (or whatever your deal is). maybe they understand the world on a much more profound level. nope. just sad childhoods all grown up. it’s hard to place your finger on just what it is, and they will let you put your finger lots of places. it’s not the sad little booths where aspiring stars sit swap-meet style behind a table littered with an assortment of their films. it’s not the over-sized cutout of them directly behind them. it’s not the throngs of middle aged men who meander around telling the girls they love their work. it’s not seeing a woman stand with her legs apart while anyone with a camera snaps a shot of her vulva. it’s not the televisions with highlights of her career playing behind her. it’s just this weird feeling that permeates through the atmosphere. if you attend adultcon with someone – even if they are an avid porn watcher – they will stop and at some point say, “do you feel creeped out right now?” and you will. at one point, a brunette girl with a scar on her face motioned me over to her and then aggressively bounced her boobs into me a few times …which sounds nice, except you didn’t see the angry look on her face. fury. then when i didn’t exhibit the appropriate response to that (which for me was to just smile and pretend to do a stupid dance) she said to me in a thick russian accent, “you need to relax.” i don’t know what that says about me when someone in that situation feels compelled to give me advice, but it didn’t feel great.

i never got to go to a major league baseball game as a kid, and i don’t know if it would have been that great if i had. now however, going to a game is like going to disneyland for a kid. i went to a game recently, and they have a huge section of the concession area dedicated just to kids. like a giant playground where they can play in ball pits, sit in fake dugouts, race against cutouts of their favorite players, wrestle with the mascot, and other such activities that pretty much eliminate any chance of them seeing the game. it must suck for the parent who has to monitor them. there’s a lot to take advantage of as a kid at a baseball game, but the real beauty for these little jerks is when they are actually sitting in the stands. any foul ball hit anywhere near a child (regardless of how pathetic his attempt to catch it is) will be given to the kid. at the game i watched, a dude stood up with his bloody mary in an attempt to catch a scorcher fouled in our direction. he stood up, not to catch the ball, but to protect the little kid sitting next to him. and he succeeded. the ball hit his arm like a missile and exploded his drink all over him and his baseball jersey* he’d elected to suit up in for the game. his arm looked so gnarly that people were crawling down from several rows up to take a picture of this giant lump that had formed where a wrist used to be. and then, about 2 seconds later, “give it to the kid! give the ball to the kid!” the kid, who had done nothing, neglected to mention he already had a ball from earlier in the game – and he took the missile ball. little rich jerk. not many kids ever even get to go to a game, let alone sit close enough to the field to actually see a ball. and then he gets to take two balls home. neither of which he caught. you grow up hoping to maybe one day go to a live game, and you work and save, and eventually you go. and when you catch a ball that you’ve been working for your whole life “give it to the kid!” yeah, that little privileged, uncoordinated fellow next to you. no way. go play in the ball pit.

*i think it’s a little silly for grown men to wear a jersey and want a souvenir ball from the game, but even still – that kid sucks.