[DISCLAIMER: The following story deals with sex in a graphic way. It contains several of George Carlin's Seven Dirty Words, so if you are a minor, or offended by stories that use graphic language to depict sexual situations, please navigate ELSEWHERE before reading any further. Thank you!]
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Hiya, friends:
Just checking in right now — decided to hook myself up to
this sex machine trip today for whatever part of it works. I dropped some
fantastic acid a while ago and now I'm up in my private little loft space, see?
No one goes here, 'cept me ... and whom I see fit to let in on a particular
day, hear? Today it's just me and my cuuuute li'l electric toothbrush.
"Sex machine." Not so alien a concept. We are all
sexual. We are all little heartbeat machines. And just like any good machine, I
know when it's time to take care of myself. Depress the off-switch. Nap-time.
But then, at some point, I must emerge from my nap-time.
Pass along whatever sacred, secret truths that some poor schmuck is always
trying to make buck off of borrowing from me. I sure don't know what those
secrets are. But, as the heavens know, there are rare and gifted, inspirational
individuals among us who always manage to give more than they get. They are
certainly not schmucks. Maybe you're one of them.
So it is with the grrrreatest of pleasure that I share with
you today the secret truths I have been shown by the Ordenta Corporation.
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The Ordenta Corporation manufactures exactly one product --
the Ordenta. Its alleged purpose is to clean your teeth. Don't be fooled.
"What keeps all these people smiling?" pose the
ads. "Ordenta!" Ahh, but if they only knew what was going on behind
this special little device. The unique one that won't be confined by so
limiting a label as "electric toothbrush." The name
"Ordenta" stands alone, unsupported by adjectives and nouns, as proof
of its timeless, utilitarian invincibility.
I was given this little gift by my very sexy dentist (okay,
so I paid for it—at the low, low price of just $79.95) because I was suffering
from periodontal disease. Not very sexy. But, after a year, my teeth and gums
have never been better, so I'm sold on the Ordenta.
Ordenta.
Reorganize the letters a bit, and it becomes "adentro."
Spanish for "inside." A clue? Most definitely. Come, let's see what's
inside...
"Use me as a toothbrush," it states, just a bit
too officiously on the package.
"Use me...."
As if. Sure, you could also use it on a nipple, a succulent
clit, an angrily flared crown of swelling, captive dickbulb perhaps lashed to
the mattress. But would you? Could you?
Sometimes I think that the greatest absurdity of human
existence is our need to put each item into its appropriate category,
department, box, drawer. All assignment of proportion to things.
When the potential of the sensual realm is infinite....
But let's start with the teeth, shall we?
One miraculous feature of this lovely
device-that-refuses-to-be-called-just-a-lowly-electric-toothbrush is that it gets
the damn things clean. I never feel ready to get it on until my teeth are
clean. Clean teeth are very sexy, don't you think?
Fast-forward back to the loft. I've cleaned my teeth, I feel
sexy. The cool and sticky feel of the 0.4% Stable Stannous Fluoride Gel on my
cock is a delight, as always. I pick up the Ordenta, and with that ritual
glimmering gesture, I foreshadow all that is to come.
The whirring of the little engine, repetitive massaging of
little infinite universes all exploding in on each other and blossoming outward
into an electric orgasm of paralytic ecstatic friggin' ecstasy. Prayer.
I really do like the whirring engine, but basically, it's a
cheap job. I mean, it's great as far as the dental market, but it's pretty
lightweight as far as the pro-vibro stuff goes. In other words, this ain't no
Hitachi Magic Wand. Then again, maybe it's all in how you examine (or
de-examine) lust. Here goes:
whirrrrrrr...........
The dick is hard. The handle feels good in my palm. I've put
on the special "braces" attachment. Forgot to mention that -- this
thing has about four different tips, but you can't really tell the difference
on the flesh.
Grasping my cock firmly at its base, I slowly move it toward
the Ordenta. I flinch momentarily, always worried that I'll be shocked at the
roughness of the bristles. I'm not. But my cock has amnesia. It feels good,
moving up and down the veins of my shaft, a bit ticklish around the crown of my
cock, very ticklish across the piss-slit and down the dickhead.
Now I put it first on the right nipple, then on the more
sensitive left one. It makes me laugh because the centrifugal force of the
device always grabs my nipple and sends it spinning around the tip, over and
over. Wind-up nipples? It feels good, but it looks pretty fucking silly.
Especially when I'm stoned on acid. I'm glad no one can see me right now. I
think about the time that Mom walked in on me wailing away on my pole when I
was sixteen. Very close call.
And I think about how we're all basically looking for the
same exact thing.
All trying to find mother Nature, mother Comfort, mother
Superior, mother MOTHER a place to let go of your cheap flesh long enough to
enjoy it and purrrrr like this little engine little dental machine goes for a
while puuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrr......
But where oh wherrrrrrrrrrr did we learn to eroticize the
sound of our own million little whirring engines? All so independent? So
self-contained? All still need, still feed on mother's milk. Electric juice.
Animal or mechanical, we all need fuel.
Engines open me up to where our possibilities extend. Next.
Little electric tongues, little muscles, little cocks, little cunts. Engines
have been pushing the envelope for a long time now, and that envelope is sealed
with bodily fluids. "Sex machine" is about the pelvic thrust, that
evolutionary push to the next frigging good step.
The little machine, it feels so good upon the
earlobe...secretly, that's the best spot. I know you'd rather hear a story
about how great it feels on my dick, and how it made me squirt five times, but
truthfully, the Ordenta gives me eargasms, not cockgasms. I love the little
motor, whirring so close to my ear. Inside, my head is vibrating with sound ...
my own little engine ... my brain is in flames. Ohhhhh.... moan.....whirrrrr.....purrrr.......Little
dental Ordenta engines pillowing me to one feathery climax higher than the
last. On little engines our loftiest (sleaziest) thoughts and wishes reach
their express delivery potential ... love....
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Now I am in the bathroom with the Ordenta, chewing on its
bristles, and somehow that feels erotic, too. Those sexy teeth. Chewing
on the bristles ... how human that is, an animal urge ... always the
fleshly attempt to convert the mechanical into the more beastly, eh?
Did I forget to mention how good the damn thing feels when
applied to its RIGHTEOUS purpose? Indeed, it is the finest dental instrument I
have seen. Like a good lover, the Ordenta is gentle yet insistent.
It's about ... what it all comes down to is this ... we can
only appreciate anything in its truly finest, most elemental components, by
chewing up its bristles — reducing it to its measliest bits.
Which will always be impossible.
We don't really want to know how things are
constructed, we just want them to work. Examination is just a means to an end.
What we want is the comfort of reliability — yes, damn it, we're cheap sluts —
we'll even settle for the promise of comfort. Which is the tease that
the electronic umbilical cord holds out to us, seemingly infinite. But we're a
small planet, and our power supply only remains infinite as long as our
ingenuity keeps up with new ways to harness it before it all runs out. If that
should fail, then — COLLAPSE. Entropy.
Orgasm. But isn't that inevitable? Things fall apart. Every story has an
ending. The endless dance of constructo-destructo whirrrr. See, even the roots
of those words: Constructo. Destructo. Tells you that since the Latin days, we
haven't found a better way of saying it yet.
So what are we all waiting for this GODDAMNED DEMON, yes,
ELECTRIC BEAST to deliver us from? What jaws of the inescapable unknown?
Demise. Now, techno-geeks were the first to eroticize
machines. And as every geek knows, no matter how far your passion transports
you, you must still remember to hit the "save" button so that all
traces of your existence here today will not be lost. But is that all that
matters? I think not. I like to think I exist in some component far beyond my
electronic trace.
Whirrrrrrrr.....I love the motors and engines that go
humming through my life. But when I am given one, as did this dentist mine (so
kind, so kind), must I respect it, worship it? Put it only to its rightful
use? But why? I'm a good consumer. I paid for it. Is it not mine? Do I
not own it now? Did I not purchase the blasted thing with mine own seat? Mine
own SWEAT, damn it? Is it not MINE yet?
Only as long as I pay the electric bill. Ownership is always
conditional. And warranties always expire. No guarantee is infinite.
Still, the Ordenta is a lovely reminder that all of those
nasty, painful trips to the dentist's chair couldn't have been so bad if he
gave me such a nasty, delicious device!
The truth is that it's always you, baby. No matter what
electronic dial, or device, or little comforting whirrrrrrr we can hook up in
that elusive attempt to hang the goods somewhere else.
You are your own engine. This is what makes you respectable.
Dangerous. Beautiful. Fiery.
Revel in your own glorious luminescence. And if that is
enhanced for you by strapping on some device, you sure don't need my permission
to go off and enjoy yourselves, OK?
That is what the little engines have taught me. Love is
within. All the rest follows from that. Trust your own little internal engine.
It's what keeps you ticking....
Love,
Bill
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Author's note: I wrote this story in 1997 for inclusion in an erotic anthology titled EROS EX MACHINA: Eroticizing the Mechanical (ed. M. Christian, Masquerade/Rhinoceros, 1-56333-593-X, March 1998), which was subsequently released in a somewhat altered form as SEX MACHINE (Venus Book Club, 0-7394-2356-X, 2002). Yes, I really did drop acid to write this. No animals or machines were harmed in the making of this work. Maybe some unnecessary brain cells.
I have been following workplace trends (oh, the de-humanity) since the early 1980s, when Processed World came onto the scene. (Here's the history on PW.) 
