The solution is almost at hand. Male orgasm typically results in enervation that persists for hours or even days. Multiple nerve-muscle nets, surgically layered on top of the present sets and triggered to fire at different times, will ensure orgasmic capacity—as intense as you can stand, and for as long as you can take it. Delightful though this may seem, there are risks. Almost certainly a fail-safe device will have to be implanted to turn one off before—there is no other way of saying it—the body literally fucks itself to death.
Today, masturbation is the most convenient sex act. Unfortunately it is also the most boring. Therefore other people must sometimes be resorted to. The rehabilitation of masturbation will change all this. The sexually re-engineered individual will pursue him- or herself with full social approval, and his response level can be set so low that almost any stimulus will work. Partially clothed pinups, for example, or even innocuous “naughty” words such as do-do and caca might do the trick. Morally and scientifically sanctioned partnerless sex could be a relief for those who find themselves alone, perhaps during space travel, or who simply have trouble finding anyone to do anything sexual with. In this enlightened social climate, Solo Marriage will be a viable and respected institution.
When our ridiculous laws against bestiality have been repealed, society may condone sex with non-ordinary partners. By that time the surgical means will be at hand to restructure your sex organ to fit, for example, a parrot, a dolphin, or a bat. A man might wish to have his erectile member re-engineered so that he could fully enjoy his favorite cat or other pet. Presumably this would increase the cat’s enjoyment as well. If not, the cat could be re-engineered.
Another exciting near-future possibility is the man-machine interface. A computer tied to the nervous system via a series of sensors would scan visceral and autonomic responses, and record them in binary. The computer would “experiment,” programming itself to initiate movements to stimulate its subject/operator. Given the intermittent and differentiated nature of human sexual response, the computer would employ a tease-factor, utilizing randomness and delay to elicit new heights of pleasure. People are not telepathic, but computers, given a direct nerve tie-in and a properly written interactive program, could be.
Once the computer had completed your response profile, even your lover could interface with the program and learn, by touch, exactly what you liked, for how long, and with what degree of pressure. From a sufficient base of such data, science could develop a unified theory of sexuality. Frigidity and impotence would become things of the past. Nor would any perversions remain, since these so-called abominable practices would necessarily be subsumed in the unified theory. Statistically understood, individual behaviors would have no more moral significance than the movement of gas molecules in accordance with Boyle’s law.
Computer-assisted sexuality suggests not only new software but new hardware. A sex robot would be the action arm of the computer. Not necessarily human in appearance (despite the forecasts of science fiction), such a robot might well be boxy, with catlike curves. Its skin would be a lustrous fur, except for those portions encased in black leather, lace, and chrome. It would probably not speak English, but instead employ a special language made up of instinctively understood purrs and growls. The sex machine could be of any size from petite to grandiose, and would come equipped with variously sized and shaped probes and orifices. An ideal orgy participant, the machine could accommodate up to a dozen humans by acting as a central plug-in device.
A sex robot must demonstrate apparent independence; otherwise, the randomness and tease-factor mentioned earlier would result in unpredictability. The importance of this must not be minimized. Easily obtained sex is never satisfactory, at least not for long. The “best” sex entails the dramatic component of uncertainty. Your sex machine would definitely not always be “available.” It would be no “pushover”; you might have to seduce the thing, perhaps with wines and soft music, perhaps with a special fetish it might be said to “care for.” Sometimes, despite your best efforts, the machine might still refuse you. You could, of course, override the refusal, thereby providing yourself with the mechanistic equivalent of rape.
However it manifests, the future of sex seems assured. The only remaining uncertainty is the human mind. It is conceivable that some people will be so perverse as to refuse the new pleasures that science brings. For these people, reconditioning may be necessary. The means will be available to make people like what is available, whether they like it or not. Some may deplore this as brainwashing, and, considered narrowly, it is just that. But so what? Aren’t any means appropriate in the pursuit of mankind’s highest goal—pleasure?
THE LIFE OF ANYBODY
Last night, as I lay on the couch watching The Late Show; a camera and sound crew came to my apartment to film a segment of a TV series called The Life of Anybody. I can’t say I was completely surprised, although I had not anticipated this. I knew the rules; I went on with my life exactly as if they were not there. After a few minutes, the camera and recording crew seemed to fade into the wallpaper. They are specially trained for that.
My TV was on, of course; I usually have it on. I could almost hear the groans of the critics: “Another goddamned segment of a guy watching the tube. Doesn’t anybody in this country do anything but watch the tube?” That upset me, but there was nothing I could do about it. That’s the way it goes.
So the cameras whizzed along, and I lay on the couch like a dummy and watched two cowboys play the macho game. After a while my wife came out of the bathroom, looked at the crew, and groaned, “Oh, Christ, not tonight.” She was wearing my CCNY sweatshirt on top, nothing on the bottom. She’d just washed her hair and she had a towel tied around her head. She had no makeup on. She looked like hell. Of all nights, they had to pick this one. She was probably imagining the reviews: “The wife in last night’s turgid farce…”
I could see that she wanted badly to do something—to inject a little humor into our segment, to make it into a domestic farce. But she didn’t. She knew as well as I did that anyone caught acting, fabricating, exaggerating, diminishing, or otherwise distorting his life, would be instantly cut off the air. She didn’t want that. A bad appearance was better than no appearance at all. She sat down on a chair and picked up her crocheting hook. I picked up my magazine. Our movie went on.
You can’t believe it when it happens to you. Even though you watch the show every evening and see it happen, you can’t believe it’s happening to you. I mean, it’s suddenly you there, lying on the couch doing your nothing number, and there they are, filming it and implying that the segment represents you.
I prayed for something to happen. Air raid—sneak Commie attack—us a typical American family caught in the onrush of great events. Or a burglar breaks in, only he’s not just a burglar, he’s something else, and a whole fascinating sequence begins. Or a beautiful woman knocks at the door, claiming that only I can help her. Hell, I would have settled for a phone call.