Fragments of Los Angeles: Fucking Machines

I’ve always been fascinated by fucking machines. The idea of a mechanical contraption designed and built to fuck the person riding it, relentlessly and tirelessly, appeals to the mad scientist in me. In fact, I could easily see myself making a living designing and building fucking machines, were it not for the fact that I lack patience and attention to detail, two qualities of incalculable value in the performance of said job functions.

Indeed, I’ve always wanted to own a steam-powered fucking machine, because the notion of such a thing appeals to my sensibilities on so many levels. It strikes me as being at once quintessentially steampunk and also a repudiation of Victorian social mores; and besides, how awesome would it be to have a partner being fucked by an enormous, clanking machine with jets of steam issuing out of it, while I cackle with glee and scamper around tending to the boiler and oiling the various parts of the machine with an oil can?

Ahem. But I digress. In any event, such a machine would be impractically big and unreasonably dangerous, and conversations with physicsduck about the practical realities of such a machine soon dashed any hopes that I might one day own such a thing.

However, I still like fucking machines, and on my trip to Los Angeles I met a couple of folks who do make their living designing and selling such machines. And they gave me one. Which is–get this–designed to accommodate two people at once.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Monkey Rocker Tango: The rest is even less safe for work