Tag Archives: mad science

Project Ladybug: The Beta Test

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Some time ago, I blogged about Project Ladybug, a project to create a sex toy like an alien parasite that lives within a vagina, where it steals the host’s pleasure and feeds on the emissions of her lovers.

While I was in Reykjavik, Iceland last week with the extended polycule, I am pleased to report that we were able to do a beta test of the Project Ladybug prototype…which succeeded beyond our most optimistic hopes.

Monster sex is a huge fetish, with dozens of companies producing endless variations on monster and mythological creature dildos, but my Talespinnrer and I have noticed a shocking, dare I say even dismaying, lack of monster-sex toys of the opposite sort: monsters they prey not on people with innies, but those with outies. Where are the toys that parasitize women, living within them, driving them into frenzies of need, forcing them to copulate endlessly with men, giving those men pleasure beyond imagining in order to steal their precious bodily fluids whilst denying the host any hope of satiation? This will not stand!

This is exactly the void Project Ladybug was designed to fill.

So it came to pass that after making an alginate cast of the inside of my Talespinner’s vagina, 3D scanning the cast, and bringing it into a 3D modeling program, as extensively documented in the links above (not safe for work, natch), I finally made the mold for the alien parasite, a super-soft silicone sleeve designed to fit precisely the exact shape of my Talespinner’s ladybits.

Fun fact: the project became known as Project Ladybug when my smartphone autocorrect keps changing “ladybits” to “ladybug.”

The Ladybug is a pouch of soft silicone, about a millimeter thick, that conforms to her insides and is ridged for his pleasure. It features two internal tentacles that caress the head of the man making use of the host, and as it completely covers her inner bits, it makes sure the host can feel nothing but a vague sense of pressure, but no pleasure.

Why? To keep the host in a state of extended need without relief, so as to make the host copulate fiercely with whatever male subjects happen to be nearby, of course, so that the parasite can feed.

I 3D printed the mold, which took over a day on my old and rather slow 3D printer.

The supports for the inner part of the mold ended up looking rather organic, like alien hands sprouting from the print bed to hold it warmly in a tender embrace.

Partly assembled (half the mold is not shown here), you can get a sense of how large it is and how thick it is.

Pouring the silicone turned out to be a huge hassle, because the inner clearances are so fine and there are so many undercuts that allow for bubbles to form that it actually took more than an hour to cast. I ended up doing the casting in two steps because the silicone started curing in the pot.

So it was with no small measure of nervousness, Gentle Reader, that I cracked the mold open, expecting to find a mess. Instead, the casting turned out flawless.

You can see the ridges inside the parasite, designed to offer greater stimulation for the male subject. When you look at it head on down the opening, you can also see the inner tentacles.

So enough of that, how does it work?

That’s the question we set out to answer in Reykjavik. It turns out the answer is: Rather brilliantly!

Inserting and properly seating the Ladybug proved more difficult than we’d anticipated. It needs to be pressed completely into the host, and we ultimately ended up using a pair of chopsticks for that; fingers alone didn’t really do it.

For the final version, I’ll likely design a tool for the…um, insertion.

Once in place (a process that was, by all accounts, quite pleasant for the host), it stayed put nicely.

To create the best possible simulation of the parasite experience, one that most closely replicated the aphrodisiacs the parasite pumps into the host, we both took bremelanotide (PT-141), a potent aphrodisiac that works like gangbusters on both of us, before we began the experiment.

Sex with the host was…magnificent. The final version will need larger internal tentacles, but the ridges? *chef’s kiss* The parasite absolutely, without question, amplifies the pleasure experienced by male subjects. The ridges are quite soft, and absolutely delightful on the head of the subject’s penis. What’s more, I could remain still within her and each twitch and clench, however slight, felt like a massage on the most sensitive parts of my shaft. Truly delightful.

The host, on the other hand, reported an unbearably frustrating experience, often while on the verge of tears. The host feels nothing of the subject’s pleasure. Indeed, the host feels nothing but a slight sense of pressure, even while the subject is experiencing crashing waves of overwhelming ecstasy.

There are a few minor changes I plan to make for the version 1.0 parasite. The interior tentacles need to be larger, to better stimulate the subject to heights of ecstasy. The outside portion of the parasite will be bigger, to cover the host’s clit and prevent even accidental stimulation. I may make it slightly thicker, and I plan some changes to the mold to make casting easier.

But overall, the effect is exactly what my Talespinner and I had hoped for, and I hope it opens new avenues of mad science to explore.

Alas, this is unlikely to be a sex toy I can produce in any quantity. It turns out there’s enormous variability in the human vagina (there is, of course, a PubMed article on the subject), so making these literally requires 3D scanning a casting of every individual user’s bits. I’d hoped I could maybe make 3-4 standard sizes, but no.

Adventures with a Deceptive Molecule

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I am not, as a general principle, that much into recreational drugs. I drink on occasion, and discovered when I burned my foot that low-dose cannabis edibles are absolutely magnificent for pain management, but beyond that, and some good experiences with bremelanotide, I don’t use or seek out recreational drugs.

I have, however, always been curious about ecstasy.

I’ve never used it, in part because it’s quite difficult to find in the US and in part because it has a rather alarming risk profile, so it was with considerable interest I learned about 5-MAPB, a designer empathogen quite similar to MDMA but with a milder risk profile.

So it came to pass that my Talespinner and I tried 5-MAPB for the first time on Friday evening. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, being a complete novice to empathogens/entactogens in general, but what I got definitely wasn’t what I expected nor signed up for. 5-MAPB is a wild ride, and definitely deceptive. We both experienced waves of effects, with a general diminishment between waves that made it feel as though the drug was wearing off when it absolutely was not.

5-MAPB is, as of the time of writing this, legal in the US and in the EU except Germany, where it’s prohibited. It’s also prohibited in Canada, China, and Finland.

A normal dose of 5-MAPB is generally between 60 and 80 milligrams, with 75 mg the most typical. We both took 50 milligrams, two-thirds of a typical dose, since approaching these things with caution is generally well advised, and honestly I think that for both of us, 75 mg would likely be much too high a dose.

With her help, I sat down this morning to reconstruct something approximating our experience, which I’m documenting here both for my own future reference and in the event anyone else might be interested and looking for other people’s experiences.

The drug has a nominal rise time of about an hour, which is what we both experienced. Our experiences, however, were radically different from each other, which I gather is quite common for entactogens in general, so if you’re reading this, keep in mind that our experiences will likely be different from yours.

Let me start by saying the drug gave us both a rough ride, me moreso than her. I am not at all sorry I tried it, not even a little bit, but parts of the trip were quite brutal and not what I thought I was getting into. My Talespinner and I reconstructed this timeline, which will show you how different my experience was from hers:

I call it a “deceptive molecule” because it tends to come on in waves, with peaks separated by hours, so you can genuinely believe it’s letting go of you when it is most definitely not.

We both experienced a first peak starting about an hour after taking it, with a second peak about an hour after that, though subjectively those peaks were quite different. That first peak was marked by intense skin hunger and sensitivity, though my Talespinner also felt an absolutely overwhelming desire to be hurt. She is generally much more masochistic than I am (she loves impact play, whereas I am not a masochist at all, until this evening, more on that in a bit), and asked me to use her crop on her. Her experience when I cropped her was not, interestingly, one of pain, more like intense sensation that was pain-adjacent without being painful at all (more on that in a bit as well). We both came down from that peak at about the same time, which left us both with a generalized euphoria that felt as if the drug were wearing off.

David Attenborough voice: “It was not, in fact, wearing off.”

The second peak came out of nowhere, very quickly, characterized by an overwhelming, intense subjective sense of empathy, though we both felt it so radically differently that our subective experiences were close to polar opposites.

I fell into her, as if every touch on her body was a touch on mine. She felt herself expand outward, until her awareness consumed the rest of the polycule sharing the rental flat with us and then from there outward until it touched everyone in Reykjavik.

One side effect of generalized 5-HT receptor agonists including 5-MAPB is anorgasmia (inability to orgasm) and, in men, inability to get an erection. That took sex off the table, though not orgasm, and in fact this was one of the wildest parts of the trip. My Talespinner got herself off repeatedly, and every time she did, I had an orgasm as well. And I don’t mean like an emotional or intellectual orgasm, I mean the full deal, a full-on ejaculatory orgasm. She started murmuring in my ear that she wanted me to come—and yes, each time she did, I did. (And yes, this was just as sticky and messy as you imagine.)

That was a new experience for me, one I’ve never even imagined, being so intimately connected with another person that even my physical responses mirrored theirs. It really is just as intoxicating as you, Gentle Reader, might imagine.

Then things came off the rails quite spectacularly.

We came down from that peak and once more, because your humble narrator is sometimes a slow learner, I truly thought the drug was wearing off.

Ha ha ha ha ha oh my God.

We cuddled up together and drifted off. I had just reached that twilight between wakefulness and sleep when it started: intense, visceral pain everywhere she wasn’t touching me.

It.

Sucked.

Dear God it sucked. It sucked it sucked it sucked.

My Talespinner rose to this problem with amazing compassion and almost supernatural grace. Her deft, incredibly adroit reassurance guided me out of a miserable experience and even, by some subtle magic, transformed it into something quite exquisite. She held me through the worst of it while somehow, through some kind of nimble emotional alchemy I don’t pretend to understand, taking it from me and transforming it from pain into…something else. I won’t say pleasure, exactly, but something adjacent to pleasure somehow.

Near the worst of the drop, in the part of the timeline shaded in red, I started to hallucinate. Nothing dramatic, nothing bad, just things moving in the corners of my vision, and curious shapes crawling from the edges of the walls and ceilings. Subjectively, the experience was as if the drug itself were a living thing within me, something selfish trying to claim me and my attention for itself, that when it realized hurting me wouldn’t accomplish its goal, decided to trick me with false visions. At no point did I think the hallucinations were anything other than hallucinations, and at no point did I find them at all frightening, though I distinctly remember having the impression that the drug wanted me to be frightened of them, that it intended to frighten me.

A deceptive molecule indeed.

Anyway, thanks to that subtle magic, my Talespinner somehow turned the pain into something else, a bit of deep magic for which I was and remain deeply, profoundly grateful. Her guidance and presence changed an awful experience into something, and I do not say this lightly, transcendent.

Having transformed into something that was no longer pain, that experience became a deep longing to be hurt, to experience intensity in all its forms. By the time I’d reached the height of that last peak, I recall begging her to hurt me, which is, in all my experience in this body, never something I have done before.

And, like her, I discovered the most astonishing thing: I was not capable of experiencing pain. Everything she did to me, with crop and teeth and even a scalpel, I experienced as delirious, intense joy. She cut her mark onto me and it was absolute rapture.

Curiously, she didn’t feel that third peak at all. After it ended, we were, finally, able to sleep (the blue-shaded part of the timeline).

We woke severely dehydrated and fuzzy-headed. I ended up with a hangover considerably worse than hers, and one that lasted longer; for her, it was no worse than an evening with a couple of drinks, for me it was wretched. It’s kind of ironic, since one of the selling points of 5-MAPB is it doesn’t have MDMA’s legendarily awful, 3-5 day hangover (MDMA users call it “Tuesday blues” because, I’m told, if you take it before you go out on Saturday night, the worst of the headache hits the following Tuesday). As it turns out, it’s “better than MDMA” in the sense that beaing beaten with a tire iron for six hours is better than being beaten with a telephone pole for three days.

Will I ever use it again? I don’t know. Right now I’m leaning toward no, but I’m still a bit fuzzy, so it’s possible I may one day change my mind.

Will I ever use it alone? Not just no but hell no. This is not something to take into yourself without the presence of someone you trust very deeply indeed. I had briefly considered using it before this trip, just for the purpose of getting a handle on dosage and longevity…but if I could describe in words how glad I am I didn’t do that, there might never be a negative thought in all the world again.

There are, in the event I ever decide to allow this wild and unpredictable chaos magic in the form of a chemical substance into my body again, perhaps four people in all the world I would even consider doing it with. I am so absolutely fortunate far beyond anything I can take credit for that I shared this with her.

Dispatches from the Front of Mad Science

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I’ve returned from Wales and London, a trip that turned out to be the absolute embodiment of chaos, from canceled flights and impossible connections to ticket snafus and a wedding in which one of the brides rolled her car into a ditch on her way to the venue (she was fine; the car, less so).

All that plus many pics later. First, whilst visiting my Talespinner I had the opportunity to do a live field test of the Giger-inspired biomechanical nipplesuckers I designed for the alien xenomorph tentacle violation pod, and the trial went quite swimmingly, all things considered.

The nipplesuckers are powerful to the point of being right on the edge of pain, just the thing to add authenticity to an alien violation experience. And of course the mechanical suction never gets tired. Like some kind of unstoppable Nipple Terminator, it can’t be bargained with, it can’t be reasoned with, it doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are a spent puddle.

The glowing electroluminescent wire turned out to be quite lovely, so we did an entire EL wire bondage photo shoot in Wales, sadly not at a castle (the weather didn’t cooperate) but in the charming little AirBnB we stayed at.

Got a couple outtakes from the nipplesucker test that turned out unexpectedly cool, though!

The Hookup

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There we were, me, my wife, my wife’s boyfriend, in Atlanta for a long weekend. “Hey, my contact is supposed to be here,” my wife’s boyfriend said. “If I can get hold of him, he can really hook you up. He always has the best shit, like, you wouldn’t believe.”

I will admit to some skepticism. I’ve been promised the best shit before, only to be disappointed; there’s a lot of product out there on the street that’s just not what it’s cracked up to be. But my wife’s boyfriend insisted that his man always came through. “You’ll see,” he said. “I just need to get ahold of him. He can be a little difficult to reach sometimes. Kinda goes with the territory. Once you sample his product, you’ll see. He only deals the good stuff.”

A few days and several phone calls later, he finally managed to make contact with his dude. We set up a meet that afternoon in an Atlanta hotel. “I gotta get some cash, man,” my wife’s boyfriend said. “We need to hurry, he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Now, you would think that two people armed with an ATM-finding app in the heart of a city the size of Atlanta would have no difficulty with this. You’d think that, and you’d be so very, very wrong.

We found the first ATM tucked in a small atrium behind locked doors that would not open. The second was out of order. With increasing desperation, we roamed the harsh streets of Atlanta in search of a magic machine that might turn bits of data into rectangles of linen paper, painfully aware of every long minute that ticked by, separating us from the promise of the good stuff.

At last, on our third try, he hit pay…um. Not paydirt, exactly. Pay machine? An ATM that functioned as it should? Anyway, we succeeded in our first objective and, refreshed from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune by this small taste of victory, we made for the hotel where his connection allegedly awaited, no doubt with growing impatience.

I will confess, Gentle Reader, to a certain degree of nervousness when at last we arrived at a nondescript hotel door beyond which my wife’s boyfriend’s dealer allegedly awaited. The door opened instantly at his knock, to reveal a rather burly bearded man who looks like the prototype of every deranged character ever to appear in Hollywood:

Like this, but with a vaguely Scottish beard and an even more maniacal laugh

He escorted us in, still laughing in a way that distinctly said “too late now.” A woman sat on the bed, from which she said “Sit! Sit! I don’t bite, unless you want me to.”

My wife’s boyfriend sat, shrugged, and offered her his arm, which she bit. Beside him, a tuft of brilliantly colored hair extended from beneath the covers. “Don’t mind her,” the man said, ”that’s my girlfriend.”

Ah yes, the man. The man with the good stuff. The man so reliably able to hook one up with the best of the best that my wife’s boyfriend makes an effort to connect with him whenever he’s in Atlanta.

I have not yet mentioned the man.

The man sat beside the small table you always find in hotel rooms, the little wee thing that you never see anywhere except hotels, the table that somehow screams “I belong in a hotel room and nowhere else on earth” even though you can’t quite put your finger on why.

He sat there amidst a huge pile of small vials and little plastic bottles full of precursors, carefully mixing and pouring. I watched with, I must admit, no small measure of fascination, because while I do have a passing familiarity with armchair chemistry, I’ve never seen the synthesis process before. “Come in, come in!” he boomed. “I have some samples if you want a taste.”

By this point, Gentle Reader, I wanted a taste very much indeed, oh yes I did.

He handed me a tiny plastic cup and oh, if I live to be a thousand years old, practicing the craft of writing for all that time, I will come to the end of my existence with perhaps one one-hundredth of the eloquence I would need to express to you how exemplary, how blissful, how euphoric that little taste was.

The man laughed. “That expression, right there, that is why I do what I do,” he said.

Never have I tasted before, and never do I hope to taste again, such a magnificent, such a heavenly small-batch artesinal spiced rum.

I have sampled spiced rums all across this globe, from Colorado to Belgium to Iceland to the United Kingdom (the place so known for its rums that they were once used as a medium of exchange, because if there’s one thing that history teaches us, it’s that if you have something that tastes good, the United Kingdom will build a slave empire to get it), and never have I ever tasted anything that danced upon my taste buds like a half-dressed woman in black fishnets at a goth club in so divine a fashion.

The Borg Queen awakens

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Okay, so sit back, and ima tell you a story. It’s a story of kink, and depravity, and surprise serendipity.

So. I’m in Florida, helping my wife Joreth get the RV ready for a cross-country trip, during which we plan to do a photo tour of the abandoned amusement parks that litter the American Midwest like so many broken dreams of a bygone era. (We’ll likely do a coffee table photo book sometime in the next couple of years.)

Anyway, the day after I arrived, the local dungeon hosted a party, so your humble scribe and his beautiful wife showed up, of course, for an evening of kink and Killer Klowns from Outer Space.

The dungeon had electronic consent forms to be filled out on an iPad. On the consent form there was a profile, and on the profile there was a place to pick one’s favorite kink from a dropdown list.

Me: “I guarantee my fvorite kink is not on this list.”

Cheerful Woman Behind the Desk: “It cannot possibly be any weirder than this kink I just learned about!”

Whereupon CWBTD pulled out her phone and showed us…

…The Picture.

You know the one. The Picture that broke the Internet. The Picture that, every now and then, undergoes a new wave of virality. The Picture that, I’m told, ended up briefly on the official Sigorney Weaver fan site until a moderator took it down.

There are two things to know about The Picture:

  1. That’s a photo of Joreth;
  2. Wearing a xenomorph hiphugger strapon designed and made by your humble scribe.

In other words, CWBTD was right. My kink isn’t weirder than the thing she’d just discovered, it’s exactly as weird as the thing she’d just discovered.

Anyway, she was thrilled, and asked us to come back in yesterday for a bit of show and tell.

Which we did. The Borg Queen xenomorph parasite has been in storage since Barcelona, but it required surprisingly little repair, and we were soon on our way.

It was marvelous. They let us use the dungeon for a photo shoot!

The bad: I didn’t have my real camera, and we couldn’t lay hands on the Borg mask, so we did the best we could.

The good: There’s a photo night coming up next week, for which we will be better prepared.

The better: We met a lovely couple who were all like “ooh, Borg Queen parasitized by an alien xenomorph? That’s exactly my kink![1] Victimize us, please?”

Innocent victim: Mittyrin (image by author, reproduced by permission)

Fantastic fun, if that’s the sort of thing you consider fun. (Tautalogical cat is tautalogical.)

We drove home beneath the symbol of God’s divine blessing, or, you know, non-traditional relationships, which is almost the same thing, so truly I feel like Divine Providence smailed upon a fantastic evening.

[1] When I first started working on the xenomorph hiphugger, I remember saying “I don’t know what the point is, there are only three people in the world with this taste and I’m dating two of them.”

Oh, how wrong I was.

My knee hurts. I blame Sigorney Weaver.

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It’s not necessarily her fault, mind you. And yet, and yet, the sex party blew out my knee, a fact for which Ms. Weaver bears some responsibility.

Lemme back up a bit.

I saw Star Wars (the original, before it was “Episode 4: A New Hope”) at the tender age of 11, when it first came out, and oh. My. God. It blew me away. I’d say I was obsessed with it, but that would be, if anything, understating the single-mindedness with which I obsessed over that movie. I collected all the trading cards (which I no longer have, the awareness of which gives me the same feeling in the pit of my stomach that I get when I think about the fact that I could have bought Bitcoin at $2 a coin but thought, “what’s the point?”), I built a flying model X-Wing (and ended up in the ER when the XActo knife I was using slipped…I still have the scar)…that movie moved into my mind and took up residence like a meth addict in an abandoned single-wide.

This isn’t a post about Star Wars. It’s actually about a sex party. Hang on, I’m getting to that.

So. My parents, who wanted to feed and nourish my interests, heard about this movie called Alien. They, being generally reasonable people who didn’t know the genre of sci-fi horror existed, largely because Alien kinda invented the genre of sci-fi horror, decided, he likes space movies with spaceships and stuff, this is a space movie with spaceships and stuff, he’ll like this movie.”

And so, I trotted into the theater, expecting something like Star Wars and getting…something else.

That movie traumatized me. Like, I had nightmares about the alien in Alien. Literal, actual, wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat nightmares.

For the next thirty-five years.

That alien became the shape of all my fears for decades. And so it came to pass that my wife, who loves pushing my buttons, during the course of a casual, ordinary conversaion on a casual, ordinary day, wouldn’t it be intersting if, given that I was teaching myself to make sex toys, I made an alien facehugger strapon? A…hiphugger, to coin a phrase?

Now, the thing about me is that once I get hold of a project, I don’t let it go until I’ve figured it out. The alien hiphugger moved into the space in my brain hollowed out by the Star Wars prequels (which not only killed my love of the franchise stone dead, but squatted over the corpse and farted in its face), I fired up Blender, and, two years and seven design revisions later, I created…

…the Alien Hiphugger Strapon.

It took seven design revisions and years of work to get here, but this is my wife during the first test fit of the first completed, assembled, and usable hiphugger.

Which she had never, until two nights ago, actually used.

Okay, so.

I am currently in Orlando, helping her get the RV ready to move cross-country to the West Coast. (Well, more likely we’re replacing the RV with a new one, but anyway.)

There is, here in Orlando, a swinger’s club which my wife and her boyfriend frequently attend. Not for sex—well, not just for sex—but also because they have the cheapest pool and hot tub in Orlando, where she’s been doing physical therapy for an injury for quite some time. Yes, people can go to swing clubs for therapy, and read Playboy for the articles, shut up.

Anyway.

Since I got to Orlando, we’ve been going to the swing club regularly. My wife does her PT, while I sit and write porn (specifically, a porn novel that takes place in two parallel narrative threads, one in London in 1871 and one in Buffalo in 2025), while people have sex around me, because that is, apparently, the life I lead now.

Two days ago, we decided that we should maybe go to the swing club for sex, because, you know, sex, and so a Plan was hatched.

My wife couldn’t find the syringe that I included with her xenomorph hiphugger strapon, so I procured a replacement on Amazon, for free, as I belong to their “free stuff if you write a review” program…but only for certain products. The lineup changes daily. The good news: they had a syringe available. The bad news: It was ludicrously, comically large.

Problem solved, the next step was acquisition, at remarkable effort, of tiny tapioca pearls, as you cannot have an alien violation experience without alien eggs (obviously, duh).

So.

We packed the hiphugger, the Ludicrously Large Syringe, and the eggs, with a carrier fluid of milk because at this point why the hell not, in a Box™ with some other toys and set off, the three of us, to the swingers club. Along the way, I took a quarter of a cannabis edible, on account of the fact they make me suuuuuper suggetible.

Now, there’s a thing you have to understand about swingers.

Swingers are, generally speaking, extremely conservative. They’re basically, by and large and painting with a very broad brush, PTA members and homeowners’ association managers who happen to enjoy shagging other people.

The swingers club inspects incoming packages. My wife cheerfully presented The Box™ for inspection, with its horrifying dildo-tailed alien facehugger and its Ludicrously Large Syringe and mass of Far Too Many Alien Eggs, owing to making just a bit too much tapioca…

The people doing the inspection behaved the way one might if one were to be served a lightly grilled roadkill opossum on a plate with a side order of Klingon gagh.

The injury toward which I am slowly working my way happened in one of the swing club’s themed playrooms, each of which has a door and a large window, through which other people can watch the goings-on within.

Now, I am not a voyeur. I’ve watched people have sex countless times, which is occasionally interesting in a “huh, I didn’t know people could bend that way” sort of way. It’s a shame I can’t hand those experiences to someone who would appreciate them better, because I know if watching people shag is your thing then it is very much Your Thing, but for me, it’s like, eh.

So my wife started with her boyfriend, and they started Doing Stuff, and I guess I blanked out a bit thinking about a scene in the porn story I mentioned earlier and how it needed some rework, so she’s like “you okay?” and I’m like “I was thinking about the novel” and she’s like “of course you were.”

Because of course I was. Writers: we’re not like other people.

My writing setup in the RV. That’s my wife’s tea mug. Twice the size means half as many trips to make more tea!

Anyway, a short time later I was on my hands and knees for the Great Xenomorph Parasite Violation.

If it seems like I’m Using Caps a lot, it was that kind of night.

Now, my wife is a dancer. And the play rooms had music piped in. And my wife started swaying to the beat of the music, and at the risk of using more capital letters, Oh My God.

Remember that cannabis edible? Cannabis does two things to me: it makes me hyper-suggestible, which my partners love with the love of a benevolent Divinity to all creation; but it also puts me in touch with my body, in a way that I’m generally not.

So fast forward two hours, during which I’m either on my knees or flat on my back. I won’t disturb you with the details, because they would…err, disturb you, but let me just say, So Many Alien Eggs. The tapioca had congealed into a slippery mass and it was So Gooey that, could I adequately express it in text, your computer screen would start dripping.

There was this kind of back and forth between “ooh, that’s nice” and absolute horror: in one particular position, the alien ovipositor would encounter the mass of eggs and…again, I won’t disturb you with the disturbing details.

Anyway, after hours of this, we went home sated and happy and just a touch horrified. After a brief Denny’s stop, because low-quality food after kinky threesomes seems part of my life now, I wrote in the car on the way home, then tumbled into a deep sleep.

I took this self-portrait on the way out of the sex club.

The next morning, I woke with a knee that refused to bend without agonizing pain. As I write this, I’m wearing a brace.

I blame Sigorney Weaver.

Not that it’s her fauly, exactly, but she is the sexy part of a casual chain that led directly from the theater to nightmares to the hiphugger strapon (I think it’s safe to say my wife may have, with her simple suggestion, invented the entire genre of xenomorph play).

Ronin Steppin’ Razor

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Some time ago, I found 45 meters of electroluminescent wire on Amazon. A few months after that, I found thin sheets of edible 24-carat gold foil on Amazon. When one finds EL wire and gold foil, one’s mind, of course, wanders to thoughts of old-school cyberpunk dystopias and the nude female form.

I’m writing this from Springfield, where I’m visiting my Talespinner, who is remarkable in many respects, not the least of which is the way she encourages my incorrigible nature. So naturally, when I expressed the inchoate thoughts brewing in my head re: EL wire and gold and lots of silicone lube, she not only agreed to become a work of art, but even helped make those inchoate thoughts choate.

So it came to pass that we three (me, my Talespinner, and her other boyfriend) gathered around her coffee table cutting thin (as in about 400 atoms thick) gold foil into geometric shapes and putting an entire case of AA batteries into EL wire battery packs, upon which we retired to her bedroom to cover her with silicone lube for that wet-n-shiny look.

Gold foil is, as it turns out, difficult to apply to skin without tearing, a process that requires patience and careful attention. That done, after a brief delay so that the model could have a spontaneous orgasm, we started wrapping her in wire.

At last, more than an hour after we started, all was ready. Ans the results were…well, I find them extraordinary.

That last one kinda makes me think cyberpunk yoga. “You do Downward Facing Dog. I do Ronin Steppin’ Razor. We are not the same.”

Cutting the thin gold foil turned out to be so problematic, I plan to try laser-cutting it to see if that works. (My 10-watt diode laser cutter isn’t generally up to metal, but hey, literally only 400 atoms thick, so who knows?) I’m picturing something like the Matrix waterfall cascading down her chest, but in gold.

We’re still finding teeny flecks of gold in unlikely places.

Adventures in Mad Science: When Tentacles Attack

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Regular readers are no doubt aware that I quite like tentacles. I don’t mean I like tentacles the way a marine biologist likes tentacles, but rather I like tentacles the way a schoolgirl in a dodgy Japanese animated movie of the sort you don’t share with your parents likes tentacles.

I have recently been working on a project to make a tentacle strapon, but not the sort of strapon that’s just shaped like a tentacle, oh no. I’m looking for a more…authentic tentacle experience.

To that end, I’ve 3D printed an articulated three-wire tentacle core in soft TPU. It took some faffing, but I eventually ended up with a tentacle core that can be attached to a strapon harness. Here’s a first test of the v2.0 articulated tentacle core:

I plan to wrap this core with a silicone sheath. I’ve already made test castings of a couple of silicone sheaths, and plan to shoot video of them next week when I visit my Talespinner.

This is a test casting of the sheath; I’ve since tweaked the mold and made a second test casting, which I will be using in the tests next week.

I plan to change the design to make it more…err, usable based on what I learn next week.

My goal going forward is to mount an Arduino and stepper motors on the back of the harness, so that the tentacle writhes and wriggles on its own. Once that version is done, the next step is to equip the harness with motion and proximity sensors, so that the tentacle moves toward anything that comes near the wearer.

Today in “Horrifying Cyberpunk Dystopia”

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I sleep in a loft bed, to make more room for my computers and one of my 3D printers, which I keep under the bed.

I needed a new floor lamp, and because I’m lazy, I wanted something I could turn on and off remotely without climbing out of bed. So I found a floor lamp on Amazon that advertised remote control capability.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the box and found no remote, just a QR code to download a smartphone app.

Buckle up, because this story is about to take a turn that would make William Gibson cringe.

My first hint something was wrong came when the app forced me to create an account on the manufacturer’s server before I could pair pair with the lamp.

But hey, I wanted to see how deep the rabbit hole went, so I made an account. The answer is “pretty deep.”

Once you pair over Bluetooth, the next thing you do is download your WiFi password to the lamp. You also must enable location services, so the lamp knows your location. (The software won’t work if you don’t.)

Once the lamp knows your location, you have a choice to make. It asks if you’d rather use the microphone in your phone, or the one built into the lamp.

Yes, you read that right. The lamp connects to your WiFi and your phone, knows where you are, and has a built in microphone.

Once you’ve made that particular Hobson’s choice, the app asks you to upload a selfie, so it can—get this—run facial recognition and AI expression analysis.

Why? So it can suggest a lighting scheme based on your mood.

The Terms of Service allow the manufacturer to store your face and do both facial recognition and AI analysis.

I uploaded a photo of a cat rather than my selfie.

You’re then connected to a community of other lamp users, so you can exchange lighting patterns and such…because, of course, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a person in possession of a floor lamp must be in want of a way to exchange lighting suggestions with complete strangers.

Here’s the light it suggested based on AI analysis of a cat.

The lamp was originally slated to arrive from Amazon on Monday, but when Monday came I got an email telling me that delivery was delayed and it would arrive on Tuesday.

Were I of a paranoid bent, I might believe that the delay allowed a government three-letter agency to intercept the shipment so they could do a supply chain attack, rerouting the lamp’s connection to the host servers (which is a really weird thing to say, if you think about it) through them as well.

George Orwell believed in a future where the government constantly watched the citizens, recording every detail of their lives. George Orwell didn’t know about outsourcing.

Looking for Project Help

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I have a number of…um, fairly ambitious projects I’m working on right now that I’ve hit roadblocks on. Since the Internet is a marvel of modern technological accomplishment that allows instantaneous access to not only the entirety of human knowledge but also domain experts in every conceivable field of human endeavor, I’m throwing out a request for ideas and suggestions here.

Project 1: The Alien Pod

I have, through a strange set of circumstances, come into possession of an old “bod pod,” a medical scanner designed, I’m told, to measure BMI. It doesn’t work—it’s just the pod without the computer software and such to drive it—and my goal is to turn it into a gigantic alien egg, like the kind in the Alien movies, but large enough to hold a person.

So the plan is to cover this thing with silicone, to make it look like one of the eggs from the Alien movie (which were basically garbage bags and chicken wire covered with silicone). The effect I’m looking for is something like this:

My thought is to cover the pod with silicone (probably condensation-cure rather than the medical-grade platinum-cure silicone I ise for sex toys, whcih is more than $200 a gallon).

Why silicone and not paper-mâché? The pod weighs more than 400 pounds, so it’s very difficult to transport, and the egg needs to be strong enough to survive handling and moving in a truck. My goal is to use it for a photo shoot, with a model halfway out of it, being dragged back in by tentacles.

The problem is that silicone won’t stick to the surface, like, at all. Not even a little bit.

The pod is a stainless steel shell overlaid with fiberglass and with some sort of textured polymer layer on top. Up close it looks like this:

My first thought is to epoxy a whole bunch of short pins to the pod, to give the silicone something to grip. Many years ago, I remember seeing a product that would be perfect for this: small steel pins, about a centimeter or less long, with a ball on one end and a flat base on the other, kind of like so:

They’re quite small, and a whole bunch of them sticking out of the pod like spines on a porcupine would give the silicone something to hang on to mechanically. Trouble is, I don’t know what they’re called or what they’re used for (I vaguely recall that they’re used in aviation, maybe?), so I don’t know how to search for them.

Alternately, any small, cheap, epoxy-able pin or whatever I can glue to the pod might work. I’m also open to other suggestions. Keep in mind it has to stand up to rough handling—this bloody thing is almost unimaginably heavy and hard to maneuver!

Project 2: Machining Molds

I’ve started making alien xenomorph hiphugger strapons and alien xenomorph facehugger gags for sale.

Right now, I’m 3D printing the molds, a 6-part mold for the hiphugger and a 7-part (yes, seriously) mold for the facehugger.

I’d hoped to get maybe ten castings from each mold. In fact, I’m getting 2-3 before the mold is ruined and I have to print a new one. The facehugger mold takes two weeks(!) to print on my 3D printer. Obviously this isn’t sustainable.

I’ve been planning for a while to move to machined wood or aluminum molds, and I have a 4-axis desktop CNC machine:

I’ve been teaching myself CNC milling, but the learning curve is a cliff; I’m getting reasonably good at 2D and 2.5D machining, but man, the molds are complex.

Here’s a 3D model of one part of the hiphugger mold. This is what I’m looking to machine, either in aluminum or even in wood:

As you can see, it’s a complex shape with aggressive undercuts.

I have not been able to make a CNC program to carve this. (One person online looked at this mold and was like “um, yeah, you’ll need four years of trade school plus at least four years of apprenticeship to even think about machining something like that.”)

So, hey, I have the machine but not the skill, why not hire someone to design the CNC program, right? I’ve talked to a few folks online who are like “yeah, pay me and I’ll do the program for you,” then when they see that part they’re like “oh hell no. Hell. No.”

If anyone reading this knows a skilled CNC machinist who can create a program to mill this part, and parts like it, on my machine (a Makera Carvera with a 4th-axis module), send them my way! This is a paying gig.

In the meantime, I’m also exploring ways to treat the 3D printed molds with resin or epoxy or something to make them more durable. Right now I’m only making one facehugger and one hiphugger per month, and even at that slow rate of production, the process I’m using is unsustainable.

So yeah. I have an eclectic set of friends out there with some highly unusual skills, so I’m hoping that some of you might have insights or ideas to offer.