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Part 1 of this saga is here.
Part 2 of this saga is here.
Part 3 of this saga is here.
Part 4 of this saga is here.
Part 5 of this saga is here.
Part 6 of this saga is here.
Part 7 of this saga is here.
Part 8 of this saga is here.


The next stop on our whirlwind tour of ghost towns, cunningly planned through extensive and repetitive Googling of "ghost towns west coast," was Susanville.

It would prove an elusive target. Susanville was established in 1864 when some bloke found a big lump of gold in a remote corner of Oregon, and a bunch of other blokes came flocking to the spot hoping to find more lumps of gold. Times being what they were, it wasn't considered a proper town because it didn't have its own post office, so in 1901 a bunch of miners, ahem, stole the post office from a neighboring mining town, making Susanville an improper town. Or so the story goes. It is not clear to your humble scribe how one steals a post office, nor whether the legitimacy conferred by a post office remains if the post office is stolen. Such matters are not for me to understand.

I used Siri to plot us a route to Susanville, and we were off. The trip started promisingly enough when we found a turnoff precisely where Apple Maps said it would be, with a much-faded sign suggesting we were on the right track.



Alas, things soon became complicated. I navigated the Adventure Van for quite a long while on a narrow single-lane dirt, steadily moving farther and farther from civilization, until Siri told me to take a left turn onto a road that most completely and utterly did not exist. There was not the slightest sign that a left turn had ever existed in that spot, nor that one is ever likely to exist any time between now and when the stars burn out.

Bunny and I scratched our heads. "Let's keep going," she said. "Maybe GPS isn't sure where we are. We'll look for a left turn."

We kept going. A left turn failed to appear. After we had traveled a considerable number of miles, with Siri telling us "make a U-turn, make a U-turn" over and over until madness threatened, I got the idea to try Google Maps.

This is not, I would like to point out, ordinarily such an insane idea. Google often knows better than Siri the ways of human navigation. In this case, however, Google was worse than useless. Siri showed us the road we were on, if I may be forgiven the literary excess of use of the word "road;" Google showed nothing but an endless expanse of featureless green. Where Siri believed there to be an exuberance of roads, including the one we could not find. Google showed nary a trace of human existence at all.

We turned around. "Turn right," Siri said. Again, the road onto which we were supposed to turn persisted in its obstinate failure to exist.

"Maybe there used to be a road here," I said. Bunny looked doubtful.

I stopped the van. "Siri says there's a road right here," I said. "Let's get out and walk. Maybe we'll find it." Bunny still looked doubtful.



We walked for a while. "Siri says the road is right here," I said. "Let's just stay on the road according to GPS and see what happens." Bunny looked very doubtful.

Still, the one thing you can count on if you're a chaosbunny is there will be chaos. We set out through the field, watching the phone closely to keep the little blue dot centered on the road Siri insisted was there and reality insisted just as passionately was not.

When we'd walked for ten or fifteen minutes, Bunny pointed ahead. "I think this might be a road after all," she said. "Look!"

Sure enough, there was a slight depression that was just regular enough to make it seem that, if you squinted hard enough and perhaps dropped acid, might seem it was once a road.



With a new surge in confidence, we kept walking. After another twenty or thirty minutes or so, and an inconvenient but fortunately narrow stream we were forced to jump across, we found... a road. A real, genuine, unmistakeable, honest-to-God road, exactly where Siri told us it would be.



We trotted along the road and rounded a large outcropping of rock, and then, there in front of us...a decaying house, tucked in the shadow of tall trees, glorious in its ruin. We had begun to believe it no longer existed, so as you can imagine, gentle reader, that moment when we rounded that corner made our hearts sing with joy.



Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Susanville, Oregon.













We poked around the ruined buildings for a while, taking pictures like mad and giggling like...well, like we were mad.

The largest house we found maintains silent watch over what used to be an old gold stamping mill, there on the other side of the river. Little remains of the mill but a heap of lumber.



I'd love to know what life was like out here, back when people came to this place in search of wealth. The few remaining houses are quite large, and were probably surprisingly comfortable given the remote inhospitality of the place.









Some of the remaining structures look a bit creaky. I was reasonably sure they probably wouldn't collapse on us without warning, entombing us in a pile of old lumber and avarice.



When tea-time came around, Bunny sat down on an ancient and massive tree stump and...well, looked very English.



Tea properly handled, we resumed our explorations. I have no idea what this is, but it's quite lovely.



We forded the river to examine the ruins of the stamping mill more closely. At first, I thought it was a lumber mill, but Google says no, this is where gold ore was brought to be crushed and processed. Of course, Google also said there was no road out here, so what does Google know?



The view back to the largest house from the mill is quite beautiful. I don't imagine life here was easy, but it certainly did offer scenic natural beauty in spades.



In fact, it's so lovely I'm a little surprised nobody lives out here now.

Susanville was amazing, and it was with heavy hearts we bid farewell to it and started the long hike back to the Adventure Van.

As fantastic as Susanville was, still more wonders waited in our future, though we had to pass through stark terror to get there. That story will come in time.


It's been a bad week for WordPress. If you're a WordPress user, I highly recommend you check as soon as possible to ensure your site is updated, all your plugins are up to date, and your site is free of unexpected users and malicious combat.

WordPress 4.4.2 was released February 2. This release fixes two known security flaws.

Hot on the heels of this security release come two worrying developments. The first, reported on over at the Wordfence blog, concerns a new WordPress attack platform that makes it easier than ever for criminals to attack WordPress sites. From the article:

The attack platform once fully installed provides an attacker with 43 attack tools they can then download, also from pastebin, with a single click. The functionality these tools provide includes:


  • Complete attack shells that let attackers manage the filesystem, access the database through a well designed SQL client, view system information, mass infect the system, DoS other systems, find and infect all CMS’s, view and manage user accounts both on CMS’s and the local operating system and much more.

  • An FTP brute force attack tool

  • A Facebook brute force attacker

  • A WordPress brute force attack script

  • Tools to scan for config files or sensitive information

  • Tools to download the entire site or parts thereof

  • The ability to scan for other attackers shells

  • Tools targeting specific CMS’s that let you change their configuration to host your own malicious code



The post includes a video of the attack platform in action.

Second, from Ars Technica, is a report of WordPress sites being hacked and made to download ransomware to visitors' computers.

It's not currently clear how the sites are being compromised, but it may be via an unknown zero-day security exploit. From the article:

According to a Monday blog post published by website security firm Sucuri, the compromised WordPress sites he observed have been hacked to include encrypted code at the end of all legitimate JavaScript files. The encrypted content is different from site to site...

It's not yet clear how the WordPress sites are getting infected in the first place. It's possible that administrators are failing to lock down the login credentials that allow the site content to be changed. It's also feasible that attackers are exploiting an unknown vulnerability in the CMS, one of the plugins it uses, or the operating system they run on. Once a system is infected, however, the website malware installs a variety of backdoors on the webserver, a feature that's causing many hacked sites to be repeatedly reinfected.


What can you do to protect your WordPress site? If you're running WordPress, I strongly, strongly urge you to do the following:

  • Use strong admin passwords! I can not emphasize this enough. Use strong admin passwords! Criminals use automated tools to scan thousands of WordPress sites an hour looking for weak passwords. A normal WordPress install will be scanned dozens to hundreds of times a day. Use strong admin passwords!

  • Update all your sites RELIGIOUSLY. When a WordPres security patch is released, criminals will go to work examining the patch to see what it fixes, then develop automated tools to automatically hack unpatched sites. You may have only 24-48 hours between when a security patch comes out and when people start using tools that will automatically compromise sites that haven't installed the patch. Turn on automatic updates. Keep on top of your site.

  • Install a tool like WordFence. This free plugin will protect your site by locking out people who use known attack tools or brute-force password guessing attempts. It will notify you by email of hack attempts and updates that need to be installed.

  • Install a tool like WPS Hide Login to move your login page to a hidden location, like /mysecretlogin instead of /wp-login.php. This will go miles toward securing your site.


I highly recommend you install the free Infinite WP tool as well. It's a plugin plus a Web app that will notify you of updates and allow you to update one or many WordPress sites with just one button click. This is a great way to keep on top of security patches.

Also, absolutely do not assume you're safe because you're an obscure little blog that nobody cares about. The criminals will still find you. They use totally automated tools to scan for vulnerable WordPress sites looking for installations to exploit. It doesn't matter if only you and your mom know about your site--criminals will find it and will exploit it.

Stay safe!


Update #5 on the sex toy you can feel

A lot of folks have been emailing me asking for an update to the project Eve and I are working on to build a strapon dildo covered with sensors that the wearer can actually feel.

We've been spending so much time working on this project that it's been hard to keep up with blogging about it. I'm currently halfway done with a stage 2 prototype that's way more advanced than the first prototype, and I'm excited about getting it done. We've also been talking to several amazing mentors and investors who are helping to make this thing a reality.

We also had overwhelming responses to our surveys--apologies to everyone who wanted to do a Skype or in-person interview I wasn't able to schedule. The schedule filled up within minutes of putting out the call for interviews. We did a survey that got more than 1,700 responses and dozens of in-person and Skype interviews, which told us that there are lots of people who want this device.

Eve and I are really excited. We've had really positive conversations with a couple of investors in the last couple of weeks and hope to have all kinds of good news for everyone soon.

Want to keep up with developments? Here's a handy list of blog posts about it:
First post
Update 1
Update 2
Update 3
Update 4


Here we are, nearly two weeks into 2016, a land of promise filled with mistakes yet to be made and nascent errors still unhatched. It is customary, as the calendar ticks over from one arbitrary designation to the next, to look back upon the road traveled and ask questions like "what the hell was that?" and "how in the name of God did I get here?"

In the spirit of that tradition, allow me to take a moment to offer a retrospective of 2015, a year that can well and truly fuck right off.

To be fair, it wasn't all bad. Indeed, many parts of the year, taken on their own, were quite joyful. To help separate the good from the bad, I will be using a thumbs up icon for the bits I liked and a red X for the bits I didn't, because I'm told clarity in communication is a virtue.

In matters such as this, it is difficult for any of us not to be an unreliable narrator. We are, after all, only imperfectly aware of how others see the world, and even of how others perceive the events in which we take part. That said, I will endeavor to be as objective as I can about the massive suck that made up an unfortunately disproportionate part of the year now past, and to polish what nuggets of win I can find amid the rubble.</div>


Mechanical Difficulties
The year started with replacing the engine in zaiah's car, a four thousand dollar expense necessitated when Jiffy Lube installed a defective oil filter and then refused responsibility for the error, causing catastrophic destruction of the engine. Always a nice way to start the year. Lesson learned: Jiffy Lube is not a place where one should do business. This turned out to be a theme; hang onto the thought, I'll get back to it.

In the meantime...



Seclusion and Murder
2015 (woe be unto it) started on a good note. Eve and I spent some time in the same remote wilderness cabin where we wrote More Than Two. It's a lovely place, far from...everything, really. It's a lovely place with a lovely (if murderous) cat and a great way to spend the first days of a new year filled with promise and the hope of a bright new future. And the murder of small furry animals by an adorable feline, but you have to take the bad with the good, or so they say.




Carelessness of the heart
Eve and I spoke at a poly conference, which was a lot of fun save for the fact that I met a delightful woman whose interest, initially quite mutual, I feel I handled poorly. I was not appropriately cautious and became aware of significant incompatibilities too late to avoid hurting both of us unnecessarily.

So, yeah, lesson learned. Mindfulness at all times in all interactions with other people? It's a thing I need to do.

This was also when I began to fully grasp the weird--and often dangerous--ways that the one-sided intimacy inherent in being a writer and speaker who offers up bits of one’s inner life for public consumption can distort human interactions, especially with new acquaintances. Another lesson learned: Flirting with fans is a dangerous game, and is a risk I’m no longer willing to take on myself or expose others to.



Bionic penises
The next few months of 2015 were relatively calm and reasonably normal, at least for those values of "normal" as one might expect. Hmm. Normal. There's a word I use only cautiously, and perhaps should consider striking from my vocabulary altogether, except insofar as it has a negation in front of it...but I digress.

The first third of the year was all about bionic cock. Eve and I got serious about launching a business to investigate producing the dildo that provides sensory feedback to the wearer, by which I mean Eve, who is rather the amazing mastermind and who has a can-do attitude that would make Ernst Stavro Blofeld jealous, enrolled us in a business accelerator competition that brought us together with investors and mentors and taught both of us how to say "penis" in a room full of people without blushing--a valuable business skill, it must be said, if one's aim is to develop a bionic penis.

Penis, penis, penis. See? Hardly a twitch.

It turns out that business accelerators are a lot of work. We did market research about penises. We built business plans around penises, and had our penis business plans examined, dissected, critiqued, and torn into teeny tiny shreds by a procession of investors and business leaders. We built value chains focused on penises. We constructed penis value propositions for penis market segments of folks who want to know what having a penis feels like. I've run my own business since about 2001 and I learned more about how to run a business between February and May of last year than in the ten years before.



Sick kitties
My cat Kyla has never been terribly healthy. Shortly after she adopted me and declared me hers, when she was still a very young kitten, she got a respiratory infection that nearly killed her. I spent long nights awake with her, holding her and rubbing her chest, and she eventually recovered.



While I was away in Canadia-land dodging Kurgan raiders, she got sick again and very nearly died.

Well, technically speaking, she did die. Twice. She stopped breathing, and Zaiah brought her back with kitty CPR.

She's a fighter, Kyla is, and she really, really likes being alive. Kinda like I do. She got through it with minor damage to her balance that seems to be permanent, but she did bounce back. So I suppose on the whole that's good, or at least better than the alternative, but it's bad it happened.



Indiana Jones Goes to a Swinger's Conference
2015 was the year Eve and I started getting more speaking conventions than we could hope to say yes to. One of those invitations was a swinger's convention in Canada that wanted us to talk about ways to do non-monogamy beyond swinging.

Swingers have a problem. Since at least WWII, swinging has been the go-to style of non-monogamy for people outside the leather scene. But now it's getting harder and harder for swing clubs to find new members, what with Millennials growing up witht he idea that polyamory and other styles of non-monogamy are just options among the many out there and TV shows about polyamory and all. You don't need the structure and safety of a swinger's group when non-monogamy just isn't that big a deal.

So we said yes, hopped into a rented car, and were on our way.

We were driving along the Crowsnest Highway (insert appropriate Scottish joke about taking the crow road here) when from out the window of the car I spied with my little eye something beginning with "ooh, look, pull over, that looks like the ruins of an old mine shaft up there!"

Eve, familiar in the years we've been together with my many and varied eccentricities and often given to indulging me, pulled over. We looked at the mine entrance, a few hundred feet up the side of a slope.

"Think we can get up there?" I said.

"Sure," she said.



So we started the scramble up. We climbed up an embankment, past a row of trees, up over another embankment, and..whoa. Serious Indiana Jones moment.







The detour cost us several hours, dirt all over our clothes, and more than a fair bit of hard physical labor, but man, was it worth it.



Have a nice trip!
I have long been something of a straight arrow when it comes to the many pleasures of chemical mind alteration.

I know, I know, hard to believe, what with me being an Internet sex gargoyle and all, but until I was in my late 40s I never once experimented with any chemical alterant beyond alcohol. I didn't try any recreational drugs at all until I was 46, when I experimented with hallucinogenic mushrooms--an altogether positive experience, and one I've been thinking about writing about for a while. I didn't even drink 'til fairly late in the game.

We arrived at the swinger event considerably dustier than we had been, and were offered ecstasy by a person who apparently quite likes the experience of swinging while on E.

Now, as I mentioned, I've not dabbled far into the ocean of recreational biochemistry, and in fact have barely gone so far as to build sand castles on the beach of recreational chemistry, the waters being not to my liking and even the sand being more coarse and gritty than is perhaps entirely pleasant, and the sun and sounds of the gulls are...where was I going with this metaphor? Anyway, I've never felt the siren song of pharmacologicals, but I will admit to a certain level of curiosity about ecstasy. So we accepted his offer.

Ecstasy is not an easy molecule to synthesize by any measure. It's a complex, fiddly, two-day process that involves a lot of extremely close monitoring and very careful mucking about, and one of the waste products of a more popular synthesis pathway is elemental mercury. All of which means that what's often claimed to be ecstasy in the dystopian nightmare that is the market for street drugs is anything but.

I'm still not 100% sure what it was we took. Google suggests it was methamphetamine, based on its color, consistency, and the absolutely miserable night we had.


Ten carbons, fifteen hydrogens, one nitrogen, all the rage and hate of Lucifer after the Fall


I want to impress upon you, Gentle Readers, exactly what "miserable night" means. To do this properly, I will wander off for a moment into a story about a bucket of chicken. When I had first met my former wife, she and I were kinda sorta in what kids today might call a "quad" with two close friends of mine, and we spent many a night doing things to make a bishop blush, often with a video camera. We got some bad chicken at a KFC one evening--salmonella, I believe the diagnosis was. My friend's girlfriend and I spent about three continuous days on the bed together barfing our guts out more or less nonstop. It was a waterbed, see, so whenever she would start throwing up, the waves in the waterbed would start shaking me, and then I would start barfing too, and that would set her off, and...you get the idea.

I describe this because I can now say it was the second most miserable time of my life.

Oh, don't get me wrong, not every moment of the experience was bad. The first four hours were great, seeing as how we both had turbocharged libidos and couldn't get enough raw animal sex, and raw animal sex is not something that I'm normally on distant terms with--Internet sex gargoyle, remember?

But after that...

The closest I can come to describing what the rest of the night was like is I had the visceral experience that there was something in my body that hated me and wanted to hurt me. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't stop moving...I don't often use the word "evil," and when I do, it's not usually about organic molecules, but meth is an evil, evil molecule. I can not comprehend why any human being would knowingly take that stuff in full awareness of the ride it was going to give them. Dante's most vivid descriptions of Hell are a walk across a breezy tropical island compared to what meth feels like, assuming that is in fact what it was. Without hyperbole, I can state with confidence that I would rather get hit by a bus than experience anything like that ever again.

One star. Do not want. Should you, Gentle Reader, ever want to go down this road, learn from my example. Do not trod this path without a testing kit, which if you're in the US you can find here and if you're in Canada you can find here. Wish I'd've known about that sooner.


The weeks following the swinger convention were a whirlwind of chaos, the kind of chaos only two chaosbunnies in the same place can create.

My sweetie Maxine came into town, and we spent weeks traveling the deserts of the Pacific coast photographing ghost towns. Mining towns, railroad towns, logging towns, you name it, we visited it--a journey I'm still in the process of journaling.

Maxine and I are both chaosbunnies, so the two of us together is pure concentrated chaos. Into any such maelstrom good and bad must go. I will touch only on the hilights here, some of which I have not yet documented.


Camping in the Wilderness
This is, as it turns out, something Bunny has become quite adroit at, with a set of mad camping skills that's little short of awe-inspiring. Seriously, when the Big One hits and civilization collapses, I hope I happen to be on the same side of the pond as she is. Build a campfire in the pouring rain, armed with nothing but a flint and a soggy roll of toilet paper? She's the one to do it.

We had a fantastic time, even if there was rather less sex than perhaps there could, or should, have been. (Note to self: next time, plan a less ambitious schedule and leave more time for the horizontal mambo.) It was fantastic to spend some quality time with her in the deep desert.



Break a rib!
It is telling, I think, that when you make a list of all the things that went wrong during the year, you keep forgetting "oh, yeah, I broke a rib."

If I could go back in time and give information to the younger me, I would definitely tell myself "don't try to cross that stream on that slippery fallen log." Well, first I would tell myself the Powerball numbers, but after that, I would definitely tell myself the thing about the log. Well, okay, the Powerball numbers, the stock price for AMZN throughout the second half of the year, and then the thing about the log.

But I lack access to a time machine, and so the younger me said "hey, look, a log across a stream! That seems a reasonable thing to walk across!"

Fast forward a few seconds and I was tumbling into ice-cold snow runoff, pausing just long enough on the way down to whack my side against the log.



The desert defeats us
One of the stops on our tour was an old lead mine, closed in the mid-1800s and since left alone, high atop a mountain in the middle of Black Rock Desert.

Or rather, one of the stops on our tour was supposed to be an old lead mine, closed in the mid-1800s.

It took us rather a long time just to find the old road--little more than a narrow, rutted dirt track, really--branching off the paved road in the direction of the mountain. It took us a couple of hours to crawl along that road, such as it was, to the base of the mountain. It took us another hour to climb halfway up it, then two minutes to realize that the grade had become so steep that the van simply would not move, even in low gear--and, for that matter, the wheels wouldn't spin either. Another minute after that convinced me that any additional tilting at that particular windmill would only destroy the transmission, which was already slipping.

From there, it took five minutes to realize that turning around was an absolute impossibility, five minutes to realize that the van could not back down the grade as heavily loaded as it was without the back bumper digging into the earth, twenty-five minutes to unload everything onto the side of the dirt track, half an hour to back cautiously down to the point where a wide spot afforded opportunity to turn around with only a moderate chance of tumbling off the edge of a cliff, and half an hour to load everything back into the van again.


Black Rock desert. That thin dark line in the lower left is the "road" we came in on.


It should be noted here that before we set out on this journey, Eve had suggested I get a GPS locator beacon, in the event that, I don't know, we should encounter problems deep in Black Rock Desert or something. I pooh-poohed that idea, because, really, what were the odds? Next time, I will not so easily discard that idea.

I still haven't fixed the damage to the van's transmission. The shop says the transmission needs to be replaced. So far, they haven't been able to come up with an estimate. I'm not optimistic.



Bored and Terrified...at the Same Time
Our misadventure in Black Rock Desert was merely the appetizer for the main course of mechanical suck--the price, I suppose, of adventuring in a 23-year-old camper van.

We set out on the last leg of our trip straight over a mountain that Siri, in all her passive aggressive navigational glory, didn't think to send us around. That particular part of the adventure will most likely get a blog post all its own, filled as it was with ominous signs and squadrons of US Marines, but the hilight, which I will briefly mention here, was definitely the trip down the far side, during which with a thump and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke the van's brakes failed.

We were, at the time, in a remote area unserved by cellular signal--indeed, it's quite likely that most of the natives were entirely unfamiliar with any communications technology more advanced than the telegraph, or perhaps smoke signals--and 70 miles from the nearest town.

Therefore, with no other options availing themselves, we spent almost the entire night on a white-knuckle journey across seventy miles of narrow and windy mountain roads in first gear at about ten miles an hour with no brakes, relying on engine braking to manage our speed.

I did not, prior to that night, realize it was possible to be both utterly terrified and completely bored at the same time.

The next day, we found a Les Schwab service center. I'd never heard of Les Schwab before I moved to Oregon, but Zaiah swears by them. "Great customer service!" she told me. "Awesome warranty!" she told me. I was skeptical, but when I bought the van I had the brakes serviced at a Les Schwab.

It took them an hour just to work up an estimate--never a good sign when it comes to brakes. They gave me a number. I choked. "Well, we need to replace everything in the front," they said. "..." I said.

"We looked you up in the computer. You still have a thousand miles left on your warranty," they said. "It will all be no charge."

"...!!" I said.

Sometimes, fortune favors the foolhardy.



Uterine Thunderdome
June decided to continue the theme of random bodily injury started with the rib thing in May, because why mess with what works, amirite? And so it came to pass that I ended up with weird pain that left my doctor scratching his head and muttering about the possibility of a kidney tumor, that got worse and worse until eventually I ended up in a CT scanner shot full of contrast that made my eyes feel like they were melting.

The CT scan was illuminating, both as to the nature of the problem (appendicitis) and to why it was tricky to figure out. Apparently, my internal geography is as unorthodox as my romantic life.

More distressing, perhaps, was finding out that such unusual innards are often the result of a situation whereby a person becomes pregnant with twins, one of which absorbs the other early in development in a kind of uterine Thunderdome--two fetuses enter, one fetus leaves.


I have no idea if Tina Turner was there or not. It was too dark to see.


But hey, there's a silver lining. From now on, if anyone gets all up in my face, I can say "don't fuck with me, man, I ate my twin!"



O Canada
Eve, in her ongoing attempt to make me more self-sufficient in the nutrient procurement department, has been encouraging me to learn the dark arts of cooking and baking, by whose secret alchemy ingredients are transmogrified into food.

As part of that ongoing effort, she had me decorate a cake for Canada Day. I must say, I think it turned out rather well.



A most excellent representation of the spirit of Canada, if I do say so myself.



The Big Book of Franklin Gets It Wrong
2015 is the year my memoir, The Game Changer, finally saw the light of day.

Writing it was rough. For years--decades, really--I've written about polyamory and kink and relationships, but I've never really told my story. I've talked a lot about the things I believe, but not very much about how I got there. The Game Changer was a new kind of writing--one that's not very comfortable for me.

It also tells the story of things I'm not proud of. It's about the mistakes I made and the people I hurt, because those are the experiences that led me where I am. In fact, while I was writing it, I called it The Big Book of Franklin Gets it Wrong.



The response to the book has been overwhelmingly positive, and it's reached a lot more folks than I expected it to. I am deeply grateful for that, no matter how hard it was to write.



Dancin' the Blues
One of the many things I've been working on this year is learning to blues dance.

I've always quite liked to dance--generally more gothy than bluesy, and without a partner--but partner dancing is new to me. Eve's been teaching me, and it's turned out to be rather a lot of fun.

In the fall, Eve and I went to Northwest Recess, which is rather like Burning Man only with fewer flamethrowers and a lot more dancing.



A whole lot of folks got together in the middle of nowhere, set up tents, and spent several days dancing without the distractions of civilization, like Internet, television, or potable water. And it was absolutely lovely. How come nobody ever told me how much fun blues dancing is?



More bionic penises
2015 was the Year of Travel and Presenting. Most of the presenting revolved around polyamory, but we took just enough time from talking about the whys and hows of multiple lovers to talk bionic cocks at Arse Electronika.


The second-generation prototype lacks the glowing lights, sadly


We were told we'd won the Golden Kleene Award for tech in sex, but weren't able to pick it up as we had to depart for the airport immediately after our presentation to head to Europe. That right there ended up becoming the theme of the next five weeks.



Roads go ever ever on, over rock and under tree
The book tour. Ah, yes, the book tour.

What to say about it? The book tour was very, by which I mean parts of it were very good and parts of it were very bad but none of it was mediocre.

I started touring with The Game Changer a couple of weeks before Eve joined me for the European leg with More Than Two. I also ended up in urgent care midway into the second week, diagnosed with bronchitis.




The bunny ears are mandatory. The bunny ears are always mandatory.


As for the European bits...

We miscalculated, we did. During last year's book tour in Canada and the US, we lived in the back of the Adventure Van traveling from town to town talking about polyamory. We packed our European schedule with the same density of events, neglecting to consider that:

  1. We would be on foot or relying on public transit for most of the tour;

  2. We would be dragging all our luggage with us everywhere we went; and

  3. We would be dependent on the schedule of the trains for our schedule.


They say good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from poor judgment. If that's true, we're now so absolutely brimming with good judgment we should be on the Supreme Court and at least seventeen less supreme courts.

Meeting people was amazing. The folks we met on the trip were absolutely wonderful. And I don't think I've ever been so utterly exhausted in my life. By midway through, we were hanging on by the skin of our teeth, putting one foot in front of the other, and all those other cliches that one resorts to when one is too damn tired to be able to think.


This is how most mornings started: double-fisting cups of tea.


And it was still unbelievably amazing.



















One thing we never did get used to: no cats. Such a dearth of cats, in fact, that on no fewer than three occasions we were forced to seek company of the feline variety in various cat cafes across the European continent.

We spent our last night in Paris atop the Eiffel Tower, drinking champagne and looking out over the city. I got to cross "spin poi in front of the Eiffel Tower" off my bucket list.


I didn't even know it was on my bucket list.


We flew home the day before the terrorist attacks in the city. When we hit the ground in San Francisco, we both had a bit of a freakout about it.



Oh, you wanted to breathe with those lungs?
On returning, finally, to Oregon, I visited my doctor to follow up on the bronchitis thing.

He did the poking and prodding doctors do, and then welcomed me to the wonderful world of adult-onset asthma, the result, apparently, of the pneumonia I had in Atlanta a few years back and the more recent spell of bronchitis.

If there were a god, I think he or she should have made us from something a bit more durable than meat. Just sayin'.



The last twist of the knife
2014's last fuck-you was the destruction of Zaiah's engine by the incompetent boobs at Jiffy Lube. Not to be outdone, 2015 had to get in its last little dig in the same spirit of giving, when the radiator in her car--the same one we'd only just put a new engine in--erupted in a cloud of steam.

Fortunately, this was a far less expensive fix. Still, they say it's the thought that counts.


So that's the way it was, the Year of Very. I still hold out some hope that 2016 will be a bit less very, though I have a feeling that this year will be a bit of a roller coaster as well. And I don't even like roller coasters.


Unless you've spent the last year living entirely under a rock, far from the hustle and bustle of normal life, and entirely without any sort of Internet connection, you're probably aware to some extent of a rather lengthy fuss about the heart and soul of computer gaming. This fuss, spearheaded by a diverse group of people loosely gathered under a name whose initials are similar to GargleGoose, is concerned about the future of comic book and video game entertainment. They believe that a sinister, shadowy cabal of "social justice warriors"--folks who are on a mission to, you know, right wrongs and uplift the oppressed, kind of the way Batman or Superman do only without the fabulous threads. This cabal, they fear, is coming for their video games. The social justice warriors, if we are to believe GameteGoose, are so obsessed with political correctness that they wish to make every game in the world a sanitized, sterile sandbox where not the slightest whisper of sex or violence may be seen.

Okay, so granted that's not likely the characterization GrizzleGoose would put to their aims, though I think the general gist is there.

And they're not entirely wrong, though they're pretty far from right. There is a battle going on for the heart and soul of entertainment. For decades, comic books and video games have catered to straight white middle-class guys, who overwhelmingly make up the demographic that bought the games, read the comics, and to whom writers, artists, and developers catered with laser focus.

But times have changed, comics and games have gone mainstream, and they're attracting more and more people who aren't straight white dudes any more. And as other folks have come into the scene, they have started pointing out that some of the tropes that've long been taken for granted in these media are, well, a little problematic.

And merely by pointing that out, the folks talking about these problematic things have provoked pushback. When you live in a world where everyone caters to your exact tastes, the idea that some people might start making some things that aren't to your liking feels like a betrayal. And the suggestion that there might be something about your taste that isn't quite right? Well, that can quickly turn into an existential threat.

GooeyGoose has effectively capitalized on that existential threat, rallying straight white dudes into believing they're the Rebel Alliance who are under attach from the forces of social justice while adroitly handwaving away the reality that when it comes to popular taste in entertainment media, straight white middle-class dudes are and have always been the hegemonizing Empire.

But here's the thing. You can point out that popular entertainment media is problematic without saying the people who like it are bad people.






I play Skyrim.

Skyrim is an open-world role-playing game where the player takes on the persona of a mythic hero trying to save a world plagued by dragons, a civil war, and the restless undead. It's almost entirely unstructured, with players having the ability to choose to do just about Anything. Non-player characters the player interacts with offer advice and provide quests, which the player can choose whether or not to do.

It's a lot of fun to play. I've lost quite a number of hours of my life to it, fighting dragons, deciding which side of the civil war to support, participating in political intrigue, exploring creepy dungeons, and exploring a lush and richly detailed world.

It also has some problematic issues.



This is Haelga, one of the characters in the game. The player can be given a minor side quest in the game by her niece, who works for Haelga but doesn't like her very much. Haelga's niece, Svana Far-Shield, tells the player that Haelga is having sex with several different men, and wants the player to get proof in order to shame and humiliate Haelga.

The way the quest is written, it's sex-negative as hell. It plays to just about every derogatory trope out there: open female sexuality is shameful, women who are perceived as sexual are "sluts," and pouncing on a woman with evidence of her sexual attitude is a sure way to humiliate (and therefore control) her.

You might argue that Skyrim is set in a time that is not as enlightened as the modern-day West, but that ignores a very important reality: Skyrim is set in a time and place that never existed. There's no compelling reason to write sex-negativity into the script. The game works well without it. It's there not because the distant faux-medieval past was sex-negative, but because modern-day America is.

But that, too, misses a point, and it misses the same point the GiggleGoose folks miss:

It is possible to recognize problematic elements of a game and still enjoy the game.

I recognize that this quest in Skyrim is sex-negative, and that's a problem. I still like the game.

The people who play these games and read these comic books are not bad people for doing so. The content of the games and comics is troubling to anyone who cares about people other than straight white middle-class men, sure, and it's certainly reasonable to point these things out when they occur (though they happen so damn often that one could easily make a full-time career of pointing them out). That doesn't make the people who like them Bad And Wrong simply because they enjoy them.

GiddyGoose believes that saying video games are a problem is the same thing as saying people who enjoy video games are a problem. And if you identify with comic books and video games so strongly that you can not separate your entertainment media from your sense of self, they might be on to something.

But most folks, I think, are able to take a deep breath, step back a half pace, and recognize that the writers and developers have done some really cool, fun stuff, but they can still do better. It would not kill anyone if the quest in Skyrim were rewritten (how about have Haelga's character replaced by a man? There's a thought...), or even dropped entirely. Nobody suffers from recognizing that it's not cool to make fun of people who aren't like you.

Nobody's saying that Skyrim shouldn't exist, or that people who play it are terrible people. I would like to think, on my optimistic days, that that's an idea anyone smart enough to work a computer can recognize.


Part 1 of this saga is here.
Part 2 of this saga is here.
Part 3 of this saga is here.
Part 4 of this saga is here.
Part 5 of this saga is here.
Part 6 of this saga is here.
Part 7 of this saga is here.
Part 8 of this saga is here.


Our journey to Sparta presaged the lowest point in our travels, a long barren stretch of time (by which I mean about a day) during which we failed to locate any ghost towns of note, or indeed even any zombie towns, vampire towns, or other even approximately dead or undead towns.

But be assurred, Gentle Reader, for things did turn around, and amazement and wonder lay in our future.

We drove aimlessly for a while, chasing the ghosts of ghost towns whispered of in rumor and myth on Web sites of dubious provenance.

There is a lesson here, dear reader, which I hope that with this tale I might impart to you, so that you may avoid some of the travails which bedeviled Bunny and I on your journey. These words may, I think, impart to you a wisdom we lacked. This may be upsetting to those of you with more delicate sensibilities, so if this describes your constitution, you may wish to ensure you are seated before continuing.

Much of the information you will find on the Internet is rubbish.

Pure, unadulterated rubbish. Bunkum. Baloney. Poppycock, even.

So it was with the next ghost town we arrived at, the town of Cornucopia. An amazing ghost town, they said. Now completely abandoned, they said. No population, they said. A great example of an 1800s mining town, they said.

So we naively plotted a route, past the "Road Closed" sign, around the "No Access Turn Back" sign, up a winding dirt road and through steep and treacherous cliffs into the ancient mining town of Cornucopia.



What we found, I'm afraif, was not what we were promised. A stream, a couple of foundations, a scattered handful of modern houses with satellite dishes, a sign advertising WiFi(!), and one shell of an abandoned house. This, after many hours of driving, was all we had to show for our adventure.









It's a very cool ruined house, mind, but still not quite what we were led to expect.

It turns out that Cornucopia is now entirely privately owned. Someone bought the town. I didn't even know you could just buy a town, but apparently that is a thing that you can in fact do, and someone did it here.

Someone who didn't much cotton to city folk, from the sound of it.



The sign reads "Warning! Cornucopia township, land and buildings are all private property. No shooting allowed. No trespassing without permission. Baker co. sheriff." It also says "we don't much fancy your kind 'round here," but that's more the subtext than the text.

Our spirits low, we wound our way back down steep (and nominally closed, though that's never much deterred us) winding roads, heading off toward the next stop on our agenda, about which we had, I must report, some nontrivial degree of skepticism. Sparta and Cornucopia had been almost enough to make us despair of finding a really good, solid ghost town of the kind Hollywood movies had led us to expect. That cinematic ghost town experience felt beyond our reach.

And it was in this dark hour, when hope seemed naught but a flickering candle in a howling maelstrom, that Bunny said, "Hey, Franklin, pull over!"

Just like that, the storm ended and the candle roared into life, no longer a flicker but a towering column of flame, a flame to lead the lost tribes of Israel through the trackless wilderness. A flame that shed a clear, bright light on: Whitney, Oregon.

Without even planning to, we had stumbled upon a real ghost town.



Whitney provided plenty of photo opportunities to keep both of us busy for the next while.















And, astonishingly, the town of Whitney also is not uninhabited. It is home to someone who no doubt wanted to get away from the bustle and the hurly-burly of life in a big city like Cornucopia, and settle down somewhere a bit less crowded where he could relax in the shade and, I don't know, shoot chipmunks (of which there were many) with a high-powered rifle (of which there was much sign).



Yes, someone lives here.

Alas, a real storm was fast approaching, preserving a metaphysical symmetry now that the metaphorical storm had departed, and all too soon we were forced once again to pile into the Adventure Van and be on our way.



Once more the miles sped beneath our wheels, and we were on our way to still more serendipitous discoveries...but that must wait for the next installment.


The life of a sociopathic British secret agent isn't what it used to be. Time was when you could expect that evil supervillains bent on making doomsday weapons from their space lab in space could be counted on to invite you in for dinner, explain the entirety of their sinister plan to you, and then concoct some ridiculously over-the-top way to kill you while they conveniently absented themselves from the room to deal with pressing matters elsewhere.

Alas, times change, and even the most dense of today's modern supervillain has become wise to the various flaws in this otherwise cunning course of action. Previous James Bonds have had the luxury of knowing that the supervillains they faced, while no doubt quite super and unparalleled in their villainy, were perhaps a few bricks short of a deck in the "dealing with British secret agents" department.

And so a new James Bond was needed. A tougher James Bond. A more resourceful James Bond. A James Bond with a steely gaze.



And that James Bond is back for another romp through the gardens of man's inhumanity to man in the delightful little movie Spectre, featuring car chases, explosions, sinister villains, fluffy Persian cats, acting, plot, and dialogue.

The movie goes something like this:

RANDOM HOT WOMAN: Oh, James, ravish me! Ravish me now!
DANIEL CRAIG: Hm.

DANIEL CRAIG takes off his SKELETAL COSTUME and goes out the WINDOW onto the ROOF OF THE BUILDING in pursuit of a MAN IN A DIFFERENT SKELETAL COSTUME that is NOT THE SAME as DANIEL CRAIG'S SKELETAL COSTUME

MAN IN THE DIFFERENT SKELETAL COSTUME: Let us blow up the stadium and then go see the Pale King, because we are villains in a James Bond movie and so we can not assume that our co-conspirators know what we're conspiring about and we need lots of exposition to establish that we're the bad guys.
RANDOM BODYGUARD: There is a man listening to us from the top of the roof outside our window. I think he may be James Bond.
MAN IN THE DIFFERENT SKELETAL COSTUME: Well, shoot at him, then! Isn't that what I pay you for?

A bunch of people shoot at DANIEL CRAIG

DANIEL CRAIG: Hm.

DANIEL CRAIG shoots the BOMB they wanted to use to BLOW UP THE STADIUM. The entire building CRACKS and then FALLS OVER onto DANIEL CRAIG, who fixes the crumbling building with a STEELY GAZE

DANIEL CRAIG: Hm.

DANIEL CRAIG slides through the CRUMBLING WRECKAGE and lands on a CHAIR, then pursues the MAN IN A DIFFERENT SKELETAL COSTUME through the streets of MEXICO CITY

MAN IN THE DIFFERENT SKELETAL COSTUME: James Bond is chasing me! Meet me in the square!

A HELICOPTER lands in the SQUARE and picks up the MAN IN THE DIFFERENT SKELETAL COSTUME. DANIEL CRAIG fixes the HELICOPTER with a STEELY GAZE and then HOPS ABOARD. They have a WILD FIGHT. The helicopter goes UPSIDE DOWN

DANIEL CRAIG: Hm.

DANIEL CRAIG steals a RING, throws everyone else OUT of the HELICOPTER to their GRUESOME DEATHS, and then FLIES AWAY into the SUNSET

The rest is down here! Beware, here be spoilers.Collapse )


Update #4 on the sex toy you can feel

As regular readers of this blog know, my partner Eve Rickert and I are hard at work on a whole new type of sex toy: a strapon dildo covered with sensors that use direct neural stimulation so that the person wearing the strapon can actually feel the device. The idea is that it exploits the brain's plasticity to become a part of the wearer, so it feels like something you are rather than something you're wearing.

We have a prototype and I'm currently working on a far more sophisticated second-generation prototype. We're also doing market research to try to refine our design approach and get a sense of who would be most interested in this device and what their needs are.

We just presented about the device at Arse Elektronika, to great interest:



Here's where you come in!

We've put together a survey to ask people about themselves and their interest in this device. The results of this survey are kept confidential and will be used to help us figure out how many people find this device appealing and who you guys are.

It takes about 10 minutes to do, and people who do the survey can optionally enter a giveaway for one of two $50 Amazon gift cards. (The giveaway is only good for users in the US and Canada, sorry.)



If you know anyone else who's interested, please feel free to share this survey far and wide. Tell your friends! Post in mailing lists! Help us spread the word!

Want to keep up with developments? Here's a handy list of blog posts about it:
First post
Update 1
Update 2
Update 3
Update 4


Part 1 of this saga is here.
Part 2 of this saga is here.
Part 3 of this saga is here.
Part 4 of this saga is here.
Part 5 of this saga is here.
Part 6 of this saga is here.
Part 7 of this saga is here.
Part 8 of this saga is here.


And so it was, Gentle Reader, that emanix, having recently called upon her Aspect and bodily shoved a 22-year-old camper van from a deep ditch, calmly returned to the front seat and said "do you fancy some tea?" We drank tea, for all the world like nothing had happened. She fixed the broken clasp in her bra nonchalantly, as if popping out of clothing while performing impossible feats of force were an everyday occurrence with her (which, in all fairness, it might just be), and we were off.

I am not, Dear Reader, much of a planner. I would like to say I chose a route for us that was breathtaking in its efficiency and military precision, but that would be a lie.

Our next destination was the Oregon town of Sumpter, a town whose status as the incorporeal essence of the deceased is vastly overstated. It's described as a ghost town on the Web, sure, but in reality, it has a population larger than many of the Midwestern towns I grew up in as a child. In fact, we arrived to discover the allegedly late town of Sumpter was having a street festival.

It was not a total wash. Sumpter does boast a tiny collection of ruined buildings from antiquity (by US standards, which means anything prior to 1950 or so). There was the old brick safe from the old bank that burned down during the old fire of 1917, for example.



We also found the remnants of a long-abandoned gas station, now completely overgrown and with trees sprouting from what was doubtless once a nexus of commerce for the town.







Something about this place kinda reminds me of a location from the video game Portal 2. I kept expecting to hear a synthesized voice say "Sorry about the mess. I've really let the place go since you killed me. By the way, thanks for that."

The outskirts of Sumpter is home to an open-air museum of sorts given over to the study of the various ways in which large old pieces of machinery can gather rust. I recognized this mining dredge from my time in Nome, Alaska; it's a smaller version of the dredges they used there.



I like this old tractor. They don't make 'em like this any more.



Probably a good thing, really. This machine looks like it runs on leaded gas and the fingers of the careless.

One of the vendors at the festival was selling corn dogs. Corn dogs, for those of you who are not acquainted with this peculiarly and quintessentially American gastronomic innovation, are hot dogs breaded with cornmeal, deep fried, and served on a wooden stick.

Bunny found the notion quite intriguing, having grown up in a land where things like black pudding (which is neither black nor pudding--it's actually fried congealed horror) is more conventionally served. She had one, pronounced it delightful, and we stopped for the night, resuming our journey the next morning toward Sparta.

Sparta is not really a town. Sparta is a wide spot on a long dirt road that is more a suggestion of a town. It's like one of those places in an open-world video game where you get the feeling that the game designers weren't really trying, or couldn't think of anything to put there.

One reaches Sparta, if one is of a mind to reach Sparta, by spending a very long time traveling a very narrow dirt road through arid desert. And believe me when I say "long" and "narrow." This is the real reason people were reluctant to invade Sparta: it's just too much of a pain in the ass to get there.



One travels along this road until one finds, first, a crumbling foundation, and then, a few miles past it, a crumbling stone cottage.





One then drives past these things, interesting but not really a proper ghost town, until one arrives at the center of town.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is Sparta!!!



Seriously. This is it. This is Sparta.

We were, as you can probably imagine, distinctly underwhelmed. No crumbling old buildings quietly decaying into the desert sands, no burly spear-armed men thrashing about in ways that are no not even the least bit homoerotic not ever so don't you even think that.

But fear not, Gentle Reader, for though our tale reaches a low point here, we were soon to discover ghost towns quite marvelous in their essential ghost-towniness, despite the lack of not-homoerotic burly spear-armed men.


Update #3 on the sex toy you can feel

A while ago, I had an idea on how to create a strapon that the wearer can actually feel, as though it were part of your body. The idea took off, so my partner Eve and I started a company and commissioned an engineering firm to do a design proposal. We recently tested a first-generation prototype, and discovered that not only does the tech work, it works far better than we expected.

Things have gone a bit crazy since then. We've received an avalanche of support and interest, and we've been talking to folks from all over the place who want to see this device become a reality.

I'm working on a second generation prototype that's a lot more sophisticated than the first-generation prototype. It's an interesting bit of engineering, for sure.



Still quite crude, but I'm refining it very rapidly. Right now, the main area I'm concentrating on is sensor design. The second prototype will have much more sophisticated sensors and will actually be usable for fucking (the first prototype wasn't really suitable for penetration).

We've also been doing tons of market research, and the results have helped steer us toward a design that will work well for a lot of people.

If you're interested in keeping up with this project, we've set up a Mailchimp email list. Feel free to add your email to the list! You can find it here:

Sign up for email list: http://eepurl.com/bxc2FT

Feel free to publicize this link to anyone you think might be interested!

We're hoping to present the second-generation prototype at this year's Arse Elektronica convention in San Francisco in October. Stay tuned!

Want to keep up with developments? Here's a handy list of blog posts about it:
First post
Update 1
Update 2
Update 3


Threesomes and intrigue and kink, oh my!

As some of you may know, Gentle Readers, among all the other things I do, I write porn. Well, erotica, I guess. I've never been entirely clear on the distinction. Sex stuff. I write sex stuff. Novels about people having kinky sex.

Long novels about people having kinky sex.

These novels are published under a pseudonym, and I've just released a new one. It's called Nineteen Weeks.



The premise of Nineteen Weeks is straightforward: Amy, a suburban housewife married to a successful man, discovers that her husband is having an affair. But after she catches him red-handed with his mistress, she decides to deal with his infidelity in an unusual way; since her husband and his mistress had been sleeping with each other behind her back for nineteen weeks, she demands that they give her back that time, and pledge themselves to her to do anything she asks for nineteen weeks.

I deliberately tried, in this book, to take every one of the tropes of a conventional romance and flip them all on their heads. The powerful man takes control of the shy and inexperienced woman? Nope. The torrid affair ends with them settling down? Not quite. The--well, you'll have to read it and see.

Plus it might be the only porn novel that quotes Ovid.

Anyway, check it out! You can find it here. If you despise the romance genre and you like kinky sex, this book might be exactly what scratches your itch.

Now through the end of September, you can get it for $2.00 off using the coupon code XQ68N. And patrons who support me on Patreon get a coupon code to download it free!

Tags:



Update #2 on the sex toy you can feel

A while ago, I had an idea on how to create a strapon that you can actually feel, as though it were part of your body. The idea went crazy, a lot of people expressed overwhelming support, so my partner Eve and I started a company and commissioned an engineering firm to do a design proposal.

In the meantime, I've also been working on the idea independently of the engineering firm, so last week I put on my Mad Scientist hat1 and built a simple proof of concept.



Then I went to my friend Emily and said "hey, I have this prototype of a computerized strapon with sensors and a wearable computer and stuff, do you want to help me test it?"

"Sure!" she said, because my friends rock. (I love my life.)

So two days ago, I showed up at her house bearing the crude prototype. "Okay," I said when we were safely in her bedroom, "this bit goes here, and that bit goes up in front like so..."

There were some design flaws in the first version--the wires leading from the computer to the electrode weren't quiiiiiite long enough, so she ended up doing this one-legged dance trying to put it on. When it was all powered up and running (which looked quite odd--the sensors mounted to the big purple dildo all have little red lights that come on to show the sensor is working, so the overall effect looked a bit like a prop from a 70s science fiction porn flick), we spent some time adjusting the signal generator and making sure everything was working, and then got to it. I touched the sensors and had her describe what she felt. At one point, as I knelt in front of her stroking her cock, it suddenly struck me exactly what I was doing. "Man," I said, looking up at her, "this is really obscene."

"But Franklin," I hear you ask, "how did it work?"

Emily wrote a really good writeup from her perspective on her blog, appropriately titled "Brains, Bunnies and Boners." Here's an excerpt:

I stood sporting a sizable electrode-covered, purple erection as this man knelt before me stroking the blinking phallus. Looking dreamily into space, I concentrated on this new sensation and how to communicate it. He asked questions that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with programming or nerve density. It crossed my mind briefly that this was a strange situation. Covered in wires, half naked in front of a man I’m not intimately connected to, waxing poetically about the sensation of him passively stimulating my g-spot. Meanwhile he educates me on the corresponding connections between penis and vagina, sensitivity wise. [...]

I see him touching the wirey and weird strap on, the sensation of that cock hitting my pubic bone becoming enough to fully trick my mind. The arousal of the plug flitting electrical currents over my internal nerves quickly translates into a thought of, “wow if he keeps doing that I’m going to get a hard on during science and that will be embarrassing.” Except logically I know I already have a hard on. A big purple one that he brought along for me to borrow. My brain has already made the adjustment in the five minutes we’ve been testing this to believing in the new genitals.


So the answer is it works really, really well. Far better than I expected, given how primitive the prototype was. Within minutes, it seemed her brain had internalized the dildo as part of her body; she said that touching the dildo felt like touching her. Which was amazing. I'd expected just to validate that the device could be made to work; I didn't expect it to work that well.

Eve and I are actively pursuing making this device a reality. We're currently enrolled in a venture accelerator program in Vancouver and we're doing market research to validate the market for this device. Interested in being interviewed as part of that market research! Hit me up in email! franklin (at) franklinveaux (dot) com.

1 By which I mean my Mad Engineering hat. Well, technically, my Mad Engineering Magnifiers for Precision Soldering.

Want to keep up with developments? Here's a handy list of blog posts about it:
First post
Update 1
Update 2
Update 3