We cannot trust machines .They may be created by the exterior but once nuts and bolts are put into place they form a kind of flesh, tangible to the same random forces that cannot be contained .This cantankerousness, this dust that forms on our reliance turns into clitoral energy. If you can get the baby to play – it dances and squirts vibrantly. But if the wench doesn’t run smoothly, the fingers just won’t press right , the frustration is the same as refreshing a page continuously or irritating TV static .Sexual frustration in our technological development has breed itself into the zeitgeist .In the age of the Subterranean technology has formed its own orientation.
Notice a pornographic image displayed on a Subterranean blog, one of many , between a pair of voluptuous female legs lies a Mac laptop computer – in iconic stark white- four phallic tentacles sprouting out of it and colliding around her swollen vulva while three more intricate ones massage her erect clitoris. The thickest of all of them, the big boy, covered in pulsating veins and a thick transparent goo, formed from the chargers plug completely penetrates her .
The second shot underneath it is of the woman’s face trapped in a state of pure petting ecstasy, her mouth wide open and her eyes rolling back into her forehead. Just a typical erotic soft focus image, reminiscent of the 70’s golden age of pornography. But notice one modern detail, a golden USB plugged into her throat and dripping thin red lines.