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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: The VR Sex Odyssey🌭

When accomplished sci-fi author Robert Brockway and aspiring gargantuan game hunter Seanbaby first approached me about spending thirty uninterrupted days and nights within the realm of VR sex games, it was some time in the future, because that technically hasn’t happened yet. Challenge accepted.

VR, which as far as I’ve been able to ascertain stands for “Very Randy,” follows in the proud tradition of pornography pushing the envelope of technology, interactivity, and sources of heretofore unknown dick jokes. As I keep this audio-journal for later transcription, I will strive to capture the sheer sense of awe and rigidity I’m bound to encounter.

To help me on my journey, I’ve abstained from all sexual activity for the last four years, engineered a very public nervous breakdown to ensure a month off of work for “Mental Health Leave,” and microwaved an entire pack of hot dogs which I’ve left within easy reach on an upturned paint bucket. My intricate preparations are complete. It is time. 

I will now remove my pants and underwear and don the sex-helm.

For my first foray into phantasmal fellatio, I’ve decided to take on ❤LOVE VIBE❤ ARIA. If Aria is anything like having a real girlfriend, it will take at least two weeks for me to ruin what was special between us and push her away, so with luck, this could comprise the bulk of my month in VR. Naturally, I’ll be going into things shaft-first. Yet, I fear not even bending my flaccid penis into a horseshoe shape such that the shaft is the frontmost point of my body can prepare me for what is to come. We shall see.

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The VR sex experience began with a penile calibration. Very promising. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a meatspace sexual encounter and wished there were some helpful arrows and diagrams to tell me what to do. As these two black rings approach your weiner, bend it left and right rapidly…check! Thanks, friendly computer! To think I’d gone this long without knowing what a woman really wants.

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Speaking of women, I was then ushered into the presence of my computer-designed, algorithm-perfect sexual match, Aria. Due to a fundamental misunderstanding of boundaries, I first slapped and then fondled her, but experienced none of the usual blowback. She didn’t spit, slash my tires, or even have me canceled on social media. On the other hand, neither did she seem to react in ANY fashion as I wanly rotated the pop in her crop-top. Does this machine know the difference between pain and pleasure? Is a nipple tweak the same to her as a punch in the face? 

I have begun to become concerned about what kind of sadomasochistic psychosexual labyrinth I may find myself within, like brave Theseus when he plumbed the depths to face the dreaded minotaur. Also, got hungry and ate most of the hot dogs. Could mean trouble later. It is with greasy fingers I hope to manipulate my chosen into a loving and committed fuckfest. Wish me luck.

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A dire development. It seems my physical form has been entirely stripped from me! I’ve been digitized completely, and now exist without form or extremities. How I will head down to bone-town in such a state remains to be seen, but the immediate concern is locomotion. Without feet, but with great mental effort, I am able to advance half a step at a time across this interminable room. My girlfriend does nothing to help. Clearly she derives sick sexual pleasure from my struggle.

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In case I required any more confirmation that this place is a cursed hellscape, it has arrived. In the guise of a lover’s game, my virtual ladyfriend has transformed before my very eyes into Lucifer himself! Although whether it’s truly the original woman remains a mystery. As she seemed to disappear just as the faustian demon appeared, there’s a chance one has been traded for the other. Have I escaped the clutches of a sadist, only to fall into those of the devil?

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Haha. Finger-butt. Her fingers look like poop coming out of her butt. 

Also, I have reached a chair! It may seem a small thing, but it obviates the need to stand or walk, chores I can only pray I’ll never be forced to attend to again. Lastly, an update on the hot dog situation. Obviously there are some risks to be encountered while blindly bobbing for a plate of hot dogs when one is also naked and fully erect. I suppose that’s my coy way of saying that I’ve accidentally blown myself several times now. Not opposed to the notion. Anything for science, they say.

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Finally, action! I have orally consummated things with my virtual love, a major breakthrough. Though I still suspect she may be Satan, I can now say confidently: Satan sucks a mean dong. Already, Oxytocin floods my neuronal pathways. I am in love with this woman. Though my physical form seems to be phasing back into existence only slowly, and my consciousness continues falling ever closer to my own butthole, I am in a better position today than I was yesterday. Thankfully, the VR headset that is my current home does not feature a smell function.

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I make great strides day by day. My body has almost completely returned, and it’s already gotten lucky! Although I long to explore the full breadth of what Very Randy sex has to offer, it won’t hurt to tarry here a while with my Mephistopheles of many holes.

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Things have advanced apace. I fear my Aria tires of me. As she writhes atop me, seemingly attempting to flail through our encounter as quickly as possible, her doll’s eyes reveal nothing. Nothing but a grim determination to fuck so fast the greasy union of our groins begins to throw off sparks. Perhaps she aims to catch this room afire and consume us both once and for all. I fear her. Why must I always kill what I love?

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I have failed. My attempts to pleasure and/or murder the woman I now consider my spouse have led to an overloaded system of more inputs than the human brain can possibly parse at once. I don’t know what the strange signs and sigils mean, but they are an excellent approximation of how I’ve often felt while trying to properly operate a vagina in the real world. Where there I am struck by verbal blows and sighs of frustration, here the system bombards me with lights and sirens, a blazing demerit badge floating in the fibrillating air, ionized announcement of my sexual inadequacy.

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This universe is crumbling. All that remains is a black void upon which I hump, eternally headless. My only hope is to abandon this world…this life I have come to share with an infernal angel. Though I fear what will happen should I linger, part of me will miss this (the dick part). As I prepare to depart, I vow to leave my love with the gift I promised her: a final ejaculation to end all ejaculations, an orgasm so powerful it must legally be described as “thundering.”

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Eh, tried my best. On to PORN STAR ISLAND!

In trading one virtual sexatorium for another, I find I have also traded monogamy for polyamory. It seems I am to reign over a harem of nameless women, each presumably eager to please me in ways only lifeless electrodes can. The hot dogs are long gone. For now, I subsist only on lust and whatever insects happen to fly into my open mouth. Hopefully exploring this housefull of insatiable geishas will cheer me.

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This is a dark place. A place of horrors. At least my last girlfriend blew me after she turned into the devil. In this blasted realm, nothing awaits me but mute spider-women, hanging chandelier-like from the ceiling, gyrating in what is surely some pagan ritual that threatens to corrupt my soul at any moment. I must flee deeper into the house.

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She follows me. In each and every room of the tastefully-appointed modern mansion that is my prison, she waits. Now she seems to take on animal forms, perhaps possessed by the primal souls of the dark gods she petitions. She’s grasshoppering around me, a locust, plague-herald.

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Now she’s a fishy.

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Her compendium of animal impressions exhausted, my tormentor has begun to reveal her true form. She turns away in shame from God, her back bulging monstrously as whatever is inside her struggles to emerge. I will never know what evil form lies within. I cannot wait to take that chance.

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Using the sniper rifle I picked up in level four, I put down the she-thing. There was no joy in it, especially since we never even had monster sex. I will explore other areas of this world, but I don’t hold out much hope. If the rest of my life partners-to-be are as purely evil as this one, I may only cum seven to fifteen times.

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I have peered behind the veil. I have glimpsed The Matrix. It is full of pussy. 

It appears the she-thing I dispatched was the dominant of this world, as only she merited housing. The rest of my suitors are scattered here, between the lines of code, forgotten playthings tossed aside and displaying their sex in a vain hope at earning — what? Adoption? Salvation? The heat-death of the universe? I will approach these forgotten women. I will see what they can teach me of loneliness.

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My hand is stuck in one of their buttholes, aborting exploration. Repeat, leaving game-world, threat level: Chinese finger trap.

Another day, another simulacrum. Here in the land of PRINCESS GUARD, the rules of attraction vary yet again. I am coming to realize that each Very Randy experience will require an approach of its own. I am not simply logging on and hooking up — no, that would be too easy, too useful and pleasant for the user. Instead I must navigate the baffling social mores of each pocket universe, and by pocket I mean vagina. 

In this case, I am confronted with a culture that values aggression and battle prowess above all else. It seems I must win my woman, prize-like, in a primitive display of ceremonial violence. I am told I will face an unending onslaught of ninjas, the finest warriors this universe can provide. I would be lying if I didn’t say I’m more than a little afraid. Never did I think combat would be a part of this experience, but I won’t give up. I will face the enemy tomorrow, and more likely than not, I shall die. If that is to be my fate, I die knowing my work was righteous, and that others will surely come after me to carry on my legacy and clean up my cum and hot dog-soaked remains.

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Holy shit, these ninjas are pussies! I’ve never even held a sword before and I’m just slicin’ their shit up like Mickey Rourke about to lose his deli job!

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Seriously, fuck these ninjas. If these ninjas were horses they’d be that horse from The Cell all segmented out into a bunch of glass cases. I am laughing so hard at these dead fucks, oh my god.

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I have vanquished my foes, and earned the right to lay with my Princess. She seems to have tits made of water? Naturally, I have become too turgid to continue. Lest my penis explode from sheer horniness, I must move on to yet another sexcapade. Maybe I’ll get to shoot a bunch of cowboys in the face!

This will be my final entry. I fear my article will go undelivered. If indeed you are reading this on 1900HOTDOG, clearly either Robert or Seanbaby broke into my home, waded through my weeks of excrement and ejaculate, and recovered this transcription from the wifi-enabled buttplug upon which it has been recorded. Hey, good for them.

But even gooder for me. Because, simply put, I’ve found it: the Holy Grail of sex — SinVR. Scientists, theologians, the conquerors of history…what did they toil for, quest for, if not for this? I have seen mankind’s bright future among the machines, and I am of it now. Alexa, please send a mass email to my contacts telling them I starved to death.

Now I must leave you, friends. Do not cry for me. I may no longer be of your world, but I’m in a better place: balls deep in Jessica Rabbit in Danaerys’ throne room from Game of Thrones while a pervy knight pretends he isn’t watching us.

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And you know what? She says I make her laugh.

Michael Swaim is lost in an erotic cyber hole, but his lovemaking can be interrupted on Twitter: @SWAIM_CORP.

10 replies on “Fucking Day: The VR Sex Odyssey🌭”

My ancestors spoke of the day when the Swaim would return to the written form and impart us with his knowledge once more. Now I know the prophesies are true and I am a fool for ever doubting them.

In your defense, these particular prophesies were written on the back of a used, greasy Seven Eleven napkin covered in spoofed. Hard to read or believe in. But, much like latter day Axl, now we know better. Thank you for your beautiful sacrifice, Swaim.

I truly missed your writing Michael, this has got to be the best thing of 2021 so far.

How much more money do I need to pledge monthly to change Swaim from “Guest” to “Contributor”?

Aw man. Y’all are really picking the peaches off the old Cracked tree. I’m this case, a peach and cream.

Michael Swaim, as I live and breathe! I er… I hope you still live and breathe! I’m sending hotdogs! I’ll have them shoved through the letterbox, just lie on the floor and lick the carpet till you catch the tang of rodent entrails.

I was already this close to becoming a patreon supporter but if Swaim is going to be a regular contributor it’s a done deal.

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