What Would Sex Robots for Women Look Like? | VICE →

"Once you've had a lover robot, you'll never want a real man again." That's a line from Gigolo Joe, the sexbot played by Jude Law in A.I. Artificial Intelligence, the 2001 Steven Spielberg film. What makes Gigolo Joe special—aside from his dewy skin, gnocchi-plump lips, and shiny-suit razzmatazz—is that he represents a very rare filmic depiction of a male sexbot .

Think about it. The sexbots you know and love are almost exclusively female bots servicing human men. They're the Stepford Wives' gynoids and Austin Powers' s fembots; they're Ava and Kyoko of Ex Machina and Pris of Blade Runner. Chick sexbots populate television, too. Buffy the Vampire Slayer's April and the Buffybot were lovingly crafted with the express purpose of fucking.

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The Year in Male Tears | VICE →

2014 was the year that misandry became chic. That January began with the reminder from Madeleine Holden, creator of Critique my Dick Pic, that "dick is abundant and low value," a Tweet that resonated with the power of a 140-character manifesto. The movie release of Gone Girl and Taylor Swift's video for "Blank Space" made misandry aspirational. Etsy samplers emblazoned with "men are scum" and Café Press mugs reading "male tears" proliferated. The year ended with feminazis opening their 2014 Misandmas presents with glee, finding copies of Bitch Planet and Bad Feminist.

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The Tongue-Twisting History of the Many Euphemisms for Eating Ass | VICE →

I remember the first time I actively, unambiguously tongued the anus of a man. It was June 1994 in the Yankee Doodle Motel in Shelburne, Vermont. My boyfriend, a muscly manly man, hot from the shower and dewy with steam, flopped on the bed. The skin over his ass was plump and invitingly pink-white; I had to put my mouth on it. My tongue, flat as a trowel, cleaved to his asshole. In the parlance of the time, I "rimmed" him, and he liked it.

Growing Up as a Girl Surrounded by Fuckweasels | VICE →

Let's see: There was the time I was 15 and, eying a career in broadcasting, did a Saturday ride-along with the local news team. The smirking, fratty 30-something male reporter told me a dirty joke; it ended with a punchline about a tiger and me laughing nervously. There was the middle-aged guy at the pool who would leer and talk at me the summer I was 16; his chest hair glistened in the sun, oily and fluffy as sheep wool. I giggled at him too.