By the way: Have you ever, while being penetrated by one of several, (eight to be precise), prehensile, suction bedecked, noodly appendages for manual stimulation, (amongst other survival tasks whomst (?) criteria of fulfillment requires the clearance of bars which are categorically dextrous in nature (eg. tentacles)), found yourself wondering where it all went wrong? You, of the house Carcharhiniformes - who can piss through your skin - and, with your translucent third eyelid, (that can be drawn across the eye from the medial canthus to protect and moisten it while maintaining vision in the murky conditions of which you are, undeniably, the apex predator), rove these blessed sandbars like a giga-chad, now upside down and powerless. Rendered cartoonish in your tonic immobility and told to shove your fancy nictitating membrane deep into your colaca by a crafty cuttlefish who utilized its numerous biological pixels (i.e. chromatophores) to appear as an unassuming rock until it was time give you a bit of the dicky belly with sudden cephalopod-jitsu. Now prodding your toothless orifice and leaving your mineralized bits to fossilize between the Upper Cretaceous and Tertiary periods? Was that in the form of a question? I can never tell these days.
I knew I was going to love this based on the synopsis: “A story about scientists having sex with aliens for the glory of mankind - and money.” Sure enough, this tantric space romp stuck a Xen crystal right into my Anti Mass Spectrometer from the first page and didn’t remove it until a resonance cascade was well underway. Now, anyone who is familiar with sample GG-3883 knows it’s no use pulling out once you’ve got the quantum foam sufficiently hot and bothered. I clamped my hand over the mouth of those virtual particles and rode the violent paroxysms of spacetime like a Hitachi Magic Wand, until, at long last, the storm ebbed with a mighty discharge of quark-gluon plasma. Fingers crossed that no rifts appear to disgorge hostile alien life forms this time. Only slight numbness and residual tingling so far. Also drew unwanted attention, yet again, by squealing: “ELLIPSES!” During peak intensity.
Get a load of these stage names: Tesla Coyle, Kneels Bore, Trinity Spheres, Constance Planck, Supermassive Black Hole.
I’m getting ahead of myself.
This book is about a diverse group of scientists who are using a device called the Space Shot (referred to as the Money Shot due to the prohibitive expense of using it) to explore the universe in the hopes of moving the frontiers of research in their respective fields. But the political administration of future-earth has become increasingly hostile towards science, rendering the prospect of receiving sizable grants rather grim. Our intrepid empiricists, not to be thwarted by militant pragmatism, decide to crowd fund their adventures by banging alien life forms (and each other) on camera, hopefully providing truly novel stimuli to porn aficionados who are experiencing diminishing returns with terrestrial smut. Thus creating, in what can only be imagined as a poetic nod to the ultimate act of autofellatio - electromagnetism - a self sustaining phenomena of orgy and adventure.
There’s great humor and art. Witty repartee. Interesting relationship dynamics. Tentacles. Horny radially symmetrical beings. Meditative fish men with ball sacks the size of beanbags. Orgasm induced fission reactions. And so on. The comparisons to Sex Criminals are pretty apt, and if you like that series, then I encourage you to check this one out as well. If you end up not liking it, I can personally guarantee you that I’ll be both shocked and disappointed, and where we go from there is a difficult question, since having taste that bad would preclude the possibility of civil conversation. Maybe we can take turns paddling each other’s inner thighs with wiffle ball bats until some agreement is reached.