Springs and Videogame Sexuality
Can a video game be sexy? Movies, stories, paintings, photographs -we have tens of thousands of examples, arousal for every taste, from every stage in human history. Video games are the entertainment art form of our day, and while sex is not an overt selling point, it has played a role, from Leisure Suit Larry to virtual worlds where explicit sex is the specialty. The history of sexualizing video games follow the path of computerized entertainment - from low rez strip poker games back in the Commodore 64 era to multiplayer “adult” environments on Second Life and beyond. Sex and video games however are not commonly associated.
My novelette Springs – just published in a new edition by Renaissance e-books – is one of several stories I’ve written about virtual worlds and sexuality and I feel sure it is a theme I will return to, because I’m fascinated by the possibilities. Springs is the story of Cherie, a smart young woman working in the “man’s world” of a video game studio. She’s a musician and sound designer for a “survival horror” game – like Resident Evil, for those who may not know the genre otherwise. Amused by the adolescent fantasies inherent in the game, she sets out to make an artistic contribution to the product but finds herself with a severe case of composer’s block.
Inspiration comes in the form of an antique music box. Music boxes are early examples of binary media, like difference engines and mechanical calculators but aimed at the stimulation of aesthetic sensibilities, so the line between the old media and the new is rich with promise. Cherie soon discovers that the box is a little window into a past world of the darkest sorcery, into a history of obsession and murder -- timeless themes, musical and otherwise.
When I was thinking about this blog entry, I remembered Marshall McLuhan, of all people, a 20th Century philosopher whose work was, at one time, on the cutting edge of communications theory. McLuhan was one of the first thinkers to explore the idea that our media are the extensions of our senses. He’s probably best remembered as the guy who said “The Medium is the Message.” When I looked him up, I was surprised to discover that today is the 31st anniversary of his death. He passed in 1980, at the dawn of an age when unimaginable extensions of ourselves became woven fabrics in an electronic space as big as the world.
So, I’d like to unofficially dedicate Springs to Marshall McLuhan, who probably helped inspire it. Cherie would understand. So would Marshall, I think.
Please enjoy this excerpt of Springs:
The box, only a little longer than the length of her hand, weighed more than she expected. Solid, she figured. Good wood and craftsmanship from another age, another world. No Chinese slave labor crap here. She examined the repeated design, the hypnotic swirl and sinuous curve of the pattern.
Something small and hard rattled softly inside the box. She imagined it cushioned by velvet.
A simple metal catch held the lacquered lid closed and she flipped it open.
When she raised the lid, she heard a click. What sounded like a mournful sigh escaped the box and then it began to sing. A chiming tone, deep and dark. Scriabin, she thought, or the metal skeleton of some Mahler piece she didn’t recognize, sonorous and slow, each note pure and dark.
Soft brown leather lined the black wood, and in the center of the pleated bottom lay the box’s winding key. She realized the second finger of her left hand rested on the hole where the key fit and the box’s hidden mechanism wound, where it had already been wound by whoever had wrapped it and left it for her to find.
The black enamel key curved suggestively to a tarnished metal tip.
Cherie smiled, and then snorted at the perfect gift. She lost herself for a moment in the run of notes, more beautiful and intricate than any music box tune she’d ever heard. The tune resonated, steel within dense wood, compelling and brooding.
“Who the fuck gave me this?” she whispered as she closed the lid. Cherie retrieved the outer box, looked for a card, and found nothing. She gently tilted the music box to see if the giver had put the card on the bottom.
She found no card, but did find what she assumed was the maker’s mark—an ornate “G” and the numbers “97”.
From beyond the glass wall, sudden light flooded the outer office. Shit. Someone else had arrived. Early, she thought. The sun still wasn’t up.
She sensed a loss of time, as though the box had stolen thirty minutes from her, or a precious hour. She flipped it open, picked up the key, and in spite of the cool metal tip, she found it light. The tune began listlessly and she shut the lid again. She fit the key and wound the box, almost tight.
She set it beside her Mac and lifted the lid.
Ting, ting, ting.
“What’s that?” Matt stood over her.
Where had he come from?
The music wrapped Cherie in bands of sensation and germinated inside her.
She stood up and faced her boss. He wore a black t-shirt from Red Dreams, a rival game studio, and a pair of white jeans. Matt smiled a little uncertainly as he watched the box.
Ting, ting, ting, ting.
Close enough to smell his morning toothpaste breath, she put her hand on his bicep. Lean and muscular. Yes, just how she liked them.
Half the boys who worked at Splatterday Morning had never even been kissed. Many of the others were married—probably to the only girl they’d ever gotten to first base with.
Matt? She’d never figured him out. He had an easy confidence that she liked and usually when she thought about fucking someone from the office, she thought about Matt.
Time to find out how reality measured up to fantasy.
He didn’t resist as she took off his shirt, just looked down at her with an amused, slightly dazed smile. Cherie turned off the Tiffany lamps so that only her monitor lit the room. She leaned forward and bit Matt on his chest, just below his right nipple. He laughed and put his hands on her arms, gently, as though she might break.
Impatient, she bit him again, daring him with sharp teeth. She shed her jacket in a flash and raked her nails across his stomach on the way to his belt.
The music gained urgency, the spring unwinding faster.
She freed his cock and grinned with delight…
Copyright 2011 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
My novelette Springs – just published in a new edition by Renaissance e-books – is one of several stories I’ve written about virtual worlds and sexuality and I feel sure it is a theme I will return to, because I’m fascinated by the possibilities. Springs is the story of Cherie, a smart young woman working in the “man’s world” of a video game studio. She’s a musician and sound designer for a “survival horror” game – like Resident Evil, for those who may not know the genre otherwise. Amused by the adolescent fantasies inherent in the game, she sets out to make an artistic contribution to the product but finds herself with a severe case of composer’s block.
Inspiration comes in the form of an antique music box. Music boxes are early examples of binary media, like difference engines and mechanical calculators but aimed at the stimulation of aesthetic sensibilities, so the line between the old media and the new is rich with promise. Cherie soon discovers that the box is a little window into a past world of the darkest sorcery, into a history of obsession and murder -- timeless themes, musical and otherwise.
When I was thinking about this blog entry, I remembered Marshall McLuhan, of all people, a 20th Century philosopher whose work was, at one time, on the cutting edge of communications theory. McLuhan was one of the first thinkers to explore the idea that our media are the extensions of our senses. He’s probably best remembered as the guy who said “The Medium is the Message.” When I looked him up, I was surprised to discover that today is the 31st anniversary of his death. He passed in 1980, at the dawn of an age when unimaginable extensions of ourselves became woven fabrics in an electronic space as big as the world.
So, I’d like to unofficially dedicate Springs to Marshall McLuhan, who probably helped inspire it. Cherie would understand. So would Marshall, I think.
Please enjoy this excerpt of Springs:
The box, only a little longer than the length of her hand, weighed more than she expected. Solid, she figured. Good wood and craftsmanship from another age, another world. No Chinese slave labor crap here. She examined the repeated design, the hypnotic swirl and sinuous curve of the pattern.Something small and hard rattled softly inside the box. She imagined it cushioned by velvet.
A simple metal catch held the lacquered lid closed and she flipped it open.
When she raised the lid, she heard a click. What sounded like a mournful sigh escaped the box and then it began to sing. A chiming tone, deep and dark. Scriabin, she thought, or the metal skeleton of some Mahler piece she didn’t recognize, sonorous and slow, each note pure and dark.
Soft brown leather lined the black wood, and in the center of the pleated bottom lay the box’s winding key. She realized the second finger of her left hand rested on the hole where the key fit and the box’s hidden mechanism wound, where it had already been wound by whoever had wrapped it and left it for her to find.
The black enamel key curved suggestively to a tarnished metal tip.
Cherie smiled, and then snorted at the perfect gift. She lost herself for a moment in the run of notes, more beautiful and intricate than any music box tune she’d ever heard. The tune resonated, steel within dense wood, compelling and brooding.
“Who the fuck gave me this?” she whispered as she closed the lid. Cherie retrieved the outer box, looked for a card, and found nothing. She gently tilted the music box to see if the giver had put the card on the bottom.
She found no card, but did find what she assumed was the maker’s mark—an ornate “G” and the numbers “97”.
From beyond the glass wall, sudden light flooded the outer office. Shit. Someone else had arrived. Early, she thought. The sun still wasn’t up.
She sensed a loss of time, as though the box had stolen thirty minutes from her, or a precious hour. She flipped it open, picked up the key, and in spite of the cool metal tip, she found it light. The tune began listlessly and she shut the lid again. She fit the key and wound the box, almost tight.
She set it beside her Mac and lifted the lid.
Ting, ting, ting.
“What’s that?” Matt stood over her.
Where had he come from?
The music wrapped Cherie in bands of sensation and germinated inside her.
She stood up and faced her boss. He wore a black t-shirt from Red Dreams, a rival game studio, and a pair of white jeans. Matt smiled a little uncertainly as he watched the box.
Ting, ting, ting, ting.
Close enough to smell his morning toothpaste breath, she put her hand on his bicep. Lean and muscular. Yes, just how she liked them.
Half the boys who worked at Splatterday Morning had never even been kissed. Many of the others were married—probably to the only girl they’d ever gotten to first base with.
Matt? She’d never figured him out. He had an easy confidence that she liked and usually when she thought about fucking someone from the office, she thought about Matt.
Time to find out how reality measured up to fantasy.
He didn’t resist as she took off his shirt, just looked down at her with an amused, slightly dazed smile. Cherie turned off the Tiffany lamps so that only her monitor lit the room. She leaned forward and bit Matt on his chest, just below his right nipple. He laughed and put his hands on her arms, gently, as though she might break.
Impatient, she bit him again, daring him with sharp teeth. She shed her jacket in a flash and raked her nails across his stomach on the way to his belt.
The music gained urgency, the spring unwinding faster.
She freed his cock and grinned with delight…
Copyright 2011 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Posted by Angela Caperton at 12/31/2011 5:52 PM 
Categories: Horror, Angela Caperton, M.Christian, Renaissance, Erotica, dark erotica
Tags: Angela Caperton Erotica Horror dark erotica Renaissance
Categories: Horror, Angela Caperton, M.Christian, Renaissance, Erotica, dark erotica
Tags: Angela Caperton Erotica Horror dark erotica Renaissance
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