My Love Machine

United States Patent no. 5,920,923

Inventor: Jillette, Penn

Filed: January 9, 1998

See that? Think I'm fucking with you? I fuck with people, I do. Think I'm fucking with you about having a patent? How much you want to bet? I'll take any bet. Get your money out.... Now Google it, motherfucker! Yup, sometimes I fuck with you by not fucking with you. I really do have a patent. And it's a patent for a sex device! I could have gotten more money out of you.

I've always wanted a patent, and now I have one. One of my best friends holds the patent on asynchronous windows on computers. (Yeah, that's pretty much the patent on the idea of windows on a computer.) I have another friend who has a patent on some bullshit liver thing-amajig that has saved a zillion lives. But I have a patent on a female-masturbation device. It no longer matters what the Vegas showgirls rumor mill says; the U.S. government now knows I care deeply about women having orgasms.

I originally called my invention the ClitJet, but my attorney (we inventor guys have attorneys) suggested we change the name to JillJet. The government has never been comfortable with friendly terms for female body parts. JillJet is fine. It's the first half of my last name, and jill off is cool-chick slang for female masturbation (jack and jill off). But it ended up being called the hydrotherapeutic stimulator.

Here's how the government abstracts a genius device that makes a woman come as if she's pulling six g's while straddling a rock-hard naked Blue Angel in a fireman's hat: "A spa of a type including a tub for holding water and a user, in particular, a female user. The spa has a seat for supporting the female user in a seated position, a circulation pump having an inlet connected to the tub for drawing water from the tub, and an outlet connected to the tub for discharging the drawn water back to the tub. A discharge nozzle is located within the tub and connected to the outlet, mounted to the seat so that the discharged water from the circulation pump automatically aligns with and is directed to stimulation points (e.g., the clitoris) of the female user when the female user sits in the seat."

"(E.g., the clitoris)"--hee hee.

Yeah, I have a patent for moving a hot tub nozzle from the side of the hot tub to the seat of the hot tub. So what? Hey, even e=mc2 isn't that hard once someone has explained it to us all. The original idea is what gets the patent.

I'm here to help. I'll tell you how I got the idea. It may help you to think outside the box--very, very close to that tight little magic box but still just barely outside it.

I've been on TV. Some people use fame's faux power to get into trendy bars without waiting in line or to score enough drugs to be dead before that fame evaporates. I don't do drugs, I don't drink, and...well, I don't even really go out. I don't think I've ever used the word party in its verb form. The last time I used the word party, it was an adjective followed by the noun hat.

I use what little fame I can squeeze out of fickle America to do cool things. (People who get into trendy bars don't ever use the word cool; that's a geek thing.) I've played Texas Hold 'Em with Andy Bloch, Paul Phillips and Howard Lederer. I've been weightless in the astronaut-training "vomit comet" with Billy Gibbons. I've played bass with Lou Reed. But one of the coolest things I've ever done is go to a space shuttle launch. Lots of us guys with patents go to NASA launches.

I've been to more than one launch, and one time I invited a very sexy female rock-star friend. She was kind enough to pretend my cool connections, not her superstar status, had gotten us our VIP seating, and we saw and had quite a blast. We were staying at a little pastel-and-shell motel in central Florida, with a pool and a hot-tub spa in the public area. The day before the launch we were there with time to kill. I was reading in the room, and my space date went out to the pool. (A lesser man would have put down the book and followed the sexy woman.) She came back about an hour later, and she was very upset. She was ranting like Dennis Miller, except with really nice tits.

"Fucking motherfucking stupid fucking men! They build these fucking Jacuzzis with the fucking jets on the fucking side. All women want to fucking jill off on these fucking things, and we have to get in a very unladylike position to do that. It's not that easy to fucking come. So I'm fucking out there in the fucking public spa, and I want to come. So I've got my bathing suit pulled to one side, my legs over the edge, and I'm trying to get the jet to hit my cunt just the way I like it when this fucking little fucking kid walks by. So now I have to fucking throw my legs all over the place so as not to embarrass him and me, right? Like it's my fucking fault. And the kid showed up at exactly the fucking wrong fucking time. I'm the one who didn't get to fucking finish, and I've totally fucking lost the fucking mood. Assholes."

What she said was pretty close to that.

Now a lesser man would have said, "Sorry, baby. Come right in here and maybe I can help you get off." But we Wile E. Coyote supergenius types use wasted opportunity as the mother of invention. A couple of years later I said to my architect, Colin, that I wanted a spa in the courtyard with a ClitJet. I told my rock-star story, and he passed the intellectual idea on to the spa builder to realize. He explained to the guy who would be doing the real work, "Mr. Jillette would like a jet in the seat that will point to the clitoris of a woman sitting in that seat."

"So you're thinking about a nozzle about halfway back on the seat pointing straight up?" the pool guy asked.

There was a very long pause. Colin looked into the eyes of the pool guy. "Well...." Colin paused and tried to be polite. Pool guys in Vegas are all on the verge of snapping like a punji stick. "Well...we were thinking of having it indented at (continued on page 123)Love Machine(continued from page 94) the front of the seat and at about a 45-degree angle." Colin checked the pool guy for fast blinking and twitching. "That's what we were thinking," Colin said gently and pointed on his jeans to where his clit would be if he had a clit, which he says he doesn't and I take him at his word.

"Okay, cool," the pool guy answered without incident. Colin figured we should get a nice fruit basket from the pool guy's wife. He's right; we had done a nice thing for her, but we're still waiting.

Colin wanted the ClitJet to be perfect, so he took some important measurements. He measured some showgirls' asses so that the indented seat would be just right. The water jet would be thick enough (oh, baby) that we didn't really have to check out pussy-clit-leg-ass placement, but we still checked out a few. We're perfectionists. We designed a place to stand on either side of the indented ClitJet seat. We set up our foot places so that if a five-foot-10 woman with a normal-size torso (and who wants that?) were sitting on the JillJet, a six-foot-six man standing in that place would have his erect penis right at her mouth level. Yes, I'm six-foot-six. I've read enough Ayn Rand to know that pure altruism is evil.

That was all we did. The newly anatomy-savvy pool guy did all the real building. When it was finally finished and filled with water, I invited a showgirl friend over to be the Alan Shepard of our Mercury 3 JillJet. She put her long, lean, sexy naked body into the tub and made sure she was doing everything right. "I sit right here?" she asked demurely.

"Yup, just settle in while I turn it on."

Ten, nine, eight, seven--we had ignition and a fuck of a liftoff. Man, did she come. I didn't even have a chance to get my feet in the right place.

Word spreads in Vegas. Soon I had showgirls running amok. I was the Louis Pasteur of pussy. When female friends of mine came to visit, it often seemed they were visiting to come. One friend would fly in from Texas with her husband, and she would rush to the tub while he and I made plans for dinner. She was a very proper woman with a nursing degree and shit like that, and she would come into the house all flushed and say to her husband, "Fuck, honey, we need one of those at home." Her husband is also an inventor. We inventor guys stick together. He makes a shitload of money in the computer field, and that's all I'm saying. You have "Texas" and "computers." If you want to find out who he is badly enough, do some homework.

Over dinner during one visit, while his wife was all squeaky clean and a little lost in her thoughts, he asked me why I didn't patent my ClitJet. "Don't fuck with me," I said. "I can't get a patent for that. It's just jet placement."

"I bet you can."

I have another friend who does patent searches; he says patent attorneys are dream busters. People pay money to find out that their million-dollar idea is someone else's $10,000 idea. I called him and said I had an idea for a patent. Before I told him the idea, he said he was going to break my heart and was going to enjoy it. I told him about the ClitJet, and he paused. "Fuck, you might have a chance with this." He thought some more. "You really might." He did a pretty thorough search for "previous art" and told me I should hire a lawyer.

I hired a patent lawyer and paid him to draw official pictures of a hose squirting up a cooch, and the G went for it. Man, sometimes life is perfect. He found a zillion patents for cleaning genitals but relatively few for pleasuring. God bless America. Find a need and fill it; that's the way we inventors work. A quick thumb through American Sex Machines: The Hidden History of Sex at the U.S. Patent Office by Hoag Levins reveals that there have been as many chastity belts invented as there have been pulsating plastic pussies, and that doesn't make for a healthy society. If there were a god, there would be a hard limit of one weapon patent for every 100,000 sexual-aid patents.

Does sex need improving? To use George Carlin's words, isn't "good old American man-on-top, get-it-over-with-quick" sex good enough? Don't get me wrong. I've been known to order vanilla even though there are way more than 31 flavors. But we can dream, can't we? We have to keep pushing the limits. Build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door. Build a machine that makes women come in seven seconds and you'll have time to watch Law & Order before you go to sleep.

Modern Sex Toys

We scoured the U.S. Patent and trademark office database in search of American originals. Here are some favorites

The showgirl lowered her naked body into the seat. Ten, nine, eight, seven--liftoff. Man, did she come.