"There's a saying: if a you see a gun in the beginning of a movie, it has to go off in the third act," a student of video game design tells me over sushi and the latest issue of tech rag Wired. The magazine features a story on the naughty kinds of games we're talking about: realistic multiplayer virtual-sex games, some with the ability to connect conjunctive sex toys to your computer.

"[We] have the technology," the game designer -- who wishes to remain anonymous -- says. What makes the time ripe for computerized lovin'? "We have the normalization of pornography" (i.e., Jenna Jameson on the New York Times bestseller list). And we've got "terrorism, Netflix and the increasing size of home TVs," all the modern trends making people more inclined to cling to the comfort of home. The evolution of cybersex seems logical.

A week ago, I'd never have imagined myself having this conversation. The last time I played a video game, Kurt Cobain was alive and tokens were involved. Then I read the word "teledildonics," which sounded suspiciously like something you'd hear in a sci-fi parody.

It isn't. Teledildonics is the ability of two people, in separate locations, to manipulate sex toys via internet. You could finger your mouse in New York, and make someone in California sing the ten-second aria.

The term came to my attention in a Reuters story by Adam Tanner, in which he introduces something called the Sinulator: "The most fun you can have when you are apart. The Sinulator lets someone control your sex toy over the Internet." On the Sinulate Entertainment website, a friendly cartoon graphic shows how you can control a rabbit vibrator "being held by a live person somewhere else on this planet" from your computer. Reuters quotes Sinulate president Steve Rhodes: "The Iraq war was kind of a boon for our company."

The overseas military market

Dr. Sandor Gardos, president and staff sexologist of MyPleasure.com said in a phone interview that his company also "sells an enormous amount of products to people who are stationed in Iraq and their partners." What sells most, though, is more traditional toys, which he thinks are a better invention. "They talk on the phone while they're both using their sex toys. I think that's cool." He's not sold on the field of teledildonics, saying that while some of the products are "miraculous," they are still essentially novelties.

"Most people [still] have a hard time figuring out how to set up their email account," he notes. "My parents still call me to help hook up the printer. They're not going to call me to hook up the vibrator."

True enough. Maybe teledildonics isn't mainstream now, but as Generation X- and Y-ers (who grew up with technology) become the country's biggest consumers, things might change. If you're accustomed to using computers in every nook and cranny of your life, wouldn't you more readily accept them in your own nooks and crannies?

"There's a generation of kids, 20 years younger than us, who have a fantasy life completely dedicated to these [computer] games," says my anonymous game designer friend (who is in my 40-something age range). But he claims the real future is in artificial intelligence. "AI recognizes the deeds of your character," or your avatar (as your online presence is known). The point is, it responds.

'Fairly realistic'

"I think it's interesting that we've gotten to a point where [games'] imagery is fairly realistic," Gardos says, referring to sexually-oriented creations like Virtually Jenna. "It's a way of trying out fantasies that you might [not] be able to do with your partner. Or if you don't have a partner... Anytime technology allows people to explore their fantasies in a safe way, I'm in favor of that."

I never tried "Virtually Jenna" -- or any other sex games. It felt too weird. It wasn't a "post-Orwellian sense" of "people getting it on with gizmos instead of each other," as sex guru Carol Queen described in Tanner's Reuters article. For me, it was more like being served beetle in another country. When you're with someone you like, strange experiences become adventures. But when you're alone, they're just strange.

Liz Langley is a freelance writer in Orlando, Fla. This article is distributed by Alternet.org.