Try to remember the sexbots of September

Well, color me fall and kiss a Beetlejuice jack-o-lantern! Yes, the autumnal equinox (Sept. 22) has arrived! So just what, exactly, is this seasonal equinox thing we keep hearing about?

Well kidz, it has nothing at all to do with that congressional invention called Daylight Saving Time, thanks to which, magically at 2 a.m. on Nov. 3, time rolls backwards by an hour. No, an equinox is an equal amount of daylight and darkness at all latitudes. There are two of them each year (autumn and spring), not to be confused with the solstices (winter and summer, which, respectively, are the shortest and longest annual days of daylight). And I, for one, feel like I could definitely use a nice long draught of spiked pumpkin juice.

Hands down, this has just been one of the most surreal summers I’ve ever skipped the beach for. Putting aside all the global wars, fires and floods and not even mentioning a presidential election year straight out of the Twilight Zone, this summer has been a series of odd, day-to-day occurrences, one after another — everything from finding a dumpster-bound painting by a French master, to appearing on a German primetime television show. Evidently one is never too old to be surprised by something one couldn’t possibly anticipate happening in a lifetime.

Only a few days ago, for instance, after an excursion way back in Tennessee’s Smoky Mountains, for no reason whatsoever I visited Dollywood. Not only did it mark my very first sojourn into one of our great American national parks, but also my first country-themed music foray of any sort.

I also happened to stop by a life-size replica of the Titanic along the way, moored there in the bucolic mountains of Appalachia, where I was handed a boarding pass assigned to one of the original passengers: Henry Harper, age 48, of Harper Publishing House fame. After a guided tour of the doomed White Star Line behemoth, you find whether you’ve survived, or not. Henry, I leared was traveling with his wife, Myra, and their spoiled little Pekingese baby, Sun Yat Sen, one of only 10 dogs on the Titanic. All three lived.

And then there’s the body piercing I got this summer. I’ve never had any previous piercing nor even a tattoo, when one’s husband gives you a flawless, 2.5 carat canary diamond earring in celebration of having endured 30 years together with him, you’d be quite amazed at just how very pain-free a needle piercing your flesh can be.

Oh, and I accidentally adopted a new orange-and-white kitten this summer named Wednesday, bringing the total number of felines in my sky ark menagerie up to three: my orange Abyssinian, Roo (19), who was reprieved from a date with the gas chamber by mere minutes; Miss Pineapple (9), a British blue tortoiseshell, a true lady of refinement who cost me all of $37 at the SPCA, and our newest addition, little Wednesday (6 months), an exotic-looking Turkish Van who is deaf as a motorcycle but has a meow so piercing it can shatter uranium glass.

Moreover, I went glamping for the first (and last) time this summer, as well — sort of a fusion between glamor and camping, it’s an oxymoron, if ever there was one. Still, my experience turned out to be one of those pleasures in disguise, if for no other reason than I expected nothing pleasurable about it. Turns out, a suite at the Ritz has nothing on accommodations offered by Living Waters on Lake Travis, just outside of Austin.

But, yeah, yeah, I know: It’s sex you want, not Howard’s summertime reflections! Thus, without any further ado, let’s just get right to it, shall we?

Dear Howard: I’m a straight male, early 40, told I’m handsome, with a libido more active than ever. But I’m not on the prowl for either a nurse or a purse. All I really need is some steady sex, no strings attached. What’s the latest now, Howard, regarding progress on humanistic avatars? — Tripod Todd

Dear Todd Rod: “Humanistic avatars?” Is this the polite, way to say that all you really want and desire out of a relationship can just as easily be provided by a blow-up sex doll? If so, let me introduce you to Luna. For obvious reasons (such as, oh, being a sex advice columnist), I’ve been scouring the sex doll industry for years now in search of West World-equivalent intimacy companions. Recently, with the advent of AI technology, an unexpected alchemy must have occurred. As the tease on Luna’s shipping box reads: “She comes from the mysterious East and has delicate, smooth skin.

Her arms, from her chest to her waist, are as graceful and fluid as water. She can fulfill all your fantasies, with repeated encounters of exotic/erotic physicality — on the bed, in the bathroom — every moment filled with the images of you and Luna making love.”

Presuming that you’re now horny enough to require Luna ASAP, don’t even think about asking me where to purchase her. I am not a paid influencer; however, I will throw you this bone(r): Luna’s distributed out of Las Vegas (where else, naturally?).

But I want to know where in the hell is our gay version of this mystery vixen, in all his throbbing, fake-testosterone, plasticine flesh?

Dear Howard: I’m a straight female, recently married to a man thoroughly approved of by my gay posse. But all of a sudden, our honeymoon is over: He’s now asking me to put ping pong balls up his butt! I mean, WTF? — Monica, Monica

Dear Mona: Gurl, where you been? There ain’t a man alive — straight, gay or anywhere on the fence in between — who doesn’t love to feel the penetrating ecstasy of inanimate objects shoved up his anus. Just look on the bright side: With the holidays coming up, at least your new husband makes an easy man to Christmas shop for. Why, one box of billiard balls and a crate of Ruby Red grapefruits, and you’ll be a happily married woman for the rest of your life!

— Howard Lewis Russell

Any spooky October questions, guys? Well, you know who to say “Boo!” to, here at AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.