Fucking Day: Sex Box 🌭

What’s a Sex Box? Forget wordplay.

Today’s Sex Box is a glowing cube people fuck in. Then three almost-therapists fail to solve their problems. On TV. We made this show twice.

To understand Sex Box, you need to see The Box. I try not to get too steamy here, but the searing eroticism is context.

Look at it.

Look at the buzzards.

Look at the experts.

Look at The Box again.

Look at the morning star, in his moment of triumph.

Now fuck in The Box. It’s for your benefit.

Some of you are exhibitionists. Rock on. Others felt every gamete scream and flatline at once. Besides, The Box adds a strange layer between showoffs and their audience. And exit interviews, which I got into entertaining to avoid. This is a talent show in hell.

Sex Box has two branches: The UK Channel 4 original, and the US aspartame knockoff. I’ve discussed Channel 4. They stitched film and novel Victor Frankenstein together into one lunatic, and put him in charge. Let it be known: America’s lack of ingenuity and grit can make anything worse.

Naturally, Freedom Box was a hit.

Sorry, wrong notes. Five episodes ran before WE tv caved to conservative backlash. This paragraph’s more profitable than Sex Box. That sounds odd now, when bait is Plan A. But pranking SWAT teams wasn’t even mainstream yet. And planning a stove-licking contest and melting two flavors off your tongue are different beasts.

God’s spokespeople hated this show. That’s my only line at their expense, because I hate it too. Welcome to Horseshoe TV. A stopped clock–

Nevermind. What kind of “I’m having a help, send stroke” headline is that? I planned a whole team-up issue with the Apocalypse Cheer Squad before “Jezebelic.” Sex Box might promote a trash TV pastor (spoilers), but it’s not eating anyone’s rights. Though it takes a crack at the pursuit of happiness.

It’s not all bad—the Sex Box franchise defeated porn. Forever. Channel 4’s “Campaign for Real Sex” aimed to de-jerk modern culture. Don’t ask me how, it’s one of those Wars on X that crop up every few years. Here’s the pitch:

Ah, that’s where all the porn went. Today’s ads are for anatomy models, dryer safety, and mothers that need a friend. Channel 4 replaced porn with distorted sex on camera. To say nothing of Date My Pornstar, which goes in the “to-do” pile. Now I know why this show isn’t called Bang Box.

Let’s see how porn died in America.

Episode Three’s first sacrifice is the very eager Amina. She has the guileless joy of someone that doesn’t get the premise.

I’d send help, but this ran in 2015. Sex Box guests have already divorced, found new love, and divorced again over lockdown. All with the help of our three celebrity therapists!

First there’s Yvonne Capeheart, a joint pastor and couples counselor. She’s the worst, until you meet the other two! Yvonne’s the smartest host, and a verifiable lead-tasting idiot.

Then there’s Chris Donague, a sex therapist with a doctorate in talking. He steamrolls his cohosts to tell couples to listen more. The UK version got Dan Savage, so we’re stuck with Chris.

Then there’s Dumbfuck. Beyond being a celebrity therapist, Dumbfuck’s a therapist to celebrities. She says nothing! She thinks nothing! I don’t know why she’s on the show!

Nobody’s qualified or motivated to help Amina. She’s here to meet her online-only boyfriend of 1.5 years. Live. That’s enough grist for reality tv. I don’t know what the narrator, three lying oni, fuck cube, or upcoming stupid surprise are for. Just let this natural disaster play out and pass Go.

Her knight in shining armor is real, because Sex Box is only interested in non-phantasms that can fuck in boxes. And he is nervous. Which I’d be if I was meeting my long-term pen pal. On television. Before we had sex in The Box.

Here’s Ricky’s good idea smile.

Yvonne believes you should marry before fucking in The Box, and makes it known. How she dual-wields repression and carelessness is beyond me, but Yvonne’s a pro. Her polished shittiness makes me hate the other two even more.

Chris has checks to collect, so he delivers the canned Sex Box pivot. His job’s simulating hugh-mann empathy, and he still gives everyone the same speech before feeding them to The Box. Every time. Every Time. Here’s this round, for posterity:

I believe him. But it’s less powerful than the human, off-the-cuff version.

Amina’s convinced, and Ricky’s on national television. They enter The Box. Which turns red when full.

And cues the show’s darkest ritual: therapist shit-talk. The second guests step offscreen, the panel gossips like the old Mean Girls cast. Sex Box convinced at least one couple that therapy would erase their dignity.

They agree that Amina’s fucked up her life, Ricky was born without a spine, and it’s true love. A slurry of meanness, therapy pidgin, and synthetic kindness. NYU charges thousands for that experience. Only them, and nowhere else nearby that pays me.

Still, Ricky and Amina have fun. They come out beaming after an hour. Also: they time you.

They time you in the Sex Box.

Sex Box claims the episode’s twist is that Ricky’s a virgin. No it isn’t. I could see that bit of unnecessary humiliation from orbit. It’s that they timed him losing his virginity. Along with every other guest.

As for your followup question:

It would take a truly spotless or delusional soul to leave this stage smiling.

Thank fuck.

The next couple’s a doozy.

What in hell?

Right. Interview segments crash into the show like–

A starving comedian asks the most basic-

Adding nothing, but completely disrupt–

I’m starting over.

Completionist’s Note: The performer’s fine. The material is the void itself.

Anyway, I started light with the virgin exploitation ritual. There’s charm to watching sex therapists pretend they’ve never heard of online dating. And the relationship could, for good or ill, progress by fucking in a box.

Unlike a serial cheater and vengeful baby daddy.

Or one parent wanting a third, and the other preferring death.

Or fame addiction.

That’s real, the Grammies were celebrating Obergefell vs. Your Worst Uncle. Yvonne teases going full Baptist, but her network shock collar goes off.

Then there’s our main event. I expected three clans on Sex Box: fuckless, overfucked, and stupid bullshit. But there are really two: wasted time and tragedy. We’re not ending on wasted time.

Enter Chris and Christina, affable nerds with mannerisms closer than their names. It’s rare to find the Jolteon to your Also Jolteon, so I see why they’re fighting for it. They can expect nothing from Sex Box, and will receive less.

Per already-tired formula, they explain their sexy problem. Something about ED. The camera’s glued to distracting angles, which seems like routine Sex Box incompetence. But it’s actually routine Sex Box malevolence. Chris & Chris have the sexiest problem yet, and Chris suspects he has the answer.

Christina explains their quirky communication issue: a violent industrial accident. She spent hours pinned under a car, powerless, and lost her leg. Now Chris can’t get an erection because of the guilt. The camera pans to Christina’s knee with Birdemic 3 grace.

Then our hosts bring their best.

We’re in an age of miracles. Your best friend on an oil rig is a shitpost away. Sickle cell gets more than a shrug and a bill. Comedians can recycle 100-year old Titanic jokes. I’ll give the Sex Box a chance. Maybe, just maybe, the cure to trauma dick is on-air sex in a soundproof Animorphs cube. Sexology might work on Tinkerbell rules. I won’t be that kid rooting for a tiny winged corpse.

Chris(sad) and Chris(also sad) enter The Box, freeing Chris(visionary) to rally the troops. There’s no time for the usual gossip. The Sex Box has to work. They’ve bet their dignity on it. If this goes south, their careers will envy Chris(sad)’s penis.

He’s right! Knowing this, you might not send Chris & Chris into the Fuck Rhombus. Or record it. Or confess to ordering Pickett’s Naked Charge. Maybe you’d torch the footage, shave your head, and contemplate stillness until death took you home.

You’re not on WE tv.

The rest of the episode’s a death march. There’s hugging, promises, Chris’s listening advice, soft music, and no change. Just discomfort. That’s nothing new for trash tv. But for a public service campaign, it’s a little too voyeuristic. Low-calorie. Cheaply stimulating. Pornographic.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Max Baroi,  Lord and Master of the dreaded Nuzzle Rhombus. 

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