I Feel So Roman
Academic sorting aside, they are all similarly displayed. The men have been given baby blue gowns soaked in a litmus-like solution. As they spit and ejaculate, broad orange expressionistic streaks stain their robes. Grids are superimposed by projection to aid in arousal.
The women have been attached to video screens displaying, in much the same way as a 1960s hippy color organ, the terminal intensity of their emotions, edged towards explosion by over-administration of hormones.
My top pick is a man who has been injected with a concentration of his favorite cologne. I massage my scrotum, the vibrator cooled in liquid helium.
My prick is up, searching for some hint of originality, some condensation of creativity, to make this expensive show worth it.
I feel so Roman, though I still don't think I could comfortably vomit up my dinner (the chief activity of sex-death by food).