The Sex Machines Museum yielded just this nugget: sloshing. I didn't know there was a term for it, but now I do. Was it worth the price of admission? Not really. Nothing will ever top the ingeniousness of donkey-punching. And I learned about that over 10 years ago from a friend. I didn't even have to pay her for the knowledge.
I am reminded of the first time I heard the term rolfing and thought it must be some wicked fetish thing. Then I learned the truth, which was much less interesting than I'd imagined.
It goes without saying that there's something tedious about visiting a sex museum, or any museum for that matter. The modes of display eliminate any dynamism the objects themselves may have had. Certainly, one's imagination can fill in the blanks regarding the many uses for a copulation bench, but does one really need the presence of the object at all at that point?
Regardless, I have been set the task of writing a stanza using the language of the Sex Machines Museum. Beyond the fact that the institution's James Brownsian name makes me giggle, I've got nothing.