Think beyond porn to design a sexually receptive cellphone, a natural evolution from Nokia to nooky.

Telus has hung up on the downloadable-pornography end of its business. The fledgling operation never really had the chance to fly or, regrettably, breed. The decision to shut it down excited all the predictable glad hosannas from prune-faced guardians of the public—and pubic—good and moans of chagrin—unreported until now—from the covert in-house film units that were just building up some production steam. An incalculable loss! We are all the poorer for not being able to whip out our cellphones on the SkyTrain or the boulevard and absorb the grainy intricacies of Big Time Operators, Switchboard Lezzies, Hold While I Connect You, and—my personal favourite—The Entwhistle Blowers, which was reported to have a cast of thousands, many of whom were bound, but none by the fetters of a union.

Oh well. That's show biz for you. One must move on. There's nothing to be gained by being cloud-bound. Ever the seeker of silver linings, I'm hoping that the executives and board of Telus might decide to redirect their freed-up resources toward the development of something truly revolutionary and useful, something at which the failed experiment in small-screen smut was surely hinting: the sexually receptive cellphone. Do you follow me? What I mean is, a cellphone you can fuck.

There is every reason to think that this is simply the way things tend; a natural evolution, another step along the path first laid down by Alexander Graham Bell on March 10, 1876, when he spoke those famous first words: “Mr. Watson, come here.” So self-evident are the carnal possibilities of the device—not for nothing was it dubbed early on “the horn”—that it's a dead cert that within a week he was saying, “Mr. Watson, are you wearing knickers?”

For well over one hundred years, at every stage of its history, the telephone has served as a romantic intermediary. Turn-of-the-20th-century lovers cooed sweet nothings to one another while nosy-parker operators got all hot and bothered listening in. Turn-of-the-21st century inamorati use their Nokias both to digitize their engorged nether bits and to send those salacious images into cyberspace. Progress! There's nothing like it. And now, we're ready for the next, if not the final, frontier.

No doubt there are already many people in the land, perhaps even family members, who have been having sex with their cellphones for years now. Of course, there must be those who carry a pair of mobiles and who put one on vibrate mode, situate it where it will do them the most good, and then call the number repeatedly until satiation is achieved. Why, it could very well be that, if you are reading this on the bus, the person sitting next to you is thus engaged at this very minute. Indeed, you might want to tap him or her on the shoulder and ask that very question, just for the pleasure of seeing where the ensuing conversation leads. And without a doubt there are those, and more than a few, who anoint the things with oil, climb between the sheets, and have at it all night long. We know that this is so, even if we never speak of it.

So, let's get real. We're all adults here. Why not acknowledge the impulse and then do something to accommodate it? I mean, how hard can it possibly be—as the actress said to the bishop—to come up with a gizmo that's custom-built to be both a telecommunications device and a good provider? Surely all the combined Scandinavian and Japanese expertise that has so far been brought to bear could, if properly applied, engineer such a thing in a mere heartbeat. Different shapes, different sizes, different buttons for different functions: the sky is the limit. From Nokia to nooky is not much of a phonetic stretch. Research In Motion, with that intriguing acronym, could have whole populations carrying their Blackberries in specially designed crevice packs. And the phones themselves wouldn't need to be passive receptors of lusty intent. They could be made to jiggle, to writhe, maybe to ooze a bit. And the ringtone industry, which could do with a bit of shaking up just now, will provide a wide variety of orgasmic yelps, perhaps employing the voices of, oh, I don't know, Lionel Ritchie, say, or Gwen Stefani. Or the aptly named Woody Allen. “I'm coming. It's complicated, but I'm coming.”

Many of you will want to thank me for this. Please don't. This is what it is to be a visionary in our weary world. We listen for the 911 calls that no one else can hear. We answer. We serve. And anyway, now that I'm no longer going to have a chance to star in “Business or Residential?” I've got plenty of time on my hands. Time, and oh so much creative juice, surging with urgent need to be channelled. Oh. Oh. Here it comes. I give it freely. Take it. It's yours.