Posts for Sex in Literature/Media
It was easy for the Church to convince people that sex was a dirty business. Reinforced by the proximity of the sexual parts to, and their close association with, the process of elimination of waste, it was only a matter of time before sex came to be identified with the elimination process—a way of transferring from one individual to another such waste matter as may have accumulated in one’s body.
Inter faeces et urinem nascimur.
We are born between fees and urine.
Church authorities loved the image. It was perfect. Man eliminated into woman, and her vagina was the repository for his filth. This even sanctioned the role the prostitute played, likening her to a common sewer who helping carry away man’s garbage. Chaucer’s Parson wrote of whores “that must be likened to a common gong (a toilet) where men purged their ordure.”
The theme was picked up in the language. Especially popular during the 1930s was the practice of getting one’s ashes hauled.11 A not unnatural thing, for when fires are raging, ashes are the natural residue. Someone has to remove them. After all, neatness counts, even in sex. It’s another bond between sexual release and personal hygiene.
You’ll find variations of this in contemporary blues songs, with references to how my garbage can is overflowing and requests to please empty my trash. We speak of sex as easing oneself (20thC), and doing one’s business (20thC). Some even refer to it as number three (20thC), an apparent also-ran behind numbers one and two, pissing and shitting respectively.
Hundreds of years after Chaucer’s Parson, a boy in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar described his first sexual experience with a whore being “as boring as going to the toilet.” Phillip Wylie in Opus 21 recounts how books of advice for young men attaining the age of desire sought to dissuade them from seeking the company of prostitutes. They employed not the toilet but the bathtub to make their point, asking indignantly, “Would you walk into a cheap hotel, find that the stranger before you had left the tub filled with dirty bath water, and immerse yourself in it?”
Sex is great, but it’s really difficult to keep it clean.
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The first affair occurred when man discovered the wifely function was to raise a family and administer the household, but for pure pleasure and excitement he had to look elsewhere.
The Old Testament sanctioned such activity with the concubine(from the Latin concubitus, “lying together”), who was to serve as a man’s consort on a regular and exclusive basis. Man later broke the monogamy with his mistress, inamorata, or paramour (14thC, originally two words, par and amour, hence “being in love through or by sexual love”), though there was a time when it described spiritual love, as in the medieval poem where Mary spoke of Jesus as “myne own dere sonne and paramour.” On a less lofty plane, she became his sparerib, side dish, tackle (17thC), and flame.
Verbally, she always did far better than the wife. The wife was relegated to a conveniency (17th–19thC), an ordinary (17th–20thC), a comfortable (17th–20thC), and, at times, an impudence (17th–20thC). It was conceded on occasion that she was a necessary, but that term, along with a convenience, also referred to a water closet, putting her in somewhat less than distinguished company. The mistress, though at times deemed peculiar (17th–19thC), has always been his natural and his pure (both 17th–19thC) and — when counted among the very best—his purest pure (17thC).
But it’s been downhill ever since. When man started playing for keeps, she became a kept woman (18th–20thC) and he, her keeper, leaving us with images of a caged female held at bay with chair and whip. Her glory faded further with the appellation, a wife in watercolors (c. 1780–1840), “like their enjoyments, easily effaced or dissolved.” Her slide continued as the brazen hussy, finally hitting rock bottom in the twentieth century as the other woman and a little on the side.
Conjugal infidelity is not a subject you casually fool around with (mid 20thC). To be caught cheating (20thC) is unspeakable and a topic of criminal conversation (19thC). Some even dare call it treason (17thC), fleshly treason, or smock treason
Most adults prefer practicing adultery, but even with practice it’s still hardly adult behavior—in fact, it’s not even adolescent. “Adult” and “adolescent” both derive from the Latin ad and alere, “to nourish or raise toward maturity.” Adultery, on the other hand, comes from ad and alterare, “to change into something else,” as to corrupt another, or from ad and alterum, “to turn to another.”
Currently, adultery itself has been badly corrupted. It began when Mencken dubbed it “democracy applied to love,” culminating in today’s swingers and what some call open marriage (c. 1970s).
So too with the word adult. We label more and more of our contemporary activities adult, though they have become increasing puerile. It’s enough to drive one to an adult-entertainment zone for some adult reading matter.
Read more – http://bawdylanguage.com
Sonnet of the Asshole
As a public service, I am pleased to provide readers with a poem I neglected to include in my book, one truly deserving of recognition.
This is the only poem known to have been jointly composed by Rimbaud and Verlaine. Parnassian poet Albert Mérat, published a book of sonnets called L’Idole, in which each poem extolled a part of the body of his mistress —with one omission. The two young iconoclasts proceeded to rectify its absence with the following ode.
This sonnet appeared in the “Album Zutique,” a book of scabrous parodies by the literary circle who called themselves "Les Zutistes."
We offer thanks to practicalalchemy.com for, not one, but four different versions of their piece, each interesting in a different way. Translations, as you’ll see, vary widely, depending on how you happen to look at it; the blind eye offers up a variety of perspectives.
Sonnet of the Asshole
Dark and wrinkled like a violet carnation,
It sighs, humbly nestling in the moss still moist from love
That follows the descent of sweet white cheeks
Down to their edge.
Filaments like tears of milk
Have wept beneath the cruel south wind
That drives them back across the little clots of russet clay,
And disappeared there where the slope has called them.
My Dream has often kissed its opening;
My Soul, that envies mortal intercourse
Has chosen this to be its wild and musky nest of sobs.
It is the swooning olive and the sweet cajoling flute
The tube through which celestial creamy pralines tumble down
Female Promised Land rimmed round with dew!
Hidden and wrinkled like a budding violet
It breathes, gently worn out, in a tangled vine
(Still damp with love), on the soft incline
Of white buttocks to the rim of the pit.
Thin streams like rivers of milk ; innocent
Tears, shed beneath hot breath that drives them down
Across small clots of rich soil, reddish brown,
Where they lose themselves in the dark descent…
My mouth always dribbles with its coupling force;
My soul, jealous of the body’s intercourse,
Makes it tearful, wild necessity.
Ecstatic olive branch, the flute one blows,
The tube where heavenly praline flows,
Promised Land in sticky femininity.
Sonnet in Praise of the Butthole
Dark and puckered like a tiny violet eye
It breathes, obscurely lurking in a mossy froth
Still humid from love that follows the curving soft
Slope of snowy ass just past the crease of thigh.
A few glistening threads running like milky tears
Have wept past the rough hot wind pushing them away,
Getting beyond those little gnarls of ruddy clay
To lose their way where the echoing downslope veers.
In dream I often find my suck-hole on the job;
My soul, so jealous of palpable fuckery,
Says this is its musky tear-duct, its nest of sobs.
It’s the swoon-diving olive and the flute cajoled,
The pipeline where the celestial praline flows,
Feminine Promised Land in the moistening fold.
Obscure and wrinkled like a purple eyelet,
It breathes, humbly tapi among foam
Humide encor of love which follows the soft escape
Of the white Buttocks to the heart of its hem.
Similar filaments with milk tears cried,
Under the cruel southerly wind which pushes back them
A through small russet-red marl clots,
To go itself to lose where the slope called them.
My Dream was often brought together with its suction cup;
My heart, of the material coitus jealous, made of
It its fawn-coloured drip and its nest of sobs.
It is the pâmée olive, and the flute caline
It is the tube where goes down the celestial one dresses:
Female Chanaan in enclosed moistnesses!
Diary of a Pizza Virgin
AKA Fifty Shades of Marinara
I was only fifteen at the time, a mere waif, innocent and unfamiliar with the ways of the culinary world. My world view was circumscribed by Chicken nuggets, big Macs, Double downs, and Twinkies. What did I know? I had just traded in my bubble gum and training bra when Jimmy Bob and pizza came into my life. I was totally unprepared for it. And nothing has been the same ever since.
I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was a warm summer night. Jimmy and I had just come back from the senior hop. He suggested we check out the scenery at the football field. I said, “Why not?” Before I knew it I had fallen under his hypnotic gaze. There I lay, stretched out in his arms under the bleachers beneath the star-filled sky and the warm gaze of a full moon.
Slowly ever so tenuously, I reached out for Jimmy Bob’s hand. He said, “Close your eyes.” Before I knew it I felt something warm in my palm. I clenched it tight. It was a sensation which I was unfamiliar with—warm and squishy. Its aroma made me dizzy, carrying me to heights I had never known before… Canadian bacon and pineapple!
I hesitated for a moment. “Go ahead,” Billy Bob urged. “Take it in your mouth; curl your tongue gently about it; let your teeth sink into it ever so gently.” I took a cautious but resolute gobble, and then in one fell swoop quickly devoured it. But I couldn’t stop with just one. I reached into the box and took out another… and yet another. The roof of my mouth burned with passion. There was no stopping me. I was like an animal possessed. Such ecstasy! Such joy!
Afterwards, the empty cardboard box lay on the ground in tatters—ravaged. I don’t remember much more about that evening, only Mama commenting about the lateness of the hour …and the tiny red stain on my skirt.
The smallpox epidemic of the 16th-17th century resulted in considerable fallout in the most exotic places, claiming pubic hair among its many victims. Thoroughly embarrassed by their baldness, women fashioned artificial hairpieces known as merkins, a term which had also long been a long-standing name for the female genitalia (you know, the old vee-jay-jay, hoo-hah etc.).
Merkin later made a brief appearance as the name of the President of the Unites States in the film Dr. Strangelove, as Merkin Muffley (which translates loosely as “cunt cunt.”) A curious turnabout, since Presidents have traditionally been seen as pricks rather than cunts. Interesting too that a cunt should be the only voice of restraint and moderation during a time when the world was perched at the brink of nuclear destruction.
Currently, the only epidemic raging appears to be one of consumerism and general madness. And for m’lady who has everything including a fine bikini wax, the genius of American marketing, having successfully removed her hair, now offers it back to her to at a special price. And you know what you she can do with it.
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While in England catching up on old friends—most of who have long since shucked off this mortal coil —I was in close contact with Kate Middleton’s OBGYN. He shared with me ultra-sound images of the Royal Fetus who, in turn, was kind enough to grant me a confidential interview which I am now privileged to share with you and the world.
DCB: Good morning your – ahem—I’m not exactly sure how I should address you
RF: Your Royal Fetus would be fine.
DCB: Is that fetus or foetus?
RF: How the bloody ‘ell should I know. It’s not like I have access to the Oxford English Dictionary down here.
DCB: Be that as it may. How are you doing, your royal whatever-you- hope- to -be?
RF: A bit cold and clammy and somewhat hemmed in down here, but otherwise jolly well. Don’t get out very much you know.
DCB: Are you excited to be of royal heritage?
RF: Yes, I was just chatting with a stray sperm the other day and he noted how one sharp turn and va-voom you end up in the gut of a scullery maid. As fate would have it, however, it looks like I have a pretty good life cut out for me.
DCB: The media is going just gag-ga over you. How does it feel to be the subject of so much speculation?
RF: As a sentient being, it’s pretty cool to have done nothing and already be a celebrity, but from what I understand that’s true about most other celebrities as well.
DCB: What gives with your Mom being rushed to the hospital for her hpermesis gravidarum?
RF: Not to worry. Members of the royal house get to do that in Latin which cushions the blow nicely. While the great unwashed herd of humanity suffers with that suck-ass morning sickness causing them to barf, upchuck, spew their guts up, puke, wuff their cookies, do a technicolor yawn, and produce some pavement pizza.
DCB: Are you looking forward to your coming out?
RF: That’s a truly dumb-ass question. What the fuck do you think?
DCB: Any plans for your first days?
RF: Disneyland, The Colbert Report, and lunch with Hillary Clinton. If the truth be known, what I most look forward to is supping at the royal breasts. Let’s drink to that.
DCB: That I will. Thank you very much Your Royal Foetus with an “o.”
RF: It’s my pleasure. See you in the tabloids.
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It's always a privilege to post news about books my fans might enjoy. One such read is by Geoffrey Nunberg, the learned and urbane linguist, entitled: Assholism, the First Sixty Years (Perseus/Public Affairs, 249 pages, $25.99) (Perseus/Public Affairs, 249 pages, $25.99).
In it he beautifully details the rise of the word asshole from the ranks (literally, from soldiers in the Second World War) into mainstream language and how its prevalence reflects salient social and moral aspects of our culture. We join with him in celebrating here the ascent of "asshole."
It's time the American male recognizes how it has also served as a major source of confusion and misdirection for him. For too long, he has chased tail with ardor and passion, often mistaking it for his primary goal of pussy — even settling for partial satisfaction with a piece of ass. What assholes they be!
Turn it over, there’s
Pussy on the other side
So fellow assholes; get a move on to your local bookstore and buy this unique treatise.
Don't like being called an asshole? Nothing personal, it's just one person's opinion. As Dirty Harry Callahan, a/k/a Clint Eastwood, noted in The Dead Pool (1988). "Opinions are like assholes; everybody has one."
Make sure, however, that you are fully certifiable. Take the Asshole Rating Self-Exam (ARSE). It’s 24 questions long, but well worth the effort: Asshole Rating Self-Exam (ARSE) — Are You A Certified Asshole …?
Joan Rivers was arrested today after having chained herself to a shopping cart at Costco in protest for not carrying her book with “inappropriate” wording on the back cover.
Interestingly, all the major media reported the story, but none ever got around to telling its readers exactly what on that back cover was so offensive as to cause Costco to ban the entire book. Well, when all else fails, you know you can always get the straight fucking poop here. So here’s the poop on the book. Drum rolls please:
There were two blurbs which were deemed particularly incendiary: "Wilt Chamberlain: 'Even if I were alive I wouldn't fuck her.'" And “Marie Antoinette: 'I don’t like her. Let her eat shit.'"
As every athletic supporter knows, Wilt Chamberlain (August 21, 1936 — October 12, 1999) is a Hall-of-Fame NBA player. He is famous for scoring 100 points in a single game, and infamous for scoring with women. His autobiography calculated that he’d slept with over 20,000 women, noting how "the point of using the number was to show that sex was a great part of my life as basketball was."
Clearly, the man never saw a pussy he didn’t like — until Joan’s.
As for French princess Marie Antoinette, she allegedly responded to her starving citizens' plea for bread with: "Let them eat cake." Actually it was brioche, also enriched with butter and eggs, as opposed to ordinary bread, thus underscoring the princess's obliviousness to the condition of her people and inciting the French Revolution and Marie's beheading.
Though there's a striking resemblance between the Joan and Marie (apart from a face-lift or two), and being about the same age, little is known about their relationship. The comment telling Joan to "eat shit" is, however, not at all au courant with the standard diet of the people of France (Fact-Check).
To assist book lovers everywhere and help expedite a peaceful settlement between Joan and Costco, we have rewritten the back cover in more genteel terms, hoping that Costco will reconsider its ill thought-out decision:
— Wilt Chamberlain:
I’ve never liked Joan, even when I saw her at court. The years, however, have not been kind to her. She looks wan and underweight. I suggest she take up coprophagia. Hey, if it was good enough for Bloom in Ulysses and Hitler*, it’s good enough for her. They’re meant for each other. Neither she nor the item to be partaken are considered to be in good taste.
— Marie Antoinette:
*To learn more about the coprophagic diet, turn to Bawdy Language (Book of the Toilette: Falling Behind). Warning: This is an unabashed plug for the book.