Diary of a 12 year-old prude
I have not always been comfortable accepting other people publicizing their interest in sex, mostly from my desire to protect The Children from the harmful Lovecraftian monsters that are our genitalia, their noxious and viscous fluids, and their hideous quivering, throbbing, and convulsive motions. And the obscene violence that is the “consummation” of the sex act, where sadistic male weapon thrusts into the ready-made female wound; a drooling mouth gaping with obscene, embarrassing hunger; a hole torn into the self’s very meat, turned inside-out in gaping hunger for the devil-stick that assaults it.
Genitals are quite obviously Lovecraftian. But wouldn’t it be funny if the origin of “the Lovecraftian” was HPL’s own fear of genitals?
The Good is clean, the Bad is ugly
What the Good and the Bad are in the Lovecraft universe is a deep question. If we are referring to the noumenal Good and Bad, there may not be an answer, since if any fiction writer was sensitive to the Kantian limits of knowledge, it was Lovecraft. So no knowing what these things are like really.
But we do know how they manifest down here, on the Prime Material plane —
- The Good is the clean, the dry, and the gentile; while the best is the Anglo and well-bred.
- The Bad is the dirty, the oily, the protoplasmic, and the pungent smells of the yellow and brown immigrants—i.e., the Oriental, African, Caribbean, and the Eastern and Southern, generally. These are the groups that contemporary White Power rednecks cleverly designate as “the mud races”—a locution Lovecraft himself might employ.
The adjectives that Lovecraft applies to the mud-races are the same ones we would apply to the genitals. Both types of entity connote liquids, oils, odors, and both are kin with the insectoid, crustacean, and reptilian.
Most of the standard Lovecraftian monster adjectives apply to the genitals—plasm, ooze, jelly, slime, membranous, bulbous, tentacled; and the Old Ones are explicitly penises with splayed vaginal heads.
Of course, I didn’t think about it that way at the time. Actually, I didn’t have a theory—that is, I didn't see what caused my judgment, I only felt the pain. What I felt was my mom threatening to punish me, yelling at me, telling me that Joy Warburton was “sick” because she let me finger her, and using phrases like “down there” and “dirty.” She got her sex mania from her mom, in turn, whose first sexual experience was coerced.
My maternal grandpa chased his new wife around the house, so she hid in the closet, until he got her out. This was at age 13. The other source of Mom’s sex mania was the fact that my dad’s desire for her had plummeted. She bought vibrators and complained, in front of my friends, that my dad couldn’t get it up for her anymore. But I didn’t know any of this. Her job was merely to pass her mom’s emotional plague on to me, and also punish me for hungering for girls in the way she wanted to be hungered for but couldn’t get. Resentment.
And her emotional overreaction traumatized me. While I was in the bliss of kissing and fingering Joy, Mom snuck into the room, saw us, backed away silently, went into the kitchen, and then called me from there. I came and she—trembling and with a pained fake smile on her face—told me that Joy was dirty and evil for letting me touch her dirty-evil hole.
This presented a dilemma. The fact that Joy should not let “just anybody” touch her pussy meant that pussies are sacred, requiring vetting, are special and off limits. So, on the one hand, touching pussies was wrong because it caused a kind of metaphysical harm—the harm of violating the sacred. On the other hand, the pussy is itself a slimy hole that is saddled between two super-dirty excrement dispensers, and Mom said that touching it made me dirty, by which she (again) meant a kind of metaphysical harm. And the fact that I wanted to touch (and eat, and drink from) the pussy made me the worst kind of dirty—one that loves the dirt, someone who is dirty, fractally, all the way down forever.
Back to main topic
Anyway, that’s all just backstory. Here’s how I found out that I really was carrying Mom’s emotional plague without realizing it. I got offended by “Big Balls” when I heard it on the radio in 6th grade.
Dirty Deeds was released to Australia and the rest of the world minus the US in September of 1976. It wasn’t until March 1981—five years later—that American children would finally hear monster music. Dirty Deeds was the scariest of all AC/DC albums—scarier than anything clown Alice Cooper could ever make, and he was actually trying. Unlike thespian Cooper, Bon Scott really was evil. Evil made him happy. He reveled in his own evil so much that he actually risked arrest by publicizing it. “I like killing people and I don’t care if you know, because I’m evil and feel no shame.”
So when the Evil One sang about his big balls, I thought it was the end of Western civilization, the moral fabric, and so on.
So my sex-phobia was a matter of simple conditioning—fear of violence or emotional pain was tied to the perception of sexual organs. Shock and horror is what she play-acted when describing girls’ pussies. They cannot be seen because they are disgusting. And her own pussy could not be discussed because it was unwanted. I felt this, and so, despite myself, even though I wanted to suck a pussy more than anything, getting near one made me worry that mom would punch me in the mouth again.