I’m besieged by what are called “trolls,” in the parlance of our times.
One emails to berate me for my “obsession” with masturbation—even though it’s been months since I mentioned Daughter’s masturbation here. And it’s been longer than that since my struggle to cure my adolescent offspring of her passion for self-abuse has formed a meaningful part of my jottings. Over time the frequency of her masturbation has declined—as Mother, who took over nighttime surveillance duties from me after I contracted mononucleosis last January, can attest. Daughter’s greedy finger has stopped its nocturnal wanderings down into the moist crease between her supple thighs—and so I, not one to keep fighting a battle I’ve largely won, have “moved on.”
And yet this troll still subjects me to his abuse: “You still keepin tabs on your daugher’s clitt, pervert? Bet you love to watch! LMFAO, you Paleo-cons are all sickos. Ha ha, I heard you’re mothers masterbate like champs. Ever hear the joke about your mothers? When they die and go to heaven? St. Peter got clocks for each old woman, and it turns fast or slow bassed on how much she wacks off. Ha ha ha ha mega-LOLS. When YOUR mother got to haven St. Peter was using her clock AS A FAN -- HA HA HA HA.”
Sic, sic, sic, sic, sic, sic, sic. Idiot. My lowlife correspondent should be ashamed of himself. But shame is in short supply in the “developed” West in these days of decadence.
Anyway, I’m not the one who’s obsessed with masturbation. It’s the culture at large that’s obsessed with it, and especially with female masturbation. The culture is incessantly pushing the traditional Christian believer’s face into the presence of the engorged clitoris—that dewy, unspeakable button. Indeed, it rubs his face into that clitoris itself, smearing his cheeks and lips across its glabrous surface.
Recently, as a spiritual discipline, I watched the Top 10 pop music videos on YouTube and was struck that we are living through a spiritual Holocaust—a clitoral Holocaust. Those videos that featured female singers were really advertisements for female onanism. This onanism was always stylized, but it was always visible for what it was, if you knew how to watch.
I found myself amused more than outraged. One young lady, dressed in a post-apocalyptic approximation of underwear, caressed her crotch as she sang, in an obvious pantomime of self-pleasure. Two others lightly fondled their own breasts, imitating those bedroom gestures that elicit pleasure from swollen nipples.
It was all too absurd to give offense—at least at first. Watching these productions anesthetized me, so the offense came only later, when I remembered the images while bathing myself from the waist down in Brother Gavin’s pewter tub (our own washroom is under repair). At that point, belatedly, I was struck (not for the first time in life) by a deep sense that there is something untoward in our culture’s treatment of the female body—the blessed flesh that every human woman shares with Mary, Mother of God, whom we Eastern Christians call Theotokos.
•••
Autumn approaches, season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! October will take me to Cleveland, to do research on my book at the Cleveland State Library. I plan there to meet a co-religionist of mine who has promised to “show me the town.” Pierogies, that tasty staple dish of the honest Polack, who is so demographically prevalent in Cleveland, will no doubt be on our menu, to be washed down by schooners of Brew Kettle cream ale.
My co-religionist, a Russian, also promises to inaugurate me into the pleasures of a local delicacy called the “Cleveland Steamer.” This is a northern Ohio delicacy that, strangely, I’ve never heard of before. Brother Gavin theorizes that this dish must involve Lake Erie freshwater oysters, steamed in light Midwestern lager—and his theory seems sound.
One emails to berate me for my “obsession” with masturbation—even though it’s been months since I mentioned Daughter’s masturbation here. And it’s been longer than that since my struggle to cure my adolescent offspring of her passion for self-abuse has formed a meaningful part of my jottings. Over time the frequency of her masturbation has declined—as Mother, who took over nighttime surveillance duties from me after I contracted mononucleosis last January, can attest. Daughter’s greedy finger has stopped its nocturnal wanderings down into the moist crease between her supple thighs—and so I, not one to keep fighting a battle I’ve largely won, have “moved on.”
And yet this troll still subjects me to his abuse: “You still keepin tabs on your daugher’s clitt, pervert? Bet you love to watch! LMFAO, you Paleo-cons are all sickos. Ha ha, I heard you’re mothers masterbate like champs. Ever hear the joke about your mothers? When they die and go to heaven? St. Peter got clocks for each old woman, and it turns fast or slow bassed on how much she wacks off. Ha ha ha ha mega-LOLS. When YOUR mother got to haven St. Peter was using her clock AS A FAN -- HA HA HA HA.”
Sic, sic, sic, sic, sic, sic, sic. Idiot. My lowlife correspondent should be ashamed of himself. But shame is in short supply in the “developed” West in these days of decadence.
Anyway, I’m not the one who’s obsessed with masturbation. It’s the culture at large that’s obsessed with it, and especially with female masturbation. The culture is incessantly pushing the traditional Christian believer’s face into the presence of the engorged clitoris—that dewy, unspeakable button. Indeed, it rubs his face into that clitoris itself, smearing his cheeks and lips across its glabrous surface.
Recently, as a spiritual discipline, I watched the Top 10 pop music videos on YouTube and was struck that we are living through a spiritual Holocaust—a clitoral Holocaust. Those videos that featured female singers were really advertisements for female onanism. This onanism was always stylized, but it was always visible for what it was, if you knew how to watch.
I found myself amused more than outraged. One young lady, dressed in a post-apocalyptic approximation of underwear, caressed her crotch as she sang, in an obvious pantomime of self-pleasure. Two others lightly fondled their own breasts, imitating those bedroom gestures that elicit pleasure from swollen nipples.
It was all too absurd to give offense—at least at first. Watching these productions anesthetized me, so the offense came only later, when I remembered the images while bathing myself from the waist down in Brother Gavin’s pewter tub (our own washroom is under repair). At that point, belatedly, I was struck (not for the first time in life) by a deep sense that there is something untoward in our culture’s treatment of the female body—the blessed flesh that every human woman shares with Mary, Mother of God, whom we Eastern Christians call Theotokos.
•••
Autumn approaches, season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! October will take me to Cleveland, to do research on my book at the Cleveland State Library. I plan there to meet a co-religionist of mine who has promised to “show me the town.” Pierogies, that tasty staple dish of the honest Polack, who is so demographically prevalent in Cleveland, will no doubt be on our menu, to be washed down by schooners of Brew Kettle cream ale.
My co-religionist, a Russian, also promises to inaugurate me into the pleasures of a local delicacy called the “Cleveland Steamer.” This is a northern Ohio delicacy that, strangely, I’ve never heard of before. Brother Gavin theorizes that this dish must involve Lake Erie freshwater oysters, steamed in light Midwestern lager—and his theory seems sound.
New discoveries beckon, wafted hither by the freshening air!