Listening to the sexes

MY HANDSOME CUNT BEATS

The evocation of a pulsating "feminine" inside my man's penis, associated with the idea of the struggle in order to become one according to my criteria, seemed to me judiciously accurate in talking about my male identity as I want to portray and claim it.

Fatally, the sonic similarity of the title of this post with the French phonetic translation of Adolphe Hitler's manifesto escapes no one, all the more so as it obviously also contributed to this choice. This provocative factor is, of course, as likely to generate interest in the wrong way as it is to inhibit an appeal that would be justified by the content. This reflection in particular has therefore, in a second stage, kept me from using it. Not only because of an ethical principle which it is useless to overemphasize at little cost here, since it would be trivial to ask me to do so, but above all because nothing in my prose, far from it, is specifically in line with Nazi doctrine and there would be risks in being primarily associated with it by a simplistic reflex.

Finally came the third and final moment when I decided to brave the "danger" and take on the "danger" with a sense of humor. A less flattering portrait would lead me to say also: with more honesty. For if I hope that my prose differs from the nauseating prose of a mass murderer, it would be wrong, any objective of starting a world war apart, not to want to claim a form of proximity that can be fully justified between our modest talents as litterators. Indeed, it is undeniable that my words too are frequently expressed in the form of a manifesto, that they are deeply underpinned by an artistic and emotional "ideology" and that they also claim to contain the seeds of a strategic plan for existence, if not a purely offensive axis.

Therefore, although this choice may be controversial, I will defend it, while moderating it with this introduction, so that it does not undermine my real substantive subject, which is already the subject of enough poorly-conducted debates, if not simply completely ignored.

Having, as a good soldier, changed my mind several times, I'm ready to get into the fray, or rather, to try to create an anchor for it, as it seems to me to be so non-existent in the cultural landscape of this country. These few lines may seem to many to be an incongruous, if not pointless, contribution to the social and aesthetic debate. It is precisely this invisibility of the Male and Female as particular identities by virtue of being too visible, the one as a symbol of male bellicose power, the other, through an increased appreciation of the bait it presents, as a one-sided synonym of eroticism, that I perceive daily and wish to denounce once again. I will try to achieve this by a sincere appeal to reason, by inviting the most reticent to decipher more simply and with less tension, once again, the raw beauty of our pornography for what they are: moving representations of our male and female natures. For me, as a boy, these images have the qualities, for many of them beautiful and for all of them, of simply relating reality. Of course, one has to get past the disconcerting fascination of excitement to realize this.

Beyond generating and relieving sexual tension, these pornographic images can open doors to other primary truths. It is, paradoxically, once the enjoyment is over, that we must be careful.

Gender portrayal is not difficult to do. Easily readable and varied in their forms and attractions, they reflect for me, the affordable simplicity of individuals. As curious, even shocking as it may seem to some, they are in my eyes, the faces of our childhood. Even as they age, their skin sometimes becomes flabby or sagging, they retain a bonhomie, a rebounded firmness that gives them a "smiling" appearance. It is probably because they are capable of confusing and exciting us that they obliterate the person who possesses them in favour of the possession they inspire us to have.

In that sense,

the sexes are our friends more than people, whose heads first and foremost express readiness to judge and denigrate.

The sexes are friendly and sharing

For me, there is a hierarchical path of spontaneous access to bodies that goes from sex to head through feet and hands. Feet are often abused, if not terribly neglected; commonly hidden in Western societies as shameful sexual substitutes, the first steps to access our intimacies before the big unpacking; suspected of being malodorous when often it is the lack of treatment and constant confinement that pushes them to these extreme states, are an effective indicator of the intellectual and genital nature of human beings. There are "naïve" feet as well as "nervous" feet, "racy" feet as well as "vulgar" feet, "sanguine" feet as well as "diaphanous" feet, "beasts" as well as "clever" feet, in both sexes. I know, with a small percentage of error, if I can find sexual agreement and to what degree, by looking at the shape and expression of someone's feet.

Relatively primitive to our hands, they are the last outpost before the royal road leading to the genitals. I am also informed by them, apart from the links they have with my sexual desire, of the deeper personality of each being and particularly of its degree of maturity, sometimes camouflaged under the facial masks we use with virtuosity.

Like sex, the foot is raw and doesn't lie.

We have little opportunity to give them an identity other than that revealed by their nature. The poverty of their relatively weak means of expression makes them rich. All that is "lied to" by the face is revealed by the feet, in the right and wrong way. Complexes and pretensions of their bearer.are revealed by their observation. Like the sexes, we can only control them to a very limited extent. No matter what we do, unless we imprison or erase them, which is the basis of our daily social relationships, they speak with nothing we can do about it, of their primitive and unduplicative language.

These are the mentally retarded of our bodies and they play the same essential role in it as the similarly disabled, reminding us by their very existence how much we pretend to be what we are not. Fantasies of big or small willies, it's all there and it's wrong to see exclusively of sex in these common quests of the mind, when it comes to dreams associated with the idea of determined personalities that one longs to be or would like to find in an alter ego. Or maybe... it's just... sex does not come down to what we say it is, neither by its function nor by the desire it inspires in us. I believe deeply in it, and it is a powerful, unfathomable and positively explosive subject, which I will need more time and latitude of mind than I currently have to tackle by writing the pages of this blog. I will certainly come back to it.

Our bodies are, as everyone will have noticed, incredibly divided in a binary way. There is, of course, the dual symmetry of our limbs and of many of our apparent and internal organs; this symmetry is organized longitudinally along the vertical axis of our body. It reflects the world of the visible, from our feet to the two hemispheres of our brain. But there is, not symmetry this time, but at least, "One" border, if not "The" clear border, perceptible from the outside and naturally transposed to the organs, whose junction of the two parts it separates makes us what we are. It is the border that best reveals our double nature, materially invisible. This axis is the abscissa axis, which etymologically means "split" and crosses us horizontally at the navel. As in mathematical geometry, it is therefore orthogonal to the axis I mentioned above. According to a process of association that is dear to me, how can we not be moved by the recurrence of the letters X and Y to designate both the physical coordinates of any object or space, including ourselves, and the choice that has been made to elaborate the system of sexual determination with which genetics works, separating human beings according to their chromosomes in xx and xy. Poetry is certainly again Too far from hard science to influence it by its imagined connections, but it is worth asking ourselves whether, in its intrinsic search for coherence, the human mind has not made the connection between a phallic verticality characterized by the Y that is vested in it and a flat horizontality, opening onto a spread horizon, which is the prerogative of the feminine X. If we follow this logic, our physiognomy also fits into the dimensions determined by an axis of "ordinates", whose etymological meaning comes from the Latin "ordinare": to put in line (Wikitionary), which does not hide its martial rigour, and an axis of "abscissa", a line through which we are virtually crossed. To give volume to this two-dimensional representation, we would have to use the "Z" axis, which I know of no other name. Wouldn't the depth be identifiable?

Let us be satisfied with the first two and focus more specifically on this horizontal cut which is of particular interest to me.

Above: head, hands, reflection, conception, realization, language.

BelowSex, feet, buttocks, "primitive" desire, reproduction, enjoyment, walking, running, running away, defecation.

In the middle: umbilicus, birth, umbilical link, origin.

What about breasts, you say? It's true that, although they belong to the family of particularly sensually sensitive areas in both men and women, I see them as having a privileged status that nevertheless attaches them to the "mental" part of our physical geography, or at least to the social part. Symbols of breastfeeding or virile strength, they belong to the chest, and therefore to the torso, which are the highest levels of the body, and therefore receive special treatment. Even if they remain obvious erogenous zones that we enjoy kissing and manipulating, just like the mouth or the earlobe, we can consider them as "assimilated", in the sense of integration of minority populations, because they do not pose any real problem of obscenity socially speaking. Obviously, it all depends on how they are treated in terms of images. I would therefore be more inclined to connect them, as they are by nature, to this transit zone from one world to another that constitutes the trunk and which, in my opinion, because of its "family" character (breasts: maternity, navel: birth, pectorals: the virile defence of the home), is quite far removed from an overly ostentatious animal character. The natural functions of the chest (being also the seat of breathing, but above all of the heart and its symbols) make breasts, "diplomatic" organs, which have managed to make their place in the sun, both figuratively and practically, in the "bosom" of our cultures.

This vast and majestic plain, relatively neutral and exposed, which the torso represents, does not prevent us from being read as an unfolded sheet of paper whose two sides, previously brought into contact, present nothing comparable to the perfect symmetry observed in the height.

The X is thus revealed to be the anti Y par excellence; the negation of a Rorschach test that one would have liked to attempt by a fold in this unusual direction. There, there is no subtle fading that makes hybrid or known fantastic creatures appear, no optical illusion created by the duplication of the same shape. Nothing fits. The image obtained is heterogeneous and does not show any two-headed goddesses, nor any two-headed goddesses.Vitruvian Man quadrimember, designed by Leonardo da Vinci. Plantar arches inlaid in the face or aigrette at the top of the head, depending on whether we bend at the level of the belly or at the natural joint of our legs: we will see nothing more exciting or evocative than someone bending in two, naturally raising the lower limbs joined towards the top of the body. Contrary to the folding process in the other direction, impossible to achieve otherwise than on paper, this posture is banal to us, even if it seems more perfectly executed by a contortionist by trade.

Physical animality thus inhabits, in fact, the lower part of our body.

That's probably normal for many people; it's still an incredible particularity for me. As if the evolution and progress of our intellect, timidly come and go from our hands to our head and from head to our hands, without penetrating further into the deserted regions of the animal body. The dialogue continues one on one for millennia, without gender, feet, legs, or anuses really being brought to the table. It all seems to be decided in this little with each other. We know well, however, how much the pain of any part of ourselves or the sexual appetite can taint us. As long as it is "tolerable", we tell them to speak in a lower, muffled voice; at worst, to go and see in the unconscious if we are there. So, in any case, we have decided that we have authority over the public expression of our genitals, which are considered too dull to pass to the next class.

I will try one last time, in this last development, to give them back their right to be heard by everyone; which I have been doing personally, now usually, for years, since I became aware of the unjustified disparity of my exchanges with my own body.

The truth is that our "inferior" part deserves a fairer hearing than a mere physical response to the demands made by its limbs and organs.

By this I mean a serious societal listening that will eventually make us react a little less imbecilically; which, I am sure, would change the face of the world and its daily horrors. I cannot be told that fuck or crap enjoys the same consideration, nor the same qualities and diversities of places devoted to their approval, as eat, hear or see. Reproved processes are not an integral part of Culture, except in technical, sentimental, more rarely sociological discourses. Unable to deny their vital importance, society hears their claims as those of poor relatives, distant cousins of our intelligences; forced to conform to their needs, but often too hysterically exceptional for one or grumpily expeditious for the other. Dick Turner's film, The big commissionwhich I had the pleasure of participating in, is one of the few examples to my knowledge of a cinematic essay on the fact that we do not willingly turn over our stool once it has been produced, apart from the anxious motivation to detect a supposed illness in it. It is, however, the opposite that is dictated by nature.

The interpretation of images and smells is therefore also obviously the fruit of our education. As much as it can be said objectively that there are strong smells and weaker smells, as much as it is natural for us to appreciate them or to flee from them with disgust is purely false and cultural; the worlds of fauna and infants that we have been are there to prove it to us.

But there is a will in our society to educate dare-dare and not to civilize since we usually associate a little too quickly and simplistically, refinement and bourgeois morality or traditionalist. Nothing rational prevents us from dreaming of a culture whose basic values are based on the attentive respect of our first instincts. To love the actors of one's impulses in a healthy way is not antagonistic with the development of a performing brain, perhaps even superior to ours, spoiled that it is, almost full time, to be used as a watchdog for our excesses. Not very glorious for the power of calculation and creation of such an organ.

Artificial morality is so pervasive that the Quickly done, badly done Inspired by the panic inspired by the impulses - and even more so with regard to the child - leads educators to think that each age deserves its stage of growth that is indispensable, adequate and in conformity with what is required of it by social integration. This can be found practical if the aim is to normalize populations. It may also be thought that flexibility more suited to true individuality would give something else. Without conducting a survey, it is easy to see right now that there are still far too many deviances, irrational violence and senseless behaviour on the streets and in the families, despite the limited framework given to practices, to claim to be certain of the quality of the performance of the attention paid to development.

Apartheid between social entity and animal body is still too mundane a norm for it to be otherwise.

The sexes, pussies and dicks, fortunately always remain kneaded with innocence due to their weak integration by our poor culture.

It is beautiful and good that it should remain so, for if by some desolate misfortune the culture of sex were to amount to a simple and reductive practical knowledge of acts or serve as a support as a parlor vase for psychoanalysis, we would lose the most gentle, accommodating and sympathetic companions in our lives.

In my opinion, however, there would be better things for them to do than this clever figuration we have subscribed to.

Animal brains, motors of reproduction and, by extension, of the desire to unite us, the sexes offer us their anonymous faces, devoid of eyes like primitive larvae moved in life by only a handful of functions.

I look at all the sexes as living tamagotchi, which must be watched over, otherwise they will wither away into miserable functional organs that you take out and bring in out of compulsion, like a dog you don't love enough.

Our sexes are deciphered like pebbles rolled by the ocean, mysterious runes whose symbolic pictograms are made of veins and folds.

Their photos, their contact which does not imply a desire to consume them, make up the infinite collection of little trinkets of flesh and memory that make me sympathetic to humanity.

Behind each of them is a person, the owner and undisputed master, who benefits from the stimulation of their highly excitable character. As docile and faithful little slaves, they do their best to display a friendly avatar of the one who wears them, at a distance from the features of the face, which, much more than the drawing of the shapes of a nose and two eyes, reflect the mental expression of the person.

Pictures of our sex as well as our face should appear on our CVs and IDs, to give a true picture of who we are.

Like the voice heard on the radio, the sex seen first before the face - as can be the case in Internet dating - makes us discover the extent of the possible deception that interferes, once the picture is completed by the head, between the jovial or intriguing face of sex and the closed gravity or false modesty of the soul. Joyful, relaxed and excited as we were, we discover with surprise and sometimes anguish, the serious and impressive banner of the face that floats on top of this body, whose intimate flesh, devoid of malice, had attracted us.

No doubt the plump lips pleasing to pinch like mischievous children's cheeks, the round-tipped, red acorns like good waxed apples, the affectionate testicles rolling in the palms of the hands have no other soul than the one lent to pets, and so it is.

If you know how to love them otherwise than as pure functional organs, only selfishly for the pleasure they deliver, but also for the charm of their own being, like the brave beasts they evoke to me, all stretched out towards you and your slightest actions, the sexes, better than their masters and mistresses, are faithful and undemanding companions who finally only require caresses and hygiene. They are certainly one of the best parts of ourselves, and society does them a disservice by refusing to elevate their naive expressiveness to the rank of living poems in the sense that it is understood in the primitive arts.

To see them as more than providers of pleasure or urination is to thank them. They deserve it for all the times they make the ignominy of their hosts and hostesses bearable by their unfailing availability, and they would do better to be inspired by the behaviours they dictate to us with childlike freshness, rather than bridle them openly to better exploit them in secret.

The parts of an animal childhood that make up our bodies are unalterable, but demand, in order for our thinking heads, Siamese by birth from our genitals, to live better in their company, to publicly make them the real place they occupy in our hearts. It is, among other things, this natural, inspiring and objective tenderness that I propose to implement and about which I wish to make people think and act through these pages.