This anti-pornography film from the 1960s left me with one very obvious, and troubling, conclusion: I am deeply envious of the wordsmithery of morally conservative propagandists. From his terse, esoteric pronunciation of bestiality, to his description of a “flood-tide of filth” — a description that calls to mind great, towering waves of briny genitalia — in terms of oratorical outrage, George Putnam is equal parts Shakespeare and Don King. Listening to his ode to a young, female sex toy, he paints a picture of sleazy, corrupted innocence that far exceeds any photograph. His insights are pointed, “[…]very few blind people join the nudist colonies,” he notes; his logic flawless. It was only when he described the irreversible effects of pornography that I realized why man-on-top missionary style sex did not excite me and why I insisted that my girlfriend participate in elaborate, 80s themed cos-play. Suddenly forcing her to dress like Jem or one of the My Little Ponies made perfect, if horrible, sense.
Yet, Putnam remains humble throughout. “In this ad, the titles of the magazines and their table of contents speak more eloquently than I about the tremendous problem here presented,” he says, before uttering the words “Sexual sadism. Strange flagellation cults” with a gravitas that would drive Morgan Freeman mad with jealousy. Oh George, you sell yourself short. Who else could speak of homosexuals as an evil “species” without coming off as a completely ignorant, hateful bigot? Who else could retain their composure while narrating over scores of photographs of female breasts covered by bars so large that one would think these women were in possession of the most freakishly huge areolas to be found on this planet, Earth? Not I!
Towards the end of the clip he quotes Pitirim A. Sorokin — the famed sociologist and author of, among other works, the hysterical and reactionary The American Sex Revolution — as saying that the newsstands of the time
[…] depict the world as a sort of human zoo, inhabited by raped, mutilated, and murdered females and by he-males, outmatching in bestiality, cavemen and out-lusting the lustiest of animals. Male and female alike are hardened in cynical contempt for human life and values.
Part of me wishes these two gentleman had been able to see some of the more interesting corners of the internet, if only to have been able to see their brains leak out their ears. In fact, Putnam is still alive and has, at the very least, changed his opinion on homosexuals. Someone should sit him down in front of 4chan before it’s too late.
In the battle of the sexes Aleyss K. Taylor may be women’s greatest asset. Her show, Vagina Power which is featured on Atlanta Public Access TV9, and which she hosts with her mother, is a wealth of knowledge concerning the “power of the vagina, penis, and sperm.” Or perhaps it is merely one woman’s autobiography of lust and depravity. I haven’t decided yet.
Regardless, if you are one of the many women with a cold vagina who yearns for a penis whose heat is so great that it can be felt through its owners clothes, I urge you to watch this clip. You will learn to control your, seemingly, constant urges without the aid of vibrators you sneaked into work in your purse. You will learn to never let a man find the bottom of your vagina, lest he ejaculate “all up in your brain.” And you will learn that a man should at least spend $2.99 on shrimp from Long John Silver’s for the privilege of filling your mouth and rectum with sperm. One can imagine my chagrin upon finding out that the going rate was, indeed, far lower than had been previously indicated. Ah well, live and learn.
Psychopathia Sexualis, by Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing M.D., first printed in 1886, was the reference book for the spectrum of sexual deviance in the nineteenth and early twentieth century. Krafft-Ebing, like many at the time, believed that the purpose of sexual desire was procreation, and any form of desire that didn’t go towards that ultimate goal was a perversion. Unsurprisingly, there are few case studies of women to be found here, the idea of a woman who engaged in sex for pleasure being a truly unwholesome one to the Victorian Gentleman. In the English translation, which one can read, in its entirety here, it reads: “Woman, however, if physically and mentally normal, and properly educated, has but little sensual desire. If it were otherwise, marriage and family life would be empty words.”
It’s a fascinating read, and many of the “perversions” will seem tame to anyone who has spent two or three minutes on the internet, but there are some gems. Consider, if you will, the plight of “X” in Case 99:
“X., aged twenty, inverted sexually. Only loved men with large bushy mustaches. One day he met a man who was his ideal. He invited him to his home, but was unspeakably disappointed when the man removed an artificial mustache. Only when the visitor returned the ornament to his upper lip did he exercise his charm over X. once more and restored X. to complete virility.”
Unspeakably disappointed indeed. For those of you who parade about with your artificial moustaches, for shame. How can you live with yourselves knowing, as you must, that your filthy, follicular lies are harming the gay moustache fetishist community? Know that one day, you shall receive your comeuppance. There is only so much abuse they will take.
My own particular genetic mutation is the ability to mentally redirect every fluid ounce of blood roiling through my capillaries into my head.
What happens is this: first, my eyes go milky and begin to google wildly around inside of my ocular cavities. My chapped lips peel back from my teeh and split back to my ear lips in a horrible, chattering rictus. Witnesses describe somehow hearing a soundless, silent scream as my fluid-filled skull turns a deep bruise color and, pulsing, bulbously expands. My retinas detach as the internal pressure pushes my eyeballs out of their sockets on thick, dripping stalks. And if I ever let myself go beyond this point, I have no doubt that my skull would explode, instantly covering several city blogs in a slurry of grey cerebral goo.
You think I’m joking. I’m not joking. It is a display that a hydrocephalic of my acquaintance once described as an abomination unto the sight of God.
Unlike the X-Men, I have never managed to find a way to use this talent for good, but I did spend many years cluelessly demonstrating this ability on first dates. The joke was a good one: I’d cause my skull to explode, then explain, “This is what my face looks like during orgasm.” Unfortunately, women only like guys with a good sense of humor up to a certain point, and that point seems to be the prospect of making love to a man who, during the highest moment of pleasure, suddenly transforms into Ronny Cox from the end of Total Recall.
I’ve stopped doing this trick for now, but for reference, this haunting gallery of Russian men demonstrating their O-face is a slightly less nightmarish equivalent.
The first electric vibrator, invented by a British doctor in the 1880s in order to facilitate vulvular massage, an accepted form of treatment for those diagnosed with hysteria (now referred to as Histrionic Personality Disorder) and neurasthenia. It allowed doctors of the time to facilitate many more patients than had been able when the procedure was performed manually and brought some patients to “hysterical paroxysm” in as little as ten minutes.
“Male seed beetles have spectacularly harmful penises covered in sharp spikes. These help the male’s chances of fertilizing the eggs by providing an anchor, but can also pierce the female during sex, causing injury.
For seed beetles – a group of insects consisting of many species that infest beans or seeds – the battle of the sexes is not a psychological game played out in the home, it’s a deadly serious evolutionary arms race, according to a new study…”
I’m comfortable being “that guy” here at ectomo. You know, the guy who writes about freaky sex that may or may not involve species other than my own. I’m alright with it although, admittedly, for a long time I wasn’t. Everyone here has been really supportive since I came out though, I must say. I mean, Eliza throws-up a little every time we pass each other near the coffee maker, but she’s at least trying make eye contact with me now.
So, that being said, imagine my unbridled joy when I came upon a link to a Guardian article titled Necrophilia Among Ducks Ruffles Feathers. Oh, I’ll bet it does.
The article relates the tale of Dutch researcher Kees Moeliker who, while in his office in the Natuurmuseum Rotterdam, was startled by the loud bang of a mallard hitting the building’s glass facade. He then recounts the scene that greeted him upon his arrival:
As a followup to Brownlee’s earlier clip of a haunting exchange between monotone mother and slaphappy son, I present that educational movie in its entirety: The ABC’s of Sex Education for Trainables.
Based on commentary from the Peanut Gallery in the original post, it appears that this video was intended as fodder for functionally retarded children (I assume the word “trainable” refers to such).
But once again, Fate bares her slavering fangs to Ectomo, and grants us this boon: the opening scene depicts the exact method of successfully selling a moustache ride. Watch and learn, my sweetlings, and be sure to paw and fumble at as much retard hair as humanly possible while making your pitch.
Thanks to Peanuteer Brian Schlosser for giving us this link.
A clip from a 1970’s educational film strip on how to talk to your children when you catch them masturbating. The preload image alone in the embedded YouTube clip is a good idea of the horror to come.
Ricky — a dead-eyed youth with a face pocked by melanoma — stares without blinking at the ceiling while woodenly masturbating. As he does so, his door knob begins to turn slowly, ominously, like the door knob in a zombie movie. The door opens and his mother — a flabby, emotionless polyp of a woman — enters his room without knocking. Despite Ricky earlier appearance of soullessness and the fact that he is covered with a sheet and could easily have passed himself off as taking a nap, the boy wildly overreacts, flailing his limbs wildly around him, gasping and fumbling with himself. Smooth, Ricky. Now she’ll know you were jerking it.
And she does. But his mother is understanding. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ricky. I did see what you were doing. It’s all right.” she says calmly, her voice atonal and utterly drained of feeling. “It felt good, didn’t it?”
Ricky simply stares at her, a dollop of drool forming at the bottom of his lower lip. This is the first sign that debilitating psychological trauma is kicking in.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to do this in the privacy of your own room,” the mother continues, clearly referring to Ricky’s uncle Randall and the men’s restroom adventures of the same, “When you’re a little older, we’ll talk more about these feelings and what causes them and how we can control these feelings. I’m sorry I intruded on your privacy. I’ll be sure to knock next time.”
And then, as if in reverse motion, his mother calmly leaves the room, leaving Ricky shaking in the fetal position. Unfortunately, the clip ends there, leaving many pressing questions unanswered, not least of which is whether or not Ricky managed to finish up.
The moral ambiguity of same sex intercourse between doppelganger and flesh father has been haunting me (and, by extension, my exact duplicate) for quite a while. The big point of contention seems to be whether or not making love to one another is considered “gay.” My argument is that it’s no gayer than masturbation, but my doppelganger — who lost the coin toss, and is therefore to be the bottom spine in our beast with two backs — disagrees. This card doesn’t really answer any questions, unfortunately, but I really think we should soldier on with the experiment anyway: it’s the only way I’ll figure out if every single one of my ex-girlfriends has been lying when describing me as a “spectacularly adequate lover.”
I’m posting uncensored under the assumption that through the hypocrisy of corporate America, monochromatic mammaries exposed in their erect and perky glory will not raise suspicions of inter-cubicle masturbation in the minds of your employers. If I’m wrong, let me know, we’ll octobee it, and it’ll be lesson learned.
Exactly as witnessed during a chance childhood glance out of doors during dinner, the mucus-slicked, translucent rituals of the Leopard Slug in estrus. Narrated by the venerable David Attenborough (again, as in childhood) but lacking in the weird unease that accompanied the first time I oversaw this alien rite.
My father, a locally-celebrated gastropodologist and staunch defender of the native Banana Slug, tsked at the flagrant display of fertility by an invasive species. Still, recognizing an opportunity to brand the tender brains of his firstborn with a sight rarely witnessed by human eyes, he sat me in front of the strange ritual and guaranteed that I would never, ever be able to cast it from my brain.
Not that I have ever wanted to. Such sculptural grace in their spiraling, such limpid horror in the double helix of their moonstone-blue, entwined penii; these things informed my teenage years spent wiping my nose along meters of locker doors, leading lovesick manchildren to dangling trysts on the monkey bars.
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
