Tongue-punching one’s lover in the fart box, as one does

If your reaction to the title was along the lines of “who the fuck wants to do that?”, good for you. My reaction, alas, was much more understanding.

This set of goofy dysphemisms popped up, so to speak, in a woman’s Tinder inbox (heh) a few months ago, and quickly became fodder for her crude artwork. “I wanna tongue punch your fart box” is a strange way to propose treating a total stranger to anilingus, itself an eccentric sexual practice. Apparently variations on this phrase have some musical and cinematic currency (for reasons of personal taste and edification, I really don’t want to know), but this shouldn’t be enough to overcome the sheer weirdness of using such bizarre terms to offer to lick out a woman’s ass over an internet dating platform. Just because some example of crackpot syntax was used to entertaining effect in pop culture doesn’t mean that it has any sensible place in one’s own conversation.

Very unfortunately, many Americans seem unable to grok this building block of not being a childish dipshit. A few years ago, when I mentioned that a cute Army Medical Corps captain seemed to have a crush on me, a number of my drinking buddies could only process this situation under the gloss of Army Wives, the “reality” show, not the demographic cohort. “You should go on Army Wives!” “You can be an Army wife!” As I less and less temperately explained to them, no, marrying this woman would make me an Army spouse, or, in the interest of unnecessary specificity, an Army husband on account of my being a man and not a woman. I was trying to discern whether it would be appropriate to date this woman at all since she would almost certainly be deployed to a forward operating base field hospital in Iraq or Afghanistan, and these fuckers wouldn’t shut up about a goddamn television show that they erroneously assumed was relevant to my life.

When I saw the tongue-punching proposal, I immediately recognized it. Anna Gensler, the recipient of this and other crude propositions, and the content aggregators who upworthied her at Buzzfeed, presented these offers as evidence that men are pigs, never mind that platforms like Tinder encourage porcine behavior by insinuating promises of easy sex, largely on the basis of crude sexual attraction. Their analysis was daft misandry, a fashionable conceit in certain circles. These guys weren’t making these gauche offers because they were men; they were making them because they were incels.

“I wanna tongue punch your fart box” and, so help me, “your boobs are even nicer than my mom’s” might as well be a secret hand signal of the incel, a sign that can be made in public from one member of the silently undersexed to another without giving the normals so much as a clue. I’ve been in a very similar position to these guys: severely undersexed, feeling all sorts of fucked up sexual thoughts running through my mind, thoughts that I probably wouldn’t have had if I had been sexually active with women; I usually kept these thoughts to myself, but not always. There, into the fart box, but for the grace of God go I.

These cartoons were eerie. Gaze long into the abyss, and the abyss also gazes back into you. Nay, glance fleetingly into the abyss, and even in that instant the abyss stares back.

You don’t want to go there.

I doubt that Fart Boxer really wanted to eat out a woman’s ass. If he were with a sexually receptive woman at that very moment, he probably would have mounted her and given her a good round of rumpy-pumpy, or maybe a disappointing round of rumpy-pumpy, but he wasn’t around a sexually receptive woman, and he probably hadn’t been for months, if ever he had been. That’s why he was on Tinder. As  C. S. Lewis said, after a loose fashion, one does not go to Denny’s to longingly read the menu from Little Chef. (America’s Diner is not always open in the United Kingdom, and you do not want to see some of the places that are open in its stead.) Give a man a sex drive but no opportunity for sexual companionship, and sexual understanding of women will recede bit by bit into the gaslight. The gaslight is recursive, and so over time, maybe not even very much time, his sexuality will become weirder and more derivative; soon enough it may have nothing to do with interpersonal relations with women and the styles of communication necessary to avoid alienating others.

This sort of depersonalized, dysfunctional sexuality is routinely blamed on the saturation of pornography in modern culture. Unfortunately, C. S. Lewis is practically the only tradcon who ever got porn right. He regarded it as a sorry-ass substitute for real, flesh-and-blood sexual relations, akin to going to a theater to salivate over moving pictures of steaks. Or, as the Onion put it, “Burundi Beef Council: ‘Please Send Beef.'” Much more often, opposition to pornography is really a form of opposition to sex. Porn gets the attention because we live in times of cocooning and high-speed internet; take away the cocooning zeitgeist and many of these same busybodies would be up in arms about whorehouses, streetwalkers, massage parlors, or hookup culture. In fact, many of them already are.

A youth minister friend of mine recently posted a treacly sentiment on Facebook from some fool on the Christian speaking gig circuit: “Scripture is my anti-porn.” When I read this, I thought, what does that even mean? The words made sense on their own but the statement was totally incoherent. It’s ridiculous to believe that the obscurantist study of religious scripture will dampen young people’s sex drives to the point that they are no longer drawn to pictorial and videographical depictions of sex acts in which they are unable (or maybe unwilling) to engage at the moment. In any event, many of the Bible’s concerns, the ones that the anti-porn crowd are sure to emphasize, are spiritual ones of little relevance to the earthly realm in which the sex drive is satiated; many of the Bible’s other concerns, the earthly ones, can be found in Leviticus, which is absolutely filthy. For those who try to lead balanced, well-examined lives, these are separate, complementary realms. One might as well proclaim, “scripture is my anti-food!”

The problem with pornography isn’t that it’s sexual. The problem is that it’s generally a socially insensate attempt to portray sex acts that are, or at least should be, profoundly social in nature. Social nuances are harder to convey artistically than “ooh ooh oh my god fuck me in the ass daddy harder daddy fuck me!”, so thoughtful depictions of sexual intimacy are forsaken in favor of depictions of soulless, dopamine-crashing sex acts with high-volume live commentary, especially from the female participants. Distributing these less nuanced forms of pornography is like waylaying some guy on his way to Starbucks and telling him, “Nah, don’t drink that shit. Don’t waste your time chatting with the baristas. Here, take this meth and go tweak in that bus shelter.”

The other problem with porn is that it’s recursive. The idiocies of cinematic convention imitate one another until the dramatization of sex looks nothing like decent sex, and then metainterpretations of what used to be healthy sexuality jump from art (sic) back into life. I’ll be satisfied if I never hire another hooker who spends our romp shrieking nonsense at the top of her lungs like, “DOES IT FEEL GOOD TO HAVE YOUR DICK INSIDE MY PUSSY! DOES IT FEEL GOOD TO BE FUCKING MY PUSSY!” Yes, Detective Benson, that’s some great investigative work, given that we’re both naked and fucking each other and I told you that I came to the brothel to get laid. (She was not, by the way, a tenth as hot as Mariska Hargitay.) Some of the writers at Return of Kings have complained that amateur girls they pick up on the club scene shriek worse things than that, including, as you unfortunately may have guessed, “daddy.”

I’ve rarely had Asian masseuses behave so uncouthly. This is not a function of the language barrier; several of the masseuses I’ve hired speak English fairly well, although with strong accents, so that they would have no difficulty screaming vulgarities in my language if the spirit so moved them. It’s instead a function of their being sexually decorous and demure. They do not allow their own sexual expression to be dictated by stupid artistic conventions from pornographic films catering to an audience that is simultaneously sexually desensitized and severely undersexed. They’re able to understand happy ending massages in a healthy interpersonal context because they live in the real world, not in a pretend world of club drama and champagne facials. They clearly view sex as something that is and should be edifying, not degrading.

They don’t need daddy to tongue-punch them in the fart box, and I don’t think most of their clients do, either.

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