Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org &
Knatz.com / Teaching / Society & Its Pathologies / Social Survival / Evolution /
2004 12 02
Faces, Hearts, Porn
The inimitable John Cleese, clown and scholar, did a series on the face for the BBC. I recommend it: though I’ve as yet only seen the first three episodes as available on DVD. In my module, Be My Valentine (in my Society section), I go to the heart of the matter in what we often mean by heart.
Before proceeding we need a word on physiology in relation to human social evolution. The universe arose from … we can’t know what: so we’ll call it the void. Matter arose from the energetic universe. Once that universe was complex enough to try lots of different dances, life arose: everywhere on earth. I bet we’d find it most places we could look: between the stars if not on planets. Life arose in the sea and moved onto the land, carrying as Denis Wood observes, some sea with it. We are bags of sea, held up by levers of cellular excreta (calcium).
Humans are primates. Primates are descended from hollow-bodied worms. Worms are descended from life where head and tail isn’t obvious (if they have such things), but by the time we’re worms we have a clear head and a clear tail. Most stuff goes in the head, most stuff goes out at the tail end. Only some stuff goes out at the head end and only some stuff goes in at the tail end. Nerves, once we get them, extend tailward; but nerve centers develop in the head. (Don’t for a second think that therefore that’s where mind is: mind has no location. Mind is not a physical phenomenon.
Nerve centers center in the head. That’s where we have our brains, our eyes, our ears, our nose, our mouth: the primary sensors for our primary sense organs.
Map the nervous system in relation to sensory importance and the head is huge. The fingers and hands are huge. What else is huge? The genitalia. We’ve got lots of nerve endings around the face, around the fingers, and around our pudenda. There’s the clitoris: more nerve sensors than ANYPLACE. There’s the penis with its sensitive glans, protected by the foreskin — just as the clitoris is protected, hidden away: until anti-sensory politicians prescribe circumcision. There are the testes. There is no pain like a male gets from the testes; neither is there any pleasure like the huge imminence that overwhelms a male from that source.
Some fish see upwards, some fish see downwards. Birds, gazelles see sideways. Primates see forwards. Monkeys, apes, living in trees, had to see what was in front of them: grab that next branch. Man sees frontwards, man hears frontwards, man feels frontwards.
All those organs of the head make up a face. Humans have distinctive faces. Facial recognition is important in the family, in the society. We must know who’s “on our side.”
My Valentine piece argues that human females have a nether “face”: an assemblage of nerve ending-suffused organs that make a single coherent image: the valentine “heart”: what we mean when we say “ass,” or “pussy.”
Female faces are far less individuated than male faces. Women are more even featured: cut closer to the mold: more generic, more “average.” In this respect women have an advantage in beauty; men have an advantage in individuality. Anyone can name more pretty actresses than actors. Anyone can name more distinctive looking actors than actresses. Are there any actresses that look like Edward G. Robinson? Or Bogart? or Peter Lorri? Julia Roberts has a highly distinctive face: which makes her all the more rare: right? Because she’s both distinctive and beautiful. Right?
When we meet in society we meet face to face. “Hello. How do you do?” We look each other in the face. If we don’t, we’re not long welcome in that society. We look each other in the face. We have to sneak looks at the ass. We have to wait for that fleeting moment when the object of our curiosity turns away. Turns tail.
After a date or two, alone in the convertible, alone on the beach, we may spend just as much or more time nose to tail, face to pussy.
Movies, magazines show close up after close up of faces. On TV it’s all talking heads.
Ah, but in porn, it’s the opposite. It’s close up after close up of ass, pussy, ass: ass pussy, cock; boobs and ass. Boobs, cuny (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 29), and more cuny.
If we saw beaver shots of Julia, Marilyn, Jennifer, Charlize, Liz … would we know them apart? One might be blondish (but never blond like the head hair), the other might be dark, another dark dark dark (think of Rosario Dawson’s snatch in Alexander) … Could we say for sure, Oh, that’s Rosario? That’s JLo?
Line up Edward G, George Raft, Errol Flynn … with their peters up. Close up of the peter only, please. Would we know them individually?
That experiment has to be a thought experiment alas. You can see plenty of pudendum in the porn mags, but we don’t know or care who the hell’s flesh we’re gawking at. When we look at Brad Pitt’s face we care very much that it’s not the same face as Tom Cruise: or Sir Anthony. Or Britney or Jennifer or Liz.
Another tack: guys know perfectly well that “ass” has nothing to do with the pooper. “Ass” has to do with the quim. Ass is about fucking and sucking and feeling; not at all about shitting. And women must understand that too. Don’t they? Or do they?
When someone is looking at our face, we know it. We know it even with our eyes closed. There’s a story I’ve already told here in a different context that I want to repeat here: in this context. The story must be important to me because I’ve told it in a novel as well.
I was living on Long Island. On the beach. Top, of six floors. I’m driving the VW Rabbit in the neighborhood. I’m on a side street, stopped at the stop sign: and mid-block of the main avenue I see a perfect pair of buttocks walking away.
From the rear, the woman was ravishing from head to heel, but her ass was the Platonic Original Form. God, the shape. God, that soft firmness. God, how it puckered and flexed with her movement.
At her side was a little girl: ten, eleven years old at the oldest. The woman with the perfect ass was lithe. she had to be young: so young that one had to gawk at the idea that she could be the ten year old’s mother. Blond. Blond hair bouncing a bit below her shoulders: a good feminine length.
I saw a woman from the rear once on Madison Avenue. I wanted so very much to tell her that if looks were fertile, she was pregnant. Right past her bottom and into her coo my eyes and mind had gone.
It was the same here. In an instant I was penetrating that woman. And she jumped. Three quarters of a block away, she felt my entry. She turned to look back: see who was assaulting her.
I was committed to my ravishment. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t even try to save embarrassment for her or for me.
Boom! Like the furnace igniting from the pilot, my heart went nova as I saw that she was smiling: radiant friendliness. She likes it! My penetration is welcome.
But at the same time, my own expression was freezing into something ghastly. The woman wasn’t the little girl’s youthful mother! She wasn’t a woman. The woman was a girl! The girls were the same age: no more than ten or eleven!
From the rear, her friend looked her age; from the rear, she looked like Marilyn Monroe. She smiled and waved a vigorous friendly wave. I tried to smile back. God knows what kind of a rictus of expression I was actually showing.
I say we know when someone is looking at our face. This girl knew when someone was looking at her nether face.
Now: can she have understood that she was getting mentally penetrated? Who knows what females ten, eleven, twelve know? I think they know a lot. I suspect that they know everything. But I’m also confident that they don’t know they know it, don’t understand what they know. Certainly they don’t know details, complications.
My look was pure lust; her response was pure friendliness. Pure sunshine, nothing sultry about her.
I soon discovered that that was my first view of my new next door neighbor. The family was from abroad. We became friends: parents, girl, and little brother. The parents had to have mixed views about how far they could trust me, but trust me they did. The kids came over every day. I know that Bonnie was always keenly aware when my pants bulged at her presence (which was all the time). And yet she was still perfectly “innocent.” Sunshine friendliness.
I have a number of photographs of my friend-niece-neighbor-daughter-dreamgirl, all taken by her father, most with her brother, and some with my son present. None show the view relevant here, but this one captures that view’s complement: her dynamic front end.
Here “Bonnie” is twelve, holding a neighbor’s daughter: saying goodbye, on her way home to Africa. As with Jennifer Lopez, the front view gives no idea of what’s burgeoning on the other side.
Her face, with her blond hair, is beautiful too (but her face does look her correct twelve years of age!)
Her body sends almost as many contradictory signals as a studio shot of the young Britney Spears. Unlike Britney, Bonnie is half-tomboy, an athlete. I [had] deleted the shoulders and face — I [didn’t] want anybody recognizing her (and I’ve deleted the crowd of friends and neighbors — including my son), but look at those arms, those legs. The arm is a boy’s: the shirt, the wristwatch …
Swimming the butterfly, Bonnie would heft up in the water like a dolphin. Yet look at those legs, that belly, that mons … That’s pure girl! And when she swam the butterfly (her beautiful mother a champion swimmer, her gorgeous father a likewise-international champion athlete), I’ve never seen anything like the way her wet ass would plump and flex on by.
Note: Bonnie is the generic name I give to all underage females I decline to identify within the society.
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