A bookish bonk in the nuclear bunker: carpe perineum.

‘Everybody says sex is obscene. 

The only true obscenity is war.’

– Henry Miller, ‘Tropic of Cancer’

Much like sex robots, we can all be a bit too tight-arsed, when it comes to honest communication. Especially if we’re sharing a bed with someone we’d rather left of their own accord, before we had to lie about not having any vegan breakfast options.

‘Fucky-wucky! It’s not the simple pastime it would seem to be.’

Thus spoke Henry Miller in his 1940 sexual treatise, The World of Sex. 

It’s a hilarious, tiny and sometimes beautiful, sexual polemic. But for anyone who’s read Miller, I’m pretty sure that if you followed his advice on how to treat a woman, or anyone really, you’d likely die alone. Maybe with a sex robot. Probably with an un-requited boner (or lady boner). And perhaps a cat staring at said (lady) boner in the corner of some attic room, sporting an upturned whisker and a judgmental sneer reminiscent of your late grandmother.

But the room would probably be in Paris. So…

It’s hard to remember sometimes that the world isn’t a Miller-esque cesspool. With the ‘sort of – surely not – could happen though I suppose’ threat of nuclear war, the randomised vehicle led attacks and the alt-right fascist elements of the world gaining an increased media presence and vocality, not to mention the plethora of total douches in power, the time is upon us. The time is upon us to make love, not war.

Again? Oh alright then.

‘carnival of the under-carriage’

Miller is all about showing us how to appreciate the little moments in life. How to find beauty in the sewers of the world. Graphically and with abandon. Through sex, basically. The soulful laugh kind. The sweaty, naked gospel song sung loudly just because you’re alive kind.

In trying to pinpoint the psalmist joy of it, he muses that the carnival of the under-carriage was best understood in eras gone by, in ‘the pagan world…the religious world’, when it was exalted not only on aesthetic planes, but on the ‘magical’ and ‘spiritual’ ones too. Good to remember that when your friend’s just shown you Emily Ratajkowski’s instagram, because you were born in the wrong era and need pop culture explaining to you very slowly and with pictures, and your newfound acceptance of all the bouncing dimples has just been shat on and you question whether you should flip reverse it with the lights on ever again.

In the era he was writing, Miller also concluded that ‘only the bestial level obtains’ and that ‘sex functions in a void.’ There is a still salient truth there, and it’s doing the rounds. As it has surely done in cycles throughout our brief mili-fart on this planet. However, in this age of pointed disconnection, division and sometimes seeming impending doom, we are all inching down the rabbit hole, without a (LSD infused) tea party waiting for us at the bottom.

So, the time is upon us to reclaim the magical, pagan spirituality of the primal act as a doorway to the divine. As our Ancient forefathers and mothers told us. To remember that our bushes are beatific; our dicks, deistic.

Let’s all do it like they do on the Discovery Channel, and cosmically downward dog our way to divinity in order to dash out demagoguery. Sex as a political, revolutionary act. Always. Just not quite 1960s style.

Enter the cosmos…enter the cosmos into your pleasure holes.

‘in a world that’s traditionally punished women for freely enjoying sex and magic,
combining the two can feel revolutionary…
witchcraft in and of itself is very empowering for women…
you know that all of your power 
is just innately within yourself.’ 
(Bri Luna, owner of The Witch Hood).



As parts of the world take two inches back for every inch forward made in the name of progressive, gendered (/human) and sexual rights, mysticism and the occult are having a moment: the wont of the world when the world seems fucked.

So how exactly can we do our bit to alleviate regression and suppression? Canvas? Protest? Nope.

It’s all about using your sexual energy for manifestation. If you’re going solo: masturbate under the full moon; unsheathe your crystal dildos (because we all have those) and use your sexual energy, your orgasms, with ‘intention.’ If you can remember that intention at the crucial moment in time, that is.

Sounds like good life practise: set a goal and follow through with it? Simples. It’s basically ‘manifesting’ with your minge, The Secret style.

Who has the time to cast spells with your genitals?

You do. It’s summer time. You’re not that busy. There’s threat of nuclear war. Pick up your wands.

As the Wiccan communities of the world have united to cast spells on the inhabitants of the White House, let’s all join them from the sheets, light some candles and pleasure away certain malfunctioning humans from their imperial, hopefully not impervious, perches. Just don’t picture them as you do it…that will sink all the ships.

There is a caveat. Apparently you can’t wish anyone harm or deny anyone their freedoms (no love spells) with a thrust of your hips. Your intention must be for good. The target, really, has to be you. Still, if we’re not doing it to wish syphilis on the forces of evil per se, then we’re doing it to call upon the constructive, calming forces of good. Within ourselves and others. To make us all lovers. To rebirth our revolutionary reelings. To remind those with power to treat others with respect and as equals.

If spells are good enough for certain contingents of fifth wave feminism and Lana Del Rey’s politically hopeful machinations, they’re good enough for your nether regions. This is your end of August experiment. Fuck, to fuck off fascism. Don’t diggity the power of the peen to protest.

And whilst we’re doing that, maybe we could make some time to recapture the connections of olde…


Khajuraho erotic temples. Aka, the sexiest of monuments.


Most of us live hyper-stimulated, goal-oriented lives. And that can be wonderfully fulfilling. But we can also contain our emotional world as a result, worshiping the control of the intellect to ‘desk-tidy’ our experiences of life. Makes sense, otherwise we’d all go around behaving like toddlers, which would be hilarious, but probably impractical. The byproduct though? Separateness and alienation – from ourselves, from each other and, perhaps, from something ‘other.’ Whatever that may be for you.

Enter erotic temples.

In Khajurahdo, India, there stand the remnants of a whole host of them, the outer walls of which contain multiple carvings of erotic art, pornographic positions and figures masturbating. Road trip…?

One theory about the existence of such graphic motifs: since Chandela kings were followers of Tantric principles, which are all about the balance between the male and female forces, they promoted their faith in the temples they built.

The carvings are there to awake the sexual being inside its worshipers. Basically, clock that your vagina, your penis, your bit of both, is a way not only to protest but to taste the manna of the gods, to (literally?) enter the divine.

Part of Tantra’s very essence is that it works with that which cannot – and should not – be articulated. Just shut the fuck up, do the Yab-Yum, straddle your lover, stare at each other deeply, and then (maybe) do it, essentially.

The force is within your lightsabers as well as your lighhtcavers. 
Harnass the power of the universe and use it to manifest results. 

Just think of the loveliest, juiciest orgasms you’ve had. And those few moments after. The way you went about your day, buzzed, or the ease with which you drifted into slumber. Or think of the way you felt when a partner let their eyes luxuriate in the lap of yours. Not in the creepy ‘are you going to fuck me or murder me?’ way, but the ‘wow it’s like a Balinese water feature in there, can I just stay here for a little while please?’ way.

Even if you were just lying next to one another, clothed, as the sun dappled the sheets and your cheeks and that scar above the eye that always catches the sun’s rays on a lazy day in a crumpled bed. When the pair of you were too lazy to get up and go and you glimpsed, tasted, a sense of true calm, contentment, relaxation and belonging. Safety. Stillness. It’s not a vulnerability we allow ourselves enough, especially when our daily lives call for such awareness; such strained, comparative modes of functioning, perfecting. Such stress.

Cosmic, tantric, magic sex, whatever you want to call it. Perhaps just good sex, asks you to kindly let go of your ego, to surrender to your partner and to something greater. It can also remind you to be alone until you find someone who actually gives a shit about you. Someone who isn’t afraid to stare deeply into your eyes, tell you you have eye goop, get rid of it for you, and then tickle your nose with their eyelashes. Someone who is unafraid to be still with you, to just be.

The ‘healing’ potential of sexuality to change the world?

And if not the world, then yourself.

That said, we’re basically all fucked, probably. So let’s just all fuck to our hearts’ desires. Perhaps in a bunker in the back garden, whilst the tinned goods rattle and the cat looks on, confused in the corner by the dehydrated cabbages; whilst we stare into each other’s eyes, perhaps a little longer than is comfortable, and remember that we are here to explore the good in each other: the joys in the folds and the curves and the commands of our genitals, and make love, not war.

‘Fear, envy, suspicion are rampart everywhere. 
Ergo, fuck your brains out while there is still time!’ – 
H.Miller, ‘The World of Sex’

Make love, not war with each other. Beat on, boobs and booties against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past, when the world knew how to make a change.

Until we find ourselves again, let’s find each other, and take comfort. Be honest.

Go forth and fucky-wucky people. Go forth and fucky-wucky.

Carpe perineum.


About St. James 9 Articles
St. James is in search of a cat called Elvis on a unicycle. If anyone sees him; holla.

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