The Summer of Sade is:
The Summer of Sadomasochism
The Summer of Secretion
The Summer of Semen
The Summer of Suckling
The Summer of Sin
What is there beyond the knowledge that ingratiates itself into polite society, that surrounds and supplants itself into the hearts and minds of men, of the noble gentry of the internet, into the soft minds of you and me?
What is there left to wonder or to boast of knowing once all is to be had?
What is there above the sunset that colors the Heavens once God is dead?
What is there to massage the folds of our throbbing minds?
“Get on your knees,” the monk said to me. “I am going to whip your titties.”
Oh, Father!
They are so delicate!
You will kill me!
The Summer of Sade seeks to alleviate this current state of tense intel-masochism and widespread inferiority complexes with pure debauchery. If we are to promote the ideas and praxes of libertinage, we are also entitled to reap its rewards.
We are not ever-expanding beings; we have a bodily encasement just as we have a theoretical one. When the bridles of the Church and State loosen, we replace their bonds and punishments with our own. To test the limits of this encasement, we tease, we torture, we tan the hide of the very body that entraps us. In order to create “voluptuous emotion,” an “indescribable convulsive needling which drives us wild, which lifts us to the highest pitch of happiness at which man is able to arrive” through inhibiting “smoking floods of semen.”
Paglia (1990) espouses, “Sade isolates the aggression in the western scientific mind… Sade plays Darwinian mother nature, mutating gender and cross-fertilizing with heavy hands. Like her, he makes manure and loam out of humanity.”
What do they say? You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs and submerging your hands in the yellow entrails till the mixture turns to a uniform urine-colored bath. Insertion is necessary, both literally and figuratively, in the act of creation. Just as the writer inserts herself into a narrative or the sculptor inserts meaning into the slab of marble, there is a sense of violence in creation.
Creativity and perversity are sisters.
“Wait one moment,” says the berserk monk. “I want to flog simultaneously the most beautiful of behinds and the softest of breasts.” He leaves me on my knees and, bringing Armande toward me, makes her stand facing me with her legs spread, in such a way that my mouth touches her womb and my breasts are exposed between her thighs and below her behind.”
As we see the bounds of creation expand and exalt towards the very edges of society itself, the material of creation then follows. We transition from buying photography of leatherdaddies anally fisting one another to anally fisting one another. The performance art of self-flagellation. The Crimes of the Future-styled performance art where we stretch our skin tautly and puncture ourselves for the sake of self-forgiveness. Creating these expansive realities of self-pleasure and -debasement cements an inner inquisitiveness, an inner dialogue, if you will, where you forgo visual, literary, and all other language for that of emotive reciprocity. The action-reaction dichotomy wherein one aligns their powers with God’s and builds a paradise of their own determined enjoyment.
“Good society” constantly factors the sense of debauchery into the minds of the weak, the insolent, or the decrepit, but Sade sees it as a religious pilgrimage to the many “temples” housed betwixt the legs of us all. All we must do is point towards this temple during prayer, optimally five times a day.
“Ah, my friends!” says the exalted monk. “How are we to avoid flogging a schoolgirl who exhibits an ass of such splendor!”
