anonymous0slut

The adventures of a real life slut in a conservative world

St Valentine’s Day

on February 12, 2015

Hot pagan sex and lustful gods and ancient wolf goddesses and potential marriage and more sex and more than a little crazed giddy divine animal blood sacrifice. All followed by some nice light whippings administered by nearly naked grinning boy-men, casual flagellations by goat-skin, some joyful thrashing in the name of fertility and purity and, you know, sex. Ahh,
Valentine’s Day.
The original, that is. Before it was called Valentine’s Day, back when it was called Lupercalia, a big Roman festival in honor of the fertility god Lupercus, before the ever scowling church got a hold of this ancient and rather odd and blood-pumped Roman lustfest, stole it and desexed it stripped it of its more spicy and admittedly libertine joys, as the church is so tragically wont to do. Tried to convert it into a mildly consecrated (read: bland, not naked) day, the church did, “Christianize” that naughty pagan fest, and failing that because no way are you going to trump ancient sex and lust with uptight chastity and faux-purity, they tossed in Saint Valentine to the mix, invented some nice legend, tried to turn this most funky of pagan holidays into an homage to romantic love and cherry nougat chocolates and Hallmark bullcrap.
Did they succeed?
Sort of.
Basically, it went something like this: In ancient Rome, on the 15th of February, in an altar called the Luperci sacred to the god Lupercus, in a cave in which the she-wolf goddess nursed founding twins Romulus and Remus, Luperci priests gathered and sacrificed goats and young dogs, the first for strength, the latter for purification and in honor of their strong sexual instinct and because it was a fertility deity and this is just what you did if you were a happy pagan citizen a couple thousand years ago.Some hunky boys of noble birth were then led to the shrine, where the priests would dab their foreheads with a sword dipped in the animal blood, after which our baffled youths were apparently obliged to break out into a shout of purifying laughter because that’s what the ceremony called for and no one is quite sure why and, well, what would you do in the same situation?
Then, a feast. Meat. Wine galore. Followed by the slicing of goat skins into pieces, some of which the priests cut into strips and dipped in the blood and then handed to the boys, who would take off and run through the streets, gently touching or lashing crops and bystanders (especially women) with the skins along the way to inspire fertility and harvest and because hey, half-naked laughing boys wielding bloody goat skins – what’s not to love?
Actually, the women eagerly stepped forward to be so stroked, believing that such a blessing rendered even the most sterile of them , and brought them ease in childbearing, and made them look all gothy and cool and sexy.
“This act of running about with thongs of goat-skin was a symbolic purification of land and men,” says one rather dry, scholarly website on the topic. “For the words by which this act is designated are februare and lustrare, and the goat-skin itself was called februum, the month in which it occurred Februarius, and the god himself Februus.” So, you know, there you go. February. Purity and lust and sex and gods. Really, what else do you need?
Then came the sex lottery. Oh yes. Say it once more, with feeling. Pretty much only have to say the words, “sex lottery,” and already you’re like, hell yes, count me in, sure beats dinner and a movie. And all the young ladies in the city would place their names in a large urn, and the city’s eligible bachelors would choose a name out of the urn and become paired for the year with his chosen woman, often resulting in marriage. You know, sort of like the Mormons. Only with actual sex. And booze. And without the creepy undergarments. But if there’s one thing the sexless butt-clenched church really hates, it’s sex lotteries. And free thinking. And good porn. Condoms. Margarita enemas. Literature. But especially sex lotteries. Go figure.
So along comes Pope Gelasius around 486 A.D. and declares, let’s say, oh, February 14 to be dedicated to a saint, and we’ll call him Saint Valentine, who might or might not be an actual martyr whose true history is murky at best, given how church records show at least four martyrs with the name Valentinus, whoops, oh well. Maybe they were being efficient. And of course, they outlawed the yummy sex lotto, changed the names in the urn from lusty single women to the names of pious saints to be emulated, because that’s what everyone wants, and jammed their new holiday right up against the February 15 date of Lupercalia. Which also had the added bonus of stomping all over the normal February 14 day of honoring Juno (Roman Goddess-queen of women and marriage), and focused it all on the makeshift Valentine, and voila, here we are: Hallmark cards and candy. But of course, the modern V-Day isn’t all bad. And this is not to say we should necessarily return to the old ways, a little bloodletting and lashing and animal sacrifice and random sex lotteries. Because everyone knowns that right under the cheap veneer of Valentine’s Day mega-marketing and hollow churchly romance is yet another delicious excuse to have more sex and indulge in fleshly pleasures and lick chocolate syrup off any combination your lover’s orifices. If you’re good.
In other words, the church both succeeded in their hostile takeover, and failed miserably. Sure Valentine’s Day is all romance and sentiment and made in China stuffed teddy bears on the outside, but it’s all raw oysters and sly spankings and groping in the movie theater and whipped-creamed nipples and soft divine bedroom cooing, inside. Which is exactly as it should be. Which is exactly how we still, without even realizing it, manage to recall our delicious Lupercalia, take a big lick of the pagan ways, regardless of everpresent churchly frowning and ‘Be Mine’ twittering and chubby Cupid. Because it’s always good to know where your manufactured holidays really come from. It’s always good to pay homage to the true origins, realize how much calculated deceit has happened along the way. Just like Christmas and Easter and Halloween and any major holiday worth mentioning that the church gutted and renamed and from whose soul they tried to suck out the joy, you just have to give props to the old gods, throw a kiss to Lupercus and Juno and the she-wolf.
So, buy those giant red balloons. Nab that $29 heart-shaped diamonelle necklace… but don’t forget to acknowledge that deep-down, gnawing, sly urge you’re doubtlessly harboring to rush out into the streets and wait for the laughing naked boys and get yourself gently lashed with bloody goat skins and then go have sex. Just like the pagan lust-monkey you so wish to be.
You go, Lupercus.

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2 responses to “St Valentine’s Day

  1. I need to invest in straps..

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