Finally today slogged through to the end of the first volume of Indo-tibetan Buddhism, which end being a synopsis and exemplum of the Hevajra Tantra--which is mostly, and greatly to my bitter disgust and scandalization, about Goddesses (or their representative, stand-in dakinis), nasty smelly lubricious ones. And the assumption--the damned presumption--is that any man who seeks enlightenment is jolly well just going to have to overcome his nauseated revulsion from them and get into squeezing their titties and licking their clitorides--even eating their shit and drinking their piss, and having three-ways with them and his guru--or miss out on the Supreme Wisdom that lies like a drop of his guru's jizz in their cunts. Like I once told a Lama Rinpoche's female translator and evident "assistant," "To get the taste out of my mouth, of your intrusive twat-heterosexuality, I'm going to have to watch a lot of male homosexual pornographic movies."

Reading Thoreau on the subject, for all his uneasiness when he talks about heterosexual love--there are a couple of unfortunate, ill-advised essays of his about it--is not much good. Obviously, though he can't just come out and say it, the two loves of his life were his brother John and Ellen Sewall's little brother, Edmund. Although, his quivery quatrains to the eleven-year-old Master Sewall pretty much (such was the innocence of the times) do say it.