Emerson, Thoreau, L.M. Alcott
I sometimes wonder if Thoreau ever had a threesome with the Alcott sisters.
Maybe after a nice picnic of champagne the three of them took a dip in the cold waters of Walden Pond, their naked bodies trembling as they splashed about. A fire might have been made to dry off, and then who knows where things might have gone? He went to the woods to live deliberately, and there is nothing more natural than the tangling of limbs in the forest.
Our history classes leave out most everything when it comes to race, class, and gender. We get whitewashed versions of everyone that came before, but universally sex doesn’t even come into the picture. Even the most radical professors don’t speculate as to what Helen Keller felt when she slipped her fingers between her legs, and it’s only on The Toast that we get to dream about Whitman and Wilde in the upstairs parlor.
But there were days when Lincoln cried as he jerked off in the white house bedroom, and even Maggie Thatcher, that cold hearted villain, came as loudly as anyone.
Looking back over everything I know of the past, I can see war, famine, destruction, and even the occasional glimpses of people overcoming great odds. What’s harder to see is the sweat, the erections, the wet cunts and tight asses that have belonged to every person enshrined in our history books.
And I sometimes wonder.