Fucking Day: Signs of Intimacy

Note for the employed and enrolled: censoring this is a doomed, pointless task. Expect dicks.

June is Fucking Month. Likely outside too, as the sane enjoy the sun and drown out Nero’s solo. But mostly this column, where I’ve learned I need to edge for a week per demon summoned. Four’s a shoestring staff, but I only have one penis. For now.

Recently, I got a helpful note about this book:

Sadly, the writer is shitposting. At least in my reading. They largely land the joke, with a dry approach to anal divination. This is the first, and only, fake guide to reading privates in my bookcase.

See, I can’t read souls in anal folds. Just dicks.

Wait, they’re fucking around too. This time they botch the joke, with dick jokes outclassed on every playground. Fair enough. It’s an easy task to fail. You’d have to be bonkers or brilliant to see time in labia. A voyeur visionary. A prehistoric OBGYN. Genitology is the second, and last, fake guide to scrying sex organs I own.

This one’s real.

Looking back, I tend to assume familiarity. I’ll reintroduce myself. I’m Prof. Dayle, a double Ivy League author and street artist. I’m in the New Yorker when I run out of money and wrote a jingle you hate. Here’s how to read someone’s cosmic nature through their dick shape. The tilt of their vagina. Rolling the balls. Vulvamancy.

If there’s a better way to get to know someone naked, it’s lost.

Near this book, you’ll notice several other divination options. Crystals. Colors. A collectible card game. Trash them. Yes, in-store. They should know better. Besides, the staff already hates you. What’ll they do, make a bigger voodoo doll? I could be projecting, but you can’t be sure without reading my genitals.

Don’t take my word for it. I’m a recreational and professional liar. Take Aiden’s.

“I’m interested in human nature. Balls first, of course. All that jabber about constellations and saints is interesting, but demands faith. Balls are concrete. Truth you can squeeze. Just not too hard.”

Aiden, in brief, made dick astrology from scratch. We’ve got more pages than Colorstrology, alongside real paragraphs. While he suggests a light tone to keep work fun and subjects from fleeing (a tip that’s more insane than incorrect), Aiden is two hundred percent serious about the accuracy and value of genital readings. Knowledge makes subjects’ lives richer. Tips make you richer. Buying this makes Aiden richer. I’ll let you augur how all three work out.

Don’t worry. Asking “what the fuck are you talking about?” weekly doesn’t make you insane. It’s when you stop. Aiden hasn’t asked in a while:

Eager intros outclass the best author bios. In the back of the book, you can learn that Aiden moved to Hawaii after a cancer scare. Does that tell you who he is? Or does cranking ten thousand demons out for Taoist enlightenment? On dial-up. I know what I’d want in my eulogy.

Like all the best spellbooks, Signs of Intimacy jumps into applied jutsu. Before Lao Tzu can start spinning, Aiden’s moved on to the grammar of reading your labia.

Sorry, I meant your client’s labia. Aiden’s teaching you a trade. Flirt on your own time, we have shots to compose:

Stuck? Try vaginal rabatment: box the lips into a square with the frame’s short edge. Here’s a guide:

It won’t help your readings, but the photos will look more like artsy porn and less like evidence.

We’re not pausing to fret about love or lawsuits. This is a craftsman’s art, for lingamancers with the focus and social grace of Dr. House. After all, the hardest part of Genital Reading is convincing someone to pay for a genital reading. Lingamancy may be about fucking, but good luck getting laid. You’d have a far easier time following the palm reading to pity hump pipeline.

We’ll get to the totems. You bet this is an RPG. I bring a full third edition character sheet to every spellbook. Fifth’s more graceful, but that rarely fits spellbooks.

Dickshots are less technical, with one caveat:

Proper preparation prevents poor priapisms.

Correction: the hardest part of lingamancy’s the lingam. My bad, it’s my first time thinking any sentence here. Otherwise I’d have called it ligmancy.

Somehow, Signs of Intimacy isn’t explicitly pitched as moron foreplay. In theory, this is all gooning analysis, not process. Great legal move, but creatively bizarre. While Aiden confesses to enthusiastic research, we’re focused on his visions beyond the cum veil. Cosmic post-nut clarity.

After a few too many spellbooks, I almost called this section filler. “Of course you need to see the dick you’re scrying. This is magick, not magic.” With a nanosecond of reflection, that’s not obvious to balanced people. They don’t have instincts for totemic genital divination. Those words make them nervous, separately or together.

As for logistics, you might manage. More dick pics have been framed than denied. The least/most popular artists have more shots of their erection than their face. Similarly, I wouldn’t worry about hardness. Ego votes twice. To get someone’s limp dickshot, you’d have to buy them a dog, teach them to love it, and then take the dog hostage. Even then, there’d be negotiations. A snowman, open meat locker, and yeti might creep into the background.

If all this sounds too personal, you can skip the stripping and pics. Simply trade longing stares with a lingamancer for a few hours. They’ll guess your vagina’s shape. Then let them watch you for a few more:

Yeah, fuck that. Take my dick pics. Hard, flaccid, severed, I don’t care. We’re not doing a single-viewer Truman Show while you write penis fanfiction. Free time’s much more precious and exclusive than cockshots.

Curiously, the manners of dick scrying precede the categories. Aiden boils the frog in crazy. Because a twelfth of vaginas are frogs. Everyone’s genitals correspond to one of twelve Animal Totems. Capitalized. There’s your Primary Animal Totem reflecting the size of the ship, and an Inner Animal Totem reflecting the motion of the ocean. Giving Aiden’s students two chances per cold reading. Sharp.

I primed my zodiac jokes, but Aiden reinvents the wheel. Your penis might be a chameleon, possum, or porcupine.

A few key choices stand out. Like having drawings at all. And the tribal accessories, which are the only clothes in the book. And the difficulty, despite all the hand-colored spines and pubic hair, of seeing a porcupine in genitals. Constellations ask for some imagination, but you don’t wash the Big Dipper every morning.

Let those choices go. Give Aiden a chance. Don’t be a porcupine about this:

Anywhere else, “warm inner space” gets two thousand words of ribbing. Here, Aiden’s on-topic.

Half of the porcupine section reads like clickbait about attachment styles. Remember: you don’t need permission to stop texting. Not from the stars, not from Meta, and not from your dick’s Animorph. Sometimes a date doesn’t click, or smells funny. Just tell them you need a dolphin to match your energy. Oh cool, I’m insane now.

Porcupines are an exclusive club. If you don’t moisturize, you might be a Dolphin. Also, Dolphins are another penis clan. The most intuitive, aside from Snakes.

Sounds like Aiden lost one. Shame about the avoidance, but that’s just high swiping ELO. None of this answers everyone’s first question about this section. The answer: like this.

I’d say that’s self explanatory. Still, Aiden throws in a handy chart for slow mages:

He definitely lost one.

Controlling. Inflexible. Super hot. We’ve found the Animal Totem for romantic traitors. Partners that just don’t understand genius. Tragedies for innovators in any medium, especially dicks. Though, to play porcupine’s advocate, I’d drift from a partner turning our kink into a book tour.

Blink and you’ll miss it: Aiden doesn’t explain shadow sides (more widely known as “personality flaws”). He just assumes you’re an astrology vet or long-dead therapist, and ready to apply that experience downstairs. Again: less wrong, more insane. Like detailing how Porcupines fuck:

I suppose not every lunatic’s a moron, nor every moron a lunatic. As a maximum lunatic minimum moron, Aiden bets readers of a magick sex guide might be interested in magick sex. This paragraph’s true for anyone that would even consider genital reading. Well-played.

I didn’t just pick porcupines because laughing at the sketch nearly killed me. The language here is odd, and not just during spiky sex. Aiden describes shy fashion victims like a horny Plutonian. You call someone scrumptious after you’ve hidden their body. At least he sticks to prose.

I kid. Here are the illustrated porcupine positions, plus instructions.

Given how literal everything else is, I’m surprised Porcupines got the Amazon pose. Rhinos got robbed.

Oh, sorry. I dropped a sketch.

We’ve now mastered Porcupine sex. Try calling them again. You know the one. If no one fits, check your phone.

All of this might seem difficult to accept. Try brain rabatment: box fucking insanity into a square with your brain’s short edge. You’ll find life easier. Here’s a guide:

But I’m a hypocrite. After jabbing at Aiden’s structure, I brought up frog dick without showing you frog dick. As a frog, think of genital warts as self-expression.

I do wonder: when I tell customers they have a frogina, how do I keep them from breaking my spine? Magick loses against all adults and most children. I could lean on Capoeira, but I’d rather be beaten than killed by my own flip. Nothing’s sadder than your attacker driving you to urgent care.

Here’s how Frogs fuck:

Amazing burn. Are Frog-endowed readers okay? Don’t get litigious–Aiden said it, not me. And try listening a bit more. Aiden’s sprinkled animal facts in this whole time, and your column’s skipped them because you got bored. Yes, you. Only you. Call me a Porcupine and I’ll leave.

Frogs are cool and all, but you’ll think about that Porcupine half the time. Who do they think they are? Who’s this Frog think they are? Why can’t you meet a nice Dolphin? You’re ready for Signs of Commitment.

Maybe you’d rather call yourself a rhino. Well, they’re the first totem. Aiden knows his public; if he left out rhinos, elephants, or lions, he’d get letters crazier than anything in Signs of Intimacy.

(He gets ahead of that gag—panthers are folded under Tigers, followed by name-checking the Black Panthers and unloading Discovery Planet panther facts. Aiden speaks fluent crazy.)

Though I’m sure the feedback still got spicy. Gut check: would you rather have syphilis or Turtle dick? One’s curable. I don’t know how, but Turtle dick’s an insult. Turtles can be massive and hard, but it’s still an insult. Turtle dick ends in fighting a bouncer.

Now that you can tell Porcupines and Frogs their personality and how they like to fuck, you might want more genital reference drawings. Or to master the other signs without memorizing ten Tijuana Elder Scrolls. Aiden’s still got you. Illustrated “genital maps” walk through all twelve totems, with 1-3 bonus sketches per genital sign. A lot like Saint Seiya, if gin treated my memory well.

I…where do I start? Should I start? How many times can I lose my mind before accepting I never had one? Which vagina is a seahorse? Which dick is a possum? I think I’m melting.

The elephant test is such childlike, gleeful harassment. I bet Aiden makes animal sounds when these work. You know, once every six years. The rhino test leads to blows every time. Especially if Aiden’s system is accurate. Rhinos are the type to dislike being called Rhinos.

As for chameleons, couldn’t any look be a…no, never mind. I’m four seconds of worldbuilding away from being the maniac. We’re all vampire hunters, but I fear I’m more Alucard than Belmont.

The Frog section speaks for itself. And the name Frog. By the time you distinguish between a Tiger and Dolphin, you’re engaged or on bail. Good luck.

Could Signs of Intimacy be sabotage? It’s less like Aiden’s never had sex, and more like he never wants us to. Are antinatalists into magick? Or pronatalists, considering their eugenics hobby? Just ignore everyone telling you how much to fuck.

“It’s been fun, but I’m done. You have a spiky Porcupine vagina, and I’ve been abandoned before. I could work with a snake. They understand themselves. You’d hurt me without even trying.”

Ah, there’s the family favorite. You’re one triangle piercing away from pulling a genital magus. Just be ready for that to describe aesthetic rather than skill. Aiden’s grasp of anatomy is…unique. An astrologist says you’re mad because you’re a Gemini. A genital librarian says you didn’t finish because you’re a Peacock.

For the record: the penis test is twelve versions of “you see it if you squint.” Genital impressionism. Which let my mind wander to a key question.

Is read my dick a wizard insult? If not, get on that. You can win your next argument with a moody tarot reader. The magick shop clerk keeps giving me The Devil, The Tower, and The Asshole. I know The Tower’s made-up.

Anyway, you might find it odd, or even rude, to reduce life to your junk. Try spiritual rabatment. Box genital obsession into a square with your soul’s short edge. You might get an HBO show. Here’s a guide:

We’ve covered more genitalia than I hoped or wanted. But Aiden planned two more books, as detailed in “Preview: Two Follow-up Books.” Let’s absorb that confidence.

Familiar. But hey, “the same, minus bugs” works well for the first sequel. I know Ezio better than half my family, and Hades 2 is why we didn’t cover Rhinos. You hit problems when you keep going.

Isn’t that this book? Isn’t compatibility the explicit, text-level, sole use for Signs of Intimacy? And its first sequel, which also doesn’t exist? Is anyone, sane or otherwise, learning cock tarot for a different reason? This divination book ends on two failed prophecies for divination books. This failure has religious and quantum implications.

I might be punching shadows. Cockstrology isn’t the best opening, middle, or closing move.

Ouch. Porcupines, man.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Victor Malevankin, who has unlocked the secret 13th animal dick totem, but refuses to elaborate.

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