You functioning bodypart

Let’s talk about dirty talk.

There’s a lot of it about, hereabouts. Like, here, and here, and all through here. In common with many people, I hold contradictory opinions about it:

1. Anyone is entitled to use it, appropriately, whenever they want
2. Inappropriate use can be offensive
3. Some words are more offensive than others
4. No two people in the world can agree on the definitions of “appropriate” and “offensive”

It seems to me that there are a few clear categories of what I’ll call (bear with me please) naughty words:

A) References to deities and their families — I don’t propose to discuss these now. Likewise any combination of this category with any of the others. Maybe another time.

B) References to bodily wastes — again, I don’t propose to say much about these. I’m sure that most of us find them unpleasant in most ways. If we didn’t, they wouldn’t be wastes, would they?

C) References to the organs we all possess that produce those wastes and

D) References to the differentiated organs and processes of (deep breath) reproduction

The bright ones among you will already know that there is some overlap between those last two categories. Again, I don’t want to go into the processes themselves; it’s the words I’m talking about.

The words

It seems to be a feature of all languages (I’m generalising from about three, but hey), that those particular organs and their functions have a multiplicity of names, more than they need, far more than most things in the world, and certainly more than any other human organs or functions. It is also certainly a fact in English that, for any given organ-or-function, each of its many names has a rating on the scale of naughtiness, from, let’s say, 1 (plain anatomical) through 4–6 (amusing) to 10 (always used to shock).

So here’s Q1:

How come we have so many synonyms for the same thing? And for the other thing, and for the thing they do when they get together to do their thing?

And Q2:

How can two words that mean the exact same thing have different degrees of naughtiness?

The answers to Q1 and Q2 must take account of the fact that people don’t always want to engage with the facts of biology, out of embarrassment or ignorance or something else. And different people in different populations come to different agreements with themselves on which words to use in what circumstances: “This word for one of those is acceptable in company, this other word also for one of those will never be mentioned, even though we all know it.”

The sheer number of words available for the same thing(s) allows us to build opportunities for shock, humour and other verbal games. But just park those for a minute, and look at Q3:

How come we manage to make some of these names into insults?

Q3 is different. To me it’s entirely mystifying. After all, what we can do with our differentiated category-D parts is the most delightful activity we know about. Being called by the name, any one of the names, of one of them ought to be an honour, not an insult. Yet listen in on any fight and you’ll hear someone being compared to an organ of generation going about its business, and the someone always scores it 10 and takes offence, as they were intended to.

[Digression: There’s additional opportunity for humour, with some of the low-scoring forms, when someone doesn’t know what they mean. For instance, just watch me jaw-drop a couple of editors right now* when I point out that, where I live, the word knob is a regular humorous stand-in for the defining part of a gentleman. It scores about three, maybe four if the speaker wants to be really disparaging by suffixing it with head. It’s also a verb, although usually just in its intransitive present participle form knobbing, a good-natured name for what two people can do with a single such knob between them… if you see what I mean]

I don’t have an answer to Q3. I’m still sufficiently mixed-up myself, after all these years on the planet, that I feel slightly uneasy hearing some of those words in any circumstances. Even — perhaps especially — when I know that the speaker is using them correctly and dispassionately, to mean what they mean without any figurative overtones. In themselves, they don’t offend me as much as the tone of voice might in which they’re said — they’re only words — but they make me that teensy bit uncomfortable.

It’s a shame, don’t you think?

Imagine a world in which being called “a fu…nctional c…ategory-D” was a source of pride in the callee (“Gosh, do you really think so? Thank you!”) and envy in others (“I’ve been called a p…art-type-D, but never a w…orking one. Must try harder”).

[If anyone wants to write that story, I’ll be happy to read it.]

It might be a world without any need for insults, one where smiling unicorns delivered delicious veggie meals and shared them with us. But it would contain humans, so there would eventually be anger, and the use of insults would arise spontaneously, like slime on a patio. The category-B words we use now are the obvious candidates. They should be sufficient.

Can I live there, please?