1st Fuck

1st Fuck
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It could be "fourteenth-century revenge porn."
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A researcher has found what is believed to be the earliest written example of the f-word .
(Caution: a certain four-letter word is used ahead, and used repeatedly.)
Paul Booth, a historian at Keele University in England, found three examples dating from 1310 and 1311 of a man known in legal documents as Roger Fuckebythenavel.
Booth said he believes Roger was not the bearer of a very unfortunate family name, but rather it was given to him derogatorily.
Roger Fuckebythenavele from a Chester court roll dated 8 December 1310 found in @UkNatArchives by Dr Paul Booth! pic.twitter.com/rI6q3RUtFX
" This surname is presumably a nickname ," Booth told Medievalists.net. "I suggest it could either mean an actual attempt at copulation by an inexperienced youth, later reported by a rejected girlfriend, or an equivalent of the word ‘dimwit,’ i.e., a man who might think that that was the correct way to go about it.”
If Roger actually tried to do it in the navel and someone told the world about it, the name could be " fourteenth-century revenge porn ," Booth told Vice.
Booth noted that Roger was before the court three times over a nine-month period, and each time his last name was spelled differently: Fuckebythenavele, Fukkebythenavele and, finally, Fuckebythenavel.
"On the first two occasions he was 'exacted' (solemnly summoned to attend court to answer a serious criminal charge, which is unspecified) and on the third he was outlawed," Booth wrote in an abstract, titled "Roger the incompetent copulator," that he posted online. " He was probably never heard of again ."
As Booth told the Daily Mail, an outlaw could be " executed without trial if caught ."
Historians have uncovered the first use of the F-bomb in a 1310 court case http://t.co/2ATSoqUKki pic.twitter.com/dlk27kURvo
Until now, the oldest known written example of "fuck" was a coded use of the word in the poem "Flen flyys," which was dated to around 1475.
Once decoded, the line read "fvccant vvivys of heli," a mix of Latin and English that meant "they fuck the wives of Ely," as noted by Medievalists.net.
There were some earlier appearances of the word "fuck" in texts, however none were known to be used in the current context.
A 1278 text, for example, referred to someone who appeared to be named "John Le Fucker." However, medievalist and linguist Kate Wiles wrote in The Huffington Post last year that it was believed to be a misreading of "Tucker" or a variation of "fulcher," meaning "soldier ."
The Oxford English dictionary currently lists "fuck" with its current meaning as a word of Germanic origins dating to the 16th century . Booth told Vice he informed the dictionary of his discovery, but doesn't know if the publishers plan to update the listing.

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Please put on your f*cking headphones.
Few words in the English language are as satisfying as a good fuck. Go ahead—say it right now. Sound your barbaric fuck over the rooftops of the world. Feels good, doesn't it?
Though Hollywood has had a long and complicated history with swearing in general, it's widely believed that 1970's M*A*S*H was the first major picture to use "Fuck." Since then, Hollywood has gone fucking nuts with it.
Below, please enjoy the best f-bombs in cinema history. (You might want to put in some headphones, just in case there are some fucking kids around.)
The Fucking Context: An action-movie montage, set to a jingoistic song that Toby Keith could have written.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: Anytime our country does something dumb, this song plays in my head. This song has been playing in my head nonstop for about 18 months.
The Fucking Context: Robert De Niro is understandably upset that his wife has had sex with Joe Pesci.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It's always nice to revisit a pre-give-up De Niro.
The Fucking Context: David Hyde Pierce's astrophysics professor realizes an error in his calculations.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It's just so fucking specific.
The Fucking Context: Fancy British king overcomes severe stutter through the medium of f-bombs.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It is satisfying to watch prissy people swear.
The Fucking Context: Gyllenhaal family dinner gets real.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: Like the movie itself, it makes no fucking sense.
The Fucking Context: Bruce Willis gets catchphrase, runs with it.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It might not be all that great. Bruce Willis might have just worn us the fuck down.
The Fucking Context: We meet the usual suspects, they yell at us.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: The sheer variety of fucks. Morose, gleeful, bemused, thoughtful, morose. Fuck really spreads its wings here.
The Fucking Context: Cartman has learned the f-word, and he is eager to share his findings.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It harkens back to the delicious, forbidden f-bombs of early childhood.
The Fucking Context: Paul Rudd's zen surfing instructor shares his philosophy.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It's the truest thing we've ever heard.
The Fucking Context: Booger from Revenge of the Nerds spits hot truth.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It's true. Why the fuck do you think we're doing this?
The Fucking Context: The makers of a fake movie share an inside joke.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: "Oh! Because it sounds like ah, go fuck yourself!" – [Me]
The Fucking Context: The Roman Senate reveals its true purpose.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It has never not been super fucking relevant.
The Fucking Context: The Mafia's guiding principle, laid bare.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It was very nearly the thing Donald Trump had embroidered on his campaign hats.
The Fucking Context: The whole movie is one nonstop f-bomb
What Makes It So Fucking Great: It's all the fun of cocaine—without the expense, strained personal relationships, and heart trauma.
The Fucking Context: Dennis Hopper wants some.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: Who among us hasn't longed, just once, to shout this out loud?
The Fucking Context: Steve Carell gets his chest waxed, the world is made to feel his pain.
What Makes It So Fucking Great: People so rarely suffer for their art these days.

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By
Tracy Clark-Flory

Published June 21, 2011 5:01PM (EDT)

Related Topics ------------------------------------------
Love And Sex
Motherhood
Parenting
Sex

I finally had "the sex talk" with my mom on the final day of our family vacation. This isn't a teenage memory; this happened just last week, and I was the one quizzing her about youthful dalliances.
We all joke about the difficulty of the "birds and the bees" conversation, but what's talked about less often is the reverse: adults sitting their parents down and having "the talk." I don't mean showing them how to use a condom (although recent reports suggest seniors could actually use a refresher course on safe sex); I mean asking them about their first sexual memory, losing their virginity, having "the talk" with their parents and so on and so forth. These are the revealing, powerful details that are excluded from parental folklore. Sex gets at the core of a person and it felt to me like an essential part of knowing my mom more fully -- as a person, not just a parent.
My hippie parents were always open to talking about the mind-bending wonders of meaningful, loving sex -- and how it's the "glue" (ew) of marriage -- but I knew little of my mom's sexual and romantic past. I had lots of questions, and her terminal cancer diagnosis a year ago drove home the fact that I might never have them answered. I also know someone whose father passed away before he could ask him some burning sexual questions, namely why his dad's marriage to his mom was largely sexless. Now it will forever be a mystery to him, one that is deeply tied to concerns he has about his own sexual experiences, and it haunts him.
So I knew I had to have "the talk" -- but it was easier said than done. I write about sex virtually every day and my parents read most of what I write -- about everything from orgasmic meditation demonstrations to the rising popularity of anal play among straight men -- but the prospect of asking my mom about her "first time" made me blanch.
Then, last week, I went for a hike with my dad through a forest of lichen-covered oak trees. Afterward, on the twisty mountain drive back home, he started to cry; something I had said, an exclamation over an enchanting patch of moss, had reminded him of my mom, who can no longer walk in nature -- or for any significant distance at all. Before long, I was tearing up too and choked out the words: I have questions for mom, but I'm scared to ask. I sounded more like a preteen than a 27-year-old; I guess sex can do that to you at any age. He privately relayed our conversation to her -- which I knew to expect on some level -- and she approached me later, smiling: You have some questions for me?
That was all it took. We sat there for nearly two hours, talking and, at points, crying. Who was your first boyfriend? When did you lose your virginity? How did you feel about it? What kind of men did you date when you were in your 20s? What was your sex life like before Dad? She matter-of-factly illuminated what had seemed like dark canyons of secrecy. I'll have to keep most of it in the shadows here, because these are her stories, not mine -- but, as an example, I learned that her first sexual experience wasn't something that she at all romanticized. At the time, she felt "glad to get that over with" -- meaning losing her virginity and all of the absurd religious moralizing attached to it. She was rebelling against a strict and old-fashioned father.
That helps explain her relaxed attitude to letting my high school boyfriend, my first love, sleep over (and move in during my senior year, but that's a much longer story). Oh, how the pendulum swings! And yet the apple doesn't fall far from the tree: She explained how in her 20s men reacted to her as an anomaly because she thoroughly enjoyed sex rather than treating it like a chore; she's always felt a bit like a sexual outsider. These are things I'm all too familiar with myself. You see, this sex stuff matters for the same reason we ask our parents anything about their childhood: We like to know where we come from. Often enough, we can see ourselves reflected in their stories -- whether it's nature or nurture or some perplexing combination thereof.
Long before I pulled off this conversational feat, I talked with a friend who had undertaken the same maternal investigation. Much to her surprise, she discovered that her mom had cheated on her father once and never told anyone until that very moment. The rest of what she learned was less shocking, but still fascinating, and humanizing. "The hardest part is asking that first question," she told me at the time with the flushed, wide-eyed fervor of a teenage girl reporting her first sexual encounter to a less experienced friend. "It's all downhill after that, and it's worth it." Now here I am telling you, She was right.
Copyright © 2022 Salon.com, LLC. Reproduction of material from any Salon pages without written permission is strictly prohibited. SALON ® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office as a trademark of Salon.com, LLC. Associated Press articles: Copyright © 2016 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

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I never felt like a victim, but long after I grew up, every sexual experience brought me back to that winter night I didn’t understand
T here’s a reason why, when a woman whispers her story of sexual abuse, when she writes about it , when she Tweets about it or carries a mattress around on her back, calls the police or a rape crisis line, I believe her.
The reason is because it happened to me. And you didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.
Uncle “Doug” was an old friend of my parents; he visited our family often and occasionally joined us for holidays. One evening, when I was six, he offered to babysit me and my older sister at his house.
Before bedtime, Uncle Doug told us both a bedtime story about a werewolf who howled at the moon in the bitter cold of winter on top of a snowy hill, just like the hill outside the window over the sink in Uncle Doug’s kitchen. He could do these pitch-perfect character voices, and in that way, he was charismatic and appealing to children. The werewolf would howl, he said, his thirst for the blood of children relentless, until one night he came charging through a window of a house trying to catch the little girl inside. The broken glass pierced his throat, and then he was dead, his head hanging over the sill, blood dripping down the wall to the floor.
And then my sister went to bed, and I sat in his small, dimly lit kitchen, on his lap, as he nuzzled my hair and then my ear and neck, and squeezed me hard and soft at the same time. I remember staring fixedly at the window in his kitchen, into the dark snowy night, through a pane of cold glass, the moon casting shadows, a dark tree, listening for the howl of the werewolf, trying not to pay attention to what was actually happening.
What was actually happening is that he was kissing me, whispering in my ear things I didn’t understand, and rubbing the tops of my 6-year-old thighs, ri
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