I think we can agree, as gentlemen, that H.P. Lovecraft fucking rocks. He's the pulp fiction author whose stories for Weird Tales in the 1920s and 30s vaulted the magazine into the realm of demented genius. He pretty much invented the tentacle subgenre of gothic horror, and also consumed nothing but candy and coffee for most of his adult life. A couple of years ago I went on a pilgrimage his hometown of Providence, RI, and tracked down the apartment where he lived when he was writing his darkest tales of lurking evil. It was occupied by some chick with an SUV who was unloading groceries. At least Lovecraft's favorite hangout, the cemetery, was virtually unchanged.
Lovecraft is perhaps most famous for inventing Cthulhu, the tentacled monster of the deep who sometimes awakens to fill the dreams of humans with terrifying visions of shocking, alien architectures. To look upon Cthulhu is to go mad; to consort with his spawn is to become like a god. He's sort of like a cross between a sea monster, an alien, and Marilyn Manson. For those of us who can't get enough of Cthulhu, there's Cthulhu Sex magazine, designed for "connoisseurs of sensual horror." Each issue contains art and stories devoted to sex coupled with death, aliens, tentacles, and bloody strips of meat. I'm sure if dead Cthulhu weren't dreaming in his undersea palace at R'lyeh, he'd be wanking to this magazine. Pick up an issue today!
Cthulhu Sex [magazine website]
