Wood, Gold, and Wax: The Strangely Fishy Tale of Osiris, Isis, and a Missing Member

The cover of Pagan Magazine (2026)

 showing Isis in bird form and the artificial phallus of Osiris  

 

 

I. 

 

The myth of Osiris tells the story of an Egyptian king-god who was murdered by his jealous brother Set, the god of chaos, dismembered, and then magically brought back to life after his devoted wife (and sister) Isis located and assembled all the widely scattered body parts except one - his penis. 

 

Unfortunately, this fourteenth piece had been tossed in the Nile and swallowed by a fish - most probably an Oxyrhynchus or what is commonly called an elephant fish and known for its bizarrely modified mouthparts resembling a trunk [1].     

 

Still, never one to allow a small setback derail her plans, Isis fashioned an artificial phallus to replace Osiris's missing organ. Again, depending on which ancient source text one consults, the physical material she used to sculpt the phallus varies. 

 

Classical accounts most commonly state she carved a simple wooden replacement. However, several regional myths detail her sparing no expense and crafting a mighty golden phallus. Alternatively, Roman-era historians mention her favouring wax to recreate the missing part.

 

 

II. 

 

Now, it just so happens that a German friend of mine custom designs highly beautiful - and highly expensive [2] - dildos and so I naturally asked her which of these three ancient options would actually be best for internal use. 

 

Based on safety concerns and body compatibility, she said that wood is the number one choice - provided, that is, that the item is properly finished with a hypoallergenic sealant (i.e., a skin safe, non-toxic, and non-porous clear coating) to protect against splinter risks and prevent bacteria from building up in the wood grain.     

 

As for which type of wood to use, she recommends a hardwood such as maple, cherry, or walnut (not only are these naturally sturdy, but they retain warmth too).   

 

As for a 24k gold artificial phallus, that would be safe for internal use and arguably the most aesthetically appropriate choice for a god-king. However, gold is not only an exceptionally expensive [3] and extremely heavy metal, but is also an exceptionally soft one that scratches easily thereby allowing microscopic traps for bacteria, so not ideal. So not great in the long run.     

 

That said, either wood or gold is preferable to wax as a material. In fact, my friend was horrified by the thought of using wax. Not only can it melt at body temperature, but it is highly brittle and can therefore easily snap under pressure. Wax is also porous, impossible to properly sanitise, and presents a severe risk of chemical irritation or infection.

 

In sum: my friend says always choose medical-grade silicone or borosilicate glass - though she appreciates these weren't available options in Ancient Egypt and that Isis had to work with what she had at the time.   

 

 

III.

 

According to Ancient Egyptian mythology, once she had assembled all the other body parts Isis attached the prosthetic phallus and magically awakened the latent virility within Osiris's reanimated corpse. 

 

She was assisted in this by her sister Nepthys as well as the god Anubis, who oversaw all things to do with death and essentially acted as a jackal-headed funeral director. Thoth may also have been present, taking notes on the proceedings.  

 

Somewhat strangely, having resurrected her husband, Isis hovered directly over his prone body in the form of a predatory bird, vigorously flapping her wings. In this way, she drew out his seed and they conceived a child (Horus). 

 

Post-coital exhaustion proved fatal to poor Osiris, however, and he promptly snuffed it a second time. His corpse was then completely wrapped in bandages - et voila! the Egyptian tradition of mummification was born [4].  

 

Notes

 

[1] Uncertain of the species, ancient scholars debated whether it could have been a large carp, or perhaps even a catfish, that swallowed Osiris's penis. Whatever the species, by consuming the divine sex organ a fish had literally ingested the generative power of a god and, in the eyes of Egyptian priests, this made it both a sacred and spiritually impure animal. This belief resulted in a religious taboo about eating fish on certain holy days (particularly freshwater fish that had been caught in the Nile).

      It might also be noted, however, that the ancient Egyptians did not view the fish eating Osiris's penis as a total tragedy; it was thought to also guarantee the eternal fertility of the river and that the Nile's annual flooding would make the soil rich enough to grow grain.

 

[2] Her standard designer dildos run between £100 and £500, with bespoke, custom-sculpted pieces starting at £1,000. For the discerning customer, ultra-luxury editions carved from solid rose quartz and encrusted with precious gemstones can cost significantly more.

 

[3] Based on current market rates, my friend tells me a pure gold seven-inch dildo weighing roughly 90 troy ounces would cost approximately £304,000 ($414,000) in raw gold melt value alone. Because 24k gold is an incredibly dense and heavy precious metal, the actual price would vary based on its specific thickness and whether it is hollow or completely solid.

 

[4] Because Osiris had been mummified, his spirit was now tethered to the underworld, meaning he could never again return as a living man. Because of his previous status - even if missing his penis - he was soon recognised as Ruler of the Afterlife and Lord of Silence.    

 

 

What Was I Thinking? (13 December)

Torpedo the Ark: images from posts published on 

13 December (2014-2023)

 

 

Apart from 2012, 2013, 2019, 2020, and 2022, I have published a post on this date on Torpedo the Ark in every year since its inception. And sometimes, it can be instructive to look back and see what one was thinking and how things may have changed since ...

 

 

Carry On Facesitting (13 Dec 2014) 

This perfectly innocent post is, I discover, another now placed behind a sensitive content warning by the censor-morons who police things for Blogger (which has been owned and hosted by Google since 2003): is it something I said in the text, is it the accompanying image, or is it both? 

 

I don't know. And Google will not say: they simply refer you to their community guidelines and then invite you to identify your own wrongdoing, rectify the situation, and then republish the post in the hope that, after an official review, you'll be allowed to keep it up and that it will be freely accessible to readers. 

For the record: the post is fine as is and I do not intend to make any changes to it. It does not advocate facesitting, although, even if it did, this is not a criminal activity and harms no one.

 

Rather, the post simply reported on a good-natured and somewhat comical protest outside Parliament by sex workers, freedom-loving perverts, and various interested and/or sympathetic parties against new legislation that prohibits the depiction of certain kinky (but nonetheless perfectly legal) acts between consenting adults.

 

It amazed me then and amazes me now, that the UK government might spend its time opposing activities such as facesitting - or regulating the size of dildos - on the (spurious) grounds of health and safety. As one of the organisers of the protest pointed out, the new laws are not only anti-queer, but also inherently sexist, as many of the activities discriminated against are ones that afford specifically female pleasure and empowerment. 

 

 

On the Truth of Things (13 Dec 2015) 

 

Whilst conceding that questions concerning politics and psychagogy are philosophically interesting and that one must invariably return to them at some point, for me, back in 2015 - in my object-oriented days - I was more enthralled by those entities that make up an inhuman and non-human universe and encourage the posing of questions that do not always posit Man as the central subject or final solution.

 

In other words - and I still think this now - the beauty and the truth of things is precisely that they exist mind independently and it's a real joy to occasionally write about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens (not to mention bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens), rather than just human ideas and human relations.

 

 

Reflections from a Sickbed (13 Dec 2016) 

 

It strikes me that the depressing thing about a long-term health condition, is that it lowers your expectations of what constitutes a good life; one is suddenly pleased merely to experience a pain-free day.  

On the other hand, convalescence is a vital phenomenon and so sometimes one welcomes being sick, so that one can, as Heidegger would say, return home to oneself and one's destiny - which of course is death (as all being is a being-towards death). 

 

That being the case, it's not surprising that when ill in bed back on December 13th, 2016 my thoughts should turn to the question of how best to dispose of that most accursed of all objects, one's own corpse. After considering several of the main methods, including cremation, inhumation, and immurement, I decided that a Tibetan sky burial - in which one is literally fed to the vultures - was the most attractive option.  

 

 

Kissing Hitler 1: Some Like It Hot / Kissing Hitler 2: Notes on the Führer's Love Life (13 Dec 2017) 

 

Not one, but two posts on the theme of kissing Hitler published on the same day back in 2017 - what was I thinking, indeed! Perhaps there's some truth in Godwin's law after all ...

Although, as a matter of fact, the first post - 'Some Like It Hot' - was more about Tony Curtis (and what it was like to share an on-screen smooch with Marilyn Monroe), than about Hitler as a recipient of amorous affection. 

 

The second post, however, did look somewhat deeper into Hitler's love life - something that has long been subject to critical and clinical analysis, as well as sensational speculation and obscene rumour. I arrived at the conclusion that, ultimately, it was a pity that Hitler wasn't more of a libertine and less of a Nazi; it's always better to make love rather than war, no matter how perversely one may choose to do so.      

 

On Poetry and Plagiarism (With Reference to the Case of Ailey O'Toole) (13 Dec 2018) 

 

The case of the young American poet Ailey O'Toole - which caused a bit of fuss in certain literary circles - still interests me and I still feel that Ms. O'Toole has nothing to apologise for or feel ashamed about and that she was treated poorly by moralists defending bourgeois (and untenable) notions of intellectual property.

 

For the fact remains, very few poets invent neologisms; and even fewer have original thoughts or feelings. They essentially rearrange the words of a shared language and play with the ideas and emotions of the culture to which they belong. It's an art - and it can produce amazing results - but poetry is never a personal or private matter, no matter how idiosyncratic one's writing style. 

 

As Roland Barthes would argue, the poem-as-text is neither representative of a non-linguistic reality, nor expressive of an author's unique being. It's explainable only through other words that are also drawn from a pre-given, internalised dictionary. Every poem is, in a sense, already a copy of a copy of a copy whose origin is forever lost and meaning infinitely deferred. 

 

Wherever she is today - and whatever she's doing - I send Ms. O'Toole kind regards and warm wishes.  

 

 

Notes on the Fetishist (And Other Stories) by Michel Tournier (13 Dec 2020)

 

Michel Tournier was the writer I loved reading most in the winter of 2020-21 and I wrote over twenty posts inspired by (or referencing) his work in this period. 

 

This includes the above post, in which I offered a series of notes on a collection of stories originally published in French under the title Le Coq de Bruyère (1978) and which offered a queer and often disconcerting dip into the world of the sordid supernatural (to borrow the author's own description).  

 

Those who enjoy philosophically-informed fiction that explores the porno-mythic imagination and accelerates what Jonathan Dollimore terms the perverse dynamic, will like this book - and like it a lot. Other readers, who don't enjoy such fiction, probably won't like it so much (but then, such people probably aren't spending time on this blog either). 

 

The Day of the Golden Jackal (13 Dec 2021)

 

I love felines: but I'm not so keen on canids. 

 

That said, I was happy to discover back in December 2021 that the number of golden jackals - small wolf-like animals, about three times the size of a red fox - have been rapidly expanding in number and increasing their range in recent decades. 

 

Apparently, you can now find jackals living, hunting, and howling in many parts of Central and Northeastern Europe and it has been estimated by the IUCN that whilst there may be fewer than 17,000 wolves left in Europe, there are around 117,000 jackals - and the more the merrier, I say, although, of course, all the usual suspects - such as farmers - raise their familiar objections. 

 

Sadly, therefore, these intelligent and sociable animals continue to be hunted in many countries; one can only invoke the great jackal-headed god Anubis to bite off the hands and tear out the throats of those who harm them (some think that capital punishment for deliberate cruelty to animals is a bit extreme, but I'm not one of them). 

 

 

On the Haunting Beauty of Sue Lloyd (13 Dec 2023)

 

Finally, on December 13th last year, I discussed how, as I get older, my desire is increasingly tied to nostalgia and has effectively become a type of spectrophilia; i.e., sexual attraction to ghosts, or, as in my case, the haunting images of dead actresses from the 1960s and '70s. 

 

This includes Sue Lloyd, who guest starred in many much loved English TV shows during this period, but is perhaps best remembered today for her long-running role as as Barbara Hunter (née Brady) in the British soap opera Crossroads.

 

A former dancer and model, Miss Lloyd also appeared in a number of films; performing alongside Michael Caine in The Ipcress File (1965) and Joan Collins in The Stud (1978), for example.  

 

But what I like most about Miss Lloyd is not her acting credentials, but the fact she exuded the kind of dazzling beauty and sexual sophistication of the older woman which excited me as an adolescent and continues to work its magic some 50 years later. 

 

 

The Day of the Golden Jackal

Canis aureus

 

 

Golden jackals are small wolf-like canids, about three times the size of a red fox, native to Southeast Europe and parts of Asia, with a lovely coloured coat (the golden base shade varying seasonally from a pale creamy yellow to a dark tawny), though, fortunately, not one prized by the fur trade, as it is quite coarse in texture and relatively short in length. 

 

And, I'm pleased to report, their numbers and range have been rapidly expanding during the last few decades. Indeed, you can now find jackals living, hunting and howling in many parts of Central and Northeastern Europe, occupying areas where there are few or no wolves, but abundant food and shelter. 

 

It has been estimated by the IUCN that whilst there may be fewer than 17,000 wolves left in Europe, there are around 117,000 jackals - and the more the merrier, I say, although, of course, all the usual suspects - such as farmers - raise their familiar objections and even poets warn: "We should never have let the jackals loose, and patted them on the head. They were feeding on our death all the while."

 

Sadly, therefore, these intelligent and sociable animals continue to be hunted in many countries and in the charming region of Transcaucasia, where they still associate jackals (as carrion-eaters) with the underworld, they are caught with large fishing hooks baited with meat and suspended three feet from the ground with wire (as the jackals can only reach the meat by jumping, they are then hooked by the lip or jaw). 

 

May the great jackal-headed god Anubis bite off the hands and tear out the throats of those who practice such cruelty ...

 

St. Christopher: the Dog-Headed Saint

Ágios Christóforos

Kynokephalos

Until I read the 'Sinister Writings of Abel Tiffauges' [1], I had no idea that St. Christopher - the Christ-bearer - was widely believed in Byzantium to belong to the savage race of dog-headed people known as the cynocephali ... 

 

Obviously, the Orthodox Church didn't like to acknowledge this and disapproved of depictions of the saint that showed him as semi-human; it was only from the 17th-century on that artists began to paint Christopher in his full therianthropic glory (though these images were prescribed in 18th-century Russia during the reign of Peter the Great).        

 

The ancient Greeks, of course, were long familiar with canine-headed Egyptian dieties, such as Duamutef (son of Horus) and Anubis (ruler of all things associated with death) and believed that there was a race of dog-headed people living in the mountains of India who wore the skins of animals and communicated by barking.     

The cynocephali afford such a marvellous combination of magic and animality, that they have become archetypal figures within the human imagination, as we can see, for example, in medieval art and literature. Early Christian scholars wrestled with the question of their origin; how could they be descendants of Adam? And, if they weren't descendants of Adam, then how could they be considered human?     

It really is a fascinating topic; one which certainly makes me more interested in the life of St. Christopher, who was not only canine of feature, but described by some as a giant. I do wish he'd dropped the accursed Christ-child in the river, however, and left him there to drown. For if he had, then perhaps the latter's moral legacy would not continue to weigh so heavily upon us all ...   

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Part I of Michel Tournier's brilliant novel The Erl-King, trans. Barbara Bray, (Atlantic Books, 2014). See pp. 35-37. The account given here of the life of St. Christopher is adapted from Jacapo da Varazze's Golden Legend - a collection of hagiographies originally compiled c. 1259-66 and widely read in late-Medieval Europe.