"Rarely, a few individuals in the contemporary era have accused Lovecraft of being a pedophile, citing his close correspondence with several writers during their teenage years such as R. H. Barlow, August Derleth, and Frank Belknap Long, and in particular Lovecraft rooming with Barlow’s family when HPL visited Florida in the summers of 1934 and 1935. No letters, anecdotes, or memorials I have gone through so much as hint at such a sexual relationship or interest on the part of any of those individuals, not even Barlow’s occasionally explicit 'Autobiography,' published in O Fortunate Floridian H. P. Lovecraft’s Letters to R. H. Barlow parentheses 2007, Joshi & Schultz end parentheses...what the fuck is this, Jill?" Simone asked.
"My thesis." Jill took a pull at the brown stubbie in her hand, and stared at her flatmate seated on the couch. Pink lips matched the pink shadows on her eyes, matched the cloudy pink gin in her hand. On Simone's lap, something small and so inbred as to be almost shapeless panted in her lap, beady eyes only staring brainlessly out at the world thanks to the little pink bow that brought her bangs up in a tuft above her head. Jill took another sip. "Last six months of my life."
Jill was in a wifebeater and basketball pants; loose, flowing clothing that swished with every move. She liked the texture, the sound. No makeup tonight, or most nights; skin too pale by far, and lines in the mirror that started to remind her of her father's face. Simone's dress fell low on her tonight, and the hint of cleavage was tantalizing. Unconsciously, she swished as her legs rubbed together.
"So people think he was into little boys?" Simone asked.
"No. That's the point, people don't think that. And it wasn't like...not children. Long and Bloch and Barlow were all teenagers when HPL knew them. Some people, who should know better, but didn't do the research or insist on reading things into the situation just write these things." Jill felt a rant coming on and took a sip of beer to shut herself up.
"No girls. So he was gay?" Simone asked. Jill found herself starting at the pink lipstick edging the glass in her hand.
"No...well, probably not. I mean, there are no records of him claiming he was homosexual, or having sex with men, or anything like that. Not many stories of him having sex with anybody, really. He was married once, couple years, but it didn't work out. Some people think that means he was closeted, and..."
"So why does it matter?" Simone finished off the drink and laid it carefully at her feet, freeing up one hand to pet the royal mop-dog curled up in her lap. The purebred critter rolled around to expose its belly, empty eyes lost in orgasmic ecstasy, legs kicking as the fingers tickled her tiny dugs.
Jill sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
Simone set the thesis pages aside, and then the four-footed fur monster as she stood up, who gave a brief wurf of protest before settling into the warm spot that Simone's ass had made in the couch. Jill watched her sashay over - real hip swaying, hypnotic side to side motion with just a touch of jiggle.
"It's...important. It's part of the study of his life, and his work. His stories are still read today, they're so influential in fiction, comics, movies. It's important that people see him as he was, get a real picture of him. When people make shit up it just, I don't know, distorts the signal. There's already so many misconceptions of him out there. That he was a creep, a monster, a shut-in ruled by fear and xenophobia, a momma's boy ruled by women, a Nazi, a racist...I'm not saying he was perfect..." Jill gasped as one of Simone's hands had wandered up to find a nipple, which hardened under her fingers. The nails were painted pink. "He had his flaws. He had a weird life. He was a product of his time and upbringing, and sometimes that's embarrassing today but at least it's true. You can look at his stories and his letters and the things he says about eugenics and black people and...well, it's there. It's not all pretty..."
"But you have to know, don't you." Simone whispered in her ear. "Let me ask you this: if there was a single shred of evidence - a single reference or contemporary anecdote that this Lovecraft guy was a pedo - would you put it in your thesis?"
"Yes," Jill said, as Simone's other hand moved south, tickling the hairs on her belly. The pants swished. "Absolutely."
"Then that's all right then."