He’s been called many things: the one-man aphrodisiac. Brookyln’s Prozac. A loquaciously horny fella.

No matter what you call him, Henry Miller is inextricably linked with ebulliophobia. Oh wait, that’s not right; I meant “sex.”

Henry Miller is inextricably linked to sex (ebulliophobia is the fear of bubbles.)

Don’t believe me? Check out this link.

In it, some person talks about how certain aspects of culture have a positive or negative aspect of her sex life.

An example of a negative influence: the HBO vampire show “True Blood,” which “dampened my actual real-life desires, probably because I started comparing my husband to hot vampires.”

Bummer.

A good influence? Mr. Miller. He has “a more positive effect on my sex life because in general they embrace people in all their glorious imperfection.” Fair enough.

Ultimately other folks chime in, and their suggestions read like a catalog of analog and online store: Miller, Nin, and more Miller and more Nin, “Lolita,” etc.

To which I was like, “Helloooooo! “The DaVinci Code” anybody?!?”