His blood is cold. He is as smooth as an egg below because reptiles do not possess external genitalia. Neither does he have the mammalian nipples that would make him truly nurtuarnt. Barney is not only a reptile, but an extinct reptile, one of nature's dead ends. Thus, Barney's rituals prove sterile.
Imagination can never provide a safe haven.
It must be sado-masochistic theatre or a place of holy dread. Nor can sexuality be neutered and de-clawed like some feminist professor's pet cat. There is an invisible knife-point at Michael's throat, held there eternally by cthonian Lucy, and nothing can be done about it. Barney can offer children only a world of Late Romantic Decadence, cold, polished, and artificial. Under that false sky, Barney's smile turns sinister.