The whole month of May is International Masturbation Month. It's a month devoted entirely to the celebration of self-love. Masturbation is definitely one of my favorite activities other than eating and crying. At first I couldn't help but wonder, what's the point of having an International Masturbation Month? I mean really, it's not like masturbation has any huge historical or political significance. It's just something you do while you're lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, or while taking a shower, or while watching the 1994 hit film Airheads. Then I read this text about how to “cure” yourself from masturbation attributed to Mark E. Petersen of the Church of Latter Day Saints. It's called “Steps in Overcoming Masturbation” and gives in depth advice on how to overcome its evil and impurity. I got to admit there are some pretty clever tips in here like: wear complicated pajamas, pray constantly, leave the door open when you shower, stop being friends with people who masturbate, eat food every time you want to jerk off, never be alone, never feel lonely or sad, associate masturbation with bathing in a tub filled with worms, etc... Clearly, wacking it has its enemies.

The San Francisco based sex shop Good Vibrations started Masturbation Month in 1995, in response to the firing of then-Surgeon General Dr. Joycelyn Elders who suggested masturbation be included in youth sex education programs. “We were astounded. It was one of the most sensible things we'd ever heard a government official say—and it cost Elders her job!” They also write,  “Of all the kinds of sex people can have, masturbation is the most universal and important, yet few people talk about it freely. Worse, many people still feel it is "second best" or problematic in some way. Masturbation Month lets us emphasize how great it is. it's natural, common, and fun!”

You hear that? Natural, common, and fun! Let's not be so private about what we do in our private time. We need to be reminded that masturbation is both a privilege and a right. I’ve put together just a few ideas as to how you can take advantage of the few days of International Masturbation Month we have left. Let’s go out with a bang.

Say No to a Booty Call

When you get a late night text from an actual human being who wants to have sex with you, politely decline with something like, “normally I would, but it's International Masturbation Month.” They will completely understand, and in fact praise you for supporting such an important social cause. They might even think you will make a great parent one day. 

Tell All Your Friends That You're About to Masturbate

A simple Facebook status will do.  Something short and sweet like, “about 2 jerk off lol” or “brb, rubbing one out afk” is a perfect way to let everyone know you're not ashamed of touching your junk. Your friends will be extremely supportive, and comment things such “go you!” or "#YOLO."

Masturbate Everywhere You Go

Do it everywhere—parks, bathrooms, restaurants, weddings, movie theaters, funerals. If any cops try to arrest you, simply explain to them that you are celebrating a month long international holiday. If they still feel it's necessary to arrest, remind them that interfering with an international holiday could sever US Relations with major foreign allies and possibly bring about a third world war.

Write Erotic Fan Fiction for Your Genitals

Nothing turns me on more than writing about my vagina. I've written some intense fan fiction for my vagina. She's been a superhero, a marine, and even ambassador to France who always somehow gets trapped in an elevator for several minutes with nothing but a picture of Steve Buscemi circa Airheads to spend her time with. If you're not very good at writing erotica, buy a copy of Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer and replace all character names with “My dick” or “My vagina.”

@JustAboutGlad

More stuff about wanking it:

Octomom Masturbating Is the 38th Wonder of the World  

Rubbing One Out with a Roommate  

Shuffle and Splooge  

Hello,

Every week or so I use this column as a space to discuss and review comics, fine art, illustration, and general nerd interest in the e-pages of VICE magazine. This is the second week in a row that my column has been about art shows. Next week we'll go back to reviews about books and crap, I promise.

I attended a preview of Nobuyoshi Araki's new photo show at the Mana Contemporary Center of Arts and it was good but also very strange. The PR email said that I'd get free lunch, which is really all they had to say. The press lady for the museum got all the journalists onto a bus and then we drove through New Jersey's abandoned district to one of the biggest goddamn art museums in the middle of nowhere. Seriously, this place is huge—like 1.1 million square feet huge.

It turned out that the preview wasn't just about Araki. We were shown three floors of stuff, each with a little speech by people who were involved with the shows. It felt a little like being at a friend's family reunion.

This was in a room of pieces that seemed to be about blurring the line between painting and sculpture. They were dull but not aggressively bad.

We looked at another room that contained formulaic collages before being allowed into the Araki show. It kinda looked like walking into heaven.

The photos were displayed in a giant room. Araki's photos are mostly of nude women, tied up or looking vulnerable. He also takes photos of lizards and flowers. He is one of the greatest photographers of all time.

I thought this was pretty.

I thought this was pretty. I heard one middle aged woman who rode the bus with me call the photographs "insidious."

I thought this was pretty. I talked to a gallery guide who, like the bus-lady, also wasn't into the Araki photos.

I thought this was pretty. I wasn't really sure if anyone involved with this event actually liked the photos or if everyone was embarrassed to be around them.

There was a little wall of miniature transparent photos. Like negatives but the colors weren't inverted.

I thought this was pretty. This is what they looked like closer up.

I thought this was pretty. We weren't allowed into this room but most of Araki's books were displayed on this wall.

I wanted to stay in the Araki room and watch the "Arakimentari" they had playing, but we were ushered to another floor. The next show we saw was introduced by an art collector who buys more art than she could ever display. This piece above appears to be a woman's pubic hair made out of black chain and its title was, Every Girl I Ever Loved Has Wanted to Be Hit. This isn't terrible, but where's the craft? This is post-Twitter art.

This combines two trends in fine art I hate: neon and a vague non-message about racism. Also, the gallery guide said he didn't think the one noose was supposed to be out.

I thought this was kind of pretty. I like images of people lying down and staring off into space though.

I saw this crazy mosaic and thought, What is that?

When I got closer I saw it was a blanket made from thousands of coke bags stitched together. This was OK but kinda felt like half an idea. Fred Tommaselli did some amazing stuff that incoroporated drugs, but he went a lot further and made prettier things.

This piece was called A Bunch of Stuff Zip-Tied Together.

This painting is by Yigal, one of the guys who runs the art center. I like it a lot. It's about eight feet wide.

This piece is also by Yigal. It's like 15 feet wide and took him a year with ten assistants. It's called Territory.

We were then taken to the Middle Eastern section, where they were showing video art pieces by arabic women. They were all very, very slow moving and boring but with some pretty shots.

Finally we were taken to our free lunches, but not before passing this dance studio, which felt more like a human zoo.

Besides the Araki show this was my favorite piece. It was by the bathrooms.

Here is the room where we ate our free lunches.

Here I am eating my sandwiches by myself. The sandwiches were very good.

Here's a photo I took of a lady next to a hyper detailed painting of her done by Yigal.

When I got back to my neighborhood Girls was being shot on my street. You can see the corner of Lena Dunham's head if you look closely.

The Araki show will be up at Mana Contemporary through August 16. The other exhibits will also be up until then. Go check it out.

http://www.artmanafest.com/index.php

Previously - Nick Gazin's Comic Book Love-In #87

@NicholasGazin

My “weird” sex thing is crotchless panties. I’ve never had anal, I think 69'ing is stupid, and I’m not about to go around pissing on someone, even in the shower, unless, you know, I was, like, in love and he really, really begged for it. But I do enjoy wearing underpants with the important bits cut out, and when I say “enjoy,” I mean nothing else on this planet, not even nude Jake Johnson offering me a burrito, could make me hornier. There’s something about wearing something while having sex—even if it’s just lace around my hips—that really turns me on.

I first discovered this when I was about 23. Wanting to impress a boy I loved more than I’ve ever loved any boy before or since (so much he didn’t even have to beg), I bought a crotchless lace g-string and matching lace bra with the boob region cut out, garter belt, and thigh high tights from Ann Summers and surprised him on his birthday. (Budget option: take a pair of scissors to existing cotton briefs. BONUS: kill two birds with one stone by cutting out the crotch on pairs that have yellowed over time and you’ve been too lazy/cheap to throw out.) Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Well, if we are to consider the men I’ve been with a representative sample for the population as a whole, no, you probably don’t. While that ex boyfriend was crazy about my penchant for negligible undies, others haven’t been so bonered-up by the idea.

The next long-term boyfriend I had wasn’t into it at all. I wore them for him once and he looked at me, top lip curled in scorn, blood rushing from his penis, and spat, “Who else have you worn those in front of?”

But he’s not the only one! I’ve brought the prospect up on two other occasions with more recent boyfriends and been told it “sounded stupid and weird,” with one guy even saying he’d probably just laugh at me if he saw me wearing sexy lingerie.I am truly, honestly baffled as to why a straight male in his “raging hormones” period of life wouldn’t want to see a woman— and moreover, the woman he regularly sleeps with—wearing itty-bitty panties with a cut out for him to stick his dick in. It’s perfect for lazy dudes! No need to even bother taking anything off, just slip it right in! More bang for your buck!

At this point I’ve stopped asking why guys don’t want to entertain my penchant for kinky underwear and started asking why they don’t. In a relationship ,sometimes both parties have to suck it up (be it cum or fucking a girl with crotchless panties) and do things they don’t necessarily enjoy in order to please their partner. All of the men mentioned above expected me to fulfill certain functions for them sexually; functions that weren’t always my favorite things to do, but I did regardless, because mostly I am too lazy to give blowjobs, but I know it would be mean to have a boyfriend and let such a selfish, sluggish thing get in the way of his having them. And yet, all of the men mentioned above flat out refused to meet my requests.

It’s inherently accepted in sex—even in what we deem “healthy” and “nonviolent” sexual relationships—that women will do things they don’t really love to please a man, like suck on his balls or go doggy style. In my experience, as well as the experiences of many women I speak with about sex regularly, there’s rarely even a polite question put forward before a man follows his impulses in the bedroom. That is to say, oftentimes a dude will just try and stick it up your butt without notice.

Yes, sex should be spontaneous and crazy sometimes—no one wants to feel like they have to ask their partner “Are you OK?” every 30 seconds—and it’s always great to have that level of trust with someone, but the fact remains that there’s still an imbalanced gender dynamic where sexual intimacy is concerned. Men aren’t expected to just do things they might not be that interested in because women want them; and yet, though it goes largely unsaid, a woman who refuses to flip over and take it from behind by a guy who took the liberty to shove her hips around that way is a prude, someone who is killing the mood, or collar-pullingly awkward. That dynamic exists, and I’m not saying it happens with malicious intent, or that it exists in every relationship, but generally, in heteronormative sexual relations, the balance of power still resides with the male, no matter what we tell ourselves.

I’m fed up with not being allowed to wear my favorite panties to bed. Maybe next time I’ll just wear them under my dress and when it’s time for the clothes to come off and the dude I’m with is faced with the HORROR! of porn-star panties, I’ll just scream “PUNK’D!” and jump on top of him regardless.

Previously by Kat George - How to Fake an Orgasm (a Guide for Girls)

@kat_george

Turning onto Wilde Street from South Central Avenue, the surface is crackled like red veins across an alcoholic’s nose. Only a single block long, Wilde looks nothing more than mundane in the daylight image on Google Maps, but at five AM in the dark outskirts of my low beams, desperate silhouettes stumble about, forever in decline. A couple of brain-dead hoodlums walk out in front of me, daring me to run them over and when I nearly do one of them slaps the hindquarters of my car like he’s teaching me a lesson. I stop at the corner across from the American Fish building and hear semitrucks idling. A woman at the curb soliciting one last smoky blast before sunup looks to me with hope. I give her a nod and she climbs in. She’s got a face that’s made for taking a punch. Most of her teeth are missing, and the ones remaining look like pieces of gravel. She’s not working to pay the rent, and she’s not working to pay a pimp—she just needs to get high and is ready to do whatever is necessary.

I tell her 15 bucks; I want to take her picture.

She asks me if I want nasty pictures and then cackles like a voodoo queen. I tell her absolutely, and does she know a good place to go? She says right here is as good a place as any, and can I make it $20 instead of $15? I’m not comfortable here, so I tell her $20 is not a problem, but I’m going to drive around a bit, find a good background. “I’m Scot, what’s your name?”

“Gwendolyn, but everbuddy calls me Gwen. I been in San Pedro and just come up here. Everbuddy in San Pedro jus' wants to do smack all the time, so I come up here.”

“You don’t like junkies?”

“Hey, I got nothin’ against nobody. Live and let live, fuck yeah, that’s me. Just like I say what I say. I like meth. You like meth?”

“It’s been a while. I think it would make my neck and shoulders hurt.”

“You like smack?”

“I do, but I don’t make a habit of it.”

“It’s no fuckin’ good is what I always say.”

“Yeah, well.”

I find a parking lot behind a factory. A two-tone wall next to a loading dock. I park in the dark and damper the ignition. We climb out of the car and I give her the money.

“Nasty, nasty pictures,” she cackles again. “Five more and I’ll be fuckin’ nasty like nobody knows.” I give her another five, my last, and check my camera settings. I direct her to the wall where she exposes her tits and wags her tongue while I make a couple of flash exposures. I grip my cane with both hands to get down on my knees to get the angle I want, and tell her to squat for a shot.

“Fuck yeah,” she says. Now you get nasty all over.”

She squats and pulls up the hem of her short dress and she’s not wearing panties. It’s all in darkness and shadow but the strobe light exposes her shaved mons; her genitalia looks like someone chewed 20 pieces of Bazooka Joe bubble gum then stuck the wad between her legs. I got the shot but I don’t like it, it’s somehow too nasty, even for me. Four yards or so from Gwen’s left, a metal door rattles as someone from inside opens it and comes outside. A guy about my age in a gray uniform steps out with a couple bags of trash, notices me and Gwen, then yelps like he’s seen a ghost.

I’m startled as well and already off balance, I lose my footing and roll like a kicked-over turtle. Gwen looks at the guy, who looks like his white hair might stand on end, then at me, holding up my camera outfit like I’m under water and trying to keep it dry. She cackles like a witch passing by on a broom, and I’m glad she finds it funny—I figure she can use a laugh. The guy takes a deep breath then tells us we have no business here so just go on and get. He reaches down and gets a clump of dirt and weed and throws it at me, like he’s chasing off a hungry dog. He turns tail back inside closing the door and throwing the bolt.

“Fuck yeah,” says Gwen. “That old cocksucker’s got no respect.”

“Yeah, well,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

Previously - Goodbye, So-Long, Motherfucker

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.

Men suck at eating pussy. Not because they don’t like it but because it’s really fucking hard. You have to learn it. Giving good head is the key to just about everything in life (including getting good head later on), so it’s time we broke it down. Like this.

The secret to giving good head is to read the signs. You could be the best sexual mechanic in the world, but if you can’t read the emotional road signs, you’re going to end up wandering around in a desolate labial wasteland until, eventually, you drop from exhaustion, hot tears of confusion streaming down your face.

Think of eating the puss as your way of saying, “Although I am about to rock your insides with 3,000 lbs. of explosives, here’s a little intimate treat session to show you how I really feel.” Instead of a screaming “OH MY GOD!!” like her baby has been trapped under a car (which is what fucking should do), cunnilingus elicits a more splendiferous “ooohmygodohmygodohmygod.” Kind of like being massaged with exotic fruits by a muscular Arab oil sheik. A good mange (that’s French for “eat,” you brutes) is like a thousand years of Saturdays or a “Calgon, take me away” ad.

Break it down!

1) Be Down
Don’t go down unless you’re down. Unlike fellatio, cunnilingus can never be done as a favor. Doing it when you don’t want to will only bring on the dry heaves. Eat like a pig at the trough and a lot of stupid mistakes get forgiven.

2) Don’t Say Hi to Dry
A dry pussy is an unhappy pussy. If your fingers graze a dry bush, go back to the kissing and hugging for awhile. Just make sure you actually dip your finger between the lips. Sometimes moisture gets trapped between the labia and a little fingerial coaxing is all that’s needed to get the honey dripping.

Once you’re sure the beaver is wet, give it a few light, teasing strokes with your finger. There’s nothing worse than rushing into this, so make sure she’s really begging for it before you get under the covers.

Extra tip: Be like Prince and bring up a wet finger that both of you can share like a 1950s milkshake with two straws.

Important: Don’t play your trump card too soon by putting your fingers all the way inside. This can detract from the upcoming penetration and kill the tease factor. Try to remember that 78 percent of a woman’s pleasure is about yearning. Poking it in too soon is sure to put out the fire.

3) Submarine Mission for You, Baby
Once she’s lathered up, it’s time to go down. Get your fingers out of there and don’t touch anything for a bit. Let your lap do a bit of grinding and get some last-minute necking in like you’re going away on vacation.

Though it’s very tempting on your way down to pull the blankets over your head like the little mole-man that you are, this is a very bad idea. It gets super hot down there and whipping the duvet off your head and gasping for air ten seconds before she comes is pretty much going to kill the mood.

Start by kissing her boobs and stomach and slowly working your way down. Don’t get carried away with those stupid tits, though. That’s something you should have taken care of before the pants even came off. Right now it’s all about the stomach and inner thighs. A little bit of gentle biting is good, but a sure winner is to start at the knee and move towards the muff in a slow, shark-like swoop. Nibble your way right up to the edge of her cunt, then skip across it and head for the other knee. Repeat. Doing this a few times will get her really hot and save you a lot of pussy-eating time in the long run.

When you’re just about ready to do the deed, start practicing on that weird crevice next to the lips. Don’t spend too long there or she might start to think that you think that’s the actual cunt.

By now she should be dying for you to make your move. If you’re doing it right, she’ll be moaning and trying to force your head between her legs. Stretch this phase out until she looks like she’s been holding her breath for three days.

Extra trick: Hover over the bush for about five seconds before the first lick. If you wait longer than that, she might think you’re having second thoughts because it smells bad. Of course, we all know that motherfucker smells sweeter than a bowl of steamin’ crawdaddies.

Important: Never bite the cunt in any way whatsoever. If this needs more explaining you should probably just stick to jerking off.

4) Parting the Red Seas
Isolate your playing field. Pubic hairs are to eating pussy what the Cavity Creeps are to dental hygiene. You’re never going to be able to identify all the parts if she looks like that PiL album That What Is Not. One hot trick is to get her to spread her lips apart so her pussy is all set up for you like a great big buffet.

5) The Grand Entrance
Do your first lick super slow. It’s good to groan and moan too. It shows you’re digging it while sending microscopic audiophonic vibrations right up her snapper. Start just above the anus and take it all the way to the fur. Do about a dozen of these “St. Bernard licks” before moving on (take it really slow, like four seconds per lick). This is a good time to figure out what kind of clit she has. If it’s real sensitive, she’ll probably convulse as you pass over it and that means you’re in for an easy ride. If there’s no reaction when you graze over her clit, she probably has one of those nerveless little pea clits and you’re in for a thirty-minute session of tongue tendinitis.

6) Rock the Boat
Eating pussy is so gentle it can make you feel like a bit of a fag. If you’re getting tired of being ballerina boy, take it out on the clit. Figure out how much abuse it can take without making her uncomfortable and show the little bastard who’s boss.
After all, Mr. Elusive is precisely what makes muff diving so difficult. He’s surrounded by labia and, even after you find him, all the pressure can pop him over to the side. All of a sudden you’re giving the pee hole the seeing-to of its life. Think of the clit as a tumor in a pile of earlobes. When you push down on the area he’s the only one that can’t be squished. Once one of your tongue troopers finds him, call for reinforcements. Use your lips to get hers out of the way and focus all your attention into getting him alone. Once you find him, give him a bit of a hard time for trying to hide from you. Frisk him and give him a couple of whacks across the head. More on this punk and his bad attitude later.
Extra important tip: The best way to stimulate the clit is to run your entire tongue over it after you isolate it from the lips. The man in the boat should feel the texture of the entire tongue pushing down on his body and his boat.

7) Identifying the Clit Type
After the slow licks it’s time to get this party started. There are essentially two types of clitori: ones that enjoy a serious going-over and ones that don’t. The latter suck about as much as a one-inch penis and you should dump her right away.
Extra tip: Clits come in all shapes, sizes, and sensitivities, but that doesn’t really tell you much. All of them want to be treated slow and soft at the beginning, but the only way to tell if you can go fast at the end is by reading her reactions. This is impossible to teach, but just do the best you can. All we can tell you is convulsing means take it ease and “Oh my God” means bring it on.

8a) Clits That Need a Serious Going-over
These are the most fun because you can be creative. Pretend your tongue is the bad cop and the clit is the guy who killed your partner. Separate him from his buddies (the lips) and suck him right up into your mouth. Now he’s on your turf. Keep him erect by creating an airtight vacuum chamber in your mouth. Slap the little bugger upside the head with one big tongue bonk. He’s not going to tell you shit because he’s a clit and he has no idea what you’re talking about, but kick his ass anyway. After a few teasers and swirling circles, rat-a-tat-tat him senseless like a boxer whacking a speed bag. If she starts freaking out like it’s too much, ease up on the interrogation and go back to the St. Bernard licks. The vacuum is a great way to bring her to orgasm, but it’s a bit much sometimes, so mix things up with some circles around the clit and some tongue fucking.

As you’re closing in for the kill, go back to the vacuum and give the suspect a relentless head smacking. Up-and-downies are usually the most effective, but your tongue will get less tired if you throw in a few side-to-sides. When you feel the inner thighs start to shake, this is it. Be repetitive. Do NOT be creative. You’re almost home and this is not the time to start changing tactics.

Extra tip: To keep the rhythm going, try repeating a chant in your head that goes with the movement of your tongue like a Micmac Indian (hi-yi-yi-ya, hi-yi-yi-ya, hi-yi-yi-ya). Any inconsistent action may throw her off, killing the mood or at least setting you back a few minutes, which is bad for morale.

Important: Keep going several seconds after her orgasm. Remember, it isn’t over until the hands come down from above and lay you off. If she’s multiorgasmic, you’ll have to keep going until you’ve done the whole routine another four or five times. If you’re not sure what to do, just keep giving her shit until the magic hands come down to pull you off.

8b) Clits That Don’t
Some clits don’t want to be singled out and battered around. These are the boring ones that need to be treated with gentle care. Just do casual St. Bernard licks until she cums, pure and simple. If you’re getting bored try going in some different directions for a while. A good way to keep it random is to spell out different letters of the alphabet with the tip of your tongue. You could be looking at half an hour here, pal, and that can be problematic. If you go for that long and she doesn’t cum, you’re going to be in a foul mood, so if it’s too much work, move on. On the bright side, going for thirty minutes is something few people have the patience for, so sticking it out will lead to some payback when period week comes around.

9) The Conclusion
Once you’re done (totally finished), she’s going to want you out of there pronto because the whole area is sensitive. Instead of leaving, stick out your tongue and lay it down on her like a thick, soggy carpet. Make sure you don’t move it or anything because that can actually hurt her. Just let it sit there like a dead manta ray for about thirty seconds. Then come up and wipe your face like a pirate. You now have a good minute to get the condom on and take her from the quarters of Prince Muhammad Muhammad Saddat to the cockpit of an F-15.


EXTRA BONUS TRACKS

1) Getting Fired
If two hands suddenly drop from the sky and start pulling you up, you’ve just been sacked. She’ll tell you she never cums from that anyway, but the truth is you suck at sucking. Just give her a jolly good rogering and look at the whole thing as a learning experience. Later you can ask what the problem was so you can get it right next time. If you’re really lame, you can ask for a regular play-by-play from the broadcast booth. A bit of the old “slow-down-you’re-going-too-fast–yeah-there-like-that-oh-that’s-perfect” can turn even the John Wayne Bobbitt of pussy eaters into a Doug Hart.

2) The Power Lunch
Nothing keeps you in the game and makes her cum harder than a mid-fuck munch. Pulling out in the middle of the race may leave her a bit confused, but it’s a great way for all you premature ejaculators to simmer down a bit and it reminds her neglected clitoris that he’s a somebody. If, after a few seconds, she still isn’t into it, you can save face by pretending you just couldn’t resist. Give it up and get back to the boff.

Extra tip: Unless you like the taste of your own latex-covered dink, keep your mid-fuck snacking to the upper clit region and stay away from the hole.

3) The Bottom
Fingers: If you are dealing with a particularly saucy vixen she may want something in her bum. A thumb gives you the best leeway, but keep in mind you are doing a raunchy thing and this should be saved until the end. Incidentally, if you’re trying to introduce a bum finger as a good thing, try eeking it in during orgasm. If it doesn’t wreck everything you could have a Pavlovian response on your hands for the rest of the relationship.

Hole: We’re not going to get into licking the actual hoop in this article because if you’re into that, you’re way too advanced for this seminar and should have graduated with a PhD in pussy years ago.

Cheeks: Bum-cheek rubbing is always good. There are over five hundred thousand nerve endings on those cheeks, so giving them a good squeeze or a slap while you lick the pussy will get you instant results.

4) The Double Whammy 
Though some idiots say it takes away from when you actually put in the dink, simultaneous fingering is a great way to totally blow her mind. Think of it as the crack cocaine of cunnilingus.

5) Being Knackered
Tongue exhaustion is the number-one cause of abandoned manging, but there are many ways to avoid it. Like we said, using your tongue as an inanimate object is a great way to give it a rest. Stick it out as far as it can go and tense it. Then bite into it with your teeth and move it around the cunt using your neck muscles. Another solution is simply to use your fingers on the clit while you give your mouth a rest.

More sexy VICE Guides:

The VICE Guide to Anal Sex

The VICE Guide to Becoming a Whore

The VICE Guide to Giving Head

Because I am a psychopath who likes crime shows, I foraged through the trash looking for the used condom after he fell asleep. And once I found in the darkness, I stuck my finger inside to see if it contained the requisite man juices. Nada. Although I did feel pretty chuffed imagining myself as the foxy, not-afraid-to-get-her-hands-dirty star of my own sexy cop drama, SSI: Sex Scene Investigation. Sexy case closed!

I guess dudes probably fake orgasms for different reasons than women—women often fake orgasms to reward the man pummeling them, or to end unsatisfactory sex. I think maybe men fake orgasms in order to prove something to themselves and to the woman they’re doing it to. I guess there’s a whole other examination about how the fake orgasm shows the expected passivity of women and the activity of men (or to quote critic John Berger, the way “men act and women appear”) in society, but you came here today for the practical not the psychoanalytic. So if you are a whiskey-dicked conqurer or just a dude who has a hard time bringing it home, here are some tips about faking the big-O.

Wear A Condom

I know what you’re saying, “This shit happened on Friends. Monica totally thought Chandler made a baby insider her, but then he was like ‘Nah, I was faking it.’” But I am here to tell you, as a non-PG sitcom character, that Monica is an idiot. Even a day after protectionless intercourse, cum drips out of a vagina hole. No woman will believe you shot your load inside of her without physical evidence of that load. It’s just too easy to detect. In fact, if there’s a whole bunch of it, you can push it out in disgusting little globs if you strain a little bit opening a jar or taking a poop. So it’s going to be a big giveaway if you claim you’ve cum in a girl and there’s absolutely no wheatpaste snaking down her leg or raining in droplets when she finally stands up.

Don’t Over Dramatize

Traditionally, or at least in my experience, men are not very good at lying. Likewise, male perception is often a little bit skewed by their man brains, so what they think they’re doing is not actually what they’re doing at all. Case in point was my own experience with a guy who’d never let out so much as a barely audible gasp during sex, started yelling in my face while shamming a climax. Don’t do anything over the top, unless that's your regular style. Girls are basically sitting around just looking for reasons to get pissed off at you or catch you out about something or anything, really, so don’t make it any easier for them than it already is.

Or Do, What Do I Know

I’ve been with a few guys in my time whose cum faces are so hilariously funny I’ve had to concentrate, very hard, on not laughing at their moment of completion. This isn’t an indictment on guys or cum faces—I’m sure mine is just as fucking absurd—but sex is an inherently ridiculous act when you think about it, so you might as well use it to your advantage and pull some silly faces. If the girl beneath you is putting all her effort into trying not to offend you by bursting into laughter, chances are she’s not going to catch on to the shenanigans. Joke’s on her!

If You Can, Turn The Lights Off

But like, right off. Make it so dark you can’t see your own dick. Because when you take that condom off, you don’t want her to get an accidental glimpse of the empty receptacle. Nor do you want her to see that there’s none of that weird oozy post-cum leaking out afterwards. Plus in the darkness, your mind can wander into different realms, and maybe the fugue state of sensory depravation you’ll pop out a real one.

Go Down On Her Immediately

Like all magic and trick-of-the-eye illusions, faking an orgasm could benefit from some expert misdirection. It’s all well and good to pull off the physical faces and moves or whatever, but when it comes down to it, you simply do not want Detective Girl You’ve Just Fucked to notice that there’s not actually any cum in her bucket. If, after your pretend cum, you immediately go down on her, if you’re half good she’ll be driven to distraction and probably even forget you had sex in the first place on account of all the amazing pussy eating.

Pocket The Condom

If she’s suspicious and even a little bit crazy (I think I’ve just described just about every human, let alone woman, who has ever lived), she’s going to go looking for that condom post-coitus, and you do not want her to find it. She’s going to think you’re a fucking freak for taking the condom with you (it’s a total throwback to being a paranoid teenager), but not as much of a freak as she’s going to think you are when she figures out you faked an orgasm.

Keep Some Glue On Hand

The only thing I can think of that looks like cum is glue. Clag, a brand that we used in Australia, has that that pearl-like opacity and runniness that’s perfect for grand-schoolers to stick construction paper together, and it sort of dries flaky as well. Also, there’s an onomatopoeic quality of its name that makes me thing clag is a better word than semen or cum. If your hand is quicker than her eye, or if you can turn your back and hunch over the side of the bed while you take the condom off, you can furtively chuck a few drops in the rubber and throw it in the trash and relax. No big deal: you just tried to pass of glue as cum. You are a totally normal person.

@Kat_George

Previously:

How to Fake an Orgasm (A Guide for Girls)

The Flaming Lips have been a lot of different things over the years. Their newest album, The Terror, shows the band moving even further from their Willy Wonka-on-mescaline incarnation. The Terror is dark, drone-y, and bleak. “You Lust,” the album’s 13-minute centerpiece, probably won’t get chosen as the state rock song of Oklahoma, but it perfectly soundtracks the music video’s sci-fi nudity.

We spoke with the Flaming Lips' Steven Drozd about the video, which, it turns out, he had nothing to do with.

Steven Drozd, via

VICE: What was your role in putting the video together?
Steven Drozd: I had nothing to do with it. Not one thing. Wayne sent me an early edit and asked my thoughts. That was about it. If Wayne has something he wants to try with the rest of the band members, then we’ll be thrown in. But if we’re not needed, then he doesn’t involve us. That’s fine with me.

Hm. Why do you think Wayne edited the original version of “You Lust” down for the video? I thought it was going to be a sprawling, epic short film. But the video clocks in at just over four minutes.
I think it was time constraints. That is a lame excuse. They’re talking about doing a full-length version. It’s an opportunity to do that early MTV thing where there’s a whole story and setup before the song starts. Maybe Wayne could make a minimovie like David Bowie did with “Blue Jean.” The shortened version was sort of weird, because I’ve listened to the song so many times, and I have gotten used to the version with the long, creepy choir solo.

Oh well. What do you think of the nudity?
The nudity in the video isn’t glamorous or sexy. It’s very stark and disturbing. I think that’s a bold move. There are some shots when you go, “That’s an interesting angle to shoot a flaccid penis from...” But Wayne isn’t shy about being naked.

Are all the dicks and tits and vaginas straight out of his brain? Or are you on the same nudity trip?
That’s all him. Something must have happened to him when he was eight or nine that completely zapped his brain. Wayne goes through phases of working with different types of imagery. In 1989, it was Jesus Christ and God. But the vaginas never really go away [laughs].

Do you guys think about pubes when you’re casting? Trimmed or natural? Circumcised or uncircumcised? What’s the Flaming Lips’ stance on foreskin?
I’m surprised we’ve never discussed that. I’m sure it depends on the actual situation. There are many different types of pubic-hair scenarios. If you go full bush, it would be because you’re making something that looks gnarly. Aesthetically, you might not want to go full bush in 2013. Or maybe it’s a retro thing, now.

Full bush is coming back.
As all things do, in fashion. I’m probably one of the last people you should talk to about this video. I had nothing to do with it.

More NSFW music stuff:

Meet the Girls Who Are Terrorizing Juggalos with Their Perfect Asses

Bot'Ox Featuring Anna Jean - "The Face of Another"

Here Is Tropical's NSFW Video for "Dancing Anymore"

With that cocky paragraph title, will I be called the next Samantha Brick? I hope not, that shit was annoying.

I'm unsure if it's due to innate aspects of personality or related to my carefree upbringing, but I am very open about sex, and often wish the rest of the world would be too. I write about sex, I talk about sex, I have sex. However, my sexual candor has gotten me into some precarious situations. People mistake my sexual nature for a desire to have sex with them, or more accurately, somehow mistake my sexual openness with an expectation that I'll have sex with them. Not everyone of course, most people are far more awesome than we give them credit, and honest misunderstandings happen. Yet the other day, someone was trying to fuck me whom I did not want to sleep with, and he quoted things to me I had written in this column, as some sort of argument, a harsh rebuttal of my spurning. “Well, you wrote that you're into.....” Awesome, thanks for the pageviews. Now I'm writing that you can go to hell.

I want a samurai sword to chop away penises. I've invented a version in my brain of that  game Fruit Ninja except it's me, a red-headed Beatrix Kiddo slicing peens flying at me. A reader requested an extra dirty column this week. Sorry, this is not that column. This is a reminder that “no” means “fuck off, bro.” And while I'm at it, I'm tired of hearing this “her words said no, but her body said yes” shit. Sometimes people flirt, sometimes people will even give you a kiss or drunkenly dance with you. I don't care if a girl has given you permission to fingerblast her or her pussy is in your face, if she says “this is as far as I want to go,” or “stop,” those words MUST be respected. If a girl is telling you “let's have sex,” or is physically sliding your penis inside her she probably wants to fuck you. If she is pushing you away from her and saying “No, I don't want this to happen,” she DOES NOT want to have sex with you. I realize it's hard to think with those things all armed and ready for battle, but please just fucking evolve.

It's quite simple. NO means NO, for everyone. And if I have to say it more than once, “NO” means “Fuck off, seriously or I am going to chop off your penis with my samurai sword.” You think I'm kidding about this samurai sword thing, but I have a tab open where I'm searching for one on Etsy right now.

DRUGS – BARBITURATES

“A prayer for the wild at heart that are kept in cages,” the subtitle of Tennessee William's Stairs to the Roof, are words that have always been dear to my heart, along with a special fondness for Tennessee himself. Beyond appreciation of his work, I feel some deep affection for the man I can't fully explain. Although it is believed that Tennessee choked to death, barbiturates were also found in the room, a drug he abused throughout his life along with alcohol and amphetamines.

Today barbiturates are rarely prescribed, replaced by their B brother benzodiazepines, which have a lower risk for overdose. Like benzos, they were prescribed largely as anti-anxiety and sleep medication. Common early brand names included Veronal and Luminal, or perhaps you have heard of Seconal. Particularly fascinating to me is the super short-acting Pentothal, known as “truth serum.” I'm often an open book, those close to me might prefer I was prescribed whatever the opposite of Pentothal is, but I am quite curious if it does, in fact, work. Bill, is that what you shot Beatrix Kiddo full of before she stopped your heart? Spoiler alert! But fuck you if you haven't seen Kill Bill yet, and for fuck's sake it's in the title.

By the 1960s scientists figured out barbiturates were pretty fucking dangerous. In 1965 the Drug Abuse Control Amendments were stamped into law, and then came the Comprehensive Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act of 1970. All those fun drugs got a stamp of their own, the one that read, “warning,” but many of us see and read “fun.” Doctors tapered off prescribing them, although the drugs were still available on the streets through the 1980s.

Many, like my dear friend Tennessee have experienced the haunted merry-go-round of prescription drugs. The user, like Tennessee, truly does experience anxiety, depression, or other demons that lead to their prescription as an illness. However, the longer you're on the ride the faster you go until around and around and around and eventually the drug itself creates the same symptoms you started taking it for, and you need more, more, more, and the withdrawal process is more painful and difficult than what forced you on the ride on the first place.

ROCK 'N' ROLL - JAY ARNER

The segmentation of this column is so random, I’m always curious of the artist's reaction. I'm sorry Jay that you got chopped off penises and dead writers, I oh-so-much dig your songs!

Vancouver's Jay Arner has played the field musically. He fronted an indie rock band, bopped around in a pop duo, even made up one tentacle of an eight-member collective. If I had a turd of musical talent, I've always said I'd be a solo artist, since humans can be annoying and attention is fun, so maybe after dabbling in such numerous groups Jay was finally like, fuck it, I'm flying solo.

Jay bird shows off his wing span on his self-titled debut, from 70s punk to 80s synthy shit to my favorite pop track of the album, “Don't Remind Me,” which starts out with words we're all familiar with, “About last night...” sung with a wink and a hint of embarrassment.It feels like waking up on a Sunday morning with flashbacks of stupid yet awesome shit you did the night before and simultaneously laughing yet cringing at yourself. I don't think I would be in need of breaking out my samurai sword around Jay. We'd make out publicly and act like total fools but he would be respectful and put me in a cab home when I was like “Dude, you're awesome, but I've got to call it a night.”

The self-titled debut is out June 25^th on Mint Records. Stream “Don't Remind Me” below.

@TheBowieCat

Previously:

Lipstick Vibrators, Crossing the Line, and Big Deal

1987. It’s summertime on Victory Boulevard, 101 degrees, dry and windy. I’m in the Camaro with the air conditioner on, playing in traffic. I’ve got $200 and I’m on my way to buy some cocaine. At a light I see a working San Fernando Valley girl. She’s got mean eyes and her hands are fisted in terminal anger. I figure I can brighten up her day so I pull to the curb and zip down the window.

“Hey, How’s it going? Are you for hire?”

“Am I for hire? What do you want? I got no time to talk about things like that. You want to party then you got to tell me how much money you gonna give me.”

“Twenty?”

“You got big dreams, don’t you?”

“Thirty?”

“What do you want?”

“I want to take your picture.”

“Nobody ain’t gonna picture my face. You better just go on, I got real business I gotta do.”

She turns to walk away and I should just let her go. “Forty bucks and I got a mask you can wear so nobody knows it’s you.”

“You some kind of freak?”

“Yeah, but that’s beside the point. I just want to take a couple of pictures. Forty bucks.”

She comes back and gets into the car and I put my foot on the gas.

She tells me her name is TaTa as in goodbye, so-long motherfucker. She directs me into a residential maze of ugly two-bedroom homes in Van Nuys. She tells me to stop in front of a place I wouldn’t want to live yet better than the place where I’m living. We sit there a while not talking, her watching the house for whatever reason, and me thinking about how cool I am. Finally she has me drive around to the alley and park in the back. I bring my backpack with camera and accessories and we go through a chain-link gate to the back door, which is open and unhinged; looks like someone used a crowbar rather than a key. Through a small kitchen that smells like sour milk and into a living room that smells like incense and sex. I scan the room for a good background and she tells me not to get the camera out before I pay her and don’t forget I can’t photograph her face. I give her the money and the Bedouin mask I carry, in lieu of censor strips, in my backpack. She strips and puts it on.

My Nikon is loaded and the ready light on the flash is green.  I stand her on a couch and make a few exposures. She’s uninspired, at best a dutiful model but I got my picture so it doesn’t matter. My dick is also uninspired so I figure my job here is done. She says, “You don’t want nothin’ else? How ‘bout I suck you off?”

She seems suddenly interested and gets down on her knees. She still has the mask on and she starts rubbing my dick through the denim and then unbuckling my belt. I figure I’ve got nothing to lose until she starts tugging down my Levi’s and reaching around the back to lift my wallet at the same time. I retrieve my wallet and tell her she needs to practice her pickpocket techniques and she tells me that’s what she was doing. I ask her if she still wants to blow me and she tells me no fucking way.

I get my pants back in place and tell her no hard feelings and does she want to stay here or want me to drop her back where I found her. She opts for the latter and asks me to give her a couple of minutes and do I want to buy some pills?

“What kind of pills?”

“You know, pills. I don’t know what kind. I’ll show you. Wait till I get dressed.” She takes her clothes and goes into the bathroom.

I go into the kitchen and a few minutes later I'm whistling Sukiyaki and looking in the fridge, which is surprisingly well stocked, when TaTa comes racing in telling me we gotta go right now, this very second. She is on her way out the backdoor and I think I hear someone coming in the front door. I'm spooked by her sincerity and realize, as I suspected all along, she doesn’t really live here and I’m an accessory to breaking and entering. I follow her out in a run and get to the car before she does. I crank it up as she jumps into the passenger seat. We zoom away and I take her back to her corner where she shows me a brown prescription bottle of blue oval tabs of Xanax and tells me ten dollars apiece. I give her five for two and then drive back toward Burbank to buy my cocaine.

Previously - All Alone at Four in the Morning

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.

As I watched the Cleveland Indians’ wholesale slaughter of the Houston Astros last week (the final score was 19-6), an odd feeling crept over me. It was horrible to watch a baseball team get absolutely creamed like that, but it was also oddly familiar, and not just because the Astros are terrible. The mixture of pleasure and pain that unfolded over nine innings—it started out scary, but ended up being kind of fun—was pretty much like anal sex. Actually, baseball blowouts—be they the 1897 Chicago Colts’ 36-7 record-setting victory over Louisville, the 30-3 destruction of the Baltimore Orioles by the 2007 Texas Rangers, this season’s 15-0 shellacking of the Nationals by the Reds—are exactly like anal sex. Here’s an inning-by-inning recap:

THE FIRST INNING: BACKDOOR PRESSURE
The initial runs that appear on the scoreboard serve as a quiet harbinger of what’s to come, much like the none-too-subtle pressure of a wiener knocking on your tightly clenched rosebud. This game won’t really be so bad, you tell yourself. Then another walk, wild pitch, ground-rule double, and you surreptitiously clasp your cheeks in expectation. But I never do anal!

THE SECOND INNING: PENETRATION
Much like the moment when your lover spits on your asshole, the appearance of an additional three or four runs in the second officially heralds that anal is occurring, and then—yup, that’s a dick in your asshole. Any hope of a comeback is shattered, and no amount of praying for run support will make that sweet pucker of yours any less penetrated. The flesh of your loins quivers, bases loaded, no outs.

THE THIRD INNING: THE SECOND SPHINCTER
As the runs pile on in the third inning, what seemed like a manageable breach of your anus quickly morphs into a hideous realization, signaled by a clarion moment of pain. Oh my God, there’s a second sphincter! The initial moment of embarrassing discomfort quickly gives way to a moment of confused pain. The game is young and anxiety is high and you, my dear, have not yet embraced the fact that you are definitely ass-fucked.

THE FOURTH INNING: OH MY GOD IT’S IN
Still struggling to deal with the ache of an unprepared insertion, the feeling of an entire turgid penis filling your rectum blasts away any shred of dignity and obliterates any hope of victory you had. There’s no denying your state of ass-fucked-ness now, and there’s no way your team is coming back. The game is over.

THE FIFTH INNING: SLOW! SLOW!
White-knuckling the last vestiges of your dignity, the unrepentant cock begins to work its way back and forth, slurping in and out of your anus in steady, confident motions. The other team continues to pound the scoreboard, putting up run after run after run. You yell and whimper, begging the onslaught of home runs and pelvic thrusting to ease their pacing. Slower, please! The manager is going through the bull pen, utilizing every little-seen long reliever he can find. Just how high will the score climb?

THE SIXTH INNING: YOU DIRTY, DIRTY PERVERT
With each crack of the bat, balls fly out of the park, and you begin to revel in the sheer perversity of the situation. Your team is down 15 runs! There is a cock lodged firmly in your ass! Grunting and writhing, you bask in the heretofore unknown capacity of your asshole to take such a legendary pounding. Eyeing the scoreboard, your mouth is a wretched grin. You’re the fucking Marquis de Sade of baseball! Relishing each run against you! More runs! Let’s break the record, baby!

THE SEVENTH INNING: PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT
With each run scored, you grind menacingly into baseball’s pelvis. Slowly at first, you rock back and forth, meeting his thrusts, opening and relaxing and accepting. Wallowing in the luscious depravity a glorious loss, it barely registers when your team’s manager gets thrown out for punching his own first-base coach. On your hands and knees, a howling animal of need and filth, you lean hard into every at-bat. Load the bases? Grand slam, motherfucker!

THE EIGHTH INNING: FUCKING POUND ME LIKE THE FIST OF GOD
Unintelligible noise is pouring from your mouth as baseball fucks you better than anything you’d ever dared to contemplate. Wallowing in pleasure, you are lost in the anathema of ass-fucking. Spreading you open with hooked fingers, baseball spits into your wanton hole, and it winks at him while you bite your own hands to keep from incinerating into nothingness. Harder, baseball, harder!

THE NINTH INNING: COMPLETION
The rhythmic clenching of ejaculation fills your core as you inhale the sick scent of slaughter. Hours ago, the mere thought of such a pounding would have made you quake with terror, but here you are, taking it like a goddamned professional. The game ends with a couple weak ground outs—the players just want to go home—and baseball pulls out, leaving you spent and wet, facedown in a puddle of an exhilarating loss.

America’s pastime!

@voraciousbrain

On the off chance you want more baseball after that, try these:

Manny Is Being Manny in Taiwan

Why Does Anyone Watch Baseball?

Meet the Satire Called the Mets

That's not the case with NYC-based photographer Brianna Capozzi's work. While her subject matter is almost exclusively aesthetically pleasing women, Brianna uses the female form to build engaging compositions and scenarios with an original and refreshing take on the recent contemporary return to the traditions of lo-fi.

In a generation where boner-inducing women are plastered all over the internet, Brianna Capozzi is taking on the challenge of making photographs that transcend the trappings of Tumblr, creating images with more dimensions and idiosyncrasies than most you can find.

Check out her website for more stunning compositions of ladies and the female form.

Above is a music video that Is Tropical just released. In it, a French boy (who bares an uncanny resemblance to Freaks and Geeks' Sam Weir) is left home alone in a beautiful woman’s house.

Obviously, because he’s a teenage boy with too much time on his hands, he starts to fantasize about boning the woman whose house he is tending to. This leads to the best visual representation of a hand-shandy/tommy-tank/freelancer's-lie-down that I’ve ever seen. In fact, it's probably the best music video that I've seen all decade.

I wanted to send it out to everyone that I know so we could all enjoy it together. But first, here are a couple of reasons why I think it’s so great.

Follow Ryan on Twitter - @RyanBassil

I rarely fake orgasms because I don’t believe someone who is fucking you poorly deserves that kind of payoff. More importantly, faking an orgasm is the biggest dick move you can pull on another girl. A faked orgasm during shit sex only serves to perpetuate a guy’s misconception that he has “moves” when he doesn’t, which he’ll likely use on the next girl unlucky enough to fall into his bed. By faking an orgasm, you’re inflicting a disservice to sisters everywhere.

That said, there are occasions when it is essential to fake an orgasm like when a) love or intense “like” is involved (ew); or b) the guy is doing a seriously good job, and it’s your purely non-physical disposition that’s in the way of coital finality.

I should point out—because even grown men don’t yet seem to grasp this concept yet—the path to orgasm relies as much on mentality as it does on physical acts. So you can fuck all the right buttons, and hover just near or around climax for a bit, but unless your mind is completely present, it’s not going to happen. That doesn’t mean the sex isn’t lovely. It just means it’s been a long ass day and everything is distracting right now.

Here’s how to fake an orgasm when the penis in your vagina deserves it most, but you have that instinctive feeling that it’s just not going to happen tonight (or this morning, or this afternoon, or whenever you happen to be fucking)...

Baby, Arch Your Back

OK I got this one out of a Miguel song, but if you’re going to fake an orgasm you may as well make it as cinematic as possible. When you’re having a real orgasm you are so removed from the moment in your ecstasy that you might not concentrate on the inherent sexiness of your movements. Use this opportunity to inhabit those moves. Writhe around, push your hips up (or down if you’re on top), and be all lithe and serpentine, the way movies would have you believe people look during sex. BONUS: The dude fucking you will be so enraptured by your alluring posturing that he probably won’t even notice you’re faking. He’ll think he’s hit the jackpot, which he has, duh.

Pout

Lips are another part of your body that you can luxuriate in your deception. You’ve probably never seen your face mid-climax, but I’d bet good money it looks similar to the face you pull when you’re struggling to lift weights at the gym. Pout your lips, half close your eyes in that hooded, seductive bedroom way, and grab your own hair like a stripper mid-dance (where it would usually be matting into dreadlocks at the back by this point, flick it about like there’s a fan in front of you instead, but not too much, because you don’t want to look like you’re having a fit).

Flex Your Vocal Chords

An old roommate of mine was once loudly fucking a girl in his room one night, and I texted my friend that she was faking it for sure, so manicured was her coital wailing. I’m convinced, when in the throes of passion, most people sound like a bush pig that’s been speared through the leg. A faked orgasm is the perfect opportunity to sound like a sexy voice over in an Usher song, which is, if you were curious, one of my dream jobs. When you’re ready to Climax, make sure to yelp “I’m coming, I’m coming!” in a husky tone, punctuated with perfectly curated “oohs” and “ahs”.

Shake It Like a Polaroid Picture

When you’re “arriving” he’s got to feel it in your body. You can’t just lay there like a gimpy starfish and expect it to be believable. I can’t make my knees and hands shake quite the same way they do after a great orgasm, but heaving your bosom dramatically should do the trick. Rub your tits a bit too, guys like that. And you know that secret exercise Oprah tells you to do while you’re sitting at your desk to keep your vag nice and tight? This is why. The only reason pelvic floor exercises exist is as practice for orgasm faking. Clench and unclench; MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU.

Punch Him in the Face

If you lose confidence in your acting ability, just give him a swift knock to the eye. This is the ultimate misdirection. He’ll be so sore and pissed off at you he won’t even remember that he had any suspicion you were cheating in the first place. Don’t punch too hard though--you don’t want this to end in a trip to the hospital, the aim is to get him to roll over and at the very worst go to sleep mad. This is a high risk-reward proposition, because he might be into it, but if he’s not, you get to blame your arm spasm on “being in the heat of the moment,” and—congratulations—you just faked an orgasm without actually faking an orgasm.

Pant, Say “Wow!” a Lot

Once it’s all over, lay about slapping the back of your hand to your forehead like a period drama queen in a too-tight corset saying things like “Wow” and “Oh my God” and breathing deeply. My preferred post-orgasm state is to be apart and untouched, but if you prefer cuddles you can do that too. If you’re a good actor, you’ve just faked an orgasm. Feel free to fall asleep now; after all your hard work, you deserve it.

@Kat_George

Previously:

Your Huge Cock Is Overrated

How to Flip Your Girl Over for Doggy Style

Why Period Sex Is the Best Sex

On February 25, 2013, federal police in Caxias do Sul, Brazil, arrested the director Sady Baby and his girlfriend, Patricia, at a routine traffic stop. Sady had been missing since 2008 when police accused him of hiring a minor, who was supposedly his daughter, to play a role in his latest movie, The Director’s Daughter. His arrest was a shock to many, not only because he had been missing for so long, but because there were rumors going around that he had committed suicide by throwing himself from a Uruguay River bridge.

Sady Baby is the stage name of Sady Plauth, the infamous actor and filmmaker who blew up during the decadent boca do lixo ["trash-mouth"] era of Brazilian cinema. The numerous low-budget productions from that time were almost entirely devoted to explicit sex, and Sady was at the forefront. In a twisted way, he represented an expression of Brazil’s deepest feelings. The best way I can describe the mantra of this movement is with a line from one of Sady’s films, Orgy Bus: “Working is for morons. If this country is fucked, then let’s fuck.” His work often pushed the boundaries of sexuality, exploring taboos and controversial subjects like zoophilia, rape, and necrophilia.

When I was around seven, I used to go to Balneario Camboriu in Santa Catarina for summer vacations with my family. Every day, at the edge of the beach, a guy with curly blond hair, a Viking hat, and a G-string thong would get on a megaphone and announce the beginning of an erotic play called Soltando a Franga, which, loosely translated, means “Release the Inhibitions.” Years later I realized that the strange man hosting sexy public theater on the beach was Sady Baby himself.

I wanted to speak to the father of Brazilian smut, so I visited Sady at the Caxias do Sul penitentiary.

Luana Scarlet holds a snake that will be shoved into one of the actors during Sexual Feelings of a Horse.

VICE: The majority of your work was done decades ago, but many of the themes remain taboo today. What’s the creative process surrounding work controversial enough to offend generations of people?
Sady Baby: I watched a lot of movies and always felt like something was missing. I noticed that everyone has a perversion, a fantasy, but they’re ashamed to expose it or talk about it. I started to put that in my work, and it went well. At the time people would stop me in the streets. Some would compliment me and others criticized me, but there has always been an audience for that, you know? 

Did you know that you are something of a cult figure in pornography?
I had no idea.

Really?
Yes. A journalist in Sao Paulo is writing a book about my career. It will be released next year, but I never cared for any of that. I’m a simple guy. I’ve always respected people. One of the most important things to me is when someone stops me on the street and says, “Hey, I really like your work.”

I read somewhere that Gio Mendes is writing your biography and the title is Every Pussy Has a Price. Is that right?
Yeah, that’s right. But I don’t go anywhere with a title like that.

Sady doing sexy stuff with Marcia Scarpette near a waterfall in the city of Guararema.

And do you believe that every pussy has a price?
Of course. Let me tell you, if you go out with an escort, you’re going to have to pay. If you have a woman at home, you’re going to have to support her. One way or another, all pussy has a price. That’s what’s in my head. I don’t know if that makes me dumb or not.

Of all the movies you’ve directed, produced, and acted in, which was your favorite?
I liked the first Orgy Bus, but there’s a movie of mine, that never came out, on the internet called Sexual Feelings of a Horse. It was one of the first films I directed, and to be honest, that’s the one I like the most. I put a lot of myself into that movie.

Sady surrounded by a team of beauties in the film Oil Change.

There’s some pretty serious lady-on-horse action in that film. Was it hard to convince the actress to do a scene with a horse?
No. The pay was good, and she was cool with it. I ask every person who comes to work for me, “Do you like this or do you want to do this for money?” The most important thing is to have someone who enjoys it. If she doesn’t enjoy it, then it’s going to come out badly. If she likes it, then she goes into it with lust, and everything has to have lust. If there’s no lust it won’t work.

Specials: Pussy Beef, Fuck Broth, Shit Donuts, Fag Tails.

You were forced to do a lot with little thanks to your small production budgets. What would you do if you had a bunch of money? What would a Sady Baby film with the budget of a Michael Bay movie look like?
Ah, that would be a dream come true. I’d get a good makeup crew, some gorgeous actresses… I’d prepare everything, American style. I’ve already done shows in nine countries, but my biggest dream is to do a movie in my home state.

How do you go about writing your scripts? There is some very memorable dialogue in your films. Is any of that improvised, or do you make the actors stick to the script?
Most of it was improvised, but I was controlling it.

So you’d write a general idea, and then they would improvise?
Yes. I didn’t have a lot of resources. I had few actors, and they were mostly common folk who weren’t very artistic. I decided to go with the improvising so they would let go more. If I had given them a script it would have sounded robotic, so by improvising, it made everything more spontaneous.

What can you tell me about the orgy bus? It was the name of a film, but it was an actual bus too, right?
Yes. I bought a bus in the 90s, fixed it up, got a few actors from Sao Paulo together, and set out to travel. But it wasn’t just hardcore sex—it was a theater piece, like any other. And one thing I demanded was that, to work with me, you couldn’t mess with drugs because that would get me in trouble with the police of the various cities we traveled to. I performed in a chain of theaters throughout Rio Grande do Sul, Santa Catarina, and Paraná. Then, when I arrived in Porto Alegre, lots of actors would come to me and ask to participate, so I started to change the lineup. That was a family to me—a pornographic family, but a family nonetheless.

I used to spend summers in Balneario Camboriu, where you performed your exotic play, Soltando a Franga. I remember seeing you on the beach.
Ah, that was fantastic. When I would travel by bus through Rio Grande do Sul, I made a lot of money—enough to build my own theater. The downstairs was sort of a cinema and we had rooms for couples upstairs. I’m not going to mention any names, but a lot of important people frequented that place.

Poster of Sady’s first production, directed by Bozo Alrindo Barreto.

What happened to the theater?
It was going under, so I realized I needed to sell it, but I sold it to the wrong person. I only got 20 percent of what the theater was worth. I lost everything. And so I attempted suicide in 2008. I threw myself into the Uruguay River. I didn’t even know how to swim, but with a joy for life, I saved myself. So I got out and walked to Chapecó, which is about 12.5 miles away, called my girl, and told her I was going to Aparecida do Norte by foot. She decided to come with me. It took us 39 days to get there. Eventually, we took a bus back to Marau, and I’m not ashamed to say that I went to work as a farmhand at a nearby ranch.

What did you do at the ranch?
I was taking care of pigs and cattle, with no practical experience. My girl was with me. After a few months, I went after the man who bought the theater in an attempt to get the rest of my money from him, but I went alone, which was a mistake. The guys jumped me and said, “Either you sign or you die.” Between life and theater, the theater can go. I lost everything. So I went back to the ranch and kept working. I changed names because I didn’t want to talk to anyone asking questions, and then I ended up here because of a checkpoint.

Yeah… What’s up with that story about your daughter having acted in Daughter of the Director anyway? Is that true? The rumor is that she was 17 at the time.
People got it confused. She wasn’t my daughter—that was just the title of the movie. But she was 17. She was emancipated.

From In the Warmth of the Hole.

Do you have a lot of kids?
About 40.

Do you know them all?
Most of them. They’re all of age. I’m friends with all of my exes and I always told them: I don’t like to date. I don’t get involved with anyone. If they want to sleep with me, cool, but I’m always straight with them. None of them ever blamed me for anything.

Don’t you ever want to see your kids?
I do see some of them. If one day I’m a millionaire, I’m going to divide everything among them. I know I did a lot of things wrong, but I never forced anything, never raped anyone. It’s just that this type of profession offers up a lot of women. When I was in the production house in Sao Paulo I banged three or four per day.

Four times a day with different women?
Yeah. That’s normal for me. When I was about to shoot a film I’d select the lineup and then ask them to take their clothes off, and it’d usually go from there. But I was picky. I demanded that the actresses not have sagging breasts, no belly, no cellulite, or stretch marks. If she opened her legs… ah, my friend, then it went in. What am I going to do? It’s life.

Sady with his loyal collaborators.

What type of women do you typically go for?
A big woman with full breasts drives me crazy. If one of them came up to me and said, “I’m gonna give it to you, but after we’re done, you’re gonna die,” well, give it to me and then go ahead and kill me. For women, I would do anything. But after I met my girl 11 years ago—she was 13 at the time—I saw that little nympho and said, “My Lord in heaven, don’t do this to me.” But I couldn’t resist. I’m still with her today. I changed for her. Another thing, I never liked condoms. And if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even be here. I would have gotten a disease by now.

Have you ever had an STD test?
I did a year ago, and everything was fine. But I just got lucky. It wasn’t because I took precautions—my wisdom is between the legs.

Back in the altar-boy days.

A lot of people probably wouldn't guess it, but you're a religious man, correct?
Yes, I’m Catholic. One time a lady stopped me in church and asked what I was doing there, since all I like are women. I’ve never disrespected any religion. I always say there are three things that I’ll never change: sex, religion, and soccer.

What are you going to do when you get out of prison?
I’m going to do a circus. There’s a person who’s going to sponsor all of it. He’ll put me on the road with the bus, trailer, and circus. Because I’ve always been an honest person, the headlines will read, “Release Your Inhibitions: The World's Only Traveling Erotic Circus.”

Archival photos courtesy of Gio Mendes.

More film:

Mexican Narco Cinema

Inside Iranian Cinema

Nollywood Omen

Belladonna's Dick Sauce (Animal Style)
Dir: Aiden Riley/Belladonna
Rating: 10
Enterbelladonna.com/Evilangel.com

My eyes are currently bleeding semen. Each moment they remain open, it feels like vats of acid are being poured into my retinas. The excruciating pain is a direct result of watching porn for the past 12 hours straight. I look and feel like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange when his eyes are propped open and he’s forced to watch acts of horrendous violence to “cure” his more despicable tendencies. But, in my case, the saddest part is that I volunteered for this punishment. I’ve been in the middle of editing the latest episodes of Skinema, which focus on the extreme-sex performer Belladonna, so myself and Andy Capper (the series’s co-producer) have been saddled with the task of going through more than 200 of her Evil Angel DVDs to look for the best selects. 

Over the past half day, I have witnessed her do just about every possible sexual act a person can partake in, all of which usually involve anywhere from one to four penises. I have watched her body change from an 18-year-old’s to a 30-year-old’s in one sitting. She has transformed from a doe-eyed, ditzy dame to a strong, cocksure woman before my eyes… and, as of this writing, I’ve only made it through ten DVDs. Porn was not meant to be watched this way, but on the bright side, I only have 98 more to go. Please kill me. (I’m pretty sure this is my payback for the past 12 years of my not really watching any of the movies I’ve “reviewed” in this column.)

I’m sure many of you are wondering why I’m pissing and moaning, questioning how hard it could possibly be to fast-forward through hardcore sex scenes to find the rare, usable parts of the videos that will keep my show at an R rating. And you are entirely justified to wonder that; the process is quite simple and quick. The difficult part comes with watching the behind-the-scenes footage shot by Bella’s estranged husband/director, Aiden Riley. Over my year and a half of filming the couple, their relationship changed into something else (which you’ll see play out in the episodes), but for the better part of the past decade, Aiden was the man behind the lens shooting as his wife took two dicks in her ass—and every other manner of fuck, suck, and jerk. When Bella wasn’t having sex, Aiden liked to point the camera at her and have very personal conversations for the BTS footage, which generally provides an additional two hours of supplemental material for each feature film.

It’s in these conversations that I’m finding the real gold. She discusses her personal life frankly and without hesitation: how she cheated on Aiden, how she liked to service other men, just not her husband, and how she fucks other men while Aiden waits at home to paint her toenails. There is no fast-forwarding. I must watch each and every minute to make certain I don’t miss any gems. 

In the past 12 hours, I haven’t had one boner. I am desensitized. I’m considering raping my sleeping wife to see if I’m still human. Instead, I will watch one more DVD, Dick Sauce, because the silly animal hats the girls are wearing are oddly familiar—they look exactly like the hats Belladonna and I wore to dinner with her preteen daughter and her daughter’s friend when I was in LA last month. But they couldn’t be. Could they? 

Could that possibly be the lovely Katie St. Ives blowing Mr. Pete in the very same bunny-rabbit hat that Belladonna gave me as a gift to wear when playing with my children? The same bunny hat I put on my grandmother’s head to take a funny photo? Yes, yes it is. At least it was only a blowjob, right? In the BTS footage Katie admits, “I have a raging yeast infection. That’s why I can’t have sex today.” I’m going to bed with the belief that Belladonna must have had the hat dry-cleaned. Right? She had to at least do that.

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.

Read more Skinema from our past issues.

I only began wearing lipstick about two years ago, but I’ve been using vibrators for over a decade. Often your plain, old hands are the best things to use to achieve self-orgasm, but in other situations, vibrators are crucial. Sometimes it’s about speed, or perhaps, as I've experienced in the past, you're on SSRIs and experiencing delayed orgasm and need that battery-buzzing boost to get off, either alone or with a partner.

I used to have to buy my vibrators at Spencer's in the mall, embarrassed as I paid, and nervous as hell my mom would find them in my room. Now, PR firms send me vibrators by the dozen. Keep your heads up, horny little girls, dreams do come true! In my latest batch of toys, I received a Lickety Split Lipstick Vibe made by Penthouse. I was aware of lipstick-shaped vibrators before, but using one always seemed so girlie cliché, like owning the pink, suede Sex and the City Collector's DVD boxed set. Which, OK, I admit it, I totally own.

Perhaps my clit has become a snob from all the vibrators I've tried over the years, but I was disappointed in the coming capabilities of the lipstick vibe. Just like a real lipstick, it has a top you can take off, and you can masturbate with either the cap on or off. However, as all the buzzing action takes place in the lipstick tip itself, even with the cap on, the vibrating is a bit dull, with fully charged batteries. But with the cap off, it's just this teeny little pink lipstick tip, which is super small and a bit pointy and uncomfortable. Personally, I enjoy a wider base.

I was ready to toss this vibrator under the abyss of my bed never to be seen again, until I realized the usefulness of such a covert vibe! Sometimes you have to masturbate in inappropriate places. I know boys secretly jerk it all the time at work, but girls can too. Say you've been exchanging dirty emails during work hours and suddenly you're soaked through your jeans and just HAVE to go into the bathroom. Simply reach into your purse, pull out the lipstick vibe, and say, “I'll be back in a few. I'm going to go touch up my makeup.” Easy peasy! Once in college I was studying abroad in Germany, and it had been over a month since I had gotten any, and on a train to Munich I was so horny, I was about to explode. I had the whole row to myself and a blanket, so I just discreetly rubbed one out, but if I had wanted to be more sneaky this lipstick vibe would have come in super handy.

Photo by Evil Erin, via Flickr

DRUGS – CROSSING THE LINE

Growing up in the Virgin Islands, my recesses were spent playing in the island bush and not on playground swing sets, where I was supposed to be. To keep the kids from straying too far from school, a green line was drawn on the edge of the tropical playground. We were warned not to cross that line or else the “red eyes” would get us. Those eyes were part of a local voodoo-zombie-type legend meant to scare us into staying put. I was always one of the kids who snuck past the green line. In my adult life of partying, I've seen those red eyes telling me that I’ve gone too far.

Some people can only have one beer, or two, and feel the drunkenness creeping in and know how to say, “No thanks, I'm good.” For others, the line between merrily drunk and regrettably wasted is faintly visible and effortlessly ignored. This is true for any substance, although cocaine and alcohol seem to prey on those with difficulty staying within boundaries the most. If you're one of those who does not specialize in self-control, booze and blow often dance like sneaky little fairies on your shoulder, whispering, “More, more, more...” The drugs feed off each other.The more blow you do, the more you feel you can drink. The more you drink, the more blow you're down to do.

I know some who’ll accept a bump of cocaine offered to them at New Year’s, and it's the last they think of it, other than appreciating the brief burst of energy and courage to go dance with that hot chick in the corner. For others, you're not accepting a bump from a friend, you're the one with the eight ball, and you're not stopping until it's done, or until the comedown hits you so hard you're forced to excuse yourself and curl up in the fetal position and suffer bone-crushing depression.

Ahhh, the infamous fetal position of over indulgence. Curled up puking on your bathroom floor, or in bed with regret and anxiety for the condom you didn't use, the inappropriate person you fooled around with, the cruel words that flew off your numb tongue, or a hideous combo platter of both emotional and physical hell.

Can moderation ever be learned and practiced for some, or is it all or nothing? I've succeeded on various occasions, reaching the low maximum I set for myself, ignoring pleas to follow to the next bar or have one last one for the road. But even though I know alcoholism swirls through and around both sides of my family, and have plenty of previous mistakes to take lessons from, I still sometimes find myself neck-deep in the agony that comes from a night spent on the wrong side of the line.

ROCK 'N' ROLL – BIG DEAL

Big Deal's music is beautiful and makes me feel happy. I realize that's not the most eloquent or descriptive way to introduce a band, but I think we can all agree that most music writing is a clusterfuck of unnecessary adjectives and adverbs, providing more traffic to thesaurus.com than meaning to readers.

Big Deal is California-born Kacey Underwood and London’s Alice Costelloe. June Gloom is Big Deal's follow-up to their 2011 debut, Lights Off. The energetic joy of Big Deal sounds like that unattainable high so many search for in whiskey bottles and little baggies: uplifting but peaceful, with no anxious comedown, and none of the desperate jitters that leak through on some sophomore albums. If track titles such as “Swapping Spit” and “In Your Car” didn't tip you off, the happiness on June Gloom is youthfully reminiscent of high school naivete. Of the track “Dream Machines,” Underwood says:

“I kept dreaming I was going back to school every year because I kept failing these tests and I was the age I am now and everyone else was 16,” he says. “Then I had this moment of, ‘This is stupid, why am I here? Let’s go and ditch school and smoke pot and play pool and hang out!’ None of the things I actually ever got to do. Then I was thinking that’s kind of like what we’re doing with our lives now! It’s your typical rock dream stuff, not wanting to have a 9–5 job, but at the same time missing what that life gives you.”

There's more school references in Big Deal's music than just in Kacey's dreams. Costelloe, the beautiful blond Brit, was Underwood's former guitar student. My perverted mind, like yours just did, immediately assumed romance, but in past interviews Costelloe has denied—or, at least, dodged—such rumors. Even so, there's a hint of sexual tension locked in the lovey, carefree lyrics sang by Costelloe on “In Your Car.” “I got a friend who never lets me down....Driving in your car, I want to be wherever you are. Asleep in your backseat, there's nothing more that I'll ever need, it's a secret, a secret, a secret...” Fiction, perhaps, but it's plenty to get me wondering.

Shit's been pretty weird for humans lately, so listen to some Big Deal to remind yourself of the goodness that still exists in humanity, in this case through art and remembering how dumb you were in high school. And when we make contact with aliens, let's not tell them about the bombs or guns, let's just play this for them instead. Stream “In Your Car” below. June Gloom comes out June 4, 2013, on Mute.

@TheBowieCat

Previously - Fake Vaginas, Ways to Take Heroin, and 1939 Ensemble 

Shaving and/or waxing your pubes increases the risk of sexually transmitted infections, specifically, Molluscum contagiosum (which I’m pretty sure is also a Harry Potter spell) according to a study done by a French health clinic. That sort of infection isn't really serious, though. It’s just an annoying bump or two or ten. It goes away after a while and doesn't scar, but think of it this way: if you're getting rid of your pubic hair for purely aesthetic reasons, doesn't having a bunch of gross bumps defeat the purpose? 

The act of a woman removing all her pubic hair is, in my most likely correct opinion, just an effort to please men; men who consider the ideal sexual experience to be what they jerk off to when they watch porn. The “I want to come on your face, and tits, and back, and stomach all at once”-type guys.

The first time I had sex with a man in Los Angeles was uncomfortable. As soon as he saw my vagina, his eyes bulged wide open. He looked confused and a bit scared, like he just accidentally got a Gremlin wet. I'm pretty sure he whispered, “What the fuck?” He told me that he had never had sex with a woman who had her pubic hair. I immediately thought to myself, Alison you're not in Kansas in anymore, and by Kansas, I meant Oakland. At first I was shocked by his reaction. Then I remembered that LA is the most superficial city on Earth, on top of being the porn capital of the world. Women here succumbed to waxing the same way they succumbed to wearing those stupid tube-top-towel dresses back in the early 2000s.

I love my pubic hair. I don't ever want to get rid of it. I understand, however, that compromises need to be made. Not everyone can be as stubborn as me. If you absolutely hate removing your pubic hair but feel like you have to do it in order to please a sexual partner, then allow me to offer some creative alternatives that can make both you and your partner happy.

THE HALF SHAVE (A.K.A. "THE SKRILLEX")

This one is truly the best of both worlds. One half of you is bare, while the other half is left alone to grow wild and free and maybe even bless our gracious ears with overly agressive electronic dance music.

BALD SKIN CAP

They exist for heads, why not for genitalia? Get a bald cap custom fitted for your nether regions. Slip it on before getting down and dirty, then get to work. Your partner will never know your little secret. When finished, yank it off and go back to being your natural, bushy self.

THE MIRROR TRICK

Place a mirror on top of your bush. When having sex, all that your partner will see is a reflection of his or her genitals. When they go down on you, they'll get a good look at their own face and have an existential crisis, which will probably make them even hornier.

THE GI JOE (A.K.A "GROW IT, JOE")

This one is perfect because, as we all know, sex and violence go hand in hand. All you need to do for this one is place tiny toy soldiers in and around your hairy parts. Convince your partner that your genitalia is some sort of war memorial. If they still refuse to have sex with you, tell them that they're an unpatriotic commie riding a one-way ticket to hell. 

@justaboutglad

For more Alison Stevenson:

Rick Ross: The Most Misunderstood Man in Music

I’ve just photographed a tall thin naked transvestite whore in a MacArthur Park motel room and I’m in a good mood. The air is misty and cold. I’m walking the wrong way back to the car, trying to maneuver with my cane and camera down a blacktop hill past a motel corridor. A door opens and Sweet Adeline, an aging tart in search of a John, steps out from a room. We both stop and look at each other.

She says, “What are you doing out here all alone at four in the morning?”

“Well, a second ago I was lost but now I’m found. I’ve got $25 which I’d be happy to give you if we could go back to your room and take some pictures.”

“You just got lucky,” she tells me.

“Yeah, well, I guess things have taken a turn.”

“My sister and her boyfriend are in the room. Is that OK?”

“I don’t mind if they don’t mind.”

It’s late. I should be heading home but I still have money I haven’t spent and it’s still a couple of hours before sunup, which seems somehow relevant. She tells me to call her Sweet Adeline and I tell her to call me Scot. She opens the door and before we can go in, a guy comes out. He’s black and puffing on a cigar. He looks like he should be wearing a derby. He gives me a nod and keeps going. She tells me that’s her sister’s boyfriend and she guesses he’s gotta go do something. The room is two double beds and a ten-year-old antique television. Giant, with Liz Taylor, James Dean, and Rock Hudson is on and turned down low. Sweet Adeline’s sister is sitting on the stage-right bed smoking a cigarette. Sweet Adeline introduces the room. “This is Scot and he’s going to take pictures of me and this is my sister, Nancy.”

“Hey, Nancy.”

“Hey.”

Sweet Adeline tells me she’s wearing some sexy frillies below deck and would I like that for the pictures. I tell her good idea, let’s take a look, and I dig the $25 from my pocket and pay in advance. James Dean is covered in oil and making a scene and in another few seconds he’s going to hit Rock Hudson in the stomach with an exaggerated undercut. Nancy lights a new cigarette from the butt of the old one. There’s a wheelchair folded up and leaning on the wall; it’s old and looks like it needs a tune-up. Sweet Adeline is down to her matching frilly undergarments. She tosses her pants across the room and says, “Ta da! How do I look? Pretty good, huh?”

I tell her she looks pretty damn cute and she says you mean pretty sexy, don’t ya?

“Cute and sexy,” I say and Nancy agrees. “Cute and sexy, little girlie.”

“You better know it.” Sweet Adeline smacks her ass with the flat of her hand and climbs onto the bed. “OK, five pictures. Five pictures of me in my frillies, that’s five dollars each so you better get ready.”

I take a spot at the foot of the bed.

“One,” she says and I make a head and shoulders.

“Two,” she gives me a side view and I suck in the zoom to take it all in.

“Three,” she scissors a leg up into the air.

“Four,” she twirls around on all fours and shows me her butt.

“Five,” she stands up on the bed and does a kind of Ann-Margret thing with her hands on her knees. I push the button and convert her image into pixels.

“That’s all the pictures you get, but if you got some more money you could crawl up in this bed with me, Nancy don’t mind.”

“That’s right,” Nancy says. “You an’ girlie can do whatever you want, I’m just watching television.”

“Not tonight, thanks. My money’s all gone anyway. Can I get a quick picture of the two of you together before I go?”

“OK, yeah. One picture of Me and Nancy.” Nancy shrugs agreement and Sweet Adeline sits next to her on the bed, cheek to cheek, and I clack the shutter.

“We’re together forever, me and my sister, because there’s nothin’ more important than family. We didn’t see each other for nine years, because we couldn’t, ya know. But we’re not gonna do that again. I’m gonna let you take one more picture of us together because that’s the way we are: together.” She leans back on the bed and puts her arm around Nancy; puts her head on Nancy’s shoulder. Nancy sets a hand on Sweet Adeline’s thigh and they both look at me and for a moment it feels like we are all going to start crying, but I pop the flash and make a picture and then the moment is over.

On the way out the door Sweet Adeline asks me what am I going to do with the pictures. I tell her I’m going to put them online and write a little story to go with them and is that all right with her?

“Yeah, that’s OK,” she says. “What’s my story about?”

“It’s about a sexy lady named Sweet Adeline and it’s about how I got lucky.”

Previously - Cats Fucking

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.

Human sexuality is a fascinating thing. Sometimes it can be compromising to our health and safety, sometimes it can be mind-blowingly euphoric, and sometimes it can be fully imbued with the act of taking a shit. That’s no big deal. We’re all adults here. We can handle the concept of hypothetically being aroused by waterfalls of diarrhea streaming out of a nice young lady’s bottom, ricocheting off the sides of a grown man’s lips as she crouches over him while droplets of shit trickle into a pool of aftermath, which he eventually licks it up off the floor, like a tiny kitten. That is conceivable, right?

For some of us, unfortunately, the idea of scat play can get in the way of an otherwise pleasant relationship, as was the case with this young lad who emailed me the other day:

“Please explain to me how I can get my girlfriend to practice Scat play with me ie shit in my mouth. Perhaps you are able to see through the taboos and hone in on a justification. How do those freaky deaky Germans get away with it? Or the Japanese for that matter? Is it really that bad? Am I just fucked in the head? How would you react to such a request? By the way, not trying to creep you out, just enjoy your perspective.” [sic]

To that I say: Don’t let basic cultural conventions discourage you from pursuing your (harmless) fantasies! After a few simple considerations and with a bit of charm, even the most prudish type could be persuaded by the psychologically riveting world of scat. Here’s how to go about it.

START WITH OTHER BODILY FLUIDS

Semen is normal. Vagina juice is normal. Saliva is normal. For some reason, though, bringing feces into the mix tends to surprise people. For example:

This is all to say, you have to start slow. The weird part about when shit leaves the body is that it’s a real thing that exists. It’s ugly, it’s fowl, it can cause diseases. People spend a lot of money and time trying to ignore shit. Use this to your advantage. Treat it like the amazing spectacle that it truly is. How? First you have to turn every acceptable bodily fluid into an amazing spectacle as well. Play with your girlfriend’s spit. Bask in the beauty of her vaginal secretions. Encourage sex while she’s on her period. Talk about the similarities between G-spot orgasms and the sensation of having to urinate. Encourage her to urinate. If you can baby-step your way to this point, you’ve already won half the battle.

ENGAGE IN POWER PLAY

Power dynamics exist in every sexual relationship, regardless of whether or not they’re outwardly acknowledged. Some people openly label themselves as dominant, submissive, or switch. Other people go their entire lives wordlessly enjoying the instinctual root of these labels. If you want someone to shit on you, you should probably consider the power dynamic involved in the act. Why do you want to be shit on? Is it because you’re bored, curious, and desensitized by the internet? Is it because you secretly hate yourself or feel guilty about something in your past? Is it because you worship your counterpart, including everything that enters and exits his or her body? Whatever the appeal, I think it’s safe to say that being on the receiving end means that you have submissive tendencies, and so the person you are convincing to shit on you has to feel comfortable in the position of power at that moment in time. Try to empathize and meditate on the magnitude of what that entails for the other person.

Image via

ENCOURAGE BLOOD FLOW

Like any dramatic release from the human body, defecation requires increased blood pressure. Basically you should try mimicking all of the physiological factors of taking a shit before the person actually takes a shit, so that everything is ready to go. Hydration is an important component of producing a bowel movement, as well as increasing blood flow. Touching his or her erogenous zones would probably help, too. Maybe give them a nice massage. Turn up the heat in your apartment. Focus on creating physical warmth. The more ways you can simulate everything having to do with shit, the better.

DON’T BE A FUCKING WEIRDO

This might be the hardest part of the whole process. You should be aware that a therapist could probably help you get over your scat fetish. But if you’ve tried it, you like it, and you don’t want to change it, then at least don’t be a creep about it. That means don’t ruthlessly pursue your fetish with little or no regard for the counterperson’s personal preferences. Work on approaching shit together from a leveled, balanced perspective. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it has to be possible. Dreams do come true.

Previously by Kara Crabb - Girl Eats Placenta

@karacrabb

Gimme a Fucking Spring Break #4
Rating: 7
Pinkvisual.com

Despite flunking out of six of the most prestigious institutions of higher learning in New Jersey in less than three years, I never got to experience the crazy beach rompfest marinated in cheap beer that is spring break. I do recall an instance, long after I dropped out of college, when a pack of four young sorority chicks tried to thrust some spring break spirit onto me, only to have it backfire on them miserably.

At the time I was hooked to the gills on pharmaceuticals and living on 31st and Crenshaw in LA, so my recollection of that period is rather numb and foggy. I don’t remember exactly how they ended up staying at my house for a week, but the leader of their pack was the younger sister of a friend of my little sister. I recall my sister’s friend being hot with big tits, so when her little sister Facebooked me asking if she and her three classmates could come stay at my place, I allowed my mind to paint a body with big tits underneath her profile picture. Sadly, my painting art elective was just one of many classes I failed, and her tits, if she ever had them, were left in New Jersey. 

Their knock on my door came far too early on a morning when I was already far too late for work. It was frantic and didn’t stop. I knew what it meant. I’d heard that knock quite often in the year I lived on my all-black block that was run by the Crips; my visitors were shit-scared of getting raped, killed, or maimed by the gangbangers who leaned on my front fence morning, noon, and night. 

I slipped my sweaty, bloated, and constipated frame of pure sexiness into an expired pair of boxer briefs—nothing more—and walked out to greet them. They raced past me to “safety” without so much as a hello, like dogs who couldn’t hold their piss a moment longer. The Crips outside looked at me inquisitively. I nodded, acknowledging them: “Gentlemen.” 

Once inside, the four girls seemed unsure whether they were any safer. Back then I’d keep handguns strewn about my coffee table in various states, from loaded and ready to completely disassembled for cleaning. Usually there’d also be a number of different-colored anthills peppered around them: crushed pills ready for snorting.

“We thought you lived in Hollywood,” their titless leader said. 

“I did. Had to move out because of all the goddamn vampires,” I replied.

“Where the fuck are we? ARE WE GOING TO GET KILLED?” 

“You’re in my home. Act accordingly, and you’ll be fine. I just wouldn’t go outside wearing a red dress.”

My words didn’t seem to comfort them, but my beer did. 

“So what are we going to do first?” the redhead asked.

“Well, I am going to finish this beer, do a line, and go to work. I don’t know what youse guys are doing.”

“I thought you were going to show us around,” their leader said. 

“I never agreed to that. I don’t even know you. I thought you had bigger tits.”

They looked at me stunned. The mousy one started to cry: “I knew we should have gone to Cancun!”

“Listen. Help yourself to the beer and drugs. You’re free to use the shower or crash in my bed. But I have to go to work.” And I did.

When I returned home that evening they were gone. “Those bitches split,” the tallest of the gangbangers told me. “They left your front door wide open. I shut it for you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate that.”

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.

Read more Skinema here.

Like most people, I’m a sucker for a feel-good story, and adult-film star Veruca James has got one of the best triumph-of-the-will tales I’ve heard in a while. For years the petite mid-20s sex kitten suffered a repressed life in Chicago as an accountant making a paltry six-figure salary, all the while hungering for cock as she labored over long, lean 1s and bulbous 0s. Her sexual appetite could not be contained, so she had no choice but to quit her job and leave her previous life behind. Yes, Veruca shed her old persona and all her clothes to make hot and steamy anal sex with her fiancé in Los Angeles, the land of hopes and dreams. Hers is a wonderful, tear-jerking story, like Life Is Beautiful but with dildos. In the future, I plan to interview Veruca more extensively and possibly do a series of Skinema episodes on her and her fiancé's fun and free relationship, but since tax season is upon us and the filing deadline is just around the corner, I thought it a perfect time to probe her brain and tap into her former self for some helpful tips when filing taxes.

Oh, and she also sent me these photos of herself slutting it up at home.

@Nieratko

Previously - Patrick O'Dell's Skateboard High School

Not far from San Francisco's favorite trans bar in the heart of the historically gay-friendly Polk district you'll find the Antique Vibrator Museum, a vivid exhibit of vibrators dating from the early 20th century through the 1970s. 

The museum opened last year inside a sex-toy store called Good Vibrations, where therapist and educator Joani Blank had been displaying a few old vibrators since she opened the shop in 1977. Gradually, customers started to donate their own, then eBay came along, and 36 years later, her small collection has evolved into the Antique Vibrator Museum—home to more than 120 vintage vibrators, along with packaging materials, manuals, print ads, and other vibrator-related ephemera. It’s the biggest collection of orgasm-inspiring devices open to the public today.

The curator of the museum, Dr. Carol Queen, who we interviewed last year, gives regular tours of the old-timey vibes, which are arranged chronologically inside a dozen glass cases. A lot of her info comes from from Rachel P. Maines's book, The Technology of Orgasm: "Hysteria," the Vibrator, and Women's Sexual Satisfaction. But while Maines's historical research forms the backbone of the Antique Vibrator Museum, Dr. Queen is the one who fleshes things out.

"It's one thing to know about vibrators as sex toys, and quite another to see how many types there were throughout the century," she says. "It's also a great example of design and industrial changes in one particular household implement."

The vibrator itself has a long and storied history rooted in female hysteria, a so-called physical illness that disappeared from medical textbooks in 1952. For centuries, though, hysteria was a legitimate and common diagnosis for women who just needed to get laid, or, at the very least, treat themselves to a few mind-blowing orgasms. But since most women in the old-timey days didn't even know they could have orgasms, they needed someone—or something—to help. Thanks in part to the Antique Vibrator Museum, here's a timeline chronicling the evolution of vibrators in history.

200 AD: The Genital Massage

Physician and philosopher Galen of Pergamon prescribed "genital massage" to treat hysteria, which comes from the Latin for "womb." He wrote that the disorder, as it was known then, was caused by a wandering womb or something. "It certainly was thought of as primarily a women's disease," says Dr. Queen. "Some commentators talked about it in nearly sexual terms — it affected virgins and widows more than married women, for instance."

1650-1660: Coming Along

By 1653, Petrus Forestus started fingering his patients with essential oils so they could achieve a "paroxysm," which British surgeon Nathaniel Highmore soon figured out was really just a fancy word for orgasm. To treat symptoms of hysteria, doctors would massage the vulva and clitoris until the woman had a "hysterical paroxysm of relief." But according to Dr. Queen, "Very few doctors said in so many words that they were instigating orgasms through these treatments."

1750: Let's Hose the Cunt

In France, the "pelvic douche device" predated the showerhead by at least 200 years. Hose-wielding medical workers thrust water toward uteruses in an effort to get them to stop wandering around. Meanwhile, in England, physicians still employed ye olde genital massage. But as Dr. Queen notes, "One treatment wouldn't cure a woman with hysteria, only make her feel better for a while. So it made for lucrative repeat business."

1869: The Steam-Powered, Coal-Fired Manipulator

After manually masturbating hundreds of hysterical women, some doctors started to get hand cramps. To save time and energy, American physician George Taylor patented the Manipulator, a motorized padded table with a hole and throbbing ball in the middle. Technology of Orgasm author Rachel Maines discusses the early mechanical instrument in detail.

1880s: Mortimer Granville's Electric Vibrator

Soon, advancements in electricity enabled British physician Joseph Mortimer Granville to patent the first electromechanical vibrator. His character is actually the inspiration behind Hysteria, a 2011 film set in Victorian London starring Maggie Gyllenhaal. You don't get to see her have an orgasm, though.

1899: The Vibratile

Billed as the secret to beautiful skin, an ad for the Vibratile first appeared in the popular 19th century periodical McClure's Magazine. The basic $5 to $10 vibrator promised relief of everything from intermittent pain to crow's feet. 

1900: The Hand-Crank VeeDee

One of the oldest vibrators at the Antique Vibrator Museum, the VeeDee, looks like a hand drill and was meant to aid hysteria-relievers who were sick of getting their fingers dirty. "Doctors who had done vulva massage by hand adopted these," says Dr. Queen, "And some medical practices continued to offer this treatment up till the 1930s or so."

1914: The Pneumatic Detwiller

With various attachments called vibratodes, the Detwiller operated via compressed air and/or gas, and had the potential to blow up one's vagina if something malfunctioned. The Ford Pinto of vibrators, it's probably the most dangerous sex toy ever and one of Dr. Queen's favorites.

1920s: Vibrators in Porn

"We will never know how many shoppers used the vibrator for purely sexual purposes, or to treat their own hysteria," says Dr. Queen. "We do know that vibrators popped up as sexual implements in very early porn movies. As a probable result, ads for vibrators began to disappear from magazines, and within a decade they were gone, as were most doctors' practices based on producing hysterical paroxysms, now that it was clearer what those were."

1930-40: The Art Deco Treatment

While the diagnosis of hysteria slowly faded away, at-home vibrator use only grew in popularity. By the 1930s vibrators became more portable, owing to the increased use of lightweight materials such as aluminum and plastic. They were also a lot more colorful, with many of their designs extending onto the decorative packaging, too. "This is the decade when vibe sellers talk of them as beauty products," says Dr. Queen. "This had always been part of vibe sales appeal, but it took a leap during the 1930s and 40s."

1940-50: Weight-Loss Vibrators

Along with a boxed Infra-Red Massager and the Coronet Electric Patter, the Antique Vibrator Museum has a smaller case of weight-loss vibrators from the 1950s. "This use of vibration may not work particularly well," says Dr. Queen. "Though vibration plate machines—an update of this midcentury design—can be found in some gyms today."

1950-60: Disambugation

With a rubber suction cup and user-friendly hand strap, vibrators like the Spot Reducer continued to promote weight loss. But in 1952, the American Psychiatric Association voted to remove the term hysteria from medical texts, and by 1953, US sexologist Alfred Kinsey had already published two bestselling books on human sexual behavior. Plus, the increasing use of vibrators in porn movies like The Nun only further facilitated their use as sex toys. 

1960-70: Hippie Vibes

Along with a set of Magic Fingers motel-bed vibrators, the final display at the Antique Vibrator Museum features the Stim-u-Lax, a Swedish scalp massager that hasn't changed much since the 1930s. There's also one of Dr. Carol Queen's personal favorites and the rarest vibrator in the collection, which was constructed at a commune. "It was almost time for the vibrator to get a makeover, anyway," says Dr. Queen. "By the late 1960s (and in some contexts sooner than that), you could buy a vibrator at a sex shop."  

1970s: The Magic Wand, etc.

Dr. Queen's tour of old vibrators winds down with the Hitachi Magic Wand, which first came on the market in the 1960s and remains one of the most popular electric vibrators today. "Our collection ends here, because that's when the modern history of Good Vibrations began. The store was founded in 1977 specifically to sell vibes to women, and we didn't promise the customers a hysterical paroxysm—we said it was a good way to have an orgasm."

1990s-now: Vibrators Today

In 1998, Alabama's antiobscenity law banned the distribution of "any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs for anything of pecuniary value." And in 2007, the Supreme Court refused to hear adult-store owner Sherri Williams's case questioning the constitutionality of laws that prohibit the sexual use of vibrators in other states such as Massachusetts, Louisiana, Texas, and Virginia. "My motto has been they are going to have to pry this vibrator from my cold, dead hand," she said. Her hysterical pleas were heard, because in 2008, a US Federal Appeals court ruled that banning sex toys violated the Constitution's Fourth Amendment on the right to privacy.

It's interesting how a once-legitimate prescription for an ailment suddenly became illegal in some parts of the country, once it was obvious that the age-old "treatment" was really just a form of masturbation. That is to say, now that we all know what these devices are really for, our conservative-leaning courts got freaked out. Even more interesting is the fact that possessing a vibrator is actually still illegal in Alabama, with one exception: you're allowed to own one if you have a doctor's note. But what's the diagnosis?

Sounds like hysteria has come full circle.

Last month, the Italian newspaper La Repubblica discovered that the Vatican had paid $35 million for an apartment block housing the Europa Multiclub, which calls itself the “number-one gay sauna in Italy.” The media used the story as another example of the Catholic Church being so obviously gay that they should just come on out and admit it. As a former Catholic schoolboy who believed in God till I saw Hugh Jackman in The Boy from Oz, a Broadway musical about Liza Minnelli’s first gay husband, I wasn’t surprised. I remember my school’s baseball coach sexually assaulting students and my first-grade teaching assistant nearly losing her job after she had an alleged lesbian make-out session with a PE coach—Catholics and shady sex shenanigans go together like red wine and wafers.

Naturally, when I visited Rome recently, the Multiclub was on my sightseeing list, though I was a little nervous. The last time I had been in a bathhouse was my senior year of high school, when my friend Diva D and I went to one in Miami. We ran out of the building after 20 minutes because a guy claiming to be Gloria Estefan’s “background dancer” shoved Diva D, naked, into a locker. I’ve never forgotten the horror. Luckily, the sex club, as well as the Vatican-owned apartments, were located in Salustiano, a nice (read: bourgie) area that didn’t seem like it would hold any insane gays.

After a few minutes of procrastination, I swallowed my fear and buzzed the Multiclub’s entrance. A Tarzan look-alike wearing nothing but a white towel appeared and gave me a once-over—to see if I was hot enough, maybe?—then opened the front door.

Inside, I joined the line behind businessmen in suits carrying backpacks—the postwork closet-case crowd was just arriving, I guess—and examined the portrait behind the receptionist of two gay men jerking each other off in an empty disco, until the receptionist shouted at me in Italian.

“I only speak English,” I explained. “I’m an American on vacation.” Silence.

He looked at Tarzan as if I had said I were Amanda Knox visiting Rome to murder a few sodomites.

“So you’re new?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That’ll be 26 euros.”

The website said the club only cost 13 euros, but I handed him cash, anyway; in return, he gave me a pile of paper thicker than the documents I had presented to enter Italy. “Sign this,” he said. The contract stipulated that to enter any Roman gay club, men must pay a membership fee and agree to keep the identities of the patrons a secret. Each member receives a card and must turn in the card upon entrance. The club returns the card to the patron when he leaves.

Once I handed over the paperwork, an Asian twink in a tank top approached me from across the lobby. He presented me with flip-flops and led me into a locker room blasting the Bee Gees. While the twink sang “How Deep is Your Love” and sprayed disinfectant over any surface he could find, I looked around the room at grown men removing their suits and young guys slipping out of their sweaty boxers. Strangers looking for cocks to suck surrounded me. I had entered a reality similar to the gay pornos I watched as a teen—men gathered here to have sex with other men they didn’t even know—and I felt my nervousness evaporate. I was no longer afraid. I was just down to fuck.

The only question was who. I looked at the dozen naked men in front of orange lockers. A gorgeous jock putting on a wifebeater caught my attention—as did the drop of semen resting above his lip. If only he weren’t leaving…

I ran downstairs in nothing but a towel and flip-flops to search for his equivalent. I passed a man who could have been his clone in the bar that was playing VH1 Classic on a plasma TV, but he looked past my male gaze to assign his male gaze to someone else’s bum. I left the bar, hoping to find a lean twink, but instead entered a dark maze of long hallways leading to more doors—one of them was open, revealing a fat hairy dude lying on a bed jacking off to porn that sounded like Tim Allen screaming at his kids on Home Improvement. I had entered the Bear Zone advertised on the site.

Another door led me into a completely dark sauna. I took off my towel and sat down. A hand rubbed my leg. “No, no, no,” I said. “I can’t see your face.” He moved his leg closer to my cock; I ran out of the room and down another hallway, like a gay Alice exploring a Wonderland of cock.

This hallway led to a hallway full of water: a giant bathtub. Naked men leaned against blue Plexiglas that reminded me of stained-glass windows and Epcot’s the Living Seas exhibit. Again, I removed my towel and headed toward the action, though I could barely see without my glasses and tripped over a stair. I watched the hot clone walk past me and enter the water, which was no doubt at least 10 percent precum. I followed him into the pool, but he shook his head beneath a waterfall flowing from a wall and ignored me as he watched a bear sit on another bear’s cock.

I left the pool and hid in the group shower next door. Washing the dirty water off me, I noticed an old dude checking out my ball sack. I ignored him the way the clone ignored me, dried off, and then collapsed on a beach chair in the hallway. From a speaker hidden in a wall, Penny and the Quarters’ “You and Me” played. Since like Disney’s It’s A Small World ride, hidden speakers blast the same songs in every room, I walked around the club singing along, although the lyrics seemed like a mockery of my situation: “If the stars don’t shine/ If the moon won’t rise/ If I never see the setting sun again/You won't hear me cry... As long as there is/ You and me.”

As late afternoon turned into evening and I continued to fail to find a suitable partner, I saw more men experiencing “me” time than “you and me” time. A fat guy lay on his back in the sauna lifting his leg up and down as he jacked off; in the bar a man sang along with “I’m Like a Bird” as it played on VH1. I would make fun of their loneliness, but I wasn’t any less desperate—soon, I was forsaking my No Fatties rule and heading to the Bear Zone. There, on a couch, I found my beloved clone alone, masturbating because even he couldn’t find a guy he wanted who wanted him back.

I wasn’t getting laid, so I decided to leave, but on my way to the locker room, I saw the back of a guy whose body looked like David Beckham’s H&M ads—needless to say, I followed him through a door.

He sat on a couch naked, touching his seven-inch cock as he watched three different porn movies playing on screens mounted on the wall. I sat down next to him and started to masturbate. He moved closer to me on the couch and then turned toward me, and my dick fell limp. He had David Beckham’s body, all right—and the face of Anna Nicole Smith’s dead husband. Unsure how to reject a naked senior citizen, I continued to touch myself, but my penis refused to cooperate. I shook my head; he jacked off harder. “No,” I said. He increased his wanking speed to the point where I worried his dick might fall off. “No,” I repeated. He kept jacking off and looking at me. A tear formed in the corner of his eye.

Filled with old-school Catholic guilt for hurting a stranger, I fled the room. I needed to confess or cleanse myself. In other words, I needed to leave the club. But as Mary McCarthy said in Memories of a Catholic Girlhood, even lapsed Catholics still act like Catholics, finding pleasure in the pointless and returning to institutions that hurt them, hoping for good to come—I went back to the hallway full of water in search of my ideal young man. But all the guys there were alone and miserable.

Several minutes of fruitless self-pity later, I spotted Anna Nicole Smith’s husband approaching another twink with his erect dick. Right then, I understood why it made perfect sense for the Catholic Church to own apartments next to a gay sex club. Like theme parks, churches and sex clubs both sell fantasies. And fantasies never come true. They just break hearts.

@mitchsunderland

More gay stuff from Mitchell:

Beauty and the Plague

Trying to Understand the English Gays at Oxford

I’m a Homo but I Loved Having Sex with This Robotic Pussy

When I was 18, I met a guy who worked in a surf shop. I was buying a white triangle bikini that had sequin flowers embroidered on it. His name was Zane, which at the time seemed cool. I never asked how old he was, but let’s say he was comfortably older than I was. It was a Thursday afternoon after school, and I was still in my uniform. We flirted while my friends sniggered audibly, mere feet away, and he wrote his number on the back of my receipt when I paid.

The next day I called him at recess from the schoolyard, with my friends gathered around, all trying to listen into the receiver—the way high school girls do. He asked me on a date, and the following Friday, I picked him up from his job at the surf shop after school. We went to dinner and a movie in a trendy suburb of Melbourne, and I spent the whole night falling in love with his ocean-blue eyes, scraggly hair, and older-than-me-ness. At the end of the night, I drove him home, and he asked me to come in. Wanting to seem grown up, I said yes.

His house was a mess, and there were about ten other people living there. It was like a squat full of surfboards, and his roommates were sprawled across the living room smoking bongs. I’d never actually seen a bong before, and when he passed it to me, I politely declined. He shrugged and took a hit, and I tried to memorize Every. Little. Detail.

Eventually, Zane, completely baked, led me to his room by the hand. He lit candles all over the place, and I found it all achingly romantic. Zane pulled me on to the bed, and we started making out. Seconds later he was fingering me and panting in my ear. I began fumbling for his belt, and once I’d managed to pull off his pants and undies I recoiled, dumbstruck.

“Wow,” I said, wide-eyed, sitting back on the bed.

“Well I’ve never had a girl react quite like that,” he responded with amusement.

Zane had the biggest cock I’d ever seen in my life. Up until that point, I’d only seen one other cock in a sexual context, but I knew, instinctively, it was a monster. The situation went from a romance to a horror show. I had no idea what to do next. So I did what has become a habit for me in awkward sex situations: I tried to diffuse the weirdness by giving him a blowjob. Except that I could only get the tip into my mouth.

I just want to take a moment to make sure you understand how big this particular dick was. When I wrapped my hand around it, the tips of my fingers were still about an inch away from reconnecting with my palm. And when the end of it was in my mouth, I was pretty much deep throating. His penis was fucking enormous.

After I unsuccessfully sucked him off and tried some two-handed jacking, Zane thought it would be a great idea to try and get his colossal dong into my tiny teenage-girl self that hadn’t had much experience with penis. Needless to say, it didn’t fit. Embarrassed, I got dressed and kissed him goodbye. I never saw Zane or his massive appendage again.

The next day, I told all my friends about the Godzilla dick like it was the coolest thing ever. What did they know, anyway? Most of them were still stupid virgins, and when you’re a teenage girl, for some reason the world has convinced you, or maybe you’ve convinced each other, that huge dicks are The Best. This is not the case. No offense to the big dicked out there, but your cock is beautiful, probably. It’s just not for me.

I’ve been telling girls for the past ten years since the Zane incident that the perfect penis is medium-to-average-sized, and I proved that point to myself recently when I dated Zane 2.0. Last year I met a guy that my friends and I referred to (behind his back, duh) as “Baby’s Arm.” It was my second sighting of Moby Dick, and it was just as overwhelming as it was the first time, despite my now whorishly stretched-out vagina.

But huge cocks are hard to get in small holes of any variety, and with Baby’s Arm, I always had to be on top so I could control the depth of penetration, which was about half his dick's length, according to my calculations. Balancing high on my knees while also trying to grind my hips and be sexy, while at the same time trying not to let the tip of his dick stab me in the cervix or uterus was a real challenge. It was distracting, and no one wants to be challenged or distracted during sex. It’s not Sudoku.

In sum, huge dicks are fun because you get to tell your friends about them afterwards, but otherwise, they’re nothing but trouble. I’m not Amanda Bynes; I don’t want my vagina murdered. I just want to get it on with a dick that fits without any strategic planning or maneuvering needed. As it turns out, size does matter. 

SEX – FAKE VAGINAS

A fun thing about being a sex writer is that you can stomp your feet and whine, “I want to try fingering a Fleshlight!” and heaps of fake vaginas will start raining on you, sent from PR heaven. Of all the gadgets sitting in my Santa bag of sex toys, the winner of the weirdest/best fake vagina goes to Climax Gems Diamond Hand Job Stroker. Congrats! Your prize is an abundance of cum.

The handjob stroker is a ribbed clear waterproof shaft. The package's description hints it's meant to be used with a partner and not just solo, so after fulfilling my dream and fingering it a few times, I tried it out on an alive human male who wishes to remain anonymous. Use lube! Water based preferably. It has a hole on each side, one big hole, and one tiny hole. I pondered:

A.) Is one hole supposed to be a vagina and one a butthole?

B.) Are the two different holes out of respect for different-sized penises?

C.) Or is it open-ended simply for clean-up purposes?

The answer is C, the jizz squirts out of the smaller opening upon orgasm so you don't end up with a “masturbator” full of crusty old-man butter. My penis partner found this out later when he used it by himself. After about five minutes of giving him a handjob with it ,I was like, “Fuck this, let's hump,” because I'm greedy and easily distracted.

The dude said it didn't feel like a vagina, a butthole, or a hand, but something different entirely. The novelty of the product was what got him off the most when he used it alone. I would best describe it as an alien poonani. When I used it on him, it made slopping suction noises that sounded like he was fucking an outer-space orifice. The clear toy somehow magnifies the penis making it look ginormous, which was a considerate design choice.

If you'd like to buy the Climax Gems Diamond Hand Job Stroker and blow your load into some X-Files puss yourself, you can buy one here.

Photo by Psychonaught via Wikimedia Commons

DRUGS - METHODS OF HEROIN ADMINISTRATION

I hate to let you guys down, but I've never tried heroin. Unlike with sex toys, when it comes to drugs I can't exactly email a dealer and be like “Yo! I'm writing about H this week, want to send me some free samples?” This is for the best because from what I've read about the warm, apathetic orgasm, I'd fucking love it, and you know, it's heroin and all. From my research and those I've spoken with who have tried it, it makes a big difference what method of administration you use.

Smoking: Smoking a joint that's been laced with heroin is one of those things that sometimes just accidentally happens at parties, like chugging a plastic bottle of vodka you think is water. You'll be fine. Smoking heroin on its own placed on foil is known as “chasing the dragon.” It tastes like shit.

Snorting: Like with any other drug, the experience of snorting heroin is fast, short, and intense like a quickie on a bathroom sink. Coke heads, don't pull a Pulp Fiction and accidentally snort heroin, as the chances that John Travolta's at your party to inject adrenaline into your heart to save you are unlikely.

Injection: Keith Richards made a big stink in Life claiming he never mainlined (shooting directly into a vein), but rather mostly injected his beloved drug into his butt and other muscles. Mainlining is the method everyone associates with heroin and by far the most effective and dangerous. Don't get AIDS please. Never share needles. Prepare to barf.

Suppository: If you're squirting heroin up your bum, there's probably larger issues at hand than simply a drug dependency.

Photo by Matthew Brush

ROCK 'N' ROLL – 1939 ENSEMBLE

Despite being the second column in a row to feature an instrumental band, after all that heroin talk I had to tell you guys about 1939 Ensemble. Not that these dudes are junkies or anything, but the blissful and lazy euphoric sounds on their debut LP Howl & Bite is the closest I'll get to the relaxed high without risking rehab. The collection of noises knitted together on Howl & Bite is how I imagine a bustling city would sound if you managed to erase the angry mutterings of humans shoved together on a subway and the anxious screams of ambulance sirens, boiling the chaos down to a place of serenity.

1939 Ensemble is a Portland jazz/postrock duo composed of two percussionists: Jose Medeles and David Coniglio. Before linking up with David, Jose was the drummer in the Breeders. He owns a vintage drum store called Revival Drums that apparently makes any drummer splooge their pants upon entrance.

David sounds like an equally interesting fellow. Along with his work with 1939 Ensemble, he runs the Portland School Of Rock and plays in a heavy metal band. He's also good looking. I don't know if David has a partner but they better watch out, between his love for kids and simultaneous metal and jazz skills, I'd totally give him a handjob with my alien-vagina toy. Or with my own hand or mouth. You get the idea.

Howl & Bite is out out April 16th on Jealous Butcher Records. Listen to “Sad French Song” below.

Previously on Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n' Roll:

Medical Fetishism, Benzo Withdrawal, and the Swedish Avant-Garde

@TheBowieCat

1988. I’m on Central Avenue about a mile south of wise decisions. A warm wind is blowing through the desert that is Los Angeles. It's 4:00 AM when I spy a skinny wreck in spike heels, short-shorts, and a halter top. She gives a wink and a wave and I pull into an empty lot next to a beauty parlor. Virgin Mary or one of her friends, set in holy clouds, is painted over a brick façade on the front of the building. The whore walks to the car in jerky stoned-out steps, opens the door, and climbs in.

"My apartment," she mumbles. "Go that way." She keeps her eyes on my face and directs me down a narrow graffiti-filled alleyway that feels like an abandoned carnival midway. "Here. Stop here. Follow me." I park next to a row of overturned trash containers, grab my camera gear, then climb out and look around. It’s not a nice place. From somewhere nearby, I hear cats fucking—the female yowling, the male growling like a rapist.

We walk through a gate into a courtyard of apartments that look like they only exist at night. The whore’s equilibrium is out of whack; she seems to be falling but never does. A couple of mad-eyed teens sit in an open-mouth garage doing nothing. They scowl at me, but I keep my expressions to myself. We go into a dark lower-floor apartment that smells like cooked cabbage. The room is lit by the tube of a small black-and-white TV, snow and incoherent noise. A skinny pimp/husband in yellowed underwear sits rocking on the back legs of a twisted kitchen chair, drinking from a bottle of MD 20/20 and watching the television like there is something there to watch. He looks at me in a squint like I’m backlit by the sun and then back at the television.

The hooker grabs my hand and pulls me toward a half-open bedroom door. “C’mon,” she says. “You wanna fuck?”

I can see into the bedroom. Trash and secondhand toys are strewn about, and two little kids are on a bed without a slipcover. One is asleep and the other is sitting up with a pacifier in her mouth, looking at her mother and me.

"We’re not going in there,” I tell her.

“They jus' kids,” she says. “You wanna fuck? C’mon."

My dick has pulled in its head. "I don't want to fuck. I want to take your picture and we can do that out here."

The man of the house suddenly wakes up, sits up, and looks at me. "What's chu want pictures for?" His mouth hangs open like those of elderly people in hospice. On the floor next to him: tin foil, a butane lighter, drug paraphernalia.

The guy irritates me, so I get belligerent and tell him, “I’m not talking to you.”

The whore takes my arm, calls me baby and wants to know am I going to treat her right.

I take a 20 from my wallet, tell her it’s my life savings and she can have it, all she has to do is pose like a model.

"Bare naked?"

"Yeah, sure. But let’s close this door." The kid on the bed is watching, and it’s creeping me out.

The whore takes the bill, walks to the couch and starts to strip. The pimp pulls his scrawny body from the chair and staggers over into my face. The top of my head reaches the bottom of his chin.

"Wha bou me?" His eyes are out of focus and his breath stinks like a landfill. The bedroom door is still open, the kid sitting there watching the cheap drama.

"What about you?"

"Twenty dollars."

"I already gave her 20."

"Wha bou me?"

"Fuck you."

The pimp balls his fists and contorts his mug. I sneer and snarl like I’m a tough guy. If we started swinging, we’d probably look like Special Olympics flyweights on crack. I’m looking at the pimp but can still feel the kid on the bed watching me.

The pimp says "motherfucker" under his breath and goes to the hooker, now sprawled naked across the couch. He takes her arm and pulls her to his level. "Wha bou me?" She picks her pants up from the floor, pulls the 20 from a pocket and hands it to him. He goes back to the chair in front of the television and spits at my feet on the way. I look into the bedroom, wave goodbye to the kid and pull the door mostly closed.

The whore gives me nasty poses on the couch while I take pictures and encourage her to be creative. "That's great, that's good baby, look at me and do that one again, that's beautiful, great."

When I’m done I turn to pack up and notice that the door has swung open again and the toddler has been sitting there watching us. She blinks but otherwise doesn’t move. I pick up my backpack and leave without saying goodbye.

Previously - It's Only Pornography

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.

Let’s just admit it: Life is fucking boring. Life is so monotonous and full of routine that it’s a wonder we all don’t just fall asleep whenever we look at ourselves in the mirror. The best we can hope for are those brief moments of clarity that snap us back into reality. You know what I’m talking about. The thing that happens when you wake up one day and unlearn everything you’ve always known? You forget why you would ever go to someone’s birthday party or why you bothered to do well in school and apply for those jobs and show up to happy hour and ask people how their weekend went or listen patiently as someone describes the dream they had the night before or gushes about their dog, or, even worse, talks about a dream involving their dog.

You forget all of it because it’s no longer worth remembering. This stuff that we fill our lives with, you’ve realized, isn’t enough to live for. Give me stuff to live for or else.

This happens to me sometimes. I don’t question anything in my life because everything makes sense to me until one day it doesn’t. And then I do what everybody else does when they start missing the point of their life entirely: I start to actually have fun.

***

I am 20 years old and kissing my straight roommate’s penis on its head. He won’t let me kiss him on his face so I guess his dick will have to do. I have been celibate for an entire year because I’m convinced I look like Grendel, but now I’m hooking up with my straight roommate and starting to feel that electric shock again.

He’s not gay. Let’s just make that clear. I hooked up with plenty of closeted men in high school—guys who were clearly thirsting for cock underneath all those layers of teen misogyny and Abercrombie & Fitch cologne, but my roommate is not one of them. He just likes feeling wanted. He likes to be worshiped. He simply enjoys getting his dick sucked.

So that’s what I’m doing, I’m giving him a blowjob, and he’s trying very hard not to like it.  His neck is stiffening, and he’s applying pressure to my scalp and encouraging me to go farther down, like I’m bobbing for apples. I can’t believe this is actually happening. My sex life is usually as interesting as a Sofia Coppola movie on mute, but occasionally the gay gods throw me a boner and my life suddenly resembles a porn movie. Again, it’s that voice that creeps up in your brain after a long period of nothingness that says, Give me stuff to live for, motherfucker. You are so bad at living. Make things happen for yourself.

***

A few months earlier, my best girlfriend and I took my roommate into a dark room and played a game of Marco Polo with his dick. (Instead of saying “Marco Polo,” though, we said “ Mary-Kate, Ashley,” because, duh.) We put our hands all over his body and started playing with his dick underneath his basketball shorts. He didn’t know who was pleasuring him because we were taking turns.

“Mary-Kate,” I would whisper, slithering like a snake up his thigh.

“Ashley…” My friend would hiss in his ear.

Even though we’d occasionally break character and start laughing at the absurdity of the situation, it was still very, very hot. It was one of those nights that could only happen when you’re young and treat your feelings like they’re rubber bands being flung carelessly against a wall.

After that night, I knew my roommate was open to dipping his feet into my little pool of homosexuality. I just didn’t know how to instigate it. Weeks and months had passed since Mary-Kate-and-Ashley-gate with no mention from either of us about the incident. Then one night, in the middle of researching a paper on female genital mutilation for my science and spirituality in Africa class, he came bursting into my room.

***

“I’m so pissed off,” he growls at me.

“What happened?”

“I was hooking up with Briana and then she stopped me because we didn’t have a condom. I’m so blue-balled and horny now. I need to jack off or something.”

He plops down on my bed and sighs in frustration. I can immediately tell that something was off about our energy. We have lived together for almost a year and things have never felt this… ripe before.

We are going to hook up, I think. This is it. This is the night when things start happening.

Feeling a wave of courage and, more importantly, horniness come over me, I say, “You know, if you want to, you can masturbate in here. I won’t mind.”

Deafening silence.

Then there is the sound of a loosening belt buckle and then my roommate’s hard dick is standing in front of me.

He starts jacking off, and then I start jacking off. Then I say the thing that will seal the gay porn deal: “Would you like some help with that?”

“Mmmmhmmm.”

***

As embarrassing as it all sounds, it really felt like something had been awakened inside of me. I had spent the past year living some watered-down version of life. I ran away from any boy who wanted to talk to me because I felt undesirable and, damnit, being celibate for a long time isn’t for sissies. If you aren’t getting fucked, you’re fucking yourself. We all know that now. My body was going into survival mode and trying to wake me up. It was trying to get me to remember what it was like to be an active participant in my own life rather than a passive observer.

As it happens, giving your straight roommate a blowjob kind of feels like a cold hard dick slap across the face. If you don’t feel the essence of life coursing through your veins at that point, you’re beyond help.

I sucked that dick like my life depended on it because, in a way, it did. This blowjob was the thing that was going to save it all and make me feel sexual again. My roommate was moaning loudly now, and I kept going deeper and deeper because that’s what you do when you want to feel all of it hitting you at once.

Then he came. He came all over the place. And then he cried.

I’ve had a lot of bizarre reactions to a blowjob, but I’ve never had someone cry on me before. I guess you do what you have to do in order to process the unthinkable, though. I hugged him and said it would be OK and that he was OK for getting a blowjob from another man.

“I’m not gay,” he wailed.

“I know you aren’t.”

And for once I actually meant it.

Previously - All the New Gay Boys

@ryanoconn

In my experience, timing is the biggest problem, and here comes my first piece of advice to any dude who wants to do it from behind: be sure you don’t flip a girl over for doggy when she’s already on the yellow brick road to orgasm, especially if all you’re planning on doing is pounding her from behind and coming in 30 seconds.

I could give a specific example, or tell you a certain story, but that would minimize the scope of this problem. The inappropriately timed doggy flip has happened to me with almost every dude that’s ever had me over easy. My life seems to be filled with guys who just don’t know how to read their audience, and it happens that on numerous occasions I’ve been enjoying some pretty wonderful sex, which I’ve generously vocalized, and yet I’ve found shouting, “OH MY GOD I’M SO CLOSE,” often equates with being stopped and turned over so the guy can pummel me from behind with a friction causing in-and-out motion that only feels good for one person (hint: not me).

I wonder where this notion comes from? That turning sex into an extreme sport is the best way to get a girl to cum. Actually, I don’t wonder; it’s definitely a porn thing. What is curious though, is that a man, upon being given explicit sexual instructions (“That feels so good,” or “Don’t Stop”) would think the best course of action is to ignore those instructions. How would you feel, guy, if I was sexing you, and you told me, “I’m about to cum all up in your tight little pussy” and my reaction was to immediately STOP, TURN YOU ONTO YOUR TUMMY and start DRY HUMPING YOUR ASS, ignoring anything that would be enjoyable about this scenario to you?

Why do dudes just assume that what they enjoy (in-and-out speed fucking) is necessarily the best route to making a woman, who has clearly expressed otherwise, cum? I am truly baffled. There are only two sure ways to know that a woman wants it from behind; one is to ask and she says yes, and the other is if she turns over of her own accord and wiggles her ass in your face. But if you insist on being "spontaneous," or weren't raised with very good manners, or just like to have your way as you please, here are some other tips for not screwing up the doggy-flip:

Watch Out For The Wall

Concussions aren’t sexy. When you’re flipping a girl over, be aware of your surroundings. If you can’t multi-task, maybe take an inventory of the environment when you first enter the room. Is there a headboard? Side table? Is the bed pushed against the wall? These are all things you don’t want to accidentally smash a girl’s face into. I don’t know about other girls, but it also makes me feel pretty objectified when a dude isn’t spatially aware of where my body begins and ends, but knows exactly where my hole is, and is willing to sacrifice the gray matter around it in order to get his dick wet.

Have a Fiddle

This leads me nicely to my next point. There are other bits around the hole you’re sticking it into. These are called “nipples” and “clitoris” respectively. The best way to avoid being a selfish jerk when you’ve got that nice rear view is to have a fiddle with your girl’s other parts.

Squeeze Her Legs Together

There are still some guys that haven’t got the memo on this, so I’m going to do us all a favor and just say it now: doggy style sex is better for everyone when the girl has her knees squeezed together whether she’s laying flat or on her knees. Forget everything you’ve seen in porn; sex from behind doesn’t just mean a girl on her knees, legs spread, being violently slammed from behind. Also, slow and steady wins the race, so when you’ve got your tortoise in her hare, try taking it easy with differing speeds. Again, not everything that dudes like will make girls cum and sex is, or should be, an exercise in share and share alike.

Don’t Assume You Can Put It in Her Butt

When a girl allows you to turn her over during sex it’s not a tacit agreement that you’re welcome to put it in her butt. ASK BEFORE YOU DO BUTT STUFF. That’s my new mantra/idea for a cool bumper sticker.

This Isn’t a Good Time to Stop and Have A Wank

Chances are if your girl was enjoying what you were doing BEFORE you flipped her over, she’s not going to be thrilled to have to lay there while you masturbate onto her ass.

Leave the God Damn Condom On

I mean, how stupid do you think girls are? Do you think just because we can’t SEE what you’re doing we don’t KNOW? Trying to take a condom off after flipping girl over is the sex equivalent of a baby that thinks if it covers its stupid baby eyes you can’t see it any more. It’s pretty insulting to us that you think you can get away with that move, if not criminal (women reserve the right to consent to be infected with your STDs and/or babies).

Hair Pulling Is for Bitch Fights

In my experience, when a guy’s dick is hard he kind of forgets that he’s a big huge man and I’m a tiny little girl, and that yanking my hair back at full force is painful, not sexy. And while a light hair tug (palm on the scalp type thing, not grabbing it from the ends, which is what girls do when they’re fighting) is sexy with a firm kiss, there’s something about hair pulling when a dude is ramming you from behind that makes you feel like a horse that’s being ridden.

Humans Need to Breathe

Succeeding in flipping a girl during sex is not an excuse to suffocate her. Look, I know you’re caught up in the moment, but be aware that if you’re gripping the back of a girl’s neck (which can be hot), you’ve got to make sure you’re not smothering her whole face into the pillow, and that she’s still capable of taking in air. Probably don’t offer her a straw to breathe through, but just be aware that if you’re pushing the back of her head down the muffled sounds you can hear might be her trying to scream for air, rather than her thrilled groans.

@Kat_George

More from Kat:

How Your Dude Like to Cum and What It Says About Him

Why Period Sex Is the Best Sex

Reasons to Fuck a Guy on the First Date

"You want me to suck your dick? Thats $80," she mumbled over her shoulder, a foot and a half taller than me, drawing me toward the Champagne Room's ATM. I looked up into the forced sparkles of dual diamond dimple piercings and shook my head no. "Well, how much money you got?" 

For three years now, Miami-born creative collective the Overthrow has thrown the unofficial Winter Music Conference closing party at the Gold Rush strip club, in the heart of downtown Miami. Dreamed up as the underground answer to more mainstream industry dinners and send-offs, Hard 2 Leave has become a fixture of the WMC, with artists, delegates, and fans all scheduling their flights a day later in order to spend what money they've made, or what little they have left, on the bevy of butts. It's basically the best party ever.

This year saw the biggest turnout yet, with back-to-back performances by Zeds Dead, A-Trak, Brodinski, and RL Grime almost upstaging the veritable army of strippers finger-fucking each other for ones. 

"You got any more money?" she asked, when our second song was through. 

"No," I said, opening my wallet truthfully. "But it was fun, though," I offered up as consolation. 

"For you maybe," she mumbled, and disappeared into the crowd. 

Special thanks to the Overthrow, Gold Rush, the Black Banditz, and Lastnightsparty.

Louis Brodinski and a fat stack of ones.

Jessie Andrews.

Things got gross.

By the end of the evening, the girls were exchanging big bills with the bar.

This girl was into it until her stripper started touching her back.

Pants were optional.

Salva became the unofficial king of the club.

Trouble & Bass cleaned house.

A-Trak + DJ Craze.

At one point, everybody got on stage to see RL Grime's set, including the strippers.

At the end of the night, we washed down our sins at the 24-hour diner next door.

@emersonyeah

Live vicariously through our party photos:

We Partied with Juelz Santana and the ATL Twins at Our Fashion Issue Release Party

Vito Fun Finally Got Around to Sending Us His SXSW Photos

Tiger's 8 Not Known New York Block Party Photos

"What's your number-one tip for giving the best blowjob?"

This question drives me insane. I usually pause to shoot murderous looks at whichever PR person has set up the interview before responding. I have two sound-bite-sized answers: "Don't chomp down on the dick unless the person it's attached to has expressed a desire for that sort of thing," and "Experiment, communicate, and pay attention." Usually the reporter doesn't like either answer. They want to hear something about Altoids or strawberry-flavored lube. They want to know some secret for controlling a man through his orgasm, as though making your boyfriend ejaculate at will is some sort of way to turn them into the perfect mate. They want a detailed description of the magical three-button move that works on everyone. If something like putting slight pressure on the taint with my left thumb while using the fingers of that hand to gently cup the balls and slurping on the head of the cock with the exact suction tension of my mom's twelve-year-old Hoover worked like a charm on every single penis, I would never, ever spend 45 minutes of my life on a porn set trying to be understanding and sensitive, while the male talent I'm working with struggles to maintain an erection or ejaculate [1] because he's having a really bad day. I would be the crown princess of fucking people with my face. I would then attempt to argue that the above combination of stimuli is some kind of fellatio choreography, trademark it, and collect royalties every time a person used that maneuver for profit.

There is no magical three-button move that works on everyone. Well, unless there are underground sex worker meetings that no one invites me to (a definite possibility) where arcane 100 percent successful blowjob tips are shared and kept secret from the rest of us.

Daddy [2] took me to this Italian restaurant a couple of days ago. The kitchen sent out pea mousse. When the waiter left, I quietly said I found the texture gross. Daddy said something about it being deconstructed and therefore fancy. Deconstructed food is why the most exciting thing about a fancy dinner is getting dressed up for it. I think peas taste great, so I don't understand why anyone would want to make them far more complicated than necessary just to end up with what I see as an inferior pea-flavored dish. The same goes for deconstructing sex. You can break things down to constituent parts, but the organic whole is almost always better. Fuck pea mousse.

OK, OK, so that was a really clumsy transition. Let's laugh about it together for a moment and then move on. Laughing together about something awkward and then moving on is a useful skill. It comes in very handy when, for instance, you're slightly congested from a weather change and gagging on someone's cock causes snot to shoot out of your nose. Or when you manage to gracefully shimmy out of your clothes and then trip over them because they're puddled around your feet. Or when you realize there are no condoms after everyone is completely naked and you run to the corner store in heels and a blanket. Or when one of your holes starts making weird noises, when a cat jumps on your head midcoitus, or someone thinks the bottle of Tiger Balm on your windowsill is lube. All of these things have happened to me at least once. Sex involves bodies, which are full of fluids, noises, and awkward moments. I started having way more fun with sex when I came to terms with this.

Another concept that was really helpful to understand is that even if your sexual partner(s) have the same genitals that you do, you can't [3] feel what they're feeling. Everyone has preferences for which parts of their bodies are stimulated and what ways they are stimulated in. The amount of lubrication that's just right for one guy is too slippery for another and kind of chafes a third. The pressure that means impending orgasm for one woman may lead another to wonder why you're being so shy and a third to ask what her clitoris did to you and why you're trying to bruise it. The only effective way I know of to figure out what feels good to another person is to communicate about it.

Some people make communication pretty easy by volunteering information. They might openly discuss past sexual experiences in a way that expresses their likes and dislikes. They might immediately provide verbal feedback, complimenting you on sensations that are just right and pointing out where they'd prefer things harder, softer, or sloppier. If this is the case, all you really have to do is actively listen. If you squeeze the shaft of someone's cock, and he says "Oh, that feels awesome. Squeeze it harder!" squeeze it until he responds with something along the lines of "Yeah!" or "Just like that!" and then try to remember how hard you squeezed for the next time you want to do some sweet dick squeezing. Other people are less naturally vocal or comfortable, so you may need to try things and then gently prompt them for feedback or discussion. Personally, I'm (oddly) shy. I prefer to use text messages and emails to talk about the details of sexual desires and a variety of noises ranging from squeak toy through growls to communicate how I feel about what's happening to my body.

Once you're communicating, you build a knowledge base of what the person you're having oral sex with likes, doesn't like, and absolutely loves. At some point you'll probably figure out what the magical three-button move for that specific person is. This is kind of awesome and kind of a trap. As expressed in the footnotes (you HAVE been reading the footnotes, right?), the meme of heterosexual sex ending with male orgasm and having an orgasm being the goal of sex for all people regardless of sex or gender is something I feel could use some challenging. Not everyone wants to have an orgasm. If they do, they might not necessarily want to have one in under four minutes, have thirty of them in the course of an hour, or proceed directly to the series of actions that are tried-and-true methods to make them come. Further complicating the concept of the magical three-button move is the fact that a man who loves the feeling and look of shoving his cock into your throat so hard that tears run down your face and you might vomit could, at another time, want to be massaged with your hands and tongue so gently that it practically tickles. People's sexual tastes can vary depending on the day or even hour.

One of the positives of having a steady sexual partner is the opportunity to know each other's bodies (and minds/souls/essences/whatever) inside out. The flip side of this comfort is a possibility of routine and the law of diminishing returns leading to boredom. I'm sure that there are people who consistently prefer their sex as routine or even boring. If that's what gets you off, good for you. Enjoy it. Have the most predictable sex humanly possible, and I hope you find a wonderful partner or partners who enjoy that as well. However, it does seem like one of the drives behind interest in things like lists of sex tips is a desire to keep things fresh and novel. Experimentation and novelty go pretty well together. Experimentation can be anything from putting on a raccoon suit and duct taping yourself to the wall upside down to being unable to remember how your partner responds to having their genitals blown on and finding out by giving it another shot.

So there you go: have fun and try to avoid drawing blood with your teeth. Unless you're into that sort of thing.

[1]Almost every mainstream, heterosexual-oriented pornographic sex scene involving a male performer ends with his ejaculation or shortly afterwards. This does bring up the narrative arc of foreplay-undressing-oral sex-penetrative intercourse-male ejaculation-end that is so pervasive in our discussions, ideas, and depictions of heteronormative sex, but that's a whole other topic.

[2]I know it makes some of you cringe to see me referring to my boyfriend as Daddy. It's going to be OK, I promise. You'll either get used to it or stop reading because you can't deal with it. Either outcome is fine.

[3]I guess if I'm going to mention the Immaculate Conception in a piece on birth control, I should probably mention the possibility of psychic powers, but until someone I know and respect develops telepathy, I'll stand by my statement that you can't feel exactly what another person is feeling.

Previously from Stoya:

Stoya on How Porn Chicks Avoid Getting Preggers

Stoya on the Pitfalls of Heteronormativity and Monogamy

@Stoya

There isn't too much information available about photographer Jonathan Leder's debut feature-length film, American Ecstasy, besides the fucked-up and strangely sexy shit you saw in the trailer above. This is partially because it isn't finished yet and also because they want the erotic horror flick to appear mysterious and ominous. What we do know is that it stars smoking hot VICE model and Playmate Britany Nola and a few other beauties who are trapped in some kind of psychosexual nightmare created by a "regular Joe" nutcase. We can also assume since it's a work of Jonathan Leder—creative director of the dope Jacques magazine—that the film intends to do more than just engorge boners and illicit freak-outs. Like Jonathan's other works that transcend the realms of pornography and art, American Ecstasy seems like it is going to give us a lot to think about. 

To glean a little—and I mean just a little—insight on what the new film is about and the ideas it will bring forward, I hit Jonathan up for a chat on the phone. We covered such compelling topics as Pygmalion love and the power of strippers. Enjoy!

VICE: How did you develop the idea? What was the inspiration?
Jonathan: It originally came to us because we were working down in Florida interviewing girls at this strip club called Mons Venus for an article for a magazine. That germinated the idea, though it has evolved a lot since then. To initially hear what these young women lived through was just so different than anything that we’d experienced before, and I thought it was a fascinating departure point.

The trailer is pretty twisted. Was there a lot of S&M at this club?
Those themes came in later. The article was just a pure departure point. From there the idea was to explore how bizarre we could get. America has so many different sides to it, there’s an overcurrent, but also there’s this undercurrent, and I wanted to explore the undercurrent. Some of the scenes in the film touch on S&M, the idea of inverted love, and the idea of Pygmalion love.

What’s that?
It’s a Greek story where a man makes a sculpture and it’s beautiful, and he falls in love with it. He prays to Venus for the sculpture to come to life and he marries the sculpture and they have a baby and the baby is a god. But you sort of see where that Pygmalion love becomes a concept that a film can grasp onto. It’s the idea of man trying to remake a woman in the image he desires. It’s narcissistic love.

How does that relate to the women in your film?
The women that are portrayed in the film are not really meant to be victims. If you go into a good strip club—a smaller club that doesn’t have TVs everywhere—when those women get up on stage, there’s a sort of heroic and majestic quality to them. They’re in control within that environment. Part of the film is exploring that concept.

You have a killer in the film too, right?
Yeah, but it’s sort of like the shark in Jaws. The killer doesn’t have an arc. He doesn’t change. But he’s affecting change in others.

Who is this murderer?
It’s based on a guy who you may or may not know, whose name is James Mitchell DeBardeleben. He was interesting because they caught him for was passing counterfeit notes. He survived for 18 years counterfeiting. The Secret Service tracked him for years. Eventually, they found him, and they searched his car and discovered all of this pornography. That led them back to his house, and they realized that this guy was more than just a counterfeiter. They don’t even know how many people he abducted, but it was in the hundreds.

Damn. But why focus on him over a guy like Ted Bundy or something?
When you talk about the structure of the film, it parallels DeBardeleben’s story as an unknown and faceless everyman type who people don’t suspect is going around doing these things. He wasn’t in it for fame, and he would have never been caught if it hadn’t been for the counterfeiting.

That’s fucked up. One more thing, none of this film is found footage, right?
Right, we filmed it all. There’s some Super 8 and some Super 16, but the bulk of the grainier stuff was done on old VHS cameras and then rephotographed off a TV. That whole stuff that’s blue, the first ten or 15 seconds, that was all created for that sequence. Part of it is the idea was that it was very common for DeBardeleben’s to photograph his victims while he had them in his grasp.

Word. Looking forward to seeing this gnarly-ass move. Thanks!

More movie stuff from VICE:

I'm Short, Not Stupid Presents: Asparagus

Here Is the New Red Band Trailer for 'Spring Breakers'

I Chatted with the Dirty Girls, 17 Years Later

Bitches in Uniform
Dir: Rocco Siffredi
Rating: 10
roccosiffredi.com/Evilangel.com

Much like the modern-day hipster with soft hands and manicured nails and the garb of a longshoreman, skateboarders appropriated the style of blue-collar workers two decades ago. In 1993, we dressed like gas-station attendants, shopping-cart pushers, and even fast-food employees. Truth is that some of us actually were gas-station attendants, shopping-cart pushers, and fast-food employees; others merely sought out their uniforms from thrift stores and Goodwill. 

It might sound like a technologically void episode of Seinfeld, but back then there was no real internet and certainly no eBay where one could find McDonald’s-employee polos. Creative means had to be taken by someone like myself who lived in suburban New Jersey without many thrift stores with decent selections. So from age 16 to 19, while going to school and holding down a full-time job, I started moonlighting short-term at various supermarkets and fast-food establishments simply to get shirts or smocks of my liking in my correct size. When I say “short-term” I mean I would quit anywhere from 24 hours to 72 hours after being hired, depending on how long I had to endure a particular grueling training seminar to get said uniform. 

I worked at the Wendy’s in the Woodbridge Center Mall for exactly one shift that consisted of two hours of training video and four hours of hands-on training. In no time at all I mastered—MASTERED, I say—the soda-fountain machine and Frosty dispenser; I wager that no man or woman since has poured so little head on a Coca-Cola. The sole cultural observation I took home from that shift is that black people refer to drinks by color. When ordering a grape soda they’d ask for a large purple. When asking for Sunkist it was a medium orange. I have since adopted their colorful way of ordering in my own life. I now refer to stouts as blacks. Mmmm, how I love a nice warm, tall black. 

I believe I worked half a shift at the Taco Bell in Perth Amboy. Taco Bell and Wendy’s polos were at the top of my list because they were tan and burgundy, and earth tones were all the rage in 1993. Once I saw what really went into my bean burrito I walked out (in my new polo) midshift, but not before stealing the 16-by-six-foot Yoda window cling-on display to celebrate the release of the newly altered/tainted Star Wars films. 

Smocks were big then, and I’m not sure why they haven’t made a comeback. They’re not much different from Cuban-style button-ups—just with bigger pockets, fewer buttons, and brighter colors. I earned three different franchises’ smocks pushing carts. I was such a good cart pusher that I was bumped up to cashier immediately. It seems absolutely insane that the ability to push something well would prompt a promotion to handling money. 

I’d say the job I held the longest during that stretch was at IHOP. We wore light blue short-sleeved button-up shirts made by Dickies with the IHOP logo embroidered above the left breast. With all the stains, I sort of resembled a mechanic, although instead of greasing brake pads I was pouring grease and lard down the throats of America’s fattest. I actually kept that job for six months because the tips were so good. (Coffee/soda/sundaes didn’t have to be entered into the computer. So I gave them away to everyone, “on me,” and in turn they tipped me graciously.) And I probably would have stayed longer had I not gotten into a fistfight with two of the patrons in the middle of the dining room.

More fast food and porn can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.

Previously - Superman vs. Spider-Man: A Porn Parody

There are a few things in life that everyone over the age of 16 should be able to do: cook a few decent meals, navigate a new city without Google Maps, enjoy a hangover, and, bear with me here, send a decent sext. Anyone who thinks they'll be able to track down The One without knowing how to turn their phone into an object of lust has another thing coming. Sexting is practically a requirement for living in the 21st century, no longer the reserve of predatory creeps or girls who give HJs to exchange students, being able to communicate just how horny you are over iMessage or Snapchat is a life skill, and you're going to have to learn how to do it.

According to TIME magazine, four out of five college kids sext on the regular. As Benjamin Franklin once said, “In this world, nothing can be certain, except death and taxes and that you will at some point be awake at 3 AM struggling to think of a fourth nongross synonym for vagina/penis." Frequent sexters are no longer just a bunch of teens furtively sending each other dick pics with the caption “u like? ;)”—the sexting landscape is now dotted with old marrieds, yuppies, and regular everyday humans like you and me.

Especially me. I do it a lot. So, on the off chance that you and I ever bump into each other in sext land, here's how to keep me interested.

DON'T GET AHEAD OF YOURSELF

If you’re just starting out, three to four words are all you need. A length limit forces you to get straight to the point and eliminates the possibility of embarrassing yourself by using adjectives like “pulsing,” which makes your pussy or dick sound like the still-beating heart of a butchered mammal. I guess if you were really fucking twee, you could imagine your sext as the 21st-century equivalent of a candy love heart, but instead of "Fax Me" you’re writing, "I wanna fuck you in a bodega." If you’re still nervous or super stuck, just mash a bunch of buttons as though overwhelmed with desire. Or, IDK, hold the phone against your underwear and type with your pubic bone. "Asdaoh23rghhsdhudffffffffff." That sounds lustful, right?

DON'T ABBREVIATE

It’s 2013, and I know you’re not typing out every letter individually on your Motorola Razr, but Y R U choosin 2 talk lik a tween? Who culd eva b trnd on by dis?? No one wants to be deciphering your sexual hieroglyphics when they could be quietly shifting in their lecture seat so the seam of their jeans hits things just right. “RU horny” is the text-message equivalent of giving someone a wedgy as a flirting tactic. It also implies there's a 14-year-old on the other end of the phone, which, again, is not ideal in this situation.

WATCH YOUR VISUALS

Guys: maybe don’t send your sext partner a close-up picture of your erect penis unless they have expressed an active interest in seeing a close-up picture of your erect penis. Most people don't really need an image of the isolated naked mole rat to get themselves off, and if it’s too early in the sexting process, it’s actually just very frightening. You know how people say actions speak louder than words? That is not true of sexting; sexting is like erotic literature, the pictures do it no justice.

The same goes for you ladies: that straight-up shot of a vag comes across more medical than saucy. Would you fuck someone in a onesie with a hole in it? No? So consider the bigger picture. Trust me, you’ll get better results from a pic of your full bod in some cute underwear.

Everyone: the recipient is almost certainly going to show this picture to at least one of their friends at some point. If you’re not OK with that, don’t include your face. If you look smoking hot, absolutely do. If Rihanna's going to, you might as well.

THERE ARE NO RULES

It hurts no one to make things up during a sexting sesh, and chances are they're returning the favor anyway. Technology allows you to turn “Just woke up in the bus depo :-(” to “Ooh I just got out of a hot bath...” in seconds. Abuse this power.

KEEP YOUR PRIVATES PRIVATE

It used to be a real concern that your ex could throw your nudie pics up on the internet as soon as they found out you were banging their best friend/sibling. Even storing sext pics on your phone was dangerous. My brother once accidentally projected a topless picture from my phone onto the ceiling above my grandma's head during Christmas dinner.

But now those days are behind us. Snapchat, which describes itself as a "new way to share moments with friends," allows you to send a photo or ten-second video to a single user or friend group, but it can’t be screengrabbed and it disappears after they’ve looked at it. Snapchat's website is very wholesome, but you know they know what you're up to. The reference to those "grainy" pictures in their About section is as transparent as the wet T-shirt in the picture you just sent your boyfriend.

COME vs. CUM

As with sex, so with sexts. The general tone of what you’re up to will be set by whether you’re using "come" or "cum" to talk fluids. "Come" is for gentlemen and ladies, long-term couples, and people who would describe themselves as “skilled at erotic massage.” "Cum" is for horny teens, pervs, your gross ex who has a new partner now, and pretty much anyone who’s going to be any fun to sext.

CTFO

I’ve had sext sessions that have neared Real Physical Interaction levels of arousing, but if I was forced to read the messages I sent or received during these times an hour afterward, I would immediately fashion myself a suicide machine from whatever was nearby. Delete as you go, people, but remember, we all get pretty embarrassing when we sext, so don’t worry about it. If someone exposes just how filthy the inside of your brain is to your peers, simply own that shit. Chances are, people will think your shamelessness is arousing, and you'll be on the receiving end of yet more sexts. Everyone wins.

!!!#$@#$@#$

Double-check the recipient before you hit "send," please.

Follow Monica on Twitter: @monicaheisey

More helpful sex tips from VICE:

Guys, It's Time to Stop Shaving Your Junk

How to Have An Orgasm with Your Vagina

Is Everyone Having Sex on the Plane Except Me?

I’ve known Harmony Korine for many years; we’ve been friends through thick and thin, good times and bad. I feel like every element of Spring Breakers was him creating an environment where people felt really open and safe—perhaps so they were comfortable going crazy (in a fun way). The fact that he brought this cast together—James Franco, Gucci Mane, Selena Gomez, Vanessa Hudgens, Ashley Benson, and his wife, Rachel—was a sign that this movie was going to be very special. And I think casting the ATL Twins was him recognizing that they were a physical manifestation of what the film is about. They were so clear about their desires: drinking, double-penetrating women, and doing drugs. It was all out in the open with them, just like the movie. I’m happy to share with the world some of my favorite behind-the-scenes photos, along with a few captions that will provide some context for what the hell was happening on this crazy set.

We took over the left half of a horseshoe-shaped motel and just tore it apart: full-on bacchanal carnage. The side we rented had been abandoned for years, but the other side was still in business. But since this is Florida, there was very little difference between the two. A DJ blared top-20 party anthems, and the girls got wild.

The ATL Twins were really in their element at the club; there's nothing they love more than a photo op with naked girls. They even goaded James Franco into the action.

I have never seen kids get crazier on water and lemonade in my life. The energy on set that day was intense; we all felt like anything and everything was OK. No rules or boundaries. I remember Harmony telling the kids, "So, today all you need to remember is this is your time! You can get as crazy as you want! You got out of your sucky school to get wild! SCHOOL SUCKS! SCHOOL SUCKS!"

You know, just your typical 4 AM Popsicle BJ. This was a long night, and killing time between takes with Vanessa and Ashley involved lots of high jinks. Dance parties, sing-alongs, fellating Popsicles... you get the idea.

When we shot this, I could not believe what was happening. This was probably the most mind-blowing moment for me. I mean, it's Vanessa Hudgens, the girl from High School Musical! Of course, the ATL Twins were very helpful in demonstrating the proper way to snort drugs off of naked women. The girl with the "drugs" on her (crushed B12, in case you're wondering) was an extra who was stiff as a board and blushing from ear to ear the entire time.

In this scene, Selena mixed it up with real spring breakers. I think it was a little scary for her to walk into a room full of amped-up kids. The first thing Rachel did was get up on a coffee table and yell, "If any of you assholes rub your dick up on my girl, I will KILL you!!!" She can be very persuasive. I don;t think I saw any rubbing of dicks, on Selena at least.

These were the girls' "havoc masks." They wore them when the shit was really going down. But for most people. being robbed by these ladies would be a gift.

More on Spring Breakers:

Here Is the New Red Band Trailer for Spring Breakers 

Harmony Korine's Spring Breakers

Spring Breakers Will Have Lots of Babes and Guns

I pluck Havana from a gaggle of streetwalkers on Stanford Street somewhere around Pico. She tells me she’s from Mexico, here in the land of opportunity to reap rewards on streets of gold. Havana is dressed in flesh Spanx and a sparkly little halter top. I’ve lost my bearings, but Havana knows where we are, so she navigates. Even the dirtiest streets of Los Angeles are beautiful and quiet in the dark antimeridian. My headlights bring up globs of primary colors across old industrial buildings. Havana’s makeup is thick and colorful. She bounces on the seat and keeps rubbing and squeezing my dick through my Levis.

I tell her I only want to take pictures, but she has a Pavlovian response to guys in cars with money. “Why no want nothing more?” she asks and gives me a couple of pleasant pumps. “Feels good, Poppy. Hard, like you want Havana more.” 

I try to explain that the firmness she’s feeling is only because I have a Pavlovian response to people squeezing my dick, but really this is just for pictures. I’m reformed.

She brings me to an old three-floor flop that looks like it’s made of mud. Under the street lamps, a fraternity of six—pushers, addicts, and baby gangsters using up their short life spans—are walking in circles without a forward thought. If I squint hard enough into the shadows I can see Death in his black hoody and scythe. I park, and we beeline across the street to Havana’s place. I have my cane, and I’m walking slowly. Havana leads, keeping close. She offers me her hand, but I tell her no thanks—that it’s just likely to throw me off balance.

A tatterdemalion brown guy staggers toward us. “Friend, amigo,” he says and gets a little too close.

“Back up,” I tell him. “I don’t need you here. Go on, go away.”

He’s holding the remains of an old disk player. The top is gone leaving the innards exposed, and there is a tiny blackened analog TV screen.

“Twenty dollars,” the guy tells me. “Laptop. Good laptop.”

I shoo him away, tell him thanks for the offer, but I’m saving up for an iPhone. His face is tight and strained, and, for a moment, I think he might attack. Havana throws a string of foreign words at him, telling him to fuck off. He just stands there, but we keep moving.

Havana has a key to the barred backdoor, and we go in. It smells like cigarette butts and perspiration. We go down six steps into a long claustrophobic hallway that’s tilted like a German Expressionist tunnel. She has another key that opens another door, and we go in. Her room is small and dumpy but clean and cared for. On the other side of a doorway, without a door leading to the bathroom, I hear a leaky shower and smell an overdose of lavender. She has a double bed made up with clean sheets and a pillow with a Masters Of The Universe pillow slip. “Hey,” I say. “You got He-Man.”

“Si si, yes,” she says. “He-Man, Skeletor.”

“She-Ra.”

“She-Ra,” she says with wide-eyed longing.

Next to the bathroom, a chest-high chest of drawers sits under a big flatscreen television. I ask Havana to turn it on, and she tells me no, no, it’s only pornography like she figures I’m somehow above porn. “Yeah, yeah,” I tell her. “Turn it on.” It’ll make a nice background.

We take some pictures by the television, and then we take pictures on the bed. Havana likes the camera, she’s fun and cuddly and disappointed when, after about ten exposures, I’m all done. She still has a couple more hours to work tonight, so I drive her back to her spot with the other girls. On our way to the car, the laptop salesman gives it another try. Havana calls him stupid, drug stupid, and hisses in his face. In the car, she tells me she came here, to America, because Mexico has been decimated from a drug war, and now the fodder of that war is here as well, staggering past her doorway. I listen and agree, and then I give her a little kiss goodbye.

Previously - Sticking a Used Condom to the Wall

For all I know, these could be some truly horrible, abnormal people. I mean, jerking off a dude while his girlfriend is innocently sleeping in the next seat is a really terrible thing to do, as is to have a stranger jerk you off when you have a girlfriend, who is sleeping right next to you.

The story could also be a lie, one of those apocryphal gross out stories like the one about your mom’s friend’s cousin who got a python that unexpectedly started to stretch out next to her in bed every night, and when she asked the vet about this mysterious behavior, the vet said the snake was growing itself in order to eat her. I’ve heard this story from several different people in several different countries, so I’m not entirely convinced in the existence of this ravenous, disloyal reptile.

Let’s assume, however, that the story about the jerking off is true, or rather in the history promiscuity, sexual experimentation, and aviation that the convergence of these activities and situations is conceivable. It’s still only one of an endless string of stories I’ve heard about people getting busy at 35,000 feet. I once had a friend who met a guy on a red eye, and when they landed back in New York, she took him to her house and fucked him. I’ve got friends who have been fingered in their seat, jerked off in bathrooms, and I once saw a couple I didn’t know emerge, frazzled, from the toilet on a long haul flight. And unless they were plumbers or just really, really liked watching each other defecate, I’m guessing they were fucking, or that someone at least got a hand job.

Why then, have I never had a sexual experience on a plane?

Being Australian and living in New York, I fly a lot, and for many, many excruciating hours. As a single person, I’ve always hoped that Bruce Willis will be miraculously flying coach, and will even more miraculously be seated next to me, and we’ll end up, in the most miraculous moment of all, with his penis in my vagina.

I can understand my failure in the finding-a-stranger-to-fuck-on-a-plane department. Not everyone is Bruce Willis. But I’ve also flown with someone I was doing it with at the time. But still, nothing. How do you sneak back to the bathroom without people noticing? Going for the “under the blanket, in your seat” routine just seems like super offensive public lewdness. There’s just no way to be subtle and everyone can see exactly what you’re doing.

And what about turbulence guys? What happens if you’re in the bathroom and the plane suddenly jerks to the side and you fall and hurt yourself, or worse wind up with a broken penis or bruised vagina? What if the captain suddenly turns on the seatbelt sign, and you’re butt naked in the loo with the flight attendant knocking on the door asking you to please return to your seat? WHAT IF A LINE FORMS FOR THE BATHROOM AND YOU’RE PREVENTING THE POOR PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO CRAP FROM CRAPPING? WHAT IF A CHILD IS THERE? WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?

I don’t know, maybe I just don’t want to fuck on a plane badly enough to make the necessary sacrifices. Or maybe everyone who says they’ve done it on a plane is a filthy liar and should be shamed for giving the rest of us such unrealistic expectations in spite of the inherent sexiness of air travel. Or maybe I'm just underestimating the devious thrill of having an orgasm so far from the ground and so close to hundreds of strangers.

Check out Miller Rodriguez's site Pretty Puke for more of his work, or grab one of his zines from Blood of the Young.

More great photo galleries:

We Love Synchrodogs and Their Naked People

Theo Cottle Takes Great Pictures of Rough People

The Polaroid Kidd has a Photo Show in NYC Today

There is nothing more disappointing than taking a new guy home for the first time and ripping his clothes off, only to find that he has "manscaped" himself to look like some sort of dude-shaped topiary. When I bring home a man, I want to see a masculine wreath of pubes around his dick, not a shaved walrus. Tragically, it’s becoming harder and harder to find a guy whose chest stubble won't give you a rug burn or whose bare nutsack doesn’t look like a dismembered turkey waddle. Guys, this has to stop.

The social scientists over at Cosmopolitan recently published a study claiming that 95 percent of men now trim or shave their body hair in one way or another, a practice that has taken on the cringeworthy title of manscaping. I hate it and want it to die. Presumably, many other true lovers of the male form feel the same way. Body hair is one of the secondary sex characteristics of being a man, so why would anyone want to eradicate it altogether?

As much as it pains me to admit it, us gays are probably at fault. During the 90s, the gay aesthetic was dominated by the plucked and preened bodybuilder look. This, of course, spread to advertising (remember the billboard of shirtless Marky Mark in his undies in Times Square?), which seeped into the minds of straight guys and led to razor companies making products for guys who wanted to look like 14-year-old synchronized swimmers. There is also some aspect of female equality in this whole equation. As men began to demand that their ladies be as shiny under their clothes as Barbie dolls, women started expecting the same of their men.

Although shaving off all your pubes started as a gay thing, it’s now primarily straight guys who are doing it. John Marsh, the owner of gay porn site Fratmen, told the Daily Beast that the guys in his videos who get their Bic on south of the border are the straight models, not the gay ones. This has gone from being something that most guys thought of as sissy to something that is thought of as a prerequisite for getting pussy.

I'm here to tell you that it's stupid. Yes, a little bit of deforestation may make your junk look bigger, but, honestly, the only person who cares how big it looks is you, when it’s in your own hand and you're jerking it off. I'm not saying no one cares how big it is, but you're the only one who cares how big it looks.

As for the rest of a guy's body, there is no reason why you need to shave, trim, wax, pluck, or Nair for Men that shit. Yeah, you might want to get an overly furry back under control (no one wants to fuck George the Animal Steele), but just let the rest of it run wild. There is nothing so good as letting someone rub their hand through a Magnum PI-style pelt. If a lady or other sex partner doesn't like feeling a nice set of furry thighs rub up against them in the heat of the moment, then they aren't worth the time it took to trick them into your bedroom in the first place. And unless you’re as buff as Mark Wahlberg, getting rid of all that fuzz will just make you look scrawnier, pastier, and sillier. The great thing about having a coat of hair is that it will cover up many imperfections. It's like having natural Photoshop for your body!

Even worse than how prepubescent shaving makes you look is that it makes you complacent in the corporate conspiracy to turn the way we look into a consumer commodity. As I already pointed out, the main reason this disgusting practice is encouraged is because there are now products to take care of it. Marketing is telling men to shed their Darwinian protection against the elements, and men, stupid sheep that we are, are listening. Stand up and fight! Put down that Philips Norelco BG2040/34 Bodygroom Pro Grooming System and pick up a bit of pride in your masculinity. After all, nothing is more manly than doing what is right, not giving a fuck about anyone else, and sticking it to the man (no matter how gay that sounds). 

Luckily the gays and hirsute stars like Jake Gyllenhaal are making Sasquatch a thing of beauty once again. Manhunt, the gay cruising site that your uncle uses, recently did a study that proves most homosexuals who use the internet for quick dick prefer men in their natural states. This means it's only a matter of time before being au naturel is once again the norm. And I, for one, can't wait. I'd much rather pick a little man-floss out of my teeth after going down on a guy than have another goosefleshy nutsack in my face.

Previously - That Time I Got in a Fight with a Male Stripper

@BrianJMoylan

1989. Harbor Boulevard in Santa Ana. I’ve only been here twice, both times to buy drugs. I’ve got a premonition I’m going to find love and affection as I drive toward a group of motels near Anaheim. I know exactly what I’m looking for, and when I find her, she climbs in the car, tells me her name is Lolly. I ask her if her last name is Pop, and she tells me no, her last name is Gaggle. She’s black and tall and thin with big red lips. She’s cute and sexy.

“I’ve got $25. I’d like to take pictures of you, somewhere around here. If you got a place that would be good.”

“That’s not very much, $25. We could get a nice room, but that wouldn’t leave enough for me to do all the nasty things you’re going to want me to do.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, and I bet $25 you’ve got more in your pockets than $25.” She moves in close and puts her tongue in my ear and a hand on my thigh. “Just think how much fun we can have. What’s your name?”

“Scot, and I am thinking about how much fun we can have.”

“Scotty?”

“Scot.”

“Scotty Potty.”

“Scot Tissue. I really don’t have more than $25, but I just started looking for an ATM.” She has long pretty fingers, and they’re walking around the buttons on my fly.

“I hate to ask, but how old are you?”

“You’re worried I’m not legal?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“I’m plenty legal, don’t you worry. You got gray in your hair, how old are you?”

“I’m almost 40, but I can be pretty immature.”

“That’s funny.”

“Yeah, well.”

When I see an ATM, I squeal the tires and make a U-turn. I park at the curb, and she gets out with me, holds me by the arm like we’re taking a romantic stroll. At the machine I take out $80, which leaves my account with less than $10. Lolly watches over my shoulder. “Damn, Scotty Potty. That’s all you got. I thought you were a high roller.”

“Yeah, well, I was a couple of days ago.”

“Nigger rich Saturday night,” she says. “Nigger poor Sunday morning.”

“I haven’t heard that in a long time.” 

“It’s one of those things I can say, but you can’t.”

“As it should be. I knew an ugly old white guy in Tallahassee, Florida, who used to say that. He also used to carry a pistol and shoot at cats. I embezzled a bunch of his money and got away with it, so I guess it evened out.”

“I like you, Scot Tissue. Let’s go get a room.”

I get chips and a Hostess cherry pie and a $12 bottle of sparkling wine at a liquor store. Lolly and I spend a couple of hours in the motel room, where I take naked pictures of her, and then I get naked as well. Her abdomen and breasts have been stressed and stretched by childbirth. I find it appealing but don’t mention it. We foreplay all over the room, then fuck American style—nothing fancy, but joyfully, giggling and grunting. Afterward, I unroll the condom and stick it to the wall. 

Relaxed and naked on the bed, I just happen to have a joint, so I fire it up while Lolly shows me Michael Jackson dance moves: the robot, the moon walk, the crotch grab. She jumps up on the bed, on her feet, over my intertwined ankles. “Look at that,” she says. “Look how much you made me come.” She leads my eyes to a silver slobber stretched all the way down from her vagina to my legs. This is something I've never seen before, and I tell her so. She moves forward, astraddle my waist, wiggles her hips, and swings her elastic discharge, a pudendum pendulum, until it connects to my sternum. She shimmies forward, pulling along the slime string as it stretches and stretches and clings all the way up to my chin, then it snaps clean off Lolly and divides my face, over my nose and between my eyes. Lolly laughs as if this is funniest thing ever, and I tell her she is my all-time favorite whore.

Previously - Fuck the Police

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.

As a boy growing up in the Midwest, I befriended some of the last elderly members of a dying religion called Lawsonomy. They believed that the human race is in the process of developing telepathic powers. Universal telepathy, they claimed, will lead to total empathy and the end of all lies. It was a beautiful utopian vision that made me acutely aware of the divisions between all people and also of the moments when those divisions appear to break down. Like Lawsonomy, the OneTaste movement has promised a means of attaining that kind of empathy through the partnered orgasmic practice I was engaged in.

OneTaste calls their practice Orgasmic Meditation, or OMing for short. Its roots stretch back to the 60s—to the fertile soil of San Francisco’s mystic underground. Former appliance salesman turned cult leader Victor Baranco was the man who planted the seed. He named the practiceDeliberate Orgasm or DOing, and the purpose was pleasure. By the turn of the millennium, when future OneTaste founder Nicole Daedone discovered it, she experienced something more than pleasure. At the time, Nicole was poised to become a Buddhist nun, renouncing the world; what she found convinced her to embrace it.

As she explained in a TEDx lecture, Nicole was initiated into the practice by a stranger she met at a party:

“Somehow I found myself lying there… with my legs open… I was where I always was… I was in my head… and then all of a sudden, the traffic jam that was my mind broke open, and it was like I was on the open road and there was not a thought in sight. There was only pure feeling. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I had access to that hunger that was underneath all of my other hungers… a fundamental hunger to connect with another human being.”

“I had a moment of thinking, ‘I want to know how to live here in this place,’” Nicole continued, “and then I thought in my philanthropic way, ‘and I want everyone else to know how to live here.’ And I set about learning how.”

Much of Nicole’s education arose through experimentation. She founded an intentional living community in a San Francisco warehouse. It had 50 residents, lots of beds, and no doors.

A former occupant of the San Francisco community described the experience to me over tea in the bedroom of her Brooklyn apartment.  “You lived out in the open. You couldn’t hide. There was nowhere to go. And you got used to it. Our ancestors lived in caves. They lived in longhouses. It’s about limbic resonance. If you take a baby and put it on its mother’s chest, its heartbeat will regulate to its mother’s heartbeat. We need each other - to regulate each other, and if we don’t have that, things go wrong.”

“All of us decided to be human research subjects,” explained Nicole in a videotaped talk distributed by OneTaste, “and we discovered that a lot of things we were told would work don’t work, and that some very shocking things do. For example: ‘Stay connected no matter what.’ When you stay connected to another human being no matter what, you get the benefit of staying clean. Things move through you.”

This dedication to uncompromising connection precipitated hours of daily OMing, and other experiments like meals where everybody fed one another instead of themselves, and, as Nicole described, “having to sleep next to your partner who you just broke up with while they were sleeping next to someone else, so we could explore jealousy.”

When she finished with jealousy, Nicole turned her attention to other problems - and in this way, piece by piece, she cobbled together a practice and a philosophy that she now travels the world promoting. She promises, with seductive assonance, that anyone can learn to have a four-month-long orgasm. Under her guidance, supporters in 15 cities from Los Angeles to Copenhagen have established OMing communities.  

I first heard Nicole speak in a small New York space last summer. She looked like a savvier version of that famous Botticelli with Venus standing on a seashell - the kind of woman who knew her way around a whip. She charged up the aisle in her usual formfitting black to address an audience of around 30 people. This December, when she appeared before us in a rented church (crucifixes safely stowed away) it was standing room only. In the last six months, membership in OneTaste has more than doubled to 1,624 members worldwide.

I learned to OM this winter. Seventy of us paid $149 a head for a daylong course held in a yoga studio. The attractive women who met me at the door flashed bedroom smiles and gazed into my eyes unabashedly—naked flirtation in any other context—here, a sign of their status as permanently “turned on” women, a sensation one practitioner described as the feeling of “falling in love with no one in particular.”

I poured a cup of coffee to employ idle hands and scanned the assembly. There was an even balance of men and women, ages ranging from early 20s into middle age with some older folks here and there. There were doctors and lawyers, artists, housewives, a Hasidic Jewish man, a stripper, a kindergarten teacher. I took a seat between a 38-year-old life coach and a 26-year-old nurse.

Like any charismatic speaker, Nicole kept us waiting, building anticipation. When she finally emerged, she came out swinging, gesticulating, her hands sculpting thoughts in the air.  Her fingers fluttered as she talked about birds.

“We have a triune brain,” she said, “One-third of the brain is dedicated to feeling into the feeling states of others. You know how all the birds are flying and then all of a sudden they turn? It’s not like one bird says, ‘Hey! Let’s go left!’ and they all go left. They’re sensing each other under a certain kind of radar and then they all move in unison. When you’re working with OM, you’re working with that ‘under the radar’ mechanism - that part of you that intuitively knows who to be and how to act.”

That mechanism, Nicole went on to explain, is our desire. “Let desire be your compass,” she said. To that end, she asked all 70 of us to complete the statement: “I’m here because…”

“I’m here because I just turned 30, and I’ve never climaxed.”

“I’m here because I feel I’m not good enough for any woman.”

“I’m here because I’ve been with my partner 15 years and I don’t know him.”

“I’m here because I want to live in the beauty that I know and not sabotage my life.”

There was so much pain and shame and sadness just beneath the surface. The tears fell in abundance. Nicole called that “orgasm coming out of the eyes.” Her attention swept like a searchlight over the crowd, lighting it up one face at a time. She didn’t even seem to blink. For every person, she had a ready response.

“I just wanted to learn something new,” a man offered.

“I can increase your sensation by 20 percent this week,” Nicole promised. “Remove the word ‘just’ from your vocabulary.”

“I’m here because I want to find an infinite connection with myself and others,” a woman stated.  

“I have a word for you,” Nicole announced, “and that word is: predator.”

“I want to connect with everyone and take each other higher and higher,” another woman proclaimed.

Nicole responded with a tilt of her head, “Are you willing to take each other lower?”

There were many problems and one answer: Orgasmic Meditation.

Next came the demonstration. Out strode Rachel Cherwitz, head of OneTaste New York sales. Childhood sexual abuse had left her anorgasmic, she told us, until her first OM. It was with an older gentleman. “He was sweaty, he smelled a little, and he wheezed,” she explained, scrunching up her nose. “And then he stroked, and I felt this surge of electricity through my pussy and down my legs, like I had stuck my finger in a light socket. It was like a dam broke, and I started sobbing. I heard this voice say ‘Oh my god, I can feel!’ And I looked at my partner who ironically, had gone from being the most weird creature to the most beautiful human being I had ever seen in my life. It’s amazing what (pair-bonding hormone) oxytocin will do.”

Rachel pulled off her skirt and reclined on a table. She opened her legs, exposing her shaved merlot-colored pussy to the sea of faces. People were craning and climbing chairs to see—quiet as librarians. And in that moment, standing there with empty hands, I felt as exposed as Rachel was. I thought about the first time I ever saw the place between a woman’s legs. She was a neighbor girl. We were five maybe, when we escaped our manicured lawns and slipped into the forest. We went deep, deep through the trees, deeper than we had ever been, before both unceremoniously yanking down our trousers to discover in the other what we lacked in ourselves.

“I’m going to place my thumb in her introitus, so I can feel her contractions,” narrated Nicole. “I’m going to open her pussy now,” Nicole continued. In the OneTaste vernacular, a vagina is always a pussy, and a penis is always a cock. “Her inner labia are already getting swollen. You can tell because they stand up on their own. As I pull her hood back, you can see her clit pop out. That little pink dot, that’s her clit.”

Nicole described how the clitoris is divided into ten regions, each eliciting a different sensation when stroked: love, reverence, surrender. As a stroker progresses in the practice, he will know where to touch by following an electric charge or magnetic pull on the tip of his finger. The hands of master-strokers, like the almost mythological five-foot-tall Ken Blackman, are compared to Ouija planchettes and very nearly venerated. At his high level of development, it is said that Ken reaches a singularity with the women he strokes. He and his partner both feel the exact same thing. That’s where all the strokers want to be, as they go about searching for the thinnest gloves, or sanding down their fingerprints, or strapping on headlamps like miners burrowing down, deep into the source.

Announcing that she would play Rachel like an instrument, Nicole swayed and arched with every stroke, screwing up her face, barring her teeth like a rock star. Rachel moaned like a Stratocaster. When it was over, they handed out unsharpened pencils and had us practice stroking clit-erasers until lunch. After lunch we were to pair up and OM amongst ourselves following a precise ritual.

As an army exercises hard discipline over its soldiers precisely because of the killing power it unleashes in them, so too does OneTaste rely on the stricture of ritual to control the power of sex. A stroker’s finger is referred to as a sex organ, but there is no stroking of male genitalia here. The cock is referenced abstractly, more as a spiritual force than a physical one. An erection still has the potential to offend. While the predatory power of the male and his possible desire for more is evident in the rigid structure of the OM, its acknowledgement is taboo. When pressed, the rationale given for this asymmetry is that men and women need to rewire their historically skewed expectations around giving and receiving.

It was time to find a partner. “Asking someone to OM,” instructed Rachel, “is like asking if they’d like a cup of tea. Sometimes you feel like tea and sometimes you don’t. You wouldn’t get offended if someone didn’t want tea, would you?”

It’s an exchange bearing the elegant simplicity of a haiku. The way to ask is codified: “Would you like to OM?” The words are so unadorned that there is nowhere to hide in them. The answer is either “Yes.” or “No.”

If affirmative, the man takes the pillows and blankets he’s ported through the city and builds a ‘nest’ for his partner. She lies down in it and he sits at her side, left leg over her abdomen, right leg under her knees. The rooms are always too small, so everyone is pressed together, leg to leg. Occasionally the women hold hands. Often, during the OM, their moans - filling the air like winter breaths - synchronize in a complex tonal harmony.

Next comes the ‘obnosing’ or ‘noticing’ stage where the man looks at the woman’s genitals and describes what he sees. I’ve used words like, “origami,” “oak leaves,” and, “tectonic plates.”

Afterwards, the man asks permission and proceeds to massage the woman’s legs in preparation, to "ground" her.

At the instigation of the timekeeper, the man begins stroking the woman’s clitoris with his left index finger—the finger of Adam that God is reaching out to touch on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

“Keep your eyes on her clit,” the instructor remarks. In this culture, for a stroker to look back at his strokee’s face is a minor faux pas. “Stroke her clit for your own enjoyment,” we are told. “It’s called, ‘taking touch.’ Touch her in the way you touch velvet. You’re not trying to please the velvet.”

The OM is exactly 15 minutes long. Afterwards, the stroker presses the palms of his hands hard into the woman’s pelvis. This is to push the blood that fills her swollen genitals back into her body. “You can push harder,” the instructor encourages, “We can take a lot more pressure than you’d think. After all, we squeeze babies out of there.”

The ritual ends with the reciting of ‘frames,’ where each person describes a sensation they experienced during the OM.

“There was a moment when I felt my face detach and float off, up into the air,” one woman reported.

“I had a sinking feeling like moving through water,” a man offered. “heat, nausea, bright pink light.”

“My hips felt like glass,” a woman explained, “and my pussy like warm, melting caramel.”

“There was a moment when I tasted strawberries,” a man announced.

They send us home with the warning that our orgasmic state is a kind of intoxication. “Avoid driving if possible or operating any kind of machinery. There have been accidents.”

I leave feeling good - not quite crashing-cars-good, but serene. I feel as though I don’t particularly want or need anything. For the next day or so, women seem more flirtatious, men seem to smile more. And still, I’m not entirely sure why that should be. To ask a hundred practitioners the question, “What is Orgasmic Meditation?” is to receive a hundred different answers.

“It’s not just this one woman I give gratification to,” explained James Kim to me as we sat on his couch before a sprawling view of Manhattan and New Jersey. “When she gets turned on, she carries that out into the world with her. She’s happier and the people around her are happier, and I can see that OM creating a chain reaction of positive outcomes.”

In a post on the community forum Evangeline De Vermilion shared an experience she had living at the San Francisco OneTaste Center. She recalled having a craving for cake one afternoon. She headed to the kitchen where she found her friend crying over a letter from her son in Boston. “I gently picked up the letter,” she explained, “and asked her if I could read it aloud. By the end of it, we were both in tears. My heart felt hollow and constricted in the same way it does when I miss my own children.I held her and we comforted each other. We felt better, and then I thought, ‘I was going to get cake.’I no longer wanted cake. What I really wanted was connection.”

Previously by Roc Morin:

The Frenzied Consipiracy Theories of Jeff Boss

Meet Carl Tanner: Bounty Hunter, Trucker, Operatic Tenor

Driving out past the palm-lined strip malls and blinking neon motels, I knew that Swinging Richards was going to be the kind of place where you find trouble. After all, this place is far on the outskirts of Miami, near 174th Street with all the other titty bars where face-eating cannibals go before doing bath salts and robbing ATMs.

It's no secret that I love a strip club, but my boyfriend wasn't nearly as bullish. From the outside, it sort of looked like a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, with its discreet sign and light-up red trim on the building. As the cab drove away, my boyfriend said, "We're never going to get a ride home." A large sign next to the door read, "If you're offended by male nudity, do not enter." Yes, we might be trapped forever, but at least there would be as many balls to juggle as two men could ever want.

After paying a $10 cover, we opened a curtain and went into the technicolor Oz of Swinging Richards. The bad house music blared as the MC screamed out meaningless names over the speakers and a siren wailed at random intervals, making my asshole tighten, rather than, as is traditionally desired in these circumstances, relax. The decor was typical of Any Strip Club, USA: two bars on either side of a small stage with a pole down the middle. There was a cluster of upholstered chairs and small tables where a twinky cocktail waiter served a bunch of men, most of whom looked like Ian McKellen on an opium bender.

I sat and watched as the guys, in teams of three, came onto the stage to dangle their dingles before canvassing the room and taking people off into rooms on the sides for private dances. After paying far too much money to the most beautiful straight French-Canadian college student I have ever seen to wobble his half-limp dick in front of my face for 15 minutes, I left our private love shack and found my boyfriend. We'd spent a few hours in this bubble, and it was time to go.

Worried about getting home, we called a cab, and the dispatcher said one would be by in 20 minutes. We sat by the stage, waiting, vacantly watching the dancers, and wishing we could be at home doing to each other what we dreamed all these guys would do to us. One of the men on stage was acting very erratic. He was doing the Hulk Hogan pose, with one arm pointing to the rafters and the other flexed to show off his bicep. He was walking like one of those inflatable flapping people in front of car dealerships in New Jersey. Naturally, we started laughing. Now, I know it's never nice to laugh at a stripper. They're up their being naked and alluring for our benefit, and they are mocked and disparaged in various ways already. But this guy, he was asking for it. Transfixed, we stared while he walked to the end of the stage and stared right at the two of us. He thrust his crotch forward as he ran his palms along his limp dick, and then pushed it out toward us. It was like he was offering it to us, sending us all the schlong energy he had to spare.

The car still hadn't called to say it was out front, so we were trapped when the stripper got off the stage and walked over to us. "Let's go for a dance," he said to my boyfriend, who fell into a goofy giggle (his default defense mechanism when put in uncomfortable situations with aggressive strippers). He stepped over my boyfriend and fixed his eyes on me. "What about you?" he asked, his junk close to my knee. "No thanks," I said, politely.

This is when it all went to hell. "What do you mean, no?" the stripper shouted. "Why are you such a negative person? Why are you an awful person?"

"No, really, I'm all set," I replied, a bit confused.

"Why do you keep saying no? You must be really unhappy. What is wrong with your life that you're always saying no?"

"I just don't want a dance," I shouted, while the disco lights swirled behind him.

"Your problem is that you just want to be negative. You just want to hold onto your money because it has power. You'd rather hold onto it than give me power. You should let go. You should stop being negative and be a better person," he screamed. This New Age "The Promise" approach to stripping didn't come off as nice as it sounds. It was hurled at me like an insult, like a threat, and wasn't nearly as enjoyable as the time I was extorted by a female stripper.

"No, it's not the money," I said. "It's you. It's that I don't want a dance with you."

"You're a horrible person," he said still standing there. For a minute I thought maybe it was me. Maybe everything that’s wrong in my life is due to the fact that I'm too negative and won't just do things and stuff. Maybe with a few minutes off my hands on his abs everything would get better, and I would never have a care again. The stripper almost won. Instead, I gave him the thumb-meeting-the-forefinger OK symbol with a healthy dose of side-eye, and mouthed, "Sure." He made the same gesture, mocking me, and finally walked away.

My boyfriend decided he didn't want to wait inside anymore, so we moved out front into the surprisingly chilly Miami night to wait for our cab. We sat down on the porch swing immediately outside the front door (its presence was as baffling as it was quaint), when one of the strippers came out with another male friend, a female friend, and one of the failed amateurs from the contest, a rather attractive, young black guy.

"They didn't like you because you danced like a white lady," the professional shouted to his amateur friend. "I told you that you were going to get nervous, but you didn't listen. You have to show swag. You have to show confidence. You have to take it slow. Just ask these guys," he said walking over to us, "would you have liked this dude better if he danced like this?" [paused to roll his hips suggestively and slowly take off part of his jacket showing a bare chest underneath], "or like this," [giggled and flapped his arms around crazily and jumped up and down like a little girl]. My boyfriend, again, broke into his goofy giggle.

The amateur then started shouting that he didn't dance "like a white girl," and his stripper friend said he did. They just kept repeating their accusations over and over again, louder and louder until finally, the stripper changed tactics and started shouting, "You came here and you don't respect my job. How are you disrespecting my job? This is my job. Why don't you respect my job?"

The fight began to intensify just as the cab pulled up, and we hustled off the swing and into the serenity of a stranger's car. I don't know if it was the testosterone, the desperation, or possibly the meth, but this was the most aggressive strip club I'd ever been to. As the car pulled down the empty boulevard, I asked my boyfriend if he'd had fun. "Kinda," he said, and then looked out the window and reached for my hand lying on the seat. There wasn't much else to say. And I don't think I'll be back at the strip club for quite awhile.

Previously - Are You a Slut?

@BrianJMoylan

A few weeks ago, I interviewed Zarrah, a Burning Angel actress, about her butthole tattoo. Little did I know that such a silly topic would spark such anger from other butthole-tattoo owners. But sure enough Lyla Louise Moretti,the drunk girl we showed getting her butthole tattooed at a tattoo convention, took exception to my giving Zarrah’s butthole any press and commented, “I love how I get drunk to cover up my exs name makes me a trashy shut butt this wanna be butt hole is just a crack washed up porn hog...this is more entertaining then the crap I've seen about me what a fucking joke.” [sic]

I felt awful that I slighted Lyla’s butthole. It was my duty as someone who sometimes pretends to be a journalist to stick my tape recorder by her butthole and see what it had to say. I assure you that the beautiful, ludicrous music it made was quite unexpected. It’s as if God speaks through her.

See more of Lyla and her butthole here.

VICE: Tell me all about your butthole tattoo, Lyla.
Lyla: When I was 19 years old, that’s when it started. I became curious about anal sex because I was sexually neglected and dating someone who had a pill problem. Instead of going out and finding someone else, I would watch porn at home and the only thing that really got me excited, was anal porn. I liked seeing the girls in pain. I’m a pain freak. I have a very high tolerance for pain. The other night when my boyfriend and I were watching porn, I came up with the idea to show them how you really do it. What they consider anal sex, I see as just the head poking at the hole. It’s like, “No, dude! You have to put it all the way in.” We’re gonna make some videos and show the world how it’s really done. It has to be brutal. If it’s not, and they’re enjoying it, then what’s the difference between the pink and the stink?

So you’re pursuing a career in porn?
Not a career because the girls in porn have sex with a bunch of random guys, and I don’t want to do that. The only reason I’m doing it is because my boyfriend is down to do it.

Is he making you do butt porn?
No, it’s my idea. Just like tattooing my butt with my ex’s name was my idea.

OK, so let’s get to the butthole tattoo. How do you end up with a butthole tattoo from watching anal porn?
I was dating that one guy, and when I came home one day, he was nodding out, burning cigarettes on the couch. I went to my next door neighbor and asked if he would help me move some furniture. He did, and we eventually started dating. When I explained to him what I’d been up to, he decided to help me explore a little deeper into my butt. One day I said, “You know what would be really cool? If we branded the hole. Because you are the only person who ever did it, and you’re the only person who is going to do it.” That was back when I thought we were going to be together forever. I told him to write his name and "999," since we met on September 9th, 2009, so upside down, it looks like it says "666." Then we went to the tattoo shop on Valentine’s Day. My boyfriend held the cheeks open. It hurt really bad, and at the most painful parts, I would choke myself and hold my breath to numb the pain. After that boyfriend and I split up, I was dating another guy, and I was going to do his name, but that never happened. When we broke up, a guy named Jason came along, and I tattooed "ROCKWOOD," his name, on my butthole to cover up the other name.  Then I got his name on my lower back.

Why do you have to get everybody’s name tattooed on you?
I don’t know. My boyfriend I’m dating now just tattooed his name on me. I have this thing with names. I feel like if you tattoo their name on you, it shows that you truly do love them, and you want to be with them forever. I guess I didn’t learn from it because I just recently put Jordan’s name on me.

Can I get you to tattoo my name on you?
No… where would I put your name? I’m running out of room now.

I don’t know. Somewhere mellow… like your vagina.
I don’t think Jordan would be too thrilled about that.

Maybe you could get "CHRIST" instead.
I was thinking about that, but it would be messed up because I tattooed two roses with vines and thorns shaped like a horseshoe on my butthole to cover up those other two names. That’s not what I wanted, but that’s what the artist at the tattoo expo drew up. I told him that’s not what I wanted, but said, “I don’t care. I’m not going to make your life difficult. You’re already doing it for free.“

You committed to a butthole tattoo that you didn’t even want?!?
It’s not the one I wanted, but it was pretty… it was nice enough. But he just did it in black. Then I flew up to Cowhead radio station in Tampa, and they had a tattoo artist from Design For Life there. I thought that was such an awesome name because they were designing art on my body for life. They colored in the tattoo for me. They did the roses red, the leaves green, and I asked them to highlight it with yellow to be funny—it’s like the sun shines out of my butthole. Now I call it the crown of thorns.

So you got your butthole tattooed for Jesus?
Well, I call it the crown of thorns, and I tell people, “He was king, and I am king shit, so I sit on it.” You only live once. You have to have fun with it. Life’s a big party.  

You put a comment on my other butthole-tattoo interview. You seemed very unhappy.
Because they said she was the butthole-tattoo girl, and that’s not a butthole tattoo, that’s a buttcrack tattoo. It’s not even touching her butthole. Mine is touching it. If you make a fist and you see the krinkly lines, I have ink on those krinkly lines on my butthole, and it hurt.

When you start doing porn, do you think you two might team up?
She’s already doing porn, so I doubt it because I don’t know where she’s been or how many people she’s been with. I don’t live that lifestyle. I’m always in long, committed relationships with my boyfriends.

She’s done double anal. What have you got?
I won’t put another dude in it. I will tell my boyfriend to shove two of my toys in at the same time as him, though.

The triple lindy?
Yeah. As many as I can fit. We were experimenting the other night, and I covered his penis with honey and put Nerds all over it. It was fun.

After it came out of your butthole?
No. I never do ATM. That’s gross.

ATM with honey and Nerds sounds delicious, doesn’t it?
Well, yeah, but my butthole is going to be sticky, and I’m going to have Nerds mixed in with my poo.

You have to administer the honey and Nerds after you remove it from your butthole, Lyla.
That might not be a bad idea because I told him before we got into it, “I don’t know what it is, but you will never have shit dick.” It’s always crystal clear.

Without an enema?
There’s not one spec of brown on him after—no enema.

Maybe your butthole is a modern miracle.
I have a glorious hole!

You told me you were in jail for a while; what did the ladies in jail think of your butthole tattoo?
They all loved me. The whole jail loved me, even the deputies. They didn’t believe that I was famous and said, “You’re not a celebrity. You’re not famous.” And I’m like, “Yeah, I am. Google butthole tattoo, you’ll see!” Then they believed me and started loving me. I was in there for three months, and they treated me like royalty.

Well, of course. You’re a celebrity. You’re going on Howard Stern soon, this VICE interview… are you going to be able to handle all this fame?
The fame… I’m just going to show them—this is me. Love me as I am, or fuck off. My whole life I said I was going to be famous. But I don’t want to be rich. If I had $5 million, I wouldn’t get a big mansion on the beach. No, the kids around me who don’t have clothes and nice shoes for school and toys around Christmas and food, I’d give it to them. Children with cancer, I’ll pay for the research. I don’t want to see people suffering while I’m living it up. That ain’t right. I’m trying to make the world a better place. I just want to help.

You really are the modern day Mother Theresa.
It’s funny you say that, my rosary says, "Mother Theresa Pray For Us."

Maybe you should be the new pope.
That would be awesome. Do they allow female popes? And does that mean no more having sex?

Listen, if it’s up to me, I don’t care.

Previously - The World's Biggest Beatle's Fan

Follow Lyla on Facebook. 

Beautifuldisasters.com

bhgirltattoo.com/

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com or @Nieratko

Photo credit Cody T Williams

Admittedly, wanking a guy isn’t hard, and generally once he’s shown you what he likes it’s fairly easy to continue the motion (hint: it’s very, very repetitive). Technique can be taught and learned, but at the end of the day you’re just never going to one-up the cock’s master, which is probably why God invented blow jobs.

Palming off a guy is only mildly intimidating, so I can only imagine how terrifying it must be for a bloke to finger a girl--the differences between vaginas and feminine preference is vaster and more overwhelming than that of penises (from my experience at least). Plus women have all these ancillary bits all up in there, whereas with guys it’s pretty obvious exactly where the boner is (if you can’t work it out meet me behind the bike sheds after school, I need to show you some stuff).

I can’t tell you dudes exactly what to do to elevate your next finger bang to finger blast, but I can tell you what most females on earth wouldn’t willingly want done to her precious little crotch origami. Listen up.

CUT YOUR DAMN FINGERNAILS

Take your finger. Put it inside your mouth. Run it against the inner wall of your cheek. Can you feel that? Now, imagine that feeling inside your pee hole.

Do us all a favor and cut your damn nails; we don’t give a shit about your guitar playing or your band or whatever dumb reason you made up because you’re simply a lazy filthy pig that can’t be arsed to cut his nails. There is nothing sexy about a woman having the inner walls of her vagina scratched up by a dude’s Rihanna-style talons.

DON’T MISS THE CLIT

I feel like that’s a really obvious no-no but I guess a lot of guys just weren’t paying attention in sex ed class or when their last girlfriend gave them a road map to her va-jay or when they’ve had their hand grabbed and put in a VERY SPECIFIC SPOT ON THE FEMALE BODY. I think I can speak for a general majority of women when I say it makes us feel like we’re 15 when a dude is furiously rubbing areas nowhere near the vicinity of our clitorises. Or it totally freaks us out because we start thinking things like, “Maybe he wasn’t even going for the clit. Maybe he just really likes that part of my inner thigh.”

TAKE HEED!

When a girl shows you what to do, it’s because she likes it, and more likely than not because she thought what you were doing before was fucking shit. Now—and this part is important—when the girl stops showing you what to do so she can lay back and relax while she gets that good finger wiggles, DO NOT IMMEDIATELY REVERT TO THAT SHIT THING YOU WERE DOING BEFORE. YOU ARE NOT RIGHT. YOU ARE NEVER RIGHT.

ASK BEFORE YOU TRY TO SLIP ONE IN THE STINK

Just because you’ve got a finger in one hole doesn’t mean you’re welcome to put one in the other. It might surprise you, but anal fingering isn’t every woman’s preference. And even if it’s her preference one day, it might not be the next. Ask before you do butt stuff.

YOU’RE NOT UNCLOGGING A TOILET

I blame porn almost entirely for this one motion every dude seems to have in his bag of tricks (note: if a sex thing can be described as a “trick” is definitely something you should never, ever do). It normally happens when I’m at my horniest, just dying to have something, anything, in me after enjoying some “heavy petting.” So in the finger goes, and suddenly, after all the sexy, subtle, nipple pinching and dry humping, I feel like a toilet that’s being violently plunged. Going in and out really fast might feel nice on your dick, and I might not speak for all women when I say this, but the feeling of being penetrated with the kind of friction-creating speed normally reserved for starting a fire with sticks is not a very sexy thing.

YOU’RE NOT RUBBING IN LOTION EITHER

Rubbing circles on my labia with the palm of your hand feels exactly the same as it does when I rub in lotion for thrush or post-wax soothing cream, i.e. not hot, kind of utilitarian.

DON’T SLAP THE BEAN

Is this another porn thing? Because I’ve never, ever enjoyed a dude stopping mid-diddle to slap my vagina with his flattened palm. Sometimes it’s just one big slap, and other times there are several short, fast ones, sort of like trying to put out the fire he started from the very fast plugging (above). Am I missing something here? Is it weird that I don’t like having my vagina hit mid foreplay? I mean, if someone can explain the benefits of this, I’m all ears.

DON’T SUCK YOUR FINGERS

Maybe there’s a movie where someone super hot like Michelle Pfeiffer licks her fingers while seductively eyeballing Batman or whoever, but the male form, for the most part, isn’t designed for finger licking and bedroom eyes. It just looks sort of trite and forced, and inspires this sense of foreboding like something very, very terrible and unsexy is about to happen, like the bit in American Pie where Jason Biggs does the striptease.

FINGER BLAST WHEN YOU’RE EATING

When you’ve got your face nose deep in pussy, chuck one inside and use your free hand to squeeze a nipple. You won’t be disappointed. And by you, I mean me.

@Kat_George

Previously: Rubbing One Out with a Roommate

Four AM, Sunday morning—Saturday night for those of us still awake. At Western and Hollywood Boulevard, where a giant hot dog used to sit on top of a funky food joint and now it doesn’t. I miss all the lowbrow landmarks of LA, the city I love. South on Western, I blow through a yellow light at Santa Monica Boulevard and then down three blocks of street walkers in fuck-me gear like fan-dancing peacocks. I see the LAPD on a corner across from McDonald’s. A couple of bullies in a squad car toying with a couple of working girls on the sidewalk and chasing off all the johns. The johns go home horny, and the girls go home broke.

I’m a matinee cowboy looking for wrongs to right. I turn left onto Romaine and then pull to the curb next to Taco Bell. The girls on the sidewalk check me out but seem a bit perplexed. The cops are idling in the other lane next to me. I ignore them, zip down the passenger-side window, and call out to a freckle-faced cutie in a white pleather jacket and gladiator pumps. “Hey, Tootsie, how’s it goin? You wanna make some money?”

She approaches slowly, looking back and forth at the cops and me.

“Are you a cop?”

“No. Are you?”

“There are cops right there.” She points in case I haven’t noticed.

“Yeah I saw them. Hop in, take a ride with me. I wanna take your picture. I’ll give you 30 bucks.”

“Yeah, OK.” She opens the door and gets in. “You know those cops are right there looking at us?”

“Yeah I know but I’m not breaking any laws, fuck 'em. Buckle up, I don’t want to get a ticket.”

I drive and the cop car backs into and out of an alleyway following me. At the first four-way stop they pull up next to me, squawk the siren, and hit me with the spot. A beefy baby-faced cop looks at me, and I look back. I lower my window, and he starts the interrogation. “Where are you going?”

“Just taking a drive, not really going anywhere.”

“Who’s that with you?”

“Friend of mine.”

“What’s her name?”

I ask the hooker what her name is, and she tells me.

“Her name’s Roxanne.”

“If she’s your friend, why did you just ask her what her name is?”

“We haven’t known each other for very long.”

He’s getting red, and I’m thinking maybe I should stop fucking around before he shoots me. “I just met Roxanne, and we’re going to go and take some pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah, see? I’m wearing my camera and flash so I hold them up for him to see. “We’re not breaking any laws. I’m a photographer, this is what I do.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me so I ask him if we’re all done and can I go now?

The cop rolls up his window and I go back into drive. They follow us for a block and then turn off. “What’s your name?” Roxanne asks me.

“Scot.”

“You really just wanna take pictures?”

“Yeah, is that OK?”

“Yeah, I guess. That was gangster, they way you talked and what you did. I hate cops.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve done smarter things. I’ve got a thing about cops; they make me flippant like I’m back in high school.”

“I hate cops,” Roxanne says again. “Nobody can make any money with them all hassling everybody.”

The street curves 90 degrees and then changes its name. There’s a nice little park with tennis courts on the left. No parking on the park side and a string of cars on the right side. I’m looking for a spot.

Roxanne says, “You know the reason why the cops try and make it so we can’t make any money is because hos don’t pay taxes, so the cops don’t make any money for themself and they don’t like us.”

We’re in a nice family neighborhood and the denizens don’t want vice and drugs on their doorsteps. That’s the primary reason the cops are herding the girls off to different climes. I double-park in front of a little hacienda with a terracotta roof and a square green yard. Everyone is asleep except us.

I find a nice spot in the park, and Roxanne shows me that she’s not wearing any panties. I take three pictures and pay her for her time. Back in the car she offers me sex, but I want it at a deep discount. I tell her I’d love to and promise I’ll think about her sometime when I jerk off but not tonight. I drive her back to where I found her and the cops are back in place as well. Roxanne gives me a hug before she gets out, and as I drive off, I hear her telling the baby-faced cop we just took pictures and there is nothing he can fucking do about it. I drive home feeling good about myself.

Previously - Close to the Goodyear Blimp

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.

It has come to my attention that a lot of grown-ass women out there have yet to experience an orgasm, which makes me want to jump off a cliff on to a bed of sharpened dildos. Orgasms are important, and you need to be able to make yourself come. I know it can be frustrating, but you have to keep trying because the entire world runs on orgasms.

I remember masturbating like it was my homework as a young teen because I knew that eventually I’d get the hang of it, and it would put me on par with the rest of the orgasm-experiencing world. That world, of course, includes 100 percent of adult males, who make up nearly 100 percent of presidents and the majority of CEOs and police officers and professors. I’m not really sure why that part’s important, except for the fact that it would make me really mad if everyone telling me what to do could magically blast cum out of their genitals, and I couldn’t. My point is that it was a conscious, effortful process for me, but I persevered and succeeded.

I noticed that a lot of the “instructions” on how to masturbate were purely physical, but that’s clearly not the only ingredient in an orgasm casserole. As we all know (or should know) girls are mental basket cases, just like their mothers, and their mothers’ mothers, and centuries of some anthropological bullshit that I don’t understand, and sometimes that stuff can really get in the way of everything fun. Therefore, I am going to approach this orgasm problem from a meditative standpoint.

PRIVATE SPACE  

One day as I was driving down a busy street during rush hour, I suddenly realized that I was about to have an orgasm, because I was masturbating. That realization was amazing to me, since I could remember feeling uncomfortable about touching myself in my own bedroom, simply because it was inside my parents’ home. Women’s magazines will probably recommend that you find an isolated spot where you can feel comfortable being alone—like in the shower with the door locked, for instance. But I think you just have to confront what it is that makes you feel so shameful about masturbating.

I used to get worried that someone would see my fingers and notice cervical-mucus residue, or see that my face was all flushed and postorgasm-like. Then I realized: Fuck it. I am a disgusting, gross piece of shit, just like everybody else, and if I don’t have an orgasm today I’m going to end up killing someone.

No one will notice that you were masturbating. No one cares. Join the party.

AROUSAL

You have a clitoris, which is supposed to be full of nerve endings and blood flow and all of this magical, orgasm-inducing stuff, so then why, when you touch it, does nothing happen? Are you broken? No. You can’t just mechanically rub your clit and expect something nice to happen. You have to zone out and think about things that make you feel good (horny).

What makes you excited? You don’t know? For some reason, this is often a hard question for women to answer (probably because of centuries of oppression, but I don’t want to get into that), meaning fantasizing about love and sex might require a lot of mental effort. Maybe you’re deeply, truly aroused by the thought of sharing the same values and meaning of existence with another human being. Maybe you’re aroused by the thought of having kids and starting a life with someone you love. Maybe you’re aroused by rape. Whatever it is, you need to dive into it with reckless abandon and know that these thoughts are yours to keep, entirely private, and nothing to feel guilty about.

LETTING GO

This is crucial. A lot of women will get really close to having an orgasm but then stop themselves because the feeling is too overwhelming, or scary, or maybe even painful. In all steps of the process, you have to keep letting yourself go. What does that mean? I guess it’s a combination of A) freezing time in the moment of fantasy, B) getting in tune with your body and carrying out all of its impulses, and C) again, diving into the sensation with reckless abandon. Your body is resilient; it can handle your orgasm. Even if it feels like you have to pee or whatever, just let it out. The worst thing that could happen is your sheets will get wet, and you’ll have to do some laundry. (It’s not pee.)

Which reminds me, when my first boyfriend and I starting becoming “sexually active,” I was 15 and still had memories of being in a diaper and putting Vaseline on my diaper rashes. Unsurprisingly, that made the sensation of him taking off my underwear REALLY WEIRD. That’s super fucked-up, but maybe a lot of people have weird childhood residue like that and don’t realize it. Sometimes all it takes is saying, “Fuck it.”

Basically, my main piece of advice to you is to accept that you are a weird human-animal sex thing, you CAN have an orgasm, and you won’t die from it. 

If you want to look at porn but porn sites intimidate you or piss you off, try getting inspired with James Deen and Nicole Ray, or James Deen and whoever, or Manuel Ferrara and whoever. They know how to treat the ladies.

NOW GO, BE FREE

Previously by Kara Crabb - Let's Colonize Outer Space

Follow Kara on Twitter @karacrabb

There is this nonsensical assumption that no decent woman would ever want to have anal sex. Anal sex is for whores. The kind of women men gladly fuck, but would never take home to mother. Even Jesse Jane admits there are things she will not do on camera (anal being one of them), because it would limit her cross-over into more mainstream opportunities. You hear the stereotypical anal joke relentlessly, but I hear it repeated over and over the most when I sit down to talk to Craig Gross otherwise known as “The Porn Pastor." During our interview, he says “double anal” at least five times.

“Porn is all about double anal and blondes,” Gross shrugs, chomping on a piece of gum. He’s dressed stylishly with boots I’m slightly envious of. “So, then [virgins who watch porn] get married and their wife is a let down compared to all this.” He waves his arm towards the trade show in the other room.

Gross, 37, (and his co-founder Mike Foster) started their non-profit organization, XXXChurch, about 10 years ago to help people who are addicted to pornography as well as adult entertainers who want to get out of the industry. The XXXChurch has grown and now attends the AEE Expo (along with many other sex trade shows all over North America) every year as an alternative to porn. XXXChurch have their poster children for success, most famously Stephanie Swift who has now left porn and found God.

“These women don’t want to do this,” Gross says, who has also published several books, some titles including Jesus Loves You, This I Know, Dirty Little Secret, and Eyes of Integrity. “They would rather be doing something else. We’re not rescuing them, because they did say at one point that they wanted to do this, but when they do want out, we will help them transition.”

I can’t help but think about my friend back home who occasionally does freelance prostitution on Craigslist. One night we were talking about her work and she said she found it perplexing when her friends said they were worried about her, as though she didn’t understand the risks of her profession. She understood love and concern, but took offense to the fact that people assumed she didn’t know better. “I’m aware of the risks of what I am doing,” she said. “It’s funny, no one cared when I was working a bullshit minimum wage job being treated as though I was worthless.”

Gross and company understand that sometimes sex happens before marriage but they are “not giving anyone a free pass." His biggest problem is that porn distorts what sex should look like. Gross starts talking about that Mark Walberg movieTed, particularly the scene where Ted, the talking stuffed bear, suggests that Walberg give his girlfriend anal sex instead of a ring for their anniversary.

“The theatre erupts in laughter,” he scowls. “Yeah, give her that. That’s really what she wants.”

My mind wanders to Jessica Valenti’s book, The Purity Myth. Valenti argues that purity and porn culture both fetishize women’s sexual subservience and this is what makes the virginity movement completely unable to analyze pornography in a helpful way. “The [virginity] movement has latched on to the mainstreaming of porn not because it cares about women and the way in which their sexuality is represented, but because porn is an easy scapegoat for what the movement perceives in society's ills (women having sex), as well as a convenient excuse to uphold the movement’s regressive goals.”

“I’ve never met anyone who really likes [to perform sex] on camera,” Gross tells me. “It’s  difficult. The angles are weird. These women are not in this because of the sex. They are in this for the money.”

Suddenly, a young woman walks up to Gross mumbling about a Mormon from Salt Lake City.

“This is Rachel,” Gross points to Rachel Collins, 30, who is plump and smiling at me like a doll. “We call Rachel ‘The Filthy Virgin’ because she’s never had sex, but she’s been around so much of it that she’s going to have to get counseling once she’s married.”

They both laugh. I do not get the joke.

Measure B is the big topic amongst the adult entertainers during the AVN Awards. On December 14, 2012 a law passed in Los Angeles county that required all adult film stars to wear condoms during sex scenes. Measure B, a voter-approved ballot initiative, is being fought by Vivid Entertainment and performers Kayden Kross, and Logan Pierce. Kross, who publishes work with Complex magazine as well as writing extensively on her blog about the industry (she’s working on a book), argues that Measure B infringes on her rights as a performer. 

“I did condom scenes in my first movie, and that turned out to suck major monkey balls,” Kayden wrote on her blog. “The added friction the condoms caused over the course of the shoot was ridiculous. The condoms were not a birth control measure. They were, theoretically, for STD protection. But all the performers were tested. So in my first movie I was protected from STDs that my coworkers didn’t have.”

In the adult industry, performers are tested approximately every two weeks. It’s a rigorous system. Any company owned by Manwin requires that the performers are tested and their results are looked over by their co-stars on set. The performers are then checked for cuts, scrapes and general cleanliness. There is a data base where updates on each performers sexual health can be accessed. Plus, as Jesse says, “You can smell it. I’m sorry but when you get an STD you have a smell, you know?”

“In the wild, on average, there are around 2,150 new cases of HIV reported in Los Angeles County each year,” Kayden continues. “This is possibly because there are a lot of people having sex with a lot of other people without verifying one another’s STD status. We are not those people. We’re verified. We are card-carrying motherfuckers.”

Like Kayden, most porn stars think Measure B is bullshit.

“Condoms do irritate certain people,” Jesse explains. “They hurt. It’s our choice! We are the cleanest people you can fuck. Those girls that say porn stars are dirty, or guys who say that because they are assholes, Y’all go and have one-night-stands at a bar. I’ve slept with the same handful of guys for 10 years. There are girls that do that in a month and do not bother getting tested.”

The other side, of course, says that when an adult performer accepts money for performing in a film it becomes a business and a business must have rules to protect it’s employees. Tom Myers, Chief of Public Affairs and General Counsel for AIDS Healthcare compared it to a stuntman refusing to be tired to a harness during a life threatening scene.

Measure B will cost a minimum of just under $600,000 of tax payers money. Expensive for a law that is full of loopholes and is pretty tough to actually enforce. Does the county plan to employe condom enforcers to go on every porn set? Where does policing for amateur porn fit it? Not just Digital Playground movies that have huge budgets, but the makeshift stuff? Will those people be policed in the same way? How will a condom law actually protect adult entertainers from STDs?

It won’t, really. What it will do is drive the industry outside of Los Angeles, to Nevada, Florida, Mexico or even overseas, where Measure B is not in place, along with other necessary laws that protect those who might need it most. 

“Realistically, there are many types of people working in the adult industry for a variety of reasons,” Porn star and rumored girlfriend of James Deen, Stoya, writes to me via email a week later. Stoya is a cult favorite. Young, “all-natural,” and well-spoken, she writes regularly on her blog dispelling myths and fantasies about the industry. In one piece, she detailed the meticulous process of picking feces out of a rectum before an anal sex scene.

“Even if we only discuss female performers, they run the gamut from wonderful American-Dream style success stories like Joanna Angel who actually does run her own company, through lucky perverts, like me, who wandered into an enjoyable career and women who are almost purely financially motivated, to women who are absolute tragedy cases like the old stereotype,” Stoya says. “We have the same range of people as other industries, and we have the same workers’ rights issues that other industries have or have already worked through. In the same way that new writers, musicians, and actors scrape by, take gigs they aren’t impassioned by, and get screwed on their first deal or contract, new adult performers absolutely are sometimes taken advantage of and exploited. It’s called capitalism.”

The Red Carpet ceremony at the AVN Awards is separated into sections. There is the hallway where the fans gather, then there is the official press room. I’m in the press room, wandering around, thinking about how that in the past three days, I have yet to see a guy I could realistically fuck.

The walls of the press room are lined with advertisement banners,  and bleachers for the reporters, TV crews, and photographers to gather on. A tall, red-headed man shepherds the stars in groups according to their fame level, then he makes them write their name and credentials on a flimsy piece of white paper, which he will hold up and read as they pose on the red carpet. It’s a lot of leather, glitter, and the color purple. Everyone is done up, not just for the room, but for the public aftermath: the photos, the HBO specials, the E! stories, whatever.

When I see Jesse Jane she looks gorgeous yet slightly pissed off. I don’t blame her. She’s in very high demand marching from mark to mark, ready to pose and smile.

The red carpet room is boring, so my mind wanders. I watch the female porn stars glide over the red carpet, which looks kind of paltry in this stale conference room. The percentage of female stars on the runway compared to males is overpowering and the men make up for this by wearing something outlandish, even if they have opted for a suit: Platform shoes, fur coats, dorky sunglasses, gold chains, even James Deen is wearing shoes with white deckled flowers that look like he peeled them off a little girl’s Daisy guitar. Ivan of I Am Ivan Productions is strutting around with a fucking computer around his neck. I keep my eyes peeled for Dave Navarro, but he’s not here or else he came and left as fast as Suge Knight did.

“Hey,” a voice behind me. It’s Kerian. He looks normal, handsome, in a suit, tie and clean face. No goofy flare. “How’s it going?”

“Got any gum?” I ask, fully knowing he will in fact have gum.

“You been eating dog shit again? “ He jokes, as he fumbles in his pocket and whips out a pack of English gum. “This is the best stuff.”

We stand together and watch the red carpet parade for a minute. Keiran’s girlfriend Kirsten Price is hosting a show with a camera crew. She looks beautiful as she poses and jokes with her co-stars she is interviewing. Everyone’s voices are rough from working, partying, inhaling recycled air. Vegas makes you feel like you’ve been on an airplane for a week straight. In this room everyone is “on." Everyone is performing. That’s just what happens when you put a camera in someone’s face.

During the award ceremony, I sit back and drink a 40 with the general admission. After the Cirque de Soliel performer Zumanity finishes spinning from the ceiling in a naked body suit and Tyga performs his songs, while a small countries’ worth of porn stars grinds with him, the awards begin.

“I want to commend you guys for being so awesome in a country that’s so weird and puritanical about sex,” bellows comedian April Macie, who is hosting the event with Jesse Jane and Asa Akira. “All shame does is lower your self-esteem.”

Applause. Scream. Applause.

There are glitches. The main house microphone is too low. The teleprompter fucks up, but Jesse plays with the malfunction like a true professional. “Don’t make us look like dumb porn girls,” she laughs.

“Are you sure you're ready? You sound a little slow.” Some mid-30‘s club rat behind me remarks when Jesse Jane asks the audience to show some enthusiasm. Him and his friends continue to make fun of the porn stars during the whole ceremony, calling them “coked up” and poking fun at their assumed lack of education. They continue laughing at these “dumb, hot girls” they paid good money to come and see get recognized for accomplishments in their careers.

Historically, women have been seen as morally inferior to man. Hesiod said that the first woman, Pandora, was created with “the mind of a bitch and a thievish nature.” In the second creation myth of Genesis, Eve was on the one spawned from Adam’s rib and not the dust of the universe. Aristotle’s biological theory of human nature stemmed from pure social prejudice that woman was a deviant from the male form. According to these theories, woman are sexually charged, morally basic beings. A less noble sex because of their inherent linking to the body, human sexuality, instead of the mind. Even in the Christian tradition remains an idea that woman is an evil unto man because she is unable to control her passions and emotions.

Besides the fact that these concepts manifested decades ago, we still live in a culture that believes that women’s bodies are inherently shameful, and that a woman's sexuality needs to be restricted. What would happen if we finally untangled morality from sexuality?

“Females (the ones with the extra orifice) have fought in an organized manner for over a century to have the same rights as men,” Stoya once wrote. “A solid half of humanity has been for centuries, and still, written off as inferior over an extra hole.”

Today, some women fight for sex-positivity. We can fuck, and think. Our bodies are not “being used” because we use them for pleasure or for capital. It’s not so simple anymore.

People call out pornography for degrading women and “objectifying” them, reducing them down to their bodies. According to Wendy McElroy, in this context the term objectify means nothing because objects don’t have sexuality; only beings do. “Usually, the term sex objects means showing women as body parts, reducing them to physical objects,” McElroy writes. “What is wrong with this? Women are as much their bodies as they are their minds or souls. No one gets upset if you present women as "brains" or as spiritual beings. If I concentrated on a woman's sense of humor to the exclusion of her other characteristics, is this degrading? Why is it degrading to focus on her sexuality?”

Furthermore, shouldn’t every woman be able to decide for herself what she finds degrading and liberating?

The AVN’s are stripped of Hollywood stigma and therefore, have more room to be intentionally playful. Acceptance speeches, for the most part, are not serious. There are no tears. When Asa Akira wins Best Female Performer of the Year she giggles and apologizes to the front row for not wearing underwear and having her pussy unkempt. Ron Jeremy makes crowd pleasing jokes with ease. James Deen accepts his awards while smoking, with his back to the audience. Transsexual and Male Performers of the Year receive gifts along with their trophies. When it comes time to present the Visionary Award to Phil Harvey of Adam & Eve, the general admission audience pays no attention and instead, talks incessantly. I hear cheering to my right and look over at a random couple in the balcony, desperate for attention, pretending to fuck. No paying audience member listened when Measure B is talked about. They just keep drinking, screaming and knocking back cups of alcohol because we are in Nevada where that kind of behavior is encouraged, even if it is during an award ceremony.

Everyone has an opinion on the unwritten rules of sex, but this is only because we all can do it. We are all experts when it comes to fucking, just by having genitals and a sex drive. While some of us think we know what is best for our own bodies, there are others who think they know what is best for our bodies. And a different set of others who also know more. The others? The Church. The Law. The neighborhood. And, they all intertwine. Plus, capital makes sex even more contentious.

“If people really are getting most of their information about sex from a combination of Maxim, Cosmopolitan, and porn, that strikes me as a serious problem,” Stoya says. “Pornography is entertainment and, with the exception of Nina Hartley’s Guide To series and a few other productions, does not intend to be, or present itself, as educational, but it does seem to frequently get pointed to as one of the few places people  learn about sex.”

Because there is not much else. However, it is not porn’s fault that our culture has yet to figure out how to talk about sex. We vilify porn for simply existing and filling the void of an open, sex-positive dialogue.

“When it comes to porn I think that we rest on the First Amendment of free speech and twist it around by saying that our free speech is teaching people the wrong thing,” Kayden Kross tells me before we leave the red carpet room. “Well, we are not trying to teach anyone, we are trying to entertainment and express ourselves. It’s ‘art’ technically, I use that liberally, but not the kind of art that you hang on a wall, step back and take in. It’s more like a one-off fun time. Like, you go out, get drunk, have fun. Did it do anything to enrich your life? No. Did you have fun doing it? Yes.”

No one acts “normal” about pornography, because we don’t know how to. How can there be a “normal” when it comes to porn? There will be no consensus on how we, as a culture, feel about something that we can identify with so subjectively. The internet has changed not only the way we digest porn, but also the way it is made, who can make it, and where that porn ends up. We’re captivated, intimidated, turned on and perplexed by porn all at the same time and it’s this confused fascination that keeps Jesse Jane, Stoya, Kayden Kross and Kerian Lee employed. It’s what keeps drunk idiots in Vegas attending the AVN Awards year after year, even if they don’t know how to respect it. It’s what keeps people like me constantly questioning what the fuck this all means and where my politics and my sexuality align. Porn is there for us to watch, to turn us on, and to entertain us. I wish it was that simple, but it’s not. It’s still a massive industry that has it’s tentacles stretched from the Disney boat on the set of million dollar productions like Pirates to amateur web cam videos produced independently in small apartments all over North America. Not even just porn, but sex, outside a monogamous union, is weighted with this archaic stigma that pleasure is shameful. Pleasure for pay is even worse or, as some might argue, may not even truly exist at all. Porn unties sex from the hope of monogamy, which is something that the Western world seems to still have a problem with.

“The stalkers we get in porn are crazier because they feel as though they have been intimate with you already,” Jesse says. “They think they have been with you and that you have this connection. They think they have had sex with you and been naked with you. I have people try to grab my ass, my tits, and they think they can because I am a porn star. No, you do not touch me.”

She stops for a minute.

“Most people are very respectful and just nervous, shaking to take a picture with you. They say ‘cheese’!” Her face busts into a smile, letting out a little snort. “I mean, who says ‘cheese’?”

All photos by Kate Brown. 

@myszkaway

Dear Vicers,

Each week I scour the comments sections looking for the dumbest of the dumb, and then I commemorate them with little cartoons that I draw. Scroll down and you'll get to see some of them. This is my 37th Talkin' 'Bout the Boards column.

Nicholas

From: Pen Pals - Valentine's Day Is a Punch to the Gunt

From: Obama's State of the Union Address, Decoded

From: Question of the Day - What Do Your Shoes Say About Your Sex Life

Previously - You Look Like Sid Vicious's Autistic Baby

@NicholasGazin