Issuu

LE ISSUE DE SEX

ISSUE #2 - AUG 2015

Christeene “A HOLE’S A HOLE”

Dirk Shafer:

The Secret Life of a PlaygirlFound Dead

Candida:

CumMING full circle A lost girl looking for a lust and heroin fix

Erika LuST #itstimefor porntochanGE

BOOK EXCERPTS GRITTY ESSAYS PERSONAL POEMS & EROTICA!!!

[ INSIDE ] 06 10 13 18 21 26 30 31 34 35 39 43 46

Erika Lust: #itstimeforporntochange By Moxie McMurder Christeene: The Terrorist Drag Queen Interview by Ronit Pinto Signe Baum: “A Teat Beat of Sex” By Shani R. Friedman Love Sour Love An essay by Allegra Vera “Erotique”: Photo: Thomas Hodges By Sam C. Long Lucy Jane Purrington Photo: There’s Nothin Like A Sultry Redhead The Mirror Poem by Michael Demyan The Sex Girl An Excerpt from novel by Alice Carbone Tench The Corridor Short Fiction by Tracy Lia Lynn Things That Resemble Sex An essay by Shane Cashman Course Correction By Ellery Twining & Michelle Gemma “Dirk Isn’t Dead” By Susan Marque Candida Royalle - Cumming Full Circle Interview by Ronit Pinto

“Macrobiologique” Photos - Sam C. Long

[ CONTRIBUTORS ] PUBLISHER

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

CONTRIBUTING EDITOR

DESIGN

Ronit Pinto

Royal Young

Allegra Vera Warsager

Sarah Grace Black

[ LETTER FROM THE EDITORS ] For us - a male and a female - sex has always been associated with love, lust violence and sometimes hate. We both were introduced to an explicit and far from innocent scene. Royal on the prostitute, addict and artist filled streets of the early 90s Lower East Side and Ronit in suburbia Texas at age 12. Our very different sexualities have often been convoluted and confused until for Royal - he found the right person to love. And for Ronit - she learned how to love at all.

gate the sticky new universe of sex with only horses to guide them. We talk to Candida Royalle, a former porn star with a terminal disease. Christeene, the terrorist drag-queen with a taste for the stank; and a feminist pornographer on a mission to change the industry.

Some lessons we’ve consumed: Not to be afraid to explore your own darkness. And do what’s right, even if it ends up being wrong.

Modern sexuality is a multi-layered complex thing as technology both unites and isolates us. That’s why this issue is so intimate. It’s important to relish and affirm our sexual identities, by sharing our insecurities, flaws and deepest desires we can connect more deeply with each other.

In this issue we meet the Playgirl model with a startling secret love life. A lost girl looking for a lust and heroin fix. Adolescents who are trying to navi-

We invite you to explore together, the captivating subjects of Sex, love, lust and longing. And our constant quest to be understood. - Ronit & Royal

Erika Lust: “It’s Time for

Porn to Change” By Moxie McMurder

“Porn is a huge part of the culture we’re living in. Women cannot just ignore porn, we have to participate and discuss this very influential genre” - Erika Lust

Sweden has given us many good things, ABBA,vikings, it has also given us a unique voice in that of Director, writer, producer and author Erika Lust. Erika is a feminist director of indie erotica, making award-winning, smart, sexy and sexually positive films for women and couples. Her recent TEDxVIENNA talk: “It’s Time For Porn To Change” is a truly inspiring, empowering and educated conversation about porn as today’s sex and gender education.

Sweden has given us many good things, ABBA,vikings, it has also given us a unique voice in that of Director, writer, producer and author Erika Lust.

cerning how feminism is seen through media? Feminism has become the shamed ´f´ word. People associate it with a particular negative stereotype: ugly, man-hating spinsters who grow their leg and arm hair and who will keep complaining until all men are under them. It’s completely untrue. Feminist want equality of the sexes. That means equal rights for men and women in the workplace, in the home and, most importantly for me, in the bedroom. We have every right to enjoy our sexuality as much as men, enjoy sex as much as them and enjoy porn as much as them.

Erika is a feminist director of indie erotica, making award-winning, smart, sexy and sexually positive films for women and couples. Her recent TEDxVIENNA talk: “It’s Time For Porn To Change” is a truly inspiring, empowering and educated conversation about porn as today’s sex and gender education. Erika has a BA in human rights and feminism and it was while at university she discovered the essay Hard Core: Power, Pleasure, and the Frenzy of the Visible by Linda Williams which she found to be highly influential. After graduation Erika founded her video production company Lust Films, specializing in feminist pornography, as she was disappointed with the pornography industry. “The women did not look like they were enjoying themselves, and the sexual situations were totally ridiculous. We’re modern women! Not slutty Sharons, horny teens, desperate housewives, hot nurses, and nymphomaniac hookers, always looking to service pimps, multi-millionaires or macho sex machines. Not always looking to please rather than be pleased. I wanted to know: where was my lifestyle, my values, my sexuality?” I was able to catch up with Erica, amongst her busy schedule to talk to her about feminism and pornography. Feminism is constantly in flux but at the moment feminism is seen as a dirty word, something I heartily disagree with, what are your feelings con-

For a long time the media hasn’t seemed to have grasped that feminism is a very important and most of all a positive thing. But in the last year they have become somewhat obsessed with the word. It wasn’t until Emma Watson gave her HeForShe speech that people seemed to realise that men are as much of a part of feminism as women and that it is still relevant to our society now. There are also some great big names in the media at the moment who are proudly claiming themselves as feminist and it´s doing us good. Beyonce is one of the biggest role models and for her to associate with the word, it only has a positive effect on the huge amounts of people who idolize her. Even the always controversial Miley Cyrus taking part in the #FreetheNipple campaign with a number of Instagram posts. Although it got a negative reaction from the media in general, it raised awareness for the campaign and brought it into the mainstream media eye. Sometimes press is better than no press!

Your TedX Talk has been seen 200,000 times can you tell me how it came about that you were approached to do the Ted Talk and the reaction you’ve had from it? (How was she approached?) The reaction has been wonderful! My #changeporn campaign has been supported by so many and continues to grow as more and more people see the talk and my work. My Night of Indie Erotica at the Feminist Porn Awards last Wednesday 15th April reigned it again, with so many sharing my work and views on Twitter. People really seem to be engaging with it, wanting more from their porn. Mainstream pornography has changed significantly over the past 20 years, not only in nature but in accessibility too. What are you feelings towards the shift? Unfortunately, the easily accessible nature of mainstream pornography means that anyone can find it and watch it. The main problem being our children. As I said in my TEDxVienna talk, porn has become of way of young people learning about sex, and if the porn is bad they aren´t being educated with the right values. That´s why we need to change porn with values of equality, creativity and realism to create good porn that’s inspiring for viewers. Of course on the flip side, the age of the internet and digital downloads is a huge blessing for independent companies like myself as it´s the most cost effective way of getting your content out to consumers. We just need more of us making good porn becoming more mainstream so that people can have access to it as well as the bad mainstream films. So they can make an informed choice on what they watch and see the difference in values. XConfessions is a really interesting project, how did you come up with the idea and what do you find is the most enjoyable aspect of this project? I started XConfessions a year ago (2015 marks it’s 1st Anniversary!) it started out as something much like Post Secret, where users could go on to confess their sexual fantasies. I soon realized I had such a rich collection of great material that could be put on screen. The public’s imagination is far beyond that of the mainstream porn indus-

try, so I knew they could make great films with the right screen adaptation and direction. Plus everyone’s a bit of a gossip and an exhibitionist, so being able to confess anonymously gives the notion of power in secrecy. It liberated them, like masks at a Venice carnival or confessing your sins to a priest. Everything is crowdsourced these days with people sharing their cars (Uber), their homes (airbnb) and of course ideas! There’s always people wanting to learn about other people’s experiences, especially around sex! The thing I enjoy most about this is that it allows me to be as creative as I want and it exercises my “filmmaking muscle” constantly releasing films every two weeks. With so many unique and inspiring confessions, not one of my films are the same.

I can let my mind run freely with concept ideas, characters, locals and cinematic techniques. The freedom of this project is a true blessing, and something you don’t get with full length films. How did you become so interested in sex and why did you decide to go into the field above all others? Having grown up in Sweden, one of the most sexually liberal countries, I was always very aware of it and open about it as a discussion. Then after studying Political Sciences at the Univeristy of Lund, specialising in sexuality and feminism, I started to become aware of the real struggles between pornography and feminism. I have always been very sex-positive so when I read Linda Williams book Hard Core and realised porn was a discourse on our sexuality and gender. So with the lack of female voices in the porn industry

and my complete exasperation with mainstream porn I knew I wanted to help make a difference by making erotica I wanted to watch with my values and desires. I know that the subject is important and there is an imbalance in perception, but what is your personal relationship/thought process when it comes to sex. Do you think that people should be monogamous?

I think it´s very much down to what people want and are comfortable with personally. Consent is key. Reading so many confessions submitted to the site everyday I have realised that monogamy is quite an outdated concept for people today. There is a huge group of people who are very open about the sex as a conversation. They want to experiment, push the boundaries and experiment with the usual constructs of sexual behaviour. I think it´s very liberating and inspiring. It´s what my entire project is based on and for that I am very grateful for how open people are becoming. We’ve heard that sex in Sweden is viewed much more liberally than that here in the states. Can you elaborate and is that the case? Sweden was one of the first countries to introduce sex education, with contraception being taught at a young age, they have some of the most progressive laws on LGBT rights... they have progressed much quicker on many levels of sexual liberation and equality that any other country. Sex is and has always been an open conversation. But on the flip side, because of this openness to free expressions, there has always been a strong anti-porn feminist movement as well. But in comparison to America it is much more sexually liberated because of this. But I think this also has a lot to do with religion. American legislation has been heavily influenced by the church, which in turn has affected how open people have been about sex. You can find out more about Erika and her films at her website : http://erikalust.com/

Christeene The Terrorist Queen Interviewed By Ronit Pinto

When I look at terrorist drag queen, Christeene, I think about a lot of things. The first things that jump out at me are Louisiana boondocks, incest and crystal meth. With her smeared lipstick, bruised thighs and ‘little girl lost’ expressions I don’t know if she is a vision, or a nightmare; has just been ass-fucked or raped.

Astonishing, you can’t take your eyes off her in music videos and pics - the extreme sexuality, raw moves and booty pounding beats. We sat down with the gender-bending talent to learn about her background, music and her stank. Honeysuckle: How would you describe your music, what genre does it fit in? Christeene: diz music iz da sound of my soul, my hole, an da bird dat lives in my throat an tells mee whut to say n sang. i wurk wit a lotta amayzin people who are able tooo listen to da bird an dey produce deez electronic nightmares an symphonies dat live inside meee. JJ Booya, Powerhammer, JT Almon, Graham Reynolds....deez are sum of da majicians who create da majiik. diz shit is unclassifiable. diz shit is whut it iz. HS: How old were you when you started to perform, have you always been an artist? C: i am 5 years old. I come frum da dirt. HS: Who are your musical influences C: i wanna lick Patti Smith’s armpit, i wanna suck Iggy Pop’s dik, I wanna steal Alice Cooper’s makeup, I wanna put Lady Bunny’s head in uh toilet, I wanna take pills an finger my hole tooo Boards of Canada, I wanna leave da door open an da lights on ferr Nick Cave. HS: What kind of or people are you attracted to? C: HuH?

HS: What are your feelings on drugs? C: depends on whut drug it iz an how it makes mee feel.

HS: Was sexuality ever an issue for you, did you go through phases of feeling awkward or confused? C: i like tooo live by da golden rule of `. u gotta listen too dat stank harp inside ur butt oven an u gotta have da courage too let dat harp play u into places where u can exxxplore an grow an learn sum shit bout urself dat u might bee too afraid too dance wit. HS: Where do the bruises come from? C: my dancers T GRAVEL & C BABY bruise da shit outta me on stage, an da crowd likes to press my dough when im crowd surfin, an den life takes care of da rest.

HS: What are your feelings on sex? C: depends on where im doin it, whut im wurkin with, an who’s operatin tha machinery. HS: What is your favorite kind of sex? C: sex wit alive people HS: What’s your favorite kind of kink? C: sex HS: Do you like orgies?

ur mess into when u git wit me u know? derrs allll kinds uh surprises hidden in diz machine, an me an my boyz operate like uh fun house in Mr Dark’s Carnival....derr is sum wild shit goin on, but sum sweet sweet puddin as well. HS: What are you attracted to in others? C: Vulnerability HS: What’s your connection with the LGBT community, is it something you reach out to? C: i think dat its about brangin all of our family back into da woods, under da radar, an away from tha social media bible school. Iz about creatin our own livin rooms again where we can share whut we got, not fuggin judge it, an wherrr we can see ever corner of da community we been growin ferr years an years. iz where we can offer luv an support an courage tooo our people, speak our own secret language again, an never bat uh fuggin eye at somethin that is different from ourselves. HS: Did anything weird happen in your background in the south? When I think of small town southern, I think of incest and crystal meth. Was any of that relevant? C: north south east west overseas underground in da trees...iz all da same shit everywhere. weird shit iz everywherrr. incest n crystal meth is everywherrrrr. fucked up rules an regulations r especially everywherr. Iz it relevant...fuk yeah it is. butt u gotta process dat mess fer urself an den shit it back out on da plate uh life so we can all see it ferr whut it is. shit. HS: What are your plans for the future? C: too live.

C: without dem I would not have a roof over my head. HS: What would you say is the most sexually unique thing about you? C: da fact dat you don’t know what da fuk ur gettin

TeatofBeat

Sex

Signe Baumane: A Filmmaker On Her Fractured Mind, Love of Family and Sex

Signe Baumane is a Brooklyn-based independent animator who takes on the very adult topics of sex, mental breakdowns, feminism and family.

By Shani R. Friedman

Originally from Latvia, which was part of Russia at the time, Baumane experienced early success as a writer, getting her first story published when she was 14. At Moscow University in 1989, her life suddenly veered from philosophy studies when she was faced with being conscripted into a teaching job at a school chosen by the Soviets. At the suggestion of a friend who had loved Baumane’s doodles, she threw herself into animation, creating storyboards for 30 short film ideas about birds and dogs and the mysteries of procreation in five days, and landed a job at Riga Animated Film Studio. It was far from a dream job, but it led to her getting to do her first animated short, The Witch and the Cow (1991). She came to the US in 1995 establishing herself in New York. Since then she has written and directed 15 award-winning shorts including a feature film, Rocks in My Pockets (2010), which explored her diagnosis, bipolar disorder, and her family’s relationships with mental illness. The rest as they say, is her story. Shani R. Friedman: You were studying philosophy and then seemingly out of nowhere took up animation, which is a pretty radical shift. Signe Baumane: It’s not that radical. Both Animation and Philosophy deal with abstractions. For example, a movie with an actor in his 50s playing a carpenter in a midlife crisis would be more or less a psychological portrait of a particular man in his midlife crisis. But if I take the same actor and make a drawing of him in the same story, he’ll become a representation, a symbol of ALL men having midlife crisis. Animation and Philosophy should get married, in my opinion. As to the specifics how I went from talking about high concepts to drawing concepts with my hands - I did a lot of doodling during boring Marxism Leninism or Dialectical Materialism lectures. When a friend suggested I go into animation because she wanted to see my doodles move, I organized the doodles in single idea stories. Very simple: for example, there is a bird sitting in a cup. Another bird holding a worm in his beak flies in, sits on a tea pot. It turns out that the cup is used by birds as a nest. The chicks hatch in the cup and the birds

feed them. I didn’t know one had to know how tto storyboard. I just looked at a drawn doodle character and asked what it wanted to do and then drew it. SRF: You talk about your mother’s attitudes about sex in Teat Beat, which made me wonder if you came from a religious household? What sort of sex education did you get (at school and elsewhere)? SB: Teat Beat of Sex is a sort of hybrid between fiction, documentary and animation. It’s a take on sex from a woman’s point of view and based on my views about sex, but not my real family. I made the mother an exaggerated embodiment of traditional thought that faithfully follows prescriptions of society: marry, have children, have sex only within marriage, etc. It’s not quite like my mother, but it’s not unlike her, either . I grew up in Soviet Union where religion was banned (if the KGB caught you in church you’d be tarnished and your career within the Soviet system might be destroyed). So I didn’t grow up religious. Still, the Soviets were masters of conformism and compliance - one had to do as the others do or risk being sent to Siberia. You didn’t get sent to Siberia for having sex before marriage but you did get a bad reputation if you were a woman. And bad reputation was the first step toward being sent to Siberia. As to sex education in school, we did have some classes and were forced to go to see sex ed movies (imagine 400 teenagers in a movie theater watching medical explanations of intercourse) which always had an agenda: by having sex you can catch terrible diseases, become an alcoholic, prostitute, drug addict and/or die. By the way, prostitution was regarded as a private enterprise and as such was illegal in Soviet Union. Nevertheless, I was always interested in sex since I can remember (maybe from age 5). Sex to me was a form of power and sex was the only effective power a woman could have other than selling her Soul to Communist Party and become a Party leader (even so, a woman could not make it to the very top of the Communist Party). I longed to grow up to exercise my powers as a woman. But the moment I first had sex I discovered that sex is

a form of communication, and the power of sex is too treacherous a ground to play it successfully. You fall in love and you are doomed. SRF: When you were at university you became pregnant and tried to get medical assistance for depression and suicidal thoughts, which led to you being institutionalized for several months. Could you talk a little about that terrible experience? SB: Yes, during my studies I had had sex quite a few times and got pregnant, then married (in that order). But marriage and having a child was something I was not prepared for - I felt walls were closing in on me, crushing my future, hope and life. I had been depressed before but this was quite different - I couldn’t shake off the obsessive thoughts about killing myself that were getting more and more specific. I decided to seek help and went to a local psychiatrist who just locked me in a mental hospital. The hospital’s psychiatrist diagnosed me as a schizophrenic but changed the diagnosis to manic depressive after my parents gave her a bribe. The flexibility of how I was diagnosed still astonishes me. I wonder if she gave the first diagnosis because she was hoping to get a bribe, or she truly couldn’t understand me? We had a lot of conversations about life and exchanged opinions. She was shocked to hear that I had had so much sex (before marriage and before even meeting my husband). I was 22 and looked very innocent at that time, probably even ethereal (depression can make you look ethereal). The psychiatrist also knew I was a good person and came from a good family. She just couldn’t wrap her head around it. Having an open

mind about sex and being a good person was not compatible to her. SRF: How does mental illness shape your sex life? Does it determine which partners you like? Does it shape your perceptions of others? Do medications have an impact? SB: I LOVE sex. It is one human activity that makes me feel fully alive. It’s not just orgasms that I love. Sex is a form of communication with another person (I don’t call masturbation sex for that reason. But jerking someone off is sex by that definition. It is also a fun way to get out of your body and head into another person’s body and head. And I love the smell of sex. Of course, when I am depressed or very stressed or when obsessive thoughts dominate my brain, the sex drive goes down, and I don’t like it. It is very hard to focus on sex, or to even want it. It takes longer to reach climax and the climax may not be as strong. I still make an effort to do it, because I want to feel alive. To me, the degree of wanting sex is a reliable way to check the state of my mental health and health in general. Since I am bipolar, I swing widely from thoughts about sex every nine seconds to thoughts about killing myself every 12 seconds although ‚ “killing” is too strong a word. More precisely, it is a desire not to exist, to “erase myself gently from the picture of the World. Thinking about sex every nine seconds is a lot of sex to think about! To me, sex represents the ultimate will to live, to engage in the World, while “erasing” myself is just the opposite.

If I didn’t have that strong sex drive I would most likely have died by now - starved unable to get out of bed because of depression. When I hear people say that sex should be only reserved for procreation I feel they miss this whole life saving aspect of sex. Sex is the only reason we leave the nest of our loving parents and it is the only reason why some of us get out of bed every morning and get to work. Sex is the fabric that holds people together. As to how I perceive myself and others depending on my emotional and mental state - a long time ago (since I was 19), I decided that self consciousness was not sexy in a bedroom. So I don’t scrutinize or worry about my or my partner’s body during sex. I abandon myself into the act of doing it. It doesn’t matter if I feel high or low. I don’t judge my partner and expect that my partner doesn’t judge me. So there is not difference in perception. Just a desire to connect and to forgive - with a hope that my imperfections will be forgiven too. I don’t know about effects of medication on sex since I don’t take medication. My experiences with it in the Soviet Union were quite frightening. Although I know that modern pharmaceuticals have developed since then, I am still afraid. SRF: Was making the feature Rocks In My Pockets part of the healing process? Was this the first time you had examined your family’s history/relationship to mental illness?

SB: That would be really amazing if making a film could heal someone from depression! But in reality making an independent animated feature is so difficult (raising money is very stressful, working 16 hours every day is hard, distribution and marketing is insane) that, if anything, one goes more crazy making a film. Yes, this was the first time I explored my family’s history in a film. But not only [my] family. In the film one gets glimpses of the twists and turns of Latvia’s history. In some way, the [country’s] background itself is like a manic depressive character going from giddy ups to desperate downs. SRF: What were you looking to do with the film? Educate people about mental illness? Entertain? Do something that was just cathartic for you? SB: I don’t make films for myself. Making a film is not cathartic for me personally. I like having a project but the process can be torturous and showing a personal film like Rocks In My Pockets in a screening room full of strangers makes me feel very exposed and vulnerable, not cathartic at all. I make films to entertain, to provoke, to engage. It’s a form of conversation, like sex. You need more people in the room than just yourself to have a great conversation. SRF: How do your films portray sexuality? SB: My early work isn’t explicitly sexual. The first film, The Witch and the Cow, was about a tiny witch

that tries to milk an immense cow. My second film, Tiny Shoes, was a sarcastic fairy tale about marriage. My early work involved female characters and their problems. My fourth and (first American) film Love Story (1998) is explicitly sexual - it’s about separation of sex and love; it involves tremendous size male (although, an alligator’s) love organs that scare shit out of a woman. After that, [I did] Natasha (2001), a story about a neglected housewife who falls in love (and has sex) with a vacuum cleaner. I think the title of Five Fucking Fables (2002) says it all. SRF: What was your motivation behind The Teat Beat of Sex? Who has seen the movies and what has the response been from audiences, educators, etc.? SB: Teat Beat of Sex actually comes from the frustration about misunderstandings between the two genders. Men are made to believe that certain things, like not wearing panties, are sexy. A woman’s reality is quite different from that fantasy. A truly sexual woman always has a lot of pussy juice

and she needs panties to go to parties to prevent it from spilling on other people’s couches. I am puzzled about why men are so obsessed about the size of their dicks while for me as a woman, that doesn’t matter so much. As to peoples’ responses, it’s been great. A lot of people told me that they use the DVD of the 15 episodes as an ice breaker on their date nights. Women love the episodes because it is about THEIR point of view. Men love the episodes because they get enlightened about woman’s point of view. It’s wonderful. SRF: How are you feeling and what are you working on currently? SB: I am in Helsinki right now, staying at the Latvian Embassy’s guest apartment. It’s a sunny morning, my windows are looking over Helsinki and Baltic Sea. Beautiful. I love Helsinki. I’ll go to cinema to spend a day at the Animatricks film festival. Life is good at this moment. I’m aware it may turn bad, though. Each beautiful moment like this is to be treasured.

Watch episodes of Teat Beat here: www.vimeo.com/13605859

â€œ

The business of love is cruelty. It scares me, the genius we have for hurting each other. â€“ Dean Young

by Allegra Vera Warsager

“Unfortunately, sex is all I can give right now given the circumstances.” - A text from my exboyfriend last spring, after I found out he slept with a mutual acquaintance while we were seeing each other yet again after we broke up a year previously. I told him off, and that was his manipulative response eight hours later. Sex complicates things. Sex is one of the best aspects of love, but sex isn’t love. Or is it? What is it then? It’s ego. Not love. Ego is not love. People often say “It’s just sex” – and a lot of times that is true, but sometimes it’s a protective statement to diminish a relation. But when you date and care for someone, there’s no going back to just sex, without emotional attachment. Ego is also a factor of self-protection. My ex and I didn’t build a foundation of trust. When we met three years ago, I was his local bartender and he was a cop. Now he’s a Detective, and I’m a writer. In most cases, when people are sleeping together, especially when they have a history, it’s an emotional entanglement, more than just physical. But more often then not it is unbalanced – the man feels less. We wouldn’t be around each other on and off like this if there wasn’t something mutual. Yet each time we see each other, he acts as though he is incapable of a relationship while accusing me of not being ready. I’m nine years younger.

“

People can be lovers and enemies at the same time, you know – Willa Cather

With a dynamic like that, there will always be unfinished business. There’s no closure and we are lethal to each other. We both date and drunkenly sleep with other people in retaliation, seeking both to hurt and replace each other. There have been times when we could not even say a word to one another. Two extremely verbose and intelligent people with not a thought in their brain, that’s how thick the tension between us was at times. It blocked out reasoning. I remember riding

shotgun in his car, looking out the window, seeing red out of anger and hearing only white noise, willing my heart to be black.

“

As if to say, if I promise I want you more than anything will you accept nothing – Merritt Tierce, Love Me Back

I’ll always miss his desire for order, the way my stomach drops when I see him, the way it feels to sleep next to him. I miss the smell of him – clean and sharp. The feel of his sinewy arms around me, all of that lean and taut muscle, with increasingly more tattoos. The way his hands look on my naked body. I would wake up out of a dreamless sleep to see him strapping his gun on his belt, shirtless, before he kissed me and left for work. The sexual passion has always been out of control. The first time I went home with him, I hooked my legs around his waist and he slammed me against a wall. It all boils down to sex, why we even bother talking to each other, why I would fight through the pain and the second thoughts and ignore advice to see him and talk to him again. It gave me comfort to know I have a sexual power over him, since he will always crave what I can give him. It’s hard not to idealize our original courtship. I was the center of attention in a large social circle based around the New York City bar I was working in (my co workers and I ran an after hours). I was busy with two jobs and partying nonstop. I didn’t deal with my problems, I ran from them and smothered them with Adderall and cocaine and tequila. I can’t be nostalgic for the way someone treated me. I loved all of the things he said in the beginning - it was exactly what a woman wants to hear from an older, attractive, intelligent, persistent, “stable” man (the line that haunts me to this day? “I want a miniature version of you”). Some of those qualities appeared to evaporate as he kicked the pedestal of his devotion from underneath me.

Each time, I am drawn back to him despite his manipulative, judgmental, commitment-phobic ways. Dating in post-Tinder, modern New York City has an international reputation as challenging. Every time one of us ended things, I swore to myself and to my friends and my family that I was done fucking with him for good. And each time, after months of silence and failed dating experiences with other people, I was pulled back to him. I suppose it’s because despite the hurt and disgust I felt, I missed the intimacy most of all. The private act of sex: what went on between us sexually would bang around in my brain. The dynamics of the sexual charge between us leads to me to think that it was worth another try. Through me, he has access to love and beauty in his life but he chooses to kill it over and over again, but without wanting to give it up each time. I know what it is to experience the dual feelings of love and hate – he looked at me with lust and adoration in his eyes; then he would look at me as if there was no one there, as though I was already a ghost to him. That made me hate the person I loved. He hates that he loves me and I feel the same way.

I’m just shy of 30 and he’s a decade ahead of me. We can’t even be in the same room without fucking or fighting. He spikes my blood pressure like none other yet it can’t be love. Love is not viewing someone through the prism of your own demanding standards. But there’s no conclusion, no answers.

“

Sex was not a reliable test of love – Mary McCarthy, The Group

Love without trust is nothing. The gray area between sex/intimacy and love is a dangerous one, where him and I got lost many times. From this, I’ve learned that one can love a person and function without being with them, though the sexual pull and the thought of them being out in the world can destroy you if you’re not careful. It’s a deep grief that doesn’t go away, it just pauses occasionally, like a needle on a record.

Erotique Thomas Hodges is an artist best known for his photographic artworks, although he currently works with a variety of media and also sculpture.Â He first picked-up the camera at around age seven. His primary focus is on female sexuality, sensuality and sexual freedom that spans culture and race. His works can be found in collections worldwide. Hodges sat down with us to discuss his craft.

HS: Tell us about your foray into erotica and using the camera. TH: I first picked-up a camera as a child (maybe 7 or 8 years old), inspired by my Father, who was a photography enthusiast, so photography was something I grew-up with and have practiced on-and-off most of my life. Back in the 90s, I was shooting back-stage editorial at the fashion weeks, at which time I photographed a lot of very prominent models of that era. I have always been interested in the female perspective, and the portrayal of femininity in general but from a women’s viewpoint. This led me to begin to primarily photograph women, with the objective of trying to avoid portraying women from a man’s perspective, such as you might find in most glamour, pin-up and men’s magazines in general. Subsequently, it was really quite a slow and sometimes frustrating process (certainly not something I mastered over-night), but progressively I developed my niche and women specifically began to relate to my work. Today, I receive many, many requests from women all over the world and from all walks of life and age groups, asking if I would be interested to photograph them, and usually in an intimate context. HS: Why does this subject matter interest you? TH: The subject matter interests me greatly, because the imagery of women is so frequently based upon objectification. Some people will argue that my work also is objectifying women, but those people are usually either male, or women that have issues with their own sexuality. Women today enjoy a new degree of sexual freedom than historically has not always been the case. My interest is to portray that sexual confidence visually, with a view of promoting female empowerment. Everybody knows the old adage “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” (sometimes easier said than done!), well I guess you could say that my interest is to explore that theory and portray it visually in a vast variety of contexts, also exploring the subject with different races and cultures. HS: What are some challenges you’ve faced with pursuing this subject in this field? TH: A very good question! Put it this way, if I wanted to carve an easier artistic path, I would be producing images of landscapes or buildings or such like. That is to say that photographing women itself is

not a constraint, but the acceptance of such works in society has varied reactions. Censorship is one obvious issue (especially in the U.S.), although I’m far from the first artist to face this hurdle. Additionally, aside from my brief period with the back-stage fashion (as I mentioned above), I have never really worked as a commercial photographer, and have never had any great interest to do so. As such, my focus is uniquely fine art, and I view myself as an artist working with the medium of photograph, as opposed to a photographer. The primary challenges therefore are developing my representation and collector networks, whilst working with a subject matter that has less general acceptability (to say the least!). It’s quite amazing how in this day and age people can have so many hang-ups with sexuality. Earlier this evening I was watching an episode of the U.S. TV series “Masters of Sex” (I’m sure you must know the series), and I mention this because I can draw an analogy to the challenges he faced back in the 50s. Sure, times have changed and mentalities are much more open than they were back then, but I still sometimes find it quite amazing how female sexuality is still suppressed or viewed as a taboo subject. As is widely agreed, good art must provoke a reaction, whatever that reaction may be. I certainly endorse this, and be the reaction positive or negative, the important thing is to invoke a reaction. There is nothing worse for me than when somebody observes an artwork and simply states in passing how beautiful it is or how ugly it is, with no real sentiment or solid reaction. This said, I never create work with the sole objective of invoking a reaction. My work is primarily representational, albeit often conceptual in many aspects. I don’t have to strive to invoke a reaction, there is one always. HS: Is there anything you have done that has been particularly rebellious or taboo during your career? TH: The first thing I must state, is that I am not trying to be a rebel or rebellious, although inevitably I often get viewed as such. Have I done anything particularly rebellious? Well yes of course, although mostly of late and the majority of which has not exhibited or been published as yet (it’s coming!). Specifically, I have a body of work that addresses “erotic lactation” and female lactation in general. I also have a full-length photographic

erotic novel pending publication (entitled “Yakuza”), the story of which was written by the prominent erotic novelist M. Christian (based in San Francesco), illustrated with over 400 images shot by myself. This project is also destined to become a movie (what is called an “art house” film), which I will mostly likely direct myself. The latter has some of the most explicit images I ever shot, but at the same time, once again presented from a female empowerment perspective (in-fact the entire story is essentially based around the sexual prowess of one Japanese women). Additionally, I have several individual works and also some bodies of works that are controversial in both the sexual and sometimes also religious contexts. One such individual work that springs to mind is “Safe Sex,” which portrays a crucifix with a condom over it, inserted into a female vagina (enough said!). HS: Let’s talk a little about your muse, CC Wang, what about her inspires you? TH: With regard to my muse “Chu Chiao Wang” (or just “CC” as she is more commonly known professionally), I first met her back in February 2006, when I was living down in the South of France, whilst she was working as a fashion model in Paris. She was looking for somebody to enhance her Model Book, and whilst I was long since outside of the fashion industry, I agreed on the basis that I would also shoot some work for my own portfolio. I have a long history of residing and working in East Asia, and am perhaps still today, better known in Asia than I am in the West. For this reason, I have worked extensively with Asian models and still do so currently. CC is half Japanese and half Chinese, originating from Taiwan. This factor alone gives her an interesting personality and she was without any doubt one of the most liberated and self-empowered females that I had ever worked with. The outcome of our first session together, was that I created some of my best ever images, especially at a time when I was still very much looking for direction in my work (until late 2004, photography for me had been a secondary profession, and only in 2005 did I dedicate myself to being a full-time artist). Anyway, I found CC inspirational (literally!), to the extent that she became my main muse and remains so until this very day. We have literally shot thousands of frames together, very many of which have become some of my best known artworks. CC also serves as my artistic director when

I am working on specific art productions and with other models (such as my last major body of work “Le Tre Grazie” which I completed last year (2014) in Rome, Italy. Our videographer, Sam Long (also with photos in this issue) then tried to get a little snarky with the artist who wasn’t having it. Making it clear that his objectives were strictly Fine Art. SL How do your close up pictures of vaginas “empower” versus “objectify” women. TH: I have no “close up pictures of vaginas”. Perhaps I have photographic art that includes vaginas as part of the composition, but then you would need to ask me a question pertaining to the artwork itself, as the vagina would simply be a single element of a much more encompassing composition. SL: Are you the male figure in some of your photos? No. SL: Do you ever become sexually involved with themodels, during or after the shoots? How does this affect the point of view of the camera? TH: No, the models are simply engaged to “make/ construct” the image. SL: What’s the relationship between what you find sexually attractive in a model and what you find artistically pleasing? TH: No relationship at all, as one is completely detached/irrelevant to the other. SL: Doubtlessly at some time or another someone has labeled you a pornographer. How do you feel about that label? TH: No, nobody to date has ever labeled me a “pornographer”. Anybody that does simply demonstrates a total lack of knowledge of contemporary fine art. For more information visit: www.photoconception.com

Intermission Art by: Stella Bouzakis

Nothing like a sultry redhead Photo: Lucy Jane Purrington http://lucyjanepurrington.tumblr.com Headpiece: Hysteria Machine Model: Gingerface Model MUA and Assistant: Kelly Marie Hair and Makeup

We hadn’t been at the party seconds before you were bent over in front of me in a concrete room, subterranean. Lined with October rags the humming of a hot water heater and the sounds our bodies made. We always seemed to fuck with our clothes on which made me feel like Don Draper only a less impressive version who only got two haircuts a year and wore suits only when somebody died, You or I or We or someone threw the condom into the corner. You said it didn’t matter, yet I still wonder whose burden that’s become— the rest of the night went by as it does when you get laid in the beginning instead of the end beyond the empty fifth of Maker’s we fell into Joe’s bed Photo - Sam C. Long fully clothed again. You said “honey” like it didn’t matter again

By Michael Demyan

You pulled me through the mirror, towards a storm of names I would never remember and stories that would only matter in the fullness of time,

through the mirror where you found Joe in the kitchen mid-laugh, whispering into his ear: “where can we fuck?”

but Joe slept on the hardwood floor of his own birthday party. through the mirror where the gentleman bows down towards the cavalier there is only reflection and the ghost of yours which haunts me like your postcard the portrait on my wall.

Published by Rare Bird Books

An excerpt The past was her obsession; it haunted her at every corner. Even if K wanted to forget, those quicksilver changes in her brain, the flashbacks of her past were becoming more and more frequent, would not let her stay in the present. Or maybe this is a lie. Maybe she needed them. Maybe without them, K did not know who she was anymore.

“How old are you baby?”—Alex, K’s former lover lit up the aluminum foil and kissed her lips with toxic smoke. This was six years earlier—“You know it’s illegal, me inside you, the needle. I mean, you like my music, you get all this shit.” “I don’t belong there; you are my only chance to prove it,” K recited with her gloomy voice. She was not entirely sure she knew what she was talking about. “I’m old and you are just a kid. How the fuck old are you?” He asked again, showing something that remotely resembled genuine concern, while he was so high that he barely acknowledged K’s presence touching his. For five minutes, Alex pretended he truly cared. “You are not old. I love you.” Her whisper was crawling away from his knees, where she was sitting facing his deep black eyes. Slowly moving her body like a wave, to feel his desire for the prohibited become more and more impossible to hide, K slowly took off her panties and realized, for the first time, that she had the power to control a man. “Oh, baby...you are not crazy, don’t pretend you are.” His voice was carelessly violent. He was not even considering that those words were hurting her more than what he was about to do next. “You just like what I have to offer, you do like the taste of food in your mouth. I can feel your flesh and your hips in my hands. You are just from another time, or another world. You are young and so beautiful. You like danger, don’t you? This will make your pain go away. Trust me. You know, baby, you should be illegal, too...” “You are high; get your hands off my hips, Alex. Please!” She cried. Her skin felt too uncomfortable to even exist. “Just show me how you do it,” she touched the signs left from the needle on his arm, chased the vapor beautifully raising full of promises from the aluminum foil he had prepared for her. Only then did she lower onto her knees, for the first time in her life. He was hard on my tongue—K wrote in her diary—

and I knew he loved me. I didn’t care about the consequences of what I was doing. I felt warm all of a sudden, and I wasn’t scared anymore. My lips followed the pressure of his blood. The more his body wanted me, the more powerful I felt. And the more I let go, the more the pulse became my own rhythm, the one leading my tongue where I knew he liked it the most. “Your fear turns me on. You look beautiful when you are scared. You don’t belong there with them.” He wasn’t really what people would define as literate, but he could brag a line of poetry or two when he was high. She naively mistook good quality dope for culture. “Come live here with me,” he offered on a silver plate, with some fairly pure heroin from Thailand, his hand slowly adventuring between her trembling thighs. “Leave that world and move up here,” he put the plastic tube in her perfect lips. That’s when he burned the magic in K’s green eyes. “I know you like it, baby, and we are alone. The sky is beautiful from up here; you can see the stars and call them by name. Smoke it deep, now. I’ll do the rest.” K inhaled the vapor a little deeper than before, like she was being fed holy bread. “Yes, just like that...” he whispered. “Good girl, I know you like it.” “Not tonight, K,” he stopped her while she was trying to reach for a condom. Warmth came. And it overwhelmed her whole body. “Tonight we are one.” “It’s my first time, Alex,” she begged, completely relaxed, covered by the most beautiful chemical blanket of narcotic pleasure, but very aware at the same time of the fact that she was not able to say no to him. “Close your eyes. You know me more than you think. It won’t hurt. You are going to like it even more. Just let me in.” She did. Since that first time, since that night up in the mountains, K’s life had been spent losing herself

in smoky and dirty clubs beyond the city river. Feeding her heart with music and poetry, finding some private peace in old tormented books— when she was able to concentrate— and dealing with the outside world by filling up the holes with the power of any fake-love-sex she could find along the road. Every night was exactly the same. Still, it was the only option she had considered— getting high, drinking and drowning her soul away to get through the day, anesthetizing the pain and pretending she was fine. Many times she had thought about giving up that life, but the thought of showing her true, oversensitive self scared her to death. It seemed like no one wanted her without something in return, or some illegal, dirty fun. The damaged alter ego she had created was affecting only her, while all her old friends were moving on with their lives, checking every box society required of them, while K was becoming a bulimic junkie. Giving real life a chance was too frightening. She would rather rot in her liquid golden cage, the one that she was unintentionally nailing shut and carefully refining to perfection. Confused and overwhelmed by the riddles of life, K searched for its answers but lost herself in every dark and dirty hole she found on the way. Until the day she arrived in Los Angeles and made a U-turn. After all, she had changed hair color, makeup, and nail polish for California; her soul would follow, eventually.

Author bio Alice Carbone Tench is an Italian-born author and journalist based in Los Angeles. Former translator and interpreter from Turin, she moved to Los Angeles in 2010 and her debut novel – The Sex Girl – is out by Rare Bird Books on June 9 2015. She also created the interview podcast Coffee with Alice, in which she interviews artists and paints a portrait of America that is dark, humorous, and completely new. Alice is currently working on her second novel and developing her podcast. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, keyboardist Benmont Tench.

It was just like energy. It could not be destroyed.

THE CORRIDOR By Tracy Lia Lynn

Finally, him alone...alone in the corridor at least. A husky chuckle escapes his beautiful mouth. I shake in full bloom, nectar down my thigh. I command him, inside my head, “Bend down and lick it.” Gracefully, he slinks onto his knees. The humid heat of his breath, my shameless torture. I scream (Again, only in my head, or we’d die): “Fucking lick it, before my husband sees.” So close to cumming and he hasn’t really done anything. I want my unique fragrance to stab his wife in the chest when she kisses his cheek. Fucking whore. I curse, and thank her. Enough! I grab the back of his head and thrust against his lips my cum and sudden sexual violence. I tap his head, and tell him to get up. He stands to unzip his pants. I stop him. “Go jerk off in the bathroom. I’m finished.”

I am the son of harness racers. I was nine when my mom thought itâ€™d be interesting to show me where racehorses came from. So she brought me to a breeding farm to witness the process of artificial insemination. My Uncle John ran the place. The big draw at the time was Storm Dam-

Things That

Resemble Sex

age, a multimillion-dollar prize-winning standardbred. People shipped their mares from all over the country to get Storm Damageâ€™s champion semen.

My Own Series of Unfortunate Events By Shane Cashman

It started when the breeders walked Storm Damage past the tease mare. The tease mare is the stripper of the horse-world. One look at her excites the stallion so much so that he loses his mind, mounts a fake horse and is tricked into thinking he’s having honest-to-God sex. The breeders slip the horse’s extremity into an artificial vagina-bag and hold it there until he’s done. The life of a tease mare is good, except that, unlike a stripper, they never get to have sex. Just instigate it. It’s a selfless job. Real horse sex gets violent, a thousand pounds of thrashing hooves. So the breeders set up a fake horse. They call it the phantom. It hardly resembles a horse. I felt bad for Storm Damage, eight feet tall on his hind legs, knowing damn well he’d been tricked again into sex with the phantom. They called Storm Damage a perfect gentleman. On good days there were a dozen mares waiting in line for his product. Sometimes the mares didn’t even have to get out of the trailers they were shipped in on as he thrashed away at the phantom. The breeders are the middlemen of the deal. They insert the collected semen manually, safely, into the mares. Storm Damage sired hundreds of foals this way – star colts with names like Redskin, Rambling Storm and Call For Rain. His daughters would give birth to more millionaires.

1999 We were equal parts savage and high school freshman. Some kids pulled cigarette butts out of ashtrays at bus stops and smoked them pinched against their lips. Kids passed out drunk across the double yellow lines on Main Street. We lit anything on fire. We ran from the cops. We kissed the statues of angels in the graveyard. “Sara wants to dry hump you,” a girl from school told me at some party and I thought, what the hell is that? I hardly knew Sara-from-social-studiesclass. I didn’t know dry humping was a thing. Well – Sara, this brunette with a crucifix around her neck began to dry hump me, the skinny, dumbeyed, spikey haired Jewish kid in JNCO jeans, on her parents’ itchy La-Z-Boy recliner. If not careful, I imagine, dry humping could last for hours, days even, to no end, with no goal, just dismal rubbing,

friction, and frustration ad infinitum. Ninth grade was like that. One big dry hump.

2000 Not even an hour into summer vacation and I lost my virginity to a girl who named her body parts after a cartoon. It happened in a horse trailer in my backyard. I lived on a farm in the middle of the woods. She was the daughter of a biker. She wore a way-too-small Powerpuff Girls t-shirt. She pointed to her tits and said “this is Bubbles and this is Buttercup” then pointed between her legs and introduced me to “Blossom.” She told me to say hello to each. Maybe I would’ve secondguessed the whole thing if I wasn’t so tense. She got on top of me, and said, real proud, that she was going to be my first - even though I told her I had totally been with other girls. She knew it was a lie because I didn’t know how to work her bra or the condom or French kiss. I looked out the window hoping no one would find us. It wasn’t my trailer. Horses grazed in the paddock. The horse trailer smelled like horseshit. It was a disaster. But part of me still wanted to brag about it. A day later I drove to Nebraska with my family for a wedding. I replayed the disaster in my head all the way into the heartland. Haunted by my performance. By the time we got there I had worked it up so much in my head, convinced myself I was some teenage sex-star, so puffed up with swagger, that I asked a newlywed, “how’s married life treatin’ ya?” He laughed at me. I still had braces. I caught the bride’s garter and kept it in my pocket like a trophy. On the ride back to New York, I found out the Powerpuff Girl went back to her old boyfriend. To the kid who read Tarot cards in the cafeteria. He’d pretend to levitate on the lunch line. Part of me was relieved. I was madder at his cheap magic than anything else. He could probably pull a condom out from behind a girl’s ear like presto or make bras disappear. I didn’t have sex for a year after that.

2005 I met her at a heavy metal show in a dive bar.

She was a tall, bright blonde, twenty-something in a dress - an eccentric artist moonlighting as a kindergarten teacher. I was a sophomore in college. She invited me home. “What are you into?” she asked me later that night, wrapped up naked in her bed sheets. I sensed she was trying to see if this kid she brought home, who listened to loud, angry music, had developed any fetish at college. Something fun. I zson I said, “knife-play. I like to play with knives.” This was not true. I had played with knives, but not like that. She jumped out of bed, ran to the kitchen, and came back with a butcher knife. “This turn you on?” Waving it at me. She called my bluff. I couldn’t take it back. I went through with it. She held the knife at my throat during sex. She pressed it against my chest, testing my limits. I didn’t want to let her down. I felt obligated to pretend to dig it. According to Wikipedia this is also known as edge play and or fear play, “a form of consensual BDSM” - with the risk of “causing excessive blood loss or accidental stabbing.” I spent the night. It was a weeknight. She woke up early to teach class.

1993 My mom gave me her version of the Talk. This included reading me the book, Where Did I Come From? It’s a cross between a bedtime story and straight-up cartoon porn. The characters were

these anatomically correct cartoons. They had frumpy bodies not unlike melting snowmen. But with pubes. Let me describe a few pages: A naked cartoon baby stares at his wormy little infant penis with a caption that promises, “it gets bigger as you get bigger.” A sea of sperm swims across another page. Each sperm has a smiling face. Amid the sea there is the “romantic sperm” which wears a top hat and holds a rose, smiling, riding sidesaddle on a heart on the race to the egg. There is the page that describes what an orgasm feels like - where “all the rubbing up and down that’s been going on ends in a tremendous big lovely shiver.” And there is the page that lists the differences between the male and female bodies. The naked cartoons hold hands staring at you. “Some people call them the bosom (which you say like this: boozum),” my mother continued to read, “other people call them titties, or boobs.” tle sisters said they never got the Talk or read Where Did I Come From? I assume my sisters never really found out where they came from then.

2006 I had knee surgery. When I woke up I was out-ofmy-mind high on drugs. My knee was wrapped tight, but it felt like it wasn’t even attached to me. Everything was fuzz from the hospital to the wheelchair to my mom’s truck.

On the ride home, my mom asked if I’d met any girls at college yet, and for whatever reason, I listed every sexual experience I had had so far. The drugs unhinged something in me. I knew what I was saying, but the truth wouldn’t stop. It happened to be Valentines Day.

United States Military Academy. It’s a registered historic landmark. They tell us George Washington slept here once. They tell us it was part of the Underground Railroad. The place has that vibe that it’s packed with ghosts. Our dogs will bark at nothing.

“Mom does that,” my youngest sister told me, “she tried to do that to me after I got my wisdom teeth taken out. She takes advantage of the drugs.”

As I sat with the puppies, I heard my phone buzz in the window. But I had no new texts. I heard another buzz. Still no text. It was something else. Something in the walls. I put my hand on the wall and followed the noise upstairs. It could’ve been a bug trapped in a lampshade. I followed the sound into my parents’ bedroom.

2009 I could hardly afford the smallest room in a threebedroom apartment. Technically, my room wasn’t really a room. It was an extension off one of the real bedrooms. A glorified closet with a window. After a while, I got tired of walking through my roommate’s bedroom to get to my own. So we cut a hole in the wall. We did not tell our landlord. Since I couldn’t afford an actual door, I hung a sheet. You had to duck exposed conduits to get in. I brought a few women home to this. I’m sure they thought - why didn’t I come home with one of the roommates with actual doors? So every now and then, I was relieved to go home to the house I grew up in. My parents were going away and had asked me to spend the weekend to watch our Great Dane, Zoey, who had just given birth to twelve puppies the day before. Zoey was set up in the dining room, in a kiddie pool filled with blankets, newspaper, and her puppies. The puppies wouldn’t open their eyes for a week yet. There is no cellphone service in the house. It might be one of the last houses in the United States that depends on a landline. However, some years ago my sisters discovered that if we put our cellphones upside down in a specific window we could at least send text messages. Everyone who came over knew to put their phones in that window. Sometimes my dad gets sentimental and says, “this house has been good to us.” It’s true. It’s a sanctuary surrounded by woods. We grew up without neighbors, two miles outside of town. Then he’ll say, “no one else should ever live here. We should burn it down when we move.” He’s halfjoking. We don’t own the house though. It belongs to the

It came from the dresser at the foot of my parents’ bed. The dresser shook. I opened the top drawer and nothing. I opened the second drawer, all sweaters. The sound was in the sweaters. I peeled back each one and found a big purple dildo. Shaking in its package. I slammed the drawer shut. It kept vibrating. I didn’t know what to do but open the drawer and start punching it through the sweaters over and over until it stopped. I thought I killed it. I shut the drawer and tip toed away. It buzzed again. I karate kicked the dresser. I wasn’t going to try and find an on/off switch. I kicked it a few more times and waited. No sound. I snuck away from the scene of the crime. My parents’ wedding picture smiled at me. This was most likely the room George Washington slept in. Thanksgiving was a week away. Family and friends would be over soon. I envied the puppies with their eyes shut to the world. I hoped that if the dildo went off again everyone would think it was their phones in the window. I ate Thanksgiving dinner in fear that the ceiling would vibrate. That the dildo would buzz a hole through the dresser, through the floor, then crash through the turkey. Not a year later my roommates and I abandoned our apartment. My job couldn’t afford to pay me. I moved back home with all my humiliations. I told everyone it was only temporary. I even told the UPS guy. Every time he delivered a package addressed to my parents I was scared of what was inside. I jumped every time I heard a cellphone go off in the window. This was dildo PTSD. I could burn the house down before my dad ever got the chance.

CourseCorrection

By - Ellery Twining | Photos - Michelle Gemma | Model - Danny Flynn

The ringing phone woke me at 3 AM. I saw my father lazily throw the single sheet off of his thin, hair covered body, in the scorching mid-summer heat of 1977; reaching across his bed, to answer the call. I knew from my fatherâ€™s hurried whisper he was afraid to wake my brother and me. It was Denise, who I had met a few weeks earlier at a company Christmas party.

At eight years-old, the depth of my knowledge of attraction was still developing, but I could immediately sense why my father was dating her. Denise was the opposite of my mother; long flowing black hair, tall, sinewy 1970â€™s fit.

Six months earlier, I had found an erotic novel that my mother accidentally left on the bookshelf. The bookcases lined both sides of our fireplace, and I would often hide from my parents fights in the space behind the high back chair where my Mom read. “Housewife Hookers” was the title, and even at my age, that appeared to be incongruous. I thought housewives were housewives; other than being Mothers, to their own children. The cover of the book resembled the department store catalogs that could be found in any household of the time. Those catalogs always had a small section for women’s underwearfeaturing perfect models perfectly displaying the latest in bra and panty combinations. Even as a kid, these models functional placement of eroticism in the culture turned me on. Sports Illustrated “Swimsuit” issue was revealing a new avenue to use sex as advertising. Every house I went to had a subscription to Sports Illustrated, so you could find Cheryl Tiegs bare nipples no matter which friend you went to hang out with. I read a few pages of my Mom’s book- hurriedly, and quickly realized there was much more going on in the Adult’s life than they let on. I thought about sex as I listened to my father speak to his new lover in the night. I had been up at this hour only once before, when my parents had to take me as a six year old to the emergency room when my nervous system froze and I couldn’t unfurl from the embryonic statue I had become. Locked into that specific position, while splayed across the back seat of my family’s station wagon, my parents raced toward the hospital. As we entered the examination room, I still was unable to move a limb, control a muscle. I thought to myself, this was the price I had to pay for living with my father, and his rage, while trying to remain silent as a method of survival. On a cold stainless steel examination table, the doctor performed his examination. A brittle, white sheet laid over the table- for “protection” was my only comfort. I wished to be in my own room,

comforted by magazine pictures of musicians and baseball players cut with dull scissors and held to my sky blue bedroom walls with yellow Fun-Tak. “How do you feel now?” the doctor asked, after my extremities had become unfrozen. “Much better, Sir. Can I go home now?” I said. The familiar danger of my own house far outweighed my experience in the emergency room. I couldn’t tell the doctor about the episode that unfurled earlier that night, at the dinner table. My younger brother Jeremy was constantly pushing the envelope with our father. After about ten minutes of my brother criticizing the food prepared by my mother, and provided for by my father, Dad picked Jeremy up by both shoulders, and slammed his spine into the refrigerator door seven times until he was a heaping mess; of tears and intentional pain. I watched silently as my father destroyed my brother. Now, I was eight years old, as my father began his conversation with the woman who had replaced my Mother. It piqued my interest. Lying on the inflatable beach mattress that served as my bed when visiting my Dad, (which was court ordered as every other weekend) I dared not twitch a muscle. When my Dad and Denise began to fight, I had an opportunity to eavesdrop on a world that I was affected by, but was not allowed access to. My father had walked out on my mother, my brother, and me six months before,on New Year’s Day 1977. Our parents and their group of friends had an annual tradition of renting out several hotel rooms in one of our tourist town locales. The winter deals were cheap; as the weekend trips of summer visitors dwindled when the temperature dropped. Even then, I remember their excursion representing a fruitless search for glamour in their own lives; a group of late-twenties parents living in a small riverside village, that most had never left. I recall cringing at the photo albums they would show us

weekslater, after these parties. Their attempts at being cutting edge seemed pathetic to me. I began to come to terms that I was going to have to build my own world to exist within, far away from their own repetition of social patterns. Jeremy and I would stay at a neighbor’s house overnight as the New Year changed. And, when my father came in to pick us up the next morning after their party- not my mother; who remained in the family station wagon. I immediately knew something was wrong. The only time my father came to pick us up was when he was fucking up, and my mother was punishing him. We suffered a collective silence over the three block drive back to our house. My mother was the first to the front door, jamming her key into the lock after three misses, turning the lock as hard as she could, and walking briskly into the kitchen; not waiting for us on the other side of the threshold. Jeremy and I crept silently into the room, followed by my father who emphatically slammed the door. My brother and I, stuck like an island between weather fronts determined to create a storm; my Mother glaring from the kitchen, my Father standing with his back to her in the foyer- as the last echoes of the bell ringing from his slamming of the door cascades into silence. And then it began. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” screamed my mother. “You were fucking her last night in the fucking room next to me! You fucking prick!” I suddenly envisioned my father as one of the men in the “Housewife Hookers” book; and that he probably wouldn’t be living here anymore. As my mother completed her lunge towards my father’s throat, I grabbed Jeremy by his left arm and dragged him out of the room. I opened the closet door as fast as I could, and shoved Jeremy in there. We frantically pulled coats and jackets off of the rod above us, thoughtlessly hoping that if we were completely covered, we would have an added layer of protection against the fury on the other side of the hollow door. Our parents ensuing, vicious screaming match was a dull roar beneath the layers of coats in the closet. I couldn’t make out the tenor of their conversation, but I knew it was over when I heard the front door slam shut again. A car started in the driveway. It screeched away from our house, toward town. I kept running over a singular thought in my mind;

that sex and violence happened in the dark. Even in broad daylight. My father and Denise continued to argue at a high pitch, which rarely allowed for civility. It was 3:30AM. It seemed that at any moment of the day or night, I was confronted with adults screaming at each other. Was this simply the dissolution of my parent’s marriage? Was it only because I was in the front row? Was this actually how adults dealt with each other, and my parent’s divorce had lowered the curtain on a sexual charade everyone played?

“I’ve got my fucking kids this weekend. Don’t you pay attention to these things?” My father demanded, gripping the telephone cord. Denise’s response was a blurred slur I could barely make out. And yet, the most important thing was for me to hide the fact that I was wide awake from my father. This was a moment where I might be able to glean his hidden self- after all I was still trying to come to terms with exactly why my parents had divorced. This could be the answer. “oh, that’s a cute observation. I had a wedding to attend that Saturday; that’s why I cancelled my weekend with my kids….” I could sense the resignation in his voice, as if he were caught in a lie. More garbled response from Denise. “What the fuck did you say? That I blew off my kids because of the wedding?” I remember that weekend vividly, when he cancelled our scheduled visit on the Friday evening he was supposed to pick us up. As my mother lost her mind on the phone, railing against his

lack of responsibility, I almost felt bad for him. And even now my curiosity and sympathy for my angry dad leaked out as I listened to him battered by Denise’s heated banter. I did not hear any tangible evidence that my father cared about Denise any more than he cared about my Mother. I wondered if I was as important to him as either woman he claimed to love. What did he care about? My brother? The two of us? Or only his next high, his next sexual encounter? I wondered what hold does Denise have over my father’s heart that my mother didn’t? And then Denise provided me with the answer. Dad held the phone four inches away from his ear; while Denise

I watched my father hang up the phone, slowly; deliberately. It was as if he knew he would never see Denise again. I watched him walk into the living room, and light a cigarette. The leaking streetlamp illuminated the fog of his draw. I closed my eyes, and thought how much more comfortable my bed was at my Mom’s house, instead of the inflatable pool raft I was resting upon. After weeks of searching, I found where my Mother had hid “Housewife Hookers.” Leaving it nearly out in the open when I first read it was so unlike her. The pleats of my mother’s queen bed, the box spring liner. It perfectly hid the dimensions of a paperback book, unless you were looking for one.

screamed at him. “I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, that’s why you are taking my call at three in the morning! You are afraid I’m going to walk away from you, like you did to your wife.”

DIRK

ISNâ€™t DEAD By Susan Marque

I thought it was a hoax. It couldnâ€™t be right. We had just texted days before. It was time for him to write a book, get back to things he loved besides fitness. He mentioned his adoration of words. I had the soft hope of seeing him again, the next time I was in L.A., or if he would come to New York where I was living. Then I saw it in print, from Deadline Hollywood, to the New York Times - Dirk Shafer was dead.

He had been found by the police in the passenger seat of his car. The unofficial cause of death heart attack. At 52 years old, Dirk looked as fit and healthy as he had twenty years earlier. A fitness instructor, and two-time Playgirl model, he never looked like someone heading for a heart attack. My thoughts got stuck on the fact that Dirk was found in the passenger seat, because it seemed odd. In classic denial, I wanted to believe that he wasn’t really dead. Dirk’s end had been an escape, a cover. He had to go into the witness protection program. He took the advice of some wacky psychologist, decided to fake “die” so he could start all over as someone new in a place like New Zealand or Brazil. Somewhere his failures wouldn’t follow. I had met Dirk in 1995 just as he was finishing up directing his first film, a mocumentary of his year being Playgirl’s reining man of the year titled: Man of the Year. I was a twenty-something aspiring actress. Dirk was blonde, tan, and built like a painter’s ideal, just a few years older than I was. “You read really well” he said. That was all it took for me to fall into permanent infatuation. He had a huge smile, and touched my arm, as he asked if I would want to be a part of his film. “We’ll be doing a photo shoot next week. I definitely want you in the poster” he said. I learned more about Dirk’s film. It depicted the year he was elevated from the 1990’s Man of the Holidays to a twelve-month salary of doing personal appearances, talking with women on a 900 call in line, and going on a date with one lucky Playgirl reader. Hiding his boyfriend, and the fact that he had always been gay, Dirk rolled with each event as harmless acting jobs. Then he outed himself with his Man of the Year mocumentary. Instead of hiding, he stood up for men, and the human right to choose whom you love. It was a brave move. We shot the photos for the Man of the Year movie posters with Dirk, myself, his best friend, and one of the producer’s wives. At first, the three

women were going to be draped on Dirk as he looked terrified. But Dirk grabbed me around the waist and pulled me into him so strongly, that we giggled and joked away the heat between us, as something to do with the weather. The photographer quickly switched to having all of the female hands grasping at Dirk instead. Our heads and bodies completely out of the pictures. The other two women positioned themselves at his shoulders, pulling on his shirt. I was the hand on his bare chest. He grasped my arm and didn’t let go. When the film was completed we had a screening. I sat near Dirk in the dark, and we kept watching each other watching the film. During the clip of Dirk winning a best buns contest on the Phil Donahue show, his nervousness was painfully apparent as he stood next to Donahue on screen. He commented on it out loud to those of us sitting and watching the film. A tactic to give others ease - I’ll say it first and we can laugh about it instead of feel bad. I still felt bad. Both for the boy on Donahue being looked at as a beefcake, and the man next to me who wanted to be a serious director, not an object,or an oddity. I felt for him that Man of the Year was not up to what Dirk wanted the film to be. Dirk had a lot of dreams. He even toyed with the idea of dabbling in hetero behavior. We talked about it later when he invited me for drinks. He was one of my best dates. We went out together for one sunny California September, where Dirk walked down Sunset Blvd. holding my hand, or pulling me in close to him. We looked like newlyweds even though he had never kissed me. I was cool with him having boyfriends, I thought we might become a different sort of “Three’s Company” Dirk found me vegan frozen yogurt, and we talked about future plans. “When I have money, I am going to take you to Paris....we’ll get you a Mercedes Benz....” We had talked about the fact he had never been with a woman. Apparently he could only giggle trying to kiss his best friend, Vivian. We didn’t talk much about his most recent break-up. We did that kind of pact that you think up in your twenties. “If neither one of us is married by the time we’re 40,

we’ll move in together.” He thought out loud often about the two of us having kids. He and his husband might raise them if I was too busy with my career. Did he know even then that if we didn’t have children together, neither of us would have one? In a year when Alanis Morissette was always playing on the radio, and Jewel continually asked Who Will Save Your Soul? Dirk taught me to dance the Latin dances that he loved. Tango, Rhumba, I don’t remember them now. He wanted to show off at an event he took me to, and he had plans for us that evening. I was going out of town the next day, so he told me to spend the night. He would drive me to LAX in the morning. His one mistake was getting me tipsy. I messed up the steps, and I was too inexperienced to help him make his move once we got back to his apartment. He took his shirt off and cracked jokes while I packed a bag for the plane. I got nervous when he came up behind me as I folded clothes on his clean carpet. The alcohol in my system didn’t decrease my fear of being too fat, or wanting to hide my thighs. I loved to dance, but going to the gym was not my thing. He sat on the bed wearing nothing but a small pair of shorts. He waited, drinking water from a glass. Looking back, I have no idea why I didn’t go and sit next to him, or why I thought he would get up and put a sculptured arm around me, like he had so often. I remember my disappointment when he simply said goodnight, and turned out a light. I went to the other room to try and fall asleep. After that we drifted apart. A lifetime later, when we had both crossed into our forties, we got back in touch on Facebook. Dirk had stopped saying he was a director. His two films (The second, titled Circuit, about the strictly gay circuit parties) had not catapulted him into a grand career. He was promoting his West Hollywood Pilates practice. To live in Los Angeles is to breathe entertainment. When I no longer acted, I felt compelled to change cities. When I watched the videos he had online I detected something darker behind Dirk’s guarded smile. There were a few lines in his face, some tattoos I had never seen, otherwise he looked exactly the same, aside from the sadness. I invited him to New York. He never replied. When I visited Los Angeles in 2012, he said he would love to get together, but then he was busy for my entire stay. But we still commented on each other’s social

media posts. Dirk told me he had been praying for a third act and that my encouragement was helping him. He told me he that he wanted to write about the journey he had been going through with rehab. He said he would begin. I had no idea he had been struggling with addiction. Dirk told me that he loved me in our private messages. I knew he meant it as a friend, even if I wished it could have been more. We’d made it beyond forty. Neither of us was married. I looked better than I had in my twenties, but I was still clinging to a tiny glimmer of my past instead of getting to know attractive single and straight men. I had never completely let Dirk go. Was he just part of my Hollywood dreaming that floated away years of my life? Or was I addicted to hiding, perhaps like him. Instead of drugs, I hid behind books, or excuses to go out more, to fully live my life. Two months after Dirk’s body was found, I saw an LA Times piece which stated an overdose of cocaine and meth were partially responsible for his death. I hunted through Dirk’s Facebook page for clues about what had happened to the man I had loved. The pictures of sexy Halloweens where he posed with other men, his smiling, shirtless, sun filled vacations, tender family holidays with his arms surrounding his sister, and getting to know his nephews. I’d only known Dirk for a few moments, but I had always carried him inside of me. He would have wanted to see me find another great man. He always told me I was beautiful.

I imagined the gravel in Dirk’s voice, the way he would laugh, fold his arms around me and make me bolder. “Make it a game” Dirk would say. “You can do it.”

Candida Royalle By Ronit Pinto

It was the winter of 2013; I had just moved to New York City with my boyfriend. With work slowing down for the season, I knew that the two of us would be “holed up.” I wanted to master my sexual prowess and knew I needed to get over some kinks. So I started doing my research on sexual, erotic couples and females and some beautiful, amazing and delicious

creatures came up. One of them, Candida Royalle. As a pornographer, she makes sex-positive female oriented adult films through her production company Femme Productions. As an author, she wrote “How to Tell A Naked Man What To Do,” which my boyfriend and I now own. As a former adult film star, she acted in around 25 films. As a “designer,” she collab-

orated with Dutch Jandirk Groet, to created the Natural Contours line of vibrators (which I now possess a few.) She’s also a public speaker. Which is why I jumped at the chance to interview her for Honeysuckle’s “Le Sexx.” Endlessly curious and a bit of a voyeur myself, I had my line of questioning all planned out: What’s your darkest fantasy? What’s the best experience you’ve ever had in bed, and finally, can you really have consistent porn star sex in a monogamous long-term relationship? If anyone knew the answers, Royalle did. Our conversation started out normal enough when I called her over the phone one Saturday. I caught her in the middle of her first summer’s peach. “Do you like peaches?” she asked. “I suppose.” “They remind me of pussy. I love fruit.” “Ah, ok…!”

Charming, though my mind wandered to some nagging thoughts in the back of my mind of an email she had just sent: “Ronit, I need you to know the biggest change for me is that I’ve been dealing with ovarian cancer for 5 years. That changes everything, especially sexually. I would urge you to go to my web site and on my home page I talk about my latest project, an autobiographical documentary about the

search for my birth-mother.” So I did the research and watched the trailers. Some of them were very harrowing and I knew that this conversation would eventually turn from dirty to deep. Right off the bat, I went for the gold and asked details about past lovers and sexual conquests. I salivated over her stories of lustful exploits and explorations with S&M. I wanted to know, can you be this experimental in monogamy? To me, the mere term ‘monogamous’ connotes ‘routine and stagnation.’ I am fairly free-spirited and stagnation is NOT an option for me and my boyfriend is great. However, the conundrum exists and these thoughts do pop up. “Monogamy is a mixed bag,” Royalle said. “It’s really hard to stay sometimes. In my observation, you don’t find a lot of happy long relationships, but in the ones you do the people are happier and healthier, in my opinion.” I explained that for us, communication has been the glue that’s held us together. Something we’ve had to work at. That without it, things don’t tend to work very well mentally or sexually. At some point you have to realize the patterns you’ve inherited from your parents or others that can affect you poorly. “Oh, that’s very good,” she said. “That’s hard to find. I came from a very toxic upbringing, where people were horrible to each other. My parents were terrible role-models; they never treated each other with respect and kindness. Because of that, I don’t have a lot of patience for things. I would like a life partner, but never looked for the qualities that would make a relationship last that long. I think I picked people too much for sex. And I learned late, it’s very important to focus on what you like about someone rather than what annoys you.” She hasn’t had an easy life. Abandoned by her birth mother at eighteen-months, she was nearly raped at age twelve while on a picnic and was raised by an emotionally neglectful father. All subjects she explores in upcoming projects including “Inside her Sex”, directed by Sheona McDonald and her documentary in progress, “While

You Were Gone: The Untold Story of Candida Royalle.” With a tumultuous and at times violent past, I too could relate. Today she says she is learning how to treat a partner with kindness, patience and encouragement in order to sustain her relationships. Royalle had to have all her hormones removed as part of her cancer treatment. For the first time in her life, she said she feels no sexual attraction to men. “It takes away your ability to get excited or get interested in a man and I’ve had to teach my body to respond again, in a different way. Hopefully I will look more for other qualities since I can’t just say ‘you’re hot let’s go to bed.’” Which oddly seems just what she’s looking for, an opportunity not just to bond sexually, but deeper, with potential to cultivate longevity and love.

“Regrettably, I have a terminal illness,” she said. “But fortunately I still have men who are interested in me. One such man was to be at a reunion she was going to, a handsome painter she had recently reconnected with from high school. “I would love another shot,” she said. “Find a way to stick with it and make it work.” Ok, so according to Royalle, I CAN be a bit of a sexual deviant, I CAN be fantastical, naughty and fun, I CAN have all the porn star sex that I want WHILE being in a monogamous relationship and all of that CAN actually be deeper, more intense and more fun. Ok, I’ll keep going with it. It seems that along with Royalle and her newfound revelations, I’ll be cumming around with her - full circle.