Archive for July, 2013

Ask Doctor Satan

Posted in Uncategorized on July 8, 2013 by Alex S. Johnson

Dear Dr. Satan,

All my life, I’ve been what most people would consider a “good girl.” My father was a minister, and he was pretty strict, so, growing up, I tried to keep my thoughts pure and wholesome. I met my future husband in my church’s youth group, and when he and I were caught listening to this song–which had I guess naughty lyrics, even though we didn’t understand what they were all about–we had to get married. My father has a shotgun and he said he would “blow us both to holy beejezuz” if we even thought about doing what they talked about in the song, and he kind of marched us to the church to perform the wedding. Anyway, to make a long story short, I think Ralph (my husband) and I had sex–I’m not sure, but he kind of lay on top of me and went up and down until this white goo came out, and nine months later, I delivered my first child. Ralph has squirted his goo in me two more times, and it was weird, but the next two times, I had a baby nine months later. So I think there’s some kind of connection.

My life was church dinners and Partylite nights around dance recitals and soccer practice for Amber, Brooklyn, and Dakota. It was a very fullfilling life until, The year I turned 30, Oprah suggested this new book series 50 Shades Of Grey. I usually get all my books from Walmart, but this one meant I had to visit Barnes and Noble.The handcuffs on the cover should have warned me, but OPRAH suggested it, so I bought it anyways….That day, at Gymboree, I got to the first time he throws her against the walls of the elevator…and I got this tingling feeling, down there.I don’t know what it was..the closest I could compare it to was one night Ralph came home after a night at the local ballet with the boys and climbed on top of me. He lasted a whole 5 minutes before shuddering on top of me, leaving his sticky trail. Later when I was cleaning myself up, I accidentally touched , myself and I tingled. I was told by my Mother that touching myself made my children blind so I had to stop.I got a little further into the book, and I couldn’t contain myself any longer!I touched my little muffin top until I burst my liquidy center. And there was a wet spot on the bed like i had peed myself, but it didn’t smell. I was so embarrassed that I threw the sheets away and hid the book in my panty drawer. I went to the church and prayed for my virtious side to come back. I got home that night, and went to get into my long flannel nightie out of my panty drawer , the book and my fancy full cut white cotton ones were missing. I panicked because Ralph wouldn’t approve of such things . Later that night I woke up to the sound of soft grunting coming up the stairs from the basement. I snuck down and found Ralph, with my panties over his face, inhaling deeply, and his THING in his hand. I had never seen his “Thing” before because he always insisted on keeping the lights out. It was red, and looked like a cocktail weenie. He was squeezing and tugging it like it was a tube of cream cheese. He made noises like a Gorilla on Animal Planet andhe pulled the panties off his head so he could shoot his stuff into them. I got tingly but I didn’t want him to see me so I hid behind the couch until I heard him come upstairs. I had to stop the flowing of my little unicorn. My fingers found the notch of my mc nugget and I kept doing it it until my sweet and sour sauce flowed over. Weeks passed and between my reading of 50 Shades and daydreaming about thorny crowns of bondage , and spying on Ralph ruining panty after panty, I had the ultimate fantasy. Early one morning my eyes fell upon(my eyes didn’t actually fall, they were still in my head, but you know what I mean) the oil painting of Jesus on my bedroom wall.He was wrapped in a white cloth around his tanned hips. I couldn’t help but to wonder what he looked like under the cloth. And then I thought about how Jesus saves the little wayward sheep of his flock. He uses his staff to make the sheep obey his commands and I had to stuff my face in my pillow to silence my lamb.

Once when I went to visit my relatives in West Virginia I saw my cousin doing something to a lamb. He was behind the lamb and had it by the ears. I had forgotten how slippery I got in my saddle until my wayward flock-toy fantasy about Jesus. I had to stop going to church because I couldn’t stop touching myself and look Jesus in the eye. Now I have no friends, and my hands have have i think it’s called “carpool syndrome” Dr. Satan what should I do?? Am I going to Hell?

Yours, Sheepish in Intercourse (PA)

Dear Sheepish, I hope your letter represents some brilliant Mark Twain shit and is meant to be satirical. Because if you’re not just kidding around and pulling the good doctor’s tail, you are fucking retarded. Not to be mean or anything, but seriously–you need to have the brains fucked back into you. As to your question, yes, I’m afraid that you are fully Hades-bound, but not for the reasons you might expect. Over the past four years, I have become aware of this malign insult to literature that goes under the name of 50 Shades of Grey. What’s worse, apparently there are sequels. I had my personal assistant, Astaroth, break the books down for me, and the results made me weep blood. I also developed a severe ball-rash which I have not been able to correct. As you may guess (but probably wouldn’t, being a little fucktard who deserves to be stuffed in a meatgrinder head-first so I can sodomize you as your gray matter turns into ground chuck), there is very little I actually find shocking. However, sins against literature, such as the 50 Shades series, make me want to bring the fucking wrath. Seriously, on the basis of your admission to not only having purchased this hideous crap, but actually enjoying it, I am tempted to drag you down here prematurely so that I can simultaneously crucifuck you in the ass while shooting my load into the bloody stems of your eyeballs, while at the same time performing an impromptu curb-stomp on the chest cavity…until my hunger for cruelty has been appeased. Unfortunately for you, when you make that inevitable road trip south of Heaven, your treatment will be so horrendous and awful that you will look back nostalgically at the days when drill-bit sodomy was the worst aspect of your punishment. Meanwhile, in the limited time you have left in your pathetic, worthless existence, you might as well have the words “CUM DUMPSTER” tattooed on your forehead, tie yourself to a telephone pole in the center of town and prepare yourself for an epic bukkake-fest. Incidentally, you really should have kept your letter short and sweet, because your wretched prose style makes E.L. James look like fucking Hemingway.

See you soon, Warm Regards, Dr. S.


Sex Work by Nina Perez

Posted in Uncategorized on July 8, 2013 by Alex S. Johnson

Chapter 1: Dear feminists, I love hate love you.

I know we can learn from each other, but you need to let me speak, and you need to listen. I want to be part of your sisterhood, but you refuse to let me in. As of right now, I am a displaced, disillusioned, feminist because you refuse to stop hating me. Like other feminists, I fight for equality, social status, respect, freedom of choice, and the right to own my body. Part of my freedom includes choosing sex work, and this is why I am hated. Many assume sex work and feminism to be contradictory, but feminism has provided me the freedom to be a sex worker, and sex work has helped me to embrace feminism. I am not giving up on feminism, and I am not giving up sex work. I am going to explain how/why and how feminists can be genuine allies to sex workers.

Chapter 2: An ideological love affair gone wrong.

My love affair with feminism started a few years ago. I was instantly drawn to feminism for the most obvious of reasons- I am a woman who wanted to find a place where I could feel secure enough to talk openly about my experiences. I am a woman of color who has spent most of her life below the poverty line, I am a single mom, I am a rape victim, and I was abused as a child. I am the poster woman of who feminism is supposed to represent. Feminism is the movement that gained rights for women just like me. Feminism has fought for the right of women to be part of the political process, to be part of the workplace, and to have personal autonomy. Feminism has given women the right to their make own choices, and control their own bodies. I need these rights, and I need feminism. SoI became a feminist. I went to meetings, read the blogs, and went to protests. I was suddenly part of the sisterhood, and for the first time in my life I could talk openly about the sexual assault that had left me with nightmares, panic attacks, and an unplanned pregnancy. I had said these things before, but never without being judged or blamed. It was the first time I truly understood what solidarity meant, and it was the first time I ever genuinely believed that I could be accepted by a group who wouldn’t judge me based on my income level, my skin color, or blame me for abuses I had suffered. I part of the sisterhood, and I felt like I belonged. I became an activist, made friends. And then I made the mistake of outing myself as a sex worker in a feminist circle. My rape and the aftermath were actually less painful. I had no idea I had just added blood to the shark tank. I was mocked, shamed, and insulted. Worst of all, I was told I needed to suffer this ridicule for my own good. I was told I needed to understand that I was hurting myself by allowing men to pay to rape me. I was a victim but too stupid to know it. I was a traitor to all women, and I was catering to the patriarchy (the ultimate insult). The shunning of the sisterhood was a penance I was supposed to quietly endure until I changed my errant ways.

But that is not in my nature. I am not quiet, I don’t do shame, and I believe in making my own choices.

Chapter 3: IDGAF about your morals, AKA I don’t need to justify my sex life.

Let me tell you a few things about you should know about my work. Paid sex is exactly that- paid sex. It is not rape, and as a rape survivor, you will never convince me otherwise. I know how rape looks, how it smells, and how it feels, during and after. During the rape, I remember trying to curl up into the fetal position while praying that I would still be alive to see my child the next day. I remember being grateful I had a unique tattoo so that if I was found in a ditch, my mother could ID my body. In contrast, I have never had a nightmare about a client. I have had orgasms, great conversations, and nice dinners with clients. I have gotten birthday gifts, and news shoes, and nice tips. I have never been threatened, raped, beaten, or abused by a client. Any suggestion that there is no difference between the sex I am paid for and the rapes that happened to me is fucking insulting. It is insulting because I have just had my voice dismissed. Feminism is intended to give women like me a voice, not to silence my voice (as if I could be silenced). Sex workers are portrayed as forced victims, but we need to realize human trafficking is not the same thing as sex work. Sex workers are not victims who need saving. The only time consensual sex work becomes a problem, is when there is an underlying assumption that sex itself is misogynistic, anti-feminist, or anti-women.

Chapter 4: autonomy, vaginal and otherwise. Get some.

Feminism has long proclaimed women do not owe their bodies or sexuality to anyone, that women should have choices, freedoms, and make their own way in life. If feminists (or anyone else) deny me my agency and autonomy or tries to prevent me from owning my sexuality, you are shaming me. And to be clear–sex worker shaming is ideologically no different than slut-shaming women for being raped, wearing short skirts, having sex, or using birth control. It is the job of the current patriarchal system is to shame women for owning their sexuality, not the job of feminism. Suggesting sex work harms all women is also problematic. Since rapists blame short skirts and drunken girls for causing rape, should women stop drinking and wearing skirts to prevent being raped? No. because the only thing that causes rape is a rapist. And because it’s 2013, and we, women as a class, do not need to fucking negotiate with terrorists, or anyone who claims women can only be safe as long as they follow archaic rules. We all know that modesty is claimed to prevent rape, but we also know modesty has not saved our sisters in burkas. Saying we don’t deserve safety because of how we dress is a terrorist tactic intended to create obedience. And likewise, any person who claims they have a right to abuse women because sex work promotes negative views of women is a damn terrorist, and my vaginal autonomy refuses to be silenced by terrorists. Women who suffer abuse do so because they had the misfortune of being in close proximity of an abuser. I own my body, and my sexuality, and I will not apologize for that fact. But I won’t apologize for other people’s abusive behaviors either.

Chapter 5: the voice of a woman in business aka sex work is work.

Many feminists assume sex workers cannot be a part of the feminist cause, but in reality sex work is an excellent exemplification of feminism. Sex work is the further accentuation of the idea that women can compete with men in the workplace as equals. The freedom sex work provides is absolutely feminist in nature. Sex work is work, and it is one of the few occupations in which a woman truly has personal agency, owns her sexuality, her body, sets her own terms, negotiates her own prices, makes her own choices, and has freedom she wouldn’t have in any other arena. Despite the gains made by feminism, women are still reluctant to “act like men” in the workplace. Women hesitate to negotiate raises or take credit for all their effort. Many women fear that if they acted the way men do, they would be shamed for not being demure or feminine enough. Sex work, however, is one of the few areas where not only can I “Act like a man”; it enhances my work, and my salary when I do.

Chapter 6: let’s kiss and make up.

Until I outed myself, I hadn’t realized that Feminism refused to engage the voices of sex workers. What feminism doesn’t understand is that this betrayal and silencing has hurt all people fighting for equality. Feminism has begun creating equality for women, but the fight isn’t over yet. Women have yet to receive the social status they deserve, and if we want to see the true measure of how women are valued, we need only look at sex workers. They are among the most marginalized groups of women. Sex workers are shunned by society, by political groups, they are misrepresented in society and now they have been betrayed by feminists who deny their voice. Sex workers are invaluable to feminism, and feminists have a duty to listen these women. so stop judging. Stop talking. Start listening, for sex workers, for women, and for the future of feminism and equality.

The Body

Posted in Uncategorized on July 8, 2013 by Alex S. Johnson

Our Breasts – Our Choices: Are All Women Really Created Equal?

 by Charie La Marr

I certainly join those who sympathize with Angelina Jolie for her decision to have her breasts removed after discovering that she had an 87% chance of developing breast cancer based on genetic defect. More importantly, I applaud her for coming forward and sharing her story with the world. And kudos to her partner Brad Pitt for his loving support during a difficult time.

But for many women in America, there is a completely different story. They simply do not have her options. Many women in America depend on Medicare and Medicaid as the only form of health insurance they have. For millions of others, there is not even that. Medicare will only provide the test to women who have already been diagnosed with breast cancer. And at that point, it is no longer a preventative measure. In fact, it is basically a moot point. Who needs to be told they are at risk for cancer when they already have it?

However if you have NO insurance at all, the only company providing the testing, Myriad Genetics will provide it to you free if you fall below twice the poverty level, or $22,920.

If you have Medicare or Medicaid, you must then fight to prove that the procedure is medically necessary and not cosmetic surgery. And if you are lucky enough to get that far and have your breasts removed, you should be aware that Medicare does not provide for reconstruction. Once your breasts are gone, America is finished with you women over 65 who spent your lives working and paying into the system.

As of 1999, the Women’s Health and Cancer Rights Act (WHCRA) has required group health plans, insurance companies, and HMOs that offer mastectomy coverage to also pay for reconstructive surgery after mastectomy. This coverage must include reconstruction of the other breast to give a more balanced look, breast prostheses, and treatment of all physical complications of the mastectomy, including lymphedema.

However, not all women have these plans. If you have Medicare or Medicaid, you are faced with huge bills for what they consider “cosmetic surgery” or the possibility of spending your life freakishly mutilated with rubber inserts stuffed in your bra.

And what about those who have no insurance at all and get the test free? Do you just spend your life walking around knowing you are carrying a ticking bomb inside you that you cannot do anything about? A preventative double-mastectomy can cost about $100,000. What is the point of knowing you are at high risk if you cannot take preventive or at least surveillance measures for the rest of your life? Even with insurance, the copays can amount to $2,500 or more and not all women can use short-term disability to cover their loss of work, which can be up to one month.

And so while we all applaud Angelina Jolie for her candor, we also have to look at the fact that not all women have her options. For many women, there are no options at all, and taking the test simply makes them more fearful and stressed over the future.

It is time that there was a Universal Women’s Health Act in America. Every woman should be entitled to what Angelina Jolie was. Every woman has the right to her breasts, whether they are hers or reconstructed. No woman deserves to face life with her body mutilated.

I hope that Ms. Jolie and Mr. Pitt will become champions for this cause. I understand that Miss Jolie plays an active role in many causes around the world, but it’s time she looked right here for a place to use her voice. Demand that all women be permitted to be screened and to be able to make a choice that is equal to the choices of her wealthy sisters. Preventative mastectomies and full reconstructions must be available to all women. Come on Ms. Jolie, you got plenty of press for your surgery. Now use it for some good. Go to Washington and testify. Demand that every woman in this country have the same choice that you had.


Why Depression Medications Depress Me

by Charie La Marr


First of all, a little background information. Fifteen years ago this past Labor Day, I had a complete meltdown in a Staples store. The meltdown was probably a few weeks earlier. I was planning a suicide and self-injuring. I was in the middle of a horrific divorce, struggling to raise an ADD child by myself, way over my head at work and fighting to hold on to a boyfriend on whom I was one hundred percent co-dependent.

I ended up in a mental health facility. After many years, I broke down and told them the truth. I was an abuse survivor. I was also a closet alcoholic and user of several drugs (I won’t go into which ones.) The hospital wisely put me in a dual diagnosis unit and worked on both my addiction and my mental health. From conversations with my mother and the doctors, I learned that I was first prescribed psych meds when I was six weeks old. I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and told I was likely born with it. I found out that several times during my life, my mother had pleaded with my father to take me to a psychiatrist, but he didn’t believe his 150 plus IQ genius daughter needed it. They sent me to a professional children’s acting school starting when I was seven, and after that, they simply wrote off my mood swings as being a diva—“drama.” In fact, when I would have a bad time, they would call me “Sarah Bernhardt” and tell me to stop acting. They basically negated any human emotion I felt and I turned to drugs and alcohol to control them. We call that self-medication.

In the past 15 years, I have been on 55 different psych meds or combinations of psych meds. Let’s face it—psych meds are a crapshoot. I call them alchemy. There is no answer. There is only trial and error. Many don’t work. Some that work today stop working six months later. It is a long and winding road that never seems to end.

But today, I want to talk about side effects. It cracks me up when I see the television commercials for psych meds warning that “increased suicidal tendencies” are actually a side effect of medication given to people to control depression and suicidal tendencies. Other major side effects range from glaucoma, diabetes and loss of liver function. I ended up with uterine cancer. Was it related? Who knows? The so-called “lesser” side effects include hair loss, tremors, dizziness, nightmares and loss of libido. Not necessary “lesser” when you are the one having them.

But for me, the major side effect has been weight gain. About 99 percent of psych meds are known to be weight gainers—some more than others. One year after my hospitalization, I had gained one hundred pounds.

I have had many discussions with my five different psychiatrists over the years. I have asked them point blank how they can expect me to feel less depressed when the medication has changed my life in a way that depresses me. I have asked them how I should feel about not being to wear any of my beautiful clothes anymore and why I shouldn’t be depressed about that. Their answer is that I should be glad that the medications keep me alive. Then they tell you to eat better and exercise more—insulting when their drugs are causing the gain.

The results for me include increased depression, poor self-esteem, self-consciousness and non-compliance in taking medication. What woman doesn’t get depressed when she gains weight?

I don’t feel like myself anymore. I feel like I am in another body. I was never skinny. I was a comfortable, curvy woman who was able to wear cute clothes that came from regular stores. Now, I am forced to shop in plus sized clothes that look like burlap sacks designed for women 20 years older than me. And I hate it. No matter what people tell me about still being a pretty redhead, in my brain I am Mary Shelley’s Creature.

At one point, I was on a medication that actually had me losing weight. Like many bipolar people, I take anti-seizure medications. Topamax was the one I took. However it gave me severe multi-sound tinnitus. I was on Topamax when I was in college about six years ago. People had to remind me to eat. The substitute, Tegretol, caused me to gain back all I lost.

Add to that a hysterectomy for uterine cancer—also a weight gainer—and I am in the position that I am in. Exercise has been made more difficult because of the number of stomach muscles that had to be cut to remove the cancer. It also increases back problems because those muscles help in posture.

Twice I have been turned down for stomach stapling surgery because 1) They feel the weight gain isn’t from overeating, it’s from medication and 2) They are afraid of liability if I go on a manic-based eating binge and end up dead.

It bothers me when I see news stories on obesity with random photos of overweight people. They have no idea of the reason for their problem and I always wonder how many of them are medication-related. There is a tremendous amount of stigma in this country against overweight people, and psychiatrist and psychiatric medications are just adding to that. They are also adding to the huge medical costs in America by giving people high blood pressure, heart disease, liver disease, eye diseases and many other problems.

Like many others, I take these medications because I have to. But I am absolutely not satisfied with the results. I find it unacceptable that psychiatrists refuse to take into consideration that weight gain is a cause of increased depression. I find it appalling that they fill me with drugs that make me a ticking time bomb.

Yes, body image shouldn’t matter. People should look beyond the surface and into the heart and soul of a person before they judge them. But we all know that nine out of 10 times, that doesn’t happen. And TV and magazines have raised us to believe that we are all supposed to be thin to be pretty. I feel that for a lot of us who have to take these horrific medications, that is just not an option. And that—is depressing.



Posted in fiction on July 8, 2013 by Alex S. Johnson

Clockwork Girl

by Deborah D. Knealing

She put the spring with the others, fingers wet from her efforts. “There’s too many of these,” she thought, a little bird fluttering in the cage of her chest, “I’ll never find them all.”  

Somewhere, far away, someone screamed, the ragged, raw sound breaking her concentration. She gnashed silver fillings, jaw taunt, annoyed as she tore the gelatinous orb from its socket. Fingers dived, squishing and pushing, mining the little cogs and wheels from their fleshy concealment.

Dark waves obscured her vision temporarily, echoing the clockwork that whirled in her mind. She howled with frustration and spit another loosened tooth into the basin. It clanged like a trolley.

The empty housing that was her shin hung like an old, wet mop from her knee. Standing had long ago become elusive; she sat instead, on a bed which had become a nest of ivory tinker toys, the smallest of which pooled in an aluminum bedpan.

“I…ammm…a mechanical boy, my heart a mechanical toy. I never have lived, so I never grow old…” she mouthed, trying to sing as brass bumble bees swarmed in her ears. A hairpin wriggled into the base of her skull, catching on the wheels that clicked and clacked in measured intervals, like the pounding of an axe on wood. She tasted the coppery evidence with a sigh of relief. 

Words spilled from the loose worms of her lips, muffed by the sheets she rested, finally, on. “Told…em. True, I did.” A very large egg cracked somewhere nearby, exploding into the roar of a crowd. It frightened the little bird in her chest away, leaving nothing behind.



Electric Winter

by Jon R. Meyers


The atmosphere inside of the room was thick and radiant. Wavering elastic bolts of electricity hummed and surged through parallel lines of a diverse infrastructure.

Magdalene had just learned how to speak her first words. She spoke electric currents in short breaths. The smell of analog cream pie always reminded her of the bitter cold, just outside the outer shell of the core.

Families sat restless amongst each other inside of frozen windows, as they waited for the war to end.

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” they’d say.

But, it was. It was so much longer.

It almost felt like it would never end.

The smell of death lingered in open circuitry through the walls of the core. The city was a mere disaster waiting for a sign of black hope. As people beckoned for help, they gathered in sadness, together in hard times, as winter had begun to take its toll.

The electric sadness seemed to gain strength as months came and went. Like clockwork, time stopped on its axis and everything froze in its tracks.

Like icicles, we stood still and waited to fall. We waited to hit the ground, shattering existence, strengthening black hope.

And when our time comes… We will be ready.

Or, maybe we won’t. I don’t know. Slow motion blurs at the rate of which a flower would grow.

We snuggled deep inside of copper coaxial bedding lined with nothing but white memories; our dreary and starving eyes awaiting the fall, as if winter never even spoke to us at all in its whisper.                                                

 The Last Romance of Philip K. Dick

By David Anderson

Part I: Store 21334

Outside of a shitty Kentucky Walmart, an employee dumped the extra copies of the new Total Recall movie into the trashcan behind the garden center. His manager wanted to recoup some of the loss from the poor selling title, and the story was that these DVDs got ‘damaged’ by a water leak and they couldn’t sell.  By law they had to trash the movies, otherwise they couldn’t write them off at tax time.

“I wish we could donate these or something,” said the warehouse guy, Kenny.  Kenny was in his early twenties, and had large gauged earrings he was constantly ‘growing’ the size of.

“This isn’t a fucking charity Kenny,” said Albert Maplebrook, owner of store 21334.  Albert called it the twenty one thirty three, and looked kindly upon his store, like it was a person.  This was his home, now, his wife had the house.  He was divorced, and mostly lived out of his car.  But he had the twenty one thirty three, or store 21334, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

Part II: Run your own Small Business

Dump it for Fucking Cheap was a great business idea in a bad economy.  They would take anything you needed to get rid of, and would dump it.  No questions asked, on either end.  Qussar Medical Industrial Products and Services needed the toxic leftovers of the new Viagra test disposed of.  Instead of animating dicks, it re-animated them, giving erections to dead or inanimate objects.  Qussar Medical Industrial Products and Services was fucked, they needed to hide the results and dump the waste before their Shareholders found out.  Dump it for Fucking Cheap was their savior, willing to just take all the shit and ‘promise’ to get rid of it somewhere.

* * *

Part III: A Dick for Dick

It was weird how it happened, but it happened.  A pile of Total Recall DVDs, the remake not the original, was now a sentient lifeform, coming into existence in the middle of the night.  It was a lifeform with a problem, though, as it had a raging erection, and needed desperately to extinguish the fire in its newfound loins.  It had been brought to life just outside the Garden Center, but being a former part of the electronics section, it knew its way around.

It had one goal in life now; it wanted to fuck the rotting remains of Philip K. Dick, it wanted to fuck them into oblivion.  It located a cellphone booth and activated the floor model, searching online for burial information on Philip K. Dick.

“Riverside cemetery, in Fort Morgan, Colorado,” the thing whispered to itself.  It memorized the directions, but before it left, it had one little stop to make.  The creature went to the DVD aisle, and picked up a copy of Blade Runner.  It caressed Harrison Ford’s face, and then set the plastic case down.

“No tears,” it said to itself.  “Tonight is to be a night of romance.”  It strode into the night, headed for the Rocky Mountains.



by C.A. James


I am a whore.  

And with loaded gun and my mouth turning tricks I spew your secrets to the floor in a pool of self-deprecating shit.  Which one?  I seek my salvation from the pew in the back of the church. I listen to the preacher rail about sin while watching her from his pulpit with lustrous eyes of black and a serpent’s tongue.  She is beautiful, pure.  She looks to her husband with adoring eyes and softened hands as her stomach rounds with newfound life.  And he looks back, an oblivious fool drowning in the depths of a love that is as painted on as my face.


Such a beautiful child my precious, he whispers as he strokes her hair and stares adoringly into the eyes of his newborn son.  

Whose eyes do you think he has?


They stone me, with eyes of hate.  They damn me, with lips of the cruelest jade.  They curse me in the light of day and in the dead of night they fuck me.


The name falls from his lips like a bead of sweat.  It collects upon my chest, seeps within to mark my heart.  Slash of a lover’s tongue.  Scar of a lover’s unclenched fist.  My John, of the roughened hands and manicured nails, of the sweet words and the fiery touch, I hate you.


For coming, for leaving, for breathing, for being

I seek my salvation with a blade of ice.  Sharpened metal against pearly white, it glistens with the red of blood, warm and free.  It is my release, the comfort on a cold night in an empty bed smelling of smoke and sex.


He came back last night. That man without a face. He watched from the dark with his nothing smiles and his grimacing smirks. He laughs as my thoughts turn inward and fall upon the floor as nothing more than the tears of my disgrace. Or disgust for myself, who knows which. I will kneel and I will pray. I will beg and I will plead. But never will he lend a hand. Never will he point the way.

This no name man…

This white plaster silhouette of humorless wit, this painstakingly clear reflection of the black inside my soul…

He haunts me, stalks. He scratches his nails down the back of my dreams and rips them into throbbing shreds of morose insanity. He straps me to the pulsing cock of his perverse reality and fucks my fears like the whore of Sodom.



The name is a whisper screamed in my ear. I desire it. I need it.

Like you need it.




What is left of my innocence lays grasped within his palm. And there is nothing  to do except lay sedate, wishing for a time when this rape of emotion ends, when the pain is nothing more than a tingle of numbness spreading across my skin and his laughter but an echo snuffed by the wind.


The fucking fools. Where does their warmth come from, when they seek it from bloodless fires? How do they breathe through an air laden with the smut of their own fouled breath? The breath of bigots wandering strung out on their own paths to righteousness.

I roll my thumb against the bared joint of my wrist: stretching the skin taut and blanching it with the pressure.

So many of them walking to their own personal hell, my laughter is uncontainable. They damn themselves. They are all drones. Don’t condemn me my life when it is the only honest lie you can taste. Pay me for your salvation and I’ll swallow your sins completely. Walk away content in your momentary cleanliness.

My pussy is the only god who is going to listen.


All in Vein

by Pd Lietz

I actually tripped over her as she crouched against the wall shooting slick into her veins. A wisp of a thing wasted away by the need for the drug. Wasted away by the memories that haunted her. Too late to say anything, her beautiful smile engaging, her bleary eyes in no man’s land.

Going to the grocery store took a whole new meaning and now I mistrusted her truth. We had met at a support group five years ago. Clean, sober and full of hope.


All it took was one little trigger. She felt worthless in a callous, self absorbed world where she would slip away from me faster than a fish in water. During holidays she never felt she measured up. How wrong she was, but that was more then enough to make her take a dive. I knew it was just a matter of time when circumstances would all come together.

I squatted beside her, watching her fade, tears down cheeks. One more overdose and she might not make it as there was talk of a pace maker the last time.

Santa stood on the street corner ringing his damn bell. Perfect ruse for selling the junk he hid in his red suit. Merry Christmas to you too, asshole.


World of Kink by Miss Jayne

Posted in Sex with tags , , on July 8, 2013 by Alex S. Johnson


Over the years, more of them than I care to count, I’ve made plenty of mistakes. In the aftermath of the most serious ones, I’ve tried to learn the lessons they provided and move forward, careful not to repeat them. Sometimes I am successful; sometimes I am not. What is that quote? “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. “I’ve been quite insane at times and have been forced to learn many important lessons the hard way, the VERY hard way.

So when I see people about to make mistakes I previously made, I want to warn them. You can call it maternal nurturing or you can call it always being up in someone else’s shit – truthfully, it’s probably a little of both – but I sometimes feel compelled to point out potentially unwise decisions. Some people appreciate my advice, some ignore me, and some outright tell me to mind my own goddamned business. Still, I sleep better knowing I’ve done my part to keep them from making mistakes I’ve made. This column is a way of doing my part for those who are new to the world of kink. By using my mistakes and how I’ve applied those previously noted lessons to my life, I hope others will learn the easy way rather than the hard way.


I am an unrepentant feminist, yet being on my knees at my Dominant’s feet fulfills me in ways nothing else can. Being told I’m a “good girl” makes my heart swell, mostly because I rarely if ever heard those words as a child.


This is the first of several columns I plan to write focusing on mistakes made by people – usually me, but not always – in the world of kink: trusting people too much and too quickly, moving faster than your experience level, thinking you know everything, plain old-fashioned stupidity…there are dozens about which I could write. I start here what I consider the biggest mistake in any relationship, kink or otherwise: not being honest.

The hardest form of honesty to practice is being honest with yourself. Yet, as far as kink goes, it is the most vital. You may feel embarrassed by your kinky desires. You may consider them “sick” or “unnatural.” You may think you should be ashamed of them. In the past, people may have looked at you oddly if you dared mention them. Or maybe your kinky desires – as is the case with my own – are diametrically opposed to how you live your vanilla life. I am an unrepentant feminist, yet being on my knees at my Dominant’s feet fulfills me in ways nothing else can. Being told I’m a “good girl” makes my heart swell, mostly because I rarely if ever heard those words as a child. But why I need to hear it  isn’t as nearly important as admitting that I do need to hear it. And if I don’t get it from my BDSM relationship, where will I get it? (I just can’t picture my boss kissing my forehead and telling me he’s proud of me for doing a good job.) If you don’t recognize your needs and aren’t honest with yourself about them, you will never get them, regardless of what they may be. As unique or weird as you think your kink is, I can find someone whose desires make yours look tame. Trust me. That is, unless your kink includes fire play with farm animals and dwarves dressed as Darth Vader while you dissect a pig and eat butter pecan ice cream on stage as the opening act at a Gwar concert… and honestly, based on some of the things I’ve seen online, I’m not completely sure that scenario sounds all that weird anymore.

Okay, so my example was a little extreme. I made it up to prove a point. Very often we are too afraid of admitting what we really desire because we fear others will think badly of us or because it goes against what we’ve learned is acceptable behavior. The exceptions, I must stop to point out here, are non-consensual activities, which include any activity with children or animals as they are unable to give consent. Such things are not only illegal, but also go against what I consider the first rule of BDSM – hurting someone is fine; harming someone is not. But regarding activities between consenting adults, we must realize that not admitting our desires leads to not getting them, which leaves us unfulfilled and unhappy. I spent almost 13 years ignoring my desires because I mistakenly thought good wives didn’t want those things. Problem was, I was letting other people define “good wife” for me when I – and my husband – should have been defining it. I didn’t get what I needed, I didn’t give him what he needed, and we both pretended like what we had was enough. We lied to ourselves and each other for a very long time and our marriage nearly failed. Two years of counseling and many difficult conversations helped us save it, but much of the pain we went through could have been avoided if we’d just been honest and admitted what we wanted and needed.

If you don’t know exactly what you want in the way of kinky adventures, that’s ok. You may only know that you like serving others or that you like humiliating people a little bit. It’s a start; you will eventually sort out the details of what works for you. Whether you know what you like or just want to try things that sound fun, you need to make the effort to identify your desires and express them honestly, without concern for the opinions of others. The kink world is generally less judgmental than the vanilla world. If you tell kinky people you want to try golden showers, some will say “Oh man! I love that!” some will say “Not my kink, but if it works for you, that’s cool” and some will say “That’s nothing! This one time, I …” I can’t predict the exact reactions – it depends upon the individuals – but I can tell you what you probably won’t hear. You probably won’t hear “Aw man, that’s just fucking sick! Why would you want to do that?”

Moving forward into a kink relationships or introducing kink into a previously vanilla relationship is much easier after you’ve learned to be honest and open about your wants and needs – and there is a difference. Identifying which is which among your own desires puts you way ahead of the game, but as I said before, if you haven’t yet determined just what your kinks are, that is perfectly fine. Just be honest when you talk to potential partners and tell them what you want to try and what you think you need at that point. (Believe me, those things will change with experience.) You may find someone with a kink for teaching people new things. When in a Dominant role, I love facilitating the exploration of things my submissive wants to try! When in a submissive role, I personally need a Dominant with experience, but I know many submissives who enjoy being practiced on by freshly minted Dominants. The bottom line is you have to be honest about what you desire and not let fear of people reactions keep you from being honest. (It goes without saying, I think, that you need to be totally honest as well about your own experience level. Don’t pretend you have done this before if you never have. That can be very dangerous, but that is the topic for a future column.)


The best dynamics are the ones in which everyone’s needs are being met equally.


One of the things I have always liked about kinky relationships, often referred to as “dynamics,” is that they are much like business agreements. Both parties state honestly and in good faith what they expect. They negotiate terms, with each party willing to adjust his/her expectations, and eventually either an agreement is reached or it is decided they are not a good fit. With my own Dominant, the vast majority of our expectations for one another lined up and we expressed them to one another – and my husband – in a series of email discussions. There was no “sit down at a table and hammer out the terms of a contract” situation, although some people negotiate in exactly that fashion. Like business contacts, both parties must be honest about their own desires and whether they can supply what the other party needs. This is sometimes fairly simple, as it was with my Dominant, but seldom do two people’s desires dovetail perfectly. My Dominant is a sadist at heart. He tells me it is a want, not a need, but I know how much He wants it. I, however, do not think I am a masochist in the traditional sense. When submissive, I respond best to control-oriented, approval-based domination. In the beginning, I thought this might be an obstacle to the long-term survival of our dynamic. I was wrong. He gives me a level of nurturing and acceptance that some, including me prior to this relationship, wouldn’t have thought possible for a Sadist. In return, I don’t just try things He wants me to do, and I want to try the things I never thought I’d do, much less enjoy. I do this to fulfill the part of Him that desires the infliction of pain. (We call this part of him “Daddy’s Monster,” which to me indicates He is a nurturer primarily, but He is a nurturer with a dark side that can’t be ignored.) We’ve both been surprised by how much satisfaction we receive from things we never thought would be satisfying. I’m not saying it has been perfect – we’ve hiccupped along the way – but neither of us would have gotten or needs met if we hadn’t been honest enough to admit them and our dynamic wouldn’t have lasted as long as it has or be as strong as it is.

This isn’t the way I handled previous dynamics though. I made 1,001 mistakes along my path to this place. When I first began my kinky adventures, I just went with whatever my Top/Dom wanted. (I had not yet begun to explore my own Dominant side yet.) I had no clue what I wanted or needed, so I just played along and hoped they’d somehow magically find it for me. It doesn’t work that way. I also had the “I’m the submissive here, so what I want doesn’t matter” attitude. Which is true, but not really, if that makes sense. The best dynamics are the ones in which everyone’s needs are being met equally. You may need a submissive that wants to be humiliated or you need a submissive that has a “little girl” or “little boy” deep inside, waiting for the right Daddy/Mommy to bring out that side of him/her. You may need a nurturing Dominant or you may need a Dominant that only uses you for sex. The vast majority of my previous dynamics were casual play partner situations that revolved around that using me for sex part, when what I really needed was a nurturing Daddy Dominant. Yes, those other Doms “satisfied” me, but only to a certain point. I hadn’t been submissive for over almost two decades – and I wasn’t looking to be – when I began met my Dominant. Those previous only partially fulfilling dynamics were the primary reason. Within just a few conversations, however, I began to feel extremely submissive toward Him. I didn’t really know why at the time. I do now. It was because He was already nurturing me; He was already giving me what I needed.

I suppose what it all boils down to is that the type of dynamic in which you become engaged isn’t important and the role you play in it doesn’t matter. What matters most is the honesty you practice in looking for it. Whether it is a long-term committed relationship, a “friends with benefits” arrangement, or a one-time play partner situation, whether you are the Top, the bottom, the Dominant, the submissive, the slut, the baby girl, the sissy boy, or the foot worshipper, you must be honest about your needs and what you are can give. If you both do this, the trust between you and your kinky partner will be deeper, the depth of feeling will be stronger, and the enjoyment received from play time will be greater. If one of you can’t or isn’t willing to do this, your dynamic, like any other interpersonal relationship is most likely doomed. I learned that the hard way.

Talking to a Fat Girl by Charie D. La Marr

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on July 8, 2013 by Alex S. Johnson


Talking to a Fat Girl (a Cut-Up)

 by Charie D. La Marr

“Know what it’s like to hate your body so much you want to hurt it? Go further than skinny girls. If you can’t sell him on your body, you’d better overcompensate with sexual perks. If I can’t be beautiful, I want to be invisible. Soon I’ll be thinner than all of you. And then I’ll be the winner. The thinner is the winner. You can be two things if you are a woman. Betty Crocker or a floozy. Just remember your place—even if it kills you. I said to myself, “Go ahead. Take a chance. Hire the smart, fat girl.” I had hope.”

I…have a woman in my arms who has suffered greatly and desperately needs to believe once again that she is beautiful. When she needed help most, she was abandoned.

“It’s all mirror, mirror on the wall because beauty is power, the same way money is power, the same way a gun is power. I try not to call too much attention to myself. I sort of let my appearance go, to the point where I was maybe ten to seventy pounds overweight. There will always be a part of me that is dirty and sloppy, but I like that.”

“You can’t escape the world, and you’re not responsible for how you look, if you look beauticious or butt ugly. You’re not responsible for how you feel or what you say or how you act or anything you do. It’s all out of your hands. In other words, accept yourself. Love your body the way it is and feel grateful towards it. Most importantly, in order to find real happiness, you must learn to love yourself for the totality of who you are and not just what you look like. If you want your prayers answered, get up off your knees and do something about them.”

“Fuck you. I opened up to you and you judge me. I thought you would be different. The future is just wasted on some people.”

“Foul language is part of your armor of defense. Never underestimate yourself.”

From the newsstands a dozen models smiled up at her from a dozen magazine covers, smiled in thin-faced, high-cheekboned agreement. They knew the secret too. They knew thin was good, thin was strong; thin was safe. She began to be reassured by these pains, tangible symbols of her success in becoming thinner than anyone else. Her only identity was being “the skinniest.” She had to feel it. She was fat. Worse than that, she was a monster. A five-foot-four-ninety-eight-pound monster.

“I’m on this new diet. Well, I don’t eat anything and when I feel like I’m about to faint I eat a cube of cheese. I’m just one stomach flu away from my goal weight. You don’t have to be emaciated or vomiting to be suffering. All people who live their lives on a diet are suffering. I realized that I have spent so many years being on a diet that the idea that you might actually need calories to survive has been completely wiped out of my consciousness. Life is a shit sandwich. It was a matter of perspective, I began to see. The diet industry is making a lot of money selling us fad diets, nonfat foods full of chemicals, gym memberships, and pills while we lose a piece of our self-esteem every time we fail another diet or neglect to use the gym membership we could barely afford. The plans to lose weight and change personality kept me aloft for two days, only to collapse around my ears. I realize it was only a complicated form of denial The whole world was crazy; I’d flattered myself by assuming I was a semifinalist.”

“Well, get used to it, the whole world is nuts. Most important, in order to find real happiness, you must learn to love yourself for the totality of who you are and not just what you look like. Shame weighs a lot more than flesh and bone. Conditions change and we mutate. You have to keep recycling yourself. Take a chance. That’s how you grow.”

“Love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, I’ll be anybody you want me to be. Use me. Change me. I can be thin with big breasts and big hair. Take me apart. Make me into anything, but just love me. Make me into anything, but just love me. I know it’s a crock of shit. I ain’t offering you happily-ever-after. I’m offering you… happily-maybe-sometimes-ever-after. Sort of. You know, with warts and shit.”

“You don’t love someone because they’re perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they’re not”


“She’s Come Undone” by Wally Lamb

“Unbearable Lightness” by Portia del Rossi

“My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Piccault

“The Best Little Girl” by Steven Levenkron

“The Devil Wears Prada” by Lauren Weisberger

“Invisible Monsters” by Chuck Palahniuk

“The Silver Linings Playbook” by Matthew Quick

“Bridget Jones’ Diary” by Helen Fielding

Bacon For Life by Nathaniel Tower

Posted in Uncategorized on July 8, 2013 by Alex S. Johnson

Cease, Cows

After Mya Andring lost the use of her right leg, she decided to turn to bacon. No, she didn’t become some gargantuan overeater. Rather, the now lame Mya Andring, a once renowned scientist who’d fallen off the wagon (according to her colleagues) when she’d claimed that congealed bacon grease was the key ingredient to curing most of the world’s problems, made her kitchen into a lab and fried bacon in quantities that could’ve wiped the pig population out if genetic enhancement wasn’t so prevalent.

“What’s for dinner?” her husband asked on the first day of her lab tests.

“Bacon,” she said.



For three weeks, “bacon” was the only word she uttered as she perpetually stood in front of the stovetop, leaning on crutches, frying bacon in iron skillets on all four burners. When one batch was cooked, she pulled out the hot strips with her fingers, tossed them…

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