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lust noun \ˈlust\ Definition of LUST 1 a desire to gratify the senses; bodily appetite 2 a: sexual desire b: excessive sexual desire, especially as seeking unrestained gratification 3 a: overmastering desire [a lust for power] b: intense enthusiam; zesting desire 4 a: pleasure b: inclination --vi. to feel an intense desire especially sexual desire (often with after or for)

it quick
WHAT WHITE ELEPHANT - a subsidiary of PORN & DOIN’IT, L.L.C. - a division of SLUTS, PROSTITUTES & WHORES INCORPORATED You can find this issue and past issues at scribd.com/whatwhiteelephant or even email us at WHATWHITEELEPHANT@gmail.com & we’ll send you a pdf (unless we’re too drunk with power). We’re also on Facebook, and on Twitter @what_elephant (if you’re into those sorts of things). Physical copies are on a first come, first served basis (offer void in Iowa). We only usually print 8 or so copies (cause we don’t have any sponsors yet; because we’re bad at self-promotion or too principled or something to have any) and most are sent out through our awesomely fantastic mailing list. You can submit your mailing address through the various forms of communication mentioned above to be added to said mailing list. If you live within the Midwestern City metropolitan area, please contact your nearest regional zine representative about obtaining a physical copy.




Isn’t drowning & drinking just the same? You let water creep its way back inside you, touching the sensitive tissues



Americans, irrespective of their political leanings, love sex & the depictions thereof but shame those bound with abandon




I love you & wish I didn’t feel alone saying those words. I have no idea if you feel them I wish I had the guts to tell you

I happened. I evolved. Not into something that I enjoy. I do what I have to to survive. And that’s okay.


Converging into a vibrant spectrum, it reaches out through every gateway, heaps of optic nerves chase your direction




Sensory overload. Oh shit, what am I supposed to look at? Me. You can look at anything, and you can touch. Adam.




ARIES - The whole world revolves around you this month Aries, you selfish spoiled cunt. You will ask your friends for a favor, but will treat them like shit for going out of their way when they help you. Remember to let them know how truly disposable they are once you’ve gotten what you want. It’s not like you needed to try to maintain relationships and besides you are so good at burning bridges anyway. TAURUS - Did you quit your job last month? You should have. No one really appreciates you, or your ideas, or your input so you might as well just quit. A Leo you slept with last month is claiming you got her pregnant, but you know that’s bullshit cause you always pull out in time. Maybe wait a couple of checks before you quit your job-- abortions aren’t that cheap anymore, and apparently the taxpayers aren’t footing the bill anymore. Now might be a good time to move Taurus to avoid those pesky child support payments. GEMINI - Be kind to your boss this month or else she might jab a shiv right into your armpit. You never know... it could happen. In other made up predictions, you will start a small business, adopt a child and find an abandoned animal. The stress of taking on so many responsibilities at once might lead you to try to become an alcoholic or constant pill-popper. I’d tell you not to give into dark temptations, Gemini, but you were never that good at listening to advice.

CANCER - Your love life is like a bowl an old boot at the bottom of a lakemoldy, boring, and not going anywhere anytime soon. That Taurus you have had a crush on for the last few weeks just knocked up a Leo and is trying to flee the state to avoid child support. If you’re feeling especially vengeful this time of the month, you might let said Leo know where the Taurus is going. Hey, if you can’t have any fun, why should other people? LEO - Well, you got knocked up before you got married. Good job you whore. You have several years of shame and regret to look forward to. Ignore everything people say about the “joys of child-bearing”. They are lying motherfuckers. Raising is a child is a lot like constantly stabbing yourself with a rusty needle on repeat for 18 years straight. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And for all you male Leo’s out there, your life will be boring the next few weeks unless a certain slutty female Leo is on your list of things to do. VIRGO - Liquor is dandy, but cocaine is quicker. Have I already told you that Virgo? Well, it’s especially poignant this month, you raging coke-whore. Stop worrying on trying to control everything around you, that’s an Aries job. It’s time to take a well deserved vacation and purge your soul of all the monkey shit you’ve been stepping in lately. I hear Massachusetts is lovely this time of year. Pack light though because the airline will lose your luggage. Learn to smile more & mean it.

LIBRA - Are you having a good birthday Libra? I hope so, because it’ll probably be your last. That Sagittarius you slept with last week is having a fit of homicidal rage, so don’t answer your phone, or your door-- as a matter of fact you should probably arm yourself with something more heavy duty than a nail file. Whatever you do however, don’t go overboard and blow things out of proportion-- leave that up to an Aries in your life. After all there’s nothing like a being martyred to raise your social profile. Remember, barricades are a girls best friend. SCORPIO - Your feeling very inspired to follow your dreams this month, and should despite what anyone says to the contrary. People only talk shit because they’re jealous of your selfdetermination. Your lucky number this month will be -2. Don’t ask me how that makes sense, because it really doesn’t. A Leo in your life will mention abortion, but you should give them a moral speech about how all life is precious. Don’t be afraid to show weakness, but you shouldn’t act like an arrogant bitch; leave that to an Aries as they’re much better at it than you are. SAGITTARIUS - The Libra you banged silly last month is avoiding you so you should harass the living piss out of them until they file a restraining order on you. This will prove to everyone around you that you do have the conviction to follow through on your crazy and hair-brained plans. Otherwise everyone is going to gossip about how much of a weak spineless coward you are and you don’t want to have to live that down again. Remember that smiling only makes you seem that much more creepy.

CAPRICORN - If you’re finding it hard to pay your bills this month, you could always resort to prostitution. That is, of course, providing that you can find someone willing to pay. You could always try Craigslist, or pick up strangers from a bar after a long night of drinking. You mercy fucked the poor ugly crippled bastard so you’re entitled to rifle through his pockets when he’s passed out in a puddle of vomit. It’s easier than you think it is especially concerning how non-existent your morals are to begin with. Smoking causes lung cancer... allegedly. AQUARIUS - You’re feeling dark & ominous this month-- but in a silly tee-hee kind of way. Which is great compared to your normal routine of slap-n-tickle. You slut. You will more than occasionally openly judge people around you; not because you think you’re better than them, but because you KNOW you’re better than them. You arrogant slut. Don’t feel bad about being loose both metaphorically & spiritually as it’s nice to have at least one positive character trait to prop yourself up on. Try begging less this month. PISCES - You’re good at studying philosophy; not because you want to, but because you’ll do it as a favor for a friend or loved one. Whatever. Start practicing what you preach, and making all that constant running around seem worthwhile. Do not call an Aquarius redundant this month as they’re acting really evil and won’t take any sort of criticism well. An Aries in your life is being a self-centered dick bag, but that’s not very new. You should keep forgetting to never remember not to forget. Something. You know.

Yeti Detective
I masturbate at least three times every day, rain or shine, drunk or sober, medicated or whatever. Is that lust? Is it some kind of chemical imbalance? Is there really any difference? I’m going to make a confession to you, dear reader. I am the horniest mother fucker alive. I want to fuck all of you right in half. I have whacked off to every kind of porn from abattoir to zebra. I still remember the simple days when, like any 13 year old boy, I would push two couches together and fuck them while watching pro wrestling. Now days it’s not unusual for me to spend four to six hours scrolling through a certain image board site to see which thread is going to do it for me tonight. Bestial, anthro, shokushu goukan, there’s one artist on deviantart I like who draws sexy airplane ladies. Like, if an airplane was a lady and also sexy. I think of it as a sport or an art, even. Every day I try to masturbate to something a little weirder than the thing I masturbated to yesterday. Girls with squids in their mouths? Check. Girls with squids in their butts? Check. Just squids by themselves, oh yeah. I mean, I could write an entire 1500 word article just by listing different cephalopods I’ve masturbated to. I’m not sick. I’m an adventurer. Like Captain Kirk. Lust itself is possibly my favorite biological-drive-turned-emotion. When you lust for someone it’s like there is a fire in your brain. You focus so intently upon them. Your breathing becomes more urgent. All you can think about is their skin on your skin, their lips on your lips, what they smell like, how they might feel when you put your hands on them. It’s like being in hunger and in pain at the same time, yet it’s somehow pleasant. It’s a sense of want that grows and grows until you’re consumed by it, until you’re crazy with it.

And it’s absolutely unnecessary for your personal survival as an organism. You don’t NEED to fuck to live, in the strict sense. But that’s not taking into account what an organism is, in context of the bigger picture. You aren’t a higher spiritual being trapped in a 3 dimensional body here to learn important lessons before you graduate on to the next existence. You’re a vessel of meat and bone for a long strand molecule made of adenine, guanine, cytosine, and thymine that built you out of amino acids and proteins it found in your mother’s womb. It built you so that you’d go out into the world and find other organisms with compatible long strand molecules and spray them or be sprayed by them so that these molecules can copy themselves. And that’s it. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re horny. We’re just slimy meat ships being driven around by these tiny, blind, idiot crew members whose mission is to explore strange new genitals. The dirty secret behind the entirety of human art and scientific endeavor has been to perpetuate this impulse. So set your hairdo to ‘stun’ and prepare to be boarded because I am no where near out of sexual euphemisms that are also science fiction references. Ninety-nine percent of my ‘game’ is science fiction based. So what does this mean? Are we all just automatons? Are we slaves to a molecule that’s been replicating itself on this planet for the last three and a half billion years or so? Yes. Yes that is what that means. Is that horrifying? Also, yes. It is incredibly horrifying. Like, waking up in the matrix full of tubes covered in pink goo, horrifying. Except at least the machines were intelligent, and we created them. DNA created you, and it doesn’t even know what year it is. It still thinks saber tooth tigers and falling out of trees while sleeping are among our biggest threats. On top of that, it’s unbelievably cruel. It is from our perspective, any-

way. The same way you destroy multitudes of your own cells with drugs and alcohol for the sake of a good time, or just to cope with the massive, brutal forces of reality churning all around you, threatening at all times to crush you under the titanic wheels of its cosmic machinations, DNA occasionally reaches out and snuffs broad swaths of plant and animal life for no reason other than to make itself stronger. The bubonic plague? That was just DNA doing pushups. But we don’t have to stay slaves. We can throw off our terrible, chemical shackles. We can smite our eyeless, dumb master and leave him behind us in the stone age, where he belongs. Human DNA no longer evolves fast enough to keep up with The Bright, Shining, Silicon Future. It is this very slowness that threatens us with extinction. Not overpopulation. Not pollution. Not plague or global warming. It’s simply the obsolescence of biology. There is a flood coming, and we’ve already built the ark. We need only ascend the gangplank. That doesn’t mean leaving behind what makes us human. Rather, it means saving it. Your memory is just a database forming connections between pieces of data your senses have input, and your thoughts and feelings are nothing but reactions to those connections and their relationship to the new incoming data. Your personality is just the operating system for your brain, and your brain is just Mother Nature’s clumsy attempt at building a computer control unit to run all the parts of your body so it does its job of spraying or being sprayed to make more copies of your stupid DNA molecule. What else do you need to make a Self? We can build it, and we can do a better job than Nature. Will you miss sex once we don’t need it for procreation? NO! Of course we’ll keep sex! Sex is awesome! (It is with me, anyway. Call me.) And we’ve ALREADY built robotic skin with more points of sensation per

square inch than human skin has, and we’ve done that using our disgusting human slime brains. Imagine what the Intelligent Steel Human brains of the Future will be able to make. You’ll PITY the poor generations that have gone before you with their barely functioning, fragile genitalia, drunkenly mashing them into each other in the vain hope of connecting with one another. And you’ll do all this while fucking moons in twain with your Robot Laser Cock. Because fuck moons, seriously, they think they’re so goddamned majestic. Whatever. Don’t forget Phobos’ and Deimos’ potato shaped asses are in your family tree. Uppity-ass satellites. Don’t even get me started on comets. Fucking divas. Anyway, this lust article is getting me all horny. I’m going to go inseminate a handful of tissues and yell, “PUNKED!” at them as I flush them down the toilet. Be good to each other, readers. By which I mean oral.



A Mindful Vision of Lust

There was this one time, we were alone, relaxing and just being in each other’s company; us just lazily lying down on a bed with the sunshine streaming in through the window one afternoon. It started slow, I leaning over and kissing you, feeling my mouth against yours...slowly sucking on your lower lip and biting my way in, while one of my hands began threading through your hair, slightly pulling you away but never too far away from me. You reciprocated with a slightly more push to your movements, pulling me in and encouraging me on top of you. Bracing myself on one arm above your head I break our kiss, slanting myself in between your legs and pressing up close against you, feeling your breathe against my cheek as you tighten your thighs and wrap your legs loosely around me, keeping me in place but not encouraging me to stop. I can’t help but kiss you again, with my one hand in your hair I tilt your head back, and making my way down your throat, biting and sucking only rough enough you leave my mark. We’re mostly nude, except for our underwear, the last physical barrier between us. You press up into my body, edging me on as I take one of your nipples into my mouth, lavishing and pressing it against my tongue. You then become slightly impatient and urge me up back against your lips...a deeper urgency within your movements. After a while I break the kiss, making my way back down, a play of a smile sliding down against your stomach, a hint of your own shying on your face. I can’t help but slide my hands over your thighs and solidly press my fingertips along your muscles. Slightly propping myself on one elbow I softly kiss bite and mark along your inner thighs. Running my hands along your

ribs and pressing into the hollow below your stomach. You arch up into me, encouraging more but not wanting to rush, splaying your legs further apart in a more relaxed and loose way. Cradling the back of your knees into my palms I leverage you closer to me, my tongue starting its descent into your heat, a hand lacing its fingers into my hair. I keep moving and pay attention to where and how you like it best. You’re comfortable and confident, never shying away and responding by telling me not to stop. Running my tongue along your clit, feeling it wet and hot against my mouth spurns me on and makes me want to push you over the edge. Taking two fingers I enter you, slowly stretching and your own body fluid helping the way. With my mouth still at work, and my hands curling up into you, arching for that perfect spot, I start my pace, giving then slow, drawing it out to where you sigh and slightly whine in protest, your body urging me to go faster. Your breaths start to lazily drag their way up your throat, heavy and thick. Finding that place inside you, you begin to tremble, light tremors the beginning of your pleasure, faster breaths racking through your ribs, rising against your breasts. Pressing in faster with my tongue, creating vibrations up from my throat, I quicken my movements. Arching my fingers against your spot, sucking and licking around your clit, your legs gain more weight with your shakes. Your hands no longer carding along your body, only able to reach above you into the sheets; your mind and body start to separate but remain one: the overload of emotion and pure pleasure racing along your spine, your head turning into the pillow, hair splayed and lips parted. Your moans and unstiffling of breath never wavers, along with the movements of your hips, pressing and completely under-ruled by your mind. The slick slide of my tongue and lips against your heat begin to coincide with your final quakes, out of pace and quick.

As you come, you arch slightly away from the bed, your voice twining with the warbles and purling of your tongue, the only voice for the high. As you begin to slowly relax back down, I lightly pull away from your sensitive parts, solidly massaging your wetness into your skin. Making my way back up, I swiftly kiss along your body, in all the curves and sun kissed shadows. When I make it to your lips, a smile lazily lying upon your face, I can’t help but be envious and want to steal it away for myself. Taking my body off of your but still holding you close, I trace my fingertips across the flush on your cheeks and slight dampness of your brow. Then we lay along with the afternoon and time, sleeping but not, with each other.

have to make a sequel. And most of the time I give the paper a life by painting our ending and it feels like it’s compulsory to narrate it in a happy tune just so there’s no chance that there’ll be a sad, miserable twist. When I was a child, I am afraid of drowning. Thirteen years later, I realized it is my fault why I let the water drown me a couple of times. And I could have been killed if I didn’t float with it. And then there were no letters in hundreds of bottles and corks. At times, the salt dries my tears and the waves would wash it over, adding to the saltiness of the sea. I wonder if across the globe or at the other end of the stream there is someone who does the same. I wish the sea still keeps my letters. I still don’t have the guts to read it to you without crying. And my tears will just make the sea even saltier.

Why the Sea is Salty, a Lifesaver and a Killer
Skulking Lia
You’re a creature of water yet you’re afraid of it. Isn’t it drowning and drinking just the same? At both instances, you let water creep its way inside you, touching the sensitive tissues of your alimentary canal. Only that it is more challenging in drowning. You avoid it and yet you need it to quench your thirst. And that tiny piece of land you’re seeking for solace is surrounded by it. I want you to know a significant volume of the waves know our story. Like icebergs, what you see is just about eight percent of them. They patiently and courageously carry my unsent letters to you. The words I may not have the guts and spine to utter to you. The words my pen writes unto my command repeatedly because it has no choice. Sometimes, I paint the paper with our beginning I try to write in a sad introduction hoping ours would follow the fairy tale format. Sometimes I start it with a significant moment between us for I believe life has no order. Beginnings are just endings so sad you

Dustin Wood George Orwell coined the term, Doublethink; that is, to accept two disparate ideas simultaneously in one’s own mind. In America, we see this committed on a daily basis. On one hand, our culture seems to value the liberty of privacy as various court decisions have so pointed out, however, on the other, we’re obsessed with reality television where camera crews regularly set up in the bedrooms of Hollywood celebrities. Likewise, many on the political right adhere to a message of the Right to Life while supporting the death penalty. Their cohorts on the political left, however, support the right of a woman to dismember and evacuate her fetus in utero while at the same time denouncing the death penalty even for the most heinous of criminal figures. And Americans, irrespective of their political leanings, love sex and the depictions thereof, but shame those bound with abandon into the foamy undulations of Aphrodite’s bosom. What’s missing seems to be rational thought. Take for instance the fairly recent development of “Purity Balls”. During these ceremonies, most often attended by evangelical Christians, young girls vow to their fathers and themselves that they will remain virgins until marriage. Oddly, young boys are typically not invited to attend the ritual nor is commonly an equivalent ceremony for them. For whatever reason, the focus seems to be on the sexuality of the females. Certainly, young males are also expected to abstain and many are given the same silver purity rings as their female counterparts, but there is no accompanying 8 DOUBLESPEAK

pomp and circumstance. As to scientific examination of these youth, the movement does seem to delay sexual activity for a while, but they fare no better in retaining their virginity until marriage than their non-purity cohorts. Moreover, and perhaps more disturbing, the evidence so far shows that although sexual activity may be delayed, these people are more likely to not have had proper education in safer sexual practices and are more likely to engage in sex without the use of condoms or birth control. Thus, rather than educating these youth regarding sexuality, sex instead seems like some leviathan which can only be properly mastered after the vows of matrimony have been uttered. Given its lack of results and the subsequent risks involved, the entire enterprise appears to be a failure at best and a time bomb worst. However, at least now the vestiges of the sexually abstinent are at least permitted to have intercourse at all, albeit with a rather significant asterisk and footnote. There was at one point a group of Americans who did not believe in procreation of any sort. These were the Shakers. Spawning from a divergent Christian sect, this group of the faithful eventually decided, under the supernatural guidance of their leader, Ann Lee, known later as “Mother Ann”. After some supposedly divine revelation, Mother Ann announced that celibacy was somehow tied to the doctrine of Christian salvation. It’s not surprising that this revelation was delivered after she herself suffered a series of miscarriages. Her philosophy was a rather illogical leap. If her ideology were followed by all, then without procreation by the species, there would simply be no one left. In other words the attendant at the Pearly Gates would soon find himself out of a job.

The Shakers grew their ranks mostly by adoption and conversion – as so they had to. In other words, the movement was committing a rather slow suicide. At last count, only a handful still survived and they’ve become better known for their particular style of furniture than for anything else. As for Mother Ann, she declared herself the female counterpart to Christ and died at the age of 48. Luckily, the cult hasn’t survived. From no-sex Shakers, in the 1980’s, another cult sprang up under the title “Hookers for Jesus”. The plan as set forth by the cult was that women would engage in prostitution and then share their faith with the man who had recently employed their services. Of course, the money collected did tend to go back to one central figure for the “ministry”, however eventually the police caught on and rightfully shut the pimp down. The name was abandoned, but has now been picked up and retooled by one, Annie Lobert of Las Vegas Nevada. Lobert, a former prostitute herself, left that line of work to start a ministry assisting those involved in sex industry to get out of the lifestyle. Her work has been valuable in helping those who are abused or threatened to move and escape the violence of their abusers. Thankfully, the new Hookers for Jesus does not minister in the same manner as its predecessor. We are people divided within ourselves. On the one hand we crave the constant titillation of the erotic. In 2003 the Guardian newspaper reported that an estimated 33% of all internet users accessed pornography. Far be it from me to insult such a wellrespected periodical, but that figure was and is grossly diluted. On the other hand, however, those who provide access or content for the erotic are looked down upon and marginalized.

Indeed, as Shakespeare notes in King Lear, Act IV, Scene VI, the man who lashes the whore has hot need to use her in that kind. The American relationship to sex is one which is, by definition, neurotic. What is sex other than a pleasurable physical natural act often involving an emotional connection which can result in the procreation of children depending upon the genders of the participants. That’s it. It is not the forbidden fruit hanging low on the tree nor is it in any way morally objectionable. The compounding issues related to sex are not inherent with the act itself. Rather, those matters are merely the creation of our own minds. Certainly, one should conduct oneself with dignity and respect the act of sex – that respect should extend to ourselves as well as our partners – however it is not the enigmatic machination which most believe it to be. And to be sure, until and unless the reality of sex is faced, the neurosis overcome within our own minds, then sex shall continue in its role in the human mind as a master rather than a slave.

of the month

Raging Cunt?

cast your vote

How should you treat someone that has gone out of their way to help you? 1) With kindness & respect like they deserve OR 2) Like shit. My feelings & mood swings are the most important thing in the universe





I spent quite a while in a verbally abusive relationship, to the point that sometimes I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I don’t like to be coddled. Usually. (I have to throw that in, because lately, god damn I do.) I’ve always been a strong person. Always had a clear view on where I stood about certain issues, about certain viewpoints. About me. But things happened, life happened. Beautiful and scary and hurtful and harmful and joyous and laughable and regrettable and endearing things happened. I happened. I evolved. Not into something that I enjoy some days but we all do what we have to to survive. And some days it was all I could do to move forward. To keep suckin’ in that sweet breath of life. And that’s okay. It’s sad, but it’s alright. Maybe it was a learning experience. Maybe now it’s something I can use. Because before I used to say “no kid gloves, don’t treat me like something less than I am, please” But recently I’ve heard myself say, “I want those kid gloves. If that’s what you have to use to treat me decently, then FUCK YEAH, put those fuckers on, man!” But maybe along the way something got lost in translation. I mistook “kid gloves” for “loved”, in my own way. I took “kid gloves” to mean “straight talk”. Please don’t lie to me. Please talk to me plainly. Honestly. The best advice I ever received was from someone that told me the word “love” means

many different things to different people. I had been terribly simplistic in my thoughts, in my feelings, and in my actions. I do that a lot, and I notice sometimes that people behave as if I have an ulterior motive. I act, I behave, how I feel. I say what I mean. And apparently it’s unnerving. When I say, “Is everything okay?” I mean, “Is everything okay?” I mean, “I am genuinely concerned for your well being, please tell me, because I am asking, here and now, if there is anything I can personally do for you in this moment.” I don’t mean, “What the hell is the matter with you, why are you acting/doing/feeling/ thinking like that?” or the myriad of other things people have, by experience, taken to assume, “Are you alright?” to mean. So by “kid gloves” I mean don’t talk to me like I am incapable of understanding. Speak to me like a human. Speak to me with caring and compassion. Speak to me as an equal, as I was meant to be spoken to. Because if you’re with me you obviously saw something worthwhile in me. But apparently “kid gloves” meant something else entirely. So when I requested not using them, I got bare-knuckle, bloody and brutal. And the blame, ultimately, is mine. No one can treat you any worse than you allow them to treat you. You decide how things go down. Circumstance and others are only an easy out. Only an easy way to shift blame so you don’t have to worry about tarnishing “self ”. But in the end, you come out worse for the wear. I miss me. I love me. And some days, I despise me. I wish I could hold

myself in my arms, because sometimes I feel like no one will ever be able to do it properly. Maybe I might have a chance. I miss being a little girl sometimes. I miss being able to afford moving through emotion and feeling rather than what is best, what should be or what is. Is being an adult defined by sacrificing self for the greater good? And whose “good” are we worried about here, anyway? I was not faithful to myself. I didn’t ever forgive me for being me once I was told that it wasn’t okay to be who I was. And I wonder why the hell I listened to those voices in the first place. I wonder where the path forked that I compromised self for security. My exotic colorful mind for the bland and safe. Where was the question? And why did I ever answer the call? I do not want this. Growing up I thought love was something different. I thought relationships were something different. There is so much bitterness and pain and resentment. So many grudges. So much fighting. Why can’t two people just coexist? Why is it okay to treat each other like something less than human? Why can’t a person in a relationship come to the other in honesty and simplicity? Why do problems have to be squirreled away, filed away, buried so that they can grow and emerge from the dirt of thoughts like some ugly carrion butterfly? Things become more complicated than they ever needed to be. And even if they weren’t hidden or filed away for a later date, a later argument to be brought out like some emotionally bruised trophy, if you address the problem in the now, why can’t it be done calmly, rationally? Instead

of some fucking insane hormonal torpedo? Why does it have to be a game of, “let’s see who can hit the hardest with their words.”? I want to know what goes on in your mind. I want to sit and listen to the hum buzz whir of your wheels turning. I want to curl up in the cushion of your thoughts and know them as I know my own. I want to sprawl with you. To lay on the couch, open window, sweet cool breeze, music flowing, lounging, tangled limbs, slow jazz slow buzz slow burn kindred. Sweet, simple love. Sweet simple adoration. Sweet, simple and knowing. I want absolute reciprocation. I want the sense of giving that is also taking, to love so much and so fiercely that it makes me greedy. I want to revel in that stupid ache. All this is the “you” I refer to is the “you” I imagined when I was a little girl. This is the love I had imagined. And a multitude of other scenarios that include give and take, respect and reassurance. I don’t know that it exists. I hope it does. And I hope I find it someday. My fingers are crossed, and I’m wishing on stars. Because I’m that kind of girl. And I’m alright with it.


Multitudes of trials yielding similar results, Not a shift in the mechanism, Continuing on to find a just host, The piece to the closing incertitude, As the gears subconsciously grind away, Skiving teeth forge splinters, Of growth rings years long past, Showering the ground with scoundrels, The dust collecting in the blink of an eye, Lubricates the artery to passion unbound, Pungent effluence running down thighs, Converging into a vibrant spectrum, It reaches out through every gateway,

Presley Grundlebash

Heaps of optic nerves chasing your direction, Hindrance once fleeting now flooding, Torrents of adrenaline injections, Escalating the purity of the looking glass, Into an orbit of celestial narcissism, I’ve filled buckets to the brim of sight, The burnt fringe of your stash thrills, A quiver deep in a menial blemish, Masturbating every follicle of my being, Till a macrocosm of indulgence ejaculates, Upon the inception of that most tremendous, Of the septuplicate of magnificent iniquities, A molecular hunger..

Joe Bing

from the perspective of a bottle of windex

It is becoming quite dark, the soft glow of street lights and passing cars pour through the large plate glass windows. Sale furniture and kitchen products catch the light casting ghostly, whimsical shapes over the parquet. I look-over the clean untouched surfaces, in which I created. I’ve been left out for the night again. I am a bottle of Windex, though my purposes are seemingly endless. I am mainly used as an easy distractionary ploy for employees to appear to be working. I am quick busybody option, that’s better compared to asking for actual task. I know I’m special to you my glossy clear residue drips down the sides of mirrors and picture frames alike; my nature isn’t very sexual but oc casionally very sticky. I swing gaily from side to side as you scamper from project to project, like an old friend. I join you as you clean tight rows of wine glasses; I hear the wisps of a flirtatious conversation as you spray my fluids on a jewel case.

But under inspection you would appear quite busy. I’m different than other clean products; I stand out unwelcome for my consistent use. This isolation only furthers our bond. Occasionally, I am upgraded to under the front counter with you and where all the excitement is. During the long periods between customers, or being apprehensive of a stern glance you hold me. Most nights I return to disgruntled and jealous roommates, to tell of the days dealings. I speak of how clever you are and that you’re hard working too. Someday when I am empty of my use, I hope it’s you who throws me away. Could you replace me? Is my use so transparent and unimportant, am I diluted with my own grandeur? It wasn’t you who was there; you were just going through the emotions, the familiar gestures? Am I realizing my importance too late, am I too far gone to love something like you this much again? But until then, my liquid has settled and I await your return hap-

love &

A tale of

Jen Will Tell Me
…ing me and then this guy, Matthew, with the amazing blue eyes comes up and goes, Hey, and I’m all, Like... hi, and while he’s looking at me the only thing I’m capable of thinking is how badly I want to sleep with him, and I wonder if he’s good in bed and I wonder what he likes and he has the power of knowing this, and I know I sound lame and look lame and I’m drooling and my face is tight and my eyes dart and he knows he’s making me nervous so he intensifies his glare on my face and I realize it’s just... really hard to talk to a guy (hot) in public when their perfectness is pointing right at you and you’re not allowed to touch it, that’s the worst part, right?— I mean it would be less awkward if maybe we were both naked and we both had our stuff out and if I was dancing around the pole, too, and guys were putting dollar bills in my Timberlands, but I’m 100 percent clothed and I try to be cool and chilled out, but it’s next to impossible to look at someone in the face when their dick is out. I’d never been to a strip club, let alone a gay strip club, before, it’s not really something I ever thought I’d be into, not that I’m saying people who go to strip clubs are horrible or sleazy or awful people—oh God no—more that the only thing I know about strip clubs is what they tell me on TV. But this strip club was nothing like the ones on TV. You walk in and the guy takes your coat and it’s all smiles and the room is big and spacious and there’s a drag show and everybody has all of their clothes on. I keep looking for naked people. I keep wondering if the drag queens will perhaps bust out of their sequin catsuits and untuck themselves. I stay and watch the drag queens perform for no one in particular then I realize all the action’s upstairs so I g…

Enter the room: Cocks. Cupcakes. Drag queens. Bottles. Underwear. Steamy showers. Strobe lights. Throbbing dance music. Timberlands. Ass cheeks. Poles. Drinks. Stages. Red velvet chairs. Waxed chests. Girls. Gay guys. Tight bodies. Big cocks. Bigger cocks. Latin. Asian. White. Eastern European. Twink. Black. Sensory overload. Oh shit, What am I supposed to look at? Me. You can look at anything, and you can touch below the knees and above the waist. Adam. As soon as he says it I’m like, Awesome, so this is why people come to strip clubs, but the thought that I could touch Matthew’s body makes me nervous, so I don’t touch anything and I don’t look at anything and I ignore all strippers and their bouncy sticks. But the more time we spend in the club, the more comfortable I get and I start dancing and getting into the music and I realize that this is basically a gay club with go-go boys who don’t have any underwear on. Here I am, surrounded by all these beautiful naked men and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to look (objectify) or if I should just keep dancing to the music and turn the strippers into pure decoration (ignore). Strip clubs are about temptation as a way to turn a profit. I mean, okay, so they’re about temptation, but in the moment of temptation they’re also about refusal. Wanting something so badly only to be denied just makes you want it more. Isn’t that what makes porn work? The strip club is live porn at a distance. We typically experience porn from the other side of a screen—a television screen, a computer screen, and now a smartphone screen. Strip clubs are another way of having screened sex. The question becomes: which is better, the real thing or the idealized screened thing?




Bernardo Retardo

I haven’t written anything for a hefty minute, so I figured “with all the empty space still sitting in the lust issue, I could and definitely should get off my lazy ass and actually write for the zine I enjoy taking pride in” what and epiphany that was. Gay. I keep trying to think of some way to categorize the present position and phase I’m in in life. At first thought I wanted to call it a crossroads, but that’s ignorant, and not true, which that evolved into me thinking that I’m at somewhat of a “stand still”, which is more true than the cliche crossroads, but still not exactly accurate. Currently I’m enjoying not being at work today, I was scheduled to go in essentially all day, from noon to nine. When I finally slipped into my heroin coma at 4(ish)am the morning before, I had the pleasure of waking up 6(ish) hours later so I could skip showering and get to work on time; Which I did, early even, which pissed me off that much more. I had the pleasure of hanging out with one of my least favorite people I work with before going in. Super! Right? As someone who thoroughly enjoys living a mostly nocturnal lifestyle, working at noon might as well be 7. So I go in to work, and unlike most day shifts, it’s busy, and I get to sit next to one of the many assorted flavors of ghetto my job has to offer. By flavor I mean white, I hear you don’t have to be black to be considered ghetto. I’m learning a lot there, For example: I found out that synthesized heroin makes taking peoples’ orders for over priced pizza a truck-load of fun. I’m also still working at my previous job, being the loyal bitch of many, many Asian people. I’ve worked at this place for going on 6 years now, and no matter how hard I try I always end up coming back here. It’s a safety net of sorts. I get to spend my day sorting through other peoples’ half eaten food, and dirty dishes, while Asians buzz around me and continuously fuck with what I’m trying to do. I’m actually (at this point in my article) writing from one of out dining room tables. I came in 2 hours early today so I could try to climb up on the stove and scrub the grease off the panels above. The cherry on top of all of that is that

this job is 40 miles away from where I live, so I have to stay here over night, as opposed to wasting the gas to go home. I usually stay with a friend of mine down here, and for a long while it was a consistent sure thing that I could stay. That was until his intensely hormonal girlfriend lost her shit at me the day after helping her with her baby shower shit. That was a quite a few weeks ago, and she still won’t see me, or even talk to me. Now I’m still allowed to stay at their place, I just have to wake up super early, so that I can leave before she wakes up. Leaving me to play loaner and find someone who is awake and in the mood to play host while I mooch their wifi to download Rosetta Stone and the new episodes of Dexter. That tends to make my day more exhausting, and always inspires me to come to work early, so I can spend my evening wandering around, chain smoking, finding random things to do until I can go home and check out for the day. All that being said, If you would’ve asked me 3 weeks ago,I would have told you that I needed a job and would work 40 hours a week, and still manage to juggle the other job. Now 3 weeks later, I hate the newest job, I’ve never had a job negatively affect me in such a short span of time, and I’m still playing Asian slave labor bitch. The only days off I get are when I call in sick to job number 2 or tell them I need to work my other job, just so I can have a second to breathe. It’s not all bad, with working so much I can’t help but feel good about the fact that real money is flowing in, and my time and effort pays off to a degree, and the fact that I’m not spending 95% of my time sitting around wanting something to do. The last few days I’ve wanted nothing more than to just spend the day watching an entire movie franchise and putting narcotics in my face hole. That’s about all the bitching I can do, no one cares about the actual interesting things that’ve been going on lately, like tweaker fights and New Orleans during hurricane season, and if you do, you chose the wrong time to take interest in what I’m writing. Maybe next time I’ll actually put some effort in and tell a true tale of ass-kickory. Sorry for wasting the 10+ minutes it took to read this all, on the bright side of that wasted time, there’s now a significantly less amount of white space on this page. I can be proud of that, I usually set my bar low anyway.


Bliss Sparkly you remind me of someone I used to know your ways and the ways I know I could have you have had you in ways we both know we have known and we crave... but we are here today in different ways indifferent needs met and yet... and yet... wanting. you will always lick my appetite for something I used to know something I want to hold but will never be sure of something I crave when I am uncertain yet certain I am wanted and Loved so Loved. so Loved. so Loved.


The man with the green hat She nasty daddy where pink meet tip she hesitate to let it slip she downright dirty clean to the bone she nasty daddy she make me moan .... Like this one which I just gave a taste of?

Daniel Jones the buttons on her blue jeans snapped like drunk-me at a bar fight. i saw the shock of what she is, the beauty of who she is. i wandered into what could be and found a dark path with leveled rocks of lipstick stain path along it’s edge. her shirt came off with the audacity of a bullfighter’s cape. effort was nonexistent, failing to even survive. her lips traveled my ways, demanding the return glancing of flesh. i obliged, knowingly. i danced on her song and fell into her lover’s poise like drops of rain from a darkened cloud

mr.ficklebritches the last time I was ignored the last time I thought things would make sense when suddenly, secretively instead the rugs are pulled over my head and I’m left whispering empty whistling until the teeth ache and my gums plead for you to stop breaking every transluscent delusion mistaken for a dream

you come to change these inevitable sacrifices and then you laugh at me some more so what could you possibly expect from a bleeding wound? nothing at all nothing at all

and I swear it’s not from the tears or your absence (but I’m lying of course) II. It happens when I linger between the bed sheets and the wrinkled piles of sheet music (those horribly crafted ballads of our socalled romance) reminiscing over the strange way the paper slips through my fingertips and crinkles in my palms (avoiding direct thoughts of you—of your laughter, glee over creating such a lovely art for me, or so I thought) III. Paper never burned so good in the open flames of slowburning anger and the prickling disdain emanating from my eyes IV. (i miss you) V. I fashion crooked airplanes from the dredges of our past and ignore the violent pangs striking beneath every note and every rest

Blank pages/spilled ink this world is so full of all sorts of men the stoners and lawyers the lovers, the friends the haters, the movers the knowing, the spent but of all of these creatures there’s one king in that pen the man who knows true love and has true love to lend but that’s just the guys there are women here too and it just wouldn’t be right to not give them their due there’s the lasses and hussies the peggy’s and the sue’s those uncultured and ill mannered and the sweet “how do you do’s?” so with one thing in common this yearning for love I ask of you all just who do you love? just which is your type and for whom do you wish when you lay wide awake who’s lips would you kiss?

Ethiel Silhouette I have seen her kind heart fret upon a flickering wick — watching it wanting to let out and ignite someone else’s candle ‘til it’s blown back to their home

Somnolent Girl I. My vision is clouding,

too loud

Guy Debord

You are too loud, she tells me. Well, go downstairs, is what she first told me. Mike and I want to move into the bedroom. All right, get laid, hope it makes you feel good. I’m going to play some guitar to hope I don’t hear some good, carnal noises. Hey, quit that, Mike is right above you in the living room, trying to get some sleep. But…weren’t you getting jiggy with it? why doesn’t he want to snuggle or something? It’s fine. She came down here, and said some other things that are kind of annoying, even if it’s kind of true, from her perspective. I’m a loser, on the way to being a loser. I don’t do anything, I’m content with not doing anything. And so on. Oh yeah, I can’t pass a piss test, and any job worth having requires passing a piss test. And so on. I do need to find something to make my own, though. I always feel this way, that if I can find something to put my mark on, it would solve a few things. And, I don’t really want to join into something, I’d rather take something, and make it my own. Of course, I have been talking a lot of volunteering somewhere, I feel like that’s just along the way. The time for the mark, perhaps, isn’t yet. Hmm, that’s something I’ve never felt before, but really, I’m always telling people to wait for it, you know, but I haven’t really. Felt it. many years have unraveled, leading up to today, heh. Someday, many more years will have passed by. I shouldn’t worry so much about “getting stuck in

something I don’t like.” Or at all, actually. Gosh, there have been a number of bangs upstairs. I wish I could file a noise complaint, or something, get something done about something around here every once in a while. Once upon a time there was this story, and it told it well. It was very unique in character, and fascinating in its depth and insights. When it was told, it always shined through as itself. That’s not true. When people told the story, it got mucked up and took on a different life. Let’s leave them out of this. The story went on to affect many things in many varieties of life. Dunno why. It was an intense story. Yeah, I really am riding a skateboard. It’s not that hardcore.

Mmmm... uncle zed’s baby makin’ juice. Republican’s love hurricanes & getting blown behind truck stop dumpsters. You need more hellbound antics in your life. I hope she doesn’t abduct me to a strange bar, gives me her car keys & then randomly disappears. Again. We have a bunch of crazy people who clean up real good. “A lot of people sleep late you know.” ‘Like who?’ “Putin.” That’s not fair!! I wanna have 18 abortions!

So interesting and so perceptive; now, let’s fight with knives. I don’t know how many times I need to tell you, “how many bees fit in my mouth” is not a good game to play.

Valium and Thievery Corporation are not conducive to me staying awake at work.

I can’t get any work done because all I can think about it 1) Tacos, and 2) How much I want tacos

Alligators could be very gentle lovers. We don’t know.

If you’re ever in a situation where someone has to say, “You know, urine is completely sterile,” maybe it’s time to re-evaluate some choices.

If I live to be 30 then it better be because my mind has been put into a robot that can only murder. “Jesus: he’ll light your bed on fire.” Only one thing on Earth makes me afraid: When my rostral anterior cingulate cortex fails to dampen hyperactivity in my amygdala. Unreduced fractions make baby Pythagoras cry. She thinks your pie tastes like vitamins. Why am I just now finding out about hotchickseatingpizza.com?


For the record, I wasn’t the one who said the hot tub was full of AIDS. You now have tapeworms from touching this. You’re welcome. Just shove it in there. It’s better that way.



You don’t wanna drink a lot of hand sanitizer. Just trust me on this one. She killed it right by the pool table. If I had access to rohypnol, I’d just use it to put people to sleep so they’d stop talking. Why is everyone afraid of midgetfarm.com? My new phone automatically capitalizes both Honky and Whitey. Theories as to why?

“If You Wash a Hooker”, the little know sequel to “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie”.

I specifically ordered bluefin tuna last night because its about to be declared endangered. Does this make me a bad person?

“I’m gonna get a grape soda” ‘You know the vending machine doesn’t take welfare checks, right?’



“Oh illustrious skin peddler! Will you thrust thine horse all the way home to your haus & put thine pequeno headlights away?”

Sergeant Heartstomp - THE GARDENER Madame Super Duper - MISSING IN ACTION Killer Jack Attack - THE GAFFER Peanut Scholar - COLLEGIATE ACTIVIST Butchcat-Bitchmouth - THE EGO

“Step 1; set time. Step 2; watch & listen [pop!]; Step 3; Remove top.”









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