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September 2009

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First Date

September 29, 2009


Friends=losers

So, after five months of singledom, I finally went on my first “date.” Ugh… just typing that word sends shivers down my labia. I’m not really a “date” person—movies, hand holding, sober conversationit’s just not my thing. I prefer to just fuck someone in a toilet somewhere, then if it turns out half OK consider doing in again, like, in a bed or something. You know, true romance and all that. This “date”, however, was slightly different. Let me start earlier…

A couple months back I put up an ad up on Gumtree.com searching for freak lovers—deaf guys, guys with slight genetic defects, guys who look like scarecrow AIDS victims—you know, the norm. I instantly got loads of replies, but none of them seemed like the right freak for me. However, after being constantly bullied by my friends for not having the guts to actually meet any of these cyber admirers, I finally gave in and organized a face-to-face with the freak of my choice.

I chose Taylor. Taylor’s twenty-six, from London, and has cerebral palsy. I guess to some this could be a turn-off, but for me it just made him seem more, I don’t know…sexy? Weird? Whatever, those words are basically synonymous in my opinion.

Taylor and I had been emailing for several weeks before we met. He’s a physics major at UCL, is into Weezer (hot), and says that though he’s had sex before, it’s not something he cares about all that much. Now, I definitely consider myself a sexual person, but I’m also completely aware that not giving a fuck about sex can be really beautiful. It’s like by not wanting to fuck you instantly transcend the standard rules of attraction, and just become this weird, unattainable object of ultimate desire. For me at least.

Taylor and I met in Regents Park. He’s amazing—tall, floppy brown hair, an impossibly skinny body and lots of freckles. Thinking back now it’s actually hard for me to remember exactly what he looks like. This always happens to me when I’m really into someone—I find it difficult to recall the minor details of their physical appearance. It’s like their beauty has the ability to erases my senses a little. Weird.

Our date consisted of little more than sitting and talking, and for the most part I wasn’t even really listening to what Taylor was saying, but I was completely memorized by him—the way his body jerked and contorted, the way his front teeth overlapped, and the subtle way in which he smelled—sort of like flowers, mixed with something less obvious. Gasoline maybe? Who cares. More importantly, we made out. And it was really hot. And as it happened I suddenly felt all out of it, there but not there, as cheesy and boring as I know that sounds. It was just so… I don’t know. I hate this dreamy bullshit.

But now, as with every boy I date, Taylor is going to read this and think I’m way too intense, or that I have no respect for his privacy, or that this is all some big joke, and he’ll never want to see me again for as long as I live. I’m cursed?


Our living room. Note the fabulous decor.

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Whatever Stan

September 26, 2009

It’s been nearly a month since my intern Stan moved into Squallyoaks. He’s cool or whatever, although lately he’s been acting less like my personal slave and more like a friend/servant to everyone in the house. Rather than waiting on me hand and foot (which is what we originally agreed), he’s just been getting drunk, making friends and getting sexy with the other housemates. Why am I unable to maintain any position of power?

The other problem with Stan is that even though he’s nineteen, he looks twelve. This freaks me out a little, as it makes me wonder whether I could possibly be into, uh… kids? Like sexually I mean. I know that probably sounds weird and perverted, but Stan just looks so… I don’t know… new. It’s really amazing. I can’t explain it.

The fact that Stan looks so young has been gnawing at a conscience I didn’t even know I had. Like for example, when I see him sprawled half naked across the living room floor, eyes rolled back in his head, smacked out on fuck-knows-what, I begin to ask myself things like, ”Is this wrong?” and “Is his sudden and extreme drug use my fault?” Thankfully though, those worries normally only last a few seconds before more pressing thoughts like I WANT HIM take over, and all attempts to be moral fade into oblivion.

But whatever, who cares? He’s an update from Stan:

Hi there. Stan the intern here. Sup? I’m locked in Carlie’s bedroom because for some gay reason the doors lock from the outside, and no one is home/sober enough to hear my cries for help, so I thought I’d write a quick update on my life at the Slutever HQ.

Shit has been rando since I started interning here. So far I’ve had sexual relations with several/almost all of Carly’s fellow squatmongers… some of which are suitably attractive even when I’m not on drugs. Just yesterday the prostitute who lives in the kitchen got naked and cornered me on the stairs and asked me to slap her several times in the face, which I did. She then led me to her bedroom where we had a threesome with the lesbian pirate with the weird accent (Scottish?) who sleeps on a cushion in the hallway. Given the frequency of couplings amongst everyone in the house, the inevitability of a deformed squat baby is one I anticipate with great fear and reservation.

In celebration of my newfound sexual closesness with the loveable wasted losers that inhabit Squallyoaks, here is my ranking of them from best to crappiest minus the ones I can’t remember/am not sure if they actually live here…

1. The prostitute who lives in the kitchen – Because she gives me hand-jobs in exchange for bus fare

2. Darren the guy who was in that band – Contributed to something called new rave (which I can forgive) but is otherwise quite personable, teaches me how to get mad vag, and knows about current events that extend beyond Jordan and Peter and their retarded black kid

3. Simon the guy who was in that other band – I’m straight I think but there’s defo something going on between us and I’m not gonna say no just yet

4. Amy – Definitely the most boneable chick in the house, probs because she actually showers and wears clothes not from Salvation Army reject bins and doesn’t charge for sex (yet)

5. Bunny – Looks like he might be dying so I give him sympathy points… Is he a boy or a girl? Not sure.

6. Green haired gay kid – Funny, always buys Heat magazine

7. Ollie – The autistic guy who talks a lot and keeps shoving his dick in my face, thus not surprising when recently revealed that he may have raped someone once (he was married to her though so I guess it’s fine?)

8. Grey haired gay guy – Bitchy but has a TV with cable

9. Carlie – Sometimes she’s a bitch, makes me sleep on the floor after sex

10. Pirate Girl – She scares me… is she drunk or just like that? Also she carved my name into her chest the other day and like I don’t even know her. Apparently she does that a lot.


Ollie with his gross cock out, as always.

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Free Love

September 22, 2009


Our new squat: Acid House

I’ve been feeling slightly out of touch with my emotions recently. It’s as if I’ve lost the ability to decipher one emotion from the next, and now everything just blends into one confused mess of sexual desire and general angst. I can’t tell if I’m happy or sad, depressed or elated, if I’m in love with someone of if I fucking hate them. It makes living a coherent existence somewhat impossible.

I think I’ve been doing too many drugs recently. When I’m high thoughts normally repressed tend to spill into the realm of conscious cerebral activity, and I begin to question things I otherwise wouldn’t give a fuck about. Like… is there a difference between liking someone a lot and loving them? Is it the same to love someone and to be in love? Is thinking someone’s amazing the same as wanting to have sex with them? Can you have sex with someone and have it mean nothing? Does getting with both boys and girls make you bisexual, or does it just make you horny? I’m thoroughly clueless.

It doesn’t help that walking into our new squat is like falling through a black hole into the sixties. There’s so much peace and love going on it actually makes me want to puke. Everyone gets with everyone—gay, straight, twosomes, threesomes, spin the bottle—no one’s picky. It’s like we’re all in one giant, ten-way love affair. I mean, I guess it’s fine, but it makes the lines of our relationships slightly vague. And I’m all for casual sex, but there comes a point when too much of it dulls down the action of sex to a place where it’s no longer something you do with someone you love—or even with someone you’re sexually attracted to—but rather just something you do with people who are there and willing (or who are equally as wasted as you are). Ugh, we’re probably all crawling with diseases.

Speaking of the sexually fucked-up, this morning I walked in on Bunny masturbating. He was kneeing naked on the floor of his bedroom, staring at a piece of paper with a bunch of weird symbols written on it, and making a strange gargling noise. At first I just laughed (it was funny), but then I realized it was sort of hot so I sat down on the bed and watched for a while. Bunny’s really beautiful in an end of the world kind of way, and watching him jerk-off is oddly spiritual. It’s like his physical appearance goes beyond sexual and lands somewhere in the realm of, I don’t know, the otherworldly? After a few minutes he stopped, looked up at me angrily and yelled, “The spell won’t work if you’re watching!” and made me leave. He later informed me that he was performing a ritual, and that the paper he was staring at so intensely was a sigil—some sort of magical symbol one makes to signify a specific desire. Apparently sigils are charged by masturbatorial energy (or so he says), which explains the jerking-off. Whatever I don’t care I just think he’s a freak.

The point is, I’ll never find a boyfriend in this confused state—where I can’t even decide who I like, what I want, or why I want it. Or what the term “boyfriend” even means, for that matter. But then again, do I even want a boyfriend? Do I even like boys? Ugh, I wish I could switch my brain off. I mean on.

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Mother

September 17, 2009


Pic by Matthew Stone

My mother doesn’t get me—that I didn’t go to university, that I live in a squat, that I write a blog detailing my love of casual sex and hard drugs, that I don’t have a “real” job, that I’m an atheist—these are all things she disapproves of fervently. And as any concerned mother should, she’s constantly reminding me of this fact in the form of lengthy, condemning emails detailing how much of a fuck up I am. Below are excerpts from some of her recent psychotic, Jesus-fueled rants. This is the shit I have to put up with.

- Karley, I went on the Vice blog today and I am seriously afraid to read your articles sometimes. I feel like whenever I enter that site I see something about vaginas, and I know that’s your favorite subject (????) so I don’t read the article in fear that you wrote it! I would really love it if you did not write about penises or vaginas! Ok talk to you later! Love, Mom

- I don’t want to seem like a creep by Rob [my little brother] had Facebook open the other day so I took a quick look at your page, and I’m worried about what you say on your “wall.” When I looked you had written something about thinking you might be gay. Is that meant to be funny? I don’t understand your humor sometimes.

- Let Jesus back into your heart.

- This clubnight Girlcore that you do, is it true that this is a lesbian night or is that just for show?

- There are a few things that have been bothering me lately and I need to get some things off my chest. It bothers me unbelievably that the one thing that you choose to write about is “dirty things.” Is that who you really are? Is that because you feel nobody would read your writing if it wasn’t all about sex? I know you know it bothers me. I think it’s only natural that it would bother me and Dad and anybody who loves you. Can you at least try and understand how it makes me feel?

- I just want to know what you are.

- I can’t hold me head up in the supermarket anymore because I feel like the whole town is looking at me and judging me because of your blog. Don’t you have any respect for how your actions reflect on me and Daddy?

- You’re not smoking dope are you?

- You are twenty three years old. Why is it that you are so “into” a nineteen year old boy who looks twelve? Also, you say that he acts “crazy” and that obviously does not make me feel good. It seems like instead of getting more mature as you age you are acting more crazy and talking about getting drunk and having hangovers all the time. Please set me straight if I’m wrong, but can you see why I am so worried about you?

- There has been lots of coverage in the press about HPV recently and it makes me so nervous! Are you making sure to use protection?

- I called you three times yesterday and you didn’t pick up. Please respond to this email and let me know you’re not dead.

When does one reach the point in life where everything we do, say, think, dream, breath isn’t done without the nagging feeling that it’s going to get us in shit with our parents?

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Wasted.

September 15, 2009


Kerri

Eww I feel like I’ve been drunk for a hundred years. I spent Thursday through to Monday consuming a grotesque amount of alcohol and drugs, and now my brain feels like it’s swimming in a pool of battery acid. Some strange shit has been going down over the past four days though. I think it’s something to do with the air in our new squat…

Spent Thursday night at home snorting ketamine and tattooing the name KANE into my squatmate Kerri’s left breast. Kerri recently became single and has since grown creepily obsessed with a druggie loser named Kane. She met him in a field at Offset Festival while she was on acid, then spent the following week stalking him on the internet. She eventually managed to get his phone number off a mutual friend, after which she texted him saying, “Hey, it’s Kerri from the field! What’s your address? I have a really cool mixed tape I want to send you!” Talk about embarrassing. When he neglected to reply she followed with another text that read, “YOU’VE CHANGED.” Remember this is a guy she met once for approximately four minutes.

So obviously the logical next step in this series of shameful events would be to get the name of the man who thinks you’re a psycho stalker tattooed into your flesh. We used a sewing needle and Biro inc for the procedure. The first few minutes were hard because Kerri kept writhing around and screaming in agony, but after an adequately sized line of K she was fine.

On Saturday my intern Stan and I held the second casting for my soon-to-be gay porn. I think a few of the boys auditioning were slightly freaked out by the heinous state of our squat and its wasted inhabitants, but it was worth scaring a few teenage boys for life in order watch hotties make out all day. Sexy.

On Saturday night, during a house warming party for our new home, Kerri and I somehow managed to accidentally lock ourselves in her bedroom with a random French guy we’d never met. We were trapped inside for eight hours before a locksmith finally came and freed us. After the first hour we got pretty bored, so naturally we did what any three wasted people trapped in a small room would do—we had a threesome. I can’t remember much of it but apparently I spent most of the following hours lying naked on the floor screaming “You’re so hot it’s gross!” into the French guy’s face, and downing shots of vodka. To make the situation even stranger, French Guy had a weird foot fetish and kept trying to put my feet in his mouth. I found it kind of gross at first, but he was French and looked like a junkie AIDS victim (aka my ideal man), so I let it slide.

Around hour seven of the lock-in we all got really dehydrated. Thankfully my flatmate Dom came to our rescue by tying a water bottle to our cat’s neck and forcing it to walk along the narrow ledge between his window to ours. At one point the bottle rolled off the end of the ledge and we were pretty certain the cat was going to fall four stories to its death, but it ended up being fine.

So, like, all in all a quality weekend. I think.