Monthly Archives

October 2011


A Day in the Life: Sandy Kim

October 29, 2011
Self portrait of Sandy and her bf, Colby

More new new new stuff on Slutever! Today is the start of a new series called A Day in the Life, where I’m enlisting lots of amazing, cool, talented, interesting, weird/hot people to document a day in their life and share it with us. Exciting, right? The first installment is by the amazing photographer, Sandy Kim! I’ve been a fan of Sandy’s for years, ever since the first time I looked at her blog and fell totally in love with her intensely intimate (and at times gross) documentary photography. Her photos tend to involve bodily fluids and tall skinny boys with long hair–two of my all time favorite things! I finally got to meet her earlier this year on a photoshoot with Ryan McGinley, where he had us make-out with each other naked on various rooftops around NYC for 5 hours. It was the perfect first meeting, if you ask me.

Hi, I’m Sandy. Last week I went to LA to visit my parents. This is what happened…

Mom, Dad and I drive to Mount Maldy to fish in a trout pond.

We catch two trouts and eat it as sashimi!

Around 5pm I convince my mom to let me drive to meet Liza and Matt at their recording studio. Their band is called Starr.

At 9 pm I drop the car back off at my mom’s and walk over to Liza and Matt’s apartment. On the way I see this neon light that says ‘dwit gol mok’ in Korean, which translates to ‘back alley’ in English. I’m not sure why I took a picture of this sign. I guess I just liked the way it looked.

Liza’s house!

She takes me to her roof.

Liza lives at the Gay Lord. Supposedly it’s haunted.

There is an epic view of LA from the Gaylord roof.

We go back downstairs to their apartment and hang out for a while.

Liza and I decide to go meet David, Nicky, Rhett, Marlon, and Mercedes at the pool hall right around the corner.

Got the the pool hall but the game was already over so we walked to 7-11 to pick up beers and saw this cool sign on the way.

Friends buying beer.

David waits outside of 7-11.

Mercedes Mercedes Mercedes!


We head to the next party at Aaron brown’s house. I finally meet his gf Natasha.

Aaron Brown


Drunk Laura and maybe Brian is drunk too.

We attempt to go the next party at 4am. Obviously a bust. Fuck you I’m going home! Goodnight!


My Boobs in Purple Mag

October 28, 2011

Exciting news! I’m making a video series for Purple magazine! I’m really excited because I’m a huge fan of the mag (it being the sexiest and most nudity friendly fashion magazine around), and because for years I’ve read Olivier Zahm’s blog and dreamed of being one of the many hot, naked chicks he photographs during his after-hours, hotel adventures. #DreamBig

Anyway, from now on I’ll be making a video each month for the SEX section of the newly launched, Purple TV. The first video, which is an homage to Brigid Berlin’s tit prints, can be seen HERE. I made it with my friend, the artist Phoebe Collings-James. The future Slutever videos will be quite different to this one. I’m not going to give away too much, but there will def be a lot of DIRTY TALK involved. I’ll leave it at that.


Ask Slutever, AKA Ask Bunny (Part 2)

October 26, 2011
Bunny: So beautiful I could puke

Bunny is in New York at the moment! Yay! We’ve been having LOADS of fun staring at our respective laptop screens in close proximity. Yesterday he took a break from Googling pictures of syphilis and writing letters to prison inmates to answer a couple of your pressing questions. You can read Bunny’s last Ask Slutever contribution HERE.

Dear Slutever, My boyfriend is friends with a female to male tranny couple. I of course have no problem with this. However, he thinks I’m being a total bitch and nosy for asking how they fuck each other. I would never ask them this question for fear of offending them, but I often ask my boyfriend if he thinks they use strap-ons or if they still utilize their vaginas and tits. Since they became men with the hope to date other men, but are still dating women, technically, I’m not sure the logistics of their fucking. What do you think? Annie, Berlin

Bunny: As a pre-pubescent gender ambiguous college freshman majoring in “Women’s Studies”, I was actively recruited during orientation week to join this GLBTQ club in which pretty much all of the friends I made there were transgender because they all initially assumed I too was transitioning–from female to male (lol). I have fond memories of those times: vegan barbecues, breast binding, Sleater-Kinney fanzines, hormone injections, bike rides in the park, etc. In fact, a candid shot of me walking arm in arm with several shirtless FTMs showing off their top surgery scars during the 2005 annual Boston Dyke March was featured on the cover of a free weekly queer newsletter under the headline “TRANNY BOYS TAKE PRIDE”–my first modeling job! The point is, hanging with peeps like these at such a young age totally enriched my understanding of just how broad the spectrum of gender and sex can be. While some of my friends exhibited the traits associated with one gender but had the physical body associated with another and were seeking to rectify that difference, others identified as something less defined and more unique–either between male and female, or completely outside of that binary. And just as can be exemplified by the fact that your friends are two FTMs dating each other, being transgender at no point designates a uniformity of tastes or turn ons with regard to sexual orientation. Girls, boys, bodies, whatever. It’s personal, yo! 

Amongst the FTMs I knew–those friends of mine who were specifically transitioning their bodies from female to male–some had undergone the aforementioned top surgery–a bilateral mastectomy in which the breasts are removed and the chest is re-contoured to look like a male’s–while others bound their breasts down. Some had begun hormone replacement therapy, by which male secondary sex characteristics develop and thereby allow the person to more inconspicuously “pass” as the gender they identify with, and some were considering having full sex reassignment surgery, which involves a hysterectomy and a genital reconstructive procedure–either through the use of hormones to enlarge the clitoris, or via a skin graft and surgical insertion of an erectile prosthetic. Amongst these friends, all of them frequently reiterated how psychologically necessary it was for their physical bodies to match their gender identity, while other transgender people I knew were content to remain somewhere more ambiguous without the surgical modification of their body. Again–personal!

So, in figuring out how your friends fuck–well, first of all, it’s possible that one or both of them have had a complete sex reassignment surgery and therefore the logistics are less difficult to imagine. But what’s more important to acknowledge here, and the more likely reason they could potentially get offended if you ask them straight up is that, while your curiosity is in earnest, it inherently presupposes the heterosexist assumption that sex is only legitimate or “real” when it is, simply put, a dick in a hole. Just as our individual identities are ever open to new constructions and configurations, the way we get off with each other physically is open to infinite interpretations and executions. The only right way to do it is to do what feels right. 

Pics @ Kristin Vicari

2. I’m 21 and virgin. I live with a girl who always wants to swap war stories from failed relationships, and whenever we delved into the topic of sex I always gave non-committal responses that implied I was more experienced than I actually was. But tonight she asked me point blank if I’d had sex before and, having always been a shocking improviser, I panicked and told her the truth. I could see the laser beams of judgement shoot out from her eyes onto my forehead! The thing is, I’m not writing to you for advice to get laid, though I clearly need it. What I’m writing for is advice on not giving a shit about what other people think, because it’s what bothers me the most. Deep down, I think I’m okay with it – being a mega virgin – it’s just on those depressing few days when you’re confronted with your reality by other people that you go into a manic hysteria that eventuates to hyperventilating and writing to a person on the internet. Clara, NY

“Giving a shit” and “being judgmental” often go hand in hand. They are also, as far as I’m concerned, two of the least attractive qualities a person can exhibit when it comes to the way he or she behaves socially. I’m not saying you have to stop bathing and start donating money to NAMBLA as a means of proving how non-judgmental you are, but when your roommate judges you, it’s because she gives a shit, and is therefore probably just as insecure as you are. Take note! 

Everyone feels insecure and stuff, but I find that insecurity can be mitigated with a healthy dose of self-critical reflection and honesty. When you stop pretending to be something you’re not, you feel better and forget why you cared so much that you had to lie in the first place. If, however, you’re still edging towards hysterical shit-giving about what she thinks, consider first that you may be misreading her facial expressions and she’s actually just stoned and thinking about nothing while staring into your forehead. If so, get a grip. 

But if she is indeed still laser beaming you looks of disgust and confusion like your face is the “Fashion Police” page in an issue of Us Weekly–it’s time to tell her to get the fuck up from the high school cafeteria table of futureless bitches and move on with her boring life. In order for someone’s opinion to count with regard to the way I live my life, I have to respect what they say and think and do in the first place. Not only could I not give less of a fuck that, say, a group of frat bros at that BU party back in 2006 called me a “skinny jeans wearing fag”–I remain similarly unaffected that it’s now 2011 and they’re all attempting to stuff their giant thighs into the very same pair. Life is stupid like that.

So: Do you respect what your roommate thinks? Is her presence necessary in your life if it is only there to make you feel inferior? If not, it’s time to pack up and find some people to surround yourself with who will make you feel totally at ease for being exactly who you are–that is, a big virgin. I hear purity is in next season, anyways.


No Sex in the Tampon Room

October 25, 2011

Below is the second guest post written by my friend, the fabulous sex blogger Sugar Tits. (If you have yet to read her first post, you can do so HERE. #raunchy) This post has prompted me to seriously consider becoming a stripper.

Arriving last night worried about my period, I whisper to the Blonde girl for advice. She laughs. “Just hide the string and change the tampon often, but be careful when using the bathroom.” We have a separate bathroom from the clients, disguised as a closet, to which the owners recently removed the lock, in attempts to “prevent drug use,” aka eliminate all our privacy. I’ve already gotten walked-in on at least ten times. “Don’t worry, they’re all perverts here, you could be covered in shit and they’d probably like it.” With thirty minutes to go, we prepare via rubbing ourselves in baby oil, glitter, powder, makeup, tons of perfume and fruity body sprays. Cigarettes are being passed around, as well as shots of cheap tequila from a flask, provided by the Mexican girl who looks like Eva Mendes would look, if playing a role of a girl in a gang. I take a shot and the Brazilian turns around, to give me fashion advice.

“Don’t you have other undies?”

“Why? What’s wrong with these?”

“They’re too big, you need to wear thongs!”

She’s referring to my high-waisted, black lace panties, from American Apparel.

“But they’re transparent! I mean, they’re sexy, in a 50s pin-up kind of way?”

“Yeah, well we aren’t in the 50s.”

“Leave her alone!” Eva Mendes defends me. “It’s important to have our own style, like this she’s different, she’s like our little Gaga.” She puts her arm around me, and at that moment, I’m so happy I could cry.

I’ve already gotten used to sitting on strange men. I try to think of them as sweaty chairs. Most are pretty simple-minded and easily put at ease, turned on, and persuaded to buy drinks. I count, in my head, my money, as we raise our glasses to “cheers.”  My dancing is also improving-and it would be fun, if not for the DJ.

A big, bald jackass, it’s the DJ who calls us each up to strip, yelling our names over the microphone. He also tells us when to remove our tops, bottoms and get off stage. Meanwhile, he comments on our tits, asses, pussies, makes fun of our weight and suggests to lewd behavior. And of course he’s racist. He calls us to dance based on ethnicity, I’ve noticed, as the Russians always dance together, followed by the black girls, before the South Americans, the Italians, the Eastern Europeans. I’m the only “American,” so for me, he plays Britney. The black girls dance to Rihanna, South Americans get Shakira and the Italians get pretty much whatever they want. Then he makes his “jokes,” calling Eva Mendes “pregnant,” telling the Romanian to brush her hair and ordering the black girls to “smile,” because “it’s too dark to see them” when they don’t. The clients laugh, and the girls pretend to. I fantasize about ways he could burn.

With one hour left, I decide to relax, knowing I’ve already made enough money. Enough to afford a taxi home and get some groceries today. Walking around, I see an attractive young man, next to an empty seat.  So I come over and fall into it. “I’m so tired,” I say, to myself, not caring for his attention.

We start talking, but I don’t put my legs on his. I don’t play with his hair or rub his crotch. I don’t sit on him. I have my arms and my legs crossed and keep to myself while looking ahead. But I’m starting to like him, what he says is smart, rich in a Slavic accent.

“I not bought you drinks, and you still talking to me-don’t you need to working?”

“I don’t care, there’s like forty minutes left till we close, at most I could make like, five more euros. Anyway, I actually like talking to you, so I’ll just keep doing that, unless you mind. You don’t need to buy me shit.”

That makes him happy. So he buys me three drinks, and pays for a Prive’-eighty euros for just fifteen minutes. I give him “what he paid for,” getting fully naked, letting him touch me everywhere, and suck on my tits. I’m turned on, and if it weren’t for my tampon I probably wouldn’t have kept him from shoving his big, Romanian fingers inside me.

The light turns green, our fifteen is up, and it’s time for us to close.

“How are you get home?”


“Don’t pay for taxi, if you want, I wait for you with car outside.”

“Ok, but I still need to change, and wait to get paid.”

“Not problem.”

Breaking every Common Sense  Stripper Rule in the book, I get in his car, let him buy me coffee and makeout with me at my front door. He wants me to stay longer but I insist I must go-my instant noodles are waiting.


The Gift

October 20, 2011

“What are you doing?”


“Come and fuck me.”




“But why?”

“What do you mean why? You’re insatiable. I’ve given you The Gift twice in the past 12 hours.”

“Yeah but I’m still horny.”

“Look, I have a lot of work to do, and I can’t get anything done with you around, constantly trying to drain me of my life force.”

“I don’t want all of it. Just, like, a mouthful.”

“I’ve given you too much of it already. You’re ungrateful.”

“That’s not true. I value each and every time you allow me to ingest your semen, whether it be orally, intravaginally or anally.”


“So wait… are you saying I should just masturbate?

“Did you know that Carlos Castaneda had magical sperm?”

“Um, no.”

“He said that his magic sperm went straight to a woman’s brain, transforming it into a superior organ. His semen was so precious that he would make his lovers put cotton inside themselves after sex, to ensure none of it dripped out.”

“That’s… interesting.”

“Yes, well, he and I have something in common. Not to mention my semen has antidepressant effects.”

“Right, I agree completely, which is why I think it’s unfair that you’re being so selfish with it.”

“I’m done with this conversation. Are you in the mood for a quick vocab quiz?”

“Not particularly.”

Photo by Matthew Stone