Bunny (and friend Heathcote) modeling (his fave hobby) in Vogue Homme Japan by Ben Toms
For this installment of Ask Slutever I’ve called upon my BFF Bunny to answer some of your very important questions. Most avid readers of this blog know Bunny because I’ve written about him like 500 million times. For those who don’t, he’s kind of like this ambiguously gendered freak with no definitive sexuality, who barely ever has sex because he thinks touching people is gross or something. He once told me that he never watches porn, and on the rare occasion that he masturbates he looks in the mirror. Hot? He’s also some kind of weird genius, and I love him, so for those reasons you should probably blindly accept every word that escapes his mouth as absolute truth. This is what Bunny had to say:
Hi there! Bunny here. Now, I definitely don’t know anything about anything–especially when it comes to love and sex, which is a feeling and activity, respectively, that I engage in infrequently. But, taking a cue from my mother who has recently emerged at age 60 with new, Angel Network-encouraged, post-divorce career aspirations of becoming something called a “Life Coach” in spite of the plentiful evidence available (in the form of empty wine bottles and multiple, highlighted copies of The Seat of Your Soul, all regularly found strewn about on the floor next to her bed) that suggests she ought to hire one of her own before soliciting her questionable existence-coping tactics to anyone else, I too love giving advice when it is clearly so inappropriate for me to be doing so. So, to start: Don’t do drugs, like, all the time, go to class, like, some of the time, and, most importantly, avoid spending your teens hanging out with photographer-slash-DJs and feeling important because of it. Believe me, you’re not. And neither are they! Cool!
I was fairly shy and friendless in my younger years (I did, however, also have braces from the summer before eighth grade until the summer after senior year and was known to voluntarily wear kimonos to school on a regular basis because I was “really into Japan”) and I can confidently say, if anyone was romantically interested in me then I never had any idea. I’m still like that, really, but if someone makes it clear, and I mean VERY clear, that they have a thing for me, I will often, as can be partly attributed to a lifetime of social awkwardness and anxiety, reciprocate interest in the person initially simply because they’ve shown an interest in me. But we being a painful combination of shy, male, and mildly retarded means you’ve probably got to make the first move and if we reject you it’s not because we want to reject you, it’s because we’re skinny, scared, autistic losers that, as a condition of our condition, require you to be persistent and try again. Once you finally get him to go out with you, I suggest a healthy application of alcohol to the situation. After about an hour, if I know me–I mean, uh, him–he’ll be so receptive and at ease and in love with you for still sitting with him after an entire hour that he’ll probably already be going down on you badly in the bathroom or puking on your shoes or confessing something really fucked up about his childhood between drunk, snotty sobs. If you can stand it, then congratulations! This is the rest of your life.
London is a majestic shithole just brimming with big ass churches, museums and various other cool old buildings undermined by the consistent presence of hideous British people standing in front them, screaming the word “cunt” over and over again while publicly intoxicated on cider on any given weekday morning. It’s the best. But, for the young London tourist wanting to experience something a little more nuanced on their trip rather than the typical, forgettable fare offered by a random ferris wheel and a whatevs clock tower and ten thousand gift shops owned by a seemingly related group of Indian men committed to selling the hell out of the same set of Prince Wonkface wedding towels, here are some alternative suggestions…
Do you have a face and wear alright clothes? Then you should model! In London, literally everyone is a model. Like, even super fugly, short, fat people over the age of 30 with weird heads are models. I don’t know why more former ANTM contestants don’t come here, they’d be huge! All you have to do is be vaguely cool, and to be vaguely cool all you have to do is have a famous parent or be in a CBB (Crap British Band) or, even better, both. If that’s not you, don’t worry, just wear your best facial piercings and go to Brick Lane and wait there and exist for five to ten minutes and by the end of your stay in London you’ll be in a Burberry campaign for sure.
Having someone immediately ejaculate upon seeing you naked sounds like a sort of sweetly gross compliment to me. You should try looking less good naked. Perhaps consider spending this summer developing a rash of some sort. Or shave your pubes into an unarousing shape or design, such as his mother’s face or a fantasy animal’s penis (you should double check to make sure these are unarousing images to him first, btw), and he will surely be so distracted and disturbed that his pants will be pulled back up and your floor/face/whatever left satisfactorily seedless before you can even say Onan-ah-what’s-my-name. Also, consider gaining lots of weight or suicidally cutting the word “PERFECT” into your forearm like that girl in the Pink video. Or, better yet, take on an unattractive personal style such as “mall goth” or “fashion person” and soon he will find you so repulsive that you will be able to avoid the awkwardness of rejecting him entirely. He’ll be sperming all over someone else’s unsuspecting leg in no time!