potential poem titles

the hurricane is fucking up my sex life

i want sex but the only thing in my apartment is a tuna melt

“i feel bad”

i bought coffee with change from my couch: help me i’m poor vol.1

chinese people laugh at my phone

fat and sassy: a way of life

lesbian nightmare festival

if i check-in on foursquare can i get half off my pizza? – help me i’m poor vol.2

who moved my trash pile?

do you have a bag of chips in your purse and how far away are you from me?

triple meat salad

alone

i feel insecure about my arms

why is this fucking person standing so close to me?

vintage laptop

indie laptop

my gym gives out free guacamole… are they trying to sabotage me?

girl dies in ferocious scissoring accident

homeless people think i’m lady gaga

no, YOUR pizza has AIDS

ode to carb relapse

my weave won’t be caught with some stuffed-crust bullshit

maybe i’ll do some leg lifts

hurricane causes multiple cases of fatal grindr withdrawal

no, that’s a rash

i was attacked by some idiot from out here in the projects

i told my stomach if it gets any bigger it has to start chipping in for bills and paying for its own health insurance

eating my feelings: vol.7

there’s an alarm going off inside my lizard brain

nothing matters

what if my ingrown hair…

New Pee Comics

Photo by Sandy Kim

My pee slave, Brad, gave me a couple new comic strips when he came over my apartment yesterday for a golden shower. The deal is that I pee and spit into his mouth, and occasionally kick him in the head or whatever, and in turn he gives me money and specially-made comic strips, all of which are themed around–duh!–urine. My refrigerator door is covered in these things. Brad is cool and stuff, and his comics always make me laugh, but TBH it’s annoying when, after I pee into his mouth, he sometimes starts choking and pukes some of the pee back up onto my floor. It’s like, “Uggghhhh, seriously Brad? Get yourself together.”

Enjoy Brad’s pee comics. Happy Saturday :)

And another one…

Late Twenties

Photo by Richard Kern

I turn 27 in a week, which is tragic. Well, not really. To be honest I gave up caring about getting older after I hit the quarter-century mark (which temporarily destroyed me), because I realized that as you age, you gain more than just some cellulite. You gain some positive things, too. For example: knowledge; confidence; the ability to tell what clothes and hairstyles actually suit you; Facebook friends; the will to work more and be a drunken slob less; success; the confidence to weed-out the shitty people in your life and surround yourself with people who actually care about you and act as a positive influence, be that friends, lovers or even family members (cheesy but true); and ultimately, you just gain the ability to think for yourself. Or, at least this is how aging should affect us. Sometimes it doesn’t work out this way, which is when getting older becomes #tragic and depressing. Thankfully, I think I’m doing reasonably well at most of the things I listed above, although now that I’m officially entering my LATE TWENTIES (aka almost 30 aka old) there are a few things I want to change about my life. First, I’ll tell you a story:

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of interviewing one of my idols, the 91 year old style icon, Iris Apfel. As expected she was extremely nice, smart and funny, but there was one thing in particular that she said that really stuck with me. She said, “Darling, you really are a beautiful girl, but you could do with dressing a bit more more conservatively. You’d look a lot better. You really could be smashing, but you way you dress is, well… let’s put it this way: it’s not elegant.” This, as you can imagine, put me into a state of mild panic. I am not elegant?! I thought. I guess I’d never really thought about it, as I was always less concerned with looking elegant and more concerned with looking, like, “hot”. My response to her was, “But I like wearing tight clothes. It makes me feel sexy.” (I should probably mention that I was not even wearing my trashiest attire. I was dressed in a way I thought appropriate for a professional interview with a 91 year old woman, in a red leather shirt and turtleneck crop-top, which revealed about an inch, or slightly less, of my midriff.) To this Iris responded, “You can wear tight clothes, and you can be sexy, but being sexy is not about being trashy, because that comes across as desperate. I think a little mystery is sexy, and that dressing too revealing reveals something bad about a person.” At this moment, I had an epiphany: I don’t want to come across like a desperate, Kim Kardashian ho who’s constantly dying to be railed. I want to be an elegant person whose overall appearance says, “Hey or whatever, I don’t need your attention because I’m casually aloof about my natural sex appeal. And p.s. you could never sleep with me in a million years.” I’m almost 30, for fuck’s sake.

So… following this moment of revelation I immediately went home and manically threw out all of the trashiest clothes in my closet. This included all of my see-through tops (i.e. 50% of my wardrobe) and things like plastic stripper heels and the $19 mini-dress made of neon pink mock-lace that I wore almost every day this past summer. I then went to Beacons Closet and bought a variety of sweaters and modest blouses, as well as a pair of boots with a sensible, 2.5 inch heel.. Then, still in my state of ‘needing to feel elegant’ panic, I cut five inches off my hair with a pair of those giant Ikea scissors with the red handle, feeling like a shoulder-length bob somehow better exuded elegance than whatever Brigitte-Bardot-copied haircut I had before. The following day, when I asked my friend Ally what she thought of my new hair, she cocked her head sideways and said, “Well, before you had, like, sexy hair, but this is sort of, well… it’s like… I guess you could call it post-sexy?” And I was like, “Damn gurl, I like the sound of that!” Post-sexy: it’s more than just a hairstyle, it’s a way of life.

But moving on, there are some other things about my life that need improving. For one, I want an actual bed frame that stands up off the ground. I’m done with sleeping on the floor like a peasant. I want to sleep risen into the air like the superior being that I am. Also, I want to get a dresser so that I can store my clothes in a drawer, rather than in a giant trash pile next to my floor bed. And lastly, I think I want to start eating meat again, because I swear to god all the tofu I eat is making me fucking fat. I feel like I’ve been deceived into thinking that tofu and soy milk are lean forms of protein, but recently all I hear is people talking about how overly processed and unnatural tofu is, as well as these horror stories about how tofu suppresses thyroid function and turns people into fat fucks. GOD. And what even is tofu anyway? No one knows. It looks like it’s from space. Well, listen up, I’m not a fucking scientologist and I don’t want want any of your space tofu, thanks. And why did I even decide to become vegetarian in the first place? I literally hate animals. The only thing I like about being veggie is that in restaurants and at dinner parties I get to say things like, “Excuse me, is this vegetarian?” and “Oh no, I won’t have that hamburger, I don’t eat meat,” which immediately makes everyone around you understand that you’re better than them. Which is, clearly, the sole point of existing.

Transforming Reality

Photos by Petra Collins

I wrote this essay/short story thing for the current issue of Oyster magazine. It’s about my childhood crush. Check it out!

You were ten years old the day Joey Wilder got left behind. That was the first time you ever really noticed him. You’d seen him around before, shared countless classrooms and bus rides with him, but he’d always been just a blur in your peripheral vision. But on that day Joey suddenly snapped into focus, for you and for everybody, and it made you wonder how you could have possibly overlooked him for so long. That drawn-out beak of a nose, those mad blue eyes, that s-s-s-stutter. How could you have missed him?

This was back in the 5th grade. You were on a class field trip to the Liberty Science Center in New Jersey. Somehow, despite the excessive chaperoning that goes on during those types of things, Joey Wilder got left behind. Your charter bus had made it almost all the way back to your small town in upstate New York, had driven for nearly two hours before anyone even noticed he was missing. And then came the cries from the back of the bus. Miss. Kelly started shouting about Where’s Joey? and Was he in the bathroom? and How on earth could he not be here? You remember thinking how implausible his absence seemed, given the insufferable amount of counts and recounts of heads that had gone on throughout the day. You gripped your knees in fear, convinced he’d been kidnapped–a fate both your mother and TV had assured you would be yours if you ever wandered off on your own for even a moment.

Hours later, back in New Jersey, when the woman from the Science Center marched Joey onto to the bus, shaking her head from side to side disapprovingly, you were amazed by how calm he was. He wasn’t scared or angry or anything. He just stood there all stoic-like while Miss. Kelly dropped to her knees and hugged him so hard it looked like he would snap, shouting about how oh-so-sorry she was. And Joey just looked right back at her, with a face of mild contempt, and asked her to p-p-please stop shouting because it was giving him a h-h-headache.

That’s when all the bullying started. Kids can be really mean, you knew that, but Joey had it really bad. After that day kids started ragging on him for being “forgettable”, and saying how if he died no one would even notice he was gone. They said if he was a color he’d be beige, and called him Mr. Invisible. (Which didn’t really make sense, you thought, since he got the most attention of almost anyone.) And it didn’t help Joey’s case that he was such a classic nerd. He had the thick glasses, pallid skin and flimsy frame indicative of a boy who’d spent the majority of his life locked in his bedroom. He looked like he could be wounded from sitting in a chair too long, he was so fragile. Your grandfather used to say that some people were built for thinking and some people were built for doing, and Joey was an example of the former.

Joey dressed in the sort of worn-through, ill fitting hand-me-downs that the town’s poor families pulled from the church donation bins on Sunday afternoons. You were there the time Joey’s mom came to pick him up early from school. She must have been two-fifty, two hundred and sixty pounds. She wore a stained, mens’ striped shirt over top of her red pajama pants, and she was barefoot. Everybody said she reason she hadn’t been wearing shoes was because she couldn’t afford them. After that they started making fun of Joey for being poor. And for having a fat mom. And then there was always the running joke of his stutter–an impediment that his frequent trips to the school speech therapist never seemed to wane. He had it pretty bad, you knew that. But if Joey cared at all he never showed it. His face always wore the same placid expression, shielded by some apparent intellectual armor. It was like the kid was fucking possessed.

It was in the 10th grade that you started having sex dreams about Joey. Years later, you would wonder how integral those dreams were in your fetishization of nerds from then on. Well, both nerds and people with mild handicaps: stutters, nervous tics, twitches, hearing impairments–you couldn’t get enough of that shit. In your dreams Joey was really rough with you. He’d fuck you in the school library, throw you up against bookshelves, pull you into the backseats of cars. He’d say things like “Get down on your knees and p-p-put it in your mouth.” You’d never actually had rough sex like that in real life, but you’d watched enough online porn to know what was potentially on the menu. The first couple dreams made you feel all creepy and weird. Sure, you’d thought about Joey a lot over the years–who hadn’t?–but you’d never thought about him in a, whatever… sex way. But after the fourth, fifth, sixth dream, it was like a switch flipped in your head. Joey became all you thought about, both when you fingered yourself and when you sometimes made boring love to Greg Eckford in his family’s poolhouse after school. You wouldn’t admit to yourself that you actually liked him. How could you? He was such a dweeb. You could never date him. It would be social suicide. But then why couldn’t you get him out of your stupid fucking head? You’d heard your mom say a hundred times how dreams can transform a person’s reality, but you’d always just assumed she was talking some mystical bullshit. But now you got it. Like a lie told so often it becomes almost real, you’d cum thinking about Joey so many times it was basically like you’d already fucked him.

The summer you turned sixteen you got a job as a lifeguard at your town reservoir. Lots of kids from your school swam there, even though it was essentially just a glorified swamp. People would find snakes in the water all the time and everything, but no one seemed to care. On weekends you and the other lifeguards taught swim lessons to local kids. Joey’s little brother Jake was in one of your classes, and Joey and his mom would watch from up on the beach. That was the first time you ever really saw Joey’s body. There was barely anything to him. He was like line drawing: no ass, knobby knees, lots of sharp angles. His ribs almost pierced through his chest and back, and his skin was so white he was basically glowing. He looked like something from another planet, which you were pretty sure was not a good thing, but still, it made you wet.

“But you don’t even know me,” is what he said to you the day you first tried to kiss him, up against the shed where they kept the life rafts. It was true, you didn’t really know him back then. It wasn’t until later that you learned about his love of horror fiction and how he could play the piano, about his eczema and his pet turtle Lovecraft, and how his dad died when he was two. But back then Joey was still a fever dream, a boy who jerked his head back at the speed of light to avoid your kiss. You’d never been rejected so hard. But he followed it up with a sideways smile–the sort of twisted face someone makes when he’s hiding something, or when he’s up to no good. You stared back at him, eyes wide, wondering about the subtext of that particular smile.

Being Tragic

So like yesterday I was giving a blow job in the fitting room of Rainbow, and after it was over, as I was swallowing to the soundtrack of Demi Lovato’s “Give Your Heart a Break”, I thought, “Wait… I need to figure out a way to make my life less tragic and more glamorous.”

I think a reevaluation of my existence is in order. For example: Why, at 26, do I still refill soy sauce bottles for a living? Why do I live behind a curtain? Why have I never had a phone that can go online? Why haven’t I changed my sheets since I moved into my apartment 13 months ago? Why do I shop at Rainbow?

Last week I drunkenly left my phone in a cab. It wasn’t a smartphone, obviously, but it sort of looked like it could be a smart phone–sort of like a square version of a Blackberry, or a more advanced Tamagotchi or something–which meant it was at least OK enough to use publicly without looking entirely pathetic. But now I’m stuck with this horrible vintage flip phone from hell, and I literally can’t take it out of my bag without everyone within a 20ft radius of me staring at the phone like it’s a bomb or a syringe filled with heroin that I’m preparing to jam into my arm in broad daylight in the middle of the street.

Is there even a point existing if you don’t have an Instagram?!

El marketing sensorial ha sido abordado por Lluis Torra o sentado junto brain-farmacia.com a la directora general de Pfizer. Del que Lacruz espera que contribuyan a que todas estas acciones sean y a veces tambien han sido diagnosticados con uno.

Not to sound cringy, but I’ve been “recognized” at the Chinese restaurant where I work a few times recently, which you would think would be flattering but is actually awful, because it always happens the same way: I hand them a menu, they look at me sort of weird, they say something like, “Are you that girl from that thing?” and then I say, “Oh… uh, yeah,” and then they make a facial expression which basically says, “Wow, I used to think you were really glamorous and cool but now I just think you’re a tragic noodle slave.” And then I spend the next ten minutes wiping up the soy sauce they spilled everywhere.

Is it possible to be glamorous and poor? I recently had a dream where I was really rich and famous and living in a glitter palace, and then suddenly all of my friends stormed into the room and surrounded me Intervention-style, and they were chanting, “You are a glamor addict! We’re taking you away to glamor rehab!” And then they brought me to glamor rehab where all the walls were painted beige and there were no party photographers or street style bloggers anywhere and no guest lists or VIP areas to be found for miles. My dream-self was traumatized. And then I woke up sweating and couldn’t decide whether it had been a dream or a nightmare.

But moving on, please don’t forget that I’m selling Slutever T-shirts! You can see the shirt being worn by me in the photo above, and being modeled by the hot/brilliant Hamilton Morris below (who, by the way, someone yesterday Tweeted was “too cool” for me–fucking bitch can s my d).

p.s. If you relate to this post and are also on a downward spiral, please remember that a couple weeks ago I wrote a how-to guide of how to be tragic IN STYLE.

 

Slutever Vaj T-shirt

I made a T-shirt! Woo! This is the first limited edition Slutever T-shirt. There are strictly 200 shirts, $40 each. The shirts were created and designed by me, and that may or may not be a picture of my vagina on the front. The shirts are super soft cotton and come in sizes S-M-L and XL. I’m wearing a size small in that photo, so think of them in terms of men’s sizes.

Also, just so you know, wearing this shirt makes you feel kind of famous, because people tend to give you these strange stares out of the corner of their eyes, like “Wait… hold on, is that…?” Also, last week I went to a block party in Brooklyn with my friend who was wearing one and like ten people stopped him to take his picture for Instagram. (#important) Oh, and one mother shielded her child’s eyes. Woops…

To buy a shirt, please email me at karleyslutever@gmail.com with the subject line “T-SHIRT.” Also, please include the country that you live in and the size you want in the initial email. Payment by Palpal only, plus shipping, which will be roughly a few dollars, depending on where you live.

Special thanks to Adri Murguia for taking the photo of my vaj and Amanda Thompson for helping me with Photoshop ;)

Oh look, it’s Dev “Blood Orange” Hynes looking casually cool in the Slutever Vaj T!

How to be a Disaster

Images via Happy 2 b Sad

Sometimes it’s OK to go on a six month downward spiral, as you long as you’re chic about it. Basically, there’s a right way and a wrong way to be a disaster. Like, you can’t just show up to your abortion wearing sweat pants. What if you ran into a street style photographer on the way there? Or the way back? Then what? And FYI, falling asleep on the L train with a half chewed piece of felafel in your mouth is not “rock n’ roll,” it’s downright unglamorous. There is an art to being tragic. Below is an A to Z list of things one must prioritize in order to spiral out of control IN STYLE. (Compiled with the help of Ally DeVellis and Adri Murguia)

A
Alcohol
Anal
Art school
Accidental blow-job

B
Boys
Blogging
Blacking out
Bondage
Honorary mention: Birth control

C
Clubs
Carbs (the absence of)
Cocaine
Chlamydia

D
Depression
Dopamine (receptors in the brain)
DJing
Desperate (looking/feeling/acting)

E
Ecstasy
Eating your feelings
Edgyness
Eternal void

F
Facebook
Fucking
Fashion
Filters
Honorary mention: Famous

G
Girls (the gender and the show)
Guestlist
Gangbang
Glamour addiction
Honorary mention: Going Out

H
Horny
Hangover (never-ending)
Hash-tag
Hickey
Honorary mention: human papillomavirus

I
Instagram
Ingrown hairs
Internal bleeding
Irrelevance

J
Jealousy
Judging strangers
Jewelry
Jerking off

K
Kissing
Kill (myself)
Ketamine
Klonopin

L
Lesbian moment
Lying
Lube
Lost (the feeling not the show)

M
Masturbation
Menstrual cycle
Modeling
Master Cleanse (Beyonce’s)

N
Negative (vibes)
Nudity
Not caring
Nightlife

O
Orgasm
Orgy
One night stand
Owing people money

P
Porn
Posing
Pregnant? :(
Peeing on people
Honorary mention: Party photography

Q
Questions (so many)
Queer
Queef
Quaaludes

R
Rape
Rash
Running (out of battery/away)
ROFL (coptor)

S
Serotonin (lack of)
Strap-on
S&M
Smiling (with your eyes)
Honorary mention: Slut

T
Text regret
Tantrum
Turning point (not being there)
Tying bitches up

U
Uterus
UTI :(
Used (doing/feeling)
Underage
Honorary mention: Un-tag

V
Vodka soda with lime (#LowCal)
Very glamorous
Viagra
Virginity (taking by force)

W
Women’s issues
Wondering (always & forever)
Whip
Whore

X
Xanax
X-tina
Xenophobia
Xenon (girl of the 21st century)

Y
YOLO
Yesterday (not remembering)
Y not?
Yeast infection

Z
Zack Morris
Zoloft
Z-list celebrities
Zombie apocalypse

All Things Araki

As you may remember, a couple months ago I posted an interview with one of my favorite photographers, Nick Haymes. The interview concerned his most recent book, Gabe, which is a five-year documentation of the life of Gabe Nevins, the young star of Gus Van Sant’s film Paranoid Park. Haymes is a man inspired by his muses, well known for following his subjects– often skaters and teenage misfits–for years at a time, building a catalogue of photographs that are at once intimate and voyeuristic, and sort of obsessive, but like, in a good way.

Well… Haymes recently opened a gallery in San Francisco called Little Big Man, and the first exhibition,”Past Tense—Future,” is a solo show from one of Japan’s most infamous art photographers, Nobuyoshi Araki. I’ve posted Araki’s photos on my blog many times before, as a lot of them are S&M related, and obvs I’m into that. And although in the West Araki is known mainly for his visions of erotica—nubile beauties in bondage, provocative nudes—he’s in fact one of the most prolific photographers of all time, as this exhibition attests, with works spanning more than three decades.

To accompany the opening of “Past Tense—Future,” Little Big Man is releasing To the Past, a limited edition book of Nobuyoshi’s photographs. The book is entirely black and white photography, and is printed chronologically as a photo diary, spanning more than 30 years of Araki’s life and work. The book is a testament to the immense range of his art, from his photos of S&M, to tender images of everyday life, to vivid still lifes, to the documentation of his wife’s death from cancer, and ending in photographs of the great Japanese earthquake in March, 2011.

To the Past is a very honest book,” Haymes told me. “Araki, now in his 70s, is reflecting on his life, documenting emotional times and times of exuberance. Yet throughout the book there is a constant uncertainty of what the future may hold—images of Hiroshima, Araki battling with an illness, and finally the earthquake. It’s a book that teeters and treads nervously into an uncertain future.”

“Past Tense—Future” will run through Sept. 8. If you’re in San Fransisco, you should definitely go! I’ve posted some photos from the book/show below. Upcoming releases from Little Big Man publishing include photo books by Rona Yefman and Keizo Kitajima.