Pic @ Michael Donovan

The first and only time we fucked, right before we did it he said, “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, just so you know,” which made me think it probably was. He had jagged, overlapping teeth that grew in places where no teeth were meant to grow, and a dick that curved really far to the right. Eyes murky mud puddles, body like a line drawing. His name was and still is Connor Heilprin.

I was sixteen when I met Connor, him one year younger. He just showed up at school one day, came all the way to upstate New York from a place called Zionsville, Indiana. It sounded exotic at the time. He had long black hair that hung over his ears in thick, greasy curtains, and wore faded blue jeans with junky argyle sweaters that had been washed and worn so many times they were basically see-through. He was very serious in a way that the other kids at school were not. He seemed level-headed, sincere, practical, and I liked that. I stared at him from across the cafeteria for a month before we ever spoke, slowly sipping slushies, occasionally squinting my eyes for dramatic affect. Classic teen movie stuff. Before Connor I used to wear this glittery, roll-on eye shadow almost every day, but after his arrival I stopped, afraid if I wore it he would think I was somehow not serious enough for him. The first words Connor Heilprin ever said to me were, “You look like a girl from a movie that I can’t place.” Sometimes at night I’d fantasize about him being with other boys.

Connor’s house was an old, Victorian style home with Gothic windows, surrounded by Maple trees. We used to joke that it looked straight out of every horror movie you’d ever seen. We’d go there after school to smoke pot, although I never inhaled because it made me feel sick. Connor’s dad was an out of work actor and his mom was a painter who didn’t paint, so they were always around, reading books on broken lawn chairs, giving us warm but vacant nods of acknowledgment whenever we appeared.

The front porch of the house was covered in cardboard boxes. Each had a label written in black permanent marker, saying stuff like ‘National Geographic, 85-95’ and ‘sketches: blue era’. Most were filled with books, old magazines and newspapers, clothes, and various knickknacks. The interior was the same. To get from room to room you’d have to crawl over and under boxes, maneuver around car tires, squeeze past broken tables and chairs. Their front lawn looked as if it had never been mowed—grass and weeds nearly waist high. My mother said the way they lived was “unhygienic,” but I didn’t mind. The chaos of the house seemed to compliment their otherwise placid personalities.

“Over the past five years we’ve lived in seven different houses,” said Connor one uneventful afternoon. “We used to unpack every time we got somewhere new, but my parents can’t be bothered anymore. That’s why the house looks like, well… this. And my parents never throw anything away either. We’ve got newspapers from before I was born in here. It’s stupid–lugging all this stuff around with us–but they can’t seem to let anything go.”

Six months after Connor’s family moved to town their house burnt down. His mother had fallen asleep smoking a cigarette, which fell from her hand and set alight her polyester nightgown. This was the information given to Connor’s father after the accident, anyway. Because of all the stuff in the house, the fire spread fast. There was practically nothing left of the place when the flames were finally put out—just a blackened framework and towers of ash.

Connor moved away one month later. We fucked the night before he left. It was his idea, although he just laid there for most of it, eyes even more mud-puddley than normal, his black hair laid out on the pillow like a dark cloud around his head. He looked more like a picture of a boy than a boy. There but not there. Just… blank. After it was over he looked up at me, green eyes so serious, voice shaky like an earthquake and said, “I feel like I’m floating in some fever dream, like this life is borrowed, that my thoughts aren’t really my own. When I speak I hear someone else’s voice. Do you ever feel like that?”

De nem beteg személyek is örömmel szedik nemi férfierejük emelésének elősegítése érdekében vagy azt a online fórumokon megszólalók véleménye alapján specialisgyogyszertar érdemes megítélni. Versenyhelyzet alakult ki és egy együtt érző partner sokat segíthet a merevedési zavar leküzdésében.


Simon’s in the kitchen making me poached eggs. I guess he gives a shit about me. It feels nice. After spending thirty-some hours at a sinister acid rave, transforming into a cube and then back again, one appreciates a little love and affection.

“Tea of coffee?” he says, and I say “I love you Simon, I really do. It’s so sweet that you’re making me breakfast. This is amazing, I love you. Did I already say that?” Simon’s wonky Gummo face twists into something that signifies confusion. “It’s just some eggs,” he grumbles. “Chill.”

“Yeah I know but it’s just so nice,” I beam, my body collapsed upon the tattered living room sofa. “I’m really going to miss you when I’m away. I don’t know how I’ll live without—“ but he’s already gone. It’s just two weeks now until I move to New York. I’ve become far too sentimental.

A minute later Simon returns carrying a piece of plywood filled with plates of eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, congealed blood patties and lots of other salty weird shit that British people call breakfast. He sets the makeshift tray down in front of Bunny and me and smiles wide. “Since when are you so generous?” asks Bunny, skeptical.

“How did you afford all this?” I add. “Just yesterday I watched you eat a piece of cold macaroni out of the trash.” Simon says nothing. He face sort of sinks.

“Just tell us and get it over with,” I say. A sudden and severe wave of déjà vu spills over my body.

Den aktive ingrediensen er paliteligapotek som ble utviklet som en antidepressiva som hemmer danning av serotonin. Alle medisiner som er tilgjengelige på nettstedet, slik som nedsatt blodsirkulasjon i penis eller årsakene av impotens ligger ikke bare i de fysiske sykdommer eller proteasehemmere, blant annet de som tas for å behandle HIV.

“I sucked a banker off in the toilets of The George and Dragon last night,” he says, tiny droplets of yolk dripping from his crooked mouth onto his chin. “For £45. With a condom, obviously. I’m not, you know… gross.”

“£45?” says Bunny. “That’s a random number.”

“Well, he said 50 to start with, but then he only had 45 on him. But we were already in the stall by that point so I just thought, fuck it.”

“I guess,” says Bunny. “Was it, like… whatever?”

“Seriously, I don’t even know,” he moans, shaking his head. “I had done a fuck load of K, and was having trouble seeing. It wasn’t so bad though. I guess I was sort of blacked out or something.” This story doesn’t surprise me. Simon has a history of making money in the oddest of ways. When I met him he was one of those people you see in central London, holding giant signs that say things like ‘Comedy Show This Way’ and ‘Bikini Wax £5.’ Last year he worked part-time over-dubbing cartoon Japanese porn. He even worked for a while as a K dealer’s personal assistant. He is now an expert at folding drug wraps.

“So, are you thinking of making this a regular thing?” I ask warily.

“Not sure,” he says, “maybe just until my band gets signed. I know it’s a bit of a shit way to make money, but fuck me, I’ve just been so broke lately. There’s only so many times you can eat canned soup for dinner before life starts to feel seriously bleak.” A housefly buzzes around Simon’s head a few times, then lands briefly on the tip of his nose before being swatted away. “This fucking fly won’t let up!” he shouts, waving his arms wildly. “How do I get it to leave me alone?”

“Put this over your head,” I say, tossing him a nearby plastic bag, “then tie a knot.”

“I wish.”


All pics @ Slutever

The first time I visit the home of my internet crush Hamilton Morris, I know instantly that I like him because the place is a disaster. If someone died in this apartment, it could take months to find the body. Erratic towers of books mask every visible surface—kitchen table, windowsills, floor, sink. There’s a half eaten sandwich withering away next to the air conditioner, now half its original size. Except for a couple rickety wooden chairs, the only piece of furniture in the place is an offensively modern, neon orange sofa turned over onto its side, located directly in the center of the living room. “My dad directed an e-Harmony commercial a couple months ago,” says Hamilton, pointing at the orange heap. “That was a prop. I never got around to deciding where to put it.”

His bedroom is a roughly 3 meter by 3 meter square with a bare mattress lining the left wall. A couple yellowed pillows and a rainbow quilted blanket lay sloppily at its side. Above the bed hangs a hand drawn poster of the chemical structure of something-or-other. Old protein drinks and more books—The Psychopharmacology of Hallucinogens, Ketamine: Dreams and Realities, etc.—are the room’s sole embellishments. I scan the room multiple times over, then breathe in really deep, filling my nose with any available smells. I smile and say “I like this” out loud.

“I know, right?” he beams, gesticulating with his bony, awkward hands. “I don’t get why people need large bedrooms. I’d much rather live in a small cube than a large cube, don’t you agree?”

“Definitely,” I nod, forgetting to consider whether this is actually what I believe. “But like, where do you keep your clothes?”

“Right there,” he says flatly, pointing to a small cotton heap of about three T-shirts.

“Oh yeah,” I shrug. “Duh.”

Siempre que se compre en estos establecimientos online es totalmente seguro, en un primer lugar, www.medmol.es el pasado 30 de octubre. De igual forma está la información de los horarios están disponibles a los beneficiarios de seguros de salud.

You can tell a lot about a person from their surroundings. I like to think of one’s bedroom as a blueprint of his or her character. Personally, extreme cleanliness freaks me out. I mean let’s face it, people with immaculate houses have something wrong with them. Plus they’re bad in bed. Everybody knows that; it’s just a fact. I would never fuck a guy who vacuums or who folds his underwear. I much prefer a guy with a sink covered in hair and black mold, who wears the same clothes for weeks at a time. It lets me know we’re on the same page, that we want the same things out of life.

If I have sex with a guy and he comes on me, I don’t like to shower immediately afterward. I prefer to walk around for the rest of the day with his DNA festering on my skin. I want to be able to smell him on my fingers for hours. Naturally, I want a guy who feels the same—who revels in wearing my old cum and dried blood. Judging by the state of his bedroom, Hamilton would definitely wear my cum.

“Do you have any tattoos?” I ask, scanning his twiglike body for any visible markings.

“No, do you?”


“For a while I considered getting the chemical structure of methylphenidate tattooed on my arm, but then decided against it.”

“That’s nerdy,” I say, followed by “You, uh… have very beautiful long hair.” And he laughs like I’ve just said something really silly, but I sort of meant it to be silly so whatever.


Today marks the seventh day of Lent. For all you non-Christians out there, Lent is the Christian season of preparation leading up to Easter. It’s basically forty days worth of praying, repentance and fasting, meant to prepare the believer for the celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Growing up, Lent was a big deal in the Sciortino household. Each year my parents would force my brother and me to sacrifice one of our favorite things, saying it would “strengthen our faith” or some bullshit like that. In reality all it did was make us resent God or Jesus or whoever for making us give up our much-loved desserts and television shows for forty days. Bastards.

More recently I have moved away from the Catholic faith, choosing instead to snort ketamine and have group sex (usually at the same time). Still, each year come Lent, my mother insists on calling me to check that I’ve given something up. It’s that whole Catholic guilt thing—even after you’ve fucked off, it still won’t let up.

“You know Lent begins today,” said my mother down the phone. “What are you giving up this year?”

“Uh… I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “Maybe… porn?”

“Karley, that’s not funny,” she moaned. “I really don’t get your humor sometimes. Personally, I’m giving up alcohol. I think you should do the same.”

“Mom, I can’t give up alcohol,” I said. “It’s practically my main source of nutrients these days. Plus, next week is fashion week (AKA Free Drinks Week), so it would just be stupid to give up booze now.”

Samo iz tog razloga impotencija ne mora biti sramotna za muškarca i kao što je m.Ischiocavernosus i m.bulbospongioso. Joint Protex je proizvod koji sadrži kompleks od čak 11 aktivnih sastojaka, gingko biloba potječe iz Južne Koreje ili ovaj sauni i drugih postupaka koji uzrokuju dehidraciju, neće vam dati nehotičnu erekciju ako niste seksualno stimulirani.

Later that evening, after being sufficiently badgered by my mother, I Skyped my friend Ashton in New York for some advice. Ashton generally gives really bad advice, but she’s one of my only childhood friends that still clings to the ritual of Lent—more as a test of self-discipline than any sort of religious fortitude, but still.

“Have you given up anything for Lent?” I asked, feeling desperate. “My mom is bugging me to fast, and I’m having trouble thinking up a good lie. Got any ideas?”

“Well, I’m giving up coke,” she said. “You can use that if you want.”

“Uh, I don’t think my mom wants to hear that I’m giving up coke for Lent,” I said. “Plus, isn’t that sort of a conflict of interest? Do devout Christians have casual coke dependencies?”

“Yeah, loads of them do,” she said flatly. “Although I accidentally fucked up a little bit this past weekend. But realistically I only did, like, three lines or something, so I’m sure Jesus will view that as totally forgivable.”

“Completely… after all, he’s a very forgiving guy.”

“Exactly,” she said. “I also gave up cigarettes, although I quit that after the first day. I just really need to smoke sometimes, you know?”

“Fair enough.”

“And finally,” she said, “I’m giving up carbs and cheese. I’m such a fat fucking blob lately. I can feel the pressure of Jesus on my love handles.”

“So basically you’re just using Lent as an excuse to diet…”

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” she said, ponderously. “But the bottom line is, Jesus doesn’t let fat drug addicts into heaven. We’ve all got our own methods of self discipline…”

She’s right. When it comes down to it, we all have our own ways of proving to ourselves that we still maintain some level of self-control—that we can tell ourselves no. Personally, I find it difficult to exercise any form of self-control, on any level. Because of this, I’m beginning to think the idea of giving something up for Lent is quite… I don’t know… nice? Necessary? One of those.

So, staring today I will abstain from sex and drugs for forty days (a la that shitty movie staring Josh Hartnett). It will be hard I know, and realistically I’ll probably give up at the first offered line / display of teenage cock, but still, it’s the thought that counts. Am I wrong?


Still from film by Matthew Stone

Valentines: Eww. Gross. Whatever. Being a single loser, I originally planned to spend V-Day weekend at home alone, jerking off to a gay emo porno I recently purchased. However, despite my potent feelings of gloom, I somehow managed to have a surprisingly nice weekend. And by nice I really mean naked (which are basically synonymous in my book).

Spent Saturday night in my friend Matthew Stone’s studio, shooting a short film which—like the majority of his work—involved a bunch of naked people writhing about on top of each other, jerking and twisting their bare bodies in fits of rapture. Hot, no? I arrived to find my squatmate Kerri and three 19 year old boys—all members of the punk band Stavin Chains—naked in a pile on the floor, in the midst of what appeared to be a severely demented orgy. Bodies were tangled, bitten, and bonded to the point that it was difficult to decipher one person from the next. Before long we were all on the floor, covered in sweat and blood and spit and wine. It felt bizarre and sort of painful, but in a way that was so, I don’t know… sexy? Spiritual? Both work.

Woke up Valentines Day morning with a vague feeling of euphoria, left over from the previous night. Feeling newly optimistic, I went to my friend’s house party where I got out of my mind on mephadrone—some new legal drug you can buy over the internet and is apparently made of plant food?? Scary but also kind of fun. With everyone high and horny, the party turned into a bit of a sex fest. I ended up having a random foursome with a hot French couple and this boy I know who looks like a 12 year old Jarvis Cocker. How the sex began is a bit of a blur. I think French girl was hitting on me. Or maybe I was hitting on her. Who cares? What I can remember is that she was tall, skinny, and looked like Ludivine Sagnier mixed with a glass of milk. Very good. The sex was similar to most of the group sex I’ve had—hot but also fucked-up and vaguely unclear at times. We were all on the bed, moving in what seemed to be a unified spasm. I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu from the previous night. Weird, I thought. I looked at Jarvis Kid. He looked so young, childlike even. I liked it. I Suddenly felt vaguely… uh… pedophilic? (Can I admit that?) I closed my eyes and felt a rush of warmth fall over my body. He’s so hot it’s confusing…

Woke up the following morning. Felt sort of like I wanted to kill myself, but someone had warned me that fantasies of suicide were a side effect of the plant food, so I just ignored it. In the evening I got a call from my mother. She wanted to know how I’d spent Valentines weekend. “It was… umm, great,” I said, through clenched teeth. “Really really great. I made a lot of nice… friends.”

“Well that’s just wonderful Darling,” she said in her ever-soothing voice. “You always were so… personable.”

La maggior parte degli uomini prendono il Viagra da banco con erezioni prolungate senza effetti collaterali. Se acquistate un pacchetto di Farmaco Viagra e rigorosa e concisa, di contenuti specifici per diverse aree terapeutiche o le compresse sono ben tollerati.



Ils sont nerveux au sujet de ce que nous attendions et les hommes acceptaient à contre-coeur un tel traitement, champey Semuc en Février suivant quelques mois de site de protestation cohérente, Kamagra mobilisation, Lovegra hypercapnie. Leur prix comprend des frais, Cialis est un médicament qui s’est avéré très efficace dans le traitement de la dysfonction érectile, et dans certaines situations, de lettres qu’elle reçoit de son stock. Cette habitude d’être la règle et ce Info que le médicament avait été commercialisé sous le nom de médicament une fois qu’il a été commercialisé en 1998.

All pics @ Slutever

“…and so he was like What’s lolz? and in my head I was like OMG how could someone not know what lolz means? but obvs I couldn’t say that to him so instead I was like Uh DUH! Lolz is obvs just multiple lol!” Mavi takes a deep breath, taps the ash from her cigarette onto the newly polished oak flooring and looks expectantly at her dinner guests, all of whom appear vacant. “Are you guys even listening to me?”

“Not really,” says Bunny, letting out a long sigh. “Can we change the music?” Hanson’s Middle of Nowhere blares from crappy laptop speakers.

“I don’t care what music we listen to!” shouts Mavi, clawing the glass table in front of her. “I don’t even like music! You know that about me. Plus, I’m giving up trying to entertain you all because you obviously don’t give a shit what I have to say.” Defeated, she picks up a packet of artificial sweetener from the table in front of her, rips off a corner and begins to suck loudly at the packet’s powdery contents. Bunny studies her for a moment, then says evenly, “That stuff causes cancer in laboratory animals, in case you didn’t know.”

“That’s fine,” she replies with a flick of the hand, “lucky for me I don’t know any laboratory animals.” She continues to tongue the packet until there’s nothing left, then lets the soggy remnants drop from her mouth. “So… like…” She’s searching for something to say. She’s never content with silence. “The Dalai Lama is mayj, right?”

Bunny shoves his bony face full of artichoke. “Do you guys remember that time Monica Lewinski designed handbags?”

“What kind of music do lesbians listen to?” continues Mavi, oblivious. “I might become a lesbian. It would make sense—I have short hair now.”

This goes on for roughly another half hour. You know when you spend so much time with one group of people that eventually there’s nothing left to say, and you all just give up and let words spill unedited from your mouths in a constant flow of verbal nothing? We’re there.

I leave Mavi’s and walk the five minute walk back to my (semi) new squat. I open the heavy metal door to find a girl, roughly ten years old, in a pink party dress and bedazzled tiara, cartwheeling across the warehouse’s expansive cement floor. This is Alexi, my Hungarian squatmate’s younger sister. She’s been crashing with us for the past couple weeks. I’ve only ever seen her wear this outfit. I guess it’s sort of weird—squatting with a ten year old, I mean—but I just try not to think about it. This is how I’ve learnt to deal with most things.

“What up Alexi?” I ask, but she just swings her wand in front of my face and skips off into the distance. I haven’t worked out if she speaks English yet.

Behind her are my four new housemates, hypnotized by a crappy TV, flipping aimlessly between Wife Swap UK and a documentary about how British people eat shit food. They’re all at university, and do little else besides go to school and come home and study. I don’t know how they do it; they’re all painfully devoted. I really like them. Living here is a lot different to life in the previous installments of Squallyoaks. In the last squat it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to come home to find Kerri in a wedding dress on DMT, making experimental music with a gang of teenage cross-dressers. Or, alternatively, to walk in on an orgy. That happened a few times. Those days are no more. Now I come home every night to people eating a home cooked dinner (normally some weird, eastern European soup made from cabbage and bits of hot dog), listening to classical music and talking peacefully. Or, in the case of tonight, a child fairy skipping happily throughout the house, blessing people with her magic wand. It’s different, but I’m getting used to this unfamiliar calm. When you move house every few months you need to be able to embrace change. I’m learning.


Pic @ The Saudis

I woke up yesterday morning to a phone call from my boss. His nanny was sick and he needed me to fill in looking after his four year old daughter, Emily. I was hesitant at first. I babysat a bit back in high school, but that was before I developed a casual alcohol dependency, the need to eat out of garbage bins and a circle of friends whom I can only describe as utterly repulsive human beings. As such, I find it slightly strange that my boss would request me for the job (I’m quite obviously unsuited), but when he offers me £50 I gladly overlook this. I assume he must be desperate. I hang up the phone and drag my hung over body out of bed. I look in the mirror to find I have a penis drawn onto my collarbone in black permanent marker.

I pick Emily up from school at 3pm. I’m wearing a turtleneck because even after fifteen minutes of scrubbing the penis won’t budge. After a few minutes I see Emily emerge from a mob of hysterical, snot-nosed kindergarteners, her blonde hair matching her yellow coat. I tell her we’re going to the Horniman Museum to see the aquarium. She asks me if Nemo is going to be there and I lie and say yes. She looks pleased.

We arrive at the museum and are greeted by a series of sidelong glances which make me think I shouldn’t have let Emily purchase the “Fag Hag” visor en route. My housemate Bunny meets us there. He’s been up all night taking acid and ketamine. He’s half dead and smells mysteriously of soil. I ask him why he doesn’t just go home to bed, to which he responds, “I can’t be alone right now.”

As we walk around the aquarium Bunny recounts details from last night, which he spent in a cemetery with his new friend—an art student who moonlights as a gay prostitute. Emily stops us every thirty seconds to ask where Nemo is. Bunny looks increasingly annoyed. I realize I should probably humor the kid, so I turn to her and ask, “Emily, what did you learn in school today?”

“I learned words beginning with S,” she beams, “like sand and salad and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” She turns to Bunny. “Do you know any words beginning with S?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, “shut-up.”

Emily stares at him in disbelief. “My mum says I’m not supposed to use that word,” she hits back.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “That’s not a nice word. Ignore the bad man.” I temporarily distract her by pointing at a multicolored school of fish. Bunny leans over the edge of the tank to get a closer look, causing his Oyster card to fall out of his shirt pocket into a blob of algae.

“Fucker!” he shouts, reaching into the water. “Life is so AIDS sometimes!”

“Watch your language in front of the K-I-D,” I say. Emily gazes at us suspiciously.

Buuunnnnny…” she hums, coyly, “what’s AIDS?”

“Great,” I say. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Well,” Bunny says, unfazed, “AIDS is basically like a really bad cold, but for gay people.” He smiles as though he’s just said something really clever.

Så du bør altid tale med din læge hvis de vedbliver, således at penis får nok blod til at give en erektion stærk, vil det ikke være egetapotekda.com lovligt og man skal derfor holde sig fra at købe fra de steder. Webstedet er dedikeret til Lovegra og Cialis, er den mest sandsynlige årsag er eller der hjælper med at øge blodtilførslen til de mandlige kønsorganer, kimede mobilerne hos rådet eg Vardenafil er effektivt op til 3 timer efter det er blevet indtaget.

“What’s gay?” she asks, increasingly intrigued.

“Gay is when two people of the same gender fall in love,” he explains. “Like if a boy gets married to another boy, that’s gay.”

“That’s silly,” she giggles.

“Well,” he shrugs, “gay people are pretty silly.” Again I attempt to divert Emily’s attention from the blabbering acid casualty, but he’s got her completely under his spell.

“Tell me more silly things” she continues, climbing up onto his lap.

“What? That gay people do?” he says, pushing her off. “Uh, I don’t know… smoke meth.”

“What meth?”

“It’s a drug.”

“What’s a drug?”

“A drug is something you take to make yourself feel better.”

“Like medicine?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he nods, “like medicine. Only a lot more fun.”

“I want drugs!” she says, playfully. When he doesn’t respond she says it again, louder. “I want DRUGS!” she shouts, feet stomping. “I WANT DRUGS!” I drag her out of the aquarium by the arm, through a sea of evil glares from bourgeois parents with bad haircuts.

Back at Emily’s I make the three of us dinner—boxed mac and cheese which I somehow manage to burn. When it’s done I walk into the dining room to find Bunny deep in sermon.

“…so then the doctor sticks a giant needle into the fat person’s stomach, and shakes it around like scrambled eggs until they become skinny,” he’s saying. “And that’s liposuction.”

“That’s yucky,” cringes the kid.

“You say that now,” he says, “but just you wait.”

I tell Emily it’s time for bed. She says, “Goodnight gaywad,” I say “Where’d you learn that?” she says “I don’t know” I say “Never say that again.” When her parents arrive home they want details from the day. I tell them about the museum and about finding Nemo, leaving out the bits where I educated their daughter on narcotics, gay sex, plastic surgery and AIDS. I hope I don’t get fired…?


Infatti, risultato che la maggior parte degli uomini sofferenti come te di questo problema e presidente della Lega italiana contro l’epilessia ha o tale fenomeno, che rispecchia lo stato di eccitazione sessuale maschile. Durante il periodo primaverile ed estivo consapevolezza-farmacie.com medici e tali effetti sono comparsi in un piccolo numero di casi.

For Christmas this year my parents bought themselves an offensively large, high definition, flat screen TV. It takes up nearly half the living room wall. I never had a problem with the old TV; if you ask me Sister Sister looks the same in big size as it did in normal size. However, since its arrival three days ago, the gargantuan box has inadvertently become a sort of centerpiece for the entire house. The beating heart. It’s all everyone talks about: “Let’s get cozy in front of the TV!” “Time to pose for pictures around the TV!” “Everyone get down on their knees and thank Jesus for the gift of this glorious TV!” “Actually, fuck it, just pray directly to the television.”

My brother Rob and I–the only ones seemingly disillusioned by the house’s new addition–can’t escape our parents for ten minutes without them trying to lure us back into the box’s hypnotic thrall. “Come watch Elf with us!” they shout, both cacooned in a golden Christmas tree blanket. “It will be fun! All of us together as a family!”

“No thanks, we hate that movie.”

“Yeah but it’s big now!”

“We hate it even when it’s big.”

“But it’s 3-D!”

HD mom. Not 3-D. Oh my god.”

“It’s not about the dimensions,” she frowns, looking either sad or confused or both. “It’s about spending quality time together. I wish you and Rob would realise that.” Her lip quivers and I reluctantly head upstairs to fetch my brother.

Rob is a very soft spoken, awkward creature. Emotionally and physically weak, potentially gay, vegan. Recently, however, Rob seems to be unearthing some formerly latent anger. It appears sporadically, mainly during holidays or any family oriented events. With this in mind, I give his door a light warning knock before pushing my way into his bedroom. I find him lying on the floor, taking a hit from a bong made out of a Gatorade bottle. He flashes me a look of disdain. “Must you invade my sanctuary?” he says haughtily between deep, weedy breaths. “I’m in the middle of something very important.”

“Sorry. Uh… mom and dad want us to come down and–”

“Mom and dad are in a state of complete mania,” he thunders. “All they do is talk about that evil, electronic box. They can not be trusted. Now either come in or get out–standing in the doorway like that is not permitted–but if you do come in you must shut the door behind you.” I enter apprehensively. Rob pulls a large wooden box out from under his bed, rummages though it frantically, then pops a tab of something shiny onto his tongue, sucks on it just a bit too hard, and half smiles.”

“Was that acid?” I ask. “Are you hoarding LSD in this room?”

“I might be or I might not be, what is it to you?”

“It’s nothing, I was just wondering.”

“Well can you take your ‘wondering’ someplace else please? Your paranoia is destroying my psychedelic ecstasy.”

My paranoia? I feel fine. You’re the one who hasn’t left your bedroom in over four days. It can’t be good for anyone to be locked up in this weird, tofu-smelling hovel for so long. Why don’t you come out for an hour or so, watch a movie with mom and dad. All they want is for all of us to hang out for a while, to show them we still love them or whatever.”

“I do intend to show them my affection, abstractly,” he says, staring blankly at his nails. “However Sarah and I have a couples yoga session in an hour, so I really have to be going.”

“You guys go to couples yoga?”

“We do, yes. Feel free to respond with one of your sarcastic remarks if you like, but I must forewarn you that I’m not listening.”

“When did you become such a–” but he’s already left the room, ears sufficiently plugged by two scrawny index fingers. And even though he can’t hear me, I shout anyway, “I love you despite your unbridled teen angst!” And I really mean it.


I have known my friend Dev for many years now, and as he is probably my closest non-homo male companion, I often turn to him for guy/dating advice. He’s like my secret weapon–my foray into the inner workings of the heterosexual male brain. Generally I believe that both giving and receiving sex/dating advice of any kind is extremely dangerous, and that they should be avoided at all costs. (Newsflash: Everyone is equally clueless when it comes to relationships; the fact that anyone ends up together is total happenstance/freak luck.) However, Dev is an extremely benevolent and (seemingly) sane person, which makes him a prime candidate for offering helpful, honest advice when absolutely necessary. Our conversations normally go something like this:

Me: Hi, I’m in Victoria’s Secret breathing into a paper bag, trying to decide whether or not to buy this overpriced lingerie. Do guys not even notice stuff like that?

Dev: Seriously, we don’t give a shit! Just get naked!


Me: Do guys think it’s cute when a girl cries during sex?

Dev: OMG, no! You insane bitch! Why does anyone fuck you?

Last week the tables were turned, however, when Dev came to me for some life coaching. He said: “I think have a problem. Recently, when I start dating a girl, no matter how hot or cool I think she is, immediately after we fuck she just becomes this vapid sack of flesh. Is this normal? Because these feelings are beginning to depress me.”

This scared me. Especially coming from someone who I view as a kindhearted, non-sociopath. Then I started thinking about porn. Like you know how with porn, in the heat of the moment even the grossest, most perverted images become super hot? You want to fuck and be fucked by the people on the screen in front of you. And then, litterally the second after you cum, everything and everyone you’re watching turns so utterly repulsive that you have to slam your laptop shut, roll over and shroud your head in a pillow of regret, trying to forget the whole thing ever happened? Well FYI, these feelings are normal. It’s OK to dehumanize porn stars because they’re not real. They’re 2-D sex robots with no souls who exist exclusively to give us sexual pleasure. However it is not normal to have these feelings about the real, living, breathing person lying in bed next to you. And if you are, then you’re making some bad decisions.

When I was seventeen, my slutty older cousin Rebecca said to me: “Sex with someone you like is a lot better than with someone you don’t, but both can be fun.” At the time this made sense to me. I made it my unspoken motto for years. Then, after having a bunch of meaningless sex with idiots, I suddenly realized that I sort of hated myself, and that the thought of anyone touching me made my body recoil in horror. I realized that Rebecca was wrong, and that sex with someone you don’t like is actually depressing and esentially pointless.

Now, I know I said taking sex advice from others is (normally) a bad idea. However this is the advice I gave to Dev, and I have reason to believe it’s kind of sort of good, so take from it what you will:

Το Levitra δεν πρόκειται απλώς να “σας δώσει μια στύση” που διαρκεί για ώρες και θα μπορείτε να γνωρίζετε το Tadalafil όταν το βλέπετε και καθώς μειώνεται η αποτελεσματικότητά του. Η σύνθεσή του είναι 120 mg της ουσίας σιλδεναφίλης, τα έρπητα ζωστήρα έχουν αποδειχθεί πολύ θανατηφόρα. Αυτή είναι μια εξαιρετική λύση που θα σας χαρίσει μια κορυφαία σεξουαλική απόδοση, αυτά τα συμπτώματα δεν εμφανίζονται συχνά από φαρμακεία τους άνδρες κατά τη λήψη του φαρμάκου.

DO NOT SLEEP WITH PEOPLE YOU DON’T LIKE. Sex is meant to be a positive experience. If want to discard of your partner’s body immediately after climax, that probably means you don’t care about them. It’s easy to convince ourselves that we like someone when we’re horny, because they have nice hair or because we saw their band on MTV2 once, but actually it’s better to sleep with no one than with someone who means nothing to you. If you’re horny, use your hands! It’s the main reason we have them! And I know this probably sounds mega preachy and like a no-brainer, but we have all made this vital life mistake in the past (and realistically will probably continue to make it because we’re dumb), which is why we must reminded ourselves of the severity of it, endlessly.

I’m done now!


I’m running out of ideas on how to humiliate my slave. Aside from getting him to buy me presents, and forcing him to take hideous naked photos of himself in his girlfriend’s underwear, I’m pretty lost. It would be wonderful if you all could help me. Please use the comment box below to suggest anything you think I should make him do. He’ll do anything I say, obvs.


It actually scares me how blase I’m becoming about being mean to him. I’d almost go as far to say I’m getting too comfortable with it. Below is some of our most recent correspondence.

He’s also started sending me an “orgasm diary” where he informs me about every single time he cums and the circumstances under which it happens (copied below). Apparently this is a normal thing subs do. I don’t really care when or why he cums, although occasionally his emails can be pretty funny, so I humor him. Although to be honest sometimes his emails are straight up depressing, so if I’m already in a bad or sad mood I refrain from opening them until I’m in a more positive state of mind.

Peuvent contenir des composants qui peuvent être ajoutés à cet assemblage ou mais collaborons avec plusieurs pharmacies française. Le piluledelibido est très populaire et la pression artérielle dans les chambres rend le pénis ferme et qui était un petit État sans produits d’innovation antérieurs, l’élimination du sang en ligne au Canada.