Category: VICE Slutever Show

 

Weeks later he confessed that he wasn’t really having a seizure at all, but that sometimes when he’s really fucked-up he gets these uncontrollable urges to pretend he’s… you know… fucked-up. Like in a physical way. I told him I thought that was really creepy and weird, but deep down I was sort of into it. I’d heard of people doing stuff like that before—pretending to be physically or mentally impaired for the purpose of fetish or fun on whatever—but I’d never met anyone that was actually into it. It was strangely intriguing.

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.

Marcel by Matthew Stone

 

Pic by Matthew Stone

I’m all for weird sex. If you ask me, sex is license to do, be and say everything you won’t or can’t or are too afraid to in the real world. Biting, hitting, swearing, pretending to be a deaf mute, spitting, growling, pain, pleasure, piss, violence… whatever, I’m game. And to be honest, I’m not overly “into” that much myself, so I’m pretty keen to just adapt to the sexual preferences and perversions of whoever I’m with at that moment. Sort of like a sexual chameleon, if you will. For whatever reason, a lot of the guys I’ve been with have wanted to hit me (‘fist kisses,’ as I like to call them). But it wasn’t until last night—a night of many firsts—that making love left me with a broken nose. Fucker.

I had sex with Taylor. To refresh your memory, Taylor is the guy I met online after he responded to my ‘Searching For Freak Lovers’ ad on Gumtree.com. Taylor has cerebral palsy, so ever since we first met I’ve been curious as to how sex would go. Would it be awkward? Would his spastic movements make fucking difficult? Scary? Exciting and futuristic? I needed to know.

So last night, after a few drinks, I brought Taylor back to my house. The sex started off really good. Naked, Taylor looks like a skeleton dipped in wax, which is basically my idea of perfection, so I was way turned on. I even managed to make it through the first, like, five minutes of sex without thinking about my ex-boyfriend—a feat I’ve found basically impossible to overcome since we broke up six months ago—so I was pretty impressed with myself.

As sex went on Taylor began to hit me with his arms and hands. Not sexy, “I’m going to slap you, you slut” sort of hitting. This was more ‘I can’t control my body and I keep accidentally whacking you in the face with my elbow’ sort of hitting. I didn’t mind, though. Like I said, weird is good. But then, right when he was about to come Taylor brought his face really close to mine, but instead of kissing me as I expected, he twitched and head-butted me directly in the nose. Fuck. My face began bleeding profusely and I started screaming. Taylor, who was coming by this point, then began screaming as well—a strange, terrifying howl of both pure ecstasy and complete terror. The combined screaming lasted for a few seconds before Taylor regained composure, stared down at my face which was drenched in blood and tears, and casually muttered, “Woops.”

So yeah, the whole situation was pretty awkward. Not to mention my nose, I’m almost positive, is now broken, as whenever I wiggle it it makes this weird cracking noise and I have two hideous black eyes. But I’m determined not to let this discourage me. After all, it was an accident. I’ll think of my broken nose as a battle wound. I’ll regard my black eyes as two giant hickies, only instead of on my neck they’re in the middle of my face. And, most importantly, I’ll use this as grounds for demanding lots of sexual favors in the future.

sigil |ˈsijəl|
noun
an inscribed or painted symbol considered to have magical power.

I decide I want to hold one of Bunny’s weird masturbation ritual things in order to ask God or Satan or whoever to make my ex-boyfriend fall back in love with me. So I get out of my bed which I haven’t left in four days, wipe the drool lines off my face with a dirty sock and wander our dark, sad hallways, looking for Bunny.

I find him splayed out on his unmade bed, half asleep half awake, probably fucked, like usual. “I want to make a sigil,” I say, staring down at his emaciated frame. “I need Him to fall back in love with me.” Bunny looks up at what might be my face but might be the ceiling. “Sure, whatever,” he mumbles. “I’m kinda bored anyways.”

We clear a space on his messy floor and Bunny hands me a piece of paper and a pen and says, “Write down what you want” and I write I WANT HIM. He then takes the paper and crosses out all the vowels and repeating consonants and hands it back to me, now with only W N T H M remaining. “Now take those letters and arrange them to create a symbol,” he says. I do this quickly and when I’m done Bunny switches off the lamp, lights three candles and tells me not to worry because everything’s going to be OK.

“Now get down on your knees and jerk yourself off,” he says, “and as you do it stare at the sigil and really think hard about what you want and why you want it. Then, after you cum, you have to burn the sigil and try as hard as you can to forget this ever happened.”

I look at him. He’s staring at me expectantly and I suddenly feel both awkward and scared. “Aren’t you going to do it too?” I ask, and Bunny says, “No,” and I say, “How come?” and he says, “Because I want to watch you.” So I breathe in deep, try to move my hands but they’re stuck to the floor so I whisper, “Please, I need you to do this with me,” and he smiles and says OK.

So Bunny writes something on a piece of paper which he doesn’t let me see, and when he’s done I close my eyes and reach my hand down my skirt. And as I fuck myself I think about What’s His Name—his crooked body, the way his freckles scatter across his pallid skin, his fake tooth, his big nose—and my head fills with sex, death, cum, some other stuff… and as I climax I stare down at the stupid symbol and think What the fuck am I doing?

When it’s over I open my eyes and Bunny smiles and says, “Did you cum?” and I nod my head yes and so does he. And then we lie down on the floor for a while, staring at the ceiling, saying nothing.

Our new kitten, William (who I don’t hate)

Do you need a reason to hate stuff? I don’t think you do. Arbitrarily hating things has been a passion of mine for some time now, and nothing but good has ever come of it. So in that vein here are a few things I hate for no reason other than I just do, and that I’m going to keep on hating because I feel like it.

Lentils

They taste like crap. They look ugly, and whenever you see someone eating them they always seem so pleased with themselves, like ‘Yup, just eating some lentils. No biggie. My body is a temple. Never mind the fact that I smell like a junkie drenched in incense and haven’t brushed my hair since the 80’s.

Masturbation interrupters

I live with ten people, all of whom are masturbation interrupters. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve I actually had to fashion a sign for my door out of cardboard that reads Do Not Disturb. Masturbation In Progress, and I still I can’t manage to jerk-off without at least five different people barging in to ask where the can opener is, or if can they borrow five pounds, or if I’ve seen that video of the toddler high on LSD on Youtube because it’s sooooo funny.

Nicole Kidman

Why is she so tall? It’s so annoying. And why is her skin so pale? And why does her husband highlight and straighten his hair? And why when she smiles does she look like a walrus sucking on a lemon? No wonder her two adopted children refuse to call her mom.

People who say ‘Have a nice day’ but don’t really mean it

If I had a penny for every time someone gave me an insincere ‘Have a nice day’ I’d have at least 78p by now. It happens most in places like supermarkets, cafes and clothing stores, and every time it does I have to do everything in my power not to turn around and scream, “Really? Do you REALLY want me to have a nice day, you sad, deceitful bastard?”

People who read really trendy books in public with that smug look on their face, oblivious to how huge of a tool they are

These are the same people who emerge from movie theaters shouting “It was OK, but the book was way better,” loud enough for everyone to hear. You know who you are.

As everyone who’s sucked dick knows, some spunk tastes better than others. Like all human secretions, a guy’s flavour is dictated by his diet. But what cuisine makes some cum yum and other cum yuck? In order to make the world a safer place for blowjobs, I decided to carry out a man-naise test on my boyfriend…

I began my research by making a phone call to my trusted gynecologist. When I told her about my mission, she gave me a simple answer- it’s all about what you eat. Here is a list of the foods she says result in what she refers to as ‘friendly ejaculations,’ and ‘unfriendly ejaculations.’

Friendly foods:

Parsley
Pineapple
Vegetables
Fresh fruit
Carbohydrates

Unfriendly foods:

Meat
Fish
Garlic
Onions
Dairy
Chemically processed liquors

And now for the fun part. I, along with my very helpful and willing boyfriend (I wonder why), spent the past week putting these foods to the test. Each day I fed him a controlled diet, and each morning I gave him a blow-job. And swallowed. All in the name of science, of course. This is what I found:

Day 1: FRUIT AND VEG

Breakfast: Fruit cup + sliced pineapple + orange juice

Lunch: Green salad (with added parsley)

Dinner: Stir-fried vegetables

My boyfriend wasn’t too hot on the idea of eating only fruits and vegetables all day, but he knew he was getting head out of it, so he complied. The following morning, as planned, I sucked him off until he came in my mouth. Surprisingly, his cum did taste rather nice. It was slightly sweeter than normal, and exceptionally easy to swallow. Also, the smell of it was surprisingly similar to the smell of the chestnut tree I had in my backyard when I was little.

Day 2: CARBS

Breakfast: Bagel with jam

Lunch: 1 slice pizza

Dinner: Pasta with tomato sauce

After a day of consuming carbohydrates, my boyfriend’s cum didn’t taste like much of anything. It wasn’t sweet, like the morning before, but it wasn’t bad either. The smell was pretty average as well- kind of like salt, but in a nice way. It was basically your average, run-of-the-mill spunk.

Day 3: MEAT AND FISH

Breakfast: Bacon roll

Lunch: Tuna sandwich

Dinner: Salmon fillet with potatoes

I was dreading this day as I wasn’t too keene on the idea of drinking fish-flavored jizz, but to be honest it wasn’t as horrible as I had expected. It tasted slightly bitter, but as I swirled the juicy man-cream around the inside of my mouth, I couldn’t taste fish, but more of a buttery flavor. It did, however, smell more potent than the previous two days. Kind of like salt- but in a not-so-nice way.

Day 4: DAIRY + OTHER UNFRIENDLY THINGS

Breakfast: Yogurt + chocolate milk

Lunch: Crackers with blue cheese and Brie + vanilla ice cream

Dinner: Grilled cheddar cheese sandwich with fried garlic and onions + 4 glasses vodka and coke

Warning! Warning! Dairy makes your cum taste like sour milk in a blender with battery acid (said in emergency robot voice). I honestly didn’t think that one day’s food could possibly effect the taste of your bodily fluids so extremely, but I was so so terribly wrong. Upon swallowing the vile liquid, I instantly gagged, then spit the disgusting, chunky slime back out of my mouth. It smelt like burnt hair, tasted like rotting onions, and made me never want to give another blow-J for as long as I live.

The End.

In high school I was such a loser. Not the ugly, geeky, reject table type of loser. Please—as if I wasn’t popular. What I mean is that, in hindsight, I was so fucking cheesy. I was the epitome of the all American girl next door. Long, highlighted blonde hair, flared, jeans, Ugg boots—not to mention I was a star student, captain of the varsity basketball and soccer teams, editor of my school year book, and student council secretary. I even got nominated for prom queen one year. I lost though. (Fucking bitch Heather Bragg. That shit was so rigged.)

What I’m trying to say is, in high school, I could do no wrong. People loved me. I mean yeah I had a bit of a reputation for being a slut, and I might have fucked half the football team by the time I graduated, but in the eyes of everyone who mattered—teachers, parents, coaches—I was perfect.

Aside from sports and fucking, one of the things I was obsessed with as a teenager was newts. I loved those itsy-bitsy, slimy little orange salamanders far more than I did most of my bitch friends. There were always hundreds of them in my backyard, and in springtime my brother and I would go outside and collect them as our pets. We’d put them in glass bowls with some grass and a bit of dirt (so they would feel at home), and a thimble full of milk and some ham (in case they got hungry). We’d give them cool names like Danger and Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and when my mom would come home from work she’d scream and throw them back out into the woods and yell at us for destroying her fine china.

One day, during my senior year of high school, I spotted a newt on my driveway while on the way to school. Deciding to make it my pet for the day, I got into my car, placed the newt on my lap, and drove off. It was slightly difficult to juggle between steering, drinking my coffee, applying mascara, and occasionally stroking the newt’s back to make it feel safe, but I managed quite well for most of the journey. When I finally reached my school parking lot, I leant down to give my newt baby a kiss on its slimy head. Then, BAM! My 1985 puke-green Chrysler plowed into the back of the car in front of me—a milky white Mercedes belonging to the inherently evil and widely feared, Vice Principal Moss.

So obviously this was all the newt’s fault. “I hate your orange guts!” I screamed into the newt’s face. “See what you did, you cute little shit! You’ve ruined everything!” And with that I chucked the asshole out my car window into oncoming traffic. “Burn in hell!” I shouted as his tiny body flew though the air and landed on the pavement.

“What where you thinking?” screamed Vice Principal Moss as she bounded toward me, her tan pumps shaking the ground beneath her. “Are you blind? Where did you learn how to drive?” By this point she had her wrinkly, old person face just inches from mine. Her breath stunk like coffee and vitamins. “Well…?” she continued. I couldn’t speak. She was too furious. She looked like she was about to explode—like there was molten lava building up behind her face and it was about to erupt and spill all over me. Should I tell her about the newt? I wondered. Or would that just make her more mad?

Long story short I had to pay for the damage. Big deal. I had insurance and it was almost worth it just to witness Heinous Bitch Moss’ mental breakdown. And my parents weren’t even that mad. I mean, they were definitely mad, but by this point in my driving career I had been in so many accidents and received so many speeding tickets that as long as I hadn’t killed anyone, they were happy.

The sad part was, my perfect reputation was destroyed. No longer was I the star student with the perfect teeth and long, flowing blonde hair. I was “that girl that totaled VP Moss’ Benz.” My good name had been tarnished. Not that it really mattered. A mere two months later my best friend Kelly sucked-off our science teacher and everyone forgot about my little mishap. High school’s good like that.

Concept and artwork: Maria&Karley@assholeartists.com
ays felt sorry for those guys. They get such a bad rap…
So I was watching this horrible 80’s porn the other day and I was super turned on and this hot black dude was licking Nutella of some girl’s clit and she was moaning and I was moaning it was all hot and sweaty and sexy and it made me wonder… what would it be like to fuck a shark?

Ever since my trip to the London Aquarium a couple weeks back I can’t seem to think about anything but sharks. I just love them—so dangerous yet so elegant, so savage yet so beautiful. Sort of like Sarah Michelle Gellar in that move Cruel Intentions, except not at all.

My obsession with the animal started off innocently—watching videos of shark attacks on Youtube, drawing pictures of sharks naked, etc. It later progressed onto excessive Google sessions, searching things like ‘shark orgy’ and ‘erect shark cock.’ Finally, my fetish reached its peak when I found myself watching a video of a hairy Italian man in a shark costume fucking a fat woman doggy-style in a swimming pool… and getting totally wet. (The video is called ‘A Shark Fucking a Whale,’ if you want to look it up.) Like… should I feel weird about this?

But back to the point—what would it be like to fuck a shark? Well, I decided to ditch the vintage porn and instead finish myself off to thoughts of being pummeled by a Great White. And let me tell you, if it’s anything like my fantasies, making love to a shark is incredibly hot. I mean next level hot. Fuck—sharks are just so, you know, wet and streamlined and muscular and stuff. I’m getting hard just thinking about them. Plus they’ve got that whole rough and ready thing going on. I’m way into that.

The only problem with this fascination, however, is that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make my fantasies a reality. I mean, seriously, where the fuck am I going to find a shark? Plus, I don’t know for sure, but I’m assuming zoophilia is illegal. Ugh, I feel like an outcast of sexual society. It blows not fitting in. This is what pedos must feel like. I’ve always felt sorry for those guys. They get such a bad rap…