As I’ve previously mentioned, a few months back I released a zine/art book through my friend Ben Rayner’s publishing imprint, Rayner Books. It was a compilation of some of our favorite stories from the Slutever archive, along with some new stuff. Below are some of the photos from the zine that I haven’t published here before, along with an old blog entry about taking acid with Bunny that I re-worked for the zine.
“There’s a dead bird in the basement and I think it might still be alive!” shouts Hannah. Hannah’s new cat William just maybe or maybe not killed a pigeon and now she’s flipping out.
“Shut up, we’re on acid,” barks Bunny as he tosses an empty beer can toward the garbage bin, missing completely. Bunny is our newest housemate. He’s kind of sort of like this weird, sexually ambiguous feral child. Roughly twenty, sunken eyes, body like a line drawing. He came to London from New York on vacation a few weeks ago and liked it so much that he just never left. I can’t remember exactly when he arrived here to our south London squat. Lately the days all seem to melt into one long, hazy nothing.
Earlier on in the night Bunny and I were somewhere else doing something with some other people. Now we’re back home, sort of coming up on some OK acid.
“Have you guys met my friend Kate? She’s amazing and might be on the roof I don’t knows fuuukiiing where have you guys been doing?” slurs Kerri. Kerri lives here too, in this four story abandoned hostel. In the daytime she works as a professional zombie in the London Dungeon Experience, which is why she’s currently covered in blood, guts, fake and/or real vomit, white face paint and miscellaneous slimes. She has a tendency to wear her costume for days at a time. Bunny is naked except for a pair of small black underpants. Red lipstick sloppily lines his thin lips and the words This is it? are scribbled across his bony chest in blue ink.
Someone: “We don’t have any more mixer. Can you chase vodka with bread?”
The acid is starting to kick in. Kerri ‘s blasting Vivaldi from her antique record player, conducting an invisible orchestra. “I bet Rhianna and Chris Brown sit around doing acid with their friends just like this,” says Bunny, then turns to me and shoots me a look so serious I hold my breath. I notice for the first time that one of his eyes doesn’t quite match the other. “I… I… I feel like we’re the same person,” he stutters nervously, “like our existence means the same thing. It’s weird, I don’t know how to explain it, except… maybe…” He coughs and a pearl of green goo emerges from deep within his lungs. “Like, for example we could fuck right now, and it might be fun, but it would just be masturbation. Do you know what I mean?”
I say no but I really mean yes.