#pussy street homos

[pussystreethomoshomepage]

..... (dedicated to John Waters)

[awkwardgtace]

For the ask game, 🔪, ❄️ and 🦴 :3

ask game

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

ohh ok this is hard. A dream theme would probably be a good mystery I can't start piecing together or a horror novel that scares me. For mystery I oddly enough think Brandon Sanderson would be good. I've been unable to predict things moving forward in the Stormlight Archives. But honestly I think it would be written best by someone who hasn't even tried before. There's a way of placing clues in a mystery I feel a lot of people follow. Most of the time those clues placed by someone new wouldn't have the same easy to tell hints and tips.

For horror I kind of am expecting Lydia Prime to do it. She's a newer author on the horror scene (actually have a book she just managed to publish I plan to pick up). I also some comedians would be good at it. Comedy is kind of the other side, takes a lot to do it. I don't know who would be best for this outside of like a pro author. I'm pretty hard to scare, make a habit of marathoning horror games and horror movies just because. That does mean I get psyched to read any horror sent my way that might be good!

For a dream plot it's kinda hard to say. I know how my brain works, but honestly even if i'm not super into it I just like seeing people posting/sharing the stuff they put their time into. It's so scary to take that first step so it's really amazing when someone does and they keep going.

🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing? 

Ok so this one is kind of a lot. For some of my stories it's probably some myth, post, or my own daydream mixed from anime/games/books throughout the years.

Specific media would be MTG Streets of New Capenna set (Mafia AU), Fenyx Rising (Delphia rising), FF14 (some fanfics and an au i am working on), Oddly enough a story I have on and off struggled with was inspired by a yugioh series, Godzilla vs Kong (the fight for Rhys and Felix in mafia au). My gods might have been inspired by the old hercules disney movie.

Oh Delphia is a bit inspired by an Kagome in Inuyasha (got me looking into reincarnation). oh and a book series I read forever and ever ago. The Eternal Ones by Kirsten Miller. (I went to my bookshelf to find this title.)

I also do love mythology and folklore so I'm sure that's a big inspiration even if it's not obvious. (obsessed with fairies since I was like born. My sister can't even remember a time i wasn't).

Basically it's everything? I have a few characters I've realized over time fit a meme a little or i put together match someone i loved from a game.

Oh last one I can think of. Alice in Wonderland. I loved that from the disney movie, to the books, to the manga based in it, to the new tim burton movies. Pretty much the only time I haven't liked it was in RWBY 😅

🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project? I feel weird leaving this one out in the open, but like also it's not exactly nsfw. just a little insight into my weird thought process at times

ok so originally it was gonna be the general size of a dick/vagina of the average person to then do the ratio for how big it should be for a giant/how small for a tiny. In searching for this math (cause ofc i only shared it on discord) I realized i had an entire discussion that involved at least a little research where i determined it's incredibly viable that if giants and tinies are under the same homo species it would possible to successfully get pregnant in a multisize couple with the question being the survival rate of the child/birth parent dependent on a number of factors....

I used the dick knowledge in one (1) specific story i wrote on ao3. The pregnancy knowledge was lost until now.

Most likely to get me arrested was how much a person could move after a stab wound

for those curious this was the percentages i came up with are under the cut

balls: 2.7% of total height per ball dick: 6.9% of total height pussy opening: 4.8% of total height pussy depth: 6.3% of total height

[the-firebird69]

This guy is dead and he's a trumpster and it was symbology to try and get her son to ride close to the demolition work they thought it worked you know trying to make him sick they're a bunch of pussies. It didn't do anything and they're out there for like hours breathing in the chemicals from the building and our son said it's stuck real bad and it we had some people swing by it was pretty bad not really sure but just made this stupid pile and they could be emptied it the whole time and there's no excuse really. Usually sit around for hours planning to leave piles of debris and mess with people and stuff like that and they're trying to grab people walking around and nobody gets grabbed and they get in trouble they got arrested three times in a row three days in a row that is and they're going to get arrested for leaving the debris there it's been like a week and they're a bunch of jerks and it should be trucking it out and they don't bother doing it so they're going to get penalized and find and by the day and if they don't they have to pull the stuff out if they don't they get fired and the general contractor gets fired in that paperwork is already started they're going to have three days to start hauling it over out and then they'll probably use up the 3 days and then lose the equipment because they won't remove it they just move it over to the part of the yard and if it doesn't if they don't come get it then they're going to confiscate it they're really big excavator but yeah these people are bombs they can't do anything.

--this guy who died as a trumpster and he was symbolic of what's going on here in a lot of trumpsters hate this guy Trump and they want him dead and his brother and the rest of them and they're saying it too you killed our friend and our brother to try and harm him and you're not to touch him and it does nothing he walks up and smells and says gross and waddles off and doesn't care too much doesn't smell that bad it's in there screwing around with them yipping and hollering and saying all sorts of stuff then we see you dead and it wants to know why and they couldn't figure it out and her son and her daughter say he's really stupid and he spent and he knees out they got it out finally and what a bunch of jerks these people are just as stupid as he is and they're all going to die

Thor Freya

Olympus

Man you are a dumb a****** Sam and you shouldn't be piloting a boat you're drunk before you a s******* and an a****** and I'm telling you what if you end up in the wrong alley with me you're gone before everybody else could get to you I can't stand looking at you you f****** homo you're a f****** loser and you're stupid you're just disgusting a little life and a nobody couldn't stand you in westborough either in this moron who says stupid things about stuff and you don't know you should shut up you mess around with everybody and you always get beat up and it still happens you said now you die and I didn't say it would protect your brain all the time I said we protected for information if we get the information we don't have to protect you anymore you need to leave and I told you to get out we're not friends pal you're rubbing me the wrong way you're losing your whole army because of your unprofessional indignant ridiculous trites and au contraire b******* meaning it means absolutely nothing except you're willing to expose everybody for some sort of cheap thrill which is not even real and what a hose bag you are just a f****** loser Jill wants you are such a f****** moron I can't believe how stupid you actually are

Zues Hera

It's actually true my stuff is rancid we just sit there in the park doing this street person stuff that's what we are kind of partly and he hates us he doesn't want to be near us with pigs and bums and losers it doesn't want to be anywhere near that culture and we keep dragging them down and so it disappearing and nobody wants to be us it's kind of machine because I basically wanted to be a bum it's a shame and he says no it's a joke and I'm using you and you're a weakling I'm using it for a lot of stuff to keep you hard cuz you won't let me be hot and you die when you're hot in trump you're a loser. It says he's going to mangle me inside and out like every day I'll be in so much pain I'll be screaming for death and you can see it in movies I try and get rid of myself and he's happy about it because he uses it for something this is a terrible terrible person to start trouble with and I keep doing it and I'm stupid so far as ridiculously awful no but Tommy f is cutting my dick and balls off and having people play with and yeah people are now telling me they tested and stuff and they have to hand it back says I should set up some meetings and fisherman's village to receive it I got to tell you something he can get it done and he's not really doing it that Tommy F got upset and shot him it didn't do anything and Tommy F got shot in the head like three times so far he's not really making it happen that much she just says this is the math but he's got a military force of his own and I missed it and he's rubbing it in all the time and he wants me out of here and it won't leave you're never going to find anything it's cuz I'm here and it's probably true he says what do you mean probably you stupid idiot I sort of get that all of my entire higher echelon is right here because I'm next to him so I see

Trump

Hey guys so damn dumb sometimes he gets it but wow most of the time it's an airhead and we got to start doing stuff right now

Hera

Olympus

[benadryltarantula]

Biami Dice, Episode, uh, whatever +1

I think I missed some stuff, but let's sum it up real quick!

After an interesting hunt, the source of JOOCE was discovered to be the large, bovine ghost of a streamer. JOOCE came from her... her penis. No matter, she was defeated anyway and our Angels earned some downtime. Aside from blowing some steam off, Beverly pissed the ghost of Socrates off enough via turning a philosophy club for amoral rich twenty somethings into a budding cult of personality that he'll be a surprise tool for later.

Fast forward a couple days and the Angels are contacted by the energy drink company Blondester to investigate the untimely bludgeoning of their CEO/founder, Jeremy Blonde. The Angels were sought due to the company contacting a psychic upon hearing the news and getting assurance a ghost was responsible. It was also revealed that his wound contained ectoplasm and a house known to be haunted was on the same street. Milk was there too so they have a friendly npc to bully.

The first step the players decided on was questioning the psychic, a man with a ling complicated name i don't feel like repeating. Rather than simply shake him down for info, the Angels wanted hard proof that this man could really sense the unsensible; naturally, they asked him to tell them dark secrets about themselves that not even they knew. Milk found the idea of fortune telling abhorrent and stayed outside.

I rolled on the Necronica memory fragment tables as they received palm readings.

Beverly, "hug": It was revealed that upon graduating High School, Beverly was very nearly overwhelmed by suppressed romantic desire for her friend Kimi as they hugged and went their separate ways. Beverly ended up consumed by thoughts on how to deal with her apparent latent homo/bisexuality.

Meryl, "enhancement": It was revealed that Meryl was born blind. Before she could form lasting memories, her parents spend everything they had and took on massive debt to fix her eyes via experimental hyperlaser treatments as Mr. Beast hadn't been invented yet. (Note, remember to make a Mr. The Beast ghost for later) Meryl became wracked with guilt over this revelation.

Melanie, "closet": Melanie was reluctant to have her secret read, but was convinced when she was told she could have it whispered to her. It was revealed that Melanie was terrified of something in her closet as a child, never actually opening it. Whatever she was afraid of is real, and it's coming. (Retroactively, Melanie is now responsible for setting the events of the demon Pashmina's arrival.)

Convinced, they were told the ghosts were a pair of envious spirits in a pink chariot. Immediately, they figured that the promotional dancers from the JOOCE concert were behind it, now they just had to find them.

Milk assured Beverly God doesn't care if you eat pussy if you have one and they decided to investigate the haunted house next. It turns out that it's just a single mom's house with generic 'things aren't where I left them' hauntings, but we'll see if they find anything else out next week!

[wilma-flintstones-mother]

[nolan-chance-fortnite]

Oh boy I totally won't dig through your stuff while you're not looking! Oh no no, the posters are other thing for sure, those are creepy no matter what he pointed at one That guy? He obviously stalks people in the streets. You can't be normal with a face like his

Don't forget meat, man, i love meat! I want some juicy meat! Burgers, YEAH! Shakes? That's for pussies, men drink soda and burp loud! *after that, he let out a loud burp*

Oh yeah we might turn into wer-gay if we share a bed! We could start kissing mouth to mouth sloppy style at any given second! *he actually jumped off the bed* No homo, dude! I'm protected!

*slams his fist on the reception desk* You can't kick me out because "I don't have a reservation". Do you know who am I? Do you have any idea?! I know the owner of this resort! And you'll get fired!!

-@ask-kado-thorne

I'm sorry... Who is this? I think you meant to tag your blog and not mine, dear.

And I don't intend on firing myself, so let's see how your complaint goes.

[pussystreethomoshomepage]

[the-firebird69]

We do see what's happening that you idiots here want another storm to finish yourselves off cuz that's what I did last time. And a son and daughter they're right there more less than they said that you couldn't handle it last time and you sat here and withered and you like doing it and you're going to do it to yourself again your son can't stand you and we can't stand you and we hate tommy f and he has a stone ships and he wants to kidnap him to keep them in tax and if he's on like a big one the kid attack cuz he be somewhere in the cluster I don't know you people are lame you think you're going to capture a ship by kidnapping him I've had enough of you people so we have to come in there is the answer he wants us in here so we can do it he has to do to get to safety and it's an emergency for him last time was an emergency and this time is too that went was way too fast 159 mph cast down his street and if you were just sitting there with your mouth open wondering what he was doing and what kind of harm was coming to him so we decided to kill him about you and we're going to kill a bunch of you now you're useless you don't have a ship you're not even close to it this idiot next door thinks he's going to get everything it's disgusting he wasn't even near here during the storm.

I've had enough of you and I'm sitting in troops

Thor Freya

That's true he needs me in there now he's been ordering it and ordering it and ordering it and ordering it and he wants troops now he's trying to get as many as possible and see his kids moving out and they're ignoring everybody you guys want to do the job you can come with me but if you want to talk and ymer like these assholes would like to punch you out

Nuada Arrianna

We have our orders in their protect you what you're saying is we don't need the storm and we don't need these retards and I'm tired of people and being huge pussies on our side if they want to do the job do the job get off me with all this homo s*** that's true too we're so sick of this crap we need another storm to do our job and we're leaving on this retard to help us out I don't know why it took so damn long now I know why you didn't get them off their ass Thor. And he's right if we had enough people signed up we'd be able to do it and we understand that you're having an issue and we help and it works but wow this is terrible. I have to say something we're partly responsible if we're all powerful that's what I'm getting at we have tons of power the rest of your sitting around you know what he says is just let him sit around and get the job done right now it's an emergency I'm going to do that and ignore them the song starts whining like that ignore them go home and suck their mom's dick

Abomination and She Abomination

He's saying now and I really want to do it to some people since you want to go through a storm to make sure it works and stuff cuz we're lazy or can't get it off or why don't you go down there don't throw a storm that's a lazy f****** homo s*** we can have a meeting again and we're going to start investigations I told you to stop this s*** and you're sitting on your ass doing nothing waiting for a free prize like John Riva Lord

Thor Freya

I've been doing investigations and I'm turning it in to Thor and Freya I am so sick of this s*** some of us are so easy and lame say why don't you get down there do the work not at all you're making his family do all this stuff is going to come back to us

Nuada Arrianna

That's what these want here and I keep warning mine and warning mine and now this and really the lumping everything on me to get this reaction out of me. What can I say to you stupid f**** here you know I can say you dumb f*** you're just like this idiot next door and you don't realize we're going to take everything from you the storm makes it a lot faster and a lot easier. If I don't flood out here everything's hunky-dory music is going to lose your lives cuz you want to kidnap me the governor wants to connect me this a****** Tommy f Matt does I tell you what you kidnap me I'm going to kill you cuz I'm not going to be a prisoner in my country you dumb f*** you dumb f****** assholes no stan you dead you're the first one out the ship with no suit on you dumb f***. I'm the first ship to leave the group cuz I'm going to kill everybody on board you're absolutely insane people I've killed the whole bunch of You by hand and I do it on purpose it's my job I'm not supposed to be captured you're a bunch of insane assholes there's so many you kidnappers down here the FBI will be rolling in dough if they came down here for an hour a week

Zues Hera

He means us is true we're stupid. Well popping each other getting rid of each other just to hold on to him for a few minutes like a bunch of raging homos he's right now it only has a benefit if you have an accident in deception you have to have a Grand illusion it takes energy and power and tons of money and positioning you guys have nothing but s*** and bile and puke it doesn't want to be near you either you're so stupid this is hell you're so bad at this in my Max aren't listening why can't we get the ships out of the way they're not a permanent fixture they don't have a right to cause the storm they don't have a right to take our lives what's wrong with you f****** stupid assholes you think it's just going to get these people when we have to be here you're down here you f****** God damn idiots

Mac daddy

You certainly do hear this stuff he's going to have to bear through it and he's going to tear us all out like animals because that's what we're doing and all these other idiots who will to f*** each other up that didn't tell you it's probably foreigners and start dropped to stop him and so I just have to stop these idiots and they have tons of stuff we need I don't know what to tell you it's like the store just opened it is criminals running it and we can run it in there and grab what we want but we want to sit here and chortle and laugh and gobble up stuff and what's wrong with us well let's have a meeting and say we need all the stuff we can end up in another asinine battle and just ruin these ships because he's assholes go around starting trouble with everyone

Macs

I have to tell you I'm so sick of having this idiot inside my own head I feel like chopping him out of there and he comes Vietnam My Hope that's just disgusting

Mac daddy

We need to take action here I'm tired of this talking and yelling everyone thinks it sucks you'll stop those ships and there's some reasons you can get big black chips or big Stone chips and you can get them in tax and it's a method and this f***** is stupid he falls for it every time and it really is backwards no but he's an idiot it doesn't work you shouldn't do it and he keeps doing it

Mike tew

We meet now

Mac

[mybarricades]

The Dangerous Art of Pyotr Pavlesnky

His spectacular acts of self-mutilation and vandalism have landed him in jail in both Russia and France — and blurred the lines among art, protest and crime.

By Fernanda Eberstadt (The New York Times Magazine) July 11, 2019

On a fall day in Paris, in the luminous courthouse built by Renzo Piano near the Porte de Clichy, the Russian artist Pyotr Pavlensky sat in the dock, listening to an interpreter’s translation of the proceedings against him. Pavlensky had spent the past 11 months in a French jail, primarily in solitary confinement, for what he considers an artwork and the French government considers a crime. 

In the early hours of Oct. 16, 2017, Pavlensky set fire to the ground-floor windows of a branch of the Banque de France on the Place de la Bastille. A video showed him standing in the doorway of the fortresslike building, a black-clad figure framed by wings of flame. The site had been carefully chosen. The Banque de France is the French equivalent of the Federal Reserve, and this particular outpost was erected where the Bastille prison, stormed by revolutionary mobs in 1789, once stood. In the text accompanying the work, titled “Lighting,” Pavlensky declared the bank a symbol of modern-day tyranny and central bankers the new despots. 

In an aftermath common to his artworks (which Pavlensky calls “actions”), he was arrested on the spot, hauled off for psychiatric examination and put in jail — this time with his longtime partner, Oksana Shalygina, who was assisting that night. The couple were charged with “property damage involving risk to others.” Shalygina, who is also the mother of their two young children, was released on probation after two months. But in September, almost a year after “Lighting,” Pavlensky was still in prison awaiting trial. 

Seated before the panel of judges hearing the arguments for his pretrial release, Pavlensky, a hollow-cheeked man with enormous yellow-green, tigerish eyes, was dressed in his customary outfit of black scoop-necked T-shirt, black cargo pants and black sandals. The courtroom was packed with his supporters. One, a red-bearded artist named Sébastien Layral, had chopped off his earlobe for the occasion — recalling Pavlensky’s 2014 performance piece “Segregation,” in which Pavlensky climbed naked onto the wall of Moscow’s most infamous psychiatric institute and cut off his right earlobe to protest the political abuse of psychiatry. Outside the courthouse, six young women from the feminist group FEMEN stood bare-breasted, their lips sewn shut, their chests and backs painted with the slogans “Free Pavlensky” and “Activism Is Not a Disease.” Policemen raised a curtain of gold-foil blankets to hide the women’s naked torsos from onlookers, but their silent fists pumped high above it. 

During his incarceration, Pavlensky held two dry hunger strikes (no food, no water); one was broken only, he says, when the prison authorities force-fed him. His right to daily exercise in the prison courtyard or to receive visitors was frequently denied. 

This harsh treatment, Ariane Mnouchkine, founder of the avant-garde company Théâtre du Soleil, contended in an open letter to the judge, was an “unheard-of practice” in a country that prides itself on its tradition of artistic freedom. Before his arrest, Pavlensky was widely praised by critics for being, as one British newspaper put it, “the patron saint of Russian dissidence.” He was showcased in a prestigious 2017 survey of Russian art at the Saatchi Gallery in London and granted asylum in France the same year. But once he shifted the object of his critique from Putin’s Russia to the Western democracy that gave him refuge, the French government — and even some of his art-world supporters — grew decidedly less enthusiastic. In a country rattled by terrorist attacks, Pavlensky’s “action” took on a sinister resonance. Just two weeks before “Lighting,” the French Parliament passed a sweeping counterterrorism bill, making permanent most of the government’s state-of-emergency powers.

In the courtroom, waiting to be questioned by the judge, Pavlensky’s co-defendant, Shalygina, a tall, lunar-pale woman with a peroxide semimohawk, was pessimistic about her partner’s release. She had sat through half a dozen hearings in this case, and each time the judge had prolonged Pavlensky’s detention another three, four months, with no trial date in sight. 

What made the case particularly uncertain was that the artist himself was not asking to be freed. For Pavlensky, the judicial process is an integral part of the artwork. “The government’s aim is to suppress or neutralize art, to reduce me to a vandal, a madman, a provocateur,” he told me earlier, “but the criminal case becomes one of the layers of the artwork, the portal through which you enter and see the mechanisms of power exposed.” 

The presiding judge that day was Président Jean-Marie Denieul. Balding, bespectacled, genial, Denieul flipped through Pavlensky’s hefty dossier, summarizing his career with the relish of a doctor presented with a particularly rare medical specimen. Here was an artist who thought nothing of chopping off body parts “to make a political point,” Denieul remarked. “A skeletal Homo sapiens, but pretty tough!” 

“This sounds like a homage!” said Pavlensky’s lawyer, Dominique Beyreuther-Minkov. 

“It is, in a way,” the judge replied. 

The prosecutor was not so well disposed. The defendant faced a prison sentence of 10 years, she pointed out. Since he had no job, no bank account, no legal home, she believed he posed a high flight risk. Moreover, since he refused to recognize the legitimacy of the French judiciary or that his act of arson was a crime, there was nothing to stop him from setting more buildings aflame. “He lives for his political acts,” she declared. If they released him “he will do it again.” Public safety, she concluded, demanded that Monsieur Pavlensky be kept in prison. 

I first encountered Pavlensky in the summer of 2017. He and his family arrived from Russia six months earlier and were living in a series of Paris squats and collective apartments. Their latest hosts didn’t allow journalists, so Pavlensky suggested a rendezvous in Père Lachaise, the French cemetery where such luminaries as Balzac and Jim Morrison are buried. 

Until “Lighting,” Pavlensky, who is 35, worked only in Russia. Most of his “actions” involved spectacular acts of self-mutilation or endurance. For the 2013 “Carcass,” he had himself deposited, naked and cocooned in barbed wire, outside the St. Petersburg Parliament, in response to a series of new laws restricting personal freedom. Later that year, in “Fixation,” he attached his scrotum with a Crucifixion-style nail to the paving stones of Red Square to symbolize the passivity of the Russian people. He was inspired, he told me, by “zeks,” imprisoned criminals in Russia who “sometimes do this to protest administrative decisions.” 

Unyielding in his public stances, Pavlensky in person is unexpectedly warm, a little shy. Perched on a graveyard bench under a pitiless sun, he kept his head ducked, smiling often as he spoke about his path to political art. Born in St. Petersburg (then Leningrad) in 1984, he was 16 when Vladimir Putin first became president. Putin closed down independent TV stations, made regional governors his direct appointees and seized banks and industries, imprisoning their oligarch owners or driving them into exile. He embraced the Russian Orthodox Church as a power base, encouraging the traditionalists’ vision of Russia as a “holy nation” whose destiny owed nothing to liberal democracy; art became a pawn in this cultural struggle. In 2003, Orthodox extremists attacked and defaced a Moscow exhibition called “Caution, Religion!” The charges against the vandals were dismissed, but the show’s curators were convicted under Russia’s infamous Article 282, known as the “blasphemy law.” A few years later, one of the curators was again fined for an exhibition called “Forbidden Art.” To many, these high-profile art trials recalled the Soviet-era trials of dissidents like Joseph Brodsky.

In the fall of 2011, Putin and Dmitri Medvedev announced that they would swap jobs (Putin had been serving as Medvedev’s prime minister since 2008 because Russian law barred him from serving a third consecutive term) and Putin would once again assume the presidency. This announcement, followed by what were widely seen as rigged parliamentary elections, sparked a nationwide wave of demonstrations. Many were characterized by an “Occupy”-style exuberance. The punk feminist group Pussy Riot, whose members specialized in guerrilla actions, seemed to embody this spirit of revolt. Shortly before the presidential election, Pussy Riot performed a “Punk Prayer” in The Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow. Clad like cartoon ninjas in lollipop-colored dresses and balaclavas, they pranced and kickboxed as they shouted a song whose refrain went, “Mother of God, chase Putin out!” The church was almost empty and the “prayer” lasted less than two minutes, but three of the performers were nonetheless arrested and charged with “inciting religious hatred.” 

At the time, Pavlensky was 27, an art student who hadn’t yet found a mobilizing subject for his work. “Even among my friends, there were few who understood Pussy Riot’s action,” Pavlensky told me. “I was shocked by the violence of people’s reactions. These women had touched nothing, but people wanted to burn them at the stake; even so-called dissidents condemned them.” 

When Pussy Riot went on trial that July, Pavlensky decided to stage his first “action.” He stood outside the Kazan Cathedral in St. Petersburg, his mouth sewn shut, carrying a sign likening Pussy Riot’s performance to Jesus’ expulsion of the money-changers from the Temple. 

“At first, I just wanted to go out in the street with my poster, like a one-man strike,” Pavlensky recalled. “I’m an atheist, but I wanted to show that the Russian Orthodox Church was in conflict with its own teachings, that it was just another instrument of state power. But then I started thinking: What if the police question me? What will I say? I realized if my mouth were sewn shut, there would be no possibility of answering, then I’d be the one with the power. People helped me sew my mouth; I got in a taxi, my mouth covered with my hand. I was frightened, but I tried to understand, Is this an objective, a rational fear, or is it just because I’ve seen that normally people don’t do this? It was the moment of no return, when I managed to overcome my own fears and become the political artist I am today.” 

Titled “Seam,” the work was captured by several photojournalists, including Maxim Zmeyev, who cropped the photo to an iconic headshot. Pavlensky’s emaciated face, lips zigzagged in blood-red twine, radiates an almost Christlike suffering. By choosing this gesture, he also inscribed himself in a powerful lineage of artistic resistance, referencing a seminal 1989 work by David Wojnarowicz, “Silence=Death,” in which the artist sewed his lips shut to mark the Reagan administration’s refusal to address the AIDS epidemic.

The Pussy Riot trial ended with the conviction of three members. Two of them, Nadya Tolokonnikova and Maria Alyokhina, would spend nearly two years in a prison camp; the third, Yekaterina Samutsevich, received a suspended sentence on appeal. Tolokonnikova later expressed her joy that Pussy Riot had found a worthy successor. “Pavlensky,” she tweeted, “is the mind, honor and balls of our epoch.” 

Pavlensky’s work draws on a venerable tradition of performance art in which the body is used to interrogate cultural norms and power dynamics. In the 1960s, the Viennese Actionists staged performances using their own blood, urine and excrement to expose Austria’s willed amnesia about its Nazi past. In 1971, the American artist Chris Burden made a video of a friend shooting him with a .22 rifle in a kind of commentary on the Vietnam War. 

As an art student, Pavlensky encountered the work of the Moscow Actionists. One, Oleg Kulik, pretended to be a dog: naked, chained, he barked at passers-by in a reminder of the animality beneath our civilizational veneer. Another, Alexander Brener, stood in boxing shorts and gloves in Red Square, demanding that President Boris Yeltsin, who had just started the First Chechen War to prevent the republic from gaining independence, come out and fight him. 

The Moscow Actionists, with their guerrilla happenings in unsanctioned public spaces, insisted on a kind of art that couldn’t be bought. Pavlensky operates with a similar ethic, always choosing sites under high police surveillance. “If there is a scale of expression, with opera at one end and terrorism at the other,” he told me, “political art is closer on the scale to terrorism than to opera.” 

For Pavlensky, the initial action is just the beginning of a larger process. Even as every element is precisely calculated — “I have to practice each gesture carefully, where I’m going to put my foot, my hand, because once I’m there, everything moves very quickly and there are so many unforeseeables,” he told me — what interests him is the state’s involuntary collaboration in his work. A recent exhibition at Milan’s Galleria Pack included photos of his Russian police dossier: grainy close-ups of embossed lettering on a gas canister, CCTV shots of a hooded figure on a wintry street corner — images that, as he points out, anonymous Interior Ministry employees have cropped, edited and laid out with deliberate artistry. “What I’m doing is turning the tables, drawing the government into the process of making art,” he said. “The power relations shift, the state enters into the work of art and becomes an object, an actor.” 

In 2014, Pavlensky embarked on a more direct confrontation with the state. It was the year Putin began a war in Ukraine, cracking down on Ukrainian activists opposed to the invasion by imprisoning them on trumped-up terrorism charges. The filmmaker Oleg Sentsov was convicted of supposedly plotting to bomb a series of buildings and monuments and is now serving a 20-year sentence in the Russian Far North. 

Pavlensky was an active supporter of the protesters gathering in Ukraine’s Maidan, and in what now seems a precursor to his Banque de France action, he set ablaze the doors of the Lubyanka, the headquarters of the Russian security service, then waited for the police to arrive, gas canister in hand. The “action,” which Pavlensky titled “Threat,” referenced Sentsov’s supposed plot. Pavlensky was arrested, sent to a psychiatric ward for a few weeks and then imprisoned for seven months, awaiting trial. In solidarity with Sentsov and other incarcerated activists, he demanded to be charged with terrorism. Instead, he was convicted of vandalism and let off with a fine, which he refused to pay. 

The incident that would drive him into exile occurred just a few months after his release. An actress named Anastasia Slonina, associated with the Moscow theater group Teatr.doc, filed charges against Pavlensky and Shalygina. She claimed the couple assaulted her with a knife when she resisted their sexual advances. Pavlensky and Shalygina, who had an open relationship, denied the charges. “There was no violence, no knife,” Pavlensky says. (Anastasia Slonina did not respond to requests for comment.) 

The charges created bitter divisions in Russian intellectual circles, the writer Masha Gessen told me. “On the one hand, ‘If she says it happened, we have to assume it happened.’ On the other, ‘No one should ever go to the police’ — an unimpeachable argument in Russia, where whatever the court system doles out is a priori unjust.” Pavlensky and Shalygina’s supporters insisted the couple had been framed. Although Gessen says she has no opinion on the case, she notes that “Russia loves to put dissidents in jail on sexual charges, because who’s going to stand up for a sexual predator?” Gessen cites the case of Yuri Dmitriev, a historian uncovering Soviet-era mass graves who is currently imprisoned on charges of sexual abuse and child pornography, widely regarded as having been fabricated. After “Threat,” “it was inevitable they were going to get Pavlensky one way or another. I think they wanted to get him out of the country.” 

Pavlensky and Shalygina say they were warned that if convicted, they could each be sentenced to 10 years in prison, their two small children placed in a state orphanage. They decided to seek refuge in France, which Pavlensky chose because it was the “alma mater of revolution.” “I’m not scared of prison,” he said, “but I won’t go like a sheep to the slaughter for something I didn’t do.” 

Two months before “Lighting,” I visited Pavlensky and Shalygina at their latest home, the eighth in seven months. They said that the French state had offered them housing, but, as Shalygina explained to me with a laugh, they didn’t want to be “fed by the monster.” 

Pavlensky’s and Shalygina’s politics are loosely anarchist. They describe themselves as living by an alternative economy of foraging, donations from well-wishers and the occasional lecture fee. (French authorities were particularly irritated by Pavlensky’s telling German TV why Paris is a great place to live: When you’re hungry, you shoplift from supermarkets, and when you need to get somewhere, you jump the Metro turnstile.) None of Pavlensky’s art is for sale, and issues of Political Propaganda, an art magazine Shalygina began in Russia, are distributed free. 

The address they’d given me was fairy-tale unexpected: a cottage in a cobblestone alley festooned in climbing roses, tucked behind a boulevard of grim high-rises. Inside, Pavlensky and Shalygina greeted me beaming. How had they ended up here? I asked. 

The couple’s approach to house hunting, it turned out, was characteristically guerrilla. They’d fallen out with the inhabitants of their previous squat. One night, while on one of their regular family rambles around Paris, they came upon a bucolic alley and spotted a cottage that looked abandoned so they moved in. Twenty-four hours later, the owner showed up with the police, but evicting squatters from a Paris property that is not your primary residence can be a slow business in a legal system that favors tenants over landlords. 

When I arrived, handymen were hooking the house up to the electricity mains. We climbed the steep broken stairs and emerged on a balcony, with views across Paris. Their daughters — 6-year-old Lilya playing a joyous peekaboo; 9-year-old Alisa, grave, reserved — clambered along the balcony railings, then scampered off to their bedroom to draw pictures. In Russia, Pavlensky and Shalygina had home-schooled their daughters, teaching them kickboxing, poetry, chess. Now, reluctantly, they’d enrolled the girls in the local primaire so they could learn French. Alisa liked school; Lilya didn’t. 

Sitting on the balcony in the crisp sunlight, Pavlensky talked about his own upbringing in a high-rise complex on the western edge of St. Petersburg. His parents were “conformists shaped by the Soviet system, people who above all wanted a comfortable life.” His father was a geologist who spent his entire career at a government institute. After the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, the elder Pavlensky fell into acute alcoholism. “My father died alone at 49, choking on a piece of raw meat. His example taught me how not to live. I saw how his reliance on the state for comfort, his disappointment at the state’s abandonment, led to this horrible death.” 

Pavlensky’s mother, a retired nurse, is still alive. In a book of interviews, Pavlensky described her exasperation with the life he and Shalygina had chosen. “My mother is someone who thinks you have to stay on good terms with the police and beware of the neighbors. She would unleash this stream of clichés on me: ‘The children have to go to school. If they’re sick, you send them to the doctor. Why don’t you have a job? How are you going to feed your family? Why don’t you have any money?’ The apotheosis of her arguments was, ‘If you don’t work, how are you going to save enough money to go on vacation?’ ” When he was first sent to a psychiatric hospital after one of his “actions,” Pavlensky had a flash of recognition. The nurses’ way of bullying patients into compliance was exactly how his mother had always treated him: Unless you were catatonic, you were considered dangerous. 

Now, looking out at the bluffs of the Buttes-Chaumont park, Pavlensky recalled how at art school, he came to regard culture as just another state institution, with its own levers of power. “When I dropped out, my true education continued,” he said. “I can honestly say my life was changed by art — by the example of artists like Caravaggio, Van Gogh, Duchamp, Malevich. I saw that art helps liberate — that real artists’ work was in constant collision with power.” 

A year later, Pavlensky sat impassive in the prisoners’ box in the Porte de Clichy courtroom, as the panel of judges returned from their deliberations. From his bench, Judge Denieul pronounced their decision. The trial date was set for January. In the meantime, the terms of Shalygina’s probation were to be eased — from now on, she would report to the police only once a week, and the sole area of Paris from which she was banned was the 11th arrondissement, where the Place de la Bastille is located. As for Pavlensky — Denieul paused — “the same.”

In slow motion, Pavlensky’s lawyer wheeled on her heels to face the audience. Pumping her fists high, she let loose an ecstatic, “Yes!” 

Four hours later, I was on my way with Oksana to pick Pavlensky up from prison. Stéphane Chatry, a tall black-bearded Frenchman who runs a program called Artivism Contemporary Art, was driving; riding shotgun was a young photojournalist, Flavien Moras. Our destination was Fleury-Mérogis prison, 12 miles outside Paris, where Oksana had also served her pretrial detention. The mood in the car was jubilant; Oksana blasted a tape of a Metro-busker singing an Arabic rendition of “Billie Jean.” 

Fleury-Mérogis, a ’60s-era polygonal complex that has held some of France’s most notorious bank robbers and accused terrorists, is the largest prison in Europe. At the entrance, a guard behind bulletproof glass told us that Pavlensky had not yet returned from his hearing. There were only two transfers a day, and the prison bus had to make the rounds of all the Paris courthouses. The waiting room was closed at night, so we sat outside in the floodlit cold. Periodically, we heard muffled roars of prisoners deep within the complex. A loudspeaker crackled intermittent orders at us: No photographs; no smoking. Every hour or so, there would be a carload of people who had come to meet a friend or relative who was also being released. Like us, these groups — invariably young and French-African or Arab — were loud, raucous with nervous excitement. 

Stéphane and Flavien drove off to a nearby fast-food chain for coffee and pizza; Oksana didn’t want to budge. She talked about her upbringing in Norilsk, a nickel-mining city in the Arctic Circle that is reportedly one of the most polluted cities in the world. Her father and brother were both miners; at 16, hungry “for light and joy,” she escaped to St. Petersburg. Twelve years later, she met Pyotr in a bar. The little finger on Oksana’s left hand is missing: Some years ago she chopped it off as an act of restorative truth for having concealed a sexual dalliance from Pyotr. (Though their relationship wasn’t monogamous, the deal was total transparency.) “In Russia, there’s this saying that a woman’s word means nothing,” she told me. “I wanted to show that I was good for my word.” 

Oksana described Pyotr as her “best friend.” She helped him plan and execute his “actions”; when he was in prison, she campaigned full time for his cause while looking after their children. Tonight — now that Pyotr was finally being released — she was wondering who she would be without him. “The only thing I know how to do is help artists get in trouble,” she laughed. 

At 11:30 p.m., the prison bus arrived from Paris, and Fleury’s metal maw opened to let it through. Two hours later, the doors opened once again, and three men walked out, their silhouettes backlit. One disappeared into the industrial wasteland. The other, a bearded youth carrying his belongings in plaid shopping bags, was greeted by his friends with whoops and fist-bumps. The third figure was Pavlensky. He looked chalky-gray, but happy. “Salut, le Russe,” the other shouted. 

On the drive back to Paris, Pavlensky spoke in an excited tumble of English, French and Russian, supplemented by pantomime. He told us stories about elderly Georgian inmates and TV remote controls as intramural currency and how much he’d enjoyed reading Voltaire and Madame de Sévigné and why he kept getting thrown into the punishment cell. He wanted us to know everything about prison and also to appreciate its fundamental unknowability — how you could spend 20 years in one prison and only be able to testify to what you’d witnessed in your particular block; how Building D3 at Fleury was a different universe from Building D5. 

When we reached downtown Paris, it was 2:30 a.m., and Pavlensky was looking for a bar in which to celebrate. He had a wad of bank notes, money that had been returned to him by prison authorities on his release, and though he usually doesn’t drink, he wanted to treat everyone to a few rounds of vodka shots. 

“Where to?” asked Stéphane. 

The Place de la Bastille, of course, Pavlensky said. It fit his philosophy of resistance that we go to the one place that he and Shalygina were forbidden from going. Stéphane parked on a side street. Even at that hour, the Place de la Bastille was lined with police cars. Stéphane wondered aloud how long Pavlensky would manage to stay out of prison — a month? 

“A happy month,” he replied. 

We stopped outside the Banque de France, so Oksana and Pyotr could examine the aftereffect of “Lighting.” It had cost 18,000 euros to repair the damage, the bank claimed in its civil suit. 

“Not bad — 18,000 euros for a work of art,” Pavlensky reflected. “It’s beautiful, the Place de la Bastille, one of the most beautiful places in Paris. But not a good place for a bank.” 

In January, Pavlensky returned to court and was given a three-year prison sentence. The 11 months he spent in pretrial detention were credited as time served; the remaining two years were suspended. The couple were fined roughly $25,000, for material and “moral” damage. Pavlensky says he has no plans to pay it. 

Since his release, he told me in an email, his personal life has been “catastrophic”: Shalygina ended their 12-year relationship, throwing him into what he termed a “double exile.” (She and their two daughters are fine, she reports in a Facebook message, but she doesn’t wish their current lives to be part of this article, or to comment on her breakup with Pavlensky.) His new partner is a Frenchwoman whom he describes as his “antithesis” — “an icon of bourgeois prudence” with “a big apartment in the prestigious 16th arrondissement.” It’s a “tragic love,” he said, doomed by contradiction. 

Pavlensky’s work, however, is thriving. He recently took part in half a dozen of the gilets jaunes protests, in which shops, newspaper kiosks and even a Rouen branch of the Banque de France were set ablaze — an act he regards as a tribute to “Lighting.” For Pavlensky, the French state’s response to his artwork confirmed his central thesis: Institutions of power are oppressive, yet they are also oddly vulnerable to someone who denies their legitimacy. He is now at work documenting the government’s contribution to “Lighting” — the CCTV images, court transcripts, letters from the prison authorities that constitute the larger artwork. All his work, Pavlensky says, reveals that society at large may be a prison, but it is still possible to exert a kind of negative liberty. “Everything in my art is done to make people think. It’s not enough just to have your own individual freedom; you need to help others free themselves.”

[wilma-flintstones-mother]

Pussy Street Homos `Battleaxe 17' How Good is Your Ice Cream, Little Jesus? I'd Sure Like to Have Some Too!!, 2020

[takecareofyourblessings]

Without Comment

The S2 is the so-called Avenue of the Presidents bus because its route is the handsome and seductive 16th Street corridor. The S2 travels from downtown Pennsylvania Avenue to Silver Spring, Maryland, a suburban town that borders D.C. at its northern edge.

     The ridership of the S2 is black, white, and variously ethnic. Hispanics, West Africans, and Caribbean passengers, as well as other nationals, diversify the sophisticated commuter ambiance. Newspapers, books, and quiet conversations are standard as the S2 speeds its way to Adams Morgan, Mt. Pleasant, the gold Coast, the end of the line, and back again. 

    Sixteenth Street-- lined with embassies, churches, respectable homes, and majestic trees swaying overhead from Lafayette Park to Silver Spring--this undulating, rolling hill climbs and descends with deceptive grace. At its side, in the middle of a Black gay ghetto called Homo heights, sits the once glorious, mystical park called Malcolm X by Black cultural nationalists, although its official name is Meridian Hill. At dusk it becomes a Black gay cruising ground, while during the day it serves as one of th city’s open air drug markets.

     Vandalism and graffiti now mar its classic beauty like brutal knife wounds that have become keloids. The shrubbery has been hacked down in an effort to prevent crimes that still occur. The once green grounds are bald and littered with used condoms and assorted trash. Decay and decline exist here. Gloom and danger are ever present in the piss-stained air, air that is often thick with marijuana smoke and always filled with the hawker’s cry of drug dealers. And although children romp and wrestle on these grounds, and soccer players kick the game ball back and forth, the men appear who cannot contain their loneliness till dusk. They are not zombies. Their eyes are luminous with enormous, living hungers, but no one seems to notice except those of their kind. FOr Black gay men, this park, elegantly appointed with gushing fountains, grand stairways, moonlit plazas, and statues of Dante and Joan of Arc--for Black men seeking the kisses of one another, Malcolm X/Meridian Hill Park is now nothing more than a tomb of sorrow.

    I remember taking the S2 home one evening, a Sunday, in fact. I had taken the X2 from H Street, N.E. to 14th and H downtown, where I transferred and waited for the S. From the corner of 14th and H you can view the warscape of AIDS and the remains of the casual sex zones reduced to rubble by the aggressive development of downtown. It is interesting to observe now, postmodern office buildings rise on soil where the seed of gay men was once spilled with reckless abandon.

     Ten years ago this corner was a sexual crossroads. On either side of 14th Street, from H to I, there once stood thriving porn shops, movie galleries, and nude dance clubs. A block east of 14th, on 13th Street, the raunchy Black gay club, the Brass Rail, was bulging out of its jockstrap. Drag queens ruled, B-boys chased giddy government workers, fast-talking hustlers worked the floor, while sugar daddies panted for attention in the shadows, offering free drinks and money to any friendly trade. Everybody was seeking a sex machine. White folks were sneaking in for their “Black-dick-fix.” Sometimes the dose was fatal:Robbery. Murder. The pulsing music always throbbed like an insatiate erection. 

     A block north of the Brass Rail, Franklin Park was a soft cruise spot primarily because it borders K Street, 14th and 13th Streets offering too much visibility for most. But east of its lower end, bordering I Street, on the 13th Street corner, stood the notorious Curiosity Bookshop, complete the back room, movie booths, garish red lights, gusts of heavy breathing, and the popping noise of greased dicks pumping in and out of tight holes. The creaking floorboards were aging with semen and sighs. Every now and then you’d hear a man hiss, “Work that pussy, bitch,” as clusters of panting men gathered to watch an ass being fucked. 

     At the most historic spot downtown, where, on the corner of 14th and H, one could watch the parade of flesh all summer long, the quest for the perfect abuse was keen. Now the area is almost desolate of nightlife, the players scattered, the seekers scared to venture out. 

  I wait for my bus. Shortly before it arrives, two Black men cruise by. They appear to be in their thirties-forties. The shorter, stockier, fair-skinned, clean-shaven Homeboy has his arm thrown around the shoulders of the slightly taller, slender, darker daddy. The tall man is obviously older, mustached, and somewhat attractive. Homeboy carries a hustler’s air about him. They swagger by, slightly drunk and horny. I am surprised when a few stops later they board the bus and sit at the back.

      The bus crosses K Street and continues up 16th without incident. The seats fill quickly. By the time we cross P Street standing room is all that’s available. A murmur begins to rise from the back of the bus. It explodes into a startling confrontation.

     “You my bitch!”

     “No! Uh Uh. We are bitches!”

    “No! You listen here. I ain’t wearing lipstick, you are! I ain’t no bitch! I fucked you! You my bitch!”

    This argument continues without resolution until we arrive at 16th and U Streets. The bus is packed with passengers, and as we approach the stop, I see ten more waiting to board. Just as the first person at the stop steps aboard, a strident, hysterical voice cuts loose from the back:

      “I’m a 45-year-old-Black-gay-man who en-joys taking dick in his rectum!” SNAP! “I’[m not your bitch!” SNAP! “Your bitch is at home with your kids!” SNAP! SNAP!

     We are entering the fifth dimension of our sexual consciousness. THe ride is rough. There is no jelly for this. The driver is trying to call the police on the bus phone. No one has said anything. No one else attempts to board. 

    The air is charged with tensions unleashed from an ancient box of sexual secrets. The older man abruptly leaves by the back door. Homeboy follows. They have violent words outside. The children sitting at the front are wide-eyed and speechless. All the homosexuals on the bus have frozen. So have I. The driver is frantically calling the police. The older man suddenly pushes aborad wielding a Flash Pass with Homeboy in hot pursuit. The driver drops the phone and jumps between them. Homeboy pulls out a knife and waves it toward his companion. 

     “You gonna pay for this dick!” he sneers.

     “I ain’t paying for that tame shit!”

     The children’s heads snap back and forth during the ensuing shouting match as though they are watching a Ping Pong tournament and not two grown Black men giving high drama. In a stern voice the driver orders Homeboy to leave the bus. He backs down the steps, waving his blade, threatening to catch the Black gay man on the street and make him pay dearly for the dick he got. Homeboy is last seen stalking east on U Street with his glinting knife clenched in hand. 

    The bus pulls off and begins to climb 16th Street. Every homosexual on the bus is still frozen. So am I. The police never arrived. The children are quiet for the reminder of their journeys. So am I. Occasionally, a very nervous, a very terrified schoolboy laughs out loud then subsides into silence. The 45-year-old-Black-gay-man who enjoys taking dick in his rectum rides the rest of the way without further incident. At the back of the bus he sits--his legs crossed at the knee.      

[w-stedafterlife]

» cats and rats | craig & kenny

So maybe picking fun at Craig wasn’t the nice thing to do. Kenny presses the off button on his phone. The screen dims and Kenny looks up at Craig from where he sits on his mattress. He’s got one hand holding his phone and his eyes glued to it. Most people can’t tell when Craig is annoyed but Kenny can. It’s a subtle thing. His brows furrowed just a bit. The cat is nuzzled into Craig’s lap. Purrs vibrating off of her as the other smooths down her fur.

It’s dark out and the street light outside Kenny’s window filters in through blinds. It hits the back of Craig and he’s bathing in it’s artificial glow.

Hes struck with how handsome the other looks. Even pissed, he looks cute even. His dark eyelashes kissing his tan cheeks. Thick brows unmanicured and dipped with his frustration. Face littered with beauty marks here and there. Lips soft and plush. However, Kenny tries to stifle those thoughts. It’s become extremely frequent that it pops into his mind. Kenny’s not in love with Craig or anything. A man can appreciate another’s beauty without it being gay. No homo.

“Another pussy succumbs to Craig Tucker’s magic fingers.” Kenny lets out as Craig scratches at the strays head. All animals seem to like Craig. This one in particular scratched at Kenny and hissed. As soon as Craig walked into the picture she was a ball of mush.

It should make Kenny jealous but it’s more endearing. Animals seem to sense that Kenny is shrouded by death anyways. There was never a time that any pet of his liked him.

[troublesometome]

shit my class says

this is gonna be a long ass post

Please don’t sign my right tit.

I don’t want to read that Emancipation Constipation bullshit!

Does your movie have Hugh Jackman?

I’d ask Phillipa Soo to sign my left tit.

I was born with hair inside my mouth.

He’s rubbing his Jesus on me!

I can barely eat a sandwich in the morning, do you think I can eat pussy?

That’s what becoming a porn star entitles!

I’m not shoving my fursona up my ass.

It’s called the ketchup from my hand.

You just have to explain how 2+2=5!

My dog is my rug.

This tastes so black!

Finger Bangers!

I take 30 showers every millisecond.

Am I a Big Mac now?

How do I turn black?

So you cook your baby?

A B C DICK!

I’m gonna amputate my ass!

I have a body pillow of myself.

You’re the drug dealers on Sesame Street!

I’m part of the homo mafia, give me your pickle!

There’s sanitizer in my visionary devices!

Rat tat tootie.

Michelle Obama is my brother!

MJ’s dying of overheation!

There’s alligators and Republicans here.

They sell Gatorade that looks like cum.

How long to boil corn?

I went to preschool while I was still in the womb!

Does milk turn you gay?

What’s an indentured servant? Someone without teeth?

Why is my leg not attached to my body?

I’ve been McSprayed.

Have you ever fucked a gazelle?

What if I want to be a stripper?

Do Cheerios still exist?

If anyone’s gonna fuck me, it’s gonna be me!

I have 5 billion wives!

I will kick your ass in the throat!

Does anyone have cocaine?

My resting heart rate registers as a... panic attack.

I never wear pants.

Did I make the titties too big?

Furries are hot.

Does anyone want pussy bread?

One minus... big.

You’re a hoe!

Can I shave my nostrils?

I LOVE ALCOHOL!

Women condoms.

Ding dong my ding dong.

Don’t talk to me about lap dances.

I like dick, I’m a witch!

Here comes the big toe!

John Adams was one thicc bih.

Anybody want to wango my mango?

My tits are NATURALLY stone hard.

A neutron is negative!

I AM CHILD OBESITY.

I love how we started the day talking about nipples.

So you lose your virginity to toilet paper?

I’m not gonna stop thinking about turtle dicks now...

Touch me!

I don’t want to fuck Queen Elizabeth II.

That’s my belt, beat me with it.

You only rub it.

It’s not that thick, but it’s pretty thick. Anyway, it’s thick.

Justin, how big is your fucking ass?

IT’S BUSTING!

Are you swimming in pussy?

These Teletubbies are thicc!

I’ll buy you a McGriddle if you fuck me.

Now you can eat my nut.

Can we stop talking about men breastfeeding, please?

All I heard was “electric charges” and “my vagina.”

You need to know the best time to slide it in!

Can you stop fucking me??

I’ve been dead since I was born.

Motherfucker! Ooh, Lord excuse my good Christian mouth.

Iffy? More like Yiff Me.

You use banana as dildo.

Bitch, I’m magical!

It’s a dick joke, Mackenzie!

It’s a long frog.

Settle down, Skeletor.

Be More Dill!

Ow, I slapped my thigh really hard.

I go to Sunday every church.

Give me a titty tot!

I want Jesus to uppercut me in the dick!

Did you just call Barack Obama hot??

Can we stop discussing three foot long dicks?

Give me liberty or give me dick!

No taxation without represation. Represention?

Bitch, tell me what nut is!

Hey, I’m feeling pretty gay today!

I will not be crushed by that double D ass, whatever the fuck that was.

You know what I lost? My dignity.

Take my fucking finger!

I see a man over a man and I am done here.

I wanna touch the big nose!

Kill a Chinese man??

Hey Grace, are you a thot?

I have eleven fingers.

It has lobsters on wheels.

Horny Cory?

I want to take me knee socks and hang myself with them.

Two plus two equals two!

If you die, I will kill you.

STOP SUCKING.

My pancreas hurts.

It smells like Play-Doh, what kind of pussy are you smelling?

My dick broke!

I saw the purple lady.

Why would you want to fuck a 30 year old loser?

B is for BITCH!

Casually jacking off in class??

Did you fuck Satan?

He ATE weed!?

What are that?

So we have two communists and a Nazi.

Damn it, vegans can’t suck dick!

Are you calling Ms. Macholl a thot?

Jefferson was a macaroni making pedophile.

Hey, no pissing in the hallway!

What the fuck is this mechanical, Transformer ass pencil?

His nose is bigger than my ego.

He’s 200 years older than me.. my baby boy...

He used to be so crispy.

Big jug hot cheese!

I’m pretty sure I’ve called at least four U.S presidents daddy.

Mimes are just domesticated clowns!

WHERE ARE YOUR NIPPLES?

Did you just say you’re low-key attracted to Captain Crunch?

I would fuck George Washington.

Stop caressing the robot genitalia!

Catholicism... it was democracy.

I wanna fuck Robocop!

Before you make fun of me, consider this: Charlie’s fucking hot!

If furries want to be animals, we should be legally allowed to hunt them and eat them.

WHY THE FUCK ARE ALL THE CARS PURPLE?!

Spagoot.

It’s a penis, a penis, and a ghost!

Search up hentai, I don’t like it.

Ha, there’s 3 of you!

Sam Houston can suck my ass!

[quickienewyork]

The Bisexual Balance Sheet

I wish someone in college had told me that being bisexual didn’t mean I needed a balance sheet.

At the time though I didn’t have the language to express it, and all I got was a checklist. How many women have you dated? And how many men? How do you feel about women’s bodies and men’s hearts, and do love them exactly the same? Can you prove your expression? Can you bring out a handsome man to vouch for your exploration, and can you tell me without a doubt that you’re sure of who you are?

There were few spaces, few safe havens, where not knowing was okay. They were the rooms we carved out that let us question, but they were fragile and tender. They were small and ephemeral, changing depending on who joined the crowd, but there were moments. Moments where simply being me was enough. When we stopped talking enough to listen and when we stepped back enough to let ourselves grow.

But I spent most of my time somewhere in between; I tried to second guess myself and always judged myself unworthy. I was a fake queer, a passer, or a wannabe. And those were just the words I used for myself. When I walked the streets or stood outside the bars I was a fag, a pussy, and a fucking homo.

And with no space in the middle, with no safe ground, I floated along, jumping from one unsafe place to the next, struggling in between. Growing stronger in between. Learning that life isn’t safe. My path is not straight. My identity is fluid, and there will be times when I’m so afraid I can barely get out of bed.

But as I get older, I do know that whatever stories I tell myself, and whatever games I play, there is no checklist. There is no one that requires proof of who I am. And on the days when I feel the need to validate, to coalesce, and to feel approval, I stop and remember that even I am a terrible judge of who I am. Not because I’m blind to some unshifting truth, but because there is no truth. There is no point on which to pin a label to.

We all get to question. We all get to carve out spaces that are safe for doubt and safe for understanding. And if we do it well, when we do it well, then fewer and fewer of us have to grow up in the between spaces. In the places where rigidity is required at the expense of expression and where conformity is preferred to growth.

I wish someone in college had told me I was okay just the way I was.

-gny

(I originally posted this on Medium a while back.)

[pussystreethomoshomepage]

[artificialzeezee]

Satire Sexuality: Tis the season (2/2)

Summary: Cis!girl bitney - University brings out things never expected within people. The truth, the lies, the worst of the best and everything in-between. There’s the pressure of first time independence along with finding yourself, and the dread of loneliness that needs to find time in your schedule. Drinking, smoking, sex and studying; life has to keep going. Couples meet, lovers clash and it all happens while becoming an adult, what could go wrong?

Bianca is spending Christmas with Kendra. Being away from home, overthinking a little too much for her own comfort, she comes to terms with the truth that is she needs to stop pushing people away, and that the thing between her and Courtney can’t be avoided anymore...

Warning: LGBT+ issues (such as homophobia, transphobia and the conflict of coming out), many sexual references, alcohol and drug mentions and violence. (not always relevant to each chapter but to be expected) - Mostly original characters minus girl!Bianca and girl!Courtney

PART FOURTEEN 2/2: “The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.”

New Orleans, 2014.

Vivianne and Bianca sat on the swings at the park they use to always hang out in as kids. The rusty chains squawking out in distress every time they moved. The two were wrapped up tight in winter clothes, watching the sky litter with snowflakes. They stared at the dark night sky in aw, Vivianne smiling while Bianca stayed neutral, trying not to seem upset.

Everything felt as if it were falling apart. She’d ended up in a giant argument with Jinkxy a few days ago, and it seemed the red head had won over the others of their group because everyone was giving Bianca the cold shoulder. She tried calling Manilla dozens of times to meet up and every time she’d been sent to voicemail. She’d seen Raven in town and when she waved at her she was given nothing but a dirty glare. It seemed everyone was against Bianca, and she started to worry the reason was plain and simple:

She liked girls, and everyone thought she would pounce on them.

At first it seemed impossible for that to be the reason. Manilla would flirt with Raja all the time, Joslyn use to talk about Megan Fox all the time and how hot she looked in whatever movie she’d watched most recently, and Jinkxy was the worst of them all with her teasing. She was in a group of girls that seemed accepting and even a little ‘curious’ themselves, but none of them had officially come out as bisexual let alone lesbian if it was the case. Bianca was the first to come out, loud and proud, and she thought the weird looks and whispers were just coincidental.

Then Jinkxy started making remarks to annoy Bianca, shame her in front of everyone: “The only thing Bianca rides is her moms car. She’s afraid of the dick!”, “We’re gonna have to start getting changed in the toilet cubicles now that Bianca’s a dyke.”, and “You should really get a buzz cut to warn girls you’re checking them out, B. You’re long curls don’t exactly scream ‘raging homo’ do they?”

Bianca would grunt it off usually, then last week happened. Jinkxy would hold a sleepover every year a few days before Christmas, to hang out and get drunk, and this year it seemed Bianca had been blacklisted. When she confronted Jinkxy, no one had her back, and she ended up hearing the brutal honest that she didn’t even think was a part of their morals.

“I’m sick to death with your comments, Jinkx. I’m not having it anymore, if you have something to fucking say, just come right out with it.”

“Bianca, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“No, fuck you. I’ve been to your sleepovers since we started high school, I’ve been on your side through thick and thin and you repay me by being a fucking tool! So go on, what’s the problem, why can’t I go to the sleepover?”

“Are you really that upset I didn’t invite you? Jeeze, get a life, dyke.”

“DON’T call me a dyke, you filthy slut!”

Admittedly, Bianca didn’t help the situation at all, but she was furious, and when Bianca had something on her mind it was difficult to shift and take the calm approach. It was then that everything changed, and Jinkxy’s usual alluring smirk turned into red hot rage.

“That’s rich coming from you. I’ve seen the way you look at everyone, you whore! The dyke with a finger up her pussy anytime a girl bends over in a skirt-”

“Ew, fuck you! That’s not true-”

“Whatever, keep lying! No one wants to be around you in case you start creeping on one of us! No one wants you staring at them when they get changed, so I didn’t invite you. Get over it.”

“That’s fucking bullshit. Do you really think I’d go for any of you anyway? Don’t make me laugh, you’re a bunch of air headed homophobes.”

“Yet you’re the one who’s pressed about not being invited to a sleepover-”

“Because I thought we were friends! I mean, you don’t act like this with the guys, and they’re the ones desperate to stick their dicks in someone. What, I come out as a lesbian and suddenly I’m eager to fuck you all! Please. This, is, crazy!”

“You’re the one that kissed me at my party, Bianca, when you were still with Joe. I know you’ll probably try finger me in my sleep if I let you-”

And that’s when Bianca threw a clean, hard punch at Jinkxy, clipping her round the cheek and flooring the red head. Her fist to her face like a rock being thrown at gelatine, the struggle being near to nothing. Everything in Bianca was high on the red hot adrenaline. Her eyes narrowed on the girl now below her, holding her face as hot streams of tears gushed down her face, and Bianca gritted her teeth as all the eyes fell on her. Her so called best friend Manila, her partner Raven when they did makeup for the school shows, even the timid girl Ivy who hung around them and always wanted Bianca’s help learning how to sew - they had all stabbed her in the back and stared at her like a caged animal.

“Bitch.” Bianca grunted, kneeling down and grabbing Jinkxy by her hair, delighted in the broken squeal Jinkxy let out. “YOU kissed ME. Don’t try and twist shit to fit your narrative. Get some perspective, you homophobic cunt. Next time I might not be so nice. Next time, I might smash your teeth out with the sidewalk-”

“Cut it out, Bianca!” Raven shouted, pushing her off Jinkxy and helping the beaten girl to her feet.

She hadn’t spoken to any of them since. She ran home and took her anger out on the wall in her bedroom, and her older sister wrapped up her bloodied hand after hearing a constant thudding on the wall. She didn’t tell her what was wrong though.

Vivianne looked over at Bianca, pouting. “You going to talk to me, Bianca?”

She looked at her caring friend and sighed. “I wish I could.”

“Well I already know what’s happened, and I know that’s what is bothering you. You just haven’t said it yourself.” She twirls the swing, the chains clattering as they turn around each other, scrapping together in a foreign embrace, and then she spins out suddenly, giggling. Bianca breaths out a half amused, half polite laugh and shrugs.

“I didn’t know being gay would be such a fucking hassle. I mean,” Bianca’s eyes fall to her feet as she kicks at the gravel, “my parents took it well, even my abuela didn’t threaten to beat my ass with her walking stick like she did Roy! She...smiled, and said life is weird and then told me to get her a tea. So, why do my supposed friends think they can even have an opinion, as if I’m going to change for them?”

“What do you mean?”

Bianca lifts her gaze to Vivianne and takes a moment to compose her thoughts. “Jinkxy kissed me at her party. She was the one who wanted a kiss, and Manila is always so happy to make out with Raja, and they...they were fine with me being bisexual! What, now I’ve ‘picked a side’ they’re scared I’m gonna jump on them all like some kind of dog in heat?! I thought they would be so easy to tell, yet all along I should have been more worried about them than my family.”

Vivianne stays quiet, then as the drumroll of their silence climax’s, she asks “How did you know you were gay?”

“Oh jeeze, come on-”

“What, it’s just a question!”

“Really? Okay, how did you know you were a girl, huh?”

Vivianne blinks frantically, shying away and biting her lip, a rushed look of guilt and shame that doesn’t quite belong. Bianca wanted to make her recoil, even if it would hurt herself to be spiteful.

“I just...” Vivianne’s voice cracks, coughing to sooth the nerves that have spiked, seeing her friend’s irrational annoyance baring down upon her. “I didn’t mean it like an investigation. I was just curious. You never seemed too interested in Joe anyway, but you never had a girlfriend so...I-I’m sorry, it doesn’t-”

“Whenever I was with Joe, I never felt anything. Like, no fireworks, no tingles, nothing. Just a bored sense of ‘I can’t wait till he puts on the Xbox and we can play that shit’ whenever we made out. I figured it was just the guy that didn’t do it for me, but it wasn’t. It just all clicked one day. I kissed Jinkxy and I felt this pounding in my throat where my heart wanted to fucking explode, and I loved the shape of her body, and I loved the way her lips were so fucking soft, and...” Bianca took a breath. She smiled, jerking her brow and facing Vivianne. “I’ve always been as fucking gay as they come. I just didn’t want to accept it.”

The air begins to whistle, and the bitter chill sends a shiver up the two teenagers spines. Bianca stands up, jumping on the spot to warm up, and then holds a hand out for Vivianne. She takes it, and they walk down the street together, teeth chattering in the cold. 

“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Viv.”

Vivianne tutted, grabbing Bianca by the hand, and without warning pulling her into a hug. Bianca steadied herself, and against her usual instincts to bolt or disregard affection, she nuzzled her face against the warmth of Vivianne’s neck, breathing in the peach scent of her shampoo. 

“You’ll always have me, Bianca. You need to learn to trust people more. Stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not.”

-

Kendra lived in a rough council estate in London, round the corner from some of the loudest, rowdiest pubs Bianca’s ever seen and there doesn’t seem to be a moment when a boy in a tracksuit isn’t cycling around the flats, smoking a joint. It’s the furthest place from luxury, and yet Kendra walks amongst the rubble with the upmost confidence a young woman could. She holds her head high and her hands swig against her thighs, and the local gang that hides beneath the underpass across from the estate are glued to watching the swagger she holds in her strut. She’s more than use to the area after almost 20 years of living within the rough, but Bianca feels she’d never fully be comfortable dropping her guard in an area like this. New Orleans wasn’t exactly the spokesman for public safety, and of course America had guns, but London just seemed sinister to the provocative power of threatening someone.

However, despite the exterior of her town, Kendra’s flat was quant. On the 3rd floor in the middle of the estate was the humble home to her and her mother, Sandra, and when Bianca stepped through the door chipping of it’s aged white paint, she’s hit by an unexpected serenity that sings warmth and family. Even Bianca’s own home - with her three siblings, two parents and more than often her Grandmother - didn’t feel as cosy with family value like Kendra’s confined apartment did. The entrance opened up straight into the living room, a deep purple wallpaper with a cream carpet to compliment and cream curtains that let the struggling winter sun reflect magnificently. The walls were covered in loving portraits of Kendra and her family. One is Kendra no more than 5 years old, with a missing front tooth, pigtails and what Bianca presumes to be her father holding her on his shoulder. A well kept, muscular man, with a shaved head and the same teasing, marvellous grin Kendra often supports. Another is when Kendra is older and she’s on the beach with her mother, reading a book while her mum holds up a peace sign. Bianca sees where she gets her luscious locks from.

Along the walls are small wires with clear stars attached. Kendra explains that her mum hates the main light of the living room and wanted to hang fairy-lights. “They make her feel light hearted and inspired” she comments, throwing her coat over the black leather sofa centre of the room. Bianca finds herself amused by the idea of a 40 something mother in her London flat switching on fairy lights when the evening sets, but then again her own mother was obsessed with using candles to brighten a room rather than the artificial shine of lightbulbs. When Bianca kicks of her shoes for the first time after entering, she treads carefully as if she’s approaching a wild creature. The place is kept immaculate and pristine, she’s afraid her crude nature might disturb the balance.

Kendra’s mother was a woman of great elegance and wit, and it baffled Bianca how the two shook hands so well. Her appearance was almost virgin how mature she presented: the thick curls of her hair pulled up into a bun, a soft nude lip and faint curled mascara, and an ironed business shirts with tight jeans. She was beautiful in pride and the spitting image of Kendra. Bianca was almost ashamed of her grubby American baseball jersey in the presence of a woman who kept herself so perfect. There first meeting was in the kitchen when Sandra was preparing herself lunch.

“You must be Bianca. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes.” Bianca nodded a tad too frantically. “Um, your home is lovely, Miss Fox.”

Sandra laughed. “Please, call me Sandra. Fox is actually my ex husbands surname.”

Bianca felt her cheeks burn as Kendra snickered. “Oh shit-” then she grunted in shock “Oh! Oh God, sorry I didn’t mean-”

“Dude, chill. My mum’s cool.” Kendra rolled her eyes, grabbing a bottle of coke from the fridge, sharing an amused look with her mother at Bianca’s expense.

-

Usually, being in another girl’s bed in her boxers and a baggy pyjama top, a vanilla candle lit and the smell swimming through the air means she’s about to have sex, or she’s had sex. This is Kendra’s bed back home however, and the she is currently flicking through her record collection to play a song.

“Of course you’re into vinyl.” Bianca clicks her tongue, rolling onto her front on the bed and holding her head up by her hand. “Such an indie chick, aint ya?”

“Fuck off.” Kendra pulls out a vinyl with victory and blows it to clear it off dust. The front of it has a red can with a man digging two fingers into the contents and the words ‘The Black Keys - Thickfreakness’ in black across the can like a label. She pulls out the record from its cover and gently places it on the record player, and with much delicate precision, she places the needle of the black plastic and waits. For a second it’s just scratchy static and then a guitar fills the space. A grungy, distorted sound. She spins around on the ball of her feet and wiggles her eyebrow at Bianca before throwing herself on the bed and landing beside her friend.

Bianca lets the music settle for a minute, comprehending the sound for all it is and then she hums in approval. “I didn’t know you liked rock?” Kendra nods in time to the beat, rolling on her back and sighing.

“My dad is a huge rock fan, and blues. He told me there are three things in life worth arguing about,” she turns her head to face Bianca and holds her hand up. The first finger shots up, “If love should be selfless,” The second finger, “If a man is worth your tears,” and then the third finger, “and your right to good music at a shit festival.” She chuckles, her arm falling above her head. “He gave me a shit tone of albums when I turned 16 and the player and told me to educate myself.”

“Sounds like a cool guy. All I got from my dad was his eyes...” She nods, before shaking her head remembering something. “And his old guitar.” She sits up, pulling her legs into her chest as her head falls against her shoulder, the memory forming in her mind. “He use to sit me down on the end of my bed every Sunday, and teach me how to play. I got pretty good at it too, and he was so happy when I was happy.” Bianca’s eyes don’t meet Kendra’s, but she can feel the jovial grin and bright eyes on her right now. Bianca nods, assuring herself of the joyful times from back home, and before the sincerity of the memory touches her too sensually, she scoffs. “He got too busy working though so now I’m shit. Bastard, aye? It’s his fault I’m not the next Ed Sheeran!”

Bianca missed her father. She missed all her family.

She tries to force a laugh, but Kendra sees the faint pleading glisten against the dark colour of her eyes. She smiles out of pity and gets off the bed again to grab her phone beside the record player. Kendra’s room was a picturesque fantasy for a teenager to spend her best and worst moments in. Out of the ordinary for a London flat, she’d managed to capture the atypical desires a fashionable, beautiful girl like herself. Rather, the room was that of a creative, with spritely colours to wrap a person up and hold them to the darkest, most profound thoughts they try to hide away. Kendra kept herself grounded with the simple joys of candles and a vinyl, and the grassy tie dye carpet hung on the walls to keep her in the inky tangles of herself. Bianca could practically smell the teen angst Kendra left behind: too many fights at school, the fears of late night walks from work through alleys, and all the times she couldn’t handle the idea of an unexciting future, expressed through waterfalls of tears. Kendra kept her family close to her heart, and the vibrancy of optimism deep within for no one to see so obviously. Bianca liked Kendra’s room though, it was somewhere easy to let go and feel.

“Are you going to tell me why you didn’t go home?” Kendra asks, almost as nonchalantly as if she’d said ‘Hay, shall we order pizza?’ instead. Bianca internally mewls, throwing her eyes up and dropping flat on her back, the pillow puffing up around her face. She can’t see Kendra but she can tell she’s being watched carefully, and she hears a gentle exhale just softer than a sigh leave her friend. She hears Kendra’s feet drag across her floor and come to a stop when a slight shadow enters Bianca’s vision. “Well?”

“I just couldn’t afford it.”

“Really?” The bed moves as the weight of Kendra’s rear is added to the springs. “You seriously going to give me that?”

“It’s none of your business, Kendra. I don’t want to get into it.”

“You better tell me, B, before I force it out of you-”

“God, will you back the fuck up?!” Bianca snaps, and her tone practically pierces Kendra’s spirit it’s so sharp. She sits up, glaring at her friend’s sheepish demeanour with only a minuscule pang of guilt. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, so stop being so fucking nosey, will ya? It’s my shit, not yours.”

Kendra’s mouth opens, but there’s just a stuttered note before she closes it again and shrugs. Bianca’s not even sure why she’s so irritated by her curiosity. More than likely it comes from a place of concern and genuine care, but the fuse Bianca has is pitifully short. She promised herself not to get too close to people, and what she found was that she’s terrible at keeping a promise no matter of location. She was close to Courtney, she was close to Kendra, and Trevor, and even Zara after so little time. A self proclaimed “cunt” that couldn’t stop needing company was trying her best to distance herself.

America took its toll on Bianca. Highschool shaped Bianca into who she was, but it also revealed how wicked people could be, and a deceiving smile wasn’t so easy to spot out. She sees the delicate twinkle of Kendra’s illuminated eyes, and she’s reminded of the friends from yesteryear that hurt her.

“I, uh...” Bianca’s shoulder drop. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t start on you-”

“It’s fine.” Kendra interrupts, sharply. She leans down the side of her bed and picks up a record cover, reading the back and avoiding any possible eye contact with Bianca. She takes a deep breath and it feels like Kendra sucks up any loose air left between them as it begins to feel tense and awkward.

“I know you care, Kendra. I just, it’s hard to talk about home. I...don’t like thinking about it.”

Kendra lifts her head, eyebrows softening as she meets Bianca’s eyes. “Why?” Bianca rolls her head back at the question, making Kendra shuffle forward. “No, it’s just that, everyone has shit. Everyone goes through shitty situations, and sometimes, it’s best to talk about it.” She holds her breath, watching as Bianca’s reaction is dull and almost non existent, but she sees a flicker in her eyes however, like the film roll of her memories projecting vividly for her to relive. “I invited you over for christmas because you’re my best friend, B. I want you to be happy.”

Bianca grunts, deceiving her own distaste with a smile. “Could you get anymore cringe? What is this, a PBS special?” She laughs, trying to defuse the tension between them, the rock hard aura of seriousness, but it doesn’t happen. She stays put in the situation that Kendra wants her to feel cared for, and loved, and it’s scary to let herself be vulnerable again, in case the warm and genuine eyes are nothing but a disguise for what’s to come.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, Bianca, that’s fine, but I’m always here for you. For real, I care about you.”

She wishes she could believe what Kendra was saying. She almost does, it registers and there’s a bubbling warmth in her soul that isn’t familiar, but trusting that feeling is asking too much. The faces of her enemies, still hang over her like ghouls and ghosts on the hunt, and the possibility of her heart exploding when she reveals too much to Kendra doesn’t sound like a smart idea. If it was easy, Bianca would have done it, but some things are better left unsaid.

She smiles. “I know. If I ever need you, I’ll come to you, Kendra. I just...not yet.”

Kendra nods, and the conversation moves along. They two girls listen to more records and talk about their family Christmas traditions. Bianca tells her about the time her father came home with a chicken instead of a turkey and how angry her mother was.

“Hijo de tu puta madre, or Pinche idiota. She didn’t leave many insults off the list! Me and my brother would say it to each other all the time after that, it was too good not to repeat! When she got angry, it was a treat.”

“Shit, your mum isn’t a fan of chicken, aye?”

“She isn’t a fan of surprises, that’s for sure. But, after that Christmas we always had chicken. It was funny, and mom had a good sense of humour. My brother would shout Qué chingados and she’d just reply with Chingate, and we’d burst out laughing.”

“You’re family sound pretty fun.” Kendra says, recovering from laughing excessively. Bianca nodded, but before she could go on, gushing over the ridiculous shenanigans of her family, her phone started ringing. She leaned over to look where it lay on the bedside table, and saw the caller I.D, Courtney.

Why was Courtney calling? What time even was it in Australia? She stared at the name flashing across her phone for a second, letting the irritating noise of the ringer drone on, then she swiftly takes the phone and scampers across the room. Kendra watches her curiously, as Bianca hunches into herself, holding her arm as she answers and pretends as if she’s alone for her conversation.

“Hello?”

There’s a soft hum of static or wind, and then the familiar lulling accent of Courtney Act. “Hi, Bianca. I hope I didn’t wake you, I’m not sure what time it is in America!”

Bianca felt the speed of her heart begin to pick up, the swirling of her blood pumping round her body. She swallows thickly before turning to Kendra. “I’m just going to pop out and take this, sorry!” She whispers, slinking out the room pretending she didn’t see the suspiciously smug grin on her friend’s face. She slowly closes the bedroom door and speedily walks into the bathroom, locking it before resuming her conversation.

“I uh, I’m actually not in America.” She awkwardly chuckles. 

“Oh? Why not, don’t you miss your family?”

“Well, obviously, I’m not that much of a cunt! I just, couldn’t go back.” There’s a pause. Bianca sits on the edge of the bathtub and rubs her knees.

“You want to-”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How’d you know that was what I was about to say?”

“Because you’re predictable!” Bianca snickers. “It’s a long story, let’s not get into it. The real question here is, why did you call?”

She listens to the quiet between them, accompanied by the buzz of the phone, and the thudding of her heart. Bianca can’t explain why she’s filled with a sunny euphoria whenever she hears the sound of Courtney’s voice. Images of the blonde girl’s rapturous delight in the form of a smile, and the shimmering of her wide doe eyes. Bianca stares at the tiles of Kendra’s bathroom and thinks about a time her and Courtney were together. When she thought her stomach might explode with the butterflies trying to escape feverishly, or the sickening pounding of her heart that left bruises on her thoracic cage. Black and blue had never looked so beautiful before Courtney, and she found herself drunk on strawberry flavour of her lipgloss, still fresh on her lips and her mind.

“I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas. I-I’m kind of late to it but, better late than never, am I right?” Courtney titters of in a giggle, then sighs. There’s the same soft hum of the phone static between them, and the knowledge they’re both lying to protect themselves, sounding off like alarm bells it should be impossible to ignore.

Bianca rubs her forehead, biting her lips and taking a deep breath. “Merry Christmas, blondie. How’s Australia, you hooking up with many hunky surfers to get over Mr compensation back in dreary England?” She crosses her legs and leans against the sink beside the bath.

Quiet. It’s daunting, and sticky, and Bianca suddenly feels a nauseousness that inflicts her with anxiety.

Bianca can’t see her, and if she knew the truth she probably wouldn’t want to see her. Courtney, on the balcony of a man’s apartment, with the friend who’s company she had been dreading, Adore. She leans over the metal railing keeping her from plummeting to her concrete death , with circling thoughts of Bianca in her head, keeping her balanced. The wind isn’t refreshing or cool, it’s hot and her skin is clammy with sweat. An oversized work shirt, a pink thong and knee high socks, and her blonde hair swaying in the breeze. The usual beauty that is so effortless, weighing down the guilt that’s festering in her stomach.

Why am I so scared? She asks herself, looking through the sliding door to see the scene of the gentleman whose name she has forgotten and Adore, tangled up in sheets, snoring blissfully. When she’d awoken from her slumber, with a hairy arm across her chest and drool slick on her cheek, she instantly felt a sickening fear that wouldn’t settle. The questions of why was she in the unfamiliar bed, or who’s bed was it, or how did she end up in the bed, flooding her mind as she felt out of breath, drowning. Then she felt the almost predictable but peculiar need to be with Bianca, in safety and happiness, and forget the blank spots of the night before.

Her head pounded violently. She held her forehead, and braced herself. “I...I actually, uh...” she swallowed the lump in her throat, tightening her hold on the railing.

“Courtney? Is everything okay? If you start crying on the phone to me again, I’ll get the next flight out there.” Bianca chuckled. “Whatever has to be done to cheer up my-”

“I woke up in some guys bed.” Courtney blurted out, regretting instantly when the confession had left her lips. She squeezed her eyes as tight as possible, hoping that the stars forming in the black would knock her into oblivion. There was no answer for a long time, and then, shockingly, a laugh.

A loud, genuine, hysterical laugh that bellowed through the static of their connection. Courtney stared at her phone, waiting for a crack or a pause in Bianca’s response.

“Jeeze, didn’t think you had it in you for one night stands! Please tell me he’s better than the last cunt.” Courtney straightened up, staring into the abyss of the orange sun and green land.

“Um, Steven. I, well, yeah I don’t know if it was a one night stand. I think...I hope we didn’t do anything. I don’t remember drinking that much.”

“Are you hungover?”

“Not really.”

“Lucky.” Bianca coughed. “So, is this why you really called? To gloat you’re getting some?”

Courtney could practically hear the mocking smirk in her tone, and it dug deeper into her anxiety. “I made a mistake.”

“Okay?”

“He’s not the only person in the bed.”

Bianca cackles again. “Holy shit, you’re a regular in and out, aren’t ya! Two dicks in one night, well, I’m shocked...but hay, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do, right-”

“It’s not two guys.”

Bianca suddenly doesn’t get the joke. She stops laughing and her face drops as the words settle. It’s not two guys, she repeats under her breath, as if the fact could lose its meaning if said enough. Her body responds with a numbing sense of awkwardness, and the thudding of her heart is now erratic as if to escape on a murderous rampage. If she had to take a guess, Courtney had the usual dumb, embarrassed look on her face right now. Not two guys...so, one guy and one girl- a gorgeous girl, Bianca pictured, with legs that never ended and lips as pink as her perfectly bleached asshole, probably. A girl who could whisk Courtney away and make her weak, and now she was fuming at the idea of a person she didn’t know. Bianca took a deep, calming breath and tried to compose the same delight she had barely two seconds ago.

“Shit. yeah, uh...well, I can’t exactly judge you, now can I? I’m all about...yeah.” Bianca grabs her hair at the back of her head, tugging till the sting off pain registered, trying to distract the urge to throw up. “Is she another bottle blonde Aussie? I bet it was like fucking yourself, plus a random guy.”

“No, she’s...it’s a girl I use to know, before I moved. She’s...” If Bianca focuses, she can hear a rustling of sorts. Like movement, like hands drawing over Courtney’s body and slipping under the waist band of her knickers, and the slippery quiet sound of lustful kisses on her neck. If she focuses really hard, the nightmares become reality and the annoyance boils warmer and warmer till it’s fiery hot. Instead, the rope of paranoid scenarios is cut by a sigh.  “I really miss you, B.”

“Wow. You’ve got two fuck buddies and yet you’re thinking about me? I’m flattered.”

“I don’t think anything happened. But...I kissed her. Adore, that’s her name. We made out, and then this guy came along, and he kissed Adore. And she wanted to go back to his, and I went with her.”

Bianca was trying not to have an emotional response to the story. It was difficult, hearing that Courtney had kissed another girl. Adore, what kind of name is that? She thought. Did she feel the sensational fireworks, that fly off every colour, and mix within your blood? Pink, blue, green, every spark a new sizzle to poison every idea you once figured was your own. Did Courtney look at this girl in admiration, and picture them together, in bed, touching and moaning and just being together intimately? Bianca gritted her teeth and willed down any outburst that was working itself out of her.

“I know he liked me. But, I wasn’t into him. I had some cider, I got undressed, and I remember kissing her till I fell asleep. She fucked him, I know that, but she fell asleep kissing me, telling me she needed me...that after all this time, she still missed me.”

Kendra’s bathroom suddenly made Bianca claustrophobic - the walls were slowly closing in, mocking her as she spiraled internally out of control.

“And I just thought, what the fuck am I doing?” Courtney snickered. “I don’t know where I’m going with my life at the moment. I’m starting to despise music, and I feel so disconnected from reality. I feel hurt, all the time. I looked into her eyes as she stroked back my hair, and I didn’t feel it, not anymore. Not this happy, go lucky buzzing that I use to get. Now, it was like being prodded with a metal rod, you know?”

“I don’t, but I’ll pretend that makes sense.”

They chuckled; half out of politeness, half out of awkwardness.

“I just...I feel good with you. Really good, and I woke up missing you. Is that, weird? Ca-cause I, you know, I’m a disaster, and you’re put together, and I’m smiley, and you’re grumpy, a-and I feel like we work! I love talking to you, and I miss just hanging out with you. I was with all my friends last night, and I thought how much better it would have been if you were there. I’ve never met someone like you before, B, and I’ve never felt so much love for someone so quickly. Like, you’re the kind of friend I’ve always needed, and I don’t know how to be when you’re not a half an hour walk from me.”

Bianca, for what feels like the first time in her life, is speechless. There’s no suitable response for what she’s just listened to. The crazed beating of her heart is enough of a reply, and if Courtney misses her so dearly, she figures maybe she can hear it echoing through the phone. Static between them, Bianca still pictures her so clearly and dreamy, the fever of her unrequited feelings keeping her delusional. She’s trying to stay rational, but when she hears she’s missed, and needed, then the glimmer of hope she suppresses rises brighter than ever before.  

Courtney won’t admit it. Stood over the balcony, letting her hair dangle against her cheeks and flow in the breeze, with the musky smell of heat surrounding her, she wishes she could be stronger. She wants to come out and say the truth, but the words don’t come together as cohesive, or intelligent. Her thoughts and her feelings don’t feel comforting, but when she thinks about Bianca, she feels that warm homely sensation that is like a breath of fresh air on anxiety. Bianca is good for what ails her.

“So,” Bianca rubs her forehead, trying to wrap her head around everything Courtney has said. “I uh...I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you miss me?”

Bianca feels like she might explode. If she was being honest, she’d reply: Of fucking course I miss you, you fucking idiot. I fucking hate that I think about you so much, and I wish you would kiss me again because I would kiss you back so hard. I would make you forget you even feel bad, if you let me. I miss you so much, you dickhead. Stop messing me around, and say what you want. If you want me, I’m yours.

Instead, she said “Sure. I miss everyone. I can’t wait till we’re all back together again. Poor Trevor is so jealous I’m with Kendra. I bet you’re missing Danny too?”

Courtney wanted more. She’s afraid to give, but she expected more from Bianca. Her heart suddenly feels like someone’s squeezing it in the palm of their sweaty hand. Courtney turns around and sees Adore awake, stumbling around the room as she gathers her clothes up and begins to get dressed again. She lifts her head as she finds her shirt, and the devious smile that meets Courtney makes her insides churn. Adore walks through the misty scene of last nights debauchery, her body naked par the denim jacket she’s just thrown on, and she stands before Courtney without an ounce of shame. Courtney grips the phone tighter, trying to keep her eyes level with Adore’s.

“Who’s on the phone?” Adore whispers, placing her hands on Courtney’s waist and swaying her gently. The blonde girl bites her lip.

“My friend.”

“Oh, cryptic. Should I be jealous?”

Courtney wriggles free before the allure in Adore’s eyes becomes too much. She shakes her head and walks past her, back into the room.

“I’m sorry, Bianca. I shouldn’t have called, it’s probably pretty late-”

“Court, it’s fine.”

“No, I-I’m sorry. I just, don’t want to bother you.” She grabs her clothes and starts awkwardly getting dressed, the phone jammed between her ear and her shoulder. She can feel Adore’s eyes burning holes through her, while the mysterious guy snores away in a deep slumber.

“You’re never a bother.” Bianca reassures. “I mean it, I love talking to you.”

“Look,” Courtney straightens and dusts off her attire, turning to see Adore glaring at her. She gulps. “We should talk when I’m back. Like, a day, just us. Maybe you could sleep round mine again, or-or whatever, I-”

“Sounds like a plan. You can tell me all about this threesome you’ve no recollection off.”

Courtney smiles, feeling the butterflies swarm together and dance in a perfect harmony.

“You’re not doing this again to me, Courtney.” Adore interrupts her momentary bliss, her tone fierce and warning. “I won’t let you pretend again, I mean it.”

The smile falls from her face and she stutters, unsure who to talk to or what to do. She pulls her hair over one shoulder, and talks into the phone, not taking her eyes off Adore. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you soon, Bianca.”

“Yeah, sure. Be careful getting out of your strangers house. If he has any expensive watches, take ‘em.”

Courtney nods, going toward the front door. All the time Adore is threatening her, storming after her, still basically naked, but she’s cutting through Courtney like her words are sharp like swords. “You can’t run away from your feelings forever! You can’t play around with me when convenient! You can’t play innocent when it suits you! I won’t let you walk away from me again, Courtney!”

The blonde girl grabs the door handle and opens it, staring into the distance. “See you, Bianca.” She hangs up and walks out the house, without even a second glance at Adore who’s screaming at her.

Bianca holds her phone against her ear for a few seconds despite the silence, just letting her wavering emotions settle. She stares across from where she sits on the edge of the bath tub and at the towel rack, her eyes running along the seams of the material and catching on the coloured blue that jumps out of no where. She’s not sure how to feel about what had just happened. Relief? That Courtney thinks about her, and genuinely likes her, and despite being in the midst of her breakup with Steven and having argued with her about whatever it was floating between them, she still liked Bianca.

What was the foreign swirling within Bianca’s head? Like a headache in a blender, and the metal twinge of her blood rusting and rattling the more and more she spins her thoughts. She hated how it felt to like Courtney - to pretend she’s the same as Kendra or Trevor, when the reality was far off from that truth. Courtney was stunning, beyond beautiful in Bianca’s eyes, and she wanted to tell her that everyday. She wanted to hold her, cherish her, and the agony that came with holding back what she desired was starting to seep through the cracks Bianca plastered up.

She stood up, her legs feeling flimsy where they’d gotten use to sitting, and she walked out. Suddenly her head was filled with thoughts of Courtney, and only Courtney, and who the fuck this ‘Adore’ was to Courtney. Was she pretty? Was she skinnier? Was she a lesbian, or a straight girl in denial, or bisexual? Was she someone Courtney could fall in love with, or worst, lust?

The kind of person she saw herself completely wrapped up in, tangled in the mess of week old sheets and erratic hair. They don’t change the bed as often because they like the smell of their sex, and the way sweat drips off one another and leaves drips of the intense passion they have for each other. She wonders, would she be so obsessively involved with their sex, that Adore is all she thinks of? With hands running down her spine, fingers looped in the lace of her knickers - would, for even a split second, Bianca cross her mind? Could she ever cross the darkest, most intimate parts of Courtney’s lewd, secretive imagination?

When Bianca walked back into Kendra’s bedroom, she was greeted by her friend reading a thin yellow book, her legs crossed and a pair of glasses balanced at the tip of her nose. She looked up from under her brow, and a smile appeared at the presence of Bianca.

“Well, you certainly took your time. I must have read a good 10 pages at least!”

“Maybe you’re a fast reader.”

“Maybe.” Kendra folded the corner of the page, placing it delicately on the side table and straightening up for Bianca, her smile widening with more wonder. “So, how is the old blonde bomb shell?”

Bianca tries to put on a face that reads she’s completely and utterly fine - that nothing in her feels cracked or bewildered, or that the sensation to cry isn’t festering behind her dark eyes. She sits on the edge of the bed, her gaze set on her hands placed in her lap. “Yeah she’s fine, same old same old Courtney.”

Kendra raises a brow quizzically. “Oh right? What was she calling for, anything good?”

Bianca stifles a laugh and the compulsion to roll her eyes. “She’s having a wild time in Australia. Absolutely insane.” Bianca nods, reassuring herself more than Kendra. “I guess she was just rubbing it in my face because I get to spend my time with you and she gets to be around drop dead gorgeous, sun kissed girls.”

Even though she laughs, and her tone is the same old gravelly accent she always has, no brittle edging around her words, Kendra sees something fragile between her eyes. Her breath seems jilted by whatever she was neglecting to tell Kendra. A heavy heart surrounded them and the pulse burst with sorrow and upset.

Kendra rested her hand on Bianca’s shoulder, gaining no reaction. “What happened, B?”

Maybe Bianca’s body was tired of fighting, and maybe no matter how much she fought on, her will was wearing thin. Something within her snapped, and the cynical part of Bianca was cursing to get ahold of herself. Tears began to fester behind her eyes, glistening in the dim light of Kendra’s lamp, and her lips started to waver where the emotion became too strong. Kendra’s reaction was quick. Without warning she threw herself at Bianca and wrapped her arms around her, hugging her tight.

Bianca’s body didn’t respond straight away. The sudden body heat pushed against her skin, and the comforting hand stroking her back felt so unfamiliar. She sniffled, trying to hold back the flood gates but tears had begun to slide down her cheeks despite her best efforts. Eventually, she hugged Kendra back, resting her head on her shoulder. Her shoulders jerked as she began to relax into the dejection, and everything that had been wielding itself into Bianca’s bones began to melt away, swimming with the stream of her tears. The angst and rejection and heartache that came from much more than just Courtney suddenly arose unbeknownst, and Kendra was there to listen.

“I don’t want to cry” Bianca sobbed, her eyes squeezed tight in an attempt to trap anymore tears. “I’m sorry-“

“Don’t you dare apologise. I’d rather you be upset in front of me than bottle it all up.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not!” Bianca pulled away, rubbing her eyes and letting out a frustrated sigh. She looked over at the vinyl, listening to the sound of scratching where the song had run out, then turning back to Kendra she was met with unbelieving but soft eyes. Twinkling like stars, pulling Bianca under a genuine but terrifying sense of security. “I…” she threw her eyes up, letting all the air out of her lungs and slouching. “Who fucking knows, right? As long as I get a degree at the end of this course, nothing else matters.”

Kendra takes a second to consider the idea. She walks over to her vinyl, taking the record off and placing it back into it’s case and then returning to the bed. “So,” a strong breath of air sounds through her nose as she puckers her lips, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or keep snivelling like a baby?”

Bianca laughs, her body shaking as it rattles through her bones. She pushes Kendra playfully, and the two of them laugh together. “Bitch! You said I could trust you, and here you are mocking me.”

Kendra shrugs, a delightful smile still plastered on her face where the laugh lines remain from their momentary happiness. “You can trust me. Like you wouldn’t take a jab at me if you could?” Kendra jokes.

Bianca smirks, but before a quiet abyss of denial settles, she stutters, “I-I don’t know how to handle everything with Courtney.”

Kendra tilts her head, leaning in to try gain Bianca’s eyes. “What do you mean?” she almost whispers, as if a tone too strong may fracture the very structure of Bianca’s vulnerability. She rests her hand, sheepish in case she startles the other girl too much, on Bianca’s knee. “What’s going on with Courtney?”

Bianca promised herself when she moved to England that everything would be different; when she got the call that she had been accepted into university; when she found people to live with in a new country; she swore on the deepest wounds that she would go forward, never back. The corners of her a ascent into adulthood weren’t going to cut her open, they were to be filled down and smooth, for the fear of weakness bubbled within her like a volcano. Sitting on Kendra’s bed with red eyes and the shame that a few tears had escaped was like a punch in the gut, and all the repressed memories of America before she left felt heavier than ever.

Courtney was the trigger. She’s paralysed Bianca with an infliction that she despised, because she felt so powerless. She wanted to be around the blonde girl as often as she possibly could, but she couldn’t figure out why, so suddenly, she felt this way about her. Some people have an instant, unexplainable connection, but the whole idea of Courtney seeped deeper than even a soulmate might. She was like falling through snow, with skin as hot as the sun, and never knowing when the fall would end. She was the wondrous, preposterous, heartbreaking movie that Bianca wanted to watch again and again and again, just to avoid feeling numb. Whether she was a good or bad thing hadn’t yet been determined, but what was fact was that Bianca couldn’t keep hanging off the girl that couldn’t admit the possibility everyone saw - she couldn’t deal with putting her heart out on the line for it to be pulverised.

She lifted her head to look at Kendra and chuckled sarcastically.  “I’m falling hard for her, and I really don’t want to do that. I don’t want to be in love again."