I first discovered this when I was about 23. Wanting to impress a boy I loved more than I’ve ever loved any boy before or since (so much he didn’t even have to beg), I bought a crotchless lace g-string and matching lace bra with the boob region cut out, garter belt, and thigh high tights from Ann Summers and surprised him on his birthday. (Budget option: take a pair of scissors to existing cotton briefs. BONUS: kill two birds with one stone by cutting out the crotch on pairs that have yellowed over time and you’ve been too lazy/cheap to throw out.) Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Well, if we are to consider the men I’ve been with a representative sample for the population as a whole, no, you probably don’t. While that ex boyfriend was crazy about my penchant for negligible undies, others haven’t been so bonered-up by the idea.

The next long-term boyfriend I had wasn’t into it at all. I wore them for him once and he looked at me, top lip curled in scorn, blood rushing from his penis, and spat, “Who else have you worn those in front of?”

But he’s not the only one! I’ve brought the prospect up on two other occasions with more recent boyfriends and been told it “sounded stupid and weird,” with one guy even saying he’d probably just laugh at me if he saw me wearing sexy lingerie.I am truly, honestly baffled as to why a straight male in his “raging hormones” period of life wouldn’t want to see a woman— and moreover, the woman he regularly sleeps with—wearing itty bitty panties with a part cut out for him to stick his dick in. It’s perfect for lazy dudes! No need to even bother taking anything off, just slip it right in! More bang for your buck!

At this point I’ve stopped asking why guys don’t want to entertain my penchant for kinky underwear and started asking why they don’t. In a relationship sometimes both parties have to suck it up (be it cum or fucking a girl with crotchless panties) and do things they don’t necessarily enjoy in order to please their partner. All of the men mentioned above expected me to fulfill certain functions for them sexually; functions that weren’t always my favorite things to do, but I did regardless, because mostly I am too lazy to give blow jobs but I know it would be mean to have a boyfriend and let such a selfish, sluggish thing get in the way of him having them. And yet, all of the men mentioned above flat out refused to meet my requests.

It’s inherently accepted in sex—even in what we deem “healthy” and “non-violent” sexual relationships—that women will do things they don’t really love to please a man, like suck on his balls or go doggy style. In my experience, as well as the experiences of many women I speak with about sex regularly, there’s rarely even a polite question put forward before a man follows his impulses in the bedroom. That is to say, oftentimes a dude will just try and stick it up your butt without notice.

Yes, sex should be spontaneous and crazy sometimes—no one wants to feel like they have to ask their partner “are you OK?” every 30 seconds—and it’s always great to have that level of trust with someone, but the fact remains that there’s still an imbalanced gender dynamic where sexual intimacy is concerned. Men aren’t expected to just do things they might not be that interested in because women want them; and yet, though it goes largely unsaid, a woman who refuses to flip over and take it from behind by a guy who took the liberty to shove her hips around that way is a prude, someone who is killing the mood, or collar-pullingly awkward. That dynamic exists, and I’m not saying it happens with malicious intent, or that it exists in every relationship, but generally, in heteronormative sexual relations, the balance of power still resides with the male, no matter what we tell ourselves.

I’m fed up with not being allowed to wear my favorite panties to bed. Maybe next time I’ll just wear them under my dress and when it’s time for the clothes to come off and the dude I’m with is faced with the HORROR! of porn-star panties, I’ll just scream “PUNK’D!” and jump on top of him regardless.

Previously by Kat George - How to Fake an Orgasm (a Guide for Girls)

@kat_george

Because I am a psychopath who likes crime shows, I foraged through the trash looking for the used condom after he fell asleep. And once I found in the darkness, I stuck my finger inside to see if it contained the requisite man juices. Nada. Although I did feel pretty chuffed imagining myself as the foxy, not-afraid-to-get-her-hands-dirty star of my own sexy cop drama, SSI: Sex Scene Investigation. Sexy case closed!

I guess dudes probably fake orgasms for different reasons than women—women often fake orgasms to reward the man pummeling them, or to end unsatisfactory sex. I think maybe men fake orgasms in order to prove something to themselves and to the woman they’re doing it to. I guess there’s a whole other examination about how the fake orgasm shows the expected passivity of women and the activity of men (or to quote critic John Berger, the way “men act and women appear”) in society, but you came here today for the practical not the psychoanalytic. So if you are a whiskey-dicked conqurer or just a dude who has a hard time bringing it home, here are some tips about faking the big-O.

Wear A Condom

I know what you’re saying, “This shit happened on Friends. Monica totally thought Chandler made a baby insider her, but then he was like ‘Nah, I was faking it.’” But I am here to tell you, as a non-PG sitcom character, that Monica is an idiot. Even a day after protectionless intercourse, cum drips out of a vagina hole. No woman will believe you shot your load inside of her without physical evidence of that load. It’s just too easy to detect. In fact, if there’s a whole bunch of it, you can push it out in disgusting little globs if you strain a little bit opening a jar or taking a poop. So it’s going to be a big giveaway if you claim you’ve cum in a girl and there’s absolutely no wheatpaste snaking down her leg or raining in droplets when she finally stands up.

Don’t Over Dramatize

Traditionally, or at least in my experience, men are not very good at lying. Likewise, male perception is often a little bit skewed by their man brains, so what they think they’re doing is not actually what they’re doing at all. Case in point was my own experience with a guy who’d never let out so much as a barely audible gasp during sex, started yelling in my face while shamming a climax. Don’t do anything over the top, unless that's your regular style. Girls are basically sitting around just looking for reasons to get pissed off at you or catch you out about something or anything, really, so don’t make it any easier for them than it already is.

Or Do, What Do I Know

I’ve been with a few guys in my time whose cum faces are so hilariously funny I’ve had to concentrate, very hard, on not laughing at their moment of completion. This isn’t an indictment on guys or cum faces—I’m sure mine is just as fucking absurd—but sex is an inherently ridiculous act when you think about it, so you might as well use it to your advantage and pull some silly faces. If the girl beneath you is putting all her effort into trying not to offend you by bursting into laughter, chances are she’s not going to catch on to the shenanigans. Joke’s on her!

If You Can, Turn The Lights Off

But like, right off. Make it so dark you can’t see your own dick. Because when you take that condom off, you don’t want her to get an accidental glimpse of the empty receptacle. Nor do you want her to see that there’s none of that weird oozy post-cum leaking out afterwards. Plus in the darkness, your mind can wander into different realms, and maybe the fugue state of sensory depravation you’ll pop out a real one.

Go Down On Her Immediately

Like all magic and trick-of-the-eye illusions, faking an orgasm could benefit from some expert misdirection. It’s all well and good to pull off the physical faces and moves or whatever, but when it comes down to it, you simply do not want Detective Girl You’ve Just Fucked to notice that there’s not actually any cum in her bucket. If, after your pretend cum, you immediately go down on her, if you’re half good she’ll be driven to distraction and probably even forget you had sex in the first place on account of all the amazing pussy eating.

Pocket The Condom

If she’s suspicious and even a little bit crazy (I think I’ve just described just about every human, let alone woman, who has ever lived), she’s going to go looking for that condom post-coitus, and you do not want her to find it. She’s going to think you’re a fucking freak for taking the condom with you (it’s a total throwback to being a paranoid teenager), but not as much of a freak as she’s going to think you are when she figures out you faked an orgasm.

Keep Some Glue On Hand

The only thing I can think of that looks like cum is glue. Clag, a brand that we used in Australia, has that that pearl-like opacity and runniness that’s perfect for grand-schoolers to stick construction paper together, and it sort of dries flaky as well. Also, there’s an onomatopoeic quality of its name that makes me thing clag is a better word than semen or cum. If your hand is quicker than her eye, or if you can turn your back and hunch over the side of the bed while you take the condom off, you can furtively chuck a few drops in the rubber and throw it in the trash and relax. No big deal: you just tried to pass of glue as cum. You are a totally normal person.

@Kat_George

Previously:

How to Fake an Orgasm (A Guide for Girls)

The Flaming Lips have been a lot of different things over the years. Their newest album, The Terror, shows the band moving even further from their Willy Wonka-on-mescaline incarnation. The Terror is dark, drone-y, and bleak. “You Lust,” the album’s 13-minute centerpiece, probably won’t get chosen as the state rock song of Oklahoma, but it perfectly soundtracks the music video’s sci-fi nudity.

We spoke with the Flaming Lips' Steven Drozd about the video, which, it turns out, he had nothing to do with.

Steven Drozd, via

VICE: What was your role in putting the video together?
Steven Drozd: I had nothing to do with it. Not one thing. Wayne sent me an early edit and asked my thoughts. That was about it. If Wayne has something he wants to try with the rest of the band members, then we’ll be thrown in. But if we’re not needed, then he doesn’t involve us. That’s fine with me.

Hm. Why do you think Wayne edited the original version of “You Lust” down for the video? I thought it was going to be a sprawling, epic short film. But the video clocks in at just over four minutes.
I think it was time constraints. That is a lame excuse. They’re talking about doing a full-length version. It’s an opportunity to do that early MTV thing where there’s a whole story and setup before the song starts. Maybe Wayne could make a minimovie like David Bowie did with “Blue Jean.” The shortened version was sort of weird, because I’ve listened to the song so many times, and I have gotten used to the version with the long, creepy choir solo.

Oh well. What do you think of the nudity?
The nudity in the video isn’t glamorous or sexy. It’s very stark and disturbing. I think that’s a bold move. There are some shots when you go, “That’s an interesting angle to shoot a flaccid penis from...” But Wayne isn’t shy about being naked.

Are all the dicks and tits and vaginas straight out of his brain? Or are you on the same nudity trip?
That’s all him. Something must have happened to him when he was eight or nine that completely zapped his brain. Wayne goes through phases of working with different types of imagery. In 1989, it was Jesus Christ and God. But the vaginas never really go away [laughs].

Do you guys think about pubes when you’re casting? Trimmed or natural? Circumcised or uncircumcised? What’s the Flaming Lips’ stance on foreskin?
I’m surprised we’ve never discussed that. I’m sure it depends on the actual situation. There are many different types of pubic-hair scenarios. If you go full bush, it would be because you’re making something that looks gnarly. Aesthetically, you might not want to go full bush in 2013. Or maybe it’s a retro thing, now.

Full bush is coming back.
As all things do, in fashion. I’m probably one of the last people you should talk to about this video. I had nothing to do with it.

More NSFW music stuff:

Meet the Girls Who Are Terrorizing Juggalos with Their Perfect Asses

Bot'Ox Featuring Anna Jean - "The Face of Another"

Here Is Tropical's NSFW Video for "Dancing Anymore"

That's not the case with NYC-based photographer Brianna Capozzi's work. While her subject matter is almost exclusively aesthetically pleasing women, Brianna uses the female form to build engaging compositions and scenarios with an original and refreshing take on the recent contemporary return to the traditions of lo-fi.

In a generation where boner-inducing women are plastered all over the internet, Brianna Capozzi is taking on the challenge of making photographs that transcend the trappings of Tumblr, creating images with more dimensions and idiosyncrasies than most you can find.

Check out her website for more stunning compositions of ladies and the female form.

Above is a music video that Is Tropical just released. In it, a French boy (who bares an uncanny resemblance to Freaks and Geeks' Sam Weir) is left home alone in a beautiful woman’s house.

Obviously, because he’s a teenage boy with too much time on his hands, he starts to fantasize about boning the woman whose house he is tending to. This leads to the best visual representation of a hand-shandy/tommy-tank/freelancer's-lie-down that I’ve ever seen. In fact, it's probably the best music video that I've seen all decade.

I wanted to send it out to everyone that I know so we could all enjoy it together. But first, here are a couple of reasons why I think it’s so great.

Follow Ryan on Twitter - @RyanBassil

I rarely fake orgasms because I don’t believe someone who is fucking you poorly deserves that kind of payoff. More importantly, faking an orgasm is the biggest dick move you can pull on another girl. A faked orgasm during shit sex only serves to perpetuate a guy’s misconception that he has “moves” when he doesn’t, which he’ll likely use on the next girl unlucky enough to fall into his bed. By faking an orgasm, you’re inflicting a disservice to sisters everywhere.

That said, there are occasions when it is essential to fake an orgasm like when a) love or intense “like” is involved (ew); or b) the guy is doing a seriously good job, and it’s your purely non-physical disposition that’s in the way of coital finality.

I should point out—because even grown men don’t yet seem to grasp this concept yet—the path to orgasm relies as much on mentality as it does on physical acts. So you can fuck all the right buttons, and hover just near or around climax for a bit, but unless your mind is completely present, it’s not going to happen. That doesn’t mean the sex isn’t lovely. It just means it’s been a long ass day and everything is distracting right now.

Here’s how to fake an orgasm when the penis in your vagina deserves it most, but you have that instinctive feeling that it’s just not going to happen tonight (or this morning, or this afternoon, or whenever you happen to be fucking)...

Baby, Arch Your Back

OK I got this one out of a Miguel song, but if you’re going to fake an orgasm you may as well make it as cinematic as possible. When you’re having a real orgasm you are so removed from the moment in your ecstasy that you might not concentrate on the inherent sexiness of your movements. Use this opportunity to inhabit those moves. Writhe around, push your hips up (or down if you’re on top), and be all lithe and serpentine, the way movies would have you believe people look during sex. BONUS: The dude fucking you will be so enraptured by your alluring posturing that he probably won’t even notice you’re faking. He’ll think he’s hit the jackpot, which he has, duh.

Pout

Lips are another part of your body that you can luxuriate in your deception. You’ve probably never seen your face mid-climax, but I’d bet good money it looks similar to the face you pull when you’re struggling to lift weights at the gym. Pout your lips, half close your eyes in that hooded, seductive bedroom way, and grab your own hair like a stripper mid-dance (where it would usually be matting into dreadlocks at the back by this point, flick it about like there’s a fan in front of you instead, but not too much, because you don’t want to look like you’re having a fit).

Flex Your Vocal Chords

An old roommate of mine was once loudly fucking a girl in his room one night, and I texted my friend that she was faking it for sure, so manicured was her coital wailing. I’m convinced, when in the throes of passion, most people sound like a bush pig that’s been speared through the leg. A faked orgasm is the perfect opportunity to sound like a sexy voice over in an Usher song, which is, if you were curious, one of my dream jobs. When you’re ready to Climax, make sure to yelp “I’m coming, I’m coming!” in a husky tone, punctuated with perfectly curated “oohs” and “ahs”.

Shake It Like a Polaroid Picture

When you’re “arriving” he’s got to feel it in your body. You can’t just lay there like a gimpy starfish and expect it to be believable. I can’t make my knees and hands shake quite the same way they do after a great orgasm, but heaving your bosom dramatically should do the trick. Rub your tits a bit too, guys like that. And you know that secret exercise Oprah tells you to do while you’re sitting at your desk to keep your vag nice and tight? This is why. The only reason pelvic floor exercises exist is as practice for orgasm faking. Clench and unclench; MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU.

Punch Him in the Face

If you lose confidence in your acting ability, just give him a swift knock to the eye. This is the ultimate misdirection. He’ll be so sore and pissed off at you he won’t even remember that he had any suspicion you were cheating in the first place. Don’t punch too hard though--you don’t want this to end in a trip to the hospital, the aim is to get him to roll over and at the very worst go to sleep mad. This is a high risk-reward proposition, because he might be into it, but if he’s not, you get to blame your arm spasm on “being in the heat of the moment,” and—congratulations—you just faked an orgasm without actually faking an orgasm.

Pant, Say “Wow!” a Lot

Once it’s all over, lay about slapping the back of your hand to your forehead like a period drama queen in a too-tight corset saying things like “Wow” and “Oh my God” and breathing deeply. My preferred post-orgasm state is to be apart and untouched, but if you prefer cuddles you can do that too. If you’re a good actor, you’ve just faked an orgasm. Feel free to fall asleep now; after all your hard work, you deserve it.

@Kat_George

Previously:

Your Huge Cock Is Overrated

How to Flip Your Girl Over for Doggy Style

Why Period Sex Is the Best Sex

On February 25, 2013, federal police in Caxias do Sul, Brazil, arrested the director Sady Baby and his girlfriend, Patricia, at a routine traffic stop. Sady had been missing since 2008 when police accused him of hiring a minor, who was supposedly his daughter, to play a role in his latest movie, The Director’s Daughter. His arrest was a shock to many, not only because he had been missing for so long, but because there were rumors going around that he had committed suicide by throwing himself from the Uruguay River bridge.

Sady Baby is the stage name of Sady Plauth, the infamous actor and filmmaker who blew up during the decadent boca do lixo [trash mouth] era of Brazilian cinema. The numerous low budget productions from that time were almost entirely devoted to explicit sex, and Sady was at the forefront. In a twisted way, he represented an expression of Brazil’s deepest feelings. The best way I can describe the mantra of this movement is with a line from one of Sady’s films, Orgy Bus: “Working is for morons. If this country is fucked, then let’s fuck.” His work often pushed the boundaries of sexuality, exploring taboos and controversial subjects like zoophilia, rape, and necrophilia.

When I was around seven I used to go to Balneario Camboriu in Santa Catarina for summer vacations with my family. Every day, at the edge of the beach, a guy with curly blonde hair, a Viking hat, and a g-string thong would get on a megaphone and announce the beginning of an erotic play called Soltando a Franga, which, loosely translated, means “Release the Inhibitions.” Years later I realized that the strange man hosting sexy public theater on the beach was Sady Baby himself.

I wanted to speak to the father of Brazilian smut, so I visited Sady at the Caxias do Sul penitentiary.

Luana Scarlet holds a snake that will be shoved into one of the actors during Sexual Feelings of a Horse.

VICE: Hello, Sady. The majority of your work was done decades ago, but many of the themes remain taboo today. What’s the creative process surrounding work controversial enough to offend generations of people?
Sady Baby: I watched a lot of movies and always felt like something was missing. I noticed that everyone has a perversion, a fantasy, but they’re ashamed to expose it or talk about it. I started to put that in my work and it went well. At the time people would stop me in the streets. Some would compliment me and others criticized me, but there has always been an audience for that, you know? 

Did you know that you are something of a cult figure in pornography?
I had no idea.

Really?
Yes. A journalist in Sao Paulo is writing a book about my career. It will be released next year, but I never cared for any of that. I’m a simple guy. I’ve always respected people. One of the most important things to me is when someone stops me on the street and says, “Hey, I really like your work.”

I read somewhere that Gio Mendes is writing your biography and the title is Every Pussy Has a Price. Is that right?
Yeah, that’s right. But I don’t go anywhere with a title like that.

Sady doing sexy stuff with Marcia Scarpette near a waterfall in the city of Guararema.

And do you believe that every pussy has a price?
Of course. Let me tell you, if you go out with an escort, you’re going to have to pay. If you have a woman at home, you’re going to have to support her. One way or another, all pussy has a price. That’s what’s in my head. I don’t know if that makes me dumb or not.

Of all the movies you’ve directed, produced, and acted in, which was your favorite?
I liked the first Orgy Bus, but there’s a movie of mine that never came out on the internet called Sexual Feelings of a Horse. It was one of the first films I directed, and to be honest that’s the one I like the most. I put a lot of myself into that movie.

Sady surrounded by a team of beauties in the film Oil Change.

There’s some pretty serious lady-on-horse action in that film. Was it hard to convince the actress to do a scene with a horse?
No. The pay was good and she was cool with it. I ask every person who comes to work for me, “Do you like this or do you want to do this for money?” The most important thing is to have someone who enjoys it. If she doesn’t enjoy it then it’s going to come out badly. If she likes it then she goes into it with lust, and everything has to have lust. If there’s no lust it won’t work.

Specials: Pussy Beef, Fuck Broth, Shit Donuts, Fag Tails.

You were forced to do a lot with a little thanks to your small production budgets. What would you do if you had a bunch of money? What would a Sady Baby film with the budget of a Michael Bay movie look like?
Ah, that would be a dream come true. I’d get a good makeup crew, some gorgeous actresses… I’d prepare everything, American style. I’ve already done shows in nine countries, but my biggest dream is to do a movie in my home state.

How do you go about writing your scripts? There is some very memorable dialog in your films. Is any of that improvised, or do you make the actors stick to the script?
Most of it was improvised, but I was controlling it.

So you’d write a general idea and then they would improvise?
Yes. I didn’t have a lot of resources. I had few actors, and they were mostly common folk who weren’t very artistic. I decided to go with the improvising so they would let go more. If I had given them a script it would have sounded robotic, so by improvising it made everything more spontaneous.

What can you tell me about the Orgy Bus? It was the name of a film, but it was an actual bus too, right?
Yes. I bought a bus in the 90s, fixed it up, got a few actors from Sao Paulo together, and set out to travel. But it wasn’t just hardcore sex—it was a theater piece, like any other. And one thing I demanded was that, to work with me, you couldn’t mess with drugs because that would get me in trouble with the police of the various cities we traveled to. I performed in a chain of theaters throughout Rio Grande do Sul, Santa Catarina, and Paraná. Then, when I arrived in Porto Alegre, lots of actors would come to me and ask to participate, so I started to change the lineup. That was a family to me—a pornographic family, but a family nonetheless.

I used to spend summers in Balneario Camboriu, where you performed your exotic play, Soltando a Franga. I remember seeing you on the beach.
Ah, that was fantastic. When I would travel by bus through Rio Grande do Sul, I made a lot of money—enough to build my own theater. The downstairs was sort of a cinema and we had rooms for couples upstairs. I’m not going to mention any names, but a lot of important people frequented that place.

Poster of Sady’s first production, directed by Bozo Alrindo Barreto.

What happened to the theater?
It was going under, so I realized I needed to sell it, but I sold it to the wrong person. I only got 20 percent of what the theater was worth. I lost everything. And so I attempted suicide in 2008. I threw myself into the Uruguay River. I didn’t even know how to swim, but with a joy for life, I saved myself. So I got out and walked to Chapecó, which is about 12.5 miles away, called my girl, and told her I was going to Aparecida do Norte by foot. She decided to come with me. It took us 39 days to get there. Eventually, we took a bus back to Marau, and I’m not ashamed to say that I went to work as a farmhand at a nearby ranch.

What did you do at the ranch?
I was taking care of pigs and cattle, with no practical experience. My girl was with me. After a few months I went after the man who bought the theater in an attempt to get the rest of my money from him, but I went alone, which was a mistake. The guys jumped me and said, “Either you sign or you die.” Between life and theater, the theater can go. I lost everything. So I went back to the ranch and kept working. I changed names, because I didn’t want to talk to anyone asking questions, and then I ended up here because of a checkpoint.

Yeah… What’s up with that story about your daughter having acted in Daughter of the Director anyway? Is that true? The rumor is that she was 17 at the time.
People got it confused. She wasn’t my daughter—that was just the title of the movie. But she was 17. She was emancipated.

From In the Warmth of the Hole.

Do you have a lot of kids?
About 40.

Do you know them all?
Most of them. They’re all of-age. I’m friends with all of my exes and I always told them: I don’t like to date, I don’t get involved with anyone. If they want to sleep with me, cool, but I’m always straight with them. None of them ever blamed me for anything.

Don’t you ever want to see your kids?
I do see some of them. If one day I’m a millionaire, I’m going to divide everything between them. I know I did a lot of things wrong, but I never forced anything, never raped anyone. It’s just that this type of profession offers up a lot of women. When I was in the production house in Sao Paulo I banged three or four per day.

Four times a day with different women?
Yeah. That’s normal for me. When I was about to shoot a film I’d select the lineup and then ask them to take their clothes off, and it’d usually go from there. But I was picky. I demanded that the actresses not have sagging breasts, no belly, no cellulite, or stretch marks. If she opened her legs… ah, my friend, then it went in. What am I going to do? It’s life.

Sady with his loyal collaborators.

What type of women do you typically go for?
A big woman with full breasts drives me crazy. If one of them came up to me and said, “I’m gonna give it to you, but after we’re done you’re gonna die,” well, give it to me and then go ahead and kill me. For women, I would do anything. But after I met my girl 11 years ago—she was 13 at the time—I saw that little nympho and said: “My Lord in heaven, don’t do this to me.” But I couldn’t resist. I’m still with her today. I changed for her. Another thing, I never liked condoms. And if it weren’t for her I wouldn’t even be here. I would have gotten a disease by now.

Have you ever had an STD test?
I did a year ago and everything was fine. But I just got lucky. It wasn’t because I took precautions—my wisdom is between the legs.

Back in the alter boy days.

A lot of people probably wouldn't guess it, but you're a religious man, correct?
Yes, I’m Catholic. One time a lady stopped me in church and asked what I was doing there since all I like are women. I’ve never disrespected any religion. I always say there are three things that I’ll never change: sex, religion, and soccer.

What are you going to do when you get out of prison?
I’m going to do a circus. There’s a person who’s going to sponsor all of it. He’ll put me on the road with the bus, trailer, and circus. Because I’ve always been an honest person, the headlines will read: “Release Your Inhibitions: The Worlds Only Traveling Erotic Circus.”

Archival photos courtesy of Gio Mendes.

More film:

Mexican Narco Cinema

Inside Iranian Cinema

Nollywood Omen

Belladonna's Dick Sauce (Animal Style)
Dir: Aiden Riley/Belladonna
Rating: 10
Enterbelladonna.com/Evilangel.com

My eyes are currently bleeding semen. Each moment they remain open, it feels like vats of acid are being poured into my retinas. The excruciating pain is a direct result of watching porn for the past 12 hours straight. I look and feel like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange when his eyes are propped open and he’s forced to watch acts of horrendous violence to “cure” his more despicable tendencies. But, in my case, the saddest part is that I volunteered for this punishment. I’ve been in the middle of editing the latest episodes of Skinema, which focus on the extreme-sex performer Belladonna, so myself and Andy Capper (the series’s co-producer) have been saddled with the task of going through more than 200 of her Evil Angel DVDs to look for the best selects. 

Over the past half day, I have witnessed her do just about every possible sexual act a person can partake in, all of which usually involve anywhere from one to four penises. I have watched her body change from an 18-year-old’s to a 30-year-old’s in one sitting. She has transformed from a doe-eyed, ditzy dame to a strong, cocksure woman before my eyes… and, as of this writing, I’ve only made it through ten DVDs. Porn was not meant to be watched this way, but on the bright side, I only have 98 more to go. Please kill me. (I’m pretty sure this is my payback for the past 12 years of my not really watching any of the movies I’ve “reviewed” in this column.)

I’m sure many of you are wondering why I’m pissing and moaning, questioning how hard it could possibly be to fast-forward through hardcore sex scenes to find the rare, usable parts of the videos that will keep my show at an R rating. And you are entirely justified to wonder that; the process is quite simple and quick. The difficult part comes with watching the behind-the-scenes footage shot by Bella’s estranged husband/director, Aiden Riley. Over my year and a half of filming the couple, their relationship changed into something else (which you’ll see play out in the episodes), but for the better part of the past decade, Aiden was the man behind the lens shooting as his wife took two dicks in her ass—and every other manner of fuck, suck, and jerk. When Bella wasn’t having sex, Aiden liked to point the camera at her and have very personal conversations for the BTS footage, which generally provides an additional two hours of supplemental material for each feature film.

It’s in these conversations that I’m finding the real gold. She discusses her personal life frankly and without hesitation: how she cheated on Aiden, how she liked to service other men, just not her husband, and how she fucks other men while Aiden waits at home to paint her toenails. There is no fast-forwarding. I must watch each and every minute to make certain I don’t miss any gems. 

In the past 12 hours, I haven’t had one boner. I am desensitized. I’m considering raping my sleeping wife to see if I’m still human. Instead, I will watch one more DVD, Dick Sauce, because the silly animal hats the girls are wearing are oddly familiar—they look exactly like the hats Belladonna and I wore to dinner with her preteen daughter and her daughter’s friend when I was in LA last month. But they couldn’t be. Could they? 

Could that possibly be the lovely Katie St. Ives blowing Mr. Pete in the very same bunny-rabbit hat that Belladonna gave me as a gift to wear when playing with my children? The same bunny hat I put on my grandmother’s head to take a funny photo? Yes, yes it is. At least it was only a blowjob, right? In the BTS footage Katie admits, “I have a raging yeast infection. That’s why I can’t have sex today.” I’m going to bed with the belief that Belladonna must have had the hat dry-cleaned. Right? She had to at least do that.

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.

Read more Skinema from our past issues.

Shaving and/or waxing your pubes increases the risk of sexually transmitted infections, specifically, Molluscum contagiosum (which I’m pretty sure is also a Harry Potter spell) according to a study done by a French health clinic. That sort of infection isn't really serious, though. It’s just an annoying bump or two or ten. It goes away after a while and doesn't scar, but think of it this way: if you're getting rid of your pubic hair for purely aesthetic reasons, doesn't having a bunch of gross bumps defeat the purpose? 

The act of a woman removing all her pubic hair is, in my most likely correct opinion, just an effort to please men; men who consider the ideal sexual experience to be what they jerk off to when they watch porn. The “I want to come on your face, and tits, and back, and stomach all at once”-type guys.

The first time I had sex with a man in Los Angeles was uncomfortable. As soon as he saw my vagina, his eyes bulged wide open. He looked confused and a bit scared, like he just accidentally got a Gremlin wet. I'm pretty sure he whispered, “What the fuck?” He told me that he had never had sex with a woman who had her pubic hair. I immediately thought to myself, Alison you're not in Kansas in anymore, and by Kansas, I meant Oakland. At first I was shocked by his reaction. Then I remembered that LA is the most superficial city on Earth, on top of being the porn capital of the world. Women here succumbed to waxing the same way they succumbed to wearing those stupid tube-top-towel dresses back in the early 2000s.

I love my pubic hair. I don't ever want to get rid of it. I understand, however, that compromises need to be made. Not everyone can be as stubborn as me. If you absolutely hate removing your pubic hair but feel like you have to do it in order to please a sexual partner, then allow me to offer some creative alternatives that can make both you and your partner happy.

THE HALF SHAVE (A.K.A. "THE SKRILLEX")

This one is truly the best of both worlds. One half of you is bare, while the other half is left alone to grow wild and free and maybe even bless our gracious ears with overly agressive electronic dance music.

BALD SKIN CAP

They exist for heads, why not for genitalia? Get a bald cap custom fitted for your nether regions. Slip it on before getting down and dirty, then get to work. Your partner will never know your little secret. When finished, yank it off and go back to being your natural, bushy self.

THE MIRROR TRICK

Place a mirror on top of your bush. When having sex, all that your partner will see is a reflection of his or her genitals. When they go down on you, they'll get a good look at their own face and have an existential crisis, which will probably make them even hornier.

THE GI JOE (A.K.A "GROW IT, JOE")

This one is perfect because, as we all know, sex and violence go hand in hand. All you need to do for this one is place tiny toy soldiers in and around your hairy parts. Convince your partner that your genitalia is some sort of war memorial. If they still refuse to have sex with you, tell them that they're an unpatriotic commie riding a one-way ticket to hell. 

@justaboutglad

For more Alison Stevenson:

Rick Ross: The Most Misunderstood Man in Music

I’ve just photographed a tall thin naked transvestite whore in a MacArthur Park motel room and I’m in a good mood. The air is misty and cold. I’m walking the wrong way back to the car, trying to manoeuver with my cane and camera down a blacktop hill past a motel corridor. A door opens and Sweet Adeline, an aging tart in search of a John, steps out from a room. We both stop and look at each other.

She says, “What are you doing out here all alone at four in the morning?”

“Well, a second ago I was lost but now I’m found. I’ve got $25 which I’d be happy to give you if we could go back to your room and take some pictures.”

“You just got lucky,” she tells me.

“Yeah, well, I guess things have taken a turn.”

“My sister and her boyfriend are in the room. Is that OK?”

“I don’t mind if they don’t mind.”

It’s late. I should be heading home but I still have money I haven’t spent and it’s still a couple of hours before sunup, which seems somehow relevant. She tells me to call her Sweet Adeline and I tell her to call me Scot. She opens the door and before we can go in, a guy comes out. He’s black and puffing on a cigar. He looks like he should be wearing a derby. He gives me a nod and keeps going. She tells me that’s her sister’s boyfriend and she guesses he’s gotta go do something. The room is two double beds and a ten-year-old antique television. Giant, with Liz Taylor, James Dean, and Rock Hudson is on and turned down low. Sweet Adeline’s sister is sitting on the stage-right bed smoking a cigarette. Sweet Adeline introduces the room. “This is Scot and he’s going to take pictures of me and this is my sister, Nancy.”

“Hey, Nancy.”

“Hey.”

Sweet Adeline tells me she’s wearing some sexy frillies below deck and would I like that for the pictures. I tell her good idea, let’s take a look, and I dig the $25 from my pocket and pay in advance. James Dean is covered in oil and making a scene and in another few seconds he’s going to hit Rock Hudson in the stomach with an exaggerated undercut. Nancy lights a new cigarette from the butt of the old one. There’s a wheelchair folded up and leaning on the wall; it’s old and looks like it needs a tune-up. Sweet Adeline is down to her matching frilly undergarments. She tosses her pants across the room and says, “Ta da! How do I look? Pretty good, huh?”

I tell her she looks pretty damn cute and she says you mean pretty sexy, don’t ya?

“Cute and sexy,” I say and Nancy agrees. “Cute and sexy, little girlie.”

“You better know it.” Sweet Adeline smacks her ass with the flat of her hand and climbs onto the bed. “OK, five pictures. Five pictures of me in my frillies, that’s five dollars each so you better get ready.”

I take a spot at the foot of the bed.

“One,” she says and I make a head and shoulders.

“Two,” she gives me a side view and I suck in the zoom to take it all in.

“Three,” she scissors a leg up into the air.

“Four,” she twirls around on all fours and shows me her butt.

“Five,” she stands up on the bed and does a kind of Ann-Margret thing with her hands on her knees. I push the button and convert her image into pixels.

“That’s all the pictures you get, but if you got some more money you could crawl up in this bed with me, Nancy don’t mind.”

“That’s right,” Nancy says. “You an’ girlie can do whatever you want, I’m just watching television.”

“Not tonight, thanks. My money’s all gone anyway. Can I get a quick picture of the two of you together before I go?”

“OK, yeah. One picture of Me and Nancy.” Nancy shrugs agreement and Sweet Adeline sits next to her on the bed, cheek to cheek, and I clack the shutter.

“We’re together forever, me and my sister, because there’s nothin’ more important than family. We didn’t see each other for nine years, because we couldn’t, ya know. But we’re not gonna do that again. I’m gonna let you take one more picture of us together because that’s the way we are: together.” She leans back on the bed and puts her arm around Nancy; puts her head on Nancy’s shoulder. Nancy sets a hand on Sweet Adeline’s thigh and they both look at me and for a moment it feels like we are all going to start crying, but I pop the flash and make a picture and then the moment is over.

On the way out the door Sweet Adeline asks me what am I going to do with the pictures. I tell her I’m going to put them online and write a little story to go with them and is that all right with her?

“Yeah, that’s OK,” she says. “What’s my story about?”

“It’s about a sexy lady named Sweet Adeline and it’s about how I got lucky.”

Previously - Cats Fucking

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.

Gimme a Fucking Spring Break #4
Rating: 7
Pinkvisual.com

Despite flunking out of six of the most prestigious institutions of higher learning in New Jersey in less than three years, I never got to experience the crazy beach rompfest marinated in cheap beer that is spring break. I do recall an instance, long after I dropped out of college, when a pack of four young sorority chicks tried to thrust some spring break spirit onto me, only to have it backfire on them miserably.

At the time I was hooked to the gills on pharmaceuticals and living on 31st and Crenshaw in LA, so my recollection of that period is rather numb and foggy. I don’t remember exactly how they ended up staying at my house for a week, but the leader of their pack was the younger sister of a friend of my little sister. I recall my sister’s friend being hot with big tits, so when her little sister Facebooked me asking if she and her three classmates could come stay at my place, I allowed my mind to paint a body with big tits underneath her profile picture. Sadly, my painting art elective was just one of many classes I failed, and her tits, if she ever had them, were left in New Jersey. 

Their knock on my door came far too early on a morning when I was already far too late for work. It was frantic and didn’t stop. I knew what it meant. I’d heard that knock quite often in the year I lived on my all-black block that was run by the Crips; my visitors were shit-scared of getting raped, killed, or maimed by the gangbangers who leaned on my front fence morning, noon, and night. 

I slipped my sweaty, bloated, and constipated frame of pure sexiness into an expired pair of boxer briefs—nothing more—and walked out to greet them. They raced past me to “safety” without so much as a hello, like dogs who couldn’t hold their piss a moment longer. The Crips outside looked at me inquisitively. I nodded, acknowledging them: “Gentlemen.” 

Once inside, the four girls seemed unsure whether they were any safer. Back then I’d keep handguns strewn about my coffee table in various states, from loaded and ready to completely disassembled for cleaning. Usually there’d also be a number of different-colored anthills peppered around them: crushed pills ready for snorting.

“We thought you lived in Hollywood,” their titless leader said. 

“I did. Had to move out because of all the goddamn vampires,” I replied.

“Where the fuck are we? ARE WE GOING TO GET KILLED?” 

“You’re in my home. Act accordingly, and you’ll be fine. I just wouldn’t go outside wearing a red dress.”

My words didn’t seem to comfort them, but my beer did. 

“So what are we going to do first?” the redhead asked.

“Well, I am going to finish this beer, do a line, and go to work. I don’t know what youse guys are doing.”

“I thought you were going to show us around,” their leader said. 

“I never agreed to that. I don’t even know you. I thought you had bigger tits.”

They looked at me stunned. The mousy one started to cry: “I knew we should have gone to Cancun!”

“Listen. Help yourself to the beer and drugs. You’re free to use the shower or crash in my bed. But I have to go to work.” And I did.

When I returned home that evening they were gone. “Those bitches split,” the tallest of the gangbangers told me. “They left your front door wide open. I shut it for you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate that.”

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.

Read more Skinema here.

Last month, the Italian newspaper La Repubblica discovered that the Vatican had paid $35 million for an apartment block housing the Europa Multiclub, which calls itself the “number-one gay sauna in Italy.” The media used the story as another example of the Catholic Church being so obviously gay that they should just come on out and admit it. As a former Catholic schoolboy who believed in God till I saw Hugh Jackman in The Boy from Oz, a Broadway musical about Liza Minnelli’s first gay husband, I wasn’t surprised. I remember my school’s baseball coach sexually assaulting students and my first-grade teaching assistant nearly losing her job after she had an alleged lesbian make-out session with a PE coach—Catholics and shady sex shenanigans go together like red wine and wafers.

Naturally, when I visited Rome recently, the Multiclub was on my sightseeing list, though I was a little nervous. The last time I had been in a bathhouse was my senior year of high school, when my friend Diva D and I went to one in Miami. We ran out of the building after 20 minutes because a guy claiming to be Gloria Estefan’s “background dancer” shoved Diva D, naked, into a locker. I’ve never forgotten the horror. Luckily, the sex club, as well as the Vatican-owned apartments, were located in Salustiano, a nice (read: bourgie) area that didn’t seem like it would hold any insane gays.

After a few minutes of procrastination, I swallowed my fear and buzzed the Multiclub’s entrance. A Tarzan look-alike wearing nothing but a white towel appeared and gave me a once-over—to see if I was hot enough, maybe?—then opened the front door.

Inside, I joined the line behind businessmen in suits carrying backpacks—the postwork closet-case crowd was just arriving, I guess—and examined the portrait behind the receptionist of two gay men jerking each other off in an empty disco, until the receptionist shouted at me in Italian.

“I only speak English,” I explained. “I’m an American on vacation.” Silence.

He looked at Tarzan as if I had said I were Amanda Knox visiting Rome to murder a few sodomites.

“So you’re new?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That’ll be 26 euros.”

The website said the club only cost 13 euros, but I handed him cash, anyway; in return, he gave me a pile of paper thicker than the documents I had presented to enter Italy. “Sign this,” he said. The contract stipulated that to enter any Roman gay club, men must pay a membership fee and agree to keep the identities of the patrons a secret. Each member receives a card and must turn in the card upon entrance. The club returns the card to the patron when he leaves.

Once I handed over the paperwork, an Asian twink in a tank top approached me from across the lobby. He presented me with flip-flops and led me into a locker room blasting the Bee Gees. While the twink sang “How Deep is Your Love” and sprayed disinfectant over any surface he could find, I looked around the room at grown men removing their suits and young guys slipping out of their sweaty boxers. Strangers looking for cocks to suck surrounded me. I had entered a reality similar to the gay pornos I watched as a teen—men gathered here to have sex with other men they didn’t even know—and I felt my nervousness evaporate. I was no longer afraid. I was just down to fuck.

The only question was who. I looked at the dozen naked men in front of orange lockers. A gorgeous jock putting on a wifebeater caught my attention—as did the drop of semen resting above his lip. If only he weren’t leaving…

I ran downstairs in nothing but a towel and flip-flops to search for his equivalent. I passed a man who could have been his clone in the bar that was playing VH1 Classic on a plasma TV, but he looked past my male gaze to assign his male gaze to someone else’s bum. I left the bar, hoping to find a lean twink, but instead entered a dark maze of long hallways leading to more doors—one of them was open, revealing a fat hairy dude lying on a bed jacking off to porn that sounded like Tim Allen screaming at his kids on Home Improvement. I had entered the Bear Zone advertised on the site.

Another door led me into a completely dark sauna. I took off my towel and sat down. A hand rubbed my leg. “No, no, no,” I said. “I can’t see your face.” He moved his leg closer to my cock; I ran out of the room and down another hallway, like a gay Alice exploring a Wonderland of cock.

This hallway led to a hallway full of water: a giant bathtub. Naked men leaned against blue Plexiglas that reminded me of stained-glass windows and Epcot’s the Living Seas exhibit. Again, I removed my towel and headed toward the action, though I could barely see without my glasses and tripped over a stair. I watched the hot clone walk past me and enter the water, which was no doubt at least 10 percent precum. I followed him into the pool, but he shook his head beneath a waterfall flowing from a wall and ignored me as he watched a bear sit on another bear’s cock.

I left the pool and hid in the group shower next door. Washing the dirty water off me, I noticed an old dude checking out my ball sack. I ignored him the way the clone ignored me, dried off, and then collapsed on a beach chair in the hallway. From a speaker hidden in a wall, Penny and the Quarters’ “You and Me” played. Since like Disney’s It’s A Small World ride, hidden speakers blast the same songs in every room, I walked around the club singing along, although the lyrics seemed like a mockery of my situation: “If the stars don’t shine/ If the moon won’t rise/ If I never see the setting sun again/You won't hear me cry... As long as there is/ You and me.”

As late afternoon turned into evening and I continued to fail to find a suitable partner, I saw more men experiencing “me” time than “you and me” time. A fat guy lay on his back in the sauna lifting his leg up and down as he jacked off; in the bar a man sang along with “I’m Like a Bird” as it played on VH1. I would make fun of their loneliness, but I wasn’t any less desperate—soon, I was forsaking my No Fatties rule and heading to the Bear Zone. There, on a couch, I found my beloved clone alone, masturbating because even he couldn’t find a guy he wanted who wanted him back.

I wasn’t getting laid, so I decided to leave, but on my way to the locker room, I saw the back of a guy whose body looked like David Beckham’s H&M ads—needless to say, I followed him through a door.

He sat on a couch naked, touching his seven-inch cock as he watched three different porn movies playing on screens mounted on the wall. I sat down next to him and started to masturbate. He moved closer to me on the couch and then turned toward me, and my dick fell limp. He had David Beckham’s body, all right—and the face of Anna Nicole Smith’s dead husband. Unsure how to reject a naked senior citizen, I continued to touch myself, but my penis refused to cooperate. I shook my head; he jacked off harder. “No,” I said. He increased his wanking speed to the point where I worried his dick might fall off. “No,” I repeated. He kept jacking off and looking at me. A tear formed in the corner of his eye.

Filled with old-school Catholic guilt for hurting a stranger, I fled the room. I needed to confess or cleanse myself. In other words, I needed to leave the club. But as Mary McCarthy said in Memories of a Catholic Girlhood, even lapsed Catholics still act like Catholics, finding pleasure in the pointless and returning to institutions that hurt them, hoping for good to come—I went back to the hallway full of water in search of my ideal young man. But all the guys there were alone and miserable.

Several minutes of fruitless self-pity later, I spotted Anna Nicole Smith’s husband approaching another twink with his erect dick. Right then, I understood why it made perfect sense for the Catholic Church to own apartments next to a gay sex club. Like theme parks, churches and sex clubs both sell fantasies. And fantasies never come true. They just break hearts.

@mitchsunderland

More gay stuff from Mitchell:

Beauty and the Plague

Trying to Understand the English Gays at Oxford

I’m a Homo but I Loved Having Sex with This Robotic Pussy

When I was 18, I met a guy who worked in a surf shop. I was buying a white triangle bikini that had sequin flowers embroidered on it. His name was Zane, which at the time seemed cool. I never asked how old he was, but let’s say he was comfortably older than I was. It was a Thursday afternoon after school, and I was still in my uniform. We flirted while my friends sniggered audibly, mere feet away, and he wrote his number on the back of my receipt when I paid.

The next day I called him at recess from the schoolyard, with my friends gathered around, all trying to listen into the receiver—the way high school girls do. He asked me on a date, and the following Friday, I picked him up from his job at the surf shop after school. We went to dinner and a movie in a trendy suburb of Melbourne, and I spent the whole night falling in love with his ocean-blue eyes, scraggly hair, and older-than-me-ness. At the end of the night, I drove him home, and he asked me to come in. Wanting to seem grown up, I said yes.

His house was a mess, and there were about ten other people living there. It was like a squat full of surfboards, and his roommates were sprawled across the living room smoking bongs. I’d never actually seen a bong before, and when he passed it to me, I politely declined. He shrugged and took a hit, and I tried to memorize Every. Little. Detail.

Eventually, Zane, completely baked, led me to his room by the hand. He lit candles all over the place, and I found it all achingly romantic. Zane pulled me on to the bed, and we started making out. Seconds later he was fingering me and panting in my ear. I began fumbling for his belt, and once I’d managed to pull off his pants and undies I recoiled, dumbstruck.

“Wow,” I said, wide-eyed, sitting back on the bed.

“Well I’ve never had a girl react quite like that,” he responded with amusement.

Zane had the biggest cock I’d ever seen in my life. Up until that point, I’d only seen one other cock in a sexual context, but I knew, instinctively, it was a monster. The situation went from a romance to a horror show. I had no idea what to do next. So I did what has become a habit for me in awkward sex situations: I tried to diffuse the weirdness by giving him a blowjob. Except that I could only get the tip into my mouth.

I just want to take a moment to make sure you understand how big this particular dick was. When I wrapped my hand around it, the tips of my fingers were still about an inch away from reconnecting with my palm. And when the end of it was in my mouth, I was pretty much deep throating. His penis was fucking enormous.

After I unsuccessfully sucked him off and tried some two-handed jacking, Zane thought it would be a great idea to try and get his colossal dong into my tiny teenage-girl self that hadn’t had much experience with penis. Needless to say, it didn’t fit. Embarrassed, I got dressed and kissed him goodbye. I never saw Zane or his massive appendage again.

The next day, I told all my friends about the Godzilla dick like it was the coolest thing ever. What did they know, anyway? Most of them were still stupid virgins, and when you’re a teenage girl, for some reason the world has convinced you, or maybe you’ve convinced each other, that huge dicks are The Best. This is not the case. No offense to the big dicked out there, but your cock is beautiful, probably. It’s just not for me.

I’ve been telling girls for the past ten years since the Zane incident that the perfect penis is medium-to-average-sized, and I proved that point to myself recently when I dated Zane 2.0. Last year I met a guy that my friends and I referred to (behind his back, duh) as “Baby’s Arm.” It was my second sighting of Moby Dick, and it was just as overwhelming as it was the first time, despite my now whorishly stretched-out vagina.

But huge cocks are hard to get in small holes of any variety, and with Baby’s Arm, I always had to be on top so I could control the depth of penetration, which was about half his dick's length, according to my calculations. Balancing high on my knees while also trying to grind my hips and be sexy, while at the same time trying not to let the tip of his dick stab me in the cervix or uterus was a real challenge. It was distracting, and no one wants to be challenged or distracted during sex. It’s not Sudoku.

In sum, huge dicks are fun because you get to tell your friends about them afterwards, but otherwise, they’re nothing but trouble. I’m not Amanda Bynes; I don’t want my vagina murdered. I just want to get it on with a dick that fits without any strategic planning or maneuvering needed. As it turns out, size does matter. 

Previously:

The Ghostly and Intimate World of Claire Milbrath

1988. I’m on Central Avenue about a mile south of wise decisions. A warm wind is blowing through the desert that is Los Angeles. It's 4:00 AM when I spy a skinny wreck in spike heels, short-shorts, and a halter top. She gives a wink and a wave and I pull into an empty lot next to a beauty parlor. Virgin Mary, or one of her friends, set in holy clouds, is painted over a brick façade on the front of the building. The whore walks to the car in jerky stoned-out steps, opens the door and climbs in.

"My apartment," she mumbles. "Go that way." She keeps her eyes on my face and directs me down a narrow graffiti-filled alleyway that feels like an abandoned carnival midway. "Here. Stop here. Follow me." I park next to a row of overturned trash containers, grab my camera gear, then climb out and look around. It’s not a nice place. From somewhere nearby I hear cats fucking, the female yowling; the male growling like a rapist.

We walk through a gate into a courtyard of apartments that look like they only exist at night. The whore’s equilibrium is out of whack; she seems to be falling but never does. A couple of mad-eyed teens sit in an open-mouth garage doing nothing. They scowl at me but I keep my expressions to myself. We go into a dark lower-floor apartment that smells like cooked cabbage. The room is lit by the tube of a small black and white TV, snow and incoherent noise. A skinny pimp/husband in yellowed underwear sits rocking on the back legs of a twisted kitchen chair, drinking from a bottle of MD 20/20 and watching the television like there is something there to watch. He looks at me in a squint like I’m backlit by the sun and then back at the television.

The hooker grabs my hand and pulls me toward a half-open bedroom door. “Cmon,” she says. “You wanna fuck?”

I can see into the bedroom. Trash and second-hand toys are strewn about, and two little kids are on a bed without a slipcover. One is asleep and the other is sitting up with a pacifier in her mouth, looking at her mother and me.”

"We’re not going in there,” I tell her.

“They jus' kids,” she says. “You wanna fuck? C’mon."

My dick has pulled in its head. "I don't want to fuck. I want to take your picture and we can do that out here."

The man of the house suddenly wakes up, sits up, and looks at me. "What's chu want pictures for?" His mouth hangs open like those of elderly people in hospice. On the floor next to him: tin foil, a butane lighter, drug paraphernalia.

The guy irritates me so I get belligerent and tell him “I’m not talking to you.”

The whore takes my arm, calls me baby and wants to know am I going to treat her right.

I take a 20 from my wallet, tell her it’s my life savings and she can have it, all she has to do is pose like a model.

"Bare naked?"

"Yeah, sure. But let’s close this door." The kid on the bed is watching and it’s creeping me out.

The whore takes the bill, walks to the couch and starts to strip. The pimp pulls his scrawny body from the chair and staggers over into my face. The top of my head reaches the bottom of his chin.

"Wha bou me?" His eyes are out of focus and his breath stinks like a landfill. The bedroom door is still open, the kid sitting there watching the cheap drama.

"What about you?"

"Twenty dollars."

"I already gave her 20."

"Wha bou me?"

"Fuck you."

The pimp balls his fists and contorts his mug. I sneer and snarl like I’m a tough guy. If we started swinging we’d probably look like Special Olympics flyweights on crack. I’m looking at the pimp but can still feel the kid on the bed watching me.

The pimp says motherfucker under his breath and goes to the hooker, now sprawled naked across the couch. He takes her arm and pulls her to his level. "Wha bou me?" She picks her pants up from the floor, pulls the 20 from a pocket and hands it to him. He goes back to the chair in front of the television and spits at my feet on the way. I look into the bedroom, wave goodbye to the kid and pull the door mostly closed.

The whore gives me nasty poses on the couch while I take pictures and encourage her to be creative. "That's great, that's good baby, look at me and do that one again, that's beautiful, great."

When I’m done I turn to pack up and notice that the door has swung open again and the toddler has been sitting there watching us. She blinks but otherwise doesn’t move. I pick up my backpack and leave without saying goodbye.

Previously - It's Only Pornography

In my experience, timing is the biggest problem, and here comes my first piece of advice to any dude who wants to do it from behind: be sure you don’t flip a girl over for doggy when she’s already on the yellow brick road to orgasm, especially if all you’re planning on doing is pounding her from behind and coming in 30 seconds.

I could give a specific example, or tell you a certain story, but that would minimize the scope of this problem. The inappropriately timed doggy flip has happened to me with almost every dude that’s ever had me over easy. My life seems to be filled with guys who just don’t know how to read their audience, and it happens that on numerous occasions I’ve been enjoying some pretty wonderful sex, which I’ve generously vocalized, and yet I’ve found shouting, “OH MY GOD I’M SO CLOSE,” often equates with being stopped and turned over so the guy can pummel me from behind with a friction causing in-and-out motion that only feels good for one person (hint: not me).

I wonder where this notion comes from? That turning sex into an extreme sport is the best way to get a girl to cum. Actually, I don’t wonder; it’s definitely a porn thing. What is curious though, is that a man, upon being given explicit sexual instructions (“That feels so good,” or “Don’t Stop”) would think the best course of action is to ignore those instructions. How would you feel, guy, if I was sexing you, and you told me, “I’m about to cum all up in your tight little pussy” and my reaction was to immediately STOP, TURN YOU ONTO YOUR TUMMY and start DRY HUMPING YOUR ASS, ignoring anything that would be enjoyable about this scenario to you?

Why do dudes just assume that what they enjoy (in-and-out speed fucking) is necessarily the best route to making a woman, who has clearly expressed otherwise, cum? I am truly baffled. There are only two sure ways to know that a woman wants it from behind; one is to ask and she says yes, and the other is if she turns over of her own accord and wiggles her ass in your face. But if you insist on being "spontaneous," or weren't raised with very good manners, or just like to have your way as you please, here are some other tips for not screwing up the doggy-flip:

Watch Out For The Wall

Concussions aren’t sexy. When you’re flipping a girl over, be aware of your surroundings. If you can’t multi-task, maybe take an inventory of the environment when you first enter the room. Is there a headboard? Side table? Is the bed pushed against the wall? These are all things you don’t want to accidentally smash a girl’s face into. I don’t know about other girls, but it also makes me feel pretty objectified when a dude isn’t spatially aware of where my body begins and ends, but knows exactly where my hole is, and is willing to sacrifice the gray matter around it in order to get his dick wet.

Have a Fiddle

This leads me nicely to my next point. There are other bits around the hole you’re sticking it into. These are called “nipples” and “clitoris” respectively. The best way to avoid being a selfish jerk when you’ve got that nice rear view is to have a fiddle with your girl’s other parts.

Squeeze Her Legs Together

There are still some guys that haven’t got the memo on this, so I’m going to do us all a favor and just say it now: doggy style sex is better for everyone when the girl has her knees squeezed together whether she’s laying flat or on her knees. Forget everything you’ve seen in porn; sex from behind doesn’t just mean a girl on her knees, legs spread, being violently slammed from behind. Also, slow and steady wins the race, so when you’ve got your tortoise in her hare, try taking it easy with differing speeds. Again, not everything that dudes like will make girls cum and sex is, or should be, an exercise in share and share alike.

Don’t Assume You Can Put It in Her Butt

When a girl allows you to turn her over during sex it’s not a tacit agreement that you’re welcome to put it in her butt. ASK BEFORE YOU DO BUTT STUFF. That’s my new mantra/idea for a cool bumper sticker.

This Isn’t a Good Time to Stop and Have A Wank

Chances are if your girl was enjoying what you were doing BEFORE you flipped her over, she’s not going to be thrilled to have to lay there while you masturbate onto her ass.

Leave the God Damn Condom On

I mean, how stupid do you think girls are? Do you think just because we can’t SEE what you’re doing we don’t KNOW? Trying to take a condom off after flipping girl over is the sex equivalent of a baby that thinks if it covers its stupid baby eyes you can’t see it any more. It’s pretty insulting to us that you think you can get away with that move, if not criminal (women reserve the right to consent to be infected with your STDs and/or babies).

Hair Pulling Is for Bitch Fights

In my experience, when a guy’s dick is hard he kind of forgets that he’s a big huge man and I’m a tiny little girl, and that yanking my hair back at full force is painful, not sexy. And while a light hair tug (palm on the scalp type thing, not grabbing it from the ends, which is what girls do when they’re fighting) is sexy with a firm kiss, there’s something about hair pulling when a dude is ramming you from behind that makes you feel like a horse that’s being ridden.

Humans Need to Breathe

Succeeding in flipping a girl during sex is not an excuse to suffocate her. Look, I know you’re caught up in the moment, but be aware that if you’re gripping the back of a girl’s neck (which can be hot), you’ve got to make sure you’re not smothering her whole face into the pillow, and that she’s still capable of taking in air. Probably don’t offer her a straw to breathe through, but just be aware that if you’re pushing the back of her head down the muffled sounds you can hear might be her trying to scream for air, rather than her thrilled groans.

@Kat_George

More from Kat:

How Your Dude Like to Cum and What It Says About Him

Why Period Sex Is the Best Sex

Reasons to Fuck a Guy on the First Date

"What's your number-one tip for giving the best blowjob?"

This question drives me insane. I usually pause to shoot murderous looks at whichever PR person has set up the interview before responding. I have two sound-bite-sized answers: "Don't chomp down on the dick unless the person it's attached to has expressed a desire for that sort of thing," and "Experiment, communicate, and pay attention." Usually the reporter doesn't like either answer. They want to hear something about Altoids or strawberry-flavored lube. They want to know some secret for controlling a man through his orgasm, as though making your boyfriend ejaculate at will is some sort of way to turn them into the perfect mate. They want a detailed description of the magical three-button move that works on everyone. If something like putting slight pressure on the taint with my left thumb while using the fingers of that hand to gently cup the balls and slurping on the head of the cock with the exact suction tension of my mom's twelve-year-old Hoover worked like a charm on every single penis, I would never, ever spend 45 minutes of my life on a porn set trying to be understanding and sensitive, while the male talent I'm working with struggles to maintain an erection or ejaculate [1] because he's having a really bad day. I would be the crown princess of fucking people with my face. I would then attempt to argue that the above combination of stimuli is some kind of fellatio choreography, trademark it, and collect royalties every time a person used that maneuver for profit.

There is no magical three-button move that works on everyone. Well, unless there are underground sex worker meetings that no one invites me to (a definite possibility) where arcane 100 percent successful blowjob tips are shared and kept secret from the rest of us.

Daddy [2] took me to this Italian restaurant a couple of days ago. The kitchen sent out pea mousse. When the waiter left, I quietly said I found the texture gross. Daddy said something about it being deconstructed and therefore fancy. Deconstructed food is why the most exciting thing about a fancy dinner is getting dressed up for it. I think peas taste great, so I don't understand why anyone would want to make them far more complicated than necessary just to end up with what I see as an inferior pea-flavored dish. The same goes for deconstructing sex. You can break things down to constituent parts, but the organic whole is almost always better. Fuck pea mousse.

OK, OK, so that was a really clumsy transition. Let's laugh about it together for a moment and then move on. Laughing together about something awkward and then moving on is a useful skill. It comes in very handy when, for instance, you're slightly congested from a weather change and gagging on someone's cock causes snot to shoot out of your nose. Or when you manage to gracefully shimmy out of your clothes and then trip over them because they're puddled around your feet. Or when you realize there are no condoms after everyone is completely naked and you run to the corner store in heels and a blanket. Or when one of your holes starts making weird noises, when a cat jumps on your head midcoitus, or someone thinks the bottle of Tiger Balm on your windowsill is lube. All of these things have happened to me at least once. Sex involves bodies, which are full of fluids, noises, and awkward moments. I started having way more fun with sex when I came to terms with this.

Another concept that was really helpful to understand is that even if your sexual partner(s) have the same genitals that you do, you can't [3] feel what they're feeling. Everyone has preferences for which parts of their bodies are stimulated and what ways they are stimulated in. The amount of lubrication that's just right for one guy is too slippery for another and kind of chafes a third. The pressure that means impending orgasm for one woman may lead another to wonder why you're being so shy and a third to ask what her clitoris did to you and why you're trying to bruise it. The only effective way I know of to figure out what feels good to another person is to communicate about it.

Some people make communication pretty easy by volunteering information. They might openly discuss past sexual experiences in a way that expresses their likes and dislikes. They might immediately provide verbal feedback, complimenting you on sensations that are just right and pointing out where they'd prefer things harder, softer, or sloppier. If this is the case, all you really have to do is actively listen. If you squeeze the shaft of someone's cock, and he says "Oh, that feels awesome. Squeeze it harder!" squeeze it until he responds with something along the lines of "Yeah!" or "Just like that!" and then try to remember how hard you squeezed for the next time you want to do some sweet dick squeezing. Other people are less naturally vocal or comfortable, so you may need to try things and then gently prompt them for feedback or discussion. Personally, I'm (oddly) shy. I prefer to use text messages and emails to talk about the details of sexual desires and a variety of noises ranging from squeak toy through growls to communicate how I feel about what's happening to my body.

Once you're communicating, you build a knowledge base of what the person you're having oral sex with likes, doesn't like, and absolutely loves. At some point you'll probably figure out what the magical three-button move for that specific person is. This is kind of awesome and kind of a trap. As expressed in the footnotes (you HAVE been reading the footnotes, right?), the meme of heterosexual sex ending with male orgasm and having an orgasm being the goal of sex for all people regardless of sex or gender is something I feel could use some challenging. Not everyone wants to have an orgasm. If they do, they might not necessarily want to have one in under four minutes, have thirty of them in the course of an hour, or proceed directly to the series of actions that are tried-and-true methods to make them come. Further complicating the concept of the magical three-button move is the fact that a man who loves the feeling and look of shoving his cock into your throat so hard that tears run down your face and you might vomit could, at another time, want to be massaged with your hands and tongue so gently that it practically tickles. People's sexual tastes can vary depending on the day or even hour.

One of the positives of having a steady sexual partner is the opportunity to know each other's bodies (and minds/souls/essences/whatever) inside out. The flip side of this comfort is a possibility of routine and the law of diminishing returns leading to boredom. I'm sure that there are people who consistently prefer their sex as routine or even boring. If that's what gets you off, good for you. Enjoy it. Have the most predictable sex humanly possible, and I hope you find a wonderful partner or partners who enjoy that as well. However, it does seem like one of the drives behind interest in things like lists of sex tips is a desire to keep things fresh and novel. Experimentation and novelty go pretty well together. Experimentation can be anything from putting on a raccoon suit and duct taping yourself to the wall upside down to being unable to remember how your partner responds to having their genitals blown on and finding out by giving it another shot.

So there you go: have fun and try to avoid drawing blood with your teeth. Unless you're into that sort of thing.

[1]Almost every mainstream, heterosexual-oriented pornographic sex scene involving a male performer ends with his ejaculation or shortly afterwards. This does bring up the narrative arc of foreplay-undressing-oral sex-penetrative intercourse-male ejaculation-end that is so pervasive in our discussions, ideas, and depictions of heteronormative sex, but that's a whole other topic.

[2]I know it makes some of you cringe to see me referring to my boyfriend as Daddy. It's going to be OK, I promise. You'll either get used to it or stop reading because you can't deal with it. Either outcome is fine.

[3]I guess if I'm going to mention the Immaculate Conception in a piece on birth control, I should probably mention the possibility of psychic powers, but until someone I know and respect develops telepathy, I'll stand by my statement that you can't feel exactly what another person is feeling.

Previously from Stoya:

Stoya on How Porn Chicks Avoid Getting Preggers

Stoya on the Pitfalls of Heteronormativity and Monogamy

@Stoya

There isn't too much information available about photographer Jonathan Leder's debut feature-length film, American Ecstasy, besides the fucked-up and strangely sexy shit you saw in the trailer above. This is partially because it isn't finished yet and also because they want the erotic horror flick to appear mysterious and ominous. What we do know is that it stars smoking hot VICE model and Playmate Britany Nola and a few other beauties who are trapped in some kind of psychosexual nightmare created by a "regular Joe" nutcase. We can also assume since it's a work of Jonathan Leder—creative director of the dope Jacques magazine—that the film intends to do more than just engorge boners and illicit freak-outs. Like Jonathan's other works that transcend the realms of pornography and art, American Ecstasy seems like it is going to give us a lot to think about. 

To glean a little—and I mean just a little—insight on what the new film is about and the ideas it will bring forward, I hit Jonathan up for a chat on the phone. We covered such compelling topics as Pygmalion love and the power of strippers. Enjoy!

VICE: How did you develop the idea? What was the inspiration?
Jonathan: It originally came to us because we were working down in Florida interviewing girls at this strip club called Mons Venus for an article for a magazine. That germinated the idea, though it has evolved a lot since then. To initially hear what these young women lived through was just so different than anything that we’d experienced before, and I thought it was a fascinating departure point.

The trailer is pretty twisted. Was there a lot of S&M at this club?
Those themes came in later. The article was just a pure departure point. From there the idea was to explore how bizarre we could get. America has so many different sides to it, there’s an overcurrent, but also there’s this undercurrent, and I wanted to explore the undercurrent. Some of the scenes in the film touch on S&M, the idea of inverted love, and the idea of Pygmalion love.

What’s that?
It’s a Greek story where a man makes a sculpture and it’s beautiful, and he falls in love with it. He prays to Venus for the sculpture to come to life and he marries the sculpture and they have a baby and the baby is a god. But you sort of see where that Pygmalion love becomes a concept that a film can grasp onto. It’s the idea of man trying to remake a woman in the image he desires. It’s narcissistic love.

How does that relate to the women in your film?
The women that are portrayed in the film are not really meant to be victims. If you go into a good strip club—a smaller club that doesn’t have TVs everywhere—when those women get up on stage, there’s a sort of heroic and majestic quality to them. They’re in control within that environment. Part of the film is exploring that concept.

You have a killer in the film too, right?
Yeah, but it’s sort of like the shark in Jaws. The killer doesn’t have an arc. He doesn’t change. But he’s affecting change in others.

Who is this murderer?
It’s based on a guy who you may or may not know, whose name is James Mitchell DeBardeleben. He was interesting because they caught him for was passing counterfeit notes. He survived for 18 years counterfeiting. The Secret Service tracked him for years. Eventually, they found him, and they searched his car and discovered all of this pornography. That led them back to his house, and they realized that this guy was more than just a counterfeiter. They don’t even know how many people he abducted, but it was in the hundreds.

Damn. But why focus on him over a guy like Ted Bundy or something?
When you talk about the structure of the film, it parallels DeBardeleben’s story as an unknown and faceless everyman type who people don’t suspect is going around doing these things. He wasn’t in it for fame, and he would have never been caught if it hadn’t been for the counterfeiting.

That’s fucked up. One more thing, none of this film is found footage, right?
Right, we filmed it all. There’s some Super 8 and some Super 16, but the bulk of the grainier stuff was done on old VHS cameras and then rephotographed off a TV. That whole stuff that’s blue, the first ten or 15 seconds, that was all created for that sequence. Part of it is the idea was that it was very common for DeBardeleben’s to photograph his victims while he had them in his grasp.

Word. Looking forward to seeing this gnarly-ass move. Thanks!

More movie stuff from VICE:

I'm Short, Not Stupid Presents: Asparagus

Here Is the New Red Band Trailer for 'Spring Breakers'

I Chatted with the Dirty Girls, 17 Years Later

Bitches in Uniform
Dir: Rocco Siffredi
Rating: 10
roccosiffredi.com/Evilangel.com

Much like the modern-day hipster with soft hands and manicured nails and the garb of a longshoreman, skateboarders appropriated the style of blue-collar workers two decades ago. In 1993, we dressed like gas-station attendants, shopping-cart pushers, and even fast-food employees. Truth is that some of us actually were gas-station attendants, shopping-cart pushers, and fast-food employees; others merely sought out their uniforms from thrift stores and Goodwill. 

It might sound like a technologically void episode of Seinfeld, but back then there was no real internet and certainly no eBay where one could find McDonald’s-employee polos. Creative means had to be taken by someone like myself who lived in suburban New Jersey without many thrift stores with decent selections. So from age 16 to 19, while going to school and holding down a full-time job, I started moonlighting short-term at various supermarkets and fast-food establishments simply to get shirts or smocks of my liking in my correct size. When I say “short-term” I mean I would quit anywhere from 24 hours to 72 hours after being hired, depending on how long I had to endure a particular grueling training seminar to get said uniform. 

I worked at the Wendy’s in the Woodbridge Center Mall for exactly one shift that consisted of two hours of training video and four hours of hands-on training. In no time at all I mastered—MASTERED, I say—the soda-fountain machine and Frosty dispenser; I wager that no man or woman since has poured so little head on a Coca-Cola. The sole cultural observation I took home from that shift is that black people refer to drinks by color. When ordering a grape soda they’d ask for a large purple. When asking for Sunkist it was a medium orange. I have since adopted their colorful way of ordering in my own life. I now refer to stouts as blacks. Mmmm, how I love a nice warm, tall black. 

I believe I worked half a shift at the Taco Bell in Perth Amboy. Taco Bell and Wendy’s polos were at the top of my list because they were tan and burgundy, and earth tones were all the rage in 1993. Once I saw what really went into my bean burrito I walked out (in my new polo) midshift, but not before stealing the 16-by-six-foot Yoda window cling-on display to celebrate the release of the newly altered/tainted Star Wars films. 

Smocks were big then, and I’m not sure why they haven’t made a comeback. They’re not much different from Cuban-style button-ups—just with bigger pockets, fewer buttons, and brighter colors. I earned three different franchises’ smocks pushing carts. I was such a good cart pusher that I was bumped up to cashier immediately. It seems absolutely insane that the ability to push something well would prompt a promotion to handling money. 

I’d say the job I held the longest during that stretch was at IHOP. We wore light blue short-sleeved button-up shirts made by Dickies with the IHOP logo embroidered above the left breast. With all the stains, I sort of resembled a mechanic, although instead of greasing brake pads I was pouring grease and lard down the throats of America’s fattest. I actually kept that job for six months because the tips were so good. (Coffee/soda/sundaes didn’t have to be entered into the computer. So I gave them away to everyone, “on me,” and in turn they tipped me graciously.) And I probably would have stayed longer had I not gotten into a fistfight with two of the patrons in the middle of the dining room.

More fast food and porn can be found at Chrisnieratko.com and @Nieratko on Twitter.

Previously - Superman vs. Spider-Man: A Porn Parody

There are a few things in life that everyone over the age of 16 should be able to do: cook a few decent meals, navigate a new city without Google Maps, enjoy a hangover, and, bear with me here, send a decent sext. Anyone who thinks they'll be able to track down The One without knowing how to turn their phone into an object of lust has another thing coming. Sexting is practically a requirement for living in the 21st century, no longer the reserve of predatory creeps or girls who give HJs to exchange students, being able to communicate just how horny you are over iMessage or Snapchat is a life skill, and you're going to have to learn how to do it.

According to TIME magazine, four out of five college kids sext on the regular. As Benjamin Franklin once said, “In this world, nothing can be certain, except death and taxes and that you will at some point be awake at 3 AM struggling to think of a fourth nongross synonym for vagina/penis." Frequent sexters are no longer just a bunch of teens furtively sending each other dick pics with the caption “u like? ;)”—the sexting landscape is now dotted with old marrieds, yuppies, and regular everyday humans like you and me.

Especially me. I do it a lot. So, on the off chance that you and I ever bump into each other in sext land, here's how to keep me interested.

DON'T GET AHEAD OF YOURSELF

If you’re just starting out, three to four words are all you need. A length limit forces you to get straight to the point and eliminates the possibility of embarrassing yourself by using adjectives like “pulsing,” which makes your pussy or dick sound like the still-beating heart of a butchered mammal. I guess if you were really fucking twee, you could imagine your sext as the 21st-century equivalent of a candy love heart, but instead of "Fax Me" you’re writing, "I wanna fuck you in a bodega." If you’re still nervous or super stuck, just mash a bunch of buttons as though overwhelmed with desire. Or, IDK, hold the phone against your underwear and type with your pubic bone. "Asdaoh23rghhsdhudffffffffff." That sounds lustful, right?

DON'T ABBREVIATE

It’s 2013, and I know you’re not typing out every letter individually on your Motorola Razr, but Y R U choosin 2 talk lik a tween? Who culd eva b trnd on by dis?? No one wants to be deciphering your sexual hieroglyphics when they could be quietly shifting in their lecture seat so the seam of their jeans hits things just right. “RU horny” is the text-message equivalent of giving someone a wedgy as a flirting tactic. It also implies there's a 14-year-old on the other end of the phone, which, again, is not ideal in this situation.

WATCH YOUR VISUALS

Guys: maybe don’t send your sext partner a close-up picture of your erect penis unless they have expressed an active interest in seeing a close-up picture of your erect penis. Most people don't really need an image of the isolated naked mole rat to get themselves off, and if it’s too early in the sexting process, it’s actually just very frightening. You know how people say actions speak louder than words? That is not true of sexting; sexting is like erotic literature, the pictures do it no justice.

The same goes for you ladies: that straight-up shot of a vag comes across more medical than saucy. Would you fuck someone in a onesie with a hole in it? No? So consider the bigger picture. Trust me, you’ll get better results from a pic of your full bod in some cute underwear.

Everyone: the recipient is almost certainly going to show this picture to at least one of their friends at some point. If you’re not OK with that, don’t include your face. If you look smoking hot, absolutely do. If Rihanna's going to, you might as well.

THERE ARE NO RULES

It hurts no one to make things up during a sexting sesh, and chances are they're returning the favor anyway. Technology allows you to turn “Just woke up in the bus depo :-(” to “Ooh I just got out of a hot bath...” in seconds. Abuse this power.

KEEP YOUR PRIVATES PRIVATE

It used to be a real concern that your ex could throw your nudie pics up on the internet as soon as they found out you were banging their best friend/sibling. Even storing sext pics on your phone was dangerous. My brother once accidentally projected a topless picture from my phone onto the ceiling above my grandma's head during Christmas dinner.

But now those days are behind us. Snapchat, which describes itself as a "new way to share moments with friends," allows you to send a photo or ten-second video to a single user or friend group, but it can’t be screengrabbed and it disappears after they’ve looked at it. Snapchat's website is very wholesome, but you know they know what you're up to. The reference to those "grainy" pictures in their About section is as transparent as the wet T-shirt in the picture you just sent your boyfriend.

COME vs. CUM

As with sex, so with sexts. The general tone of what you’re up to will be set by whether you’re using "come" or "cum" to talk fluids. "Come" is for gentlemen and ladies, long-term couples, and people who would describe themselves as “skilled at erotic massage.” "Cum" is for horny teens, pervs, your gross ex who has a new partner now, and pretty much anyone who’s going to be any fun to sext.

CTFO

I’ve had sext sessions that have neared Real Physical Interaction levels of arousing, but if I was forced to read the messages I sent or received during these times an hour afterward, I would immediately fashion myself a suicide machine from whatever was nearby. Delete as you go, people, but remember, we all get pretty embarrassing when we sext, so don’t worry about it. If someone exposes just how filthy the inside of your brain is to your peers, simply own that shit. Chances are, people will think your shamelessness is arousing, and you'll be on the receiving end of yet more sexts. Everyone wins.

!!!#$@#$@#$

Double-check the recipient before you hit "send," please.

Follow Monica on Twitter: @monicaheisey

More helpful sex tips from VICE:

Guys, It's Time to Stop Shaving Your Junk

How to Have An Orgasm with Your Vagina

Is Everyone Having Sex on the Plane Except Me?

I’ve known Harmony Korine for many years; we’ve been friends through thick and thin, good times and bad. I feel like every element of Spring Breakers was him creating an environment where people felt really open and safe—perhaps so they were comfortable going crazy (in a fun way). The fact that he brought this cast together—James Franco, Gucci Mane, Selena Gomez, Vanessa Hudgens, Ashley Benson, and his wife, Rachel—was a sign that this movie was going to be very special. And I think casting the ATL Twins was him recognizing that they were a physical manifestation of what the film is about. They were so clear about their desires: drinking, double-penetrating women, and doing drugs. It was all out in the open with them, just like the movie. I’m happy to share with the world some of my favorite behind-the-scenes photos, along with a few captions that will provide some context for what the hell was happening on this crazy set.

We took over the left half of a horseshoe-shaped motel and just tore it apart: full-on bacchanal carnage. The side we rented had been abandoned for years, but the other side was still in business. But since this is Florida, there was very little difference between the two. A DJ blared top-20 party anthems, and the girls got wild.

The ATL Twins were really in their element at the club; there's nothing they love more than a photo op with naked girls. They even goaded James Franco into the action.

I have never seen kids get crazier on water and lemonade in my life. The energy on set that day was intense; we all felt like anything and everything was OK. No rules or boundaries. I remember Harmony telling the kids, "So, today all you need to remember is this is your time! You can get as crazy as you want! You got out of your sucky school to get wild! SCHOOL SUCKS! SCHOOL SUCKS!"

You know, just your typical 4 AM Popsicle BJ. This was a long night, and killing time between takes with Vanessa and Ashley involved lots of high jinks. Dance parties, sing-alongs, fellating Popsicles... you get the idea.

When we shot this, I could not believe what was happening. This was probably the most mind-blowing moment for me. I mean, it's Vanessa Hudgens, the girl from High School Musical! Of course, the ATL Twins were very helpful in demonstrating the proper way to snort drugs off of naked women. The girl with the "drugs" on her (crushed B12, in case you're wondering) was an extra who was stiff as a board and blushing from ear to ear the entire time.

In this scene, Selena mixed it up with real spring breakers. I think it was a little scary for her to walk into a room full of amped-up kids. The first thing Rachel did was get up on a coffee table and yell, "If any of you assholes rub your dick up on my girl, I will KILL you!!!" She can be very persuasive. I don;t think I saw any rubbing of dicks, on Selena at least.

These were the girls' "havoc masks." They wore them when the shit was really going down. But for most people. being robbed by these ladies would be a gift.

More on Spring Breakers:

Here Is the New Red Band Trailer for Spring Breakers 

Harmony Korine's Spring Breakers

Spring Breakers Will Have Lots of Babes and Guns

I pluck Havana from a gaggle of streetwalkers on Stanford Street somewhere around Pico. She tells me she’s from Mexico, here in the land of opportunity to reap the rewards on streets of gold. Havana is dressed in flesh Spanx and a sparkly little halter top. I’ve lost my bearings, but Havana knows where we are so she navigates. Even the dirtiest streets of Los Angeles are beautiful and quiet of the dark anti-meridian. My headlights bring up globs of primary colors across old industrial buildings. Havana’s makeup is thick and colorful. She bounces on the seat and keeps rubbing and squeezing my dick through my Levi’s.

I tell her I only want to take pictures but she has a Pavlovian response to guys in cars with money. “Why no want nothing more?” she asks and gives me a couple of pleasant pumps. “Feels good, Poppy. Hard, like you want Havana more.” 

I try to explain that the firmness she’s feeling is only because I have a Pavlovian response to people squeezing my dick, but really this is just for pictures. I’m reformed.

She brings me to an old three-floor flop that looks like it’s made of mud. Under the street lamps a fraternity of six—pushers, addicts, and baby gangsters using up their short life spans—are walking in circles without a forward thought. If I squint hard enough into the shadows I can see Death in his black hoody and scythe. I park and we beeline across the street to Havana’s place. I have my cane and I’m walking slowly. Havana leads, keeping close. She offers me her hand but I tell her no thanks, that’s just likely to throw me off balance.

A tatterdemalion brown guy staggers toward us. “Friend, amigo,” he says and gets a little too close.

“Back up,” I tell him. “I don’t need you here. Go on, go away.”

He’s holding the cremains of an old disk player. The top is gone leaving the innards exposed and there is a tiny blackened analog TV screen.

“Twenty dollars,” the guy tells me. “Laptop. Good laptop.”

I shoo him away, tell him thanks for the offer but I’m saving up for an iPhone. His face is tight and strained and for a moment I think he might attack. Havana throws a string of foreign words at him, telling him to fuck off. He just stands there but we keep moving.

Havana has a key to the barred back door and we go in. It smells like cigarette butts and perspiration. We go down six steps into a long claustrophobic hallway that’s tilted like a German expressionist tunnel. She has another key that opens another door and we go in. Her room is small and dumpy but clean and cared-for. On the other side of a doorway without a door leading to the bathroom, I hear a leaky shower and smell an overdose of lavender. She has a double bed made up with clean sheets and a pillow with a Masters Of The Universe pillowslip. “Hey,” I say. “You got He-Man.”

“Si si, yes,” she says. “He-Man, Skeletor.”

“She-Ra.”

“She-Ra,” she says with wide-eyed longing.

Next to the bathroom a chest-high chest of drawers sits under a big flat-screen television. I ask Havana to turn it on and she tells me no, no, it’s only pornography like she figures I’m somehow above porn. “Yeah, yeah,” I tell her. “Turn it on.” It’ll make a nice background.

We take some pictures by the television and then we take pictures on the bed. Havana likes the camera, she’s fun and cuddly and disappointed when after about ten exposures I’m all done. She still has a couple more hours to work tonight so I drive her back to her spot with the other girls. On our way to the car the laptop salesman gives it another try. Havana calls him stupid, drug stupid, and hisses in his face. In the car she tells me she came here, to America, because Mexico has been decimated from a drug-war and now the fodder of that war is here as well, staggering past her doorway. I listen and agree and then I give her a little kiss goodbye.

Previously - Sticking a Used Condom to the Wall

There is nothing more disappointing than taking a new guy home for the first time and ripping his clothes off, only to find that he has "manscaped" himself to look like some sort of dude-shaped topiary. When I bring home a man I want to see a masculine wreath of pubes around his dick, not a shaved walrus. Tragically, it’s becoming harder and harder to find a guy whose chest stubble won't give you a rugburn or whose bare nut sack doesn’t look like a dismembered turkey waddle. Guys, this has to stop.

The social scientists over at Cosmopolitan recently published a study claiming that 95 percent of men now trim or shave their body hair in one way or another, a practice that has taken on the cringeworthy title of manscaping. I hate it and want it to die. Presumably, many other true lovers of the male form feel the same way. Body hair is one of the secondary sex characteristics of being a man, so why would anyone want to eradicate it altogether?

As much as it pains me to admit it, us gays are probably at fault. During the 90s, the gay aesthetic was dominated by the plucked and preened body builder look. This, of course, spread to advertising (remember the billboard of shirtless Marky Mark in his undies in Times Square?), which seeped into the minds of straight guys, which led to razor companies making products for guys who wanted to look like 14-year-old synchronized swimmers. There is also some aspect of female equality in this whole equation. As men began to demand that their ladies be as shiny under their clothes as Barbie dolls, women started expecting the same of their men.

Although shaving off all your pubes started as a gay thing, it’s now primarily straight guys who are doing it. John Marsh, the owner of gay porn site Fratmen, told the Daily Beast that the guys in his videos who get their Bic on south of the border are the straight models, not the gay ones. This has gone from being something that most guys thought of as sissy to something that is thought of as a prerequisite for getting pussy.

I'm here to tell you that it's stupid. Yes, a little bit of deforestation may make your junk look bigger, but, honestly, the only person who cares how big it looks is you, when it’s in your own hand and you're jerking it off. I'm not saying no one cares how big it is, but you're the only one who cares how big it looks.

As for the rest of a guy's body, there is no reason why you need to shave, trim, wax, pluck, or Nair for Men that shit. Yeah, you might want to get an overly furry back under control (no one wants to fuck  George the Animal Steele) but just let the rest of it wild. There is nothing so good as letting someone rub their hand through a Magnum PI-style pelt. If a lady or other sex partner doesn't like feeling a nice set of furry thighs rub up against them in the heat of the moment, then they aren't worth the time it took to trick them into your bedroom in the first place.

And unless you’re as buff as Mark Wahlberg, getting rid of all that fuzz will just make you look scrawnier, pastier, and sillier. The great thing about having a coat of hair is that it will cover up many imperfections. It's like having natural Photoshop for your body!

Even worse than how prepubescent shaving makes you look is that it makes you complacent in the corporate conspiracy to turn the way we look into a consumer commodity. As I already pointed out, the main reason this disgusting practice is encouraged is because there are now products to take care of it. Marketing is telling men to shed their Darwinian protection against the elements, and men, stupid sheep that we are, are listening. Stand up and fight! Put down that Philips Norelco BG2040/34 Bodygroom Pro Grooming System and pick up a bit of pride in your masculinity. After all, nothing is more manly than doing what is right, not giving a fuck about anyone else, and sticking it to the man (no matter how gay that sounds). 

Luckily the gays (and hirsute stars like Jake Gyllenhaal) are making the Sasquatch a thing of beauty once again. Manhunt, the gay cruising site that your uncle uses, recently did a study that proves most homosexuals who use the internet for quick dick prefer men in their natural states. This means it's only a matter of time before being au naturel is once again the norm. And I, for one, can't wait. I'd much rather pick a little man-floss out of my teeth after going down on a guy than have another goosefleshy nut sack in my face.

Previously - That Time I Got in a Fight with a Male Stripper

@BrianJMoylan

Check out Miller Rodriguez's site Pretty Puke for more of his work, or grab one of his zines from Blood of the Young.

More great photo galleries:

We're Really Into Richard Perkins' Batshit Crazy Photos

Thursday Friday Takes Fantastic Photos of Rappers and Girls

Dimitri Karakostas' Vacation Photos

As a boy growing up in the Midwest, I befriended some of the last elderly members of a dying religion called Lawsonomy. They believed that the human race is in the process of developing telepathic powers. Universal telepathy, they claimed, will lead to total empathy and the end of all lies. It was a beautiful utopian vision that made me acutely aware of the divisions between all people and also of the moments when those divisions appear to break down. Like Lawsonomy, the OneTaste movement has promised a means of attaining that kind of empathy through the partnered orgasmic practice I was engaged in.

OneTaste calls their practice Orgasmic Meditation, or OMing for short. Its roots stretch back to the 60s—to the fertile soil of San Francisco’s mystic underground. Former appliance salesman turned cult leader Victor Baranco was the man who planted the seed. He named the practiceDeliberate Orgasm or DOing, and the purpose was pleasure. By the turn of the millennium, when future OneTaste founder Nicole Daedone discovered it, she experienced something more than pleasure. At the time, Nicole was poised to become a Buddhist nun, renouncing the world; what she found convinced her to embrace it.

As she explained in a TEDx lecture, Nicole was initiated into the practice by a stranger she met at a party:

“Somehow I found myself lying there… with my legs open… I was where I always was… I was in my head… and then all of a sudden, the traffic jam that was my mind broke open, and it was like I was on the open road and there was not a thought in sight. There was only pure feeling. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I had access to that hunger that was underneath all of my other hungers… a fundamental hunger to connect with another human being.”

“I had a moment of thinking, ‘I want to know how to live here in this place,’” Nicole continued, “and then I thought in my philanthropic way, ‘and I want everyone else to know how to live here.’ And I set about learning how.”

Much of Nicole’s education arose through experimentation. She founded an intentional living community in a San Francisco warehouse. It had 50 residents, lots of beds, and no doors.

A former occupant of the San Francisco community described the experience to me over tea in the bedroom of her Brooklyn apartment.  “You lived out in the open. You couldn’t hide. There was nowhere to go. And you got used to it. Our ancestors lived in caves. They lived in longhouses. It’s about limbic resonance. If you take a baby and put it on its mother’s chest, its heartbeat will regulate to its mother’s heartbeat. We need each other - to regulate each other, and if we don’t have that, things go wrong.”

“All of us decided to be human research subjects,” explained Nicole in a videotaped talk distributed by OneTaste, “and we discovered that a lot of things we were told would work don’t work, and that some very shocking things do. For example: ‘Stay connected no matter what.’ When you stay connected to another human being no matter what, you get the benefit of staying clean. Things move through you.”

This dedication to uncompromising connection precipitated hours of daily OMing, and other experiments like meals where everybody fed one another instead of themselves, and, as Nicole described, “having to sleep next to your partner who you just broke up with while they were sleeping next to someone else, so we could explore jealousy.”

When she finished with jealousy, Nicole turned her attention to other problems - and in this way, piece by piece, she cobbled together a practice and a philosophy that she now travels the world promoting. She promises, with seductive assonance, that anyone can learn to have a four-month-long orgasm. Under her guidance, supporters in 15 cities from Los Angeles to Copenhagen have established OMing communities.  

I first heard Nicole speak in a small New York space last summer. She looked like a savvier version of that famous Botticelli with Venus standing on a seashell - the kind of woman who knew her way around a whip. She charged up the aisle in her usual formfitting black to address an audience of around 30 people. This December, when she appeared before us in a rented church (crucifixes safely stowed away) it was standing room only. In the last six months, membership in OneTaste has more than doubled to 1,624 members worldwide.

I learned to OM this winter. Seventy of us paid $149 a head for a daylong course held in a yoga studio. The attractive women who met me at the door flashed bedroom smiles and gazed into my eyes unabashedly—naked flirtation in any other context—here, a sign of their status as permanently “turned on” women, a sensation one practitioner described as the feeling of “falling in love with no one in particular.”

I poured a cup of coffee to employ idle hands and scanned the assembly. There was an even balance of men and women, ages ranging from early 20s into middle age with some older folks here and there. There were doctors and lawyers, artists, housewives, a Hasidic Jewish man, a stripper, a kindergarten teacher. I took a seat between a 38-year-old life coach and a 26-year-old nurse.

Like any charismatic speaker, Nicole kept us waiting, building anticipation. When she finally emerged, she came out swinging, gesticulating, her hands sculpting thoughts in the air.  Her fingers fluttered as she talked about birds.

“We have a triune brain,” she said, “One-third of the brain is dedicated to feeling into the feeling states of others. You know how all the birds are flying and then all of a sudden they turn? It’s not like one bird says, ‘Hey! Let’s go left!’ and they all go left. They’re sensing each other under a certain kind of radar and then they all move in unison. When you’re working with OM, you’re working with that ‘under the radar’ mechanism - that part of you that intuitively knows who to be and how to act.”

That mechanism, Nicole went on to explain, is our desire. “Let desire be your compass,” she said. To that end, she asked all 70 of us to complete the statement: “I’m here because…”

“I’m here because I just turned 30, and I’ve never climaxed.”

“I’m here because I feel I’m not good enough for any woman.”

“I’m here because I’ve been with my partner 15 years and I don’t know him.”

“I’m here because I want to live in the beauty that I know and not sabotage my life.”

There was so much pain and shame and sadness just beneath the surface. The tears fell in abundance. Nicole called that “orgasm coming out of the eyes.” Her attention swept like a searchlight over the crowd, lighting it up one face at a time. She didn’t even seem to blink. For every person, she had a ready response.

“I just wanted to learn something new,” a man offered.

“I can increase your sensation by 20 percent this week,” Nicole promised. “Remove the word ‘just’ from your vocabulary.”

“I’m here because I want to find an infinite connection with myself and others,” a woman stated.  

“I have a word for you,” Nicole announced, “and that word is: predator.”

“I want to connect with everyone and take each other higher and higher,” another woman proclaimed.

Nicole responded with a tilt of her head, “Are you willing to take each other lower?”

There were many problems and one answer: Orgasmic Meditation.

Next came the demonstration. Out strode Rachel Cherwitz, head of OneTaste New York sales. Childhood sexual abuse had left her anorgasmic, she told us, until her first OM. It was with an older gentleman. “He was sweaty, he smelled a little, and he wheezed,” she explained, scrunching up her nose. “And then he stroked, and I felt this surge of electricity through my pussy and down my legs, like I had stuck my finger in a light socket. It was like a dam broke, and I started sobbing. I heard this voice say ‘Oh my god, I can feel!’ And I looked at my partner who ironically, had gone from being the most weird creature to the most beautiful human being I had ever seen in my life. It’s amazing what (pair-bonding hormone) oxytocin will do.”

Rachel pulled off her skirt and reclined on a table. She opened her legs, exposing her shaved merlot-colored pussy to the sea of faces. People were craning and climbing chairs to see—quiet as librarians. And in that moment, standing there with empty hands, I felt as exposed as Rachel was. I thought about the first time I ever saw the place between a woman’s legs. She was a neighbor girl. We were five maybe, when we escaped our manicured lawns and slipped into the forest. We went deep, deep through the trees, deeper than we had ever been, before both unceremoniously yanking down our trousers to discover in the other what we lacked in ourselves.

“I’m going to place my thumb in her introitus, so I can feel her contractions,” narrated Nicole. “I’m going to open her pussy now,” Nicole continued. In the OneTaste vernacular, a vagina is always a pussy, and a penis is always a cock. “Her inner labia are already getting swollen. You can tell because they stand up on their own. As I pull her hood back, you can see her clit pop out. That little pink dot, that’s her clit.”

Nicole described how the clitoris is divided into ten regions, each eliciting a different sensation when stroked: love, reverence, surrender. As a stroker progresses in the practice, he will know where to touch by following an electric charge or magnetic pull on the tip of his finger. The hands of master-strokers, like the almost mythological five-foot-tall Ken Blackman, are compared to Ouija planchettes and very nearly venerated. At his high level of development, it is said that Ken reaches a singularity with the women he strokes. He and his partner both feel the exact same thing. That’s where all the strokers want to be, as they go about searching for the thinnest gloves, or sanding down their fingerprints, or strapping on headlamps like miners burrowing down, deep into the source.

Announcing that she would play Rachel like an instrument, Nicole swayed and arched with every stroke, screwing up her face, barring her teeth like a rock star. Rachel moaned like a Stratocaster. When it was over, they handed out unsharpened pencils and had us practice stroking clit-erasers until lunch. After lunch we were to pair up and OM amongst ourselves following a precise ritual.

As an army exercises hard discipline over its soldiers precisely because of the killing power it unleashes in them, so too does OneTaste rely on the stricture of ritual to control the power of sex. A stroker’s finger is referred to as a sex organ, but there is no stroking of male genitalia here. The cock is referenced abstractly, more as a spiritual force than a physical one. An erection still has the potential to offend. While the predatory power of the male and his possible desire for more is evident in the rigid structure of the OM, its acknowledgement is taboo. When pressed, the rationale given for this asymmetry is that men and women need to rewire their historically skewed expectations around giving and receiving.

It was time to find a partner. “Asking someone to OM,” instructed Rachel, “is like asking if they’d like a cup of tea. Sometimes you feel like tea and sometimes you don’t. You wouldn’t get offended if someone didn’t want tea, would you?”

It’s an exchange bearing the elegant simplicity of a haiku. The way to ask is codified: “Would you like to OM?” The words are so unadorned that there is nowhere to hide in them. The answer is either “Yes.” or “No.”

If affirmative, the man takes the pillows and blankets he’s ported through the city and builds a ‘nest’ for his partner. She lies down in it and he sits at her side, left leg over her abdomen, right leg under her knees. The rooms are always too small, so everyone is pressed together, leg to leg. Occasionally the women hold hands. Often, during the OM, their moans - filling the air like winter breaths - synchronize in a complex tonal harmony.

Next comes the ‘obnosing’ or ‘noticing’ stage where the man looks at the woman’s genitals and describes what he sees. I’ve used words like, “origami,” “oak leaves,” and, “tectonic plates.”

Afterwards, the man asks permission and proceeds to massage the woman’s legs in preparation, to "ground" her.

At the instigation of the timekeeper, the man begins stroking the woman’s clitoris with his left index finger—the finger of Adam that God is reaching out to touch on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

“Keep your eyes on her clit,” the instructor remarks. In this culture, for a stroker to look back at his strokee’s face is a minor faux pas. “Stroke her clit for your own enjoyment,” we are told. “It’s called, ‘taking touch.’ Touch her in the way you touch velvet. You’re not trying to please the velvet.”

The OM is exactly 15 minutes long. Afterwards, the stroker presses the palms of his hands hard into the woman’s pelvis. This is to push the blood that fills her swollen genitals back into her body. “You can push harder,” the instructor encourages, “We can take a lot more pressure than you’d think. After all, we squeeze babies out of there.”

The ritual ends with the reciting of ‘frames,’ where each person describes a sensation they experienced during the OM.

“There was a moment when I felt my face detach and float off, up into the air,” one woman reported.

“I had a sinking feeling like moving through water,” a man offered. “heat, nausea, bright pink light.”

“My hips felt like glass,” a woman explained, “and my pussy like warm, melting caramel.”

“There was a moment when I tasted strawberries,” a man announced.

They send us home with the warning that our orgasmic state is a kind of intoxication. “Avoid driving if possible or operating any kind of machinery. There have been accidents.”

I leave feeling good - not quite crashing-cars-good, but serene. I feel as though I don’t particularly want or need anything. For the next day or so, women seem more flirtatious, men seem to smile more. And still, I’m not entirely sure why that should be. To ask a hundred practitioners the question, “What is Orgasmic Meditation?” is to receive a hundred different answers.

“It’s not just this one woman I give gratification to,” explained James Kim to me as we sat on his couch before a sprawling view of Manhattan and New Jersey. “When she gets turned on, she carries that out into the world with her. She’s happier and the people around her are happier, and I can see that OM creating a chain reaction of positive outcomes.”

In a post on the community forum Evangeline De Vermilion shared an experience she had living at the San Francisco OneTaste Center. She recalled having a craving for cake one afternoon. She headed to the kitchen where she found her friend crying over a letter from her son in Boston. “I gently picked up the letter,” she explained, “and asked her if I could read it aloud. By the end of it, we were both in tears. My heart felt hollow and constricted in the same way it does when I miss my own children.I held her and we comforted each other. We felt better, and then I thought, ‘I was going to get cake.’I no longer wanted cake. What I really wanted was connection.”

Previously by Roc Morin:

The Frenzied Consipiracy Theories of Jeff Boss

Meet Carl Tanner: Bounty Hunter, Trucker, Operatic Tenor

Driving out past the palm-lined strip malls and blinking neon motels, I knew that Swinging Richards was going to be the kind of place where you find trouble. After all, this place is far on the outskirts of Miami, near 174th Street with all the other titty bars where face-eating cannibals go before doing bath salts and robbing ATMs.

It's no secret that I love a strip club, but my boyfriend wasn't nearly as bullish. From the outside, it sort of looked like a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, with its discreet sign and light-up red trim on the building. As the cab drove away, my boyfriend said, "We're never going to get a ride home." A large sign next to the door read, "If you're offended by male nudity, do not enter." Yes, we might be trapped forever, but at least there would be as many balls to juggle as two men could ever want.

After paying a $10 cover, we opened a curtain and went into the technicolor Oz of Swinging Richards. The bad house music blared as the MC screamed out meaningless names over the speakers and a siren wailed at random intervals, making my asshole tighten, rather than, as is traditionally desired in these circumstances, relax. The decor was typical of Any Strip Club, USA: two bars on either side of a small stage with a pole down the middle. There was a cluster of upholstered chairs and small tables where a twinky cocktail waiter served a bunch of men, most of whom looked like Ian McKellen on an opium bender.

I sat and watched as the guys, in teams of three, came onto the stage to dangle their dingles before canvassing the room and taking people off into rooms on the sides for private dances. After paying far too much money to the most beautiful straight French-Canadian college student I have ever seen to wobble his half-limp dick in front of my face for 15 minutes, I left our private love shack and found my boyfriend. We'd spent a few hours in this bubble, and it was time to go.

Worried about getting home, we called a cab, and the dispatcher said one would be by in 20 minutes. We sat by the stage, waiting, vacantly watching the dancers, and wishing we could be at home doing to each other what we dreamed all these guys would do to us. One of the men on stage was acting very erratic. He was doing the Hulk Hogan pose, with one arm pointing to the rafters and the other flexed to show off his bicep. He was walking like one of those inflatable flapping people in front of car dealerships in New Jersey. Naturally, we started laughing. Now, I know it's never nice to laugh at a stripper. They're up their being naked and alluring for our benefit, and they are mocked and disparaged in various ways already. But this guy, he was asking for it. Transfixed, we stared while he walked to the end of the stage and stared right at the two of us. He thrust his crotch forward as he ran his palms along his limp dick, and then pushed it out toward us. It was like he was offering it to us, sending us all the schlong energy he had to spare.

The car still hadn't called to say it was out front, so we were trapped when the stripper got off the stage and walked over to us. "Let's go for a dance," he said to my boyfriend, who fell into a goofy giggle (his default defense mechanism when put in uncomfortable situations with aggressive strippers). He stepped over my boyfriend and fixed his eyes on me. "What about you?" he asked, his junk close to my knee. "No thanks," I said, politely.

This is when it all went to hell. "What do you mean, no?" the stripper shouted. "Why are you such a negative person? Why are you an awful person?"

"No, really, I'm all set," I replied, a bit confused.

"Why do you keep saying no? You must be really unhappy. What is wrong with your life that you're always saying no?"

"I just don't want a dance," I shouted, while the disco lights swirled behind him.

"Your problem is that you just want to be negative. You just want to hold onto your money because it has power. You'd rather hold onto it than give me power. You should let go. You should stop being negative and be a better person," he screamed. This New Age "The Promise" approach to stripping didn't come off as nice as it sounds. It was hurled at me like an insult, like a threat, and wasn't nearly as enjoyable as the time I was extorted by a female stripper.

"No, it's not the money," I said. "It's you. It's that I don't want a dance with you."

"You're a horrible person," he said still standing there. For a minute I thought maybe it was me. Maybe everything that’s wrong in my life is due to the fact that I'm too negative and won't just do things and stuff. Maybe with a few minutes off my hands on his abs everything would get better, and I would never have a care again. The stripper almost won. Instead, I gave him the thumb-meeting-the-forefinger OK symbol with a healthy dose of side-eye, and mouthed, "Sure." He made the same gesture, mocking me, and finally walked away.

My boyfriend decided he didn't want to wait inside anymore, so we moved out front into the surprisingly chilly Miami night to wait for our cab. We sat down on the porch swing immediately outside the front door (its presence was as baffling as it was quaint), when one of the strippers came out with another male friend, a female friend, and one of the failed amateurs from the contest, a rather attractive, young black guy.

"They didn't like you because you danced like a white lady," the professional shouted to his amateur friend. "I told you that you were going to get nervous, but you didn't listen. You have to show swag. You have to show confidence. You have to take it slow. Just ask these guys," he said walking over to us, "would you have liked this dude better if he danced like this?" [paused to roll his hips suggestively and slowly take off part of his jacket showing a bare chest underneath], "or like this," [giggled and flapped his arms around crazily and jumped up and down like a little girl]. My boyfriend, again, broke into his goofy giggle.

The amateur then started shouting that he didn't dance "like a white girl," and his stripper friend said he did. They just kept repeating their accusations over and over again, louder and louder until finally, the stripper changed tactics and started shouting, "You came here and you don't respect my job. How are you disrespecting my job? This is my job. Why don't you respect my job?"

The fight began to intensify just as the cab pulled up, and we hustled off the swing and into the serenity of a stranger's car. I don't know if it was the testosterone, the desperation, or possibly the meth, but this was the most aggressive strip club I'd ever been to. As the car pulled down the empty boulevard, I asked my boyfriend if he'd had fun. "Kinda," he said, and then looked out the window and reached for my hand lying on the seat. There wasn't much else to say. And I don't think I'll be back at the strip club for quite awhile.

Previously - Are You a Slut?

@BrianJMoylan

A few weeks ago, I interviewed Zarrah, a Burning Angel actress, about her butthole tattoo. Little did I know that such a silly topic would spark such anger from other butthole-tattoo owners. But sure enough Lyla Louise Moretti,the drunk girl we showed getting her butthole tattooed at a tattoo convention, took exception to my giving Zarrah’s butthole any press and commented, “I love how I get drunk to cover up my exs name makes me a trashy shut butt this wanna be butt hole is just a crack washed up porn hog...this is more entertaining then the crap I've seen about me what a fucking joke.” [sic]

I felt awful that I slighted Lyla’s butthole. It was my duty as someone who sometimes pretends to be a journalist to stick my tape recorder by her butthole and see what it had to say. I assure you that the beautiful, ludicrous music it made was quite unexpected. It’s as if God speaks through her.

See more of Lyla and her butthole here.

VICE: Tell me all about your butthole tattoo, Lyla.
Lyla: When I was 19 years old, that’s when it started. I became curious about anal sex because I was sexually neglected and dating someone who had a pill problem. Instead of going out and finding someone else, I would watch porn at home and the only thing that really got me excited, was anal porn. I liked seeing the girls in pain. I’m a pain freak. I have a very high tolerance for pain. The other night when my boyfriend and I were watching porn, I came up with the idea to show them how you really do it. What they consider anal sex, I see as just the head poking at the hole. It’s like, “No, dude! You have to put it all the way in.” We’re gonna make some videos and show the world how it’s really done. It has to be brutal. If it’s not, and they’re enjoying it, then what’s the difference between the pink and the stink?

So you’re pursuing a career in porn?
Not a career because the girls in porn have sex with a bunch of random guys, and I don’t want to do that. The only reason I’m doing it is because my boyfriend is down to do it.

Is he making you do butt porn?
No, it’s my idea. Just like tattooing my butt with my ex’s name was my idea.

OK, so let’s get to the butthole tattoo. How do you end up with a butthole tattoo from watching anal porn?
I was dating that one guy, and when I came home one day, he was nodding out, burning cigarettes on the couch. I went to my next door neighbor and asked if he would help me move some furniture. He did, and we eventually started dating. When I explained to him what I’d been up to, he decided to help me explore a little deeper into my butt. One day I said, “You know what would be really cool? If we branded the hole. Because you are the only person who ever did it, and you’re the only person who is going to do it.” That was back when I thought we were going to be together forever. I told him to write his name and "999," since we met on September 9th, 2009, so upside down, it looks like it says "666." Then we went to the tattoo shop on Valentine’s Day. My boyfriend held the cheeks open. It hurt really bad, and at the most painful parts, I would choke myself and hold my breath to numb the pain. After that boyfriend and I split up, I was dating another guy, and I was going to do his name, but that never happened. When we broke up, a guy named Jason came along, and I tattooed "ROCKWOOD," his name, on my butthole to cover up the other name.  Then I got his name on my lower back.

Why do you have to get everybody’s name tattooed on you?
I don’t know. My boyfriend I’m dating now just tattooed his name on me. I have this thing with names. I feel like if you tattoo their name on you, it shows that you truly do love them, and you want to be with them forever. I guess I didn’t learn from it because I just recently put Jordan’s name on me.

Can I get you to tattoo my name on you?
No… where would I put your name? I’m running out of room now.

I don’t know. Somewhere mellow… like your vagina.
I don’t think Jordan would be too thrilled about that.

Maybe you could get "CHRIST" instead.
I was thinking about that, but it would be messed up because I tattooed two roses with vines and thorns shaped like a horseshoe on my butthole to cover up those other two names. That’s not what I wanted, but that’s what the artist at the tattoo expo drew up. I told him that’s not what I wanted, but said, “I don’t care. I’m not going to make your life difficult. You’re already doing it for free.“

You committed to a butthole tattoo that you didn’t even want?!?
It’s not the one I wanted, but it was pretty… it was nice enough. But he just did it in black. Then I flew up to Cowhead radio station in Tampa, and they had a tattoo artist from Design For Life there. I thought that was such an awesome name because they were designing art on my body for life. They colored in the tattoo for me. They did the roses red, the leaves green, and I asked them to highlight it with yellow to be funny—it’s like the sun shines out of my butthole. Now I call it the crown of thorns.

So you got your butthole tattooed for Jesus?
Well, I call it the crown of thorns, and I tell people, “He was king, and I am king shit, so I sit on it.” You only live once. You have to have fun with it. Life’s a big party.  

You put a comment on my other butthole-tattoo interview. You seemed very unhappy.
Because they said she was the butthole-tattoo girl, and that’s not a butthole tattoo, that’s a buttcrack tattoo. It’s not even touching her butthole. Mine is touching it. If you make a fist and you see the krinkly lines, I have ink on those krinkly lines on my butthole, and it hurt.

When you start doing porn, do you think you two might team up?
She’s already doing porn, so I doubt it because I don’t know where she’s been or how many people she’s been with. I don’t live that lifestyle. I’m always in long, committed relationships with my boyfriends.

She’s done double anal. What have you got?
I won’t put another dude in it. I will tell my boyfriend to shove two of my toys in at the same time as him, though.

The triple lindy?
Yeah. As many as I can fit. We were experimenting the other night, and I covered his penis with honey and put Nerds all over it. It was fun.

After it came out of your butthole?
No. I never do ATM. That’s gross.

ATM with honey and Nerds sounds delicious, doesn’t it?
Well, yeah, but my butthole is going to be sticky, and I’m going to have Nerds mixed in with my poo.

You have to administer the honey and Nerds after you remove it from your butthole, Lyla.
That might not be a bad idea because I told him before we got into it, “I don’t know what it is, but you will never have shit dick.” It’s always crystal clear.

Without an enema?
There’s not one spec of brown on him after—no enema.

Maybe your butthole is a modern miracle.
I have a glorious hole!

You told me you were in jail for a while; what did the ladies in jail think of your butthole tattoo?
They all loved me. The whole jail loved me, even the deputies. They didn’t believe that I was famous and said, “You’re not a celebrity. You’re not famous.” And I’m like, “Yeah, I am. Google butthole tattoo, you’ll see!” Then they believed me and started loving me. I was in there for three months, and they treated me like royalty.

Well, of course. You’re a celebrity. You’re going on Howard Stern soon, this VICE interview… are you going to be able to handle all this fame?
The fame… I’m just going to show them—this is me. Love me as I am, or fuck off. My whole life I said I was going to be famous. But I don’t want to be rich. If I had $5 million, I wouldn’t get a big mansion on the beach. No, the kids around me who don’t have clothes and nice shoes for school and toys around Christmas and food, I’d give it to them. Children with cancer, I’ll pay for the research. I don’t want to see people suffering while I’m living it up. That ain’t right. I’m trying to make the world a better place. I just want to help.

You really are the modern day Mother Theresa.
It’s funny you say that, my rosary says, "Mother Theresa Pray For Us."

Maybe you should be the new pope.
That would be awesome. Do they allow female popes? And does that mean no more having sex?

Listen, if it’s up to me, I don’t care.

Previously - The World's Biggest Beatle's Fan

Follow Lyla on Facebook. 

Beautifuldisasters.com

bhgirltattoo.com/

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com or @Nieratko

Admittedly, wanking a guy isn’t hard, and generally once he’s shown you what he likes it’s fairly easy to continue the motion (hint: it’s very, very repetitive). Technique can be taught and learned, but at the end of the day you’re just never going to one-up the cock’s master, which is probably why God invented blow jobs.

Palming off a guy is only mildly intimidating, so I can only imagine how terrifying it must be for a bloke to finger a girl--the differences between vaginas and feminine preference is vaster and more overwhelming than that of penises (from my experience at least). Plus women have all these ancillary bits all up in there, whereas with guys it’s pretty obvious exactly where the boner is (if you can’t work it out meet me behind the bike sheds after school, I need to show you some stuff).

I can’t tell you dudes exactly what to do to elevate your next finger bang to finger blast, but I can tell you what most females on earth wouldn’t willingly want done to her precious little crotch origami. Listen up.

CUT YOUR DAMN FINGERNAILS

Take your finger. Put it inside your mouth. Run it against the inner wall of your cheek. Can you feel that? Now, imagine that feeling inside your pee hole.

Do us all a favor and cut your damn nails; we don’t give a shit about your guitar playing or your band or whatever dumb reason you made up because you’re simply a lazy filthy pig that can’t be arsed to cut his nails. There is nothing sexy about a woman having the inner walls of her vagina scratched up by a dude’s Rihanna-style talons.

DON’T MISS THE CLIT

I feel like that’s a really obvious no-no but I guess a lot of guys just weren’t paying attention in sex ed class or when their last girlfriend gave them a road map to her va-jay or when they’ve had their hand grabbed and put in a VERY SPECIFIC SPOT ON THE FEMALE BODY. I think I can speak for a general majority of women when I say it makes us feel like we’re 15 when a dude is furiously rubbing areas nowhere near the vicinity of our clitorises. Or it totally freaks us out because we start thinking things like, “Maybe he wasn’t even going for the clit. Maybe he just really likes that part of my inner thigh.”

TAKE HEED!

When a girl shows you what to do, it’s because she likes it, and more likely than not because she thought what you were doing before was fucking shit. Now—and this part is important—when the girl stops showing you what to do so she can lay back and relax while she gets that good finger wiggles, DO NOT IMMEDIATELY REVERT TO THAT SHIT THING YOU WERE DOING BEFORE. YOU ARE NOT RIGHT. YOU ARE NEVER RIGHT.

ASK BEFORE YOU TRY TO SLIP ONE IN THE STINK

Just because you’ve got a finger in one hole doesn’t mean you’re welcome to put one in the other. It might surprise you, but anal fingering isn’t every woman’s preference. And even if it’s her preference one day, it might not be the next. Ask before you do butt stuff.

YOU’RE NOT UNCLOGGING A TOILET

I blame porn almost entirely for this one motion every dude seems to have in his bag of tricks (note: if a sex thing can be described as a “trick” is definitely something you should never, ever do). It normally happens when I’m at my horniest, just dying to have something, anything, in me after enjoying some “heavy petting.” So in the finger goes, and suddenly, after all the sexy, subtle, nipple pinching and dry humping, I feel like a toilet that’s being violently plunged. Going in and out really fast might feel nice on your dick, and I might not speak for all women when I say this, but the feeling of being penetrated with the kind of friction-creating speed normally reserved for starting a fire with sticks is not a very sexy thing.

YOU’RE NOT RUBBING IN LOTION EITHER

Rubbing circles on my labia with the palm of your hand feels exactly the same as it does when I rub in lotion for thrush or post-wax soothing cream, i.e. not hot, kind of utilitarian.

DON’T SLAP THE BEAN

Is this another porn thing? Because I’ve never, ever enjoyed a dude stopping mid-diddle to slap my vagina with his flattened palm. Sometimes it’s just one big slap, and other times there are several short, fast ones, sort of like trying to put out the fire he started from the very fast plugging (above). Am I missing something here? Is it weird that I don’t like having my vagina hit mid foreplay? I mean, if someone can explain the benefits of this, I’m all ears.

DON’T SUCK YOUR FINGERS

Maybe there’s a movie where someone super hot like Michelle Pfeiffer licks her fingers while seductively eyeballing Batman or whoever, but the male form, for the most part, isn’t designed for finger licking and bedroom eyes. It just looks sort of trite and forced, and inspires this sense of foreboding like something very, very terrible and unsexy is about to happen, like the bit in American Pie where Jason Biggs does the striptease.

FINGER BLAST WHEN YOU’RE EATING

When you’ve got your face nose deep in pussy, chuck one inside and use your free hand to squeeze a nipple. You won’t be disappointed. And by you, I mean me.

@Kat_George

Previously: Rubbing One Out with a Roommate

Four AM, Sunday morning—Saturday night for those of us still awake. At Western and Hollywood Boulevard, where a giant hot dog used to sit on top of a funky food joint and now it doesn’t. I miss all the lowbrow landmarks of LA, the city I love. South on Western, I blow through a yellow light at Santa Monica Boulevard and then down three blocks of street walkers in fuck-me gear like fan-dancing peacocks. I see the LAPD on a corner across from McDonald’s. A couple of bullies in a squad car toying with a couple of working girls on the sidewalk and chasing off all the johns. The johns go home horny, and the girls go home broke.

I’m a matinee cowboy looking for wrongs to right. I turn left onto Romaine and then pull to the curb next to Taco Bell. The girls on the sidewalk check me out but seem a bit perplexed. The cops are idling in the other lane next to me. I ignore them, zip down the passenger-side window, and call out to a freckle-faced cutie in a white pleather jacket and gladiator pumps. “Hey, Tootsie, how’s it goin? You wanna make some money?”

She approaches slowly, looking back and forth at the cops and me.

“Are you a cop?”

“No. Are you?”

“There are cops right there.” She points in case I haven’t noticed.

“Yeah I saw them. Hop in, take a ride with me. I wanna take your picture. I’ll give you 30 bucks.”

“Yeah, OK.” She opens the door and gets in. “You know those cops are right there looking at us?”

“Yeah I know but I’m not breaking any laws, fuck 'em. Buckle up, I don’t want to get a ticket.”

I drive and the cop car backs into and out of an alleyway following me. At the first four-way stop they pull up next to me, squawk the siren, and hit me with the spot. A beefy baby-faced cop looks at me, and I look back. I lower my window, and he starts the interrogation. “Where are you going?”

“Just taking a drive, not really going anywhere.”

“Who’s that with you?”

“Friend of mine.”

“What’s her name?”

I ask the hooker what her name is, and she tells me.

“Her name’s Roxanne.”

“If she’s your friend, why did you just ask her what her name is?”

“We haven’t known each other for very long.”

He’s getting red, and I’m thinking maybe I should stop fucking around before he shoots me. “I just met Roxanne, and we’re going to go and take some pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah, see? I’m wearing my camera and flash so I hold them up for him to see. “We’re not breaking any laws. I’m a photographer, this is what I do.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me so I ask him if we’re all done and can I go now?

The cop rolls up his window and I go back into drive. They follow us for a block and then turn off. “What’s your name?” Roxanne asks me.

“Scot.”

“You really just wanna take pictures?”

“Yeah, is that OK?”

“Yeah, I guess. That was gangster, they way you talked and what you did. I hate cops.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve done smarter things. I’ve got a thing about cops; they make me flippant like I’m back in high school.”

“I hate cops,” Roxanne says again. “Nobody can make any money with them all hassling everybody.”

The street curves 90 degrees and then changes its name. There’s a nice little park with tennis courts on the left. No parking on the park side and a string of cars on the right side. I’m looking for a spot.

Roxanne says, “You know the reason why the cops try and make it so we can’t make any money is because hos don’t pay taxes, so the cops don’t make any money for themself and they don’t like us.”

We’re in a nice family neighborhood and the denizens don’t want vice and drugs on their doorsteps. That’s the primary reason the cops are herding the girls off to different climes. I double-park in front of a little hacienda with a terracotta roof and a square green yard. Everyone is asleep except us.

I find a nice spot in the park, and Roxanne shows me that she’s not wearing any panties. I take three pictures and pay her for her time. Back in the car she offers me sex, but I want it at a deep discount. I tell her I’d love to and promise I’ll think about her sometime when I jerk off but not tonight. I drive her back to where I found her and the cops are back in place as well. Roxanne gives me a hug before she gets out, and as I drive off, I hear her telling the baby-faced cop we just took pictures and there is nothing he can fucking do about it. I drive home feeling good about myself.

Previously - Close to the Goodyear Blimp

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.

It has come to my attention that a lot of grown-ass women out there have yet to experience an orgasm, which makes me want to jump off a cliff onto a bed of sharpened dildos. Orgasms are important, and you need to be able to make yourself cum. I know it can be frustrating, but you have to keep trying because the entire world runs on orgasms.

I remember masturbating like it was my homework as a young teen because I knew that eventually I’d get the hang of it, and it would put me on par with the rest of the orgasm-experiencing world. That world, of course, includes 100 percent of adult males, which are 100 percent of presidents and the majority of CEOs and police officers and professors. I’m not really sure why that part’s important, except for the fact that it would make me really mad if everyone telling me what to do could magically blast cum out of their genitals and I couldn’t. My point is it was a conscious, effortful process for me but I persevered and succeeded.

I noticed that a lot of the “instructions” on how to masturbate were purely physical, but that’s clearly not the only ingredient in an orgasm casserole. As we all know (or should know) girls are mental basket cases, just like their mothers, and their mothers’ mothers, and centuries of some anthropological bullshit that I don’t understand, and sometimes that stuff can really get in the way of everything fun. Therefore, I am going to approach this orgasm problem from a meditative standpoint.

PRIVATE SPACE  

One day as I was driving down a busy street during rush hour, I suddenly realized that I was about to have an orgasm, because I was masturbating. That was amazing to me, since I could remember feeling uncomfortable about touching myself in my own bedroom, simply because it was inside my parents’ home. Women’s magazines will probably recommend you find an isolated spot where you can feel comfortable being alone—like in the shower with the door locked, for instance. But I think you just have to confront what it is that makes you feel so shameful about masturbating.

I used to get worried that someone would see my fingers and notice cervical mucus residue, or see that my face was all flushed and post-orgasm-like. Then I realized: Fuck it. I’m a disgusting, gross piece of shit, just like everyone else, and if I don’t have an orgasm today I’m going to end up killing someone.

No one will notice that you were just masturbating. No one cares. Join the party.

AROUSAL

You have a clitoris, which is supposed to be full of nerve-endings and blood flow and all of this magical, orgasm-inducing stuff, so then why, when you touch it, does nothing happen? Are you broken? No. You can’t just mechanically rub your clit and expect something nice to happen. You have to zone out and think about things that make you feel good (horny).

What makes you excited? You don’t know? For some reason, this is often a hard question for women to answer (probably centuries of oppression, but I don’t want to get into that), meaning fantasizing about love and sex might require a lot of mental effort. Maybe you’re deeply, truly aroused by the thought of sharing the same values and meaning of existence with another human being. Maybe you’re aroused by the thought of having kids and starting a life with someone you love. Maybe you’re aroused by rape. Whatever it is, you need to dive into it with reckless abandon and know that these thoughts are yours to keep, entirely private, and nothing to feel guilty about.

LETTING GO

This is crucial. A lot of women will get really close to having an orgasm but then stop themselves because the feeling is too overwhelming, or scary, or maybe even painful. In all steps of the process, you have to keep letting yourself go. What does that mean? I guess it’s a combination of A) freezing time in a moment of fantasy, B) getting in tune with your body and carrying out all of its wishes, and C) again, diving into the sensation with reckless abandon. Your body is resilient; it can handle your orgasm. Even if it feels like you have to pee or whatever, just let it out. The worst thing that could happen is your sheets will get wet and you’ll have to do some laundry. (It’s not pee.)

Which reminds me, when my first boyfriend and I starting becoming “sexually active” I was 15 and still had memories of being in a diaper and putting Vaseline on my diaper rashes. Unsurprisingly, that made the sensation of him taking off my underwear REALLY WEIRD. That’s super fucked up, but maybe a lot of people have weird childhood residue like that but don’t realize it. Sometimes all it takes is saying, “Fuck it.”

Basically, my main piece of advice to you is to accept that you are a weird-human-animal-sex-thing, you CAN have an orgasm, and you won’t die from it. 

If you want to look at porn but porn sites intimidate you or piss you off, try getting inspired with James Deen and Nicole Ray, or James Deen and whoever, or Manuel Ferrara’s good too. They know how to treat the ladies.

NOW GO, BE FREE

Previously by Kara Crabb - Let's Colonize Outer Space

Follow Kara on Twitter @karacrabb

PART 2

PHOTO

There is this nonsensical assumption that no decent woman would ever want to have anal sex. Anal sex is for whores. The kind of women men gladly fuck, but would never take home to mother. Even Jesse Jane admits there are things she will not do on camera (anal being one of them), because it would limit her cross-over into more mainstream opportunities. You hear the stereotypical anal joke relentlessly, but I hear the it repeated over and over the most when I sit down to talk to Craig Gross otherwise known as “The Porn Pastor”. During our interview, he says “double anal” at least five times.

“Porn is all about double anal and blondes and you know,” Gross shrugs, chomping on a piece of gum. He’s dressed stylishly with boots I’m slightly envious of. “So, then [virgins who watch porn] get married and their wife is a let down compared to all this.” He waves his arm towards the trade show in the other room.

Gross, 37, (and his co-founder Mike Foster) started their non-profit organization, XXXChurch, about 10 years ago to help people who are addicted to pornography as well as adult entertainers who want to get out of the industry. The XXXChurch has grown and now attends the AEE Expo (along with many other sex trade shows all over North America) every year as an alternative to porn. XXXChurch have their poster children for success, most famously Stephanie Swift who has now left porn and found God.

“These women don’t want to do this,” Gross says, who has also published several books, some titles including Jesus Loves You This I Know, Dirty Little Secret and Eyes of Integrity. “They would rather be doing something else. We’re not rescuing them, because they did they say at one point that they wanted to do this, but when they do want out we will help them transition.”

I can’t help but think about my friend back home who occasionally does freelance prostitution on Craigslist. One night we were talking about her work and she said she found it perplexing when her friends said they were worried about her, as though she didn’t understand the risks of her profession. She understood love and concern, but took offense to the fact that people assumed she didn’t know better. “I’m aware of the risks of what I am doing,” she said. “It’s funny, no one cared when I was working a bullshit minimum wage job being treated as though I was worthless.”

Gross and company understand that sometimes sex happens before marriage but they are “not giving anyone a free pass”. His biggest problem is that porn distorts what sex should look like. Gross starts talking about that Mark Walberg movieTed, particularly the scene where Ted - the talking stuffed bear - suggests that Walberg give his girlfriend anal sex instead of a ring for their anniversary.

“The theatre erupts in laughter,” he scowls. “Yeah, give her that. That’s really what she wants.”

My mind wanders to Jessica Valenti’s book The Purity Myth. Valenti argues that purity and porn culture both fetishize women’s sexual subservience and this is what makes the virginity movement completely unable to analyze pornography in a helpful way. “The [virginity] movement has latched on to the mainstreaming of porn not because it cares about women and the way in which their sexuality is represented, but because porn is an easy scapegoat for what the movement perceives in society's ills (women having sex), as well as a convenient excuse to uphold the movement’s regressive goals.”

“I’ve never met anyone who really likes [to perform sex] on camera,” Gross tells me. “It’s  difficult. The angles are weird. These women are not in this because of the sex. They are in this for the money.”

Suddenly, a young woman walks up to Gross mumbling about a Mormon from Salt Lake City.

“This is Rachel,” Gross points to Rachel Collins, 30, who is plump and smiling at me like a doll. “We call Rachel ‘The Filthy Virgin’ because she’s never had sex, but she’s been around so much of it that she’s going to have to get counseling once she’s married.”

They both laugh. I do not get the joke.

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Measure B is the big topic amongst the adult entertainers during the AVN Awards. On December 14, 2012 a law passed in Los Angeles county that required all adult film stars to wear condoms during scenes. Measure B, a voter-approved ballot initiative, is being fought by Vivid Entertainment and performers Kayden Kross and Logan Pierce. Kross, who publishes work with Complex magazine as well as writing extensively on her blog about the industry (she’s working on a book), argues that Measure B infringes on her rights as a performer. 

“I did condom scenes in my first movie, and that turned out to suck major monkey balls,” Kayden wrote on her blog. “The added friction the condoms caused over the course of the shoot was ridiculous. The condoms were not a birth control measure. They were, theoretically, an STD protection. But all the performers were tested. So in my first movie I was protected from STDs that my coworkers didn’t have.”

In the adult industry, performers are tested approximately every two weeks. It’s a rigorous system. Any company owned by Manwin requires that the performers are tested and their results are looked over by their co-stars on set. The performers are then checked for cuts, scrapes and general cleanliness. There is a data base where updates on each performers sexual health can be accessed. Plus, as Jesse says, “You can smell it. I’m sorry but when you get an STD you have a smell, you know?”

“In the wild, on average, there are around 2,150 new cases of HIV reported in Los Angeles County each year,” Kayden continues. She refers to the “wild” as the sex you and I have. The kind that does not end up on a best-selling porn DVD. “This is possibly because there are a lot of people having sex with a lot of other people without verifying one another’s STD status. We are not those people. We’re verified. We are card-carrying motherfuckers.”

Like Kayden, most porn stars think Measure B is bullshit.

“Condoms do irritate certain people,” Jesse explains. “They hurt. It’s our choice! We are the cleanest people you can fuck. Those girls that say porn stars are dirty or guys who say that because they are assholes. Y’all go and have one-night-stands at a bar. I’ve slept with the same handful of guys for 10 years. There are girls that do that in a month and do not bother getting tested.”

The other side, of course, says that when an adult performer accepts money for performing in a film it becomes a business and a business must have rules to protect it’s employees. Tom Myers, Chief of Public Affairs and General Counsel for AIDS Healthcare compared it to a stuntman refusing to be tired to a harness during a life threatening scene.

Measure B will cost a minimum of just under $600,000 of tax payers money. Expensive for a law that is full of loopholes and is pretty tough to actually enforce. Does the county plan to employe condom enforcers to go on every porn set? Where does policing for amateur porn fit it? Not just Digital Playground movies that have huge budgets, but the makeshift stuff? Will those people be policed in the same way? How will a condom law actually protect adult entertainers from STDs?

It won’t, really. What it will do is drive the industry outside of Los Angeles, to Nevada, Florida, Mexico or even overseas, where Measure B is not in place, along with other necessary laws that protect those who might need it most. 

“Realistically, there are many types of people working in the adult industry for a variety of reasons,” Porn star and rumored girlfriend of James Deen, Stoya, writes to me via email a week later. Stoya is a cult favorite. Young, “all-natural” and well-spoken she writes regularly on her blog dispelling myths and fantasies about the industry. In one piece, she detailed the meticulous process of picking feces out of a rectum before an anal sex scene.

“Even if we only discuss female performers, they run the gamut from wonderful American-Dream style success stories like Joanna Angel who actually does run her own company, through lucky perverts, like me, who wandered into an enjoyable career and women who are almost purely financially motivated, to women who are absolute tragedy cases like the old stereotype,” Stoya says. “We have the same range of people as other industries, and we have the same workers’ rights issues that other industries have or have already worked through. In the same way that new writers, musicians, and actors scrape by, take gigs they aren’t impassioned by, and get screwed on their first deal or contract, new adult performers absolutely are sometimes taken advantage of and exploited. It’s called capitalism.”

---- PHOTO

The Red Carpet ceremony at the AVN Awards is separated into sections. There is the hallway where the fans gather, then there is the official press room. I’m in the press room, wandering around, thinking about how that in the past three days, I have yet to see a guy I could realistically fuck.

The walls of the press room are lined with advertisement banners and bleachers for the reports, TV crews and photographers to gather on. A tall, red-headed man shepherds the stars in groups according to their fame level, then he makes them write their name and credentials on a flimsy piece of white paper, which he will hold up and read as they pose on the red carpet. It’s a lot of leather, glitter and the color purple. Everyone is done up, not just for the room, but for the public aftermath: the photos, the HBO specials, the E! stories, whatever.

When I see Jesse Jane she looks gorgeous yet slightly pissed off. I don’t blame her. She’s in very high demand marching from mark to mark, ready to pose and smile.

The red carpet room is boring, so my mind wanders. I watch the female porn stars glide over the red carpet, which looks kind of paltry in this stale conference room. The percentage of female stars on the runway compared to males is overpowering and the men make up for this by wearing something outlandish, even if they have opted for a suit: Platform shoes, fur coats, dorky sunglasses, gold chains, even James Deen is wearing shoes with white deckled flowers that look like he peeled them off a little girl’s Daisy guitar. Ivan of I Am Ivan Productionsis strutting around with a fucking computer around his neck. I keep my eyes peeled for Dave Navarro, but he’s not here or else he came and left as fast as Suge Knight did.

“Hey,” a voice behind me. It’s Kerian. He looks normal, handsome, in a suit, tie and clean face. No goofy flare. “How’s it going?”

“Got any gum?” I ask, fully knowing he will in fact have gum.

“You been eating dog shit again? “ He jokes, as he fumbles in his pocket and whips out a pack of English gum. “This is the best stuff.”

We stand together and watch the red carpet parade for a minute. Keiran’s girlfriend Kirsten Price is hosting a show with a camera crew. She looks beautiful as she poses and jokes with her co-stars she is interviewing. Everyone’s voices are rough from working, partying, inhaling recycled air. Vegas makes you feel like you’ve been on an airplane for a week straight. In this room everyone is “on”. Everyone is performing. That’s just what happens when you put a camera in someone’s face.

--- PHOTO

During the award ceremony, I sit back and drink a 40 with the general admission. After the Cirque de Soliel performer Zumanity finishes spinning from the ceiling in a naked body suit and Tyga performs his songs, while a small countries’ worth of porn stars grinds with him, the awards begin.

“I want to commend you guys for being so awesome in a country that’s so weird and puritanical about sex,” bellows comedian April Macie, who is hosting the event with Jesse Jane and Asa Akira. “All shame does is lower your self-esteem.”

Applause. Scream. Applause.

There are glitches. The main house microphone is too low. The teleprompter fucks up, but Jesse plays with the malfunction like a true professional. “Don’t make us look like dumb porn girls,” she laughs, pointing to the old stereotype.

“Are you sure your ready? You sound a little slow.” Some mid-30‘s club rat behind me remarks when Jesse Jane asks the audience to show some enthusiasm. Him and his friends continue to make fun of the porn stars during the whole ceremony, calling them “coked up” and poking fun at their assumed lack of education. They continue laughing at these “dumb, hot girls” they paid good money to come and see get recognized for accomplishments their careers.

Historically, woman has been seen as morally inferior to man. Hesiod said that the first woman, Pandora, was created with “the mind of a bitch and a thievish nature.” In the second creation myth of Genesis, Eve was on the one spawned from Adam’s rib and not the dust of the universe. Aristotle’s biological theory of human nature stemmed from pure social prejudice that woman was a deviant from the male form. According to these theories, woman are sexually charged, morally basic beings. A less noble sex because of their inherent linking to the body, human sexuality, instead of the mind. Even in the Christian tradition remains an idea that woman is an evil unto man because she is unable to control her passions and emotions.

Besides the fact that these concepts manifested decades ago, we still live in a culture that believes that women’s bodies are inherently shameful and that women’s sexuality needs to be restricted. What would happen if we finally untangled morality from sexuality?

“Females (the ones with the extra orifice) have fought in an organized manner for over a century to have the same rights as men,” Stoya once wrote. “A solid half of humanity has been for centuries, and still, written off as inferior over an extra hole.”

Today, some women fight for sex-positivity. We can fuck and think. Our bodies are not “being used” because we use them for pleasure or for capital. It’s not so simple anymore.

People call out pornography for degrading women and “objectifying” them, reducing them down to their bodies. According to Wendy McElroy, in this context the term objectify means nothing because objects don’t have sexuality; only beings do. “Usually, the term sex objects means showing women as body parts, reducing them to physical objects,” McElroy writes. “What is wrong with this? Women are as much their bodies as they are their minds or souls. No one gets upset if you present women as "brains" or as spiritual beings. If I concentrated on a woman's sense of humor to the exclusion of her other characteristics, is this degrading? Why is it degrading to focus on her sexuality?”

Furthermore, shouldn’t every woman be able to decide for herself what she finds degrading and liberating?

The AVN’s are stripped of Hollywood stigma and there fore, have more room to be intentionally playful. Acceptance speeches, for the most part, are not serious. There are no tears. When Asa Akira wins Best Female Performer of the Year she giggles and apologizes to the front row for not wearing underwear and having her pussy unkempt. Ron Jeremy makes crowd pleasing jokes with ease. James Deen accepts his awards while smoking, with his back to the audience. Transsexual and Male Performers of the Year receive gifts along with their trophies. When it comes time to present the Visionary Award to Phil Harvey of Adam & Eve, the general admission audience pays no attention and instead, talks incessantly. I hear cheering to my right and look over at a random couple in the balcony, desperate for attention, pretending to fuck. No paying audience member listened when Measure B is talked about. They just keep drinking, screaming and knocking back cups of alcohol because we are in Nevada where that kind of behavior is encouraged, even if it is during an award ceremony.

------ PHOTO

Everyone has an opinion on the unwritten rules of sex, but this is only because we all can do it. We are all experts when it comes to fucking just by having genitals and a sex drive. While some of us think we know what is best for our own bodies, there are others who think they know what is best for our bodies. And a different set of others who also know more. The others? The Church. The Law. The neighborhood. And, they all intertwine. Plus, capital makes sex even more contentious.

“If people really are getting most of their information about sex from a combination of Maxim, Cosmopolitan, and porn, that strikes me as a serious problem,” Stoya says. “Pornography is entertainment and, with the exception of Nina Hartley’s Guide To series and a few other productions, does not intend to be or present itself as educational, but it does seem to frequently get pointed to as one of the few places people where learn about sex.”

Because there is not much else. However, it is not porn’s fault that our culture has yet to figure out how to talk about sex. We vilify porn for simply existing and filling the void of an open, sex-positive dialogue.

“When it comes to porn I think that we rest on the First Amendment of free speech and twist it around by saying that our free speech is teaching people the wrong thing,” Kayden Kross tells me before we leave the red carpet room. “Well, we are not trying to teach anyone, we are trying to entertainment and express ourselves. It’s ‘art’ technically, I use that liberally, but not the kind of art that you hang on a wall, step back and take in. It’s more like a one-off fun time. Like, you go out, get drunk, have fun. Did it do anything to enrich your life? No. Did you have fun doing it? Yes.”

No one acts “normal” about pornography, because we don’t know how to. How can there be a “normal” when it comes to porn? There will be no consensus on how we, as a culture, feel about something that we can identify with so subjectively. The internet has changed not only the way we digest porn, but also the way it is made, who can make it and where that porn ends up. We’re captivated, intimidated, turned on and perplexed by porn all at the same time and it’s this confused fascination that keeps Jesse Jane, Stoya, Kayden Kross and Kerian Lee employed. It’s what keeps drunk idiots in Vegas attending the AVN Awards year after year, even if they don’t know how to respect it. It’s what keeps people like me constantly questioning what the fuck this all means and where my politics and my sexuality align. Porn is there for us to watch, to get turned on and to entertainment us. I wish it was that simple, but it’s not. It’s still a massive industry that has it’s tentacles stretched from the Disney boat on the set of million dollar productions like Pirates to amateur web cam videos produced independently in small apartments all over North America. Not even just porn, but sex, outside a monogamous union, is weighted with this archaic stigma that pleasure is shameful. Pleasure for pay is even worse or, as some might argue, may not even truly exist at all. Porn unties sex from the hope of monogamy, which is something that the Western world seems to still have a problem with.

“The stalkers we get in porn are crazier because they feel as though they have been intimate with you already,” Jesse says. “They think they have been with you and that you have this connection. They think they have had sex with you and been naked with you. I have people try to grab my ass, my tits and they think they can because I am a porn star. No, you do not touch me.”

She stops for a minute.

“Most people are very respectful and just nervous, shaking to take a picture with you. They say ‘cheese’!” Her face busts into a smile, letting out a little snort. “I mean, who says ‘cheese’?”

- Mish Way 

I’m broke and I live in New York City, so having no privacy or personal space comes with the territory. But getting sneezed on by a bum or having some dude’s boner involuntarily pressed against my lower back at peak hour on the subway wouldn’t be so bad if I could go home and walk around naked and just sing whatever stupid Rob Thomas song I pretend not to like publicly, free of the shameful knowledge that someone else can hear me. But I can’t because I live with a sanded down piece of plywood between me and my roommate. My walls are so thin, sometimes I wonder if I couldn’t punch my way through them—and I’m a girl who can’t even do one push up on my knees without buckling. But being forced to live so close with my roommate becomes a serious pain in the pussy when it's time to get my rocks off. 

Living with someone else in such close quarters means three things: You are going to smell their shit on a regular basis, at some point you will see one of their pubes in the tub, and you are most definitely going to hear them having sex. (Especially if your roommate is me and enjoys “vocal” fucking.)

It doesn’t bother me when other people hear me having sex. In fact, there’s a part of me that likes it. It’s probably the same part of me that doesn’t mind pooping in public toilets and aims right for the center of the bowl to cause the loudest splash possible and make anyone else in the adjoining cubicles really, really uncomfortable and grossed out. But despite my brazen exhibitionism in those situations, I feel uncomfortable masturbating when anyone else is home. 

I worry that my roommate will hear the buzzing of the vibrator, the moaning sounds of the weird lesbian porn I like to watch, and eventually my own excited grunting. If I were to walk out of my room with a dude after having sex to see my roommate there, knowing that they heard everything, I wouldn’t be embarrassed at all. Why then, am I so embarrassed to be heard pleasuring myself?

Maybe it’s just the stigma attached to female masturbation. It’s not really something you’re brought up to discuss openly, even in sex ed (at least I wasn’t). And I can’t think of any teen movies where a girl is caught having a maz and hilarious shenanigans ensue, but there are plenty where dudes are pictured shamelessly self-completing. Or maybe I’m just more of a prude than I think I am.

I’ve tried a few different things to streamline the process, for instance, turning off the sound of porn (which makes it way less sexy), wearing headphones (which negates my ability to tell how loud I’m being myself), and abstaining (haha LOL, never works). Masturbating when your roommate around is hard. Especially because sometimes they’re the only thing between you and the sink where you need to wash your dildo when you’re done.

This is a serious issue I will struggle with until I have enough money to live on my own, at which point I will use my liberation to masturbate all over the house, butt naked. In the meantime, all suggestions are welcome.

@kat_george

Previously - Reasons to Fuck a Guy on the First Date

Back in October Sara Phillips, co-creator of the Astronaut Suicide photos, contacted me with her latest dose of awesome: a Kama Sutra of sorts using two Mormon fellows. I loved it and wanted to tell you all about it immediately, but then I got bent over by Hurricane Sandy, and it totally slipped my mind.

As I racked my brain this week for what to get my wife for Valentine’s Day, I remembered Sara’s Mormon Missionary Positions and thought, A print of two well-dressed dudes faux fucking on a bicycle is exactly what she’s always wanted. So I hit up Sara up for a print, but instead ended up interviewing her and her two co-creators, Shelby Menzel and Neil Dacosta.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!

VICE: How did the concept for Mormon Missionary Positions come about?
Sara: The work was produced as an effort to create a visual and playful discourse into the separation of church and state. We wanted to make a statement on the progress of a country built on the idea of religious freedom.

From the LDS: "Sexual relations are proper only between a man and a woman who are legally and lawfully wedded as husband and wife. Any other sexual relations, including those between persons of the same gender, are sinful and undermine the divinely created institution of the family. The Church accordingly affirms defining marriage as the legal and lawful union between a man and a woman."

What is your opinion of Mormons and their beliefs and their magic pajamas?
Shelby: I was raised in Salt Lake City in the church so I understand it inside and out. I was immersed in the nitty-gritty of the culture as a kid, I have been baptized for dead people, the whole nine yards. Around 13 I veered away from the religion after being exposed to the world of skateboarding and different ideas. Now I see it as a giant organization with a lot of money, a member base that is becoming one of the fastest growing on the planet, and a group with underlying deep-rooted sexist, racist, and bigoted beliefs. It has a seedy past filled with scandals, conspiracies, female repression, and a history of racism toward African Americans and Native Americans, and open condemnation of homosexuality.

Why do you think Mormons are such easy targets for ridicule? Do you think they’re descendants of the Polacks?
I think it’s because if anyone looked at the history of that church objectively, it reads like an absurd piece of fiction. A young man, who was a con artist, was told by an angel to dig up golden plates with the word of God on them and start a religion. That’s the short version. Also, it started so recently compared to other religions. Then there are the odd behaviors like no coffee, tea, modest clothes, etc. that people tend to laugh at. When you tell someone this is the stuff you believe in they usually laugh.

What kind of research went into this project? Studying of the Kama Sutra? A lot of sex?
Sara: A lot of both, and we had a giant Kama Sutra book on set too to call out the names and positions—there were a lot of pulled muscles, we’re not as flexible as those guys.

Did you use real Mormons for this shoot?
Neil: The guys weren’t Mormon, but we got the name tags and the Book of Mormon from our friend who went on his mission before coming out of the closet.

Were any Mormons hurt in the shooting of these photos?
Sara: We might have rubbed some feelings the wrong way, but hopefully in a provocative way that gets you to ask questions and draw your own conclusions—and at least start the conversation over the issue of homosexuality and the church. The timing also gave it a political undertone as the LDS handbook quote parallels the Republican position—and the site launched 13 days before the election.

Do you have any Mormon friends who you did research for these photos with?
Neil: Mainly just talking everything through with Shelby, and then drawing on our experience of living in SLC for a few years and being exposed to the Mormon culture.

Have you ever banged a Mormon?
Sara: No, never. But I imagine it to be incredibly passive. I’ve heard rumors of “soaking,” where the guy inserts into a girl but nobody moves an inch, they both lie there perfectly still, like they are soaking. I guess it doesn’t count if nobody moves.

Do you think Mitt Romney and his wife do any positions other than missionary?
Neil: I imagine he mixes it up and keeps his socks on.

What has the reaction been like?
Sara: It’s been hugely positive—the work was published in a number of newspapers, various sites online, and we received some gallery offers. The most rewarding responses though were all the emails we received directly from ex-Mormons appreciating the humor in dealing with the issue.

You used two males as your subjects. Do you think there are many gay Mormons?
Shelby: That is a huge issue within Mormon culture. There is such bigotry and condemnation of homosexuality that it leads to a culture of repression. I personally have known kids who didn’t come out till they were in their late 20s due to the ingrained fear they had. I actually knew another kid who committed suicide because he was gay in a Mormon community and couldn’t handle it. I think there are a lot more homosexuals than anyone in that religion wants to talk about.               

Wouldn’t gay Mormons wear outfits with a bit more flair than you’ve portrayed?
If they had more creative freedom, most likely.

And do you think it would be especially awesome if eight gay Mormons all got married to each other in true polygamist style?
That would make for some incredible family dinners.

What’s your favorite position?
Put some music on and I’m down for whatever.

Today is Valentine’s Day. Do you have any romantic plans or positions lined up?
Sara: I’m on a shoot in LA so my best hope of romance will be digital.

Describe your perfect Valentine’s date with a Mormon.
One where I don’t show up.

Sara, when we last spoke in 2011 you were about to graduate from the W+K 12 program. What have you been up to since, aside from fantasizing about Mormons?
They have a saying at Wieden + Kennedy: “Hire Wrong.” They did just that and hired me as an art director in the Portland office where I’ve been faking it ever since.

See the rest of the shoot here.

sara-phillips.com

neildacosta.com

handshakeinparadise.blogspot.com

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com or twitter.com/Nieratko

So, Enjoy.

Want more awesome photo galleries to stare at? Ok:

Thursday Friday Takes Fantastic Photos of Rappers and Girls

A Selection of Mark Peckmezian's Wonderful Photographs

Dimitri Karakostas' Vacation Photos

Photo by: Terry Richardson

The end of fashion week is finally on the horizon. At this point you've probably started to burn out on hearing the same song at every shitty party, seeing the same models in every collection, and feeling grossed out by the number of 13-year-old, mosquito-bite-sized tits and square, flat asses parading down runways. Are you confused by your new mental state and beginning to worry if anything will ever be "OK" again? You just want it all to go away so life, work, and social media can finally go back to the way they used to be. It takes a while for the numbness to disappear, and in order to help speed up the thawing process, we've decided to share with you the latest gem by Brooke Candy. Her latest track is, "I Wanna Fuck Right Now" (whoa), and for the video, she gets basically naked showing off her tight stripper moves and rubbing a huge snake all up on her naughty bits (whoa times two!). It's the perfect thing to watch on a Tuesday to help shell shock your way back into a normal existence where the internet is for looking at weird fashion/art or other cool shit that freaks you out instead of a bunch of blurry model monkeys wearing clothing no one will ever buy.

How many nights have you lain awake in some stranger’s bed while he (or she) dreams next to you? How many times have you stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling and thought, Wow, am I a slut? Do people think I’m a slut? How do I know if I’m a slut?  Well, I’ll help you out right now: Answer the ten questions below, add up the points that you get based on your answers, and check at the very bottom to see whether or not you’re a slut. This quiz is designed to be taken by any and all genders and sexual orientations, so don’t worry about your result being skewed by your having or not having a penis or vagina. It’s also 100 percent non-judgmental—I’m not saying it’s bad to be a slut or to have sex with every person-shaped thing you see. I’m merely trying to find out if you are/do.

Don’t worry, Cosmo won’t mind if you cheat on them with our quiz. I promise.

1.) Have you ever cheated?

A. “Yes, but I’m not proud of it.”
B. “I’m not a relationship kind of person.”
C. “Never! I’m a one penis/vagina type person.”
D. “It’s not cheating if you don’t get caught.”

2.) What is the last thing you used a bar restroom for?

A. Oral Sex.
B. Peeing.
C. Full-blown intercourse.
D. Snorting lines.

3.) What is your typical first date behavior?

A. Ditching the date to go have sex with someone else.
B. Trying valiantly to get laid and inevitably failing.
C. Refusing to put out because some stupid magazine article/your mother told you that you have to wait at least five dates or
30 days, whichever takes longer.
D.  Drinking until you end up fucking on a park bench.

4.) Have you ever:

A. Given or received “the shocker.”
B. Attended a sex party.
C. Made out with a member of the gender you usually don’t like that way. (Bi- and pan-sexuals can skip this one.)
D. Attended a bottle service club where waitresses bring out the bottles while holding sparklers.

5.) What happens while waiting at the clinic for the results of your HIV test?

A. You rub your face over and over and try not to cry in public.
B. You mentally go through every person you’ve ever had sex with and try to figure out who gave you AIDS.
C. You consider what life is going to be like once you are HIV-positive.
D. You think you’re going to puke so you wonder where the nearest restroom is and think about how many people have thrown up in it.

6. At what stage is a sexual partner allowed to play with your butthole?

A. As soon as the two of you meet and there is chemistry.
B. After some sort of gift, trip, or milestone (like getting engaged).
C. Once the two of you have been dating for several months and have talked about whether you want to explore the final frontier.
D. Never.

7. Which of these movies did you like the most?

A. 500 Days (of Summer)
B. Twilight
C. Swingers
D. Anything with Katherine Heigl in it. I love to laugh!

8. Where is your tattoo?

A. Somewhere you can’t see.
B. Above my butt crack.
C. Around my bellybutton.
D. Somewhere normal like my arm, shoulder, chest, or ankle.

9. If a train is leaving Philadelphia at 3:30 PM and a train is leaving New York at 2:45 PM and the first train is going 54 MPH and the other train is going 67 MPH, do you have sex on the train?

A. Yes.
B. No.

10. How many sexual partners have you had?

A. 1-10
B. 10-20
C. 20+
D. I lost count. Hey, you wanna fuck?

Answers:

1.) A. That’s OK, everyone makes mistakes. (2 points)
B. You sleep around, but at least you’re upfront about it. (5 points)
C. Prude. (0 points)
D. The only thing worse than sleeping with everyone in town is sleeping with everyone in town on the DL. (10 points)

2.) A. That’s just what happens on a Saturday night. (2 points)
B. Prude. (0 points)
C. Sometimes “Your place or mine?” is just too difficult to answer. (5 points)
D. I assume that at some point that night after you snorted your lousy, nose bleed-inducing drugs, you had some really mediocre sex with someone who you shouldn’t be banging. Good life you’re living. (10 points)

3.) A. Were you setting up that booty call while your date was talking? Again, good life you’re living. (10 points)
B. You must be a straight guy, and straight guys can’t be sluts. (0 points)
C. Prude. (0 points)
D. Hey, if you’re already on a date with someone, why not bang them? (2 points)

4.) A-D. You’re a whore. (10 points for each)

5.) A-D. It happens to all of us. Even virgins. (0 points)

6.) A. You’re probably a gay guy, which means this is just natural. It also means that you have a socially acceptable predilection to indulging in the constant availability of sex. High five! (2 points)
B. I don’t blame you for opening your butthole for business after getting some jewelry, but that does sound vaguely, uh, hookerish. (10 points)
C. This sounds like very healthy behavior, but if you’re even considering the back door, you’re probably a little bit of a freak. (5 points)
D. You’re probably a straight guy, which means, as I said, you can’t be a slut. However if this comes up then you are probably sleeping with sluts, which makes you a slut by association. (5 points)

7.) A. Oh God, you don’t like sex, you like being in a relationship. You like having another person to torture you and keep your genitals on lockdown and even if you are totally miserable you won’t get out of it. Have fun listening to ukulele music and breeding, weirdo. (0 points)
B. You want it. You want it bad. You might adore this movie about some girl not doing it with a two-eyed pale potato that she calls her boyfriend and stringing along a lumpy mollusk that turns into a dog. But the reason she doesn’t do it is because she wants it so bad. SO BAD! (10 points)
C. Haha. No one wants to have sex with you. (0 points)
D. Haha. No one wants to have sex with you. (0 points)

8.) A. Why did you get this? So that people you sleep with can admire it. Also the Russian military thinks it means you’re gay. (5 points)
B. The thing about tramp stamps is that tramps don’t really have them. Everyone expects a girl with this unfortunate ink to put out, which usually makes her dry up faster than a snow cone in the desert. (2 points)
C. You are possibly a porn star. If not, then you indiscriminately run around launching your genitals at everything with a pulse. Call your mother. (10 points)
D. Prude. (0 points)

9.) A. Who doesn’t want to have sex on a train? (0 points)
B. Prude. (-10 points)

10.) A. Slut. (10 points)
B. Slut. (10 points)
C. Slut. (10 points)
D. You’re not a slut, you’re just bad at math. (5 points. You get the other 5 after you fuck me.)

Score:

0-25 Points: You’re a slut. What did you expect? You clicked on a quiz about whether or not you’re a slut, probably because you knew you’re a slut and wanted someone to tell you different. Sorry, slut.

25-50 Points: You’re a slut. You already knew that, but you’re a little conflicted about it. You really love to have sex and think there’s nothing wrong with anything you do, but society tells you that being a slut is bad. Well, fuck those judgmental people. I mean, you probably already do, but metaphorically.

50+ Points: You know you’re a slut, right? Yeah, of course you do. And you’re proud of it. You’re the real winner here. Don’t ever forget that.

Previously - Why Are All These Gays Taking Grindr Photos at a Holocaust Museum?

@BrianJMoylan

I’m sitting in the hotel room of one of America’s biggest adult movie stars, Jesse Jane. It’s time for Jesse to get her makeup done before she heads downstairs into the Hard Rock Casino and Hotel in Las Vegas for an autograph signing. The mid-day sun is creeping through the windows all over the parade of make-up, hair products, and extensions that take over the room. In the corner I spot Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and some Coke Zero.

As her close friend and makeup artist, Toni, from Jesse’s current home of Oklahoma takes pieces of her delicate, bleached blonde hair and twists it into loose curls, Jesse is teaching me how to the give the ultimate blow job.

“There is an art to it,” the 32-year old instructs, as she winds her hands in a corkscrew motion showing me how to jerk off the cock and suck at the same time. “The trick is to put your tongue into the pee hole. They are so sensitive there.” She sticks her tiny tongue out and motions to the invisible penis in her hands. “You go, ‘You like that?’” Her tone changes from her media-friendly bubble to commanding. “Smack that cock on him. He’s going to go crazy.”

All five of the women in the room (Jesse Jane, the makeup artist, my PR liaison, the photographer, and myself) nod and laugh. Sucking dick is something we’ve all done. We can all relate.

“Put it as far down as you can and pump it,” she continues. “You have to breathe in, open your throat, inhale it like you’re smoking a cigarette. You can feel the penis grow, like shock therapy.”

A large percentage of North America is deeply confused about what the purpose of sex really is, but in Jesse Jane’s hotel room there is no confusion. Sex is about pleasure, and orgasms, and exhibitionism. It isn’t just missionary with a dim light on. It is about fucking rough in front of a room full of people and a film crew. It is, for the most part, about performing sex, getting off and providing entertainment that makes you wet. That is the job of an adult film star.

However, porn confuses people for this very reason: it’s the most intimate thing a person can do, but done in the most public and professional way possible. Unlike watching some Hollywood blockbuster like 127 Hours, we do not all know exactly what it feels like to saw off our own arm. But with porn, we know exactly how it feels to fuck. Sex is, arguably, the most pleasurable and satisfying thing we can all do, yet its reductionist function is reproduction. Forget anal sex, oral sex, or foreplay, because unlike heterosexual, vaginal sex, those acts do not involve baby making.

You talk to any porn star who loves his or her job they will tell you that there is a distinction between the way they fuck on set and the way they fuck in their personal life. One is not better than the other. They are just different. This porn star concept of intimacy (which has something to do with love and trust, but not exclusively) is often the deciding factor, not orgasms, because those happen even when you have a boom hovering over you.

Jesse Jane tells me that she has orgasmed on almost every shoot. Most people might laugh at this, but with Jesse, I believe her. Maybe she is that great an actress, but I think it’s more than that. Jesse loves fucking. She’s found her inner freak. The way she talks about it to me, the way her face spits power on screen, the assertion in her voice when she describes “great stringers” from a blow job, spitting on her hand, rubbing herself and grinding a dick Cowgirl Style.

Jesse Jane has made over 75 adult films in her decade-long career (and hosted five shows on Playboy TV, appeared on Entourage and Middle Men, and started her own tequila line, Diosa Tequila.) When she hasn’t orgasmed on set, it’s because the new actor she happened to be working with lacked the chemistry she envisioned or the person, simply, did not fuck her right.

“I’m rough and crazy,” Jesse proudly announces, fully aware of her reputation in the big-budget hardcore scene. “That’s what I am known for. Don’t kiss me or pet me, and if you do, it immediately pisses me off.”

“To make [porn sex] intimate for me is crossing a line,” she lectures. “Now, don’t get me wrong, you kiss to start a scene,” Jesse’s voice turns soft. “You kiss to get it going, to get the passion, but then you fuck. That’s porn.”

The word curls around her tongue as though she coined it. No one says “porn” like Jesse Jane and she knows it.

“During porn sex you have to stop,” she says. “You only do certain positions which work on camera and even if you aren’t truly paying attention, you know in the back of your head what to do, where to go next. In my personal life, I do the things I won’t do on film. I’m very experimental. It’s more intimate. It doesn’t mean I make love, because I told you, I don’t like that, but I do more kissing and foreplay but then, we fuck all over the place.”

Today, the billion dollar adult entertainment industry is celebrated in the form of the AVN Adult Entertainment Expo and Award Show in Las Vegas. Porn stars, aspiring adult entertainers, magazines, buyers, suppliers, fans, and public relations experts all gather for the event. This year, it was hosted at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, which is how I ended up in Jesse Jane’s room, watching her pretend to suck dick as she got her makeup done.

Walking into the Hard Rock I am greeted with the familiar Vegas smell of cigarettes and perfume. The casino floor is scattered with women in cowboy hats, business men with their half-empty beers loosening their neck ties, and the occasional cleaning staff member complete with McDonald’s headset and a boom. I meet my PR liaison and she marches me past the Pink Taco (a restaurant, you sick pervert) and into the 15th annual AEE Expo, away from the slot machines, gamblers and irritating pinball noises.

Kirsten Price, Phoenix Marie, Nikki Benz, BiBi Jones and other dolled up porn stars are lined against the wall, which has been plastered with giant promotion posters for the porn studios some of them are contracted to: Twistys, Brazzers, MOFOs, and Digital Playground. Trails of men and women ranging from painfully average in khaki’s and black Golf shirts to pale-skinned freaks in buttless leather pants form in lines, nervously clutching Sharpies, DVD boxes and gin and tonics as they waited to pose for a picture with their favorite star. Security guards are there to keep all the potential tit grabbers under control. Evidently you have have to watch the weirdos with the bloody masks and Girls & Corpses magazines stuffed in the front of their cargo shorts a little closer than the average adult movie connoisseur. But I soon realize that the necrophiliacs keep to themselves, while some women do not.

“Some lady tried to make me to whip my cock out,” Brazzer’s stars and director Keiran Lee says as he extends his one hand and obsessively rolls cherry Chapstick onto his lips with the other. “Sorry, my lips get so dry here.”

My liaison proudly tells me that Kieran’s penis is insured for one million dollars. (She also informs me that the glove box in his car in Los Angeles is over flowing with Chapstick and gum.) Keiran is the only male star to have a contract; a rarity in an industry where men labored are valued much differently than women. Jesse tells me she shoots one movie a month, where as Keiran does about 25 scenes in that time.

Formerly a project manager for Network Rail, Keiran fell into the industry when his friends posted a nude photo of him on a swingers website and one couple offered him a porn role. He could get hard quickly, last a long time, and liked the work. “The 9 to 5 life just wasn’t for me. I tried it and it didn’t work.” He freelanced in his native England, but signed a contract with Brazzers when he came to America for a friend’s wedding.

“There is a shortage of younger men with big cocks who can come on cue. So you get these men that are booked left, right and center. They wanted to lock me down so they could have me whenever they wanted me.” Just as Keiran says this, a drunk blonde in her mid-30’s starts screaming and pointing at him. She’s hanging off her boyfriend’s beefy arm.

“I know him! He’s got a big cock! Can I get a picture?” She’s waving her beer, grinning brightly with liquid courage.

Kieran graciously nods back at her.

“Today has been an eye opener for me. It’s one of the first years when I have stood up to sign, and I’ve been getting a lot of couple fans and women coming up and I see it with the other girls too. I even had a girl today asking me to sign her ass. I think more ladies are enjoying porn. It’s not as taboo, and it is evolving. Women are directing [films] now and that has changed things.”

“I actually enjoy female directed porn because it’s more erotic and not as hardcore,” he begins to walk over to the drunken fan. “[Women porn stars] have a different perspective.”

I soon wander into the main room of the AEE Expo. House music blasts from the ceilings while the stars of Jules Jordan (“Professional Perverts”), Erotic Angel and other brands sign autographs, chat with onlookers, and bend like crazy straws into tangled, doggy-style poses. The room is congested. Everyone is networking, especially the rising stars whose modest booths in the back of the Expo room next to the “I Heart Vagina” and STD testing tables are eager to jump in your face, say “hi” and introduce themselves. One blonde dressed like a Sailor Moon knock-off grabs my badge and gushes on about VICE.

 “You guys did that Japanese eel fucking thing!” She squeals as she gifts me a signed picture of her big, round ass. “I loved that. It was so cool.”

I continue walking around, staring at the amateur strippers from Tijuana’s Hong Kong club and other neighboring states and countries’ titty bars. It’s hard to ignore stripping when it’s happening in broad daylight in a conference room with ugly carpeted floors and monotone walls. This room is bright - highlighting white skin, zits, worn La Senza bras, and cellulite. It’s too real. What’s the etiquette for staring when you can see the lip of a woman’s vagina hanging out the side of her G-string as she's spread eagle on a pole? I don’t think anyone here knows the answer to my question.

One girl is charging five bucks for a boob grab. A voluptuous starlet hugs a female fan and whispers to her that it’s very important to stay empowered together. Meanwhile, a homely man behind her is advertising his website by screaming out the site’s name, “I Can’t Believe She Fucked Me." Apparently, this guy is just your regular Joe living in Los Angeles, fucking beautiful women on camera to inspire the common man. This is the fantasy of Adam Wood.

Every onlooker has a camera ready to go in case the impromptu-three-way-tit-suck between some girls crammed into a booth starts up again. It’s loud, obnoxious, and complicated. Silicone genitals are laying on most tables. But the giant, jiggling butts and floppy cocks look less appealing now that they have been blackened with dirty finger prints from all the hands fondling them during the day.

Porn star James Deen’s penis is especially filthy. The actor, who recently landed a leading role in the Bret Easton Ellis film The Canyons with Lindsay Lohan, is sitting on a leather couch stuffing a chicken salad into his mouth. When I go to pick up Deen’s plastic penis, one of his booth attendees grabs my hand.

“Seriously, don’t touch it. That thing is gross,” he warns, while wincing at the grey finger prints on Deen’s veiny cock. “Seriously.”

It was only in 2010 that federal funding for abstinence-only sex education programs expired and was replaced by two evidence-based sex programs. However, abstinence-only education was reinstated by Senator Orrin Hatch in the 2010 health care reform. He only received $33 million of his asked $50 million funds. I call abstinence-only education confused because clearly it's not working. Sexting exists. Colorful jelly sex merit bracelets. Videos of teenage boys flippantly joking about rape leak to Facebook. MTV’s Teen Mom.

Jesse Jane herself was a teen mom, but her pregnancy wasn’t a product of inept sex education like most people would assume. As a teenager, the Fort Worth, Texas native was diagnosed with cervical cancer and had undergone several surgeries by the time she was 17. A specialist told her that if she ever wanted to be a mother (and the chances were very slim), she would have to get pregnant now. Jesse really wanted to be a mother. After miscarrying once, she eventually became pregnant but was very ill bringing the pregnancy to term.

“I gave birth to my son two days before my 19th birthday and on my birthday I was in the hospital having a full hysterectomy,” Jesse remembers. “People are always confused about why I would go into porn with a child, but I have more quality time with my son because I don’t work 9 to 5 like I would at Hooters, shuffling him from day care, make dinner, read a book and go to bed and everything. We live in Oklahoma so he’s not exposed to as much [of the adult industry]. I made a decision to do that.”

Jesse Jane was born Cindy Taylor and grew up a military brat. She changed schools every two years, moving all around the country based on her father’s Air Force base. She was always the new kid in school which forced her to be social. Jesse Jane exudes confidence. Not only is she intimidatingly gorgeous, with big, Disney-princess eyes, gigantic fake breasts and a tiny bird frame, but she talks - a lot. She’s not afraid of her words.

Preparations for the AVN Awards were the same cheesy sex jokes repeated over and over until the director, the stage manager, the lighting and sound technicians get all they need for things to go smoothly. Being in its 30th year, the understanding of how this show is going to go seems banal as I watch the hosts and talent acts practice during dress rehearsal. If something goes wrong, improvise. Just go with the imperfections. Kind of like sex.

Beside me, a group of four up-and-coming porn stars huddle in a group until they are called to the stage. They chat about the politics of Instagram and breast size as they simultaneously flip through their glittery iPhones. Half in Uggs and half in Jeffery Campbell-inspired hooves they tap their feet on the floor, bored and nervous.

As I watch Jesse recite lines off the prompter with her AVN Awards co-host Asa Akira (who is dressed down in yoga pants with a Hello Kitty blanket around her shoulders), I notice how much she screws up and how little she cares. No one bothers to correct her because what she is doing is actually pretty funny. She mispronounces words, she cackles, she makes every sentence sound like an over-the-top turn-on even when it’s something ridiculous about “an alligator tearing into a chicken." At one point, while spacing out looking at the ceiling, Jesse starts jacking off the microphone. Her strokes echo through the theatre. She mimics the sounds of sucking back saliva and fakes huge, globby spit onto the phallic prop in her hands. Suddenly, the director walks by and rips the microphone away from Jesse. She opens her mouth and shares a silent laugh with her co-star.

As I’m getting ready to go back to my hotel room and decompress, the B-list Ugg girls boyfriends show up. One tattooed boyfriend starts gossiping about Jesse. How she could make so much more money if she wasn’t bound to a contract and that she was making bad career choices. According to him, she isn’t utilizing her obvious talents. He slumps over in a plastic chair, staring up at Jesse on stage.

“There is a difference between porn stars and porn girls you will never know,” Jesse later tells me. “You have a shelf life. You do the free publicity: magazines, radio, social media, you do whatever you can to build your own brand and you save your money, then you invest in something so you can branch out after you retire. A porn star knows that. A porn girl parties, thinks the money will always be coming in because she’s so hot. She spends all her money because she wants Louie Vuitton shoes and stupid shit, I mean I want that too, but you have to be smart.”

Jesse sighs.

 “They should save their damn money. They are dumb. They get shot out and they start doing scenes they told themselves they would never do. Then, that is when girls usually go into hooking.”

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO ... 

To fuck or not to fuck? I feel like that’s the eternal question among girls, or at least among the neurotic “looking for love” ladies that I associate with (luv u galz!). The consequences of fucking a dude right off the bat, whether it’s a first date or just upon meeting in a bar, is that you never know what you’re going to get. But if you walk away STD and child free at the end of it, I’d say you’re doing OK.

I once went on a date with a dude that I really liked. (Well, “really liked” might be a gross exaggeration, the only time we’d ever spent together was that date, because being the sassy millennials we are, we met on Twitter, OMG LOL). It was a great date, and it’s not often that I go on great dates because every dude I meet is in a band on the side or rides a skateboard and COME ON YOU’RE 32.

Anyway at the end of the night when we were kissing by the Buck Hunter machine (literally the most romantic place you can kiss me, next to “at McDonalds”) and I could feel his massive boner pressing into my hip, I had a decision to make. I really wanted to do sex, but I wound up drunkenly slurring that blue balling phrase I think girls say because it makes them seem coy and hard to get: “I’d like to see you again so I’m not going to fuck you tonight.”

It felt like it was right decision. I did want to see this dude again, more than I wanted to get laid, which I guess is probably really mature and adult of me, who knows, maybe it’s time for me to get married and have a baby and just make sensible decisions about things like wallpaper too. He seemed totally chill with the decision, and he even communicated with me for a few days afterwards.

Then he disappeared and I never saw or heard from him again. Maybe he was mad because I blue balled him, or maybe he was “just not that into me.” Either way, the moral of the story is, if you want to see someone again, it doesn’t matter if you fuck them or don’t fuck them right away. THERE IS NO RIGHT TIME TO FUCK.

So in the immortal words of Billie Piper, the best reason to fuck is because we want to, because we want to! Here are some other reasons why you should fuck a guy ASAP:

Because You Want to Fuck
I mean, why do you do anything? (Except like, going to church with your mom at Easter or having a pap test.) Just do what you want to do when you want to do it. Actually, make sure the other person wants to do it too before you start and everything will be fine.

Because You’ll Never See Him Again
I don’t really “get” the one night stand thing. I've only had one and it was fucking horrible. The dude just rubbed one out in me and passed out, and I had to sneak out and try and get a cab at 4 AM in the freezing cold in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Maybe he was just a total cock-head. I don’t know. Maybe the right one night stand is the best looking, dumbest model on Earth and you just want to get him all up in you but not have to converse with him ever again for as long as you live.

Because You’re on the Rebound
When you’re on the rebound, the best thing you can do is just fuck everything you see, as soon as you see it.

Because You’ve Got an Itch You Just Can’t Scratch on Your Own
Have you ever had one of the days when you’re super horny? You’re at work and you can feel this weird warmth between your legs so you have to Google “ugly grandmas” to calm yourself down. And you try to solve it on your own at home, but there’s a spot your Rabbit just can't hit. So you spend the rest of the week walking around CONSTANTLY AROUSED. Times like that are a good reason to fuck as soon as you have the opportunity, and not a second later.

Because You’re Only Young and Hot Once (YOYHO)
Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror and thought “dayum, girl!” Your body is only going to look the way it does for a little bit longer. Eventually, your thighs are really going to start doing that cottage cheese in a stocking thing and your boobs are going to decide it’s finally time to check in with their downstairs neighbor, the belly button. You should definitely make this a reason to be naked and adored as much as possible.

Because It Seems Like the Dude Has A Huge Cock
If it’s soft and you can see it through his jeans, that’s a good start, but as in my case (above), sometimes you can feel it too. A huge cock isn’t always the easiest thing to maneuver, but it can be a beautiful sight to behold and a pretty solid reason to get jiggy with it.

Because It Will Be an Awesome Story
Maybe it’s just because I have a sex column at VICE, but I’m not one to turn down a weird sexual encounter. Also, it’s great “make everyone laugh and snort orange juice out of their noses at brunch” fodder.

Because You Feel Like That’s the Best Way to Get Him to Like You
LOL Punk’d. That’s a terrible reason to fuck a guy. DO NOT HAVE SEX FOR THIS REASON EVER.

Have you ever spent a Friday night at home in bed, laptop on your knees, the sickly blue glow from the screen illuminating the room just enough to make the whole scene really, really creepy? Do you click through your friends' Facebook photos furiously masturbating? No? Well, friend, get with the times, because according to the new app “Bang with Friends” everyone has a secret hard-on for their pals, and moreover, a burning desire to, as the moniker would suggest, bang with friends.

Bang with Friends allows you to peruse photos of all your Facebook friends, and anonymously select who you’d like to fuck. The friends you chose will only ever find out that you want to bone them if they want to bone you too. Are you titillated yet? Do you have a burning desire to know which of your pals completely objectify you in their alone time?

Everyone has someone in their Facebook feed who they might want to get down with. And it's likely you've got a few Facebook friends who are little more than acquaintances who you want to get to know better. Nothing wrong with that. My problem with the app is that what it boasts as being an upfront way to cut through the awkwardness of broaching sex is, in practice, a furtive and exploitative kind of gawking.

I got in contact with the founders of the app—three anonymous people who were too scared to talk on the phone, but who are apparently from California and apparently also all dudes—because I had a few issues with the functionality of the app. For instance, as a female, the site only allows me to choose from my male friends (and vice versa if you are a male), so the gay community is NOT ALLOWED TO BANG. Soz y’all. And nevermind that you’re not even consenting to have your image used on this glorified whorehouse (the founders’ email is simply “Online Pimp”), because being sexually objectified is “flattering,” just like being catcalled in the street.

Anyway, I clearly have some beef with the Online Pimps and the technological little whorehouse they’ve unwittingly employed us at in an ill-conceived attempt to revolutionize The Way We Fuck, but I’m all for you making your own decisions. See what the guys had to say—via email—below:

VICE: The three of you are dudes, right?
Bang with Friends: Yes

So do you guys usually cruise Facebook and think to yourself, I would fuck this girl. I wonder if she'd fuck me? 'Cause that's what it would seem like your thing does?
Everyone has some friends that they would throw the bone to. We're no different.

Have you ever jerked off to someone's Facebook profile?
Best question yet! Not yet, but not ruling it out.

What was your motivation in making the site? Are you looking to make money?

To cut through the pretense of dating and connect people to friends-with-benefits or more.

How do you think people will feel about having their image used as a sexual object without their consent or even knowledge?

Flattered? This happens all of the time offline and online via Facebook. We're all adults here. Let's be honest about our sexuality!

You talk about wanting to take the "awkwardness" out of sex. How is your app doing that?
It can be awkward to breach the subject of your sexual interest in a friend unless you know it's mutual. We take down that barrier. It should be something that is celebrated and open, not something anyone should feel awkward admitting is their goal.

As a woman, I find the homepage image you guys use on your site quite disturbing. An inert, faceless woman on a bed with a dress pulled up over her head doesn't exactly scream "equality for the sexes." Why did you choose a woman and not a man?
We liked the erotic, laidback, and whimsical nature of the photo. But rest assured, we'll be updating it for the ladies and gents who swing that way.

When I log on, I'm only able to see males from my friends list. Why the heteronormative standard?

To be honest, we built this in two hours and never expected it to take off. We built the most basic version we could to keep it simple and get to the result of getting people bangin' buddies! We are working on expanding it to help everyone.


I also have the option to bang my brothers, uncles, cousins, and dad. Is that something you're gonna fix?

Right now, we filter out your family members according to the ones marked as such on Facebook. We'll check into doing something beyond that.

Your emails come from "Online Pimp." Do you really see yourselves as pimps?

Tongue-in-cheek email address, really :P  We are more like the "cupids of boning."

Why are you choosing to stay anonymous?

This is growing faster than my member when Mila Kunis is half naked, so we need to get everything in line before we open up more.

You say in an interview with the Daily Beast that you'd definitely block your younger sister from using it. Why?
Frankly, we don't want to think of our innocent little sisters bangin'. Curse of the older brother I guess.  But really, if they're of age and making responsible decisions, they can go for it. Just hoping we don't advertise that they've signed up!

@Kat_Georgé

My wife’s retarded uncle, Lonnie, barely speaks, but if you put on a Beatles song he’ll sing all the words. Doesn’t matter what song—he knows them all. Recognizing his Beatle love, the family makes it a point to buy him Fab Four collectibles for his birthday and Christmas. He has tons and tons of memorabilia: books, T-shirts, dolls, records, mugs, photo prints, bobbleheads, and so on and so on.

What he does not have, however, is a Beatles tattoo on his butthole. (All tattoo artists should be thankful for that because Lonnie doesn’t know how to wipe. Thankfully over the years he’s taken to showering after every poop. Before he started doing that though… it was a bad scene.)

I “review” records for my friend, Joanna Angel’s website, BurningAngel.com, much the same way I “review” porn for VICE. Recently I was on her site and was floored by a gal named Zarrah Angel and her tattoo. It’s rare that I get excited about a tattoo. Maybe at the turn of the century I’d have been more inclined to give a second look, but in 2013 I’ve seen enough anchors, skulls, and sacred hearts to get a cat through his nine lifetimes. Yet Zarrah’s tattoo caught my eye, or rather, her butthole caught my eye, and I happened to notice the words “Let It Be” tattooed just above it.

Man! She loves the Beatles even more than Lonnie, I thought. I had to interview the blossoming new porn starlet/cam gal and ask her about the long and winding road that leads to getting your butthole tattooed. I flew out to LA days after her first double big scene so we could debate for hours who was better: Lennon or McCartney. Sadly, the conversation was rather brief.

Click on the image to see Zarrah's butthole.

VICE: When did you get into the Beatles?
Zarrah: I’m not really even that into the Beatles. This tattoo was just a funny idea. It didn’t have anything to do with the Beatles.

You have “Let It Be” tattooed on your butthole and you’re not into the Beatles???
I’m not against the Beatles, I know a bunch of their songs, but I’m not a huge fan.

Then why did you get “Let It Be” tattooed on your butthole? Are you not into anal sex?
No, I’m into anal sex, definitely. I got it because we got drunk and it was just a really funny idea and my friend said he’d do it for free. I sat on it for a couple days and was finally like, “Man, I’m gonna get a butthole tattoo that says “Let It Be” with a bumblebee flying out!”

You didn’t spell it like a bumblebee. Why?
I don’t know. It’s funny. It’s cool. I like it. It’s unique.

But, but, but—
You sound like you’re disappointed that I’m not a Beatles fan and there’s no huge meaning behind it.

I thought you were the world’s biggest Beatles fan!
I’m totally not!

If you were a big Rolling Stones fan would you have gotten “Let It Bleed”?
No, I would have gotten the Rolling Stones tongue.

Does your butthole ever bleed?
No. Not that I know of. My vagina bleeds.

The other day you had your first double anal—no bleeding?
No, I was scared too. I was like, “Is this healthy? Is this right? Should I be doing this?” But Joanna Angel said it was OK so it was OK. I was just doing my best impression of Joanna, that’s all. In my head I was like, “Hi. I’m Joanna and I’m a slut.” And it worked.

Do your mom and dad know you have “Let It Be” tattooed on your butthole?
I don’t know. I know my mom knows I have a butthole tattoo but I don’t know if she knows what it is.

How does she know? Has she seen it?
I told her. I just said I had a butthole tattoo. I don’t have a filter and sometimes I say things I shouldn’t say.

Didn’t she also accidentally find out you’re in porn?
Yeah. I left a Burning Angel contract in our scanner and I came home and she asked me about it.

So what did it feel like to get your butthole tattooed?
It hurt really bad. It’s the most painful tattoo ever, but it was quick so it wasn’t that terrible. It hurt a lot in the crack. Once it went onto my ass cheek it wasn’t that bad.

Technically, it’s not really on your butthole. It’s an inch above your butthole.
Yeah, it’s my butt crack above my butthole.

Why didn’t you get your actual butthole tattooed if you were going for effect?
Because it looked good right there. I honestly couldn’t tell where they were tattooing it. I thought it was closer to the butthole, but it’s still cool.

I saw one butthole tattoo on the actual butthole that said LOVE STINKS.
Yeah, I’ve seen a chick that has BUTT SLUT on her butthole and it goes onto her girls’ gouch, like that piece between the vagina and butthole. But I’m the original butthole tattoo girl. I did it before it was cool. There’s a viral video of this other chick with a butthole tattoo and she’s super-cracked out or real drunk. She seems real off. She made it look really bad. She made it look really trashy. I think it says her boyfriend’s name and she got it done at a tattoo convention all sloshed in front of tons of people and she was acting like an idiot. That chick makes butthole tattoos look really bad.

I think it fades if you get the actual butthole done because the butthole is used so much.
Yeah, so I got it on a good place. I did that on purpose.

Yeah, it’ll last forever so you can show your kids one day.
It’s actually a very vivid tattoo still after three years. It’s in there pretty good.

Do you get people who just want to be your friend because you have a butthole tattoo?
Probably. I have people who want to be my friend because I’m so awesome. A lot of people want to be my friend because I do porn.

You also do cam shows. How much would it cost to pay you to listen to the Beatles while you play with your butthole?
If you’re paying me, I’m down.

How much? The song “Let It Be” is four minutes and three seconds long. How much would you charge for a four-minute cam show?
Man, for you I’d probably do it for $50 and I’d charge everyone else $100. Which is kind of a lot for just four minutes of butthole play, but it’s a tough life when you have a butthole tattoo because everyone wants to see it. I show it at bars all the time for free drinks. I’ll be really drunk with my friends who are really obnoxious and say, “Yeah, she’s a porn star and she has a butthole tattoo!” Then everyone gets curious and I don’t care so I show my butthole tattoo.

Ever pull it out at weddings?
No, never been to a wedding.

Bat mitzvah?
Never been to a bat mitzvah.

A retirement party?
Does my grandma’s house count? Is that weird?

You showed your grandma?
No! My grandma doesn’t even know I have an upside down cross on my chest. She would probably have a heart attack and die. She’s super Christian. She’s always handing me Bible pamphlets.

Is that why you got it? To be a rebel?
No. I was 18 and thought I was so metal with a big upside down cross on my chest. I cannot wait to do something with it and make it pretty so I can wear nice shirts and not get mean-mugged by 80-year-olds. But I’m keeping my butthole tattoo forever. That tattoo is awesome. That tattoo is still going to look awesome when I’m 80, when my butthole has 15 hemorrhoids.

For more Zarrah photos go to her Burning Angel page.

Or you can book her for private Cam shows to see her tattoo in all its glory on Twitter.

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com or twitter.com/Nieratko

Above is a music video that Bam Margera just released. In it, he raps about fucking himself in his own ass for a few minutes, before pissing in his own mouth. 

Obviously, it's terrible. I was just getting ready to send it to everyone I know so we could all LOL together, but then somebody pointed out to me that it might be satire, rather than Bam actually attempting to make something that people might find funny. And now I'm in two minds.

Reasons Why It Might Be Satire:

– It features every pop music video cliche of the last few years: flares, babes in a pool, babes in the back of a car, babes in a desert, standing on a car in the desert, a stupid dubstep breakdown, rave synths that sound like Velcro, etc. And this is Bam, remember, he loves really alt shit like skateboarding and HIM, so I bet he really, really hates pop music. I bet he uses words like "fake" and "posers" when describing it :(

– He is wearing headphones to help him with the lip-synching. This suggests it was turned around very, very quickly. 

– OK, so it's a piece of shit that's not gonna be remade for IMAX any time soon, but multiple people clearly worked on this video. If he were genuinely attempting to be funny, somebody would have stepped in and stopped him. It would have been cruel not to.

– He pisses in his own mouth in the video. This is a comment on how modern pop music is repulsively, self-celebrating, and recycles the same shit (or piss) over and over again, just like that Pitchfork review of Jet.

– Ditto the above, but replace "pisses in his own mouth" with "bends dick to his own ass."

– The "chorus" is: "I wanna bend my dick to my ass so I can fuck myself." The implications of a person saying this and genuinely thinking it's funny are too depressingly wide-reaching to even begin thinking about. 

Reasons Why It's Probably Not Satire:

– It's Bam Margera.

– He literally pisses in his own mouth in the video.

– It's Bam Margera. 

Fuck the internet. When did laughing at stuff get so complicated? Remember the days when you could just mock something without having to worry about whether or not you were being trolled, or it was a piece of viral marketing? I miss those days. From now on I'm only watching old episodes of You've Been Framed when I want to laugh. 

Can someone with more time than me please figure out if this is for real or not and lemme know in the comments? I don't want to spend another second thinking about it. Also, I just found out that Steve-O now does a show where people have to sing karaoke while doing Fear Factor type challenges. So I'm gonna be spending the rest of my day watching videos of small women singing country songs while they cry because they are being dunked into pools full of snakes.

Follow Jamie on Twitter: @JLCT

More from Glen Coco:

I Tried to Create Some Tumblr Rap Memes

I Trolled Some Kanye West Fans

OK, Do It: Teach Me How to "Get" Art

On the corner of 6th and Gladys in Downtown Los Angeles, there is a little park surrounded by a heavy green fence, which is locked tight at this time of night. I've seen it in the daytime and it looks nice. It’s clean and quiet, with umbrellas over picnic tables and a little sand-filled playground. I can see the shadows of the street tramps who have climbed over the fence to collapse for a few hours until the sun comes up and ruins everything. I'm at the four-way stop deciding which way to go. A drug dealer is at one corner and a whore at the other. I ignore the dealer and wave my eyebrows at the whore. They both start toward me. The whore gets to me first and I tell her 15 dollars for some pictures, somewhere close by.

"Boobies," she says. "You want to take pictures my motherfuckin’ boobies?"

I tell her yeah, that's a good idea, hop in, and then I unlock the passenger door. She runs around the front of the car to climb aboard and passes by the drug dealer as he walks over to my side.

He asks me what I want, and carries himself like he doesn't need an excuse to pull me out through the window and stomp on my head.

I tell him I've already got what I want, have a nice night and keep the faith. I screw up my face and sneer, pretending I’m capable of grabbing him by the ears, pulling him in through the window, and knocking out his last three teeth.

He’s not intimidated. "What you want?" he asks me again. "Don't be acting shit with me," his volume is increasing.

The whore has made her way to the passenger seat. "He wants me you stupid motherfucker," she tells him. He gets it now, but I don't think he understands how anyone would pay for her rather than a pipeful of rocket fuel. He shrugs and goes back to his corner. I buzz up the window and turn right.

I ask my companion if she knows a private space where we can make art. She tells me go this way and then go that way.

"I got big motherfuckin' boobies," she says. "That way, that way over there, stop here stop here."

It's not a good space; no more private than the corner we started from and less scenic.

"It's just a white wall," I say. "I'd like a better background. Let's look around a little more. I know a spot close by."

It's too late; she's already got her door open and her feet on the asphalt. "Give me the money," she says. "Come on, give me the money."

"Relax, give me a minute." I kill the headlights and the ignition, set the hand brake and get out of the car, putting the keys in my pants pocket. There is a broken guy trying to die three light poles away making a point of not watching. I have 60 dollars in tens and fives rolled up in my right pocket. I attempt, as is my method, to peel the three fives from my pocket without revealing I have more where that came from. She sees the wad and says I should give her another five to make it an even 20 ‘cause just look how big her motherfuckin’ boobies. I agree and give her the cash.

She pulls up her shirt and shows me her breasts. "Go on take my motherfuckin’ picture. Hurry up, I don't want to be here."

I'm wearing my camera and flash and I'm using my clear acrylic hook cane, which doubles as a weapon I hope to never use. I go to move her a few yards to a more colorful background.

"No, no way," she says. "You take your motherfuckin' pictures here."

I try to give her a nudge but I get too close and she takes a swipe at me. "Alright, alright," I say. "Just stand here." I manage to get her next to a light pole. I back up and focus and tell her to look at me and I make an exposure. She tells me she's all done and I say one more, realizing I should have held back that last five bucks for incentive. She bends over, looks both ways up and down the street, and I make another exposure. I figure the money is hot in her pocket and she wants to get high as soon as possible, but I'm still surprised when she pulls down her shirt and takes off running. I watch her go and then I push a button on the back of the Nikon and look at the images.

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. Buy it here.

For more on Scot read this and this.

To witness Ron Jeremy have intercourse is to witness a grizzly bear eat a flamingo, or an orphan try to break into a vending machine. He is a manifestation of the grotesque male id, jamming fingers and genitals into every orifice at every opportunity, doing all of these things simultaneously, not making sense, not following some plan, just a man bludgeoning the human body with his sexual impulses. It is like watching a chimpanzee try to open the package of an Xbox controller.

You don't masturbate to Ron Jeremy having sex, because using a Ron Jeremy scene to masturbate is like using a volcano to barbecue—it’s probably healthier to stand back and watch it have its way with the innocent. For Candy Stripers 2, a 1985 film about a hospital and doctors pretending to look at pieces of paper, Jeremy won the AVN award for Best Supporting Actor. During an early scene, he’s sitting at a desk in his office while one of his nurses gives him a shoulder massage. They kiss and then he pulls away and scowls, as if he is disgusted with himself for being incapable of literally inhaling another human being. His breathing sounds like an 18-wheeler accelerating from a dead stop.

Women have always been the focus in pornography, with their exaggerated screams and contorted faces, because the male viewers who live vicariously through porn, eternally narcissistic and insecure, protective of their fragile egos, need the women to be Totally Loving That Cock. But Jeremy is central to his scenes. He is not, like most anonymous porn cocks, coolly detached or numb to the act; he is a strange loser, a figure we can relate to as he grunts and celebrates that he is having sex at all. There is no macho dehumanization; he calls women’s breasts “boobies” and their butts “tushies.” He says this to their faces, to the camera. He calls them “hunny” and puts a towel on the ground to protect their knees if they are going to give him a blowjob outdoors. He has a real, honest fascination with the female body. His eyes glaze over, bewildered, lustful, grateful that he is alive and this woman is alive and that he is allowed to touch her parts.  

In Erotic Starlets 22, from 1987, Jeremy sits on a couch in a navy blue tracksuit next to Christy Canyon, who is wearing only a bra and underwear. When Canyon takes her bra off, Jeremy makes a face like he has witnessed the moon landing while on opiates, like he has come home to find Cleopatra playing Wii Fit in his living room. You could argue with great confidence that there has never been as sincere a human response to an event as Ron Jeremy looking at a woman’s breasts. You can say pornography is artificial and explicit and caters to our most septic compulsions, but Jeremy is not misogynistic or dishonest.

“Ron Jeremy, Big-Dicked Hedonist Icon” is a subject that’s been discussed over and over and does not warrant much reconsideration. But “Ron Jeremy, Devourer of Women,” revisited in the context of the porn you most recently watched, is sort of a revelation. Modern male porn stars are supercharged fuck robots, seemingly immune to the emotions and sensations normal people experience during sex—the act is just furious, constant, mechanical motion. Jeremy’s sex scenes are totally carnal, exposed, and human. He has to pull out every three minutes to strangle the base of his penis and tell the girls to stop bringing him so close to having an orgasm. Jeremy’s performances are unsexy and weird, but their dysfunctionality is captivating. He’s a shriveled man covered in back hair, glistening, hunched over, with a stomach so massive, so swollen and perfectly spherical it looks like his bellybutton is going to pop out and send him flying around the room like a deflating helium balloon.

It is nearly impossible to care less or show less of a concern with your public appearance than Ron Jeremy does. He wears button-down shirts with metallic flames on them and T-shirts for the spectacularly awful rock band Hinder. He dresses like someone whose house burned down and instead of money his insurance company gave him a gift card to Kohl's. He is built like Dr. Robotnik. He looks like a generic, slightly racist mascot of a frozen pizza brand. He is very obviously bald, but maintains the long, brittle, greasy black strands that hang down the back of his head like an animal pelt drying in a West Virginia cellar. He exists perpetually in a state of recently-divorced dad—shirt untucked, sometimes no shirt at all, always looking as if the room he is in is one he wandered into accidentally, but he'll hang out for a bit because he is out of canned beans and Wheel of Fortune doesn't start for 16 minutes anyway. He looks permanently covered in warm mayonnaise and old steel wool.

Male porn archetypes usually have one defining characteristic: black, or vaguely European, or “alternative” (wears flannel). But Jeremy is just a kind of lumpy, sweaty problem. Porn actors are aloof and indistinct, and most of them are just attractive enough that it’s conceivable that this woman would fuck the UPS guy, but they’re always innocuous and forgettable. They are an instrument, a tool. But Jeremy is so undeniably there, he is happening all over you, and you have to deal with it.

His Twitter feed reads like someone doing a vaudeville act on a cruise ship while periodically thrusting his erect penis at your grandmother. He sounds like a less manic Dom Deluise and speaks in sentences that are less sequences of words and punctuation than they are rapid hums of crass, recycled double-entendres. During a scene in Jurassic Cock: Old Geezer Massage with Jennifer White, who is Jewish, he says, “You know the difference between Jewish girls and a pound of Jell-O? Jell-O jiggles when you eat it. Let’s see if we can change that.” He is the XXX version of Henny Youngman.

He has endorsed hot sauces, skateboards, and male enhancement pills. He has his own brand of rum. There is a shamelessness, a willingness to debase himself and wring every cent and ounce of notoriety out of a wrinkled, fat man’s sexual prowess that seems so purely, triumphantly American. In a 1997 interview with Salon, he talked about hoping to eventually get out of the porn business. Sixteen years later, he appeared in something called Pee-Wee’s XXX Adventure: A Porn Parody. He has pursued mainstream acting, but his roles in movies and music videos are not so much characters as they are symbols of late-20^th century depravity, of everyman triumphs and the possibility of dollar-and-a-dream upward mobility in this country. He can only play Ron Jeremy.

He is the down-for-whatever schlub, planting his face on everything, because he has no priorities besides sitting in this chair or fucking that girl. He has perfected the art of outward apathy and indifference. This is a Jewish man from Queens who named his brand of rum "Ron de Jeremy” and once showed up to an interview wearing crocs and sweatpants. He has smashed pretension as a concept into a thousand pieces. He revels in the improbability of everything he does. He is gross, he is naked, he does not care. We are still watching.

John Saward likes O.V. Wright and eating guacamole with no pants on. He lives in Connecticut. Follow him on Twitter @RBUAS.

There comes a moment in every American cocksucker’s (and I use that term as an honorific) life when he/she pulls down a pair of trousers and is met not with a well-shorn sailor, but a hooded monk. Yes, I'm talking about the rare occasion (in America and Israel, at least) when you wind up with a foreskin in your hands. And, eventually, mouth.

As we all know, not every dink is created equal, and dealing with one of the uncut variety offers its own unique pleasures and challenges. I interviewed a bunch of uncut gay guys (the only demographic that has been on both the receiving and giving end of this particular activity) and they offered some simple tips for giving a long-skinned dude the beej of his lifetime.

The first thing to remember is that size DOES matter. Not only the length of the dong, but the size of the foreskin, too. Some foreskins will be tight as a drum when the penis is hard, while others have a bit of turkey neck dangling down even at full mast. How much they have will decide what you can do with it. Make sure you don't stretch a tight one, and be sure to diddle the ones with wiggle room generously.

The typical response from a cocksucker who isn’t used to having some extra dick slack is to Thermalift that shit by just pulling the foreskin back and pretending like it's not there. Big mistake. "My head is really sensitive," says Richard from San Francisco, who, like most uncut guys, is more sensitive than his snipped brothers (that's what happens when your head isn't numbed by rubbing inside your jeans every day for countless years). "If the skin is back it's really intense and feels good, but sometimes it's too intense. They're going down like it's a cut dick, and it's quite painful. They have to give it a break and switch it up." If the penis gets agitated, the best thing to do is give it a break by re-covering the head with the foreskin.

But not too much! Adam from Philadelphia cautions, "You have to pull the foreskin back a little. It doesn't feel like anything if you're just sucking the skin over the head." So, it needs to come back to the top, but don’t turn it into an empty Chinese finger trap. Got it?

No wonder everyone freaks out when they see a foreskin—those things are complicated. Pull it back, but not too far; push it forward, but not too much; don’t use it as a coin purse… the list goes on and on. The biggest thing to remember, though, is that unlike a cut cock, when dealing with an uncircumcised member you can grip hard and really work the skin.

"I like it when someone is using their hands during a blow job and pulling the foreskin over the head repeatedly. You should be pulling it over and then pulling it back. It feels like masturbating and that makes me want to cum," Adam says. You don't need your tonsils working the head when the guy’s skin will provide all the friction it needs. Just remember—when you're dealing with friction there can be pain. "Keeping the head wet is the key, I think. There is a point where it crosses over to just hurting the guy from rubbing too much," says Manny from New York.

Now that we have the basic bobbing technique down, here are some next-level tips that you can tell him your gay best friend taught you.

This is a move that was mentioned across the board: "Start by putting your tongue in it and rolling around in it. That drives guys crazy," Adam said and all the other beskinned gentleman agreed. Apparently this a go-to for any self-respecting foreskin pleasure-r.

After shoving your tongue all up in there, give your man’s slack some attention of its own. If he has lots of hood, suck on it and give it little nibbles, just be careful. "I like to be rough and in charge so I would bite more than someone else," says Richard. "Start off gently, and depending on the reaction maybe do it a little more. It’s like nipples—some are sensitive and some aren't." Adam says that biting on the foreskin isn't for a first-time encounter, and that you might want to ask a guy before chowing down on his shaft.

Now, if you really want to go for the chrome medal (you know, as in sucking it off a bumper) Manny has a recommendation that is really complicated but absolutely amazing. "One thing I like is doing the OPPOSITE move to the foreskin that you're doing to the dick. Like, when you're going down on the dick, pull the foreskin up, and when you're going up on the dick, push the foreskin down. If done right it can be great."

These tips are a good jumping off point, but like everything in sex, communication is key. If you have no clue what you're doing, ask the person on the other side of that cock what he wants. And remember: practice makes perfect, you slut.

Previously - How to Get Laid at the Gym

@BrianJMoylan

Meet Anna, a Ukrainian prostitute who is originally from Odessa, but who is currently living and thriving in the sex-for-money business in Holland. After I met her in an online porn chatroom, we got chatting and she started telling me all sorts of things about her life, like how she had got to Holland, what makes Russian clients worse than others and why adorable puppies live in her cottage in Rotterdam.

VICE: Anna, how did you get into prostitution?
Anna: I've been working as a prostitute for over 30 years now. For the first 15 years I worked in Ukraine and then I migrated to Holland. Soon after we got married, my husband caught me in bed with another man. Realising I was liable to this sort of behaviour, he decided to use my body to further his own career. So I began to get intimate with his bosses and later with his business partners.  

Did you earn money this way?
It was my husband who got the money – I never laid eyes on it. His career development was rapid. I'm not with him any more, but to this day he's still involved in the illegal gun and petroleum trades. He’s a very well-to-do person in Ukraine.

When did you guys break up?
As soon as I left for Holland. The owner of the brothel I work for now used to have a stake in my ex-husband’s business. They exchanged me for the guy's part of my ex-husband's company.

So your husband sold you into sex slavery?
Yes, I suppose so, though I have no idea how much my value would be in Pound Sterling. I do know they both benefited greatly from this exchange. That's how my husband began signing arms contracts with the Arabs. And to think it all began as a joke. I had already had sex with my future owner and he had taken me to the East several times, as his escort. He let a throng of Arabs have sex with me – and they tend to like kinky sex, mostly anal. I also love it.

I didn't mind being traded, either. My husband got absorbed in his business and could hardly find any time to spend with me. My parents were aware of the situation and they stood by him. Friends of mine didn’t care much, they supported that decision too, some even joined our brothel later on, so we have plenty of things in common.

It seems the women you work with are all of a certain age.
Yes, our club employs women who are from 40 to 57 years old. The owner says that adolescents cause too much trouble – we lack in morality, we never refuse and we are much more experienced.

How did you manage to immigrate? I would imagine writing down on your VISA application that you were intending to practice prostitution could have created some problems.
I had a VISA back then but now I’m a Dutch national. The procedure wasn’t really a big deal, we have powerfull clients with ties everywhere. Also, prostitution in Holland is not illegal.

What are your duties?
The average client of our club is a VIP, lots are from television. It's fun to get to see what they are all worth. We have reckless four-hour, 16-people orgies. Sometimes I’m hired as a “bitch”. I have to stand on all fours and let dogs fuck me. I'm up for anything except for scat, which is just as well, since my boss doesn't let clients do that any more.

I er, don't really know what to say.
I can give the job up any time I want, but I don’t intend to – I enjoy it. Sex with animals, BDSM, gang bangs, anything goes – I just like fucking.

About the dogs, where do you get them from? Do they live in the club? Are they especially trained to have sex with people?
There are special dog farms in many countries that train dogs to do just that, I know at least two of the kind in Russia. I personally work as a trainer in such farms in Germany, Belgium and Sweden. The employ me to help the dogs get used to the human female. After about half a year of concentrated effort, the dogs fuck like devils and I love it. Of course these special dogs aren't cheap at all. I also have two dogs living in my cottage and they have never fucked with other dogs, only with humans. Often the clients will bring dogs of their own, these are of course trained dogs, too.

They bring the dogs to the brothel?
No, only talks and presentations take place in our club. The rest happens at the clients’. They all are well-heeled and have huge houses. There are dog enclosures and special basements for BDSM. They look like the basements Gestapo used to torture people.

Do you ever work with Russians in Holland?
I don’t choose the clients, my boss does. But yes, former compatriots do visit; they are the worst when it comes to private parties. They always demand I do everything, even drink from a glass they have pissed in, for example. Of course they pay loads of money, even more than we ask.

Have you ever wished to become a mother?
I have children with my ex-husband, but they are all adults now with lives of their own. They work with my ex-husband, too. We get on well, they know that I live in the house with the dogs and visit me from time to time. My ex-husband visits me when he happens to be in the area as well.

Do you have any advice to pass on to Ukrainian women who are thinking of taking up prostitution?
I’ll advise them to keep cautious, be aware of their rights. Otherwise they are likely to be sold to Arabs as slaves; I’ve seen this happen a lot. Thank God my husband and my boss haven't let that happen to me.

More times humans have done gross stuff to animals:

The Government Want to Stop This Guy Boning His Dog

Conclusive Proof That There Is No God and Humans Are Essentially Evil

Who's Been Murdering Manchester's Sheep?

Among all the glossies of me as a totally hot teen with overly plucked eyebrows and white flared, low-rise jeans, several albums spanning two years of my pubescence stood out. In almost every picture in those albums I was clutching a babe with a Craig David chin-strap and frosted tips. This, dear friends, was my high school sweetheart.

We met online. I was obsessed with being Greek, and he was obsessed with trance music, which is how I, ^Da_LiL_MaRiA^, met him, MinistryOfSound, in an mIRC, (a service we Australians used instead of AIM) chat room for a local Melbourne radio station that had DJs with names like Alex Dyslexia who spoke perfect English with thick Mediterranean accents.

Who would have thought that at age 15, one simple request delivered as a little acronym—a/s/l—would have led me to a lifetime’s worth of firsts: the first time I met someone online, the first time I fell in love, the first time I had oral sex, and indeed the first time I had penis and vagina sex. It was also the first time I ever let a guy pour honey over my tits and lick it off. And the last, thankfully.

Of all the photos of us together, one evoked the sweetest recollections. It was from his school dance in 2000. He was a couple of years older than I was and went to an all boys Catholic school near my stuffy private girl’s school. The Catholic boys were known for being sort of bad ass, so I felt like the coolest girl in my grade for attending their dance—especially because he had a car, and did I mention the frosted tips?

I was dressed as if Rachel from Friends threw up all over me: a floor-length strapless gown that was ruched across the middle and pencil-thin eyebrows, translucent Christina Ricci skin, a bouffant “half-up-half-down” hairdo, and deep plum lipstick. He wore a satin tie. I also had on those strappy stilettos that lace up your calf. I know because I found them tucked away in the back of my wardrobe as well.

The dance was in the ballroom of a swanky hotel, and the boys had rented a couple of hotel rooms upstairs to host an after party—do you see where this is going? My parents wouldn’t let me stay the night at the boys' hotel rooms station because they had all just turned 18 and could drink legally in Australia. But I was dead set on growing up that night. I didn’t think I was ready for sex, but I wanted to blow my boyfriend bad.

We hadn’t been dating more than six months at the time, and I was very much a virgin. He’d had sex with a few girls before me, which was exhilirating, but I distinctly remember not being ready to have sex anyway. These days a few glasses of wine and being told I look like Natalie Portman is all it takes to get me in the swing of things, but alcohol hadn’t any kind of tangible affect on my sex decisions then. I was sober and chaste, even though I dressed like a mob wife. It was all very cute and sort of ugly at the same time.

Halfway through the dance we made our way up to the hotel room. In the elevator, I reiterated that I still wasn’t ready to have sex. But my body was electric—I knew I wanted to be touched and to touch. From the minute I put that dress earlier in the evening some kind of energy propelled me forward. 

“But you know,” I said, “I want to try and maybe do some other stuff.” Other stuff I was ready for. Up until that point I’d only ever been fingered and dry humped by teenage boys, and I suppose you could say I was hopeful that things were going to get better (if you’ve ever been fingered or dry humped by a teenage boy, then you’ll understand).

In the hotel room we started making out. And more than the dance, the conversation in the elevator, or anything else that happened that night, I distinctly remember him on his knees minutes later. I was perched on the edge of the bed with my legs wide open, and he slipped off my g-string. That was the first time anyone ever went down on me, and I pretended to enjoy it but really, I was way too sober and inside my own head about it to relax and let it happen. I was desperately trying to commit every detail to memory, more excited by the act of it happening than the feeling it was giving me. 

The weirdest thing about it is that I don’t even remember if I gave him a blowjob—my first ever blowjob—or not. I’m fairly sure it happened that night, but really, the only thing I know for sure is that I felt elated to have had my pussy eaten in a hotel room while I wore a slinky gown. It was the most grownup and sexually relevant I’d ever felt. I was now a partially participating member in the world of adult lust, and it made me feel disproportionately wise.

I also remember our descent back into the party below. As I went to put my knickers back on, he stopped me.

“Don’t,” he said, “it will be sexier without them.”

I stuffed them into my purse, and we walked hand in hand to the elevator. When it came, we silently got in still holding hands. As the doors closed he looked at me.

“I love you,” he said. I don’t know if he’d ever said it to me before, but it was by far the loveliest time I’d ever heard it said.

“I love you too,” I returned. As the doors opened onto the function hall, I squeezed his hand and walked out into the party. And I did love him—as recklessly and thoughtlessly as you can love someone when you’re a teenager. It was his face that I had chosen to rub my vagina all over. So high on the feeling of loving and being loved by someone other than my mother and flushed with the blush of a first-time sexual encounter, I danced for the rest of the night  without any underpants on until my parents came to pick me up.

@Kat_George

Previously:

Why Period Sex Is the Best Sex

It's only January 2 and your New Year's resolution is already screwed. Look at you, bumming cigarettes from your friends, having just one toke before you go to work, and huffing glue in the bathroom like no one is going to notice when you walk back to your desk with heavy lids and a faintly chemical smell about you. Well, I'm here to help.

One of the most common resolutions (after always remembering to take your birth control pills and not texting your ex at 3 AM) is losing weight and going to the gym more often. But no one really wants to do that. Cupcakes taste so good and a Game of Thrones marathon is way more inviting than a bunch of crazy-looking machines that make you contort your body like a monkey at the circus. But what if you could get laid every time you went to the gym? It's possible. Every time. Here are some tips.

Most guys approach the gym like Clint Eastwood walking into a shootout: they want to be alone, they want to be very serious, and they'll kill anyone who comes near them. That is the exact opposite of the attitude you need if you want to score some gym-toned ass. Rather than hitting the free weights all alone, you need to join a class. Yes, classes are for girls, but that is exactly the point, my man. Get in the class, work up a sweat, make eyes at the hottie next to you in the mirror, and then offer to buy her a smoothie when you're done. Bam! You'll be showering together at her house in no time.

Don’t do anything really stupid like Zumba or urban dance cardio or some shit, because that will make you look like an elephant joining the ballet. But don't go for anything too intense like Ultimate Abs or Bis, Tris, and Size either. You don’t want to end up the fresh meat for a bunch of guys who are working on the six-packs in their pecs (unless, of course, you do). Try yoga or spin class or something middle-of-the road that appeals to hotties who might be impressed by your fitness initiative.

When you get there, don't pretend like you are the king of the class. Straight guys tend to think that they're the fucking Tarzan of whatever gym they happen to be at and with enough grunts and muscle flexes everyone will pay attention to them. Yes, that is true, but they'll only be looking at you because you are a dillhole. Someone confident in the gym can moisten the driest vagina, but if you want to get your dick in, don't be a dick about it.

Ladies, however, can use a man's Tarzan inclinations to their advantage. Just ask a guy for help. It's the oldest trick in the book, but it's sure to work. Just play to his vanity and go with something like, "Hey, buddy, you got some killer arms. Any tricks you can show me?" Next thing you know he'll have you bent over a workout bench with his hands all over you, “improving your form.” You don't have to act like a total ditz, though. After all, you're at the gym so you should know the fundamentals. But making the guy think that he's so hot he can make you look better is going to make him harder than a barbell rod.

As we all know, men are dogs, so you ladies will want to keep your look snatched together while you're working out. Don't show up in full makeup like your Donatella Versace out to do the stair climber for 30 minutes. That just looks like, well, you're trying to find a bologna pony to ride at the gym. Go with a nice tight ponytail and a cute outfit that's a little on the tight side (which is what most workout gear looks like these days anyway). Keep a towel with you to remove moisture from the face. Everyone loves big boobs, but not when you're running on a treadmill and they're flailing around like a drunk trying to ice skate. A sports bra is your best friend (and makes quite a fetching top).

Guys, there is one last option that is open to you and not the women: the steam room. Oh, there is one in the ladies' locker room too, but the shenanigans you'll find in yours don't go on in hers. The steam room is like a modern masturbatorium. When you get a group of guys together in a foggy room with the testosterone pumping, there are going to be some fists pumping as well. Just sit there in your towel with your hand over your crotch and wait for someone else to pick up your signal. You don't need to be gay to enjoy an audience or a helping hand. And, hey, if the chance of someone blowing you in a moist hot room gets you into the gym for an hour a few times a week, this might be the first resolution you actually stick to.

Previously - Hey Straight People, You're Using Sex Drugs Wrong

@BrianJMoylan

The only experience I had with strippers before watching the Power of the Pussy was with this nasty drug-addled British performer named Debbie Dumpling, who had breast that looked like rotten watermelons and a face only a mother or a creep with a BBW fetish could love. She "danced" at my 21st birthday celebration and pretty much ruined strippers for me because every time I've seen an erotic dancer since, I've been instantly reminded of Debbie's stank outhouse odor. But Power of the Pussy, the new YouTube documentary series about strippers at Atlanta, Georgia's famed Magic City, helped wipe away the bad taste Debbie left in my mouth and give me a newfound appreciation for the revelatory power of erotic dancing and the women who do it. The show allowed me to see strippers not as disease-infested creatures of the night, but strong artistic entertainers who grind to get what they want in the world on their own terms. This behind the scenes look at the most shouted-out titty bar in world gives you insider insight into the fears these dancers have starting out, the situations that brought them to stripping, and how they've gone beyond simply taking their clothes off to create a form of entertainment that splices many different types of dance together. Power of the Pussy also made me wonder why am I interning at VICE for free, when I could be dancing on stage making a shitload of money. Considering all of this, I called up director Artemus Jenkins and retired-stripper/pole fitness instructor Gigi Maguire to talk about the new show, the difference between stripping and entertaining, and how to use my vagina for power. 

VICE: Do you think your pussy is the key to your power?
Gigi Maguire: Money, power, and respect. First, you get the money, then you get the power. And when you get the power, then motherfuckers will respect you... In the words of Lil’ Kim.

That’s true.
Women have the power. That’s why the title of the documentary is what it is. We don’t go looking to men for entertainment or company or to have someone to talk to or whatever.

You look sexy. Do you feel sexy?
At the end of the day, I got into stripping for the money. You don't strip because you want to dance naked. I don’t know anybody who wants to go up and dance on stage naked in front of strangers. 

When I think of a stripper, I think of a chunky, white trash woman named Debbie. But this documentary seems to show a more glorified type of stripper.
Stripping is becoming more mainstream because the ball players and rappers are coming to see us and talk about us. People are beginning to see us in a different light. Before, there were a lot of rachet clubs and hole-in-the-wall places that were near truck stops and airports. The girls were not as enticing and were more into drugs and prostitution. Now, these strippers are like celebrities. These girls are glorified for what they do and for having these amazing bodies and skill. Once you get hip-hop to start talking about it, then it goes to the moon from there because hip-hop is the driving force behind our culture these days.

What's the difference between a stripper and an entertainer?
There is a large difference between a stripper and an entertainer. A stripper isn’t going to give you much entertainment. They are just going to take their clothes off, booty shake, and their show isn’t going to be much of a show. An entertainer is going to wow you with their performance. That performance is going to be so great that when they don’t take their clothes off, it doesn’t even matter. Or you don't even realize that they didn't take off their clothes because you were so amazed by the tricks they presented in their performance.

_{Gigi Maguire}

Mr. Jenkins, how much time did you spend at the strip clubs before you thought of shooting a documentary?
Artemus Jenkins: After you go to so many strip clubs, ass and titties start to look the same. That's what happened. So, I started talking to people. That's when I found out that strippers did stuff outside stripping, like go to school and get degrees.

But you don’t have a pussy. How did you know pussy has the power?
I found out from the women who I interviewed. They use their pussies for independence. Power, to me, represents independence. I think people assume strippers are victims. But I learned that isn’t always the case.

So do you think this documentary will show the world that strippers have brains?
I think people could find out on an individual basis. A lot of these women are smart, good, well-rounded people. Unfortunately, it isn’t widely known that these girls aren't lowlifes.

Gigi: Before I’m a stripper, I’m a mother, I’m a woman, I’m a business owner. It’s those positive things that comprise who I am. Not to say that stripping is negative, but people look at stripping in a negative light and don’t understand everything else that comes along with the lifestyle and the job itself. They also don’t understand what these women actually have going on. It’s a shame that people look at us that way.

Are the complex dance moves done in select places like Magic City what drives people to rave about ATL as a Mecca for stripping?
AJ: That’s a big part of it.  For men, it is an aesthetic thing. The men who rap about and go to Magic City go there because that is the type of woman they like to see. It is the way these girls move. In future parts of the video, you will see what it means to dance like someone like Gigi.

Gigi, do you feel like you’re an local celebrity in the clubs?
GM: No, I’m every woman. Yeah I ride with this team, but we are regular people. Whatever name you want to put on us, be it strippers, dancers, or whatever—we are still regular people.

For sure. Thanks Gigi and Artemus!

For more Power of the Pussy, check out part two of the series below:

@SiobhanCassidy0