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My first ever sexy urge came when I was just eight years old, the moment I laid eyes on Colin, the wheelchair kid out of The Secret Garden. I didn’t know what sex was exactly, but the second I saw him—his limp red hair, his sickly skin, his tiny, fucked-up legs—I knew I needed that beautiful, broken boy inside me. So, you can imagine my excitement when I recently learned that Colin (real name Heydon Prowse) is now living in London, a mere ten minutes from my house. Oh sweet Colin, once and for all, you will be mine.
Colin, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. I have loved you longer than you know. You were the first boy I jerked it to, imagining making sweet hard love to your childlike image. Would you please do me the honor of meeting me in person? Our love deserves the chance to blossom.
Also, I have some questions for you, to help me demystify the enigma that is sweet, tortured Colin. They are as follows.
1. I know you probably get this all the time, but how did you prepare for the role of someone in a wheelchair? Did you practice sitting for hours at a time for months in advance? You were so convincing!
2. What color is your pee? I’ve always imagined it a luminous yellow.
3. Do you like the name Precious? I was thinking it could be cute for our first child.
Ok, well, write back! Yours forever and always and even longer than that, Karley
I also included this pic of me licking an image of him in The Secret Garden. I think it does a good job of physically representing my lust, no?It’s been two weeks and I have yet to receive a reply. I’m going to give it one more before I give in and just go stand outside his office, crying and screaming his name.
Colin, if you are reading this, I know your Facebook says you’re “In a relationship,” but if you’re ever looking for something on the side, or perhaps even just a casual, no-strings-attached BJ, I’m your girl. Trust me, this is meant to be. I want to breath you, eat you, be one with you. The more I watch you, the more I want you. Oh sweet Colin, do with me what you will. My body is yours for the taking.
I’m suffering from a bad case of writers block. Well, perhaps my case would be better defined as a lack of immediate inspiration. Back in Squallyoaks I was constantly stimulated, forever surrounded by a flock of rousing young souls—hookers, shitheads, shamans, stupid junkie faggots, nymphomaniacal sociopaths—all of whom I both love and loath equally. But here, in the bleak and lonely confines of my parent’s house in upstate New York, I’ve got no one to incite me. No one to make fun of. No one to exploit. In other words, I got nothin’. READ THE REST OF THIS PLATFORM POST HERE HERE.
So like Thanksgiving is this random holiday that we celebrate in America where everyone basically just eats lots of food, watches football on TV and takes awkward family photos in their backyards. I think it has something to do with being thankful for stuff, pilgrims learning how to grow corn, and not killing Native Americans... but no one really knows for sure. Personally I use Thanksgiving as an excuse to lay around like a slob, shove my face full of food and get inappropriately drunk in front of my extended family. FUN!
About five minutes into the dinner preparation my dad sliced his finger open with a butcher knife, then had to be rushed to the hospital for stitches. So basically the day started off on the right foot.
These are my little cousins. They're sort of loud and annoying, but the one on the right has these weird magical powers, which I guess it kind of cool.
This is baby Anthony. After about six glasses of wine I attempted to have a deep-and-meaningful with him about my feelings and stuff, but he literally would NOT stop BBMing on his Blackberry. Whatever!
During dinner my mother made everyone go around in a circle and say what they were thankful for. She wasn't exactly pleased when the only thing I could come up with was "HBO."
This is Bunny not enjoying my mother's cooking about three minutes after she told him he needed a haircut.
He spent the entire dinner reading gossip magazines. When asked what he was thankful for, he responded, "The fact that baby Suri grew out her bangs, because she looked way fugs before."
I forgot / was too lazy to take a picture of the turkey before dinner, so this is what it looked like after we ate it. Whatever.So yeah, like, all in all a great Thanksgiving. I guess.
Word to your mothers. Read my latest Platform column here: DRUNK ON JESUS
Pic Matthew Stone
For three months now I’ve been living with a prostitute. Not surprisingly, her adventures as a hooker have made her lots of like-minded, streetwalker, not-at-all-classy friends. Yay! This means by default most of my recent nights-in have been spent sitting around my living room with a bunch of whores, listening to them “get real” over stories of differing brands of thrush creams and their ever-sagging labia. Sex!!! Not to mention they always use up all the tea bags, and I swear the other day one of them stole a pair of my tights. But whatever, in the end it’s worth having the skanks around for all the riveting and disgusting stories they tell. Here are a few of the best ones I’ve heard recently. Brace yourselves.
Laying Eggs
My favorite of the whores is Candy (not her real name, obvs). She’s thirty-five, has dyed, baby pink hair and an asshole that “often prolapses.” Hot. She recently told me about a regular client of hers who gets off by sticking eggs up her pussy, then forcing her to “lay” them onto his chest. The last time she did this, however, Candy couldn’t manage to squeeze all five eggs inside of her back out. In a panic, the guy punched Candy in the stomach, thinking the eggs would slide out of her more easily once cracked. She had globs of egg goo and pieces of shell dripping out of her for days.
Cat Pissing
The funniest story I’ve been told was by twenty-six year old Alison, who was asked by a one client to piss on his cat. Random. Apparently Alison tried a few times to aim her urine stream onto the animal, but failed as the cat was too fast. When I asked her why she didn’t just hold the cat down and piss on it that way, she replied, “I was afraid it was going to scratch my money-maker.”
Call Me Daddy
According to Team Whore, it’s apparently really common for men to hire prostitutes not with the intention of fucking them, but rather just to hold and caress them, and do things like play with their hair and call them ‘Baby’ (and perhaps give them the occasional spanking). The girls refer to this as the ‘daddy complex,’ because the men act so similarly to how a father would treat his little girl. Creeeeepy. I think I’d prefer to be fucked.
Dark
At nineteen, Svetlana (street name Brittany) is the youngest of the group. She’s only been a prostitute for six months, but says her most disturbing experience thus far was when a client wanted to fuck her wearing his wife’s wedding dress, then cried mid way though. When I asked her if she ever felt any guilt in conjunction with her job, she answered, “Only when I forget to stop remembering about it.”
Jeez! All their sex adventures sound so exciting and fun and danger-free, they almost make me want to give up my job as a wasted loser and join the naked circus! Although I’m a bit scared of what my radical Christian parents might think…
sigil |ˈsijəl|
noun
an inscribed or painted symbol considered to have magical power.
I decide I want to hold one of Bunny’s weird masturbation ritual things in order to ask God or Satan or whoever to make my ex-boyfriend fall back in love with me. So I get out of my bed which I haven’t left in four days, wipe the drool lines off my face with a dirty sock and wander our dark, sad hallways, looking for Bunny.
I find Bunny splayed out on his unmade bed, half asleep half awake, probably fucked, like usual. “I want to make a sigil,” I say, staring down at his lifeless, emaciated frame. “I need Blaine to fall in love with me.”
He looks up at me with his pretty, wasted eyes. He looks dead. “Sure, whatever,” he slurs. “I’m kinda bored anyways.”
So we clear a space on his messy floor and Bunny hands me a piece of paper and a pen and says, “Write down what you want” and I write I WANT BLAINE. Then Bunny takes the paper and crosses out all the vowels and repeating consonants, and hands it back to me, now with only W T B L N remaining. “Now take those letters and arrange them to create a symbol,” he says. I do this quickly and when I’m done Bunny switches off the lamp, lights three candles and tells me not to worry because everything’s going to be OK.
“Now get down on your knees and jerk yourself off,” he says, “and as you do it, stare at the sigil and really think hard about what you want and why you want it. Then, after you come, you have to burn the sigil and try as hard as you can to forget this ever happened.”
I look up at him. He’s staring at me intensely and I suddenly feel both nervous and scared. “Aren’t you going to do it too?” I ask, and Bunny says, “No,” and I say, “How come?” and he says, “Because I want to watch you,” and I say, “Please, I want you to do this with me” and he says, “OK.” So Bunny writes something on a piece of paper which he doesn’t let me see, and when he’s done I close my eyes and reach my hand down my skirt. And as I touch myself I think about Blaine—his spindly body, the way his freckles scatter across his pale skin, his fake tooth, his big nose—and his beauty makes me think of sex makes me think of death makes me think of come, and as I climax I stare down at the stupid symbol and I think to myself What The Fuck Am I Doing?
When it’s over I open my eyes and Bunny says, “Did you come?” and I say, “Did you?” and he says “Yeah” and I say “Yeah” and he says “Cool” and then we lie down on the floor for a while, staring at the ceiling, saying nothing.
