#And I label all my penis jars | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

platypanthewriter · 3 years

Text

Dildos and Hayfever

Harringrove April prompt day 13, Hayfever. Detective Billy Hargrove's had a rough time lately, and Captain Hopper assigns him a partner who'll either make everything worse...or everything better.

“All you need to know is he’s the commissioner’s son,” rang in Billy’s head as he stalked down the hall. Hopper had followed up with “I told him you were fresh out of rehab,” and “I’m sure you can remember enough of the ropes to show him, right, it’s not like he’s gonna be doing the work anyway,” and Billy gritted his teeth, punching the elevator buttons with a vengeance.

The light flickered, worsening the headache that always came on in the spring when all the flowers bloomed, and every tree on every sidewalk in the city shot its rocks off in midair—or when he had to walk into the office of the captain. This morning, to his utmost joy, he’d had both, and he took the opportunity of alone time in the elevator to blow his nose, hard.

Captain Hopper meant well, probably, Billy told himself, and set his shoulders.

He found the right building because of the smoke pouring out half the upper windows, the six fire trucks, and the EMTs coming out with the victims—a nice brownstone, before. Billy looked—somewhat hopelessly—for an elevator, sighed, and hauled himself up seven flights of stairs, sneezing.

Police Commissioner Harrington’s son was interviewing witnesses. Billy’d seen him before—always with his own office, always flirting with whoever worked reception, always with his uniform tailored. How he’d brokered a transfer to Major Crimes was a riddle Billy couldn’t wait to ask about—though if he was absolute dead weight, Hopper would probably come up with another solution to Billy’s bullshit, and kick Harrington back onto a desk somewhere.

Harrington was on an upper landing, listening to a black lady and her husband. They looked in their...seventies, maybe, well-off, both crying, and clutching tabby cats. “I can speak to you later,” he said gently, “—if you’d like to—” but the woman shook her head, grabbing his hand.

“He’s a good boy,” she said, sniffling, “—and you better catch whoever did this. Anyone who could do this. There aren’t many young men ready to haul an old lady’s groceries up nine flights, or open her pickle jars, either. Anything we can tell you—”

The man nodded too, holding her hand, and Harrington crouched, jotting down their story, while Billy showed his ID and ducked under the crime scene tape into the half-gutted apartment. He listened as he pulled the whole crime scene kit on, his gloves, mask, booties, and haircap and all.

It smelled horrible, still thick with greasy smoke that clung to the inside of Billy’s sinuses, and he was grateful for the mask.

The parts of the apartment that hadn’t caught fire were nice—nicer than he could afford, certainly—with art everywhere, photos, paintings...and a floor-to-ceiling, sculptural mobile he couldn’t help thinking looked like a cock. He surveyed the scene—a coffee table with wine glasses for two, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and chocolate dick-shaped marshmallows, in front of a couch with penis-shaped pillows.

There was a spray-painted ‘GOD HATES F—’ on the wall, the last word obscured by char from the fire, but Billy honestly wasn’t sure it was new, given the decor in general, and the adjacent broken glass glued to the wall in a penis shape. He leaned in and sniffed it, and he could still smell the fumes of the paint. He snapped a few pictures of it, for later.

When he backed up to get a wider view, his shoulder thumped into someone. “Sorry,” said Harrington, and then, showing why he’d made detective, “...that huge thing on the ceiling kinda looks like a dick.”

“A lot of things in this apartment do, you’ll find,” said Wheeler, the lead CSI, raising her eyebrows at Billy with a smirk. He tensed, a little, but she just started giving him the report, and he nearly shut his eyes in relief. “Including the weapon.” She waved at a bagged, cement dong sculpture that looked like art deco. “It probably didn’t take any prints,” she said, sighing, “—with a gritty surface like that.” Harrington grimaced, wincing, and touching his head.

“The victim will probably regain consciousness,” Wheeler went on. “He left the windows open all along that side of the apartment,” she pointed, “—and with as windy as it’s been today, it sucked the fire away from him, so he didn’t get much smoke inhalation.”

“What even...robbery?” Harrington asked, then, “Domestic violence?” and she grimaced, clicking around on her tablet.

“From his phone, it looks like a first date. We’re going over it with a fine-tooth comb, though,” she said, frowning at Billy, then down at her tablet. “Since the assailant obviously wanted the crime scene burned to the ground.”

Billy nodded, his eyes watering either from the fumes, or the pollen count. He sneezed inside his mask, and grimaced as it stuck to his face wetly. “Who is the victim?” he asked, sighing, and wrinkling his nose.

“Ishaq Hill,” Harrington put in, glancing between them. “Profession, camboy. Posted photos and videos of himself, pinup style mostly, artsy, sometimes naked. Neighbors don’t think it was stressing him out any, though, he just talked about being single a lot.”

Wheeler raised her eyebrows. “Because of the head trauma, they’re keeping him in a medically induced coma, so we can’t ask him what happened at least until tomorrow. But look,” she said, leaning between them to flick between photos on her tablet. She zoomed in on the victim’s crotch, and Billy automatically shot an alarmed glance at the nearest human, who happened to be Harrington, his brown eyes frowning back.

“Was there evidence of sexual assault?” he asked, and Wheeler shook her head, waving him closer.

“No, no, look,” she said, zooming it in further. “It’s hard to see, but look, the harness. The color, there, against his white vinyl? It’s a leather harness, dyed rainbow tie-dye. The straps are cut—and it’s empty.”

Billy stared at her. “...you’re saying the victim is trans,” he said slowly, making sure he had it right, “—and the attempted murderer stole his dick.”

“What the hell,” Harrington breathed.

She raised her eyebrows, waving her arms in a dramatic shrug. “I have no idea! But go look, there’s another one in the bedroom—” she pointed, and then bent back to sweeping something into a tiny ziploc bag.

In the bedroom, Harrington pointed at the waist-to-hip sculpture of a man, used to demo, apparently, turquoise leather straps similar to the rainbow straps they could make out in the photos. This one had a securely-fitted glass dildo in it with a whole blown-glass coral reef inside. Harrington bent close to stare at the cock made of tiny jellyfish and anemones, while Billy took in the display on the dresser—a whole array of fancy condoms and butt plugs, with decorated stands, and nameplates.

“He must have used this stuff in videos,” Harrington said. “Like, you know, unboxing.”

“I think he probably filmed less taking them out and more more putting them in things,” Billy muttered, as Harrington snickered, and then waved at the small, rhinestoned pastry stand labeled ‘God <3 Fags’. It was empty.

He looked over to see whether Harrington had noticed the empty stand, but he was fiddling with his phone. “...doesn’t look like he had any nasty public messages, or anything,” he said, frowning. “I’ll look through his account when we get back—”

“I’m gonna see where he gets all these dildos,” Billy said, frowning at one with what looked like birthday candles, and ‘Ishaq 23rd’ floating inside. He pulled a drawer open, and found a few boxed vibrators, and a lot of lingerie. “Some of this stuff has to be custom. Maybe they’ll know which one got stolen.”

“Oh,” Harrington said, brightening. “Good idea!”

“You can call around,” Billy told him, and Harrington shot him a sideways glance that made Billy wonder if he was gonna be a shithead about his dad being the commissioner, but he just nodded. He dropped into a chair at a desk out on the floor like any other cop when they got back to the precinct, searching up both Ishaq Hill’s social media, and local sex shops.

Billy went to find coffee and gossip, avoiding the old guard—his father’s friends.

“Steve’s all right,” said Holland, another CSI he thought he could trust, since she was friends with Wheeler. She considered, crossing her arms. “Everybody figures he’ll be bad at the job, so he gets all the desk work, and he’s kind of obnoxious, but he’ll get down and dust vac a bloody trunk, if you need him to.”

Hagen in Vice sneered, and yelled for everyone to come say hey to Neil Hargrove’s son, back from rehab, and Billy turned on his heel and stalked back to his own department, his heart racing.

He returned to hand Harrington a vending machine coffee, and Harrington looked grateful, toasting him in the air as he talked on the phone. “No, ma’am, I’m not trying to make any trouble. No, it’s nothing like—” he groaned, leaning his head against the handset, then sipped his coffee, and hit redial. “Hey, I’m looking to buy custom, handmade dildos. I’ve got a—” he grimaced at the wall, screwed up his face in thought, and then shrugged, glancing at Billy, and grimacing as he sighed. “I’ve got a highschool ring I wanna put in a dildo. Uh, go 2011!” He listened. “Oh, you do? Oh, thanks so much,” he said, writing down a phone number, and mumbling more thank yous.

“What’d you get?” Billy asked.

“Just another store to try,” Steve muttered. He kicked the desk, and rolled a couple feet closer to hand the post-it note to Billy. “They don’t want to talk to me until I want a weird sex toy,” he said, flushing a little, but laughing. “I’ve looked for one with plastic dinosaurs in it, a butt plug with my old glass eye—”

Billy snorted his coffee, coughing as Harrington scrambled up to pat his back.

“I think one time I maybe said moose antlers,” he muttered, counting off on his fingers. “That one must think I’m pretty weird.”

“Not the eyeball one though,” Billy choked out, trying not to die. “The fake eye ass plug store thinks that’s normal as shit.”

“I just mean,” Steve said, blushing, and waving his arms in a vaguely antler-like shape from his head, “—moose antlers wouldn’t probably fit in my ass, you know?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Billy gasped, wiping his eyes, leaned in to where Harrington had brought up Hill’s social media, and scrolled.

“What’s all this shit about the Westboro Baptist Church?” he asked.

Steve was mumbling and scribbling, and then he hung up. “Oh,” he nodded. “They’ve been spamming ‘God Hates Fags’ on all his sites. He’s been doing a big photoshoot with teasers, kind of...at them? He kept tagging them. It’s gone viral.” He held out his phone, and Billy was treated to a lock screen of their assault victim on his knees, arms out like he was singing, his glittery dick spurting a cartoon rainbow.

“...sorry, that’s not very professional,” Harrington said, grimacing, and yanking it back. “I’ll change it.”

“Did you see this at the crime scene?” Billy asked him, yanking his phone out and showing Harrington the spray-painted ‘GOD HATES F—’ he’d found on the wall.

“Holy shit,” Harrington said. “Eugh, imagine them knowing where you live. Shit, I didn’t even notice that.” He sighed, and Billy kicked his chair, lightly.

“Kinda busy walls in that place,” he pointed out, and Steve shot him a smirk.

“Hargrove!” a familiar voice yelled, and Detective Holloway ran up and gave Billy a hug. “You look so good!” she told him, and then nodded at Harrington, and smiled back at Billy. “We found the guy the date was with on Grindr. They’re bringing him in.”

It was nice to have somebody happy to see him, even if her face made him kinda uncomfortable, knowing she’d been the one to catch him drinking in the supply room after all the—after.

“Make him wait,” Billy said, considering. “I wanna go through the conversations on Grindr. He can work up some nerves first.”

“He’s ex-military,” she said, grimacing. “His CV says his last job was as a ‘fully armed and trained combat specialist’ who did security for diamond mines in war-torn areas. I don’t think you’re gonna make him nervous.”

“Eugh,” Harrington said, making a face. “I can see why that date didn’t go well. He probably dresses like a supervillain.”

Holloway’s look at him was a little withering, and he shut up, turning back to sit at his computer. “Lemme know if you need anything,” she told Billy, frowning into his face, and he pushed her shoulder away, quirking his mouth.

“...I’m okay,” he told her, and she didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t hug him again, at least.

“How are you doing?” Harrington asked, after she’d left, and after swallowing half the cup of coffee in one chipmunk-cheeked slurp. He wiped his mouth, blinking wide brown eyes up at Billy, and Billy groaned.

“Look, about what the captain—”

“I know the story,” Harrington said, tossing back the rest of the coffee like a bathtub drain. Billy reminded himself to make Harrington pee before they got in a car together, like a little kid on a road trip. “My dad’s the commissioner, I know the whole...thing,” he said, grimacing. “You shoulda got a commendation.”

“...he was a dirty cop,” Billy grunted, hunching his shoulders. “It’s our job to make sure—”

“Yeah, it is,” Steve agreed, nodding at his screen, and Billy relaxed a little, out from under the weight of sympathetic eyes. “It’s our job, but not everybody does it. And you knew what it was gonna be like.”

“I did,” Billy said, grimacing. “I thought I did.”

“Hey, they let me into Major Crimes for this,” Harrington laughed, unhappily. “Even if my police work isn’t up to scratch, they won’t try anything on you if I’m standing there.”

Billy watched him, and felt a kind of brotherhood, suddenly, looking at Harrington’s tight smile, and tense shoulders. “...police work’s been okay so far,” he said, and Harrington shot him a startled grin. “I’m gonna go...call the hospital,” Billy told him, suddenly needing to be somewhere else. “Maybe swing by and take a look at our victim.”

“Oh,” Harrington said, nodding.

Billy had a few more pictures of the harness sent over—Wheeler was right about what it was, at least—and then they brought the ex-military Grindr date in. He didn’t look that intimidating, actually—his huge biceps were flexed as he held kleenex over his nose, sneezing so hard every few feet he staggered, and he was wearing a t-shirt with a badly-designed logo for a Queer Youth Charity Marathon.

“Hey,” Harrington whispered, touching his shoulder just before they went inside. “Uh, there’s a lot of hate on there from the Westboro Baptist Church. Like, they were getting specific, said someone doxxed him.”

In the interrogation room, their person of interest sneezed so hard snot dangled from both his nostrils, like a drooly dog. Steve snorted a laugh, and walked off to lean against another detective’s desk—Carol’s, Billy thought.

“Can I bribe you for some of that kleenex?” he asked, leaning in like he was flirting on a movie poster, and Carol laughed out loud, and hit him with it.

“Take it and git,” she said, and Steve ran back, grinning.

“Here we go,” he said, handing one to Billy. “One for you, the rest of the box for him.”

“I didn’t even stay for the whole date,” said Braxton Haglund, 34 years old, dark haired and caucasian, with a tattoo Billy could see peeking from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Haglund blew his nose, again, and the kleenex was so wet it made a noise as he dropped it against the table. “He’d left the windows all open. I walked up so many stairs—” he sneezed, miserably, several times, wadding handfuls of kleenex under his nose, and wiping his eyes.

“God,” he mumbled. “If I didn’t have hayfever, I’d probably still have been there when...whatever happened,” he said, between sneezes. His wide shoulders were hunched despairingly, and even Harrington had a sympathetic grimace. “Dunno if I’d have been much use, though.”

“Did you see anyone as you left?” Billy asked, and Haglund thought, taking deep breaths between blowing his nose.

“...nobody that stood out,” he said. “Some neighbors, maybe. Think I walked into somebody, once, my eyes were watering.”

He hadn’t seen anybody going in, either, so after they let him leave, Billy spent a while scrolling through all the victim’s media accounts. Harrington stayed doggedly on tracking down the dildo maker—Billy nearly felt sorry for him, except it was giving Billy such a good read on what to expect—and he was coming up with a continuous stream of weird sex toys to be in search of. “I’m an author,” he told one. “I want a dildo containing the pen I wrote my first book with.” He jotted down another number, called it, sighed, and tried again. “Uh, I want a dildo full of baby teeth—” he started, and then stopped, frowning at the phone. “They hung up,” he said, sounding betrayed.

“Wouldn’t you?!” Billy asked, smiling despite having to see comment after comment by the Westboro Baptist Church. He found further reasons to hate them, but nothing specifically actionable, so he finally stretched and grabbed his jacket. “I’m done for the day,” he called over the other empty desks.

“Go ahead,” Harrington said, frowning at the screen. “I won’t stay much longer. How the hell hard can this be, really?”

He was there before Billy the next morning, his jaw set, with dark shadows under his eyes. Billy detoured to the coffee machine first, and plonked it down in front of him, and Harington rewarded him with widening eyes, and then a bewildered stare.

“...thanks,” he said softly, then smirked up through a yawn. “Heard back from the arson investigators, and guess what? The fire looks accidental.” He bounced a little in his chair, and Billy wondered whether he was really into murder mysteries, or whether he was just trying to stay awake. “There was a pan on the stove, some kind of chocolate fondue, they think. Just caught fire, and with Ishaq unconscious, nobody turned off the stove.”

“...lucky bastard,” Billy said, grimacing, and Harrington raised his eyebrows.

“You think? Oh, also, guess what—I found her. Our dildo artist. She’s not all that local, but she did send me a few pictures of the dildos she’s made for our guy.”

“Had to track her down eventually,” Billy said, sipping his coffee, and then caught the way Harrington just bit his lips, his jaw tensing.

“Good job,” Billy told him, feeling a little...stupid, like he was praising a dog, but Harrington brightened, smirking up at him again.

Billy studied the printouts, as Harrington spun around on his chair, guzzling down coffee, and explaining his triumph. “She says that photoshoot that had the Westboro Baptist Church up in arms? Upcoming? Get this,” he said, getting up to lean over Billy’s shoulder. “—they’re pissed because our boy was staying at a hotel once with the new leader, Steven Drain. He pretended to be maid service, snuck in, and took the guy’s wedding ring, and made it into a dildo. He describes it as ‘surrounded by rainbow unicorn confetti and delicious queer flesh’. Our victim stole his wedding ring,” Harrington cackled, beaming. “I’m subscribing to his...everything.”

“Lemme see if any of these comments can be traced to Steven Drain,” Billy said, heading off to ask someone to do computer magic. Steve hopped up and came with him, which was kinda weird, but it was nice to walk down a hall without people shoulder-slamming him like he wasn’t there.

“Hate that he has my name,” Steve muttered, as they walked back. “Drain’s got restraining orders for beating up and threatening two young teenagers his daughter talked to, it’s on the public record. We could see what kinda injuries they had,” Harrington said. “...imagine taking down the whole Westboro church.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Billy laughed, dropping into his own chair as Harrington got more coffee, then called around and discovered the assailants had both been right-handed.

“Get this,” he said excitedly, “—Steven Drain is in town. Gay soldier’s wedding, they’re planning to picket it and scream at his widower, you know, their whole thing, but he flew in the night before the assault.”

“We should talk to him,” Billy said, most of his brain on the photos of dildos and butt plugs.

“Can’t we just drop a piano on him?” Steve muttered, and Billy snorted, flicking back through, and trying to figure out what was bugging him about the dildos. There were lots of them, more than Billy’d seen in the victim’s room, and Billy stopped, squinting at his phone screen at one that looked like it was full of tiny antique coins. “...wait,” he muttered. “Where did you say she lived? Dildo lady?”

“Upstate,” Harrington told him, blinking up at him, as he held his pen on the list of neighbors he’d called to ask whether they’d seen anyone that looked like Steven Drain.

“I need to talk to Dildo Lady,” Billy announced, and Harrington blinked at him, then glanced at his screen and back to Billy, waiting. “...we should go talk to her,” Billy amended, and Harrington grinned, grabbing his jacket.

“Should we talk to Drain first?” he asked, “—since he’s local?”

“Let’s wait and see the CSI reports,” Billy told him. “We’ll be on a lot firmer ground if he clipped his nails after he clocked Ishaq Hill upside the head.”

“Hard to believe somebody that loud went down quietly,” Harrington said, nodding. “There’ll probably be hair or something. Even if he doesn’t wake up and tell us. I called this morning—he’s out of danger, it sounds like,” he said, grimacing, and Billy nodded.

“Nice if we can tell him it’s all handled, though,” he said, and Harrington laughed.

“That’s a definite yep.”

Billy led the way to the level where his car was parked, and then stopped.

His car had dead rats on it. He walked closer, and there was a scratch where somebody’d jimmied his window, and tossed more rats inside, and suddenly he longed for a drink.

“Shit,” Harrington said, putting an arm around his shoulders to steer him away, and whipping out his phone. “Yeah, hey—”

“Stop,” Billy hissed, grabbing for it. “You’ll just make it worse, don’t tell your fucking dad—”

“Wheeler,” Harrington said. “Mmm, yeah, you know you said you had some CSI training to do? I’ve got a, uh, little crime scene in the parking garage. Could you get your most annoying rookie to come down and—yeah. Yeah, blue Camaro, license plate PCE 235.” He listened for a long second, and then thanked her again, tucking his phone away.

“...shit,” Billy sighed, as Harrington manhandled him to a different car.

To his relief, Harrington didn’t say anything sympathetic. After a few minutes, driving at a snail’s pace through downtown traffic, he took a breath, and Billy’s hands twitched. “Huh,” Harrington said, glancing down, and then biting his lips in a cartoonishly intent face.

“...jesus, just say whatever it is,” Billy told him, snorting a laugh, and sipping his coffee.

“Sorry your dad is a bastard asshole shithead,” Harrington said, wincing, and Billy choked again, coughing and spluttering coffee down his shirt, but he hadn’t been able to laugh about it before, ever, and it felt good, even if he tried to breathe coffee, and couldn’t stop coughing.

When he could finally draw breath, he sighed contentedly, leaning his head against the window. “...he is, isn’t he,” he said.

“He is, and so are most of the officers he came up from the academy with,” Steve said, clenching his hands on the steering wheel. “My dad too. He didn’t—ugh.”

“What?” Billy asked, curious, suddenly, about Steve Harrington, instead of just the commissioner’s son.

“He didn’t want me to transfer,” Harrington muttered. “He said Major Crimes doesn’t need the dead weight. Hopper had to kinda go out on a limb. I fuck up and I’m kicked all the way down to traffic, I think.”

The thought that the commissioner had stepped in to help Billy, Detective Neil Hargrove’s son, had gotten Billy through some long nights in rehab. He drew a long breath, realizing he was even more alone than he’d thought. “...shit,” he said softly. His eyes stung.

“It’s fine,” Harrington said. “Hopper’s got your back. There are enough of us. I’ll lean on Hagen some, I think I can talk him around. It’s good you turned your dad in. You did a good thing, and everybody shit on you for it,” he growled, glancing over. “I’ve got your back. Jesus, man, don’t cry.”

“It’s the pollen,” Billy said thickly.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I have hayfever,” Billy hissed at him, rubbing his face.

The Dildo Lady looked about sixty, Pakistani probably, and wore a hijab. Her name was Faiza Khalol, and she was delighted to tell them about her work.

“Do you have any better pictures of these?” Billy asked her, showing her the one with the coins in it. “Or could you describe them?”

She could, as it turned out—and even better, when she’d asked about them, Hill had given her one, and she handed Billy a tiny silver coin which, after some googling, he thought might be an Athenian drachma.

“Oh,” she whispered, her brows drawing together. “Um, is it valuable?”

“I have no idea,” Billy told her, but flicked to another picture. “But these are, I think.” The clear butt-plug was full of greyish crystals, with a huge one where it would show.

“I didn’t see these in his dresser,” Harrington said, leaning in warmly against him, and Billy annoyed himself by shivering.

“No. These are uncut diamonds, I think.” Faiza and Harrington gasped satisfyingly, and Billy grinned. “Ishaq Hill stole more than a wedding ring, I think. We’ve had the wrong motive.”

“Braxton Haglund guarded diamond mines,” Harrington breathed. “He’d probably recognize them. Did Ishaq post pictures with these?”

“He always put up pictures of my latest work,” Faiza said, covering her mouth in horror. “Do you think…”

“I think we better talk to Braxton Haglund again,” Billy said, reveling in Harrington’s impressed grin.

“You’ve got duthing on be,” Haglund gasped, blowing his nose miserably. “You gan’t brove I saw ‘s pictures. You gan’t brove anything.”

Billy tried to parse that for a long second, and then, for Harrington, who looked bewildered, said, “Oh, that’s not all we have. Have you wondered,” he said, turning to his partner, who grinned back, “—how anyone could come in to Ishaq Hill’s apartment, clonk him from behind with a dick sculpture, then search his apartment, and not notice he’d left chocolate heating on the stove? Chocolate burns fast,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Haglund. “How did you not notice the smell?”

“His hayfever,” Harrington breathed, his eyes widening at Billy as his cheeks flushed, and Haglund slammed his fist on the table, opened his mouth to yell, and then stopped to blow his nose, and sneeze.

“Also while you were waiting,” Billy told Haglind with satisfaction, “—we searched your apartment. The warrant judge was convinced by our diamond-and-hayfever argument, and guess what we found?”

Haglund’s eyes widened in horror, and his back thudded against his chair as Billy shot Harrington a grin, and Harrington smirked back. “Good job framing a hate group for the crime,” Billy said, his grin widening, “—but why were Ishaq Hill’s dildos on the table in your front room?”

The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done

#Harringrove April #harringrove #Ridiculous #Billy and Steve like each other more than they thought #=D

17 notes · View notes

emospritelet · 4 years

Text

Heatstroke - chapter 8

*snickers*

[AO3]

“Here.” Sidney Glass dropped a file on her desk, making Lacey look up. “Next assignment.”

She sat back slowly, picking up the file and raising an eyebrow.

“So what is it this time?” she asked. “Flower-arranging at the local church? First prize in the pumpkin-growing contest?”

“Pumpkins aren’t in season yet.”

“Then the story will only be slightly more boring than it otherwise would be.”

Sidney sighed.

“I have no idea why you even moved here if you find it so dull,” he said. “Wouldn’t you have more fun in the city?”

She gave him an amused look.

“Would you believe me if I said I actually wanted a quiet life?”

“Not really.”

“It’s true,” she insisted. “Or at least it’s mostly true. I grew up in a small town. Being back in one is kind of - it’s like I’m a teenager again, so I’m rebelling against it even though I know it’s a good place to live, you know?”

“Good,” said Sidney. “In that case you won’t mind writing a piece on Zelena West’s charity work.”

“Charity work,” Lacey snorted. “She’s a mean-spirited witch.”

“True enough, but she still organises the food drive every year.”

“Probably because it’s the only way she can hold any power over people,” said Lacey. “I bet she takes the best stuff for herself.”

“Get some proof of that and the piece might get interesting,” said Sidney. “In the meantime just stick to the brief.”

“Five times Zelena West didn’t get bitch-slapped for talking shit about people and one time she did?” suggested Lacey.

Sidney chuckled as he sat back down at his desk, sending her an amused look.

“I’d read that,” he said. “But she’s going beyond the food drive this year. A charity dance. All profits to the church outreach program.”

“Wow.” Lacey pursed her lips. “She trying to bang the priest?”

“I doubt it,” said Sidney, shuddering. “She’s been trying to get her claws into Mr Gold.”

“Really?” Lacey sat up, an odd sensation going through her. It almost felt like outrage, which she couldn’t understand. “She had any success?”

“What do you think?” he said dryly, and she nodded, settling back in the chair.

“Okay, I’ll interview her,” she said. “If she’ll talk to me.”

“Good.”

There was a moment of silence. Sidney tapped at something on his keyboard, glancing at the screen in front of him. Lacey pondered the unwelcome image of Zelena West throwing herself at Gold, and shuddered just as Sidney had. Not that Zelena was unattractive. Just unstable. Lacey got the feeling she didn’t easily take a hint, and she was almost intrigued to know what Gold’s response to her would be.

It had been several days since she had come across Gold naked at the cabin. Clearly the guy was comfortable letting everything hang out. Maybe that was how he relaxed. She supposed she could understand that. It wasn’t as though it had been an unpleasant sight, anyway, just - unexpected. She still hadn’t summoned the courage to go and apologise to him, and told herself they had both been busy.

“So,” said Lacey, putting her feet up on the desk and her arms behind her head. “Mr Gold. What’s his deal?”

Sidney looked surprised at the question.

“Well, he’s landlord for most of Storybrooke,” he said. “Owns a pawnshop, richest guy in town…”

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean, what’s his history? He married? Single?”

Sidney’s surprise turned into alarm.

“Please don’t tell me you’re planning on hitting on him.”

“What? No!” Lacey was surprised at her own vehemence. “No, it’s not like that. I’m just - interested, that’s all. He seems like kind of a loner.”

“Well, he keeps to himself, that’s for sure,” said Sidney.

“That has to get to you, after a while,” observed Lacey, tapping a pen against her lower lip. “Alone every night, only your own thoughts for company… You think he’s into anything weird?”

“Oh, I can’t begin to tell you how much I do not want to think about that,” muttered Sidney, and Lacey smirked.

“That’s not a no.”

Sidney sighed, slapping a file down on her desk.

“I don’t know a thing about Gold’s private life,” he said. “No one does. He keeps it - well, private.”

“So he could spend every Friday night dressed in leather and riding a huge butt plug and no one in town would know?”

“Oh my…” Sidney ran his hands over his face. “I’m gonna need bleach to get rid of that mental image.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lacey snickered, and Sidney shook his head.

“Look, aside from being a hardass with people who don’t pay their rent, he’s quiet and reserved and spends every hour holed up in the pawn shop,” he said. “He’s a generous donor to Storybrooke General Hospital, particularly the children’s ward. He takes a walk every morning and gets coffee at Granny’s. About as straight-laced as you can get.”

“It’s always the quiet ones.”

Sidney sighed, shaking his head.

“Okay, you want to cover something more interesting than the church fundraiser, and I want to pretend this conversation never happened,” he said. “How about we make a deal?”

Lacey perked up.

“Really?” she said. “What deal?”

“Simple,” said Sidney. “Get Gold to give you an interview.”

Lacey felt her face fall.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You get him to agree to sit down and talk to you for half an hour, you’ll do something no one else at the Mirror ever has,” said Sidney. “Make it something personal and I’ll even give you a raise.”

“But he hates me,” she complained.

“Why would he hate you?”

Lacey shrank down in the chair a little.

“We kind of - got off on the wrong foot,” she muttered, and he shrugged.

“Guess you can’t want that raise too much.”

“Okay, not so fast,” she said, sitting up again. “I’m not saying I won’t do it, I’m just saying - well, it’s not gonna be easy, that’s all.”

“Nothing worthwhile ever is,” said Sidney. “So I’m told.”

Gold made his way up the path, wincing at every step. His leg had been giving him hell all day, and he suspected that it meant rain was coming. It was a night for taking a couple of painkillers, drinking whisky and losing himself in a good book while he waited for them to take effect.

He mounted the steps, pausing when he saw a cardboard box in front of the door. Probably his delivery of special ingredients from August’s in Boston. He found that Storybrooke could satisfy most of his culinary needs, by and large, but there were things he couldn’t get in town, like dried porcini, smoked paprika and loose-leaf Earl Grey tea. Smiling at the thought of the things he could make with the box contents, he opened the front door, scooped up the box and went inside.

It had been a long day, and he went straight to the kitchen, dropping the box onto the table and pouring himself a glass of wine before shrugging out of his coat. Taking a sip, he pulled a knife from the wooden block and sliced open the tape sealing the box. The contents made him frown; he was used to gleaming jars of ingredients nestled in packing noodles. This box was padded with scrunched up brown paper, wedged around boxes containing - oh.

Gold withdrew one of the boxes, a full ten inches, the cardboard thick and gleaming, silky to the touch. On the box was a picture of an anatomically-improbable plastic penis, the text on the box boasting ‘realistic feel and ten-speed vibration’. He dropped it back, picking up a smaller, square box with a bright pink wand made of curved silicone. Intense clitoral stimulation for rapid climax, announced the box. Perfect for solo play.

Gold pushed the box back in amongst the brown paper, flipping the lid closed again and eyeing the label that he hadn’t bothered to check. Miss L French. Of course.

He could feel his cheeks heating, and a vision of Lacey using the products on herself burst into full colour in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying and failing to dispel it and cursing the telltale twitch of his cock. The image changed, and to his dismay he realised he was imagining himself using the toys on a very naked Lacey, her body undulating against his as she moaned in pleasure. His cock began to swell, and Gold shook his head, remembering the look on her face when she had seen him naked, the disparaging words she had used to describe the encounter to Miss Lucas. The images disappeared at once, and he sagged in relief. Sighing to himself, he was about to seek out some tape to seal the box again when he paused, fingers drumming against the sides. Fuck it. I’m taking it over there now. If she’s the one embarrassed by our encounter it’ll make a bloody change.

Lacey peered inside the fridge, chewing her lip and trying to decide which of the unappetising contents to have for dinner. She really needed to go grocery shopping, but kept forgetting that Storybrooke’s stores didn’t stay open late. One drawback of being in a small town.

She closed the fridge door and opened the freezer section. God, not frozen pizza again! Jesus, Lacey, get your life together. The cat eats better than you.

As though he had heard her thoughts, Darcy appeared at her feet, mewing, and she sighed, pulling out a pizza box and dropping it on the counter.

“I have to learn to cook something more than omelettes,” she told him.

Darcy stood on his back legs, paws against the fridge, and Lacey grinned.

“Okay, let’s feed you first, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

She gave him a pouch of food, and although he sniffed at it cautiously, he settled down to eat. She wasn’t sure where his recent lack of appetite had come from, but he was in good condition, so if he wasn’t eating what she put down, he was clearly eating somewhere else. A knock at the door made her glance around, and she headed for the hallway, pausing as she recognised the silhouette of her neighbour, cane held a little out to the side. Lacey took a deep breath, fists opening and closing, and nodded to herself. Well, he’s here. You may as well apologise. Suck it up, girl.

She strode towards the door before she could think about it too much, wrenching it open and nodding at Mr Gold. He was carrying a cardboard box in one arm, his gaze steady.

“Hey,” she said abruptly, and Gold showed his teeth.

“Miss French," he said. "I apologise for disturbing your evening.”

The words weren’t said in the stiff, terse way she was used to. Instead they seemed to flow, dark and soft, like black silk. Idly, she wondered if he wore underwear that matched his silk shirts.

“Yeah, you interrupted a heavy evening of heating up frozen pizza and drinking wine,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

He glanced down at the box, then back up. There was a gleam in his eyes she hadn’t seen before, and she wasn’t sure if it was amusement. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk.

“I appear to have something of yours,” he said. “I was expecting a delivery, and so I opened it without checking the address label. My apologies.”

Lacey shrugged.

“Sure. No problem. Happens to all of us, I guess…”

Her voice trailed off, a heavy weight sinking into the pit of her stomach as she recalled what she had been expecting to arrive that week. A shipment of sex toys for a freelance review piece she was doing. A blush rose in her cheeks, and Gold’s smile grew.

“I’ll leave these with you, then,” he said, handing her the box. “Do enjoy your evening, won’t you?”

He bowed his head, heading down the porch steps and swaggering back to the house. She was desperately trying to think of something clever to say, but her brain had gone blank.

"Well, I will now!" she shouted, and he glanced over his shoulder, grinning widely. The bastard.

Lacey slammed the front door, leaned back against the wall with the box in her hands, and waited for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

She still hadn’t apologised.

#fic: heatsroke #golden lace fic #golden lace #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #my fic

48 notes · View notes

agaybird · 3 years

Text

big tw: transphobia, terfs, violence, and assault.

tumblr wont let me reply, so let me make one (or many) things clear:

all of you who left replies such as this on my post are so fucking ignorant. so i wanna bring up a couple of things.

1. you are watering down the meaning of rape.

you say this is "rape by deception" but if you can't tell the difference in the genitals, what is the difference? you surely can't tell the difference if you say you are being "deceived". you not sleeping with them at that point simply means you're transphobic for no reason.

this isn't at all comparable to men taking off their condoms (aka "stealthing") before finishing. see, that is a form of sexual assault. it also isn't equivalent to someone having an STD and not telling their potential partners: being trans isn't contagious nor inherently dangerous, despite the talk of trans panic that you all clearly believe.

if the people are, say, just hooking up, neither are drunk, and there is consent from both parties... then how is it rape? the answer: it isn't. they literally both consented. also see above paragraph.

2. you are attempting to label all trans people as predators for not outing themselves immediately.

most, if not all, of the trans people in these situations are stealth. this means that they can't out themselves for their own safety. it also means they pass as cis. trans people outing themselves has consistently lead to hate crimes including injury and death; especially the trans women you keep citing as predators.

even if trans people aren't stealth, outing themselves to strangers is incredibly dangerous. trans people still deserve good things (including but not limited to sex) despite and including the fact that they are trans. Yes, sex should be fully consensual. And yes, nobody needs sex. however, if you think that trans people should just stay indoors or else risk hate being literally hate crimed while hooking up, you're crazy. you will always encounter people you don't like when hooking up. but you don't ask the included parties their political beliefs beforehand, do you?

in relationships i do believe that trans people should at least know their beliefs on trans people, not for the cis person's comfort, but for the trans person's safety.

may i also remind you all that there are trans minors, including teens and children. labelling them predators is really fucked up actually.

in fact, trans people are far more assaulted by cis people, whether that be by "corrective rape" or otherwise. this blog post states, "...TERFs trying to ban trans women from women’s bathrooms are essentially demanding that they compromise their own safety by forcing them to use men’s bathrooms, which puts them at risk of assault by transphobic men who don’t like the idea of “men wearing dresses.” This sort of violence isn’t imaginary. These assaults really do happen. (And it’s not just cis men who are the attackers; several days ago two cis women were charged with sexually assaulting a trans woman in the bathroom of a /North Carolina bar.)"

3. trans people can be bad people, but that doesn't mean all trans people are bad.

anyone can be a bad person. anyone. but you don't fault all women when one happens to become a predator or rapist: you fault that one woman. it's also not equivalent to being afraid of men, because in that case, every 1 in 4 men has either attempted or completed rape between the ages of 11 and 17 years old just in the united states, which is a significant amount: significant enough to be cautious of most men. especially considering that almost every woman i know has been assaulted by a man in some way. in comparison, almost no trans people have been reported to attack people (specifically in restrooms) in the united states. trans people, in fact, are four times more likely to be victims of violent crime, such as rape, than cis people.

the "trans people" you all love to source are, spoiler alert: not actually trans! pretending to be a gender you aren't to manipulate someone and being trans are completely different..... being trans has to do with your personal identity, and you transition for yourself. pretending to be a gender you aren't is just that: pretending. it is done to manipulate people. someone cited this article and this article about the same person. as far as i can tell, the only thing this person did was have sex with the woman with a strapon? she was under the impression it was his real penis, but it wasn't. apparently he also shamed her for not getting pregnant. and yeah, that's shitty, but it isn't rape. there was absolutely no harm done to her as far as i read in the articles, and there was both no risk of the woman getting pregnant or getting an STD. she also apparently couldn't tell the difference between a penis and a strapon... yikes. how is this rape? again, it's definitely shitty, but saying it's sexual assault is completely stretching it. this dude was a shitty person, but you all seem to cite the same shitty people in regards to your "justified" transphobia.

i trust other trans people far more than i trust cis people. you know why? i never felt in danger in the presence of a trans person because they are trans, but i have felt unsafe in the presence of cis people because they're cis. i and my loved ones have been put in danger many times because someone perceived me as trans, or i was outed. without having expressed any of my opinions. my existence is inherently political, and that makes me a target.

there is a lot more to discuss, but this is what im putting out there right now.

you seem to forget that we're actually human beings. you dehumanize us and spread lies to be "gender critical" or a "feminist", but you refuse to acknowledge all those who are caught in the crossfire, and those actual human beings you're hurting and killing. fuck yall.

im not even going to mention the amount of cis people ive been assaulted or near-assaulted by compared to trans people, because it's practically 1000:1. that's hardly an exaggeration. get your heads right.

tip jar

my trans-run shop

4 notes · View notes

goodbysunball · 4 years

Text

Quarantine rock, pt. III

Another long overdue update from the indoors. Hope you and yours are hanging in there - if nothing else, there’s no shortage of great music to keep you company. Here’s my take on some recent favorites.

C. Lavender, Myth of Equilibrium (Editions Mego)

Admittedly had not heard of C. Lavender until her collaborative cassette with Aaron Dilloway dropped earlier this year, but it’s safe to say that the tape was strong enough to blindly buy her new LP on Editions Mego. Myth of Equilibrium has been one of the best surprises from this year, drone at its core but opening up to something much more soothing over repeated listens, despite the jagged edges and tendency to embrace caustic noise. It came as no surprise to find out that C. Lavender embraces sound as a healing medium, as Myth of Equilibrium takes a deep, buzzing bass tone and twists and stretches it until individual packets of sound are weightless and ethereal. “Remedy Potion Extraction” is the most obvious example of this dark-to-light transformation C. Lavender excels at, but mostly the tracks present a satisfying puree of sound over shorter durations (”Engulf the Mystery,” “Dimly Lit Exit”). The brevity is a strength, and in that way C. Lavender reminds me of French duo Femme or even some of Tim Hecker’s work, but without the startling track-to-track transitions of the former or the diaphanous shroud of the latter. The bass keeps Myth of Equilibrium tangible and firmly grounded, and the rest of the sounds conjured by C. Lavender weave a very heady, very rich tapestry. The best respite from 2020 money can buy; soak it in. The LP is sold out from Editions Mego but those in the US can order it direct from C. Lavender for a very fair price.

Kobra, Confusione (Iron Lung)

Alright, I’m admittedly not a huge fan of the cover art for this record, but it’s an easy enough barrier to jump over when the music rips this hard. Kobra is from Italy, and they traffic in a mid-paced, pounding strain of punk that is right up my alley. Sounds like Una Bèstia Incontrolable meets Mecht Mensch to these ears: like the title track, which starts out like “Zombie” and then flips into a UBI-level groove, sax bleating and moaning on top of it all. This is punk through and through, the blown-out drums always there to remind you that this is presented by Iron Lung Records, but there’s a definite early post-punk/art-rock vibe present, too - check the groggy “Fogna” that opens up side B, which kinda sounds like Kobra doing their best impression of the Circle Jerks in Repo Man. The guitars don’t riff as much as they slash and chop, fragmented stabs landing among the onslaught of drums. The vocalist uses a menacing speak-scream (most effectively on ”Sogni Illusioni” and closer “C.P.D.M.”), and if I could speak or read Italian, I’m sure the lyrics would be intelligible amongst the din. Confusione is loaded with hits, but when the band clicks and all the parts come together, Kobra whips up a maelstrom; hard to deny the power of “Dentro Agli Schermi” (my favorite track) or “C.P.D.M.,” and though both of those tracks feature the saxophone, I’m glad the band wields that weapon sparingly for maximum effect. One of the most memorable and exciting punk releases of 2020, for sure, a formidable, brawny brew that’ll flex your pencil neck and have you involuntarily pogoing in no time. Highest recommendation! Confusione is sold out direct from Iron Lung, but Sorry State, Feel It, Grave Mistake, etc. all have it in stock.

Oily Boys, Cro Memory Grin (Cool Death)

The best musical news this year, hands-down: NEW OILY BOYS. Not only was an Oily Boys LP drop completely unexpected, I am completely steamrolled by this record every single time I drop the needle, from the opening “UGH!” on “Given” to the nearly nine minutes of caustic self-loathing on “GTrance.” There’s a definite metallic edge to the way Oily Boys approach punk, from the riffing to Drew Bennett’s brutally intense vocal performance, but while most punkers approach metal as a gimmick and end up sounding pretty tame, Oily Boys just sound absolutely mad - the 1-2 of “C.B.D.” into “My Sex Life,” especially the wild guitar theatrics on the latter, carry an intense, teeth-clenching physicality. If that was all Oily Boys did on this LP, it’d be a success, but the band throws curveballs and mid-tempo fits across Cro Memory Grin’s 13 tracks. “Heat Harmony” was the most jarring inclusion at first, relatively tuneful dark punk that could’ve been lifted from drummer Yuta Matsumura’s other band Orion. It definitely works, and the slightly softened approach of the band thankfully has no effect on Drew Bennett’s vocals. “Lizard Scheme” is another detour, swelling noise and Bennett’s barking (”Stupid is as stupid does, jazz boy!” is a choice lyric), reminiscent of Gutter Gods’ dizzying “Allan.” Probably the two most pummeling tracks here slow the tempos significantly and close out each side: “Stick Him,” my favorite track, and “GTrance,” the exhaustive closer. “Stick Him” is absolutely ferocious, the band emphasizing the quiet-loud dynamic with saxophone, the loud parts lurching into place like heavy machinery turning on, Bennett screaming the title with a violent ferocity. Where “Stick Him” is feral, the screed unleashed on “GTrance” by Bennett feels therapeutic, expelling every bit of toxic bile into the song without a break, and even if there is no resolution, the end result is a momentary peace, the same kind afforded by pushing to the full extent of one’s mental or physical abilities. That kinda seems like the point of Oily Boys, from the self-effacing name to the poisonous lyrical content to the absolutely ferocious performance: know your enemies, push back against the lowering boot of the world, fuck the rest. 2020′s best punk record, no contest, and maybe even the best record/soundtrack to the perfect storm of this year. Sick artwork/inserts on this LP, a nice job as usual from Cool Death. Cro Memory Grin is still available direct from them, and Goner still has it domestically.

Subdued, Over the Hills and Far Away (Roachleg)

With last year’s Bad Breeding LP still fresh and prescient as ever, and the political climate seemingly spiraling into reality TV while people mercilessly struggle and suffer all over, it seemed like scoping this new LP from the UK’s Subdued was more than appropriate. It’s reductive and maybe a little offensive to mention UK compatriots Bad Breeding in the first line of this review, but the similarities are hard to ignore: both bands create fiery politically-charged punk that flirts with metal and noise, delivered in screamed vocals with a heavy British accent. Subdued don’t fly off the rails as much as Bad Breeding; there’s more of a Crass/Rudimentary Peni vibe, with the emphasis on vocal delivery and riffs rather than conjuring a visceral tornado of noise. Sometimes the riffs can be a little clunky (particularly the end of “The Joke,” even though “Is hope the joke?” is a pretty powerful lyric), and for how much room the vocals are given, the lyrics can tread into oft-used clichés. Doesn’t make the message any less true, and I think the longer I spend with Over the Hills and Far Away, the more I come under its spell. “Problem of Evil” is probably the best song here, a near-perfect blend of deathrock, stomping riffs and barked vocals, and when it turns into the sprint of “No More,” Subdued are an undeniable force. Not sure if it just takes me until those two songs to warm up to Over the Hills, but the B-side of the LP seems to be more memorable - like the world-beating metallic riffs of the title track, or the frenetic guitar solo that finishes off “Call to Suffer.” There’s more than enough at play on Over the Hills to keep me coming back, and overall it’s a strong debut LP, and a great reason to check in with what Roachleg Records is bringing to the US punk scene. Cop the LP direct from Roachleg, and if you’re lucky you might have a chance at one of the limited-to-100 hand-screened covers. La Vida Es Un Mus put out the LP for the rest of the world, another solid co-sign for Subdued.

Aviador Dro, Nuclear, Sí 7″ (La Vida Es Un Mus) // Algara, Enamorados Del Control Total 7″ (La Vida Es Un Mus)

I don’t think these two 7″s have much in common other than the fact that they’re both put out by La Vida Es Un Mus, they’re both sung in Spanish and they’ve both been ruling my turntable this year. The Aviador Dro record is a reissue, one that came out last year, and it’s a gem: sci-fi keyboard punk from the '80s, the titular track one of the best songs I’ve ever heard, a slinking, funky beat driving the song into your brain forevermore. The B-side feels more edgy than the A-side but it’s all undeniably great; Paco did us all a favor by repressing this record, and continuing to keep it in print. Fast forward to 2020 for Algara’s 7″, their debut, which came out way back in pre-pandemic January. The cover art caught my eye, and the spindly, groovy drum-machine post-punk within is immediately addictive. The label says Crisis and Joy Division are in Algara’s musical DNA, and that sounds about right; the sound is spare, you can kinda dance to it, the bass lines carry the weight and the wiry guitars smear into each other (”Miedo a Perder”) or stitch single golden threads into the tapestry (”Dopamina y Producción”). Algara’s a 4-piece now, and they’ve got an LP coming soon on LVEUM, so 2021′s lookin’ bright. Both 7″s are mandatory, widely available from distros and direct from La Vida Es Un Mus. Scope the feature that Lulu’s wrote on Algara while you’re at it.

Saskia, Eeuwig Op Reis 7″ (Stroom)

The record collector sweat starts when you read about a 7″ reissued from a “highly intimate cassette” limited to ten or so copies in 1983, circulated only amongst friends and family. My eyes typically roll at such uncovered “gems” or whatever, but these two songs definitely deserve a wider audience. “My Lips Get Hot” splits the difference between the foggy late night atmosphere conjured by Chromatics and a breezy Balearic vibe, topped by sensual, high-pitched vocals that really drive the whole woozy, lovesick message home. The flip has the instrumental “You Left Your Soul Behind,” wherein said Balearic vibe is now at the forefront. It’s a strong track on its own, but kinda just serves as the comedown from “My Lips Get Hot” in this presentation. Stroom continues to unearth overlooked records with unnerving ease, and this Saskia 7″ might be the one that makes the label a more common name. One copy of this record is left at Stroom’s Bandcamp as of this writing - move quick.

Glen Schenau, “Jhumble” b/w “Jearnest” (self-released)

Glen Schenau is at the forefront of Brisbane’s experimental musical scene; he’s done time in Kitchen’s Floor, Bent and has even self-released a few things under his own name. The solo stuff I’ve checked by him was restless, frantic guitar and bass lines seemingly swimming against the current of his Bryan Ferry crooning. While there’s no denying that it was singular, it never really coalesced for me in the same way that this new 7″ does. That same restlessness is still at play here, obvious from the beginning strumming of “Jhumble,” and Schenau seems to still relish the vocal stylings of Ferry, though his vocals also remind me of some of the alterna-rock radio I was subjected to while working in a warehouse during summers between school. Normally that sort of vocal homage would send me running to the hills, but it really works here: the busy guitar line and the drums lock into an undeniable groove on “Jhumble,” and whatever Glen is singing, the melody is stuck in my head for days. “Jearnest” is my pick, the more difficult foil to “Jhumble”’s pop leanings. The sprightly guitar at the beginning is submerged into this rubbery goo, which eventually takes over the song while a whistle floats in to carry a melody over the tarry pit. Can’t say I’ve ever heard anything like it, but it doesn’t just float along on that claim; this is a highly potent brew served up on both sides of this single. Glen self-released this record and it’s limited to 150 copies; mine came with a hand-written note and drawing, which was a nice touch. High marks all around. I’ve got to echo Matt K.’s sentiments when he reviewed this record: “Seems like every Australian band gets their own album without much delay, so I have to ask: where the hell is Glen Schenau’s?!”

#C. Lavender #Kobra #Oily Boys #Subdued #Aviador Dro #Algara #Saskia #Glen Schenau #Editions Mego #Iron Lung Records #Cool Death Records #La Vida Es Un Mus #Roachleg #Stroom

8 notes · View notes

drlauralwalsh · 4 years

Text

The Lusty World of Lesbian Widows

I’m really frustrated that COVID has gotten in the way of my grief achievements. I figured 3 months in, I’d be doing the television talk show circuit, sold my book, and set up a non-profit foundation. If only this pandemic hadn’t gotten in my way.

In my life before, if I spent too much time alone (like, over 4 hours), I’d start texting my sister-in-law that I was unsupervised and feral. Uh oh. I’d start going down rabbit holes and come up with weird stuff like how buff male kangaroos get. Or questioning if my parents were really married since I couldn’t find a record of their union in the limited online databases. I could have paid for real records but I’m cheap. I know, sounds crazy.

But now, I’m alone for long stretches of time. I’ve managed to channel some of this agitated energy into writing essays that speak to weirdos like me (shout out to my fellow weirdos!). I spend hours researching (me-searching as we said in grad school) and discovering overachieving methods to dam the waters of my new spouse-less life.

I’m not just your average widow. Oh no no no. Of course, I have to be special so allow me to tack on some extra layers - lesbian, stepmom, and young (-ish, right?). At 45, I have finally found a way to inch back towards the youth and relevance lost as you enter the fourth decade of life. Today, I’d like to let you into the wonders of lesbianism.

I’m going to assume you’re not submerged in this subculture so I’ll tell you some secrets. People are fascinated by lesbians. To be fair, we live pretty mysterious lives. We leave you hanging on profound questions like who takes out the trash and how do they have sex without a woody woodpecker? Sometimes, other communities get lumped in with us but they are actually quite different. Of these witches, spinsters, and women who wear comfortable shoes, I only belong to only one of those so far. I’m working on my stovetop skills and hope to someday conjure a penis. Not a real one; that would be weird.

Amazon’s book market best represents the variable interests of our fan club members. Right after my wife died, I launched a search for books on “lesbian widows.” You’d think the algorithms would have pegged me by now (ha ha). I was dismayed yet amused by the grand interpretation of what Amazon thought I meant. The following is an unedited list of the top books recommended for me to purchase under these auspicious terms:

Lesbian Widows: Invisible Grief

by Victoria Whipple (Kindle $25.98, Paperback $46.95, Hardcover $907.71)

I’m impressed that the first one actually included my search terms but dang, it’s expensive to be a lesbian widow. To be fair, you can rent it for $9.21 a month. It’s also terribly niche within an already small niche - invisible lesbian widows? Published in 2014, you’d think it would be a little more hip. Maybe it’s because I live in Chicago but even as an introvert, I’m decently visible. Still, glad it exists and appeals to all eight people who each gave it a 5-star rating.

The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows: Feminine Pursuits

by Olivia Waite (Kindle $3.99, Paperback $6.99)

I must quote the basic plot description for you to get the full impact of this novel: “The last thing the widow wants is to be the victim of a thousand bees. But when a beautiful beekeeper arrives to take care of the pests, Agatha may be in danger of being stung by something far more dangerous…” The cover depicts said wapish widow sit/leaning against her handsome, pants suit-clad beekeeper. At the much less expensive price for kindle and paperback, I’m only slightly put off by labeling bees as pests.

Odd women?: Spinsters, lesbians and widows in British women's fiction, 1850s–1930s

by Emma Liggins (Kindle $73.24, Hardcover $95.00)

The period is a little off but at least it includes diverse, international women. I was looking for a self help book but this seems slightly more academic. Not sure why there’s a question mark in the title as there’s no question about our oddity. The description reads, “Women outside heterosexual marriage in this period were seen as abnormal, superfluous, incomplete and threatening, yet were also hailed as ‘women of the future’.” Aw shucks, I *am* ahead of my time. Dang that price tag! No renting option for this one.

The Grass Widow

by Nanci Little (Kindle $0.00, Paperback $14.95)

It’s unclear where we’ll find the lesbian widow in this 2010 novel but the description yields some mild foreshadowing: “As a familiar civilization fades into the distance, she is nineteen, unmarried and pregnant, and has no reason to think that the year 1876 won't be her last...Joss, in her brother's clothes and severely lacking in social graces, has no time to mollycoddle a pampered, pregnant New England lady. It's work or starve, literally. There are no servants, no laborers - just a failing farm, impending winter and the two of them to face it together.” It sounds like the shameless Joss needs her own dose of mollycoddling (wink, wink) to get through the chilly nights.

Her Widow

by Joan Alden (Paperback $18.00)

More popular with 10 people giving it an almost stellar rating, this tomb’s immodest summary insists it belongs on every bookshelf. YOU WILL PAY ATTENTION TO US! That’s how I read it. Seriously, of all the books this one comes the closest to what I actually wanted. Waiting for the kindle unlimited edition….(having no man money makes us frugal).

Made For You 3

by K. Shantel (Kindle $4.99)

Apparently, Made For You 1 and 2 were not as popular. Despite the fair price, this tale omits widows opting for the groundbreaking combination of lesbian romance and football. While tragedy surely threads through this plot, it falls short of crossing the threshold from football to death (it probably does). Shocker, I defy the sporty lesbian trope and instead prefer to spend time among my vast, treasured collection of power tools. Just to be clear, I mean the ones for home repair (get your mind out of the gutter!) If the lady protagonists of this book had been thrown together building a Habitat for Humanity house with their 10 dogs using only their Subaru to transport lumber, I might be more captivated.

The Lady's Guide to Celestial Mechanics, Book 1 of 1: Feminine Pursuits Series

by Olivia Waite (Kindle $3.99, Paperback $6.99)

I’ll give the author the benefit of believing there are more to come in the series. The title of this one intrigues me (I may steal it later) but sadly, it also defaults to worn stereotypes. This collection of lesbian tropes finds my kin scoring yet another toaster for the conversion of a hapless straight lady. Lesbians for the win! Lady Reads-A-Lot gave it 5 stars and commented, “This was poetic and lovely, full of beautiful descriptions that knew exactly how to leave you breathless and then stop just before tipping into tedious.” I’m guessing she means the sex scenes? If you’ve ever watched any real lesbian porn, you know that it’s far better for the participants than the viewers.

Erotica: The Forbidden Adventures Of A Grieving Widow (Seduction, Lust, Lesbian Sex, Interracial Sex, Bondage and More)

by Amy King (Kindle $0.00)

This one is hands down, my favorite title and you can’t beat the price. The author keeps the marketing short to sell you her novel: “All Ava wanted was to erase the memory of her recently departed husband. Little did she know that in trying to do so, she would experience mind-blowing adventures and lust across the globe. Ava would never be the same again as she ravenously eats up whatever adventure blows her way.” Even though it’s another toaster novel, as a grieving widow ‘ravenously eats up’ does resonate. I don’t think she means jars of cookie butter.

Of the eight masterpieces on the list, five are romance novels, one is academic, and two are in the ballpark (excuse the sports metaphor). Scrolling further only yields more erotica including another novel titled, “Football Widows (lesbian)” by Amanda Mann and Deadlier Than the Male Publications. Now I get it that we make up a small percentage of the population but this is some seriously messed up shit.

Removing the lesbian and searching only for ‘widow’ yields twenty pages of books. I know what you’re thinking - “C’mon Laura, what’s the big deal? Just get the standard widow book.” And believe me, I’ve amassed quite the collection and am waiting for just the right intersection of not too devastated but ready to sob. Bear with me for a sec - think about how we just want to be seen when we’re at our lowest. When I first typed those words into the search bar, I just wanted something that used wife instead of husband.

Every grief has specific salient elements and it’s too super niche to touch on all at the same time. It would be weird and/or maybe nice to find another lesbian widow stepmom psychologist who lost her cop wife of almost 5 years to a PTSD-induced psychotic break and suicide. That’s a Subaru full of identities. If this person did exist, I’d be suspicious we’re the target on Incel trolls, longing to read the words of more seductive, witchy lesbians. Instead, I plan on taking the high road. I’ll get my knowledge and support from those who accept me by the category. Obviously, one out of one lezzies agree there’s a market for lesbian widow self help guides - at the right price. I may still write that book but if I want to get rich, I’ll definitely have to add more sex scenes.

#lesbian #widow #amazon #books #humor

2 notes · View notes

andrewrosswatson1987 · 5 years

Text

REVISIT: PANTERA WERE FAR BEYOND DRIVEN THIS DAY IN 1994

Pantera released their seventh album, Far Beyond Driven, which first came out today (March 22) in 1994, released via label, EastWest. Around this time, guitarist, Darrell Abbott, dropped nickname, Diamond Darrell, and became Dimebag Darrell, with bassist, Rex Brown, dropping Rexx Rocker. With these name changes there was evolution of sound in the album. Indeed, the band seemed to get heavier every time (and bass ever higher in the mix), and this instance was further example of next to little compromise. A rare example of sales going up, yet uncompromising commercially. Far Beyond Driven, their fastest-selling album, debuted at No. 1 in both United States and Australian album charts; over one million units sold worldwide in total. The album’s first single, “I’m Broken”, getting the band their first Grammy nomination for Best Metal Performance in 1995, too. There were ample opportunities to exploit this seeming commercial potential, the original album artwork an example, very much, of the band eschewing such opportunity. First it was a drill bit impaling an anus and then, in a rare example of compromise, the original album artwork was banned in place of a skull impaled with said drill bit.

At the time of Far Beyond Driven, Pantera’s vocalist, Phil Anselmo, had ruptured discs in his back, suffering from chronic pain from degenerative disc disease. He began drinking heavily, abusing painkillers, muscle relaxants and using heroin to numb the pain. They still had another two albums, as it would turn out, in the tank but this was arguably the beginning of the end for the band; putting in place circumstances that would to be their undoing. Singles for this album were “I’m Broken”, “Planet Caravan”, “5 Minutes Alone” and “Becoming”. You’re rudely awakened on the off chance you’re sleeping into “Strength Beyond Strength”. Kicking in with frenetic madness on the guitar, insane drums and cutting bass. What follows is a punky fervour, slamming and grooving. Then a stomping breakdown. “We’ve grown into a monster,” indeed. Wayward and trippy after that, sliding into an oblivion with solo bleak. Crushing before the punky fervour recommences. “Becoming” is marshalled with drum before kicking into the groove, proper. “A long time ago, I never knew myself” apt for the instrumentation. Then grooving, bluesy and badass. Sliding and nasty. The bass and drum hold it down as the guitar wails explorative. An obliterating end. “5 Minutes Alone” is apparently someone’s titled request to have a one on one with Anselmo. It grooves amidst scratched palm muting. The riffing beyond Satanic, tragic and utter evil prevailing. It hammers bleakly, matched with, “You took me for a fool/You used complexion of my skin for a counter racist tool”. The middle section descends and descends, utter despair before the main riff returns more triumphant than ever. A gnarly riff takes hold before solo with drum and bass holding down the low end. The main riff reprised before a rather doomy section and the main riff once, again, returning. Brilliant dynamics to keep you guessing. There’s nothing more victorious, paradoxically, than the despair of “I’m Broken”. Alluding to Anselmo’s aforementioned physical pain at the time. This grooves, low slung and victorious. “Look at me, now” like a dare defiant. The heavy breakdown section riffs syncopated before the solo. The click of the drum and rumbling bass the perfect accompaniment to that that intricate and melodic solo. It fades into darkness, that cyclical riff like the steps of Hell’s foot soldiers. “Good Friends And A Bottle Of Pills” drags and drags, bragging with, “I f*cked your girlfriend last night while you snored and drooled”. This probably the most discordant effort by far on this album, as of yet. At just under three minutes, it’s also the shortest track on the whole album. “I told you, motherfucker”. The quite epic “Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks” broods with a sinister atmosphere before the main riff cuts through the ambience with a serrated knife. The tempo then knocks up a notch, immediate and rollicking before slowing down, again. Pinging from slow to fast very satisfying, the dynamics making for exciting and varied listening. A messy and wailing solo begins to grasp for melody, the result something of increasing passion amidst the mire of life. The groove fades out but you’re sure it could grind to eternity. “Slaughtered” is choppy and scratching. Grooving, but not slow enough to stomp emphatically. Midway the riffs clamour for ascension before being chopped down and starting, again, cyclically. The ensuing, jarring riffs are frenetic and thrashing. That energy apparent towards the end, particularly. “25 Years” is doomy and syncopated. Moody drum and swaggering bass let the wayward guitar search out into the ethereal. Not the kind of planes where the saints reside, however. The title implying living and dying young. The brain shakes in the skull moshing to this brutality. Headbanging into brain damage. It washes over you, though far from sunshine or slow moving waves of a calming ocean. “F*ckin’ you back, we’re f*ckin’ you back” a shot in the arm. Time for transformation in “Shedding Skin”. This is menacing, ascending cyclically before descending and descending. A section of clean guitar only serves to unnerve you even further. “I’m shedding skin/Changing within/Falling in through swollen eyes/I dreamed you died/Caught inside” the narrative to change, metaphorical like the snake in a whole new body, come tomorrow. Things build up speed, more intense as the point of tail ridding of old housing. So satisfying when that’s complete and the tail is anew, bass to the ground, guitar flying high in the sky. The seeming penis pun of “Use My Third Arm” opens with bass clamouring for attention. Setting the groove off. The rest an ungodly racket of guitar and drum. Climatic drumming, indeed, dramatic. There are moments, tremolo, you could ascribe to black metal, it’s that hard and intense. Middle section pares back the speed, to a doomy extent. Bluesy wall of intermittent riffing. “Throes Of Rejection” has bass and drum forging a metal groove amidst guitar high register and haunting. The drums click of double bass boom and tribal of tom. “Rejection, it ain’t a f*cking game/My human d*ck to blame/A sociopathic plan/Is feeding what I am” like the pain of being spurned. Dimebag like a discordant Eddie Van Halen guitar wizard, for the new, metal generation. Screeching in places, even. The album closes in an odyssey of sound in Black Sabbath cover, “Planet Caravan”. This one’s quite calming, such an aside to all that’s preceded it. The percussion of hand rather than wooden stick. There’s a sort of clean reverb on the vocal, clean as you’ll ever hear Phil, proof he can hold a tune beyond Rob Halford falsetto. The solo also as clean as you’ll ever hear Dime, proof he can lay down something tasteful and sedate, beyond metallic Van Halen wailing. All the tracks on Far Beyond Driven worthy highlights are “Becoming”, “5 Minutes Alone”, “I’m Broken”, “Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks”, “25 Years”, “Shedding Skin”, “Use My Third Arm”, “Throes Of Rejection” and “Planet Caravan”. Three quarters of it special. Best commercial performance, yet little compromise in sound. Pantera, at this point, had gone from strength to strength. Yes, the wheels were beginning to come off with Anselmo’s various addiction issues but they had a good couple of albums in themselves, yet. Next was The Great Southern Trendkill (1996), arguably the last classic Pantera album. Nine out of twelve isn’t too bad. Pantera’s Far Beyond Driven can be bought on iTunes, here.

#Pantera #Far Beyond Driven #Darrell Abbott #Diamond Darrell #Dimebag Darrell #Rex Brown #Rexx Rocker #Phil Anselmo #Vinnie Paul #Eddie Van Halen #Van Halen #Black Sabbath #The Great Southern Trendkill #Rob Halford #Judas Priest

25 notes · View notes

stereotypical-coming-of-age · 2 years

Text

Honey jar

With a clean cut of the scalpel his warm balls where in her hands. There was some thrashing and weak moans but he quickly lost consciousness. She stared down at his pathetic limp body and after a whole year of work it was disappointing he didn’t last longer. She moved to the bright yellow bag that sat at the foot of the moth bitten motel bed and pulled out a small glass jar labeled Mr Colchester in bright red sharpie. She carefully inspected the bloody balls as she dropped them in and screwed the lid closed.

‘You know you where a slippery one’

She pulled off the red stained gloves replacing them with a new pair and began to sew up the uncurious and naked Mr Colchester. His once strong tall body now small and fragile lay in centre of the bed with his excessively hairy arms and legs spread out and bound to the frame by a thin rope. from the waist down he lay upon a large sheet of thin clear plastic.

She pulled the neat row of stitches closed, removed her gloves and adjusted the blond wig that sat crocked on her round featureless face. Mr Colchester took around 40 minutes to wake from his deep sleep and by this time his crotch had been bound in thick white gauze. He began to thrash at his restraints, gasping for air, his face turning a bright shade of purple.

‘Im going to fucking kill you, you, you bitch. They are going to fucking lock you up for this’ his eyes scanned the room franticly as he search for more words.

‘Oh Mr Colchester calm down you are going to rip your stitches’ she said in a nonchalant manner sitting in on a small stool in the corner of the dark damp room. ‘Its not the end of the world for you, at least not yet. It was a very simple exchange you see. I have your balls and you keep your life. Im actually doing you a favour it could be much worse’

She stood up, walked back to the yellow bag, pulled out a slightly lager jar with the name Mr Ashly on it and gave it a little shake. Inside sunk at the bottom of a thick yellow liquid sat both a set of balls and a small shrivelled penis to match. Mr Colchester face froze in horror, all the colour draining from his purple face.

‘Please, please let me go, I have kids and a wife, Im a teacher, I’m a good guy, please for the love of god don’t kill me. What have a I ever done to you’

Snot began leak from his nose and congeal with his tears and saliva. she rolled her eyes, put the jar away and perched on the edge of the double bed.

‘Oh im so sorry with all this excitement I have forgotten to introduce myself, I’m Victoria. Don’t worry Mr Colchester you don’t need to explain yourself I already know everything about you. A husband, a father, a teacher, you pulled out all the stops didn’t you. And oh I’m not going to kill you, what would the fun in that be’

She patted his leg as if he was an old pal. And he recoiled in his tight bindings.

‘But a good guy? Well I would have to disagree. You see Mr Colchester we actually know each other very well, in-fact its our 1 year anniversary. I mean thats why you are here right?’

She could see the realisation hit him and for the first time since his awaking. Victorias face beamed down at him with her large toothy smile. Her eyes filled with excitement as she began to quietly giggle to herself.

‘This is always my favourite part. You’re all the same, thinking you’re the predator and I’m the prey and yet how the tables have turned’ Her voice almost sympathetic

‘It can’t be, we spoke over video, you, you …’ Mr Colchester's beady eyes where bulging out of his sharp feature hansom face.

‘Oh Mr Colchester Lucy was only real because you wanted her to be’ Victorias smile faded, her voice no longer sympathetic. ‘You wanted to feel powerful, to feel special and most of all you wanted a 13 year old girl to make you feel that way.’

Mr Colchester’s eyebrows drew into a frown and he bolted forward in the bed. Victoria didn’t flinch. ‘No it wasn’t like that, you don’t understand. I loved her’

She stood up looking down at him with frustration. ‘I do understand, in fact I understand better than you do. As I say, I’m doing you a favour because when your two little girls turn 12 in a few years you think you will be able to resist your self. But surprise, you won’t.’

#short story

1 note · View note

whipped-for-kpop-fics · 6 years

Text

What could go wrong?

This was supposed to be just a lil crack oneshot but here we are almost 3k words later.

I hope you get at least a little entertainment/amusement from this and I hope someone has a lil giggle over it other than me while I wrote it.

Genre; BTS magic au. crack. bad grown up words. Chee thinks she’s funny...again and also she doesn’t think shit through before writing

Jin likes to make potions and with Taehyung’s help, test it on the rest of BTS AKA

Jin fucks up a Youth potion with Taehyung’s help and they use their unsuspecting friends as human guinea pigs

The room was bright and spacious with counters and shelves full of various looking liquids and solid forms that honestly, Taehyung couldn’t name. That’s not to say his intelligence was lacking exactly but bluntly put, his intelligence was lacking in everything that didn’t hold his interest(and some things that did). Science was certainly not something that interested him in the slightest bit.

“Ah! You’re here!” Jin exclaimed popping up from behind a counter where he had been rummaging in the cupboard. He placed a brass pot on the countertop as Taehyung stood on the other side, watching his elder curiously.

“Why are we in Namjoon’s lab exactly, hyung?” Taehyung replied, eyes glued to the pot as Jin started to pour different liquids inside. “You don’t know anything about science.”

“But I do know magic!” Jin grinned. “Did you bring what I asked?” Taehyung nodded and pulled the small vial of dragon’s blood from his jacket pocket. He held it out, watching as Jin’s eyes glistened with excitement and he snatched the vile, holding it to his body protectively. His eyes flickered with a look of adoration as he eyed the vial and Taehyung was pretty much waiting for him to hiss out “my preciousss”.

“Why did you ask me to bring that? Hyung must have something similar around here.” Taehyung looked around curiously.

“How many times must I tell you, Taehyung? Science and magic don’t mix therefore I cannot use any of Namjoon’s ingredients to make my potions.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” Taehyung realised, a shit-eating grin stretching his cheeks as Jin pouted down into the pot, vial in his right hand as he stirred the mixture with his left. “Ah hyung, are you having relationship troubles?” Taehyung teased.

“No. We’re doing great, thank you very much.” Jin snapped then took a breath and straightened up. “He just-he doesn’t agree with my potions.”

“Don’t tell Yoongi-hyung that, he’ll only rub it in. I can hear him now. I told you magic and science doesn’t work and neither does a scientist and fucking magician.” Taehyung imitated Yoongi in an exaggerated gruff tone that made Jin snort out a laugh.

“Magician. He always makes me sound like I pull rabbits from hats.” Jin scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“You did though,” Taehyung mumbled.

“That was once, Taehyung and I’d appreciate it if you stop bringing it up. It’s not my fault Jungkook drunk the potion. I told him not to.”

“He thought it was a protein shake,” Taehyung remembered with a giggle.

They both looked down at the pot at the mixture started to steam and bubble.

“Is that supposed to happen?”

“Yes, I know what I’m doing.” Jin scoffed, sprinkling in a handful of what Taehyung could only describe as dried gnome penis’ into the mix. He made a face of disgust.

“And..what exactly is it that you’re doing?” He enquired, shuffling back cautiously.

Jin had only been dabbling with magic for ten months but he was impatient and decided to wander from the path very quickly. He often attempted potions that the sane only tried their hand at after their progression to a full-fledged wizard. But of course, Jin decided that he didn’t care for all the labels and would brew whatever magic he wanted. His friends decided that if he had earned the right to be called Sorcerer, he wouldn’t dismiss the title as easily as Apprentice.

“A youth potion.” Jin looked at Taehyung as if he held all the universe’s secrets in his brass pot. Taehyung only stared, blinking rapidly as he tried to understand his elder’s excitement. “A beauty potion, Taehyung!” Jin reiterated and then, Taehyung’s expression matched his own.

“Oh!” Taehyung stepped up close to the counter and peered into the pot. “You finally found one!”

“It took a lot of research and trips to obscure little run down magic shops but yes, I finally have found the potion that will help me regain my youthful glow!” Taehyung’s eyes lifted to take in Jin’s appearance.

Jin was only 3 years older than Taehyung and honestly, the age gap wasn’t visibly obvious to most but as Taehyung had known Jin for a few years already, the younger could notice the subtle signs of ageing Jin’s features showed.

“Ah, so that is why the dragon’s blood.” Taehyung hummed in understanding.

Dragon’s blood was known to have numerous benefits for the skin. Halting wrinkles. Maintaining a healthy complexion. Preventing blackheads. Minimising pores. The list goes on. Taehyung applied it ritually to his skin morning and night and he had never glowed so much in all his life.

“Yep, having a friend in the fashion industry has its perks.”

“Why can you never call me what I am? I’m a model hyung. My face is worldwide famous.” Taehyung pouted sulkily. Jin had never called Taehyung by his actual job title.

“Do you call me by mine?”

“You don’t have a job.” Taehyung scoffed. “You quit when you discovered magic.”

“I still own and run restaurants in three major cities, I’ll have you know.” Jin defended, giving Taehyung an offended look. “And they are all doing amazing, for your information.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever you say hyung.” Taehyung rolled his eyes before turning his attention back to the potion. “So, this potion, it’ll make the user look younger?”

“Yep.” Jin nodded. “Ah, Joonie is going to be so surprised!” He beamed happily at the thought of his boyfriend’s joy. “I mean, once he gets over that we went behind his back and used his lab without permission.”

“What? We?!” Taehyung gawped. “What do you mean we?!”

“You’re here, you supplied the vital ingredient.” He wiggled the vial as if to remind the male opposite him.

“I didn’t know what for! I didn’t know you’re making a youth potion!”

“Why else would I be at Namjoon’s lab?” Jin scoffed as if it was obvious.

“To visit your boyfriend maybe, I dunno?”

“Don’t sass me if you want your share of the potion.”

“My share?” Taehyung enquired, attitude flipping so fast as he leant on the counter, a sweet smile on his face. “You’re sharing with me Jinnie-hyung?”

“Of course.” Jin gave an almost too kind smile back and something twisted in Taehyung’s stomach. Suspicion.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what? I always smile like this, Taehyung.” He chuckled, waving a hand dismissively as he turned his attention to remove the cap from the vial. Taehyung gave him a disbelieving look but decided to push the subject aside to pay attention to the blood dripping into the potion. As the blood hit the ominous, bubbling, black liquid, slivers of silver rippled across the surface to rapidly disappear underneath.

Jin replaced the cap and they both peered into the pot. They squinted in confusion when nothing happened.

“Is that right?” Taehyung whispered as if he would disturb the potion and ruin it.

“Of course it is, I made it,” Jin whispered back harshly.

Suddenly spots of shimmering silver appeared on the surface and ribboned out to one another until there wasn’t a speck of black left.

“Well, that’s appetising,” Jin grumbled sarcastically as the liquid settled and turned a dull, grey colour.

“Put more in,” Taehyung suggested.

“What?”

“Dragon’s blood. Put more in.”

“I followed the recipe.”

“The greater the amount, the greater the effect.” Jin scrunched his eyebrows in uncertainty. “Come on hyung, it’s a beauty product, a natural, ingredient that I have been smothering on my face twice a day for two years. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Any normal person would hear those words and nope straight out of there. “What’s the worst that could happen” is a rhetorical question that attracts the very worst that is overlooked in the implication. Everyone knows that nothing ever turns out right when those words are uttered. Everyone except Kim Seokjin it seems. Guess he didn’t get that memo.

“You’re right.” Jin decided and Taehyung smiled in proud satisfaction as Jin opened the vial back up and poured the remainder of the thick, deep purple liquid into the pot.

The reaction was quicker that time. Only a few seconds pass between the initial rippling of silver to the splotches appearing on the surface. Once the surface settled, what remained was no longer a grotesque sludge grey. It wasn’t exactly the sparkling silver either. It was somewhere in the middle of the two. A pale, shimmering grey.

“That’s kind of pretty.” Taehyung cooed. “Is it finished?” Jin nodded and carefully transferred the mixture into two jars.

“You only need a couple of drops at a time, about a teaspoon,” Jin informed, securing the lids tightly.

“Okay.” Taehyung helped Jin clean up and put everything back in order so that Namjoon wouldn’t notice anyone had invaded his private workspace.

Only once everything was back in it’s place did the pair return to the two jars. Jin opened one jar and held a small spoon out to Taehyung. “Me?” He asked surprised. “I am not trying it first!”

“Yes, you are if you want some,” Jin spoke through his teeth as he smiled sweetly at his younger.

“Hyung!” Taehyung gasped accusingly.

“What?” Jin scoffed, his smile dropping. “You seriously expect me to try out a potion I found in a dusty old book from three centuries ago on myself?”

“Well, I’m not going to be your test subject.” Jin pouted. “No!”

“Great, how are we supposed to test it now?” The pair fell into thoughtful silence as they mulled over the possibilities, occasionally mumbling a suggestion out loud only for the other to shoot it down.

“Aren’t we all going to your house tonight for dinner?” Taehyung suddenly remembered, looking up at Jin with an idea in his eyes. Jin tilted his head slightly in curiosity but simply nodded. “Well, we could always slip it into someone’s drink…”

“Are you saying we roofie our friends?” Jin gasped dramatically.

“Like you haven’t done it before.” Taehyung sniggered.

“True.” Jin also giggled. “Who should be our target?”

“Everyone.” Taehyung’s eyes widened with an evil excitement that honestly kind of scare Jin.

“No, Taehyung, we cannot do it to everyone.”

“Why?” The boy whined, frowning in disappointment.

“Because if it goes wrong-”

“Then they’ll all have the same symptoms and we can pass it off as some kind of weird bug.” Jin fell silent as Taehyung’s fast suggestion. “We can just stick to water and they can all have some of that punch you made last time!”

“And why will we be drinking water, not alcohol?”

“Because you’re cooking and I can’t drink alcohol right now due to the show coming up.” Jin’s eyes sparkled with eager enthusiasm to put their plan into action realising that for once, they had a foolproof idea.

What could go wrong?

***

Taehyung and Jin found themselves watching in fear as before their very eyes, Jungkook started to shrink in his chair.

“What is happening?!” He yelled frantically, looking at his hands that shrunk in front of him. His eyes snapped to Seokjin, about to start questioning him but he was shrinking at such a rapid rate that he couldn’t form the words.

“What did you do?!” Namjoon shrieked, looking at Jin with terrified eyes.

“Honey I shrunk the kids?” Jin offered lamely only to yelp in surprise when Namjoon started to shrink too. “No! Joonie!” He yelled desperately, grabbing hold of his boyfriend but of course, there was nothing he could do. Jin’s attention was glued to Namjoon but Taehyung’s eyes darted from person to person as slowly, five of his friends reverted to toddlers.

“I think you didn’t read the recipe properly,” Taehyung mumbled, watching wide-eyed as Hoseok started to bawl in his chair.

“Me?! You told me to add more dragon’s blood!” Jin defended looking at Taehyung, his eyes just as wide as Taehyung’s. “I shouldn’t have listened to you!”

“I need to poop.” The pair looked over at the small voice, landing on Jimin’s eyes staring at them across the table. “Jiminie needs helpies.” He pouted, making grabby hands across the table.

“Ohmygod, we turned our friends into babies,” Jin mumbled. At that moment, Namjoon fell of the chair while trying to reach Jin and burst into tears. “Oh shit!” He reached out and pulled Namjoon up onto his lap to cradle the little boy.

“Oooh, hyung said a bad worrrdddd!” Yoongi giggled, pointing at Jin.

“Is okay Hoseokie,” Jimin spoke, patting Hoseok on the head while the boy still cried his eyes but out for what reason, Jin and Taehyung certainly didn’t know.

“I want cake,” Jungkook announced.

“What? You haven’t eaten your dinner yet.” Jin responded automatically, not even realising until he had finished talking.

“But I don’t like yucky vegetables.” Jungkook made a face and pushed his plate away.

“I need to poop.” Jimin reminded, looking at Taehyung while still patting Hoseok’s head. “Taehyungie, Jiminie needs to poop.”

“Go then,” Taehyung responded, making a face. “I’m not taking you.”

“But I need help.” Jimin frowned.

“You’ve pooped on your own before, hyung.” All five little boys suddenly stopped what they were doing to giggle madly.

“You called Jiminie, hyung!” Namjoon snorted, wiping his nose with the back of his way oversized sleeve. Jin made a face of disgust at the action.

“That is your best shirt, Namjoon!” Jin scolded. Namjoon looked up at Jin with wide eyes that brimmed with tears at his elder’s loud tone. “Oh no, don’t cry, I’m sorry.” Jin panicked, holding the boy back to his chest.

***

It was precisely 9:57 by the time all five little boys had fallen asleep wearing just a t-shirt each that reached their feet, not even underwear underneath. Taehyung and Jin finished tucking them into Jin and Namjoon’s king sized bed, glad Namjoon had insisted on getting such a big bed, before flopping down on the sofa together. They were practically dead on their feet. They never realised looking after toddlers was so tired. They suddenly had a great respect for parents, including their own.

“What are we going to do?” Taehyung whined.

“My boyfriend is a three-year-old,” Jin mumbled distantly. “The love of my life is three years old!” He squeaked, looking at Taehyung with wide eyes. “Ohmygod, I feel like such a creep. I’m going to get arrested!”

“Unless you do something to him now, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Taehyung scoffed. “You don’t plan on treating him as your boyfriend anymore, do you, hyung?”

“No, of course not.” Jin scoffed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Well, stop saying stupid things.” They both groaned as they heard a whining coming from the bedroom.

“Not it.” They both spoke. Neither had the energy to argue let alone move so they stayed still and quickly, the noises stopped. They sighed in relief.

“Seriously though hyung, what are we going to do about this? Is there an antidote?”

“No.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“So...what are we going to do?”

“No idea.” Silence fell upon them as they tried to think of a solution to their seemingly impossible situation. “Put them up for adoption?” Jin joked earning an unimpressed look. “I was joking...sort of.”

“I think...we’re going to have to raise them, hyung.”

“Don’t say that,” Jin whined. “I’m too pretty and young to be a father to five.”

“And I’m not?!” Another silence fell upon them.

“I guess, we’re going to have to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Get married and buy a house.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry that I don’t want our children to grow up in single-parent households getting passed between homes for the rest of their lives.” Jin huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he sulked, turning his back to Taehyung for extra dramatics. “Why don’t you want the best for them, Taehyung?”

“I do.” Taehyung groaned and moved over to gently put a hand on Jin’s waist soothingly. “I just, I don’t love you like that.” Jin sniffled. “I’m sorry.”

“Why aren’t I good enough for you?” Taehyung sighed and hugged Jin.

“You’re just not up to my standards, hyung. I’m an international model, you’re just an Apprentice.” Jin gasped and jumped up, pushing Taehyung away.

“You can sleep on the couch tonight.”

“What? No. Hyung, let me share the bed.” Taehyung whined following Jin to the guest bedroom. Jin just closed the door in his face making Taehyung groan loudly in annoyance. “Fine! I’m going out! Have fun looking after them alone!” He hit the door with his palm before turning, only to find Namjoon and Jimin looking up at him with wide eyes, their little pudgey hands connected. “Oh, why aren’t you in bed?” Taehyung softened and crouched down to talk to the boys at their level.

“Jiminie wanted me to come with him,” Namjoon explained. He looked past Taehyung to the door. “Is Jin-hyung in bed?”

“Yeah, he just went in.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“No.” Taehyung smiled lightly. “Just a little disagreement.”

“Can I sleep with hyung tonight?” Namjoon looked up at Taehyung hopefully. While Taehyung hesitated for a response, the door opened and Namjoon beamed at the sight of Jin smiling down at him.

“Of course you can Joonie, come and give hyung big bedtime cuddles!” He encouraged so Namjoon ran forward with arms held up. Jin immediately picked him up and returned into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Hyung.” Jimin spoke softly as he tugged Taehyung’s t-shirt to gain his attention.

“Yes, Jiminie?” Taehyung smiled gently at the adorable little boy.

“I need to poop.” Taehyung’s face dropped.

“Again?” Jimin just nodded so Taehyung sighed and got up. “Okay, but we really need to look into this. No kid should poop this much.” Jimin took Taehyung’s outstretched hand and together they went to the bathroom where Taehyung had to hold Jimin on the seat so the child didn’t fall in.

Jin and Taehyung were in separate rooms looking after different children but they both had the exact same thought.

How the fuck am I going to look after these kids?

Honestly, I don’t even remember what prompted me to write this but something did and now here we are just over 2 hours later. I’m as confused as youa ll about this whole thing but hey, congrats for sitting through it haha

Honestly(y am I so honest tonite tho), this was actually a pretty cool idea and I’ve never seen anything like it and I was thinking of making a lil series after this part called “Babysitting Bangtan” to show Tae and Jin raising the little kiddos but this one part took me longer than I intended so I’m not gonna pointlessly write more for my own entertainment lol

~Chee

20 notes · View notes

alpha-hard-reload-sites-blog · 7 years

Text

Alpha Hard Reload - Sustains the healthy sex life and aroused sexual drive

Weak Muscles, not as vitality, low erection and feeble libido are the prime problems which are usually confronted by men with growing age. The male body starts losing the inbuilt power to remain sexually active and lively that significantly affects their personal life and leads to their humiliation.

To overcome these problems, many men opt for erection enhancing medications and injections that are effective just for a briefer period of time and also damage the body. The very best way out for men to get back their youthful vigor and vitality with growing age is to bring a distinctive penile enlargement product to lifestyle. It could be difficult for guys to decide on the authentic product which will increase the penis size and build endurance wind up in a whole lot more pleasing sex. Therefore, now I will introduce one such male enhancement formula Alpha Hard Reload that's completely safe to consume and the best part is that it doesn't call for any kind of doctor prescription. Simply inhale these obviously processed pills employing a free mind and enjoy your pleasurable moments just like your young years. Read the Designated review carefully prior to the end:

What's Alpha Hard Reload?

Alpha Hard Reload is a clinically developed testosterone boosting formulation. It increases the testosterone level, boost up the libido, and heighten the libido. It gives vital nutrients to your bodyand build confidence level to stay longer and stronger while having those cozy moments.

It'll refine your operation from the bedroom, reduce the early fatigue and fatigues. Adding on, the herbal elements of the revolutionary formulation will prevent erectile dysfunction and also improve the size and girth of the penis. Come let's explore the constituents of the efficacious and a wholesome penile enhancement supplement.

Adding on to the advantage, in addition, it reduces the cortisol levels that leads to improvement in strain and early fatigue.

Saw Palmetto Extract: The infusion of this herbal fruit helps attaining suitable size and girth of their penis. It provides proper nutrients that optimize the sexual potency and endurance.

Nettle Extract: It has aphrodisiac properties which enhances libido, helps attain harder and more powerful erections. It aids in solving the issue of erectile dysfunction.

Horny Goat Weed Extract: This ingredient stimulates the testosterone production which will heighten firmness of erectile dysfunction and force of infertility. Plus, in addition, it reduces fatigue and helps alleviate prostate difficulties.

Orchic Substance: The infusion of this ingredient improves concentration, avoids the stress, and keep healthy testicular function.

Boron: it's a mineral that will raise the rise of nitric oxide in your body, increase the t-level. It promotes up the sexual performance by making men achieve harder and more powerful erection.

Bioperine: It spreads the function of different ingredients into the body by obtaining them absorbed into the blood flow.

How Many Capsules Can I Need To Take In A Day?

Each bottle of Alpha Hard Reload supplement comprises 60 easy-to-consume capsules that you've got to inhale twice every day daily.

Note: Avoid overdose and remember that the outcome might differ according to person. To discover more about the formula, read the instruction given on the jar's label.

What Are The People's Review? Though I consumed many medicines to remain powerful and lively while having comfortable minutes but they didn't do the job. I consumed it frequently for 2-3 months and has been pleased to find a visible transformation in my own bedroom performance. You might try it too." ."

Proper Location To Book An Order:

Interested in obtaining Alpha Tough Reload supplement? Following that, act today and carefully fill up the registration form to receive your parcel at your doorstep within a week. As you can not locate this supplement at the retail shops, the best way to purchase it is by clicking on the link supplied in the end of the page and placing your order now just. To discover more, you have the ability to freely go to the primary website. New buyers may avail its TRIAL packas nicely prior to ordering!

What Are The Precautionary Steps?

Keep the jar at a moist location, just away from sunlight light

Avoid taking broken seal and backpack in the time of shipping

Perhaps not meant to diagnose or treat any diseases

Is Alpha Hard Reload Worthy To Use?

Certainly yes, Alpha Hard Reload is a zero negative established formula. Its ingredients are free of additives, additives, and chemicals. As all of the fusion elements are assessed and tested under the recommendation of experts.

The manufacturers have provided the toll-free amount and an email address so that customers can clear their issues or the questions. So just phone at 987-3456-222 or abandon an email at [email protected].

Click here for more information http://maleenhancementshop.info/alpha-hard-reload/

#Alpha Hard Reload

1 note · View note

lifeonashelf · 5 years

Text

CINDERELLA

It is one a.m. A massive explosion has just ignited mere yards from my apartment. Thunderous, powerful, disturbing. The sonic shockwave of the blast pierces my ears, rattles my windows, makes my balcony physically shudder beneath my feet. Off in the distance, I hear a cannonade, seemingly endless sonorous reports at various sites on the horizon. Mingling with these, there is also an inharmonious descant of smaller discharges, sustained staccato pops that ring out in the night like the deadly buzzing of machine guns. The sky is full of shrapnel that has been launched into the air, and my rudimentary understanding of physics tells me that what goes up must surely come down somewhere. I am not a praying man, but I nevertheless conjure a silent thought in my head and do my best to beam it into the universe, hoping that none of this fiery flak touches down on my roof to trigger a conflagration. Long moments pass and the discordant, jarring cacophony does not abate—more explosions, more gunfire salvos. Another hugely loud boom rings out, this one the closest yet, so close that I can see the light of its discharge dancing on the side of the building across from mine. It sounds as if I am sitting in the epicenter of a warzone. It sounds like a nightmare. It sounds like the end of the fucking world.

It’s not the end of the world, though. It is the 4th Of July. Which naturally means that all throughout my neighborhood, packs of heavily-intoxicated alpha males are “celebrating” how awesome our country is, in the most traditionally American way possible: by detonating a shitload of cheap and dangerous explosives made in Mexico.

And that’s not even the ironic part. The really ironic part is that these discourteous douchebags are commemorating the day our ancestors declared independence from a tyrannical king and the imposition of Christian doctrine, in 2018—a year in which we are presently ruled by a tyrant who is actively striving to expunge every safeguard that will prohibit him from occupying his dominion for life, and a cadre of puritanical legislators who are actively rewriting our laws in accordance with their selective interpretations of Christian doctrine.

Of course, like our forefathers, we are taking bold and decisive action against despotism. We’re posting memes on Facebook like crazy, for one, a strategy which I imagine will eventually get a whole lot of stuff accomplished. We’re also rising up and marching, showing solidarity, letting our fascist-in-chief know we won’t stand idle while women and people of color are being treated as marginal citizens and children who come to this country seeking asylum are being detained in concentration camps. And since July 4 is the linchpin of our freedom, the one day which all of us have agreed upon as an occasion to unite as a nation and show the world, and each other, what America really stands for… Well, it stands to reason that in this critical annum of 2018, while our noble democratic experiment is enmeshed in the most dire jeopardy it has ever faced, we are presented with a golden opportunity to make our grandest statement yet, to stand in defiance of the current status quo and announce to those who seek to subjugate us that we are not credulous automatons who will simply lay down and allow ourselves to be crushed under the wheels of the machine. This year, truly—as Bill Pullman said in that movie where Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum beat up a bunch of aliens—we celebrate our Independence Day…

Nah, not so much. We were too busy attending barbecues and having parades and drinking beer and blowing shit up today. But in our defense—from the sound of things outside my apartment—we bought waaaaaaaaay more Mexican-made explosives than ever this year.

This is ‘Murica. And right now, America sucks.

Given the statements I made in my introductory paragraphs, it probably won’t surprise you that I’m not particularly fond of fireworks. And given the statement that comprised the last paragraph, it probably won’t surprise you that I’m not particularly fond of America these days, either. (I do love that the principles of this land still allow me the freedom to type the words “America sucks”—although, if the bridge-troll in charge at the moment has anything to say about it, that probably won’t be the case for long). There are those who will read my proclamation and issue some sort of gut-check response like, “if you don’t love America, then git the hell out.” To which I say: 1) fuck you, because that brand of idiotic nationalistic rhetoric is precisely why we’re in this mess to begin with, and 2) if you honestly can’t comprehend how someone who has lived in this country for the past forty years could find so much to loathe about its contemporary state of affairs that they would profess to loathe the nation’s prevailing identity as a whole, then I would strongly recommend opening your eyes to what’s crashing down around you because your willful ignorance of just how fucked this place is right now is a far bigger concern than anything I could possibly write.

Then I would ask you a question: Why are you still so stoked about America? Okay, two questions: Is your ardor based on any measured assessment of what this country stands for now, or are you simply rah-rah-ing the home-team? Most of my educated acquaintances would likely answer with some variation of the standard “it may not be perfect, but it’s still the best nation in the world” reply. Which is a perfectly acceptable response… Except it’s simply not fucking true. Because America is not the best at anything anymore. We lead the globe in mass shootings and shitty hip-hop artists with face tattoos, and that’s about it.

So under what criteria is America “the best”? I’m not posing that question in the spirit of communism, I’m posing it in the spirit of pragmatism. Because, lord knows, I DON’T WANT TO FEEL THIS WAY. But it’s goddamn difficult not to when every single day I see more and more increasingly abhorrent events unfolding on the news, I see a vile cackling shithead mocking all of us from his ivory throne while he assaults every trace of common decency we had left just like he has assaulted women his entire life, and I don’t see a single ray of light on the horizon. My heart isn’t broken, it hasn’t stopped beating, it has simply filled to the brim with disgust—viscous, black, oozing, poisonous disgust. And I am drowning in it. I am disgusted by Donald Trump. I am disgusted by every single person who voted for Donald Trump. I am disgusted by every single corrupt sycophant in his party who facilitates his evil machinations. I am disgusted by every single person I see wearing t-shirts with images of AR-15’s emblazoned on them. I am disgusted by every single asshole who is still exploding M-100’s in my neighborhood even though it is now 3 a.m. And while there is plenty of overlap in each of those categories, if you added up all of those people, they comprise about half the voting population of The United States. We’ve already discussed how much I despise math, but even with my limited grasp of arithmetic, this seems to suggest that roughly 50% of Americans are abominable, racist, ignorant, and/or fundamentally stupid. So, I return to an expanded version of the question at the top of this paragraph: How can any country where this is the case possibly be “the best”?

Make no mistake, Donald Trump did not create our present debacle. Sure, he’s the pus-dribbling herpe at the tip of this diseased penis, so it’s easy to erroneously label him the culprit. But no matter what medicine you apply to that sore, the virus remains. People voted for him. LOTS of people. Lots of Americans. If any evidence was required to demonstrate that our democratic structure has massive systemic problems, there you have it. I understand that we as a nation aren’t necessarily defined by our President, who merely serves as a temporary figurehead—even if this particular figurehead embodies the most horrific symbol imaginable of our national paradigm: an uneducated jingoistic criminal buffoon with no respect for anybody; Donald Trump represents the espoused virtues of America about as well as Jaws represents the gentleness of marine life. However, let me repeat: he is the President because millions of Americans voted for him. And they did so despite the fact that his being an uneducated jingoistic criminal buffoon with no respect for anybody was not only common knowledge but something he openly boasted about. So, not to belabor a point, but this alleged “greatest country in the world” is comprised of millions and millions of individuals who think these are desirable qualities for the person who controls the largest stockpile of nuclear weapons on the planet to have. This alleged “greatest country in world” is also home to multitudes of people who have indicated they would vote for Kanye West if that megalomaniacal psychopath ran for President. Clearly, the masses who ultimately chart the course of this nation are not intelligent enough to make any decision with such weighty consequences. And this is why we can’t have nice things.

Yet so many among us still cling to time-honored fallacies about our superiority. To them, America is like The Beatles—unassailable, immune to criticism. To them, it’s just blindly accepted that America is the world’s zenith. So pass the fireworks and don’t tread on me, motherfucker.

And maybe that’s a big part of the problem. Maybe too many of us have been impetuously clinging to this tarnished ideal, clutching our flags to our proud red-white-and-blue bleeding hearts, oblivious to the feces smeared all over the fabric. We still think we’re Let It Be, even though the music we’re making these days sounds a lot more like Ringo Starr’s solo albums. So maybe, just maybe, it’s time to accept the sad reality that our magic moment has passed, that Yoko has sapped the soul of our foundation and torn us apart from within. Then maybe we’ll start caring enough to actually fucking do something about it.

Hey, the dudes up the street are. Two more roaring explosions just resounded across the blue-black firmament. It is 4:14 a.m. It’s never too late to celebrate America, apparently.

But this isn’t what you want to read about right now, is it? I suppose you saw the header of this piece and assumed I was going to write some eloquent, reflective treatise about the band Cinderella. Well, I cannot. And it’s not just because despite my overly generous appreciation for the hairspray hard-rock of my youth, Cinderella’s limited charms place them in the bottom tier of those outfits. Even their very best song, “Nobody’s Fool”, exists squarely in the middle of the road—it’s neither great nor awful, it’s just sort of… there. Tom Keifer does a decent impression of AC/DC’s Brian Johnson, and the Night Songs disc I’m listening to right now is enjoyable enough for me to accede that Cinderella was probably a better band than Bang Tango, but those merits are woefully inadequate to justify my writing anything of substance about them.

And even worse: I can’t write anything of substance about our country’s dismal state of affairs, either. I have no solutions to offer, no wisdom to impart. I am merely a broken man sitting at his laptop trying to make sense of the madness suffusing the world around him. And here’s the worst part of the even worse part: all of it, every insane and malevolent thing that is happening to us right now, makes absolute sense to me. I told everyone close to me that Donald Trump was going to win this past election as soon as he announced his candidacy, a prediction which was roundly scoffed at by the smartest people I know. Being right doesn’t make me a soothsayer or a political genius, it simply makes me an overanxious pessimist who has been gauging the very worst in humanity long enough to assume that the very worst thing which can happen in any situation where humanity is involved is more likely than not the thing that is going to happen. Therefore, it was only natural for me to assume that Trump was going to happen.

Whether we like it or not—and this is the thing we’re going to have to accept about the modern American identity if we ever want to make the situation any better—the ethos of Donald Trump’s reality-show sensationalism epitomizes more Americans than the ethos of an arrogant professional shrew in a pant-suit does. The reasons I voted for Hillary Clinton had nothing to do with her dogma speaking to me and touching my soul and igniting a spark of patriotism in my heart—no, those were the reasons I voted for Barack Obama twice. I actively revile Hillary Clinton; I just revile her a whole lot less than I revile Donald Trump. I wasn’t With Her, I was merely Against Him. And I was not alone in this perspective. And I think this is rather emblematic of the broad-spectrum mediocrity and complacency which is inherent in present-day America: legions of the best among us were willing to embrace a patently unexceptional figurehead simply because she wasn’t as bad as the alternative. We didn’t demand the best possible representative of our values, we were prepared to settle for someone who obfuscated her shadiest tenets instead of flaunting them as selling points like her opponent did. “Good enough” was good enough for us. But being a better candidate than some of the truly abhorrent alternatives did not make Hillary Clinton the best candidate. Any more than being a better republic than some of the truly abhorrent alternatives makes America the best country.

No, I am not especially proud to be an American. Especially not at the moment. Why should I be? My nationality is not a product of any extraordinary accomplishment on my part, it is a product of my being lucky enough to be sired by parents whose ancestors managed to slip across the border before ICE existed. I’m certainly not saying I hate America—it’s where I live, it’s where my friends and family live, and it’s where my record collection lives; it has some appealing qualities. Yet espousing our nation’s superiority while disregarding its numerous and glaring failings is a lot like rooting for the New England Patriots despite their legacy of cheating and dishonor because they win more games than they lose. Donald Trump didn’t invent corruption and atrocity; America has a long history of both, one which we conveniently discount while championing its greatness. But here’s the thing there: we treat those unpleasant facets of our bygone chronicle as if they are challenges we have overcome, as if we have somehow evolved past them. Yet, if there’s any salient wisdom to be gleaned from the events of the past two years, it is that we as a society have not actually progressed as much as we claim. How dare we assert our enlightenment when we still live in a land where a man can rape an unconscious woman with a foreign object in an alleyway and be virtually immune to punishment because his white scholar-athlete eminence is hoisted as an exemplar of the American ideal. How dare we claim to be the best at anything when first-world nations around the globe continue eclipsing our finest accomplishments while we’re busy playing Democrats vs. Republicans, battling each other like boorish Neanderthal contestants on the same sort of trash television programs which launched our current President to notoriety.

Trump’s ascendency has legitimized his most repugnant traits and demonstrated that there is a vast and ravenous fan-base for cruelty among our populace. It has proven this country is laden with people devoid of empathy, callous budding sociopaths who were just waiting for someone to come along and tell them that their deep-seeded bigotries and intolerances are venerable assets. Which is why simply removing one fiend from office will not be enough to pull us out of our extant quagmire. That resolution will be like remedying our slit throats with kisses from our mamas—it may feel good for a moment, but it will not suture our wounds. Because America has been hemorrhaging for a very long time and we have chosen to ignore that. Donald Trump merely rubbed that blood over all of our faces for the world to see.

If you’re proud to be an American, that’s just fine. But what are you so proud of right now? It seems to me that anyone who truly loves this country should want it to be the very best it can be. And it seems to me that the first step toward achieving that is acknowledging that the American essence needed drastic and sweeping improvements well before Der Fuhrer took office. It’s time for us to admit that we are not the greatest country in the world; such a contention only rings as superciliousness at this juncture, in light of the all the evidence to the contrary. Because as long as a maestro with absolutely zero redeeming qualities is orchestrating our symphony, we need to account for the pandemic narrowness among the citizenry who handed him the baton. The time has come to concede that a body riddled with cancerous cells cannot possibly be the healthiest. And to ask ourselves what redeeming qualities we have left—what can we possibly stand for—when enough of us decided that an unprincipled monster represented our nation’s spirit to put one at the helm. Then, and only then, can we begin to cure our sickness.

Okay, here’s how we fix everything…

Nope. I told you, I have no answers for you. Because a large and terrified part of me suspects we may have already cued the band to play our funeral march the moment that diminutive orange hand touched a Bible and sealed the oath that made him the global symbol of what America represents in 2018. And this absolutely fucking devastates me. I may not adore this country at present, but of course I want to it to survive. Because if it does, maybe there’s a chance we can eventually make it the greatest country in the world for real.

For now, everyone I know is resolving to hold on tightly to the masts until the storm passes and the great vessel stops listing. Regrettably, I think there’s a very strong chance our ship will sink before that happens. Regrettably, perhaps it already has. I’m not sure there’s any coming back from the path we’re on now, if this much damage can ever be undone. I’d love to say I’m hopeful, but most of my “Hope” went away when the singularly kind and inspiring man who delivered that slogan did.

That’s why I wasn’t out watching others wave sulphuric pom-poms in the sky to rejoice in the majesty of America tonight. I was huddled inside my apartment, seeking shelter from the onslaught, listening to the terrible sounds of the world exploding around me and knowing I was utterly powerless to stop it, desperately wishing the trauma would end and hoping that when the new dawn finally came my home would not lie in ruins.

After all, it’s 2018. That was the most appropriate American experience I could think of.

July 4, 2018

0 notes

2bi2die-blog · 6 years

Text

let’s have some heckin dialogue

i’m noticing pan people being caught completely off guard and getting defensive over pan/bi discourse. which i can acknowledge is jarring and hurtful - you know you’re not a bad person/transphobic/biphobic/etc. i get it. what’s rustling my jimmies is the rampant invalidation of accounts of biphobia. therefore, i have a request: please listen to bi people about their experiences.

a brief background: i’m a 27 y/o bi trans man. i played with the pan label in college until i learned that the bisexual community’s definition encompasses one’s own gender and other genders (or in other words, all genders). it helped me to meet other bi people, especially the handful of nonbinary bisexual people i’ve dated. prior to that, i spent years and years doubting myself, jumping from straight to lesbian and back again based on who i was dating at the time. even now, i find myself saying i’m gay. the word “bisexual” feels inherently sexualized - dirty, a kink, even. so it’s been deeply important to me to reclaim that label. internalized biphobia is a constant struggle.

in both grad school (in which i worked as a TA) and my work as an academic advisor (where i advised an LGBT club within the college), i came into contact with a ton of LGBT undergrads - not necessarily a generation apart, but certainly young enough to make a significant difference in experience. looking back, i can say that the majority of students i worked with in that capacity identified as pansexual. time and time and time again, i’ve had my own sexuality incorrectly defined to my face. i’ve seldom (if ever) heard someone define pansexuality without including bisexuality (its regressive counterpart) as a point of reference. at one point, in the context of an impromptu Trans 101 conversation at an info booth, a complete stranger butted into the conversation, identifying herself as pansexual, and told me that bisexual means “you either like penis or vagina” (which makes about as much sense as any other of these definitions floating around). upon learning i was trans, she called me a “sexy beast” to prove that she was attracted to everyone.

tumblr has been great in starting dialogue and clearing up misconceptions about bisexuality, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the world is up to speed.

pan tumblr keeps reiterating:

“NO ONE has said hearts not parts for years!!” (false)

“i’ve never looked down on bisexuality!” (congratulations)

“pansexuals have overcome their transphobic and biphobic roots it’s All Better Now :)” (tell that to your friends)

essentially, “who cares what you continue to go through off of tumblr, all that matters is that i’m a good person”

yes, discourse can be ugly and bi people are lashing out in defense of our identities. i’m not condoning any attempts to invalidate pansexuals. a good majority of my friends identify as pan and i have no qualms with them. instead, i’ve been striking up conversations. each and every friend was legitimately surprised when i gave them the correct definition of bisexuality. and they listened. i didn’t pressure anyone to identify as bi, and to my knowledge not one of my friends has changed their label. i simply gave them the correct definition, and they’ve stopped spreading misinformation. from this, i’ve learned that this is not malice, but misunderstanding and a lack of information.

i don’t think that pansexuality isn’t a valid sexuality. in fact, i think that pansexuals and bisexuals, with their shared experiences, can and should coexist and even foster solidarity. pansexuals have very valid reasons for identifying how they do - bisexuality simply doesn’t resonate with some, for example. i’m seeing a big generational split and that’s fine. but what i’m asking pansexuals is that they don’t sweep what’s still happening irl under the rug. off of tumblr, acknowledge this, combat it, listen to and defend bi people when you catch a pan friend painting bisexuality as regressive.

#pan discourse #bi discourse #bisexuality #pansexuality

0 notes

ntrending · 6 years

Text

Four ways natural history museums can skew reality

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/four-ways-natural-history-museums-can-skew-reality/

Four ways natural history museums can skew reality

Natural history museums are magical places. They inspire awe and wonder in the natural world and help us understand our place within the animal kingdom. Behind the scenes, many of them are also undertaking world-changing science with their collections.

But they are places for people, made by people. We might like to consider them logical places, centered on facts, but they can’t tell all the facts—there isn’t room. Similarly, they can’t show all the animals. And there are reasons behind what goes on display and what gets left in the storeroom.

The biases that can be detected in how people talk about animals, particularly in museums is one of the key themes of my new book, Animal Kingdom: A Natural History in 100 Objects. Museums are a product of their own history, and that of the societies they are embedded in. They are not apolitical, and they are not entirely scientific. As such, they don’t really represent reality.

1. Where are all the small animals?

Museums are overwhelmingly biased towards big beasts. It’s not difficult to see why—who can fail to be awed by the sight of a 25 meter-long blue whale? Dinosaurs, elephants, tigers, and walruses are spectacular: they ooze presence. It is easy for museums to instill a sense of wonder with animals like this. They are the definition of impressive.

And so these are the kind of specimens that fill museum galleries. But they only represent a tiny sliver of global diversity. Invertebrate species (animals without backbones) outnumber vertebrates by more than 20 to one in the real world, but in museums I’d be surprised if 10 percent of displays focused on them.

2. Where are all the females?

If we think about the sex ratio of animal specimens in museum galleries, the males are thoroughly over-represented. Curator of Natural Science at Leeds Museum Discovery Centre, Rebecca Machin, published a case study in 2008 of a typical natural history gallery and found that only 29 percent of the mammals, and 34 percent of the birds were female. To some extent this can be explained by the fact that hunters and collectors were more inclined to acquire—and been seen to overcome—animals with big horns, antlers, tusks, or showy plumage, which typically is the male of the species. But can this display bias be excused? It is a misrepresentation of nature.

Machin also found that if male and female specimens of the same species were displayed together, the males were typically positioned in a domineering pose over the female, or just simply higher than her on the shelf. This was irrespective of biological realities.

Looking at the ways in which the specimens had been interpreted—even in labels that have been written very recently—she found that the role of the female animal was typically described as a mother, while the male came across as the hunter or at least had a broader role unrelated to parenting. We have to wonder what messages this might give museum visitors about the role of the female.

3. Where is all the gross stuff?

When it comes to animal groups that people consider cute— particularly mammals—why is it that specimens preserved in jars are displayed less regularly than taxidermy? I suspect that one reason is that—unlike taxidermy—fluid preservation cannot hide the fact that the animal is obviously dead. It is likely that museums shy away from displaying mammals in jars—which are very common in their storerooms—because visitors find them more disturbing and cruel than the alternatives.

I have encountered few objects that cause visitors to have such a strong negative response than the bisected cat below, displayed in the Grant Museum of Zoology at UCL, and this is interesting too. They seem more concerned about this cat than when they are confronted with the preserved remains of endangered, exotic creatures. The human connection with this species is so strong that many people find it challenging to see them preserved in a museum.

There are other reasons to think that museum curators modify their displays to cater to the sensibilities of their visitors.

The majority of mammal species, for example, have a bone in their penis. Despite the prevalence of skeletons of these animals in museum displays, it is extraordinarily rare to see one with its penis bone attached. One reason for this is the presumed prudishness of the curators, who would remove the penis bone before putting them on display (another is that they are easy to lose when de-fleshing a skeleton).

4. Colonial skews

There is real unevenness in which parts of the world the animals in our museums come from. The logistics of visiting exotic locations means that some places were easier to arrange transport to than others, and there may also have been some political motivation to increase knowledge of a particular region.

Knowledge of a country’s natural history equates to knowledge of the potential resources – be they animal, vegetable or mineral – that could be exploited there. Collecting became part of the act of colonisation; staking a claim of possession. For these reasons, collections are often extremely biased by diplomatic relationships between nations. In the UK, it is easy to observe the bias of the former British Empire in what we have in our museums, and that is true of any country with a similar history. Collections of Australian species in British museums dwarf what we hold from China, for example.

Museums are rightly celebrated as places of wonder and curiosity, and also science and learning. But if we look closely we can see that there are human biases in the way nature is represented. The vast majority of these are harmless foibles, but not all.

My hope is that when people visit museums they may be able to consider the human stories behind the displays they see. They might consider the question of why is all that stuff there: what is that museum—or that specimen—doing? What is it for? Why has someone decided it deserves to take up the finite space in the cabinet?

Jack Ashby is the Manager of the Grant Museum of Zoology, UCL. This article was originally featured on The Conversation.

Written By Jack Ashby/The Conversation

#Science

0 notes