KATSUNI — “I love everything about sex. It’s like having a great dinner.”

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LEXI LOVE GETS FUCKED — AND NOT IN THE GOOD WAY

Let’s just say (hypothetically, of course) that any number of you losers was a man of influence who owned a dirty, sceney little venue in Brooklyn’s hipster Mecca, Williamsburg. Let’s say you had a band coming to highlight a show at your venue, and one of the featured performers in that band was none other than the hardcorest hottie you’ve ever pleasured yourself to, then fantasized about later. Let’s say she was the coolest, most badass, most black-wearing, vinyl-sporting, dark-eye-makeuped rock chick in the porn biz, Lexi mothafuckin’ Love. And let’s say the band was none other than hard rock megagroup Team Cybergeist. And let’s say she was scheduled to headline a show, thus possibly bringing hundreds of degenerate fanbois and rock kids alike to your humble venue. It seems that, in this situation, any self-respecting owner or manager of said venue would do the following things to assure a great show, a full-fledged rock-out for the porn star, and an all around kickass night of entertainment. In order to ensure the above things, one would want to:

A) Communicate to the band beforehand the venue’s specifications as per technology and equipment.
B) Bend over backwards to meet any needs they might have (this is an industrial band we’re talking about here—they have tech needs).
C) Be nice to the porn star. She’s a porn star. She’s cool.
D) Keep out as much of the creepy rabble as possible. Porn fans can be weird.
E) PROMOTE THE FUCK OUT OF THE SHOW.

Common sense, right?

Apparently not at Public Assembly on 6th Street in Brooklyn, right next door to the Music Hall of Williamsburg. At Public Assembly, the idea is to not promote the show at all. To not tell anyone that a huge star of the Blue Screen will be performing. The idea is to not have what's needed for the porn star to even perform. The common sense there goes along the lines of: “Who cares if they can play their music correctly or use their vocalist’s computerized beat? It’s only a music venue.”

What the fuck. Seriously, the WHACK! staph had been salivating all over ourselves for weeks in anticipation of watching our favorite fap film spokes-star get up on stage with a bunch of hard-ass musicians and rock the stage. We wrote up an article about it and invited all you fuckers. We showed up early with cameras and note-taking devices, only slightly hammered because we knew we had to do good reporting! We were so fucking excited for the Team Cybergeist show last Tuesday, July 20, that we went the whole way out to Brooklyn, mostly sober. That's saying something.

But when we arrived we discovered that Public Assembly would not allow Team Cybergeist — a fanstastic industrial/hard rock/goth outfit sporting credentials from basically every major hard rock band in the past fifteen years — to bring in their own equipment on which to play, and did not even have the technology to hook up a computer to their sound system so headliner Lexi MOTHAFUCKIN’ Love could have her beat play for her performance of “On Broken Wings.” They didn’t let the bassist, Sally Debauchery, use her regular wireless bass. They wouldn’t let the band bring in their own drum kit. They didn’t even give the band a comped guest list, so the WHACK! team had to pay to get in! Motherfuckers, we do not pay to get in anywhere. It’s a damn good thing we love Lexi more than our mothers.

Public Assembly was also unconcerned, apparently, with whether people might have paid an inflated price to get into their badly-stocked bar or use their absolutely filthy, dark enough to make you wonder if that’s a rat or a paper towel in the corner bathrooms, and badly modulated sound system just to hear their favorite porn star sing (I did, and I know at least fifteen other people there did, too). They did not care if their headlining band, the whole way from Florida, could play their music properly. “I can’t believe they don’t have a computer hookup!” an unexcited Lexi told me backstage, shouting over the music. “The rest of the band came the whole way from Florida for this show, and they can’t even use their own equipment!”

Bassist Sally Debauchery shook her head. “I’m not even gonna be able to move around up there,” she told me sadly. “They won’t let me use my wireless bass, so I’m going to be tripping over the cables and shit!”

Band founder Angel Bartolotta, a fine example of a friendly, eyeliner-wearing hard rocker, just shook his head about the situation. Lead singer Yael Wirchek kept her spirits up by looking hot and being super nice to the WHACK! staph, which improved our spirits. But we were still pissed at the venue for treating our friends so shabbily.

Public Assembly didn’t care about the music, it seemed, and neither did they mind if a decaying mountain of man-flesh in the form of a tripping-out hippie in a diaper got into the venue, only to lie motionless like a beached drug addict on a backstage bench and stare at Lexi all evening. This creepy sonofabitch was eyeing our spokes-starlike she was a pack of mini donuts for a good half hour before the band took the stage. Upon their departure he immediately started creepily fingering the merchandise and was chased off by yours truly, at which point he melted back into the trippy night from whence he came. Alas, I couldn’t get a picture for fear his dilated pupils would steal the camera’s soul and suck me in through the lens and down into dude’s diaper. And I mean a diaper. Not like a Huggies or Depends, either, I’m talking a home-made, yellow-cotton, probably-just-a-t-shirt-tied-around-his-massive-pasty-loins disaster.

Also a fucking disaster was much of the show, no thanks to the venue. The bands were all, actually, pretty good, with the exception of Sister Kill Cycle, the first band I witnessed upon arrival. A sadder, less-inspired version of a Manson/Reznor lovechild sans makeup or any glimmer of artistic genius I’ve never seen. I’ll give the bassist a nod for his serious dedication to a sadly outmoded hairstyle (which probably took years of serious dedication to the Goth cause), and the very real “I-don’t-want-to-be-in-this-band” despair of the guitarist. Overall, though, the depression aimed at by any Goth band aside, this was the most depressingly bad show I’ve seen on a stage in Brooklyn in some time. And that’s really saying something. And while I’m always a fan of homoeroticism in rock music, stringy hair and coke bloat really take away from the excitement, as do the refusal of the band’s members to take Goth fashion further than the mid-nineties got it.

But, hell, I love me some Goth kids. They’re so sad and angry and adorable, they’re like hipsters without a sense of humor. I want to pinch their pale, wan cheeks and bless their black, shriveled little hearts. And I do adore some good fog machine action. So, good for Sister Kill Cycle and their badly written broken-hearted lyrics and unskilled guitar playing.

Taking the stage after the pasty debacle was local hard rockin’ group PANZIE, who put on a pretty fuckin’ impressive display of facial tattoos, hard rock fashion, and sheer charisma, not to mention some solid tunes. Aside from an unfortunately mustachioed drummer, the band was a hell of a lot more fun to look at than their predecessors, and their rocking out was several steps above, with talented performers abounding. Their local supporters turned out in good numbers — the crowd full of Brooklyn and LES goth kids in excellently badass outfits. I saw a guy in tight-fitting black pin-striped bellbottoms. Hell yeah, that’s my kind of crowd.

When Team Cybergeist took the stage, with the beached hippie gone and the cheap PBRs kicking in to my system, I took the opportunity to snap a few blurry pictures and headbang my way to the front of the crowd. Team Cybergeist was, it’s not surprising to hear, the best band of the evening, even despite their equipment problems. Yael was hot as hell, singing beautifully, eerily, and powerfully in her little teeny skirt, and the band’s skill and performance experience shone through the less-than-excellent crowd’s apathy. Yael took some time to shame us all for not screaming loud enough or dancing, but when Nine Inch Nails’ “Head Like a Hole” came up on the set list, the crowd went wild as Lexi Love took the stage to dance and sing with the crew.

All around, I’d say the night was a success even despite the shameful apathy of the venue toward its performers. The crowd got into it, Lexi got some stage time, and the hippie from the abyss disappeared into the night after only mild creepitude. I’ll never go to Public Assembly again, but I would go see Team Cybergeist (and Panzie) again in a heartbeat. —Miss Lagsalot

I POOPED ON MY BOYFRIEND’S DICK — A Pro-Anal Tale

WHACK! Magazine proudly presents our first installment of puerile personal sex stories by our newest Staph Writer, Miss Lolly Gagger. Lolly is not only a big fan of our humble publication, but fap-tastic writer, a seasoned viewer of smut, and a first-rate degenerate of outstanding caliber. Also, she's a stone cold fox with a great rack! No joke! Ms. Gagger will be joining us with once-monthly personal Stories, and once a month with free and tube site reviews for your randy reading pleasure.



“Oh God, oh God…”
“Yeah, fuck that little ass, motherfucker!”
“I’m gonna come I’m gonna come… Aaaaah!”
Pant pant pant.
“Wait, what’s that?”
“What?”
“Is that — ”
“It can’t be. No…”
“Poo?”
“WHAT? NO!”
“You shit on my dick.”
“I SHIT ON YOUR DIIIIICK!”

Are you as turned on as I am?

The first time I thought about getting fucked in the ass I went right to my handy friend, Yahoo.com. “First time anal,” I wrote, giggling and excited, putting off the homework I had for eighth grade algebra. Boy, was I lucky! I found a site right away! For months and months afterward I watched thirty-second clips meant to entice old men in their basements toward membership. As I had no credit card, and my dad would have totally flipped if I’d stolen his from his wallet and he saw that shit on his monthly statement (“My daughter’s a filthy whoooore!” I pictured him hollering in sorrow toward the heavens), I was forced to watch the preview clips on repeat until my orgasm arrived. All the clips had a markedly similar narrative: some guys would drive up in their porn van to some young thang sitting on a bench waiting for the bus, or shopping at the local outlet mall, any low-income activity where she may be more likely to be lured toward the cash-filled anal van, and they would ask her if she’d ever taken it in the ass before, and she’d be like, “Fuck no! Hee hee hee…” and they’d be like, “Do you wanna? We got some money,” and she’d be all, “Uh-huh,” and get in. It was fucking hot.

Next thing you know, the chick would be in some well-lit room on a stained couch getting her oil leak plugged. The faces of the guys who drove this porn van were never seen, but the main ass-fucker had tattooed arms and a cock the size of Switzerland, though it was by no means neutral. That tattooed fucker loved ass virgins like his own mother, like no one should ever talk shit about them while he had anything to do with it, and he taught those girls how to take it. Giving them their first taste, as he pushed that huge schlong in a place I couldn’t believe it fit, he’d whisper with soft assurance in their ear, “Breathe, bitch. Breathe.” But those bitches just wouldn’t stop whining and moaning and they definitely weren’t breathing into their solar plexus as the tattooed man was clearly implying they should. I’d listen to him. I’d breathe in deeply, look up at my Ben Affleck Armageddon poster, imagine an experience of virginly buttness surrounded by muscular arms and dirty talkin,’ and my middle school vibrator would do its magic trick.

See, I’m just a sweet Midwestern girl. Where I’m from, anal sex is something you do so you don’t have to lose your “real” virginity before marriage. But my parents weren’t Catholic enough to pressure me to go down the anal path, so I never made it happen. A lot of guys in high school claimed to be grossed out by anal, which I didn’t get, because by then I was a First Time Anal preview connoisseur, and those dudes loved it! They braved the ghettos just to find candidates for butt cherry popping! But no, all my young boyfriends were too afraid of poop, even though I noticed that they so often spoke of poop positively in other contexts.

You can imagine that by the time a man came around who wanted to put it in my ass, I felt I’d found the once seemingly-mythological “one.” Neither of us even considered the possibility of poop. Anal sex was too fucking sexy and my ass was too good-looking (that’s right); there was no way that it was there for anything other than our mutual pleasure. The first time I did the anal deed with my true lover man, it was like losing my virginity again, painful and exciting, but this time with lube, and sweet-talkin,’ and not in a car with a shitty community college football player with a penis as skinny as a straw who growled like an ogre when he came. There’s a real intimacy to first-time anal that you just don’t see in the beaver pictures. I liked the feeling of submission, of doing something whorish. I liked the newness, I liked the challenge. I embraced the long held fantasy. Sometimes I thought of Ben Affleck. Perhaps I got too cocky. Perhaps I took it too hard, I drank too much, screamed “Put it in my fucking ass!” on one too many nights in a row, loosening my precious rectum. Because tragedy soon struck.

When my boyfriend put it in that fateful night, I knew something was wrong. I felt like I was pooping the wrong way. Like his dick was poop, wanting back in. Nature reared its ugly brown head, announcing its presence as gravity pulled the poo out of my ass and onto my boyfriend’s cock. At the moment of poo-lization, I screamed. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready for the reality of my ass’s true function, and all I could think of was the stare of shame the tattooed man, if he even had a face above those arms and cock, would surely give me. I had failed him. When I saw the tiny piece of poo on the bed sheet as my main squeeze pulled out, I ran into the bathroom, humiliated. A million thoughts scrambled in my brain. How could this have happened? I’d been cockassed plenty of times by then. It was like out of nowhere Gloria Steinem had possessed my asshole and was pouring out spiteful manure onto my boyfriend’s demeaning rape-stick. Maybe that little turd was Susan B. Anthony’s cry from the grave, I thought, screaming, “THIS IS WHAT WE WOMEN HAVE COME TO?” And in my pulsing head I screamed back at Susan B. Anthony:

“Yes, Susan, you stupid whore! Women today can vote and they can take it however they like it! God bless motherfucking America and the sluts who like it where they shit!”

My boyfriend kept knocking on the bathroom door begging me to come out and take this situation like a man, but I was consumed with trying to understand the complications that had just arisen between the feminine sexuality of my body and its functions as a real human. I found myself in a state of Carrie Bradshaw-like pondering, like when she’s sitting at her computer shallowly thinking about shallowness. Like… Dear Computer of Nothingness, why does an ass have to shit when it’s getting fucked? Do all relationships between ass and penis have to end so sadly? Is a cock like Giuliani to the New York City that is my ass, and I’m just taking a deserved shit on the guy who fucked me? What I really wanted to know was… Would I always poop on my boyfriend’s dick? Is that just what happens in a relationship? Outside the door my man was still begging. I left the ghosts of suffrage past and went back to the bedroom to sit there thinking some more about myself as my boyfriend cleaned things up.

Pooping on my boyfriend’s dick was not my finest hour. Nor was it his. But I think everybody can take a little advice from the tattooed Swiss-wanged fellow who taught me how to ease into my own sexual animalism, when he wisely proclaimed, “Breathe, bitch. Breathe.” To women taking it in the ass everywhere I say, it’s just a little poop! Breathe! Take it in the rear like a porn star and go to town. Shit happens. —Lolly Gagger