![Channeling Spirits with V.D. Cards, or, Why We Didn't Make It to the [Medicinal] Cannibus Cup in L.A.](/images/c/channelingspiritswithvdcards.gif)
Anita Margarita's ode to Nathan was centered around "the base of your neck," supposedly a real gateway drug that "leads to harder stuff." The 2nd hit makes her shiver and leads to hands all over Nathan's body. The 3rd hit leads to being "so high right now... fast & furious." It's also worth mentioning that Anita took the time to hand-cut the multi-colored paper snowflakes adorning the wall behind the microphone.
Billy the Bunny, also a local zine editor, was decked out in a violet silk flair (buffalo?) head with over-expressive-cloth-tapered teeth (the head, not Billy). He read about a reluctant threesome overtop the katzenjammer of a coffee grinder and rude open mic guitarists on Side A.
It was: guy, guy, girl. The Devil's threesome.
I wasn't distracted by Billy's "horns" as much as convinced his 12-page opus lacked the same motivation as the 2 "fictional" men involved in the last trial of the story:
an impromptu dance off...
"You both danced so well. Come over here... One on one side and the other on the other side... One tit for each of you."
With their guards down, the two contestants found themselves handcuffed to opposite posts on the bed, and the girl had both keys. Everything came down to a brash set of circumstances when she informed them they had to jerk off, "and whoever cums first gets the key." The other was to be flushed down the toilet. I began having trouble finishing my shake, and wished I'd at least had another drink before the ending. However, the one saving grace was the humor, which, although sparse, was unsurprisingly present when the winner was finally determined. It sure would have been nice to understand the reasoning behind the fake head on Billy's shoulders.
* * *
There was a small intermission afterwards, allowing for a quick smoke and further adjusting, until we came back to new prizes in the form of queer erotica calendars- complete with seashell cuddling & fisting picnic portraits. Marya allowed for the audience to regain composure by imitating Sherlock Holmes on the case in "The Mound of Baskerville," ( A murder mystery involving a corpse with an inexplicable-yet-resilient erection.) until our next feature was through handing out calendars and promoting a local yoga studio.
Avery Janecek Kalapa made it very clear that the safeword for everyone's attention span/moral compass was simply: "TIME!" The microphone kept limping forward as she described rapist wolves waiting in the acreage of some mythical Winter landscape—for a BDSM to cross its path. Atreyu, I mean, Avery's narrative seduced a beast liken to the The Neverending Story's, G'mork:
"Tracing wolf's asshole with my anxious thumb... I'm fucking this wolf with all my strength... I know this wolf rarely bottoms..."
Later on in the evening, I would question whether I seemed too anxious when Avery stopped and asked everyone if she should continue.
"Yes! YEs! Yes?"
As it turns out, the lycan pussy-eater will make room for the cherrywood strap-on of the slave's mistress, as long as the bound "slut" acknowledges that the wolf's apparatus is larger in depth.
"We're going to fuck you clean, you dirty slut!..." "Circles of fist inside..."
Andrew Lyman approached the microphone with some perceivable apprehension at following such an engaging performance. However, with a Penthouse magazine in his hands, the NaDA Publishing founder seemed to fall into play with relative ease, choosing to share a story pertaining to a Sudanese goat fucker (either from Penthouse or someone else's work. I was unclear on this point). Apparently, after being found mating with a neighbor's goat one night, the beastialist was forced into wedlock with the horned victim, until the goat's untimely demise (choked to death on a plastic bag) one year later.
"Did she enjoy the taste of his cum like he did her milk at breakfast?"
* * *
After regaling us with a story concerning an obscure Supreme Court case over 27 lewd photographs or some such nonsense, Andrew read a recent submission to his zine: "Bands!"—a song called Love Liquids, which I am confident is self-explanatory.
"You let me make floral arrangements in your [butthole]... I'll be wearing my fuckjumper, so you better get a new spline!" "Girl, girl, girl, girl, girl... don't spill the hot milk."
I didn't catch the name of the band, but have it on good authority they'll get a rejection email in the near future.
The last of the night's prizes were giant cock and vacant vagina cookies. The vac/vag cookie was awarded to Liza Bley, (editor of the Nothing to Lose Meatloaf zine) who had just finished a rousing non-fictional set about her first orgasm, proper condom application, and bathroom faucets, among other things. The secret words: orgasm, love, and wet labia mysteriously had no claims from the audience. The grand prize (cock cookie) went to Shaft.
