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Except, of course, REVOLUTION! This is the SEX issue, a revolution of sorts. Ideas come and go, but the idea for this issue came, and it stayed. I started thinking about sex, the N-Com, women, and writing when I realized that most of the articles on sex published in the zine were written by men. Now, this doesn't mean that there haven't been sexy articles written by women (in particular, I'm thinking of Spite's guide to one-night stands ), but I wanted more, more, MORE! I'm greedy that way, with sex. So I wrote to the women writers and I declared a war on tits and male masturbation (no offence to Trilobyte's "scenarios" , or any number of BMC's phone-sex and narcissist-driven whimsies -- for instance "Fucking on the Phone" or "Self Love" ). My idea was so popular that I even snagged some new writers. Herein, find the debut of "Nimble Fingers are Where It's At" and "bottomfeeder." The only criteria for these articles: 1) They are by women. 2) They are about sex. After that, no limits. I even gave in and said they could talk about tits and male masturbation if they really wanted to. Not surprisingly, then, both masturbation and breasts make their appearances, but the contexts are both fresh and liberating. I'm really impressed with these articles. We have rants, poetry, and fiction, a little something for all tastes and fetishes. So, Vive la femme et Vive la SEX! _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ A Valentine's Message by Nimble Fingers Are Where It's At _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " As Valentine's Day approaches, I think it's important to remember one thing. Masturbation. Ah, that solitary and delicious friend, oh hand, oh finger, oh tickler, oh vibe, oh cucumber, oh oh ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!! (Excuse me one moment) Ahem. My point is that even though I've gone blind several times in my lifetime, and even though I'll probably burn eternally, I think the Catholic Church is wrong when they say fucking yourself is a sin. The thing is, wouldn't St. Valentine want you to love yourself on February 14? And isn't old fashioned carnal satisfaction the best way to love yourself and celebrate the day? And who better to satisfy you than you yourself? People come up with all kinds of statistics about how often men vs. women think about sex. What I'd like to know is: how often do people think about masturbation? Because if you think about it, people have the potential to satisfy the urge every single time they think about it, specifically because it doesn't depend on anyone else's inclination. 'Um, excuse me, I need to go to the, er, washroom,' or, 'Do you mind if I take the elevator up by myself?' or. . . well, the possibilities are endless. You might just start wondering each time your friend or coworker leaves the room, and rightly so (Are they getting some right now? How outrageous! How cutting edge! How. . . cosmopolitan! I'm so jealous!). Just think about the exciting masturbation scenarios we could create for ourselves. Sex is supposed to be dangerous to create that edge, right? I've seen it on tv. Heterosexual sex in the bathroom/elevator/cleaning closet/laundry room. Part of the thrill is the risk of getting caught, if indeed tv has taught me anything, and I know that it has. So why not masturbatory sex? I mean, is it really as perverted as they would have us believe, conjuring up images of old men in trench coats in slummy movie theatres? I think it's all about keeping people from being happy and satisfied on Valentine's Day. It's safe to say it's a marketing ploy; buy this lingerie/chocolate/flower/dinner/teddy bear etc. and you're guaranteed to get some on Valentine's Day, even if you don't get any on any other day of the year. What they don't say is that you can get some all on your own without spending one penny. BOO capitalism! Masturbation's going to kick your ass. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Seductions by bottomfeeder _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " I My grandfather's mistress is said to have kept by her bed a bottle of vodka: leash for the drooling park bench return, face in snow, the pay cheques (it is expensive to keep mistresses) the translucent grin of the bottle its sloping meniscus line is sympathetic (in that house he didn't have to smoke in the john). My mother kept her liquor under the bathroom sink tucked away in bottle clutter, inconspicuous between the bubble bath, the chamomile shampoo (like egg yolk), the smell of it lingers on the linoleum but she's already downstairs. The next morning draws eyelids, thick curtains: the day breathes heavy in repose. II She takes from him a minute's worth of inspiration. His tongue is too much like a small, separate person who's loudly announcing his presence; her mouth a piano. He throbs saliva and she wipes her face, not so discreetly. His hands now, in some preconception of tenderness, some mock-delicacy, three a.m., monochrome TV movie, stroke her fingers. But there's no tear-inducing ending here, no destined to being just sweat, a crease in her temple. She is half a pack of cigarettes, he is too much beer. There's only one bed and that's enough invitation. The sweat under his hair, gathering, his fingerprints greasy on her cheek -- he's taken to stroking her cheek now -- there is oil between his thighs, the small of her back damp. Him, now, pelvis working. She hates the way his body smells: like hair and appetite. Her head is still turned away her sweater is draped over a chair, by the window, the curtain imitation lace and in the house, upstairs, his dying grandmother coughs in succession to his uninspiring thrusts. III He fiddles with the crisp, translucent stalk of a cigarette. Yellow filter lip. Without lighting it. Half an hour, I think. Laughs when I note the observation my voice a jot on the clipboard. Think Freud, he says, tries to smile wicked. I am, I reply curve my mouth around the simpleness of the tip strike a match inhale release, slowly. IV The way the skylight moans at your departure projecting light as if a weapon I see your shadow (lone profile of your nose the bridge that holds your mouth in place, once removed) a bust of the ancients against the blue-black morning as you try to stow away, quietly, thinking I am one for sloppy goodbyes. V Why do we sleep with others? I knew this girl once; she only slept with married men. It's because we're the cruelest species, he says. And some soft-spoken coward would believe him, easy. But what does he know? His heart was just broken; he's prone to apocalyptic sentiment. Even easier explanations. It's easy to ignore the rain, she says. It strums skylight, taps the wind's heartbeat, water for those needing to be cleaned, and gutted, and shivering. Because it's release, isn't it? A response to some contentment, how it catches the cynical curve of our mouths, our unapologetic dry throats. We'd like to open those, reveal them lap pulp from the pools of their chin, while the rain croaks and sputters, against the poorly-lit glass the light retreating against this rampage. Our flesh and bone, weathered. One of us the vulture. The other, the aching arch of sand dune. In days so thick the air is still and the cacti steam. Thoughts of loved ones echo in the sand, a thud: reverberation on the theory of monogamy. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Teat by eidetik _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " Squeezed teat. Dipped teat. Milking the teat. Who names their daughter Teat?? All I have from my parents is a birth certificate with a crappy name and one of those weird home videos to cling to. A home video that begins with their smiling faces then follows with hours of gory birthing up-close-and- personal, a surreal five minutes of baby Teat sleeping in the dark. . . and that's where the tape ends. The sad part is that I cannot even gauge their personalities, because you know how people get when they are reproducing. They get all dumb and bubbly. "Mommyanddaddy will love you veeery much. Mommyanddaddy are thinkie on what to call you sweetie." And, of all the names they could have chosen, what possessed them to pick Teat? A nipple, a pap, a mammilla, a tit. The teat is closed at the base of the udder and then manual pressure is applied to the teat to force the trapped milk out of the teat opening. The farmer shows us the teat and a bead of milk drips from the teat. he starts tugging at the teat. the teat is-- uughh. . . I shouldn't have thought about this. Now I can't focus. I stand and pull on my panties and my little green shirt, which were crumpled in the corner. The shirt still smells like chlorine. I rip it off, snagging a nipple. Jumping, cupping my breast, I grab my pants and struggle to get them over my hips with one hand. Topless and hapless, I bend down to my computer screen, shut off my webcam, briefly reading my messages. -nice! do that, baby- -can I suck them?- -RU there. what's going on?- -what R you doing!? I paid for full ten minutes!- -fu...- Whatever. I disconnect. To a lot of these people, I'm no more than my name, a big flopping set of glandular apparati. I guess it's my fault, since I cater to that image everyday. And, I guess it's my fault, since I could be doing so much more with myself. I could've kept working hard for a living. Afterall, at one point I was the spitting-image of that cool waitress saving for some dream. Yes, making mochas, cleaning people's massacred plates, working working working, then studying on the side. But, a friend made it all seem so alluring. Her voice hushed as she told me how her friends made a living in their home towns. All from their bedrooms. To hell with froth. I get to stay in my little cozy room--and play. *** Leaving my apartment building, the sun is warm on my neck yet I can see my breath. A block away is a bakery and the thick air always blows towards my street. I'm always hungry after two minutes of breathing that air. The best part is, I can walk to the YWCA and swim whenever I want. I'm spoiled. I love to swim. To feel so clean. And, that's where I always go on Saturdays. *** I change in the ladies room. One benefit of my job is that I've become quite confidant. I don't have to drag myself away and change uncomfortably in a bathroom stall. I just strip down, stand with a straight spine, and pull on my bathing suit. I've heard some hushed grumbles a few times, but whatever, I got what they got. Oh, and it's so funny if a mother brings her little boys. They giggle, she scoots them away, darting nasty looks at me, but seriously, that was her gamble, bringing them in here. Beware of the Teat. I jump in the pool immediately. Ohgodohgodcold. . . but it gets better after a minute. It's quite numbing. Doggy-paddling, I swim in circles, eyeing the people in the pool as if they are obstacles. Soon the coolness begins to bite again, so I begin to swim laps. *** Finishing the last lap, my weak lungs start failing on the home stretch. I take one last gulp of air and let myself sink. Belly first, arms and legs stretched out. Twisting, I'm a serpent. The water is turquoise and disappears royally into the deep-end. Little devoted bubbles hold to my skin, some are lost, they dribble backwards, and expire at the surface. The floor scrapes my tailbone. . . Pounding. Pounding. I need air! frightened! The deep-end! A crackling diffused explosion of sound and bubbles and hands and feet bursts down towards me. Pounding, pounding. The person swims like a frog towards me, cheeks puffed out. A green bathing suit. Too skinny, black hair. I smile at her. What a lovely frog. She smiles back and reaches for me. Her hands slip beneath my arms. Her thumbs glance the side of my breasts as they grab me gently under my armpits. She tries to pull me up. I remember now, yes, swim. Swim to the surface. Air! Cold! Gasping, I dog-paddle to the side of the pool. I hold on to the edge, bobbing, trying to rest my head on the tiled corner. I'd stepped onto the lip of a pool-light and it starts burning my toe. I lift myself from the pool and crawl on all fours, probably showing the other swimmers an attractive wet wedgie. Flopping down on my bottom, tiles scratching my bum-cheeks, I look for the girl. But, she must have already left. I should have thanked her. I wait by the pool, waiting to dry. I love the way I smell after I've been in the pool. No deodorant shellacked on. Maybe another person would find it gross, but it's great. I feel intimate with myself. Not that I have problems with self-intimacy. Eventually, that body-scent, itches, and chlorine-stink, becomes too much. So, purposefully slapping my feet on the tiles (mildly disgusted by the discoloured puddles) I push through the turquoise door and make my way into the vast ladies change room and get dressed. *** I push through the door into the bathroom stall. Locking the door, looking down at the giant mouth, I consider placing toilet paper all over the seat but brave the porcelain and relieve myself anyway. I wouldn't mention this natural event, which everyone endures but never really includes in their accounts, were it not for what I saw when reading the advertisement on the door. They have these in the university, and in most restaurants. Those glass cases with about nine or so advertisements aimed at women. Marvelous-ness Hair College, Ahaha Spa, Trendy Fashions from Dana's (phff, ok, what's with the ridiculous elf-like-pointed shoes on heels this season?). Anyway, in the very middle spot, was me. A blown-up picture of me. Me in my bedroom. Me in my panties. Me halfway in the process of pulling off my green t-shit. At the bottom was ransom-note- style words: DoN-t wAste mY tiME. And a little pink construction paper cut-out of a heart. What-the-fuck. I hit the advertisement, trying to break the glass to remove my picture. A giggle erupts in the washroom. I yank up my panties. I struggle to pull up my pants and forgo buttoning them. I struggle to open the door, stumble out of the stall, and whip my head around looking for whoever might be there. No one was there. I check the other stalls, each exactly like the one I was in, except the words were different. ChAnge yoUr NAme. YOU are DrOwnIng. Each with a little pink heart. I hear more giggling. I hear feet slapping on the tiles. I chase the sound, my own feet slapping. My pants half off my ass. I catch a glimpse of her. A foot, a green arch of back. It's my frog! Rounding the corner, into the rows of lockers, I slip and fall, thwacking head on the metal door of locker 36. I hate locker 36. Anyway, there's no way that will stop me. Dizzy, I get back up, ignoring the stinging, and continue the pursuit. I'm running down the rows when in one corner I see a flash of the girl in green. Stopping short, I spin around and race toward her. She is standing with her back to some lockers and I use my momentum to slam her backwards. I swear, she hiccups. "Hi Teat," she says. "Did you do that? Did you put my picture up?" "Yeah." "Why'd you do that!?" "Because, it's funny. Now all the women can piss and stare into your eyes." I let go of her shoulders. And stare at her, quite angry. But, she continues, "Hey Teat, I saw you today. I'm kinda upset you wasted my money." "You don't have to be a freak about it." "Well, how about you come see a movie with me." "Take those pictures out and I might." She smiles and nods. "How'd you do it?" She puts her finger to her lips. I like her wet hair. "What did you mean by ‘you are drowning'?" "You push yourself harder and harder everyday in the pool." I'm frowning again. "You've been watching me?" She puts her finger to her lips. I still like her wet hair. I stare at her, gather my stuff, then give her a little smile. I mean, she's a freaky girl, but she has done something interesting enough. On the way out, she clears her throat and speaks up. "Hey, what's with your name?" "It's what I got; it's what I am." "Why don't you just pretend you have a different name? I mean, at least online." Maybe she thinks I'm the freaky one. Not far off, really. I mean, seriously, my reasons for not changing my name are, at best, trivial. "I can't. It doesn't feel right to change what I was given. At least it's already a porn name." "Can I give you a different name?" I laughed, and as we walked from the building, she reached and held my hand. "Hey, Saturday, lets watch a movie at my place." I smile. *** Another weird name. Well, it wasn't worse than Teat. So, now that I'm someone else, I don't feel like a tit. And I wonder why I clung to that name. A name invisible people gave me. And, now on Saturdays I get to play with my frog at the pool. And my computer has remained off. And I'm back to froth, and work work work and studying. And I don't regret. And I don't complain. And I'm just happy to be a day. Saturday's Child works hard for a living. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Three Poems by Rank Swiney _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " almost good these sheets are stifled sex -- my perfume, your cologne. but i, have to sleep in this bed. i want you, you wrote on my back. your gloved hand skidded wood's grain. sawdust clouds stripped horizon and dumb me, cradling your chin pulling your mouth to mine intent, yes, stay up here with me. how many yeses add up to no -- i am glad that it's over. no more missing bus stops, fleeting heat, and my famous last words before everything went down, i like you between my legs. from a window it's late afternoon. swamp, land-water, olive green, artificial lemonade. log men, in cotton shirts, are watching for the girl who feeds the rabbits my sister, she feeds the rabbits and those men watch for her indecent legs in heavy galoshes paper thinness of her summer dress my beau, a heavy-set boy with naturally soft hair and green eyes, tells me that it won't hurt. but I know it will and I'm glad cauz' otherwise it means nothing. Snake City or the Story of Rick the Slick In Snake City cruelty has no leash. Oh, Rizard the Lizard, slithering boy of my slippery dreams. I wanted to keep your skin below my pillow so you could wake up in my bed to this slimy world. But your stepmother staked out her territory and now you are somebody's snake skin boots. It's your loss, sssweetheart. Nobody sacks like this Cobra and shoe life must really bite. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ The Mysterious Male by Spite _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " Men have never been considered especially complex when compared to the fairer sex. Despite this, women should still have some insight into how to treat their men right and keep them happy. This guide should shed some light on the mysterious male psyche. 1. Long day at work - Men work hard! To show him just how appreciated all that effort is, make sure to have supper on the table and a cold beer ready for him when he gets in the door. After that, have sex with him. That rough day at work will be completely forgotten. 2. Shopping - Most men hate going to the mall, especially with a woman. If your man can not be persuaded, have sex with him. And in order to keep him content while you browse, let him think that you want to have sex with him in a dressing room in one of the stores. That should keep him occupied until you're ready to go home. 3. Money issues - Men often don't understand the need to buy a new outfit with his credit card or why we need to spend hours on the phone running up the long distance charges talking to our girlfriends. The easiest way to calm him down is to have sex with him. You may have to repeat this several times depending on how high the bill is. 4. Making up after a fight - Chances are you were probably right, however, it's sometimes necessary to back down from an argument and let him win. It may also be necessary to have sex with him if he is still mad. That should help him see who's really right. These are just a few examples of where sex can help you out when your man is unhappy. It's a safe bet for just about any situation. If you want to spice things up a bit you could also try blowjobs, sexy lingerie or even a case of beer. Men really aren't all that complicated at all, especially when they're happy. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Vampire Picnic by ada _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " When you clicked to the slide called 'vampire picnic' I knew we were meant to be. Knew that you had taken over my mind, possessed my soul and dragged out any demons I had attempted to stifle and sent them firing into the air like silver bullets. It was your black sweatshirt that really did it for me; that same afternoon you mentioned giving up smoking as some sort of pretext to insanity. 'And who are these vampires?', you asked, with a slow sluggish grin. I tried to decide whether to fuck you then and there, or pause and wait while you finished describing to the class the reason why these vampires were just as normal as you and I. And we are normal, aren't we darling? We are as normal as any beast, any prey that walks so innocently in a black sweatshirt and green pants, who points out the hands in some pretentious million dollar artist who paid actors for months on end to rehearse scenes for one image that most people will never see. I've always believed there was something primal about our attraction. I know we could have the kind of vampire love you speak of. We could get it on like crazy bats who'd been stuck hanging upside down from the same tree for so long our wings drooped and our claws stayed cramped into fists. I know you would learn to love me while I nuzzled into the depth of your flesh, and I know I could teach you to love the taste of red. You would know how badly I need it, how badly I crave it. After all, we're all searching for that host to sink ourselves into, making tiny and seemingly insignificant engravings of love and learning how to use our tongues. You knew just how to use yours, and between my legs you, the first vampire I would make love to, sucked the words right out from my lips and made yourself strong. My body is a strange skin, one that's somewhat shaky and thin. A crinkly coating on a wedge of cheese, or a white plastic bag caught behind the stove. I've been peeled, cored, and somewhere inside of you, my flesh has boiled over. Your lips and teeth have a new taste. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ The Jungle by Heckat _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " Mr. Moonly owned a drugstore down on main street. It was called "The Jungle" because it used to be an old theatre and he never had enough money to get the sign changed when he bought the place. His granddaughter Banyan (shaped like a beautiful tree) had worked there every summer since she was seven years old. She would come down from the city where she lived with her parents to stay with her grandfather and help him out. Of course, when she was seven, she was too young to do much, but Mr. Moonly had her stock shelves--bubble gum and such things--and always gave her chocolate as a special treat for all her hard work. By the time she was fifteen, however, Banyan was a cashier and she was so sweet and pleasant that everyone in the neighbourhood would tell Mr. Moonly, What a wonderful granddaughter you have! The summers down in that drugstore were hot and Mr. Moonly couldn't afford a new air conditioner any more than he could afford a new sign, so things got pretty humid and pungent, even with the door open and a couple of big fans blowing constantly. Banyan, though, was elegant. Even sweaty, she was lovely looking. Behind the cash register, hair up in a ponytail, she alone was enough reason for the neighbourhood boys to stop by the store several times a day (twenty-two flavours of ice cream made the deal even sweeter). * All-night lake parties were famous among the kids and most of the parents didn't mind because the kids were trustworthy and rarely in any trouble. Banyan had never been to a party before--she had always been too young-- but that summer she decided she was old enough to go out and see what these things were all about. Her grandparents agreed that she could go with Poe, a good-looking, respectful young man of sixteen. Banyan had a small crush on him, her first one. * The night was already dark when Banyan and Poe arrived on the beach in his green pickup. A blossoming bonfire was surrounded by about thirty teenagers perched on logs that served as makeshift benches. Their young voices and laughter were buffeted about by the flame and a slight breeze that had risen in the air. Banyan and Poe grabbed a seat beside some of his friends from school. Soon, however, Banyan was bored. The talk of basketball games at a school she didn't attend and gossip about people she didn't know eventually prompted her to turn away from Poe and examine the rest of the crowd. Her eyes were quick to evaluate the others and she soon realized there was only one other person at the party she was interested in meeting. A girl with long dark hair was wading in the shallow water. She wore a jean skirt to her feet that she didn't bother to hold up--it was wet all the way to her knees. Banyan was curious about the girl's solitude and felt an affinity with her, even though they had not met. Getting up from her place by the fire, she walked down to the girl, took off her shoes, and waded in beside her. Soon, her own jeans were wet. Afraid to begin a conversation, too shy to say those first words, Banyan followed the girl when she began to walk along the beach and away from the bonfire and the party. They continued to walk side by side silently. The energy between their bodies was exciting; Banyan felt that the girl wanted company, wanted Banyan to follow her. The girl eventually tuned from the beach and made her way from the shore into the forest on a thin, mossy trail. A chill in Banyan's bones made her wonder if she should turn back, but curiosity made her set out on the path, and it kept her moving along deeper into the wood. Losing sight of the girl, Banyan hurried to catch up. Finally, coming to a clearing where the trail stopped, she felt she had lost track of the girl completely--the circle of trees revealed nothing. Stepping forward to look around, she found herself alone. * The knife-blade across the back of Banyan's arm was swift and it caught her off-guard. The cut was not deep but she cradled it with her hand and blood escaped between her fingers. Turning to face her attacker, Banyan could make out the moon's reflection across a veil of black hair. The girls stared fiercely at one another, silent even in this moment of mutual fear. Somehow, then, noticing the look of panic in the other girl's eyes, noticing the reflection of the moon in her black hair and the silver point of the knife blade, Banyan felt her own fear dissipate. In fact, the thrill of the moment, the blood between her fingers, her wet jeans and the girl's trembling arms--she realized she felt exhilarated. It was obvious the other girl was terrified... was terrified of Banyan! Confused, she started to walk toward the girl, holding out her arms soothingly, reassuring the girl using her body. Banyan offered no threat. Dropping the knife, the girl collapsed onto the floor of the wood. She gave in to Banyan at the first touch of long fingers in her hair. Kneeling beside the beautiful body, Banyan coaxed the girl to lie down. She cradled the hair in her lap, brushing through it with her fingers. Eventually, stretching out beside the girl, Banyan began to kiss her face. She forgot all about the knife, but the blood, oh, the blood, the flesh. Pleasure was growling deep in Banyan's throat, and she thought she heard sighs of longing coming from the girl as well. Banyan's kisses were getting more urgent and she could feel desire rising. It was carnal and instinctive. The kissing... no, not kissing now. Now Banyan was using her tongue, licking and licking the girl's face. The words "don't change, don't change" began to drift, to grow insistent. They were coming from the girl. But it was too late; Banyan felt her body begin to transform. Struggling away from the hungry grip, the girl ran. Momentarily distracted, snarling and famished, Banyan lost her balance as her weight shifted from two feet to four. Her body thrust forward, arms became haunches and she hunkered close to the ground, waiting to become oriented. She lost track of the girl who disappeared into the wood. * The large cat followed the scent of the girl through the wood until it heard the rustling of her shoulders and feet through the bush. The attack was swift and violent. Haunches coiled then let loose, the cat hurled its body at the small dark-haired girl. Her screaming only intensified the pleasure of the victory. * "The Jungle" was full of customers on a Saturday. Banyan rang up the ice cream of every young boy in town. .-. .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' `-' The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better. For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .--/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\--. `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' ___________________________________________________ | THE COMINTERN IS AVAILABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBSES | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? 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