- Joined
- Dec 17, 2019
The Bulger case was so big, it was even in our midwestern newspapers--like front page.
Grace Lavery / Joseph Lavery & Daniel M. Lavery / Mallory Ortberg - "Straight with extra steps" couple trooning out to avoid "dwindling into mere heterosexuality"
- Thread starter CobraPlissken
- Start date
Prescription Bugs
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 3, 2021
If you buy books -used- on Amazon, does it boost the overall sales ranking for the book? Asking for my dumbass split personality identity who is controlling my fingers right now and making me write stuff against my will.
- Joined
- Mar 12, 2021
Actually lol'd.
Before you or your split personality do anything rash, have an excerpt:
Excerpted from Please Miss: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Penis by Grace Lavery. Copyright © 2022. Available from Seal Press, an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Sometimes, trans women take Viagra, or equivalent. I only discovered this perfectly intuitive datum since moving to New York, although perhaps my sisters in California are all hopping on the ‘agra, too. It is a perfectly intuitive use of a medicine: it allows one’s penis to become erect, but does not require any kind of hormonal intervention – so one can have erections (“achieve erections” – and bravo on your achievement, good sir) without hormonal intervention, ie without re-introducing testosterone into one’s endocrine system. Some people I’ve spoken to enjoy the delights a hard dick can supply when deployed by someone with an estrogenated endocrine system; others have used Viagra for work, and have more ambivalent feelings about it.
I recently decided I wanted to try it, though I’m not entirely sure of my motivations. I used to enjoy the ways I had sex, and wondered whether it might be possible to put on the knowledge with the power, to use a slightly inapposite Yeats metaphor. (Yeats never wrote the perfect line for a woman deciding to resurrect her penis, sadly; “Leda and the Swan” is the closest thing we have.)
Some of the more difficult to talk about aspects of my transition have been those elements that concern my masculinity. What even is masculinity, in a trans woman? Clearly it is possible to have swagger, passion, directness, and for these elements to be deeply feminine (as I think they tend to be in me). Then there is clockiness, the behavioral, auditory, and visual cues that lead people to call me “sir,” like my slightly heavy gait and my deep voice—but these aren’t “masculine,” exactly, at least not in the way (say) Chris Pratt is masculine. I have among my friends a handful of trans women who have achieved a chill equanimity about certain putatively masculine forms of social participation (broeyness, say); these have always been women who are years and years past their transition, and are rarely clocked. I love it in them, but I can’t see it happening to me any time soon: I spent my life pre-estrogen trying to get away from men, I doubt I’ll miss them at any point. Never say never, I guess. Anyway I don’t think these are the only ways of thinking about masculinity in trans women; in me, at least, there is a seam of experience that feels masculine, or co-extensive with something that I used to understand as masculinity: the hosting instinct, especially the form of hosting proper to sex. Welcoming people to one’s life, one’s room, one’s body. Not that anyone necessarily adopts a masculine position when they perform hostliness in this sense – I’m realizing it sounds like receptivity, with its complex relation to femininity, from which I think it is quite distinct in fact—but for me, hosting feels masculine in some way. I thought it would be fun to endow that side of myself with a dick.
The company that prescribes and sells generic Viagra sends you chic little packets, like silky little condom packets, dusty with lube. You tear the thing open, pop three at a time, and wait. It takes an hour, according to the instructions/directions (Viagra is both a gadget and a medication). I had been told, by various parties, to stay hydrated. You are also told to use them for the first time without any expectation of having sex, just to feel out the effect that they will have on your body—which made sense to me, so I tucked myself into Danny’s body, cosy and intimate but not sexy.
I wonder whether the obvious blurriness of that distinction was, cognitively speaking, part of the reason why my experience with Viagra was so utterly, utterly terrifying? Having never taken dick pills before, I did not know whether they would produce or merely respond to a feeling of sexual arousal. That is, whether the medicine itself would construe my cosiness as a kind of sexual come-on, against the evidence of my own sensorium.
I wanted to be cosy, not aroused, and I have a sharp sense of the distinction – but what if the drugs erode that sense, and push me into a sexual intimacy against my own interest? At which point I realized the horrifying truth: I had slipped myself a roofie, and for an hour I would just have to wait for the feeling to overwhelm me. I have had few more distressing hours in the course of my transition than that one. I immediately sensed that I had betrayed myself, that I had given up the thing that I cherished (my womanhood) in the pursuit of something paradigmatically abundant and low-value. I felt guilty, because of my inability to share this potentially rather fun experience with other trans women, and perhaps because of the strange genital-centrism I was experiencing, and refusing (or at least failing) to push through. I had hoped for feelings of warmth, growth, and power, and instead I spent the first hour of this trip crying uncontrollably, my mind (uncharacteristically) obsessing over bottom dysphoria. I felt frightened that if I got hard, I would run into the kitchen and grab the sharpest knife from the drawer. I felt, and this can only be a disgracefully lurid image, but it is true, in the way feelings are true: as though my body was violating itself.
After the first hour, the panic began to ebb – still, I didn’t get hard, and I didn’t really stop sobbing. My partner was, of course, beautiful and elegant and glorious, and held me kindly and warmly. I felt guilty because I knew the idea of me sprouting a cock was kind of appealing to them – as how could it not be? – and I think they felt a little afraid that they had pressured me (which they hadn’t). We lay in bed and watched the final episodes of Bojack Horseman, talking occasionally about addiction narratives, justice, and healing. The previous evening, they had grasped my head and told me that they had always been moved by my capacity for healing. “What choice do we have?,” I had responded, in an effortlessly cool, Rebel Without a Cause kind of way. I am not healed, as my experience with the Viagra shows; so much seems to outlast the capacity of any mental or spiritual procedure to produce healing – the universe of suffering we move through together. It’s funny in that sense that Bojack ends with prison, in the ruins of the show’s narratives of recovery, therapy, healing, and growth. The only thing that “works,” at least narratively, is metaphorical incarceration, the utter deprivation of freedom. Difficult to know, then, how to continue to relate stories, to and about ourselves, where we have been hurt and have hurt others, since the only possible end of the story would be something like “…and that’s why I detransitioned; that’s how I came to abandon my own principles; that’s how I proved myself wrong about everything; that’s how I became utterly faithless; that’s how I relapsed; that’s how I was taken down a peg or two; that’s how I sowed the seeds of my own destruction; that’s how I turned into my mother after all; that’s how I became unlovable; that’s how I disappeared from the scene of my own being.”
For me, I suppose, the dick is a mark of trauma. This, also, is no surprise, though, if I take the metaphor of “trauma” literally, it will change the way I think about bottom surgery. No longer a transformation, but the healing of a scar. It will take a while, I’m not ready yet. But I know things now, many valuable things. I am always disappointed by the simplicity of my transition, especially when it is placed next to other women’s, which always seem more glamorous and subtle to me. “I want to be a woman, of course I don’t want a hard dick, for f***’s sake!,” turns out to have been the message, and if that seems like genital essentialism or a cumbersome investment in “the binary,” I will just have to own that. (I am always stunned, by the way, at the ease with which people can assume that any trans person will object to “the binary,” as though it were a real thing.) I can absolutely affirm, celebrate, and delight in my sisters who have been able to develop more subtle relationships with their dick than I apparently can at this point. And I leave open the possibility of going back for more, I have a whole drawer full of dick pills and I’ll try anything twice.
But I know things now. One night, before the recent crisis, Danny and I and two of our friends went to see Tituss Burgess sing Sondheim at Carnegie Hall. He didn’t sing “I Know Things Now” – it was mostly deep cuts, to the great satisfaction of the two serious theater gays in the box with us – it was overwhelming. In the show’s closing sequence, Tituss told us a story of growing up in Georgia and discovering Sunday in the Park With George on PBS. “I didn’t know what the f** I was watching,” he said, but then said he understood what was happening as a kind of worship and a kind of certainty. “I have heard God called by many names by now, but the first name I had for him was Stephen.” A bit much I thought, British. He then sang “Sunday,” and I wept again, the third time that day. Like my life depended on it.
Sometimes, trans women take Viagra, or equivalent. I only discovered this perfectly intuitive datum since moving to New York, although perhaps my sisters in California are all hopping on the ‘agra, too. It is a perfectly intuitive use of a medicine: it allows one’s penis to become erect, but does not require any kind of hormonal intervention – so one can have erections (“achieve erections” – and bravo on your achievement, good sir) without hormonal intervention, ie without re-introducing testosterone into one’s endocrine system. Some people I’ve spoken to enjoy the delights a hard dick can supply when deployed by someone with an estrogenated endocrine system; others have used Viagra for work, and have more ambivalent feelings about it.
I recently decided I wanted to try it, though I’m not entirely sure of my motivations. I used to enjoy the ways I had sex, and wondered whether it might be possible to put on the knowledge with the power, to use a slightly inapposite Yeats metaphor. (Yeats never wrote the perfect line for a woman deciding to resurrect her penis, sadly; “Leda and the Swan” is the closest thing we have.)
Some of the more difficult to talk about aspects of my transition have been those elements that concern my masculinity. What even is masculinity, in a trans woman? Clearly it is possible to have swagger, passion, directness, and for these elements to be deeply feminine (as I think they tend to be in me). Then there is clockiness, the behavioral, auditory, and visual cues that lead people to call me “sir,” like my slightly heavy gait and my deep voice—but these aren’t “masculine,” exactly, at least not in the way (say) Chris Pratt is masculine. I have among my friends a handful of trans women who have achieved a chill equanimity about certain putatively masculine forms of social participation (broeyness, say); these have always been women who are years and years past their transition, and are rarely clocked. I love it in them, but I can’t see it happening to me any time soon: I spent my life pre-estrogen trying to get away from men, I doubt I’ll miss them at any point. Never say never, I guess. Anyway I don’t think these are the only ways of thinking about masculinity in trans women; in me, at least, there is a seam of experience that feels masculine, or co-extensive with something that I used to understand as masculinity: the hosting instinct, especially the form of hosting proper to sex. Welcoming people to one’s life, one’s room, one’s body. Not that anyone necessarily adopts a masculine position when they perform hostliness in this sense – I’m realizing it sounds like receptivity, with its complex relation to femininity, from which I think it is quite distinct in fact—but for me, hosting feels masculine in some way. I thought it would be fun to endow that side of myself with a dick.
The company that prescribes and sells generic Viagra sends you chic little packets, like silky little condom packets, dusty with lube. You tear the thing open, pop three at a time, and wait. It takes an hour, according to the instructions/directions (Viagra is both a gadget and a medication). I had been told, by various parties, to stay hydrated. You are also told to use them for the first time without any expectation of having sex, just to feel out the effect that they will have on your body—which made sense to me, so I tucked myself into Danny’s body, cosy and intimate but not sexy.
I wonder whether the obvious blurriness of that distinction was, cognitively speaking, part of the reason why my experience with Viagra was so utterly, utterly terrifying? Having never taken dick pills before, I did not know whether they would produce or merely respond to a feeling of sexual arousal. That is, whether the medicine itself would construe my cosiness as a kind of sexual come-on, against the evidence of my own sensorium.
I wanted to be cosy, not aroused, and I have a sharp sense of the distinction – but what if the drugs erode that sense, and push me into a sexual intimacy against my own interest? At which point I realized the horrifying truth: I had slipped myself a roofie, and for an hour I would just have to wait for the feeling to overwhelm me. I have had few more distressing hours in the course of my transition than that one. I immediately sensed that I had betrayed myself, that I had given up the thing that I cherished (my womanhood) in the pursuit of something paradigmatically abundant and low-value. I felt guilty, because of my inability to share this potentially rather fun experience with other trans women, and perhaps because of the strange genital-centrism I was experiencing, and refusing (or at least failing) to push through. I had hoped for feelings of warmth, growth, and power, and instead I spent the first hour of this trip crying uncontrollably, my mind (uncharacteristically) obsessing over bottom dysphoria. I felt frightened that if I got hard, I would run into the kitchen and grab the sharpest knife from the drawer. I felt, and this can only be a disgracefully lurid image, but it is true, in the way feelings are true: as though my body was violating itself.
After the first hour, the panic began to ebb – still, I didn’t get hard, and I didn’t really stop sobbing. My partner was, of course, beautiful and elegant and glorious, and held me kindly and warmly. I felt guilty because I knew the idea of me sprouting a cock was kind of appealing to them – as how could it not be? – and I think they felt a little afraid that they had pressured me (which they hadn’t). We lay in bed and watched the final episodes of Bojack Horseman, talking occasionally about addiction narratives, justice, and healing. The previous evening, they had grasped my head and told me that they had always been moved by my capacity for healing. “What choice do we have?,” I had responded, in an effortlessly cool, Rebel Without a Cause kind of way. I am not healed, as my experience with the Viagra shows; so much seems to outlast the capacity of any mental or spiritual procedure to produce healing – the universe of suffering we move through together. It’s funny in that sense that Bojack ends with prison, in the ruins of the show’s narratives of recovery, therapy, healing, and growth. The only thing that “works,” at least narratively, is metaphorical incarceration, the utter deprivation of freedom. Difficult to know, then, how to continue to relate stories, to and about ourselves, where we have been hurt and have hurt others, since the only possible end of the story would be something like “…and that’s why I detransitioned; that’s how I came to abandon my own principles; that’s how I proved myself wrong about everything; that’s how I became utterly faithless; that’s how I relapsed; that’s how I was taken down a peg or two; that’s how I sowed the seeds of my own destruction; that’s how I turned into my mother after all; that’s how I became unlovable; that’s how I disappeared from the scene of my own being.”
For me, I suppose, the dick is a mark of trauma. This, also, is no surprise, though, if I take the metaphor of “trauma” literally, it will change the way I think about bottom surgery. No longer a transformation, but the healing of a scar. It will take a while, I’m not ready yet. But I know things now, many valuable things. I am always disappointed by the simplicity of my transition, especially when it is placed next to other women’s, which always seem more glamorous and subtle to me. “I want to be a woman, of course I don’t want a hard dick, for f***’s sake!,” turns out to have been the message, and if that seems like genital essentialism or a cumbersome investment in “the binary,” I will just have to own that. (I am always stunned, by the way, at the ease with which people can assume that any trans person will object to “the binary,” as though it were a real thing.) I can absolutely affirm, celebrate, and delight in my sisters who have been able to develop more subtle relationships with their dick than I apparently can at this point. And I leave open the possibility of going back for more, I have a whole drawer full of dick pills and I’ll try anything twice.
But I know things now. One night, before the recent crisis, Danny and I and two of our friends went to see Tituss Burgess sing Sondheim at Carnegie Hall. He didn’t sing “I Know Things Now” – it was mostly deep cuts, to the great satisfaction of the two serious theater gays in the box with us – it was overwhelming. In the show’s closing sequence, Tituss told us a story of growing up in Georgia and discovering Sunday in the Park With George on PBS. “I didn’t know what the f** I was watching,” he said, but then said he understood what was happening as a kind of worship and a kind of certainty. “I have heard God called by many names by now, but the first name I had for him was Stephen.” A bit much I thought, British. He then sang “Sunday,” and I wept again, the third time that day. Like my life depended on it.
Danny is exclusively referred to as "they" here. Hm.
- Joined
- Nov 8, 2018
Joe's writing is so whiny, holy shit.
He also used "sir" to refer to transwomen, so he'll be arrested for genocide and chucked off Twitter, right?
He also used "sir" to refer to transwomen, so he'll be arrested for genocide and chucked off Twitter, right?
pursuitsnail
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 13, 2021
What the fuck was that mess. It's just ever so shy of incoherent. That long review Homewayhalf posted made it seem like the ramblings of someone on drugs trying to squeeze out their own Fight Club. Something that might have once had a chance to be something interesting. But, this.
Dog's breakfast. Thought vomit.
Dog's breakfast. Thought vomit.
- Joined
- Mar 12, 2021
His writing here is a little more palatable than on his blog, but I can't follow the emotional arc very well. Maybe it's because I've read him write about this moment before and know what feelings he's trying to convey, but parts are frustratingly vague and hard to follow. It starts very matter-of-fact about Viagra-taking and then dives into a complete mental spiral. I suppose you could say that mirrors what actually happened to him, so he's producing the feelings of anxiety with prose, but the reader has to feel tethered to it somehow. A good editor would have asked him to balance the scene better with concrete actions. Describe how Mallory is comforting him, not just "my partner was beautiful and glorious and elegant." Very abstract, so it comes off as insincere and exaggerated.
It sounds here like the Viagra had no effect at all and he was just panicking because he thought it was an aphrodisiac. You do actually have to be aroused for them to work, and he's like "NO, I just want to be cozy." How materialist, to not bother to understand the effects of something before you take it, and then get absorbed in a separate mental agony that is entirely caused by ignorance and not related to anything happening in his body.
But I can understand how a drug overriding your thoughts would be frightening for a recovering addict, even if you're stupid and have no idea what the drug actually does, but he never brings that point up! It's all a lot of throat-clearing about how trans women do this all the time, don't worry, and I only did it because of peer pressure, and also it sucks that I didn't get to experience this with a trans woman, instead all I had was this "they/them" eunuch beside me who just wanted to watch Bojack Horseman in piece. "I know things now," but what do you know? It's unclear. The sentences themselves are fine (I actually like the part about how the best narrative endings are "and that's how I proved myself wrong"), but he lurches from idea to idea without any connective tissue other than stream-of-consciousness, getting in digs about no one believing in "a binary" while sobbing about how he doesn't want to be a nonbinary hermaphrodite after all.
/review
It sounds here like the Viagra had no effect at all and he was just panicking because he thought it was an aphrodisiac. You do actually have to be aroused for them to work, and he's like "NO, I just want to be cozy." How materialist, to not bother to understand the effects of something before you take it, and then get absorbed in a separate mental agony that is entirely caused by ignorance and not related to anything happening in his body.
But I can understand how a drug overriding your thoughts would be frightening for a recovering addict, even if you're stupid and have no idea what the drug actually does, but he never brings that point up! It's all a lot of throat-clearing about how trans women do this all the time, don't worry, and I only did it because of peer pressure, and also it sucks that I didn't get to experience this with a trans woman, instead all I had was this "they/them" eunuch beside me who just wanted to watch Bojack Horseman in piece. "I know things now," but what do you know? It's unclear. The sentences themselves are fine (I actually like the part about how the best narrative endings are "and that's how I proved myself wrong"), but he lurches from idea to idea without any connective tissue other than stream-of-consciousness, getting in digs about no one believing in "a binary" while sobbing about how he doesn't want to be a nonbinary hermaphrodite after all.
/review
FATTESTCUNT
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2019
Has Danny had bottom surgery?
If Joe still has his cock, but he can't even get a boner after popping 3 Viagra and all they do is make him cry like a little bitch, what sort of sex life are they having?
Why would he even pop Viagra if he just wanted to be cosy, not aroused? He'd be better off with some MDMA, or, more appropriate for someone his age, a warm mug of cocoa.
TBH, I don't even want to know. It's fucking bizarre, and that book excerpt is a load of pretentious utterly mental claptrap.
If Joe still has his cock, but he can't even get a boner after popping 3 Viagra and all they do is make him cry like a little bitch, what sort of sex life are they having?
Why would he even pop Viagra if he just wanted to be cosy, not aroused? He'd be better off with some MDMA, or, more appropriate for someone his age, a warm mug of cocoa.
TBH, I don't even want to know. It's fucking bizarre, and that book excerpt is a load of pretentious utterly mental claptrap.
Prescription Bugs
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 3, 2021
There wasn’t one scene to be found. Terrible. Totally unengaging. Maybe I won’t read it . I had to read this four times to make my brain pay attention to what it was saying. Which is sad because as the subject matter goes, it’s interesting.
I rewrote it because I can’t help myself.
Rewrite of Excerpt from Please Miss: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Penis by Grace Lavery. By anonymous.
I Feel Bad About My Dick
Sometimes, trans women take Viagra. I only discovered this after moving to New York, although perhaps my sisters in California are all hopping on the ‘agra, too. It’s intuitive: Viagra allows one to achieve an erection (and bravo on your achievement, good sir) without re-introducing testosterone into one’s endocrine system. Some people I’ve spoken to enjoy a hard dick when deployed by someone with an estrogenated endocrine system, and I thought at some point I could offer this to my partner.
That’s how I found myself on a Saturday in the middle of another pandemic weekend, at home, nuzzled against Danny, getting ready to try my first little blue pill. I’d bought generic Viagra, and there the chic little packet sat, like a silky condom packet, dusty with lube. Following the instructions I tore it open, popped three in my mouth and waited, tucked against Danny’s T-saturated body, cozy and intimate. It takes an hour, and I dutifully sipped my water to “Stay hydrated!”
“Just see what it feels like,” Jules had told me. “Don’t expect to have sex the first time.”
As I waited for something to happen with my dick, I rested my head on Danny’s shoulder, tracing the outlines of his new tattoo. I was terrified. I used to enjoy the ways I had sex, and wondered whether it might be possible to resurrect my penis— did I want to? What if it didn’t work? What if it did?
I hate talking and even thinking about my masculinity post-transition. What even is masculinity, in a trans woman? Clearly it is possible to have swagger, passion, directness, and for these elements to be deeply feminine. Then there are the behavioral, auditory, and visual cues that lead people to call me “sir,” like my slightly heavy gait and my deep voice. I have a handful of trans women friends who have achieved equanimity about certain masculine forms, like broeyness. These are women who are years past their transition, and are rarely clocked. I love it in them, but I can’t see it happening to me any time soon. One can always hope. I spent my life pre-estrogen trying to get away from men, and now I guess I still am— the former me.
Now, in me, there is a seam of experience that I once considered to be my masculinity, the hosting instinct, especially in the sexual sense. Welcoming people to one’s life, one’s room, one’s body. I’m realizing it sounds like receptivity, with its relation to femininity, but for me, hosting feels masculine in some way. I thought it would be fun to endow that side of myself with a dick.
I wanted to be cosy, not aroused, but what if the drugs pushed me into a sexual intimacy against my own interest? A horrifying thought waltzed through my head, had I slipped myself a roofie? I’ve felt few more distressing hours in the course of my transition than that one. I felt betrayed by myself, as though I had given up the thing that I cherished most, my womanhood, in the pursuit of something abundant and low-value. I couldn’t even share this one common practice with other trans women. I had hoped for warmth, growth, and power, and instead I spent the first hour of this trip crying and obsessing over bottom dysphoria. I was afraid that if I got hard, I would run into the kitchen and grab the sharpest knife from the drawer.
After the first hour, the panic began to ebb; I didn’t get hard, and I didn’t really stop sobbing. My partner was, of course, beautiful and elegant, and held me kindly. I felt guilty because I knew the idea of me sprouting a cock was kind of appealing to him, and I think he felt a little afraid that he had pressured me (he hadn’t).
We lay in bed and watched the final episodes of Bojack Horseman, continuing our conversation on addiction that we’d started the night before. Danny had grasped my head and told me that he had always been moved by my capacity for healing. “What choice do we have?,” I had responded, in an effortlessly cool, Rebel Without a Cause kind of way.
But now I realized, I am not healed; so much had outlasted my mental and spiritual attempts to heal myself. Instead life was more like a universe of suffering Danny and I had moved through together. It’s funny in that sense that Bojack ends with prison, in the ruins of the show’s narratives of recovery, therapy, healing, and growth. The only thing that “works,” narratively, is metaphorical incarceration, utter deprivation of freedom. If I’d related this story to myself, where I’d been hurt and how I’ve hurt others, the only possible end of the story would be something like “…and that’s why I detransitioned; that’s how I came to abandon my own principles; that’s how I proved myself wrong about everything; that’s how I became utterly faithless; that’s how I relapsed; that’s how I was taken down a peg or two; that’s how I sowed the seeds of my own destruction; that’s how I turned into my mother after all; that’s how I became unlovable; that’s how I disappeared from the scene of my own being.”
For me, the dick is a mark of trauma, and if I take the metaphor of “trauma” literally, it will change the way I think about bottom surgery. No longer a transformation, but the healing of a scar. It will take a while; I’m not ready yet. But I know things now, valuable things. I am always disappointed by the simplicity of my transition, especially when it is placed next to other women’s, which always seem more glamorous and subtle to me. “I want to be a woman, of course I don’t want a hard dick, for f***’s sake!,” turns out to have been the message, and if that seems like genital essentialism or a cumbersome investment in “the binary,” I will just have to own that. I can affirm, celebrate, and delight in my sisters who have developed more subtle relationships with their dick than I have. Maybe I’ll try again; I have a whole drawer full of dick pills. I’ll try anything twice.
That night, Danny and I and two of our friends went to see Tituss Burgess sing Sondheim at Carnegie Hall. I wanted him to sing, “I Know Things Now.” But on the lit stage, maskless, near other pandemic-isolated people, Burgess sang deep cuts, to the great satisfaction of the two serious theater gays in the box with us. In the show’s closing sequence, Tituss told a story of growing up in Georgia and discovering Sunday in the Park With George on PBS. “I didn’t know what the f** I was watching,” he said, but then said he understood what was happening as a kind of worship and a kind of certainty. “I have heard God called by many names by now, but the first name I had for him was Stephen.” A bit much I thought, British. He then sang “Sunday,”
“As we pass through arrangements of shadows
Towards the verticals of trees, forever
By the blue, purple, yellow, red water
On the green, orange, violet mass
Of the grass
In our perfect park.”
I wept again, the third time that day.
Edit: needs more details and what actually happened to his penis that day. But that would all be made up.
Also, sorry about my insanity in doing this.
Last edited:
Swimminglanes
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2022
Publishing shocker.
Man writes tedious book about his nob.
The world does not care.
End
Man writes tedious book about his nob.
The world does not care.
End
- Joined
- Mar 12, 2021
@Prescription Bugs That is sooo much better, great job.
- Joined
- Mar 12, 2021
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2021
"These are women who are years past their transition, and are rarely clocked."
Who believes this???
Who believes this???
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2020
None at all. The consensus opinion is Mal's writing her new kind of drivel while Lily's pegging Joe.
Loony troons huffing excessive amounts of copium."These are women who are years past their transition, and are rarely clocked."
Who believes this???
largetiger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2019
I know this is par for the course in threads about troons, but it’s so jarring to see him being referred to as “she“ in those reviews. Like, he does not read feminine in even the slightest way to me. Just pure male creep.
- Joined
- Feb 15, 2019
Hang on, don't buy it.
First, if anybody is reading this who already bought the ebook, please upload it to Libgen. It's anonymous and has nothing to do with Kiwi Farms. If it's not on there in the next few days, I'll do it.
Last edited:
Twiggez-Vous
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 22, 2021
I did not realise that Mallory was also an ex addict. It starts to make more sense, 'rebirthing ' via hormones rather than religion. Many ex drunks were drawn to evangelical congregations back in the day. They both had quite religious upbringings, so were perhaps hardwired for notions of salvation and renewal. Joe's terrible overblown prose, from the extracts of the book I have read so far, evokes born-again testimony for me in a weird way.
Kiwi-curious
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2022
There's some discussion back in the thread about this. Mal has been very vague about the details of this supposed addiction, and there was some skepticism about it. She really doesn't strike me as the addictive type. Has there been more info about this recently?
Sorry any Mal fans here, but I find her to be someone with wildly unreliable takes on anything and everything.
Frankly, I think that she's not very intelligent, and is terrible at analyzing situations and coming to reasonable conclusions. I get the impression that she has led a very sheltered life, without much interaction with other humans, except for Nicole Cliffe and Joe (who are both nuts, too), so her frame of reference is very narrow. Aside from her cognitive limitations, she has a lot of psychological issues as well, which distort her perceptions, and Joe is further twisting her.
It wouldn't surprise me if her status as ex-addict is part of Joe's manipulation techniques, or just one of her cuckoo misinterpretations.
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- Joined
- Mar 15, 2019
I wouldn't be shocked if Joe convinced her she was an addict too and made her get sober with him.
I think I said it before, but they remind me of Genesis P-Orridge and Lady Jaye. Everything Joe does, Mallory has to do, including mutilating her body, in some bizarre fetishistic project.
I think I said it before, but they remind me of Genesis P-Orridge and Lady Jaye. Everything Joe does, Mallory has to do, including mutilating her body, in some bizarre fetishistic project.
pursuitsnail
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 13, 2021
My understanding is that 12-step programs demand/insist/pressure members to profess a belief in god and join a church, as they take as fact that one cannot overcome addiction without the help of a higher power. So it makes sense ex drunks may find themselves pulled into religion during their recovery. If nothing else, having a community and social activities not centered on the bottle is helpful, and churches are easier to find than book clubs and knitting circles.
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2021
I wouldn't be either.
My understanding is that 12-step programs pressure you to admit you're an addict even when you are not because it's a cult that always requires more converts.
X to doubt Mallory was ever a true addict. She sounds like an insufferable daddy's girl that drank too much at a party a couple times in college so that automatically makes her an alcoholic.
She prolly just says she's an addict to fit in with her husband and all the troons, since they're all mostly addicted to drugs
Or it could be as simple as trying to get attention from daddy, but she's vague because she isn't a true addict and she knows it.