DADDY ISSUES #1

DADDY ISSUES ISSUE 1.

THE INAUGURATION

WELL, CUM TO THE INAGURAL EDITION OF DADDY ISSUES

DADDY ISSUES ISSUE 1.

THE INAUGURATION

Heather Duke underlined a lot of things in this copy of DADDY ISSUES, but I believe the word ‘Eskimo’, underlined all by itself, is the key to understanding Heather’s pain. On the surface, Heather Duke was the vivacious young lady we all knew her to be, but her soul was in Antarctica! …We’ll all miss Sherwood’s little Eskimo. Let’s just hope she’s rubbing noses with Jesus!

PUT IT IN THE BOOK,

ROSTER DADDY DIEGO GÓMEZ

MUSE KEITH DeNATALE

MUSICIAN TYLER HOLMES

ARTIST Remy Gierke

COLLUMNIST BEN McCOY

MUSICIAN SAN CHA

ARTIST DANIELLA DeVERA

WRITER CLINT WELLS

COMIC BOOKER RITA SAPUNOR

MUSE BONNI SUVAL

PHOTOGRAPHER RUBEN MARQUEZ MODEL DANIEL ADAMS

Front cover photos by RUBEN MARQUEZ modeled by DANIEL ADAMS Back cover photo by/of DIEGO GÓMEZ & Leatherwork by GRACE TOWERS

WRITER RICHARD WILDE LOPEZ

WRITER BRUNA PALMEIRO

COMIC BOOKER SINA SPARROW COMIC BOOKER SINA GRACE

PHOTOGRAPHER SLOANE KANTER

ARTIST ANTHONY CONOVER

WRITER Axler De Beauvoir

PHOTOGRAPHER Joseph Abbati ARTIST JEREMY NOVY

REPORTER CAITLIN DONOHUE

MODEL MUTHA CHUKA

ARTIST DAVA SMITH

PHOTOGRAPHER WILLARD CRON ARTIST BLAINE ASHBURY

LEATHERETTE GRACE TOWERS

WRITER STEPHEN FUNK

WRITER GABRIEL DARLING

POET MISTER RI

SPANKINGS / PRESS INQUIRIES? DIEGO@DIEGODIEGODIEGO.COM ASK DADDY:

B-Y-E, BYE!

by Diego Gómez

</3 Daddy Confessions

My step-dad - the only dad I ever really knew (until I met my biological dad a few months ago) told me to do the dishes (or something) then he left. He didn’t come back that night, or the next. My mom called his mom and she told her that he had gotten married.

(My mom and he never got married) She cried, started drinking and waiting for him to return at the top of our stoop. We talked about moving into her sister’s house. I was excited - my cousins were around my age were all there and they were the closest I had to brothers and sisters. Then he came back. One night his wife came to our house in the middle of the night and he knew it would be her so he told me to tell her he wasn’t there. “I heard you talking” she said to me “uh, that was the TV” i lied. For a while we would meet him blocks away from our home and he would pick us up and we would go places where he would walk ahead of us so it wouldn’t look like we were with him (to the mentally retarded.) After a few months it went back to normal (fights and stuff) but we could be seen together (joy!)

Dame Edna once said “Marriage is a form of loneliness.” & that “it’s like a Fairy Tale, Grimm.”

Then my mom cheated on my dad. My dad told me while I was opening this box of toys I ordered (this faggot was hella into QVC) The action figure I got in the mail had a variation of my Mom’s name. She had an interesting back-story of having the dual personality of the virgin/whore. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think? (Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill was my first CD.) My dad had recorded their phone conversation(s) and asked me if I wanted to hear them. Catholics can be FUNNY. By funny i mean FuUUcked-UUUp. I never heard those recording, I didn’t want to. The nerve. My ‘dad’ brought me into the middle of this fight, my mother hadn’t when the tables were reversed but he was playing the wounded sparrow or some shit. I remember that when they were fighting I was watching silently & 2 things stood out from what my mother said. 1: “i just wanted to have someone to talk to” (about her relationship with this other man who had kids & apparently a motorcycle) and 2: “stop yelling you’re scaring the dog” I was not mentioned.

I felt pretty cheated on too, and cheated, generally.

“I’ve always felt cheated” – Octavia St. Laurent My mother then and still has to let my dad know where she is at all times and he has since then been doing the sign of the cross every time he passes a church, cause, you know, praying makes bad stuff go away.

From an AMERICAN GIGALO to a PRETTY WOMAN

Edward: I was very angry with him. It cost me ten thousand dollars in therapy to say that sentence: “I was very angry him.” I do it very well, don’t I? I’ll say it again: I was very angry with him. “Hello, my name is Mr. Lewis, I am very angry with my father.”

Vivian: I would’ve been angry at the ten thousand dollars. . . Did I mention… my leg is 44 inches from hip to toe, so basically, we’re talkin’ about…

[She wraps her legs around Edward.]

Vivian: … 88 inches of therapy… wrapped around you, for the bargain price of…

Edward and Vivian: [in unison] … 3,000 dollars!

A LITTLE PUSH...

by Keith DeNatale

WHAT MAKES A DADDY MOST? Compiled by Diego G贸mez via

Photo by SLOANE KANTER 1) The Daddy is the boss.

2) The sparkle in his eye that gives off the essence of a seasoned player.

3) A natural swagger and a friendly smile that is hard to place on the nice to lascivious spectrum.

4) The confidence and street smarts of someone that has managed to survive long enough.

5) Daddy is one who satisfies hunger and thirst.

6) A Daddy knows what his boy needs, and gives him just enough to keep him coming back for more... skillz b on fleek, yo 7) Salt & peppa 8) His confidence + assurance > mine. You can tell in the voice pattern & tone and posture 9) The confidence in his ability to provide, teach, and protect.

10) Long ago, I thought the daddy was the one who pays for everything....

CRYSTAL DADA

by Remy Gierke

YULE

A

s a child, Remy was a great storyteller, a sewer of lies, and grand fireside fabler. His stories were the great escape from his own physical weaknesses; the safe home to a frail and sickly sissy. The illusion of a great hero battling the trials of his beloved Theseus or Frodo, on their grand and desolate journeys; these shaped his tales, and also his own unreality. They were far greater than the isolated desert suburbs filled with over-tanned sexually aggressive blonde cougars, the cross–eyed, knuckle dragging trolls who followed him home from school, and glassy stares of the other at his own freakishness. What had Remy’s early life as an alien amongst men, made him into? The adult phase of a man’s life is sometimes referred to as the “Hero Phase” is the basis of Remy’s recent work. Remy’s paintings are a reflection on his accumulated memories and taken directly from photographs of his childhood. These experiences are then confronted with a conflict inspired by the trials of mythological and literary characters. This blending acts to dissociate the actual events in a literal way, making grand narratives of myth where the mundane once existed. The incorporation of sequins and beading originated out of the desire to incorporate a lush decorative element to the otherwise austere paintings, to give them an air of religious or historical paintings.

Remy also incorporated a dissociative task to the painting; embellishing them with laborious processes. These processes, which interrupt the painted surface, also acts as a reminder of the materiality of the painting as an object, interrupting both the imagery, and its own fantasy.

Sight

The Pool

Grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House

On The Beach with Mother

Pleasure

The Ranch

Riddle Gate

A FATHER IS NOT A PENIS STORY by Bruna Palmeiro

monster slapped her and threw cold water on her while I screamed in the crib, only nine months old.

She ran away. They all did. The story repeated itself. Pedro, my ten year old brother, living now with his beautiful mother Andressa, talks to me shyly on the phone from time to time. I called him on his birthday.

He said nice things like “I love you” and “I’m playing soccer with my friends”and “I never want to see our father again.” - Because he beat his mom till she bled in the bathroom. Because he destroyed his childhood.

Because he made him unsure about life at such a young age. Just like me. It’s just the old story told again and again.

I have just started speaking to my biological father again. He called me his seed, but didn’t call me on the phone. He used proximity as a weapon of choice, perhaps to make me want to run away again. I feel like he doesn’t want to speak to me. It’s It is such a gift to be able to watch my faalright with me. We’ve never been close. ther speak in his demonized mind - that All the experiences I’ve had with him were mind he demonized himself throughout his related to money. “I’ll buy you sushi, but life. He did it all with his hands. His bloody don’t forget, I paid for every single month of hands. His violent hands. Beating, pulling, child support. All your mother tells you is a pushing, smashing violently what was lie. Everything that comes out of her mouth beautiful and pure. Yet unsuccessfully so. is only supposed to put me against you.”

He tells me now “If I was around, I would never have let you do the things you do today. But it’s alright, I don’t want you to It’s a blessing to be able to hear some change. I’m glad you had a man to help of his words, now that I understand why you growing up.” our system is broke and why the world with him. I’m glad Daniel’s heart, is falling apart. Ia agree heart full of love and music and art and

Perhaps it was, but not in an opinionated sort of way, just a realistic sort of way.

I understand the dynamics of luck and love. I understand the light of my life has been my stepfather ever since he showed up. I understand the first tears I shed while writing this declaration are when I talk about my step dad Daniel, because he is the one who loves me the most in this life. Of course, side by side with my gaia mother, my best friend Candice, the woman who chose to run away when the

generosity found me in the midst of untold, subconscious and mystical terror of abandonment and taught me about love and relationships and respect and mindfulness. I’m glad I had someone there, even when we cried together and screamed at each other.

I know I didn’t have to talk to him so I could remember who made me who I am today - the beautiful artist Bruna, full of life, full of love. But it sure was a great reminder.

It was always Daniel. My forever father figure, my most precious present, my family. He who held me when my toys broke, stood up for me when my first boss at the ice cream shop made racist comments about our nationality, taught me about great music, photography, acceptance and awareness, didn’t mind helping my mother financially so we could travel the world together and have a lovely life, came to see every single show I’ve acted in, praised my work and never once complained about the road I chose to follow. Especially, who didn’t back out when he knew he was getting involved with a woman who was a mother - and that would make him a father - by choice.

What a man! And what a lucky girl I am.

That is the conclusion of all my searching.

And what a short searching it needed be.

No matter what monsters from the past choose to reappear, I’m safe and sound.

Yet the immense incomprehension of attitude towards the man who put his penis inside my mother’s vagina lingers on. Seed, he calls me. Fuck fruit might be a better term.

PHOTO: Daniel Azulai Bittencourt

>>>

vimeo.com/danielazulai

I WANT TO BE WHERE THE PEOPLE ARE PHOTOGRAPHED by MUTHA CHUKA PHOTO COLLAGE by Diego G贸mez MODELLED by Trangela Lansbury

, DY !

D DA OO NO

SOMETIMES I HEAR MY VOICE AND IT’S BEEN HEeeeALDED

AN EXCERPT FROM THE Tori Amos SONG: “Silent All These Years”

AN EXCERPT FROM THE BARBIE DOCUMENTARY: “I, DOLL: THE UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY OF AMERICA’S 11 1/2” SWEETHEART”

FOUND AT DOLORES PARK, SAN FRANCISCO

PHOTO: Diego G贸mez

MANE / MAN PHOTOS by SLOANE KANTER MODELED & ILLUSTRATED by DIEGO GÓMEZ

>

(previous page) BABYLAND

by Tyler Holmes

I ONLY HAVE FOR DADDY

- Make-up al谩 Margaret Keane Photo -Ruben G Marquez Makeup & Necklace -Diego G贸mez Muse -Bonni Suval

DEAR BEN

by BEN McCOY Dear Ben,

Let’s start with basics - you’re fourteen, and you’re hormones are probably raging.

This is in part due to chemicals in you’re body but also in part due to the advertising of American Apparel. Know that the pimples on your forehead are not coming from excess oil, but from the fact that you have been wearing spandex headbands. This is Teened and Tortured, not a look that reaped rewards for Mischa Tony __________________________________ Barton, nor will it for you. This look is less aesthetic and more logistic for the likes of Nicole Richie, whom it is much like a rubDear Tony, ber band strapped to one’s head, remindToday is your lucky day, for you have come ing her TO PUT THE FORK DOWN. to the right queen. Just like you, I once struggled with similar situations, and only Sources say it is important for teens to TEN years later I have managed to take maintain a healthy diet. I see this as such matters into my own well manicured adults’ form of revenge upon youth for hands and sashay all the way to the BANK. their speedy metabolism. You needn’t But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, you worry, darling Tony, about stuffing your can cash in on your closeted homopho- face in the cafeteria at school, because it is bia when you’re out of your parents house a well-known fact that the Lunchroom is and off to college. There, you can process, the first place you will develop a tolerance write about it, totally acing your Wom- for chemically-altered foods, and drugs in en’s Studies class, all the while making a general. Institutions often finely dice Ambuck AND busting a nut, therefore killing bien into every meat-patty and packet of THREE birds with one stone. See, Tony, I ketchup to keep teens tame. This addiction to substances will become very imam a business woman. portant, friend, as your metabolism WILL decline in your mid-twenties and you develop a taste for cigarettes, an 8-ball in bathroom stalls, and a steady diet of redbull and vodka.

I am a 14 year old gay male in Massachusetts. I have a crush on the guy who sits in front of me in fourth period.... but he has a girlfriend of eight months! What should I do?

But again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Enjoy your present - where you “may” puke in your parents bathroom while your father holds your hair and pats your back,

himself full of a strange cocktail of concern and shame. Enjoy this, Tony, because as awkward as it is, it will be Norman Rockwell family portrait compared to the photos that will be taken of you in freshman year of college with the words CUM DUMPSTER written on your forehead in magic marker and posted all over the internet the next day.

Speaking of sucking dick, lets get you yours. First, girl, you need a hair-cut.

What does this bitch of eight months have on you? Locks, girl, locks. So I recommend taking the bus down to the nearest beauty supply store and get the the fiercest Kate Gosselin wig you can find. This is not to lure your crush into your arms, but to frighten his bitch-girlfriend to back the fuck off. Tell her you are going to sneak into her bedroom and give girlfriend a Kate Gosselin hair-cut just like the one on your head unless she steps the fuck off your piece. This bitch will flee the scene like Lohan awkwardly running into her dealer at the Ivy. Girl, please.

sneak into your mommy’s room and open her dusty make-up box full of free Avon samples. Incorrectly applied, guyliner is sexy. Once you enter fourth period wearing a dog-collar, smeared kohl smudges around your eyes, a ripped shirt swiped from your quasi-goth tween sister, paired with a pair of black vinyl leggings one size too small and your father’s cowboy boots, you will really have stepped your gay game up. Let me prep you, Tony, because you are going to be giving what we call A LOT OF LOOK. Your crush will undoubtedly lavish such affections upon you as calling you FAGGOT, COCKSUCKER, and depending on how well you do your makeup, a HOT TRANNY MESS. Hold your head up high, Tony, because this is the first step of a homophobic mating ritual. The male object of your affection will always attempt to cause you mental and emotional anguish via verbal assault before leading up to something more physical, more intimate, and covered in baby-making juice.

You see, Tony, the heterosexual male, especially the teen, is a seething hot-pocket full of hate, lust, and failed politics trickling down from it’s parents and culture.

But with me as your guide, you will take full advantage of this. The name-calling, spit-wads, and being shoved against lockers, will last approximately three weeks before you will hear something being thrown against your bedroom window late at night. Your fourth period crush will be standing in your yard, shaking with nerve and fresh from having experimented with gay porn. I recommend not leaving your bedroom and telling that tool to climb up But wait, we’re not done yet! Once you the tree-branch near your window. Tell trash the synthetic gremlin on your head, him if he think’s he’s so butch it’s time to

DEAR BEN (continued) emotionally assaulting you for being an out gay male, all-the-while wanting to drill your no-no and lick yer lollipop. The only thing better than quitting this bitch will be the cash you force out of his parent’s wallet when you tell him to PAY UP or GAY UP, threatening to show his parents and whole school the images of him giving you a rimjob as though he hasn’t eaten for weeks.

And who knows? The anguish and anxiety of being outed from his discreet privileged heteronormative lifestyle may actually give him an ulcer or an eating disorder. As your crush begins to lose weight, fail gym class, begin to be questioned by his dumbass trick friends, being put on the bench during the finals, you my darling Tony, will begin saving all the money you can from dealing in the black market trade of homophobic desire, attend the college of your choice, renting your own studio apartment by the nearest gay bar in town, and rest your head KNOWING you are the prove it by “being a man.” Verbally emas- fiercest cunt in town. culating the male bravado by questioning his masculinity is another form of this YOU’RE WELCOME. particular mating ritual. Before your object of affection is in your bedroom make Always Giving, sure you turn your $20 webcam on, or hide Ben McCoy your older sister’s video camera from Film Class on your dresser with a sock deftly draped over it, so as to hide your true intentions. Your crush will forcibly enter your room AND hopefully your dewy teen rose-bud as you capture it all on film, cam, or video.

You may or may not continue these discreet NSA-sexual relations, until you realize the heterosexual male object is a hypocrite of the HIGHEST order. Physically, mentally,

If you have a need of hasty advice, sassy fashion tips or any other Mz-Information, please don’t hesitate to she-mail Ben McCoy at shade_violet@hotmail.com

THANKSGIVING by Daniella DeVera

DADDY’S BOY

by Joseph Abbati I met François a couple years ago on Adam 4 Adam. He made first contact. SWA-Cute was his avatar name. Eighteen and cute! I responded with a friendly “hello”, not really trusting if he was sincere with his interest in me. I’ve had younger guys approach me only to find out they were looking for a sugar daddy or seeming to be some entrapment set-up.

François is sincere. A sweet boy who was eager to learn from me and become friends with. His body is electric: easy to turn on with the slightest touch. His giant ‘fro a soft ball of cotton candy. And a booty that can twerk it!

When he texts me it’s always with a sweet “Daddy, I miss you”. We meet about once a week and I’m grateful for him being part of my life and my Daddy’s Boy.

abeautifulindiscretion.tumblr.com

DADDY’S GONE RECORDED by Tyler Holmes & San Cha This is Daddy Issues’ first song. I don’t think Vogue even has a song. Oh,..except for that Madonna thing. Whatever.

This is what happens when u leave, DADDY. Tyler Holmes & San Cha are 2/3’s of the international sensation “DADDIES PLASTIK”.

Tyler Holmes lives in Oakland, California & San Cha lives in Mexico City. They’re dope as fuck and smoke mad blunts. Check it: A series of quotes are in order:

“Good Boy!” “That’s It!” “You can do it!” “There you go...” and, of course, ones true name.

These alongside:

“Try harder.” “Almost...” “Maybe.” “MAYbe...” “MAYBE!” “Sure.” “Oh, yeah?” “Think so?”

The role of “The Daddy” is a complex one. The positive & negative implications of ‘sexual encouragement’ (‘Sexual encouragement’ as in encouraging or instructing your partner verbally during sex NOT encouraging your partner to have sex!) are so vast, considering so many characteristics. It can be so difficult to discern real malice at times, while other instances are not so hard to spot.

Who is your daddy?

What does he do for you?

What makes him ‘DADDY?’ How’d you come to be ‘The Baby?’

Are either one of your roles immutable?

Transition from being ‘the baby’ to being ‘the daddy’ can be confusing.

Going back and forth can be the adventure or nightmare of a lifetime...

FREE DADDY DOWNLOAD Transition is always hard.

Being confused is another carcinogenic cherry on my sundae.

My lover San Cha and I decided to record a cover of the Jodeci rip off “Daddy’s Gone” from the 1st ‘Family Guy’ spin off ‘American Dad’. It features a boy and his hedonistic alien friend pining for their daddy who recently abandoned them. I wanted to explore the terrain of running away from daddy only to become him, or to have been him all along. Oh daddy, always on your mind? How to get him IN? How to get him OUT?

>>>

Process your issues and download it on the FREE @ soundcloud.com/tylerholmes/daddys-gone-w-san-cha

SANTA IS THE ULTIMATE DADDY

MIRROR

FATHER

MIRROR

MOVING ON

by BLAINE ASHBURY This is supposed to be a happy time. That was said to me, right before I had the wind knocked out of me, one dewy Texas morning before school. That day I’d take a seat in my fourth grade class holding my stomach with tears in my eyes. My teacher wanted to know what was wrong as a few other children tried to console me. I was lead to the nurses office to determine what my condition was although I didn’t have many words to attribute to my situation. I was scared. I was hurt. I could barely breathe. Something told me to drag it out. Something told me that others had to see me. Something was trying to save me. I had long regained my breath in the car ride before school. I was mostly ok already, at least physically. The principal of my school wanted to see my stomach. I was embarrassed not by any wounds that may be present, but by a temporary glitter dragon tattoo I had applied near my belly button a few days prior. I quickly scratched it off, adding, to the redness. My meeting with the school nurse and principal was inconclusive.

A few days later CPS showed up at my door. My dad refused to answer their calls or to open the door for them. I remember those days very well. Caged. Fearful. It may be unsurprising that my Dad never hugged me.

Quick to make good face in public, but he was man with a forked tongue. You could say I grey up in the school of love and manipulation. Time outs were almost as frequent as morning cartoons. Spanking had a similar pattern. On off, on off, on off. Magnetic feedback. A blue screen, and some white noise.

In cartoons the characters would get punched, and be completely fine. That’s what it looks like anyway. No one can tell unless they speak up, but in the early days cartoons didn’t have voices. In my early days I didn’t either. It would take a divorce, moving three times, and a new school district for me to surmount my social anxieties. I learned to speak up, but it took a lot of silver tongue to the inside of the public school systems drain pipe. I was not the person I wanted to be. I can admit that I was an angry teenager, but not a violent one. If it hadn’t been for the spiritual influences of my grandmother I may have never found meditation. Though my grandmother had some really wacky ideas about spirituality. She was a southern baptist woman, but something of a mystic at the same time. I feel like the man I want to be is a similar mixture. That man includes a heavier dose of mysticism, and hell of a lot more empathy.

When I think back on my upbringing I like to compare it with what I understand about my parents upbringing. Maybe this is one of those southern baptist mechanisms to keep me docile. My dad had it worse than me, but I believe that does not invalidate my experience. My mother had it worse than me, but her story is more inspiring. Ha. I’m a bitch for that. I probably won’t ever hug my dad.

He could probably really use a hug. Maybe it’s the four points in which Scorpio meets my astrological chart that have me keeping him at a glacial distance. Maybe it’s because I know better. That stinging tail reminds me that my burden is heavy.

It also tells me not to talk about it.

Far Away Boy by Stephen Funk & Diego Gómez This one time in boot camp...

All recruits with tattoos were lined up to be inspected by the commanding officer.

Most were self-explanatory and basic like [barb-wire] [bulldog] [USMC]

The CO would say something like “That’s a HARD tattoo devil-dawg” (Ooh-Rah!) perhaps giving them a pat on the shoulder.

At the time I only had one tattoo, a seahorse on my chest which my grandmother got me as a souvenir in the Philippines. I got it because seahorses are uniquely the only animal where the male of the species births the children. It was a reminder that if I ever had kids that I’d want to be the best dad evar!

He paused, confused and amused. I didn’t get a pat on the shoulder, he didn’t say anything. He just knowingly side glanced my senior drill instructor who raised an eyebrow back in confirmation.

Seahorses are a genderqueer symbol about sexual fluidity and reverse gender roles. I didn’t know what I was going to say, when he got to me he could tell I was over-thinking about the answer. He leaned in and the whole squad bay got really quiet as I explained.

He had a really nice ass tho.

BABA by SINA GRACE

Good Job, Son.

by DIEGO GÓMEZ I was on a trip to Knott’s Berry Farm with my best friend & his Mom and Dad. They were lovely. Pops took us on a little tour of thier hometown before we went to the theme park, & part of that tour included a viewing of a mural my friend had done when he was in highschool. As we drove away, he said “Good job son”. It hit me, I don’t remember my [step] dad ever saying that to me. I just met my birthfather and he said it after a 29 year absence from my life but I’m 33 and my “main dad” never said I did anything well, at least I don’t think.

I don’t remember ever being encouraged.

On the way back from our trip, Mr. Dad asked if he could see my sketchbook, I told

him (a Morman man in his late 60s) that it had some racey material - he joked that’s why he wanted to see it. He looked thru it and had some nice things to say and then patted me on the back and said “good job”.

It then hit me that my dad never asked to see my sketchbook or asked me what I’ve been working on, only if I had work. I’m of the age that I could have a family of my own, but I never experienced the type of family that I would want to form until now.

My dad was a provider, he always has been - his dad left early on and he had to work to support his brothers and sisters but as far as “real emotions” - I haven’t really seen much of those until today.

LQQKS

The Catwalk Party.

Monthly, Monthly. 2nd Mondays.

Only @ The Powerhouse

SESENENTT E R P X I R R T P BBOOMMININAATRIX A & X I A L E & H SSHELIX

S K LQQ

UUSSEE>> O H R E O W H O R P OOMMTHTHEE POWE R F T C E R R F I D T << DIREC

) T S (HO THA MU

daddy

) ((turns turns)

RROONN C D R C A L D L I R W LA PPHHOOTTOOSSbbyy WIL HA CHHUUCCKKAA MMUUTTHA C y b D E y L b L D E MMOODDELLE ÓÓMMEEZZ G O G E G I D O G y E MMAAKKEE-U-UPPbby DI

What do you want me to do daddy? < DIRECT FROM MEXICO CITY >

WRITTEN by Axler De Beauvoir PHOTO by DIEGO GÓMEZ

¡I’m just confessing my feelings for you daddy!

My desire is your desire, and I desire you at the same time, but I don’t wanna look like a fake psychoanalyst… keep on confessing. I remember when I started looking for you, I think Freud said something about my Oedipus-complex, but I don’t really know and I don’t even care. Is it so bad? Looking for somebody like me? Just a little narcissistic, nothing you wouldn’t know.

As Plato fell in love with Socrates ‘cause the master always had the answer he was searching for,

I fall in love with men that know how to order me into their beds. They were always bad boys, they just want me to be their object, daddy.

They don’t love me as you do, they get me drunk and use my body. Sorry I am so naughty daddy, I need your punishment. I quickly learned how to take them to my own bed, I even offer them to be sedated with me while we fuck. I’m just like Plato, seducing Aristotle, keeping the tradition that he started with Socrates - our gay accidental philosophy.

Have you ever read it daddy? It’s always a man sucking another man’s dick.

Still looking for you daddy. I’m gonna reach you next time I’m confident enough in one of my lovers. One of them must be the one, but they don’t know it ‘cause I always lie to them. I tell them I don’t believe in love. I confess that I don’t speak too much, it works ‘cause they trust me and next thing I know are they running away from me ‘cause they do believe in love - stupid thing, they don’t realize that I’m looking for that bearded and hairy body without organs for loving in a desperate way, just like straights do when they’re getting old.

As unhappy husbands and wives sharing a petty life pretending that smelling, licking, jerking, blowing and fucking are all manifestations of love.

I want to wake up and realize you didn’t let me out from your arms all night. Everybody needs some partner to lean on, and you are the man I like, male becoming masculine.

Is that you daddy? Don’t let me alone, I’m just a queer guy in the modern life. I can imagine Daddy-Madonna, performing with his tuxedo and his trans-dancers, asking for my desires, she becomes he and is my top daddy with his vagina fucking me. I wanna be as white as Britney with a lesbian kiss before dying, smoking while pregnant with lots of fucking capitalist pop hits and illegal drugs.

Hope you are visiting me when I go to jail, ‘cause I’m looking for you in the restrooms, in the dark corners of yards, in the subway, all the places where bad men want to fool me, and I wanna be fooled by them.

What do you want me to do daddy? (continued) They wanna make me believe they are you… what’s worse is that police, state, god and even my mom don’t let me find you ‘cause they don’t want me to be gay.

They punish me. Need you to take care of me. I’m not as famous as George Michael, maybe nobody is gonna worry about me if someday, I just disappear.

That could be for me as dangerous as it was for Oscar, who had to support his own last name, the name of the father, the Wild(e) world within his own mind, perverse love for a young blonde boy that sent him to jail after Oscar made true the white wishes of the boy. ¡Oh daddy, your queer son is calling you! I’m begging you ‘cause mama has forsaken me…

FIDI WORDS & PICTURES by ANTHONY CONOVER fur flocked discipline candy mouth cum crust latch key papi pinstripe papi beer soaked papi crease me papi. bouquet of foreskin garden hose realness papi. give me my daily bread. smooth it out for me papi. steam the kinks out. fuck me utopian papi.

RUSTIC

ARCHED

DO OVERS

NOBODY

HOT CHUMP

PHILLY

MY BEST FRIEND’S DAD Story by Clint Wells & IllustrationS by Diego Gómez

“Dude, what the fuck are you wearing?”

It was the particularly hot summer of my freshman year of college, and I couldn’t wait to jump into my best friend’s pool.

“Haven’t you ever seen a speedo before,” I snapped the waistband of my new purple swim briefs.

“All the guys wear those over in Europe,” came a deep, familiar voice from behind me.

I turned around to see Jake’s shirtless dad watering some petunias. There were tiny beads of water clinging to his chest hair and sparkling in the late morning sun like sequins. Jake’s dad was a gardener and kept a well manicured flower garden, and mustache. My eyes quickly grazed the bump in his shiny basketball shorts. A hand was up, shading his friendly, smiling eyes. A tuft of brown hair sprouted from his armpit like late summer grass. It was maddening how sexy Jake’s dad was. I could feel heat blossoming in my cheeks and groin.

“Oh hey Roy,” I managed. “It’s too damn hot,” I blurted, looking for an excuse to jump into the disguising water to hide the bulge that was very surely beginning to grow in my tiny swimsuit. Jake cannonballed in after me.

Later, I sat sprawled on his bedroom floor, watching him run over another pedestrian on the TV screen. I packed a fresh bowl in his glass bong.

“My dad and I are going out of town next week,” Jake said, his thumb furiously working the buttons on the controller. I blew out a thick cloud of skunky smoke.

“Where,” I coughed.

“Gilroy. He wants to go to the Garlic Festival.”

“Oh, cool,” I torched the bowl again.

“He was thinking of paying you to keep the garden watered and cats fed while we’re gone.”

“Sure,” I said in the back of my throat. I blew smoke up at the ceiling then continued. “He’ll just have to show me what he needs me to do.”

The day before Jake and his dad left on their trip was another scorcher. I slipped some faded denim cut offs over the white briefs I had been wearing around the house, grabbed a tank and headed out the door.

I noticed the back gate was open at Jake’s, with a small stream making it’s way from the backyard to the street. Stepping over the water and past a fat gnome standing guard, I entered Roy’s colorful garden. He was standing tall over some snap dragons, green hose in hand spitting water at the flowers. It looked like he was pissing on them.

“Hey bud! Thanks for coming over,” Roy called through a white smile.

Seeing his bare chest reminded me I never put my tank top on. It lay over one shoulder, uselessly.

“No problem,” I responded, walking past some cheery dahlias and caged, green tomatoes. “Jake at work?”

“Yup, working late tonight.”

He kinked the hose. Water drooled out the end and onto his hairy legs. I decided to wait until his attention wasn’t on me to steal a peek at his outlined manhood. I had

MY BEST FRIEND’S DAD concluded a while back that Roy never wore underwear. His favorite, clingy basketball shorts had provided me with much jerk off material over the years.

“It really shouldn’t be too hard, but you know how I am with my plants. I wanted to show you the watering routine.”

Roy was looking at me through his big, brown eyes, a smile curled under his mustache. He turned to indicate a shady corner of the garden, and source of the small stream.

“The hose turns on over there.”

My eyes went to the hose hanging between his legs instead.

A lump jutted from his shorts like a witch’s nose. Green fabric ran smoothly across the shaft, up a ridge, then cascaded down from the round tip. Sunshine highlighted the arch, giving it a heavenly glow. His shorts were worn low enough that I could make out the difference between his curly pubes and the finer hair of his happy trail. His left hand reached over and scratched between his cock and balls a few times. It swung back into place.

I looked up to find he was looking at me again, this time with a raised eyebrow and funny smirk. Red exploded on my cheeks like blooming roses.

Then he had his turn, lazily looking down at my naked chest. His lips puckered very slightly. I felt his eyes reach the furry patch below my belly button. There was a tightening in my shorts.

A quick, cold shot from his hose hit right in the middle of my stomach, jerking me from his hot spell. He let out a huge laugh.

“Hey!” I laughed, wiping away the water and flinging it back at him.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he said, getting his laughter under control.

“Why don’t you go turn this thing off.” He gestured toward the spigot. An old peach tree hung overhead.

“Sure,” I made my way across the stepping stones, trying to concentrate on their animal mosaics, and not think about Roy’s huge cock. A stone snail sat cheerfully by the spigot, clearly enjoying the spray of mist. I kneeled down and turned the squeaky handle. The hose choked, and lay spent and used on the ground. I was just about to get up when a shadow fell across me, disturbing the speckled gold sunlight falling through the peach tree. I twisted my head around to find Roy standing over me, hands on his hips. His crotch was nearly eye level, and I could hardly believe my eyes. Roy had a semi! I shot up, and in my near panic I nearly knocked his junk with my shoulder. Butterflies erupted in my stomach.

“You’ve really become quite a handsome young man.”

Roy’s eyes, about 4 inches above my own, fluttered about my face. I tried to say something but my voice caught like a school boy being called on in class who hadn’t been paying attention.

“Have you been working out,” a strong hand reached over and grasped my bicep.

MY BEST FRIEND’S DAD I felt momentarily weak. There was a faint, delicious smell of sweat coming off of him. It was intoxicating. The goldfish tattoo on his taut pecs swam dizzily in my vision.

“Maybe a little” I said shyly.

This made him laugh and his hand went up to my neck. A thumb gently pressed a tender spot, turning my legs momentarily to jelly. My dizziness soon passed, replaced with a burning desire to reach out and touch the luxurious fur covering his body. His eyes held mine like a prize, his mouth slightly ajar. My cock was trying to escape the now too tight underwear, as if it were an angry rat. It jammed down my right pant leg bulbously.

“Jake tells me you like dudes,” Roy’s eyebrows jumped up briefly. His hand stopped massaging my neck.

“Yeah,” I laughed nervously, my eyes darted away.

“Cool, so do I.”

I looked back at him but his head was down, studying the potato shaped lump in my shorts. I followed his gaze. His semi had turned into a full blown boner, and his shorts hung from it like they were put out to dry. There was pressure on my neck. I could feel my face being pulled in. The space between our mouths slowly got smaller, until our lips finally met. I had been longing to feel the tickle of his mustache on my lips for years. It sent hot bolts of electricity down my stomach and into my groin. His tongue found its way into my mouth through soft, parted lips. At first it was just a tease, quick whips on the tip my tongue. Then the whole thing was in my mouth, running wet laps.

I reached up and grabbed a handful of furry pectoral muscle. All that manly hair made my erection flex in my underwear. His hand reached around to the small of my back and pulled me into him so our hard cocks were pressed against each other. His hips curled in pushing them together even harder. My body shuddered, and he pulled his mouth away from mine so he could look at my face. I gasped for breath. There was a devilish smile planted beneath that neat mustache. He gave me one more quick kiss, before his hands started pushing down on my shoulders. I knew exactly what that meant and I was down on my knees before you could say “agapanthus.”

At first I just wanted to admire the thing pointing at me accusingly from inside the thin fabric. “Careful, you might poke your eye out,” I thought. There was a tiny tap on the back of my head to remind me I had business to take care of. My face came in just under his balls. I breathed in his sweaty, delicious musk through his basketball shorts.

I wanted to live down there, on my knees, face in his crotch, drinking in his manly odor.

There was a slight, sticky wetness in my underwear. He flexed his cock and it nodded at me suggestively. I took the cue and reached over and pressed his fat monster up against his stomach. A moan escaped his mouth and I looked up at him from my place at his crotch. My hand reached up and rubbed his belly fur while the other gave his meat a little squeeze. He looked down at me and ruffled my hair. My eyes still on his, I gently pressed lip-covered teeth down onto his junk. His eyes closed and head tilted back as he inhaled sharply. I worked my way down all 8 inches with my mouth, until I found my

MY BEST FRIEND’S DAD way to the end, which I stuffed inside, fabric and all.

“Oh yeah,” Roy exhaled, his hand returning to the back of my head. I took his clothed cock as far back in my throat as I could. His hand held me there, and I easily let the thing rest in my warm hole, my saliva seeping into the fabric. I wrapped both hands around his hairy thighs, feeling the strong muscles underneath. Up they went, over his smooth shorts, searching for the waistband. My fingers curled over the elastic and slowly brought them down, revealing a thick bush of brown pubic hair. A little further and the junction of his abs, leg muscles, and the base of his manhood became stunningly visible. Down further still, the base became a round shaft, and the loose skin of his ballsack hung behind. His pecker strained downward as the basketball shorts cleared the last few inches. Then, his huge, beautiful cock sprung upward as it finally became free. It bobbed a few times before coming to rest. The massive thing pointed straight at me like a horizontal Washington Monument. Again, I just stared at it, studying every inch, every vein, every amazing detail.

“You like that cock, boy?”

I looked up at him. “It’s huge!”

And those balls! I wasn’t sure if I had ever actually seen bull’s balls, but they couldn’t have been much bigger than his.

“Get up,” he pulled me up by my armpits.

He took a moment to feel my thin frame, tossing the tank on my shoulder onto a wooden bench nearby. His hands went down my stomach to my belt buckle. With sure ease he freed my belt and undid the button on my shorts. My dick was throbbing now and oozing a steady stream of precum. Down went the zipper and he didn’t waste any time yanking my shorts down past my knees where they fell to my feet. I looked down at my soaked, bulging briefs. He pressed on my dick with his palm and rubbed the head through the slick fabric. I shook slightly and let out a whimper. Then his hand went in my underwear and pulled my junk over the waistband. He gave it a squeeze. A fresh glob of precum leaked out and ran down my shaft.

“Damn you got a nice one yourself,” Roy exclaimed.

He pulled me in again for a kiss and our naked cocks pressed up against our stomachs.

Roy took a step back and held both our dicks together in one hand. They looked so perfect in his big hand like that. His a little more than an inch longer than mine, and much fatter. I was glad to finally be with a man with a bigger tool than mine. Our balls hung together like ripe fruit.

“Come here,” he pulled me over to the shady bench.

In my excitement I nearly tripped on the shorts wrapped around my feet. He turned and sat down on the bench, legs spread. I wrestled with my shorts and underwear then resumed my position down at his crotch. A feeling of rightness overtook me, as I kneeled there before him. I felt up his meaty thighs as I took another long whiff under his nutsack. My tongue slipped out and tasted them, sweaty and delicious.

MY BEST FRIEND’S DAD I managed one whole kiwi sized ball in my mouth, and then the other. His warm meat rested on my face. Roy inched forward a bit and spread his legs even further. I plopped his balls out of my mouth and dove down further. My tongue lashed at his tasty, pink hole. I checked his pleasantly surprised face to make sure it was okay. He verified by closing his eyes and bringing his legs up a bit. His pucker was soft on my tongue like flower petals, and I fed on it like a starving honey bee. It was a little salty at first, until I cleaned it of sweat. I probed my tongue in a little then gave it a couple more long licks.

Panting, I pulled back to look at the furry, wet appetizer I just devoured. It winked at me.

Roy planted his feet back in the dirt and smiled. “You’re good at that.” I grinned back.

He grabbed the base of his rod and waved it at me suggestively. I brought my tongue in between his balls and slipped it up the shaft, lingering a little before I reached the head. Then I put just his mushroom tip in and sucked while my tongue teased it.

“Oh yeah” Roy moaned as he slipped both hands through my hair.

I began the slow descent down, wetting each inch with my spit as I went. My eyes were open so I could see his hairy crotch getting closer as his prick slid down my open throat. There reached a point where I didn’t think I could fit anymore in. I tried to relax and felt more lubricating saliva forming around his cock. I pulled back a little so I could take a deep breath through my nose, then went for it. There was a slight urge to gag as I took the last two inches, but I managed to swallow the whole thing.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped and held my head down on it.

I grabbed my own rock hard cock as I sat there with his monster buried deep in my mouth. Then he finally released my head and I came up for air like a sea mammal who spent a little too long under the waves. I only took a short breath before I was back down on it. I showed off my deep throat skills proudly by bobbing up on down on his dick a while, managing not to gag as he throat fucked me. I looked at him through teary eyes.

He had his hands behind his head, his muscular body creating a beautiful geometric shape. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was open, breathing heavily. I rubbed the hand not jerking myself off through his stomach fur as I took his whole cock down my throat again. I could feel myself getting close so I backed off my own reddening rod for a bit. Roy’s body was getting more and more tense as I worked his meat furiously. My hand twisted up and down his shaft in perfect tandem with my mouth. He was moaning loudly now and there were small tremors running through his legs. All my concentration went into getting him off. I reached up with my other hand and held his huge balls firmly. They had begun to rise up and I pulled down on them gently. Finally, I could feel his engorged member straining in my hand and mouth.

“Oh fuck, this is it...FUCK” Roy gasped as he pushed my face down on his cock forcefully.

I grabbed my own dick as I felt the first gush of his salty, sweet cum shoot down my throat. One more contraction from his exploding tool and I was blowing my own load into the dirt. I had to swallow the first onslaught of semen, but as he released pressure on my head, I came up a bit so he could flood my mouth with his delicious nut. He con-

MY BEST FRIEND’S DAD tinued to pump me full of hot cum like he was fueling me up for a long trip.

Not wanting to swallow, I let it collect there as if it were some sort of gay mouthwash. His spitting cock finally relaxed, and I took several moments to appreciate the fact that I had Jake’s dad’s fresh load on my tongue. As he took his dick back out, I swallowed my prize, in two huge gulps. I put my head against a thick, furry thigh and looked up at him, one hand still cradling his gigantic balls.

“That was amazing,” Roy laughed as he caressed my hair.

“I know,” there was a huge smile, and a little bit of stray cum on my face.

“Alright, I think that’s everything. We should be back late Monday night,” Roy handed me a silver key.

“I left your cash and a joint on the coffee table,” he winked.

“Thanks Roy,” I couldn’t take my eyes off of him now. There was no more awkward shyness.

“No, thank you,” he smiled.

“Alright, well have fun on your trip!”

“One more thing,” Roy pulled me into him.

“I’m gonna want a piece of this ass when I get back,” he grabbed a handful of butt cheek.

“Ok,” I kissed his chin.

“But that’ll cost ya extra.”

eZ l l e Bub

B

The voluptuous San Franciscoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bearded lady has got your eyes caught on her alabaster body and a red rose erection. See her get bloody, sensual, political and glittery at The Hypnodrome (575 10th street) with The Thrillpeddlers, at any of the Red Hots burlesque stages with the illustrious Dottie Lux and her sexy cat gang or invite her yourself to be a part of your artistic project! Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll slay hearts with love and truth playing ukulele and singing her deep, honey-melting voice.

Bookings: brupalmeiro@gmail.com PHOTO DAVID WILSON

by RITA SAPUNOR

“Absentee”

by Gabriel Darling

My (adoptive) father came from a hypermasculine military background where all the boys and men served in the US Army and all the women folk acquiesced to their PTSD, disruptive mood swings, violent rages, alcoholism, anger issues, and sporadic, erratic and long absences. Family life was very patriarch-centric and heteronormative in the extreme, not generally recommended for civilian lives. It was a childhood saturated and cemented in severe forms of discipline and rage filled parenting styles.

My father, his father, uncles, cousins, and second-twice-removed relatives (except for one aunt that rebelled and served in the US Navy!) served their country honourbly [yes, OED spelling] well and with distinction and some not so well (an uncle that was discharged due to drug possession & is/was a pedaphile). My oldest brother would have served the conventional 20 year career in the military had it not been for an accident that rendered him a paraplegic at 29.

It was a childhood that involved regular travel & geographic displacement, demanded a high level of adaptability, and tremendous fear of “father” and everything around him. Every day was a land mine of walking around on eggshells at home and vigilance regarding behaving well. I know how to pack a bag and live out of a suitcase for months on end, travel to foreign countries all on my very own, land in a city and find my sea legs (if somewhat ungracefully), and find small personal refuges since the young age of 4. I’ve flown on Lockheed C-141’s rested on cargo with 20-30 other NCO’s (non-commissioned officer/heteronormative cis-men) that involved travel to Central America several times during my middle school years (after 14 hour flights - high degree of ick factor around so many young GI’s - I felt so very vulnerable).

My siblings were/are the greatest, grandest, & most loving gift from my parents: two older and two younger (older brother, older step-sister, younger step-brother, and youngest brother). I mostly associate with being the middle child; I learned early to enter and exit a room ever so quietly and how not to rock boats…. I’m the child that spent the least amount of time residing with them (first year in the orphanage & after all the divorces and remarriages - we shifted back and forth between households); I’m the child my parents knew least & I’m the child that knew them the least.

I witnessed my father do everything in his misguided manner and (un)loving way to break the spirit of his oldest (biological) son. Most of my childhood was during relative peace time, but “father” would still be sent to the Middle East and places unknown on occasion. Father and his father’s (paternal grandfather) internal strife and war was something so palpable we cowered in the face of it daily.

My siblings were a source of protection and barriers. Fear & intimidation inhabited all the moments, corners, crevices and spaces around “father”. I silently pleaded to all things holy and unholy to never ever ever ever ever ever ever to be left alone with “father”. I declared my atheism to my mother at 12, to her shock and horror, because of the perpetual flood of anxiety I felt (I have since recanted my atheism). How

could a deity fill our tiny, young lives with so very much uncertain and unjustified, explosive rage from “father” ???

After all those tumultuous years of emotional, verbal, physical, and sexual abuse, and at the age of 15 with the assistance of mother and a family lawyer, we managed to file the appropriate legal paperwork to remove me completely from the life and world of “father”. I’ve never seen and/or communicated with him since that time.

“Father” was/is totally and completely GONE from my life.

The majority of my childhood I did everything in my power to operate below the radar of “father’s” seething angry mass of bile and torment. Most definitely, I did not vie for his attentions but I did yearn and long for parental love and approval. I was taught that familial love was conditional, very very very conditional and disapproval would yield unwanted violence as a result.

During my early & tender hearted years, I connected with work-a-holic romantic partners and/or connected with partners in-love with someone else …. most of my adult relationships I hid within the shadowy side of affection from others, accepted & tolerated love (nonconsensually) from cruel hearted & emotionally sadistic (cis & trans) men. Long distance relationships felt like such an easy solution to so many of the nascent relationship problematic patterns.

As an older and wiser adult, my romantic patterns have slowly evolved and gained footing in newer, healthier, & very passionate patterns. (I don’t consider dating anyone outside of my own zip code!)

My “father” and I never had much to say to each other anyway. Remember that scene in the film The Royal Tenenbaums? Royal Tenenbaum takes his adopted daughter Margot Tenenbaum to an ice cream place for a father-daughter outing, yes, well, that’s about how good days went. My “father” never knew my funny-silly-corny-joke loving side, never really ever met the child that picked up and read all his dog eared paperback espionage novels, never knew that I would plunder his stash of Playboys and Penthouses to masturabate to… never knew the tender hearted, optimistic, ethereal & enigmatic woman I became despite all his efforts (or lack thereof).

If it weren’t for all those weird family traditions and legacies, I wouldn’t have had the great fortune to travel and see the world & express my wanderlust, I wouldn’t have experienced the Panama Canal, resided in 10 + US states, would not have seen so many desserts, or fallen for the West Coast so readily, or known how to share my joy and zeal for life’s simple pleasures with others so well. If it weren’t for “father” I would not have learned how to politely decline invitations to overwhelming darkness and reject eternal heartbreak from back alleys and disappointing ends.

Now, in my recasting/revisionist imagination, I see my younger self standing next to “father’s” boiling and burning intensity and ask him sarcastically, “I’m 4 years old! What’s your excuse?!?!”!

LEATHERWORK by GRACE TOWERS

My Therapist

by Dava Smith & PHOTO by DIEGO GÓMEZ You’d think the life-sized cut out of Barbara Streisand would have been a hint.

Of course, Step Dad number one was married to a woman, and in the military.

Which... is pretty meaningless in defense of his sexuality when analyzed through my current frame of reference. I’ve met military gays, and gays with “beards” (you know, the decoy kind, not the facial fur) over the years.

But as far as I’m concerned, I just appreciate that we had something in common. I always felt like he didn’t like me much, a subtle distance and sense of ambivalence on the borderline of distaste. But in retrospect perhaps he needed that distance because of an unconscious discomfort around young boys, stemming from internalized homophobia and/or self-loathing as a result of, well, society. (hurray for run on sentences) Also SD1 was a christian, and from Alabama. This was the early ‘90’s. I wonder how he reconciled all of that when he eventually did come out, a couple of years after he and my Mom split. You have to admit, it took some guts.

Stepdad number 2 and I had even less in common. He’s a big, burly Scotsman.

Highly intelligent, yet still a bit of a roughneck. The bonding moments that I can recall involved sharing music that I liked during car rides to shop for school clothes or whatnot.

The best memory is of me exposing him to Tori Amos who I was obsessed with at the time. The image of 6’3, 250lb, bearded, mulleted hetero Scottish man humming along to Little Earthquakes is priceless. He tried, and I have to give him credit for that.

Still, we were never close, and my pot smoking, pink haired teen years did little to bridge the gap. Perhaps said gap even widened a few meters when I came out at 20. Well, I guess I should say I was outed by way of my gossip-monger older sister, but regardless. I have felt the distance widen, if only minutely.

It’s possible that Bio Dad and I have the least in common. While SD2 would put up with even the noisiest of my musical tastes, I recall in the last conversation that I had with him, BD laughing at me in a scathing sort of way when I told him I was into Punk.

And that isn’t really a big shock since dear ol’ BD is a big ‘ol jock.

Surprise, surprise a military man, and one that pumps iron daily. I myself went through a (very) brief weight lifting stage, but these days I couldn’t think of anything more dull. In fact, I detest the gym, though I have been trying to give it another shot for a while now, based on the rumors that I’ve heard about a natural “work out high” that can be attained. But I mean, I can always jog (if I ever quit smoking) and I go through

herapist Is My Daddy intense periods of regular yoga-ing, until inevitably I start to feel like a bourgsie, whole foods shopping, soccer mom.

Digression, digression.

Fact is, even if he did make some semblance of an effort to be in my life, what could we possibly have to relate about. Maybe our mutual drinking problems?

Oh, there’s that.

Despite my lack of a wholesome father/son relationship, I can honestly say that I don’t feel the absence of this role in my life. Sure, some would argue that the guy I dated who was roughly 15 years my senior tells otherwise, but I really don’t believe that that coupling was indicative of any sort of “daddy issues”. For the one thing, that fella was incredibly immature, and far from paternal.

No, the reason I don’t feel a “daddy void” is:

My therapist is my daddy!

That’s right, my sweet, calming, 50’sish therapist is the gay dad that I never had. (Although I did technically have a gay dad, but you know what I mean) I can talk to him about just about anything, and we understand each other in ways that I could never have hoped to achieve with any of my Mom’s many husbands. (She’s currently on SD4, and no joke, he’s Muslim)

My therapist is a big proponent of “chosen” families, and I have begun to adopt his ideas on that concept. Sure, it would be weird if I tried to hit him up for money, but still. The emotional connection is there. The wisdom is there. And the trust is there.

I’ve long thought that everyone could benefit from therapy. Indeed, those of us who are the products of dysfunctional childhoods (So, basically everyone) could especially benefit. And who knows?... Maybe you’ll find the dad figure that you never had.

SEE MORE OF JEREMY NOVY’S @ jnovy6.wix.com/street-art

DADDY DADDY DADDY

Shrimp & Oysters Richard Wilde Lopez

The first time anyone saw my dick that wasn’t a parent or my pediatrician I was in third grade. I remember the growl of the school bus engine, the air hot with the breath of screaming children. I sat at the front of the bus behind Ben the bus driver. Ben was an older black man with gray hair and freckles, I thought it was cool to see an adult with freckles like mine. Every morning he would great me by saying, “How’s it hanging big man?” And I would respond “To the left as usual Ben.” He got a kick out of that and gave me a high five before I took my seat behind his. “You’re too smart for your own

good kid. Too smart.” I’d smile proudly for partaking in our penis banter and take my seat behind his.

The school bus was a virulent place with various social land mines I wasn’t always adept at navigating safely. There were rules on the bus and if you were smart you’d learn them quickly. Don’t sit with the girls ever, this automatically makes you a fag. Don’t cross your legs or you’re a fag. Don’t do homework on the bus or you’re a nerd and a fag. On one occasion my regular spot behind Ben was taken by Mini Cheng the Chinese girl who ate sea weed squares and didn’t speak much English. I found a free spot in the back of the bus and began reading the latest Goosebumps by R.L. Stein, it was the cool kind with the glittery cover that allows you to choose your own journey: turn to page 20 if you want Sarah to investigate the strange noise, or continue reading if you want Sarah to hide. I always chose to investigate, I was much more adventurous in books. In books I was the General charging the front lines into battle, in books I was the sorcerer with the power to end worlds with one thought. In real life I was Sam, little Sammy, teacher’s pet, the kid that likes to read, the kid who’s mom bought him a disposable camera to take pictures, the quiet kid, the brain.

“Whatcha reading there little Sammy? The Babysitters Club!” Jimmy Hernandez laughed, grabbing my book from my hands. Everyone knew The Babysitters Club books were girl books, being caught reading one of them meant you were a fag. Jimmy Hernandez was the tallest kid in third grade and loved the word Fag. Our parents were friends and we used to have sleepovers. Jimmy was competitive with everything, if I had the newest Power Ranger action figure he made sure the next day he had the Ultimate Legendary Megazord action figure with multiple Zord builder options. We both had a substantial collection of Pogs. Pogs were these little cardboard disks with cools graphics printed on them - we were obsessed. My preference was toward the ones with magical images on them like unicorns and willow trees, Jimmy liked the ones with race cars and monsters. We decided to count them one day to see who had more. I counted one hundred and fifty six, Jimmy had a hundred and twenty two. “Who cares, you have the faggy ones anyway.” He said making my win irrelevant.

I cried and told his mom he had called my pogs faggy and he got his taken away from him. “Only a fag tattles Sammy, I’ll get you back for this.” After that Jimmy made my life hell whenever he could.

“Give it back Jimmy!” I said standing up now to grab it from him. He dangled it over my head laughing.

“You should know better than to sit on my end of the bus Fag.” His friends were laughing at me and the other kids were watching waiting for something exciting to happen. I climbed on the seat to grab it from him and he tossed it to one of his buddies.

“You’re so fuckin’ teeny Sammy.” He said pushing me into the seat. “You’re just a little shrimpy fag and I bet you got a little shrimp dick too!” He laughed real hard at that one. “Ha! I think I just found your new nickname Shrimp Dick!” He laughed.

“Shrimp dick! Shrimp dick!” He yelled over and over, the other kids on the bus started chanting it too. “Shrimp Dick! Shrimp Dick!” I could feel my face burning red and the tears building in my eyes. Even Joey Nievez was chanting with his toothless goofy grin. The same Joey Nievez that would play “pee wars” with me during bathroom breaks at school. We would stand as far away from the urinal as possible and see who can still hit the porcelain. The rule was to never look down at each other’s dicks and aim; I was the reigning champion at pee wars.

I didn’t want to cry but I was so angry the tears were involuntary. I stood up with my fists clenched. My father would have told me to hit him. He would say “Sammy if anyone fucks with you I want you to punch them right in the face. Don’t ever let anyone pick on you. If I hear you didn’t defend yourself I’m gonna woop your ass, you hear me?”

My father was not gentle and held no virtue in childhood innocence. He was a giant man at six feet four inches with a seventies mustache and calloused hands from years of work as a plumber. He was always trying to “toughen me up”. Stop skipping Sam, don’t stand with your legs crossed, don’t talk with your hands so much. I remember him and my mother getting into a heated argument after she bought me the Lisa Frank notebooks I had been eyeing, the ones with orcas floating in outer-space and the unicorns with rainbow manes. “You’re making him soft Janice!”

One summer he signed me up for little league because he wanted me to “be more active”. I wanted to read The Phantom Tollbooth and learn to paint (I was obsessed with becoming a “starving artist” as a profession one day.) He took away my paints after I refused to play because I didn’t want to get my uniform dirty.

That same summer when we were visiting grandma in Puerto Rico, we climbed to the top of a small cliff where all the local kids were jumping off and into the ocean. It was a long way down and the water was a deep dark blue below us. Dad was already annoyed at me because I spit out the oyster he bought me on the beach. My younger brother had loved it and asked for another one. But I thought it felt like a giant wad of phlegm and couldn’t swallow it. I held it in my mouth until I got nauseous and spit it on the boardwalk. Somehow it was an indicator of a future where I didn’t eat pussy or something and it really bothered him.

Some of the kids diving were even younger than me and would make a running start and cannon ball right off into the dark water, tiny fish shadows scattering out of their way. My father took off his shirt and dove right in without hesitation. I remember watching his muscled tan body as it sailed through the air and into the sea bellow us. Jump Sammy! Jump! He called to me. But I was scared. I wasn’t a great swimmer and it was a long way down. Jump! Come on Sammy, trust me you’ll be fine!

He kept yelling. Trust me Sammy, just jump! I tried to tell him that I didn’t want to, that I was afraid I wouldn’t jump far enough and my body would splatter against the rocks below, but I just stood there frozen looking over the edge. God damn it Sammy, jump off the fucking cliff and get down here! He was mad now, I was embarrassing him. The other kids were staring now and I was white hot with fear both of jumping to my doom and of disappointing my father again. I looked down one more time, closed my eyes and went for it. I remember hitting the water, dad grabbing me quickly as I bobbed to the surface. Don’t ever be afraid of anything or anyone Sammy, ever! You hear me, not ever! He yelled waving his finger at my face, he pulled me close to him hugging me tight while we treaded water.

“Shrimp dick! Shrimp dick!” They kept chanting. I wiped my eyes before the tears rolled down and looked Jimmy right in the eye and said, “If your dick is so big then prove it! Let’s see whose is bigger. Whip it out Jimmy!” I could see his shock as he looked around to his friends for backup. Everyone just watched waiting to see what would go down.

“Ah he’s just being a fag and wants to see my dick.”

“Oh you’re scared huh, scared that mine is bigger? Scared that you’re the one with the

shrimp dick!” I was shaking in fear silently hoping he would back down out of nervousness.

“Ok Shrimp dick! Once we’re off the bus I’ll show you, but you have to show me yours too.” His face was red in embarrassment or anger I couldn’t tell. I was silently cursing myself in fear of having to show Jimmy and all the other kids my dick.

And then I started to panic. What if I did have a shrimp dick? I had never seen a dick besides my little brothers and my dad’s. To me my dad’s dick seemed huge! It made me uncomfortable when he changed in front of me. I wanted to keep looking. I wanted to touch it and feel how heavy it was in my hand. But I knew dad would just freak out and slap me if tried. His had the skin around the tip just like mine, unlike my brothers which was cut off. I loved that mine was like his. I remember him showing me to pull it back when I peed. When we showered together he showed me how to clean it. I got hard once. It was the last time he showered with me.

We got off the bus and all the kids gathered around Jimmy and I for the “show”. Our moms were all talking and collecting their kids. Then Jimmy announced that this was a personal fight and told everyone to go away. They all groaned with disappointment and walked to their mothers. I was relieved. He was giving up! I didn’t risk teasing him about it fearing he might come to his senses and make me go through with it too. Instead he grabbed me by the shoulder and dragged me to the corner toward two telephone poles.

“You stand on the other side.” He was now facing me with the two poles on either side of us shielding the scene from the other kids who were gawking from a hundred feet away.

“On the count of three we both pull down our shorts and underwear too ok.”

He looked as nervous as I was. My palms were sweating and I was getting warm. My heart was racing and I suddenly had to pee.

“Ready? One, two...three!” I shut my eyes tight and pulled the front of my shorts down. I felt the air on my dick cold and freeing. When I opened my eyes Jimmy was staring at my dick with this big-shit eating grin, his eyes wide. I looked down at his crotch and his cargo shorts were still on covering his boyhood. Jimmy started laughing and I quickly pulled my shorts back up.

“Fag!” He yelled pointing and laughing. The other kids were laughing too.

“Shrimp Dick!” I felt the blood rush to my face, my mind went blank and I thought I was going to faint or throw up. I don’t remember lunging at him. I didn’t feel it when my fist made contact with his jaw or what his face looked like as he hit the ground. I couldn’t hear the other kids yelling Fight! Fight! or Jimmy screaming for his mother.

My mind was full of rage I never knew I had. When I came to, my mom was holding me and I was crying looking up at her in the red derby hat saying I’m sorry over and over. I glanced down at Jimmy curled on the floor and I remember thinking he looked very shrimp-like in that moment.

I stayed in my room the rest of the evening. My mother wasn’t angry with me but she was pissed at Jimmy’s mother, she was yelling at her on the phone in Spanish. I didn’t know Spanish yet but I did know if mom was too furious for English words, just stand back. When my father got home she told him what had happened. He called me into the dining room, my hands were shaking as I stood in front of him. “Sam I hear you beat the shit out of that Hernandez kid. That true?” I nodded. “Good, that little shit needed an ass-kicking. Come on let’s go get pizza.” “Can I have jalapeños?” “Yeah you can have jalapeños.”

ESKIMO

DAD LIKE AN ONION POEM by MISTER RI & PHOTO by Najva Sol He keeps it hidden skin under skin under skin and if i could cut through i know he’d leave me weepin’ tough is a compliment here where he’s from we don’t say it without merit scars and sad eyes to prove it he tells it like a punch line and we were starving and he beat me till i bled and they told me i was trash and i know i’m supposed to laugh but he leaves me weepin’.

“RECOVERY”

“REENACTMENT”

“DENIAL”

“TRAUMA”

DICTATOR DADDY:

A MUTANT MASSACRE, A FAMILY PORTRAIT PAINTINGS by DIEGO GÓMEZ

THE DAD WHO DID IT: MY FATHER ON RAISING A RADICAL

INTERVIEW by Caitlin Donohue & Photo by Marco de la Vega Despite the toll it takes on wallet, peace of mind, social calendar, uterus, people continue to raise children. Example: my parents, who somehow managed to send me to college, enforce daily milk consumption (hi, I have never had a cavity), and counteract societyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s message that being a little girl entails shutting your mouth and acting right. I owe the both of them my moxie. To celebrate the paternal end of this equation, I interviewed my dad Peter Donohue about what it takes to raise a feminist in a world where that is a weird thing to do.

Caitlin Donohue: How did you decide to have kids?

Peter Donohue: Decide? When Barbara said she wanted to have a baby, I said ok. I never thought about kids, only avoiding unwanted pregnancies.

Once we began trying, you were conceived quickly, I think, on a work trip to Chicago (best guess) and North Carolina. After that, things happened fast: amniocentesis, Lamaze, baby shower, pop!

CD: What was your goal for me when I was little?

PD: When the amnio showed you were a girl, I was relieved! Afraid I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to raise a boy, I figured your mom knew about girls. My only goal was that we give you a safe space to discover, learn, fail, succeed, recover and ask for what you want or need.

CD: How did you empower me growing up?

PD: I had seen girls feeling physically competent and confident go to becoming inept and fearful at unkind words or a raised eyebrow.

Even when you were little, we played hard just for its pleasure. You learned the difference between being hurt and injured, never quit and bounced back quickly from losses and disappointments.

After a basketball game, parents from the other school told me how much they enjoyed watching you play with such delight.

CD: Tell me about a time you had to combat societal expectations to raise me right?

(Like, a time when you had to counteract a message I was receiving in school or elsewhere.)

PD: At age seven, you were confused/annoyed with my dad who, rather than talking with you, babbled nonsense words at you like you were a baby. I explained grandpa was unaccustomed to, even uncomfortable, talking with children, especially little girls.

Nonetheless I reassured you to keep trying to talk sensibly with him or let it go.

CD: What was the hardest part about having a daughter?

PD: My first answer was emergency surgery removing front teeth you cracked falling off a bench as looking at Xmas lights. Bouncing back up, you smiled all the way to and through the hospital. We cried at other things stuff we couldn’t prevent. But what was hardest was letting you make your own decisions in situations new to you. In eighth grade, an otter-costumed staffer pestered you through the Seattle aquarium. I didn’t do anything, letting you handle it and you did, shouting and shoving her away. Then In Manhattan the first time, you took multiple subways and buses to Brighton with Norman’s same-aged daughter for HER first time (not knowing sixth grade you and pals had ridden Muni alone.)

CD: ... And what was the most fun?

PD: Lectured by Rose Festival ladies not to call for ending the war on terrorism? [Author’s note: He’s referring to my brief, yet memorable pageant career in which I answered an impromptu onstage question by expressing my hope that the war in Iraq would end. I was 17.] Educating your granddad about lasagna? Irish lessons in a bar’s upstairs room for a second grader? Lullabying baby you to sleep with ‘Sophisticated Lady’? There are too many more to say any one was the MOST fun. But if it had to be one, it’d be ‘Sophisticated Lady’ for, as Blake wrote:

Never was there a child so beautiful that her mother couldn’t stand her being asleep.

WHO’S YOUR DADDY? SUBMIT.

DIEGO@DIEGODIEGODIEGO.COM