Fall 2020 Issue: Glamour by Gauge Magazine

Gauge magazine

FALL 2020 ISSUE: GLAMOUR

Letters from the Editors

Ode to Aging by Alannys Milano

7 How

to Keep Your Sex Life Glamorous in Isolation

by Jordyn Vasquez 8

Awaiting on All by Samson Malmoli

How Trying to be “Pretty” Led Me to get Several Shots in My Head…literally by Melanie Shepard

My Scars are Evident in the Fluorescent Lighting of the Dermatologist’s Office by Liz Lavender

How Living in the City Makes Me Feel Like a Bad Bitch by Lauren Rego

How to be Sexy by Mackenzie Denofio

27 The

Glamour Of Loungewear

by Clarah Grossman 29

Untitled Glamour Piece by Alexis Schultz

Urban Magic by Kyle Eber

39 You

Should: Love Yourself

by Clarah Grossman 41

Etymology by Molly Goodrich

Table of contents

Head Staff Writer Alannys Milano

Staff Writers Jordyn Vasquez Clarah Grossman Lauren Rego Liz Lavender Melanie Shepard Alexis Shultz

Staff Photographers Ayo Oladeji Nadezhda Ryan Logan Steenbergen Gabriel Sampedro Ian Hamilton Ricki Kalayci

Emmanuel Ibirongbe

Design Team

Julia Brukx John Corredor Francisco Guglielmino

Fiction Editor Mackenzie Denofio

Managing Editor Jordyn Vasquez

Editors-in-Chief Ayo Oladeji Brandi Hewitt

Fiction Readers Ray Geoghegan Audrey Iocca Kasey Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Connell Jillian Schwarz

Poetry Editor Lydia Albonesi

Poetry Readers Lauren Licona Olivienne Redding Karissa Schaefer Hadera McKay

Head Copyeditor Kyle Eber

Copyeditors Alyssa Caraher Rachel Stern Katherine Powers Kelsey Allen Sam Hwang Brianna Jackman

Marketing Team Lindsay Bertram Calvin Kertzman

Staff list

LetterS from the EditorS Glamour. I’ve rejected the word, despised it, spat it

A few years ago, I heard Cory Booker (U.S. Senator from

out, disgusted. I believed it was something reserved

New Jersey and a past role model) talk on a podcast about

for a select few. To me, it encompassed the greed of

intermittent fasting as a way to lose weight and maintain a

the rich. Grotesque overconsumption. Conventional

healthy diet. So I downloaded the app he was praising and

beauty standards. Material wealth. The word was as

started my new lifestyle of not eating, and I can assure you this diet works. During my first semester at college, I went

seemed so far from my reach. How could I, working

down four pants sizes. Damn, did I feel glamorous, and

overtime at the movie theater at 16 just to afford a

people were noticing. Boys from my high school who never

prom dress, ever truly feel glamorous?

looked my way were attacking my DMs, I was a lot more successful on dating apps, and pretty people finally started

The beautiful stories in this issue paint a different

to see me and not my fat. My ego fuck did it blow up.

picture of glamour. There are stories of falling in love,

When I got home for winter break, though, the first thing

exploring yourself, and learning self-worth. Stories of

my mom said to me was, “You lost so much weight, are

growing and growing old. Wonderful things. Eating

you okay?” Spoiler Alert: I was not: My lips were always

a slice of cheesecake, buying a dollar store wedding

chapped, my eyes sunken in, I was irritable all of the time, I

dress...anything can be glamorous as long as it makes

got sick frequently, I would spend 12+ hours in bed because I didn’t have the energy even to sit up fully. But I was sexy.

feel pretty damn good.

TLDR screw the rich

TLDR I gave myself an eating disorder to be hot

-brandi

-ayo

Ode to

alannys milano

photos by ian hamilton & ayo oladeji models

Aging

vanecia niamoko & luca ferraro

his summer, I found my very first white hair. Well, I didn’t find it. My boyfriend did. “Look, you have a white hair!” he said.“Impossible” was my answer. I have so many colors in my hair that the possibilities of it being a white hair to me were very very low. But upon his insistence, I yanked on it just to prove him wrong, he clearly can’t differentiate between a white hair and a dyed hair, or so I thought. It was true. It was a very long, thick, white hair. I was speechless. I know that using a lot of dye and hair color can accelerate the process of grey hairs. Yet... I couldn’t help but realize that I am aging--and I’m just in my twenties. Talking about age is not something that I’m comfortable with since I know I’m probably older than most of the student body here at Emerson College and the friends I’ve made. Yet, I also hate talking about it because there’s this internal clock of things you must accomplish by a certain age and a biological one that is constantly reminded by friends, family, and generally the media: fertility and beauty. The majority of my cousins are now around that age, which means that they should, according to society, start a family soon. Coming from a very matriarchal and conservative Latin family, having children and getting married is a must, and it’s especially expected if you are a woman. I still think about that April 27, 2017, when my oldest female cousin turned 30. She was crying in the corner of her house, and I accidentally passed her while going to the bathroom. She was also clearly very drunk, but upon looking at her, I couldn’t help, of course, but asked her what was wrong. She said, “I’m 30.” The other day I talked to her, and it’s quite funny since, from that very night, she actually made a complete change to her life: she separated from her husband, moved away from her house, and decided not to have children of her own--for now. But even with all the significant changes she made, she’s still haunted by something else we women want and try to escape from: aging. I used to desire to grow up when I was a child. I always wanted to do everything that, as a nine-year-old, I couldn’t: wearing makeup, using tight dresses, doing what I wanted with my hair and all the responsibilities that come with being a grown-up. I remember how I used to contemplate my mom’s and grandma’s night routines. They would each wash their faces with warm water, pat them dry, and then put on their favorite face hydrating cream. It was fascinating to watch them. Every time I asked if I could join, my mom would reply, “Cuando seas grande.” Today, I want to turn back time. I don’t want to age. I don’t mind not wearing makeup, not dressing up, not nothing. It’s just so funny how life works. Now, I do understand why they do their night routines every single day: wrinkles wrinkles wrinkles. If I was shocked by the white I found, don’t even let me get started when I discovered the wrinkles under my eyes. I’m now haunted by my grandma’s words, “Cuidate la cara, y siempre échate tu crema.”

My problem is that sometimes I forget to do my night routines. Yes, I tried to wash my face with my cleanser before going to bed and then putting on Pond’s cream and eye cream. But many times, it slips my mind. My grandma, on the other hand, that woman never forgot her nightly routines even when she started to forget about us. I remembered her so elegantly sitting in front of her vanity, her legs crossed, wearing her favorite dark red kimono, her white hair on a bun, and she was clearly looking herself over the mirror, gently rubbing the cream on her face. A black and white picture of her young self was just right on top of the oak desk. I watched her and couldn’t help but think about all those years she has spent doing just that to stay beautiful, to fight aging, to feel glamorous. “Would that be me?”

My cousin is now 33, she has a couple of wrinkles on her eyes from smiling and laughing too hard, she dyes her hair all the time to hide the couple of white hairs that she has, and now she is always buying products that will help in maintaining that young and beautiful skin that we are told to take care since we hit our teenage years. “I hate turning 30,” she said to me over a video call. “All my friends were already pregnant or recently had a child. Mom and dad were nagging me and joking about it. I started growing more white hairs. I just couldn’t handle it.” She said about that turning point in her life. “I knew that I wasn’t young anymore. That my ex-husband wanted to start trying, but what about how I felt?” She’s not the only woman in her thirties that feels society’s pressure of having a baby and also maintaining a beautiful young ideal. She visits the salon at least once every two weeks to retouch her hair areas where white hairs are now growing constantly. “I can live with these shortages of everything, but I can’t live without dye to cover my hair.” When she said that, I was very surprised because she lives in Venezuela, where a currently massive challenging economic crisis is happening and affecting the entire population. I emigrated because of it. And still, I get what she meant because living under such stressful circumstances, all you want is just a tad of normalcy and feel good about yourself. “White hair makes me feel old and invisible. There was a time that I couldn’t find any dye of my color because of the crisis.” Indeed, she is now wearing a very light blond, which is unusual for her and mostly for my aunt, who usually goes for a much bold red. My aunt is in her fifties, she is the youngest of eight children, and she’s always been of a very young soul. But now, more than ever, she can’t hide her age. bold red hair paired up with her rococo style. She definitely could pass for 40 and less. But when I saw her today, it was as if years had just quickly caught up to her. “I look like grandma,” she said, laughing over the phone. She is not the only one I had heard saying that. My mom is always repeating how she looks more and more like grandma because she is aging. She always tells me how she can notice the way people are treating her differently, asking her if she needs help, being nicer, smiling; they called her “señora.” But mostly, she tells me how invisible she is feeling compared to how it was before. That on many occasions, she feels ignored, especially by men employees who much rather prefer to help a much younger woman instead.

“Time goes away so fast, and when you least think about it, BAM!”

She still always does her night cream routines. Always complaining about how her cheeks had fallen, how she hates her neck now, the wrinkles on her mouth and eyes. I always try to cheer her up, and at the same time, I can’t help but laugh just a little bit because of some of the stuff she says, “Todo se cae.” Indeed, everything eventually falls: your butt, your boobs, your cheeks, your hair. It’s quite stressful, especially when holding up beauty and an ideal so high just to realize that it won’t last forever. “Tu papa en cambio no le ha salido ni una cana,” she would bring this up so many times how my dad doesn’t look a day over 30. In fact, it was recently that he started to grow a tad of white hair. He doesn’t have as many wrinkles. There’s a very distinctive aging difference between both my parents. My mom, although being younger, looks way much older. My dad always laughs when I tell him that I’ve more wrinkles than he does. “Mi vida, todavia estas joven,” he says. He thinks I’m joking when I tell him the pressure of being a woman and taking care of your body to stay young and “beautiful.” He doesn’t know the lengths women go to achieve that! Even surgery! I’m not going to say men don’t care about aging, because even if they might not show it as much, in order to maintain their “masculinity,” they care too--in a way or so I believe. My cousin turned 29 last September, and he told me he felt saddened by the idea that he’s just a year away from 30. He said he misses being younger, staying up late drinking with his buddies, laughing, and not having a care at all. Now, he has a full-time job, lives with his two-year partner, and conversations about getting married and starting a family are on the table. However, I didn’t hear any complaints about wrinkles, or white hairs, or how he has to take more now of his appearance to look younger, beautiful, and glamorous. Nothing at all! Even when I talked about this with my boyfriend, he said he doesn’t think at all about aging in the same way I do. “I’m not worried about being old or becoming bald,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t even think about it.” I wish I could not think about it at all. But time goes away so fast, and when you least think about it, BAM! You are in your thirties, almost hitting forties, worrying about the economy, the planet, your family, holding a full-time job while fitting in the gym, the diets, and the multiple skin care routines to keep looking and feeling young, beautiful, and glamorous.

Will it ever stop? 6

While the outside world is busy trying to pick and choose your rights, I think it’s a good time to be reminded of the one we most often forget— pleasure. Pleasure is a human right. Perhaps the most important one now that we’ve been left to our own devices. Just because coronavirus is transmittable through most forms of that doesn’t mean our sex lives have to be boring or nonexistent. Understanding how to control your own pleasure is one of the few things isolation can actually be good for. And since the safest sex we can haveat any timeis with ourselves, now is the perfect time to tune into self pleasure and explore exactly what our bodies want. Because what’s more glamorous than becoming your own kinky and compassionate lover? Alright, I’ll cut the Cosmo crap. We all know how easy it is to say those things, but when it comes to the actual practice, clinical sexologist Dr. Lindsey Doe, masturbation habits are too complex to be tracked according to age, gender, or really any kind of broad assessment. “There are so many variables to consider,” Dr. Doe says in a YouTube rant on the topic that she posted in September. “What was your upbringing like? What kind of time and privacy did you have? Is masturbation reinforcing itself or are you doing something that doesn’t feel good so why would you try it again?” These variables are endless and many of them rest on a strong foundation of guilt, shame, and anxiety. by jordyn Since much of our own sexuality is formed during childhood, it makes sense that the shame we internalized back then would carry over into our sex lives as adults. But as we grow older, we learn that the best way to combat that shame is through knowledge. Sex-positive publications, like the Sex Plus Zine or Circlet Press, publish everything from wellresearched articles to straight up autumnal cottagecore erotica. (Seriously, check out Circlet Press’s 2019 and 2020 Halloween

you’re doing, you’re probably not having as much fun as you could be. Desire grows in the gap between what you have and what

you can’t intensely desire what you already have. The adventure of growing up gives each individual’s sexuality a unique shape sticky. And who can blame it for getting stuck to such controversial things? Inevitably, everyone learns to associate particular kinds of obstacles with a heightened sense of eroticism. A good place to start when broadening your masturbatory horizons is with different types of porn. For those of us who are sick of the heteronormativity reinforced by visual porn, there are plenty of other mediums to test out, like audio porn. Audio porn combines a recording of one’s voice with various sound effects and a script to create an erotic experience that is, at times, frighteningly realistic. Some creators on Reddit like /u/tombanter or /u/ProfessorCal_ go as far as to craft wholly interconnected on YouTube stick to a more ASMR style of ecrotic recording, many of which aren’t even explicitly sexual. This kind of format allows the listener to explore kinks and fantasies that may otherwise seem too extreme through a lowrisk medium. As great as audio porn is, it can sometimes feel overstimulating, which is a great time to turn to written erotica. Many creators make sure to credit the author of the script, if there is one, and when available most tend to link the Vasquez document alongside the audio,. which is great for those of us who appreciate a content warning. Regardless, scripts and other forms of erotica are entirely enjoyable on their own. Sites like Literotica, Tumblr, Wattpad, and Reddit offer an

How to Keep Your Sex Life Glamorous in Isolation

channel, Sexplanations, where she posts vlogs on almost anything pertaining to sexual health. Nowadays most sex-positive individals frequency across any gender. As long as your habits aren’t negatively interfering with the other aspects of your life, you’re golden. Masturbation , like all forms of self-care, should be about intention. Now that we are continuously battling against that shame and guilt, it’s time to play. But before we start, just an overall note on masturbation: if you’re not embarrassed by what

traditional publishers like Circlet Press and their corresponding blog. The best thing about porn that doesn’t rely on visuals is its ability to enhance even the most incredible fantasies. When the only limitations are sounds and words, the possibilities are endlessly glamorous. After all, glamour resides at the intersection of horror and beauty, and wherever there is glamour, the erotic is not too far behind. So whether you want to be fucked by the hypnotizing snake from The Jungle Book or experimented on by a team of hot aliens, embrace whatever controversial topics your libido sticks to. And don’t dwell on the why; just focus on how it makes you feel. The patriarchy loves to depict unjust concepts of power, and nothing is hotter than using those concepts how the patriarchy hates the most: consensually and for our own pleasure.

AWAITING ON ALL AWAITING ON ALL AWAITING ON ALL AWAITING ON ALL AWAITING ON ALL AWAITING ON ALL

All I want is excitement Constant excitement I want a cigarette to drape across the road And drag myself up to being magical I want cake and cars And L E G S!

In a pill bottle or empty tin can I want a real success And a cab ride With a shaved-headed driver Me in dyed colors

I want to mhm and yes! all night long Talking to Disney girls Me in sweet clothes and lush voices A little footstompin Lemme loose!

I wanna be thin as a pepper Slicked back cane whipping Knocking on my walls

I wanna be high on the speed of life And funky guitar jams And paid porcupines fucking up my spine

On a trip walking down the boulevard On a park on the moon On a trip Down the city! On a wide land of naked LED lights

by samson malmoli

I am a-waiting on my all!

HOW TRYING TO BE “PRETTY’’ LED ME TO GET SEVERAL SHOTS IN MY HEAD... literally.

Writing by Melanie Shepard Photos by Nadezhda Ryan

It’s the way I’m so serious for me. You see, my hair was always a pain. Curling it morning. I’m speaking to my fellow black queens nodding their heads saying, “YUP I FEEL YOU SIS!” This was probably a regular routine for about a little over ten years. Until my hair started falling out like a bad fucking dream. It wasn’t a big deal though, right? Just go bald, my big head would be blocking the sun, forehead all out, and then magically my black hair would grow a centimeter a day right? Just pray that a bird doesn’t land on my head and think that it’s a nesting spot, correct? That’s not how it fucking works, and, yes, it was a huge deal because my hair and I had what I would call a sisterly relationship. My hair and I would have a good understanding of how she was feeling every night when I curled her. So here’s me thinking be laid, and it’s giving me young Laura Winslow from Family Matters.” Then here’s reality saying, no bitch, we’re gonna give you a harder time and make you look like Coconut Head from Ned’s

right in between her legs, and she would get snatching to my scalp. It seriously felt someone was just holding me up by my hair, and my eye sockets would roll back. I would turn around

She would stare at me blank faced like she was seeing a Donald Trump press conference, “You’ll be okay. Now turn around and stop complaining.” I didn’t take a liking to this dismissiveness of my scalp. But I threw those feelings away once I had the sides of my head. I was feeling myself though, even though the baby hairs during this moment were nonexistent and my dome of a forehead was just not doing me any type of justice because it brought attention to my horrible eyebrows. least my face was cute (until middle school, the school is not even funny because I was forreal busted looking), so I guess I can give you some credit there Dad. You’re welcome. But as we all know, everything going great in my life comes crashing down...probably because I’m a gemini, but we’re not gonna get into that. (I’m a gemini, gemini rising, and a scorpio moon in case you’re The “crashing down” aspect is my identity. I’d always struggled with opening myself up, telling my family I loved them, knowing my family, and just loving myself. Ever since I was eighteen months old, I never knew what it was like to be raised by a mother. It felt like I was a walking puzzle with missing pieces trying to get through life. Honestly, it was a very odd feeling, and it still is. It just feels like I’m almost incomplete but yet I’m okay with it…? Being raised by a single father was and still is very interesting, yet I had my second mother, my grandmother, to step in and be my “mother” for eighteen years. During those eighteen years, although my scalp was being dragged to the North Pole, she taught me a lot

“Like is that what the sunken place feels like?”

too much now! I just noticed that it seemed to apparently be a part of the culture of Hispanics

about my hair. My natural hair, my afro. For all of my childhood, my grandmother and I had gone to a family friend’s hair salon. Every weekend we would both do the same routine: wash and

The workers brushed it aside like it was normal,

done every week and having it blow dried and natural hair at all. I think this is because seeing had become accustomed to thinking that seeing most people have hair like that, I had to have my hair like that. I had to look like that in order to feel my prettiest self and appreciate myself.

Latina, my hair honestly confused me. When I was younger my hair used to be oddly straight and long, but when I got older, my hair got curlier and grew wider. Sorry if that description sounds like a transformer, but that’s really how it was. I remember asking my hairdressers, who I trusted, why in the hell my scalp was burning and they would be like, “Oh it’s okay. Take the weather in New York City that has every part of me sweating, including my ass. But I silenced my inner feelings about it, because I wanted to be pretty. Clearly this is not what I was raised with in terms of my grandmother spreading her Black culture knowledge by doing my hair. Like is that what the sunken place feels like? You’re just go through something, and you can’t do shit about it. They normalized the pain that entailed just straightening your hair. I remember looking around the shop seeing several young girls, as young as toddlers, getting their hair blow dried Sharknado movie, just give it a rest! You’re doing

pretty consisted of dealing with the heat and pain on their scalps to get their hair as straight as possible. I remember asking the hairdresser, Daisy, “Is it supposed to feel like my scalp is burning?” She had a smile on her face as she replied and said, “Yes, it’s supposed to be hot,” like I was dumb or something. Well shit, and I

I sit here writing this, it sickens me how young girls are taught to “suck it up” to be perceived as pretty. We aren’t fucking vaccums. Pretty shouldn’t involve pain, this isn’t surgery. We’re into the society that people think is “normal.” Well, what is normal? What is pretty? This one to me: “appearing or sounding pleasant or nice but lacking strength, force, manliness, purpose, or intensity.” Now ma’am...or sir….or whichever being pretty not entail being strong? Why does it not entail force, purpose, or intensity? Don’t even get me started on the manliness part because I a level up from being pretty. Like seriously who wrote this because I just want to have a talk with the FBI or law enforcement, pretend you never read this piece, and you have no idea what I’m talking about). dried, it just felt like every strand of hair that was getting straighter was my true identity leaving myself. Fast forward to me sitting in a chair of a hospital, screaming at the doctor not to shoot me in the head. Yes, I know you’re probably frowning saying, “How exactly did we get here?” or “What’s going on, I’m so confused.” (Read this next part really quickly in your head, you’ll see why.) So basically what had happened was, good sis Becky—I mean Daisy—ended up burning my scalp that was severely damaged by hair follicles, causing my hair to not only stop growing, but fall out at a very fast pace. I looked like the fucking top part of a cactus thanks to good sis. I ended up going to a dermatologist because I had begun to

have bald patches on my head that made me look like I was a chewed up rag doll that a dog just went to town on. What I tell y’all, it was rough, cause I looked rough. I basically had to get injections of shit—I honestly don’t remember what it was called—into my scalp to help my hair follicles open up

you read it fast.) The reason why I’m bringing this up is because this is the other people’s perceptions of what being pretty means. This is a warning to y’all women that the stereotypes and Hispanic, and I quite frankly could give two shits about people’s opinions (except for my family’s but mostly my dad’s cause one look of disapproval, and I might as well

Honestly, I wouldn’t want to go back and change what happened. I don’t have regrets. Like, yes, it hurt my scalp so bad, but it was a learning experience. I learned to love my Michael Jackson Fro. Over time, my hair started to slowly grow and next thing you know a couple of years later my hair was this giant poof that I never knew existed all the way down in my scalp. I watched Youtube videos, bought hair a Bad Bitch right now. I put my hair in space buns, bantu knots, and so many other styles that I didn’t even think of I wouldn’t go back and change what happened because I’ve inspired my friends and family to also fall in love with their natural hair.

Because you’re only living life for yourself not to impress others. Because it’s upsetting me and my homegirls that this is what women have been dealing with their entire lives. Trying to prove to people that they are worth it. That they matter. That being comfortable in myself doesn’t equal me being a self absorbed asshole. It means I love me, no questions asked. Maybe you should try it. Oh, and fuck Trump.

It means I love me, no questions asked.

My Scars are Evident in the Fluorescent by Liz Lavender

Look at yourself in the mirror My nimble fingers Run over the Scars On my temple. My skin is Porcelain, But those two Indents Are a reminder of when I used to look in the mirror, Tear-soaked Cheeks Covered in Red Marks, not an ounce of clear skin. My freckles dissolved into acne As my knees buckled underneath me, And I Prayed For beauty, A Social Construct. The lighting in the Dermatologistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Office Is fluorescent, And I can feel all the passersby Shooting lasers into the Uncontrolled Hormonal Imbalance On my cheeks. The esthetician prods into my skin. The extraction tools Are used to squeeze my blackheads. She is an architect,

Digging under my skin Until I bleed out on the table. This is the price I pay for beauty, A Social Construct. At 15 years old I leaned against the kitchen counter Swallowing Birth Control, My Last Resort. My cheeks became clear As I gained 20 pounds, Used too much chapstick, Missed several periods, Felt depressed. The trade off for beauty, A Social Construct. My topical ointment Comes in the mail every month. I get excited about the package, Wrapped in saturated teal tissue paper With a handwritten note attached,

by Gabriel Sampedro

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by Gabriel Sampedro

How Living in the City Makes Me Feel Like a Bad Bitch

Writing by Lauren Rego Modeling by Demiah Crawford I can hear my power walk pound on the concrete pathway as I make my way across the Boston Common. My gait is measured, down the steps of the Park Street T station, cross the green line platforms, and occupy my usual spot at the third bench waiting for the red line to Alewife. When the train screeches to a stop, I board the center car and take a deep breath that I am slightly embarrassed the sigh of a working city girl.

the underground, autumn sun like hot honey painting my face in golden light. I start my solitary strut through Jamaica Plain towards the apartment I now call home. I am alive in these moments where I am on my own, grown, mentally planning what I may do in this city come weekend. There is a freedom acknowledgment of my individual power over who I am, how I spend my time, and what opportunities I am able to take advantage of this day, this week, or this year.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s another day, but on the orange line this time. I exit the automatic doors and hear them click closed behind me. I emerge from

“A lot of this had to do with my rediscovered sense of independence and motivation, but also by the vivacity of my surroundings” There is color against the cold slate background. Neon blue hair and brightly patterned pants and skin covered in unique ink etchings. Glints from piercings and sequins catching the sunlight that in through the mouth of the alleyway. Bodies shoot in and out and through buildings and sidestreets, adding their own colors, shapes, and sizes into the mosaic urban landscape surrounding me. It takes me in. It nurtures me. It tells me that after years of insecurity, years of suburban suppression, years of cookiecutter standards for “nice young lady,” I can do whatever I need in order to make me feel myself.

kooL ,rorrim eht ni lrig taht ta reh htiw Him into your room, let His eyes trail gib reh dna riah delsuot your body. .seye eod ly. rorrim eht ni hctaW r all the curves and the divots, sbarg eH sa forward a little so He gets a good look ,ylthgit ydob taht otno our boobs, setib eH sa not enough that you look like you have a double chin. ,spil yciuj esoht otno His warm hands run over you htiw yltcefrep dereyaL e removes .ssolg pil yrrehc underwear, hctaW is fingers track skcus eH sa your perfect stomach your perfect ass.

e it is. look hot. your lips. Slowly. lly slow. gine Him seeing you just like this. lone in your room in your underwear. look hot. look sexy.

k in the mirror at your body. tice. n your mouth, just so. ’t let your teeth show, open enough that you can let out a gasp your back slightly forward, your head back, ad your legs just the tiniest bit.

k at yourself in the mirror k over your smooth ved hips and the small dimples that rest e bottom of your back. nk of how His hands will bury selves in those curves His lips are going to kiss nd down your stomach.

Look at yourself in the mirror .toh kool uoY Look over your smooth .tcefrep kool uoY curved hips and the small dimples that rest .dloc leef uoY at the bottom of your back. Think of how His hands will bury eH sa gnitaews si daeherof siH themselves in those curves .uoy otni sdnuop how His lips are going to kiss .spil ruoy nepO .kcab ruoy hcrA up and down your stomach. .kcen ruoy nethgiartS ruoy ni kcus ot erus ekaM Look in the mirror at your body. shtaerb Practice. .doog skool hcamots ruoy os Open your mouth, just so. .rorrim a ni flesruoy enigamI Don’t let your teeth show, open .gniliec eht no eno enigamI just enough that you can let out a gasp psaG .erom sgel ruoy daerpS Arch your back slightly forward, .tuo Lean your head back, .toh s’taht ,hO Spread your legs just the tiniest bit. .pil ruoy etiB Oh, .yxes s’taTh there it is. You look hot. kooL Lick your lips. Slowly. htiw ,rorrim eht ni lrig taht ta Really slow. reh Imagine Him seeing you just like this. eod gib reh dna riah delsuot All alone in your room in your underwear. .seye You look hot. rorrim eht ni hctaW You look sexy. sbarg eH sa ,ylthgit ydob taht otno Let Him into your room, let His eyes trail setib eH sa over your body. ,spil yciuj esoht otno Slowly. yrrehc htiw yltcefrep dereyaL Over all the curves and the divots, .ssolg pil Lean forward a little so He gets a good look hctaW at your boobs, skcus eH sa but not enough that you look like you have a double chin. ,kcen reh no Let His warm hands run over you no kool lliw esoht woh enigami as He removes .worromot ti your underwear, ruoy pu nur llirht llams a leeF as His fingers track over your perfect stomach and your perfect ass.

How to be Sexy

.toh kool uoY .tcefrep kool uoY .dloc leef uoY

gnitaews si daeherof siH .uoy otni sdnuop eH sa nepO .kcab ruoy hcrA .spil ruoy .kcen ruoy nethgiartS ni kcus ot erus ekaM shtaerb ruoy skool hcamots ruoy os .doog a ni flesruoy enigamI no eno enigamI .rorrim .gniliec eht .erom sgel ruoy daerpS .tuo psaG .toh s’taht ,hO .pil ruoy etiB .yxes s’taTh

by Mackenzie Denofio

Look at yourself in the mirror Look over your smooth curved hips and the small dimples that rest at the bottom of your back. Think of how His hands will bury themselves in those curves how His lips are going to kiss up and down your stomach. Look in the mirror at your body. Practice. Open your mouth, just so. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let your teeth show, open just enough that you can let out a gasp Arch your back slightly forward, Lean your head back, Spread your legs just the tiniest bit. Oh, there it is. You look hot. Lick your lips. Slowly. Really slow. Imagine Him seeing you just like this. All alone in your room in your underwear. You look hot. You look sexy. Let Him into your room, let His eyes trail over your body. Slowly. Over all the curves and the divots, Lean forward a little so He gets a good look at your boobs, but not enough that you look like you have a double chin. Let His warm hands run over you as He removes your underwear, as His fingers track over your perfect stomach and your perfect ass.

You look hot. You look perfect. You feel cold. His forehead is sweating as He pounds into you. Arch your back. Open your lips. Straighten your neck. Make sure to suck in your breaths so your stomach looks good. Imagine yourself in a mirror. Imagine one on the ceiling. Spread your legs more. Gasp out. Oh, that’s hot. Bite your lip. That’s sexy. Look at that girl in the mirror, with her tousled hair and her big doe eyes. Watch in the mirror as He grabs onto that body tightly, as He bites onto those juicy lips, Layered perfectly with cherry lip gloss. Watch as He sucks on her neck, imagine how those will look on it tomorrow. Feel a small thrill run up your back. Imagine what it must be like to run your hands over this body. To clutch onto its sides as you rail into it. Imagine

Imagine shoving your face into the coconut smelling hair and licking down the sides of the vanilla-scented stomach. Now that’s really hot. Feel as He falls back on you, His breathing ragged. Allow yourself to gasp a little, see if He notices. Close your eyes as He kisses your cheek with a smile. Feel empty. Listen as He falls asleep. Hear his lungs fill with air, As His stomach rumbles. As His breath catches, halfway on a cough. Listen to this home His body has built with its creaks and imperfections. With hips that don’t curve and a stomach that jiggles. Get closer to Him. Listen in closely. Listen to how peaceful He seems. With the double chin straddling His neck, and the lips that are softly pink from kissing. Feel a sickness crawl around your belly. Feel an aching deep down in your chest. Lie awake. Feel lonelier than before.

and licking down the sides of the vanilla-scented stomach. Now that’s really hot. Feel as He falls back on you, His breathing ragged. Allow yourself to gasp a little, see if He notices. Close your eyes as He kisses your cheek with a smile. Feel empty. Listen as He falls asleep. Hear his lungs fill with air, As His stomach rumbles. As His breath catches, halfway on a cough. Listen to this home His body has built with its creaks and imperfections. With hips that don’t curve and a stomach that jiggles. Get closer to Him. Listen in closely. Listen to how peaceful He seems. With the double chin straddling His neck, and the lips that are softly pink from kissing. Feel a sickness crawl around your belly. Feel an aching deep down in your chest. Lie awake. Feel lonelier than before.

Stop right there! What are you wearing? Give me a twirl! What do you mean they’re only pajamas? Haven’t you heard, pajamas are all we wear now! But wait, are they pajamas or are those comfort clothes? Everyone knows what pajamas are, we wear them to bed every night; comfort clothes are the loungewear we used to casually wear, but have turned into a style of its own-and it’s absolutely fabulous. With comfort clothes, people are able to walk around and be comfortable all presentable. It’s perfect for Zoom! spring, loungewear has become all the rage since we no longer have to dress up to go places. With no place to go, there’s no need to buy real clothes anymore when comfort clothes have taken Taylor, Brooks Brothers, J. Crew, Neiman Marcus, etc. have declared bankruptcy due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Not high-end, but these companies are all business and

lockdown. Not only do these stores typically sell cheaper clothing, but they are also big in comfort clothes before the pandemic-- they were accessible, comortable clothing. When COVID-19 rolled through, last a majority of the year, we all just thought it would be a two-week vacation of sorts. Daily routines were thrown out the window and people were stuck in one place with the same people for endless, timeless days. There was no longer a need to perform or to put yourself together, at least not completely. Everyone in the world was in the same boat and we were all feeling the same way, of course we sought comfort in things like our clothing choice. People are always wishing for the weekend to last a little longer and that they could put off being a real person. The need to be comfortable though doesn’t diminish the desire

or restaurants open, the demand for these clothes has dropped. However, and work, but through Zoom, it gave seen an increase in business since

simple top and sweats is all you need to be comfortable all day while ready be with your boss or old friends. Now, eight months later, we

the same people, doing the same work over Zoom, but at least now you’re aware of it and you take comfort in the simplicity of it. It isn’t how you’d usually think of a glamorous life but think of it and think of comfort clothes. Sure, it is great wearing loungewear every day, but every once in a while, people get the urge to dress up and look good. Whether it being trying on your old prom or wedding dress, or giving each other makeovers that no one else will see. It is about feeling good, and comfort clothes dressed up without trying. Simple things, elephant pants and tank tops, skirts and dresses, leggings and a t-shirt, there are clothes and so many of them can make you feel glamorous during this pandemic. It isn’t about how the clothes look but about how you feel in them. When everyday is the same,

clothing! Either way, you’re going to be comfortable; it’s up to you to make it into something presentable and new.

mood so be careful to not fall down a hole. Comfort clothes are easy to get confused with pajamas, and if a moods can quickly change. In a global pandemic with everyone’s life being very stagnant, the mental health of the world is declining. One into a spiral. It is important to stay in tune with yourself and focus on how you are feeling. “I been wearin’ my big ol’ silver hoops/ I been walkin’ ‘round the house in ‘em, babe/ I been chillin’ on belts in the opening lines of her song,

my personal outlook on every day and reignited a spark within. It is the simplicity and comfort of loungewear that make it so glamorous, and it is the way you accent and wear the loungewear that makes you feel like a new person. With nowhere to go and no need to dress up, it is important to for success. It can be something small like earrings or a necklace, socks or a hair scarf, or it can be a dress instead of sweatpants one day, wear whatever you feel comfortable and best in to survive this pandemic. by Nadezhda Ryan

Up, up, up, the bubbles travel as the silky

water caresses her submerged body. Immersed, she releases a full breath, imagining the spheres of air as pillars of smoke—exhalations from a long draw of a cigarette. The pressure builds tightly in her chest until it compounds. Breaching and blinding the surface, the droplets on her skin catch the light Gripping the sides of the ceramic basin, she rises from the water to don her robe. As she walks to the vanity, it’s hidden desires sirening her, the edge of her attire rolls under her foot; yet, she does not stumble. Too poised, too graceful, she does not allow for slip-ups—not even in the comfort of her own home. She rolls her shoulders into place as she does with her curls, every pin an unspoken promise is wordlessly cleaned by the time she arrives home, she instead focuses upon her fair image. Applying the powder is comforting, a protection between her and the crowd. The help frequently asks if she’d like assistance with this process, but the offer is always declined; for it is in private that the true performance takes place. Switching on the dented record machine to her own melodic voice, she rings the bell for assistance. On cue, two women sweep in with her red satin dress, and she smiles invitingly. Mesmerized, they sway to her, delicately removing the robe with shaky hands. Assisting her with the lacing of her undergarments, they glide her into the vibrant red as she sings along to her tune on record—a generous gift they accept graciously. Sighing into their goddess, they fasten the last hook and slip on her pearls, declaring her ready for the evening.

Slipping into the black limousine, the scent paper in the vehicle, she silently remarks that she must have been early, calling upon the driver before he got a chance to collect today’s print. Too bad, she enjoyed consuming their inaudible applause. She keeps to herself even without this ritual to entertain her, and a soft smile dances across her lips with every glance the driver devours in the rearview. Once stopped, he is all too eager to offer his hand in assistance, which she allows in order

to ground her in the sea of the press. Without too much of a sweat, she effortlessly poses, knowing how her angles and heavy gazes will appear in paper tomorrow: familiar, yet untouchable.

In the building she remains this way, patiently awaiting for the stage to be set up, and the opening acts to tide over the hungry crowd until the main course is prepared. She taps her heel against the

called upon, she gives herself one last overview, straightening her pearls to perfection. Doe-eyed, she lets them direct her home. Stepping onto the stage, she embraces the microphone like a lover, and whispers into it soft words of endearment as they reach for her in their foolish ways. Ah, as if she is not above them in her divinity. Entranced, they sway, loving and doting. Roses and scribbledon napkins are tossed to her as offerings for her sanctity.

Like always, when the show is over they

chant and plead for another taste, a few more precious moments to revel in their deepest fantasies; yet, she cannot indulge. Onto the next, she smirks and retreats down off the stage. This dawns the real fun. Her heart beats heavily for the delightful and Escorted, she makes way to the elevator, and asks her companion for a cigarette. He promptly obliges, digging in his pocket for a lighter. Before he has the chance to light it, she stops him, and he is sent away when the doors chime open. The woman-in-waiting drapes a white fur stole over her shoulders, walking her through the bronze doorway. The crowd stares, suddenly alert. Even so, she knows how to turn her chin up and over, how to look through the glass panels at the dark and cloudless sky. She knows lean into the view’s embrace. She knows when to pull away, when to look down as if chiding herself for being too caught in the moment. She knows when to move to the bar, and when to catch the eyes of her lucky prey. His clouded grey eyes meet hers as he takes a long drag of his cigar, the quirk of his lips daring her to come consume his exhale. She hugs the fur closer to her shoulders. Placed in

front of her is a bubbling glass of champagne; from the gentleman—says the bartender. So, it’s time. Glass in hand, she presses the cigarette between her red lips, rising from the velvet barstool to close the space. As if relenting a secret, she dips her head down to touch the tip against the red glow of his smoke. The shock is always clear in their face, for she ignites much more than a simple drug.

She walks out with his arm draped around victory. Allowing him to escort her, they fall into the private taxi like intoxicated dominoes—leaden with lust. She permits him a few stolen kisses, laughing when his lips turn a few shades darker red than his cheeks. Soon enough the taxi comes to a halt. the backseat and into the cool air of the night. Her shoes click against the stone pathway leading up to his expansive house, and, after unlocking the door, he sweeps her into his arms and kicks it shut behind him with his heel. Carried swiftly to the bedroom, she’s set gently in satin sheets that smell of cognac and cinnamon.

Breathless,

she asks where she can get a drink. He directs her to the kitchen, and after pouring her a glass of water, excuses himself to the bathroom. Taking a sip, she notices the newspaper sprawled on his granite countertop. Curious if it’s today’s paper that she missed, glass in hand, she Shards shatter into countless pieces as it makes contact with the ground, and somewhere faintly in the distance he asks what the hell happened,but she’s already on the move. Scrambling back in the bedroom to grab her things, she pushes past him, ignoring his weak attempts of consoling her. She rushes outside, and yells for a taxi. Throwing dollar bills into the front seat, through clenched teeth she spits her address. The car lurches forwards, and the tires screech, going as fast as her mind. Wringing her hands, she takes short, shallow breaths in an attempt to calm herself, but gives up when she senses that she’s stopped. Spilling out of the car, she rushes to the front door, and the help greets her with smiles that slip when they realize her state.

Gasping, they ask about her evening, but their

only answer is the string of pearls she grabs from her neck and throws to the ground. They bounce in her wake as she heads to her room, slamming and locking the door behind her. She rips her red dress off with shaky hands, and sways to the source bothering to fumble with the switch, she kicks it repeatedly until the sound of her own voice is cut off. She catches her pathetic image in the mirror, and ignores the trails of her tears that destroyed any semblance left of the protections she attempted to make between her and the crowd. Instead, she focuses on the empty glass, and goes for the stock to pour a few as usual, she downs it straight from the bottle. She stumbles on her way to the vanity, it’s desires no longer hidden, apparently. Ripping the bottles off their shelves—uncapping them as quickly as she can—she tips them back, chasing the pills with the last mouthfuls of wine. She plugs the tub before turning on the heads of the faucets. Gripping the sides, she sinks into the ceramic basin can see is the newspaper that held the explicit photo of her, coupled with the words of undoing: “Glamour Is A Guise.” Submerged beneath the surface, she

Untitled Glamour P i e c e by Alexis Shultz

URBAN MAGIC

by kyle eber

photos by logan steenbergen & gabriel sampedro model isabella cubba

on nothing but the repeated cup of Starbucks richness that he yearns to hold in his own blind to the evidence of love and lives beyond human tendencies--never looking at some-

locked in place as the scent of sweet-burning

and unfreeable minds from understanding that

walks past their shared living space to the small

a barn?â&#x20AC;? you have yet to bring us all home to meet your

shoulder to view her handiwork with her current

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Like people ever truly learned from their mistakes. Vampires, maybe. Witches were getting there. And humans needed to pick up another history book.â&#x20AC;? 33

had a love for humanity as she was born into yet the tourists get swindled out of cash by Elmos

rubbing his thumb into her beautiful dark skin loves baking the iron city in the sun most during

down of the shit that happened since you let me I keep using the family credit card to buy more Dalton presses a kiss to her head as he

And Humans needed to pick up another history front of xem as the other two catch up to xir presa sort of alien-esque look that people gathered concoction of masculinity and femininity but

once described to Dalton and Moira of how xe Why should I settle for one thing and one thing tle their qualms but humanity is too dimwitted to understand how everything instead anyone is Moira knows that Constello knew absothere is no explanation of how xe take each of

“Wait is it an Invitation or Save the Date?”

back down on her stool before striding over to celebration of his baptism on the twenty-third knows its getting the cream before the bowl is “Like paying the data bill because some tube videos on the subway?”

It only causes concern as it is less of in-

a declaration of love that Dalton has seen shift through time between illegal and legal--humans

spaces not belonging to him without an invitasmiling at them in sickening domesticity before piros were an acquaintance yet all she had done was have the common courtesy of returning would suffer through xir iron allergy if it meant

it at a cafe and Moira went through the effort of

MAGIC MAGIC MAGIC

URBAN URBAN URBAN 36

returning it and having to deal with the woman

of an iron clad prison they shoved themselves

as does just that almost every week she gets a and Constello are concerned enough to remove -

would cry if humans ever began to care too much Moira says â&#x20AC;&#x153;I hate technoloshe whispers the incantaâ&#x20AC;&#x153;Says the boy who can grant them the strength sort of thing happens all

learn to love the world as

â&#x20AC;&#x153;As if we were even thinking about go-

maybe for once they fol-

leaving behind a maroon

ing a way of life in the fear of prosecution that Dalton only take enough torture for

der the streets and theatres the magic community is exhausting to spend

imentation with spells would one day lead to a needed something that would give them the con-

â&#x20AC;&#x153;But her smile and her love, he knows he can any other century. He would make this last for as short as it would be, and perhaps, try to see things the way humans did.â&#x20AC;? 38

SHOULD YOU

z i u q

you should you should you should you should

by Clarah Grossman

YOU SHOULD

wear no makeup every once in a while. It may not be ideal, but it could be fun. Instead of walking up to the mirror and spending an hour preparing for the day, just look at yourself. Look at your reflection and see who you are. Who do you see? It’s okay not to recognize them, sometimes it can be a while between glances, but take a moment to really see your reflection. There are a plethora of freckles that you cover up, and a little scar above your lip from an accident with your siblings. Underneath your eyes, the skin is wrinkled and fresh from sleep.

antonio weathers YOU SHOULD

let your hair breathe. Put down that product, and see what happens when your hair is left to its own devices for a day. Unplug the me. straightener, curler, crimper, whichever you prefer to use; today isn’t I, present versions of me. Likeyour hair into shape. Let it hang free and loose over the day for burning a Rubik’s Cube, Become What if this month you don’t dye your hair? The your shoulders. patented tohighlights let you twist, to let for once? Would you know yourself based on stay hidden you see theyour version of hair? me that natural When was the last time you saw it as it’s meant to be? is complete.

You begin to remove stickers the glue no longer holds buoyancy, parts of me starts to crumble, become disorganized, become an incomplete. Me, unable to orient pile on the jewels untilmyself. you sparkle and shine. Who cares if it matches? Wear a ring on every

you should YOU SHOULD

single finger. Rings of all sizes, with gems and patterns, with intricate designs and thick bands. left me on the counter, WearYou hoops, among hoops, among hoops in your ears, and any other piercing. Coat your neck Exhausted from being unable in necklaces of various lengths and material: from beads to silver to string or leather. From your wrists to your elbows, bracelets climb up your arms. Woven and bent, tied and twisted, charms of different meanings and inlaid jewels that twinkle amongst the bands. Don’t like jewels? No “Why do I feel neednothing?” to glimmer, strip every bead, strain, metal, gem from your body until you are left with only yourself, and the glowing beauty of the naked skin.

LOVE YOURSELF? etymology

you should you should you should you should you should by Molly

YOU SHOULD

wear what makes you feel like your best self. Whether that be a tuxedo, a ball gown, or sweatpants three sizes too big. Put on a t-shirt or blouse and focus on how the fabric feels against your skin. What do these clothes mean to you? What about them brings you comfort? The physical material or do clothes ever remind you of things like people or places? Whichever it may be, focus on that and put those comfortable clothes on. It’s been a hard year and long day, you deserve to relax and feel safe. Snuggled up and wrapped tight in whatever makes you feel best.

YOU SHOULD

love yourself as you are and accept yourself as you are. Everything about you is unique to you and that makes it so special and amazing. Sometimes the world gets you down and that’s okay, but never doubt yourself. You are who you are, and that person is more wonderful and beautiful than you can see at the moment but one day you’ll agree with me. The days of covering your freckles and damaging your hair will be behind you and you won’t need jewels or clothes to make you feel better. You should love yourself, trust me, it only opens doors and makes you happier.

etymology

by: molly Goodrich Photos: ian hamilton & Ayo oladeji

SLOTH

Glamour:

an attractive or exciting quality that makes certain people or things seem appealing.

The New Fascination

antonio weathers “The rush at the beginning.” The first

me. I, present versions of me. Like a Rubik’s Cube, Become patented to let you twist, to let you see the version of me that is complete. You begin to remove stickers the glue no longer holds buoyancy, parts of me starts to crumble, become disorganized, become an incomplete. Me, unable to orient myself.

steps in your new apartment. Meeting someone new and realizing you’re both from the same home town. Sparks flying at first sight. Laughter in a new place. The early stages of a relationship where you always want to be around each other. The honeymoon phase. How this can manifest itself in friendships, too. Soaking up someone’s energy. My best friend from college who I met by chance. I don’t believe in a lot of things, but I believe in fate.

Enchanted To Meet You You left me on the counter,

“I’m wonderstruck”: friend of mine tells me about how she fell in love with her Exhausted fromA being unable high school boyfriend. How it seemed as though everything in her life had led up to that moment. It didn’t last forever, but maybe it wasn’t supposed to. They were “Why do I feel brightnothing?” and memorable and it made you understand love songs for the first time, even though now you might listen and shake your head.

A Pull “There aren’t enough words in the English language.” Running towards home. Magnetism you can’t quite describe. That person from your hometown you can’t seem to get away from, even years and years later. Missed opportunity with the guy you smiled at when he walked down the street. You’re my person. Puppy love. When I went to Europe for the first time, every night I thought I was dreaming and would wake up the next morning in my childhood bedroom. (I did, eventually. But not because it was a dream). Seeing the South of France. Walking in Cannes. Driving down a road I will probably never go down again. Screaming in the car with people who I had just met, but felt like I had known forever.

All of the Lights “All that glitters is gold.” My first time at a movie showing. Thinking of Old Hollywood. Becoming starstruck. That one celebrity crush from your childhood that you obsessed over for years. Maybe still do, sometimes. I saw a famous comedian in the park last fall and barely remember what I said to him. The only reason I remember it happening is the photographic evidence. I think it was the most I had ever smiled, the nervous energy surrounding me.

Gauge Magazine is produced twice a year by undergraduates at Emerson College. Copyright of all materials may be reproduced without permission. G38 was set in Adobe Caslon Pro, Alba Matter, Arial Black, Bellerose, Cairo, Calibri, Helvetica Neue, Lao MN, Minion Pro, Myanmmar Text, PincoyaBlack,, PT Sans, Rockwell, Times New Roman

Front and back covers: Photographer: Ian Hamilton and Ayo Oladeji Models: Vanecia Niamoko and Luca Ferraro Special thanks to Gauge Advisor Jerald Walker. Want to know us better? Follow us on Twitter @ MagazineGauge, Instagram at Gauge_Magazine, visit issuu.com/knowgaugebetter, or GaugeMag.com.