untitled by Yolanda Mare

Yolanda Mare is an artist.

ZOO CHANGE

ZOO CHANGE

It was, I knew, bordering on psychotic- folding the letter yet again and re-inserting it into its creamy envelope. OCD. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This repeat activity, the reading and the re-reading had emptied the coffee pot. It would be a rare thing indeed to live a rich life without a bomb never having been dropped randomly through your post-box. This explosion had been anticipated, long awaited. Here it was, albeit somewhat overdue. Hot. A new brew of liquor strength emotion whose smell alone seduced the naughty past from slumber.
I watched the awful pleasure of it wake utterly regardless of my flat’s harsh light and gleaming surfaces. The blue film would have to be re-run before suitable arrangements could be made. A small phone call. A place to meet. Starbucks I thought- safe, neutral, other women with offspring in breeder’s buggies, machines hissing, mobile songs.
I was ten back then, one of absolutely identical twins besides the gender. My wanton sister never minded my almost hairless disproportionate dick. A thing that made me significantly sick. A tool she loved to fool around with, loved to lick and loved to stick inside her beautiful secret. We habitually did it ‘till the torrid afternoon we were first and last discovered. Lou’s chin was covered in my cum. I was finger fucking her from behind when the bedroom door was violently flung open and the air was blown apart with my name shouted louder than I’d ever heard it before ‘Zoo!’
They re-homed us separately. I never saw her after that- except in mirrors as I daily shaved or regularly dealt with whiteheads.
I tried homosexuality but it always hurt- apparently I have a gristly sphincter peculiarly resistant to stretching. Men quite happily sat on my large prick but I always felt some sense of ennui and the notion that something crucial was missing. A cock in my mouth was neither north or south to me. I stuck with it for years because on some subliminal level I recognised my growing addiction to the various flavours of body warm gissum. I actually had a boyfriend who memorialised my member in the best latex. Imagine that in my various effects post mortem. He inevitably went. I never could keep any of them. Well, in truth, I missed her. I missed my stolen sister. None of the gay interlopers knew there was a competitor, a very heavy hitter, hiding in my closets.

Eventually I tired of it. It. I’d known for years. The source of all my inner sorrow lay between my legs. A psychiatrist concurred- for the sake of my sanity it had to go. You know the process- lengthy and stuffed with drugs and self obsession, pre-op, depilation, boob-job, plastic-surgery, then the final coup-de-grace. In recovery I laughed- told the surgeon to feed it to his dog.
Funny. I suddenly had a painfully re-formed fanny I had to prod with a prosthetic to prevent it from closing, healing over. I had a button clitoris created from the meat of my bell-end. I remember when I was mended I saw myself in a full length mirror and it was not me who I saw but her- a perfect, kindly, sympathetic caricature of her. Lou, Zoo, two peas in the pod.
It didn’t strike me as being at all odd. In fact I felt awesome, transcendentally complete. Because we are identical twins we have the same size hands. Brilliant. Because we are identical twins we have the same size feet. Fucking fantastic.

Now, after all this time, she wants to meet me. Fuck a cunt. She doesn’t know. What if she wants a cunt fucking? I’ll take along the latex me, the virginal best of latex strapadictomes. Tubes of tingle linger lube. The transgender diaries. Photographs. Book a hotel room. Cream trouser suit. Nothing flash. Black hair slicked back. Minimal slap. Rather demure. Vintage Jean Muir.
She was there before me. Par for the course.
I should not have been astonished. Lou was in a cream trouser suit. Black hair slicked back. We mirrored each other as we kissed. Cheek. Cheek. No tongues.
You never fall in love so fast as when you fall in love with the perfect representation of yourself. Shit. This was it. I was ten again, pumping her pussy with my long lost cock. She was shouting don’t stop Zoo, Zoo don’t ever stop. I was delirious with pre-pubescent exposure to endorphins. Screwings. Doings.
Lou collected the low fat latte caramel grandes. I was plotting the route to the queen-sized bed, imagining my bendy model disappearing deep into her velvet secret purse- curse or no curse. Of course we had a lot to talk about, years to catch up with. It could fucking wait. It is so post coital, pillow whispers between incestuous sisters.
I had not felt such holistic quickening excitement for two decades.
Lou took my shaking hands quite firmly, almost disturbingly firmly. She told me then, straight out, cold, clinical- she’d followed my whole journey, was fascinated, incredibly well-informed, hideously researched as if it really mattered, which of course it did. Cunt.
Her journey is very different, opposite, travelling in fact totally the other way. She’d been in close contact with my former boyfriend, learned about the perfect latex artefact. She asked me for a loan of it to take to her brilliantly creative surgeon in Holland. He’s a wizard with inner thigh tissue. Her thinking was, if she was going to have one at all, she might as well have one like mine.
Of course I let her have it. I always had given her things. We were always close. She/he was my very close sister. It’s not been returned. No loss.
Where is he now? How? Why? Shit! I have absolutely no idea.
Like most long-term post-operative transgender creatures I am constantly battling phenomenal suicidal inclinations, looking in mirrors, popping pills, getting drunk, turning tricks and waiting for the belligerently straight postman to bring me a letter that will change my life like a nail bomb would a mother’s meeting in Starbucks.

Zoo Blessed.

Chris Madoch © 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST PUBLISHED BY PARAPHILIA ONLINE MAGAZINE


CHRIS MADOCH...

Has a book due out in New York in Spring 2011- a collection of his most contentious poetry entitled ‘RUMOURS FROM THE BALCONY’ He is regularly published online by Tante Mieux and Paraphilia and is Editorial Director at Un Hauteur Bizarre. Elsewhere on the internet he is known as ‘THE QUEER MESSIAH’ and he has a large fanbase on Facebook at his page ‘CHRIS MADOCH ART’. Chris is in the 26th year of his relationship with the considerable fine artist Dan-Paul Flores. Prior to that he was married for 13 years and has 3 daughters and 9 grandchildren. He used to teach but now writes as much as possible between sharing a small business and managing an estate. He took his degree from Southampton University UK via Winchester College- majoring in Education and Theatre Arts.

Untitled Transmission from South Korea

as we light a cigarrette coated in korean toothpaste i ask my korean PLP (platonic life partner) do you have anything to say to the meth lab

"I like the snap, crackle and pop"

and then she says "thank you Motorcycle Diaries for inspiring me to be a complete commie asshole once again, one more year of smoking toothpaste and traveling and I'll be a cool motherfucker."

Yup. That's what we do in South Korea to get high. I don't know if it really works. Why have we resorted to smoking toothpaste you ask? Earlier this week, a friend and I were sitting there discussing the danger and expense of obtaining weed here.....

He asks me "Do you have Korean or American toothpaste?" Fortunately I have some Korean toothpaste because the American kind won't work. I wasn't sure if I felt anything except the bottle of wine and the half pitcher of Hite. Maybe mix it with a little of the national beverage, Soju and you can achieve some crazy results. According to various online sources Soju can double as an industrial strength window cleaner and drinking three bottles is akin to a powerful hallucinogenic. One person said something like "you might not feel the first bottle but after the second two you might wake up on the sidewalk in a pile of blood and vomit, missing three teeth, people walking over you as if you are a pile of newspapers."

pantifesto teaches english in south korea. she obviously smokes toothpaste and dreams of weed.

Bark Like a Dog and Bite a Random Woman in the Ass

Miami Beach 2006

News of the attacks spread quickly

A man, Caucasian, 25-35, 5-8 to 5-10
running up behind random females in public places
pulling up their dresses or skirts
and biting them in the buttocks

Sometimes he’d bite hard enough to draw blood
but usually he’d just leave teeth marks
and a very upset woman

It took a while for the police to get seriously involved
because when these incidents first started being reported
responding officers and 911 operators would think it was a joke

(One leathery skinned cop
laughed off a woman’s biting claim and hung the phone up on her
so the lady showed up to the police station
stormed over to his desk
dropped her pants
and angrily took out her ass to show the teeth markings
[a plastic molding of the bite mark was later taken from her right buttcheek
in order to potentially identify the suspect via dental records])

Though the vast majority of these cases went unreported

Several women were too shocked by the incidents to speak up
as it isn’t easy talking to somebody
about how a random guy ran up behind you and chomped you in the ass

After receiving nearly a hundred such reports, however,
in only two months’ time
the police realized they had a serious problem on their hands
because a man running around
biting women in the buttocks
just isn’t good for tourism
or the city’s overall image

And once the media got a hold of the story
and amateur cell phone video of an attack surfaced on YouTube
the cops got serious about putting a stop to the menace
now colloquially called around town
“The Butt Biting Bandit”

Now, because the assailant would bark like a dog,
or make other animal-like sounds
before, during, and after these incidents
and would even run away on all fours
the police realized they were dealing
with an especially unstable and dangerous individual
so they set up an elaborate sting operation
involving the SWAT team to take him down

On a swelteringly hot and humid Friday evening
under a reddish sky,
illuminated by Saharan dust and a handful of stars,
an undercover female agent, attractive, mid 20s
clad in a tight, but not so tight it’d be difficult to lift,
hot pink one piece miniskirt
was planted in the area
that had the highest frequency of ass biting incidents

Several sets of cops in jogging suits
waited across the street in unmarked cars
with infrared binoculars
sipping 7-11 coffee
listening to sports radio
as they staked out the scene

And the SWAT team idled in a nearby house
watching “So You Think You Can Dance”
on an old clunky cathode ray tube TV with rabbit ears

The car cops, who all had comb-overs,
nearly identical scruffy moustaches,
and who all wore aviator sunglasses, even at night,
ate bear claws and ring dings
their sticky fingers hoisting up binocularized eyes
that paid special attention to the undercover female agent’s ass
as she stood by a mailbox, chattering on a cell phone,
occasionally bending over (purposely)
to fidget with her silver Gucci stiletto heel shoes

Sure enough
the butt biter appeared
dressed in black jeans,
black Miami Hurricanes t-shirt, and grey skull cap

He crept up slowly behind the undercover agent
tip toeing like the Grinch
then plunged to his knees
made a shrieking, turkey-type bird sound
clutched the hems of the agent’s skirt with his hands
and assumed a vampire contortion with his mouth

When suddenly
a hooded policeman perched up in a large palm tree nearby
threw a net down over the suspect
trapping him
as if he were a rabid animal

The female agent twirled around
pulled out a semi-automatic handgun from her purse

And with that
waves of crumb-faced cops in jogging suits
poured out of parked cars all over the street
and the SWAT team swarmed out of the nearby house
with laser-lit AK-47s aimed at the suspect

The suspect continued to make wailing, high-pitched bird sounds
and clawed, writhed, and flailed wild kicks at his captive netting

The first officers to arrive
beat him senseless with batons to subdue him
then they peeled the net off
handcuffed and shackled him
and flung him,
as he still made bird sounds,
though they were only whimpering bird sounds at this point,
headfirst into a paddy wagon

Later that night
the police searched the suspect’s apartment,
a studio flat atop a laundromat,
in Little Havana

Every inch of the grimy little place was plastered
with pictures of women’s butts
in various states of undress

Everywhere there were butts
on all the walls
all over the bathroom, refrigerator, stove, kitchen table,
on the toaster, even on the toilet
(and the toilet lid was duct taped shut,
and there was a kitty litter box next to it,
which apparently he’d been using)

And he had butt-shaped pillows crowning the soiled mattress in the corner
and covering the remainder of the mattress
was a tattered old beige sleeping bag
that had stitchings of butts all over it
which he’d probably knitted himself
as the cops discovered a sewing kit in his bathroom
by the basin of his mildew-ridden, bright purplish colored bathtub
that was filled with rubber duckies
with crudely rendered pentagrams painted all over them

The suspect’s butt-covered, loudly humming
and mechanically vibrating refrigerator
was packed with cans of dog food,
enema bags containing cheap vodka,
and 2 liter bottles of Diet Sprite

On the top shelf of the fridge
they found a butt-shaped birthday cake
with a tiny red toy tricycle made of shiny plastic
wedged front wheel first into the cake’s ass crease

And when one of the forensic guys
pulled the cake out of the refrigerator
he noticed
that one of the toy tricycle’s little back wheels was missing

Mausoleum Love

Part 1

Baby …how I can ever recover
From that day
Not very long ago
You squinted and drooled at me in that tawdry fashion with obvious lewd intention
Among that polyester set retinue
Hell, I knew … from across that grey linoleum floored room
That it wasn’t just the smell of
Fresh formaldehyde residue
Wafting in our eyes
It was like
We were the only two persons there with body heat in that joint
And maybe we were…
It seemed that steam started melting our corrected vision lenses to our respective uni- brows
And suddenly it couldn’t have been hotter in that viewing room if I had worn nothing else but lime Jell-O shot pasties and sat under my cast iron steam broiler gazing at erupting lava lamps hump
My secretion glands went into overdrive as you sidled up all raging bull
Nose and ear hair steaming
Bulging those plaid pants in swollen testicle deliciousness
Those giant glistening pink jowls wobbling like perfectly round cheeks on a newborn baby face all tit sucked out and sleepy
Resist!…hardly…I went all mad mad cow…brain holes and all
Oh baby, you were so already in like Flynn…come on big boy and milk me
You grabbed my sweaty hands
To dance
How unexpectedly romantic at a funeral but, I could hardly move
These veined legs weak like overcooked macaroni plus… a terrible urge to pee right there
You’ll never know what you do to a girl
My labia lips started singing really high kinda like a girly Italian counter-tenor about cigar factory workers in Toledo with the clap dancing the Bossa Nova or something
Then you whispered…
Your place or mine?

Part 2

Oh baby,
You don’t have to ask twice and don’t ever apologize
That ride on that urine soaked city bus was excruciatingly sexy
Every bump and jostle heightening what was on our minds
I hardly remember arriving
I Wiggling out of my widow weeds and girdle like a mad woman to take a seat and get ready to take in every second of you stripping-teasing
Seductively folding that corduroy suit into origami…baby, I like a man that’s tidy…and so so creative …and it was just plain amazing when you quickly knit that tweedy vest out of your own pubic hair
Then, in a blinding flash…there you were…all of you…. in the air…yet, so close to the floor
Your fine fine tool like a shiny white plastic immersion blender complete with attachments at the ready to whirl and, turn my insides into a deep vat of eggy mayonnaise
Oh, it was so on…you had me at puree
Like whirling dervishes we started to slam all over your ill-lit man cave
I your willing sex slave
In a blink you had me pinned up-side-down with fishing tackle on that strange extensive antler collection staring down from those creepy wallpapered walls
Then I gnawed myself down and grappled you into a clean one armed Admiral Nelson
You only chortled and nibbled my big toe clean off
Then I smiled coyly and fisted out some of your hair plugs to make myself a little hand tuft
You mustered on top and screamed out passages from Dante’s Inferno while strapping on spurs
I switched it up and rode you like a spitting ill tempered llama through the Andes as I got busy stuffing your mouth with used handi-wipes
You tried to rip my throat out with a router
I got out your fingernails with my pocket grouter
God! I love a man with power tools
You took me from behind, on top, the side, through broken teeth and then hanging from out past the window seat
I could only hear gurgling moans of pleasure as I fed you broken glass extracted from my diced up sinews of my mangled feet
Baby, we were like a Ferris wheel hurling out of control at a state fair
And, our juices were flowing like sick sick vomit from buttered corn on the cob eating slobs watching the prize winning pigs go at it
Then…. you warned me of an impending eruption and yelled
This is going to be a ten on the richer scale
And baby it was
I don’t need a seismograph to tell you
That the Earth moved that night
And although, I did notice you actually had a seismograph in the closet you were checking… honey, why were you hiding those heavy chains anyway?
Your landlady only confirmed our magnificent passion when she pounded on the door to see if there had been another cat brawl and warn you not to have pets tied up down in the basement here again to torture!

Part 3


After that was settled… I could hardly move
My loins were limp like overused Sham-wows…ah, afterglow!
But morning had to come
And you said adieu…or actually get out and tenderly gave me change for my dollar bill so I could catch a bus
Oh baby…is this love?
Or just a one nighter
I don’t think you have a phone
I think that’s what you said
And since I don’t usually take the bus
And I kinda forgot were you live
So I’ll just wait by the funeral home
And remember how you made me groan
And hope somebody you know dies
Real soon



Sate is the daughter of a Lutheran minister… And you know what they say about them.

Homegirl vs. the Shadow

Homegirl woke up early; Punkboy was snoring snoring next to her and she just didn’t have the patience to keep laying next to him pretending to be sleeping until his tatted fingers started moving all over her, looking for her clit, looking to see if she was wet. Punkboy almost always woke up hard; Homegirl usually liked that about him. She usually went along with the pretend that he was the initiator, the hunter, the predator, that he was the one looking for sex, looking to see if she was ready or, better yet, if he could make her ready.

This morning, tho, she was feeling out of sorts and rolled quietly off her side of the bed. Punkboy snored still and she padded barefoot to her pile of clothing on the floor. Of course, they’d fucked again after coming home from the dive bar. When together she and Punkboy were like two virgin teenagers set loose in a Texas cathouse. Or some other weird simile about sex and virgins and teenagers and Texan whores, but that’s the best I can come up with right now.

Homegirl had to work that night, but Punkboy had off. Maybe that was contributing to her offness. She didn’t know. She put on her miniskirt and her kneehigh boots and her bra and her shirt and couldn’t find her panties, but didn’t care. Punkboy’d take care of them; he’d probably clean and hand them back to her all folded nicely the next time they worked together. Surreptitiously, of course, so no one would know.

She didn’t know if he just pretended to her that none of the boys knew or if he hadn’t told them. She hadn’t told the girls yet cos the last time she’d told one of the café bitches about having something with one of their co-workers, some kind of feeling for him, the bitch’d waited until she took her vacation to Montreal and when she’d come back, the two were a couple and in love and making out in the small back room that served as both supply/mop room and employee changing/time card room. She had to push past them to punch in; what she’d really wanted to do was punch the bitch out cold and suck face with dude over, maybe even on, the passed out body.

Those café bitches were always all around stealing your love.
That may be my insight, tho. It’s already hard to tell.

She did care that she and Punkboy almost always had different nights off; she was always worried he was meeting up with other girls on those night; she was always worried he’d fall in love on one of those nights off and come into work the next night with hickeys and rope burns and even a new tattoo.

She’d never inspired that kind of love; she’d never caused a guy to get a new tatt ever.

That she knew. & it probably didn’t count if you didn’t. In fact, I’d like to say it’s hella creepy if you don’t. That’s like pure stalking territory. Not like I’d know.

She grabbed her purse from the doorknob; she didn’t remember leaving it there, but that didn’t bother her.

There were a lot of worse things not to remember.

Homegirl left Punkboy’s bedroom quietly. Punkboy was almost thirty, but he had a roommate, some big shadowy guy who smoked a lot of pot and didn’t hang with any scenes. Punkboy’s roommate gave Homegirl the creeps. She called him Shadow, except to his face. To his face all she said was, Hi, if she had to. She was always always hoping not to run into him on her naked way to the bathroom after she and Punkboy’d fucked for hours.

She knew he listened to them doing it and jerked off. She knew he thought about her cunt and she knew, somehow, he thought of it as glistening.

That really creeped her out. Anyone who daydreamed about a glistening cunt creeped her out. Cunts don’t glisten. They get moist; they get wet; they make inappropriate sucking sounds, they quiver and fasten around cock shafts, they’ve got fucking minds of their own, but they don’t glisten and they don’t sparkle unless you’re a stripper and douched with glitter. Yeah, there were pretty cunts just like there were pretty cocks. Punkboy liked to look at her cunt a lot, so hers must have been a-ight. His cock was nicey-nice to look at, too. He’d sent her a jpeg of it via his cell phone. She’d look at it when she was having a bad day, when Richboy didn’t call, when her two roommates, both guys cos there was no way in hell Homegirl was gonna put up with bitch roommates macking on her mens, were pissing her off, or when she had to work counter at the café.

She hated working counter; she hated being fake nice and usually couldn’t be bothered. Usually she said, Can I help you? & then rang up the order & then said, (whatever the total was), please. All without smiling or inflection.

There’d been a really cute boy that’d starting coming in every night at the café; she and her friends called him Prettyboy. The second week she’d waited on Prettyboy she’d knocked over his pint of coffee on the counter, which was conveniently crotch level on a lot of guys.

She said, I’m so sorry.

She said, Here’s my rag. And tossed him a damp towel to wipe himself down with. At least she knew better than to wipe his crotch down herself. That would have been pure Hollywood bullshit and would’ve freaked Prettyboy out even more.

He was already freaked out; she could tell.

The next night he didn’t even say hi when he ordered his pint and he wouldn’t look her in the eye. She’d decided there went her chances with Prettyboy, which was probably okay, in hindsight, cos who wants to date a guy who’s prettier than them?
That crotch fiasco was only one of the reasons she liked to work kitchen instead. She never had to worry about what people thought about her when she cooked. She could talk the dirty talks or not talk at all. She could be hungover and run to the bathroom and vomit and then come right back and continue making sandwiches like the professional she wanted to be.

Secretly she wasn’t a professional cos her Catholic mother’d instilled in her one mother of a superego. That bitch was always and forever trying to repress her impulses. It’s why she wanted to be a professional but couldn’t; it was one fuck of a never-ending cycle.

Homegirl even felt a little guilty about being creeped out by Shadow. She’d made it to the stairs this morning without seeing him. Shadow and Punkboy rented an entire house instead of a flat like most of the people she knew, herself included; it was a small house, but still, Homegirl kinda wondered how they could afford it.

But she only kinda wondered. She didn’t want to know that much about Shadow.
She was at the bottom of the stairs and then there was Shadow. He was going to walk past her going up it looked like. He was gonna squeeze past her and “accidentally” brush her side, her hip, her breast, some of the places she knew he wanted to molest. He was a big bald guy with neck rolls and as he approached her he seemed to make himself bigger.

Hey, he said as he brushed past her. She smelled onion stank breath; she tried to make herself smaller but she was a tall hippy Midwest thing.

She wanted to say, Hey, you fuck. I know what you’re doing.
She wanted to say, You’re such a fucking Chester.
She wanted to say, Touch me again and I’ll cut your nuts off in your sleep.
What she said was, Hey, and then she shot the fuck out of there like that loose canon she wanted to be.


Ryder Collins went looking for love, and it started raining bullets.