'Performance and satire can give us kind of a cathartic feeling that there are people concentrating on calling out this move to the right but really it’s what we do with that feeling. I hope my shows inspire people to be more thoughtful and plant a seed in their brains and bodies to take action and pay attention to people and political movements that have caused these things that I satirise.'
Abigail Ekue is a New York-based author and one of ER’s favourite photographers. In the summer of this year the Erotic Heritage Museum presented Bare Men, her first exhibition outside New York. Abigail Ekue Photography has been featured in The Huffington Post,PAPER, Refinery29, The Creators Project, Séparée (DE), Erotic Review Magazine (UK), WideWalls (CH), The Naked and the Lens andMath Magazine and she’s appeared on various media outlets including W Radio Colombia, VICE, SiriusXM and Madhouse TV. She has participated in various group exhibitions and has had photography exhibited at the Museum of the City of New York and Musée du Louvre. The first edition of her book, Bare Men was published in 2016.
We need to talk about Teen Vogue. Yes, readers, you read that correctly. We mean the fashion, beauty and culture magazine aimed primarily at American teenage girls. Because last week, Teen Vogue radically stepped up its already impressive sex ed. game by tackling one of the most enduring bedroom taboos. At the hands of writer and educator Gigi Engle, a whole generation of teenagers were finally presented with a comprehensive and accessible guide to anal sex.
Ten possible ‘inappropriate’ uses of the morning after pill from which Boots might wish to disincentivize you with its high prices: 1. Deliberately not having safe sex before you go to a house party, so you can take your cheaper MAP and pretend it’s a fun party drug.
Those who know, know. The sudden panic as someone – usually a parent or person equally unsuitable, always less well versed in the subtleties of tech-iquette – begins rapidly scrolling through your camera roll.
Nothing was to go wrong at this San Francisco Pride event, part of a weekend celebration that is a statement of assertion, defiance and sex.
Brexit hit some of us pretty hard down at the Old Doom Bar. Our Aussie landlord and his wife returned to Oz and the mood wasn’t the same. No-one suggested it was because of differing ideas about Europe, but we knew it was. But here in Brittany things are much cheerier. From our quarters in the Cafe des Matelots we can watch the ferries coming in and out of Roscoff with their cargoes of trucks and tourists. The French still seem glad to see us – even slightly warmer than usual if the amused, puzzled and slightly pitying look in their eyes is anything to judge by.
The scientific study of kissing is called 'philematology' (philos in ancient Greek = earthly love). During a kiss, couples exchange 9 mg of water, 0.7 mg of protein, 0.18 mg of organic compounds, 0.71 mg of fats, and 0.45 mg of sodium chloride, along with 10 million to 1 billion bacteria according to one estimate. Kisses use as little as two muscles, burning only 2 to 3 calories, while passionate kissing involves up to 34 facial muscles along with 112 postural muscles and burns around 26 calories per minute.
GAME OVER: On Sunday afternoon, July 12, soon after he’d been released from the hospital, I met Attanasio at the Half King, Table 16. He was wearing an ordinary white shirt, the same kind he’d often worn in college, decorated with a safety pin. As we drank beer and ate fried calamari, he motioned for me to lean across the table. I did so. He reached down, pulled up his pants leg, and, pointing to a lump on his calf, said, “Touch my tumor.” “I don’t want to touch your tumor. Listen to me: A friend of mine had breast cancer a few years ago and she’s completely recovered. She’s an artist, too—has a studio in Long Island City, as a matter of fact. I told her about you and she said to tell you two things: Get a second opinion and look into alternative treatments.” He repeated what I said. Then we left the Half King and took the E train to Long Island City.
It was summer 1991, I think, when sharing a joint on a brick fire escape after a night of acid-tapped cartoon lunacy, my friend Steve exhaled smoke into the Manchester morning and casually asked if I’d heard of a writer called William Burroughs. I hadn’t, but that moment has stayed with me as the dawn of what was to become a deep and unremitting love for the man J.G. Ballard called 'True genius and first mythographer of the mid-twentieth century'. Steve passed the joint and disappeared indoors – momentarily leaving me staring, rabbit-eyed, into the headlights of reality – before returning with a tatty, nicotine-thumbed paperback. “Read this,” he said, thrusting the book at me. “You’ll love it.” Naked Lunch: odd title, I thought, flipping the book from cover to blurb to cover again. What is this, some kind of naturists’ cookbook? I turned to the introduction and read...