James Petty
Gay cinema and my father are not two things that would usually mix, especially not in a way that involves my father and I attending a gay film together. Not that my dad would be vehemently opposed to the idea, it’s just unlikely to happen. However, there is, as they say, a first time for everything: Dad and I went and saw Star Trek: Into Darkness. Continue reading
BENJAMIN RILEY
(Originally published in the Star Observer on 17 January, 2013)
Increasingly, I find excuses not to go to the plethora of indie queer nights sprouting throughout the northern suburbs of Melbourne.
Each one seems to be run by a friend of a friend of a fuck buddy who once put their MP3 player on shuffle at a party and had their best friend say the lounge room was totally pumping for about half an hour there. I seem to have a good time when I actually go along, but more often than not the prospect of lying in bed with a plate of soysages and a season of New Girl keeps me from leaving the house.
James Petty
A woman walks in to gay men’s bar… and what happens? A number of things might—maybe nothing happens. Or, depending on the particular city, night or bar, she may be refused entry, or warned that she is entering a venue designed for gay men, she may be charged a higher entry fee than a man would, she may be made to feel unwelcome by getting charged more for drinks or by not being served by the bar staff at all.
I was in Portland, Oregon last week and was doing a bit of research for where to go out at night—it was my last week in the US and wanted to check out the gay scene. I hadn’t had to be so thorough in New York City and San Fransisco but Portland was different, a smaller city whose urban spaces are less centralised, less grouped into cultural clusters—there is no East Village or Castro in Portland.
On the website Yelp! I was reading reviews and there seemed to be a couple of common threads present in the reviews of the larger gay venues*. Male reviewers tended to like the bar/club but some complained about the presence of women. Women tended to like them also, or they would have if they hadn’t been treated so poorly by the staff and clientele.
It’s an issue that pops up from time to time: the right of straight women to attend bars specifically targeted at gay men—this is a particularly relevant issue in Melbourne where the owner of The Peel won the right to ban women and heterosexuals on the basis of their gender/sexuality.
Opinions are varied, and not necessarily split down the gender divide: women have traditionally been the main ally/BFF of the gay man and are thus likely to be in spaces where gay men congregate. On the other hand the defining characteristic of male homosexuality, at least at a basic level, is a sexual dynamic that excludes women, thus the presence of women at gay bars is seen by some gay men as inappropriate or contra that dynamic.
The other, more controversial, and honestly more galling, manifestation of women at gay bars is typified by the ‘hens night’ stereotype—groups of drunk and obnoxious straight women attending gay bars where they don’t necessarily know any gay men for a trashy night of drinking and dancing. For some gay men—and I don’t fully exclude myself from this—this can create the feeling of being viewed as a circus freak; that the male homosexual culture can be treated like and consumed as a tourist attraction. This tendency was exemplified in San Fransisco recently when the city banned sightseeing tour companies from stopping on Castro St to disgorge busloads of Chinese tourists** to snap photos of gay men walking their dogs, having coffee and going about their everyday lives.
Reading these reviews and an article in Bitch magazine got me thinking about the function of gay venues and the politics of safe spaces. Gay bars have obviously functioned as a way of creating safe spaces for gay men, especially in a historical context but still very much so today. I guess the question is, does the attendance of straight women at gay bars undermine this? I think in some cases, yes. But, the other question raised, and that is perhaps often ignored, is are gay bars and clubs safe spaces for women too? Many of the more irate male reviewers on Yelp! posed the question, ‘You’ve got your own bars to go to, why don’t you go there?’ This seems logical at first, but, since straight women attending gay bars is hardly an uncommon phenomenon, it begs the question are ‘straight’ bars and clubs actually safe for women? The obvious answer is: probably not.
The article in Bitch talked about the hazards many women face at ‘straight’ clubs: insidious inspections by doormen who may refuse them entry if they are not deemed ‘hot enough’, unsolicited and insistent come-ons, unwanted ogling, grinding and groping, the risk of being sexually assaulted, the risk of having your drink spiked, the need to perform an idealized display of femininity, the inability to dance without it ‘meaning something’ (i.e. consent), the list went on. In light of this, it seems that gay bars may function as an ersatz refuge for straight women against the misogynist, slut-shaming and victim-blaming hetero world.
The historical alliance be
tween women and queers has not always been harmonious—in reference to each other as well as internally within both groups— but each has fought, often allied, for the right for safe spaces. But what happens when the presence of women makes gay bars unsafe, or when gay bars enact policies designed to exclude women?
It seems that one of the reasons straight women attend gay bars is because they are excluded from the dominant sexual dynamic. Gay men attend gay bars in order to create a space in which their sexual dynamic is dominant, but does the presence of straight women undermine this? Evidence suggests that it does, and if so, this creates a divisive politic between two minorities.
So the question is, do gay venues have the right to put the safety of their gay male patrons above that of their heterosexual women patrons and therefore further engender this division? Ideally, no, but surely the very concept of a ‘safe space’ necessitates exclusion. Thus, while I do not support the exclusion of straight women from gay venues, nor do I support the diminishment of the importance or sanctity of those spaces for gay men due to the presence of members from another group. While this position obviously fails to offer an adequate answer, it does perhaps highlight that the safe spaces politic is itself insufficient for addressing such issues.
*In Portland the smaller bars and bars located outside the city centre tended to be ‘mixed’ which precludes this dynamic of tribalism.
**I specify that the tourists were Chinese for cultural context only, as tourists from Western cultural contexts would be unlikely to find such a sight so compelling.
Benjamin Riley
I’ve been thinking about sex and violence on television (and US premium cable TV network HBO specifically) for a while now, but James just beat me to the punch in writing about it for Southpaw Slug. Whilst I certainly don’t disagree with anything he said, I have a bit of a different take on it.
A few years ago I wrote a feature for online pop culture mag PopMatters about HBO’s flagship vampire soap True Blood, arguing that the sexual violence in the show did not come under enough scrutiny. More than anything, the experience taught me that if there’s one thing that riles people up more than anything on the internet, it’s the suggestion pop culture might be a bit mysoginist.
I don’t want to repeat myself here—I feel confident in asserting that sexualised depictions of violence in True Blood, Game of Thrones, Boardwalk Empire and other HBO shows are not okay. I think what has become increasingly worrying is not just James’ observation of the commodification of sex and violence in pop culture, but the conflation of these commodities with ‘quality’.
It seems all a TV show has to do now
is throw in some swearing, some sex and some violence and critics everywhere will love it. Our pursuit of ‘gritty’ television has created a cultural landscape where anything less than the visually extreme will be placed on the wrong side of a line separating the ‘critically acclaimed’ from the ‘mainstream’.
Of course, this direction isn’t entirely new for HBO—James talked about The Sopranos, but HBO’s brand building as ‘the network with sex and violence’ really came to prominence in 1997 with Oz, an ultra-violent prison drama with equally dubious creative merit.
And while not all of their shows are as graphic as those James and I have mentioned, I think the inclusion of sexual violence particularly in HBO’s genre shows (genre fiction has traditionally been considered low brow) has become a defense against their artistic merit: no one could say a fantasy show with so much blood and boobs is mainstream!
In my opinion, True Blood and Game of Thrones are trash, pure and simple. That’s not to say they aren’t entertaining (I’m guilty of regularly watching both of them) but to say that being on HBO and containing ‘adult’ subject matter makes them quality television or, dare I say, artistic achievements, is completely ridiculous.
So then, if I have real problems with their content and I’m not getting anything out of them beyond entertainment, why am I still watching?
Maybe I shouldn’t be. A few years ago I decided to stop eating meat on ethical grounds. I love meat. It’s delicious. But I decided my objection to meat production outweighed my desire to eat it.
The argument behind these choices is that, in a capitalist society, consumption is both a market decision and a political one. By choosing what we do and do not consume we influence the value of those commodities. And perhaps even more importantly, through our choices we signal to ourselves and others our political beliefs and our willingness to uphold them.
As the ability of cultural products to
shape social and political discourse continues to increase, aided by the internet and other mass media, we must consider those products part of the cultural economy with which we engage. And as consumers in that economy, in a society driven by consumption, our personal ethical frameworks for consumption must extend into the cultural.
If we consider ourselves ethical consumers, the same weight we afford the consumption of physical goods—look at how we think about, for example, recycling, meat and petrol—must be given to our participation in the dissemination of culture.
I love watching HBO shows. Game of Thrones in particular has become a weekly bonding activity for me and my housemates. But not only is it vapid, I find its commodification of graphic and mysoginistic sexual violence highly objectionable.
It comes down to this: I cannot ethically continue to watch these programs.
That doesn’t mean I won’t. But it means I know that if I do keep watching, I am making a consciously unethical choice, and I’ll have to live with that.
Does that make me a hypocrite? Absolutely, and that’s okay. I’d rather acknowledge my hypocrisy (and perhaps think about changing my behaviour) than perpetrate weak, self-serving justifications for my support of something I disagree with.
James Petty
It is no secret that sex and violence are entertaining. They have occupied imaginary and visive spaces in human cultures for ages; violence and sex have been occurring (as spectacle) for a long time. However, our capacity to be exposed to sex and violence has increased exponentially at several relatively recent historic intervals: the invention of the printing press, the invention of cinema and television, of the Internet, and perhaps most critically, at the birth of the Home Box Office (HBO).
I’m not sure if it was 
The Sopranos that first brought gritty, realistic (and arguably problematised) sex and violence into the domestic viewing sphere but it was certainly my first exposure to it. I must have been fifteen (I was a squeamish teen) and I remember sitting down to watch TV late one evening. I saw that The Sopranos was on and had a vague notion that it had something to do with gangsters.
I came into the episode about half way through and suddenly, before I could get a sense of what the show was like and what it was about, I was watching a character named Ralph verbally abusing a young exotic dancer before violently beating and stomping her to death in an alleyway behind a strip club. I hastily turned the television off, discomfited, somewhat traumatised and absolutely sure that the show was not something I was interested in watching.
When I was a bit older a friend recommended I watch the show, I explained my reluctance and she said I should give it another chance, ‘there’s more to it than that’. And I guess she was right, I have since watched the series again and enjoyed it thoroughly for its complex character development, (somewhat accurate) insight into the awful worlds that men create and for the engaging and dramatic storytelling. However, that scene was my first exposure to American cable television network HBO and the ‘realistic’ sexualised violence it offers, and I won’t forget its initial effect on me.
Since then, this kind of gratuitous and uncompromising sex and violence—which are rarely separated from one another i.e. arguably there are few non-violent depictions of sex and non-sexual depictions of violence in HBO shows—has become the core ingredient of HBO’s recipe for success. In fact it could be argued that HBO are no longer even in the business of making television drama series. What HBO is selling is gratuitous sex and violence (no longer problematised or reflexive); the shows are just a vehicle for the real product. Unconvinced? Watch True Blood.
HBO didn’t even bother disguising this; True Blood‘s advertising was essentially “Sex and Violence by Alan Ball”. The presence of this kind of sex and violence has, for many reasons beyond HBO’s influence, become the marker of quality viewing, it is the assurance that what you are about to watch is worth your time. The most recent example of this is the series Game of Thrones, based on the books by George R. R. Martin, which are admittedly extremely violent, often in a sexual way
But something changes in the transition from words to filmic images. In the books the violence is horrifying—thought I won’t deny it is often satisfying as well. However, I think the violence in the books highlights the way that women and children (and the poor) are so often forced to bear the consequences of the choices men in power make.
In contrast, the television show revels in the violence it depicts and encourages the audience to do so as well—my housemates and I all had a hearty chuckle when Sandor Clegane threatened to rape the corpse of any man who died with a clean sword. But the scene where King Joffrey forces a prostitute to beat another to death at crossbow point (which isn’t in the books) served little purpose other than indulging the audience in showing off just how cruel and depraved he can be or what they can get away with given the show’s fantastical social context.
The often sexualised violence that was undoubtedly entertaining, yet confronting, unflinching and arguably ‘honest’ in earlier series like the The Sopranos seems to have become indulgent, gratuitous and commodified in series’ like True Blood and Game of Thrones. What once felt daring, non-patronising and (at least somewhat) ideological now feels immature and gauche, like a couple of kids seeing just how far they can take a joke, not realising that a restrained hand often makes for better humour.
James Petty
Ben’s last post addressed the fact that Southpaw Slug talks a lot about the politics of sex and sexual identities—issues like gay marriage, consent and porn—but that we generally don’t talk about the act itself: the somatic, corporeal, experiential realities of sex.
I agree that we don’t and that we probably should, but this brings with it a whole range of issues and considerations with it. Namely, how do we talk about and explore issues of sex when the semantic, discursive and political structures available to do so are so glaringly insufficient? If sex is such a loaded term—politically, ideologically, morally, linguistically, emotionally, historically—that encompasses a range of concepts, ideals and practices, how can we engage with it in a way that avoids complicating things further by adding more bricks to what already seems a monolithic and impenetrable wall?
Let me elaborate. Sex is not and cannot ever be non-political. While sex is an embodied and personal act, it also carries with it a load of ethical, political and existential baggage, regardless of who, what and how. There is no sexual practice, from masturbation, to fucking, fisting or furries, that can exist outside of power relations, socialisation, gender, or trends in culture, governance, morality and economics.
What’s more, sex is drenched in violence: the potential for ‘sex’—as well as its entourage of attendant beliefs, implications, ideologies and behaviours—to be harmful cannot be overestimated. If you consider Žižek‘s triumvirate conception of violence—subjective, systemic and symbolic—sex scores highly across the board.
The amount of ‘subjective
‘ sexual violence, i.e. acts of sexual assault, rape, sexual slavery and exploitation, that occurs everyday around the world is so prolific it is immeasurable. The violence inherent in language (symbolic violence) is incredibly potent when it comes to how we talk about sex. If language shapes how we think and conceptualise our world, then what are the consequences of slut-shaming, the words ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’, and the countless dysphemisms we use to describe the act of sex and its constituents? Lastly, the systemic violence that envelopes sex—this is the objective and anonymous violence that acts as a backdrop to how we see, know and engage in sex: the unavoidable and ubiquitous sexual objectification of women (and children) by media and retail institutions, the shaping of sex by capitalist enterprise, the ‘pornification’ of popular culture, gender inequality, sex discrimination and so on.
The net effect of this seemingly constant pairing of sex and violence is that we cannot engage in discourses about sex, without, to some extent, becoming complicit in the annexed violence. What’s more, we begin to associate sex and violence so closely that they become the same thing, for example, consider representations of sex in the HBO series’ Game Of Thrones and True Blood.
This issue is difficult to write about. The concept of ‘sex’ is so ubiquitous and encompassing that it is very difficult (read: impossible) to view it either objectively (I am a sexual being complicit in the dynamics of sex) or wholly (one cannot view all sides of sex at once). As such, sex suffers from an excess of politically charged definitions that become closely linked to a variety of identities (gay, straight, single, kinky, monogamous, mother/father etc.).
When talking about sex, there are so many toes to tread on you can’t not offend somebody somewhere, which is why I respect people like Dan Savage and Tracey Clarke-Florey for talking about it anyway. Over the coming weeks Southpaw Slug will be writing more about sex, though hopefully the toes we tread on won’t be yours.
Benjamin Riley
A gathering I attended recently with a bunch of people I barely knew hit a social low point for me (or high point, depending on how you look at it) when I asked the question: “Don’t you think non-reproductive animal sex is really interesting?”
Silence.
Let me explain. Earlier in the evening, I had been discussing with one of the hosts—a visual artist—the symbolic nature of the physical body and its artistic power. Now, the night’s conversations didn’t start with that topic, and this was getting to the end of a long discussion about how art can push boundaries.
We talked about the French performance artist Orlan, and about Julia Kristeva’s work on the notion of ‘abjection’. Much of this work is around the notion that to experience the ‘defilement’ of the body (wounding and death, or expulsive bodily processes like vomit and shit) forces us to confront ourselves as physically existing within the ‘symbolic order’. That is, we are disturbed by these things because they remind us we can die, can be sick, can excrete waste and so forth.
This all got me thinking about sex.
Again, let me explain. We often write 
on Southpaw Slug about the political implications of sexual identities and sexual objectification, but we don’t often talk about the physicality of sex. I hadn’t really thought about it until that conversation had turned to bodies, and what bodies ‘mean’.
I don’t plan to go into any detail here, but if Southpaw Slug is in the interest of talking about what it means politically to engage with culture, there are some questions we might consider:
Why is seeing a completely naked woman on television not as ‘bad’ as seeing a completely naked man? What makes penetrative sex different from any other kind, and why does showing it on screen make something porn? Are we any less okay with sexual violence in popular culture on a somatic level than we are on a political or intellectual level?
Of course I can’t answer these sorts of questions. But considering the continued proliferation of explicit sexuality in popular culture and increasingly, a perceived link between graphic sex and ‘artistic maturity’, we might at least ask them.
Back to animal sex—my question had been in response to an acquantance’s revelation that one of her dogs regularly fellated the other. My ears pricked up and I offered to the room that line about non-reproductive animal sex.
An awkward void replaced my stomach when I realised that no, apparently no one else was interested in why one dog would suck another dog off. I quickly changed the subject and tried to pretend nothing had happened.
But as gross as the image was, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant something, even if whatever that might be shouldn’t be discussed in polite company.
JAMES
The other day a friend and I were discussing GetUp!’s ‘It’s Time’ campaign, in particular the video that has been doing the Facebook and Twitter rounds for the last few weeks. My friend was describing how upon finding out the actor who plays ‘Paul’ in the video is straight, he felt a mild sense of betrayal. I had not heard this about the actor and immediately felt a similar twang.
My initial reaction to the video was much the same as anyone else’s—fuzzy warmth and heartfelt affect, a renewed sense of injustice about it all and a gentle erection. But as these effects subsided I was left with a vague sense of discord—there was something a bit off about it all and yet I could not deny the effectiveness of the ad (I have watched it again several times since).
In a way my reaction was a cognitive dissonance similar to what is referred to in robotics and 3D animation as ‘The Uncanny Valley’, a full explanation of which is here. In short, the more advanced and lifelike attempts to replicate humanity in animation or robotics becomes, the more repugnant and alien we find each attempt.
The video’s chimerical replication of what it is like to be a gay man had the same effect on me; what I saw was undoubtedly a nice idea, but I recognised nothing of myself in its sheen of earthy respectability. Finding out the actor was straight merely compounded this odd sense of aversion.
Of course all advertising is false
, exaggerated and idealistic in some sense—no brand of toilet cleaner or dishwasher tablets will make you as beautiful and happy as the people in the ad. But the reason this ad felt so dishonest and jarring was that it is essentially portraying a ‘better’ kind of gay. Of course, the ad isn’t necessarily meant for a gay audience, its purpose is to sell gay marriage to ‘the rest’ of society with only a minor view of re-politicising the issue for non-heterosexuals.
I guess a question worth asking (and one that I certainly don’t have an answer for) is in the quest for equality how far are we willing to assimilate and normalise for the cause? Does true equality require discarding an identity that was moulded and cast in a furnace of oppression, marginalisation and bigotry? And if so, what would that cost?
JAMES
Watching this week’s episode of Good Game I witnessed a fairly rare phenomenon; game reviewers critiquing a game on a moral, political and ideological grounds. This almost never happens, the closest you get is the outrage amongst the gaming community that Australia is currently without an adult classification for games, leading to some games with extreme or high impact themes being banned outright.
The game in question was Saints Row: The Third, a sandbox, open world, absurdist and hyper-real parody of the Grand Theft Auto franchise. Hex, one of relatively few women employed in the industry, while largely enjoying many aspects of the game, took issue with certain elements contained within. Namely, the ability to commit extreme acts of violence against women arbitrarily, that is, not as part of the story or with any necessity.
I should note here that I think any depiction of violence, extreme or not, being perpetrated against women in the medium of games should be critically examined regardless of its inclusion in the main story of a game. In this particular instance it was the carelessness, callousness and lack of consequence (or presence of reward directives) for the character that Hex took particular issue with. (A post on acceptable and unacceptable forms of violence within games and the spectatorial investment and gamer complicity within game violence is forthcoming).
The content in question involved the character being able to grab any other character, including civilian women, by the hair and face-slam them into the ground, the ability to beat people to death with a giant purple dildo and a mission where the goal was to ‘rescue’ prostitutes being held captive in shipping containers by either pimping them out yourself or selling them back to their original ‘owners’. This is hateful and gratuitous violence that obviously revels in the rape, abuse and torture of women. This is further compounded by the fact that the character, when opening the container doors, often finds the prostitutes grouped around ‘fisting machines’.
Hex was seriously unimpressed with this content, more so than Bajo—Hex’s male counterpart—who, while obviously finding the content distasteful, predictably disavowed the spectre of game censorship by defending the developers’ right to creative licence. He stated that even though this type of content is in the game, a gamer can choose whether or not they partake in it. Although I haven’t played this particular game, I have played enough to know that such ‘choices’ are illusory; within games there are innumerable directives (both subtle and explicit) that reward the player for engaging in all aspects of the game-play.
Bajo’s arguments were not enough for Hex, although her capacity to further express her distaste and what was possibly anger, appeared limited. Whether this was due to a lack of ability to cogently express her opinions on this matter or a restrictive set of review criteria is unclear. The expression on her face throughout the latter half of the review suggests to me that she wanted to say more.
What is both interesting and disturbing about all this is that despite this the game received an overall positive review, achieving a composite score of 16.5/20. This is suggestive of the locus that politics and ideology inhabits within the gaming world; essentially that if you don’t like something, it’s your problem, not the game’s.
Game reviewers get full license to slam a game for shoddy game-play, poor mechanics, a stupid premise or terrible sound and dialogue and yet a game that offends or crosses moral/ideological boundaries (to even gratuitous extents) somehow remains critically out-of-bounds. The question Hex posed at the end of the review, “What’s next? Violence against children in games because ‘it’s not supposed to be taken seriously’?”, is a question the gaming industry does need to start asking itself.
JAMES
Last week at a large and particularly debaucherous Halloween party, a rather unpleasant experience marred for me an otherwise very enjoyable night. The party was massive (located across several neighbouring houses), immensely populated and with a large contingent of gay men. It was late (around 3am), the cops had arrived and the party was in a definite downward spiral. Two friends and myself were standing in an empty hallway in one of the houses chatting to one of the hosts.
I was standing near a door that presumably led to a bedroom; I wasn’t blocking the door, or leaning against it, merely standing nearby. Someone could have easily entered by squeezing past or with a simple ‘excuse me’.
Two fairly wasted guys with their arms around each other came up and stood before me as if waiting, they then stated (in a tone that struck me as odd) that they had to get past. ‘Sorry’, I said and took a step back, as they walked past they gave me odd, smirky looks and as they entered, one reached back and grabbed me hard by the shoulder and tried to forcibly yank me into the room with them.
Instinctively I wrenched my shoulder free and began to move away. While at that point I didn’t understand what had happened, the force of the grab had been enough to provoke my body into a defensive response. Before the door slammed shut one of the guys shouted out at me: “Well fuck you, you fucking something-or-other’.
I didn’t think too much of it at the time other than a general ‘those guys were fuckheads’ sentiment, but now I’ve thought about it this has evolved into ‘No, you know what, fuck you.” I should state that while this pissed me off, it didn’t make me feel unsafe, scared or vulnerable; I was with friends, I was drunk but not shitfaced and I am pretty capable (both physically and mentally) of fending off the aggressive erotic advances of two drunken deadshits.
Nevertheless, what this brought up for me were issues of consent and objectification. If this had occurred in a different context such behaviour would have been intolerable, harmful and potentially criminal i.e. if it had been a woman who was grabbed instead of me. Now while I think the fact that I am a man is certainly not irrelevant, I do not think that it justifies their behaviour toward me.
Of course in the context of a big party, particularly one brimming with young gay men, you do expect a certain level of this stuff; bodily contact on the dance floor, indiscreet advances and last-ditch offers of a blowjob and a bed to sleep in. However, this went beyond all of these things. This was desperate, aggressive and callous.
The logic of these two men seemed to be “We want a threesome but we can’t be bothered doing the legwork, just grab a guy and if he struggles free, it’s a ‘no’”. The concept of consent was reduced to a black and white binary of physical submission as ‘yes’ and physical resistance as ‘no’. Consent should never be reduced to this.
Furthermore, the actions of these men had the effect of reducing me to one of two things depending on the outcome, either a passive object if I submitted or a resistant object if I didn’t. So while I was able to assert consent in regard to the sexual act they wanted to include me in, I was not able to consent to being their desperate, eleventh hour, nothing-to-lose attempt at a threesome.
The assumption on their part that they could just collect me (or anyone) en route to a bedroom and ‘have me’ really pisses me off. And the fact that they told me to ‘get fucked’ because I didn’t submit to being corralled into it pisses me off even more.What these guys did wasn’t illegal but it was certainly unethical and being pissed and horny isn’t an excuse.
Luckily this occurred around the ‘death-rattle’ stage of the party so it didn’t dampen my night overall. I just hope they had really shit sex.
Southpaw Slug 