The Sin 'Zine-#5-Wrath - Middlespace

✝he $in ‘Zin€ • Issue #5 • Wrath • June, Two-Thousand Twelve 

ISSUE CONTRIBUTORS 

Alex Swanner 

Calliope 

Elizabeth 

Gumbo the Wonder Dog 

J. Chiang 

Jack Dupp 

Johnny “Fawkin’” Bagels 

Julz Lulz 

Lea Meadows 

Lomina Peac 

Robin Madel 

Saucy Banter 

Sugarpuss O'SX 

Tage Savage 

Ty Hardaway 

Sugarpuss O'SX

✝he $in ‘Zin€ 

Edited by Julius T. Leisure 

issue #1: luxuria 

issue #2: gula 

issue #3: avaritia 

issue #4: acedia 

issue #5: ira 

issue #6: invidia 

issue #7: superbia 

A middlespace 

endeavor 

© 2012 

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The Sin ‘Zine – Ira – 2

Keeping Score 

by Jack Dupp 

W 

rath. The deadliest of the Seven, highest body 

count anyway (for those keeping score, and 

there are always people keeping score). Wrath 

is driven by pure emotion; logic is…not in this 

episode. 

Shooting by J. Chiang 

Rage is motivational, it causes sloths to say things like 

“Don’t make me set down this beer and get up outta my La-Z-Bastard!” When that which is 

negative can no longer be tolerated and all peaceful avenues have been exhausted, e.g., 

“Please stop that. It’s annoying.” —Rule #5 Outrage and war to the rescue! Some things can 

only be resolved through warfare-Total War-Nothing else will suffice and Wrath is the only 

useful emotion for Total War. 

Human beings are at their most productive during war. They only act when forced (see Sloth) 

but when they have NO options, they are amazingly efficient. There is nothing like the threat of 

annihilation to light the fires of creativity and productivity. Root hog or Die! Look at all the 

amazing technological advances attained during wartime. They are exponential, put the 

economy on a war footing and watch it go. General Patton once said something to the 

effect of: Compared to war, all other human endeavors pale to insignificance. He knew of 

what he spoke, so did Admiral Yamamoto when he said that he feared all they had 

accomplished with the attack on Pearl Harbor was awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a 

terrible resolve. Wrath. 

War is Hell. The Romans got annoyed with Carthage. Enough was enough and they invoked 

Rule #5 with a fucking vengeance. Carthage Must Die! Ever met a Carthaginian? Yeah, the 

Romans killed every living thing, left no stone atop another and SALTED THE GODDAMN EARTH! 

Wrath Indeed. He may have inspired General Sherman’s March to the Sea, but quite frankly 

he was an amateur and Atlanta can stop bitching. 

Wrath can turn normal human beings into super efficient Killing Machines—Berzerker Rage 

anyone? Most people only vent towards others who are different; the ‘birds of a feather’ thing, 

it’s very common. Do you know what happens to a ‘Pink Monkey’ or a ‘Painted Bird’? Look it 

up or lick it up, your choice. Those who look, act, dress, or think differently are targets simply by 

existing. All it takes is a little government propaganda during hard times and, Presto! 

Scapegoats every one of US can hate. This phenomenon can be seen daily in the Mideast 

ever since the Big Bright Flaming Ball lit the landscape littered with goats and hurt the eyes of 

the first protohumans there who took an instant, total, and eternal dislike of each other. And so 

it goes. 

Without Wrath, Mel Gibson would be dull. His twilight years’ 

flagging career has been rejuvenated by his rage-induced 

rants about…well, pretty much everything. Let’s not forget 

the Grapes-Crushed and destroyed like a Syrian uprising, or 

the Wrath of Khan—THAT affected an entire planet! 

In short, Wrath is useful. Wrath is deadly. Wrath may be on 

the horizon. I say: Armeggedononwithit! I’m Jack Dupp. 

✝$€ 


Asshole Morning Monologue 

by Elizabeth 

G 

et out of the way! Why do you have to wander all 

over the sidewalk? 

Asshole! 

Damn! Why do you have to stand in the middle of the 

only stairway into the subway to talk on your damn 

phone? 

Asshole! 

Ten minutes! It's rush hour and there’s not another train for 

ten minutes? 

MTA Assholes! 

Stop pushing through the door in front of me! 

Asshole! 

Come on close up your legs and stop taking up two 

seats. Your balls aren’t that big. 

Asshole! 

Move the fuck out of the way so I can get off the train 

so you can get on the train. Assholes! 

Why are you stopping at the top of the escalator? There are twenty people coming 

up behind you. 

Asshole! 

Do you really need to walk three people across on the 

sidewalk? Move! Assholes! All of you! 

What the fuck was I writing about again? Fucking job! 

Fucking bosses! 

Assholes! 

✝$€ 

Huffing by Robin Madel 


My Anger 

by Elizabeth 

I 

want to punch someone. I want to kick somebody’s ass. Not just 

anybody. I want to get into it with the next person who pisses me off 

on the street or in the subway or in my neighborhood. I have years 

and years of pent up anger just itching to get out and I can’t wait to 

find that willing victim who manages to cross me on a bad day. 

When I was a kid my sister would taunt me to the point where I 

couldn’t stand it anymore and I would hit her. She always fought like 

a girl though and would do things like dig her nails into my eyes or 

bite me. One time she bit me so hard through my jeans that she 

broke the skin. Another time she threw a plant at me. The clay pot 

broke against my hand. I still have a scar where it sliced open my 

pinkie finger. We stopped fighting when I started ignoring her. When I 

was in eleventh grade she left for the military and I pretended she 

didn’t exist. I was never as happy as the day she flew away to 

wherever it was that she did her basic training. 

When I was in ninth grade, I hit Paul Zwerdling in the face. I was in a 

bad mood and he made some insult and I punched him. I instantly 

felt remorseful and begged him not to tell on me. I probably would 

have been suspended because I was already in trouble for skipping 

classes. To be honest, I think he didn’t tell because he didn’t want 

anyone to know that he got punched by a girl. 

I never hit anyone after that, but now, I’m ready. 

I’m ready to unleash my anger. I’m ready to go. I have a lifetime of 

rage—rage about my sister’s constant torment, and my father’s need 

to always be right even when it was so painfully obvious that he was 

wrong, and my mother’s projection of her own particular brand of 

self-loathing onto me—and I’m ready to send it out to the universe, 

because I can’t stand having it inside of me any longer. I 

recommend you stay out of my way. 

✝$€ 


You Made Me Love You 

By Lea Meadows 

D 

ante said that wrath brings about “love of justice perverted to revenge and 

spite.” I thought of wrath in a different way. Pleasure. Pain. Agony. Ecstasy. How 

one chooses to use the burning rage building inside is a personal choice. I 

chose to use wrath to make you love me. 

It’s why I keep you here, tied down, arms and legs bound so that the pain is a dull 

ache that gets worse when you struggle. Kind of how you left me. Those nights when 

the throbbing between my legs and the humiliation drove me to press the pillow to my 

mouth and scream. I haven’t forgotten. That’s why I’ve stuffed my filthy panties in your 

mouth. So that you’d know what that felt like. So that the salty taste of my underwear 

would remind you of my tears. 

It makes me so hot to see you that way. Gagged and bound. Tied down in the dark, 

knowing that I’m near. Like when I’d see you talking to Janice from Accounting and 

I’d imagine your gaze traveling to where I was. I suffocated every time, remembering 

your whispered vows of love and 

forever as if you really felt those 

"Love of justice 

perverted to 

revenge and 

spite" 

-‐ Dante 

things like I did. As if you’d really 

uttered those words. I think about 

that every time I whisper in your ear 

as I drag the dull edge of the blade 

across your back. To mark you as 

mine would be so easy. 

My mind always travels to the nights 

when you’d master me. I had no 

idea that I’d become your slut. At 

least that’s what I’d imagined you 

call me. I actually felt your hands on 

my throat as you pushed inside me. 

You were never gentle and I didn’t 

want you to be. But we’d never actually spoken or seen each other outside of work. 

You just ruled me with your intense black eyes and the thought of that would make 

come over and over in never ending waves. 

It’s why I keep you here. Tied down among labeled boxes and old Christmas 

ornaments. This is the only place I could think of that would mask your screams of 

atonement. Your penance for making me yours and then leaving me to rot in my own 

sadness and anger. I have chosen to use wrath to make you love me. You will love 

me. You will. You will. 

✝$€ 


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© 2012 Awkwardist Productions 

Wrath by Robin Madel & Ty Hardaway 

✝$€ 


Bully 


I 

hurt. 

And in this never-ending freefall, I 

am always aware of what comes 

next. The red, broken skin. The blood. 

The splintered bone. The black and 

the blue. It’s a spectrum of color and 

sound that reminds me of your 

power. And every day sees another 

piece of my soul pulled and 

pummeled from my body. But I hurt 

and it hurts and it’s all that I know 

right now. And it consumes me as 

only the desire for freedom can do. 

It seems like an eternity that I’ve 

pondered squeezing out from under 

your torment. But no matter who I am 

today, you always find me. Today I 

am 12-year-old boy. I am a single 

mother. I am an elderly 

grandmother. I am your sister. I am 

your wife. No matter who I am, it still 

hurts the same. 

The beatings. The backhanded slaps. 

The kicks to the ribs. Your body 

holding me down. It has all brought 

me to this. I smooth my fingers up the 

cool, metal barrel of my salvation. 

And I sigh as it brings a smile to my 

face. No more tiptoeing around the house. No more taking a different way to school. 

No more secrets and tears as I try to bear your breath against my neck. It has all come 

to this. Only this time, I turn the hurt on you. 

I wield the power this time. My mind flutters between placing the hard steel against my 

temple and pointing it at your back as you walk away from me, muttering your disgust. 

I know I don’t have much time because next time might be when you win. The day 

you break me. And so I close my eyes, take aim and squeeze. No more hurt. Only the 

roaring battle cry of ending it my way and the smell of sulfur. And at long last, I find 

freedom in my final revenge. 

✝$€ 



Revenge is for the Young 

By Saucy Banter 

W 

rath is a woman: capricious, with swift and blinding violence, hell hath no fury. 

She can smite you from out of calm; she will smash you like the bug that you 

are. But, I don’t know why we are talking about that bitch; it’s her little brother 

Revenge that I want to discuss. 

Revenge was sweet. Hand in hand as children, we had a lot of amazing adventures 

together: pouring salt in the form of cuss words on front lawns, wrapping cars in toilet 

paper, making prank phone calls. As we got older, he rode shotgun as we trenched 

someone’s yard; he ran with me after lighting the bag of shit aflame. Finally maturing 

in college, we mailed floods of magazine subscriptions, Franklin Mint objects, and an 

avalanche of monster truck videos to our foes, blithely checking “Bill Me Later”. 

Revenge was so much fun! When a 

landlord kicked us out before our lease 

was up we superglued all the light bulbs 

in their sockets, when our neighbor 

complained about our lawn we threw 

handfuls of catnip in his. Revenge was 

never malicious; he left boiling bunnies 

& throwing brake fluid on cars to his 

sister. Revenge took his own good time 

whereas Wrath struck swiftly, unthinking, 

leaving remorse. Revenge is cool; Wrath 

is burning hot. 

Revenge hasn’t been around lately; I 

kind of outgrew him. Technology made 

hanging out with him a losing 

proposition. How can you send someone a flood of magazine subscriptions when 

there are no magazines left? If you mess with your neighbor’s lawn, their camera will 

document it. How can you make prank calls when every phone has caller ID? Now if 

you agitate a landlord, he can find you without hiring a private investigator. 

Revenge has moved on to someone younger, more carefree. As I grew older and 

hopefully somewhat wiser, I realized that I don’t have to Tango with Revenge because 

if someone is an ass to me, that person will also be an ass to others, and one of those 

others will be hanging with my old lover. Now, when I think of getting even or 

dispensing payback, my mantra is, “That is a problem that will take care of itself”, and I 

leave it to those more inclined to retribution. Wrath, on the other hand, still rears her 

head (so don’t fuck with me). 

✝$€ 


Master’s Wrath 


S 

he knew from the minute he walked in that it was going to be one of those days. 

All the signs were there: the stern, determined gait, the tense, steel-like jaw. He 

was not going to be easy on her today. And she hadn’t helped matters by 

defying him. His instructions were clear but it wasn’t as if she’d had much of a choice. 

She squirmed in her seat, felt the blush cut across her cheek and lowered her gaze. 

Best not to make things worse. 

It was all there the first time she met him. She was in the second semester of her junior 

year and had elected to take a film appreciation class instead of the usual women’s 

studies bullshit. All the feminist crap was wearing thin on her. She’d reluctantly agreed 

to take on the women’s studies minor to appease her advisor. You know the kind - 

failed hippie who now published overly dramatic poetry in local literary magazines 

and felt the need to “nurture” raw talent. She really needed to re-think her choice. 

So when she walked into his class, she was prepared to zone out and spend 90 

minutes outlining the premise of her next erotic short story. This time she was thinking of 

pairing an older woman with a former student who attended the class reunion to 

finally fuck his Physics teacher. And in the middle of a scene where Dean was bending 

Mrs. Farber over a chair in the faculty lounge, she felt a strange sense of foreboding. 

The air was almost still and it seemed like the entire class had gone silent because of it. 

She didn’t think to look up from her notebook because had she done that she’d 

notice that he was standing right in front of her. 

“Ms. McKinney? Is there something so much more interesting than my lecture?” 

Her mouth went dry. “Uh, no Mr. Finn. I’m here.” 

“You may be here but are you paying attention, Ms. McKinney? 

She could feel the wetness begin to saturate the middle panel of 

her panties. Two months ago, she had no idea that she’d become 

his pet. She felt like a puppet with strings attached to her nipples 

and clit instead of her arms and legs. But they never actually spoke 

or saw each other outside of the classroom. He just ruled her with his 

intense black eyes, the click of his shoes on the floor and the 

instructions he emailed her nightly. Instructions that’d made her 

come more times than she could count. 

The first of what he called “requests” came the day after she wore 

that tight black skirt that rode up when she slid into her chair. 

“Ms. McKinney. For tomorrow’s class I’d like for you to participate 

more in the discussion. Your perspective on the last reading was 


enlightening and I think that your insight would contribute greatly to your fellow 

students’ understanding of the text. I also request that you slump a little further down in 

your chair and spread your legs wider so that I can see your cunt. And don’t wear 

panties.” 

She rubbed herself raw that night, coming in wave upon wave of vivid imagery. She 

imagined him between her thighs, dragging his tongue through her slit slowly and 

meticulously. He’d stop at her clit and circle the hard bud with such force that she’d 

flood his mouth with her come. She was so embarrassed by how breathless and turned 

on she was fantasizing about him this way. Then she’d stick her fingers in her pussy and 

came three more times. 

The next day she sat in the front row directly in front of his desk, just as he’d instructed. 

She slid into her chair and relaxed her legs so that they fell open slightly. Enough so 

that he could stare at her bare pussy (per his instructions) while they watched 

Goodfellas and marveled at the genius of Martin Scorsese’s play on light and dark in 

the film. The light of the film projector reflected off of her perfectly. 

And so it began. Every Thursday from 6-9 pm she’d sit in class and explore the way his 

khakis hugged his ass and the curve of his cock underneath the stiff fabric. She’d press 

her thighs together when he turned his back to her, stretching his long, muscle-roped 

arms to write something on the board. Then she’d run home and check her email to 

prepare for his next request and come hard while her fingers were buried deep inside 

and her right nipple was painfully pinched between her teeth. 


He showed absolutely no mercy. And the day that he walked into class and she 

wasn’t sitting in the seat that he’d requested she sit in the night before, he brought ‘no 

mercy’ to a whole new level. 

She was running late for class and when she walked into the room, she noticed that 

someone was sitting in her seat. Her heart stopped for a second and she nervously 

glanced at his desk to make sure he wasn’t watching. To her relief, he hadn’t yet 

arrived, which gave her some time to remedy the situation. 

“Uh, excuse me? Hi. I think you’re sitting in my seat.” 

“There aren’t any more seats and I can’t sit in 

the back again,” said the skinny blond. ‘I have 

a hard time hearing.” 

She looked in the direction that blondie was 

pointing and saw a seat in the back left corner 

of the room. Her heart raced. She didn’t have 

much of a choice and when she heard him 

enter the room behind her, she quickly slipped 

to the back and slid into the seat. 

The good professor moved to his desk without 

making eye contact with anyone. He dropped 

his briefcase and the loud thump made her clit 

throb. He immediately turned toward the front 

of the room, grabbed the chalk and wrote the 

following words on the board: "Desire followed 

the glance, pleasure followed desire." 

She actually thought her heart might stop 

beating right then and there. 

“How far is one willing to go for the person they 

desire?” he asked. He turned and let his gaze 

travel slowly across the room, as if he was trying 

Stig by Johnny “Fawkin’” Bagels 

to capture everyone’s attention. When he 

finally reached her, there was a flicker of 

something in his eyes that she couldn’t place. 

“In 1870, Leopold von Sacher Masoch introduced Venus in Furs to the world,” he said. 

“This was the first time that Masochism would be openly explored. In fact, the word 

Masochism is derived from the author’s name. But as you know, the release of this 

classic work was not without its consequences.” 


She felt her skin grow hot, like a fever slowly building. She licked her parched lips and 

begged him with her eyes to stop staring at her. If she could’ve yelled out and rushed 

to kneel before him, she would have. 

“Though nothing could ever capture the essence of Masoch’s groundbreaking novel, 

there was an attempt made in 1969 by director Jesus Franco. Let’s take a look at a 

cinematic interpretation of the book and discuss, shall we? 

It was as if he was taunting her and as he turned on the projector and dimmed the 

lights, she swore she’d heard the word ‘submit’ whispered. To her dismay, he decided 

to sit facing the class. It was dark so while everyone was engaged in the images that 

danced across the screen, she could feel his eyes on her. She’d disobeyed and he 

was punishing her without even touching her. How was that possible? Each second felt 

unbearable upon her skin and she finally decided that she could take no more. 

She grabbed her belongings and quickly made her way to the door, acutely aware of 

the fact that he was following close behind her. As she made her way into the 

hallway, she felt his hand close around her neck and she gasped in surprise. His actions 

forced her to stop and turn just as he pushed her against the wall. 

“Now Ms. McKinney. What’s the hurry? Did I upset you or did you finally realize that you 

disobeyed a direct order?” 

His features were harsh and she couldn’t help but notice that his hand grew tighter 

around her neck as she stared into his dark eyes. 

“Sir, I am so sorry. I did not mean to disobey your orders. Someone was in my seat 

when I got here and I had no choice but to choose another one.” 

She felt her eyes bulge as he squeezed tighter and a little trickle of spit leaked from the 

corner of her mouth. His eyes immediately darted to that spot and almost instinctively, 

he licked at the droplet. And then he let go. 

“Well Ms McKinney. I guess we’ll have to figure 

out a way for you not to make the same mistake 

again, hmm? What do you think should be 

done?’ 

“I think he who lets itself whip, earned to be 

whipped," she whispered. 

“Very good, pet,” he whispered back. She could 

see his eyes light up and his pupils dilate into 

thick circles. 


The air around them grew still and she noticed that he’d tensed his jaw again so that 

she could see the muscle and bone flexing beneath the skin. His eyes bore through her 

and for a second, she thought she’d seen a darkness that frightened her just enough 

to excite her. 

Without a word, he moved in close and she thought he would kiss her but he didn’t. 

And as he walked back into the classroom, she was left standing in the hallway, 

confused, scared and intensely turned on. What just happened? Should she return to 

the classroom or walk away and risk the consequences? With a smile, she turned away 

from the door, deciding that this would be a good time to check her email to find out 

what those consequences might bring. She was sure she’d made things worse. But 

somehow, she thought Masoch would be proud. 

Happy Fucking Piece of Shit Birthday: Yeah, I fucking saved it anyway 

by Calliope 

✝$€ 

✝$€ 


Eat Shit 

By Johnny “Fawkin’” Bagels 




✝$€ 


Café of Wrath Menu 

By Gumbo the Wonder Dog 

✝$€ 


A Raging Rage Boner 

By Tage Savage 

I 

f one were to ask me whether I was 

a misogynist or not would depend 

on the mood I was in. If it had been 

the day I got my first blowjob or any 

other day that I had felt some form of 

feminine touch on my manhood, I'd 

have said no. Most other days, I would 

gladly say yes. Cunt-hatred feels good 

most other days. 

I've thought to myself about a lot of 

women "if she didn't have a pussy, 

there would be no reason to be nice 

to her." Sexual frustration isn't just frustrating, it hurts. It's a simmering kind of pain, a simmering 

kind of anger that can boil over onto the unsuspecting, if there's no release for it. It's how I 

became such an avid runner at one point. It's why I've have to make music, doodle, or write. 

It's why I need a creative outlet. 

If I don't I'll spew anger jizz on people that don't necessarily deserve it. Like the middle-aged 

lesbian that tried to tell me 'nicely' where I could smoke. Or the fat wigger at my old catering 

job who was complaining about how he had to walk a block to the teriyaki place next to our 

kitchen due to our van blocking all the good parking places. Or that faggot with the lisp that 

honked at me off on my bike in his van. In the wigger's defense it was kind of a hot day, me 

making fun of his tubby-homeboy-shuffle was just me projecting my own body-image issues. 

And I did make fun of that guy's lisp because I knew I was in the wrong for not signaling while 

riding my bike (still though, is pronouncing an 's' sound really that hard? It's called speech 

therapy, retard.) And when I exploded at the lesbian for telling me where to smoke she asked 

me "Don't you want a better world?" I couldn't think of a good retort so I just screamed "NO!" 

The real answer to that question is a bit more complex. I really think she wanted the 

satisfaction of telling me what to do, but as high on anger as I was, all I could muster was "YOU 

JUST WANT CONTROL!" 

I am a chimpanzee in a bonobo world. That's the control I couldn't quite articulate to the old 

dyke. The control I felt she wanted was the 'better' bonobo world is a world run by the pussybumpers, 

a world of docile, submissive males who don't complain as long as they get to fuck 

each other as male bonobo's are want to do. A better world is a world of faggot-people. 

Unlike the old chimp world, run by the roving hairy hard-men who keep their women and turf 

free from rival chimps. And yes, I wrote THEIR women—years of social evolution has favored 

the physically strong males over the physically weak women- a patriarchy, and 'Patriarchy' as I 

understand it. 

Who are the faggot people? Any male worth his weight in testosterone has either been called 

or called others "faggots" or "pussies." It's like a premonition—in a world without women, say a 

desert island or prison, someone is going to end up the bitch. It's up to the proud heterosexual 


to prove to his peers that he can rise above it when the 

term is applied to him. He has to prove that he's not the 

bitch. 

There was this random dude at my Catholic High 

School that for some reason I started calling 'sex 

goddess.' Mind you, this fellow could never pass for 

feminine, let alone a goddess. It was just funny to me to 

call a random guy "sex goddess" but I didn't have 

“It was just funny 

to me to call a 

random guy ‘sex 

goddess.’” 

anything against him, or hate him. He had done nothing to me. He didn't deserve the insult, 

but the emotional sadist that I was, I enjoyed how irate he got whenever I lobbed the term his 

way. He HAD to prove that he wasn't and so used some karate move on me that didn't even 

leave a bruise before a school counselor broke it up. I wasn't angry, I got the point and 

respected his self-assertion- but I don't remember if I stopped calling him by that name. It's a 

matter of pride to never be the bitch. 

I had to learn my place as a young man. I had to learn to be a chimp. Wrong or right, my 

friends tended to be more Alex DeLarge than Elliot Smith. My belief is that it is that way 

naturally, be it a street gang, sports team, a skate crew, a band, a football firm, or work crew, 

male dynamics work more or less the same: there's always an Alex, a Pete, a Georgie, and a 

Dim, and other archetypes too, like the Joker, the Brain, the Vet. There's always an Alpha 

(Alex, John Lennon, Robin Van Persie.) A second in command, (Georgie, Paul McCartney, 

Scottie Pippen.) A thick bruiser (Dim, Kevin Duckworth, Art Donovan.) A quiet but capable one 

(Pete, George Harrison, Troy Perkins.) A Joker (Ringo, Mugger, also Rollie Fingers just for the 

name and even more for the mustache.) A brainiac (Brian Eno when he was still in Roxy Music, 

Barry Horowitz from 'Bad Boys,' my friend Gunnar). A Vet (Alex at the end of the book, Nate 

McMillan, Captain Benjamin L. Willard.) As a male you learn to be all or some combination(s) 

of these archetypes- as tall as he is, Arsenal defender Per Mertesacker could fall under the 

bruiser category, but I wouldn't quite call him 'dim'; Arvydas Sabonis certainly wasn't. Yogi 

Berra could also be categorized as 

either "Quiet/Capable," the Joker, or 

the Brainiac. As for myself, at my best I 

was some combination of the Joker 

and the Brainiac. 

One archetype you don't want to end 

up as is the bitch, the pussy, the 

faggot (Sol Rosenburg from the Jerky 

Boys, Donny the Punk from "Answer Me 

#4: the Rape Issue,” this "Straight Edge 

For Christ" guy I knew at Community 

College who called himself “Hardcore 

Phil”) I've been the pussy, anyone who 

isn't naturally Alpha is at one point. 

You have to learn to not be Donny the 

Punk. You can pass it off as macho 

bullshit, but the reality is as cold and 

hard and painful as the rocks that the 

bigger kids threw at me when I was six. 


I've met Donny the Punk on many different 

occasions. Here on the west coast, fellows 

are encouraged by their Hippy Mama's 

and Gender Studies professors to be him. 

And what with beards being a la mode 

nowadays, they even look like pussies. It's 

not necessarily wrong, it's just frustrating 

when you've learned to be some form of 

the opposite. I don't care for any man who 

hasn't feared for his personal safety, 

anyone who has never been discouraged 

from faggotry by a swift slug to the forearm, 

or anyone who didn't have an angry, 

alcoholic, or absent (either physically or 

emotionally) dad. Win or lose, you have to 

get into a fight at least once in your life for 

me to respect you. Women will respect you 

even less if you haven't had enough 

faggotry beaten out of you. 

I would never call 

myself a feminist. I 

don't have any 

good reasons to. 

I've been lied to, 

cheated on, 

insulted, patronized, 

demonized, 

betrayed, and 

manipulated by women, why the fuck 

should I care about them or their issues? I'm 

definitely pro-ABORTION (not pro-choice) 

more because I distrust humanity more 

than I care that women have choice (even 

though they should either way.) Though I 

am wont to agree with the theory, I'll leave 

the abortion/crime reduction debate to the 

economists. What I do know is that living 

among the pale-skinned meth miners, and 

morbidly obese diarrhea people of East 

Portland you can't help but agree that 

abortion is great for society. 

I don't mind that women want to have the 

same types of jobs that pay the same 

salaries and wages—as men—that seems 

fair. Equal pay for equal work. No argument 

there. A lot of times women do it better. 

They care about things that wouldn't even 

“Catholic Church had 

told me about sin and 

sexuality was complete 

horse shit.” 

merit a sigh from me. Most perfectionists 

I've known in the workplace were female. 

So at least in my humble opinion, they 

make better employees and perhaps 

deserve better pay. 

Are you with us or against? Kinda both, if I 

were to be honest. Why does such a line 

need to be drawn in the first place? It might 

just be me drawing the line. Maybe I'm just 

ill informed, but I haven't had many positive 

experiences to draw from. 

By the time I was 13 I had pretty much 

decided that everything that the Catholic 

Church had told me about sin and sexuality 

was complete horse shit. Bumpy women in 

skimpy one-piece thongs looked a lot 

better than the shame I felt for the dying 

man on the cross. 

But in the 

scandalous days 

post-Clarence 

Thomas and Bob 

Packwood, and 

that guy who got 

kicked out of "Real 

World; LA," I would 

be blindsided not by 

religious shame but 

secular. 

It was around this time that I had made my 

first friend—a girl who lived in my 

neighborhood. It was nice hanging out with 

a girl that didn't tease or put me down for 

being the grody fat kid that I saw myself as. 

And we could talk about anything, it was 

safe and more fulfilling than any friendship I 

have had since. I was Kevin Arnold and she 

was Winnie Cooper—for a while. 

I don't remember exactly what I did to 

make her mad, but somewhere in the 

pubescent sexual tension that was our 

friendship, we had a fallout. I learned the 

hard way that 13-year-old girls are fucking 

insane. She accused me of 

sexual harassment.

The accusation was compounded by the fact that her father was a cop. Somehow she got it 

into her head that I had tried to rape her. To be fair, we had "you show me yours-I’ll show you 

mine" type games and the both of us would watch scrambled pay-per-view porn on 

analogue cable for the moans and moments that the picture would clear and we could 

make out what was happening. I was never that aggressive though. 

"DID YOU TOUCH HER?!" Having an angry police officer yelling in your face is scary enough; 

one could imagine how terrifying it was at that age. I actually did touch her. She loved it when 

I would do my impressions of Buddy from "The Kids in The Hall." I would act gay and lay my 

hand on her leg whenever I would come up with a "you know what I mean, girlfriend" quip. 

She got off on it. 


But the incident she had described to her father was much more serious, and one that I still 

have no recollection of. She claimed that at one point I attempted to rape her. I probably did 

get a little too close and a little too rough—but I would never hurt her. I was simply a horny 13year-old 

boy. 

Word spread throughout the neighborhood and even the adults that should have known 

better looked at me like I was a predator. It was a bit terrifying and overwhelming to say the 

least. It hurt, I wasn't a criminal or a hoodlum, I was a nice kid. I have always been a weirdo, I 

mean really, what straight 13-year-old boys do impressions of Buddy from "Kids/Hall"? But for 

the most part I was a decent kid, I always respected her and didn't deserve the ire that was 

directed at me. 

The drama blew over and we became make-out buddies, but 14-year-old girls aren't much 

saner than their year-younger selves. Starting high school a year ahead of me meant a new 

boyfriend who she didn't tell me about. I didn't know it was over until she tricked me into a 

fight with her new beau and his friend. It wasn't really a fight. They just yelled and posed and 

threw my skateboard across the street and told me that she was his now. There was no 

bloodshed but it still hurt. (She also let my cuter cousin finger-bang her when we were still 

going steady.) 

Understandably, these experiences shaped a view of women and dating that isn't all that 

positive. As fun as they are to look at, it was always safest to remember that women are crazy, 

manipulative, scary and overall not really to be trusted. I tell this middle-school tale of woe to 

friends, they tell me it was a long time ago, but this idea was formed at a time when the brain 

matter is still developing, hence it has been festering in my sub-consciousness and has been 

cock-blocking me all my life. 

I think it's weird when men call themselves 'feminists'. I could never call myself that, not 

because I'm male, but because the impression I get from that ideology is that my evolutionary 

quest for biological affirmation (i.e. muff) is something to be either to be feared (Andrea "All 

Sex Is Rape" Dworkin) or something to be taken advantage of (Camille Paglia). Honestly, I've 

never read either Dworkin or Paglia so my simplification of their philosophies isn't fair, but with 

so many ugly dykes adamantly against my favorite hobby, jerking off to porn, I have no 

sympathy for their cause. 

Though heterosexual feminists may say they like "caring and nurturing" types (see 'pussies'), but 

they really don't respect them. What I find most satisfying is scoring flirtation from a feminist 

whose bearded boyfriend/fuck buddy/friend-boy/male peon calls himself by that same 

name. It's funny watching the looks on their faces, the simmering jealousy and resentment, but 

too stuck in an ideology to acknowledge their true feelings. It IS actually is a woman 

mistreating them. Now you feel what I feel, and that makes me feel good. 

Me: (petting heavily) "What's he so mad about? Is he your 

boyfriend?" 

The Mistress: "Oh No. He's a privileged white male, he's got nothing to 

be angry about" 

Yeah, it happened. 


This is not to imply that female feminists are 

all scandalous cunts, rather Feminism can 

be used as a convenient ideology that 

scandalous cunts may use to justify their 

abuse of anyone with a dick. I didn't end 

up fucking her—my apartment was too 

messy to invite anyone over (I'm a 

caveman, it's true), and she was staying 

with Puss-pants so I slept alone that night. 

The encounter confirmed what I already 

believed, biology trumps ideology. 

Just as I feel that Hustler magazine is a more 

interesting read than the Bible, so too are 

women attracted to fellows that don't act 

like complete Faggots. I have been asked 

by flirty women if I was a feminist, my best 

answer has always been along the lines of 

"Yeah, sure baby" making sure that I 

emphasize my lone dimple while smiling, 

maybe rub their back or leg at the same 

time—she'll be too moist to find the answer 

objectionable. If she doesn't she's a lost 

cause and I move along to something 

kinder and gentler, and less ideologically 

demanding. 

I resent feminism for the fact that despite all 

their encouragement to act kinder and 

nurturing there is a certain way to be/act in 

order to attract a female. It's not so much 

that young men can't be kind, as it is that 

they must be active, rather than passive. I 

remember hearing some PSA on PBS or 

Nickelodeon or whatever it was on, it was a 

'Tip For Teens' about dating and whatnot. 

The gist of the message was that it was 

okay for teenage girls to "ask out" boys. I 

was dumb enough to believe that girls 

would come my way just by virtue of 

hearing that message; the way I 

interpreted it (quite logically) was that I 

didn't have to be the one in pursuit and 

having the experiences and emotional 

outlook on life that I did, I needed any 

excuse to not pursue. 

I wish I had had a kind older brother to say 

to me straight "YOU have to be the pursuer! 

THEY are going to expect you to be that. I 

know it sucks. It's embarrassing and 

degrading and awkward, and you will fail 

more than you succeed, but if you WANT 

pussy you have to jump those hoops. DON'T 

listen to well-intended middle-aged bitches 

who have never had a dick, they DON'T 

know what they're talking about. Quit 

acting like a FAGGOT and get some 

PUSSY!" I probably did get that message, 

but didn't want to believe it. I wanted to 

believe that all those bra burners had 

changed the rules, they didn't. Muff is still a 

prize to be sought after and won. 

Maybe there's more I need to read on the 

subject. But the message I've gotten about 

Feminism has done the exact opposite to 

spur my interest. Every college campus has 

at least one "Take Back The Night" festivalthingy, 

even my alma mater held one. 

Maybe I lie when I say I've never been 

offended. The closest I've come was at that 

gathering in the Park Blocks of Portland 

State University. They had a table for the 

menfolk called "Register Your Penis" as if 

registering a gun. It was supposed to be a 

cute way for all the 'enlightened' and 

bearded fixie riders to show solidarity. I was 

implored by female friends to sign up. I 

refused. My dick isn't a gun. It is an 

appendage that I use to expel liquid waste 

and splazz. It is a tool of love, not a weapon 

of violence. 

I refused not because I'm all for rape, but 

because the message I got from the whole 

thing was that because I have a dong, I 

was probably a rapist. I am not a rapist; I'm 

not even a potential rapist. The thought of 

penetrating someone by force does not 

make my dick hard. I didn't find the 

"Register Your Penis" table in the least bit 

cute. I'll admit, it was funny to me, but not 

for the reasons the young Gender Studies 

majors had intended. I probably wasn't the 

only dude with a dick feeling a bit resentful 

that I was looked at with such suspicion.

And if the whole "Take Back The Night" festival is anti-rape, why not an anti-MURDER fest? Then 

again, I'm not sure if I'd prefer either to happen to me if I HAD to choose, but the point still 

stands. Rape, like abortion, murder, war, and genocide, is an unfortunate reoccurring human 

phenomenon. As long as there are human beings, a certain percentage of that population 

will commit unfortunate acts of violence. But one thing is for sure; I'm not in their number.

I enjoy the female form. I'm a pervert and a lecher. I love a good piece of ass. I've enjoyed 

the T&A as long as I've been old enough to get a boner. I can even remember having lesbian 

fantasies at age 4. "Wouldn't it be great to have two mommies to touch my pee pee?" (For 

real. No joke.) For the most part hips, lips, and tits are great eye candy—but they have never 

been rape candy. In order to successfully get off, I need that extra ego caress that can only 

be got through mutual consent. I know how to restrain myself; I take mental pictures of the 

bouncy buoyant persons and save the data for a late night jerk off session. This is what men 

who aren't psychopathic do. A gentleman can restrain himself, a psychopath cannot. Rallies 

and railing against rape, are as useless as rallies against murder. Men aren't the problem, men 

without empathy are. 

I have a friend who was raped late at night by some random transient while at college in 

Eugene. Before calling the cops, she and her male friends formed a mini-lynch mob and 

hunted him down and beat the shit out of him. She described the guy taking the beating in 

dead-eyed stride, unflinching in the face 

“A psychopath wouldn't 

mind registering his dick. 

He'd say everything those 

empowered women 

would want to hear….” 

of his punishment before the cops came 

to take him away. I can't really say if all 

rapists are psychopaths, but one would 

have to have a special kind of screw 

loose to get off on such an act. 

A psychopath wouldn't mind registering 

his dick. He'd say everything those 

empowered women would want to hear 

before inviting them out for drinks. Once 

he got them drunk and alone, the sheep's 

clothing would come off. I'd put money down that some similar scenario happened that same 

night at PSU, or if not there than at any number of college campuses across the county. And it 

will probably happen again, rendering the whole "TBTN" message completely useless. 

And if a majority of rapes are committed by people the victims know, then perhaps women 

need a better douchebag detector. I myself have been labeled as such because for the most 

part, I prefer the shape of a woman's asses to her personality. I'm honest about it, my honesty 

has not won me all that many slumber parties, but at least they know where I 

stood. Successful manipulators aren't going to be as forthcoming. Cover up or don't, the Ted 

Bundy's of the world are going to get at you no matter what you are wearing, or how many 

"consciousness raising events" you attend. 

Sometimes in fits of sexually frustrated, rage, I did wish that I were a rapist. But I could never do 

it. Not only could I not handle the shame, I couldn't actually go through with it either no matter 

how hard up I was. It seems like it would be like killing an animal, I've had many an aging pet 

that needed putting out of its misery, but I just didn't have it in me to stop their suffering. I can 

talk shit and scream all day long and throw insults back and forth at people I don't respect, 

but for the most part I'm not violent. 

The most I came to actually committing a rape was meekly asking my High School Crush and 

best friend-girl if I could lick her asshole. I didn't want anything else, I just wanted analingus. She 

explained how awkward and gross it would be and that it would probably ruin our friendship. 

Of course I felt like a creep for asking—but even without the tossed salad, our friendship was 

still pretty much ruined anyway. 


One of the theories I read somewhere about the origin of patriarchy is that somewhere along 

the line, men didn't know about the birds and the bees. "Anthropological evidence suggests 

that most prehistoric hunter-gatherer societies were relatively egalitarian, and that patriarchal 

social structures did not develop until many years after the end of the Pleistocene era, 

following social and technological innovations such as agriculture and domestication. 

However, according to Robert M. Strozier, historical research has not yet found a specific 

"initiating event". Some scholars point to about six thousand years ago (4000 BCE), when the 

concept of fatherhood took root," At the beginning of Agricultural Revolution, there was a kind 

of coup d'etat de bitte once he observed from domesticated animals that humping resulted 

in offspring, thus we get patriarchy. 1 

I understand that humans are actually more closely related to bonobo's, but why does human 

behavior throughout history been more chimpanzee like? My theory is that some prehistoric, 

bonobo Alex Delarge decided he did not want to be pushed around by the matriarchs of his 

herd. The monkey with a bone at the beginning of "2001: A Space Odyssey" didn't stop at 

beating down his rivals. The power must have been enticing; I think Bone-Monkey used his new 

weapon to get all the monkey ass he wanted—both male and female. After that, generations 

of Alex Delarge made everyone put out or get their heads bashed in. The only survivors would 

have been the ones that didn't mind being submissive and were rewarded in kind- they 

became the penetratees, while Father "I'm going to have rape for dinner" McMonkey's 

penetrator y-chromosome was in every male proto-human thereafter, paving the way for his 

Pete, Georgie, Dim etc. sons and nephews. 

Most of the women I know and hath known prefer being the penetratee rather than the 

penetrator. Indeed, I heard once on NPR that brain scans reveal that women are turned on by 

being attractive rather than by being attracted—something along those lines. Even if my 

description of the information is 100% accurate, ideologues will find some reason to discredit it 

as biased or wrong in some way, but I'm not going to complain that some ladies enjoy offering 

their bodies to me. 

Eventually things got better for those poor post-bonobo/proto humans, inter-gender relations 

got better and they could base their relationships on love rather than violence. But the 

damage had been done. Even if somewhere in our history, nice guys like me (and lesbians) 

could avoid the sting of a club to the head, they were still hard-wired to fuck and not get 

fucked. In the meantime the lady proto-humans preferred the opposite, and both have been 

selecting those respective traits ever since. 

I don't buy that it took until the Agricultural revolution for male humans to figure out "where 

babies come from." This theory is an insult to the intelligence of hunter-gatherer societies. There 

may have never been a noun "father," but they probably did have a verb "to father." 

Postulating where 'Patriarchy' starts in human history is irrelevant at this point. What we do 

know from evolution is that the strong overcome the weak, the clever overcome the strong, 

and also, and most importantly in the span of Human existence, the psychopathic dominate 

any who are neither. 

✝$€ 

1 Go ahead. Wikipedia "Patriarchy.” Yeah, so what if it's Wikipedia? Use it to prove me wrong later.)

The Sin 'Zine-#5-Wrath - Middlespace

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