“Justin Bieber’s Guide to Lesbian Dating”
by Isa Hopkins, editor-at-large

It’s a familiar pop culture observation by now, memorialized in a Tumblr blog that will — surely — make its way into book form any day: there are dozens (hundreds?) of lesbians in America who look like Justin Bieber.  Angelically featured and with the same sideswept haircut made famously cool by this teen idol, some of these young women have even had the police called on them while out at bars.  In case after case of mistaken identity, they find themselves explaining that they are not, in fact, sixteen-year-old boys with androgynous coiffures and YouTube-record-holding music videos, but rather twentysomething women who are legally allowed to consume alcohol.

Perhaps in an effort not to alienate his fan base, comprised primarily of young girls whose sexuality is yet nascent, Bieber has commented little on this phenomenon.  This is a wise move; the truth would assuredly send teenyboppers into a tailspin of confusion and despair, for if twentysomething lesbians look uncannily like Justin Bieber, than the inverse is also true: Justin Bieber is easily mistaken for a twentysomething lesbian.  And as it turns out, he has capitalized mightily on this fact.

For every unnecessary call to the police about a Bieber-esque woman at a bar, there are dozens more incidents which remain unreported — odds that any gambler would take.  Bieber is, it turns out, a canny gambler.

“I go into these dyke bars,” says the precocious singing sensation.  “These girls, they tell me I look like Justin Bieber.  It’s a great conversation starter.  I use different names, place to place, liquor them up with the good stuff.  Damn, those bitches let me do things that none of my fans would ever be cool with.”

Bieber snorts a line of cocaine off the wood-polished bar table before continuing; his bodyguard quickly cuts another.

“That’s the thing with these teenage girls,” he says.  “They adore me, which is great, and they’ll, like, blow me, which is pretty good too.  But they’re all concerned about their virginity and shit.  I’m never getting anywhere with those chicks — I mean, sure, some titty-flashing and getting sucked off everywhere I go is nice and all, but let’s be real: the Bieb is all about the pussy.”  He rubs his nose and leans back, and another bodyguard begins to rub his shoulders.  “I can show you, if you want.”

Bieber is, at this moment, “on vacation,” not touring or in the studio.  He has sent his mother on a week-long trip to a villa in the south of France (“I get her off my back all the time — dangle something shiny in front of her and that bitch is gone”), his father is not a part of his life, and his publicist is passed out in a corner.

“She’s easy,” he says of the publicist.  “Same shit I always do.  T-Bone cuts a line of Valium, tells her it’s coke, she goes for it.  Every time.”  He high-fives T-Bone, the bodyguard who manages Bieber’s drugs.  “Dealers, payments, the cops — this dude, man, he deals with all of it.  This motherfucker is a champ.”  There is a pause.  “Unfortunately, he can’t come into the dyke clubs with me.  It’d be fun, but it’d tip ‘em off.  I gotta buy him hookers instead.”

Bieber’s venue of choice for this evening is a dive bar by the name of the Bearded Clam; T-Bone provides him with a fake ID, claiming he is a twenty-three-year-old resident of McAllen, Texas, by the name of Rachel Wyatt.  “Lesbians love nicknames,” he says with authority, scrutinizing the ID.  “Something I’ve figured out.  I think Rachel’s nickname tonight is… hmmm.”  Another pause, and T-Bone chimes in: “Digger?”

Bieber smiles.  “Fuck yeah, Digger!  That shit is a straight-up panty-dropper for a lez.”  He high-fives T-Bone once again and throws an arm around his massive shoulders.  “This guy, right here, this guy is my right-hand man.  How many whores you want tonight, T?”

*

As Rachel Wyatt, Bieber enters the bar without issue and promptly sets his sights on two attractive, tough-looking blondes in a corner.  He saunters up to them confidently, extends a hand in greeting, and motions for the bartender.

“One shot of Patron,” he guesses, eyeing the girl on the right, who nods and smiles delightedly before he turns to her friend.  “And for you — Johnny Walker black label, neat.”  Another nod of approval.  “Oh, and a Blue Moon for me.”  (Bieber later explains his strategy: “Getting them shots seems generous, and when I stick with beer, it’s non-threatening.  Women are so fucking predictable, man.  And Blue Moon tastes like piss.”)

“Good guess,” one of the girls volunteers, and Bieber smiles and shrugs.  He is cute and friendly; it is easy to discern why legions of teenage girls have fallen for him.

“You know, you look just like that singer — what’s his name?”

Bieber rolls his eyes; the performance is masterful.  “Justin Bieber,” he says, his voice softer than it was earlier, as he snorted coke with T-Bone.  “I get that all the time.”  He shakes both of their hands, introducing himself.  “I’m Rachel, but everybody calls me Digger.”  The girls grin and are putty in his hands before they’ve even had a sip of alcohol.

Bieber is attentive to them for the better part of an hour, escaping only briefly, to use the bathroom and place bets.  (“I’ve got a lot of money riding on dog-racing and midget-tossing.  Plus a cockfight up against Nick Jonas — whoever picks the winner gets to take a shit on the other.”)  He buys shot after shot, letting his new friends talk about themselves as they grow drunker and drunker.  Soon, it’s time to leave the bar.

“You can come watch, if you want,” he says, an arm around each girl, but I cannot bring myself to accept the offer.

“Well then,” says Bieber, hailing a cab.  “I’ll just tell you what I’m gonna do.  I’m gonna take these ladies to a fineass hotel, and I’m gonna suck on their titties, and I’m gonna lick their cunts.  And then I’m gonna put on a strap-on” — he makes air-quotes around the word, unnoticed by his drunken lesbian conquests — “and I’m gonna fuck them until they can’t see straight.  In the pussy, in the ass, in the pussy again.”

One girl is giggling; another is rubbing her crotch against Bieber’s hip.  He turns away slightly, lest she notice that his “strap-on” is less artificial than biological.

“Only one rule, ladies,” he says, addressing them now, serious but still effeminately voiced.  “Nobody wears the strap-on except for me.  OK?”

There are giggles; one of the girls musses his hair.  “I knew you were an alpha dyke, Digger,” she slurs as a cab pulls up to the curb.  “Can I put it in my mouth?”

“We’ll just have to see about that,” says Bieber, grinning and muscling the girls into the cab.  He takes a moment to give me the thumbs-up as the car pulls away.

Two hours later I get a picture message, pornographic enough to make Brett Favre blush.  Bieber clearly snapped the photo mid-coitus, both girls bent down in front of him.  There is a caption, apparently thumb-typed during the act: “Gotta get em from bind so they dont c its REAL! haha suck it teenyboppers!”

*

The next day Bieber’s publicist is present, apologetic for missing our meeting last night (“unexpected illness” is blamed) and controlling the responses of her young charge.

“Justin is a role model for young men everywhere,” she says, and sitting behind her Bieber raises two fingers to his mouth in a v-shape, waggling his tongue between them in a symbol of cunnilingus.  “He has tremendous respect for women, for music, for his parents, for all his fans.”  The conversation goes on like this for twenty minutes before she apologizes to run to the bathroom.

“T-Bone’s got some coke in there,” Bieber explains as soon as she is gone.  “Or, I mean, Valium, but, same difference.  She runs for the drugs.  Dumb bitch.”

How did the bets turn out last night?  Bieber perks up.

“I won ten grand on the midget toss.  And guess who’s gonna eat Indian food for a week so he can shit all over Nick Jonas?”  Bieber points at himself with both thumbs.  “This guy.”

So, I say, your cock won the fight?

“Listen.”  Bieber leans in.  “If there’s one thing to know about the Bieb, it’s that my cock always wins.”

“Priss Miss”
by Mike Berger, PhD

The glance down her nose was a
mile-long. Her face was made of
stone; she was as warm as a
penguin in an arctic gale.

She looked like she had just
stepped from the window of a
clothing shop. She stayed in
recess; frolicking was beneath
her dignity.

Hair was always pulled back in
a tight bun; not a strand was out
of place. You didn’t want to cross
her; she would bore holes in you
with her steely eyes.

In high school she got straight A’s
she was the valedictorian, but guys
steered clear of her. We took bets
on how long it would take to get a
girl in the back seat. With Priss
Miss no one ever tried.

I went off to school but returned
for my five year reunion. When I
saw her my jaw dropped to my
bellybutton. Her long brown hair
hung around her shoulders, and
she was dressed in a slinky black
dress; surrounded by a half dozen
guys.

She left the group and came straight
to me. She asked me to sit with her.
A deep smile filled her face as she
explained that she was looking forward
to seeing me. She told me that she didn’t
how to tell me, but she always had the
hots for me.

“A Shitty Day in the Life”
by Michael Frissore

I shit my pants today, oh boy.
Thought I had to fart, but I was wrong.
Now I don’t know what I should do.
Should I just throw them out?
Or stand above the sink for half an hour
with a rag and Shout®?

“The Fishmonger’s Price”
by Errid Farland

My dear, I have missed you, come look at my presents, I kept them to bring here for you all alone.  With the moon full and hairy, but sweet like a cherry, I snatched them from there just for you, here at home.

You are full on crazy, made up, such a fraud, with a seam down your middle and a cup
for a cod.  Piece.

Oh how you wound me, I honorably seek thee, yes, you my beloved, sweet honeysuckle vine.  I am yours for the taking, for the molding and making, I’m yours for the using, give your fullness to me.

There’s a frog at your feet, one with big legs, there are fish in your fingers, which ones did you eat?

I have eaten the fair one, the maiden who’s pretty, she’s really no maiden, I happen to know.  Once at her table, and this is no fable, just once at her table, on her feast I have dined.

Shhh, they will hear you, you cannot be trusted with your mask to conceal all the things you have known.

I’ve a taste for a tuna, one that flops, one that squirms, and I know where you hide it, oh, please let me see.  Give me fish, give me fish, give me fish, I am begging, give me fish, give me fish, from your vast, juicy sea.

What is it you caught, then?  What is it you juggle?  More fish, more fish, is it ever enough?

I sailed the wide ocean, I sailed on a clipper, I crossed the broad waters on bridges and stones.  I ate of the bounty, you cannot blame me, I ate of the bounty of salmon and roe.  But none can sustain me, none satisfy, only you, my dear princess, your flavor divine.

Off with you now, you’re mad as a hatter, and speaking of that what a hat! You’re porcine.

Don’t send me away, oh my dear, oh my mistress, you hawk you wares proudly, now give some to me.  I’ll gobble you up, I’ll taste your salt waters, I’ll cast out the bones, OH! the sheer ecstasy.  I’ll bring you to know it, the cause of my madness, I’ll bring you to share in this pleasure so free.

You think you’re a charmer, you think you can win me then cast me aside?  If wares I am selling, then you’d best be paying, and my price, I can tell you, is very, quite steep.

I’ve got, see, these presents, these grand, foreign presents, I’ve brought you these presents, now give me a peek.  I’ll taste, touch, and smell you, I’ll nibble and pinch you, I’ll lick and I’ll swallow, make you weak in the knees.

A ring, did you bring me, a gold band to win me, for that is my price, pay it full or let be.

My love, you’re a mean one, a costly and keen one, you know I will pay it, I’ll meet your high fee.  In exchange for this bondage, on Friday, each Friday, you’ll stuff me with fish, with your fish, and sweet tea?

We’ve struck, then, a bargain, you nutty, life dancer.  You’ll dance to my tunes and we’ll make melody.

“Cockroaches”
by Lee Rorman

let us assume a 2 hour
nuclear war ended
just now &

let us assume we
are cockroaches awaking
from our slumber

rubbing our tiny
eyes & leaving a
path of shit

to the coffee maker
and pouring a cup of
joe before we

carpool  to work
in the Benson’s
cupboard

let’s assume our
day was same old
same old

“First Poem of My Rebellion”
by Max West

I’m in a state of rebellion.
The practiced faces of the street challenge me
With their static, statuesque eyes,
Scraping shallow sentences between stiff lips,
Leaving behind largely an indention
Of stoic memorial posturings.

They challenge me
Because they do not encourage
The difference I feel.

My rebellion extends
To unyielding lanes on the freeway,
The unflinching moods
In elevators,
And the courteous smiles
Of those who despise me.

I’m tired of all the buying
I was unaware of sellingBut I’m aware now,
And that is my rebellion.

Forgive me
For I have inherited a terrible crime
And passed it on to you -
Forgive me
For I knew not what we did
While serving myself up, a vessel
For all the blood running through-
But I die for your sins, too,
Every time I am compromised for no reason
But hate of fear or worse still dispassion,
Die for your sins every moment
Compounded by every interest in our shared possession,
Die just like you die for mine.

And thus, the ridiculousness of competition.
Because I cannot be the only one who feels
The need for such rebellion.
I can’t be the only one who feels it

Riding around inside the wind, crying out
From the oppressive air my eyes find
As they trace the confines of courthouses
Jailhouses
Madhouses
With some unformed desire to redefine.

But changing the aesthetic makes little difference.
For we are not fighting people
Ideas
Or ideals
Beyond ourselves.
It is a rebellion of the individual
Against that part of itself
Which is not truly original.
Against that part we willingly or
Unwittingly accept and encourage
Every moment we let endure.

We have been complacent for far too long.
FUCK IT!
Scream something new from the rooftops
Or at least begin whispering it
From altitudes of yourselfIt’s ridiculous to obey an outdated code
Which has not altered
Despite all the changes around itAnd it is not only ridiculous,
It is a crime
Not to tread the path of transformation
When we have the arms, the pain,
The heart and the COUNTRY to do so.

Rise up, America!
We were born out of not following orders
But have forgotten beneath the weight of our own-
We have forgotten to question what we obey
Or why
And in this sense are no better
Than the worst Nazi fires
Lit with the consenting weight of empires
Of endless small talk or the hush
Of the religions of literature
Which have preceded us-

It’s simple and yet
The process of lifetimes
Is only to begin it-
Always beginning,
From here and a thousand years
In every direction.

Yes, I am in a state of rebellion.
Against that part of myself I have not chosen.
And, because of this, so are you.
Because the first premise
Of this rebellion
Is the beginning of non-resistance
Of intimacy with the fact that
Neither of us can know-
A separate truth.