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Quote of the Week
From a Dateline NBC interview with Bobby Brown, whom Whitney Houston accused of spousal battery: "Well, I’m not saying it was made up. It was just like, we play like that. We play slap box. That’s what we do. And you know, I guess one she just took it a little serious. And she’ll tell you the same thing.”


Political Headline of the Week

“Is Kerry Blowing It?”

[New York Observer]

Keeping Tabs

Evaluating this week’s tabloids by the simplest scientific method possible (a count of salacious keywords used in headlines), this week Star takes the hot-‘n’-horny crown, with In Touch a close second and People looking positively demure. Does this mean that the magazine which gave us Steven Cojocareu is the Paris Review of the checkout aisle?

  “Sexy” “Hot” “Cheating,” “affair,” etc.
In Touch
Us Weekly  

the News
In New York magazine, Daphne Merkin examines “The Paris Hilton Effect”: teenage girls have begun to make their own sex tapes; one of an NYC private-school student is making the rounds.

“It’s about time a transvestite potter won the Turner Prize,” says Grayson Perry, who won Britain’s top contemporary art award for his work, which depicts scenes of masturbation and pedophilia.


Sting claims that, contrary to long-standing rumor, he’s never had tantric sex and doesn’t even know what it is. Apparently, an interviewer misquoted him, and the fuckup self-perpetuated for years:

[“I said ‘frantic sex:’" Sting] (London Sunday Times)

At Hippie Hollow Park in Austin, Texas, a barge capsized when passengers rushed to one side, hoping to catch a glimpse of nude sunbathers on the shore:

[Barge with gawking partygoers capsizes] (CNN)

Not your average wedding dress for sale on eBay:

Crush of the Week


He sits in your kitchen in his work socks and clumsily strums his guitar, working late into the night while you lie sleeping. He’s hoping, as he shuffles about looking for a snack, that he’ll come up with that special song that’ll make everything good in the world and prove you right, you who have had faith in him and supported him for so many years. And then, finally, he does come up with just such a song, and that song isn’t about the moon or stars, but about you, about you believing in him.

Kenny Rogers has had a white beard his entire life. He is a lover with slow hands and an easy touch. Leave the oils to Conway Twitty; Kenny doesn’t need props to make you feel like a lady. After fixing everything in your house that’s broken, he lays you down on the bearskin rug. He’s calm and in control, which isn’t to say he can’t appreciate the perspiration on the small of your back, especially if you happen to be under forty, like all of his (so far) five wives. He, like love itself, is not boastful or proud. He never brags or yells at you. He adjusts his gold chain, looks you in the eye, and he just has one thing to say: that he loves you, he wants you, and he simply needs for you to know. And for that, he is our crush of the week. — Neal Medlyn

Close Your Eyes and Think of the President
If you believe the internet — and we do, if the story’s good — God-fearing women have begun screwing soldiers to show support for the military. A sampling of messages from the website

Kudos to the Memphis Toby Keith Fan Club that morphed itself into an OTOFTC battalion and road tripped to Fort Knox. Way to Go!!

***BIG BIG WARNING*** the second part of our motto is BE DISCRETE! That means not letting on that you are on an OTOFTC mission. To the group in Galveston Texas (Yes, I got word the NEXT day), you CANNOT, and I mean CANNOT go to a bar and get loaded and start chanting ‘TAKE ONE FOR THE COUNTRY’ like a zillion times. That’s bad. I love you Texan gals and love your spirit but that’s not what we are trying to accomplish and it’s not safe.

A great idea from Shellie A., wife of Lt. A of Ft. Rucker. She is calling on wives of servicemen to have ‘Felatio Friday’ at least once a month. Awesome awesome idea.

Life Before Dick
Vice-presidential wife Lynne Cheney has reportedly turned down a publisher’s offer to reprint her 1981 novel Sisters, a tale of lesbian love in the Old West. Last week, a copy of the original paperback sold for $570 on eBay. Unfortunately, we were outbid. Thankfully, provides excerpts:

“The women who embraced in the wagon were Adam and Eve crossing a dark cathedral stage — no, Eve and Eve, loving one another as they would not be able to once they ate of the fruit and knew themselves as they truly were . . .” []

Some reader reviews of the novel from

A Spiritual Journey, September 15, 2003

Reviewer: buckoramaticola from Yale

. . . a powerful metaphor for the battle between the syncretistic/animist urges basic to man’s animal nature (as represented by a ragged but tenacious feral dog), and the purifying revelation of an angry and vengeful Christian God.

Rampant and Illicit Steamy Lezbo Erotica, April 13, 2004

Reviewer: A reader from New York

This vile book is filled with lurid allusions to carnal and unnatural perversion, including but not limited to lusty mammary-centric orgies and gluttonous girl-on-girl feasting at the hairy taco buffet. Truly disgusting!

A rapturous novel of sapphic love, April 8, 2004

Reviewer: shesbreakingup from Alhambra, CA

. . . Mrs. Cheney has never received her due as one of this country’s most eloquent and sympathic writers on the lesbian experience.

A true bildungsroman for our times, April 6, 2004

Reviewer: Rickey V. Gunter from Craigsville, VA, USA

Ostensibly set in nineteenth-century Wyoming, this ca. 1981 masterwork (to refer to Sisters as a “book,” a mere amalgation of ink and pulp, trivializes its symbolic import) is perhaps the purest allegorical representation of the Regan Revolution. . .

White House Mama, April 6, 2004

Reviewer: A reader from United States

. . . It’s obvious she has tested the “intimaticies” the characters take with one another personally.

(If anyone out there has a copy to lend the Nerve staff, please email

From the Archives

Think you’re ready to have the sex, ladies? Before you do, test yourself with this quiz from Helen Gurley Brown’s Cosmo Love Book (1972):

  • Is your skin soft and lotioned — not dry and flaky?
  • Has all superfluous hair been removed — even funny stray hairs on your belly, thighs, and around your breasts? (If you know he’s excited by body hair — or you are — you may cater to that pleasure!)
  • Are your finger- and toenails clipped and clean?
  • Is your hair shiny and sweet-smelling — not sticky with sprays and grime?
  • If you’re wearing a wig, how is the real hair underneath? (Test: Could you take the wig off and shake your real tresses streaming and free?)
  • Are your feet soft — not callused enough to carry you over hot coals?
  • Is your underwear a) clean? b) ripless? c) sexy?
  • Are your legs unmarred by razor nicks and bruises?
  • Can your breath be taken in large doses?
  • Is your genital area fresh?
  • Have you taken birth control precautions?
  • Do you carry a survival kit everywhere? (hairbrush, toothpaste/brush, deodorant, nail file, any makeup you wear)
  • Has everything that you want deodorized been deodorized?

On a mother’s duty toward her son, from How Shall I Tell My Child? (1912) by Mrs. Woodallen Chapman:

“Never for a moment may she relax her vigilant watch over him. Especially when he lies down for his nap and goes to bed at night must she be on guard that the little hands do not unconsciously stray in the wrong direction. If not thus watched, the child will go for his nap, and reappear at the end of the proper interval with scarlet cheeks and the innocent announcement, “I’ve had such a nice nap.” The scarlet cheeks and the unnecessary lie are both indications of the wrong indulgence.”

Proof Auctioneers Are Frustrated Romance-Novel Writers

Gawker reports on the upcoming Christies auction of Jeff Koons’s Ponies (above), a photograph of the "ironic" "artist" having sex with his then-wife, the Italian porn star Cicciolina. It’s expected to fetch at least $300,000. The "work," as described on the Christies website: “Are they ponies riding off in the dusk of a Western sunset? The artist is the modern-day Adam, looking buff, muscular with perfectly coifed hair. Ciccolina is the late night cable television Eve, wearing the contemporary accouterments of lace hose, a tight corset and a diamond tennis bracelet . . . He holds her and she holds him. . . The artist and Ciccolina are surrogates for all our fantasies.”


Sex in Theater: Not What Artaud Meant by ‘Theatre of Cruelty’

Hailed as “The sexiest show in New York,” Nicole Blackman’s one-on-one show The Courtesan Tales returns to P.S. 122 through May 30. A Scanner correspondent took in a performance and reports back:

"A gothy “hostess” led me down a rose-petal covered staircase to the basement. I was told to go through a little hallway to “the chamber,” where I was to sit in the chair and put on a blindfold. Soon, I felt a hot breath in my ear, my wrists being tied to the chair, feathers caressing my body. The CD playing loud, drum-heavy music started skipping. I heard a raspy voice begin the story of a woman’s erotic visit to a castle. Under the blindfold, I rolled my eyes a little but tried to keep a straight face. Then I felt a rather heavy woman sit on my lap, grinding and rubbing herself on me as the story became more intense. She put her mouth right up by mine, thus giving me all her germs. Then she started rocking the chair violently back and forth while urgently pressing her whole body against mine. This caused my head to bang against the chair. “Ouch!” I said. She ignored me. Suddenly, without warning, I felt something hard smash into my mouth. She rubbed it roughly onto my lips and tried to get it in my mouth. It felt like a Brillo pad. “Stop!” I yelled, trying to break free. I felt my lip swelling up. “It was just bread,” she said, dismissively. I managed to work one hand free and push up the blindfold. “This is too much,” I said, now through a puffy lip. “In five years, you’re the first person who’s ever stopped me,” she said, still sitting heavily on our lap. “There are less hardcore stories. Would you like to hear one of those?” I didn’t. “Well, Ron Athey and Candida Royale liked it!” she said, as if I were crazy and they were not. “Annie Sprinkle almost came!” she said, then let us go.


Comic Rick Shapiro, the best-read former hustler around (who was, incidentally, called "the funniest man in America" by Cups magazine) does smutty stream-of-consciousness bits, giving equal time to fisting and Faulkner:

Rick Shapiro (To cute couple in front row): You’re a couple, right?

Nervous guy: Yeah.

RS: So, do you think about her cunt?

Nervous guy: Uh, sure.

RS: Do you think about it so much you lost your job?

Guy: Uh, no . . .

RS: Then you’re not thinking about it enough!

[Rick Shapiro]

Young NYC playwright Julia Jordan has been all over town this year, with a drama about budding female sexuality (Tatjana in Color) and a comedy about a snow-fueled romance (St. Scarlet). Her latest, Boy, a sad story about a bunch of smart, messed-up people, opens this week at NYC’s Primary Stages.

[Primary Stages]

Yes and K-Y Really Is Just Lip Balm

Virgin bride Jessica Simpson is coming out with a new line of sex-aids-masquerading-as-edible-beauty-products. “Dessert girls are warm and golden, luscious and radiant, tempting and decadent,” reads the website. “Wear it . . . then share it.”


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Another Sign of the Apocalypse

Ivana Trump will star in her own reality show, titled Girl on Top, which conjures an image of Ivana dressed like a schoolgirl, straddling the Donald. Weather forecast: locusts, locusts, locusts!

[Michael Musto]

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