Fuck The Pain Away

I make clothing for sluts. I knew that. I revel in that, really. To think that something I helped to develop will end up wrapped around the ankles of a stranger during a bar bathroom-stall fuck session. Or that panties I designed are right now, right at this minute thinly coated with the snail-trail of a horny Midwestern 18 year old co-ed as she stares across the quad at that boy from Poli-Sci who she is definitely going to fuck at tonight's mixer...It's a good look for sure.

Its not just sexually-minded amatuers who love our clothes. The pros dig Dov's digs, as well. These shots were taken by my friend and porn propagator, Adam at Naughty America.

We like it this way. Only GOD can judge us.

GOLDEN ANKLETS

...Golden Anklets are my favorite

I Love Rock N' Roll

When I fucked Becky Stark from Lavender Diamond, she hit that high note that’s how you know I be shinin’

After I boned down Black Black, I never text back, now I have the whole band paging me like, “Where that Dick at?”

Juan from Abe, he’s been giving me brain. We keep it on the hush cause in the hood I’m not gay

Dean and Randy, I aint gonna talk shit, but I had ‘em on their knees like a couple of chicks. I was fiddlin’ with their asses like a couple of clits

Ariel Pink took two in the stink. What do I say, I’m in love with them twinks

Mika Miko had to get a new drummer; I filled Kate with so much jizz she was fucked all summer

Even Jim Smith got a slice of dis dick, only he was on top, yup, I was HIS bitch. Dude was stone-cold, he didn't say shit!

Dear Mae Shi, your record was horrible but your cheeks spread open; now that was adorable

I made Baseck taste it. Sprayed jam in his eye that’s my kinda lasek

Jesus Christ, I love L.A. A pretty good sound and a damn good lay

The Trifecta of Death

On Seinfeld it was said that pigeons and humans have a certain unspoken agreement. They are expected to get out of the way of our vehicles and we, in turn, will treat all of the other gross city-bird stuff they do with an air of benevolence.

Well, probably not the first time since George decimated Manhattan’s pigeon population THE DEAL HAS BEEN BROKEN.

Real life is often more fantastical than the scenes penciled in NBC’s studio. This tale is such a case. This tale of speed, sweat and animal sacrifice is set completely on the saddle of a bicycle

This play has three acts...

Act I: A Date with Destiny

I’m riding the Surly home from my long day at the factory. A gaggle of pigeons gather in the westbound lane of 7th near Wall. The birds were feeding from the crumbs of the crumb-less as my bicycle fast approached. The instincts of the heard screamed “Break Right!” most did and found the safety of the sidewalk.

The Destiny Pigeon broke left and met with the 700CC tire of my bike wailing like a buzz saw.


The creature was instantly smashed, as if hit with a model-sized Japanese bullet train. I didn’t stop, for the deed was done and Rite Aid was about to close.




Act II: Fivel Dies West

I’m manning my BMX, enjoying the many sweet jumps created downtown when the sidewalk panels are shifted and A-framed by earthquakes and the exploratory roots of ancient trees.

A squadron of thick, brown rats scurried across my path.

Instantly remembering my murderous meeting with the bird, I actually thought, “That’d be fucked up to run over a rat.”

Just then, a lone rodent leaped in front of me. The thick treaded tires of my 24” dirt bike broadsided the rat dead center. It had the look of a fur and cherry Popsicle that had been snapped in half while still in the plastic. The rat skin wrapper splits where the spine splinters. A tiny pool of blood begins to ooze onto the concrete.




Act III: Greed, Greed, Greed

Realizing that lightning rarely strikes thrice, I continued my daily two-wheel commute. Again i'm on 7th, again i approach the flock of pigeons in a feeding frenzy. This time their instincts are in unison and the whole bunch flutter to the right. My shoulders sink as my body eases. I realize that no pigeons will die by my hand this day.

Just then, a reckless bird, greedy for more bread crumbs lunges back in my path. The weight of bike and man snap its neck and surround it in blood.

In an almost Michael Phelpsish degree of completeness, three creatures find skid row their final place of rest because of one ghost peddler.

A trifecta of death

Cactus Juice for Blood

The Sonoran Desert is my home.

I have cactus juice for blood and a bite that doesn't kill directly from venom like that of the rattle snake but rather shuts your organs down, one by one with a bacteria as the great Gila Monster.

Raveliness is next to Godliness

The closest thing to religion that I've experienced

Girls in Yoga: Popping a major 3rd eye boner

Girls in Yoga.

Boy, are there girls in Yoga. The Kind of dark girls with short, tight workout shorts emblazoned with 3 stripes descending their hips; letting me know they're trendy and brand-conscience.

The kind of tanned, toned girls you would see on college campuses, but you'd never know. With olive skin that makes you guess that they are half Italian and half Jewish.
With shiny, thick hair the color of 8:30 PM, pulled back tightly and either spurting from the back of their heads like a confused volcano or wrapped into a less-than-taught bun, resembling the type of brain cactus you can buy from Home Depot.

Our Yoga is performed in a hot room and as the girls warm-up their tiny Adidas shorts and white sports bras become translucent, like delicate membranes; a second skin to protect their real skin from parasitic eyes.

As they warm up beads of sweat race down their bodies like they themselves race to class in places like USC, vanilla soy latte in-tow.
Early-bird beads begin first descending at a steady pace, because they have time. Descending their necks and arms.
Then, the late-comer beads race down their spines, bent on catching up, like they race to French class in places like Madison, Wisconsin or Tempe, Arizona; where I pretended to go to school.

The sweet sweat, which surely tastes of sugar water, scales their spines, surpasses the smalls of their backs, where it is swallowed by the exposed cracks of their glorious asses, like sideways smiles, slurping the last bit of hard lemonade from their red, plastic cups in places like Ann Arbor, Michigan or Tempe, Arizona, where I pretended to attend college.

The girls in my life are tall and airy and aristocratic.

The girls in yoga are shorter, more compact and rooted in reality, with thick muscular stems. They look like they could crack a walnut between their thighs. God, I would love to be that walnut, lying before my momentary obsession, crack-shelled and exposed, as I would most certainly, eventually be. Offering my pulp-self because that is all I have left to offer.