The XXXmas Coolio Concert You Always Needed But Never Experienced

The XXXmas Coolio Concert You Always Needed but Never Experienced
By Rod Johnson


Editor’s Note: The author’s views on vaginas do not reflect the official opinions of Cream City.

It’s the day after Christmas and life as I know it is going to end. I am about to become a man.

In my thirty-two years of existence, I have neither attended a strip club nor have I seen an actual female vagina. As a self-identified chub-chasing gay man living in today’s world, my sexual exploits have largely transpired through the Internet—and believe me, I have been busy. Tonight, that’s all going to change because my childhood idol, Coolio, is playing at a local strip joint. But before I dive into details, let’s rewind a bit and construct a context for this story.

I grew up in a blue-collar family located in the Bible belt that attended our local Southern Baptist church every Sunday Coolio1(morning/evening) and Wednesday. I don’t remember much from my religious training other than sex is bad, don’t fuck till marriage, and you’re most likely going to burn in hell no matter what you do. Nothing too heavy before adolescence. This theological agenda only made sense when the pastor was busted for fucking his secretary. Go figure.

Whatever, anyway, needless to say I have a lot of ideas about what strip clubs mean and what type of people frequent these establishments. These decadent sin dens are filled with powerful, evil forces that cause AIDS, drug addiction, and mass murder. (My mother often warned against pornography because “that’s how Bundy got started.”) In strip clubs, demon women seduce desperate men into selling their souls to the devil. To quote a classic, “you can check out anytime you like, but you can’t never leave.” Is this place going to transform me? Will I become a regular? What if people question my disinterest in lap dances and strip teases? Will I be threatened with taunts, violence, or worse? Will I need to get a tetanus shot or delouse myself after the show?

I imagine that most men confront these fears once they turn eighteen. I, fortunately, never went through that stage of male adolescent development. In fact, on my eighteenth birthday, I got kicked out of my first club because I was rolling balls and barely able to stand up. The off-duty cop most likely saw an ambulance ride in my near future. But if that were the case, why did he attempt to buy pills off me? Who cares, that’s not the point. The main issue is that I never learned what it means to be a strip club patron and, hence, an American Man™.

But all of that is going to change this evening because the award winning, hip-hop legend-turned-chef Coolio is touring Wisconsin and stopping at a Juneau titty bar. (Note: the phone number on the flyer is actually incorrect. Juneau has a 920 area code. Not 902.) Never heard of Juneau, Wisconsin? Well, that makes a lot of sense because it is the whitest and lamest city in the United States.

A small rural town siCoolio2tuated in southeastern Wisconsin, Juneau brags a population of approximately 27,000 people that is 94.4 percent white (all statistics derived from the U.S. Census Bureau). Of this population, 1.9 percent is foreign born, 4.2 percent of households speak a non-English language, 18.7 percent qualify for social security, 12.4 percent of the population possesses at least a bachelor’s degree, the median household income is $45,000, and the median value of owner-occupied homes is $116,000. Unsurprisingly, this city is really fucking conservative. Incumbent Republican Gov. Scott Walker easily won this area by a comfortable 64.4 percent in the last election.

This is all to say that this is going to be the most ironic concert in American history and there’s no fuckin’ way that I am going to miss it. Unfortunately, all of my friends are pathetic losers (that’s what you get for living in a liberal college town) that refused to come along on this fantastic voyage. “It’s Christmas and I have familial obligations!” “I’m going to be out of town.” “My vagina hurts.” Blah. Blah. Jesus, people. Do I have to spell this out? Coolio is playing a strip club in rural Wisconsin!!! So like most rites of passage, I am doing this alone.

Determining Logistics
I initially tried to purchase tickets online, but the website indicated that none were available. WHAT!?! How? Why? Will I have to suck dick in the alleyway to get inside? Panicked, I contacted the venue. The young woman that answered spoke in a stereotypical Wisconsin accent, “Oh noooo, we have plenty of tickets both general admission for $15 and VIP for $30.”

I interrupted her, “Wait. Did you say VIP? What does that include?”Coolio3

She enthusiastically replied, “That includes a buffet, a meet and greet, and pictures with Coolio.”

Gleefully, I responded, “Get the hell out of here! You mean I get to meet Coolio!?! Should I purchase tickets now or do you expect them to be available at the door.”

“Oh no, we have plenty. You should be fine.”

So fuck, this shit just got serious, yo. Not only do I get to see Coolio play at a strip club in Juneau, Wisconsin. I get to hang-the-fuck-out with him and possibly obtain an interview. Could this Christmas get any better? Answer, NO!

I’m stoked. The big day arrives and I’m nervous as hell. I rent a Ford Focus and hit the road. I have no idea what to expect and I’m driving one hour to the venue while jamming Moby’s “In This World” and “In My Heart” on repeat. There are no streetlights on the freeway so I can only see the twenty feet of concrete illuminated by my headlights and the occasional car passing by. This shit is so country, there are no road signs notifying me that the turn is approaching. So I have no clue when to exit until, BAM, the sign appears out of the fog and ten feet in front of the road that I am supposed to join. Unbelievable! I pass my exit and have no idea where I can turn around. This is a six-lane highway separated by a large grassy median. Fuck! Traveling at 65 mph I see occasional gaps in the median that could be police U-turn lanes, but I cannot tell. WHY?!?! Because there are no goddamn street lights that enable me to navigate this space! Finally, I find a farmhouse and turn around. In the process, I nearly fall into a ditch and, again, miss the turn.

Arriving to Town
I finally come correct and re-situate myself on this highway to hell. I pass large dairy farms with massive trucks parked next to two-story houses that include wrap around porches and American flags posted in the front yard. Vast wheat and cornfields separate these homes by several acres or miles. As I approach the town, I am greeted by a small, outdoor shopping mall that includes a Piggly Wiggly grocery store, Subway restaurant, Landmark Credit Union, and car wash.

Coolio4There are long rows of Midwestern style homes irradiated with large, multicolor Christmas lights and plastic, glowing statues. Locals wearing Green Bay Packers sweaters and Milwaukee Brewers jackets pull their oversized trucks into the local Kwik Trip parking lot to purchase snacks and booze before returning home to the family. Police officers park on side streets and monitor the comings and goings.

Just around the corner is Silk Exotic. Readers may be familiar with this club if they regularly read The HuffPo. This is the same venue where two strippers (one pregnant) were arrested last year for fighting on stage for an unclaimed dollar that was contributed by a guest. The large concrete columns constituting the façade are dyed by fluorescent green, pink, blue, and purple lights that fluctuate to garner attention from onlookers. This club is attached to a small strip-mall that overlooks the county administrative building and local law-enforcement department. In front of the police station is a dirty SUV with a “Don’t Tread on Me” sticker placed on the bumper to express the owner’s white supremacist orientation. How adorable! A large douglas fir is decorated with Christmas lights in front of the administration building and the streetlamps are ornamented with plastic candy canes, bells, and wreaths.

The streets are basically empty besides an occasional car or two passing through the downtown district (Yes, this is downtown!). The strip-mall is lined with cars parked in front of a saloon, a glass studio, a tanning salon, a closed public defender’s office (with a “For Rent” sign posted in the window), a bowling allCoolio5ey, and empty storefronts. Old white men stand outside the saloon smoking cigarettes while eyeing me suspiciously as I jot down descriptions of the scene. At the other of the block, a local family exits the bowling ally while I snap photos and marvel at this contemporary Norman Rockwell portrait. Welcome to Pleasantville!

Entering the Club
After touring the three block downtown center (which also includes a standalone Dollar General), I finally park next to the entrance and approach the club. There is no line to get inside. I pass three women smoking cigarettes and crowding the walkway. They politely acknowledge/greet me while I hurry into the building. I open the dark tinted glass doors and life, as I know it, changes. A tall, muscular, bald man wearing a black suit and holding a metal detector immediately confronts me.

“Do you have any weapons?” he asks before rubbing the plastic wand around my testicles.

Upon paying the entrance fee—which turned out to be $40, thank you very much—I enter a large, dimly lit room surrounded by a balcony with neon signs reading, “Silk Exotic,” “VIP Lounge,” “Sky Boxes,” and ”Shower Shows.” Loud music vibrates the building with TLC—“What About Your Friends”—and the portly announcer screams things like, “Invite these hot babes to the shower or a lap dance,” “It isn’t raw if she’s wearing a thong at Silk,” and “Who’s ready for Coolio?” Maybe three people scream or express any awareness of the event each time the headliner is announced.

In the middle of the room is a large stage divided into three sub-stages with metal poles that extend into the second story ceiling. I wonder to myself, “Do women really climb to the top? And, if so, how they got down?” Clearly, I am having a Gump moment. I soon observe women desperately pulling themselves to the top sliding down into splits. Fuck. That’s when I realize all of these women could beat my ass and so I better be on my best behavior.

Coolio9I survey the room for an empty seat located in a corner where I can blend into the background. Quickly, I notice a few seats at the bar and take refuge by what I think is a popcorn machine. You might be wondering, “Why would there be a popcorn machine at a strip club?!?” Relax this is common in Wisconsin. Cheese heads LOVE (notice love is both capitalized and emboldened. That wasn’t a mistake) popcorn and, right hand to God, there is a fucking popcorn machine in nearly every bar. This is Dairyland, USA, son. These people don’t give a fuck! They have two dope football teams and their own food supply. If you try us (I’m looking at you, Stanford), our dudes are enormous and they’ll beat your pussy ass. So go ahead, laugh at our popcorn machines and our bubblers (water fountains). See where that gets ya, mister. That said, the mysterious machine contains, get this, limp, overcooked hot dogs that patrons can purchase and dress with Heinz Ketchup, Mustard, and/or Relish. That’s right folks, this strip joint enables you to simultaneously enjoy cold beer, hot dogs, bare tits, and shaved pussy.Coolio11 How the hell are you going beat that?!

Taking in the scene, I locate the lap dance room and—wait, what is that thing in front of it, get the fuck out of here! It’s a BEER PONG TABLE with cups positioned and ready to go! Not only that, the announcer actually uses the loud speaker to brag about this amenity and encourages patrons to use it! They’re proud of this shit! Several young men take the Pepsi Challenge and begin beer-ponging. Wearing blue jeans, Underarmor sweaters, and camouflage hats, one patron eventually misses the cup and a ball flies at the stage. How appropriate!

I quickly learn two important things. First, I am struck by the amount of camouflage, football apparel, and blue jeans that is worn by patrons. I start to wonder how these people got into a self-identified gentleman’s club with such shabby clothes. Duh! There’s no dress code. Meanwhile, the employees wear black coats and slacks like this shit is supposed to be classy.

Second, in my Christian hometown (Tampa, FL), where we believe in Jesus Christ, the church, wholesome family values, and unregulated markets, strip clubs are governed by a six-foot rule and women are prohibited from being completely nude. Juxtapose that with Silk Exotic where anything goes. Women spread their legs, expose their vulva, and give titty/twat face rubs for a couple dollars. So to be clear, this is a FULL contact/nude titty bar where women will ride you on stage, during private lap dances, or in a private shower.

The Dancers
Silk patrons have a wide variety of women to choose from. The dancers are surprisingly diverse: black, white, and Latina. Second, men can

Coolio12select from a range of body types. For example, some women will make you think that you are drowning in Lake Michigan when they start twerking in your face; others will remind you of anti-drug PSAs; some have enormous tits; and others look like teenagers that recently got their period. Third, some women look old enough to be your mother while others are clearly in their early to mid-twenties. Fourth, some women can fucking dance. I mean these bitches tear shit up and make dat money. A couple, in particular, work the pole with the elegance of a cheetah stalking its prey. They enthusiastically slide down, spread their legs, and moan like they were getting fucked with a Ron Jeremy size cock. Still, other women are clearly amateurs and uncomfortable with their profession. It was like watching malfunctioning robots twerk to the beat of “How Low.” Needless to say, the latter category makes little money. Finally, some women go full nude while others do not. The former group freely drops their panties (shameless LMFAO reference) and work that ass on stage while the latter is much more modest. I assume the club owner delegates discretion to the dancers regarding whether they remove their clothing and to what degree.

The Patrons
Unsurprisingly, the patrons are overwhelmingly white and from the surrounding area. Consequently, the crowd is filled with frumpy, corn-fed, farm boys looking for some holiday action. Heaven to a chub-chaser like me! Mentioned above, camouflage sweaters, blue jeans, and sports caps are common attire; however, it is also true that this group REALLY enjoys Bud Light. I mean, side tables are filled with empty bottles and patrons walk around sipping longnecks while throwing dollar bills at dancers.

Moreover, the sexual tastes of these patrons seem to lean toward thin, white women with huge tits and tattoos on their lower backs. This claim is evidenced by the flurry of dollar bills that litter the stage when these women dance. In contrast, nonwhite women of any size often experienced crowd dispersion upon entering the stage and frequently complete their performance with fewer tips. This could be because they lacked the dancing skills of their white counterparts; however, in many instances this was clearly not the case.

Customer-Staff Interactions
Female and male patrons wave dollars across the stage to lure naked women in their direction. Once their attention is grabbed, these women spread their legs, shake their ass, rub their bare breasts across the patrons face, wrap their legs around the customer’s neck, shake their shaved pussy in the client’s face, retrieve strategically hidden dollar bills located in the shirt collar or waistband of the customer, slap their ass, clack the heels of the knee high leather boots, and move onto the next customer.

During these interactions, some customers gently massage the twat and taint of dancers lying on their backs with their legs spread open while others just straight up throw cash at the exposed vaginas as though channeling Tony Montana—“Filthy whore, I’d fuck that shit if I wasn’t a post-adolescent scrub that still lives with his parents and possesses zero disposable income.”

At this point, I begin to feel disgusted. Not over the objectification of women, but due to the exposed vaginas. Meaty. Pink.Coolio13 Raw. Clap traps. Shudder. This is the first time I have ever seen one in real life and I am horrified (which is weird because I didn’t blink when a human-puppy shit on the carpet of a swanky hotel in downtown Chicago). I desperately try to conceal the displeasure, but my face automatically winces as though I have just witnessed a rosebud (inverted asshole produced by excessive fisting) or human decapitation. I promised that I wouldn’t descend into immature faggotry because it’s, quite frankly, basic and expected, but ignoring this part of the story would be disingenuous. Plus, this is an opportunity to connect with heterosexual readers. I finally understand why straight guys commonly grow sick when I discuss hard, melting cock. We’re even, guys. You’ll never hear me bring up fag shit again, but know that you’re heterosexuality disgusts me as much as my homosexuality disgusts you.

The reactions of customers to the dancers vary. Small groups of young men cluster at the stage and smile nervously at each other after receiving some action. To their left are heterosexual couples paying for mutual body contact (and, Christ, do I want to fuck some of the boyfriends). To their right is a rotund mother wearing a sequenced tank top congratulating her son who just received his first strip tease. In each instance, the women snatch their dollars and accumulate large piles of money at the center of the stage. The night is constituted by hundreds of interactions such as these that repeat like clockwork.


Coolio Enters the Building
Where the fuck is Coolio? The announcer keeps teasing us with updates that Coolio is almost to the venue. It’s nearing 11:30pm and I’ve seen more strip teases than I care to and the dancers have processed through three cycles. I’m bored and cannot help but suspect this place is a little heteronormative and possibly sexist. In addition,

Coolio14it’s getting late and I have to drive an hour home. When the hell is the dude going to get here? Finally, an entourage of black men enters the VIP lounge (forgoing a buffet that includes pulled pork sandwiches, chicken wings, sliced ham, and a vegetable tray). The small group heads to the back corner of the lounge where the management has placed iced Champagne at a reserved table.

One thing that I learned about Coolio is that that motherfucker is an amazing entertainer that knows his motherfucking audience. Check it, dude walks into the venue with, get this, an Aaron Rogers Green Bay Packers jersey, a Green Bay Packers hat with holes that allow his braids to poke through like antlers, and rhinestone glasses. Come on, yo! This guy just showed the fuck up for Wisconsin. How’s that for Christmas cheer? Bitch!

Rather than mingle with us (as promised with our VIP passes), Coolio says fuck it and just chills in the corner with a woman on his lap. Everyone’s like where’d he go? See, he’s hidden behind the entourage. He’s really just chillin’, overlooking the club from the balcony, and taking in the scene. Eventually, he stands up and starts stretching. I’m all like, fuck yea! I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment. Thoughts race through my mind: What will he play? Will he start with Fantastic Voyage or Gangster’s Paradise? I struggle to conceal my zeal, but the excitement is causing me to shake!

Coolio Takes the Stage
Finally, Coolio takes the stage. Immediately, fog machines emit thick vapor into the air while strippers flock to the side stages and start strip teasing, climbing poles, and engaging in what appears to be a lesbian orgy.


Naked and half-naked bodies twist together, sweaty flesh glistens from the neon stage lighting, and dollar bills fly through the air as Coolio works his magic (see video). Following the first song, Coolio develops repertoire with the crowd:

“I wish I had some motherfucking Wisconsin cheese and I don’t mean cash! I’d put cheese in every refrigerator and a bitch in every nigga’s bed.”

The crowd roars while I embarrassingly shake my head and die laughing. What the fuck is he talking about?!? Suddenly, I notice people around me are filming. Is this legit? I don’t want to get my ass pounded by the bouncers (pun intended). So I approach one of them and ask, “What’s up? Is it cool to film?” He quickly replies with a jolly grin on his face, “Oh yea, bro. Film all you want. We told the girls that we were allowing it before they got on stage.” Shut the fuck up. I get to take videos? Damn, son. Shit just got hot! Too hot!

Throughout the set, Coolio tries to solicit crowd participation, but few know the lyrics to certain songs and the experiment Cooliofails—repeatedly! In response to his prompts, there are short, lyrical pauses. Coolio doesn’t give a shit though. Even in his old age, dude is still baller. He just keeps going like nothing happened. He doesn’t skip a beat. Not even once. Shit just flows like sauce from a gravy boat, kid.

Another thing I learned about Coolio is that he’s fucking funny. In between songs, he approached fans and asked:

“What should you do before touching your woman in an intimate way?”

After two lame-asses respond, “Tell her I love her,” Coolio interjects.

“Naw, bitch, wash yo hands—cause cleanliness is next to pussiness. If you don’t, you could give your girl a yeast infection. So wash your motherfucking hands and stop using latex. It makes the pussy stank!”

Shit, I didn’t realize this was gonna turn into church. But the dude is straight up preaching Gospel. This leads me to the third thing that I learned about Coolio, the dude is an immortal player that will never die. He’s so baller, it doesn’t matter what venue he plays because he’ll out rhyme and out wit any young motherfucker off the street. That’s science, yo. Dude is a true American hero that continues to shine in neon glow.

Suddenly, gunshots ring out. What is that? A drive by? A police raid? Hell no! That’s the opening to “Gangster’s Paradise”! Coolio looks at the sky (well really the VIP lounge) in awe. And he should. This is his most important contribution to hip-hop. Gospel-style music echoes through the club as black, half-naked female bodies climb the poles, fat/skinny asses twerk, titties bounce, twats grind, money flies, and cameras flash.

This is it. This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for—our Doc Brown escort to the past. Mentally, I am transported to my awkward, closeted middle school years and visualize Michelle Pfeiffer telling a classroom of minority students to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and stop blaming society because “there are no victims in this classroom!” No, just a lot of culturally disadvantaged kids that apparently always needed a strict white woman with a military background to whip them into shape and replace the lazy, immoral, Cadillac driving, welfare receiving role models that have entrapped them in a never ending cycle of poverty (sarcasm). SMDH. That movie is the worst. Whatever, anyway, we collectively revisit our pasts and, briefly, forget the horrors that constitute modern America. White, black, Latino, Asian, male, female, bro, loser, gay, straight—it didn’t matter. We all twerked and bounced in a unified rhythm that would make Dr. King smile and Malcolm X puke.

Meeting Coolio
The show is over and I’m waiting in line to receive my twenty-dollar picture. Coolio performed approximately six songs including, “If I Was Your Boyfriend,” “1, 2, 3, 4,” “Gangsta’s Paradise,” “I’ll See You When I Get There,” and “Too Hot.” After the show, dude throws up the deuces before returning to the VIP lounge.

A line is developing to show love and take ironic photos. Coolio doesn’t give a fuck. He’s just chilling with his woman and doesn’t even acknowledge that we’re there. Guess what though—I’m not leaving until I take this motherfucking photo. I have come too far to not receive a pCoolio18Pixelshoto that I can post on Facebook and receive endless likes. Waiting in line, I am butted by two obnoxious bros that previously indicated they were from Milwaukee. Go figure! One is wasted and giving me a weird “I’m gonna kick your ass, faggot” look. So I look at the floor in effort to avoid a scene.

Finally! Coolio’s oversized bodyguard signals that the photo shoot is about to commence. Oh my god! My stomach fills with butterflies and I panic. What if he thinks I’m a loser? I’m next in line and going to faint. I prepare my phone and hand it to the bodyguard. This dude is a Suge Knight look alike. Swear to God. He wears one of those old-school plaid Dickie’s g-funk style button down shirts, covering the wife beater. We stand in front of a casino machine that illuminates the background. I genuinely thank Coolio for a fabulous show. He replies, “thank you, man,” and places his fist in the air to bump for the camera. The hired muscle snaps the photo and comments, “Man, you ain’t got no flash and yo screen is shattered.” Wait a minute, did I just dissed by the muscleman IN FRONT OF COOLIO! I’m mortified and respond with an appropriate, subjugated voice, “Yea, been meaning to get a new one,” before exiting the VIP lounge. Could this night get any better?

Driving Home
As this epic adventure closes, I am consumed with depression. It’s been an amazing year for the Internet: Auschwitz Selfie,

Coolio19the Orlando Bloom-Justin Beiber fight, the fall of Mama June, Brendan Jordan, Scott Stapp’s ongoing public meltdown, and the entitled teenage Xmas tweets. While each of these events has temporarily filled our otherwise empty lives with joy and meaning, this concert represents the end of history. It is the standard against which all future Internet sensations, scandals, and memes will be compared and devalued. Hence, there’s no up from here, only down. Our lives are now condemned to mediocrity as we continually relive this moment in our thoughts, knowing full well that this experience will never be replicated. With this in mind, I pull into a 24 hour McDonalds to purchase a large fry and medium chocolate shake that I consume in the parking lot, alone, while listening to “I Know It’s Over” and watching the rain gradually obfuscate my view of the blinking Christmas lights that flash before me. I can feel the soil falling over my head.

Bonus Videos

My Girl Molly

My Girl Molly 
Adventures in MDMA
By Kate Letigre


The streets of Baltimore flew by—my feet punished the pavement with a quick pounding rhythm that consumed my brain and became a pleasantly hypnotic refrain.

I NEEDED to run. Even if I wanted to stop, I knew I couldn’t. I watched as the bewildered face of a homeless man on a bus bench whizzed by—no doubt wondering why a blonde woman, sans bra and wearing dress-sandals was sprinting by him as if pursued at 5:30 AM.

I was acutely aware of my surroundings, what I was doing, what I HAD done, but simultaneously unable to stop or control any of it. I would be able to recall every detail—every vividly sordid detail— later that day.

It must’ve been 6:30 or 7:00 AM because I saw the sun come up and fill my room with painful light. My room surrounded me in a blurry whirl, yet I felt every nuance, the myriad brightly colored scarfs hanging on the closet door started to shimmer and encircle me.

How long had I been there, standing in the middle of my room? Minutes? Hours? I’d managed to lie down in my bed, jaw tightly clenched, covers grasped in a death grip, the sun shining through me, piercing my head. I knew there was absolutely no way I would make it to orientation. There goes that job with the aquarium—there was no plausible excuse for an absence on the first day. Fuck.

The events of the previous night began to replay, on loop, over and over again as I lay there unable to escape, unable to shake away the residual effects of the night before. My jaw involuntarily ground my teeth to dust and my eyes remained fixed open and bugged despite my best efforts to force them closed.

Molly, you’re a fucking bitch.

“Come oooon, I don’t want to try this for the first time alone!”

I knew I shouldn’t have been here. I had already promised myself to never go there again, yet there I was—with the devil incarnate who was trying to force feed me little clear capsules filled with an unknown white powder. If I wanted to find someone other than myself to blame, I could easily point a finger at the creepers who had tried to follow us home from the bars screaming profanities and legitimately endangering us, or even Jillian for suggesting we run to the safety of her booty call (an unrequited love story that’s not worth telling), or the guys for stock-piling illicit substances in the hopes of having girls stumble in drunk and consuming them so that they could fuck them (I surmised). But I was the one who took the capsule from Jill’s palm, slowly placed it on my tongue, and chased it down with water from the bathroom sink in Cal’s room.

We headed downstairs to the sticky kitchen. Too drunk to be concerned with the cleanliness of the glass that I found on the counter and filled with water from the sink brimming with dishes, I noticed Jill texting frantically and knew instinctively that she was writing to Cal, begging him to return from the party with the guys. She had used her key to enter his house, and I felt uneasy about their return.

“Is it even working? Were we supposed to break it?” Twenty minutes had passed and we were googling “molly” and consulting Wikipedia about the effects of MDMA, and that’s when I felt it. MyGirlMollyPhoto2

“Oh my god, Jill. I can feel it now in my hands and feet. They’re tingling…”

Jill nodded her head slowly. She was already somewhere else.

The tingly sensation began to spread throughout my body.

I loved everyone! I had to tell them! I began to text everyone in my contact list to tell them how much I loved them. (Note to self: never-ever do drugs and text. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this away. That’s going to be embarrassing.)

“Kate, the guys are coming home soon, and Trent doesn’t know we have this… we have to hold it together until he goes upstairs.”

“Yeah, Yeah. I got this.”

“Uh…. You’re moaning.”

“Shit. I can’t help it. I know I’m doing it, and it’s weird, and I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. Sorry…”

“SHHH…. Here they come….”

I had unwittingly been moaning, muttering, and shaking slightly. I bit my lips to contain my words, but I was unable to stop the shaking. My legs were shaking violently.

And that’s when the waves smacked me in the face pushing me down and dragging me out with the tide just to go under, surface, and roll over and over and over again. I barely noticed Trent enter and go to his room to pass out or Cal and Sam join us. I vaguely made out that they had surreptitiously taken Molly behind Trent’s back at the party. How long did I revel in the ecstasy before I noticed Jill beside me, touching me?

I knew what was happening. I liked it, wanted it, and couldn’t have stopped it—even if I HAD wanted to. I can unclench my fists, maybe I can close my eyes. Nope.

Jill’s lips, pliable and vulnerable, found mine. Oblivious to my surroundings, Jill became an extension of my ecstasy, intensifying the waves of pleasure I was already experiencing. It was transcendent.

“I love watching you girls.” Cal stated dreamily. He watched us with a slow smile, eyes half-closed.

Torn-away from my kiss-trance, I began to frantically finish my love messages to random recipients. I really need to check who I sent what messages. Oh God. Can’t. Move.

“Do you need anything?” Cal asked.

“Yes. Water. I need water. My mouth is so dry. Why is my mouth so dry? Is that normal? God, why can’t I open my mouth, my mouth is clenched shut and my legs keep shaking. Also, why can’t I stop talking? I know that I’m talking a lot and that it’s really, really weird but I can’t stop. I’m sorry, guys. I’m really sorry. I know it’s weird but I can’t stop…”

My words continued and I was unable to stem the flow of meaningless phrases escaping my mouth. Cal returned with some water.

“You have to feed it to me. I really want to stop my hands from texting but I really cant. Not even for water, which I really need…”

Cal put the glass to my mouth; the water did nothing to alleviate the dryness. Jill’s eyes were mostly closed and her hands continued to caress my leg. I noticed Sam reclined on a couch opposite us, watching languidly.

“Sam you’re really attractive, but I really don’t like you. I’m sorry, but you are kind of a douche bag, and you treat women really poorly, like they are objects.”

Sam stared at me, abashed and dejected. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s ok. I’m only saying this because of the molly and you should forget about it and I know it’s rude and weird for me to talk like this and I’m sorry but I can’t seem to help it at all.” OH MY GOD. What else did I say that I can’t even remember? I can never show my face again around those people. Ever.

“Maybe, we should go upstairs to my room.” Cal suggested.

“Yes, let’s go but let me finish sending these messages and then I will fuck all of you.” I stated emphatically.

Cal smiled, bemused. Jill kissed my mouth.

“I’m going to need help getting up the stairs. I can’t move my legs.”

I moved my legs but they were shaking too violently for me to stand on them. I noticed that I continuously moaned and muttered as the waves of pleasure rose and abated intermittently. Sam lifted me up easily and followed Cal and Jill up the stairs. I was getting off just being pressed against Sam’s brawny chest.

Cal had disappeared into the bathroom. Jill writhed about on his unmade bed tucked into the corner of the room. Sam and I landed in a heap next to Jill on the bed, and she immediately climbed on top of me, kissing my neck. The closet door was open, and I could see that Cal stored all of his clothing on the floor and piled on the various masses of furniture about the room, while the closet rack remained bare. My legs were now entwined about Sam. Jill began to undress me when Cal reemerged.

I had a couple of options at this point. Option One: have a threesome with Cal and Jill (an experience I had already had) who would inevitably be at it in a moment. Option Two: hook up with Sam, a high-ranking douchebag whom I had turned down on numerous occasions. Option three have an orgy. Not having sex was NOT an option in my state at that moment, neither was simply leaving. I needed it.

“Can we all fit in this bed?” I asked.

“You mean…?” Jill questioned.

“I mean, let’s all do it here,” I said nonchalantly.

“Alright,” Jill agreed with a little bounce.

“I’m down,” Cal shrugged.

“NO. I’m going downstairs,” Sam struggled to free himself from the tangle of quivering human bodies.

“Come ooooon. Stay.” I countered.

“No. No. No. I’m going downstairs.” Sam managed to jump off the bed and land on the floor.

“Well, I’m not a rapist,” I tried to reassure him. “I only want to do what everyone wants to do.” My teeth chattered a bit.

“You can stay here with us, Kate…” Jill began.

“I think I’m going to head downstairs with Sam”—I jumped onto his back, and he managed to stumble down the stairs without killing either of us.

The television was on, and in the dim light you couldn’t see griminess of the kitchen or the adjoining living room. We stood in the middle of the living room for a solid minute—or what seemed like an eternity—facing each other. Both of us waiting for the other to make the first move. Suddenly, in one movement, we were kissing and undressing simultaneously. I cannot tell you who made the first move or how it happened, but there we were, ripping each other’s clothes off, standing in the hazy light of the television. Every brush of the skin was euphoria. Every kiss was ecstasy. I knew that under normal circumstances I would never be in this situation— that the molly had, in part, taken over. But I didn’t give a damn.


“Come in,” I managed through gnashed teeth.

Luckily, I had left my door unlocked; I wouldn’t have been successful getting up to open it. Lori, my roommate, entered.

“Whoa. What happened to you? Aren’t you supposed to start at the aquarium today?”

“Mmmmolly,” I chattered. I was beginning to feel the comedown from the rolls. I knew that, chemically, my serotonin levels had peaked (like never before!) and now dissipated. My high was taking a nose dive. “I hooked up with Sam last night,” I told Lori.

“Daaaaaamn, duuuude.” Lori’s eyebrows had shot up to her hairline and her mouth hung open. “You must’ve been rollin’ hard! Last weekend you couldn’t stand him, remember?” Lori laughed, amused at my misadventures.

There was one little—and I mean little— problem: at first, he couldn’t get it up.

“It’s the Molly. It’s hard to get hard while on E or Molly,” Sam reassured.

That’s why he didn’t want to be with the others.

“Well, let me help.” I said, confident in my abilities. I tried to moisten my mouth. There was no saliva. “But first, I’m going to need some water.”

Sam retrieved a huge tumbler of ice water, and I threw it back, spilling half of it onto my naked body. I kept an ice cube in my mouth and went to work. I could tell he was also rolling hard. He stood before me while I sat on the couch, still shaking slightly. I could feel his body trembling, as well, as he suffered roll after blissful roll. After maybe 20 minutes of vigorous work and another water break, I stopped and looked up, concerned.

“This feels amazing. Even though it’s not hard, it’s still the best feeling ever.”

He pushed me back on the couch and kissed my throat. I had to close my eyes. He traveled down my body and I couldn’t contain my groans of pleasure. Usually, I am very easy to please, but that night it took barely a brush.

I couldn’t tell whether I was orgasming or rolling—the sensations blended together and all I could feel or see or know was wave after wave of sheer, frenzied ecstasy. I gasped for breath; I screamed out; I pleaded for mercy; I shook and lurched about; I squeezed my eyes closed until tears ran down my face. I kicked, and Sam had to sit up, hold me down at the chest with one hand and finger me with the other. He watched me with incredulous fascination. He had a raging boner.

I wrangled my way up, and Sam sat on the couch. I needed some semblance of control again. I straddled Sam. There was no need for lube. It felt almost as if I were having sex for the first time; Madonna must have been rolling when she wrote “Like a Virgin.”

I began to slump into a deep despair. “Lori, I just want to know what’s the point? What is the point in life?”

“It’s normal to be depressed after rolling. It’s going to fucking suck and probably last a day or two. Do you need anything water? Food?”

“I used up all my serotonin last night. Now I want to die. No I can’t eat. I feel sick—like I want to be sick. Yes, water. I need water.”

My mouth and throat felt like sandpaper, and I had to take another water break. A mischievous plan took shape in my mind. I jumped up, grabbed Sam’s hand, and dragged him into the kitchen. After hydrating, I shoved the dirty dishes into the sink and hopped up onto Cal’s kitchen counter. I smiled to myself as Sam took me there, knowing that Cal wouldn’t get around to cleaning up for a couple weeks. He’d be making his breakfast here in the morning.

Sam apparently derived the same devilish pleasure from fucking me on the edge of the kitchen counter. I don’t know if I asked him to pull my hair or if he took initiative— words left my mouth without passing through my brain first. There was a complete disconnect of my body and mind. My mind was completely occupied with swell after swell of pleasure and unbridled surges and sensations.

Sam came with a shout.

His body slumped despondently and he gasped, “I can’t anymore. I’m completely finished off—I’ve got nothing left.” He slinked off to the living room and retrieved his shorts. He handed me my clothes as he sank to the couch eyes closed and as I took them from his hand, he began to snore.

I thought about falling asleep on the other couch, but my legs bounced wildly. I had to run.

Buy Cream City Magazine at Atomic Books or Online!

Some of the exciting ads you'll find exclusively inside of Cream City Magazine

Some of the exciting advertising you’ll find exclusively inside of Cream City Magazine

Christmas is right around the corner and you haven’t even begun thinking about what to get your friends and family, you miserable sack of shit. Well, here’s the answer to your holiday dilemma: Cream City Magazine. That’s right, it’s been on sale for over a month now, and you can buy it at Atomic Books in Hampden (if you live in Baltimore) or right here, online, through our publisher (if you don’t live in Baltimore). Your loved-ones will never forget your seasonal generosity.

There are also articles and shit.

There are also articles and shit

This commemorative 5.5 x 8.5, color-and-black-and-white magazine features something for everyone: a review of a male strip club, a playlist of Baltimore sex music, an investigative report on glory holes, lewd artwork from the Baltimore club music scene, and some of the skeeziest advertising this side of the US-Canadian border. However, it is for adults only—always remember that.

Andre Novak’s Photos Featured in Gallery 788’s 6th Annual Erotic Art Show

'Mount Royal Prophylactics' by Andre Novak, on display now at Gallery 788

‘Mount Royal Prophylactics’ by Andre Novak—on display now at Gallery 788

Yes, that’s right—Cream City’s resident sleazebag-photographer somehow snuck his work into ERO6, Gallery 788’s 6th Annual Erotic Art Show.

ERO6 opened yesterday and it closes on November 29th. Wanna see an entire gallery space oozing with high-quality creative sexiness, smut, and filth from over 50 amazing artists? Don’t miss out—get to Gallery 788 NOW!


The Cream City Magazine is Here!

The cover of the magazine—full-color, totally sleazy Designed by Mike Stearns, featuring photographs by Andre Novak

The front cover of the magazine—full color, totally sleazy
[Designed by Mike Stearns, featuring photographs by Andre Novak]

We apologize for the lack of updates on this site over the last few months. We have a good excuse though—the Cream City magazine is finally done and it looks great! The first batch was sort of a small test-run, so we currently have only 50 copies available for sale at $10 each (fear not, we plan to print more as soon as these run out). Our publisher, Hey Boy! Presswill have several copies on-hand—in addition to lots of other sleazy and grotesque goodies like toys, comics, and stickers—at the Small Press Expo (SPX) tomorrow and Sunday in Bethesda, MD, so be sure to check their table out! If you’re not going to SPX, send us an email at, and we’ll give you the ordering details.

The magazine is 5.5 x 8.5 and features a mix of color and black and white content. Inside you’ll find a review of Ladies’ Night at the Gentlemen’s Gold Club, a playlist of sexy music from Baltimore, Andre Novak’s infamous glory holes article, Baltimore Club Music madness, a short story about The Block, a tribute to The Apex Theater, lots of lewd photos, and much more! You don’t want to miss this. Buy it now, before we run out! And stay tuned for some completely unsavory updates on the site—there’s a lot of raunchy shit coming down the pike.

Special thanks to Mike Stearns and Hey Boy! Press for making this dream cum true!


Hell yeah, we've got stickers Designed by Mike Stearns

Hell yeah, we’ve got stickers now too
Designed by Mike Stearns


Tour de Sleaze, Part 3—Journey to the Center of The Block

A Baltimore Tour de Sleaze—Part 3
A journey to the center of Baltimore’s Block
By Ingrid Verde and Andre Novak

Bar #4—███████████████
Note: The name of this establishment has been deleted at the insistence of Cream City’s lawyers.

I recall very little about the ride to The Block except that, once we were in the car, I started on some kind of political tirade that seemed to unsettle the driver. He was a good sport though. Also, Ingrid’s leg was hanging out of the car’s rear-left door as we drove off from Sherrie’s. She pulled it in before it became an issue though. We made it to The Block in record time. The hard part, we quickly realized, was deciding on where to spend the little money we had left. Haleigh-TourDeSleaze2

After a lot of arguing and peering through smudged, neon-lit strip-club doorways, we finally decided to try the largest and glitziest-looking joint on the block—you know which one. I was completely opposed to setting foot in the place, but I’d been out-voted by my associates. Jim kept insisting that we’d have “the time of our lives”—I remained 100% skeptical. The place just seemed too pricey and corporate for any real fun to be going down there. Ingrid had to drag me past the front doors as we entered. After going through some kind of blurry and expensive admission ritual, we were finally permitted to enter the dance room. The whole thing felt like passing through a military checkpoint.

Now, the exterior of this place didn’t make it seem that much bigger than most establishments on The block, but let me tell you: the interior is massive beyond your wildest imaginings. In a single room roughly the size of the Parthenon, hundreds—maybe thousands—of round black tables surround a tall circular stage on the main floor. The stage’s center is marked with two metal poles rising some 80 feet into the air, all the way to the ceiling. Each wall of the establishment is actually a stack of two additional floors, each opened to the stage for your viewing pleasure.

We were seated at a table way in the back. Jim was barking lasciviously about how great the place was as we paid large sums of money for our drinks. I didn’t like it. We were too far from the action. Even with my tiny binoculars, I could barely see the stage. I felt stranded in the desert of the real. From where I sat, there seemed to be tiny speck of a woman performing acrobatics on the pole at 60-ish feet up. But who could be sure from that distance?

I was growing weary, readying myself to organize a mutiny, when a thin man with a dark beard sidled up next to me. He leaned over and whispered something.

“You know, there are no girls here,” he said.


“No girls—not a single one. It’s all CGI or somethin’. I just came back from the front. I reached onto the stage to put a couple bucks inna girl’s g-string and my hand went right through ‘er—some kind a hologram, I think. I’m tryin’ to tell as many people as I can on my way out.”

I put my binoculars up to my eyes. It was hard to see what he meant, but the dancer on stage did have kind of a translucent glow about her. I started to turn toward the man.

“Hey, lemme go!”

I heard him shouting before I even saw the two men in black suits grabbing each of his shoulders. They each hooked an arm under the man’s armpits and began calmly dragging him in the direction of the door.

“Hey! Hey! I want my mone—“

He was pulled right through the exit doors.

By that time, Jim had apparently gone AWOL with his Tinder Date. I hadn’t noticed or cared. Ingrid, Brad, and I decided to try our luck elsewhere. We slunk toward the exit as the two men in suits stared us down. I’m on to you, I thought to myself, looking them in the eyes.

After we got out the door, we figured Little Darlings would be the logical next step as it was so close. We walked down a set of fuzzy stairs, into a darkened purple-lighted room where we each paid a cover of merely $5 before we were granted access to all of our wildest dreams, so we hoped.

“Let’s go next door—to the sketchier place. Im sure there’s no cover, and it’s more of what we are looking for,” Andre protested in front of ███████████████ where Jim had led us.

We headed next door only to find that they had an entrance fee, albeit half the cost of ██████’s. After a minor debate and at Jim’s insistence, we found ourselves at ██████—the granddaddy of Baltimore strip clubs. Out front, commanding signs and a long red-carpeted stairwell led up to the club.

Inside, clusters of tables circled a Colosseum-esque arena with two poles that led up to the high ceiling. The nude dancers climbed the pole to the second floor before twirling high above our heads and then dropping to the floor. I gasped, believing a freak accident to be inevitable and imagining the performer, mangled and broken, at the base of the pole. The $20 cover seemed worth the nude version of Cirque de Soleil.

A cocktail waitress interrupted my revelry to ask if I wanted a drink. I assessed my current level of intoxication and decided I should skip alcohol in favor of water.

“Are you crazy? Water costs just as much as alcohol here. Just get another drink.” Brad admonished.

This mentality had gotten me into a lot of trouble before. Shit was going to get crazy.

“Has anyone seen Jim and what’s her name?” I asked.

“They got a private room.” Brad said.

“OH in that case, let’s go back to the other place we scoped out. That’s what we came here for. Besides, I’m starting to think these strippers are just CGI holograms anyways…” Andre muttered.

Bar #5—Little Darlings
This establishment was small, but definitely more of a shoebox than a broom closet. The place was brimming with strippers. The management had simply hired too many girls for that night it seemed—the dancer-to-customer ratio was some 10 to 1. Also, the purple-ish lighting reminded me of black-lights and I knew we’d hit the jackpot. This was the place we’d been looking for. The three of us had to push our way through a small sea of near-naked female bodies as we walked toward the mainstage. I took a short detour past the bar and ordered another Pikesville on ice.

By the time I sat down next to my compatriots, Ingrid was already swarmed by a gaggle of strippers who were stroking her hair and lightly grabbing at her body like gentle molesters. Brad and I, it seemed, had turned into translucent ghosts at some point, which was fine with me. Brad, however, descended into a state of outrage as he shook his head, throwing his hands up, and commenting repeatedly on how Ingrid was hoarding all of the girls. “No respect,” he muttered lowering, his face into his palms.Haleigh-TourDeSleaze

I simply couldn’t relate in that moment. I turned toward the stage only to realize that one of the dancers had been staring me right in the face—with her brown eye. She was bent forward and shaking her butt-cheeks in my direction. How long had this been going on? Was I supposed to tip her? I was clueless on matters of strip club protocol. Fortunately, a doughy kid in a Batman t-shirt stepped in and saved the day.

“I got it, man,” he said to me, probably reading the panic on my numbed face.

He took a fistful of dollars and casually threw them at the dancer’s ass. She turned her head to smile at him. I noticed she had brown eyes.

“Thanks,” I said.

It was time for another Pikesville. However, I was horrified when the people at the bar told me the credit card machine was broken and they were only accepting cash. The barman pointed me toward the ATM in the far corner of the shoebox. Fair enough, I thought while taking wobbly baby-steps toward the glowing machine. I remember that a new song came on as I walked—some kind of slow organ dirge started seeping through the speakers. An airy female voice began:

Look on down from the bridge
There’s still fountains down there…

I shook my head and wondered what kind of sick joker-of-a-DJ would play that song in a club like this. No matter—I was on a mission. But even all of that went to shit as I approached the ATM and caught a slippery patch on the carpet with the heel of my shoe. I fell over and onto my back.

Everybody seems so far away from me
Everybody just wants to be free

A man dressed in a tuxedo-vest and bow-tie stood over me, and asked if I was ok. I reached into my pocket.

“Sir, there’s no smoking in here.”

“I know that.”

I discreetly slid the cigarettes back into my pocket and pulled my cell phone out. “I’m calling my lawyer, that’s all.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir.”

I’m just gone, just gone…

“Yeah, I know.”

Walking back to the stage I noticed that there were now three girls on stage, making out and grinding on each other. Whoa.

As I approached my seat, I asked Brad where Ingrid was. His eyes were wide and he just kept staring at the spectacle on stage. That’s when it hit me. I slowly turned my head around to confirm my theory. Ingrid was on stage. I turned back to Brad.

“What happened?”

“I dunno. They just pulled her on stage and she seemed down for it. They yanked her clothes off and then all of this started.”

Ingrid was standing, dancing and making out with one stripper while another one seemed to have her face tucked between her thighs.

There’s a light in your eyes
And you know, yeah you know

Batman was still seated to my right and his eyes were visibly dewy.

“This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he muttered.

“Is it really?!” I snapped.


Look on down from the bridge
I’m still waiting for you

I thought we’d been kicked out promptly at 2:00AM, which, at the time, seemed really strange in a place like that. However, I was later informed that we had, in fact, lingered around until about 3:30AM. That’s when were booted. Ingrid put her clothes on and we left, walking east down Baltimore Street in search of the next big thing.

We headed through a dark and narrow stairwell leading down to the doorway of Little Darlings. Once the door opened, I knew this was it. This is what we had been searching for. We had made it to the Promised Land— one overflowing with strippers and liquor.

“YES! This is everything I had hoped it would be!” Andre voiced my sentiment as he rushed to the bar in the back corner.

Our trio sat down at the seats arranged around the stage next to a guy with a Batman t-shirt, greasy hair, untrimmed beard, and slight paunch. I wondered how he was going to sneak back into his mom’s basement later that night.

“Oh my god that girl is so hot—the brunette one onstage.” Brad gushed.

A tall slim dancer called Jessie went on with a shorter girl wearing a g-string and jock socks. They twirled around the pole before sliding to the floor and crawling about together and simulating oral sex. Brad was in love. Jessie caught my eye and crawled to the edge of the stage.

“Hey there, sexy. You are gorgeous.”

“Seriously, Ingrid? They’re hitting on you?” Brad interjected.

“Come onstage,” she urged, pulling me towards the platform.

I resisted.

“DO IT!” Brad goaded.

“Come on Ingrid.. Come on! IN-GRID! IN-GRID…”

The other dancer had joined her in pulling me towards them; I was helpless against the siren song.

As I climbed onto the stage, Jessie unzipped my jacket and I threw it toward the audience. It smacked Brad in the face. Bright lights blinded me to the spectators. Jessie and Jocksocks simultaneously undressed me; I was oblivious to anything else. A fog machine (or, maybe, the copious amounts of alcohol I had consumed) created a haze that glowed with the lasers and rotating, multi-colored lights.

“Kiss me.”

Jessie’s lips were soft and sweet. I have no idea how long we made out pressed up against the pole onstage while the other dancer tangled between our legs, but, eventually, the set ended, and I retrieved my strewn clothing while making my way back to my seat.

“That was amazing! And I have pictures!” Brad exclaimed. “I would have had more too if the bouncer hadn’t slapped my phone out of my hand.”

Ingrid Verde, pictured at center Image courtesy of Brad Baisley

Ingrid Verde, center, conducting important research for this article
Image courtesy of Brad Baisley


He shot an irritated glance at the towering presence staring at us from the wall.

“I was just about to shoot a video when someone shouted, ‘Hey! Show some respect!’—that’s when Shaq’s big brother decided to assault my phone.”

Oh, that’s just great…

The neck-beard in the batman shirt learned forward and turned toward me.

“I just want to say that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I laughed awkwardly as I put my shirt back on.

The girls were completing their shifts and came over to socialize. Jessie and Kendra sat on the side of my chair, while another girl played with my hair behind me. Everyone moved in a sort of blur. At any given moment I had my tongue in a different girl’s mouth.  Brad shook his head in despair behind us.

“Are you all lesbians?” he inquired.

“No, but how could you not love her.” Kendra purred.

I hadn’t realized we were the only ones left in the club until the Shaq look-alike screamed, “Girls—clothes on! You guys, OUT!”

“You need to come to our after party.” Jessie appealed as she handed me my phone.

I had several new additions in my contacts list under names like “Kassie” and “Jewel.”

“Alright we will.” I affirmed as we were shuffled out into the cool, forsaken streets of Baltimore.

“We are going to that after party.” Brad stated while hailing a cab.

My phone vibrated constantly with directions from several sources.

“Hell, no,” I slurred. “I was making out with like five girls, and they’re all asking me to come now—way too much girl drama. I can’t do that…”

“It’d be great for the story,” Andre mused.



A Cream City Magazine?—Help Hey Boy! Press Make It Happen!

HeyBoy!So, Cream City’s good friend and resident artist, Haleigh Hey Boy!, is launching an independent publishing company called Hey Boy! Press.  She’s an incredible writer and illustrator who’s been producing loads of weird and amazing small-press content in Baltimore for some years now. Her work is one of the absolute best parts of the city’s underground press scene—and that’s saying a lot in a town like this. Anyway, the plan for her company is to begin printing and distributing delicious underground material to make it more available and accessible to you and everyone you know. Sounds pretty rad, right?

And here’s some more really exciting news: one of the first projects slated for Hey Boy!’s launch is a magazine version of Cream City, Maryland! Fuck yah. Now, we hate asking people for money for any reason at all, but we are doing it for this project—not just because Cream City is tied up in it, but also because we believe in Haleigh’s vision.

If you’re like us and you want to support a serious effort to revive authentic independent, outlaw publishing, now is your chance. Below is a link to the Hey Boy! Press Kickstarter page—a donation of any kind would greatly appreciated. So much so, in fact, that Haleigh is giving away some awesome gratitude packages for donations of certain sizes. The packages include items like Haleigh’s zines, copies of the Cream City magazine, and anthropomorphic hotdog toys. Yeah. And if you don’t want to donate to support underground publishing or for the rewards, then at least do it for us—because if you don’t,  we will do everything in our power to make the rest of your life miserable.  Just kidding. But seriously, any and all donations—of any size—would be extremely appreciated! Thanks for your time and support, dear readers!

Oh, and please feel free to pass this link along to anyone who might be interested in this sort of thing. That would also be much appreciated!    

Visit the The Hey Boy! Press Fund!