On Clowning, Magic, and their BUNKERSLUTS collaboration.
A mother on getting acquainted with her postpartum libido.
A novel that takes us back to the sensual, food and sex galore.
With her latest book, The Freezer Door, Sycamore breaks down language and genre to confront intimacy, the politics of gay bars, and to find the communities we desire.
In this excerpt from her interview in BOMB’s winter 2021 issue, Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore discusses activism, gay bars, and her forthcoming book, The Freezer Door.
The filmmaker on her 1995 film BloodSisters documenting San Francisco’s leather-dyke scene.
The first time I saw Jane I was working at the bike shop, a veritable cacophony of grease and gunk I only survived by occupying my hands. Bikes had a purpose that had nothing to do with me—every part fit together properly so my mind could remain free and unviolated. Her left knee was scrapped, with pieces of pavement lodged in the wound. The sight disrupted my hard-earned equilibrium. I tried not to look, but it was too late. I had already imagined retrieving the bits of bloody gravel from her abrasion and rolling them like candy on my tongue.
The writer on her new novel, creative partnerships, sex as communication, and tending to old drafts.
My favorites are the ones you see, but I have a lot you don’t see unless I’m naked. And I’m not going to get naked now. I’m too embarrassed with you.
All loves—and all selves—are fictions. Though that doesn’t mean they aren’t true.
The writer on seeking queer lineage, public sex as collective defiance, and autobiography as accumulation.
Sick and smelly / I dip my finger into my belly button / and it seems to go forever // Not a shallow cup this is just / AttemptS just attempts to remember / what it was like to be pastel
Sex as ecstasy and trap.
Building empathy through simulated pickup artistry.
They say that, for the longest time, Enrique didn’t know he was a superman. What he understood was that men liked his dick.
Lucy and Kit sat waiting side by side on a black leather couch, before a long glass window that looked out over Tribeca, the winter sun in their laps. Kit stole sideward glances at Lucy, who hummed, twisting her hair around her fingers in a compulsive fashion.