APPLESAUCE
Lizz Bogaard
ISSUE NO. 1 • To Have a heart
Now that I’m a senior, I’ve really been reflecting on my freshman year of college. And it’s been difficult—though not because of nostalgia, regret, or even existential anxiety; thinking about it just makes me cringe. A LOT.
I like to think of this piece as a reminder that, no matter how strange life might seem, looking back will always show us how much we’ve grown. Even if it’s just learning how to not make out like a fucking freak.
“How many guys have you made out with?”
“Six.”
“Ooooh. Who?”
“Josh, Joey, Andrew, Tom, Aaron, Stephen. Six.”
“Nice.”
“Okay Paige, now you.”
“Wellllll…” she smirked. “Seven.”
“WHAT?!”
“Yup.”
“I thought it was only—”
“Nope. Philip Smith.”
“What—”
“Yup. Tommy’s Bar Mitzvah. Last week.”
“Oh shit! I wasn’t even invited.”
“Yeah, he was a really bad kisser though…”
“Lizz, what about you?”
Oh no.
I can still remember it: sitting outside of Bella’s, pepperoni slice in hand, Paige and Izzy staring straight at me from the other side of the table, clutching their orange enVs, pink push up bra straps sticking boldly outside of their skin tight, neon yellow Sugarlip tank tops…
While my tank top hid shyly beneath my black basketball sweatshirt, worn only to flatten my stomach and prevent any nipple visibility. No bra.
Thinking back on seventh grade is never a happy process, mostly because it was a period of my life where my self-concept was built entirely upon my inadequacies: I couldn’t swim, couldn’t sing, couldn’t dance, couldn’t play any instruments, couldn’t talk in class without my face turning red, (still) couldn’t do long division, (somehow) couldn’t ride a bike, couldn’t get sidebangs or my ears pierced or a phone that wasn’t a walkie-talkie that my mom used to track my location—
And I’d never made out.
“Oh, that sucks.”
Yeah, I know.
Everyone was doing it. Everyone had done it.
But how did you do it? I had no suitors, though I was determined—and I had to be prepared.
After my friends learned about my inexperience, we fell under the unspoken agreement that—when it came to me—we just wouldn’t mention making out. It was shameful enough that I’d never done it; I wanted to know more, but I really couldn’t bring myself to remind them of my inferiority.
So, naturally, I went to Google. But it gave me nothing besides those confusing, cartooned wikiHows and the oh-so-helpful advice that “it’s natural; you just have to go with it!”
Just go with it?! Impossible.
I thought I’d never do it, and I started coming to terms with that.
Until—on one day of especially laborious web digging—I’d found my classmate Josh Kent’s meant-to-be-secret Yahoo Answers profile, for some reason listed under his full real name. There was one question on his profile: “what song was playing during ur first make out?”
No one had answered the question, though—well, no one but Josh Kent himself: “we were sitting in my treehouse and ‘city’ by hollywood undead was playing she said i was a good kisser.”
I didn’t even know who Hollywood Undead were. They sounded cool. Fuck. I felt so removed, and I sat there staring at my computer screen, low as ever…
Until something came to mind.
Until I realized that this “she” just so happened to be a friend of mine.
Now I was getting somewhere.
I knew I had to go about this carefully, so I waited for the perfect time to strike: post-gym class locker room camaraderie. (If you were changing alone, you just felt more naked.)
“Izzy?”
“Yeah?”
“Was… was Josh Kent a good kisser?”
“Oh, yeah. Really good. Everyone who’s kissed him knows that.”
“Why?”
“Well, look…” She lowered her voice. “You can’t tell anyone this.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Pinky promise?”
We shook.
“Alright… he has a secret method.”
“Whoa…” A secret method?! Hidden even from Google?! I had to know. This would be it, the key to life, love, happiness, success—
“What is it.” I couldn’t help myself.
“Okay, since I trust you…” She nodded, came closer to me, close as could be—then she paused. Pursed her lips. Took a big breath in and let it out with a whisper, sending one single word straight into my ear: “APPLESAUCE.”
Applesauce.
She explained it.
And I made sure I understood.
So on that fateful day, in that sweat-laden locker room, I learned that applesauce is, was, and will always be the only way to make out. You have to say it. Mouth it. Move your lips to form the word, slowly, quickly, hard or soft—and then you’ll get it. Then you’ll be good. Natural wouldn’t be good, couldn’t be good, unless your lips were just instinctively carrying themselves in the applesauce-sound formation—and the chances of that were, of course, beyond slim. Josh’s older brother revealed it to him, made him promise he wouldn’t tell a soul. Apparently it was a secret passed down in the Kent family, generation to generation, origin unknown. Trial and error, maybe? Or, somehow, their ancestors just knew.
And now I knew, too.
Izzy told me stories of others who didn’t know about applesauce, others who Josh refused to confide in, others now banished to the realm of social suicide for their failures. Apparently Kevin Nolatta just held his tongue there, erect, “like a snake.” It was a (carefully orchestrated) dare, with his crush, on a trampoline, at a party. And they had to hold it for ten full seconds, so said the dare. But the girl started laughing at eight, couldn’t even handle the whole thing.
No one had seen Kevin at a party since.
And now I knew why.
You know what, though? I wasn’t even the kind of person who’d be targeted for a dare. Like, I wasn’t hot enough to be desirable, but I also wasn’t ugly enough to be picked for a punishment. So, in a sense, I was in the clear.
Still, there was always a chance. Knowing applesauce was a gift, but there was no guarantee that I’d execute it—especially if everyone was watching.
So at every party, when it came time for the dreaded Truth Or Dare, I’d lower myself down to the grainy floor of the damp trampoline, crisscross applesauce, place one hand down between my legs to cover all those exposed pubic hairs I was too afraid to shave, station another hand at the straps of my two-sizes-too-big tankini to keep my tabooed tits safe from sight, praying praying praying that everyone would just forget I was there.
And, for the most part, they did.
Though, little did I know, everything would soon change.
Everything.
• • •
The year was 2010. The month was January. It was the start of my third marking period of seventh grade, so—as promised—my mom finally allowed me to get sidebangs. And I started wearing bras. And I started showering more than twice per week.
So I became hot.
And Carter Allford became my boyfriend.
He was a blonde, bowl-cutted lacrosse player who was good at math. He asked me to be his girlfriend over AIM, which I was now capable of using through my iPod Touch.
We talked every waking hour of every single day. We passed notes in class. We held hands under the lunch table. We’d even put our devices in plastic bags to shower text. He defaulted his text message signature to “i<3lizz,” whereas I made the effort to sign every instant message with “i<3carter.”
We even decided that, when we turned eighteen, we’d lose our virginities to each other.
(We were thirteen.)
Well, actually… when that deflowering decision was made, Carter was only twelve. That part’s crucial. Because Carter’s thirteenth birthday was the day that I’d, once and for all, make out.
He’d never made out either, so we were both nervous… but we knew it had to be done. So we planned it all out. And I felt a little okay, cause at least I had applesauce. Though I couldn’t share this shred of confidence with Carter; I didn’t want him to think I was trying too hard, and I didn’t want Izzy to get mad at me, and I really didn’t want to have Josh Kent’s spectral kin haunting me for the rest of my days.
I doubt Carter would’ve even believed me, anyway. It did sound a bit insane.
• • •
February 15th: a sunny, cloudless, post-Valentine’s Day North Jersey Monday—the day my life changed forever.
Mom helped me pick up a nice little ice cream cake from Dairy Queen, with a cursive “Happy Birthday, Carter!” impeccably iced on—in blue icing, to be exact. And the rest was chocolate, inside and out. Favorite color, favorite flavor. Excellent.
I walked in, said my obligatory parent hellos, and had Mrs. Allford place the cake in the freezer—for later.
I was tense. And so was Carter.
I don’t even think he looked at the cake.
Post-formalities, we strode over to Carter’s basement door, closed it shut behind us, sealed our fate. We then floated over to his Xbox area—hand in hand, just as we’d planned.
I watched him play COD for about thirty-five minutes, which was fun.
Then, ever so suddenly, he put his controller down, picked up the remote, and shut off the TV. Then, ever so subtly, he put his arm around me. He kissed my head. Okay, I thought, this is gonna be it. I turned into him. You can do this. I kissed his cheek. He pulled back out. We stared. You’re going to do this. My eyes were afraid, and so were his, but we were ready and we had promised so before anyone could chicken out we just started—
Applesauce, applesauce, applesauce…
For fear of the Nolatta serpentine fatality, we—of course—did not use tongue. So Carter let me lead the way and I did the only thing I knew I could. There was no lip sucking, face touching, neck kissing—not even that cute pushing-her-hair-behind-the-ear thing. Just our lips moving around each other as awkwardly as humanly possible.
App-ill-sauce, a-pull-saw-suh, ah-pill-sass…
Though sometimes, when miming the “p” movement with pursed lips, I’d find my mouth stuck inside of his, lips plastered together between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and I’d just have to mouth the magic word until I got out. I started being more careful, so I did it real slow, and I caught myself whispering it aloud—
I felt him pushing me away.
Does he think the sound is weird?
I resisted.
Am I a bad kisser?
He pushed harder.
No way. He’s just playing around.
I continued, normal pace, no vocals.
Applesauce, applesauce…
But he got stronger and stronger, kept pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing—
“I CAUGHT YOU SUCKERS!”
I opened my eyes, looked up at the sound.
And there, towering above me, stood none other than Mrs. Allford.
She smiled maniacally, eyes wide, hands on hips. I’d been shoved to the other side of the couch, now feet away from Carter. She looked over at him, eyes wider, nodded—then bent down to me, got right up in my face, saw straight through my watery eyes and sneered:
“Nice try.”
Frozen.
She held her smile, strutted backwards, landed right next to a looming Mr. Allford. They locked eyes. She motioned for him to come closer to us and he did as instructed, revealing, in his hands, the Dairy Queen ice cream cake. It was laid out on a nice dish with a tiny, shiny cake cutter placed beside it; it had thirteen multicolored candles, all already lit, placed atop it; and Mr. Allford even held two little paper plates, with two little plastic forks—for us.
“Well,” said Mrs. Allford. Her grin grew, eyes burned into mine. “Let’s sing, I guess!”
And so we all sang.
The entire. Fucking. Song.
Slowly.
“Make a wish, Carter!”
They left the cake on the coffee table, placed the two paper plates and the two plastic forks in front of us, walked away without a word. But I could hear them whispering as they started up the stairs, and I wanted to cover my ears, and I wish I did, because there’s one line that my brain just won’t let me forget:
“And why the hell was she saying applesauce?”
I sat. Carter sat.
We stared.
Ahead.
At the TV.
We did not speak.
We did not move.
For a very
very
l o n g
time.
“Lizz…” He did not turn.
“Why…” He paused, sighed.
“Why… uh… why did you say applesauce?”
Um…
“Were you doing that… thing?”
Uh…
“You know Josh Kent’s brother made that up to mess with him… right?”
Nope.
• • •
Nine years later, I’m still embarrassed. But I’m proud to say that, this spring, I’ll be graduating college having fully mastered the art of making out. And this past Valentine’s Day, when the clock struck midnight and I was forced to face February 15th, I sat snugly at a jazz club’s candlelit table, right in the royal company of Hannibal and Thundercat, and I did not hear nor say nor mouth any semblance of that accursed a-word.
Epistolary Enterprise
Asad Hussain Jung
ISSUE NO. 1 • To Have a heart
I wrote this piece after a bad break-up that reactivated some poor eating habits from my childhood, problems I thought had long been conquered. This is a little peek into my idea of self-love, and how food and nourishment plays a role in it. To anyone that has dealt or is dealing with eating disorders or problems, food is a human right. You deserve it.
Dear Body,
Food is a human right. You deserve to be nutrified. I know that after she left us, her, who was our air, our water, our nutrition, our sunlight, our strength, it felt as though there was no more power in us to feed ourselves. We felt so empty that not even food, nor water, could fill us, could make us feel whole. For days we have had nothing to eat, our sleep was accompanied by a vacant stomach, and the lack of energy pushed us further into the bed, further into half-sleeps, waking dreams that were drooling, unsure of what they were craving. When food was laid upon the table, thinking back, it was the most succulent mutton, the naan thick with ghee, a meal that would satiate the hungriest man, the sustenance that normally would fulfill a wanting tummy for days and nights, our eyes could see nothing but things we did not deserve, our nose inhaling scents it was too numb to enjoy. Moments came with a morsel, or a sniff, enjoyment rode in on a blinded horse, pain struck with each step, lashes of guilt. As we went through the motions, a giddy sensation took us over, a borderline hallucination of near-starvation induced euphoria, an intense lack of love forcing us to react, an imitation of self-love. Near tears, in a shifting classroom, we wished for a full belly, for the feeling that came with it, but not for the process, not for the path. Food is a human right, you deserve it, I tried to convince you. I forced you to bite into a piece of something, it didn’t seem to be food, akin to a hologram, a forgotten parcel, a lost message. You rejected it vehemently, but you swallowed.
We build self-love slowly. It’s a process. Bite by bite, sip by sip,
We will get there, together.
Food is a human right. You deserve it.
Sincerely,
Asad.
Does Queer Privilege Exist?
Pardo, C.
ISSUE NO. 1 • To Have a heart
There are a lot of things about Fordham Lincoln Center I won’t miss. The lack of spaces to socialize, the slow and ineffective investigation of “bias incidents” (hate crimes), the restrictions on student free speech - but if there is one thing I can thank them for, its that by steadfastly denying and ignoring LGBT identities in their on-campus housing policies, they have created a place where for the first time, I got to experience a privilege straight people did not: being able to sign my same-sex partner in as an overnight guest myself.
Some say the gays are oppressed. Some say the transgendered shouldn’t be able to safely transition using government health care. Some say the Elgeebeetees are going to hell for their unusual lifestyle choices. But in all this talk of “oppression” and “state-sanctioned violence” and “eternal damnation,” there is one glaring question that we have all forgotten to ask: Are the queers privileged?
Sure, centuries of persecution and murder for having a lover with matching genitals or wanting to go by “Christopher” instead of “Christine” has been generationally traumatic for the larger LGBTQ community. And of course, who could forget the countless gay and bi men who died in the AIDS crisis 30 years ago while the Reagan Administration did nothing? Or the predominantly black and Latino gay and bi men who are still dealing with the crisis today?
Of course, no one will deny that the LGBTTQQIAAP community has had a few rough patches. Life can be hard on us Queers! But still, we cannot let this seemingly sound evidence deter us from our line of inquiry. In the name of intellectual curiosity and the advancement of human knowledge, we must dare to ask this burning question: Does queer privilege exist?
And the answer, my friends? Is yes!
Nestled in the Upper West Side of the shining borough of Manhattan sits a liberal arts school nationally renowned for its atrocious campus food, abysmal restrictions on student free speech, and dorm visitation policies straight out of the 1950’s:
Fordham College at Lincoln Center.
And here is where the Gays™ and the Trans-Gendered™ and the Kweers™ finally get the privilege they have so long been denied: the ability to sign in their same-sex partner overnight without incurring any fees.
That’s right, you cissie straighties, eat it!
While all of you will be running around trying to coordinate which of your “opposing sex” friends with the different crotch models is willing to sign your (g/b)f in for a steamy night of inexperienced Valentine’s Day sex, all the cis gays, and the straight trans people with cis partners, and the nonbinary people who are all matchy-matchy with their partners’ genitals are going to go to the lobby, walk into the RA’s office, and get a guest pass for their own lovers.
SUCK IT!
So what if the Catholic Church refuses to legitimize our existence and perpetuates dangerous stereotypes that threaten the safety of our everyday lives? So what if they’ve remained silent in the rising trend of homophobia and transphobia that is being justified through religious (usually Christian) belief?
At least at this Jesuit University, I can sign my partner in for the night whenever I want!* Truly, this is queerprivilege.
Boy, does institutional invisibility sure have its advantages!
Happy Valentine’s Day everybody! ;)
*Undergraduate residents may host no more than 2 overnight guests of the same sex at a time for two nights within a seven-day period. Regardless of host, a guest cannot obtain a guest pass for more than nine nights within a thirty day period. Guest passes must be obtained 24 hours in advance in the RA on Duty office from 7 - 10 p.m. each night with the exception of Tuesday’s (7 - 8:45 p.m.). In order to obtain a guest pass, a resident must present their valid Fordham ID, must know their guest’s full name, home address, date of birth, and emergency contact number.
Under tab “Residential Life Policies and Procedures”, header “Visitation and Guest Policies”, rule 2.
Late Night When You Need My Love
Malcolm Slaughter
ISSUE NO. 1 • To Have a heart
I wrote this piece to let the world know about addition by subtraction. I wouldn't be who I am, and where I am today had I not learned how to let things go.
I remember you gave me these beads that were from your grandparents, allegedly. According to Brazilian tradition, these beads were known to “keep away the bad spirits” in ways we, human beings, were “unable” to. Some people would hang them over their headboards, some in their cars, or, wherever people considered to be their “safe space”. After a long time of leaving the beads in my drawer somewhere, I put them on the outside of the door handle of my room and ironically, I haven’t seen you since.
I remember telling you I loved you before you went to Ayana’s house. Apparently, this was a “can’t miss” game night and guys were prohibited from coming. That was unfortunate because I had plans for you – or, at least that’s what I told you to make you stay. But, despite my efforts, there would be no me, you, Jameson and a couple climaxes. Instead, it was me and Family Feud reruns and arguments with 13-year-olds on Call of Duty who are probably Trump supporters now judging by the ease and volume in their usage of the word “nigger”. I offered one last proposal for you to stay, “let me eat you until you cry” - you decided to leave anyway. For some odd reason, I didn’t hear from you until 10:42 pm the next night, I know because I didn’t get an hour of sleep.
Sometimes we’d fuck so much that my penis would hurt my entire shift at work. Our energy was deadass crazy. I remember we made these makeshift “beds” on my floor that consisted of 4 layers of blankets because my headboard was too noisy and my twin size bed could not accommodate your “yoga poses” or “things you learned from being a cheerleader”. I told you I loved you at the end of our conquests every time. Sometimes you’d say it back. Sometimes I’d text you on my way home that I loved you after a really nasty session, you’d send me a smiley face back and some picture mail. Now that’s love.
I remember we had this journal that we exchanged every time we saw each other. We’d write in it, hang out, exchange it, then read it once we left each other’s company. Communication was difficult for you, so I suggested that writing how you felt could quell your anxiety. It kind of worked, surprisingly, and we stayed consistent in journaling our relationship, the good and bad. We did find difficulty, though, talking to each other face to face. I guess we were all out of shit to say, and maybe that’s why we fucked like wild animals. My mother and I never talked about anything of substance either so I figured this had to be love, this felt like home.
I remember sitting in Dunkin Donuts on Morris avenue listening to American Wedding by Frank Ocean on repeat for 3 hours. I know it was three hours because that’s how long you were ignoring my calls. I called Ayana, only because you said you were there, and she candidly admitted she hadn’t seen you in days, that’s when I knew.
My mom told me the first day that she met you that she didn’t like you at all. I came to your defense and charged my mother with not wanting to see me happy with anyone else. She said she didn’t care about you, and I told my mom that she barely cared about me. Offended, she went down the list of bills she’s paid since I’ve been born.
-that’s what parents are supposed to do mom
- no, we’re not, my mother didn’t do that.
-your mother wasn’t a good example of motherhood
-well, what is the role of parenting then
- get out of my face Malcolm.
I grabbed my hoody and my keys and I came to see you. For whatever reason, even though we hadn’tt had sex in a couple days, you didn’t want to come outside. You told me your “mom was on some bullshit” so I sat outside for another 5 minutes before I drove to the dark area in the nearest park so I could roll some weed up. This was before the notebook, but if it was my turn to submit an entry I would’ve written some overly dramatic, hopeless romantic shit like “yo, they don’t wanna see us happy”. I called you again before I went home, you answered, then hung up. I called you back and it went straight to voicemail. Apparently, your phone was acting up. A week later my mom bought you a new blackberry. Evidently, that one had the propensity to malfunction at certain times also.
It was thanksgiving 2011, a year and a half into our fling and it was day zero (for me) of us not being together anymore. I got a job offer in South Carolina and after a year of unemployment, I packed my shit and left without telling you. Once I got to my dad’s house, it really sunk in that it was over. I called you, against my better judgment, and you actually answered. I updated you on shit you didn’t ask about and then I told you that I missed you for the first time in a while. You laughed. I can tell that laugh caught you by surprise. I shed a tear before you could even notice you were conveying the wrong emotion.
-aww
-that’s all you have to say…
-Malcolm, you know I love you.
- idk why but I love you too and I miss you…
- same, can I call you back?
- in the middle of me saying how I feel?
- you’re the one who fuckin left me, high and dry, I don’t have to explain shit to you.
You called me a couple days later and asked if you could order some dominos and put it on my credit card. I laughed, then cried, then hung up. You didn’t hear me cry, though, and that was the last time we ever spoke.
If I had you, I wouldn’t have my degree. I can go down the list of my shortcomings; and things I’ve done wrong, and names that I’ve called you, and hugs I didn’t give you, and kisses that didn’t land on your forehead, and attention that should’ve been yours; but if I had you, I wouldn’t have anything else. I’m not sure if I can call it a bad romance. I’ve been aligned with a higher purpose since we’ve disconnected - addition by subtraction.
Heartbreak is the necessary rite of passage for a boy. I awkwardly advise young men to be vulnerable and be destroyed when they ask me about love. It’s important to learn about themselves and their limits in love in new ways. I sometimes regret saying that though, only because after you broke the news to me, via text, after months of arguments, Twitter battles and speculation, I thought about killing myself for years. And I’m not quite sure if that’s exactly what I want people to feel. That feeling hasn’t left me since.
Peach Fuzz
Caroline Hughes
ISSUE NO. 1 • To Have a heart
When thinking about love for this piece, I thought about a relationship that has affected my past few years at school. This relationship has changed a lot while at school, and is being affected as this period of our lives comes to an end.
When we met you shook my hand
you heedlessly picked it up
already fragile and peach skinned
and held it so tight that your uneven
and bitten-down-to-the-wick fingernails
pierced right through my delicate derma
to my cloying flesh
bleeding nectar down your unabashed fingers
and pooling between where our
shoes were merely kissing on the ground
I predicted I could be your ripe
flavor for at least a month
Till I inevitably became rotten
and you craved something that wouldn’t
pinch your gums as much when
I asked you to take a bite of me again and again
A tear-off paper calendar shows
a pile of weeks that stack into months
I consciously tuck my nose and mouth
into the hem of your moth-eaten t-shirt I stole
Masking my unavoidable aroma
Putrid and intoxicating
strong enough to erode any lingering attachment
You now fit your face
in between my neck and shoulder
and inhale slowly without recoiling
I feel the corner of our lips flick up
“Your hair tickles,”
I go to move it but your hand
Grabs mine with such care
I forget I’m supposed to be bruised
Your nose traces the tiny hairs that never grow behind my ear
“its like peach fuzz.”