Every issue, Brendan McDougall takes a classic literary text and fills it with graphic, explicit, filthy, transgressive, don’t-show-your-grandma sexiness. Keep it under lock and key.

Words by Brendan McDougall
Illustrations by Sarah Layton


Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.

It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation, not to mention the opportunity to spend a few months of dark nights up to my neck in seamen. The seamen all over the bunks in our quarters, seamen all over the deck, each individually scented, albeit all with that distinct saltiness that lights my loins so, invigorated me to no end. My journey began positively, sharing a bed with a nasty Polynesian named Queequeg, equal parts tattoos and throbbing masculinity, with which he showed no hesitation in stuffing my rubbery, landlubbery porthole, filling me with the salty solution both my rectum and disposition hungered for. I felt safe beneath Queequeg’s gasping, sweating frame as he tied me down and docked me for those first three nights, and even though my body was being wave-borne out into to the unknown Atlantic, every instance that Queequeg’s haired stomach flesh slapped like a wave into my stern felt like a homeward pound.

This initial comfort wore away however, just as the ocean erodes the coastline, as my restlessness and thirst for misadventure sharpened. We moored in Nantucket and there, in the port, I heard rumour of a ship that lay in the harbour, a mysterious ship sighted every night being visited by shadowed figures. Opportunistically I arrived with my cock in hand, red-raw from Queequeg’s sandpaper palms, standing starboard side of the good ship Pequod, awaiting a meeting with the captain. I had heard legend onshore of Captain Ahab’s single-minded approach to flogging his white whale Moby Dick, and though warned of the danger, sought a ride on his large, ragged vessel. After letting another prospective sailor shaft me for twenty minutes in the shadows under the pier, the captain appeared, a gruff silhouette against the afternoon sun. I quickly scooped the cum out of my porthole and went up to meet Ahab. His voice was musty like an old rug and the sight of his bare chest, weathered and red as lobster-flesh, caused my mast to stiffen in the wind. “Come, Ahab’s compliments to ye; come and see if ye can swerve me.”

He touched one massive finger to my lips before turning away and leading me towards his quarters. It was quiet on deck, save for the screech of seagulls, the clop of Ahab’s whale-bone leg and the beating of my sparrow-heart. The captain had lost his real leg in attempting to win his life-long battle with the white whale. The traditional rationale behind whaling lay in the extraction of precious spermaceti from the whale’s sperm-sac, but Ahab took to the sea only for revenge. Here was a man who had no care for profits, a man who wanted to flog the white whale until it was red and bleeding, screaming as it gave up its sperm. We entered the cabin and he closed the door behind him, lit a candle, and stepped quickly out of his pantaloons. His member, already bulbous, was engorged with blood. It had teeth marks and even a harpoon imbedded in its side. This was the Moby Dick, the white whale. He looked at me earnestly as he started desperately pulling at it, panting frantically. He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it. He moved on from the tugging and began slapping his cock, punching it, grabbing it with two hands and twisting it, all the while staring at me earnestly. He wailed, leaping at me and grabbing my face and pushing my soft lips onto the monster, holding it in place as he thrusted. I could feel the tip of his knob crushing into the back of my throat and I gargled with joy.

“Swerve me! Swerve me!” he bellowed.

I sucked as hard as God would allow me to suck, so much so that I could feel my eyes bulging from their sockets, until finally he screamed with pleasure as I extracted the sperm from the white whale, making sure to collect every last drop salaciously with my tongue. The old captain slumped onto his chair, eyes in a far off place, dick shrivelling rapidly like a rotting piece of fruit. His gaze was one of relief: after all these years, Moby Dick had been licked, and sucked, and chewed a little bit too.

Every issue, Brendan McDougall takes a classic literary text and fills it with graphic, explicit,
filthy, transgressive, don’t-show-your-grandma sexiness. Keep it under lock and key.

Words by Brendan McDougall
Illustration by Sarah Layton

MEDIA_clasixxx_207x877Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor?

Doctor: Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.

Macbeth: Thick cumming fancies!

Doctor: The fingers of her right hand be shoved
So far up her baby-hole
I cannot budge them.

Macbeth: I’ll cure her o’that! Seyton, haste!
Fetch Macbeth a jar of kingly lube
And I’ll uncork her wrist from lady-tube.

Seyton: Right away.

Exeunt Doctor, Seyton.

Macbeth: Malcolm moves closer to my front, yet ‘tis
My front which stirs against what lies behind
That door. I’ll disrobe now and surprise her,
And bite with gentlest teeth the lobe of her right ear
‘Til from her vag drips free what spirit lies
Twisted dormant ‘neath her crazed hysteria
My love, what sorrow darkness must possess her!
Quickly will I with eyes and hands undress her.

MACBETH enters the ante-room where LADY MACBETH lies.

Lady Macbeth: Out damn spot! Out, I say!—One: two: why,
then, ’tis time to do’t—Hell is murky!—Fie!
My lord! Who would have thought the old man
would have had so much blood in him…

Macbeth: He is full up with blood, anticipating
His lady’s four-lipped kiss to warm it
So that it may release from it’s angry eye
The white nectar, the liquid moon, the medicine
That may surely cure all that ails thee.
Birnum Wood outside moves little, nay, not at all
T’ward Dunsinane. Yet there is another wood
Moving against thy person, and perhaps one
of thicker girth and veinier disposition at that.
Choose thy orifice and prepare for a stuffing!

LM: I shall open up my mouth once more before
I swallow your sword great gulped to the hilt
So it may tickle my poor heart: a question.
Do you trust me?

Macbeth: Trust you? What trickery is this?
I makest thou a queen and offer thusly
To fill thou with a King and spawn in you
A prince. —You ask me wild questions such as this.
It is a lucky thing your holes are still as tight
As when first I plugged them in your father’s garden
As now I do.

LM: Screw your courage to the sticking place.

Macbeth: O!

LM: Aye!

Macbeth: Fie!

LM: O!

Macbeth: Ho!

LM: Come to my breasts and take my milk for gall!

Macbeth: Hitherto!

LM: Fie!

Macbeth: Speak on the subject now I ask of thou –
Art thou still a little harlot?

LM: A little harlot I am my lord.

Macbeth: Of course this is the case! And thou enjoy
My kingly balls thumping hard against thy pelvic bone!
I knowest thou do!

LM: More than any other thumping thing m’lord!

Macbeth: Now remove your hands now clasped from round my neck
My windpipe is obstructed.

LM: I cannot hark my lord,
These throes of ecstasy seem to have
Unbalanced my hearing

Macbeth: Hear this then, I cannot breathe.

LM: Or maybe ‘tis the great Macbeth unbalanced
Which I hear now.

Macbeth: I have no words, my word is in my sword.

LM: And thy sword is in my cunt! You conspire
With witches to make me Queen and now
The blood stained on my hands must be removed.
Your Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Macbeth: Hold, enough!

LM: Thy blood razes my palms clean and thy seed
Enters my uncaring womb where now it turns
To dust. Your son sleeps here forever.
King, Cawdor, Glamis, all thou art betrayed.
Thou knowest this tale ends not another way.

Macbeth: Ooo! Fie! Alack! Now I am slain!


LM: Lie still, thou creamy hubris you have stuffed
Wastefully, all up here in my Macduff.
‘Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.