I DRAW, JON—IT’S WHAT I DO (from FEMOID)

From S. A. B. Marcie’s Femoid (Calamari Archive—Forthcoming: May 15, 2025)

[Note: Asterisks mark where footnotes appear in the print version]

To supplement my café job pittance, and to escape from Dax’s miserable sexual quasi-crimes, I produce artwork and animations (rarely) for pop-up ads, internet forum banners, and individual commissions. Most clients have me create cartoonishly full-figured women to attract men to their mobile games, while porn companies hire me to animate fetishistic “copulatory” scenarios.* I’m provided with a rough outline of what they want: what the characters should look like (skin colour, species, size of genitalia [crucial]), what act is being performed (groping, penetration, violence), what it will link to, and so on. Not sure what my individual clients do with my work. 

When you do this long enough, this artistic sacrilege, you begin to see sex like bloodless dance choreography. 

When I was about 14 and maybe 2 days into trying to make it as a creative in the modern post(-post?)-industrial, late(-late?)-capitalistic technocratic ecosystem (are we even further along?), I realized no one wanted to pay for the art of an up-and-comer with an affinity for aping classical aesthetics. They hardly wanted to pay for the art of the established creatives. So, rather than let my creative instincts go to waste, I transitioned to digital and started posting things to DeviantArt and other spots that got lots of organic traffic, where folks were selling their rather ham-fisted illustrations of beloved characters. It was unbelievable: $100 for a crayon-generated depiction of Sonic eating a burrito; $75 for Squirtle holding a Filipino flag; $200 for Danny Phantom caressing Sam Manson’s hot alt chick hand—and usually in USD, too. Even if I had caught the tail-end of this age of internet innocence, I was ecstatic at the chance to contribute. 

My initial posts as “SavoyAhoy:)” were objectively awful, but that made them a good fit for the platform. Sometimes, I’d type out the positive comments people left on my work and print them out, fold them up, and hide them under my bed. It didn’t matter what was going on between Janice and Winston (my parents—we’ll get to them) at the time, or if they’d left me to fend for myself again. A community wanted me. 

Tumblr had come into my life around this time and changed the fuckin’ game, too. Our culture is inundated with nostalgia worship (you’ve seen the “le epic ’90s kid” memes, the gratuitous retro cartoon adoration, the interminable YouTube essays on why video games were so much more EPIC 20 years ago), but the Tumblr of 2012-2016 was legitimately exceptional, my Roman empire (👸🏾🐂). 

Tumblr was like a secret online club where you could connect with people who really saw the world a little differently, people who “got it.” You’d encounter fanfic stories about marrying Edward Cullen, heated debates about the efficacy and merits of using “XD” over “:D,” disquisitions on fake units of measurement (I later found out “Cuil Theory” came from Reddit, but whatever). We even had a secret code—if you wanted to see if someone was with it, you’d just say “I like your shoelaces,” and if they responded with “I stole them from the President,” you knew you had met a fellow user.* 

Gradually, with these influences, my landscape pieces and wistful social stills turned into depictions of Benedict Cumberbatch as a potato and scalene triangles wearing fedoras. I didn’t dare tell anyone I was gaining followers for my stuff, or that I was getting paid commissions. I rarely saw the money, anyway. I’d needed a bank account to accept and withdraw the funds, but Janice wouldn’t go with me to the bank to set one up, so I had to use hers. Mysteriously, the money I did accept always went missing under Janice’s watch. As a result, I had to convert later commissions to DeviantArt points, which wasn’t nearly as impressive. 

But times change, and the days of innocence on the internet drew to a close.* 2016, for reasons you probably already know (thanks for the astroturfing, internet agencies and 3-letter lapdogs), marked a seismic shift in internet culture, turning it away from quirky “Millennial” humour to the full-blown insanity of Gen Z humour. 

People didn’t want to see drawings of stoned Sonic or starchy Sherlocks and Watsons anymore—they wanted politically charged stuff. Nonsense pieces. Aggro stuff. The comments under my fluff pieces became increasingly apathetic, shrinking in number with every month. I still wasn’t doing it for the money, and I’d gotten a hell of a lot better, but DeviantArt points had become an indication of my “value” to the internet. So I took a couple of “unusual” commissions, not knowing the first thing about sex beyond the porn clips from pop-ups. No one had seemed even remotely interested in doing “the sex” with me in person, and I was afraid to touch myself, so I didn’t even know what it was supposed to feel like. The first ever adult commission I did was for a user by the name of “BeeBao,” who wanted Fubuki from One-Punch Man in a green bikini. It took two days, and he gave me $100 for it. 

By the time I made it onto Crystal Cafe (deffo more on that shortly), I was a bona fide Dykelangelo. 

And here we are, thousands of dicks and tentacles and vaginas and tits in. 

Today’s commission: 

Concept: Jordan Peterson having forceful, unprotected sex w/ a blushing Ben Shapiro. 

Format: Digital 

Specs: 300 DPI 

Special Requests: Peterson should look healthy and robust (about 45% more muscular than usual—pre-benzo phase) and a little mean—definite dom energy; Shapiro should look bashful, cock-crazed, in pain, but in a good way—like he’s fully aware of the tabooness of it all—wearing garter belts and lingerie and his yarmulke—think gay, ripe Anne Frank—& in the background, “Fags don’t care about your feelings!”; any art style—not too cartoonish. 

Purpose of Use: Commercial (kek)

I switch from the cross-hatching video to YT reference videos for the piece. (Art should always be done with a perverse sense of curiosity.) 

Peterson talks Twitterati, the importance of Christian values while still in the thralls of benzo withdrawals—“Well, you know, actually, that is to say that, evolutionARILY speaking, y’know, the dominant man would get the girl, and he’d leave the rest to the rabble, the gossipers, the bloody social justice types!”; Shapiro advocates US involvement in worsening Middle Eastern Conflict #732, subsection B; talks inflation + non-Christian values—“The Left have the strange notion—very strange, indeed—of some great economic boogeyman coming down and periodically rigging things against them— conservatives and such—when, in reality, it’s they themselves, with their constant overspending and economic mismanagement—just look at what’s going on in Detroit! Anyway, the US Government does have enough money to bomb Iran…” 

I keep having to erase Peterson’s throbbing cock. Can’t get the angle right. 

Oh, yes—so happy to have stayed in… 

At 1:21 AM, a knock interrupts the cock-refinement. It’s a hoarse, beleaguered Dax from the other side of the door. I’m prone on my bed, holding my iPad aloft. 

“Hey, uhhhh…,” he starts, in his customary brainrot parlance. “What’s up?” 

“Nevaeh’s gonna, like, stay the night.” 

“What?” 

“Nevaeh’s gonna—” 

“Open the door.” 

He opens it, and I immediately regret letting the stank in. 

“Nevaeh’s gonna stay the night,” he declares again, leaning on the door frame, Uniqlo Naruto T-shirt half covering his gut. “Do we have any clean towels? She wants ta take a showerrr.” 

“Have you checked the dryer?” 

“Uhhhh…” (That’s a no.) 

“There should be at least one clean one in there. I was gonna use it, but whatever.” 

“Well, fuckiiin, I could, like, do the laundry in the mornin.”

He won’t. No matter what he says, he won’t. I know his routine better than mothers know their snot-nosed children. 

“I’ll remind you in the morning. Check your phone.” 

“Sweet, vro. Tee-why. So, whatcha up tooo?” 

“Drawing.” 

Dax says he wants to hang while she showers. 

I tell him it’s a free country. 

He leaves to get her a towel and returns two minutes later. She’s probably gonna use my specialty shea butter shower cream, too. I swear… 

“So what do you think of her?” Dax asks, poking at the edge of one of my Alice In Chains posters (Dirt) and scratching his balls. 

“She’s kinda…small.” 

“I dunno, man.* It’s whatever. She’s pretty ight. She’s studyin botany or horticultury or…somethin?”

That bitch wants to be what I want to be. 

“And did you guys…?” 

Daxhäuser flashes a sly grin. 

I can hear her knocking over bottles in the hair-encrusted shower. 

“Does she go to our school?” 

“Yezzir.” 

“Neat.” 

Peterson’s cock seems too…robust? Veiny? Can’t tell. I’m re-drawing while he talks. 

“Oh, vro, were you, uhhhh, still gonna cum to the show tomorrow? We haven’t sold many tickets, so, like, cummm whenever.” 

“Yeah, I’ll probably be there.” 

“Matt said he wanned you ta try the new burger we’ve added to the menu.”* 

“Is it also named after a famous comedian, like the rest of the entrées?” 

“Duh. And you should bring your date. You gonna go with that guy who asked you out?”

“Not sure. This is the first time I’ve been asked out in a long while. Haven’t given him an answer yet. It’s been two weeks. He’s probably moved on.”

“Vro, maybe you should jusss try. You can’t jus draw all day.” 

“Dax.” 

“Yuh?” 

“Yesterday, I turned 23.8281,” I say, propping myself up against my pillows, eyes trained on the small tear he’s absent-mindedly creating in my Orlando Bloom poster to match the other ones he’s made. “By Ancient Mesopotamian standards, I’m already used goods. Beyond middle-aged. Life as a girl doesn’t get better as you get older—it gets worse. I’m not sure any boy in this lifetime will love me. I’m already spoilt. And your kind can’t love anymore. Haha.” (Dax looks puzzled.) “Just kidding. Maybe I will go on that date. It’s not like the one guy I actually like will ever ask me out. I have nothing left to lose. Thanks, Apple News notification!” 

“Ooooh. That’s tough, b.” 

The water’s been turned off. LordBingus stops fucking with my stuff. 

“Guess she’s done already,” I say.* 

“Aight. I’mma gonna go see what she’s up to. Catch you later, man.” 

Now my room smells foul. Thank you, Dax. And now the angle of Ben Shapiro’s dick seems a hair or two off. Why is this one causing me so much grief? 

C’est la D.

by S.A.B Marcie

S. A. B. Marcie is a (recovering) femoid edgelord. Her long-time immersion in the digital landscape has fried her brain, but it has also informed her poetry and prose, for which she has appeared in many international literary magazines (under other names). She lives in the Arc’teryx-coded hellscape of Vancouver, Canada, where she’s writing her next novel.

Pre-order Femoid here:- https://asterismbooks.com/product/femoid-sab-marcie