La Mil Amores

El Rokero Quita V-cards:

Very loud, very fast and left me very sore. It was like having sex with a rabbit in heat. My lonjas bounced all over, I could barely hold my shirt down and this fool couldn’t care less as long as his dick was somewhere in between my legs. I swear he popped out twice and was thrusting in between my left thigh and pussy lip. He made a weird O-face and his sweat kept dripping on me. I wanted him out of my room so I pretended my mom was coming home and he needed to leave. I later found out he was notorious for taking gorditas virginities, so I told him he wasn’t my first and that knocked him down a few notches.

El Footbolista Machista:

This one was older, about 9 years older. Very nice at first ‘cuz I told him HE was my first. He thought himself an expert on vaginas and thought I was tight, so he believed me. He was big and thought that was good enough for any woman. Like “I got a big dick, what else you want from me?” type of guy. He started talking about marriage and babies so I told him he needed to stop all this thinking and that his dick lacked character. And that was that.

The Cholito Who Got Away:

We knew each other since we were sixteen. I had a huge a crush on him. The kind of crush that makes you day dream about making out and holding hands and playing grab ass all day but he had sex with my friend in my back yard and I never wanted to see him again. He was friends with my cousins so I’d still have to see him here and there until I moved. Then I ran into him three years later and he looked fine as ever (like really fine… And grown) and he wasn’t lookin at me like some homegirl anymore either. We ended up getting high and had sex in his car that night. It was A M A Z I N G and a bit harder than I thought it would be. Here I was thinking/hoping I would one day bump into him and show him how I do and here he was turning me inside out. We had sneak-a-boo sex as often as we could. He’d sneak over to my house or I’d sneak over to his and we could go all night! It was dangerous for us to moan in our houses so we’d usually have that breathe hard kind of sex where you have to use a pillow and cringe your teeth when you’re about to cum, it was all good. Until he got a real girlfriend and our sexcapades were over without warning. I’m not gonna lie, that shit hurt.

My Friend:

I got really drunk a few weeks after the Cuddy Buddy break up and I ended up giving my friend head. It was wierd. We’re fine-ish.
If sex makes things awkward, sucking your friends dick just makes shit wierd.

It took me a while to get comfortable with anybody else after my cholo found him self a petite sexy trophy girl, but after about a year I felt like I was ready to mount the ole’ saddle again.

El Enojon:

I don’t know what else to call him except for maybe immature? He threw a fit because he couldn’t get it up and then blamed me for it. This dude had issues and I took it as a sign from the universe that this angry mans penis did not belong in my body. It was my first attempt at sex after about a year so I felt that maybe it was my fault. Like I wasn’t perky enough or I talked his penis straight into flaccidness. It was somewhat traumatizing but I know it wasn’t my fault. Dicks are strange. Almost as weird as their carriers.

El Delicadito:

Diosita mia, this man was sensitive! I know many women complain about men not being in tune with their emotions or their feminine side (myself included) but not every woman wants the same type of sensitivity. I’m more than positive that I made myself very clear to this man and that we understood that our relationship was nothing more than sex. I didn’t want cuddles afterwards, I didn’t need him to hold me while I came and I certainly did not want to hold him, I didn’t want to tell him about my days or even discuss ideas if they didn’t pertain to sex with each other. High-fives, great job, and see ya next time was really what I was looking for. I just wanted him inside me and then out my motherfuckin house. I got a few nice breakfasts out of this but I’m not ever in any kind of mood where I want to deal with waking up next to someone or worrying about some dudes feelings because I didn’t text or call all day. Fuck that. Well fuck that for now, I guess.

There’s been a few others but I don’t feel like they’re worth mentioning really. It’s just basic dick that didn’t leave me with much to say or think about. I don’t feel like my list is long, I hope to meet other men so that I can have more stories to tell. I don’t think I use men to fill any voids, that’s what food is for. I’m just on a never ending quest to find the perfect dick that’ll really satisfy all my needs. But that’s more than likely not to ever happen because my standards are high and dicks are pretty low. Maybe I’ll find the perfect mouth to eat me out all the time instead? Who knows, life is full of wonders and shit fest.

I Believe in Living


i believe in living.
i believe in the spectrum
of Beta days and Gamma people.
i believe in sunshine.
In windmills and waterfalls,
tricycles and rocking chairs;
And i believe that seeds grow into sprouts.
And sprouts grow into trees.
i believe in the magic of the hands.
And in the wisdom of the eyes.
i believe in rain and tears.
And in the blood of infinity.

i believe in life.
And i have seen the death parade
march through the torso of the earth,
sculpting mud bodies in its path
i have seen the destruction of the daylight
and seen bloodthirsty maggots
prayed to and saluted

i have seen the kind become the blind
and the blind become the bind
in one easy lesson.
i have walked on cut grass.
i have eaten crow and blunder bread
and breathed the stench of indifference

i have been locked by the lawless.
Handcuffed by the haters.
Gagged by the greedy.
And, if i know anything at all,
it’s that a wall is just a wall
and nothing more at all.
It can be broken down.

i believe in living
i believe in birth.
i believe in the sweat of love
and in the fire of truth.

And i believe that a lost ship,
steered by tired, seasick sailors,
can still be guided home to port.

By Assata Shakur

**MalintZINE Tienda**

We welcome you all to visit our MalintZINE Tienda where you will be able to order our zine both in paper copy or pdf format, stickers, and t-shirts!

Visit MalintZINE Tienda at

Damos la bienvenida a todos ustedes para visitar nuestra MalintZINE Tienda donde podrás ordenar nuestra revista tanto en copia impresa o en formato pdf, pegatinas y camisetas!

Visita MalintZINE Tienda a

Submissions Y Presentaciones

In the commitment to pursue silenced experiences, Malintzine is looking for submissions that enact social transformation, create opportunities for dialogue and instigate reflection. Do not let your experience continue to be silenced!

Please submit your stories, poems, quotes, etc. to

En el compromiso de llevar adelante las experiencias silenciadas, Malintzine está buscando presentaciones que promulgan la transformación social y la creación de espacios de diálogo que instigan la reflexión . No dejes que tu experiencia siga siendo silenciada!

Por favor envía tus historias, poemas, citas, etc. a


You can call me Alex or Alexandra

The first time I said I liked girls my voice broke
Everyone turned to me as if I had cursed at the dinner table
My mother told me to go take a shower and think about it 
But mom, you can’t wash off who you are
And yes, I have been thinking about it
A lot

In a small town news spreads like wildfire
I was the walking disappointment in the middle of town square
I had been reduced to it till I was purged of this evil that threatened to claim my soul
No one would sit next to me in class
And everyday after the assembly I was taken aside and told I would burn
Hell had no mercy for those like me 
But people, you don’t tell a sixteen year old child that she is possessed by the devil

And the other day when I went to get my hair cut
They loped it all off
And they said there you like to fuck girls now you can be a man
But a bad haircut doesn’t make me a man 
And all the abuses you can throw at me won’t change who I am
And I stood there with their glares digging daggers into the back of my head
The old man cursed dyke, and the parents covered their childrens eyes
As if I had a disease they would catch if they looked for too long

And they threw a burning stick in my front yard and said burn you deserve to burn
So i did
I burnt
I burnt myself piece by piece till there was nothing left but ashes
But remember you can burn down one Alex, one dyke, one unholy sin but 
There will rise another and another and another 
Till this world will have to change and then 
There will be a dyke at every street corner and 
I will look you in the eye and say how many will you burn?



You call yourself an activist

Fighting for injustices

You say you’re in touch with your feminist side


Behind closed doors you’re a lying, cheating, whore

You cruelly lie and pretend

You play games

You claim to be a hard core Xicano

Fighting for OUR cause

How is it then….you can bring a fellow comrade down

You deceive and lie about yourself

Pretending to be into me

Only to let me down

Lied about having a girl friend

Lied about being available

Lied about your calls and texts

You made me promises you didn’t keep

Then excused yourself behind a woman

You are fraud

You are a jerk

Disappointing in so many ways

You have fooled not only me

But many more too

Narratives of Silence

I fail to fear the consequences of exclusion, for those who cannot
deal with the fact that I spit truth and fire with my tongue, were
never meant to be a part of my life

In the battlefield of narratives we can make a conscious effort to
tell truth from our perspective or alter it in our private interest.
The narrative is always in relation to the past and it continuously
reaffirms our identity no matter how tarnished it is. Meaning that in
order to survive, find strength, or safety, we modify the reality of
our past to fit our present needs. However, in modifying our narrative
we oppress and silence those who lived the same experience, never
getting to express their truth–reality as they lived it.

Therefore let us not prioritize the importance of individual memory
but that of a collective memory, preserving the voice of those who’ve
been forced into silence by those who fail to include and/or to listen
to their narratives. Narratives filled not simply by the conjunction
of words, but composed by lived experiences.  And in the face of truth
and justice, if we rely on a single story we become more likely to
rely on those who alter narratives in their private interest to
reflect their present needs because their past in relation to truth
and reality at some point became unbearable enough in the necessity to
lie–a careful and intentional alteration to distort truth for their
own benefit.

The past holds an intangible sense of space that continuously
reaffirms our present identity, but always in relation to others;
therefore creating spaces that are nevertheless highly affective.
Spaces that are shaped by feelings in conjunction to those who once
shared and lived an experience with us, part of a collective truth,
but now choosing to exclude collectivity and asserting power by
imposing silence.

In choosing to silence those who at some point shared a sense of space
in collective truth we transform the past from an intangible space to
one of a reality. The detriment in the pervasive power to exclude
narratives is one that relates to historical erasure based on a
hegemonic stance to maintain power by unmistakably avoiding discussing
truth in a collective manner. And those who are willing to inscribe
into a false consciousness and internalize what they hear as truth
without ever questioning its factuality become manipulated into a
false past and actively participate in the exclusionary visions of
truth for the sake of support, but rendering into false assumptions.
Such narratives might be met with support or resistance. And
resistance usually comes from those who have been silenced and framed
as antagonistic, while support will more than likely come from those
who assume an imaginary neutral position and fail to actively seek a
desire for collective truth.

In the act of unquestionably accepting someone else’s story we are
actively participating in the silencing of someone else’s lived
experience that becomes othered. And if we agree that silencing the
other is an act of violence, the act of failing to listen to a
collective truth is an act of violence itself. There is no neutrality
in the battlefield of narratives, just like there is no neutrality in
the battlefield of social justice–either we chose to oppress or fight
against it. Now ask yourself the following question, how do you
actively participate and perpetuate the cycle of silence?