In celebration of the too hawt to handle cast we’ve been drooling over, here’s an excerpt from our second issue dedicated to the perpetual fetishisation of the uniform. Lace up...
“01:00–03:00. The Graveyard shift (known in Greek as the ‘German shift’). He wakes me up with a delicate stroke on the ear — I wonder whether that's the way he strokes the girl on the other end of the line. “Get up, you’ve stood the other guy up for 10 minutes already.” I was up, but not in the way he wished. With loosened laces and a G3A3 on my shoulder I walk down the stairs and all the way to the gate. It’s now 02:00. Countersign. 03:00. Change of guard. On the bench outside the barracks, I take off my shoes and so does the guy who woke me. “Feeling dead;” he asks. “I'm fine” I whisper. “I was on the phone this whole time — she got me so fucking hard” Didn’t know what to say to that. “You going to leave me like this?” he asks. I didn't. Not that night, nor any other night until he got dismissed. Returning on the island to claim his civilian ID, he allowed himself one last night of anonymity before, along with his uniform, he gave up arms.”
