Years ago I occasionally worked in Launceston (which is basically the more bogan, scum fuck part of Tasmania, up the Northern end of the state, roughly a 2 hour drive from where I live) On these trips I would get put up in a hotel, and nights were spent either watching horrible commercial TV or reading even more horrible magazines (Terrorrizer)
I knew of this 24 hour Fish and Chip shop that also sold porn magazines, it was a bit of a trek, but on one particular night it seemed worth it, I had probably been away for a few days at this stage. I set out around 9pm. I got lost along the way somewhere, but I did find it eventually. Unfortunately, on this night the counter was manned by a young lady, probably a bit rough around the edges too, so I felt a bit sheepish buying my stick mag from her instead of a bloke, but after a quick cursory glance at their extensive selection I grabbed one that I knew featured penetration (SWANK) and with minimal eye contact the deed was done.
Smut Ode reminds me very much of the disappointment and frustration I felt when I returned to my room that night to discover that all the juicy (literally) parts had been covered up by small (or sometimes ridiculously large) black stickers. The anticipation I had built up while stumbling home was fucking ruined by having to painstakingly peel off these surprisingly hardy black dots. I briefly wondered which poor censorship board cunt had the job of placing them over each point of entry (and quickly realised it was more likely an underpaid foreigner who had that task).
The thing is, Smut Ode is an art zine, so the blanking out of extremities is no doubt there to incite this type of reaction, and for that it is a glaring success. This is a look into the world of glitzy porn advertising, reminding me of those silky smooth photo-shopped bodies that adorn printed publications opposed to the worn out and fatigued carcasses that are spread across online hubs. Those days before iPhone porn were certainly something and Smut Ode pays homage to this.