Thursday, April 29, 2010

Love, B

by Mike Meraz

there is a piece
of chicken in the
fridge for you.
and Stanley already
ate today - please feed
him tomorrow.

Love, b

Stanley was our cat.
that was the last letter
I received from her
now she is in Minnesota
with some paraplegic (old)
man, okay, he is not really paraplegic
but he is old, and one day she was here
and now she is gone.

I just realized this today
while opening up an old dresser.
her clothes were hanging there,
her little suede jacket.
I thought, “fuck this jacket”
I hated it, but then I realized
my hatred was only love
expressed in hurt.

there is a piece
of chicken in the
fridge for you…

this was all I had left
of her, of her warmth:

cold chicken, and a note,
a few odd
unwanted clothes,
and a memory
of love
in New Orleans.

even in the end of love
there is sometimes
a little love.

Mike Meraz
is a poet from Los Angeles who currently lives in New Orleans. He is the author of two books of poetry Black-Listed Poems and All Beautiful Things Travel Alone. Both are available at and He is also the editor of Black-Listed Magazine.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Feathered Kisses and Whispered Words

by D. Jordan

Feathered kisses and whispered words fill our candle lit silence for a little over an hour. We talk about everything and nothing all at once. You and I, where we’ve been, people we’ve known and what life has held for us recently or in our separate pasts. Silly or sad topics, you have a peculiar way of drawing things out of me. At some indefinable point it becomes right to kiss you. Like sleeping starts with a deepened breath, sex between us always seems to begin with a single soft kiss.

My ears are ringing as you kiss me back, leaning into me with your soft body pressing into mine delightfully, your hands searching then finding. I suck in a quick audible breath as your probing grasp reaches its mark and sets to work. A few moments later your mouth leaves mine and traces its way downwards. I recline backwards, sinking into your bed with a soft groan. As I close my eyes and lean back into the bed brief spasms of excitement and pleasure spark throughout my body, courtesy of your generous attentions.

Eventually I can’t content myself with your teasing attentions any longer. I draw your head up and kiss you again, softly as before, but with growing passion. I always try to be gentle at first, letting my fingers trace tiny, twisting paths over your warm supple skin. Light brushing touches travel up your legs, over your sides, teasing your breasts, working their way backwards and repeating this over your back, your neck, running up and down your arms. Like the kisses we continually share, these grow more intense along with my desire. I roll you onto your back, my hands still roaming over your yielding body.

When I am finally inside you, you gasp, or maybe moan. I’m never sure which, but your pleasure is clear, and incredibly sexy. Oh God, even to think of what comes next! Bodies writhing, thrusting, buried within each other, the rhythm of our passion rising and falling in waves. The pleasure coursing through my body matches its speed, huge, rolling waves of indulgence as we slow, and as we speed up an urgent ecstasy that is accompanied by a familiar, building pressure and eventual release. I lay there in bliss, feeling both full and emptied. You tell me I come quietly, I don’t really know what another man coming sounds like outside of the wonderful world of pornographic videos, so I take your word for this.

Your soft presence and the memory of our earlier exertions quickly rouses me from my state of relaxed contentment. Having sex like that just once would be a tragedy, and so we begin again, and again, and again. Three times, five, it seems that we go for hours and a quick glance to the clock confirms this. I climax for the third and final time of the evening and as we catch our breath you kiss me, softly as before, nuzzling your head into a small space between my chin and chest. The rest of your body drapes over my own, my arms thrown about you as we settle into the afterglow. You probe me with questions, curiosities that I answer before querying you with my own. Whispered words and feathered kisses filling the silence left in passions wake.

D. Jordan
was born and raised in a place, by a man and woman, he has done lots of stuff. The author doesn't use drugs regularly (pot isn't a drug right?), but is frequently sad and does love sex! As to one thing I'm proud of: Finding so many bright spots in my week, both for myself and others.

Thursday, April 22, 2010


by Julia Davies

I sat in the cubicle with my head crunching, trying to collaspe in on itself. My stomach was moving to a similar rhythmn that seems deliberately a few beats out of sync. Knickers round my ankles, but hunched, holding my stomach to my thighs, my head to my knees. Laying bets on which end will spurt first as I sweat and shiver at the same time while my body decides which part is next to fall apart. I struggle not to moan out loud. If I puke first I have to get off the toilet, spin through 180° and aim for the toilet bowl. Gipping at the back of my throat. Oh god is it possible to die of a hangover? Panic starts, no bog roll in the holder, shit shit shit; literally, I will have to walk out with shit stuck in my crack to find some, or grab the paper towels by the sink. Oh fuck I can't get up to look. A wave of illness washes me. The bottom end wins, a fat solid plug is expelled first. Black, like finest dark chocolate, and the rancid fruity smell I associate with the bears at the zoo. I must cut back on the red wine. Perhaps a intersperse each 75cl of Merlot with a bottle of Pinot Grigio? The solid shit passes and my arsehole contracts afterwards, a few times, a few waves of mild pleasure to counteract those of nausea, before the rest comes spurting, spattering out. The bowl is pebble dashed in 60% fine cocoa solids. I do groan now, my eyes are watering; and then I notice on the floor a few sheets of tissue clinging to the end of the cardboard reel. Oh thank fuck for that.

Julia Davies is a practised reader and practising writer & lives in Germany.
She still can't remember masturbating anywhere unusual, but European air traffic control permitting she is hopefully off on holiday in 42hrs so maybe this will change!

Demerits and Dickholes

by Matthew Dexter

I masturbated in the bottom bunk and blew thirty milligrams of Ritalin to the rhythm of chapel bells. I didn’t finish. Residual powder from prescription stimulant medications dripping down my throat, a knock came from the door:


I cursed Jesus, stuck my penis upward inside the waistband of my boxer shorts, pulled up the zipper and buttoned my beige slacks, and let my dress shirt hang down over the erection. At boarding school, fornication is nearly impossible, but snorting Ritalin, marijuana, and masturbation is more common than banging erasers on chalkboards. Every single hour since 1906, students have been masturbating at Kent School in Kent, Connecticut; and an angel gets its wings every time. That freshman in formal dinner is sticking her fingers in the chicken, peeling the yellow skin back, but an hour earlier, just after sports practice, before her shower, she let her thumb and index fingers linger a little too deep inside those tight orifices that the deans don’t make mention of in the student
handbook, so now she’s sitting a little funny, grinning like it’s nothing, but there’s something yummy in her dorm room hidden in that bottom desk drawer behind that bottle of Ritalin and hollowed out Bic pen she uses as a blower. Her crusher is an overturned hour glass.


“I’m coming--goddamn it.”

My tie hung over the tip of my penis. There was a little bulge but as long as the demented purple appendage didn’t rip loose from the elastic waistband it was still a secret. I removed the lacrosse stick from the door handle. Didn’t bother to take out my dip--big fattie of Skoal Straight in upper lip--burning through my flesh.

“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.

“What the fuck you think--Dexter--we’re flipping some nigger Anderson Brenner on the second floor tonight--”

“His roommate left the door open for us.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked.

“Shut up and cover your face so you can’t be seen….”

You could see their smiles while they waited for more patriots to join their cause. Something sketchy was about to go down. A closer inspection revealed that they weren’t wearing masks, but black t-shirts and long-sleeved shirts tied around their faces. Evidently they were pretending to be ninjas. People were always pretending to be something at Kent. It’s Disneyland for the privileged. But I didn’t know there were so many damn delinquents till I learned what “flipping” was. I heard Spanish spoken with Mexican accents and realized this was cultural diversity at its finest. I don’t know if the white kids invented it, but we all did it. It wasn’t just about hatred, but preying on the weakest of the dorm. It wasn’t racist either, since Anderson Brenner wasn’t even black, but terms like “nigger” and “Jew” were more common than expulsions at Kent.

They claimed it was hazing, but to me it was different because students who got flipped in the middle of the night were not the ones initiated into the cliques and higher social groups of the dorm. In fact these innocent victims were the geeks, the shy pimple poppers who beat off five times a day and fantasized about the prefects in their palms as they shut their eyes and glanced over to make sure they locked the door before blowing their wads.

“You have any meds Dex?” someone asked.

“No,” I lied. Sharing Ritalin was not one of my favorite things. We were all blowing hundreds of meds every day for years on end. Hell, we would have injected the shit in our veins if we had the equipment to do so. The only time we actually swallowed Ritalin was during SATs, when we would blow meds in the gymnasium bathroom from contact lens containers hidden in our socks, powder all ready, so wired we were shaking.

We walked down the stairwell and I followed like I usually do when I want to be accepted. We tiptoed past the faculty apartment, headed toward one of the farthest corners of the second floor. We all linked together in front of the door like a football huddle and I thought of Mr. Stone: the stoic piece of shit dorm master varsity football coach and athletic director whose only friend was his dog. He would expel me for smoking weed soon enough; though I didn’t know this at the time. There were a couple people watching the halls. One of the leaders placed his hand on the doorknob--twisting it slowly and careful as a fucking ninja. I mean it--flipping was stealth marksmanship--and perhaps it’s no coincidence many of those involved in bringing the action would eventually become US Marines and Army men.

The door opened with a soft creak. I cringed as I stood in the hall and let the leaders creep into the room. You could hear Anderson Brenner breathing softly as we walked over to his bed. I didn’t know what to do or expect so I just stood in the shadows of the door and observed. Half a dozen assholes grabbed the mattress and slipped their hands underneath the edge to get a good grip. Then, all together, they lifted the mattress at an angle almost vertical to the cement wall, slamming Anderson Brenner’s miserable head and body into the concrete. We hollered and ran out of the room like a bunch of fucking criminals. I felt like an asshole but I couldn’t stop. We made it back upstairs into somebody’s room and stayed quiet for a good hour. Then we flipped another few students and eventually went to sleep. Into the hall we went, like bank robbers, walking fast to our rooms, safe inside. I locked my door with meticulous dedication that night and watched the lock for a good five minutes before I summoned the courage of conviction to shut my eyes. I was up till near dawn waiting to get flipped. It never happened.

The next morning I was exhausted. I expected some kind of announcement about the atrocious actions of the previous night, but there was no such announcement. The deans spoke, but there was no mention of the flipping. I expected to find Anderson Brenner with a black eye and a scraped up face. I didn’t see him anywhere all day; but then again I never noticed him before so I wasn’t really sure what he looked like. All I know is that flipping is assault and battery and I don’t know why those victims didn’t come forward and tell the deans. I don’t know why I didn’t do it myself. I just don’t have the balls for that sort of thing. There is a sociological pecking order with flipping boarders: if you’re cool or powerful you will never get flipped. I was somewhere just passed the border--or maybe I was just friends with many of the assholes and flippers. Either way, I wasn’t about to go fuck it up.

Sleeping through third period I fantasized about the girls who were masturbating at the same moment I was. Could we climax telepathically? Would we look at each other differently if we knew the taste of each other’s debauchery? The window fan whistled and I watched the world pass through the blades of the fan, as we’ve done for generations while blowing weed through floral paper towel rolls, after huffing Glade aerosol spray through frozen towels. Ummmm: Country Garden, Hawaiian Breeze, Strawberries & Cream, Bounce fabric softener sheets. Dorm rooms always reeked; it smelled like heaven.

I chopped up teners, fivers, twenty rocks--until I had a hundred milligrams of yellow and white Ciba powder on my desk. I spun the single-edge razorblade thirteen times in perfect circles on the tip of my tongue like a demented wolf to the sound of chapel bells ringing. My demonic waltz; blowing pyramids and lines written in my initials: MD. Ciba was the best Ritalin, MD was inferior generic bullshit. I coughed as the caustic powder entered my nostrils, a puff of white smoke expelling from my mouth. My lungs hurt like hell. I saw Satan and decided to play with myself again, my heart beating out of chest, the bells rang on.


You never have enough time to masturbate at boarding school. Should you dare to do it in silence when you think your roommate is sleeping? I opened the door and was summoned outside the dorm to meet that freshman from formal dinner. We walked away into the madness, I handed her a hundred meds and she tucked the Ritalin into her bra. It was poor quality; the CIBA name was smudged where a student had lipped it poorly in the infirmary while the nurses watched like hawks to make sure we all swallowed our meds with water. We never did. We lipped them to sniff them up our nose.

Ted Danson lost his virginity on the fifth floor of School House. But that was too many steps to climb with Ritalin running through our veins, so we decided to go someplace else. We were lying down on the grass by the clay tennis courts next to the Admissions Office when I slowly reached inside Abigail McAllister’s pants. I slipped my palm across her hairy muffin and pushed my middle and index fingers into her sweetness and rubbed them from side to side as if I was starting a fire. Deep and vertical I penetrated that sweet teenage prep school pussy with my fingers and let the wet secretions of her soul shimmer beneath the stars, growing warmer and slowly flowing more freely from my fingers--sticking gently and innocently to the beautiful hair covering her vagina. This was the mid-nineties, before everyone started shaving off all their pubic hair and girls still had bush. It was the middle of the Clinton administration and I swear to God those were the days. Don’t let anyone say that those were not the greatest times of our lives because they were. That was freedom and hope and naturalism and unmitigated intimacy and the last taste of what America was all about before the fucking terrorists destroyed the age of innocence and everything sacred and girls started shaving their pussies bald with bikini waxes and razors.

Here I was with my fingers inside this girl I barely knew, but I felt closer to her than anyone on earth at that moment. I always did. Goddamn vaginas--always make you feel that way. Don’t ever let one pass without a good examination. I had my hand in Abigail McAllister’s cervix and against the walls of her blossoming womanhood and all I wanted was to give her pleasure. She made no sounds, we had to keep quiet. I couldn’t tell if she was making any faces or biting her lips. She was a princess, stoic and charmed. I was either terrible or she was hiding it, the moon the only witness, the only livid illumination of my imagination. We lay in front of the clay tennis courts next to the Admission’s Office in the shadows of the lawn and I was kissing her neck. She insisted not to leave a mark in her flesh. It was dark, but if somebody would have walked up to me and put their hand on my shoulder I wouldn’t have been surprised. You were always getting busted at Kent when you were least expecting it, as if safety was only an illusion and there was truly no private space for students on the entire campus.

My nose dripped like her pussy to the rhythm of the wind and the Housatonic River. I sniffed, snorted, lifted my head to the heavens and ignored it all. The chapel bells rang on.

Matthew Dexter
lives and breathes in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. This expatriate author has been known to eat lobster tacos and drink enough Pacifico to kill a blue marlin.
SSF: What's the strangest place you've ever masturbated?
Matthew: Driving a car.
SSF: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Matthew: Not doing anything salacious to the memory of the Mexican lady making my marlin burrito. There's always next week though. Smoked marlin quesadilla lady watch out.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Every Full Moon

by yt sumner

There’s a beast in the bedroom.

He thinks I’m flattering him when I tell him that. He thinks I’m talking about the way he bites my neck or pulls my hair when we fuck.

He likes it when I say that, he thinks it’s brave to say fuck instead of make love.

But we haven’t done either. I just say it because it makes him bite my neck and pull my hair. What he doesn’t know is that it’s all just been heavy petting. What he doesn’t know is that I want to devour him.

He thinks I’m joking when I say

I’m a hideous thing inside.

He laughs,

At least we’re all oil paintings on the outside.

I decide to tell him when he’s asleep because he’ll think it’s a dream and when he wakes up there won’t be any name-calling or door slamming or blood.

He’ll just wake up and know.

I watch the way he breathes for a long time. His chest heaves like earth being overturned by machinery and I lick the sweat that starts from his collarbone, following the scent up his throat. I have to stop half way. I open my mouth wider, my tongue already thick.

There’s nothing more maddening than a man’s scent. I have no interest in the ones that mask it with deodorants. He smokes and drinks and it laces his musk like wormwood. The bitter drug is so good that by the time I get to his ear, I forget why I’m here. But he groans, still asleep, and his hand reaches between my legs.

This makes it harder but I remember and run my tongue across my teeth for luck then tell him.

His hand moves while my lips press against his ear and when I finish, his hand stills and his eyes open.

He tells me about his dream and his hand starts moving again, his voice rough, and as his other hand reaches into my hair, a tremor begins deep in my throat. I move against him and he tells me about this beast and how it promised to show him all about love. How it would try not to show him unless he asked.

I stretch. Everything stretches and he feels it, and instead of cringing he buries his hands in my hair and pulls hard. He nestles his face into the tremor, now a throbbing growl, where my throat is still stretching, and just before he bites he whispers,

Show me.

Instead of the usual door slamming or name-calling or messy blood mopping, I wake up and he’s still beside me. I trace the raw lacerations streaking his body and he wakes up and smiles at me though one black eye. Before I say anything he asks if it’s still technically a full moon and I growl and he laughs and slides his bruised body, still reeking of man, between my legs and we make love. We fuck. We devour.

Every full moon.

yt sumner writes some, sleeps some, snorts some and fucks some. She’s proud of all of the above. She blogs at

Sun In The Sixth House, Considerable

by Misti Rainwater-Lites

The whale in my head grows daily gorging on monkey skeletons and the neighborhood trash heap. The trainer died of anorexia many mountains ago. I send postcards to my mother from the waiting room but she thinks I’m joking. “I can see the potted ferns in the corners,” she writes back in her cutesy Hello Kitty small town scrawl. It’s raining rodeo clowns and mismatched stripper shoes. I asked God for pancakes and chocolate milk but he stopped taking requests in 1993. I feel this cold canyon between myself and my boyfriend of four years and several miles. He’s Sun to my Pluto, carrot to my canoe, vibrant to my monotonous. Still, he taught me how to tap dance to Jonny Trunk’s “Scrapbook” and I taught him how to disco bowl so we value each other at least as much as pizza coupons. The funky flavor of things lately makes me miss the billy goat I kept in a pen in the backyard when I was four. I fed him unrequited fan letters to Andy Gibb and copies of my dead butterfly manifesto. Today I stood in line through three Phish songs to buy a bunch of seedless black grapes. I wondered about where the grapes came from. I worried about my hair. I was surprised when the cashier asked me for my birthday. The laws are always changing on me and the eyes are like cockroaches crawling up my toes while I try to masturbate to vintage pornography that features women who were probably burning in hell long before I was born.

Misti Rainwater-Lites writes a lot of good shit. Her first official full-length poetry collection, Sloppy Mouth, will be available from American Mettle Books in May 2010. The name of Misti's blog is Ubiquitous Dandelion. The strangest place Misti has ever masturbated is in the Mommy Room at the T-Mobile call center in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Asses I Have Loved

by Eirik Guemy


Leaving my car, the passenger seat begs to have you back.

Dark blue curves torturing the fabric of your jeans,

Stretched tighter than denim has any right to be.


Bottom shelf, stooping low, red lace groping your hips.

Forbidden secrets betrayed by fashion and her trends,

Raising the cost of attention well beyond my reach.

Stella, Again

Eyes averted from my coffee the moment you walk away.

Gorgeous muscles rippling in the flickering light,

Like two waves heaving in a taut khaki thunderstorm.

Lauren? Jennie?

Changing in the break room, leaving the door open just so.

Thin shroud of blue flowers harassing me from a distance,

Taunting me with the veiled knowledge of their roots.

Damned If I Know

Somber, crying, clad in a beige skirt and black stockings.

Two lunar halves perch atop the night of your thighs,

Creating unholy thoughts in the midst of a funeral.

Eirik Gumeny
is the editor of Jersey Devil Press. He once scaled the Empire State Building, only to be murdered by several bi-planes and a pretty girl. He was not happy about it.
SSF: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Eirik: I was almost on time for work, three days in a row!

Angel With A Gun

by Anna Gray

I stand here
Inevitably, looking sweet
You see a halo above my head
I see it
beneath my feet

I'm stepping on it
I'm jumping into it
Pounding it into the dust
I plead with it to break
If only it would bust

But if won't.
Because I'm an angel.
An angel (with a gun)
An angel with a mission:
To have some kind of faith of fun

Let's start a riot
Total anarchy on the Stairway to Heaven
But it's not good
cause we can only stay til' eleven

Then we'll head down to Hell
There, it's an all night rave
We'll get us some good drugs
Some LSD and some XTC
Whatever gets you high

We'll dance til' we can't dance anymore
Then we'll go home
I'll have you on the floor
First I'll tease you
But in the end
I'll please you
Cause that's what angels are for.

After I've had
All my fun,
I know I won't get in trouble
cause I'm an Angel (with a gun)

Anna Gray wrote this poem when she was thirteen. She is now twenty-nine and often masturbates in toll booths, where she works.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Sucking Off Taz

by Misti Rainwater-Lites

His real name was Russell Boyle III but there isn't anything cool about that name so he went by Taz. I doubt he's still alive. We met at the Job Corps in Tahlequah, Oklahoma in 1994. I was 21 and he was 19. To reward him for writing badly misspelled rhyming poetry for me and sharing his weed with me I sucked him off on the back of a school bus on the way back to campus after playing Putt Putt Golf stoner style in Muskogee (we threw the putts in the water and made out behind the waterfall). His cum tasted like pickle juice. He dumped me a couple of weeks later. I was so distraught I hitchhiked to Los Angeles with a friend.

Misti Rainwater-Lites writes a lot of good shit. Her first official full-length poetry collection, Sloppy Mouth, will be available from American Mettle Books in May 2010. The name of Misti's blog is
Ubiquitous Dandelion. The strangest place Misti has ever masturbated is in the Mommy Room at the T-Mobile call center in Albuquerque, New Mexico.


by Paul Kavanaugh

A cup of hot coffee before a blowjob is wonderful, much better than hot tea, I am thinking about black tea, but both are inferior to hot chocolate. There is something about the texture of hot chocolate that clings warming the spongy interior of the mouth. A mouthful of mash spuds welcomes the penis like a pillow with a sleepy head, a mouth bulging with buttery sweetcorn teases the penis like scotch tape over an erect nipple, whipped cream is cloying and dissipates, fruit liquefies and cools. There is only one thing better than hot chocolate and that is smooth rocks. A mouthful of smooth rocks warmed with spit is a pleasuredome for any erect penis. Lilly wanted so dearly to be an actress. The only problem was she had a speech impediment. To cure this anomaly she was told by her elocution teacher to practice speaking with a mouthful of rocks. As she took my penis into her stuffed mouth I told her she did not need to speak. My dentist told me once that toothpaste is the best. The penis first experiences a cold sensation followed by a warming. It does not take long for the toothpaste to work its magic, it is similar to cocaine, the penis feels as though it is being attacked by flames, it burns, smarts, and finally it weeps, or seeps, it drips droplets the size of rocks.

Paul Kavanagh lives in Charlotte.
SSF: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of
Paul: Flying while reading the Selected Essays of Delmore Schwartz while Listening to Father Yod.

Saturday, April 17, 2010


by Kyle Hemmings

Of all the nursing assistants, she was the friendliest and had the biggest. She was from the islands, which one I don't know. Her voice was musical, this happy/sad quality. Over breaks, she complained about the low pay, how she just turned 37, the shortage of good men. Over time, her uniforms became tighter and shorter. One night, we negotiated money, and she gave me a blow job in the housekeeping closet. Her lips, sliding back and forth, mimicked, at least to me, the sound of a mophead swishing the floor. Even though the lights were out, I'd warn her when I was about to come, so I could aim it in the mop bucket. Her supervisor now walked up and down the floor, calling her name, "Matilda. Matilda, you're needed in room 106." After we finished, she creaked the door open, and left, first. The light hurt my eyes. Later, she was fired for having sex with the janitor in an empty patient's room. What's worse, I found out she was close to 58. From that time on, I had this queasy feeling whenever I smelled ammonia.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Quality Time

by Kyle Hemmings

It was somewhere during the middle of the day and in a porn theater around midtown. I should have been volunteering for some overtime at the post office. The guy, two rows in front of me, whose face I never did see, was masturbating with such a ferocity, that it sounded like a piston or maybe a car about to break down. Some of the customers turned their heads from the movie towards him as if to say Do you have to be so loud, asshole? On screen, a blonde haired vixen, with a pimple below one ass cheek, was kneeling in a field of daisies and wild horses. Her butt was to this guy with a shaft the length of Pinochio's nose after about 16 outrageous lies. "Let's do it like the horses do," she said with this Southern twang, thick as melted chocolate. Behind me, somebody yelled out, "Make her squeal like a pig." She reminded me of this girl I used to date, one who invented incredible versions of the past and stole a couple of my best watches. On screen, the two of them tried to outdo each other as if in a screeching contest, finished, and fell over. The camera closed in on a chestnut mustang running. The guy two rows up groaned, then left the theater. The lights went on, but nobody moved.

Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey, where he still attempts skateboarding and continues to fall. The strangest place he ever masturbated was in a bathroom at someone's funeral. The one thing he did this week that he is proud of: he complimented a 90 year old woman on her complexion.

Four Poems by RC Miller


Four or more drinks every night.
Slip into an alien god like clear meat into whipped cream.

Oh, canals, my fishermen mush and spot
A gland mostly bone, hence boner.
With two fingers it's all cameras.

In the buff you're shooting up a high school.
That must be tough considering its spectacular ocean view.
Team sports splat pink commodes poolside.
Naleigh, bedazzled, spits up soy breast milk.
Studio wishes suck your right one.

Five or more pear-shapes every morning.
Slip into the ridge that runs along another leg on the stairs and
We can rub together as mostly muscles from none of the above.
With eight fingers you're so pensive.
I love to cook on your face once you orgasm.


Thrives on disappearances
And I get to dreaming
Black gay fistfucked missionary interracial


I am your skeleton under the ground
You are my skeleton without the frown
Search for the real and you've become
Buttfucked by Air Force One
Defending delusion, lamb-sore


Muff to tongue is always marathon.
I am with you girl, so teach me that there's nothing better
About your satisfaction than foot suckers
Submitting to the piss of the vampire.

She purrs redness like latex heats a shiver.
Her basement harbors an inescapable bush of golden veins wok fried.
Lard in my gagging presses double anal things
Not clipboards.

The plug stretching from her smile is named Sheath.
I look for a possessed toy while pretending to ride an emergency brake
Dressed as a cop making his asshole speechless and far from plain.
I piss with density of purpose and patriotism.

RC Miller
lives in Metuchen, New Jersey and maintains blog at This week he's proud of not dying.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Life During War Times

by Matt DeBenedictis

Talking Heads hummed.

The room grooved with the up and down voice of Byrne.

He thinks. She hums. Tongue. Tongue. Finger. Repeat. Rotate.

Her skin rose delighted, transforming to colors still blind to a man.

A collapse.

A towel and a shared glass of water before they return.

She finds the keg.

He heads to roof smokes in hand.

“Was it worth it?”


“Will anything change?”


Matt DeBenedictis has work featured in places like Lamination Colony, decomP, and Dogzplot. He is the author of the chapbook Congratulations! There's No Last Place if Everyone is Dead. This week Matt returned two phone calls; a record as he is a shy crouching voice through the line. He blogs at wordsforguns.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Press 2 To Send A Private Message

by Sean H. Doyle

I met "Karen" through a telephone Chat Line. You know, like from those commercials late at night where a sexy girl is laying around on her couch, wearing a tight tank top and some short-shorts, tilting her head back in conversational ecstasy?

I made my pre-recorded message sound like I was someone who gave a fuck. I trolled through a bunch of the other male messages to gather as much information as I could to make myself more appealing.

Her initial message to me was quite mumbled, it sounded like she had a cold, or was in the midst of trying not to cry when she spoke. She said in her message - "you sound so sincere, not like the rest of them" - which meant I did my homework properly.

We messaged back and forth for a while, filling each other in on small snippets of ourselves. I told her that I was an insomniac, and she said that she was as well. I told her that I was pretty much a loner, and she laughed and said the same. Typical Chat Line information changing hands, one little ding at a time.

I think it was in her fourth or fifth message that she mentioned she was a female bodybuilder.

Immediately, I became far more interested.

I'm not a small man, to say the least. I'm a big fella - not fat, but large and robust in stature. Probably what people are referring to when they say "he's built like a brick shit-house."

The prospect of me being able to fuck around with a woman who had physical strength was enthralling to me. I always found myself burying myself into women that I was afraid I would break in half - drug-addled waifs and withering drunkards. None of those women could possibly hurt me.

"Karen" sent me her telephone number in her last message, saying "I think you should call me soon, because I think we should meet up. Tonight."

I think I waited five minutes before calling her, maybe even less.

When she answered her phone, she sounded much more feminine. Somewhat innocent, even. She didn't say much - I did most of the talking. She stopped me mid-sentence, and asked me if I had a pen and paper near me. When I said that I did, she gave me her address, and then told me she’d leave the door unlocked for me.

I took a really fast shower, and hopped in my truck to head over to her place. While I was driving over there, all sorts of scenarios were playing over and over in my mind - what if "Karen" was a set-up? Like, what if she wasn't really waiting for me, and some dudes were going to pop out as soon as I walked through the door and they fucked me up and robbed my punk ass? What if she wasn't alone, and there was some dude there that wanted to watch me fuck his old lady? What if she had a cock?

None of these scenarios dissuaded me from continuing to drive to her house. If anything, these scenarios excited me even more - danger flooding my bloodstream like a perfect shot of warm-out-of-the-spoon cocaine.

I pulled up to the address she had given me and parked my truck in the street out front. I sat there for a moment, gathering myself. I pulled out my stash of blow and dipped my house key into it, making sure to do a decent-sized blast to amp up my already building adrenaline.

All the lights were off, but I could tell there were candles lit inside of the house. The light outside the front door was on, but seemed to be on a dimmer switch. I could hear the faint sounds of music from inside of the house, but it was nondescript, almost ambient noise, really. I softly rapped on the door. Nothing stirred.

When I reached for the knob, the door silently slid open for me. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, but I could see that the candlelight was coming from a bedroom down the hall, as was the music and the smell of incense.

I was totally right about the music, too - Dead Can Dance.

I was starting to think "Karen" was a fucking hippie bodybuilder or something, until I started to slowly walk toward the bedroom. I could see her outline just recessed from the doorway - she was wearing some kind of lingerie/sheer robe thing, and had a half of a glass of wine in her hand.

"Hello, Sean."

I didn't say anything. I just walked into that candlelit room and looked at her. She was something to behold. She wasn't even flexing, and her legs were like Sequoia - beautiful and massive, they looked like they could shatter my skull with one quick jerk. Her waist wasn't necessarily thin, but it fit her frame wonderfully. Working my way up with my gaze I saw that her shoulders were as wide as mine; her neck thick and wide. Looking at her arms, they were cut and sleek at the same time - it was easy to tell that she worked her ass off to be the vision I saw in front of me.

"Would you like some wine?"

"Whiskey. With ice, no water - if you have it."

She walked over to me, and softly pulled my face toward her own. She had beautiful skin, the kind of skin that always looks like a painting in that kind of lighting, so much so that you never want to touch it for fear of tainting it in some way. As she kissed me, I could feel the heat coming off of her - she was starving for sex, for affection.

"I think I only have Vodka, is that okay?"

At this point - it was already too late. I was running my hand from her wrist to her shoulder, slowly and methodically. I didn't need a drink anymore. I didn't need anything other than the consummation.

We were interlocked on her bed, limbs and clothing all over the place, when she slipped her hand inside my pants to pull out my cock. I felt her hand jump when she tried to wrap her fingers around me, and I heard her breathing change. As she pulled me out of my pants and lowered her mouth onto me, she made this quiet little humming sound.

She was working me over with her mouth and her tongue as I was pulling aside her panties to play with her. She had soaked through them already, and my fingers were sticky and gluey before they even entered into her. She was so warm it felt like putting your hand into paraffin. She moaned, thrusting herself onto my hand as she sucked more of me into and out of her mouth.

I think she came within a couple of minutes or so. Shuddering and stuttering with my cock in her mouth.

She then pulled out a condom and put it on me with her mouth, slowly and gingerly. She asked me quietly if I was ready, and then mounted me as I lay back on her bed.

I could feel her heaviness on my hips immediately - such an immensely powerful and sexy woman. As she ground herself down on me, I could feel her muscular legs wrapping around my own.

This, was exactly what I was hoping for.

"Karen" was pounding me, relentless in her grind. In my head, I envisioned those old oil pumps in West Texas, the ones that as a kid looked like giant mechanical grasshoppers - grinding away at the ground for that magic elixir to keep everything moving. My cock was heating up inside the latex of the condom and even though she was shaved, I could feel the little stubble around her pussy etching its signature into my flesh.

I didn't care.

I wanted her to destroy me.

After that first round was over, with her jumping off of me as I was about to get off, ripping the condom off so she could let me cum into her mouth, we just lay there silently in our post-coital heat-wash. Sweat glistening off of the both of us in the candlelight, "Karen" spoke softly, but clearly - telling me little details about herself, revealing more and more of who she was. She was in the middle of a divorce. Her husband a cheater and a steroid user. She grew up a devout Mormon, repressing all of these sexual urges that we were that very night letting out of the cage. She took up bodybuilding to prove to her husband that she wasn't weak - that she had the same strength within her that he claimed she'd never know.

The cocaine in my bloodstream caused me to let little things about myself slip out as well, which was not normally on my agenda when fucking random strangers. I would catch myself in the middle of revealing something, but it would be too late to stop.

Throughout the night, I would excuse myself briefly to go to the bathroom every now and again, to do some more coke and get geared up for the next round of whatever she had in her mind. My body, even in the tiniest light of her bathroom, was wrecked - scratches, some with little bloodlets. The skin around my cock was rubbed raw and red, like I had been dragging myself along some carpet.

We were laying in her bed, with her rubbing me between her fingers, as the sun started to rise.

I had to be at work at 6AM.

This was not good.

I told her I had to go - and she totally understood. She watched me get dressed, and even offered to make me some coffee before I left, which I declined - I would hit the 7-11 on my way to my job.

As I was leaving, she stood in her doorway for a good long minute before she kissed me on the mouth something fierce.

"Thank you. I never knew that I had all of this in me."


I was at work three days later when she came in. She had already left me a few voicemails, which I didn't return. I was totally under the impression that she understood that this was just one of those "things" people do, lonely, fucked-up people. I never thought she'd show up at my job. Hell, I'd even forgotten that I mentioned where I worked, but as soon as I saw her I knew I'd fucked up.

"Why haven't you returned any of my calls? What did I do? I thought this was something we could maybe build off of, you know?"

I just stood there, blank stare on my face, trying to hide my shame through my apathetic body language.

"I never intended for it to be more than it was - I thought you understood that? This isn't my bag, you know? I'm not boyfriend material, trust me. Think about how you met me to begin with?"

I hate seeing tears. Tears are the fucking worst thing I can ever see on a woman. Even to this day - tears will fuck me up. You want to torture a cat like me? Just cry in front of me. Even better - cry in front of me because of something I did to you. That's like fucking stabbing me over and over with a rusty fucking letter opener.

At least with "Karen," the last thing I saw was her hand, slapping me right in the fucking mouth.

I never told any of these women where I worked, ever again.

Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, NY. He is currently at work on a memoir. His writing can be found at The Tao Of Sean. He contributes to the collaborative site Blanketf0rt, and he also curates a music site called What Gets Heard?
SSFuck: What's one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Sean: I am proud to say that I did not take the bait and answer the masturbation question. A man has to have some secrets, you know?


by Gretchen Cello

I am writing to tell you that I am your lover’s lover. There’s no need to
thank me for fuelling his imagination all of those nights you were
thinking about matching dish sets…

… laundry on the line. All of those nights where you recited his name as
mine screamed in his mind.

I am writing to tell you this isn’t your fault. It’s not your fault the
way my curves naturally sway to jazz – the way my thighs brush together
and smoke like firesticks. I don’t blame you for all those days I couldn’t
leave the house…

… stuck inside feeling him more from 10,000 miles than I’m concerned you
are in bed.


I am writing to explain this is a bit out of your depth, really. The way
our senses switched the first time they experienced the other. The way
sound sweetened to a new tone when I first heard him speak. Heard him ask…

... just one of the senses that sleeps in the presence of anyone else.

Including you.

Including anyone.

I am writing to let you know what seems to be abeyance is a longing that
lasts passed what your watch can clock.

Ticking down days that invent new ways of what we’ll do the next time
we’re together.

I hope you understand.
I hope you understand.

Gretchen Cello often speaks to headstones because the feedback she receives is much more logical than regular daily occurrences. You can find
her at where she is plotting an escape from what is expected and tracking the path to a penthouse in Manhattan. She wanted me to tell you that she totally has a crush on you...


by Shannon Peil

I received a blowjob from my best friend's sister, after being threatened with death if I ever looked at her. She was quite persuasive though, and I found myself at their house while he was at work. I was a fumbling, 14 year old near-virgin and she was a 17 year old with the largest tits I think I have ever seen. After mounting me, we heard the door upstairs open, and what we assumed was her brother coming down the stairs. I freaked out and told her to jump off of me, and proceeded to hide in a corner. During my hiding, she knelt and blew me (very skillfully) while I attempted to keep my sighs quiet. Later, the three of us had dinner, and I noticed that there was a slight dribble of cum on her neck running down her collarbone.

Shannon Peil gets published sometimes and rejected others. This week he is proud that he has never been charge for statutory. He edits for people that actually know what they're doing at

Monday, April 12, 2010

yo-yo girl

by yt sumner

No more make-up sex,
I say.
Looking in the mirror, wondering how it got this way.
With my mascara bloody, with my lips running black. No more. Fucking. Sweating. His pain into my ear. No more crying into the pillow.
In the shower. In the dark.
Or how about no more laughing with my friends,
I can handle it.
It’s just his way.
I’m sure he means it.
I’m sure you can’t fake that.
The way everything disappears when he slides inside, when he takes me hard with enough of the rough to make me feel just enough pain to forget all the things that made me this way. Made me take him. Again and again.
As if I didn’t understand.
What made it worse was that I did.
Of course I did.
All along.
I sang his song. Even though the words got caught in my throat, they made me choke on his disease, the one that made him wheeze,
Baby, I’m so sorry.
And I took it, let him beat me down, drag me back up. Flip up on his string. With a jerk, with a flick of his wrist, the ones I licked as I pretended my heart was full instead of swollen with disease, infected with him.
Never again,
I say to this teary mess. I beg her not to go back.
You wanted it like this, remember?
The smudged reflection says,
Rough and hard.
From behind.
His hands on your waist.
Steadying you the only way he knew how.
Up and down, like a good girl.
You think I’d be around the world by now.

yt sumner lives in Melbourne, Australia. She writes some – have a snoop at her blog and check out her latest postcard project ‘you and me’
SSFuck: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
yt sumner: I'm pretty proud of learning my first stoner rock bass line on the guitar. Fuzz pedals are hot.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Two Poems by Steven M. Grant

SWF seeks…

She wants

to be hung

half naked

by her wrists

while he


etches her

with his blade.

She longs

for beaded blood

and tiny streams,

to roll down

her body;

stain her skirt.

She's never

been loved

that way.

No one

has ever tried

to please her

with such artistic


There is no he

Who would


such a need,

no one who

would let her

truly surrender

Late Fees

I watch you watch me,

over spectacle rims

near the bridge’s end.

I hear you shush me

over index cards

and collected late fees.

I want to tie you up

or hold you down

and scribble poems

on your breasts

in red fountain pen,

and let your shrieks

echo through

the Dewey stacks.

Pain is not anathema to love,

they are partners

over time, overdue.

Steven Marty Grant Steven Marty Grant is a hospitality sales professional living and working in New York City. A former journalist, musician and slacking underachiever, his poems have appeared in The Writer, Spring Harvest, The Ampersand (&) Review, The Melancholy Dane, The Flask & Pen, VVC Drama & English Literary Journal, Vivid Online Journal, Drink This Cola, and Urbanality. His first volume of poetry, Another Hotel Room, is currently languishing, unsold, at Steven graduated from a school you’ve never heard of and had so many majors that even he is confused as to what his degree is in. He is married to a wonderful, patient woman and has the most perfect daughter any man could ask for.
SSF: If you could talk to any inanimate object, which would you choose?
Steven: I would have to go with the Happy Gilmore response of my golfball. I talk to it all the time but the SOB never listens!

Friday, April 9, 2010

Nice Blue Popsicle Pantomum

by Dennis Mahagin

I never got sucked off, in the cab of an ice cream truck,
but I always heard this berry cool music, "don't hurry up..."
via cello and piccolo, late June, afternoons in my head
when the bluebirds said, "come on a slice of moon."

Always in my horny head, hearing these unhurried tunes
by Peter Murphy, and the Grateful Dead, or getting head
on a cardiac care day bed, w/ bowl of stars, milk, & moons
that this freckle-faced girl tipped over. I came too soon.

Peter Murphy sings "Cuts You Up" for prostate and cardiac
ablation patients of the mind, who wave stiff dicks like wands,
conducting symphonic ice cream tunes -- "don't come too soon."

My lover's long hair was exactly the color of a Creamsicle.

Cardiac and cancer patients of the mind, wanking like blind
monks in an ice-cold monastery, lips stained by Acai berry
and wondering when, oh when, the kind of Creamsicle girl
in wet dreams would show up, as compassionate Candy

Striper with berry of Acai between her lips; my God is she
going to shove it, in my hot slit? Pulsating thick as cello moan
dappled by freckles, slick with a glaze, lasts for so many days
and runneling, sweet cold slush down a Creamsicle throat.

Pulsating slits, moaning "hurry, ... shove it" --
the kind of head that cuts you up, in a Murphy bed
I poured and poured, sorrow down a Creamsicle throat
but I never, ever fucked in a boat, or ice cream truck.

Dennis Mahagin is a poet and writer from eastern Washington. He also edits fiction and poetry for FRIGG Magazine. He talks to his Charvel bass guitar on a bi-weekly basis, and just the other
day he convinced a kid not to shoplift.

Thursday, April 8, 2010


by J. Bradley

The skeletal iceberg of the Listerine strip melted on her tongue before she skinned my underwear. The fawns tried running away from the smoldering nature preserve through my gritted teeth. She wore the hotel room's carpet like a fire building merit badge.

J. Bradley is the author of Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009) and the Interview Editor at PANK Magazine. He lives at This week he is proud that he featured at the Green Mill, the birthplace of the poetry slam.

Cocks I've Recently Touched

by Ani Smith

One with light brown pubic hair whose owner seemed darker-haired
One covered in latex which stayed that way
One small and loving
One soft one despite my best attentions
One fat and large one curiously out of proportion with its lanky owner
One dark one
One with a dry patch on its underside
One facing east, showing me its beauty mark
A spurter
A squirter
A quick one
One which seemed made to fit my mouth
And one with no sense of direction

Ani Smith lives in London though she is not English. She blogs at though she is not a blogger. Her words have appeared in > kill author, Dogzplot, PANK and elsewhere.
SSFuck: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Ani: My eye make-up looked pretty good today.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Psyche 101

by Shannon Peil

I'll never forget that look of surprise the first time I hit you. That first honest to god backhand I gave you that immediately curled your knees to your chest and caused your eyes to water. Those big brown eyes dropped a single, fat tear drown your cheek only to run over that puffy set of lips now tensed in defiance almost as an immediate reaction. Your body straightened up, adopted a defensive posture quickly, but your face belied all of this. Whether it was shock, or terror, or pure enjoyment that caused you to react the way you did, I still don't know. Actually, since we don't speak anymore - I'm sure I'll never know. What I do know is that the look of fear you gave me with those wide eyes made my cock harder than it had ever been, and any pretense of regret or sympathy for what I had done was choked back by lust the second I felt that power with you cringing below me. So when I cupped my hand over your protesting mouth and used the other to pry apart your knees, I found you excited, and that only made everything easier.

It seems like every woman I've ever honestly talked to has been honest and forthcoming about their rape fantasies. When the subject comes up with guys however, we lie. Lie until the end that we couldn't possibly. Something about admitting a pure desire for ownership and dominance of a woman has been ingrained in us to be wrong for so long that we're actively trying to convince ourselves that the very thought of it makes us an awful, despicable man. A psychopath.

I'm not sure if I am despicable. I have done a lot of things I regret, sure. I have lied, cheated, I have acted out of malice. I have done a lot of things that I don't feel proud of, but I think that is the definition of a person. A psychopath does not feel remorse, they can understand the definition of wrong or right, but does not actually experience the emotions. I feel. I'm normal.

Yet in the quiet, dark side of my mind - your face belongs in the pillows, suffering. Not because I want you to hurt, but because I know you enjoyed it. You enjoyed it as much as I did, being taken and degraded and fucked into submission. How could something that causes both people pleasure be wrong? Oh, and what are you doing tomorrow?

Shannon Peil
gets published some times and rejected others. He edits for people who actually know what they're doing
SSF: If you could speak to any inanimate object, which would you choose?
Shannon: I would ask the old oak dresser I've had since childhood exactly HOW MANY TIMES it has witnessed me masturbate. I can't even come up with a figure. I wonder if it is disappointed in me.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Being A Bad Neighbor

by Matthew Dexter

One summer morning while babysitting a bunch of children (which was normally done at a club in the neighboring town: The Englewood Field Club--where I would pick the kids up from camp around noon and then watch them around the pool--chasing them across acres of lawn and playgrounds till their parents picked them up around four or five); I would often be watching four or five children at the same time, so when you figure five dollars an hour every weekday with that many kids: I was making some serious loot for a thirteen year old. Anyway, this day was different, it was raining or something that made a couple of the kids play at my parents’ house, and as we were walking outside on the deck to partake in some innocuous activity--water pistol wars with Super Soakers or making bow and arrows with rubber bands and tree branches to shoot sharpened sticks at squirrels--we heard one of the neighbors in the houses behind the backyard having an orgasm.

A female, audible, unashamed, crying out in ecstasy and Alex--one of the children--started laughing, asking about it. I tried to ignore it; most embarrassing goddamn moment of my life; almost as awkward as when I “accidentally” typed masturbation into the family computer a couple months later and didn’t have sufficient time to erase it before my mother saw. Anyway, I tried to talk through it, walking away, drawing the kids into the front yard.

Couldn’t believe this suburban whore was having a “nooner” in my neighborhood for all to enjoy. I couldn’t put a face on the old slut, but if she’s receiving pleasure within forty yards of me, to this day I can decipher the chords of her debauchery. The writhing reflection of her wrinkles in the mirror, open windows, and a penis in one of her orifices, perhaps multiple orifices occupied by vibrators from 1992.

“Stop laughing,” I said. Alex was turning red.

“They’re--” he said.

“No they’re not,” I said.

“Yes,” he laughed, front tooth missing, blond hair blowing in the wind, borne back by the unprotected sex of a senior citizen with a vasectomy. Alex was the wildest of the children I babysat and he knew what he heard was more than bird droppings; it was the viscous secretions of her innermost inhibitions, flowing away from her cavities like the last of his innocence, his newfound ambition listening to the sounds of the ineffable. Sexual perverts were taking over the neighborhood, shaking the bed, atavistic deviance; her moans grew louder, reached a crescendo, and surrounded me. The trees began to cave in. The squirrels ran in circles, the cicadas paused to listen; startled birds flew from power line to rooftops--chirping to the rhythm of this cretin whore’s orgasm.

“Who wants to play with water pistols?” I asked. Nobody listened. Only to her writhing symphony of old lust. I turned my Walkman up, Pink Floyd performing Young Lust, but the speakers were not loud enough to deceive her from finishing her business. Sweat glistened, purple veins throbbed, a chorus of elation rose toward the ethereal heavens, filling her with the carnal desire to scream, her flesh now pink and her secretions nothing more than an echo of dust in the wind.

The cicadas returned to their incessant gibberish. The children begin filling up water pistols with the garden hose. In one of the two neighboring houses now burnt into my memory a woman is stuck to the wet mattress beyond shutters, her hair hanging over her scrunched-up forehead and face like a squirrel searching for a nut. If she hadn’t distracted us from making bow and arrows, I’d shoot one through the open window.

Matthew Dexter
lives and writes in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. He has not returned to the old neighborhood in decades. If he could talk to an inanimate object it would be the aquatic rocks at the southernmost tip of the Baja California peninsula. Actually, he already does this almost every day.

Monday, April 5, 2010

These are the Linguistic Constructs that Make Joseph

by Joseph Hargraves

Have you ever been raped. Shut up. Outside things are beautiful. (Notice there is no comma after the word outside.) Our insides are gone. This is a cliché; so is rape when you’re not the one raped. The one. I dislike violence; but would kill-- have killed-- easily: I am large; I contain multitudes: An atheistic I pray.

I hate "A Chrous Line." I am gay. Gay men like show tunes. Which of the 2 previous sentences is a lie.

First Memory:

My mother running into living room in bra
and panties chased by my father in boxing shorts.
He caught her and threw her against the brick wall.
She followed him back into the bedroom.

Wasn’t it Tom Wolfe who said “Why has a perfectly good word like gay been applied to a group of people who are notoriously morose?” Why hasn’t anyone killed him.

Tonight a young Jewess told me that I am funny, but have no sense of humor. Why is rapist Tom Wolfe alive. I stopped shooting heroin because Tom Wolfe wanted me to overdose. I wash my hands after touching people because I don’t want to be infected by them. If Sigmund Freud were young and black skinned I would love him. I masturbate to thoughts of this hybrid. These words are in search of a construct named Joseph. I stole that sentence from you. I am a thief and logo-centric. Suck it.

Joseph Hargraves is a hermit living in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. His work has been published in The Guardian UK, The South African Times, New York Quarterly, Black-Listed Magazine, Zygote in my Coffee, Gutter Eloquence: Print & On-line, Fashion for Collapse, Durable Goods, Full of Crow, Asphodel Madness, Opium, and others.

SSFuck: If you could talk to any inanimate object, which would you choose?
Joseph: If I could talk to one inanimate object it would be the 100 year old engraving of Percy Bysshe Shelley hanging over my desk that I stole during a Bi-Polar Kleptomia day of fun.

SSFuck: What's one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Joseph: I am proud this week that (though I am an atheist) I bought my 80 year old mother an Easter Basket filled with candy, a carton of cigarettes, a bottle of wine, 25 lottery tickets, Prayer Cards, Candy, and a Crucifix.. She will be surprised. I asked her for Vicodin- she refused!

Ruminations On Love, & Fucking Poets

by A.g Synclair

I knew this girl

when I had that blue Camaro

when I hung copper wire out my bedroom window

to pick up far off jazz stations on my shortwave

before sex

could kill you.

she called herself

a poet

so I fucked her

on the dirty bathroom floor

of a wood paneled fern bar

left over from the 1970's.

the kind of place

where any dumb fucker could get laid

as long as you were clean

and bought Black Russians

for girls who would fuck guys

that would fuck girls like them.

which was better than not fucking

on a Saturday Night

when the world was cumming all over each other

and the only other option

was jerking off in the Ihop bathroom

or pancakes.


I see her in front of the Haymarket

drinking coffee

selling homemade chapbooks

and broadsides

to old hippies.

someone told me

she got published

she got published

received a check for two-hundred dollars

and five contributor copies

of New Voices in Contemporary Poetry.

I've read her poetry

and just between you and me

I'm betting

New Voices in Contemporary Poetry

-like simple submission guidelines-

cumming together

and love

is only

an illusion.

A.g Synclair's
work has appeared in numerous literary magazines, poetry publications, anthologies, and chapbooks, both online and in print. He drinks way too much coffee, suffers from long bouts of writers block, and greatly admires the work of Billy Collins and Charles Bukowski. He lives and writes in Western Massachusetts.
SSFuck: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
A.g Synclair: I went an entire day without masturbating to amputee midget porn.

Friday, April 2, 2010


by Thom Young

“Split this down the middle. I take twenty percent of the house. Rules of the game. After that, wipe out the shitters and place new urinal cakes in the men’s john. Watch for bloody cunt rags in the ladies crapper.”

This was the first night of my new job in building six. My boss was an old fuck. He had worked his way up from pushing a broom to head janitor. It was a big title job. He covered two office buildings including mine. I saw him walk down the stairs and heard the door shut. It was just me now. The incessant hum of the new cooling unit sang. I lit up a cigarette and tossed my cleaning bucket in the trash. I walked up the nearest fire escape and climbed on top of the building. The city was quiet except for the lone street bums wandering aimlessly to nowhere. I exhaled and noticed something peculiar. Across the street, in office building seven a light shone from the second floor.

I strained my neck for a closer look to what appeared to be a naked woman. It must be a shadow I thought, but upon closer inspection she appeared to be on her knees performing fellatio. Lucky bastard. I put out my cigarette and slowly climbed down the stairs until I made it. I crossed the street and tried the front door. It was locked. I walked around back and tried the back door. It was open. I took the stairs to the second floor, trying to remember where I saw her. I noticed the office looked just like the one I had left. I took a left down a main hallway, and then I heard it. Moans of pleasure coming from a few doors down.

I unzipped my pants and placed my hand on my cock. The moans grew louder and more vigorous. I got excited. I approached the door. I stood just to the side and listened. “Suck it you bitch! Drain my balls! You bitch!” This guy knew how to tell her off. The filthy whore. I started to climax but didn’t.

I zipped up my pants. I turned and looked into the door. The old fuck was standing with his pants around knees. The Hoover vacuum hose attached to his penis. His eyes got big as he hurried to pull up his pants. I laughed and saw the red rise up his face.

I didn’t have a job after that. I walked back down the hallway and into the night. The madness of the employed and the job. It was a good night. The End.

Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has been in Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, The Legendary, The Delinquent, and many other sundry places.
SSFUCK: If you could talk to any inanimate object, which would you choose?
Thom: My left hand as it is always numb.

Thursday, April 1, 2010


by Ani Smith

On the train home the guy sitting across the aisle from me started twisting in his seat and the rest of us all looked around at each other. Or rather, the seven men nearest, all laying protective hands to crotches getting ready for the penalty shot, turned to look at me as though I had something to do with it. I stoically wished he’d still and stop. But he didn’t. The large bulge in his pants just kept growing, sending him epileptic near my shoe. I swallowed hard.

He was writhing on the floor between the seats now, frothing a little at the mouth and etc. I was looking straight ahead but knew his eyes were going to start to roll back. This other guy goes, you know you have to help him, right? Wearily I knew it was at least five minutes to the next stop. I mean, you know you HAVE to help him, right? Fucking why, I said. Because you’re the nearest fucking female, that’s fucking why.

One of you is gay, I said. Come on. One of you is so gay. Come on!

They looked at each other accusingly, but quickly they turned back to me. No, they said. None of us is gay and this guy, he’s not gay, look at what he’s wearing. He needs your help, you heartless cunt.

Come on! Fuck! Fuck, I said over again, outnumbered. You fucking bastards, I said. Fuck you, I said.

The train seemed to be going faster but the stop came no nearer. Fuck it, I thought and started toward him, but then couldn’t.

Look it might just pass. Sometimes it just passes. No, no, no, they said. You have to help him, bitch, you have to. Fuck, I grumbled down on my knees and took off my handbag and jacket and scarf and fuck you assholes, I growled as I ripped off his pants and he squealed and grunted like some horror movie, hellbent alien in heat.

Massive engorgement threatened to tear apart his ball sack and the skin across his hip bones. He was crying loudly now and I did feel sorry for him. Fuck I thought. Fuck. I took a deep breath and lunged into it and sucked the fuck out of it, and massaged it and stroked it and gagged and pumped with both hands and my entire body until the others, they had to look away.

Tasted earthy rot, metallic and piss-like you know he didn’t care. He knew he had the sickness and if it came to, he knew some wrong-place, shit-time girl’d have to put her mouth on it, but fuck it if he couldn’t at least try and be presentable for it.

Fuck, I thought on the upswing. Fuck, I thought on the downswing. You motherfuckers! I yelled as I breathed in and lunged right down to the hilt until I drew back with a big kissing sound and he erupted bloody pink jizz on my cheeks and my neck and shirt.

Thank you, he sobbed. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you, he sobbed. Fuck you, I wiped my mouth and grabbed my shit and sat back down in that train seat and waited.

Ani Smith
lives in London though she is not English.
She blogs at though she is not a blogger. Her words have appeared in kill author, Dogzplot, PANK and elsewhere.
SSFuck: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Ani: Fucked two strangers at once.