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 http://downinme.com 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.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
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
at http://amphibi.us
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.
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
at http://amphibi.us
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.
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!
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.
sometimes
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.
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.
sometimes
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
Relapse
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.
“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
OBSCURE BLOW JOB STORY # 2
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 www.downinme.com 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.
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 www.downinme.com 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.
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