Monday, May 31, 2010

Old Enough My Wants Won't Kill Me

by Patrick Patterson-Carrol

I want someone to start a rumor that I am gay. I want that someone to be me. I want it to only be half true. I want to welcome it nonetheless. I want the evidence to be my arrest for “lewd and lascivious” behavior in public-- for sodomy. I want the subsequent mugshots and blurred pictures of "me" having sex with a pre-op transsexual in an alley plastered all over the internets. I want my sexuality to be everyone's business. I want to be the ass of jokes. I want to have defenders and detractors. I want them battling fiercely in internet flame wars. I want to pit LG against BT.

I want the rumors of my homosexuality to make me an internet celebrity; validate me as a writer. I want my obsession with transsexuals to manifest itself almost completely in my writing. I want all of my stories about chicks with dicks: meeting them, fondling their fake tits while making out with them, having sex with them, being abused and robbed by them, &c. published on every "trangressive" webzine, blogspot and wordpress on the interwebs. I want to be known as a poor man's William T. Vollmann, criticized for my awful prose and pseudo-intellectualism yet lauded for my tranny fetishes. I want GLAAD to loathe me and everything I stand for.

I want to be a cult phenomenon. I want a Wikipedia page that features prominently my mugshots. I want my bio to refer incessantly to the fact that I was raised by a single mother. I want a list of quotes because I want people to be able to quote me with ease. I want these quotes to be: “I don’t consider myself gay because those ‘men’ I have sex with are women in every sense save biological,” “Know any good opium dens around here? (to a cop while being arrested for sodomy)” and “I am a human being. I have feelings too.” I want to be listed in the following categories: internet celebrities, British-born Americans, LGBT writers, con-artists, transgressive writers, Scientologists, debtors, people born in 1983. I want to be courted and coveted by major publishers. I want a book deal with Random House. I want my first novel-- about an American nobody who marries a Thai lady-boy (who is also a nobody)-- to bomb.

I want to make appearances in steamy indie and art-house flicks; every scene an unsimulated sex act with a very androgynous woman or a busty chick with a cock ravaged by female hormone treatments. I want close-ups of my big manly sack slapping against her shriveled nuts as we fuck doggie style or in the reverse spoon. I want to blur the lines between art and porn even more. I want a condom endorsement deal. I want to be invited to swanky parties filled with writers, musicians, actors, and porn stars. I want to drink the most expensive brandies and whiskies.

I want pop artists to be obsessed with my image. I want one of those pop artists to be a sexy Latina. I want to meet her at one of those swanky parties. I want her to be chubby and have a decent rack. I want her to be wearing a strapless sequined shirt and a short skirt that reveals her semi-muscular legs. I want her to exclaim, “It’s you! Your cock is in one of my pieces!” I want to laugh at this greeting and engage her further in witty banter. I want her to get the impression that I am an asshole, but gradually warm up to the idea of letting me finger fuck her surreptitiously in a dining booth at Metro Diner. I want this to happen once we’re “tore-up-from-the-floor-up” drunk and we’ve decided that we’re fleetingly compatible.

I want it to be 4 A.M. when we stumble out of the diner. I want a taxicab waiting for us. I want to make out with her in the taxi. I want to hold her hair back while she vomits the night’s shame all over the floorboard of the cab. I want us to be only a block or two from my apartment when this happens because I want to not have to pay for her mess. I want to grab her and pull her out of the taxi at the red light. I want to have comfortable shoes on because everyone knows that she won’t. I want to run through the alley that leads to the back door of my apartment. I want her to be in tow-- holding tight to hand-- barefoot, her high heels lost on the wet concrete behind us, the street lights gleaming against them.

I want her to feign anger at me once we cross the threshold. I want her to tell me how expensive those heels were. I want to shut her up with my serpentine tongue. I want her choke on her laughter. I want her to dramatically reveal her tits, one at a time, while humming something stupid like “Happy Birthday Mr. President.” I want her to jiggle them at me. I want to grab at them and drool. I want her to command me to lie on the bed. I want to obey her. I want her to hover over me and shake those goliaths in my face. I want to almost swallow my tongue in efforts to motorboat them. I want her to rub her crotch against mine. I want to revel in the sound of cotton panties grinding against jeans. I want this to excite me to erection. I want to pant and moan. I want to wriggle and squirm. I want to squeal like a child. I want to burst gloriously in my jeans. I want to never see her again. I want to repeat this event with other women until I fall in love.

I want to edit my own Wikipedia page; remove myself from the LGBT writer category. I want the tranny fetish to be a thing of my youth, forever embodied in one fictive work with a too clever title. I want someone to start a rumor that the original rumor of my homosexuality was greatly misrepresented. I want that someone to be someone pretending to be me. I want the new rumor to be that I engineered the original rumor in an attempt at notoriety that I hoped would translate into getting the sexual attention of women. I want it to be thoroughly noted that it worked.
 I write. I act. The strangest place I've ever masturbated was in the closet of a place I used to rent. Sometimes I'd stand, sometimes I'd sit on the floor with a copy of Maxim or Buttman or whatever happened to be laying around. I left a lot of semen in the carpet. I blog here:

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Things I Live With

By R. Gay

I live with a man and sometimes he has a beard. I do not care for beards on a man. When we kiss, his beard makes me feel raw. He knows this. I tell him I want to see his face because it is a handsome face. I like to hold his bare cheeks between my hands, trace his jaw line with my thumbs. He says his beard makes him feel safe. He is big and strong. He works with his hands. He works me with his hands. He takes up a lot of space. I cannot understand how he could ever feel unsafe. He only started growing a beard when he met me. He has never concerned himself with what makes me feel safe.

This man, with his beard, like I said, he takes up space. He always falls asleep before I do because he works hard and needs his rest. He likes to say, “I’m a hard working man,” and when he says this, his voice is deep and filled with pride. His body bears the evidence of his hard work. Each of his fingertips is covered in a hard calloused shell. When he draws his fingers over my body, he makes me shiver. Sometimes I like it. His arms are dark and tan and braided with muscle. When he’s writing something down, those muscles in his arms quiver. There’s a long scar along his shin from an incident with an axe. I have traced this scar with my tongue—it is smooth and raised and bright white. He spends his days telling other men what to do. He has to be coarse and controlling. He brings his work home.

Each time I crawl into the bed we share, I find him sprawled, his arms and legs thrown widely. There is something possessive about the way he sleeps. He fucks me the same way, taking up too much space inside me, possessively. He is always rough. He uses my body like he’s trying to prove a point. I let him use me. I let him push me. I want to know where he will take me, how far he will go. In the morning, after he leaves for his hard day’s work, there is an empty place in the bed next to me that holds the warm shape of his body.

When I met the man who sometimes has a beard, he was quiet and shy. He wore a clean flannel shirt tucked into dark blue Wrangler jeans, neatly pressed. He smelled like soap and chewing tobacco. I was sitting at a bar, alone, with a drink, waiting for a man to want to take me home. There were ice cubes floating in a bath of gin, a splash of tonic and every few minutes, I would fish an ice cube out of the glass, chew on it until the last slivers of ice melted on my tongue. He stood next to me, taking up all the space a man possibly could. He said, “That’s not good for your teeth,” and I shrugged and drained the rest of my drink. I filled my mouth with the remaining ice cubes and chewed and chewed as loudly as I could. I smiled.

He spent the entire night buying me drinks and speaking in complete sentences. When other men tried to talk to me, he fixed them with a hard look and I liked it, that he was staking his claim to something that wasn’t really his. A slow song started playing and he pulled me onto the dance floor. He held me real close, uncomfortably close, with his hand firmly against the small of my back. I could hardly move he held me so tight and I thought, “This man could hurt me,” so I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek to his chest because it was nice to understand who he was early on.

When the bar closed, we stood outside while I smoked and he watched. He said, “That’s not good for you either,” and I blew a thin stream of smoke into his face. He coughed, just once. He said he wanted to show me something. We walked to the movie theater a few blocks away. This is a small town, a too small town where you can’t ever get away from who you’ve always been. The theater is called The Majestic. It’s the old-fashioned kind with an antique marquee and only one screen. There’s a balcony where teenagers make out and smoke weed and throw popcorn on the people down below. I’ve been up there once or twice doing things that weren’t decent. That night was dark and cool and quiet. We stood beneath the marquee and he said, “Close your eyes.” I threw my head back and did as he said. My body felt heavy and light all at once. I could hear the sizzle and bright hum and spark of the neon lights. We stood there, next to each other but not touching, our eyes closed but our faces tilted upward. We stood there for a very long time.

Before we made love for the first time, he told me he had only ever been with one woman. We were sitting on my front porch drinking wine, listening to James Taylor through an open window. I didn’t believe him so he grabbed my chin, made me see the truth of him. He explained he didn’t have it in him to be with a woman he didn’t love. He asked me how many men I had known, actually used that word. I didn’t want to lie but no man wants to hear that truth. I told him I had been used real hard in my life, but rarely by my choosing. A man needs to know certain things to love a woman who’s been done wrong like me. He gritted his teeth and the skin over his cheekbones rippled tightly.

We didn’t have much to say to each other after that. I hummed along with the music. It was a nice night. After a while he said, “I reckon it’s not the past that matters as much as what’s out there in front of us.” I think we both knew that wasn’t true. He took me that night on the staircase just inside my front door, couldn’t even wait until we got upstairs. He touched me like he was trying to work all the men who had come before him right out of my body. He pulled my dress up around my waist, his large, calloused hands against my hips. He pushed himself inside me and pressed his lips against my neck and breathed hard and heavy into my skin. The more excited he got, the wider he spread my legs until my feet were pressed against the walls and there was a deep ache in the bones holding me open. When he finished, he stayed inside me. Everything between us felt dull and sticky. I tried to wrap my legs around his waist, relieve the ache. He said, “No. Stay open for me.” I understood he would try to be good to me but would never be very kind.

My mother and I don’t get on very well but it’s not for a lack of loving each other. She lives in a run down prefab on the edge of town with a man who thinks woman is just another word for wrong. Whenever I go to see her, I sit in my car smoking, until I see her man who is not my daddy but tried to be in all the worst ways, stumble out of the trailer and spill into his truck to head to the bar for the night. I usually find my mother sitting on that awful couch of hers watching one of her shows. She always looks small and tired, her feet pulled under her body. I never try to look too close; don’t want to see the edges of black and purple under her eyes or around her wrist or anywhere at all. After I started seeing my man, I went to my mother’s and I sat next to her. I rested a hand on her leg. I said, “I found me a man.” She turned to me slowly, covered my hand with hers.

It was a strange sensation, her skin against mine. We were never much for holding on to each other. She asked, “Is he a good man,” and I said, “He’s good enough.” She squeezed my hand. She said, “That’s good.” I stayed with her a few hours that night, tried to make her a little less lonely until I heard her man trying to pull open a door that needed pushing. I kissed her forehead. She grabbed my wrist, nodded toward the kitchen. She said, “Take one of my cookbooks. Making a good meal every night helps you hold on to a man.” The drunk at the door finally managed to let himself in. When he saw me, he whistled, told me I was still looking good. He grabbed one of my elbows and pulled me toward him. I could smell the booze on his breath, sweet and sharp. My skin felt like a bunch of little insects were running just beneath the surface. My body knew too much about him. My mother returned her attention to her shows. For a terrible moment, it was like I had never gotten out of that house.

I went to my man that night, my head rotten with old ghosts. He was on our couch watching his shows. I poured him a drink. I stood in front of him, slid out of my dress. I straddled his lap and kissed him hard, bit his lips. He held my waist with his calloused hands, and I moaned something ugly into his mouth. I told him he had hands like the man who wasn’t my daddy. He asked, “Is that a good thing?” I said, “In its own way.” I didn’t tell him I need to think about that man’s hands to feel anything at all when another man’s fucking me. My man finished his drink and I licked a stray drop from his chin. His beard was a few days old, just rough enough to leave a burn. The booze on his breath was thick and familiar. He pushed me onto the floor, kneeled between my thighs. I listened as he unzipped his jeans.

I reached for him, my hands trembling. When I opened my eyes, he was staring down at me with his pretty gray eyes. He said, “You’re different tonight,” and I said, “You’re only seeing what I am.” He lay on top of me, the whole weight of him holding me down. He said, “I don’t understand half the things you say.” I grabbed his earlobe between my teeth. I wanted him to stop talking, didn’t want to hear another word he had to say. I said, “You can do anything you want to me tonight.” He grinned and grunted, rubbed his beard against my neck. His cock was hard against my thigh. He turned me onto my stomach, real rough, pulled my ass into the air. I felt calm, turned my cheek to the floor, breathed real slow. My man started fucking me hard and fast, held the back of my neck with a firm hand. He talked dirty, saying the things he likes to hear himself say. I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t with him at all.

I was thinking about my mother’s man—his dirty beard, his thin wet lips, his pale, flabby stomach, his rough, calloused hands. You could hear everything happening on the couch in my mother’s living room from her bedroom but she never did let on. I was so angry I wanted to laugh. I reached back for my man, my fingers grazing his thigh. I said some bad things, trying to bring out a little more meanness in him. He gave me exactly what I asked for, twisted his fingers through my hair, pulled my head back until it felt like my neck might break. It was so hard to breathe a sharp panic throbbed inside my ribcage and then I came so hard I made myself sick. My man lay next to me with his pants around his ankles, and he patted my stomach with a heavy hand. He slurred, “You’re the best, baby.” I shoved his hand off me. I stepped over him and pulled my dress back on. I ran outside and threw up in the flowerbed I had just planted. I could still feel sharp twinges below my navel. The grass was cold and damp and it felt clean. I lay on my back staring up thinking about how every day our town felt a little smaller. I could hear the bright, bright hum of the Majestic marquee, how alive it sounded.

R. Gay writes things and is terribly unimaginative when it comes to bios and that doesn't bode well for her writing. She is proud this week of completely embarrassing herself via certain means of electronic communication.

SSF Interrogation


: Name one plan you abandoned in the past year:
I continually abandon my crazy travel plans, year after year. I'll sit around and think "This year is the one. I'm going to sell everything I own for travel money, and go move somewhere with no plan and see if I can make it."

Shantastic: Every year I chicken out. It's like "No, see - your job pays too well, it would be idiotic to just up and leave. And what would you do about your dad, he would totes miss you. Also, if you move somewhere without a plan, you'll end up on the streets and be sucking dick for fives in less than a month."

SSF: Name one plan you stuck with in the past year:

Shantastic: I haven't taken more than 2 days off in a row from administrating since I started it. Sometimes it's rough, especially on days off - to manage all the submissions, make sure I read everything and keep up to date, write people back in a timely manner, all the junk that goes along with it being kind of a one man show. My next plan that I'm sticking to will be paying up the costs to get an collection published for print on demand, I think that's a reasonable plan that I can actually follow through on.

SSF: Do you prefer blondes or brunettes and why?

Shantastic: It's hard to say. I have a huge soft spot for closely cropped blondes, but I've never just gone for them because of that. I think more important than color has always been style for me. There are just some hair styles that I find so attractive that I don't even notice color. I've probably gone for girls with every color hair except red. Is that bad? Is that racist?

SSF: Do you follow the rule 'bros before hoes?'

Shantastic: I usually do. I also consider platonic female friends to be bros, so it isn't a male/female thing. It's more of an ideology that friends should come before your dick. That said, I've definitely broken 'bros before hoes' before, when my dick was doing the thinking for me. The worst way to break it is to steal a friend's girlfriend, or sleep with his sister after he's told you explicitly not to. I broke both those rules at one time, about a decade ago. It's definitely the kind of thing I'm not proud of.

SSF: Does the idea of some kind of God comfort you?

Shantastic: I've always envied people who were able to take comfort in religion. I won't lie, I do look down on it a little bit - but I usually keep my mouth shut as an atheist. I really am jealous of people who have something to look forward to after death. That's not to say I'm completely without spirituality, I just consider myself more of a realist than anything. If something is improbable, I just dismiss it until given proof and continue on with my life.

SSF: List everything you wanted to be when you "grew up" as a child:

Shantastic; I think I was a pretty weird kid, I never had any rational aspirations as far as jobs or anything. I spent a long time wishing I was a ninja turtle. The only real career I thought I could really go for when I "grew up" was software engineering. Now I sit in a cubicle doing security analysis and network stuff and all I want to do is write.

SSF: What activity do you wish you stuck with as a child into adulthood?

Shantastic: I should have kept drawing. I remember being pretty good, but it's the kind of talent that requires constant work for years on end to be even marginally good, and now when I try to draw on my tablet it's just embarrassing. I feel like if I had stuck with it, I could draw my own illustrations for poetry or flash fic and have a good time doing it.

SSF: Thoughts on thong underwear:

Shantastic: They ride too much, I don't like wearing them. As for females, I prefer thongs to anything but boyshorts. If a girl doesn't like wearing a string up her ass,maybe she should try those out. My favorite thing about thongs, though - just pulling them to the side for sex. I think it looks hot, pulled to the side next to the lips.

SSF: If you were to die in your sleep tonight, what would you like your last dream to be?

Shantastic: Oddly enough, it wouldn't be depraved or sexual. I think the best end-of-my-life dream I could imagine would just be a possible glimpse at what could have been. Maybe a chapbook or two, a few anthologies out. Maybe a wife, y'know.Not sure if that's too much to ask, but if I'm gonna die I'd hope my last dream was pretty positive, all in all.

SSF: Describe a typical Saturday for Shannon Peil:

Shantastic: Saturdays are the last day of my 3 day weekend typically. I wake up as late as humanly possible, roll out of bed to smoke on the porch, and head out for a cup of coffee. I soak up the wireless at my coffee shop to write a few rejection letters, read a few rejection letters, pick a poem of the day for, and then try to write for an hour or two. If I can't write, I read. If my girlfriend isn't working that day, none of this happens. I wake up as late as humanly possible, roll over and try to sex her. She asks me to brush my teeth,so instead I walk outside to smoke on the porch. I generally lounge around all fucking day, and then head to my favorite bar for a few PBR's and see if I can't get a poem or two down.

SSF: What do you think your first love is doing at this very moment?

Shantastic: My first love is in Hawaii, most likely laying around on a beach. I would be jealous, except she turned into a huge Jesus freak at some point after she dumped me. It's to the point where it's honestly a little scary. Still though, beach. Hawaii. Pretty sweet deal. That'll teach her. Break my heart and end up living the high life in Hawaii.

SSF: What is the nicest thing someone has ever said about your body?

Shantastic: Something about this question makes me think no matter how I answer it, I'll look bad.

SSF: What is your most noticeable nervous habit?

Shantastic: I chew on my nails constantly. I jitter my right leg up and down when I'm sitting. I twiddle with things in my hands if I'm sitting around, twirling pens, or shuffling cards. My most obvious one is probably the chain smoking. If I'm nervous and outside, I'll smoke constantly just for something to do.

I also fall into nervous eating. Dinner parties are terrible for me. If I'm around strangers or feeling a little agoraphobic, I'll shovel food into my mouth like it's going out of style - just to have an excuse to not be talking. I usually leave dinner parties with an upset stomach.

SSF: What have you written that you are most proud of?

Shantastic: This is a really tough one, because it seems like every 2 weeks my answer would change. That's a good thing though, because I feel like if you are consistently proud of what you are doing, then you're evolving. I would hate to say "I'm most proud of this piece that was featured in such and such because it's the best thing I've ever written." That would be like knowing you aren't getting any better.

That said, I'm really proud of how these two pieces came out in the first issue of Thunderclap! Magazine. You can download it here.

SSF: Any last words?

Shantastic: I guess I'd just like to thank you for featuring my work here on SSF, and let you know that I think everyone in the indie litmag scene is lucky to have you around. I think there's a certain amount of honesty that goes on here at SSF that is pretty rare. There's a lot of really pretentious bullshit going on in
some of the writing circles, a lot of people jerking each other off so they can get more publication credits, sucking each other's dicks for recognition. I don't find that here, I find that you're sharing work that is worth being shared, and there's a kind of brutal honesty in that.


SSF Interrogation With..

Misti Rainwater-Lites

SSF: What do you think your first love is doing at this moment?

Misti: My first love was my first cousin. We were best friends from the time we were toddlers until I was four and he was five. He was my first French kiss when I was seven. I think he's eating a bowl of cereal and watching cartoons.

SSF: Did you ever have an imaginary friend? What was his/her name?

Misti: I had lots of imaginary friends. Don't remember their names. When I was a teenage virgin I would make up pillow talk. Practice, I guess, for when I finally got laid. I have two alter egos....Kim Wu, a belligerent, no bullshit Chinese chick, and Koko Loko....a delirious chimpanzee.

SSF: What do you think is the biggest misconception about your personality?

Misti: Hmmm...that I'm meek. I am not meek. I'm a good sport and I'm generally phlegmatic but at heart I am a tiger. Not a tigress. A tiger. Grrrrrrr.

SSF: What word do you think is overused?

Misti: "literally"...and it is misused and it is making my toenails curl....not literally

SSF: If you found out you could eat anything for the month and wouldn't intake the calories--what would you eat?

Misti: Chef Boyardee Pizza...nothin' but dough, sauce and Parmesan cheese

SSF: What are you the most proud of that you have written?

Misti: Nova's Gone Potty because I wrote the original version in three weeks and I've worked more on that novel than anything else. I can't tell you how many times I've revised it. Just completed a radical revision last year. So it took me four years to write that book.

SSF: What are you working on now?

Misti: A gay porno story about two men who meet in the Sexy Singles Sunday school class. It's called Believers. They're giving each other blow jobs in a car.

SSF: What are you currently reading?

Misti: The King James Bible and Stumpfucker Cavalcade and Homage To Mistress Bradstreet

SSF: Thoughts on tattoos:

Misti: I have a Dia de Los Muertos skull on my upper right arm...when I go to San Francisco next month I plan to get a Gusano Rojo bottle on my upper left arm. More tattoos in my future. Yes yes yes.

SSF: What street address do you remember waking up happiest at?

Misti: I forget the address but it was the first studio apartment I got after I left my first husband. It was in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was March 2004 and I was on fire with love and lust and freedom. Hallefuckinlujah!!!

SSF: Any last words?

Misti: I'm horny and sleepy. I want to go to sleep and have sexy dreams. Then I'll wake up and finish my cock sucking story and start the next one. I'm all about the literary sucking of the cock this month.

Interested in being interrogated? Email me at Put 'Interrogate Me' in the subject line and please attach a photograph. Thank you!

Christina Rosetti's Cunt

 by  P.A. Levy
many years ago
when i was but a little skanky runt
i fell in love with christina rossetti 
because i believed lizzy and laura
were incestuous lessies
so i read more and more
i read all i could get my hands on
but the one thing i found most disappointing
she never wrote a poem
about her cunt

being victorian it’s not an unreasonable
assumption that her bush 
wasn’t particularly well trimmed
and under all that crinoline 
and petticoats and petticoats
with heavy duty bloomers
it’s a safe guess of a sweaty muff
maybe slightly sweetened by rose water
with just a hint of lavender
i wish she’d written a poem
about her cunt

and i couldn’t give a toss
about bouts-rim├ęs or sad songs
or even all that religious dross
i just wanted to know what made her wet
and when her couplet lips were parted 
would it make her juicy ode pantoum
i wish she’d written a poem
about her cunt 
Trapped in Kathy Acker's Blood And Guts

so there i was imagining 
kathy acker’s gash
but once inside i got lost
without a torch
i slipped on the darkness
almost drowned in sylvia plath’s
menstrual blood
but i clambered onto a clot
found an ariel
and managed to send out 
morse code messages
using emily dickinson’s dots and dashes
i went with the flow
eventually seeing the light of day
there was stevie smith
standing on the top of 
kathy’s white thighs waving
i knew that i was saved
but i don’t think i’ll be imagining
kathy acker’s gash again

Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, both on line and in print, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and many stations in-between.  He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at

As for inanimate objects - I’ve several stones that I’ve cherished since they were pebbles.  They’ve always been my best (only) friends, but if we have a disagreement I throw them at glass houses - ‘cos I don’t live in one.

Friday, May 28, 2010

What Never Sleeps Rests Inside

by Gretchen Cello

i want you on…
(9th avenue) – the way it used to be.
when you were above me and i was (lost);
inside the lights of times square.
flickering electro-skittles above sidewalks swimming with…
(dreams.) the way we pretend
it doesn’t hurt.
summer nights spent in sweaty
(surrender) celebration.
listening to the fruit stand roll past my open window.
(3rd street) – downtown.
you would touch my naked body and say you liked the…
buildings to hide between
rise up splashing shadows
where we danced in chelsea,
dined on spring street.
i am left.
street lamps down fifth.
in our perfect city.

Gretchen Cello likes things that stain your teeth and reading Alice Bailey books. She currently has red fingernails and orange toenails which is likely to change in a few days. She posts writing every day at


by Morgan Atwood

It laughed at him. The gold foil packet, one end torn open. He sniffed the air inside the Taurus. It smelled like Febreze. Fuck. He picked the wrapper up, the remnants of lubricant slick beneath his fingers. Standing upright, he held it up outside the car. He looked at it again. Internally he asked what he expected to be different about it in the new light. Then the same mocking voice shut itself up, had to give him this one, with a snicker. There was just a little touch of something pink on the wrapper. He brought it closer to his eye, there was a little glitter in it. It smelled of strawberries.

The house door slammed, and he tucked the wrapper in his shirt pocket quickly. Turning to meet her his hug over-swung the teenager. She ducked under the arm and partially to the backseat, shoving her backpack in. Slamming the door she gave him a hurried look. She was all eyeshadow and pink lip gloss - Denim and purple and black, stripes and bangles.

Did you find it?

He was lost, she didn't sound guilty. His mind caught up, no, not the wrapper. She'd borrowed a CD from him and he'd gone to find it, Erh, no, but... I'll get it later.

Cool she leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek, “love ya - see you later! Her lip-gloss smelled like strawberries. The little foil in his pocket felt suddenly heavy.

She opened it with her teeth!

Marguerite was still looking at the foil he'd dropped on the kitchen counter. She nodded, not listening as he said it. The word Magnum, black on gold, glittered in the yellow morning light of her kitchen. Mmhmm, she muttered, in lip bitten fascination.

What's she doing with this kind of a boy, anyway! He wasn't sure, saying it, what kind of a boy he meant. Obviously the sort of boy who would, what? Wear Magnums? Not having a less personal reason only made him madder.

Oh Jeffery. Marguerite was in thrall to the glittering wrapper, “He's not bad, he's just, hung. She coughed to cover the bitten tongue. “They weren't discreet. That's all.

She opened it with her teeth! He pointed to the corner of the foil, pink and strawberry. Emphasis to cover the ridiculousness of his repetition.

So? She's seventeen Jeff. We had the talk with her two years ago. We even bought her condoms.

Not those condoms. Normal, respectable, little dick condoms for little dicked high school boys, the voice said.

Well Jesus! At least he brought his own and is using them!

Margie, I think we need to talk to her about this boy. If she's doing this kind of thing...
What kind of thing Jeff? She cut him off, pinching his name out and giving him a stern look. Sex. Yes, but, what's so bad about it? She's safe. She's been dating him for several months.

He fought for an explanation, something valid, and felt himself losing, I still think we should talk to her.

I'll talk to her. You're too emotional. She's not a little girl anymore, Jeff.

A visual he didn't need, cartoonish engorged caricatures of entwined genitalia, finally defeated him. He wanted shut of the little foil, glittering in the sun. Wished he'd fixed that place on the stairs, painted that thing Margie asked him to, just stayed inside and ignorant. Anything but gone looking for that stupid album.

She'd come home more than an hour ago. Marguerite had disappeared with her upstairs, leaving him with strict instructions not to follow. He tried watching the television. He turned it down low, tried to hear what was being said upstairs, and still couldn't. He went to the kitchen and got a diet pop out of the fridge. The voice was just laughing now. Betrayed by his own internal dialogue he stalked around the kitchen barely drinking the pop. Finally he went and sat in front of the television. Calm down, Jeff, he tried to tell himself. It's just fine. He nodded, stared through the figures on the flatscreen and sipped pop. Then he repeated the mantra and the ritual of gestures. The more vigorously he nodded, the less he believed. By the time he heard steps on the stairs, he'd been sipping on the empty can for several minutes. Coming out of the chair and into the door he slowed himself and tried to look casual. Just passing through.

They were coming down, side by side, and talking quietly. Small smiles danced on their lips in moments of stillness. Mother and daughter both, faces warm, flushed with suppressed giggles. Their feet seemed to bounce, happy and mockingly, down the steps. When they looked up and saw him, they both burst quick giggles and darted looks at one another. The smiling, arm brushing, girlishness turned into a great big hug of feminine solidarity. Solidarity against everything good and decent. Against normal sized dicks and sex in beds. Something felt very tight behind his eyes.

Her touch startled him, the hug hot around him. “Jeez, don't look so much like you're gonna stroke out! Just wanted to say I love ya!

I, uh, yeah, he floundered, love ya too.

Her arm slipped away and she was gone. A flash of loose clothes and bangle bracelets, in between the open and slam of the door. He looked from the hardwood to his wife. The tightening in his skull almost unbearable.

Oh, Jeff. Don't be like that. She's just got a date is all.

With him? The softness of his voice surprised him. His tongue, his lungs, weren't working right. The yell he'd meant it to be was lost somewhere. The little voice helpfully supplied: resolute defeat, and went right back to laughing.

Morgan Atwood
is a specialist; He hasn't found his specialty yet, but once he does, he'll set the world on fire. Until then, he writes things. His work has been seen in BULL: Mens Fiction, and Miners Ink. This week he is proud of having completed a persnickety project at work, and learning he was not in fact a year behind schedule as thought, but merely ten months. He blogs at:

Thursday, May 27, 2010


by Louisa Casanave

Go on and take that shower. Think of the people who have seen your naked body and how sorry the number is. Go on and regret every compliment you ever got from the right person at the right time and did nothing about but blush and smile and stand there like a fool. Go on fantasize about how you will flirt with that sexy beast, you know, the one that’s younger then you and so tall and fit, whose honest you can just tell, while you only have the knowledge you’ve gained though out the years of only having sex when someone whips their uglies/pretties out, and your too high on codeine to care. Go on. Indulge yourself at the idea of entertaining their wildest dreams of everything you could be to them, do for them and with them, to them and them to you, and both of you to a third party that is only invited over once an agreement has been put in place, making it a one time thing and with a safety word. Remember fondly that one time when you were drunk and high and that the he or she of the evening was so sweet that god must be too, and you came on to them, and when you came they smiled at you like they were the lucky one.

Louisa Casanave is openly a schizophrenic, Neo-pagan, bisexual and college drop-out. She lives in Brooklyn and is 21. Most recently, she has been published by The Bloody Bridge Review and decomP, among others. She also has an online poetry blog at is proud of herself because this week she only lied once.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Tuesday, May 25, 2010


by Michael Webb

She doesn't really work with me-our paths occasionally cross, and once in a great while, we will interact. I will always look away from her-light brown eyes, prominent eyebrows, flawless tan skin, a imperfect, thickening body that I find irresistible. She's not fat, not by a long shot-but she is womanly, comfortable, warm. Not thin or ascetic-she probably enjoys eating, while at the same time worrying about her weight. I can't deal with her face to face, but I stare at her, love struck, whenever she is in my view. I say her name under my breath, like an incantation.

I watch her hips twitch when she walks. I notice the way she wears her long, dark hair-sometimes ponytail, sometimes bun, sometimes a sloppy hybrid of the two. I watch her lean against a wall, and interact with men, and text urgently, head down, as she walks. She seems to wear the same tiny, flat sneakers a lot-they have stripes like Adidas, but they are much thinner than actual running shoes. Sometimes she tucks her shirt in, giving her a clean, defined silhouette, and sometimes she doesn't, giving her fewer angles and more curves.

I Googled her name once. She's Turkish, or at least her name is. I don't know what that means, except every time I see a mention of that country now, I think of her. I don't want to hurt her, or even necessarily to touch her. I'm married. She appears to have a boyfriend-I've never spoken to her enough to know anything about her personally. She's so far out of my league we're not even playing the same sport.

I have fantasies about all sorts of women, but, in some strange way, never about her. It would sully her, the dream woman I can never have, to imagine her, to picture her, in the sweaty world of flesh and misunderstanding and obligation and tampons and body odor. I wish I could know her secrets, understand her thoughts, read her mind-but I'm sure that, if I could, I would be shocked at how little I appear in it. For someone I can't talk to, I think about her all the time.

Michael Webb is not quite sure why he can't stop writing for this site. Other ravings can be found at I'm proudest of the fact that I haven't been unfaithful. The fact that I haven't been propositioned should not diminish the gravity of this feat.

Oblivion Anchor

by Eric Beeny

I slip a condom onto a crowbar, slide the crowbar into your vagina.

I begin heaving, try prying your vagina open, bracing my feet on your thigh, leaning my back against your other thigh.

I pull the crowbar toward me, as if rowing a boat.

I’m afraid to look over the side.

I keep rowing, and your vagina begins to open.

Water pours out, as if the boat sprung a leak.

Light pours out, as if the night sky is unzipping its pants.

My legs get wet and immediately dry in the light coming from inside you.

The boat begins sinking into you, and, with it, I’m sinking into you.

I will forget how to swim, and disappear into your depths with the crowbar as my anchor.

Eric Beeny is the author of several novels by Danielle Steel. His blog is Dead End on Progressive Ave. ( The thing he did that he’s most proud of this week was he visited his friend in the hospital.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Record Holder

by Cristof Pryor

The mind was a putrid place to be but the Earth didn’t seem to be that bad from afar. He had already matched his record of 5 and didn’t know if he could go for 6. Oscillating between his personal guilt and personal healing, he decided to go for 6.

He was lonely but in the moment of ejaculation he didn’t know it, the weekend malaise took a respite with the aid of lubrication. He threw the tissue in the trash and the acerbity of loneliness set back in. There was a period between cumming and becoming lucid again, and this was his constant state now. He didn’t know who he was anymore or anything for that matter except his fetishes for silly blondes, lavish makeup and anal play.

Numbness saturated throughout his vernal mind exploding with paradoxical thoughts. He was in between himself and himself trying to abate the loneliness only silicone tits can bring on backlit screen. Sitting alone naked, there was nothing to embrace, no skin to imbibe, no thoughts to fuse with.

He was a skilled voyeur now and liked to pay attention to the finite details of the porn stars. Their animal eyes, or the curving toes of a matchless orgasm. He was stable and unerect pondering the strange guiltiness felt with wasting four hours on a delusion, searching for a carnal Atlantis. He wasn’t too sore and figured why stop, he pulled out his lotion and went for number 7. It was 4:43am.

On Monday morning he woke up spry, hale and well being the new record holder and decided to treat himself to the breakfast of champions, the school cafeteria. He got two waffles, scrabbled eggs, bacon, oatmeal, cereal and fruit. He saw Hillary and she came over. He always fantasized about her in class, sometimes to unbearable pain where he would have to excuse himself from class to masturbate in the restroom. She lent out her hand and he shook it noticing the blanket of her palm, the minutia of her skin. “How was your weekend?” she said. “Dandy,” he said automatically and safely. “See you in class” “See you,” he grumbled spiritlessly. She left, and he could still feel the velvet delicacy of her hand, it was the only touch he got these days. He ran to the restroom.

Christof Pryor is a lonely writer. He is proud to be alive.


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Saturday, May 22, 2010

slaves to a good piece of meat

by Jackson Warfield

it’s just too easy

to fall in love with a piece of flesh

so much so

that you think of nothing else

but the curve of her ass

the jiggle of her tits

the beauty of her face

if you’re infatuated with those three

everything else is put aside

she could be a terrible, rotten bitch

or a whining, sniveling brat

or she could be so obnoxious

to listen to, so annoying to be around

that you are constantly considering suicide

or even homicide

but you’ll look beyond those traits

tell yourself, “naw, she ain’t that bad.”

but there’ll come a day

somewhere down the line

when you’re dragging her shopping bags

making her meals

and plunging her shit

paying for it all

right out of your own pocket

and you’ll stop a moment

and ask yourself,

“now, how the fuck did it come to this!?”

it did the trick

she wasn’t much of a kisser

but then, neither was I.

she’d sucked my cock

and we’d already banged

a couple times

so I thought we could go

a little bit further

“baby,” I said to her

slow and clear, trying to speak

so she could understand

“let’s take this

to the next level.”

“what you want to do?”

she asked, fear

and excitement in her eyes

“okay, I said. “This might sound weird,

but I really like it.”
“what is it!?”

“and afterwards,

I’ll do the same for you-”

“tell me what is it!”

“okay, okay,” I said,

rolling over onto my stomach.

“go ahead

and scratch my ass cheeks!

Just drag your nails right across them.

"Oh, yeah!”

drunk again

he told me he liked


because it gave him an excuse

to fuck anything he


I told him I agreed,

in a way.

told him that, for me


was like putting a condom

on my entire life

giving me the excuse

to fuck anything

I want to


Jackson Warfield
lives in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. If he could talk to any inanimate object, it would be the beer in his hand, so he could say to it, "you're about to go down, motherfucker!" You can find more of his work at

Friday, May 21, 2010

Julian Gets Tied to a Bed in a Suite at the Renaissance Hotel

by Jack Henry

Julian stood next to the Pop Singer in the last stall on the left in the ladies restroom of the hip and trendy Club Worm. They passed a button bag filled with crushed fine white powder methamphetamine back and forth as they took substantial hits through a rolled hundred dollar bill.

"This shit burns." Julian said, his left eye watering profusely. He held his head just a kid would, burning through an ice cream brain freeze. "Motherfucker."

"It's not so bad," the Pop Singer said, working the dope like a professional long term junkie. "Gotta buck up a little, Julian. You'll be okay. I promise."

"I know." Julian said as he tucked the button bag back into his coat pocket. "No big deal, really. I am fine. I can cope. There's no issue here. Really. No issue."

The Pop Singer leaned into Julian.

"Honey," she said, "oughta talk a little slower and keep that tongue in your mouth."

"I can do that. I can. I can. Do that, I mean. Do that." Julian put his hands on the Pop Singer's head and pulled her in for a stellar, full tongue, Alabama in the Summer hot and sexy kiss. The Pop Singer responded with even greater intensity. Julian's libido went from zero to hero in a blink.

"Holy shit, Julian." The Pop Singer said, pushing him away.

"What? What? Did I do something wrong? Inappropriate? Uncalled for?"

"No, darlin'. Not at all. Just I think it's time to go."

"Okay. Okay. Go we will. We shall. Go and go."

The Pop Singer grabbed Julian's jaw and pressed her middle and index finger roughly into his mouth, pressing his tongue down, fingernails drawing blood.

"If you don't fuckin' chill until we get out of here I'm gonna leave you on the side of the fuckin' road in Compton wearing nothing but a Klan outfit. You get me?" The Pop Singer stared hard into Julian's eyes.

Julian emerged first from the stall, straighten his shirt and jacket. No one looked up or noticed or cared in any way. Becca, professional restroom attendant, raised an eyebrow slightly, but nothing more. She had seen, heard and witnessed too much to really peak her curiosity, especially the Pop Singer and her circle of friends.

The Pop Singer walked out of the stall, smiling broadly. She washed her hands, accepted a towel from Becca and dropped a twenty in the tip basket. Julian stared dumbly, wondering where the Pop Singer had the twenty stashed, then blinked when he noticed a small clutch purse in the Pop Singer's hand.

"That's weird." Julian said.

"What's that, hun?"

"You're purse. I didn't realize...oh never mind."

"Silly man. So silly."

Julian held the door and followed the Pop Singer out. They walked back to the VIP room, which had filled with more rappers, C-List actors and various musicians, publicists, agents and managers. The Pop Singer broke away and sat next to Lindsey Lohan. They talked a few minutes, giggling quietly. When the Pop Singer pointed at Julian he waved back. He had a thing for Lindsey Lohan, from the moment he first saw her in a Disney movie. Before Julian could take a step toward them both women turned away from him, reengaging their close conversation.

"Julian! It's me. Amber."

Julian did a slow turn, his smile washing completely from his face.

"Amber, love. How are we doing?"

"We are doing well, Julian. Actually quite well. I landed a role on a new VH1 reality show."

"Did you?"

"I did. It's called, Dumb as a Rock."

"Really? Dumb as a rock?"


"Starring who? All blondes in bikini's drinking and fighting over men with the collective intelligence of sand?"

"I'm guessing, but hey, it's like fuckin' twenty-grand just to show up so I am in."

"Well, I suppose if you can take 'em for some cash it works out."

"No shit."

"Yeah, no shit." Julian said. "So what brings you 'round here."

"Just hangin'. I know this show runner from Gray's Anatomy who comes here a lot." Amber stepped closer to Julian. "Why're you here? Lookin' for me?"

"Now that would be the fuckin' day, wouldn't it? I mean me lookin' for you. Unlikely. I mean, completely and absolutely out of the question, don't you think?"

"Jesus, Julian. Slow the fuck down. How much speed have you done?"

"Just a bit. A little. I mean, not that much. No one's counting, are they? Why would someone count how much shit Julian does."

"Well Speed Racer, you might want to chill some." Amber leaned in and kissed Julian on the cheek. "You should invite me over some time."

"Yeah, alright. I can do that. Totally. Yer at the same place then?"

"Yeah, Julian. Same place, same number." Amber turned to walk away but stopped. She looked back at Julian. "By the way, that dude with the gray suit came back by lookin' for you. You know the guy I'm talkin' about? Something about your daughter? I didn't know you had a daughter."

"What did you say? Amber! What the fuck did you say?" Julian rushed Amber, grabbed her arms.

"Nothing, man. Not a fuckin' thing. You need to chill the fuck up, Speedy." Amber brushed Julian off her like cobwebs at a haunted house. "The daughter thing surprised me but I said you moved to Phoenix."


"Yeah, I couldn't think of anything better. I figured you didn't want this guy findin' you since you suddenly moved and I'm bettin' it was 'cause of him."

"Yeah. More or less."

"So a daughter?"

"Yeah, well. Not anymore. She died."

Before Amber could respond Julian darted to the Pop Singer and pulled her to her feet.

"You wanna roll?"

"Yeah, hon. Of course, let's get the hell outta here." The Pop Singer smiled through perfect teeth, through her arms around Julian's neck and kissed him. "Bye Linds. I call y'all in few days or something?"

"Yeah, cool." Lindsey nodded toward Julian then pulled her Blackberry from a small clutch and began banging on the keys.

"Bye Miss Lindsey."

Lindsey looked up at Julian and laughed.

"She's gonna tear you up, Julian. You read about Jessica Simpson being sex crack, this girl is ten times that."


The Pop Singer laughed. "That bitch is a liar. Now c'mon. We gotta go through the kitchen. Billy, that's the owner of the Worm, he put in a secret passage so those asshole photographer's can't see us leave."

"Wouldn't want that."

"Naw, hell no. I get in enough trouble on my own. I can only imagine the hell you'd cause me."

"What about Dasha? I came with Dasha."

"Oh yeah? Sweet girl. I like her. Her accent's funny." The Pop Singer led Julian into a large kitchen, past stoves and warming table and into a storage closet. She pressed a code onto a key pad and a hidden door opened into a long hallway. "Ain't this trippy?"

"Yeah. Trippy." Julian had to bite his tongue literally to keep a small semblance of composure.

"Dasha left. With some guy. Said he was number five and to tell you that."

"She left?"

"Yeah, when you were talking to the reality show girl. I've seen her, you know? A couple of shows. She's as funny as fuck sometimes." The Pop Singer paused, wrapped her arms around Julian, pressing her body into his. Thanks to the enormous quantity of amphetamine toying with Julian's central nervous system and the sensitivity that provided, he became instantly erect. The Pop Singer ran her hand down Julian's chest, past his belt and cupped his bulge in her hand. She gave him a squeeze, hard, demanding, and Julian moaned loudly. Julian put both hands on the Pop Singers ass, pulling the material of dress up until flesh met with flesh. He ran his index finger down the middle of ass cheeks and stopped at the first hole he came across. Without hesitating further he shoved the finger in, well past the second knuckle. The Pop Singer closed her eyes and smiled.

"You wouldn't mind if I tied you to my bed, would you?" The Pop Singer said.

"No, of course not."

"Our safety word will be Toxic."


"Yeah, if it gets too much for you, hun, just say Toxic and I will stop."

"Okay." Julian continued to fuck the Pop Singer's ass with his finger. "What if it's too much for you?"

The Pop Singer laughed, her chortles echoing in the long hallway.

"Oh that's so cute. I'll have to tell Linds about that." The Pop Singer pushed Julian away, straightened her dress and retrieved a baby wipe from her clutch then handed it to Julian.

"So where's this bed?"

"Renaissance Hotel at Hollywood and Highland. You can drive my car. I can't afford running over someone's foot again."

Jack Henry lives, fucks and does things he really shouldn't in the high desert of Southeastern California, generally from the comfort of his single wide trailer but not always. In the mid-80s it is reported that he had a fondness for masturbating in the back of a subway train in San Francisco. Other reports tell of masturbating in the same bathroom stall George Michaels found his thrill. Both are equally strange but somewhat predictable. Henry also has a few books of poetry floating around in the world and numerous postings on a variety of Internet and print magazines and journals.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Anna Drinking

by Russell Streur


“Fuck,” says Anna Drinking,
“Is my favorite word.
It’s so versatile.
I can kill with it
Or spread my legs with it.
I just love the way it sounds:
Fuck. Like that.”

First curling her lower lip
Beneath her upper
Frontal incisors
Air flowing over tongue
With fricative articulation
And voiceless phonation
Central oral consonant

In Greek the sound of nature
In Polish blood
The unrounded vowel
In Turkish pure
In Russian sun
The color red
In Arabic to be

Then plosive stop
Dorsum closing against velum
Breath on soft palate
Pushing out of lung
Ending somewhere deep
From the back of her throat
And the risk of her mouth.


Anna Drinking tells Joseph’s son
I’ve got a magic vagina
Men would die for this
I don’t open up to just anybody.
So Joseph’s son says
What’s in it for me?

And Anna Drinking says
Janis Joplin singing all her greatest hits
Rivers you can walk on water
Land of milk and honey.
Sure enough.

But not much later Joseph’s son wins the bet he plays against himself—
There’s a lot of trouble in there too.

Russell Streur
was hit on the head by an insistent muse from Crete in 2004 and hasn't been right since. He is proudest this week of getting through it without a cigaret, but he is tempted for sure right now. Luckily, there's vodka in the freezer.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Knitting Pattern Man

by Julia Davies

I don't know why I suddenly remembered him; I was lying on the bed trying to reminisce about the ex, trying to recapture the last time he fucked me before going back to his pregnant wife, coming dozily awake after the last drunken embrace and holding him until he was hard enough; and then knitting pattern man suddenly came into my head. I hate it when my fantasies start to have a mind of their own.

Knitting pattern man was the first bloke I knew who really liked going down on me. Can't say that I was that bothered about it at the time, but he liked it and I stupidly liked him. Of course in hindsight it's easy to see I was naive and easy to see I was being used but at the time I was thrilled that this more experienced guy, was interested in me. He looked like a taller Tom Cruise, I couldn't believe my luck. He wasn't married, that one, but lived with his girlfriend, hundreds of miles away in Portsmouth. I didn't care. She wasn't anything but a name to me.
There was this time, he'd called me in the office to ask if I was wet. My office was a Portacabin shared with 3 other blokes that all thought they knew he was fucking me, one of them handed the phone to me. I'd never done phone sex before and didn't know what he meant - how he must have smiled at me as I said it wasn't raining. He asked then if my pussy was wet, and this time I twigged and I didn't tell him about my two cats. I told him I was a little, but it was that time of the month. He must have been exasperated with me by then, but he told me he would be at the factory the next week and that he was going to fuck me again, in my green bedroom; he'd let me know when he could get away from the meetings.

I remembered why I called him knitting pattern man. That time he knew to come to my back door. He pulled the curtains closed as my flat looked out onto the road that went to the factory, everyone from the factory drove home past it. My next door neighbour worked at the factory too, but he was on shift now. I liked the thought that people could see in, catch a glimpse on the way past, but I guess he didn't.

He'd kissed me as I closed the back door, pushing me up against the kitchen wall. I thought his impatience was for how much he wanted me. He'd led me into my own front room, and pulled my trousers down at the same time as pulling me down onto the armchair. It felt odd to be bare from the waist down in my armchair. I could feel the texture of the tapestry material pressing against my skin. I could feel his breath over me. Warm. Warm breath, warm mouth. He positioned my legs over the arms of the chair. He kissed me down there and his tongue probed those folds. I wondered what I tasted like. But I thought this was something I should already know about so I didn't say anything. I felt something nice, but most of all I felt slutty sitting in my living room half naked with my legs over the arms of the chair, almost in the middle of the day, while a fully clothed man knelt between my spread legs and pulsed his tongue against me.

He took his coat off. He was wearing an ugly knitted jumper underneath, the kind that you are given as a present for Christmas and have to mumble "How nice," even though it isn't; but you don't usually wear them except to visit the person who gave you the jumper. It was very early in the evening, almost daytime even though it was dark because it was winter. It was a cold evening outside, and his fingers were still cold when he put them inside me and used his cold thumb to rub me where his warm mouth had been.

I stopped keeping track of time. It took me by surprise, that he made me come without getting his own release. After that, I wrapped my legs around his back and pressed myself up against his ugly jumper. I liked the idea he would wear the jumper with my juices soaked up in it. He picked me up and carried me through to my green bedroom and took the jumper off with the rest of his clothes. Not much later, he put the jumper back on and took off with the rest of his clothes. It was still early evening.

jkdavies is a practised reader and practising writer & lives in Germany & this week she is most proud of is getting a stranger ~4500 miles away so excited he had to leave his desk and go to the mens room for some relief...

Monday, May 17, 2010

Pirate Hooker

by Alis Rose

She takes his hand in hers and places it against her chest.
He quickly inhales, shocked at the violent way he can feel her heart beating. It seems to trigger everything he is, and suddenly he must be inside her.

She bites his ear, he pulls her hair. Everything about her drives him crazy, the dimples on the lower of her back as if put there just for him; her long black hair tracing her spine. Even the cute pirate tattoo she put on her wrist out of a gum packet. Sometimes, he imagines she's a hooker. Dirty and willing.

This makes him act rougher, more demanding in bed. She seems to like it. He doesn't kiss her because you don't kiss hookers. This drives her crazy. He bends her over the edge of the bed, grasping the wrought-iron frame. He likes it when he can't see her face. His thumbs move to the dimples like they were born to be there, and he throws in a porn slap just for the hell of it. She moans loudly, and he sees the skull-and-bones tattoo on her wrist.

He remembers who he is thrusting and can't last any longer. Collapsing on her, his lips brush past her temporary tattoo. She smiles contentedly, arches her back and blows a bubble.

His pirate hooker.

Alis Rose is currently studying English Lit, however spends most classes writing for her blog and other odd bits and pieces. One thing I did this week that I am proud of? I helped an intoxicated girl I've never met, get back to her hotel room and did not take advantage of her. Bring on the good karma.

I Call This Happiness

by R. Gay

I think of you but tell myself I should not. I cannot. I must not. I should want not. There is not a moment when I do not think of you, want from you, need of you. I pull apart our every conversation, worrying the words beneath my tongue until they are dark, shiny stones I carry in my pocket. When we see each other, there is a burning in my chest that rises up through my throat, the taste of it sharp and bitter. I think, “I am alive.” Each time I see you, there is too much I want to say. I smile and nod and say pretty, unimportant things leaving you to believe I am a pretty, unimportant person. You see through me. You forget me as soon as I’m gone, as you should. When we see each other again, I have to work to make you see me, even if for a moment. I really talk to you when I’m alone because when I’m with you, I cannot think clearly or say the smart things you deserve to hear. I write to you—long letters filled with ugly, important words about me and you and us. I create imaginary places where we can find each other; these places will never appear on any map but in my heart they are real, not hard to find. If you love me, you will know where to go. At night, I fall asleep next to a good man who loves me, who is in love with me. I am in love with him. He is steady and safe. He makes me feel calm and good. That is more important than you might think because when I’m not with him, nothing makes sense and my mind is wild and uncontrollable. He is a compass, showing me where I am. You are the very opposite of him and yet, you are exactly the same. You show me where I could be. My good man makes me want to properly play the part of the proper wife and so I do. I hold his hand when we walk and rub his shoulders after a long day of work. I wash and fold his clothes and make him sandwiches in the middle of the night. When we go out with our friends, I laugh and charm. I help him to bed when he drinks too much which is too often but that has nothing to do with this. He was the first man who really loved me right; I owe him for that so I carry the weight of his ring on my finger and imagine the weight of yours. When we make love, my good man and I, I crave his body on top of mine, how he holds me down, how he spreads me open and apart until there is nothing left of me. His breath falls hot on my face. His hands are gentle until they are not. His heart pounds so hard it feels like it is trying to break free from his chest to get closer to mine. Sometimes, he says, “Open your eyes.” He says, “Look at me.” He is a smart man. Sometimes, he asks, “Are you with me?” I smile. I hold my hand against his cheek. I lie because though I am with him I am always, always with you, imagining how our bodies would work together, how you would taste and feel, how you would smell and look at me. We would not be gentle with each other or maybe we would—I often change my mind on this—but we would be perfect together because we could give in; we could be our ugliest selves. When my good man makes me come, I swallow your name and I whisper his. Sometimes, he falls asleep inside of me and I stroke the back of his neck and his sweat dries between our bodies, his seed spreads inside my body, holding us together. When we talk about our relationship, my good man often tells me he feels like he is always chasing after me. Like I said, he is smart. He says he won’t ever stop, won’t ever let get away from him. From the mouth of another man, that might sound like a threat. He was chasing me the very first time we met. He had seen me around town but I never noticed him. I’ve never been good at seeing things right in front of me very well. One night, in a gas station parking lot, he stood in front of me as I walked out with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of wine. He told me his name and all the times he had seen me and gave me his phone number. He said, “You should call me.” I told him to get out of my way but he wouldn’t move until I agreed. On our first date he said I would fall in love with him. He opened doors for me and bought me a nice dinner and said sweet things and didn’t even try to kiss me even though if he had asked, I would have let him fuck me because that’s who I am when you peel away the good wife and that’s who you would love if you saw me instead of through me. Instead, my good man gave me a warm hug on my front porch and asked if he could see me again and I thought, somewhat angrily, he was right—I would fall in love with him. I did, weeks later when after several dates. He stood in the foyer of my house with his bulky frame taking up so much space. He worked up his nerve and leaned into me and pressed his lips against mine, and then slid his tongue into my mouth and the longer we kissed, the more excited he got until he had me pinned against the wall, breathing hard. He was hard against my thigh and as I reached to unbuckle his pants, he stopped himself, apologized and I understood he didn’t undersand me. He asked if he could touch me. He asked if he could make love to me. No man had ever done that before. I said yes. I said please. I said things no woman had ever said to him before and he treated my body like a gift instead of a curse. It would have been impossible not to fall in love. I’m in love with you too but it is different, terrifying, the whole of all the impossible things in the world. My love for him is a strong, straight line— measured and knowable. It is unwavering but not all consuming. I love you in a way that sharpens and deepens and grows every time I see you, speak to you, think of you. My heart cannot possibly hold so much love— you are also in my blood and my bones and my sweat and my skin and someday soon, my body won’t be enough to hold what I feel for you. I do not know what will happen then. On nights when I can’t sleep, on most nights, I go outside and I lie on our driveway and stare into the clear night sky. We can truly see the stars where we live. They are bright and big and close. If I try hard enough, I can touch the edge of a constellation; it burns my fingertips and I think, if you were here with me, you would take my fingers into your mouth and take burn away. I lie on our driveway, hard and cold beneath me. I tap the pavement with one hand and the cage of bone over my heart with the other until all I can hear is my breathing and my heart beating and my blood coursing. I do these things, these tiny acts of living, for you. It feels like we’re together, like you are the last person I will ever love, like you see me, feel me, hear me, touch me. Loving you is the loneliest place in the world. I never want to leave.

R. Gay
writes things and is terribly unimaginative when it comes to bios and that doesn't bode well for her writing. She is proud this week of having remained mostly faithful.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Christmas Eve At Macy's

by Fjord Fjordlestein

It was the night before Christmas, and the men had been waiting in line all afternoon and into the early part of the evening. Mostly they were silent, though a few spoke to each other conversationally, small talk about preparing for the oncoming winter, sports, lay-offs. All around them, generic Christmas music was piped in over the speakers.

Peter Sorkin, however, waiting at the rear of the line, had not said a word. It was going on eight hours now, and he had not so much as sat down or gone to the bathroom in all that time, so afraid he was of losing his place. But it was all in vain; no one had gotten in line after him. He was the last, the very last in line, and that’s all there was to it.

Wasn't that pretty much a fair summary of his life until now, trying to desperately hold on to last place? He was a short, thin man, not completely unattractive, if he'd been able to temper his looks with an engaging personality which, unfortunately, he was not.

Suddenly, the man standing in front of him turned to Peter and smiled widely. "Think it'll be worth the wait?" He was a very large man with a thick, black mustache glistening with either sweat or grease, Peter wasn't sure.

Peter shrugged.

"Shit, man! I've been here every day and every night this week! It's worth it, let me tell you!" He laughed hard and Peter had to turn his head so he wouldn't inhale the man's junk-food-induced breath.

The line was growing shorter. He could finally see the winter wonderland looming before them, which was their destination. At the top of the cotton-ball hill was a full-sized gingerbread house, lined with candy-canes and gumdrops. Surrounding it were animatronic reindeer and snowmen, slowly waving and rotating on their mechanical bases. There were maybe a dozen men between him and the entrance.

Just then, the Christmas music was silenced.

“Attention, shoppers,” came a shrill voice. “Macy’s will be closing in ten minutes! Please make your final selections at this time and bring them to the front registers!”

Peter looked at his watch in a mild panic. To think, if he had wasted the entire day standing in line and had absolutely nothing to show for it!

Then he heard one of the men further up in the line curse to themselves and say, “Dammit, I gotta get home,” put their coat on and leave.

He wasn't the only one. About five other men also cursed to themselves and left the line.

Peter was elated. The line had cleared out to around half of its original length. He was almost at the front!

“Attention, shoppers. Macy’s will be closing in five minutes! At this time, we ask that you please make your final selections and bring them immediately to the front registers!”

Peter’s heart-rate accelerated. There were only three men in front of him now! Could he do this in five minutes, was it possible?

He was so lost in his panicked thoughts, that he nearly did not notice the elf.

She came out of the gingerbread house and skipped down the candy-cane striped steps, a wide grin on her face. She was about five feet tall, maybe shorter, but absolutely perfectly proportioned. Her legs were long and bare, disappearing into a pair of green shoes with bells on their toes. The skirt she wore - what there was of it - was red and green and frilly. Her large, perfectly rounded breasts spilled out of the strapless top she wore and jiggled as she bounced down the steps.

“Who's next?” she called out in a sweet voice. She seemed absolutely care-free. At this close range, Peter could see the twinkle in her eye.

The man next in line said, “Actually, my partner and I were hoping to go together. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you want!” The elf stood between the two men and held both of their hands in hers. She led them up the steps and into the gingerbread house and then they were gone.

Peter swallowed, felt himself growing lightheaded.

The man with the greasy mustache turned and bellowed, “Well, I guess it’s just you and me!” He laughed wickedly.

"Yeah, I guess," Peter managed.

In only a few moments, the elf skipped down again. She was tripping slightly, however, and had something white on the corner of her mouth. She hiccuped as she said, “All right, I’m afraid we’ve only got time for one more." She looked between Peter and the other man. "Who’s it going to be?”

The man laughed a rich guffaw, turned and gave Peter a resounding slap on the back. "Well, no hard feelings, pal! Better luck next year, huh?”

Peter looked down at his feet.

Then the man leaned in closely, so that his breath was most overpowering. "Don't be so pathetic," he whispered, "You look like the kinda guy that's used to jerking himself off at night, am I right? So, what's one more night?"

Then, rubbing his hands together, the man turned toward the waiting elf, who welcomed him with a glad smile.

Peter watched helplessly as the man gave the elf’s ass a tight squeeze, fiddled at it with his fingers. The elf just giggled and held the man tight around the waist. "Just you wait!" she teased.

When they got to the top, she did turn and saw Peter standing miserable and forlorn. She gave him a sympathetic shrug of her perfect, bare shoulders, leaned forward and blew him a consolation kiss.

“Attention, customers!” came the announcement over the loud speakers. “Macy’s is now closed for the night! I repeat, Macy’s is now closed for the night! Please bring any final selections immediately to the front of the store for checkout. Otherwise, at this time we ask that you make your way to the exits.”

Peter tried to control the tears that came to him. He was such an idiot! He’d wasted his whole day and he had absolutely nothing to show for it! Yes, like the man had said, he would be going home tonight and jerking himself off, just like he did the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year.

A mall cop came sauntering over. “Hey buddy!" he called in a thick Irish accent. "Stores’ closed! Let’s move it along, huh?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming… I think I left my umbrella over here!”

“Don’t play any tricks!” the cop shouted, moving on.

Tricks? Peter didn’t play tricks. Did he? He pantomimed searching for a missing umbrella, and then hid behind a display of Christmas chocolates. His heart was racing. What was he doing? Was he going to hide out all night? And then what?
He didn't have time to double-think his plan any further. There was laughter coming from the gingerbread house. He crouched down and spied through a tiny opening. He could see clearly as the man with the greasy mustache left the gingerbread house by the back steps. This time there was not one, but two elves helping him along, one on either side! Two! They looked so similar, they could have been twins. And perhaps - Peter swallowed, that light-headed feeling returning - they were.
They seemed equally merry, grinning widely, bells on their toes. One had her slender hand down the front of the man's pants and was rubbing him vigorously as they walked. For his part, he had his meaty hand around the other's breasts and was rubbing them so hard it must have hurt, but she seemed like she was enjoying every moment of it.
"God, I can't tell you how much I love you two!" he exclaimed.
They glanced at each other and laughed.
"C'mere, let me give you one last lick, huh?" He grabbed one of the elves suddenly and licked her from the tops of her breasts to the bottom of her chin. Then he grabbed the other and licked her, too. "My own personal candy canes!"

They laughed and laughed, then wrapped their arms around eather other and called out in unison with cheery smiles, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Jacobs!”

“Merry Christmas, ladies!” he shouted, rubbed his eyes as though he was drunk, and then stumbled out toward the front of the store. "Happy New Year!" came his voice from the darkness.

Peter had not breathed in five minutes. It would have been a massive understatement to say that he was as hard as a rock. But if all that had come before were not enough, he then observed with frontrow clarity as the first elf turned to the second and said, “Silly, you still have some on the corner of your mouth!”

“Oops!” said the second.

“Here, let me…” And she leaned in and began licking it from her partner's face. They held each other as their tongues entwined. Then, just as quickly, released each other, giggling.

Peter moaned involuntarily.

“Oh!” The elves jumped. "Who's there?"

“I didn’t mean to startle you…” he said, standing up and tripping over the Chocolate Bar display, which came cascading down.

“Sir!” said the one, straightening the front of her outfit. “I’m afraid the store is closed! You’ll have to come back next year!”

“No, please!” Peter pleaded. “I’ve been waiting in line all day!”

The second elf put out her index finger and waved it at him shamefully. “Sorry, sir,” she said in her singsong voice. “Rules are rules!”

“Please! I beg you! I’m begging you! Look!" He got down on his knees and clasped the fingers of his hands together. "I'm actually begging you! You can’t send me away now! I’ll do anything!”

All around him, the lights of the store were being turned off, things were shutting down.

The elves glanced at each other. One of them shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.” She walked back up the stairs.

It seemed like an eternity that she was gone. The other elf set about gathering up the props, cleaning up.

“So…” said Peter, uncomfortably. “You, uh, like your job?’
She stood, her arms filled with wrapping paper and ribbons. She thought about the question, then answered, “I like the people I meet.”
Finally, the other elf came bounding down the stairs. She looked at Peter squarely and said, “Sir, I just have one question for you.”

Peter tried to breathe regularly. “Okay."

“Have you been a good boy this year? Or a bad boy?”

“Good! I’ve been good! Oh God, I’ve been good! I haven’t lied, I haven’t stolen… I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I… I exercise, I eat well, I..!”

The elf put her hand on his arm. “Shh,” she said. “Try and relax. She'll see you now.”

With those simple words, he very nearly came in his pants.

Her hand was so warm and so soft as she wrapped it in his. He followed her up the stairs.

“Have fun!” shouted the elf still at the bottom of the stairs

Peter wanted to thank her, but he found he couldn’t speak.

“Are you nervous?” asked his elf, giving his hand a tight squeeze.

“No, no, not at all, absolutely not!”

She giggled. “You’re cute,” she said, then stood on her tiptoes and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you again when you’re done.”

After she left him, Peter turned. He was standing at an archway inset with candies and wrapped in ribbons and bows. There was fake, fluffy snow all over the floor which hovered in the air once it had been kicked. He followed the red carpeting around the corner, and he saw her, sitting in a large, mahogany chair.

She was tall, so very tall. At least six and a half - maybe seven - feet tall. Her legs were long and tan, crossed at the knees. She wore the traditional Santa Claus outfit, cut off shortly below her waist. Her large breasts heaved out of the top of the outfit, the nipples just barely concealed behind white, fluffy fabric. Her long, blond hair fell down over her face. She was the most gorgeous woman Peter had even seen, could have ever imagined. She was sex personified. She was everything. She was waiting for him.

“H-Hi," stuttered Peter.

"Sit on my lap," she told him. "And tell me what you would like for Christmas.”

Peter came forward, climbed up on her lap. It was so warm. She emanated heat. The fabric of her dress was so soft and comfortable.

“Don’t be shy!” she laughed. She pulled him closer to her, so that he was snuggled on her lap and leaning against her body. He could feel her flesh. He could not stop staring at her breasts. He’d never seen breasts so large and so percect and so inviting.

She began playing absently with his hair, running her long fingers down the back if his neck. “Now,” she said. “What can I get you for Christmas?”

“I… " He looked up her at her face, her warm, smiling eyes. “I...”

She kissed him fully on the mouth, pushed her warm tongue inside the inside of his mouth and tasted him fully, as though it were he who was the object of desire. She took his other hand and brought it up so that it pressed against her breasts. His fingers took over, digging beneath the soft material to find the perfectly rounded underside of her breasts. He squeezed them and played with them.

“It’s... it's okay," she breathed. "You don’t need to speak. Play with me. Just play with me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He used both hands to fondle her breasts, opened up her blouse completely. He leaned in and put his face between them. She brought her hand behind his head again and forced his head further between them. She was really moaning now, and the more he licked and the more he squeezed, the more on the tip of orgasm she seemed.

"Yes..." she said, "Yes..." She unzipped his pants, reached in and pulled out his penis which was hard and thick and gasping for fresh air. She rubbed it softly and sensuously, and the more she did, the more he felt himself melting into her body. Yet the whole time she rubbed, she moaned as though she were bringing herself to fulfillment.

“How does that feel?” she asked him softly.

“Good! Oh God, it feels good!”

She stroked him a bit harder, then brought his face up to her own and gave him another deep kiss. She rubbed him and rubbed him and he felt himself getting closer and closer until finally he broke away from her mouth long enough to yell out, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

And come he did. He came for longer than he could ever remember having come. It pumped out of his penis.

“Candy!” she called out.

Immediately, one of the elves ran into the room. She didn’t ask questions, just ran up and kneeled down, began lapping up the come, putting his whole penis deep into her mouth and working it again.

Peter pulled off her top completely and again kissed her breasts, sucking at them hard, as though trying to milk them.

"Yes! Suck at them! That's the way!"

Meanwhile, Candy had really begun to pump hard. She was making yummy sounds, as though she were licking a candy cane herself.

“I’m… I’m…” Peter breathed. And he came again. Janice swallowed it effortlessly and did not release her seal. “I’ve never… I’ve never… gone more than… more than...” But he could feel it rising in him again, and he again shot another load into her mouth. This time Candy did break her seal, and she eagerly began lapping it up, with her wet tongue all over his balls and beneath his balls. She was panting heavy, still with the yummy sounds.

"Oh God, is there more?” she asked him eagerly.

“I don’t… I don’t know!”

“Well, if there is, I’ll be waiting!”

Peter watched as she went back over to the other elf.

“Did you swallow all of it?” he heard her ask.

“Not all of it!” And they again began to kiss deeply, running their tongues inside of each other and feeling each other up.

Just then, before he knew what was happening, the great woman had slid his penis down under her skirt, sliding it effortlessly into her warm, perfect pussy.

The great woman closed her eyes and thrust her head back, bit down on her lower lip while Peter thrust it into her again and again and again, getting wilder and wilder, squeezing both of her breasts as hard as he could, even while she admonished him, “Harder!" And he did, as hard as he could, until she screamed in ecstasy, tears streaming from her eyes.

After he came inside of her, she lay there breathing heavy, as though barely unconscious.

“Are you… okay?”

“It’s okay, I think she’s finished for the night,” said Candy, helping Peter down off her lap. "It's been a long day. Mandy!” she called. “You’d better get her cleaned up. She looks pretty wet.”

The other elf ran over. “Excuse me, Miss S,” she said, “Just gotta get you cleaned up.” She got down and began licking at Santa’s pussy, licking up all the excess juices.

“Ohh…” said the great woman, eyes still closed. “Ohh… yesss… Slow.”

“Boy!” said Cnady. “You’re a real juicer!” She led Peter out of the main room and back into the gingerbread foyer. "How are you feeling?"

“I feel…" Peter thought about it. "I feel wide awake!” he declared. It was true. Usually, after sex he was sound asleep in seconds. But his heart was racing, his mind felt sharp. “I feel amazing! I feel like…” He looked at the elf. “I feel like I could go again! And again and again and again!”

She giggled and began pulling down her red and green panties. She turned around and faced the wall, presenting him with her ass. With one hand, she spread her cheeks apart. “I was hoping you were going to say that!”

Fjord Fjordlestein
once masturbated in the Red Rocks of Sedona, AZ. This week he did story-time at our local Farmer's Market.