Measure For Measure

 by Julia Davies

She sat down at the computer to wait for his e-mail to feed the latest obsession the explicit and horny sexy e-mail conversations with a stranger she had read his writing and he hers and they had looked at and liked each others blogs and now each night for the last three nights they had exchanged flurries of mails in linear and forked conversation strands and played with words and she had played with herself as he told her about playing with himself.

While she waited she played the damn facebook games that she had been so enthusiastic about the week before in the absence of the fucking talk she robbed properties and did jobs for dons and fought yakuza and sent virtual gifts for virtual chop shops and weapons depots and when she had run out of energy and stamina and had to wait for time to refill those she went to the farm and planted tomatoes and helped virtual friends raise barns and fed their non-existent chickens.

While she waited she recalled the mails and the mood from the day before OMFG to use one of his acronyms but the words moved her beyond heat she loved the way his words made her feel and the way her words did too and in some ways she didn't really care that she would probably never meet this stranger especially as this stranger might not be the same as the picture of the stranger she had in her head from reading his blog he might be a completely different virtual stranger.

And OMFG his mail came in and the conversation started again and when he typed how much he wanted to ram his thick fat cock into her she felt herself responding and typing back that she wanted him to she wanted to feel this lust rising she wanted to feel the strangers lust wanted to feel that there really was a person at the other end who wanted to turn her onto her stomach and pull her arse cheeks apart and dip his fingers into her juices and spread her legs apart and work his enormous cock deeper into her and she slides her own fingers into her folds and feels the stringy wetness and thinks of him sat at his desk at work with his hand in his pants too.

Oh she is warm and wet now and needs more more stimulation needs to feel the push of something inside her and as she types about his thick cock stretching her walls she finds the wine bottle is empty how did that happen but its good and in a quick break from the screen she rinses the bottle and pulls her trousers and knickers down and places a towel on the chair underneath her and rejoins the one handed typing as the wine bottle takes the place of her fingers down there she tells him where she is at the conversation forks again one half still in fantasy and the other half describing what she is doing feeling and are both strands fantasy for him or is one of them real and she has to stop typing and finish herself off.

And after she is done he types that he is not yet so she asks him to tell her about his thick cock again and then the new obsession is kicked off for he believes in driving a specific bargain and tells her his cock is 6.5" in girth and at first she cannot imagine how big this is then she finds a tape measure and makes a loop with it to see how big it is but a loop isn't very easy to imagine pushing at you so she measures the wine bottle and fucking hell 6.5" is way bigger than the neck of that even though it wasn't a champagne bottle it was only 3.5" around and though there was a little room for manoeuvre she thinks double that size is really too big so she looks around for more objects to measure.

In her bathroom she finds the deodorant stick, short and stubby but at it's widest only 5" although an interesting shape she sees the travel shampoo but no don't bother with that it is no wider than the wine bottle the shower gel looks huge but it is only 5.5" it looks as big as she imagines she could take and it is nowhere near the 6.5" she can't imagine how fat the strangers cock must be there is the bath foam but that is eye wateringly big and and there is no way that would fit her.

She imagines wandering up and down the supermarket aisles with her tape measure inspecting the various bottles and jars on display looking for the perfect fit and the shop assistant watching as she wraps the tape measure around them but she measures the bath foam and that is still only 6" and she measured it even though she thought it was too big and now she is a little sad for if she did ever meet the strangers cock it would not fit her the owner of the cock with his fantasies is too big for her she has an inadequate cunt she is too small for something that size although then she thinks maybe because if she met the stranger his cock would be flesh and blood and filled with blood and therefore flexible and not the planar smooth unyielding surface of a bath foam bottle and maybe it would work.

But if even the strangers cock was flexible it was still 0.5" bigger than the bath foam bottle then she was still too tight for the strangers cock even if she was hot and wet and yes in theory she knew they were capable of expanding to the size of a babies head but how much work would that take and maybe the stranger had exaggerated his size after all men do that all the time she wondered if there was a graded scale by which men did exaggerate so that if the stranger said 6.5" then she could look at the penis girth exaggeration (PEG) scale and know that he would really be (in the norms of statistical distribution) somewhere between 4.75" and 5.5" and then having a tight wet cunt would not be so much of a disadvantage after all. Sometimes she wished she had majored in something other than Mathematics.

Julia Davies 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...

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: http://iiialliterative.blogspot.com/. 

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.

Salt

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 www.LouisaPoetry.blogspot.com.She is proud of herself because this week she only lied once.

Mister Gargantuan

by Misti Rainwater-Lites

I am obsessed with receiving e-mail from my special friend in California. He lives in a spider infested room on a mountain. He calls himself Mountain Man and Jethro McFudd, among other things. I call him Mister Gargantuan because he reminds me of Mr. Big from "Sex and the City" even though he insists he is not a metrosexual and he certainly isn't wealthy. My special friend tells me he is a smelly wino and I have no business being in love with him and if I am in love with him (I guess I am, but it's scary and immoral because I am married and not to him and my feelings for my special friend are definitely unrequited so I try to distract myself by sniffing Pine-Sol and Kiwi shoe polish, dancing around to Wham! songs and taking pictures of Barbie and Ken dolls engaging in pillow talk.) he doesn't want to hear about it. I've loved the fucker for four tornado dizzy years, ever since I read his first book of poetry and received his first e-mail (a gracious reply to mine, in which I gushed and crushed like a giddy, sexually repressed Baptist teenager) and heard him read his poems in a bar.

I sent him a long e-mail more than 24 hours ago in which I bragged about walking out of Wal-Mart with a free bag of groceries. I thought he would be so proud of me he would respond right away. I crave his affirmation, his YOU GO, MAMA! Goddamn it, what is he up to? Why doesn't he send me an electronic soul kiss? Is he eating Chef Boyardee pizza with another fan? Is he killing spiders? Is he repelled by my ridiculous neediness? I'm a wife and a mother. I'm a Texan. I have no appeal. During our last telephone conversation last year he told me he knows I'll be rich someday. I'll have a mansion and a butler. I don't believe that shit, not for a hot ass second, and if it's this lonely at the bottom I don't want to know how lonely it is at the top.

Misti Rainwater-Lites has a shitload of books available at lulu.com. She keeps a blog at http://ubiquitousdandelion.blogspot.com. Stalk her. She is starved for your attention. I am proud of myself for walking out of Wal-Mart yesterday with a free bag of groceries worth $20 and change. The details aren't important. It was better than sex. That's important.

Touching The Last Unicorn

by Aaron DiMunno

With a click of the mouse I have secured my room at the motel and drive straight from work. An hour of dark wind-blasted radio and a barely containable contentment.

Roll my car slow into the tall grass along the edge of the little road that cuts behind your mother's house. Kill the headlights and check the rear view to see if I might illuminate the light loping of your exquisite elven shape in red brake light. Let the pedal out and it all goes dark. The convertible top is down and I just stare up at all those stars.

There's a stream somewhere. I can hear the white noise of moving water. My heart is pounding like someone just put a gun to my head. The cell phone is quiet and dark in the cup holder. I called you just before I parked but you didn't answer so I hope you know I'm here.

The frogs are peeping and the crickets keep rubbing their wings together everywhere in the dark. I bet you're delivering a delicately crafted excuse to your mom. A reason to leave out the back door for the night. I'm prickly and itchy in my seat. The sky is too big and heavy over me. I want to scream out or jump from the car, abandon it and sprint down the crunchy grit of that country back road.

Until you're in the car kissing me anything could go wrong. I shouldn't be here anyway. Your brother is my best friend. We sucked each others dicks just to see what it was like when we were not much older than you are now. Seventeen.

I am ten irreconcilable years older than you. Your mother could catch a whiff of something amiss and decide to keep her beautiful daughter in from the world. Or come out and find me. Your uncle is chief of police where the motel room is reserved.

I flash the brakes again and the mirror is clear behind me. I let my foot off the pedal about to give up. Peel out on the gravel and be gone.

But just before red goes back to black your long silhouette slips into sight. A nymph emerging from the forest to be with me. A forbidden mythical creature for a mere mortal man. It's like being allowed to touch the last living unicorn.

Then you're in the car and your lips are a softness to suffocate me. I can't catch a breath. Your caress is light like a blade of grass traced up my arm. I want to cry. I want to pour everything I am into you and fall to the ground in a mush of my own shit. There is nothing else that I want. The stars are gone and the sky is blank. Crickets have no wings and frogs no peep.

I push the little sports car through its gears. Your hand is on my thigh making it tingle. The the wind is rough and hot and thick. Your long hair is a maelstrom. It whips your face and makes you squint but your smiling. I'm already frightened. How will I ever feel so alive again?

Minutes from the hotel a police car lights up behind me. It's your uncle and I'm going to jail now. You and I smile at each other anyway and you slink down in your seat.Your hair falls to shield your face.

I don't know what your uncle looks like so I'm fit to piss until the officer kindly reminds me to turn on my headlights. He tells me that those little orange ones are called parking lights for a reason. I've got to be sweating like a bank robber but he leaves it at that and returns to his cruiser.

The hotel is quiet and the man at the front desk keeps shifting his eyes from me to you. I don't know why you didn't stay in the car. I wonder what he's thinking. Either trying to guess how old you are or how your nipples might taste. But then it doesn't really matter because he hands over a white plastic card with a magnetic strip that opens a door to a room with two beds and now I will have you all to myself.

We fall into the room kissing. On the bed with your shirt off and your hair everywhere you ask me if my middle name is Gipetto even though you know it's Giuseppe. Stupid shit like that makes me love you. But you won't have sex with me.

You make hand jobs exciting again. You rub that spot under my nuts with perfection. Moan and grind on my erection. When my fingers are inside you, you wonder aloud how they can possibly be so smooth. Computer hands. Then we come. One after another. Bang. Boom. Breathe.

Two pairs of sunglasses from my bag for us and you pack your bowl. Then we stand on the slanted hotel toilet exhaling into the dusty ceiling vent. We can hear phantom toilets flushing in the darkness.

Then it's out into the hall with our hidden eyes. A weekday night in a place that's slow on the weekends. No one is anywhere. The fluorescent tube in the vending machine is blown. What scattered snacks are available look left over from the '70s.

We take my car down the strip for snacks at the Sunoco. I watch you walking the aisles in your sunglasses and school girl skirt and pretend that I'm there paying for gas. I study your shapes and try to memorize them as if you're yet another painfully beautiful girl I'll never see again.

On our way to the car a group of men in a grimy truck loaded with landscaping machines crane their necks to watch you go by. I feel sorry for them because they're just getting gas completely mortal while I'm invincible.
The room reeks of weed when we return. We smoke more and undress. Eat our cookies. Split the shitty white headphones that came with my iPod and sing along naked in bed together. I feel like I do in dreams where I can fly.

When you go down on me it is like no other. Hot melted electric butter on my dick. I remember your legs at the Sunoco, the round of your breasts against your shirt. When I go down on you you ask politely with a please for me to fuck you. I try but you keep changing your mind.

I think about the age difference. I love you like a sister and I want to fuck you like a fantasy. But we're in different places you say, too far apart. It makes me want to throw up but I have to agree.

So you left for college and found another guy my age and we don't talk much anymore.

Aaron DiMunno lives in New York City and pays too much for rent because it feels like home. He had a cat named Moochie LaRue but she died. Aaron enjoys camping every once in a while but he thinks each time that he should do it more often.
SSF: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of?
Aaron: I finished this story.