Wicked Gay Ways

Dear Reader: Welcome to the spring 2021 issue of Wicked Gay Ways. As we welcome spring there seems to be a light at the end of the tunnel regarding the COVID 19 pandemic and hopefully we will be on our way to some level of normalcy this summer and fall.

In this issue we are thrilled to welcome the writing and visual art work of several artists from the USA and Europe. Writings by Parel Joy, Eadbhard McGowan, Raymond Luczak, The Poet Spiel, Aldo Quagliotti, Ken Anderson, Deborah Ketai, and Brody F. Torres, and art work by John Waiblinger, Eddy Rhenals, and Imanol Luquin. We hope you enjoy our spring 2021 issue.

MEN-MOTHS

In the crowded dining room, men

full of murmur flutter like moths

thirsty for the elixir of enlightenment.

With no more strength than a whisper,

they sip words full of discovery and awe.

Their muscles of bull and bitch soon flex.

Such illuminations, daisy-chained through

hands and cocks and tongues and asses,

give these men-moths lightning and thunder.

KINDLING

Heat from between your thighs simmer

between mine as you stoke your iron

tongue into the fireplace of my mouth.

I am wood. Each kiss you leave behind

on my body is ash. I float upward,

remnants of my old boat drifting apart

on the spermy waves of spring,

pumping the hottest blood of all

around us as we men naked rekindle.

Raymond Luczak is the author and editor of 25 titles, including Compassion, Michigan: The Ironwood Stories (Modern History Press), once upon a twin: poems (Gallaudet University Press), and Flannelwood (Red Hen Press). His work has appeared in Poetry, Passages North, and elsewhere. He is the editor of Mollyhouse. A thirteen-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. raymondluczak.com

Desk Dreams

Like the blue moon I push and pull,

Carving into you as we fold and swirl

The sheets around us, leaking and biting

Clanging raw flesh like hot steel.

You suck my ear when you want to be bad

Slap me when I should be good, so I kiss you,

beg for more— throbbing and slick,

No longer just fucking, hasn’t been for a bit.

The rhythm of us always fits

Cleanly like pieces of a ship

Surfing green oceans of sirens

Holding whips…

I give it whenever I can,

whenever you will let me,

Sending you poems to prepare you,

For when it’s you giving it to me.

My clock is ticking by slowly

And my cock is throbbing under the desk

Text me back quickly

So we can start making a mess.

Splinters

Under the broken slats of salt beaten wood lies a panorama of graffiti, bare asses, and girthy shadows. We walk past a circle of older beefy men, fawning for a young guy who is smoking and smoothing out his spot in the sand, then two twinks on the same mission – giggling to themselves in the awkward noise of the local cruising spot. Steps later, we tuck into a corner, our teeth banging together until our tongues start cushioning the blows. I am nervous and soft, but he is throbbing and wet. If you’re uncomfortable… I fall to my knees, unbuttoning his jeans and take him into my throat. Each footstep gets him harder, his cock swelling in my mouth. I see the others looking right at me, watching me dribble spit, swallowing every drop given to me and cannot help but smile.

B. F. Torres spends summertime by the coast and winters in the city, B.F. Torres has developed his work in poetry, essays, and short fiction over the years to create truly hybrid writing. After graduating from the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts, he spent his free time exploring new locations and meeting new people to write about and grow from. He is hoping to expand his mediums to include not only written pieces, but also polaroid photography, digital art, and scrapbooking. With his many small journals in hand and typewriter back home, the possibilities and inspirations are endless. Follow him on Instagram @ Roof.of.a.tower

beyond grachten and fietsen

I got my nipple pierced on a cold Saturday,

another afternoon in this kloteweather

hoosbui after hoosbui after hoosbui-

fiets broke, doing ninty tonight…

though I’d like to zhoosh with the gillies;

it’d be bona to see you, your dolly old eek!

I never saw a love like this, so far from Quookers

and Roombas and bakfietsen, so far from the

canal nouveau riche.

doing ninty tonight, always ninty with

my pierced nipple and my wet lips and my

Polari-loving palone by my side

she’s a nasty vogueress, a force to be

reckoned with, a vrouw with ten thousand flannels.

she could kiss me in the street on the kade

of the gracht and I’d fall all over again, I’d

show off my piercings to the lamppost light, I’d

pick up smoking for her.

and I’ll kiss her in the dark if I have to. I’ll wait until

we’re inside in the safety of her huiskamer to kiss her

if I have to. I’ll kiss her in the safety of her slaapkamer

if I have to, the safety of her letty, the safety of

a space for two the safety of closed curtains and

dimmed light.

1. canals. Dutch. (singular: gracht)

2. bicycles. Dutch. (singular: fiets)

3. dreadful weather. (Dutch and English)

4.  pouring rain. (Dutch)

5. nothing. (Polari)

6. to drink. (Polari) 

7. women. (Polari)

8. good. (Polari)

9. pretty. (Polari)

10. face. (Polari)

11. box bike. (Dutch)

12. woman. (Polari)

13. female smoker. (Polari)

14. woman. (Dutch)

15. embankment. (Dutch)

16. living room. (Dutch)

17. bedroom. (Dutch)

18. bed. (Polari)

polyester,

synthetic bedding plastic

cups plastic flowers plastic

love, the

toothbrush he gave me, the t-shirt

I slept in; for six

months straight he’d sit in vinyl

seats and the toothbrush

would still be there when I returned

flannel.

the way she kisses me – silicon on her night-

stand, two frank o’haras a sarah waters a sappho an entire

shelf for marx.

vase full of daffodils, stack of riso printed zines

hal fischer’s gay semiotics.

hal fischer’s 18th near castro street.

wool,

linen reliable like me because you know

I’ll be here until the end of the party; denim

like the jacket I’ll cycle home in when

it’s light outside again, with cups

to wash in my sink even though they’re yours

to clean

in second-hand silk I want

to hold you,

in soft mohair and lyocell you scare me,

lavender and cardamom, in verbena and boxes full

of artworks, in soft viscose and fresh flowers you run

through my thoughts

in charity shop fur I want

to keep seeing you, and hold you in a satin embrace

I want to lay you down in sheets of cotton

& kiss you in cashmere and lace

Parel Joy (she/they) is a writer and creator from the Netherlands. She’s been living in Aberdeen for the past three years, where she studies English with Creative Writing. She is the former head editor of the University of Aberdeen’s student newspaper The Gaudie, for which she has been a regular writer. Her work was also published in Hysteria Zine and Blacklist Journal. Follow her on Instagram @pareljoy.

TRICK

His trick arouses him

—or better, the arousable in him—

for one last round

before he goes. And half awake

to what he screws

or where, as well

as most

of life, and half aware

the end will come this way, a final trick,

he buries all his anger

in his butt.

Ken Anderson was a finalist in the Saints and Sinners first annual poetry contest. His novel Someone Bought the House on the Island was a finalist in the Independent Publisher Book Awards. A stage adaptation won the Saints and Sinners Playwriting Contest and premiered May 2, 2008, at the Marigny Theater in New Orleans. His novel Sea Change: An Example of the Pleasure Principle was a finalist for the Ferro-Grumley Award. The Statue of Pan (screenplay) is an Official Selection at the LGBTQ Unbordered International Film Festival.

Is it just my memory?

In the beginning

you couldn’t keep your hands off me

they roamed with confidence that they belonged

everywhere

in my pockets

under my clothes

no matter where we were

or who was watching

“Go on,” they’d say, “Don’t mind us,

just talk amongst yourselves.”

Then came lesbian bed death,

—proximate cause: your Catholic guilt,

or just preoccupation—and those hands went back

to work or to petting the cat

of whom I am inordinately jealous

or to pointing a finger of blame

at your brother or nephew.

But my hands

my hands still touch you when allowed,

lightly, so as not to overstay their welcome,

still part you when they dare, rarely,

making way for my mouth, still

write my desire for you.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

One Plus One Equals One

bless the cold sheets that send your toes

worming between my legs to get warm

bless the rest of you, kittened at my back

kissing my neck just below the hairline

bless your skin cool on my heat

your hand wandering down from my stomach

bless your breath coming faster

your breasts pressing closer

your body pulsing closer

bless our rise and release

our rise and release

bless our names on each other’s lips

then

bless the long night

and waking up entangled,

and that long division

that makes us, blessedly,

two again

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Descent into the maelstrom

my ears pop in steep descent

between your legs

I gently raise your flag

and you burst in my mouth

sweet and salty

like liquid kettle corn

my circles raise your sea foam

like whipped egg whites

and you suck me in

with a grip I cannot escape

I ride our ship

tongue-in-groove decks

as if I could rule those waves

at the mercy of the wild storm

in whose final wake

we float broken yet whole

in each other's arms

Deborah Ketai writes from the intersection of bipolar, bisexuality, and creative self-doubt, leavened with humor and wordplay. Her work has appeared in Think, North Dakota Quarterly, Eclectica, RavensPerch, Nomadartx, and many other venues. She and her wife live in Connecticut’s Naugatuck Valley.

Your sweat

Your sweat on my skin

like an angel crying resin

the fragrance of your soul

serpenting among my hopes

may you stay above this neck

like a shadow glued to a foot

I might get by this transition

to refresh my abstruseness

of whirling around your body

likea god’ s perimeter

My eyes on your chasm

sliding into your beauty

your hard nipples as a bristly stinger

lacerate my pleasure

there must be a place

for this complicity we fidget in

there is!

in the echo of your kisses

finger snapping in the night

Aldo Quagliotti is an italian “poeti” living in London, UK. He's the author of Japanese Tosa (London Poetry Books) and Confessions Of A Pregnant Man (AllienBuddha Press). His poems have been rewarded in Italy, Brazil, USA, Canada, Ireland and in the United Kingdom. He has been selected for important anthologies such as Paper Therapy, Yawp!, The Essential Anthology, Murmurations, Poetical Word, Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus. Several webzines and magazines have published his work, such as INNSÆI, U-rights, Credo Espoir, Parouisia , Poetica Review and many more. In October 2020 He was chosen to represent the Poetry Corner at the London Chelsea + Kesington Art Week. He's a Gay activist and a fervid supporter of the BLM movement and women's rights. He holds a diploma from London College of Media and Publishing in music criticism, He also collaborates with music webzines like Peek-a-boo and Gigsoup, and offers genuine feedback to emerging authors/ musicians on his personal blog Quaquaversal. ( https://quaquaversalweb.wordpress.com/).

All sad, all different

It used to turn me on,

when I saw a woman or a man

with suspenders and black nylons,

which emphasized the long legs

and what was in between.

Today we stay at a distance

and the future fetish

will be a mask,

black and erotic.

I wear a mask now,

as it should be,

and nothing else

for my friends,

which them beguiles,

no longer recognize me

and call me by the wrong name.

The new perspective:

Unknown and in more than 2 meters,

to present ourselves,

to keep your mouth shut,

and to leave it to the rhythm

of the hand

whether the black mask

radiates stimulation.

Maybe someone ejaculates

on his mask,

because working by hand

has now found a substitute

for other lusts.

Eadbhard McGowan is a writer of poetry, short stories and erotic literature and a member of several writer groups in Ireland. He has been published in over 140 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in USA, UK, Ireland, Japan, Sweden, Spain, Italy, Bangladesh, India, France, Mauritius, Nepal, Pakistan, Nigeria and Canada.

Oiler (re-imagined)

As I rub

my low-slung Porsche

slow against the curb,

this dude squats to it,

shoves his slicked-back wavy hair

through my willing window

to thrust his stocky arm inside.

He grabs my piece,

then purrs:

For you, big man, I’d roll for free.

He plugs me through the night,

makes me believe he needs me,

moans words of heat I starve to hear.

And when he splits,

I’m memorably riveted.

My ass tingling like a twinkling star,

moustache fragrant with his second load,

sheets drenched with his third,

my mattress bursting

with the wildness of his air.

The bliss of his final token,

harbored in my throat:

a cock-sized ringlet

of oily black hair.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Socks (re-imagined)

Rusty bulldozes

wetsop beachsand

with his right heel.

Says:

Wonner what it is

bout smelly socks…

Digs sand out of his toenails.

…an homos?

Todd is surprised —

Rusty using the word

homo

so comfortably.

Wishes the hickeyneck bitch

on the beach behind them

would stop splatterblasting Roy Orbison —

It’s over.

It’s ohhhver.

OK —

So it’s over.

turn the damn thing off;

let a couple guys talk.

Todd says

Ohh yeah!

Feels his pecker go hard,

like tire rubber —

like the WELCOME mat

his dad wove out of

smelly old tire treads.

Yup, he says,

Smelly socks;

ya know a bunch

a all-American guys

playing for the win,

wanting to be the best,

wanting hairpie

for touchdowns,

dying for it.

Fuck me first

and I don’t care who

you do after that.

Us guys’re all in the lockers

steamy,

shiny fresh-sweat guy team talk.

He gropes his own thing.

It’s ready.

NOW.

Rusty lusts —

like the first time he ever touched it —

Todd’s whacker.

And he thought of the American flag,

bloodred head, whiteshaft, blueveins.

Oh

beautiful

for

spacious

guys…

Wants it again,

can’t just say it —

not out loud.

He sucks in sand, salt air,

and sniffs the yummy smelly socks.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Touching Off (re-imagined)

You would not recognize me; I hang out at the Wal-Mart parking lot. I’ve watched you there on Wednesdays.

I shadowed you in, stuck to your heels; brushed against your soft sleeve as you paused

at the fancy leopard skin panties that I knew you would not buy.

There is a certain vulnerable quirk in your gait, in your thick ankles, making you available to me.

I stink of tobacco. Now do you recall my presence as I jostled your basket, then said Sorry from behind

your ear as I came too close to your ponytail? I wondered why so much lotion? Why so many tins of aspirin?

I was so glad the checkout was slow so I could breathe the mansweat of your broad neck and bump

your firm fanny till I got off.

Will you be back again next Wednesday at ten? I want to sit on the warm hood of your truck

while you piddle the panties.

The Poet Spiel is internationally published online and in independent press journals with diverse works of personal conflict and social consciousness. Internationally published artist/author The Poet SPIEL savors the past, dares the future, swallows the present; steady hand, open heart, countercultural, passionate, sardonic, often absurd. Tom Taylor (aka The Poet Spiel). b. 1941. USA. American artist/author. As a child, the artist’s temperament was already edgy and precocious. For survival in the farm world he’d fallen heir to, making art allowed him to discover that he could freely create his personal child-view of a complicated world where everyone was bigger and smarter than he. Making art, as work, as play, as sustenance and medication, has rescued him from drowning in the chaos of his troubled and hungry mind. Amidst his 8th decade on earth, coping with losses associated with vascular dementia, art is the friend which has withstood the petty and the foolish, the graceful, the garish and the grand of a diverse career in the arts. It’s taken him a lifelong pursuit to become reasonably competent at understanding why he is the way he is and how to accept his Self. “Revealing Self in Pictures and Words” (find it on Amazon and Kindle) is the most comprehensive book about his life’s work from 1948 up to 2018, both poetry and pictures. He has published more than a dozen books. Learn more about his large body of books, short stories, poetry, spoken word and fine art at www.thepoetspiel.name.