Wicked Gay Ways

Dear Reader: Welcome to our Spring/Summer 2024 summer issue. For this issue we are delighted to feature the work of new writers and visual artists. In this issue we feature writers and poets: Shane Allison, Cameron Cain Chong, João Delfim, Filip Fuzezan, Siren Gay, Julia Gwiazdowski, Mike Haran, Gwendolyn Harper, Taylor Kovach, Manuel Muñoz, Dr. Paul Nash, James Roach, and Peter Shipman. Visual artists includes the water colors of Belgian born, theater and stage designer Christian Ferauge, writer and Portuguese born, Paris based visual artist João Delfim, and British painter Andy Sylvester.

A Prayer to the Flower Prince

As I enter the sanctuary, days-old lilies hang limply in my clenched hands, a smell of

sweet rot rising to my nostrils, while tears stream down my face. Rivulets of fresh weeping

follow salt worn paths upon my cheeks. I kneel before the statue upon the altar, ashamed and

disgusted with myself. 

My god’s face is turned upward, ecstatic and wide-eyed, searching the heavens. He is of

the earth and apart from it. An intermediary of the Divine and the mundane. The Flower Prince.

The God of unspeakable love. Of pleasure. 

I place the lilies at His carved, bare feet. The stems are crushed from the pressure of my

hands. They are dying–decrepit and nearly lifeless–among the hundreds of other blooms that line

this altar. Death among freshness. Decay among beauty. It is only fitting that these lilies and I

should come in such states of decline. Our roots have long since been cut from what remains.

“My Flower Lord,” I begin. My words are crumbling and dry. I choke back my tears in

uneven breaths. “I…I come to you humbly. Please…fix me.” 

A soft, warm wind begins to blow and I hear my Lord’s voice hum in my ear. 

“My beautiful child,” it whispers, “tell Me your woes.”

Warmth enraptures me and the decaying scent of the hundreds of flowers in the room lightens,

becoming youthful once more, as though never cut from the earth from which they

arose. I dare not look into my Lord’s face, but I feel His presence all about me. 

“I am broken,” I say. “I cannot perform as You command. I have failed to honor You in

my purveyance of pleasure. I…I cannot do it.” A choking acerbity fills my throat and lungs as I

say this. Tears threaten to burst forth at any moment. I must build up a wall to prevent these

waters from flowing once more. 

Gentle tinglings like ferns running along my skin creep up my arms, my exposed chest,

and finally my throat. 

“You do not appear broken or damaged,” He whispers. Summertime rumblings of distant

thunder reverberates in my bones. 

“But I am,” I protest. “I must be.” I choke on my prayer. “I am failing you, Lord.”  

The disappointed tuts and groans of unsatisfied lovers echo in my mind. Memories of

listless churnings and blank stares upon ceilings and headboards. Pressured willing does nothing

to make me any harder, any stronger, any more dominant. I am a toothless wolf, unable to lead,

to hunt. A useless body with scant vitality left to offer.

“Look up, and behold Me, child.” A firm finger, like the smoothed branch of an ash tree,

glides along my jawline and rests at the bottom of my chin. 

I resist the urge to flinch, to leave. I do not move. I do not yield to the gentle pressure of

His divine touch. I am unworthy. I am broken. I am false. 

Still, He does not advance, nor does He withdraw. He is eternal stillness. 

“I am He who knows all desires,” the breeze whispers. “I am that which is pleasure in

touch, in taste, in smell. My voice hums at the frequency of your lust. I know you and yet you do

not look upon Me.” 

The tightness in my chest grows. I clench my fists and jaw. 

“You are not broken,” He says.

Shame. 

I shake my head. “No, I must be. I am failing you, Lord. Failing your teachings. Please

just fix your broken son.” 

There is a rustle of branches crunching in the twisting wind, a waft of overturned earth. “I

cannot fix that which is unbroken. I am He who is both of heaven and earth. Sky and ocean. I am

in the act of the gift. You have forgotten this.”

I contain the trembling that has befallen me. Like my pitiful offering, I am weak,

faltering. 

“A gift is to be given,” I say, beginning the childhood refrain instilled by the priests, my

God’s acolytes. “I am unworthy. Selfish. Greedy.” 

To ask is to be weak. To want is to be led astray.

The branches shake once more. There is a burst of herbaceous citrus in the air, an unseen

censer, a tinkling of rain fall. “False words.” The pressure of His touch does not wane. “My

children are not meant to only burn as embers in the fires of another. They are wonders unto

themselves.” 

My mouth quivers and tears begin to stream down my face once more. 

“Behold Me, beloved.” 

I slowly raise my gaze and take in the visage of my Flower Prince. Globes of dark and

brilliant starlight reflect back on me. Full lips of dripping nectar and skin of glorious iridescent

mosses and lichens grows beneath a crown of jacarandas, tobacco leaves, and thin stemmed

mushrooms. 

He bends forward, kissing at the trails of my tears and petals cascade into my upturned

hands. 

I whimper. A crack forms in the wall in my chest. 

“Guide Me.” He pulls my petal filled hands from my lap and places them upon His own.

“Show your Lord the gift you desire.”

I sip in a deep breath. My body trembles, an energetic shock rising from my sacrum. I

cannot deny Him.

“Yes, my Prince.” 

I hesitate for a moment, the pit of my stomach churns a chastising need to honor Him. I

then guide His hand up the side of my neck and across my lips. It is a delicate touch. Firm but

cushioned as though the power of the earth itself was contained just below the surface. I run my

other hand up His arm, His shoulder, feeling the movement of the tectonic plates just below the

velvetiness of mossy skin. I reach the back of His neck and pull Him closer to me. 

Without hesitation, He descends to His knees and follows my guiding movement to bring

His lips to mine. I taste honey. Spring rains flow over my tongue and through my mouth into my

lungs, my stomach, my gut. The churning subsides. I breathe heavily between desperate kisses.

Blossoms of starlight. Buds of summer sunshine. I see them behind closed eyelids. 

I wrap my arms around Him and pull Him down, the weight of the sky pressed upon my

mortal form. 

“Touch me,” I pray. 

He takes my hardness into His palm, and I gasp. I press my mouth once more to His as

gentle tendrils work up and down my shaft. I squeal and groan into His honey-sweet mouth. 

“More,” I breathe. 

The grip tightens and moves more fervently upon me. A feeling of rapturous warmth

grows from the root of my being. A stem reconnected to the salvation of the soil. A blanket of

heat from decay and rebirth covers my sweaty skin. Sweet smelling earth, interconnected

through the tiny fibers of the Flower Prince’s reach mold around me, take me in. 

My release builds at His touch. I contain multitudes and He will bring them forth like

fresh blooms after the storm. 

“Give in,” He whispers. “Feed Me your desire.” 

A guttural moan escapes my lips. A lift and fall in my whole being, like the rush of

jumping from a cliff. Power surges from the base of me.

My essence must escape this form.

A scream heard throughout the Universe pours from my lips. What were my hips buck and writhe.

Ribbons of my seed gush from my loins and my Lord bows to greet them, taking it in like

parched earth. 

The Universe itself seems to crack open as His tender lips swallow me whole. I cry out

again, a release of all of the pain and the anguish that brought me so low to this place. An

answered prayer.

I and my Lord are one. I am the earth, the sky, the stars. I am the waters that flow through

rivers, in oceans, below the earth itself. I am worthy of worship and reverence. I am All and All

is me. 

A laugh that is not my own cracks like thunder in my throat. Static runs down the lengths

of my arms and legs. Morning glories sprout from my toes and fingertips. I breathe in ecstatic

vibrancy. 

“You please Me,” He says. “You are beautiful and complete. You are Mine. I am Yours.”

“Thank you,” I say between laughs and gasps. “Thank you, my Prince.” 

The earth rumbles beneath me. Gusts and torrents subside in the treetops.

I sit up and my Lord once more takes His place on the pedestal, eyes upturned to the sky.

I softly kiss the stone of His feet.

I stand and take my leave, a starlight bouquet in my heart.

Cameron Cain Chong is as aspiring writer, poet, and artist based in Washington, DC. His work explores the intersections of identity, pleasure, and desire. Joy is completely ephemeral but should always be sought. You can follow Cameron on instagram @cameroncchong,  their website is www.cameron-chong.com.

Mihkel’s Discovery

Mihkel had been pushing his luck, as some might say.   His schoolwork had taken a back seat

to other activities that Mihkel found pleasurable.   He spent more time playing video games,

watching TV, and a little bit of porn on the computer while jerking off.   This last activity was

where he was beginning to spend most of his time, and he was increasingly excited about what

he was discovering there.   Mihkel liked watching girls get spanked.  Sometimes, he would

watch boys getting spanked, too.   He imagined what it might be like to be spanked himself. 

 And then, he found a video that pushed him to a new level.   In this one, he saw that an older

man had put a little vibrator inside this girl and then tied her hands behind her back so she

couldn’t hide anything.   He noticed her erect nipples and watched as her daddy pinched them,

causing them to stand straight up.   Sometimes, he would flick them with his fingers, and her

moaning rang all through Mihkel’s mind.   

Mihkel found that he would stroke himself faster and harder when the girl was being used a bit

more than he had imagined.   He wondered what it might be like to feel that vibrator and the

powerlessness of the hands tied behind the back.   He couldn’t begin to imagine what that might

feel like if it happened to him!  That thought got him more and more curious.

He channel surfed increasingly popular sights and began watching videos with guys in the same

situation.   He imagined how submissive they had to be as they were told to pull their pants

down.   Or worse, to strip completely naked - before getting spanked.   He liked the video of

Alexei - who had to hand his daddy his belt before it was used on him.   He watched Alelexi turn

around with his jeans on - and lower himself across the bed.   Then the daddy takes

Alexei’s belt and places it firmly across the boy’s ass.   He watched Alexei squirm and gritted his

teeth, trying not to let a single sound out.

After about ten spanks with his belt, the daddy told Alexei to stand up, remove his jeans and fold

them nicely on the bed beside him.   He liked Alexei’s smirk when he got the order to get back

onto the bed.   Mihkel watched Alexei as his underwear bunched up, revealing a little bit of his

skin.   And again, the older man used Alexei’s belt to strike his buttocks.   This time, Alexei

couldn’t hold back the sound, and he tried with all his might to take it like a grown-up.   But

the older daddy wasn’t impressed with the drama.   Stand up, he said to Alexei.   Alexei stood up,

a bit shaky, 

In a fraction of a second, the daddy took Alexei’s underwear straight down and removed them,

leaving Alexei standing completely naked.   Mihkel saw that the boy had a full hard cock, and

Mihkel found himself stroking hard.

The older man looked at Alexei’s now red buttocks.  Alexei was profoundly embarrassed and

humiliated to be standing naked now in the room where he was getting spanked.  The older man

sat in his chair and ordered Alexei to stand before him, facing away from him.

On your knees, young man, the daddy said to Alexei.   And move closer to me.   Please put each

of your legs on either side of me and bring yourself up.   Alexei wasn’t sure what the older man

wanted, so the daddy helped him.   Alexei made a little sound as he felt his legs go up and

spread.   Not being able to balance himself, he felt his balls and cock completely exposed and

dangling in between his legs.   The daddy made sure Alexei was in a stable position.   He took

his strong hand and, grabbed Alexei’s balls and pulled them back.

That caused Alexei’s hard cock to point straight down, and a bit of precum oozed out of him. 

Alexei relaxed as the older man held his balls, and then he felt the man’s other hand spread his

small ass cheeks.   Alexei felt completely exposed with his little hole out in the open.   The older

man called Alexei an exhibitionist and said he would get more spankings in this position. If

Alexei made any sounds or struggled, he would be photographed so that he knew what was

happening to him.

With his little cheeks spread open, the daddy placed a small plug inside Alexei.   Alexei yelped

as he felt it slide in.  Oh, Sir, that makes me ...

Alexei’s plea was met with a firm spank right across his bare ass.  The plug inside of him was

pinched by the sudden constriction of Alexei’s ass muscle.   The feeling shot across

Alexei’s entire body, and he suddenly submitted to the older man.

The daddy told Alexei he would be getting 25 lashes in his bare ass in this wheelbarrow

position.   Alexei thought about that as he felt the plug inside of him.   Sir, Alexei said - that’s

going to make me cum.  I don’t want to hear about it, said the older man as he began to spank

Alexei.   Now, boy, you count each one of these, and if you make a mistake, we will start over

again.   

You understand?

Yes, sir, said Alexei - now entirely under the control of the man who was going to spank his ass.

When Alexei got to 10, the man took hold of the boy’s butt plug and moved it a bit - Alexei

squirmed as he felt his cock fuel up with pleasure.   Not being able to touch himself, the older

man reached down and gave Alexei’s cock a lovely couple of strokes.   Oh, sir, Alexei said, I’m

going to …

What is that, the man said?

Mihkel was close to cumming and focused on every subtle detail he could muster. He pulsed his

hips and squeezed his thighs together. Just as it was about to happen, Mihkel heard a loud and

sudden knock on his door, which swung open before he could say a word.

Dr Paul Nash has spent many years discovering, learning, crafting, and practising his life as a fetish specialist.   He is a member of several online fetish communities and often writes about medical fetish and various aspects of BDSM/Discipline/Training for males.  Originally from the US, Dr Nash now lives in Europe where he finds relaxed attitudes about nudity, the body, and fetish, in general, are less accepted than he would like.  

WHO DO THESE EXPERIENCES BELONG TO?

your cum on my shirt/your stench which occupies my body/bright red radiating hot cheeks from

your palm’s release on my ass/hair tasseled from your grip

who do these experiences belong to?

why does it matter that I keep sacred our

private, intimate moments

like the

miniscule mementos

cluttered in

my bedside drawer

receipts/condoms/loose advil/pencils/poetry fragments/polaroids

because you want to share, too!

and don’t lie to yourself!

I’ve felt you share your deepest secrets

under the sheets

the movement of your hips/your grip/your tongue bathing my teeth/biting me/your breath like a

marathoner/ hard manhood between my grip

and after,

I come home to my pencil and pad

and through the memory of your body,

I extrapolate

the hurt you’ve had/the pleasures you’ve indulged/your childhood comforts/what you want/ how

you want it/what you lack/what you want to be

put these words in the

bedside drawer,

these experiences

belong to me.

Filip Fufezan (he/him) is a multidisciplinary artist residing in Vancouver, Canada. He is studying Theatre Arts. His biggest inspiration is queer yearning and male beauty. He has been published in Dream Boy Book Club. Coming up soon, his work will appear in Currant Jam. You can follow him on instagram: @filipfufezan and on the X platform @ filipthoughts.

A rising pride of fay hoes

A merie band of goblins, we.

Changeling got lost en route

To Albuquerque 

…please be a friend 

Do not speak of hope today

That old lie is the bitterest tea

And yet still too sweet for me

Pluck down the hundred year 

Murder wine

Soaked in mint, damuanat and thyme

Day old ho stank.  Stains

Old perfume and Older fuck.

Until its your dime,

Yuir on my fucking time.

Left-hand magic 

Ass, jazz, and Tiny flecks of shit 

Mouthless 

I want to live in a land without lawns or leafblowers 

But like a COCK, LIKE THE ROMAN EMPIRE, LIKE MAYA ANGELOU, I RISE

Gwendolyn Harper (She/They), femme, enby divinity/artist, activist, sex worker, is the author of  the Ishtar Cycle (A paen to trans liberation. 2021, Lupercalia Press) and   Flying the Jolly Scarlet, Gambling with the Gods (2023, kith books), as well as four issues of Maenadum and 19 books in the Galaxy Black RPG line with 20+ additional publications in a varied but quality list of literary mags and zines. She was nominated in 2023 for Best of the Net for their poem Panacea, appearing in Cream Scene Carnival, where she irregularly publishes a sex toy review column.   Co-founder of Viridian Door and author/editor/publisher/business owner/art director of Dreaming Gynoid Studio. Sentient cannibal chickpea pervert in a sea of dal based out of Seattle WA. You can learn more about her through @dreaminggynoid (Twitter)
@scarlet_Maenadum (IG), the Maenad’s Bone Garden (website) https://maenadicbonegarden.blogspot.com/
@dreaminggynoid (Twitter), dreaminggynoid.bsky.social, @PrincessUdders (SW).

Scout’s Honor

Come

in my thread count,

kiss the soft tilt of my neck,

tell me my alphabet heart

feels like a home

built just for us.

The windows can watch us moan

our favorite songs

across each other’s bodies.

Curl your bubblegum tongue

around the hum of my lips,

let three of my fingers

find themselves somewhere

secret and wild.

Scout’s honor,

I am starving

for the whole of you.

James Roach (they/he) is most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He currently lives in St. Louis. To read some of his published works, visit his linktree: Published Poems. You can follow him on   Instagram @the_jamesiest and on Twitter @sober_poet

Morning After

Awaken,

yet daydreaming from the bottom of my being,

I see the sparkling day slipping through the shutters

and again I’m gazing at him,

Hyacinthus of my dreams,

under the spotlight.

Contemplating every line

I have afore put on paper.

I knew by heart every curve

every drop of holy sweat,

every penchant of the mouth,

every single frown on Hercules’ head.

A valiant hero whom only time can learn by rote.

Yet somehow

I, too, could memorise

the veins bursting from his arms and throat.

What a dream!

Foggy still, as a swamp at dawn;

Milky Way, straight until the sun.

Idol mine, prince of song

it’s by your side that I belong.

A marble statue, though alive

makes my core tremble and cry

of happiness

of thankfulness

of romance, every time.

Milk stains on my nightgown

I do not fret!

Traces from a slumber

I now know I cannot forget.

I am a little bolder in the morning,

waking up.

Travelling through time

I get back to when I was a lad.

Then I say:

“Boy, you broke through

the glossy-surfaced portal

into a world of cellophane

where you can love

And for all time remain.”

Based in Paris, João Delfim is a visual artist and poet from Porto, Portugal. His work consists of creating self-publications, using traditional etching techniques to create handcrafted artist books and zines as illustrated, two-dimensional worlds for his poetry. Born in a fishing town in the north of Portugal, João’s work draws inspiration from Portuguese literature and his hometown’s folklore — notably relating to aquatic themes. Homoeroticism and Queer coming-of-age themes in Western literature, cinema and television also serve as crucial sources to the artist’s artwork and poetry — namely the work of writer Edmund White (The Beautiful Room is Empty, Skinned Alive). You can follow him on IG @circus_of_my_mind Website: joaodelfim.com.

To an Egyptian Prince.

Strolling with your shaded eyes

Beneath the sphinx’s vile gaze

You captured my trembling heart in that fiery orient land.

I played about with my parasol until I crossed your bronze tanned chest

And silken hair of Nubian black.

The vipers coil around your feet in an ecstatic emerald swarm, adoring as it were the moon

your flesh that’s stands with diaphanous glow;

It is to goddess beauty that they bow, not for thy mortal slender frame.

Your long locks wave alit like torches against the vast crimson dawn, drawing me ever

nearer to the fickle hearth of poison love.

Kneeling on the azure riverbank a Nilean lily I gently place atop his head, besides a

dangling earring pearl that melds with his olive tinted neck.

Turning around he smirks with thin pink lips that speak of a troubled soul

With eyes wide as lynxes and pupils drowned with the dead green of moss.

The smooth skin contour is broken up by translucid marble fangs that jag from his primrose

mouth as twirling moth worms devouring a ripened fig.

It’s the smile of the harpies that have ruined better men.

Then his lean lengthy arm raises to comb the wild onyx mane as the delicate fingers

crowned in porphyry ringlets listlessly sway with the warm quiet breeze.

All this pales to the shine of his grief-stricken words, a chant from this kingdom covered in

scented illusion.

Both mournful and senseless, both desperate and true.

His melancholic stance mirrors that of the busts of Antinous and his motionless smirk the

masks of nameless pharaohs.

What hideous secret doth fester and rot within the gold encasement of youth?

Take my hand you faunlet dream, towards the tranquil turquoise shore

Where the tide may soothe our passions and where our regrets may sink in mud.

Samuel Muñoz is a Hispanic 22 year old historian interested in the beauty of the male body and the experience of male love. You can follow him on IG @samunoz_

Anteros

Waves of murky jade crash against his jagged rock throne.

Lying drowsily against the zither melodies of fauns

Rests the brother of Eros with perennial youth.

The body of an ephebe

And the gaze of a dragon.

Crowned with a black mane of swirling serpent like hair.

He burns through me with an uncertain smile and eyes of polished ebony.

His velvet wings, an azure tapestry, envelop softly like the haunting spider.

His voice, of silken darkness, crawls towards my fevered skin and pierces sweetly like the rose thorn.

The touch of his fingers, of a sickly paleness and ringed with unnamed maddening gems, puts me in a slumber.

Sends me then to dreaming, a realm of bloated creatures, slimy atmospheres, and devourers of souls.

I have seen behind the veil of this twisted deity and witnessed but the beauty of dying in his arms.

Samuel Muñoz

A love poem disguised as a Magic Wand commercial

In the Lyft on the way home from our first date, I touch myself. A pelvic pull drew my fingers under my skirt like a compass needle drawn North. In a black sedan flying over the Schuylkill, hands under my lush coat and over my burgundy wool stockings, I touch myself.

I stop, embarrassed at this lack of self-control, of self-awareness.

But in the comfort of my bedroom with doors closed and curtains drawn I let control flutter by like a bird free of her cage; let carnal desire seep through me like rain sinking through the earth to touch the lusty roots of pine trees, to the deep caverns of want.

I think of you. I touch myself.

I think of your hand running through my hair coaxing out a sigh, sating my desire for comfort, whetting my appetite to be held. I touch myself. I think of the quiver in my chest like a wavering breeze when you told me you were more of Gawain the Green Knight kind of guy. I touch myself. I think of your lunar eyeline capturing my gaze. I touch myself. I think of your smile like a city skyline, a dazzling portrait in the night that reminds me of home. I touch myself

I think of my hands on your shoulders untangling the knots as we sat on the couch in your sister's basement. I think of your hands on my temple unlocking my jaw with twists and turns. I think of my clit hard, throbbing, pressing against sweatpants you lent me after I sat in cat piss, my girl-dick eager to escape. I think of your body pressed against my own, your ass grinding against me like high tide on coastal bluffs. I touch myself.

I reach for my magic wand because my fingers can't handle the work, this is an industrial job; heavy machinery is needed. I’m no John Henry. I watch scenes in my mind of what we haven’t done yet.

Our first kiss. The wand buzzes. Your tongue around the tips of my breasts climbing me like Olympus. The wand buzzes. My body rolling, legs jolting, arms grasping, mouth moaning. The wand buzzes. Your spit sliding into me quenching the unquenchable, impossible waterfall in the middle of the Mojave. The wand buzzes. Your lips against my sex awakening pleasure from its restless slumber. The wand buzzes. The words “please please please” escaping my mouth, a prisoner I hadn’t even known I’d captured finally having a taste of freedom only to beg for more. The wand buzzes. Your name charges from my tongue like the rush of cavalry, one thousand hooves answering the question “What’s in a name?” Hordes of soldiers on horseback cry out their answer as one “Everything, absolutely everything.” It’s true. Especially when it comes to a name like yours. The wand buzzes. I cum with a laugh. In the denouement after the climax I fall asleep and dream I am dancing with you.

"Julia Gwiazdowski (she/her) is a poet, educator, musician, and resident Sappho of Philadelphia. She writes on queerness, gender, and chronic illness but cannot resist writing the occasional ekphrastic piece and love poem. She’s been previously published in Wizards In Space Magazine, Stone of Madness Press, and Voicemail Poems. She has also self-published a chapbook of lesbian poetry titled “31 Days of Venus Aphrodite”, illustrated by dear friend and collaborator, Jesse Arbor. When she isn’t writing Julia can be found flirting with pretty bartenders between karaoke songs, watching DIY shows in sweaty Philly basements, reading poems about her latest infatuation at open mics, or wasting time on Instagram under the username @atreenamedjulia."

Two Haiku’s

Righteous Cuck

My love, riding me.

A choir sings of sin.

God cums for the show.

Head

Hold my breath

as he grips my hair.

A salty finish.

Siren Gay, a debut author and poet, started by writing children’s books and graphic novels, but quickly found that it did not satisfy all of his creative needs. He was working on one of his projects and noticed a trend—relationships, love, and sex. He leaned into this aspect, and began to come up with many pieces about queer love. Siren was surrounded by a heteronormative vanilla society. They made him feel like an outcast, but they were the boring ones. He needed kinks; he needed experimentation; he needed to be lifted out of his body in and out of the bedroom.

Through his haikus and senryu, He wants to open minds, teach inclusivity, and stretch boundaries. His conversations about the LGBTQIA+ community are both sad and incredibly joyous. He writes so people can find a piece to relate to. He would feel successful if his readers, even one, could take the work and live a little better knowing someone is like them. You can find more about Siren at his IG @sirengay & on TikTok: @sirengay.

Black Coffee

I am living close to downtown with not too bad conditions regarding upkeep. Coming from the entrance door is a man with a small poodle . There is not enough rain to justify taking the umbrella as it seems to be slowing down so I cross the road into the mall entrance.

I became aware of a clerk with whom I have developed a relationship consisting of him asking "You like black coffee?" This got me thinking about the sexual nature of life and what exactly he means regarding coffee. This is the third time he has asked if I like dark coffee always in the same broken English delivered in an enlightened tone of voice.

I speculate upon him being a cab driver, his chaotic existence forcing him to avail himself of the hustlers hanging around coffee shops. He is of average height and a nondescript bearing of Afghanistan heritage, fine delicate features, the end of the tapering nose angled slightly downwards.

I look at him trying to figure out who he is. "Do you like black coffee?" he again asks. He holds out a hand. "What is your name ?" I answer "I’m Joe " We are in the small indented alcove leading into a passageway, the only ones as the early morning rain is keeping customers away. "You do not like black coffee ?” He asks. Is it a ‘come on’ used by those of Eastern descent exercising their ancient claim to the Infidels body? What is more frustrating is that Ahmed stays in my mind. I am now regretting lost opportunities.

I watch him knowingly, encouraging me to place knees upon the tile floor taking his penis into my mouth as I look upwards encountering a facial expression of mysticism and savage pleasure. There is a period of inaction as we get used to each other. He moves his hips gently back and forth a song in his language escaping as backward and forward he moves.

For no apparent reason he stops and I look up at his puzzled face. We leave the mall in the direction of the rolling hillside, the rain now but a faint trickle. "It is a pleasant day.'' I offer in order to break the silence."Oh yes I am sorry for seeming ignorant. I am attempting to decipher the works of Tibulus and Propertius. Are you familiar with Propertius?” he asks."I have heard of him." I replied, "but I cannot say I have great knowledge of the man." He makes a humming noise in his throat, lips clamped tightly closed.``What do you do then, that is when you are not -ah -wrestling ? He is now beginning to annoy me. Wrestlers are not as ignorant as you would suppose. I too have read poetry. He now slowed his pace turning so as to look into my eyes placing a palm on my blonde hair, dark oriental eyes searching.              

The outskirts of a village comes into view."How far away do you live?" I ask. " It seems I have been walking all morning?" On the balcony of a house a woman can be seen sweeping the leaves, looking down at us as we pass. Ahmed gives her a friendly wave, and me a knowing look.

At the third house he takes my elbow guiding me into the portico. The living room is dark, a few streaks of sunlight filtering in through an arched window throwing sunlight on the pillow strewn couch.

Ahmed is now stretched out, eyes closed, an erect penis larger than average, placing a cheek on his belly softly blowing the penis causing a spasmodic jerking motion sliding it into my mouth. As I look upwards I experience pleasure heightened by the sultry look upon his face. “You have an interest in poetry?' he asks, his voice shaking as he unsuccessfully feigns indifference.

He plays the game aware of the unwritten rule that no matter the overall scope of the action both must in no way deal in counterfeit pleasure. He moves at a moderate pace, his sweat dripping on to my back alternately taking deep sobbing breaths then slowing to a trot

He is now holding my head to his lower body, his grip on my head so tight I give out an anguished cry, ‘Black Coffee, Black Coffee” he cried as we consummated our relationship.

Mike has been writing for as long as he can remember. First as an aid to board gaming and then short stand alone non fiction and fantasy fiction. About five years ago he noticed the fantasy pieces were getting heavy on the sex and toned it down, but then felt cramped and always on guard. In frustration Mike decided he was just going to write “what comes into my head.” 

Fragile Correspondence

Drinking in her breasts

In their entirety

Licking its stamps

Sighed, sealed, delivered

Letter box opened wide

Dipping in her ink

Spilling on the carpet

Crossing her eyes

Dotting her sheath

The whole package

Placed against my door

Might have to nail her to it

Taylor Kovach is a transgender poet who lives in Lincoln Park, Michigan. They hold a bachelor’s degree in psychology, with highest honors, from Michigan State University. Self-taught in the medium of the poetic arts that spans more than a decade, this artist keeps their work far from close to the chest.

Youth and Beauty

I keep him waiting at the door, the cold slipping in as I lead him inside. There’s something about

his smile I immediately dislike, the way his whole face wrinkles when he does it. I recoil a little,

shutting the door slowly as he takes off his shoes and heads past me, long enough to keep him

standing there awkwardly on my living room carpet questioning I’m sure whether we’ll head

straight to the bedroom or linger here a while. As always I make up his mind, gesturing towards

the chairs, taking in his perfume as we both sit down, angled, slantwise towards each other, our

gazes meeting only as the result of an unnatural pose: his legs upon the armrest, my body twisted

halfway towards him halfway towards the floor. Glaring at me, I eye his bare feet as he fingers

the zipper of his jacket, the warmth of my apartment making him sweat. We sit like this together

until there descends the awkward silence during which we wonder—though we both know the

answer—who will ask first. Eventually I laugh, get up, walk into the bedroom and lie flat on the

bed like a log. He joins me, at last removing his jacket but keeping on his shirt and jeans, the

thought of where they must have been generating in me a slight disgust. But I hide it—like the

way I hide my admiration for his hairless chest as I pull his shirt up his arms, gaze upon the

bleak paleness of it until I’ve forgotten he’s there, staring up at me with suppliant warmth. So I

delve into him, kissing his lips with a fervency he mistakes for passion as I grip his whole body

like a wad of clay. I throw the rest of his clothes onto the floor, leaving mine on until he’s

completely naked, watching the rhythm of his belly as I unbuckle myself. Now, bare as him I

bring myself to his mouth, directing silently with my fingers for him to open up. As always he

assents, though not without a brief resistance, never enough he knows, to keep me outside. His

mouth thus pried I move inside him, slow at first, and then faster at an even pace. With every

thrust I search for the back of his throat until he begins to choke. I stop only for a moment,

drinking in the glimmer of his tears before returning to my place inside. This time I cover his

nostrils and grip his skull with the rest of my palm until his face has become a tight plain of

pinioned flesh retching spit and phlegm. What a thing it is to know the smell of someone’s

insides, I think, to know them so deep and so ugly. For the first time I smile; Oh, I’ll have to

punish you for that, I whisper, the first real words I’ve said all evening. Delight swells in his

teary eyes and like a child he turns himself over, rears himself to me to await punishment. What

was once pale now turns a stinging red, the hiss of my palm accompanied by loud, harsh smacks.

Only when my canvas begins to quiver do I release myself of his suffering, take hold of him with

both hands and breathe him deeply into me, his rankness, his refuse, his decay. His legs spread

out in front of me, I wonder how many times he’s been made and unmade this way, treated like

an object by an older man for whom after this night not a single memory of him will arise until

that same rigid, animal need returns, and the man remembers how much defilement, in the right

vessel, is a kind of sacrament. I wonder too how long his body—already a bit old beneath the

bedroom lights—will remain lithe and youthful, and how much longer his supplication, absolute

as it now is, will arouse me. Already, his pathetic moans swelling harshly against my ceiling as I

move closer and closer beyond, I feel the end, the futility of it all.

____

At night I cradle him, his unconscious breath prickling my forearms. As he sleeps I imagine how

long his warmth will last in the morning once he’s gone, when the smell of him—so pungent

now—slowly, and then completely, fades.

"Peter Shipman (he/him) is a queer (aro/ace/pan) writer currently living in upstate NY. His writing explores how queer desire is paradoxically shaped by care and violence."

Baby Daddy

I got a good mind to come back there behind the bar

I got a good mind to go back there behind the bar

Drop to my knees

Drop drop to my knees

Unzip your dick out of those jeans

And slide it into my mouth.

A good mind to drop to these knees,

Unzip your dick right out of those jeans

And slide your dick into my mouth in front of everyone.

I got a good mind to walk back there behind the bar

Drop to my knees and unzip your dick right out of those

Jeans and slip it right into my mouth.

Right into my mouth in front of everyone.

Right into my mouth in front of your baby mama and everyone.

Shane Allison has had poems and stories published in a plethora of magazines, anthologies and on-line beauties such as West Wind Review, Best Gay Erotica, Noisy Rain, The Chiron Review, The Brooklyn Rail, and others. He has authored two novels and five collections of poetry. His new book Turbulent is out from Hysterical Books.