Wicked Gay Ways

Welcome to our Spring/Summer 2022 issue. We hope you continue to meet the challenges imposed on us by a pandemic that seems as if its here to stay at least for the foreseeable future. Despite this unsettling fact, we hope you will continue to create and to put your best foot forward. Let us not allow ourselves to give in to despair or cynicism as this too shall pass, and when it does, we will be here to bear witness to our place and our relevance in the grand scheme of things.

In this issue we are delighted to bring you the work of several writers, poets and visual artists. Among them are Alan Spazzali, Alexander Scahef, Arden Maseko, Avra Margariti, Betty Shade, Caia Crow, David Estringle, Doriana Diaz, Drew Cushing, Eddie Swaize, Ed Cohen, Eve Morton, Griffin James, Isaiah Shackleford, Jess Moor, Joanne Confrancesco, Mark Sanders, Elinora Westfall, Nnadi Samuel, PW Covington, Duncan Hyams, Randhir Kawr, Steve Dunham, Stephen Brown, The Poet Spiel, and Varsha, Panikar.

Fruity

i don’t eat fruit, but for the taste of me in your mouth,

i would. mango & pineapple juiced

for your pleasure, a cocktail made of me, 

of every tide you rise against this shore. i’m not

saying we’re shipped, but there’s a parcel between these seas 

with your name on it. 

when it comes—as it will—say its name,

please? remember the taste, regurgitate it if you

must—just leave a little for me. keep it in a jar,

on the tip of your tongue, beside the places i unfold inside you. 

so no, i don’t eat fruit. but for you, i’ll

slice a peach and let the story tell itself.

Rain Dance

it’s raining & i’m in love with the sound. i’m going to walk in it

listen to tears crash against my umbrella 

like salt on flesh on cheekboned skin. 

i long to melt into the earth this way: 

fall from the sky and leave liquid love streaming down stairs of rock

walls of brick lights of steel midnight fluorescence. 

does that not leave a mark? 

reverse treasure trails where the good things the bright eyes

place themselves above before letting it all out. 

i haven’t wept like that in a few moons—

the years running down my face

already out of time

already at the back end 

of my mind 

on the underside

of my jaw.

ii.

when last was i touched there?

truly—when last did my skin rise to meet lips fingertips breath? 

we know it

for it is emblazoned into the folds grooves    smooth edges 

of this body’s memory. 

i could repeat it all again: 

if i resplayed myself over the bed 

respread my legs to hold him

regripped the sheets in black boy fists 

resang the tune that fled from lips pores   the small of my back

the extended chorus of my pelvis

the choir of the phallus. 

every other act of pleasure is a rerun rehearsal for the opening night

when we moan with the moon glowing over brown skin 

when our sex our love

leaps over the balcony and onto the street.

oh, how my body cherishes—

relishes—

this lover’s meet.

Arden Maseko (she/they) is a writer, lover, and Journalism, Media Studies and English graduate (Rhodes University, Makhanda). Her poetry and prose have appeared in Type/Cast, Stellium, and Fifth Wheel Press. 

Pieces of Green Glass

The sex on the beach was fine.

Well … the sex on the beach was not so fine; there was too much cranberry, too little orange juice. I found myself crouched in a rainbow nest of broken crayons below the Chinese checkers table after visiting hours. I was shaking violently and mumbling to myself. “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t …” …

I find myself in a little nook behind a rack of yoga balls in the cafeteria-gymnasium of a psychiatric hospital somewhere in Upstate New York. I’m plopped down on a plastic rocking chair, gnawing on a slice of beebread with corn salad. In my non-eating hand is a disposable click pen, red, and laid open in my lap is my new diary, black, bound with leather.  

Well, we all know now that doctor What’s-his-face was a complete waste of time, right? I found myself butt-naked in the Blue Room last week, and the one before that. I was throwing my body from padded wall to padded wall, screaming about an escape key, “Where did you hide it? Where did you hide it?! …” But still, he was the only one who successfully badgered me into picking up a journal and writing in it, as a way to declutter my mind and whatnot. And, so, here we are.

Most people order a sex on the beach because of the word. Sex. It is exciting, surely, to say out loud, like to a sexy bartender, or in front of a sexy date, for example, like a naughty foreshadowing or manifestation of what’s to come. I totally get it. Even saying sex aloud when you’re completely alone at home is somewhat exhilarating; it can feel even more mischievous because it’s like a little secret, like a treat. And for someone like me, who hasn’t had sex since my husband left and left me broken, it’s also kind’ve ironic, in a sad, humorous way. So sometimes I’ll be lying on my bed in the dead of night, wide awake with intrusive, scary thoughts, and I’ll repeat the word sex out loud, each time a bit louder, and giggle to myself. I encourage you to try it!

Anyways, most people order it because of sex, and I know that seams kind’ve self-explanatory because most people do most things because of sex these days, right? I found myself sobbing on the musty carpeted floor, which oddly smelled like worms, during my last psychotherapy session. I asked Anais, my personal psychologist, if I was what I suspected: a pervert. And she responded, “Does it matter?”

As I already mentioned, I used to have a husband. I did. I used to have a sex on the beach almost every night, and he thought that was hot, and I thought that was hot, before everything turned sour. And now, Anais is annoyed because I won’t discuss my husband, let alone my homosexuality, ever. Go figure. And it’s not even really my fault anymore, it’s like my whole soul turned into a glacier at some point, at some time I can’t remember, and now everything from the past is lost inside a dark blue tundra. And I want to tell her it’s not my fault, but I can’t. “I’m a faggot,” I’ll say, “what else is there to say?” And she’ll tell me to think about it, “Just think on it.” And, so, here we are.

I found my femininity for the first time in the far corner of the attic, in the form of a cluster of daddy longlegs that exploded from my dead mother’s breasts. I was on my hands and knees, buttnaked, covered in cobwebs and petroleum jelly, using a hunting knife and blacksmith sledgehammer to hack and slash the face of a large mahogany casket. It was a frantic effort to retrieve my mother’s wedding dress, which had been concealed and preserved inside that casket since the death of her first husband. The stab holes I had made were fairly large, just large enough to squeeze four vaselined fingers into, but too small to pull the whole dress through. Plus, I was worried the splinters might shred the dress to bits. The sledgehammer, which I had stolen years ago from my neighbor’s refurbished cowshed, now a sculpture barn, during my short-lived blacksmithing internship, a classic example of one of my mania-induced projects, worked well at pulverizing the external anchor bolts on the casket and loosening the stopper. After twenty hard thwacks from all angles, the headpiece hurled upwards and cracked into four clean pieces upon impact with the ceiling fan. And there it was: the dress.

As I was saying: reasons. When it comes to reasons and reasonings, you side with sex, while I side with something else entirely; for me, it’s all about colors: the luscious dark red at the bottom, smoldering like a japanese lantern, like a warning signal, swiftly turning candy red, ripe strawberry, spring tulips in the middle, then a citrus blast, marigold-orange towards the top, with one elegant wedge of orange or clementine, and a maraschino cherry, stem still attached. That’s the way it should be!

“Why does it matter to you?” “Why does it matter?” “Why?” All I get is questions these days.

The breasts of my mother’s dress were pearl cicadas, with one large dragonfly in the center, just above the belly. I slid my greasy hands from the shoulders down to the waist, and around the boobs too, envisioning my mother’s ghost trapped inside, perceiving me, once more, as an innocent child, savoring my sympathetic touch. I could picture her giggling. Dead, but giggling.

The beadwork and stitching was breathtaking. Slender trails of fire-polished chinese gems slithered all the way up the lacey neck and erupted into glossy streams, sterling silver cylinders swan diving towards the nipples. The ambiguous early-early morning light rebounded off the beads in a way that made the insects look alive, like they would fly away, or leap out at me and land on the tip of my nose. I could practically hear them too, buzzing. Buzz buzz buzz …

Anyways, like I said, the sex on the beach was less than average, or far from great, or whatever the hell. The lopsided proportion of ingredients forced the colors to bleed outrageously, which is the last thing anyone with a brain and/or a heart would want. The result was an entirely ruddy red fluid, the color of cheap lipstick, with no signs of a sunset, or sunrise, no pigmentation separation, just red. I pushed the drink towards my husband and lit a cigarette.

I found myself in the shape of a circle, weeping softly, after completely obliterating a plot of painted daisies planted next to the smoking area. During my daily medication meeting, Ava, my personal drug specialist, asked, agitatedly, “Is there anything you would like to say for yourself? Hm?” 

And I don’t know whose moronic idea it was to garnish the drink with a sparkler, a long one that hissed and shot flares of fire directly at my eyes and onto a paper umbrella, also carelessly thrown on top. And I stand by what I said: one of mankind’s worst inventions is the paper straw. I mean, the poor thing was completely soggy by the time the drinks got to our table. The way it drooped and dangled reminded me of a limp penis!

Getting back to the subject: the buzzing was getting louder, and thicker, becoming less like insects and more like machines, as if a helicopter was hovering over me. I was suddenly struck with a strong urge to vomit. I grabbed the closest bucket-like object around me, which happened to be a clay bowl, finger-painted with baby bunnies, with globs of sparkly red glue for eyes, that I made in kindergarten. The buzzing subsided, gradually, as I dry-heaved and gagged on my snot. Then, to my surprise, another unusual noise entered the room, this time coming from the main house. I lowered my ear to the floor, and my eyes instantly flooded with dread. It was the sound of footsteps, or more like stomping. There was someone in the house! And they were coming up the stairs!

The first time I laid eyes on my ex-husband, his face was a bowl of mixed fruit, and I was the shark from Jaws. It was a heroes vs. villains costume party on the Upper East Side. I was standing on the edge of the dance floor, gracelessly shaking my tail and scraping my bloody cardboard teeth against the paper mache fisherman’s boat that my colleague was wearing. My future ex-husband was at the cocktail counter, taking shots of tequila with a man in a Hershey’s chocolate bar costume. I watched his pink lips pucker as he bit into a thick slice of lemon. His wet mouth felt comforting, somehow, from all the way across the room, almost like an invitation. I grabbed my colleague by the anchor and dragged her through the crowd, squeezing between Wolverine and Sabertooth, pushing past at least ten Jokers. I bumped into Tarzan and my dorsal fin ripped clean off. My powerful shark was starting to look like a sad manatee, all scraped up and bulbous. I turned around to find my colleague in a strange position on her knees. Her sail had gotten completely tangled in Moses’s burning bush, which was just a mangled knot of orange construction wire. I decided to leave her behind, and continue my journey.

So there I was at the bar, breathing hard and practically breaking to pieces, standing beside the man who would someday be my everything. I wish I had known that sometimes the hero and the villain aren’t two separate individuals; sometimes one person can be both. But before I could think anything really, fate took the wheel; a large green grape unglued itself from my future-husband’s forehead and fell directly into my drink. Splash! He turned to face me and immediately began apologizing. I noticed his smooth chest rising out of his sleeveless shirt, and his muscles, gleaming and slithering in the disco ball light. I was trying to remove the grape from my drink using a straw, but it was too soggy. “Paper straws are one of mankind’s worst inventions,” I said to him, all giggly. He let out a little laugh which sent one massive strawberry flying off his chin and into my gills. “I’m falling apart,” he said, then swiftly turned to the bartender to buy me a replacement drink. The cocktail he chose: sex on the beach.

I need to hide, I need to hide, I need to hide!

I found myself face-down, ass-up in a wheelie bin full of children’s toys and Halloween decorations, flinging dolls and skeletons left and right. I was trying to bury myself under whatever I could get my slippery hands on. The footsteps got closer, and closer; there was no time to waste. A stuffed giraffe slouched itself against a model train set, forming a perfect opening in the igloo of junk I had just created. I crawled through and positioned myself dead center in the fetal position.

It was surprisingly peaceful underneath all that mess. Oh gosh, it was splendid! A single beam of light gushed through the mouth of a plastic pumpkin and shimmered on my glossy skin. There was a gentle breeze too, oozing out from the spaces between the floorboards, caressing my feet and face. I was certain that if someone were to enter the attic at that moment, they’d never be able to find me. I felt invisible, like a baby dragonfly. I felt free.

I walked into the living room after crying for weeks and told my husband I’m trying. Neither of us understood my depression back then.

I came into the kitchen after crying and told my husband I want to try something new, and he said, ‘Me too,’ so we joined the gym. I returned home from the office one night to find Axel, my ex-husband’s lifting partner, sweaty and shirtless on our couch. I was young back then, surely, but I wasn’t stupid.

I walked into the mudroom after crying for weeks and told my husband I want to try something new, something else. He said, ‘Me too,’ so we adopted a poodle. We named it Bumpy because its snout was covered in scars. And Bumpy loved us, loved to lick us awake and lick our feet while we ate dinner, until one day his eyes turned completely white. We buried Bumpy under the crabapple tree in the backyard. It was snowing that day.

I walked into the bedroom and said, ‘Something new!’ so I joined a bookclub. Something else: knitting. Something new: skiing. Something else: hypnosis. Something new: hot yoga. Something else: swing dancing. Something new: vaping. Something else: baking. New: aroma therapy. Else: couple’s therapy. New: chess.

Neither of us understood my depression back then.

The intruder had reached the second floor and was headed towards the attic ladder. I got the strong urge to vomit again, but it was too risky. As I raised my hands to cover my mouth, a terrifying scream shattered the silence, one of a woman being chased and slaughtered, and a white mist began to surround me. I had accidentally switched on the witch’s cauldron! Inside the cauldron was one horrible, bloody monster that popped out, screamed, and hissed smoke whenever anyone got close.

My brother used to have a strange obsession with that specific Halloween decoration, don’t ask me why. One time, when we were younger, he took the cauldron from the attic and put it out by the mailbox at the end of our driveway. When I stepped off the schoolbus, the monster jumped at me and I fell hard on my ass, right into a puddle. My brother and his friends teased me because it looked like I pooped my pants. It was snowing that day.

Anyways, the witch and the monster had completely crushed my peaceful moment, so I army-crawled back out of the junk pile, coughing and choking on the synthetic smoke. I was looking around furiously for another hiding place, but there wasn’t much: a bin of porcelain pots and pans, no, a hamper of erotic magazines, no, a bucket of bolts, tub full of hangers, typewriter, wires, some snow tires, no no no! … And then, below my bare toes, I felt the cool, waxy touch of polished wood, and was reminded of the casket. Without hesitation, I slipped my mother’s dress over my head, popped my arms through the holes, zippered up the neck the best I could, and positioned myself in the corner of the room, putting the remaining shell of the casket over my head.

I spoon more corn onto my slice of bread and take a few bites.  

The dress fit astonishingly well! It was so soft and smooth against my skin. And maybe I felt a little bit sexy too. I remember most the sensation of sateen sheaves, creeping between my buttcheeks, layers of silk tightening around my balls … and that velvet corset, pushing its way down to the base of my groin. In the darkness, with the casket completely covering my face, I was imagining myself as a woman, bending over some public bathroom sink to put lipstick on, blowing kisses, and feeling a muscle man's hands curl around my waist. I was picturing myself in a dress at the beach, and on some rooftop lounge, wearing heels, panties, and everything else. I was liking the idea of me in a dress, but was absolutely loving the idea of me taking that dress off … and making men watch!

I had a raging boner by the time the intruder reached the attic. And my boners were big back then! I could feel the bottom of the dress sliding up, revealing my feet, as my penis stood up straight. This was one of those very rare, very grotesque moments in life; I was simultaneously terrified and terribly turned on.

A heavy boot hit the attic floor and I felt the ground tremble. The next foot hit the floor, and I could hear the intruder’s heavy, deep breathing. At that point, I had no control over myself; the intruder penetrated my sexual fantasy without much difficulty, appearing as some lumberjack-monster blend, watching me undress. His approaching footsteps only made me more aroused and more enchanted.

Suddenly, I felt an intense and unnatural sensation around my nipples: something kind of warm, kind of cool, a bit ticklish, but also sharp. This bizarre feeling, coupled with the intruder’s next step, which activated the witch’s cauldron, instantly flooding the room with smoke and the screams of a woman, pushed me all the way to climax. With one involuntary whimper, I coated the insides of my mother’s old wedding dress in what must have been the largest cum shot of my entire life.

A hospital worker passes out a slice of carrot-walnut cake to all the patients in the room. “Happy Wednesday!”

There’s a rash on my elbow. I use the end of my pen to scratch it.

The game of hide and seek was over; it was time to beg for my life. I slowly lifted the casket from my head. It was challenging to see anything at first because the air was so thick with smoke. On my right, I saw the bunny bowl, full of vomit. To my left, the knife and sledgehammer, resting rather calmly in a pool of melted vaseline. And standing in front of me, to my relief, grief, and humiliation, was Aaron, my parole officer at the time.

You can’t spell Aaron without AA, I used to always say.

Well, I thought I would be in serious trouble or something, but Aaron didn’t look angry at all. Instead, his face was completely horror-struck, and he remained frozen, almost like a photograph. I noticed he wasn’t looking me in the eyes, but rather a bit lower, towards my chest. And that’s when I realized my nipples were on fire!

Looking down, I finally saw them: thousands of daddy long leg spiders pouring out of the breasts of the dress, palpitating and untangling themselves across my chest, scrambling outwards. The pearly body of the dragonfly bulged, then popped, sending a handful of beads and a large cluster of spiders rolling down my body. My semen had seeped through to the front of the dress and formed a shallow puddle, which acted like glue. I watched many of the spiders get trapped then trampled to death.

The flow was endless; the spiders erupted and kept erupting, seemingly straight from my nipples, creating a vibrant, black ocean. I could feel the waves crashing all around me as I lay there, paralyzed. Wave after wave, crash after crash. I felt invisible, and safe, like how I imagine the inside of a cocoon must feel. I felt delicate as well, like a dragonfly, before blacking out.

The sex on the beach was good though; we walked to the river, all the way down, to a long stretch of rocky sand, and made love under the moonlight. A piece of green sea glass got stuck to my buttcheek and you peeled it off and skipped it across the water. We watched it bounce, like a fleck of cosmic dust, then sink out of sight. This was the weekend you proposed.

We found ourselves in a hot tub at the Royal Suites up the Hudson. The pool was closed because some elderly lady had shit herself during aquatic exercise class. We observed it all from our balcony; the way that brown cloud expanded throughout the pool was like nothing I’d ever seen; it was gurgling, almost. And I remember those faces of pure terror, with fifty-or-so kids fighting to get up the ladder while their parents howled like birds from the tips of their sun chairs.

We were on the floor of our suite later on, eating room service lobster rolls with bacon dressing and curly fries, using the rollaway cot as a table. I was twirling the fries around my fork, dipping them into the dressing, and feeding them to you. Halfway through the meal, I noticed a little chunk at the bottom of the saucer.

“Gross!” I said, “There’s something nasty in the dressing, Babe”

I unfolded my napkin, which was sculpted into the shape of a penguin, with an adorable little napkin beak, and used the corner to scoop out the mystery object. And there it was: the ring.

Tick, tick, tick …

I found myself in the backseat of Aaron’s car, wrapped in a red blanket. His blinker was making a ticking sound as we exited the highway and pulled into the hospital parking area. I remember rolling down the window and thinking how magnificently chaotic everything is, how life’s just like that, and the thought made me giggle. The wind galloped up my arm and played with my hair. The air was cold. It was starting to snow.

Alexander Schaef is an installation and performance artist originally from Woodstock, New York, currently Berlin-based. They have a BS in Viticulture & Enology from Cornell University, but is a full-time artist at the moment. Their artwork grapples with fear and honesty, specifically how these emotions intensify, mutate, and self-destruct in the aftermath of traumatic events. Alexander considers themselves as a nonbinary, Filipino Jew. Their creative process involves reflecting upon and manifesting the profound rage and loneliness they felt throughout childhood, growing up queer and neurodivergent in rural America. They strive to unearth and devour the intimate vulnerabilities of each art-viewer/audience by illuminating the many ways we manipulate and/then deconstruct the self in an effort to reclaim our own humanness. You can follow their instagram account @_hurricaneseason_

ETERNALLY ENTWINED

(From the series, Bodies of Desire - an anthology exploring intimacy and desire as a way to delve into themes of identity, trauma and kinship. Bodies Of Desire was also adapted into an award-winning spoken-word film by the same name, currently streaming on Nowness Asia. You may visit the film's official page here and watch the film here.)

The whole room bathed in the sweet aroma of desire. The candles projected lusty shadows onto the bare canvas of their naked form - a silhouette of drunken beauty, drawn by the moon peering through the balcony, like a vision, floating in nocturnal fantasy! Their skin whispered the story of a silent yearning ready to erupt - the flames, unstoppable. Their hunger - transcended time and space. Their body trembled with compulsion beside the gentle warmth of the candles, anticipating the embrace, teasingly aching for release, while I stood quivering in the hallway. I could hear the spellbinding rhythm of my fast-beating heart, the whispery vocals of my deepened breaths drunk with a craving so great that I could not gather myself enough to think one clear thought!

So, I played our song and pulled them close - free from interruption, from all the commotion of the world. In the distance, shadows appeared on the walls like lustful creatures igniting passion in their alluring forms, rubbing against each other, letting their dripping desires grow as we sway closer than before. Like two silhouettes fused into one. Barefoot and on fire, swirling and twirling round and round, dancing as we've never danced before.

Slowly memories appeared, bringing forth my desires, and I remember how we kissed that time. I instinctively moved my hands over their silky back, kissed their neck, slowly ran my fingers through their hair, licked their neck, nibbled their ears as the music flowed, and their hands danced over my back. My breath grew heavier yet thin as I placed each kiss on their neck, and they tightly held me back and drew me closer. Their touch... there is a soothing silence in their touch. A kind of solitude that encloses me perfectly as I immersed myself in desire and pleasure, beyond any possible measure. Lust and love and such.

I often get this dream 

Where I am drowning,

Submerged deep within the sea.

Floating endlessly,

Yet not wanting to leave. 

That is what I always fell every time I look into their eyes. 

Even after so long.

Their eyes, 

Like an abyss of endless bliss, 

Held tight by the lips of their kiss. 

Aah! Their kiss;

I once hoped

It would forever stay upon my lips. 

Their smile, their laugh,

The warmth of their touch;

For an eternity, 

In my heart,

I thought it would live. 

It did not. 

But somehow, today feels different. Like we’ve picked up right where we left, baring the mess, the heartache. Nearby the last candle flickers before the lights go out and leave our bodies to drift alone into the velvet darkness, lit only by the moon. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I am alive, once again. And I cannot resist their seductive murmurs, their whispers in my ear. Their lips, which they carry across mine ever so lightly. Catching their eye, boldly urging me to give in to temptation, I proceed to trace the curve of their inner thigh. They slide the fabric to accommodate my exploring hands as I dive into their dripping depths. Moving slowly, moving steadily, finding their rhythm, taking my time, teasingly searching their flushed face for clues and secrets. I can see them bite their lips tight. They start moving against my palm, to the rhythm of my hands. Heavy breaths and bursting lips. I rest my eyes upon their arousal for a sign. They sigh and smile with content. Unable to resist any further, I kneel in front of them on the floor and dip my lips and my tongue into their longing depths, adding vigour with every touch. Overtaken by waves of orgasm, they bloom and moan and scream in sweet abandon, stopping only to gasp for air, letting the euphoria of the moment colour their orgasmic rapture, adding contraction on contraction, as I lick and lick. I remain impaled in the lust of their garden until the rainbow of scarlet splashes upon their face, and their whole-body shivers - a blazing fire that reaches peak after peak, clinging to the vine of pleasure. Oh! The splendour of sexual surrender! 

At the end of their peak, they lay upon my breast. An embrace imbued with the kind of passion that gives without expectation and speaks with no hesitation. I could hear their whispery breaths, their murmurs no louder than a hush, and their beating heart, beating with mine, beating as one. In moments like this, I feel like I am melting into them. I close my eyes and take in their scent, and in that moment, I knew deep in my bones 

That there was nowhere else I would rather be but here, 

Upon their tranquil skin,

Where I could peacefully rest my soul. 

This is what keeps my heart beating. 

This is the sanctity of my life. 

My pantheon of passion and desire - 

One that promises nothing,

No happily-ever-afters,

No forever-mores,

But just a moment,

Right here, right now,

Which leaves my soul to explore and to make memories like these 

In time, 

Etched in the pages of my mind! 

Memories, 

That bind my hands to another’s

Like roots to Earth. 

Where, even if for a moment, 

It feels like we are eternally entwined.

Varsha Panikar is an independent writer, filmmaker, multi-disciplinary artist and curator from Mumbai, India. They are the co-founder of Star Hopper Studios, a queer-led, cross-disciplinary collective based in Mumbai/Delhi, focusing on curation, experimental and intersectional narratives across various formats. Drawing inspiration from dreams, memories, and fantasy, they create with the aim of dismantling constructs.Follow them on social media @ IG - @frotheafterglow, FB: @panikarvarsha, and @ www.varshapanikar.com.

All Queers Go to Valhalla

All queers go to Valhalla

Heroic hall of fame, eternal vacation

Bed and breakfast

Where survival is richly rewarded.

Our bodies admired in tranquil mirrored lakes 

Our names spoken with ease and clarity 

A tender hand always free to hold ours 

Or to hold us down against a fluffy cloud.

Sometimes in dreams of escapism

Or moments of blush-pink afterglow

We can peek into that gilded afterlife

As if through a bronze keyhole.

Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Rhysling-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra’s work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, The Future Fire, Space and Time, Eye to the Telescope, and Glittership. “The Saint of Witches”, Avra’s debut collection of horror poetry, is forthcoming from Weasel Press. You can find Avra on twitter (@avramargariti).

Platonic Fantasies

it’s so hard, sometimes, to not do it. 

you could, easily; you think about it before you go to bed, all the ways you could kiss gia. 

it could be something so innocent and sweet, the way you’ve always wanted, ever since you two were younger. waking up in bed together, with the sun stretched out over her bare stomach, the freckles on her cheeks, the tops of her thighs. and she would wake up, light still sticking to her, and you would think, i want to lick it off of her. and you, without even really thinking, would pull her over so she’s facing you, and she would laugh quietly but go along with it, and you’d say: can i kiss you? i want to kiss you. and she would say yes, just a little bit pink around the edges. and you would kiss her. no fanfare, no drama, no teeth knocking together from how much you want her. just the aching softness of a morning that should have happened months, years, before. when you want something so badly that it just comes to you, and after your first kiss, you get to hold her also — get to be held — get to laugh with her as you two talk about all the moments that should have been. get to watch the world go by from outside your window as you have your moment together, just you. soft kisses spread out over a morning — ones that don’t feel rushed, that don’t feel like you’re making up for lost time because you know you’ve got plenty in front of you. giddy, quiet, soft mornings to match giddy, quiet, soft kisses. you’d play with her hair, teasing out the tangles, and she’d scratch big long lines across the length of your back. you’d have so much time. so many moments pressed up against one another like your bodies as you go in to kiss her yet again, and she giggles back at you, and you finally feel at home. finally feel like something real is happening to you. 

or it could be drunken, messy. you’ve pictured this the most, lived it out with one or two people at clubs, but no one you’ve wanted this much. you’d be dancing, drunk, sweaty, hair all messed up, inhibitions just a little bit more lost. you know how well you can move your hips to get people to give you what you want. you know how little she likes to dance out on the dance floor like that, how shy she can be; you know how easy it would be to lure her there under the premise of teaching her how to dance. you know how simple it would be to say here, like this, and move her hands to your hips so she can feel how yours move. you know how easy it is to grab someone else’s hips, run one hand up their arm, put your hand on the small of their back, pull them just a little closer, put one leg under the other so that eventually you’re grinding up on one another. you know how to get just a little carried away with going inch by inch until the grinding is intentional and at that point, it wouldn’t matter how many other people were in the room because it just feels too good. you know how to make eye contact with gia just enough to make her blush, know how alcohol makes you just bold enough to run a finger over someone else’s lips and then pull just enough at their bottom lip to make them whimper, and even then not kiss them just yet. hang on to one more moment of excruciating eye contact before you move your hand to the back of her neck and pull. you know how easy it is to get carried away with the kissing, one hand on her hip and the other on the back of her neck; you know how easy it would be for her to move one hand from your waist to your thigh to under your short little skirt. you know how wet you get from dancing with people, grinding on them, you know how embarrassed you’d get when you inevitably made a gasp out loud at the feeling of her thumb pressed against your clit through your underwear. you know the look she’d give you when she felt how wet you were, one eyebrow raised as if to say, really? from this? and you know how much you’d want to pull her into the photobooth in the corner, lips still buzzing from kissing her, and feel her watch you as you sat in her lap and grinded against her hand, eyes rolled back and breathing ragged from trying to be quiet. you know how you giggle when you cum; you know how much you’d want to get home so you can see if she does the same.

or it could be fast, the kind of thing where one moment you’re about to walk out the door and something in you snaps and you’re grabbing onto gia’s arm and pulling her closer, holding tight to her wrist as you pull her towards your lips. you think about knocking your teeth against hers, moving quickly so that you’re licking and sucking at her neck before either of you can take stock of what you’re doing, giving her marks you know she secretly wants. turning so you’re kissing her up against the wall, her flipping it so that she’s pressing you against the wall, both of you taking turns being the one in the lead, neither of you leading, doing your dance of pull and push and grab and bite and gasp and kiss, until you’re the one being pressed up against the wall and she’s kissing down your neck, down your chest — pulls up a bit of your dress at the bottom until you pull it off yourself — kisses all around your hips while you gasp and moan against the wall, hands in her hair — sucks on the inside of your thighs until you can feel how wet you are — looks up at you, mouth half-open from her position on her knees — waits a beat — fuck, she’s so pretty on her knees like that, you couldn’t have even envisioned how hot this would be if youd’v’e tried — and then she’s going down on you, licking at your clit and swirling it around in her mouth and your knees almost buckle from how good she feels around you. 

or it could be bold, domineering. teasing and mean. condescending. your favorite way to be sometimes. like that time she told you, laughing, that no one tells her what to do, and you said, is that a challenge, and you swear to god she blushed. you could try that again, keep teasing her, keep making her blush, keep letting her know — as subtly or unsubtly as you need to — until she knows that she’s under your control. make her really think about it. revisit that conversation you had the other day about how she likes to be choked out during sex — or the one about how she likes to feel like a slut —  make her a blushing mess — fucking her with your eyes — all the little things, the yank on the hair and the cocked head look you’ve perfected — until you snap and pin her arms down and suddenly, oh would you look at this, you’re sitting on her hips. and it’s her fault, isn’t it, for pushing you this much. it’s her fault that her arms are pinned under your hands as you bite on her neck, and when she dares to say something about it, you’ve got a hand around her neck and another fucking her mouth with your fingers. you’ve got her right where you want her, right where you can give into all your most fucked-up fantasies of ruining her — making this girl so confused and needy and wanting and breathless that she can’t even talk — is just a wet stuttering mess under your condescending gaze.

and then you’d kiss her. 

but your favorite idea is this: you sink into each other. you don’t even know when it started because you were laughing too much, and then the mood shifted and got serious, because you realized you were staring just a little too much at her lips. you’ve wanted this so much, for so long, and sometimes you feel like there’s no way to get it off your face, how much you want her. how good she would feel under your lips, how much you want her there. how much you imagine this. how dark you know you could make marks that stand out on her slender neck. how good you know you could make her feel, your fingers curled up inside her under her shaking hips or rocking against each other almost delirious with wanting or her arms braced against the wall, moaning her soft moans, as she sits on your face. you think even thinking about what her moans would sound like or the way her eyes would roll back as you fucked her are maybe too much, but sometimes, you can’t help it. you know you could do it well. 

you know she could make you feel good also; you know that already does, already gives you little looks and messes with your makeup in a way that makes you blush. you wonder if it’s visible, how crazy she makes you. how much you want to make her feel good. 

you are getting more and more obvious by the day, you think, about how much you want this, and you think maybe you don’t care anymore. maybe you want her to know, so she can finally say it first: i want to kiss you. can i kiss you? will you kiss me? 

maybe that’s what you want, most. 

can i kiss you?

for her to want you, too.

Caia is a bubbly bisexual switch who loves to write about friends kissing. She recently graduated from Western Washington University, where she studied writing, education, and photography. She can often be found daydreaming while walking around and listening to music about love in her current neighborhood in Seattle, WA.

Medicine

You

are my medicine

when things are 

fever-pitched

fucked-up

shit

dismantled

glitched.

When calm

disperses

like cigarette smoke 

in fan blades, 

overhead—

tarring popcorn ceilings 

and textured walls

with burns and

invisible drops

of carcinogenic rain.

What better salve

for the poundings 

in my chest—

palpitations

consternations

vascularizations

reformations

indemnifications

of a life, juxtaposed,

away from those eyes

that mouth

that touch of skin, yours,

the sedation 

of cool breath 

on hot forehead

and the combing

of fingertips 

through currents

of sweat-matted hair—

this world I know. 

You 

are

my

medicine.

Raspberry Bushes (originally published at Beir Bua Journal)

Stealing a moment

away 

from the fields—

pungent with sweat and

cedar, warm, on the breeze,

I find a spot, touched

with shade 

behind the barn,

where raspberry bushes hide—

ripe for the picking—lush

and swollen with fruit, 

dripping 

from modest but shapely stems.

Thoughts 

pull me inside, 

along walls, warped and damp,

where harvest baskets, 

unattended and bountiful 

with plenty, patiently

wait

for a place at my table.

Hopping up, 

teased by hunger,

I pull off my white t-shirt

and wipe perspiration 

from my chest and armpits, 

before crossing the threshold

for another taste.

Walking down the path 

of cedar trees—

hands in pocket,

eyes peeled 

for the rusty white of

overseer’s pick-up

‘round passing blurs of trunks—

I strut back 

to my fields of barley,

betrayed

by sticky fingers and

wet stains 

of pollen 

and raspberry swirls on a white tee.

David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, North Meridian Review, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Rigorous, Somos En Escrito, Hispanecdotes, Ethel, The Milk House, Alebrijes Review, and The Blue Nib. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published in April 2019, followed by three poetry chapbooks, Punctures (2019), PeripherieS (2020), and Eating Pears on the Rooftop (coming 2022). His new book of micro poetry little punctures, a collaboration with UK illustrator, Luca Bowles, will be released in 2022 Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com. 

After Masturbation 

I lie there glorious and naked 

sweat between each thigh 

illuminated by the dim lamp light 

filtered by a thin knit sheet

and my phone, still playing porn, 

placed into the crook of my neck, 

underneath my ear, cradled so 

each moan can echo through my head,

so every vibration can elicit my desire 

for more, like a crescendo of pleasure

reaching high, high, higher, rising 

from the lowest chambers of their chests,

no restrain to their voice

only the elongated vowels asking for more.

Griffin is a writer and theater maker based in North Carolina. Their work has been previously published in The Windhover Literary Magazine, Roundabout Magazine, Inlandia Literary Journal, Carolina Muse Literary Magazine, and more. When not bopping between creative projects, Griffin can be found watching horror movies with their cat Mr. Mocha Latte.

Braiding Sweetgrass

come sit with me awhile/as we braid sweetgrass/under the scarlet morning. come sit with me awhile/on the front porch chairs/where we can witness/how the sky opens it’s guts/into a noonday dream. come sit with me while/let me pick the sonnets from in between your teeth. come sit with me awhile/we can dance in the back left corner of the garden where all the sunflowers bloom/you can meet my grandmother’s spirit/we can memorialize her laughter. come sit with me awhile/read me poems from the island of our mother’s/ let me hear you stumble over some of the words/reconcile the language between your teeth /fold me under your tongue as you pronounce the words i wish i knew. come sit with me awhile/we can start a revolution/develop a secondary consciousness/defy gravity/unfold into the upper reaches of the atmosphere. come sit with me awhile/as i watch you carry the moon home in your solar plexus. come sit with me awhile as i unfurl my essence into the palm of your hand/for safe keeping.  

The Divinity of Your Spine 

you came to me through the back of my spine elaborate soul unraveling me in the wake of so much thunder

excreting a forgive me so i can love again smile. 

mending my heart amid the rhythm of your divinity.

the air smelled like a chilled hum the clouds looked like a Picasso painting.

 i watched as the birds took flight over the sunburnt skies.

 i was here in my usual place as e/v/e/r/y/t/h/i/n/g melted back into order.

 i could see the specs of light from the lines on you. 

softness of the heart.

 we danced until the dusk seeped over the edge and dropped down. 

we bathed nude in the vulnerability.

rode each other’s birth under a moon drenched prayer of what could have been.

i  lay my bones inside the crevices of your intricacies and pray we are given more moments to unfurl.

more moments to etch delicately, 

more moments to breathe backward. 

to taste God in reverie on the carpet of one another's tongues.  

Doriana Diaz is a storyteller, shapeshifter, and sensitive spirit rooted in Philadelphia's soulful rhythms. Doriana is the self-published author of Mami Calls Me Gabriella and Sunphases, both released in 2018. Her words have appeared in platforms such as; Nappy Head Club, Black Women Radicals, GROW/N Mag, Saddie Baddies, SYLA Studio, Black Girl Magik, We Heal Too, The Kraal, and many more! She believes words have DNA, they sit under our skin, erupting into soft and vivid explosions through our veins like lighting. Her writing is an exploration of cultural agency, archival documentation, and rhythms of resistance and expansion.

JAY

Jay arrived once a week, every week, for sex. He was a dental student, worked  Wednesdays at a clinic near my house so it was easy for him to call to see if I was free. I made sure that I was. He would ring the buzzer downstairs. I would let him in. He would stroll into the apartment and head for the couch, take off his glasses and we would neck. I liked sliding my hand into his shirt and playing with his nipple. We never talked. Never had a meal. I never even offered him a cup of coffee.

He was Asian, baby faced, with silky soft skin. Eventually, he would say, “Should I take off my clothes?” I always said, “Yes.” He would do so in silence. I would watch, growing hotter. Then he would lie down on his belly on the bed. I would climb on top and fuck him until I came. After all these years, as much as I try, I cannot remember whether he ever did.  

Afterward he would jump up, go to the bathroom, return to dress in silence while I 

watched. The next Wednesday, after dental clinic, he would call and I would make sure to be

home.  Nothing ever changed. Only when he was naked on the bed would I get up to undress. I 

knew the wait humiliated him and I enjoyed that. I figured so did he.

The fucking was great. I liked to open him up slowly with my fingers until I could feel him pulsing inside. He didn’t have to tell me he liked it. His body told me the truth. I figured he had nobody else who knew.

2

This went on for a year. Maybe more. He was very scared, I guess, and ashamed so I never pushed him. He was reluctant to try other positions. But he returned every week and he knew that I came like crazy. He had proof positive that I liked it but I didn’t have the same about him.

Maybe I got bored. Maybe just curious. Maybe pissed off. One week, I tried taking him over my knee to spank him before the fucking. Just for fun. I figured he’d like it. But he didn’t. He squirmed and complained and I grew angry. We argued. I said I didn’t know why he was so fucking uptight. I guess it was mean and hurtful. He blurted out, voice cracking, “Don’t you think I know that I’m your whore?” The intensity of his feeling took me by surprise. I giggled. An inappropriate response. Maybe I said, “I’m sorry you feel like that.” Maybe I didn’t. I don’t remember.

He left and, the next Wednesday, he didn’t call. I figured he’d get over it and return. But he didn’t. For a couple of Wednesdays, I hung around and waited. I couldn’t call him. He had never given me his number. He lived in Queens with his parents and was worried they would get suspicious if strange men called. So he never offered and I never pushed. But when he stopped calling, there was nothing I could do. 

That’s when I met Evie.  She was pretty and smart. A young lawyer on her way up. We hit it off immediately and found it easy to talk. I knew that she liked me. She was twenty nine and, in those days, that was when women began to get scared. I was her life saver and I enjoyed 

the role. Within a year, we were planning a wedding. I was ready. So was she. Our families 

3

approved. The time seemed right. I was tired of the way my life was going.

Suddenly, one evening, during the engagement, the phone rang. It was Jay.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “How long has it been? A year? Maybe two?

“I want to ask you something,” he declared. “Tell me. Are you seeing anybody?”

I was taken aback so I giggled. An unfortunate habit.  “Oh my God,” I said without thinking it over, “I guess you might say that I am.”

I could have said “no,” I could have stalled. For some reason, I told him the truth.  Not the truth he would have imagined. Later, I regretted it. Now that I knew that he liked it and wanted to come back, it would have been fun to fuck him again. But, after all, I owed something to Evie.

I could hear his sharp intake of breath. Then he said, “That’s okay,” and hung up. Just like that. I couldn’t call him back. I didn’t have his number. But, finally, I had proof that he liked it.

That was fifty two years ago. Evie and I are still married. She has cancer, a rare, slow-moving but incurable kind. It’s been seven years. Chemo every month is keeping her alive but 

she is painfully thin, has lost her hair, is in constant pain with diarrhea, peeling skin, infections. I try to comfort her. I worry about her. We are both scared but don’t talk about it. I don’t want her to die. I need her by my side. I will miss her terribly. I don’t know what to do.

4

Often, when we are trying to fall asleep, I hear her labored breathing so I know she is having a rough time. In the dark, terror invades and my mind wanders to thoughts of Jay. I remember him walking in without a word. I remember him saying, “Should I take off my clothes?” I remember him stretched out, naked before me. I don’t get hard any more. I don’t come. But the memory, like a Kabuki dancer, soothes and helps me drift into sleep. 

Edward M. Cohen's story collection, "Before Stonewall," was published by Awst Press; other published works include "$250,000," by G.P. Putnam's Sons; "A Visit to my Father with my Son," Running Wild Press; and his chapbook, "Grim Gay Tales," by Fjords Review. His story, "In The Mouth," first appeared in Wicked Gay Ways.

Lucky Bastard

You’ll never get

to smell vanilla on my neck

to put your hand under my skirt

to spend a Sunday in my bed

not again.

You'll never get

to ride my leg

to soak my bed

to hold my hand in the checkout line

not again.

You’ll never get

my honesty again.

You liked me best before you knew me.

I know you did - don’t lie to me again.

You’ll never get

to pull my legs across your lap

to lift my shirt over my head

to feel like a lucky bastard - that’s what you said -

not again.

"Betty Shade is a queer writer whose kinky fiction has been published on SugarButch, a popular sex blog. She holds a Bachelor's Degree in creative writing. She was born, raised, and remains in New York City. In her writing, she draws on the subversive strength and tastes of the leather queers that came before her. You can visit her website here "https://bettyshade.wordpress.com and follow her on Twitter @bettyshade_ to receive updates when she publishes new work.

Sustenance

I spread you open

thumb and forefinger,

molecule

by molecule

It’s cruel to let you think

all I need are the particles in the air to sustain me

Stephen Brown is a Philadelphia-based writer and LGBT+ advocacy worker. He graduated from Temple University with a degree in English Literature and minor degrees in LGBT+ Studies Gender, Sexuality, and Women Studies.

The Massage

Lying down on the table, face resting in the cradle, naked, he waits. The first

touch will tell everything. The temperature, pressure, the pulse of electricity will predict

what the massage will bring. He hopes for confident the caresses gentle but firm. A

touch to relax and excite him all at once.

His body feels distant from him. He thinks only another’s touch can make it feel

alive and part of him again. He knows it’s too much to expect. Still he waits in hopeful

anticipation, enjoying the warmth of the heated table and the touch to come.

Giving himself over to the warm touch he floats in a half dream. His body alive

awake, blood flowing, pulsing in his veins. Distantly aware of his own arousal he feels

no embarrassment as the masseur turns him over. It’s as if he’s both watching and

having the massage.

The masseur continues his work along his front, neither engaging with or ignoring

his now rock solid erection. Only on the upstrokes on his leg do the hands gently nudge

his cock and balls aside. Not with intent but awareness. The man’s cock leaps up at the

touch. His heart races aware suddenly that he wants nothing more than for the masseur to

touch his cock, play with it. Do anything and everything with it. But he’s afraid.

Afraid he will cross a line, cause offense or worse end the massage abruptly breaking the

spell.

2

But the masseur continues up and around his pelvis, circling closer and closer.

The gentle massage slipping under his balls around his perineum across his asshole. A

finger brushes his ass lips. The hands pull his cheeks apart. A greased finger slips along

his crack. The hands grab his cock, massage it, stroke it.

Instinctively he reaches out to the masseur’s body, touching him. He finds a

huge hard cock held under his sweats. He rubs the cock through the fabric as the

masseur works his cock with one hand and teases his asshole with the other.

He wants to see the cock , to touch it. He pulls the masseur’s sweats down over

the bulging cock. The masseur leans in giving him easier access to the whole of his

cock.

The man pulls the masseur’s cock toward him. The masseur let’s go of the man’s

cock and uses both hands to spread his legs wide. He thrusts once finger and then

another deep into the man’s ass opening him up. The man wriggles in pleasure.

The masseur pulls the man to the edge of the table and points his cock at the

man’s asshole. The man groans in anticipation. Imagining the masseur’s giant cock

entering him.

3

The masseur grabs the man’s legs, holds them apart, pulls the man even closer

and slowly pushes his greased cock into the man’s awaiting ass. The man leans back and

nearly faints from pleasure. He is barely conscious, swimming in pleasure when a voice

wakes him.

“Hi Michael. Looks like you dozed off. That’s a good sign. Means you’re

already relaxed.”

“I’m Todd. I’m looking forward to our session. Is there anything in particular

you want to work on tonight?”

The bastard son of New Narrative and Language Poetry, Drew's writing has a delicious way of disturbing others.  His writing has appeared in Zyzzyva, Cathay, Laundry Pen, Dodie Bellamy's Nars Orgasm Zine, The Marjorie Wood Gallery, Second Floor Projects, 580 Split and other publications.   Drew holds an MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State and AB in Dramatic Literature from Vassar College.  He is a graduate of Trinity Repertory Company and Conservatory where he learned Viewpoints from Anne Bogart.

NO HARD FEELINGS       

Sexuality is and has always been, the way I communicate with what is known to be God. I find divinity, through what has been demonstrated in faith. Part of my faith is conveyed by the way I articulate my identity through the domain of the erotic. Eroticism is the greatest, most primal, and pure, natural form of relational resonance. In every way that it can be conveyed—through the body, through the dance, or through poetry and photography—sex is my highest passion. I am highly passionate about the meaning of sex, the implications of two merging into one.
            Communication, thus then, is a tool that aids the realization of my desire to learn about the dark mysteries of Eros. Sexuality permeates throughout the entire mood of my perception. It is felt, also, by those who surround me. I've come to accept that erotica is the genre of my life’s story, a pornographic tale of spiritual, albeit lofty, aspirations. It is the idyllic way to express the fullness of my fruitful existence.

. Life is all about the process of revelation, the journey to and through self, as opposed to the instantaneous gratification of the final destination. In other words, life is a sleazy, freaky geometry of tantric webs. Of course, being the breed of creature that I am, I wouldn't have it in any other way.

"I feel like I'm being judged," Andreii says, as he joins me on his bed, which rests directly across from a kitchen sink with quartz countertops.
            "Why do you say that?" I ask, studying the face of my latest paramour. Aside from the mess of t-shirts and skinny jeans strewn about the floor, plus the overflow of dirty laundry spilling out of the clothing hamper, tucked away in the bathroom closet, I'd say it's a pretty standard place for a man his age. Granted, going to the laundry room was not a priority, but—from what I've gathered—lots of men wait until their options narrow down to the following: “buy more underwear,” or “wash my shit.” Andreii doesn't seem to have reached that ultimatum just yet, but, when he does, I imagine the hardwood floors will look much more attractive.
            Tower 737 is where I am, staring out into the distance of a Ukrainian man's green viper eyes, studying his nervous tics, while reflecting upon the beauty of the water sculpture we passed along the way through the gated apartment complex. To get to the building of his studio, we crossed a brilliant courtyard with fireside seating. A metal fire pit was housed between a sky blue outdoor sectional, with striped throw pillows.  Trimmed bamboo plants were placed behind the sofas on either sides of the pit, while high gazebo-like structures towered over the stone pavers.
            "I thought you might like to see this," Andreii had told me, as he led me through the courtyard with a chivalrous pragmatism as if he knew I was being kept, which was likely. Given the distorted nature of our communion, it is possible that he found out—through his former boyfriend, my soon-to-be-former friend—that I am used to being treated to a certain level of luxury by the men who court my attention.
            "I can't explain it, I just..." Andreii's words trail off, filling the silence with a mood of repression and forbidden curiosity. He may not understand the extent of my situation, but it seems that my very presence, the vibration of my aura, intimidates him into a state of self-doubt. I don a forgiving smile with my eyes, wanting to demonstrate that he is safe to let go, while in my vicinity. I didn't come here to judge; I came here to explore the dark side of the villain's perspective, to observe the animal in its habitat, to decode the language of his foreign mystery.
            "Don't bother, it's no use. I like it here," I say with a confident reassurance.
            "You like the feeling of being close to danger?"
            "Who says I'm the one who should be worried about danger?"
            Andreii inches closer on the bed, his lanky frame shadowing me from the incandescent light of his apartment. His body's scent of cologne and natural musk washes over me like a ray of sun, illuminating my sensuality in a process of desirable reflection. I want Andreii to fuck me without mercy. In all honesty, it is the exploration that arouses me. I've been gathering intel on this man since my friend introduced me to him. They were dating at the time, but have since gone separate ways.  I feel like I know Andreii just as much as the man he last made love to. Only one thing stands in between or stands to complete, the revelation of that knowledge.

Our bodies.

            Andreii places his hand against my face. His knuckles are crimson and raw as if he'd recently knocked them up against a wall of bricks. "True," he says. As he gazes at me, I feel the essence of soul rising to surface. A violent tsunami of the viscera, a primitive sensation, threatens to expose me as the whore I wish to be.
            It must be my calling, I tell myself, drinking in the primal potency of the possession that emits from Andreii's aggressive gaze. He wants to eat me alive. He’s wanted to eat me for a long time coming, and I don't mind. Part of me, something deep down, buried underneath loyalty and decency, tucked away neatly, has been begging to be had in such a way. A man like this man is a man who seeks to be soothed by redemption. He hides it well, but I can see how much he yearns for deliverance, mourns for an aspect of himself that was once realized, but that is lost to him now. It is the part that has always been there, even before the toxic gay relationship, before the forsaken wife and the abandoned newborn child that his ex-boyfriend, my dear friend once ranted about.
            "I just figured, because you've heard the stories that you'd have hesitation, ya know." Andreii speaks in clipped spasms that mostly generate from the neck and shoulders. He is jittery inside, like a moth flailing about artificial lighting, but dominated by logic, a sort of braininess, that keeps his body from completely betraying his head.
            "Does it look like I'm hesitant to you?"
            "You look beautiful. I've been watching you for a long time, ya know."
            "How long?" I ask. The monotone quality of my voice serves to veil the flutter of my heart. It is an honor to be witnessed in this way, to be seen, to be watched by someone who watches for a living. We share a resemblance in that regard; although the work he does certainly takes on a different form, it is easy to see why we feel so good in one another's company. We are alike in our interpretations of the world as something to be stalked, something to be hunted and thoroughly understood.
            "Let's see, um. Since I first met you," he says, clenching his jaw, his sharp cheekbones accentuated by his rigidity. His cheeks become rosy; his gaze expands into the distance, into the field behind me, upon the mountain bike that is parked at the foot of the platform bed. Yesterday's or tomorrow's clothes are draped across the handlebars. At this second, I am prepared for my own garments to join them. I strip them off, lying back upon the bed, my legs comprising a V-shaped formation.
            “Wow, it feels like home," he says between grunts, during the moment in which I allow him to plunge his primed flesh deep inside of my own. "Oh my God, you’re so fucking beautiful. It’s so wet and warm.” This—the wetness and the warmth— might have a little less to do with natural biology and more to do with the fact that this is the second soul—and the second cock— I've devoured in the last two hours.

The man with the thick, black beard pulls my suspender pantyhose tightly around my hips so that he can bury his face within the valley of my derriere, which, on my hands and knees, is spread wide for the accommodation of his consumption. As he pries me open with his fingers, I raise a bottle of poppers towards my nostrils and inhale gently. Another sniff fills the second nostril and the first, again. This is the most languid sexual encounter I’ve had for quite some time. It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good tossing of the salad, in between the cock exchange, to amplify the mood. Tossed salad to the near exclusion of penetration, however, I find drab, and stagnant, and uninteresting, unworthy of my time. It’s akin to going out for appetizers, after a Ramadan fast, but not being able to indulge in the entree—the entree, in this case, being a thick, raw cut of uncut, white meat.

The motel I find myself in is situated somewhere between Larkin and Turk, which is located roughly three blocks south and two blocks west of my residence. We are in an extremely errant area of the Tenderloin, which I’m able to detect when the shrill cries of homeless crackheads become a recurring soundtrack. During the day, I am able to maneuver around these parts without doubt or insecurity. I look over my shoulder tonight, on the way here, more than anyone should ever have to.

There’s also the awkward and undisclosed presence of a “friend,” the Taiwanese guy in his skimpy Andrew Christian underwear, who is mindlessly scrolling through his iPhone while sitting on the foot of the bed I share with a stranger. Every now and again, he reaffirms his clunky presence by making comments about the weather, or how expensive San Francisco has become. The latter gets an extreme rise out of the man I’m having sex with; this causes me to regret giving myself away to someone who is clearly unable to afford my tastes.

I begin telling myself that earning 200 dollars an hour would have made this more worth my energy and time, but I’m in an era where I’m attempting to rise above earning money by being fucked—err, for providing an hour or two of romantic companionship  I’m not sure how long I can endure being a whore for free. This saintly method of giving myself, out of sheer benevolence, may have reached an end.

“What. Are. You. Into?” the bearded man calls out between breaths, bites, and slurps, his slimy tongue shoved inches into my orifice. His sloppy technique—which would normally turn me on, but due to lack of soul arousal or spiritual stimulation, I am indifferent to—dampens the black lace of my hosiery with the acrid stench of conjoined fluids.

Great, I whisper to myself. Now, I get to leave here with my hose smelling like ass, ass-saliva, and the occasional garnishing of ass filled with wet dick. I’m serving clean ass (why, yes, of course), but the scent of artless fucking, nonetheless.

I have a cheap bottle of Lucky You in my bag, by Liz Claiborne, that I can use to mask the butt-breath musk with a perfumed manipulation. My stomach turns at the thought of what I’ve become.

“You look like you might have lots of kinks that I’d like to know about,” says the bearded man,  rubbing his semi-flaccid dick against the curves of my honey-brown flesh, with an admirable motivation. At this point, I am ready to call it a night, despite his passion, which, by now, feels excessive and heavily misplaced. I think it is safe to say that he is not the one for me. Perhaps, it isn’t too late to catch Andreii at the cinema.

Andreii had invited me to see a movie together at AMC on Van Ness Avenue. When I realized he wanted to see a horror film about malevolent witches, I started to second guess the agreement, out of respect towards my own distaste for heavy gore.

As I contemplated the decision, I ended up having a tiny bite of a ganja-infused gummy, marijuana being something else I’ve become hyper-sensitive to, given my meditation practice.

Following the high, I got stuck in a spontaneous state of pranayama and yoga, thereby inhibiting my wherewithal to attend the date. At last, I ended up having to cancel; Andrei continued to Van Ness without me and without hard feelings.

“I hope you have a fantastic time,” I said to him through the yellow bubble text, on Grindr.

I roll over on the bed with what must appear to be life-or-death velocity. I straighten my hosiery, the waistband slapping against my skin with a snapping sound; I run to the bathroom to wash the ass-saliva off of my garment. When I exit the bathroom, the man with the beard is spread eagle on the bed, cock in hand, ready to rumble another round.

“Heading out?” he asks, unsurprised. “You never told me what type of kinks you’re into. Maybe next time, I can be better prepared.” 

“Black magic,” I say, as I adorn my neck with a Party City chain that has begun to turn from imitation silver to something of a brassy hue. The friend with the iPhone is researching Netflix shows and sharing trivia with his copulating mate, an aura of vapidness drowning the room. All is forgiven: the lackluster sex, the awkwardness of the unmentioned guest, and the smelly stains of drool that have contaminated my fashions.

“Is that what we were doing?” asks the man whose beard is now covered with the scent of me, much more redolent in comparison to his spit. “Black magic?”

“Not even close,” answers the friend with the iPhone, in what may be the most valid intrusion of the entire sequence.

“He’s right,” I affirm.

“I love all of this,” says the friend, pointing toward my hands, which are decked out with cosmic-black, manicured nails and rings that evoke Selena Kyle’s claws. The one on my middle finger has a scorpion emblem in the center, where it bends at the knuckle, causing him to wonder whether or not I am a Scorpio. Yes, although I didn’t get the ring for that reason; it was a gift of mere “coincidence.” Sort of like how this entire encounter was, coincidentally as exasperating as a night trek through the dingy bowels of a Tenderloin, after sunset.

…

“Hey, you,” I hear a surprised voice call from the entrance of the theater on Van Ness. Lanky Andreii is cooly descending the steps with towering strides that make him appear as if he’s on a skateboard.

“I thought I’d swing by to pick you up,” I say, staring into his face, searching. At only 29, his eyes are as hard as little, green marbles. “Just in case the movie degraded your mind into a frightened state.”

“I like the way you put that. I mean, the style of phrase,” Andreii explains, tapping his hand against my arm, without allowing it to linger. I can see that he is rationally and socially metered in the expression of his lust, which turns me on. The way he truly wants to touch me is starkly visible in the way he holds his mouth, which is twisted in a grimacing distortion of starvation. He breathes me in.

His pointed nose flares as he surveys the landscape of my resilient body. I’m dressed in tall boots and black skinny jeans from H&M; the saliva-stained fishnets underneath give me the intrinsic impression of being the immodest type of man that men are afraid to fall in love with. Never mind the fact that I’ll only sleep with six men in the entire year, a gargantuan decrease, compared to my record for the previous 365 days.

“Wow,” he says in a voice that, despite its low guttural growl, gives way to the yearning that he tries to compress into the safety zone of his bed at Tower 737, on Post Street, where we are undoubtedly headed for consummation.

“What’s wow?” I ask, allowing him to lead the way towards our mutual destiny.

“You smell of my favorite smell.” He stops to gaze upon me, his nostrils flaring even wider than before. A gust of wind catches the straight, brown hair that covers a quarter of his prominent forehead. “You smell of sex,” he declares. We reach a crosswalk. A horny glint of traffic light intensifies his marble eyes; he breathes me in, much deeper this time.

Warhol in Provincetown

I buy green sunglasses
and coke at the general store

provincetown
under a tree
we eat 69 clams

l

From the balcony

imagining her
muscular thighs
under her jeans
looking down at
her long brown hair
as she mounts her baby blue
datsun 280Z

Joan Cofrancesco’s work has been published in the Gay and Lesbian Review, 13th Moon, Sinister Wisdom and other literary journals and loves travel and hiking.

The Bird Woman and the Silent Minority

The footsteps hurried closer, quicker, slower, then quicker still, and Clementine sat

and watched, but all she saw was the grass moving this way and that, as though the

wind was blowing but it could not decide in which direction to blow.

Now, this way, now that, a furrow of flattered grass creeping nearer, and

nearer, and “oh, dear,” sighed Clementine, certain that she was probably about to be

eaten by something invisible, which, she decided as the footsteps stopped in front of

her, might be preferable, because if she was inside the stomach of something

invisible, then she too would be invisible and that in itself might be a relief.

But, instead, the footsteps moved around her until they had formed a

complete circle and stopped in front of her.

“Hello?” She said, to the air itself, and then, when no reply came, she

ventured, “I’m Clementine,” because surely she couldn’t upset anyone with her name

alone, and then, because she simply had to know her fate, and asking directly

seemed the best way of obtaining this knowledge, she asked, “are you going to eat

me?”

But the moment she asked, right where there had been nothing but the

flattened grass before, now there was a bird, standing on legs like twigs with a big

black beak and gloss-black feathers.

She sat up, straighter, leaned forward and asked, “you’re a bird, aren’t you?”

because she wasn’t quite sure whether or not it was safe to assume something that

seemed so obvious.

“Sometimes,” the bird replied, eyeing her with glittering black eyes.

“What do you mean, sometimes?” Clementine asked warily, and thinking,

though she had learned about cut fingers and bottles marked poison, she hadn’t

read anything at all about invisible birds that may or may not eat little girls.

“Sometimes I am a bird,” said the bird, “and sometimes I am a woman,” and

sure enough, the bird became a woman, right there in front of her, and so quickly

that she didn’t see it happen at all. One moment there was a bird in front of her, and

now there was a woman, a very tall woman who moved like trees in a gentle breeze

and her clothes were blue-black like her feathers had been, her skin as white as the

porcelain dish that Clementine had been collecting strawberries in only the day

before, and her lips as red as the berries therein.

“How did you make yourself invisible?” Clementine asked, and the bird

woman looked momentarily confused, and then rather cross.

“Invisible?” She repeated, “I thank you not to be so very rude. I have never

been invisible in all my life,” she folded her arms across her chest and two little soft

feathers fluttered to the ground.

“But you were invisible,” Clementine paused, “just now, I watched your

footsteps, they came in from over there, walked all the way around me and stopped

right where you’re standing now.”

“Ah,” the bird-woman drew in a breath, “that was not me, that was you,” she

said, as simply as if she had just called a tree a tree or a spade a spade.

Clementine began to shake her head and protest, but the bird-woman raised

a hand and Clementine found herself silenced immediately. Her voice simply

stopped coming, even though for a moment her lips were still moving.

“Those were your footsteps,” the bird-woman said again, “you were feeling

sorry for yourself, were you not?”

Clementine cleared her throat, “yes,” she said, hesitantly.

“There you have it,” the bird-woman exclaimed, unfolding her arms and

placing her hands on her hips, expelling another little flurry of feathers into the grass.

But Clementine was quite sure she didn’t have it at all, and the bird-woman sighed

again, a great heaving sigh that seemed to rustle the leaves in the trees.

“You were feeling sorry for yourself,” she repeated, beginning again,

attempting a little more clarity this time, “all the little girls, and all the little boys, and

the men, and the women, and all those in between, who begin to feel sorry for

themselves, who lose hope,” she paused for effect, “become invisible,” she

concluded, again, as if this was the most obvious statement in the world.

“They don’t where I come from,” said Clementine, rather sure of herself, but

then, as she thought about it further, she realised she was becoming less and less

sure about it, and, as she thought even more about it, she remembered all of the

times that she had felt sorry for herself in the past and her sister had refused to play

with her and had in fact ignored her altogether, and she found herself deciding that

actually, this might very well be true.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that,” she said eventually, and the bird-woman gave

a great slow, rather wise nod of her rather beautiful head, and smiled again.

“It is always within your best interest never to expect anything, and certainly

never to expect anything unexpected, that way, nothing unexpected can ever

happen,” she said with a shrug, and began to pace among the trees, and Clementine

was sure she caught the glimpse of twigs, leaves, and little gaping yellow beaks

within the dark curls of hair that were piled up on top of her head.

“I see,” said Clementine, though she wasn’t quite sure that she saw at all, and

was fast becoming tired of not having any idea at all about what was happening.

“Do you have a name?” she ventured, assuming (wrongly) that this might be a

rather sensible and not-too-confusing question to ask, and the bird woman smiled

wider now, slowly, cocked her head to one side, her eyes glittering as they had done

when she had landed in front of her as a bird.

“I am in possession of a name, yes,” she said, somewhat proudly and

somewhat smugly.

“Will you tell me what it is?” Clementine asked when the bird-woman said no

more, but the bird-woman frowned, quickly, a frown that turned into a glare.

“Certainly not,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “I shan’t have you stealing it.”

“But I already have a name,” insisted Clementine.

“You might very well have a name now, but you keep feeling sorry for yourself

and you’ll lose that too, just like you have your footsteps, then you really will be

completely invisible,” the bird-woman clapped her hands together suddenly, and a

rustle of twittering went off in her hair, and a flurry of feathers in all colours like a

firework shot out from between her hands, “poof,” she said, “like that, and you’ll be

nobody at all.”

And just as she said it, Clementine could feel her name slipping off of her one

letter after the next, like the taking off of a coat, she could feel it coming undone,

from her head, down her arms, and then disappearing altogether.

“How do I get myself back?” She asked, suddenly rather more worried than

she had been when she thought she at the very least still had her name.

“Your name, I should start by picking the right letters from the Alphabet tree,

and keeping them in your pocket so that you always know where they are. That way

you’re much less likely to lose them.”

“The Alphabet tree?” Clementine asked, uncertainly.

“Over there,” the bird-woman gestured into the depths of the forest behind her

to where the sun shone down in a patch where only one single tree grew, decorated

all over with tiny multicolour buds.

“But be careful when you pick them, the ‘E’s can be particularly thorny, and do

it quickly,” she advised, “the tree grows in the garden of The Silent Minority, and if he

sees you pinching letters from his tree, well…” she left the sentence to hang in mid-

air for a moment and simply gave a little pursed-lipped-shrug, “nobody will hear the

end of it if that happens,” she sighed.

“And my footsteps?” Clementine, or rather the girl who would be called

Clementine if her name hadn’t fallen off her, asked, glancing toward the forest to see

if she could catch a glimpse of The Silent Minority.

“Retrace your steps,” the bird-woman said casually, “chances are they haven’t

gone very far, and the likelihood is that they, and you, are still very much where you

left yourself.”

Clementine drew in a breath, and let it all out in one go, “thank you,” she said,

“I’ll do that,” and she set off quietly past the bird-woman, who was now not there just

as suddenly as she had been there, and ventured toward the clearing in the forest to

find the letters of her name, which she would keep better hold of from now on, now

that she knew how easy it was to lose, she thought, catching the flash of something

white behind a tree in the distance.

Influenced by David Bowie, Virginia Woolf and Sally Wainwright, Elinora Westfall is a lesbian writer of stage, screen, fiction, poetry and radio from the UK.

Her novel, Everland has been selected for the Penguin and Random House WriteNow 2021 Editorial Programme, and her short films have been selected by Pinewood Studios & Lift-Off Sessions, Cannes Film Festival, Raindance Film Festival, Camden Fringe Festival and Edinburgh Fringe Festival, while her theatre shows have been performed in London's West End and on Broadway, where she won the award for Best Monologue. Elinora is also working on The Art of Almost, a lesbian comedy-drama radio series as well as writing a television drama series and the sequel to her novel, Everland. You can find more of her work by visiting her website @ https://www.elinoralord.com

I met her in poetries!

I loved a woman of my age.
Young, beautiful and sensitive. 
Who attracted me in and out, lurking through my page.
I caught her vision,her voice so musical. 
Telling me to write more love 
And I could describe her in paragraphs forgetting all the rage.
I didn't know the motive of her chase,
Day and night I fell hard. Hard in romance. 
I came out out as a lover in which I was caressed. 
The blemish of her face was kissed by my lips. 
Her dorsum so curvaceous,my fingers slipped along the sweat. 
We were entirely women burning with the same desires .
The breasts served me a pillow, tits so mushy embarrassed with my touch.
I was poked with her decorated nails .
We moaned with tears of years.
There was so much of truth in our carnal pleasure. She loved me exactly that my romance talked about.
Her nails reached my sensitivity, groaning to stop.
But that didn't stop. I could hear her heartbeat as clear as mine. 
Our mutual eyes locked the physical bond.
And I pushed her hand inside me causing me to grab her tight.
My vagina was hers. And she painted me white .
I drew circles on her back creating sensations.  
And she pressed my breasts,maybe telling me to touch her vulva.
But I teased her warm labuim, already running wild and wet .
That voice was more musical than I ever thought. The notes were perfectly high and erotic.
My fingers played with the fleshy clitoris as I tasted the skin of her neck.
I spoke her beautiful words in the ear. Everytime she cries for more and more love
The hunger in our body was extremely rich.
I dropped myself down to nudge into her world,a world of us. The world with no curtains . We existed in the nakedness. 
All I could feel was my head held closer at the time of releasing the excitement. 
I could feel her loud vagina telling me to clear the mess.
And what in life a beautiful mess to happen.
I loved a woman of my age,
But I met her only in my poetries.

Randhir Kaur was born, raised and lives in India in Assam (Jorhat) city. She attended St. Carmel Convent school acquiring a Bachelor’s degree in Arts and English Literature. A writer by birth and a blogger Randhir writes to tell stories. She believes that there are some professions in the world that will last forever; i.e., doctors, nurses, teachers, builders and storytellers. Kaur writes to become herself, more so day by day. Writing is a way for her to shape out the visible and invisible, in herself as well as in the world.

FangBonerRoad

Sometimes boring and straight, sometimes winding along the willow- swept Sandusky River, lies a narrow span of blacktop named for some old dead landowners – Fangboner Road.

Growing up in a large rust-belt city nearby, Philip had never heard of this thoroughfare until the day he met his brief summertime lover, Freddy, who lived upon it; and like generations of the local swains, they too made "boner" jokes whenever Phil bounced his ass up and down on Freddy’s beer-can cock and vice versa.

Freddy rented a sagging old bungalow and barn along the more barren stretch of Fangboner and, between factory shifts, worked the land they stood upon. Like Phil he was only twenty and his wife, Darla, was just eighteen. Yes, wife. She seemed a hardened thirty -- no wonder, with a gorgeous queer husband and a baby.

Phil was waiting for Freddy one evening at the local crossroads beer joint, a cheery enough place with soft cove lighting and twangy country jukebox. It was going to be their last meeting, he had decided. The sixty-mile round-trip for him to see Freddy had become too much, the sex too predictable, plus they were continents apart in lifestyle and intellectual interests. Freddy fancied corn indexes and motorcycles; Phil was a spoiled doctor’s son lounging between terms at a tony Eastern college. He loved sex, but only so many times with the same partner.

What doomed their alliance, Phil concluded after many weeks, was an absence of quality time to nurture or even exchange meaningful ideas, plans, desires... something beyond the next suck-and-fuck in some bushes or in Freddy’s filthy shed. They’d never stretched out naked in an anonymous motel room, taken a long steamy shower together, or kissed and cuddled all nightlong. One Sunday afternoon Freddy jerked Phil down into the basement and voraciously raped him on a mattress right under the window while his wife stomped around angrily in the kitchen above, banging pots and pans. "Don’t pay no attention to her," Freddy grumbled, louder than necessary.

Another time, on the certain afternoon that Darla always trudged with the baby to her mother’s house far down the road, Phil arrived while Freddy was soaping up in a warm bath after his day’s toil. He beckoned Phil upstairs, ordered him to strip, and yanked him into the big claw-footed tub, where they wrestled and jacked each other off until the water cooled. Just as they hopped into their shorts, the slamming front door heralded Darla’s return.

But surely they’d come a long way from their nightmarish first time, probably the best time...

Regarding Phil’s erotic interest in males, he tended to seek out the lithe blue-eyed variety but was certainly flexible. Freddy had soft brown eyes –deer-like, wary – and a ruddy Germanic farm lad’s complexion. His stocky form fairly oozed through the jeans and ragged half-tee shirt he wore the afternoon the pair spotted each other in the darkling woods of a notorious out- of-the-way nature preserve, where Phil had driven precisely to discover someone like him. The previous time Phil had visited there all he encountered was his bald-headed family dentist from town, sitting in his Oldsmobile pretending to read and waiting to pounce. Phil zoomed away , unrecognized, he hoped. But today he’d landed a prize....

Freddy was skittish, stuttering his self-introduction, mumbling about the muggy weather. He asked for a light and stood quite close, practically pleading " How ‘bout it?..."

Phil lunged first, bravely kneeling to lick Freddy’s bare midriff, then he munched open Freddy’s fly and grasped – a cold limp weiner!

Colder still was the steel revolver pressed to Phil’s temple. Yikes! He’d witnessed guns drawn in tough hustler bars in the city, but never one pointed right at him. He pictured being left alone there, bleeding away in the deadly quiet except for faintly singing tires on a distant highway.

"Heh-h-h-h," Phil smiled off-handedly, his actor’s instinct and frat- boy social skills kicking in. "Um, I’m just kidding around... Let’s forget it, guy." Freddy didn’t lower his pistol right away but, chest heaving as though winded, he glowered for an eternity down at Phil, then sobbed "Leave your hand in there."

"Please, F-Fred... it might go off." "I’m the one goin’ off," rasped Freddy, flinging the weapon aside and pulling Phil up to wetly kiss him on the neck and mouth. Both cocks newly hard, the two wrestled in the soft leaves, pants down. They rubbed themselves red until shooting off and lay glued together for a long while, whispering and already planning their next rendezvous.

Philip wound his arms around Freddy tenderly, the shock of what had happened wafting away like a woodland vesper; and because of a curious, forgiving sense of empathy that overcame him – as well as the usual brute infatuation – he allowed a relationship to flower for part of a summer.

Afterword

Upon coming home for Christmas vacation, Phil bumped into Freddy in a gay bar. He had divorced Darla, moved into town, and had begun to go out, "Without m’gun," he added. Aroused, Phil stood very close and asked to go home with him; but Freddy said no.

Steve Dunham’s work appears in Alyson’s 2006 Best Gay Love Stories, New York City and many other collections of short stories published by Alyson ( 2002), The Haworth Press (2004 , 2007, 2008), Bruno Gmunder (2014), and GENRE Magazine (2000 and 2001), one of which, "Revenge," garnered a National Magazine Award for Best Fiction. His two novellas, Tales of Teddy and Afternoon In the Balcony (Authorhouse.com and Amazon) were highly praised by SOUTHERN VOICE and THE LOUISVILLE LETTER. Favorite assignments from Steve’s long-ago journalism career were covering the Detroit Riot and interviewing Andy Warhol and Viva. He and his architect partner of 50 years live in Chicago and Skidaway Island, Georgia.

THE VIRGIN SLUT

Back when I was still a virgin, every Saturday morning I had breakfast at Aunt Ida’s diner downtown. A thirtyish man was usually there at the same time seated at the counter, and he became another candidate in my fast-growing scrapbook of masturbation fantasies. I glanced his way often enough that he might have had reason to take offense. But he didn’t seem to notice. Just sat there reading the Ithaca Journal, paid up, wiped his juicy lips and left.

I usually brought a schoolbook with me and my head was buried deep in an Auden poem when I was startled by the scraping of a chair.

“What’ya reading?” the man said as if we were friends, and I fell into his large sea-green eyes.  

“Studying for my English exam on Monday.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll pass. You look smart.”

“How could you possibly know that?”  

“I have a feeling about these things. The name’s Phil.”

He extended his calloused hand and I missed a breath.

“Gonna study all day?”

“Probably,” I said with a sigh.

“Better to do it in chunks. With breaks in between.”

“Did you go to college?”

“Yup. Not Cornell. It is Cornell, right?”

“Yes. What do you do?”  

“Assistant superintendent at Franklin High.”

“And the callouses?”

“These?” I worked in construction to pay for college. Still do sometimes, for the extra income.

I checked out his fingers for a ring. He noticed and shook his head. “I’m not the type. Let’s take a walk.” He could have asked me to murder the waitress and I would have said yes.

As we walked and chatted, I felt jittery and out of control. A sensation I later recognized as desire.  

Phil stopped in front of a row house. “This is me. Come up.”

Not an invitation. A command. My heart beat like a tom-tom. 

The place was efficient. Used furniture but with nice art on the walls. Phil cut right to the chase. “You’re a pretty man and I want to get to know you.”

I nodded like a shy child being offered ice cream by a stranger. He approached and, with his whole body, pushed me against the wall. He put his mouth on mine and the insistence of his soft lips almost knocked the knees out from under me.

My first genuine kiss.  

His tongue pushed past my teeth and I was struck by the sensuality of his wet, wide tongue. He undid the buttons of my shirt and took my nipples in his mouth.

What? That was a thing?

Lapping tongue. Gentle nibbles. Like a jolt of electricity. I cried out.

“Am I hurting you?” he said.

“Yeah. No. I’m not sure. But continue.”

As he worked on my nipples, my curious hand began to search his trousers.

“Would you like to see it?” he inquired.

I froze. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Been with a man?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’ve been wanting to suck a cock.”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Then this is your lucky day.”

Phil undid his trousers, grabbed my hand and inserted it into the slit of his boxers. It was hard and warm.”   

“What do you think?” he said, smiling coyly.

“I think I need to get better acquainted,” I said.

Where did that come from? When did Virgin Rick suddenly start tossing off sexual witticisms like he a pro.

I sunk to my knees and looked at the plump, cushiony head, the veiny shaft. I inhaled an aroma that was slightly acrid, but heady. 

 “I may not be any good at this.”

“You’d be surprised. Start by kissing it.”

What? Kiss it? One tentative peck. Then another.  Kind of fun. Be even more fun, if I could release my cock. “I need to take mine out,” I said.

“No one’s stopping you,” Phil laughed.  I liked that he was playful and serious at the same time. When my cock popped out like a guy who’s just been released from prison, he saluted it. “Welcome. Now, suck my cock.”  

 A few inches in and I gagged. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I told you it was my first time.”

“Open your mouth wider. Relax your throat. An inch at a time. Lick the head a little.” 

Licking whet my appetite. The more I licked, the hungrier I became, slowly moving him into my mouth. The head. The top of the shaft. The middle. Before I knew it, I was lost. Nothing existed apart from my mouth and his cock. My appetite kept increasing until Phil yanked himself away. “Stop. Or you’ll make me come.”

“I don’t care,” I said and swallowed him again.

“You have the makings of a real slut, you know,” he chuckled. A slut? I should have been offended. Instead, I was flattered.   

Now it was Phil who had lost control. He yanked his cock and said “close your eyes,” just before spattering my face in warm cum.  Then he pulled me up and licked my face clean.

“You, my friend, are a natural born cocksucker,” he said, before pushing me onto his bed, removing my trousers and spreading my legs. “My turn,” he smiled.

 “I warn you, I won’t last long.”  

“You let Phil worry about that,” he said.

First, he reached for my balls. “See these? They’re an important part of the package. They don’t like to be neglected.”

“They don’t?” I said.  All those years of masturbation and it never crossed my mind.

Phil began licking them, which made me tremble. “Please, don’t,” I said, almost in a whisper.  

“Because it doesn’t feel good?”

“Because it feels too good.”

“You’re young. You can come again.”

That, I already knew.  

Another incredible discovery: The first time a man sucks your cock and swallows.

“I’m sorry,” I said when he finally took it out of his mouth.

“About what?” he said before forcing his cum wet tongue into my mouth.  

We continued kissing and then he wrapped his arms around me. The firmness of his body and the tang of his sweat made me delirious. I drifted off and woke up on my stomach with Phil’s head planted between my legs. “What are you doing?” I cried out.

“I’m rimming you, genius.”

“It feels weird,” I said. And it did. “Why would you want to lick my ass?”

“Because I plan to fuck you,” Phil said.

“No way,” I said, startled.

He merely shrugged. “Okay. Then you fuck me.”

I looked at him puzzled. “You do know what intercourse is?” he said.

“Of course, I do. I’m not a total idiot. It’s when a man inserts his penis into a woman’s vagina until he comes.”

“Same idea. Different hole.” He sighed. “It’s what I get for picking a virgin.”   

“I’m sorry,” I said, yet again.

“Don’t be sorry. Just fuck me,” Phil said, slathering lubricant onto my cock and massaging it to hardness – which took very little effort. After dabbing lotion onto his anus and he offered it up to me.  

After some clenching and resistance, I slid inside.

“Good, so far?” he asked.

“I’m afraid of hurting you.”

“I won’t lie. It’s going to take me a minute. But soon, you’ll have me moaning like a cheap whore.

I had no idea what a cheap whore sounded like, but Phil’s moans were thrilling. Hard to believe that what I was doing could induce such pleasure. As I focused on my own sensations and moved faster and deeper, his groans grew louder, his breathing more intense.  

“I’m going to come,” I screamed. I pulled out just in time and came. In buckets. Did I always produce that much jism? Phil jumped up and, for the second time that day was about to splash on my face when I took him into my mouth and experienced the delicious sensation of a throbbing cock spurting down my throat.

“That was amazing,” I said, and it truly was.

“You’re a natural kid,” he said, falling on top of me and kissing me back to sleep.  

The next time I awoke, it was dark. “I need to get home and study.”

Phil nodded. “Sure thing. But come back soon. Because I really need to fuck you.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be ready for that,” I said, wincing.

“It’s fine. I’ll wait until you beg me.”  

“Deal,” I said, relieved. After one last, long, soulful kiss I departed. As I descended the stairs, I thought how lucky I was to lose my virginity to a guy like Phil. Forceful but also considerate and understanding. Each time he’d slaked my desire, he’d planted the seed of further growth. At the bottom of the stairs, I felt a sudden twitch.

I turned and raced back up and pounded on his door.

“I’ve come to beg,” I said, and he swept me inside.

Duncan Hyam’s stories have appeared in such publications as Gertrude Press, the MCB Quarterly, Chelsea Station, Image/Out, and the anthologies Off the Rocks and Men in Love. His novels include the recently published PIGEON, THE RUSHES, LOVE ON THE JERSEY SHORE, CAFÉ EISENHOWER, which received an honorable mention from the 2015 Rainbow Book Awards, the novella JUNIOR WILLIS and the YA fantasy novel THE GOLDEN CITY OF DOUBLOON.   

Femdom

amidst the thickets of reef lexicon

stems a portion of my sex, trapped with naming.

chased far beyond language, for wearing "Trans" in it's completeness.

a leg that is no leg, burdening my weight

as if a breach on zephyr's lawful caressing—

how the air keeps mistaking the workings of my fragile pronouns:

(she/they), till I'm sistered into the belief of genetic transplant,

where being boy  is only a consciousness,

and girl — a verb I do not partake in.

but bear her inadequacy on each ties of my short flesh: proof I'm an uprising.

a handmade riot, cold-blooded at it.

skin-thorny by surprise or vex.

in the blank, I meet void with void

where emptiness sits sparsely like a plot of land.

a part of me keeps roaming between language & leash.

I— aftermath of the unloved.

I kneel into this trauma: a sarcophagus, sampled after appeal.

                                 oblige me this feline request?

sometimes, I imagine how I'd show up on judgement day

doom-worthy.

neck deep in hellish "trans".

Nnadi Samuel (he/him/his) holds a B.A in English & literature from the University of Benin. His works have been previously published/forthcoming in FIYAH, Fantasy Magazine, Uncanny Magazine, Star*Line Speculative Fiction, Penumbric Speculative Fiction & Poetry Magazine & elsewhere. Winner of the Miracle Monocle Award for Ambitious Student Writers 2021(University of Louisville), Penrose Poetry Prize 2021, Lakefly Poetry Contest 2021 (Wisconsin), the International Human Right Arts Festival Award 2021, and Canadian Open Drawer contest 2020. He got an honorable mention for the 2021 Betty L. Yu and Jin C.Yu Creative Writing Prize (College Category). He is the author of "Reopening of Wounds" & "Subject Lessons" (forthcoming). He reads for U-Right Magazine. He tweets @Samuelsamba10.

Hot Blood

Hopped up on something nasty,

this mixed-up soldier man

gripes that his old lady’s arms’re

like swizzle sticks cuz the bitch

starves herself stupid.

He tells me the stink of her twat

is nowhere near the rush

he’s used to getting

from his Joes in the heat of battle.

Only two days back home

from his third deployment,

he admits he’s already twisted

her wrists to the color of bad plums.

She’s just not what he’d craved

on leave.

He claims every damn idiot

he’s bumped into on Main Street

has gone raving

over the whiny kid at his feet.

Ohhh your baby is such a darling;

He looks just like you.

This sorry dude ain't even sure

where that little shit came from.

Right now, it's Last Call in this stinking saloon

and he don't wanna go home to that cunt begging;

so, he's had an iron grip on my groin —

like he’s scared I’m gonna waste it

before he gets a shot at it.

All night bitching, our stories are similar —

why we've come here —

get fucked up after

too many bloody years over there

and we still crave the hot stench

of men in a trench.

We knock down a bucket of beers

then head for an outback alley

so black we can't see what we are —

feely man-arms hitched to simmering bods

not yet blowed to smithereens.

I bed his nipple hairs between my teeth.

I suck tit till I draw blood

then he draws blood

as he takes a nip at my tongue.

My blood blends sweet with sweat

from his neck

as he pins me to hard dirt.

Sir Yes Sir, I shout up to this brute —

words of comfort to him —

like an old hymn.

I feel a warm spurt on my lip

as I grab for his bloated joint

in the thrill of total darkness.

Oh no ya don't, he commands,

then lifts me into his arms

with the lip-lock of a lifetime.

If it'll please ya, he says,

you can do me,

but for my ecstasy,

I beg ya ta make me a habit;

bind me and shame me

then haul me back

to the stench of my men in the trenches.

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. The 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 have rescued him from drowning in the chaos of his troubled and hungry mind. At the ripened age of 80, 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. Spiel previously appeared in Wicked Gay Ways Spring 2021 edition. Learn more about his large body of books, short stories, poetry, spoken word, and fine art at thepoetspiel.name.