Welcome to our fall 2020 issue. We are pleased to feature the work of a wide range of artists. All of these artists celebrate queer erotic desire with unabashed joy, sensuality and gusto which makes reading their work and making it available to a wider audience one of the joys of editing this online journal. Thank you for your support of our work.

Pulling you Close - 2018 - 14" x 22" - Acrylic on Wood Pane, Amy Martin.

soul mate

her love

washed over me

she could silence

every flame in me

with one look,

but instead she helped

ignite every candle

of mine that the world had

put out;

she wrapped me in a kiss

that never released me—

when her tongue touched

mine,

and our bodies fell together

in sync almost as if we were one;

and every boundary of she & i

fell away until we were the same heart

beating

it was as if a super nova had exploded

light all over me in spasms of magic that fell

golden and coiled and hissing all over me—

i knew then that i was hers

and she was mine,

the mate they say doesn't exist;

soul mate.

-linda m. crate

Linda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of six poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019). She's also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). Recently she has published two full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020) and The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020).

Word of Mouth

Researchers in China have found that the coronavirus, or

bits of it, may linger in semen.

—The New York Times 7 May 2020

Rainbow High, Water Color, 13"/13", 2013, Bill Nolte.

Reproductive mission accomplished,

the virus finds itself

reduced to shrapnel in the semen

loitering — possibly with intent —

in ejaculate’s slippery warmth,

which

suggests post-plague reality will require —

in addition to a vaccine — adjectives

worthy of the complexity

now swirling on the tongue,

but

a conscious recycling initiative

might better suit the newest normal —

a blend of ingredients already on hand — e.g.,

Elegant / Lean Chewy / Muscular

Nuanced / Airy Herbaceous / Bold

Delicate / Subtle Brooding / Pungent

Velvety / Supple Persistent / Flamboyant —

labels borrowed verbatim

from wine-tasting scripts,

because

whatever else may change —

as both poets and epidemiologists know —

word of mouth is a constant.

James W. Gaynor is a poet living in NYC, working on surviving his third pandemic. He's the author of 20 Poems About Love + Marriage Inappropriate 4 Weddings and Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice in 61 Haiku.

Judith and Holofernes (After Donatello) - 2011 - 20" x 30" - Chalk Pastel on Paper, Amy Martin.

Amy Martin (She/Her/Hers), Amy is a queer femme painter and designer living in West Philly. She creates images of queer love, pride, and resistance to queer invisibility - especially femme invisibility. She also loves to explore symbolism, feminine archetypes, mythical imagery, and all the ways that feminine power can subvert the patriarchy simply by existing.

She graduated in 2011 from the Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore, MD with a focus on printmaking. These days, she is also a graphic designer and works with any and all media that grab her fancy, although painting will always be her first love. www.seeingspectrums.com.

“Twisting, we shift positions—
I’m on top, then toppled, reversed, on bottom.
Who says there’s one way?”

Drag Pin-Up with Steel Crown - 2011 - 22" x 36" - Chalk Pastel on Paper, Amy Martin.

Sapphics for the Spinning Jennies

Topsy-turvy, over and under, tumbling

contrapuntal. Twisting, we shift positions—

I’m on top, then toppled, reversed, on bottom.

Who says there’s one way?

We’re so agile we can go every which way.

Mouth to mouth or lips nibbling tips of nipples.

Mouths to cunts or cunts in a pelvic grinding,

bone against bone as

streaming, sliding, sweat slicks us, neck to asshole.

Bounce, dismount. When testing our firm queen mattress,

noon or night is right for a roll and rumble.

Harder of hearing

lately, I’ll press ears to her ribcage, seeking

music. More, more! I want the volume higher—

moans and laughter—all of the sounds we sing in

capturing rapture.

Feathers flee their pillows. The sheets? Asunder.

Lucky us—the bedstead has held. Just barely.

Resting after, we are its tongue and groove, both

flush and well-fitted.

Melisa Cannon, is old, queer and increasingly cranky. She believes the creative imagination should be left wide open and that the artist should explore fearlessly whatever comes through the door. Some of her recent work appears in Indefinite Space, The Elephant Ladder, Sinister Wisdom and Slant. She lives and writes in Nashville.

How Much For a Phoenix? Watercolor, 24 x 20 inches framed, 16 x 12 inches unframed, 2019. Kelly McQuain.

Tongue

The tongue I try to master

is a sticky one, forked and full of tricks,

risking collision of sense and nonsense

—recompense for a fractured age.

I am beyond murmuring. Neologisms

abound in your body, and I plan to master

the patois of each part, learn where bones divide

like syllables. Feel my fingers on your ribcage

catching your barrel-chested bellows;

feel my hand against your throat

waiting for words to come. For I calculate

the onomatopoeia of your longing

in all its sibilants and sweet susurration.

Let me hiss it back to you—a viper;

let me lap your words awhile—a vampire.

Too long we have cyphered our desires.

This tongue I try to master is yours, mine,

ours. Speak to me in its unspoken language

as our fingertips brush each other’s beards,

trigger arousal. For I covet the divot

in your chin, the muscled flex of your jaw,

your parting lips, wet, and now revealing

the subtle diastemic divide in your teeth

so faint I have to move even closer to see.

Teach me what lies beneath meaning.

Tell me in your body’s heat, its blood,

its breath, its need—rising now

like a shiver, a stutter, an unuttered word

buried beneath this kiss: first taste

of the tongue I master.

Poem originally appeared in Lambda Literary Review

Monkey Orchid

Orchis simia

“Found throughout southern Europe as well as the Mediterranean, Orchis simia, the Monkey Orchid, is remarkable at under twenty-four inches for its speckled clusters of purple-pink blooms. Each flower is simian-shaped and complete with what can best be described as an engorged monkey ‘phallus’—thus necessitating this orchid be kept far from the bouquets of impressionable young ladies of genteel upbringing.”

— Lord Basil Attenborough, A Field Guide to the Flowers and Grasses of Western Europe. London, 1899

“Trust me.”

— Circuit party. New York City, 1999

Tonight I’ll wear my joy

erect, conspicuous and speckled,

opening a turnstile

to a tumble of tribal brothers

clanging cymbals, clinging arms,

while what dazzles

dangles

for all to see—

so let’s dance!

Shoulder the weight

of our bodies’ burdens,

fling our funny crap, laughing

as a mirror ball sequins our skin:

We are locked in a roving sea

of sweaty chests and clamoring hands

each of us waving our Day-Glo glans

ornamentally, raving

to a techno-beat. You, me?

We blend into one ecstasy,

an orgy of blossoms,

of bottoms and tops

living as if we will always be

a party to the circuit party

—a parable of pleasure

almost parody.

Tonight I am scared

and electrified by everything I could become:

pure monkey desire,

my cock a loaded gun

blossoming on this shared stamen

of desire

—don’t think of disease—

We are a monkey orchid

seeking release

from mostly awkward

daytime moments

that drive us half-insane,

surrounded now by similar selves,

drugs dreaming in our veins.

Tonight I am sacred:

watch me unfold:

a wallflower at the orgy growing bold.

Are these spots on our skin

the blotchy purple-pink of sexual flush?

Amyl-nitrate on our breath,

a popper-bottle head rush.

Each lick

is like a whisper

not quite confessional

as our bold stamens keep unloading

in this strobe light processional

of desire aping love,

of young men exploding, all the while

our secret saner selves

haunted, wondering:

Will we survive

this ravenous age of plague

when blood wants to become

one river running

through many bodies?

Oh, we playful, foolish monkeys.

Oh, this petal cage of desire and death.

Kiss me quick—first you, then you—

as I bare my teeth

and keep barreling through.

Poem originally appeared in A&U magazine

Pillow Talk Fisting a New Friend

What languages do you speak? you ask.

What are the languages that don't have

words? I'm fluent in under-the-table

leg-kicks & awkward silences, semi-

literate in cast shade & hairy eyeball

when necessary & I'm working on

my silent grrrs. I’ve bought books &

tapes & DVDs to expand my repertoire.

But oh, my sweet, the ink on my flash cards

is always ruined by rainfall—or is it downfall

that drives me so goddamn nuts?

What is the sound of one hand clapping

inside you? Every trick deserves applause.

Let’s make up a language & call it Love,

baby. Or maybe simply Right Now.

You be Braille and I’ll be fingertips.

The heart’s the size of a fist they say,

or maybe that’s a cliché. My deaf cousin

taught me the sign for I love you as a kid: like

Spider-Man shooting his web. Let me say it

inside you. No glove, just pluck & tequila,

baby. You’ve backed your back-end

into a mystery that’s all Bacchanalia

& ancient rites, the way soiree mousse

is French for “foam party”, how even in

soapsuds a body can get downright dirty.

Can’t you feel heaven knocking

at your wicked backdoor? Call it a mystery.

Call it rosebud. Call it radioactive,

a biohazard hello. Fingers loosening

your inner noose as if to strangle you

from the inside out. This is the language

I speak to you. Let it be what saves us

when Armageddon finally comes.

Strawberries, Limoncello, Water Ice, Passing Time

You bring home Italian Market strawberries

so ripe they’ll be ruined if we don’t eat them today

so after dinner I wash, core and halve them

as you water plants off the deck, the last of the sunlight

purpling the sky. I drop the strawberries

into a bowl over lemon water ice,

add a shot of limoncello from a bottle given us

last Christmas, carry the bowl and two spoons

up to our bedroom, trying not to dig in

before you join me for a movie. But I can’t;

it’s too good, so sugary, so cold, while the day’s been

so hot we ate dinner without shirts. I can taste

fresh lemon peel in the homemade limoncello

as if Christmas were yesterday, not half a year ago.

I pluck a strawberry from the bowl and study it close

as the water shuts off and you curl away the hose—

such scarlet skin, so many tiny seeds, every one

a wonder. My fingers redden with juice,

grow sticky-sweet with water ice. When you come in

I pop the strawberry in my mouth, a guilty child,

thinking of a sunburn long ago,

how you rubbed my skin aloe-cool, and then

rubbed me again, stirring blood, ripening stamen

until I seeded red skin and took safety in

the false comfort there would be time enough

for everything. Our bed creaks as you crawl in.

You fluff your pillow; I spoon you water ice and

a strawberry half, its white V within—this moment

a victory. A drip hits my chest and you tongue it away.

What flavor is inside our selves?

Sweetness, surely, the way you lap at my heart—

like strawberries, limoncello, water ice, passing time.

Poem originally appeared in Blue Lyra Review

Kelly McQuain is an artist and poet who has been a Lambda Literary Fellow and whose chapbook Velvet Rodeo received the Bloom poetry prize. His education as a writer took him from his native West Virginia to Philadelphia, Scotland, and New Orleans, where he earned an MFA in Creative Writing. His poetry most recently appears in Rogue Agent, Spunk, and the anthology LGBTQ Fiction and Poetry from Appalachia. As a visual artist, McQuain has worked as a comic book artist and illustrator, and his series of writer portraits regularly appear as cover illustrations on Fjords Review. Primarily self-taught as a painter, McQuain enjoys working in watercolor and acrylic and has received awards from the Barnes Collection and Philadelphia’s William Way LGBTQ Center. “I try to celebrate beauty from both traditional and unexpected sources,” McQuain says. “Often that means combining my subjects with the lushness of the verdant world and using strange motifs to question humans’ relationship to nature, technology, and each other.” Learn more at www.KellyMcQuain.wordpress.com

Sometimes I Like It, Acrylic, 10 x 8 inches, 2019. Private collection. Kelly McQuainn.

Faun in a Field of Flowers, Watercolor, 24 x 20 inches framed, 8.5 x 11.5 inches unframed, 2019, Kelly McQuain — *Faun in a Field of Flowers*, Watercolor, 24 x 20 inches framed, 8.5 x 11.5 inches unframed, 2019, Kelly McQuain

“Analeigh leans down to close her mouth around a nipple, sucking until the other girl quiets to a whimper. ”

Drag Pin-Up with Ceramic Collar - 2011 - 22" x 36" - Chalk Pastel on Paper, Amy Martin.

The Art of Compromise

It's easy to let the fury simmer low in her belly, when she catches Melody's eyes across the bar. Analeigh is already out of her comfort zone, out of her world, starving for some new experiences - so of course, the last face she wants to see is the one laughing three booths away.

But maybe it's better this way, when rage builds at the same pace they sip champagne, sending barbed, coded looks across the dingy cocktail bar. It's barely above a dive bar, and doesn't have the authentic grit of an old Irish pub to even make it worthwhile. Analeigh should know better than slum it like this. She's unsuprised that Mellie doesn't. One more drink, and a barely apologetic smile to her host, then Analeigh is bounding after Mellie into the smoking area, the sharp notes of her perfume distorting the air.

"Took you long enough," Mellie laughs, watching the ash from her cigarette glow and disperse around them like carcinogenic fireflies.

"Me? I shouldn't have deigned to lower myself enough to even drink somewhere like this. That you're here is simply the miserable icing on the rancid cake that is my evening." Analeigh juts her chin out proudly, but the orange light of Mellie's cigarette catches in her eyes just enough to spark.

"You've always been a sweet talker." Mellie straightens against the wall and her height is still a shock. Analeigh will always expect her to be the doe-eyed girl clinging to her coattails, even after a decade of the world beating her softness into harsh, flint-sharp edges. "I'm getting too old for this," she tells Analeigh, snuffing the cigarette out beneath her kitten heel.

"You were too old for those when you stated smoking them. Audrey Hepburn you are not." Analeigh inches closer, wants to feel the air simmer between them. Wants to test how close she can get before they both snap.

"Believe me, you were never that above it all, either," Mellie tells her, her tongue digging between her front teeth. It is not appealing or cute or coy in the slightest. Analeigh's body curls closer without her permission.

"Honey, I'll always be above you," she bites out.

Mellie grins up at her. "That a promise?"

"How many queer girls get this?" Mellie arches as Analeigh shoves the dress over her head, raking her fingernails down the skin exposed. "To actually roll around with the girl they spent their teen years scrapping with, starving for something more."

Analeigh's teeth sink into Mellie's collarbone then, making her voice catch on the last word. She worries the skin and soothes it with her tongue, a touch smug that she's quieted the girl before stripping anything off. Tipping Mellie back onto the bed she straddles her hips, pinning her down, holding the girl captive beneath her. "This what you were day dreaming of in physics?"

Mellie reaches up to palm Analeigh's breasts, hunting for a reaction even through two layers of clothing. "Don't be gross. And take off your dress, Jesus."

Analeigh tuts and presses her back again. "Not so fast." She skates her fingertips up Mellie's arms until she finds her wrists, which she squeezes in one hand and holds them above the girl's head. "You stay put. I'm not done with you yet."

Mellie makes a soft noise in the back of her throat and swallows. When Analeigh takes her hand away her arms stay where she placed them.

"That's right," Analeigh mutters, feeling her way down Mellie's body. She slips her fingers beneath the band of Mellie's bra, drawing her nails along the sensitive skin over her ribs and edging upwards until her thumb flickers over Mellie's nipple, making her gasp and arch into the touch. She copies the movements on the other side, her free hand sliding beneath the other girl to flick open the clasp. "Lean up for me," she says palm pressing firmly against Mellie's spine.

"I really need you to take something off," Mellie breathes as the bra comes off, one of Analeigh's fingers still circling her nipple, pulling breathless little sounds from her. "I can't be the only one exposed."

"If it'll keep you quiet…" Analeigh pulls her hands away, settling her weight more firmly onto Mellie's hips and rocking slightly, before grabbing the edge of her dress. She pulls it over her head in a fluid movement, head tipped back, blushing slightly at the attention.

Mellie's fingers flex above her head, like they're desperate to touch, but she doesn't dare move them.

"Better," she says. "Much better."

Analeigh leans down to close her mouth around a nipple, sucking until the other girl quiets to a whimper. Mellie's hips rock up beneath her, and that just makes her suck harder, teeth scraping just enough to tease. She grinds her hips in a steady rhythm, thighs flexing wherein they're spread apart to fit the other girl.

"Ugh," Mellie whines. "You're too good at this. It's not fair."

Analeigh grins and sits back on her heels, preening. "I'm good at everything."

"Oh I'm not having that." It's all the leverage Mellie needs to grab her by the hips, pulling her down and flipping them over. She smiles down at Analeigh, delightfully outraged, Mellie's hair framing them both in a messy halo. "I think I like you at my mercy, actually. Now this is a fantasy."

"If you say so," Analeigh's eyes are alight, and she drags her clipped nails along Mellie's torso, drifting patterns that make the other girl writhe above her until one hand slips low, lower, sliding over her underwear with intent. She draws her thumb in small circles, feeling where she parts beneath the fabric, catching the slight swell of her clit and rubbing harder, flickering her thumb against it then circling again.

Mellie groans above her, head tipping forward until their foreheads touch. "Absolutely unfair," she mutters, grinding into the touch. Her thighs keep twitching around Analeigh's, her hips rocking into the touch, harder, faster. It's not long before she stills, twitching and warm underneath Analeigh's hand as her first orgasm quivers through her.

Analeigh kisses her then, quickly, softly, wants to feel the girl utterly melt for her. "Next time," she whispers, tucking a stray hair behind Mellie's ear. "Next time we can tie your arms up, so you have to just lie back. Let go. Let it all wash over you."

Mellie nods, kissing back, hard. "But now," she tells her, nipping softly at Analeigh's lower lip. "I'm going to go down on you until you're gasping out my name."

Analeigh lies back, flicking off her bra and spreading her arms across the bed. "Is that a challenge or a promise?"

Mellie grins and crawls down her body, scraping her teeth gently across each nipple, then down the soft, sensitive expanse of her stomach, feeling the way the muscles bunch and twist. "Ticklish?"

Analeigh scowls and pushes her head down.

Mellie's fingers slip into the waistband of Analeigh's underwear and draws it down and off. "Fuck, you're wet." She looks at the other girl with a touch of wonderment, how she's so smooth and pink and glistening. She sucks her thumb into her mouth the gently parts her sex, running it up and down the pinkness, from lips to clit, then follows the path with her mouth. Analeigh sighs above her, shifting and Mellie follows her with her mouth, with soft, flat strokes of her tongue before she closes her mouth around the clit.

Analeigh bucks up into her mouth as she sucks, soothing it with her tongue as she slips two fingers inside and curls them up, feeling for that soft place inside. She alternates suckling and licking, regular enough to keep pace with the rhythm of her hand but off just enough to build things up slow. Analeigh moans softly and Mellie hums around her clit, making the other girl shiver.

She can feel the way the muscles flutter around her fingers that the girl is close, and she sucks harder, closing her lips around her clit and rubbing her tongue back and forth at a vicious pace. From there it's just endurance, her fingers curling inside of her, her mouth drawing out the tension. Analeigh bucks hard against her, hips lifting off the bed and Mellie keeps moving, keeps her on the precipice until she cries out, collapsing back onto the bed. Mellie places a soft kiss to her clit and smiles up at her. "Good enough for you?"

"It was fine," Analeigh replies, flushed chest belying her bored tone. "But we have plenty of time to practice."

Lucy Hannah Ryan is a poet, short story writer and essayist from London. Her work concerns femininity, sexuality and complex relationships with the body inspired by lifelong chronic illness and pain. She has had the pleasure of being featured in various publications including Half Mystic, Corvid Queen and Closet Cases: Queers on What We Wear and won the 2018 City Of Stories competition for Kensington and Chelsea. She can be found @lucyhannahryan on instagram and twitter

Well, Hello There!, Watercolor, 16 x 12 inches, 2018. Kelly McQuain, Private collection. — *Well, Hello There!*, Watercolor, 16 x 12 inches, 2018. Kelly McQuain, Private collection.

Machines

Loneliness had battered down the door

to the secluded house

where an earlier make

of him

had lived.

In bed

at night, no lover slipped him grief.

No friendship frequented a chair.

No neighbor shared a cup.

Not even one solicitor had knocked

until this greasy machinist dropped

from the sky.

He lay back, like a cylinder,

and took the stranger in, the glistening cock,

like a well-oiled piston, pounding away mechanically

—groin grinding

against sweaty groin— until an urgent pressure building up

inside him

exploded quietly

in wave

after wonderful wave

of warm, wet pleasure.

He’ll learn

to love machines, he says. He’ll settle

for a normal ecstasy.

Ken Anderson’s novel Someone Bought the House on the Island was a finalist in the Independent Publisher Book Awards. A stage adaptation won the Saints and Sinners Playwriting Contest and premiered May 2, 2008, at the Marigny Theater in New Orleans. An operatic version premiered June 16, 2009, at the First Existentialist Congregation in Atlanta. His novel Sea Change: An Example of the Pleasure Principle was a finalist for the Ferro-Grumley Award.

On Top, Colored pencil, 12"/12", 2012, Bill Nolte.Bill Nolte, is a NY Actor who has always had a passion for watercolors. His erotic Male Nudes were done at the LESLIE LOHMAN GALLERY Sketch. http://www.billnolte.com — On Top, Colored pencil, 12"/12", 2012, Bill Nolte.
**Bill Nolte,** is a NY Actor who has always had a passion for watercolors. His erotic Male Nudes were done at the LESLIE LOHMAN GALLERY Sketch. http://www.billnolte.com

UPDATING MY SCRUFF ACCOUNT

I like trans daddies, all kinds of daddies

tho not like that not like my own

thankfully , I was never told to call him that

i see your sentimental sweet twists

into something more than cat-call booty

it will never be enough and the more

i invest virtually the more

i notice i am alone.

“the waltz like rhythm of me imagining telling you this night I thought about what it would feel like to kiss all of your back”

SCHWETZINGEN

I listen to Chopin

as if it were my own gifting

secret, like a painting at night

the waltz like rhythm of me imagining telling you this night I thought about what it would feel like to kiss all of your back

like gratitude.

It is still spring here,

still with glimpses of summer and winter in between

The castle we walked through I kind of hated, though liked how we exchanged

the weight of each other a little

more freely.

Meanwhile, I remember (re-imagine) lying on the couch, too distracted to write while

you play piano right by me you

are an electrifying rhythm my body cannot mistake.

TO THE TRANSMAN

WHO PUT A RING THRU MY NOSE

WHO I WANTED TO CALL DADDY

It was too brief so

At a desperate attempt to say anything,

I said, "You have good bedside manner."

Like a doctor, I wanted to say and

I was embarrassed, and I apologize

For clocking you in my excited eyes

I took off my jacket and threw it on the bench

and laid down on the table when you told

me to

Like you would notice my flat chest like

It would have made any difference.

Josef Selma Olivier is a white, queer transexual man living in chicago, Illinois (occupied ojibwe, potawatomi and odawa land) jo is a poet + performer who is interested in connecting movement with memory to tell stories for an audience. their work explores trauma, transitioning, causing harm + being harmed, profound love + loss, as it all lives in pattern and in memory in the body.

Tunnel of Love

The tunnel near the Music Center was the perfect parking site. I had a rule that I would never pay for parking even if it was a spot with a meter. There was always a space in this passageway.

The cross section of Bunker Hill surrounding streets gave way to this open cave. The expansive tunnel block had an echo.

After finding a brilliant tunnel parking spot I walked to the Ahmanson Theater. The sun was blaring before the two pm matinee of the Carousel revival. The reinvented musical stuck with me as I witnessed Julie being hit by Billy Bigelow. When she sings the line What’s the use of wondern’ if he’s good or he’s bad. He’s your fella and you love him, I gasped in tears. My dead lover Jacob flashed before me. We remained cemented for fifteen years despite his infidelity. “I’m going to leave you if you cheat again.” was my hollow threat. Was I weak? When he got diagnosed with AIDS there was no option of abandoning him. Carousel was his favorite musical. It brought him to instant tears when You’ll Never Walk Alone reprises at the finale. Billy Bigelow visits Julie from heaven and speaks the lines I loved you, Julie. Know that I loved you while the chorus of voices saturates the stage. I know Jacob loved me.

Since Jacob died three years ago , I’ve adjusted to traveling, or attending films and theater on my own. Watching Jacob disintegrate left me numb. Rarely dating, I’ve been Gordon the Jewish nun. The emotional spark plugs inside my skin have been in hibernation.

When I left the theater, I soaked in the chilly air to ignite my stiff legs during the five-minute leisure walk to my car.

When I searched for my car the dusk was building at five pm. I felt a pointy pressure digging into my back. My heart cavity folded. An electric current zoomed from my big toe to my hair follicles. A deep grizzly voice said, “I’ve got a gun.” Where did this guy come from? “Empty your pockets.” He screamed. Oh my god I can’t believe this is happening. I fumbled in my front pocket for my wallet. My shaking fingers couldn’t find a way to pull the wallet out of my tight dress dockers. “Hurry up.”

“I’m trying.” My wobbly knees began to collapse. He turned me around so I could see his face. His bad boy blonde hair bristled against me. The bottomless voice didn’t fit his small frame and average height. Where was the gun? Was it just his finger poking me? I almost wanted to say Can you help me squeeze the wallet out of my pants? Finally, the wallet was free. He grabbed it and peaked inside. “Where is your money? There’s nothing in here. Shit.”

“I don’t carry money with me.” I explained. He stuck his hand into my other pocket thinking there was a money holder. His large puffy hand yanked in search of a treasure. My testicles came in contact with his roaming. Despite my quaking I was starting to get stimulated. What is wrong with me?

“Hey, are you a fag?”

He must have felt my rumbling. The empty tunnel came to life with a screech. A shadow inched toward us. I was hoping for a policeman. It was a homeless guy gyrating and laughing. The robber baron got scared and ran off. I collapsed against my car. My shallow breath hiccupped.

He still had my wallet but at least I was safe and unhurt. As I sat in the car seat I waited until my breathing stabilized. License needed replacement and credit card must be stopped.

As I drove away, I couldn’t get the picture of my attacker out of my brain. The word fag rang through my head. It’s been twenty years since I’d heard that derogatory term used to describe me. My closeted image of being a feminine sissy depressed me. At forty-three I still hadn’t come to terms.

I just wanted to be home and hide in my blanket comforter. I erratically drove surface streets towards West Hollywood. A flashing light fills my car. Oh shit, a policeman is pulling me over.

The burly officer says “Did you know you were weaving between lanes? Can I see your license?”

“I was mugged early this evening.”

“What about your car registration?”

I scrambled through the glove compartment and showed him the document.

“You really should report the theft. It’s late and I can see you are shaky. Promise me you’ll go to your local police station tomorrow morning. You’ve got to get your license replaced immediately.”

I drove off slowly keeping what is left of my sanity in place. My condo loomed ahead. As I used the remote to open the garage door, I heard a loud squeaking noise as I drive in. The metal chain needed to be oiled. The squeak turned to a clanging sound to rattled my fragile nerves.

When I took the elevator to the third floor and walked towards my unit I saw the mugger standing in front of my door. I turned to run but he rushed towards me. He puts his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t scream.

“If you scream, I’m going to hurt you. I just want to talk. Let me in your apartment.”

I couldn’t think. He grabbed my pocket and started looking for my keys. There were three locks so he struggled to figure out what key goes where. His hand keeps pressing against my lips. I’m a mouth breather so it’s difficult to get oxygen up my nostrils. I was on fire as I felt him pressed against me. The door swung open.

“Help.”

“I told you to shut the fuck up. I’ll have to tape your mouth shut.”

“I can’t breathe through my mouth. I’ll be quiet.”

Then he threw me onto my dining room chair. He was choke holding me so I couldn’t move. When he whipped out some rope, I realized I was going to be immobilized. His nervous legs kept hopping around the chair. I started to get hard.

He shut and double locked the door behind me. He closed all the blinds.

“How did you get in the building?”

“You have no security here. Anyone can get in. I just went in with a neighbor.”

“How did you know where I lived?”

“I have your wallet and the license has your address.”

“What do you want? There’s nothing here of any value.”

“No jewelry?”

“You can look. You won’t find anything.”

“O.K. here’s the thing. I need help.”

He grabbed another chair and sat directly in front of me. Now that he was still, I saw his boyish unblemished skin didn’t belong to an adult. His eyes darted wildly like an uncaged dog. Were his hands quivering? I could see the veins rippling off his upper arms. The silk driven hairs along his forearms calmed me.

“I want to ask you something?”

“Go ahead. What do you want?”

“Are you gay?”

“Yes, what does that have to do with anything?”

He hesitated. He stuttered as he tried to speak “Last winter I, I, I was caught with my best friend jacking off in the high school bathroom. We were taken the principal’s office. They called my parents. When my Dad found out he started hollering—Are you a fag? No son of mine is going to be gay. I’m going to beat the shit out of you. Tell me what were you doing with Art? Tell me God dammit. He kept screaming.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said no I’m not gay. We were just fooling around. I could tell he didn’t believe me.”

It was eerie having this conversation with a mugger. I was bewildered by his story and what it had to do with me. The rope was chafing my arms and legs.

“Can you loosen rope? It feels like it’s burning my skin.”

“Promise me you won’t try to escape?”

I laughed. Can’t he tell I wouldn’t know the first thing about defending myself. I’ve never been in a fight. I’m a six-foot one-hundred-forty-pound weakling. As his fingers pulled apart the scraping cords it felt like he was massaging the sandpapered irritation on my legs and arms. My racing heart idled.

“Where was your mother?” I asked.

“She died when I was thirteen. My father kept hammering at me. You faggot. Get out of my house. I don’t want you here. He was out of control. He kept shoving me against the wall. I thought he was going to kill me. I ran out.”

“Where did you go? You had this friend Art.”

“Yeh some friend. When we were in the principal’s office, he said Eric pulled me into the bathroom and took out his dick. He started it. I couldn’t believe he turned on me. We had been friends since junior high. It was a game. We would play with our cocks and see who could come first. He was daring me to do this in the school bathroom.”

“My father threw me out. I’ve been homeless. The downtown tunnel has been my home.”

“How did you get to West Hollywood from downtown?”

“I hitched a ride on Santa Monica Boulevard.” He explained.

I didn’t think people hitched rides in 1995. Jacob used to pick up hitchhikers in the 1970’s and have sex with them. That’s how he got AIDS. Is this a sign from Jacob?

“How are you living?”

“It’s been hell. I can’t get a job because I need an address. I’ve mugged a few people who wander through the tunnel. No one seems to carry money these days. I hate doing it. I know I’m going to get caught and arrested. I tried hustling on Santa Monica Boulevard. I don’t know if I’m gay but I let guys suck me. I make fifty dollars.”

Moisture looked for escape out of his blue eyes. I wanted to rescue him. Capture his shoulders.

“Please untie me Eric.”

As he leaned forward, I remained nervously still. The aching shins and wrists dreamt of independence. The slow-motion movement of his hands wanted to tickle me. I sighed and stretched.

The embrace coveted the first emotional nourishment I’ve had since Jacob died. The fear of being stabbed emotionally had paralyzed me for three years.

We rose from our chairs and Eric let me grapple his face. I brought my lips to his chapped mouth. His startled backup lasting for seconds. As I cupped his cheeks with my sweaty palms, he zoned into me. The kiss erupted screaming tears.

I took his hand and lead him to the bedroom. I will be his angel. We will salvage each other.

In the morning, I realized the bed is empty. The deep sleep took me to Neverland. Where was Eric? Rubbing the sand from my eyes, helped me focus. No sounds were emanating from the condo. No smells of breakfast.

Shouting, “Eric, are you here?” makes me gather my wits.

Walking into the bathroom, I slid the shower door open. Eric was sitting on the floor of the shower water logged.

“Are you o.k.? Let me get you a towel.”

His stoic demeanor remained.

“Come out of there Eric.” I’m witnessing a mourning soul.

His robotic movements shook off the liquid. Wrapping a black towel around his shoulders, was masking Eric’s grief.

“Tell me what’s going on?”

“I was remembering my mother. You remind me of her. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that you look like her or act like a woman. It’s a motherly quality that surrounds you. I felt it when we were in bed last night. Thank you for not taking advantage of me. I don’t know if I’m ready to make love to a man.”

I continued to pad dry him intermixed with devilish tickling. A smile erupted as I exorcised Eric’s ache.

Gordon Blitz, has published work in Gay Wicked Ways (2020), Wingless Dreamer (2020), Two Hawks Quarterly (2020), The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, Issue #22 of Really Systems (2019), Fall 2019 Vitamin ZZZ, and Emeritus Chronicles (2020). In March 2020, Gordon signed a contract with Running Wild Press to have his novella Shipped Out published. He’s also a standup comic that has performed at The Ruby, TAO and The Blackbox Theater at the GLBT Village in Hollywood. His stories recorded at AKBAR in Hollywood are available on the Queer Slam podcast called “Just Gordon.” https://podcasts.apple.com/…/episode-21-just-…/id1446511726… Check out his blog URL https://culturecritique.blog/

Heat, Water Color, 15"/20", 2012, Bill Nolte.

Judith and Holofernes (After Donatello) - 2011 - 20" x 30" - Chalk Pastel on Paper, Amy Martin.

Thirsty

You carry me to orgasm like precious cargo.

I, a legless child

and you, the handsome pack horse

on whose back rests my life.

We smell the water

across dry desert stretches.

Tired, aching, we approach.

i open my dark mouth.

My lonely tongue

reaches for your nipple

like seedlings toward the sun.

I drink.

I drink of your water

and of your milk,

mineral rich,

salty like ocean stones,

sweet like the infant’s

first breath.

You, a running tributary.

You, a canyon carved from

steady motion.

You, dripping nectar,

ripe to bursting,

overflowing with

heavenly juice!

Lilith Wolf is a Lesbian poet residing on unceded Chinook land (aka Portland, Oregon). They write to survive.

Lay Lines