Wicked Gay Ways

Welcome to our Fall/Winter 2021 issue. Beginning with this issue, we made the editorial choice to publish only twice a year. The decision was based on our desire to continue to be able to publish this journal (which since its founding has been published with no funding) except for a deep desire as artists and writers ourselves, to provide a platform for queer erotica, and we have been delighted and are deeply grateful for the support of our contributors, their friends, families, their networks and their fans.

In this issue we are delighted to feature the work of several writers, poets and visual artists all of whom continued to create work despite the personal and societal challenges posed by the COVID pandemic. The restrictions placed upon all of us in the past 18 months curtailed our ability to move about freely preventing us from gathering with family, friends and loved ones. Despite these challenges, we continue to create work that speaks to the relevance of our lives, our fears, our joys, our frustrations, our victories and our sexual desires. We are after all, sexual creatures. Thank you for continuing to create and for your continued support of our efforts to bring you a bit of sexiness during this most challenging of times.

Rick Vaughn II is a self-taught artist from Texas, living and working in Philadelphia. His formal education is in biology and human anatomy, which he uses to capture the essence of the male form.

Rick’s work focuses on the gay Black male and others’ perception of him. The artist states, “I wanted to address the historic and damaging cycle of rejection he has grown accustomed to. Gay Black men have been generally unacknowledged or ignored by society because they are Black, and even more so in the Black community because they are gay. My goal is to venerate and exalt the Black gay man by placing him in the foreground.”

HOLY WATER

i wash up

on the silky sands 

of your belly

the silhouette of 

your breasts

swaying with 

the waves

of your breath

a storm rising 

i move lower

breasts now surging 

with breakers of desire

passion remote and sacred

consecrated by 

the holy water of your essence

Barbara Marie Minney, a native of West Virginia, writes personal and emotional poetry that describes her feelings, thoughts, and passions while struggling to live her truth as a transgender woman. She began her transition to living authentically as the woman that she now knows she was meant to be at the age of 63 after repressing her true gender identity for over 60 years. Barbara’s work has been published or is forthcoming in the "50th Anniversary Hessler Street Fair Poetry Anthology," "Women Speak: Volumes 5, 6, and 7: Women of Appalachia Project," "The Gasconade Review Presents: Ladies' Night," "Woman Scream: The International Poetry Anthology of Female Voices," "Voices of Real 4 and 5,” “For A Better World 2020: Poems and Drawings on Peace and Justice,” “Wicked Gay Ways Summer 2020 Issue and Winter 2021 Issue,” “Pluviophile: Digital Mental Health Anthology," "Breaking the Silence: An Anthology of Queer Self, Life, and Love in NE Ohio," “Inside Out: An Affirming Epiphany,” In Our Shoes: An LGBTQ+ Anthology,” “Gargoyle Magazine #74,” “Politico,” and “The Buckeye Flame.” Barbara’s first collection of poetry, If There’s No Heaven, was the winner of the 2020 Poetry Is Life Book Award and was published in May of 2020 by Poetry Is Life Publishing. It was selected by the Akron Beacon Journal as a Best Northeast Ohio Book in 2020. Barbara is a retired attorney and lives in Tallmadge, Ohio, with her wife of 40 years and a menagerie of stuffed animals. You can follow Barbara at www.barbaramarieminneypoetry.com., https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20819684.Barbara_Marie_Minney https://www.facebook.com/barbaramarie.minney.3, ttps://www.instagram.com/barbaramarieminney/

Excerpt from Chapter 20 of Punk Disco Bohemian (NineStar, 2021), a queer novel about coming of age in 1970s Provincetown, by Arya F. Jenkins

When the MS was slow and Jan, the other bartender who was a big softie and a lot more easygoing than Lacy, was on, Ellie and I played card games like gin rummy to amuse ourselves. I usually won, but Ellie always kept a good attitude about it. She had saved up enough bread to join her dream commune and would soon head out. I would miss my shadow.

“You promise to write?” I actually asked her.

“I’ll send you a postcard soon as I get there.” We hugged, and I watched her lumber into the bus one dawn, only two knapsacks to her name. She waved from her window seat, wearing the biggest grin ever, the sole passenger on a winter bus going somewhere. I’d probably never see or hear from her again.

After she left, I found myself alone one night at the MS, stirring my bourbon on the rocks with a swizzle stick, thinking of those who had come and gone from my life so fast, wishing things were different. Gra-mere’s favorite word, “libérer,” came to me then. If there was ever a lesson to learn in P-town, where friendships and loves were forged and dissolved sometimes overnight, it was—let go.

 Tina Turner’s gravelly rendition of “Proud Mary” on the jukebox broke my reverie, and someone tapped my shoulder—an attractive, lean, pixie-haired blonde, someone I’d not seen before—wanting to dance.

 I never refused dancing, in P-town especially, where you did your own thing dancing alone or in a pair anytime. Music was always there, and no one cared how you related to it, only that you did. The woman I danced with stomped from side to side, keeping an unusual rhythm, a new step, I figured. Afterward, she signaled for a drink, I nodded, and we began to get to know each other over Lite beers. 

Sabine was from Canada and had been a deaf-mute since birth. I indicated I didn’t know sign language. She smiled, shrugged, and immediately launched into a creative dialogue with her hands, which she supplemented by sounding out words sometimes. A photographer, she had a house in town where she spent spring and fall. Late fall she returned to Montreal. She gestured all but her name and Montreal, which she wrote out on a napkin with a ready pen. 

It awed me how much we got across without words. Sabine captivated me. She was not only the first deaf-mute I’d known but the most attractive and refined woman I’d met to date.

What do you do? She pointed at me.

Chambermaid and write. I indicated the latter scribbling the air, and she laughed. She pointed to the jukebox. We went up to it together, she put in coins, I pointed to Gladys Knight and the Pips, and she played “If I Were Your Woman.” Then we danced, Sabine doing a slower version of her side step.

She stepped toward me, placed her right hand on my hip and tweaked it slightly, and then took my right hand with her left. As I stepped back, she inserted her right leg between my legs, a tango-like step I tried and failed to imagine any of the chicks I’d met so far at the MS doing.

Sabine’s cosmopolitan style showed in what she wore—a smart white blouse, collar up, bell-bottom slacks, fashionable ankle-high boots. Around her neck hung a simple gold chain, and she wore blue eye shadow to match her eyes. 

We had another beer and danced semiclose to Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes’ “If You Don’t Know Me by Now,” with Sabine openly checking me up and down, the way Europeans will, without self-consciousness. When the number ended, Sabine took one of my hands, wrapped it around her waist, and led us out of the bar toward the East End. We walked soundlessly, save for the click of her boots on the sidewalk.

Away from music, enveloped in her silence, I was attuned to Sabine, sensing her way ahead of me, planning what we would do, and tingled with excitement wondering what lay ahead. Sunday, I’m going to shoot pictures, come with me, she mouthed while miming taking a snapshot. Sunday, the day after tomorrow, seemed eons away. 

“Maybe.”

Sabine’s white East End cottage on Commercial had an ivied entrance with interlacing barren roots. Before opening the door, almost like a check, she turned and kissed me, a quick one-two. Beyond a staircase, I made out a kitchen illumined by a small light. We went upstairs. I’d never seen a place so clean and neat. Black-and-white photos of outdoor sculptures, fences, lanterns, and entranceways hung in frames behind glass along the hall, the images, cool, stark, and professional. Sabine watched me as I leaned in, examining details, then turned to her, smiling. She pulled me into the farthest space, her bedroom, removed her boots, and set them aside, and I followed suit. 

As she began unbuttoning my blouse, I realized how totally sober I was. I’d never made love with anyone while this sober or approached making love quite this slowly either. The wordlessness stirred something in me, alerting my other senses, heightening awareness. Sabine came forward to kiss me while pushing me gently onto the bed, her mouth warm and soft as it pressed against mine, her kisses hastening as she removed my jeans. I unbuttoned and unzipped her pants and closed my eyes as she fell over me, impossibly light, like someone barely there although we were flesh to flesh.

As if sensing some doubt in me about who was taking the lead, Sabine stretched my arms out and began a caressing journey starting with my palms, working inward. When she arrived at my left breast, she clasped it delicately with her right hand and began to knead softly as if her hand could speak to what lay beneath. Her left arm went around my neck, and she grabbed the back of my head, gazed into my eyes, and kissed me deeply, her tongue probing as her right hand traveled to my pubic bone. She parted my legs, ran her middle finger along my wetness, tasted it, and then went down on me.

I had not until then ever had oral sex with a woman, at least that I recalled. There had been New Orleans and one or two boys before then. How did I avoid having to give guys head in the Village? My wiles combined with luck, I think, and occasionally meeting people who actually cared about what happened to me. 

Sabine was clearly well versed in bed. This was her language. The curious sensation of her tongue on my clit, less insistent than the dwarf’s, more tender, like a constant question, grew into something deeply sensual, then electric. She came up to kiss me again as intensely as she had been below, and I tasted my own self, like something fresh and raw not quite of the sea, surrounded by the scent of flowers. I’d never tasted a woman before and wondered why I had not thought to try. 

Sabine’s tongue rotated around my nipples, making them grow hot, and suddenly I did not want this to stop, like I could not stop. The realization made me feel a rush of fear, which blended with the growing excitement between my legs. Sabine’s mouth still worked, two fingers massaging deep inside, moving slowly, deeper. Every time I thought she would speed up, she slowed down, manipulating the waves of my feeling. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she began saying as if alerting me to something. “Oh,” I said, “oh,” grabbing her head and pressing her into me while my legs, seemingly of their own accord, wrapped around her.

Until then, having an orgasm had not crossed my mind. But after being with Sabine, all I wanted to do when I had sex was come. Coming with a partner made sex worth having again. It would be the key connecting me to partners, making sex no longer a mere check off or experience to add like a notch, but a mystical thing, an uncharted territory of bliss where I recharged my soul while melding with another.

Arya F. Jenkins's poetry, flash, short stories and essays have been published in many journals and zines. Her short stories have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and this year a nomination for the Best of the Net Anthology. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks and a short story collection, Blue Songs in an Open Key (Fomite, 2018). Her mixed genre novel, Punk Disco Bohemian, was published by NineStar Press this September. A second collection of short stories, Angel in Paris & Other Stories, is due out in 2022. You can follow Arya through her blog @ aryafjenkins.blogspot.com.

Pushing Buttons

Wynward H. Oliver

“There’s Jerry! Lower the cruise window!” I exclaimed, as I rushed to pull down the plastic roller shade affixed to the window of the flower shop’s back door.

Because the design room faced the parking lot and received full afternoon sun, one of the previous owners had installed a shade that was mirrored on the outside to shield the shop from the heat and glare. Little did they know, this sunscreen also served as a handy one-way mirror that allowed lecherous gay floral designers to ogle hot passersby without being seen. 

Roman’s designer’s pocketknife fell from his hand, and my boss was by my side in a flash, taking in every inch of the young-hung-and-full-of-cum owner of the trendy new restaurant three doors down from Aunt Nell’s.

“And he’s with that hussy Minerva,” I hissed.

“Listen good, Wyn.” Roman withdrew the corsage pin from his mouth and brandished it for emphasis. “If you ever get that number in the sack, I want to hear every detail. Take notes if you have to.

“And I suppose I’ve told you this before, but it bears repeating: If you ever get a chance to bed Jerry or any other straight stud, don’t be gentle. You push all of his buttons—buttons he doesn’t know he has. Don’t be nice, don’t be shy, and don’t let him go until either you or he are chock full o’ nuts. Use him like it’s your only chance with him.

“And chances are,” Roman added omnisciently,” he’ll be back for more.”

That was years ago, but I never forgot Roman’s advice. 

Miguel was a wiry border brother in his early 20s, who lived in what was essentially a shed behind the garage of our next-door neighbor and gardener. Miggy had a face only a mother could love, but I still loved how skinny he was and how his sagging, oversized basketball shorts always exposed his checkered Pro Club boxers. 

Miggy was the only guy with whom I cheated on my husband Luis, but this dalliance doesn’t even count because I’ll forever maintain that sudden sex with a straight guy isn’t a betrayal; it’s an obligation. To squander the rare opportunity to score with a hetero ranks as a gay cardinal sin. Roman would turn pirouettes in his grave if I ever foolishly put fidelity before fellatio when it came to feasting upon such forbidden fruit.

Besides, how can I ignore the boy next door?

Though he’d lived next to us ever since Luis and I moved into our first home, I didn’t see Miggy very often. One time while we were barbequing carne asada in our back yard, Miggy called to us and passed two icy bottles of Corona over the fence to wash down our comida. Luis whispered that we should invite him over, but Miggy’s broken English was the last thing I wanted to contend with during a luxurious summer meal. Luis’s parents only speak Spanish when I’m over, and I needed a break from truncated conversation.

We were in the middle of having a new roof put on our house the next time I had an interaction with Miggy that consisted of more than a “What’s up?” and a nod. Our leaky roof already had three existing layers and couldn’t take the weight of another. This meant all the old roofing had to be removed before a new one could be installed and required a whole crew of guys—none of whom was remotely cute, except for the hot Hispanic jefe who had me in heat—to do the dirty work. 

It was already a scorcher of an August day, but to keep out the clouds of dust and debris, I had to shut every window and close every curtain in our air-conditioned-less house. This made the rooms stifling and dark. The constant pounding from above made it deafening as well. 

While I was standing on the driveway marveling at the different colors of roofing previous owners had installed, Miggy sauntered by, uncharacteristically chatty. This was another time when Miggy’s presence came at an inopportune time, but this kid seemed to have nowhere to be. Never remotely flirty before, that day Miggy kept casually lifting his muscle shirt to rub his naturally smooth washboard abs. (I know they’re called a six pack—or even an eight pack—these days, but my mind always reverts to a more homespun description. Suffice it to say, you could clean your cleats on Miggy’s stomach.) 

Was Miggy’s manly gesture simply due to the dog day afternoon, or could it possibly be—be still my foolish heart—intentional enticement?

Miggy had a hungry look in his eyes that sweaty summer afternoon. I decided it was high time to pay him back for the beers he’d given Luis and me, and I invited him inside for a couple of cold ones. 

As we sat in my living room, Miggy and I shot the shit and took shots of tequila in lieu of ordinary cerveza. He was obviously in some sort of celebratory mood, and after loosening him up with a couple of shooters, I found out why: Miggy was snorting cocaine on his day off and feeling on top of the world. He then laid out a few fresh lineas on my glass coffee table and, like the baller he fashioned himself to be at the moment, rolled up a fifty for us to sniff up the snow. 

That poor kid probably only had fifty dollars to his name, but I was going to make sure this was a day he’d remember. Luis was at work, and I was on summer break from teaching. We had all the time in the world. 

And I was ready.

If the phone sex lines had taught me anything, it was that every gay man has a story about how they’ve bedded their sexy cousin, teammate, homeboy, or handyman. Sometimes all four! 

Yet I was always incredulous: Is it really that easy to get a straight man to let you suck his cock? 

Plus, it wasn’t like I hadn’t already tried to no avail to get each hot employee of the phone, cable, gas, and electric companies to linger over a refreshing beer. You service my house, I service you. 

Luis and I are extremely infrequent drinkers, and a six pack of suds will sit in our fridge untouched for six months. Still, I always make sure we’re stocked, just in case cock-portunity knocks. As for the shots Miggy and I were downing, mine were actually performed as extremely small sips, but Miggy was way too lit to notice my teetotaling. I needed to keep my wits about me. 

I’d also long ago proactively purchased a used DVD entitled “Girls Who Gush.” That filthy movie sat unwatched for years in our movie collection, hidden from Luis in a case on which I’d written “Best of Barbra,” sure Luis would go nowhere near that one. So that’s the flick I slipped into the DVD player after I casually asked Miggy if he wanted to watch “this crazy porno I found.” I was faithfully following the m.o. of the queers before me who swore that all it took was alcohol and porn to get things poppin’ with a straight guy. 

As I watched in horror as slovenly girl after slovenly girl shot streams of pussy juice onto the faces and into the mouths of equally unappealing guys, I finally glanced over at Miggy, slouched on the far end of the divan. He was absently watching the porno, and (Leapin’ Lizards!) he was grabbing his obviously-erect dick through his blue knock-off Nike basketball shorts.

When he caught my gaze, I also grabbed my cock and gave Miggy a look that said, Right, homie? This vid is making me caliente, too! Then I went right back to watching my new favorite film. 

I waited what seemed an eon to make my next smooth move. I looked back at Miggy, who was thankfully still fondling himself. I gestured to him that it’d be perfect etiquette for him to just whip it out and handle his scandal.

Which he did. 

I admired the long and skinny (like Miggy himself!) uncut paisa pito I always knew he was packing, but I only gazed long enough to ensure Miggy was fully into this mutual masturbation sesh. Remember, I was supposed to be into the gush, not the guy.  So I took out my own prodigious piece, and we both slow stroked ourselves while the snatches on the screen continued to spew.

Then, bravely but steadily, I began my approach to Miggy’s side of the sofa. As my knees landed softly upon the rug, I yanked down his boxers, buried my face in his freshly-showered crotch, and proceeded to “help out my homeboy,” which is the prison euphemism for magnanimously giving head to an ostensibly aloof but inwardly all-too-eager straight cellmate. 

(The White boys on the phone lines tend to use the term “behind closed doors,” while the Latinos also say, “whatever happens, happens,” in order to calm a hesitant, homophobic partner. It’s always hoped that any one of these choice phrases will prevent cold feet. The last thing you want as you’re making your move is for your hetero hottie to suddenly freak and back away with his palms at his shoulders to firmly deny, “Nah, nah, homie, I’m good. I ain’t like that. I ain’t into that gay shit,” and ruin everything.)

Alone in our own sweltering cell of my sunken living room, Miggy began to raise his own hands. My trepidation was quelled, however, when they went straight to the back of his neck, his head fell back, his eyes closed, and his cuerpo leaned into the cabeza I was giving him. In due time, we two Latin lovers settled into our silent gentlemen’s agreement: 

Venit. Absorbuit me. Non vicit. (He came. I swallowed. We conquered.) 

To his credit, there wasn’t a hint of weirdness between us afterward. Miggy simply pulled up his panties, collected his baggie of blow, and went on his very merry way. 

A gay sacrament if there ever was one.

I waited a respectable twelve minutes after Miggy’s departure to go back outside to inspect the roofing situation. I didn’t want the workers to think I was running a teenage brothel! (Or did I?)

I couldn’t get back inside fast enough because blue balls were setting in due to the fact that I hadn’t cum yet. Right to the phone sex lines I ran, not merely to find some release but to crow about what I’d just pulled off.

I was in the midst of regaling one of my loyal bator bros when the doorbell rang. 

Ug! What could the dang roofers want?

Up went my panties now, as I reluctantly hung up and answered the door. 

It was Miggy! 

Back for more!!! 

Exactly thirty-six minutes later. 

Now that’s what youth (and cocaine) can do for your libido.

Of course, that’s precisely what Roman foretold. I dutifully pushed all Miggy’s buttons, I wasn’t shy, and look what it got me: Round two!

Shot, shot. Snort, snort. Slurp, slurp, slurp. I felt like Debbie Does Durango herself. Mi alacrán came even more than the first time and left just as satisfied. 

As Miggy again departed my casa blanca, I reckoned with anticipation this was the start of a beautiful friendship. Roman always bragged about his “doorbell trade,” which is what he called the gaggle of previous hook ups who’d each randomly show up at his townhouse doorstep at any hour of the night for some more action. Roman was an Indian giver in its truest form.

But a regular trick, who’s also your next-door neighbor? It doesn’t get more user-friendly than that! I tend to be a lazy lay, preferring to be serviced and worshiped. So if I was going to have to really put out, at least I wouldn’t be put out with Miguel living oh, so close by. 

Sadly, Miggy’s cocaine habit swiftly spiraled out of control. When he broke into our gardener’s main house and stole whatever he thought he could sell, Miggy was cast onto the streets and was never heard from again. 

Even so, every time the doorbell rang for years afterward, I secretly hoped it’d be Miggy pushing my button.

Wynward H. Oliver is a writer and retired educator living in Los Angeles with his husband of twenty-six years and their two adorable doggies. His memoir, His memoir, Playing with Myself: The Meanderings of a Mind and a Man in the Making, is nearing completion. Contact Wyn via email at hextor@att.net. Also visit Wyn’s blog, PlayingWithMyselfBlog.wordpress.com and follow him on Twitter @WynwardOliver.

Oh Yes!

By Hala Dika

“No,” she said, as the subway rumbled above us, “Don’t tell me your name.” She turned me to the wall, lifted up my hands, lifted the hair dangling on my shoulders, and gently kissed the baby tufts at the base of my neck. A sweet erotic thrill shivered up my spine. She turned me around and slowly kissed my lips. “Where do you live?” She whispered in my ear. “Brooklyn,” I said, after regaining my powers of speech. “Too far,” she said, kissing me again, “Let’s go to my place.” She grabbed my hand and led me up the steps, correctly assuming that I had no will to resist. She could have led me to the third circle of hell.

Were there people on the train? I can’t remember. She faced me and cupped both hands in hers. There was an entire universe orbiting her black eyes; planets circling the sun, meteors, comets streaking with explosive tails. And then we were slow dancing on Saturn’s illuminated ring, going round and round in dizzying ecstasy, a slow Jazz Noir emanating romance from the stratosphere. Were there people on the train? Were there people anywhere? Empires fell in shame at the curve of her hips, the soft flesh of her waistline, the drooping perfection of her bottom lip. 

We stopped several times on the way up, famished. We never made it to the bedroom, as she lay me down, removing each particle of clothing in a slow tease, and then introducing me to the fine art of tribbing, slow and sensuous, till the orgasm rose, multiple, and spread across every part of my body, finding its exquisite relief in the coddles of my worn out heart. And I thought, if the bomb is ever to hit, let it hit now. Then we pulled down the shades and made love again. Desperately this time, like we were at war with a reality that didn’t belong to us, didn’t want us. Just waiting out there, to destroy us. And that’s how we knew it was love.

“Promise me,” I said in the throes of passion, “You’ll never leave me. Lie to me baby.”

“Never, never,” she said, her wet lips lingering somewhere around my belly button. 

“I don’t want anyone else to look at you…I don’t want the sun to shine on you unless I’m there.”

“It won’t baby. I’ll blot it out if it tries…”

I fell asleep, gripping her torso, my head gently held to her chest.

I opened my eyes around noon, to the scent of freshly brewing coffee. I sat straight up and hurried toward the kitchen. I missed her face already. I got a big bright smile for my exertions, and sat right down; happy as a child. Bending down to pour me a cup, her hair lightly brushing my cheek, I asked, “Can I have your name now?”

Sweet mischief animated her features, “Ana.”

After a playful pause, I said, “Well? Don’t you want to know mine?”

She laughed… “Course.”

“Layla.”

“Mmmm…Lay-la.” It rolled off her tongue like a dirty prayer. “So what shall we do today my love?”

That my love caught me so sweet and unawares, my entire body swam with butterflies. The kind that used to follow me around when I was a kid. Before I knew anything about myself. One night, I thought, and a whole new world. No more shame in needing pleasure. Enjoying pleasure. How dull all the men I’d known seemed to me now, with their eminently predictable masculine roles and feminine projections. I nearly wept for all the wasted years under their crippled, insecure, thumbs, always pretending to be what they wanted. Ana walked over, put an egg on my plate, and gave me a kiss which wiped out the entire, blighted, history.

“So? Have you decided yet?”

I grinned. “I believe Central Park is where lovers go.”

“Central Park it is.” She said, with a sly look that almost made me change my mind.

Thank God for New York, where we could ride the whole way holding hands, being as romantic as any other couple. They were doing Shakespeare in the Park. We sat in line, nuzzling. Nothing could have brought us down; best friends and lovers, Jesus, was there anything more? Anyone could see how in love we were. It wasn’t long before all the couples were nuzzling, waiting on Romeo and Juliet, under a light mist and a pink sky. 

I turned to Ana, “Did we do that?”

“I think we did baby. The only thing missing is Gene Kelly swinging from a lamppost.” She looked into my eyes, “Are you happy?”

“Very.”

“Good,” she said, with the slightest sliver of doubt, which made my heart beat with terror. 

We kissed and a woman jeered. But what was a jeer to me, nothing more than an ignorant blip. Then Ana put her tongue in my ear and I didn’t think so much. 

The performance was good…I think? It was the first time I’d sat way in the back and made out the whole time. Poor Shakespeare. His genius was no match for the softness of Ana’s lips. We left early, during Mercutio’s monologue, even though he was my favorite; my intellect on permanent holiday. 

She grabbed my hand and ran me to the closest subway. To the apartment. Up the stairs. She put on an old, slow, jazz record. Threw me on the bed. Took off my pants. Rolled down my cotton panties. She was only down there a minute, before I came. Then I flipped her over and returned the favor. After that, we decided ever going out again would just be a waste of time, since we both seemed to be terminally hot and bothered.

We spent one night apart. When I came back, Ana was gone. I waited on her stoop like a lost dog, everyday for a week. Finally, I went home, pulled down the shades, and cried for a month, my yearning body in lover’s detox. Every empty orgasm in her memory made me feel even worse, her sweet body amputated from mine like an arm or leg. The faint, sensuous brush of her teasing lips, phantom; driving me mad. 

6 Months Later

A party I almost didn’t go to. There she was. Across the room, talking to a blonde. My heart thumped in my ear drums. Then it sank, as she noticed me, then completely ignored me. My groin began to throb. Oh yes baby, I thought, be good and cruel to me, it only makes me want you more. But then she began fondling the blonde’s necklace and grinning, like she knew I was watching, and the tears fell fast and hot. I turned and ran out into the thundering night. 

I didn’t get far before I heard someone running after me. I knew it was her, because the hair at the back of my neck stood up. She grabbed my hand and spun me around. I smacked her, hard, “Bitch!” She locked her arms around my waist. I struggled to get free, “No! Fuck you…fuck you…let go goddamit!”

“Not until you let me explain!” She said.

“Why should I!” She let me beat her until we were both out of breath, our foreheads glued together, panting. “Where were you?” I asked, my hands slowly tightening around her skull.

“Paris,” she said, “I needed some time to think.”

“About leaving me!” I said, shaking her, “Huh?”

“Yes…at first.”

“Why!” 

“It was…”

“What!”

“It was too intense! OK!...I couldn’t handle it…”

“And now?” I asked, my lips desperate to meet hers. 

She slid her head down to my stomach in apology, “Never baby. Never again I swear,” she whispered onto the exposed flesh surrounding my belly button. 

I pulled at her wet, black, hair aggressively. 

“Oh yes baby,” she submitted, while gently kissing her way across my waistline. “Punish your momma. Take her home and punish her good.”

And so I did. In agonizingly slow writhings and dirty recriminations…until she screamed so loud, the neighbors called the cops.

Hala Dika is a poet and writer. Her first collection of poetry, Re-evolution, was published in 2010, and is available on Amazon.

Serving the Gods

Deep within the woods, there’s a cave hidden next to a river. It’s not on any map, so most will never find it.

It’s a four-day hike from the closest town. The only entrance can be found by wading through the currents. Any bags, any clothing or supplies will be ripped off by the jagged rocks and swept away by the river. It’s foolish to swim after the supplies, but I can’t say it’s not foolish to keep wriggling inside.

There’ll be a soft glow against the cavern walls from the lightning bugs reflecting against the diamonds. The rocks will become smaller until the ground grips like sand. The gold, silver, and jewels will glint all round. No sacks, no pockets, leaves nowhere for any keepsakes, so, as the air thins and the dazzling brightens, breath will flow in and out a little slower. Each step deeper into the cave will take a little longer. A sense of allurement will coat the inside of the lungs. A sheen will slip around the body.

“You have found Olympus,” he’ll say. “At least what’s left of it.”

At first, the voice will seem like it comes from nowhere, but then his silhouette will tense and all of him will appear as if by magic. He’ll be giant, but not frightening, for every speck of light that skips across his skin will be too fleeting — every move or turn of his head will hurt to witness such symmetry.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he’ll say.

Cold, metal cuffs will appear around your wrists and ankles. They’ll tighten until they feel as if a part of your skin. He’ll stand from his throne, and you’ll notice the silver hair mixed in with the black across his muscles. His jaw will clench around his coarse beard. His eyes will glow with the intensity of a sun and force you to break your gaze. The cuffs will yank your legs and arms into an X. Your periphery will blur as more gods appear from the walls of the cavern, but all you’ll notice is the size of his cock. You will have no doubt that it will destroy you, but you won’t be able to move.

Your body will gravitate closer in its locked form. He’ll say, “No mortal who comes here will survive when they leave, and I am but a god.”

But I didn’t care. From that moment on, I would serve the gods.

Solomon Robert is a gay man living in Seattle, Washington. He's been published in the official zine for Dungeon Crawl Classics. He writes gay fantasy, erotica, and contemporary fiction. His book, The Sunken City, will release on November 19th, 2021. Follow him on Instagram @SolomonRobrt to find out more about his current projects and to stay up to date. For more information please visit his webpage. www.solomonrobert.com

IN THE MOUTH

Tassels sway from pillows and chairs are peaked with little gold balls. Plastic potted plants sit under hanging lamps with heavy golden chains. If I did not know better, I’d be convinced my periodontist was gay but he wears that wedding band like a badge. I figured as much anyway; football player’s shoulders, trim waist, huge forearms. I know he plays tennis; so deft at the net there is no hint of the savagery in his hands.

I enter the waiting room to find him pressed close to the receptionist behind the desk. I am convinced he is banging her between patients. He calls out a happy hello and I feel my tongue stiffen. He skates to his examining room and I follow for my monthly scraping.

“I don’t scrape,” Dr. Gilford says. “A gynecologist scrapes.”

He ties a blue bib around my neck and tilts me in the chair so I am sprawled before him. Piped music lullabyes us and the examination light oozes ultra violet sun tan rays. The walls are pink and the equipment, even the sink, is blue. Romantic paintings overhang instrument cabinets of teak. The leather on the chair is so soft, it caresses my ass deliciously.

“Open!”

2

I stretch my mouth wide and he probes with a sharp hook, plunging into my tender gums, measuring the depth of new damage. He grinds across the surface of my teeth with an excruciating noise, loosening the dirt in tiny swipes, spearing rotten food particles, forcing his way into the clogged spaces – pushing, pulling, tearing.

“Jesus! How could you get so stained in a single month? Look at this, it’s like a swamp in here. How do you expect me to get this all off?”

He looms over me so that I can stare up his nostrils. I see his bush of dark hairs dotted with wetness, the puffy pink skin filled with veins and the secret black holes leading into his body. When he criticizes me, my eyes fill with tears because I have such a crush on him.

“I see new pockets forming. They’re going to get re-infected, just like before. You keep up the coffee and cigarettes, I’ll have to cut away more gum.”

“Oh, Doctor Gilford, no!”

I have undergone four savage operations in the last three years. He has torn apart my mouth, ripped away tender, infected skin, patched me back together again. Each operation has taken forty minutes with my jaw and eyes wide open, my tongue weighted with cotton to absorb the flow of blood. Through the anaesthetic, I have felt the movement of his scissors, the tug of his pliers, the delicate pressure of his needle. He has made me stretch my mouth to the tearing point so he could shove his instruments into the back of my head. I could hear the skin being pulled free, feel the sudden spurt of blood, the angry pulsing of my body in rebellion against this rape.

3

Each month, I return to be scraped and, if I dare complain, he threatens me with more surgery. He has me at his command now. I am a rat being put through reflex training. And always, I come back for more.

“You’re going to lose every one of these teeth. That’s what will happen to you. By the time you’re thirty five. Because you don’t take proper care of yourself!”

I have pyorrhea and my gums are decaying, shriveling away from my teeth. Hot tobacco smoke, liquor, caffeine, bits of food have eroded my gums and are gnawing into the bone. I have ground my teeth too often, chewed too much, sucked too hard. I am eating myself up alive. My secrets, my fears, my poisoned saliva have turned my teeth loose and brown. They rattle in my mouth.

“Have you been brushing?”

I nod.

“How many times a day do you brush?”

“Three,” I lie.

“And flossing afterwards?”

“Of course.”

“Oh yeah?” he attacks. “How do you explain the egg on your teeth from this morning’s breakfast?”

All my secrets are exposed. Nobody knows me like he does. 

4

When I was thirteen years old, I got trench mouth from blowing Carmine Mazzelli on the roof of our building and my gums have never stopped bleeding. The dentist smeared me purple and it disappeared. My mother warned me to keep my mouth shut but I did not listen. He could be found every night, hanging around the drugstore on the corner and every time he motioned me to the roof, I went. Soon enough, the trench mouth returned and the doctor smeared me purple again but, by that time, I was hanging around the corner, waiting for him.

Dr. Gilford’s hook has caused bleeding and I can feel the slimy ooze in my mouth, the creeping wetness that circles the roots of my teeth. He shoves cotton between my lip and my gum and I suck quickly on the grainy hide of his finger. He pretends not to notice. I pretend I didn’t do it.

Carmine was short and stocky, compact and muscular, dark haired, ugly, always squinting – perhaps he needed glasses. We were both poor. We lived in the projects. Glasses would have been a luxury to his parents just like, as my mother continually explained, my trench mouth was costing a fortune to mine.

His cock was like the rest of him, short but thick, always hard, red at the tip, ugly and tense. I tried not to look at it, or at him. I kept my eye closed. The sky was beautiful on the roof at night, so different from the ugly streets, from our depressing apartment, from the piss stained stairwells. Still, every time I saw him on the corner and followed him into the building, up the stairs to the roof, out onto the tar, hot in the summer, icy in winter, under the stars, without a word, I sank to my knees and he pulled it out. I shut my eyes so I missed all the beauty.

5

Dr. Gilford is digging out one ancient curdle after another and, with each discovery, he waves his tool in triumphant disgust.

The quiet on the roof was amazing. From the time we got there till the time he came - absolute silence. Maybe the noise from the street travelled up that far but I never heard it. Never, once, did I hear a fire engine screech while I was blowing Carmine. The world stopped.

In bed afterward, trying to sleep, I heard everything: my mother complaining, my father shouting, the flushing, the snorting, the farting, the whines, people on the streets, music from open windows, police sirens, dogs. My father complained to my mother – probably about me. My mother shushed him. Eventually, they fell asleep but, even then, I heard every sound, running my tongue up and down the inside ridges of my teeth which produced its own grating noise.

I jabbed my tongue into the spaces between teeth, playing that the tongue was locked in and trying to get out. I created suction and drew little pieces of lip into the cracks between the teeth, holding them there till it hurt. Sucking on saliva, I could taste blood from my irritated gums. I tore at myself in tiny bites until my mouth was a burning hellhole and red drool dripped on the pillow. Moaning, clamping a hand over my jaw, I held my mouth open to let the cool air in. In the morning, the sheet was stained. How was I supposed to hide it from my mother?

Dr. G. has a machine which grinds away at the stain in rapid whirls and, as he brings it toward me, it quivers in his hand like the tail of a rattlesnake. I press my elbow into the hardness of his belly and search for the mound where his pubic hair might start. He smells grainy and dark like Carmine did and a knot of desire forms in my groin.

6

There are sections of my teeth that have been worn so thin that the nerves show blue below the surface and, as he scoots over them with his treacherous toy, it is hard not to yelp from my seat. The noise sends shivers up my spine. I close my eyes but the friction causes smoke and the machine continually squirts cool water and I cannot ignore the stench of burning garbage wafting from my mouth.

“Wanna take a break?’ he asks. I am too paralyzed to answer. Despair blankets my vision. By my sob-like gasps for air, I express my gratitude for the reprieve.

“Wash out,” he says. Too pained to express desire, I turn my head limply toward his crotch and wish I could gulp mouthwash from his cock.

Edward M. Cohen's (he/him) story collection, "Before Stonewall," won the Awst Press Book Award and was published in June. His novel, "$250,000," was published by G.P. Putnam's Sons. His "A Visit to my Father with my Son" appears in Running Wild's 2020 Novella Anthology. His story, "Peroxide Blonde," won the 2020 Key West Tennessee Williams Prize.

Neil Lavey was born in New York City in 1958, and grew up in Dobbs Ferry N.Y. He graduated Cooper Union 1981, He worked in advertising for 12 years before returning to fine art. His mediums include drawing, painting, sculpture, photography and Photoshop.

He has had some great teachers and mentors over the years; including Reuben Kadish, Hans Haake, Stephen Rogers Peck,
Robert Beverly Hale and D.C . comic book artist Irv Novick who was a friend and neighbor. His teaching experience includes:Life & Figure drawing classes at the Ramsey Adult School (in Ramsey N.J.) for 3 years, as well after school programs for Sleepy Hollow Middle School (in Sleepy Hollow N.Y.) and he teaches privately as well.

Currently he has a studio at 145 Palisade St. in Dobbs Ferry N.Y. His work has been seen in The Leslie Lohman Gallery and The Sacred Body Arts Gallery in N.Y.C, as well as the ICON gallery and the Ron Fowler Galleries of Provincetown M.A. He has also had work exhibited at the Rockland Center for the Arts , The Edward Hopper House in Nyack N.Y. , The Blue Door Gallery in Yonkers N.Y., and the Upstream Gallery in Hastings on Hudson, N.Y. Gallery 66 in Cold Spring N.Y. and his one person show 'Gods & Monsters' at the H Gallery in Peekskill N.Y.

bare feet

the limits of our body

gay foot fetish

worship his feet

or so they say

bare foot 

bare feet

feet are soft 

from socks

bare feet

kind of a cool phrase and plenty of cock

I see the limits of my own body

the limits of

my biology

feet

fucking men’s feet

I don’t know why

it’s like getting turned on

by a guy’s butt

arousing yourself by

a foot job

rubbing your cock between his toes 

make him cum pretty hard

to walk barefoot on the blade

of a knife

there’s no pleasure there

no truth to be found

I’ll tell you that

love is not deeply embedded

in our flesh

it’ll be hard to believe in gay love anyway

rubbing your dick

between his toes

your bare feet not in shoes

watching him walk

in tennis shoes 

the chaos of sex

of gay sex

sexuality

his nice feet

I tell myself it’s not that important

sex isn’t

but I know it affects me

and the path that I walk

my bare feet on the grass

as I run

my feet are bare

like my bare ass

too much of my body

is a bad thing for me

or too much of a good thing

bare feet and bare cock

and walking on the grass

or having your feet massaged 

I guess I like taking off my socks

the smell or the feel

ankle socks sexy like

white

tight underwear

highlighting his ass cheeks 

my butt

fucking fucked

hard by

his penis

and plenty of his feet

bare crisp feet like

being naked in the wilderness

barefoot on the path

I want more of it

to really be someone

like running barefoot in the wild

it’s primal and important

there is a meaning there 

like just the right amount of good sex

my bare feet

are the most erotic.

Naked

I am naked and raw

before him

he takes off my clothes

touches me

gentle

sensual 

his touch is soft and I am strong

my erection thick 

I kiss him and nothing stops me

I kiss him and I feel real

naked dreams before us like loaded cock

hard and smooth

our bodies entwined and we are warm and cold

together

they want me to feel so much pain

but when I’m with him there is only

our skin touching skin

soft and alive

warm

they never wanted me to have this

but when he sticks me I don’t care

I just want to stay with him

stay with him always 

they tell me

you can’t be naked

to have that is to know nothing

of love

to lose innocence 

but I’ve been here before and I’ve felt it

I’m naked before the law

I’m naked before the world

and I judge for myself what I should do

he knows what’s in my heart and

he wants to know

he’s hungry so hungry

like a salivating wolf

we are raw like our wound

I get fucked hard and I don’t know

just feel good

just feel really good

he gets me and loves me deep

and I’m naked and I don’t want to be

anywhere else

he knows 

I’m raw

to have your body exposed

and for him to take pleasure with you

see all of you

touch you

play with your balls or check out your ass

he likes it when you’re naked

there’s no fear in the bed

just a gentleness and heart

a hunger and hungry lust

all the things that make life worth it

he fucks you because he knows it’s what you want

he knows what you need

and he won’t stop

feel good with him

you owe it to yourself

feel good with him

your mind is naked.

Phoenix currently lives in Salt Lake City. He is working to become a peer counselor. He writes every day, including poetry, fiction, and non-fiction, and has written ninety or so books, which has helped him navigate the difficult world; he's published about twenty of them, through the independent publisher Hybrid Sequence Media, as well as on his own. He likes running and biking, and he's always open to new experiences. He also plays guitar, and metal is his favorite musical genre. He hopes to capture his experience through his writing and poetry, and very much enjoys the creative process. He hopes to connect with others through his writing. He appreciates the many readers who have engaged with his books throughout the years. You can find his books @ www.amazon.com/Phoenix/e/B00QEL41LS

Upon the Size of My Love’s Balls (An Imitation of Herrick)

Have ye beheld (o quelle surprise!)

Two continents betwixt his knees?

Or else a wallop (double packed):

A cannon o'er two bombs ensacked?

Or ever marked the weighty swing

Of hammers thrown upon two strings?

Or compound eyes that seem to spy

From the gilded fly of his Levis?

So like this (long may I dote)

Is each ball in my love’s scrote.

Layne Walton (he/him/his) is a Shakespearean. “Upon the Size of My Love’s Ball (An Imitation of Herrick)” began as an assignment in an undergraduate British Literature course. The professor, a noted Jane Austen scholar, required metaphysical poems from each of his students; after reading the original handwritten copy of “Upon the Size of My Love’s Balls,” he asked its author, “May I keep this?”

”Kiss From A Vampire: The Seduction” 

He started from her groin and ran his fingers all the way up towards her thighs. He couldn’t resist the large white pieces of flesh and his tongue lolled out of his mouth and made its way towards her breasts. This creature, this beautiful creature who was once the same gender as he, made their acquaintance with each other at the leather flamingo- a joint full of queer bodies in lace and leather and a home to a nest full of transsexuals. He didn’t care that she was pre-op and still had her “boy parts” all he wanted was her and her big beautiful body. Her supple soft wide shoulders and her curvy voluptuous frame made him all the more harder. He wanted to ravage her like a wild mad beast but for some strange reason he felt a tenderness towards her that superseded his urge to kill. He didn’t travel all the way from Romania from his luxurious estate to “feel” anything for a mere human mortal. However, he did love once and maybe he could find love again in another girl – somewhere somehow. 

As he laid on top of her and stared longingly into her eyes, he felt something that he hadn’t felt since his trip to England. He reminisced about his love for another girl – Francesca. She was such a soft supple beautiful creature that he had ever laid eyes on. His love for her was unbound and unbreakable until that night his “gift” to her was destroyed and lost forever. His burning and viscous hatred for humankind started that night. But this was not the end nor would it be the last time he ever loved. 

She laid on the bed waiting for his warm embrace- her arms lay above her head and her legs loosely hanging off the ornate bed frame. The piece was made from luxurious gold and had a floral leaf motif on it. As he laid on top of her she was shocked to find that his skin was not warm but cold and icy – it was the coldest skin she had ever felt before. He kissed the inner parts of her fleshy thighs and made his way all the way up towards her white glistening breasts – he pulled down her white sheer tunic and began to suck on them with ferocity and intensity. His hands slipped up her dress and as he started to fondle her, her  nipples became harder from the sensation. His massive hands tore away the final pieces of her dress and threw them across the room – they landed on a brass image of the goddess Hecate. All he wanted in that moment was her and her body and that night he got it all. 

As he was about to cum his teeth tore into her flesh like razor blades and red crimson blood poured out of her like a fountain. He bit everywhere on her body and her flesh was pierced with hundreds of holes from his teeth. Chunks of her flesh were torn apart and gaping red holes were everywhere on her white porcelain body. As she gasped for air her eyes turned an ebony black and her teeth transformed into viper-like fangs. She was now the Queen of Vampires. Her eyes a soulless black – now she was the Queen of the accursed! Now she was his bride for the rest of eternity. 

Bree Black She/Her/Hers is a transgender poet and visual artist based in metro-Detroit Michigan. Her work is often dark and involves the otherworldly to evoke feelings of horror and terror.