Wicked Gay Ways

Wicked Gay Ways, Summer 2020 Issue

Dear Reader: Welcome to our summer 2020 issue. We are delighted to feature a wide range of work by USA based writers as well as writers and artists from Malaysia/New Zealand, Australia, and France, all working in a wide range of genres and writing styles, as well as the work of four visual artists with some very different approaches not only to their craft but to subject matter as well.

Instead of Touching

do it like this

sigh prophecy

into her lips

she is a silken memory

tall musky desert

with a strip of rain along index 

and middle finger

weigh the base of 

any hand held device

like a heart or phone

hear my warm evening

drip into her 

thigh lick 

me into the ocean

without moving wet 

socks and downward dogs

only travel alongside

magic

and goose bumps, here

materiality is always in the way

make sourdough bread instead of 

a poem called a poem i wrote instead of touching isabella and

it obviously sucks because ultimately you are not touching isabella when you should be touching isabella

bark with thirty strangers on the internet

mute yourself to moan

google joan of arc for butch 

haircut inspiration 

masturbate again, let your

hormones howl now

unmute, let them eat

transcendent light pouring

all over her smell in your sigh

let them hear 

you want

her smell 

in your 

thigh

go darling go

do it like this without touching

go by swirling sky go by buoyant kiss

and take with you the eagerness

of my submission

Amanda Monti is a cross-disciplinary poet and translator from Germany based in Queens. They use performance, sound and divination to create spaces for inter-species encounter and tenderness.Their current project, Spore-radical is a multi-media manuscript of poetry, sculpture and sound work, recorded in Ridgewood, Queens. Amanda holds an MFA in Writing from the Pratt Institute and has recently published a deck of Tarot cards, called Weed-Kin: for Poetic Worlding. You can find them on Instagram as @prawnstarpoems.

ode to mystic black bottoms 

who seek concentricity 

in the flicker of bursting bone

and believes one's marrow

a constellation of sinewy intricacies

safe guarded from sight. 

hand me a map of your matter

to treasure, 

please.

i dare to be consumed. 

you speak the language 

of the seventy senses 

like trees speak 

with their many leafy tongues 

absorbing always such

intangible information,   

or like an amoeba engorged 

after enveloping a delicious knowledge.

you rock and circle it, 

learn this longing, 

seek the tip 

of the drum — you

all feeling and loam,

all shudder and moan.

Keesean Moore is a writer and vintage dealer currently living in Brooklyn, NYC. His work has appeared in “Scalawag” Magazine, “Metal” Magazine and elsewhere. The Moore Vintage Archive, his vintage company, is a chic advocate donating a portion of sales to organizations fighting for positive social reform. 

Man of my dreams

He has a toned body, with abs. I run my hands down his bare chest. I’m getting hard. We kiss – hot, wet kisses with lots of tongue. He kisses my neck, and I run my hands through his dark wavy hair. His kisses move down my chest to my stomach, he licks my belly button, and then goes lower. I’m now very hard, and he takes me in his mouth, moving up and down rhythmically, his tongue teasing me occasionally. He goes deep until I can feel the back of his throat. When I can’t take it anymore, I turn him around and ride him like a stallion until we both climax.

It is amazing. I open my eyes, still breathless. I am alone with my hands down my pants. It’s great by myself. My brain knows best what turns me on, and there’s no need for awkward conversations afterwards.

Yen Chang is a writer from Malaysia. She currently lives in New Zealand.

Single Occupancy

An accomplished wizard sauntered down the hallway toward the fourth-floor spell component closet. Sorrel’s magical shields were among the best in the tower, but after solving the problem of airflow, she now needed a way to adjust them to allow for manual dexterity. A surgeon would need to be able to grasp their tools through the barrier. The latest outbreak of plague had added urgency to her search for answers, as well as imposing limitations on her life outside of work. It had been months since she’d last taken a warm breast into her mouth, or pushed her favorite strapon into an inviting embrace.

But dwelling on it only made Sorrel more frustrated. She checked the stockroom door, with its “single occupancy” sign put in place to aid social distancing, and flipped the sign below to occupied, leaving the door ajar.

Sorrel surveyed the shelves of the potion stockroom. It smelled slightly spiced with a musky hint underneath. There were some new experimental potions on the freebie shelf. One in a tall flask caught her eye immediately, the bottle’s broad girth making it hefty for its size. Well, all these had been safety tested, and Sorrel wanted to see what her fellow mages were working on.

On impulse, she thumbed the stopper out and drank it. A liquid warmth began in her stomach and swirled throughout her body. She rolled her shoulders and stretched, basking in the feeling. As the warmth ebbed, an itching began, right where the black lace she was wearing beneath her inner robes cupped her skin. Sorrel fought off the impulse to put a hand up her robes to gently scratch between her legs. She’d left the door ajar and someone could walk by at any second! Sorrel started walking again, peering into boxes and checking labels on jars. Nothing she couldn’t resist.

A pendulous weight began to press against her underthings. Sorrel’s new penis strained more and more insistently against her now too-small underwear, and two more new additions began to spill out the sides. The lace rubbed her, starting a tingle from tip to base. Frantically, she glanced down the hallway. Seeing no one, she sent an urgent hand up her robes, hooked a finger around the waistband, and pulled off her underwear. Sorrel sighed with relief. She balled up the black lace and slipped it into a pocket. Later, Sorrel told herself. You have an important job to do. She turned to the reptile shelf, passing over a jar of swollen seed pods.

The potion, not yet finished, drew her out longer and longer. Sorrel could feel a novel, pleasant bounce with every step. The taste of rosehips crossed her tongue and another, more insistent, tingle began at the base of her new shaft. As she walked, spell components nearly forgotten, the front of her robes poked up as Sorrel became erect. She felt a warm heat in her stomach as she remembered just how long it had been since she’d been able to touch a lover’s midnight-soft skin. The thought sent blood rushing downward.

Sorrel bit her lip. Fear of discovery prickled her skin, but her arousal surged past it, burning away her resolve. She hurried over to the door and shut it, barely sparing a thought to hope her colleagues would read the sign or at least knock.

Sorrel touched her new penis gently, feeling its expectant firmness, and couldn’t stop herself from rolling her hips forward. She began to explore the new additions with one hand and then, urgently, with both. Rubbing the head lightly with one thumb produced a wonderful teasing pleasure. Sorrel wrapped a hand around her penis, her fingers barely touching on the far side. She tugged her hand along it and began to moan before she remembered where she was, her erection momentarily dipping.

Holding her robes up with the one hand, she felt around below with the other, and thumbed her new balls. Her touch tickled the hairs and brought her penis bobbing upward to where it nearly touched her stomach.

It had been months of the same bedtime routine, and Sorrel could restrain herself no longer. She pulled that black lace from her pocket with such urgency that two potion stoppers thumped to the ground, but she didn’t stop to see where they’d rolled. Sorrel wrapped her penis in cloth and gave it a long stroke that brought her to her knees. She rubbed it harder, getting faster as the warmth in her stomach grew hotter. The wizard bit her lip and gave it one, two more strokes before her vision went black as she peaked, relaxing into the wave as her stress eased.

Sorrel stood, carefully wrapping her dirty lace sticky-side-in and slipping it into one of the watertight spell reagent bags on the shelf. They’d certainly had odder things in them and, come to think of it, probably this exact thing previously. She dropped the bundle into her pocket, grateful that she’d remembered in time to not make a mess, and washed her hands at the storeroom sink. This new potion had its uses, she decided, making a mental note to leave an anonymous reply as she picked up her fallen potion stoppers.

Her head now clear, she quickly found the jar of shed snakeskin on the shelves and plucked out two fresh ones. Reagents in hand, Sorrel opened the door, flipped the sign to “unoccupied,” and headed for her workroom.

Social distancing, Sorrel reflected, had its upsides.

Kist Allnite is an activist and researcher by day, a writer by night, and an erotica writer by very, very late night. This is their erotica debut and first submission to Wicked Gay Ways, although they have experience with other late-night submissions of the variety that doesn’t require a laptop.

JUSTIFICATION

I stroll alone

along serene streamers of snow

slithering toward the end of time

beneath a sapphire canopy

a diamond coated hickory tree

sturdy and majestic

standing defiant against the cold

one day sliding into another

like a base runner tumbling into home

You look so delicate

when you’re dreaming

while I feel so empty

justification is just another

word for excuse

my goblet overflows with excuses

fuck justification

and the apology it sailed in on

redemption and salvation are better left to God

All I want is to be loved

for you to understand

my body is a woman’s body

and part of it is my penis

Barbara Marie Minney 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 poetry has been published in the "50th Anniversary Hessler Street Fair Poetry Anthology," "Women Speak: Volume 5: Women of Appalachia Project," "The Gasconade Review Presents: Ladies' Night," "Woman Scream: the International Poetry Anthology of Female Voices," and the "Voices of Real 4." Barbara’s first book of poetry, If There’s No Heaven, was published in May of 2020 by Poetry Is Life Publishing.

Quarantine Chronicles

It wasn’t a great surprise when the boss announced that we were closing the office because of the pandemic.  I packed the few personal items in my desk, said goodbye to my coworkers and headed for home.  Home was the second floor of a duplex on a street of old houses built in the first half of the last century when there was a need for quick, affordable housing.  To save space, each house was built only a few feet from its neighboring house.  Good, perhaps for a bit of interior light and some ventilation.  And social distancing.

After a few days at home, I realized how much I missed my colleagues at work and especially my drinking buddies.  In fact, my buddies were all friends with benefits and we hung out all the time.  I needed to find a way to survive the quarantine alone.

There was an extra room at home that I had never used for much but storage.  Several times I had made an effort to make it into a home office or a guest room.  I bought some furniture, but stopped.  I bought paint, but never started.  This room would be the project to keep me busy.

I began removing all the stuff stashed in the room, sorting it into piles to save, donate, or throw away.  Then I removed the furniture, the curtains and the blinds.  At that point, looking out the window for what seemed like the first time, I realized that the room of the house next door was nearly perfectly aligned with my own.  I couldn’t see in because of the reflection on the glass but there it was, only a few feet away.

I patched cracks, spackled holes, applied a coat of primer.  As I was moving around the room I noticed a young man looking out of the nearby window.  He waved and stepped away.  I wondered who he was; I’d never noticed him before.  The next day I applied two coats of paint.  By late afternoon the room was starting to look great.  I was washing the windows when I noticed the same young man looking out at me and mimicking my actions.  If I washed the window up and down, he pretended to do the same.  If I washed from side to side he imitated my actions.  Quirky but playful, I thought. 

The following day he reappeared holding a mask over his face suggesting that he was under quarantine.  I gestured that I was too.  Later I noticed a large banner in his window: “Are you free tonight at 10?”  I nodded yes and said to myself, “I’m under quarantine.  Of course I’m available at 10.”  Who was this guy, I wondered.  Not knowing exactly what to expect, I took a shower and put on clean clothes.

At ten I approached the window and he was already waiting, dressed simply in a pullover shirt and jeans.  With the interior lighting behind him, I could not see features, mostly the silhouette of a young man with broad shoulders, slim waist and curly hair.  He was moving slowly, sensually, seductively while removing his facemask.  Next he took off his shirt.  I imagine he had music but I didn’t need it.  I mimed his routine though not nearly as gracefully.  When he stopped dancing, both of us stood naked, facing each other across the social distance.  His lights went off but I sat in the dark, enjoying myself and imagining him still watching me from his window.   Perhaps we’d meet in person after the quarantine.

The next day, I finished moving things back into the freshly painted room and I was careful to include a comfortable chair and ottoman near the window.  No curtains or blinds yet.  A message soon appeared across the way:  “10?”  I responded with one that said, “Yes.”  

At ten I was already in my lounge chair but there was no light across the way.  Suddenly lights came on, silhouetting my neighbor holding a cocktail in his hand.  He took a swallow of his drink and pulled off his shirt.  Then he fished an ice cube out of the glass and began to rub the cube on his chest.  He was not overly muscular, but from what I could see, it was a handsome chest.  I began to rub my chest.  He suddenly stopped and made a gesture that clearly said, “Go get an ice cube.”  When I returned I began to pantomime his actions.  My right nipple was frostbitten and very erect before he moved to his left.  Finally, he let the cube slowly travel down his chest and trickle onto his stomach.  He didn’t have much ice left and I didn’t either.  He dried his hands on his pants and then stepped out of them.  I followed suit.  This was just the beginning of a long session that evening.  Suddenly, his lights went off.  Well, he’s sexy as hell from a distance.  I can’t wait to meet him in person, I thought.

At ten the next evening there were lights, but he was not visible.   However, there was a message in large block letters:  “You may not touch yourself tonight.”  When the lights went up, he appeared already naked.  I remembered that Queen Scheherazade had one thousand and one nights.  I didn’t know how long the quarantine would last, but I was enjoying it in the meantime.  I could not wait to continue.  Or to meet him in person.

There were no lights the next night.  Nor the next two.  I fear he might have gotten bored with me.  Worse, I fear he might have gotten sick.  And I don’t even know his name.

Mike Vega is a sometimes-employed writer living in the southwest.  He likes living there where, he says, “the weather is hot, the beer is cold, and my dogs love me.”

                      Corona Sex

I felt my body decomposing. Dr. Nelson’s office called, “Mathew, we’re calling all our patients. We won’t be doing your six-month teeth cleaning. It’s too risky for the hygienist to be going into your mouth.”

And coming up is another PSA blood test to monitor the suspicious prostate bump discovered during the biopsy. Will that be considered non-essential? Dr. Kim told me it wasn’t cancerous, but needs to be watched.

Last night a new calamity occurred. At 4:30 A.M. I got up to urinate. When I returned to bed my brain was dead of thought. Then gas pains took over. Sleepless position changes left to right to the my back brought zero relief.

Two hours later when I threw water on my parched face and crusted eyes, I could barely function. What is going on?

Sheltering down is taking its toll. I want to have sex but its risky. The masturbation sessions leave me iced. I long for my sex partner in crime Craig.

I call Craig a sex partner because we don’t love each other. Well we’ve never used that word. After we had sex the first time I said, “You are so attentive. I loved the way you kept asking me what I wanted. That you were willing to create my fantasy. I mean no one does that. I had a lover for fifteen years and we never ever talked about sex.”

“Why not? After fifteen years. I just can’t imagine doing the most intimate thing with another person and not discussing it.”

“We were afraid it wasn’t romantic. Maybe I didn’t want to hear I was doing something wrong.”

“Well get used to me and I expect you to be straight with me.”

Craig made me loosen up. It was my hallelujah moment.

I met Craig at AKBAR two years ago. The bar in East Hollywood was my home for performing short stories once a month. For five minutes I stood before a crowd of fifty and emptied my guts. Coming out at eighteen, dating nightmares, AIDS, and mother’s dementia get spilled. With a spotlight and microphone, I’m stoned.

After blistering clapping, a hand grabbed me as I walked to my seat.

“I loved your story. You are such a good writer. So honest.”

I blushed, “Thank you.”

His eyes are ocean blue with long lashes. He hasn’t let go of my hand. This guy is at least ten years younger than my sixty-three-years.

“I’m Craig. Can I buy you a drink?”

I follow him to the other side of the venue and perch myself on a bar stool. We share a ginger root beer. The ginger is percolating through the membranes of the mouth as we guzzle the drink.

The tingling on my lips extenuates as he leans forward to kiss my lips. I’ve hit the jackpot tonight.

The conversation went to films. When I tell him, my favorite film is Rosemary’s Baby he smiles and says, “I can watch that film over and over again. Never get tired of it. I hate admit another film I can rewatch multiple times is Sound of Music. Just don’t tell anyone.”

Instant soul sisters. I thought rapport at sixty was unfathomable. Craig was spontaneous.

“I want to hike in the Santa Monica mountains. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“I got us two tickets for Hamilton for tonight. The last ninety-nine-dollar seats. I know it’s the last minute. Come on Mathew. I’ll treat.”

And the music bug opened up with, “Have you heard the new Ed Sheeran song Perfect? I can’t stop listening to it. It’s my favorite song since John Legend’s All of Me.”

“You are such a romantic Craig. You would make a great lover.” His face turned red and then came back with, What’s Love Got to Do with It?”

Nine months into our affair, I started the I love you conversation.

Craig stopped me and said, “I know what you are going to say. Look, I’m not into relationships. I don’t want to live with you. And even if I did love you, I just can’t say the words. Because one day I might not love you so I’d rather not tell you. I don’t want to lie.”

I no longer fantasized that our connection would deepen. I shut off the emotional valve.

Still, I crumbled when Craig told me last month, “Mathew, I can’t see you. I’m too afraid of catching this disease. I have diabetes. That’s one of those underlying diseases.” What happened to this rambunctious man?

“I’m over sixty-five. That’s an underlying disease. I tested negative anyway. Can we at least hug good bye if you’re not even going to visit anymore?”

“I don’t know. It’s just too scary. I mean you keep going out to the store every day. You could me asymptomatic? I don’t want to take this risk. They don’t know if that test is accurate.”

I move in to hug despite his verbal protest but he backs away.

I plead, “I’m fine. Stop being such a baby. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

He turns around and says, “I’m going Mathew. Goodbye.”

I am able to pull on his loose heather shirt but Craig keeps moving. The friction begins unraveling as I hear the fabric tear. I try to grab his waist.

“Let go of me. Please get your hands off my shirt.” He scurries off and slams the door behind him.

My balance trips and I fall to the floor. A smoldering cry. Reduced to groveling. How can Craig turn on me?

The month without sex leaves me vacuumed. I require an outlet. Phone sex? Zoom sex? Internet porno? This is not going to work. I’ve got to evaluate the risks. Mutual masturbation would be better than nothing. NPR keeps talking about testing, anti-bodies and contact tracing. I feel shallow worrying about sex. It’s me. I want to gurgle with another life force.

Bars are shuttered. Where can I safely prowl? The beaches come to mind. I haven’t been to Zuma Beach in Malibu in twenty years. The southern end has that gay clothing optional section. This will be my quarantine field trip.

When I park off of Pacific Coast Highway, I hunt to find the trail. The I-phone GPS struggles for the location. I knew Siri was a straight woman.

I ask two masked fully clothed teenage boys carrying oversized pink towel for directions.

“You’ve got about a mile more to go. Be careful the rocks are treacherous. The tide is low now but make sure you leave before they rise in the late afternoon. You’ll never get back.”

When I arrive, the first image of nude men with colored masks sunbathing six feet apart makes laugh. After removing my clothes and spreading 50 sun-block over each particle of skin, I find a safe social distance spot for my towel. Laying on my back letting the sun gently bake me is paradise. A nap comes naturally until…

“Hi, do you have any extra sun-screen? I forgot mine. Don’t want to burn crisp.”

The blaring sun makes it impossible to see the face of the disturber of my sleep. But the rippling muscles in his arms and washboard stomach are all I need to get frenzied. I see a bald head and ravishes of acne on this unmasked marauder. I don’t need to glance at his genitals.

“Yes, I’ve got tons of sun-screen. Can I ask you something?” I ask him.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m embarrassed because I’m sweaty. Wanna go for a swim before you apply this stuff?”

“Are you O.K.?”

“You mean do I have the virus? I was tested last month and it came back negative. They did find antibodies. Must mean I had a mild case.”

“Why did you have the test? I thought you needed to complain about symptoms. Cough, fever, or trouble breathing.”

“I lied. I was going crazy worrying about it. Enough talking. I thought you wanted to swim.”

We plunged into ocean and let the foamy waves splash against us. I picture the smell and taste of him. I want to hug. I move towards him, begin dog-paddling and throw my arms around him. He starts shouting, “Yes, Yes, Yes”.

I won’t let go. He directs me to move to his back and thrusts me on his shoulders. The water pivots off my upper torso. The sun reflects off the ocean while to strap myself to his engine. Whooping and hollering. A thundering wave crashes against us as we tumble underwater. Sucking in salty water as we balloon towards the floor. Am I going to drown?

I am being yanked to the surface so I can gulp the oxygen. This superman has saved my ass. My mental state was rebooted.

Gordon Blitz has published work in The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, Issue #22 of Really Systems (2019), Fall 2019 Vitamin ZZZ, Free Verse Revolutions June 2019, Emeritus Chronicles (2019), and Senior Stories WEHO (2019) and My Life is Poetry (2008). Gordon signed a contract with Running Wild Press to have his novella Shipped Out published. He’s 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/

My Apple and I Turn Over

I submit to what nose knows of cinnamon

what bread needs of rising

then baking and breaking

to delectable crumbs of crust

and what does an apple know of lust

of the saccharine wind

that turns my brain to dust

in my kitchen

I start with your Adam’s apple

deftly dive through flesh

to find your seeded secrets

I knead the knots of your back

till its smooth enough to roll

I pull up and down

and baste your bum with butter

I say a queer and quiet prayer

I put on my mother’s mitt and make a move

prepare my body like silver spoon

tucked into the back pocket

of a tight tub of vanilla ice cream

today you’ve been baked enough

to soft marshmallows we go

my tongue still tied in knots

I dream of an adam

and the current that bakes

between us

Joey Leroux (he/they) writes to return to their body. They believe in the power of language to birth a more healed world. Born in Maine and currently living in Philadelphia, they share stories of marginalized people and communities who have shaped the city of Philadelphia through Beyond the Bell Tours, an inclusive historical walking tour company. They are currently chasing boys from a narrative distance on Hinge and can be found on Instagram at SteepingOats.

Einsteinium

Like many a garrulous gymrat in

cruise mode, he’s generous with the shirtless

pics which update thrice a week before work.

Humpday, he’s swapped in a devastating

promo shot of him flexing while giving

the thumbs up to a mirror which fawns on

his shaven pecs. This marks the midway point

of a COVID-19 quarantine, so

he’s sporting a black bandana across

his forgotten face: I

t’s daddy gangster

(“dangster,” if you will) adding layers of

cowboy kink to a rodeo of meat.

Is it pork? beef? sausage? Will it kill me?

Some days, you ride the bullshit with the bull.

Drew Pisarra is one half of Saint Flashlight, a literary activation project with Molly Gross that gets poetry into unexpected public spaces. Their work has been featured at O, Miami Poetry Festival, Free Verse: Charleston Poetry Festival, and Poets House NYC. Additionally, Infinity Standing Up, his first book of poetry, was released by Capturing Fire Press in early 2019. Furthermore, he was a 2019 recipient of a literary grant from Cafe Royal Cultural Foundation.

FETISH: A PROSE POEM

I’d brought a tube of Vaseline, and as he spread his legs, face down, I crawled on top and coaxed him, “Babe, relax. The first time always hurts.”

I fucked him hard, but calmly, coming with a sense of complete fulfillment, then, connected, rolled onto my back and faced the stars.

His cap fell off, but I snugged it on, and sprawled on top, he seemed to mellow— peaceful, yes, but turned on by my hands. He sat up on his elbows, trying that position, but, when it didn’t work, reclined against me again. He reached behind me, knocking off the wreath, and, as I lifted my head, held on to my neck as if his hands were tied.

When a fisherman finally reels in his catch, the fish dangling on the line can’t buck and wriggle more than he did as he caught on fire and groaned, as the fire began to roar, no, not in pain or grief, but ecstasy, and then I held a musty sock to his face.

To say the least, I was very excited again and, still connected, rolled him prone, rapping my arms around his chest. Deep inside him, I felt as big and hard as the lodgepole pine looming above us, and if I’d grown two cloven hooves and pointed ears, I couldn’t have reveled in his wonderful body more.

It was as if I could never get enough of his sweet, young hips, of his big, broad shoulders, of his long, steamy sighs— of the big-hearted man that he was. Oh, never, never, no!

Ken Anderson is a writer based in Decatur Georgia, author of Someone Bought the House on the Island (a novel, finalist in the Independent Publishers Award); Hasty Hearts (a reprint of Someone plus ten short stories); The Statue of Pan (fiction) , Sea Change: An Example of the Pleasure Principle (finalist for the Ferro-Grumley Award) and Mattie Cushman: A Psychodrama (winner of the Louisiana College Writers First Place in Drama and Grand Prize); and Someone Bought the House on the Island: A Dream in Two Acts (winner of the Saints and Sinners Playwriting Contest).

“I think you have to try to let go of me a little”

probably.

i mean.

you’re probably right.

but

you pulled back the blinds and

covered my body in light

like waves of lust

and uppercuts

i

waited this long to figure it out

hating myself through every doubt

never heard my heart beat so loud

i just can’t

put the needle down

Ryan At 26 years old, Ryan loves all things beachy, words, redbull, bonfires, breakfast food, and her dog Biff. She currently resides in Murfreesboro, TN with her partner, Micah. 

Brave the Night

Jack watched the clock tick away the minutes to eight o’clock. His right leg jiggled, betraying his impatience. Beside him, on a small table, sat a small, black gas mask and a pair of black latex gloves. He glanced at them and felt a flood of adrenalin wash through his body. His cock twitched. Anticipation grew.

On the television, a list of new governmental measures to combat the virus scrolled down against a background of crowded hospital corridors. People were terrified. Paranoid. In some areas they were dropping like flies. The world had never seen anything like it.

When the hands of the clock finally reached eight, Jack peered through the curtains to the darkened street below. With the nightly curfew in place, there was no need for street lights. The scant illumination of a quarter moon would have to suffice.

He pulled on the gloves and snatched up the gas mask, his heart beating a tattoo. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door a crack and checked the corridor. It was as quiet as he had expected it to be. The dutiful citizens of his apartment block were in lockdown, safe from both the virus and any risk of being arrested. But he had needs that could not be denied. Risks be damned.

He hurried to the stairs, descending to the ground floor in seconds, before creeping along the hedge to the footpath. In the distance, up ahead at the intersection, a patrol car sped by, reminding him of the dangers confronting him. The fine for breaking curfew was exorbitant, more than he could ever hope to afford. But that was part of it. Part of the thrill. It was a game, an adrenalin rush. An antidote to the hours spent each day stuck behind a computer screen.

It took around half an hour to reach his destination, an abandoned warehouse whose wire mesh fences had long since been breached. He stepped through one of the gaps and pulled on his mask, his heart racing and his mouth dry. Already he was hard and leaking inside his overalls.

The interior of the building was pitch; darker than the night. Even so, Jack could sense movement. He could make out low moans. Grunts. A yelp. The sounds of sex. He felt about for the zipper on his overalls and pulled it down as far as it would go, exposing his thickly-haired chest and pubic hair. His rigid cock sprang out like a wild animal released; the head slick with pre-ooze. He massaged some of lubricant along the rigid shaft, coating it in a thin veneer in readiness.

Stepping forward, he knocked into someone.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

His right hand came down on the small of the man’s back. Without any permission needed, he slid his palm down to the firm, meaty orbs of the man’s buttocks to discover he had been beaten to the prize. Through the latex glove, he detected the hard ball of a fist slowly disappearing into an extremely accommodating arsehole.

Fisting was not his scene, but the images conjured up by what he had encountered spurred him on to find an adventure of his own. He turned away and moved tentatively through the inky darkness, his hands out in front of him.

Suddenly a hand grabbed his arm. Immediately he was pulled into an embrace. Their masks made it impossible to kiss and the latex gloves deadened some of the sensations normally associated with touching and being touched, but their cocks pressing together almost made up for the rest. As they embraced, the beefy stranger began grinding his hips against Jack’s, the lubrication leaking from their cocks coating both erections.

Jack closed his eyes. To touch like this, so intimately, so forbidden, was such a rare occurrence, he wanted to savour each second, each sensation.

The stranger reached around, his hands on Jack’s buttocks, exploring, seeking. A finger, extended, probed the puckered flesh between. A groan escaped Jack’s lips. He thrust his arse backwards, shuddering as the tip of the finger pressed against the sensitive corrugations of his hole.

“Do it,” he commanded.

He winced as the stranger’s digit penetrated him. There was a flash of sweet pain, which made him yelp, yet still he wanted more. So much more.

He held his partner close, their chests pressed together. Their nipples rubbing up against each other. How he would love to taste the man’s kisses, to savour the flavour of his lips, his saliva, his cum. And to breathe in the aromas he could barely remember. Man smells. The heady scents of a healthy body, an excited cock, a slightly sweaty arsehole. It was tempting to remove the mask. To rip it off and throw it into the pitch. Yet to what cost?

The virus lurked everywhere.

The stranger lifted the fabric of Jack’s overalls from his shoulders and let the garment fall, exposing all but Jack’s feet and ankles to the unseen and unseeing group fucking in the darkness surrounding him.

Unable to wait any longer for the reward he had braved the night to win, Jack collected some of the pre-cum that had accumulated at the eye of his cock on his fingers and smeared it on his arsehole. When it was slick enough, he leaned in to the stranger.

“Fuck me,” he said.

Without a word of reply, the stranger gripped Jack’s shoulders and spun him around. A large hand in the centre of his back forced Jack to bend. Bracing himself with both hands pressed flat against the cold hard concrete, he smiled.

The stranger eased himself in, stretching Jack’s hole wide; the thick girth against the sensitive anal tissue creating a slight burning sensation which transformed Jack’s smile into a grin. It was this he missed, lying in bed alone at night. Day after day of nothingness, he would escape to bed, close his eyes and reminisce about his last encounter, though how could that ever compare to the real thing?

The man’s fingers were strong and dug into the flesh of Jack’s hips. Each time they pulled him back to meet the thrust of the stranger’s cock, Jack was rocked by the force of their two bodies colliding. When the thrusting grew faster and more frenzied, Jack attempted to bring a hand to his own cock, to give it the attention it was demanding, but the stranger was ramming him with such vigour, he needed both hands on the ground to stop himself from tipping over.

It was rough. It was animalistic. Just the way Jack liked it. His grunts and moans were muffled by the gas mask, but they were loud in his ears. He imagined he could hear the stranger behind him, his breathing heavy, and feel the drops of sweat, sliding from the stranger’s face, falling and exploding on his back.

There came a point when his arsehole felt as if it had caught fire. But the burn was sweet. He would remember this – the pain and the pleasure. It would tide him over until he could next escape lockdown.

Then suddenly the thrusting stopped. The stranger held himself hard up against Jack, giving one, two small thrusts as he delivered his seed.

When the stranger relaxed his grip, Jack stood upright, his hand slipping up and down the length of his well-lubricated cock. The contraction of his abdominal muscles pushed the stranger’s cock from his arsehole, the sensation creating just the right trigger for an intense climax. With a single grunt, Jack shot his load into the nothingness.

There were no words. No hugs goodbye. The stranger melted away leaving Jack alone with his thoughts. As he bent down to retrieve his overalls, to pull them back on, he felt a dribble of cum run down the back of his leg, proof the encounter had been no dream, no fantasy. It had really happened.

Having zipped up his overalls, Jack shuffled forward, for even though his eyes had adjusted to the absence of light, the blackness was absolute. With the greatest of care, he managed to avoid busy couples and wandering singles, and soon located the metal wall. It then required little effort to inch his way around to the opening through which he had originally entered.

Jack removed his mask, the night air like a kiss on the bare skin of his face. The experience had been brief, anonymous and exciting. Nevertheless, it would tide him over for at least a couple of weeks, satisfying his urges until next he felt courage enough to brave the night.

Wayne Mansfield is a Western Australian writer who has been published many times in the U.K, the U.S.A, Australia and Germany. His novelette "The Hiding Place" was awarded Honorable Mention in the 2013 Rainbow Awards, and his novel "Across the Sea" was a best seller. Please feel free to visit his website for more information:   https://mansfield82.wixsite.com/wayne-mansfield-

Smart Boy

He loves astronomy so I learn the names

of planets, solar systems, the makers

of satellites. I go above and beyond. I study

astronauts because they're semi related

to this smart boy's obsession. He does have

a God-like name and I say it aloud every chance

I get, but to me he's smart boy because he thinks

I'm not. He teaches me about beauty and Botticelli

and seconds before our first kiss: Italian

mythology. He knows the metric system, operas,

painters, and saints. He wants us to go

to museums, ballet, the symphony, and Spain.

I bask in his praise when I pass every test.

I am rewarded with a kiss, a caress, another

chance to geek his knowledge, touch his body,

steal his soul.

Wren Valentino is an author and poet. He writes in multiple genres, primarily contemporary romance with an international setting. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing at Queens University of Charlotte in North Carolina. He is a member of Gothic Romance Writers and Romance Writers of America. He loves film noir, white chocolate, classic cartoons, Julie London records, Nancy Drew, the Peanuts gang, Disney villains, all things Tiki, Italy, and everything written by Jane Austen.

The One About the Sandwich

Many years ago, after a particularly nasty, drawn out, dramatic break up, where I literally went on a break up roadtrip with my ex. I decided that I was too horny and heartbroken to not be having sex and I needed a little pick-me-up. So I turned to my dear friend, the internet.

This wasn’t as easy as one might think. You see, being a transman makes that dance a tad more difficult than usual. The way in which, not having a dick and trying to have sex with men who really like that sort of thing, is difficult.

I signed up for an account on Bear 411. Being sort of hairy, and definitely cubby, it seemed like the right thing to do. I kept my profile short and sweet. “Bearded bear cub seeks same to flirt with and flatter me.” The profile did NOT say that I was a tender teddy bear of a broken hearted man, with some serious healing to do, currently muddling through with xanax and therapy visits. It was a way for me to get together with other men, have a cocktail and then a good long fuck session. The profile did not disappoint. Almost immediately I was getting pinged with messages from men around the city where I lived.

After a few failed attempts at conversation, I got a message from a pretty fucking cute looking boy with a ginger beard and a cocky smile. He was immediately flattering, and sexual, and witty, and all about an afternoon date the very next day. Plus, he was a top. Thank god. I wanted to be a pillow queen. I wanted to be anywhere else, and in whatever fantasy world I had imagined for myself for an instant long enough to relax instead of feeling like my ex was sitting on my chest squeezing my heart out through my ears. This boy was going to make this dream a reality for me the very next day. But first, I was going to make him lunch. Apparently I missed the whole class on hooking up. In the class you learn important things like, cooking for your sex date is totally unnecessary and also, well, a little weird.

Promptly at two pm the next day, I received a text telling me he had arrived. Oh two pm, what a perfect time for a sexcapade. Not quite a nooner, and not quite afternoon delight.

I wrenched open the door to my humble abode and waved at the strapping ginger walking up the street. When he reached my front steps, he seemed to stumble a bit, almost falling 20 feet from steps to door, upwards, while looking directly at his feet.

This was going to be awkward. As soon as we entered the house I ran for the kitchen. Almost literally, because it smelled like something was burning, and also because in a pinch the kitchen is my happy place. I know what to do in the kitchen. I do not know what to do with awkward boys in my living room. After a few minutes I presented him with a delicious and simple lunch. Grilled chicken sandwiches with...garlic. pepper. aioli. I decided that eating garlic and hot peppers for lunch before sexing was the best course of action. Because if you’re going to cook lunch for a hookup, why not just go the extra mile. He looked nervous about the food, nervous and sort of impressed and very confused.

After lunch, I cleared the plates and washed all of the dishes. Clearly, I was dragging things out. I also hadn't yet told him that I’m trans. I did not know if he’d ever been with someone like me, and I had such minimal experience with cis-male identified bodies or with hooking up online, that I felt a little...well, a lot out of my depth. We sat on the couch. I turned on some music, a mix tape of Wilco and Weatherthans my ex had made (of course). We talked a little. He stammered, rambled, and gave a short missive about how much he liked World of WarCraft, which prevented him from doing a lot of reading which he didn’t really like to do anyway. Sorry, John Waters. I decided that I had to tell him about me being trans before I judged him so harshly that my giant judgy-ness pushed him back down the front steps and onto the bus.

It sounded like an email when it came out of my mouth and I really wish it had been. Maybe filling someone full of stinky sauced sandwiches and smiling at him a lot wasn’t the best precursor to outing oneself as I thought. Maybe the whole, ‘he will be so sleepy from the food that I won’t have to tell him anything’ plot in my head was sort of ridiculous.

He blinked. Once, twice, three times and cleared his throat loudly while turning his gaze back toward his feet. Then he made a noise that I had only heard before from a distressed kitten. Maybe he meant to say wow? One could never be sure.

He asked if he could see my belly. Not exactly what I was expecting. I lifted my shirt up and he started rubbing my belly. Did he ask to do that, No. I was immediately uncomfortable. Simultaneously, I realized that this is what was supposed to be happening and if he asked for permission every time before moving or touching or whatever we would be trying to have a hot NSA hookup in the middle of the afternoon until the next afternoon, and then it might qualify as a relationship or something that I was otherwise not prepared for. Anyway, the belly touching felt sort of good. Even though I liked to say that I wasn’t missing having sex, or being intimate with people, my body was telling a totally different story. At the same time I was spacing out, checking out, not ready to stay present in the moment. I wasn’t a real person. He wasn’t a real person. I was about to have anonymous sex with someone I met on the internet (something I had never done before) and I was getting all fucking philosophical about it. I immediately wished I had smoked some pot before he came over.

He put his arms around me and pulled me closer to him, the way a car sputters when you switch gears and you’ve never really driven a stick shift. Haltingly, as if he wasn’t sure how close he wanted to get, but knew that he had to at least get a little closer in order to kiss me. We began to make out furiously. His hands slid up the back of my shirt and sort of held onto my shoulder blades like he was waiting for wings to sprout out of my back.

After what seemed like a million hours of awkward making out, the intensity increasing and then plateauing, I pulled away and suggested we go upstairs to my bedroom where we stood next to the bed and stripped off our clothes. Then, I figured out that since we were naked I could put my hand on his dick instead of his shoulders. Revolutionary! Amazing!

We negotiated through some “where do I’s” and some “just right here”. This is when I felt my consciousness floating above like a giant helium balloon, which was, in effect, exactly what I was looking for, to feel something that would take me out of my head, my heart, and just allow me to be disconnected. I was swimming inside a great gravity-less expanse, I was able to see my whole neighborhood from up there.

A few minutes later and it seemed, the fates were not with me that day when he haltingly explained that he had trouble staying hard while using a condom. I felt my high dissipate and all of my shame and insecurity slap me like a big fat wave of you know what. No condom - no sex, in my book. Sorry, dude.

When asked if we could cuddle instead, I pictured him walking up the street to my house, I heard his World of Warcraft speech, I thought about those fucking sandwiches and I told him he had better hit the road. I felt good knowing that I still had a boundary or two left in me, after I’d been performing emotional amoeba-ness for so long.

We all hook-up for our own reasons, we fumble through the shadowy corridors of mores and expectations and hope to get there, sweaty and slippery sliding toward a moment when all you think about is - release. For me, the worth of those experiences, of feeling wanted and then of holding my own, even if only for a few seconds, was irreplaceable at the time, and in retrospect helped me to learn some important shit about intimacy and about - the internet.

C.J. Guedry is a queer, a nerd and a story teller who’s been living in the Pacific northwest for 15 years. A former camp counselor, horseback riding instructor and Christmas tree lot attendant, Cass believes in the story as a tool to dismantle oppression. His work can be found in The Portland Review, The Saltwater Quarterly and Original Plumbing Magazine.

We Paint Our Rental Kitchen Cabinets

Vincent ate yellow paint in

some staunch belief that it would

make him happier

eventually

if you were my yellow paint I’d

mix you with milk and honey

bumblebee marigold butter yellows

creamy and decadent

smooth rich and soft

like your body and

how your eyes make me feel in

streetlight that edges

it’s way through our cold windows

Chris has said my words seem

full

of secrets / she saw an entry where Lisa

and I drove to the end of the runway at Westchester

Airport to sit

on woodchips and rocks behind a barbed wire fence to watch planes

take off overhead

we listened to a poet whisper out of Maude’s open passenger door

how many secrets exist within those lines?

I felt shivers that humid night

they were nothing

compared to the truth of your lips on my back

or your hair in my fingers

or the

lack of constraint behind the words

i love you

when they tumble out of me like your curls on young grass

now I you catch me in your eyes and

mouth and arms and legs

and hands and all that I am

is safe within all that you are

today I felt homesick for Brighton summer rain

uninhibited rivers down roadsides and concrete steps

Brookline scattered with loose flowers waiting

for the Green Line in warm wet windless air

now I’m

waiting for a masked New York summer

with you and the rain

watermelon and honey iced tea

lazy mornings in the concrete backyard sunshine

with our potted pumpkin patch

late bright nights in a deserted park

roses and peppermint in my mouth and nose

which came first, the flame or the light?

all at once but gently

omniscient conjugation

Ocean Holliday is an artist and a romantic; they are a native of Nowhere, but live in Brooklyn, New York.  Ocean's main practices are in long-term durational habit practice performance, and (non-professional) bread baking.  Their personal philosophy is to feed their friends, feed their community, and feed their world.

John

The creak of the seesaw

in July darkness,

up, down, buzz-blond,

ice-blue eyes crinkling

with mirth at your own

anecdote—just home

from years in London,

tales of a bootshine

boy, of DJing,

photoshoots, drunk-dialing

Boy George at a party—

red, gold, and green,

we’d all shout—we’re still

wet from the back lawn

of your parents’ house,

trying to keep quiet,

only the soft rustle

of flesh on flesh

and the clicks and chirps

of nighttime creatures,

green stains on our elbows,

mud on our backs—

up, down, buzz-blond,

ice-blue eyes crinkling

at the corners,

something changes—we stop,

balanced perfectly

still, faces slack-jawed

in the silence, afraid

even to breathe,

as if we have both

noticed all at once

someone has noticed us

from a house nearby.

One of us whispers

I think we should go,

the barest groan

of the rust-hinged seesaw

marks our dismount,

panicked sprint together—

to the safe glow

of neighborhood streetlamps,

chests heaving, the held

breath rushing back out—

up, down, buzz-blond,

ice-blue eyes crinkling—

always just at the edge

of the circle of light,

and beyond it, sky,

indigo as old bruise—

my gut clenched in freefall,

this ride I can't get off.

Chad Frame’s work appears in Rattle, Mom Egg Review, Barrelhouse, Rust+Moth, and other journals and anthologies, as well as on iTunes from the Library of Congress. He is the Director of the Montgomery County Poet Laureate Program and Poet Laureate Emeritus of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, the Poetry Editor of Ovunque Siamo: New Italian-American Writing, a founding member of the No River Twice poetry improv performance troupe, and founder of the Caesura Poetry Festival and Retreat.

Death on the Beach

Zeeland is a collection of islands nestled in the delta of the Rhine river. There are beaches, and the nearest one from our house is—or was—ten minutes on the bike. Zeeland was famously gereformeerd then—prudish-Calvinistic—and there was no animo for the naked beaches they had up north near Amsterdam. So, our seashore had changing facilities, clapboard cabins with a fore room, closet hooks, doors, locks, and a plank running along the wall of the main room serving as bench.

I had just turned twelve. Something had happened to me during the winter, and when I went for the first swim of the new season, something had happened to the dude (not always the same one) that was hanging out there. You would show up, he’d gaze at you, conspicuously, then disappear in the dunes. In previous years I had ignored him, but this time I couldn’t fail to pay attention. His gaze did something to me. It was like a loopy ditty in my ear that followed me on my way back home. And I wouldn’t tell Mom.

The next day was sunny again. I returned from school, grabbed my things—a plastic bag from SPAR with my speedos and a dirty towel—and went back to the beach. Fatefully, the gazing dude wasn’t there.

These changing facilities, yes. Shy as I was, I would always make sure that I wasn’t entering the wrong cabin, somebody forgetting to lock the door and then he would be standing there with his pants half-down and his tiny dick, looking embarrassed or angry and later show up in my dreams. So, I would check out the place first. Doors had to be open, obviously, and no clothes please, or other signs of life.

Well, the door was open, and there were no clothes. I entered. But then—I have still trouble explaining this to myself—there, on the bench, sat this guy. He was three or four years older, maybe sixteen. He was naked and half-aroused, his hand around his dick, stroking, staring at the wall, seemingly oblivious to my intrusion. And I—who would normally have fled in panic—I got so overwhelmed by the goings-on in my shorts, I couldn’t move. I go totally hard, just standing there, the erection doing to my shorts what a wild, enraged beast might do to its cage.

I wasn’t a newcomer to spontaneous erections, but this, this blast down there, I stood there, speechless, bulging, petrified. And the guy—I've endlessly replayed the scene in my mind—the guy knew what he was doing. This was his shtick. Everybody not into this—not mesmerized by his act—would turn around, embarrassed or offended, and say ouch, or excuse me, or you dirty boy, and run away. But twinks like me, poor victims of their glands, they’d stay in place just long enough for the guy to turn his head and look at us with warm, assuring eyes, full lips, and a smile that came up on his cheeks like the rising sun. He was beautiful.

He let go of his dick, got up, locked the door, undid the belt button on my shorts, pulled them down past the hard-on—the waist band hobbled by my boner up to a certain point, then, released, snapping back into position like a recruit facing his drill sergeant—and, wasting no time, he grabbed my thing and squeezed it. He squeezed it nicely and with the right amount of touch. He didn’t care about my T-shirt, and I don’t remember how we got rid of it, but soon I was stark-naked, feeling his dick against my belly button. And that did it. I came on the spot. I came for the first time in my life, my dick pounding under his grip, ropes of creamy milk spouting from the pee hole and ending up on his abs. My first E-JA-CU-LA-TION, folks, unbelievable, the sense of each pulse of jizz feeding the next pulse, the whole world ablaze, and myself riding the flames like—take it or leave it—like a kinky arsonist in a smutty comic strip pretending to douse the fire with his cum. And all this at the tender age of twelve. I never felt more important in my life.

Now—the dude didn’t expect this. He said something like sorry, or you must have been urgent, and when I told him this was my first time, not just my first time with a guy but my first time überhaupt, he couldn’t believe it. He shook his head and said shit, shi-it. “If I’d have known, I’d saved myself for you.”

“Huh?” (I said).

“You’re my fourth dupe today; I’m spent. I’ve been stroking for half an hour and here, look at it, it’s still half-limp. It…I won’t go anywhere today.”

Now, I wasn’t yet woke. I had no concept of my queerness, no idea what I would be missing without his cock up my ass or down my throat. Yet, something in me was disappointed, or looked disappointed, for he said: “I owe it to you.”

“What?” I asked.

“You brought your things? In a bag?”

“Yes.”

“A plastic bag?”

“Yes.”

“Juist,” he said. “Get me the bag.”

The SPAR bag was still outside; I unlocked the door, grabbed it, locked the door again. He turned it upside down, my things falling on the floor.

And then he said, “Watch it, gaspersex,”—pulling the bag over his head, the SPAR logo right over his face. It was a small bag, and you could make out the contours of his map under the supermarket logo, the nose, the cheeks, the chin. And where his mouth was, the convenience-store plastic showed a dent, as if he was gasping already. I had no idea of gaspersex, and this was before the internet or Pornhub, but somehow, I knew what to do. I got on my knees and swallowed his dick. It wasn’t really hard, his tool, but he—he couldn’t say anything, obviously—he thrust his pelvis and began to fuck my mouth. And it worked. He got larger and larger, expanding into my throat, past my tonsils—my gag reflex taking a leave—and my own dick, still hard and heavy like a cannon, went off again. I came several times during the next three minutes, I believe, while he was fighting for his own orgasm—and eventually his life—ravaging my gorge, thrusting, trilling, shaking, percolating, tumbling, gasping for breath, his hands holding fast to my shoulders, stooping, falling over—and his cock convulsed deep down my throat.

He had come, and now he was dead. I pulled the bag off his head: yes, he was dead, his blank eyes, still open, staring at me from his netherworld.

That’s basically it. I should have done something, call an ambulance—we had no cell phones then, never mind—or race home and tell Mom. Well, I didn’t tell Mom. There was nothing in the papers, or on local TV. Next time I went—I forced myself to go back a few days later—there were no clothes, no smells, no police tape or anything, and his body was gone. The gazing dude had resurfaced, though. I took a deep breath and followed him into the dunes.

Michael Ampersant writes prose, scripts, and plays. His first novel "Green Eyes--an erotic novel (sort-of)", was a finalist of the Lambda Literary Awards. His last short story "Renaissance Miracles" appeared in vol. IV of "Best Gay Erotica" (Cleis Press), edited by Rob Rosen. Website: https://morefreedomfries.blogspot.com

BARBARA STREISAND AND THE EXISTENTIALLY DEMURE

On a clear day you can see Alcatraz.

Relatives of the conspiratorial escapees,

Frank Morris and the Anglias brothers

are coming for brunch.

Weather to serve alcohol

or revert to the ubiquitous uke?

A screwdriver heavy on subtle vodka.

The pontificating peppery bloody mary

and its narcissistic fooling of the senses.

My puppies will put them at ease.

Dark red are these painted toes,

acutely colored unlike the powerful

swimmers pausing in sensory menstruation.

Colin James has a book of poems, Resisting Probability, from Sagging Meniscus Press.
He lives in Massachusetts...........

Coffee Scrubs

Bathtubs and hot coffee scrubs prep

for dinner date disappointments.

Lathering on lavender ointments

and blue-boxed pomade that we once shared

to get ready for another boy who doesn’t care.

All dressed up for small talk and smaller walks

back to my place, for a few short words

before shirts slip off with the jingle of belt buckles

and the thudding of headboards and tossed shoes with untied laces.

I couldn’t make him stay,

but I can make the next one come

over to bedrooms for 4am fun skin to skin

on striped sheets with throbbing heartbeats

and the soft stroke of fingertips along muscles

smelling of sweaty gym shorts and deodorant that close in my chances of contracting another case of chlamydia, COVID-19 and heartbreak.

Comforters keep me warm as the sun begins

to rise with the unwashed masculine mix

of colognes, Harvard arrogance, North Dakota nuances,

Brazilians, and Massachusetts-ians;

as if they’re still here even though they

fluttered into the night

| only to disappear as fast as you came

like everyone in my life and, for once,

I would really love for it to be different.

Velo-Vincent van Houden (they/them) is an aspiring lawyer, part-time drag queen, and Sylvia Plath wannabe. Originally from the Netherlands, Velo moved to Newport Beach, California for high school, studied psychology at UC Berkeley, and founded Lucky Letter Advising (an organization dedicated to increasing diversity in the legal field by helping other first-generation, low-income students navigate the law school application process). Growing up, Velo loved to journal and – in an attempt to paint a clearer picture of his experiences – started writing poems in college, continuing to write on-and-off ever since.

ABJECTING

Kusintha exchanged the Banana Cream Danimals Squeezable for a Stonyfield Kids Smoothie pouch. The word organic splayed across the packaging and the clean white aesthetic appealed to nutrient propaganda. She rolled the paper bag and clutched it in the same hand as her purse and computer bag.

"Sure, John. And the only thing we have to consider is if the plants are ready for kickoff. We need to schedule onsite visits shortly thereafter to pulse-check errors, verify success rate, and so on," she trailed off.

She tapped her phone to mute.

"Get your shoes on, Jasper. Get your shoes on now."

In her wool sleeping socks, Lene drug her feet amongst the shoes sprawled about the shoe rack. She slipped her Crocs on and helped Jasper up, the pair following Kusintha out of the door. Kusintha looked over her shoulder mid-teleconference farewell, prompting Jasper to kick himself into a skip to reach the elevator first. He pushed the down button and shifted on his heels and toes watching the elevator numbers ping.

Kusintha remembered she parked the car on street parking and led the two out of the apartment courtyard toward Elm Street. They floated with that morning's ethereal autumn breeze, bronze and ginger crisp, crunchy leaves toppling around them and taking wind somewhere else. Lene chided Kusintha passive aggressively about leaving the car on the street to which Kusintha responded, “Next time I'll just double-park and leave you to the parking-finding." The doors shut the sound of hurried, cursory commute out and Kusintha watched the leaves from their building's thinly thicketed design fall upon the windshield. Lene washed them away with the wipers saying, "You have ragweed in your hair." Kusintha shook her head, her curls only bouncing and clinging to the weed. Lene turned and held her face, picking every grain out with her fingertips.

"Are you serious?" Kusintha asked. "I refuse to believe we're gonna go the entire day without speaking.”

Lene slowed to a crawl in front of Kusintha's office building. Kusintha pouted, pausing for a pleasant goodbye to Jasper, and shoving herself out of the passenger seat. Lene, like a switch, delightfully offered sneaky morning ice cream to Jasper and they were off.

Neverminding the investment of the future that was children, Lene submerged herself in the direction of the New Haven Green. Early morning peddlers with their bootleg Fendi wristlets littered the place. She instantly felt dirty, wanting to retreat to the tangled confines of her art corner which comforted her. So much to her relief, Milkcraft had not opened yet. She should have known that. She promised ice cream after school. Perhaps she'd bring him a surprise at lunch if not for strict policies sensitive to allergies; additionally if not for Kusintha's reproach of all things enjoyable for everyone else.

At work, Kusintha plugged her phone in at her desk and walked her oversized mug to the kitchen. With several stories stored in the diplomatic directory of her mind, Kusintha chose the one about their power outage for her Monday morning weekend review chat. She strolled back to her desk, her office cheer slouching to a snarl, and dropped herself into her chair in front of a dozen redundant emails.

Instead of her art corner, Lene lied in the living room alone. She was totally alone. Complete silence was indicative of hearing ambulance sirens course through the city. The apartment was in normal disarray. A deck of cards sprawled across the area rug. An open laptop with car jack images displayed. A straggling cup half-empty with orange juice. Lene stared at the cards for a long time in a daydream about nothing. Her focus restored to the realization that all four cards ranking below the queen were gone; in addition were all the spades.

Magdalene, did you change the primary contact information on our internet service?

Lene confirmed with a stark period to emphasize her distance. Kusintha asked her why. With no answer, Kusintha digressed, chiding Lene through an abasing urge for her to remain at the apartment to host their upcoming appointment. Lene replied then, telling her, I have a spin class and some errands. I'm not home. She picked the keys up and left.

Despite her anxious embarrassment, Kusintha left work. Ridden by her ongoing desire to eliminate the weathered presence she lead with, she let herself be bothered that she was responsible for their disagreement. When her Uber arrived, she regretted being unnecessarily early for the appointment and she felt guilt for even being allowed to enjoy a nap before Jasper came home. So she set herself up at her desk at home and attended the inconsequential staff meetings reiterating what was already on the forefront of everyone's minds. To her surprise, however, affirming the certitude that no question was a stupid question, Kusintha championed for her initiative, providing clarity on manpower pushback and how critical business travel would be.

Lene stood along the outskirts of the New Haven Green with the other disadvantaged, flunkee, down-and-outers. She stood with her hands in her pockets just like them. Her hair, a blonde bob thorough with the smell of toluene and xylene, was just as greasy too; in an adroit, aesthetic way, she assured herself. Ten minutes later, she sat parked outside of Jasper's school. She watched the notion that kids were roaming about, thinking specifically about Jasper's biology group project. She pulled out and rambled as south as Bridgeport, turning around at Exit 25 and going to the Walmart in Milford instead.

The technician called. Kusintha answered, swiftly stating, "I'm on a call. I can't leave my desk. When you get up here, the door is unlocked."

Moments later, the call was over and non-essential parties dropped off, leaving Kusintha and a plant manager seeking placation. Two taps on the door cut into the starched atmosphere of the living room and then an echoing, "Cable guy!" Kusintha spun around in her chair, quieting the man with a look of derision.

The technician was a strapping man. Glistening and bulging and tall. He worked quietly and diligently, which Kusintha was grateful for if not for having to castigate him into doing so. Automatically, her mind imagined sex with a man again, phallic rapine of matched virile eagerness buried with the simple decision of monogamy; contained frustration emitting at the result of her imagination. But she brought herself to the version of reality that experienced men praising themselves over simple, sweaty prodding, heaving at the sight of near-rejection to be paired with an adult-sized boyish tantrum, only to close to impress her with breast-fondling like kneading dough and the aforementioned sweaty prodding.

The color was beginning to change at the mid-end of four o’clock. Perfectly cut leaves slid gracefully off the guidance counselor’s sky window. Lene found the lunch box at the very bottom of loosely-sealed lost shorts and socks. She held the lunch box up when she retrieved it, Stonyfield yogurt slathered throughout the wrinkled insulated lining, organic whatever smeared all over the place. She handed it to Kusintha when she and Jasper arrived home. Kusintha hugged him dearly and took the lunch box with the slightest snatch. Lene retreated to the bedroom, lying on her back and looking at her phone. Bitterly, she listened to redemption through Kusintha's sibilant sighs and the aggressive opening and closing of the kitchen garbage bin.

Kusintha asked Jasper what he planned to do about his textbooks damaged by his unfinished yogurt bleeding through his paper lunch bag. He shrugged up the knowledge that Lene would take care of it. In the seven hundred square feet of their pre-war apartment, and with Lene inanely disarmed with dinner that Kusintha prepared, Kusintha voiced the defense that Lene did not exist to undertake his blunders.

Lene was awoken past midnight by Kusintha rustling into bed. She'd dozed off on top of the made bed and her body, anchoring the duvet down, vacillated back and forth before she sat up, allowing Kusintha to be tucked in. Kusintha heaved audibly, gathering the sheets with her tossing and turning body until the blankets billowed around her. Lene stood before their picture window in the living room overlooking the edifices that granted its graduates entitlement to cerebral correction and praiseworthy opinions. No matter how deeply Lene dug into their longevity, she felt the dejection much like the bootleggers and the peddlers and the beggars outside. No matter what, she felt like artwork on the outskirts only to be brought in by some glorifying mention she was emotionally removed from because, at any other moment, she wasn't enough.

Kusintha emerged from the bedroom on quiet toes, buoyant wheezing hiding her snivels. She hugged Lene from behind. Perhaps Kusintha was inattentive to wise decisions like parting over self-worthiness or tennised passive aggressive or arguments over the most nutritious snacks because she wanted it that bad. Despite their tribulations, Lene was chosen and moreover committed to as opposed to second-picked and settled for. Every single day, she was chosen. She stored the feeling in the directory of her affection, effacing the demur, because she had wanted it and continued to want it that badly too.

Sarah Estime is a Materiel Management Supervisor in the Air Force. When she is not working her day job, she is composing works of literary fiction. She has been published by "Cardinal Sins," "O-Dark Thirty," and "The Charles Carter."

LENSING

You’ve forbidden me to touch you,

while remaining flattered enough

to allow me access with a camera.

Stretched out on my bed, looking

almost natural there again. Pleasuring

yourself while I move around the room

checking out angles and positions,

waiting for you to get hard.

The heat off the large glowing lamps

squeezing sweat out of me, the

way pleasing you used to do.

I frame your body from different views,

trying to find a new way of seeing.

With cameras positioned between us

you try to ignore me, it’s better that way,

you stare at the tv screen where naked,

aroused men are doing with each other

those things I still want to do with you.

My lens licks its way up your parted

legs and nuzzles in close to your balls,

trying to focus on individual hairs

and the small moles I know, from

memory, to be there among them.

Only this camera caresses you now,

guided by the things my hands learned,

the things my lips and tongue picked up

when I had real access to your body

and you still welcomed my touch.

M.J. Arcangelini, born 1952 in western Pennsylvania and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, has resided in northern California since 1979. He has published in a lot of little magazines, online journals, & over a dozen anthologies.  He is the author of four poetry collections: “With Fingers at the Tips of My Words” 2002, Beautiful Dreamer Press, “Room Enough” 2016, “Waiting for the Wind to Rise” 2018, both from NightBallet Press, and “What the Night Keeps” 2019, Stubborn Mule Press.  A fifth book, “A Quiet Ghost” is forthcoming from Stubborn Mule Press in 2020. In 2018 Arcangelini was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Should I Send You a Picture of My Butthole?

my friend's art opening is dubbed "The Hole"

in New York

I couldn't make it

to diva-dance in the tented canvas womb

studded with unnamed photos

of bent-over, fleshy, lipped portals

my friend and his husband invited me

to send pictures of my body's holes

or writing pulled out of them

the only person for whom this is not a joke

is my friend, who has visions of sacred colors

when his root chakra shivers

at the entry of a guest

my friend was a Christian linebacker and now is naked

at every opportunity

expelling shame like a placenta

I don't feel my butthole is really "about" me

if photographed, it would not reflect

my freedom or humiliation

when I spilled my honeymoon blood

I didn't grow up, I had more laundry

my friend's husband would have taken

me for his photo series

all in the open, tits

midriff rolls and packer

how I wanted to see myself

but I was once diagnosed

as a narcissist for asking for snacks

during a Rorschach test

my friend's husband couldn't guarantee

where my butthole would travel in the cloud

of data that embodies "us"

every transaction now a portal

I have to protect as a "mother"

but I could be overreacting

nobody in New York has time for your butthole

except the cops

my friend is a "gay man" and I am a "woman"

so it takes me too long to come

to the realization

when he Facebook Messengers me

about the creative energy in his manpussy

signing off "let your meat flop"

that I could theoretically fuck him

if I weren't monogamous and really unwilling

to substitute pleasure for friendship

is this what it's like being a guy

you can never escape your own butthole

Jendi Reiter is the author of the novel Two Natures (Saddle Road Press, 2016), the short story collection An Incomplete List of My Wishes (Sunshot Press, 2018), and four poetry books and chapbooks, most recently Bullies in Love (Little Red Tree, 2015). Their awards include a Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship for Poetry, the New Letters Prize for Fiction, the Wag's Revue Poetry Prize, the Bayou Magazine Editor's Prize in Fiction, and two awards from the Poetry Society of America. Two Natures won the Rainbow Award for Best Gay Contemporary Fiction and was a finalist for the Book Excellence Awards and the Lascaux Prize for Fiction. Reiter is the editor of WinningWriters.com, an online resource site with contests and markets for creative writers.

I’ve never made love to a man…

but I’ve been fucked.

They’ve grabbed me by the hair

and forced themselves down my throat.

They’ve called me the wrong name

as their pubes tickle my chin.

They’ve done too much coke

that morning to stay hard.

They’ve asked if they can record it.

Can they wear a mask?

Can I pee on them?

Can’t I go faster?

Less teeth.

Too tight.

Arch my back.

My face is so beautiful-

can he cum on it?

I’ve never made love to a man-

but they’ve made love to me.

Jacob Lotter's poetry has been published in Assaracus and is forthcoming from peculiar. Lotter currently works at a small liberal arts college in Massachusetts.

Positioning

My arms secure your ribs,

caging our passion

as my chest magnetically

pulls yours closer.

As our lashes touch,

my lips get tender and soft,

pressing against yours

as my tongue massages your taste buds

Cue the pool of cardiac pulsation

Blood rushing between us

Our flints rub

and a campfire ignites

I want to see your eyes squint

but mine squint just as tight

Just as well as I pin your hands above your pillow

as our bellies beat like bongos

We build cabins with our logs

We have a collective nest

as our eggs hatch

and our DNA merges

We form an ocean

where umbilical cords nourished us

You and I wirelessly connect

to each other's hotspots.

As you hover

I craft and carry your head,

moaning as you submerge below my waist

and my shuttle lifts off.

You run your fingers through my pink sand

as I enter your Bermuda Triangle,

tantalizing and tickling every side of you

My touch and taste alike elicits spasms of laughter,

Pressure builds from within my fiery mound

You are the Pompeii I bury in my lava

Bodies collapse from earth shat

Jack M. Freedman is a poet and spoken word artist from Staten Island, NY. Publications featuring his work span the globe. Under the pseudonym Jacob Moses, he penned ...and the willow smiled and Art Therapy 101 (Cyberwit.net, 2019.