Wicked Gay Ways

Dear reader, welcome to the Fall/Winter 2022 issue of Wicked Gay Ways. As we enter the winter months, we must continue to build hope and to meet the challenges imposed on us by a pandemic that seems to come back in waves that which still seems to pose some challenges for our families, our loved ones and our communities. This too shall pass as the solstice brings us both the darkest day of the year, while also bringing us the lengthening of daylight as we gradually move toward the return of spring, with its promise of renewal and new beginnings.

In this issue we are delighted to bring you the work of Atlas Booth, Brandi Dise, Chase White, Christopher Soden, David McKensie, Ellen Mackler, Fred Maus, Josh Rowe, Ken Andersen, Lane Seidel, Laurie Green, Mae Spade, Richard Natale, R. P., Sarah Michael, and Yuna King. We also feature two pieces by the artist Irina Tall (Novikova) from Russia and give a nod to more classical pieces of art created by a wide range artists depicting same sex desire.

We also want to congratulate Amstedam/Aberdeen based poet/writer Parel Joy, a Sping 2021 contributor to Wicked Gay Ways whose debut poetry pamphlet “The Queen of Cups and Other Poems” was just released by Spam Press, @spamzine and for the launch of their zine “Dyke Love” with a reading in Glasgow on January 5, 2023. Wishing everyone joy, health and prosperity in the new year.

Most sincerely,

The Editors.

Rose

There’s a budding rose

Standing between two trees

Red and touch starved

But too delicate to touch

Even a gentle blow could

Wilt it from its tryst

Rip its roots out with a kiss

It weeps for you

Screams in silence

As it bursts apart,

Milky and translucent

Slowly, as refraction pulls

The stem grows soft again

Resting

Atlas Booth (He/Him) is a writer who lives in Cape Town, South Africa. He enjoys an assortment of tea's and cold brew coffee. For more information on his work, find him on twitter: @atlasbooth, instagram: @atlasbooth or visit his websitehttps://atlaslbooth.wixsite.com/main

Change of Plans

Friday night

She wants to go out

Two women

Share the same mirror

I’m quick

But she needs time

I watch from the bed

As she puts on her face

Fixes long, dark hair

Straightens the  little, black dress

She looks good enough to eat

I want to

Slither between those thighs

Slide that dress down

Her shoulders, body

Undo the pins in her hair

Taste sweet lips

Nibble soft skin

Smell the perfume of her skin

I get up from my seat

She must see the look in my eyes

She gives a gentle laugh

A tease

Gentle squeeze of breasts together

Before saying we should stay in

After all

Love Me Tender    

Women are

Softness

Curves

Smoothed edges

Cupid’s bow lips

Kissable

Smeared lipstick

On my collar

Neck

Silky hair

Long, sleek

Curly

Beached waves

On my face

My hands run through

As we hold each other

Touch gently

Gentle curve of cheeks

Smiles and giggles

Soft sighs 

Round, full breasts

Barest touch of my lips

Near the heart

Fluttering 

Pleasurable caress 

Softness against Softness

Full curve of the hip

More delicate skin

Tickles with feathered touches

To the crux

Between smooth thighs

Open mouthed kisses

On the sensitive skin

Excitement mounts

Sighs, moans

Calling my name

Giving

Ultimate pleasure

My love language

Woman to woman

Brandi Dise is a poet living in Virginia Beach, Virginia. She was recently featured by Silent Spark Press in the poetry collection Remarkable Poetry and will be featured in the e-magazine 7DeadlyThoughts later in 2022. The first in her immediate family to graduate from college, she received her bachelor’s degree from Old Dominion University in 2020. When she is not writing, Brandi enjoys spending time with her family & pets, reading fiction, and watching anime.

Seduction

i cannot stop thinking

about you lost as usual

in a tango of growls

and bites and swallowing

whatever spills from our

sketchy history grief

and sweet gobbledygook

if only i could come

up from behind and kiss

you deep and ponderous

as an undiscovered

galaxy then slip my arm

under your chin if only

our swinging cocks

could jangle merrily

as spontaneous opera

gilbert and sullivan

erupting from daffy

parade of scalding bourbon

shots and chili sprackling

with red onion stinging tomatillo

i am prometheus your teeth sunk

in my guts why are you

here what are you asking

i should snap your neck

i should gulp your gooey

spit we should fuck

in a broken lifeboat

till we are sealed

in the hush of endless

ocean sleep if only

the blue rapacious soul

of winter would leave

us desolate blokes alone

rocket boys

you a rocket

in my easy grip 

i a missile in yours

piss slits dripping

mansap 

grinning rough 

shudders snapping 

vertabrae

sping and pang 

and imp tickle

scintillate our pouches

you squeeze my ass

cause were buddies

poke my asshole

a bullfrog

when i flinch

and give it back

schmuck laughing

you mash your mouth

against mine cooking

soles hot and itchy

needle pricks 

we are jazzing

boner bounce

lightning rods

gorged purpling

spontaneously 

howling daft hounds 

no longer fighting 

trembly  abrupt

glossy  spout

and spill

Christopher Stephen Soden received his MFA in Poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts in January of 2005. He teaches craft, theory, genre, and literature. He writes poetry, plays, literary, film and theatre critique for sharpcritic.com . Christopher’s poetry collection, Closer was released by Rebel Satori Press on June 14th, 2011. He received a Full Fellowship to Lambda Literary Retreat for Emerging LGBT Voices in August 2010. His performance piece: Queer Anarchy received The Dallas Voice's Award for Best Stage Performance. Water and A Christmas Wish were staged at Bishop Arts and Radio Flyer and Every Day is Christmas. In Heaven. at Nouveau 47. 

Other honors include; Distinguished Poets of Dallas, Poetry Society of America's Poetry in Motion Series, Founding Member, President and President Emeritus of The Dallas Poets Community. His work has appeared in: Rattle, The Cortland Review, 1111, Peculiar, Briar’s Lit, Typishly, F(r)iction, G & L Review, Chelsea Station, Glitterwolf, Collective Brightness, A Face to Meet the Faces, Resilience, Ganymede Poets: One, Gay City 2, The Café Review, The Texas Observer, Sentence, Borderlands, Off the Rocks, The James White Review, The New Writer, Velvet Mafia, Poetry Super Highway, Gertrude, Touch of Eros, Gents, Bad Boys and Barbarians, Windy City Times, ArLiJo, and Best Texas Writing 2. You can follow him on IG and FB, https://www.instagram.com/dizzyqueerpoet/, & https://www.facebook.com/jlgdrd

Bad Girls, Bitch and Chicks in Chains

“Women offend more than man.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves.”

I do time at Mule Creek, where men are macho.

A man here’s not doubly transgressive:

for each Mule Creek man has machismo.

Like war, sex, meat or tobacco,

male offenders do not offend Man twice.

Violate legal frameworks, that man’s sentenced

BUT he violates no way

in hell expectations of fit gendered behavior.

This poem goes not according to plan, for every line [much like me]

tastes as breast milk stirred in goblets of blood.

Take my word: be not something you’re born as.

Identity is Inheritance, is disposable; identity’s no different

than a condom in London, to flush

if it rips from unfit fact: wrong this Fit.

Am I a bad girl, chick-in-chains & bitch?

Should I mention: I’ve never been with a woman?

“That’s not cool, man.”

I’ll shut it. My hole. What does it matter

I drank my box milk with the skinny pink straw it came with?

Akiva Israel is a transgender artist currently doing time at California Men's Colony State Prison.

Private Vibes

1

notahair's

breadth

betweenus,

notone

secret.

2

bound for the bedroom,

giggling, pinched & patted–

holding hands, the boy

leads the man, lays back

on their bed, lifts his legs,

tilts his pelvis up, & bites

his thumb w/ a smile

(the devil) it drives the man

mad, who says, good boy,

& opens up the drawer;

i'm thirsty for my water,

Daddy– pleased, the man

rolls the boy onto his belly,

deftly lifts his slender hips,

& arranges his thighs

like a single stem.

3

he blankets my body

in kisses– God

can count

the blessings

your lips:

two cuddling women

your cock:

wilted at their mention

he rubs his armpit

on my face,

instructs me not

to touch myself

your fierce cat-eye,

half-hid,

your merciful lashes!

i submit

cupping my nuts,

my waistband points

my root up

to my heart

put it here, Daddy,

in my little seed pouch–

the livelong day

i won't go without

in the shade,

not to dry away,

he waters me–

thoroughly.

4

simultaneously dies

that look in my eyes–

there is no where

to go now– i’ve arrived.

Robert Chase lives in Athens, Georgia with his hubby, James, and his puppy, Rigby. You can follow Robert and progress reports on his first book @reluctant.luddite"

The Wet, Juicy Big Apple

David McKenzie

I couldn’t believe I was in New York! The Big Apple. “Empire State of Mind” by JZ and Alicia Keys played through my mind. I bubbled with that nervous anticipation I get when it feels like something amazing is about to happen, but I have no idea what.

I arrived at my host accommodation in the early evening. My host, Claude, met me at the door. His smiling Latino face was like a beacon, telling me I had arrived. I was dazzled by his charisma. He was magnanimous, smart, and funny. And sexy as hell. I bathed in his allure.

 We talked late into the night, sharing intimate thoughts about ‘the problem with people’. I reclined in an armchair, legs crossed, hands resting on my belly; Claude’s frenetic energy had him jumping between smoking a joint in his balcony doorway and lolling on the sofa. In this midst of our leisureliness, Claude mentioned his apartment was clothing optional, and asked if I minded if he went naked.

‘Go ahead,’ I said, more of that nervous anticipation rising inside me. I had never been in a clothing optional situation before. 

I diverted my eyes as Claude disrobed in front of me, an impossible task when I saw Claude’s body. He was all lean muscle, his abs making perfect ridges across his middle, the V-lines an invitation to his crotch. He was also well hung. My jaw hit the floor along with his shorts.

Later, after a shower, I decided to brave the unfamiliar and go naked as well. I walked from the bathroom to the bedroom wearing nothing but my skin. My paunch the only invitation to my crotch on display. 

Claude approached me between the bathroom and the bedroom door, and talked about my plans for the next day. I felt awkward, standing naked in the hallway with this man, as though it was a perfectly natural thing for me to do. I was keenly aware of the size difference between us, too. His dick swung around as he talked, emphasising his statements, while mine sat perfectly still. He’s just a guy being friendly, who also happens to be naked, I told myself. He doesn’t care about the size of my dick.

I went to bed with sensual images of Claude’s physique on my mind. I ached to relieve myself; my cock throbbed under the sheets, but I was too self-conscious to wank with Claude in the next room. What if he heard me? What if I stained his sheets? What was the etiquette around masturbating in a host’s bed anyway? 

The next day I was the quintessential tourist. I walked from Broadway across the Brooklyn Bridge. I traipsed through Soho and the Village, and had a beer at Stonewall. I took hundreds of photos, of every noteworthy and inconsequential thing. I relished the atmosphere of this animated, noisy city.

I returned to Claude’s apartment, enlivened by my experiences. Claude, looking spectacular as he sprawled naked on the sofa, listened with delight as I recounted my adventures. I adjourned to the bathroom and washed the city from my skin, then re-joined Claude, sans clothing. It took some time, and a joint, for me to ease into my nudity around another person. I retired to bed proud of the personal limitations I had broken on my first day in New York. I knew the next day would be brimming with new adventures, and I was eager to taste them all.

Around midnight, I got out of bed to take a piss.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Claude called from the living room, as I dashed into the bathroom.

‘No worries,’ I replied. I had no idea why he was apologising.

When I exited the bathroom, Claude jogged over from the living room, surprising me with a huge erection bouncing in front of him.

‘Sorry for the noise. I’m just watching porn,’ he said.

 ‘Obviously,’ I replied as I looked down at his enormous, stiff cock. ‘And you’re not disturbing me.’

As I went to close the bedroom door, Claude added, ‘If you hear screaming, it’s just the porn.’

‘I better leave the door open then, so I can listen,’ I joked. But I left the door ajar anyway, hoping I would hear Claude wanking in the next room.

As I got into bed Claude pushed the bedroom door open and stood silhouetted in the light from the lounge.

‘You want to join me?’ he asked from the darkened doorway.

‘Jerking off?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said.

It was an easy decision. I was already getting hard at the thought of watching Claude stroke his long, thick cock.

‘Sure.’ I tried to sound nonchalant.

‘Turn on the light,’ he said.

I did as he instructed.

Like a vampire moving in the dark, Claude stood in front of me. His cock stared me in the eye, daring me, as I sat on the edge of the bed. I looked up at him. He nodded, his eyes glazed with lust. That was all the invitation I needed; I wrapped my mouth around his cock.

He grabbed the back of my head as he fucked my throat until I choked. His dick and balls dripped with my saliva.

‘Get on your knees,’ he said. I knew what he wanted, and I wanted it too. There was no hesitation between us.

I crouched on the bed and I fingered my hole, lubricating it in readiness for his ingress, while he watched.

‘Fuck yeah,’ he said, as he stroked himself. He slapped his long cock against the palm of his hand, turning me on even more. I couldn’t wait to feel his giant penis inside me!

He spat on my ass and rubbed my hole with his thumb, then penetrating me with his fingers. I groaned; he grunted.

He entered me, taking it slow. Once fully embedded in my ass, his thrusts increased in speed, and depth, until he broke through my second sphincter. I gasped as his cock stabbed at my intestines.

In the past, I would have pulled away at this level of pain. In my current state of sexual awakening, I did the opposite. I pushed back against him, forcing him further inside me. The sounds escaping both of us were bestial. The fucking was euphoric. We gave ourselves over to our base urges.

I was eager to do what Claude asked. Not because I felt compelled, but because I enjoyed each second of pleasure he provided. He stimulated me in ways I never knew existed.

As we laid on our sides, his arms around me, he said, ‘Let me make love to you.’ He slid his cock out until just the tip was inside me. I gasped at the sensation, his swollen cock head big enough on its own to stretch the entrance to my hole.

Even more slowly, he pushed forward until his whole shaft was buried in my ass, his balls pressing against mine. He pulled back, oh so slowly, and pushed forward again, slower still. I held onto his arms, wrapped around my chest, and bit his wrists as I whined in euphoria.

We returned to fucking doggy style and his thrusts grew harder and more frantic until he came. Grunting and yelling, he pushed his dick deep inside me as he ejaculated. I felt him throbbing in my ass as his cum shot into me. When he was finished we collapsed onto the bed, Claude lying on my back, his cock still embedded in my butt. I wriggled my hips, delivering more pleasure as I rubbed against his sensitive cock.

An hour later, we fucked again. I was in rapture at the repeat performance. I crouched on the bed, my arms stretched out in front of me while he pounded me from behind. I transcended the pain as he tore my hole wide open. My eyes rolled back in my head at the ecstasy each time his rock-hard dick slammed into me.

My cock dripped like a leaking faucet. As I played with my semi-hard dick, electrical currents shot through each nerve ending. It was like having one long, continuous orgasm. Every action, every sensation, sent shivers down my spine.

He fucked me senseless until he came inside me, grunting and yelling again.

The next morning, after coffee, he fucked me a third time. I hadn’t expected anything beyond last night, so I was thrilled when he stood up from the sofa and told me to bend over.

I gasped and whimpered and bit my bottom lip as he pulverised my hole. He came again, keeping an iron-clad hold of my hips as he screamed his orgasm to the world, then collapsed on top of me. I kept him inside me as long as he let me, relishing the feeling of him filling my hole.

An hour later, he fucked me again, and came again. This time he bent my legs over my head and stared into my eyes as he thrust his big dick in and out of my ass. My eyes rolled back into my head at the feeling, and I gave myself over to hedonism. When he came he leaned down and kissed me while his load spurted into me. When. He finished, I pushed him off me, got on my knees, and sucked every last drop from his long, sexy cock. He moaned with unbridled pleasure throughout.

Boht of us felt exhaustion set in after our morning activities. I sat on a towel while we had coffee, his cum leaking from my ass. He stood in the balcony doorway, smoking a joint and looking strong and muscular. He stared at me while I sipped my espresso, then winked.

‘You are so fucking hot,’ he said.

I believed him. For the first time in my life, I believed someone like him thought I was hot.

My sordid instincts took over in response. I lifted my leg and slid a finger into my hole. I pulled it out, covered in his cum and lube, and licked it. He grunted in desire and stoked his cock as he watched me.

‘That’s you,’ I said, as I stuck my finger in my ass again. I held it out for him to sniff. ‘That’s all you, inside me.’

He sniffed my finger, then pulled me close and kissed me, long and hard.

I love New York!

During the days I wandered around New York taking selfies at every landmark, and thought about having Claude’s colossal cock inside me. My memory replayed our fucking over and over in my mind, like scenes from a porno - but this was real! I laughed out loud at how fantastic my trip had turned out.

Claude fucked me six more times over the next two days. He filmed us fucking, and we watched them back together as I beat off, shooting my load all over both of us. He made videos of himself playing with his cock and sent them to me while I was sight-seeing, giving me the gift of a public erection as I walked through Washington Square Park or MoMA. 

We got stoned together; ate Popeyes together; and talked for hours. He told me about his boyfriend, and how they fell in love. I told him about my best friends, and how lucky I was to have them. He cooked me pancakes, brewed me coffees, and made me cum multiple times.  

The morning I left New York, Claude fucked me twice, cumming inside me with roars of triumph. I left for the airport, my underwear stuffed with toilet paper, as his cum leaked from my ass.

I took my New York state of mind with me as I continued my travels; itching to gratify the sexual appetite Claude had exposed. As I fucked my way around the world, my senses always remembered with the wet, juicy taste of the Big Apple.

David McKenzie is a writer from Melbourne, Australia. In 2022, David is travelling the world, having new experiences, and writing as much as possible! David’s writing focuses on queer culture, particularly MSM. David has written articles, short stories, and has recently completed his first queer novel, Rodrigo, David is currently writing scripts for queer TV series and a queer movie, as well as working on his second novel, My heart is broken but the condom’s ok. You can read more of David’s work through his blog - davidmckwrites.com and through Medium - davidmckwrites.medium.com. You can follow David on  and , where he posts information about his current writing projects, alongside travel adventures and political commentary - @davidmckwrites. You can read David’s articles published through the Eagle Leather blog -eagleleather.com.au/blog

Lupine Lover

I regret loving you-

lady of lupine and mist, lady of nothing

special just a boy in flowers by a pool

reflecting greeneries back at us, genderfucked lover,

we touch under a cluster of moons.

(Pool, sky, and infinity beyond).

I regret inventing you-

seeing you as more than you are, rainbow-stunted being

who holds my hand at crosswalks and forgoes

their wallet at county fairs.

I regret loving you enough to hold me close:

to leave imprintations of yourself on my body. bite marks

that echo pleasantries as the weeks wane

on and on, pale blue lover

who takes the shape and indentations of

color-leached bruises. stripes

that kiss sun-splotched shoulders, I loved you

enough to let you become a part of my

body’s story, a body that holds

infinite pains and beauties, complexities

converge, I let you inside me.

And you’re standing by the lake in Auburn

at sunset, you want me to ride out to the distance

on icy pink waters, it is late October, the leaves

regret to fall, I pluck dead flies from the muddy shore.

I don’t want to leave you, I say, and

you don’t want to leave me.

But you’re heading out to your shore-

which is nowhere but infinite water, infinite light.

You will never reach your love.

I love you like I want water, constantly here,

like a bath of light, and you just want me as a

witness to your becoming,

I am not making sense but

neither did you.

We leave each other like galaxies leaving the sky

after streetlights began to shutter on.

Painted fireflies evoke mist and smoke, and I stand

at intersections sometimes

wondering whatever happened to you.

Yuna Kang is a queer, Korean-American writer based in Northern California. She is pronoun indifferent, with her most used pronouns being from the she and they series. They have been published in the Sierra Journal, as well as Rising Phoenix Press, One Sentence Poems, The Drabble, and SOCEE zine. When she is not writing, she is probably reading and trying out different kinds of tea. They currently reside in Berkeley, California, where they are an undergraduate English major at UC Berkeley.

Gweneviere 

Sarah Michael

I watched as my girlfriend began to leave. She had been preparing for a trip with her friends for the last three months, and now she hesitated on the doorstep as she went to her car. Did she know what I had planned while she was gone? There was no way she could, I assured myself. She was simply sad about being without me for a few days. 

She turned to look at me, to give me one last hug and kiss. I gave them to her, savoring her lips as she pulled away. The somber look in her eyes revealed to me that she knew. But she said nothing, so neither did I. She pulled away without another word, leaving me alone in my small world.

I did not want to do it. You must realize, it killed me to do it. I love my girlfriend with all my heart, and would rather die before betraying her. But, as it stood, I was dying in a sense. I had to do it, otherwise… well, there simply was no option. 

Gweneviere pulled into the driveway later that night. I had been talking to her for the last week, quietly pulling her heart so that she would fall for me. She was only a few years younger than my girlfriend. I had to make it believable, so that if I was caught, they would simply say I wanted someone younger. 

She was wearing tight shorts that cut off at her thighs, squeezing her backside into a smooth curve. Her shirt was long sleeved, but prominently displayed her midriff. Her black hair was pulled into a simple bun at the back. She smiled as she walked up the stairs to my house. She truly was pretty, but you must believe me, there is no lust in me. 

I made sure I had everything set up before she arrived. The bedroom was aligned in a way so that the bed was up against the wall, leaving the middle of the floor completely open. That was important. I had also placed a knife under the dresser, sheathed, so that if she found it, she wouldn’t question it. Not until it was too late. 

We shared wine, handpicked by myself. I had met her at a work function a year ago, where she worked in a different department than me. I had quit the job months ago, so the connections to me and her were minimal at best. Given the cloak and dagger nature of our relationship, no one knew we were meeting. It made me sick to think about her life in such a calculated manner, but I had to. 

It’s important that I recount the entire night in detail to you. It may seem extremely detailed, perhaps even too detailed, but I need you to understand that she was happy until the end. I made sure she was.

We moved to the couch. I feigned interest in her work, and she inched closer to me. I didn’t want it to continue, but it did. We kissed, interlocking lips over and over, pulling and pushing. Her hands moved all over me, and I pulled into the performance, doing the same to her. I did not want to enjoy this, but it was important that she did. 

Her shirt was removed, and I kissed up and down her chest as she unclasped her bra. Her breasts were soft and oblong, like ripened papayas. I admired them, yes, but not out of lust. You must understand, never out of lust. Her pants were off next, and I buried my face between her thighs. She had to enjoy it, I reminded myself. 

“Lance,” she called, “Lance.”

She grabbed the back of my head as I continued, pulling slightly on my hair. The rhythm soon drove her lower body to thrust in slow motions, and suddenly, jerking up, she reached the point of ecstasy. I knew I could stop here, that I did not need to do anything more for it to work. But if she didn’t perform for me, it would be unbelievable. I needed her to be hooked the entire time. So I removed my pants.

She climbed on top of me, straddling my lower half, smiling viciously. Her bun was now free, her hair draping down to the middle of her back. Slowly, savoring the anticipation, she slid on to me, letting a moan escape. She rocked back and forth very slightly, getting a feel for what she was working with, then began to lift up and down. I grabbed the back of her hips, guiding her motions. I did not want to enjoy this, but I couldn’t help but do so. She was clearly an expert at this part. 

She continued to ride for what felt like hours, and I watched as she began to tire. Her breasts began to bounce less and less, and I pulled her in. “Gwen,” I said, “I’ll take it from here.” I kissed her for good measure, and she pushed off of me. She stood in front of the couch, nude, illuminated by the low lights I had put on. Her form was beautiful, full of youth. As I remind you, this was not of lust that I viewed her with. Not of lust.

She put her knees on the couch, and bent forward onto the back cushions, lifting her butt into the air where I was able to meet her. This part, of course, I would be forced to enjoy. If I did not put enough passion into this part, I would never be able to trick myself from reaching ecstasy. She felt my hesitation, and turned her head to look at me.

“Lance, please. I need it.” 

I needed it too, I thought to myself. I instead answered by entering her, pushing slowly in, making every centimeter feel like a minute. She grasped the cushions, and by the time I was in, she was screaming. It was just feral at first, but as I began to thrust back and forth, it became just one word; “yes.” I picked up the pace, filling the room with her screams and the sound of skin hitting skin. 

It felt good, really really good. I wanted to hate myself for feeling that, but I could not allow room for self hate at this crucial time. If I did not finish, she would think herself inadequate, and I would lose all the work I have done until now. Instead, I simply watched as her backside shook with every thrust, and forced myself to think only of that. The moment of ecstasy was rushing towards me, and when I was on the edge, I began to speak.

“I…”

It was all I was able to say, but she knew. She turned to look at me, and pleaded for me to finish, begging. I had her completely in that moment, and I couldn’t help but smile. It was going to work. I hit euphoria, shaking as if I was in the throes of being electrocuted. When it was done, I pulled out, leaving her to crumble onto the couch. We both stayed a foot apart, breathing heavy, completely nude, and spiritually connected in a way that could not be recreated in any other way. 

That was crucial for this to work. 

She got up and kissed me softly, leaving for the bathroom. I stood motionless until I heard the door close. I quietly pulled on some loose sweatpants, and retired to the bedroom. Gweneviere joined me, now wearing only the shirt I had discarded. We kissed again, and she yawned afterwards. 

“Sorry, I usually don’t get so tired…” she said.

“We did have wine,” I said.

She just smiled and winked. It was not long before we were asleep next to each other. This part was the most excruciating. I waited until I heard her deep in sleep before getting out of bed. I looked again at her as she slept; her body was simply stunning, perfect for me in every way. This was not lust. I had never felt lust like most people do. It was a sin I was free of.

But I was not free of every sin, and another drove me through my work. I checked the time, and it was a quarter to midnight. The hour of spirits was upon the mortal realm once again, as it passes every night. But on this night, it would fuel my ambitions. 

I carefully prepared the bedroom according to my specifications. Every picture of myself, usually accompanied by my girlfriend, was turned upside down, and hung back on the wall. I opened a drawer I had packed ahead of time, and put its contents around the room; a doll, a pink ribbon, a plastic sunflower, a dress. I took care to align the four objects so that they created a center point in the room. 

I waited until midnight, counting down the seconds. Once, while I was waiting, standing at the center of the room undressed, Gweneviere moved. I froze with complete dread, but relaxed as she stopped moving and went back into slumber. So she was a restless sleeper. Not enough to back out now, but an unfortunate trait. 

Midnight struck, and I quickly drew blood by cutting open the back of my hand. I then began to chant her name, starting with a whisper, then building up the momentum by getting louder. I was shouting her name by the end, and she shot up, suddenly alarmed to hear her own name being called. She screamed in panic, but it was too late. Everything went dark. 

My name is Gweneviere, but I go by Gwen for short. I’m twenty five, but sometimes I look older from other angles. It doesn’t bother me that I do, but you know. It can feel bad when someone mistakes you for a thirty year old! 

My girlfriend came home today. She didn’t look shocked at all, which kind of shocked me. I thought I was being sneaky with my new look, but apparently she knew the entire time. She was happy, so happy that she began to cry. She asked me if I finally recognized myself in the mirror. I said that I did, and I started crying too. I apologized a lot, but she wouldn’t hear it. We kissed a lot that night. 

Sometimes I think about Lance. About the life he left behind, about the people he had known. But his parents were dead, and he had no siblings. So who was going to miss him? He couldn’t even feel lust for another person. I feel bad for him, really, because the sin that ate him was worse than lust.

He was simply full of envy. That’s why he had to do it.

Sarah Michael is a writer living in Maryland with her wife and cat. This is her first published work.

A literary inconvenience, for you

in the libertine spirit of the European Union (EU)

By R. P. Singletary

“I see Hockney's hanging at the pool again,” I whispered. “Not like the party on Saturday, this guy's wearing a bathing suit and making me wish I could return … to last Saturday … or simply look at Hardy pix all day long on that Pointerest website, but I can't. I have to finish this project, Mollie needs a bath, and when I was just taking out the recyclables, it occurred to me that I know why.”

“Now, you, being the educated, inquisitive, socialist European you were born to be, might be wanting to ask me a question at this point. I must stop you. I must hold up my hand and stop you. Stop you from doing that one very thing you pretend to wish to do at this very singular moment in time, sir. By now, you've been wanting to ask, not exactly ever so politely I see, because that scarf, the one around your mouth remains gingerly in place, the tennis ball inside your mouth exacting what always you say you like in these matters. More?

“Some part of me truly wants to loosen those things and ask, 'What exactly hurts? What feels good? Very specifically, please sir, please tell me what part of you is aching the very most at this particular moment in your life?' But, alas, I know if I were to loosen such things too soon, one and only one such thing would transpire. We both do: you'd scream and shout, 'UNFAIR! Not long enough!!' I'm not sure which range of tone or count of decibel would result, so I don't dare, out of concern for the neighbors and their sensibilities, and so we continue to communicate in the way in which our relationship has always – and consistently – managed to manifest itself: One-sided. It's now your turn to listen, sir. A first for you. This current, albeit minor, inconvenience at play. More.

“'Why the switch?' you ask? It was our social issues, the environmentals, the recyclables. Remember, I said they triggered something. They banged against the door, forth and back, then down and down the three, four, five flights, and whooshed out back, thrown into the heap. Something in all this routine -- mind you I wasn't thinking of you, I assure you, so just relax, don't worry so much, will you? – something in the garbage going out made me epiphanize. Don't you love that nice little word? Sums up our time's obsession with break-throughs, don't you think? Oh, you can't answer. I keep forgetting-- …How about we try this one on for size....

“I just realized I'm afraid. That's my epiphany. I'm afraid, you see. I'm afraid more so even than you might be right now, although I'm the exact same person today that I was when we moved in together eighteen years ago. Actually, you moved in with me, said your life could not continue without yours becoming a part of mine. I said, we need a middle-ground abode, a place neither formerly all-yours or formerly all-mine. Was that a groan of revelry?

“Would.

“Not.

“Have.

“It.

“You.

“I was down there, you see, with all the recyclables of the entire building. Down at the loading dock just now around where the recyclables get thrown. I saw a man. He made me think of something new. This obsession with life, with thinking that everyone else has already thought it through, done it, figured it all out. Before me, before us. So we never will matter. That's not true. I'm avoiding over-thinking all these new thoughts because I know they will devour me, if I let them. I've been here before, with and without you. These interests that everyone has, these exact same hobbies, these mindless jobs, these mindless lovers...all out of rote, the whole lot of us done. Was that one too big?Sorry.

“'I need a normal life and a normal job and a normal lover,' I said to myself, walking back up those five flights of stairs just now.

“Lost in my head, I kept dwelling on this, and next thing I knew, I smiled and almost fell over laughing, almost fell backwards cackling and laughing down the stairs, when I said to myself, 'I'm dwelling on how I'm dwelling, hahaha....'

“Why don't you smile? You know you can. I mean, you are physically able to smile, you know this, sir. Is that not big enough?

“And then I reached for the door on the seventh floor, but we don't live there. Not on the seventh floor. All the way to the top, don't we have just six?, all the way to the roof I'd been, so I had to turn around and walk back down to sixth, then fifth, finally ours. Mine, yours, ours.

“The reality: Afraid of addiction, that it will rob me of my creativity once run amok, or afraid of the cure for addiction, that it will rob me of my creativity by calming me down? Just a little too much? Paralyzed by monstrous what-ifs of giving up all that juice to what? Instead of LIVING!? Leaving legacy, unforged body, steely work? Painting the subsequently most-copied colors of our entire generation? Oh, I'd at least prefer to try dying, trying. My epiphany. This. One more try....

“I realized just now why I was never good at prep school baseball or basketball, causing both sets of parents – yes, both biological mother and biological father, both of whom lettered at D1 schools; and yes, also, the what-do-you-call-my-other-set-of-parents? NON-biological?, my two über-athletic mothers who wanted a baby girl, but instead were gifted me, because adoption agencies have some weird, unwritten (?) policy about bequeathing same-gender couples the same-gender child, at least for their first adopte[e]....

“Whew. What I realized just now turning around from the seventh-floor door was that, despite all of this and all of them, I knew what it's all about, finally. Perfect fit! Enjoy!

“No reason for logic or serendipity any longer: I have other abilities. That's what I'm here for, what I'm here to do, what I'm meant to do, here to tell you, and there, I told ya.

“I love you, ya know?”

Finally. I stopped talking at that point. His whimpering had stopped right before this, as if on cue. Exhaustion not the cause. Sheer will on his part. Battles of males. It slipped out, eh? Both of them?

I loosened the things, the scarf and all.

“The EU was always a bad idea,” he said. “The prefix 'e' plus 'u' comes from the Greek word meaning good or well – it was all, well, bloody good, meant to be, until it weren't.”

He slipped the things around me now, tightening them, and before I could no longer speak for the remainder of the afternoon and perhaps evening and even morning, I kissed him and said, “E-U are mine.”

R. P. Singletary (he/him) is a lifelong writer and a native of the southeastern United States. His work appears in Bumble Jacket Miscellany, Iowa Summer Writing Festival Anthology, Ariel Chart, The Journal, and elsewhere. Every wicked way doesn't always have to be so scary, does it?

Laocoon

You drove three thousand miles 

to a furnished room in Hollywood,

but late one night, a trinity of punks would knock. 

One said he needed in (the way you needed in

yourself) to patch a cut. Ajar, 

the door would throw its shaft

across your soul’s own floor. 

They flashed a blade 

and dropped their pants, and all 

that saved your virgin ass 

was a soft cotton lie. You said

you’d bleed to death and blew them. 

I see you deadly pale, entangled

in the pythons of their limbs. Then, like ghosts, 

they faded out as if they never were. 

What really shook you earthquake hard?

What really chased you all the way back to me? 

The Greek in the Trojan Horse, my friend: you came. 

The Night’s Young

The night’s young. So am I.

Let’s fuck as if we’re going to die.

Let’s laugh a little. Skip the cry.

Make out like pros. Oh, I’m not shy.

And if you look away and sigh

as if you miss some other guy,

I’ll take the hint. I won’t ask why.

I have a joint. So let’s get high. 

A blood-shot sun will rub its eye

in the bedroom of a woozy sky. 

I’ll comb my hair. I’ll tie my tie. 

We’ll kiss, and then we’ll say goodbye.

The night’s young. So am I.

Let’s fuck as if we’re going to die. 

Ken Anderson (he, him, his) was a finalist in the 2001 Saints and Sinners poetry contest. New Poetry from the Festival (an anthology of the 2021/2022 winners and finalists) includes four of his poems. His poetry books are The Intense Lover and Permanent Gardens. Publications include Angel Rust, Gay and Lesbian Review, The Heart of Pride, Mollyhouse, Queerlings, Rabid Oak, RFD, Screen Door, Vagabonds, and Wussy Mag.

Sunday Morning

I never go out for breakfast

but here I was

small wooden tables

painted pale blue

creaky brown chairs

the broad sidewalk

me sipping cappuccino

waiting for eggs over easy

bacon wheat toast butter

thick-cut marmalade

this pricey hipster coffee shop

new since I was last on this block

ten years ago

oddly named Scheherazade

shady and cool where I sat

bright sun across the street

tiny take-out Chinese joint

the same as always

the same barber shop

between them the same

broad gray building

no signs just a street number

a door no windows

the door I passed through

every weekend during

what I call

my slut phase

those visits

never feeling real

more like dreaming

beautiful terrifying

disjunct from my life

my weekly step

through the inter-dimensional portal

into a universe where men

only men

most wearing a small white towel

some in jockstraps some naked

paced silently through a dark three-story

maze

staring or seemingly not looking

meeting or avoiding eyes

maybe reaching out to touch

disappearing into sauna or steam room

or by pairs or more into small private rooms

or just doing it in the hall

the leather sling in its own room

waiting under dim lights

for performers and audience

my breakfast came

I thought my slight fey young waiter

noticed me staring across the street

he smiled kindly

I looked down and up and

in every direction except at that

reticent gray storefront as though

this bizarre eye performance was less

revealing than a direct gaze

earlier that morning

suddenly caught up in the idea

not of going inside it

after so many years

but just of being near

being outside that dull gray wall

that separated me from

a part of me

I walked the ten blocks

wondered would seeing it

drown me in memories

and here was one

not a memory I expected

bleach sweat poppers

medley of colognes

minty liquid soap

cum ammonia asshole

somehow forming one smell

stinky and arousing

always a little different

but so familiar so thick

the memory came like a slap

I hadn’t thought about that smell

for years

my asshole clenched

my cock pressed against my jeans

maybe my skin flushed

here was my waiter

is everything all right sir

my olfactory hallucination in perfect rhyme

with those men’s present experience

on the other side of that

blank gray membrane

it was too much

I lifted the cappuccino

to my face

a deep breath of

coffee and milk

a man exited the bathhouse

chubby middle-aged pale

his blazer slung over his shoulder

gray hair still wet

looked around nervously

his shirt buttoned wrong

one side higher than the other

I giggled

he didn’t notice me

he scurried away

I realized the waiter two steps away

saw me laugh at the man

will that be all sir

another kind smile

the check please

another man left the gray building

short fit brown calm

a little dazed

he glowed

with the happiness of his body

he looked at the sky

closed his eyes smiling

opened them walked away slowly

ten years of dates

and ephemeral relationships

where had it left me

another memory

my second time there

Ed

we noticed each other immediately

we matched

our slim bodies our height

our quiet speech our cocks

our discretion no questions

no information shared

just our first names

we played a bit then wandered apart

found each other later

more play another separation

after an hour he returned looking for me

I need to go home he said

I want to cum

I want to cum with you

we sat together held each other

pressed our hot mouths together

jerked each other off

caught our breath together

showered together

it all felt perfect

we said goodbye

he walked to the lockers

he looked like he might cry

I finished the cappuccino and stood up

what had it meant

my coming here today

what did it mean now

my leaving

Fred Everett Maus is a musician, writer, and teacher. He teaches music classes on a range of topics. He is a trained teacher of mindfulness meditation and Deep Listening, and a student of object relations psychoanalysis. He has previously published prose memoir and poetry. He lives in a house in the woods north of Charlottesville, Virginia, and in Roma Norte, Mexico City. The Oxford Handbook of Music and Queerness, which he co-edited with the late Sheila Whiteley, has just been published.

Anatomy and Desire

Your fingers read my spine

You’d rather my clothes were off

The hands of an artist-

Elegant and strong you create me

One vertebra at a time

The grammar of seduction

I understand an ellipsis…a comma,

Breathing your scent remembered

Suspends the exclamation for now

Your arms whisper something

I can’t feel properly or translate

It’s a tactile missing-you not here

Like coming out of Novocaine

The ache and relief 

Married in my mouth

Laurie Greene is a professor of anthropology at Stockton University researching embodiment, queer culture, and social justice. She is the founder of the LGBTQIA+ Youth Safe Space in Atlantic City. Recent publications: Drag Queens & Beauty Queens (Rutgers 2020) and Teaching Contemporary Yoga: Physical Philosophy and Critical Issues (Routledge 2022).  You can learn more about her @ www.laurieagreene.com & follow her on FB @ Laurie Greene/Professor Laurie A Greene.

Come over

Choke me;

press your hand to my throat and control me.

Flex the muscles in the arms that carried me to this bed.

Harder.

Breathe deeply the aroma that surrounds us.

The smell of our sweat mingles with cologne and candles

and the sweet alcohol that led us here.

Faster.

Pull my hair and arch my back,

Place your hand at my hip to guide me.

Kiss my neck and press into me;
I am strong enough to support us.

Deeper

Pin my arms behind my head.
Tower over me and draw me nearer.
Take from me all I have and leave me 

breathless, 

exhausted,

and yearning for more.

Let’s go again.

He

I take leave, 

flee to the safety of sheets that embrace 

and strangle me simultaneously 

while He,

the dark figure in the hall 

and on the couch 

and on top of me in a moment of pure bliss, 

is dismissed from the apartment 

through the door without a word. 

He bent down, 

the sound of the frame snapping 

under the weight of two wrapped

one in the other, 

a hybrid body and the loss of Him.

I’ll invite that silhouette to my place again 

but only if he remains He, 

and we, without speaking, 

bring ourselves to ecstasy. 

He’ll leave me to the quiet respite of my bed 

alone and used, but I,

quite happy, 

somehow, 

I always remain in control even though 

I am under, 

and He is over, 

because I am never known 

and I choose never to know Him.

Joshua is a fourth-year medical student from New Jersey. His work draws heavily from his experiences as a member of the LGBTQ+ community, hook up culture, and following passion into the unknown.

The Virgin Slut Plays It Safe 

Richard Natale

I had only just lost my virginity when a mysterious sexually-related illness surfaced. I was resigned to my newfound virginity until I met the equally trepidatious Anil. Handsome, dark complected with searching eyes and a diffident smile, he spoke in British inflected English, adding to his exoticism. We exchanged the occasional smile, but no more until the day I saw him reading Walden Pond and mentioned that the real place was a short drive away. “We could go. I have a car,” he said. A clear come-on that excited me so much that I had to excuse myself. “Perhaps, but now I need to get back to my dorm room and beat off.” I’ve no idea why I said it. The comment was inappropriate and reeked of desperation.  

 “Really?” he said.  “My I watch?”

Rather bold for a seemingly shy young man who seemed, though I soon learned that timidity can be a lid on a simmering pot waiting to boil over. “Gee, I’m not much of an exhibitionist,” I said. 

“Too bad. I’ve never seen another man ejaculate.”

 “Oh then, you must,” I replied. 

“Would it be safe?” 

“Absolutely.” 

Anil was a genuine virgin to my situational one. In my room, I pulled out my porn stash and pulled out my dick. Anil watched intently from a few feet away while I flipped through the pages and studied the naked men and stroked myself.  “Oh my,” he remarked and I held up my underwear and said, “would you like to smell them?”

“Is that something people do?” he said, shocked. 

“Sometimes,” I said. 

“Because?”  

“It’s arousing,” I said. 

A good enough answer I guess, though he hesitated before reaching for my BVDs. 

“Now sniff them while I jerk off.”  

He inhaled as I stroked, slowly, then more rapidly until I groaned and expelled onto my belly. 

“My, but you have a great deal of ejaculate,” his laughed, gleefully.

“You could sniff them some more while you jerk off,” I added, noting a pre-cum stain on his bulging khakis.

“No, I couldn’t,” he said, looking away, embarrassed.

“I understand,” I said. “Take them into the bathroom then and jerk off in there.”

“I suppose I could do that,” he said. 

“Is it okay if I stand at the door and listen?”

“If that would give you pleasure.”  

I assured him, it would. Through the closed door, I could sense him building to a climax and said, loud enough for him to hear, “I’d love it if you would ejaculate into my underwear.” 

That did the trick. 

When he returned with my cum-soaked briefs, he turned shy again. “I’m going jerk off on them again later,” I said, and he immediately popped a boner. “You excite me, but I’m frightened.”

“We all are,” I said. “We’ll find a way to be safe. All it takes is some imagination.” 

 I invited him to visit over the weekend when my roommate left town and said that I’d like to see him ejaculate as well – but only when he was ready. He’d think about it, he said, but I knew a virgin slut when I saw one. After all, not that long ago, I’d been one too.  

I soon wore down his defenses and brought out the latent exhibitionist in him. Anil’s penis was long and thin. And uncut.  “You have a strange effect on me,” he said, as we fondled ourselves to completion. 

A few weeks later I asked if he wouldn’t mind turning around and spreading his legs and when he asked why, I said, “I want to see your asshole, so I can imagine fucking it.” 

“I will not.” 

“Turn around and bend over,” I repeated, almost as an order. There are times when aggressiveness is the only solution. He complied but seemed confused. After a few minutes, I said, “that’s wonderful. Now look at me.” 

When he turned, I was bent over with a moistened finger up my ass.  He was mesmerized and gasped when I shot halfway across the room.  

“I don’t understand,” he said, afterward. “It seems uncomfortable and unclean.” 

A fair response, and I provided a quick tutorial on the prostate and hygiene instructions. When he returned, he said that he’d taken my advice and been astonished by the fireworks that followed. After that, he dropped all pretense of propriety and was eager to (safely) experiment. Once, while he pounded away naked on my bed, I climbed over him and said, “sit up and sniff my balls.”

He seemed doubtful, but not for long. “Your smell is lovely,” he enthused as he began to shake violently and splatter his spunk in all directions.    

“I am so sorry,” he apologized. “I’m afraid I lost control.”

“That’s what sex is all about. Losing control,” I replied. 

He dressed and prepared to leave, but I wasn’t through with him. I began to massage his crotch over his pants and he was amazed at how quickly he hardened. 

“You’re nineteen. It happens,” I said and continued to rub. 

“That feels fantastic,” he remarked.  

“Imagine it’s my mouth sucking on your foreskin, biting it.”  

“I have imagined that many times.”

“After which, you shoot your jism down my throat.” 

“Oh! Oh!”

Once you get the hang of it, getting a guy to bust his load is pretty simple.

 Anil began to spend the weekend with me. Provided I wash the sheets afterward, my roommate had no problem with him sleeping in his bed.  

Time for the next step.  

“For me?” he said when I presented him with a brightly wrapped package.  

“For both of us.” 

He eagerly ripped off the colored paper to reveal matching dildos.   

“One for me,” I said, holding the larger one. “And one for you.”

“No. Absolutely not. I will never do that.”

“Oh, I think you will,” I said confidently.

“You are going to ruin me,” he said.  

“No, I’m going to destroy you,” I said. “And you’re going to thank me. But for now, care to watch?  

His lower lip jutted out and he resisted saying yes as I doffed my short and started playing with my nipples and stroking myself hard. I reached into a drawer and pulled out some lube, applied it to my hole and inserted one finger and, eventually, another. In a few minutes, I was ready for the “real” thing. I’d flirted with the idea of a dildo before, but convinced myself that it would never be as satisfying as Phil’s meaty cock. I soon discovered that it was a more than acceptable substitute.  

“Such a large object does not hurt you?”  

“Only at first. But…,” my voice trailed off as my senses exploded. Deeper. Faster. “I need you to bend over and let me sniff your ass.”    

 Anil was out of his clothes in an instant. As I bounced up and down on the marvelous dildo, I inhaled his manly scent. Without touching myself, I came so powerfully, I almost knocked him over.  

“How did you do that?” Anil asked once I’d recovered.   

 “I don’t know. But I can’t wait to do it again.” 

“Do you think I will be able to do that?”

“Won’t know unless you try.”  

Inserting even a moderate-sized dildo into Anil’s ass required coaxing and encouragement. A few self-fingering sessions. Then one inch, two. But as for most of us, when the mysteries of the prostate finally reveal themselves, unbridled ecstasy ensues. “Biologically I knew the prostate was there. Why did no one explain this function?” he said after his toes and hands clenched and he spurted violently. 

“It would seem to be a significant omission,” I said.  

Once he’d opened himself up, he couldn’t wait to do it again. And again. As a birthday present, I bought him a duplicate dildo to mine and we took turns fucking each other with them. 

That summer, he returned to Mumbai. He introduced to and married his pre-selected bride. He endured it, he wrote, because he had brought both dildos with him, and used them in his private bedroom, from which she was forbidden. That fall, when he began his senior year, I had had already moved on to medical school in Manhattan. We were able to get together a couple of times, but the spell was broken. We remained friends though, and continued to correspond after he moved back to Indian. He sent photos of his children and his new manservant, naked and at attention, and later, more explicit photos of them together. “If you ever come to India, I will let you have him for a night,” he promised. “You won’t be disappointed.” 

In middle age, Anil left his wife. He and the manservant moved to Majorca.  

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

What Comes After

         Death sounds like a whispered “I love you” as I throw clothes in a suitcase. Garments that do not reflect anymore what is on the inside as much as what is on the outside. Death tastes like cold coffee chugged on a hangover while I walk downstairs. Death feels like skin gone too fragile and cold, ragged breaths, moans of pain, infinite helplessness. A drunken vigil. Our own strange version of the Pieta, touching her, holding each other, taking sobs in turn, willing his peace. Arms holding each other up, sweat soaking shoulders. Waltzing our way through murmurs of the grief-stricken relatives here waiting with us. Perfect sunny days, barefoot on the sand on our way to the sea, because we go to the water in order to ease our pain, celebrate what is left, strip away what is no longer us and ours. 

         Shock sounds like mumbling relatives, family friends and neighbors on a constant procession, well-meaning advice, the unexpected harshness of the words “change” and “shame”. The invisible glare and judgment passed via flow of texts, emails, reactions and comments as the news travels through the wind. Jackets and sweaters that are too big, chewing gum, baseball caps, cheap beer, evening sun, following the gait of girls that wear the same short skirt. Cigarettes smoked inside a car that feels too big and too wide with her while dreaming of coming out plans that are half-made and half-theoretical. Profanities leaving my lips with inappropriate frequency and a harsh quality to my laughter, because really, fuck this. 

There’s a novel about a doctor-scientist stitching body parts to create an entirely new being. I remember being so enthralled by the idea of creating something new, something beautiful, with all my old and tattered parts. I remember reading this when I received the dreadful call. My mother whimpering, choking, eating her own words: “Really, who, what, are you?” Me, sitting down, clutching my phone in one hand and my bandaged chest in the other. This can’t be true. It can’t be true.

Business sounds like apologies and hold music. Dust and the last caress of her favorite shirt. Sweat from moving bags and boxes. The parade of friends and family in and out in waves and stolen moments of glorious, guilty alone time. Stumbling through runs and long walks. Asking retail employees to help in the search for the perfect formal suit, them offering me dresses in return. Apologetic emails begging for understanding. The discovery that hospitals and insurance companies need to be told over and over again that I am not sick, that this is not a disease, that I am mentally well - an odd grimace after I thank them for understanding. Helplessness because I can’t do the grieving for those I love, only for me. Jokes, trinkets, hidden messages and cleansing the last of her scent, wondering if I can somehow bottle it, while knowing it is gone. How cruel it must be to leave a heart only you can soothe.

         Shared grief tastes like sobs conveyed through hugs. The words “loved her, love you, hate this” inaudible yet present between awkward platitudes. Sore feet, family members you haven’t seen in ages, morbid curiosity. Quickly gobbled crackers and bad 3-in-1 coffee. Notifications and ringtones that you eagerly anticipate and dread in equal share. Oppressive midnight heat and ice-cold beer. Candles flickering around portraits, more flowers than a wedding. Glue sticks and dust from putting together photo boards. Tired eyes from nights spent up late and hours staring at memories, putting together snapshots, explanations, any form of tangible proof for those who might ask. Hospitality and graciousness, a sparkly smile and the weight of my own musk because I always liked to smell good.

Her scent and her smell of cigarettes and alcohol and lip balms and ruffled sheets hurriedly losing the scent of a promise, her presence like the absence of presence, like silence so full of itself it cannot be filled with anything else but more silence, like the greatest of our loves is in this hole in the dirt, and she is the hole as well as the dirt—I would have buried her if only I wasn’t knee-deep in that very ground.

         Goodbye is a last stem of herb from her garden, crisp with the scents of rosemary for remembrance and basil for good measure. It’s tucking trinkets in so she has the things she loves, because maybe we are still a little pagan. The parade of hugs in heat. A bit of gallows humor. The songs I chose as a last message to  all: that I am home now. The chalkiness of the wafer and the sweet bitterness of communion wine. A long car ride with jokes that sound too loud and right at the same time, because there is laughter in life. Surrounded by family and friends and the unexpected power of the echoing lord’s prayer. Stone angels and sheltering trees and unexpected cooperation from the weather - wind and coolness. The tenderness of the earth. The flowers even if we don’t know yet what we’re supposed to be celebrating. Crying and hugging each other even tighter now, broken only by the blessing of a ray of light, peeping through the clouds.

         The aftermath is full of family members meeting each other. The endless notes of “It’s great to see everyone; this is kind of a werd occasion”, “come visit”, “anything I can do”, all blended with a melody of love and counterpoint of loss. An endless flow of gin and tonic and red wine, sunlight and breezes. White and black with pops of color. The scents of lilies, roses, and a spread of food she absolutely would have approved: dimsum, spaghetti, chicken lollipops. People are golfing around us as though nothing has happened, because they have been here before and will be again, but the world hasn’t paused for them today. We find our joy in each other and we take pictures because how else do we know what has happened anymore? And now it’s time for the world to start again. And because we could not carry on together, I have no more reasons to keep you from going on your way. But first the birds, first the distant whisper of the stream, the magnetism of thirst— why love is not blind, love is borrowing from another's eye, and so the horizons we aim for —yours the sea and mine the mountain. We must be going. This almost dusk. The wind divorcing grass from another grass. We are fortunate to have come this far and to not look back at  the mouth of guilt and regret. The always present threat of its teeth. Goodbye without saying goodbye. 

Allow me to introduce myself again. I greet you. I give you a high five.

Hunger

“Go on, do not stop touching yourself. Because in this world, no one is going to love you other than you and your dirty fingers.”

In a small, dim and dingy room, there is a girl touching herself with such fervor it is almost a case of molestation. She has small hands. She curls her hips in and out. This is her secret dance, the one she does not tell anyone about. The one she indulges in nightly and then shoves into the recesses of her mind until the next sundown. She does not tell her lovers about these rendezvous she has with her own body, her own acute awareness of what feels right. She does not tell them. They are scarecrows to her. They are sacks stuffed with cotton, stuffed with seed, which are meant to scare away her lust, but fail. She can kiss their mouths, oh yes. She can kiss their mouths and believe in it, but when she gets home and peels her clothes so lovingly away from her skin, she cannot help but realize the attraction she has for her own body, her body built like a mausoleum of bones.

I remember the perennial and unforgiving silence.

The girl is young. She does not want to be named. She has dark shoulder-length hair, a long bob. She is petite. She has pale skin. You can see her veins. She looks so delicate. She has small lips that rarely curves into a smile. At first glance she looks ordinary. Nothing very special about her. She looks like a kid. Looks too young for her age. Seems like someone who is forced to grow up too early. But when you look at her closely, that is when you will realize that there is something different about her: there is something about her eyes and the way she looks. Or stares. It is unsettling. Disturbing. One look from her and it feels like you are being stripped raw. No wonder she can drive people away or draw people in just by staring into her eyes.

I remember my father’s fingers, cold and trembling, tracing the outlines of my knuckles. I remember the eyes that dare not meet, nor chance a glimpse at the world that lived barred behind a pane of frosted glass. I remember the harsh cadence of rain that battered that glass, frantic like fists, demanding entry.

She grew up in a family where people are always threatening to leave. A father who is more fingers and fists than man, a mother who is more eyes and hands than woman. Brother and sister who are more shadows than people. A father holding his wife’s hands, with his eyes clinging to his daughter’s nape, if she is as sweet as her mother, he wonders. A house, not a home. Walls that knew everything. A ceiling that saw everything. Pillows that knew the teeth, tears, blood, and nightmares. In this house, messages are not always read. And if they are, responses are not always found. In this house, you do not cry or else they will give you something to cry about. In this house, you bite down hard until you taste your own blood.

I remember the taste of my own apprehension: bitter and pungent, a tang that lingered on my tongue despite my attempts to dilute it with the coffee I nursed.

She imagines in the corner a dark thing with hunched shoulders and a wicked grin that urges her on. It is excitable. “Go on,” it caws sweetly through the smell of smoke and damp, “touch your skin. See how it warms faster to your own hands than anyone else’s. See how it yields!” And it is true. Deep down in the middle, she gives way to her own advances. Her fingers plunge easily into a world of velvet. And she is alive and she is ashamed all at once. She cannot believe the animation of her body, how it responds so quickly when the right parts are provoked. But she is guilty, too. She is horrified at her greed, at the way she prods and presses and fucks and breaks. How she then does it all over again. How the time she spends molding herself like clay drips by and by until she is drowning in a sea of wasted hours. Until her breath has been lost so many times she doubts its return is necessary.

I remember the idle way my mother hand’s worked cleaning the dishes. I remember how gingerly she stacked them, as if the subtle clamor of porcelain clattering together would break the solemnity of our vigil. I remember the slump of her shoulders; contemplating the futility of her actions. I remember wondering if we would need that china. I remember thinking it would not matter even if we did.

For years she was lost between mistaking moths for pixies and the need to be an adult and carry on. She could not carry on so she whispered to the pixies instead. She quietly tried to untangle herself from ghosts, tried to tiptoe her way out but did not succeed for very long. She was followed by a storm of wasps having picked up the sweet scent of guilt and remorse, mistook her north for her west and ended up somewhere in the dark with her heart pretending to be a compass. She found it silly the way people still calculate things so wrongly in spite the lessons they have learned. She thought she could hide if she were smaller but some things are so big they always come find her even in the cracks.

I remember my mother’s suitcases packed by the door, her anger leaving her crumpled rather than mighty. I remember my father’s mouth spraying spit across the living room, across all the living rooms in all the houses we ever lived. I remember my father - a giant gargoyle in front of the television, banishing everyone from the room with a turn of his head alone. My mother beating her head against the wall, the blood coming slowly. I remember the threats to leave. By him or her and then my siblings eventually, except they made good on their word.

Still the thing in the corner, which breathes heavy as she breathes, which groans and moans as it watches her, it calls out more. It squawks loudly while she throws herself off the edge of sweet sin.

I remember my brother’s face, etched in stone. I remember my sister’s incessant fidgeting.

“Again!” it demands. “Do not stop. What else is there? What else is there besides this power at your own fingertips? You are a master in this world, in this world of sweat and stifled breaths and your breasts like peaches swollen with nectar. You own yourself. How you give and give yourself away. To bruised knuckles. To starved eyes. To mouths that try to suck you dry. Take yourself. Take, take,” it presses. And she does. She does.

I remember my brother abandoning one warzone for another, this time in uniform. This time with a squadron with whom he felt more at home. Even when they come after him during the night. This is better than nothing, is it not? My sister with a man whose wife was dying of leukemia. I was just trying to be of comfort, she would tell me. Then soon she would come with whoever who would take her, even with someone who gave her bruises on both the inside and out. And then there is me.

Years later, they have asked the girl to forgive them for their silence, hold on to their hearts, like limp birds in her dried palms. Men have told her that she's beautiful because she can see their rocks as diamonds, and she listens to them in the dark. Yet rarely do these men imagine the weight of their brokenness, the fragility of the girl's body, her weariness from carrying their hearts and dragging her own. The girl has too many calluses on her hands from dragging oversized rib cages; and she's tired of carrying everything that is never her own. She wants to stop cradling their uncertainty as if there is not already too much of that in her. She wants to stop clinging on to men who are so silent and tough, whose voice she is so familiar with that she cannot block it even with her own screams.

I remember the unvoiced questions that hung between us. I remember the foreboding uncertainty that loomed in the undisturbed quiet of our home. I remember the oppressive presence of dread that clung to the air, that served to calcify my lungs with every inhale. I remember the creeping atrophy in my muscles, the sharp pain that nestled itself in between the columns of my spine. I remember the electricity that thrummed through my veins. I remember my heart being driven by a weighted and erratic percussion, carried by a lamentation I dared not speak: I cannot.

She is exhausted by the time she can take no more. She lies in sheets that swelter around her. She is throbbing at the center and may do so forevermore. She can hear nothing but the whirring of her own heart in the dark. All else is silence.

The girl looks back now. As a kid, the girl was never afraid of the dark. She slept under her sheets to avoid the whisper of the street lamps from the window. As a kid, she was never afraid of the dark. The most powerful gift she has been given are the words: "I see you," despite whatever name she chose to call herself. She has been afraid of the word "please" for so long that she forgot to notice that she still shakes. Her mother mistakes her pain for hatred. She begged mercy from her parents' embrace and spent years asking why.

I remember the sound of rolling tires, the slap of boots, the thunderous bellow of voices.

Even the demon is done for the night. He flashes a single satisfied smile and before fleeing the scene, he praises her: “You. Are. God.”

I remember the void that opened beneath us. I remember the tug. I remember the plummet.

All the while the girl can hear the jangling of coins falling, falling, falling, as if it was the sound of eternal salvation. The girl can hear the crispness of fresh money, a sign of deliverance, of redemption.

I remember being consumed.

But tomorrow is another day and salvation is something that is far away, something that can be achieved – someday. But just not today. Because the show is not over until she has something to eat every supper.

I remember that it hurts, but it hurts so good and besides, I have never known anything else. I take and eat everything with my own hands.

The girl opens her eyes and stares into the screen. It is now her father she sees.

Mae Espada is an English instructor, law student, reader, and writer based in Manila, Philippines. She studied English majoring in Literature at the University of the Philippines - Diliman and is now currently pursuing Law at Arellano University School of Law. You can follow her @maesword.

“For Him + Cloud”

I see the boys as they go by.

I see a cloud that looks like you.

(Well not like you exactly, but like the way you are.)

Soft and slow,

Moving imperceptibly but with purpose.

Taking up a swath of sky, large + fluffy with perforated borders.

I can see thru your edges -

I can put my fingers inside your softness-

I can take a big bite out of your belly, full of condensation.

You might turn grey, blue, purple, green even -

For now you are bright powdery clear.

I can see the sky through the meat of you.

I take a handful of your creamy ass before it drifts away.

You may mean snow one day-

Quiet and gentle,

(With sharp edges)

Holding me in the center of one palm.

You could mean rain another-

Showering sustaining wetness below,

Slaking the thirst of every flower’s throat.

But for now it’s summer.

And all you mean is you.

“Poem for my fat lover or the sky”

My/your body like an old shirt

Not so important what it looks like

It doesn’t matter the material

It was made of at first,

It’s all soft now.

My/your body like an overcast day.

Presses me down, fills my vision,

Cloud cover.

I am covered.

Held down, I can’t reach you-

Only admire.

<3 Timothy

Lane Speidel is a Philadelphia based artist, curator, member of Vox Populi Gallery, and graduate of Tyler School of Art. They play with writing, sculpture, fiber, music, to try to place themselves in the world. These different methods patchwork in freaky, funny, and sad installations, with seams visible.They are a white Jewish transexual fag and acceleratingly disabled in many directions. Their writing practice began as love songs to friends, and now its poetry, music, plays, creative non-fiction, and sci fi. They have self-published many zines, and their writing has been in Ginger Zine, Stone Fruit, and Art Blog. They know that being a ts faggot is political. Our job is to upend all systems that do not make possible joy, family, community and celebration. They use their writing to look out of the keyhole of our capitalist reality, in their spare time they are also looking for the key. You can find more about them @ ihopeilikethis.com and follow on IG @body_joke.