Wicked Gay Ways

Dear Reader: We hope your year is off to great start. For our 2023 & 2024 Fall/Winter Issue we are delighted to feature the work of new writers and visual artists as contributors to our journal. In this issue we feature writers and poets: Ken Anderson, Brock Archer, Jarrod Campbell, Alex Condie, John Ganshaw, Laurie Greene, Alshaad Kara, Bob McNeil, Josefine Parker, Red Passion Writings, Aaron Poochigian, Dalton Primeaux, Peter Shipman, and Keiron Vine. Visual artists include Brock Archer, Semele Lazaro, Paul Lorenz, Bob McNeil, Genesis Pizarro, and Victor Velez.

In Memoriam Edward M. Cohen: A contributor to Wicked Gay Ways in 2022 and 2023, Ed passed away this November leaving behind an extensive history of published works. An award winning author, his short story collection “Before Stonewall” won Awst Press Book Award in June 2021. His novel “$250,000” was published by G.P. Putnam Sons. Ed never stopped writing; sharing his vision. He was most recently published in October 2023 in the Lambda Award Winning anthology “Brute” and in August of this year in “Out Loud” an anthology of LGBTQIA memoirs now in the Smithsonian Institute. I had the pleasure of featuring his work in “Out Loud”. His voice will forever be missed. We encourage you to become familiar with his work. (Susan DiPronio, Co-Founder & Co Editor, Wicked Gay Ways) 

The Role Model

Dale sits resenting in an egg-shaped mirror

the mug he got. He knows that boys are square

and girls are round and feels it isn’t fair,

so he becomes an artist, a besmearer

of shades and shadows, whittling his boxy

brow and jawline into ovate arcs.

His eyes, writ large, acquire come-hither sparks,

his scalp turns permed, and she emerges, foxy,

from sorrow. Later, sweeping toward the stage,

she jostles shoulders with her vast sashay.

Look at her hula-hooping, holding sway

while blowing kisses. She is all the rage.

Rounds of applause hail “Dahlia Dupree.”

Go learn the art of what you want to be.

Aaron Poochigian, earned a PhD in Classics from the University of Minnesota and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University. His latest poetry collection, American Divine, winner of the Richard Wilbur Award, came out in 2021. His work has appeared in such publications as Best American Poetry, The Paris Review and POETRY.

Secret Touch

We are a secret

We whisper to each other

out of habit-

even when we are alone

In hiding, we dream-

How can we ever touch

the impossibly untouchable

in another’s heart?

Unattached or beholden

it’s one in the same

I cry, you laugh, we know

danger lies solely in indifference

Why do we love the things

we cannot have

more than those

we can so easily possess?

And you, most precious

of possessions

least likely to abide

by my foolishness today

Laugh and look away

“Like a clever 9-year-old”-

you sigh as you turn and go

about the work of invention

When I reach for your hand

you pull me close instead

to tell me things

you think I’d rather hear

Why do we love the things

we cannot touch

more than those so easily

within our embrace?

You say I wish we were

somewhere warm

I say we are and slip

my hand between your legs

When the missing starts

I reach for tactile moments

Well worn, like a groove

on my most favorite record

The riff and rhythm so ordinary

I can reimagine a normal us

You- certain of most things

Me- certain of nothing but touch

I know the smell of your skin

The taste of your sweat

The sound of your pleasure

The sorry, sorry, sorry- its verse

Silence- I listen to your thoughts

As they fade in and out

in some primordial language-

the orphans of translation…

We are a secret

that can’t be shared with anyone

They whisper things-illicit

Alone and silent we touch

Laurie Greene, (she/her/hers) 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.

UWS

It was after 2am, maybe even past 3am, and John had been in a weird mood all night. He

left the bar feeling rejected and worthless. He had also tried cocaine for the first time, and it was

making him impossibly restless. His mind raced.

He decided to message an old friend who conveniently lived just a block or two away: “I

can’t sleep.”

“Come over.”

John arrived at his friend’s apartment, was buzzed in, and ascended the loud, bright

stairway. The friend, Robert, he was pretty sure that was his name, was standing in the doorway

naked.

John asked the naked man, “What are you doing up?”

“I was actually going to the bathroom when I got your text. It was fate. Come in.” John

noticed Robert’s member began to twitch.

An hour or so later, John finally fell asleep, filled with two orgasms worth of Robert’s

semen.

Dalton Primeaux, known for his work in fashion publicity and the now-defunct blog "the Wearhouse District," has dabbled in everything from trendy mags like InvadeNOLA or Viral Fashion, to horror writing. He kicked off his queer horror series "Tales from Beyond the Closet'' with Wood in 2020, adding more scares to his repertoire. You can find more of his work at https://www.daltonprimeaux.net

The Destroyer

 “I’m an awful person.”

 He hugged me tight.

 “I’ve done terrible things.”

 He kissed my neck.

 “Your world doesn’t exist because of me.”

 He dug his nails into my back.

 “What can I do to make you hate me?”

 “...keep talking.”

 There was no reason for us to love one another. No reason he should have forgiven me.

 But reason melted away when his lips touched mine. The past disappeared and, in its place, a glorious present bloomed. One with him, and me, and no one else.

 I had destroyed all life out of hatred for my own.

And he had destroyed all potential for me to be alone.

Alexander Condie (he/him, they/them) is a Toronto-based science fiction and fantasy writer. When not writing short stories or catering to the needs of his cat, Alex spends hours designing and playing board games with his partner.

Iris Root

Staring at the gorge overlook, we crush a tub of sheep’s yogurt and chomp on apples. Back at our

first date spot, memories linger, thickening the space. It reminds me how the country has

landmarks much like the city, ruts I get into when revisiting the same routes, the breathtaking

becoming mundane. Recollections break my dour brain fog. Annual hiking trips. Pleasantry. I’m

chipper with Mom and Catherine in the Pine Barrens. Laughter. A slow day with the family.

I mentally shoo it all away.

“Deer tracks. Deer scrapings,” xy says, aroused at dirt and bark markings, some nature porno I

can’t decipher. “C’mon! Follow me.”

Double fist deep-fishing around, arms swallowed by the hiking backpack’s opening, Cherie

unpacks a douching kit and xyr car battery rigged wand vibrator onto a flat boulder. A rocky tier

down, I flatten out a wool tapestry and arrange our sex provisions altar— lines of water jugs,

glass bottles of sesame oil, toys, and spindly candles. Wrapped in afternoon breeze, we tenderly

kiss. Xy starts securing me in a chokehold, turns my face red, and slams me. The sunbaked clay

foundation receives my recoiling flesh. Xy flicks on the car battery, grinds the vibrator wand

around my pussy, and spits into my asshole. As xy smacks my hole with stinging jolts, I lose it.

Filling the douching bulb, xy unloads an unctuous round silky like tires on fresh asphalt. After

rubbing my belly, coaxing the slurry counterclockwise, xy thunders my ass cheeks, the signal to

release. Treading through chokeberries and brush, clad only in leather boots and knee highs, my

risk tranagement against poison ivy and chiggers, I quiver and squirt watery bowels into a squat

trench forest shitter. Oak, tulip poplar, and maple leaves twirl their geometry, curves, and

pronged tips. Sordid sex prep shame strikes me like lead foisted into my gut. Watery shit

squishes my ass cheeks.

I return and Cherie cleans me with baby wipes and stuffs them into a reused freezer bag. Xy

thuds me to the ground with xyr grimy thighs. I’m a cracked vessel with my seams oozing

saltwater as sobs burst. Cherie beats me with a leather belt. Bruising skin, xy tops familial pain to

my surface: what a tiny Catherine felt when her Pop whipped her amid stale sauerkraut, vodka,

and Pall Malls off-gassing from his body. My snotty sobs glob like bubbling stock scum. Xy

sticks the silicon bulb tip into my hole, conditions me with oil. I feel less frail. Something

dissipates into the earth. My vision recedes into my skull’s cockpit, forces the sight of whirled

clay divots and rippling pine to zig zag. As the subject no greater than the rock, clod, or branch,

use me. Swirl and unfurl. Flay away every useless imperfection.

The shitter trench receives my spurt, no defiled excretory interference. An oblation, that pure,

oily water, streams out my ass. Sex angels conspire, fully immerse me in total bottom headspace:

the power to receive and guide that around me. Positioning ourselves to grind on the whizzing

vibrator wand, we throb. Welts on my flesh drag against the earth that hones me. Beyond our

wand head fucking, we’re tethered to battery acid corrosion-covered soldered cable connection

points. Licking xyr nipples— the intact and the scarred— I tease Cherie. Moaning, xy shimmies

off underwear, exposes xyr minimal depth pussy. I yearn to worship at xyr loins, take xyr into my

mouth, work secrets into the fiber of xyr flesh, but xy didn’t consent to such, no sucking nor

slurping today, an uncomfortable feeling on xyr particular junk when a sandpapery tongue

scrapes xyr pussy. Fingers, dicks, toys— yes, please! Save my tongue until more intimacy is

built. With silicon lube, I work xyr clit to receive the electric wand. Damn, xy writhes, sensuous,

a sacred slithering sex serpent. A rush hits Cherie. Xy throws me down. Oh fuck, xy actually

wants it and smothers my lapping tongue with xyr asshole’s ripeness. The denial until this point

makes everything seismic. Amid rustling and fumbling, xyr ass smashes my eyelids shut that I

struggle to keep open. I watch Cherie stand. Sunlight strikes. Xy peers from xyr vantage, slides

on xyr harness with that brass ring around burnished, blackened wood hooking into xyr clit, a

bulbous shoot in xyr shallow vag, a strap-on not like a cock but a swollen iris root. Grunting,

Cherie gags me and pauses to anal bead toy and fingerfuck me before tranaging to pop in a

stainless-steel anal plug.

“Cro,” xy says. “You’re beautiful. Don’t forget it.” Xy kisses me. “Now fucking take it.”

As swallows dip through the sky, I quiver. My stretched backpussy takes three, no four fingers.

Veins pulse around clenched fingers downstream from my heartbeat. Xy shifts from handfucking

to steady clunks of the strap-on. I wince and wiggle until xy passes through my deep hole.

“LORDESS,” I say, “Fill me. No, devour me! Wreck it all.”

After Cherie puts on xyr back brace, xy lifts me and pounds into my crumpled body with my

arms wrapped around xyr neck, kudzu vines pulling at an edifice. Limp, I pull in xyr offering

thrusted, vital brashness flooding my core. I cum and clench. Xy guides me onto my back where

rocks line the bluff. Kissing me, xyr eyes turn glossy. Xy mercilessly fucks. Eagerness and terror

seize us. Cherie flips on the electric wand, throttles it, and vibrates me towards the cliff. The car

battery flickers and sparks, the electric wand stronger as it shuts off.

“Damn. We’ve been fucking so hard, girl,” Cherie says, biting xyr lip, “we killed this battery.”


Pulling me onto a flat spot, Cherie plows me with xyr harnessed, protrudent wood and plants

xyrself in me. Amid sky-bound arches of fuchsia and sapphire swathes, the sun sets. Arms

fastened around our waists, we kiss.

Breaking roles and giggling, breathing sweet damp air now that the afternoon heat broke, we roll

out towels for lounging and clean with body wipes and hauled water. No-see-um bite our skin,

zing their dusk pinpricks. Cherie lights an incense coil. As xy rolls a cigarette and lights it,

smoke wafts like rippled, shoreline patterns. This trail mix and citrus replenishes, the snacks and

sex recomposing us against all odds. Overlooking far-reaching hills, I witness both smokes keep

us safe, the tobacco Cherie puffs and the incense coil burning, how they repel hungry airborne

bugs from our protective bubble. Swooning as dew transpires, a calm pervades swirled in every

leaf particle and rock atom alike. As we cuddle and nibble snacks, hits of blood sugar land,

bursts assimilating into our fat, bones, and our eyes.

"Josefine Voyager Parker is a Slavic-American trans woman, transition doula, and writer grounding trans sacredness in nature and the surreal. From Maryland, she lives in rural Middle Tennessee. Their writing has appeared in Mergoat Mag, Fifth Estate, and RFD. "Iris Root" is from their first novel manuscript. More at wildtransition.com."

“Maybe We Should Take It Back a Notch, Make It Strictly Platonic”

I drown in the pool of your eyes,

Not the blue they always write and sing about,

The kind of brown that can flip any frown

Sturdy and comforting, like the leather of a classic book

Dying to get inside,

Yearning to have a look

Read me the letters and words of your story

Lay back, relax, let me bask in your glory

Tangled in the mahogany curls and twists of your plot

Tongues colliding, sliding,

A story that will never be forgot

Lips breathing new words, speaking new chapters

Tell me do you like it, I can go faster

Fingers tracing lines,

Caressing the spine of your book,

This is just the beginning, it is only the hook

Chill bumps on your caramel skin,

Anything you want, just to see your grin

Softly fingering each page,

Put your legs on my shoulders, let me set the stage

I hang onto every line, every word, every moan

Devouring and tasting, every ecstasy cliff, every groan

Every sigh, every don’t stop plea

Good girl, open yourself up to me

Looking up from between your chapters,

The climax of your story, wrapped up in raptures

When it’s all done,

We lay together, page to page

Labored breaths, moving your rib cage

The stars in your amber eyes, a glimpse of faraway speckles

A kiss dotted across each of your freckles

Now that you’ve reached a plateau,

Protagonist of my love,

I just want you to know..

I’d read every body of your work,

Every volume, each abstract, within your artwork

For each second I’ve spent in this prequel

I’ve shivered for the perversion, the next time, the sequel

Brooke Jennings is a Psychiatry Researcher currently living in Tampa, Florida. When Brooke is not advocating for mental health, she is mountain hiking, kayaking, reading erotic novels,writing poetry, or traveling. Brooke Jennings favorite pursuits in life are trying things that gets her adrenaline going- skydiving, hang gliding, paragliding, white water rafting, or submitting her poetry for the world to read. You can take a closer look into the inside mind of Brooke by goingto her Instagram @brooke__jennings.

"Hide and Sex"

Hide and seek,

Not hiding in fright, I did want to be seen

Only by his lips of passion.

Silencing with laughter,

I gulped a last sip of our intimacy.

Replay the same scenario

All over again,

I decided to taste him again,

Even if I had to lie to my entourage.

That was the easiest part,

Because the time spent

With him was endangered by time itself.

I could not continue the greed to crave

So I carved a last hickey to control

Our horniness and fuel

Another sensual rendezvous.

Alshaad Kara (he/him) is a demisexual Mauritian poet who writes from his heart. He won the 2023 "Zheng Nian Cup" Literary Award Third Prize. His latest poems were published in "The Social Rhyme", "Spered Gouez", "Caractère", "Men Matters Online Journal" and "Slamming Bricks Anthology 3rd Edition".  You can follow him on social media @ @alshaadkara1 , @teamalshaadkara , @alshaad_kara.  

Jesus Christus in cruce

Jesus?

I need him, you say?

We need each other like a fag needs an extra hag

so there’s that

Though truth be told, if ever hard up,

I’d bend him over that overturned temple table

and nail him harder than any Roman ever did

he has no business hanging around up there

on that cross, cloth-draped

suggestive peeks at ridiculous abs

and cum gutters slanting, leading the eye downward

to the true glory of his father’s heavenly kingdom.

Jarrod Campbell is a writer living in the northern Virginia suburbs of Washington DC. His fictions, essays, reviews and poetry have appeared online and in print with Northwest Review, Boner World (Berlin), Heavy Feather Review and others. His collection of short stories, The Reason I’m Here, was published this year by Stalking Horse Press.

SURFER BOY

Late afternoon my last day in San Francisco,

I was taking the trolley down Market Street

when I noticed a handsome surfer boy

quietly illuminating a lacquered bench

across from me diagonally. He was pure sex

in the guise of a slender teen in faded-green board shorts,

twilight-orange tank top —shades clipped to it—

and worn-out leather sandals and wristbands.

He carried a canvas backpack I imagined crammed

with herbal, aromatic things like a bag of weed,

patchouli incense, eucalyptus oil, musty, tattered books

where his blue eyes surfed the clear, cold waves

of words— algebra, history, literature brightening

like a bike reflector in the light of his young attention,

as well as a trove of sundry surfer gear

like lip balm, sunscreen, a leg leash, a tin

of beeswax, and a tortoiseshell comb

for preening his rife, sun-bleached hair.

His eyes were sparkling like glitter on the back

of waves making love to Muir Beach— his skin

coffee brown as Mount Tam’s slopes

in November, creamy smooth, I’m sure,

as his supple voice or a milky glob

of his wholesale adolescent spunk.

His lower lip was a plump curl spilling forward

in a lavender glaze seductive as a path around rocks

at dusk, intoxicating as a Napa Cabernet, sweeter

than a sunny valley of luscious, juice-dripping oranges.

And no matter how he sat, all the fruit

in California bulged in his ripe, inviting crotch.

He caught me staring, spoke to me

with an incredibly intimate glance,

and touched his phallic nose like a secret sign.

Then he looked away serenely, cool as a spring fern

in the shade of a redwood, awake to me

the way a barn owl feels a deer mouse

in the woods at night— a faint blush blooming

in his tan cheeks, the silvery flicker

of a smile playing over his placid face.

3

He was letting me ogle his undulant arm,

his complaisant hand, the “gnarly” knob of his knee,

the calf curved like a copper swell at sunset,

the bronze foot with its chubby toes pink as rosebuds.

He could tell I knew who he was, the happy theophany

of Apollo, Krishna, California myth itself, traveling

through the bustling streets, unseen by others on the car

the way a Greek god, seen as a man,

remains unknown except to another god.

The cresting wave of his magnetic pull

broke against the ebbing wave

of my insecure, paralyzing shyness

in a netlike welter of fizzing foam and regret.

In short, I bailed and simply fantasized

about him finding the perfect line— crouched, scaled

with water, a fingertip touching Poseidon’s face

in the wave,

then about dropping to my knees

like a votary, kissing the clean, pale mysteries

of his inner thigh, his purple plums,

his slowly rising replica of the Pigeon Point Lighthouse,

then about making out on the moonlit sand

in some cozy cove— me flat on my back, feet up,

about to shoot too early, him, stoked, riding my hips

till he scored a perfect 10.

“Feel good, bro?” he asked in my mind.

When I smiled, he said, “Me too,” from then on carved

in my memory’s wet-dream afterglow forever,

the exquisite G-spot I touch lightly, steeper erotically,

a surge of deep pleasure lifting me high

till I fly off the crest and come.

If I had asked his name, I’m sure

he would’ve said, “It’s Cal,” the magic Cal

as in California, the surfer boy

who boarded a trolley, took a seat, and glanced

at me like a quiet friend.

Ken Anderson’s poetry books are The Intense Lover and Permanent Gardens. Recently, Coffin Bell Journal nominated his poem “Blood Quartet” for the 2024 Best of the Net anthology. He was a finalist in the 2021 Saints and Sinners poetry contest. Gay publications include Angel Rust, Beyond Queer Words, Flux (Fifth Wheel Press), Gay and Lesbian Review, God’s Cruel Joke, The Heart of Pride (Quillkeepers Press), Impossible Archetype, Mollyhouse, Penumbra, New Poetry from the Festival (Saints & Sinners), Powders Press, Prismatica, Queerlings, Querencia, Rabid Oak, RFD, Screen Door, Vagabonds, Warning Lines, Wicked Gay Ways, and Wussy Mag.

The Visitor

It had been months since I held you or had any contact with you at all. I hadn’t seen you

since I asked you to leave, and since then you had me arrested and placed in prison. I tried to

forget you, but I couldn’t. I still see you as the person you wanted to be and who you could have

been, not the person your owner made you into. It’s so surreal and crazy what you have done to

me, I pinch myself to make sure it isn’t a dream, but you have made it into a living nightmare.

You lied to put me here in prison, to protect your pimp, the man you said owned you. We were

together for over three years before I discovered the truth. My friends would think I’m mad for

still caring for you, still having hope for you, still believing that you are a good person deep

down under all the scars and buried skeletons.

Each night as I lay here on this cold damp floor, surrounded by twenty or more other

men, I close my eyes and try to summon you to appear and visit me. Each night proves to be a

disappointment, I wake up teary-eyed that you didn’t visit me in my dreams. When we were

together you visited me every day and now, I can’t even see you in my dreams. I was beginning

to give up all hope that once again I would see you and then last night you came.

Like all nights before I drafted off to sleep early in the evening and there I was in the cell

alone with one other cellmate, we were both naked and I was kneeling in front of him. Bich was

a short muscular man in his late 20s, covered in tattoos with a very big cock for a local. As I was

kneeling in front of him, with his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to service him. I look up

and he is looking down at me, smiling so I can see his studded front tooth like most Khmer men

have. The teardrop tattoo under his eye is a clear sign that he is a gangster of some sort. He is

using me like all others before him have and now I open my eyes and there you are. You are

standing in the corner watching this sex show, much like the videos you had made and used to

blackmail and extort. Now, Bich is gone and it is only you and I in the cell. Both of us are

naked and I just stare at you.

Through the shadows I can see your silhouette swaying back and forth, able to make out

the muscles and the strong body of before. For a moment I believe that you are a god, there to

save and take me home. At 5’10” and 165, you are the same as an aberration as you are in real

life. I feel so nervous and unsure of myself with you so close to me, the goosebumps you give

me match the ones I felt before. I long for you. You step out of the shadows and there, fully

erect, I believe you are in the image of Adonis the Greek God. The moonlight from the window

strikes you and more muscles ripple and I can see your erect nipples to match the erection from

below. The veins pulsating in your biceps, the perfectly formed glutes that I had held so many

times before. You smile and I can see the shining diamond and the gap that made you all the

more alluring and attractive. You hold up your index finger to your lips for me to be quiet and

not say a word. Our eyes are locked on one another and never break from the gaze as you slowly

and purposefully move towards me. Your movements are as if you are gliding over a body of

water, floating ever closer until you reach out your hand to let it fall on my bare shoulder.

With one touch it feels like a thousand volts are entering my body and for the first time

since I last saw you, I feel alive. Your touch immediately arouses me, and my nipples are more

erect than they have ever been. You are still so beautiful to me, even though you have aged you

are the most handsome man I have ever seen, much older than the thirty-eight years I believe you

to be. As soon as your hand caresses me I begin to kneel in front of you, but you stop me and

prevent me from doing what I so desire. As I stand before you, I feel your other hand wrap

around my waist and slowly caress my ass, gently pulling me toward you. Your eyes pierce me

like an arrow, and I am helpless to your look and touch. I could feel the warmth of your flesh as

it got closer until we were fully embraced with our chests and cocks rubbing against each other.

I could feel our hearts pounding in unison as one, and soon I felt your lips against mine, slowly

parting them with your tongue and the life of your inner being was breathing into me. Your

tongue now protruding and exploring all the crevices that have been empty for so long. The heat

of your passionate desire was warming me and awakening me as we continued to hold each other

as tight as we could. I believed we were kissing and holding each other for hours and I was lost

to your presence but then I felt your right hand against my chest. Gently and without force you

were pushing me away and at the same time stepping backward, I looked deep into your eyes and

reached for your hand and as I grabbed it I could see the tears running down your cheeks, I was

overcome by the emptiness I was beginning to feel and the life that I had in me was vanishing.

Your presence was becoming fainter and my veins were beginning to feel cold and icy. It

became more difficult for me to see you and I could feel the tears running down my face,

screaming and crying for you to stay but you didn’t. You were gone, there I lay on the cold

damp floor, alone and lost again.

John Ganshaw, After 31 years in banking, it was time for John to retire and follow his dream of owning a hotel in Southeast Asia.  This led to many new experiences enabling John to see the world through a different lens, leading him to write his story through essays, poetry, and a yet unpublished memoir. John’s work has appeared in Native Skin, Runamok Books/Growerly, Post Roe Alternatives, Briefly Write, OMQ, Open Door Magazine, SCARS an Anthology, and others.   Nothing is as it seems, and experiences are meant to shape us not define us. Life has hope, truth, and adventure, all leading to stories that need to be written and told.

Pigs

By Brock Archer

(Excerpted from Coming of Age, Gaydemon.com/stories/authors/brockarcher)

Johnny Andersen and I had known each other only since the start of football season that year, but we hit it off right away. He had spent several days and nights at our farm when his parents had to go away for a family emergency, and now Mr. and Mrs. Anderson insisted on returning the hospitality.

“Hi, mom,” said Johnny, greeting Mrs. Andersen in the kitchen with a peck on the cheek. “I’m starved,” he announced. “What‘ve we got to eat?” he asked as he opened the refrigerator door and surveyed the contents.

“There are some cookies on the table, but just one. You don’t want to spoil your dinner.” She spotted me when she turned to brush Johnny away from the fridge. “Rick! So nice to have you with us.” She dropped the kitchen tools she had been working with, wiped her hands on her apron, and rushed over to give me a great big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I hope you like lasagna.” I assured her that I did.

“Your dad will be home from work in an hour or two,” she said to Johnny. “And I need to run to the supermarket. You boys will be all right until I get back, won’t you?”

“Of course, Mom.”

“And no playing football in the house,” she lectured as she walked to the garage.

Johnny rolled his eyes and directed me, “This way, champ.” Johnny led me through the large family room and through the sliding glass doors to the patio and the biggest swimming pool that I had ever seen. “Wanna take a dip?” he asked. “I didn’t bring a suit,” I said. “Well, there isn’t anybody here but the two of us, and you ain’t got nuthin’ I ain’t seen before.” And with that, he stripped down to his birthday suit and dived in. I thought the water would be too cold, but the pool was heated, so I stripped and dived in too.

We swam a few laps and got into a water fight and swam some more. After about half an hour of that, Johnny hopped out of the pool and lay naked on one of the chaise lounges, so I followed and lay in another lounge beside him. We didn’t do much but hypothesize about the meaning of life and other mundane topics. All the while, though, Johnny played idly with his dick and balls. He wasn’t hard, but he sure as hell was getting a rise out of me.

Much to my surprise, he reached over and started stroking my dick. He had never initiated contact before, and now he had one hand on my family jewels and one on his own. I don’t know if it was the feel of his own cock in his own hand or the feel of his hand on my cock, but in no time at all he was sporting a huge, rock-hard missile.

When I saw how inflated he was, I reached across and started priming his cock as he continued to cup his balls. He had much less control than I did and started pulsating before I was even ready. I could feel that he was getting close. So I sat up on the edge of my chair to get a better grip. All of a sudden, he jumped up and screamed, “Garage door! Mom’s home!” But it was too late; he shot a huge load right into my face. I was so stunned that my jaw dropped and a second shot hit me right in the back of my throat. The third landed on my tongue, and the remainder coated my face.

In a panic to get away before his mom spotted us, he snatched up our clothes, grabbed my free hand, and dragged me up the back stairs. After he pulled me into his room and closed the door, he took several deep breaths before he turned and, for the first time, discovered what he had done. After the initial shock, he collapsed on the floor, laughing hysterically. He was laughing so hard that he couldn’t speak, only point at my face. In a brief moment of semi-composure, he said, “Dude…” but he was too torn up to complete the sentence.

“What?” I asked in an incredulous tone, and when I opened my mouth to speak, a load of cum dribbled down onto my chin. Johnny laughed so hard that he curled up into a little ball, rolling on the floor. When he finally gained enough composure to speak, he said, “Sorry, buddy, but you look like somebody just dumped a truckload of mayonnaise on your face.”

“Well,” I replied, “Sommmmebody just did.”

“Are you boys all right up there?” came Mrs. Andersen’s voice.

Still laughing, Johnny cracked open the door and yelled back, “We’re fine.” And then he whispered aside to me, “At least, one of us is.”

“We’re just changing out of our swimsuits,” he yelled back to his mother. “We’ll be down in a minute.” Then, laughing all the way, he led me to the bathroom to wash up.

When I came out of the bathroom, I found Johnny standing in front of his dresser, still naked as a jaybird. I had never really noticed before what a fine ass he had. When he spotted me in the mirror, he turned and tossed me a pair of gym shorts and a tank top. He picked a football jersey and another pair of gym shorts for himself. He put on the gym shorts sans underwear, so I followed his example.

When we got halfway down the stairs, Johnny turned to see if I was all right, and when he did, he gasped, “Oh, shit, dude. You missed a spot.” He wiped a finger across my forehead to erase a spot of cum that I had not washed away and reflexively licked that finger clean. Without a beat, he ushered me on to the kitchen.

Oh, my god! You just ate your own cum for the first time. Or was it your first time? Have you been holding out on me?

When we re-entered the kitchen, Mr. Andersen greeted me with a hearty handshake and his other hand on my bare upper arm. “Good lord,” he exclaimed, squeezing my bicep, “He’s got more muscle than you, Johnny.” I figured he was just trying to be hospitable, but his touch caused my dick to twitch.

When Mrs. Andersen turned away from the sink to face us, she gasped, “My word! You look like a wet cat. Jonathan Llewellyn Andersen, you march yourself right back up those stairs and comb that shaggy mop of yours.”

As we retreated, Mr. Andersen walked between us with his hands on our shoulders and whispered to us with a smirk, “And while you’re at it, you might want to put on some underwear.”

As soon as we got back to Johnny’s room, he turned to me and asked, “Underwear? What the hell did you do, man?” My dick replied with another twitch. “What the fuck, Rick?” Johnny sighed with his hands on his hips.

“Gimme a break, Luuuuu Ellen!” I snapped. “I didn’t have the advantage of having just emptied my nut sack all over somebody’s face.”

“Sorry about that,” he snickered. And with a little squeeze of my semi-erect dick, he added, “I’ll pay you back later.”

He reached back into his dresser drawer and pulled out two jock straps, handing me one and keeping one for himself. “Maybe this will restrain you…and if it doesn’t, I guess we’ll have to get you a chastity belt.”

As Johnny went into the bathroom to comb his hair, I rubbed the jock strap through my fingers, caressed it against my face, sniffed it, and put it between my lips. After I put it on, I felt like pinching myself. I couldn’t believe I was wearing one of The Great Johnny Andersen’s jock straps. I wondered how much cum and man sweat had been washed out of that little piece of fabric.

When we got back to the kitchen, Mrs. Andersen asked, “What were you boys laughing so hard about anyway?”

Mrs. Andersen looked at Johnny. Johnny looked at me. I looked at Johnny. Johnny looked at Mr. Andersen. Mr. Andersen looked at Johnny. Johnny looked at me, and finally, I blurted out, “Pigs.” Mrs. Andersen raised her signature eyebrow, Mr. Andersen squinted, and I thought Johnny was going to have a seizure.

“Pigs?” asked Mrs. Andersen, her eyebrow still arched.

“Uh, yes ma’am,” I tried to explain. “I was telling Johnny about some of my humorous experiences with pigs on the farm.”

“I know what you mean,” chimed in Mr. Andersen. “We had pigs on our farm in Salado, and, yeah, we had some pretty funny experiences with them too.”

Johnny was about to burst, so he grabbed my arm and said to his parents, straining to get the words out, “Porky and I will go set the table.” Mrs. Andersen looked at Mr. Andersen. Mr. Andersen looked at Mrs. Andersen. Once in the dining room, Johnny backed me into a corner and whispered to me, “Pigs? Pigs? I can’t believe you just lied to my parents about PIGS!”

“Well, what was I supposed to tell them, Luuuuu Ellen? That you were laughing hysterically because you had just plastered my face with your cum?”

“Hey, it’s a family name, dildo.”

“Nah,” I quipped. “I think it was your name before your gender re-assignment surgery.”

“Pig!”

“Douche bag!”

“Asshole!”

“OK, I can keep this up all night.”

“Not with my cock buried in your throat.”

“You wouldn’t!”

And so it went for the entire weekend.

Brock Archer is a writer, digital artist, poet, lyricist, and composer based in Arizona, USA. Many writers of gay erotic fiction emphasize descriptions of sex above all else. Archer’s writings contain that kind of description as well, but more important in his writings are plot (a good story, often with surprising twists), well-defined and interesting characters and settings, and lively, well-constructed English. Sexual scenes are used to support these features, not the other way around.

Ritual

I remove his clothes with the slow care of a mother readying her son for bath: first the shirt over

the head, in which he briefly disappears from view; then the pants with the briefs all down in one

swift but tender motion. Then, like always, I lift him up by his haunches and turn him around to

inspect his bottom. It’s small and smooth, pale as porcelain, warm like a mug fresh out the

dishwasher. Then with both hands I spread open his cheeks, rub my mouth along the sleek curves

and maneuver myself carefully in-between. Even here, it is clean. So clean, in fact, you could eat

off it.

Heliogabalus

He has bullets for eyes. A thing too harsh to be a smile but too ironic to be a frown hangs

crooked from his mouth as I walk past. So instead, I sit behind him: close enough to see the soft

curve of his round ears but not close enough to hear the sound of his harsh breath bellowing in

heavy sighs which ripple violently in his small, bare shoulders. I imagine tracing them with my

fingers, slow, and in control, the way one caresses a piano they have played many times before.

Peter Shipman (he/him) is a queer (aro/ace/pan) writer and teacher currently living in upstate NY. His writing explores how eroticism intersects with care, nostalgia, and loss.

Cliff Top Blossoms

The climb was enough to drench us. Atop the viewpoint, we catch our breath and peel the vests from our skin. The sea breeze rises up the cliff with each lick cooling my sweat a little more. No one around for miles, I see him leaning against the rock with cheeks spread expectantly. I let my tongue lead me, fervently lapping at his crevice. My lust a tide that crashes against him yet it’s gentle erosion that allows me in. With an abyssal hunger, he grabs my beating cock and slips it deep inside. His blissful whimpers drive me wild as my salt storm rises ever higher. The pounding of my cock against his quivering hole whips the breeze across us, my chest hairs rustling like the bushes all around. The swell now comes for him as I flood his yawning cavern. Our bodies blossoming on the dusty cliff top.

Keiron Lee Vine (he/they) writes and creates visual art to understand his queerness and his relationship with the natural world, as well as the queerness of nature itself. He is finding this is leaning ever-further towards the erotic. His work is featured in Fruit Journal and Whimsical Press.  You can find more of his work on Instagram: @k_thenaturequeer and Tiktok: keironleevine

Hawthorn Grove

I wait for him in the hawthorn grove with the grass caressing my knees. As he arrives, a soft breeze washes over our bodies in the morning sun, the saliva pooling in my mouth. The hardened head of his cock is a fruit that I entice further down my throat to seed. A lone tear trickles down my cheek as I choke just a little. The tears collect on his fingers as he tenderly holds my face, while my neck bulges at each thrust quarrying deeper. The wind rattles the leaves around us while his grip tightens and rhythm quickens, white flowers blooming excitedly to his quivering crescendo. He pulls out his pulsating cock to launch ropes of cum that I collect on my tongue. I look up to show him that I savour his nectar. Down by my thigh, I see I missed some, slowly dripping from a dandelion.

Keiron Lee Vine.

The Orchids

In the meadow where the orchids grow he asks if he can take care of me. He invites me down on my hands and knees amongst the flowers, to arch my back and gaze upon the clouds. He approaches from behind; my cock already heavy with expectation. With hands warmed by summer he holds my balls, together like a pair of delicate apricots, and bestows them with a bouquet of kisses. He follows my seam upwards with wet silky fingers to cross the slippery threshold. Internal caress reaches into me and finds a home on my prostate, as each nerve reaches up like flowers to the sun. Rhythmic milking echoes through every limb; I clutch the earth and cry out in pleasure. His unbroken touch, tender yet firm, has the dew trickling from my shivering cock, in complete euphoria with pink and purple orchids twirling and unfurling all around me.

Keiron Lee Vine.

Pre-Christmas Delights

I wanted her. Her Rita Hayworth looks, her luscious red lips, her curves hugged by the red velvet

dress. I ran my eyes over her body, catching a glimpse of the slit between her breasts.

I revelled in the look of desire for me in her hazel eyes. But, we had to wait, hold back the urge to

join our bodies, as the bus was to leave in 34 long minutes. We agreed on a pot of tea to bide the

time.

The cafe was bustling with Christmas shoppers. Christmas carols played on the wireless, melodies

to match my swooning heart. We chose a booth seat and sat close to each other. A waitress took our

order and then we were alone.

My love leant in close and said, “I want to kiss you, I want to undress you.”

“Ditto”

I looked around. No one was watching. I slid my hand underneath her dress, over the material of her

silk slip, her stocking, then over the soft flesh of her thigh. She spread her legs slightly. My hand

moved further and I found, instead of the material of cotton knickers, slightly coarse curls of hair.

And beneath them her smooth folds.

Pleasure shot through me.

“Oh darling….” I whispered with delight, meeting her eyes.

She smiled.

I closed my eyes momentarily as I tentatively took one then two gentle strokes of her. The aching

between my thighs grew. I opened my eyes and leaned in closer to her.

“Can you touch me, even just once. I can’t bear the wait.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

Her voice tingled through me.

She slid her hand underneath the skirt of my dress, brushing my stockinged thigh, then onto my

knickers and my clit below. I moaned under my breath, enjoying her touch. I stroked her again.

“I can’t wait to get you home.” I murmured.

“Shhhhh……the waitress is coming.”

Our anticipatory moment of pleasure came to an abrupt end. We quickly smoothed down each

other’s skirts and placed our hands on the table. We giggled. The waitress placed the tea pot, cups,

saucers, milk and sugar in front of us and walked away.

As we enjoyed our tea we spoke inanely about our day in the department store. Trying hard, but

failing, to ignore our desire for each other. My mind drifted as I imagined laying her down, kissing

her folds and drinking in her nectar. Her body writhing under my touch………….

“Honey,” she said, interrupting my daydream, “finish up. We have to go or we’ll miss the bus.”

I quickly drank the last of my tea. But I knew that soon we would be home, kissing, undressing,

caressing and dare I say that naughty, vulgar, but illicitly delicious word, fucking.

Red Passion’s fiction and poetry has appeared in the Minison Zine, The Expressionist Literary Magazine, Scarlet Dragonfly Journal, Perfumed Pages Magazine, Moss Puppy Magazine, MP Magazine, The Sapphic Scoop and The Queer Gaze. She received high commendation in the 2023 Stringybark Erotic Short Story Award. She lives in Australia.