Wicked Gay Ways

 Welcome to our summer 2021 issue. We are excited to be getting back to some level of normalcy after what was a very difficult and challenging 14 months. In this issue we are excited to feature the work of several writers, poets and visual artists all of whom continued to create work despite the personal and societal challenges we faced as artists, writers and creatives both personally as well as collectively. We hope you enjoy this our Summer 2021 Issue.

Your Turn in the Driver’s Seat

How you look so comfortable on my sofa, one leg perched towards you, knee in the air, as you play Forza with the wireless controller in your hands. Yet, like always, you appear stoic, focused on the game, on racing. In fact, you focus on playing me.

I want you to tell me how cute I am or how important I am to you. But I am not. You spend the last half-hour customizing a 2018 Bugatti Chiron. It possesses you, accelerating into every fast approaching curve and completing perfect apex lines. How do I find myself competing?

I stand to the side of the oversized television mounted to the wall in the chandeliered living room, its blue phosphorescence casting shadows. Adjacent a wall-sized bookcase with little empty spaces. The towering of furniture ensemble reminds me how small I am. You, also, remind me how small I am.

The room fills with the sound of high-screeching tires and low-tone exhaust notes, and little pings every time the car hits its target. The shadows move about the room whenever the scenery changes, suggesting we are not alone. But we are. We are very alone.

I want your attention. I want you to notice me. I strip off my clothes until I am half-naked; it is to get you to look, to get you to notice the curves and lines of my body. Except you do not care. I place my hands over the front of my briefs and get it hard, to erase this awful feeling, that I am small, blood rushing to form the shape of a well-made circumcised bulge, which I elongate with soft caressing, but you do not glance; my hands move to my hips and the gray briefs begin to slip slowly, revealing my neatly-trimmed base, then slowly some more to reveal the stiff thick body of my entire penis until its firm round tip springs out the elastic waistband, fingers pulling on either side so the trunks fall to a loose pile around my skinny ankles, but you do not care to watch; I step out, dancing with the shadows.

This is the first time I present myself fully naked, slender body flickering in the shifting blue light, to convince you, Adonis, no more. But you remain machined and stoic, a prick. My strong erection palpitates up and down, hands-free, but you avoid looking. I do not impress you. The game is putrid. I grab my penis and stroke lightly, pulling up to my navel, modeling it, proudly, but I do not exist. I feel microscopic in a vast open sea of pretty little things swimming through your head. Don't you see? I am no Adonis.

But you will not say that. You will tell me that you like them tall, or dark, or uncircumcised.

Your silence frustrates me, or maybe it is disgust, and carefully I climb on top of you. You do not say no, because you ignore me. Weightless and invisible, like a lost ship coming in for landing on a cold deserted moon, I mount myself between your leg, back against your chest. Warm ass heating up your waistline. The chatter of controller buttons playing furiously in my ear. I press my hard shaft forward against your jeans, my thumbs to line it up, comparing it to the size of your thigh. The pulse of your heartbeat contracting behind my groin. I thrust myself up and down, using your leg to get me off. Maybe I can get you mad. But you do not react. You drive me so crazy, I am about to cum.

I thrust one final time using both hands to press down so my jizz lands flat on your pant, from thigh to knee. A perfect display sticking to your soft, worn denim, knee in the air. Centered between the stitching, held together by gravity. Don't you see it? I can keep cumming like this.

Suddenly, you stop playing; hover the plastic controller over my chest. You bow your head, breaking your statue-like pose, my face flush against your pecs; finally, you say something, you say, "Your turn," and you place the controller firmly in my hands.

As I pretend to play, and I cannot play as well as you can – neither does it take you much effort to have a go – both your hands act to unzip your fly, and you reach in and carefully pull it out – its robust shiny tip glistening in the refracting blue light – far too big to fit through the unstretched opening of your tight blue jeans. You have been rock hard all along. Hidden expertly well by the creasing in your pants. It now stands tall before me – appearing proud on your behalf.

You directly give it fast left-hand strokes, as if no one else is looking, boxing in my view. I try to inch closer; I want you to slide your astonishing mass down my tiny throat but the pressure of your arm keeps me planted in your chest, as you finish yourself off, as I thirst.

Without warning – and this is where I shine – you release the rapid, fine load – warm jizz running down my chin and neck, pooling on your shirt. I do not flinch. I can smell the mixture of skin and cloth plastered and wet. As the swelling recedes, you place it back tightly in your fly, and firmly claim the controller back from me mid-play, saying nothing. As I thirst.

I use my two fingers to slide your fresh warm cum to my lips, and lick, until my face is clean. I swipe the side of my leg, and lick, until my body is clean. I go to lick all the remaining puddles on your shirt and pants, until your clothes are clean. You pause the game and make me eat the cum on your fingers, rotating your hands, until your fingers are clean. Then you place the controller to my mouth and I lick the cum off, until it is clean. As I thirst.

You nudge me off, saying nothing, and resume playing.

I go to dress myself.

I wait for you.

Your cold, abysmal stare.

Beads of moisture leaving your lips; I want your kiss, your love. As I thirst.

I repeat to myself, I am, I am, I am.

Who am I, to you?

Finally, you say something, you say, "Your turn to drive, pretty boy.” Your words pierce me like a fine stiletto. You finish and set down the controller. You turn to look at me. When you stare, you make yourself very clear.

I am nothing special.

You smile.

It is everything.

Adam Weinguard. This is Adam's first submission and publication of gay erotic literature. Born and raised in Los Angeles, he graduated from UCLA in 2008 with a degree in Creative Writing, and has been writing ever since. He enjoys writing in all fiction forms: short story, poetry, screenwriting, novellas, and novels. He enjoyed writing this tale very much and hopes to submit more work to Wicked Gay Ways in the future.

CLIMAX

It is early when I put on

headphones to watch

the illicit video.

“Can you hear me?

Can you hear me?”

David Boreanaz calls to

someone off screen, at the

other end of the video call.

He spills his seed;

he throws ropes;

he tosses filaments

that land on his shaved

stomach in the shape of the

Ur rune, signifying in

Old Icelandic, rain and in

Anglo-Saxon, aurochs,

the moor stalker, which

went extinct in 1627.

IN PASSING

I glance at a window,   

and across it swoops a shirtless youth,

becoming slovenly angles and folded planes   

stretched across the frame.

Motion oozes,

and seeps into pines and snow.   

The lanky body disarticulates.

For an instant, they are sovereign.

Arms and ribs

offer imbalance

beyond shaking limbs and snowy disorder. 

Matter for Public Thought

In the adjunct faculty office,

a poet confides she

doesn’t use social media

as if Tyler Posey’s

dick slapping his

belly doesn’t sound

like the sage

striking a monk

with a

fly whisk.

Nicholas Alexander Hayes is the author of Ante-Animots: Idioms and Tales (BlazeVOX, 2019) and Amorphous Organics (SurVision, 2019). His work has been featured in the anthologies Lovejets: Queer Male Poets on 200 Years of Walt Whitman and Madder Love: Queer Men and the Precincts of Surrealism. Twitter: @Broken_Zipper IG: @nicholasalexanderhayes

SENIOR MOMENTS

The foreplay is exactly the same. The glass of wine. The film. The casual snuggle. The knowing glance. What’s different is that it’s still daylight outside. The sofa seems narrower than when we were younger. Our bodies threaten to spill onto the floor.

My partner and I share a kiss. He lovingly plucks a white hair from my eyebrows. I shift my weight toward him. My hips pop. The sofa groans. My partner groans in sympathy. Or to hide the sound of the sofa. Or because I have more weight to shift than I once had. Or perhaps by some miracle he’s actually turned on.

My partner wheezes sweet nothings into my ear. I tell him all the nasty dirty things I’m going to do to his body and how hard. He encourages this kind of talk. He pushes me. Teases me. Expectations have been set: we both know there’ll be limited follow through.

I suggest we repair to the bedroom where, let’s face it, the lights are dimmer. This is not on account of my partner. Though he doesn’t believe it, my partner remains incredibly handsome--bright blue eyes, silver-streaked hair, just enough weight to give him substance. It’s me I don’t want to see in the cruel and brightly lit mirror that doubles our cramped living room. Tomorrow, I think, I’ll replace it with a poster of a sweaty rugby player and pretend it’s still a mirror. First thing. I itch to add it to the list of chores on my iPad, which I keep religiously.

In the bedroom, clothes are not ripped off with abandon and lust, but rather removed gently and folded carefully and set aside because they’re Armani, after all, and I’m saving for retirement. Plus, I can’t afford to get underwear caught on my ankles and fall over and maybe break a hip.

I run through my mental checklist:

Bladder emptied? Check.

Reading glasses removed and not stowed somewhere stupid in the heat of passion where I’ll crush them or never find them again? Check.

Hands rubbed together with the desperation of a man trying to light a fire in the Arctic, because my circulation is so bad now, my handjobs otherwise feel like they’re being administered by a green witch? Check.

We kiss. We grope. The machinery below grinds to life.

My partner and I exchange no feel-good, woke conversation about boundaries or what each of us wants. We don’t have sufficient energy to cross boundaries, and we both already know he wants: a twenty-two-year-old Viking with chiseled pecs and a pogo-stick cock. What he gets instead is a middle-aged, overstuffed pillow in desperate need of being fluffed.

Breath becomes shallow. I emit gasps of pleasure that might well be my last and grunts like the exhalations of a mortally wounded mule. Joints pop. Spine cracks. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Bum shoulder compromised. Positions readjusted.

“All set?”

“Yes. You?”

“All systems go.”

Activities recommence. The fantasies I run through my mind are a little stale, so I focus on the skin on skin, and what’s actually happening here in my bed with my actual partner. It feels heroic. We emphasize the remaining hard parts of our bodies—cock and bone and a few muscle groups that haven’t yet succumbed to gravity. Sweat runs down my torso and mats the white hair on my chest and trickles into the fat rolls. I’m grateful when my partner licks it out. I nibble his earlobes and my lips are pricked by the stubble of ear hair not freshly removed.

When it comes to bottoming, some thoughts are the same (“Why, oh why did I eat that burrito for lunch”) as when I was younger. Other thoughts are more fleeting. Car payments. Jowls. The tyranny of gravity. Don’t want to pull a muscle--should I have stretched beforehand? What would it mean to learn at age 59 you were a bad lay?

My partner comes, but the days of the wall shot are long since over. More of a slow lava flow from a volcano previously thought extinct.

For my part, I’m reminded of the stories of the ancient Greeks. Not the Gods. No, the famous tale of Sisyphus pushing his rock up the hill toward his orgasm. Back down it rolls just before it reaches the summit. The next time, closer. But still back down. In the end I find myself futilely flailing at an ass rubbed raw until one or the other of us calls it quits and flops exhausted on the damp sheets. No shame. There’ll be another day, God willing. Sex is wasted on the young. Bonus: still plenty of daylight left when we finish.

Scott Pomfret (he/him/his) is author of Since My Last Confession: A Gay Catholic Memoir; Hot Sauce: A Novel; the Q Guide to Wine and Cocktails, and dozens of short stories published in, among other venues, Ecotone, The Short Story (UK), Post Road, New Orleans Review, Fiction International, and Fourteen Hills. Scott writes from his tiny Boston apartment and even tinier Provincetown beach shack, which he shares with his partner of twenty years. He is currently at work on a Know-Nothing novel set in antebellum New Orleans. Follow him at https://twitter.com/Bostonseanachie

Say ‘ah’ (or don’t)

Oh, you’re hungry?

Wall-falling?

Eat me.

Just pretend I’ve got low-rise jeans on - yeah, y2k.

And a g-string sticking out.

Like the LI in the transformers saga. Exactly.

I said pretend.

Now open wide, babe.

I’m coming (in).

Not tonight, okay?

Passing the notes app in the dark

Our friend asleep on the couch.

Your hands are grabby

Typing a protest

The light burns my eyes.

Your mate and his girlfriend did it -

I don’t care.

We’re better than them anyway.

Get your knickers back on.

You want them off. 

More comfortable that way.

He could see you in the morning

If I get up or the covers shift

What’ll he think we’ve been up to

When his eyes were closed?

It’s fine, you say.

I move in closer.

Stroke your bare skin.

And type back

Cosy and cute.

Not sexy.

Okay?

Loser, you type

And grin.

And I know you’re only joking

And you don’t really mind

But do you?

And do I?

Courtney Byrne is a queer nb thirst enthusiast. They are currently working as a narrative designer for Fusebox Games and occasionally write lit reviews for Totally Dublin. In their spare time they stare at pictures of young Clint Eastwood and write matriarchal Wild West IF. Find them on Twitter @aCourtneyByrne.

little deaths

wild women don’t get the blues-

but in the aftermath of your fingers

pulling away from me, i lay in my bed spent-

looking for your ashy remnants, only reliving

that final gasp when you left.

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. You can find more about them at https://kangyunak.wixsite.com/website

Summoned

Screams surrounded me. My family’s screams. My father, mother, and my sister. Men in leather and chains surrounded them. These men had invaded their home, took them from their beds and tied them up before they could defend themselves. They shouted and laughed at them. Called them freaks and devil worshippers. A man with curly black hair and a muscled build was the leader of this hateful group. I knew this man. They approached my family with their weapons bared. I wanted to help my family so badly, but I knew I couldn’t. I could only watch and not look away.

With an evil cackle the leader put his blade to my father’s throat. He ordered two of his other men to put their blades to my mother’s and sister’s. With a nod from him, the three of them slashed my family’s throats, blood coating their blades. My mother, father, and sister slumped to the ground, their blood pooling under their bodies.

The leader and his men quickly took out gas canisters and poured it around the house. When they were done, the leader lit a match and tossed it into the living room. Flames quickly spread throughout the house. The men rushed out as the flames consumed everything I had ever known. The last thing I saw before I woke up was my family’s bodies being buried under the fire.

I woke up from the nightmare screaming until I was hoarse. I looked around the apartment realizing that I had been there the whole time, not in the house that I had grown up in. I breathed heavily and sweat poured from my body. Maybe it had just been a nightmare and not a vision like I frequently had.

Visions are a rare gift of mine. Most warlocks have various abilities like flight, fire, and the ability to breathe underwater. I am the only one in my family with the gift of visions.

I turned on the tv that was next to my bed. Immediately I knew that it wasn’t a nightmare. The news was on and I saw my childhood home in flames. Firefighters were there trying to subdue it with their hoses. The news reporter was talking about the family who lived there and how there was no chance of them surviving.

I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore. The tears that streamed out of my eyes were not only grief, but rage as well. The people that killed my family had to die. And I knew exactly how to do it.

An hour later the scent of vanilla candles surrounded my small bedroom. The only light source was coming from those candles-six of them in a circle. In the circle a pentagram was carved into the floor. My athame dagger at my side and my voice chanting the summoning spell, my voice grew louder as I sliced the dagger across my palm. He would need to feed when he came into corporeal form.

After all, demons were always hungry for a little blood. Especially vengeance demons.

Smoke began to rise from the pentagram and the demon…wait…no…demons. Two of them started to form. The more their bodies formed, the more my mouth watered with anticipation-and lust. The demon on the left’s skin was heavy with muscle, and charcoal gray. He had thick horns that curled like a ram’s. His black hair was wildly curly and was shoulder length. He had sharp claws on both his fingers and toes. No tail though surprisingly. He was also completely naked. His dick was at least nine inches. A very thick nine inches.

The demon on the right had ruby red skin. He too had horns, but his stood straight up from his forehead like two pillars. His eyes were slitted like a cat’s and his hair and trailed down to his muscled ass.

“Who has summoned me?” the red demon asked in a low tone.

“My name is Chase, my liege.”

“I sense dark magic within you,” he said as he looked me up and down with narrowed eyes.

“Are you a warlock?”

“Yes.”

“If you possess your own magic why do you summon a demon?” the gray demon asked. His voice a little higher than his counterpart’s.

“Because only a demon can exact the kind of revenge that’s necessary to me. Pain that is temporary but feels like it’s lasting for a thousand years.”

“What kind of mortal do you feel deserves that kind of pain?”

“My boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend I mean.”

“Why?”

“He killed my parents.”

Their eyes widened in surprise. Not many people can say that they were able to surprise a demon.

“Explain,” the red demon said with a growl.

“Warlocks, witches, and any other supernatural species were forbidden to tell mortals of our existence. I broke that rule when I told Dean-my ex- about me and showed him my powers. I told him about my parents and my long line of magic users in the family. It turns out that Dean was a witch slayer. He and his family of slayers broke into my family’s home, slit their throats, and burned their house down with their bodies still lying in their bed. I was asleep when this happened.”

A tear escaped my eye when I finished talking. The demons just stared at me, so I continued.

“The only reason that I found out was that I had a vision while I was sleeping when this was happening. I woke up and used my scrying mirror to confirm what I had dreamed. It happened last week. I had a vision soon after that Dean and his kin would be looking for me. So, I’ve been hiding out in this shitty hotel.”

“Where is Dean right now?” the red demon asked.

“Probably celebrating with his family or still on the hunt for me.” I wiped my tears away angrily. Ashamed to be crying in front of the demons.

“You will get the vengeance you seek,” the red demon said.

I gasped with delight. “Thank you, my liege.”

“Azzaroth. My name is Azzaroth,” said the grey demon.

“And my name is Dracon,” said the red demon.

“Thank you both.”

“Before we can do your bidding, you know there is a price.” Azzaroth said.

My body. For the demons to do whatever they wished with it.

“Yes, I am aware. Come and take your payment.”

Without hesitation, I used my powers to extinguish the binding spell that kept the demons in the circle. Smiling with anticipation, Azzaroth and Dracon stepped out of the circle and walked towards me.

Despite the tragedy that happened in my life, these demons resurrected my libido that I thought would be destroyed through Dean’s betrayal. They made it to my side and just looked at me. They perused me up and down with lust in their demonic and yet sexy yellow eyes. Dracon took my ceremonial robes with both hands and ripped them off of me, making me just as naked as they were.

“We need to seal the deal with a kiss,” he said.

Without thinking about it, I grabbed the back of Dracon’s head, pushed it down towards me and pressed my lips against his. For a second, the demon paused in surprise with my boldness. Soon I felt his lips move against mine and it was like our kiss was a dance. I felt his warm tongue against mine and it felt amazing. The kiss felt so good that I wasn’t expecting the sharp sting on my upper lip.

I pulled back from Dracon and saw blood on his lips and fangs. I touched my lip and saw a dot of blood on my index finger.

A kiss sealed with blood to finish the deal.

I saw a small smirk on Dracon’s lips as I turned towards Azzaroth. However, instead of me initiating the kiss, he swiftly brought his mouth to mine. Our kiss was just as hot as the one I had with Dracon. Azzaroth’s mouth just as warm. This time I anticipated the sting that came with Azzaroth’s body. I craved it.

When he withdrew, I saw that his lips were also coated with my blood. My dick got hard just from the thought of them taking something so precious from me. I looked down and noticed they were hard as well. Dracon’s hard cock pointed towards me like a magnet, and Azzaroth’s clawed hands were pumping his hardness up and down. My mouth watered at the thought of tasting them, and I knew what I wanted to do with them first.

I got down on my knees and brought my hands up to summon my magic. Blue sparks trailed from my fingertips and I used my magic to bring their bodies closer to mine. Azzaroth gasped in surprise and Dracon’s eyes opened wide. I’m glad I could surprise the demons, even if it was with this small thing.

When their hard shafts were near me, I grabbed both of them with my hands. Dracon was on my left side, and Azzaroth on my right. I loved seeing Dracon’s red dick in one hand and Azzaroth’s in the other. I slowly pumped their dicks in my hands, loving the feel of the velvet steel underneath my palms. I looked up to see lust in both of their eyes and that encouraged me to do more. I took Azzaroth’s gray shaft in my mouth first. When I give head, I love to take it as far back in my throat as I can. Luckily, I don’t have a gag reflex. However, Azzaroth didn’t only have an impressive length. He was very thick as well. I loved the challenge though. I sucked him down like a lollipop and my mouth went up and down a couple of times.

I withdrew from his mouth with a loud pop and turned towards Dracon’s dick. Like Azzaroth’s, Dracon’s mouth was just as long and thick, and I loved it. I was like a kid in a candy store and I had two dicks of my very own to play with.

I turned back to Azzaroth and licked the head of his penis and his slit. I turned to Dracon and licked the underside of his. I glanced up and saw them kissing each other. Dracon’s mouth went down to Azzaroth’s chest and sucked on one of his nipples. Dracon’s head moved back in pleasure and began playing with Azzaroth’s nipples, caressing, and lightly pinching them.

It turned me on so fucking much to watch them together. I went back to sucking on both of their dicks. My jaw was starting to ache slightly, but I wasn’t going to stop until I felt their cum on me. I spit on Azzaroth’s dick and went back to work as I continued to jack off Dracon’s dick.

I heard Azzaroth gasp and say, “I’m about to cum!”

I sucked and sucked until I felt his cum in my mouth and I still didn’t stop. I swallowed as much as I could and let some of it dribble down the side of my mouth. My lips left Azzaroth’s shaft and went back to Dracon’s. Simultaneously I sucked and jacked Dracon’s dick. At the corner of my eye I saw Azzaroth get on his knees behind Dracon. He gripped Dracon’s hips with his hands and pressed his face to Azzaroth’s ass. He spread Azzaroth’s ass cheeks, and I began to hear spitting and slurping.

“Fuck yes”, Azzaroth murmured.

He grabbed the back of my head with one hand, and the back of Dracon’s with the other, encouraging us to keep going. We both did.

I loved the feel of Azzaroth’s dick hitting the back of my throat each time I went down his shaft.

“Oh shit, I’m about to come,” he yelled out.

Soon after I felt his cum on my tongue and swallowed and sucked until he was limp in my mouth. The demons pulled me up from the floor and kissed me in turn. Azzaroth first, and then Dracon.

Dracon’s hand traveled down my stomach and grabbed my hard cock. He swiftly began jacking me off while Azzaroth kissed me and played with my nipples. My orgasm came quickly and it coated Dracon’s hand. He didn’t stop until I was wrung dry.

The three of us were panting and I used my magic to clean us up quickly. I looked at both of them and felt slightly disappointed.

“I guess we’re done, huh?” I asked with a touch of sadness. I didn’t want this to be over yet.

They both smiled and I looked down to see both of their dicks getting hard again.

“Oh no,” Azzaroth said. “We’re just getting started.”

I was on all fours and my knees were pressed into the carpet that was in my living room. My ass was getting licked by Azzaroth while Dracon’s dick was in my mouth. The dual sensation was an overload for me, and I wanted more. As if reading my mind, Azzaroth’s mouth left my ass and rose to my ear.

“Can we fuck you?” he asked.

“Please,” I said in reply, and then went back to sucking Dracon.

Suddenly, a bottle of lube appeared on the carpet beside us. Magic definitely has its advantages sometimes.

As Dracon continued to mouth fuck me, I felt two of Azzaroth’s lubed up fingers slowly enter my puckered hole. My body instinctively tensed, but then gradually loosened enough for him to continue fingering me.

“Are you ready for my cock?” he whispered to me.

“Fuck me now,” I demanded.

I felt the tip of his dick slowly enter me. He kept one hand on my hip to steady me. I stopped going up and down on Dracon’s penis, but I kept it in my mouth and slowly breathed in and out through my nose as Azzaroth continued to penetrate me until he was finally seated inside me.

Azzaroth stayed still, letting my body get accustomed to his girth. Since my mouth was full, I grabbed his thigh, encouraging him to keep going. He slowly formed a rhythm and I felt his dick going in and out of my tight hole.

I left Dracon’s dick for a second and said, “harder”.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“As you wish”.

Suddenly, I felt Azzaroth’s dick slam back into me and I gasped in both pleasure and pain. I loved to experience both when it came to sex.

As Azzaroth fucked me with abandon behind me, I went back to sucking on Dracon’s big red cock. Dracon grabbed the back of my head, encouraging me to keep going.

“You’re mouth feels fucking amazing, but I want a turn with that tight ass,” he grunted.

My mouth left his dick, a thin trail of saliva following. I nodded yes to that idea. My hole felt empty after Azzaroth’s dick left it. However, the feeling didn’t last long. They switched positions and Dracon gently lowered me to my back, my legs spread.

He took some of the lube and rubbed it on his dick. I watched as he took his length in one hand and slowly entered me until he was fully in. As he pumped in and out of me, I saw Azzaroth’s body start to lower. His ass was in my face and I knew I had to have a taste. My tongue came out and I loved the feel of his puckered hole. He grunted and moaned as I continued to eat his hole and Azzaroth continued to fuck mine.

As I held on to Azzaroth’s hip with one hand, I began to jack off my dick with the other. The sounds of our moaning and flesh meeting flesh. The feel of our bodies connected in this primal way, made me feel more alive than I had ever felt before. I knew I wasn’t going to last long.

“Shit, I’m about to come,” Azzaroth yelled.

My mouth left his ass and I said, “Come on me. Both of you.”

With a roar, I felt Azzaroth’s hot cum on my chest. He stood up and continued to jack off until everything he milked out was on me. I looked down to see Dracon pulling out and cum pouring in ropes on my thighs as well as my hard dick. Using Dracon’s cum as lube, I continued to jack off until my own cum mixed in with his in my trembling hand.

I shook and moaned in the aftershocks of our animalistic fucking. I looked up to see both Dracon and Azzaroth breathing heavily as well. They slowly got down on the carpet and laid down on either side of me. I was covered in sweat and cum, and yet there was no fucking where else I would rather be.

With what felt like forever in bliss, but what was probably only a minute or two, Azzaroth and Dracon lifted their heads and looked at me.

“The deed is done,” Azzaroth said hoarsely.

“The deed?” I asked with a questioning look on my face.

“Dean is taken care of.” Dracon said on my other side.

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, he lifted his hand and a giant fireball appeared in his palm. In the fireball an image appeared. I saw Dean tied to a post. All around him was fire. He was definitely in a hell dimension. Most likely Azzaroth’s and Dracon’s. He was surrounded by what I assumed were demons. Multiple demons. Some looked like Azzaroth, while others had tentacles, hooves, scales, and other deformities. They took turns ripping and tearing at Dean’s skin with their claws and any weapons that they could find-knives, hatchets, and axes. The more he screamed, the more they cackled and continued their torture.

With a blink of an eye the fireball disappeared, and both of the demons looked at me again.

“Are you satisfied?” Dracon asked me with undisguised pride with what he and Azzaroth made happen.

“Definitely,” I said with a crafty grin on my face.

“Good,” he said as he grabbed my hips, entered me, and began to fuck me again while Azzaroth watched with an evil grin on his face.

Daniel Plump is a graduate of Lindenwood University with a Master’s in Creative Writing. He lives in St. Louis, MO, and writes in the genres of fantasy and romance.

The Three of Us

I have a hand clamped over her mouth, holding firm. She didn’t fight me on it. Why would she? If I took my hand off her mouth, she would scream the house down. If any of the people down the hall heard her, they would rush in. And then a whole group of friends and family would see my hand down her shirt while he thrust between her legs. They’d see her splayed across the bed, back arched and legs locked around his waist. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing? His head brushed against my shoulder as he pumped into her, intent. I kept my free hand moving over their slick skin, savoring the smell of them together. I kissed her temple as she screamed beneath my fingers. I would have her nail marks in my arm for days. 

Erin Mikals (she/her) is an employee at the AOK Library at University of Maryland, Baltimore County. She graduated from UMBC with a Bachelor’s in History. She has lived in three countries and four states. She hopes to travel more. 

Car Fun of Handjobs Past

I. You put your finger in his mouth while he drives off of the mall’s underground parking lot. He asked for it, part of the role play you agreed on: he’s the Grab driver, you’re the passenger, Fake Taxi-style, except that you’re the one with motives, he’s the innocent virgin about to be destroyed. For immersion, you watched a lot of clips from XVideos.com—it loads faster than PornHub.

From the way his lips curved, elastic wet muscle, you know he likes sucking something as if he’s an infant. (Mommy issues just like yours?) Your therapist warned you about dating guys with the same old issues—bullied as a kid, distant and disciplinarian father, low self-esteem—but you’re drawn to routine, to sameness, and this is just a hook up anyway. In his fancy stereo, he plays Bebe Rexha & Cash Cash’s “Take Me Home,” your favorite sex song since then, your finger still in his mouth.

II. Chubby, facial beard in the jaw, semi-disheveled hair, nerdy, exactly your type. You weren’t disappointed. Flabs over abs, someone who could lift you while he pumps hard, you tell a friend when asked about your type. You date everyone but the bigger, taller ones have a special place for you. Some Freudian need for physical security maybe, some deep-seated want to be protected from the cruel, cruel world, you hypothesized.

“Nice ride! Model?” you asked, trying to sound casual. Honda was the only name that registered. Talking about cars is a foreign language. But the funny thing was, he was wearing the same thing you wore, except for his glasses, your beanie, and the hoodie of his college you once fancied at the university bookstore: shirt, shorts, slippers, a watch. “We match!” he said as he pulls over near a factory by the highway.

III. He came in your palm as he nibbled your ear, his dick was a little curved on the side. He eyed you with an apologetic look: for coming in your palm or for coming almost five minutes late after you did, you do not know. “No, it’s fine,” you assured him, wiping it with a tissue from the dashboard, “we won’t see each other again anyway,” you said coldly because you’re a heartless bitch, to which he replied, “Yeah, sure,” with a lilt in his voice. None of you will say a single word after that. The role play is over. You pretend to doomscroll on Twitter, a fascist who jokes about rape and admits killing people was going to be president. You have a troubled relationship with silence. You think this guy whose dick you wanted to suck might have voted for him.

IV. He cups his hand in your lap, some sort of foreclosure, like Canova’s “Theseus and the Minotaur,” as if you were a cloth that needed ironing. But the funny thing was, in your language, the gayspeak for handjob is plantsa, literally ironing of clothes. You don’t like touch after a hook up. You have a troubled relationship with touch. But you let him.

V. The engine whirs. In the dimness, you pass by a few drunkards preening themselves at a roadside karaoke bar, their shirts yanked in their shoulders. Then, it was silent again. Cugman, or the barangay named after the Spanish word for port or the last barangay of the city’s border in the west? You do not know much of geography.

He did not offer a stick of cigarette like the others did. You do not know how to speak of this commonplace silence. The road trails behind you like the personal demons gnawing parts of you that you cannot hide. This city is burning.

Alton Melvar M Dapanas (them/they) is author of full-length collection Towards a Theory on City Boys: Prose Poems (Guildford: Newcomer Press, forthcoming), assistant nonfiction editor of London-based Panorama: The Journal of Place & Travel, Iowa-based Atlas & Alice Literary Magazine, and editorial reader for Creative Nonfiction magazine. Their recent creative nonfiction, poems, and works of translation have appeared in or forthcoming from Elsewhere: A Journal of Place (Germany), No Contact Magazine (New York), Sine Theta (China), Canthius (Canada), The Babel Tower Notice Board (England), Voice & Verse Poetry (Hong Kong), Epoch Press (Scotland), Reliquiae Journal (Wales), and as F Alex San Juan, in Impossible Archetype: A Journal of LGBTQ+ Poetry (Ireland), among others. They’ll be part of three forthcoming queer anthologies—of diasporic desire, of avant-garde poetry, and of trans liberation, They identify as pansexual, nonbinary, and polyamorous. A native of Metro Cagayan de Oro in the southern Philippines, they’re currently living off-the-grid. (https://lnktr.ee/samdapanas). 

Her

She was a member of Leather and Lace but I didn’t know that when I started flirting with her. We had attended several writing workshops and inevitably had many discussions about how sexually repressed the Lesbian community was perceived to be. We peppered subsequent conversations with anecdotes from our personal lives and swore we would never allow ourselves to become celibate or asexual senior Lesbians- the dreaded statistics we had all heard about. We had coffee with espresso shots but no other stimulants. I don’t know when we went from writing buddies to phone sex buddies but we did. But even then, her “proclivities” were still not apparent to me. I never asked other people about her and assumed she hadn’t asked others about me either. A few weeks after we had become sex phone buddies, we bumped into each other at The Sex Club. One night a week The Sex Club was exclusively for women so I took a group of Latina women who had just come out as Lesbians, to see what the club was about.

The S & M’rs were the first to give public demonstrations of their affections. Most of the women I had brought with me left soon afterwards. I guess they took a cab. When I first caught a glimpse of “her” I was just relieved to see a familiar face in the crowd. We joked briefly but then something caught her attention and she left me standing at the bar. From the corner of my eye I could see that three women were now included in a public display and I found myself feeling prudish. I did not want to watch. It was then the I understood the apprehensions of my first Lesbian lover. What did I expect? I felt like my presence was intruding on those women’s passion although my presence clearly had no impact on them whatsoever. I turned my head away. The bartender’s voice jilted me back to reality.

“She’s putting on a show for you,” he said with a wink.

“Who?”

“Your friend you were just with. I think she wants you to join them.”

I froze like a deer in the headlights. A bead of sweat ran down my neck. I looked back at the display and realized it was “her'' who was the third party and she was looking directly at me. Our eyes locked. Time stood still. My heartbeat quickened. My chest tightened. I reached for my asthma inhaler but it wasn’t there. Shit!

I ran back to my car, but the inhaler wasn’t there either. I was conflicted. I went back in and looked around but I didn’t see her. I wondered if she had gone into one of the private rooms. The bartender flagged me down again.

“She already left. Too bad for you.”

Damn! I had another drink and went back home to sulk.

The week flew by, and before I knew it, it was Wednesday again, Sex Club day for women. This time I dressed differently. I remembered she said she liked to break in soft butches so I made sure I wore my soft bomber jacket with 501 Levi’s and hiking boots. I did my best to give myself a dyke mullet but I didn’t have enough gel for that. Oh well. I double checked and made sure I had my inhaler this time, just in case.

I got to the club a little after ten pm. The place was packed. The B&D’ers were holding court this time, and I found myself strangely titillated. I had never been one for looking, I’d rather have sex than watch somebody else pretend to have sex. I looked around but I didn’t see her right away. The same bartender from last week recognized me and grinned while he signaled me over to the bar. I went over to talk to a friendly face.

“She’s waiting for you in one of the private rooms."

“I, I don’t have a membership,”

“Lucky for you, she does.”

He put the key card in my hand, handed me a shot of I don’t know what, but he wouldn’t let me pay.

“On the house” he winked. I gulped the shot down and slowly meandered down the hall like I knew what I was doing which I clearly didn’t. The hallway was a little darker than I expected or maybe the liquor hit me but it was surprisingly quiet, good insolation I guess. I got to the door and opened it. As soon as my eyes focused I realized I had made a mistake.

“Oops wrong room, sorry”

“You can watch if you want” a voice without a body invited.

I felt a wave of unexpected shyness wash over me.

“Sorry” I mumbled again and closed the door. Why didn’t they lock it? I put the key card closer to my face and realized I had inverted the numbers, what a time for my dyslexia to kick in. A huge gruff looking bouncer dressed in leather from head to toe came my way and looked me up and down trying to figure out if I was supposed to be there or not

“I forgot my glasses. Um would you, um would you mind?”

He laughed gruffly, took out some folding binoculars and looked at my keycard.

“Your room’s this other way.”

He whistled while he walked while I followed in silence. When we got to another door, before he walked away and left me standing there feeling like an idiot, he winked and said, “play safe.” What was it with the winking in this place?

I waited for a little while, I wasn’t really sure if I would go in or not. Maybe it was just a few seconds, maybe not. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and put the keycard in the slot. The tumbler moved and the door opened slightly. The room was darker than I expected. My senses were on overdrive. What was I getting myself into? I felt a woman’s hand grab my ass and a woman’s lips nibble my ear. For a second I panicked and thought I had walked into another couples room. But as soon as I took a deep breath, I knew. It was her. Before I could turn around, she covered my eyes with some black cloth and said in a smoky voice,

“Are you a virgin?”

“… A, a what?”

“Is this your first time”

“First?” I was confused.

I didn’t want her to see me this nervous. I tried to work up some courage to say something witty, but I couldn’t speak. Why did I think I would have more courage just because I dressed for a part. My mouth and tongue didn’t want to cooperate- a disaster for any lesbian hoping to be sexually active.

“Cat got your tongue,” she hissed in my face and then gave me what could have been a tonsillectomy in another context. For the first second I didn’t react but then I don’t know, I kissed her back with a ferocity I didn’t know I had in me. When we finished lip locking, she put her head on my shoulder near the nape of my neck and purred. I could feel her long nails stroking my back under my jacket which she quickly helped me out of. We didn’t leave until closing time at 4am.

Antonia Garcia-Orozco (Dr. Toni) is an Associate Professor in the Chicano and Latino Studies Department at California State University, Long Beach. She performed in Monica Palacios’ “Queer Chicana Soul” at Highways Performance Space and composed as well as sang the lead solo in the choral piece “Tengo Fe” written for the Metropolitan Community Church ICM choir performed the world premiere at the Noche de Memorias World Aids Day. She was on the board of directors of Viva- a latinx queer artist organization founded by Rolando Palacios and was the faculty advisor to Queer Latinos Unidas at Cal State Northridge. She is currently involved with Queerwise, a writers group directed by Michael Kearns.