Ridgeway is a mannish boy from Southern California, where he neither surfs,
drives a car or has a tan. Instead he sits in his cave, and at night he rides a
unicorn over multi-colored clouds and moonbeams while everyone else is
sleeping. The unicorn often shits out poems, and Ridgeway sends them in to
journals and zines, claiming them to be his own. He must be stopped!
Anita McQueen runs the streets at night, feeling the wind against her
face, and long shadows on her back.
You give me your
dead eyes and testicles
expecting me to spread
like some grateful nympho,
when frankly your frank looks
and I just changed my
mind and mood...
I'm out of here
on my little bike
back into the city,
where men know how to laugh,
and boys know how to dance
I do it
all the hits
in their instant world
for a little licorice
Caitlin Hoffman is a mink wearing a suit of human skin. She'd
like to live in your brain if you'd let her.
Never wanted him. Never
will. Hated him more than... loved him even more than that and... Just wanted
to retreat, tail between the legs. No eye contact. Fists in the face. Every day
I saw him.
Take my name and shove
it up his nasal tract, give it all up, no acting here, no trying to be pretty
and no faking any strength.
His charming grin melted
into a sneer, sticky with toxic waste... his romance-ridden compliments turned
to shards in my brittle, shaking chest.
"Speak of the
devil". Laughs. Shrieks of cruelty. Winding around me like I was some
disease, like touching me and taking all those kisses (pulling them, wrenching
them from my lips) had been the start of a sickness, like touching and kissing
me again would rape the marrow from his bones and leak liquid into his brain.
Never wanted me. Never
did. Maybe every once in a while but... he’d always find someone else to warm his
Just wanted to escape
from him, but those pills didn’t quite work and he stayed tucked safely in my
Used to fantasize. Kill
him. Shoot him. Burn him. Choke him. Used to think of shoving needles down his
throat... kissing him (like rape, like love) while he vomited viscera and said
goodbye to our cruel little world, that world we had sworn to fight against
"Go and die!"
Said that and he... the sadness flashed in his eyes and I was reminded of what
we had been.
But those pills didn’t
quite work and I wasn’t allowed visitors anyway.
Used to fantasize about
scraping pheromones in his skin. Licking the tears clean, savouring the salt.
(Just one more time.) Hearing him say that thing (just one more time) and...
moan like he used to on the phone when I was shoved in blacked out corners of
my room, rocking against my own hand and praying that no one would hear the
dirty, dirty words cussed out of my desperate mouth. So goddamned, fucking
desperate. Hearing him buck and spray on the other end of the line, so
goddamned far away, never so close that I could touch him and ever reach him,
reach that puss-blocked organ I so needed to see...
Never able to eat his
heart, rape his soul, ruin his corpse, brand my name into his hand just to make
sure he’d never forget it. (Make him read me every time he wrote a note,
scratched his chin or rubbed his cock empty.)
Used to want to run.
Bolt, scatter with broken ankles. Kick up dust, kiss his broken nose and watch
the comets of my caring blast away his nerve receptors.
Then when he was gone,
up and out of my life, up and out and gone and hardly ever seen... suddenly I
needed him. Just needed to see him again, no matter how much I didn’t want him.
DIDN’T, DON’T, NEVER
WILL WANT HIM.
There were so many days
(months...) that went by without word, and I’d hear of this girl or that girl
but tried not to get jealous because I had this guy and that guy too.
Separately, we lived in those sins. Lived apart from each other. Never a daily
factor in each other’s lives. A footnote, a nightmare coughing out dust in the
Every once in a while
sights were made, kisses exchanged regardless of this girl or that guy.
"You look so good
today." Quiet in the face of compliments, just like those compliments that
came before the insults that came before the pills that didn’t quite work.
Then when it happened...
so many years after I hoped or dreamt it ever would... Desperate, awkward
kisses lacerating skin, but never enough to draw up blood, to leave some
tangible mark on me or him (like a welt, like a scar), real proof that we’d
ever been there. Snakes shedding morals.
"It’s just, it’s
been so long..." "Shh," and he grabbed me, shut me up with his
mouth on my own, letting me suck the calcium out of his skeleton (one more
time), letting me steal his skin and make him feel something, no matter how sad
or empty or wrong it all was.
Kissing down his body.
"Aren’t you still
Gasping in his own
"This will be good
for us. It’ll help our relationship."
Burns on the breasts.
Mouth suddenly chalk-dry, desert-dry, no saliva coming up no matter how hard I
Scorned kisses on his
cock. Sucking him down with a dry, angry mouth.
Never wanted him, even
when he was in me.
Over too fast. Split
from the moment, rushed and compounded by those words he used to say to me. The
"uglys" and the "freaks"... "We went our own
ways"... "She broke my heart once then had the nerve to think we
could stay friends"... "Let me fix your hair so you’ll look like a
normal person"... "You look so good today"... all announcing a
drought between my legs. Numbing nerves, cutting beautiful throats in my brain.
Such pretty paintings (lost) in passion, so many dreams (lost) in the smoke. That
fire which had always determined our lust... determined our love and our hate
and the regrets of what had never been... strangely absent when our bodies
finally collided in that house.
That house was so
Too far apart, even when
he was in me.
Walked around the
basement afterwards when he had gone off somewhere to get me water or food or
just to avoid being in the same room as me. Saw this warped, darkened version
of myself reflected in the tv screen, shut off from everything... Looked at my
body and wondered if there were welts and scars burning me up on the inside, if
my shrunken, slightly damaged liver was tending to them, massaging them clean
of infection.... Wondered if I’d ever come to a point where I’d feel like I was
pretty at all... wondered when love had become a cancer-kiss. Transferrable
through the lips.
There was a pebble in my
shoe... it ate at my big toe while he walked me to the bus stop.
Never wanted me. He
never did. Not even when he was furiously thrusting (finally in the same room as
his lust) and making his way up to an orgasm that shot against the sheets, an
orgasm that came too fast and didn’t last long enough for either of us. We’d
touched each other like strangers, like the lovers we should have been sharing
intimacy with. Had he stopped wanting her or had he just wanted me too much?
Didn’t ask too many
questions. Not enough to discover the truth.
Fantasized about ending
it for good. For one of us or... both of us.
Wondered if he ever
wondered about me.
Never wanted him. Never
will. Couldn’t ever love him, not like I loved this man or the other one. He
hardly even knew me, seldom ever saw me.
Never wanting to see
him... always half-hoping I will.
Run into each other,
crammed up in the corners of a bar, too close to touch and too faraway to
Run into him in a park
with a wife at his side and child on his arm, eyes quietly begging that I might
give him that escape he always sought from me, that I will return to him as the
Other Woman to hide under his shame, wrap my sinewy flesh-sticks called legs
around his waist... finally getting the chance to say,
"No, not this
Maybe even getting to
hear him say it, that thing he would never say unless he was drunk or unless we
were texting or e-mailing or talking on the phone, that thing he would never
say as long as we were face to face and...
Josh Olsen is a writer,
teacher, and father from Southeast Michigan. His first and maybe last book SIX
MONTHS is available from Zygote in My Coffee/Tainted Coffee Press.
Sam was the third girl
She was one of two Asian
women dancing that shift, but while the other was taller, thinner,
flat-chested, and Chinese, Sam was petite, yet curvy, and Japanese.
I didn’t often find
Japanese women sexually attractive, and I definitely didn’t obsess and drool
over them like so many men I knew did, but my physiological response to Sam was
immediate and irrepressible.
In laymen’s terms, she
made my dick as hard as a rock.
So, after Sam’s routine,
when she sauntered off the stage and asked, “Are you gonna windowshop all day?”
I had to fight my instincts and try to play it smooth.
“Well, I just got here,”
I replied, “so I’d like to have a couple more drinks, first.”
And, with that, she was
gone, off to proposition the next customer.
With the exception of
employees, the bar was nearly empty, and it was rather brightly lit and smelled
strongly of cleaning products.
Everything seemed so
square and straight and sober.
It was a weekday
afternoon, and the first time I’d gone to a topless bar by myself, and I was
beginning to regret my impulsive decision to pull in, but after a few beers, I
began to loosen up, and by the time Sam made her second appearance on the main
stage, I was pleased that I had decided to come.
At first, I’d merely
stopped to see some tits and drink a beer or two and leave with some cash in my
pocket, but after seeing Sam, I decided to splurge on a lapdance, and she must
have intuited what I was thinking, because after she finished her second
performance, she didn’t even ask me what I wanted.
She took me by the hand
and led me to a dimly-lit, curtained booth.
We made some brief small
talk and she complimented my moth-eaten cashmere sweater and told me that I
looked like an engineer, but when the music started she went straight for my
She stroked it through
my jeans, at first, but since I didn’t object, she undid my belt and pulled it
To say that I was
shocked would have been an understatement but, goddamn, it felt fucking good.
It was only a handjob,
but it was a thoroughly unexpected handjob, and at the time being, I couldn’t
have asked for anything more.
It was exactly what I
For the duration of
three songs, Sam enthusiastically jacked me off, and I came close to cumming
several times, but I wasn’t quite sure about the proper etiquette.
Was I even allowed to
cum, and, if so, could I shoot it on her tits, like I wanted to do?
And so I played it safe
and managed to hold back until she finally whispered, “Gimme that poison,” and
right before I let go she gave me an uppercut to the testicles, which made it
feel like I was cumming from the tips of my toes.
“Nobody’s ever done that
to me before,” I confessed while putting myself back together, and Sam smiled
knowingly, and the crow’s feet around her eyes made her look much older than
She was still beautiful,
and her tits were still perfect, but cumming seemed to improve my eyesight.
“That’s as far as I ever
go,” she proclaimed, after asking if she’d made a repeat customer out of me,
and after I paid her I offered to buy her a cocktail but she told me that she
“Well…have a good
night,” I said, and she gave me an emotionless peck on the cheek, then I made
my way towards the exit after stopping in the bathroom to wipe some of the cum
off my lap.
I felt kind of bad for
running off so suddenly, and I worried that it made me appear guilty or ashamed
of what had just happened, but the alcohol and lust had worn off, and it was
just about time to pick up my kids from school.
I hail from the Central
Valley of Northern California. I write novels and short works of fiction as
something I do when I'm not paying the bills. I am a biologist, I've traveled
the world, I own a motorcycle leather store and website and lots more. You can
find more about me at http://KentLJohnson.com
“It's my frickin' neck again.
God, I can barely move my head.”
“I think you're a hypochondriac,”
my current girlfriend, Sandy, tells me. “Your neck, your carpal tunnel,
numbness in your fingers, vertigo, a small rash from God only knows what...
“But it does hurt. I must have
slept wrong or something.”
“Slept wrong? Christ, you were
bouncing all over last night. Kept waking me up.”
“I'm sorry,” I tell her meekly.
I look at her and notice she has
black lines under her eyes from lack of sleep. She's still in her robe sipping
coffee. She'll get ready for work in about ten minutes.. The robe hangs loosely
open and I can't help but stare at her breast. The soft tissue just laying
there, her nipple erect.
“What you need to do is go out
and get some exercise. Just because teachers get the entire summer off, doesn't
mean you should lay around and watch movies all day. Get out, go for a bicycle
ride, do something.”
I'm still focused on Sandy's tit.
I'm in my boxers and I can feel a little tug on them as my cock moves on it's
own, just slightly.
“Maybe I'll go get a massage
“Walk there, get your blood
moving. I'm going to spend the night at my apartment tonight. I need to get
some sleep, so I won't be over after work.”
Sandy finishes her coffee and
stands up. I move next to her and put my arms around her. “I'm sorry for
keeping you awake.”
I give her a hug. I can smell the
coffee on her breath, that acrid aroma that filters up from the esophagus when
she exhales. Her chest pushes tightly against me also as she breathes and I can
feel her breasts rubbing on my chest.. My cock twitches again, so slightly.
I grab my coffee cup and follow
her into the bedroom. I sit on the bed mute. She enters the bathroom. I hear
water from the faucet splashing into the shower pan. I move to the far end of
the bed just in time to see her step into the stream. I marvel at the vision of
her ass as it moves into the steamy environs. I recall how her buttocks feels
when I grab both cheeks during love making.
It's been a while since we
screwed around, I don't know why.
I hear the shower turn off and I
get up and make my way back to the kitchen. I refill my coffee and walk outside
in my boxer shorts and get the newspaper that lays next to the sidewalk. I see
a curtain move aside from across the street. Someone watching me. Kids out of
school, most likely. My head and neck ache as I lean over to pick up the paper
and the blood rushes into them. I'm a little dizzy upon rising, paper in hand.
The dizziness goes away rapidly. I turn and walk back into the house.
I hear a blow dryer shut off and
I know she is almost ready for work. She appears in the doorway of the bedroom.
Sandy looks great, her hair clean, fresh makeup. She always dresses in chic
clothes that look so comfortable.
“Bye,” Sandy says. She kisses me
on the cheek, then walks toward the front door, car keys in hand, purse over
her shoulder and overnight bag under one arm. “Don't forget, get some
I scan the front page of the
paper, nothing new. I call my masseuse and get an appointment in just an hour.
I hop in the shower and quickly wash yesterday's grime off my body. I put on
loose shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and sandals. I make the bed before I leave, then
take the car to the strip mall where my favorite massage artist works.
It's an Asian massage parlor.
Michelle is my masseuse. She's a tiny Asian girl of perhaps a hundred and five
pounds. Her face is smooth and child like. Her smile is contagious. Michelle is
her Americanized name. She emigrated from Hong Kong three years ago. Her
Chinese name is Meixiu. For such a small girl, she can beat and dive into the
muscles of my body thoroughly. I sometimes hurt for two days after a massage.
I pay for an hour, then walk to
Room 6, enter and close the door. I peel off my clothes and hang them on pegs.
I take a towel off the massage table and throw it over my bare bottom as I lay
face down on the table. A knock comes on the door and Michelle walks in. We
exchange pleasantries and she begins to massage my back, grinding on my
shoulders and neck. She walks across my back on her knees and leans into the
muscles, pushing bundles apart and smoothing them back again. I grunt and my
face contorts at times because it is painful. She works on my arms and hands,
then brings out body oil and rubs the silky liquid all over me pushing down
hard as it rubs into my skin. She removes the excess oil off my back and arms
with hot towels. The towels sting at first before the heat dissipates.
She starts on my legs, spreading
oil evenly over them. Michelle deep rubs my calf muscles and applies pressure
points to the inside of my knees with her tiny hands and I almost scream in
pain. She moves up to my thighs and and uses both hands to rub around them and
as she does, she makes sure her hand rubs across my dick. She spreads oil on my
ass and massages those muscles and she ever so gently runs her fingers down the
crack and across my anus. She repeats the ass massage a few more times. She
covers my ass with the towel and then lightly runs her fingertips up the inside
of my legs in a swirling pattern, and then she tickles my balls. She knows just
where to touch. At the base of the scrotum she applies a little pressure and I
can feel my cock stiffen and convulse. I lift my butt in the air and her hands
find their way under me, and she strokes me a couple times before she climbs
off and wipes me down with hot towels.
Michelle tells me to roll over on
my back. She covers my sex with a towel, making a tiny tent. My chest and
shoulders get massaged by those small yet powerful hands. I can see her now
that I'm facing upward. I can see the concentration on her face as she plows
into the muscle tissue. Her chest is small but I really want to see it.
“Topless? Like usual?” I ask.
She checks the lock on the door,
then removes her top and bra.
“Always for you. You my
favorite,” she says in broken English.
She stands over my head and
pushes her hands down across my chest, over my belly and under the towel,
touching me. Her tiny crab-apple sized tits rub over my face. I lick one as it
passes by. She smiles and repeats the move.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yes, Meixiu,” I say. She likes
it when I call her by her Chinese name.
“I work on your legs now, okay?”
She begins the same massage
routine as when I was laying on my stomach. She rubs the muscles first starting
with the calf, then works her way up until she is moving around my thighs. She
uncovers me me and begins to play with my balls, working her hand up and down
my shaft. She spills some more body oil over me and continues to play. I really
want her to remove her pants and squat over my face while she finishes the
massage, but she won't go that far. I know, I asked before.
She sits on her knees between my
legs. My legs stretch across the table. Her right hand moves up and down my
erection in a complete stroke. All at once I feel it and I watch as it shoots
up in the air and lands across my hip, not once but three times. I watch her
grin as she slows her hand down but keeps it on me. Meixiu then hits that
pressure point somewhere on my scrotum with her left hand and a new burst of
jism and wave of pleasure pass over me. I see her look at her hand, it's
dripping with my viscous secretion. She smiles at me as she lifts her hand to
her nose and inhales the scent. A drip of me falls from her hand, then lands on
the tip of one crab-apple size tit.
“You smell good. You need see me
more. You have much stress,” Michelle says to me. “Your girlfriend not treat
you right. That why I here.”
She cleans us both up with hot
towels. She dresses and leaves the room. I'm alone and content, really content.
I think about what I just did and about Sandy while I put on my clothes. I
should feel guilty, and I do, but only slightly. I like Sandy, but lately, I
haven't felt like making love to her. I still feel the need, but for some
reason, at times, Sandy just doesn't turn me on like when we were new lovers.
That's my problem, always has
been. I get comfortable with one person then I feel trapped. I don't want the
pressure of a relationship, too many expectations. Expectations that I know I
can't always fill, so failure is just around the corner. I don't want to fail.
I leave the room and on the way
out, Michelle greets me with a glass of cold water.
“This is for you. Drink,” she
I drink the water and pitch the
cup. My neck is feeling better and I'm relaxed. I give Michelle a forty dollar
tip. She smiles at me. I don't feel trapped at all.
Misti Rainwater-Lites stays alive in San
Antonio, Texas. She has one son and four tattoos. When blocked Misti Googles
Captain Beefheart lyrics.
She feels him fucking her astral style so goddamn it
he must be, he is, he is fucking the shit out of her
from all those wine soaked states away
and she feels him so good and she feels him so hard
she bites her own arm
screams blow down the straw walls
stars and satellites shake their heads
smoke curls and those are her ten wicked toes
witches drown sultry and those are her two evil eyes
and her hair such disobedient sprawl is a snake cemetery
in other words the road that leads in clouds of dust
up the mesa that is Acoma Sky City.
Her ass, meanwhile, is some kind of basket.
Delicious. Untouched. Brimming with a most
Oh fuck these sad songs this lonely beer
balloons fat with maybe bursting beyond
your fingers which are aching for mine.
I could blow you kisses from my particular prison
until I fall down dead and get thrown out with the slop
but then everything you love about me
would be a guess at most and baby
we’re better than any game show.
I’m done with games. I’ve lost all the darts.
Your mouth is the prize I’ll never possess
but instead of Billie Holiday records in the dark
I’d much prefer to treat myself to 48 hours
with you…tangible, tangled up, treating time like taffy
s t r e t c h i n g
p u l l i n g
sticking our tongues out at clocks and televisions,
telephones and calendars
the entire calculating gawking drooling world
We could meet in Vegas and I promise
it wouldn’t be tacky.
Slot machines and tourists and drunk frat boys
pissing on the sidewalk in front of the volcano
but the neon would stay on for us
and it would be Paris and Cairo and Coney Island
the carnival that ate the planet
the circus that stayed
the wedding cake that did not dissolve in sobs
a tiny godless infinity
so much gold
visible only to us
no one could ever
Eat thistles from cunts, celebrate the sixty hour work week
with angel piss beer and darts, gallivant desperate
in the shit smear parade and disregard me, the forsaken cow
shadowed ugly in the corner.
The grass is gone.
I’m licking salt from wounds, spouting fables
in an American sitcom cheese ass accent
to soothe myself
put myself out to pasture
in a manageable trance.
The fat of sacrifices is yellow
and I lost my martyr glasses in the snow
so I don’t see that, however noble.
You might assume I’m lazier than Lazarus
and trashier than gasoline sign orange,
waiting for the ghost foxes to appear in the glowing garden.
I’m ambitious enough for twenty cowboys
but I was raised to maintain a phlegmatic profile.
Chuck Willman is a
self-taught writer with poems and essays published widely. He loves hiking
naked in the desert, painting, and hanging with his dog. Chuck lives in Las
Vegas with his partner of 24 years.
vodka martinis from the bar nearby made me hear the calling to my
Gethsemane that night, a blood-red splashed, black back room—
a block from the bar—willing to be crucified; ready to meet Him. I wore
scribbled in black ink across my smooth chest: POZ – USE – PLEASE,
a stained, come-crusted, piss-damp jockstrap wafting its sweet and sour
behind as I walked, making my procession to the only place I knew
were waiting for that ritual we all hungered for. Once there, calm
sure in my judgment, a large, nude hirsute body (Pilate?) slowly stepped
out of the shadows, leading me to the black wooden St. Andrew’s
in the corner, a spread-eagled wallflower standing upright, alone, as if
for the right partner to dance with. Face
the wall, the behemoth growled
my ear. Sensing I was a virgin at this,
he forced me around and secured my
wrists and ankles tightly onto the crossed wood with thick, prickly rope
burned my fresh tender flesh, digging into my skinny arms and legs like
wire or nails, my willowy body twitching in excited anticipation and
His enormous hand hovered over my spine—sending chills through every
my stiffening cock scraping against its damp restraint—before sliding his
down to caress the white cheeks of my ass. THWACK!—came
a sudden blow.
yelped, startled, my ass on fire and stretched body quivering.He palmed my
butt before surprising me with another—THWACK!
I screamed louder
time, the pain shooting through my entire body. Massaging me roughly, he
a firm order into my ear, No sounds. No
ruthlessslap to each tight cheek
again. But I bit my lip, silent, head spinning from
blissful ache. He removed the black leather riding crop from the wall,
stare at its thick flat end first before pressing it against me, then sliding
it up and
my ribcage, flicking it softly once in the middle of my back. I squirmed, but
cut into my wrists as my hair was grabbed while a bottle of poppers was stuck
my nose—a Molotov cocktail exploding in my brain—my next desperate breath
my eyes roll back, and any desire to fight cease. The leather landed sharply
in the same place, the thrash now a blend of excruciating pain and wicked joy.
passed. Then several hands rubbed and pinched my bare skin, kissing the rising
welts and worshipping me by stroking and pinching my trembling torso as I
cross. My cock ached, longing to be freed from its cage while the flogging
twelve Disciples passed the crop. Thirty-nine
lashes across my back and ass caused an
numbing sting as my skin split open, forming raised, purple gashes and small
blood resembling the assiduous lines of stitches in homemade quilts, or tiny
carved, sparkling rubies. It was almost unbearable, but far more exhilarating.
my front was spared. Instead, four Disciples untied my limbs, releasing me from
cross to drag me to their black leather altar, swinging by chains from rafters.
ripped from my legs as my wrists and ankles were once again nailed in place,
with leather straps that were even tighter, though I barely felt their burn as my
soaked in poppers and placed over my face. Breathing in this intoxicating
the smoldering welts on my back against the wide leather straps of the
table feel more intense and pleasurable. Carcass-hung, I was the offering; they
my entire body with their wet tongues like wolves softening the hide of a kill.
growling men began their feeding; fingers burrowed deep into my ass, prying
open and mouths eating my insides clean, slobber hanging, claiming place
Last Supper. Eyes wild-wide, my prayers to be devoured were answered when fat
and nimble hands took turns ramming and exploring, stretching my starving hole.
Disciples brutally sliced into my writhing torso at both ends until my mind
my body, watching as they stabbed what was stone for far too long. My mouth was
open by thick fingers, becoming their spittoon and bottomless chalice, raping
throat, sliding cocks deep down, slicking them up, saliva-soaked, rigid, ready,
me until I spit up their rancid wine. Then one by one they lined up to bathe my
ravaged, stained collection plate—feeding me what spilled out: my own blood and
rich honey churned with the greasy seed of all who had denigrated my temple.
fingers were crammed into my mouth, and I choked down exactly what I had come
was baptized again, fucked clean with their sour fluids—hosed off, soothed by
Fountains of piss rinsed my mouth for more skull-fucking, semen and saliva
from my lips—force-fed this, too. Then (Judas?) unhooked my weary, aching
my own throbbing cock was finally attended, erupting all over myself, leaving
shaking. Tears ran down my slimy face as every single gash, prick, and thorn
had beentranscendent, delivering me to Heaven.