Thursday, January 31, 2013

All I want is quiet / I wrote every day back then

My name is Matthew Sradeja which is nearly unpronounceable. I work in a loud factory and think terribly.

All I want is quiet

What I get is the terrible sounds of the factory machines

Bowling ten frames in my head on the ride home

When everything should be rolling rubber and engine hum

And all I want is bed

And pitch black curtains that block out the devil sun

What I have is a ten pound cat

Stretched out in my spot

Frantically purring for a chance at my heart

Or a long winters nap

I pop in earplugs again and shut off the lamp

That is when press 49 roars back to life

Spitting out parts that clank as they crash into a steel bin

Pounding away at my brain with industrial death jazz

Well greased

And just as well versed at wrecking my rest


I wrote every day back then

I wrote everyday back then

Nothing was sacred

Fuck the president,

The world is screwed get used to it,

Words were my acrobatics.

I investigated the musical tastes of the clouds for

Christ sake!

And it was all, all get out –loud

And proud-ish in fits

In a haze of poisonous smoke

I did all the dope I could not afford and drank like Hank

And Kerouac without soul without giving a shit

A friend of mine once asked

“How can you spell right now?”


I was wwrrrrooooonnnnnggggg

I was so wrong

Wwwrrrroonnnggg became my solitary blue whale song

Diving deep below the rising tide of lonely blackout times


I sold my soul for dope couldn’t cope with the loss

Without a drink, a smoke, a shot, a snort, some pills,

Whatever head change I could find.

The dope haze was never thick enough,

Could never conceal this golden heart

I wrote and wrote and fell in love with a woman

Who is stronger than whiskey. And to this day I am thrilled by her kissing me


I mourn the lost time, my bewildered mind wails blues blown

Wwwwwrrroooonnnnggg as a blue whale

I wail wwwrrroooongggg sunburned and depleted like the ozone.


Life is good now, somehow

And smiles bracket this thought

“I used to be a stoner now I’m a home owner”






Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Joshua Tree & Tongue (Art)


Joshua Tree      &      Tongue    (Art)

In addition to being an artist, Evan R. Spears is one of the few
remaining practitioners of the art and science of phrenology. As an
expert on the matter, he has determined through extensive
phrenological study that he has a skull shape common to most (if not
all) violent criminals, and that he would likely excel as a Wal-Mart
greeter. When he's not brandishing his calipers menacingly in public
and frightening passersby with his pungent and oozing facial sores, he
can usually be found locked in his room doodling and watching

Saturday, January 26, 2013

The General

Trixie Starr has published erotica at The Erotic Woman and Cliterature. In her other life she is a secretary, devoted mother of two and an assistant girl scout troop leader. Shhhhh!!!
The General

With his cock in one hand and his vodka tonic on the rocks in the other, the General sat - pants unzipped and legs open - in the center of her brown leather sofa.  He looked incongruous with the surroundings of her modest apartment in his imported Italian silk suit that had probably cost more than her rent.
From the middle of her beige carpet, Simone continued undressing.  The General’s gaze grew hungrier as he watched her.  He stroked himself more vigorously as each article of feminine clothing slid softly to the floor.  “Now the stockings,” he commanded.  She couldn’t stop smiling.

“Next the bra.”  She opened the front clasp and began lowering the dark pink straps, which, she knew well, matched the color of her nipples exactly.  “Slower,” he demanded.  She took her time, pulling the silky material across her erect nipples, closing her eyes and tilting her head back to let him watch her react.  “Good.  Now, bring the panties to me so I can smell them.”  He continued tugging on his hard member.

This was the second time today he’d had his cock out.  The first was in her car after she had picked him up from the airport.  The General was in town for a high profile meeting with Simone’s boss, and she was his ride to the hotel.  Only, they hadn’t made it to his hotel after all.

He had begun eyeing her petite form the instant she approached him in the baggage claim area.  He was an older man, his skin a bronzed mocha color.  His eyes blazed with energy and lascivious appetite.  She stared at his mouth.  He took careful notice.

He had started rubbing his cock before they had even paid to exit the parking structure.  “Open your blouse,” he had ordered.  Though she had met him only moments ago, she was excited to comply immediately.  She unfastened two more buttons, revealing a hint of raspberry lace.  Once they drove out onto the interstate, his zipper was down, and his thick cock was in his hand.

That was the instant in which she decided that she wasn’t taking him to his hotel at all, as her boss had specifically directed.  Simone had a different plan for the General.

Now they were back at her apartment, and, incomprehensibly, her sudden nudity made her feel mighty rather than vulnerable and exposed.  She didn’t care how many stars the General had earned before he’d retired from the service and accepted his current position with the Department of Homeland Security.  Let him bark out all the instructions he wanted.

She felt his heated gaze on every curve and crevice of her skin.  “Bring the panties.  Crawl to me,” he snapped.  She did it slowly, her eyes locked on his.  The crotch of the soaked panties glistened in her hand.  The late afternoon sun filtered in through Simone’s closed blinds, suffusing everything with a tinge of gold.

The General’s eyes flashed.  His pupils dilated.  His breath came in bursts, heavy and hard, his chest heaving.  He snatched the panties out of her hand and pressed them over his nose and mouth, inhaling deeply.  When he pulled them away, a long, clear, slick thread stretched from his mouth back to the panties.  He didn’t seem to notice, but the sight of it sent a new swell of moisture down between Simone’s legs.  The General wrapped the damp garment around the base of his inflamed and distended prick and continued to jack off.

“Suck it.”  He maneuvered his pants and boxer shorts further down, but did not remove them.

Simone knelt between his thighs and dipped her head, tracing her tongue in a tight circle around the slippery droplet she found gleaming at the tip of the General’s fat cock.  He fondled his balls while she licked up and down the length of him.

The General drew in a quick breath.  He was throbbing.  She could feel his pulse against her lips as she took the whole thing into her mouth, sucking hard.  Then she ran her mouth back up to the top and suckled just the head.  Her nipples rubbed against his expensive suit pants, stiffening again.  Wetness glided down her thighs.

His nostrils flared.  His hand curved around her leg as she leaned forward, and one of his plump fingers slid inside her.

She shuddered.  Every sensation felt magnified by a thousand.  She stifled the urge to jump up and impale herself on his enormous cock, which was so engorged by now that it was turning purple.  She knew she would come almost instantly if she did that.

She also forced herself to stop imagining the wild gush of cum that would surely spout from him at any moment.  Yet, even the idea of it was making her mouth water.  She saw it over and over again in her mind.  His face contorting, the taut thighs tensing.  The soft squeals of friction as his clenched fists shook helplessly against the leather of her couch.  The opaque elixir squirting from his trembling shaft, shimmering as the rivulets flowed down the textured skin and hair of his balls.  The sound of his surrender.

“Touch your clit,” he told her, teasing her hard, rosy nipples with his free hand.  Simone ignored him.  If she did that, it would all be over in an instant.  She didn’t want to come yet.  He repeated his directive, more firmly this time.  Simone stared him down, removing her mouth from his rock hard rod for a moment.  “No,” she said.

The General was not about to brook any insubordination.  He lifted her as though she weighed no more than a slip of paper and laid her on the carpet.  Spreading her legs with his knees, he pulled her hips up onto his lap, so that the tip of his cock rested at the lip of her opening.  He plunged two fingers inside her while using the head of his penis to delicately rub her swollen clit.

“I’ll come,” she moaned.

“Yes,” he declared, “you will.”

Simone had the sudden urge to kiss the General.  Grasping his muscled shoulders through his blue dress shirt, she pulled herself up and planted a soft kiss directly on his parted lips.  He had tried to turn his head at the last moment, but it was no use.  With his face in her hands and his hands still busily jacking them both off, she gave him a harder kiss now, slipping the tiniest tip of her tongue into his mouth until it met the tip of his.  He tasted like sex, cigars and vodka.  She extended her tongue a bit further, rolling it over his.

“Ahhhhhh!” with a loud cry, the General exploded, and a hot plume of semen cascaded all over her moist pussy.  Now she did touch her clit, bathed in a sea of his warm juices.  She thrust her fingers, now coated and dripping with his cum, deep inside of herself.  Meanwhile, the General raked his hand gently through the massive load he had shot out, feeding his sticky fingers into Simone’s mouth one by one so that she could taste his “soldiers.”

As the first spasms of her climax began to shake through her frame, Simone heard the smile in the General’s voice as he acceded, “OK Simone, you win.”


Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Dirty White Boy / Having Sex with You

Shane Allison edits gay erotica for Cleis Press and his book of prodominately erotic poems, Slut Machine is out from Rebel Satori Press. He is at work on a novel.


Dirty White Boy

So I was on my way home from work last night when I get a text from Mike. U want 2 cum over? Truth was I was dog tired. I had only been on my feet for 13 hours straight and all I wanted to do was take my hard working-ass to bed, but when it comes down to Mike, it’s hard, (no pun intended) to  say no to him.

Yeah, sure. I told him.  I turned around and made a detour to Mike’s crib. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so tired knowing that within minutes, Mike would be skull-fucking me with his fat one. 

How quickly can u get here? Horny as fuck! He wrote.

Just getting off work, headed over now.

Kewl. Hurry!  With the students out of town, traffic had come to a crawl, so it didn’t take me long to get to Mike’s crib. When I pulled into his apartment complex I realized that I didn’t have any rubbers. I spotted his Buick and pulled in next to it. “He probably just wants me to suck his dick anyway,” I said to myself. It was apartment 23B from what I remembered. A light shined from his window on the second floor. I trudged up the steep steps where this golden-haired college boy awaited me. My dick was so hard it hurt. My mouth was already watering for Mike’s dick. I knocked gently on the door. Mike answered, cracking it open just so.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked.

“Come in, quick.” He opened the door wide enough for me to squeeze in. Mike didn’t have on a stitch of clothing. His apartment smelled like ripe, sweaty asshole. He locked the door behind me; his dick was brick-fucking hard.

“Damn, you are horny.”

“I just thought I would see what you were up to tonight.”

I couldn’t stop looking at Mike’s eight incher, the way he stroked it with chubby fingers. Straight porn was playing out on his TV. A threesome of some beefy brunet getting blown  by this chick with a  bad dye job while she’s getting her pussy eaten by this blonde with fake, buxom tits.

“You want a beer?” 

“Yeah, whatever you got is cool.”

I gawked at Mike’s ass as he plucked two beers out of the frig. He twisted the tops off and handed me a cold one.

The last time I was here I damn-near had my entire face up his ass. Mike took a swig from his beer and sat down. There were already two empty bottles sitting on the coffee table.

“How was work?” He asked.

“Boring. As soon as I got there I wanted to walk my ass back out.”

I sat down next to Mike as he pulled at the meaty crown of his dick. His apartment was not dirty but it wasn’t clean either. There were movie posters thumbtacked on the living room wall.

“Can I suck it?” I asked.

“Since when do you need permission? Mike grinned with a boyish smile, his cheeks all rosy. I took a swig from my beer, rested the bottle on the table next to those that were empty before I arched over into his lap and maneuvered his dick past my lips. His dick pulsed like it had been waiting to be slathered.

“Deep throat it,” Mike pleated. I took his junk to his balls, his golden bush traipsing against my lips as his dick-tip banged against my throat. Thanks to Mike I don’t gag anymore.

“I miss these lips,” he said before taking another swill of Sweet Water Blue.

With all my weight on one arm, I started to get uncomfortable so I slid onto my knees between Mike’s thighs. Yeah, this is good. Got a better angle.

“Look up at me,” he said.

I did what he wanted.

“You like sucking my dick don’t you?”

All I could do was nod.

“Yeah, you do. Pinch my nipples.”

I reached up and took one between my fingers.

“Harder,” he demanded.

I slid in deep, holding Mike’s dick at the back of my throat.

“Fuck that feels good. Suck my balls.” I lapped at the tender skin of his sac. The sweat from his balls was sweet.

“Not so hard,” he said.

I eased up.

“Yeah, like that.”

When I started to tease his taint Mike arched his big tanned furred legs up over my head and brought them down on my shoulders.

“Do it, man. Lick my asshole.” He knows that this is what does it for me. He slid in close toward my face. I felt for his corn hole with tongue and fingers. Mike’s got that musky, straight boy down-low ass. I started to suck hard at his hole. He fidgeted when I put my finger anywhere near his opening, but I know he wants to get fucked. I can see it in him. Mike pumped his dick as I feasted. My ream work drove him to release these high pitch yells. I could turn him out; own his ass, his big thick dick. I drove my tongue up in him. He pushed his dick in my face. Mike knew I had to have it about as much as he wanted to give it to me. I knew his load was going to be astronomical, break fucking world records with the build-up of nut I knew he had stored. Lips slid along his shaft. I wrapped my lips tight around it, holding Mike in my mouth. I tasted a little pre-jizz. I took his right nip between index and thumb and squeezed as I pounded down his hard-on. 

“Ah shit!” 

I got him. He’s loaded, but I got him cocked.




His dick tensed.

Give me that juice!

I tweaked his nips. I took his eight inches to the head.


Mike came. An explosion of his juices filled my mouth. I held him in. I felt him coming and coming. All I could do was take his jizz that slid fast down my gullet. I kept at him. I wanted every white drop. His face was all contorted, flushed red from the orgasm. I pulled off of him easy when I think he’s had enough. He jerked as I eased off his tender meat. He watched me with those icy blues as I lapped stray pearls of nut from the tip of his dick; I drained his balls dry. I eased back up on the sofa next to him. I guzzled the rest of my beer to wash down the taste of ass, sweat and cum. Mike’s dick started to soften and dry from my spit.  We sat there spent, enjoying our beers.

“It’s a good thing you got up with me ‘cause I was on my way home.”

“I’m gonna take a shower. You want to join me?” He asked.

Mike had never asked me to shower with him in the past, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Yeah, I need to wash the stench of work off of me.”

The next morning I woke Mike up with my lips wrapped around his dick, tonguing his balls. I had him on his hands and knees, smothering my face in the sweat-stink of his ass. It took some coaxing, but he let me fuck him finally. Mike didn’t get all weird about it like I thought. I knew then that I had him. This dirty white boy was officially turned out.

Having Sex with You
                                                                                      For Nathan
I guess it’s too late to have sex with you
I guess it’s too late to go to my place to have sex with you
I guess it’s too late to start having sex
I guess it’s too late to begin having sex
I guess we’ll never have sex
I guess we’re too different to do sex
I guess we can’t have sex anymore
I guess we are not suited to be sexual
I guess we’ll never have sex now
I guess having sex with you is not in the cards now
I guess I can’t expect we’ll ever have sex now
I guess I have to give up all my dreams of having sex with you
I guess having sex is really out of the question
I guess loving you is too difficult
Too much work and still to be friends



Friday, January 18, 2013


By the great Indian writer Anindya Sundar Roy.


She said it was always free for men
having real good accessories
And turned back to the door
the door she use to knock every Friday morning
I don’t like showing off stuffs
out of rage
She knew I can touch the sky with hope
and she had vertigo since
she lost her peanut.

    Sunday, January 13, 2013

    Meaningless / Variations / Life Is...

    D.A. Pratt is from Regina, Saskatchewan and writes in the Queen’s English.


    It was all meaningless to her –
    she was on her back,
    being fucked and fucking, fucking and being fucked ...
    She did a lot of fucking
    but none of it really mattered –
    she didn't give a fuck
    even as she was giving them out freely ...



    She is standing in the doorway

    of the bedroom

    wearing just her T-shirt …


    She is standing in the doorway

    of the bedroom

    wearing just her blue jeans …


    She is standing in the doorway

    of the bedroom

    wearing nothing at all …


    Hell, it’s my fantasy

    and I’ll damn well pick whatever variation I want –

    frankly, it’s a stretch just to imagine her standing

    in the doorway of my bedroom …



    Life is ...


    Life is

    one fantasy after another –

    this is especially true when fantasies

    are all that we have left …




    Thursday, January 10, 2013


    Rhiannon Thorne grew up in the Bay Area of California and currently lives in Phoenix. She's published around and co-edits the literary publication cahoodaloodaling with fellow poet-in-arms Kate Hammerich. She can be reached at




    the simple truth behind every poem i write
    is i love to see your saliva on my cunt;

    the press of your tongue to the blushing bulb,

    your hands entrenching my thighs,

    the sight of you nesting between my knees


    i need the concaving of your back and belly,

    the writhing slick you become

    past the brink-


    the heavy clawing and unclawing

    talons in the sheets; the guttural call,

    the shuddering silence; the sight

    of your hair pressed firm


    to your head, firm to

    the side of my thigh


    the slowly dispelling heat


    the hazy after



    The Bermuda Triangle Or Get Me A Lawnmower

    Monday, January 7, 2013

    "orgasm" / "Ridin'"

    i'm jorge martinez. i'm from the south side of chicago and love cock of every color, but there's a special place in my ass for my boyfriend's.



    the plain truth behind every poem i write

    is i love to see your saliva on my cock,
    your hand on my thigh pressing flesh to bruise
    and your neck flush with rushing blood
    while you leak sweat and pearly cum.

    i need the shade of your iris
    when your pupil extends its right and
    becomes the king of your color, the black bead
    guiding your gaze;

    and i could write pages on your leather knuckles,
    the thickness of your thighs, your chest and
    obscene shoulders smeared with my desire,

    but the truth, plainly,
    behind every poem i write
    is i lust for that quiet moment
    when i can only hear our breaths and your heart
    remembering its tender cadence,


    Tyler rolls up in that old car, cherry red finish gleaming in a summer's noon, smoke pouring outta cracked windows. He's James Dean handsome, with dark eyes and a long mouth, a cigarette perched between fine lips. He's got hollow cheeks, a square jaw, the sorta brow that's always furrowed, slicked platinum hair, and my steps quickening up to the monster purring in my driveway, his metal steed leaking oil. My knight in goddamn leather, and he's driving his daddy's antique, the one he stole, the one he looks so good in. "Gettin in, faggot?"

    I lean in to kiss him, and he holds the back of my head, fingers lewder than his mouth. They tug my curls, dip into the collar of my shirt, squeeze my neck like they're seeking shelter. I know I'm his passing fancy; last night, he coaxed me between the sheets and said so. That he wouldn't touch a fucking spic like me by the light of day, that he'd deport my ass if I didn't let him fuck it so good.

    S'got a fat cock. Makes up for the bullshit he's prone to spouting because the sun beats down on us both, and his arms look golden, shining with blond hairs. I can't get around to the passenger's side fast enough, can't pry that door open too quickly; I'm settled, and he's kneading my thigh.

    Big hands. Strong palms. "Y'wun me that bad, donchu?" He chuckles, and Papi would slap me, letting a gringo treat me like this. But he's got my blood boiling, seething, tenting loose shorts. "Thinkin' bout last time, ain't yuh spic?"

    Spic. Spic. He ain't real creative with the slurs, and it's got me grinning. Got me writhing and pushing at his hold that's getting too high. "Learn to speak fucking English, you goddamn hick."

    That almost kills us, the way he slams on the breaks, and the couple behind us hardly manage to stop. He moved to Chicago three months ago, but he's the sorta phlegm Indiana hacks up from trailer parks and sounds like the worst of them. Makes him real sensitive if you bring it up, makes him want to grab me and throw me in the back and take me now. Drown me in heat and velour—

    Ain't gonna. He just drives with renewed fervor. Over the speed limit, around corners like a lunatic, and blowing stoplights. He don't live far, and when we pull up to his, he's breathing like a racehorse. I glance down; he's making a wet spot in his pants, obscenely hard, making me harder. Making me want to tail him like a lost puppy.

    We're outta the car, up rickety stairs that hardly bear our weight, into the sweltering attic apartment. He told me he can't afford no air conditioning, and I told him he's big, for a nineteen year old kid. He told me he ain't no kid because I'm younger, and I didn't care to correct his fallacy. I just wanted him. I just want him.

    I relish the way he shoves me tight to the door, aligns our hips, our heat, our mouths with crushing power. Mashing lips and gnashing teeth and scraped tongue, grinding against him and sweating. He tugs my shirt, I tug his, and we press skin to skin. He takes my face in his hands and squeezes; my cheeks are sore. "Spic. Fuckin spic. Ah'd fuck yer daddy, ya faggot ass bitch."


    It means fuck me. It means use me. He's peeling his pants off like they're a second skin, pooling around his ankles when he shoves me to my knees. Boy knows how to get what he wants; he ain't gotta ask, and I got him throbbing in my mouth. His length ain't much to brag about, but his girth bruises my lips, chokes me and has my cock weeping. I gag when he bucks, when he grabs my head and holds me tight and hisses, "Don' fuckin bite me," and takes my mouth like he'd take my ass.

    Lucky I like to be treated bad.

    I gotta pinch his thigh when I can't breathe, scrambling back so quick my head hits the door, and I see stars. He kneels in front of me and gets this look. It's one I know, the one I knew when he was drunk and told me I was beautiful and sucked my cock the first time. He says it again with his hands, callused from work in the garage, and he says it again as he traces my contours, grips what he likes and shucks my shorts off. "Ya wun me t'fuck ya?"

    I can only nod, and he lays me on the floor, bites a junction of neck and shoulder as he throws my legs over his back, twined at the ankle. He lines up with my hole, and I yield— told me once I was looser than other guys he's fucked but didn't mean it as a complaint. He likes bareback, no lube, sinking in with friction and hardly minding me. I cry out, I grip his back, I plead, "Tyler."

    He grunts, finds that brutal pace with the perfect angle, and he knows I don't mean it when I tell him to stop. He knows I don't mean it when I drag my nails down his back and call him a rapist. He knows I don't mean it when I dissolve to Spanish cusses, when my cock is aching on my belly and sobbing its salty protest all over my abdomen. Shivers wrack up my spine, the burning lends intensity—

    "Spic. Fuckin wetback. Fuckin faggot cunt."

    His tongue's all over my chest, his bites hurt and break me, he's got me quivering like it's end of the world, and I cum between us when his hand crushes my waist. Spurt on my belly, on my chest, a bit on my shoulder that tugs a breathless laugh when he laps it up. His lips seek my neck as he rides into my convulsions, covets my hips. He ain't got words anymore, except, "Soun's pretty when ya talk spic."

    Jerks into me and warm flooding: at once, the tight convulsions, the white lights in my eyes and his. His sweat drips on my face, his hair is soaked on my forehead when he tips forward. He pulls outta me, shaking and collapsing and putting too much weight down. He's a heavy bastard, and I hold the meat between his shoulder blades. I caress his spine, and he pulls my hair, gentle. Says, "Spic," and rubs his wet dick on my thigh.

    Marveling musculature beneath tan skin, I know I'm a passing fancy.