Thursday, October 24, 2013


Alexis Rhone Fancher

Find Alexis Rhone Fancher’s work in The MacGuffin, Rattle, Fjords Review, BoySlut, High Coupe, Gutter Eloquence, Good Men Project, Bare Hands, Poetry Super Highway, numerous anthologies, and elsewhere. Her photographs, published world-wide, include the covers of Witness and The Mas Tequila Review. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2013, she is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly.

MAYONNAISE - (Published originally in Gutter Eloquence Magazine)

the lotion spurts out of the bottle like mayonnaise,

like your thick white cum shoots between my breasts & across

my face.

it’s good for the complexion, you say.

I rub it in. lick the alabaster bitter from my



never enough times will I lie with you here, ocean’s cool wafting from

the half-cracked window,

Etta James crooning from those high-end

speakers, the air like

jasmine, and me, open mouthed, ready, today’s blue plate

special, all smooth & creamy; calibrated for your dining


A toast, my precious darling: I give you mine.

you give me yours. mingled.

melded into mmmmmmmmmmm.

our penis, our balls, our succulent breasts, our absolutely famished





LOVE SONG FOR MY BABY (originally published in The Mas Tequila Review, 2012)


If I could catch my breath I’d suck your cock but I’m so overcome by your studly chest,

your hairy thighs, your endearingly bony knees that I’m afraid I’d choke on it. Anyway,

forget the preliminaries, I just want to jump your bones, throw a saddle over your rump 

and ride, pony, ride. I want to blog on your biceps, write erotica on your elbows, I want

to tattoo my memoirs on your ass. I want to lead you out of the stable, trot you around, 

give you your head, then rein you in. I want you to taste the bit in your mouth, and have 

it taste sweet like Tic Tacs, like summer time, like ginger-ale. Just like you taste to me. I 

want to corral you in my arms, cavort in the moonlight, dos si dos with the best of ‘em. 

I could put you on the stage in Tijuana. That donkey’s dick’s got nothing on you, babe. 

Nada. Niet. Rien. My very own John Holmes. I woke yesterday in a pool of you and me.

Your lips fastened on my pussy, your hot breath steaming up my thighs. You were 

humming the theme from Dr. Zhivago and the dark buzz made my clitty hard like a 

little dick. So kiss me already, and then let’s stick it in, this is L.A. for Chrissakes, 

and the livin’ is on the beach, on the fly, on the installment plan. Do ya wanna

know how I see it? Each of us teeters on the totter, a paycheck away from homeless, 

from ruin, just one pitch away from a shut-out, one sweet fuck away from the end.  





HAPPY DICK - A 100 Word Story (Originally published in 100-Word Stories, 2013)

I fell hard for Johnny Carvello. Dagos got me wet. He preferred strippers, ringside tables, hand on crotch, watching them work the pole. Called it “happy dick.” We were the perfect pair, the ex-Mafioso and the car crash cripple. Both, second rate goods. He had a thing for my still-perfect feet, bathed them in rosewater, sucked the toes, jacked himself off all over them. He’d pose me naked, on the bed, do tai chi by candlelight, his eyes on mine. Months into it when he tried to fuck me, I broke it off. The relationship, not the dick.





I WANT LOUBOUTIN HEELS (Originally published in BoySlut, 2013)


I want Louboutin

heels with those trademark red soles,

I want them sexy, I want them high, I  

want to wear them out of the store, just 

you try and stop me.  


I want them slingback and peep-toed  

so I can flash the purple polish  

on my tootsies. I want to wow them on  

Washington, saunter past C&O Trattoria   

and Nick’s Liquor Mart, those bottles of Stoli 

stacked in the window, calling my name, past the  

summer-clad tourists in December, shivering,   

barefoot, like LA has no winter. 


In those shoes I’m hot,   

stop-a-truck hot, prettiest  

girl in school hot, and this 

time, I know it.  

Flaunt it. Hell, I own it. In those shoes I can   

pick and choose, not settle for some loser.   

Not drink away regrets, pound back Stoli at   

Chez Jay’s, flash their scarlet bottoms when I kneel.  


I’ll wear them like my own flesh, 

like hooves, like sin.

I’ll keep their secrets, won’t spill 

where they’ve been.


Better those shoes with their lurid soles 

than you with yours. 

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