Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
I was walking down by a stream today (Look it doesn’t fucking matter which stream it was, it was just a stream, alright!) When I decided to take myself a well earned rest upon a vacant wooden bench (Look it doesn’t fucking matter which side of the stream the vacant wooden bench was on, it was just a vacant wooden bench, alright!)
So I sat there for awhile, just carelessly wishing that I had a hammer and a few dozen nails with me because I’ve given up smoking for eight days and every time that I stop still for more than a second my hands become possessed by something, I am serious they start break dancing and signalling to nothing and nobody, they start chopping invisible paper right there before my eyes, not in an exact straight line, in more of a slope?
So the hammer and nails were for me to nail my bastard hands down each side of me, into the wooden bench (Look it doesn’t matter what I would have used to nail the second hand down after the first was securely in place because I would have improvised, used my head or something.
When I noticed a couple sitting down on the bank with their bare feet dangling into the cold, refreshing stream.
The boy turned to the girl and excitedly said, “Look there in the water, it’s something alive and swimming!”
“Where by exactly and what on earth is it?” replied the girl.
“It’s some kind of small fish; it’s a bit like a goldfish, only it’s not gold, it’s thinner and longer and it’s free or something!” replied the boy knowingly.
“My, you are clever!” replied the girl proudly.
“Do you know what Idris? You could be on one of them nature programmes that they have on TV, if you really wanted
to, you know the ones that go and talk about whales and things like that, really close up like, coz I bet you know what a whale is, don’t you Idris?”
“Oh that’s easy!” replied Idris.
“Fucking piece of piss, they’re big fucking things, a bit like a goldfish only bigger and they’re not gold and they eat boats and shit!” replied Idris, still knowingly.
The girl leaned in close and kissed him and then said.
“You are clever Idris, but I do wish you wouldn’t swear like that, especially in public, there’s someone sitting behind us on that wooden bench!”
“Oh, don’t worry about him Samantha!” replied Idris.
“Look he’s not taking a blind bit of notice of us, he’s too busy beating his right hand up with that fence post!”
“Oh yes!” exclaimed Samantha with a sudden distaste in her mouth. (Apparently Idris was having a little trouble with wind)
“Let’s ignore him and try and find that fish again!”
“Ah, there it is!” yelled Idris excitedly, making sure to keep his arse down wind.
“Shall I leap in, you know, just like Tarzan would and wrestle the savage motherfucker up onto the bank?” asked Idris eagerly, he was so eager that he was now half erect.
“No you silly fool, what the hell would you want to do that for?” scowled Samantha.
“Savage motherfucker indeed, the thing’s barely bigger than my thumb, and sit yourself down, for Christ sake, you’re making a spectacle of yourself, you’re all sticking out in the front, oh my God, are you like that over that fish? oh my God, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, what with the stench coming from your behind aswell!”
“I’m sorry but I can’t help it, I just get carried away sometimes!”
said Idris with a frown, his shorts now back to their normal shape.
And that is how I left them, as I walked off towards home, after still not having smoked, drank or taken any drugs in eight days.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Eric Hawthorn

- -
Nowhere in the world is our beloved art form more prevalent, or more vibrant, than in the great nation of Japan. Westerners take note: the Japanese are true innovators. Their particular advantage lies in the widespread use of animation, a medium whose exemption from the laws of reality remains less explored in the West. In “hentai”—that distinctly Japanese form of animation—we have the extreme close-up, the x-ray shot, forays into anthropomorphism and magical realism. And then there’s the archetypal Hentai Girl: neon hair, saucer eyes, dancing irises reflecting a minimum of three major light sources at any time. The Hentai Girl always possesses a near-metallic radiance (a shininess unmatched by the male characters, light reflection being a gender thing).

Continuing this noble Japanese tradition, Pussycat Danger Academy! is finally available in the States thanks to Red Cell Media. (I must also thank faithful B.R.D. contributor Aphrodite’s Mistress for providing an image of the film’s cover. She is a valued member of our community, despite her often-belligerent feminism.) Pussycat Danger Academy! is the latest from director T.A. Katarya of Mushroom Panic! fame. It takes place in Sensei Sumakura’s Academy for Girls, an elite boarding school that bears a striking resemblance to the private academy in Katarya’s classic Midnight Protrusion Party! The academy features a secret, torch-lit dungeon, which serves as a meeting place for the Council of Nine, a group of cloaked figures with nefarious intentions. It should be no surprise to hentai aficionados that this Academy for Girls, a campus of whites and pastels, has a murky dungeon. Every girls’ academy requires a dungeon for its more ominous proceedings.

The movie’s heroine, Miku-chan, is a neon-haired schoolgirl sporting a miniskirt, knee socks, and matching vest, which is the standard attire for a Hentai Girl. (Even Miku-chan’s teacher sports this schoolgirl attire, but with glasses and a peremptory hairdo to indicate her status as Sensei). We’re introduced to Miku-chan by the Council of Nine, which discusses her “very super abilities and power [sic],” as well as the “much wonderful evils and powerful ability [sic]” they will derive from her. The Council of Nine views their subject via a camera hidden in her dorm room, which the C of 9 calls “her academy girls domicile of residents and living [sic sic sic sic sic].”

Cut to the Academy Girls Domicile Of Residents And Living. Miku-chan—unaware of her surveillance, of course—is experimenting with her new Osaku Fun Toy! The device features the image of “Goodnight Kitty,” Katarya’s rendition of a certain cultural icon. Predictably, the Osaku Fun Toy! goes berserk, effecting a whirlwind of strewn debris and cartoon flailing, after which Miku-chan discovers her Osaku Fun Toy! is stuck. Upset, she cries approximately 80 gallons of geyser-like tears, flooding the room. (The Osaku Fun Toy! problem is never actually resolved; presumably, it remains intractably stuck for the rest of the film. This doesn’t seem to present an issue.) Her dorm room, accustomed to such torrential grief, quickly drains.

Like most hentai directors, Katarya has a casual approach to plausibility. Explanations or justifications would only taint his work with reality, so no rationale is provided for how Miku-chan generates so many tears, nor why her roommate, Neko-san, is dressed like a cat (and uses very cat-like motions, and purrs). Presumably, a girls’ academy would not require students to don animal costumes. But the catgirl is essential to this genre and beyond the need for explanation (variations of this leitmotif include the dogboy and bunnygirl). Nor do we require an explanation for Neko-san’s tragicomic final scene, in which she is accosted by the Council of Nine’s “Death Minions Of Other Dimension [sic].” The Death Minions Of Other Dimension are a mob of giant, aggressive cephalopods. They attack Neko-san in a prolonged and cephalopodous way, then throw her down a ventilation duct. When Neko-san emerges, we see that she has transformed into a butterfly.

Not a cat, per her costume, but a butterfly. In part, this is likely the error of an underpaid Korean storyboard artist, but the compounded absurdity matters little to an experienced hentai viewer. The world of Pussycat Danger Academy!, and hentai in general, is altogether separate from the reality we know. I was pondering this fact during a classroom scene, in which Sensei Akari—whose glasses and peremptory haircut identify her as a teacher—drops her ruler. Sensei Akari must bend over—way, way over—to pick it up. This takes about ten minutes.

To imply that the hentai universe reflects our reality would suggest that its art and adventures symbolize true-life conditions. But in Pussycat Danger Academy!, a teacher is denoted by glasses and a peremptory haircut simply because all teachers in this genre are denoted by glasses and a peremptory haircut, just as all Death Minions Of Other Dimension are denoted by cephalopodous tentacles. These are strictly genre conventions, their deeper symbolism irrelevant. As Baudrillard explained, symbols derive their meaning through their relationships to other symbols (Simulacra and Simulations, 1992). As such, the Japanese use details such as shininess and neon hair and knee socks—through symbolic association—to indicate the Feminine, just as they use tentacles and murky dungeons to symbolize the Villainous.

Consider the Blush. When a hentai girl blushes (and they all blush, being very bashful creatures) it is easy to suppose such a blush emblematic of shame or discomfort, but this seemingly universal Sign Of Not Having Fun has taken on a different significance here. The Blush has undergone a Baudrillardian detachment from its original meaning. Now, by genre consensus, characters Having Fun (and we must assume they are) nonetheless exhibit the red-cheeked Sign Of Not Having Fun. Thus, when Miku-chan or Neko-san blushes, while assailed by tentacled Death Minions, we the audience must assume she is Having Fun.

By the time I reached this insight, Sensei Akari, still in her classroom, had almost finished retrieving her dropped ruler. She was also beginning to blush.

Pussycat Danger Academy!, and hentai in general, are extremely effective means of detachment. This art form features so many permutations, so many departures from the reality we know, the viewer undergoes a sort of out-of-body experience. To emerge from such a state is quite jarring. As usual, when I finished watching this film, my back was sore, my legs stiff. Squeaky Japanese voices echoed on. I ran my finger over the wood grain of my desk, rearranged the box of tissues, and tried to peer out the fogged windows. It took a while for my eyes to readjust to the dullness of everyday color.

Fortunately, there were other films to review. (Four stars)


- - -
Eric Hawthorn thinks Razor Dildo is a killer name for a lit journal. His piece, "Pussycat Danger Academy!," is an excerpt from The Backroom Diaspora, an experimental novella about friendship and porn. It's available for free at thebackroomdiaspora.blogspot.com

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Eric Hawthorn

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
I shall wait outside your home
I will follow you in the street.
If you let me have five minutes
I’d tear off both of your feet.
I’d run right home delighted
and put them in a glass case.
I’d invite around my friends
but hire security just in case.
Anybody gets any funny ideas
and tries to steal my treasure.
My beloved’s severed body parts
would simply be my only pleasure.
I have followed you for years
waited for hours outside hotels.
I gave my true love from afar
my normal life I had to sell.
But if I had your genius toes
to kiss and hold to each night.
I would cover up your shrine
and masturbate with you held tight.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: J. E. Sifton

- -
I spent the night before last with her. We started at the cinema, then grabbed a drink, then another. Sitting close at the bar, my hand already in-between her legs, warm to my touch. Cabbing back to her place, convincing her to model for me was easier than I expected, kissing my neck as we stumbled in.
I chose her outfit: shapely black leggings (who doesn't have a fetish for Lulu?) and a tight white 'beater. Positioning her on the bed, I began shooting with my appareil photo, slowly peeling away the layers.
Beginning with her upturned ass, capturing the tattoo on her lower back atop the tiny grey thong. Her ass begs to be bit and licked and slapped hard. Her slender stomach is revealed as I slowly rolled up her white top. Hip bones are pronounced, forming a valley between two arched hills accentuating her diminutive frame.
The bra now undone slinks down to her midriff, with her arms bent supporting her head—dark, sensuous hair drapes her playful face—idyllic. A nervous smile plays across her lips as I instruct her to arch her back and look down in that innocent way she does.
Recollection brings a stir to my body, lying face down, my dick presses hard into my mattress.
I position her, panties down to her knees, shyly exposing her narrow strip of hair that leads inside. Her vagina is tasty—its tight lips frame the whole—and when pulled away by the hand's most delicate touch, pinkness floods. So tight I sometimes think I'm halfway up her ass only to discover with curious fingers it's her cunt I am fucking.
Her legs and stomach are bronzed fresh from the South American sunshine from her recent trip home. The three triangles of lighter flesh speak to her timidity, not one to partake in the nude beaches of her native country, but the tan lines are deceitful because this girl takes it in every hole.
At one point, I tell her to stand, head against the wall, leaning ass out, and grasp tight her ass, spreading her cunt and asshole for the camera. The crafty little hole remains shut tight like a little girl's eyes against the terror of the unknown.
I treat her asshole to my tongue and finger. Mouth fucking her sensitive areas, I prepare for penetration. Easing her into it with my tongue flicks and finger play, she lies on her back, moaning with head grinding against the pillow. Her muscles clench as I tease her, and then loosen. Spit on my fingers, playing with her holes. She keeps one arm down, her hand made to expose her clitoris. Slurp. I slowly climb her body, pausing to kiss her stomach, sticking my tongue in her navel, something that a fit body demands. Her breasts with those perfect, dark nipples are sensitive to my tender bites and perk to my touch.
I tell her I am going to fuck her slow in the ass. I spit on my hardened cock, rub her hole once more and instruct her to insert me into her. Her searching hand finds my member, and fumbles to stick it in. Once, twice, my hard cock is in, but stuck at the end of the head, I flex it, streaming new blood and engorging it, and she squirms in shock and pain. I go slow, repeatedly sticking it in and out. I tell her I will be gentle, and her eyes tense shut and clenched teeth expose her compliance.
I begin to gain speed, and my penis can go further in. My pumping grows stronger, and I flip her on her stomach. I spread her ass cheeks out, and stare at my member, arrested for a moment, as it disappears into the brown hole of the Brazilian. 'For once there was a cock, and then there was not.'
Her bronze back shows muscle strain and her head is buried in the white pillows, contrasting sharply with her long dark hair all askew.
My pumping reaches climax , letting her know I will be cumming soon. At the last possible moment, I withdraw, and pump my cock once more as spurts of hot, white cum spray all her back and ass, and reaches up her left shoulder. Her little back tattoo is covered and I smile at the sight.
With care, I wipe her back and body with tissues, only to clean myself once she is made fresh once again.


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: J. E. Sifton

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
I was up!
I was tripping?!?!
I had finally done it.
Two hundred magic mushrooms.
It was not funny like people had said
even though I was laughing.
There were no giant rats.
I was not being chased by pink elephants.
Huge Pac-men were not eating my feet.
And there was absolutely no sign of nuns with piranha faces.
It was just me laughing and crying all at the same time.
I was with five other people but I felt totally alone.
Just me and my ruptured personality.
There was wave after wave of emotional fear.
A dangerous intoxicating excitement.
I was scared shitless but I was enjoying it.
I started chewing the inside of my mouth, I bit too hard,
it bled, it felt good.
I took a drink from my cider bottle.
I didn’t need the cider.
I didn’t need fuck all!
I was finally tripping.
I had found a hidden question-less answer.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Dusty Wallace

- -
It didn’t surprise me that the two little green men probed me, but I expected it to be with some sort of scientific tool. The long slimy green fingers did teach me one thing though, they’re cold-blooded. Very cold. My asshole was so frosty I barely noticed the smooth sounds of Lionel Richie. I’m not sure where it was coming from, didn’t see any speakers. No matter, even the velvety tones of “Say You, Say Me” couldn’t have warmed such a coldness.

Earlier that night, 7pm to be exact (Leave it to Beaver had just ended), there was a knock at the door. I rose from my couch for the first time in hours with a yawn and a stretch. Both legs were tingly from a day of marathon masturbation so I shook them out one at a time and started for the door. Before I made it halfway there was a huge flash. I knew it couldn’t have been lightning, it lingered too long like a fart in an elevator. The windows went dark again after a few seconds but not all had returned to normal. Glowing like a hot coal was the brass knob that opens my front door. I immediately grabbed it with my bare hand. As I suspected, the metal was extremely hot and skin was left behind, sizzling after I pulled away.

Hours of sitting combined with a sudden scare left me with an urgent need to urinate. Just as urgent was my desire to cool the flaming-hot door knob. Any half-wit could see the logical course of action and I’m nothing if not logical. So I used my unburned left hand to unzip and aim the golden stream at its fiery target. After nearly a half-bladder’s worth, the urine still boiled and steamed instantly when it contacted the brass knob. Only after I had been fully relieved was the metal safe to touch.

When I tugged on the door I realized it was already cracked open so I didn’t need to turn the knob after all. Outside was my corn field, illuminated by the full moon. It looked normal except for the enormous pattern of circles dotted throughout. A shiver of fear ran through my bones when I realized I’d have to pick the trampled corn by hand. To relax, I decided to sit back down and rub one out while watching “The Brady Bunch”. Oddly, an hour had went missing during my brief, yet eventful, trip to the front door. The gears in my head started turning. I knew exactly what this meant. “I Love Lucy” would be on.

The rich chocolaty voice of Ricky Ricardo lulled me to sleep. That was on the couch, but I woke up in my bed, paralyzed. My muscles were clenched, head aching. I fought hard to regain movement, but stiffness overwhelmed me as if I had an intravenous Viagra drip. Eventually I tired of the struggle. No, honestly I just got bored and fell back asleep. My dreams turned strangely erotic before being roused by frigid violation.

As the slender green digits slide in and out I couldn’t help but cursing myself for missing all the subtle clues. If only I had seen the hints I could have avoided this fate altogether.

The pencil and notebook I’m recording this with was supplied by my abductors. Their motives for this gift are unclear, but I’ve found it steers my mind from the constant humiliation of defilement. As I write, the two aliens have ended their probing and now stand in the corner of this square room. They must be having some kind of non-verbal conversation, communicating through touch, thrusting and rubbing their pelvises.

When the conversation is over they both light a cigarette. I’m floated back down to my bed in a bright beam of light. The first thing I plan on doing now is pulling my pants up. Next I’m going to grab a beer and head to the den. I’m pretty sure that episode of “The Brady Bunch” I missed is coming on again soon.


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

1 comment

Author: Dusty Wallace

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
With head between her legs
I looked up the barrel of love.
Urged on by tender whispers
I gave my tongue a shove.
A button, soft and unsocial
to anyone’s pleasure but she.
Yet, I worked on regardless
between those rigid knees.
Pubic hair burns the tongue
she always takes her time.
But hey, I am crotch happy
next she is down on mine.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Sam Bernhofer

- -
The police would later say that my dorm had the most interesting arrangement of furniture they’ve ever seen.

The bed was held up 5 feet high purely from being wedged between the walls perpendicularly.

It was a fucking drawbridge that took me 3 hours of scraping and complaints from the dorms next door to make that way, and I hated it.

Underneath drawbridge was a desk, laptop, schoolwork covered in piss, Vitamin Water bottles full of piss, several cum rags, a shotgun I had purchased when I turned 18 in a guitar case, and some hair I had twisted and pulled out of my head.

I had a girl come over occasionally, you know.

Her lungs were dirty brown underneath rotten yellow teeth and a smelly white tongue.

All she gave a shit about was the fucking drawbridge bed.

I raised a few hairs with my hand to let her in my head.

She plucked them out and said, “Can we pull down the bridge-bed?”

Saying that would have come across better as a text with the use of a winky-face immediately after the question mark.

You can’t actually winky-face in real life, or laugh out loud without actually laughing though.

“No, I’m expecting company and won’t be able to maintain an erection. Lololol ;]”

She ducked under the drawbridge and left.

Her brain was still in one piece and she probably still liked me then.

I was waiting for Garcia.

Garcia lived on my floor and was the tour guide friend in every college movie that knew everyone - The vehicle to get the “new kid” protagonist quickly introduced to all the important people so that the dorm/movie “College Experience” doesn’t go over 90 minutes long.

I mean 2 years, and it’s $20K, not 8 dollars.

Garcia also sold amphetamines for $3 a pill.

A few minutes later, he slid a 70mg Vyvanse under the door, taped to a sticky note of my single dorm just like I asked him to.

“$3? Sam?”

With all the lights out, no one can tell that I’m home.

He’ll leave eventually.

I didn’t have three dollars.

I drank some Vitamin Water with the pill and was ~76% sure what I drank was Vitamin Water

I started writing a paper on violence in schools.

I finished it in 3 hours. It had been due 5 hours earlier.

It only needed to be two pages.

I didn’t quite know how to navigate amphetamines back then.


Somewhere on the school violence paper I had mentioned how, “many students, including myself, indulge in homicidal fantasies the same way many young kids play Grand Theft Auto.”and felt very inspirational about that statistic.

The email was sent to Prof ? and away I went from the world and started masturbating with speed dick.

The mind decays when it’s unstimulated. Dicks go soft when they’re unstimulated. Amphetamines send blood away from “unimportant” organs like dicks in order to stimulate the brain.

“More like syllo-jizz’m” was a joke I tried to make in my philosophy classes often.

After the 6th hour of desperately searching for more and more deviant porn to fill the decay, not much else mattered.

For example, noticing the sunrise, or answering the door for Garcia, who had been knocking for the last 10 minutes.

Another knock, and I hear it and finally stop.

I had been watching something that had to do with torturing cocks.

The knocks get harder/cock softer.

I put everything away, closed the laptop lid, and crack open the door to 3 cops.

“What.” I said, with a very obvious period mark.

Certain that I was being talked to about some shady students on my floor smoking marijuana or something worse.

“Are you Sam Bernhofer?”

“YAH.” I said begrudgingly.

“Did you write a paper on how much you’d like to shoot up this university?”

“….” I said.

“Mind if we take a look at your laptop?”

“-___________________________________________________-”

“We need you to retrieve the email you sent to your professor this morning.”

The professor had read my email about an hour ago and realized that I was obviously the next Sandy Hook and sent the suicide cops.


But I mean, fucking look at my dorm.

“You’re going to have to wait until I raise my bed.”

Then I realized how much weird porn was currently open on my computer.

The crazy killer student with bald spots on his head, 3 cops, all underneath a makeshift Drawbridge bed, waiting, eagerly staring at the old laptop as it started up to reveal an .wmv file of someone pulling on another’s pube hair probably.

The cops weren’t going to just let Cho Sueng-Hui disappear under a drawbridge like some kind of armed troll, so all eyes were on me and my computer screen.

There it was.

And there it stayed.

My computer froze whenever it started up.

The woman officer had a look of motherly concern for me.

I looked at her and laughed.

I showed them the email, and kept the porn up.

The cops acted professionally and when I got handcuffed, they told to “watch my head” and the woman officer said that I “had a cool chest tattoo” and that “she has 3 more than anyone on the force.”

“That’s really cool.”

I was put in the backseat of the cruiser but it was too early in the morning for anyone to see.

“We care about all of our students, Sam. Here’s my card, if you ever need to talk feel free to call.”

“What kind of Assault Rifle do you carry in your car?” and then we drove to a hospital where someone watched me for 72 hours.

And I never feel calm when I shave my head, have a happy girlfriend,

or lower my drawbridge bed.


- - -
I'm Sam Bernhofer, 23, counselor of the developmentally disabled, obsessive hair-puller, midwesterner.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Sam Bernhofer

Contributor: Sam Bernhofer

- -
Dieter fucked his hand while his girlfriend Andrea was in class.
Three years ago, Dieter and Stephanie broke up.
Two weeks after that, Dieter was in a relationship with Andrea.
“It’s not official until you change your relationship status on Facebook.” Andrea told Dieter.
He used shaving cream.
He rushed.
He thought of nothing really.
Maybe it was the memory of Stephanie, five months earlier, changing in front of him so confidently only minutes after seeing him for the first time in two years that got it done.
Six months earlier while Dieter was still with Andrea, he had sent Stephanie an anagrammed poem about her and she said
“Keep telling me.”
Stephanie was the catalyst Dieter needed to leave Andrea, “For good this time.”
“When are you coming to see me…” she said.
He went.
He ruined Andrea.
He drove to her apartment one hour away.
When Dieter came, he hardly released anything out.
It stung.
That night he went over hers, Stephanie moved Dieter’s fingers to the cuts on her legs that she gave herself.
“Did I put those there?” Dieter asked, arrogantly,
and not sure
if genuinely.
Stephanie fell asleep.
Dieter stayed up all night and kept everyone’s fluids in their bodies.
“How many times do I have to tell you I need you in my life before you believe me? Need I record it to a cassette tape so you can rewind it and play it for yourself until it’s true to you?” she said to him later that summer.
“I’m pretty easy to keep around.”
Caveman.
He wiped off onto Andrea’s bedsheets – their bedsheets.
It was the end of winter.
Dieter was attempting to occupy his mind with Andrea.
Dieter is Andrea’s Stephanie.
Dieter was Andrea’s first.
Andrea and Dieter have sex once every week for 25 minutes including foreplay.
The very first time Dieter and Andrea hung out, it was early March and she said, “I can’t remember the last time I shaved my legs!”
Andrea always talked in friendly exclamation points.
Making out with morning breath for 1 minute.
“Let me shave them for you.”
Andrea gave an innocent head nod which was her entire being, and went to the bathroom to get shaving equipment.
“I’m out of shaving cream. Use this lotion!” she said.
“I forgot you could use that.”
Fingers shoved in and out of her dry vagina for 1 minute.
“Go ahead” she said in a very un-Stephanie way.
“I hope I don’t make you bleed” Dieter said.
Rubbing her legs, he felt that he should have been more aroused.
He started to stroke delicately against the grain.
Long stalks of hair got caught in the blade.
Painful dick tugging for 15 seconds.
A few more strokes, the razor broke.
“I have another, hold on.”
Insertion.
Missionary for about 10 minutes.
All on the floor of her bedroom with a towel under them.
He wiped lotion on his hand and went to work with his new razor.
Hair was flying everywhere.
Both of their minds started to wander.
Dieter stabbed her with the razor and felt it all start to come out.
Everyone’s losing interest.
“It’s ok, keep going.”
Dieter’s razor went completely through her flesh.
Legs over shoulders for 3 minutes.
Andrea’s blood was flowing all over the floor.
Dieter was amazed.
Andrea grinned and said, “It’s ok, this usually happens.”
“I know, sorry.”
She grabbed the exploded razor and started stabbing her legs all over to make Dieter feel better.
Dieter laughed whole-heartedly.
“Am I doing a good job?” He asked Andrea.
Missionary for around 9 minutes.
“You’re doing a good job, I’m just better at doing this myself.”
“I figured as much.” He said.
“Don’t feel bad, It’s not like I could shave your beard the way you’d like!” Andrea said.
“Yeah, that’s definitely true. I don’t like shaving anyway, though.”
“Good, I like your scruff!” she said, and started mopping up her blood.
Dieter ripped his beard off.
Failing at emotional favors.
Happier than can be.
Everyone finishes each other off, eventually.


- - -
I'm Sam Bernhofer, 23, counselor of the developmentally disabled, obsessive hair-puller, midwesterner.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Sam Bernhofer

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Pretty paper parcels
All wrapped up tight.
Containing powder wings
To set my mind in flight.
Releasing all the stress
I’m not invisible tonight.
Take a lick, take a dip
There’s plenty, it’s alright.

Sleep is for the straight
Tonight I’m on a different ride.
Sorted by an hippy
In the pub outside.
Rushes come like waves
Sensational mental tides.
Speech racing like a roller coaster
Consciousness ninety miles wide.

I’m surfin’ mirrors
Once again, here I go.
I’m surfin’ mirrors
Smiling, shovelling snow.
I’m surfin’ mirrors
Got that white line fever.
I’m surfin’ mirrors
With a razorblade thin cleaver.

Rolling up banknotes
White luminous dust.
Line ‘em up, line ‘em up
Fuel this junkie lust.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Bint Arab

- -
He took her to the basement and stood aside at the entrance, wringing his hands.

She walked into a cavernous space surrounded by open-faced brick walls but with no interior dividers. Although the air was dry, the place smelled like a barbecue grill and unwashed laundry; the combination of the two killed her appetite. She walked up to the bed-sized table in the center which caught her eye first, but the X-shaped wooden cross he’d erected just beyond it grabbed her attention. Wrist and ankle bindings dotted each arm of the cross. Candles about 3 feet long leaned in a corner next to a brazier filled with grey coals and a set of tongs. The adjoining wall to her right displayed every torture instrument imaginable: whips, meat hooks, paddles, and…a peacock feather? Restraints of all kinds hung on the left wall, and she eyed the studded-leather bridles and eyeless masks with distaste. She turned to the wall behind her, where the old man still hovered by the door. Shelves on either side of him presented neon-colored vibrators and dildos, one as large around as her biceps. She grimaced.

Sicko, she thought. This guy is some freak. . .

She turned away from him and rapped on the table, but the hard wood absorbed the thuds. She had no doubt the whole basement was soundproof. A rope coiled on the table’s surface like a bored asp, a ball-gag rested next to it, and an ankle bar stretched across the foot of the wooden surface. A heavy chain linked the ankle bar with the ceiling, and she looked up. Give me a break. The full-length mirror was beyond tacky! But the pulley that dripped chains could be useful…

"Well? Do you like it?"

She turned to him. "Standard rates apply."

His beady eyes darted as he protested, "You’ll find no better! This is the best S&M dungeon in–"

"Look–" she made a show of checking her wrist. "–I have to be at my next appointment in an hour. Take it or leave it."

He licked his lips, considered her a moment. "Okay. But I get to watch."

She shrugged. "Whatever. My crew will be here first thing in the morning to get rid of all this crap and make the set ready…"


- - -
Born in Baghdad, raised in Brooklyn, living in Texas, Bint Arab is perpetually out of place and comfortable with that. She is an emerging writer, and she administers the writers' forum at www.bibliophilia.org/forum/index.php

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Bint Arab

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
It used to be thought very immoral,
years ago it was considered a sin.
But when the conversation begins
people now merely answer with a grin.
Masturbation is such a nice thing
perfect for the release of stress.
Remembering someone you saw earlier
and mentally taking off her dress.
There’s now no need for a partner
to shoot yourself onto the floor.
Imagination is a changing place
where everyone becomes a whore.
Knuckle-shuffles and bean-flicking
are a craze throughout the nation.
Just peace, quiet and a tissue box
for some sensual, solitary gyration.
Don’t worry you will not go blind
for it is healthy and not a crime.
I am just so glad that I am a poet
it takes but one hand to write a line.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many
publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging
empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Em Ramser

- -
He pats her head
like she’s a well trained
golden Labrador.

She licks her lips, pretending
her saliva is turpentine
and bleach.

She picks the crumbs of dirt
from her knees. It’s her
OCD, her need
to clean.
She got it from the stepmother
who forced her on her knees
to clean doorways
and baseboards.

He slides his thumb across her bottom lip.
She forces a smile and a swallow,
all the time
tracing lines
of graffiti on the wall
behind him.

She used to paint
like that
with spray cans,
once even brushes.

He buckles his belt,
tucks his button up into his jeans
and asks her if she wants to go to Hardee’s
for lunch. He says

he’ll buy her a turkey burger.


- - -
Emily Ramser lives in Winston-Salem, NC, though you're more likely to find her online at chickadeesweetie.wordpress.com.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Em Ramser

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
It was our third day together as boyfriend and girlfriend and we had decided to try and do it sober.
We were very quiet that morning, quite shy and awkward with each other yet very smiley all the same.
She cooked us up a lovely breakfast of scrambled eggs with mushrooms, bell peppers, fried potatoes and bacon, with some real coffee, man I absolutely love her cooking, she sure knows her pots and pans.
After we had broke our fast, we had decided that since it was a beautiful day and I needed to
get some more Kio food that we would take a walk up to the garden centre a couple of miles
north of the town and enjoy the weather and our sober gentle day together.
Before setting off on our trek we went to the corner Spar shop to replenish my cigarette paper supply and whilst in the afore mentioned shop we happened by the bargain section, where I spied a quantity of cold just out of date bottles of banana milkshake for 50 pence each.
“Just the ticket on a day like this!” I declared aloud, my new girlfriend agreed whole heartedly and I picked up two from the herd and we made our way to the checkouts.
Outside we lit up a smoke each, me a roll-up made with ‘Golden Virginia tobacco and green Rizla papers’ whilst she ignited a ‘Marlboro Lights 100’ and opening up our banana milkshakes we set out on our walk.
After we had finished our drinks and cigarettes we held hands and talked of nice things, in between her continually squealing in excitement and running a few feet away to take a photo of something new that had caught her eye. She was really into taking photos back then and recording practically everything that we saw to keep a record of our courting days.
She even took a photo of a monkey on a giant banana statue, which was actually quite creepy but after cringing slightly I did eventually smile at the picture and then tried to banish it from memory forever.
When we arrived at the garden centre I went to get the Kio food and she went to buy some ribs, she‘s American and can never to this day get over the fact that a whole side of ribs are only one pound and twenty five pence, it’s just one of those little miracles that she shares all to herself, while I just shake my head and smile at her, bewildered.
We had a pleasant walk home until we got three streets away, I could feel something suddenly moving in my stomach, I started walking faster and she quickened her pace with me. “Aw” I thought to myself, she’s such a sweetheart!
Then it happened in my stomach again, there was something very wrong going on downstairs, so to speak, I thought that I might need to fart but I couldn’t take that chance being three streets away from home, sober and holding on to my new girlfriends hand.
The smiles had vanished, she looked concerned, I was sweating like a pig, we made it to the house, I ripped my backpack and coat off and turned to head upstairs clenching my arse cheeks together like a vice when she suddenly disappeared through the door in front of me with a,
“I’m just going to the bathroom quickly, baby!”
“O-o-o-k-a-a-y!” I stammered after her, wincing.
“She’s only going for a quick pee” I thought to myself.
I paced up and down the living room then out into the kitchen and back, it was now painful, I was cramping and it felt like my guts were going through a mangle, it felt like she had been upstairs for ten minutes.
“I am going to explode” I thought to myself, the pain now being unbearable, I was actually doubled up in pain, I was about to get a carpet burn on my forehead and I was standing up, well kind of.
I felt like screaming, then I felt like crying, then I just wanted to vanish!
One movement, just a fraction of a shift and I would be in deep shit, I clenched tighter.
“Come on boy, you’re a warrior, focus, fight it, God Damned you, fight it!” I screamed inside my head.
I walked sideways to the bottom of the stairs and called up,
“H-h-honey, will you be much longer, I really need to go?” in a voice that I swear sounded like a whinging fox.
“Ok baby, I won’t be long, put the kettle on will you?” came her reply.
“Put the kettle on? she had better not be brushing her hair or cleaning her teeth or I swear I’ll kill her!” I thought to myself.
I was now past the point of agony and something had to give, I was literally about to shit myself and my clean clothes were upstairs, if this happened she would exit the bathroom and see me in the bedroom covered in shit trying to change, the shower was in the bathroom hidden from me, I would not be able to clean myself.
I thought about going in the cupboard under the stairs and shitting in a carrier-bag, but the carrier-bags have holes in them and what about the smell?
I thought about going out the back and shitting in the garden and blaming the dog but what if she looked out of the window and saw me bent over like an animal?
“But I’ve got to do something!” screamed the voice inside my cranium.
I was about to strip from the waist down and to leap up onto the kitchen worktop and squat over the sink when finally I heard the bathroom door opening and her walking into the bedroom.
I was clutching at my sides and felt like I was about to give birth to the Devil’s twins through my poor arsehole when I took off at a gallop, taking four stairs at a time, I rushed past my girlfriend standing in the bedroom doorway so fast that she actually spun around.
I had my strides and shorts down to my knees with one hand and was slamming the bathroom door with the other when the muscles in my arsehole started giving to the impossible strain, I
long jumped through the air, half the length of the bathroom, spinning in mid air and landing on the toilet just as the molten waterfall exploded.
“Arghhhhh, Oh My God, Save Me, Please!” I begged and yelled in a voice filled with pain and terror yet strangely orgasmic sounding?
Some spit run down my chin, as it came out spurt after spurt, my legs were shaking like I was about to be hanged, I thought I was going to have a fit.
“I’ll be here for weeks, will this ever end?” I thought wretchedly.
I sat there for a good ten minutes after the last trickle had left me, just shaking and sighing and slightly suicidal.
When I had cleaned myself up, I gingerly walked out of the bathroom and there was my girlfriend on the landing, she was looking white too.
“I think it was a mistake buying those banana milkshakes from the Spar shop?” she said.
I just wanted to die.
“Let’s go to bed and lay down?” I suggested.
So we did, on top of the bed covers, she cuddled into me from behind and we rocked back and fore like two mental hospital patients, gently, gently, gently.
As I fell asleep the last thing I saw in my mind’s eye was that monkey on that giant banana.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Lance Manion

- -
His views on the fairer sex made him a bit of a dinosaur. Well, that and the armored plates that ran down his back. Luckily for him they weren't visible.

He was strictly in the 'survival of the fittest camp', but this typically didn't present many problems as the girls he typically ran into were firmly ensconced in the 'take anyone with a heartbeat and a decent job' camp.

That was about to change due to his job.

He was the ugly physicist who became the sexual swan.

He was the guy who, while playing around with uncurling the dimensions curled up inside each other, found the hole that wasn't there.

Or wasn't there until he proved it was.

Although the paper he presented was a little short on sizzle it didn't take long for the implications of the discovery to take root.

Females had another tiny hole between their vagina and anus. Not visible with our eyes or even with any technology that currently exists it was there nonetheless. There in the fifth dimension.

Also in the fifth dimension was a tiny little penis tucked under the ball sack of males. And little armored spikes that run down the male spine.

It was all there in the math.

Give him a cocktail napkin, a pencil and twenty minutes and he could show you.

Assuming, of course, you had a strong background in Bosonic string theory. For those who didn't, they relied on the celebrity scientists to explain it all to them. The public couldn't get enough.

Suddenly the ugly physicist was in play.

He went from speaking engagements to talk shows to putting his fifth dimensional penis to work on some of the hottest females on the planet. It became quite fashionable to have your fifth dimension cherry broken by the man who discovered it in the first place.

If you're trying to imagine what went on during one of these sessions let me congratulate you on your enthusiasm for the topic. Not an easy thing to dive into. Before you reach the conclusion that any pleasure derived from this rather odd intercourse was completely in the mind of the deluded partners let me remind you of a certain quantum principle wherein the act of watching matter can affect the observed reality. Or, in this case, recognizing the matter is there in the first place.

i.e. believe that you have a tainthole/taint-gina/tunt and it shall be so.

In fact, reports began to circulate that sex with these new extra-dimensional organs was even better than with the standard 3-D equipment.

Lost in all of the enthusiasm for the quantum fucking fad was the question of why we had these extra holes and penes. Nobody much cared, there had yet to be a case of a girl getting knocked up and delivering a five dimensional baby, no quantum STDs and clean-up was a breeze.

For a few years the physicist was a rock star. The taint was a rock star. Interest in math and science was off the charts.

So much so that eventually they found other holes and other appendages in higher dimensions, including a male hole and a corresponding female member in the nastiest of all dimensions ... the thirteenth.

By the time the big brains started peaking into dimensions in the twenties the human body was little more than Velcro. It was hard to find a square inch of the body that wouldn't hook onto or into another person if they both believed enough. Old people smiled to themselves and said "That explains a lot."

Interest in typical pornography disappeared. It was looked at the same way we think of hula hoops and Pet Rocks now. In fact, three dimensional sex itself was viewed as passé. Boring. Sticky. Smelly.

A chore endured only for procreation.

Birthrates plummeted.

In the third dimension anyway.

Before you go and feel sorry for all the newly created baby beings residing in higher dimensions just know most of them stayed curled up in both parents and every other person in the universe.

Until someone with a napkin and a pencil decided to take a look anyway ...


- - -
I am the author of four humorous short story collections; Merciful Flush, Results May Vary, The Ball Washer and my latest one Homo sayswhaticus. I blog daily on my website www.lancemanion.com and frequently contribute to many online fiction sites.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Lance Manion

Contributor: Marc Nocerino

- -
“Goddamnit Greta,I growled at the dark beauty sitting in front of me, "stick that fucking knife in my gut or so help me God I will chew your eyes out." For a second I might have actually meant it.

“You’re sooooo melodramatic, Rick. If it weren’t so cute, it would almost be pathetic.” Rather than gut me, Greta used the supremely sharp knife to finish chopping the cocaine into two tidy little lines; perfectly parallel, perfectly spaced, and of identical length. She tossed the knife in my general direction; playfully, not at me. It landed softly on one of the dozens of faux-Moroccan throw pillows that littered the floor.

“You’re such an evil bitch.” My hands were clammy. She drove me crazy and she knew it. She had been leading me on for months now. I wanted nothing more than to snort that rail and fuck her until we both exploded. I was so amped it felt like I’d already done a line. I could almost taste the postnasal drip.

“Charming.” She rolled her eyes, glass-blue all covered in thick black lashes and Egyptian mascara; then batted them and licked the corner of her lip. “But you know you love me.”

Greta smiled with just a quarter of her mouth and her eyes glittered like blood diamonds. I wondered, not for the first time, if her insides were as beautiful as her outsides. I doubted it.

“Now stop being a retard and do your line like a good little boy.” She held out a small mirror for me and I leaned in close. I thought of how pale her hand looked against the tattered black fishnet sleeves she wore, of how her skin was the same dull powdery white of the line she had just chopped for me. Her veins showed through the back of her hand, dark spider legs crawling toward me. I closed my eyes, tingling with the anticipation, and thought of Greta being the cocaine as I sucked it up into my nose, not even bothering with a straw.


Greta. Such an ugly name for such a pretty girl.


The drug slammed into my brain. I could feel my frontal lobe dance with sheer euphoria, happy little neurons firing dopamine back and forth like a hundred thousand cocks shooting their loads. I heard Greta inhale her own line and a small moan shuddered through her like orgasm.

This was not cocaine.

I opened my eyes and everything in the small room seemed to glow under its own luminescence. The dark tapestries draped along the walls shone an incandescent velvet black, the dozens of little candle flames were kaleidoscopes spinning and gyrating in the cool dry air. But Greta… she was a marble statue, an alabaster figurine. Her white skin shone like the moon. She was a goddess. I tossed my head back and howled. I was feral.

I tried to ask what is this stuff, but it came out all garbled; more of a long ululation than a sentence. Words weren’t allowed in this headspace.

I could see she was just as enraptured as I was. Her semi-permanent smirk became an actual smile, the first one I’d ever seen on her. Her mouth kept spreading wider and wider. It looked like it was going to split her face in half.

That’s when her eyes rolled back into her head like she was sneaking a peek at her brain. And she mustn’t have liked what she saw there, because blood started pouring out of her nose. It took a minute for me to realize that I should be concerned about it. All I could think about was how pretty those rivulets of dark looked against her paleness, how they accentuated the contour of her lips. She fell backwards, her fall gently broken by one of the gaudy cushions.

When my brain finally did connect the dots, Greta had toppled over and was flopping around like a marionette in the hands of an epileptic puppeteer. Somehow, one of her breasts had shunted its way out of her top in the commotion. Blood started coming out of her mouth, and I thought she might bite her tongue off.

I tried really hard to think of some way to help her but I just couldn’t stop staring at that tit wiggling around.

That is, until I spotted the knife she’d thrown to me earlier. Watching her distorted reflection writhe in the blade, I couldn’t help but wonder again if her insides were as pretty as the rest of her.


It was messy, but it didn't take long to find out. They weren’t. They never are.


- - -
Writer, musician, poet, armchair philosopher, libertine, mystic, and most recently; father. His work has previously been published at Penumbra Magazine, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, and The Horror 'Zine.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Marc Nocerino

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
We fought out in the car park
we wrestled down onto the ground.
I grabbed him by the throat
with my head I began to pound.
His nose rose up like a balloon
blood and snot circled his head.
He kneed me in the bollocks
my face was green, his was red.
We struggled on for ten minutes
until both our strength was gone.
We were both barred from the pub
it didn’t matter who was wrong.
I left him wiping at his face
came home to drink more beer.
I then awoke this sore morning
covered in my septic souvenirs.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: LA Sykes

- -
I’d slashed my leg with my blade and patched it up nicely in the staff toilets. I went back to my station in A and E and it was two o’clock in the morning on a Saturday night and I sat wondering about a lot of abstract concepts us humans wrestle with. Love, hate, economic enslavement. Life, death, the finite period in between.
A man comes in my triage cubicle with half his fingers missing. I say, ‘What the fuck happened to you, sunshine?’
He laughs and whistles and pulls a miniature Bells whiskey from his shirt pocket and he shrugs and says, ‘Well if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I hired a whore. Got to fucking, sixty nine et al and I really fancied the jackhammer, you know, where she’s got her legs over your shoulders and her head’s on the floor and it’s the prime position to slip in the arsehole. I should have used lubricant, or even spit or maybe even warned her. Fuck me man, I should have used lubricant’.
‘What happened? She shoot you? Bite your fingers off?’
‘No. She bucked and twisted. I heard a weird as fuck pop, a crick – amplified. Horrible. She was dead. The Old Lady comes home early from work as I’m stuffing the corpse in the broom cupboard – last place she’d look for anything is the place we store cleaning products, right? I try play it cool but she seems freaked. Suspicious. I decide to tell her I’ll do some gardening, to get out the way and give me time to think, but she goes nutso when I go to the shed for the lawn mower. I wonder why, until I get there there’s a dead man staring at me – wearing nothing but a yellow thong. A yellow fucking thong? Christ. We lock eyes for a second. She runs and I follow her with the knife. Anyway little do I know the hooker’s agency send the cops round cos she ain’t checked in. They shoot a taser – it misses and wraps round my fingers and rips them off at the joint. She flies past on a crosser, sees they’ve hurt me and lets me climb on board and we escape. All the way through the fields on that little fucking crosser we promise to renew our vows. Man, surrounded by the beautiful flowers and nothing but the rushing wind, now that was as real romance as there is, I’m telling you. And that’s loyalty. She hates police more than me and to see they’d hurt me stoked that poker into the embers, man, rekindling the fires of love. And here we are. We forgave each other and the agreed the future is about faith, trust and loyalty. Seems we only need a little reminder like this to set us back on our path of matrimony’.
It had to be the truth, there was no other explanation for it. I’d heard some wild arsed stories as to how weird phallic objects end up in the most inconvenient places in my time, but this, well this took the heavyweight title. ‘Well I appreciate the truth, yet I can’t help thinking you could have come up with a more plausible, and less incriminating, explanation. I’ve a duty to report this kind of stuff to the Law’.
‘Oh come off it with that shit. It was a domestic dispute that got out of hand. Anyway, it turned out well in the end for everyone’. He let out a laugh and took out a cigarette from his packet with his stained teeth. His missing digits automatically tried to grip the smoke and he raised his hand to his mouth, smearing his chin in blood as the smoke dropped to the floor.
‘Apart from the dead bodies in the house. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t report you for murder?’
‘Because she’d be done for aiding and abetting – and of course she killed the yellow thong guy, not to mention she’s no license to ride a motorcycle, especially one with no insurance. You can get in deep shit with penalty points for antics like that. She’s your mother for fucks sake, what about loyalty’.
He made a fair point. I pushed my index finger in wound on my thigh and took a long look at the fucker. In the artificial lighting he didn’t look as bad as some of the others I’d met over the years. ‘Well, keep the story to yourself when you go through to the surgical people, they won’t think twice of getting you arrested’.
He laughed again and said, ‘I ain’t here for treatment kid. Your mother told me to tell you goodbye and good luck for the future. She said to get your haircut so people stop saying you’re gay. And not to worry about us. We’re going to live off the land, travel this great country of ours. Well, wish us luck. I’d shake your hand, but with my fingers missing it’d feel insincere.’
I nodded. ‘Why did she kill the guy in the yellow thong?’
He shrugged and said, ‘The Jackhammer move, maybe?’
I wish I’d never asked. He got up to leave, turned and asked, ‘Where do you get yellow thongs? For men I mean, I ain’t pushing it to cross dressing’.
I shook my head and gave him a heavy shrug. It took a lot of effort even for such miniscule gestures given the numbness sweeping through my veins. I got up and watched the fat bastard stride out into the darkness and looked at the chattering faces milling around, preoccupied and tension filled.
Abstract concepts that us humans create. Strange fucking species. My therapist was saying only the other day that the self inflicted violence was a way of reconnecting from being depersonalised – from perceived isolation. It hit me that sometimes a disconnection ain’t always too bad a thing and I promised myself from now on to enjoy it more often.


- - -
LA Sykes grew up in small town Greater Manchester, England. He studied psychology and criminology at University of Central Lancashire before working in psychiatry. His flash fiction is up at and due to appear in the likes of Shotgun Honey, Powder burn Flash and Blink Ink amongst others. He can be contacted at sykesfiction@live.co.uk

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: Steve Isaak

- -
I am their whore.
Her rapist tip parts sable,
carnelian shimmer
for her expatiating kiss!
Venusian salt on our china thighs,
he glitters, a terrified voyeur
bound by a gold band.

I am their toy.
Pigeons coo over cunt drenched
bread bits, old men
with their fondled plastic kings –
ben-was rolls slick, swollen,
my tottering walk;
the wed ones watch,
stain Apollo’s public hour.

I am their panacea.
She shivers under razors,
my mercenary traces,
roses without petals – he violates
her Dachau pucker,
her exotic spine bent
by his divorcing gaze.


- - -
Steve Isaak, sometimes published under the nom de plume Nikki Isaak and Chuck Lovepoe, is the author of several poetry anthologies. He is the editor of Reading & Writing By Pub Light.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Steve Isaak

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Again fill my glass with some vodka
while I snort another line of cocaine.
Then a few tokes of a skunk spliff
while the powder’s wracked up again.
Another can of Stella would be nice
and maybe I’ll do an ecstasy or two.
A little dab of cheeky amphetamine
will help me see the night through.
You can stick your smack up your arse
but of course wash up some crack.
I’ll go and seek out the ammonia
I will be the last one on my back.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
If you wash it, I’ll do it
I’ll crawl back down the bed.
Get tangled up in your legs
and hope I don’t see red.
Yeah, I’ll face it like a man
and I’ll do my very best.
Work away quite hungrily
you have yourself a rest.
Ram-raid with my tongue,
I’ll take it on the chin.
If you was it, I’ll do it
let the messy show begin.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Zelda Zonk

- -
Doug's going deeper and faster than he has before. He hears Aiden's belaboured moans underneath him and pauses for a second so his breath can even out a bit. Doug steadies his hand on Aiden's left butt check. Only after Aiden smiles back at him does he slap it hard.

"Don't stop," Aiden pants.

Doug places both hands on Aiden's waist, gripping him hard as he continues to plunge in and out of him. When he slides out accidentally, Aiden lets out a small yelp. Doug shushes him, and then slaps his ass again.

"Turn over," Doug commands. Aiden groans as he moves, and then smiles when Doug meets his eye.

"This is what I like," Doug says.

Aiden touches himself on the bed, craning his neck, his Adam's apple large and exposed, covered with hickeys, and he grabs the pillow. He puts it under his back and then Doug grabs his leg. Throwing it over his shoulder, he tells Aiden to touch himself before he goes back inside. Aiden's mouth is agape anytime he's not biting his lip. Doug remembers why they don't have sex this way that often -- Aiden's faces always put him over the edge. He needs to bite his tongue to keep going, and he keeps stopping and starting again in rapid succession. Going slow makes him come faster -- it seems to completely go against physics. Instead, to last the longest, he needs to thrust deeper and deeper into Aiden, then stop completely. Aiden whines anytime Doug's rhythm changes, but he smiles up at him all the same.

"You're going to kill me," Doug pants as he watches Aiden. He has to pull out completely to regain composure this time, dangling precariously close to that edge.

"Look who's talking," Aiden teases. Doug slaps him again before he goes back inside.

It's not going to be much longer, but Doug wants to spread out those moments one by one, like the beads that they sometimes use. It's a complete shame, he knows, that when he really likes someone -- or maybe even love, like in the case of Aiden -- he can never last that much at all. To be a Casanova, he needs to go for hours, but to actually be in love, he lasts mere minutes. The time and his reputation creep up on him and he can't take it any longer.

"Fuck," he utters, along with a bunch of other mangled syllables. He tries to keep thrusting inside of Aiden, especially as Aiden begins to come on his own chest. Doug stops as suddenly as he started and lowers his body over Aiden's. Aiden teases Doug by moving around and hovering just above his lips, but he eventually gives into Doug's charm. Doug keeps touching Aiden's arms and sides as they kiss, working up the nerve to ask him to stay the night.

"So we can keep going?" Aiden asks, and Doug nods.

"Yeah. I'd like more time with you."


- - -
Zelda is a media theorist and poet who writes erotica on the side. She is currently working towards a PhD and holds a part-time position at a magazine. Zelda Zonk was the name that Marilyn Monroe used when she checked into hotels and booked flights.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Zelda Zonk

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
I can smell her hot sex
Intoxicating, tangy and sweet
Another man's spent seed
Staining her clean panties

Every day for weeks now
We've been meeting this way
She pretends I am nobody
And slips into the next seat

I could be her favorite lover
Instead of the cock she's using
Sitting there so innocently
As I shift against my jeans

She's just had another fucking
One of many I will count
Leaving me breathless and needy
When her skin is slick and flushed

Day after day I anticipate
We would be good together
Her poised, straddling my hips
Ready to take all she wants

Over coffee and a bagel
I have stripped her naked
Satisfied our deepest desires
And cum in her soft folds.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in over 15 books, print magazines and online websites. She has been passionate about Art in any form for over 30 years.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Stacy Maddox

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
I was sitting in the corner of the room, biting at my left wrist, when Lynn my common-law
wife came running over to me.
“Baby, the ambulance has just pulled up outside, try and stand up love, come on I’ll help
you!”
I put my hands under myself and tried to push myself up; I rose about a foot from the floor
then crashed back down again.
“Here give me one of your arms, there that’s it, now try again.”
She pulled while I clenched my arse cheeks together, pushed forward and tried to make myself light, I abseiled half way across the floor before I was finally standing upright.
I stood there swaying perfectly for a second or two, leaned forward with a grin to kiss her
on her forehead, I missed, skidded down her left hand side and collapsed once more upon the floor.
“For Fuck Sake!” She exclaimed in frustration.
Then she bent down, grabbed my right hand and dragged me to the door.
“Now grab a hold of the door handle while I try and pull you up again.”
I did, she pulled, up I came, my head spun around a few times, then I put my arm around Lynn’s shoulders and let her take me to the back door where the ambulance man had just
started knocking.
She let me slump down onto the hall floor as she opened the door, I sat there squinting up
at her in wonder as I watched her hands, arms, shoulders, her everything do exactly what
she told them to do, my God she’s a miracle, I thought.
The door opened and there stood a middle aged guy dressed in a green uniform (it didn’t
suit him) he had short receding close cropped hair and a goatee, I disliked him instantly.
“He’s taken these!” exclaimed Lynn handing him an empty tablet bottle.
“He’s taken about thirty of them plus he’s drank eight cans of strong bitter and a half
bottle of vodka.”
I was fed up by now of being left out of the conversation and was trying to get up onto
my arguing feet while singing something in French, well it sounded like French to me?
so much so that I stopped singing it and started talking like it just to make sure that they
both noticed how marvellous I could be, they didn’t sadly.
Lynn grabbed a hold of one of my arms, the guy in the gonorrhoea green coloured uniform
grabbed my other arm and there I was at my full height again.
“Please, please look after him, make sure that he’s alright.” pleaded Lynn.
“Don’t worry miss, we’ll make sure he gets there fine.” answered the guy.
“He’d better or I’ll bite his fucking face off!” I interjected with humour, only Lynn got it
and it was a very weary smile at that.
The ambulance man moved away from me a bit and held me practically at arm’s length
as we wandered left and right towards the ambulance which was waiting straight ahead.
The doors were open and he helped me up the two or three steps into the ambulance- a
bit too roughly for my liking- and I took a seat upon the thin bed while he closed the doors.
He shouted to the driver once the back of the vehicle was secure and up started the engine,
then I felt motion and we were starting our journey from St Austell to Truro where the
nearest hospital is.
“Look you’ll be more comfortable if you lay yourself down.” suggested the ambulance guy
who was sitting on the opposite bed, watching me intently. He looked quite red and his
breathing was slow and heavy, he was obviously overweight, so I made a on the spot
decision that it was high blood pressure which if he carried on with his obviously unhealthy
lifestyle would lead to cardiac problems within the next ten years of his sad little life.
Being always ready to be of help to unfortunate folk, I was about to advise him on a
diet, exercise and stress level plan when my eyes caught sight of his green uniform again
and I remembered that I didn’t like the cunt and really didn’t care if he dropped dead
right there on the spot. You’re too nice, that’s your trouble, I thought to myself, you’re
just too damn nice for your own good.
Then I stopped thinking and tried peering through the dark glass behind the pricks
shoulders, where I could see nowt because it was night time, just shadows and shit when
we passed by street lights.
“Look you’ll be more comfortable if you lay yourself down!” he repeated.
“Listen, I’m alright, I don’t need your fussing and farting about me, just sit over there
and leave me be!” I answered slurring.
Christ, the tablets were kicking in big time; I could form thoughts OK but was having
quite a bit of trouble getting them out of my mouth.
“If you just lay back and put your feet up, I promise to leave you alone until we get to
casualty.” he tried to reassure me.
My head was starting to spin violently and I could taste red leather- I know that that
doesn’t sound very believable but none the less that’s what I could taste- I realized
quickly that I was either dying, going mad or I’d been licking Lynn’s upholstery during
my earlier blackout, who knows I’d overdosed for fuck sake?
I lay myself back upon the bed like a good boy and kicked my legs up, I lay there for
a few seconds trying to calm down. It felt like I was full of sea water and it was slopping
back and fore from my toes to my throat, while my brain- which was obviously scared
of drowning- was battering at the top of my poor skull trying to get out and away from
this extreme experience.
Then blackness drifted over my right eye,
“I’m going fucking blind!” I screamed in terror and lashed out violently with a fist, the
fist struck something solid- well, when I say solid I mean you could feel it but it wasn’t
very hard, in fact it was like punching a bag of vomit with an empty beer can in the middle
of it- and the blackness passed from view.
“Thank Christ for that, I thought that I was going blind!” I exclaimed looking around.
The guy on the bed opposite was holding his jaw with his left hand, he was no longer
red he was now purple.
“I was just trying to put a blanket over you!” he explained sounding confused.
“Well, serves your right, you said if I laid down you’d stay the fuck away from me
and another thing, I’m making a complaint when we arrive, fucking blanket around me,
eh, it’s you who needs a fucking blanket around you, look at that fucking green uniform,
for fuck sake, I’ve overdosed and every time I look at you I feel like throwing up, you’re
spinning me out, you cunt, spinning me out!” I answered thoughtfully and all diplomatic
like.
I felt the rush of air first, then his hands were clamped around my throat, Christ alive,
what a fucking night I was having, the dopey twat was trying to kill me.
I flung my hands up to his throat and tried to do the same to him but it was of no use,
I was too weak from the pills and booze, I wasn’t getting anywhere.
I punched him twice in the side but that didn’t work either, I decided that it was time
for drastic measures, the only thing left to do was to frighten him.
I poked my tongue out as far as it would go and strained my eyes so they looked like
they were going to pop out.
I was waiting for exactly the right moment; the success of this operation would depend
upon attacking immediately at the proper time, not a second too early and not a second
too late.
The moment finally arrived, his face which had been angry and full of concentration
now looked baffled as he stared down at my wagging tongue and bulging eyes.
He relaxed his grip slightly for a moment and that was what I was waiting for, I made
my right forefinger rigid and slammed it straight up his left nostril with as much
force as I could muster- which I admit couldn’t have been much what with the state
that I was in but the shock he received more than made up for that.
He made a weird, painful pig like noise, the driver was by now shouting stuff from the
front but I couldn’t make out what he was saying, I was far too busy, my fucking
finger was lodged right up the nostril.
He was standing over me, head bent towards me, waving his arms up and down at his
sides as if he were attempting to fly away, while all the time making this weird pig
noise.
Well, I had a migraine by now, I’d rather get throttled than listen to another minute
of this shite, I thought to myself.
I lifted my left hand and placed the palm under his jaw, then pushed while pulling the
hand with the trapped finger downwards until there was a popping noise and my
finger came out.
He staggered backwards and sat on the bed opposite while I inspected my finger.
“This will never do!” I muttered under my breath.
Then I spat at the finger, swung the finger around in a circular motion a couple of
times, then flung it forward with a jerk until the spit flew off the end and slapped
against the back doors of the ambulance, I then wiped the finger on the side of the bed
and turned to inspect twat face.
He was sat there with his mouth open in a big, stupid O shape, looking at me as if
I was insane- which is the way that most people look at me- yet he was still flapping
his fucking arms up and down like a chicken.
“Hey, chill out, mun!” I offered.
He stopped flapping but his mouth stayed open and he looked scared.
“Listen, I think you should lay off with all that blanket shit or I’m gonna end up hurting
the both of us, you understand?” I asked.
He responded with a nod so I let it rest at that, I lay back my head, closed my eyes and
thought of crazy things like:
Wallpaper and coving, I mean what headcase decided to put crap like that onto a wall?
False fingernails, what the fuck is that all about?
Vegetarian sausages, am I missing something?
And why the fuck are they cloning sheep when the tiger is nearly extinct?
What’s up with everybody for fuck sake?
Do caravans float, do flowers taste nice?
Do women like to know they’re being wanked over and if they do how on earth am
I going to afford that many stamps?
Why do cuts itch and irritate when they’re healing?
Cushions ain’t comfortable are they?
And what ever happened to white dogshit?
I’ve seen down and outs pulling beef burgers out of litter bins with only one bite
out of them, who fucking pays £4 for a burger takes one bite out of it and throws it
in the bin, what’s wrong with the world, mun?
The ambulance suddenly came to a stop, we’ve either arrived at the hospital or we’ve
knocked some cunt over, I thought to myself.
I opened my eyes; the guy was off the bed and opening the ambulance doors, there
was a building before us brightly lit up.
I arose, looked at the ambulance man and he stepped to the side, I staggered down the steps and zigzagged up the drive.
The ambulance man following me, he turned left to the signing in desk, this was my chance, I stumbled right, up the corridor, tried the first door, it opened, I turned the switch and locked the fucker.
Turned around and surveyed the arena, the first thing I clocked was the fucking window was too small to crawl out of but it was an armoury, I set straight to work, I loaded myself with scalpels, syringes and I stamped on a metal shit tray and broke it in half, this would be my axe, if war was happening, I was fucking ready.
There was no medication there which was a bummer but hey, you’ve got to work with what you’ve got.
I grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and holding that in my right hand and the broken shit tray in the other, I watched that door like a cheating lover.
Then I heard someone outside say “He’s in there!”
I heard a trolley being pulled and lodged under the door handle, then someone banging the panic button.
When that door came alive and the security rushed in, I was swinging that fire extinguisher around my head like a fucker, I let it go, it bounced off the wall on the other side of the hall.
Then they grabbed me, pulled my jeans down and sedated me with a shot to the arse cheek, as I went under I heard a nurse scream
“Fuck, he’s got knives!”
I awoke sometime later with round sticky bits of plastic all over my chest with wires attached to them; I fucking ripped them off and roared
“Hansel’s slapped Gretel!”
I was off that bed and up the corridor, some old bastard started crying and hid under his blanket as I walked past but
Hansel’s slapped Gretel.
I got to the front desk and looking to my left I saw my misses and daughter in the waiting room,
I called to them, there were 3 nurses at the desk and the orderly said
“Get back to your bed!”
I stood there in my boxer shorts and looked at her, one of the other nurses said
“Let him go and see for himself!”
So off I walked towards the waiting room but the hallucination vanished 12 steps away from them, I was led back to my bed without any complaint, gutted.
I awoke with a burning sensation; it was like the devil’s favourite whore was sucking my cock.
I ripped the blankets off and saw a tube coming out of my cock, I pulled at the tube and a rugby ball rose up from the side of the bed full of piss.
I panicked, grabbed my cock in one hand and the tube in the other and started yanking Northwards and Southwards, the pain was fucking unbelievable, the bastard wouldn’t give?
I screamed for help, help came
It was a nurse, about 30 years old, cute as fuck, with black ringlets and small spectacles on.
She said in a pretty Devonshire accent
“Stop pulling it, you’ll hurt yourself, there’s a bag inside you that’s draining your insides, I need to cut the tube!”
I calmed down, I trusted her, I thought to myself if any fucker’s going to kill me then it must be her,
she held the tip of my cock so gently while she cut the tube, I looked at her face, she was smiling and blushing, I felt the pre cum coming but it was too late, she bowed her head down blushing more.
Then she left, walking right through the pull around curtains, she was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, Then I fell unconscious.
I awoke to a doctor sitting on the bottom of the bed and Lynn and my daughter sitting in a chair next to the bed.
The doctor explained that he had no logic reason why I should now be alive, anyone who takes that much of that has a heart attack within 6 hours.
I smiled, held my daughter and got out of bed, walked out of the ward and to the car, my misses handed me a beer and said
“Lay off the novels for awhile and write poetry, you crazy fucker!”
I smiled 13 times and said
“Nuh!”



- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
He is notorious
in the red-light area.
The girls cringe when they
hear his tapping cane approaching.
Some of them circle
the new girl and whisper
urgent warnings to her.

“Caitlin committed suicide
after her first ever time with him!”

“Look at my scar it always
itches whenever he’s near!”

“Drinking menstruation blood
from a toilet!”

“Jars and jars of specimens
upon shelves up in his rooms!”

“A whole packet of Marlboros!”

“He pays treble but that’s no price
for a burn mark like that!”

“They say Jackie will never
come out of the nuthouse!”

“And they had to put the raven down!”

“Here he is, don’t look him in the eyes
or the Hell’s Gate of a mouth
in that stinking, ginger beard of his
or he will stop
and call you, his Dear!”


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
The first time I saw it
it was graffitied on a bridge
and my cock instantly
spasmed into life.
I had to pull over
at the next rest stop
and skull-fuck my girlfriend
so hard that I’m pretty sure
that I actually went insane
for a second or two
as I shot my muck
down her throat.
Of course I had no idea
that the slogan was actually
about the jailed members
of a Russian Girl Punk Band.
I just saw those 3 words
painted on a bridge
and it was like crushing up
and snorting a whole tub
of Viagra (I would imagine?)
My girlfriend has even made
a special set of underwear
with it printed on
for when I’m not in the mood,
she’s clever like that.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who now lives on the Southern coast of Britain, has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world. He is the only man in Cornwall to be put on a 6 month Pub Watch Ban in 4 different towns on the same night. He likes to go moonbathing, does some tarot reading on the side and plays the harmonica naked.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
I cut his face in one Welsh stripe,
Watched his mother cry "NO!" behind him,
I staggered backwards and dealt with the brothers.
The big bastard first
I pushed his mother into the gutter,
Kissed his sister
and walked into the road
Like the arrogant cunt I am!


- - -
Paul Tristram: I’m a Welsh writer, who now lives by the coast in Cornwall. I have around 800 poems published and a handful of short stories and sketches in 13 different countries. I used to run the poetry magazine “In Between Hangovers”. I have recently quit drinking until I manage to pull my sanity back out of the well, its halfway back. I sometimes dress like a mannequin and turning your back and running away is foreplay where I come from!

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Roger Leatherwood

- -
I knew exactly what came over me. It was the boiling warmth in my balls, the orgasm growing that would explode into my drunken wife within seconds.

My mind was not my own, my erection an animal apart from my body and yet connected, raging and hard and grown deep and rooted within my soul, my ardor and pulling my stomach as I rammed slowly into the slippery snatch of my wife, who lay on the neighbor's bedclothes.

Jason had come in, maybe looking for a bathroom or to get away from the band in the den, and stood watching. I saw him and did not stop.

I kept going at my wife, she was my wife after all, pants around my ankles. That Nicki was so drunk that her eyes were rolling into her head even as she spread her legs as wide as she could on the tangled sheets to let me in - that her hand was reaching down between my body and hers to finger her cunt along with my humping shaft so she would have some before I shot off, quick and horny.

And she wasn't aware that Jason was in here now, watching me do her; it was our secret and she didn't cover up for the stranger.

Nicki got amorous when she got drunk, and rubbed me as the third tequila shot hit her, all laughs and missteps and tongue in my ear. Since she'd gained weight after the last kid moved out her sexual responses had heightened but I'd had a harder time getting to her inner nub, her secret skin of inner sexuality. Hadn't been able to get her off, by tongue, finger or thrusting as much as before. People got old, they grew bored, you fucked out of habit rather than out of need.

I flopped her down on the bed, hard and full of cum myself, not having brought myself off for 2 weeks and looking to throw one up in her in a fast minute and continue outside with the party guests, none the wiser. And then Jason, watching, as I was having my pleasure in her folds, made me slow down, and rock farther out, slowing to show him my long shaft, sluicing out of her and then sliding it back in with a wet slippery gesture. Parting the waters like Moses and a red sea of cunt.

Jason closed the door behind him and walked around, kneeling lower and opening his pants. He pulled his heavy penis out, brown and curved, and stood over Nicki's head stroking and making himself point in rude accusation. As I pumped Nicki's flesh from above.

I kept my eyes on Jason's hairy cock as the tip moistened and glistened, and I released my husbandly seed, pumping a pint of my jism into her vagina and against her womb walls.

Nicki moaned, feeling it inside her. "Awesome, dude," he said, still stroking. I pulled out, a sticky rope of cum trailing from my cock to her wet pink crease, red and raw. A half smile crossed her face, like a hallucination.

I fingered her dark red clit, a tiny marble sticking above the fat mound of her bald cunt.

"You want to finish her off?"

"Me?"

"Give her some," I said. "You can see, she wants it."

Her hand was still raking the wet crease, legs still wide open. Jason pulled his pants off and kneeled between her legs.

My cock was sagging, spent, the evidence inside Nicki and dribbling out in thick chunks. "Wet . . .," he said and he leaned in and began licking her, moving the spunk up and down, lubricating her crack and swallowing.

Nicki moved and moaned underneath his tongue, happy for more attention. His cock stood at angry attention. I reached over and grabbed it.

"Nice fucking cock," I whispered. It was hot - hard and hairy at the base. I'd never held another man's cock before. The object was alien and sexual, urgent and delicious, throbbing with his heartbeat in my fist. "Let's get it in."

I directed his hard erection to the wet crease and split her bald cunt lips with the head. I pushed him in and he sighed a moment as the hot shaft was entombed by her slick fuck tunnel.

He began fucking her cunt. "This your wife, right?"

"Yeah. Don't bang her enough."

"She's a nice piece all right."

Her weight heaved back and forth on the bed. As he pushed into her body her tits jiggled in rhythm to pumping . . . and she looked over at me.

I pushed his ass onto her, helping him fuck my wife. I placed my hand on his back as he went in deep, then slid out carefully along the up stroke. His cock was covered in white foam and slime the consistency of eggs, my spunk all over his cock, and he went in deep again.

I reached down and grabbed his balls, hairy and tight, below him, and felt them slap against my wife's sopping asshole.

My cock was getting hard again. "Do her, she likes it. She used to always like it."

Jason looked down at Nicki. Her eyes were half open and she might have seen, might have realized, who was this, this was not my husband, and she reached up and put her arms around his neck. Pulled him closer into her.

I held to the base of his cock as it went in and out of her punky cunthole. He fucked faster, harder, and she raised her ass up to meet him. "I'm gonna cum."

"Do it - cum in her."

"I'm gonna cum in your wife, dude. Fuck your old lady?"

"I want you to do it. Fuck my Nicki. Cum in that cunt."

He began to pull out. I pushed him in.

"Don't pull apart. Stay close."

He pushed back in, and her breath caught. I grabbed his balls, and they convulsed. His cock jerked and shot up a ball of cum inside her, deep, out of his purple cockhead deep in her fat pussy. I felt his balls tighten then loosen, my cock hard again with the thought of his sperm shooting out into her where my cock had been moments before.

The taint of sweat and piss was in the room, the stink of earth and peach, someone's lotion, or maybe Nicki's drink from before with the umbrella in it, still on her hot breath.

She rocked now too, cumming herself - and her asshole was puckering as her cuntlips tightened and shrank around Jason's cock, milking him clean. She held him close, held him dear, rubbing against his cock, jerking herself off against his leaking cock, warm and lumpy.

Nicki looked over his shoulder to me, saw my hand around Jason's cock base massaging the rest of his spunk. I was still naked and erect. She smiled.

He pulled out and his cock made a _vvvvv-ploip!_ sound as it pulled out of her fuckhole.

"Thanks for letting me fuck her."

"Thanks for finishing off my wife," I said. I leaned down and sucked the cum and shit and pussy juice off his hard cock. He leaned back, sighing.

The feeling of having a hard cock in my mouth made me cum. A white flow of sperm oozed out of my cock and down my shaft all over my balls and my pubic hair.

Nicki watched me as I sucked Jason and asked, "Is there anyone else you want me to fuck?"


- - -
Roger Leatherwood worked in the lower rungs of Hollywood before returning to print fiction, where he has been exploring the value of shock and the authenticity of the profane.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Roger Leatherwood

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Down at Scumland, population cunts
is where I now happen to reside.
Down at Scumland, population cunts
is where I now do drunkenly hide.
At home with the whores and junkies
and at one with the common thief.
I saturate my senses continually
I take all kinds of quick relief.
The rain and sun don’t bother us
they’re just backdrops to the shite.
The shite we’re all living through
which the weather can’t put right.
I take it easy and I take it all
I’m accustomed to my surroundings.
Down at Scumland, population cunts
we’re all individual and astounding.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
The erotic mind on drugs
is a wonderful place to be.
The erotic mind on drugs
yes, it always seduces me.
It makes my soul go quivery,
it sets my nerves ablaze.
Every small touch and caress
sends my emotions into a daze.
The erotic mind on drugs
effects more than the head.
The erotic mind on drugs
sends me jumping for the bed.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
He sat there, thinking of her again
wiping someone else's blood away,
cornered in cell number 2.
In they came, team handed
8 of the fuckers, with broom handles
"You dirty bastard, fucking scum!"
He headbutted the first one
then frowned loudly to himself,
after 3 broken jaws they evaporated
into silken mists before his eyes.
And he left the cell backwards
unable to help the other man
sat in the corner
Chewing his left fist off with fear.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: E Young

- -
Jason has watched enough anime to know where this is going.

He was staying with his e-friend Susumu—alias CharClone008—in Chicago for a bit so that he could attend a con. Even though Susumu constantly scolded him for having no job and no money, somehow he'd still managed to drive all the way from Virginia to spend tens of dollars along with all the other sweaty fanboys. He tried to get Susumu to go with him, but he passed. He even tried to pay him a little rent money since he'd be there for a few days, but all Susumu wanted in return was a cute little souvenir.

Susumu worked nights at a bar downtown and slept most of the day, leaving Jason alone to eat chips and watch old mecha tapes and DVDs. It was a pretty good life, mostly what he did at home anyway except Susumu didn't leave the A/C on twenty-four/seven like he did. Susumu had two rooms, and one was dedicated to his growing collection of ancient military artifacts, so Jason was relegated to the futon.

“Look at you, you even say 'futon' right,” Jason had teased. “You're so Japanese, Susu-kun.”

“Half,” Susumu snipped. “Please quit adding honorifics to my name. You're not even doing it right.”

Jason just smiled stupidly.

It was a comfortable life, for at least a day and a half, until Jason caught Susumu with the needleman.

It happened one afternoon, when Jason assumed Susumu was asleep. He was taking a piss in the bathroom when he heard the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk. At first, he thought it was just Susumu tossing and turning, but as he washed his hands it happened again. Perverted curiosity got the better of him, and soon he was outside Susumu's door, nudging it open for a peek.

Inside, Susumu sat on his dresser, naked. In front of him was the needleman—Jason had called it that because the thing looked like a giant needle with pointed arms and legs. He only assumed it was male because what other gender would a needle-thing be? When it moved backwards or forwards, it made the thunk-thunk-thunk sound.

Wordlessly, Susumu hopped off the dresser and turned around, perched his foot on the dresser, exposing his dick to Jason. The needleman came up behind him and ran the broadside of its arm along Susumu's ass crack and then his cock, working it in a circle until its steel melded with Susumu's flesh.

“Ah—ah!”

Jason watched the needleman pump its arm and listened to the sounds his friend was making. The needleman had molded and reshaped his genitals like a child's clay set, sliding in and out of his newly-formed hole almost cartoonishly. Susumu shuddered and presumably came even though Jason didn't see any evidence. Jason quietly pulled the door closed and went back downstairs.

Later that night, Susumu decided to make Jason dinner before he left for work.

“Con is Friday,” he said idly, mashing the chopped potatoes.

“Where did the needleman come from?”

Susumu stopped but didn't face him. “What's a needleman?”

“That thing you were fucking this morning.”

“Whaaat? You know I sleep all day.”

“Whatever man, stop lying.”

“I'm telling you, there's no such thing. You watch too much anime shit.”

Jason had bristled, but Susumu was done cooking and talking. Soon he went off to work. He went back to his futon fortress and glanced at the staircase. Not even a peep. Maybe it was a dream.

But just in case it wasn't, Jason was outside Susumu's door the next morning, this time with his dick in his hand. He nudged the door open a little and watched while Susumu paced around, naked. He could hear the needleman thunk-thunk-thunk-ing around but couldn't see him.

“Try not to be so loud this time,” Susumu said, perching on the dresser again. “That one downstairs has ears like a bat.”

The needleman apparently said something back, but Jason didn't understand it. He only saw it plunge its sharp arms into Susumu's chest and in his crotch again, like plugs in sockets. The needleman worked Susumu while Jason worked himself in the hallway; when he was done, he excused himself to the bathroom. There was a squishy schlicking noise coming from the bedroom.

Naturally, Susumu denied the needleman until he was blue in the face.

“What do the girls call it? Gaslighting. Yeah, you're trying to gaslight me. Make me think I'm just imaginin' stuff when I'm not.”

“I don't think you should go to the con. You're sick.” For good measure, Susumu took Jason's temperature with his hand. They both knew he didn't mean physically sick.

Jason pushed Susumu away. “I'm not the sick one. I'm going out tomorrow.”

“I just don't think it's a good idea.”

Susumu was nervous. Jason had him on the ropes.

“Why?”

“You're not well.”

“Shut the fuck up, I'm fine. Thanks for lunch.”

Susumu left for work a few hours later. When he was gone there was no thunk-thunk-thunk or schlick-schlick. Jason sneaked up the stairs to Susumu's room and threw the door open. He turned the lights on and the room flooded with the soft fluorescent bulb's light.

There was the dresser, a platform bed, a small closet, and nothing else. He looked in the closet, under the bed, the cotton sheets. No needlemen. But he wasn't fooled. He went back to his futon and waited. He pretended to sleep when Susumu came in, and still waited. He waited until his eyes were angry, red, dry. Sure enough, the same time every morning, he heard the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk upstairs. Horny kids.

He bolted up the stairs as fast as his pudgy out-of-shape body would carry him and he threw the bedroom door open.

“Go-got you,” he said numbly.

Susumu was in the process of growing. His legs pinched off at the knee into a slender needle point, his back unnaturally stiff, and the middle of his face was becoming soft and translucent.

“Itsssh hard to shhhtop onsssh you get into it,” he hissed with sagging lips. The other needleman stood behind him. Jason got the feeling it was watching intently.

“Care to join?” Susumu the needle asked, and Jason realized he wasn't speaking with his useless mouth anymore, but with his mind. He offered a pointed, fleshy arm.

Jason has seen enough anime to know where this was going. If he didn't accept, he couldn't leave. If he did accept, he would have to transform and never look back. At least he had no one to hide it from. And there was nothing to look back to anyway. Susumu's arm plunged into his chest and together the two of them writhed and stretched into fleshless, sexless beings of sharp, glorious steel.


- - -
E Young is a southern writer with no twang, a slight TV addiction, and a bunch of gender complications.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: E Young