Contributor: Reese Scott

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He would sit in his room. He could hear his father watching Monday Night Football. He could hear his mom preparing dinner. He locked his bedroom door. Took out the magazines from his backpack and put them on his bed. Took off his pants and stood there staring at the magazines.
There was Playboy, Penthouse and some other ones he had read about that were supposed to be more exciting.

He touched his dick. Pulled it back and forth. Looking at the women. Their breasts. Their pussies. Some with dicks in there mouth, others having enormous penises inserted in places he would never have thought off.

He kept stroking his dick. Then he began to become hard. Then he could feel the excitement running through him. He felt like he was alone hiding a secret that only now he could release. When he finally came, he looked down at the magazines and began to cry.

All the women had turned to young men. In front of him. These magazines. Nothing but photographs on paper. Existed with or without him. He wasn’t crying because he came. He was crying because something was wrong.

Downstairs his father was shouting about the game. Screaming racist comments. He could hear his mother asking if he needed another beer.

He opened his bedroom door and walked down stairs.



When he was a few years into High School he began to notice changes. Mostly in his reactions. Even though he wasn’t popular, good looking or masculine, he was somehow good at sports. Particularly basketball. He was good at one thing. He could make almost all his jump shots. During practice was the first time it happened. He dribbled down the court and passed the ball. His pass was deflected and the other team got it back. He heard one of his teammates say, “Stop being such a faggot and drive to the hoop.”

Then it was like the sky changed color. But quicker than that. So quick it was almost like a blackout. All he knew was he saw red and he had the boy who said that on the ground. Throwing punch after punch into his face.

When he was pulled off there was shock. Did that guy just beat the fuck out of Jimmy. Jimmy is twice is size.

That was the first time. He looked everywhere for an explanation. He looked everywhere except for the place he didn’t know about. This began to happen more and more. It was happening on the play ground courts. But thankfully not enough for the other kids get his reaction to the word.

Senior year was the prom. The prom was something that scared him as much as anything else he could think of. There was no hiding there. Inside the prom the lights stared right at you and everyone could see who you are. Plus he had to find a date. There was one girl he had kissed a few years back. But he never spoke with her again. There was another girl he saw in the library who was always alone. He had never spoken to her. But he knew she didn’t have many friends. That night he sat in his room and looked through some books about how to get women by being yourself - a man. He read pages after page, but it only made him feel further and further away from where he was trying to go.

In the library the next day he watched her from a table across from her. His hands were shaking. He felt sick. He wanted to leave. But he knew he couldn’t. Finally he walked up and did his best to ask her out. She said yes. It was the happiest moment of his life.

The one thing he hadn’t really thought through was what people do at the prom. When he arrived he saw everyone was dancing. He had never thought of that part. He felt stunned. His hands began to shake and he could feel sweat running through his body. She walked up to him and asked him to dance. She was beautiful in the way one is not supposed to be beautiful. She felt lost to him. Something he could identify. He started projecting his problems onto her. When she took his hand to take him on the dance floor. He felt strange. Her hand felt warm, caring and beyond what he could have imagined.

When they got to the dance floor and she put her arms around him something changed. It was like God had sent down some kind of lightening and suddenly he felt sick. The touching and the nice feeling were now exchanged for guilt, hate and disgust. Not for her. But for himself. He felt like he was going to either pass out or start to cry. Neither one would be a normal reaction at a prom. He didn’t know what to do. Then like a child who is scared someone is under his bed, he puts his hands over his eyes hoping that it will be gone. And it was. Suddenly she was no longer there. He touched her hair but it was a different color. He touched her back but it felt smaller. He touched her face and it was younger. He closed his eyes. Trying to make it go away. He prayed to God to make it go away. “Please stop. Please. Let me be like everyone else. I don’t want to be special. Please.”

But he stood in the middle of the dance floor. Dancing with a young boy. All the disgust and hatred was mixed with someone he was unable to get rid of. The excitement he was supposed to feel with women. But for some reason he was feeling it with boys. For the first time in his life he felt like he might not have a choice. As they finished dancing and walked back to where they were sitting, he noticed some of the boys and girls looking at him and laughing. He smiled back. When he got back to his seat, he saw that he had an erection. He was only seventeen years old.


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Reese Scott was born in New York. He currently living in San Francisco.

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Author: Reese Scott

Contributor: jk lowell

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freely I walk in and out
glancing around to find your
blood soaked panties on the ground.
how inviting.
an utter easement washes.
but you don’t.
which I like.
the dirt sits patiently unmoved,
dust sprinkled across the ass of your
thong and I smile, hungry.
Is it the sharp blade silver edged
fork in my mouth or the fact
that its home is between your
legs opposed to my jaw?
I never wipe the crust off from my lips
when you finish why should I?
I have you to do it for me.
welcome me into the filth and dribble
because its where i can let my cock
out loose and not think twice.
or once.


- - -
Canadian poet studying avant-garde and American poetry at York University.

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Author: jk lowell

Contributor: David Altman

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The Shitasm Diaries Entry #1

Shitasm and the gang were making friends down by the shore. Making friends meant making amends: bended knee, bowed head, that sort of thing. "Sorrys" were offered and some "Never agains" and with clasped hands there were mentions of "forever and ever" and vague assurances of joyous future plans.

Shitasm turned to FaFuckle and smiled, and wished, and laughed, because he got his wish, which was this:

"Destroy my enemies and make me a god. Destroy my friends and make me Eternity. It's not endless power I want - It's relative success I seek."

FaFuckle crumpled to his knees as tendons and ligaments turned to powder. Then the knees went - bones and muscle giving way to a hideous pool of nothing on the ground, or sort of nothing in the sense that it was anything but: offal, gutsies, boney shards, all swilling together in a hearty gore stew and draining down the slight slope of the shore as azure waves lapped or something, smoothing out the goosh into a less offensive but still gross mélange. Ottobutts, in the midst of eyebrow raising and hand waggling, took note of the mess, bending over to get a good whiff of the remains. The idea spread quick like, and old ‘Butts let out a scream of horror right before his eyes deflated to vitreous muck and his heart exploded. His skin turned light and creamy as it dissolved, and Shitasm swooped in to run a finger along his forearm, wicking away the fleshy flesh for a curious taste. (And yes, ‘twas of vanilla.) Dicks and Damnsa were chatting and then Dicks was dying - assumedly - as his ribs flim-flammed outward and the appropriate amount of mutilation that would accompany that happened. In response, Damnsa, as always, made a spectacle of things, dancing and dancing when her clothes suddenly went alight in bright blue flame. She was crying or giggling, it was hard to tell. Until, of course, she was ashes, and then her silence was easy to discern.

It kept going, you know, the wish. Spitzer, Bamfart, Hellsinki, Asstolio, Peetur, Cuntle, S’biles... they all passed, generally in manners graphic, or stupid, or pointless.

And Shitasm watched it all, sort of fascinated, but sort of bored.
"I sort of wish I had wished for something else," he muttered.

Well, it's maybe too late for that, but I'll tell you what I can offer:
This airplane full of cash, an evening with ten hot celebrities, and this talking baby gorilla.

"I'll take it!" Shitasm hooted, skipping over an unidentifiable carcass.
"Fuck this friendship shit," he was heard to declare, "Wishes are where it's at!"

And as he rode his mechanical horse - also part of the gift package - into the alien sunset, we would all do well to remember:
The narrator grants all gifts.
All you have to do is ask.


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DAVID ALTMAN has lived in many basements in Queens for a good chunk of his life and keeps seeking different ways to rewrite Catch-22 as filtered through a childhood of Ren and Stimpy and Turtles cartoons. He spent several years in retail management - which did nothing to dispel his cynicism - and now several years in IT QA - which has done nothing to make him move into non-basements. He has never won any writing awards or been published but remains in good spirits / drunk.

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Author: David Altman

Contributor: Paul Tristram

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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.


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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.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Eric Hawthorn

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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)


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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

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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.


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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.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: J. E. Sifton

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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.


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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.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Dusty Wallace

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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.


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Author: Dusty Wallace

Contributor: Paul Tristram

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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.


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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.

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Author: Paul Tristram