Love And All That Shite

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supply and whilst in the afore mentioned shop we happened by the bargain section, where I spied a quantity of cold just out of date bottles of banana milkshake for 50 pence each.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.
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Fucking Ghosts

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.
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Trip Like I Do

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.
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Septic Souvenirs

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.
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Loyalty

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
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Hired

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.
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Off My Tree

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.
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If You Wash It, I’ll Do It

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.
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Casanova

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.
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MORNING RENDEZVOUS

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.
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