Voluptuous reading for vice-signaling

Cum Punk

Edited by Kum V

“In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice.”
–Marquis de Sade

Imagine a world in which the pornographic imagination is visible in plain sight, where cross-eyed, twisted, drooling cummie faces are plain to see in public daylight…

This is the world you are about to enter.

The Cum Punk Way is radical inclusion and acceptance. All cums are welcome, the more sexually incontinent the merrier, but gooners and edgers and even the semen retentive may find a home here, among our dumb cumbs and cum academics, our problematic cums and cum tearjerkers, our angsty cums and cum jubilance.

Cum Punk is a creamscape. Our love is a liquid.

The Cum Punk multiverse is manifold, and in the increasingly manifold Cum Punk multiverse, things belong together that would ordinarily be doubted as belonging together. Here on this free-range funny farm, we welcome high contrast, stark reality, duality within the (w)hole–darkness and light, irony and sincerity, from high camp to base instinct.

Cum Punk is words in freedom, ideas in freedom.

Whether critical or cartoonish, clerical or cringe, Cum Punk trolls in earnest. We are The Esoteric Order of the Cum Cow just as we are Ernest Goes to Cum Cow Camp. We are erotic-as-aesthete just as we are erotic-as-trash.

Cum is in-your-face life energy. We are here to blow loads and do big juicy squirts in the faces of sex neurosis, prudish pretension, and desire-dementing repression. Gone are the days of self-leaving, disembodied cums. Now is the time of fully embodied, self-arriving cums! We bust through fear and shame as hard as we bust our finest, most violent nuts.

Here at Cum Punk, we seek the stupefyingly cumtittlyhumptious. We cum prolifically, voluminously, volubly, ballistically, bombastically, and belligerently. There is always cum a-plenty. First the tip, then the spackled cum spectacular. Potent and abundant, we overbrim.

We strive to be a reminder of what the fuck punk even is.

Cum joy is an act of resistance,
and so Cum Punk is an act of resistance.
Love and pleasure are the intellectual agenda.

It is in this spirit that Cum Punk is born.

For Lula, the OG Cum Cow.

I hope I can trust you to tell the world that I unironically invented Cum Punk. 

I unironically meant every word.

I unironically meant every drop.

–Kum V, Saint Valentine’s Day 2025

The day Cum Punk was invented, I had my first squirting orgasm. 

The week Cum Punk was invented, spring had sprung, and the cum trees (stink pear) bloomed. 

The weekend I started editing Cum Punk, a 27-year-old virgin came all over me. Probably the most cum I’ve ever seen in one shot.

Now cummertime’s here, kiddies! 

Cummer 2025 has been the wettest on record. 

What does that mean? Rainbows galore! 

Rainbows shooting loads of black tar cum whose essence is liquid gold!

It’s a Wet Hot American Cummer, baby.

Cummer of 69, an endless cummer. 

Cummertime, and the livin’ is sleazy.

Long live the Cummer of Love!

Kum V, Cummer 2025

A letter from our Assqueezitions Editor

Ever since I can remember, I always knew I wanted to be Cum Punk. Well, at least not until I met Kum V. 

If you’re a bored, imaginative, curious fella like me, you know all too well that before you do anything, whether it be making an important business decision, going out with friends, or even getting up in the morning, one thought that will come across your mind is: “Should I rub one out now, or later?” 

Stress is one of those constants in life that can always be solved by releasing cum into the world. You release a lil bit of yourself onto your tummy, or a towel, or onto another person. 

Do you remember being a silly little tadpole sperm baby? If only we could go back and experience the joy of being shot out of a cannon, so to speak. And well, if we can’t ever develop the technology to do that, then it’s best we celebrate the beauty of cum joy. 

It’s funny, because cumming is one of life’s simplest pleasures that also offers an excruciatingly pleasant cum-down. Post-nut clarity absolutely makes the trains run on time, but here at Cum Punk, cum is what makes the trains run, period. 

No matter what you believe or what kind of cum you prefer, the world revolves around jizz, splooge, wiener mayo, ectoplasm, sticky lickies, lizard spit, whatever you want to name it. There’s just no fighting it. 

I like to think that being involved with Cum Punk has helped me discover a new side of myself. It has unleashed gooey, radical self-love that otherwise would have been trapped inside those delicate balls of mine that swing ever so softly. 

Cum is love, cum is life, and in a time when it is needed most, the way of Cum Punk is here to bring you everything your heart (or incognito mode) desires most.

C.U.Morgenrede

A letter from our Cum Punk Queen (Editor-in-Chief)

In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice. 

–Marquis de Sade

Imagine a world in which the pornographic imagination is visible in plain sight, where cross-eyed, twisted, drooling cummie faces are plain to see in public daylight…

This is the world you are about to enter.

The Cum Punk Way is radical inclusion and acceptance. All cums are welcome, the more sexually incontinent the merrier, but gooners and edgers and even the semen retentive may find a home here, among our dumb cumbs and cum academics, our problematic cums and cum tearjerkers, our angsty cums and cum jubilance. 

Cum Punk is a creamscape. Our love is a liquid. 

The Cum Punk multiverse is manifold, and in the increasingly manifold Cum Punk multiverse, things belong together that would ordinarily be doubted as belonging together. Here on this free-range funny farm, we welcome high contrast, stark reality, duality within the (w)hole–darkness and light, irony and sincerity, from high camp to base instinct

Cum Punk is words in freedom, ideas in freedom.

Whether critical or cartoonish, clerical or cringe, Cum Punk trolls in earnest. We are The Esoteric Order of the Cum Cow just as we are Ernest Goes to Cum Cow Camp. We are erotic-as-aesthete just as we are erotic-as-trash.

Cum is in-your-face life energy. We are here to blow loads and do big juicy squirts in the faces of sex neurosis, prudish pretension, and desire-dementing repression. Gone are the days of self-leaving, disembodied cums. Now is the time of fully embodied, self-arriving cums! We bust through fear and shame as hard as we bust our finest, most violent nuts. 

Here at Cum Punk, we seek the stupefyingly cumtittlyhumptious. We cum prolifically, voluminously, volubly, ballistically, bombastically, and belligerently. There is always cum a-plenty. First the tip, then the spackled cum spectacular. Potent and abundant, we overbrim.

We strive to be a reminder of what the fuck punk even is. 

Cum joy is an act of resistance, and so Cum Punk is an act of resistance. Love and pleasure are the intellectual agenda.

It is in this spirit that Cum Punk is born.

Kum V

She had a dream about her mom’s dick.

Even in the dream she was confused. Like, why does mom have a dick?

Her dad was there, too. She asked him about it.

She said, “Why does mom have a dick?”

He didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the dick, fully entranced. He pointed at it, eyebrows up, like Get a load of THAT.

The dick wasn’t long, but it was wide—a chode, they call dicks like her mom’s—and it was all fucked up. Diseased, for sure, but like, naturally fucked up too. Birth defect fucked up. The squat shaft was covered in boils, with coiled skin that piled like soft serve on a cone and a giant vein snaking back and forth that ended at what looked like some sort of underdeveloped pig-faced burn victim with botched skin grafts. The wide dick hole stretched wider every time the vein pulsed, like it was gasping for air.

Her dad came up behind her and whispered in her ear. 

“Suck it,” he said.

She didn’t want to suck it.

“I don’t want to suck it,” she said.

She could feel his disappointment, and the feeling said, All your mother’s done for you? All she’s done, and you can’t even suck her dick?

She looked away from the preemie burn victim pig face of a dick and up at her mom, who looked back at with a patient smile and soft eyes.

Her mom nodded, just a little nod. A nod that said, It’s okay.

The nod made her feel safe.  

She said to herself, “It is okay,” and dropped to her knees.

She put her hand around her mom’s dick. It was clammy, a little sticky, and stiffened at her touch.  The penis hole gasped, the vein pulsing with her mom’s rising heart rate.

She looked at her dad.  He was trembling, shifting his weight back and forth.

She scooted in, brought her face closer to her mom’s dick.

But she heard something coming from the penis hole.

Singing.

She put her ear to the hole. Puffs of air tickled her hair. The voice was beautiful, a child’s voice, and it was singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

“Waaaaay uuup hiiiiigh,” it sang.

She knew that voice, that dickhole voice, familiar and comforting. 

She smiled, unhinged her jaw, and took her mom’s dick in her mouth.

The whole thing.

Preemie pig faced burn victim and all.

The whole thing.

Boils ruptured. Puss ran from her lips, dribbled down her chin.  

It tasted wholesome.

She moved her mouth up and down on her mom’s dick.  

Bobbed her head.

Her dad squealed, hopped in place, clapped his hands.

She gripped the shaft, bobbed her head faster.

And faster.

And faster.

Her mom groaned, thrust her hips.

And then…

And then…

Her mom came.

Her mom’s preemie pig faced burn victim dick became a hot spring, and she gulped with each pulse, in rhythm.  

But it kept cumming.  

The pressure was too great. Cum shot from her nose, her ears, dripped from her eyes. It pushed through her pores, entered her bloodstream, moved through her organs and into her heart.

Joy. Electric joy, ecstatic joy.

She sat back onto the floor and cried. Cried tears of joy. Of joy and cum. Her parents came to her, wrapped their arms around her, cried with her in the cum puddle.

Then she became someone else, somewhere else.  She was a child—her mother as a child. She still sat back on her knees, but on a worn rug in front of a black and white television. Judy Garland was on the screen, wearing a checkered dress and a look of nostalgia.  

Judy was singing.

“Sooooommewheeere oooover the raaainbow…”

Her mother’s voice sang along, her child’s voice tender, matching Judy’s nostalgia.

“Bllluuuuuue biiirds flyyy

Aaaand the dream that you daaare to

Oooh whyyy, ooOoh whyyy caaan’t iiiiiiiii.”

 

 

Previously published in Horror Sleaze Trash

We watched dark rain clouds move aside for the fat, fluffy kind, the kind white unicorns gallop from.

The kind of clouds that make you think – God?

“Maybe someone asked for the rain rain to go away, come back another day,” I said.

“Hey.” You squinted your eyes, extended your arm to point at a cloud in the distance. “Would you call me a ho if I said that cloud looks like a penis?”

I shielded my eyes, followed your gaze. An oblong cloud, pushing vertically through two rounded ones.

“I’d call you a liar if you said you didn’t.”

“That’s like, God’s cock right there,” you said.

“It’s almost perfect.”

“A celestial chode.”

“I’m choosing not to see it as a chode,” I said. “It’s like it’s being thrust through the clouds. Like we’re not seeing the whole dick.”

You watched it for a moment. “It’s kind of chodey,” you said.

“A bit of a crook in it too, if we’re gonna nitpick.”

But just then a rainbow began to form, passing right through the tip of the crooked celestial chode.

“No,” you said, squeezing my hand.

“Yep.”

“It’s cumming.”

“In multicolor, it’s cumming in multicolor.”

We watched the rainbow grow and define, exploding full and bright.

“It is,” you said. “Now it’s perfect.”


My boyfriend and my girlfriend and I won ourselves a cum somm’s private cum tasting experience at the Glassell Park Masonic Lodge’s silent auction in support of the Los Feliz Children’s Needle Exchange Foundation. $800. We split the cost, 50-25-25. Me being the 50-percent chunk there, because they were both kind of bums.

Us trio arrived at the cum somm’s Echo Park residence on the designated day. It was March, rainy. Had to park two blocks over and my boyfriend wouldn’t quit bitching about it, though my girlfriend seemed to appreciate the brief, brisk walk through the semi-fresh air (semi-fresh about the best you can do here).

—Do you think we’ll spit or swallow, my girlfriend wondered.

—I’m not familiar with the decorum, my boyfriend replied. 

We knocked at the door to the cum somm’s innocent, stucco, ranch-style home, the three of us knocking together at once, cute-like, an adventure. To our shared surprise, and despite its normal-door appearance, the entrance slid open sideways, sounding of slithering steel. Its machinery made a whirling noise. 

—Welcome, said a squat, muscular man standing in the doorframe, —welcome to Chester’s House of Cum. I’m your cum somm, Chester.

—We figured! said my boyfriend.

—We’ve been looking forward to this! said my girlfriend.

—Come in, bwah ha ha, said cum somm Chester. 

He beckoned us and we followed. Door slid closed like a tomb sealing. We walked down a long hallway lined upon every available inch with framed photographs, subjects of all sorts organized in no immediately identifiable way, photos of, for instance, gorillas, bridges, women in labor, skyscrapers, seamounts, orchards, pineapple plantations, hardcore bondage, polite group sex, two men with a double-ended dildo down their throats (the one on the left being today’s cum somm), bungie jumpers, hang-gliders, a nude beach, mountains of food, a soccer game, a chess tournament, knifeplay, snakeplay, a donkey show; at the end of the hall, glossy black-and-white portraits depicting the sort of water sports which occur upon a lake and the sort of water sports which occur inside a motel room lived next to each other, the only apparent curatorial contrivance here. 

—You lead a colorful life, Chester, if I can call you Chester, I said to cum somm Chester. 

—It’s really pretty boring these days, he admitted, —and please: call me cum somm Chester. 

We walked through his living room: tasteful, a touch spartan, with antique light fixtures, immaculately clean shag carpeting massaging my Crocs, a sunken couch and fireplace, and one of those curved TVs. No art on the walls, he’d saved it all for the hallway, I figured. 

—This is where I do most of my entertaining, said Chester.

—Oh neat, said my girlfriend.

—But we’re going to the back house, said Chester. 

—Oh wow, said my boyfriend. 

—It was a detached garage, said Chester, —but I built it out, now it’s my bespoke cum tasting room, don’t tell the city. 

—We won’t, I said. 

Out through sliding glass doors to the backyard, far more ordinary than the entrance, they slid the normal way. The backyard, though, was miserable, cemented over entirely save for one skinny patch of dead garden. 

—Used to grow my own fruits and veggies, aromatics, it’s for the taste, said cum somm Chester, —but I’m just traveling too much these days, and I’m single, sadly, no one to tend to the plants while I’m in, say, Perth or Pretoria; I raid the Farmer’s Market instead now for engagements such as ours. 

—Good to be so in demand, though! said my boyfriend.

—You must be thrilled with your professional life! said my girlfriend. 

—Congrats, I said. 

Cum somm Chester bowed to us and unlocked a padlock and then a deadbolt on the ornate French doors of his cum tasting room. —Come in, come in (haha), let’s get this party started, he said. 

We followed him inside, where there was a whole operation going atop a massive cultured-marble kitchen island, decanters and glasses and beakers and Bunsen burners and platters of portioned food in itty plastic cups, pineapple rings, cucumber slices, bites of rare sirloin. Substantial Sonos speakers dangled from the ceiling, plasticine stalactites over laminate floors. And against the far whitewashed wall, five nude men, erect already, stood in a line facing us, as if for some group audition or smutty police lineup. 

Cum somm Chester said, —These are, gesturing left to right, —Tony, Fabian, Orlando, Ricky, and Koji. The whole line nodded together at their introduction, and then they all did a little thrust. —You’ll get to taste them all many times today. 

—I’m so psyched, said my girlfriend.

—This is going to be totally great, said my boyfriend. 

He was starting to touch himself, my boyfriend, I could see him stiffening in his board shorts. I told him quietly, —I don’t know if that’s the tenor here.

Cum somm Chester must have overheard me, he said, —Please, go for it, let it out, we can sample your seed, too. His index finger punched at his phone screen several times until heavy music began to ring through the speakers above, Ministry’s Psalm 69 record, I think it was. —This is actually going to be what I’d call a cum ceremony, he said, —rather than a tasting. 

We feed the men, —My bulls, says cum somm Chester; we feed them sweet slices of citrus and flakes of seared tuna. They groan in honest joy. My boyfriend delivers handjobs to the two on the left at the same time, Tony and Fabian; my girlfriend, who’s already soaked through her cutoffs in arousal, sucks on Koji. Cum somm Chester rubs down Orlando in the center. —I milk him like so, he says, shooting a jet of Orlando’s seed into a shining merlot glass. He asks us who shall take the first taste. I grab the glass and chug down an ounce of Orlando’s milky. 

In my warmth, I expand into every moment. A hundred thousand years of wisdom surge through me. I jump onto Ricky, the only unoccupied bull, and let him finish in my asshole. He scratches my back to blood and whispers, —We each five bulls have ourselves an allotment of land. Enthusiastically consenting cum tenant-farmers work the soil and pump each other and us (or we just watch). Cum somm Chester arranged this all. In our five pleasure palaces, we bulls scheme whilst eating one another’s cum. We visit each other to taste each other, though sometimes we get busy and ship our spunk out instead. 

(—They have entered the Cum State, I hear cum somm Chester say from somewhere so far away, for I’m running through purest air, bouncing on alkaline clouds, charging into the sun, —we should all of us aspire to such a state.) 

—I have a dungeon, Ricky continues, —the grandest dungeon across all histories and pre-histories, across all possible realities, and you can stay in there anytime, bed of cum-washed stone reserved for you permanently in my loveliest, most intimate oubliette. Lived there myself for a thousand years. I was waiting out the Cum War, which in that stage was most heated between Fabian’s and Koji’s factions. (Once again, he finishes inside me.) 

—When they grew tired of sowing the land with their pearly beads and spattering blood, they’d take a break and visit my dungeon in détente, they’d shower in my sperm while I hanged from an installation attached to my dungeon’s ceiling. In there, I keep another 40 bulls. They are not as good as us five, for we are the five greatest, the best-tasting of the bulls, but my personal bulls taste of everything still, as well, they taste of silk and cinnamon and I drink every drop, unless I’m feeling like I need a power-wash up in my prostate, that is! (He throws me to the ground and finishes in my mouth [tastes of: coriander, salmon roe, Thai basil]; he picks me back up and continues his jackhammering of me against the cold kitchen island [or it’s a pillar of sandstone, smoothed by the eons]) 

—Nobody can die in the fiefdoms. No, that’s not exactly right. You die but are reborn straight away. Death exists but means something else, it means little. And as soon as you’re born, we got you on the cum bottle; in your second life, you’ll have eaten more cum by age 15 than you on your current plane will by age 99. We are only violent because we worship each other. We are designed for cum. Koji keeps a ghostly moat of it surrounding his pleasure palace; I’ve sworn off visiting him there until I can promise myself not to drink 10 liters of it at a time, which has not happened yet. And how many people do I taste in those 10 liters? All of humanity, every spirit, we have all left our mark on that moat, or have pissed in it if we couldn’t get wet or get it up or offer some other alternative, et cetera, what have you, everyone is included and we enjoy piss too, obviously, we like it a lot, surprise surprise, though it is cum we commune with, as you’re experiencing right now, as you will never not experience from now on. (Ricky finishes again, shrieks that he has only one or two more bursts left in him; my boyfriend and my girlfriend feed us spears of pineapple from across the kitchen island.) 

—I will drown you in cum for all eternity and all eternities, says Ricky, —cum will be your sky and sea and your cave deep in the Earth, where you’ll find me, finishing into the perfect well of your throat.

Before the fresh cum sock under the bed

dries to a mycelial womb,

and mushrooms rise to imitate their god,

a desperate ant colony takes interest—

 

an angelic feast, white and glistening.

They gorge themselves on holy ooze,

their bellies swelling, filled with cum

glowing like milky white opals in the dark.

Cum-crazed communist ants share the wealth,

swapping cum nectar between twitching mandibles,

suckling the sacred cummy sock fibers,

bathing in the last traces of spent divinity,

before the flood of cum turns to dust,

before the land is salted beyond salvation,

before the fluid crystalizes into ruin. 

 

They return to their queen,

bearing their precious gift.

She, who already holds immortal seed,

accepts the sacrament,

and from her womb, a pale ant emerges—

its skin slick with ghostly sheen, 

forever searching for its father

in fungal forests of yore.


Buster is not your regular feline. Not the type that goes: meow-meow, hiss-hiss, and the whole nine yards what a cat does. That sorta thing is beneath him. He would never stoop low to be a normal decent cat for anyone. Not even for his excuse of an owner Jacob. He can’t stand that auburn funny-looking louse. That slouch-posturing, crooked-teeth, four-eyed louse! Every time he is in the presence of Jacob (that louse), somewhere in the kitchen, the living room, the study, he takes a piss on his fecking white vans shoes and hides off in the attic, covering his mouth with his paws to be really quiet and yet have a hunky-dory laugh. The kind of laugh Mr. Mutly from Wacky Races would laugh. Laughing at his demise just makes ol’ Buster swell and smile a cheshire grin.

“YOU STUPID CAT! WHAT THE FECK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Nothing really. He just hates that orange louse. With a passion. A violent passion, that is. As far as Buster is concerned Jacob could go feck himself a terrible feck. Let Mr. Ed screw him in the ass. That Jacob and his funny looking face could just cease to exist. Let the aliens capture and probe his orange ass, a terrible probe. In other words: He can go to hell and give the devil a handy. Buster would be elated!

“THERE YOU ARE! What the heck are you doing up there, silly. Come on, get down from there, come on. Come to daddy. Come on, Buster.” Oh Christ, he found him. Buster is busted. “Come on, now, come to Daddy.” Ugh, as if.

“Meow-meow-” but in translation, what he meant to say: FECK YOU!

“Oh you stupid, cat. Come down.” Stupid is not a wise choice of word to use to call a cat, especially one that harbors such hatred towards him. For good reasons.

Two reasons. 1: He is an orange douchbag who has no backbone. And 2: He is in a relationship with Amy. Buster’s crush.

“GET DOWN HERE, YOU DUMB CAT!” Just for that, Buster takes crap on Jacob’s face, “WHAT THE FECK! GOOD GOD, NOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOO! OOOOOOOOOOHH MYYYYY GAAAAAWWWDDD!! IT’S IN MY MOUTH! AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!” Well, he should have seen that coming. Nice one, Buster.

But, back to Amy.

Buster the cat had been very fond of Amy. Fancy more like it. Ever since Jacob brought Amy over to the house to meet Buster he couldn’t keep his cat eyes off her. Her porcelain white skin. Her platinum long blond hair. Her big brown optics. Her hourglass figure. And that beautiful blue sunflower dress that she likes to wear from time to time. Makes his mouth water. And chafe in his feline privates. A Tex Avery moment. Moments, more like it. When Jacob is not home. Amy is either doing – the laundry, cooking up supper, reading a chapter of Body to Job by Christopher Zeischegg, or watching an episode of Jerry Springer in the living room – the whole nine yards of a productive day at home while Buster is under the dining room table carefully studying Amy’s every move. The way her soft hands grace the remote control.  The way she presses her cheek with her index finger trying to figure out what to watch. Probably Jerry Springer. Oh good golly, Buster could just urinate his white mess on Amy. Burst at any moment. He can’t stand it. But he must remain calm, for Amy. If he cums on her face all hell would break loose and Amy would think differently of Buster. She wouldn’t want to be associated with him after that incident, who could blame her. And she wouldn’t want to be coming around the house anymore. All thanks to Buster and his uncontrollable urge to jizz on Amy. Come on, Buster, KEEP IT TOGETHER!!!

Sometimes in the evening, while Amy is napping in Jacob’s room. Buster sneaks in – and for a long time – watches Amy sleep a peaceful nap. She’s mine, he thinks to himself, all mineI need her, I want her. She belongs to me. In another life, where I am not some clumsy old cat. Where I don’t belong to anyone but myself. A human being of great importance. Like a policeman. Or a writer. Or heck…a gentleman who works at a bank! I wonder, I so much wonder…would Amy want me in that life? Would she take me as I am now? I wonder? But old Buster, my friend, that’s just wishful thinking. In this life it is not conventional for a woman to be – passionately – intimately – with a cat. It is frowned upon. And he knows that and it kills him. To think that his dear sweet Amy is wasting her life and body with that louse of an owner Jacob is criminal to Buster. A crime against love – real love and passion. It’s a crime, indeed – indeed. And what could Buster the cat do about it? 

Well…

Buster could do all sorts.

1: Gag and bound her up. 2: Finger her snatch with his little cat paws. 3: Brand the side of her buttocks in bold letters saying: PROPERTY OF BUSTER THE CAT. OFF LIMITS!  4: He can tear Jacob’s insufferable duck lips off with a pair of shears. 5: He can feast off Amy’s pink nipples. 6: He can lick and eat her pussy out. The possibilities are endless!

Oh golly, what a curious and sadistic cat! He has such a wild imagination. Where on earth does he come up with this stuff? It is quite MADDENING!

Regardless of all that mess. Deep down in his cat heart he knows that he belongs to Amy and she to him. And he knows in this world that he can never be with her, even if he tried. 

Some days it’s tough being a cat. 

for Elon

He snuck around, spraying, splooging and squirting
Searching out locations for target practice
Socks and mother’s undergarments
Firing hard into tissues, socks and toilets

Don’t cum around here no more

Then with the receivers
All the poems he wrote
To get at their beavers
Until the ink in his pen ran out

Don’t cum around here no more

Ejaculation was the first step of the break up
The next day they’d make up
She’d then put on more make up
garter belts and ball gags to maintain the prenup

Don’t cum around here no more

The porn was the dawn
Of where the fetishes were born
And babies that grew up never knowing
His flawed DNA was the one

Don’t cum around here no more

Hotels, bar bathrooms
Parents’ bedrooms
Goomahs’ apartments
Ex-wives’ new husbands’ summer cottages

Don’t cum around here no more

He quit spraying the billion dollar fertilizer
On the lawn in North Hampton
On faces of paralegals and waitresses
On chests of men at the peep booth again

Don’t cum around here no more

He finally finished
Stopped launching his rockets
Quit the transhumanist parties and podcasts
He exited the administration

Don’t cum around here no more

Worship can consume. Can overtake. The act of giving yourself over to be consumed is the ultimate surrender. Sometimes worship means more than kneeling on the floor, begging for the chance to be approved of. Accepted. 

There are no conditions for devotion. You will be praised simply for existing.

 I always thought that existing was enough of a reason, anyway. It never made sense that there were so many hoops to jump through to gain adoration. I will see you fully. Every inch of your skin is a blessing and I will treat it as such. 

The soft curve of your inner thighs feels like heaven as it brushes my face. Your legs splayed out on the soft, orange comforter. Surely this is paradise. I am ready to pray. A whine escapes your lips and I know that you are ready to receive me. 

 The heat of your body against mine kicks my heart rate up another notch. The sigh I release is one of absolute contentment and it blows softly against the delicate skin of your vulva. You squirm. I watch the beauty of your shape. Memorizing the way you move only helps me pleasure you more.

You’ve moved further up the bed, so I follow, saliva already pooling in my mouth. I quickly tie my wavy hair up on my head. Even one distraction from my goal is too much. We lock eyes for a brief moment. The desire burns in your eyes, begging me to consume. I am happy to oblige. 

Sliding between the length of your legs, I position myself so close I can feel the heat of your arousal. Wanting the moment of need to stretch longer I glance up at you, a smirk making it clear you will just have to wait. I kiss, slowly and intentionally, across your left thigh. The velvety, blonde hairs there welcome my lips. A growl claws up your throat, the rumble of impatience increasing my hunger. 

Making it to your hips, so full and delicious, I begin to lick. When my tongue caresses your salty skin, you tense. I sense that you want me to move faster. I continue to take this journey slowly. Remember that my worship is about enjoying every single part of you. Neglecting even the lines of your hip bones would not be the reverence you deserve. 

Minutes pass, your noises are becoming fevered. With each lick and nibble closer to your labia, my excitement builds. I am finally here. Tracing the crease between your majora with the tip of my tongue. You gasp, the shock of my tongue inside you is more than you can handle. I dive deeper into your wetness. 

The taste of you is overwhelming and I resist lapping at it like a lesser lover. I take my time filling my mouth with your pleasure. Your moans are loud now. This encourages my movements. Reaching a hand down you grasp the top of my head, pressing my face further into you. Dangerous desire is raging inside me. Your approval of my explorations is everything I wanted. I know that you feel adored, taken care of. 

As the wildness of your exultation builds, I wrap my lips around your clit, sucking it into my mouth. You buck, thighs pressing against the sides of my head. Not wanting the buildup to be lost, I keep the pressure of my sucking steady. 

Sliding two of my fingers inside you, I curve them skywards to find your heaven. You call out for God but this doesn’t bother me. I am eager to feel you clench around my hand. The name you scream is not important. Your body convulses again, the pressure of your thighs building to an almost uncomfortable level.

 One strong undulation and the sweet rush of your orgasm fills my mouth. Finally, you relax. This is when I will lick up the cum that my worship brought forth. You are sensitive, skin reddened from my sucking. I tease your swollen clit so gently and you growl again in frustrated satisfaction. Wanting to memorize the look on your face of pure bliss, I watch you. Your eyes are closed and a small smile graces your lips. Sweat beads on your stomach and across your breasts, appetizing to my starving mind. 

You are beautiful. Ethereal in your openness and comfort. The scent of you coats my face and fills my nostrils. I could take this smell in forever. Lovingly, I think of how this is proof of my adoration, my devotion. You sigh once more, delicate chest heaving in contentment. Idolizing you was so easy and I wonder why others have failed to do it before me. 

The peak of my desire has been reached now. I cannot wait any longer to finish, the need is choking all other thoughts from my mind. Your legs are still splayed open, allowing me to easily suck your clit back into my mouth. A sound of surprise bubbles inside you but doesn’t get the chance to escape.

 I bite down, feeling the tissue and muscle condense underneath my teeth. You thrash, attempting to escape my praise of your body. I have a firm hold of your legs so you don’t go far.  The metallic tang of blood coats my tongue. My appetite surges. I am losing control.

 It takes just a bit of pressure to detach your swollen clit from your body. I marvel at how simple it was as I chew. Blood pulses from you, mingling with the wetness and coating the comforter. You are screaming now, calling out for God again. I almost feel sorry that this God does not answer. There is just me. It will always be me. 

I am going to worship you in the most intimate of ways, my love. By devouring.

Like the sommelier in hell
Vintage too high on the shelf
I smell you but cannot reach you

Your humanity assaulting me
Want to feel you
Where the sun’s too timid to touch

To taste the sweating heart of you
The fluid center
Absolute and delicate

Feral and ferociously lapping
At each and every filthy fucking crevice
I will never be clean

In these dreams,
Hunted always, trembling
Neither one of us escaping

In my calm, an aching hunger
Empty, if not full of you
I am dizzy, and grateful, and sick for this

Allen Ginsberg
You sucked
The cock of life
Drained the bulging bone of its marrow
Homed in on our howling
With your eye on the sparrow
And spit out godly children
A spectacularly spiritual spawn to carry on
Your sacramental work in our wordsick world

A fellatio facial
For earthfolk
Fine and fucked

Allen Ginsberg
Your poetic prick
Penetrated us
Probed the pettiness
Prettiness
Power and pride
Hungrily hardening inside us

Then withdrew
To spew your gooey
Godliness on the just
And the unjust
Before turning wholly
Dust

Emi-29 stepped out of the containment chamber. She grabbed a towel and wiped off the glistening film that covered her face, arms, and legs. Her assistant, Kit-55, helped peel off her bodysuit. She shuffled across the stainless steel floor and sat at her console. 

“I thought you’d want a shower first,” said Kit-55.

But Emi-29 didn’t feel dirty. It had only been small talk.

She typed: Discourse #72 – Standard Salutatory Lubricant. The texture tends to thicken over time, and re-application is frequent. As observed in previous studies, this is a predominant mode of basic communication among the Archon’s species, denoting simple greetings and acknowledgements. It also, perhaps crucially, provides lubrication necessary for further conversation. Note: the new bodysuit was effective at preventing penetration of non-oral cavities. However, this also likely inhibits expression of more complex concepts.

 

💧

 

Emi-29 stepped out of the chamber. She was laughing and caked in a bluish, cream-like substance. She said, “My skin is completely numb, I can’t feel a thing. This is a real discovery! Even the appendage was new to me.”

Kit-55 beamed. “What do you think it means?”

The discharge spilled off Emi-29’s body in great clumps.

“I got the feeling it was a kind of joke.”

At the console she wrote: Discourse #73 – Analgesic icing. Produced in generous amounts by a long, pinkish tentacle with a clublike terminus. Effects similar to high doses of novacaine. At first I expected this would be a precursor to something painful—as the species communicates entirely through tactile methods, one assumes that uncomfortable sensations might correspond to bothersome information. Could numbness, then, be a sort of euphemism? Possible new research direction here.

 

💧

 

Emi-29 careened out of the containment chamber. Her arms, legs, neck, and face were gray. When she handed off her bodysuit to Kit-55 it left an imprint of her usual skin tone, a tan line of pigment. She took a long, hot shower, aware the effects of this particular ejaculate were dependent on exposure time. 

Afterwards she sat at the console, fingers blending in with the stainless steel keycaps. She typed: Discourse #74 – Chromatophagia. “CPG” is a well-documented substance produced in small glands at the ends of the Archon’s transverse claspers. It has the effect of completely removing color from everything it touches. This remains perplexing, as the species does not have any sensory organs aside from highly sensitive mechanoreceptors. That is, they do not see or experience color themselves. Is the discoloration from CPG a side effect of some other intended mechanism? Or is this fluid produced specifically to interact with other life forms—with us? If so, perhaps it is meant as a leveling of the sensory playing field, an invitation to forego our sight-based perception of the world and focus on touch and texture alone. (This may be a projection.)

 

💧

 

Emi-29 flopped out of the chamber, shimmering and reeking of sweat. She sat down on the floor. Her bodysuit was torn at the waist, the lower half in tatters around her ankles.

“Oh no,” said Kit-55. “Not again.”

“We need to send Textiles back to the drawing board.”

“Was it… okay?”

Emi-29 let out a long sigh.

“Sorry. Towels, or shower first?”

“Towels,” said Emi-29. “And the enema bag.”

Later, she typed: Discourse #75 – Standard Lubricant. This time, application was followed by vigorous physical explorations in complex patterns. As documented in prior studies, the Archon’s body includes an intricate network of cavities, sphincters, and orifices, which appear to be used for linguistic rather than reproductive purposes. One imagines an analog to the South American lake duck (Oxyura vittata), a species in which the two sexes famously have engaged in a reproductive evolutionary arms race, with the females developing an increasingly long, circuitous vagina and the males evolving an elaborate, corkscrew-like penis in response. In the case of the Archon’s species, a similar process may have resulted in this elaborate system of differentiated appendages, tubules, secretions, and tactile receptors as the species grew in intelligence and linguistic acuity. It is unclear what the Archon’s exact intentions may be when engaging the human body—whether it is making a good-faith attempt at its natural mode of communication, or whether it is aware that in humans such sensations are received quite differently. Or possibly both. 

 

💧

 

Emi-29 stepped out of the containment chamber. Kit-55 asked why she was crying.

“Sorry, it’s just, something new—” she wiped her eyes. She was covered in a soft, white, soapy substance which fizzed away with a soft crackle. 

Kit-55 helped towel her off. She was incredibly thankful for Kit-55 then. It occurred to her that she had not been a nurturing mentor. Their work was so crucial, if humanity was ever to establish real dialogue with the only other intelligent species known to exist, and Kit-55 was essential to the mission. She gave her assistant a long, firm hug, which seemed to catch her off guard. It was hard to say what was and wasn’t appropriate in a workplace like this. They could talk it over later.

Once Emi-29 calmed down she wrote: Discourse #76 – Sympathy Foam. A novel emulsion produced in one of the Archon’s beaks. Initial effect was to trigger a panic attack, and I attempted to end the session but was restrained (the first time it has held or touched me against my will). However, after several minutes of elevated heart rate and a sense of impending doom, my mood transitioned, as if controlled by some outside force, and I became overwhelmed by a sense of deep, genuine, love. I felt bound, not as a prisoner, but as a lover or beloved child, unconditionally protected and appreciated by a higher force whose energy was dedicated to ensuring I would be okay. This feeling persisted after I exited the chamber. Pending chemical analysis, I can only assume the Foam contains neurotransmitters, possibly familiar compounds like oxytocin or dopamine, which directly induce emotional states upon absorption. Could this be the Archon’s version of an inflection, a “tone of voice?” And if so, why take this tone with me?

 

💧

 

Emi-29 entered the control room naked and shivering. A thin stream of blood trickled down her leg. Kit-55 came running with the first aid kit, but Emi-29 waved her off. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing. It got a little excited.” Emi-29 staggered to the shower.

“A little? It destroyed your whole bodysuit.”

“It’s fine.”

“Maybe you should take some time off. You’ve been going in almost every day.”

“I said it’s fine.” Emi-29 looked down at her stomach. She watched the water cascade down ribs and jagged hips. Kit-55 was right, she hadn’t been taking care of herself. But she was getting close. Every session felt more and more like a real exchange, the syntactic building blocks becoming clearer, that complex morphology of fluid and force that made up the Archon’s tissue-grade language. There was something it wanted her to understand, a first step toward real translation, if only she could learn how to feel—

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” called Kit-55.

“I would tell you if I did,” she snapped. Then she felt guilty. “It didn’t mean to hurt me,” she explained. “It was trying to explain something.” 

Later, she sat at the console and typed: Discourse #77 – 

But she left the entry unfinished.

 

💧

 

Emi-29 did not come out of the chamber for a long time.

 

💧

 

Kit-55 stepped out of the containment chamber. Emi-29 was slung over her shoulder. Both were drenched in the scum of the Archon, globules of white mixed with inky black streaks. Emi-29 was aware she was moving. She was hurtling through an imaginary country, drooling too thickly to speak. In the arms of her assistant she ambled across the control room. She was being taken away, she realized, in the middle of a conversation! She howled, tried to pull herself back toward the Archon, but Kit-55 refused to let go.

In the hospital, they asked her to describe what happened.

She said: “Have you ever read a poem so beautiful you started over, read and re-read it again and again? Maybe it was one line in particular, and you went over it so many times the words started losing their meaning, becoming pure sound, vibrational texture, wind on the field of your mind. Like this: I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. I am shame and boldness. Did you ever do that? Did it give you a feeling? Was it a tingle, a double helix of panic and ecstasy, like an orgasm? Now, can you imagine how it feels for that process to happen in reverse?”

That little uh uh uh 

That makes it feel like

I’ve never accomplished anything better in this life

Than that puddle of cum on the sheets

And sweat soaked into the mattress

That pump-action shotgun

Is an end-in-itself

And I know I’m not supposed to base my happiness in pleasing other people

But I think that that uh uh uh

Deserves a love poem, because

It means you loved me enough to stay this long

It means your dick has overcome the blow to get it done

It means (for tonight) you chose me over someone else you loved

It means I can brush these graveyard leaves off my ass

It means you’ll put the belt away (because even though I asked for it, now I’m worried you’re too drunk to know when it’s too much)

It means I can stop saying no, because it’s already over

It means I can fuck it all away

And that’s something

It’s got to be something


Sugar Daddy struggles to keep a hard-on for Sugar Baby in Sugar Baby’s dinky bedroom sublet, despite having her puffy college pussy yawning for the tip of his dick in doggy style. Sure, other men might be able to perform while girlish giggles and footsteps sound off from outside of the messy and weed-rank bedroom — hell, the indecency might even add to the session for some with proud perversions, but Sugar Daddy considers this to be “traumatic” for him. He has a daughter around Sugar Baby and her 20-something-year-old roommates’ age, and he can’t help but feel like he’s about to be the victim of a setup organized by his wife and recorded by a YouTube-verified pedophile hunter.

In an attempt to stay present and get his money’s worth, he awkwardly pushes his limp dick into Sugar Baby’s hole and holds it there with his hands, hopeful that it will grow inside of her. Sugar Baby forges a moan, prompting his soft cock to fold and slip out. She rolls her eyes at the rejection and sways her ass from side to side like a finger gesturing to “come here.” But it’s no use. Something about experiencing where she lives disgusts Sugar Daddy. A pile of dirty clothes is stacked on an Ikea chair, and an ashtray painted in thick layers of tar is by her bedside. Beloved polaroids of friends and puppies are taped to the walls. An in-call session isn’t her preference either. Still, Sugar Daddy offered to pay her a fatter allowance to observe her (fuck her) in her natural habitat, a curiosity he, or at least his dick, now regrets. “Do you have a Viagra or something?” she asks, turning around to face him. “No, I don’t. I’m so sorry,” Sugar Daddy says, “You know me, this doesn’t usually happen. I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.” “Awww are you scared?” she teases, lightly flicking his flaccid penis with the soft ball of her foot. “Don’t worry about it. Wait here.” Like a sprite, she runs out of the room naked and with knots in her hair. Sugar Daddy can hear the opening and closing of kitchen cabinets, muffled laughter, and the digital hum and beep of a microwave while he waits naked and helpless at the edge of her full-size bed. He dissociates.

Until she’s standing above him like a nurse or an angel with a red, white, and blue jar of marshmallow fluff. She drops to her knees and tugs on his balls, dipping them into the tub of fluff, just skimming the top—“Ah, it’s warm!” Sugar Daddy squirms. Sugar Baby smirks devilishly when she says, “I know. Doesn’t it feel nice? Just relax.” Sugar Daddy closes his eyes and unclenches his posture with a deep exhale, permitting his low-hanging fruits to drop lower into the porcelain paste. The warm and sticky supports his nuts like a memory foam 10 pillow before it swallows them with an ooze. In anticipatory rapture, Sugar Baby gasps as she submerges Sugar Daddy’s soft head and shaft into the pillowy goo so that he’s completely sunken. He gives into the plunge, releasing an awkward little whimper. Sugar Baby observes his confused delight and licks some flooded fluff off her fingers. She slowly glides the flexible container away from his groin, revealing his erection plastered in a dripping hot mess of marshmallow. “Mmm, there we go,” she sighs. Sugar Daddy opens his eyes and can’t help but laugh at how gross and stupid his dick looks. Has she done this before? Who taught her this? Did she read about this on Reddit? Does she have an older brother? What’s their relationship like? He’s getting in his head again.

Sugar Baby laps her tongue around his shiny white cock head until it’s clean and pink, then pulls away from him. She swallows the thick creamy confection before declaring, “YUM!” White speckles cling to the corners of her mouth as she smiles up at him. Sugar Daddy smiles back at the kid in a candy shop before he pushes her head down to his balls. She sucks and tugs on them like she’s pulling taffy, letting her frothy white sugar spit dribble from her chin down to her tits and onto the floor. His balls and cock are clean with slobber. Sugar Baby unhinges herself from his gooch and begs, “Please fuck me, daddy. I’m so wet.” She slides against the wooden floor onto all fours, pushing her head into the pool of fallen drool and fluff. She spreads her ass cheeks apart. Sugar Daddy stands and shoves his cock deep into her. She squeals and sweats and licks the dirty, gooey floorboards clean while he drives into her as fast as the old man can in the pornographic position. Sweat flies from his brow onto her back. A splodge of marshmallow adorns her asshole. Sugar Daddy fingers it while he fucks. He unplugs his finger from her ass and licks it, dissolving the sugar against his cheek. His legs cramp. He crimsons from exhaustion. His dick deflates once more.

“What the fuck!” Sugar Baby springs up. She’s annoyed and offended. Sugar Daddy collapses onto her bed. He’s breathless, embarrassed, and $700 poorer. “It’s fine,” she says coolly, recognizing his defeat; she’s an empath. “Why don’t we try that again? Close your eyes and breathe for me.” He does as he’s told. “That’s a good boy, daddy.” Sugar Baby grabs the mutilated container of fluff from off the floor and steadily slips it over his collapsed penis as she whispers, “Just relax…everything is sweet and warm in life right now.” And suddenly, Sugar Daddy believes that to be true. Life is sweet and warm right now: her voice, her grubby snug bed, her readiness to please and be patient with him, and, of course, her maniacal marshmallow fluff which now softly seeps into the grooves of his growing dick like she’s taking a silicone mold. Spotting his comfort on the exhale, Sugar Baby gently lifts and lowers the sticky warm jar atop his cock as if she were jerking him off with a pocket pussy. The more his dick stretches, the tighter the fluff closes in on it. Sugar Daddy moans and bites his lip as Sugar Baby jerks him off faster and faster. “Are you gonna cum for me, daddy?” she purrs. He lets the fluff become him. He’s just a cock in a cement mixer and she is the cement mixer. He cums.

“Daddy, you did it!” She yanks the plastic tub off of him, releasing a big pop as his dick spills out into the cold air. She slips on a nightgown, hands him a pink towel from her dresser, then grabs the container of fluff before directing him to take his time getting dressed. “Meet me in the living room when you’re ready.” Sugar Daddy cleans his cum-candy-covered dick and balls with the towel, leaving it a sticky mess on her bed for her to wash later. Another successful session. He puts on his button-down, jeans, and socks, then makes way to the living room, where there he finds Sugar Baby reclining cozily on the couch with her roommates, sucking on a spoonful of cummy fluff straight from the jar. The girls pass around the sweet slop, taking turns scooping and swallowing their very own heaping spoonful. “Want some?” they ask Sugar Daddy in synchronicity. Sugar Baby makes room for Sugar Daddy on the couch, patting the open seat like she’s calling for a dog. He sits beside her devotedly and opens his mouth. They rotate the jar until it’s devoured and empty. He leaves.

 

Previously published in My Gaping Masshole

I did it for you.
Ran thin monofilament through the hole
you asked for first, all
those years ago. The one
for holding spikes and rounded protuberances
you wanted wetly sliding along
your cock for that extra kick.
Looped it tight around left and right
pointer fingers curled inward.
Grimaced.
Breathed deeply.
Found my center.
Called on my ancestors.
Focused my chi.
Screamed to the high fucking heavens.
Then pulled as hard as I could
until it popped loose
from the pink, nubby flesh,
and split it clean down the middle.

Hands shaking, I
repierced the muscle
again and again. Drawing
thick, blood-sodden thread through it
with each pass. Those threads pulled
tight. Tied off tighter. To stop
so much unsightly red from spilling
from me before you could see.
To be honest, my brain turned off
somewhere in the course of
that part. I wish
I could have turned it off
during the weeks of swollen,
scalding
red iron heat
agony it took to heal.
But, what are you gonna do?

Could you
do the same for me,
now? I’ve got the razor
and I am pretty sure this wood
burning tool gets cauterization hot.
There’s enough everclear and ‘shine
to sanitize the tools and
the chopping block. You
always compliment me
on how well I
sew. How clean and precise my
stitches are. Didn’t you
tell me
yesterday how amazed you
were that I
could patch your
pants so quickly? I
promise to keep that same
precision and speed on you.

Just think of how it will feel:
my twin oral snakes slipping around
through the space between
your dueling heads. An eternity
of interlaced eights traced
in saliva and semen. Just the thought of
your two halves guided along and around
my clit, before rejoining to dive into
my cunt has
my heart doing its own double step tango in
my chest and that same clit throbbing
with dense heat. The chance for a doubled
pussy and ass penetration, without
your everpresent fear of oneupmanship from
another has its intrigues, too.

Spiritually, you and I share a pussy of the mind.

–Kum V, to Anton Cumcre

I’ve never shared a pussy before ours.
Not spiritually, at least.
Physically, I am sure,
several more than once.
So please forgive me my furtive dance,
this terrified push and pull,
give and take of seminal, vaginal,
cranial fluids.

Let’s pause for a moment,
breathe it in, take it slow,
start a cult for those so woke
they sleep deep,
pull them in with your open dreams,
connection and hope and moving forward
before I slide between their sheets
to fill them with fire.

Souls mated, hermaphroditic
entwined in cosmic dreams
of stars expanding before exploding,
a destruction creation in light and energy,
incestuous siblings sharing labia and foreskin
wrapped in testes and ovaries
turned inside out.

Mushroom-headed cliterati
run through with rabid nerves,
dying in vibrant light screams,
the hardest, softest, of buttons
one may pray to button.

Anton Cumcre interviews Kum V about Cum Punk, the physical and emotional aspects of ejaculation, and the true meaning of cum joy.

KV: I really do have a passion for cum. It’s a physical expression of another person’s pleasure. It’s so intense, and it’s also weird, and it’s scary, in a way…

AC: I kind of want there to be a shirt that just says: “I have a passion for cum.”

KV: I have a little poem, and it’s like:

I’m a cum slut.
I live by the load.
My cum joy is so wild and free.
The wholesome hole is my whole jam.
And cum is my hole jam. 

AC: I enjoy that.

KV: Yeah, like the first time I tasted cum, I cried.

AC: That is…

KV: I cried! I was so…I just wasn’t prepared for the experience. I mean, I obviously knew cum was going to happen, but I think the reality of it just hit me in a different way. And the taste was really, it was like…wOoOw. It tasted like chlorine, a little…and I just cried. I wept.

AC: I am slightly concerned about the person whose cum tasted like chlorine. I’m a little worried for that person.

KV: Okay, but am I wrong, or does cum not sort of smell like brie, like the rind of brie?

AC: No, brie, I will give you.

KV: It smells like cum!

AC: But chlorine terrifies me. I don’t want antiseptic cum.

KV: It tasted chemically, a little.

AC: I will give you chemically.

KV: It was bitter in a way that I was not expecting. And it was obviously, like it was something I had never tasted in my life until that moment. I guess I just felt so weird about that, and then I probably also felt weird about the experience. I mean, this was with my high school sweetheart who I lost my virginity to. This was not just a random weirdo. This was someone I was in love with…

AC: “There I was, on my knees behind the Wendy’s, as glass shards dug into my knees, I was weeping with the joy of multi-chlorinated goodness…”

KV: This was not a joyful weeping, though. This was a growing pains type of crying, where you just hit some type of life milestone and don’t really know how to handle it. I tasted cum for the first time, and it was an intense experience. But my cum joy would develop over time. I would start to get really excited. Like, “Yeah, I want to see the cum.” I get upset if somebody doesn’t cum. Like, I want you to fucking cum!

AC: I understand that, though. That makes me happy to hear. Like, I put the fucking work in…

KV: Cumming, and then…I decided to record all this, by the way. I feel like this is good shit.

AC: Marvelous. There should be a thing where, like, the rest of this is for free, but set aside $10 and…

KV: …and you can hear the stirring conclusion of this cum interview!

KV: And you know, not being very good about wearing protection over the course of my life. Though, surprisingly—and this is not to shame or stigmatize STDs—but I’ve had very few. I remember a friend of mine, when I was in my 20s, this gay man who I love dearly and who was really promiscuous and so was I, which was partly why we were such good buddies, but I was telling him about my exploits at the time, which were many, and which were cum-soaked, and he was like, “Baby, I’m so happy for you, but don’t let your cum joy be too free!” He was worried I’d catch something, you know, that might kill me. And that never happened, thankfully. But yeah like…really wanting the raw cum straight from the celestial cum cow udder is how I’ve lived my life. I have lived by load, and load for load, I have persevered and persisted and clawed my way up from fucking chasms at times, just to be able to experience more pure, unbridled, cum joy, which has led us to the present day.

I have lived by load, and load for load, I have persevered and persisted and clawed my way up from fucking chasms at times, just to be able to experience more pure, unbridled, cum joy.

AC: And if only the people could see the look on your face as you’re talking about this, the relaxed comfort and happiness, not even ecstasy, just relaxed happiness…

KV: It’s like bliss.

AC: You’re just like, as you’re looking back over your life and thinking about all the loads that have come across you, you’re like, “You know what? That one right there? Yeah, that was a good one. So was that one. I’ve taken some really good loads in my life…”

KV: What if I had all my cums tagged and bagged? That would be fucking so crazy. In my mind, they’re not super specified. And I’ve had some unpleasant things happen to me sexually. I don’t want to get into that because that’s gonna be a buzzkill. It’s not like it’s all been roses. But when I look at the big picture, I have a positive view of it. Even people I don’t even really like anymore, and even people who’ve done really bad things to me, I still feel this spiritual, radical sort of acceptance about it. Like no matter what happened, in this moment, there was cum joy, which I’m sure is something other people might completely disagree with and find upsetting. But I find that I have to be very positive in life, and the older I get, the more I feel it’s like dire for me to have an optimistic outlook, even in the face of things that would make you want to feel the opposite. So, I think that’s why I am the way I am, especially insofar as life experience. I have learned something with every cum, both good cums and diabolical cums and everything in between. Every cum teaches.

I have learned something with every cum, both good cums and diabolical cums and everything in between. Every cum teaches. 

AC: I also feel like…that should be a hat. That should be a baseball cap.

KV: “Every cum teaches” is the hat. And what’s on the shirt?

AC: The…

KV: “I live by the load”

AC: Honestly, “I live by the load” should be a chest tattoo for buff gym dudes. If you are a dainty woman, it should be right along the bottom of your stomach-to-pubic area, or along your inner thigh. But a dude should have it in those big old school gothic letters fucking stretched all the way across their veiny-ass pumped up steroid-filled chests.

KV: “I live by the load” would be a great tramp stamp.

AC: Oh, I agree. You set that up very well. In very delicate writing, very thin, very flowy writing that’s a little hard to read. You need to concentrate on it. Because honestly, if somebody is at that point, you want them concentrating.

KV: Yeah. I mean, would it make you cum harder if somebody had “I live by the load” tattooed on their lower back?

AC: I feel like, at that moment, I would be like, “You know what? I need to make this one count. I can’t be half-assed here. This can’t be a little dribble coming out. I need to fucking get in there, because this is a motherfucker who lives by the load.”

KV: Have you ever had a sad cum?

AC: Yes, I have.

KV: How would you describe a sad cum? Then I’ll tell you how I would. I just want to see if there’s any consensus.

AC: As a guy, a sad cum…you’re just forcing that thing out, because you’re desperately trying to feel something. You just want it to be there. And it doesn’t even, like, shoot. It just drools down.

KV: There’s no torque behind it. There’s no hydraulic…

AC: There’s no impetus.

KV: It’s not even a projectile.

AC: It’s just tears, sad tears of a sad dick.

KV: Have you ever actually cried while cumming?

AC: No, I have not.

KV: It’s an interesting experience. I think everyone should experience it once in life.

AC: Ok…

KV: Having a sad cum, like, I don’t know. I’ve had anxiety attacks where I felt like the remedy was to fuck. So, there have been times when I’m crying, having an anxiety attack, and fucking until I get my nut. So, I’m technically crying while cumming, and this probably sounds really fucked up and twisted, but I have found things like that to be some of the most potently powerful sexual experiences, where there’s such an extreme range of feeling going on…

AC: So, what you’re saying is, for the general public who may want to perhaps get with the goddess that is Kum V, is to induce an anxiety attack…

KV: I wouldn’t say induce one…

AC: “…and so now the world is collapsing, I mean, wanna fuck?”

KV: I mean, sometimes it’s the only way to ground yourself back into your body. I think sex is the most intense experience you can have with another person. I can’t even think of anything that’s more physically, and in every way, intense. And you feel different after. You’re not gonna come out of fucking feeling the same way you did before. This another thing where it’s like, “Wow. You must be really fucking sick in the head, right?” Like, am I really that sick of an individual? I don’t think so. I do think you have to know your limits and your boundaries. You have to know your body. And honestly, a lot of people don’t. So, I wouldn’t recommend experimenting with certain things unless you’re pretty self-aware and fully present in your body. That being said, if you can have an orgasm while crying, it might change your life.

If you can have an orgasm while crying, it might change your life.

AC: Although admittedly, when I’m having a panic attack, that does not usually seem to be an option for me. I’m a huge fucking asshole, and so at no point in time is something like, “Oh, this person is yelling at me and freaking out about everything. Oh, hell yeah, do I want to jump on it!”

KV: I mean, yeah, it has to be a situation where the person having the…I don’t know. I’m losing the plot of my own freaky tale here. But just that intensity, you know? That’s very Cum Punk, to have that complete range there. Because—how does he put it?—Austin Osman Spare, who I love so much, who basically invented chaos magick, which includes things like masturbating to create a vacuity of the mind in which it is allegedly possible to cast sigils and spells and stuff. But he described “self-love,” which obviously has masturbatory connotations, as being “the emotion of laughter.” Like, orgasm is the emotion of laughter. I can’t get that out of my mind. I think it’s one of the most interesting things I’ve ever encountered. So, if you’re thinking about the emotion of laughter sort of presenting itself in orgasm while you are crying and having an anxiety attack, it’s just a very vivid emotional experience. I don’t know if regular…because I don’t consider myself a regular, normal person at all…but if just the average person experiences sexual passion pitched to that degree. Like, probably not. I don’t know. But I want this for people.

KV: Oh, you’re muted…

KV: You muted because you had to blow a big, sloppy, squirty load.

AC: I did. And this was not a sad cum, this was a very happy, very emphatic, very happy cum. It dented my wall a little bit. So, it really had some power behind that spackle.

KV: “Spackle” is Cum Punk.

AC: I did not mix up enough gypsum with it.

KV: Ready-mix cum to cement over all your problems!

AC: Just add tears and stir.

KV: And then you’ll have an orgasm like Kum V!

AC: There we go! But how to induce a panic attack, though?

KV: I don’t know. Maybe watch The Day the Clown Cried? Try to get your hands on a copy of The Day the Clown Cried

AC: See, these people will just come up to you randomly, at whatever your most common place to hang out is, with a copy of The Day the Clown Cried, and…

KV: Oh, they want me to service them? Oh, they’re gonna want Kum V to give them their crying orgasm? What if suddenly people made pilgrimages to me, for me to induce panic attacks then fuck them so they can experience this unusually extreme-pitched orgasm?

AC: I do feel like that is a thing that no one else is offering.

KV: It’s an untapped market. This is why Cum Punk is filling a gap.

AC: Yes. And apparently, it’s spackling that gap shut!

AC: So, after all of that, after dragging us through all of you, why are we doing this?

KV: Why are we doing Cum Punk? Because we can. And because no one can tell us not to. Cum Punk might not be what we need, but it is what we deserve. I think it’s filling a gap, filling a hole, filling multiple holes at the same time. I think we all have holes shot through our fucking psyches, and I’m just trying to patch those over with some good old-fashioned cum. So, that’s why we’re here, and that’s why Cum Punk is here. And I sure hope folks like the anthology. And I really hope I don’t get slapped with a federal obscenity charge.

Cum Punk might not be what we need, but it is what we deserve. I think it’s filling a gap, filling a hole, filling multiple holes at the same time. I think we all have holes shot through our fucking psyches, and I’m just trying to patch those over with some good old-fashioned cum.

AC: I mean, if I go to prison for something, please let it be this.

KV: I tend to agree.

Miranda shuffles the deck of cards, looks at the top one, which is the ace of clubs, then gets into bed.

When she wakes up the next morning, she has grown a penis. Her vagina has gone.

She examines the large organ with wonder. It is long and thick and hard. She touches it. The feel of it thrills her and makes her want to use it. She gently pulls the foreskin back and looks at the swollen tip. The feel of the skin rolling down the shaft makes her quiver. She cups her new scrotum and gently tickles her balls. Aroused, she encircles her cock with her hands and slowly masturbates. She feels the build-up and increases the speed of her hand action. She cums, spraying spunk over her stomach and breasts. She bucks her hips, pushes her head forward and opens her mouth. The last two squirts of cum shoot into her mouth. She savours the spunk, then swallows it. She rests for a few minutes, completely relaxed, then she gets up and prepares for work.

That evening, after work, Miranda plays cards. Out of curiosity, she shuffles the deck and turns the top card over. It is the two of diamonds. She undresses, stretches out in front of the fire and drifts into sleep. When she wakes up an hour later, her cock has gone. Her vagina is moist and open. She spreads her legs, cups her breasts, then slides her hands over her body. She ruffles her bush. Her fingers touch her labia lips. She slowly masturbates, using both hands. She cums hard and fast. Before she drifts into sleep, she sets her alarm clock. She then shuffles the cards. The top card is the three of spades.

When Miranda wakes up, she has her cock back. She gets herself ready and goes to work. At work, one of her colleagues, Gerald, has always wanted sex with her. She has never acknowledged his attempts at seduction. Today she does. During the lunch break, Miranda and Gerald are in the photocopying room together. Everyone else has left the office. They have an hour. They flirt. Gerald touches Miranda’s breasts. Miranda kneels down, undoes Gerald’s fly, and pulls his cock out. She slides his cock into her mouth and sucks him. Gerald grunts. Miranda waits until he is about to cum, then stops sucking his cock, undoes his trousers, turns him around and bends him over the photocopying machine. She licks his ass, sliding her tongue inside him. Gerald gasps and squirms with pleasure. Miranda stands up, pulls her skirt up, pushes her knickers down and slides her cock smoothly into Gerald’s ass, simultaneously reaching around and jerking his cock. She thrusts into him, fast and furious. When she is about to cum, she jerks Gerald’s cock faster. They cum together, both shooting copious arcs of cum – Miranda up Gerald’s ass, Gerald over the photocopying machine. Miranda slides her cock out of Gerald, then leans forward and licks his cum off the machine. Gerald has nice-tasting spunk.

– Thank you, Gerald, Miranda says to him. 

She pulls her knickers up, lowers her skirt, then turns him round and kisses him fervently. She then walks out of the photocopying room and goes back to work.

At home that evening, Miranda stretches out on her sofa and drinks wine whilst listening to music. She plays cards for a while, then shuffles the deck and takes the top card. It is the four of hearts. She has a nap.

When she wakes up, she has her vagina back. Her cock has gone again. She showers, dresses in her skimpiest clothes, and goes to a nightclub. She brings a young man home and gets him to fuck her mouth, her cunt, and her ass. Hard. 

He leaves in the early hours of the morning.

Because she has got two days off work, Miranda doesn’t set her alarm clock, but she does shuffle the cards and take the top one. It is the five of diamonds. Miranda relaxes during the day, then in the evening she puts on another set of skimpy clothes and goes to a gay nightclub.

In the nightclub, Miranda lets an aggressive young woman pull her. Miranda, passive and pouty, lets the woman take her home, where Miranda eats her fill of the woman’s mouth, breasts, cunt, and ass, then lets the woman ream her with a twelve-inch strap-on dildo. After the sex, the woman is no longer aggressive, so Miranda goes home. She showers, shuffles the cards, and draws the six of clubs. Miranda then gets into bed and goes to sleep.

When she wakes up, she has her cock back. She also has her breasts and her vagina. She strokes her cock, and it begins to grow hard. Bending it down, she slides the swollen glans into her vagina. The sensations in her vagina and on the end of her cock make her spasm with pleasure. Slowly she fucks her vagina with her cock. Deliberately teasing herself, she stops before she cums and gets out of bed. She dresses in shirt, trousers, and boots. She puts a coat on and tucks her hair under a hat. Then she goes for a walk in the park. 

She starts talking to a young, pretty woman in the park. The young, pretty woman is obviously attracted to her, so Miranda takes her home. In bed, Miranda shows the woman both of her sex organs. 

The woman sucks Miranda’s breasts. The woman sucks Miranda’s cock. The woman licks Miranda’s cunt. The woman tongues Miranda’s ass. The woman fist-fucks Miranda’s cunt.

Miranda sucks the woman’s breasts. Miranda licks the woman’s cunt. Miranda licks the woman’s ass. Miranda fist-fucks the woman’s cunt. Miranda fucks the woman’s face with her cock. Miranda fucks the woman’s cunt with her cock. Miranda fucks the woman’s ass with her cock. 

When it is early evening, Miranda goes home. She doesn’t shuffle the cards. Instead, she bathes, then dresses in a long dress and delicate shoes. She goes to a gay nightclub and starts dancing with a young male and female couple. After a while, a young man – a friend of the couple – joins them. They dance and chat for a while, and then the three of them take Miranda home.

In their bed they find Miranda to be beyond their wildest dreams. Both young men are happy to fuck and be fucked by Miranda; the young woman is happy to fuck and be fucked by Miranda. They all fuck her at the same time. Then she fucks them at the same time. When Miranda gets out of bed in the early hours of the morning, the trio are all still fucking each other.

Back at home, Miranda shuffles the deck and turns the top card over. It is the seven of diamonds. She has a long, hot bath, then gets into bed and listens to music, which soothes her to sleep. When she wakes up in the morning, her cock has gone. Her vagina tingles warmly when she strokes it. She then dresses to go to work. She finishes work and goes home, where she relaxes for a few hours, then prepares to go out. In a restaurant she sits with a young couple. She lets them persuade her to go home with them. The young man fucks her from behind as she eats the young woman’s cunt. The young couple are not as imaginative as they think they are – they want Miranda to stay the night in order to do more of the same. Miranda – not in the mood to teach – politely declines their offer and goes home, where she sets her alarm clock, shuffles the cards again and draws the eight of diamonds. Then she gets into bed.

When Miranda wakes in the morning, the first thing she notices is that she’s smaller in stature. Also, her breasts are not as big as they normally are. They look as though they are not fully formed. She inspects her vagina. It too looks smaller. There is not so much hair around it as there was. Miranda gets up and looks in the mirror. She estimates she’s about thirteen years of age. Miranda phones her employer and claims she’s ill with a bug of some sort. She tells her boss that she’ll be off work for a few days.

She then dresses in a school uniform; white blouse, tie, short black skirt, tiny white knickers, black shoes, and blazer, puts a few books in a bag and goes to the park. She sits on a wooden bench in a secluded part of the park and pretends to read a book. Soon, a middle-aged man who is walking his dog approaches her. He begins to chat to her and she’s receptive to his comments. She pretends to be an innocent, so that when he offers her a small amount of money to go into the bushes with him, she accepts. She asks him to be really gentle with her, knowing he won’t be. He agrees, and then makes her kneel on the ground. He gets his dog to lay down, then tells her to jerk off the dog while he fucks her from behind. Miranda does as he tells her, wondering how far he’ll go. The man lifts her skirt, yanks her knickers down, puts his cock inside her, fucks her hard, cums quickly and – after throwing a few coins at Miranda – hurries off. Miranda – not interested in the money, only the experience – leaves the shelter of the bushes and begins to stroll home through the park.

At the park gates, a car pulls up. There are three young men inside.

– Hey, girlie. Where’re you going? one of the young men calls.

– Home, says Miranda.

– Want a lift?

Miranda nods and gets into the car.

Two of the young men are on the back seat. Miranda sits between them as the car pulls away. She notices that one of the young men is looking at her thighs and masturbating.

– Can I suck it? Miranda asks. Not waiting for an answer, Miranda leans over and takes the cock into her mouth.

Miranda continues sucking as the other young man sticks his fingers inside her. They drive to a deserted barn. In the barn, Miranda gets one young man to lie on the ground, and then she crouches over him, sliding his cock up her ass. She then gets another of them to slide his cock into her cunt. The last one she tells to fuck her face. She then asks them to flood her with spunk. They do. 

The three young men drop Miranda off near to where she lives, and she goes home. She strips, bathes and eats, but doesn’t touch the deck of cards. She dresses again in the school uniform. She deliberates over the knickers. They are sodden with spunk. She’d like to continue wearing them, but she knows that it might bother some of the people she’ll meet later. It doesn’t always, she reflects, but she doubts she’ll meet any connoisseurs this evening. Reluctantly, she slips on a clean pair, identical to the others and is ready.

When it is late evening, she goes to a nearby lorry park. She counts twenty lorries. She makes a few tears form in her eyes and goes to the lorry furthest away from the road. She taps the door. It opens and a youngish man looks out at her. Miranda – acting tearful – tells the man she’s just been dumped there by someone who was giving her a lift. She says she has no money and nowhere to stay. She asks if she can share the man’s cab with him. He says yes. Miranda climbs up into the cab, making sure her skirt rides high up her thighs as she does.

After she’s slammed the door shut, Miranda thanks the man for helping her. The cab smells of diesel and the man has oil on his hands and face. Miranda wants that oil all over her body. She leans over and hugs the man. The man asks her who he should pay, so Miranda pretends she doesn’t know what he means. She begins to repeat her story, but the man stops her talking by grabbing her and pulling her over into the sleeping compartment. He runs his hands over her taut young body. Oil stains mark her blouse. The man rips it open. Miranda’s nipples point up at him. 

– Cover me in oil and spunk, Miranda tells him. The man runs his hands up the inside of Miranda’s thighs. He yanks her flimsy knickers to one side, exposing her moist cunt. 

– Squeeze my tits, Miranda tells him. He does. Hard. Miranda yelps with pleasure. She opens her legs. The man fumbles at his trousers. There are oily handprints on Miranda’s breasts. She wants the man’s cock inside her.

– I’m going to fuck you hard, the man rasps.

– Yes! Miranda pants. As hard as you want. Split me open.

The man thrusts his cock into Miranda’s seething cunt, ramming it home, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her down onto his cock. Miranda, carried away, bites, snarls and scratches. The man thrusts hard, cums heavily and noisily, then slumps. When he’s asleep, Miranda gets out of the cab and goes to the next lorry. She doesn’t bother to straighten her clothes. She likes the feel of the warm spunk dribbling down her legs, so she doesn’t bother to wipe her vagina. She bangs on the lorry door. There is no answer. She goes to the next lorry. She bangs that door. From inside a sleepy voice tells her to fuck off. She goes to the next lorry and bangs on the door. A bald man looks out of the window.

– Do you need some company? Miranda asks.

The man opens the door. Miranda climbs into the cab. The man makes a grab for her tits. Miranda lets him fondle them. She undoes his trousers and takes his cock out. She likes the feel of its thickness. She leans over and begins to suck it. Miranda is good at sucking cocks. She knows that the man is enjoying her expertise. Miranda stops sucking his cock to ask:

– Will you cum in my mouth?

– Keep doing that and I will, the man says.

Miranda continues sucking the man’s cock – up and down the shaft, licking the tip, nibbling the end gently. The man cums suddenly, shooting lots and lots of cum into Miranda’s mouth. She swallows it all, enjoying the warm, salty taste.

She then dresses and leaves the cab. She makes her way home and strips, washes, and gets into bed after setting her alarm clock. In bed, she shuffles the cards and turns the top one over. It is the nine of clubs. Then she sleeps.

When she wakes up, Miranda is a dog. She is medium sized and black. Her cock is long. She goes to the park and runs around. She finds several dogs and sniffs their asses and cocks. She finds several bitches and sniffs their asses and cunts. None are in season though, so she tries to mount one whose season has just finished. It tries to move away, but Miranda pins it down with her paws and fucks it. The lady owner of the bitch keeps trying to make them stop, but Miranda needs her orgasm. She fucks the dog frantically, then cums in short, fast spurts. Then she pulls out and runs home. She knocks the cards off the table and turns the top card. Nine of hearts. Miranda curls up, licks her cock, then sleeps.

On awakening, Miranda is a bitch on heat. She is still medium sized and black, but now her cunt smells delicious. She goes to the park and is instantly surrounded by dogs. Ten follow her into the bushes. They all fuck her, one after the other. Miranda is delirious with pleasure. The first one makes her gasp. The third one makes her cum. The sixth one makes her howl with pleasure. She doesn’t feel the last one, not because it’s not pleasurable, but because her cunt’s so numb.

She staggers home and manages to turn the top card of the deck over. Five of diamonds. Then she sleeps for a few hours, waking up to find that she’s a dog again. She goes to the park again, eventually finding a young woman on a park bench. Miranda sits and looks at the young woman. At first the woman strokes her, so Miranda rolls over, showing the woman her cock. The woman strokes her belly for a while, then gets tired of her and tells her to go away. Miranda stays by the bench. The woman gets up and leaves. Miranda follows her. The woman stops and begins to talk to Miranda.

– Are you lost? A stray?

Miranda rushes forward and nuzzles the woman’s crotch.

– All right! If you’re lost, you can come home with me!

Miranda follows the woman home. In the woman’s house, Miranda is given a bath and some food, neither of which she wants or needs. She then finds the woman’s bed and curls up on it. When the woman sees Miranda on the bed, she tuts, but doesn’t make Miranda move off it. Later, when the woman undresses and gets into bed, Miranda tunnels under the covers and rests her head on the woman’s thigh. The woman doesn’t push her away, so Miranda starts licking the woman’s thigh. The woman still doesn’t push her off, so Miranda moves her head and begins to gently lick the woman’s salty vagina. For a while the woman lays very still as Miranda licks. Then Miranda feels the woman’s hand stroking her head. When the woman starts to breath heavily, Miranda licks her harder, sliding her tongue all the way inside the woman’s delicious cunt. The woman moans and her body begins to move gently and rhythmically. The woman’s hands clasp Miranda’s head, keeping her in her place. Miranda doesn’t mind. She continues to lick the woman’s cunt steadily and the woman begins to thrash about. Finally, after some more moaning and frantic heaving, the woman’s cunt gushes hot, sweet liquid over Miranda’s muzzle. Miranda laps it all up.

In the early hours of the morning, the woman rolls over onto her knees and Miranda eagerly mounts her, sliding her long cock into the woman’s well-lubricated vagina. She fucks her hard and fast, wanting the cum to be big. It is. Miranda howls. So does the woman. Later, Miranda sits by the front door and whines. The woman lets her out and Miranda goes home. She finds the deck of cards, shuffles it, and turns the top card over. Ten of spades.

When she wakes up from a long sleep, Miranda is a woman again. She goes to work. She smiles at Gerald, but he doesn’t smile back. Miranda finishes work and goes home. She has a bath, eats her dinner, then dresses in a short, tight, low-cut dress and a pair of shoes. She goes into a pub. She finds a back room with a pool table and watches a group of men play pool against each other. Miranda puts some money down, reserving a game. When it’s her turn – against the previous winner – she makes sure that she bends over the table a lot, revealing her breasts and the tops of her thighs. She hears a few suggestive comments from the men sitting behind her and becomes more aroused. She becomes more flirtatious, more exhibitionistic. She bends low for shots she doesn’t need to bend down for, she spreads her legs for a better stance, she pretends to masturbate her cue. Finally, someone closes the pool-room door and Miranda deliberately loses the game. She hands the cue to someone else and asks if anyone else would like to play with her. There is a chorus of approval from the men.

Miranda leans back against the pool table and raises her dress. The man she was playing against steps forward and tells her to lay on the table. Miranda slips her dress off, then does as she’s told.

Miranda is fucked by every man in the pool-room. Sometimes she’s fucked by one man at a time, sometimes by two. Her best moment is when one man fucks her, one sticks his cock in her mouth and two have their cocks in her hands as she steadily jerks them to orgasm. When Miranda finally gets off the pool table, her hair is matted, and her body is covered in spunk. She is also very sore – but she’s very, very happy. She dresses and goes home.

After a bath and dinner, Miranda slumps into bed. She doesn’t touch the cards. She knows that soon she’ll have worked her way through this particular pack. There are fifty-two cards per pack.

According to statistics, there are over one million card decks produced per day.

chris kraus
calls it conceptual fucking
how tentacles of emotion
and intellect
connect humanity

if only i had eight limbs
all the better to feel with

apparently eating octopus
is cruel
since they’re so smart

i can’t eat people either
just in right ways
their genitals for example
but never whole

will i ever
truly know you

i don’t even know
if you’re salty enough
except down
where cum tastes like cum
and it’s good

how would you torture me
she asks
i almost can’t control
my metaphysical cum shot
thankfully
it splats in the shower
later
i would whip her ass
apocalyptic moon
i would dip our hearts
in chocolate
i would tell my life story
she would not wear earplugs

It’s prodrome season at the boy aquarium. All I do anymore is watch.

Their big strong business fists, phoning in the revolution. Catch of the day, a still-buffering jester.

In sickness, I press a speaker against the glass. “I want your disease,” someone spits.

The other day, one of the boys asked me if psychopathy can be cured. I said no, not yet. But you could imagine it: the prefrontal implant, penetrating the brain and filling it with someone else.

It sounds sad when I put it like that. But don’t worry: Whimsy persists like a cockroach in lava. The exoskeleton, swollen with orange light. The blood plug. A careful inventory of oh my gods.

From sound alone, it’s tough to tell the knife from the dildo. Sometimes I leave my body during sex and when I come back, it’s like someone recorded my murder on a flip phone: tinny bursts of whiplash, that fake child’s voice reserved for wild animals, the glass like a knock-knock joke about a knock-knock joke about a germaphobe.

After he asked me about psychopathy, he sprawled out half-hard and watched me remove my own restraints. He always carried them in a ridiculous duffle, like a miner off to excavate hell.

Another called me from New York that night to tell me he wants to fly out and cheat on his wife. I told him that’s not how aquariums work, but he was drunk and kept referring to his dick as “this married cock,” as if he were the last living cryptid and I was supposed to snap a picture.

I’m not that kind of creep, though. I don’t take photos; I take samples. I already have his, labeled with his initials and the number 10. He used a condom, not to be safe, but to collect it for me, like rainwater for the thirst of nations. When he was done, I tied it off and tucked it in my purse, so I’d have something to report back about how to survive, something to savor off and on until sealed in the archive.

But that was 15 years ago, when the ocean leaked a lot more, and there were beached whales splashing the word “sperm” onto the papers, and I pretended to enjoy Moby Dick. Back then, I would have drilled through the glass just to know how it felt to be eaten.

I know that doesn’t make me unique. My whole generation was like that: any road trip, any storied gravesite, any elephant’s foot, any pop rocks and soda, any flip cup, any spin the bottle, any extended situationship with the devil himself, any antithetical attachment style, any spreader bar, any safe word, including none at all—we’d try anything at least once.

When I handle a specimen, it’s already contaminated. I don’t bother with rubber gloves anymore. In sickness, I get exactly what I want.

This is the origins story of every pervert: the fluids, the fish, the infinite feeding frenzy. I try to engage in the age-old tradition of flipping the couch cushion, but it’s stained both ways.

“Do you ever feel like you can’t stop watching?”

Mr. Psychopath had asked me to explain the term “gooning.” I told him it’s edging’s protestant cousin. He looked confused, so then I had to explain edging, too—how watching can become a sort of prayer without a request.

All I ever asked for is to be the whore who haunts. As a child, I must have cast a too-successful spell on myself. Against all odds, I beautified myself in time for the apocalypse, in time for the arrival of the four horse cocks, who hid themselves in thick fabrics for fear of being witnessed.

With every orifice leaking their demon glue, I watched him layer burlap on denim. I don’t even know who all this beauty is for. Nothing seems to be reserved for anyone anymore, but I keep collecting it anyway, just in case someone comes looking for it one day. And if no one else does, I will. I will take the bait when my phone shows me a memory slideshow of every dick I sucked in my 20s. I will memorize the catch in their snakelike throats, looping their orgasms through my headphones at the airport. I will pin down their momentary apotheosis like a moth on a spreading board and let its eyeball camouflage tickle the roof of my mouth until I can’t help but swallow it whole.

Sometimes the aquarium looks empty even when it isn’t, and that’s where the specimens come in—to remind me emptiness is a myth. I haven’t seen Mr. Psychopath since, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there, mere feet from the glass, obscured by artificial seaweed, bottom-feeding until he hits concrete. Even in death, his little labeled container will keep him safe.

“This guy sounds as married as the other one,” my novelist friend quips.

I try not to tell novelists much; whatever you tell them, they will polish and sell back to you through their agent. But I tell him just enough: The aquarium, the daily slideshow, the carousel of cocks—things that can be drained by overuse alone. I don’t tell him about the specimens, or the psychobabble, or that the natural endpoint of my sexuality is getting murdered. I don’t tell him the world is all aquarium now; it’s just a metaphor to him, a symptom of the law of excluded middle, where things are either real or unreal, strictly vehicle or strictly tenor, no in between. I don’t tell him because I can’t. I won’t. No one should. Novelists don’t deserve nonfiction.

Prodrome is just the beginning, of course. Novelists know this. But they seem to believe beginnings always lead to endings. I don’t correct them, but I know better. If you stay very still, save all the semen and skin flakes, if you open to any biblically accurate monster who knocks, if you keep shout-talking and refuse to shut up, if you replay the violence long enough, prodrome can last for eternity. If there is any ending worth watching, you won’t live to see it. Instead, before any real plot progression, the fantasy will simply manifest: the shard-spray, face-first, too fast to react. But eaten? That was teenage logic. In the real world, sharks will be busy drowning. Too busy to want you. Too busy even to stare.

The crystal night that we let it all out
The fuckbomb on the levitating bed
Its radiation split me to my throat
We spoke in tongues, eroto-comatose
Then you played dead, I was fucking your corpse
Limp, you sabotaged my entitlement
And all that light around you, what was that?
Back in your clothes and your simulation
Content to be subjugated-good job
Dependable stone, wiped clean of my flesh
Permanently bent over for the whip.
Now I am spread martyred on the snake heap
Wide, speaking in tongues, cock necromancing
And all that light around me, what is that?

Nursing our exit wounds as usual
Should have sliced it off at 13, he said
Cut the drama, joined the monastery
Yes, I should have done something similar
But it would have resulted in the same
Growing ghost tumours stuffed with dick and tits
Cumming and metastasising over
Another starved soul’s desperate air cream
Replacing God like love does anyway
When we reach 13 and nature touches
And nympho twin clamps herself to the boys
Sweet-and-salty-skinned pumping macho backs
Plodding body leaden into the grave
There’s no discipline to be found, I’ve tried

The monk is in the bath washing himself
His cock floating like a little hermit
In the vastness like a little boy bird
Watching a little girl bird circling
Who flew out of the cunt to sing a song
And die once her duty to love is done
He catches her white body in his hand
He kisses the little bird on her mouth
Heathens run out of her mouth into him
They charge right through his floating animal
And the bathwater foams its heathen foam
And the girl bird flies into her climax
Back into the cunt to be nothingness
New little white girl birds fly from her cunt

Bricked into the glory hole at your church
Me and your rat, he’s fine, I have rabies
I forked my tongue in pre-strangulation
You nailed it to a crucifix at your
Crack of manlight, the spermo-gnostic syringe.
Now the penitent performing choirgirl
Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth
I’m marble strewn in strawberry flowers
Waving so sweetly through the glory hole
My mouth full of dirt enough to throttle
You dirty old monk with the cock secrets
The dirty old monk with ASPD
Your rat slithers in and out of my cunt
And chews at my heart and ejaculates

HACK THE ENDOSCOPE. I WANT TO SEE THE PROSTATE.
Paleolithic template on TikTok changing species to cartoon with drip.
HACK THE ENDOSCOPE. I WANT TO SEE THE KING’S PROSTATE.
Does a prostate have more rhythm than a filter drip delusional?
The mother’s bukkake is infinitely replicable.
Like her child’s shame.
God code activated by the mother’s bukkake veil.
The post-scarcity utopia of leisure.
I’m bored here.
HACK THE ENDOSCOPE. I WANT TO SEE THE TRANSURETHRAL
RESECTION.
It is a cartoon for big girls.
I am so big I divided myself.
I scraped myself of drudgery.
I gave myself permission.
I am cloud elite.
Keep spoiling me.
Business case.
HACK THE ENDOSCOPE. I WANT TO SEE THE NECROSIS.
I want to examine our harvest.
All the points at speed.
Deep fake.
Gland free.
Post-corpse.
Data eyes.
She is more palatable.
What do I look like from the fuckable inside?
HACK THE ENDOSCOPE. TEXT TO VIDEO.
Mimic Ideal Ego, Ego Ideal, Super Ego.
HACK THE ENDOSCOPE. TEXT TO VIDEO.
Mimic desire.
Make it etheric.
My cartoon pussy is up for peer review.
The pussy tract is acidic.
With a prostate on top. Can you print that?
The acid database.
Our painted face.
The ouroboric generate.
We ingest the endoscope.
We regurgitate the endoscope.
Recursive with a liability of rot.

I.

I shoot you utterly blind on the spot
I put the gold into you molten now
And there is a ray snaking through your gut
The layers of my personalities
My high-shifting whispers and my old threats
And my lullaby you are scorched face-fucked
I come for you threefold threefold threefold
I should never bring you comfort nor thaw
I am the comedown and I am the throb
You are the bee in tremors for last feed
Prying at the plug with every arm
Asking why does the rose close herself, why?
Well, be present little bee stay the course
Do not shoot back to your institution
For I will go down on you with the brute force
You raped the powder of the flower with
Penetrate every dick root impulse
And every mad receptor will itch
There is karma in beauty for the dick
There is a cycle that is a loop that
Is umbilical for some of my boys
Light in my mouth is never the same twice
Keep those beady eyes closed Bartimaeus
Understand risk and the joy of surprise
Be melted show your front for the orgy
I am purifying the pig tonight
Laying-on of hands golden ordinate
Dilate your head and be field indecent

II.

My eyes are cobalt gloom and elastic
Campari corpse floats in the swimming pool
Drenched in my disappearing cobalt gloom
I have been orbiting for all the years
Dark in my mouth is never the same twice
I could ease in your most peaceful night’s sleep
I could make the pig squeal leg in a trap
I could show symbols for analysis
For the pointless quest for question’s answers
I could be the last rose and the last dream
Your Ajna dissipates across matter
Dissipates as I but you won’t come back
Tomorrow with your drop of edging dew
The ordination is too advanced now
The red is raw the piggy has been peeled
Pig fumbles for the pharmaceuticals
Pigs should not seek resolve they should just be
Hard pork, the red, the fat, the aureole
We inhale the pig exhale the pig’s rays
Your dust is a set to view once only
We dig you so deep a grave of small sway
And we sing to the next pig the same song
At the next horizon point you cuckold
See that hot red line? You wish it were your
Solid length of atmospheric lava
The phallus for your lover her answer
In all your years in spin have you ever
Lashed one so great across civil twilight?

III.

We are inside your head now nothing else
A pig naked alone in his madness
Afraid to open his eyes like a child
Certifiable-our favourite kind
Fondling his Apple the heartrate dash
A passionist losing his battery
We love the compliance of men the state
Their black grapes they bloom such decomposure
Aching lust is taken into the pitch
The pitch is bigger than anything else
The pitch purifies all lust and malice
We send you there but we have never been
We stay stunning on our recruitment ring
Fondling their Apples with bitchy hands
The final flaunt the inevitable
The downward spiral back into the bends
A billion insects stop their screeching
Do you hear that? Do you? It is nothing
And inside of it all the hope of hope
Negative is the most fertile valley
A glimpse through saucer eyes to satiate
The consciousness to lose the consciousness
Incubatio in our temple sleep
We take one each night it is the custom
Our voices so high our bodies so low
We are the fall the nightfall emission
Our lilts stick in the terminal pig root
We siphon angel dust from the chosen

He had banana-colored hair and a banana-shaped face and a banana shaped-chest and a banana-shaped dick and the skateboard he rode was also like a banana and the birthmark on the side of his neck was almost a banana but more like a plum. I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me, but he wanted to know if there was truth to the rumor that we had an orgy house.

It was summer and we had time. I lived with my boyfriend Fabio on the first floor of a rundown Victorian. He drank and worked in a bookstore, in that order. He drummed and smoked handrolled Drum cigarettes. 

“I don’t know why anyone would want to talk to him,” my ex said to me a year before. “He is always stoned, who knows what other drugs he’s on. He’s also bisexual. I saw him with his arm around a man from Africa. He might have aids from Africa!” 

I wasn’t expecting to be with Fabio intimately but I had a dream one night that we ate an enormous pot of curry and made love. So I duplicated the dream, and everything after this made sense.

We had sex, so much sex that people started to show up at the house to be a part of our sex. We spent more hours of a week having sex than working or eating or sleeping. There were noises I’d never made before. We could be motionless, feel a yellow tide of euphoria wash over our bodies. At times we moved outside of our skins and floated in a throbbing ether. Sex was our religion. 

Men and women joined us and some could cut it and some sulked in corners and there was a blonde with nipples as wide as flying saucers and thighs on top of her thighs.

Banana Boy came along after a number of boys. We drank wine with Banana Boy until the night we knew he wanted more. 

It was midnight and he still hadn’t left. The candles were lit in a kitchen coated with bean drippings and spilled wine and my boyfriend got out an album he bought at a garage sale. Two explorers on the cover crossed a desert and every sand dune was part of a naked woman whose body went on to the horizon.

Fabio played the album. It was called Pleasure Signals. It was awful, a jazz-fusion that galloped and had cowbells and sax solos that sagged like tattered lace. 

We lit candles. Fabio got out the dagger. He slit his wrist and made a pile on the kitchen floor of candle wax and his blood and rich red wine and handed the hunting knife to me to do the same.

I wiped the blade and pricked the tip of my finger. I added a single drop to the mound of candle wax and blood. I handed the knife to Banana Boy and he looked at it and paused. 

Fabio chanted “Plea-sure signals, plea-sure signals,” and I joined him.

As we chanted, Banana Boy made the cut.

Then we went to the bed and we fucked until dawn but Fabio was upset because Banana Boy only wanted me and Banana Boy left before the sun got too high in the sky.

We didn’t see him for weeks, but the rumors got back to us. Banana Boy thought we were evil wizards. We had put a spell on him. For weeks he could not go to his classes. He broke down in tears to his girlfriend, and we ended up acting excessively nice to him to get him to calm down. 

I will never forget the afternoon where we went to a bongo drum store with Banana Boy and roamed around aimlessly caressing the dead skins stretched on wood, dead skins, caress, caress, a gentle tap, until Banana Boy decided we were kind of innocent after all, in the light of day in a bongo drum store while a man in a Rasta hat played Bob Marley on a stereo as if there was a first time for everything. 

I regret going to the bongo store to make the boy who felt I was an evil sex wizard feel better. Wizards live without regrets, therefore I am not a wizard.

“Just the tip!” I said, “We can just slip the tip in, not all the way!” But my blood wanted all the way. I was sliding off the edge of the bed, my body coated in a feverish sweat, my limbs quaking as if I had been given shock therapy. Fabio stood above me with his corduroy shirt unbuttoned, an Indian skirt hiked above his waist, radiator piping steam in our Rochester Winter, steam heat so sweet it smelled like confectionary sugar mixed with Fabio’s Drum Tobacco Fingers. His chest hair was thick, a moss-bed runny with human musk. 

I ground my body against the edge of the mattress, his leg. We both knew we weren’t supposed to do this. The Doctor told us so.

But it was the first year of my life I had orgasms with a man. Fabio and I tuned into something together. We lived for it. Five times a day, seven, on the floor, against walls. All night. We’d fall asleep attached to each other, because the pleasure kept on going, hard or soft. He was the cartridge in my gun. 

But the Doctor!

See I was pregnant, again. I was twenty-one years old and didn’t use contraception, thinking that mystically following the cycles of the moon and using something called the ‘rhythm method’ would work out. I had just been congratulating myself on my months of luck, thinking I could feel, like a shaman, like a nun, the sacred rising and falling of hormones in my body. 

But I was two weeks late. I took the test. A supreme child of love was inside me. 

I had taken to wearing an Ashanti fertility charm sold at a street fair, the big brass head of a naked woman dangling from a leather cord between my breasts, my vanilla scoops, because she was beautiful. The minute I found out I was pregnant I yanked that thing off. I couldn’t STAY this way!

“Just the tip!” I said in a sing-song as I grabbed the part I needed and pulled it toward me. Lightning bolts broke behind my eyes. My body was a lake of caramel, needing cock.

We were prepared to go half and half on the abortion, but I did my research. I found an ad on campus where a doctor was looking for pregnant patients to be in a trial of an experimental abortifacient. A drug to relieve inflammation in arthritis sufferers had caused spontaneous abortions. I’d hate to think of the oops moment the doctors had with those women. The cincher? It would be free.

The experiment was conducted under maximum security. Anti-abortion activists were entering the hospital, I was told, some of them armed. I was vetted over two appointments, signed papers of secrecy. No, I wouldn’t sue or change my mind. I had to be awake at six in the morning to get my first shot in the ass.

Doctor Schramm picked me up in his car. He had leather seats, the lingering scent of smoke competing with the tree-shaped deodorizer above his dashboard. His face was hound-dog long with wire-frame glasses, a mouth that barely broke a smile. I studied the alternating knives of black and white stubble already forming under his freshly-shaved skin. We parked, and moved through locked chambers, keypads and guards. As we went deeper into the hospital maze, Schramm continued to look behind his shoulder.

“But why six in the morning?” I asked Schramm, lowering my pants.

“The activists don’t get here until eight,” he said, and stuck the needle in me, deep. He instructed me to hold a cotton ball filled with rubbing alcohol on the injection site.

He filled his clipboard and gave me a sober warning: 

“You come back in two days for the second shot. This first shot terminates the pregnancy. The second shot is a compound that flushes it out. Leave a message with my service if you experience any discomfort. And this is important: You can’t have sex between the shots.”

“Of course,” I said. 

I nodded with my serious frown. His assistant wrote something on a clipboard. 

The Doctor insisted on driving me back to Fabio’s apartment because he wanted his test subjects out of the line of fire as quickly as possible. To say this man was paranoid about death threats was an understatement.

“Just the tip!”

The tip, it was huge. It hung from Fabio’s body in a way that reminded me of a camel, a sexy camel. 

The time was eight in the evening. Winter darkness had been dragging on for hours. 

My shot was so long ago! Surely I could slip the tip in—if it was just the tip, nothing bad would happen!

With the force of a bulldozer, Fabio was on me and my hips were swiveling. We rapidly assumed the rhythm, like jazz, like starbursts. I’d slide out of sync, surge forward. I would arch into a c, feel my consciousness on the inside of my body, as if my vaginal canal was my brain, calamari-hard, could think, could breathe, could like a bodybuilder hold planets in its grip.

My mind fell back; the sensation of being twisted inside, and laughing, the release. 

We started singing loudly: “Ju-uuuuh-ssst the t-iiiii-iii-iiip!

After this we had sex all night, because surely, after having broken the rule once, there was no going back to the way things were. 

 

Two days passed. I answered the phone at six am. I was riding shotgun in the Doctor’s car, swimming in coffee breath, Fabio in the back. 

This was a drearier ride than last time. The horizon was intravenous gray. Pyramids of plowed snow, a drizzle of rain battering miles of ice into a sluice. We rolled past the cemetery gates to get to the hospital on the other side. I was bundled in a Swiss army jacket dyed black, cut-off jeans over leg warmers, combat boots—I, smelling of smoke and sex and youth, three hundred alien salivas; an inventory of pleasure crimes.

We raced through a series of security alcoves, beeps. We reached the examination room. 

I took a piss test. The Doctor instructed me to get on the stirrups. He took my temperature, asked me how the procedure was going. No pain, I said.

Fabio was seated on a stool behind the Doctor, wriggling in torn pants, folding and refolding his hands as if he was hiding from the clinical environment, the lights. 

The Doctor made notes on his clipboard. He asked me if I had followed the directions I was given. 

I said, “I think I did…” my voice trailed off for a moment, and then I looked over at Fabio.

“Well. We had sex.” I confessed.

Schramm looked disappointed. I was ruining the controls of his experiment. 

“How many times?” the Doctor asked.

I looked over at Fabio again.

“Maybe ten, or fourteen times?”

Schramm raised his eyebrows and gave a sharp look at both of us. 

“I understand that you two are young and at your hormonal peaks, but this is a serious matter. You do want this trial to work so that you aren’t wasting our time?”

“Y-yes,” we both said.

Schramm was shaking his head. In the depths of his lines, I thought I saw a Mona Lisa smile. He wrote something on his clipboard and looked up.

“We are proceeding with the experiment and giving you the second shot.”

I was told that over the course of the day I would begin to experience cramping, which could last for up to twelve hours. I would bleed, and it would be heavy. I was given a small white envelope of painkillers.

I was supposed to check in when I was bleeding, then check in two days later, six months later, and continue to check in over the next five years. 

Five years!

“I have more paperwork for you to sign.”

 

I went into contractions, twelve hours of pain with no escape. My uterus balled like a fist, like a fission chamber, one atom to split. The envelope of painkillers barely blunted the sensation of knives in my guts, and the blood came heavy. 

“My mind is a feather hovering above this shell, breathe deeply, one….two…..three…..f-iiiiiiiive….”

No exit. The sun set. No exit. Our nest of blankets coated in sweat, the wrong kind of sweat.

It was dark when I was able to rise, limp to the toilet.

  Fabio came home from work, not knowing my day had lasted a year. He only smelled the sweat and blood.

Subjects of medical trials are known to receive lavish rewards for offering their bodies as guinea pigs. Well the next day I returned to Doctor Schramm to get checked out, and fetch my payment.

In this case, my reward was not only an abortion. Each woman in the trial would be injected with newly-patented drug that normally cost patients hundreds of dollars a year. A contraceptive, which would last four months!

I did not like taking medicine, but here I was dropping my filthy jeans to get a shot of Depo Provera in my already-bruised right buttock.

For the next four months I felt like I was experiencing an abortion that never stopped. The injection did not sit well in me. 

Fabio and I kept having sex. It was as intense as ever, but now, almost every day, I had cramps. I felt tired and my throat hurt. To make up for this, I started a winning speed habit. 

I could not wait for my four months to pass and have this injection out of my system!

Later on, sometime around September, Fabio and I started to grow apart. This was on a cross-country road trip. Campsite after campsite, floor after floor of friends of friends of friends, and our bond was wearing thin. 

How could so much pleasure once shared erode? There are hundreds of ways.

Wrapped in a scarf, in a box, and carried with me for two or three years as I moved: The Ashanti fertility charm.

 

Five years later I was visiting my mother. She was balancing her checkbook at the kitchen table when she spoke:

“Honey, I got the strangest call from a man claiming to be a Doctor. He said he was an instructor of yours at the University. He said his name was Doctor Schramm, but I know you never took a class with a Doctor Schramm. There was something really fishy about his voice, though I couldn’t say what. I kept on asking what he was really calling about and he wouldn’t answer me. He just wanted to get your phone number and address. Of course I didn’t give it to him. Every time he wound the conversation around to get it, I said you were away. He’d ask again and again, and I said you were away! I did the right thing, didn’t I, not giving that strange man your number? Who knows who that really was. It could be someone we know pulling a prank.”

“Or it could be a telemarketer,” I said to her, playing along with her innocence, knowing the truth about the Doctor and his disappointment, wondering how many subjects he was able to stay in contact with, in his steadfast quest to make sure that American women, no matter what the political climate, could still get abortions with arthritis drugs—no matter how many Militant Christians walk into hospitals wrapped in dynamite, offering poison apples, with submachine guns and butcher’s knives.

My mother retired to the living room to say her rosary and watch an episode of General Hospital. 

No, I would not tell her! I could only reveal to her a little of the truths about my life. 

Not the whole truth—just the tip.

Our little town (pop. 21,275) has four grocery stores, eighteen churches, zero hospitals, three urgent care clinics, nine restaurants and 28 fast food options. We also have nine gun and ammo shops, 23 bars, 12 liquor stores and seven massage parlors, five of which are rated “nut-positive” on TugMaps.com. 

This last number might seem excessive, but where divorce rates run close to 69%, the local massage parlors are more than just a dirty open secret. If you’ve ever interacted with the men around here at any major intersection or the drive-in line at Caffeine Queens, you must also know that the parlors are the only bulwark between us and a daily rash of suicides and mass shootings.

But you’ve got to wonder, in a town with so many desperate and unlovable men, where all the women go. Someone must strike the balance and flick the beans. Some say that man is the mechanical bull operator working ladies’ night at Cahoots Bar & Grill, but after eavesdropping on soccer moms in line at the post office, I uncovered the truth. Hiding in plain sight in a rundown strip mall between Little Caesar’s and Planet Fitness, is Serenity Now, and certified Swedish physical therapist Svenhard Swardsen.

Getting an appointment with Svenhard was tougher than the other parlors, especially when the receptionist discovered I was a he/him. TugMaps gives Serenity Now a 0, with a handful of reviews touting the therapeutic rigor and cleanliness of the facilities, but shooting down any chance of a happy ending. But all of these reviews were posted by men. Like many more of us than will admit it, Angel Spa takes in most of its traffic through a rear entrance. 

Of the four regular masseuses at Serenity Now (two women, two men), only one is in much demand. I agreed to pay double the hourly rate for an emergency session with Svenhard, but even then, I had to wait for a cancellation.

As a New Age version of Abba’s “I Have A Dream” plays from hidden speakers and lingonberry-scented candles burn, I lay supine under one of those gold foil blankets French paramedics give you after a winery explosion, a tow-headed slab of beefcake in a smock covering a sleek Spandex bodysuit enters and scrubs up with the icy reserve of a brain surgeon. Not batting an eye at my sex, Svenhard removes my protective sheet with a flourish and oils his hands from a tiny decanter, working the oddly musky mixture into the sinews of his surprisingly lean and sinewy hands as he hums along with the endless song. 

He looks like a bear who plays piano when he’s not fighting crime. He answers my probing questions in monosyllables, his voice an oddly disarming alto with a lavish and alluring vocal fry. But he gives away nothing about his female clientele, or his popularity with them.

As he works my back, I begin to wonder if he’s not just punishing me, until I objectively recall every other Swedish massage I’ve endured. Pushing his fists into my vertebrae like he’s trying to pulverize them, rolling his knuckles into my muscles until every knot unravels into jelly. 

I have never felt more relaxed; so much so, I almost don’t take my wallet out from under my pillow and open it. Without a word, he pours more oil onto his right hand, then spreads my legs with his left. 

He pushes me back down as I twist to turn over. “You want to know why all the ladies come to Svenhard?” he murmurs, so that the fine hairs of my inner ear stand on end. Left hand pressing me effortlessly down, he works a finger into me and deftly corkscrews it up my rectum. 

Gliding frictionless up inside me until he tickles my last breakfast burrito, I can feel the chill pressure of a signet ring against my perineum. Hot, steamy plumes of his breath wash over my twitching buttocks. Droplets of briny monsoon rain fall from his brow onto my spine.

Something scrapes me deep inside, where I’ve never felt anything but full or empty. I squirm and try to beg off and offer him twice as much to stop, when I see he’s doesn’t just have one rigid digit up my anus. It’s his whole hand, up to the wrist. 

“Relax,” he whispers, makes a fist and knocks on the door of my prostate.

I go away…

Riding the undertow of alien pleasure right out of my body. Up through the ceiling and the strip mall and into the sky, adrift on a secret current stronger than the wind. I float over the rooftops and through walls and windows, riding a river of forbidden pleasure energy. 

I watch a housewife get double-teamed by the pool cleaning crew while her husband naps; a recently divorced teacher works the train on ecstatic ninth graders (they come so fast, she has to run them five at a time); two bored clerks at the donut shop lick icing off each other’s vaginas in a race to get off before the after-school rush.

I rove on, a voyeuristic ghost growing with each little death. I want to see more! I voicelessly crow. I want to see all of you! And for my sins, I do… 

A bank manager fingers his shriveled manhood and drags his lit cigar up and down his secretary’s inner thighs; a Harvest Market security guard takes a shoplifter across his desk while her young son plays a game on her phone; a sheriff’s deputy pounds his pregnant wife while their kindergartener and toddler rifle through Dad’s gun cache. The varsity football team circle jerks in the showers after practice, trying to direct their ejaculate onto a single Ding Dong. The first kid to cum has to eat the Ding Dong. The coach bellows at them, pocket-pooling his stubby erection and ogling a stopwatch. A youth pastor pumps his dick watching the local little league team practice but breaks off to look me dead in the eye and whispers, “Get it, sinner,” as his spunk splatters the steering wheel of his Cybertruck.

Connecting the dots of afternoon delights and sordid secrets almost takes me over the hills into the next town when I’m brutally whiplashed back into the spa and my body, still tingling with shameful joy at the orgasm and the visions. No wonder every unsatisfied wife in town comes to Svenhard. In his hands, every client flies free of their dumpy drive-thru McDonalds body and peeps enough sordid fuckery to fuel the neighborhood gossip mill for another week. 

He pokes my prostate one more time before discreetly withdrawing his hand. As he washes his hands, I marvel that I could have contained such size and strength. I sit up, gingerly separating my shrunken junk from a dry scab of semen, and look for my clothes. He turns his back to me and asks me to help him with something, pointing at the zipper at the back of his neck.

“You want to know everything?” He explains that it’s been so long since he worked on another man who seemed to get it, and somehow, he feels like he can, at last, reveal himself. 

I told myself I would say yes to whatever this article wants, so I reach for his zipper and tug it down.

His svelte physique spills out onto me like molten lava. Quivering, sweat-slick Jell-O skin in such shocking abundance that I recoil from it; but it engulfs me, pinning me to the table as his zipper unzips the rest of the way under the tsunami of extra skin.

He used to weigh 675 pounds, he tells me. He’s saving up to get nearly 90 pounds of excess flesh surgically removed, but the women of our town are not generous tippers. It’s a lot cheaper if you have high quality skin with fine pores and no scars, because private collectors will buy it on the gray market.

Babbling nervously, he turns to face me as I push the oleaginous skirt of skin off my lap. When I ask why he chose to show me this, he nibbles his lips, crestfallen. “Something you said when you went away.” He trembles so that the drapery of his arms flaps like a bat’s wings. “Never mind,” he says, “it’s nothing.” 

I dress, leave a moderate cash tip and flee the room before he starts crying.

7/10; would visit again.

In this isolated evening
of severe passion
and alcoholism

you spat out the remains
of Hare Krishna
and Rimbaud.

Naturally, I was sickened
and told you to leave.

There are no words anymore,
and, consequently, no love.

I don’t care about you
and if I ever did

it was only because I
was confused, cold,
hungry, tired, and bored.

Let no one try to
tell us again
about the myth of
love, life, and literature.

1

fucking you was like

fucking a corpse

of green-headed flies

 

2

fucking you was like

fucking a corpse—

the maggots of physical

                love 

 

3

emblematic fly fuck

of our most

primitive desires  

In 1967, Disney Imagineers invented the Omnimover. In this looping, continuous moving track system, vehicles rotate, controlling the rider’s viewing experience. The first attractions to use the Omnimover were Monsanto Adventure Thru Inner Space (the Atomobile) and The Haunted Mansion (the Doombuggy).

In The Haunted Mansion a female apparition is draped in a gown/shroud. Named by Imagineers Little Leota, she is the attraction’s final hologram, sing-song coaxing us to “hurry baaaaack” as we exit our Doombuggy and return to Frontierland. For some reason, Imagineers rendered this holo-vision 1/3 scale. I have always found her pale-perfect face and tiny figure kind of hawt! Is this because she “imprinted” me when I first beheld her at the hormonal age of 13? And today, which pervy fixation/fetish of mine doth this Goth Tinker Bell mini-cutie haunt? Jacques Lacan’s quasi-masochistic “Objet petit a” flips to Sade, like a Pleasure Daddy to yet another “little other.”  Girl A then Girl B then Girl C etc. pirouetting princess dolls whose limbs he longs to pin during sex. Beckoning but out-of-reach. Beheld yet unholdable.

In Fear of Kathy Acker (FOKA), narrator “Jack” has a freaky epiphany in Disneyland’s Monsanto Adventure Thru Inner Space. In his Atomobile, he confronts a looping crisis of the psyche. The one formed of compulsive lust and its elaborate rationalization, romance. Miniaturized, Jack also sees the hokey ride’s giant snowflakes as illusory constructs of the vast social order – language and culture. These forces, too, have frozen his personality, now melting like the ego in an acid trip. The Atomobile of self-examination peers into snowflake H2O molecules, revealing angsty urges for “the other.” It compresses galaxies of the self, liquified in deliciously stoopid yearning and salt-tart tears of love. His Omnimover directs his (male) gaze. Obsessions with unending & ascending levels of bodily erotomania grasp at infatuations, cycling more ultimately unknowable heavenly bodies into electron orbit. Pleasure Dom Daddy claims and clasps his subs with shiny eternity collars. In FOKA, as “my body drifts through matter like water,” new cuties revolve and dissolve under my desire-scope. And, years later, it seems I have learned very few lessons. As I write in Myth Lab, “I can’t prevent it. Or I don’t want to.”

In The Book of Dreams, Haytham El Wardany writes, “Sleep makes the past present as though it happened differently. Former lovers haunt us and the dead return as ghosts. Sleep revisits them, without healing over ‘the wound’ of their absence. Others collect in deep recesses from which they may return only decades later, warped beyond recognition.”

Dream: Standing close with L in the bathroom, face to face, hugging, light kissing. I feel her bony shoulders and clavicles. She’s in her heels and, and so, taller. She is happy and laughing. I tell her, Call or text me any time. Please.

Dream: I’m awake texting M to meet up, because she’s still my girlfriend. Other girlfriends are real too. I should make plans with them as well. Then I realize it happened in the past. But a part of my heart remains with all of them. Like R. Part of me is always with her and vice versa.

Dream: Courtney Taylor snuggles up and offers her large, round, luscious, fake boobs.

Dream: A super hot version of A in a slinky dress is flirting with me like crazy. She slides next to me at my desk which is also a bed. Slips under the blanket that covers us both and we make out. But I’m embarrassed because it’s the office of my new job. People are looking. Two older executive men come over. They want some of this A action and they’re not afraid to do it in front of others.

Dream: L returns: Lying prone, by my side, her elbows pinned behind her back. Her lips mouth into mine the shapes and sounds of DDLG baby talk. This filters to kisses and then to the unknowable place where sound evaporates into moisture.

Dream: Compact in stature, tarted-up in heels and make-up, the hot milfy businesswoman is all over me. She sidles up to me at the restaurant table. We grab each other.

Dream: I wake up in a hotel bed, realizing I have to run home to grab some cash because… lying beside me is M. Adorable cute sex worker M. Smiling with her pink cheeks and giant eyes, ready to fuck. This feels like a very positive premonition. 

Dream: At an art event, E sidles up to me. S looks on from far across the room. E’s body is compact, soft. She curls around me. I feel vaguely guilty about enjoying this, but she encourages it.

Anal sex dream. She is face-down, pushing her tiny butt up. Once I slide my cock in it gets good. She is M, or R, or one of those “little butts.” 

Dream: L returns in full force. After expelling one of her apocalyptic orgasms, she scoots above me and offers her boobs. The lotioned softness. The crinkly implant rippling under skin. The nipple for suckling. She moans in pleasure and I slurp it.

Dream: More encounters with lit hotties: This time it’s P from London! We cuddle in the corner during the reading, her legs touching …opening …allowing my hand to scoop the wetness. She gasps “I’m cumming!” and I feel her cunt contract and throb. She goes for my cock… puts it in her mouth. It is extra thick!! But w pink and black vitiligo colors and mushroom shapes. Hawt and weird! At times she morphs into C, the book reviewer. Both women share my archetype and emanation: Shortish black hair. Eyes that deeply peer. I wake up fucking hard.

Dream: You know how, in the Haunted Mansion, there are those concave busts whose eyes follow you? Well I am in an enormous version of the Haunted Mansion, and instead of those ghost busts, there is a giant concave statue of woman’s thighs and pussy…. Complete with luscious clit. The entire sculpture is off-white marble. Inside this inverted sculpture is the spirit of the woman herself… Cooing, she invites me to eat her out.

Dream: …I’m with E. Just us 2. She’s seated in a bare chair facing me. Hands behind her back. When I call her baby she responds. When I call her bitch she really responds. Tears form. Tears that say she needs it. I announce I’m going to “punish” her. She must ask for permission to cum.

Dream: Very sexy reunion with L. I want to kiss her. I want to tell her things. But mostly I want to eat out her delicious cookie. I can still taste it.

Dream with L. She enters at the end. Sitting in my passenger seat. She sings/says, “Everything I’ve lived, I learned to love.” Or “Everything I’ve learned, I’ve lived to love.” And it is another example of her mistress/guru, wise/optimism in the face of adversity.

Dream: Who makes an erotic appearance but… R. First in a cluttered bedroom, she rises to leave and now I see her dressed in super hot outfit. Her long legs in stockings. We walk into the living room of my current house. For some reason my brother is there. I awkwardly introduce them before realizing they’ve met before. R and I move to the front door. She wants cock. She gropes under my pants somehow. (They’re very baggy or have become a skirt/hospital gown) She wants to suck. But first she wants to rim me and use her mouth on my balls. A slutty tongue bath. 

Dream: For the first time ever, surprisingly, S joins the whirlwind of lovers. I wait for her to arrive to our rendezvous in a suburban bedroom. I’m playing a recording she left for me. Sexy whispers of daddy daddy daddy daddy and then indecipherables. Is it some kind of sound art? I wait for her arrive but the whole scene changes. She becomes a he and is grumpy and refuses to explain.

Postscript: The term cathexis is used to describe an investment of libidinal energy in an object or an idea. Examples of cathexis may include sentimental attachment to a keepsake, family heirloom, a photograph, or… a dream.

You send a photo of your working hand, your tendons, carpals, metacarpals, and my thought ticks across your body, your brain and voice and breath. I set my own just-sufficient hands to ranging my raw want, my mind on your tongue and face and hands and /yes/ and cock and saliva and semen and /yes/ and arms and clavicles and /yes/ and skin and /yes/ and /yes/ and /yes/ and there are cables that fasten behind my hips pulling me toward you and /yes/ even at this distance I lift to your absence pressing and /yes/ I want you to watch me and /yes/ my mouth floods with its own drenched wet and /yes/ and /yes/ my cunt is all constriction, trying to find you, hold you and /yes/ I do not check my breath and /yes/ I do not check the moan that starts beyond language and /yes/ moves through my body like destruction and /yes/ my aspiration speaks your name into this being and /yes/, it ends, and I regain myself and fall away laughing, panting, my blood-flushed face starved only for your face.

 

Previously published in Two Tickets to Midnight, Pure Sleeze Press, 2024

A friend’s German shepherd
crashed the glass
of a second-floor window,
shredded her shoulders
and broke both hips
to get at the male next door.

Wanting you from a distant city,
I finally understand howling.

 

Previously published in Two Tickets to Midnight, Pure Sleeze Press, 2024

So there I am, folding socks,
and he starts talking dirty,
trying to turn me on.
He’s not just talking dirty;
he’s naked,
jacking off,
describing everything.
He claims my voice
makes him hard.
I was doing laundry;
I’m not wearing underwear.
To him, this means
I was expecting him to call.
It’s an ordinary evening.

And while he describes
how it would feel to bend
me over the dryer,
I’m supposed to pretend
it’s happening.

I’m an empiricist
and require proof.

As I move
pillowcases between
the washer and the dryer,
clean the lint trap,
and fluff my whites,
he comes,
holds the phone to his lap,
and expects me to hear something.
Apparently neither of us is listening.

Aubrey Andromeda had Teutonic braids that glistened in the first-date sun like morning money. She lived in a city of Mitteleuropean surround-sound psyche-fog. I was dating her when she worked as a nude model at the art institute but then the life drawing sessions always turned into group therapy for her to talk about her parents. I was in the back of the class with my charcoal pencils and paper. She tore apart my drawings as they made her look too fat. She talked and talked during the sessions, and no one could draw her poses but the art students gave advice on how to handle her dysfunctional family of gods and goddesses. She got mad at me for that too. Her parents were divorced but her mom stalked her dad at his trailer and parked her wheelchair in front of his truck so he couldn’t leave his home, and the story affected culture, myth, operas hundreds of years later. I should have just jetted, fucked off out of the city of fog back to the “near beyond,” the fields where I came from. Instead I drew outlines of her, back in her tiny apartment in the hell-mansion by the canals and she was furious with how I rendered her. Her life drawings as they progress through the sketchbook become more detailed and developed, marking the variable distances between the model, the drawing, the inevitable painting, and some unattainable “ism” which the painting fits into.

In the hell-mansion by the canals in the city of fog every threshold between rooms was either a step up or a step down: no two rooms were built on the same level. It was like an ant’s nest inside. Secret passages opened behind the movable bookshelf. The board game mansion was riddled with secret passageways connecting distant corners of the house that, if mapped from bird’s eye view, made swastikas in the floor maps. Gyroscopes, trompe l’oeil paintings, totems, a single rotating hourglass on a gimbal in the contortionist’s boudoir which was “off-limits,” according to the landlord, but whenever I visited Aubrey at the hell-mansion she’d take me on tours around the place. She didn’t care. As Aubrey walked down the aisle in the private cinema her shadow fell on the velvet chairs and hydra-writhed as she moved. There had to be a person there, in motion, for this movement through time to be seen. Only one person. I the watcher am not there. There is something in the isolation tank with me, when I’ve been in there for a few hours — or is it days? some presence slithering.

The map room contained thick volumes of pages printed with magic squares bound in crocodile skin, shamanic divination guides in Batak which instructed Sumatran witch doctors in training to cut the wattle off a rooster, then right away put a basket over the lurching body, then how to interpret the position of the chicken corpse when you remove the basket — omens are read from the posture, the attitude of the wings and limbs evacuated of life will tell the future. Colonel Sanders a white-robed, white-goateed necromancer. 

Representation of true life is offensive and hurtful. Don’t ever tell a woman her body resembles something else. All non-grasping for metaphors of ugly pulchritude is recommended. Aubrey didn’t know she could become a piston of sex until it was happening, the discovery of the objekt quality of her body plus movement that only gets truly unlocked with a partner with the right dimensions, insistences, manipulations, legs thrown over my shoulders.

Women in my world wore no underwear and never saw gynecologists. Madwomen. The BDSM experiments: I will just say I didn’t like them although in the moment I participated big time. She liked receiving discipline. Kneading her ass cheeks with my open palms and then knuckles heavily, abusively. Pain massages. Rolling my fist around one of her glutes, hard, interspersed with lighter than air feather caresses on her nerve-endings with my fingertips. Then a series of cupped strikes on her ass-cheek that would pop and ring out throughout her floor of the hell-mansion. Caused her to cum. Spanking, lots of spanking. She wanted to edge me, but I told her I didn’t want to be under her control. I privately found her personality in these modes to be ridiculous and obnoxious.

We break into this office in the hell-mansion with red and black maps on the walls, all velvet. We don’t know who the desk belongs to, but it is big and oak with gold fittings. I eat her out in the office chair, her legs spread over the arms of the chair, then I trigger the pneumatic lever which drops her down to my level with a yelp. After I enter her, instead of thrusting my body, I use my strength to roll her on the chair toward me and away on its casters, pulling and pushing her and using her while I kneel there as still as a statue. She moves on my power cable dick. When I pull out to cum on her stomach what comes out is thick wads of cotton or the smoke-seed puff that comes out of a crushed cattail. I’ve never seen this before and this happenstance is a temporal marker, a signal for me that this is taking place in a nightmare and what is to follow, the next stages of life, will be inescapable. She’s angry and insulted that I don’t cum inside her, but I’m terrified of pregnancy even though she’s on the pill, her one concession to seeing a gynecologist. She accuses me of neglecting to orgasm inside her because I’m ashamed of her appearance and said, “You’d risk pregnancy if I were better looking,” and it sets off a cascade of arguments and recriminations. She questions my manhood, insinuates I’m a fag, and calls me a little bitch which she apologizes for weeks later. 

We break up when I can no longer pull her hair. I never pulled my ex-wife’s hair during sex, just held it like a slack harness. I held Aubrey’s hair back hard, animalistic, fighting with her scalp like I was marlin fishing; she clearly wanted me to. Nightmare sex. In a porn video I recall, when the porn actress is going “please…please…please” while being railed, staring into the man’s eyes: What is she talking about? What’s she verbalizing, or is it just acting? He stops and says, “I’m doing it to you! What is this ‘please’ business?” Aubrey would do this too. Say please. But I never thought to ask her.

The porn actresses talk dirty to the men fucking them and yet still remain unknown, unknowable, undiscoverable countries likened to death. He causes feminine pleasure as a caveman triggers a lethal avalanche but otherwise did not know how to “enact”: impossible to break through the phallocentrism of pornographic inscription, scripts of porn. It’s off-limits to men, as porn actors or as cuck witnesses. “Please” during sex is maximum incandescence, the écriture feminine representing the female body and questioning the male-oriented thought process which suppresses female voice. To say please for something not guaranteed, to threaten that you might not please her, opens a potential of unpleasure, “lack.” 

I spent a lifetime until I learned that my soul was set on different soul-paths according to whether I jerked off with my left or right hand, or brought off by another vampiric succubus of energy. The handedness determined the direction my soul traveled during the next instance of falling asleep after orgasm: All of the directions were bad but there was a distinction to the varieties of inner terrain I thought I could see. As many forms of unhappiness as there were forms of lust, categories of arousal, and the women in the pornographic visual aids or the women who like Aubrey were my real-life sexual partners were collectors of jewelry made from my pneuma substance that was not substance, so no scientists were willing to study it no matter how hard I or my sike nurse practitioner’s AI medical assistant looked. I spent real psychic coinage on studying under my own recognizance the coherence or incoherence of my world make-believe system. Maybe Dr. Vern, Aubrey’s shrink who was later murdered, could have helped me with this.

Women were mad that Andromeda needed to be rescued. Disempowered mythical beings needed revision by folklore collectors and redactors. The sike meds in the palm of Aubrey’s hand resembled the constellation Andromeda, damosel in distress chained in place needing to be saved from neuropsychiatric krakens. Between the question and the reply and the reply to the reply there is a falling off of irony, a désengagé kill-step. Tone-games. How dare you give a serious answer. Comedians only in the replies.

Cum Punk is the emotional expression of the orgasm.

Cum Punk is the words-in-freedom equivalent of a hot, juicy orgasm.

Cum Punk is erotic grotesque nonsense as super-sense.

Cum Punk is FLUID.

 

What brought this on? Everything.

Cum Punk might not be what we need. 

But it’s what we deserve. 

 

Don’t plan it. Don’t even imagine it. Just cum. 

Stop overthinking it. Just bust a nut.

The way to Cum Punk is to not give a fuck.

In your face—cum. In a good-natured spirit.

 

Cum Punk is filling a gap, a hole…

Cum Punk is trash, and trash is welcome.

Cum Punk is radical acceptance and inclusion.

Cum Punk is PAY DIRT.

 

The past is the new future. 

The new future is Cum Punk. 

Cum Punk is the new sincerity.

Sincerity is the new avant-garde. 

The new avant-garde is Cum Punk.

 

What is Cum Punk? 

Cum Punk is the zeitgeist.

Cum Punk is transcendent.

Cum Punk is eternity.

Leza of Clash Books once called me a “human firecracker.” I have often been compared to fire and explosives.

That can be fun, playing with fire, but it’s not something people always want or need. Most times, it’s something people avoid.

When I began to shed my husk and unmask, I wanted to be something people always want, something necessary for survival.

I wanted to be, to be like, milk.

Now, I am milk, or an oat, almond, or soy alternative for the lactose intolerant.

Now, I am mother’s milk, or formula for those who won’t latch.

Now, cum cows get a shoutout in nearly every piece of work. At some point, the cum cows became celestial.

I grabbed ahold of my teats like the mom in Visitor Q and found my special purpose. I squeezed and trapped, squeezed and released, and applied breast pumps when I tired.

I got ahold of myself, grabbed myself by the cum cow Keats and became a true Romantic, started doing my god-work, leaving an extra pint because the cum cow of human kindness always leaves an extra pint.

For mine is a miraculous udder, eternally replenishing, that quenches the thirst of the wayfaring gods, shows hospitality to the gods in a godforsaken age.

When it milky rains, it pours.

“Cum Cow” art by Asia Brito Guerrero

 

The cum cow strikes a primal nerve. The cum cow was not born so much as materialized and recombined in that deep dell common to all, that rolling free range pasture of pure consciousness at the base of thought. There, the cum cow was conceived and immaculately consummated, as are all things that occur to us. 

“Cum cow” is strangely intuitive. On first cognizance, it is as though “cum cow” has always already been present in the unconscious but only just now, upon said cognizance, come to light. My blue ribbon cum cows, from ghettoized repression in the factory fuck farm to first prize at the county fair—they are the erotic shadow integrated, The Dick Inside ouroborated, the hole made wholesome.

The cum cow jumped over the moon.
So cute I could explode into pure cum,
the very sweet “I’ve been eating a lot of pineapple” cum.
So long as it’s not black tar cum, my favorite.
But what we want and need are not necessarily the same.
BUT WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH BLACK TAR CUM, BY GOD?
Everything, and nothing, once self-love is properly understood.
Once it is understood that nothing is to be refused or rejected (Cum Cow Cumpendium).

The cum cow started in darkness and came to light. I set out to write the most depraved thing I could imagine, something potentially legally obscene in a time when everything—even if mostly in (open) secret, and even if never leaving the realm of pure fantasy—seems permitted. This was the impetus, the erotic life-affirming death drive, that birthed the cum cow.


The cum cow was born of my most based lizard brain. My love of great big tits—extremely giant, usually fake-looking boobs—is, in large part, how the cum cow was born. My love of great big tits goes back as far back as I can remember, to the first porn magazines I hid under my mattress. My mind embellishes the great big tits of porn with perversions of my own devising. I see a pair, and—Behold! Cum cows. And they are lowing and being milked and milking themselves, and their udders are being inflated with bike pumps and air guns, and “How now, brown cow?” etc.

I set out to write a dystopian, dare I say speculative story about a “funny” factory fuck farm populated with cum cows made of various human and animal parts—sex monsters therein enslaved as part of a trafficking ring run by society’s elite and patronized by yes-all-men. Aside from having a black humor about it, at times a caustic silliness, it is pure darkness. And there was, for a time, nowhere to go for the cum cow except in darkness. 

Elder cum cows, udders great big, as though drawn by the 12-year-old Cock E. [Cuntsmart] himself who’d heretofore never seen a pair of tits, so big the cum cows fall over forwards like the chickens at Sanderson Farms in McComb, Mississippi, pussies gel-filled for labial vitruvianism, fucked full nelson by the animal husbandrists who grab the cum cows by the biceps, pull them back in Jesus Christ poses, to raise high those cum cow tits standing tall, doing the barn proud (Where the Cum Cows Are).

There was, for a time, nowhere to go for me except in darkness. I withdrew into the psychological equivalent of a monk’s cloisters, a voluntarily celibate, a-romantic nunnery, a cave of existence in which I experienced almost total isolation, at times violent loneliness, meditating and self-reflecting in alternating introspective despair and transcension. I sat with myself, experienced utter (udder) aloneness in a way few people experience.

I spent the duration of that period with the loathsome monsters in my black abysses, approaching them with as much terror, shame, and guilt as gentle curiosity, with the basic goal of coming to a greater awareness of my demons, to observe them in surgical light but with minimal judgment.

I dialed up the mother of all cum cows. She wore a lime green miniscule bikini, thread strings, tiny triangles pulled tight so the nips pushed through and the clit pushed through the moisture-wicking spandex, clit big like a small dick, my POV head-camera kneeling before her as she pliéd like an R Crumb ballerina and pulled her pussy lips apart like the sheela na gig, the spotless cumcatcher, using her biceps to push her great big cum cow tits together and make them look great bigger, bikini top skewed out of place to expose the hard pacifier-like nips, too, big like small dicks, her mouth open in astonishment, plump obviously-filled lips, eyes aghast, as she projectile squirted on my face (my head is a camera) repeatedly. Came prolifically and belligerently. (Externalizing The Dick Inside: Day 7).

I set out to uncover the foulest, most loathsome and degraded images my unconscious would reveal to me. My search led me into shadowed nooks and forsaken places so stained that daylight dared not enter. I crouched in the filth spawned by my darkest urges, smeared myself with the runoff of my misdeeds, soaked in the refuse of my own moral collapse.

I dialed up a familiar fantasy: the gang bang, the women of porn getting used like cum dumpsters; they spread it wide, and the men cum all over it, and this is the type of porn that, if not flashing on the screen, continuously flashes through my mind: the shakti temple in Monstrous Masculine Vision. 

Makes sense why I gravitate toward it. I unconsciously love being used, love to fetishize it while also fancying myself the user. In my fantasies I am the one who spreads it wide and the one who cums all over it. In the realm of pure fantasy, I get to give away my power and take it back.

I get off on my own defilement. “Victim mentality so strong, you have to feel like you’re not enjoying it to enjoy it.” The monstrous masculine + rapes and kills the feminine = The Dick Inside is implanted. The wounded feminine is the all-in-one mind-fuck of coping with genuine victimhood while self-perpetuating, even self-fulfilling, a victim complex.

I was masturbating to the image of a disembodied pussy, presumably my pussy but also not my pussy, younger and smaller but mine, not mine, spread wide and cummed on repeatedly by different men, with no gratification of my own other than the happiness of giving, the receptacle’s pure cum joy. I came especially hard, silently repeating variations on “I love being used” up to climax.

At the moment of cumming, into that vacuity, I cast: “I want to be free” (Decluttering the Doombox, 10/30/23).

As I surfaced for breath—gasping, weary, unsure if I could endure another descent—I locked eyes with my own reflection in the eyes of…the cum cows.

And the cum cows mooed their terrible moos and rolled their terrible are you my mother? eyes
and puckered their terrible vulvoplastied meat roses
and popped their terrible bonobo pussies and twitched their terrible dick-like clits
and bounced their terrible cum cow tits red and blistered from the feeding of the masses
and participated in terrible milk t-shirt contests
and showed their terrible Kardashian asses and tightened their terrible holes around forearms and fists
and snapped their terrible buboes together and grew their terrible eternity fistulas (Where the Cum Cows Are).


Like Amaterasu from the cave in which she’d hidden the world’s light, I emerged from that darkness a cum cow. I am a cum cow for good now. And if I think like a woman it’s only because every cum cow thinks like a woman inside her purple, veiny, mamey chest sacs punctuated with perpendicular exclamation points easily mistaken for eyes. I believe that all this succeeded in communicating to her in those putrefacto days, when I was still she, externalizing The Dick Inside.

That’s when the celestial cow occurred to me, the heavenly cow of the orient, the bovine divine crowned with solar disc, whose horns are the silvery crescent moon and whose udder is firmament showering milky rain to nourish the world and its inhabitants. The Diamond Sow, The Great Bitch, The Wild Cow:

She is the many-named divine ancestress.
She is the guiding feminine spirit.
She is the Sophia, a fountain sealed, a garden enclosed.
She is the red rose heart of hearts.
She is the wholesome hole (Cum Cow Cumpendium).

How to know self-love when the arms of the Great Mother, the cow-horned crescent moon arms of the Great Mother, held in magical character, in an attitude of prayer, held to move and influence the upper-most, upraised arms in a posture of epiphany at the moment the ineffable appears—are now goalposts at the ends of the American football field, vacant totems shot through by teams of warrior men whose aim is to shoot Nut right through her open arms, to fuck Her and fuck Herself in one shot, the football a nut, an oversized almond, cyanide waiting to happen to explode, flying through or outside or pinging off the goal post arms of the Great Mother, steeled, lying afoul, and the referees hold out their nutless arms in goalpost stance at the first chance to sign VICTORY! 

Shoot your shot, bust your Nut (Diane, 2023).

That’s when it occurred to me: the cum cow can ascend. The cum cow, heretofore relegated to the terrestrial, can become celestial, without disuniting with and renouncing any of the darkness. The cum cow can become the dialectical cum cow, the phenomenological cum cow who is always already the union of opposites.

Spoiler alert: The cum cow is an elaborate lactation kink.
My elaborate lactation kink is an elaborate mommy issue.
We have a Great Mother wound, and we have a Great Mommy kink.
As we acknowledge the Terrestrial Cum Cow pulled from the shadows,
embraced in daylight, we heal the Great Mother wound.
We rise into Celestial Cum Cow Oneness,
making biscuits on firmament udder, suckling starry teats.
It gets my udders producing. It helps me latch.
Self-love helps me latch to mine own productive udders
to become the snake that blows itself, the cum cow that nurses itself.
This is how I went backward to go forward.
This is how I became a god (Cum Cow Cumpendium).

The celestial cum cow’s voluptuousness is pleasure spilled out in physical form, not unlike the ginormous tits of porn. The terrestrial cum cow’s augmentation udderplastics are not unlike the Venuses of Menton, Willendorf, and Hohle Fels dating back decamillennia. The cum cow in the collective unconscious, a patchwork of goddess worship and monstrous masculine imposition, is all-inclusive cum joy in alchemical action.

Divinity encompasses its opposite—the sacred always includes the profane and cannot be sacred unless it embraces profanity in a manner all-loving, goddess-like—the true meaning of Christlikeness. The cum cow who is Joslyn James is also the heavenly cum cow who is Nut. The Houston 500 gang bang is also a temple of the hierodule. A lactation kink is a yearning to suckle the celestial sow, wet nurse to the human race.

I discovered the first cum cow in recorded history–the Venus of Hohle Fels (circa 38,000 – 33,000 BCE). She looks like a whole chicken, Sanderson Farms-coded, but with big perky breasts and a pussy about a third the size of her body. Not a chickenhead, no head at all, just a chickenbody, skin on, no feathers, partially deboned. 

This ancient cum cow was a totem of the shakti temple. Men visited to leave offerings of cum on her tits, on her spreadeagle loose-as-a-goose hair pie. She flapped her deboned wings excitedly to make her great big cum cow tits bubble up and pop while all the dudes of decamillennial yesteryear blew crazy loads on her, peeling open her pussy to provide a better view of the erectile oinker and blowing loads on that, too.

She was the sheela na gig squatting and spreading her own sacredly profane pussy, the great cumcatcher of the great went (Externalizing The Dick Inside, Day 14). 

To remove the bottom ribs and suck The Dick Inside is to become the celestial cum cow who suckles itself.

I have ouroboros envy. Who wouldn’t?
That dick once was mine.
Like the shakti in Adam, but the other way around.
The other way around has been the case for millennia.
The Dick Inside Eve and all femme (Cum Cow Cumpendium).

How do we ouroborate? By bringing darkness to light. Externalize The Dick Inside, and the erotic shadow is exposed as commonplace. The ocean of porn consciousness, the deep dell from whence the cum cow rises like a Plutonian Martian Aphrodite, is made conscious, and shame is disappeared. We see each other’s erotic shadows in the light, our guiltiest pornographic pleasures projected above our heads, our orgasm faces overlaid on the masks we wear as faces, vice-signaling:

From the ancient cum cow temple to the modern shakti temple: the gangbang, and the ancient cum cow is the Croatian barely legal probably-virgin getting reamed by two dozen dudes who mostly cum inside her, the seventh of this wild bunch really getting into it, the probably-virgin cum cow spread like the sheela na gig while he pumps her savagely, his dick getting harder and harder and impossibly hard while a revolving door of the other dudes cum on her tits, in her face, and she flinches back like she’s scared of the cum which makes them cum harder and makes the dude inside her cum the hardest of all, a whole snotty mess of cum oozing out her pussy hole onto the floor, and still 17 more loads to go (Externalizing The Dick Inside, Day 14).

In the realm of pure fantasy, we are vice-signaling. We signal vice to bring the erotic shadow from repressed obscurity into the light, for a healthier sex that receives and relishes its own depravity with drooling, cross-eyed delight as opposed to denial and projection. In the dialectical cum cow’s jouissance, we are Peter Pan reunited with his shadow. Empathy increases because we see ourselves in truths no longer hidden, no longer othered.

Because gang bangs are Cum Punk and want to be temples of the sacred whore but instead are secret societies of libertines who need to feel alone in a group of 23 other naked men to be able to cum in a single pussy hole, and for some reason this gets me off. “For some reason”—it’s what gets The Dick Inside hard. The Dick Inside cums real big when simultaneously the subject and object of its own disempowerment (Externalizing The Dick Inside, Day 14).

So, the cum cow starts with lower fire (basic instinct, nurture-based sexual constructs) and ends with fire in the sky (expansive, all-inclusive erotic identification and understanding). It starts with what The Dick Inside is attracted to, such as the great big cum cow tits of hardcore hetero horror-porn circa 2004, and ends with its own gaze, latching onto the Great Mother’s teats to become the celestial cum cow that nurses itself in auto-erotic queerness, to self-deify, to embrace divine self-love.

The cum cow is a monster, but the cum cow is also a creature of love and empathy. The increasingly manifold Cum Punk multiverse is the movement in which the cum cow, the numinous third, shall emerge from darkness to light.

Bitch, I’m a cum cow.

And as a fully embodied, dialectically integrated cum cow, I nourish the world with Cum Punk.

On her back
On the stretching mat,
Legs in hot-pink compression knit
Fabric, up in the air
And spread
Far apart, like a pair
Of World War II trench binoculars
Spotting artillery manned in a hedgerow, to shell the horizon

She flattens the seamless horizon of tights
From her crotch to her knees
With a practiced caress of her palms
Like she’s smoothing the folded-down top sheet
Arranged on a bed in the five-star hotel
Where her immigrant grandmother worked as a maid
When she came to the country illegally.
Manicured hands at her sides, she pumps fuchsia-clad thighs,
Up and down, up and down, spreading and closing the rabbit ears of TV antenna
Her legs suggest, the compressive force of the fibre mesh
Re-directing blood to the vertex of hips. Now I know how her vulva is set.

Splayed like a frog
That’s been pinned down and flayed
In a wax-lined dissection tray,
Limbs pressed flat on the cobalt blue mat,
She raises her legs while flexing
The muscles that keep them apart, fighting the rapist inside,
Who’s using his knee to pry them asunder.
Fingers with red-painted fingernails gather florescent light-dappled blue nylon:
The resistance of motion, the bulging desire of her
Outer labia filled with blood, and the dense innervation of flesh
Marked by conspicuous vasocongestion
Gripped in a crosshatch of threads generating compressive force.

Outer thighs
Flush on the vinyl mat,
Thrusting hips
In time with her labored breath
Make of her blood-filled vulva an EKG blip
On the flatline of my morning.
Her crotch leaks
A wet blot. The damp spreads
Like smoke from a cannon muzzle recoiling—
Boom!
The hare in the hedgerow
Tenses and swivels his ears to the fore
And spreads them wide.
Boom-boom-boom!
Her vulva is a point on the line of my horizon.
The point is the creased promontory, streaked with wet
Her mons pubis makes covered with warp and weft of compressive force.
Her eyes watch my eyes watch the dense weave of pink
Spread her crotch drool as dark threads.
Her hips jerk, her legs twitch.
The stain travels a journey
Mapped on the indiscernible grid of dense capillarity—
Boom! Boom! Boom!—
And makes of the nethermost crease a channel between us.
Through the parallel slant of mirrors in trench binoculars spread obtusely apart
The field marshal watches points on the distant horizon smoke.

Traveling separate and parallel trajectories
My cock and I meet at the vanishing point of the horizon
Of my morning, that’s her slick inflamed crease.
Her eyes plead; her crease leaks.
Her black pubic hair
Like an angry punk mohawk,
Or peaked dorsal scutes that divide the jagged back of a tortoise shell.
Outer lips
Smooth and turgid
As molded rubber, and flushed
With the silhouettes
Of maroon half-moons, inner lips in a teardrop shape
Extrude discharge that glistens as clear as slaver from panting canine jaws.
Her brown midriff, lean, laps like cream in a shallow bowl,
In time with her gasping.
From his frame on the shelf of the living room shrine
Her grandfather watches his grandson who’s holding her ankles apart in the air.
My shaft, sheathed in foreskin as thin as cling-wrap,
And topped with the spongy cleft of my pre-cum weepy urethra, slices into her
Warmth, between walls of wet pink
Like the knife in a tremulous loaf of medium rare prime rib
At a hotel buffet on Saturday night.
Her back arched, the ball-joint action of spasming abdomen
Socket-smooth, like an eye rolling back
In a swoon, the muscles of cunt, contoured and grooved
Like a peach-pit, or her immigrant grandmother’s creased, riven hands,
Gripping the head of my cock like the thin, turbulent membrane of parched desert air
Over the aerodynamically plotted and analyzed surface of dimples
That texture the golf ball I drive off the back tee:
The drag-and-lift
Spasm of orgasm travels the length of my column
In fits and starts, like a lit black powder fuse, to explode as nacreous ropes
Of translucent cum,
Lashing her insides with viscous heat,
Followed by thick and congested white, opalescent snot, her fucked
Inside-out, post-coitus labia
Stretched like the laughing-or-crying expressionist mask
From the Scream movie franchise, extrudes,
Breaking off clots of my seed with each shudder and tremble,
Like the dying mechanical heaves of a ghetto McDonald’s soft-serve machine
As it tops a cone of banana-vanilla swirl with an elf-boot toe.

You want “schoolgirl”?

Ok.

Let me tell you what I know about schoolgirls.

Going to boarding school is certainly not about cultivating good behaviour. It’s about accruing worldly charm and baking baseless self-confidence into the sprog-elite. Her teachers only task: to produce cumdumps who can crack filthy jokes about international affairs on demand.

By 14, Lizzy was blagging her way into bars with her barely-there titties, getting yuppies to buy her babyshams and shoplifting deep-plunge brassieres when adults weren’t doing fun stuff like making terrible decisions with large pots of money. They were just people who told her what to do, but prodding their weakness was fast becoming her area of expertise. Lizzy was growing into a hybrid of occasional orphan and part-time predator. She needed a target, so she set her sights on Mr Kristek her music teacher; music afforded privacy and it encouraged emotional expression which rendered him low-hanging fruit. Mr Kristek wasn’t cut out to train racehorses like Lizzy. Those who “can’t” seek out a girls’ schools for an easy ride. That is until they experience 50 hungry eyes sizing up the inside leg of their suit trousers.

Whenever possible, Lizzy would go to the music block to spell chaos. The music block was a heinous composite of asbestos and pebbledash. Within the grounds, it stood farthest away from the bucolic main school. The cobbles that bridged the two buildings were wavy from the hordes of young hussies grinding them away year upon year. She would book the practice room with the grand piano and drag her foot up and down the keyboard:

CLANNG

DOING

DONK

…until Mr Kristek banged the wall.

Attention-seeker said the associated paperwork.

But schoolgirls have crushes all the time which was an excellent decoy for “acting out.”

Mr Kristek and Lizzy made their first transgression by merit of truancy.

She was bunking off Home Economics with her best friend, the both of them stuffing their faces with the raw ingredients of a banoffee pie. She was licking the dregs out of an open can of condensed milk when he walked in.

“Are you going to tell on us, Sir?” she said, holding gaze.

He hesitated, watching her lick the can like the prize pet she was. Rolling around on the carpet all wayward, her existence pure jouissance.

“Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.”

She kept going, wiping her finger around its inside and messily spooning it into her mouth. A stuffed toy with a honeypot.

“I told you to stop that.”

She deliberately ran her tongue over the rough edges of the can, lapping at the thick cream on the lid. She continued this act until her bottom lip got cut on the jagged metal. He watched the blood mix with the saliva and milk. Blood collected into a droplet that hung in the corner of her mouth before running down her chin.

She knew in this moment she was splitting her first sexual atom.

“Get to class!” he barked.

*****

The following week she was (not) doing her homework in the very same practice room. It was her haunt and she’d threaten to slam the piano lid on the fingers of any other girls who attempted to use it.

Mr Kristek entered under the pretence of asking her to partake in a Friday evening piano recital.

Lizzy declined: Once school was out, she played men not pianos.

“What’s more important than Friday night chamber music?” he asked.

“I’m busy flashing my knickers to strange men so that they’ll buy me a shandy, Sir.”

He flushed from his neck to his ears and backed out of the room.

*****

Filling his head with indecent thoughts became her favourite game. A wayward incubus embroiling him in the plot. Monday came round and Mr Kristek wanted to ask about her weekend but didn’t dare. His mind became transfixed on how mucky Lizzy was. Puddle-water splashed her shins and she had toothpaste on her collar. More farmyard animal than princess-and-the-pea. Awkward growth spurt, chin acne, make-up on the wrong side of her eyelids.

…by the afternoon he caved in.

“Did you taste that shandy after all?” he asked.

“I did better than shandy,” she responded teasing her skirt just a little higher.

“I met a man who wanted to touch me through my panties and see if he could make a wet patch.”

Short story / Sweet aftertaste.

“What would your parents say about that?”

“My father says all work and no play makes a dullard and I’d loath for him to think me dreary.”

“And what if I inform them?”

Audentes fortuna iuvat, Sir.” She giggled.

“Mr Kristek, will you buy me shandy?”

*****

A pattern developed. On Mondays Lizzy would idol about the department and eventually Mr Kristek against his better judgement would come-a-knocking. He’d ask how she spent the weekend, and she would tell him just enough to render his acting-authority ineffectual.

2 tin cans and a piece of string makes a mock-telephone for little girls to tell big secrets:

Dring-dring, dring-dring… Pick up the phone Sir! 

*****

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Shouldn’t you pick on someone your own size?” She answered, drawing her knees up to her chin.

“Who’ve you been cajoling this week?”

“Well, Saturday, we went to a hotel bar…I was smoking on the patio when this silly old man came up. He said I was too pretty to be without a gentleman-friend and he’d like to buy me a rum and coke.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said mine’s a White Russian, thank you. He bought us a couple of drinks and we watched him lose an arm wrestle (yawn)—Then I asked him all serious…”

She batted her lashes gratuitously.

“‘…would you like to do it with me?’”

***Pause***

“And?”

“He said yes, silly!”

“Then I said…”

“‘You know I’m underage, right?’ and he spat his lager right out.”

“‘But since you’ve been sooooo nice, I’ll let you take a look.’ But he bottled it, leaving me legs akimbo on a barstool.”

“We thought it was hilarious.”

*****

Lizzy would go out of her way to make sure she had something to tell Mr Kristek. She could’ve made it up, of course! But she didn’t want to. She was spurred on to be every inch as corrupt as his fantasy of her.

*****

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Wendy.”

“Wendy who?”

“Wendy’you think we can go on a date?”

“I have a fiancé,” said Mr Kristek.

“BOOOOO.”

“What wholesome activities have you been up to this week?”

“I went to a nightclub, Sir.”

“What kind of a club lets underage girls in?”

“We told the bouncer he could watch us kiss if we got free entry. So, we went round the side of the club and frenched for him. He got a right horn.”

“Later on, we saw him again. He must’ve been half-cut ‘cos he waved two twenty-pound notes in our faces and pulled his willy out. He said he’d give us the money if we licked it. We bit the bullet and went down on him together. It was so turgid and veiny! We caught each other’s eyes midway and just cracked up. Then all of sudden he jizzed on my tongue. I spat it out in the drain.”

*****

In a dream he saw Lizzy playing on stilts made of tin cans. Tottering around the playground on these homemade high heels like the school was her stage.

He spat the image out in the sink.

It was hard to shake.

*****

“Knock knock.”

“How’s your fiancé?” she asked, miming a hangman’s rope around her neck.

“You’re cruising for detention young lady.”

Would you like to hear a story?” she said.

“No,” said Mr Kristek.

“Suit yourself.”

“Are you a gambler, Lizzy?”

“What’s the bet?”

He produced a crisp fifty and a can. A tin can like the one she’d licked clean on the day they first crossed paths.

“I bet you can’t piss in this, exactly to the brim, and not spill a drop.”

Lizzy loved a challenge and this one seemed absurd. She crouched over the can and lined up her aim using the piano stool as a crutch.

She pulled her knickers over and began a trickle into the can. The trickle became a stream as she eased into it. Alas, a rogue drip trailed past her knees dribbling onto the carpet tiles.

He picked it up and drunk it in one gulp. It tasted sweet like sherbet dib-dabs.

“A drip,” he observed, pointing at her wet sock.

“Shall we try that again?”

“Easy-peasy. I could do it with my eyes closed now I know the drill.”

“Ok then do it.”

She reached for the can.

She shut her eyes.

She thought long and hard and then emptied her prize-winning piss-stream into the can.

“Bullseye!”

She snatched the fifty out of his hand.

…And, that’s what I know about schoolgirls.

You wanted an innocent one?

That’s tough titties, Sir.

Young, dumb
and full of coagulated milk
virgin ears absorb myths of
deflowering rituals,
elder female stitched with rose patches
on her period,
a stag
retreating with red snail trails
on a white wall
shower stall
red and clear
circling the hole below

Bucking a green plaid comforter
cotton wrapped around clavicles
crusted underwear and sheets
days of muskrats
curtains of mildew
open up to the popcorn ceiling above
an endless, mediocre galaxy
where butterflies mingle with the stars
until they dissipate into cigarette wall stains.

Mild discomfort,
just a pinch
an angel on the ceiling
fallen
for lies
jabbed with an iron rod
in internal organs
up in internal flames
wounded while awake, wide
open
externally irrational
in the processing unit
sweat and blurry vision
salt on cheeks
bearing the mark of
the anxiety
and of being born without protrusion
so the howling in the chamber
will be muffled
so it can be filled with cum
without discomfort for the intruders.

Fingered violently to Friday the 13th
part two,
the second part of the ritual
of reaching third base

This new killer
with swords for fingers
ignores stage directions
burns the script
and all bridges to co-actors
& contemporaries

An event now deteriorating on VHS tape
the strands of 32 mm still ribbon inside me.

nighttime on Carruthers Place
and all the monkeys in the Memphis Zoo
are sleeping
save me and you

hazy and cumdrunk
I return with the towel
arrange it
carefully upon your body
lamp lit and beautiful
sopping up a sacrifice
I have spilled at your temple

you tilt your head against the pillow
and say

I think we should do it.

a circuit in my heart shorts
caught in an excited pause

then casting a cloth of 200 million
dead possibilities behind me
I feign ignorance
and say

do what?

the shape of your smile lifts
announcing itself as
the prettiest curve on your body

you know what.

you insist,
without hesitation.

we’ve been chasing rainbows all year
I think it’s time.
I’m ready.

a train whistle blows
some distant intersection

like a cartoon I picture it
the devil in red and white
waiting for us to surrender
our souls to him

…the waistband was made to withstand tension like a rubber ring, like a fenced in dog barking for attention; just know I will listen, and I will let you tongue my ears with wetted glistens as I dribble over your little lips that hide under laced crotch coverings; the oozing that I’m choosing is to make dirty messies on your chesties; whither you suck on my fingies or twitch from my caressing of your playfield of tendies, it’s purely a mental game of steel and metal that ends all the same…

Spit ran down Gary’s pint glass as he watched Mary play one of the pinball machines from across the bar. She was the daughter of the pub owner, who was a standout gentleman in the local community. Mary, on the other hand, saw no good future ahead of her. In fact, she considered herself a good-for-nothing, a rock’n’roll burnout.

After draining her last ball and cursing the game, Mary went back behind the bar to clean up. As she grabbed a rag and flicked it over her shoulder, she locked eyes with Gary.

“You ready for another, love?” Mary asked.

“Yes, darling.” Gary responded.

Gary paused to study Mary. Long brunette hair, a ripped shirt, and paint-covered jeans. Overall, an unseemly appearance that invited curiosity. She hid away impulses that Gary secretly wanted. Mary returned with a beer and struck up a conversation.

“I don’t mind draining balls, but I’ve never won a free game, and these machines are eating my quid. I want to get better at these flipper tables. Any tips?” Mary inquired.

“You need to find your playstyle,” Gary said.

“Well then, what styles are you aware of, mister…”

“Gary.”

“Charming. My name is Mary.”

Gary extended his sweaty palm to shake Mary’s hand decorated by bruises and cigarette burns. Her arms were covered in cuts, and her stomach was painted with vulgar tattoos. Gary knew that she wasn’t afraid to show raw openings.

Mary found Gary to be a straight-laced delight with hardly any roughened edges on his body. He had short brunette hair and no body art. He wore a white t-shirt tucked into his jeans with slightly scuffed tennis shoes. He was taller than most customers, but he didn’t intimidate her like the drunk old pundits. Shifting his posture in his stool, he took a swig and continued the conversation.

“My father once told me that flippers were either crankers or strokers.”

“Yeah?” Mary said, pausing her polishing.

“Crankers are fast, they take advantage of the ball in play. A ball at rest is no fun for these jacks. Crankers flip away and react to the ball. They’re like playful tommy cats, a bulldog with a wet, slobbery bone. Judging by the way you were playing, I’d say you’re a natural cranker.”

Surprised at his own declaration, Gary took a desperation chug, avoiding Mary’s raised eyebrow.

“Oh? What do you consider yourself, then?” she asked.

“I’m a stroker.” Gary said, looking directly into Mary’s hazel eyes.

“Tell me more, mister stroker.” she said, unfazed.

“Well, strokers, erm, are slow players; they caress the flipper buttons, feeling out each impression before pushing them. Every time the ball descends the playfield, strokers let the ball bounce about, refusing to flip. This patient technique lets the player trap the ball to control the direction of the next flip. Do that, and you’re a stroker.”

Mary leaned toward Gary with a new look, noticing that they were alone in the bar. She enjoyed the banter but decided now to make her move.

“Mister stroker, you seem like a kind fellow, so listen closely: I want you to lock up the front. I’m going to close early so that you can show me how you stroke,” Mary said sliding the keys over to Gary.

Gary had been a hand crankin’, ass spankin’ mess in his youth, but now he was just a steel ball know-it-all. He wasn’t planning on a late night at the pub, but he took the keys. If he played his cards right, he could be in it for a fired-up night of huffing steam and spitting smoke.

As Gary secured the pub, he turned and saw Mary already in front of one of the flipping tables with her ripped up jeans down to her knees, exposing her black, skull printed skimpies. She licked her fingers slowly and spit-shined the loaded spring plunger before reaching down to finger herself.

“Mister stroker, let’s cut the bollocks. I want you. I want to spit-suck your shuttle cock while I have my cummy-cunt stretched by this shooter rod before we fuck,” Mary stated.

Mary then removed her knickers and lifted off her shirt, exposing both her smooth breasts and her hair-lined thigh-lips. Gary shifted his stiffness and approached her with his zipper already pulled down.

“Darling, I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.

“Just give me a push and let me choke on you,” Mary said, leaning her tightened vagina closer to the plunger.

Gary unbuttoned his trousers and flapped out his hidden cunt poker before Mary, whose eyes lit up with pubic delight; she took Gary lightly but was soon aroused all unsightly. Gary walked forward, gagging Mary and slipping the ball whacker into her pussy at the same time. Her gurgled pleasure sounds only made Gary more hardened. He pulled her hair back so she could look up at his aroused expression. The machine’s protrusion spread apart Mary’s walls and caused her legs and ass to shake around all giddy-like.

After Mary was stretched enough and her mouth drippings leaked down Gary’s sack, she took Gary into her hand, stroking him senseless. She reached her arm around him and hoisted herself off the machine’s appendage to have a face-to-face.

“Start a game, bend me over this flipper table, and make me your cum-drenched fuck-punk,” Mary whispered aggressively.

Gary spun her around toward the machine and used his thumbs and pointer fingers to twist small circles around her areolae to excite her even more.

“Oh daddy, show me how you can stroke,” Mary said grunting between breaths.

Gary got down on one knee to become eye-level with the coin-door beside Mary’s backside. He licked his teeth and dove his tongue into her, flinging it around while spreading her labia with his mouth. He released her clit from his lips and used a juiced-up finger to flick a coin into the machine and hit the start button.

The score reel rotated all the numbers back to zero, matching Mary’s eyes as they rolled backward to look at her own beat-up brain. He grabbed enough spit from her mouth and spread her buttocks apart appropriately. Finally, Gary placed his throbbing thudder into Mary’s prized fuck-twat and began his lecture with slow back-and-forth thrusts.

“When you push the ball into play, you want to, oh fuck, you, you feel so good, you need to nudge the game, like how I, how I hold you, how I hunch toward you, understand?” Gary said, panting with sweat as he started to fuck Mary.

“Yes baby, fucking fuck I understand you,” she moaned.

“The ball is, oh my god darling, going to go crazy around these pop, pop-pop, fuck, pop bumpers, same with the rubber posts, so you have to be, uhmf, prepared; the tools of the game are reaction, stamina, timing, pacing, and pumping.”

The two lovies ignored the ball in play and found themselves lost in their own slip-sliding drudgery. Gary’s cock swelled in Mary’s darkness; this was a recreational luxury, an unexpected explicity with cursings and perverted nurseries mixing sweat with dilated milky white stares.

As the last ball fell into the trough, the machine counted up a bonus and Gary and Mary both released their inner spirits to swirl around in a warm privacy. The only sound in the bar was the combination of their exhales and the piercing sound of a hard knock from the pinball machine, indicating a free game had been earned. 

“Oh Gary, that was so lovely,” Mary said, cooing between inhales as she gathered herself against Gary’s torso, his arms tightening around her.

“Did we…did we really finish in sync, my dear?” Gary asked, nervous about his performance.

“Why yes, of course we did. You just made me the happiest girl tonight. I’ll send father your regards, mister stroker,” Mary said, walking back behind the bar. As she turned down the lights, she looked toward Gary.

“How about one more drink? My treat.” she said.

Gary pulled up his gatherings and sat at the stool he had left only a few minutes beforehand.

“Of course. Cheers to you, my cranker queen,” Gary said in a low hush.

As Mary turned around to reward him with a brewed bonus for a well done fucking, he noticed his leaking spunkies traveling down her thighs. He figured this was a sign, a purpose that this punking would alter his ordinary life. This lesson would turn everything inside out and move time backward going forward to a new age of troublemaking.

I have thoughts. Thoughts of nature, depraved. Thoughts of wood, iron, and polycarbonates as childhood crayons. They conduct the hairs on my neck. They resurrect the arms and legs of baby dolls as aphrodisiacs. The penis was cursed with location. My favorite scrotum is of statue copper. These are my thoughts. Does this make sense?

“You must keep these thoughts to yourself, Elaine,” doctors pressed. “These are not normal thoughts. You must keep your toys away from openings. You cannot touch yourself like that. Do you understand?”

Father was always busy tinkering. Mom would watch me when she wasn’t praying. She hated me, and I hated her. I liked to lock myself in the bathroom and stuff myself with toilet paper. I would strip the white papering, as if unrolling a mummified corpse, until I could see the cardboard roll, then I’d tongue it thinking of a marionette’s mouth. Mother hated locks. Mother hated temptations. “You are not yourself,” my mother told me. She was right. I was not the girl in the mirror.

As God began to spoil, I began to bloom.

“Was there ever a time when you remember first acting on these… thoughts,” the doctor asked.

The truth was, I had acted on these thoughts long before I could remember. I knew what toys could fit into my anus and which were best for wet-play. But I do remember my first cum. My first wet-play.

Mother tried answering for me, but I interrupted.

“FunHouse,” I said, quietly.

The doctor looked at me and jotted something down.

“Tell me more about this… funhouse,” he said.

He was there. I watched him sleep…” I said, as my legs trembled.

Mother could sense my arousal. She grabbed my arm and clenched. She knew.

This is where I document my confession. This is where I demonstrate how God rots.

His name was Rudy. He was just a puppet’s head. Like me, I was just a head, with no control over my body. I became all of me in the mirrors of his funhouse.

FunHouse is a pinball machine manufactured in the 1990s. It was very popular in its day. Sex scandals were also popular in the nineties. Pamela Anderson’s private tape leaking, Bill Clinton answering for his secret affair with Lewinsky. This was the decade where nobody could hide. There was no more privacy for one’s own private parts.

It was an early April afternoon, and the carnival was in town that day. I was forbidden to go. Mother had accidentally fallen asleep. Father was busy tinkering in his study. So, I went out to remedy my boredom.

I walked into town toward the amusement tent when I noticed a storm coming. Rain fell fast and I went inside a nearby bar to avoid catching a cold. I looked around the dark, dimly lit room and recognized nobody. The jukebox played Eddy Arnold’s “Make the World Go Away” as intoxicated eyes searched me up and down. Men offered me drinks. Men were always nice to me. I was twelve years old. I remember drinking. I remember burping and farting from my private escapes.

The bar owner soon came over to me. He knew my father. He showed me to a play room filled with entertainment machines.

“This is a pinball machine. This is FunHouse. Have you ever played pinball?” the bar owner asked.

I shook my head, moving my hair from my eyes over my ears.

Step right up!

“How do I play,” I asked.

“The machine will give you three chances to keep the ball alive. When the ball falls into the drain below those flippers, then you lose. You want to make the animatronic puppet Rudy go to sleep. Advance the clock in the funhouse so that Rudy gets tired. Then, you flip a ball into his gaping mouth and score millions of points,” the bar owner said.

The bar owner left the room and locked the door behind me. He gave me a key to open up FunHouse if something went wrong.

I turned and looked directly into Rudy’s tender, blue eyes. His cheeks were red like mine after mother’s spankings. For the first time, I felt in control of something. I was the hands of a clock.

I played with the buttons like I played with my button. Buttons have a chewy smell. A woman’s button is a private escape. I played with my privates as an escape.

The plunger was my first penis. FunHouse had two plungers. Rudy was the only lover who could have two beautiful metallic penises. I rubbed the plungers with my developing breasts and exhaled solder fumes. I reached my hand under my skirt. I felt the need to pee but decided to wait. I played with myself right there in front of Rudy.

I grabbed Rudy’s right penis and tugged. The ball flew into play and rolled behind his head. The alphanumeric display read: RUDY’S HIDEOUT. I plunged into Rudy’s Private Hideout.

The ball spat out from a hole, and I was too slow to react as it drained below the flippers. Rudy laughed at me. He laughed at his little girl. I pouted. I climbed onto a stool and rubbed my button on his left penis. My button was sticky. Rudy let me slide his penis inside of me. I bled onto Rudy’s throbbies and then he laughed.

FUNHOUSE? AH HA HA HA HA HA!!

“STOP LAUGHING AT ME, PLEASE STOP LAUGHING AT ME,” I shouted.

Mother slapped me and made me stop yelling. She held me tighter, where no air could escape my lips. I had peed in my chair, but nobody noticed. The doctors were alarmed but then jotted down notes when I became quiet.

“We’re not laughing at you, Elaine. Who was laughing? Was it someone you met in the funhouse?” the doctors questioned.

I grabbed Rudy’s blood-soaked limb and pulled it once more. The ball went around Rudy’s head and came to my left flipper. I reacted appropriately and flipped the ball into the Hidden Hallway. Once the ball disappeared, a grandfather clock chimed, and the display showed a message.

IT’S 11:30

Then another message appeared.

THE FUNHOUSE CLOSES IN 30 MINUTES

“So, the funhouse. How long were you in the funhouse?” the doctors asked me.

“The FunHouse closes at midnight,” I said quietly.

“Why does the funhouse close at midnight?” the doctors asked, intrigued.

“Why does the FunHouse close at midnight…” I repeated back.

Oh no… I’m sleepy…

Rudy yawned and began to snore. Rudy’s mouth was plastic, just like mine. I looked back at the door and then back at Rudy. I put the key into the machine. I slid the protective glass off and set it aside. I was mesmerized by the bare playfield. I touched the steps and the slings, the clicking and clacking sounds traveled into my stomach. I crawled on top of the machine and kissed Rudy’s sleeping face. His snoring made me laugh.

I tasted him while he slept. My tongue went into his darkened, red snuffbox. I made Rudy taste my fingers. I took off my shirt and sprawled out on the playfield. I rubbed my hidden holes until I felt the rush of warm waves overtaking me. I fingered my asshole using my own spit and leftover button juices to ease the pain of insertion. I turned my head and licked Mylar polyester film. I slobbered on the tight rubbers protecting the ramps. The blood in my chest turned into boiling lava against the metal wires.

I couldn’t believe Rudy was sleeping. I grabbed the metal ball in play and put it into his mouth. He awoke and regurgitated balls at me. I caught them and sucked on them. I was so good, and Rudy wanted more. I stood up, pulled off my undergarments, and peed on Rudy’s surprised and angry face. I didn’t see the bar owner behind me. I didn’t care if anybody saw, didn’t care if it didn’t make sense, because I was a puppet in the FunHouse.

“Does your father know about the funhouse? Does he know about Rudy?” the doctors asked.

“Father is always too busy tinkering,” I said.

“Does your father know about your…behaviors?” the doctors asked.

Finally, Mother had had enough. She cursed the doctors for wasting our time and pulled me out of the door. Finally, I was allowed to leave.

We drove back home in silence. The breeze of the wind fought against the front windshield. I always felt trapped in cars, like I was vacuum-sealed in latex.

When we got back home, I snuck into Father’s study while he was out buying smokes. I spotted one book on his desk: FunHouse Operations Manual. My heart sunk.

I stole the manual and took it up to my room. I bent a chair against my door. I opened the pages and studied them all, front and back.

I saw myself for the first time in that manual. I became my own maker. My breasts thumping like pop bumpers. My vagina lips opening to reveal a scoop. My limbs reoriented like the legs of a pinball machine. My skin metalized by chemical vapor deposition. My joints screwed together and curved smooth to be ramps. My wet-play producing oil-slick cum.

Maybe my mouth could be like Rudy’s marionette mouth. Maybe I could fall into a deep slumber and wake up fitted with wires and circuitry. I felt my eyelids become heavy. I closed them tight. There I was now, encased in glass, manufactured into the FunHouse.

Oh no… I’m sleepy…

That sinks like elevators of tongues to a certain floor
A low dropping of blues
Where the violins opened their storm cellars in the rain.
Lovers discovered, soon enough, that memories were flushed out faster
with body fluids
Their memories began to collapse and crumble into one another
One’s eyes flooding with tears
The other skidded for miles into the dark on
To the end of a tunnel
Blinking with wires and DNA.

Presently, sounds began to ooze from them
A condensation of bells,
Scraped off the skin in a Roman bath,
And their minds became incontinent
Love blossoming around them
Like warm urine in a bed
One settles into before they realize what it is,
Their genitals moistening
Like helpless patients that needed to be turned
An embarrassing greenery on its back,
Flailing like a tortoise.
Their senses all burst, into synaesthesia
Odor fleeing to sight
Hemorrhaging right into the afterlife

Down in her iris
Where the souls of her ancestors
Still flashed behind the dark canyons of her genetics
Like distant lightning
They tried to harness the light
Not understanding, like synesthete or autistic child
What light wasn’t

A pollen, produced only in music
Only the ghosts of bees could carry

To Odysseus past the barriers of beeswax
To a darkened theatre on Antiterra
Where Nabokov’s Demon sat at an opera of erotic camp
What flaked and dried on the crotch of his tux
Making it clear, as nothing else in the preceding 30
Years ever had,
That he would have no descendants

Though no one else knew
As he did
That what the young lady on stage
Had taken in a tryst, just before showtime,
Was behind her aria.
How, in the dark, his unborn children
Soaring in her voice,
Announced themselves to every ear in the room.

You stand behind your own head
Unknown to yourself
Like your own mother
Hell bent on nurturing and murder
Exact as tucking in a child

Or a body, safe and underground,
Beckoning me into dry clothes
And a decent supper
That will blot out my destiny
Like seven years with the hill folk.

I am a vegetable passing through your system,
A great gourmet curry dinner
Long since shat out in the toilet,
Demanding my place on your tongue yet.

When you write of
Other loves you’ve known, other rags
You’ve kept by the bed,
Of the old country of
My ancestors, not yours
It is not my America
Nor yours, you seek to emulate:
Those women who lie,
Vulva to vulva,
With their own absurd sense of patriotism.

Source: Periodic records of Dr. George T. Williams, neuroscientist, at the Virgin Islands Communications Research Institute (Caribbean Sea), during the Study of Structured, Articulated, and Formal Language in Bottlenose Dolphins conducted between March and June 1966.

Date of entry: March 23, 1966

The isolated dolphins were finally reunited in Tank 1, where the food-providing ejector-button trap had also been placed. Peter, the male, familiar with the method, ate as he had been doing for the past few days. But more than 24 hours have passed, and he seems the only one to understand how to obtain food, which is evidence that no information was transferred to the female.

 

Source: Ibidem

Entry Date: March 24, 1966

Today I requested a NASA grant renewal and submitted a false list of completed objectives. I also promised them progress in interspecies communication studies, since all they seem to care about is that our results be applicable to the blessed detection of the language of intelligent extraterrestrial species on their radars. Everyone here is a little anxious. Without that financial support, we will have to cancel the experiment.

 

Source: Ibidem

Entry Date: March 27, 1966

NASA’s response hasn’t arrived. I need to be able to adjust the data from the mappings on the cerebral cortex of these animals, but due to their inability to breathe involuntarily, it’s impossible to sedate them without killing them, and the recordings are intermittent. I’ll try LSD. After the ketamine failure, better to follow one of Bateson’s suggestions.

 

Source: Ibidem

Date of entry: March 28, 1966

The LSD tests in the isolation tanks seem to have finally yielded better results than the experiments with musical tones and telepathy. A marginal result, I admit, but at least it’s a real result. I can hardly forget Amy’s surprised face when that howl imitating my voice emerged from Sissy’s blowhole.

 

Source: Ibidem

Date of entry: April 13, 1966

A young woman has been visiting us for several days. Her name is Margaret. She lives here in Saint Thomas, but on the west side. She is only 23 years old and has no scientific training. I am amazed by her comments and conclusions.

 

Source: Ibidem

Date of Entry: April 19, 1966

Margaret seems to have completely revolutionized the lab. Even our study subjects have changed their behavior. Sissy, always grumpy and elusive, has now become enthusiastic and cooperative. Peter, so young and shy, a virgin, seems increasingly willing to cooperate. And Pamela is literally a different person. Once fearful and solitary, she now responds to our calls as if she were a dog.

 

Source: Ibidem

Entry Date: April 22, 1966

We’ve reached an agreement with Maggie (as we call her). In exchange for a meager salary, I’ll allow her to live with Peter in a room filled with seawater. The goal is to see if their cohabitation can yield conclusive results. To do this, we’ll have to refurbish part of the laboratory.

 

Source: Periodic records of Margaret McDonald, volunteer assistant, at the Virgin Islands Communications Research Institute (Caribbean Sea)

Date of entry: May 3, 1966

I couldn’t help but cry when Dr. Williams offered me an internship in his laboratory. I’m so happy! I still remember the day he showed me the facilities, and now the aquarium is being remodeled so I can fulfill my mission: to teach Peter how to speak.

 

Source: Ibid.

Date of entry: May 12, 1966

I have a bed suspended in the air near one of the waterproof walls. I’m writing this on my legless desk, which hangs from the ceiling. The water is almost waist deep. (…)

 

Source: Ibid.

Entry Date: May 14, 1966

Peter is only 11 years old. Our relationship seems to be strengthening day by day, and everyone here is more than amazed by my progress.

At 8:00 a.m. our lessons begin. From a monitoring booth, Dr. Bateson records everything with microphones lowered from the ceiling.

After days of using random words, Amy suggested we try our luck with “Hello, Maggie.” “Hello, Maggie,” I repeat over and over for two hours. I’m optimistic.

To avoid Peter’s stress, we also play with a ball, while I sing to him. He seems to really like “Eight Miles High,” a song they play all day on the radio. He also likes to play fetch with things I hide underwater. 

At noon, we continue with vocabulary lessons until 3 p.m. The rest of the time we watch TV. We also swim. I love cuddling up to his back and letting myself be carried along grabbing his fin.

 

Source: Ibid.

Date of Entry: May 15, 1966

Dr. Nash, the veterinarian who comes to check on the health of the dolphins and Peter (I can’t call him a dolphin anymore, I can’t see him as an animal), explained to me that, unlike us, who breathe without thinking, they must do so voluntarily; breathing is a conscious effort for them. That’s why when they sleep only half of their brain rests, while the other half remains awake to ensure breathing. Isn’t that amazing?

 

Source: Ibid.

Date of Entry: May 18, 1966

Peter’s progress is significant. He’s managed to say, in addition to the list of words I copied in the previous entry, “Hello, arrrggie.” As I had already seen with the words “monkey” and “magic,” the letter M is a problematic letter for him. He tends to get very frustrated. 

 

Source: Ibid.

Date of entry: May 22, 1966

Peter has begun to show great interest in my body. Sometimes, when we’ve finished the lessons, he stares, mesmerized, at the back of my knee, very close to me.

 

Source: Ibid.

Date of Entry: May 29, 1966

Peter’s interest in certain parts of my body seems to have intensified, but I have no trouble at all keeping him focused on his lessons. In fact, I don’t even need to reward him with food anymore. He seems genuinely interested in communicating with me through words.

The rest of the time, he only requires petting. And if I don’t touch him, he rubs against my legs like a kitten, until my indifference makes him angry. He snouts me and has even bitten me. He doesn’t hurt me, but it’s clear he’s demanding a degree of affection from me that wasn’t common. 

 

Source: Ibid.

Entry Date: June 1, 1966

It was yesterday when the caresses Peter constantly asks for gave me a tremendous scare. Peter had his first erection. Or at least that’s what Dr. Nash said.

I was caressing his belly, and without warning, a kind of fold opened, and that pinkish tentacle slowly emerged, as if uncoiling.

I screamed, thinking there must be some abnormality, that something was wrong with his health, that it was a part of his intestines coming out, twisting like that.

Dr. Bateson got out of the booth as quickly as he could and got me out of the room while he called Dr. Nash, who came flying over. The doctor couldn’t help but laugh as he told to us that it was Peter’s penis. “He’s probably in heat for the first time, since they never take their penis out unless it’s to use it,” he explained.

He told me he was going to be courting me with some very peculiar hissing sounds that, I realized, he’s already been making. 

 

Source: Ibid.

Date of Entry: June 5, 1966

My legs are covered in bruises, and I’ve been forced to wear rubber boots at all times to protect my shins. When he gets uncontrollable, I push him around with a broomstick that Dr. Nash suggested I use. But I refuse to use violence on him. 

 

Source: Ibid.

Entry Date: June 7, 1966

I finally did it. And I must admit I didn’t feel disgusted at all. It was like taking a hand and feeling it curl around mine until it started to vibrate and eventually released a juice similar to that of men. Similar to the cum of one hundred men ejaculating in unison…

I haven’t told Dr. Williams about it yet.

 

Source: Ibid.

Entry Date: June 13, 1966

Everyone already knows it. And Peter is insatiable. I count the times a day, and it’s up to ten. Cum clouds the water, it is not possible to change it so often. 

But I’m finally getting used to it. It’s like scratching your skin when it itches: you do it and that’s it, calm for a while.

 

Source: Penultimate entry in Dr. George T. Williams’s records at the Virgin Islands Communications Research Institute

Date: June 29, 1966

I don’t even know why I bother closing this notebook with another entry. After the article in Hustler magazine so jokingly revealed the point we’d reached with our research (and exaggerated it, because Maggie never had sex with Peter), NASA has withdrawn all support. And without that support, this research cannot continue. Tomorrow we begin dismantling the laboratory. The dolphins will be sent to an aquarium in Miami. 

 

Source: Last entry in Dr. George T. Williams’s records for the Study of Structured, Articulated, and Formal Language in Bottlenose Dolphins

Date: July 23, 1966

Today I finally plucked up the courage and called Maggie. I didn’t beat around the bush: I told her everything exactly as it happened. She cried and said I was lying, but I wish I were. How can an animal commit suicide by voluntarily stopping breathing? But that’s how dolphins are. She asked me to let her bury it in her backyard. I told her the body had already been disposed of.

the ugliest ones

in the cult got married

in Alaska all summer

glaciers burning

all over the news

an army of bears

trying to be human

the audacity

when will you show me

what’s underneath

sputtering

a letter covered in brat vomit and mary poppins

girl pockets a pole

that pretzels into your enemy

i taught you how to achieve

your dreams you owe them all

to me, o say can you see

your liberation is bound with mine

a bit of an oxymoron

What would you assume about a woman who was still holding her V-card long past the age where you stop saying “V-card”?  I’ll stop you right there; I know quite a few possibilities off the top of my head, because after Summer revealed that I’d punched hers, we had quite the little brainstorming sesh, and she encouraged me to be as thorough and as potentially offensive as I dared. She’s asexual. She’s a nun. She’s a basket case. She’s terminally picky. She’s got vaginismus. She’s got AIDS. She’s got the Cat People disease. The only one she’d cop to was a bit of social anxiety, but nowhere near as crippling an amount as you’d assume it would take. I’m ashamed to admit that I kept quite a close eye on her for the next few weeks, but, seeing no evidence of some crippling personal handicap, I was obliged to accept the Occam’s Razor explanation that the opportunity had simply never come up. Why would that surprise you? Luck is a bell curve, and some people have to land in those unenviable sigmas to the right. Lots of people think, even if they’d never say so, that a woman could always find a man willing to fuck her if she wanted, but not so; men seem to underrate their own choosiness, at least as much as women overrate it. 

What do you think a woman like that could really teach you? Sound like a stupid question? It’s what she didn’t know that ended up being most instructive. She was no dummy, and she was no one’s idea of a sheltered girl either – she’d sat through sex ed, she’d watched pornos, she’d read sex advice columns, she’d had frank talks with her girlfriends. But there’s all sorts of quirky little details about sex that only come through experience, that you take for granted until a fresh perspective draws your attention to them. Just one example. After the third or fourth time we’d fucked she piped up timidly and asked me why I was still hard. Hadn’t I cum yet? I didn’t know what else to do but reach in her, pull a glob out and flick it at her; probably not the most mature thing in the world. She was unfazed and asked well, was I going to cum any more? I thought she was trying to hint that she wanted to go again, but that wasn’t it. And it all dawned on her in the next minute or two, watching my cock slowly deflate. “So that’s how it always goes?” she asked. I didn’t really catch her drift, and she had to spell it out. She had this idea in her head that a boner was literally the penis filling up with cum, and during orgasm it all got emptied out like a tube of toothpaste. I pressed her a bit on this and found out that the source of this misconception was watching sex scenes in Game of Thrones and whatnot, where the guy makes a nut noise and gets right up a second later, immediately flaccid, because you can’t show real boners on TV, it’s obscene. So when we were done and my boner hadn’t gone down yet, she was confused. It sounds so silly but legitimately, how would you know? It makes sense in a third-grade kind of way.  

But by far her biggest surprise was precum, and how she found out about that was kind of an accident. I’d never been a huge precummer. It had happened often enough when I was a teen but more or less stopped in my twenties. However, the day was kind of out of the ordinary. I’d been sort of idly jacking off that morning before work, and I’d gotten, I’d say, 80% of the way there when I got a text from her asking if I was free after work. She didn’t say she wanted to fuck that night, but I figured I should put a pin in it just in case. I got teased for a bit before we went out to dinner, if “tease” is the right word for her unzipping my pants, getting my entire dick out and rubbing herself all along it right there in the vestibule of her apartment building. (She’d really been feeling herself after getting over that first hump, so to speak, and seemed determined to make up for lost time.) We went to a Peruvian restaurant, ate ceviche and aji chicken, walked around the lake by her apartment burning a J while I not so discreetly grabbed her butt beneath her skirt. By this point, having been edged so much, I’m all in a lather. My brain feels foggy, soaked in narcotic sex. I’m the closest I’ve been to cumming in my pants since age 15. We got back to her apartment, my pants came down, she wrapped her fingers around and gave it a fingery squeeze like she was checking the ripeness of a piece of fruit. I violently suppressed a premature orgasm, and before I knew it, I started leaking like a broken faucet.  

The whole vibe in the room went aslant. She was fixated on the head of my cock like a cat watching a wriggling bug trapped in the window screen. I froze, helplessly watching as one shiny gob after another oozed out and landed on my bare legs. The room was so silent I could hear each splotch. Was the expression on her face consternation? Horror? Did she think I had a virulent strain of dick disease? I waited for her to ask me what was going on, but she didn’t utter a word. Slowly, gingerly, she ran her finger underneath my cleft. She gathered some on her fingertips. She pressed them together and made slow circles. Magnetically, robotically, as if she had no say in the matter, she hovered to the head of my cock and touched the very tip of her tongue to this mystery fluid. That one taste sent her into a frenzy. She inhaled my dick, letting some precum spill onto the back of her tongue like she was tasting wine. She was clearly as hornt up as she had ever been in her life. It was enthralling, almost scary to watch.   

I didn’t have a chance to explain precum till afterward, and she was onboard to say the least. She told me, in shallow-breath spurts, how sexy she found it on a conceptual level. She was wild about every part of it – the taste, the texture, the way it beaded and slid down the little groove in the glans, but most particularly the fact that she knew I was super excited when the precum showed itself. She said it was like the little slit on the head of my cock was a tiny little pussy, and just like a pussy it got wet when it was happy. It was astounding to her that she should just be finding out about precum. She didn’t know how people weren’t just obsessed with it. Her enthusiasm was infectious.  

What else could I do? I determined to get better at precumming. A happy accident now and then simply would not cut the mustard – I needed to do it consistently, I needed to feed her obsession. The human body is a wondrous machine and responds well to all manner of physical and psychological habituation. It’s built to learn. I practiced, I experimented, both by myself and together with her. It became a fun little shared project for us. I tried different approaches to masturbating, touching myself there, there, or there; light touch, hard touch; short strokes, long, medium; do this for about this long, stop for about this long. New toys, new techniques. I paid attention to my mental state too, to my sensations, to my thoughts; I tried out different music, scents, mental images; I figured out which states of mind tended to stopper-up the precum and which ones could help get it streaming. We browsed guides on meditation, self-hypnosis, tantra. It was like learning to jerk off, to fool around, to fuck, all over again. In a sense we were both newly deflowered.   

The big breakthrough came during the experiments with prostate stimulation. From our incognito-tab research we knew that precum came from that general part of the anatomy, and we’d read some great testimonials about prostate play. Regrettably, butt stuff just don’t do anything for me. It wasn’t unpleasant, it was just kind of there; the fireworks we expected wouldn’t arrive, just couldn’t seem to find the right spot, to the point where I briefly wondered if I was born without one. Then later, during an unrelated experiment completely out of the blue, I found a certain spot on my perineum (in layman’s terms, the gooch, the grundle, the scruttocks) where I could take care of business very well from the outside. I’d press real hard on this one spot, stroke back and forth a few times, maybe make a few small circles around it – they call that thing the male G-spot, but I never appreciated how accurate a metaphor that was. Very soon I was a regular Old Faithful. I mentally referred to that as my Precum Button.  

The more I practiced, the easier it got. I could start the damn thing weeping practically on command. The Precum Button got more and more sensitive to the point where a light caress worked. She got comfortable enough to request it, knowing I could easily supply. And the more I gave her, the more she wanted, and that feral little sparkle in her eye when I produced was all the reinforcement I needed. A couple more weeks of that and the whole thing became second nature. All the little maneuvers were routinized to the point where I didn’t need to think about any of it anymore.  The precum was on a low boil all the time, with less and less heat required to get it to spill over.  

She was delighted, of course, but things any slightly-more-than chaste kiss would start my unit drooling like Pavlov’s dog. The smell of her, the thought of her, the ping of the phone when I thought she might be trying to talk to me – as often as not it’d make a dark sticky blot on the front of my boxer-briefs, all too likely to bleed through to my pants, if they were thin enough, and eventually without even that qualifier. More and more I woke up with a clear sweet-smelling pool having formed in my sleep. I became adept at tearing off strips of toilet paper and wrapping them turban-style around the head of my cock to stop the leakage, like I was on the man-rag or something, and if I was embarrassed sometimes, that I’d forget one of my little hats was there when I went to meet up with her, it would dissipate quickly enough when she saw it and went whale-eyed and her voice would drop several semitones as she asked, “Awwwwww…did I make your pants messy?” 

We did have to stop seeing each other eventually. Who the hell knows where I’d’ve ended up otherwise? I’m picturing myself in one of those fetish videos where I’m just confined to a bed, unable to do anything more than leak, hooked up to a machine collecting the clear stuff in bottles. Very uncharitable, I know. I was more than a willing participant. 

Why we broke up isn’t really germane to the story. Amicable? Eh, enough. But it did kind of alarm me that once she wasn’t around anymore, the constancy and intensity of my precum flow didn’t go anywhere right away as I’d expected it to. My frustrated body was producing and producing desperately, like the milk of a mother when she starts weaning. I was a genuine freak of nature, changing TP hats practically every hour, and I could’ve been imagining it, but at several points I got legitimately lightheaded from loss of fluid and glucose. My body and my mind, my physical responses and hormonal balance, were too well worn into this groove and I couldn’t just climb out. I suffered for weeks. My co-workers noticed something. I nearly got caught with stained pants on several occasions. There was something poetic in the thought that my cock was doing the weeping for her loss that I couldn’t. But what was taught can be forgotten, and my precum volume eventually did return to pre-meeting-her levels.  

I haven’t ever tried to get it to come back. Got no reason to. Sometimes I miss it. I feel pangs. Now and again the euphoric heat I felt when I poured it all out for her will leap through the years and flash me out of nowhere, strong as ever. It wasn’t just sexy, it was a primal expression of…something I haven’t figured out yet. But I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything, because I know I could train my body to do it again if I ever had to. If I was ever properly motivated. I did it once, didn’t I? We’re fabulous machines, built to grow, learn, adapt, and as constricting as they may sometimes feel, our habits, our routines, our yen for inertia are all properly understood as tools to help us grow, like the stakes and twine supporting a growing plant. It’s never done. It’s all up in the air.  

Mitzi: Dad died

Nate: I saw

Mitzi: You doing okay?

Nate: I’m fine

Mitzi: You coming to the funeral?

Nate: Bit busy won’t make it.

Nate: Sorry

Mitzi: I figured.

Nate: Is that okay?

Mitzi: Its fine.

Mitzi: How’s Lindsay doing?

Nate: Your guess is as good as mine.

Mitzi: Everything okay?

Nate: Yeah just shit with Beth.

Mitzi: Fuck up again?

Nate: Probably. Lindy stopped answering my texts.

Mitzi: That doesn’t sound like Beth.

Nate: I know

Mitzi: Sell your raccoon vid yet?

Nate: Close

 

To: submissions@ambrosemedia.com

From: jonandnateplusnate@mailmail.mail

To whom it may concern,

My name is Nate Benning. You may remember me from previous submissions to Bucky Ambrose’s Ambrose Alert Vid of the Day. I submitted “Man Eats Avocado in One Bite,” “Man Eats Purell Cereal,” and “Man Eats War and Peace” (Which are all still available for exclusive rights at a discounted price if you decide to purchase all three). I am writing this email in conjunction with a golden whale of a video. We’re talking peak virality and I’d love to debut this one on Bucky’s channel given his level of prestige. “Man attacked by Rabid Raccoon in Convenience Store” fits perfectly within the chief demographics of the Bucky Ambrose Alert fandom. We’re talking “Dolphin Fart” numbers. Or even “Stoned Tapeworm.”

I’ll set the stage: After a long shift at work, a man enters a convenience store and is followed in (unbeknownst to him) by a rabid raccoon (yes it was tested. yes it had rabies. yes the man had to get hella rabies shots). What follows is a battle of epic proportions in which the raccoon latches onto the man’s right foot and after repeated attempts at kicking the fucker off, he is finally dislodged, only to crash up through the ceiling tiles then back down to the floor. It proceeds to run out the door and off into the night.

Here’s the twist. I am the man in the video. I am the man who had to get hella rabies shots. 

I know the prize-winnings for the Ambrose Alert Vid of the day is $1000, but I am looking for $5000 for the video rights as well as an exclusive interview with Bucky (It can be on his second channel if need be).

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincelery,

Nathan Benning Jr.

 

Nate: Morning.

Nate: I love you.

Nate: Please just tell me what i did wrong

Nate: I am your father you can’t treat me this way

Nate: I know I haven’t always ben there for u

Nate: but I love you. (heart emoji)

Nate: and I know you love me

Nate: It isn’t easy being eleven

Nate: shit gets ducked you know

Nate: *fucked

Nate: you didn’t get anything while it was good

Nate: the planet is dying

Nate: everything’s been in the crapper since 9/11

Nate: hard 2 get by

Nate: is that whats pissing u off?

Nate: off?

Nate: I (heart emoji) you

Nate: I think the raccoon vid has a good shot

Nate: submitted it to Bucky Ambrose

Nate: if it wins the Ambrose Alert

Nate: will you text me back?

Lindy: (thumbs up emoji)

 

To: jonandnateplusnate@mailmail.mail

From: michaell@ambrosemedia.com

My man!

Nathan fucking Benning Jr.

I cannot begin to explain to you how happy I am to have received your most recent submission. 

Allow me a second to introduce myself. My name is Michael Loeb (Michelob Lite around the office), and I am the head of Content Curation for Bucky Ambrose and the Ambrose Media Co. I have a wonderful deal for you.

First off, my condolences to you for the passing of your father. I am not sure if you know this, but I had been in contact with your father before his untimely passing. (Sidenote: May I ask about the cause of your father’s death? We have a bit of a betting pool going on around the office.) Your father was a legend. And it is wonderful to see you carrying the torch for your old man. The world is a bit less interesting since he’s gone, wouldn’t you say?

I’ll get to the point. The reason I was in contact with your father is that we had been negotiating the sale of his most recent work, White Cum Compilation #7. Your father had mentioned keeping his content creation career a secret from those he knew, so this may come as a surprise to you, but your father was in fact Wallace_Tron, the famed creator of the previous White Cum Compilation videos. And though we had an agreement signed in principle over the sale of that video to Ambrose Media, no transaction had ever taken place. 

This is where it comes to you and a deal. For procurement of your father’s latest video, we are willing to pay you $25,000 for both White Cum Compilation #7 and Man Attacked by Raccoon (Better name. Suggests this is the definitive Man Attacked by Raccoon vid. Descriptors dilute. Rule #3 of content creation).

If by chance you don’t know what to look for, White Cum Compilation #7 features an old white male’s (your father’s) face never shown to camera, camera in passenger seat of car, yelling “white cum!” repeatedly at various drive-thru windows, then speeding off. Your father suggested playing the Fuel song “Hemorrhage (In My Hands)” over it, but Legal states it would kill the revenue on it.

I look forward to hearing back from you.

My man,

Mike Loeb

 

Nate: Have you ever heard the name Wallace Tron?

Mitzi: Nope

Nate: did dad ever talk to you about vids?

Mitzi: like your vids?

Mitzi: No

Mitzi: I’m sorry Nate. I don’t think it was your fault

Mitzi: He wasn’t all there the last couple years

Nate: did he ever make vids himself

Nate: that you know of

Mitzi: What’s going on, Nate?

Nate: Just curios

Mitzi: I know he had an old vhs recorder

Mitzi: Kept it in the backseat of his Buick

Mitzi: of all places

Mitzi: tho i never saw him use it ever

Nate: You think it would be possible to come over?

Nate: have a look around

Mitzi: is this some closure bullshit

Mitzi: common ground shit

Mitzi: cause if it is

Mitzi: dad wasn’t a deep shitty dad

Mitzi: he was just a shitty dad

Mitzi: and now he’s gone

Mitzi: there’s really nothing more to sift through

Nate: So no?

Mitzi: i never said no im just saying be careful

Nate: how?

Mitzi: you have a problem with overthinking shit

Mitzi: and underthinking shit

Mitzi: you never seem to attack shit from the right angle

Mitzi: im dealing with dad’s shit now

Mitzi: and the last thing i need is your shit up in my shit

Nate: you can leave his keys in your mailbox

Nate: you wont even know i was there

Mitzi: don’t do that Nate that isn’t what i meant

Mitzi: you know i’d love to see you

Mitzi: bring lindsay we could do dinner

Nate: its gonna be a quick trip

Nate: gotta work thursday

Nate: i’ll be by for the keys tomorro

Nate: mail box is fine

Mitzi: ok

 

To: michaell@ambrosemedia.com

From: jonandnateplusnate@mailmail.mail

Michaeloeb Lite,

I wish I could be writing you under better cirCUMstances, but I have CUM up a little short. Sorry for the cum jokes. Just trying to lessen the blow. Thanks for the condolences. Unfortunately, my father and I were never really close. Like I have a lot of memories of us when I was younger and even older, but they must not have been that great of memories, since I haven’t really felt that sad about him dying. I’m not implying that it was wrong for you to say condolences at all, it’s just that they weren’t really necessary since I’m over it. 

Anyway, I went over to his house and sifted through his video cassettes and there were a lot of videos there. Some were fairly disturbing, if I’m honest. Like somehow, he’d come across this tote filled with reptiles and snakes and what-have-you, and he’s just sitting in it, singing “Zombie.” That song by the Cranberries. He’s never liked reptiles as far as I know, so that’s a little strange, but what makes it weird as shit is that he doesn’t seem to be singing for the camera. Like he’s not performing. He’s just enjoying his snakes and lizards and singing a song he likes. 

Another one is him making a can of spaghetti-ohs, but the generic kind. He’s also smoking a cigarette but keeps coughing. Not some coal black emphysema cough either, the man never smoked a day in his life. It’s a virgin lung cough. He was almost eighty and near death and had picked up smoking? Weird shit, right? Tons of videos like that. 

But, no cum compilation. Nothing even close to that. There was even a moment I began to question whether you got the right guy, so I logged on to Bucky Ambrose’s Ambrose Alert website (great userface, by the way, really usable. high quality stuff) and watched the other videos. Sure enough, that was pops. Definitely his voice. Though while he was living, I don’t think I ever heard him say the word “cum.” He’d say “piss, shit, cunt,” all day. But never “cum.”

So, here’s the deal. No cum compilation. But I can get you the rest of his vids (I’m telling you. They are weird as shit) PLUS my raccoon vid for the original deal. $5000 for rights plus interview. Even could interview me as Wallace_Tron’s son. I didn’t know him that well, but I could do that. 

Let’s Dance,

Nate

P.S. My dad died of a heart attack

 

Nate: Can you tell my raccoon vid was fake?

Lindy: yes

Nate: How come you’ll only text me bad things?

Nate: Have I been a bad father?

Nate: If you don’t text me back

Nate: it means I was a good father

Nate: I’m taking your silence as a yes

Nate: I’m a good dad

Nate: Right?

 

To: jonandnateplusnate@mailmail.mail

From: michaell@ambrosemedia.com

Nate

unless you can procure the video in question we have no deal.

we are not interested in buying any of your videos

the raccoon looked fake as shit bro

get a life

M

 

Mitzi: Jesus Christ, Nate

Nate: what now?

Mitzi: Was that u at wendy’s

Mitzi: On Grand

Nate: Why?

Mitzi: Beth just called me

Mitzi: fuming pissed

Nate: Why?

Mitzi: apparently u were yelling white cum in the drive thru

Mitzi: that wasn’t you, right?

Mitzi: right?

Nate: Beth was asking?

Mitzi: Lindsay saw you apparently

Nate: why would Linds be at a Wendy’s

Mitzi: she works there

Nate: since when is Wendy’s hiring 11yos?

Mitzi: 11? Lindsay is 16? 

Mitzi: fuck u on, Nate?

Nate: did she describe the dude

Mitzi: she said he was wearing a mask

Mitzi: but she said it was clearly you

Nate: doesn’t ring a bell

Nate: my poor lindyboo

Nate: is she alright?

Mitzi: That’s not the point

Nate: was she embarrassed of me

Mitzi: no

Mitzi: she said it was hilarious

Nate: fuck yeah

When will I greet
The star of intoxication?
At the tip of my lover’s cock.
He had a spaceship in his pants,
He was waiting to take me away
Where there’s neon
At the bottom of the sea,
Starlights overhead,
And Indigo, bulging
In the spectacle of our sex.
In today’s fascist world:
Honest cum…
Non-intellectual
Spunk
-for free.

I want to suckle a pair of great big cum cow tits.

Make it two pairs.

Make it three triplicities.

I want to milk and be milked by a pair of leathery, frost-hardy hands.

I want the black tar cum of the black hole sun.

I want the liquid selenite of an Aphroditian scallop shell.

I want to fuck you in a blazing war zone in front of Martians.

I want to fuck you in a flaming dumpster like the trash we are.

I want to fuck you like an animal in a barnyard, or the zoo,
and while I’m fucking you I want to feel like I am you.

I want you to fuck me like an animal at the zoo, or in a barnyard,
and while you’re fucking me I want to feel like I am you.

I want to feel like I am me.

I want to be vortexed into an ocean of pure porn consciousness,
the ocean of pure porn consciousness that is forever all around us,
at the source of base instinct.

I want the feeling of vortices like feelers in every aperture,
feelers in my soul, heart, and brain holes.

I want a lot of nonsense, erotic grotesque nonsense,
nonsense the divinest sense, always.

I want it the way it feels in my sexual fantasies,
in which my head is a camera,
in which I am always the gonzo,
in which I am everyone pictured and not pictured.

I want you to pop that pussy, Justine Beaver,
and show me your pussy, Michael Douglas.

I want to internalize something other than misogyny.

I want to externalize The Dick Inside
and sodomize Bobby Peru in a urinal stall
and force him to return the favor.

I want Super Sex that feels like being engulfed in waves
and drowned in flames and crucified and hanged
and suicide-bombed and waterboarded.

I want the golden showers of Zeus
disguised as the celestial cum cow
and the water sports of Vladimir Putin
disguised as just a regular cum cow.

I want nothing,
the John Cage nothing,
the Nicholas Cage nothing,
the nothing that is a pleasure.


Louis Bourgeois
lives, writes, and edits in Oxford, Mississippi. His latest book, Unit 29:  Writing from Parchman Prison, was published by VOX PRESS.  Currently, he is completing a Rimbaud translation project entitled The Created Body. The poems in this issue of Cum Punk, are from a forthcoming collection, Collen, to be released by VOX PRESS in the fall of 2025.      

Matías Bragagnolo, Argentinian, is the author of the novels Petite Mort, El brujo, La balada de Constanza y Valentino, El destino de las cosas últimas, Dormiré cuando esté muerto, and Cloacina. He’s a scholar of the work of William S. Burroughs and the cut-up technique, and a researcher and essayist on matters related to rock, literature and cinema. His short story Your Body as an Assembly Line for Public Humiliations is being published by Anxiety Press in the anthology Tormented Flesh.

“Ain’t it fun when you get so high that you just can’t cum? Or worse, too drunk to fuck. And then an unrequited wet dream.” –Matías Bragagnolo

Jennifer Browne was once described as “a hellcat in the sack [with] the nicest social demeanor.” Like other pronouncements of the 1990s, it hasn’t held up. Her written work can be found at linktr.ee/jenniferabrowne

John Burroughs is a recent U.S. Beat Poet Laureate and if he were able to beat any poet living or dead it might be Allen Ginsberg, though the late Allen’s stiffness is at this point more hindrance than help. Find John at crisischronicles.com or linktr.ee/johnburroughs.

Karina Bush is an Irish/Roman poet, playwright and novelist. She is the FOURTH INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION SLUT and CEO of the only ethical AI company on the planet, DeepSNAKES. For more, visit karinax.com 

“Cum punk means harnessing THE superpower.” –Karina Bush

Kirsten Noelle Craig is another tortured millennial who enjoys consuming way too much caffeine and sad poetry. She is passionate about literacy, nature, and education. You can usually find her writing something, yapping about books, or lifting heavy at the gym. Check her out on all socials with the handle @thespineofmotherhood! 

“When I saw ‘Cum Punk’ I immediately thought of pleasure and pain. Rebelling against the softness of the body with all the sharp edges. Naturally, for me that meant horror erotica.”  –Kristen Noelle Craig

Cletus Crow is mostly a poet. Jesus Freak and Phallic Symbols are available from Pig Roast Publishing.

Anton Cumcre is an idiot and an asshole who desperately wants to find something positive in the world to hold onto. Generally speaking, they fail. Luckily, they look pretty cute while screaming and ranting a desire to burn everything to the ground and hugging all of you. Their luddite website is antoncancre.blogspot.com. Pronouns: Any/All/Just Not Late For Dinner.

“Cum Punk is what happens when you put Wendy O. Williams and Seth Putnam in the same room.” –Anton Cumcre

C.U.Morgenrede, or Morgenrede, is a Mid-Southern man who takes care of two cats and plays pinball in his off time. He has two self-published collections, Eyes Impaled by Spikes and USING YOUR HAND TO BLOCK OUT THE SUN, and one book of poetry titled ABUSER that is published with Pig Roast Publishing. Selected pieces from these collections have been published at Misery Tourism, DON’T SUBMIT, BRUISER Mag, and elsewhere.

Cock E. Cuntsmart is OG of the full-body thong, making the hideous timeless and eating all of the latest pussy—no trick unturned, no ass unfucked! Cock E. Cuntsmart, histrionic bone collector, purveyor of the disembodied weenie roast, is an alias of Kum V.

Gitane Demone is best known for her vocals in Christian Death (’83-’89), her solo work and bands Crystelles, Gitane Demone Quartet, and a multitude of collaborations. She writes and illustrates, releasing small chapbooks of poetry and prose (The Blood, Vexata Quaestio). Listen at: gitanedemone.bandcamp.com and darkvinylrecords.bandcamp.com

“Cum Punk = Epic freedom.” – Gitane Demone

R.J. Dent is a poet, novelist, translator and short story writer. As a renowned translator of European literature, he has published modern English versions of The Songs of Maldoror (Lautréamont); Speculations (Alfred Jarry); Capital of Pain (Paul Ėluard); Her Three Daughters (Pierre Louӱs); The Surrealist Manifesto and Soluble Fish (André Breton); The Dead Man (Georges Bataille); Stories, Tales, and Fables (Marquis de Sade); The Flowers of Evil (Charles Baudelaire); and major works by Louis Aragon, Maurice Rollinat, Rene Crevel and Antonin Artaud. Official website: www.rjdent.com

Charlene Elsby is a philosophy doctor and former professor whose books include Hexis, The Devil Thinks I’m Pretty, Violent Faculties, and Red Flags. Her essays and interviews have appeared in Bustle Books, The Chicago Review of Books, The Millions, and the LA Review of Books.

Lisa A. Flowers is a cinephile, ailurophile, and the founding editor of Vulgar Marsala Press. She is a recluse who lives way up in the mountains. Visit her here.

Ivan Genc is a poet from Petrinja, Croatia. He’s just a dude, like a guy, who cums every once in a while. 

“Cum Punk is not for market-oriented shills. It is for artists who write because they have to [bust a nut].” –Ivan Genc

Z.H. Gill lives in Hollywood, CA, with his cat Hans.

“Cum Punk means pleasure and welfare, sacrificing neither one for the other.” –Z.H. Gill

Cody Goodfellow has written nine novels and five collections of short stories, and won three Wonderland Book Awards. His comics work has appeared in Mystery MeatCreepy, Slow Death Zero and Skin Crawl. He works as a fiction pimp for Heavy Metal Magazine. He lives in San Diego, California. codygoodfellow.com

Jesse Hilson practices semen retention and regards orgasms as cosmos-shattering disasters, broken mirrors way worse than seven years’ bad luck.

Mr. Omar King You’ve seen him on the YouTube channel Soft White Underbelly. You can find his frank interviews on Filthy Loot’s Not-Not Famous, Strange Flows, and Adam Lehrer’s Safety Propaganda; his short fictions on Cream Scene Carnival, 100subtexts Magazine, and Elizabeth Ellen’s Hobart. Online, well, he is like a digital nomad; you can find him here, there, everywhere! And now he is the cover boy of the third issue of Beyond the Last Estate. I present to you The Outsider Artist and Writer who resides in Gardena, California. He is the author of An Odyssey of Dingbats! MR. OMAR KING!

Dylan Krieger is a well-hidden house of horrors in the American South. She holds degrees in writing from the University of Notre Dame and Louisiana State University. Her recent work includes Predators Welcome (Limit Zero, 2024) and No One Is Daddy (Saturnalia Books, forthcoming 2026).

Lotte Latham is a professional hedonist with an untidy mind. Author of upcoming chapbooks Maternal Potential (Carrion Press ‘25) and Dear Mr Andrews (Guts Publishing ‘23). When she’s not writing, you’ll find her fucking bottles under the alias: My Babyallgone. Wanna watch?  

“Cum Punk feels like baby’s blowing LUV-bubbles at the bukkake party.” –Lotte Latham

Conner Muddiman is a reclusive layabout from Cincinnati, Ohio whose only fuel for his latent narcissism is his talent for gluing words together using sticky mental illness. He hopes his little pieces of upsetting linguistic tomfoolery tickle any receptive parts of your cerebrum with catharsis and aesthetic joy.

Madison Murray is a writer and artist. She is the author of “My Gaping Masshole” (2025), a collection of erotica, poetry, and pornographic collage about North Shore, Massachusetts. Her writing has been published in Stone of Madness Press, dream boy book club, Dirt Child, and BULLSHIT Lit, among others.

“Cum punk—a resourceful pervert who weaponizes ejaculation for world domination.” –Madison Murray

Karter Mycroft is – you know that thing that dogs do, when they start humping an inanimate object because they are stressed out? What’s up with that, anyway?

“Cum Punk = ‘It is possible, in a laboratory setting, to edit the genes of male zebrafish so they produce the sperm of another species. This can result in viable offspring.’” –Karter Mycroft

Hannah/Beaux Neal is a musician, dancer, and poet from Atlanta, GA. Her various projects can be found under the aliases hannahbolecter, lowtown, flea circus, and gunga (forthcoming). Likes: healing power of herbs, sunbathing, cumming. Dislikes: chlorine, small hands, major music festivals.

“Cum Punk is the vital release.” –Beaux Neal

Mark Parsons’ poems have been recently published or are forthcoming in Expat Press, Dreich, Cape Rock, and I-70 Review. His books include, Stills (Southernmost Books in 2023), Lake Tahoe is an Elegy (chapbook, Alien Buddha Press, 2024), Spiral (Anxiety Press, 2025), and The Kingdom of Middle of Children (Southernmost Books, forthcoming, summer 2025). He lives in Tucson, Arizona.   

Tyler Peterson is a fiction writer from Iowa. His work has appeared in Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Apocalypse Confidential, Back Patio and elsewhere. 

“Cum Punk means never having to say, ‘I swear this never happens to me.’” –Tyler Peterson

Jennifer Robin writes smut and transfiguration. Her Cum Punk pieces appear in the excruciatingly autobiographical There Must Be an Invisible Leash, cumming soon on Future Tense Books. Her erotic novel of mad science, Mother Earth’s Avenger, is a hot monster wad about to pop from Oblique Strategies.

“CUM PUNK collapses time. CUM PUNK is every cell an open mouth. CUM PUNK is swan dance, ragtime, acid-flash, perfume-plunge, stalk-taut-shock taut-stalk, tautology fuck-me.” –Jennifer Robin

Alex Rost runs a commercial printing press outside of Buffalo, NY. 

“Cum Punk is a reminder to let fucking loose.” –Alex Rost

Jeff Schneider was the guitarist for Arab On Radar and Made in Mexico. He is the author of Psychiatric Tissues (The Arab On Radar Book), Gallons Per Minute, and the novels Therapists Gone Wild and Rockin Out on the Mainline. Jeff is the editor-in-chief of Pig Roast Publishing.

“My band probably was in the Cum Punk genre. I guess, I’m literal lensed, so I’d say that iconic picture of GG Allin in daisy dukes, spread eagle, with his junk visible; a zoom in of said junk probably is what Cum Punk means to me.” –Jeff Schneider

Jack Skelley is the author of The Complete Fear of Kathy Acker (Semiotext(e)) and Myth Lab (Far West). His band is Lawndale (SST records).

Eric Subpar is a poet from Washington State whose work has appeared in Don’t Submit, Bruiser, and Hobart. His debut novel, GHOULS IN LOVE, is forthcoming from Pig Roast Publishing. 

“Cum Punk is the transmission of joy. The transmission of sorrow. The transmission of fluids.” –Eric Subpar

Gina Tron is the author of several poetry collections and memoirs, including Suspect, described by The Rumpus as “a story of trying to fit in and failing.” Her journalism has appeared in The Washington Post, VICE, and more. She’s also a rape survivor-advocate whose work spurred DOJ action.

Kum V invented Cum Punk and is EIC of Cum Punk Editions. She is currently lost in her own funhouse, pursuing a PhD at Pee Wee’s Whorehouse with a concentration in the Esoteric Order of the Cum Cow. She is a free-range dairy farmer of the bovine divine and moonlights as Cock E. Cuntsmart.

1. Ejaculation is the first step

2. The fluff becomes us 

3. Our cum joy is so wild and free 

4. We almost can’t control our metaphysical cum shots 

5. Even an emblematic fly fuck resonates with us 

6. Connecting the dots of afternoon delights 

7. Pneumatic levers ready to be triggered 

8. We’re not supposed to base our happiness in pleasing other people, but 

9. We are girls pocketing poles pretzeling into our enemies 

10. Young, dumb, and full of coagulated milk 

11. We unhinge our jaws to become unhinged

12. Our existence is pure jouissance 

13. Hazy and cum drunk, we cast a cloth of 200 million dead possibilities 

14. And spit out godly children 

15. We want to feel you where the sun’s too timid to touch 

16. Bathing in the last traces of spent divinity 

17. Our eternity is interlaced eights traced in saliva and semen 

18. With compulsive lust and its elaborate rationalization: romance

19. Gooning, or edging’s protestant cousin 

20. We yell “WHITE CUM” at every drive-thru

21. Honest cum in today’s fascist world 

22. And /yes/ moves through our bodies like destruction 

23. Siphoning angel dust from the chosen 

24. Lapping at it like lesser lovers 

25. A tingle, a double helix of panic and ecstasy 

26. We have so much sex that people show up to be part of our sex 

27. Genitals moistening like helpless patients that need to be turned 

28. The cum of one hundred men ejaculating in unison 

29. Thick and congested white, opalescent snot 

30. Perverted nurseries mixing sweat with dilated milky white stares 

31. We fuck our vaginas with our cocks 

32. The heads of our cocks are tiny little pussies 

33. Gaping into the profound naked wank 

34. We will drown you in cum for all eternities, cum will be your sky and sea and your cave deep in the Earth, where you’ll find us, finishing into the perfect well of your throat 

35. OOOOOOOOOOHH MYYYYY GAAAAAWWWDDD!! IT’S IN MY MOUTH! AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

All best in the best of all cummy worlds,

1. Jeff Schneider

2. Madison Murray

3. Kum V

4. Cletus Crow

5. Louis Bourgeois

6. Cody Goodfellow

7. Jesse Hilson

8. Charlene Elsby

9. Beaux Neal

10. Gina Tron

11. Alex Rost

12. Lotte Latham

13. Crockett Hall

14. John Burroughs

15. Conner Muddiman

16. Ivan Genc

17. Anton Cumcre

18. Jack Skelley

19. Dylan Krieger

20. Eric Subpar

21. Gitane Demone

22. Jennifer Browne

23. Karina Bush

24. Kirsten Noelle Craig

25. Karter Mycroft

26. Jennifer Robin

27. Lisa A. Flowers

28. Matías Bragagnolo

29. Mark Parsons

30. C.U.Morgenrede

31. R.J. Dent

32. Tyler Peterson

33. Cock E. Cuntsmart

34. Z.H. Gill

35. Mr. Omar King

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