Cum Punk

Yes I’ve been fantasizing again…
What if it were the year 1936, and I,
Carl Miller Daniels, was a freshman at the same
university where John-Boy Walton
was also a freshman? You may
remember John-Boy Walton from
The Waltons TV series. John-Boy Walton
was sweet and sexy and very hot. If you need
a refresher, just watch some of the
old re-runs of The Waltons. I’ve been
doing a lot of that lately. And all that
watching got me thinking these kinds
of thoughts: I was thinking that
if it were 1936, and John-Boy Walton was
a freshman, and I was also a freshman at
the same university, and
we met, what might have happened.
John-Boy Walton is a writer. John-Boy
writes about all kinds of things,
things in his life that mattered to him
and touched him deeply.
Maybe he would have written
a letter to me. Maybe he would have
written lots of letters to me.
Maybe one of the letters
that he wrote to me would look
something like this one (see below).
I can just imagine…

***

Dear Carl,

Lordie, it was great having
two orgasms last night. I loved
lying in my bed with you,
and, while you fondled
my big erect dick, I was fondling
your big erect dick, and
we did that a while until
we each had hot sensuous
orgasms, and we each spurted
big gooey gobs of semen
all over our naked sweaty
chests and bellies.
Then, Carl, as if that wasn’t
enough joyful sex for one
night, you observed that
we were still both fully
erect, and so you
you climbed on top
of me, and started
rubbing your dick against
my dick, pushed your
tiny little nipples
up against my tiny little nipples,
pushed your sweaty
semen-spattered belly
down against my sweaty
semen-spattered belly,
and we kept rubbing
our thick smooth erect
dicks together until, Lordie, Carl,
we both ejaculated again!
All that semen! The smell,
that slimy primal manly slipperiness!
The thick heady musky aroma
of all that semen,
two copious separate ejaculations
worth of semen, and that
second eruption of semen that we
both experienced and enjoyed spurted within
just a few moments of our
previous hot heavy ejaculations. And
us, two hot sweaty slender beautiful
sex-hungry young men,
lying in my bed in my
dorm room, you on
top of me, our bellies
pressed together, practically
glued together by the thick sticky
semen pressed and oozing between our
chests and bellies, your phallus
and my phallus pulsing and throbbing
ecstatic in the slime-melded tangle
of our thick nests of pubic hair, our
big thick smooth man-staffs
still pressed together, and two orgasms in
one night! It was
almost more joy
than I could stand, Carl.
Two orgasms in one
night. Two, Carl! Two! And both orgasms
so close together that
our dicks never even had time
to get soft before the
next orgasm happened.
Two orgasms in one night!
Two! Carl,
that said, next time,
shall we aim for three?

Your friend and lover,

John-Boy Walton
April 16, 1936

My Jim Carroll Fantasy

BG P40 (Beautiful Guy Poem 40)

While we’re both naked
and in my bed, Jim Carroll tells
me that he thinks there’s something
primal going on inside
his scrotum, inside his balls—
he thinks there’s something
that connects him
to the seas and the stars
and the wind.
“So is that what I taste when
you cum in my mouth?” I say, “the
seas and the stars and the wind?”
“Could be,” says Jim Carroll, nonchalantly,
“but what the fuck. Just slurp away,”
he says to me as I suck on his
big smooth beautiful dick, “and
taste what you taste. I don’t know
what you get out of that stuff anyway,”
he says, as he’s just about to cum
in my eager willing mouth. “It’s
just goo—like mucus, like snot.”
I pull my lips away from his throbbing dick
for a moment. “You just said it’s the
essence of the
seas and the stars and the wind,” I say
to him. “And now
you’re just calling it snot?”
“I say a lot of stuff,” says Jim Carroll.
“Passes the time. So do you want
this load or what?” “Yeah,” I say,
“and your next load too.”
“That’ll cost you another
twenty dollars,” Jim Carroll says to me.
“My load after
this one—that’ll make your total forty
dollars for today. That’s twenty
dollars a load,” he says, “that’s
the agreement.”
“No problem,” I say, and I wrap my
lips back around the
flared-out edges of
his smooth shiny purple-pink glans.
In no time at all, his cum is
spurting into my mouth. Meanwhile,
I’m jerking myself off. Some of
my cum splats onto his
smooth tight belly. He just
chuckles, and wipes it off
himself with my t-shirt. “You spurt
a hell of a lot of that stuff
don’t you?” Jim Carroll says
to me. He’s grinning in
an almost-friendly manner, and
once again, for just
a moment, I allow
myself to feel loved.
He lies back in my bed,
and I start gently licking
his dick. His dick
is soft now, ’cause he’s just
cum, but in no time
at all, he’s hard again.
Jim Carroll is like that—
sweet horny guy that
lets me suck him off
every chance I get. I take
my time, waiting for
this next load of the
afternoon. He doesn’t seem
to mind, lying back
and relaxing in my
big bed, spreading
his legs wide while I suck
him off, and once again,
I feel like maybe he
really does kinda
like me, but, I know
deep inside me, that he likes
those twenty-dollar
bills that I shell
out a whole lot more. Still,
it’s nice to pretend that
he’s in love with me. And,
hell, I’m
so in love with him
that it hurts.
After a while, he cums
in my mouth, I cum
on his legs, he wipes
himself off, gets
dressed, I pay him
$40, and he’s out
the door.

The next day, in my seat behind
him in our English class, I look
at the back of his handsome
head, and resist the urge
to lean forward, and kiss
the top of it. My dick is
hard as a rock, and I’m
hoping nothing leaks out.

BG (Beautiful Guy) and hot sexy Jake
both wake up with a hard-on.
They are lying in bed together
in their cozy little
apartment. They are both
naked, and, as usual,
all the covers are thrown
off. “Let’s frot!” says BG.
“OK!” says Jake. So
Jake crawls on top
of BG. Jake presses
his nipples tight
against BG’s nipples
and starts rubbing his
dick and balls against
BG’s dick and balls.
BG sticks his tongue
into Jake’s mouth and
rubs the tip of his tongue
up against the tip
of Jake’s tongue.
“Yummy,” says BG, “the
flavor of last night’s pizza
sure lingers don’t it?”
Then BG and Jake both start laughing,
and as they’re laughing
they’re rubbing their
dicks and balls together,
kinda grinding and
squishing them together
but in a warm and friendly
kind of way and since
their big dicks are
so hard, they’ll only
scrunch so much
they just go on
rubbing their very hard dicks
and their nice hairy balls together
rubbing and rubbing
and rubbing
and very soon KABOOM
they both spurt cum
and spurt cum and
spurt yet more cum,
and yes, spurt even
more cum,
and BG says “How
is this possible
I’m still cumming!”
and Jake says “I can
feel you squirting on
my belly and guess
what I’m still cumming
too!” And so they
just lie there a while
longer, Jake on top
and pressed tight
against BG and they
just spurt cum a
while longer, and
then they spurt some
more cum! until,
finally, they stop
spurting. They
lie there on the bed
kinda stuck wet and
slimy to each other’s
bellies, they’re
hot and
sweaty and out of breath.
“What was in that
pizza anyway?” says Jake.
“I dunno,” says BG,
“but let’s order it again tonight!”

visitors

birds sang.
**
an orange butterfly landed on one
of his nipples, and
as the sexy naked
teenage boy lay there on
his back masturbating,
the proboscis of that butterfly
uncurled and licked a drop
of sweat from the edge
of that sexy teenage boy’s
tiny pink nipple.
**
then, the proboscis recoiled,
and, just as the butterfly
was flying away, the orgasm visited
the sexy naked teenage boy,
landed on the tip of his big smooth dick
and slid down its long
smooth shaft, and rested there at
its substantial base, lingered there for
a few seconds right between his legs.
**
then the orgasm went away.
**
the sexy naked teenage boy
lay there alone on his back, his
belly and chest spattered with
his own cum, and he stared up
at the bright blue sky.
**
then he stood up, walked over
to the nearby stream, and washed
himself off. then he ate
a cheese sandwich, drank
some water from his canteen,
and lay back down on the
ground and waited for
the orgasm to return.
he wasn’t sure it would
be the same one. if it
was, fine. if it wasn’t,
if it was a different one,
with more jolt and jab and
color, that would be ok, too.
all were welcome, there in
the sunny clearing in the
secretest part of the
deep dark forest.

yum

Will We All Still See Each Other Afterward

brown gravy slathered over mashed potatoes:
the smell, the taste—heaven.
after eating a bunch of it,
his belly bulging gently against his belt,
sexy food-satiated young man is
extra-horny, thinking all kinds
of sexual thoughts about stimulating his dick
and about sexual organs and about
attractive human bodies, particularly
those bodies that look as good as
his does.
sexy horny food-satiated young man
arrives at zach’s door and knocks.
zach is his best friend, and more.
sexy horny food-satiated young man says
“hey, it’s me”
and zach says “come in.”
sexy horny food-satiated young man
opens the door and walks into zach’s room.
zach is standing
there waiting, wearing only a towel.
zach is very good-looking. zach
is freshly showered.
sexy horny food-satiated young man closes
the door behind him and locks it.
sexy horny food-satiated young man
says “god i’m horny wanna fool around?”
and zach, who hates
games of any kind and values
purposeful directness above all things,
says “i’ll jerk you off while you jerk me off,”
and so that’s exactly what they do
for the next three minutes.
when they are done,
when they’ve each spurted cum
onto each other’s hard taut flat bellies
and smeared their hands with it,
they wipe themselves off,
get dressed, and
go out for
food, all kinds of it,
more than anybody should
ever eat at one time but
they’re young and sexy
and skinny and hyperactive
and easily metabolize
vast quantities of
food and when they
finish eating, they
go back to zach’s room
and strip naked and
crawl into zach’s bed
and spend the night
there doing all kinds
of excessive mutual
dick-stimulating activities
between naps
and potato chips
and m&m’s,
a whole shiny bagful.
that morning,
they go out for breakfast and have
biscuits slathered in country-style
gravy. is there no end to
their indulgence? well, no.
apparently not.

Tyler Dempsey

The following is excerpted from Will We All Still See Each Other Afterward by Tyler Dempsey, first published by Anxiety Press in 2023.

***

On my back. On the floor.

Doing Wim Hof attempting to calm my excitement.

You hyperventilate and after your body realizes it’s not actually dying you feel calm.

Google it.

A black spider darts, stops, darts, stops, crossing my ceiling. Imagine it crawling on Katie and I in bed. In the vision, I jump, squealing. Doing that foot-to-foot thing elephants do in cartoons when they see a mouse.

Hear the arctic-entry door. Then a knock.

“Come innnnn.”

She comes in.

“Heyyy.”

Spotting me through the frame in the kitchen, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Watching a spider on the ceiling.”

“Weirdo.”

She strolls over, looking down, “I ran into Abby when I was almost back to the kennel with S’more.”

“Shit. How was that? You okay?”

“Fiiine. Just awkward. She said y’all were messaging on Facebook?”

“Yeah,” prop to my hands, “seeing if she wanted to go backcountry skiing.”

“Do you like her? Not that it matters.”

“Not at all. Reached out after you and I started hanging. But before anything, you know. She kept having random things come up so we never got together.”

Narrowing eyes, “That’s what she said. But that you were being all macho and mansplain-y about it.”

“You believe her?”

“Said, it didn’t sound like you. Buuut I don’t know. I still barely know you I guess.”

“Maybe I was? I don’t know. Felt normal to me.”

“She also asked if we were fucking.”

“What?”

“She knows something.”

“I barely know.”

“Maybe she saw your car at my place?”

Open Messenger. Hand her my phone. Blue reflects in her glasses as conversation boxes whiz. She thumbs frantically to the beginning the way some people do signifying they’re done.

“Don’t know what she’s talking about. Seems weirdly friendly since y’all have never hung out. But other than that, pretty standard.”

Smiling from where I’m standing.

“Sorry.” Her shoulders relax.

“It’s okay,” walk up, sliding arms around her, applying gentle pressure. She snugs her face in the crook of my neck. Breathes through her nose. Kneading my shoulders like a cat.

Blood rushes to my groin.

She looks down, then in my eyes, eyebrows bouncing like ohh-la-la.

We’re making out. In a style, communicating clearly, tension between us at a fever pitch. We step back and she removes her glasses. I pull off her shirt.

Returning the favor she goes, “All muscly, meeoww,” comically fondling my chest.

“Shut up.”

Sidestep to the bed. Grab her hamstrings and heft. She wraps her legs around me. Transfer one arm to her back and crawl us into pre-missionary-insertion position on the bed. I grab her sports bra and she moves like diving as I slip it off.

Hair splayed on my pillow. Color of her nipples.

Holy shit.

Unbutton her skinny jeans. She thrusts as I awkwardly peel them off. Remove my shorts and underwear, tossing them somewhere. Putting my weight on her, she pushes the back of my head into a kiss and scratches my shoulder with the other hand.

I whisper, “Can I kiss it?”

She nods.

I move down, relishing slowness. She moves in ways to meet my lips. After kissing the warmth through her panties, I tug.

Focusing mostly—but not too much—on her clit. “Jesus, you’re so wet.”

“I know.” She pushes my head down.

Kissing back up to her face to draw it out, she goes, “Do you have a condom?”

App replacing aspirin saving you from heart attack.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Honestly, at this point, I just want to get it over with you know?”

“Ohhhh-kay.” Hop down, grabbing a Magnum.

Just kidding. A Trojan.

Slip it on.

Holding my shaft. I slide the head up and down her entrance while she squirms.

I push. But.

It stops.

What the.

Try some more.

It isn’t working.

I’m six-and-a-quarter. Not huge.

And she’s practically spewing.

But nothing.

“Crazy,” she says.

“This’s never happened.”

I go down again. Try working more fingers in. Eventually three, which seems sufficient.

The condom wilted me, so I slide the horrible monster from my penis. Pulling her down by the waist I sort of hop, straddling her head with my knees. Grabbing the headboard.

She takes me in her mouth.

“Mind if we try without and I pull out?”

Rolls her eyes, “Fine.”

Push from my hips, death-gripping my shaft. Trying to jam it in, I feel desperate. Almost violent. But she isn’t screaming or anything.

Finally, the dam breaks.

“My god. You’re so tight.”

I’m fucking Katie. A kinda-virgin. A lesbian? Insane.

I last five minutes. Pull out, shooting a geyser on her stomach. Pool the cum with a dirty shirt and hand her a wet wipe.

“Want me to go down on you again?”

She Larry Bird’s the wipe, bricking it off my trashcan, “No, I’m good.”

Extends her arms like come err.

I crawl in. Snuggle the blanket around us.

“That was nice.”

“You felt good,” kiss the bone at the base of her neck. “Should I…”

She snores softly.

Extend my arm as far as it’ll go, flicking the light.

Lips around my penis. Blanket steady rising and falling. Light curtains span the room burning dust particles white.

Thought this was a one-off thing?

Place my hand on the back of her head. Under the blanket, she deep-throats, then slides to the crown. Lingering, suctioning more and more before releasing, and the built-up air and her lips make a sound like puhh.

Face appearing below mine. “Good morning.”

I get behind her. Lasting fifteen minutes, drowsiness helping with endurance. She cums twice and I pull out, cumming into the triangle of her lower back.

Ask if she wants a breakfast burrito. She says yes but that she has to leave for work. I’m watching her walking to her Jeep before my penis goes fully flaccid.

Amazing.

THE MAID AND THE MAIDENS

Gabriel Hart

I scoured the classifieds, circling the only job I was qualified for: JANITOR WANTED, apply in person. The only info provided was the address, nothing else. I fired up my dead aunt’s 1979 Volvo, still reeking of her Marlboro Lights, and headed over the hill to the deep edges of North Hollywood, way down Van Nuys Blvd, all unchartered territory to me. I pulled up to a large white stucco building, it’s logo Venus Faire in pink lipstick neon, that frantic dated cursive like someone in a hurry to leave. I walked in, nothing I hadn’t seen before—muti-cultural dildos, flavored lubricants, all four walls filled with DVDs like “Cunt Hunter, The Return” and “Ass Clowns Get Down,” that sort of thing.

“Piece of cake,” I thought. “Janitor stuff here would be like, what, vacuuming, an occasional bathroom check?”

I felt eyes on me. The only other person in the room was a guy, early fifties, constricted in a white button-up shirt, oozing chaste anxiety, holding court at the register.

“I’m here to apply for the janitor job.”

The clerk took a deep breath. He handed me the application and a pen.

“I’m the owner. You can fill it out right here if you don’t mind.”

I finished the boilerplate one-page application in two minutes.

“Can you start tomorrow?” he said, without looking at the paper.

I could sense our desperation was mutual.

“Yes.”

“Great, let me show you around.”

He led me on a tour of Venus Faire Showgirls, where the sex shop was merely its front lobby. Beyond a threshold I did not initially notice was the central nervous system of the establishment. Twenty enclosed cubicles, each the size of a department store dressing room, Plexiglass separated the patron combusting his piston from the woman grinding her gear. Both bodies instrumental to the motions of this machine where I was now a cog; the newest janitor at the busiest twenty-four-hour jack off joint in North Hollywood, cleaning up the very stuff that makes us.

I was surprised at how unsurprised I was by the Venus Faire peepshow, but I was already a bit stained from the sex industry. A group of close female friends had become strippers out of financial desperation, so “exotic dancing” clubs no longer held the allure they should have for a guy like me in his early twenties. The first-hand initiation of this kind of sex work just seemed like tradition.

Like just another dare.

Like just another thing I wouldn’t back down from.

Like just another way to atone for past sins.

Like just another way these girls don’t have to feel like they’re at the absolute bottom rung. Like, sometimes maybe I should get stuck on the floor.

Like just how there’s pride in being a garbage man, someone has to do it—if I don’t do it, who will? Only the garbage I’m disposing of is a vital ingredient in what makes a human being, ejaculated all over a transparent partition as the woman on the other side does her best not to reciprocate with projectile vomit.

Like just another gesture enabling the slow-motion free-fall, my own life being thrown away.

“ROOM 8 READY! ROOM 12 and ROOM 16 READY!”

“I’ll be right there!” I said.

By the end of the first day, I began to recognize every girl’s voice over each personal intercom no matter how blown their speakers were. I would only learn their stage-names like Cherry, Peaches; suggestions of sweet vitamin-rich fruit in this unnourishing environment.

I drove home to my dystopic apartment building on La Brea and Franklin, a sort of slum in vague transition where they charged too much for what it was to give the illusion of class, as if less money in my bank account every month would convince me the dark stagnant puddle in the swimming pool had some sort of potential; its only promise a deep end mortality. The twenty-story building far too tall for its own good, a stack of deceit. I lived on the top floor which they boasted as “the penthouse” where the only perk was a daily extended tour of the owner’s total negligence every time I rode the elevator. My view was aligned with the elevated outside dining of the neighborhood’s fanciest Japanese restaurant. After work that first night at Venus Faire, I sat on my balcony and stared, full of hate and envy, at restaurant patrons enjoying their expensive meals. Worrying they might see me looking, that our eyes might meet; invariably, someone would always catch me, and in my mind, they immediately knew what I had just finished doing for money.

At Venus Faire, bonds were formed quickly between me and the girls. Our relationship twofold intrinsic: since they split their tips with me, my pace was of upmost importance because

1). Due to the assembly line nature of the place, the faster we got ‘em out, the faster we could get ‘em in.

2). If one waits too long to attack a fresh dripping puddle of ejaculation, it will coagulate on the glass divider, making what should be a quick swipe with your bleach water-soaked mop into a Sisyphean task where you make a bigger mess the more you smear it. Anything over twenty seconds and I would be holding up progress, another itchy patron already waiting at the door, my sister in arms on awkward sneak preview display, trying not to lose her composure.

While a Kleenex dispenser on the wall was provided for more hygienic emission of semen, these were rarely utilized. The men’s unanimous preference was to not only shoot onto the glass, but to cover as much real estate as they could muster. The view of their dripping money shot is what they paid good money for, where they could imagine their mess of manhood on the flesh of their jaded temptress.

My swing shifts melted into eternities with no beginning or end. I’d fall asleep standing up at 3 a.m. to be woken by ROOM 9 READY! ROOM 4 and ROOM 19 READY! “Be right there!” I’d say, stumbling in with a fresh bucket of antiseptic rescue I’d only have to immediately pour out—the smell of bleach and cum and dirt and sweat and overlapping cloying perfumes swirled into cruel serpents slithering into my nostrils. Then it was me projectile vomiting, running into the bathroom when I should have been running the other direction to ROOM 17! ROOM 5, READY! Me and the girls, in solidarity, inheriting this sickness, the duration of eight hours a day/night; sometimes I’d smell it when I was driving home or at my apartment alone.

I was unprepared when I saw one girl smile not once but twice to me. I didn’t know it was possible or even allowed because no one did, not even the patrons after they tossed their rocks, testimony to the pleasure-void. But when Chastity (one of the only unfruits) asked me to walk her to the bus stop, she said, “It’s part of your job, you know?” She smirked and that was one. We started walking, and grinning, she told me I could call her Jenny and that was two. The bus stop was three blocks away, time enough for me to confide. Just as I was about to, she beat me to the ice-break.

“So, you got a girlfriend at home?”

I stuttered until I said yes, kind of. Before she could ask me to specify, I already had my out.

“Jenny, I think I’m going to quit tomorrow, like just walk out. But I don’t want to leave you girls drowning in jizz, you know?”

“I wish you could just take me with you,” she said, “But I get it. Janitors quit faster than the girls, so we’re used to it. You want me to let the other girls know?”

“Yeah, maybe. What happens when a janitor quits?”

“Oh, it’s actually kind of funny. It just means the owner has to take the mop. We get a kick out of it. It’s like revenge.”

“Oh,” and that’s when I smiled. But I turned my head because it felt too close, too fast.

“Well, here comes your bus. Tell the girls I’m gonna walk out at 3 p.m. tomorrow when it’s slow.”

“Why even show up?” she asked.

“It’s hard to explain. Even if I hate something, I sometimes want to do it one last time to remember how bad it is.”

“Ah, I get that. I definitely get that. Okay, I’ll let the girls know.”

She put one leg on the bus to board, then turned around and gave me a hug. It stuck to me, the hug, even after she swung her duffel bag back over her shoulder and disappeared into the guts of the bus, then into the night.

I showed up at noon the next day feeling smug knowing in just three hours I would be turning my back on Venus Faire, my little slice of Hell on Earth, brimstone of one-sided afterglows. I made every swipe of my mop count, punctuating every stab of the glass with renewed propulsive chivalry. At my zero hour I decided to be the best cum-mopper who ever lived, even for only thirty more minutes.

I was in the janitor’s closet one minute until three when I heard some of the girls giddily whispering in the hall.

I emerged from the closet, unburdened by mop and bucket.

“There he is!” a girl said.

I heard a smattering of handclaps.

I saw six girls hanging out of their rooms, and behind them at least a dozen more peeking their heads from around the corner. The claps became a round of applause, sprinkled with affectionate exclamations. I felt naked. My face went red, as did the needle of their volume. I blew them all a kiss, sincere as I could in the absurdity of the moment. I waved one more time, half-heartedly over my shoulder, then made up for it by theatrically kicking open the glass exit door.

That night I sat on my balcony nursing a whisky drink very slowly as I stared at the Japanese restaurant, allowing my eyes an extended voyeuristic glare. How those people afford those expensive meals no longer mattered to me. I was confident I had done more to earn my money.

Whisky was the only thing that could get Venus Faire out of my brain, that odor which had graduated into a taste until I sanitized it with another sip. It was my sixth drink within the hour since my girlfriend had arrived to celebrate my freedom. But my liberation was shrinking, uncertain how I’d pay the rent. I sat there alone on my balcony as she lay naked in my bed, waiting to take me. I lost count of how many times I told her I would be right there.

The Banquet of Chestnuts

Damon Hubbs

BANG bang bang shooooooooooooot.
Nadia says my dick is the rise and fall
of the Baader-Meinhof group.
Holger and his pink asshole like a Porsche Targa,
I came like a bomb planted at the head office
of false consciousness.
Saw Cortigiani girls and the Borgia boys,
cocks like a stock of carbines.
I beat a housemaid.
Shot a wad with the Marquis de Sade.
Told a cupid girl I jizzed on Roni Horn’s “Pink Tons”
in 2008—Boston, ICA.
Ate a cunt locked behind nineteen iron doors.
Saw a pussy like one, two, three Vietnams.
Found the clit in the back of the throat.
Fast fuck autobahn___________________________
Dolly mixture boyslush.
Marat in the bathtub drinking with the leach collector.
Saw six hundred well chosen heads
marching like urban guerillas.
Their ending is happy.
I’m slobbering from the eye.

Lions

Damon Hubbs

I ejaculate like the skyline.
Cumopolis.
Slightly noirish.
You said it looked like two stone lions
on your chest. Slightly angry, bemused maybe—
Eros
The Bittersweet
on your nightstand. So we know where your mind is.
And to think these are my best sheets.
There’s no telling where the terror lies.
I owe the booky man copper wire.
He ate my sins.
Somewhere I hear there are birds
that drink diamonds from your hands.

Cum Haiku

Damon Hubbs

Hot Asians
Recommendations
Amateurs

O that jizzy jazz
Our bed on Sunday morning
You scream like a bird

Thick cum on my tits
Another poem about snails
Lick it up, Basho

Your writhing penis
Hops around like a bluejay
White worm in its mouth

after Katô

Killing an ant
I have by three hookers
Been teen

I’m your OnlyFan
When you download my virus
And don’t miss a drop

Your ass in the air
A butterfly in summer
Tramp stamps—a comeback?

INTIFADA

Rudy Johnson

one opinion i’ve heard is that cum isn’t really white
ackshualy
another opinion is that jews aren’t really white
ackkkshualy
yet another opinion is something something israeli defense forces dropping phosphorous that is white
i don’t care anything about that—that’s what the one huge black
C.O. on Beyond Scared Straight screamed in a tiny 10 year old’s face until he was blue—
lives matter, true, but i know i would shoot loads onto an 18 year old conscript’s face, white
loads, whiter
than the flag waved by some palestinian journalist, redder
than feud-blood or the red flags in this poem, bluer
than my mood when i scroll facebook and slow down for israeli soldier girl thirst traps, white,
black, yellow, jewish i don’t give a fuck, shit!, because i’m a buck who would—
i won’t even finish that thought, i’m finishing to one of these thots, white
precum on my dick like precambrian slime, green
“… red disregard …” shouts the history.com video i’m scrolling past to get to more young jew ass wrapped in olive drab
a-rab hospitals pounded by 500lb bombs, leaving stains maroon
maroon 5 (“maybe you think that you can hide”), goddamn, those fatigues just fatiguing me; radiant; infrared
heat coming off my dick like in the gunship kill cams in black & white
[the silence]
AND I CAN’T MAKE IT ON MY OWN
i want one of these girls to need knead me
like a cat in maus while i goon myself black and blue
black and green
jack off multiple times and if i had a jack off charity i’d make green
for palestinians unhoused, i’m not a bleeding heart, just beet red
seriously i beat it until it’s red,
to these doughy off-white
field dressed does with the whole bakery in their pants, bread/crumb’s dick is hard all the way in the moulin rouge,
but seriously i am totally exposed right now, my ass red
as I.R. Baboon in cartoon cartoon, fucking red
cross shipments blown apart fuck those flags were white
my cum: white
i came, i came, white
i shiver, shudder, open and close the shutters, pitch black
they conquered
i saw
i came
red

ABCD (Alphabetical Cum Diary)

Emma Reed Jones

Composed of alphabetized sentences from dream diaries, 2003-05.

***

In my dream…

A large woman approaches me in a gym-like setting and offers to go down on me in a restroom stall.

As I am wondering if I will come, I come. At the same time Emily is trying to grab my tits—I pay no attention to her.

Due to a mysterious mishap with an industrial-sized sewing machine, my left leg gets totally cut off.

***

Everyone’s a family and playing in bathtubs. F. and I get away somehow. F. pours out libations to the spirit world. Her pinkie finger has become stuck in a weird position.

***

He says, “It’s like believing in God in Canada.” He says, “You want me so much,” grabbing my ass. He says I need to take my clothes off. He says, “Will you be needing the teapot?” He shoves his face in my boobs, then we make out wildly. He takes me to see a significant performance. He turns around and starts kissing my nipples.

I am an enemy to myself.

***

I am making out with a bunch of different guys in the bathroom, while simultaneously reading my diary. I am walking through the rain and admiring the fluorescent lights of Chinatown.

I am wearing two bras on the outside of my shirt, a man’s disembodied hand rests over one of my breasts.

I am with F., kissing her, but this doesn’t last.

I ask her where she is. She says, “22nd and Wednesday. Because in Staten Island, they name the streets like that.”

I ask the bartender how much does a bourbon sour cost, she says $5. I come then, screaming loudly.

I dream a man places my hand on his hard cock and says, “Does that feel good?”

I get a gun. I get caught in a waterfall. I go home.

***

I have to send an enormous lasagne to someone. I have a cat. I have a short new hairdo. I dislike it.

I have just escaped from a basement full of dirt.

I leave my body, do a slow motion backflip through the sky, call his name then wake up coming.

I like this place very much.

***

I masturbate in a convenience store, but I don’t come. I need to clean the gold paint off the rug or I will be caught and sent to prison.

I pour a viscous fluid on the ground to demonstrate that I can handle death. I rationalize having sex with my father, telling myself I haven’t fucked in months.

I strap the leg back on and achieve a kind of mobility. I touch his cock but we don’t fuck yet. I try to masturbate behind a bush, unsuccessfully. I try to teach him how to kiss me properly, while the apocalypse is approaching. I wear a long leather coat.

I wonder if I can change the plot of the film, so I grab his cock.

***

In my dream we are bandits; there is a narrator discussing our relationship. In the deli, F. grabs my breast: the men laugh and point at us, tell us to have a good time at home tonight. In the spirit world, I bite into a rotten banana, then throw it on the ground.

Later I told my mom, “He fucked me in the ass and wouldn’t let me come.” Lydia Lunch is our motivational speaker. Marilyn Manson offers me a summer internship. Matt in particular manipulates me into thinking he’s ill but is actually just trying to take pornographic pictures of me.

Moisture spills out of my cunt and down my legs in public. I’m not wearing any pants. My cunt’s so wet it’s dripping onto my thigh. My life is dangerous.

My mother tells me she had my brain tested by medical doctors. My professor tries to touch my breasts.

***

On vacation with my family, I ride a racehorse while wearing a skirt. People don’t realize they are turning others into vampires. Samantha Morton in Morvern Callar takes her clothes off and asks me to paint her. She says, “I think it’s a property of Capricorns that they sometimes just need to come immediately.” Someone tells me I’m very dirty and I look in the mirror and I have a ring of dirt around my neck.

The ocean had risen to such a degree that it was coming in under our door and hitting the cabinets under the sink.

The water in the world has become very scarce. I read a book about this new problem.

***

Then he grabs my throat and asks if that works for me in bed.

Then I reach between us and grab his cock.

Then, because his cock is pointing upwards, he comes in his own mouth.

***

This place might have interesting things lurking behind each door. We are going to consult the Oracle at Delphi, because it is the end of the world. We are going to fuck, at my request, but he needs to read a manual on condoms. We blow coke; my mom does a line off my arm.

We fuck on the floor then stop. We have sex. We kiss for a long time. We sleep together in an attic room someplace. We’re at the falafel store when we start having sex with our clothes on. You also fuck me in a moving train. You use your hands on me a lot.

Dave: The Shoe Store Sales Man

Mr. Omar King

Dave from the corner shoe store watches Cynthia walking into a hair salon. He grabs his notepad and pencil and jots down:

Cynthia at the salon, 3:09 p.m. She is wearing a red dress, with patterns of black and white little spots. She looks delicious in that dress. Might take pictures of her while she is not looking later. Let’s hope Jared doesn’t show up and make a scene. Jared does not deserve a girl like Cynthia in his life. She is too good for him.

Dave slips his pen and pad in his pocket and continues to watch Cynthia get her hair dyed, dirty blonde. But he thinks that she would look perfect as a brunette. He thinks that Cynthia as a brunette would replicate Bettie Page. She looks just like her. He believes this to be true. He knows this to be true. Therefore it is true. He is not sure if Cynthia believes this as well.

Cynthia finds Dave revolting. A walking pig, wrapped in a dark blue sweatshirt to hide his man-boobs, and flabby-winged arms, exposed belly looking like he’s pregnant. She does not see a future with Dave.

Dave is not the man for her. He is a pudgy, old-fashioned man and smells of a greased-up pizza. Not the good kind, not the kind that she likes, Domino’s Pizza, and side of buffalo wings, and celery sticks and ranch dip.

Cynthia is a sight. A beauty. A dunce sometimes. But nonetheless a beautiful creature with luscious pink lips, perky breasts, and long legs. Not as long as Nicole Kidman’s. But long enough.

At his apartment, when he is off from working at the shoe store, Dave lies flat on his bed, looking up at his ceiling fan, and gets lost in his fantasy. Dreaming about Cynthia. He dreams of a happy marriage with Cynthia. The typical “1950s nuclear family” lifestyle, in the suburbs. He dreams of being the head of the family and Cynthia, by his side, pampering him and feeding him home cooked meals that he likes to eat, chicken pot pie, T-bone steak and mash taters, California sushi rolls, Hamburger Helper, clam chowder, etc. And then there is another dream (or fantasy if you will) where he gags her up and sticks greased-up rubber ducks up her snatch, one by one. She moans a powerful and painful and uncomfortable moan (not without reason, of course). Moaning sounds sipping through the gag as if it is the last thing she will ever utter. She squirts white mess everywhere on the basement floor (a mess that Dave will have to mop later). Dave pulls a rubber ducky out her wet and messy snatch. His fat nose touches the white messed rubber duck. Curiosity speaks to him and without hesitation like a dog he sniffs at it and then licks off the white mess clean. It smells and tastes like tuna. Quite the aroma.

Once they complete and fulfill their sick sexual acts of human degradation, Cynthia cleans herself up, goes back inside the house, continuing on her wifely duties, pretending as if nothing in the basement ever happened. Suppressing those feelings and memories. The act of sex in the house is non-existent. If it didn’t happen in the house (living room) then it didn’t happen at all. This is his dream—his mission and goal—to be the man Cynthia needs and deserves. He must not let her slip away.

cofferism

Dylan Krieger

everyone is making fun

of the plastic necklace

that looks like semen

dripping down the sternum

but what if that’s exactly

what makes it my taste

money stuffed in coatpockets

cali sober pajama-maxxing

stars all different depths

silence gets laid before i do

the bible speaks only of

spice beds and a servant

girl, not a locket like

in A Little Princess but

with everybody’s heads

cut off by the heart shape

not a semen necklace

meant to mimic frozen water

i fear i am the target demographic

every tobacco box of astonishment

stares at before it runs out

i fear the word of the lord

narrowed me to a single filament

of cold hard punchable

polyurethane and no one gets it

except maybe the makers

of the semen necklace

who are still out there

like the truth or the boonies

oh the horror, what an honor

to cum on the semen necklace

cash-in to cash-in, trust to trust

double the pot, bet the bomb

on a sure front, to your hunger’s fill

to the asteroid belt and back

stack reality back onto the image

of itself and then tell me

which is which

LOVE LETTER TO THE ABYSS

Julia Laxer

Sidewalks lead me not to you
You are in the ether now

It’s a dotted line where we kissed
I sign my name with melting cum

I am nominal, you exist
You are like the moon

Sometimes I see you
Sometimes I don’t.

RODEO

Julia Laxer

Spring is a slutty exhibitionist
I am an old maid, a voyeur

She’s my fluffy princess
wearing rhinestones, pastels

I do the dishes
scrub filth, break my nails

She’s my thrusting pony
I’m yesterday’s saddle

Her meddlesome keeper, chewing
on a dry blade of last year’s sawgrass

My hands smell like dish soap
She blooms wildly

I’m fingering
my Mary medallion

Lips moving
quivering, praying

pink laughter hummingbirds
pink laughter hummingbirds

I witness her fever
Fingers on my own buds, even.

273 Days of Sodom

Michelle Jane Lee

You are refusing something you shouldn’t
and the reasons are stupid

Why do we have to be loud
about a thing
that will break anyway?
Can we just get there
quietly
instead?

When I make you turn around it’s for your own good
Cum is whatever we want it to be
as long as it fills you

You are waiting for a disaster
and I’m watching the sky
and counting stars

You are draped over the couch
and you are still there when I come back
with my hands full

Your arms behind your back, fists gripping one another
I hardly have to hold them anymore

I left a mark so perfect
when you get home you’ll look at it in the mirror
and you’ll know which one
I’m talking about

Do we love this
or do we hate it?

I like to feel like God when I am fucking you
I know this is a problem
which is why I don’t see my therapist anymore
but I see you all the time

You were right about something
and it mattered
for a little while
but not anymore

I break your skin for my pleasure
and you are grateful

How many Saturdays (39 Saturdays)
of me bringing you water before you come back for air
and you fixing your hair in the second bathroom
where I found your toothbrush in the trash can
before we find out something is wrong?

I hate looking at chains without you in them
What have we done
except ruining pristine

I still haven’t washed the sheets
that’s so unlike me

But so is this bed
without you

You are lying for no reason and it perplexes you
but not enough to tell the truth

The dress I bought you for Christmas is still in my closet
what do you want me to do with it?

I was thinking about a poem called “Lupe”
and the last three lines I always get stuck on

Sorry about the spit in your hair
I guess I missed your mouth

This is the part of you I want to suck, she said to me
one night.
What, Lupe? Your heart.*

*From “Lupe” by Roberto Bolaño

Pith

Charles J. March

“Mrs. Depression”

There was an abstract projector playing in the background at the front of the banquet hall.

“I.O.U.”

She said that writers produce babies, while poets splatter the alleys with Pollock-like cum.

“Dennis Cooper”

Trying to kiss the ass of the transgressive god.

“Happy Meal”

He smelled like flatulence and french fries.

“Inspector Project”

Like when a gas-powered turd rockets into the water and shoots it up into you, just in time for your [housecat’s] sphincter to [wink at you] close and trap it so it can turn septic. Usually when an explosion of this magnitude happens, it’s common courtesy to say, “Fire in the hole.”

Afterward, he noticed that the conjoined rabbit turds in the toilet looked like the spinal column of some extinct Siamese beast.

“Nigerian Nightmare”

The leaves changed to the sound of a distant train’s horn, and brought to mind multiple choo-choo suicides.

day of pain

Maxxie

garlic clove up my vagina
red burn next to the button of the belly
red burns
fear of another
fear of loves other
canker sore in my mouth
from sucking the acid lemon
miss pie girl
misunderstood cream pie girl
yeast infection
from the sugar sugar on my fork
fork you
garlic trapped under the fingernail
allium
all of them
misunderstood world burns
im so sore of this body
im so so sore-y body
roach out a kitchen window
roach thrown out the kitchen window
flies again, without wings
upside down.

fucking-fear

Maxxie

how scared they were to penis-to-pussy me for months thinking i’d keep the baby
terrified i was the girl gonna make a parent of you.

i never begged with words but
ohhhh the eyes do.

i usually practice unsafe sex, just like you
so when we were ready to fuck with a too-small condom and a no-dick-get-ty hard
our rocks got off with mouths and fingers
whispers of how bad we wanted to be inside of me.

it only took one week until i broke my horse
and fused into one figure inseparable.

like the holy incarnate does
we cleaned away catholic guilt and body shame.

for now we were granted in every day, a new crop of hours to fuck and explore the inside of 2 trains—window to window—riding next to each other on different tracks.

in our last few days train riding in symbiosis i held an ocean and shower baptism
i sucked them off in the bathtub, waterboarded by the shower head while perfect fingers ascended me into the light and i became a DIY firework show exploding off the rooftops for just a moment.

when i cry my sad sad tears you hold me in those arms calling me baby.

the trains have CRASHed.

we didnt even make it to the part of long distance where you have to fuck over the phone
and im a good talker
a big imaginer
i promise you would feel my mind body spirit pussy through the glass screen.

how could you fuck the blood right out
watching your outside bleed me
becoming newly reborn from the womb tissue of unforged children
a child of my arms.

i know we made this bloody fucking mess
bloody, fucking mess
wet spots where people sleep crusted sheets
secrets in public places
& hands down my pants
fingers magnetized to my pussy
north fingers and south labia
fucked the baby-never-to-be right out of me
tearing it limb from limb.

i am afraid because i have no arms now
and i am growing into a toddler experiencing my terrible twos with no parenting.

i am the baby you feared.

do you miss fucking your baby?

Stonewall

“Stonewall” by Bob McNeil

Priapus

“Priapus” by Bob McNeil

The Moan of Loneliness

She bathed
while tweaking her breasts
with the zest of a newborn
and moaned for him.

She wanted
him to bring his hunger
for the breakfast
in her orifice
and moaned for him.

She found
something in the tub’s porcelain
worth rubbing
and moaned for him.

She made
muraled lust on her clitoris,
then over her cervical wall
and moaned for him.

She painted
a form of warm,
contoured portraiture
and moaned for him.

She yenned
for the one who never disrespected,
the one her heart requested
and moaned for him.

She dreamt,
she felt,
she spurted from her brim
and moaned for him.

A Bud and a Pud

A Dirty Bath in a Clean Tub

“A Bud and a Pud” by Bob McNeil

Traveling the Range of Male Thoughts

“A Dirty Bath in a Clean Tub” by Bob McNeil

Brush my teeth with Fluoride SEX.

Gulp a cup of espresso SEX.

Have a whole bowl of flaky SEX.

Commute on the SEX bus.

Wait through Traffic Jam SEX.

Watch SEX walk down the street.

Read The Daily Sex newspaper.

Message passages about SEX.

Enter the center of my SEX job.

Go to my SEX desk.

Turn on my SEX computer.

Type my SEX.

Swipe office supply SEX.

File my SEX.

Index my SEX.

Answer calls about SEX.

Twelve noon SEX break.

Go to the SEX food restaurant.

Eat a plate full of nutrimental SEX.

Do not eat rotting SEX.

Return for more of my SEX shift.

Must complete that 9 to 5 SEX—

Monday to Friday SEX.

Cash my SEX check.

Feel distressed about the IRS on my SEX.

Have a SEX drink.

Party with relieved SEX colleagues.

Look forward to Saturday SEX.

Sleep in front of the premium cable SEX.

Start chores for another week of SEX.

Have a realization about SEX.

7 seconds later, have another thought about SEX

And how it relates to SEX.

Tell my lady that I have other thoughts

Besides SEX

Only for her to say, “Go SEX yourself.”

Super Prick

“Super Prick” by Bob McNeil

Trump Humping Sam

My Backyard Animal CumFest

“Trump Humping Sam” by Bob McNeil

Lisa Morton

My backyard is an animal love shack.

Some explanation before we get to all the copulatin’ critters: I live at the northern end of the San Fernando Valley just above L.A., in the dully-named North Hills. We really are in the foothills here, with streets that go up and down like roller coaster climbs and drops. My house is in a secluded cul-de-sac, bordered by a wash on one side. The combination of cul-de-sac, wash, and hill makes for a weirdly-shaped backyard, which is not only configured like some Lovecraftian cosmic trapezoid, but is itself hilly—it drops about four feet down the middle.

It’s still a surprisingly big yard; before we moved in (2015), the previous owners had paved over the whole lower part and dared to call it a “sports court.” We jackhammered most of that shit out (yeah, we even did it ourselves, feeling spectacularly butch), leaving just enough for an outdoor office (we refer to it as the Dacha, since we figure we’re already sort of living under Vladimir Putin). I enjoy gardening, so we put a raised bed on the upper level, outlined with bricks; we realized only after we’d built it that it bore a striking resemblance to an erect dick. Maybe it adds more fertility to the soil.

For the first few years after we moved in, our neighbor hadn’t fenced his yards, so his front yard spilled into his backyard spilled right into the wash twenty feet below. His yards became a highway for everything from a three-legged coyote to humans who I’d like to imagine were using that on-ramp to commute to their secret cabalistic orgies.

Then our neighbor fenced his yard. The maimed coyote and cultists disappeared. But something changed in our backyard.

The occasional opossum or lizard or rat was joined by new arrivals. Feral cats started showing up. Last year, in 2024, I heard a tiny cry out back one morning and followed it to find a fist-sized black kitten, so young it still had those glassy blue eyes, tangled up in a grape trellis. I cut the little thing free, released it…and watched it re-join its THREE siblings. Yes, we had a litter of four black kittens and their mama living behind the Dacha.

The love fest had begun.

I spent most of 2024 dealing with those kittens—we kept two, Spooky and Sammy, adopted the other two to friends, and got all of them (including Mom) spayed or neutered. Trapping the kittens was…ummm…an adventure, because sometime within the previous year a family of raccoons had moved into the ‘hood. Five trash pandas. One night I caught three in one live-trap. I got adept at cleaning out those traps after raccoons crapped in ‘em.

The old feral cats vanished. Yay, I thought, because that was a shit-ton (almost literally) of work.

But, this year, more showed up.

Our kittens’ dad, a big tough guy we simply called DadCat, was still around and hadn’t yet been trapped and neutered, but now there was a new female (we’ve named her Florrie, in honor of my favorite 19^th-century medium, the seductive Florence Cook) AND another male (Butterscotch, because of his coloring). Before long, I could look outside my backdoor and see DadCat with his new girl going at it.

Oh, great…more kittens.

Yep, a new litter (of just two) arrived in the spring…but Butterscotch was plainly the dad, because one kitten looked just like him (the other looked like Florrie). So Florrie was boinking both DadCat and Butterscotch.

One kitten sadly vanished, but we got the rest trapped, spayed, adopted, and neutered. Butterscotch and Florrie seem to be permanent residents now.

But there were still those frisky masked bandits…

I keep a solar-charged security camera in the backyard because I like seeing whose coming (umm, yeah) and going back there. We now have opossums, cats, raccoons and skunks visiting on a regular basis.

One raccoon in particular is a horny little fucker. We caught him on camera one night humping a wooden beam that divides up part of the raised bed. Then we caught him humping another raccoon (yes, I shared that video on social media, even though it’s totally NSFW).

So far we haven’t captured any fucking skunks on camera, but I’m sure that’s next. Hopefully the humans will keep their orgies (and resulting spawn) confined to the wash.

Entering My Gaping Masshole

an Interview with Madison Murray, by Kum V

Cum Punk Editor-In-Chief, Kum V, linked up with North Shore poet, collage artist, and certified “Masshole” Madison Murray to talk about her debut book My Gaping Masshole—a filthy, funny, historically unhinged love letter to Massachusetts freaks. From community-sourced nudes to Puritan culture clashes, KV and MM unpack desire, class, censorship, and what it really means to make transgressive art in a state that still thinks it’s holy.

Madison Murray with My Gaping Masshole (2025), photo by Penelope Dario

Kum V: Ok, so retarded. Yes. We’re just gonna come out with a bang, with a hard R.

Madison Murray: Mm-hmm.

KV: Because I was just reading through the book, and I’m so fucking happy. Like, I’m obsessed. So, is the full title Entering My Gaping Masshole, or just My Gaping Masshole?

MM: It’s just My Gaping Masshole, but I wanted it to emulate the signs we have. So, the signs in Massachusetts, they’re in the shape of an open book. They say “entering” the town. So I just emulated that.

KV: Okay, so that is getting into other questions I have. Like, I don’t know shit about Massachusetts. I’ve never been. But before we get into all that, one of the poems in the book has the “retarded” word in it.

MM: Mm-hmm.

KV: At least one.

MM: Yeah, I think there’s two. There’s two retarded mentions in there. [laughs]

KV: What’s so funny is, my friend who I’m not talking to right now but still messages me, actually happened to text me, just within the past few days, some of the letters from Abigail Adams to John Adams, from the Massachusetts history website.

MM: Yeah! Are they sexy?

KV: I kind of want to read part of one?

MM: Please!

KV: Okay, so, “Braintree”…is that a place in Massachusetts?

MM: Uh-huh.

KV: I’m gonna rely on you for historical context. Ok, so, “Braintree, March 31, 1776,” this is from Abigail Adams to John Adams: “I wish you would ever write me a Letter half as long as I write you.” Girl, already relatable fucking content, like hundreds of years later.

MM: Mm-hmm.

KV: There’s some top-tier man-hating shit in here. Here we go:

I long to hear that you have declared an independency — and by the way in the new Code of Laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make I desire you would Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favourable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the Husbands. Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If perticuliar care and attention is not paid to the Laidies we are determined to foment a Rebelion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation. That your Sex are Naturally Tyrannical is a Truth…

KV: Isn’t that some good shit?

MM: Yeah, that’s amazing.

KV: Yeah, I was like, Masshole Madison is gonna have some thoughts on this.

MM: Yeah, she’s a baddie.

“Spirit of America” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

KV: So, like…give me a historical context of Massachusetts, as it pertains to your awesome-ass book.

MM: Okay, so when I was young, I was obsessed with the Revolutionary War, in like a low-key autistic way. I think that when you’re growing up in Massachusetts, especially where I was growing up—the North Shore—there’s two things that they really talk about, and it’s the Revolutionary War and the Salem Witch Trials.

KV: Yaaaaaaas.

MM: Those are just the things that you’re constantly learning about, and I took a liking to them. I think that letter from Abigail Adams is a pretty modern depiction of a “Masshole” woman today, frankly. I don’t think it’s so different. Like, she’s giving nagging. She’s giving “I know better. I’m the woman really calling the shots here. If you’re not gonna do it, we have to do it.” And I feel like that’s still very much the sentiment of us Masshole bitches to this day.

KV: I’ve been writing, and by “writing” I mean very much just piecing together, bit by bit, in a highly unorganized, chaotic way, a femcel manifesto.

MM: Looooooove.

KV: And I think that’s why my friend-I’m-not-talking-to sent me this. It feels femcel-y. And a Masshole woman feels femcel-coded. It’s not that there aren’t people to fuck. It’s that there isn’t anyone worth fucking, or there’s no one capable of doing it on a certain level. Therefore, I am involuntarily celibate. I consider myself an incel because of the dearth of viable prospects.

MM: Yes, I am also an incel for that same reason. I’m going on two years.

“That letter from Abigail Adams is a pretty modern depiction of a ‘Masshole’ woman … She’s giving ‘I know better. I’m the woman really calling the shots here. If you’re not gonna do it, we have to do it’ … that’s still very much the sentiment of us Masshole bitches to this day.” —M.M.

KV: The only gratifying sex I have had recently was purely physically—in every other way, it was atrocious, to the point that this person did not even look at me. His eyes were always to the side.

MM: Oh Jesus…

KV: I called it out. I asked, “Is everything okay? You’re not looking at me.” He wasn’t mad, but he said, “Just let me do my thing.” Like, basically, “Don’t ask.” Physically, it was great. Rock hard. Exactly what I wanted. And I’ve fucked this person before, so it wasn’t a first time. However, there had been a several-year gap between the previous time and the most recent, and I don’t remember him not looking at me before.

MM: What happened to him?!

KV: Like, are you not attracted to me? Are you needing to look away because you have to be thinking about something else? He acted like, “You see the evidence right here that I’m attracted to you,” pointing to his hard dick. But anyway—this is what we’re dealing with.

MM: No, totally. The last time I fornicated with someone was nearly two years ago. Before that, I had been waiting about a year and a half to find another prospect. Then I found this guy, and it obviously didn’t go super well, because here I am two years later. He did not know how to treat a lady. I’m obviously perverted and filthy, but I’m actually very traditional when it comes to heteronormative roles, chivalry, and things like that. I do have very high expectations. I don’t think they’re that fucking high, but whatever. He wasn’t doing anything, and the sex was extremely mediocre. He had mirrors on his ceiling, which normally I can get into because I’m a little autosexual, but his mirrors were deformed.

KV: Like funhouse mirrors?!

MM: Yeah, like funhouse-mirror fucking. I was dissociating at my warped body and his warped body together. It was really weird. And then after we had sex, he rolled over and went on his phone. I said, “Okay, I’m gonna go.” He said, “No…don’t.” I didn’t understand. Then he had the audacity to say, “I don’t think I can give you what you’re looking for.”

KV: Oh my god! That’s exactly what the not-looking-at-me guy said…

MM: Eye contact. That’s all I’m asking for.

KV: It doesn’t have to be eye contact the entire time. Though I’ve had that, and it’s amazing. That type of fucking almost feels psychedelic. Reminds me of what they call white tantra. You’re looking into a person’s eyes for so long that something transcendent inevitably starts to happen, even if you’re not believing in that type of shit.

MM: Hell yeah.

KV: And if you do that while fucking, it’s like…whoa, dude. So it’s weird that I’ve had that experience, and I’ve also had the not-even-looking-at-me experience. How did we get here? Even the bare, basic minimum shouldn’t be too much to ask. As wild as I am, I’m also kind of old school about a lot of things. I just don’t see that this is that hard. How are we here? It’s just so frustrating.

MM: It is. I think the sex positivity movement did us wrong in a lot of ways. It just went to serve the patriarchy, and they completely missed the mark. The whole point was, “Women can have sex! Yay! It’s cool!” But now it’s become, “Oh women like sex? You want to come over to my strange apartment at three in the morning and ride my dick and I give you absolutely nothing?” And I’m like, “No, not at all, actually. That sounds not-fun.”

KV: Right, like making assumptions that, because you’re a sex-positive woman, you’re just okay with basically whatever, and taking advantage of that, and weaponizing it…

“I think the sex positivity movement did us wrong in a lot of ways. It just went to serve the patriarchy, and they completely missed the mark.” —M.M.

MM: Yeah, it’s not actually sex positive. Obviously, everyone’s different. But for me personally, I miss high school, like when boys would pretend to like me to get in my pants. I like the performative thing, transactional in that way. Obviously, sex can feel good, if you don’t care about a person, but for me, that performance is a big part of it. Like, that’s my foreplay, you being chivalrous and kissing the ground I walk on, and if that’s not there, what am I doing? Like, I’m probably not even gonna cum. So, why don’t I go chill with my vibrator?

KV: So would you say you have to be engaged in other types of ways besides just purely physically?

MM: Yeah, for sure. I think unless I’m ovulating and unmedicated, like when I was younger—I used to be pretty hypersexual, which I think is the case for most people, but I also wasn’t medicated, so I was just like, “Wa-hoo!” I was low-key manic. Now I am healthy. Now my hormones are a little more in check. Yeah, I definitely require more. I need someone to make me feel comfortable. I like to giggle. I love to laugh. If you make me laugh, that’s a sure way like…it’s goin’ down.

KV: Yeah, I’m so here for that. I’m the same way. I like to laugh like during sex, too.

MM: Me too! It’s supposed to be fun and silly. It’s weird!

KV: It’s weird! And it’s gross and funny and silly. Laughing is also an intimate thing. The emotion of laughter is almost like orgasm, that ecstatic universe. But yeah, I know. Like…I hate this for us.

MM: Me too. People are taking it too seriously. But also like…not. Because what you’re saying about laughter, that’s how I feel. For me, sex is very playful. Whether it’s romantic or slutty or whatever it is, there’s always an element of play to it. I think that’s why I like the laughter aspect. But I think a lot of people have taken it so seriously, where it’s like it has to be porn-y, or it has to be romantic, and it’s like…no.

KV: I sort of want to start asking men, “What is your concept of good sex. Like, sex that’s good for you, what does that mean for you?” I’m sure the answers would be harrowing.

MM: Oh yeah.

KV: If people are actually honest. And people are so tone deaf that they won’t even know their answers are cringe. Like, “What constitutes good sex for you, and how does that translate to reality?” It probably translates to reality rather poorly.

“6 Rings” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

KV: But speaking of playful, My Gaping Masshole is so playful and fun. I love how some of the shorter poems are almost like limericks, like drinking songs…

MM: Yeah! I wanted it to be kind of childlike in some sense.

“Pat the Packer”

Pat the Packer,
Is a grocery store bagger
Who can only cum when he’s sloshed
And getting fucked with a butternut squash!

KV: It’s got an exclamation point and everything. It’s so fun. Like, you can just imagine people at the bar, swaying back and forth together, singing it.

MM: Thank you. That’s what I wanted, kind of this weird sailor shanty…

KV: Oh my god! Shanty! It’s like a sailor shanty. A sea shanty.

MM: Oh, here’s another one that’s fun and similar to that:

“Giles Corey”

This old man died with well-known glory
But you’ve not heard of his full story.
When he asked for “More weight,”
He pointed to his face
And begged, “Please! I’m so damn horny!”

KV: I love the image that accompanies this one. Throughout the book, there’s obviously a lot of nudes and partial nudes that are collaged and sort of visually manipulated. Describe to me, like, what is going on in this image.

MM: So do you know who Giles Corey is?

KV: Okay, no. Give me the whole spiel.

MM: This book was definitely written for the North Shore diaspora.

KV: Which is cool because, like, I don’t know dick about that, and yet I still fucking love this book.

MM: Thank you! So Giles Corey was one of the few men who was accused of being a witch during the Salem Witch Trials. Instead of agreeing to go on trial, he just didn’t partake in it. Now, a little backstory about Giles Corey: He was actually the town asshole. Like everyone hated him. He beat people to death. He was ripped. He was just a piece of shit. He was just an old white guy. But, you know…there’s different theories about the Salem Witch Trials. Like, were they all having psychosis? Were they doing it for attention? I do think a big part of it was entertainment. I think this was their form of reality TV.

KV: [laughs]

MM: So, because he didn’t want to participate in a trial, they tortured him by stoning him. They would put more stones on him and say, “Are you guilty, or are you not guilty? Are you a witch, or are you not?” and all he would say is, “More weight. Add more stones. Add more stones, motherfucker.” And so he did that. They did that until he died. So this collage is a depiction of that happening. There’s Giles Corey right there. And then this beautiful, wonderful lady standing on top of him. She is not inherently Massachusetts—her name is Big Bertha. She is actually a game at Salem Willows, a kind of arcade/carnival that we all go to or grew up going to, and the whole thing with her is she’s fat, and you feed her these red balls, and she gets fatter and fatter.

“More Weight” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

KV: I think I remember seeing something similar, at state carnivals and stuff…

MM: She’s very beloved in the Salem community, even though she doesn’t work anymore. So, you know, that’s kind of what I wanted to do, take these different moments from our history, whether it was the 1600s or the ‘90s, and kind of just vomit them all on top of each other.

KV: It’s so fucking great. It’s reminding me, in The Crucible, Giles Corey is a character. It’s finally ringing a bell…

“That’s kind of what I wanted to do, take these different moments from our history, whether it was the 1600s or the ‘90s, and kind of just vomit them all on top of each other.” —M.M.

KV: So, in the book, there are a lot of nudes, and obviously some are you. Are the others, like, friends? Homies? How did you collect the materials that you wound up using for the collages?

MM: Totally, so in terms of the nudes, I put out an open call on the Instagram page that I have for it (@mygapingmasshole) asking for nudes. I got so many, hundreds and hundreds, from the community. So that was really cool. And I gave them the option to be credited or not, because some of them are sex workers or content creators, whereas some are just dudes that wanted to show off their penises…

KV: Like this guy in the yellow…

“Gone Fishing” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

MM: Barry Beercan, yeah, yeah.

KV: I love him. He has more than one, I think, in the book…?

MM: I’m sure his penis is here multiple times. I had one guy literally send me 100 pictures, different angles. He was even like, “If you want to take some more, you can.” I was like, “Girl…I think I’ve got the shot.”

KV: He’s clearly an autosexual as well!

MM: For sure!

KV: I love just the relaxed, spread-eagle, lounged stance of this guy. Not even fully hard, maybe mostly hard, with a cigarette in the mouth. I know guys are, like, usually too eager to show their cocks. But I love that you got full body, including face shots. I feel like we don’t see enough of that.

MM: I agree. Anytime someone sent me a nude with their face included, I was like…I really want to try to prioritize this, because I just think that’s so…it’s lovely. It’s very just like, yes. Like, you want to be associated with this. You’re all about it, and that’s awesome. Thankfully, Massachusetts is such a home to so many different characters that they were all…they were down. Starting the book and the process was difficult for me, because the arts and culture scene in Massachusetts is still very Puritan, like old school. It’s very old yuppie, with people just like, “I painted a seashell,” and you’re like, “…yay?”

KV: Yeah, like, people who claim to love art and maybe even purchase it in high dollar amounts, but when confronted with an actual artistic temperament are confused…

MM: Very much that. So it took me a second to find my people, which is why I really prioritized Instagram and social media, which is what I’ve always been good at. And I was able to find my hub of weirdos and freaks that were like, “Yes, we need this. We need this representation! Put my pee-pee in it!”

KV: So all these people who did participate, by submitting their nudes, are they all locals?

MM: Yeah!

KV: Yeah, that makes it even cooler. Wow. That is the shit.

“Anytime someone sent me a nude with their face included, I was like…I really want to try to prioritize this, because I just think that’s so…it’s lovely.” —M.M.

MM: Thank you! You know, it was a happy accident. I’m very resourceful, and I use that a lot in anything I create. I challenge myself. Like, just figure it the fuck out. So my initial plan was for the book to come out in 2023, and then I received a cease and desist from one of the companies, a logo that I used and parodied, and so I got a lot of publicity from it. And I met with a lawyer who reached out to me. And I had been collaging most of my collages with vintage porn stills, or myself. And he was just concerned about the vintage porn, not from the porn star perspective, but more so from the photographer perspective. He was like, “I don’t want them to sue you or send you a cease and desist, so I think that you should just get nudes from people.” And I think it makes it way better. It was obviously annoying that I had to redo all these fucking collages that I had already made. But I mean, I think it makes the book way better, knowing that it’s actually locals in the book. And I came up with new collages from them too.

KV: Yeah, it’s really well done. So do you do them digitally, or do you hand-cut and paste, or do like a combination of things?

MM: This whole book was all made on my phone. That was really important to me, too. I come from a low-income upbringing, and, like I was saying about the older generation of Massachusetts artists, there is this elitism. I try to write for people like me. I wanted to write it for people who were raised like me. I mean, my dad was in prison my whole life, you know. We deserve good literature and good art. And I think I wanted to show that anybody can do it. Like, even if you just have your phone. I’m very much of the mindset that story matters more than production. So it can look kind of shitty. It can look DIY, but it can still be good.

KV: I’m blown away to hear that this was all done on a phone. Because, I mean, these look professional as shit. I feel the DIY vibe, but they feel really professionally done. It reminds me of…do you like Sean Baker?

MM: Yeah, yeah!

KV: His movie Tangerine was shot on an iPhone 5. His process is basically exactly what you just described. It’s about “availabism,” using what’s free or cheap, and combining that with your mind and your skill set. So, I mean, I think your book speaks volumes to what you specifically were able to do. Because you can say anyone could do this, but I don’t know…it’s so imaginative. It’s so creative. But I do love the idea that it’s kind of like a roadmap. Like, “Hey, if you want to do this, you could.” But I also think it’s singularly cool. And I especially love that we have a little cum cow moment…

“I try to write for people like me. I wanted to write it for people who were raised like me. I mean, my dad was in prison my whole life, you know. We deserve good literature and good art. And I think I wanted to show that anybody can do it.” —M.M.

KV: So when did this book get released?

MM: January 2025.

KV: How has the reception been locally?

MM: It’s been good! It’s been positive. I’m sure there’s some negative thoughts about it, but I haven’t heard anything. If so, no one’s telling me, so that’s cool. They’re probably just unfollowing me on stuff, which is fine. But it’s been okay! Obviously, it’s been a bit of a struggle, trying to get it stocked in places, specifically the North Shore, which is what the book is fucking about. But places like Cambridge and Somerville, which is Greater Boston, have been very accepting of it. They’re definitely a bit more progressive, whereas North Shore…it’s been really hard for me to find stores that actually want to carry it. There’s one establishment in North Shore, Massachusetts that carries it on consignment. It’s this really lovely little queer transgressive art gallery called Shoe Bones in Salem. They’ve been really cool. But yeah, again, it’s just the older people. And also because I say the word “retarded.” I say the word “faggot.” I think that’s a thing. The book is not PC. In the North Shore Massachusetts community, I would say Salem is probably the coolest in terms of being, like, a small city and queer, but they’re very stuck in that 2020 PC thing…

KV: I call it the “pod people” mentality…

MM: Yes, I love that. Yeah, absolutely. It’s just not very class conscious. The whole point of this book was to bring these communities together, the fags, the fat old guy Hells Angels, you know what I’m saying? That was the whole point. And I think they’re missing that. They’re like *gasp* “she said this word,” and I’m like, “Girl, I’m literally talking about how I love you…”

KV: They don’t see the forest for the trees. Yeah, it’s a problem everywhere. And it’s like, especially if you’re trying to really represent the local community, you’re going to want to speak in the voice of it…

MM: Exactly. It’s about a Masshole. The whole thing is Masshole. I’m replicating how we speak. It’s not me, but it’s parts of me…

KV: I’ve never understood that. Like, in the realm of pure fantasy, which is just art or the creative realm, my opinion is anything goes.

MM: Totally.

KV: Especially with writing. Like, this word is not doing anything to you. It’s your perception of it that is doing something to you. And you get to choose that perception. It is not against your will to perceive the world in the way that you have decided to perceive it. So it has always sort of boggled my mind when people get canceled specifically for words, not for actions, but they’re all kind of lumped into the same category. So, like, a rapist who gets called out and canceled gets grouped together with somebody who used the word “retarded” or whatever. I’ve always fundamentally disagreed with lumping those two things in the same category because they are not at all on any level the same. It really bothers me that the same people who are going to potentially stand up for freedom of speech are going to disallow certain types of expression, which I think is hypocritical and creates a culture of fear that is antithetical to creativity.

MM: Amen. I absolutely agree. No, I know. It’s exhausting. I think our culture now is just so based off assumption. How can you assume the context or the meaning or the connection to the way it’s being used?

“It’s about a Masshole. The whole thing is Masshole. I’m replicating how we speak. It’s not me, but it’s parts of me…” —M.M.

KV: I think the argument is that, like, people don’t feel obligated to look deeper because the fact that a certain thing was said is enough. It would be beyond what they are willing to do, to look any further. So, therefore, whatever little detail that is getting blown out of proportion becomes the totality of the reality, which, I mean, is…scary.

MM: It’s really scary. And I would argue…problematic.

KV: Yes, to use a buzzword from the pod community, it is problematic. Everyone’s afraid now! And there are a lot of reasons for that, and there are a lot of good reasons for that. But unfortunately, this type of thinking created this mentality of making people afraid and feeling like they have to sort of conform to a set of social rules that I think does hinder critical thinking as well as creativity. And like, what are you creating if you’re not able to be honest, if you’re not able to even be authentic? In trying to fight the oppressor, it becomes the language of the oppressor.

MM: Mm-hmm, absolutely. I’m a black-and-white kind of person. I don’t really have that many strong opinions. I mean, I do. I have strong opinions, but I’m always very curious. I like to just learn about everyone and everything. And like, even if I don’t agree with them, I want to try to understand, and I just I don’t get the wishy-washiness of it. I think it makes us, as in liberals, look retarded, quite frankly.

KV: [laughs]

“Drown the Clown” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

MM: I just don’t understand what we’re saying. Like, are we for freedom of speech? Are we against it? I read an article…it was from someone at MIT or Harvard, and he wrote a paper on how, you know, a lot of liberals talk about how they want incarcerated people to be published and be able to make art and whatever. But then as soon as a rapist or a pedophile is published, the whole publication is canceled. You cannot pick and choose!

KV: Poetry magazine got in trouble for that few years ago. They did a prison issue, and one of the people they published was incarcerated for having, like, an ungodly number of counts against him for child pornography. The outcry was so intense that I think people stepped down at the magazine, like people resigned because of it. And the first thing I did was buy two copies.

MM: Right? You’re like, “This will be valuable.”

KV: Right! Because how are you gonna, like, crusade for prisoners’ rights and then also not allow for redemption of any kind?

MM: Yeah. “Not that one, though.” The whole point is like…art is healing. It’s supposed to be therapeutic. I’m not saying I want to fucking hang out with that person. I don’t want to talk to that inmate, but he has every right to write a fucking poem and submit it for publication. Shit!

KV: And then, you know, hopefully meaningful conversation can transpire, but it can’t if that is the attitude about it. The best thing about art is not everybody has to like it. But it doesn’t mean it shouldn’t exist. This drives me insane.

MM: It really does…

KV: That’s why I wanted to start with “retarded,” honestly. When I see that word, I’m almost comforted. I’m like, “Okay, I’m home.”

MM: Yes, absolutely. I went to Sarah Lawrence, which is a liberal arts college, and I loved my professors, like we’ll still be close probably till the day I fucking die. But the social aspect of it was horrible, the policing. My dad was a crackhead heroin addict. And I had written a piece that said the word “junkie” maybe a few times. And I read it, we had to workshop it in class, and it was this huge problem. “You can’t say that!” Like, you don’t even know me, bro. Like my dad had just died. He literally overdosed and died. And I’m like, “Girl, I can say junkie. Shut the fuck up.” Like, shut up! You don’t understand, and you don’t even know what the word means. You think that I’m just saying “people with an addiction,” and that’s not what the word means. If you actually come from where I come from, you know what a junkie is versus someone with an addiction. They’re two very different things. A junkie is gonna go rob an old lady and, like, steal from his daughter. Yeah, that is my dad. He’s not just a little girl huffing paint and being sad. Like, no. He’s wreaking havoc.

KV: I feel like people who get up in arms about this have never had anything bad happen to them.

MM: No, literally. Like…just say you have no idea what the world is like.

KV: Right, like, obviously they haven’t had enough life experience. Unfortunately, I think this type of thinking started in universities. It started in art circles. And it has completely overtaken the academic institutions, which is super unfortunate, because those are the places where you’re supposed to, like, find your people. It’s been over a decade of this, and we’re so tired of this. I feel like we’re finally sort of starting to come to the other side of it, where there’s enough people who are just so fucking tired of this. There’s also a generation of younger folks coming up who are more, like, down with letting the realm of pure fantasy just be what it is.

KV: I think this is important to talk about in the context of a work like My Gaping Masshole. Like, I want to see this fucking thing in the North Shore. That’s where it lives. So it’s astounding, but yet totally unsurprising, that stores there not wanting to carry it.

MM: Yeah. *sigh*

“North Shore Beefs” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

KV: You just completely self-published this, right?

MM: I did.

KV: So another absolutely amazing feat. Like, that means you did not only all of the content, but all of the production and all of the marketing and all of the distro and all of the promo. How has that experience been? And is this your first book that you’ve been controlling all the means of production on?

MM: Yeah, definitely. So this was my debut book. And, I mean, it’s a lot. It was a lot, and it still is a lot of work. I knew that if I was going to do this book to the extent that I wanted to do it—like a coffee table book, because I wanted it to be accessible, kind of a book for people that don’t read—it was going to take a lot of marketing. So I started an Instagram, the @mygapingmasshole Instagram, and I started using it as a proof of concept, just testing out ideas, but more so in a meme format, because there are a lot of North Shore meme accounts that do really well. And I was like, “Oh, I can do this,” because I do have a background in marketing and publicity, and I was a sex worker. I know how to hustle. I know how to get attention and what to say and what to do. So I used a lot of the things I’ve done for sex work, at least online, like content creation, for promoting this book. Like getting my boobies out, doing hot girl things, and talking about how I’m publishing a book. And so I started getting pre-orders. I also pushed my OnlyFans a lot. The cease and desist helped me a lot with publicity as well, because it was from an iconic New England brand…

KV: Was that in the press?

MM: Yes. So that was in the Boston Globe, the Boston Herald. It was voted the number one local story of 2024.

KV: So if I google it, I can probably find it?

MM: Oh, yeah, you’ll see. It’ll be like, “OnlyFans Creator…” [laughs]

KV: I want to know what brand it was, but you probably can’t say…

MM: Yeah, you’ll see. So, I pushed a lot of people to my OnlyFans, and I also moved back home, and I saved all that money and put it towards the first official printing. And you know, that took me the most time, finding the right printer. I use OnPress book printing. I think they’re in New Jersey.

“I know how to hustle. I know how to get attention and what to say and what to do. So I used a lot of the things I’ve done for sex work, at least online, like content creation, for promoting this book.” —M.M.

KV: The printing is great.

MM: It’s so good, right? They’re very accommodating.

KV: I also love how it sort of looks like a yearbook.

MM: Yes! I love that.

KV: Like, “Oh my god, sign my yearbook!” It’s so impressively done. It looks like it cost a fortune. Like, it looks expensive. It literally looks like million bucks. So people can buy it on your website?

MM: Yeah, go to mygapingmasshole.com. I have the book. I have really fun merchandise. There’s some booty plugs on there. Mugs. T-shirts. I sold a lot of merch to raise money for the book.

KV: That’s awesome! And then it’s also available in select bookstores. I mean, I want people to go to your site first, but what are we looking at in terms of places where people might be able to get a copy?

MM: You can go to Lovestruck Books in Cambridge, Massachusetts. There’s also Grolier Books, which is America’s oldest poetry bookstore, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Shoe Bones gallery in Salem, and Unnamable Books in Turners Falls, Massachusetts. But yeah, as of now, all my babies are just in Massachusetts. So it’s forcing you to come, if you want to buy one in a store.

KV: I like being forced to cum.

“Cummings Center” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

KV: Let’s have one more piece from the book, before we sign off.

MM: Maybe I’ll do “Dirty Water.” I like that one. This is me at the Cummings Center, where I used to go to therapy in high school.

“Dirty Water”

Yeah, yeah, everywhere is
something’s birthplace
if you cum
all over it all
proud like a dog
pissing with a bone
in its mouth.

You’re the dog,
the piss is cum,
and I’m the baby
and the bone.

There’s discharge in the water! There’s beer in the bread! There’s a seal
in the pond! There’s a strangler on the loose!

There’s a clam that keeps on squirting
in my face, reminding me to tell everyone I’m working on it.

Like, I’m all for free Narcan
but I hate a fucking junkie,
and I just have to be the hottest
girl at AA.

It’s stupid vile to watch
a man shrink into a nip
or become an obituary
on a strip club’s Instagram page.

But who am I
to judge? We all drink
from the same bubbler.
Salem’s water comes from Danvers Reservoir. Danvers Reservoir is Ipswich River, where my family rents canoes. But Danvers
drinks from Middleton Pond, and Rockport drinks from their very own quarry, where teenagers sun rot and get drunk. Someone
did an accidental dump of dead menhaden by the thousands. The fish marinated in manganese then washed up on Pickering
Wharf. Seagulls ate, fishermen got free bait, and kids said, “pee-yew!”

I guess the Naumkeag people died
so that Marky Mark could throw
rocks at black people and plug
his Catholic prayer app. I’ll confess that

when I’m called out for being crass,
I blame it on MA. I can’t help but laugh
when Intervention features Salem
or when some prick Jam Scams their mom.

I can say some slurs.
I can scream so loud.
I know junkies.
I’m retarded smart and so
all-around.

KV: I’m obsessed. So fucking good. Retarded genius.

MM: Thank you!

KV: The whole book is retarded genius. Cum Punk is so fucking geeked and proud to have you.

MM: Thank you. This was so lovely.

***

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.

Just as Romy and Michele invented Post-Its, Kum V invented cum punk. She is founder and editor-in-chief of Cum Punk, where she is a free-range dairy farmer of the Bovine Divine. She moonlights as The Dick Inside and Cock E. Cuntsmart.

THE SPIRIT OF AMERICA

The Spirit of America lies deep within my gaping masshole like a clam in low tide sand. It’s north of Boston, doused in dunkies
regular and James River BBQ sauce, cascading down cobblestones, collecting Necco Wafer dust and KENO slips on its
pilgrimage to the harbor, where there, it will be stamped with smog and spilled into the Atlantic. I let it
steep before it comes in me.

Fish to find it flooded: stagnant, sweet, mosquitoed, molasses.

“Spirit of America” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

PAT THE PACKER

Pat the Packer,
Is a grocery store bagger
Who can only cum when he’s sloshed
And getting fucked with a butternut squash!

“6 Rings” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

DIRTY WATER

Yeah, yeah, everywhere is
something’s birthplace
if you cum
all over it all
proud like a dog
pissing with a bone
in its mouth.

You’re the dog,
the piss is cum,
and I’m the baby
and the bone.

There’s discharge in the water! There’s beer in the bread! There’s a seal
in the pond! There’s a strangler on the loose!

There’s a clam that keeps on squirting
in my face, reminding me to tell everyone I’m working on it.

Like, I’m all for free Narcan
but I hate a fucking junkie,
and I just have to be the hottest
girl at AA.

It’s stupid vile to watch
a man shrink into a nip
or become an obituary
on a strip club’s Instagram page.

But who am I
to judge? We all drink
from the same bubbler.
Salem’s water comes from Danvers Reservoir. Danvers Reservoir is Ipswich River, where my family rents canoes. But Danvers
drinks from Middleton Pond, and Rockport drinks from their very own quarry, where teenagers sun rot and get drunk. Someone
did an accidental dump of dead menhaden by the thousands. The fish marinated in manganese then washed up on Pickering
Wharf. Seagulls ate, fishermen got free bait, and kids said, “pee-yew!”

I guess the Naumkeag people died
so that Marky Mark could throw
rocks at black people and plug
his Catholic prayer app. I’ll confess that

when I’m called out for being crass,
I blame it on MA. I can’t help but laugh
when Intervention features Salem
or when some prick Jam Scams their mom.

I can say some slurs.
I can scream so loud.
I know junkies.
I’m retarded smart and so
all-around.

“Cummings Center” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

A PLAYTHING OF NATURE

I bring my New York boyfriends on a tour of the North Shore
to point out all the pretty places I’ve hooked up at before:

Salem Willows Park
Winter Island Park
Forest River Park
Lakeshore Park
James Street Park
Crane Estate
Hammond Castle
Good Harbor Beach
Front Beach
Back Beach
Long Beach
Bearskin Neck
South Woods

and more.

“Botanical Bimbo” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

BEEF CHAIN

“North Shore Beefs” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

Kelly’s roast beef lips kiss and kegel the mainstage pole at The Squire while Bill & Bob drink Sammy Adams in the VIP booth. Kelly’s certified overpriced, dry, and jiggling in the nightclub like an old brown bedsheet on a line, so bring exxxtra cash for exxxtra sauce next time. She needs it. She’s nasty, the boys all agree; that’s why they love loving to hate her. But now, she’s pimped out nationally: Florida, New Hampshire, and soon to be all fucking over. Throw her in the barrel. She’s a traitor. She’s a whore! She’s a has-been Massachusetts staple, but most of our firsts. She’s mother. She’s a hanging peppery rump. Chewing over her dip and pleats, Bill and Bob don’t tip, despite having the official VIP “Squire Money Gun.”

Over at The Cab, Andy gets hammered off pitchers at a private table with the boys, Mike, DanBob, and Jimme. A herd of beer-bellied bald men with beards crowds close to the North Shore Beefy Boys, crossing their fingers for a picture and some free beef, while a few of the younger fans (21+, some there ironically) drool around the stage. Bella’s twerking her ass up and down to a heavy metal song on the stage floor, her sweetmeat juices splashing the audience’s faces as she rocks her boat. James River came inside of her and she didn’t even take a shower before her shift. She’s sopping wet. It’s filthy good. And the voyeurs goggle with their tongues rolled out like cartoons in love but with roast beef sandwiches for pupils instead of ketchup-red hearts, hopeful to catch a spray of James River from Bella’s flopping pink curtains. Their napkins are ready. Some are wearing bibs. They’ve come from all over the state to open their wallets for a lick. Bella’s the best, Andy told them so. He spread the word on the internet. Thank God for Instagram and Facebook; she doesn’t need to mail out menus no more. Everyone knows her name. She’s loyal, unlike Kelly. She’s local forever like Bill & Bob. She’s fresh-cut and THICK like no other. A Modern Butcher gave Kelly a BBL, wrapped her together in thin white paper, and then put her in a brand-new box for the boys to play with.

Fresh meat doesn’t have to work as hard as old meat, so Bella’s only available until 8 PM Monday–Saturday, get her while she’s hot. If you want anything close to a good time after 8 PM, you’ll have to settle with Kelly or Bill & Bob. They’re fucking famous after all, just eat it raw in the parking lot already. Every local wants a 3-way, especially on Halloween night.

The Bunghole Is Open

“The Bunghole is Open” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

GILES COREY

TOPPED AT THE TOPSFIELD FAIR

This old man died with well-known glory
But you’ve not heard of his full story.
When he asked for “More weight,”
He pointed to his face
And begged, “Please! I’m so damn horny!”

“More Weight” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

“Drown the Clown” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

Mr. Essex County wandered the fairgrounds with a hole in his wallet while his wife paraded around with a crown and a sash in some old ass car with an old man driver in a top hat as they tossed beads to the crowds of families like fucking Mardi Gras. Mr. Essex County would rather choke on glass than wave a little flag, but he agreed to accompany his wife, a freshly crowned Essex County queen most credited for her apple pie, to the fair for photography’s sake. He hadn’t realized the extent of her duties as Mrs. Essex County, however, and was salty to come to find out that she’d want him at the fair all day and well into the evening. “Why not just get an Uber home?” he had asked her. “But what would the great people of Essex County think?”

And so, Mr. Essex County spent hours dicking around the beer garden before he got cut off and texted his wife for an update. When she didn’t reply after a few minutes, he began his journey back to the truck for a husbandly toke. He kept his face down, Red Sox cap front and center, to avoid being recognized by people in his wife’s circle as he drunkenly hobbled past shit like The World’s Smallest Horse and The Giant Armchair. He wondered just how small the world’s smallest horse would look in the giant armchair, and if anyone had ever fucked in that giant armchair before. That’s something he’d pay to see. As the sun began to set, cheery, stupid parents shepherded their sugar dumb babies through the exits and back to their electric cars while freaks and douchebag high schoolers paid admission for their nighttime shenanigans.

Mr. Essex County had anticipated needing to take a hit or two throughout the day, so he smartly parked his truck in the most discrete spot he could find: woods-facing in the big dirt parking lot to the left of the entry closest to the rides and porter potties. He got into the driver’s seat and waited for dark. He checked his phone for word from Mrs. Essex County, but still nothing. After chucking his phone into the center console, he grabbed a weathered Altoid tin from the driver’s seat door pocket. About a gram of crack rock in saran wrap and a sticky brown stem pipe were hidden beneath a scattered blanket of the curiously strong mints. He packed his pipe, lit the tip, inhaled the Good Vibrations, and exhaled his puff of smoke into the windshield. Smoked up and frenzied, he giggled out of the truck and sped-walked back to the fair with an unlit Newport cigarette between his teeth.

The Gravitron! Fuck yeah, yeah fuck, let’s go… The trash can UFO hailed Mr. Essex County from afar, bumping and spinning at his cracked-out speed. He walked up to a dumpy-faced ticket collector at the lip of the spaceship. “How do I get in?” he asked, fidgeting his feet back and forth like the pee-pee dance. The Ticket Kehd asked Mr. Essex County for 21 tickets for entry. “21 TICKETS?! What do you mean?! Why so many? Why so many?” “It’s the price you have to pay…” said the Ticket Kehd, “…and you can’t smoke in there.” Ticket Kehd pointed to the chewed-up cigarette hanging from Mr. Essex County’s lip. “Pfft, yeah okay, ya fucking narc. You can’t tell me what to do. Let me in.” “I can’t do that without 21 tickets, sir,” Ticket Kehd said routinely. Mr. Essex County fumbled around his crumby pockets with his fingers, then pulled out 3 tickets, presenting them like pearls to Ticket Kehd. “No. Get the fuck outta here, you junkie piece of shit.” Ticket Kehd motioned to some Men-in-Black-looking-ass security guards on the side of the ride. “Fahhhhkkkk you, you fahking queer.” Mr. Essex County hollered as he jumped off the Gravitron ramp and ran in the opposite direction.

Suddenly, like a beacon of hope, he saw a sign written in bold red marker, Drown The Clown – 3 Tickets for 3 Balls! With only minutes left to his high, he ran to the dunk tank with his precious 3 tickets gripped tightly in his fist. The Crude Clown, in Insane Clown Posse facepaint and a Yankees hat, heckled “Red Sox suck!” and “Tom Brady is gay!” at fairgoers from his dunk tank prison throne. Mr. Essex County was fuming to give this asshole a piece of his mind. He tossed his tickets at the ticket collector in exchange for 3 red balls and shot that shit at the target without any inch of strategy, just aggravation. The first ball bounced off The Crude Clown’s metal cage. “HA HA, LOSAH ALERT!” The Crude Clown instigated. “Fuck you,” Mr. Essex County spat back as he hurled another red ball at the dirtbag. “MISSED AGAIN! Keep it up and the Red Sox just might recruit you!” Oh, that really got Mr. Essex County pissed off. This shitbag was about to get DUNKED. He kissed his last dirty ball, wound up his arm, and pelted it wicked hard toward the bullseye, whacking the edge of the target! The Crude Clown’s seat collapsed from under him and he dropped into the tank with a strike! The clown was drowned! “GOT YOU, MOTHAFUCKA!” Mr. Essex County yelled and jigged up and down like an Irish stepdancer, while The Crude Crown thrashed around in the tank. His victory was robbed when his comedown began to scratch at the back of his neck, so he lit a cigarette and stared as The Crude Clown see-sawed his way out of the tank dripping wet but being a good sport about it. “Good shot, asshole!” The Crude Clown hollered as he walked over to shake Mr. Essex County’s hand. “You alone?” he asked, his Yankees hat seeping tank water down his muddied clown face and into the corners of his wrinkles. Mr. Essex County looked over his shoulder then at his stale phone first before replying, “Yeah, I’m alone. The fuck do you care?” The Crude Clown shrugged, “I’m off now. Wanna do some whippits?” “Ok.”

The Crude Clown grabbed a towel and his backpack before following Mr. Essex County back to his truck. Once there, Mr. Essex County ordered The Crude Clown to cover his soggy ass with the towel before getting into his car. Instead, The Crude Clown theatrically draped the towel over the passenger’s seat before sitting on it and opening up his dusty backpack stuffed with neon green nitrous crackers, a whipped cream dispenser, and a party pack of deflated yellow, red, blue, and green balloons. Mr. Essex County anxiously rocked back and forth as he watched The Crude Clown stick the whipped cream nozzle into the mouth of a yellow balloon and fill it up with gas. The balloon, now fat with the funnies, was passed to Mr. Essex County. He held the hole of the balloon closed with his thumb and middle finger as he sweetly waited for The Crude Clown to prepare his own red balloon. When all was set and ready, the pair of punks put their balloons to their mouths and sucked in deep. When their balloons shriveled up, they removed them from their cracked lips, cracking up laughing and howling like demons. The Crude Clown’s face melted to the floor and Mr. Essex County looked like a happy baby. Topsfield was stupid and fun and scary blurry for about 2 minutes before it faded back to autumn ash. A sad, awkward silence suffocated the truck before Mr. Essex County nipped it when he asked a question he already knew the answer to: “You smoke rock?”

The Crude Clown was first to hit the crack pipe and he hit it hard, hacking up debris and Hepatitis B when he pulled his mouth away from the hot glass. His white facepaint crusted and curled off his skin as he sweat profusely and rolled his eyes back, vibrating in the head rush. Mr. Essex County took an even bigger hit than before and blew the smoke into The Crude Clown’s clay face. He cackled as he poked at The Crude Clown who sat stiffly, jarred and buzzing. “GOD, I’M FUCKING HORNY” The Crude Clown roared as he madly snapped out of his trance. He snatched his backpack off the floor and threw his body out of the truck before running into the dark forest like a GTA character. Mr. Essex County hopped out of the driver’s seat, slammed the door behind him, and chased after his new using buddy, paying no mind to the crowds of families and friends in the parking lot. He giggled as he ran, and the crisp New England air ran beside him as if time stood still and he was on top of it. He followed The Crude Clown’s dancing silhouette past knotty branches and hooting owls until he finally caught up to him between a rock and a pine tree. The Crude Clown, pants and briefs around his ankles, jerked off rabidly. “WHAT THE FUCK!” Mr. Essex County shrieked before punching The Crude Clown in the face, catapulting him to the brittle ground. The Crude Clown rolled into a backward somersault and cackled, his cock still gripped firmly in his hand. “Aren’t you horny?” he asked Mr. Essex County. “Of course I’m horny! But I’m no fag!” “It’s not gay! It’s freaky, dumbass! Go bonkahs! Have some fun!” Mr. Essex County was, in fact, incredibly horny; the head rush he got from smoking rock usually went to both of his heads, but he’d never had a partner to play with before, at least not another dude. He followed The Crude Clown’s lead by dropping his pants to his ankles. His whole body shook as he belly-laughed and jerked himself off like it was the first time he’d ever touched his dick before. “Fuckkkkk” he groaned as he gooned. The Crude Clown was still on the ground, jacking himself off with his legs up in the air like a crackhead contortionist with one finger plugged in his ass. “Put ya fingah in ya asshole, my guy! It feels wicked good!” he instructed. Fuck it. Mr. Essex County wet his index finger with his frothy, dry mouth then pushed it inside his untouched anus raw. “Mmmmmm, this shit’s good,” he buzzed as he tickled his brown eye, going cross-eyed and grinding his teeth. “Try this!” The Crude Clown pitched as he staggered to his clown feet and handed Mr. Essex County a petite bottle of Rush. “Sniff it!” Mr. Essex County unclenched his cock to uncap and huff the amyl nitrite. The poppers hit him like a warm whiskey ginger on a whale watch and his hole tore open like a blooming onion. “Fuck meeeee!” Mr. Essex County pleaded. “It’s so good, huh kehd?” The Crude Clown slobbered out. “NO, I mean FUCK ME!” Mr. Essex County corrected, turning around to show The Crude Clown his whoopie pie. He bent over a sturdy tree branch and spread his cheeks apart. The Crude Clown’s eyes grew wide as he ran to Mr. Essex County’s prized pumpkin with his arms spread wide. He mounted him like a horse and bayed at the moon as he sowed himself balls deep into Mr. Essex County.

A distant beam of light drifted closer and closer as the unlikely friends fucked raw amongst the grove. Mr. Essex County wheezed and croaked as The Crude Clown reached around to put and light a cigarette in his bottom’s mouth. He wanted to give it to him good before the comedown came to flatten their dicks and empty their tanks. But before either of them could come close to cumming, a flashlight shone loudly at their brotherly boinking. “STAHHHHHHP!” cried the spotlight operator. With his eyesight readjusted and his dick sunk soft, Mr. Essex County realized it was his wife that had him caught! She aimed her pageant crown at his head but hit The Crude Clown instead, knocking off his Yankees cap and him unconscious! She ran away and prayed to Mary for a day that her husband wouldn’t be so neurotic.

Cape Ann Sperm Bank

“Cape Ann Sperm Bank” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

Gone Fishing

“Gone Fishing” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

Wet

After Hokusai’s Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife

“Wet” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

HONKY II

Alex Osman

I got my hair cut by Grandpa Honky. He told me,

“With this cut, you look a bit like that boy, Dennis the Menace. He’s sure a cutie.”

He used the same scissors that he used to cut open popsicles, so my hair was always sticky after every cut. Clippings of my hair were put into a ziploc bag, and he went on about this urban legend he heard about keeping a bag of your own hair underneath your pillow to ward off the devil. I tossed the bag out the window on the highway after my mom picked me up. I watched the car behind us swerve to miss it and slam into a guardrail.

Grandpa Honky would get drunk and chase everyone around the house with a taser that he stole from a flea market. He wore a police cap. A Ricky Nelson album incessantly played from a cheap, purple boombox.

“A-be-bop baby
A-be-bop baby
A-be-bop baby
She’s the gal for me”

My cousin and I usually hid in a big plastic treasure chest that was mostly empty, aside from some baseballs and a box of old pocket knives. My grandma hit Grandpa Honky over the head with a mop handle once. He fell over laughing and rubbing the spot on his head where he was hit.

“Welp, she got me! Ah hahaha…granny got me good right in the noggin…yowch! That hurt haha goddamn it…,” he’d slur and garble to no one in particular.

My grandpa reminded me of ALF when he wasn’t drinking, his voice and mannerisms a carbon copy. His bedside table held chewing tobacco, inhalers, rifle manuals, and these playing cards with cartoons of nude women. Whenever he went to the bowling alley, I would sneak into his room and look at the Playboys, debating on trying the tobacco. It smelled like dust and musty t-shirts in there, and the windows had these amber curtains covering them at all times. A 12-gauge hung directly above my grandparents’ bed.

My grandpa had a collection of porno tapes in his closet next to his old bowling ball. I saw the image of a girl with stringy blonde hair and crucifix earrings getting fucked by a guy in sunglasses with a tattoo that said “EAT SHIT”. They were fucking on the hood of a car and I thought,

“I wonder how fast that car is going?”

When I was about 7, I spent the night at Grandpa Honky’s house and slept on the living room floor. I woke up at about 2 a.m. to some kind of porn parody of Grease playing on the TV. A T-Bird reject was fucking someone who was supposed to be Olivia Newton-John, but looked nothing like her, on a couch that looked like my grandparents’ sofa. You could just barely hear a soundtrack of generic funk instrumentals, the vocals replaced with moans, grunts, gasps, and breathing through teeth. When I turned my head and looked behind me, I saw Grandpa Honky masturbating on his couch. His face held the expression of disbelief, and the TV reflected in his glasses, obscuring his eyes. I heard him say,

“Lord, have mercy,”

shortly before he came and I went back to sleep.

In the morning, my grandma made pancakes. Grandpa Honky was late to breakfast, which was unusual. I walked past his bedroom and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at his slippers. He ran his fingers through his fine hair and twisted little knots in his white chest hair, before muttering,

“I wonder what’s on the TV tonight.”

Mark Parsons

Muscular mantle of octopus scarlet and
draped over mons,
affixed to the swell of a vulva
as graceful in contour as liquid contracting
its surface to generate tension,
the quarter-moon irises,
set in protuberant globular eyes,
glaring and pinched by a menacing furrow
through bramble of cunt-hair,
inscrutable, watchful, the pearl diver’s thighs
pale and spread wide in pleasure,
surrender, suckered tentacles rake the tremulous
lower belly
where, deep within, the soft,
formless projecting mouth of the cephalopod projects
a hard, chitinous nutcracking beak
up the vagina’s canal
to nip gently the fleshy bulb of her cervix,
and settle as steady as calipers over a star-burst crease
like the tied-off end of a sausage casing.
The fine-grained, mineral-studded ribbon of radula
lashes the narrow incision
that leads to her womb, a strait innervated,
imprinted by nature and nurture, the mollusk’s abrasive appendage
sawing away like a lockpick through tumblers.
The pearl diver’s heels dug in and squeezing the slippery, billowy octopus head
like a hot air balloon that’s deflating
and drawn up like liquid with every contraction, the animal
giving itself over in service to lust,
decentralized CNS, neurologically-coded flesh
conducted by fluid mechanics, autonomous wicking engaged
by prehensile intelligence,
the flaps of her floodgates exhale,
open to squirt her ejaculate. Seeing his father
rewarded with sprays from her geyser,
a hot, seafloor eruption, the octopus nibbling
and plucking her ear like a string on a lyre with his beak
girdles a tentacle
tightly around a cylindrical nipple,
the halo of aureole drawn up, absorbed as a knob
of creased, puckered flesh.
The pearl diver betrays her husband
in dream or fantasy, aroused by her own defilement,
at the mercy of beasts without pity:
to shiver with lust where she should recoil in terror and disgust.

Frat Boy Mind Fuck

Mark Parsons

He thinks big.
Thinks a big,
paint-can wide
phallic thought,
thought like a phallus,
and fucks his mind with it,
fucks his mind
inside out.
Thinks his girlfriend
will like it too, wants to share
what he feels, his mind
stretched to the breaking point,
rubber band taut
around
paint can-wide
thought like a phallus that’s
rampant and
ready to
spread its seed,
infect
someone else,
so he makes an offering,
first in thought.

When he fucks his girlfriend
he mounts her on top,
installed at the summit of phallic-thought
like a Judas Chair with a
mollusk tentacle lined with suckers
and tapered off to the size of a traffic cone
wedged at the entrance of inner labia
stretched apart
like a swimming cap
twenty-five sizes too small
and forced open
by gravity pulling her down
so her hairless vulva, as smooth and firm
as a molded silicone rubber
cast, disappears inside, fucked outside in.
When she squats to perch,
stuffed to roost like a broody hen,
he spins her around like a pinwheel or top.
Pretty soon, that’s not enough.
Up and down:
inside out, outside in.
Bored apart by the drill-bit tip
of a wanton fetish that reams and gouges
and hollows her out, excavating
a grain silo piercing her flat midwestern Tornado Alley
fecund,
female internal topography,
rising up to a conical point, or an alpine peak
of unconquered height: she contains a void and an absence
nothing will ever fill. When the screaming vortex
of funnel-cloud from the grey and dense, baleful dark, thunder-mass
of her restless womb
touches down, touching ground,
she’s two-hundred unmoored emotions per hour
rotating fiercely enough to
obliterate
Heartland America’s breadbasket landscape.
She’s a factory-farm industrial orgasm-milking machine with a bottomless reservoir.
Pretty soon, that’s not enough.

Using the thought like a phallus
he fucks his world
with it, fucks the whole
world outside
outside
in.
Spinning himself and his world around
on the thought like a phallus
he strips the threads in his hex-nut mind:
wherever he goes and whatever he does perverted by lust
to be used as a setting or prop in his fantasy.
When he goes to the gym
he brings her along,
after choosing her clothes
and laying out buttocks-cleaving,
compression-knit
lift-and-sculpt yoga pants
engineered to knead, mold, and shape
globes of billowing flesh,
with hemispheres
wedged apart, deeply cleft:
as the fabric seeps into every crevice
it spurs her boyfriend’s intrusive thoughts
of her ass-cheeks dribbling themselves
with tactile prehensile intelligence up and down
on the hard-on of every male in the gym,
who follow his girlfriend with ravening raptor eyes.

When he goes to work,
the voracious maw of his lustful fetish
exerts around him a field of gravity black hole-dense,
to assimilate coworkers, leads, supervisors, and staff: every person
assumes a rule in his psychodrama of family romance.
A slavish incestuous love of his castrating mother compels him to
take the place of his castrated father. He offers up now
his own woman, abandoning her on the altar of social reform,
where diverse, stalwart progressive adherents,
promoting retributive justice, inclusion, and equity
line up and wait for a turn at the spit-roast and basting,
the double- and triple-teams of his girlfriend.
A conference table, long and plain, has been overturned.
The girlfriend on her hands and knees,
the cries of the orgy rise to the high, vaulted ceiling.
The bema fills up with women and men,
and the boyfriend loses sight of his girlfriend.
People line the ambulatory, glimpsed between columns.
The human resources assistant,
a former basketball scholarship athlete,
hired by affirmative action decree,
who’s fucking the head of HR, a hotwife and mother,
at her cuckold-husband’s fulfillment, albeit without his consent,
watches with clipboard and pen, doing a headcount
and checking off names. Sucked down into a carnal vortex,
with mind beset by obsessive thoughts of collective guilt
for society’s failure, induced by his dominant, high-handed mother
to measure unfairness and grievance as zero-sum ledgers
to balance through losing the fruits of a cloying and smothering privilege
she cloistered him in since the day he was born,
the boyfriend conducts his genetic demise, real and in effigy, to punish himself
on behalf of racial and ethnic minorities,
because civilization has failed to achieve MLK’s dream
of symbolic and representational equity.
His love
now
little more
than a blow-up doll
for the wanton, resentful, mud-colored masses
to hate-fuck, degrade and corrupt,
having been steeped in obtuse, imperceptive translations
of French deconstruction
assigned by millennial adjunct professors,
Rousseau-cribbing hipsters who never heard of Rousseau,
and incensed by naïve, vacuous sentiments
senile political pundits and statesmen proclaim, the boyfriend,
dejected and brimming with cuck-angst, watches ensconced and screened-in
behind the Great Mother’s ankle-length skirt,
a watery, red-rimmed eye to the bulging rift of a button hem.
The mother grips her forearm between her thighs
and rides it.
Her knees buckle;
she hunches over, bent double,
and liquid ejaculate stretches indifferently,
cat-like, a glimmering boundary
yawning from under the house curtains
heaved to encircle and girdle the world by attendants and stagehands
working unseen in the wings of the stage
where this drama played out a sadistic and brutal, civilization-ending romance.

A STIFF GUST, THROUGH A GAP IN THE FOLIAGE

Tyler Peterson

Three months after a vasectomy, you have to go back to the urologist and give them a semen sample so they can see if it took. That part you knew about. What you didn’t know was that the sample you give them can’t be more than an hour old. What’s the rationale behind that, you think. Okay, so sperm can’t live too long outside a body, but…surely the lab could see their tiny little corpses? Are you meant to believe that sperm disintegrate when they die, like video game enemies? Oh well, who are you to contradict them; they got degrees in Jizz Studies and you didn’t.

The lab where you’re gonna need to turn it in (who helpfully provided you with a pre-labeled specimen cup, freeing you from finding a Tupperware to sacrifice to the cause) is on the north side of the city. From your house, a twenty-five minute drive, minimum; thirty-five realistically. If there’s construction, unexpected traffic, trouble parking, an issue with finding out where in the hospital this lab was—well, you’ll be cutting it pretty close.

You imagine missing your deadline. No point lying about it, you can only hurt yourself by doing so. Worst-scenario, they’d just hand you another specimen cup. And then…what?

Your first instinct would be to just duck into the nearest restroom and shave the carrot right there on the john. But you don’t know if you could face the desk clerk afterwards, after being gone only a few minutes. She (in your head, it’s a woman) would immediately know you jacked off on premises. You don’t know if that’s against the rules or something—after all, it’s not a sperm bank, or some other place they expect people to be jacking off in; it’s just a regular old hospital. But let’s say that it is against the rules. What could they realistically do about it? Not take your jizz? Sorry, sir, we cannot sanction the way you comported yourself just now, and we’re not going to extend our lab’s services to you. Have your jizz analyzed elsewhere.

The interaction is fraught with levels of awkwardness that you’re not sure you can survive, and you don’t want to take the chance to draw it out any longer than you have to. The more you think, the more clear it seems that a neutral third location is in order: a restroom, or other jack-off-in-able space, close enough to the hospital that transport time won’t be an issue.

Right on the corner there’s a Burger King. It gets points for convenience; you could grab breakfast while you’re there. Problem: not a single-person bathroom. It’s got stalls. What if someone walks in during the “task at hand”? You’re pretty sure you can stifle any noise—Lord knows you had enough practice in college—but you have a weak sense of smell from smoking, and you were never sure how much other people could pick up on the smell of fresh jizz. Old jizz smells, certainly. The old ripped pair of tighty-whiteys you jizzed into as a teenager, even shoved decisively far down in the space between your box spring and bed frame, brought a glucoseous piquancy to the room that, in retrospect, kick-started your illustrious career in hoe-scaring. But you never noticed that much of an odor when it was fresh. Your older cousins used to tell you that women, in particular, smelled fresh jizz like truffle pigs, especially when they were ovulating. Typical cousin ballbusting, but that sort of shit sticks with you.

There are a couple of businesses nearby: liquor stores, convenience stores, laundromats. When you were a kid it was mostly Bosnians that ran them; now they’re largely African-owned—Somalis, Sudanese, Eritreans. A lot of them don’t have restrooms open to the public because the neighborhood’s too rough. Others do, but your liberal neuroticism bristles at the idea of going into an immigrant’s business, defiling the bathroom, and leaving without spending any money. You’re worried it will be interpreted as some kind of mild, circuitous hate crime.

You worry you’re horribly overthinking what ought to be a simple task, and that worry makes you stick fast on the next feasible option that crosses your mind—the park across from the hospital. You know the park well; you’ve played disc golf there. The park has public restrooms housed in a brown-and-tan brick structure that looks a bit like a bomb shelter. Sure to be cold and dirty, but deserted, particularly at this time of year, and that’s your main criterion at this point.

And so the morning arrives, and you pull up to the park under a uniform steel-gray sky and all of early autumn’s glorious colors lying washed and wrung out underfoot. Tiny piles of rough-textured slush ring the parking lot from last week’s snow. The air smells like wet gravel and the pavement’s slick with tarry filth. A turquoise Suburban lies at the kitty-corner opposite you, a neatly dressed black guy milling about it. You don’t meet his gaze as you walk toward the bomb shelter, the empty specimen cup thick in your coat pocket.

You round the corner. Tragedy strikes. CAUTION tape forms an X over the men’s room doorway and a tall traffic cone sits sentry in front of it. You kick the cone out of the way and reach beside the X to try the handle. At least half an inch of backed-up stormwater covers the floor. God damn it. You rush around the building to the women’s room but the water is even higher in there.

You hadn’t budgeted that much time. You have to be at work in half an hour. You have no contingency plan. Your mind whirls, gropes for a solution. You can’t jack off in your car because of the guy in the parking lot. Could you find a knot of trees to shield you, whack off in the open air? Can you even perform in wind chills like this? If caught, could you plead medical necessity?

Your salvation comes in the form of a tall, brown, mud-splattered kybo with “Jim’s John’s” printed on the side, and a delightful little Punch magazine-esque cartoon of a fat man sitting on the toilet. It’ll do nicely. You duck inside without hesitation and your pants go down. Your cock shrivels visibly on exposure to the cold air. It tries to retract, the glans huddling up inside the foreskin like a small woman in a thick muffler. You pinch the head between two fingers, stretch it out to its full length, and rub the shaft in a slight twisting motion to try to generate some heat.

The wind rattles the thin plastic walls of the kybo. A freak gust blows the unlatched door dangerously wide, but you manage to catch it before it blows completely open; the second or two you spend not stroking undoes all the progress you’ve made toward a workable erection. The kybo is obviously far past its normal emptying schedule; the vile chemical brew you’re sitting atop is wafting its pestilential miasma between your legs right into your face. No matter how frantically you stroke, your unit flops glumly in your hand like a two-week-old stalk of celery. You make the mistake of looking past your cock and you see a huge blob of toilet paper cradling a saucer-sized puddle of pasty diarrhea streaked with black and red. In irritation you get up, slam the lid, and sit back down, but the cold plastic on your balls proves to be even more distracting.

Never before has your nut eluded you this badly—not when you’re tired, or drunk, or on a new medication, or ate too much pho; not while cold, hot, sick, hurt, or itchy; not while depressed, distracted, nervous, grieving, furious, bored; not while fucking somewhere gross, fucking someone gross, fucking somewhere dangerous, fucking someone dangerous, fucking someone who says weird shit, does weird shit, asks for weird shit, does weird shit to you without asking; not while down bad for someone else, not with someone who’s so much hotter and freakier than you it’s intimidating, not while just craving a little shake-up, a little variety, a little balm for not even some huge psychic wound but the quotidian strains and sadnesses that your life has come to provide, and finding none; and these struggles and failures are all weighing on you now, they’re all whirling around in your head and accreting into a huge ball that fills your skull, expelling all else, and you’re pitifully playing with your rubbery cock as if in a daze, as if you had an aneurysm while jacking it and are spasming, having a last few seconds of motor-memory Selbstbefriedigung before collapsing.

You rally. You grit your teeth. A porn video is out of the question. You have someone on the other side of that thin wall, and no headphones. You have to summon every scrap of imagination you possess. You overclock your powers of fantasy to dispel all the cold in that filthy plastic booth, to transport yourself to a tropical cabana with languid waves of heat drifting in from a shimmering ocean. Sheer force of ideation peels away your coat, sweater, the flannel-lined jeans shackling your ankles, until you’re totally nude, stretched out in a hammock. Beside you is a woman who is as yet just a shapeless log. You don’t want to use any real ex-partners or regular fantasy players because you’re too lost in your memories as is. Someone totally invented is called for. You whirl through physical attributes like you’re making an RPG character. Your cock gives encouraging twitches in turn as you land on: Indian, curly hair, medium titties, large ass, several tasteful tattoos, one not so tasteful tattoo, huge bush, round face, moderately snaggly teeth.

You two are going at it in the hammock, or at least trying. You’ve never fucked in a hammock in real life, but the particular lattice of fantasy you’ve constructed exacts its own brand of verisimilitude. You and your dream woman are both climbing and falling all over each other, trying to get purchase. She lies on her side and cocks one leg as you lie beside her, and your hard cock brushes her labia, but the act of thrusting into her throws you off balance and sends you tumbling over her, landing on her other side. Strangely enough, you are not frustrated, but encouraged by these cumbersome conditions. In your fantasy you’re both laughing at the ridiculous contortions you’re making, and throwing yourselves at each other all the harder with every failure. You get up on your knees to try doggystyle, but your knees are audibly straining the hammock’s seams, and she places one of her hands badly and lurches the hammock to the side before you get five thrusts in. She gets on top of you and starts riding, but you can’t thrust up into her with nothing firm supporting your back, and you bend your dick trying. Finally you settle on just lying next to each other like snakes fucking; she’s got her legs closed, giving you a thighjob, and you’re moving your hips up to brush her clit with the base of your cock (you reduce the size of her bush to accomplish this more easily).

You’re getting into it now. You’re feeling the squeeze of fleshy, sweat-misted butt cheeks on your cock. You’re feeling her bare skin against yours for the entire length of your body. The awkwardness of the hammock, the extreme restriction of your movements makes every bit of difference. You’re wriggling against your big-assed, toothy Indian goddess like you’re eight years old and just discovering the potential thrill of a wadded-up hump of blankets. You’re overcoming the cold and the stench, you’re putting mind truly over matter; it’s not the hardest you’ve ever been, but it is more than adequate for your purposes.

Exactly nine minutes later, when you walk up to the counter at the clinic with your 10 ccs safely sealed inside a white paper bag, an electric jangle careens through your body. You stifle it. There, sitting behind the counter, is the very picture of your toothy Indian fantasy: rye bread skin, curly hair brushing the collar of her scrubs, looking bored and wan like she’s been here for many dull hours already. She’s already seen you; you dare not turn away. You’d give something away to her. This is much too awkward, this is much too much. She knows. But how would she know? You can’t explain that, any more than you can explain her. Horror shoots from toes to scalp, one bolt after another, but through sheer will you smooth the trembling out of your gait. You wonder if you saw her somewhere before, and pulled her appearance out of the bog of your subconscious, or whether you actually created her as some sort of jizz tulpa.

You tell her, “I’ve got a drop off,” and point to the label on the bag with all the relevant lab information on it.

She says “Okay, got it, thank you,” without a smile.

You do not linger. You don’t invite the opportunity for friction you’ve worked so hard to avoid. You heel-turn and head right back down the hallway and through the sliding glass doors of the front entrance, the glass twinkling with vague unreality. You wonder what you’re meant to do with what’s just been put in front of you. Should you probe further? Come back another time, see whether she still exists? Or back away prudently? Did the universe thrust her into your path, or did you crack it open and spy a chink of forbidden interior? The question occupies you on the whole of your drive to work.

I Went to a Bazaar in Skokie

Brooke N. Plummer

I went to a bazaar in Skokie.

One of the vendors had a 1990 edition
of Playboy Magazine with Donald Trump
as the cover feature.

His competitor across the street
had Kentucky Fried Chicken memorabilia.

Culture, sewage, the free market thrives.

The moon threaded a canopy
of light above us.

This Is Not a Thirst Poem About Kim Vodicka

Gabriel Ricard

Probably,
probably, maybe,
probably depends on the poem,
but I think it’s okay to finish reading something
with at least some thought towards
fucking the writer’s brains out. To put it as romantically
as I can.

Some people just do me like that,
and I’m left to imagine short gasps and steady bursts
of the small laughter that only cowards fear
because trust me there’s all sorts of ways to have a good time.

Especially if they just happen to also have an amazing knack
for stark stanzas and compulsory style,
and I’ve been lucky to chase and be chased
by a couple of women like that. I’ve never been charming,
but I’ve been the kind of trouble a writer likes to imagine
when they’re hoping for the ideal array of whiskey sours
and getting pounded from behind on both of the beds
in your motel room because why not. The other one’s just going
to waste as a placeholder for damaged shirts and handcuffs
and if she brought the strap-on,
buddy,
it’s going to be one of the best nights of your life.

Chasing a woman who keeps the blood under her fingernails
because you just never know when someone’s going to feed
the hardhearted spiritual black comedy heroine’s kitty
has ended badly for me
every
single
time, baby,
and I wouldn’t trade it for anything,
but I’m also glad I’ve moved on
from falling in lust and occasionally halfway to partway to something along the lines of love,
and I think that’s a young person’s game anyway.

Or at least someone who can still take a Greyhound beating
and stay awake past 9 p.m.

For everyone’s sake,
but mostly because I would start to get on your nerves
by the 2^nd or 3^rd dawn of more of the orgasmic, frenetic same,
I’m glad I’m not the kind of guy who gets it bad for you.

My liver and dignity are also very pleased to see me
keep the restless energy panting and all desperate longing
to the limits of my imagination.

The cum or blood tributes,
or both at the same time
if you were raised wholesale in childhood
by Nick at Nite, Tom Petty albums,
and Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula,
will have to stay in the theoretical,
the metaphorical,
and other magical realms
where I don’t have to do
any heavy lifting.

Brat

Lucky for a father who straightens,
squashes impulse with
impulse, the harsh gesture
regardless.

Razed versus razor,
childlike nicks—
believing any adult
what they said of me.

Provision, providing: a loop.
What choice was there?
Dumb sluts having kids—
when they could drink them.
Eject into the latex sack, the sock.

I got this way somehow:
doe-eyed, fawned-over—
raised selfish
as a hooved animal,
flat pool for the narcissus.

What hole in you
shall I aim to fill?

Sodomite

I’ve made an enemy
of a mucus membrane.
Pussed out, spewed, flaunted

inflamed as a gut renovation.
The message-sending—
penmanship of appendages—

soft militant bodies
brought for buffet.
Fluff it. Heel, faggot—

to the chest, the foot of the bed
like a pup. A top is a raw deal.

What he can fetch
if receptive—thought made flesh,
injection. Slip in, I’m that empty.

Right angles, hand to ear
that we’re foldable. Switching modes
like two herons. Diminish

a mission. To be so exhausted
sleep never comes.

O-Bod

Cum spent an hour in the body—
one with yours, over with.

A start, scare, bad dreams
scam the budge of a head.

I spill over, it’s my shape.
Block and string and kinked

with fur: a slip, nice coverall.
Woof! It attracts projects.

I’m leaving blown out
felt up and grazed against,

hear me shuffle at the nightstand
with spontaneous awakeness.

The chosen night
of a dark room musk fills.

Sneak lest the seam rip,
the collar clamor—scurry

combed with ass in tow,
a crick in the creak.

This wreck I count on
as I never could youth.

Agita

churns the throat
yellow, guts lining
red. Yuck. Cum rags

in pocket, tank top
under puffer. Shoved-in,
cracked-open—
we’re piledriven into men

known only through the ass.
The jockstrap, great equalizer,
frames it team sport, ancient athleticism
recaptured as a fumble.

I couldn’t cut it straight
so I flex the belly, masc the scowl,
stick where I belong—crossed
off your list, a thrilling mark. Calculations

of the nose, of features reflected—
fantastic ass taken credit for. Everyone’s dick fits
in their pants, stowed away in briefs—
to say nothing of cold evenings.

Waste Not Want Not