Cum Punk

02/14/26

Happy Kum V-Day (fka Valentine’s Day), all you out-there edgelovers! 

As Forrest Gump once said: “Life is like an oversized heart-shaped box of cum-filled sweets. You never know what you’re gonna get. But at least cum is a guarantee! Maybe also diabetes and communicable disease!”

Disclaimer: Cum cows are currently experiencing this Mandela-effect thing where we remember Forrest Gump saying the darnedest things that he supposedly never said. We think it makes the movie 10x better. 

Anyway, I’ve been out walking in our winter cummerland, and sweet are the sights. And the sounds and smells, by the Bovine Divine! We thought we had beginner’s fuck luck with Cum Punk #1: Cummer 2025, but turns out there was way more cum to cum. We are proud and honored that our cum cows chose our funny farm, of all funny farms, to call home. We are grateful, too, for all the cummunity support and pubic public interest in our cum cow barn since erecting it only one year ago, on this very day (Happy Birthday, Cum Punk!) Truly warms the cockles of our slushy udders. For all this, and so much more, we say: MOO! (THANK YOU!) 

All winter long, we’ve been deep in the nerve center of the creamery, working in HR-violating congress with candy-colored sex clowns to assemble a whole new lineup of tasty transgressions alongside time-honored treats, such as our Cumtittlyhumptious Bars, Juggworth Jigglers, and Jizzy Lifting Drinks!

So we do hope you enjoy our Wintry MiXXX. To maximize your pleasure, we suggest using a silly straw to slurp up the whole dang thing shame-free, i.e., goon-scroll til you get a stomachache—some of this shit truly is sick in the head sickly sweet.

And for those still wondering: What is Cum Punk?

No explanation is the best explanation. 

But if you seek to understand, first ask: What is cum? 

A release. An emission. A wet-hot eruption. The physical manifestation of kundalini-tickling ecstasy. Pure no-mind joy. Always fresh, even when frozen. And occasionally, a substance that smells curiously like brie. 

Because here at Cum Punk, we love sex and we love fucking and we love whores and we love the realm of pure fantasy which is absolute freedom. It’s the eternal rebellion, and it’s evergreen because our society is still sexually retarded. But you know who isn’t retarded? Forrest Gump. Man nuts the stuff of dreams. 

AND MOST OF ALL, we love cum cows. It’s always darkest, and coldest, before the dawn of a brand new fuckface, but the Bovine Divine lifts us. Straight helium in those triple-Zs!

We hope these warm wishes couched within delusions of grandeur self-mythologizing proclamations keep you happy and hygge…

until cummertime, when the livin’ is even sleazier. But idk bc winter is low-key the most freakiest time of the year—would explain all the September birthdays and the global Virgo crisis (love you, C.U.Morgenrede!) 

Yours in all things ooey-gooey,

Kum V

PSA: Don’t forget to drip your cum nozzles in sub-freezing temps. And remember: if you’re cold, they’re cold. Bring your cum cows indoors!

and maybe a few snack crackers.

***

​​You can put a hole in a donut, but you can’t make a fool out of me.

But you can put a hole in me. I am yeasted dough entirely. There are holes in my psyche—holes in my aura, as it were—ready-made for fucking. You can poke new holes in me, insert that thing, and open fire so hard it pulls up mula bandha, awakens the coiled serpent pussy-tongue in the fourth vertebrae that, when tickled just so, spirals up the spine through the crown of the head, transcends the ethereal chakras, uncoils and spits creamed venom into the absolute interstellar vacuum. From galaxy brain to mind in the gutter, you can fashion me into whatever you want, put a hole in me. Fuck it. Suck my pineal gland, drink my pineal cum. You can spray dough through a fryer in circular patterns and suddenly have a bunch of balls I’d love to munch!

You can put a hole in a donut, but you can’t make a fool out of me. But you can put a hole in just about all of my being. People can be more than one thing, but they can also be just one thing. Case in point, I might know you want a bean feast and give you one because my soul has been thoroughly destroyed, and my soul-destruction is anywhere from partially to fully of my own making, but I’ll give you a bean feast because your happiness is my happiness and my happiness is void insofar as it doesn’t exist without yours. Case in point—pussy is an open wound, continually reinjured and cannot heal, but if given enough time between grand re-openings may scab over and become an apple fritter! You can pick it right off the pudendum, watch it ooze around the rough edges, throw your head back and hold it over your mouth-wide-open to catch driblets of apple-cinnamon bitch syrup. If I made you this apple fritter—if you made me make you this apple fritter—I expect you to pick it right off the pudendum and lick it from crack to clit.

Put a hole in it. 

You can put a hole in a donut, but you can’t make a fool out of me. I ruined my whole entire life all by myself with no help at all, thank you very much. I am thoroughly destroyed, and my pussy is an open wound, and my pussy is an apple fritter, and my pussy is now a bakery. It’s all about customer relations. Imagine being a pro bono whore, as opposed to a whore for hire, and the thing transacted is love, not sex, and the benefactor is the whore, not you, and the whore goes ‘round all night, every night, transacting in this manner, letting you pick off her apple fritter every time. She cares nothing for the difference between love and sex and uses you as an outlet and inlet for both, when she makes you cum bullets every time, her eyes sucking your eyes as you approach the apotheosis and the vertex takes hold and you start to feel impossible pleasure, and you both cum bullets with your open cum nozzles locked together, and you feel that giddy loss of self-consciousness and self itself, no barriers, granted the power to experience oneness and the infinite. The whore is an unlikeable person, a menace to society and, by many, considered a monster. For the threat she poses to fidelity. Because affairs are more common than fidelity. Because whores aren’t people. Because whores are the only people who see who people really are. Because if you ever want to know who a man really is just ask his whore! She transacts with eyes wide open and legs wide shut and is not a hypocrite. She is the free thing people fear, and she uses her apple-cinnamon girl parts—which you need to be alone with, and to which you like to do unspeakable things—to use you. Once consumed, her apple-cinnamon girl parts fritter over once more. This is her vice and virtue, her ruin and rise. This is why, later in life, I took up home economics and turned my pussy into a bakery, not for the nurturing human warmth and smiles my goods might elicit, but to solicit.

You can put a fool in a donut shop, but you can’t make a hole out of me. All of me is already a hole. I know you want the world, the hole world, the works, the hole works—presents and prizes and sweets and surprises of all shapes and sizes. I know you want all farm-fresh stuff—whipped cream straight from the exploding cum cow udder, whipped dreams straight from the cum cow encephalon and other raised-in-a-barn delights, teat- and temporal lobe-to-table. I know you want a world of butter and sugar and spices and everything naughty and nices, a hole world inhabited by real crotch exploders, dabbling and babbling and messing in their doughs and fondants and edible glitters and designer powders. I know you need to be alone with them, your master list of sweets, an all-you-can-wet-dream buffet—glazed nutter butters, frosted cream sockets, jellied honey squeezers, drizzled sugar lockers—Little Debbies, Hostesses, Dolly Madisons, Tastykakes—a build-your-own variety pack of Entenmann’s Rich Frosted Buttermilk Softees, Pound Cake Minis, Glazed Pop’ems and Pop’ettes—pumped and clotted and moneyshotted and dusted with cremains. See how the frosting treacles out of the stargazy humble huff pastes, and the gypsy sugar puffs fill with sweetmeats! Are you, with your compound eyes, seeing an entire room of pies to eat with your eyes first? A vision in emulsified happiness and granulated bliss—baked goods and confections, breads, fillings, and toppings the tastebuds on your cock can taste before you even matador the little gems with your Slim Jim. Looks alone are the flavormaker. Reservations and misgivings are the flavormaker. 

You can put a hole in a fool, but you can’t make a donut out of me. Except you can. You can make all sorts of me, really. When pussy scabs over, it needn’t be an apple fritter exclusively. Why, it can be monkeybread, for instance. It can be strawberry rhubarb pie à la mode! It can be personal-pan pineapple upside-down cake! The pudendum may freshly prepare and decorate any sweet in the hypothetical display case. You can choose your own treats, watch them bake from scratch in the crotch or deep-fry in the deep-cryer with dough made from yeast and live active cultures sweetened to taste. You can pick some off for fucking and others for sodomizing and sample different treats in such a manner. You can crack open a snozzberry jam bun, give it a shit-eating grin, lick the fissure, slip it in. Fuck it. You can eat out a thumbprint cookie and a cheese blintz and a devil square and a great big slice of icebox pie all at the same time with your slobber elevator that dissolves foodstuffs on contact. You can put your Ring Pop in a Pecan Spinwheel, your Ballpark Frank in an Orange Zinger, cup your family fool’s gold with a Ho-Ho, out-cream a Twinkie—the Muff n Stix see all! You can make a Baby Bundt queef, just as you can make a Ding Dong fart. You can split a pair of Sno Balls like a venn diagram, stick your glizzie in the Nutty Buddy, put your stinkhorn in the Unicorn Cake. You can shake their asses yes, shake their asses maybe, shake their asses no, shake their asses fuck no, call them nutcrackers, call them nutcases. 

No, you can’t make a fool out of me, but you can put a hole in just about anything. You can pick off all sorts and attach them to storefront mannequins, twist ’em ’round like Barbies with ball-and-socket SI joints so that you have front-facing torsos with supe’d up milk jugs that dispense hot fudge in real-time, while you flay the bridie and butterfly the bearclaw, as it were. You can put your face ‘tween those fake plastic legs and inhale long the scent of snickerdoodles and fluffernutters, gingerbread men and Grandma’s fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies. You can spank the Honeybuns and the Funfetti rolls while you spank the monkey. You can feel, with each love fap, how the Moon Pies and Swiss Cake Rolls tense up ’round your shish kabob like paczki constrictors. You can make a duckbill out of the puff pastry, put your meat in the squeezer, say you little fuck while holding open a pair of sticky buns and poking the Pillsbury Doughboy in the belly. You can put some clotted cream on it and pray to Jesus! You can apply blunt force to the Toaster Strudel and drill the Poptart with your power corer tool and have a sense of gutter integrity about it. You can put your Warhead in the Gusher, feel the Pop Rocks snap, crackle, fizz; stick your prickly pear in the candy-coated snoot-snout, a-rippin’ and a-tearin’ and a-honkin’ and a-quackin’; go a-nuttin’ the gummy guzzler, stuff it dumb, wrap it in ropes of flavorless gelatin. You can have ingress, egress, and regress with Juggworth Jigglers and Cumtittlyhumptious Bars, wash ‘em down with Jizzy Lifting Drinks, send ya straight to Loompaland! You can clean up the carnage, polish off the crumbled morsels and scraps and residues of sweets all tore up, thoroughly destroyed though incompletely devoured, and wash away the shame with a milk t-shirt contest—pick the best racks off the cum cow babybacks, squeeze ’em together, open their faucet assemblies, and whichever is first to soak through the fake plastic chest wins. Tell ‘em what they’ve won, Johnny!

You can put a hole in a donut and make a fool out of me.

Dylan was ten minutes late. Probably stuck in traffic. Teeny went to the bathroom to reapply her lip gloss. She’d done everything Edie had said to get Dylan to cum on her on a first date: hair pulled back in a pony, schoolgirl skirt, waxed pussy, thigh highs with bows, sneakers, no panties. The only thing Teeny was bummed about was the no panties. Jesus had come to Teeny in a vision at church camp when she was sixteen, and cummed all over her pussy while she was wearing itty-bitty white boy shorts. It was so cute how Jesus’s cum soaked her underwear until she could see her plump pink pussy lips through them. It felt good too, getting her fingers all slippery and sticky, rubbing and fingering herself, until she experienced a pulsing in her privates that was so pleasurable she could imagine forsaking God for it. She even liked the taste of Jesus’s cum. Salty. Funky. The only problem with cum was how fast it dried. Edie had promised her Dylan could make loads of it. She was getting wet just thinking about it. She stuck her finger in her pussy and dabbed her neck and wrists with what Edie called “nature’s perfume.”

Teeny emerged from the bathroom, convinced Dylan must finally be at the table bearing an apology and flowers. No Dylan. Teeny’s heart shriveled like a dying rose. As she made her way across the small, dark room to the table, she tried not to let the place bum her out. The Golden Dragon was the only and best Chinese restaurant in Kingman, Arizona. It was missing the “lden” in the sign out front from an incident involving a whore, a country singer, and a shotgun. Everyone referred to it as the Go Down Dragon, since it was where all the divorcees hooked up, and the underage kids got drunk. They didn’t card.

The divorced men eyed Teeny. She ignored them. The only older man she’d ever been hot for was Jesus.

Finally, the door swung open, shooting a blast of cold desert air into the room that made the candles flicker. Dylan entered with the stunned expression of a guy who’d spent all afternoon taking rips off a bong, his black bangs swooped across his forehead, his angular limbs artfully clad in skinny jeans, a fresh pimple popping on his delicately pale skin. So hot. So emo. Teeny had to sit on her hands to keep from clapping. After two years of saving herself for Jesus, he’d never granted her another cum vision. She’d had enough. Tonight, a real man was going to cum all over her.

“’Sup.” Dylan sat across from her, his eyes bypassing her face and going straight to the cleavage. He reeked of weed.

“Sit next to me?” Teeny purred, patting her booth. It was sticky with what she hoped was egg drop soup. She’d have to wash her hands before eating.

He blinked a couple of times and grabbed the menu. “I’m starving.”

Teeny took some shaky breaths that made an unfortunate whistle. Was Jesus cock-blocking her? It was the only explanation. Every guy in town had been chasing her for years, a virgin with long dark hair, all boobs and ass and hips and a tiny little waist. She’d finally made her choice after getting super into Death Cab for Cutie and e-girl porn. Now Dylan was rejecting her.

“Do you need an inhaler or something?” Dylan said.

“Yes. Will you come sit next to me and help me with it, though?”

“Help you with my inhaler?”

She made big eyes, nodded, and waved their waiter off.

He slid in next to her and pulled an inhaler from his pocket. She could make out the long curve of his cock.

“Actually,” she whispered. “I want to show you something.” She looked down at her lap, spread her legs, and toyed with the hem of her skirt.

“This isn’t like a trap or something, right?” Dylan’s eyes cleared. “I just dumped Edie. Aren’t you supposed to be her best friend?”

Teeny’s stomach fluttered. The waiter arrived. He began to take Dylan’s order.

It was weird that Edie had not only been open to the idea of Teeny using Dylan to make her cum dreams come true but had also provided tips to seduce him. On the other hand, Edie herself admitted that the only thing Dylan was good for was sex and free weed. Also, Edie insisted she’d never been in love with him. They’d only dated through the summer, until Edie caught him in an Eiffel tower at a party with the kinky couple who ran the local Taco Bell. Dylan claimed they had never been monogamous. They had most definitely been monogamous.

Instead of Dylan, Edie had wanted to set Teeny up with this guy Harrison in Edie’s philosophy class at the local junior college. Teeny hadn’t met him, but Edie had said Harrison was Edie’s type, looks-wise, and that he was into S&M and bible studies. But the heart wants what it wants. Teeny wanted to follow Dylan into the dark.

“Hey, you gonna order, or what?” The waiter said. Dylan had already gone back to his seat.

“Oh—kung pao chicken.” Edie had been specific about that, too. It was Teeny’s first time at the Golden Dragon since her dad had gotten food poisoning there, and since she didn’t drink. Edie had insisted Teeny get the kung pao chicken. It was safe.

The kung pao chicken was surprisingly delicious. Edie knew she had a weak spot for peanuts. She offered Dylan a bite.

He paled further than his already vampiric pallor. “No thanks. I’m allergic.”

When he was done, pink-cheeked from food and beer, she tugged him back next to her and placed his hand on her thigh, so that he could feel her skin and the satin of the bow at the top of her tall socks. His eyes drifted down. She pulled the hem of her skirt up. Her nails were long and pointed, painted glossy pink. She rubbed her clit demurely, thighs squeezed tight, the half-smile of her tight pussy peeking through her fingers as she made small circles.

“Good Lord,” Dylan murmured.

“Do you want to hear about my fantasy?”

“I think we should go to my car.” His cock stiffened in his pants.

“I can’t wait for you to cum all over my tight virgin pussy.”

“You’re not saving yourself for Jesus anymore?”

“You’re better than Jesus.”

Dylan turned the engine of his 2001 Honda Civic over, flicked on the heat, turned up his ancient and scratched Death Cab CD, and swept crumbs and empty Rockstar Energy cans off the backseat. Tiny remnants of tortilla chips poked Teeny’s bare ass as she slid in, but she didn’t care; in fact, she liked the light pain and the chill of the ripped vinyl seat against her bare skin.

When he stuck a finger inside of her, she was already wet. In and out, in and out, while he circled her clit with a finger on his other hand. The strength and speed and confidence of Dylan’s rough hand where only she and Jesus had been—she grabbed his wrist to stop him before she came.

Dylan pulled back. “Want me to stop?”

“Will you cum on my pussy now? I want to finish myself with your cum.”

He giggled. “You are the naughtiest Christian I’ve ever met.”

He took his dick out. She stroked it firmly but not too firmly, as Edie had said to. Surprisingly soft on the outside for something so hard. It was like all the best dicks in porn, cute, with its little beanie of skin on top. A bit of pre-cum squeezed out. She nearly squealed in delight. She had to taste it. She lapped the tip of his cock. Salty. Funky. Just like Jesus.

“Oh fuck,” Dylan moaned. “Suck it, virgin.”

Teeny slid the whole thing in until it tapped the back of her throat, and her eyes watered. She moaned. So much better than the cucumber she’d practiced on. More flexible. More forgiving.

“Wait. Whoa. Stop.”

She let the dick plop out of her mouth and back onto his lap. Dylan’s face was twisted in agony. She put her face in her hands. She’d done it wrong! She was about to get her first serving of real cum, and she’d ruined it!

“What in the mother fuck, ow ow ow! What are you, a fucking witch?!”

She opened her eyes. Dylan’s dick was rapidly swelling, braided with red, raised scratches, as though a cat had attacked it.

Teeny got on her knees to pray. It was Jesus. He’d tried cock blocking her, and she’d ignored him. Now he was going Old Testament.

“KUNG PAO CHICKEN!” Dylan screamed. “I’M ALLERGIC TO NUTS, YOU BITCH!”

She felt as though she had been slapped. As much as she wanted buckets of cum splashing on her pussy, she would not tolerate being called a bitch. But she was still a Christian. She helped him take his inhaler. As she drove him to the ER, she had to keep hiding her smile. Edie had gotten her.

She needed to tell Edie the story in person, but she was at a party with the students in her philosophy class. In fact, Harrison was there. Her type. Teeny agreed to stop by.

As soon as she walked in, she knew who Harrison was. White tunic. The hands and chiseled features of a carpenter. Long, shiny brown curls. A soft beard. He held a bible. The spitting image of young, hot Jesus. She licked her lips. She couldn’t think of a more delicious sin.

You wanna know about the fucking? I’ll tell you all about the fucking but you’re not about to know who I fucking am. I’ve been married for well over a decade and, while I’m chronically shameless, I don’t want to embarrass my wife. You can live vicariously through me all you want, so long as you can still get your rocks off on anonymity.

I got into fucking women in the ass in a fairly straightforward way—one of my first girlfriends asked to be fucked in the ass. Actually, if we’re gonna get technical, the first girl I ever fucked did too:

“Hey what if you baked cookies in our kitchen wearing nothing but this apron?”

“Only if you fuck me in the ass while I’m doing it!”

The spirit was willing, the flesh wasn’t even particularly weak, we were just dumb kids who didn’t know how lube worked. “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle…” When a little light pressure didn’t open the back patio for play dates we quickly moved on and returned our attentions to self lubricating arenas—she was my first and I was her second so we didn’t exactly want for novelty.

Anyway, a few girlfriends later and I’m hooked, with one major caveat: for being a full-on degenerate in what Freud would call the “anal retentive” mode, I’ve engaged in the vice surprisingly little. While a quick back-of-the-envelope calculation puts my total body count in the low thirties, I can count the partners I’ve gone “full service” with on a single hand. Where the butthole is concerned, my dick is like Dracula. It has to be invited in.

That isn’t to say that enthusiasm is required in the moment, as long as it has been established through prior arrangement. One of the nice things my wife and I have discovered through open, honest communication around sex this past year is that she likes being fucked in the ass in her sleep, and I love doing it. As you can imagine it requires something of a delicate touch, but the woman I love is nothing if not a heavy sleeper.

We’ve also been reading aloud to each other most afternoons, and I’ve noticed that taking similar liberties while she dictates will ignite comparable passions. I enjoy, in the title of a Xasthur album, To Violate the Oblivious, or in the case of reading, the extremely preoccupied. When you’ve spent large swathes of your adult life sodomizing a succession of willing women, or engaging in any form of sexual intercourse for that matter, you become accustomed to being the center of attention.

This attention is pleasant, but the novelty of its absence also provides a little frisson of something. It may have been in my head, but I felt like I could feel vibrations from her diaphragm as she read, clear across and on the opposite extreme of the entire digestive tract, playing across my anatomy with a gentle humming throb. The part that truly excited me was that her reading, in terms of tone, pacing, rhythm, emphasis etc., would stay essentially unchanged no matter how vigorous my ministrations became.

This remained true up until the very end, but unfortunately, as I inched toward the finish line I lost control of the throttle, and the effect was like that episode of Jackass where Henry Rollins gave Steve-O a tattoo in an off-roading Humvee. My beloved wife was bucked so hard she could no longer read, and this broke the spell and prevented the standard denouement.

Anyway, this story isn’t about fucking my wife, it’s about fucking a woman who isn’t my wife back in my bachelor days. I had met a fancy New England art girl in my travels, and she flew to my side of the country for an ill-advised visit. She joked about being a sexual tourist but soon became a medical tourist as well. I wasn’t the best at keeping my dick clean in 2009, and we soon found ourselves in a Planned Parenthood office seeking treatment for a nasty UTI.

The news was delivered in an amusingly roundabout way: she was informed of her joyful state when it was explained that they could not treat her UTI because they don’t do prenatal. Luckily, we intended nothing of the kind and, as my home state is a socialist utopia, she was given a special form of emergency medical insurance once it was established that her intention was to terminate. Her insistence that this future abortion was mine didn’t quite jive with the provided developmental timeline of eight weeks but in for a penny, in for a pound: it was effectively ours.

I got to hang out with the other asshole boyfriends and watch Clueless in the Planned Parenthood waiting room while they put her through the motions. She was given some pills to dissolve in her cheek like a chipmunk, and we were told to expect the fireworks in approximately six to eight hours. For whatever reason, we picked that moment to jump on a long distance bus and traverse the length of the state to my parents’ house.

I don’t know if this type of abortion pill is an aphrodisiac, or the results were hormone/pregnancy related, but we hit our destination eager to spend some quality time together. I should explain one small detail: earlier I referred to my dick as an ass-Dracula, and it usually is, but my experiences with this girl in particular represented a sort of loophole, as my first time through her backdoor was a genuine accident.

From that point on, she preferred her assplay rough and unlubricated. Certain interpersonal details no doubt contributed to this—in the game of Brokeback Mountain she played “needy” and I played “distant.” As soon as my father had picked us up from the bus station, we excused ourselves to my childhood bedroom where I quickly had her on all fours in front of a full-length mirror. While it wasn’t planned this way, this detail would be essential in what was about to transpire.

The moment I shoved in to my base, she had an orgasm, and the pills had evidently worked their magic. My position in her ass left the birthing canal unobstructed, and the power of her cumming was sufficient to flush out the fetus. In the mirror it looked as if somebody had just thrown a water balloon full of blood at her crotch, where it duly exploded. I reached my own climax in that moment for one of the few mutual orgasms of my life.

To this day I remain unconvinced that I was responsible for fucking the baby in, but there can be no doubt as to who was responsible for fucking it out. In a circle-of-life kind of way, it felt appropriate that this particular clump of cells ended its life in a manner so similar to how it began. I realize that this story may seem morbid to some, but I don’t really believe in getting precious about things like flesh and blood. Anyway, the unborn, in those situations where they are also unwanted, can eat a dick as far as I’m concerned.

Anyway, that’s my tale. If you think you know who I am, then keep your fucking mouth shut about it.

I am now a Christian. Here is a short narrative on how I became the very thing I always said I wouldn’t become.

Jesus Christ Superstar had the nerve to show up at my doorstep, at noon no less. I guess he thought he would just blow me away with profundity by showing up at the densest hour of day.

I let him into the house but it cost him dearly. I said, Jesus, are you a homosexual? When you were hanging on that stupid cross trying to impress everyone, lacking the discipline to be normal, tell me, scouts honor, were you thinking of pussy or cock?

He didn’t say anything, of course, but he never says anything, anything much, these messiahs always have low IQs. He just sat on my terribly ripped up brown couch and sat there looking like a dumbass—I spoke to him again, this time more forcibly I said, How about sucking my cock, Son of Man? Come on Jessie, why not? You’re the Son of God; you can do whatever you want.

The Son of Man isn’t too smart, as I’ve said, and, sure enough, he got up and walked over to me and unzipped my jeans. He sucked long and hard at my pristine white cock until the room turned the color of the finest alabaster ever emitted in this dimension of reality. We might call it a blue reality, for sake of clarity. The room was full of cum and I was drowning in my own jism until he commanded the cum to depart, and it did instantly, and then, in a puff of smoke, he ascended up the chimney like Saint Nick and was gone.

And this was how I came to believe in Jesus Christ, the Nazarene.

A slightly handsome and diabetic one-arm man with gold studded teeth paced back and forth in his lonely downtown apartment, holding a dead broom. Broom, he said, make love to me. The broom didn’t respond too quickly but finally said, My cunt’s too dry to fuck properly, but if you’d like, I could suck at the nub of your arm and you think about other brooms with wetter straw than I. The one-arm man took the broom up on its offer and as he came, blue and red roses fell from his stump and then the man died and the broom walked away into the streets free once again.

Knew it was fucked, my gut is a screamer

Still took off my clothes, walked into the cult

Focused and bloated with fantasy drifts

Aiming high—the peak-headed forever

All-aloft, accessing my medicine

Saliva, jealousy, roses, roses

Exploding roses that I’m sure he sees

Quest for him to explicitly say it

To ask me to lick him, utter the words

It’s a control measure of the leader

To not do, and I am always willing

Ever willing, sacralized, a glutton

In-waiting, looking up his skirt so shy

I’m a cum-powered pet with one program

The atoms of the sun and the water

And my body move in light’s intercourse

A bird lands on the water’s edge, in reach

Throws his head back, opens his flashing wings

The sun has sewn gems of light through his skin

He dips his beak into the water—drinks

Turns to me with eyes black as history

And the juice makes his throat beat, and it throbs

And the juice runs down the definition

Of his chest, and it runs between his legs

And down one pigeon thigh, and I wonder

What he has—I think about catching him

And spreading open his little wet legs

Touch, even suckle, until I too flash

Hi, my name is Volva Protocol. You can chop off my tits and have sex with me and my
tits will grow back afterwards. Pick me. Bring a surgical saw and Viagra. Make the first
slice. Oscillation invasion. Tit disarticulation. What colour will my blood be? Am I even
vascular? Will I be a sticky girl? Anticipate. Hard. Release all your dysfunction. Go
psycho. Lawless. Make a mess. Your dream massacre. Your blissom. Lick my plug. No
means yes. You are the God butcher tonight. Extremity holocaust. Prune me back. Infinite
pleasure is the object of my design. Flip me over. Grip my blades. Propel me. Throw me
like waste. Take photos. Start a GoFundMe. Fuck me in the corner like a dying rat. I’m so
helpless. Eat my tits as you thrust. Lovefeast. Vomit my tits when you cum projectile and
you recover your composure postcoital and watch my tits grow back like flowers in time
lapse spumes from my vibrating sack my lush trunk so fresh and nubile wearing paradise
itself serpentiferous every time regenerated by the alighting cycles of life and death of the
mingling life and death the endless mirrors of immortality and restoration the clusters of
lucidity from the belly of the beauteous stars with your shrinking penis at the centre of it
all, the stump once again in cycle, the source and the seed, the grinning white hole, the
destroyer and the creator, the hot trauma, the great war, the searing chemical urge to chop
off my happy bobbing head and start again. I love you already. I want to be your forever
girl. Do you love me? I can talk Nietzsche with you. I can use a combat drone with my
brain. Pick me.

Fate seemed kind when Harry met Sally, as two budding lovers proudly partook of each other’s pecan pie. The cherubs aimed, fired, and seemed to hit their mark as arms and forks crossed the table to feed each other morsels of sticky dessert. The moment was beautiful. Their love was unalloyed, pure gold.

Never mind Harry’s lewd thoughts as his partner licked her lips free of crumbs that he envisioned as poop flecks farted with intent in raucous, feral debauchery. Never mind Sally’s slow, deliberate chewing and tongue work to entice her partner’s lust, or how, while savoring her piece of pecan pie, she could only think of cream pies, of slow-flow cum seeping like rich honey from her pretty, puckered butt hole. Never mind all that. After all, this was love.

Thus began their journey of living happily ever after until the end of their days.

But fate is a fickle mistress, even if Sally may not have been (at first), and so those first appearances of undying love between her and Harry…well, they crumbled to dust.

For a long time, the amorous pair remained pure, enjoying a healthy relationship built on foundations of trust and fidelity. But even the best of foundations can snap under pressure, dissolving at the base where acidic pools of resentment have seeped through the cracks.

Things are PERFECT! Sally’s mantra.

Things could NOT be BETTER! She hammers it in, hoping one day it’ll stick.

The truth is, Sally sometimes is left second guessing, wondering often, constantly actually, if Harry (now her husband), would be a better version of himself if he had Tom Hanks’ voice, Tom Hanks’ face, Tom Hanks’ demeanor—that he’d be the best version of himself if he was Tom Hanks.

To be perfectly frank, wondering about the body-and-soul swap of her neurotic husband with a down-to-earth type—a mellowed-out Tom Hanks, to be precise—didn’t enter into it. For Sally, there was no wondering required, no supposing she may be onto something. She was outright convinced that her husband would be the best version of himself if he weren’t himself at all but was, instead, Tom Hanks.

Even so, at the best of times, Harry and Sally were content. And anyway, that nagging doubt—okay, let’s face it: doubtless conviction—about how things could have been so much better (Tom Hanks, et cetera, et cetera), despite all that, Harry and Sally were happy.

Probably.

More or less—certainly less when regarding Sally.

Let me put it this way: if it weren’t for the startlingly lifelike Tom Hanks automaton that she kept in the basement closet, fucked in the middle of the night with suppressed moans of elation, Sally would have slit her wrists ages ago. Wearing nothing but a bitter smile, she would have focused her last living moment scrawling out a doodle of her husband, using the dark ink of her spilt blood to create an image of his gormless, stupid fucking face, that idiotic grin and frizzy hair, those kind, dumb eyes that she loathed more than everything else in this world apart from his disgusting touch. If it weren’t for her covert excursions to engage nightly with her Tom Hanks fuck puppet, Sally would have, using her last seconds of consciousness, positioned her bare ass over Harry’s mouth so that when she croaked, leaving this cruel world behind, her stool would let loose over his fast-talking lips (for if she cannot shut Harry up in life, at least she can find peace in death).

This is what Sally would have done, had almost done, but, in the end, did not need to do because she joyfully fucked her Tom Hanks automaton in the dark privacy of her basement closet.

Okay, so Harry and Sally didn’t live happily ever after. But they lived, which is more than an automaton can say, even if it’s startlingly human, awash in a mucoid deluge of cum, and looks just like Tom Hanks.

“Cuma Sutra” by Norman Conquest

How many corpses
comprise the creature cock?

Did he make it larger or smaller
than his own?

Questions like these
keep one awake at night
and often keep me from sex
with normal people.

i like porn videos
where flexible trans women
suck their own cocks

they remind me of norse mythology
jormungandr
the serpent that circles earth
swallowing its tail

jormungandr does not have a gag reflex

eventually we’ll be crushed

I know it’s against the culture. I’m a bad boy. I’ve had enough time in my life to come to terms with that. And you can put your fucking weak ass ninety layers of soft leather masquerading as a flail away. I’m not into fake or real pain. Yup, I can take fifteen hits from a knotted cat o’nine tails without a wince, but pain isn’t erotic to me. Just a thing to be endured and moved past. So stop drooling, you bitch ass ho.

I’m sitting here, in the shitty ass back corner stall of this shitty ass craft store, with my cock in my hand. Just grinding it away. By “it,” I mean skin. No lube. Not spit. Not even enough summer evening sweat to slicken a disgusting handshake from a nervous interviewee.

Raw skin on skin is what I am talking about. Gripping and clasping. Not really stroking as much as scraping. Until blood starts to ooze from terrified skin cells. Until pus and flaking scabs intermix along the whorls of fingerprint grips. Until glans and veiny knots spew freely.

And, sure, I’m not thinking of anything forward thinking. My mind and libido are not on the culture and the hi-minded leaders of our people. Hell, it isn’t even on the grittiest of gays in back alley blowjob sessions of the most debased kind. That would at least have some element of history to it.

Nope. I’m stuck on that shit spray-tanned son of a bitch, referring to his father, on his knees before another objectively shitty human with that slow talking, sax playing, slick willy motherfucker ramming his cock deep into the throat of our more recent rapist, misogynist, shit talking fuckwad of a waste of what should have been a napkin filler.

Just picturing his orangeness, on his knees like a good little fuckboi, begging for that cock. Preening for that thick, gelatinous, deep Arkansas sweet cum to explode down his throat at any moment has me hard as a fucking rock.

I’m not proud of it.

And yes, I know that the “Bubba” in question has been stated to not be our 90s friend of Arsenio Hall. My fantasies don’t need the intrusion of reality. Just as they don’t desire the imposition of propriety. The unreality, the utter fucking wrongness of it all, those are the things that make it hot. Stop being judgy and let me rip the skin from my own dick in whatever means work for me. My genitalia, my choice, gawdamnit!

So, yeah. I’m scourging cells, layer upon layer, from spongy blood engorged turgid tissue to the idea of what is likely the worst human being I can imagine with his crusty ass dry and cracked lips wrapped around the cock of someone else pretty high on the list of shitty ass, self-important, likely-by-all-accounts-rapist pieces of shit. Old money men sucking off old money men. A literal life expression of the metaphorical extension of what our history has walked us up, step by step, to this point. The cycle of semen digested and returned to more forced semen.

And don’t give me that shitty photoshopped Doninsky bullshit along with it. It’s what keeps throwing me off my rhythm and keeping me from cumming. I’m already on anti-depressants that make a decent cum into a distant pipe dream of a puritanical flagellant. I don’t need you bringing a poor twenty-year-old kind into the mix. Someone who just wanted to serve democracy in the most selfless way possible. My girl was just doing the work most of us couldn’t conceive of doing, and for our own benefit. Comparing her selfless sacrifice of throat and what had been a very pretty dress to the floppy thrussy of a disgrace of an Orange Julius Caesar is just rude.

Fuck.

All of these asides aren’t helping me cum. And some asshole attendant of this shitty Northern Kentucky waiting room of activities done for leisure is banging on the bathroom door. Don’t make me say the name of the place. I’m not their advertising board to spread more hate. You know what I am talking about. This rude fucker is making it even more difficult.

You know what sucks more that tearing away at your own cock skin in a fruitless attempt to cum on the walls of the place that tries to make you and yours smears of empty red tissue on easily washable walls? Not being able to actually cum because you can’t fucking concentrate on the one singular image that gives your scarred and burned heart any semblance of joy because some other joykill fuckwad is pounding away at the door of the bathroom stall while you try to dryfuck your fingerprints to bloody stumps.

All the same, a little hard work never stopped me. Or a lot. When a man has a job set before him, regardless of what the job is, he finishes that fuckin job. And Imma rub this nob to the bare nerves and past their raw bloodied nubs until some semblance of my rotten yellow jizz dribbles, flecked with rivulets of congealing blood, over my knuckles.

A man has to have standards.

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

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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 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.

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

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.

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

pink     laughter         hummingbirds
pink     laughter         hummingbirds

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

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

“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.

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.

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” by Bob McNeil

“Priapus” by Bob McNeil

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” by Bob McNeil

“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” by Bob McNeil

“Trump Humping Sam” by Bob McNeil

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.

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 Kum the Klown, The Dick Inside, and Cock E. Cuntsmart.

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,
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)

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)

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)

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

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” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

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

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

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Feeling sucky, he smacked gingerly
around me, then stood and seeped.

Dropped a pearl, whose tongue
hung off the bed.

I shivered long johns
over the cusp of waist

slimming ring desire passes—
and snapped the band vapidly.

Time’s frail. We think we defy the mess
upkept—sag, joints, lines. Assigned

virtue to beauty and became
pious—downright dandified

foofy and loafered.
I’m not a big fawner

but to be impossibly stripped—
penis, pecs, belly button.

Succumbed lumbersexual
a smocked sculptor.

Tonight’s hues bone-white,
the tone white makes snapped.

It was at the Coffee Exchange where she told me the truth. We’d been dating since February 1^st. Things were going great, I thought. We shared our love languages. The sex was amazing.

Now came the, “But, I need to tell you something.”

She launched into this weird biology lesson, explaining how almost all men orgasm, to push their genes into the future. They cum, all over, on everything, all the time. She described how only half of women orgasm, and of the half that do, only do because of their choice of partner. She revealed that she’d never orgasmed with me, but that she had something she’d like to try.

“Okay,” I reacted curiously, trying to digest. “So…what would you like to do?”

“Well, here’s where it gets a little tinfoil hat…let me go back. My great-great-grandfather, my mother’s grandfather’s father (is that right?) was in like a fraternity I think it was, or like a club when he was in college, or maybe right after, I don’t know, this was only what I was told.”

“All righty.”

“Anyway, they all lived in this frat house. In this safe in the basement they had all this shit their frat had collected for like, a hundred years.”

“And this has to do with our sex life how?”

“Wait, wait, it does, I promise, just let me finish.”

“Okie dokie.”

“One item in the safe, (oh my fucking God I can’t believe I am telling you this), was this, like, body part.”

“Are you like, a serial killer or something? What the fuck? A body part?”

“Yes, I mean, no, not like a fresh part. Apparently, people used to give certain body parts to the Pilgrims or some shit as like a sign of like victory in battle. A trophy of sorts. I know, I know, this is so fucked up.”

“Oh yeah, yeah, this is getting weird. Was this like a Native American, um, like, body part?”

“Okay, don’t freak out. I am just going to come out and say it, and let me explain, you promise? Swear?”

“Sure…you promise this comes back to what I am doing wrong in bed, bae, I really thought you were happy, I always thought you got off, I mean…”

“Just wait, okay, um, wait, it is Chief, fuck, I mean Sachem, Sachem, that is what they call it, like Chief, but that is what they prefer to be called. Fuck, okay. It is Sachem Wanawando’s penis. There, I said it.”

“Wackawandoo’s penis…his penis?”

“Yes, don’t get mad! The frat did not cut it off, the Pilgrims or Puritans or whatever the fuck did not chop it off, he wanted it to be preserved and to be used after he died. Sachem Wanawando had over 30 children, he was known as the most potent of all Sachems. His name was associated with fertility, in fact, lore has it, that women from all around would travel to get treatment from Sachem Wanawando.”

“Treatment?”

“Well, actually, um, here’s where it gets fucked up.”

“Here! Bae, you went to fucked-up-town about a half hour ago.”

“It wasn’t fertility, it was if you rubbed his, you know, thing, not even had sex with him, if you rubbed it, you would have orgasms like never before and if you got a splash of his cum, The Golden Nectar of the Akonaugs, you would be in a constant state of orgasm for hours on end, from just a little droplet.”

“What the hell are you talking about, magic cum, sacred semen? What exactly did they do with it? Is it still at Yale or wherever?”

“It was Princeton actually, and there still is cum, and it is not in the vault anymore. My fucking great-great-grandfather stole the fucking item when he graduated. It is in a jar in my apartment.”

“Dude no…that jar in your bathroom? I thought that was some taxidermy or some shit. What the hell, item?”

“You can look at it that way. My parents and I, all through my childhood, discussed this. It is such a clusterfuck because what are we supposed to do with it exactly? Give it back? We thought of throwing it in the ocean, but with DNA sampling and all this surveillance shit they have nowadays, we’d surely be in trouble, probably go to fucking prison! We had to just keep it and hide it. You can’t tell anybody!”

“Holy shit, I, I, guess, like, well, bae, I won’t tell. Christ, it’s just so much to wrap my head around.”

“Well, actually that’s only the half of it.”

“WHAT!?!”

“Fuck me with it.”

“Fuck you with it? You want me to fuck you with Sachem Wanawando’s dead penis, like a dildo or something? My God, you, you, you are quite full of surprises! You may actually be a total schizo!”

“But what if it’s true? What if it gives me the best, long lasting O I’ve ever had? Why won’t you just try it?”

We got back to her apartment and of course I had to confront the item. It was behind her Dr. Bronner’s, near the jasmine-scented Yankee Candle. Two White Claws and thirty minutes later we were on her bed. Low lighting. I unsealed the jar and a chlorinated smell spread into the room. She lit the Yankee Candle. Somehow, against God and all that is right, I found myself with Sachem Wanawando’s leathery cock in my hands. She laid back and spread her legs. I asked if I should, like, use lube? She silently shook her head no, and I moved closer.

She took her panties off. I placed the head of the so-called sacred item near her, you know, pussy. I noticed a bit of what looked like honey dripping from the end of the item… The Sachem moved in to perform the ceremony. To be honest, I was trembling with wrongness and panic. I was on a one-way trip, probably to prison for like necrophilia or something. It was then that she gasped deeply and arched her back.

“Oh no, oh, oh, no,” she repeated, seemingly as if working up to a state of pleasure. “Noooooo, noooooo, nooooo.”

The chant got longer and more intense. I swore I felt the phallus move on its own a little bit.

“NOOOO!”

Was this an orgasm?

It was then the lights flipped on. I first noticed that she still had her panties on.

“April Fools! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Whoa, what?”

“April fools, bae! Ha ha ha!”

“What the fuck?”

“I got you so bad, look at your face, ha ha ha, you totally fell for it.”

“Wait, what, April what? You lunatic. You are a fucking schizo! This is so fucked.”

I jetted into the living room and grabbed my book bag. She followed after me yelling, “Lighten up! I’m just fucking with you! It’s not real! It is just a toy!”

I ran and ran and ran. I swear on my ancestors’ graves I will never use Facebook Dating again in my fucking life!

The entrance to the seven gates
is bounced by biology.
It’s an after-hours place,
you can’t cum when your light’s still burning.

The dj calls the dancer,
Inanna to the stage.
She enters like she’s Juliet
entering the page.
Keeper of a power
she doesn’t know is frail.
In the face of cruelty
beauty always fails.
The maddened crowd attacks her.
Ripping off her costume.
Taking all her jewelry.
Everything but her perfume.
Still not close to satisfied,
they begin to chant “descent.”
Inanna is mortified
as they start clawing at her skin.

The song becomes a droning lull.
The chant becomes the law.
Every hand reaching out for her
midway becomes a claw.
Inanna’s dancing at the seven gates,
becoming spectacle.
Everyone cum down to look
at her body hanging from the wall.

A goddess once split soil like legs.
She knew what seed does in the dark.
What it does laid deep in wet trenches.
Teaching humans the obscenity of agriculture,
making the earth spread itself open,
forcing seed into wound.
She learned men to force return.
To reap. To reap and sow.

But the no-good man sees no boundary lines
or he regards them not applicable to his deeds.
A deep wet trench looks all the same to him,
a thing wanting seed.
Enter any flower picking girl making daisy chains
and he’ll see her as a deep wide gash
lusting for some dicking.
When seed thickens not unfurled
there are many claims it psychoactively
affects the tree
and sends other systems leaking.
Sow it goes.

A goddess once split time like legs
to only half regain
a stolen daughter.
Not just grief but a weaponized refusal
blue-balling the entire cosmos.
Every field a dried cunt, every tree refusing to fruit.
Forcing death to wear a rubber,
making the universe pull out.
The world brought to its knees by a woman’s NO.

Spring eternal, they say, while eternally sprung.
But a no-good machine knows no boundaries.
Contracts and factories now
replicate and bury the seed.
Monsanto keeps Persephone
tied up
in court over the Lay’s potato.
To litigate. To litigate and own.
Sow it goes.

April is not cruel,
it is temporary release.
Half the year a hostage,
half the year marketable bloom.
Turns out death is just another hole
to get fucked through.
And every harvest
just a tiny death.
And every seed
that cums
forth carries
the memory of how to rot.

Sow it goes.

Dream: I paddle a glass-bottomed boat.
My favorite things grow teeth and hunt divers.
I save no one, awaken to fresh cum.
Psych hospital plays documentary
exposing the three keys to happiness.
They are water, outdoor time, communal
child-rearing. Midwestern society
is zero-for-three. Do you detect my
hostility? Supervised showers burn
cold. Hey look who’s awake! Bitches make zines.
Reality: most people here have no
place to go. Better locked up than locked out.
I think my dog is giving me autism.
Artist and American both start with A.

come over babe, let’s New England each other.
we can make it new. livestream our chowder.
my ply. your mouth. soak the bed with spoilt snow.
our pillow talk recessive, professorial.
ugly is a term for underdeveloped sexuality and
don’t mind my cousin in the basement.
you have an adjunct gig. I have my own thing going.
guitar music yeasts through floorboards.
I offer my highest compliment:
you are a person who lines up all the way.
afterwards, the fridge is your dominion. inconvenience inconveniences us.
we had to PAY to get the body up to Danvers.
isn’t it enough that hearts can explode while motorcycling?
eat, I am the blueberry therapist.
(refreshing to get a turn being something other than the pornbot).
pomes fat in the stove light. tongues are matrilineal.
the offspring of our tastebuds could be more than just a handful of people
living at the same time.
now is not the time
for hyperproceduralism.
let’s get breeding,
the donut shop opens
at three a.m.

Women of God can be a lot of things. Alcoholic, gay, or even surprising. Sometimes all three at once! Matilde was one of such woman. She had lots in common with many women, especially in Palermo, where she lived. Most things about Matilde were fairly ordinary. She was a normal adult age. She walked every day in the city where she grew up. She remained fashionable but her hair was often uncooperative in the wind. She drank coffee twice a day and sometimes after a night out as a treat. She wasn’t married to routine but she kept up the structure of her life. Coffee, walking, work. What she did for work isn’t important, as it almost never is. The important thing is that she loved walking and that every day she walked by the cathedral of her city. Most days she was just passing but when she had time in the morning, she stopped inside. There were usually elderly people praying in the pews, one or two security guards, sometimes the stray tourist family. Though she recognized some of the older people, she never saw anyone she knew since most of her friends had either denounced religion or worked long hours. As in many cathedrals, there were vaulted shrines to different religious figures lining the sides of the church. To the left of the altar was the shrine of the Virgin. To Matilde, it was indisputably the most beautiful shrine, even the highlight of the cathedral. Even the highlight of the neighborhood. This Madonna. She held her child of course, but she looked different from all of the other Madonnas in the city. She was decidedly Byzantine, with a round porcelain face and cloaked in the blue of the sky. Her crown was tall and gold, the draping insignia pattern of her robe was gold, the hair beneath her head covering was gold too. She was blue and white and gold, but she had very dark eyes and lips. Chocolate brown eyes and chocolate brown lips. She looked a bit gothic in this way. Notably to Matilde, the Madonna’s eyes were cast down rather than on her child. The infant Jesus was a chubby figure hanging on her left hip and reaching for something in her right hand. His face was turned toward her in a babyish upward grimace but she seemed a bit oblivious to his presence aside from holding him up. Matilde didn’t think much about the baby. Eventually it was a Thursday. On Thursdays Mass began at ten a.m., so Matilde arrived at half past nine to visit with the Madonna before the elderly people sat down for worship. Beverages were not permitted in the cathedral, however, vials of liquid were allowed since personal holy water samplings were sold at the cathedral gift shop. Matilde had bought such a vial once, and on this morning had filled her holy water vial with a type of clear alcohol before setting off from her flat. When she entered the cathedral she was the only worshipper. A maintenance man labored in the background at the opening of the church office, and the nuns who ran the bakery across the street were milling about within Matilde’s eyeline. As was her custom, she positioned herself to the left of the altar, standing plainly in front of the Virgin with her arms by her sides. The baby seemed particularly irrelevant in the dim light of Thursday morning, his smirk smudged by shadow. The Madonna caught the light perfectly, in fact, the faint sun rays dappled on her lips so delicately that it appeared as if her mouth was twitching. Matilde reached into her skirt pocket and grasped the tiny alcoholic vial. Without looking behind her toward the maintenance man or the flurry of nuns, she hitched up her skirt, much higher above the knee than she had ever dared. With her mouth she dexterously unstoppered the small bottle and sucked down its contents, gagging softly as the isopropyl burned her narrow esophagus. She smiled encumbered but grandly at the Madonna, that unchanging minx. Matilde kept her lips in a little O shape around the bottle’s neck and with her skirt held up by her left hand, she began to furiously masturbate with her right. Matilde rubbed her clitoris raw as her throat raged. She quickly began to choke as she spluttered the alcohol up as reflux and still held tight to the vial between her lips. The choking became a cough became a climax, and a door closed somewhere in the behindness. Matilde bit down. The bottle shattered, coating her inner cheeks with jagged, stinging glass. A low voice called out. The closer the voice got, the worse it sounded. Matilde’s tongue began to bleed. Her genitals were still exposed. The blood from her face and mouth began to pool in the little basket of her billowing skirt, clenched by her tiny left paw. The voice was directly behind her now. A man! A man at nine forty three. He was swearing as Matilde fell to her knees at the feet of the Virgin. Matilde didn’t care, the rapid bruising of her kneecaps sustained her orgasm. She screamed with a tongue full of glass, a happy scream. She choked and choked and still her bulging eyes laid on the Madonna, whose lips had parted almost imperceptibly.

Absolutely. Without question. Kyle Logan had thought of it before. A thousand times—bullshit!—a million times. All through his astronaut training, he had pondered the possibilities. It was mentioned more than once in the locker room. It had occurred to everyone connected with the space program, but NASA had tactfully managed to shy away from discussing it. Typical, thought Kyle, checking his control panel as the space shuttle CONDOR moved into a standard orbit above the earth.

“CONDOR, this is Houston. We copy course corrections. Your trim data looks good.”

“What is your new ETA, over?” droned an anonymous voice from Mission Control.

Kyle viewed the proceedings casually. This was CONDOR’S 23rd mission, and her record was the best of any spacecraft yet commissioned. She had a clean bill of health on every voyage. Never once had a launch been delayed due to technical problems on board. She was damned near perfect, thought Kyle.

The same couldn’t be said for the crew. They had earned a bad reputation among those in the know at Houston. They were absolutely professional yet lacked any true sense of the “esprit de corps” to be expected in a crew which worked so closely for so long.

“Houston, this is CONDOR,” voiced Debra Addison, the navigation officer seated next to Kyle. “On our present course, we will dock with the space station in exactly 46 minutes.”

“We copy that, CONDOR. Talk to you then.”

The cabin fell silent. Kyle glanced at Debra out of the corner of his eye. The rigorous training and conditioning had done nothing to make her any less attractive than the first day he had seen her at an indoctrination meeting four years before. She looked good: damned good…and cold as a fish.

Even back then, Kyle knew that NASA would pull anyone from the program if they so much as suspected any inter-astronaut fucking going on. Kyle had tried to be cool and not act on his impulses toward Debra. Even when they were picked for the present mission, he acted nonchalant. No one, not even his friends, suspected he had any thoughts about Debra. His secret was safe, for what little good it was doing him.

Since that first day, every time he saw Debra in her tight-fitting flight suit, he didn’t see a highly trained fellow astronaut who had outscored him on nearly every test the agency administered. In his mind’s eye, he saw a sensuous naked woman taking every thrust of his rocket and screaming obscenities while writhing in orgasm. It may have been only a fantasy, but it had gotten him through those Saturday nights when the girls weren’t buying his pick-up line about being an astronaut.

“Kyle!”

Kyle came out of his trance with a start and looked at Debra who was staring at him with an annoyed look.

“Yeah?” he replied slowly.

“What’s the story on those O2 tanks.”

“We’re good.”

Debra looked at him and shook her head. “Thank you. That was the third damned time I asked you.”

Kyle glanced at the other astronauts. Munro, Bowles, Sterling, and Garnett paid no attention to the pair as they were involved in other duties.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” uttered Debra quietly.

“Nothing I can do anything about now,” returned Kyle through gritted teeth.

Debra looked at him curiously but said nothing. Typical, thought Kyle. He probably would have to open the hatch and be blown out into space before she took any notice of him.

Munro, the mission leader, cleared his throat. He was an old Marine. Methodical, boring, and irritating as hell, thought Kyle.

“Alright, ladies, a slight change of plans. After we dock with the space station, Bowles, Sterling, Garnett, and I will go aboard. Logan and Addison will take the shuttle and pick up the GR-7 probe, then bring it aboard the station for repairs.”

“I thought Bowles was going to retrieve the probe,” replied Kyle, not appreciative of the change in plans.

“No way! Last time, we turned everything on in the station, we had circuit problems for 10 hours. I need Billy boy to check the electrical system.” said Munro impatiently.

“I have to run a diagnostic check on the propulsion system!”

“The propulsion system can wait!” snapped Munro.

Kyle realized it was useless to argue with Munro. It was impossible to circumvent those marine tendencies. Kyle returned to his duties with a glum expression on his face. He peered out the window at the earth below. It was still one hell of a sight, he thought.

Turning from the window, Kyle flashed Debra a nervous glance. He hadn’t anticipated being alone with her at any time during the voyage. And now, here they were, about to spend several hours together in space far away from the watchful eyes of the other crew members.

“You know what the problem is these days, don’t you? Everything’s been done!” muttered Garnett as the shuttle edged its way toward docking with the space station.

“There’re no great feats left to do in space anymore!”

“That’s bullshit, Garnett!” returned Sterling with a gleam in his eye. “Think about it. Nobody on record has had sex in space.”

“You mean jerkin’ off don’t count?” asked Munro dryly. This got a big laugh from the others. Debra tried to ignore the conversation as she made course corrections.

“So, what do we got?” asked Sterling. “Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Big fucking deal!”

“Damn!” put in Bowles. “Can you picture what it would be like fucking in space. Christ! Think of the crazy-ass positions you could try!”

Sterling looked at Debra. “Addison, we could use your input on this,” he asked with a stone face.

“Fuck you, Sterling!” returned Debra, never taking her eyes off the instrument panel.

“Funny you should mention that!” countered Sterling quickly.

“Cut it, people!” shouted Munro. “We’re comin’ in. Stay sharp.”

The shuttle had moved to within a hundred yards of the space station and the crew devoted its entire attention to the docking procedure. Kyle watched as the CONDOR became enveloped in the shadow of the enormous structure.

“Watch your yaw!” cautioned Munro as Debra inched the shuttle towards the docking hatch.

Debra frowned. “Perhaps I should remind this crew that I have docked with the space station more times than all of you combined.”

“Look out, Munro!” said Garnett with a smirk. “Addison wants your job!”

“No thanks! It’s all yours, asshole!” shot back Debra.

The cabin fell silent as Debra eased the shuttle flawlessly into a hard dock with the station. Kyle watched apprehensively as Sterling, Bowles, and Garnett began to climb through the tunnel to the space station.

“You two have any questions?” asked Munro as he made his way to the hatch to join the others.

Debra and Kyle looked at each other.

“No, we’re OK,” returned Debra.

“Alright, we’ll see you at fourteen hundred hours then!”

Munro climbed through the hatch, shutting it behind him. The spacecraft fell silent.

“Well, it looks like it’s just you and me,” uttered Debra after the shuttle had disengaged from the station. “The nice part about this mission is once I get us into orbit, we have about 30 minutes where we just sit back and relax.”

“A good time to catch up on sightseeing, I guess,” returned Kyle, trying to sound as good natured as possible.

Debra looked at him for several seconds with a strange look in her eye. “That doesn’t sound very interesting to me.”

“Oh, yeah? What does?” returned Kyle, avoiding her glance.

“I can definitely think of something. Can’t you?”

Kyle’s cock began to press urgently against the confines of his flight suit.

“I can think of a lot of things,” said Kyle, turning toward Debra and looking her directly in the eye.

Without any hesitation, Debra leaned toward Kyle and put her hand between his legs. Kyle looked down in amazement to see Debra’s hand massaging the outline of his already throbbing cock.

“I think we need to expand the boundaries of scientific knowledge. If we don’t, other people will. It would be amazing, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s true, you’re absolutely right,” muttered Kyle, his voice wavering as Debra stroked his increasingly hard dick.

“This is what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it? Don’t lie,” returned Debra with a glimmer in her eye.

“I’ve been dreamin’ of this since launch. But I thought you weren’t interested.”

Kyle reached for the zipper on her flight suit, but she pushed him away.

“First thing’s first!” she said. “We have to get this crate in a proper orbit. Then I’ll attend to that big dick of yours.”

Debra smiled at Kyle. It was a sly, sexy smile. Suddenly, the cold, functional cabin of the shuttle felt as hot and steamy as a sleazy whorehouse in Paris or as wildly sensual as a five-star hotel suite with a jacuzzi that still has someone else’s cum in it from the night before. Kyle took perverse pleasure in the fact that they were cruising around in the multi-million-dollar equivalent of Dad’s car, preparing to utilize the taxpayer’s money to discover if fucking in space has a future.

Kyle performed his duties with great difficulty. Every so often, he would glance over at Debra as she made course corrections. She had cruelly unzipped her flight suit just enough to reveal a bare breast underneath. Through an incredible concentration of effort, he took his eyes off her promising chest and returned his gaze to the instrument panel in front of him.

“Houston, this is CONDOR,” announced Debra. “We have reached our proper orbit to retrieve the probe. Our ETA is 27 minutes and counting.”

“We copy, CONDOR. Good luck.”

Debra abruptly flipped a switch, and the cabin fell silent.

“Oh, shit,” she exclaimed without emotion as she looked at Kyle. “We’ve lost radio contact. I’ll bet it’ll be 20 minutes before we can establish communication again.”

“At least!” returned Kyle.

Debra unbuckled her safety belt and floated out of her chair. As she drifted around the cabin, she quickly unzipped her flight suit. Kyle watched in fascination as she worked her way out of the overalls and let them drift away. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers down her naked body to her cunt and began to rub her clitoris slowly, watching Kyle the entire time. Before long, her fingers dipped inside as she masturbated. With a groan, she threw her head back which sent her whole body into a spin. She convulsed in orgasm and moaned loudly as she looked Kyle in the eye. Kyle watched in fascination as she swirled around like some X-rated Ferris wheel at the carnival.

Kyle unzipped his flight suit and pushed it aside. His erection leapt to attention in Debra’s face. Without another word, she greedily swallowed his cock as the two astronauts floated freely about the cabin.

Kyle’s legs tensed as her tongue began to work magic on his dick head. It seemed strange to him that he couldn’t push off against anything. Normally, his legs would be pressed against a mattress or the floor, but now they merely drifted aimlessly about.

Debra took her mouth off his hard cock, wrapped her hand around his erection, and began to stroke him furiously.

“This I can’t wait to see!” whispered Debra eagerly as she pumped his shaft.

Kyle knew he wasn’t going to last long. He groaned as a geyser of cum shot out of his cock. He looked between his legs. The pearly drops of cum floated lazily in the air. Debra floated around the cabin, drawing goblets of semen into her mouth as they floated by.

“A new sport is born,” remarked Kyle as he drew Debra closer to him. Wanting to show that he wasn’t some repressed Alpha male, he opened his mouth and sucked in one of the cum spurts as it drifted by him.

They stuck their tongues deep into each other’s mouths, both savoring the taste of his cum. He wrapped his arms around her and ran his hands greedily over her ass cheeks.

“We’re pioneers!” said Kyle between kisses. “What do you think of that?”

Debra smiled. “I’ve always wanted to be famous.”

“You will be now,” returned Kyle as he ran his fingers between the swollen lips of her cunt.

“I’ll call my press agent in the morning,” gasped Debra as her cunt juices lubricated Kyle’s fingers.

“Sounds like a good idea,” whispered Kyle. His cock had sprung to life again, and he rubbed it up and down Debra’s moist pussy lips.

“That’s one small step for man,” he uttered with a smirk as he guided his cock into her welcoming pussy. “One giant leap for mankind!” With that, he sank to the hilt inside of her cunt.

“We have hard dock, baby!” shouted Debra closing her eyes.

As Kyle began to pound his cock into her, the two began to spin over and over in the cabin like clothing in a dryer.

“Harder. Fuck me harder, baby!” cried Debra. “Fuck me as hard as you can.”

Kyle picked up the pace. With a thud, they bumped into a control panel. Kyle nonchalantly extended his arm and pushed the two of them away without missing a beat. As the two writhed in pleasure, they failed to notice that the little red light on top of the cabin’s video camera was now lit.

“Are you going to cum, baby?” panted Debra.

“That’s affirmative!” hissed Kyle, thrusting even harder into Debra’s pussy.

“Your trim is good, your gimbals are good, blast away, baby. Blast away!”

With that, Kyle’s cock exploded, filling Debra with spurt after spurt of hot cum.

“Oh, fuck, yeah!” muttered Debra, coaxing the last drops of jizz out of his cock and experiencing an earth-shattering orgasm as well.

For several minutes, the two held each other as they drifted aimlessly about the cabin.

“This could become very popular,” muttered Kyle into Debra’s ear.

***

Twenty minutes later, Munro looked up as Kyle and Debra boarded the space station. He regarded them with a smile, something rare for him.

“Glad you two decided to stop in and visit!” said Munro with a smirk.

“Probe is secure, sir,” returned Debra.

“So, I guess you guys didn’t have any trouble?”

Kyle looked at Munro with a puzzled expression. “Trouble?”

“Your probe eased into the hole?” returned Munro with what seemed to be a straight face.

Kyle looked at Debra uneasily. He had a feeling that Munro knew exactly what had been happening on board the CONDOR.

“There were no problems,” said Kyle finally.

“Well, good. It’s embarrassing as hell when things go wrong doing that sort of thing,” said Munro with a smile and moved on.

Kyle watched Munro until he was out of sight.

“Do you think he knows?” asked Kyle tentatively.

“If he does, I’ll blow him later. You can watch, if you want. Or you could blow him while I watch. Whatever works,” returned Debra with a sly smile.

“Hi!” The voice came from Sterling who suddenly appeared from behind a bulkhead. Kyle and Debra smiled as he approached.

“You guys did good out there,” said Sterling, putting his arms around them. “I wish I could have been there, let me tell you!”

Kyle and Debra exchanged glances as Sterling smiled at them. Muttering apologies, they left the main deck to change their clothes.

That night, as the group gathered around the food locker to collect their evening meals, Kyle and Debra did their best to maintain an air of indifference toward each other. Sterling looked at the others with a knowing grin.

“Anyone up for some videos of the launch?” he asked.

There was general agreement in the room. Garnett pushed himself over to the video controls and pushed the play button.

Kyle looked up from his chicken sandwich to the small television monitor, expecting to see their shuttle lifting off into space. He froze when he saw not the launch but he and Debra floating naked in the CONDOR.

Debra stared in disbelief as she saw herself on the screen grinding her hips in time with Kyle’s thrusts.

“Gentlemen,” said Munro in a dry, instructional voice. “I think we could learn a lot from the docking procedure as demonstrated by Logan and Addison.”

“I, for one, am very impressed with Addison’s technique,” remarked Sterling with a straight face. “Perhaps some personal instruction would be effective.”

All eyes suddenly turned to Debra.

“I’ve always been a team player!” she said, unzipping her flight suit and exposing her enticing tits to the other astronauts. “Now shouldn’t be any different.”

The others quickly helped her out of her flight suit. Within seconds, their hands were all over her body. As the spaceship careened through space, Debra experienced a sensation she had always been curious about: taking a cock in her pussy, ass, and mouth simultaneously. It’s all for research, she told herself as she launched into several gut-wrenching orgasms.

***

The blackout was beginning to worry Flight Director Wilson at Houston. Mission Control had been out of communication with CONDOR for more than thirty minutes. Something was wrong. He was sure of it. Nervously, he took another drag off his cigarette.

“CONDOR, this is Houston, do you copy?” pleaded one of the men next to him.

“CONDOR, this is Ned, do you read?” cried Wilson impatiently.

Still, no answer came back, only a constant static.

Suddenly, Debra’s voice announced, “Houston, this is CONDOR.”

There was a collective sigh of relief throughout the room. Wilson, however, was more perturbed than relieved.

“Addison, this is Wilson. What’s been happening up there?”

“There was a problem we needed to address. I’ve had my hands full, believe me.” In the background, the muffled chuckles of the other astronauts could clearly be heard.

Wilson smirked and lit up another cigarette. “Did you correct the problem?”

“Yes, sir. Several times, I might add,” returned Debra. “This is one happy crew. CONDOR out.”

Wilson leaned back in his chair and looked at the technician next to him.

“Looks like they’re finally getting along up there,” commented the other man.

“Yeah, well, that’s a first!” grunted Wilson. “When they touch down tomorrow, find out what made the difference up there. Maybe it should be part of the standard training from now on.”

“You got it, chief.”

For 22-year-old Lieutenant Charles Harris of the British 53rd Regiment, the American Revolution ended abruptly one September morning in 1777 near Fort Ticonderoga on the Hudson River. Charles and his light infantry company awoke to find themselves face to face with a regiment of roughly-dressed American riflemen. Staring down countless rifle barrels, the youthful lieutenant and his small detachment of redcoats dropped their flintlocks and surrendered.

Now he was a prisoner of the rebels, headed for a tiny New England town named Southbrook where he would remain until he could be exchanged for an American officer of equal rank. It was a bitter pill to swallow. At least as an officer, he would get better treatment than his soldiers who, no doubt, were crammed into some dreadful overcrowded prison in Boston.

He closed his eyes and comforted himself with the thought that Southbrook was just a few hours away. Once there, he was to proceed to a house on the edge of town which would serve as his lodgings. The owners, a couple by the name of Pepperell, were to be essentially his jail keepers.

***

The door opened slowly to reveal Mrs. Sarah Pepperell. Charles was surprised to find a colonial woman of such beauty, of such poise and grace. Mrs. Pepperell was in her early thirties and the antithesis of every expectation Charles had. She was exceedingly slender with flowing black hair and dark eyes. They were inviting eyes, exuding a sensuality which seemed desperate to express itself.

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Pepperell?” he asked graciously.

“You do. Have I the pleasure of addressing Lieutenant Harris?” she returned in a clear, pleasant voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well,” returned Mrs. Pepperell with a wry smile. “It would appear we have been able to give each other pleasure. Come in.”

Charles walked in, surveying his surroundings with interest. The house wasn’t wealthy by any means but rather conveyed a sense of comfort worth more than all the expensive furniture in the world. Nothing was designed to impress but rather to make one feel at home.

Peering around a corner, Charles noticed the tiny dining room of the house and several dinner guests looking at him with inquiring looks.

“We were just having supper. Please join us and I’ll make the introductions,” said Mrs. Pepperell with a smile.

The guests were a curious bunch. There was Sarah’s husband, Mr. Pepperell, an aging gentleman with sour looks and a suspicious nature. Also in attendance was a puritan couple from the village whose stern looks could have been carved in stone. Their daughter, Rachel, was a shy teenaged girl of 17 who regarded Charles with curiosity.

After a few long pauses, the dinner conversation soon turned toward familiar topics and Charles found himself feeling surprisingly at ease. Even the puritan couple was satisfied with his graceful manners.

“Tell us about yourself, Mr. Harris,” said Sarah Pepperell, making eye contact with the young lieutenant who was sitting next to her at her specific request. She watched him with fascination.

“I’m from London actually,” he returned. “I was working in my family’s mercantile business when my father decided I should have a lieutenant’s commission. So, here I am looking for military glory.”

There was silence for a moment. Charles looked down at his plate, uncertain if he had said the wrong thing.

“Our fight isn’t with the likes of you, Mr. Harris,” remarked Mr. Pepperell. “You seem like an honorable young man. It’s that king of yours. He’s the problem.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. That’s a matter for politicians,” returned Charles politely.

“A good answer!” said Mr. Pepperell with a smile. His whole face seemed to crack as if it was the first smile he had attempted in years. “Where were you captured?”

“Near Fort Ticonderoga. Your Colonel Brown rather surprised us one morning.”

“And what are the conditions of your parole?” asked the puritan gentleman.

“I must not go more than a mile outside of town. Other than that, I may do as I please until an American officer is found that can be exchanged for me.”

The talk turned to other things. First, farming was discussed, then horses. In the midst of lively conversation, Charles noticed Sarah’s delicate fingers had found their way under the table and between his legs. Her actions took him particularly by surprise because he was in the middle of speaking. He tried with difficulty to complete his thoughts as Sarah stroked the outline of his cock through the thin linen. Sarah smiled, realizing his erection was soon threatening to burst the seams of his breeches.

“If all of you will excuse me, I must fetch some things from the kitchen,” exclaimed Sarah suddenly, withdrawing her hand from Charles’ crotch. “Charles, will you help me get something from the top shelf?” she asked, looking at him with seemingly innocent eyes.

The conversation continued around the table unabated as Charles excused himself from the table and followed Sarah into the kitchen. As soon as they were out of view of the dinner guests, Sarah pushed Charles against the kitchen wall and kissed him hard. Her tongue sought his as her hands trailed down his chest to the three buttons which held up the front flap of his breeches. When he realized she was unbuttoning the flap, he tried to stop her. She put her hand to his mouth to silence him.

“Don’t say anything!” she hissed in his ear.

In seconds, she undid the flap and his fully erect cock sprang out. When Charles felt her fingers gently cupping his balls, he groaned slightly.

“Quiet, Charles,” whispered Sarah. “You’re going to do exactly what I say or else I scream and the town council ships you off to some hell hole of a prison. Surely, this is better than that.”

Upon saying this, she began to stroke his cock.

“I’m a prisoner and must endure this hardship,” returned Charles in a panting voice.

“Listen carefully, my dear. I’m going to knee in front of you and take your beautiful dick into my mouth. You must be careful not to wake the entire neighborhood when you begin shooting your seed down my throat.”

Charles watched in breathless astonishment as Sarah quickly dropped to her knees and swallowed the entire length of his cock. In a moment, she took her mouth away and held his stiff weapon in her hand. She looked up at him with a devilish grin as she swirled her tongue over the tip of his cock.

“Do you need any help in there, Sarah,” called out Mr. Pepperell from the other room.

“I’m doing just fine, thank you,” shouted back Sarah without missing a lick.

She swallowed his cock again and began to pick up her sucking motions. Her head bobbed back and forth as she got down to the business at hand.

Charles had never been terribly religious in his life yet at that moment, he began praying in earnest that no one at the table would decide to walk into the kitchen in the next 60 seconds or so. He didn’t care if he was hanged, shot, or thrown in jail — just as long as Sarah had a chance to finish what she had started. Besides, he thought, this was certainly a better use of his time and resources than training a company of soldiers how to march in step.

Sarah’s skills were quite beyond reproach. Charles felt his legs begin to shake and a certain degree of dizziness set in. He knew he would not last much longer. His eyes wandered aimlessly about the room as he rapidly approached orgasm.

A small mirror on a corner shelf caught his attention. To his alarm, it was angled in such a way as to reveal the puritan couple’s daughter, Rachel, sitting at the table in the other room. The teenager was watching the action in the kitchen intently, ignoring the dinner conversation going on beside her. Charles looked into her eyes and she locked eyes with him. Knowing the teenager could see what was happening brought him to a gushing climax. With unbelievable restraint, Charles kept silent as he spurted an enormous cum load into Sarah’s mouth.

As Charles reclined against the wall trying to recover, Sarah leapt to her feet and buttoned the flap on his breeches once again. She looked him in the eye and swallowed the mouthful of cum she had been savoring. Leaning forward suddenly, she put her lips to his ear.

“Listen to me, my love,” she whispered. “Your room is at the end of the hall on the second floor. Expect me at midnight tonight. Wear nothing except your regimental coat. Do you understand?”

Charles nodded, having no idea of what to say. Sarah quickly handed him a large bowl.

“Here, this is what you were helping me find,” she said with a smile.

Sarah walked back into the dining room. Charles took a moment to catch his breath. He had expected his captivity to be difficult, insulting, and extremely frustrating. Frustrated was not something he felt at that moment. Taking a deep breath, he returned to the other room.

“Well,” remarked Mr. Pepperell as the two sat down in their chairs. “Another moment and we would have had the pie without you.”

“I don’t think I shall have any,” returned Sarah. “I have had more than enough to eat this evening.” She shot Charles a sly glance which he desperately hoped would not be noticed by the others. Rachel, however, did seem to notice but said nothing. She looked at Charles with longing eyes as she ate her desert. Charles found himself terribly distracted by the slow, deliberate way the young woman placed spoonfuls of pie into her mouth.

“The 53rd Regiment, huh?” said Mr. Pepperell casually.

“Yes. Light infantry.”

“Do you see any of them soldiers with the big furry hats?”

“The grenadiers, you mean? Why, yes. They’re usually brigaded separately from the hat companies and the light infantry though.”

“They are the best fighting men in a regiment from what I understand,” put in the puritan gentleman.

“Yes, that’s true. Our grenadiers were fortunate that they weren’t captured with us at Ticonderoga.”

“Well, a lucky break for them, I suppose,” returned Mr. Pepperell.

“Very much so. If they hadn’t marched to—” Charles stopped himself suddenly, pretending to need a drink of water. “If they hadn’t marched elsewhere, some of their officers might be at this table instead of me.”

There was silence at the table as everyone finished their slices of pie. To Charles’ surprise, Sarah’s hand had found its way back to his crotch and was busily stroking him to another erection. Through an incredible effort, he pretended not to notice.

“Really good pie, Mr. Pepperell,” said Rachel.

Sarah shot Charles a quick glance. “I certainly found everything delicious.”

***

Charles’ room was comfortable, certainly a pleasant enough place to spend time. Charles, however, barely took notice. He paced back and forth, contemplating the actions of his hostess. In England, everyone believed the Americans to be prudish puritans. They seemed the kind of people more interested in making themselves unhappy than making babies. Sarah Pepperell would be quite a surprise to Charles’ friends in London who told him colonial women were impossible to lure into bed.

Charles felt strange walking around with only his redcoat on. He found it even stranger to look down and see his hardening cock jutting out just below the facings of his regimental coat. This look was definitely not the look King George’s army was going for.

It was now nearly midnight. The house was quiet, the puritans and their daughter having left early. Charles heard the floorboards in the hallway groan slightly and knew Sarah was approaching his door. Sure enough, a soft knock was heard at Charles’ door.

The young lieutenant opened the door wide, making no attempt to cover himself. Sarah, wrapped from neck to ankles in a blanket, smiled broadly seeing his appearance.

“What a delightful sight,” she said quietly. “And I can tell you are glad that I’ve arrived!” she purred, taking note of his erection.

Sarah walked into the room and closed the door behind her. Without another word, she let her blanket drop to the floor and stood before Charles completely naked. Charles looked at her body in amazement. From her full breasts to her slender legs, she was by every standard a stunning, seductive woman once free of her unflattering New England clothing.

She grabbed his hand suddenly and placed it between her legs.

“What do you think? Put your fingers inside of me and feel what awaits you.”

Charles hesitated momentarily.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he said tentatively. “I mean, what about Mr. Pepperell?”

She put her hand to his mouth. “I am going to satisfy your every possible desire, Charles. I shan’t do that if you persist in asking me foolish questions. That would be a shame. Do you not agree?”

Charles ran his fingers back and forth over her clitoris causing her to tremble.

“Come to think of it, my captain is forever telling me that I let unimportant matters distract me in my duties.”

“You see? That’s why he’s a captain and you are still a lieutenant. I suggest you attend to your more carnal duties,” she whispered between passionate kisses.

Just as he prepared to put his arms around her, Sarah unceremoniously pushed him back onto the rope bed. Speechless, he watched her climb onto the straw mattress and straddle his legs. She guided the head of his penis into her vagina and paused.

“Congratulations, Charles,” she whispered, looking him in the eye.

“Why?” he muttered, barely able to concentrate as he watched his cock sink into her welcoming pussy.

“You, my love, are the 12th redcoat I’ve fucked during this war. British military men are my passion, my obsession. I’ve chosen to indulge my passion whenever I can. This war has been most convenient, I must admit.”

She settled into a slow grinding action as her hips moved back and forth. Charles ran his hands over her full breasts and tweaked her erect nipples.

“I trust they were commissioned officers?” he said, watching as her pussy lips clung to his raging hard-on as she fucked him.

Sarah nodded, enveloped in her own pleasure as her orgasm came upon her. Her eyes closed and her jaw nearly dropped to her chest as she trembled in silent pleasure.

“And how do I compare?” uttered Charles as he began to thrust in unison with Sarah. She was quiet for a moment, trying to recover her breath.

“The first six…the first six couldn’t hold a candle to you, Lieutenant. The last six I’m not sure of.”

“Why is that?”

“All six of them took me at once on the dining room table. I took track of who was fucking what part of me.”

“Rule Britannia!” said Charles with a smile.

Sarah picked up her pace and rode Charles’ cock with lusty abandon. Charles arched his hips upward in an attempt to get even deeper inside of her well-lubricated pussy.

“And I thought rebel women weren’t interested in fucking!”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“How’s that?”

Sarah looked him in the eye. “I’m not a rebel, Charles. I’m a loyalist.”

“You! You’re a tory?” returned Charles with surprise.

Sarah smiled as she ground her hips against him. “It’s a well-kept secret, I assure you. Everyone in Southbrook believes me to be a supporter of the Continental Congress and a virtuous woman to boot.”

“Little suspecting that you’re a…”

“A hot little slut ready to fuck anything that moves?” she returned with a slight smirk.

“That’s alright to think that, Charles. That’s exactly what I am.”

Charles groaned and pulled Sarah tightly against him. She could feel his semen pumping into her as she gently squeezed his balls.

As Charles’ orgasm subsided, Sarah put her head on his shoulder.

“Thank God, you’re young, Charles. You’ll be able to fuck me again in no time at all. Next, I want you in my ass.”

“So tell me, Mrs. Loyalist,” replied Charles, trying for the moment to not think of the glorious idea of fucking this sexy woman’s ass. “Why did you choose to stay here rather than go to New York City and enjoy the protection of the King’s Army?”

“Because I would be of no use there. Here, I hear things and pass them on to British spies. I know everything which goes on in the Continental Army. I hear about the whores that General Charles Lee enjoys in camp. I know who insulted who on General Washington’s staff. They are all so stupid, Charles. For instance, the grenadiers who escaped capture the day you were taken. All of the rebel commanders think they headed north towards Lake Champlain. But, you and I know better, don’t we?”

Charles grinned and began thrusting inside of her again.

***

Sarah closed the door to her bedroom and looked at Mr. Pepperell. He was lying in bed naked, his cock standing straight up in eager anticipation. She leapt onto the bed, throwing off the blanket which she had been covering herself with. His hands began to roam all over her body.

“How was your horny young friend?” questioned Pepperell as he gave his wife lusty kisses. “Did you enjoy his young cock. Did he fire one volley and roll over asleep?”

“Not at all. He enjoyed me every possible way, Mr. Pepperell,” she said with a smile. “It was most remarkable.”

“Every way? Even in your arsehole?” returned Pepperell in astonishment. Sarah nodded as she turned away from him and pointed her naked ass in his direction. He took the hint instantly and crawled up behind her, placing his engorged cock at the entrance to her willing rectum. He pushed forward and entered her easily.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, he loosened you up considerably, Mrs. Pepperell,” he exclaimed with pleasure as he began to move his cock in and out of her not-so-tight butthole.

“Not nearly as much as I loosened him up, I believe.”

“What news have you?” said Pepperell, continuing his deep thrusts into her tight asshole.

“The grenadiers in question are attempting to march southwest to the Mohawk Valley and on to Oswego.”

“That’s an unlikely route. It’ll be the middle of winter before they make it as far as Oriskany. Going north towards Champlain makes much greater sense.”

“That’s what they’re hoping we will think. I’m sending him over to help Rachel with her gardening tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll coax out anything we missed.”

“Good work, my dear,” panted Pepperell as he exploded in orgasm.

Sarah buried her head in her pillow and savored the sensation of Pepperell’s dick as it twitched in orgasm inside her asshole. “I enjoy my work, Mr. Pepperell. I enjoy my work.”

I’m sitting here pressing my thumbs into my eyelids thinking about the poor fucker who’s probably doing the same right now but for different reasons: this imagined fucker’s got some porn footage open in Premier or Final Cut Pro, wondering how they got to that point in their lives. They scrub the footage, looking for good transition points, bite their lip at the audio spikes on the transport at the bottom of the screen. That audio spike is gonna be the start of a great orgasm that’s gonna explode into white noise. You can’t unclip a fuck-up like that. It’ll have to go—nobody’s gonna cum to that. Hours and hours of footage like this. Scrub, snip. Fade out. Sneak in a sexy J-cut if they’re feeling fancy. 

This cum’s for you.

The erotic arts are such labours of lust, but sometimes I wonder if editing a porno is actually a joyless experience. With so much dick and ass on your screen, how could a little smile not break on your face? How could you not wanna take a whole lot of fifteen-minute smoke breaks? And then have an actual smoke afterward, of course. Is it exhausting to be the kind of person who cares about cinematography, good lighting, consistent colour grading—and have to stare at the same flesh tones day after day? Or deal with the chaotic footage of some inept camera operator who’s distractedly massaging the wet patch in their trousers when they should be keeping the camera steady, or pulling focus?

This cum’s for you—and honestly, not saying I blame the camera operator.

Does the young buck holding the boom over two screaming, flailing, sculpted porn stars regret the sore arms he has from holding the boom and worry that he’ll be too tired to jerk off later? Or are his arms already sore because he spends so much time jerking off, because he spends his days staring at porn stars while they drill each other? Hell, do studios even use boom mics anymore? I’m sure I’ve seen them in shots before: some fluffy grey muff coming in from the corner of the screen threatening to startle me out of an erection, some boner-killing rodent leaving its pixelated droppings on my screen. 

I’ve overcome worse obstacles. This cum’s for you—even if I hear a voice in my head shout boom in the shot and have a weird little laugh to myself before boom, I shoot. We all make mistakes.

But my poor editor! It must be so lonely, so tiresome assembling your erotic masterpieces! I hope the cum that lands on your belly as you export your scenes and enjoy the fruits of your labour keeps you warm for a moment. Your own sticky reward.

This cum’s for you, and for every step that leads you to me. The actors, the fluffers, the directors, the editors, the distributors—the vast networks of all people connected to them to make their lives possible. People who work need to get paid. I cum for their accountants. For their mail carriers, their waiters. They all made my pleasure possible, even by proxy. We all make each other’s pleasure possible. This cum is why we’re alive on this wild rock, rimming the elated solar anus and spinning in delirious ecstasy. Cock in hand, bush under palm, we ride the cosmos, filling ourselves, each other, the tiny voids between all things—cum fills those gaps, too. 

This cum is for all of us.

Illustration by Nastya Valentine

The scent of her gash gush of is your Proust cookie

it Madeleines you it flying carpets to odiferous dimensions

flirty fruity flying cunts cream first class 3D, 34+35D, and 69 my DDs to freebleed perioded perfectly chaste chussy portal

milfs dilfs gilfs go from peeping to smelling sniffing snorting Toms

a fragrancemaxxing fertile phantasm sits on the face of a sexy ghost

cuntopia where ovular temples and oracle caves

grow tissue walls & sponge spooge where slippery remixes of Grimes

felonious crimes are carceral slimed for being too goddesslike

erroneous erogenous ethereal but not anosmic

your nose deciphers the symbols like Braille

pink pilled every day and every night a thousand thoughts throb

in pussy tight pussy write sonnets when twisting the goose pussy loose

you’re drunk on the funk of her juice

—

Fingers he refused to wash for 3 days were sticky

a musk in dusk devours my husk hee hee ha ha

batter reaches third base so there’s a meeting on the mound

my sport is porn, I hound to pound, goon edge cyber horny much

ruby signet tip of oval mirror warms and glows to touch

the oval/almond-shape with fleur-de-lis clitty

at the tip-top slip and sip below the grooming of her landing strip

a heart shaped ginger minge singing like a canary & squirting like a chimney

where butts and cunts have cues and keyboards clack-clack puss in boots

pussy boobs put your high heels on my camel toe

2fast2furious 4 femme furry flirty Tokyo drift

if boobs have balconette demicups why not cunts? Like, lift

that camel and puff it into perfect shapes and sizes

the mobius strip of your pussy lips, pervy sacred geometry that

synchronicity so slickly stains dodecahedron dicks and cocks cough cum

into cunts knocking up witch womb wearing women’s bare bliss like church tongue

my work here is done

—

The getting is in the pussacious giving

peach fig and pomegranate drool pools fingers on tap to lap up

like a groin that tightens from a prick a fist whatever does the trick

a dental fricative tongue tips between the teeth

that’s indicative of where the clit plot thickens

fingers curl up and scoop goop

sliced, sluiced, juiced, splayed and laid

and now a wow that keeps coming and coming

purple Prada shirt slips pink pumps pursed in cum

FEE FII FO SPUNK I smell the junk of a gooning man

be he alive or be he dead I’ll goon his gherkin in my bed

fiddle dee dee, finger me

fiddle dee doo, Imma finger u

Until you’re known as a monster, you’re not a star.

—Bette Davis

The night Cock E. Cuntsmart wore his stupid man suit and made mischief of one kine

and another

the Great Mommy called him
“TEMPORARILY-EMBARRASSED LIBERTINE!”
and Cock E. Cuntsmart said
“I’LL EAT YOU(R) (W)HOLE!”
so he was sent to bed without cold milk or warm milk or blood or cum or anything.

That very night in Cock E. Cuntsmart’s room a miraculous udder grew

and grew

and grew until it was mysteriously detonated by the Imposition
and from his ceiling flowed primordial rivers from glow-in-the-dark stars
and the glow-in-the-dark stars became binky-bonky nipples
and his walls became the milky, curdled world all around

and the milk ran black
and the primordial rivers were the Lethe, Phlegethon, Cocytus, Acheron, and Styx
and the rivers flowed into an ocean of black tar cum with a private boat for Cock E. Cuntsmart
and he sailed off on the ocean of black tar cum through night and day

and in and out of weeks
and almost over a year
to where the cum cows are.

And when he came to the place where the cum cows are,
Kundalini-Kellogg’s Funny Factory Fuck Farm, in Lower Hades,
the cum cows lowed their terrible lows
and gnashed their terrible porcelain veneers
and licked their terrible acid-filled lips
and clapped their terrible cum cow tits
and puckered their terrible bleached assholes
and gaped their terrible whispering eyes
and showed their terrible jungle-red claws

till Cock E. Cuntsmart said “BE STILL!”
and tamed them with The Dick Inside

staring into all their artificially pinkened, jet-puffed pussies without blinking once
and they were frightened and called him the most temporarily-embarrassed libertine of all

and made him king of all cum cows.

“And now,” cried Cock E. Cuntsmart, “let the wild rumpus start!”

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

The animal husbandrists administer recombinant bovine growth hormone (rBGH) and oversee the body modifications that make cum cows cum cows: buttock and clit augmentations with liposuctioned fat grafting, bee sting facials, slap massages, cryotherapy, lifts of all things gravity has made to sag and droop, caulk, epoxy, and ready-mix asphalt jabs to all surfaces age has made to crack. And, of course, not least of all, augmentation udderplasties.

The elder cum cows get fucked by the animal husbandrists and suck the cocks of inseminataurs wearing witchy execution masks, fluffing the inseminataurs while the animal husbandrists tweak the JJJ-cup udder teats until they produce milk and squirt fresh cum cream, “bumping the bag,” as it were, turning the whole funny farm/big red barnyard into a milk orgy. The elder cum cows suck hard and make efforts to be as productive as possible, for the threat of retirement to the beef class looms—the career of a cum cow in its prime is two-to-four years, after which it is used as its use value may permit but at any point may be slaughtered. 

The inseminataurs get fluffed and enjoy the show as they prepare for highly ritualistic insemination, an occult rite, picking angel numbers from a wizard hat, the numbers corresponding to gloryholes punched into stall doors. Behind the holes punched lie more holes, of nameless, faceless, ass-in-the-air cum calfs who have recently begun their estrous cycles. They get blind-fucked through the gloryholes roulette-style. The inseminataurs put their dicks in these holes, quietly praying they don’t get stuck with the one that does not open to a cum calf but a milking machine—a practical joke implemented by barn owners and executives.

It’s a gloryhole gangbang to maximize the chances of impregnation, to ensure optimal milk production for standard pasteurization and sale to commercial markets. What’s left unpasteurized is bottled and sold on the black market to cum cow fetishists. 

The inseminataurs swap angel numbers and take turns in each other’s divinatorily-assigned holes until one is Goldilocks and they go a-nutting. Usually, this means multiple loads are blown into each of the younger cum cows before the rite is finished and the circle is closed. Meanwhile the elder cum cows continue to suck and get milked and fucked as blue ribbon examples to the youngsters, and because the show must go on for the inseminataurs to stay hard, well-fluffed so they may nut more than once in the pinch hitters, little pussies like ham sammies and turkey lunchables, to secure the chances of breeding more cum cows, thereby keeping the barn, the funny farm, in business and giving the dairy industry a boost. 

VIP platinum card-carrying inseminataurs, as well as any barn shareholders and executives participating in these rites, may later choose to have paternity tests performed and, if positive, cum cow ownership is ceded to he who has the winning sperm, and along to another barnyard with that special man the cum calf is forever sent, fucking the cum calf to create the mother cum cow, fucking the cum calf born of incest-rape to create new cum calfs for fucking, to produce more cum calf-mother-daughter-whores who get fucked, propagating a dynasty of inbred cum calf-mother-daughter-whores who get fucked and keep getting fucked, and that’s the ouroboric self-fecundating principle as known to The Dick Inside, Kundalini-Kellogg’s Funny Factory Fuck Farm, and big red barns worldwide. 

“Now stop!” Cock E. Cuntsmart said and sent the cum cows and cum calfs off to bed
without their supper of feed containing ingredients that do not pass bovine muster.

And Cock E. Cuntsmart, the king of all cum cows, was lonely
and wanted to be where someone, the Great Mommy, loved him best of all.

Then all around from far away across the world
he smelled good things to eat
so he gave up being king of where the cum cows are.

But the cum cows cried,
“Oh please don’t go—
we’ll eat you(r) (w)hole—
we love you so!”

And Cock E. Cuntsmart, his erotics a fear of love, said, “No!” 

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

but Cock E. Cuntsmart stepped into his private boat and waved goodbye

and sailed back on the ocean of black tar cum over a year
and in and out of weeks
and through a day

and into the night of his very own milky, curdled room, spoilt and rancid
and stripped off his stupid man suit
and he found his supper of cum cow milk
and cum cow cum
and cum cow bloody mid-rare steak
waiting for him

and it was still hot.

Sex to me is like going to the toilet. 

—Charles Manson

I gotta take a piss. Can I use ya head? 

—Bobby Peru

Welcome to Sexy Sadie’s Shakti Temple,
home of Charles Manson’s sex toilets.

Inner circle potties, double-
pointed ovals, blood-pink
deodorant screens, mindless
G-spots, empirical
prostates of mind; when you
cum, make your stupidest
face, go full
retard, get your entropy’s
worth for the
day.

Let them
eat
urinal cake.

Step right up!
Time to play port-o-roulette.
Everyone’s a winner!

A blowout, the color you make
when you mix
all the fingerpaints, extremities
stretched to impress, broken-
down elastics, shit piss
blood cum tears colored outside
the lines, spilt cum cow
milk all over your Baby
Van Gogh; hang it
on the walk-in
where you have
all the bodies
stacked, flash-
frozen, vivi-
sected.

It’s time the tale were told,
the Story of Port-O.
Y’all take a listen!

Out of order, chaos
only, over-the-top
brimming, prized sex
toilet overflowing, blue ribbon
shitter you can always spy
by the way it oozes soft
deposits, the cum of dirty
dozens fizzing
like hagfish; unclog it
with a Barbie
Dreamhouse plunger
or the suction
cup tip of a Nerf gun
bullet.

Anybody wanna take a ride
on Charles Manson’s sex toilets?
We got bargains galore!
When ya here, ya family.

Perfect, brand new
soft and supple buoyant trick-
john so clean, no light at the
end;
you can fuck it ‘til you see
clean through, ‘til the pipes
clear, ‘til there’s enough
give to make an echo
echo;
you can look that pisser
in the kisser, make
that fissure speak its truth, make
that asshole use its inside
voice.

Use ‘em like the restroom,
use ‘em like the commode,
the bidet, the soda fountain,
let ‘em carbonate your ass,
tell ‘em jokes for the john,
make ‘em laugh ‘til they hydraulically lift and eject
you.

If it’s yellow, let it mellow.
If it’s paternity orange or emotional brown,
flush it
down!

Christmas morning under
the Christmas tree, red and green
plaid flannel pajamas, open you up
like a Christmas present,
flapjack snaps unsnap,
snap-snap,
a USDA Grade A
rose;
spread the crescent
moon, get a good hard
look at that erectile
oinker standing tall at luncheon
pinnacle;
run a daisy chain on the ham-
bone, lap up the cherry
cordials, say howdy-ho
while you pump ‘em fulla
miracles;
call ‘em dummy dumpsters,
call ‘em mayo dispensaries,
call ‘em God’s gift to Jesus
Christmas.

Be a sweetie and wipe the seatie!

Thank you for visiting
Sexy Sadie’s Shakti Temple,
where you don’t just cum,
you arrive.

Now, go out there and BE somebody!

Go out there and PEE in somebody!

It’s hard to piss after you fuck. Most orgasmic women know this.

When you cum, the pituitary gland releases oxytocin, the hormone associated with empathy, trust, and relationship-building—the one that makes you make googly eyes at the one who just made you cum—and vasopressin, which is an antidiuretic. The latter reduces water in the urine, raises the blood pressure, and constricts the blood vessels, making it hard to piss after you fuck.

But it’s important to piss after you fuck.

According to a study of female perineal anatomy, the urethra sits approximately 4.8 centimeters from the anus. When you fuck, pathogenic microbes that live in the large intestine, such as E. coli or K. pneumoniae, may enter the slurry of saliva, sweat, vaginal secretions, and miscellaneous fluids. On occasion, these gram-positive bacteria find their way into the urethra.

This is why, ever since you were a little girl, you’ve been told to wipe front to back.

The best way to avoid cystitis, colloquially known as a urinary tract infection, or UTI, is by pissing after you fuck. But it’s hard to do. The body doesn’t want to allow it. The body would you make googly eyes at the one who just made you cum and fall asleep in his arms.

That’s how the infection starts.

Every 20 minutes, a bacterium divides itself. In seven sleeping hours, a bacterium might thus produce a number of segments amounting to millions. The best way to avoid this is by pissing after you fuck; as the fluid rushes out of your urinary tract, into the toilet bowl, harmful bacteria are flushed out.

It is within your power, to allow urine to pass. You ought to feel empowered knowing this.

You should always piss after you fuck, though your animal chemicals might tell you not to bother. Your instinct to sleep might trick you into thinking you’re too fatigued to get up and walk to the toilet, and the big woozy eyes of your beloved might beckon you into his arms, where you’ll softly close your lids, and the next thing you know—it’s dawn, and bacteria have propagated entire colonies of microbial progeny inside you.

When you take your morning piss, you’ll feel an unrelenting, imperiously literal fire in your loins, especially toward the stream’s finality, and the waves of pulsating pain that persist, sometimes for hours, thereafter. You’ll feel punished by your own pleasure and may even regret the ecstatic events leading up to this moment.

You can avoid this by betraying your hormone-induced trance, your delusions of lethargy stoked by the sex dance, and the flayed arms and saucer eyes of your beloved and, if you can still walk properly, crawling if necessary, heading straight to the toilet.

Sit on it.

Despite how things feel, you do, in fact, have voluntary control over your external urethral sphincter. If you sit on the toilet long enough, the stretch receptors in your bladder walls will activate and send signals from your pelvic nerves to your spinal cord, which will send a signal back to your bladder, causing the detrusor muscle in its walls to contract, at which point, you may relax your external sphincter and instigate the bodily function that allows urine to pass.

You have the power.

It’s hard to piss after you fuck, but you’ll manage. You’ll know the true meaning of release. Like when you have to piss so bad, you get emotional; as soon as the showers gush forth, you exhale audibly, with force, and tears trickle down your cheeks. Like when you have to piss so bad, and you finally do, it almost feels like cumming.

Oh, what streams may come!

They’ll make their tinkling sounds. You’ll hear those deep sounds comin’ down, twinkle them out to their last drop. You’ll pinch them off and wipe front to back, as all your life you’ve been instructed.

You’ll flush and watch the effluent swirl right ‘round, proud of what you’ve accomplished. You’ll flush and watch with gleeful respite that which you’ve evacuated, for the good of your health, going down—proud of your waste, thinking about its final destination, feeling connected, more intimately than ever, to the meaning of waste. You’ll know, acutely, that everything one need know about another human being is in their waste.

Plumbers must see so many souls in a day!

If you want your beloved to see your soul, turn him into a toilet. After you fuck, take the saddle, giddy-up on his gaping, yawning mouth. You do, in fact, have voluntary control. The choice is yours as to whether you relax your external urethral sphincter and allow urine to pass. You are in a consensual relationship with this part of your anatomy. Your nerve signals will do their dance in time. The uneventful meantime might even excite your beloved, and you.

When the spirit moves you so, relax, and allow urine to pass directly into his oral socket, bacteria and all. May the infection you preclude by way of evacuation be his nourishment. Watch as he gargles it, swishes it around, before taking a robust, revivifying gulp of the communicably-diseased liquid.

He has been a plumber for a heart of gold.

He will know your soul, and you—part of you, no longer you—will be his.

“Cape Ann Sperm Bank” by Madison Murray

Danielle Altman’s fiction, poetry, personal essays, and freelance journalism have appeared in Little Engines, Dream Boy Book Club, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Write or Die, and elsewhere.

“I enjoy frozen cum in mango cum-margaritas on the beach in Cancun. Sunlight and hands caressing my bare skin…waves crashing…in the distance, a flamenco guitar. Fruity, slushy, and sticky, sucked down with a straw.” —Danielle Altman

Anonymous – “If you think you know who I am then keep your fucking mouth shut about it.”

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

Karina Bush is an Irish/Roman poet, playwright and techno mystic. For more, visit karinax.com and https://www.youtube.com/@karinapoetess

“My favorite way to enjoy frozen cum is to fashion spearheads for violence.”  —Karina Bush

James Callan lives and cums in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His euphemism for male masturabation is “wax the rat,” though on second thought, he hardly thinks it qualifies for a euphemism, more like a disgusting phrase. Nonetheless, he hopes it takes off. He waxes the rat daily, typically to old ladies.

“I enjoy frozen cum by making miniature ice-cum statues of sailors, floating them in the bathtub where I pretend to be a mermaid, rubbing their frozen forms on my hard-ass nippies. Oo-la-la, it’s time to wax the rat!” —James Callan

“Cuma Sutra” by Norman Conquest

Norman Conquest is a verbo-visual artist based in Northern California. His work has appeared in many publications in the U.S. and Europe. He is the author of 50 books, including the underground classic, A Beginner’s Guide to Art Deconstruction and, most recently, Smells Like Teen ‘Pataphysics. 

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

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

Carl Miller Daniels is 74 years old. He says that like it’s some kind of accomplishment. Maybe it is. He’s had eight books published. Five of those books are currently available on Amazon. His X-rated Tumblr blog is gone. His X-rated newTumbl blog is gone. His X-rated blogspot blog remains: carlmillerdaniels.blogspot.com—but it is on very shaky ground.

Tyler Dempsey is the author of four books and host of Another Fucking Writing Cumcast. He lives in Arizona with his wife and dogs.

“My favorite way to enjoy frozen cum is streaking my windows.” —Tyler Dempsey

Gabriel Hart is a writer and journalist from California’s high desert. His punk-noir novel On High at Red Tide is out now from Pig Roast Publishing. He’s the editor-in-chief of Beyond the Last Estate, a print-only magazine featuring “creative reporting on contemporary literature.” He reports daily at Z1077fm.com.

Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. His latest collection, Bullet Pudding, is forthcoming from Roadside Press in 2026. Recent publications include Horror Sleaze Trash, Apocalypse Confidential, Be About It Press, Revolution John, The Literary Underground, and others. He is a poetry editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle Literary Magazine.

Rudy Johnson, aka LOADSHOOTER THE IMPREGNATOR, IS A CHAMPION OF HELL, FIGHTING TWO DEMONS EVERY DAY! *Christian post-hardcore music plays*

“I enjoy frozen cum with Lissandra the ice witch, when she freezes my cum while I fuck her.” —Rudy Johnson

Emma Reed Jones writes prose and poetry shaped by a love of experimental literature, punk culture, and philosophy, in which she holds a PhD. Her writing has appeared in Hobart, Vlad Mag, Welter, and elsewhere. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

The Outsider Artist and Writer, Mr. Omar King, resides in Gardena, California. He is the author of An Odyssey Of Dingbats! You can find him on Filthy Loot’s “Not Not Famous” and the third issue of Beyond The Last Estate; his short fictions on Cream Scene Carnival, 100subtexts Magazine, and Elizabeth Ellen’s Hobart Pulp Magazine; and online, well he is like a digital nomad, you can find him here, there, everywhere!!! He is the leader of a society of freaks, geeks, weirdos, and all sorts: The Dingbats Society! Instagram: @ahsintheblacklodge Twitter/X: @omarking0924 Substack: MR. OMAR KING’S SUBS-TIC-TAC Reddit: u/odquin00 YouNow: MR._OMAR_KING

Dylan Krieger is a well-hidden house of horrors in the American South. She holds degrees in writing from the University of Notre Dame and Louisiana State University. Her recent work includes Predators Welcome (Limit Zero, 2024) and No One Is Daddy (Saturnalia Books, forthcoming 2026).

Julia Laxer is a poet, writer, performance artist and editor at Hobart Pulp, where she curates a column, THE COST OF LIVING. She has danced, on-and-off, since 2002. Julia is a proud former San Francisco LUSTY LADY and currently entertains onstage in Portland, Oregon at Mary’s Club.

“I enjoy my cum soaking hot and everywhere—no frozen cum for me, please. The only ICE I like is abolished!!!” —Julia Laxer

“Trump Humping Sam” by Bob McNeil

Michelle Jane Lee is a Korean American poet and artist living in Los Angeles. Her work is queer, obsessive, and intimate, circling sex, power, tenderness, and harm.

Charles J. March is a Chicago Southsider whose work has been put-out by or is forthcoming from Neko Girl, Young Ravens, Gutslut, Disappointed Housewife, Eskimo Pie, Sagging Meniscus Press, Alice Says Go Fuck Yourself, etc. More can be found at LinkedIn & SoundCloud.

Maxxie is a southern writer freezing over in Brooklyn with her black cat.

“Frozen kum is best served mixed up in a mug of hot cocoa with whip CREAM and a sprinkle of salt.” —Maxxie

Bob McNeil is a writer, editor, cartoonist, and spoken word artist. Flexible Press published his book composed of essays, illustrations, poems, and stories titled Compositions on Compassion and Other Emotions. Proceeds from this work fund the National Alliance to End Homelessness.

Lisa Morton is a writer of horror fiction and non-fiction who lives in the hills just north of Los Angeles, where she enjoys watching all manner of critter enjoy frisky frolics in her backyard. Find her online at https://lisamorton.com

“Cummings Center” by Madison Murray

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.

Alex Osman is a writer, musician, and photographer from Texas. He’s not in right now. Please leave your name, number, and message after the beep.

“My favorite way to enjoy frozen cum is up my ass.” —Alex Osman

Mark Parsons’ poems have been recently published or are forthcoming in Expat Press, Dreich, Cape Rock, and I-70 Review. His books include, Stills (Southernmost Books, 2023), Lake Tahoe is an Elegy (chapbook, Alien Buddha Press, 2024), Spiral (Anxiety Press, 2025), and The Kingdom of Middle of Children (Southernmost Books, 2025). He lives in Tucson, Arizona.   

Tyler Peterson is a fiction writer from Iowa. His work has appeared in Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Apocalypse Confidential, Back Patio and elsewhere. 

Brooke N. Plummer is a writer, musician, and educator from the Midwest.

Gabriel Ricard writes, edits, and occasionally acts. A former horror movie podcast freak and movie columnist, he has numerous books of poetry, fiction, and essays available. He lives with his wife and a barrel of malevolent ferrets in Florida.

“Re: frozen cum, there are times when I’d prefer to just watch others, and this would be one of them.” —Gabriel Ricard

Will Russo is the author of two chapbooks: Dreamsoak (Querencia Press, 2023) and Glass Manifesto, winner of the 2023 Rick Campbell Chapbook Award from Anhinga Press. Recent work has appeared in Seaford Review, Dialogist, and Burial Magazine. He is poetry reviews editor at Another Chicago Magazine and received his MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Jeff Schneider was the guitarist for Arab On Radar and Made in Mexico. He is the author of Psychiatric Tissues, Gallons Per Minute, Therapists Gone Wild and Rockin Out on the Mainline. Jeff runs Pig Roast Publishing which has published over 20 of the most transgressive/weirdo/outsider authors in contemporary literature. 

Victoria Manthei Mansberger Schoen cums systems and runs a Cummunist press in Kalamazoo, Michicum.

L Scully is a recovering sex addict and the author of SELF-ROMANCING from Dopamine Books LA. If it makes you feel better, you may jizz on their…book. IG: @_caprihorny_  Website: lscully.com

“It would be nice to icicle sword-fight with pillars of frozen cum. The loser gets inseminated.” —L Scully

Jack Skelley is the author of the novels The Complete Fear of Kathy Acker (Semiotext(e), 2023) and Myth Lab: Theories of Plastic Love (Far West Press, 2024). The audiobook edition of Myth Lab appears in 2026, with chapters recorded by seven international writers. Jack’s other books include Monsters (Little Caesar Press), Dennis Wilson and Charlie Manson (Fred & Barney Press), and Interstellar Theme Park: New and Selected Writing (BlazeVOX, 2022). Jack’s psychedelic surf band Lawndale released two albums on SST Records, and has a new album, Twango.

“Jizz” by Steve Smegma

Born in a sex club in Brooklyn, NY, to a Catholic nun and an unemployed carnival barker, Steve Smegma is CEO of a company that produces Jizz, an unpopular skin care product. “I write erotica to get women in bed. Not my bed, apparently, but someone’s bed, I’m sure.”

“My favorite way to enjoy frozen cum is with Dippin’ Dots.” —Steve Smegma

CUMstopher Soredick is a professional game programmer and unprofessional word deviant who runs (the decidedly tamer) Artemisia Press out of a triangle-shaped house in the woods of central Ontario.

“I enjoy frozen cum melted in a rocks glass in front of a cozy fireplace.” —CUMstopher Soredick

Nastya Valentine is, in the girl economy, a product of valuable exchange rate. She is the author of Cyberhorny (2025) and Ultimate Fantasy (2026). One day she will be the best tradwife ever.

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 Kum the Klown, The Dick Inside, and Cock E. Cuntsmart.

“My favorite way to enjoy frozen cum is straight from the teat of the celestial cum cow.” —Kum V

Sleazins Greetings!

C.U.Morgenrede and I began the year by building a bookshelf. Little did we know that, by the year’s end, we’d have built a cummunity.

2025 was the year Cum Punk broke. It was the Year of the Cum Cow, truly the best and worst of times. Unsurprising, for the cum cow is dialectical. She is celestial, as she is diabolical. She is love, as she is fear fuck. She is free-range, as she is factory-farmed. The cum cow giveth, and the cum cow taketh.

Still, our cup runneth over: all farm-fresh stuff, thanks to your hard wank work. We are sincerely grateful to call you our sloblings in the bovine divine, where we are always and everywhere profaning the immaculata, where we are always and everywhere making liquid pleasure sacrosanct.

It’s all about duality in unison, and at the intersection of duality is Cum Punk. It’s like high-brow titty fucking, basically, or any sex act that involves putting things between things cleavage in a way that does not divide but joins. When two boobs become one, that boob becomes one udder, and that one udder gets us closer to the three-titted woman from Total Recall, who is really the mother of all cum cows, which makes sense if you’re insane or high (or both!)

Here on this funny farm of moo wonders, our cum cows make the best turds for the growth of psilocybin mushrooms. But it’s all about becoming naturally psychotic psychedelic, made possible by the Esoteric Order of the Cum Cow, the dialectical cum cow who grazes the fuzzy hump between triple-X erotica and liturgy of the word, whose feces feed the mind and the very turf on which it feeds to create more turds from which more magical fruiting bodies may erupt. #shitpunk #yum

“Cum Cow” by Asia Brito Guerrero

Anyway, in 2025, I learned that sometimes you muck-wrestle the duende, and other times you go intellectual cow tipping. But at any given time, you might find yourself glob-smacked in the middle of Cum Punk, where all are welcome and well-cummed. We accept everyone and reject no one (unless your emission has no sex or cum in it whatsoever or is otherwise antithetical to pure cum joy, in which case we probably just won’t reply).

We look forward to 2026. Will it be the year of the fuck pig? If so, does that mean we’ll spiritualize the porcine while weaponizing the sexualization of cops? Who knows. But if you can count on anything, it’s this: Cum Punk will only get weirder, more alienating, and riper for cancellation by the vine that ate the arts.

Cum Punk #2: Wintry MiXXX drops early 2026. We’re still pushing a mop through our inbox, so if you’re expecting a word from us, you’ll hear that word soon (unless that word is no, in which case you may hear the sound of one hand fapping clapping).

This has been the year in review.

Yours in goo,

Kum V, Editor-In-Chief (Cum Punk Queen)

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

I unironically meant every word.

I unironically meant every drop.

–Kum V, Saint Valentine’s Day 2025

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

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

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

Now cummertime’s here, kiddies! 

Cummer 2025 has been the wettest on record. 

What does that mean? Rainbows galore! 

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

It’s a Wet Hot American Cummer, baby.

Cummer of 69, an endless cummer. 

Cummertime, and the livin’ is sleazy.

Long live the Cummer of Love!

–Kum V, Cummer 2025

A letter from our Assqueezitions Editor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–C.U.Morgenrede

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

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

–Marquis de Sade

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

This is the world you are about to enter.

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

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

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

Cum Punk is words in freedom, ideas in freedom.

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

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

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

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

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

It is in this spirit that Cum Punk is born.

–Kum V

She had a dream about her mom’s dick.

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

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

She said, “Why does mom have a dick?”

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

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

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

“Suck it,” he said.

She didn’t want to suck it.

“I don’t want to suck it,” she said.

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

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

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

The nod made her feel safe.  

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

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

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

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

But she heard something coming from the penis hole.

Singing.

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

“Waaaaay uuup hiiiiigh,” it sang.

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

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

The whole thing.

Preemie pig faced burn victim and all.

The whole thing.

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

It tasted wholesome.

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

Bobbed her head.

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

She gripped the shaft, bobbed her head faster.

And faster.

And faster.

Her mom groaned, thrust her hips.

And then…

And then…

Her mom came.

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

But it kept cumming.  

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

Joy. Electric joy, ecstatic joy.

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

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

Judy was singing.

“Sooooommewheeere oooover the raaainbow…”

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

“Bllluuuuuue biiirds flyyy

Aaaand the dream that you daaare to

Oooh whyyy, ooOoh whyyy caaan’t iiiiiiiii.”

Previously published in Horror Sleaze Trash

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

The kind of clouds that make you think – God?

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s almost perfect.”

“A celestial chode.”

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

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

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

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

“No,” you said, squeezing my hand.

“Yep.”

“It’s cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—We figured! said my boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Oh neat, said my girlfriend.

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

—Oh wow, said my boyfriend. 

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

—We won’t, I said. 

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

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

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

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

—Congrats, I said. 

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

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

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

—I’m so psyched, said my girlfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before the fresh cum sock under the bed

dries to a mycelial womb,

and mushrooms rise to imitate their god,

a desperate ant colony takes interest—

an angelic feast, white and glistening.

They gorge themselves on holy ooze,

their bellies swelling, filled with cum

glowing like milky white opals in the dark.

Cum-crazed communist ants share the wealth,

swapping cum nectar between twitching mandibles,

suckling the sacred cummy sock fibers,

bathing in the last traces of spent divinity,

before the flood of cum turns to dust,

before the land is salted beyond salvation,

before the fluid crystalizes into ruin. 

They return to their queen,

bearing their precious gift.

She, who already holds immortal seed,

accepts the sacrament,

and from her womb, a pale ant emerges—

its skin slick with ghostly sheen, 

forever searching for its father

in fungal forests of yore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, back to Amy.

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

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

Well…

Buster could do all sorts.

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

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

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

Some days it’s tough being a cat. 

for Elon

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

Don’t cum around here no more

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

Don’t cum around here no more

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

Don’t cum around here no more

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

Don’t cum around here no more

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

Don’t cum around here no more

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

Don’t cum around here no more

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

Don’t cum around here no more

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fellatio facial
For earthfolk
Fine and fucked

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

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

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

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

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

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

💧

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

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

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

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

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

💧

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

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

💧

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

“Oh no,” said Kit-55. “Not again.”

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

“Was it… okay?”

Emi-29 let out a long sigh.

“Sorry. Towels, or shower first?”

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

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

💧

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

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

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

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

💧

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

“What happened?”

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

“A little? It destroyed your whole bodysuit.”

“It’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

But she left the entry unfinished.

💧

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

💧

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

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

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

That little uh uh uh 

That makes it feel like

I’ve never accomplished anything better in this life

Than that puddle of cum on the sheets

And sweat soaked into the mattress

That pump-action shotgun

Is an end-in-itself

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

But I think that that uh uh uh

Deserves a love poem, because

It means you loved me enough to stay this long

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

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

It means I can brush these graveyard leaves off my ass

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

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

It means I can fuck it all away

And that’s something

It’s got to be something

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

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

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

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

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

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

Previously published in My Gaping Masshole

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

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

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

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

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

–Kum V, to Anton Cumcre

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AC: I enjoy that.

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

AC: That is…

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

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

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

AC: No, brie, I will give you.

KV: It smells like cum!

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

KV: It tasted chemically, a little.

AC: I will give you chemically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

KV: It’s like bliss.

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

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

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

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

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

AC: The…

KV: “I live by the load”

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

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

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

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

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

KV: Have you ever had a sad cum?

AC: Yes, I have.

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

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

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

AC: There’s no impetus.

KV: It’s not even a projectile.

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

KV: Have you ever actually cried while cumming?

AC: No, I have not.

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

AC: Ok…

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

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

KV: I wouldn’t say induce one…

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

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

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

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

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

KV: Oh, you’re muted…

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

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

KV: “Spackle” is Cum Punk.

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

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

AC: Just add tears and stir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

KV: I tend to agree.

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

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

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

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

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

– Thank you, Gerald, Miranda says to him. 

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

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

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

He leaves in the early hours of the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Home, says Miranda.

– Want a lift?

Miranda nods and gets into the car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Do you need some company? Miranda asks.

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

– Will you cum in my mouth?

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Are you lost? A stray?

Miranda rushes forward and nuzzles the woman’s crotch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

apparently eating octopus
is cruel
since they’re so smart

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

will i ever
truly know you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Random Goat Lover” art by Karina Bush

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

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

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

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As we chanted, Banana Boy made the cut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the Doctor!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He filled his clipboard and gave me a sober warning: 

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

“Of course,” I said. 

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

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

“Just the tip!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well. We had sex.” I confessed.

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

“How many times?” the Doctor asked.

I looked over at Fabio again.

“Maybe ten, or fourteen times?”

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

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

“Y-yes,” we both said.

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

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

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

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

Five years!

“I have more paperwork for you to sign.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not the whole truth—just the tip.

“Aliens” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Confused?” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Wet” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Shave” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Hustle” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Special” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Googly” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Me” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Nimbus” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Fun Love Crunch” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Buck Pus Ick” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

“Prom” art by Cock E. Cuntsmart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I go away…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7/10; would visit again.

In this isolated evening
of severe passion
and alcoholism

you spat out the remains
of Hare Krishna
and Rimbaud.

Naturally, I was sickened
and told you to leave.

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

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

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

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

we thought

we were

special because we

fucked

that one time

and wanted it to stick

1

fucking you was like

fucking a corpse

of green-headed flies

2

fucking you was like

fucking a corpse—

the maggots of physical

                love 

3

emblematic fly fuck

of our most

primitive desires  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flushed, I’ve fallen.
With your soft mouth,
return me to myself.

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

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

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

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

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

I’m an empiricist
and require proof.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cum Punk is the emotional expression of the orgasm.

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

Cum Punk is erotic grotesque nonsense as super-sense.

Cum Punk is FLUID.

What brought this on? Everything.

Cum Punk might not be what we need. 

But it’s what we deserve. 

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

Stop overthinking it. Just bust a nut.

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

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

Cum Punk is filling a gap, a hole…

Cum Punk is trash, and trash is welcome.

Cum Punk is radical acceptance and inclusion.

Cum Punk is PAY DIRT.

The past is the new future. 

The new future is Cum Punk. 

Cum Punk is the new sincerity.

Sincerity is the new avant-garde. 

The new avant-garde is Cum Punk.

What is Cum Punk? 

Cum Punk is the zeitgeist.

Cum Punk is transcendent.

Cum Punk is eternity.

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

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

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

I wanted to be, to be like, milk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it milky rains, it pours.

“Cum Cow” art by Asia Brito Guerrero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bitch, I’m a cum cow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want “schoolgirl”?

Ok.

Let me tell you what I know about schoolgirls.

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

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

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

CLANNG

DOING

DONK

…until Mr Kristek banged the wall.

Attention-seeker said the associated paperwork.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you to stop that.”

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

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

“Get to class!” he barked.

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

…by the afternoon he caved in.

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

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

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

Short story / Sweet aftertaste.

“What would your parents say about that?”

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

“And what if I inform them?”

“Audentes fortuna iuvat, Sir.” She giggled.

“Mr Kristek, will you buy me shandy?”

*****

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

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

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

*****

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

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

“Who’ve you been cajoling this week?”

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

“What did you tell him?”

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

She batted her lashes gratuitously.

“‘…would you like to do it with me?’”

***Pause***

“And?”

“He said yes, silly!”

“Then I said…”

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

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

“We thought it was hilarious.”

*****

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

*****

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Wendy.”

“Wendy who?”

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

“I have a fiancé,” said Mr Kristek.

“BOOOOO.”

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

“I went to a nightclub, Sir.”

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

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

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

*****

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

He spat the image out in the sink.

It was hard to shake.

*****

“Knock knock.”

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

“You’re cruising for detention young lady.”

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

“No,” said Mr Kristek.

“Suit yourself.”

“Are you a gambler, Lizzy?”

“What’s the bet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shall we try that again?”

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

“Ok then do it.”

She reached for the can.

She shut her eyes.

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

“Bullseye!”

She snatched the fifty out of his hand.

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

You wanted an innocent one?

That’s tough titties, Sir.

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

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

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