She wrote, “Dripping with affection for your erection.”
He replied, “Steeling myself in memory of your affection.”
She said, “Dreaming of your deep injection.’
He penned, “Longing for your wet, warm reception.”
She scribed, “Offering my openings to you without exception.”
He closed with, “Here’s toasting our connubial perfection.”
She added, “Here’s hoping there’s no credit card rejection.”
Since 2014 Frederick Foote has published over two-hundred-fifty stories and poems including literary, science fiction, fables, and horror genres. Frederick has published two short story collections, For the Sake of Soul, (2015) and, Crossroads Encounters, (2016).
spit a sweat-hog in the bed beside me, one of her tits a flattened loaf of bread, the other like a torpedo– I wonder when the last time she brushed her teeth; after she spits into her hand I cannot go through with it: I hang-out at the edge of the bed until she starts to snore.
Facial She took it like a sword-swallower in and out, the length of it, her lips gripping me like a baby’s fist. I jerked her head back as I shot a full-load that splattered her glasses and her red lips parted, white teeth flashing in a broad smile, I squeezed another burst like bullets from a machine gun and was surprised afterward no pock marks on her.
Wayne F. Burke is author of 8 published poetry collections and one short story collection. His poetry has been widely published online and in print. He lives in Vermont.
Elsie Pym, in her early fifties, her hair coiled, a braided bun on top, took pins from her hair. The coil came undone, her hair fell to the small of her back.
When I’d see her mornings in Embers she’d take my order, her dark-rimmed glasses fastened to a silver chain. The glasses on a chain, the coiled hair, and, given her age, she looked school marm prim in Embers. One snaggletooth marred her smile.
But here, on my bed she looked different. I lay back and she mounted me, her iron gray hair falling down naked shoulders. Her small hips moved up and down as did her fairly small boobs.
Clenching my sides, she whimpered. Tears welled in her eyes, trickled down her cheeks. She humped faster, harder. Sobs. Softly, then loudly. Right before and during her climax, passionately, uncontrollably straddling back and forth, sobbing, even at times wailing, her face flushed with tears.
Peter Mladinic’s poems have recently appeared in Punk Noir, the Poetry Village, Goat’s Milk Magazine, Pink Litter, BOMBFIRE, Yolk, Founders Favourites, and other online journals. His book of poems, Knives on a Table, is forthcoming from Better Than Starbucks Publications. He lives with six dogs in Hobbs, New Mexico.
It got that bad and so I got on Tinder after being turned down by maybe five or fifteen girls, drunk in bars I’d hit on them with what I thought were good opening lines and some would talk for a few minutes before retreating because I guess I drank too much, or talked too much, or touched too much or maybe I’m just not that pretty or interesting— I kinda suspect all of the above. And so on Tinder I matched with this girl who catfished me
we met and here comes this large and wide girl obese by all standards and I acted as if I didn’t even notice because I was lonely of course and because I pitied her
she was so stressed and anxious and I could tell it was a big deal for her gathering all the courage
to meet me and I respected that and we kissed and she kissed well but the cellulite on her inner thighs was monstrous
and when we went to her apartment it smelled like she had pets but she didn’t have any pets
and we exchanged books, her 144 pages long “Hell” by Barbusse against my 1104 pages long “Infinite Jest” by Wallace
two shy souls peaking at each other on a midnight through private, unshared fondness
and fucking her was like fucking a hillock of flesh and she smelled bad because she got all sweaty and I don’t know how much good of a person you think you are but you are not as good as having a fragile overweight girl’s armpit accidentally mask your face while you are turning her with the same difficulty you’d turn a beached whale and still maintain a hard on just for her just for her tight pussy that so desperately needs to feel like a normal and desired woman and as her sweat still drips from your nose you go on for 20 minutes of courageous and altruistic fucking just so you can make someone happy.
When I left her house I still had her taste in my mouth and I puked my guts out on a broken pavement and then again outside my house.
The Rose of Sharon isn’t really a rose, but it’s still a flower as real as the name you whispered in my ear in a voice rubbed smooth by a thousand hours of midnight and smoke. The space between real and imagined is a close as your breath on my cheek. What is real are your eyes that burn as blue as gas flame and all that I imagine when I close my own. The memory of your breasts, like “the ghost of a rose under dew” haunts me for months. This is real: If I could touch the milk of your skin, luminous under blacklight, it would be real as my own. The fire of your hair enflames my mind where what is real becomes hotter because it is not and where the Rose of Sharon blooms over and over and over.
Larry Oakner is the author of several books of poems, including SEX LOVE RELIGION (Blind Tattoo Press) along with the forthcoming chapbook, The Canticles of Private Lucius Swan, (Pen & Anvil Press) as well in Red Eft Review, WINK, The Oddville Press, and many others. Oakner lives in New York.