Erotic Exchanges [Poem] by Frederick Foote

Erotic Exchanges

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).

Two Poems by Wayne F. Burke

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
she starts to snore.

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
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.

Frame Chain [Poem] by Peter Mladinic

Schaeffer tells Amanda:

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.

Tinder [Poem] by Noel Negele

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

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.

No more Tinder for this guy.

The Rose of Sharon [Poem] by Larry Oakner

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. 

itch [Poem] by Ben Newell

Hot blonde in a sundress
[big tits, no bra]
approaches the reference desk. 

“Can I have some of that hand sanitizer?”
she asks. 

“Of course,” I say.
“That’s what it’s for . . .”

She pumps
a liberal amount into her hand
then applies it to her ankle—

“Mosquito bite,” she says.  “This stuff takes care
of the itch . . .”

Some 20 minutes later
I go on break,
slip into the restroom
and take care of mine.