Jon Konrath

The Metaphor of Poundcake

“We seek comfort in patterns…”

I awoke to a cop talking truth and fantasy while taking a piss on the cardboard cutout of Barbara Bush in my fireplace.

“Each of us look to the future in determination, to help us feel at peace with the present. But we will never reach it.”

The police officer moaned and started to piss blood, a brown, chunky, sewerage stream of bacteria-infested kidney disease and failure.

“Celebrate the journey of the natural hierarchy, the sacred path of the warrior.”

He shook twice, zipped up, then grabbed his nightstick from his belt holster and smashed my commemorative Alan Alda urn, containing the ashes of my great-uncle Theodore, a habitual peyote user and manager of a mini-mart on an Indian reservation in Oklahoma.

“Never stray from the path. And clean your kitchen. It looks like an anthrax research lab in there.”


I must have fallen asleep waiting for the phone call about Virgil’s execution.

The fever dream of the evening involved walking on a desolate college campus in the waning, vanishing hours of what I thought was the immaculate romance, something that happened for a third of my life, causing me to wonder if the dream really did happen.

It took sixteen hours of travel to get to the campus from the city: three trains, two layovers, and a four-mile walk in a snowstorm that caused my wheeled suitcase to flail around like a subcompact car with bald tires on an ice skating rink. I lost a dozen pounds during the journey, like a baseball pitcher putting in the nine full innings of a complete game, all of the labor from fidgeting in my seat and trying not to throttle the man sitting across from me, who kept babbling about alternate realities and stock speculation.

The train had no food, the bar car destroyed by a group of abolitionist terrorists who didn’t understand the basic fact that you could drink an entire 401K’s worth of alcohol on an Amtrak and not get drunk. This was a government venture; of course they water down the drinks to the point of absurdity. Joe Biden’s not going to get you fucked up on top-shelf liquor.

In the weeks of phone calls and emails prior to the voyage, I was promised unlimited sex, all-you-can eat of her young ass, and as many trips to Denny’s as I could muster. But, we both managed to catch a destructive viral pneumonia that no amount of over-the-counter syrups or pills could touch. The closest we got to the promised week of torrid, unprotected sex was a midnight brunch at a place that served almost raw eggs Benedict, and a reluctant handjob in the parking lot. (Come to think of it, those eggs could have been how we got sick.)

After a two-day puke and shit marathon, I spent the rest of the week killing time in a motel while she went to work. My only solace in the high fever hallucination state was a hack I found in 2600magazine with an article on cable phreaking.

A magic code enabled me to watch all of the 90s-era soft-core porn for free, an endless stream of basketball-sized tit implants, frizzy hair, longPredator-like whore nails, and over-enthusiastic fake lesbian threesomes. How did they finger so much with inch-long acrylic press-on nails? And why did my breath smell like a seventies landfill? This sickness was killing me, even in my dream, like those Freddy Krueger movies.

Desperate for a lunch other than the year-old extruded peanut butter and cheese crackers from the motel lobby vending machine, I stumbled outside and tried to hoof it to a Wendy’s distant on the horizon.

Its sign, with the cartoon ponytailed redhead, stood atop a five-hundred-foot steel pole, telling people on the highway to pull over and meet their maker, for only $2.99 plus tax. I crossed a series of grassy knoll medians, which chopped apart a grocery store parking lot from a series of used car dealerships, forming a maze of torment that threatened to face-plant me into the asphalt with every dozen steps.

A man painted on the windshield of an old Chevy with white shoe polish, spelling out “ELECTRONIC CAR” and a price point that seemed too good to be true. The front of the car rose from the ground at a sharp angle, like a converted low-rider with air shocks, about to launch from the ground in a sideshow parking-lot maneuver. I could tell, even at a distance, that some asshole tore out the old V-8 and hastily Rube Goldberged some kind of household appliance motor into the front, maybe a powered golf cart’s drivetrain.

“It’s a real electronic,” the used car salesman told me. His jacket looked like the tablecloth to a defunct pizza joint from the 70s, and he reeked of cheap cigar smoke. “You can apply for the tax credit and everything. I don’t have the paperwork here, but I’m sure the DMV can set you up. You don’t do much highway driving, do you son? It only tops out at about 38 kilometers an hour. But it gets a thousand miles a gallon, theoretical. And lots of torque. Torque is all you need. Torque wins you races. Torque is Jesus. Torque from Ork — nanu nanu! How’s your credit, boy?”

I kept walking past, turned up the headphones and blasted the Anal Cunt tape louder, so I would not exist, be invisible. I needed food, fried food, heavy, grease-laden food to survive. Lay down a bed of solid grease, and you can ride out any chronic diarrhea. My temperature was at least 104, and everything looked like a direct-to-video John Carpenter movie about Armenia. I wanted a frozen beverage and enough extra bacon to kill god. I wanted this dream to end, but after I woke, I sort of wished it would continue.


I muted the TV, found a spiral notebook and a pen. The ballpoint was from an Uncle Kenny’s Sex Dungeon in Wailea, the one in the basement of the Maui Four Seasons. The plastic barrel was covered in tooth marks, which I hoped were only mine. I thought about death a lot that week, with Virgil on the way out. I hastily prepared a note:

In the event of my death, I want a funeral where my body is not embalmed or preserved. It will be propped upside down on a geodesic dome playground monkey bar thing, like the cover of the first Suicidal Tendencies album. There will be no Pepsi. Donate my orthotic inserts to the Salvador Dali motorcycle museum in Clearwater, Florida (NOT the Salvador Dali museum in St. Petersburg. They are false prophets.)

Serve Taco Bell Doritos Locos tacos at the reception. DO NOT invite my cousin Marty or his whore wife, because not only will they eat all the fucking tacos, they will only eat the meat and cheese and lick the shells but not eat them, and then they won’t shut the fuck up about how carbs are an evil conspiracy to keep us all fat.

Play “Free Bird” on repeat, and the first person to suggest that it should be turned off should be buried alive in the coffin and grave I purchased ten plots down from Bruce and Brandon Lee’s crypt at Lake View cemetery in Seattle. Burn my body and have everyone snort the ashes. Don’t forget the thing about Marty. I finger-fucked his wife at Thanksgiving dinner in 1987. I’m not proud of this, but it was before they were married, and I’m dead now, so fuck it. Peace out.

I read the note carefully, chugging from a warm can of Meister-Brau, then sealed it in an envelope and put it on the fireplace mantle, now an altar to broken urns and diseased cop blood. Having a friend get killed makes you question your own mortality, and that was about to happen.


Virgil had a dad that got the electric chair for mortgage fraud when we were ten, an absurd irony in the wake of his own pending death sentence.

Virg Senior was the kind of old-school, trapped-in-the-past dad that still slicked his hair back with Brylcreem like a Sha Na Na reject. He talked about chopped deuces and daddy-os while we cringed and hoped nobody at the mall saw us with him. After his old man rode the lightning, Virgil went from bad to worse, a series of alcoholic and drug-addled stepfathers that beat him like a used golf ball at a driving range. He finally decided to run away, leave the state with ten dollars in change and a stolen LaserDisc player he’d fence for tacos somewhere in rural Nebraska.

I got the post card months later: no return address, no name signed, just a picture of the country’s third-largest ear of corn, on the outskirts of some town in Iowa or Montana or Laos, a car-sized husk with two goofy farmers in front of it. The inscription said “FOUND YOU’RE MOMS DILDO!” in sharpie, with a smaller note scrawled in ballpoint, his unmistakable, illegible cursive:

Met a shower curtain salesman — let’s dudes bang his wife in motels — said he’d give me his car if I sucked his dick — just borrowing it for now — his wife’s a good lay, but too quiet — will send pics — fuck the puke, and Jesus! — V

I hoped he meant fuck the puke and fuck Jesus. I didn’t want a 3AM phone call of drunken bible platitudes from a borderline illiterate high school dropout. I already got that pretty much every day when I went to public school in Indiana.

I brought the card to my state-appointed therapist. During the breaking-the-ice meeting, she told me she saw Forrest Gump 200 times and only wanted to date mentally disabled men. I think it was supposed to turn me on.

I’ve slept with enough mental health care professionals to know the warning signs, but also knew you always hold out for someone who can prescribe drugs. Even if you don’t want the drugs, even if you’re one of those health food freaks who isn’t into the idea of loading up on deadly narcotics, you get the doc who can write for meds, because then you know they love you. Love is drugs. I saw it on a t-shirt once; it must be true.

After therapy, I paced the halls of the hospital and thought about Captain Beefheart dropping out of the music business, moving to the desert and painting, and wondered how it applied to my job making roast beef sandwiches and wiping uneaten food off of plates. They told us not to feed potatoes into the InSinkErator, so I threw a chilli bowl into the spinning blades, just to see what would happen. The entire kitchen vibrated like an alien abduction roto-rooter stuck in a whale’s asshole, and I watched the time-space continuum become dislodged and start to reverse itself. I tried to calculate how many pieces of china I would have to feed into the machine to get me back to a point where I could feel. I didn’t think the town’s power grid would hold out.

A deformed man in a custodial uniform cleaning an unnatural amount of puke from a hallway broke my reverie. “I can’t remember who got blamed for the Princess Di assassination,” the janitor told me. The puke smelled like candy corn and ammonia. “I think the Mossad got the blame, but we all know ConAgra foods did it. I don’t have proof, but it just feels right, you know?” He wore Halloween makeup — Dracula lipstick, zombie face paint, Frankenstein’s monster stick-on neck bolts — and tried to look sexy with it, like a Dead Can Dance drag queen.

I thought it distracted from the janitorial work, the pure craftsmanship involved in mopping down a vomit spill, spreading the puke sawdust, applying the pink germicidal spray cleaner. He seemed happy, or at least more happy than I was at the moment.


The phone echoed hold music on speaker, while an hours-long marathon of stupid clip shows echoed in the background, late on a Tuesday night.Industrial Robot Disasters Caught on Tape was the ambient soundtrack for my panic state, because I was too lazy to pick up the remote and change the channel. The robo-call would confirm the execution schedule, or announce it was pushed another 48 hours. They liked to schedule their killings to knock the latest scandal out of the news cycle, and the Assistant Governor just got caught having butt-sex with a dead illegal schoolteacher, so I figured it would be a go.

But the robo-call didn’t simply spit out the pertinent information I needed; it first played an ad for a 90-minute VHS tape of Randy Savage taking a massive dump. I mean, it’s not one dump; it’s like three or four spliced together with a bunch of retrospective footage, and the play-by-play is done by Mean Gene Okerlund. $99, or three easy payments of $49. And Okerlund refers to Machoman as his close, personal, long-time friend 168 times, too.


You read the only magazines you can find, Vibe For Pregnant Teens and Country Shitkicker Kitchen, while the guards get the man from the insides of the prison to the visiting room. I would have killed for an issue of Juggs, or even Us Weekly.

You expect the maximum security facility to look like the pit where they keep Hannibal Lecter behind plexiglass at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but it resembles an elementary school built in the eighties, the kind with open rooms and no sharp corners, and big, round sinks like fountains you operate with your feet, that utopian element of bizarre ergonomics that never quite caught on outside of the Epcot center.

Add a ring of guard rows with shotgun slots for firing in teargas canisters during riots, and heavy locked doors to protect the minimum-wage employees from crazed and psychotic men, broken for life by their 50-year torture sentences for getting caught with two matchstick-sized rocks of coke.

Schools and prisons are all built by the same lowest bidder, with identical lead paint and asbestos-stuffed walls. At least that’s what the urban legends tell you.

Virgil earned the prison name of Poundcake, even though he’d never been raped in the showers. The nickname alone is hazing enough to keep him just a hair’s width outside of sanity. You ask him why he killed her, the basic Q&A for your dissertation.

“She was the kind of bitch that lived for pregnancy scares and high drama. Fucked her with three condos and she still said they all broke. Gave her six bills to hoover out the little fucker, and she used the abortion money to go swim with manatees in Florida. Posted the shit on Facebook and everything. So I say to myself, either I put a gun in her mouth, or I watch her fake breast cancer and make mad bucks online. The judge didn’t buy it, though. Fucking Obama.”

Before prison, before the girl, when I first met Poundcake, he was obsessed with Anne Frank, to the point where he dressed like her, with a horrible synthetic wig and a bright yellow star hand-sewed to all of his clothing.

By the beginning of junior high, he started skipping classes every day to hide in the attic of his mom’s house, pretend all of the people in our subdivision were Nazis (which was at least partly true, if you ever took a look at our homeowner’s association newsletters,) and scrawl his thoughts in a spiral notebook diary.

His attic was lined that Owens Corning pink fiberglass insulation, which tore apart his skin like a chemical warfare weapon every time he hid up there. And modern notebook paper contains so many chemicals and post-recycled waste, it turns brown and disintegrates and gets eaten alive by dust mites in a matter of months, so all of his entries were basically unreadable, the deranged ramblings of a man gone insane by insulation toxicity.

The poor fuck ended up spending two semesters in the lockdown ward of the local children’s hospital, hooked on oxycontin for insulation exposure, babbling incoherent conspiracy theories about how Anne Frank’s diary really talked about chemtrails and the upcoming UFO armageddon, but her dad cut out everything before release. He got off oxys by smoking hashish his uncle brought back from ‘Nam, but liked to dabble in schedule-ones after that.

Now, twenty years later, the cycle repeats, the same madness, a different plastic window and intercom system, a different end game. You talk about nothing, about sports and which neighbors have fallen down the drug k-hole, have ended up in other prisons for stealing copper wire or killing people at Black Friday sales.

He asks for a Satanic Bible, but you can’t get it past the guards.

You promise to mail him a cake with a bottle of your aunt’s Percocet baked into the center, but you know it won’t get there on time. You think his death will be a huge thing, like when they fried those Lindberg baby guys, but the state kills people more often than Gucci Mane drops new albums.

Virgil’s death got a single line on the news pages, and it got pushed out of circulation when Kim Kardashian tweeted that she liked coffee enemas. You think death would bring closure, but like every other thing in life, it doesn’t.

You leave, and stumble through the streets of a previous era, a different city, another case of horrific digestive system failure. Your rental car looks like every other car, and you think you parked it by a Chinese restaurant, but it’s Chinatown and everything is a Chinese restaurant. Every car is the same, every restaurant is the same, every life is the same. You consider ditching your entire life, maybe starting over, spending another ten years in school, becoming an autistic biologist who sits around slicing up brains and mounting them on slides, anything that doesn’t involve people or talking.

Poundcake is a metaphor for the voice in your skull telling you everything is wrong, nothing is worth living. Even after he is no longer alive, the metaphor remains.

Steven Eggleton


I remember my mom woke us up early that day. It was Saturday and we usually slept in.

My sister was running around the apartment screaming.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

It had been almost a year since we had seen my father, but here we were getting ready to go see him. My mom was wearing lipstick and an unusually tight skirt. Her tits pushed up through the top of her low-cut blouse.

I hadn’t seen her this “dressed up” in a while.

“Come on, Jimmy. Get your ass in gear. We gotta be at the Dairy Queen in a half hour,” she said.

My sister was wearing the dress my grandmother had gotten her for Easter, and she screamed as my mother ran a brush through her hair, trying to tame the mess she usually let run wild. I went to my room and came out in some old corduroys and my polo shirt with the little fire breathing dragon on the pocket.

“Jimmy, that fuckin’ shirt has a stain,” my mom observed with a cigarette dangling from her lips. “You kids are gonna be the fuckin’ death of me! Get over here.”

She sprinkled some water on my head and her cheap perfume burned my nose as she combed my stick-straight hair back down into its normal bowl shape. I looked like an adolescent Captain Kangaroo.

As we rushed out the front door, our neighbor Mr. Hernandez (who had been trying to fuck my mother since he moved in), sat on his porch smoking a stub of a cigar.

“Looking good, Linda!” he called after her.

My mom flashed him her “whatever asshole smile” as she ushered us into our old green station wagon with one hubcap. As she worked the gas and ignition simultaneously, the old beast sputtered and coughed to life with a thick plume of gray exhaust, and we rode off into the distance leaving Hernandez and his cheap cigar behind.

I crawled over the seat and and into the back of the station wagon and flipped through an old “Choose Your Own Adventure” book, going back a few pages every so often to redirect the tale. It was something to pass the time.

I guess my father had called my mother the night before, telling her he’d be blowing through town that day and he’d like to see us if we had time. So here we were on a Saturday morning, driving to the Dairy Queen on Park and Valencia.

It was mid-October so the mornings were crisp and cool, and the breeze made it feel even colder than it really was. How anyone could think this was ice cream weather was beyond me.

We pulled into the parking lot and I saw my dad sitting at one of the concrete tables out front. His hair had grown down past his collar and he was sporting a thick mustache. He was in short sleeves and he blew into his hands for warmth as he walked up to our car window.

“Wouldn’t you know it,” he chuckled. “It’s fucking closed.”

His eyes were red and his knuckles scabbed over. He had the faint yellow outline of a bruise circling his eye. My sister jumped out of the car and ran over to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” she said. We all got out of the car and joined my dad at one of the tables. “What the fuck happened to you?” my mother asked him.

“Yeah, Daddy, what happened to your hands and face?” my sister asked, touching his cheek from her seat on his lap.

“Ahhh, you know. Just some bad guys your daddy had to take care of,” he shrugged it off. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t ya cowboy?” he said, tussling my hair.

My mom dug in her purse for another cigarette, then got up to take a closer look at his eye.

“Is that whiskey I smell on your breath!?!” she asked. “I told you if we came down here you better not be fucking drunk!”

“Calm down! It’s from last night. I haven’t been drinking at all this morning,” he said.

“You lying piece of shit!” my mother said.

“Really, Linda??? You wanna do this in front of the kids right now?”

Suddenly my mom started looking around. “And where the fuck is your car, anyways?”

“It’s over there,” he said, motioning around the corner, not really wanting to answer the question.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Jim? I’m struggling to make ends meet, and you’re driving around in a goddamn Mustang!”

My mother, livid, started around the corner to get a better look.

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT BITCH??” she screamed.

In the front passenger seat sat a willowy blonde.

“Get the fuck up kids. We’re outta here,” she said, coming at us full speed.

“Just calm the fuck down Linda. Hold on. Just hold on,” my dad said, scrambling back to his car. He came rushing back just as my mom was getting into her seat. “Just wait a damn minute, would ya?” he yelled at her. “I got some stuff for the kids.”

“Here you go, sweetie,” he said, handing my sister a Barbie doll through the open window. “And here is something for you, champ.” He handed me a Luke Skywalker action figure in his Bespin fatigues. I had been wanting it for months now.“I love you guys,” he said.

As he turned around to leave, my mom attacked him. Her nails digging into his face. Blood poured from his wounds as he clutched his cheeks in agony. “You crazy bitch!” he shouted.

The blonde ran over to intervene and my mom made short work of her. Before anyone knew what was going on, my mom had pinned her on the ground and was ripping out handfuls of her hair. My sister screamed in terror as my dad tried to wrestle our mother off of her. I began honking the horn out of desperation, unsure what to do. The scene was utter chaos.

Finally, she came hobbling back to the car on one broken high heel. We peeled out of the parking lot and I watched from the back window as my father and the willowy blonde shrank in the distance. My mom was crying and my sister shook uncontrollably from the ordeal.

I slid back in my seat and looked at my new toy. The yellow molded hair and the tiny plastic gun.

My mom dropped us off at our grandma’s without even bothering to come in. She asked what we were doing there, and my sister recounted the tale for her. She led us inside after that, shaking her head and mumbling to herself.

Sitting us down at the table, she fed us cereal while the Trix rabbit stared at us, unaware of all the crazy shit in the world. His red box reminded me of my father’s bloodied face.

After being unable to get ahold of my mother all afternoon, my grandmother loaded us up in her car and decided to drive us home. When we got there, the door was cracked and the lights were all off. My grandma pushed us behind her as she slowly stepped inside.

There my mom sat all disheveled, mascara running down her cheeks. An empty bottle on the floor beside her. My grandma told us to go and play outside.

I took my new toy out into the parking lot and stared at the wall that separated us from the alley, chucking Luke Skywalker over it with all my might.

It would be three years before I’d see my father again, and even longer before I’d hear him call me son.

Arthur Graham

Euphemistic Solipsistic

Moose Knuckle, Ninja Boot, and Camel Toe walk into a bar.

The bar is called Sam’s and it’s located in one of the tougher neighborhoods of Philadelphia, the so-called city of brotherly love.

Seated at the rail, the trio has just been served their first round of drinks when they notice another trio of euphemisms at a nearby table.

“What are those queers looking at?” Ninja Boot asks his two companions.

“I dunno,” Camel Toe replies, nonchalantly swirling his scotch, “but if they keep it up, they’re gonna get their asses beat…”

“Hey,” Moose Knuckle says, “here comes one of them now.”

“Yo fellas,” Bearded Clam begins, sauntering up. “Guess y’all just hadn’t heard, but this here’s our bar, so me and my boys here are gonna have to ask you three to leave.”

“Oh yeah?!” Camel Toe shoots back, jumping off his stool and into Bearded Clam’s face.

“Yeah,” replies Ham Wallet, suddenly appearing beside Bearded Clam. “There just ain’t enough room for more than one trio of euphemisms in this bar.”

“Yeah, well fuck you,” Ninja Boot says, turning away from them and back to his drink.

“You dudes wanna start something?” asks Beef Curtains, storming over to join Bearded Clam and Ham Wallet.

“Now wait a minute guys,” Moose Knuckle interjects, coming between Camel Toe and Bearded Clam. “There’s no need to fight over this. We’re all reasonable adults here, so I’m betting we can resolve this issue without resorting to violence.”

“Oh yeah?” Bearded Clam says, staring down Camel Toe hard. “How’s that?”

“I say we start by discussing the validity of your request and the method by which we’ll determine who gets to stay and who doesn’t,” Moose Knuckle suggests.

“Well, to start with,” Beef Curtains says, “it makes more sense for euphemisms of our kind to focus on edible items – dovetails more nicely with the whole ‘eating pussy’ thing, ya know?”

“But that’s fallacious reasoning,” Ninja Boot replies, pausing to take a swig of beer. “Moose and camels can be eaten, too. And, come to think of it, so can ninja.”

“You may have a point there,” Ham Wallet concedes, “but what you’re talking about is the literal consumption of things. Like ‘eating pussy’, we at least keep things on the figurative level.”

“Well,” says Camel Toe, “so what if you’re figurative in one sense? We’re figurative in another.”


“But it’s true!” Moose Knuckle persists. “Whereas you three are just unappetizing food metaphors, we three are pretty clever podiatric metaphors.”

“Okay, but…”

It is then that yet another trio walks into the bar.

“Aww mannn…” Beef Curtains sighs. “Who the hell are you guys?”

“Hey. Pink Taco.”

“Sup. Whisker Biscuit.”

“Vagina. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Melanie Brown

Tarzan and Jane Discuss Identity Politics

The first time Jane discussed identity politics with Tarzan, they ended up in the bedroom. Jane was wearing those silky hose that she knew drove Tarzan mad with wild lust. She tried explaining to Tarzan that she was a progressive democrat and that she was staunchly pro-choice. He just kept grunting and rubbing her legs. Jane was trying to figure out where Tarzan might fall on the political spectrum. She was trying to get him to take a quiz on Facebook.

Tarzan wasn’t interested in Facebook. He wanted to poke Jane for real, in his bed. Jane started to think the situation was hopeless. Tarzan might never make up his mind about his political affiliation. After a while, she persuaded Tarzan to take the quiz.

They were shocked to see he identified with the Paleoconservatives. Tarzan looked at Jane to gauge her reaction, but Jane was staring at his loins. Tarzan swept Jane into his arms and showed her his new Tempur-Pedic, covered with a chinchilla/rabbit comforter. Tarzan poked Jane until they were both exhausted.

Then he showed her how to swing into the next room where he poured them some orange juice and they watched cage boxing.

Arthur J. Willhelm

i’m an artist

yesterday i
watched through
your window as
you made breakfast
i wanted you to
feel me
i wondered if you
could feel my
eyes like hands
running up your
sides touching
your thighs
like fingers
touching your lips
running through
your hair grabbing
your hips
pressing against
your ass
i wondered if
you knew that
i was watching or
if you knew
what I was thinking
i’m an artist
and the view
from the fence
is spectacular.

Tami Richardson

Skin Flakes

He’s a twisted bastard. I awake, his legs on my shoulders. His cock in my face.

“Suck it!” he screams, pressing hard against my lips.

I give it one exploratory lick. Taste of sweat, cum, my own pussy.

“Take a fucking shower, It’s been three fucking days already!”

“Suck my cock you dirty bitch!”

I shake my head no. He pins me down completely, stroking it furiously, rubbing it against my mouth. I close my eyes tight and wait for him to finish.

I can feel it as he cums; warm, wet, and sticky. I lick my lips, sweet and slightly salty at the same time. It drips down my chin, down my neck, slowly pooling on my chest.

He gets up and I turn on the fan, already plotting my revenge.

“You mad, baby?” he calls from the kitchen.

“No babe, of course not.”

I walk up behind him as he pours the milk in his cereal. His spunk (dried now) has begun flaking off, like skin after a bad sunburn.

I scrape some off with my nails.

He gets up to go grab a spoon. I sprinkle the flakes in his bowl when his back is turned.

He returns to the table and digs in. After 3 or 4 bites, I’m laughing so fucking hard I just have to tell him.

“You sick fucking bitch!”

He finishes the bowl anyway.

“I love you!” he says and tries to kiss me.

I run.

Jeff O’Brien

An Observational Piece of Flash Fiction I Will Probably Never Publish

It was just as the muscular, tank-topped guy named Bradley began regaling his friends about the chick he’d fucked six ways to Sunday last night when he noticed two new patrons enter the cigar bar.

Both were well dressed and finely groomed. Neither had a single hair out of place, and one of them was wearing a pink dress shirt.

Bradley’s first thought was that these two were obviously queers, so what the fuck were they doing in his favorite establishment?

And since when did homos even smoke cigars?

Resuming his story of the prior night’s events, describing how this chick had deep-throated his massive cock like she was trying to give herself an endoscopy, he couldn’t help but be distracted by how close the newcomers were now sitting at the bar.

Great, he thought, not only are they fags, but they have to flaunt it, too.

He continued his tale seemingly undaunted, going on to describe how he’d next thrown this bitch down on her back, demolishing her pussy like his gargantuan dick was Exxon-Mobil and fracking her cunt like it was the Saudi Arabian Ghawar oil field.

From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the poofs lean over and give the other a kiss on the cheek. This deliberate display of gayness was completely uncalled for, but he didn’t let it hinder him from resuming the story that had his buddies wrapt in anticipation, wondering what would happen next.

With extra careful attention to detail, he explained how her tight little slit was barely able to accommodate his mighty trouser python, so in an altruistic act of kindness, he titty-fucked the shit out of her for a while instead. As he did so, he heard the two fairies give the waitress their order, which consisted of a raspberry vodka tonic and an amaretto sour. To make matters even more unbearable, the two queens had begun holding hands as the waitress went to get their drinks.

Bradley was visibly irritated by this point, but proceeded on nonetheless to explain how the tit-bang got boring, so he bent her over and gauged out her shit locker like his turgid hogleg was the gopher from Caddyshack burrowing the depths beneath the golf course.

Finally, he concluded his saga with a retelling of how the chick had begged him to grab her by the hair and spray her face like it was a canvas and his exploding cock was Jackson Pollock.

Upon the tale’s completion, Bradley and his bros found they had little else to talk about, and so they just ordered another round of beers and stogies instead.

“Ya know,” Bradley began, nonchalantly eyeing the gays who were now quietly puffing on their cigars, “if they wanna be gay that’s fine. But why do they gotta flaunt it so much?”

“Word,” agreed one of his friends. “Like, it’s not as if we sit here flaunting how straight we are…”

John Grey

One Day in August

I’m seated at an outdoor cafe
sipping coffee, reading a novel,
when a thing in tattered clothes stumbles by
pursued by an angry mob
wielding tire irons and baseball bats.

It’s a hot, stifling day.
The beach is closed from contamination.
The blood-bars don’t open until three.
This is bound to happen.


Irvin Lee

I Submit To The Magazines

I submit to the magazines,
and I do this with a smile
and sugar in my heart.
And I submit again
and they reject me.
Tell me that they’re
thankful for my time
but it’s just not what
they’re looking for right now.
Tell me that my poems
make their vaginas dry.
I submitted to the New Yorker;
I should be hearing back soon.
I bet their vaginas are drying up too.
I bet the whole world is eating
their flax seeds and salmon now.

Irvin Lee

To The Boys Becoming Men

Choke her because she likes it;
she’s fresh and she can take it.
If the doorbell rings ignore it.
Your penis will die
if you don’t feed it healthy vagina
or monthly wanks.
We are all wild and fragile things.
Put your pride aside,
life is already too short.
Don’t run from love,
let love motorboat your balls
and dry hump you
’til you say hell yeah.
Life has teeth
that chews asses to shards,
just be careful
with picking up the pieces.
Stand tall and with confidence;
if you don’t then
someone will step on your neck,
and god knows
we have too many people
on this earth with broken necks.