Ian Copestick

Denny Mallory

Denny Mallory was a kid I went to school with, and even then you could tell that there was something seriously wrong.

Both him and his sister always looked kind of feral. They both had haircuts that looked like they’d been done by their mother with a blunt butter knife.

Now, I’m not knocking them for being poor, most of the kids that went to my school had families that were poor, myself included.

But this was something beyond poor, even beyond neglect. Denny missed most of his last year at school because he had ringworm, and this was 1989, not the 1930s.

Anyway after his last day at school, Denny decided to make some money for himself. So he burgled a house in which the parents and 3 children were all asleep. As he was leaving, with his bag marked “swag”, good ol’ Denny noticed that he had left big, dirty footprints all over the floor.

He knew that this kind of forensic evidence would be more than helpful to the police.
So what did Denny do?

Get rid of his shoes, perhaps ?

Maybe burn them.

Not Denny, he decided to set fire to the house with all 5 people in there asleep.

I don’t know what happened, but luckily the family woke up, nobody died, and dumb ol’ Denny got 30 years for 5 charges of attempted murder.

Now, fast forward 15 years to when Denny gets out of prison.

The guy has been locked up since the day he left school, aged 16. Like anyone else, he’s bound to have urges, I don’t know what his sex life was like in jail, but he definitely hasn’t slept with a woman for 15 years.

So, what does Denny do on his first day of release ?

On the very first night that he’s out of jail, he rapes the first woman that speaks to him.
So now Denny is locked up again, and this time let’s hope that they don’t let him out again.
If there’s a factory up in heaven, where God keeps churning out souls, then there’s bound to be some rejects now and then.

I think that’s what our Denny is, a fuck up from start to finish.

Matthew Licht


We worked for a magazine publisher downtown. Not exactly together. My job was to write a monthly breast fetish magazine. She was some kind of secretary. Everyone called her Flapjacks, but not to her face. Whenever anyone in the office mentioned her, I saw pennants on sailboats, or prayer-flags beating in the wind that howls from the Himalayas.

One day Flapjacks asked if I’d come have breakfast with her. I thought she wanted to buy pot, since that was how I rounded out my salary.

There was a Cuban diner on the same block as the smut factory’s editorial suite. I ordered cafe con lecheand a medianoche sandwich (recipe below*), she asked for eggs, sunny side up.

“Bon appetit,” I said, when the waitress shuffled away.

“Check this out,” she said, and smashed her breakfast all over her secretarial blouse.

The heavy plate clanked down onto the table in our booth. Grease from the eggs turned the shirt transparent. Everyone stared. 

“Don’t ask me why,” she said, “but I always wanted to do that.” 

  • Bocadillo Medianoche: slice a baguette down the middle, toast on griddle, slather with butter, stuff with boiled ham, cheese, sliced pickles. Spurt some hot sauce on it.

Matthew Licht

The Essence

The doctor said, “Cancer.”

Silence fell. 

“Where is it, Doc?” 

“Where’s what?” Maybe he thought I meant, the Truth, the Meaning of Life, the gold. Even if he knew, he wouldn’t tell me.

“The cancer.”

“It’d be simpler to tell you where it’s not: the reproductive system.”

High school biology was a long time ago. “Could you please be more specific?”

“The gonads. Genitalia. Your cock and balls.”

He didn’t say how much time was left, but the implication was: not much.

Every human being wants to leave some trace of his existence behind. I should’ve painted a picture, or written a book, or welded some car-wrecks together. Too late now.

Life occasionally shows a sign. This is the Meaning. This is the Truth. This is where the gold is hidden. The sign next to The Sign said WE BUY GOLD$$$, but I had none to sell. I entered the Sperm Bank. 

The reception desk nurse didn’t even look up. She was reading a supermarket tabloid with UFOs on the cover. 

I cleared my throat a few times. 

She looked up, eyes glazed with wonder at the existence of heavenly beings who visit the Earth in sparkling streamlined spaceships. She could tell I wasn’t one of them. “What do you want?”

“This is a sperm bank, right? I want to donate.”

She had a good laugh. “You?”

“Payment in cash, please.”

Oh man I slew her. “We pay some donors.” She opened a drawer in the reception desk, scrounged around for petty cash. “How ‘bout uh, two bucks and 73 cents?”

“Hand it over,” I said. “I’ll go get a burger first. For energy.”

“We only pay on delivery, sir.”

“Where’s the delivery room?”

She jerked a thumb at a hospital-green curtain. “Take some fantasy material,” she said, and shoved a worn magazine across the desk.

“Listen,” I whispered. “We could do this together.”


“Look, I don’t need dirty pictures. I want you.”


“You’re a nurse. You’re supposed to help sick people. I have cancer.”

Her look said, I bought this nurse outfit at the Salvation Army. “I’ll bring you a hamburger when we’re done,” I said.

“Got yourself a deal, mister.”

Satan swung his scythe at my colon.

The donation chamber stank of sweat and embalming fluid. She shoved me in first, to prevent escape, and flicked on the light.

“Pull down your pants,” she said.

She sniggered. “Oh man I’ve seen cock-a-roaches in here bigger than that.”

“Gets bigger,” I said. “Open up your labcoat.”

“You lay a finger on me, I’ll put you in the emergency room.”

She could’ve KO’ed Sonny Liston. I got busy. Nothing doing.

“Turn around,” I said. “Hike your skirt and shake it.”

She laughed, but she did it. 

It was warm in the donation chamber. I unbuttoned my shirt.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” she said. “Have you ever even thought about taking a shower?”

“Hot water lowers the sperm count,” I said. “Didn’t they teach you that at Nurse College?”

“Hurry it up,” she said. “Somebody else might come in.”

“You want a rush job? Help me out.”

She reached for my thing like it was a foaming rat. She grunted and tried to get it hard, or tear it off. Sonny Liston would’ve begged for mercy. 

“Quit whining,” she said.

“It’s not gonna happen if you do it that way. Lube me.”

She hawked and spat. 

“Hey! That’s not what I…” Her lunger was magic. “Oh baby.”

“Yeah I know that’s why they hired me,” she said.

“You’re a goddess,” I said. “Wish we coulda…”

“Shut up and concentrate. My wrist gets tired easy.”

“Could I, like, touch you?”

“You wanna wind up in the morgue, go right ahead.”

The lightbulb frazzed and went out. 

“Hurry it up, fool,” she said. 

Holding back was never my strong suit. She slammed something hard onto my penis and unclenched. 


The stuff of life squirted into an inanimate plastic tube.

“I love you” I whispered. 

“Sure. Now go get me that hamburger. I’m hungry.”

She didn’t think that what happened between us was love. But I fixed her. I ate both burgers. 

Leah Mueller

The Lust Peddlers

“Hello, this is Tracey. Which ad are you answering?”

“Tracey. This is Bob.” The man paused briefly, and I could hear the furtive sound of rustling trouser fabric. Bob forged ahead: “I saw an ad in the back of the Reader. It says, ‘Meet sexy friends who like to travel. Call Tracey.” There was a deep silence, fraught with one-sided tension. “Will these women really come long distance to meet me?”

Every call began in this manner. Every woman who answered the phone was Tracey, unless one of the men probed further, and we wanted to close the sale. At that point, it was safe to reveal our Phone Slut names, so we could create the illusion of intimacy. My Phone Slut name was Melissa, but most of the time, I preferred the anonymity of Tracey. Tracey got the job done.

My job entailed selling packets of women’s names, addresses, and phone numbers for $25.00 to men who were horny but lazy. It was 1980, and phone sex for hire was still nonexistent. However, the lust for phone sex was raging and omnipresent, and men called Tracey all the time. Sometimes, an especially desperate man actually ordered one of the packets. A few days later, a thick envelope stuffed with the names of traveling swingers arrived at his doorstep. The postal carrier collected the COD charges and left the hapless buyer with a worthless list. Astonishingly, many of the women’s names had originally been obtained through legitimate means. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, 300 desperate females had agreed to have their contact information provided to a nation of sexually starved would-be Lotharios. Now, several months later, most of the phone numbers on the list were disconnected.

The boss, Bill, was rarely around, but his photograph hung in our office. In the picture, Bill and his wife Jo Ann sat naked on a Naugahyde couch. Bill’s legs were spread wide, and an expression of cartoonish ecstasy was plastered on his face. Jo Ann grasped his enormous penis firmly in one hand. Above the photo, someone had written “Our fearless leaders!” in bold lettering. It was best to sit with our backs to the photo and pretend it didn’t exist.

We did have a supervisor — Lorraine, a statuesque woman who was in the midst of an ongoing sex change operation. Lorraine’s salary was so low that the process had to be done in installments. She sported perfect melon breasts, but rumor held that she was still saving up to have her penis removed. Lorraine didn’t talk about her penis. She was a cheerful woman, with a good sense of humor, and she allowed us to do whatever we wanted.

Most of the time, we wanted to ridicule the men who called TNT Enterprises. These fellows believed that sexually ravenous women would spend several hundred dollars on plane fare so they could exchange body fluids with strange men who lived on the opposite end of the continent. Some of the guys were slightly cleverer. They bypassed the sales process entirely and attempted to pull us directly into their fantasies. One of my favorites was a man who liked to play a porn tape in the background while I discussed the benefits of obtaining Tracey’s list. Whenever I picked up the phone for one of his calls, I could hear pre-recorded voices screaming “Oh, YES!” in the background.

A few seconds into my pitch, the fellow always asked, “Can you excuse me a moment?” and turned his face away from the receiver. He then shouted, “Would the two of you be QUIET?! I’m trying to use the phone!” He returned to our conversation immediately afterward. “I don’t know why they’re always going at it,” he’d say with sheepish exasperation.

A particularly frightening man called several times a week while masturbating with a vacuum cleaner. We could hear the electrified sucking noise. It nearly drowned out the man’s voice, which was surprisingly timid. “I’m using a vacuum cleaner on my dick,” he’d say quietly. We ridiculed him without mercy. “Why, is it really dirty?” one of us would howl, to which he always replied, “Yes. Very dirty. I’ve been so bad.”

This wasn’t surprising, since Chicago was a Catholic town. But, as Bill had hugely successful ads in a variety of national publications, it became clear that the entire country was pretty fucked up. He was on a mission to provide sexual relief to as many men as possible, and even appeared on a local radio show, proclaiming, “I’m offering an essential service for a reasonable fee. In New York, I’d be a pornographer. In Chicago, I’m a philosopher.” No one had the slightest idea what he meant.

It was rumored that Bill and Jo Ann lived in a 20-room mansion in one of the northern suburbs. It was also rumored that Bill’s doctors had given him a prescription for the maximum allowable dosage of pharmaceutical anti-depressants. Meanwhile, his minions labored above a secondhand store on Howard Street, while seated at mismatched tables that were covered with nests of haphazardly arranged phones. Our pay was five dollars an hour, plus a five dollar bonus for each guy who actually paid for his packet when it arrived at his door.

My co-workers and I were in our early twenties-a ragged crew of misfits who were unable, for various reasons, to hold any sort of corporate job. The bespectacled, pimply fellow who wrote our ad copy held a journalism degree from Northwestern University. He’d wanted to be a screenwriter, but somehow landed a job churning out porn instead. We had sex occasionally, even though he was in love with Astrid, a blonde German girl who usually sat to my left. All of us were cynical beyond our years, a fact that was exacerbated by the sordid nature of our job. We were too young to handle our daily immersion into the shadow side of male sexuality, so we ruthlessly made fun of it instead.

Other than Lorraine, the only middle-aged employee was a woman named Martha. None of us could fathom why she had decided to work for TNT Enterprises. I suspected that she was in the throes of a particularly difficult midlife crisis. Martha had a comparatively lucrative day job, working as a secretary for the Chicago Board of Education. She was married to a cop, but after 20 years, she could no longer stand the sight of him. Martha’s husband was extremely upset by her decision to moonlight as a Phone Slut. He called constantly, demanding to speak to her, threatening to use his vast network of police connections to shut the phone room down. Obviously, his connections were not as helpful as he imagined, because cops often walked past the door of our building, without so much as a glance in our direction.

All of us had repeat callers, men who requested us by name, but Martha was the worst of the lot. She had several suitors who phoned insistently. They always asked shyly, “Please, can I speak to Miss Martha?” We’d hand Martha the receiver and then watch, dumbfounded and amused, as she spun a completely inauthentic web of enchantment around the poor fools. Martha had a puzzling weakness for Southern men with thick, almost unintelligible accents, men who said “ma’am” and “I’m fixing to come” while they masturbated. Martha egged them on because she had nothing else to do except go home and listen to torrents of abuse. Who could blame her, really?

For several weeks in a row, Martha had carried on with a man named Buddy. Buddy’s accent was straight out of “Deliverance.” He owned a gas station in Alabama, in a town so tiny that he was on a first-name basis with all of its inhabitants. The work was abysmally dull, and Buddy was lonely. All of the girls he’d fancied in high school were married to football stars and wealthy farming magnates, and every day he had to sell soda and candy bars to their grimy, demanding children.

Buddy was in love with Martha, and he wanted desperately to meet her. He proclaimed his love fervently and loudly. We could hear him all over the phone room, as we sat in our chairs with our hands over our mouths, trying desperately not to laugh. There was something poignant about Buddy’s ardor, and we were reluctant to hurt his feelings. Also, the routine was so entertaining that we didn’t want to hasten its ending.

Three days beforehand, Martha had looked especially rattled when she hung up the phone. “I’ve gone too far,” she announced. “Buddy purchased an airplane ticket, and he’s flying out to meet me next Thursday. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve been leading him on this entire time. What the hell should I do?” None of us had an answer.

I was deliberating about the possibility of going home early one uncharacteristically mellow night, when my phone jangled sharply. I lifted the receiver, and Buddy’s thick twang assaulted my eardrums. “Is Martha there, ma’am?” he asked politely. I placed my hand over the mouthpiece and gestured towards Martha. She shook her head vehemently, a look of terror in her eyes. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Could you talk to him? Tell him I quit or something.”

Resolutely, I removed my hand from the mouthpiece. “I have terrible news, Buddy,” I said, without missing a beat. “Martha quit a couple of days ago. She got up from her desk and said, ‘I can’t take this anymore.’ Then she walked out the door, and no one has heard from her since.”

There was brief, stunned silence, then Buddy emitted a low, shuddering gasp. “Oh no,” he said. “Did she tell anybody where she was going? Does anyone know where she lives?”

“I’m afraid not,” I replied. “None of us can say we really knew Martha.” I paused for a moment and gazed around the room. Astrid and Lorraine were convulsed with silent laughter, slumped over their desks, their shoulders heaving. Struck by sudden inspiration, I reached over to a stack of papers on my desk and jostled it slightly. “Wait, here’s an envelope,” I said. “It says ‘To Buddy, from Martha.’ Let me open it.” I rustled the papers again. “Dear Buddy, I am so sorry, but we can never be together. I will always love you and treasure our conversations. Please forgive me.”

Buddy burst into tears. “Oh God,” he sobbed. “I loved her so much.”

“I know, Buddy,” I intoned solemnly. “We all did. At least she left a note.”

“She was a wonderful person,” Buddy wept. “If you see her, tell her I still love her.”

“I certainly will,” I assured him. There was another long pause, punctuated by strangled sobs and gulping noises, as Buddy attempted to get a handle on his emotions. I waited patiently, while my co-workers writhed on their desks, trying desperately to contain their laughter. Obviously, Buddy was irrevocably shattered by Martha’s defection, and I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t fall apart before he even had the chance to hang up. There was nothing left for him now, except for the unrelenting bleakness of the town in which he resided, and his gas station duties.

Buddy’s sobs gradually subsided. “I have to go,” I said softly. I removed the receiver from my ear and prepared to return it to its cradle. “Goodbye and good luck.” Buddy suddenly regained the power of speech. “Wait!” he cried. “I have one more question.”

“Sure,” I said charitably. I was willing to do anything that would offer succor to the poor man. Perhaps I could say something that would help him get through his next few, tortured days.

“What’s YOUR name?” he asked.

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.

Angelica Arsan

Posh Cunt

Oh please shut up, I’m thinking. Please please please shut the fuck up… for God’s sake, I’m going to get up right now and bang my head against the wall if you don’t!

I’m nearly on the verge of tears, sitting with Grace in the hotel bar. For almost an hour, the noise of the Parisian traffic has been the only background to her uninterrupted, exhausting monologue about herself.

Grace is the youngest in the crew, a freshly trained English girl of 22. British upper class family, excellent education, a blonde-haired blue-eyed beauty who’d caught my attention since we first met. Today’s flight had been sheer torture indeed: just imagine what it was like to deal with the tempting proximity of her body, in the confined spaces of a plane… the accidental touch, the traces of her scent, the exchanging of glances across the aisle… no need to say that I’ve been looking forward to finally being alone with her.

My plan? To drink the Princess under the table and fuck her mercilessly all night long. Instead, turns out I’m still sitting here, listening to the ramblings of this pampered child who — to make matters worse! — has just chugged an entire bottle of Chablis without even flinching. Definitely there were some flaws in my plan.

“So I won this ballet contest and I was admitted as a junior associate in the Royal… and I was the most talented of all, by the way. Not to mention that I’ve always been an A student and…”

Oh, shit, I can’t stand this. I’m mentally tearing her expensive clothes off… licking her high-class English clit… biting her divine ass… making her scream in that posh accent of hers. This time, the odds seem to be against me, though. This fucking chatterbox is a desperate case.

I order another bottle from a waiter passing by. Keep filling up her glass, out of sheer stubbornness. Come on, Angie. It’s now or never. I clear my throat, touch her hand across the table, a smile sweeter than honey on my face.

“What about the guys, Gracey darling?” I ask. “How many hearts have those lovely eyes already broken?”

“Well,” she giggles, “before joining the crew, I had this gorgeous boyfriend in Oxford who had my name tattooed on his bicep, you know. He drove me around in his Bentley, bought me a Cartier wristwatch and…”

Oh fuck… there’s no way out. I raise my hands to interrupt her.

“Okay, okay, I got it: your life has been terrific and your bloke was fantastic. What I mean is, I hope you had some fun between a ballet class and exams. Keeping that sexy body all for yourself… it would be a shame.” I give her hand a light squeeze. Under the table, my leg tentatively brushes against hers. “Take me, for instance. Never been afraid of experimenting. Why, I was only fourteen when I first made out with a girl.”

“Whaaat? Good Lord, I could never do THAT!” she cries, downing a gulp of Chablis. Is she finally starting to look a bit dizzy? “I’ve never even thought about that. I mean, it’s…”

“…just wonderful, honey. No man could ever lick you better than a woman. Think about it. We have no bristly beards, for starters!”

She laughs, almost choking on her drink; the wine is definitely working. I’m licking my lips in anticipation…

“Oh Angie, you’re so naughty. What makes you think that I would do anything so… so kinky and disgusting and…”

She blushes, struggles for the right word, growing more lightheaded by the instant.

“Uhh, hey!” she abruptly gasps. “What are you doing??”

I’m caressing her knee under the table.

“Maybe you would like it… who knows?” I say, running my hand up her bare thigh, too aroused now to stop. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you feel like trying something new for once, Gracey darling?”

“Angie, let go,” she slurs, leaving my hand exactly where it is. We’re keeping eye contact across the table; she looks like an animal caught in the headlights.

“This is… inappropriate. Sooo-o-o TOTALLY inappropriate…”

The way she says it is such a turn-on… And I just can’t wait anymore.

“Nobody would ever know, Gracey. It would be our secret, our diiirty little secret… You want to know what it is like, don’t you? Here’s your chance; don’t waste it!”

She reaches under the table and entagles her fingers with mine.

“I’m feeling quite strange, Angie. I’m afraid I’m not quite myself…”

“Enjoy that feeling, baby… and I’ll take you places you’ve never been before, trust me.”

Moments later, the elevator doors are closing behind us. Destination: 4th floor, my room. I glance at myself in the mirrored wall, thinking:

Easy now, Angie. One wrong move and…

It happens so quickly that I don’t even have time to react.

Grace throws me against the wall with all her might, pressing her body against mine and yanking back my hair. She fumbles for the emergency button behind her, stopping the lift between floors.

“You filthy little slut,” she hisses in my ear, “you’ve made me so wet… And now you’d better get ready, ‘cos I AM GONNA EAT YOU ALIVE!!! GOT IT???”

I’m speechless. Breathless. Utterly paralyzed. She tears my blouse asunder, and for once in my life I hear myself saying:

“Wait, wait… m-maybe we shouldn’t do this… I-I mean…”

“Shut up,” she snarls, “you filthy fucking BITCH.”

Groping my tits and biting my neck, she lets one hand slide down to my ass, leaving the other clamped firmly to my breast. She gives my nipple a vicious pinch, prompting me to cry out in pain as she attacks my neck like a savage beast. When I finally turn to kiss her, she pushes her tongue so far down my throat, my moans are muffled by her own voracious lust.

I cry out once more as she shoves her hand down the back of my skirt, yanking my thong to the side. Still relentlessly devouring my mouth, she wastes no time in jamming her finger up my ass. Pain and pleasure begin to mount simultaneously as her free fingers sink into my pussy from behind. Thrusting hard into both holes, banging my body up against the wall, she’s almost on the verge of fisting me now, fucking me up to her knuckles.

I glance over at her deranged reflection, barely recognizing the cunt-crazed monster she’s become. If we hadn’t been together this whole entire time, I’d suspect she was coked out of her head. Christ, it couldn’t just be the wine… she’s transformed into a fucking fury. Even her posh accent has somehow completely vanished.

I’m vaguely conscious that I’m being raped…

…and that I am her most willing victim.

“You wanted me to be naughty, didn’t you?” she whispers in my ear. “Is THIS what you had in mind?””

NO!!! I scream internally. In fact this is infinitely BETTER, you nutty fucking bitch!

“You like it, huh? You’re ENJOYING this, you dirty French whore, AREN’T you?”

I can’t reply, can’t even breath, really. Shuddering in waves of pre-climax convulsions, I finally explode in a devastating orgasm that floods down my thighs, breaking like a dam of warm juices into the palm of her hand. She keeps on fucking me regardless, propping me up as I collapse fully onto her, exhausted.

As I try to pull myself together, I catch another glimpse of her in the mirror. The haughty smirk on her face says it all:

“You got what you asked for, slut… And now you know what high-class girls are made of.”

Needless to say, the first thing I do when I’m back in my room is call down to the desk for an ice pack.

Shit, I guess those posh cunts can be deceiving…

Like being fucked by a goddamn infantry battalion…

Angelica Arsan


Here we are, I say to myself, looking down to the glittering sea below us, pushing the trolley down the aisle.

Spain… After months of traveling to cold, dull destinations, I’ll finally be able to enjoy the lovely climate of the seaside. No sooner than we’ve landed in Barcelona, my mood hightens at the sight of the city and the beauty of its architecture. And, of course, I’m also looking forward to exploring its legendary nightlife as well.

The company taxi takes us to our hotel after a short drive through the suburbs. It’s a nice summer evening; my colleague Emily and I are fidgeting in the backseat, planning a night out on La Rambla. This sexy brunette from New Zealand has been on this route for years, so if anyone knows how to have fun in this city, it’s her.

After a quick dinner we’re ready to go. We both look gorgeous: short dresses revealing bare shoulders and cleavages, red lips, high heels — the works. Two smiling hostesses transformed into sexy creatures of the Spanish movida… with a whole day off tomorrow to recover from its excesses, as well.

We arrive at the beach club at around midnight. The place is so diabolically crowded we can’t even see the entrance, but it isn’t long before a bouncer spots us and beckons us forward. We push our way through throngs of barely dressed teenage girls and muscular guys in tight T-shirts (aptly pushed forward by their hands on our bottoms) until the bouncer has us both by the waist, pulling us tight against his hips.

Once he’s made sure we’ve both felt the bulge in his Levi’s, he stamps the back of our hands and lets us in. Emily and I steal glance at each other, a glance meaning: Yummy… let’s keep him in mind for later, just in case.

Emily was right: this place is really cool. Enormous mirrored balls suspended over the dance floor, red velvet curtains, lights flashing all around. Boys and girls are drinking, making out against the walls, dancing — all of them looking young and sexy and wasted.

We reach the bar and get our drinks, sipping them beside the DJ booth, where this very good-looking guy (black Stetson, white swimsuit, jackboots… and nothing else) is smiling at us. I smile back and he gets closer. He’s holding a mojito.

“Hola,” he says. Long fair hair, a ring in his left nipple. Maori tattoos adorn his bulging biceps and perfect abs.

“Hi, cowboy. Speak English?”

He laughs. “A little. Estudiantes? Are you students?”

“Oh God, do we look like students?” Emily protests, saying ‘students’ as if she were saying ‘whores’. “We’re airline hostesses, darling. Off-duty and looking for fun.”

“I see…” His drinks us in with his eyes and subtly licks his lips. “You’re in the right place, then,” he says. “My name’s Carlos. Wanna dance?”

Not waiting for an answer, he leaves his mojito on a table and grabs us both, dragging us out onto the dance floor behind him. Primal Scream’s “Come Together” is blasting at full volume. I position myself between Emily and him, and he wastes no time in pressing his sexy body firmly against mine. His hands begin caressing my hips as I slowly grind back into him. Meanwhile, Emily is holding me by the shoulders, our mouths getting closer and closer. She teases me, licking my lips with the wet tip of her tongue.

Oh Christ, these two will bring me to absolute ecstasy… Come together, indeed!

I can feel Carlos getting hard already beneath his skimpy trunks. I’m too turned on to stop now: I grab Emily’s ass and pull her body close, and we start making out hard. The tiny piercing on her tongue is driving me wild, as it always does… especially when she licks my clit.

I can feel Carlos lifting my dress, slipping his hands between my thighs, and it seems we’re about to fuck right there on the dance floor when we’re suddenly startled by a deep voice from behind.

As Carlos backs off, I turn around to look, and what I see leaves me utterly speechless.

The tallest woman I have ever seen is standing there, fabulous and cross-armed before us. Long blonde hair, luscious lips, glittering black dress and stiletto heels… all topped off by a Nazi cap upon her head. A 6-foot-6 Marlene Dietrich. She barely looks at Carlos, who mutters something in Spanish before disappearing off in the crowd. Turns out it’s me she’s interested in, and at first I don’t know whether to be enamored or afraid.

It is then that she disarms me with a smile, spreading out across her… well, HIS face.

“Waiters are not for sale, honey,” he informs me, in the same deep voice as before. “They’re supposed to carry trays and pick up empty glasses. Only Frau Eva is allowed to enjoy their attention…”

As for Emily, she is far too pissed at the interruption to be astonished by this amazing creature. She pushes me aside and snarls: “Hey! Mind your business, you fucking freak! Why don’t you just fuck off and…”

Frau Eva laughs, baring white fangs instead of teeth.

“Awwww,” he says high feminine voice, “that really hurts me, dear… it really does!” Then, in his deep masculine tenor, “Wash your mouth out, sister. Or shall I do it for you?”

I elbow Emily in her side. “Listen, Eva,” I say, “we want no trouble, okay? We were just…”

“Oh, stop it,” she says. “Have a drink with Eva. And tell that cheeky little bitch that mi casa es su casa. No hard feelings, pretty girls: welcome to my club. I’m Eva Braun, the one and only Queen of Barcelona.”

She leads us into an alcove behind red curtains, red candles and a bottle of Jim Beam on the table. Orchids are scattered everywhere, and the strong scent of pot coming from the other ‘privés’ makes us deliciously dizzy.

Eva sits between the two of us, Emily’s legs stretched over his and my head resting on her shoulder. Soon we’re chattering like old friends and, predictably, the subject of our conversation turns to sex.

“A hostess’ sex life must must be quite interesting,” Eva says, stroking my hair. A dozen bangles tinkle on his wrist. “I mean, that ‘fuck-and-go’ attitude toward sex intrigues me a lot… You take your pleasure and leave everything behind the next day, huh?”

“Precisely,” I reply. “You’ve got nothing to lose: no jealousy, no disappointment, no expectations… because nobody knows you. Basically, there no need to be respectable.”

“That’s what my wife always says: ‘Eva, I married you to give up being respectable. It was just too tiresome’. Ha ha ha!”

“You have a wife??” Emily and I exclaim in unison.

“Claro que sí!” Eva replies. “A nice, pretty housewife. She just loves sucking on my tits…”

I consider this for a while, sipping my bourbon. Well, he does got wonderful tits… and a divine ass, to boot. A wicked thought is already taking shape within my mind, probably with the help of all the booze and joints being passed around.

“Well, I’d probably like it too, you know…” I begin to say. “I mean, I’ve never had sex with a transsexual guy before, but it must be something, that’s for sure. Sort of a threesome, like being fucked by two people at the same time.”

“Oh, Angie,” Emily giggles, “you’re such a slut!”

“So neither of you girls has ever gotten laid by a pre-op transsexual? Ooh, that’s a shaaaame!” Eva mimics the hysterical tantrum of an old queen. “That’s unconceivable, you nasty cunts. Unconceivable!”

“You know what?” I say to him, “You’re right.”

Running my hand up under the glistening fabric of his skirt, soon I’m palming one of the biggest cocks I’ve ever come across in my life.

“Hey, I suspect your wife enjoys your lower half too!”

Eva smiles, laughs, and says, “Wanna try it for yourself, young girl?”

“She’s only teasing you, Eva,” Emily laughs. “She won’t really let you do it…”

“Shut up, bitch,” I say, slapping her legs away as I climb unto Eva’s lap. “I’ve never lost a challenge in my life! Come now, Eva — let’s show my friend here what Mademoiselle Arsan is made of…”

I kiss him long and deep. He responds in kind and, soon enough, I’m grinding upon his magnificent erection.

Eva pulls my thong to the side and starts fingering me from behind, making me hot and wet. I’m dying to feel his enormous tranny prick slide all the way up inside me. I glance down at Emily, who’s caressing my ass with one hand while touching herself with the other, her eyes wide with astonishment.

As Eva begins to hike up her own dress, I rustle in my purse for a condom, opening it with my teeth and expertly rolling it down onto his big, fat cock. He lifts me by the ass and lowers me down onto it, penetrating me slowly, so I can feel just how long and thick it is. He starts thrusting into me then, hard and deep, making me delirious with delight. I take his nipples in my mouth and suck them eagerly, saliva dripping from my lips, enjoying the incredible sensation of both pleasures.

With Eva’s strong, warm hands gripping my ass cheeks, it’s almost more than I can stand before Emily slides a finger in between them. This is the point of no return, where I really lose control. Eva senses that I’m close to climaxing and keeps fucking me harder and harder; I’m moaning, almost coming, when suddenly, she stops and pushes me off of him.

“Turn around,” he commands.

He shoves me down onto the table. I feel his cock, drenched in my juices, sliding up my ass. I cry out loud, as he pins my arms behind my back, fucking me mercilessly now. Soon I’m coming and coming in spasms, an endless climax that makes me scream, but he’s not finished yet. I’ve almost fainted when he comes too, in a final thrust that leaves me breathless and trembling. I look over at Emily, her eyes shut tight, shuddering with pleasure as she comes as well.

When the taxi pulls up outside the club, we are both drunk and staggering, laughing uncontrollably. Our dresses are a mess. I vaguely realise that I’ve left my thong back in the alcove.

“I knew you were a dirty bitch, Angie… but THAT was…”

“Fucking amazing, Emily! Believe me. You should try!”

“You know what?” she says. “I will. I will, you… you… awww, you sexy bitch!”

And then she kisses me, right there in front of the driver.

Angelica Arsan

The Greeting Party

“Not so bad for a first time,” says Tony with a smirk on his face. He takes a drag off his cigarette; tilts his head to blow the smoke. He comes closer and whispers in my ear: “You’re a fast learner, Angie. Young and smart and sexy. Just perfect for this job. The world is yours babe… and now the sky, too.”

“Oh, thank you so much Captain Tony. I felt so… you know… insecure.”

“Don’t be. We’re all friends, here. Kind of a family. You’ll see.”

Captain Tony is a handsome forty-something guy, blond and tanned with bright blue eyes. His hand lingers on my shoulder as I gaze out through the glass wall of the terminal. Planes are landing on the sunny airstrip; others will soon take off. I pretend to ignore the slow, inexorable movement of his thick fingers, already tickling the straps of my bra. All I can think right now is God, I’ve made it. I’ve fucking made it. I’m a hostess. No more being broke, no more sharing a filthy dump with schoolmates, no more dating nobodies from nowhere. I’m going to…

“Here you are, naughty guys!”

Reluctantly, Tony’s fingers give up their exploration of my anatomy. The rest of the crew joins us after having raided the nearest kiosk, hands full of takeaway coffee cups and muffins. Sammy, the only (gay) male and co-pilot, has stuffed his mouth like a hamster and keeps munching on a doughnut while staring at me. I stare back. Ooh, the little twerp must be jealous.

Tony claps his hands: “Okay, time to go now. We’ll be at the hotel in ten minutes. Shit, I’m dying to get a drink and a steam…”

He doesn’t miss the chance to encircle my waist as we walk through the staff-only exit. By the time we’ve left the crowded terminal — out into the Mediterranean sunshine — his hand is placidly resting on my ass.


The room I share with Melissa is quite comfortable, with a cream-coloured carpeted floor and a huge shower. As soon as I close the door behind us, she throws herself onto the closest bed and flings her shoes across the room.

“Aaaah, holy shit… it’s over. Away with these rags. I feel the eyes of those bastards plastered on my ass for hours after work. You know what I mean, don’t you? You really are a knockout in uniform, Angie.”

I smile, looking at my reflection in the mirror. You bet I am, I think to myself. Slender figure, fierce dark eyes, pert breasts pouting from beneath the company blouse. I glance at Melissa’s reflection and notice that she’s staring at me, propped up on the bed, swinging one crossed leg in my direction. I slowly start to unbutton my blouse, keeping eye contact with her.

“So, darling. You’re very young, aren’t you?”


“Twenty-two,” she sighs. “A nice age… one feels like experimenting. On the other hand, one already has enough experience to know how to have fun, right?”

“I guess so,” I shrug. I let my blouse fall and I turn to face her, my bra now exposed to her gaze. I feel her eyes running over my skin just like invisible hands.

Mel. Green eyes, red hair, lovely face — a perfect Irish type in her early thirties. She’s sexy as hell with her milky skin and her slightly freckled nose. Her lips part almost imperceptibly as I make a few steps toward her, asking her for help.

I turn my back to her then, feeling her fingers unhook me. Her nails send shivers down my spine. I close my eyes, sighing in delight as the black bra falls at my feet.

“This job is tough, you know. Exhausting, more often than not. Be pretty, be nice, smile and let the filthy bastards squeeze your ass up and down the aisle. We all need an off-duty outlet, to loosen up a bit…”

She reaches down, caressing my belly from behind, her fingers playing over my navel. I turn to face her then, feeling strange. Dizzy. I feel the sudden impulse to shove her down, pull my black thong to the side, and push her face against my cunt right then and there. To finally release today’s tension. No doubt Melissa knows what I’m thinking, because the tips of her fingers are slipping downward now, prying at the edge of my panties.

“You’re part of it now, Angie. You’re going to have your share of fun.” She settles back down onto the bed. “Only one rule: Keep our secrets… and we’ll keep yours.”

I’m stroking her silky red hair as she kneels on all fours before me. Her face is so close that I can feel her warm breath on my cunt. A wave of lust is mounting inside, intoxicating me, driving me wild with desire. I’m thinking, oh fuck… Just do it, you sexy bitch! Do it or I’ll go insane!

“Good girl,” she murmurs low, still playing with the lace of my thong. “I feel we’ll get along quite well, honey. Just you wait and see…”

Oh Christ. I’m fucking melting…

“Well, let’s get ready for your greeting party!” she abruptly exclaims, jumping up and slapping my ass. “What are you going to wear? Something sexy, of course. Captain Tony will look like the Godfather’s Californian grandson, as usual, and Sammy… oh, Sammy found Boy George’s outfits in some Chelsea trash bin while whoring for a fish and chips dinner. But we girls are going to look just stunning tonight!“

“Crews don’t waste their free hours,” she continues, walking over to the mirror. “What else do they have, after all? Plus, this is your first time. Tonight we’re all yours…”

I’m still so hot and bothered that it takes me what feels like ages to answer. I mutter something about a short black dress. Actually, I’m not even sure that I have such a dress; all I know is that this fucking bitch has left me utterly dripping with lust.

“That’s divine, darling,” she replies. “As for me, my hair requires green. Absolutely.” She studies her face in the mirror, letting her copper-coloured locks fall upon her shoulders. “Sarah and Claire must be already at work on their hair. Leave yours like that, by the way. The unkempt look is unbearably sexy, you know.”

She winks at my reflection. I smile and poke out my tongue at hers.


The place is the coolest club in the city: 80s-inspired atmosphere, classy trance played by top DJs, crowded with wannabe models and talent scouts looking for an easy blowjob in a toilet stall. We’re sitting in a corner in the back of the club, watching Sarah dancing with a guy under the lights of the dance floor. As for Sammy, he’d disappeared with some high-school kid an hour ago. “Southern Sun” by Paul Oakenfeld is blaring all around us. Tony, who’s wearing a tuxedo and expensive Italian shoes, keeps filling our glasses with Dom Pérignon. He’s sitting like a king between Melissa and me, his hands resting on our shoulders. Needless to say he’s already drunk.

I’m talking with Claire, this impossibly beautiful blonde of twenty-five who’s admiring my black and gold Versace dress. I had to save money for six months to buy it, but I keep such nice trivia for myself.

“How long have you been crewing?” I ask her.

“Well, I mean, it’s only been two years. But, I mean, I’ve already had enough. I mean, this job is so fucking exhausting, isn’t it? I mean, of course you don’t know yet, but, well, what I mean is that…”

As she keeps I-meaning beneath the mercifully deafening music, I glance down at her cleavage, where a golden pendant dangles between her small breasts. I’d love to take those tiny little nipples in my hungry mouth, sweety… and then… Shit, Angie, pull yourself together!

After a while, Claire gets up and heads for the restroom (“I mean, to check my makeup”). Melissa takes her place beside me, gorgeous in her emerald green dress and glittering jewellery. She gives my knee a squeeze.

“So, what do you think? A good compensation, isn’t it? Crew girls’ Dolce Vita.”

“Yes, and I bet this is only the tip of the iceberg.” I entangle my fingers with hers. We both have blood-red nails, long and sharp like talons.

“I like you, Angie. You seem to know what you want. I was like you when I first started crewing, ten years ago. Still am, to a certain extent. I still know where to take my pleasure… and how.”

Her hand goes further up my thigh, and I part my knees to allow more access. Melissa pretends not to notice my fevered reaction to her touch. I’m not wearing any stockings, and her fingertips are setting my skin on fire. She slips up under the hem of my dress, her nails gently scratching my thigh.

“Crews can reach a high level of… intimacy, Angie. It’s all up to you though. So I ask you: how far do you want to go? Feel free to back off if things go a bit… too far for you. Okay?”

“What do you mean by ‘too far’?” I ask, staring at her luscious lips. I’m dying to kiss you, Mel. I’m dying to feel our tongues entangled… She leans in, giving me a whiff of her Chanel-scented neck, and whispers in my ear:

“I still don’t know what ‘too far’ means, Angie. Hence the problem.”

We look into each other’s eyes as our lips begin to touch. It’s not a kiss. It’s more like a sweet caress sending spasms of pure bliss through my body.

“Later,” she says, nodding over at Tony. He’s snoring half-conscious on the sofa. As R. Miles’ “One and One” starts playing, her fingers are already tracing the lips of my wet, quivering pussy. Somehow she’d known I wasn’t wearing anything beneath my dress.


Back at the hotel, Tony goes directly to the bar to get more booze before joining us up in his room.

The elevator doors open on our floor, where we catch Sammy struggling with the key to his room. He slurs something that sounds like “Goodnight, filthy whores” as we pass him in the hall. Rounding the corner up ahead, Sarah and Claire start giggling like a pair of teenage girls, gossiping over a schoolmate’s first fuck. Mel and I don’t even bother with them, proceeding directly to Tony’s room at the end of the hall.

We begin making out before the door even closes behind us. I’m devouring those red lips, savouring the sweet flavour of her lipstick. Our kissing grows deeper and depeer, to the point where I must wrap my arms around her neck to avoid reeling back.

She’s got me undressed in a heartbeat, tossing my dress on the floor before whipping off her own in a single swift movement.

“How many girls have you undressed in hotel rooms?” I laugh, breathless.

“More than I can remember, darling”, she replies, pushing me down onto the bed.

I’m lying on my back now, naked, watching as Mel slips out of her underthings. How fucking beautiful she is, I think to myself. She looks ten years younger, at the very least. Next thing I know, she’s lying by my side, holding me tight by the ass.

“Do you think he’ll find his way to the room?” I ask. “He was so wasted, he could barely remember his name…”

“Oh, don’t worry. He loves having two girls at once. Besides that, he can’t resist you.” She giggles. “And neither I can,” she adds, with a kiss.

“Have you got any condoms?” I ask.

“In my purse. Now, before Tony comes…” Moments later, her fingers slip in my dripping wet cunt. I moan loudly in ecstasy, but my voice is muffled by her mouth. Soon she climbs on top of me, pinning me down, fingers thrusting into me as she sucks and bites at my neck. Withdrawing one finger and sliding it up my ass, I can control myself no longer. I’m coming as I’m crying out: “Don’t stop oh Christ don’t stop!” when the door suddenly opens.

In steps Tony with a bottle of wine.

“Well,” he says, “you should have waited for the Captain, you little sluts. But please, don’t stop now on my account…” He unzips his fly and undresses, flopping down in an armchair with the already half-empty bottle. He’s got a sizable hard-on, despite the heroic amount of booze he’s consumed this evening.

I roll over on top of Mel then, excited by the prospect of an audience.

I spread her wide and begin licking up and down her inner thighs, until I can no longer resist her pussy, feasting on it as I push my tongue inside as deep as it can go. God, she tastes so good… I’m utterly lost between her legs, my entire face covered in her sweet juices.

It is then that I feel Tony behind me, his pulsing hard cock probing at my upturned ass, preparing for entry.

“Wait,” I say, “grab a condom. They’re in…”

He doesn’t seem interested.

“Hate those things,” he says, “I want to feel myself inside a woman…”

I almost faint as he shoves it in, he’s so big. He’s pushing harder and harder, enjoying every inch of me. I’m screaming but he carries on fucking me until tears are streaming down my face. He’s holding me by the waist, spanking my ass like the little fuck toy that I am for him. I’m coming now, fast and hard, waves of ecstasy surging through me as my tongue plunges in and out of Melissa’s cunt.

And then all at once, he tenses up, coming right there inside me.

“You bastard!” I gasp, as he throws me off to the side. My heart is literally thumping through my chest, my cunt still writhing in pleasure as Melissa strokes my hair.

“That was pretty nice,” Tony says, “but we’ve only just begun…”

“Put on that damned thing this time, you moron,” she says. “It’s in my purse…”

I sit on her face and she licks me while Tony jerks himself hard again before us. He rolls the condom on and prepares to mount Melissa, who is now really making me scream, eating me alive until I’m overwhelmed by my second orgasm. She’s fingering her clit, shuddering with anticipation as she waits for Tony to fuck her.

Turns out it’s a no-go. Tony sprawls on the bed beside her, his erection having completely vanished. He laughs, not the least bit embarrassed by the debacle. “Well, maybe it will take longer this time, pretty girls…” he says.

This fucking idiot is simply too drunk to fuck, and yet I lean forward to suck him anyway, feeling that I owe Melissa. He moans as I lick the long shaft of his cock.

“Oh Angie, you dirty little bitch. You drive me crazy, you fucking… little…” He doesn’t even finish his sentence, falling fast asleep as Melissa bursts out swearing.

“Wake up, you dirty bastard! Wake up YOU FUCKING DIRTY BASTARD! WAKE THE FUCK UP AND FUCK ME!” I’m trying to calm her down before someone calls the desk, but Mel is slapping his face now with all her might, screaming like a magpie. Finally she jumps up off the bed, fighting back tears as she gathers her shit. The door slams hard behind her.

I find myself sitting there with Captain Tony, drunk out of his head, the useless condom still clinging to his even more useless prick. Shit.

Then I can’t help it — I suddenly burst out laughing. I laugh until my stomach hurts and tears roll down my cheeks.

Welcome aboard, Angie.

Fiona Helmsley

They All Want to Piss on You

High on heroin, we had sex on his mom’s blue-grey dining room carpet, and the small of my back was ripped raw and bloody by the carpet’s stiff fibers. Curly-q’s of frayed skin formed a frame around the tramp stamp of a wet wound. He went into the kitchen to get paper towels to clean me up, and me from the carpet.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.

“It was strange,” I answered. “It didn’t really hurt, but I knew that if we didn’t stop, there would be a consequence. I had to make a choice. Usually the pain makes the decision for you. I decided not to decide.”

I watched in the dining room mirror as he dabbed the area of my back with peroxide and care.

“This might leave a scar,” he said. “I’m not going to lie. I like the idea that I may have scarred you forever.” His eyes gave off an electrical medicated sparkle.

Over the next few weeks, he’d randomly lift the back of my shirt to chart the healing process.

When we last saw each other, the scab had fallen off, revealing a faded blue-grey bruise underneath, a surprisingly close match to his mother’s carpet.

There was a slight scar, but years later, only I, knowing what to look for, could ever make it out.


A few weeks into our coupling, my present boyfriend and I were having sex on the industrial carpet in his work shop. We’d been drinking, and were still in that first stage of a relationship, when you are polite and considerate, and on your best behavior. He was grinding into me, the small of my back flush with the carpet’s rough surface. There is something about that part of my back, sitting or standing, it curves inward, but lying flat, it aligns itself with whatever is underneath. Maybe all backs do this. I could feel the scraping this time – back and forth, up and down – the carpet as sandpaper, my back as a piece of wood. My boyfriend had read something I’d written online and decided I was a masochist. So early in our relationship, I didn’t want to let him down.

When we finished, I stood up.

“Oh my goodness,” he said. “You’re bleeding.”

He went to go retrieve his first aid kit. He’s like that. Every situation has its dovetailing tool. He came back, his hands fishing around inside the plastic box, looking, I assumed, for some kind of bandage.

“The spot is too awkward,” I said. “I don’t think anything would stay on.”

He touched his finger softly to the wound. “Your beautiful back… I think I might have scarred you…”

For a moment he seemed genuinely mournful.

“I kind of like the idea I may have scarred you forever.”


One more.

A few years ago, I became painfully skinny. The only thing I didn’t like about my size was my breasts. Every part of me had been reduced, my breasts included, and I became intrigued with the idea of getting a breast job.

I was seeing a guy in Brooklyn, who made a good salary.

“You should pay for me to get a breast job,” I suggested, one Saturday morning, over coffee.

He seemed to think about it.

“What if we broke up?” he said. “I wouldn’t want another guy touching the breasts I paid for. Nah, I don’t think I like that.”

“Obviously, you must have some doubts about of our relationship, if when you look into the future, you see some other man touching my breasts.”

“I don’t like it. Maybe I’d do it if we were married.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be married to a person who didn’t trust me enough to cover my breast job unless we were married.”

That seemed to put him for a loop. His large salary wasn’t based on intellect.

“I’d have to think about it,” he said, a sneaky grin spreading across his face. “I do kind of like the idea of scarring you forever.”

Joseph Ridgwell

The Edinburgh Festival is Degenerate and Depraved

It was late afternoon when we tumbled out of an Edinburgh tram and hit the streets of Auld Reekie running. Collectively known as The International Lit Fiends, we were in town to check out the world famous Edinburgh Festival.

Each August – peak summer time – the peaceful tranquility enjoyed by Dunediners is ripped asunder by what can only be described as a mass invasion of undesirables, perverts, megalomaniacs, criminal elements, religious cranks, ego-trippers and just ordinary weirdo’s. Having proudly never attended a festival in my four decades on the planet it was to my initial horror that I had relocated to a beautiful city that fostered and indeed actively promoted such a ghastly abomination. For natives of Scotland’s capital the Festival is a major inconvenience – a stress ball of such magnitude that it inflicts great trauma – and has even been rumoured to be the cause of premature death. Understandably, as well as the mass invasion there is a simultaneous mass exodus – with most native sons and daughters fleeing the city for the entire duration.

Having abandoned our taxi’s in North Bridge due to gridlock – something that never happened the rest of the year we – The Lit Fiends – hotfooted it to Edina’s legendary book shop People Power in West North Street. On the way masses of tourists and lost looking fruits wandered around as if – in the words of Chuck Berry – they had no particular place to go. And really they didn’t. This was Fringe territory – the world’s largest arts festival – spanning 25 days, featuring upwards of 4,000 acts and 400 venues. Frankly it was chaos. The only ones profiting from the shambles were the founding fathers and any number of convenience stores. During the Festival prices sky-rocket – from a tin of mushy peas to a night in a luxury hotel – everything shoots up by at least 400%. As for the hapless performers they are ripped off via preposterous registration fees, venue hire, accommodation, and travel costs. And yet each year they return, undeterred, and ever more desperate.

At People Power all was not well. A best-selling author from New York City – had just left the shop in tears – after her event was cancelled due to lack of interest. Not a single person had walked through the door. This, despite the fact the streets were rammed with hundreds of tourists and festival -goers.

This type of author and publisher just don’t get it,’ said the erudite owner of PP.

Get what?’ I said.

You can’t just turn up at the Festival and expect people to walk through the door.’

Too much competition.’

There are more than 1,500 acts performing at any one time.’

1,500, isn’t that a little kinky?’

It gets bigger every year. It’s out of control!’

Outside on the streets the Festival was in full effect. Everywhere you looked desperate performers harangued tourists to attend their shows, shouting at them, pawing at their touristy garb, pleading, entreating, and in some cases becoming violent. Word on the Festival vine was that one female comedian had even offered free blow-jobs and cunnilingus to anyone who would attend her show. Amazingly, no one had taken up the demented offer and afterwards it was dismissed as nothing more than a publicity stunt.

After relocating to the Peach Tree pub we – The Lit Fiends – ordered drinks and waited for something to happen. As I swigged over-priced lager I recalled my stint at the Edinburgh International Book Festival the year before.

I’d been handed a free pass for the EIBF by one of Europe’s top Lit Fiends. The pass accessed all areas. I could come and go as I pleased – attend any show – but the only reason I wanted the pass was for the free food and drink. I wasn’t working at the time and each morning I rolled up and partook of the Festival breakfast. The EIBF canteen was an astonishing scene. Long lines of famous writers, mildly famous writers, writers who had once been famous and untold failed writers queueing like vagrants at an inner-city soup kitchen for repast that could only be described as public-sector primary school fare. It was then I REALISED that there really wasn’t any money in making up shit for a living.

Anyway – there remained the free booze, which being no mug I spent each evening wandering from bar to yurt to Spiegeltent, flashing my access all areas pass into the empty visages of the minimum waged minions. All the usual names were in attendance – the people who like to be seen. Ever since Marlene Dietrich sang Falling in Love Again on the stage of the famous Spiegeltent in the 1930’s – her magic mirrors had reflected thousands of artists, audiences and exotic gatherings. Subsequently it was the place to be and be seen. Nobody minded being stared at – it’s why they were there in the first place. Some even spent most of their time in the tent. They could chill-out on some of the strategically placed cushions and flea-market furniture and check out the revolving door of faces. After a couple of days and nights of that shit, however, I handed back my all access EIBF pass and retreated to my usual Edina haunts.

Meanwhile back in Fringe territory everything was going downhill – and fast. The festival-goers were getting drunker and drunker. Acts appeared and disappeared on the stage of the Peach Tree, but nobody was watching or even listening. The people were all there to say that they had been there – not to watch anything. And maybe they were right. For as an unjuried festival there is no quality control. This means that anyone with enough bees and honey to pay the extortionate reg fees can get up on stage and play out some weird fantasy masochistic – one day I’ll be famous crappola. It was all gravy. The night wore on and the Lit Fiend crowd grew restless. We had to get out of there.

Man,’ I said to Lit Fiend No. 3 standing next to me, ‘Party back at Ranchlette Ridgwell, spread the word.’

With that taxis were summoned and the literary underground got the fuck out of the depraved and degenerate mess that was the Edinburgh Festival. As the convoy headed out of the city we eyeballed the carnage. The pavements were slick with vomit, the air heavy with the scent of cannabis and crack cocaine, with prostitutes from around the globe lining every street corner. Drunks pissed themselves while queuing at ATMs, pregnant women were trampled on, homeless people robbed of their mendicant rewards, people fought at bus stops, kids were sold to peaodophiles to pay for rip-off hotel tariffs, even a few suicides.

It’s sick, sick, sick,’ mumbled Lit Fiend No. 5, as she swigged Buckfast.

Will we ever get out of here?’ wondered Lit Fiend No. 6 aloud, as he lit up a twenty-skin reefer El Granton Speciale.

I raised my can of lager, took a hit, and turned to the driver. ‘Put the peddle to the metal amigo before we get lynched.’

It was slow going. The roads were blocked with traffic and festival-goers. Faces loomed up at us into the night, peering inside the car, sitting on the bonnet, tapping and clawing at windows. It was like a scene from The Day Of The Triffids.

The driver was by now sweating cobs.‘I know a short cut, it could work,’ he said desperately.

Do what you have to do,’ I said.

The driver turned down a cobbled side street where festival-goers were less in evidence, some camped in ragged groups on the pavements, surrounded by backpacks, clutching fistfuls of flyers and other promotional paraphernalia in their grubby mitts.

Two more side streets, across a main thoroughfare, and we had made it to the other side. In Granton, we, the Lit Fiends, tumbled out of the taxi and poured into Ranchlette Ridgwell. From here on in – the rest of the night became a vicious drunken nightmare. Everyone began to fall to pieces – even as somebody played – I fall to pieces by Patsy Cline on the turntable. The convos were heavy. I got chatting to the Editor of the Midnight Gun – Edina’s only free literary publication and one which was banned by the head honcho of the EIBF, who was in turn cursed by the infamous Fairie Boy Of Leith. Not long afterwards Elizabeth Sotheby suffered a series of personal tragedies and then died. Don’t fuck with Lit Fiends is the moral to that one. Anyway more trouble was brewing on the horizon.

I’m going to have to resign in protest at the reaction to your story,’ the Editor said as we smoked liked chimneys and drank like fish in front of a black faux marble fireplace, while all around us Lit Fiends danced, shouted, fought and fell over.

But, why man, why?’ I pleaded.

Somebody has to make a stand against these bastard hypocrites. You saw what we just escaped from, decadency of the first order. And yet according to these petty bourgeoisie scum a short piece of harmless fiction has the ability to corrupt the minds of Edina’s young folk.’

How can a story about a grown man shagging a septuagenarian corrupt the minds of todays youth?’

And that’s exactly why I’m resigning. It’ll be big news, in all the papers.’

I wished the Editor luck and then mingled. The night wore on. There was a tent in the garden that veered crazily to one side, inside of which were Lit Fiends No. 9 & 10 composing drunken haikus by candlelight. Somebody pissed up a tree. An owl hooted. The survivors, what was left of us, the rabble, stayed up fighting the dawn…

Sometime around ten-thirty the following morning I was awakened by a scratching sound at my door. I rolled out of bed and hit my head against the door. My body ached all over. What had happened in the night? I tried to reach up for the handle, but the effort required to do so was beyond me. Ranchlette Ridgwell has mad over-sized doors, like something out of Alice in Wonderland. The handles are positioned at least six feet from the floorboards.

Push it open,’ I croaked.

A face appeared around the gigantic door. It was Lit Fiend No. 2 mumbling something about the need for another drink. Apparently there wasn’t a drink left in the house.

Need a drink bad,’ said Lit Fiend No. 2.

Shit,’ I said, ‘Your drinking’s getting out of control.’

Get dressed. I must get out of this place – NOW!’

Okay, okay.’

I got dressed as if I was a hundred years old. There was a nasty purple and blue bruise traversing the length of my right ribcage. I couldn’t remember any action, but you can never tell. I checked my visage in a mirror. I looked bad, not as bad as Lit Fiend No. 2 – who looked like Brian Jones warmed up – but bad enough.

Maybe we should get some more kip, recharge the batteries?’ I said.

Lit Fiend No. 2 shook his head. ‘No… no, I’ve got a bad case of the Hattie Jacques and my flight leaves at one. I’m not sure I could negotiate those rickety airstairs onto the plane. What if I’m trembling so bad I fall off, taking an air-steward with me?’

I see your point. We’ll hit the Anchor Inn. It’s a swish place, so tidy yourself up a bit as you look like shit.’

At that early hour The Anchor Inn was only half full, mostly old geezers supping quietly. We strolled up to the bar and ordered two pints and two drams.

You’ve got to stop this drinking,’ I said.

I know. This is no good, no good at all. But for some reason it makes me feel better.’

And you don’t want to turn up drunk at the airport – they might not let you board.’

Lit Fiend No. 2’s face turned white. ‘Do they do that?’

Do what?’

Not let you board if you’re pissed?’

Gerry Rafferty was once turned away because he was so drunk he couldn’t stand up.’

Lit Fiend No. 2 downed his drinks and ordered another round. ‘Maybe they were worried he was going to break out with a boozy rendition of Baker Street as they cruised 30,000 ft above sea level.’

We stood at the bar drinking. We talked about the depravity and degeneracy of the Festival. Some bar flies hovered above our heads. Gradually the pub began to fill up until it was crowded. The locals, however, gave us a wide birth. There was a ten foot circumference between us and the nearest patrons. I glanced in the mirror behind the bar, horrified at the reflections that presented themselves before my jaded optics. If anyone looked degenerate and depraved it was us!

After the eighth round of drinks Lit Fiend No. 2 held out his hand.

Steady as a rock,’ he said.

We left the Anchor Inn and stepped out into a dazzling summers day. I lowered my polarised sunglasses, essential kit for those harsh Northern hemisphere rays.

Will you make it to the airport?’ I said.

Lit Fiend No. 2 gazed determinedly ahead. ‘I have to. It’s the last available flight out of town…’