Lucas Chapman

Hide and Seek

Nobody ever wanted to play hide and go seek with me, especially girls. That was until I met Jasmine one night in a bar called the Rooster’s Crow after the baseball game. It had been a doozy of a game, the St. Louis Cardinals against the Milwaukee Brewers. The Brewers scored at the top of the ninth sending it into extra innings, twelve to be exact, until Buster Rosario smacked a walk off homer for a Cardinals win. The crowd had gone so crazy, everyone was hugging on each other and cheering and giving high five’s; it was Saturday, and one of those nights you just don’t want to end. After Buster’s homer, me and Johnny—my best friend for as long as I can remember—overheard a group of drunk college girls talking about going to the Crow, so we decided that we would follow.

The Rooster’s Crow was as crowded as expected on a Saturday night after a Cards win. People were jammed from wall to wall having such a good time drinking and talking and dancing that it was making my head swim. You see, I don’t get out much, not really. And when I do, it can sometimes get overwhelming. Johnny isn’t much help either, he stays quiet most of the time.

Not long after we arrived, I saw the girls cozy up to some frat guys, so I wanted to leave, deciding it was a bad idea to come. But I remembered momma telling me long ago that I needed to get out more and socialize. So I did. For my momma. And man am I glad I did because it was how I met Jasmine!

Well, maybe I should say she met me. While making my way to the bar for another Shirley Temple, I somehow ended up on the dance floor. Imagine my horror as I dodged sweaty bodies reeking of alcohol and sweat! I pushed them off me as I made my way to the perimeter of the dance floor. And that’s when Jasmine came out of nowhere. I think she tripped on someone’s shoe, but she quite literally fell into my arms. Her eyes were golden brown, her hair soft and shimmering. She was the color of caramel and her complexion was buttery smooth. Her skin was so perfect that I thought of it more as a rare animal pelt that deserved to be hanging on a wall above my fireplace.

I couldn’t breathe or think or talk. I sat holding the angel of my life in the middle of a crowded bar. Mamma told me once that love can knock you off your feet, but I didn’t believe her until that moment.

“Thank you,” she said to me. Her breath smelled like limes and tequila. Her smile was so white, so beautiful.

My heart felt like it was going to hammer right out of my chest and do a jig on the dance floor. I was absolutely paralyzed by Jasmine.

“Don’t worry about it,” I managed.

She smelled like sweet sweat with an undertone of marijuana. I don’t believe girls should smoke, mamma told me only hussies smoked, but for Jasmine I could look past all that.

It felt like it was only her and I inside the packed bar. The music, so loud before, went quiet. People, noises, laughter—all gone. All I could hear was her breath as it blew against my cheek and her heart beating through my arms.

And then—and THEN—she untangled herself from my arms and kissed me on the cheek. “You are my knight in shining armor tonight, sir.”

Just like that, I knew I was in love. Not the sort of love that I gave to momma, no one would replace momma, but the type of love that I saw in the movies or heard about in those teenage pop songs. I wanted to tell her a thousand and one things, but nothing came to my mouth. It was like I was frozen in a block of ice.

“You’re silly,” Jasmine said and then winked at me with the longest, most luscious eye lashes you have ever seen. And before I could react, she patted me on the shoulder and disappeared into crowd.

Precious seconds tick by as I tried to get my body to move, to work again, so that I could find my Jasmine. I didn’t know her name at the time, so I threw myself into the crowd, pushing people to the floor and yelling rather foolishly, “Come back! Please come back to me!”

Johnny came rushing out of nowhere and I told him to look too. We searched every inch of the Rooster’s Crow: the kitchen, behind the bar, the staff break room, the men’s room, even the women’s room. Yet, she remained allusive. Johnny and me even stayed until last call to find her but still she wasn’t there. I was so frustrated I even yelled at Johnny, called him stupid and dumb (I later apologized).

But—BUT—as we got outside I got an idea. She was playing hide and seek!

“Jonny,” I said. “She’s only toying with me. She’s still here!”

I took off down the side walk and turned down an ally way that ran parallel to the Crow. And lo and behold there she was, standing under the orange glow of a street lamp with a lit joint between her plump lips.

I skidded to a halt, the bottom of my shoes scrapping against the uneven asphalt. I was so excited that I tripped and went sprawling into a puddle.

I looked up, slightly befuddled, and saw the angel of my life not even looking at me! Instead, a boy had come out of the Crow’s back door and was kissing Jasmine. He groped her buttocks, caressed the back of her neck.

He was kissing my angel. My girl. Those were my lips, not his. I was so angry I couldn’t see straight. Much like a child—even though I still get embarrassed to this day thinking about it—I kicked and slapped and pulled my hair in white hot rage.

I’d rather not say what I did next, momma said it’s not good for a man to always be hanging out his dirty laundry. Suffice to say, I got rid of the boy and Jasmine gave me her address! Well, I found it in her purse but still! I was elated… cloud nine!

The ensuing month was full of passion sweeter than any piece of honeydew or watermelon or sweet summer cantaloupe. The passion between us was hotter than the dog days of summer and our relationship was budding into something especially beautiful.

We went to dinner with her friends at the local cafe, we went to a Cardinals game against the Boston Red Socks (Cards lost four to zip), the zoo with her sister, and vacation at the Lake of the Ozarks with her family.

I was always on the watch for boys that would try to come near her. There were many, and my work was tiring, but none of them were able to get close to my angel. At one point, they even tried coming to her house! But I recruited Jonny and together we staked out her house from the other side of the street while in my car.  We sat there for weeks, all hours of the day, shooing away perverts trying to snatch my angel away from me.

Every night my sweet would leave her bedroom lamp on to let me know that she appreciated my watch and that she was thinking of me. Seeing her shadow through the curtain while she changed for bed was enough to keep me going and know that my work was important.

But a man has certain needs. A scratch impossible to ignore. My needs had gotten in the way of past relationships, so I desperately tried to ignore them the best I could. Soon though, after a particularly troubling week of watching the house, I couldn’t stand it! I had to do something, had to feel her lips on me once again, run a hand over her perfect skin or smell her beautiful hair.

It was Jonny’s idea actually (I give credit when it’s due—momma said its rude if you don’t) that I write her a letter like an old-time romantic film I always see her watching through her living room window. He even got the notion to ask her to a game of hide and seek like pa always wanted to play.

So I did! In my neatest handwriting, I wrote:

Dear Jasmine,

I long for your touch, your kiss, your smell as I know you long for mine. So, let’s play hide and seek! Tomorrow evening, I will hide somewhere in the house and it is your job to come and find me! If you are able to find me I will pay you in kisses and a dinner date on me. Perhaps, Cafe Coffee you took your mom to? Or even that BBQ place you like on 5thave? Either way, choice is yours! 

—Your Love

P.S I’m a VERY practiced hider!

I thought the letter was good, but Johnny said it could use some work to which I got furious and told him off. Sometimes, Jonny can be so blunt about things!

Any who, I sealed the letter with tape and placed it in her mail box. We waited that night, watching for her to receive the letter to know that the game was indeed on. She came home for her job at the attorney’s office around six, ate dinner (leftover pizza from when her best friend was over), and watched a couple episodes of The Expanse. Afterwards, she folded laundry, fed Maggie—her Bulldog, and went to sleep without a shower.

My sweetling never checked the mail, but that was ok. I knew she wanted to play hide and seek with me like she had the night of our first date at the Crow.

Johnny and I watched until 1 A.M. before I decided to go back home to momma and get some much-needed shut eye. Jasmine left her house around ten for work, so if I wanted to get a really good spot I needed to get there right after she left.

I was almost too giddy to fall asleep that night! I felt like a boy on Christmas Eve night waiting for Santa to slide down the chimney and deliver all the wonderful presents. Eventually Mr. Sandman did come, and I dreamt of all my past relationships, happy that they just didn’t quite work out.

I dressed in all black: boots, hoody, jeans. I even wore gloves as not to leave any smudges that could alert her to my location. Johnny said I looked great and mama didn’t say anything about it. She only sat in her rocker in front of the television like she does re-watching old black and white shows on the TV Land channel that I put on for her.

“Going out mamma. Be back tomorrow. Jonny will be here if you need anything.” I kissed her cold cheek and brushed her stringy hair. Sometimes, momma could be such a drag.

I made it to Jasmine’s house just as she was backing her silver Toyota out of the driveway. I blew her a kiss and told her that I hope she has a good day when she drove past.

The inside of her house smelled like her flowery perfume and I almost melted right there in the kitchen. It was like she held a love spell over me. Never before had I loved any of my ex’s like I loved my Jasmine. I was so excited that I could hardly keep my hands from shaking as I tip-toed into her bedroom and looked through her dresser drawers. I laid on her bed and put each of her pillows to my face and took in a deep breath of her scent.

I laid there for exactly one hour, fantasizing about the night we were about to have. I almost wanted to make my spot easy so that she could find me quickly and we could get right down to it.

But no, hide and seek was my favorite game and since Jasmine was the only girl that ever wanted to play, I sucked it up and stuffed some of her undergarments into my pocket to keep my mind busy while I waited.

I methodically walked through her small house looking for the really good places. I went to her bathroom and stripped naked to sit in her shower and smell all of her womanly soaps. By the time I was done, the time was 4 P.M. or close enough to it that I really needed to get my spot.

I wasn’t very satisfied with any hiding spots on the upstairs, so I decided on the downstairs instead. I knew she didn’t go down there much and figured there were probably some undiscovered nook or cranny (there usually are) that I could wedge myself into.

An open stair case led to the unfinished basement that smelled like rotten mold and earth worms. I could understand why a young woman would be scared of a basement like this—but I liked it, loved it in fact. It reminded me of my own room at momma’s house. Boxes were stacked all the way to the small window to the right. Some art work was piled next to the water heater and electrical fuse box. Behind the stairs was a closet choked full of winter coats and clothes that no longer fit my Jasmine. Perfect.

I turned out the single overhead light bulb by the long cord and slithered my way into the closet behind the moth-eaten coats, scarves, and sweaters.

The mold was worst in the closet and the faint scent of my angel coming from the coats was driving me nuts so I played with her undergarments inside my pocket and waited for her to come home.

I must have fallen asleep because it was dark outside the basement window when I finally heard the slamming of the garage door and the wooden click of high heels over the kitchen tile.

Finally! Jasmine, the girl of my forever, was home at last. I heard her walk down the hallway to our bedroom. The springs in the bed creaked and groaned as she struggled off her shoes and then no doubt her knee length paisley skirt and gray sweater. Jasmine was only a few feet above my head, undressing and slipping onto (hopefully) smaller clothes. My breath became ragged, my head swam.

She would probably go barefooted, the sneaky devil, to mask her movements while looking for me.

No matter. I was very good at hide and seek.

I bravely composed myself and didn’t wait long before I heard the water heater ruble to life and the quiet splashing of water as she drew a bath—the same bath I had just been in hours before. I wondered if she could smell me like I smelled her. I blushed at the notion.

Giddy with anticipation, twice I left my spot in the closet and ventured partly up the stairs. But then I remembered the night we met, the way she played hide and seek with me, and knew it was fate that we must play this game.

The water heater grinded to a stop and I heard her—actually hear her voice—call, “Maggie! Come to momma.” A moment later the English Bulldog’s nails clicked over the hard wood surface and I traced the fat dog’s path, feeling slightly lightheaded from hearing her voice at last.

Minutes ticked by where I heard nothing except the whisper of her feet dancing lightly in her bedroom as she—what? Dressed for me? I didn’t know and was getting frustrated she had yet to begin our date.

But then I heard footsteps coming down the stairs! My heart skipped, I readied myself to gaze upon those memorizing eyes—but it was only Johnny.

“Take it easy,” he whispered to me. “She’s only preparing for you. I checked in on her. Putting on some lingerie. Real sexy. Red and black. You’ll like it.”

I chocked on my spit. “Are you serious?”

“Serious as a snake bite. Now get back in the closet. I’ll be in the car.”

Johnny clambered back up the steps rather too loudly. He could be so irritating! But, needless to say, I followed his advice and crept back through the winter coats but at least I wasn’t alone, a spider crept out from the sleeve of a Calvin Cline jacket. I named him Timmy and toyed with him in my palm until I grew bored and crushed him into a red paste. Curiously, I took one of his tiny legs and placed it in my mouth. Salty. By belly rumbled and I licked the rest of Timmy from my sweaty palm.

Where was she? I was growing bored rather quickly. At least when my papa played with me I could hear him shouting and cursing at momma and could judge where he was at in the double wide trailer. But Jasmine was either not playing or was really, really good.

My thoughts kept drifting back to the Rooster’s Crow and how that I could not find her afterwards, she’d been playing then as she was now. Oh, she was good. Making me get in my own head like that.

Steps, followed by tinier, more frequent steps. She was coming out of her bedroom! I grinned and then snickered, slurping the rest of Timmy out of my palm.

“Hello? Ok, be there in a sec.” I heard her say from somewhere in the kitchen. Had she found me? My heart was ready to explode out of my chest. I couldn’t be sure if she were talking to me or not and I imagined her creeping down the steps, a big smile on her beautiful face. What would I say? Perhaps something along the lines of “hey baby” or maybe “hi my love.” But I thought a simple hello would do just fine.

I peeked out of the coats and that’s when I heard the doorbell ring. I heard her squeal in excitement, and then the slow creaking of the front door opening.

“Hi,” a voice carried downstairs… a male voice. “You look absolutely lovely tonight.”

“Thank you,” the love of my life responded, almost breathlessly. Who was this? And where was Jonny to let this happen? My anger spiked dangerously as a new and wild thought hit me straight from left field. Was she cheating on me?

No, that couldn’t be it. Not her, not my Jasmine… my angel. But as the hours ticked by the harder it was to convince myself otherwise. They ate dinner (Chinese delivery) and watched a movie after that (Ironman 3). I heard Jasmine giggle as he made her laugh in such a flawless manor. Even though it hurt to admit, this boy was smooth. So much so that he had completely distracted my Jasmine from hide and go seek. It was supposed to be our night…my night and here he was, probably named Chad, stealing away my girl.

I thought I could wait until he left, but when I heard her ask if he had a condom I blew my lid and crept around the coats, careful not to make a noise. I waited at the bottom of the stairs in the pitch-black basement as their footsteps carried off to the bedroom, almost immediately followed by the screech of mattress springs.

“Got to go for it, pal,” Johnny said from behind the water heater.

I nodded and said, “I know buddy. I know. Every time now, huh?”

Jonny chuckles echoed around the basement, “Seems that way, don’t it?”

I nodded and took each of the wooden steps oh so carefully, pausing half way up as Jasmine screamed out in orgasm. I blew steam from my nose and climbed the rest of the way, not bothering to hide my movements. They wouldn’t hear a freight train bust through the kitchen let alone a few steps as I searched for a knife, eventually selecting a dirty steak knife from the sink.

I suddenly felt more exhaustion than anger, another girl… another cheater. Why did they always do this to me? I shouldn’t have been surprised, Mamma said girls were hussies and couldn’t be trusted.

Many girlfriends ago I would almost look forward to the breakup, but not tonight. I really liked Jasmine and thought she was the one. With a heavy sigh and slumped shoulders, I kicked away the dog and walked down the hall.

I paused, listening to her moans and Chad’s heavy panting through the cracked bedroom door. I knocked, mamma said it was polite to always knock, but either they didn’t hear me or just didn’t care. Rude.

I gripped the knife in one gloved hand and opened the door with the other.

“Ready or not,” I yelled, enjoying the sudden look of terror on their flushed, sweaty faces, “here I come!”

Paul Green

Rock Paper Scissors

We play
Rock paper Scissors
to see who will go down.
She does not slowly peel me.
I am a real banana
and she hasn’t had any real
bananas.
She pulls without gentleness,
harshly the thing.
The night before she had
nearly bit it off.
She keeps me tranquilized,
stuck in the back room,
or in the living room
on the dirty sofa
where the TV is dead.
She smokes like she’s mad.
We are both inexperienced —
I more than she.
I was gonna titty fuck you
but I decided not to.

Brice Maiurro

The Canary Who Swallowed the Coal Mine

Everything is on fire and I want to sleep for at least two weeks!
(So drown me in Zquil and read to me from your Gideon’s Bible.

Read me something simple that tastes like reality.
Read me a story that is less Christian and more just inarguably true

because everything is on fire and I want to sleep for at least two weeks
maybe more
but I understand the shit green cloud of fiscal responsibility is hanging over my head
like a drunk woman pouring buckets of water out of her tenth story Brooklyn window.

When I say everything is on fire, I mean everything is on fire!
The couch cushions are on fire, the fruit stands on fire, and it never rains anymore.

All seven of the televisions inside of my skull are on fire.
The intravenous highways of the United States are on fire.
They IV drip down entitlement and god complexes, hero complexes.

My hero complex is on fire, my victim mentality is on fire, my love for strangers.
The cat is on fire and it’s still too afraid of the water to go in it.

(I am the cat in this scenario
and the water is a therapist
or any variety of activities that require coming to your senses)

but why would I go see a therapist
when I know the therapist is on fire?

Their fainting couch on fire, their perfectly framed doctorate on fire

and this is why I want to sleep.

The cross was set on fire by the pastors,
the oil slick ocean is still burning

The devil is on fire, he’s so fucking confused,
he’s just pacing and pacing in my head in your head
in most everyone’s heads which too are on fire

I find it hard to sleep to the sound of the eleven o clock news.
I find it close to impossible to rationalize an escape plan in a fun house.
I find myself easily a victim to sensory overload and I realize
that it’s maybe inescapable

we’ve built flashing lights into every dark alley,
always on camera, the flag is on fire, media on fire,
death is on fire, religion on fire,
the Buddhists are on Facebook again,
the streets are like a giant block party,
a giant pool party,
except with fire

and in the ocean of it all,
I feel something with you
and I worry that too is fleeting
or possibly completely imaginary
you tell me you’re allergic to dogs while I pant incessantly
while I shit on your carpet and you hit me with a rolled-up newspaper

but you let me lay beside you on the couch
and I dream
like that age we all once were where we were so good at it
where it was nothing much less than unlearned behavior
but now

the paintings are on fire.

I think about my childhood friend,
a Jackson Pollack painting, on fire,
I think about her alcoholic paint drizzle,
the way she’d just spontaneously combust
like a Kerouac star,
(none of this is aggrandizement.)

I remember the way she’d piece back together
I think about how part of why I left her
is she wore that t-shirt on the outside
that I kept swallowed.

I’m good at swallowing things
even when they’re on fire.

I swallow jazz records,
I swallow momentary relapses of judgement, insanity pleas.

I swallow the attention of strangers who don’t love me they love the poet
they love me in two dimensions, on fire,
in slick acrylic bursts of orange red and yellow

and I love them the same way sometimes but I worry
and sit by a fireplace while inside of a fireplace
and that fireplace is a brick city where tourists live
and somehow overnight I became the unfamiliar one
in the city that I love.

The newer transplants tell me the good spots to grab a coffee,
where the WiFi is tasty and well-seasoned,
they tell me how terrible the drivers are, they can’t see I’m on fire

and that’s okay because I can’t see them
I can’t see anything but this delicate egg shell heart
floating up to the sky

as I drift into two week sleep
as I drift into complacency
as I don’t save the world
as I don’t wait to pull my queen out
as I move my bishop erratically
across the black and white spaces

and maybe I ascend.

Maybe I am this and maybe that is okay.

Maybe it’s okay to be the one who feels,
no more significant than anyone else,
a prophet of emotion,

the canary who swallowed the coal mine.

Maybe it’s okay and maybe the fire is too.

 

J.J. Campbell

down this bleak path

get into bed alone
for the thousandth
night in a row

you only keep track
of the days to keep
yourself miserable

just a lazy dreamer
wondering why the
love of your life
has never knocked
on your door

long since failed to
ever learn the lesson
of going out to seek

the stubborn like
to believe it’s a
practice in patience

soon the voices
become mixed
and take you
down this bleak
path

where you never
have to blame
yourself

another lesson
missed

spare the pity
and turn your
hatred inward

shoot out the
mirrors

no one wants to

see what’s next

Shot by Baker: Miss Dea Capri

The World is Her Oyster

Port Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
@shotbybaker

Dea is a pocket rocket with attitude… and elegance. A fish out of water some may say. Whilst her Oriental looks will distract you, her German accent will intrigue you. Working 9-5 was only holding the now-travelling freelance model down. Whilst she toured through Australia we met up and made magic during the setting sun along the beach line of Port Melbourne.

SbB: When did you know a career in modeling was for you?
DC: Many times. When I was 15 scouters asked me on the streets if I can join their agencies. After I’ve been often asked by photographers directly.

SbB: What genre of modeling do you enjoy most?
DC: I love fashion shoots with other models, I like trashy arty shoots and outdoor.

SbB: How hard is it to be a freelance model, and what challenges do you face?
DC: I take it easy. The biggest challenge every week for me is to not miss the flight, to find my shoot locations and hotels/transportations who allow dogs, because I try to keep her part of my life.

SbB: What are some of the most enjoyable destinations you have visited so far around the world while touring?
DC: Most fun I had in Sydney/ Melbourne. That time was crazy. London and NYC also gave me special memories. When it just comes to good vibes and less wild stories then it was Los Angeles. I felt so good.

SbB: In what circumstances, if at all, do you think nude art photography can be both artistic and also erotic? How do you draw the definition?
DC: When I started modeling I did loads of art nude, but since my tattoos, I’m more into glamour nude. Nude art means to be part of the picture, to complete it like a tree in the garden, whereas erotic means to express emotions but be more impressive and human.

SbB: How many tattoo pieces do you have altogether?
DC: 8, but will finish my arm sleeve very soon.

SbB: What’s the main influence behind your bodywork?
DC: Tattoos are sexy and make you look even more unique.

SbB: What do you think your tattoos say about you?
DC: My tats say that I have an eye, taste, and love the trashy cool look.

SbB: Come the weekend, what’s your favourite thing to do?
DC: Weekdays or weekend, I’m a freelancer, so for me it’s all the same. I never drink so I just wanna have a long dance night, waking up on the beach with my dog.

John Yohe

Jerk Off Instructions

On Sunday night, to get out of my apartment, I walk over to Dante’s for a quick drink. It’s just down the street really, not bad. Plus I like being out at night sometimes. It’s kind of quiet. Less cars I guess. And you can look up and see stars and stuff.

Tony’s there. Tony’s always there. We work at the same place, the Bob Evans sausage plant. He’s in maintenance, I actually wrap the sausage. It pays ok, except I have to get up at 4:30 every morning. But I got benefits too.

I sit down next to Tony and order a beer. On the tv there’s pictures of people getting pulled off their roofs by helicopters after that hurricane down south. Tony buys me a shot to go with my beer.

—So how are you and Marsha going?

—Alright I guess.

—Getting any?

I shake my head and down the shot. —No.

—Look, if she won’t let you fuck her, at least make her suck you off.

I sip my beer. —She doesn’t like to do that, Tony.

—Why not? Is she a lesbo?

—No, I don’t think so.

—Christian?

—Yeah…

—Like, go to church every Sunday Christian?

—I don’t know. She’s got a necklace with a cross.

—Then why are you still seeing her?

—Well, I like her.

—Like? There’s lots of women out there you can like.

—Yeah…

On the tv there’s something about Iraq. A bombing. None of our guys, just Iraqis.

—Look, at least jerk off.

—I do.

—No, I mean with her there.

He orders two more shots. The bartender Tammy does have a nice ass when she bends over. Tony downs his shot.

—Next time she won’t do anything, just ask her. But don’t whine, women hate whiners. Just ask her like, if she would mind.

I down the shot and take a sip of beer. —You just say, Do you mind if I jerk off?

—Exactly. She’ll be confused, but she’ll say she doesn’t. They always say they don’t. It’s because it has nothing to do with violating any of their body parts. And if for any reason she says she’s not sure, tell her you’re going to do it anyway when you get home.

—That is true.

—Then whip it out and look at her and tell her how beautiful she is. Chicks dig that. And make sure she can see your cock.

—Why?

—You have to get her used to the idea of your cock being there. Then you can ask her to help out a little.

—Help out?

—You know, jerk you off a little, massage your balls. Women don’t mind using their hands, and in fact they like touching, because they’re curious.

—Curious about cocks?

—Exactly. All their lives they’ve been told that cocks are bad and they should avoid them, but yet cocks are attached to men, who women find attractive. And since cocks are important to men, we think with them after all, women are always curious to see them, even if, like in your case, they don’t want to put them in their mouths or pussies.

I clear my throat. —So I jerk off.

—You’re jerking off and telling her how hot she is while she’s massaging your balls and now she’s getting more curious, like thinking maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to put it in her mouth for a while.

—And then she’ll go down on me.

He finishes his beer and motions Tammy over for another. —Maybe not right then. You may have to come. And make sure she sees it. She’ll want to of course. All women are fascinated by sperm shooting out of cocks. It’s like a primal thing, a mysterious magical liquid that comes from nowhere. Excuse the pun.

—Well, sounds good. I mean, I think she’s had sex before…

—But it wasn’t good. If it was good, she’d be a cockgobbler by now.

Tammy shoots him a look. I finish my beer and check the time.

—You put it so well.

—The point is, you have to go slow with the conservative ones. Is she worth it?

—What do you mean?

—I mean, there are other women who suck on the first date.

—Really?

—Dude, come on.

—Ok… No, I mean, I like her.

—Ok, but don’t let her jerk you around. Jerk you off, but not around. You want another beer?

I look at my watch again. —No. I gotta get home I guess.

—You gotta get out of the sausage line. Those early mornings are gonna kill you.

—I know.

—So when you gonna see her again?

—Oh, later this week. We’re supposed to have dinner.

—Alright. You got my advice.

—Yeah, thanks. Well, maybe see you later.

I walk outside and look up at the stars. They’re still there. Well, so am I. I walk home.

Richard Faircloth

I Fuck

I don’t look like much; five-one, ninety pounds. Near-sighted brown eyes. Mousey brown hair that’s always greasy, no matter what I do. A-cup. Doesn’t matter. Guys want me.  Pheromones? Whatever it is, I ping their radar. Hard.

When I lived in Chicago, I smoked.  I was nineteen, looked about fourteen because I’m so small, and people didn’t take me seriously.  I thought if I started smoking I’d be in the club. It worked, and I found out some guys lose it when they see a girl who looks fourteen smoking a cigarette. They try to tell you smoking’s not sexy? Bullshit.  It’s totally sexy if you do it right. One guy told me how I came across – he said I looked like if I had a dick in my hand, I’d know what to do with it. I told him to fuck off.

I smoked for five years, until I moved to California a couple years ago.  Oakland. Not as many people smoke here, so it’s not worth it. I don’t need it anymore anyway; I look like I know what I’m doing and guys can see it a mile away.  Fucking radar.

When a guy looks at me, he gets two messages the split second our eyes meet: one – I can see straight through you; two – go fuck yourself.  It’s about establishing control. If they don’t get it immediately, they get it when they walk onto the point of my psychic knife. Sharp point, wicked edge.

If I like a guy’s looks, I let him inside the psychic knife perimeter.  I can pretty much tell when it’s going to happen, don’t ask me how. Fucking radar?

I wear tops that gap when I lean over.  You can do that if you’re an A-cup, and I work it.  He peeks, and I catch him. Predictable. I fool with things while we’re talking – a salt shaker, my keys – so he can see how I use my hands.  I put things in my mouth, like pencils, pens, maybe a knitting needle. (I knit. I like needles and string.) I want him to look at my mouth and I don’t smoke anymore, so I use whatever’s handy.  This goes on until his head is spinning.

Sometimes we’re fucking in the car fifteen minutes later.  I’m tiny, so the car’s easy. (His car – not mine.) Married guys especially want it fast because they feel guilty, and hey, if they can get me off that fast, it’s all good. (I won’t fuck married guys who don’t feel guilty – they’re assholes.)

I make them look me in the eye when they come.  Eye contact. Some guys like it, some guys can’t do it, and some find it humiliating, especially if it’s a married guy – guilty, guilty, guilty!  Look at you, making it with a pip-squeak little girl you just met fifteen minutes ago! Come on, Mr. Man – you look at me. Now. That makes him come really hard, and makes me feel really evil, which makes me come really hard, so everybody’s happy.

I steal things from them, small things like sunglasses if it’s nighttime, or a CD from their car.  Something small that they might have left someplace so they can’t be sure; as long as they know they lost something.  I don’t know why I steal, I just like to steal. Nobody’s ever caught me at it except my fiance.

I met him in a coffee shop, and when I made him look me in the eye it was like we looked right into each other’s hearts.  I stole something every time we fucked – his sunglasses, his change, his comb. When I stole his iPod he looked at me like, “Really?  Come on.” Okay, that was going too far, so I left it someplace for him to find. But I couldn’t let that stand, so I took $134 from his wallet a couple nights later (I left him fifty). He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t give it back.  Then he stole my silver cigarette case (my aunt gave it to me and I used it as a wallet). That was upping the stakes – fine with me. I stole the gold pen he got from his grandpa for graduation. That’s when he asked me to marry him. We were fucking and he asked me right when I was saying “yes-yes-yes” anyway.  Very funny. Nothing’s gone missing since then. Trust, right?

He’s out of town this weekend for a seminar.  When I kissed him goodbye he said, “So who are you gonna fuck tonight?” I said, “I don’t know.  Who are you gonna fuck tonight? Bet you have to pay for it.” Then he said, “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”  Uh-huh. Like I won’t take a dare. Game on, motherfucker. The wedding’s in June.

Here’s what’s going through your mind right now: Slutty little shit. (Will she suck it?) Trashy little whore. (Does she do anal?) Sick, fucked-up, control-freak, daddy-issues psycho-bitch. (She fucks.) (When’s the next plane to Oakland?)

I can see straight through you.

Go fuck yourself.

See you around.

Brice Maiurro

Why I Write Poetry

because
when it comes
it comes like a mack truck
and i don’t have the strength
to plant my heels
firmly in the dirt
and slow it down
and i don’t want it to pass on by
so my only choice
is to stick out my thumb
jump in
and ride along
with this shady strung out
truck driver
until one of us
is ready to kill the other

because
when it comes
it comes like a great woman
and i’m usually and inconveniently drunk
so i ask her to dance
in a loud room
where maybe she won’t notice my slurring
and i wear my cologne thick
so maybe she won’t smell
the booze on my breath
and the dance never lasts long
and usually
i end up taking a cab home
and usually
she goes her own separate way
but sometimes
she comes with me
and we spend the night together
tossed in madness and revelation

because
when it comes
it comes like shock therapy
and in the pain
the swelling of the temples
the shaking of the muscles
the boiling of blood cells
sometimes
there is a moment of strong breath
where some ghost escapes
and someone else sees it
and them and me
will always have that
even if i’m not all there

because
when it comes
it comes like a letter bomb
and i could just throw it away
never open it
and the truth is
if i did that
i would be fine
but time and again
i play russian roulette
i do what’s worst for me
i open the letter
i inhale the toxins
i remind myself
that i am not god
and i am reasonably sure
that god would not be who they are
if any of us
were ever considerate enough
to give them a choice
in the matter

John D Robinson

The View

Hunched down in my front porch,
smoking a joint, looking out at
the tree-tops of the public park
and beyond into blue skies,
birds are heard near and distant,
cats lounge and sleep on the
warm pavements, I can hear
traffic moving far off and the
moment feels perfect, it looks
perfect, the world before me
is perfect but I know from my
radio and t.v. reports that
people are killing and hurting
one another in the most hideous
of ways in our streets across
the globe; wars and conflicts
claiming countless lives
rampage endlessly across the
world and so it has done so
for thousands of years and
it’s not going to change,
world peace will never exist,
it’s not wanted, too few
people would lose too
much; those few that
govern the many:
but the view I have from my
front porch is a perfect
view of the world and
for that moment,
it was just perfect.

John Gartland

Count Kevlar Open Source

Digital metaphysics.
Take a deep breath, reboot,
drop into unadulterated Dharma,
pause the sensory overlay stream
and run it backwards.
You are immediately released
from all the tyranny of karma.
No shit.
You have broken the power of narrative,
climbed right out from under it.

You’ve put a hold on fate,
and float
on the perfect parabolic curve;
enjoy your elevated state;
you can change the operating system now,
if you can only hold your nerve.