William M. McIntosh

Letters From The Trail

I remember when no one showed up to these things. I kind of miss it, really. Now there are always so many people, so many heads across a sea of heads and bodies. Most times there are so many people I can’t even see the doors. It’s like I’m sealed in and stuck with these people forever. I’ll tell you this, thousand-dollar plates will make even the mealiest-mouthed donors eat you alive.

Keep it together. Smile, dumbass. No, not like that. Show more teeth. No, that’s too much teeth. Try and make that dimple pop out, the one you’ve been wincing in private for months to try and create out of thin air. Keep—it—together. 

Fluorescent lighting works wonders in terms of energy efficiency but does jack shit for my spray tan. The buzz of it makes it too much like a doctor’s office in here. It’s too sterile for my brand of bullshit. I wonder if the kid who served the veal spit in my side salad. I wonder if the girl at check-in would fuck me.

Time for QA. I wish these people would ask me better questions. It’s always, “Can you expand on your ten-point plan to address income inequality and provide support for the homeless?” It’s never, “How are you?” Just once I’d like to tell someone about my day. I’d tell them thirteen stops in one day is too many. I’d tell them this bus is too small. I’d tell them I can’t eat any more fucking ice cream.

Dumb kid in the back of the question line keeps eyeing me weird. Is he a homo? Does he think I’m a homo? No, I’ve got a sterling stance on that particular issue. Everybody knows I’m a traditionalist. Everyone sees me as manly. Is he going to try and corner me on that flub from the Iowa State Fair about the death tax? Note to self: look up what the death tax is. 

I hate these shoes. These shoes are bullshit. They don’t look good. I don’t know why I have to wear them. It’s really only Steven who says I have to wear them, and he’s only been with the campaign a few weeks. We could shit-can Steven.

They say it’s time for the last question. Have I been answering questions all this time? The smiling faces in the front row of tables say I have. They’ve not yet peeled the American Flag stickers from their chests in favor of any communist-looking ones. They’ve not come for me with the prop pitchforks they brought. Are there prop pitchforks? Probably.

They’re playing the song now so I know I can get up and smile one last time. Wave to the people. The cramp in my jaw from trying to get the dimple to pop is making my teeth chatter. If I hold a smile longer than thirty seconds I start to spasm. It doesn’t look pretty in photos. We’ve worked out a system for avoiding this. I start tapping the toe of my weird shoes and Steven comes and whisks me off the stage and out the back door, puts me in a limo. I never get a chance to try and fuck check-in girl. Steven is definitely shit-canned now if he wasn’t before.

The next seven stops are a death loop. I stand on the same marks, watch the same homo weird guys eye me from the back of the question lines, lust after the same plain check-in girls and sniff plate after plate of conflict-enriched dinners for signs of tampering. When we make it to Guernsey County, I make Steven take a Greyhound back home to wherever he’s from and promote Stephanie to Steven’s old job. Stephanie would probably fuck me.

***

I don’t know if I even want this job anymore. I liked the one I had before just fine. Nobody cared then. Everybody cares now.

I have a televised presser today. I’m supposed to sit for makeup soon. Not the faggy kind. Stephanie tells me after we fuck this morning that if I sit for makeup and get through the presser we can fuck again tonight. Girl’s got an eye for career advancement. I probably won’t be bored of Stephanie for at least a few weeks. I agree to get through the presser.

It’s five to airtime and Mr. Interviewer Woman is already getting on my nerves. She’s making small talk like she’s not out to destroy me. She’s asking how the wife is, how the kids are. I know she pals around with Oprah and Kelly Clarkson and that bitch from the View. I know she voted for George McGovern, and I know she voted for Carter—twice. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t have a job. When it’s up to me, she won’t.

The interview goes well. I remember all of my talking points without pausing to ‘go to the restroom’ or adjust my face. I smile with the correct amount of teeth. I kiss several hands and shake several babies out in the parking lot of Big News Media.

Back on the bus, I pull my dogs out from the horrendous leather enclosures Steven calls ‘shoes’ and listen to them bark. This is how I know the everyman. It’s why I’m the favorite of the little guy. I know what it’s like to put in seven, even eight hours straight in cheap Italian heels, and I know what it’s like to be hassled. At least they get paid overtime.

I lie on the oversized bunk in back of the bus and thumb through Thai lady-boy porn on my encrypted iPhone. It’s not homo. It’s a kink. If anyone breaks the story, I’ll sue them out of existence but it’s not homo. I’m not ashamed, but don’t tell anyone. I fall asleep with a hard-on and dream about Michael Dukakis in a purple polka-dot print dress and spiked collar, with Kitty holding the leash and smoking a cigar.

***

Today there’s a big meeting to go over opposition research. I don’t attend, but they fill me in after. They say my opponents are clean. Like, angel’s asshole, eat off the floor, Mr. Clean clean. Well, every one of them except for Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I’m a smarter, more capable man than him, and everyone knows it. I tell them to keep digging until they get dirt on every candidate who isn’t me and make sure that it sticks. I tell them plant a few baggies of cocaine or some dead hookers or forge some passenger flight logs if they have to, because we all know they’re guilty of it. I tell them, “Wait, no—that’s me.” I laugh. No one else laughs. I laugh again, louder. Everyone laughs.

Intern Brad says he’s got photos of Senator Whoever in full blackface. I tell him no good, we’ve all got photos in blackface. Intern Chad says the up-and-coming Representative from New York was busted two years ago with illegal firearms, two of which were linked to various crimes. I tell him try again; it won’t play well with the NRA crowd. Stephanie offers to visit a few known liberal queer bars in DC, as if there are any other kind of queer bar in DC, and I tell her break a leg. I’m getting tired of Stephanie anyway.

***

I’m scheduled to appear on a late-night talk show with Trevor Clarkson tonight. He’s a Poindexter dickhead and no one likes him, but the voters eat him up like day old pizza. I tell the network I’ll give them ten minutes. They haggle for fifteen. I respond with five. They say ten. I tell them seven minutes, and I don’t want any hardball bullshit. I tell them don’t focus on my shoes, keep the shot high. They agree.

Trevor is sitting at the desk when I walk out. He’s shuffling papers and straightening his stupid tie. He offers his hand and I offer mine but pull away when his slippery fingers wrap around my own. His hands are bigger than mine. I make a mental note to never shake his hand again. 

The segment goes fine until Trevor brings up Iowa. Reminds the viewers that a poor showing could lead to an early exit. Mentions Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I forget how much teeth to show and start nervously tapping my foot. Trevor smiles at me and folds his arms, his fingers like snakes protruding from his hands. Steven is gone and can’t rescue me now. I stutter through a half-hearted line about paths to victory and strong support in the Midwest and funnel cakes. I laugh for some reason.

Trevor brings up a map of the country, zooms in on Florida. Points to several counties I’ve never heard of. Starts in on some nerd bullshit about demographic changes and favorability ratings. He asks me if I think I’m the kind of candidate the people would like to have a beer with. Asks me what my beer of choice is. I start to say Coors, but Trevor stops me and says I don’t have to play favorites. My face is on fire. The arches of my feet scream in crampy agony. I show my teeth and close my mouth and show them again. Be normal. Act normal. Make the dimple pop. Where the fuck is Stephanie?

I tell Trevor it was a pleasure. I wave to the camera and say God bless our troops and flee from the set. Intern Gary is all smiles when he comes up to tell me how great I looked on camera. I stomp on Gary’s foot and we both cry out because the force of it probably hurt me more than it hurt Gary. I take off the shoes and hurl them at the crew and feel myself sink to the floor by several inches.

***

On the bus I flip through five-hundred channels of satellite TV and throw the remote at the screen when I see my face a tenth time. I try looking at porn on my encrypted iPhone, but a message keeps showing on the browser. Something about parental locks. I try and jerk off and go to sleep but I can’t keep it up long enough to even beginto feel tired. Stephanie slides into the bunk next to me and tells me nobody watches Trevor Clarkson anyway. I tell her there are literally millions of nobodies that watch Trevor Clarkson. She tells me if it doesn’t work out, she’ll come intern for me back home. Says she can sneak in and out of the mansion when the wife is asleep. Tells me it’ll be fun, like a game of Clue or something. I tell her she doesn’t know shit about Clue, that’s not how it works. She jerks me off and tells me she fucking hates Disney movies and that she doesn’t like tall guys anyway and that she thinks I always show the exact right amount of teeth. I fall asleep in her arms and don’t dream about anything.

Alexandra Dark

The Knife’s Friend

Knives glint in the
Moonlight, 
A man polishes his
Collection to perfection. 
Creaking ceased his busy hands,
And a young woman
Enters the room of her own
Volition. 
He bows,
Welcoming her to his 
Wondrous abode. 
Introductions to his 
Three favorite
Friends
Ensue, 
Them shimmering in the light.
They cut through the girl’s
Skin 
By accident, 
And he comforts her
By consuming her
Blood. 

Gregg Norman

Oh, Grow Up

The Easter Bunny doesn’t lay eggs,
not even the pink fuzzy one
with the drum on his tummy
and Energizers up his ass.
The Tooth Fairy deals in used body parts,
cheating children out of their 
pearly whites for chump change.
Santa’s been bitching for years
about the quality of the edibles
and the room temperature dairy products
you cheap bastards leave out.
I’d bet St. Patrick was an alky who saw
more snakes than he drove out of Ireland.
Now he’s just an excuse for green beer,
and how sad is that?
Only the Christmas Turkey
gets his just desserts
with a Yule log, spiked eggnog,
and fisted stuffing.

Chris Butler

Deathbed

When you die, 
life doesn’t flash 
before your eyes.

There is only
the void at the end 
of delirium’s tunnel. 

The surge of 
vital organs 
powering down, 
oxygen deprivation
strangling the brain
and intraveneous 
morphine drips…

…illusions,
delusions,
and auditory 
and visual 
veridical
hallucinations, 
feels like spiritual
transformation,
providing false hope
when one experiences
and witnesses 
of their ghostly god 
who blames your ills 
on your sinful life, 
accompanied by 
apparations of 
angels soaring around 
the room like birds 
trapped indoors in 
a world of hopeless
glass windows,
and loved ones lost,
promising a second
chance for reunification
and reconciliation,
coaxing you to follow
the burning light,

down the 
everlasting slide
of terminal lucidity
in Lucifer’s eternity.

George Gad Economou

So, what’s wrong?

“so, what’s wrong, hun?” she asked as I slogged into the bar near the port,
brimful with tired sailors and scantily clad women, for the first time.
I had to stay away from my regular dive for a while; too many memories
imbued within those beer-stained walls and on my whiskey-covered barstool.
“nothing,” I shook my head and climbed on the barstool. 
“how about you buy me a drink and tell me what ails you?” she insisted.
“how about,” I riposted, “I buy you a drink and we don’t talk for a few minutes?”
“that’ll work,” she said with an uncertain smile. I got us two Jim Beams, double and neat.
I chugged mine, ordered another.
“you’ve got a reason to drink?” she asked, nipping on hers.
“you don’t need a reason to drink, drinking in and of itself is beautiful,
but, yes, tonight, and for the past few weeks, I’ve had good reasons to get drunk
out of my fucking mind. how about you?”
“I need to drink to deal with the manners of some of the people that come in here.”
“right. sorry if I came off as an asshole. usually, I’m just a dick.”
“well, dicks is what I’m here for.”
we both chuckled. I drained my bourbon, got another.
she still nursed her first. “break-up?” she asked.
“yeah. the permanent kind. she died.”
“shit, I’m sorry,” she said and, for the first time, her voice sounded genuine
and her eyes stopped emanating fake sympathy and feigned lust. “are you okay?”
“no. I will be, though; after five or six more of these,” I added,
raised the glass, and sank it. “thanks,” I said to the bartender
who just refilled my lowball without even waiting for me to ask.
“I’m Jeanette,” she said. “it’s my real name. not many people in here know it.”
“George,” I said. “everyone knows my real name; well, those I care enough
to tell them, anyway; there aren’t that many, to be frank.”
“you’re interesting,” she said.
“trust me, I’m not,” I corrected her.
“get me a beer, man, will you? large draft,” I told the bartender.
“beer?” she asked, arching her eyebrow and twitching her lips into a smile.
“yeah. gotta sober up. if I don’t, I might end up paying you for sex.”
“I wouldn’t charge you,” she shook her head. “something about your eyes.
they tell stories your mouth would never do. you’ve seen stuff, done some shit.”
“get her another drink, will you? she’s way too sober and is scaring the crap out of me.”
“I haven’t finished my drink yet,” she protested, with a giggle.
“well, better hurry up. I want to get your intuition skills drunk before it’s too late.”
she chortled, then drained her lowball with tremendous ease, putting to shame seasoned drunkards.
“just so you know, you don’t have to get me drunk to take me to bed,” she informed me.
“as I said, I’m only interested in putting your reading people skills to sleep. don’t care about the rest.”
we didn’t talk much for a while; she finally stopped prodding
into learning my story and I didn’t care for talking anyway. I drank my beer,
had another, had some more double Jim Beams. as I drank,
and got drunk(er), she walked around the bar several times,
coaxing other guys into buying her drinks. that was fine;
she’d always return next to me. “well,” she said suddenly,
I was too deep into my cups, “my shift’s over and the bar’s about to close for the night. how about you come to my place?”
“I don’t have the money for special treatments.”
“I told you earlier, though it’d surprise me if you remembered, you won’t have to pay for anything.”
“fine, then,” I said, right before ordering my usual last call drink(s):
a bourbon, a shot of gin, and a draft beer. she got a double Jim Beam, on her tab. we drank up, then left the bar along with the drunk sailors and tipsy whores.
her apartment was just across the street. top floor in a three-story red-brick house. tiny place, just a living room/kitchen and a bedroom (plus bathroom). still bigger than my apartment.
“so,” she asked after bringing two glasses of whisky and water, “have you drunk enough to forget what you’re trying to forget?”
“there’s not enough booze in the world.” I almost gagged on the acrid taste of the scotch she’d served me. it was a free drink, though, so I manned the fuck up and drank it. “not enough drugs, either.”
“maybe, I can offer something different,” she said and shoved her tongue down my throat.
she climbed on my lap and my hands went straight to her ass. it felt both right and wrong sucking on her tongue while she ground her ass on my prick.
the booze had killed my hydraulics; maybe, it was grief. probably both. undaunted, she thrust her hand into my jeans, her warm palm connected straight with my junk. rubbing and massaging, hard and demanding. gave my drunken body no option;
soon, my blood migrated from my spinning brain to my pulsating cock and I was hard.
with excitement shimmering in her blue eyes, she slithered down from my lap and got between my legs. she yanked my jeans down around my knees and took me in her mouth. her auburn hair covered her face and I had to close my eyes, to stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks.
memories flooded my brain, and the booze in my bloodstream would not let me enjoy the moment without reminding me of everything I’d lost.
her slurping and gargling sounds reverberated across the small room and I buried my fingers in her hair. soon, she was back on my lap, her panties on the floor and her mini skirt hiked up.
in she took me, no questions asked, no condoms worn. the no-condom thing brought back more memories, darker memories, but it didn’t matter. her tight, warm, wet embrace managed to eviscerate most of the guilt from my palpitating heart and as she sucked on my tongue, I decided to surrender to her whims.
she jounced on me fast and hard; faster and harder as the hooch had engendered an invincibility toward her tightness. at some point, I started throbbing. she was huffing and puffing, exhausted from having to ride me for a good long while. I wanted to throw her off me before I came, but it was too late and I was too weak to pull out.
“don’t worry, I’m on the pill,” she whispered in my ear.
I wished I’d heard those words a couple of months ago. things’d have been wildly different.
panting heavily, she sat next to me and kissed me on the bearded cheek. “come, let’s go to bed,” she said. I accepted.
I wanted to go home and drink some more, but I had no strength to return to the streets, let alone wait for the fucking bus.
we lay down in her double bed, naked and sweaty and dizzy, and passed out before I could even think of how many men had jizzed on the fucking mattress.
come morning, and hangover, I thought about it; too bad a headache to care. I crawled out of bed and clambered to the bathroom. took a piss, puked.
“good morning,” she greeted me with a heavy voice when I shambled into the kitchen. “coffee?”
“sure,” I grunted and flung my numb, throbbing carcass on the couch.
rolled a cigarette and lit it. “you don’t mind my smoking in here, right?”
“no, it’s fine,” she giggled. sat next to me and I took the mug she gave me.
“good coffee. strong.”
“figured you like it black and strong.”
“yeah, unlike my men,” I chuckled. “sorry, an Airplane reference.”
“what?”
“haven’t watched the movie? you should. a funny masterpiece.”
“maybe, we can watch it next time?”
“sure,” I said, without even thinking. “well,” I cleared my throat after I finished my cigarette and coffee, “I should get going.”
“alright,” she nodded. “wish you could stay a bit longer.”
“maybe, next time.”
as I got dressed, I expected her to tell me how much I owed her for the night.
she never did. it was, indeed, free. “you’re welcome back here anytime,
unless I’m working,” it was the only thing she said as I stood under her doorway.
“do come by the bar tonight.”
“maybe, I will,” I said and climbed down the spiral staircase,
each step I too bringing a new jolt of pain in my head.
I made it home, took a shower, and had a beer. wrote a couple of poems,
drank some more beers. I got dressed and walked to the bus stop.
in twenty minutes, I was sitting on the same barstool
in the same bar by the port.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The Daily Catch

She came to the Halloween party
in black fishnet
and someone asked what she was
and she said: a fisherman’s net.

Smells like you caught something,
I said.

Not very nice, I know.

It just came out.
Like a nasty drunk.

She kept staring at me
for the rest of the evening.
Trying to murder me with her glare.

I knew that was what she was doing.
Then I didn’t feel so bad
about my insult.

I mean, out of all known proportion,
the crazy bitch was trying to kill me.

Willie Smith

Under the Gun

Roll out of bed. Bed rolls out of me. The floor rolls like a sailor at sea.

Slouch toward the kitchenette. A guy occupies the couch – hubby of the gal I, at the party last night, screwed on the toilet seat? Points at me a gun. Large revolver. Classic .357? I don’t know guns; though I love the precision of their build, and of the ammo they hurl.

I say, without interrupting my death-march to the kitchenette, “Your wife always fart when she cums? Or that because my dick so much bigger than yours?”

A click – as of a hammer cocked – clicks.

Hope to make it to the finger-smeared fridge, and the iced Nescafé inside. Hope to get down enough to wake up and realize this all a nightmare – the party, the toilet, the too-high wife, the gun, the guy…

Not the couch. I need the couch. For those occasions I coax a female down here; because she often kicks me, for sundry reasons, out of my own bed.

Or, if this real – hope, in that last frame, as the slug flies ahead of the bang, to see why the ugly – especially when bad – always feels too good.

M.P. Powers

Paris Hotel

Drunk at noon in the city 
of Baudelaire, I am back at my hotel, deprived 
of sleep, 
here for an afternoon nap. 

I yank the curtains shut, lie down on the bed, 
think about all the ghosts 
who’ve occupied 
this space 
before me. Ghosts. 

I can almost see them gliding 
across the carpet, laughing, arguing,
making love in the milky 
maundering moonlit
hours. 

This hotel is ancient. It’s at least 200 
years old.
I can hear a strange occasional 
clicking
inside the walls. I can hear the floors 
groaning. 

I can feel the heavy rumble 
of the metro 
as it passes 
underneath the building. 

I fold the pillow around my 
skull, throw the duvet 
over me. 

But after about 10 minutes, 
it becomes clear – I’m too wired to sleep. 

How can you sleep in bright liquid 
August 
in the city 
of Picasso, Hemingway, Cendrars? 

I ponder the question for a bit, 
though I know the answer. So, 
I climb out of bed – I too 
am a ghost 
in this hotel’s memory – pulling 
up 
my trousers, lacing my shoes. 

I grab my wallet off the dresser 
and, 
remembering 
I am in the city of that big-souled thief
Villon, remove bank card
licenses Deutschland Ticket
everything 
but €30
and head up to Montmartre.

Brian Rosenberger

No Need of a Map

devils in my head
angels on my shoulder
telling me which way to go
horns or halo
salvation or damnation
i know the road i’m on
i turned that corner a long time ago
there’s no turning back
not now
not ever
as the bodies pile
the blood flows
the whispers continue
another mile
another life
one way
all the way
you can’t be first
you may be next
and miles to go before i sleep
and miles to go before i sleep

Javy Gwaltney

Dick Pic

Kaylee lived across town, over on 7th street near the Fogo de Chão. Ben had been seeing her for a week. Well, he hadn’t seen her in the traditional sense. They had met through Tinder a few months into the pandemic. She was brunette with a pixie cut and blue eyes that made him think of clear skies. In her pictures she wore patterned button dresses and overalls that made her seem artsy. He was fairly sure he had seen her in real life a couple of times at the coffee shop he worked at…well, the one he worked at before civilization came apart and his life had been reduced to browsing dating apps for thrills while waiting for some miraculous check from the government.

Kaylee’s profile said she was into The Talking Heads and that her favorite movie was Repo Man. He swiped right. The two of them matched and exchanged numbers. They texted from time to time about their favorite coffee roasts and missing smoking cigarettes at crowded bars on Saturday night. He found himself fantasizing about watching movies together at one of their apartments (hopefully hers because hoo boy, his ratty one-room with a mattress on the floor wasn’t exactly what you’d called romantic). In the shower, he’d think about fucking her. In bed. In a car. His hands fumbling at bra straps, her sharp teeth sinking into his shoulder. She seemed like a biter.

He got drunk one night off a fifth of Evan Williams and texted her these things in a moment of equal parts stupidity and passion. He woke up in the morning, nursing a hangover and dreading what the text messages in his phone would say. He opened the conversation box, bracing for impact.

Well go on, it read.

So he did. He told her he’d like to go out to a movie and then take her back home and fuck the night away. He didn’t brag about his abilities as a lover (what was there to brag about?) or make a case for her to fuck him. He just laid his desire out bare, stringing together fantasies and working them into language. He watched, heart in his throat, the tell-tale ellipses in the chat box that meant she was typing a response. 

That might be nice. Once everything is over. I miss having someone touch me in that way, the message said.

A few minutes later she sent him a picture: her left arm tastefully folded across her bare chest, teeth biting into her lower lip. Black and white filter, of course.

Holy shit, he wrote back. He added a smiling face emoji. Because he was stupid.

Your turn, the message said.

He stared at the words. A minute went by.

Well? She wrote.

He replied with the first thing that came to mind: A decidedly unsexy Sure! Just give me a bit.

Ben ran to the bathroom and pulled down his pants to stare at his dick. It was a flaccid, unimpressive noodle protruding from a jungle of wild brown hair.

“Fuck,” he proclaimed to the world.

He hopped in the shower and spread cold shaving cream along his groin before mowing down the field of hair with a razor. He got out and dried himself. His heart sank when he looked into the mirror. Everything somehow looked worse: the brown hair had at least hidden the pale hilly terrain his dick was hanging from. Looking down at all that uncovered flesh, dotted with red splotches from shaving too fast, made him feel like a potbellied Grey Alien more than a man. Who would ever want to lay claim to such a body?

“Fuck meeeeee,” he said. Time to hit the panic button.

He texted Alex, who had moved away and lived in Des Moines now. Alex had always been better with women.

I need help.

 Your boy’s here, Alex wrote back. What’s up?

There’s a girl.

You’re seeing someone in all of this!????

Just on Tinder. Hoping to maybe get something going on after the lockdown ends.

Is she hot?

He sent Alex a screenshot of her Tinder profile.

Oh shit, yeah she’s too hot for you.

Fuck you.

Hahahaha I kid. What’s the problem?

She wants a dick pic.

Well send a dick pic.

I’ve never sent a dick pic before.

Son….are you fucking serious?

Don’t be an asshole. Yes.

Ahahahahaha.

Fuck you.

Okay, okay. I can help you out. Show me what you’re working with.

You’re serious?

We roomed together in college, Ben. I’ve seen your beanie weenies. It’s fine. Show me the goods.

He took a picture of his dick and sent it to Alex. A few seconds went by.

Oh no, you just shaved downstairs didn’t you?

Yes. Is it obvious?

Well….

Fuck me.

Okay. Don’t panic. We can salvage this. You’ve got enough to work with. You’re gonna need to switch up the angles though. Portrait shot, not landscape. Set a timer. You need to capture your body and face in the shot. Show off the whole sculpture. Make yourself hard and grip that motherfucker like you’re proud of it. Women don’t want to look at your dick like it’s some weird hotdog just dangling there. 

LMAO this is so weird.

Hey man! You wanted advice.

Yep, totally fair. And I appreciate it.

Good. Now take a shot and send me it.

What?

I need to make sure you’re sending her a good one! Send me another picture of your dick, god damn it.

Fine.

Ben closed his eyes and made himself hard thinking about Kaylee. He imagined the sounds she’d make in bed, felt the warmth of her skin against his. When he was stiff, he went into his bedroom and set the camera timer on his phone. He leaned the phone up against his bookshelf and ran to the bed. He posed, chest puffed out, hand holding his dick. He made sure he was standing in the light cutting through his window and hoped the neighbors across the way weren’t looking outside at this very moment. The phone camera clicked. He grabbed his phone and sent the picture to Alex without looking.

He waited. He checked the conversation box with Kaylee to see she had sent him a gif of Sonic The Hedgehog tapping his foot impatiently. Alex messaged him.

Hold on. I’m getting a second opinion from my roommate, Jake.

YOU’RE SHOWING A STRANGER MY DICK!?

Relax. I just need some unbiased perspective. I’m very emotionally attached to the man this dick is attached to. I need to make sure I’m taking that into account. Dick pics are a science: they should be peer-reviewed.

You fucker.

Jake says it’s a good picture mostly. He agrees with me though. You need to grip your piece tighter.

Jesus Christ.

Trust me. Grip that dick like you own it. It’ll make a difference.

Okay. I will do that. Thanks!

Good luck! Let me know how it goes!

Ben made himself hard again and took another picture, this time holding his dick tight like a vice. It hurt. He brought up the editing app on his phone and adjusted the lighting, applied a Vivid filter to hide the splotches as best he could. He stared at the picture for another minute, making sure that everything was as good as it could be, like an artist fiddling with their miniature display before presenting to the world. At long last, he hit send. He waited. The afternoon melted into night. The days curdled into a week.

She left him on read.

***

Originally published in Quarantine