by Guillermo Bosch
bosch@guillermobosch.com
hat a holiday treat! Pure delight! This issue of Sauce*Box speaks (reads) for itself! So many really good pieces submitted. I even have a bunch of leftovers that I can serve up in the Spring issue.Thank ALL of you contributors so much! You have made my holidays terrific, and I wish you and yours all the best for a wonderful New Year of peace and love...
Guillermo Bosch
3 Poems
by Dee Rimbaud
x-generation@ntlworld.com
http://www.thunderburst.co.uk
Arc of Descent
by Dee Rimbaud
oft as an ocean, her skin, soft as cream,
White as milk and moonlight,
She dances half-naked, diaphanous,
Weaving webs between the legs
Of lounging diners.
Smiling, they toast her as she passes,
Their mindless chatter tinkling,
Like pink champagne
Overflowing from crystal glasses.
She undresses to lecherous cheers:
Her laughter, a brook bubbling
On the untroubled surface
Of her bankable veneer.
Rubbing feathered breasts
Soft against sandpaper cheeks
And visceral salivating mouths;
These wolves and hounds become ridiculous:
Like little children dressed up
In someone else’s finery.
She delights in her unsubtle youth,
The power to captivate and hold in thrall,
Her voodoo, this mistress of illusions:
She dissolves her soul before us,
Soluble in celluloid fantasy;
Pouting and posing, she is
Marilyn Monroe, Brigitte Bardot;
And one day, one day,
She will shoot up to cine-heaven,
A bright and blazing star.
But at twenty three, already she fears
The arc of descent: the magnetic touch
Of inevitable gravity: foreseeing the drab tales
Of how she was once so big
A whole room could not contain her;
The endless reminiscing, boring holes
In cruelly indifferent ears; the catalogues
Of wrinkles and requiems; the faded clippings
And sad remains; the dusted down show reels
Of another starlet, rotting away
In the vacuous chambers of Beverly Hills.
Angel In White
by Dee Rimbaud
ngel in white, you are too luminous. I want to see something red,
like period blood or secret flesh. Something to show me you’re human.
Angel in white, you are an apparition in the safe blue night light.
You glide over the polished linoleum like a hawk on the vicious wind.
Angel in white, you have pierced my flesh, but not my heart. I am stable now, you say.
I am stable now, it’s true: nothing can touch my pain.
Angel in white, you hold the keys. It’s checkmate in three simple moves.
Angel in white, I love you.
A Confession Of Love
by Dee Rimbaud
hen you opened me it was redness you found:
A redness so sweet and annihilating
You’d have thought yourself to be lost
On the dark strand of a foreign shore,
Far from the singular land of your home.
There can be no safe haven now,
No sweet meats falling like flowers from heaven:
The kiss that made us one again
Wished up a symphony of iron and fire,
A love-lust forged of loneliness and desire.
When I laid myself down like the sacrificial lamb,
You did not see these leonine claws,
Nor did you sense that saviour God
Who could lead you out of my den,
Back to the comfort of your homeland again.
So will you go then, when you hear this song?
Will you leave me spent and tossed to the wind,
Restless, rootless and footloose again?
Ritual in Orange Major
by Diane Ravella
diane.ravella@verizon.net
ita likes to be the first one in the store when the Clementine oranges arrive. She camps outside like she's expecting her favorite celebrity to show up. Not that they actually show up in a limo. They arrive without any fanfare in an old pick-up truck. She has this way of picking them, which I've never seen before. And trust me in eight years of watching customers pick oranges; you see some weird rituals. First she looks at color. Sort of like a diamond broker or connoisseur does with a flawless gem. Clementines should be as orange as the sky at sunset. I overheard her tell this to a novice Clementine consumer once. Shape comes next or as a jeweler would say, the cut&Mac226; of the gem. It's her belief that an orange should be perfectly round. A former softball pitcher from the minors, she describes the perfect orange with details befitting her other beloved passion. It should fit in the palm of your hand like a softball being used to throw out the first pitch of the game. It should be firm yet supple, ripe enough to explode into your mouth when you peel back its core, revealing its inner layers. In other words, it is the perfect fastball for one's taste buds. Men who hear this remark laugh and nod their heads in agreement. Her statement often brings about proposals of marriage. But I don't think that I have ever heard someone ask for her hand.
Lita is a knockout. She stands five feet and seven inches tall. Eyes colored amber with flecks of chestnut. She wears her hair long almost in homage to hippie women who are but a distant memory for her. She looks multi-racial. With a healthy dose of Native American, African-American, and Caucasian all mixed into one. She is a Langston Hughes poem; simplistic, complex, and filled with passions that overload your mind, body, and soul. I watch as she sniffs the oranges inhaling deeply like one does when smelling a vintage Bordeaux or Merlot. This part of the process never fails at making my clit strain against my jeans. This is my ritual. My mind fantasizing about what it's like to be one of those lucky oranges. I shudder at the thought of her fingers neatly peeling back sections of the untouched pulp. It makes me think of her fingers gently massaging the unreleased tension in my engorged clit. She finishes her selection process by shaking the piece of fruit. Confident that she's picked a good one, she bounces off to the cash register. Then heads out to her car, her face is the epitome of absolute bliss.
Unlike those people who have to be inches away from the door. She sits in a secluded area away from prying eyes. Lita is so hungry. That she can't even make it home to partake in the Clementine's juicy offerings. I watch as she tears away the orange peel. The orange and I are one. I tear away at my own outer layers. Her fingers run up and down the orange, as mine caress my body pressing the places that will bring forth my sticky sweetness. She licks the orange running her teeth gently against its core. I moan as my fingers tweak my clit while she continues her seduction of the orange. With her greed overwhelming her, Lita surprises me by biting into her orange, skin and all. The imagery is so strong that I cover my hand with my own juices. I shake like a plastic bag in the wind, the orange and I are both spent.
She devours us whole leaving nothing but a quivering mess. I look in amazement as she smears the juice all over her face wearing it like war paint; only she's not at war.
She's at peace. Placing the leavings in a paper bag, Lita throws away the essence. I lay in my secluded spot spent, counting the days until her return, the woman from the minors who has a ritual in orange major.
2 Poems
by Alison Eastley
lucrezia11@hotmail.com
Lucrezia Smiles In The Dark
by Alison Eastley
ound and gagged, tormented hips shimmy
as the idol of the Vatican hangs upside-down
splitting her Renaissance sides until tears
wet her unblemished face when she watches
Ophelia pretending to drown in the Waterhouse picture
framed by the girl in the coffin of her room.
Empty aluminium cans and cigarette butts
cram bowls of broken shells corrupting the solitude
sliding under the locked doors of swollen eyelids
shut as furious hands slip between the space dreaming
the slap of his cock presses against the creamy
paleness of her ass rising in the fugitive dark.
The Open Door
by Alison Eastley
ho understands the logic of desire
black swirls alternating between pink
and black imprints, her skin a revelation
of sun stroke singeing the hairs on the
back of his neck, her kisses a flame
brighter than the broken surface salty
with tears washing love bites tenderising
his skin with a pulse beating in her mouth,
his femoral artery hot like her sticky fingers.
They feel the sweat running down his thighs
as she bends her head, licks, then seals her lips,
his cock held tightly by her tongue sucking
every last drop she said it made her believe
the light is always pouring in.
"Touching him that way,
And takes me downhill
Madia Mangalena
by Michael Haulica
michael_haulica@yahoo.com
Translated from Romanian by Mihai Samoila
adia Mangalena's face fills the whole screen. The bluish filter emphasizes her discretely retouched eyes. The prophecy of Brodar's coming is broadcast, on sub-wave. It sticks on passers-by's brains, penetrates them, takes root, and takes the appearance of Madia from Mangala. There’s not need for a screen anymore, the image is hanging upon cortexes, waving like wolf-flags, with the only difference that it's not howling. Madia is smiling. On her skin, the marks of the stones are clear, telling the story of her life.
"Let the immaculate one throw first."
And every one crowded forward to throw the stone, to be seen throwing, to get known as being clean.
The scars smoothed her body, made it shiny, magnetic. The clothes stick on her, the sights, the hands, all those. She walks on the street and the watches fall down around her, break, stand stone-still. Madia without Time. Magnetic Dia.
Only her face remained bitten by stones. For a better recollection. And each caress burns the hand that had held the stone, each kiss has the taste of the stones.
"What... What the hell's that?"
Everyone jumps aside, at first touch. Burned, shocked, disgusted, scared, emetic. They swear they won’t touch her ever again, but they start again the next day.
They keep themselves busy in her way, to be seen by her, to be chosen, to make her mind them at least. Ferocious males, men who are ruling the destinies of the world. They are her rags for wiping. Her shoe cream, for her boots...
"Linda, Linda, where's your boots?" (love song from 20th century)
her toothbrush, her purse, her period pad.
Madia Mangalena, the psalliote of Mangala. Beautiful, dreadfully beautiful. When she makes love, her movements are avoiding and receiving, feinting, watching, begging, urging, howling. She has transformed herself into syrup or brandy, worming into you and playing the full in there. She's burning you,
tearing you apart.
But "it is better to burn than to rust." That is the first lesson.
With her body she is burning you, burning at her turn, consuming herself in yourself.
Madia of Mangala lives her death every day.
"A whore! Every jerk, every cock-sucker split her, as well as all those who are walking around her like the relics of saints. A whore!"
And, yet, people gather around screens like in the mad years of Psycho programmes. 23, 24... 26: Andie MacDowell sold en detail on the sandwich boards of the handicapped (IQ under 160). What times! Movies - they called them. Now, on the screen, we are seeing the reality. The tricksters, the handlers of lives are bombarding us with the lives of the saints. I don't know wherefrom they are pulling so many saints; it seems fishy. As long as we don't understand that, we better stay home on our butts and give up the diems. Anyhow, the dreammaker shouldn't fall into everyone's hand.
Patina is another name for rust, and the naming gives it nobility. This is the second lesson.
For the moment, let's wait for Brodar; let's see what's with him. Maybe he's another Big Brother, like so many others who have passed by there. They are all gone, as they came. Some are wretches; some are cads.
And we, the cattle, we are leaving our lives in their palms, palms not good enough for a masturbation. But it belongs to them. And they could forgive Madia, the one that we could never forgive. But how could we forgive her? Isn't she our whore, isn't she? Aren't we locking ourselves with her in two-on-two foutoirs, aren't we throwing off our clothes and socks and wrist-watches to gain another five square inches of skin for caresses? How could we forgive her, when she made us throw stones? No executioner forgives his victims.
"Let the immaculate one throw first."
The marks of the stones on her face make her more beautiful. Any man who sees her feels in his nostrils, at once, the smell of her blood. Her calling.
On the huge screen, Madia is moving away and, behind her, the smell that drives me crazy lingers on. Inside me, I feel my blood rising to the top of the tops and the sensong blow up in the air around. The filters are changing, they are red now.
Masna Pyia passes his dextra3 over the chords, the grave accords are clearing and, from somewhere, from depths, I know wherefrom the waves appear. The master's image grows blurred, there are only the sensong4 and the waves which remain. Trembling at the beginning, more and more agitated afterward, finally the agressives, the waves.
The passers-by are looking astonished at me. Beyond hate there is love. Like a door, like a wound, like a spike. I'm the only one who has forgiven her. I love her.
I don't feel my hands anymore. They are numb. I didn't think that it could be so bad. Nay, they are not numbed. It hurts me. Especially the spikes hurt me. The lust with which they had beaten those spikes in my palms. Like at that other time. And their faces, disfigured by hate.
From here, from up here, everything looks different. But it doesn't matter anymore.
A woman stops in front of me. I look into her eyes and I had the impression that she looks like my mother. Probably, all dying men feel that. From my wounds, my blood is dripping and she dodges to save her basket. Too late.
She looks at me and says:
"Is it you, or should we wait another one?"
"It's me. Me."
2 Poems
by Brain Burch
burch@web.ca
Intimacy
by Brain Burch
here are emotional statements made in the coolness of the moment,
in the heat of eternity,
that wear down whatever separates us/fills in whatever divides us.
We know something new.
We feel this when a muscle, tense for months, is released.
Without a touch, without some fresh way of stating the unsaid, I relax—
my body confirming trust in the safety of your company.
I may not state something wonderful,
I may not ask for something from you with unspoken confidence.
Yet within the silences and words, within 24 years of hesitant spontaneity,
we practice accepting each other.
We may never gain beyond what is offered in the here and now.
Before and after there is contentment.
Within this moment there is more.
Thoughts On A Subway Train
by Brain Burch
he hair of a stranger touches the back of my hand,
a moment of hope that remains static is possibilities.
I don't look down. I bring my book closer to my face,
avoiding any possibility of attention being seen.
Green rustles past me, two strands of ribbon
fall across the pages and a giggle barely is heard.
She is leaving the car and looks down at me
as if for thirteen seconds I have entered her life forever.
Our eyes barely acknowledge each other
and she steps out.
At the edge of the moment, there is weeping.
A power blackout and the train stops,
halfway between stations,
two weeks after the accident that killed two riders.
Perfume becomes mingled with sweat.
I touch her shoulder for two seconds
to a whispered "Thank you."
At the edge of the moment, there is weeping.
The car is almost empty. Two seats down
is a woman with her back to me, one
shoulder moving rhythmically.
She gasps quietly, forcefully,
then notices my attention.
She bits her lips closed across a strand
of black hair that curls absently
down between her eyes.
I smile, then close my eyes.
At the edge of the moment, there is weeping.
I watch her age herself as we pass eight stations.
powder/mascara/lipstick/
some rites of passage not performed in private
She leaves, pulling down on her skirt as she exits.
At the edge of the moment, there is weeping.
Crowded together, avoiding looking at each other
we sit, nestled together closer than lovers
in the last weeks of a relationship.
You sigh, find a magazine in your purse
and turn to an article on meeting men in public places.
I use old memories
to fill up my desires to at least say hello.
At the edge of the moment, there is weeping.
Fairy In A Candy Dish
By Tara Alton
taraalton@hotmail.com
he had transparent wings and long, blond curly hair draped over her shoulders. Nestled in a milk glass candy dish, she slept amongst brightly wrapped candies, actually using one of the wrappers for a blanket. It was as if she alighted at the edge and climbed inside. I was in love with this tiny fairy doll in the window of a French Quarter gallery on Royal Street.
Every morning since I found her, I had paused to say hello, wishing she could join me, but she was far out of my price range. I was content to visit her and day dream. Apparently so was someone else, I realized. A young woman was standing beside me this morning, peering in the window, her intensity over the fairy matching mine.
I glanced at her. She was eclectic to say the least, but she was pretty. She wore an Indian scarf around her shoulders, and a square cut top showed her cleavage. A billowy gauze skirt completed her outfit as well as gypsy style hoop earrings.
Next to her, I looked positively conservative with my favorite crisp white blouse with a khaki skirt and my loafers.
"She’s beautiful," she said with an English accent.
I nodded.
"I noticed her last week. I was hoping she would still be here. Did you see the price? She is a bit dear."
A little worried this British nymph was going to sweep away my fairy, I raised my camera to take a picture. I’d already tried twice to preserve her in my vacation photos, but the pictures hadn’t come out because of the glare off the glass.
Very kindly, the young woman helped me block the glare so I could get my shot. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so threatened. She loved her as much as I did.
"I’ve been imagining all types of stories for her and why she is in the candy dish," she said. "Mostly, I like to think that she has just left her lover and now she sleeps."
She sighed and looked at me.
"You look a lot like her. Close your eyes."
I blinked in surprise at the unexpected compliment. She was waiting. I closed my eyes for a moment.
"Oh my yes. You do," she exclaimed.
She held out her hand.
"My name is Mabel and you are?" she asked.
"Petula," I said, shaking her hand. It was warm. My skin sort of tingled when she took her hand away. I rubbed my knuckle. Maybe it was her lotion.
"Are you here for business or pleasure?" she asked.
"Pleasure. You?"
"I’m on an extended holiday," she said.
I nodded and heard my stomach rumble. She must have heard it to because she raised an eyebrow at me. Embarrassed, I glanced back at my candy dish fairy. The restaurant I liked would be open now. What would it hurt to ask her to join me? The worst she could say was no, and I was feeling a bit lonely this morning. It would be nice to have someone to chat to.
"I was on my way to get some breakfast in Jackson Square. Would you like to come?" I asked.
Mabel bit her lower lip and studied her watch.
"That would be lovely," Mabel said.
We took the alley beside the church to Jackson Square.
The restaurant was a French bistro type place. I was going to order a croissant and fruit, but Mabel ordered scrambled eggs, croissant, bacon and a hash brown. I decided to do the same. It had been ages since I’d had a big breakfast. We choose a wooden bench overlooking Jackson Square.
"How come you skipped the coffee?" Mabel asked. "It’s wonderful."
I cringed.
"It’s a long story. I used to be a sales associate for a big hotel, but the job burned me out. At a function, I met Guy, who was running a cappuccino cart company. It’s a coffee cart that you can take into business for functions and made all these coffee drinks for the guests. I befriended him and went to work for him. Soon after, I became a partner. Now, I’m burned out again. I thought the coffee cart would be different, but it’s the same. There is too much rushing around and butt kissing. I can’t even bring myself to go into those cute coffee shops tucked down the courtyards on Royal Street."
I paused.
"I used to love the smell of coffee," I said. "My partner said to come here and take a vacation. Come back when I’m ready. It’s already been a month."
"It sounds as if you’re at a crossroads."
I nodded.
"I came here five years ago on vacation," Mabel said. "And I never left. I’m renting a house and I just do my thing. I think I’m a lot like you. Trying to find myself."
She took a bite of her eggs.
"Do you know what my favorite breakfast is?" she asked.
"What?"
"Sardine sandwich. What’s yours?"
"Probably a brunch at the hotel where I used to work. You know, eggs benedict, things in chafing dishes, fresh fruit."
"What about at home?"
"A bowl of Irish oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins," I said.
"I usually don’t eat such a normal breakfast. I like something really sweet."
Without warning, Mabel reached over and fed me a piece of strawberry tart that she had tucked into the corner of her tray. Her finger brushed my lower lip. I felt another little sizzle. Surprised, I covered my mouth as I chewed. The tart was delicious.
"It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to," I said. "You know girl stuff."
A long silence settled over us as we finished our food. I wondered if I had said the wrong thing, but then Mabel balanced her empty tart dish on top of her left over bacon and smiled conspiratorially at me.
"I was going to go to a gallery up the street," said Mabel. "Would you like to go?"
"Of course I would," I said.
On the way out of the restaurant, Mabel linked her arm in mine like British girls do. A guy saw us and whistled.
"We’re British," she called back.
We passed through Jackson Square. It was still early. Artists were unpacking their paintings, and psychics were arranging their little card tables for Tarot card readings. A few tourists crept around in sneakers carrying cameras.
We passed stores with Mardi Gras beads, hot sauces, voodoo dolls and alligator heads. I caught glimpses of masks decorated with feathers in gold and purple. Frantic Cajun music echoed from the store fronts luring in customers to buy freshly made pralines and cans of coffee with chicory.
Mabel stopped in front of a gallery. It had a romantic feel to it. There were paintings of knights and maidens, sirens and sailors. She led me to the counter where there were loads of books for sale.
"I’ll be right back," she said to me.
She joined a clerk at the other end of the counter, deep in conversation. I looked around at the books, expecting Picasso and Van Gogh. What I saw were books on vintage erotic postcards, pinup girls and the Kama Sutra. Oh heavens. This wasn’t an ordinary gallery. A slight flush came over my cheeks as I took it all in. I wasn’t a prude by any means. My father had pin up girl calendar art over his work bench at home for years, but this had caught me off guard after all the arty galleries on Royal Street.
There was nothing seedy about the place either. Actually, it was quite as lovely as any other gallery I’d seen. It was just filled with erotic art.
Mabel beckoned to me.
"Come upstairs. It’s my favorite place," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. Here was the more explicit art. There were erotic drawings, water colors, paintings and lithographs covering a myriad of subjects from super realistic female pinups to sepia tone photos of artistic bondage.
She paused at an oak table covered with black and white photographs. I joined her. On the top were cheesecake photos of 1950's style women in bullet bras and seamed hose. Underneath, I found Japanese models tied up in knots in various stages of undress. One photo surprised me because I felt a familiar tingle down there. Mostly that tingle was reserved for when I was sexually aroused, but I couldn’t be aroused over this photo. Or could I? A young woman was tied to a chair. The point of view was from the back. Her bra was pushed down to her waist, her black hair swept across her shoulder. You could just see the bare side of her breast because it curved so.
I felt my face flush. Glancing over at Mabel, I was alarmed. She was watching me. Had she noticed my reaction? Did she remember what was on this table?
"I wonder where these photos were taken," I said, hoping she would think my lingering interest was purely artistic.
I joined her near a series of small paintings. They were of explicit scenes of love making, different positions, a little abstract in their rendering. Mostly it was women with women.
"The artist certainly knows how to capture a moment," Mabel said. "She gets right to the heart of the matter."
"How do you know the artist is a woman?" I asked.
Mabel shrugged.
"Why shouldn’t she be?" she asked.
I didn’t answer her. With her fingernail, she tapped the painting of two women locked in an embrace. I looked around to see if a store clerk was watching. The last time I accidently had touched a painting in a museum I got yelled at by a guard.
"Have you ever?" she asked.
"Painted?"
"No. Done something like this?"
I hesitated.
"Not that adventuresome," I said.
"Maybe you haven’t met the right girl," Mabel said.
"That’s true."
"I always know right away when I’m attracted to someone," she said.
"How’s that?"
"Something in the air," she said. "Personally, I think you’re stunning."
Again, I was a little taken aback at the sudden compliment.
"You can’t tell me you didn’t feel something when I fed you that tart," she said.
Cautiously, I touched my bottom lip.
She was standing very close to me now. I looked in her eyes, feeling little trembles, like tiny earthquakes shaking my body. What was going on? Why was I feeling like this?
Very purposefully, she unbuttoned her shirt once and opened it so I could see her breasts.
"Wouldn’t you like to touch them?" she asked.
She did have lovely cleavage. I could see a hint of a nipple at the edge of her demi cup brassiere. Paralyzed with sudden and surprising desire, I didn’t answer. She laughed and stepped away. Tracing her finger along side the wall, she stood by the table where the Oriental photos were.
"Would you like to kiss me?" she asked.
I still didn’t answer her. I was torn between the flaming heat between my legs and my brain saying this was crazy. Mabel picked up a picture and showed it to me. It was the girl in the chair. She knew which one I had been looking at. She knew what turned me on.
"How about if I just touch you?" she asked.
Yes or no, I thought. Did I want to? It had been so long since anything sexual had happened for me. The fact that she was a girl didn’t scare me off. Fooling around in a store did give me some pause, but what the hell, I was aroused, and I was on vacation. I nodded.
Behind her, she opened a door and beckoned me inside. I followed her. The room was like a mini gallery, but with a desk and a sofa. It must be where the serious art deals were conducted. She locked the door behind us.
Taking off her scarf, she loosely tied my hands behind my back. This was like a game, I thought. I caught the light in her eyes as she turned me back around and positioned me against the wall. Unbuttoning my blouse, she roughly tugged it down with my bra. I was transported inside that photo. Not a game. One of my nipples popped out.
With the length of her tongue, she licked it and then bit it.
Her body pressing against mine on the way down. I shivered. Her hand slid up my skirt, and she pressed the side of her head against my crotch as she caressed my ass. I wore no hose.
Kissing me through the fabric, she pulled off my panties. I felt naked beneath my skirt. Her hands went back up between my legs.
Looking up at me, she paused. I was very wet. What was she going to do next? I prayed she’d put head under my skirt. Instead, she hiked it up. There it was. Out in the open air. Moist. Pulsating. She looked at it. I felt so exposed.
With her eyes on mine, she kissed it. Teasing me, she used her mouth to moisten me. She wasn’t in a rush to find my clit. Lightly, she nuzzled my outer lips, using the tip of her tongue to gently lick my clit. She only used her tongue, not smothering the sensation. Then she parted my lips and slid a finger inside me while she licked me.
She devoted all her attention to my clit. I wanted it rough. No more long delicious licks. I arched back my body a half circle, the tip of my head on the wall. Her arms around my thighs. She bit my pearl between her teeth.
In an uncontrollable shudder, I came. I felt like I was being turned inside out, my toes squirming, my hips gyrated against her. A chill of gooseflesh came over me as I nearly tumbled to my knees with her.
I was embarrassed, dazzled and nearly in tears. It was such relief. She had come too. Her chest was flushed. She had her hand up her skirt. I hadn’t noticed. She slid her finger in my mouth, and I tasted her.
She handed me my panties with a giggle.
Outside the gallery, she hailed an approaching taxi.
"Call me," she said.
"I don’t know your name," I said.
"Yes. You do."
Before she got in the taxi, she pointed upstairs at the gallery. What did she mean?
"In the corner," she said, shutting the taxi door. The taxi sped away.
Then it all became clear. The familiarity with the clerk. Knowing about the back room. Tapping the painting with her fingernail. Knowing the artist was a woman. It was her.
2 Poems
by Stephan Mead
mead815@yahoo.com
Kiss Me
By Stephen Mead
t might be sordid, the bed spins and fingers
of impossibly gentle depravity You know
that of course, my prose-puckered lips
presently languishing silence except
for these brief exclamations,
these emissions of air.
How strange really
the way faces fit together,
a Jigsaw of angles scarcely aware
of the hazards of noses poking out
eyes. One must be anthropological,
objective, when studying the erogenous.
Either that, or Groucho Marx, in order
to keep perspective from flowing off
lost in a fluid of feeling which pays
therapist's phone bills and lets
ghosts leak from mirrors.
Who are you? What a question
and what wants stampede to tear
asunder or reaffirm! Tongues of lust,
tender angel fire, the carnal mind
and loins of cannibals rationalizing
survival's need with a virgin's
merciful sensitivity spreading
fear, sacred tenderness, pure
as complications on this altar.
No. No. It's quite simple.
I know how and the reasons why
cats purr.Their wisdom ripens,
mistletoe-right. It's above us. close
as smoke. Am I looking too deeply?
Wait a minute. Don't. Ok.
Come here
Hardline
By Stephen Mead
leep like breeze, breath upon breath,
The haggard clench of the face
Now the rain lit blur of someone
Behind a windshield, warm there
In that darkness
So you fold me against you & I, tough
As velvet, partially long to be steel, nomadic,
That rigid Achilleís bred to believe touch is weak.
Of course I know better, know that such logic
Causes & approves of war, louses up spirits
& decays, a gradual nova.
Still, at odd moments, who does not wish
To be somebody else, thinking it safer, more
Gracious, able to take the hardline of distance
& yet find intimacy sure as life in just water,
wind, light?
Chances are, underneath, that somebody
Might long to be either of us.
Chances are as you hold me
If I speak my weakness
You might later use it as sabotage.
Oh alright. I accept this & make sure I speak
Anyway, though perhaps nothing but sleeping,
Breathing here, close, says enough
Animal
by Corey Mesler
resolemcrey@yahoo.com
e once called her his basil plant; and when she asked for an explanation, said that basil was a plant which had flourished wonderfully on a murdered man's brains."
George Eliot, from Middlemarch
I want to tell you the story of my life immediately preceding my turning into an animal.
At the time, I was living in a shitbox apartment in Midtown, with a woman I’ll call Jennifer. Jennifer was as sexy as a ghost and moved with catlike grace. Her hips were the swivelpoint for an uncharted galaxy—she retained her mystery even as I knew her, carnally and elsewise.
Jennifer worked at the library, in something called Special Collections. This involved arcane knowledge as if Jennifer were Dr. Dee or Robert Fludd. She conjured information the way a magus conjures angels in his orb. I loved Jennifer, or, at least I told her I loved her, which is almost the same thing.
I was working for a local packaging and shipping company. You’ve heard of them so I won’t tell tales. It was a crappy place to work and they treated me, and everyone else there, like helots. I hold no grudges against them and they know nothing of my transformation. I don’t think it would interest them anyway, since it has nothing to do with making money.
When Jennifer fucked me—I’m not cracking wise or fantasizing now—I would see stars. She made me dizzy. She sat on me backwards, a view I will carry to my deathbed, a depiction by Rubens; she had a backside that made men follow her, fools to the gods, unknowing zombified devotees of her special magnetism. Jennifer of the Sheets, my Paphian dreamgal.
This is part of the story.
Having a healthy—enthusiastic, sportive—sex life is not to be taken for granted. It is life-affirming and it keeps one’s soul toned, if that’s not overstating things. With Jennifer I felt like I was cleansed, scraped through the fire and returned renewed. This may seem absurd to you. I was physically injected with her. She was iatric, medicinal. God help me, I thought, as many lovers before me had thought, that she was a vital part of me. I thought without her I would disappear, perhaps literally, become a cipher in the world, a useless quark.
You can see it coming. Relationships don’t last. They are spindrift; they are gossamer; they are jackleg, pro tempore, transitory. Fuckem. I wish I’d never met her, that’s the truth. Bitter? I was bitter. I was murderously bitter.
Yet, days passed, time’s chain rocked and choked and kept moving. I worked—how did I work?—I saw friends. I was down and they commiserated and patted my back and cooed sweet things that friends coo. Everyone thought: he will be alright, these things pass, everyone’s been burned, etc. This is what friends do.
But human beings, being icebergs, only show the smallest percentage of the emotional range they are experiencing at any given time. Even I didn’t know the volcano smoldering underneath my hangdog act, my nightly drinking and talking about her, as if she were a math problem. As if problems could be solved, the idiom of empiricism.
And I called her. I dialed her number and she answered and I spoke. I said the usual things, do you want to try again, do you want to take it slow, will you see me if just for tonight, can we sleep together again, ever ever ever? The world was shrinking around me like heated cellophane and I was being squeezed, suffocated. Smudged.
Jennifer used the word no like an assassin uses his weapon of choice. She spoke so many varieties of no she was thesauric. She said no in fifteen languages, in sign language, in semaphore, in silence. The phone turned into a toad in my hand and the sound from it, that undersea gasping stayed in my ear for hours after I hung up. Hung up.
Thus began my period of sleeping around, as we call it. It’s not that hard to find members of the opposite sex to engage with. At least, that’s been my experience. But, serial intercourse is numbing—most one-night stands are unsatisfying, deflating—emotionally if not, you know, physically—and, in the end, puzzlingly unhappy events.
Yet, I threw myself into it, ferociously. Some women I "dated." This involved sleeping with them more than a few times. This involved some phony emotions, some lies, some delicate maneuvering so that one got what one wanted which was a blowjob, a fuck, a release. Often. These mini-affairs were better than one-night stands, in the sense that the sex got better with practice, but they were stickier. One doesn’t want to hate oneself afterwards. One wants to feel unfettered, free, and loveable.
There was one woman, a jogger, with thighs of indurate smoothness, who performed the same reverse woman-on-top trick that I so loved with Jennifer. It only angered me. And, even though this lovely young woman had an ass that rivaled Jennifer’s, my only thought was, how dare she. She could not be Jennifer. I slapped her ass hard, leaving a red handprint on one cheek and then the other. She whimpered—enjoyment or fear? I struck again. And again. I slapped her ass so hard I thought I might disengage her. Instead she came like a feral cat, her moans turned to howls of delight. And afterwards she thanked me and looked soulfully into my eyes and she got all misty and I vowed never to see her again.
Another woman, a blond who was much too pretty for me, was coming off a bad divorce and everything I did thrilled her. She had never been gone down on before. She thought I was a goatish master, a satyr with the knowledge of the ages. To drive her away I asked her to marry me. She stopped answering my phone calls. I was free of her.
And then there was Abbie, sweet, freckled Abbie, who was fiery and young and so full of life I wanted to just eat her like cake. We almost fell in love. I still think of Abbie now, these many years hence, and I smile. Even through my appetite. She had dimples you could hide a file folder in and a willowy body that was like a wind-blown stalk, moving sinuously on me until we both said things we didn’t mean. Abbie, to you I apologize. I should have known better. You deserved to be more than just a stop on my trip through hell.
Finally, there was Janna. (There were many more women during these wandering years, my years in the desert, but a recitation of used women and callous coupling is as tiresome as the bottom of things, as faith iterated.) I met Janna at a strange club I had been directed to by one of my one-night stands, a place called Club Sheol.
She had long black hair, black like the wood of the gallow’s tree. It didn’t so much fall from her head as burst from it, like black flame. It drew you like a curse. But we met halfway—she was walking toward me as I was making a beeline for her.
"Janna," she said, stopping so close to my face I could feel her breath, which was unnaturally hot and moist. The club was as murky as an underground burrow, yet her eyes threw off sparks.
"I know," I said, stupid with ache.
"That’s my name, little boy," she said, a grimalkin smile.
"Ah," I answered. And I told her my name. And I was afraid, afraid as if I had given up something precious, had given her power over me by simply declaring my given name.
She put her hand on my chest. A burn there. She looked into my eyes. It was the quickest understanding of what we wanted to do I’ve ever experienced.
We went to her apartment, which sat in a corner of Midtown like a house made of cookie in the forest. Somehow it seemed obscured from view. I felt like we were hiding away, as if we were walking away from the known world.
Inside it was dark and gauzy and there were a lot of candles which she lit slowly, like a rite. I could only watch her. As she lit maybe the tenth candle—and there seemed to be hundreds more—she slipped out of one shoe. At the eleventh candle the other shoe. By the sixteenth candle she was wearing only lace and her body was dark as the parentage of chaos—she seemed wrapped in something necromantic, as if the diaphanous silks covering her were held there by a spell. And, oh my last friends, when, by the time she had finished lighting our way, she was naked, she looked like God’s immaculate machine, like the template for woman. Like Lilith. She had the thickest, blackest pubic bush I’d ever seen. It was a forest of obscurity and depravity. I wanted to go there so badly I thought I was going to faint. My mouth was dry, my erection painful.
We did finally fuck. I believe we did. I lost consciousness at some point. I woke and slept, woke and slept. And always she was beside me, whispering things to me, rubbing me, placing her hot thigh over my midsection, exhorting me sexually as if I knew nothing before her. I think we did it all night. Yet, I slept, dreamed, and deeply, deeply. And once, around midnight I think, she said into each ear, rapidly, back and forth, a musical muttering like the waters of Lethe: "Little boys fuck like animals. Little boys become animals. Little boy, little boy, come in me again. You will not taste the like of me again." Or, was this hallucination, dream, incubus, cauchemar?
In the morning she wasn’t there. I stood up, wobbling. I looked around the apartment, for clues, for food, for something to re-connect me to the recognized. Her refrigerator was as empty as a skull, and her rooms held no answers to my questions—she seemed to have purged her quarters of human information. My head hurt.
I went home and fell into bed and slept for almost 24 hours. I dreamt about the sea, about its infinity, its wild, nameless depths. I dreamt I walked about in a regality not unlike Atlantis, and conversed with mermen and kings. I was ensorcelled.
And so I awoke with fangs and claws and a pelt. And that is the end of the story and not the beginning of another. I prowl nights. I eat at will. I devour life. Pray for me because I can never never never stop.
4 Poems
by Ken Blasko
kennyblasko@pop.mindspring.com
Holiday Desert
by Ken Blasko
er warm, pumpkin pie
tender flesh and smooth, whipped cream
sweet salivation
Lip Gloss
by Ken Blasko
ull red lips
kissing me softly
dripping wet
Captured
by Ken Blasko
er soft, lower lip
lingers unexpectedly
captivating kiss
Pink
by Ken Blasko
}er flower
opens before me
blossoming
Marilyn Monroe: Mask and Biography
After Egon Schiele: work-in-progress:
"Introducing Ms. Marilyn Monroe "
by Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com
Produced by the Electronic Arts Fucking Academy-
The Gadfly Proprietor -- Monday, February 10, 1952
elcome my love to another dark, stinky, scum and mouthwash stammering Porno Theater House. If you look on the fourth seat to the left of the third row, central section, you will find a curious letter. It describes the incest of geology and the seduction of little boys by tormented mothers from alien planets defined by chocolate ice cream bars and summer sand castles.
I know Schiele loved to party. He loved the little skinny girls, the emaciated and poor, lost in the streets Vienna urchins. They slept in his thighs. He produced them like warm, burned tomato soup. He collected them for his layers of reds and yellows. Every scream grew louder. They inspired him watching Burt Lancaster sucking lemons in Atlantic City. She whacks up and down on the patch of hope, so he imagines, and we search don't we as Marilyn did for some other cause of action, living in the deeper rouge of what is intention, cause and who is responsible for the fucking mess we are as we spit the street fantastic.
Imagine the locution of death? Do you fucken hear me?
The "real movies" including home clips of flaccid and erect sexual organs (clits, nipples, pricks, and asses), ejaculation, fucking, sucking, men and men, women and women, dongs, dildoes, vibrators, blow up male dolls and female pudenda, and the more usual and predictable alphabet list of threesomes and multiple partners including the obvious and well practiced, boy girl mom and pop action. When boys are raped by their mama's there is a sad bondage of spirit that never leaves, and the feel of the nipple falling from mouth I pristine.
Getting back to fuck movies.
Dirt begins at midnight when the theater is open for home movies, and the amateur sluts strut their quiff and make the lights dim from the pressure and pleasure in their hands, asses and mouths.
Just this way. Leave the third row, open for jerky up and down palm this and that, forearm muscular, tongue sticking out, transfixed, as the cock cum spreading the voices of angels, and the Great God, as a web.
Emerging from that last penultimate climax Herr Johnson, sometimes a name for a generic cock, we spill on the brook rocks, and her eyes down, the twenty something almost innocent girl, not quite the scum sucking whore she imagines, flies out of her pores in the mutual consort of blowing dudes in the jack off bins of lower New York before AIDS ran the gutters.
APPLAUSE APPLAUSE!
-Now, sit the fuck down, all of you.
That's right, Mamma, that seat behind the twentieth row, fourth seat from the left was yours, as the man clicking the tickles ignoring the knees and legs launching through that tangled and complained as you moved, stomping on heels and feet, minding the pain/pleasure index, pushing from the aisle to the twenty-first and last row in the balcony where the rancid voyeurs watch the live action, playing clits and cocks, anticipating that the steady stream sex will erupt and reach beyond Uranus and maybe now we can have the sun and moon rise on time and target the gig with the pig, dig?
In the first row, well we must leave that for the more exotic, and I will leave it up to you to name it, perverse and kinky art forms. Your cock and cunt will be your guidebook. Bet you could sell that alone for ten billion raised eyebrows.
As the loops played, we kissed and clutched dear Marilyn, behind the screen, pulling off your pants, bra, and you my briefs, as you paused, lifting my cock to taste the tip, feeling the hard swell again your lips, beside your inner cheeks.
Over the next three days 1000 natural lights passed through the walls as if a veil protected truth from the noble slut we have possessed mirrored our chest and tits, asses and thighs, gig, balls, and cock. The light split the stone. It penetrated hard duty and brought down her mouth to take the little nipper in her teeth.
We could not see all the craven action, but our fingers, sweating, nervously but with certainty, explored tits, asses, buttercups, and throat candy.
Our heavy breathing began as a roar and then continued with brief pauses for the moments of great triumph.
-I saw you, I said.
-Who, I asked?
-Yes, you. You dear cunt. Me.
-I watched your lips, my breath, my gums turn the smile inward, and when I glanced away, I viewed my life with Schiele in the death of a dance paying what would be now ten bucks a week for posing, sex and maybe one hot meal. After all, Vienna sucked in 1917.
-Yes, I know. The film was I.
-The motion of my hand on my breast caught my tits, I abstractly said, pulling down an imaginary shirt, willingly both parties pulling it off skinny tits, so small they are the flower buds for real. There was head of course and the up and down and clutch was the passion of art alive in a magical procession of wet kisses so spread clean and sour the stench was unrelieved.
Her legs clutched and felt nothing. I was there, dear Love. I was too, and when you lifted up and my cock felt everything you said, will cost more money and the lucre of greed and one-sided sex is banned from the kingdom. While this happened World War I was background screens and movie text to that purged whirlwind of puddles of blood leaking from rusting wooden drums.
I do like the way you play with my lips; my sweet and you taste of chocolate and lingering witchcraft. I did attend that séance with you last week you know, the one where he levitated that girl until her eyes turned inside to ...now, here it is, watch the moment after John Wayne kissed his horse, or in some other Blazing Saddles, the horse rides the horizon watching us fuck by the camp fire, and I make the seats feel the backyard orgasm.
-I want you, Marilyn, my mother, said to me.
-I want her in the other room with her blouse inside out, and father rushing inside, a great comedy from the Our Gang Crowd, and then the trailer cuts into some modern romance with hand holding and cuddled gently in the cup of your hands watching your eyelids close and open, satisfying some bashful return home again and again.
I did watch the porno movie with mother. Yes, it was the one where the man, tied up, bound, blind, and gagged, truly, was left to drift in dream and
outside. First, I made it cold then hot. I teased until his cock quivered, and I stopped, walked away, watched TV, ignored him, no matter how loud he silently screamed. I watched his throat go through the motions. But the ball and chain gag did the job, and I did like the action of the thrust and counter machinery for a moment I thought her mouth would fill with his own come, backward, through his throat by way of his stomach, from his balls through his lungs.
He didn't love her like you, Marilyn, and she loved the earth. False and malicious ads do get in the way of the dramatic flow of the electrons transmitted from the calm embrace to the shudder of the camera as I, your body entangled just for the last shot of the moon as it appeared not from the earth, but from Mars, and our motion, that's what love was called, then a thousand years ago, Mother, as we live now, on the edge of Universe two. We walked there blindfolded. Took them off together. Fucked. Came. Put them back on and led to spot two. I sucked your clit until the sky grew from your fingertips, and lightning shook the ocean, making the waves a thousand stories and a hundred feet higher than any other startling new life, indescribable, until we know the physics and the mass of water is half of what the earth said it was. How dreams depend on what we knew, and yet, we are here, explored, invading each other, as if we are new eyes and hands, and as you touch my face, dearest I rise above and you rise above and we create inside the other what we felt, when I touched your cheek and you felt my hand, taking my large thumb and caressing the stalk until the hand shivers and the orgasm, for both of us, is that sublime, ultimate breath, new life. Here is our child, not unlike Athena, she, Samantha was born from your hands an mind, mingling in the tide and loam, fingering the bees, milking the honey from our abrupt climax as we teased, get up, announce our belief. I believe in mother.
Love, the poets proclaim is more than silly lyrics created when you want to seduce or sell more than life, Mother laughs when I reach inside my bag of tricks, what will he bring out this time, with the old movies, popcorn and tenderness.
Yes, darling, I do live in the imperfections of our perfection. What is it in our lives that we could embellish with less confusion?
Do I need to rearrange my life in hours reversed, pledge day to night; and yes, believe it night is day. Anytime the phone rings, and you speak, dearest, we are those wires attached to what we crave: Name it, and it is always yours. How powerfully dear Marilyn, Mother, God, you are. The Gadfly's consort, his sister and mother, father and husband.
All of them ride that balloon into incest's wall and go leaking.
No, then you're cousins, no, then what. We are the same, I laugh. Mother and I. Marilyn and Joe D.
All the same, that Gadfly goes to fare with his humor. No, he doesn't, and you, mother, move, protect Marilyn and I as the waves tempt the extreme, letting our faces restart the hills.
Yes, I know you are pregnant, dearest Mother. Imagine the god.
Yes, I know, sweet Marilyn you will bear that child we will never tame. I bear your daughter. We are well protected. Keep it secret. Fame has no sanity left, you know that story right, no need to tell it again, you know how we play, legs entwined, arms in the web, eyes focus, and lips filled as liquid, our brine, restores the flow between light and dark, sun and planets, skin and that ultimate, fuck.
When you are at it, engaged, looking intent, in each other's eyes, breathing hard, Mother you're on top, grinding, sweating cursing, lifting your head, straining your head back, feeling my last pause, before, as I drift, before, and then, you come, feeling each of your thighs, letting the back of your hands brush against balls, feeling the sun sink, as my lips clutch, and I come inside your come, and the pleasure trapped, binds us, in an unbroken loop, endless, like a computer dream, when the skin reaches its own birth before the wilderness, you dear life -- never let yourself be tamed. But then again, there is no cure as well.
2 Poems
by Savannah Skye
savvy1007@yahoo.com
Rose
by Savannah Skye
row me a black rose
under the pale moonlit sky
so that in the night
i can fully disappear
into her black still beauty
Pleasure and Pain
by Savannah Skye
crave to be your slave
Within the divine as you are mine
Where I silently lie waiting
Vulnerable and naked
Waiting for a fix of you
That will get me through
So come bite my nipple
While you slap my ass
With your S&M style
That makes me smile
Tie me up, tie me down
Tie me all around
Tongue f*ck my ass
Into a pure ecstatic mass
Bite me off guard
Pleasure me triple
With pleasure and pain
That are one and the same
With a flip of a coin
Together they join
The Memory
by Valerie Crystal
valerie_crystal@yahoo.com
http://www.valeriecrystal.com
he reached up to turn the water off with her toes and eased back into the warmth of the water, closing her eyes and letting the sweet vanilla scent of the bubbles take her over.
Thoughts of him filled her. She could feel his hands touching her, his lips on hers, his body pressed against her, and she was taken back to the time they were together.
Her heart raced with anticipation as she walked down the hall and stopped in front of the door.
She found room 126 and knocked. The door opened slowly, revealing him standing before her without his shirt on. It was the first time their eyes had met, but to her it was like she had known that face every day of her life.
He pulled her close to him for a hug, and she felt like she was home. It was the most peaceful feeling she had ever had in the arms of a man, and she felt like she could stay there forever.
Hugging her arms around her in the water, she yearned for that moment, yearned for those arms to be holding her again.
They sat on the queen size bed and talked like old friends, brushed against one another teasingly and shared pictures and stories of his life.
She sat beside him, her body touching his ever so lightly, and drank in every word he spoke. It was just like every time they had spoken before, she couldnít wait to hear everything he had to say. She wanted to know everything there was to know about him.
She smiled to herself, thinking about all those night when they talked for hours, all the secrets they had shared with each other.
The first time he kissed her, a wave of warmth flowed through her. When his hands found her body ñ moving over all the right places-her neck, her breasts, the small of her back-she felt the tingle all the way to the tips of her toes.
It had been a long time since anyone had touched her like that, since anyone had taken the time to explore her body and truly pay attention to what sent shivers up and down her spine. In her mind it seemed like an eternity since anyone had brought her to that place of ecstasy within her that he found so easily.
Lying there in that bed with him, everything has seemed so perfect. Now, in this bathtub in her steamy bathroom so far from him, she ached for that feeling. He was so far away, but as she closed her eyes, he was right there beside her again. She concentrated on that, not wanting to think of the distance.
That night was like a beautiful dance. They slowly moved together ñ kissing and touching and kissing ñ passion consumed them and they moved into a place only the two of them shared. They were a million miles from anyone. The two of them were nowhere and everywhere all at once, and no one existed for her except him.
She cried out in delight as he worked his way down her body, teasing her with kisses all the way down. Each touch of his lips sent fire radiating through her, and she ached to feel him inside her.
A smile waltzed across her lips as he kissed her thighs, spreading them apart and working his way into the warmth between them. His mouth, his fingers, his handsÖ
Even all this time later she felt an all-consuming passion as she thought about that moment.
With his tongue he worked her into a frenzy of dizzying bliss. She arched her back, pressing against him, as she climaxed once, twice.
She longed to feel his body against hers. She pulled him on top of her, needing to feel all of him as she shuddered and came to a blinding peak yet again.
She was shaking as she touched him. He moved to pull her on top of him, and she threw her head back in a moment of pure pleasure as he slid inside of her, grasping her hips to push his eager manhood deeper within her.
She savored every second as their bodies moved together. She whispered his name, words spilled from her mouth as she lost herself in making love to him.
They clutched each other in a moment of raw passion as he came to a moment of ecstasy. She smiled inside as he showed his eagerness for her body, she felt a glow radiating between them as they collapsed into one anotherís arms.
She shivered a little in the bathtub as she thought of that moment, and the long night of moments that would follow it, and she slid deeper into the water. The bubbles tickled her nose and she giggled, thinking of that night, and how it seemed time stood still for the two of them.
He wrapped his arms around her and she nestled into him. Their bodies fit together so perfectly, it felt to her like they were created to be one. She could feel his breath on her neck, she could hear his voice, so soft in her ear, and she just closed her eyes to the rest of the world.
Their forever would only last one night for now, but they would always have that memory to play over and over in their mind, unwrapping and enjoying each time like a sweet piece of chocolate-savoring the memory as it melts within them, and punctuated by the enticing thought that there would be a next time, and the next time could be even better...
The Art of Feet
by Terrie Relf
tlrelf@cox.net
t was after the poetry reading
we discussed Flamenco
how our kids were doing
had a smoke
then another cup of espresso
I asked if you liked the poets, the poems
you paused
meaningfully
grabbed your head
to hold it in place
as if it were an upended jar
once filled with marbles
you closed your eyes
moaned
said
all I heard was the poetry
of your feet
you wouldn't return my gaze
but turned instead
to my burnished copper toes
silver bands reflecting the light
just so
I tried to coax you
between Egyptian cotton sheets
down comforters
pounding rain
you lit another stick of Lavender incense
stroked your glowering Persian cat
and then
the bare soles
of my feet
please
you ask
let me touch you
I take my clothes off
lie on the bed
please
you ask
let me touch you
I raise a knee
spread myself open
please
let me touch
you
while your gaze
trails down
pools at my feet
I touch
myself
I don't want you to think I'm weird
you say, but
I really like you
really trust you
consider you a friend
I walk around your apartment
waiting for you
to tell me what you want
ask for a glass of juice
a Miles CD
to stand with me on the porch
in the rain
you hover
expectantly
say please
and I turn toward you
walk across the slick hardwood floors
place my foot on the couch next to you
lean forward
slowly slip my hands down my to an ankle
insert a finger into such pink softness
you gasp
yes
I draw closer
sit on the arm rest
place a foot on your thigh
your nipples hard
expectant
please
you say please
over and over again
I slip another finger
into crimson warmth
slide closer to you
yes
oh yes
you close your eyes
slide your tongue
along Chardony lips
hum a love supreme
while with thumb and forefinger
I gently pinch
tug
reveal
the flesh
you caress
with cheek
with tongue
with hand
with cock
yes
my toes
tremble.
Tales of the Crimson Succubus
Pygmalion’s Debt
By Carmine
carmine@cybermesa.com
he Greeks often told a story about a lonely king of Cyprus who, because he was disgusted with the faults of ordinary women, labored for many years upon a statue that closely resembled the great goddess Aphrodite. King Pygmalion fell in love with the sculpture, spurning all others. For years he spent his hours with the figurine, loving it the best he could.
Although the Greeks believed that Aphrodite looked down from Mount Olympus and took pity upon the hewer of stone, in truth it was Crimson Succubus who ascended from the burning light and brought life to the ivory sculpture. Pygmalion named the new
born woman Galatea and at once set to marry her. As always with the she-devil, however, there was a price to pay. Pygmalion signed a pact in his own blood, but Succubus failed to claim her favor during the king’s long reign.
Death was of no solace to Pygmalion, for the daughter of Lillith at last beckoned him back to the world of the living.
Sitting next to the Cocytus River in the Underworld, Pygmalion opened his eyes and found yet another block of marble before him. Standing up, he took hammer and chisel in hand and stepped forward. At once the stone shattered. Aching to create at any cost, Pygmalion dropped to his knees and reached for any piece before him. But Hades was a cruel god; from the sky descended a pair of harpies whose talons ripped at the sculptor’s tender flesh. Curled up in a ball, Pygmalion sobbed as the Hounds of Zeus picked up every scrap of rock they could find.
When Pygmalion at last elected to abandon his malaise, he sat up and wiped his forehead. He looked toward the usual site expecting to find another tempting obelisk of marble, but there was no column there. Instead, a crimson-colored female with leathery wings and a spiked tail stood upon the verdant grass, her eyes shimmering like the ripples in the River of Lamentation.
"You, is it?" The artist stood on trembling thighs. "What can you teach Poseidon’s brother that he does not already know?"
Crimson Succubus brushed some black hair from a curled brow. "You know why I am here. But I am not like Hades, so I tell you this: Do this little thing I ask and I will take you from here. I know of a place."
"You mean I can leave Cocytus?"
"You shall drink from the river Lethe and you will remember no more."
"You promise much, but I do not wish to be like Tityos."
"I shall take the vulture and sting it before it claims you, dear Pygmalion." To accentuate her claim, Succubus rattled her tail.
"Then name this thing, she-devil."
The two walked along the river’s edge until they reached its rapids. Pygmalion sat on an ancient tree stump, his hands cupping his heavily bearded face. Succubus stood before him, her arms outspread. Closing her eyes, the she-devil called upon the lightning, with several thunderbolts answering her beckoning. Without a cloud in the sky it began to rain, the droplets sizzling cold upon the stone carver’s body. The demon then fell to her knees and plunged both hands into the earth, her fingers wrestling with clods of sand, earth, and clay. As she labored Pygmalion looked askew, for before his eyes the demon was forming a new life.
As quickly as it had come, the rain went away. Stepping back, Succubus stared at her creation. As tall as Athena, the sculptured woman rivaled the countenance of even Aphrodite. A long mane of raven hair teased slightly red skin. Two sanguine eyes stared at Pygmalion’s eyes, and in that instant her slit-like lips parted and a long, wickedly shaped tongue licked up and down. She was slender, almost emaciated, and her body was unusually neutral. She had broad shoulders and sinewy arms, but her breasts were full and round, their nipples bright red and pointed. Her hips were almost nonexistent, but her thighs were muscular and her calves contoured well.
"This is Shana."
The woman bowed, her left thigh moving back as she bent at the waist.
"This is Pygmalion, dear."
"Pygmalion," the girl hissed, her cadence dripping with poison.
"You know what to do, carver."
Pygmalion stood directly in front of Shana, their eyes locked on one another. Without any fanfare, the sculptor knelt and gently parted the woman’s thighs. Shana gasped, but before she could say anything, Pygmalion spread her slit apart, forming the fingers on both hands in the shape of a triangle. Sticking his tongue out, he shoved it deep into her crevice, the pink walls vibrating upon contact. Shana dropped her hands onto his shoulders, her fingernails digging deep into his tender flesh.
Despite the pain, Pygmalion was not swayed. Instead, he drove his tongue even deeper, opening his mouth as wide as he could. Once inside, he began to flick the tip up and down then from side to side. He found her bell and incessantly rang it, almost bringing Shana to tears in the process. His lips locked around the love chasm, he probed as far as he could into the abyss, drinking from its pond of sweet nectar.
Shana tightened, climax building within her gut and churning out slowly through her extremities like a whirlpool under Poseidon’s wrath. To help it along, Pygmalion eased his middle finger into her remaining orifice. Stifling a scream, Shana flexed her cheek muscles, which in turn brought down her crotch upon the carver’s face. Pygmalion pushed up, straddling her so that her toes barely touched the ground.
The release was impossible, for as she achieved orgasm a thick, honey-textured liquid oozed from within, at first choking the hewer of stone. Wiping his mouth free, Pygmalion wanted very much to run, but he remained stalwart.
"Now, Pygmalion," ordered Crimson Succubus.
Cupping both hands, Pygmalion caught the fluid in his palms. As the liquid settled on his skin, it took on the aspect of flesh tinged with a hint of umber. As the elixir continued to flow, Pygmalion began to mold and fashion it with his bare fingers. At first the icon appeared lifeless, but as he worked feverishly it began to take on a life of its own. Dexterous digits formed an oblong shaft, thick and round, at the end of which was fashioned a mushroom-shaped head. Using his pinky, he made a hold at the chanterelle’s apex; from it more nectar dripped, but this time the fluid was thick and alabaster. Below the dagger-length shaft Pygmalion crafted a bulbous sac that was soft to the touch.
Spent, Pygmalion fell to one side.
Shana looked down and admired her newfound manhood. Her face and breasts remained, but now her bell was a morel and her lifeblood hung below. Delicate hands squeezed the shaft and instantly the rod responded, the shaft engorged and the head turning a most appealing shade of purple.
Succubus knelt before the primordial phallus, her mouth watering.
At the aft of a small boat stood a cloaked steersman at the rudder, the orbs within its hood changing colors like a rainbow in the sky. Pygmalion sat at the forward, his eyes searching the riverbank. As for Succubus, she sat in the middle, her leathery wings folded into her body.
"I believe it is here, she-devil."
"What is here?" she teased.
"Lethe."
"I know the river, but you are not destined for it."
Pygmalion turned around, his face a scowl. "But I kept my word."
Succubus cackled. "Yes, you did." With a longer fingernail she pointed to an island beyond the horizon.
Upon the beach stood a frail women dressed in an ivory robe. As the boat drew closer, she stood on her toes and began to wave a bleached ascot. Pygmalion caught a glimpse of her, his eyes a chasm of delight.
"But she was not mortal."
"Although pitch black and rotten at its impious core, a heart does beat within the thorax of the solemn Hades." Succubus rubbed the artist’s back. "A gentle reminder about the maiden Persephone and abdication soon followed."
Pygmalion’s face grew soft again. "Why do this? After all, you are much more vehement than the gorgons and the furies."
Succubus hugged herself. "I will have need of you again."
The sculptor chuckled. "I see." He turned to stare at his love, who now had grown closer. "What of Shana?"
"Oh, I have plans for her."
"Upon the land of Zeus and the water of Poseidon?"
"Yes. Hera cannot wait for the time when her husband comes to seduce the exquisite Shana. And so will mortal man fall for such beings, those who are neither man nor woman but offer the best of both ambrosia and nectar."
"I understand now why Hades helped you."
Succubus licked the back of Pygmalion’s neck. "You are no fool, dearest."
On Seduction
by Higgins
rwill4515@aol.com
he was giving in.
She no longer could say "no."
She let it happen.
II. A Japanese man
seduced by a White woman.
He was caught off guard.
III. The older woman
soon seduced the younger man.
She made him her own.
IV. Two Black men massaged
a fine, luscious, White woman
in her man’s condo.
V. Three mature ladies
were playing at Bare Ass Beach.
Hot sex soon prevailed.
VI. Once at Bare Ass Beach
the Black man saw the White man.
Their peckers stood up.
VII. Plump succulent breasts
and a nice tight round bottom.
There must be a God!
VIII.Trembling loins for me
when I see a woman’s rear.
I swell and I throb.
IX. I seduced teacher.
Taught her things not in a book.
Made her beg for more.
X. I loved an Asian.
She knew a lot about sex.
Taught me some good things.
XI. Man in a black thong.
Four Italian men came by.
They removed his thong.
XII. Want to have some fun?
How much money will you pay?
You’re the one paying!
XIII. Black man kisses a
luscious, White woman.
Her pussy grew damp!
XIV. The older woman
soon seduced the younger one.
They had some good times.
XV. Three women in bed
in a tangle of warm limbs.
All have orgasm!
XVI. Sex in the shower
is fine. Massage can lead to
some things of great joy.
XVII. Two Black Rappers chose
a sixty-nine position.
All could hear the beat!
XVIII. A long, curved pecker
with white pre-come on its head,
wham, bam, in it went!
XIX. Sexy position,
two men play sixty-nine while
a third masturbates.
XX. I seduced his wife
while curved horns grew on his head.
He is a cuckold.
The Salesman
by Jeff Waters
technicalsupport@apollonpc.com
ou pull up to the house after a long hard day of work at your new job. you go inside your home and just flop down exhaustedly on the couch. you feel tired and sweaty from the days work and the heat of the day. you think to yourself that you still have a long way to go. just then the phone rings, you answer it. it is your friend that you have been expecting from the internet. you begin to smile at the sound of his voice. you have never seen each other but today is the day you will. it has been six months since you first met your friend online and ever since then you have grown closer and closer over the slowly passing time till you both would meet face to face. you have become more than friends with him over the months and you both have some very high expectations. the call ends and he tells you that he will be there soon. you head off to the shower after making some hurried last minute arrangements in the house for your friends arrival. beside the couch you stash some special oils and incense you have been saving for this occasion along with candles and some kinkier things you both have discussed and agreed on trying together. you take the phone off the hook so you will not be disturbed . your mood has lifted ten fold, as excitement begins to fill you. you go to the bathroom. you let the water warm and run as the steam begins to rise from the tub. you run and turn the air up so that the house will chill down just a bit. you head back to the bathroom. the tub is not quite filled yet as you begin to disrobe. as you stand there you look at yourself in the mirror looking at yourself fully naked wondering what your friend will really think of you after seeing you for the first time. your pixyish frame, dark flowing mane of hair. your silky creamer white skin. your full luscious lips and sultry seductive eyes. you turn and look at you firm cute ass and smack at it a bit to make it jiggle and it does not move much as you turn again and look at both your firm large breast and hold them. they perk up as you say girls don't let me down. you turn and climb into the tub. the water is really warm and relaxing as you splash about a bit as your skin gets those little goose bumps from first entering the water as it rushes over you. you lean back and relax as your thoughts begin to wonder towards the future events of the night. you feel small tingles all over your body as you imaginary lover touches you. you begin to match his imaginary movements over you body with you own hands. you start with touching g you breast and squeezing then together. your fingers run up to meet your growing nipples and pinch and twist on them. once fully erect you lift one to your full lips and let you tongue drag across it, before kissing it. after a few strokes and kisses you let one hand slide down you belly rubbing and pulling achingly across your clinging flesh. down further and further with each passing moment till you tease your tiny shaven mound. rubbing you finger up and down through your pubic hair teasing and taunting yourself with each stroke. now to satisfy yourself you do what you want your imaginary lover to do. you slide down ever so slightly as your back arches when you flick at your clit and spread your lips and let the water rush inside of you. you grown just a little as your teeth clinch down on your lower lip. you let a finger slide partially inside you so that it rest on top you pulsating clit and inside you yearning pussy at the same time. your movements are slow at first but firm. teasingly your movements gyrate further inside of you. you raise your finger and taste yourself. now back down and continuing where you left off. all the way inside now you explore within you aching pussy as you get hotter and wetter with the feeling that grows deep within your being. as you excitement rises so does the tempo of your rubbing and probing of your own body. you can feel yourself getting to the height of you exploration in self indulgence and you realize your getting to close and let the tempo slack off just a little as you turn your attention to fondling you erect nipples and heaving tits. grabbing and groping them till you continue with your probing and finger fucking yourself. almost to the point now you tempo is at its fastest as you take you hand that has a nipple and you spank your throbbing clit as you thrust a finger deep inside of you. you begin to cum. just then the doorbell is ringing. damn isn't that the way it always works you think as you. you rush off grabbing a large fluffy towel as you are going for the front door. you wrap the towel around you as you reach for the handle. you hurriedly open the door this is the moment you have been waiting for. you stand there looking at the stranger in front of you as you drip on the floor. he looks back admiring you. he says hello. you hug him and tell him how good it is to see him and how long that you have been waiting for this moment. he looks back at you a little stunned and tells you that he was in the neighborhood and thought that since.... at that moment you stop him and lead him over to the couch setting his bag beside the door. you tell him that you have spoke on the computer enough it is time for the actions not words. as you drop the towel around you ankles and it piles up there. the stranger admires you beautiful body as it glistens in the candle light. you light some incense and set down on the couch. you reach down and pull up some oil and toss it to the stranger and tell him, ok rub me down since you give the best body messages around. you smile and giggle as you think to yourself I told you I would call you on that one mister. you roll over so that you lay face down. the stranger takes his clothes off. grabs the bottle and opens it. starting at your neck he lets some drip and run down your shoulders. the oil still drips as he leads down to your arched back to your firm ass and down your long legs and then back up the other side. the oil heats up and runs down your back forming a small puddle in the small of your back. he then pours some in his hands as he warms them. you feel his touch for the first time as he touches you. his masculine hands kneed your skin firmly as you can feel the heat from his hands on your cool flesh. his hands begin to press firmly into you back as he begins moving them up and dawn the length of it. massaging side to side now so that just behind your ear is now getting a little attention. now to your back. all the way down to your buttocks. teasing you and your ass by stopping just above that cute little divot you have there. now he finds his way back up to the neck, and now back down a few times. he then start on your neck again as you pull your hair out of the way. he alternatively rubs both sides as you feel him set across you from behind. you can feel the heat coming off his body as it touches yours. you breathing begins to get faster and rougher. you are beginning to grown just a bit from time to time. then he massages down to one shoulder blade and then the other. now down your back to just above your firm ass and back up the side along the ribs brushing up against you breast in a teasing fashion as if to say opps did I do that, and back again. now back up letting his hands slide a little underneath you as he goes up and almost cupping your breast this time as he touches your nipples. he begins the journey back down along you arching body. you are enveloped in the moment. you feel his excitement as well as you feel his cock beginning to grow against you thigh . now down to your ass as it quivers a little from the attention. squeezing both cheeks together then relaxing them and separating them and back again. now down the back of your legs to your feet and back up along your inner thigh. a few passes go by and he brushes up against your lips as he return back down you legs. now on your feet. up and down from heel to toe. top and bottom. now you roll over and look deeply into his eyes as he allows you to roll over. you kiss him passi onately as your tongues fight for control. you both begin to hug and explore each others mouth. you hand begin to explore each others body. you tilt your head back as he starts kissing along your cheek till he stops at you ear lobe. a little nibble . now down your neck, kissing with succulent kisses. now down your chest. he stops to suck and kiss at the divot in you collar bone before proceeding. now to one breast as he cups it and squeezes it firmly so that your erecting nipple begs for attention. he begins sucking on it and licking it. every once in a while nibbling on it as he drags his teeth across the tender spot. his other hand presses your nipple between his fingers and rolls it there. tighter and tighter till your face groans with joy. now kissing down further along your belly as it quivers up and down at his touch. you can feel his hot breath as he begins teasingly kissing down to you soft mound. now along your inner thigh . now the other side back up to your belly button and back down to the mound but this time you feel the heat blowing against you throbbing clit. the licking you from top to bottom and back along you moist warm pussy. just teasing along the outer lips a few times till you reach down and pull his head and exploring tongue tighter into you. he now flicks his tongue at your clit and lets his tongue drag heavily across it. you fingers dig into his hair as his head bobs up and down. he reaches up and gropes you excited tits as they swell up and down to his forceful movements. you grown louder now. he pulls his hand back down and drags it teasingly across your belly as his licking continues nonstop. now around your leg and outer thigh. down to your hip. you feel a pause and a sudden nibble as he bites gently down on your clit. at that same moment you feel a sting on your right cheek as he firmly swats that tight ass you have. one more swat on the left side now before he continues licking you. he slides one hand around and spreads your outer lips tight and wide. his tongue laps up and down the length of your dripping pussy. not wasting a drop. he slides his tongue inside of you. his head starts moving up and down. he slides his free hand around your leg and flicks your clit a few times as his tongue glide in and out of you. he presses his tongue harder and harder against you heating pussy as his hand on your clit begins to rub it firmly faster and faster. you drag your nails across his shoulders. the hand that holds your lips wide has a dangling finger or two that are in the way and he decides to use them.. he licks up and down hard and fast inside you now. the spanking hand getting to max tempo. your pussy beginning to tighten with a orgasmic feel you grown and clinch the cushions tightly. your back arching as your breathing gets faster and faster. his little finger flick at your ass hole now. he lets his tongue and hand spanking your clit swap spots for now. his tounge firmly against your clit as his head shakes vigorously. he slides two fingers deeply inside of your ever tightening pussy and thrust then in and out furiously. you barely notice him sliding his forefinger into your ass. thrusting both hands in and out faster and faster. they sometimes meet inside of you so that the fingertips touch imaginarily together. you begin to cum he continues you go limp as your juices flow rapidly from within you satisfied pussy. he laps up it all. he raises up as he arches his back. he pulls his fingers from within you and raises them to your lips. teasingly he encircles them. you let your tongue jet out as he brushes his finger along one side and then the other before letting you suck your dripping cum from his finger. he reaches back down and slaps your ass with one hand as he raises one leg with the other. now the second leg. higher and higher till they are tight against you chest so that your breast are still freely accessible. he moves up. as he does you feel hid hot hard cock rubbing against your ass as it make its way along the length of your still wet pussy. now dangling above it. he kneels with his legs tightly against you ass as you tell him that you want him inside of you. he kisses you feet. now calf and thigh. and back up the other side. the grabs his dick in one hand and knocks it against you still throbbing clit. knocking more asking you for you approval to fuck you. you slide your hands down between your legs and grab his fully erect cock and start stroking it. rubbing it against you wet pussy so that your cum lubricates his swollen shaft. you let one hand slide down and massage is swelling balls as you stroke him with your other hand. you look at him as you point his cock towards your wanting pussy. he reaches down and pulls your hands away and raises them to your breast and positions them so that you can fondle your breast and nipples. you grown with anticipation. he grabs his cock and hits quite hard against your clit as he slides it up and down on your inner lips. finally you feel him start to slide within you. you feel him stop teasingly with just the head inside you for a split second before ramming his full length into the depths of you pussy. then pulling out fully and back in fully. you feel him pressing down harder on your legs now as his tempo and rhythm speeds up. he reaches down with one hand and rubs your swollen clit as his hard shaft pistons in and out of you faster and faster. his other hand reaches up and caresses you breast as you run your fingers through your hair. he slides his other hand down and spanks your reddening ass and he fingers your clit and fucks your tight pussy with his rocketing cock. he leans down and starts sucking on your nipples. one then the other. nibbling and sucking on each of the aching erect nipples. he reaches over and grabs a glass. sucks out a few ice cubes and goes back to sucking on the nipples. you feel the cold tingling of the ice as he proceeds. you close your eyes as you arch upwards into his thrusting cock. he takes the hand he has been spanking you with and grabs another cube of ice out of the glass. you feel yourself tightening as you start reaching your point of no return. as you start Cumming you feel his hand with the ice sliding down you breast, belly mound to the top of your clit before sliding inside of you. you feel his thrusting cock moving the ice all around within your quivering hot wet pussy. he pulls out of you and rolls you over so the you kneel doggie style now. your face rest on a pillow as you ass hangs high in the air. you feel his cock ram once again into your pussy as the ice still moves around inside you. in and out his cock goes. you reach down and tighten your fingers around his cock and balls as they thrust and bounce as the ram harder and harder into your pussy. he reaches around with one hand and squeezes a breast. the other works its way up your back and entangles itself into you thick flowing black hair. he leans back pulling back your head firmly but gently. you feel the hand that was around your breast slap your ass once more. you arch backwards as he thrust fully into and then pulling fully out of you now. his slapping hand slides along you curve red ass and teases you little brown hole before sliding a finger inside of you. he pulls back harder on your hair as he finger fucks you tight ass and pussy. you feel him pull out and pause as he slides his blood engorged cock into your ass. he does this for a few strokes before going back to your pussy and then alternating each stroke from you tight ass to your dripping pussy. first one then the other. the force of the strokes are taking your breath away. the pulls cack hard on your hair now. as he reaches around and pulls you tightly into him. he reaches down and fingers your pussy now as he fucks your ass souley now. you gush cum and grown loudly. he begins to cum in you. you fall forward. you can still feel his throbbing and jumping cock inside of your ass. you roll over as he pulls out of you. he grabs the bottle of oil and starts rubbing your front down. applying a generous amount to your perky tits. he reaches and pulls your hands down so that you hold them both tightly together. he climbs over you. up on top of you now so that his body leans over your head. he leans into you and kisses your lips hot and passionately. you feel his cock rub against you tits. he straightens up and grabs his still swollen cock and slides it between you tightly held tits. thrusting in and out over their little made love hole. he reaches down and raises your head with one hand so that you can see the head of his cock poke out towards your full lips with each passing thrust. you open your mouth and suck him from time to time when his cock passes near enough. tighter and tighter you hold your tits. you feel his free hand moving down and spanking your clit as he tit fuck you. you feel his balls bouncing as he slide a finger inside you one last time and starts rubbing your pussy as hard and fast as he can. you feel him getting ready to cum as your quivering begins. just as you both begin to cum at the same time he spanks your clit intensifying you orgasm. you let go of your breast and latch on to his cock with both hands and start sucking and stroking the cum from his quivering cock. you both lay there holding one another. he gets up and gets dressed hurriedly as do you. you hear a car coming up the drive. you run off to the bedroom for some clothes. when you return the door is wide open with a man standing there. he has a smile from ear to ear and say how are you by your online name. you are quite stunned and ask where the other man went. your internet friend tells you he will be back later as he hands you a piece of paper. it is a flyer for a door-to-door salesman. you look at this quite shocked. as you friend hugs you hello for the first time.
