Tag Archives: sex

Heal Me

(So what are you supposed to do when these words keep on choking you and the only thing that feels like breathing is a hopeless view into the future where you’re a homeless dude charging dollars for the poems you wrote a moment before you stowed the things you owned into a shopping cart and you’re zoned out because you chose the high of writing over the road oft traveled: college grad; family man; suits and ties and wedding bands, pressing matters for a writer endowed with addiction but not enough talent.)

But there’s a break in the pattern. There’s a breath of fresh air. There’s a moment, no a fraction, where there’s no mention of despair.

It’s in the black of her eye, in the length of her skirts, it’s in the tremble of music she puts under my words.

She’s the waves under my boat

and if she stays

I remain


and if she wails

she’ll drown my sails

with her nails

at my throat.

We’ll be undersea, a slash of passion sets us free to ride the currents underneath, under sheets our lungs can’t breathe but her tongue does fine between my teeth, sweaty thighs and awkward knees, struggling to keep the speed, exhausted like we’re fucking to compete, gold medalists, we’re so competitive during these fucking sprees, the fun defines what life can be, what rum and beer have tried desperately to match, where drugs have failed to help me pass, when not a moment under clear blue skies could make me laugh, this girl has been my nicotine patch.

The only breath of fresh air. The only escape from my brain. The only flash of real life to keep me from going insane.

If I can only write one more thing,
let it be her happy ending.

(Pun intended).

Art By Leonid Afremov

Navigating Your Sea

This dark room
became endless
the moment we closed our eyes

every kiss you
leave on my skin
is like a drop of melting ice

every taste of
yours I get
reinforce my
ease, comfort,
the force
comes after
like a storm
or fire
like a whisper
comes in forms
of moans and
fun and anger
collapse, adjourned
for moments
while our bodies
conform to
desire, your form
is contorted
and I resort
to your thighs
like I’m holding
the ropes to a sail
and we’re floating the highs
and lows like a boat
and you’re steering us
straight for disaster
to thunder and lightning
drowning our bodies
in bubbles and tides high
currents deep enough to
lose our footing so we slide
into each other, like floods
we are consumed in the water
in the motions and moves
of two lovers, it’s beautiful
war as our bodies compete
for a truce
as our speed tops
and your jaw drops
and your eyes roll
and your moans stop
and the pitch of your voice
peaks and my hips
seek one final
lone thrust

comes from feeding
your lust.


Art by This Guy

the artist.

Auburn tresses caressing her neck and her chest and you guess by the flex of her lips ‘round her straw that she’s stressed by the fact that she’s lacked proper sex and your knack for the act would propose that you act on her now as she stares in the eyes of the cubes in her glass, she refuses to laugh as the men in the club try every ruse on the map, but it’s futile perhaps, because she’s used to this trap, she’s been used and been trapped, so she’s choosing a lapse, a floosy at that, she’s lousy at trying to reduce the attract, so she wore a black dress: more subdued than the red, not that it matters with those two beautiful legs, and you think maybe it’s you who should peg her in the bathroom stall with her arms pinned against the wall and her dress stripped and soon her bra is bested by your proven palms and her lips spread apart
like her legs
and you pound her fast-
er than her heart
can keep up,
and her breath
nearly stops
then it’s art
like you’re swiping a brush
and you paint her cheeks flush
as you bite her skin
and rip it apart,
you know that the scream coming
in your collar is soft
like the silencer on
a gun shot,
and this you can do, this as you watch her consumed with the blues, but that you can’t fix, so you stay at your table and back to your drink.

Photo Credit belongs to Fabian Perez

It’s all true. Everything they wrote.

That’s the kind of romance. Slow strings and deep bases. Rain drops over open lips make for foggy kisses. That’s the kind of romance.

Nowadays you’re a romantic if you wash your hands before you fingerbang a stranger in a public bathroom. A real gentleman if you warn her before you bust all over her eyelashes. Netflix and delivery pizza. Anniversary dinners with the same button up tucked into your JC Penny’s jeans. Your faces look the same in every picture because those are the only smiles you can fake. This is our 21st century Romeo and Juliet. You get married and fuck out a couple of babies because those are the last components to your socially accepted life.

I was that guy, once upon a time, minus the JC Penny jeans. Found this girl who didn’t care if I liked spending our time off together alone in a coffee shop writing about other girls. I thought, this could work. I found someone to be with who I’ll never actually have to be with. That’s all anybody in a relationship ever wants.

That’s when a this green eyed freakfest plot twisted the shit out of my life. You enter that surreal zone as a writer where real life becomes better than anything you could possibly write. I’ve said I’ve fallen in love with a dozen girls, but this was like love in all caps. This was thundering and explosive. This was sincere – I wasn’t copying the words I wrote out for my characters.

Love like that you kinda have to drop everything for. A bullet train with no space for baggage. Everything in my life crashed down in a blaze of fire when I made the choice to hop on. I became the villain in a lot of stories but it felt good. Breaking the chain. The illusion. I felt like Neo and I’d just taken the red pill.

Cue secret rendezvous in back alleys and sweaty sex behind foggy car windows. Lies to everybody but each other. Early morning naps before work in a park. You can find poetry in life. When three or four perfect things happen at the same time it’s like the gods are rhyming. You never really understand why love stories are written until you’re in the middle of it. Every kiss feels like flash fire. Every graze of her fingers. Every breath on your neck. It feels like the first second of the universe. You can remember every day because the way the wind blows her scent in your face is so consistent that everything becomes a pattern. You’re not trying to go through the motions but the poetry of life forces it, and it feels good.

Days go by and you expect it to stop and when it doesn’t, you think maybe it’s true. Everything they wrote. All those love stories and fairytales. Maybe they’re all true.

Then one of those days happen when you guys get in a fight over groceries and you think goddamn this bitch.


Her breath’s in my neck. Her spine twists under my hand. Her skin is vibrating, her heart pounds into my lips as I trace her collarbone. Beads of sweat catch the light and prism like little diamonds lining the dips and bends of her body. Her voice is raw. Scraping against the corners of her throat. Like waves crashing into hard rock. Wild rhythms contorted by tender control. We move like we’re composed. Accelerando. Precipitando. Music beating into the walls like a perfect metronome. Stretto. Stringetto. Her fingers seek anchor and grip around the nightstand. The lamp dances and knocks over. Doppio più mosso. The grand finale. Atomic. Allargando.

Adam’s Prey

He wrote thrillers. Had only wanted one woman his entire life. Never had the balls to fall in love with her, though – in the back of his head he always wondered if she’d end up like one of his characters. Now he sat here, at some French bakery across from her. Not the one woman, but some woman he met who had asked to see him here.
She wrote words, she’d said. Her wide brimmed hat lay over her pitch-black hair and hid one of her eyes. The other looked up tentatively between gaps of the smoke lingering from her cigarette. Her lips were thin and angry, but with every puff she found brief elation.
“You’re pretty boring.” She said. Her voice dragged when she spoke. Like each letter wanted to be as far away from the other as possible.
He didn’t know how to respond, so he looked away. Instant, un-editable life was foreign to him.
“I like this bakery.” He said, finally. “I always get a…”
“If I wanted to know how you felt about this bakery I’d look up your Yelp review.”
He had, actually, left a review two weeks ago.
The question was slow to come to conclusion. He was unsure if it was the right one to ask. “You looked up my review on Yelp?”
Her response came matter-of-factly. “Because I wanted to know if you’d like this bakery.”
He couldn’t tell if she liked him, or if she was just a giant cunt. Her eyes were dagger sharp, like a single look could crush his nuts. Then with every puff, her eyes softened, and a similar look promised a very different kind of conclusion. The way that cigarette entered and left her lips.
“So what do you like to do?” He distracted himself. “Besides write.”
“I don’t care to learn more about myself.” She was angry again. “And you’re obviously only asking to fill blank space on a page.”
“I’m not.” His eyebrows rose up so innocently high into his forehead they nearly disappeared into his hair.
She looked down and her hat shadowed her whole face. Cigarette smoke trailed around the rim until it escaped into the atmosphere. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”
“What the fuck do you want me to talk about?” He bit his bottom lip and his grip tightened around the croissant he was about to eat. Golden flakes dwindled onto the white tablecloth. His outburst caught her attention, and she looked up and for the first time, both eyes were visible. Her mouth was open and her cigarette hung loosely on her bottom lip. She only stared until and past the point he became uncomfortable.
“What?” His voice juddered.
“You finally sound like yourself.” She sounded exhilarated. “Like the man I’ve been reading.”
He only stared at her, until his own words shook from his mouth and he had to look away. “That’s not me, what I write.”
“Why are you ashamed?”
“I’m nothing like Adam.”
“Is it because you don’t like the way he fucks?” Her foot found its way up his leg until her heel pinned down the material by his crotch to the chair.
He got up real quick, throwing her off him. She recovered nonchalantly, but he had made a scene.
“You’re fucking crazy.” He said. His eyes were wide. His hands were clenched.
Her dark pupils didn’t leave his. She stood up, tossing her cigarette down and walking to him with clicking heels.
“If it’s any consolation,” She got close so she could whisper her next words in his ear with warm breath. “I like the scene where he rips her apart.”



Two Page Love Story by G. Z. Kieft

Sword clashed upon shield, sometimes whipping over a man’s head and other times swiping right through it. The gladiator games were intense – a bloody spectacle that never really appealed to Lorelei, even as she feigned excitement upon news of a new champion back in Rome. But this game was different. She had been invited by high standing politicians to partake in a private event, a small little skirmish privy only to select nobles and people of high-birth. And as she stood amongst the gawkers and awe-mongers, she too felt a delicate sense of morbid excitement as the champion Eclipsus tore through an entire battalion of enemies. He was clad in little armor to protect his tall, solid body – another reason Lorelei couldn’t avert her eyes. With every move, Eclipsus’ body was made a mad masterpiece: muscles tensing and relaxing under golden, glistening skin. He wore a helm to hide and protect his face, and in honesty Lorelei was glad of it: a man who makes his wages in battle must have little of a face left. Still, between blood and dust, she could make out two black diamonds glistening through the holes in his helm, and the empty regard they held consumed her. Eclipsus stood heaving over his last competitor, and as he held the point of his blade at the bloody man’s neck, he looked up to his Dominus, the royally rich Ganus of Pompeii. His thumb suspended horizontally for but a brief moment – just enough for the crowd to gasp in anticipation. Then, accompanied with cheers, his thumb angled down and Eclipsus decapitated the defeated man. Lorelei was disgusted with her own enjoyment of the game, and when the crowd roared she remained silent, frequently judging her peers for the mockery they made of human life. That didn’t stop her from stepping on her tippy toes when the crowd blocked her view of Eclipsus, and when that still didn’t give her his sight, she pushed through the bodies to get a closer look. Upon arriving at the forefront of the crowd, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Eclipsus had removed his helm, revealing an angled face with a wide, sharp jaw and a head of scruffy brown hair stuck to his skin with sweat. His black eyes publicized their ember nature, bright and hot like a summer fire. His mouth sat agape in heaves, and his stomach rose and tightened into muscular godliness with every breath. What was far more magnificent was the fact that Eclipsus looked directly at Lorelei, his intense eyes tearing into her soul like his sword had done to the dead men on the ground. For that moment, the crowd’s loud celebration muted to Lorelei, and she heard only the race of her own heart, threatening to escape her very chest. “Eclipsus wins!” Ganus announced, stepping into the battlefield and clasping his hand around Eclipsus’ wrist. He lifted it into the sky in celebration, but the gladiator’s eyes remained dead. He was not proud of his deeds, though he had plenty reason to be. He looked as mundane as a man just awoken, and Lorelei thought it quite peculiar. “Quite a sight, is it not?” A voice beside her announced, and Lorelei recognized her friend, Vera. Lorelei scoffed, feeling her cheeks flush. “I’ve told you, I see no joy in the end of a man’s life.” “The joy is to be found in the one man most alive, Lor.” Vera brushed her long, brown hair with her hands and shuddered as she set eyes upon Eclipsus. “The brute?” Lorelei observed, tucking away her jealousy. “Hardly.” Vera met Lorelei’s eyes. “He is a god.” Lorelei announced a loud guffaw, raising an eyebrow in skepticism. “Please, I see more god in the men that write laws for the good of their people.” “Do you?” Vera challenged. “In their tiny white arms and their skeletal chests? Please, Lor, I’d marry a man of stature just as fast as you but you cannot deny longing for the harsh terrain of his skin. I could get lost in those arms.” Lorelei remained stubbornly tethered to her cause. “He lives to end the lives of others. Were it not a sport in fashion our world would be better off, yet.” “A pity.” Vera shrugged, her seductive eyes averting to the gladiator. “I suppose you’d find no time to join me in the private introduction Ganus has set up then.” Three hours later, Lorelei stood with trembling hands at the steps of Ganus’ personal home, accompanied with a dozen or so others. Vera and herself were the only women, though it occurred no worry to Lorelei. She only nerved with the concept of her upcoming meet with Eclipsus. She wondered absentmindedly what he smelled like, or if she would get a brush of his skin upon her own. Ganus appeared from their flank, clad in colorful robes to hide his fat, wealthy body. Lorelei found herself suddenly more judgmental of her peers. “Thank you all for coming.” He announced heartily. “I shall postpone your moment of anticipation no longer. Eclipsus!” From the same curtains Ganus had come, a strong, tan arm reached out and pushed the fabrics aside. Out came Eclipsus, dressed in nothing but a rag tied around his hips so low you could see his defined hip bones vie against the material. His stride was certain and purposeful, and when he arrived at his mark, he stood perfectly still like a statue. He had been cleaned and bronzed, readied for display like a prize pony. He stared above the audience obediently, avoiding eye contact and any exhibition of emotion. “Marvel upon the tempest responsible for cleaning the world of its filth inhabitants!” Ganus chortled proudly. The crowd cheered, and Lorelei stared. He was only a few feet away from her, his scent wafting in her direction. He smelled like… home? Lorelei frowned when she recognized the smell. She had smelled it before, in her birth town. He smelled like the forest she often escaped to with her friends. As she gazed upon his rough, precise features it suddenly occurred to her that maybe she might know Eclipsus from somewhere. The Dominus led each spectator in a tour of the gladiator, circumventing his every angle in admiration. Vera was up next, and Lorelei watched with untamed jealousy as the girl ogled at Eclipsus. “Can I touch him?” Vera asked, her face flushed and her knees at a slight buckle. Ganus laughed and motioned for her to run her fingers down the crevices of his abs; over the smooth, tense surface of his chest, and around his veined biceps. “Are you quite well, Vera?” Lorelei announced loudly in attempts of embarrassing the girl – and sating her jealousy. Vera’s sharp glance shot to her friend, but she quickly recovered with a humble smile. “Thank you, Ganus, for this… marvelous display.” She said, bowing and stepping down the steps. Lorelei took no time, eager to get her own desires addressed, and she quickly stepped up to Eclipsus. The move was to abrupt perhaps. Or maybe Eclipsus had been as eager as Lorelei. Either way, the gladiator removed his blank gaze and stared directly at her. In a moment of shared exhilaration, Eclipsus tender lips parted into a slightest of mischievous smiles, and his deep, rumbling voice catered to her ears like rain to a desert. Void of introduction, he spoke her name. “Lorelei.”