He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.

He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.

She is starting to learn that when she is in his bed she is his. Her reactions are his. Her orgasms and her tears are his.

The thought makes her knees weak and her thighs clench.

She finds herself playing his games even when she is alone, chiding herself when she goes back to her old ways of doing things. She sits up straight. She doesn’t curse. She meets people’s eyes when she speaks to them. She cleans up her messes.

She keeps herself smooth and waxed even though she hasn’t seen him in weeks. She keeps herself up at night wondering if it would be okay to text him to ask permission to come.

She fucks herself too hard, pretending her thin fingers are his thick ones. She wishes she could make herself sore the way he does.

She feels guilty when she breaks his rules. She gets red in the face when she imagines confessing.

Every buzz of her phone brings delight or disappointment. She saves his emails like the best part of dessert; a thing to savor last.

She is his. She is his. She wants to write it in notebooks in math class and on bathroom walls and across the sky.


Tips accepted here.

The Orgy on 8th Ave

They come in one at a time.

They are well dressed, usually larger gentlemen, portly, all black. Their suits are colorful, Sunday best, just come from church. Vivid purples and blues, sherbet orange, pastel green. Matching hats, everything perfectly pressed.

They have the stance of addicts, milling about with clenched fists and occasional ticks.

They know each other, if not personally than as members of the same club. People with the same shame. They eye the door for wives or children or anyone else who could rat them out, or worse stop them.

I’m the only white boy in there, but that doesn’t get a second glance. I’m safe and their secret is safe with me.

The man in front is up and he stands at attention as he is called.

"You know what you want, baby?" she asks.

She is a wonderfully large woman. Both maternal and sexy. Buxom to overflowing, hair covered in a cloth, lips glossy, skin shining with the slightest patina of sweat. Her words are honeyed and slow and weighted.

And he knows what he wants. He knows with a specificity and hunger that makes other in the line reconsider what they want.

"The smothered pork chops, over rice. But," he stops her before she scoops form the mountain of snowy white rice, "put the turkey gravy over the rice and then some black eyed peas and a side of yams!"

There are nods from the others in the line. It’s a good order. It’s a solid choice.

The next gentleman’s order is equally detailed.

"One chicken breasts-in fact that one there," he points through the steam fogged glass. "No, next to it, the well done one. Right. And a large macaroni and cheese."

The word large is emphasized.

The shame in the room is complicated. Men getting away with something they promised their wives they wouldn’t do. Or promised themselves.

I’m in the second camp. I have a good enough list of justifications though. I had a long week at a new job. I walked a mile and a half this morning. I had a low fat yogurt for breakfast.

The woman behind the counter gives me a slow and sultry smile. A little growl in her voice before she asks, “what do you want, baby?”

"Two thighs," I start and she smiles wider and her eyebrows raise.

"Collared greens, no rice."

It’s an easy concession.

She nodes and fixes my Styrofoam plate. She looked up at me through thick lashes and adds a drumstick and a wink.

As I leave I see many of the men wolfing down their food wearing napkin bibs. More are in the alley nearby, hurriedly eating before rejoining their family.

The ones who have finished have smiles on their faces and loud laughs. Children who got away with cutting school or stealing a piece of candy.

I go home with my grease stained parcel. To wash it down with iced coffee and silly television shows I pirated.

It’s a lovely Sunday.

The Worst Thing That Has Ever Happened to My Penis

The Worst Thing That Has Ever Happened to My Penis

After thirty-some-odd years on this planet I’ve seen a lot of bad things happen to people. I’ve seen the after affects of someone’s body consumed by fire. I’ve seen people die of various deceases. I’ve witnessed at least two people get hit by cars, I’ve seen a stabbing, I’ve seen a lot of fist fights. That’s not even getting into the consensual shit I’ve seen, which would include things like…

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For a majority of my adult life a dream (more accurately a goal) was to take a year off and just write. To a degree, I did that last year. I was out of work from April 2013 to (almost to the day) April 2014. I travelled around Europe and the Southern US. I wrote a lot. I made headway on two novels and made some big decisions about how I want to move forward with my work in general.

Eventually the money ran out. I lived well that year. I pampered myself and others, I worked hard and played hard. I found myself in new ways, but in the end I had to go back to the daily grind.

My new job is interesting, easy, low stress, and it pays well. I can see a path in the company I am now with or others like it, where I can move up.

It is all a means to an end though. My heart isn’t in it. I will go and do the work and shake the hands, but it’s all biding my time.

Still, I’m not detached enough not to fall into the interesting rhythms and gossips of a new office. The interactions and currencies of a new workplace are always riveting to me. It fuels the archives; new faces, new quirks for characters, names and details.

But day to day, outside work, I find myself drowning in thoughts. The inspiration is still there and lunch breaks and weekend are filled with finding time to get the words all down. The muscle of writing has been exercised every day for too long and now I’m a race horse chomping at the bit, nervous in my stable.

So that’s where I am. Still, for the time being, broke, and still hungry, which feels good. Still looking for the perfect percentages of work and writing and money. The last few months have taught me how to live a little lighter. How to shrink my monthly bills to the bare minimum. What things are actually important to me. I can move forward from there and save up and keep my eyes open for new opportunities.

And I’ll get by writing through my lunch breaks and stealing an hour at a cafe to type type my smut and maybe even my important work. And I’m learning to forgive myself the differences between the two and respect all of my words, be they dirty, silly, or profound.

I’m still hopelessly in love with myself and living my life as art and aware and amazed.

Dirty Boys Reading only one week away!

As many know I’ve been rather busy with my new job. Sigh, oh how I miss my leisurely morning ritual of making coffee and eggs and working on my novels. But, alas, as much as I love writing dirty words, they are not paying the bills quiet yet. So back to the coal mines, or in this case working for a big magazine doing graphic design type stuff.

But, I am excited to remind everyone about Dirty Boys on Sunday May 4th!

The usual suspects will be there, Guy New York, Gibson Grand, and myself, as well as a new guest reader, Marissa Quenqua.

If the first few Dirty Boys are any gauge, this one should be truly spectacular. They seem to get dirtier and wilder every time and now that we are in a larger more private venue, thing should really get interesting. The Parkside lounge have a pretty big seating area and stage as well as a lovely bar. So come out and hear us, there will be a raucous crowd and some inspired stories and maybe even a few surprises.

See you there,